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Under a Blood Moon
Under a Blood Moon
Under a Blood Moon
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Under a Blood Moon

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Living with her erratic mother has always been a struggle for seventeen-year-old Margot. Though she loves her mother, she tries to be the exact opposite of her flighty and disorganized parent. When they move to Northern Michigan near a grandmother and uncle she’s never known, her mother’s depression begins to border on crazy, which makes Margot crazy.
Her escape comes in the form of a boy named Ethan. At first, he’s just looking for a new girlfriend—someone different from all the girls he’s dated in their small town—and Margot’s just interested in the distraction he provides. But within weeks, against her mother’s rule about not dating, Margot’s comparing the need to breath with Ethan.
Then between a killer wolf in the woods and her grandmother’s revelations about their family, she’s pushing Ethan away. Because if the unbelievable is true, Margot will become that wolf in the woods.

Appropriate for grade nine and up.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherJean Haus
Release dateDec 21, 2011
ISBN9781465735447
Under a Blood Moon
Author

Jean Haus

Jean Haus is the author of the Luminescent Juliet series, which revolves around a sexy, talented indie band in a small college town. She lives in Michigan with her husband and son, where she spends almost as much time teaching, cooking, and golfing as she does thinking about the tough but vulnerable rockers featured in her books. Visit Jean online at http://www.jeanhaus.com.

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    Under a Blood Moon - Jean Haus

    Under a Blood Moon

    Smashwords Edition

    Copyright © 2011 by Jean Haus

    All right 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 permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

    Chapter 1

    I’m running. Fast. Moonlight guides me. Ferns slap my face with a lightning caress. Icy leaves scatter behind me. Trees pass by in a blur. Cold fills my nose, along with a rich, warm scent. The smell pushes me faster. I leap over a fallen tree. And my claws dig into the frozen ground.

    Claws?

    Someone shakes me.

    Why do I have claws?

    Margot, a voice whispers as hands shake my shoulders.

    My eyes open to the shadows of my bedroom.

    Margot, my mother repeats from above me and shakes more.

    What? I ask in between the jarring of my teeth. Is she trying to knock them out or what?

    Get up. I hear more than see her stand. We’re leaving.

    Her words have the effect of ice water and the dream evaporates. I snap up and blankets fall to the floor. Don’t tell me you haven’t paid the rent.

    Her shadowy figure moves toward the window. Pack your things and meet me in the living room in fifteen minutes. She pulls the shade down and the room becomes a black hole.

    Next to my bed, the clock’s red numbers—three-forty-three—glare in the darkness. How many months are you behind?

    There’s no time to argue. She flicks the closet light on. I blink at her. She’s fully dressed in a black tank top and jeans, even has on makeup. You have fifteen minutes and two boxes. She points to the ceiling fan with a black painted nail. Don’t turn on the light.

    My trembling fingers, spurred by a mix of anger and fear, dig between the softness of the mattresses. How much do you need?

    She pauses in the doorway. I don’t want your money.

    But—

    Hurry up, she hisses from the hallway. Whatever you have in fifteen minutes is all that goes.

    The urge to scream and fight with her burns in my throat. I shouldn’t have to go. In a little more than two months, I turn eighteen. Nearly an adult. Yet the idea of finishing high school while working and living on my own doesn’t scare me half as much as letting her go off alone.

    Who would watch out for her?

    In some ways, I’ve become the parent. Worrying and watching and hoping. To let her just go is impossible. Though at times—like now— I can’t stand her, her wellbeing has been the center of my life for as long as I can remember.

    A lump forms in my throat as I glance around the room. We’ve lived here for almost two years. The longest we’ve lived anywhere. My furniture is an odd assortment of rummage sale finds. Movie posters separated at equal distances line the walls. Used junk—knickknacks, movies, books—fill the shelves and the top of my dresser in orderly piles. Pillows create a bright pile in the corner. The history I never had and tried to create presses in on me.

