Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology

by Colleen Gleason

  “You got it,” Cassy answers.

  Before she can get to the door, Wes saunters in, followed by the one o’clock band. Five old-timers wearing Wranglers and western bolo ties mosey in with their beat-up instrument cases. One of them props the door open with a speaker monitor and they begin the well-rehearsed process of setting up. Pure professionals. Some would have chewed the fat and sipped the juice before taking care of business. Not these guys. As far as I’m concerned, they can play at Wolfie’s anytime.

  Wes eyes me behind the bar with his snake-like glare, and without so much as a nod, bypasses me and heads to the back room with a small paper bag in his hand. The three bold letters on the bag offer proof he was indeed at the hardware store. Who knows if he bought anything useful? All I know is that he’ll have a receipt on my desk before his shift ends. I’m sure he’ll sign it with a smartass remark. I nearly take off my boot and chuck it at his head. I’ll give him ten minutes to play Mr. Tool Man and then I’m calling in the professionals.

  Five minutes later, cool air floats from the vents, and I decide Wes will live to see another day. Where Wes is concerned, I’m always on the lookout for an excuse to spar. We don’t click. Never have, and I’m guessing we never will. The crowd gives him a round of applause when he hops up on the bar with his weenie chest puffed out. He takes a bow and dances a jig. What the hell? That’s my move he stole, and I want it back. The prick is acting like he’s bar-danced a hundred times. My boot is practically sliding off my foot on its own. It takes every ounce of restraint I possess not to knock him on his ass. Instead, I walk away with my tongue between my teeth. Consummate professional, aren’t I?

  Wes and I work silently, side by side, for the next few hours—unless you count the under-the-breath swearing. It’s better when we don’t speak to each other. Actually, it’s better when we don’t see each other at all. I really need to see what I can do about that.

  As I’m mixing a variety of special drinks and popping caps off of cold beers, the old timers rock it out with the classics; Willie Nelson, Hank Williams, Johnny Cash and even a remix of The Judds. They’re fantastic, and before long the crowd is clapping and boot stomping—a perfect combination. Wolfie’s is known for stellar music and good times. Then again, every bar on the strip is known for the same thing. What makes Wolfie’s different—aside from the top-notch customer service and crazy drink concoctions—is that Sage and I recognize the beings of the occult mingling with the humans. As long as those of the lore behave and follow my rules—subject to change anytime—they’re welcome here. Right now, another witch, dressed in linen pants and a bright pink tunic, is dancing with an elderly gentleman. His smile warms my heart. The witch catches my eye and winks. I smile back. I like good people—no matter the species. This magical gal will have her dance partner grinning for days.

  Before long, the families are replaced with the early evening crowd. A new band sets up in less than twenty minutes and hammers through sound check in less than five. This group has a female lead singer. Her voice is raspy and dead on, with just the right amount of twang. I’m critical when it comes to female leads. She gets two thumbs up and then some.

  I keep my eye on a pretty blonde who has been dancing and drinking steadily for at least two hours. She’s wearing a short, yellow sundress with strappy high heels. She has a lot of fans and hasn’t had to buy one drink with her own money. That’s not rare. Cowboys are generous anyway. Add beauty to the mix and they are putty in your hands. My main concern, and the reason I’m watching her, is because I know she’ll eventually hit her limit with the alcohol and I’ll have to cut her off.

  Just doing my job.

  Wes’s shift ends and two more bartenders take his place. Before he leaves, he swaps jokes with the rest of the staff and slams a gin and tonic. Sissy drink. Maybe that’s why I don’t like him.

  I make sure the replacements are set up and ready to go before I head upstairs to the office. As I draw close, I notice a note tacked to the door. Thinking it’s from Sage, I grab it. Stupid move. Too late I realize the paper is glittering. With blue dust. I immediately clamp my mouth shut and hold my breath, praying I haven’t already been contaminated. If I start hallucinating again…

  I open the door with one hand while pinching the paper between two fingers and holding it as far away from me as I can. I trip over a box and nearly land on my knees. Somehow I manage to stay vertical. I’m going to turn as blue as this pixie dust if I don’t take a breath soon. I set the note on the desk, quickly cross the small room to the adjacent bathroom and scrub my hands with a mixture of soap and bleach while sucking in lungfuls of clean air. The bleach is probably overkill but I don’t care.

