Four Moons: The Complete Collection: (Books 1 - 4) Read online

  Rather than sully my katanas, I went all swift and whipped out one of my throwing knives tucked into holders in my socks—my lucky stash—and flung it at the prick.

  It went straight into his right eye. He howled, and I kicked his legs out from under him.

  His cronies moved on me, so I moved on them. I delivered a spinning kick to the closest one, cracking him right in the face, and then delivered a right hook and a left-handed uppercut to my next challenger.

  I pulled out the other small knife and cut the throat of a skinhead with too many rings on his fingers, then stabbed another bloke in the thigh.

  Hands grabbed me. I grabbed back, snapping fingers and flipping the motherfucker up and over. I jumped him as he slammed onto the asphalt, driving my little blade into his throat.

  There was one left standing, backing off from me with his hands in the air. He was skinnier than the rest, the ravages of crystal meth on his painfully thin, gray face. “Please, don’t kill me. They made me—”

  I threw the blade, catching him right in the Adam’s apple. His eyes widened, and he spat blood before crumbling into a heap.

  The bastard with the slashed thigh was still alive, so I put him down. I didn’t go for the white flag shit. Fuck with me and get fucked up.

  No exceptions.

  Frankie Doodle had made it all the way down to New Bond Street. The bastard was quick on his feet.

  I retrieved my blades from the dead bodies they’d made and took off again, pounding the concrete.

  Some motherfucker, clad all in black, landed in my path, brandishing a sword. He was bigger than the leader of the group, boasting a full red beard and a mass of curls.

  “Loving the Viking look,” I said, drawing my katanas.

  His gray eyes widened as I twirled my twin blades.

  “Surprise,” I drawled.

  Without a sound, the big guy swung at me. I blocked his attack, the clang of metal on metal a kiss to shake the city.

  I pushed him off, going for a strike to his side with my right blade. He blocked it and the swing I made on his legs with my left.

  Shit. The bastard was fast.

  A boot came up to crack me in the chest. I went down but managed to pull off a backward roll despite being winded. Crouching, my katanas and body making the shape of an X, I caught a quick update from my babies. The warlock was fast approaching Hyde Park.

  Fuck.

  I spun, blades clanging on the Viking’s weapon. He grunted as I sliced in quick succession, twirling across the pavement and driving him back.

  Make you sweat, bruv.

  A heavy blow rattled my bones through my weapons, but I saw a window of opportunity for a high kick. I cracked him in the jaw with a satisfying crunch.

  He staggered, and I stabbed him in the gut, twisting my katana before he could swing at me again.

  A hiss came through clenched teeth.

  I wasn’t into lingering death, so I cleaved his head from his shoulders. Sometimes, I could show mercy. Do unto others and all that. If I ever ended up on the wrong side of a sword, I’d want it done with quick.

  Yeah, flaky ideological crap. There were some peeps out there who got off on the lasting agony. I knew some witch who’d frigged herself off while her lover slowly died of a poison she’d given him.

  That bitch had been cut down by my hand at the request of the lover’s mum.

  Re-sheathing my katanas, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and got my legs pumping to the highest speed they could manage.

  Frankie Doodle wasn’t getting away from me.

  * * *

  Now outside the slums, I kept myself hidden behind Marble Arch, scanning the huge black wall surrounding Hyde Park. The armed guards of the Supernatural Containment Unit (SCU), as well as some werewolf soldiers, patrolled it, the floodlights casting a gleaming white across the polished onyx.

  The warlock had already made it over the wall but wasn’t moving that quick, according to my babies.

  No sweat.

  I kept low, darting out from my hiding spot and heading for the one spot I always used for trips into the park. No wall guard had cottoned onto it yet and never clocked me taking advantage of the blind spot.

  It was coming back over that always landed me in trouble.

  Nothing I couldn’t wiggle out of.

  I vaulted over the wall, getting a sting in my palms from the energy that ran through the stone. The onyx kept the bad shit in.