    In defeat, I pull out crumpled tens and twenties from beneath the mattress and toss two summers of shelving books—for nothing—into the box labeled Gems Toilet Tissue. After that, I’m not sure where to start. I’ve lost touch with the usual flee-in-the-middle-of-the night-routine. I should be thinking of what I can’t leave. Instead, I’m thinking it all belongs here. I don’t want to know where it will be next.

    Get moving, my mother says, passing my room with a box in her hands.

    I give the air where she’d been a dirty look, squash the desire to bang my head against the wall, and stand. There’s no use arguing with her.

    It’s go time.

    I swipe everything on a top shelf into the box with money. The other shelves stay full. Dresser drawers lose their contents in one dump each. Inside the closet, I use the empty box to scoop up shoes then put the box under the clothes and drop them in hanger and all. My real history—photo albums, report cards, and baby keepsakes encased in Ziploc bags—come out from under the bed. Luckily, my movies are stacked by favorites so I know which piles to dump in the box. The last thing is the bedding. After being stuck with a sleeping bag for two months when I was ten, I never forget the bedding. The mess inside the boxes makes my inner neat freak cringe but fifteen minutes doesn’t allow for organization.

    Though done, I want to search the room, find other treasures, and peel the posters from the walls, but I remain a flee-in-the-middle-of-the-night-robot and drag both boxes through the dark apartment.

    Items litter the floor. The boxes snag clothes and papers along the way. So much for my daily cleaning routine. My mother must have been up for a couple of hours packing or more accurately destroying. I step on something that emits a crack. The sound has me guessing the TV remote. I pull the boxes past the couch, and wonder just how many we’ve left behind.

    Illuminated from a night light in the kitchen, she waits by the door. Boxes are scattered at her feet. Keys jingle in her hand. Ready? she asks like we’re going to the movies or out to eat. Not trusting myself to speak, I nod. She reaches for the door handle. Two swift trips to the car and then we’re gone.

    My hand tightens on the edge of the box. I’ve heard this many times before, but now I realize—well I’ve known for quite some time that my mother borders on crazy—the slipping out in the middle of the night like the CIA is after us probably has more to do with her mind than missed rent payments.

    But how does one talk their mother down from crazy?

    She ducks her head out and looks both ways.

    Is there a deranged landlord out there with an Uzi? I ask, bending to tie my tennis shoes. I still wear my pink pajama bottoms and matching tank top. My mother wears black so I wear pink or blue or any other pretty color. Never black.

    Her head swivels causing her waist length hair to swirl around her. Hush Margot, and pick up those boxes.

    As we slink through the hallway to her old, rusty Mustang parked in back, I’m thinking my mother is the one who’s deranged but other than snide comments, I’m afraid to voice my fears. Once spoken, they might lose the ambiguity of speculation and become true.

    Since our apartment is on the first floor, we’re slinking back through the wide corridor in minutes. From the doorway, I take one last look at the darkened rooms. They’re just things but I’m still saddened to look at the pictures I hung, the lamps from second hand stores, the huge flat screen Ace gave me last year for Christmas. My gaze snaps to my mother. What about Ace?

    Her eyes meet mine me over a cardboard flap. I left him a letter.

    A letter? I ask through clenched teeth. Here I’m worried about the stupid stuff we’re leaving behind while she’s leaving the one boyfriend who really loved her. Me, I have acquaintances. Friendships are hard to build with a mother like her. But her leaving Ace a letter is beyond ridiculous.

    She nods down at the last two boxes. No time for arguing.

    Unbelievable. Anger and shock drum through me as I follow her out.

    The trunk is shut as quietly as possible along with the car doors. She doesn’t turn the headlights on until we’re off our road. We pass dark storefronts, the empty parking lot of the only grocery store in town, a gas station, and the bar she works at before turning onto the highway.

    My silent fury ends about three miles outside of town. How could you do that to Ace?

    She stares ahead. Since he is my concern, your worry is pointless.