  I wait thirty more seconds to make sure I’m one hundred percent lucid, and then I snag a towel from the rack and tie it around my face as a makeshift mask. Heading back to my desk, I snap on a pair of latex gloves and carefully unfold the paper. Inside, there is a hand-drawn picture, no better than the artwork of a four year old. The drawing is a smiley face. One eye is a slashed horizontal line, as if it’s winking at me. Blue specks, like someone had jabbed a crayon repeatedly, make it appear as though it’s raining. Raining pixie dust. Under the face, in large brush strokes are four words.

  How was your trip?

  The letter is signed E.

  I’m going to kill her. I’m not famous by any means, but around here my name means something. Depending on what side of the good vs. evil line you call home, I’m either revered as a hero or toted as the slimiest demon spawn this side of hell. There’s no way Esmeralda understands who she’s toying with. Either that or she has a death wish. Call me a genie, because she’s about to get just that, and she doesn’t even have to rub my belly. I snag a plastic bag from the shelf, fold the letter, and tuck it inside. The dust needs to be analyzed so I know exactly what I’m dealing with.

  I look for something to use to wipe down my desk. Using my towel mask would leave me vulnerable. Not gonna happen. My office is always cluttered and a tad on the dirty side. I’m a busy girl. I don’t have time for mundane tasks such as organizing and cleaning. Sage refuses to come in here anymore, preferring to take the accounting books home. I guess I can’t blame her. She’s a brainiac and a wiz with numbers. Seeing my mess nearly gives her a seizure.

  I finally manage to find a few napkins stuffed in a drawer. I pour more bleach on them and wipe down my desk. Part of it, anyway. The part the note was sitting on. The rest I leave as is. That way I’ll be sure everything is just as I like it: Organized chaos.

  I pick up the phone and dial a number I’ve dialed many times over the years. Two rings. Three.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Hector. It’s Josie.”

  “What? You chewing marbles? Who is this?”

  I realize I still have my mask on. I pull it off and toss it in a corner. “Sorry about that. It’s Josie.”

  Hector laughs. “What’s up, Big Red?”

  No doubt he’s referencing my very round ass. I’m not offended. Hector and I are cool like that. And over the years I’ve learned to embrace my curves. I’ll never be a size three. Or even a five. Or even a… We’ll stop there. While I don’t need Keller’s reassurance that he’s okay with my shape, it is nice to know he finds my curves sexy.

  “I need a favor,” I say, getting right to the point.

  “Sure thing.”

  Hector is one hundred percent human—a human with strong beliefs in the possibilities that others exist. Some men are in touch with their feminine side. Hector is in touch with the paranormal side. He’s also jonesing to be turned. I hope that doesn’t happen. I love my vampire and I’d be lost without Sage, but the immortal life is not all it’s cracked up to be. What I like about Hector, other than his knowledge of forensics and such, is that he never asks questions. He gets the job done and keeps the details between us. Definitely my kind of peeps. “Great,” I say. “I’ll be by shortly after dusk.”

  “You know where to find me.” Hector
hangs up.

  As soon as Sage gets here, I’m out. In the meantime, I open the closet and choose my weapons. Hmm. I guess I don’t really need any sharp objects to murder a pixie—I could flick her out of the sky and stomp her like an ant—but I really like how my blades sparkle and shine. Plus they’re great for intimidation. Unlike the rest of the office, my weapons’ closet is in perfect order. All my knives are lined up according to size and weight.

  There’s a special section for the blades I like to call The Girls. These blades have blinged-out handles that shine brighter than disco balls. They are no less lethal. Each one is wrapped in shimmering silk and tucked in tight on their felt shelves.

  I glance at the clock. I’ve got at least two more hours before the sun goes down and Keller and Sage are able to roll in. Screw this. I’m just wasting time. If I do this now, I’ll have more time to hunt for Esmeralda later. I leave The Girls to their slumber and choose three short blades from the top shelf. I tuck one blade into my waistband and two more inside the legs of my boots. I lock the closet and retrieve the plastic bag containing the drug-tainted note.

