Page 2 of The Huntress and the Blood Moon (The Huntress #1)

L ugging her oversized duffle through the narrow door of her room, Carmen drops it on the worn mauve carpet and looks around.

She was lucky to snag a corner room on the third floor, ideally positioned to grant her some semblance of privacy.

Two double beds with flower-patterned comforters take up most of the compact space, each with its own square wooden nightstand and lamp.

In the nearest corner is an old laminate desk with a hunter-green upholstered chair tucked beneath, a small notebook with a black pen resting atop its glossy surface.

Her eyes skim across the whole room, on the hunt for anything out of place or .

. . sketchy . Like the shine of a hidden lens in the outlets or light fixtures, or stains on the mattress beneath the bedding.

She pulls back the curtains that hang above the window and finds nothing amiss, no one crouched and waiting to jump out at her later.

She does the same to the curtain hanging in the shower and comes up empty.

Motel rooms are nothing new for Carmen—they’re the closest thing she has to call home, besides the Impala parked down in the lot below. And while this room is definitely nothing special, it’s leaps and bounds nicer than some of the sheer dungeons she’s endured over the last couple of years.

A shiver nearly makes it up her spine at the memory of a particularly cavernous room she’d booked for the night when the Impala blew a flat driving through El Paso.

As if the mold spotted along the ceiling hadn’t been enough, the dark stains in the bathtub and crusted edges of the bedsheets certainly left their mark.

No, this is nothing like that.

She’s only been in Renbury, Ohio for a few hours and can already feel the small-town comfort that Midwest suburbia offers.

It reminds her of a similar place she once called home, long before her mother died and she was handed over to the vipers of child protective services at only nine years old.

She wasn’t sure where, exactly, that had been, but knew it was somewhere southwest. Nevada, maybe?

Or perhaps Arizona? She closes her eyes for a moment, taking a rare moment to let the memory of a large saguaro cactus and blooming bougainvillea wash over her.

She doesn’t let it linger for long—so much of her existence is spent avoiding the remnants of all her past lives. The good ones . . . and the bad.

Opening her eyes again, she distracts herself with the rigorous routine she’s developed over the years: pulling the curtains closed again to keep out any prying eyes; turning off all of the lights except for the one in the bathroom, letting its glow illuminate the rest of the space just enough so that anyone outside won’t immediately know there’s a tenant in this room; unloading all of her gleaming blades and other assorted weapons onto the surface of the small desk.

Carmen navigates through the movements as familiar to her as any other bedtime routine, knowing it’s the only way she’ll be able to relax in this new environment.

She doesn’t know how long she’ll be here for, but she’d paid the man in the lobby for the whole week.

Once her meager wardrobe is stashed away and her face is washed, Carmen settles into the seat at the desk, examining the collection of knives sprawled out across the wooden surface as she thinks about what Bea revealed at the diner: there’d been a survivor .

A boy who’d somehow escaped the peril of beasts so vicious that anyone who saw them rarely lived to speak about it.

The knowledge clenches tightly in her chest as that old ache slices through her again—as familiar as her own heartbeat.

On instinct, she reaches for the pendant that hangs from the thin gold chain around her neck, pulling it from where it’s tucked between her shirt and chest. She holds it for a moment, the metal warming where it’s pinched between her fingers, before she opens the small clasp on the side.

Inside is a small photo of a girl, her golden hair curling around her face.

Bright blue eyes crinkle as a soft smile curves from pouty pink lips.

Carmen holds her breath as she stares at it for a long, long time.

When the picture blurs from the tears that threaten to spill, she snaps the locket closed and tucks it back into her shirt.

Reaching for the bottle of whiskey she picked up from the liquor store across the street on her way to the motel, she twists the cap off and tips it toward her mouth.

She gets four rough swallows down before the burn in her throat becomes too much, leaving her heaving and shaking for breath.

Setting the bottle down with a dull thud, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand as flashes of a long-ago summer night flit through her mind: a yellow cotton blanket hugging scattered mounds of sand, two paper cups filled with bubbling champagne, a cerulean sky stretching so far it kisses the dark sea on the horizon.

Carmen had felt so much joy that day, it was almost overwhelming.

She should have known it would all come crashing down.

It takes Carmen far too long to venture back out the next morning.

Between the pounding in her head and the nausea raking through her stomach, she almost gives up on doing anything productive today.

But after pulling a pillow over her head and sinking deeper into the bed, she realizes wasting away will only prolong the work she needs to do.

And she doesn’t have much time.

So after ripping herself out from between the sheets, she crawls to the bathroom and into the shower, desperate to wash herself clean of the hell she’d put herself through last night if the nearly empty bottle of whiskey on her nightstand is any proof.