    I blink at her, her tone more than her words sting. Sometimes my mother’s neglectful, but she’s never cruel. The dashboard illuminates her face. I wait for some sign of emotion from her. Even something small like her hands clenching the steering wheel or her fingers brushing the loose strands of brown hair escaped from the leather band she used to pull the mass back. She doesn’t move. The road, her escape, commands her attention.

    I might as well be alone in the car.

    Beyond the glass of the passenger window, the dark forest passes by. The highway curves and dips through mountains. Every now and then, a shadowed house breaks the endless trees. A small piece of humanity carved into the wilderness. The sound of tires moving over bumpy cement echoes through the interior. I try not to think, but my brain screams the question, how didn’t I see this coming?

    I thought she loved Ace. I thought he made her happy—well as happy as someone like her could be. That’s why I didn’t see this coming. I glance at her stiff posture. If I had seen it coming, could I have stopped it?

    My nails dig into my palms before I unclench my hands.

    Enough. Her craziness is going to make me crazy.

    I reach back, tug a blanket loose from a box, and wrap it around me. Although I hope the bump of the road and the warmth of the bedspread will lull me back to sleep, my open eyes watch the passing world until the rising sun turns gray and black into color. The world, like an old movie, redone in Technicolor.

    After we pass the sign, Welcome to North Dakota, my mother pulls into a rest stop. We walk to the bathroom in silence.

    Out first, I wait by the pop machine in the long cement hallway between the restrooms. Thirst is going to make me talk to her because I didn’t bring any money. I’m standing there and trying to decide between a bottled water or sweetened tea when I hear a male voice behind me say, Margot Redox, I haven’t seen you since you were two feet high.

    Chapter 2

    A man with hair down to his shoulders and a bearded jaw leans against the brick wall. More than just dirty, his clothes have bits of leaves and twigs stuck to them. He wears ragged, untied boots. His smile is wide and welcoming. Yet I’ve never seen him before. So how does this scary hobo looking guy know my name?

    I shake my head and back up toward the women’s restroom. You’ve got the wrong person. There are people around, but who hasn’t heard of weird things happening at rest stops?

    He shakes his head. Oh no, you’re almost the spitting image of your mother.

    My feet slow. Ah, that makes sense. I do look like my mother. Both of us have long brown hair, dark brown eyes, and heart shape faces. He must be one of her former boyfriends. When’s the last time you saw her?

    It’s been almost fifteen years.

    Now I’m confused as the math rolls through my head. Though dirty, the man looks young, at the very most thirty. My mother has dated some losers but never jailbait.

    A gasp from the entrance to the woman’s room halts my bewilderment. My mother stands frozen. Her hand clutches the thick chain at her neck. Her eyes are wide. But when she sees me, her terrified look disappears and her hand drops. Raoul? she whispers.

    He walks to her with open arms. It’s been too long, Elise.

    It has been a long time. She lets him hug her with as little contact as possible. He grins slyly while her lips compress. Margot, she says, stepping out of his embrace. This is your Uncle Raoul.

    Um, hi, I say then smile to soften my weak hello. I’m totally shocked. I’ve never heard of an uncle and I can’t even imagine what is going on.

    He hooks his thumbs in his belt loops. I’ve come to take you home.

    Something passes across my mother’s face too quick for me to read. Yes, he’s here to help us get home.

    My brows almost reach my hairline. Home?

    Your grandmother’s waiting back in Michigan, he answers me but looks at my mother.

    Grandmother? I repeat.

    Yes, your grandma, she says smoothly. Too smoothly. My mother has never said one nice thing about her mother. She offered for us to stay with her. I couldn’t refuse free room and board.

    I look between their stiff faces. Something’s off here. Well, it’s obvious my mother’s not right, and my uncle appears to have fallen from the same tree but I can sense tension in the air. Then why didn’t you tell me?

    She folds her arms. The gray and black tattoos circling her biceps quiver. I wanted it to be a surprise.

    A surprise? But why wake me up and—

    Margot, I’m not going to argue, she snaps.

