Page 1 of The Huntress and the Blood Moon (The Huntress #1)

C armen rolls her baby blue Impala into the small parking lot of Blackbird Diner just as the late October sun slips beneath the distant treeline.

Streaks of purple and orange race across the wide-open sky, illuminating the buildings around her in a soft, warm glow.

As far as she can tell, downtown Renbury is nothing more than a single streetlight surrounded by a dozen well-kept establishments, a mere fingerprint at the center of twenty or so suburban streets fanning around it on every side.

A hardware store, gas station, and laundromat share the northeast corner with the diner, each painted a uniform bright white with black trim and black gutters.

Concrete flowerbeds of coneflowers, bluebonnets, and white asters pepper the front walkways of each, a picturesque scene of small-town America.

Gleaming jack-o’-lanterns flank the doors as trails of fake spiderwebs covering the windows dance in the breeze.

It’s enough to make Carmen’s eyes roll as she pulls the car into one of the only open spots on the side of the building.

Letting out a long, tired exhale, she stares at the building in front of her, readying for the inevitable.

One more , she reminds herself. One more job , and you can see her again .

The thought squeezes against her ribs.

The diner’s already busy with a dinner rush, something she’d been hoping to avoid.

Dread coils through her as she looks around and considers her options.

Across the street is a two-story motel—the only one in town according to yesterday’s quick internet search from the library over in Hanover County—made of old eroded brick and gothic windows that are all dark, save for two in the corner of the second floor.

Fake bats in various positions of flight are scattered around the roof, held up in the air by thin poles. This town clearly loves a holiday.

The motel shares a lot with what looks like a run-down dive bar, the kind of place that reeks of trouble, a total contrast from all the other buildings on the block.

She doubts the bar serves food, and she doesn’t want to chance getting settled into the motel for the night without eating in case they don’t offer room service.

Her stomach rumbles in hunger at the thought, so she lets out another breath and turns her focus back to the diner in front of her.

She’ll make quick work of eating, she decides, before turning in for the night across the street.

She’ll even reward herself with a nice shot of whiskey at that bar.

Pushing out of the car door, Carmen instinctively feels for the knife hidden at her thigh beneath wide cargo pants, the weight of it a comfort to her general unease.

She doubts she’ll need to use it—not in this sleepy suburban dream of a place—but she’s learned the hard way not to get comfortable in any environment, learned what sorts of nightmares like to prowl in the dark or, sometimes, even in broad daylight.

The air is brisk without the warmth of the sun, and the musty smell of decomposing leaves serves as a gentle reminder of the impending winter, of the short time she has left.

As she rounds the corner to the front of the building, the door crashes open and a bustling family of five spills out, their laughter and sounds of joy an uncomfortable raking against Carmen’s heart.

She can’t help but pause her step, becoming transfixed on them as they cross the lot toward a mid-sized SUV that was meant to hold a family like that.

A deep ache flares—old wounds of a past life ripped from her— until she’s able to force her gaze away.

As she feared, the inside of the diner is full to the brim.

Carmen’s eyes trail along the vinyl tables and vintage booths arranged around the red and white checkered floor and come up empty with options until she spots a single open stool along the small bar in the back.

Not waiting for anyone to seat her, she sets off in a beeline for the red-cushioned stool, squeezing her way between two very large men in flannel shirts.

“Excuse me,” she mutters when her elbow accidentally juts into one man’s shoulder.

He gives her a slinky smile, his black eyes sparking with curiosity.

“No problem, honey,” he drawls, gaze moving down the curves of her body as she sits.

Her right hand again settles over the weapon on her leg, a beautiful silver blade that could shred her bar mate to ribbons in seconds.

She gives him her best menacing glare, knowing full-well the effect the look has.

It’s especially dreadful now that her eyes have grown dull and void of the life that once filled them.

It would take only seconds to wield the blade from beneath the flap of the faux-pocket, seconds more to sink the pointy end right into his jugular.

The man chokes on a cough and turns back to his steak and potatoes, and Carmen can’t help the smile that plays on her lips.

A rounded woman appears through batwing doors from the kitchen and spots Carmen right away. “Evenin’.” She nods as she approaches, her cheeks flushed with the hard work of a busy shift. “Can I get ya somethin’ to drink?”

“I’ll have a cold beer please,” Carmen says distantly. “Whatever’s cheap.”

The waitress nods again, turning to the fridge behind her to pull out an amber bottle with a red and silver label. She holds it up for Carmen’s approval before popping off the cap and setting it down on the worn bar top. “Do ya need a menu?”

“That would be great. Please.”

Carmen watches as the woman pulls one out from below the counter and sets it down next to the bottle before turning her attention to other customers.

