Cimmerian Shade: A Limited Edition Paranormal Romance & Urban Fantasy Collection

by Kiki Howell

  After sipping her last drop of liquid energy, she slipped the coffee mug and prized coffeemaker back into her shoulder bag. In addition to the coffee cup, the pink leather bag held one microwave-safe covered plate, one multi-purpose terra ceramic pan, and a set of stainless steel utensils. The small bag fit neatly into a rollaway with compartments for each category of her necessities, including her 11” laptop with a hidden IP address provided by her benefactor. Since she was always packed for a fast getaway, there was no room in her life for extra baggage of any kind. The refrigerator that had come with the furnished apartment remained empty, and with the exception of coffee, a giant Hershey’s chocolate bar, and peanut butter crackers, her white kitchen cabinets simply served as decorative woodwork. She bought fresh produce, prepared her meals each day, and gave whatever leftovers she had to the stray cats and dogs that always seemed to find her no matter where she lived.

  Continuing her daily ritual, she pulled the laminated, aged magazine article from a hidden compartment in her bag, sliding her fingers over it reverently. The encapsulated picture of her mother, father, and three brothers always pulled her right back into that moment, a whirlwind of loss, pain, and upheaval, yet she returned to it regularly, as if she needed the reminder:

  Renowned archaeologist, Daniel Evers, his wife, Kiswanna, and their three sons, Daniel III, Knight, and Kamau, were found dead in their Pensacola, FL home yesterday at 4:30 p.m. Daniel was known for his contributions to the British Museum, the Smithsonian, and a number of others. Dr. Kiswanna Ungoji Evers gave up a high-level position as a physicist and geologist to start a family. She worked as a librarian. The case is under investigation...

  Her favorite ocean sounds CD, also on automatic timer, blared to life, drawing her attention back to the present, and she assumed a scissor-like supine position on the hardwood floor to begin her 60-minute evening drill. She had developed the drill over time to strengthen every muscle and joint in her body. From this position, even her pinky was forced to gain strength and hold its own. She had always been small in stature, and she’d trained long and hard so every pound would exert more force than its actual weight. She remembered sparring with her older brothers. Treva smiled as she thought about them teasing her. Daniel, the eldest, lovingly called Trey, along with Knight, and Kamau would take turns lifting her upside down with one arm, then force her to free herself from their grips. Later in life, their embarrassing pranks had paid off time and time again, as she had yet to find a situation she couldn’t get out of.

  Ignoring stiff muscles, sustained injuries, and groaning sore spots, she allowed the sounds from the CD to take her mind elsewhere. Ever since the day she had returned to find the remains of her family, ripped apart and strewn from one end of their home to the other, the course and purpose of her life had been determined. Long before the consideration of dreams, desires, or interests, this reality had become hers, and the thought of her quest being over, having choices and possibly finding some semblance of normalcy, left her confused and lost—a lion with no pride.

  Following her workout, she filled the bathroom sink with ice, then stepped into the shower, adjusting the temperature to the hottest level she could stand. As the hot, steamy water struck her aching muscles, she let out a moan, dropped her head, and hung her body wash on the resin shower dispenser to soap her hands with an ongoing stream of fragrant Japanese Cherry to lure her prey. She then slid her soapy palms over her rounded breasts, down her ribcage, then her narrow waist, along her full hips, and down her lower belly. She splayed her fingers through the manicured, soft, dark curls leading to her silky folds. Shifting, she rose up to meet her slippery fingers for the welcome massage, then braced one hand against the tile while gently vibrating her other palm against her clit.

  Rolling her hips in a slow, indulgent rhythm, she thrust two fingers inside and pressed them against her slick inner walls seeking a much-needed release that never came. As minute after minute ticked away following her self-induced moments of pleasure and subsequent frustration, she imagined how much more fulfilling the moment could be if shared with the right man, but quickly dismissed the fantasy. Out of necessity, her sexual encounters with men had been brief, purely physical, and less than satisfying, and she couldn’t foresee that changing in the near future.

