Page 6 of The Huntress and the Blood Moon (The Huntress #1)

T he cheap whiskey burns going down Carmen’s throat, flaring the needling disappointment in how unsuccessful today’s search went.

Slamming down the now-empty glass, she signals the bartender for another pour.

He eyes her warily, and she doesn’t blame him—not with the way she keeps leaving this bar at the end of the night.

Carmen knows her current level of alcohol consumption is concerning.

She hasn’t gone a day without drinking in .

. . she can’t even remember how long it’s been.

But she finds it difficult to care much about herself these days.

Every scrap of energy she has is centered on one purpose, one fucking last task, and she’s losing time.

She reaches for the gold pendant that hangs from her neck, rubbing the pad of her pointer finger along the gold surface and doing her best to tamp down the anger that flares from another shitty day.

She’d been so goddamn lucky to discover Cody survived, to find and convince him to show her around the campsite where he and Elijah endured an attack.

But what good was a lead if it led nowhere?

The bartender ambles over, thick biceps bursting from the ripped-off sleeves of a leather jacket, resembling a makeshift biker’s cut.

Tribal tattoos snake across his skin, a foot-long goatee hanging from his wide chin.

It’s almost laughable that a man like him could run a bar like this in a town so fiercely opposite in every way.

Not that Carmen’s complaining—without this bar, she’d be drowning out her troubles alone in her dark motel room with a bottle scored from the liquor store.

At least being at a bar is a more socially acceptable way to get gloriously drunk.

“You closin’ us down again tonight, honey?” the bartender asks.

She pushes her glass toward him. “So what if I am?”

He pulls a bottle from the well below the bar and pours a double shot. “We get all sorts of troublemakers in here.” He shrugs. “But you . . . you’re an interesting one. I haven’t seen a girl ever drink Ralph under the bar like you did last night.”

The thought makes her queasy. “Who’s Ralph?”

The bartender looks at her, eyes wide. After a beat, he bursts into laughter. “Shit, sweetheart. Maybe go a little easier tonight, yeah?”

Carmen frowns. “What’s your name?”

“Teddy,” he says.

This surprises Carmen—he doesn’t look like a Teddy. “Well, Teddy, how about you mind your own business and just keep focusing on pouring drinks, okay? I’ll worry about myself.”

He shakes his head, chuckling as he taps a thick knuckle against the bar in front of her. “Got it,” he says. She keeps her narrowed gaze on him as he moves down the bar to help a man who just sat down.

This time, Carmen only shoots half the whiskey in her glass. She knows Teddy’s right, that she should slow down. Still, nothing else quite balms over the never-ending pain that lives inside of her like a fucking drink.

“Sheriff Meyers,” someone calls from down the far side of the bar. Carmen looks to see a familiar old man who was definitely here last night. He’s looking at the man who just sat down, a fresh pint of beer in his hands courtesy of Teddy.

“Frank.” The man dips his head in acknowledgement. Carmen eyes him up and down, taking in his street clothes, the beer. If he’s a sheriff, he’s clearly off duty. Still, she and law enforcement have never gotten on that well.

“How’s Cindy?” Frank asks. “My Martha was just asking after you both.”

“Cindy’s fine,” the sheriff answers. “Please give Martha our regards.”

“Good to hear,” Frank says. “You know, Martha’s been pretty spooked about all the racket coming from that old abandoned factory. We can hear it all through the night from our house.”

The sheriff nods before taking a long pull of his beer, his disinterest written all over his face. “Yeah, we’ve heard a few complaints. A deputy went out a couple nights ago and didn’t find anything, but we’ll be sure to keep an eye on it.”

Frank frowns. “He didn’t find anything? How could that be? It sounds like a damn house party with all the loud music and howlin’ going on through all hours of the night.”

Carmen sits up straighter. She keeps her gaze focused on the whiskey in front of her, trying not to look like she’s listening to every word.

“Maybe we missed them,” the sheriff responds. It’s clear by his tone he couldn’t care less.

“Are you talking about that old eye-sore out on the edge of town?” another man from a nearby high-top asks.

When Frank nods, he says, “I heard that place is ‘bout to be torn down to the ground. God-awful structural issues. If someone’s hanging out in there, they’re flirtin’ with quite a bit of danger. ”

“Exactly, Dennis,” Frank says, waving a hand out. “I swear, the music alone is probably enough to send those walls crumbling down. It’s too damn loud!”

