Tales of the Red Moon Clan

By Cherie De Sues

Neol Pallaton walks alone through the bowels of society as a bounty hunter, until he shifts into a cougar to save Assistant D.A. Sara Hughes from certain death. A relentless killer keeps them moving by day through the Oregon forest—and by night under the full moon, passion rules their hearts.

The rugged forest is no place for a beautiful and feisty city woman, but Neol’s determined to help Sara piece together why she's being hunted. Sara thought bounty hunters were brutal loners who stretched the law she’s sworn to uphold. But Neol proves that no one can hunt, track and protect her like a Navajo medicine man from the Red Moon Clan.

Neol is willing to anger the spirits to protect his one true mate. Sara will have to bend the law to keep Neol and her alive—and together forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cherie De Sues
• Release date: Sep 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301244737

Cherie De Sues

Chérie De Sues is a "critically acclaimed", "award winning" and "best selling" author of thrillers, paranormal and contemporary suspense romances. A member of Romance Writers of America (RWA), and RWA participant in both the RITA and Prism Awards. Chérie also writes under the pen name of Rose Embyrs for pagan non fiction books which have been in the top 20 bestselling books at Amazon. When Chérie takes a break from writing novels, you can find her at romance conventions, book signings, online, or traveling to research her next novel. She shares her beach cottage on Galveston Island, with her Irish terrier, Reilly.

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Tales of the Red Moon Clan by Chérie De Sues

Copyright © 2010 by Chérie De Sues

Cover art copyright © 2010 by Fiona Jayde

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system

without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party websites or their content.

A dedication to my son, Scott, who listens, laughs and gives me so much joy. You are truly, one in 6.69 billion honey.

To Reilly, my Irish Terrier, who keeps me company in the wee morning hours.

Chapter One

Highway 101 clung to the rugged Oregon cliffs, separating Neol Pallaton's truck from the Pacific Ocean. Thick fog rolled in like a white snake, slithering between dozens of massive Sequoia redwoods with thick, reddish-brown bark and deeply furrowed trunks.

Neol accelerated, determined nothing would come between him and his bounty tonight. The surge of power to the Hemi engine pressed his body into the leather seat. His eyes pierced easily through the heavy mist and he safely maneuvered around a slow-moving black Jaguar.

With a skill learned from years of experience protecting the public, he leaned over and looked inside the vehicle. Nice thighs on the redhead, but not a local; the upscale sedan didn't fit the area. If he were still in uniform, he'd have been curious to know why she hadn't used the Interstate.

He hadn't seen any businesses around for miles, not even a gas station—she'd be in trouble if her car broke down. Not many traveled this road in January. All but the hardy or reckless had abandoned their rustic summer cabins months ago.

With a tight jaw, he put the vehicle in his rearview mirror. Cruising roads for citizens headed for trouble didn't fall within his job description anymore. Not even for a lone woman with a hiked-up skirt and firm thighs.

A mile ahead, a truck crawled down the highway, looking for the Hanky Panky strip club. Neol's hand spread roughly through strands of hair in his eyes—the man ahead wouldn't be the only one searching through the fog tonight. Neol sped past the semi and found both sides of the highway crammed with truckers lining up. They would wait their turn and squeeze their rigs into the sprawling dirt parking lot.

The owner would rake in thousands tonight.

Still, the owner gambled—an isolated club required a symbiotic relationship with the lonely truckers. Without them, the place couldn't exist at all, but tonight, on payday Friday, the joint would be hopping. Men would pour in and put down expensive shots of alcohol for the privilege of leering at half-naked women.

Neol drove a few hundred yards past the bar and parked along the berm, his tires sinking in the soft pine needles. He climbed out, stretching his cramped legs. With agile fingers, he swept inside his shirt and jean pockets. He wanted to be sure he had nothing left in them except thirty dollars.