  Hyde Park wasn’t the safest place to hang out, what with mazoku being locked inside. The mazoku, demons originating from Japan, had been unleashed in London after my dad, Hitoshi Murakami—the High Alpha of the werewolves—had come over to London to take the highest seat of power in the world. He’d crushed the mazoku queen in Tokyo just before his ascension, and her subjects had come to unleash mazoku hell on him once again, with the help of some werewolf-hating group. There were a lot of those resistance groups, seeing as wolves were the most dominant race across the world—replacing traditional governments many decades ago.

  I’d only been a few months old at that time.

  The mazoku had gone on a spree of destruction across London, razing Shoreditch to the ground, killing innocent people, and going for maximum end-of-the-world chaos. That was until my dad and his ten hardcore super-wolves, the rest of his werewolf army, and the SCU, joined forces to herd the mazoku up and dump them in the park, and various other spots around the world, before the apocalypse could really be, well, apocalyptic. Killing them was tricky. They had a tendency to respawn as a fresh pair of nasty for every one dead— like cutting a head off a Hydra. They’d lost their queen, but like six regular mazoku popped up in her place. Locking them up was easier, and they’d been properly contained ever since my dad had spear-headed the saving of the world—with some thanks to the anti-magical SCU energy, which was sort-of magic in a way, to keep them in.

  The odds had not been in favor of the mazoku really, not when facing the werewolves. Any creature that did, failed in the end. Uprisings by wolf-haters had been snuffed out time and time again. My dad and his ilk weren’t top dogs for no reason—they hated being called dogs, so I made sure to throw in a doggie reference every now and then, even if I had the werewolf blood myself. To hold the seat of power in London was to be the king of the world, in charge of werewolves and humans and all the supernatural creatures, having prime ministers and presidents answering to the Alpha’s rule, the laws set out by him and his council.

  London was the epicenter of ancient magic and the birthplace of werewolves. It didn’t matter what country you were from, any wolf striving to be High Alpha was welcome to fight their way to the top.

  Top dogs for sure. Werewolves really had become numero uno in the extreme. Full-on powerful, the heads of some mega commonwealth that didn’t include the two Poles, Australia, New Zealand…yet. That day would come.

  My father was hated, particularly by the elves, and loved and feared and a total prick.

  Papa and I weren’t the best of mates.

  I landed on the grass on the other side of the wall. There were more trees in the park then there had been pre-mazoku infestation. Despite the little shits being locked up here, they certainly were green-fingered. I was always impressed by the lush vegetation, and how pretty it all looked.

  Where the mazoku were the demons, the tenshi were the angels. Most peeps were of a religious persuasion and prayed to the tenshi at home or at a local shrine. The tenshi were the architects of the universe; the mazoku, the instigators of doom. The whole thing had evolved from Japanese mythology to a global belief system that was rooted in fact. The tenshi were God, the almighty, not just one being but a whole conglomerate of creators. I mean, the mazoku were trapped in Hyde Park, so there was no denying anything. Was kinda hard to be an atheist with half the proof. The faith side of things was concentrated on the tenshi—as they’d yet to be seen on the scale of the mazoku. Yeah, they’d been seen, most of the encounters with them recorded in the
holy text, 天使の書 (Book of Angels), but not recently. Probably when my dad was a kid. Faith wasn’t a bad thing to have, though. They waited in the Afterlife, ready to move you on. Maybe that’s why they didn’t pop over here so much as they were too busy.

  The concept of our religion was simple. Everything was a balance of light and dark. One couldn’t exist without the other—all that jazz. Of course, there were other belief systems too. The elves didn’t subscribe to the tenshi stuff. Well, they were from another realm and had their own ways, believing in the goddesses of the sun, stars, and moon. Good for them. Maybe they did have separate creators. Each to their own. Some dick heads called the elves heretics, but those wankers just needed to shut the fuck up and go mind their business.

  Rose padded over to me, glowing in the dark, followed by Bob, who stopped to lick my right hand before they both faded away.

  “Good babies,” I said.

