Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Theron
The nighttime window is shorter in summer. Not as extreme as it is in my homeland, but enough to keep me looking over my shoulder to the east, checking for the gray signs of dawn. Even though I am deep in the forest, the strident call of the rooster on Ben Magoo’s farm echoes a warning.
It has been five years since Luna Blackwood joined our coven. Five years of continuous access to the delicious fluids that Luna brews in the basement of the inn, the Swiss chalet accommodation she inherited from her aunt.
Every fall, dozens of letters weigh down the mail bag delivered to us from the Angle Inlet postal service. Shadow and Luna sift through all of them thoroughly and ruthlessly, looking for the perfect victims.
Luna has a kind of sixth sense when it comes to our selection. It is probably because she is a child of the modern age, while we Midnight Riders are not.
Sometimes, she doesn’t even need to connect to that pestilent internet before we make our selection; though social media has made it so easy for us to round up a fresh crop of vics.
My mind turns back to that wet October evening last year. Shadow called the Riders to church—the room beside the MC’s clubhouse bar where we hold our meetings.
“Here’s Luna’s final guest list for next summer.” Sauntering over to the wall, Shadow pressed tacks into the wood to hold the paper in place. “Y’all cool with it?”
Rundas, club veep, didn’t even bother getting up to take a closer look at the schedule.
“So long as it has some mature single ladies for the local men to woo, I’m good.”
After centuries of predatory feeding on the local female population, Landslide had earned a fucking bad rep of biblical proportions. No Rider could seem to resist that sweet, ripe, womanly flesh—or the hot blood pumping inside it. It doomed every man on Landslide to bachelorhood.
Five years ago, a rogue feeder came close to shutting it all down. The CDC and the PHAC were probing the death of one particularly delicious realtor called Linda Farmer. Lucky for us, Luna put an end to any further inquiries by paying off the inspectors.
The MC never realized how straightforward it is to operate in plain sight, especially when officials are so easily corrupted.
Money? We have plenty. But cashflow didn’t help us with the problem of zero single ladies under the age of sixty in our small island population.
The local men were getting restless. They wanted access to the internet for dating sites and apps.
Again, Luna came through. For a few hours over the weekends, the local men were able to connect to the internet. They were so busy downloading their porn and hooking up with chickies that they didn’t bother with online security.
It was so easy. We were able to zoom in on potential victims by harvesting the Landslide data.
The moment one of the single Landslide men tried to land his fish, there we would be, knocking on his door and suggesting that he send his lady friend an invite to spend the summer at the chalet inn.
“Get to know her better.” That was how we always clinched the deal.
It was a flawless fucking system. Once the female visitors get a taste of how wonderful it is on Landslide, the positive online reviews almost write themselves.
There are two ways the coven gets to feed on our vics. Straight up bloodsucking, and a little something we like to call “delightful nightmares.”
We need a conscious invitation from the victim before we can feed off them, but we can skate by with a subconscious desire from the victim if we visit her while she dreams.
Penetrating a woman’s subconscious is as hot as penetrating her flesh and sucking her blood. The chance to share her deepest desires while she lies helplessly asleep is thrilling.
That is why this list is so important. These are the women who will feed our feral instincts for sex and blood.
Jaecar always double checked the list to make sure it was proportionate and representational.
“Just because the majority of households are single families now doesn’t mean we can ignore the two-parent ones. Gotta keep an eye on the ‘family friendly’ reviews, too. It builds trust.”
A rumble of laughter rippled around the table. Shadow banged his fist on its surface as he chuckled to show he appreciated the joke. “Trust.”
“God, but those people are so easy to manipulate.” Pushing back my chair, I headed out. I saw a name I recognized on the accommodation schedule. O’Hara. Same name as the one who got away.
I remember the woman called Aila O’Hara so clearly. She was a fighter, proud and true. Like one of the ancient ones. I could see it in her. She had an indomitable spirit.
Who would have thought that such exceptional beauty would be hiding out in Harry’s Saloon, of all places?
That fatal night, standing away from the light, I watched her serving drinks with deft movements. She would wait for a customer to step forward, pour him a beer, and accept the payment and tip with graceful dignity. I loved the way she hid the cash tips inside her bra.
