Excerpt for Chasing The Moon: A Grazi Kelly Short #4.5 by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Chasing the Moon: A Grazi Kelly Short #4.5

by C.D. Gorri

Kindle Edition

Copyright 2017 C.D. Gorri

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, places, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either part of the author’s imagination and/or used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to person, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights are reserved. No part of this book is to be reproduced, scanned, downloaded, printed, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of any materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For my family, you are my everything.

“In my mind’s eye my Wolf tipped back her head and howled long and loud. The answering calls were softer, but growing steadily. They seemed to come from everywhere and with them a feeling of purpose. My purpose. Was it the fulfillment of the prophecy? Were we out of harm’s way? Only time would tell. But I didn’t mind that. Not when I had friends in this world and Ronan beside me…” -Winter Moon: A Grazi Kelly Novel #4 by C.D. Gorri

Chasing the Moon: A Grazi Kelly Short #4.5

By C.D. Gorri

Title Page



Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9


About C.D. Gorri

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On the mend after the battle of St. Lucy’s Day, teen Werewolf Grazi Kelly is on the run. The Hounds of God have been disbanded, the High Council wants her captured, and what's left of the Scarred Sisters Coven want her dead.

Grazi finds herself far away from her family and everything she has ever known. What will she do when a group of Werewolves in northern Florida need her help?


Interstate 95 is the longest north to south highway in North America. It connects New England to Florida in one seemingly unending line of black pavement. People say it is the fastest way to drive south from New Jersey. People say it is clean. They say it is the safe. Fast. Clean. Safe. That’s what I’d heard.

After weeks of driving on I-95, stopping at hole-in-the-wall dives to eat in and shady motels to rest my broken body, and to throw those who were trying to follow us off our literal tails, I have another word for I-95. Dull.

It was the most boring stretch of asphalt that I could ever imagine. The cars we traded and bought and sold came equipped with varying degrees of radios and CD players. One even had something called a tape-deck. Dristan said it played cassette tapes. Okayyy. Anyway, it didn’t matter, there never seemed to be anything good on.

Sometimes we drove for miles and miles of nothing, but black concrete in complete silence. With only the hum of the engine and our breathing making noise. I cherished those silent moments when my mind would stop working. I would stare out into space and let it all just float away from me while I held on to Ronan’s hand. Sometimes I felt as if I would float away too if it wasn’t for him. My anchor.

There were too few tunnels and bridges. Nothing to break up the monotony of the road. Except for the occasional traffic jam. We sat for hours in bumper to bumper traffic as we passed Washington D.C., I’d have liked to stop and see the Capitol Building and the White house. I’ve never been there. But this wasn’t that kind of trip.


The Carolinas made up for the hours lost in traffic in Virginia, never mind the days spent at the Colonial Highway Motel. How was a motel colonial? We weren’t even near Williamsburg. Whatever.

We flew down the narrow, empty lanes of I-95 past Roanoke Rapids and Fayetteville in the dead of night. Sometimes I’d close my eyes and listen past the rumble of our engine and passing cars. My sensitive ears could hear things scurrying through the grass on the side of the road. Deer, rabbits, rats, even the bugs sometimes.

Once I heard a coyote. We do have them in the East, though they aren’t true coyotes. They’re a mix of western coyotes and gray wolves. I read that somewhere. Anyway, I never listened too long. Too afraid I’d hear other things moving in the night.

We watched the sun come up over South of the Border. The sky lit up with brilliant hues of yellow, orange, and red. Full of promise. That’s what I thought as I watched that flaming ball make its way over the enormous Mexican themed statue with his faded orange sombrero. The day held promise.

I suppose it was a tradition to visit the place. I remember kids from school talking about it visiting “Pedro” on their way to Disneyworld or other such places, but this was my first time seeing him. He was definitely not politically correct, but I guess he was just from another time. I wondered how long it would be before someone complained and tore him down. Probably not long.

It bothered me that the run-down statue seemed to laugh at us as we plowed past. Years ago, I imagine it was pristine and something fun to look out, but not anymore. It was kind of sad looking. I don’t know, maybe it shouldn’t have bothered me. Maybe it should have given me hope.

Even though “Pedro” was a bit dilapidated he still smiled. He stood there on the highway as millions of people drove past him. Onward to experience adventures and fun-filled family vacations in awesome destinations. And though he was stuck, he remained ever pleasant, ever the reminder of good things to come.