  Grateful for every bit of pleasure she could find, even when she had to provide it for herself, she focused on her mission for the night and stepped out of the shower. She wiped the mirror to clear away the steam, and as usual, the moisture had nearly cleared away her facial mask and melted most of the ice. She took a deep breath, held it, then dunked her face in the sink, shaking her head from side to side in the icy water to the count of 30 seconds. Patting her face dry, she thought about the many times she’d said growing up that she would never subject herself to this madness. Goodness! The things we women go through just to try to look good. Men would never survive it.

  She sighed, dreading the facial excavation, but catching the eye of the wrong kind of man, one in particular, in fact, was imperative to her success. She picked up the makeup sponge and got to work. She spent most of her time accentuating her dark eyes, leaving the come-hither lips technique for last by adding a warm, nearly translucent shade of gloss that just begged to be licked and tasted. Once finished, she removed her fitted, red surplice mini-dress from its place in her disposable hanging bag, slipped it over her head, then covered her long tresses with a curly, light auburn bob. She finished the look with trademark Manolo Blahniks – sexy, yet strong enough to run in, not that she planned on running. In fact, she wasn’t planning to take any prisoners. She grabbed her tote, set her security alarm, and left.

  Besides a few people still trying to make their way to the parade, the night seemed unusually quiet for Mardi Gras season. Less than an hour later, she arrived at her destination, eagerly seeking answers to why her internal radar incessantly alerted her to the fact that this night would change her life forever. Whether the change would be for better or worse was yet to be seen. Now, the vibrations along her spine served as an even stronger reminder as she stood just outside the elite night club and completed her survey of entrances, exits, and security challenges.

  “It’s ladies’ night. No cover charge, and your first drink is on us.” The clerk, bouncer, or whatever he was looked down at her from his lofty height of well over six-feet before his dark chocolate face split into a friendly smile.

  Treva smiled back and slapped a 50 in his hand for a room upstairs. The rooms usually started at $200, but tonight, they were 75-percent off. It felt good to be a lady on Tuesdays – made her job easier and less expensive, anyway, and she only needed the room for a few minutes.

  The bouncer lifted a brow, deposited the payment, slipped her the keycard, and let her in. She could feel his gaze following her as she passed.

  Flashing lights in the center of the large, octagon-shaped room were offset by soft, dimmed lights around the perimeter. She moved along the wall, searching until she spotted number three, the third of six who had murdered her family, then found a strategically located table in the corner facing him. As predicted, mere seconds passed before he noticed her, smiling lasciviously like the murderous animal he was. She returned his smile, a mere tilt of her full lips, then blinked slowly, looked away, and waited. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand...

  “Compliments of the gentleman right over there.” The waiter glanced in the direction of number three, who saluted her.

  Treva accepted the drink and nodded, maintaining a straight face as she feigned taking a sip. She slowly batted her lashes a few times, then stood and leisurely headed toward the closest elevator. Judging by his predictable behavior up to this point, number three’s next move would have been to approach her table and sit. She had no interest in conversation, and no time to waste.

  She punched the ‘up’ button and felt him behind her before the elevator arrived, his gaze glued to her ass. The doors slid open and she stepped on, turning to
face him as he stepped in beside her. Bone-traight, dirty-blond hair framed his square face, and stark, blue eyes stared back at her, filled with lust and something else she recognized all too well: the arrogance of a man accustomed to using women. She quieted her mind as she glided down the hallway toward the room. She allowed three to open the door, then retrieved the card from him. Once inside the room, she looked at him as if she hadn’t just lured him there.

  “Uh, I’m Todd—”

  She interrupted him by placing her index finger to his lips. She already knew his name, address, cell phone number, and every other detail years of careful research and perseverance could provide. Entering a room with a man she didn’t know wasn’t something she would ever do under normal circumstances, but these were not normal circumstances, and he was the one who needed to beware. “No names necessary. I have a fantasy that I’ve been playing out in my head all day, and you look like just the man to help me fulfill it in the flesh. Are you willing?” She dug deep, offering him a sultry smile this time as she waited, certain of his answer.

