Blood on the Moon - serialised EXCLUSIVE for Steemit! - 1

Blood On The Moon Cover

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My third novel was finished and published in time for Halloween and I had a launch at Waterstone's at Sheffield.

This is our lovely daughter and two good friends that had travelled all the way to see the display and support me.

Thanks Kev and Liz!

Other Images from Pixabay or Google (Free Usage)

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Chapter 1

The dishevelled teenage girl stood waiting in shadows; she was watching the comings and goings of the dregs of society, observing thugs and thieves, muggers and murderers. And though she should have been nervous in her surroundings and of the people that passed by her, she wasn’t, she was fascinated.

To a casual observer, she could have been anywhere between fifteen and twenty years old but she didn’t seem streetwise or cocky; she was quiet and stayed out of sight if she could.

The drunks, either habitual or occasional, swayed past and barely noticed her.

The muggers and thieves ignored her; they could tell that she wasn’t worth the effort from the clothes she wore or the almost neglected air she had about her.

Her hair was damp and straggled around her face. It clung to her cheek and the rest hung in lank strands and it was either dirty and greasy or just wet from the constant drizzle; but either way, it was plain that she didn’t care.

The girl knew what she was looking for, even though she could not have described it if she was asked to. She was looking for someone with a certain attitude, a supreme confidence or even the merest hint of a gleam in an eye.

She sought someone with the glossiest of hair, clearest skin and straightest back – just something, something more than human.

The girl spent most of her evenings in places such as this one. Dark places, secluded yet in the middle of a bustling town. She waited and watched for a glimpse of the object of her obsession.

The girl played a dangerous game, it was a hazardous pastime and it was beyond insanity.

She was a hunter but her prey was not weak, unprotected or vulnerable.

The prey she sought was the type that was very capable - both in terms of strength and purpose - of killing her without a moment’s hesitation. If she was discovered and caught, there would most likely be one conclusion, and that would bring neither guilt nor compassion, she would be killed, disposed of and thought no more about.

For two years she had been actively seeking them out, these people who were different - in ways that she couldn’t begin to describe, ways that she saw and recognised but could neither explain, nor understand. The girl was methodical in her observations but committed her discoveries strictly to memory. For some reason, perhaps self-preservation, she wouldn’t write any of her findings down, not even in a secret diary.

Over the months, she was proud to say that she had positively identified a good number of their kind, possibly twenty or more. She had also witnessed their kills, not many, but enough to make her yet more wary of them noticing her.

The first one she had ever noticed was when she been in a position to see how he moved and operated, up close and personal so to speak, and therefore he was her favourite.

His name was Paul; he had been a Bouncer at a local night club at that time.

She was with her friends, drinking and dancing and she noticed a fight erupt and she pulled Ellie, her best friend, to one side, out of the way of the feet and fists. The other girls followed Ellie off the dance floor and they stood in relative safety by the bar and watched how the Doormen dealt with the trouble.

She remembered all the details, she savoured them and as she stood in the cold and damp, waiting for something or someone to make it worth the night’s discomfort, she mulled over the details of that night. She could recall every aspect as though she was there again.

The smell of moist heat from dancers as they passed her, and the stink of stale sweat from those who only cared what they looked like and not whether they were clean under the veneer of their designer clothing.

She could smell the odour of cannabis and sometimes a sharp chemical stench that was gone swiftly but would make her eyes prickle and her nose twitch.

If she concentrated hard enough before she started drinking for the evening, if it was dark enough, and if the conditions were just right, she could sometimes see the differences in certain faces. On occasion, she wondered if she was perhaps psychic but decided that she was being stupid and romantic.

Paul was one that rushed into the fray first, he had gone in to stop the fight and her group had watched him with the curiosity of anyone close enough to see the fists and blood flying, but far enough removed to feel safe. He was young, strong and good looking, in a ‘bit of rough’ type of way.