I knew then I had to have her.
Her thick, chestnut hair, twisting as it fell over her shoulders, would glow red every time she ducked under the lights. Her sooty black eyes seemed to flash every time she blinked. The golden hue of her smooth, suntanned skin—she had rubbed some lotion on it that made it glisten.
My panting increased as my arousal intensified. I would get like that before battle, axe in hand, ready for death. It is a glorious feeling.
Was our connection instantaneous? Of course it was. If it were only us in that smoky bar room, I would have been fucking her on the counter after half an hour of flirting. No, first I would have bent her over that counter with her legs spread wide as I licked her from front to back.
Aila O’Hara brought out the sexual animal in me.
I was restless back then, still getting used to constant access to fluids to satisfy my appetite.
But it was never enough for me. Sucking a bottle is not the same as licking out a salty snatch.
I love everything about a woman’s pussy.
I can safely say that there has never been a female’s flower that I didn’t adore.
First up, they taste amazing. There’s a carnal tang with every tongue lap. Those fleshy folds make me want to bury my face deep between her soft thighs and go to town on that pool of moisture.
Shaved, not shaved, waxed smoother than a bowl of cream; I love them all. Pussy makes a woman more mysterious, like a delightful surprise, because you never know what kind of pretty little cunt she’s hiding down there.
The memory of my midnight visit to Aila’s cramped motel bedroom a few years ago makes the tip of my tongue dart out. It’s an involuntary reaction, one I cannot control.
But that’s what I wanted to do. Lick her pussy until she grinds herself over my face and comes hard.
When it comes to sex, our rules of engagement are clear. We must have an invitation before we can come inside. I guess it’s Mother Nature’s little way of saying she doesn’t approve of pushy assholes.
Delightful nightmares are the only way we can get our satisfaction until a definite conscious invitation has been extended; a clear-headed, warm-hearted welcome into a woman’s bed. Nothing else is acceptable.
I told myself that I was only there to make sure no one else bothered her. As touched as I was that she ran outside to look for me after I left her to do her job in peace, it ended up putting her into a terrifyingly vulnerable situation.
That drunk skunk with the hubcap-size belt buckle laid hands on Aila, even after she made it clear from the get-go that he was unwelcome. From that moment on, he was roadkill in my eyes.
I’m a laid-back guy for the most part; at least I like to think so.
I mean, I’ve learnt to watch and wait when it comes to confrontations.
If I were not like that, the Midnight Riders MC would be wiped out by now from all the in-fighting.
We’re warriors in our hearts, but there’s no one else around for us to battle.
That fact alone is enough to give me an iron will when it comes to losing my temper.
Except when it comes to women. It’s a red rag to a bull when I see a scumbag hurting a woman.
The man with the belt buckle was so out of it on high tone whiskey when I slammed him like a tornado, he went as limp as a ragdoll. Sure, I kicked his ass real good in the forest; left him there to make it back to his hideous RV when—or if—he regained consciousness.
But like a moth to a flame, I was drawn to the woman’s bedroom, ensnared by her voluptuous scent.
I had to leave Aila sleeping snugly in her bed when the gray light of sunrise sent me my wakeup call.
Moving away from her window, I made sure to leave the motel unobserved.
My Harley was parked a mile or two away as purely a precautionary measure.
Never know when a patrol car is going to run the numbers of vehicles parked outside a honkytonk establishment.
I left with great reluctance. Running fleetly through the forest trees, faster than any highway vehicle, I concentrated on putting Aila out of my mind. Didn’t want to spook her, not after that RV guy went all Bundy on her.
Come back in a week or so. Give her time to recover her spark. Maybe spending some of that cash I left will put a smile back on her face.
But when I returned to Harry’s Saloon a few days later, Aila wasn’t working there anymore. Her room at the motel was empty. Can’t say I blame her, but it sucked to be me.
And I can’t say that I don’t think and dream about what it might have been like to go down on that sweetheart from the La Pas saloon almost every night since…
Luna comes to join me behind the hidden partition where the four Riders hide from the sunshine. She doesn’t visit very often. Shadow and Luna have made Tempest Aherne’s old house their lair. Tempest was Luna’s aunt.
