by Katie May
“Talon,” I say softly, holding up my next wand. The valkyrie’s head snaps up as surprise flits across his face. Traditionally, valkyries have been female, so I’ll admit that I’m curious.
There’s no denying that Talon is a beautiful male. His features are softer than some of the others, his large eyes kind.
“I’m speechless,” Talon says when he’s close enough to accept the wand I’m offering. Lowering his voice so as to not be overheard, much to Kyler’s chagrin, he whispers, “Thank you for taking a chance on me.”
“Thank you for not peeing on my leg,” I reply easily, my tone just loud enough to carry to Jereome, the cat shifted who declared me his. By pee.
The man in questions grimaces. “Not my finest moment,” he mutters.
When Talon rejoins the others, I turn towards the orange-haired hellhound. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been tossing a cigarette into his limo and watching it explode. An arsonist, Kyler had called him.
And fuck, if I’m not curious about him.
“Aaron.”
A splitting grin appears on his face as he swaggers forward. He reminds me of some of the frat boys I had to deal with in college. Still, something about his cocky exterior and the devilish glint in his eyes intrigues me. Does he only like fire because he’s a hellhound? Or is there something else, something more?
“You liked the heat, Babygirl?” he purrs, hand lingering on mine as he grabs the wand.
Smiling softly, I keep hold of the wand, refusing to release it until he looks at me. “There’s something interesting about you, Aaron,” I say sincerely. “But I can’t put my finger on it.”
“There’s nothing interesting about me,” he scoffs, pulling once more on the twig. “I’m just an asshole who likes to set things on fire.”
“That makes you interesting,” I counter, finally releasing the wand. He stares at it for a moment in disbelief before flicking his gaze back to me. As I watch, transfixed, the wand breaks into roaring flames, the red and orange eating away at the wood. Through it all, a smirk remains on those delectably wicked lips.
With nothing but ash in his hand, he saunters back towards the risers and resumes his position. I feel like that act of rebellion was both a promise and a threat—fall for me, and you’ll get burned. I can only imagine how sweet of a death it would be.
“You have two more wands,” Kyler announces. “Ridley, who do you choose?”
I survey their faces intently, trying to recount the first meeting I had with them. I see Stephan, the kind unicorn desperate to know the real me. And there, beside him, is Atlantis, a handsome man with haunted blue eyes. There’s Norman the garden gnome, and Chase, the devil worshiping angel. Opposite him is Julian, the rude demon who had spoken only a few words to me. And then Fernando, the frog shifter who had spoken no words to me.
My eyes latch on the male standing between Liam the leprechaun and Dino the t-rex shifter. And I know immediately who my ninth wand will go to.
“Zade,” I say, smiling softly at the zombie. The mottled, disfigured half of his face remains the same, but the side that is unblemished slackens in surprise. His one good eye widens.
Liam and Dino release enthusiastic cheers and fistbumps, genuinely happy for their best friend.
“I...I don’t know what to say,” Zade says, stumbling to a stop in front of me.
“Say that you’ll give this a chance,” I say candidly. “Regardless of appearance.”
A slow grin pulls up his lips as he nods once. It’s what he had asked of me just earlier tonight—to judge him based on his personality, not his looks.
“Thank you, Rid,” Zade whispers.
“That’s my boy!” Dino cheers from behind.
“Get ‘em!” Liam adds in his Irish accent.
I have a feeling that if he could, he’ll be blushing right about now. Instead, he merely ducks his head and shuffles back towards the risers.
That felt good...which means I did something right.
“Last wand, Ridley. Who will it go to?” Kyler proclaims, sweeping an arm out to gesture towards the assembled men.
I know what my answer will be. What it’s always been, even when my heart was broken and shredded. You can’t just fall out of love, despite what magazines tell you. You can’t just stop caring about someone who was once your entire world. My heart will beat for him until the day I die, our souls irrevocably intertwined.
