Swallow the Moon

By K. A. Jordan

June swallowed the moon to find true love, a motorcycle from Hell dropped Eric on her doorstep; now there is Hell to pay.

An accountant for a failing company, June longs for true love. In a Wiccan summoning ceremony she swallows the moon, hoping to find her soul mate. What she gets is Ohio National Guardsman Eric Macmillian, owner of a cursed Suzuki Hyabusa, and two spirits: DEA agent Jake the Snake and the malevolent stripper Cora Cobra.

Back from Afghanistan, divorced and un-employed, Eric is the third owner of the Suzuki Hayabusa. The other owners are dead, just not departed. He's looking for the artist who created 'Cora's' snake-inspired paint job. As Eric arrives at the scene of Jake's last sting on the one-of-a-kind motorcycle, all Hell breaks loose.

Van Man Go is the world's greatest airbrush artist. He will repaint Eric's Hayabusa, for the usual price. Like Cora Cobra and Jake the Snake, Eric must put his soul up for collateral. Cora and Jake failed to pay their debts; now it's time to give the devil his due.

Care to take a ride on the Hayabusa from Hell?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Icy Road Publishing
• Release date: Oct 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386349495

K. A. Jordan

K. A. Jordan was a refugee from the Rust Belt who escaped to the Blue Grass Kentucky in 1992. She writes and blogs from 'Jordan's Croft' a small farm where she lives with her husband, three horses, three dogs and a herd of alpacas. She says of her writing: "There are no 'ripped bodices' in my novels, but you will find charming criminals, wounded heroes, mad artists and the occasional haunted motorcycle." Her debute novel "Let's Do Lunch" spent 10 weeks on the Amazon UK Romantic Suspence Best Sellers list, peaking at #3, in December 2011. She followed that success with "Swallow the Moon" and "Horsewomen of the Zombie Apocalypse."  She holds a degree in Applied Science, spins her own yarn, gardens and can often be found on the back of her husband's Suzuki M109 motorcycle.

Book preview

Swallow The Moon

By

K. A. Jordan

June swallowed the moon to find true love, a motorcycle from Hell dropped Eric on her doorstep; now there is Hell to pay.

An accountant for a failing company, June longs for true love. In a Wiccan summoning ceremony she swallows the moon in an effort to find her soul mate. What she gets is Ohio National Guardsman Eric Macmillian, owner of a cursed Suzuki Hyabusa, and two spirits: DEA agent Jake the Snake and the malevolent stripper Cora Cobra.

Back from Afghanistan, divorced and un-employed, Eric is the third owner of the Suzuki Hayabusa. The other owners are dead, just not departed. He's looking for the artist who created 'Cora's' snake-inspired paint job. As Eric arrives at the scene of Jake's last sting on the one-of-a-kind motorcycle, all Hell breaks loose.

Van Man Go is the world's greatest airbrush artist. He will repaint Eric's Hayabusa, for the usual price. Like Cora Cobra and Jake the Snake, Eric must put his soul up for collateral. Cora and Jake failed to pay their debts; now it's time to give the devil his due.

Care to take a ride on the Hayabusa from Hell?

Swallow the Moon

By K. A. Jordan

Published by Icy Road Publishing

This is a work of fiction.

The City of Ashtabula and Ashtabula Harbor and some of the Bridge Street businesses mentioned were real places. However all the characters are products of the author's imagination, any resemblance to actual people is entirely coincidental.

Cover by Athanasios

Website: www.mad-gods.com

Copyright © 2010 by K. A. Jordan

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9781465759856

Electronic Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may be lent but may not be re-sold or given to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your exclusive use then please return to the e-book store and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my Mother, who had a long and interesting life.

She did it, her way.

And to the brave women and men who serve in the Armed Forces.

Welcome home.

Special Thanks to:

Athanasios for the fabulous cover!

website: www.mad-gods.com

Bob for his support of my writing projects.

Andre the Irish writer who makes me laugh, and think.

Chapter One

September 17, 2005 – Ashtabula, Ohio

The moon was a glowing opal disk, full and round; the stars were diamonds generously scattered on the black velvet sky. June drank in the sweet autumn air as she stepped out of her house. She glanced around, adjusting her long shawl, checking that the neighbors weren't about as she picked up her basket. The boys next door had a bad habit of roaming the woods at night. June didn't dare go 'skyclad' as her spell book said she should. Instead, she performed her rituals in the hand-crocheted, knee-length wrap dress she wore under the enveloping shawl.

