Rising Moon: Book Two of the Hells Gate Series Read online

  Rising Moon

  Book Two of the Hells Gate Series

  Renee Snow

  Terina Adams

  Copyright © 2021 by Renee Snow & Terina Adams

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design https://www.art4artists.com.au

  Created with Vellum

  Authors’ Note

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for buying Rising Moon, book two in the Hells Gate series.

  We hope you enjoy reading the book as much as we enjoyed writing it.

  Wanting more? Click here to sign up to our newsletters and receive content such as short stories, deleted scenes, POV swap chapters, giveaways and more.

  Thanks again, and happy reading.

  Renee & Terina

  For Caitlyn, Maddy, Chloe, Ethan,

  Saxon, Jensen & Cedar

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  20. Akasha

  Authors’ Note

  Meet Renee Snow

  Meet Terina Adams

  Also by Renee Snow

  Also by Terina Adams

  1

  “You’re screwing the witch—are you out of your fucking mind?” Holt raked his fingers through his hair and paced the small veranda. “I knew you were crazy, but fuck man, Wyman will have your balls if he finds out.”

  Locke laughed. “Well, he’s not going to find out, is he? How pissed do you think he’ll be if he found out you lost the blade to her sister?”

  Holt gazed out beyond pastured land in the direction of the witch’s cottage. Far enough away to remain concealed for decades, but now their location was known to him, the urge to pay the one with the smart mouth a visit was beyond tempting. “Fuck.” He slammed his fist down on the railing then gripped wood with both hands, letting his head hang forward. That smartass witch was going to pay. But how to get past one who stirred and conjured the elements with the flick of her wrist was going to be more of a challenge than he was willing to admit.

  “Whatcha gonna do about it?”

  Holt snagged his can of Jack’s from the table and took a long swig. “Like I’m going to tell you—you’re fucking the enemy, man.” Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he shook his head. “I wouldn’t be in this mess if you had’ve thought with your head for once.”

  Locke tipped his head back and laughed, too relaxed about what could potentially be their undoing with Lucifer. “It’d do you better to think less. What the fuck were you doing carrying the dagger around with you, anyway?”

  Holt shrugged and lifted the can to his lips, downing what fluid remained as a means of distraction. How did he admit that the thought of anyone coming into contact with a weapon of his making left him uneasy?

  “Come Samhain, you know Wyman can’t make the deal without it. He’ll slaughter you himself if anything stands in the way of him conquering the Underworld the next time the veil thins. He’s so close.”

  Locke wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know, yet still the warning pissed on his mood. Samhain was nine months away, but the witches weren’t going to hand the weapon over without a fight.

  “You laced the blade, didn’t you?”

  He nodded. There was no point denying the fact, at least not to Locke. He knew him better than anyone, which although it made him vulnerable, Locke was aware of his downfalls and compensated accordingly.

  “Fuck man, you better get it back and not only to save your own ass.”

  “Whatcha lost?” Tray mounted the stairs to the veranda, taking them two at a time in an effortless stride.

  If any of the guard were his opposite, Tray was it. Hard as fuck, with a chip on his shoulders too big for Hercules to shift, but of them all he’d done it tough. Growing up in the village and earning his way into the guard was a rare occurrence the rest of them didn’t take lightly.

  “His virginity.” Locke threw in the insult to steer the conversation off course.

  “Well, ‘bout time,” Tray sniggered.

  Too pissed off to retaliate, Holt let them have their fun, slinging insults and bullshit like an energetic spar.

  There had to be a way to take the witch by surprise. Overwhelming her whilst she slept mightn’t be a bad idea, even if it seemed the coward’s way out. Playing with her mind and watching that hot little body squirm would come as close to satisfying as disarming her as she had him.

  “How’re things at the factory? Making any progress on the shipment?” Locke directed his question at Tray, but Holt’s curiosity got the better of him.

  “It’s coming along. Purest base I’ve worked with yet.” He glanced over at Holt. “Good job on intercepting.”

  Holt nodded once. A compliment coming from Tray was a rarity, and not something to make a big deal out of. “How’s the girl fitting in over there?” The triangle was bound to run into disaster before Samhain rolled around, but Wyman wanted what he wanted, and who were they to argue with their King.

  Tray rolled his eyes and sniggered. “Aspen couldn’t be greener if envy itself possessed her, and Slade, well, we all know how he gets. If you thought Aspen had him by the balls, that’s nothing compared to how whipped he is by Akasha.”

  “Huh, so who’s the hostage?” Holt crushed his empty can and lobbed it in the trash. The drama at the factory was becoming more like a daytime soap opera than a mission. Wyman’s idea to assign Slade to the girl’s care was done with all the right intentions, but how the fuck was he going to pry her from his son’s grasp when the time came to hand her over to the devil.