  I drew my katanas. Frank was just up ahead, backed up against a tree by a mazoku. I could hear the demon hissing at him.

  Good.

  With feet as light as air, I hurried over. The demon, pure black with red eyes and looking more like a walking shadow, had its claws up, gesturing at the warlock.

  “Get away from me!” Frank spat. He was clutching his right bicep, blood seeping through his fingers.

  mazoku were nasty shits.

  It hissed at him some more. That’s all they ever did, never offering any other form of communication than violence for those of us that didn’t speak ‘hiss.’

  “You heard the man,” I cut in.

  The mazoku and Frank both looked at me.

  “We meet again,” I said.

  Frank sneered at me. “Fuck you.”

  “Nice, bruv.”

  The mazoku sniffed the air, hissed at me, and ran off. They always ran away from me. Weirdos. Not that I was complaining. They had a tendency to rip victims down to the bare bone, so I was glad I seemed to scare them. I put it down to the blood of the High Alpha in my veins. Or my scowling.

  Over in the trees, there were loads of them watching, blinking their creepy eyes at me.

  “He’s mine,” I told them.

  Frank’s hands started to glow with the purple magic of a warlock.

  Each katana buzzed in my palms, signing in my ears with hunger.

  Without a word, Frank shot a blast of purple energy at me. I met it with my katanas, the light swallowed into the gleaming steel, tinging it lilac.

  Frank’s eyes widened for a moment as if reality had come and slapped him in the face.

  “Bet you didn’t see that coming, eh?” I said.

  His sneer returned, and he was running, firing off another blast back at me. I met it again and took off after him.

  “Freeze!” he yelled.

  My body was swallowed by a block of ice, locking me mid-run. It was freezing in this bullshit thing, but my katanas drank down the magic as they did so awesomely.

  Despite being soaked to the skin from the ice, I soldiered on. This was all part of chasing a spell-caster.

  Run all you want, bruv.

  Blast after blast came back at me, and I dodged every single one, or let my blades suck down the magic.

  “Get away from me!” he roared.

  I could hear the commotion on the other side of the wall.

  Great.

  Fucking warlocks and their need for attention. I’d slept with a few in my time, and they were all the same. I don’t like to generalize, but they were always more into themselves than me when it came to the bedroom. Surprised they hadn’t come up with a spell to cut out the middle person and fuck themselves.

  The SCU and the werewolves were gonna be burning my arse after this, Murakami surname or not.

  Frank changed direction, making a beeline for the wall rather than going deeper into the park. What was he doing? Pleading for sanctuary from the SCU? He wasn’t gonna make it to The Serpentine.

  Ah, I almost felt sorry for the warlocks. They’d had a secret sanctuary underneath the water of The Serpentine—for hanging out, possibly plotting to overthrow the supreme power of the werewolves. No one had known anything about it until the mazoku had been dumped in Hyde Park, slaughtering a load of warlocks and witches in the process. The Serpentine was now regarded as a holy spot for spell-casters—also known as a desperate criminal sanctuary. If they could get there, they’d be cool and safe from prosecution…or me.

  Crossing the park was the trial by fire, though—big risk for big freedom.

  Yeah, the warlock was done with making for the water, trying his luck elsewhere.

  Fuck this, Frankie.

  Taking aim, I threw one of my katanas like a spear. It arched up, slicing through the air like a boss.

  “Nice,” I praised myself.

  This was a sure-fire hit.

  The katana caught the warlock in the back, bursting out of his front and stabbing into the ground. It held him there, blood spurting from his wounds.

  Lilac light shimmered across the blade as my weapon absorbed his warlock magic.

  I came around to his front to face the kebab he now was. “Nice try, Frankie, but there’s big money on your head. I need a new oven.”

  Blood was pouring from his mouth, a gurgling sound in place of any comeback he might try and throw at me. Not that he was in a position to fire back.

  He was done for.

  “This is what you get for being a Grade-A scumbag.”

  I pulled my katana out of him, the steel turning a bloody shade of crimson—full up like a leech who just went to a blood buffet. The hilt buzzed in my hand with the magic it’d trapped.

