Semi-Magical

by Isabel Jordan

  But the wound didn’t even seem to faze Table Five. He caught the vamp’s fist when he took his next shot and used his momentum to pull him closer, then drove his knee into the vampire’s stomach. The vampire dropped to his knees, arms wrapped around his middle as he coughed and gagged. Table Five kicked out without hesitation, catching the vamp in the chin, knocking him flat on his back.

  Table Five yanked him up by the hair and twisted his arm behind his back. A sound akin to a dry twig snapping was closely followed by another pained groan from the vampire.

  Harper blinked. It took a hell of a lot of strength to break a vampire’s bones. An unnatural amount of strength. This guy did it without even trying. Who the hell was he?

  “Quit whining,” Table Five growled at the now blubbering vampire, then gave him a good swift kick in the ass. “And get the hell out of here while I’m still in a good mood.”

  Harper kept her eyes on the vamp until he’d stumbled out of view, then turned her attention to the man who’d saved her life. The man who’d just reduced a violent vampire to tears.

  “Who are you?” she asked suspiciously. “And don’t say Death.”

  He glanced at her and the street light allowed her to see his eyes were blue. Deep, deep blue. Gorgeous, she thought, then mentally slapped herself for noticing something so trivial after what had just happened.

  He paused as if contemplating not telling her his name, but eventually said, “Call me Riddick.”

  Harper realized she was still on the ground and slowly climbed to her feet. All her parts seemed to be in working order, and she hadn’t peed herself. She supposed she couldn’t really ask for more than that, given the circumstances.

  “Riddick?” she repeated. “Like the Vin Diesel movies?”

  He stared at her like she was deranged. Must not be a Vin Diesel fan.

  Then it occurred to her where she’d heard the name before, and Vin Diesel had nothing to do with it. “Are you Noah Riddick? The slayer?”

  He wadded up the fabric at the hem of his T-shirt and pressed it to his wound. “There aren’t any more slayers.”

  She rolled her eyes. Slayers and seers hadn’t fallen off the face of the earth when Sentry disbanded and vamps earned human rights. They might be jobless, but they still existed. “I’m thinking the vamp with the broken arm still believes in slayers.”

  Noah Riddick in Whispering Hope, Harper thought when he didn’t respond. What were the odds?

  Whispering Hope had been settled largely by Italian, Polish and Irish immigrants who hadn’t enjoyed big city life, which accounted for the fact that there were a ton of great restaurants in her beloved town, but no industry to speak of. And it was too far away from the real city for convenience, so truly, the only reason Harper could think of for anyone who wasn’t born in Whispering Hope to settle here was the food.

  But she’d just bet that Noah Riddick wasn’t in town for a kolache from Majesky’s on High Street.

  Riddick adjusted his makeshift compress and she stared at his bare stomach, not sure if she was more fascinated by the wound—which was pumping out a surprising amount of blood—or by his perfect abs.

  She cleared her throat. “We should probably get you to a hospital. That stomach looks hot…er, I mean it looks like it hurts.”

  Sweet Christ, could she humiliate herself in front of this guy a few more times?

  “I don’t do hospitals,” he said.

  Great. A macho man. Just what she needed more of in her life. “Okay, so, if you don’t do hospitals, do you bleed to death in alleys? ‘Cause if that’s what you’re going for, you’re well on your way, dude.” She gave him a thumbs-up. “Way to go.”

  His gaze moved over her and he shook his head. He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it to her, grimacing.

  “Put it on,” he said. “I can’t even hear myself think over the sound of your teeth chattering.”

  “Gee, and they say chivalry is dead,” she intoned dryly, shoving her arms into the sleeves of the black trench.

  The coat was too long by nearly a foot, and the sleeves hung down well below her hands, but the fabric still held the warmth of his skin, and she was far too cold to be concerned with fit or fashion. The What Not to Wear folks could just kiss her warm, toasty ass.

  He watched her fidget for a while before asking, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Harper.” She shook the sleeves of the coat back, finally finding her hand and extending it to him. “Harper Hall.”

  He stared at her hand, then raised his gaze to hers. “That explains a lot.”

  Harper let her hand sink back into the coat’s depths and narrowed her eyes on him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You were Romeo Jones’ seer. That explains why you were willing to take off, alone, after a vamp three-times your size with a chair leg.” His gaze moved over her again, slowly. “In your underwear.”