Neol locked up and put the keys on top of the tire in the rear wheel-well, facing away from the road. With a hunter's instinct, he shut his eyes, sniffing the cold night air for a trace scent of his prey. His nostrils twitched with the pungent odors of pine and male urine nearby. With a shake of his head, he cleared the scent, then crossed the highway between two semi trucks waiting to turn into the dirt around the bar.

Mist swirled cool against his warm skin. Other men—mostly truckers—stumbled around the parking lot. But Neol, his lips curved in a smug smile, strode confidently through the impenetrable veil of fog. He drew on the abilities his deceased grandfather bestowed upon him prior to his death. Neol claimed the magic of the medicine man and the spirit of a shape-shifter.

You are of the Red Moon Clan, Neol, a Navajo. Accept your duty to protect your people.

The metamorphosis touched everything in his life, and by the spirits, the changes hadn't been his idea. The physical demands his body went through as the spirit’s powers flowed into him had been unwanted. He'd fought the changes, making the transition almost intolerable, violent. Then the fight in him . . . stopped.

Like his career with the Phoenix PD, it just ended.

He'd become a bounty hunter, instead, embracing the darker side of the law like a drowning man clung to a raft. The new career gave him the privacy he needed—and the money he wanted. Bringing in this skip would allow him to buy the hundred-acre parcel on the Oregon coast. The land would give him a chance to start over in a new place.

A bright green and pink neon sign hanging in the bar window flashed the words, Girls, Girls, Girls! At the door, a wiry bouncer patted down customers before they entered. A lazy smile played at Neol’s mouth—he had no weapon on him. He didn't need one.

As he passed a blue Chevy truck parked near the front entrance, his nostrils flared and his body charged with a surge of electricity. Codger. The man’s scent hung heavy in the air. Neol bristled, his muscles taut for the chase as he followed the path to the door. Men shoved their way inside as the doorman looked for guns and liquor. Nobody cared about drugs in a dump like this one.

The bouncer peered up with wide eyes. You're a big one, ain't ya? He spit into the dirt then sneered. You carrying?

The doorman's breath fouled the air and Neol fought the urge to recoil. No.

Their eyes met and the sour man backed off, waving him inside.

Neol continued following the rank scent he'd picked up near the Chevy. He spotted Codger, sitting alone at a shabby wooden table in a darkened corner of the bar. Neol paused and looked around. The place overqualified as a real dive. The loud music paced seductively for the girls on the poles and the smell of cheap beer permeated the air. The sole of his boot stuck to something in the diseased carpet, as he scanned the smoke-filled room for a secluded place to sit.

Codger would either go to the john or outside for a smoke eventually. Neol rolled his shoulders, steeling himself for the challenge ahead. If Neol were still in uniform, Codger's arrest would have taken two minutes. He would have dropped the skip, cuffed his wrists and thrown him into the squad car. Neol had learned to temper his instinct to pounce, to savor the hunt and capture of his prey.

He found a seat and put his back to the wall as Manny's reason for sending him replayed through Neol's mind.

The girl was only seventeen, Neol. Codger beat her so badly; she was in a coma for two months. Then, right after the owner of the bar he works at, Simon Daniels, paid his bail, he ran. Get him Neol, he's bad news.

Neol’s fists tightened. Jeff Codger was evil, through and through, and Neol would take great pleasure in bringing him down hard.

A topless barmaid leaned down close to his face, rubbing her hand on his tensed shoulder muscles. She brought her lips to his ear.

You can have anything you want, handsome. Anything. She yelled over the music with a high-pitch, nasal tone.

She reeked of sticky sweet perfume and bad bathing habits, and Neol shifted away. He pulled out a ten from his chest pocket and handed the bill over. Top shelf, shot of tequila and keep the change. He gave his order without a glance at the woman's face.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her move away. No doubt she’d sensed his disinterest. But Neol didn't mix sex and work and certainly not with an obvious woman who stunk of sweat and semen. He didn't want a woman anyway; they asked too many questions and complained about his lifestyle.