It was her love of the land and the slow turning of the seasons that had drawn her to pagan religion. Wicca never made her feel guilty for wanting normal things like money, sex or a better job. The Earth Goddess understood about urges, the drive to mate, nest and to raise a family. Everything had a season.

June worried that she was missing out.

At twenty-eight years old, June could feel her biological clock ticking; feel herself getting older, lonelier, with each passing year. She knew she was pretty, with long wavy brown hair, blue eyes and a slim figure. She needed to find not just a man, but the right man. June wanted to find her soul mate; he was out there, somewhere. It was time she found him, settled down and started to raise a family.

Tonight she would cast a summoning spell to find the male half of her soul.

I will find him, she told herself. There was no room for doubt or the spell wouldn't work. Still, her inner critic churned out questions. What if he was on the other side of the world? What if he had been killed, or maimed in the war overseas? What if he had already married someone else? The 'what if' questions became more far-fetched the closer she got to the spring. June did her best to block them out. She didn't need doubts; she needed to concentrate.

The night was cool, the grass prickly under her bare feet. She should call rain but her inner self was drier than the grass.

Her ritual items were tucked in the basket: the glass pitcher, the fine blown brandy snifter, the knife, the shell, her incense, crystals and matches. Young trees whispered in the breeze, sheltering the spring where she performed her rituals. The area had a small stone altar with a white marble slab for the top. The spring itself was round, lined with slate and granite; the water was crystal clear, sweet and cold.

Her inner critic was in full cry, like a hound on the scent as she set up her ritual items. Even though she was alone, her cheeks flamed red with embarrassment. Casting this spell was the act of a desperate woman. She was pathetic, a loser. That voice whispered with considerable malice: 'What if your soul mate is a woman? What'cha gonna do then?'

Ha! Not likely, June said out loud. He was out there. She was going to find him.

On with the ritual.

She did all the things she'd read in the Wicca books: cast the circle, called the angels to guard the compass points, called and named every one of the elements. She dipped the clear glass pitcher into the water, chanting the spell she'd adapted from a 'Book of Shadows' she'd found online.

June poured the pure spring water into the delicate brandy snifter. She held the glass to the sky, chanting the ritual words, capturing the full moon in the smooth round glass.

She ended the chant, So mote it be.

She closed her eyes, then swallowed the moon.

The moon was cold, fresh with a tang of magic. June felt the chill brilliance wash through her body.

The light of the moon filled her like a fountain, the light inside her spilled out with every breath. Her arms spread wide, the breeze lifted her hair. She could hear the soft symphony of the wind in the trees as they whispered secrets to each other. June felt suspended on the breeze, summoning the light, summoning him.

There was no flash of light, no open 'world-gate' for her beloved to walk through. Only her heart calling silently for the mate that fate had chosen for her.

Eventually she came back to earth, ending her ritual, banishing her circle, thanking her angels. The ritual left her feeling powerful, buoyed by her contact with the moon, the earth, the elements and the angels.

She re-packed her ritual items in her basket, donned the shawl against the chill. Her step was lighter, her lips curved in a smile as her loose dark hair swung free to her shoulder blades. The bugs and the night birds seemed to sing louder, more joyfully.

Just before she went into the house, she turned to blow a kiss to the moon.

~^~

September 17, 2005 – Cincinnati, Ohio

Eric Macmillan folded his lean frame into the chair in front of his computer, then cracked open a beer. His life was in shambles, his sleep tormented by nightmares from his tour of the Middle East. When he had returned from Afghanistan, his wife had presented him with divorce papers. All he had to show for eight years of marriage to his childhood sweetheart was a few grand and a beat-up Explorer.

So much for true love and the American Dream.

Aggravated, he raked his hands through his long dark hair. Petty spite had kept him from cutting his hair or shaving since his return to the States months ago. Why should he bother? He'd kept himself shorn and shaved for the Guard, for his wife and for his job, just as he'd done everything else.

He was done pleasing others; it was his turn.

Growing up he had raced motocross, light little bikes on indoor tracks. Now he wanted a man's bike, sleek and powerful. He wanted to have something between his knees that screamed with speed. He pulled up the search page and typed in two words, Suzuki Hayabusa.

There were dozens of pages of bikes in all colors: red, black, blue, white, yellow and gray; stock bikes, stretched bikes, custom bikes. He gawked like a schoolboy with his first girlie magazine, polishing off another couple of beers in the process.

His watch chimed midnight when he found the one. She was golden, sleek, powerful; her paint was textured like a snakeskin, the fairing painted with a snake holding the headlight in its mouth. She even had a name: Cora Cobra.

