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

  Dream on dreamer.

  I checked my phone, which had no new notifications, took a piss, and stuck the kettle on.

  My new batch of brownies were on a plate, wrapped in foil, ready to take to the café downstairs. Lucy and Polly would have a use for them.

  The results had been better this time, but I still wasn’t skipping down Happy Lane.

  I could already smell the bacon cooking from the café. Bacon butty was defo needed in a bit.

  My phone buzzed. It was a text from Mama Rita, my elfie bestie and the one who cleaned my katanas for me. I’d messaged her last night about a cleaning.

  Yes, luv. Cum see me @ 9 Xxx

  She didn’t see anything wrong with spelling ‘come’ as ‘cum.’ It was me who was a dirty bastard for pointing it out. I sent back a quick reply and made some tea, yawning like a cat lazing in the sun.

  My phone buzzed again.

  Ugh.

  It was G:

  Turn on the TV. News channel

  I did as I was told, taking my tea into the living room, plonking myself down on one of my two overstuffed armchairs that sat amid my knickknacks.

  The remote brought my small telly to life, and I went down to the news channel.

  A werewolf murder down on the River Thames. Body was found early hours of this morning by a river mer—not the same as sea mer. It was a miracle she hadn’t eaten it!

  I put my tea on the table next to my chair, spilling a little on the doily coaster, and leaned forward. The female correspondent was jabbering on. My brain not fully awake yet. I was a zombie, staring at the woman’s bright red blouse, not really paying any attention beyond the bold headline along the bottom of the screen.

  I yawned again, and my phone rang from the kitchen.

  With a groan usually reserved for stroppy teenagers, I traipsed back to answer it.

  “Morning,” I said to G.

  “Did you see the news?”

  “Yeah. What happened?”

  “I’m heading down to the scene now. Still not totally up on the information, but it looks like there was a ritualistic nature to the killing.”

  “No, shit?”

  “We’re keeping that one quiet for now.”

  “Good luck with the news crew down there.”

  “Your dad has them under control.”

  “I bet he does.” Another yawn.

  “Did I wake you up?” His tone, I suddenly registered, was pretty frosty.

  “No.”

  “Anyway, just wanted to make sure you knew.”

  Which meant he’d told my dad to tell me. Papa of the year insisted I knew everything that was going on in the werewolf world, no matter how big or small, as well as keeping up with politics.

  I didn’t bother much and hated that he pretended to care. Once he got himself a new heir, he could pull G back and let me get on with my life as the runt, the stain on his name—the son who couldn’t shift. Whatever. The sooner all ties were severed, the better. This bullshit pretense on his part was boring.

  I was looking forward to being disowned.

  G had hung up without saying bye.

  Yeah, he needed to get himself laid.

  I went back to my tea, turning off the TV, closing my eyes to have some chill-out time before tackling the day.

  First, the brownie handover. Next, Mama Rita. After that, my bike, then over to mister millionaire for payment. Best order, even if it did mean getting the skytube.

  Such was life.

  Dad was on my mind again, and how much of an arsehole he was. I don’t know why I didn’t just get out of London, head as far away from him as I could. Yeah, his reach was far and wide being who he was, but removing my arse from the epicenter of power wouldn’t be a bad thing.

  Maybe a part of me was hoping to get answers from him about my mum—answers so buried and locked down I’d need several tons of dynamite to blow my way to the truth.

  Details about my mum were strictly off-limits. We’d argued, he’d even punched me a few times to shut me up—which hurt like hell—and so I’d generally put that shit on pause.

  Pause didn’t mean throwing in the towel.

  I had so many questions. Why couldn’t I shift? Was it part of my mum’s genes? What was she? Human? Something else? All I knew was she was Japanese, like my dad, and had given birth to me in Tokyo. She’d died two months later. Then, dad had come to London to take his throne and save the word.

  Had the mazoku killed her?