“What do you plan on doing when the ferry docks?”
What a mundane question. “I couldn’t give a goddamn about the fucking ferry, Luna.
” I can be a total caveman when the sun has risen over the horizon.
Overcast days, I can just about handle. But I hate the feeling of weakness I get from knowing that direct sunlight has the power to knock me unconscious.
Luna has lived with a bunch of grumpy bikers for five years now. She knows the score and is completely unfazed by my ornery mood.
A cheeky smile shows me she’s not done teasing yet. “What are you going to do if Mrs. Amelia O’Hara’s daughter turns out to be your long lost Aila?”
Luna has all of my attention now.
Sitting up, I can feel my mood lighten. “Okay. Shoot. I’m listening.”
Looking all triumphant, Luna explains. “Amelia O’Hara’s accommodation inquiry was organic, just so you know.”
Organic means Amelia asked for accommodation on her own volition, without being prompted to do so by one of our local men.
Luna would have done her due diligence and checked out Amelia’s social media accounts before sending an invitation.
I can’t be bothered with that shit. Who in their right mind would be interested in looking at digital images of strangers?
What’s the point if you can’t smell them?
But Luna must have seen something that captured her interest on the woman’s social media accounts, or else she would not have sent the accommodation booking confirmation.
Pulling her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans, Luna shoves a screenshot at me.
“Could this be your Aila?”
A low growl rumbles in my chest. I despise sentimental jargon. “The woman was never ‘my Aila,’ Luna. Stop trying to pair me off with someone. I’ll always be a hunter at heart.”
Is that a smirk I see on her face? “Whoa, Theron. I’m just calling it like I see it. You haven’t been the same since that time you went back to La Pas and found the woman gone.”
Yep, I’m definitely snarling. “You misread the situation. I was pissed because I couldn't find a trace of her anywhere. She must have lied to me about her name.”
Luna sees the point I’m trying to make. “Okay, so there are no Aila, Ayla, or Aylah O’Haras online, but those Gaelic names are a bitch when it comes to spelling.” Shoving the phone at me again, she insists I check.
Grabbing the phone, I look at the image.
A mature woman with russet hair grins at the camera.
She has two mature women on either side of her.
Crammed together to fit onto the screen, they pose and smile.
Lots of makeup, plenty of varnish, dye, and spray I’m guessing.
Clothes fitting tight enough to reveal the curves.
Three women, out having fun, leaning casually against an old truck.
I try handing the phone back to Luna. “Mid-forties, no wedding band, luxury label handbags. Those women probably hunt better than I can.”
A few sniggers let me know the other Riders are listening.
Not bothering to take the bait, Luna pushes the phone back at me. “Look at the person in the truck.”
Is my heart skipping a beat? Behind the window of the passenger seat, a young woman stares at the windscreen lost in thought.
Her profile is almost obscured by a thick mane of chestnut hair.
She seems disconnected from the three women standing outside leaning against the door as they take their photos.
Patiently waiting for them to finish what they are doing, the young woman with chestnut hair is lost in her own dream world.
I give the phone back to Luna in thoughtful silence.
Jaecar chuckles at the void in our conversation. “Cat got your tongue, Hunter?”
Satisfied, Luna crawls to the sliding panel that hides our lair in the brewery.
“The ferry arrives this evening, Theron.”
“Wait!” So many questions are firing in my mind. “Is there any way you can get more pictures of her? I mean, that can’t be the only image. Not if that really is Amelia O’Hara’s daughter. There's got to be more, no?”
Slithering outside, Luna is nonchalant about my curious torment.
“You would think so, wouldn’t you? But no. Amelia O’Hara doesn’t even claim to have a daughter on any of her online profiles. The only proof I have that there really is a daughter is because she made the booking like that: ‘for my daughter and me.’ That’s all.”
The panel clicks shut. I hear Luna’s Samoyed dog, Muohta, following its mistress to the blacked-out bedroom in the inn where Luna sometimes spends the day.
“Your Aila,” Jaecar mocks me out of the darkness. “How sweet.”
I have nothing to say back to him. I have begun a countdown to this evening in my head.