Afraid of the Dark: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novel (Midlife Spirits Series Book 1)
Page 14
Sam’s face took on a definite look of surprise, her eyes wide, her lips twitching. “You couldn’t tell what he was? Wow, that’s a first.”
I nodded my bulbous head. “Exactly. And if he’s here permanently, he never checked in with me or Headquarters.”
Any new creature who hoped to settle in Splendor, California, needed to contact Headquarters, otherwise known as the A.N.C (Association for Netherworld Creatures). And more pointedly, they had to register with me. This new stranger had done neither. Maybe he’d gotten lost when coming over. It wasn’t rare for a creature to come through the passage from the Netherworld to Earth and somehow get lost along the way. You’ll find the directionally challenged everywhere.
“Maybe you should talk to Bram,” Sam said. “He always seems to know what’s going on.”
It wasn’t a bad idea, actually. Bram was a vampire (I know, how cliché …) who ran a nightclub called No Regrets. No Regrets was in the middle of the city and was the biggest hangout for creatures of the Netherworld. If something was going down, Bram was always among the first to know.
“Yeah, not a bad idea,” I said.
First things first, I’d pay a visit to Fabian and let him know how much I didn’t appreciate his little prank. Then, if he couldn’t give me any info on his strange visitor, I’d try Bram. My third choice was Dagan, a demon who ran an S&M club called Payne that wasn’t far from No Regrets. Dagan was always my last resort—I hated going to Payne. I’d seen things there that had scarred me for life.
So it looked like my plans for the weekend were shot. Not like I had much planned—just editing chapters of my romance novel, Captain Slade’s Bounty. I’d been looking forward to a quiet weekend, so I could focus on Captain Slade and his ladylove, Clementine. Now, it looked like I’d be working the streets of Splendor instead.
Big goddammit.
***
Six hours later, and with Bridget Jones one and two, Dirty Dancing and four bowls of popcorn under my belt, I was home and back to myself. I felt like hell considering I’d eaten more in one evening than I usually ate in a day.
I headed through my sparse living room and straight to my bathroom. I threw off the clothes Sam had lent me (the mass I’d been turned into had shredded my outfit) and turned on the shower full force. I was back to myself, but still disgusting—covered in a layer of what looked like clear snot, like I’d just dropped out of God’s nose.
I tested the water, waiting for it to warm. Then I turned to face myself in the mirror. I’m not a vain person but I was very happy to see my small and slender self reflected back at me. I pulled my mane of honey-gold hair from behind my back and inspected it. If I was narcissistic about anything, it was my hair. It was long—right down to my lower back and it looked like it had fared well in the metamorphosis. Except for the slime.
I keep my hair long because I’m not thrilled with my ears. As a fairy, my ears come to points at the tops. Think Spock. Other than that, I look like a human. And no, I don’t have wings.
I checked the water again; it was warm enough. I lived in a pretty crappy apartment and the pipes in the wall screamed every time I turned the hot water on—they’d just pound if I wanted cold. I know I mentioned earlier that I make a good living, and I do. The crap apartment is due to the fact that I’m saving all my money to retire from the A.N.C. Then I can focus on my writing full time.
It might sound strange that one as magical as I would need to work nine-to-five weekdays and some weekends, but there it is. There are strict laws that disallow those of us who can, to create money out of thin air. I guess the powers that be thought about it and realized all creatures who can create something from nothing—fairies, witches and warlocks, just to name a few—certainly would be at the top of the food chain … something bad for the less fortunate creatures and humans, too.
That, and money created from magic turns to dust after a few days anyway.
So I have to work. I’ve accepted it.
I stepped under the less-than-strong flow of water, which was more like a little boy peeing on my head, and grabbed my gardenia-scented soap, lathering my entire body. I repeated the process four more times before I could actually say I felt any semblance of clean.
After toweling myself off, I plodded into the living room with a towel wrapped around my head and body. Then I noticed the blinking red light on the answering machine beckoning to me. I had three new messages.
I hit play. Bram’s alto voice, the pitch reminiscent of his English roots, filled my living room.
“Ah, I’ve missed you, Sweet. Come by the club. I have information for you.”
The arrogant bastard—he never bothered saying, “It’s Bram.” As to the information he had … that could be meaningless. Bram had been trying to get into my pants since I became a Regulator—about two years ago. And just because he had my home phone number didn’t mean he’d succeeded—I used to be listed in the phone book.
I deleted the message. I’d have to pay him a visit tomorrow. The next message was from my dry cleaners—my clothes were ready to be picked up. The third message was from my boss.
“Dulce, it’s Quillan, Sam told me what Fabian did to you. Just calling to make sure you’re okay. Give me a call when you get in.”
I hit delete. Quillan was a good boss; he was the big wig of Headquarters, and an elf.
Elves are nothing like you’re imagining them, although they are magical. Whereas I have the innate ability to create something from nothing (all it takes is a little fairy dust), Quillan is magical in his own way. He can cast spells, control his own aging and he’s got the strength of a giant. Fairies and elves are like distant cousins—sprung from the same magical family tree but separated by lots of branches.
Quillan is tallish—maybe five-ten or so, slim, and has a certain regality to him. He’s got a head of curly blond hair that would make Cupid envious, bronze skin, and eyes the color of amber. And he’s also the muse for the hero in my romance novel. But he doesn’t know that.
I wasn’t in the mood to call Quillan back. I’d add him to my long list of visits for tomorrow. Even though it was Saturday, it looked like I’d be working.
Sometimes working law enforcement for the Netherworld is a real bitch.
To Kill a Warlock
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H. P. Mallory is a New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author who started as a self-published author.
She lives in Southern California with her son and two cranky cats, where she’s at work on her next book.
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