She knows her throbbing hangover is from more than just the alcohol; it’s almost impossible to think of Lacie without the onslaught of a physical reaction, like a bone-deep rebellion against what her brain knows is true.

That Lacie is gone. Forever.

After brushing her teeth twice and forcing down a banana she’d brought up from the car, she straps her favorite blade to her thigh and dresses in a pair of denim shorts and a black T-shirt, readying herself for today’s goal: intel.

Shrugging into an old jacket, she slinks out of the motel .

. . but not before setting a minor booby trap inside the room.

Shielding her eyes against the bright morning sun, Carmen squints across the street to find the diner’s lot already full of cars.

She could try that again—the lunch rush would be just as interesting to observe as last night’s dinner crowd—but it’d be a risk after her conversation with Bea went south.

It’s possible she’s not working today, but Carmen decides to save that possibility for later.

Scanning the downtown intersection, she spots a shaded entrance to what looks like a park that cuts through the neighborhoods across the street—a black iron arch marks the pathway to get inside.

A man in a navy windbreaker walks a golden retriever, disappearing through the mouth of it where the foliage of surrounding wisteria trees hangs low.

It’s not the worst place to start poking around, Carmen decides. And then she sets off.

The footpath beneath the arch is unpaved but well worn, and from what Carmen can tell it definitely leads to some sort of nature park or preserve.

Majestic trees are abundant: red maple, black birch, hemlock, and hickory, even a handful of giant magnolias.

Renbury is situated right on the edge of the Hocking Hills, and the surrounding landscape’s beauty is more than Carmen ever expected.

She’s not sure she’s ever seen a town more beautiful in her life.

It’s the perfect setting for monsters to hide in plain sight. No one would be looking for them in a place like this.

Setting off along the path, she heads into the park, soaking in the activity of the people around her.

A handful of runners move along the trails, families with small children laugh and play around a playground, and a group of teenagers shout at each other through a rowdy game of basketball on a concrete court?—

Bingo .

Carmen keeps her pace casual as she makes her way toward it, scanning the faces of the boys who play.

They’re older teens, maybe sixteen or seventeen.

She has no idea how old Cody Daniels is, but if he was camping alone in the woods with a friend he’s got to be around their age, and this town is small enough that these boys should know something.

As she sidles up to the edge of the court, she watches the boys dance around each other, aiming to steal the ball. Eventually, a stocky boy with bouncing blond curls notices her and smiles.

“Hey!” he shouts just before being pummeled by another boy who didn’t notice he’d stopped moving. “ Jesus ,” he sputters, clutching a hand to his chest where a bony shoulder made impact.

“Sorry man,” the other boy says, though he doesn’t look sorry at all. This must be quite the pick-up game.

The blond boy looks back to Carmen, brows pulled together. “Do you need help with something?”

“Actually, I do,” Carmen says. “Do you know Cody Daniels?” It might prove hazardous to ask so directly, but she doesn’t have many options.

Another boy with jet-black hair comes to a sudden halt, his rubber sneakers sliding along the concrete surface with a soft whoosh . “Cody?” he repeats. “Why are you looking for Cody?”

Carmen can tell by the unease splashed across his face that he not only knows Cody, but cares about him.

It’s not likely he’ll share anything without good reason.

So she eases her stance and gives him a soft smile, showing she’s not a threat.

“I found something of his and I’m just trying to return it. ” The lie is smooth off her tongue.

“What did you find?” he asks, unconvinced.

“I’d really rather not say. It’s something of value, and I want to make sure it is his before I give it to him. Only he would know if he’s missing it.”

The boy nods, but he still hesitates.

Thankfully Carmen gets a lucky break when the blond, who seems aloof to his friend’s distrust, blurts, “He’s probably working at the creamery tonight.” A goofy grin blooms through his face. “He’s been a scooper there for a while.”

Carmen smiles back. “Where can I find it?”

The dark-haired boy speaks up again. “How do you know it’s Cody’s?”

“What?”

“Whatever you found . . . How do you know it’s his?”

“Oh.” Carmen nods. “It has his initials on it—CD. I’ve narrowed it down to it most likely being his.”

Now all the boys are staring at her, and she knows they’ll keep asking questions if she doesn’t end this now.

“I’ll figure it out . . . sorry to bother you! Thanks, again!” She waves a hand before turning to head back where she came from. She hasn’t noticed any ice cream parlors in Renbury since her arrival yesterday, but that’ll be a lot easier to find than a kid she’s never seen.

Once she’s back out of the park, Carmen heads inside the motel to ask the old man at the front desk for directions to get ice cream.

Turns out, the closest shop is only three blocks away.