Codger downed another beer and Neol poised to move quickly. He’d need to use caution; the man didn't care who he hurt. His rap sheet proved he had no respect for the lives or rights of others. Neol didn't want anyone to get hurt in the bar. He could wait. Before long, Codger’d need to piss. Until then, Neol would bide his time.

When men hid from the law, they sought out strip joints, bars, seedy hotels and the worst part of towns. In the last two years, Neol managed to stay above the pull of easy women and dangerous deals. And God knows he got plenty of crazy offers.

Men who skipped on bail usually fell into one of two categories, stupid or dangerous. Neol preferred dangerous. The bounties on murderers were upwards in the thousands for his time and trouble. Neol left the stupid criminals to those bounty hunters who didn't have the strength, speed and cunning of a warrior.

Manny Kovac understood Neol’s skills and always gave him a bounty worth his time. Jeff Codger fit the profile nicely. And right after he brought Codger into custody, there’d be another skip for him to chase down. Always busy . . . but never too busy to go sit in the back row of the courthouse for a few hours and watch his latest capture get justice from a feisty Assistant DA. Sara Hughes had the body of a stripper, a mind like a steel trap, and just enough sass to make him think hard about making a move.

With a stab of bitterness, Neol fisted his hand under the table. A woman like Sara wouldn't go the distance if she ever guessed how inhuman he'd become. Too risky. Too dangerous.

Here you go, baby. The barmaid placed the drink down in front of him and paused, obviously hoping for another chance to get his attention.

Thanks. He kept his eyes on Codger.

She sighed, shook her head and walked away to the next customer. Neol ignored the salt and lemon, picked up the tequila, and downed the fiery liquid in one gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and placed the shot glass upside down on the dirty tabletop.

He searched the darkness and sea of unruly men until he made the bouncers in the room. One stood inside at the back door and another paced close to the poles and the women. The last one wove through the crowd, throwing overenthusiastic men back into their seats.

Neol’s attention snapped back to his target as Codger stood. The skip downed his third beer then began weaving toward the men's room. Neol's body tensed with anticipation as he slowly stood to follow. If he could get the man into a stall and knock him flat out, he'd carry him out the back. Make Codger look like he'd drank too much.

The bouncer at the door wouldn't be a problem—no one would interfere in a bar like this one. Most of the customers were intoxicated and Neol could take the man at the door.

Easy.

* * * * *

Sara Hughes eased up on the accelerator, slowing the car to a snail’s pace. Why did people drive like maniacs when you couldn't see ten feet in front of your face? Stupid. Like that truck driver who’d passed her in the fog doing sixty, as if he drove in broad daylight. The man must have had a death wish.

Bright red lights flashed as a warning and she slammed on her brakes to avoid the huge delivery truck stopped in the middle of the road.

Asshole!

She honked her horn. The truck inched slowly to the left and Sara saw colorful blinking lights alerting her she'd arrived. She pulled around the truck then looked for a place to stop amidst the haphazardly parked vehicles strewn about the bar’s dirt lot. No way did she want her new car to get a scratch or to have some drunken idiot slam into it. Sara drove carefully along the side of the lot, away from the madness then parked with the car's nose pointing out. She wouldn't stay in this hellhole any longer than she needed to.

God, I’m in a foul mood.

Sara reached up and switched on the overhead light then put her phone and wallet inside her briefcase. The loud rock music coming from inside the bar vibrated her car windows and she wished she’d brought a pair of earplugs. A few men stumbled past her car, yelling obscenities, and Sara cringed.

Too much damn testosterone brewed inside the club. Nothing worse than mixing drugs, alcohol and sex with men; the combination created an explosion just waiting to happen.

She left her raincoat on the back seat then slipped her briefcase strap over her shoulder. Following the sounds of grating laughter and nineties rock music, she headed toward the entrance. An animated sign over the front of the building showed wiggling naked breasts. She bit her lip in apprehension.

