by Lisa Edmonds
“Hey!” I yelled.
The men looked up. One of them, the skinny kid who took her bag, dropped it and headed toward me, while the other two continued to struggle with the girl. She looked at me, her eyes huge and panicked.
“Bitch, you better get out of here,” he told me. A blade glinted in his hand. It was shaking.
“I don’t think so,” I said, advancing. “Put your little knife away before you hurt yourself.”
Twitchy raised his knife and spun it between his fingers with surprising dexterity. I was close enough now to see he wasn’t trembling because he was afraid. His pupils were dilated, and despite the cool night, he was sweating. Shit. He wasn’t scared; he was high.
The girl suddenly screamed again, and one of the other thugs swore. “She bit me!” He punched her in the jaw and she fell, unconscious. Double shit.
I took a deep breath and said little prayer to whoever might be listening. I was about to do something really stupid.
“Look at you losers,” I taunted them. “Three of you against one hundred-pound girl. Is this the only way you can get any action?”
That did it. With twin snarls, the other two joined their friend, leaving the girl on the dirty pavement behind them.
“Maybe we start with you instead,” the tallest of the three said. “You got a big mouth. It’ll feel real good right here.” He grabbed his crotch, and the other two laughed.
Two of them—Twitchy and Dip-stick, the tall one—had blades. The third cracked his knuckles while he leered at my chest. His hands looked bloody, either from hitting the girl or someone else earlier in the evening. All three of them twitched like they were holding onto a high-voltage wire.
Well, I’d gotten them away from the girl for the moment, but she was out cold and unable to run away, and now I had become their target. Three against one wasn’t great, but I wasn’t nearly as defenseless as they probably thought I was.
Dip-stick came at me first. I waited until he was about four feet away before I flicked my right wrist to manifest my cold fire whip. His eyes widened, but he had no time to react before I whipped the stream of cold fire through the air and lashed his knife hand. He screamed and dropped the knife, doubling over and clutching his hand. I struck again, knocking him flat, then stepped forward and kicked him in the jaw. He went still. One down.
Knuckles took a step back, but Twitchy advanced, his lip curled and knife raised. He turned back to his companion. “Come on!”
They rushed me.
I went for Twitchy, striking out with my whip and connecting with his chest. He staggered back but managed to hang onto his blade. Knuckles came at me from my left side, which was smart…or might have been, if my whip was my only weapon.
Knuckles took a swing at me and I ducked. My cold fire vanished, and I struck out with my hands and hit him in the chest with both palms. A strong blast of air magic sent him flying backward ten feet to smash into the wall of the building. The impact knocked him out, and he hit the pavement in a heap. Two down, one to go.
In the meantime, Twitchy was on the attack. A streak of fire seared across my right forearm and I cried out. Before he could strike again, I lashed out and my whip caught him across the neck. He shrieked and stumbled, dropping his knife to grab his throat. I took two steps to pick up momentum and kicked him in the groin. He doubled over with a breathless scream and I brought my knee up into his face. Cartilage crunched and he went down, blood streaming from his nose. One kick to the head, and then there were none.
Breathing hard, I looked at my arm. Blood dripped from my fingers. I couldn’t see how bad the cut was in the dim light, but the tear in my sleeve was about six inches long, and the wound stung.
Before I could deal with my injury, I had to make sure they stayed down until the girl and I were gone. I touched Dip-stick’s arm, using a “nap” spell that put him out cold for about an hour. I went to the other two and repeated the spell.
With them taken care of, I went to check on the girl. She was still unconscious, her jaw swelling where Knuckles had hit her.
At a glance, I guessed she was a working girl: short black skirt, high heels, mesh top over a bright pink bra. The contents of her bag were scattered around her.
While I waited for her to wake up, I unfastened one of the charms on my bracelet—a small, blue crystal—and moved until I was leaning against the wall, out of sight of the street and the diner parking lot. I pushed up my sleeve, held the crystal to my bloody right forearm, and invoked the spell. “Helios.”