  Frank fell down dead, stripped of everything that’d made him Frank Paulson.

  Just another corpse for the crows.

  If you needed a supernatural shutting down, I was your man. My katanas absorbed magic and energy—thieves of steel. Once they fed, though, I had twenty-four hours to clean them out before the stolen mojo would start doing crazy shit to them, and me.

  They had the power to turn a supernatural into a human, take power, and put it somewhere else—there was lots of metaphysical shit they could chow down on. Cough up the cash, and have a valid reason for wanting that outcome, and I’d be on the job to earn my cut. Also, I’d happily hunt down a human too if they deserved to meet the pointy end of my weapons.

  A boy has to make a living.

  The SCU saw me as Akira Murakami—bratty son of Hitoshi Murakami. In other words, a pain in their arse because they couldn’t make anything stick to me. I guess that was one good thing about my dad being my dad.

  Me being the son of the High Alpha thing was something I kept under the rug as best I could, even though my dear old papa would’ve liked me to act like his heir. Tough shit. I didn’t go for that crap, and that’s why he’d got himself a new pregnant werewolf wife, right? To make a new child to replace the disappointment that was me?

  Sliding the katana back into its sheath on my back, I made for the wall, mazoku hissing at me as I went.

  Chapter Three

  Son of the High Alpha or not, that didn’t stop me from being slammed up against the wall with my hands behind my back.

  “Here we are again,” Paul breathed into my ear. The SCU agent was really crushing his weight against me.

  “This turning you on?” I responded.

  “Shut your mouth!”

  “Why you lying to yourself, huh? You know you’d love to take me right here, right now. Go to the next level.”

  Shooting pains up my arms as he twisted harder. “Shut it, Akira.”

  Paul had kissed me once at Lunar—the werewolf-run nightclub. Ten minutes later, I’d walked in on him fucking a woman in the cloakroom. Paul, a human, seemed to get his kicks from werewolves—as well as kissing me, apparently.

  I had no interest in him or his issues. But I liked to push the big red button he presented every time we bumped into each other.

  “Is that your gun?” I asked.

/>   “What?”

  “You know the line, Paul. If it’s not your gun, then hello to—"

  He crushed me some more, cutting me off. “I wouldn’t fuck with me tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  Paul spun me and shoved me to the ground. “Get the hell out of here.”

  I cocked a cheeky eyebrow at him and licked my lips. “Okay, babe.”

  Fair-haired Paul adjusted his black body armor. “You think you’re so fucking funny, eh?”

  “Big time, babe.” I winked at him.

  If he hadn’t been such a dick about his kissing me, I’d have reined in my piss-taking. But he had to go on rants about how he loved eating pussy, sliding his cock in it, and general g’ing himself up as a chick magnet—being an utter pig.

  Scratch that. Pigs were cute.

  His business was his business. But again, whoever fucked with me got fucked with back.

  End of.

  “Run along, Akira,” he said. “Before I lock you in a cell for the night.”

  Wouldn’t happen, neither would the pinning of dead Frank to me. My ruby ring not only hid my katanas but also traces of me. Inside the red stone, provided by my elfie bestie, was some sweet elf magic that helped me out. I left nothing on the corpses of my kills.

  I got to my feet, brushing myself down. “See you next time.”

  “There better not be a next time.”

  “No?”

  “No! Take your thrill-seeking backside somewhere else to get killed. I don’t want it on my doorstep.”

  Wanker. “Okay, babe. Whatever you say.”

  “I’m seriously gonna batter you!”

  But good old daddy would have your nuts in a vise. “Promises, promises.”

  He turned his back on me and walked away.

  I headed in the opposite direction, immediately catching a familiar scent as I headed back to Marble Arch.

  My cock throbbed at the aroma of orange and cinnamon. The man smelled like Christmas every damn day.

  Under the arched structure, Gabriel waited, leaning up against the white marble with his arms folded.

  “You shouldn’t torment him,” the beta werewolf said in his sexy American drawl.