  I let the staff know I’m heading out and ask them to tell Sage I’ll be back shortly if she shows up before I conclude my business. I better be back. I made a promise to Keller. I’m not breaking it. I’m simply twisting the vow to suit my needs.

  As soon as I step outside, I take in my surroundings. I’m a huntress. Always aware. I cock my head and study two men about a block and a half down the street. One flashes glamour. His nose elongates into a snout for a split second before returning to normal. The human never notices. I do. I also notice the exchange of the green money and a tiny bag filled with blue powder.

  Oh, hell no.

  I take off at a dead run.

  Chapter Ten

  The dealer looks up and spots me gunning for him. He narrows his eyes, once again showing his true colors, or brindle stripes, as it would be. His irises flash bright yellow like a caution light. Thanks, but no thanks, buddy. I’m not the one who needs to be careful. Snarling, he shoves the buyer and high tails it, dodging trash cans, lampposts, and knocking people out of his way. It’s daylight and the sidewalks are full of pedestrians. I stop to help a mother of two get back on her feet. After making sure she’s okay, I’m on the move again, careful not to run too fast. Keeping the occult world a secret is top priority and running at full speed would raise too many questions. Like why I’m not a gold medal Olympian, for one. Even so, I kick it up a notch and wish I had been born with the power of teleportation.

  The dealer turns left. I slow, slinking up to the corner like a cat stalking a toy mouse. He looks over his shoulder, flashes a cocky smile, and ducks into an alley. I wait. I’ve got a plan. Make him think he’s lost me. Then I’ll sneak up behind him and grab him by the neck. Or the balls. Doesn’t matter. The end result will be the same. Where he got the blue stuff is the only thing I care about. I’ve seen a lot on the streets, and consider myself pretty stinkin’ educated when it comes to drugs and the other bad shit the darker personalities like to play with. If I don’t know what and who I’m dealing with, I may as well turn in my hunting license with my head hanging below my knees. Shame will give anyone bad posture. I’ve never seen this blue powder before. Call me a cynic, but I highly doubt the Smurfs made it at the Happy Factory.

  I count to ten under my breath and then inch around the corner. The dice are rolling in my favor today. The alley dead-ends into an iron fence that separates this side of the pass-through from the apartments on the other side. No way did he make it to the other side. The fence is too tall for him to jump over, shifter or not, and it lacks areas that would make for a good foothold. Meaning he didn’t climb it either. He’s here somewhere and I’m going to ferret the wiry sucker out.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I call in a child-like voice that reminds me of young friends playing in the backyard. Who doesn’t like a good game of hide and seek? Those were the days. Innocent and carefree. It’s times like this that make me wish I were ten years old again. Though I can count my childhood friends with one finger. Still. “You and I have some business to discuss.”

  Several years ago, Nashville created a special committee with one goal: Keep the streets clean. Not from bad guys, that’s my job. The committee works with those who are ordered by the courts to fulfill community service requirements. Their task it to pick up litter, scrub down walls, spread some flowers around, and freshen up paint where needed. This alley is no different. Instead of the Adopt-A-Highway charity, we rock it out in the alleys and side roads. Here, other than a stray weed or two, there is a nothing but dumpsters parked outside each service entrance. Dealer boy is either behind the trash, or in it. Which one is the question of the day.

  “Not a chance, bitch.”

  Aha. What a tool. He should have kept quiet. My hearing isn’t as acute as Keller’s, but it’s better than most. He’s hiding toward the back of the alley like the punk-ass he is. Figures. I would have chosen a spot closer to the front so I could get out and away faster. Genius he is not. His voice was nothing but a muffled whisper when he threw his derogatory comment my way, which leads me to think he’s inside the Dumpster. I sigh and curse my rotten luck. One way or another, I’m always caught up in the stinky shiz.