  She put her hand on her hip and cocked her head to one side. “Are you insulting me, or are you insulting Romeo? Because if you’re insulting me, you and I need to have a serious come-to-Jesus meeting.”

  For a split second, he looked like he might smile, but just when she was deciding whether to go after him with her make-shift stake or chick-fight him with her fingernails, the smile died and pain flashed through his eyes.

  “Let’s just say your reputation precedes you,” he said, hunching over almost imperceptibly.

  Hmmpphh. Noah Riddick talking trash about her reputation. Wasn’t that just rich beyond belief?

  “Well, hello there, Pot, they call me Kettle,” she said dryly. “I hear you’re black.”

  He raised one eyebrow and took a step toward her, only to sway drunkenly before falling to his knees. “Fuck,” he muttered, one hand on the ground, one hand on his stomach.

  Harper rushed to his side, but he stopped her with a fierce scowl. “I’m not Romeo,” he hissed. “I don’t need your help.”

  She straightened and planted her hands on her hips again. “Look, I’ve taken about all the shit I intend to from you. So, as I see it, you’ve got two choices: you can lay there and bleed to death, or you can suck up your stupid male pride and let me help you.”

  He looked at her like he’d rather rip his heart out with his bare hands than accept her help, but after what must have been an exhausting battle of pride and necessity, he allowed her to ease her shoulder under his arm and help him stand.

  Leaning heavily on her, he whispered, “No hospitals,” right before he passed out.

  Harper staggered under his weight, but somehow managed to keep them both vertical. After a moment of struggling and cussing, she was able to lean him against the dumpster and hold him upright with her bodyweight while she mulled her options.

  He didn’t want to go to the hospital, and probably rightfully so.

  If there were any pro-vamp zealots out there looking for a little slayer-bashing action, he’d be a sitting duck in the hospital.

  She couldn’t take him back into the Kitty Kat Palace. Bleeding men tended to draw attention there as well.

  That really only left one viable option.

  Boy, if Riddick thought she was reckless now, wait until he woke up in her bed.

  Like it so far? You can read the rest right here

  Sample of You Complicate Me

  Chapter One

  In retrospect, the Valium probably would’ve been enough to soothe Grace Montgomery’s nerves on the flight from Los Angeles to Indianapolis. The wine was most likely overkill.

  As was the tequila.

  It had all started innocently enough. “Take one pill an hour before the flight,” her doctor had told her, “and one an hour into the flight. You’ll be completely relaxed. Valium is magic, I swear.”

  “The kind of magic that keeps planes from falling from the sky in a ball of fiery death?” Grace had asked.

  Her doctor’s answering smirk should’ve been a warning. “The kind of magic that makes you not care on the way down.”


  And she hadn’t. Cared, that is. The magic Valium had done its job.

  Until take-off, at least.

  As soon as the plane started rolling down the runway, as soon as she felt the rumbling of the engine in her belly, she started panicking. The man sitting next to her in seat C2, no doubt having noticed the white-knuckled grip she had on their adjoining armrest, had suggested a glass of wine, which she’d requested from the flight attendant as soon as she’d been allowed. But even though she gulped it down in two swallows, the wine was absolutely no match for her anxiety, because she soon started hyperventilating.

  C2 had pressed an air-sickness bag into one of her hands, and a mini bottle of tequila into the other. After breathing deeply into the bag for a few moments, she’d unscrewed the tequila and downed it, too. One swallow that time.

  Grace was nothing if not a quick learner.

  It was then she’d made what she thought was a tragic error. She’d asked for a second bottle of tequila, which she used to wash down her second Valium. The calm that had quickly washed over her was amazing. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt so relaxed.

  And warm. She was suddenly really, really, warm. So it only made sense that she’d strip off her sweater, right?

  Sadly, while she was shedding layers, she elbowed the guy next to her in the eye.

  “Jesus Christ,” he’d muttered, holding a hand over one eye.

  That was when she got her first good look at C2.

  Maybe it was the Valium, or maybe it was the alcohol, but holy hell, he was beautiful.

  His inky hair was long overdue for a trim and fell in messy disarray—the kind of messy disarray that hot men achieved naturally and women paid big bucks to a salon to fake—to just above the collar of his white button-down shirt. With his knife-edged cheekbones, strong jaw, and olive complexion, he looked like he could be Hugh Jackman’s younger brother.

  Grace had watched Wolverine four times, and not because the storyline was stellar (or even remotely plausible, really). Her mouth immediately went dry. Other parts of her…not so much.