    I’m fuming as our eyes lock in a silent battle. There’s a lull in the sound of passing traffic on the expressway. A car door slams somewhere in the parking lot. A dog barks. But we don’t break our stare.

    Hey, let’s make this a fun trip, eh? Uncle Raoul’s dirty fingers grasp my arm and pull me down the sidewalk. The sooner we get on the road, the sooner we see grandma.

    Yeah, good old grandma, I say, looking over my shoulder at my mother.

    At the rusty blue Mustang, both of them go to the driver’s side. He smiles at her. Thought I’d drive. Give you a break. She doesn’t move. If that’s okay, he says, glancing at me.

    Her forehead tightens before she says, Of course. She digs the keys out of her pocket and hands them to him before slowly moving to the passenger side. He hits unlock, watches her, and waits. Since it’s a two-door car, I wait too while wondering what this refusal to get in the car is about. Finally, my mother slides into the car and Raoul opens our door.

    Inside, I squish myself between boxes. The smell—sweat, dirt, and leaves—of my uncle fills the interior. My mother stares ahead while he drives onto the expressway. He drives fast, even faster than she does. I watch the blur of traffic and try to understand what just happened. What is happening.

    So how’d you get to the rest stop? I ask, breaking the silence.

    He honks at a car in front of him. A trucker dropped me off.

    So you hitchhiked?

    Yeah, he says, and his eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. But don’t you go trying it.

    So we were supposed to meet you there?

    Of course, he says.

    My mother whips around. Why are you interrogating your uncle?

    Because you don’t tell me anything, I snap.

    She’s okay, Elise, he says, changing lanes. What do you want to know, Margot?

    I want to know why she never told me about him. I want to know why she’s acting weirder than usual. I want to know why we’re moving in with her hated mother. But none of these questions seems polite so I ask, How far are we from Michigan?

    About twenty-three hours, he says.

    With that gloomy news, I wrap myself in the blanket. Silence fills the car. While trying to piece this latest bit of craziness together, and failing terribly, I nod off. At some point, my mother pushes a greasy breakfast sandwich and pulp filled orange juice into my hands but after a few bites, the road lulls me back to sleep. I wake when we stop for gas sometime in the afternoon. I’ll pump, I offer, stretching and tossing the blanket aside.

    No, no. We’re making good time, my mother says. You go to the bathroom. Raoul will pump. I’ll pay.

    Whatever. I cross the parking lot and go wait in line for the restroom. While standing there between bags of pretzels and chocolate bars, I notice my mother on the outside on the other side of the gas station where the semi trucks get diesel fuel. She’s talking to a large beer-bellied—it’s hard not to notice it with his open shirt—man who points to a truck.

    She reaches into her purse and pulls out a wad of bills. My breath catches in my throat. I can’t believe what I’m watching. Is my mother buying drugs at a freakin’ gas station? Out in the open? Stunned, I slowly step out of line and outside. But Raoul beats me to them. Between the loud engines and clanking of trucks, it sounds like he says something like, ‘no escape’. She snarls something back at him. He yanks her by the arm to his side and tells off Mr. Beer Belly, who runs away. They don’t notice me frozen on the gum-stained sidewalk as Raoul pulls her away by the arm.

    My bewildered mind realizes I might have misheard ecstasy as escape and I feel like I’m going to throw up. She hasn’t been doing drugs or even drinking much since she hooked up with Ace over a year ago. In a daze, I go back to the restroom line. My mother’s falling off the deep end and she’s going to pull me down with her.

    *****

    Uncle Raoul only stopped for gas, food, and restrooms. After over twenty hours of driving, I had desperately wanted out of the car. I wanted to stretch my legs, un-numb my butt, and breathe fresh air. Now on my grandmother’s porch amid apprehension that hangs in the humid air like drops of moisture, I want to curl up alongside the boxes and drive through a sixth state. Instead, I’m on the peeling porch of an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere with two people who obviously detest one another.

    They stare at each other, two halves, an older and a younger profile that are nearly identical. The same full lips compressed into

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