The sheriff doesn’t look pleased. “I hear you, Frank, I do. Like I said, we’re on it, okay?”

“You know,” Dennis says from his high-top, ignoring the sheriff.

“It’s almost Halloween, which means kids are going to be daring each other to run in that old place like they do every year.

Might be a good idea to put up some fencing around the area.

Maybe hang some warning signs to stop ‘em from gettin’ themselves hurt. ”

The sheriff ignores Dennis altogether, taking another long pull of his beer.

Frank and Dennis both look at each other and roll their eyes.

“I think it’s a mighty fine idea, Dennis. In fact, maybe I’ll go out there myself—give the old place a little look-see and put up some plywood on the doors.”

The sheriff sighs. “I wouldn’t advise that, Frank. You’d be trespassing. It’s private property.”

“Well, I sure hope you and your boys do something about it then, Benji,” Frank says through narrowed eyes.

“My Martha has hardly slept in the last week, and Denny’s right: it’s only a matter of time before the whole thing goes down.

I’d sure hate to hear of anyone getting hurt if it could have all been avoided. ”

“Jesus,” the sheriff—Benji—mutters to himself.

He tips back the rest of his beer before setting the empty glass down with a loud clamor.

Carmen almost feels bad for him with the way these guys are imposing on him when he’s clearly trying to unwind.

But she’s too intrigued by the details of this old abandoned factory to give any sympathy much focus.

Loud music , Frank said. And howling .

She almost shudders thinking of the sounds that came from the beast who killed Lacie.

Lifting her glass, she sucks the rest of the whiskey into her mouth and holds it there, letting the burn consume her.

Teddy shoots her an amused look before he turns his focus on a couple who point at something on the menu.

Carmen finally swallows the liquor just on the brink of inducing a coughing fit, and then centers herself inside the bar, reminds herself why she’s here, what she’s set out to do.

The sheriff tosses a ten-dollar bill on the counter, and mumbles a low, “Keep the change.” And then he stalks for the door, disappearing out into the night without another word.

Carmen watches the door swing closed behind him. Then she takes a deep breath and goes for it.

“I think I might have heard what you’re talking about,” she says, making clear eye contact with Frank. “The loud noises . . . It kind of sounded like coyotes. Or maybe wolves?”

“Yeah,” Frank says, nodding. “But it’s not an animal—definitely party racket.

As close as our house is, we can hear yelling and laughing too.

I thought it was teenagers from another county coming in for a little weekend rendezvous, but it’s been weeks now and hasn’t stopped.

We have to listen to that bullshit every night. ”

Carmen considers the best way to play this. “I’m not from here,” she says, “so I don’t know the area well—I’m visiting my cousin. But we spent a couple nights camping out in the woods and heard it. Out just past the park, right? Up the river?”

“A ways from the park, but yeah, that’s right, ‘bout a mile up the river. It used to be a plastic factory, but it’s been abandoned for over twenty years. Must be some group of gypsy squatters in there, I’d guess.”

“Oh, don’t go tellin’ tales, now,” Teddy chimes in as he dries a freshly washed glass with a questionable bar rag.

“Who else could it be?” Frank asks. “Honestly, I don’t care what he says, if the sheriff can’t be bothered to take this seriously someone else should go out there and look. What if it’s a gang of criminals?”

Teddy chuckles in that annoying way he likes to do. “You think a gang of criminals is just going to take over an abandoned factory and party for nights on end?”

Frank shrugs. “Sounds like what I’d do if I were a criminal.”

Dennis scoots back in his stool, the metal legs scraping loudly against the concrete floor. He stands and walks to Frank, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m with Frank. Someone should go check it out and make sure we’re not in any sort’a danger.”

Teddy looks at Carmen, as if waiting for her input.

Normally she’d be inclined to keep her mouth shut—this isn’t her town, and she doesn’t care about any of these people.

But in her gut, she knows who’s likely taken up residence in that building, and she wouldn’t wish that kind of danger on anybody.

“I’d leave it to the sheriff,” she says, looking back to Frank and Dennis.

“If there’s trouble, it’s his job to deal with it. Don’t put yourself at risk, you know?”

Frank sighs again. “Maybe you’re right,” he says. “But I still don’t like it.”

Carmen shifts her gaze to Teddy, pushing her glass toward him. “Another, please.”