  “All I can say is thank fuck I’m not the King’s son. He drew the short straw, no doubt about that. Couldn’t imagine babysitting that tight piece of ass and not being able to sample the goods.” Locke sniggered.

  “With the pampered life he’s lived, I wouldn’t be so quick to call him hard done by.” Bitterness dripped from Tray’s words, reminding them of his not so easy childhood. Even Wyman played Tray a softer hand at times, making him even more determined to prove his worth.

  Master of herbs, Tray worked the factory like a magician, lacing china white as effectively as Holt did weaponry. The difference being his own work was lethal, whilst Tray made them rich. As if it weren’t addictive enough, he amplified the impact, however eliminating the nasty side effects, including the ability to overdose. Consumption levels rocketed. Wyman was raking in a fortune, pissing off the cartel he’d stolen from.

  “Why Wyman wastes Slade to babysitting I don’t know, he should suss out what she’s good for and put her to use.” Holt leaned against the veranda post.

  “Free labour and a sacrifice. Nice to see Locke’s attitude is finally rubbing off. He’ll make a heartless bastard out of you yet.” The trace of a smile teased Tray’s lips.

  Holt scoffed. “Like fuck, he’s stooping to the lowest of lows, no chance that’ll rub off.”

  Locke glared at him. Clearly Tray wasn’t privy to h
is latest fetish in screwing a witch.

  Holt grinned, not that he would use it, but it was a nice turn around, having dirt on Locke.

  “Slow up, Tray, give him time to catch up. He’s still enjoying the aftermath of being fucked over by a chick.” His banter held the edge of warning, and Holt knew he’d pushed too far. Despite being of the inner circle, there was no doubting Locke out ranked him.

  Holt raked his fingers through his hair. “Another round?” One brew wasn’t enough to take the edge off his fucked off mood. Perhaps a woman was what he needed to relieve the tension still lingering. It seemed to work for Locke—that was before he started bedding the witch. Seemed Slade wasn’t the only one caught by the balls.

  “Not for me, Wyman’s expecting me back at the factory.”

  Holt glanced at Locke, who grinned. “Sure, and rack up a table too, it’ll do you some good to have your ass kicked, again.” His laughter hit its mark, stirring Holt’s temper as wild as the wind the witch had conjured.

  “I’m not even going to ask what that’s about.”

  Holt entered the bar, not bothering to wait around for Locke’s response.

  2

  “Yes, yes, keep your pants on, I won’t be late.” Jet sighed. At times Selene was more like a fussy mother than one of her sisters. The role of High Priestess was not one she took lightly. Even though she treated each of them as her equal, responsibility wasn’t something she’d share. The coven worked as a unit, but four witches, with strong opinions, they were bound to create a wave in an otherwise calm pool from time to time.

  “And you have enough candles and lanterns?”

  “Selene, for the sake of the Goddess, please stop quizzing me. How many times have I organised a festival before?”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. After the last one, I can’t help but be on edge.”

  “It’ll be fine, Imbolc is a gentle celebration. Nothing will go wrong.” Jet tried for reassurance, but couldn’t hide the doubt from her tone. “Besides, it’ll just be the four of us. If anything happens, we’ll deal with it together.” Her optimism was met with silence. “Selene?”

  “Ahh, yeah—well—sure, if you have it all covered, I’ll see you at the cottage by six to start the setup?”

  “Locke’s just turned up, hasn’t he?” She grinned, even if he were Fae, and part of the inner circle of Hells Gate, it was a pleasant change to see Selene letting loose and enjoying herself—or more to the point, enjoying him.

  “Ah huh, I’ll see you later.”

  Jet didn’t need to be in the same room to know that the smile danced all the way to the crystal blue of her eyes. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” Jet ended the call, but not before hearing the shrill of Selene’s delight carry down the line.

  Tossing the phone on her bed, Jet shook her head and smiled. Lucky bitch.

  Sexy and dangerous, with a body built for physical activity, Locke wasn’t abnormal of his kind. The one she’d disarmed that day at Selene’s cottage, and later learned his name to be Holt, was ripped in all the right places. Broad shoulders and muscular chest narrowed to hips she’d be only too willing to grind up against.

  Jet shook her head. “Get a grip,” she scolded herself. Nothing good would come of messing around with a Fae, especially one she’d so radically pissed off.

  She still had a few hours to spare before meeting her sisters, and she planned to use them well. Tonight when she stepped out under the rising moon, she was going to be prepared. For what exactly she wasn’t sure, but nothing was going to take her by surprise, as Cerubus had the evening of Samhain. The whispered name, Akasha, still sent chills to her core, and no doubt would until they saved the girl. Too many lives had been lost to Lucifer, and she blamed the Fae completely, dragging virginal teens to their death in order to win favor of those trapped below.

  Jet shuddered. For days the sensation of being watched burdened her. Paranoia wouldn’t do good for anyone, but with her sister sleeping with the enemy, it was difficult to shift. Locke would just as easily sell them out as his kind did to the innocents they sacrificed for power.

