Page 1 of Bad Moon Rising

1

BROOKS

Blood and leather seats do not go together.

I grit my teeth as I turn my 67 Mustang GT off the highway. With every mile I cover, I can practically feel the blood working its way into the fibers of my beloved car. I don’t have time to stop at a garage and attempt to salvage the leather. I haven’t even changed my bloody clothes. I don’t have time to stop, not even for a few minutes.

At least the wanton defilement of my precious car gives me something to think about that’s not where I’m going and what I have to do when I get there.

I swore when I left Haddenwood that I wouldn’t come back, I wouldn’t drag them into this world. And yet, here I am, passing that dented WELCOME TO HADDENWOOD sign, tearing along Main Street with its quaint tourist shops and artisanal distilleries, turning left at the giant turkey sign that points to Jackson’s Farm, and skirting around the corner into Elm Tree Lane.

The tall trees that line both sides of the wide street loom over me, their branches knotted together in an intimate embrace. I swipe my hand over my face to shove my blonde hair out of my eyes, but all that succeeds in doing is smearing blood across my face.

I pass the bent elm on the corner where my mom and I once built a hollow to trap boggarts and the path down to the creek where my brothers pretended to slay sirens, and there it is—a rambling, white house with roses climbing all over it. It stands in shadow under the pale light of the waning moon. No one’s home. Good.

It’s not my house. Mine’s the one next door with the peeling paint and the broken porch swing and the basement stocked with weapons and occult books. But the rose house is more my home than my own house ever was.

I turn into our drive and yank on the handbrake. The Mustang shudders to a stop, groaning her displeasure at the tough drive I put her through. I wish I could put her in the garage, out of the weather, but I’m guessing my brothers wouldn’t have cleared out my parents junk, so I don’t want my precious baby anywhere near that disaster zone.

I must’ve broken several speed limits getting here, but even I’m not as fast as a werewolf.

She’s already in Haddenwood, biding her time until the next full moon. This means that I’ll need every second if I hope to lay a trap for her.

I slam the car door, wincing as I catch a glimpse of the stained seat through the window. There are very few things in this world I care about. My brothers fall firmly into that category, as does the occupant of the rose house next door. But near the top of that list? My precious Mustang—it took me an age to save the money for her when I was sixteen, but from the moment I saw that classic profile in Highland Green, like Steve McQueen’s car in the movie Bullitt (although his was a 68) at the local car yard, I knew she was mine. I swear if I could, I’d marry this rustbucket and run away into the night with her. And now she’s hurt.

Fuck werewolves—such animals.

The porch is crowded with old bike parts, a rusting pram that once contained a seriously haunted doll, and some leftover steel piping from when my mom needed a cage to trap a black shuck. I kick my way through all the crap and hammer my fist on the door. “It’s me. Open up!”

Please be home. Please.

The door flies open. One of the twins stands on the rug in a basketball jersey, his blue eyes twinkling with barely suppressed mirth.

“Well, if it isn’t old Grumpyface Mc-Cellphone-Doesn’t-Work.”

It’s Jackson. That much is obvious from his smirk and his stupid nickname for me. But he’s nothing like the scrappy sixteen-year-old I left behind. There’s a line of dark stubble on his chin, and his shoulders have filled out. I thought the twins would be skinny, gangly kids forever, but even though I’m five years older, Jackson’s getting almost as broad as I am. He’d make an excellent hunter.

But he’s not going to be a hunter, I remind myself. I left so that he can be whoever he wants to be.

Jackson’s usual smart-ass expression wavers when he sees the blood all over me.

“What the fuck happened to your face?”

“Werewolf.”

Jackson steps aside and holds the door open. I stagger into the living room, beyond caring about the bloodstains I’m tracking on the carpet. I collapse into the nearest chair. Dad’s old chair.

“Orion, get your loser ass down here,” Jackson yells. I can hear goth music playing upstairs. It shuts off and an identical, dark-haired teen appears in the shadows of the staircase.

Orion lifts his head, but I can barely meet his gaze from beneath a curtain of dark hair. The twins got that dark, wavy hair from Mom. Dad and I are the blonds with the pretty-boy good looks. It might explain why I always have chicks hanging off me but last time I saw them, the twins barely talked to girls.

Well, that…and Orion’s sparkling personality.

Jackson returns from the kitchen with a glass of water. I knock it from his hand and reach for the bottle of chocolate syrup Dad kept in the hidden drawer in the side table. When a human has a close encounter with a monster or spirit, drinking or eating something sweet helps to counteract the effects of their magic. I’m not sure if this is scientifically accurate or just one of Dad’s insane remedies, but it seems to work for us. And considering the fact I’m about to head back out to hunt this werewolf son-of-a-bitch and that I refuse to drink and drive, a sugar rush it is.

“A wolf didn’t bite you?” Jackson peers at me skeptically. “Why are you here?”

“This blood’s not mine.” I squeeze my eyes shut. I want to keep them out of this as long as possible. That’s why I left them in Haddenwood. But if I’m right, I’m going to need their help if we have any hope of stopping this thing. “We have a problem.”

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