“Grant,” I say at last, and I have the pleasure of seeing blatant relief cross his face as he strides forward quickly.
Too low for the cameras to hear, he whispers, “Fuck, I love you. I love you so damn much. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”
Instead of responding to his proclamation, I thrust a wand at his chest.
“Last chance, Grant,” I murmur as our eyes connect. Because I don’t think my heart will survive being broken a second time.
Instead of going to bed, I return to the crime scene, tiptoeing through the halls on bare feet. I have quickly discarded the dress, replacing it with a tank top and a pair of sleep shorts. My messy brown hair has been tossed into a bun at the top of my head.
Okay, Ali, let’s figure out who murdered you.
A part of me knows that I should get Grant before I begin my investigation, but that part of me is overshadowed by all of my hurt and pain. I’d sooner put a spark wire into my vagina than ask Grant Simmons for help.
The kitchen is mercifully empty when I enter. I don’t know what Grant told the chef—or what he did with Ali’s body—but I’m grateful I don’t have to stare into her lifeless eyes. Even the blood on the wall has been wiped away, leaving not even a red smear behind.
Okay, think, Ridley. Think.
I canvas the room quickly, noting that there are two doors into and out of the kitchen. The former is the one I entered with Grant, and the latter leads to a second hallway. A quick glance shows that there’s one door at the very end that serves as an exit.
Okay, so the perp probably entered the kitchen through the back door...which means he isn’t necessarily a part of this show. He easily could’ve snuck in and out without anyone noticing.
There are no cameras in this area—a fact that the murderer probably knew before he committed the murder. Why else would he choose the one place in the entire house devoid of cameras? Even the bathrooms have some, though we’ll be notified if they’ve been turned on.
Was Ali killed elsewhere and brought here? Or was she murdered in the kitchen?
I vow to ask Grant what the cook said tomorrow.
I spent another hour going through every drawer, checking every crevice, and mentally dissecting how and when the killer was able to get here. I’m on my hands and knees searching beneath the counter for the bullet when someone clears their throat from behind me.
Screaming bloody murder, I whip my head around to face the intruder. Julian the demon stands beside me, arms crossed over his chest and one foot tapping. Like before, he wears a leather jacket that conforms to his sculpted body and strong forearms.
“Um...hi?” I squeak, still on the floor. Stumbling to my feet, I attempt to speak with him with some dignity.
Your girl, here, has none, FYI.
“What are you doing down here?” he rumbles, shooting me an irritated look. Goosebumps pebble on my arms as I flash him a sheepish smile.
“Oh, you know...looking for a midnight snack.”
“Under the counter?” He quirks a dark brow at me.
“I...um...dropped my chocolate chip.”
Fucking dumbass. Chocolate chip? Really?!?! That must’ve been a damn good piece of cocoa.
Julian grunts before extending a hand towards me. I eye it for a moment in trepidation—remembering how rude he was when I first met him—before reluctantly capturing it with my own. He hauls me to my feet as if I weigh nothing...and then places his hands on my hips. My breath catches at the contact, but he only touches me long enough to set me on the stainless steel kitchen coun
ter.
“You look fucking freezing,” he snaps, removing his jacket and draping it over my shoulders. Mumbling beneath his breath, he moves away from me and grabs supplies from the cupboards at random. Flour, butter, sugar, eggs, and a bag of chocolate chips.
“What are you doing?” I ask slowly, watching as he removes a mixing bowl from a cupboard.
“Making you a fucking snack,” he murmurs.
Oh…
Oh!
“I can do it,” I say immediately—my go-to response whenever any guy tries to help me. It’s not because I’m too strong and independent to need a man, but more because I’m too awkward to know how to deal with someone taking care of me.
Julian levels me with a piercing glare when I jump to my feet. “Sit your ass down and let me bake.”
Obediently, I pop back onto the counter and watch Julian rummage through the kitchen like he owns the place. It’s oddly entrancing to watch him work, as if he’s most comfortable covered in flour and surrounded by ingredients.