The paint job was copied from an albino Burmese python. There was a woman's leather-clad torso painted on the gas tank. She had a hard Goth look: black hair, white skin, black lipstick and green eyes. This beauty was for sale? He had to see it for himself.

Eric sent an email to the seller, then stared at the pictures until the woman's face blurred. There was nothing else to do but fall into bed. The next morning a reply waited for him, with a phone number. He made an appointment for that afternoon with a woman who gave him the address.

It was a two hour drive to just north of Columbus, Ohio. Eric used his GPS to find the house, a typical suburban house in a bland neighborhood. The garage door was open. Eric parked in the driveway, glimpsing the shrouded form of a motorcycle behind some boxes. Inside, Eric looked at the clutter; guy stuff, thrown haphazardly into boxes. There were framed pictures with the glass broken to shards. Some poor guy got his walking papers.

A plaque caught his eye.

'Jake Patterson – Who died in service to his nation and the Drug Enforcement Agency.'

That explained why the bike was for sale. Eric tore his eyes from the plaque to look at the covered motorcycle. He eased the tarp away from it.

The ‘Busa was a bike to die for.

Hello, beautiful, Eric murmured.

She was curvaceous, fast and sexy. From the fanged cobra head painted on the fairing to the back fender, there was an intricate yellow, brown and white snake-scale pattern on every surface. The scaled pattern looked so real he had to touch it. His fingers expected warm, rough leather, but touched cool, sleek metal.

Airbrushed on the gas tank, the black-haired women's sultry, poison-green eyes promised to fulfill his wildest desires. A chill fluttered across the back of his neck. Eric rubbed the feeling away. Something tickled his ear, he waved his hand. Must be a bug. He looked around, saw nothing. It came again, he ignored it.

He ran his fingers over the gas tank, touching the face of the fierce-looking woman. He traced the name: Cora Cobra.

Was that a scratch on the other side? He peered over the seat at the other side of the bike.

Pain lanced through his finger. Tiny beads of blood welled on his fingertip. He sucked his finger, tasting grit, ignoring the tiny wound.

Those were scratches! Two steps brought him to the other side.

Damn, Eric shook his head. What happened to you, girl?

The damage on the right side tore his gut like a physical blow. There were several long scratches on the plastic ground effects. The fairing and the side covers were covered with rusty smears of mud or blood.

It was blood. He just knew it was blood.

Creepy.

He took several pictures with his cell phone.

If you have any sense, you'll walk away from that bitch. The beautiful, sweat-clad blonde showed signs of a hard life that had aged her fast. He was disappointed she wasn’t the woman on the bike. It must have showed on his face.

You expected Cora Cobra? The sarcasm in her voice was un-mistakable. Well, bucko, Cora is dead. She pointed an unlit cigarette at the bike. All that’s left of her is right there.

I'm Eric Macmillan; I came to look the bike.

Mary Patterson. She didn't offer to shake hands.

There it is. Her face twisted into bitter lines. If you want it, get it the hell out of my garage.

Not very friendly, Eric thought. Not much of a salesman either.

If I didn’t need the money, I’d burn the evil bitch. She killed my husband.

I’m sorry about your loss. It sounded lame, but it seemed to mollify her. What happened?

He was gone for six months; when he came back, all he had to show for it was that bike. He was supposed to keep a low profile, but he wouldn't get rid of it. She gave him a sharp, knowing look. He took it out for a ride to Cleveland and missed a curve. He wasn't wearing a helmet. She shook her head and lit the cigarette.

I want ten grand in cash, she said. No checks, no money orders, just cash.

That’s a lot of money for a scratched up bike.

You’ll pay, she snickered. I've seen that look before.

Yeah, Eric thought as he looked at the one-of-a-kind bike, golden and gleaming; he was going to buy it. Tension climbed up the back of his neck. Where was he going to get ten thousand on a Sunday afternoon?

I need a couple days to get the money.

Well, call me when you get it. The woman closed the door, dismissing him.

She might be grieving for her dead husband, but did she have to be bitchy about it?

He carefully covered the 'Busa.

Eric drove home, thinking of ways to raise the money. He could take out a signature loan or a bike loan. He got home, cracked open another beer before he sat down at the computer to bring up the pictures he'd taken of the bike.

Sweat broke from his forehead at the thought of owning that incredible machine. He could take her to bike shows. It was a complete departure from being a lab rat. The guys in the lab were going to absolutely shit themselves when they saw her.