It was a mid-range air magic healing spell, the strongest I dared carry with me. I breathed deeply through the pain as the spell worked to heal the knife wound. The pins-and-needles sensation lasted for about a minute.
When at last the magic faded, I tucked the spent crystal into my pocket and looked at my arm. The cut was mostly healed, reduced to an angry red line. Another healing spell would heal the injury altogether.
I rolled up my sleeves to hide the blood and moved over where I had been standing when my arm got cut. I crouched and put my fingertips in my blood on the pavement. “Burn.” With a whoosh, white fire—my air magic—consumed my blood, leaving behind a fine grey ash that would blow away.
Once my blood was gone, I went through Dip-stick’s pockets. His wallet contained a few bucks in cash, no cards, and an expired driver’s license identifying him as John Andrews. I put the cash in my pocket, left the wallet on the pavement next to him, and turned his jeans pockets inside out. Nothing but some loose change and a lighter.
Nothing interesting in Knuckles’s pockets either, though I confiscated about forty dollars in small bills.
I hit pay dirt with Twitchy. No ID, but in his front pocket, he had a respectable roll of cash and two small plastic bags containing marble-sized amounts of black crystals. The bags were marked with black flames. I frowned. What the hell is this? I wondered. Some new kind of meth? What were these guys on?
I tucked the money in my pocket and the drugs in my boot and stood. Behind me, I heard a moan. When I turned, the girl was blinking dazedly and looking around, plainly confused.
I approached slowly so I didn’t startle her. “Hey, are you okay?”
Her eyes widened. “Where are they?”
“They’re napping.” I crouched down. “You’re safe.”
The girl groaned and pushed herself up to lean against the brick wall. She touched her jaw gingerly. “Where did you come from?”
“I was in the parking lot at Nancy’s when I heard you scream.”
She looked at the three unconscious thugs in disbelief. “What are you, some kind of superhero?”
I snorted. “Hardly. I didn’t know if they were trying to rob you or rape you or both, but I wasn’t going to stand by and let it happen. How do you feel?”
The girl started cramming stuff back into her bag and flexed her jaw. “It doesn’t feel too good, but I’ll be okay. I’ve had worse.”
“What’s your name?”
She stared at me, her eyes narrowing. “Why?”
“No particular reason. I’m Alice.”
“Where’s your rabbit, Alice?” The girl grimaced as she started trying to stand up.
I rose. “Can’t find him. Little furry bastard runs too fast.”
She laughed and used the wall to push herself to her feet. “Ow, my ass,” she breathed, rubbing her tailbone.
“Is anything broken?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Just bruises, probably. I’m Carrie.”
“Hey, Carrie. Why don’t you take the rest of the night off?” I dug in my pocket and handed her the cash I’d collected. “It’s all they had.”
Carrie grinned. “Sweet. I like you, Alice.” She took the money and stuck it in her bag. “Wish I could have seen what you did. First time anyone ever came to my rescue, and I missed it.”
“It wasn’t all that exciting. Really, they went down pretty quickly.” I reached into my boot and pulled out one of the little plast
ic bags. “What do you know about this stuff?”
Carrie glanced at the bag and grimaced. “Haze,” she said with disgust.
“Haze?” I’d never heard of it. “Is that a new nickname for meth?”
She held out her hand. I handed her the bag and she looked at it closely. “It’s not meth. This shit starting showing up a couple of months back. Now it’s like everybody’s on it. They always mark the bags with the flames. They call it Haze or Black Fire. It’s bad stuff, makes you real mean and paranoid. My old roommate took too much and jumped off a bridge.”
“Wow.” I stared at the little bag in surprise.
Carrie was quiet for a moment. “I’m not gonna lie: I take pills. You gotta have something to take the edge off, you know? But I don’t want any part of that garbage.” She handed the bag back to me.
I stuck the bag back in my boot. “Thanks for the info.”
Carrie gingerly put her bag over her shoulder. “Thanks for kicking their asses. Hope you catch that rabbit,” she added with a smirk, and headed off down the alley and out of sight.
I took one last look at the thugs, then cradled my sore arm and headed back toward the parking lot, tossing the bags of Haze into the dumpster as I passed.