She studies the list of options, her stomach roaring to life beneath her oversized black sweatshirt.

After settling on the biscuits and gravy special, she gives her order to the waitress before taking a long pull from the cold bottle.

As Carmen waits for her food, she lets her gaze wander across the diner, taking in the various faces.

Despite evening hour, she’s eager to get started on her work here, eager to find what—or more appropriately, who —she came here for so she can get back to what she wants most: the prize and the end of it all, a reward so sweet nothing will stop her until it’s hers.

She knows she can’t do much until tomorrow, but still .

. . being here in Renbury stirs a bit of a rush in her chest, a gentle hum of anticipation at being so close.

It’s what prompts her later, when the men on either side of her eventually leave and her plate is nearly licked clean, to risk asking a few questions of the waitress.

“Can I get ya anythin’ else, hon’?” she asks, swiping Carmen’s empty plate.

“No,” Carmen answers. “That was great, thank you. But I . . . I do have a couple of questions, if you wouldn’t mind helping me?”

The waitress—Bea, according to the nameplate pinned to her shift dress—gives Carmen a curious look before waving a hand for her to continue.

Carmen takes a breath. “Do you know anything about the recent animal attacks happening here in Renbury?”

Bea’s eyes grow wide. She looks around the diner before settling her attention back on Carmen, a deep groove etching between her down-turned brows. “Who are you?” she asks, not unkindly.

Thankfully, Carmen’s prepared for this. She’s had years of practice.

“I’m an investigative journalist from Columbus,” she explains smoothly.

“We’re working on a state-wide report of all animal attacks in the last five years—everything from bobcats to coyotes.

There’s even been a couple of cases involving black bears down in Hocking.

” It’s a risk, she knows. Most small towns aren’t crazy about some out-of-towner from the city coming in to examine its scars with a magnifying glass, especially when there are victims’ families to consider.

But Carmen hopes this angle on the story will help make things feel more impersonal, steering her objective away from anything tipping toward salacious.

It seems to work because the scrutiny in Bea’s face wipes clean as her eyes turn melancholy, dropping to the peeling linoleum. “All those poor people,” she says quietly. “So many good lives lost, I tell ya.”

Carmen mirrors Bea’s sadness with her own—she knows how to play the cards of her emotions to get what she wants, even if she hasn’t truly felt anything other than a bleak, all-consuming emptiness in a long time.

“There have been eight deaths in the last three months, right?” she asks, pulling a small notebook from her back pocket and flipping it to a dogeared page.

It’s an outrageously high number of animal attacks to happen in a single area, especially so close together.

Five attacks occurred last month alone—it’s what initially put Renbury at the top of Carmen’s list.

Bea nods solemnly. “Almost nine, if the good Lord hadn’t intervened.”

Carmen looks up from the blue-inked notes she scrawled back in Chicago, her attention snared like a fox. “Nine?” she repeats.

Bea’s mouth curves into a small wistful smile.

“Cody Daniels,” she says simply. “He and his best friend, Elijah, were both attacked by the rabid beast a few weeks ago while they were out camping. Cody somehow escaped. It’s a miracle, by all accounts.

Elijah wasn’t even recognizable when they found him.

” Bea leans in closer, her voice so quiet Carmen almost can’t hear her next words.

“His face was peeled clean off and his heart had been eaten. Terrible, I’ll tell ya. ” Her eyes shine with emotion.

Carmen’s heart stutters at the realization there’s a survivor . Someone she can talk to, who can walk her through what happened and show her the scene . . . “Where can I find him?” she asks in a rush. “Cody Daniels?”

Bea stills, eyes narrowing with a sharp edge that tells Carmen she’s pushed too far. “Now what business would you have with poor Cody?”

Knowing she’s on shaky ground, Carmen does what she can to keep her tone confident.

“His statement would provide crucial details into the moments leading up to the attack,” she tries, hoping like hell it works.

“You can’t deny the benefit of providing the public with information that may end up saving them in a similar situation.

I’m . . . I’m trying to protect people.” A truth, buried in a web of lies.

“We protect our own,” Bea states firmly, and Carmen hears it for what it is—the end of the conversation.

“Of course.” Carmen nods with a smile. “Apologies if I overstepped—I meant no harm.” Pulling a hundred-dollar bill from her pants pocket, she places it on the counter between them, covering an old coffee stain. “I appreciate your help.”

Bea’s eyes grow wide as she looks at the money. “You aren’t a reporter,” she says.

Carmen stands from the stool, tilting her head as she keeps her face schooled. “Of course I am.”

Bea only watches as Carmen turns to make her way across the diner, pushing through the door and out into the night.