  It was all under lock and key, and I hated that piece of shit sperm donor for all the secrets.

  Fuck this.

  I downed my tea and pushed myself up, striding to my bathroom to brush my teeth and splash my face, then hit my bedroom.

  My clothes from last night were strewn all over the floor, the sheets crumpled and still smelling of Harry, the stranger.

  I’d have to wash them later.

  I dug out some underwear, blue jeans, gray tee, my favorite white trainers, which were proper battered from overuse but mega-comfy, and a black leather jacket. My katanas were propped up and hidden in my wardrobe. I scooped them out and strapped them on, adding some fingerless leather gloves to complete the look.

  My brown eyes, flecked with the gold of my half-wolf nature, stared back at me in the full-length wardrobe mirror as I tied my dark hair up into a loose man-bun. Considering the lack of sleep, I didn’t look too bad.

  The ruby ring on my right index finger sparkled in the sunlight flooding the room.

  Boom. Ready to face the day.

  * * *

  Man, it was proper lush weather. This jacket would have to come off at some point. Blue skies, no clouds, nice and warm. If the day went well, I’d have myself a pint in the beer garden of The Crown and Rose down the road.

  Business first.

  The Teacup, the café below my flat, was a small and busy place that served the best Full English breakfast anywhere in the world. Perfection at its finest. It was run by Lucy and Polly, married day vampires who were the most awesome neighbors to have. They lived in the flat next door, above the newsagents. I’d had the flat above The Teacup before they’d moved in, but the flat above the newsagents had been vacant, so they’d had that as the owner of the newsagents lived farther out in a house in north London.

  I was glad for it.

  The bell rang as I opened the door of the café. It was so cute with the net curtains, green façade on the outside, and the green and white tiled floors inside. The walls were daisy wallpapered with pictures of cats all over them, the tables, mahogany. It just had a special, cozy quality to it.

  “Morning!” Polly called from behind the counter. She was short, curvy, pale, and full of sunshine. Her white hair was scraped back from her face as she rang through a punter’s bill in the till.

  “Alright?” I responded.

  Most of the tables were full.

  “Not bad.” She turned her head to call over her shoulder, handing change to the old woman paying for her grub. “Akira’s here, babe,” she yelled.

  With that, Lucy’s head popped into view in the tiny kitchen behind the counter. Like Polly, she was pale, white-haired, but was less full of joy. She was taller, thinner, and had a chef’s hat crowing her head.

  “How you doing?” she called.

  I gave her a thumb’s up. “Sweet, cheers.”

  “What’s that you got there?” She gestured, with spatula in hand, to my plate of foil-wrapped brownies.

  “Another failed mission.”

  Lucy laughed, snorting, then went back to her cooking. She was the chef, Polly, the face of the business, seeing as she had a friendlier demeanor than her wife.

  The perfect day vamp duo.

  Day vamps always had white hair and violet eyes and were allergic to moonlight just like their night vamp counterparts didn’t go sun-bathing. Night vamps were always dark-haired and red-eyed. Both species, though, enjoyed blood, and there were so many blood products on the market nowadays, as well a
s blood cafés and bars.

  Polly took a swig of her hot blood tea as I approached the counter.

  The woman she’d been serving eyed me with a grin spreading across her dark, lined face.

  It was Mrs. Wallace.

  “Hello,” I greeted her. “How you doing, Mrs. Wallace?”

  “Better now I’ve seen you.” Her watery eyes went to my parcel. “Please, tell me that’s another batch of those brownies.”

  “You got it.”

  “I’ll take three!” she proclaimed, lifting up her walking stick and nearly smacking me in the face with it.

  I set the plate down on the counter beside the till, Polly giggling at Mrs. Wallace’s enthusiasm.

  “Three brownies coming up,” I said.

  Polly handed me a box, and I loaded it up for the old woman who was hunched and frail, and so sweet.

  She took the box and popped it into the carrier bag hanging over her arm. “You’ve made my morning.”