I’d accidentally left my car unlocked, but by some miracle, no one had stolen it. I got in and locked the doors, wincing as I used my sore right arm to turn the key in the ignition and shift out of park.
I turned out of the lot and headed down the street, driving with my left hand while my right arm rested in my lap. I had healing spells at home that would take care of the knife wound, and then I’d have to try to get some sleep.
I sighed. I probably wouldn’t have any more luck sleeping tonight than any other night in the days since I’d woken from the coma, but I always hoped.
The nightmares had to stop at some point, right?
Acknowledgments
Many wonderful people helped this novel grow from an idea to a published work. First, I want to thank Heather, Tina, and Yelena at City Owl Press for their guidance and assistance in bringing Alice to life.
I am deeply and forever indebted to my cadre of wonderful and patient “beta” readers, whose sage advice and constructive criticism helped HEART OF MALICE evolve from its first highly imperfect draft to the version you hold in your hands. Many thanks to Dr. Adrienne Foreman, Dr. Kimberly Dodson, Dr. Amy Montz, Amy Hopper, Dr. Robert James, Dr. Marie Guthrie, Holley McLane, Shannon Butler, and Laura Shelton Hicks.
I am grateful for the unwavering love and support of my family and friends, many of whom provided helpful information or advice in response to texts or Facebook messages that began with the words “So, random question…” A special thank you to author Danielle Fifer for sharing her insights on the publishing industry, and to Deborah Rebisz for introducing us; Dr. Robert Shandley for the German translations; Dr. Rick Moberly, my official source for medical knowledge; Dr. Galen Wilson, Scotch expert; and Dr. Nicholas Lawrence, who knows which songs and albums are not overrated.
I am especially thankful to Stacey Kelley for more than thirty years of friendship, and for hanging onto the only existing copy of a short mystery novel I wrote while a senior in high school, and surprising me with it this past year.
When I was five or six years old, I wrote a (very) short story on a piece of Big Chief tablet paper about a rainbow and a flower who were friends. I gave it to my mother, who still has it in a box somewhere, and told her I wanted to be a writer. I did a lot of other things while I was pursuing that dream, including earning a Ph.D. and becoming a professor of English, but writing was always the goal that mattered most. Thanks, Mom, for always believing in me. I am also thankful for the love and encouragement of my father, the late Loren Edmonds, who passed away in 1997.
Much love to my sister Susan Michelle Edmonds, my brother-in-law Josh Herrin, my sweet nephew Madden, and my cousin Antoinette Eve, for always being there for me when I need them.
Finally, and most importantly, I would like to thank my (patient, long-suffering, wonderful, thoughtful, and helpful) husband, Bill D’Amico, for so many things that I would need a whole other book to list them all, but most of all for being ready with a Starbucks gift card, an idea, or an (in)appropriate Family Guy quote when I need one. It’s hard being married to a writer; we’re weird and obsessive and we stay up all hours writing when you’d rather be snuggling and watching a movie. We also constantly interrupt what you’re doing to ask questions such as: “If you were a werewolf, how would you respond in this situation?” or “Which AC/DC song best goes with this scene?” Through it all, every single day, Bill has been my strongest supporter. I love you so much.
About the Author
© Madison Hurley Photography
LISA EDMONDS was born and raised in Kansas, and studied English and forensic criminology at Wichita State University. After acquiring her Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees, she considered a career in law enforcement as a behavioral analyst before earning a Ph.D. in English from Texas A&M University. She is currently an associate professor of English at a college in Texas and teaches both writing and literature courses. When not in the classroom, she shares a quiet country home with her husband Bill D’Amico and their cats, and enjoys writing, reading, traveling, spoiling her nephew, and singing karaoke.
Want an exclusive look at the playlist for HEART OF MALICE? Check out her website.
www.lisaedmonds.com
And be sure to find Lisa Edmonds across social media.
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About the Publisher
CITY OWL PRESS is a cutting edge indie publishing company, bringing the world of romance and speculative fiction to discerning readers.
www.cityowlpress.com
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