“So,” I begin, swinging my legs awkwardly, “what brings you to this neck of the woods?” I mentally curse myself for how dumb I sounded.
Neck of the woods?
Really?
At first, I think Julian isn’t going to answer as he begins methodically measuring sugar into a cup.
“I needed to clear my head. Somewhere away from the cameras,” he answers at last.
Burrowing further into his leather jacket, the distinct scent of pine barraging me, I ask, “How did you know that this place didn’t have cameras?” I try to keep my suspicion out of my tone, instead, posing the question as sincere curiosity.
But, fuck, it would be just my luck that my baker for the evening is a murderer.
He grunts, spearing me with an almost haughty look. “You work for SUP, right?” At my barely surreptitious nod, he continues, “We make it a habit to know the ins and outs of where we’ll stay for the next few months.”
“You work for SUP?” I ask in obvious disbelief. I definitely would’ve remembered seeing someone like him around. At his annoyed look, I throw my hands up placatingly. “What division?”
“Are you testing me, little witch?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow. His lush lips curve into a seductive, albeit mischievous, smile.
“I make it a habit to know the ins and outs of the men I’m supposedly seeing,” I snap back, and his smile grows, becoming more authentic. I even catch a hint of approval in his eyes.
“Just make sure it doesn’t make you crass,” Julian murmurs, balling the dough and sticking each one on a cookie sheet. “It can be very lonely when you don’t let people in.” From the look in his eyes—a haunted sort of pain—I can tell he speaks from experience.
“People break your heart,” I whisper softly, and we exchange a look that I would almost describe as one of camaraderie. I have no doubt Julian had been hurt before too.
He sets the timer on the stove for twenty minutes before turning to face me, leaning against the countertop with his arms crossed. A dusting of flour is smeared across his cheek, somehow making him go from intimidating to cute.
“Is that what happened with you and the reaper?” he questions without preamble, quirking a dark brow.
I fidget. “Was it that obvious?”
“Maybe not to some.” He shrugs his shoulders once. “But I’m not dumb like the other fuckers. So, what went down with you and Prince Charming?”
I can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes. “Trust me. Grant is anything and everything but Prince Charming.”
Eight Months Earlier
The club smells like stale sweat and coppery blood. These combined scents overwhelm me as I step through the heavy door and into a windowless room.
The outside gave me no indication of what type of club I’d be dealing with. Instead, it appeared to be nothing but a warehouse with a slanted roof and double doors in the front. I would’ve thought it was deserted if I didn’t see the people hurrying in and out.
Now, I understand why this place decided to remain off the maps.
It’s a strip-club—probably one that’s run illegally. My gaze latches first on the slimy men relaxing in the numerous torn couches speckling the room. There’s a single bar against the far wall and what appears to be a VIP lounge opposite it.
On the stage, two women grind against each other. The curvy blonde stands behind the thin and shapely Latina. The former begins to pinch and squeeze the other girl’s nipples as she groans and convulses. With awe-inspiring athleticism, the Latina turns in the girl’s arms and wraps her legs around her waist, throwing her head back.
If that were me, I would land on my head and accidentally get concussed.
The men begin to cheer as the blonde leans forward and captures the other girl’s nipple in her mouth, allowing the bud to slide through her teeth. All the while, she holds the girl up with her hands beneath her ass. To top it all off? They’re wearing six inch heels.
This is why I’m not a stripper. Mad respect.
Turning away, I decide to try my luck with the bartender. He’s older than the other patrons with a
receding gray hairline and a potbelly. I move quickly through the throng of horny men—ignoring their catcalls—and rap my knuckles against the bar, garnering the bartender’s attention. One glance into his eyes confirms he’s some sort of demon.
“SUP,” I say evenly, flashing him my badge. “I have a couple of questions for you.”
“I ain’t got no answers,” he hisses, baring his sharper than normal teeth. Ignoring his outburst, I grab the picture of Miles out of my jacket pocket and place it on the bar.