  “Happy to help,” I answered, and took her by the other arm.

  “How are things with you?” she asked as we walked slowly across the café.

  “Not bad. Same old, same old.”

  “Got yourself a man yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You will. With your good looks, I bet you’re beating them off with a stick. But you got to be picky, I say. Don’t let any old Tom, Dick, or Harry think they’re good enough for you.”

  Harry was good enough last night… “Ah, ain’t you sweet, Mrs. Wallace.”

  “It’s true! Can’t have any old riff-raff for dear Akira.”

  She thought too much of me. “One day.”

  “Yes, one day, the right man will come and sweep you off your feet. Mark my words.”

  “I’m not really looking, though.”

  “When you’re not looking, the good things happen.”

  We reached the door. I held it open for her. “Got any plans for today?”

  She shuffled out onto the street. “I’m reading a marvelous book at the moment about a soldier and his pregnant wife. They’re torn apart by war. It’s so sad, yet so gripping. I’m planning on finishing that today with a pot of tea and these gorgeous brownies.”

  “Sounds good to me.” I bent down to kiss her cheek. “Have a good one.”

  “You too.”

  Mrs. Wallace went on with her morning, and I headed back inside.

  “She loves you,” Polly said.

  I leaned on the counter. “She’s a good egg.”

  “That she is. Want the usual?”

  “Hit me with it.”

  “Bacon butty for Akira!”

  “Coming up!” Lucy called back.

  The brownies were a freebie for customers on a ‘while stocks last’ basis. Had just become a bit of a tradition now, and it was good not to waste stuff. Not like they were toxic or anything.

  “Got any jobs today?” Polly asked.

  The day vamps knew all about my hunting life.

  “No, just getting paid for one.”

  “Nice.”

  I never went too far into detail about the marks I hunted. Always best to keep it as simple as it needed to be.

  “Payday is always fabulous,” she added.

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  A man came up to the counter, full of praise for his brekkie, telling Polly he’d be back tomorrow morning.

  When he left, I said, “Newbie?”

  She nodded. “Completely won over by my darling wife.”

  Lucy stepped out of the kitchen at that exact moment. “It’s your smiles that do the most magic.” She planted a kiss on her wife. “Not my miserable mug.”

  “Your food is the star,” Polly replied.

  “This is all super-cute, but I need some bacon in my belly.”

  Lucy handed me a paper bag. “What a diva.”

  “Only when it comes to brekkie.”

  Lucy laughed, kissed Polly again, then headed back to the kitchen. Two more people came through the door, replacing Mrs. Wallace and the newbie.

  “I’ll let you get on,” I said, plopping my money on the counter. Polly had given up trying to stop me from paying. I always insisted.

  She nodded, picking up her notepad to take some fresh orders. “Have a great day.”

  “You too.”

  I waved bye to Lucy, who stuck her head on view, and went back out into the brilliant morning.

  Crispy bacon, white bread, and brown sauce—it went down a treat as I walked down to Kings Cross Station.

  Chapter Five

  The concourse was pretty busy, though not as bad as rush hour normally got.

  I worked my way through the people staring at the arrivals and departures screens while the skytube thundered overhead, heading for the five escalators over near the mainline platforms where the regular trains went out of London without going into the sky.

  Some wanker with a huge suitcase cut in front of me, but I kept my cool. Tempting to cuss the fuckhead out, yeah, but I was feeling too happy-full from my bacon butty to give a crap.

  Lucky escape, bruv.

  The platform was all gleaming chrome and white stone, like a solid cloud, caught between fluffiness and being pregnant with rain. Signs pointing to the correct platforms blinked in the respective colors of the line they represented.

  Trains boomed above me as I followed the black signs to the Northern Line platforms—another escalator ride up—and headed for the northbound platform, making sure I was on the correct branch to get to Kentish Town.