  Grabbing the wicker picnic hamper from her wardrobe, she carried it out to the kitchen table, which was littered with candles and offerings for what she intended to be a spectacular festival. It was a pity the other covens weren’t attending, so they too could enjoy the effort she’d gone to.

  Corn dollies woven from this year’s harvest, and miniature besoms made from bundled birch twigs she’d been drying for some months, to ensure strength and usability, looked a dismal attempt compared to previous years. Four opposed to the normal twenty-four guests was something she hoped didn’t become a tradition. The eight festivals not meant for hiding, but a time to rejoice in their chosen path.

  Carefully, item by item, she filled the basket with everything besides the lanterns, which she placed in a large box for ease of handling, and a small bowl of fresh herbs she’d picked from the garden earlier, remained. Mixed with frankincense and myrrh oil, she ground the blend in preparation to purify the water in which she would bathe in before ritual.

  Outdoor festivals were her favourite, and tonight’s was no exception, the celebration being of fire, passion and the feminine. Winter’s end saw to crisp days and icy nights, but even that wasn’t enough to deter her from wanting to perform the ritual skyclad. The freedom of nudity wasn’t for everyone and caused the most jokes from those not exposed to her way of life. Being vulnerable wasn’t always a bad thing. At times, such as when she was in circle, it was vulnerability that stimulated the strongest charge. Of her sisters Nyx shared her passion, but Demi, being much shyer, wasn’t so keen. Selene didn’t comment either way. It had been the way of their ancestors for generations, and being a stickler for the rules, there was no way she’d resist.

  Not usually so organised, Jet had more time to spare than anticipated. Wandering over to the makeshift altar in the corner of the lounge room, she picked up the grimoire that had been her grandmothers. Selene believed her careless for leaving it out in the open as she did, but her home was her sanctuary, the one place she didn’t have to hide.

  She flicked through to the section dedicated to the history of Fae. Too much time already wasted on trying to find a weakness, a loophole, in their ridiculously confusing protection charms, but still she was certain they were missing something.

  Summoning the power of Hades, as Selene had done the night she claimed Locke’s heart, was not something they’d get away with again. Jet couldn’t help but feel it’d been a wasted opportunity. Nevertheless, it proved they could break through the mind play the Fae so skillfully inflicted. Skimming the page, she doubted she’d find her answers in the book. Perhaps it was time Locke became her guinea pig. No one need know what she was doing. If Selene was getting away with screwing a Fae, why couldn’t she? Her intentions were for the greater good, after all.

  Jet flipped a few pages—Confuddle Charms—she obviously wasn’t the only one keen to unravel the confusing befuddlement of their enemy.

  The simplicity of the spell baffled her. Could it really be as straightforward as that? Jet continued reading and, when she was finished, glanced up. The blade she’d taken from the Fae who pound his fists, as if Thor wielding his hammer, caught her eye, but she didn’t move to touch it. It might be different for the Fae, but the blade of a witch was her own, charged with the powers in which she stowed within its hilt.

  From a basket beside the altar, she reached out and plucked a length of white muslin and draped it over the weapon she associated with destruction. It had no place on her altar, but not knowing what else to do with it she’d left it there. No doubt its owner would come looking, and on this night of a festival would be the perfect opportunity to repossess it. It was no secret to the Fae, their festivals were intense, and she wasn’t taking any chances with her prize.

  With the blade concealed from view, Jet focused on the words upon the page. Simplicity may oppose complexity, but surely that was too obvious an an
swer, although it was worth a try. The upcoming barbecue would be the perfect opportunity to initiate her plan for Locke. The simple lunch with him and her sisters was already arranged and time was ticking.

  The moment Jet moved from his view, Holt shifted from the crouched position he’d held for too long. From what he’d seen and overheard, there was no doubt the witch had plans.

  They were a predictable species. Dancing to the wheel of the year like puppets. Not that he was complaining, it certainly made his job easier, providing the perfect distraction for him to make his retrieval. Imbolc, the festival of lights was going to bring with it a few surprises.

  Breaking in and taking what was his, whilst she was out, wouldn’t be anywhere near the fun he planned to have with her. Pay back was a bitch, and he was going to enjoy the delivery.

  Patient he was, a rarity among his brothers, and although it’d served him well in the past, that was where he would leave it. He was through being the soft touch of the guard, and taking out Jet would prove that, even if only to himself.

  He caught a glimpse of her through a window as she passed. There was no doubting she was a beauty. Taut, tiny body with perky tits ripe and ready for him to mouth. As her name, jet black hair hung halfway down her back, and although he couldn’t see her eyes from that distance, the seductive golden brown, like amber, he couldn’t forget. She was of fire. The furnace of heat raged and radiated out through her temper and that smart mouth of hers he wouldn’t be too shy to taste.