  “So, I look like your fantasy man in the flesh, huh?” His voice must have dropped to a low rumble as he grinned like a lone buzzard hovering over the spoils of war. “Simone says take off your clothes, every stitch, and get in bed on top of the covers.”

  “Why above the covers, baby? Daddy might get a little cold?”

  Swallowing the disgust conjured by his inappropriate connotations, she offered him the sweetest smile she could manage. “Oh, I promise to warm you up real soon.” You sick fuck.

  He complied, attempting a rushed strip-tease before falling onto the bed.

  Treva cuffed his wrists to the iron head post, then spread his legs and proceeded to strap his feet and ankles to the bed with electrical tape. He began to look uneasy, so she smiled and pulled back one side of her neckline, revealing her black lace bra. Next, she knelt over him and pulled the knife from her bag.

  She held the weapon in front of his eyes and slid her finger along the blade, sucking her finger clean when the razor-sharp blade drew blood. “This is one of the sharpest knives in the world, Todd, made from the same alloy as a Samurai sword.”

  Three nodded nervously, his eyes growing larger, his expression wild and uncertain, but to her surprise, he remained silent.

  “The Evers family sends regards and wants you to know that you missed one - me.” Satisfied with his horrified expression and the immediate appearance of sweat on his forehead, she slid the blade along the crease beneath his left eye. He jerked, trying desperately to free himself. Cockiness had never been one of her issues, so she knew there wasn’t much time for torture. Still, she had to torture him just a little. The bed shook, as he was a heavy man, but she calmly repeated the action underneath his right eye. Anyone who heard his frantic movements would assume they were in the throes of passion. She slit his throat, then sat back on her haunches to watch him bleed out as she relived the horror and despair she had felt upon viewing her family’s still bodies. Blood flowed quickly at first, just as it had with numbers one and two, but when the life-giving substance slowed to a crawl, three’s movements ceased and his body immediately cooled.

  She didn’t bother to touch him. Death had turned its face in her direction too many times to go unrecognized. She simply climbed down from the bed, donned her gloves, and rinsed the knife clean. She returned to the side of the bed, wiped away the possible fingerprints, used the knife to remove the tape from three’s ankles, then unlocked the cuffs and dropped the tools into her bag. Having mapped out her exit the moment she arrived, she slipped out of the window and down the side of the building. Her sinewy body moved with the grace of a cat as she remained in the shadows and moved on to her next target.

  Generally, Treva intentionally limited her retribution to one act of justice every six weeks to two months, but tonight was special in more ways than one. Mardi Gras had a way of loosening tongues, lowering walls, and weakening inhibitions, and she planned to take full advantage. She slipped into an overcrowded McDonalds to change into her jeans, then clipped the wig into several pieces and flushed it down the toilet. Leaving the same way she came, she headed in the direction of the parade. There would be several tonight, and many onlookers had been downtown the entire day. Moving in and out of crowds without notice was even easier than usual.

  Even the homeless shelters were nearly empty, their policy of separating genders more relaxed for once. Treva deposited the red dress in the incoming laundry hamper behind the women and children’s shelter, then climbed the back fence to save her a few steps as she celebrated reaching the halfway mark of her mission and swiftly moved towards surpassing it.

  Chapter Two

  HEAVY FOG HOVERED above the city workers’ blockades, reminding Treva that the entire downtown area was built over water. Hot, humid air in the month of February did nothing to deter the onslaught of excited onlookers as they glanced up and down the street, awaiting the beginning of another one of the area’s favorite events. Treva stood her ground, doing her best to ignore the men’s invasion of her personal space as she stood in line. She wasn’t impulsive by any means, but rudeness and the lack of respect for women always triggered her natural instinct to make things right.