  “Bitch? Really? Is that the best you can do?” Trust me, I’ve been called worse than that on Sundays. “How ‘bout we do it this way?” I crack my knuckles because I’m badass like that, and I really want him to think I can go toe-to-toe with him in hand-to-hand combat. Which I can. I’m itching for a fight, so all in all this is a prime opportunity. It’s been a few hours since my last skirmish. “You get your skinny ass in front of me now and I let you keep both of your legs.” I mean, really. That’s totally fair, right? Which is why I’m in complete shock when the slimeball doesn’t show his face.

  I slow my breathing to almost nil and remain very still. At first, I only hear laughter rolling in from the sidewalks behind me, and the muted thumps of a bass drum. Wolfie’s isn’t the only one with a live band playing more than twelve hours a day. I do my best to tune out the band and focus on the other sounds. Ha. Got him. Unlike mine, his breathing is ragged, though I can tell he’s trying to keep it contained. I’d bet my daddy’s last dollar he hasn’t exercised this much in his entire life. What a sad excuse for a shifter. If I had to guess, this mangy mutt was probably kicked out of the pack a long time ago. Without guidance and rules, he was destined to take this road.

  More importantly, without fear of what an Alpha will do to him, this shifter will be unpredictable. I pull the blade out of my waistband and another from my boot, one for each hand, and walk three more feet. I throw open the plastic lid on my right and let it crash against the wall. It bounces off the brick and slams closed. Dude whimpers like a kid who’s been caught stealing from his grandma. I lift the lid again, this time with a little less gusto.

  “Get out,” I tell him. No way am I diving today. Been there, done that.

  Yellow eyes stare at me.

  I give him my I’m-gonna-fuck-you-up look until he starts to squirm.

  He pulls himself up and straddles the ledge. He’s got a French fry stuck behind one ear and his sleeve is dripping I don’t even want to know what. Whatever it is, it smells like piss with a splash of vinegar and a pinch of feces. Nasty. I point a blade toward the ground and wiggle my nose. “All the way out.”

  Other than being covered in trash, he seems normal. From the look of him, he crossed the line to the skinny side some time ago. His t-shirt is probably a size extra small and still loose against his noodly arms. His jeans could use a belt. Kid needs to eat a sandwich and a bucket of chicken. If he gives me what I need, maybe I’ll buy him dinner. Maybe.

  He hitches his jaw up. “I’ve got nothing.”

  Do I look like the police? I glance down to see if any of my accessories would pass as a badge. Um, no. “I’m not interested in what you have now. What were you selling?” I step
closer and hope the stench wafting off of his clothes doesn’t make me pass out. He lurches away until he has nowhere to go but back in the garbage bin.

  Snarling, he opens his maw and snaps it shut, but not before I see his sharp canines. I almost flash my blades to show him he’s not the only one with a set of sharpies, but think better of it. Trusting my instincts, I tuck them away and assume a more relaxed stance. “Look,” I say with every bit of patience I can muster. “All I want to know is where you got it and what it’s called.”

  He snorts his laughter. “Really? Is that all?” Folding his arms over his chest, he lifts one eyebrow.

  Maybe casual won’t work on him after all. I give it another shot. “We’ll go slow, Muttly. What’s it called?”

  He growls deep in his throat. I know I’m supposed to quiver and piddle in my pants, but I can’t bring myself to do either. I growl back. It doesn’t have quite the same resonance, but my tone lets him know I’m not playing games.

  “Fine,” he says with a huff that makes me feel like a scolding schoolmarm. “Pixie Dust.”

  I really should clock him. “Don’t make me get my blade back out. Seriously, what’s it called?”

  “I’m being real, Josie. It’s called Pixie Dust. P.D. for short.”

  I grab my blade before he can say another word. Holding it a hair away from his throat, I watch his Adams apple bob up and down like a buoy. I lean my body against him, nice and close. “Did I tell you that you could use my name?” My voice is a notch away from a whisper. I’m not surprised he knows who I am. My picture is probably plastered all over the underworld’s post office walls as: WANTED. DEAD. Although alive would probably work, too. That way they’d get to torture me first. What I’m surprised about is the familiarity and comfort in which he uses my name. Like we’re friends, or acquaintances who cross the same lines. I am nothing like him.