“Do you recognize him?”
I can tell he wants to tell me no and to fuck off, but he can’t hide the curiosity in his gaze. With a sigh, he nods his head once. “I ain’t ever got his name. Called him Fish Boy.” He snorts at his own joke. “Fish Boy gotten pretty close to Candy over there.” I follow the direction of his gaze to see him pointing towards the pretty blonde, currently finger-deep in the other girl’s pussy.
Apparently, Miles was a regular at sex club. Naughty, naughty man.
“Thank you,” I tell him sincerely, sliding off the stool and moving towards the edge of the stage. I’ll wait until Candy’s done with her set and then ask her some questions.
I’ve just moved behind the curtain, out of sight of the leering men in front of the stage, when a rough hand grabs my hair and yanks me backwards.
Chapter 5
I smooth down my pink blouse as I tilt my head from side to side, considering myself in the mirror. My brown hair has been loosely curled, cascading around my shoulders in bouncy waves. The makeup artist has applied a light coat on my face to heighten my eyes and cheekbones and to emphasize my plush lips. The ensemble is complete with a pair of tight skinny jeans that mold to my body.
It’s the first group date, Ridley. You got this. Just you...and ten guys You can totally do this. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
I’m totally panicking.
I don’t have the first clue how to be desirable. Once, I tried to surprise Grant and act sexy by placing my foot behind my head during sex, and I ended up stuck like that for two hours.
He laughed so hard he peed himself.
“You can do this,” I tell my reflection resolutely. Grabbing my purse, I begin to walk out the door...only to immediately pause when my hand is centimeters from touching the knob. “You can’t do this. Just give up now, Ridley, and take a vow of chastity. Save yourself the pain.” Spinning on my heel, I glare at my reflection in the mirror. “Stop being a cock. You’re a strong, independent woman who can kick ass. Go out there and get yourself a man. Or a harem.”
“Who the hell are you talking to?” an irritated voice questions from the other side of my door. Blushing, I wrench it open to see Lincoln, the goth cupid, standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest and his pink wings on display. Like before, he has on thick coal liner that makes his pierc
ing eyes pop. His black hair is artfully tousled as if he has run his hands through it one too many times. His scowl deepens when he sees me. “You talking to yourself again?”
“You being an asshole again?” I retort, mimicking his posture. One of his pierced eyebrows lift as grudging respect appears in his eyes.
“I’m always an asshole.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s my thing. Now, do you want to hear the scoop on the guys or not?”
Lincoln has declared himself my unofficial spy throughout the course of the show. The one condition? He remains until the finale for reasons unknown. I can’t help but wonder if it has anything to do with Ali’s death…
“I’m listening.”
He shrugs again before leaning one arm against the wall casually, almost lackadaisically.
“I have reason to believe that a few of the contestants are planning on visiting you before you leave for your group date,” he admits. “Four men, to be exact.”
“And how do you know this?”
“Because I know everything,” he quips reflexively. His nose crinkles as if he smells something particularly pungent. “A lot of jealousy is polluting the air.”
Jealous? Because of me? That concept is almost laughable. Honestly, I’m beginning to believe these men have drawn the short-end of the straw, if you know what I mean. Some women are a catch, while others...catch their hair on fire. I bet you can guess which category I fall into.
“Anything else?” I query. “Anyone...I don’t know...plotting my murder?” I attempt to laugh, but the sound resembles a hyena choking on cock. Apparently, I can’t “play it cool” to save my life.
“No assassination plots,” he deadpans with a roll of his eyes. “Anything else you want to know? Penis lengths? Secret babies? Marriages?” Though his tone is sarcastic, I can’t help but instantly perk up at his words.
“Could you?” I bat my eyelids in what I hope is a flirtatious manner but probably resembles a person having a seizure.
Lincoln’s face scrunches together with disgust. “You want me to measure their penises?”
