Page 1 of Bad Moon Rising
Prologue
In 1978, four Britons in the Afghanistan warzone attacked an MI6 team aiding themujahedeen,or anti-Soviet Afghan people. Captured and convicted of treason, they were hanged. At least, that was the official record.
What really happened…
Four cornered lycanthrope brothers agreed via blood oath to assist the English monarch in fighting inhuman terrorists. But they were tricked. After providing their blood, a witch invoked a blood curse to bind them into service to the Crown.
By this blood you are bound to the monarch of England to support and defend the nation and its people against preternatural enemies, to protect the innocent, and to serve for all the days you live.
By exploiting their abilities as the strongest of the paranormal creatures of the world, Britain solved a burgeoning paranormal worldwide threat. The queen also achieved leverage over MI6 and other nations, who now needed her for help to contain otherworldly terrors.
The brothers still serve against their will as the only line of defense against the nightmarish monsters that seek to terrorize, subjugate, and decimate humankind.
They are the ultimate weapon.
The ultimate secret.
They are the Crown’s wolves.
Chapter One
She had no clue how she ended up in a car, with a low-tech cell phone on her lap, a Zippo lighter in her hand, and a printed map with directions to a club located in the heart of Berlin.
She silenced the phone’s on-the-minute countdown timer. 00:21:58.
A hasty parking attempt up the street from the club, SigNone, proved she sucked at parallel parking. But, if forced to endure another few minutes surrounded by the stench of moldy fabric and some ill-defined spoiled food in this POS Renault, she’d puke.
The tight black pants and calf-high buckle boots didn’t allow for a graceful exit from the small car. Why was she wearing pants this inflexible? The door’s molded plastic held as she heaved herself onto the high curve and upright, but no one nearby noticed her stumble to gain her footing in the high-heeled boots. Not in the pitch-black, cold night. The head-to-toe Goth outfit evoked zero memory.
Despite the thirty-nine minutes that had gone by since she’d woken up, her mind remained a void.
She couldn’t remember anything about her past.
As in not one freaking thing. Not who she was, how old she was, nor her name.
She ground her teeth as she studied texted instructions from “Unknown.”
Get him to leave SigNone’s subbasement before the counter hits zero or kiss your memory goodbye.
She didn’t want to follow cryptic orders from an asshole threatening her. But she couldn’t take the chance her memories really might be gone forever if she didn’t. When she woke up earlier that evening, the mysterious texter had sent her an internet link to a conspiracy site. The page discussed Blackout, a new drug developed by the US military that could induce amnesia. The site said the drug had been leaked onto the streets, and it hinted that only a special antidote could restore memories. Had she been given Blackout?
Scrutiny of “his” picture on the phone one more time answered no questions. She didn’t need to see the headshot again, which had been sent by her anonymous texter. She’d memorized every detail of the striking man—early thirties with longish dark hair contrasted by the stubble shadow along his pale cheeks. He glowered as if he was about to shit-kick someone. Nothing about him triggered a memory other than the fact she’d stared at the image so many times in the past half hour-plus that he seemed familiar. This man might have the antidote she needed.
Her breaths came in short gasps as she tried to remember if he should be familiar. Nothing. She needed to recall something about herself—family, friends, favorite music, her name…something. Her head suddenly pulsated, as if someone was screwing a bolt through her eye socket and into her brain. She flung out a hand to catch herself against the side of the car, held her stomach, and bowed her head against the crushing pain.
What about her age? No idea, but in the reflection of the car’s rearview mirror, she’d looked to be in her late twenties.
God, even her own face was unfamiliar.
Married or single? No ring, but she couldn’t rely on that as an indicator. Someone could’ve stolen her jewelry.
Did she smoke, given she had a lighter? There’d been no cigarettes in the car. If a smoker, she’d be craving one about now, which she wasn’t.
She traced the plain block, uppercase letters tattooed on the inside of her left wrist with her index finger: ROMAN.
What did it mean?
She wanted to knowsomethingabout herself.Pressing a few fingers into her eyeballs didn’t ease the pain pulsating inside her head.I have to do what the phone says, or I’ll never remember.