  “I’m r-really sorry,” she whispered.

  He lowered his hand and she winced at the elbow-sized welt forming under his eye. “Are you always like this on a plane?” he asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Fucking crazy?”

  She frowned at him. “I’m a nervous flyer, okay? Lots of people are nervous flyers.”

  He shook his head and ran his hand through that amazing hair of his. “This isn’t nervous. I’ve seen nervous. You’re a train wreck, lady.”

  He wasn’t lying. Didn’t make his comment any less insulting. “I’m sorry if my fear of falling from the sky and plummeting to a fiery death is inconveniencing you in any way.”

  One black brow winged upward. “Fear all you want. I couldn’t care less. But when you try to blind me with your fucking elbow while you strip down to your underwear…well, that’s when I start to care.”

  Grace glanced down at her white layering tank top. It wasn’t see-through. Minimal cleavage was on display. Perfectly respectable. “I said I was sorry about elbowing you, okay? And I’m not in my underwear.”

  His gaze dipped down. “I can tell that you’re cold.” He smirked as his eyes met hers again. “Or turned on.”

  She so wasn’t cold.

  “I’m cold,” she said dryly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  His smirk morphed into a full-fledged grin, and Grace fought the urge to fan herself. Jesus, the grin was nothing short of panty-dropping. A smile like that should be illegal. All those straight white teeth and the dimple that carved into his cheek…it was gratuitous, really.

  And his eyes? An amazing oceanic mix of blue and pale green. Men shouldn’t be allowed to have eyes that pretty.

  “Let’s start over,” he said. He held out his hand. “I’m Nick. Nick O’Connor.”

  She was so busy staring at his eyes—and being envious of his thick, dark eyelashes, if she was being honest with herself— that it took her a moment to realize he was speaking to her. She took his hand. “Grace. Grace Montgomery.”

  Something akin to recognition lit his eyes for a moment, making her wonder if he knew her. Had they met before? But she immediately dismissed the thought. If she’d met this guy before, she’d remember it.

  His hand was warm and callused, and dwarfed hers. Her gaze traveled from his hand up his thick forearm, exposed by the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. His biceps strained the fabric of that shirt, as well. If the arms were any indication, a muscly chest and flat stomach were a foregone conclusion.

  She considered then that her judgment might be impaired. No one was this good-looking. Or else Nick O’Connor was genetically blessed in a way that was totally unfair to all other men.

  Tequila goggles. She was wearing a set of tequila goggles. There was no other explanation.

  He cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to his face. He let go of her hand and she fought the urge to grab his again. She knew she was an embarrassment to feminists everywhere, but there was something insanely comforting about having a big, strong guy holding her hand. If she’d grabbed him early on, maybe she wouldn’t have needed the Valium. Or wine. Or tequila.

  “So, Grace,” he said, “have you always been a nervous flyer?”

  She laid her head back against the seat, suddenly feeling a little off balance. “Yeah. I don’t like being closed in. Or depending on people I don’t know to fly the plane. And land the plane.”

  “Uh huh. So you’re one of those.”

  She frowned at him again. “One of those what?”

  “Control freaks.”

  “I am not a control freak.”

  Was it her imagination, or had she slurred that sentence?

  He gave her the panty-dropping grin again. Yep, she’d slurred.

  “Whatever you say, angel.”

  Being called a control freak was kind of a hot button for Grace. It was something her ex-husband never failed to bring up when they’d argued, which had been often. And the fact that this total stranger would agree with her ex pissed her off. She also took exception to him assigning her a nickname. Grace unbuckled her seatbelt and stood up to tell him so.

  And that’s when her memory got a little…fuzzy.

  She had a distinct memory of poking him in the chest, telling him he didn’t know anything about her. He’d told her to sit down. To calm down. She’d refused, colorfully and loudly. She’d tried to badger a man in another row into trading seats with her. The guy had refused, colorfully and loudly.

  Nick had gotten in the middle of that argument and tried to tell her something about who he was, what his job was, but she was too busy yelling about…something to catch all of it.

  The next thing she knew, Nick had forced her back into her seat. He might’ve also threatened to cuff her if she got into any other arguments with passengers, which seemed a little excessive. And…kinky.

  “I’m sorry,” she thought he’d said at that point.

  “I’m sorry, too,” she vaguely remembered responding.

  Then, she couldn’t be sure, but she thought she might have leaned over and puked all over his shoes. After that…there was nothing but blissful, blissful unconsciousness.

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