The Halloween Collection
Page 9
Grinning, he looked over at Raven. She was sitting on the sofa with her hands over her ears.
His chest deflated. “Don’t you like the music?”
Her features contorted into one massive scowl, making her look like she’d just eaten a lemon or maybe gone down on another girl who needed a good douching.
“Not really,” she griped. “Don’t you have any Donna Summer?”
“Disco?” he gasped. “Hell no, that’s vamp music.”
“Oh, yeah.” She pulled her hands from her ears and slowly straightened her face. “I forgot.”
He sat down beside her, and deciding he didn’t want to waste any more time he reached over and squeezed one soft velvety thigh. She scowled, then grabbed the black sofa cushion and clutched it to her chest.
“Where’s the rest of your pack?” she hissed.
“Trick-or-treating, I guess,” he responded breathlessly, unable to pull his gaze from the defenseless cushion caught in Raven’s grasp. Images of a threesome swirled in his brain and he began salivating.
Both black brows dipped beneath her bangs, and the maniacal heat that darkened her eyes only heightened the starkness of her porcelain skin. “So we’re alone?”
“Yeah, baby,” he growled while leaning toward her.
She smiled while eyeing his throat. “Take off your jacket, so I can get better access to your neck.”
“You like kink, baby?” he teased while pulling one arm free from the jacket. “Ouch!” he yelped. “Damn zombies!” he groaned, as a small needle prick in his thumb began to bleed.
Her eyes bulged. “Here, let me.” She shoved his thumb into her mouth with one fluid thrust.
Ralphie thought he’d crème his thrift store jeans at the erotic ministrations of her tongue swirling and darting across his sore thumb. He threw his head back and moaned.
In the next instant, she pushed him to the floor.
He landed with a thud, moaning at the pain in his side. “Go easy, Raven,” he griped. “We’ve got all night.”
“You mean I’ve got all night. Your night is about to end, dog breath.” She straddled him as her lips curled back in a snarl.
That’s when Ralphie noticed the two long and very pointy fangs that extended nearly to her chin.
“Holy shit! You’re a vampire!”
She laughed. “And they say werewolves are stupid.”
Panic gripped his chest. “So does this mean we’re not having sex?”
She grabbed the collar of his shirt and tore it off. “Roll over, dog, while I rip out your throat.”
He bucked under her unusually heavy weight as she exposed his chest, and he worried that she’d laugh at the glaringly lack of hair surrounding his dark nipples.
“What did I ever do to you?” he asked as he struggled to conceal himself with his corduroy jacket.
“We’re mortal enemies, remember?” she sneered while baring her fangs. “And when I’m finished with you, I’m going to feast on the rest of your mutt friends.”
He swallowed hard. Getting his nut sack chopped off seemed like a much better option. Besides, Raven was looking a lot less sexy by the minute, and he didn’t know if he’d have the desire to fuck a demonic spawn of Satan, who also wanted to suck the life-blood out of his body.
He yelped when she lunged on top of him, pressing her stone-hard body on top of his feeble frame. In the next moment, she was rolling onto the floor, screeching as she clutched at a stick which was protruding from her chest. Ralphie wondered how Raven had accidentally stuck herself with a stick that looked very similar to the one he’d fetched earlier.
He sat up, eyeing Raven with morbid curiosity while scratching an itch on the back of his neck. “Damn fleas,” he muttered.
Her screeching intensified as her body seized and convulsed. Ralphie only hoped she wouldn’t excrete any bodily fluids, because Alpha’s mom would not be happy about vampire piss on the carpet.
Raven’s demonic screams of terror finally subsided. Her stone cold body went limp as her head lolled to one side.
Ralphie sighed. Not only did he lose a really good fetching stick, but as the upstairs clock chimed the stroke of midnight, he knew it was too late for him to get laid. By morning, he’d have to say goodbye to his beloved nut-sack, and worst of all, he feared his loss of manhood would cause him to lose interest in his one true love. His gaze longingly swept to the lonely cushion sitting on the sofa.
The back door slid open and his pack sauntered in. Each wolf was in human form and each had his face painted as a member of the classic rock KISS band. They were all clutching pillowcases filled to the brim with candy.
Their eyes bugged when they looked at the dead vamp on the floor.
Alpha was the first to speak. “Ralphie killed a vampire!”
“No shit?” Buster came up beside him, eyeing the vamp, then Ralphie, with skepticism.
“Yeah.” Ralphie shook his head. “But I didn’t have sex with her.”
An enormous grin split Alpha’s face, and the black flames painted around his eyes seemed to twinkle. “You know what? There’s no way we can neuter you now.”
Ralphie perked. “Really?”
Alpha tossed his bag to the floor and crossed his arms over his chest. “You gotta have some pretty big gonads to take down a vampire. No way I’m letting Dr. Baker cut those off. I’m making you my new number two dog.”
Buster turned to their leader with a pout, and the lone star over his eye began to smear as tears ran down his face. “Alpha!”
Alpha rolled his eyes. “Can it, Buster.”