  I missed my bike big time. She was my girl. Cindy, I called her, always getting me in and out of sticky situations, my partner in crime I cruised the streets with, wind in my hair, feeling so free.

  But I had to sort out my katanas with Mama Rita first.

  There were quite a few people on the platform, probably heading for Camden, being quite loud. I mean, did we all need to hear how one particular woman had drunk so much vodka last night and was still standing, making out she was some hardcore alco-beast?

  Obnoxious much? Plus, she was too close to the edge. Those white rails would fry the shit out of her if she fell.

  Oh, well.

  I moved farther away from her and her posse as the transparent glass train rolled in, looking like a sleek rocket. The rails, seen through the floor of the train, flooded with black-light to indicate the color of the line. From the ground, it always looked pretty cool when the trains went overhead, streaking those colors across the sky.

  Sort of. Depended on my mood.

  Rather than sit on one of the black seats with who knew what living in the fabric, I leaned against a glass partition by the doors, positioning my feet so I wouldn’t go arse over tit.

  I didn’t do skytube seats.

  The robotic female voice announced the doors were closing, a beep followed as they did, and the train set off.

  The view was pretty awesome. Again, how much so depended on my attitude on the day. This moment was chill, so it was cool. Other times, I’d think the view was a right pile of steaming shit.

  Happy days for now.

  Further down my carriage was a guy not reading his newspaper, obviously scoping me out. Motherfucker needed to work on his spy skills more.

  Chilled out or not, if he made a move on me, I’d break his neck right here.

  * * *

  The best thing about visiting Mama Rita was that she lived around the corner from Kentish Town station in a former pub called the Laughing Vicar. Farther down the road was a different pub, run by werewolves, with a super-expensive cocktail and food menu that wasn’t all that.

  The bloke on the train had stayed on when I’d hopped off, not looking up from his paper. But I watched him until I couldn’t, making a mental note of his face.

  “Babies,” I whispered.

  Bob and Rose came to life, both of them licking a hand each.

  “See if you can sense that prick, or maybe a friend lurking nearby.”

 
I scratched the tops of both their heads, their gold eyes staring up at me.

  Another lick on each hand, and they were off, tearing up the street in a blur of gray.

  Mama Rita’s house was slightly run down on the outside, the white paint chipped and peeling off, the windows grubby. The old pub sign was still swinging on its pole, faded to hell. But I loved that, how the building was a relic from another time that was resisting the modern changes taking place around it. You got areas like that across the city—old style vs. the new stuff coming in, making one big hodgepodge.

  It was kinda the same in the slums, but with more decay and too much desperation.

  I rang the bell, picking off a flapping piece of red paint from the door.

  Footsteps, then the door opened, the smell of toast wafting out at me.

  “Look who it is!”

  Mama Rita stood there with open arms. She was a big woman, her raven hair speckled with gray, always loose with wild curls that framed her olive skin. Her glasses were big and yellow-framed, attached to a chain. Her silver eyes, the color all elves had, sparkled behind them.

  Today she had on an orange jumper with two kittens playing with some green wool and a pair of baggy pink trousers, some pointed red shoes on her feet.

  She pulled me into a bear hug. “You alright, sweets?”

  “I’m good,” I replied. “You?”

  “Not bad.” She ended the hug. “Come in.”

  I stepped inside the hallway of red walls and white carpet as she closed the door behind us.

  “Tea?” she asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  I followed her past the pictures of Blade Phillips in various muscle-baring poses, locked in glittery red frames. What was it with people’s obsessions with that prat? Still, I didn’t have the heart to tell her how I really felt—each to their own.

  At the end of the hall was the kitchen, past the final Blade pic of him in swimming trunks coming out of the waves on some sunny beach. White walls, brown tiled floors, and gray surfaces that were slightly stained from years of use and not much in the way of sprucing up made up the space. Over to my left was the door that led into the old bar, which was now her living room. To my right, the door to the basement and the way into her back garden—which was looking like a jungle.