He wanted a new start and Cora Cobra was it.

Beer didn't work fast enough to suit him. Eric reached for the nearly empty bottle of Tequila, poured the remainder in a glass. The dead worm floated to the bottom of the glass. Knocking it back in one long throw, worm and all, he shuddered as it hit his stomach like a body blow. A couple of hours later, he shut the computer down to get some sleep.

His dreams were troubled.

The woman, draped in sheer black veils, had her back to him as the thin keyboard music slowly swelled. Soft light on either side of her left her in shadow. She lifted her hands sensuously in time with the music. The soaring keyboard solo suddenly became a blasting bass riff. The lights came on with a snap. She danced with the bass, with the drums, the rhythms hard and fast in an acid-rock standard. The woman's feet kept time as her body writhed like a snake. The guitars roared. She dropped to the floor as the drums took over, ripping her veils off one by one, until she was all but naked at his feet. The music changed, the soft keyboards lifted with a back beat.

Her hands came up his calves, until she was on her knees in front of him. Her black hair covered her face, a coiled veil that revealed poison-green eyes. The music hit another crescendo – she threw her head back, revealing a beautifully chiseled face. She hissed at him, showing snakelike fangs. She swung her hair back over her face. Swaying to the music for a moment, she changed into a white snake. She reared, towering over him, mouth open, fangs dripping poison. Eric leapt back as the snake struck. He fell, screaming, as the snake sank her fangs into the meat of his thigh.

Eric woke up with a shout. He was wringing sweat and disoriented. The pain in his leg was sharp, stabbing. Whipping the sheet back, he found a raw, angry semi-circle on his thigh.

He'd had some crazy dreams in the last six months; that was one for the record books. He groaned as he clutched his aching head – it must have been the worm.

~^~

September 19th, 2005 – Ashtabula, Ohio

June parked her car in the parking lot at seven-thirty a.m. on the dot. Walking towards the building, she ran her thumb along the worry stone in her pocket. The smooth alabaster soothed her frantic desire to escape this building and her bleak, boring job.

The small plant made plastic auto parts in an ever-shrinking market. It had been on the brink of closing for years, yet they limped on from month to month, barely keeping one step ahead of the bill collectors.

June made her way into the accounting department without a hitch and she fired up her computer. A glance at the clock confirmed she was twenty minutes early. The office was empty for another ten minutes; she had just enough time to check her eBay account.

When Aunt Lizzie died, June inherited the house and the uncounted boxes that filled the garage, attic and basement. Last spring, June started auctioning off odd items to pay her heating bill. Now, she was good at uploading pictures and checking email on the fly, using the company's fast internet connection. All she needed was a few minutes before anyone else came into the office.

Finally, thanks to Aunt Lizzie's packrat tendencies, June had a nice little nest egg.

That task taken care of, she attacked her inbox just as the others arrived. She shuffled through invoices, posting to various accounts. Eventually, she came to a couple of invoices that weren't right.

What was anhydrous ammonia and why did they need two 55-gallon drums of it? Then there was a shipment from Brazil. Cherry flooring? Why did they need cherry flooring?

She put the invoice on her clipboard and she went down to Receiving. The department was a hopeless mess and stank worse than the press room.

Tony Avon, who ran the receiving department, was a skinny, twitchy man with the worst case of bad breath she'd ever encountered. She hated running into him, so she went in the back way. There were cases and crates all over, without any discernible rhyme or reason. In spite of the clutter, she did find a few cases of flooring. Goddess knew where the rest went. She also found the two drums of anhydrous ammonia.

What are you doing?

Jerking upright, June shot a glance over her shoulder. Tony Avon stood behind her, an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

I'm checking invoices. Annoyed, June gave him a frosty look down her nose.

Well?

She tapped the drum with her pen.

I need to know what this stuff is.

He gave her an insolent sweep with his eyes.

Fertilizer for the lawn.

Who ordered it? June resisted the urge to grit her teeth.

Mr. Phillips, I'd imagine. Tony shrugged. I don't ask no questions. Maybe you shouldn't either. He gave her a narrow, threatening look as he hefted a box of flooring over his shoulder.

It's my job. Her bravado was running out.

There ain't nothing here that Phillips didn't order. That good enough for you? He spat at her feet, making her jump back to save her shoes.

I'll check with Mr. Phillips.

Go ahead, it's your funeral.

June fled back to her desk. With shaking hands, she typed up an email, asking if Mr. Phillips knew about the order for anhydrous ammonia and cherry flooring.

It only took a minute for the reply. Tiffany