Their leader walked over to the mini-fridge in the corner of the room. “This calls for a celebration. I’ve got a jar of week-old bacon grease I’ve been saving.”
“Thanks, Alpha, but I don’t want any bacon grease.” Ralphie slowly stood on wobbly legs, hardly believing his stroke of good luck. He got to keep his nuts and get the number two dog spot!
Alpha dipped his index finger into a jar of grease and sucked his finger clean. “You name it, Ralphie. Whatever you want, we’ll get it.”
Ralphie’s heart pounded in his chest as hope surged inside him. There was only one thing in the world that could fill the ache in his soul. “I want my damned pillow cushion.”
* * *
Dear readers, thanks so much for reading this story to the end without burning out your eye-sockets. Sincerely, PJ Jones.
* * *
Check out these hilarious parodies by PJ Jones:
Will Deadward and Smella find true love, or will Smella’s fish tacos ruin the moment?
Romance Novel
The Vampire Handbook
With bonus were-thing/shape-shifter and zombie handbooks
One man’s desire to prove small is the new big
Naughty Little Schnitzel
Melvin, the Dry Cleaning Zombie and Vampire Shoe Warehouse
Prior to becoming a full-time chair warmer, PJ Jones not-so-enjoyed a short stint as a journalist and then seven agonizing…eh blissful years as a high school English teacher. Rest assured that none of her sentences will end with prepositions cuz she studied grammers in that there college and she ain’t stoopid.
http://pjjonesramblings.blogspot.com/
Sunwalker’s Kiss
Shéa MacLeod
Had they seen her?
Amara’s heart thudded in her chest as she tugged the hood of her cloak further down over her eyes. Protection not just against the twilight rain, but from the eyes of the hunters. She pressed closer to the cold stone of the blacksmith’s shop, praying they’d keep going.
They didn’t.
“Did you see that?” The stridant voice carried halfway across the village.
“See what, my lord?”
“The witch? Did you see the witch?” Sir Reginald’s eyes filled with fury as he wheeled the bay around, sharp eyes searching the street. The horse protested the rough treatment, but Sir Reginald was not a man who cared for the pain of dumb animals.
“She is near. I can feel her unholy magic.”
Though he refused to admit it, Sir Reginald was born of witch blood just as she had been. Even her small use of power had alerted him. Something no ordinary human could ever sense. A fact which made him all the more dangerous.
His underlings began the search on horseback, riding the length of the street, peering into alleyways. If Sir Reginald said a witch was near, then they believed him.
She took another step back. Her foot sent a stone skittering across cobbles. Almost as one, the men’s heads turned in her direction. The look on Sir Reginald’s face was unmistableable. If he caught her, she was dead.
She ran.
Dashing around the corner of the smith’s, she ran as though the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels. Not far from the truth.
Her cloak billowed behind her, the hem weighted down with rain and mud. Fingers numb with cold fumbled at the ties to no avail. The muddy ground sucked at her feet. Her breath burned in her lungs. The clatter of hooves over stone was loud in her ears.
She darted around a corner, and down another alley, but she was no match for mounted men. She sensed the displacement of air and ducked just as Sir Reginald’s sword sliced within a hair’s breath of her nape. The men surrounded her, weapons drawn. She drew to a halt, panting. The other men were just doing their duty, but the look on Sir Reginald’s face told her he was enjoying every minute. This was it, then.
“Well, if it isn’t the witch of Denham Forest,” he taunted.
She knew running was futile, so she drew herself to her full height and stood proud as generations of her kind had done before her. “What do you want, Sir Reginald?” She tilted her chin up and hardened her jaw. He’d never see her beg.
“You know what I want, witch.”
He wanted her dead. Everyone knew it. He’d have hunted her down and killed her long ago if not for the fact that she lived deep with the woods, surrounded by wards.
“I’m no witch.”
“So you say, the truth is clear to any willing to see. You are a witch and a murderess.”
“I did not kill her, Sir Reginald. There was nothing I could do. Sometimes the Goddess decides these things.”
“There is only one God,” he snarled. “He demands your blood, witch.” He raised his sword.
She braced herself for the blow.
* * *
Andre de Montbard watched from the shadows as the armed men on horseback surrounded the woman.
Not Andre. Jack. His name was Jack. Andre had been a lifetime ago. A lifetime in which he had been a Templar Knight. A lifetime best forgotten.
The woman’s hood had fallen back, revealing a mass of thick hair the color of chestnuts. She was small and fragile looking, no match for the half dozen grim faced men.
It was obvious she was defenseless. It was equally obvious what was about to happen. He’d seen it happen again and again the length and breadth of the country. Weak, small minded men torturing and murdering women in order to keep their own power. It disgusted him and he’d had enough. He’d been trained to protect the defenseless and it was time to put that training to use once again.
The overly elaborate clothing gave the leader of the mob away immediately. Yes, he was exactly the sort of man who would enjoy murdering a woman and claiming it an act of righteousness.