  “Hey, let me get that for ya, baby.”

  “Thanks, but I’m good.” She hated it when strangers referred to her as sugar, baby, sweetie, basically any term of ingenuine endearment. As the only girl, with three older brothers, condescension and disrespect were not behaviors she tolerated well.

  The two men chuckled, showing off for each other when Treva turned down their proposition. “I bet you are,” they said, almost in unison.

  She glared at them through her mask until they finally got the hint and walked away. Following their offer to buy whatever she wanted at the street cart, they had proceeded to size her up as if her body was hanging on a rack for purchase.

  She blinked, closed the lid on her temper, and stepped up to the head of the line, determined not to let their crass behavior dampen her mood.

  “What can I get for you, young lady?” The middle-aged cart attendant’s raspy southern twang and warm smile evoked images of an aging rock star strumming his guitar on his front porch as he fondly remembered his days on stage. The thought, a brief escape from the darkness that had become her life, immediately helped restore her party spirit.

  “Two funnel cakes, please.” Treva paid the man and snagged her forbidden treats quickly. The growing crowd gathering from behind threatened to climb over her if she didn’t get out of their way.

  She ate the first sugar-covered, regional treat in four impossibly big bites, nearly purring in pleasure as she chewed and swallowed the delectable pastry, then took her time with the second cake, savoring each tiny piece. Throngs of people lined both sides of the downtown streets, eating everything from corn dogs to fried fish sandwiches while waiting for the “boom-boom,” as Mobilians called it. Treva removed her binoculars, searching for the current location of her target. Reality would come knocking soon enough, but she planned to enjoy herself for the next few minutes.

  Forty-five minutes later, Treva stood in a dark, nearly abandoned parking lot. She tried the car door, ready to jimmy it loose one way or another. Finding it unlocked, she slipped into the back seat and waited. Idiot. Leaving his car unlocked just to get to a parade. She looked around, inspecting the car out of curiosity. Patience had become a familiar companion, but acquiring the ability to remain still and wait had done nothing to alleviate boredom. A lug wrench, a red metal tool kit, and a heavy-duty flashlight had been thrown under the passenger seat. The only other items she could see from the backseat were a bobble-head hula dancer and a girlie magazine.

  Moments later, Treva spotted a man lumbering towards the car. Recognizing him by his heavy, uneven gait alone as she’d watched him for weeks, studying his habits and movements, she squinted her eyes and focused on his features for the last time. He got into the front seat and locked the door
, his large, overhanging forehead and bulky, crooked nose indicative of numerous brawls and broken facial bones. The car seemed to sink from his weight.

  Treva moved with swift precision, slipping the electrical tape around her target’s neck and bracing her foot against the floorboard underneath his seat for more leverage. Adrenaline took over, flashing like sparks from a fire. Her heart pumped in her ears like a bass drum section, red clouded her vision, and she felt each drop of sweat as it rolled between her breasts and down her back. The man struggled, pulling at the tape around his neck, but his efforts became weaker with each attempt to free himself. She tugged, pulling the tape tighter and tighter until the man’s hands dropped to his lap and his surprised gurgling sounds ceased. Holding the tape in place a few minutes longer, she stared at her black gloves as she again, relived the horror of running in from her track meet and finding the bodies of her entire family after they’d been slaughtered. She had only been a child at the time, but over the years, every resource at her disposal had been spent identifying and locating her family’s murderers.

  The dead body in the front seat made four. She finally removed the tape and sighed. Every time she managed to exact vengeance, she hoped to feel at least a fleeting moment of relief, but there was nothing. It reminded her of the excitement and rising pleasure leading up to an orgasm, then falling flat, fizzling into nothing, leaving her wanton and disappointed. All she seemed capable of feeling was cold indifference, and the encroaching numbness made her want to cry—if she had still been capable of forming and shedding tears. The murderers had even stripped that from her.