I didn’t even know I was crying until Ronan wrapped his arm around me and I buried my face into the soft cotton of his shirt and wept like a baby. I did that sometimes. Ever since the battle. Ever since my mind had been invaded by a real-life nightmare.

Most of the time, after we could no longer see “Pedro”, the highway was smooth. It was the sitting in the backseat of a 1996 Chrysler Sebring with the top down and a Werewolf at the wheel that was anything but. You see SilverWolf, or Dristan, as was his proper name, had a bit of a fascination with speed. Okay, he drove like a maniac.

When the road was empty and open, he pressed that gas peddle down into the gray car mat with his steel-toed boots as if he never heard of a speed limit. He pushed that beat up old convertible over a hundred miles per hour for what seemed like forever. As he had with all the other cars we’d been in the past few weeks.

I didn’t mind the wind or even the rain that we sometimes wound up getting caught in. It was the other cars and trucks that he flew around on the often too-narrow highway that made me want to never get in another car again.

True, we didn’t hit anything, but there were plenty near misses. In my opinion, Werewolves seriously lacked driving skills. It wasn’t that they couldn’t drive, but from my experience with Ronan and now Dristan, they just liked speed way more than safety. The word reckless came to mind.

He had other skills though. Dristan was very careful not to leave a trace of us behind. We knew we were being hunted, but we couldn’t be sure exactly who was gaining on us at times. I imagine both the Council and the Witches wanted us found. Maybe dead.

Anyway, I understood why Dristan’s old Packmates named him SilverWolf. It wasn’t just the pale gray eyes that turned silver when his Wolf was near, it was his silver-tongue. I listened to him talk his way out of not one, not two, but three speeding tickets.

I noticed he had the most success when the officer who pulled us over was female. He did; however, get one ticket from a sixty-year-old male state trooper just as we left Jersey, but it didn’t matter.

The license Dristan gave him read Mike Jenner. It was one of many fake ID’s that he kept in a battered old black leather wallet. That particular identity would not be used again. That was what he told me. I didn’t doubt him. After all, Werewolves could smell lies.

Besides, I had no choice, I had to trust him. Out of the three of us, Dristan, Ronan, and myself, he had the most experience with this type of thing.  I couldn’t imagine the things he’d seen and done over the hundreds of years he had walked this earth. It was truly mind-boggling to think about.

He traded cars at least once a state, paid for everything in cash, and used different aliases, even changed accents. I asked him where we were headed when we first set out, he said south. Whatever that meant. Again, he didn’t lie. We were headed south.

I turned on the new smartphone that he had given me that first night we set out after the battle. The number was new. I didn’t know it. The phone was off the grid, completely untraceable. Or so I was told.

The Alpha of the Macconwood Pack gave a couple of them to Dristan at the compound in Bethlehem when no one was looking. It was weird not having any of my apps when I turned it on, but I understood. I needed to stay logged out of any, and all, of my old social media platforms. That way no one could track us. I was embarrassed to say my first instinct was to log on to the Sacred Heart Prep app to see what homework I missed. I am such a geek.

I don’t know, I guess I was feeling nostalgic. Well, maybe it was more like I was homesick. I opened the pre-installed UrShotz app on the new smartphone. It was bigger than my old phone and really hi-tech. I didn’t know all the ins and outs yet, but I knew how to open an app. So, I did. I browsed under “visitor” choosing not to log in, even as an alias. Careful not to leave a trace.

I knew my cousin Julianna kept her account public, so I searched for her handle, HotJules. I was not disappointed. She was a “VIP member of the UrShotz family”. Whatever. She had tens of thousands of followers. Most of them creepy old dudes looking at a teenage girl. Yuck.

I couldn’t really follow what made one person UrShotz-famous and another one not. I mean, Julianna didn’t do anything on the account. Just posted selfies and made nasty comments about other people.

Apparently, that sort of stuff kept people entertained. Again, whatever. I couldn’t help the eye-roll that came when I looked at her perfect profile pic.

Her baby blue eyes sparkled as she fake-smiled for all the world. Typical Julianna style. Not one blonde hair out of place. Then I stopped and looked at a pic of her smiling with her little sister, Rebecca. I couldn’t believe it. I actually missed them!

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