Jack slid from his hiding place, silent as the grave. The men were too busy to notice him, completely focused on their self-important leader. He waited for just the right moment, then as the man’s sword came down, he stepped in and thrust his own sword up to meet it.
The clash of steel against steel rang through the clearing.
* * *
Amara’s eyes snapped open at the sound of clashing swords still ringing in her ears. It took her a moment to register what she saw.
A large, powerful man dressed in ragged clothing and wielding a falchion sword was fighting Sir Reginald. He fought with the fierceness of a dozen men and the expertise of a trained knight .
For a moment she stood gaping like an idiot before she remembered Sir Reginald’s henchmen. Fortunately they had been likewise occupied, staring with slackened jaws at their lord and the stranger.
She knew she had little time, so she began to mutter an incantation in a language no other human could speak. Quickly she wove a spell around herself and the two men. The ancient words spilled off her tongue like liquid silver, spinning through the air in a shimmering circle.
“Careful lads, the witch is weaving one of her spells. She’ll have us all dead.” It was Brack, Sir Reginald’s right-hand man and greatest convert to the cause. His booming voice rallied the others and they raised their weapons.
Amara cast a glance behind her at the two men still locked in battle. She did not know the stranger with the broad shoulders and the sun streaked hair, his powerful body wielding the heavy sword with ease. Nor did she know why he was helping her.
What she did know was that she must help him however she could. And the one way she could help was by keeping Sir Reginald’s men at bay.
Brack charged at her, but the instant his horse’s nose touched the magical barrier, it reared back, sending Brack tumbling to the ground. Unhurt save his pride, he snarled as he staggered to his feet. Brandishing a pair of wicked looking knives, he charged on foot this time. Once again he crashed into the barrier. He was thrown halfway across the clearing.
Amara was the only human being alive who could wield these impenetrable wards.
The other men stopped in their tracks, faces ashen. Amara well knew that despite their years witch hunting with Sir Reginald Jones, they had never once seen real magic. The truth of it spread fear through their ranks and sent them fleeing back to the village. Only Brack was left.
Satisfied they were once again safe from Sir Reginald’s men, she turned back to the fight. A fight that was nearly over.
While Sir Reginald dripped with sweat, face red and muscles trembling, the stranger wasn’t even breathing heavily. His movements were as swift and fluid as they had been in the beginning.
With a final thrust of his sword, he sent Sir Reginald’s weapon spinning across the clearing. Sir Reginald lay huddled on the ground, a pathetic excuse of a man.
“Go ahead.” His voice was tired, none of the bravado left.
The stranger raised his sword for the death blow.
“No!”
Both the stranger and Sir Reginald turned to stare at her, equal measures of shock written across their faces. Part of her made note that the stranger was incredibly handsome.
“My lady,” his voice was low and rough and sent shivers running through her body. “If he lives, he will never stop hunting you.”
She glanced down at Sir Reginald. Even huddled on the ground with his life in her hands there was still hatred in his eyes. She knew the stranger was right, yet this life was not hers to take.
“I know,” her voice was soft. “But I have vowed never to take a life.”
“The life taken shall be by my hand, not yours.”
“And yet it shall be done in my name,” she said. “The stain on my soul shall be just as great.”
“Very well.” Somewhat reluctantly he sheathed his sword.
Amara knelt in the mud next to Sir Reginald. “Remember this moment, Sir Reginald. Remember the day I let you live.”
He spat at her, but she flicked it away with a snap of her wrist. His lack of graciousness was only to be expected.
She stood and turned to her savior. “Have you a place to stay?”
“No, my lady.”
“Then I invite you to stay with me.” It was not something a decent woman did if she wanted to keep her reputation intact, but she had never been one to play by the rules. Besides which, she didn’t have much of a reputation to ruin.
With a nod the stranger fell in beside her. They disappeared into the woods, Sir Reginald cursing behind them.
* * *
Amara cast a glance at the warrior. She’d poured him a bath and taken his clothes to clean and mend. Though, frankly, she wasn’t convinced they were worth cleaning and mending.
What she didn’t tell him was that she could see him plain as day through the gap between the curtain and the wall. Every naked inch of him.
Her cheeks flushed hot as she watched muscles shift and bunch under golden skin. His broad shoulders were the stuff a woman dreamed about. His wide back tapered into a narrow waist before flaring into the most amazing backside.
“Like what you see?” His gravelly voice broke into her reverie.
If possible, her cheeks flamed hotter. Not one to lie, especially about the obvious, she changed the subject.
“I want to thank you for saving my life.”
“It was nothing.”
She snuck another peek. He was wrapping a blanket around his hips, leaving his torso bare.
She swallowed. “It was something to me.”
He stepped out from behind the curtain. For the first time she was able to get a good look at his face without the grime.
Her breath caught in her throat. If beautiful could be used to describe a man, it would be used for him. He’d the face of a fallen angel and a body that would make those angels weep with envy.
But what truly took her breath away wasn’t his face or his physique. It was his magic.
He was steeped in it. Every portion of his being nearly drowning in magic as though he were made of it. And all that power centered on the amulet he wore on a leather strip around his throat.