Damn. What had she gotten herself into? She never should have agreed to come out here tonight. But the DA’s office needed Simon Daniels’ affidavit to corroborate his original statement to police. She had to have the document before she could move forward with her case. If Dave had done his job two weeks ago instead of dropping the ball, she could have a court date.

She took a deep, calming breath; stressing out wouldn't get the job done. Dave had said Daniels had been out of town and tonight would be the only time he would be available. For Debbie and her family’s benefit, Sara had to get this case into court and hope a bounty hunter found Jeff Codger. Mr. Daniels had told police Debbie had left the bar with Mr. Codger right after her last shift. A signed affidavit would seal the deal.

Sara cringed, remembering pictures of Debbie's vicious rape. The brutal battery had left the young woman with serious head and neck injuries. It was a miracle she'd come out of the coma. But she'd been luckier than Jessica Sampson, who'd been raped and murdered a year ago not far from Daniels’ bar.

She'd read that piece of news in a cold file today. Jessica had worked for Daniels and she'd been under eighteen too. Sara couldn't wait to tell the DA on Monday and she'd ask Daniels if Codger had shown any interest in Jessica. If she could connect the dots with Jeff Codger, maybe she could link him to murder as well as two rapes.

Codger was known to frequent Daniels' isolated strip club and Sara shivered with the thought as she looked around. Mr. Daniels had promised to come into the Portland courthouse and hadn't. On the phone to her colleague, the man had said his businesses were in need of attention and hadn't had the time.

Well, that was just too damned bad. She’d phoned him several times, finally leaving a message to let him know she’d be coming down, and that she would personally witness his statement tonight. And he would make time to see her, dammit. As the owner of a bar that served liquor, he maintained certain responsibilities. She was certain she could find enough violations to pull his liquor license if he didn't cooperate.

Her gaze fell on the scruffy men filing in the doorway and Sara wiped her clammy hands across her skirt. Maybe she should have waited until Monday and brought a sheriff with her. Despite her bravado, she realized the owner didn't have to speak with her tonight. He had the right to refuse to talk.

He had the right, but Sara wasn’t about to take no for an answer. If he didn't play ball she'd threaten to have him served with papers next Monday. The revenue he'd lose from a temporary shutdown while violations were investigated would be a huge loss to Simon Daniels. His file in her car suggested he didn't like to lose money.

Eyes forward, she smoothed down her long hair and gripped her briefcase a little tighter. With a forced a smile she didn't feel, Sara reached the door and waited while a swarthy man looked her over. She bristled when his focus settled on her full breasts.

You got ID, lady?

The doorman lisped badly from a missing front tooth. Sara gave him an icy stare.

I'm here to see Mr. Daniels.

He knows you're coming? His pitted face showed interest.

Yes. Her brazen statement could be true—she'd left several messages, had warned Daniels of her pending arrival. She fished around her briefcase and pulled out her wallet, then flashed her Oregon State driver's license.

The stairs are all the way in the back; he's up there. First room on the left. His name’s on the door. Ya can't miss it. He smiled, showing rotten teeth, then exhaled his noxious breath and her stomach roiled.

Thank you. Holding her breath, Sara walked into the dingy, smoke-filled bar, counting four infractions in the first ten seconds. She turned her gaze away from the women writhing against the brass poles and the drooling men shoving bills into the dancers’ flimsy G-strings.

She sighed, wondering if she could feel any more out of place, dressed as she was in her soft pink designer suit and high heels. She quickened her pace, moving through the large, square room with her gaze pinned on the back wall. Sara's heartbeat rivaled the pounding drumbeat of the AC/DC number blaring from the speakers and her mouth went dry.

Men from all sides intentionally bumped her and someone grabbed her ass. She used her briefcase like a shield, warding off undesired attention. One man stretched out a hand to touch her breast and she turned sharply away, only to slam head-on into a solid, muscular barrier. Soft whimpers of fear left her lips as two strong hands grabbed her arms and pushed her roughly against the wall next to the men's room.

