Enemy Within (Moira Ashe Book 1)

Hell.

Lincoln Clarke’s last three weeks could be summed up in that one word. First with the mysterious outbreak of lycanthropy in his home country, and then his trek through the foreign country of Fotland. He hoped it was coming to an end.

Standing inside the pub The Midnight Hour in the village of Quinn, he gazed around the room looking for his query. The pub was dreary and obviously named after the fact the place had no windows—the rooms were cast in darkness, despite the fact that it was late morning. The space was illuminated by what Lincoln assumed were oil lanterns every few meters along the wall, giving the place a dark but cosy atmosphere, like being draped in a cloak of shadow. The pub was fairly empty save for some off-duty guardsmen near the door, the owner behind the bar, and a few other patrons of no particular distinction.

Lincoln frowned. He was told that he could find a hunter here known to be fairly adept at dealing with the werewolf population around the countryside. Well, may as well get a drink while I’m here, Lincoln thought to himself as he made his way towards the bar.

Some patrons regarded him with curiosity, some were cordial, but most were ultimately disinterested. This became more common the further east he travelled, which was saying a lot, considering his uniform marked him as a member of an army that had tried to invade them twice in the past ten years.

The owner of the pub acknowledged his presence with a smile and a tilt of her head as he approached her. “Good day, sir. What can I do for you?” she greeted him happily.

“A few things actually, but first I could really use a drink of that,” he replied, pointing to one of the bottles on the wall.

“And do you have any rooms for rent?” he asked the woman as she pulled the bottle off the back shelf and poured its contents into a small cup in front of him.

“Yes, we do,” she said, pulling a key out from under the bar.

Lincoln took a quick drink from the cup. He had never been much of a drinker, but he enjoyed the warmth of the liquid as it travelled to his stomach.

“So, what brings an Abalonian man all the way to the other side of Fotland?” the owner asked as she went back to tending the bar.

“I’m looking for a woman by the name of Moira. I have been led to believe she visits this establishment frequently.”

The owner of the bar chuckled. “Visits here? She basically lives here.” She pointed at a figure in the back corner Lincoln had not noticed before.

He was startled. There she was! His quest was almost over, all he had to do was walk a few more steps and it would be done. He was overcome with a sense of excitement as he downed the rest of his drink, slipped the key into the pocket of his jacket, and left an assortment of coins on the counter. Stopping for a second to adjust his clothes, Lincoln approached the figure in the corner.

Upon further inspection of Moira, he could forgive himself for not noticing her when he first walked in. She was sitting sideways against the wall. Shadow hid her from view excepted for her eye, an eye that shifted its focus to him as he approached. Lincoln almost froze, and instinct caused him to go for the pistol on his belt.

He chastised himself for even thinking about pulling a gun on the woman. He was here to ask for her help, not to kill her! But he couldn’t deny there was something dangerous about her as he continued his approach. He felt like prey under her predatory gaze.

Moira swung her feet underneath the table and leaned forward as he stopped a few feet from her. She revealed her face in the light of the lanterns.

Lincoln had been told what he should expect when he saw her, but he was still stunned by her appearance.

The right side of her face was lovely by his standards, with only a small scar on her lip to upset her otherwise untouched features. But that scar was nothing compared to the left side of her face, which bore the remnants of massive claws torn horizontally across the skin, ending around her nose. This caused a terrible contrast between the ruined and untouched sides of her face. She wore an eye patch across her left eye.

“It was a bear.”

“What?”

“That is what you’re wondering, right?”

“Oh … no, I’m sorry. Please forgive me … I just …” Lincoln stammered before remembering his purpose. He reached into his coat. “I have something for you.”

Her eye narrowed as she, too, reached into her coat. Lincoln quickly held up his hands in surrender. Clutching a letter in one hand, he slowly lowered the paper within arms reach of Moira.

Pulling her empty hand out of her own coat, Moira reached forward and accepted the piece of paper. She then noticed a seal imprinted into the wax that held the letter closed.

“What does King Eamon want with me?” Moira asked, tossing the letter on the table in front of her then relaxing back into her seat. The edge of her voice had yet to dissipate.

“A lycanthropy is spreading throughout Abalon,” Lincoln replied, pointing vaguely at her. “We need help.”

Moira’s eye widened as her mouth fell open.

Lincoln couldn’t blame her. If he hadn’t seen it himself, he would have been shocked to hear this kind of news as well. Especially considering werewolves were not native to Abalon. Sure, you would hear about maybe one or two sightings every month around the shores—with people travelling between Fotland and Abalon all the time, sometimes things like that got through.

“How long ago?”

“Almost three weeks now.”

“Three weeks!” Moira scoffed. “Most of them are probably taken care of by now.”

“Most likely.”

“Then why the hell would Eamon send you walking this far for this long just to talk to me?” Moira asked him.

“Well …” Lincoln hesitated. “You’re not exactly the first I’ve petitioned for help.”

Moira sighed. “Did you ask O’Connor?”

Lincoln nodded.

“Doyle?”

He nodded again.

“How many exactly?”

“A few others,” Lincoln raised his hands to reassure her. “But you did come highly recommended from those I’ve talked to.”

“I’m sure I did.” She sighed. “I’m sorry you had to come all this way, but I can’t leave here.” Moira raised a piece of paper she had been studying before his arrival. “Quinn has its own werewolf problem.”

A pit formed in Lincoln’s stomach. He tossed a pouch onto the table, which landed with a hefty thump of coins. “I just need some information from you.” Lincoln grinned. “And seeing how you hunt the beasts could be invaluable.”

Moira eyed the pouch. “Listen, I’ll tell you everything I know, but there is no way I’m letting you follow me around!” Moira stood up and reached for the pouch on the table, but Lincoln grabbed her wrist. She stopped and glared at him.

Lincoln released her and withdrew his hand. “Please, information is one thing, but to actually see how it’s done … it could help save a lot of lives.”

Moira’s face softened. “All right. You can help me, but you’d better not get in my way!”

“Absolutely not!” Lincoln exclaimed, mocking offence at the notion that he would be a burden on her.

“And you’d better not get yourself killed, or Ryan will have me shot.”

“I certainly don’t plan on it.”

Moira tied her dark hair back and pulled her hat onto her head, “Good. We start now. Follow me to my room, and I’ll fill you in.”

“Excellent! Wait … you have a room here?”

Moira stopped gathering her things off the table and looked up at him, “Yeah, Room 3. Why?”

Lincoln grinned as he held up his room key for her to see. “I guess we’re going to be neighbours for a little while.”

Moira frowned upon seeing the painted number two on the key as she made her way towards the back of the pub and beckoned him to follow.