Dazed by the sudden jolt, she dropped her briefcase as warm, sweet breath from the stranger fanned her face. Sara looked up quickly into feral amber eyes piercing straight through her and her body quivered at their ferocity. He pushed with his thighs and tight abs against her thin suit and she gasped at the intimate contact.

He locked her firmly against him. Sara tried to pull away as he leaned close to her ear. Her heart beat wildly; she inhaled the scent of rain and spice mixed with the heat of his body.

You may have just cost me my bounty, so now you're going to help me get my leverage back. The deep, seductive voice had an undertone like an animal's growl and her lower lip trembled.

Get off me. She struggled, but he was too strong.

He flashed her a smug smile then looked away, studying the men coming and going from the men's room. She had a funny feeling she'd seen him before. He seemed familiar. Maybe at the courthouse?

The darkness veiled him in shadow and she stopped struggling; her movements only made her more acutely aware of his body pressing against hers. Breathing hard, Sara followed his gaze as he tensed.

A tall, bulky man with a dark beard and red hunting cap came out of the bathroom. Her captor dipped his head and his mouth came down to hers. His kiss moved invasively with passion, as if reuniting with an old lover—all hunger and need. Her palms went to his chest to push him away. He nipped her lower lip and a spark ignited within her.

Her rational mind understood the kiss had been a ploy—a cover he’d used to avoid attracting attention. But the heat they’d generated surprised her, made her unsteady on her feet, and she gripped his shirt to regain her balance. His hands slid down her arms to her hips. He pulled her against his rock hard arousal and his mouth slowed its assault. He seemed to be enjoying the taste and feel of her and worse, she'd begun to kiss him back.

Sara didn't remember reaching around his neck and fisting her fingers in his thick black hair. Her moan didn't vibrate against his lips, further inflaming him with desire. He pulled back sharply and cocked a brow, but then looked over his shoulder, obviously seeking out the man for whom he'd orchestrated this little charade.

She looked in the opposite direction, trying to slow her breathing and heart rate. In the back of the room, she saw the bearded man going out the exit door. To salvage what little pride she may have left, Sara pointed in that direction. He’s leaving.

Her captor’s eyes glowed amber as they followed her hand. Consider us even.

He backed away with a rakish smile, his strange, mesmerizing gaze gliding over her curves before he headed out the back.

She stepped away from the wall, her suit reluctantly peeling away from the sticky, cement-block surface. Men stared with lurid eyes, making lewd gestures, mouthing words and obviously judging her as easy, based on what they must have just witnessed.

The bad rock music boomed loud enough to drown out their slurs. Sara chose to ignore them. She bent her knees, keeping her blouse from providing a peep show, and grabbed her briefcase. The experience bore similarities to visiting the damn prison. She understood the negative significance of breaking the rules of sexual conduct in a roomful of horny men.

Disgusted with her libido's betrayal—and her nipples pressing hard like pebbles inside her bra—she climbed the stairs and escaped the insanity on the first floor. The smoke had risen from the bar downstairs and her eyes began to water from her allergies. She sneezed, then sneezed again and her nose began to run. Digging through her briefcase Sara swore, remembering she hadn't bothered putting tissues in her bag. Crap.

She sneezed into her hands and grimaced at the thought of having to use the bathroom downstairs. At the landing, a woman in a cocktail serving costume came out of a door down the hall.

Excuse me; is there a ladies’ room up here? Sara asked.

You can use the employees’ bathroom; go through here.

Sara smiled and sneezed again, feeling her lungs tighten as she slipped through the unmarked door. She found herself inside a small changing area, complete with wall-length vanity and mirrors. She took a few deep breaths and headed toward the back area to a couple of stalls. She used the one with a door and unrolled the toilet paper and blew her nose. Now she could add another health code violation to Mr. Daniels' establishment.

"Codger's downstairs, he's still waiting for you,