Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology

by Colleen Gleason

  He narrows his eyes. “Get over yourself.”

  “Me?” I ask, mock disbelief dripping from my tongue. “Why, I do declare, you don’t know me at all.” I slathered southern charm all over that last bit like butter on a hot biscuit. One of these days, someone’s gonna nominate me for an Oscar.

  He lashes out with his right arm. Thick, sharp claws dig into my shoulder and latch onto muscle. I’d been focusing on his face and hadn’t realized he’d partially shifted. Foolish on my part. I jerk back and feel the sting of ripping flesh and meaty fibers. White sparks flit through my vision as pain radiates all the way to my toes. In a split second, he fully shifts into what looks like nothing more than a malnourished large dog with black stripes cutting slices across the rest of his reddish fur. He dashes off with his tail between his legs.

  I let him go. I’ve got something to start with. Not to mention a bleeding shoulder that is in serious need of antiseptic and probably a session or two with a physical therapist. Who knows where that dog’s claws have been. I gather up his clothes with my good arm and cradle them next to my body. A quick check of his pockets reveals nothing but lint. I wonder where he stashed the money. I actually feel a little bad that he might have lost it. Another day without a meal and he could wither away into nothing but stringy fur. Then I remember dude took a chunk of my shoulder with him and I’m suddenly over my guilt.

  * * *

  Hector’s place is located on the edge of town—a part of the city the higher-ups and do-gooders, a.k.a snobbish elitists, wish didn’t exist. The cleanup committee has been here too. However, someone failed to tell them once they plant flowers they need to water them on a regular basis. The flowers and shrubs adorning the median as an ornamental separation between the two sides of the road have wilted away and turned crispy brown like burnt toast. Just another example of how quickly this side of town is forgotten.

  The downtown section of Nashville does its best to keep the tourists away from here, but plans often go awry. It’s one thing for our bars and souvenir shops to have an older charm that entices people to drop in and drop cash. It’s quite another to be charmed by the happenings on the wrong side of the tracks. Here, they drop in and drop ass. Trust me, our ghetto is better than most, but it’s still home to some pretty seedy inhabitants. And most of these said inhabitants have an agenda that does not include a better life. In fact, I strongly believe their sole purpose is to make others suffer. One thing it does have in common with the better side is cash for services. Lots and lots of servicing getting done over here.

  Hector is an exception to most of the rules, and I wish he would pack up his stuff and move across town. My place is on the shy side of trashy, but it’s still a step up from this neighborhood. If he wasn’t so gung-ho about discovering everything he could about the paranormal world, he could easily get a job at a fairly high level of law enforcement. They’d probably even pay his way through college. He’s that smart. Instead, he barely scrapes by, hoping people like me show up to offer him a side job. Actually, he’d probably kill a reality T.V. gig, but he has too much respect for the occult world to exploit it for profit. Personally, I think most of the world would consider it hullaballoo and watch purely for entertainment value. Of course, there are always those who deviate from what’s considered normal.

  I bypass Hector’s front door and head around the back to the garage, carefully picking my way over the busted-up walkway. This is where he spends most of his time: his domain, his office, his life. On the outside, it looks the same as any other garage in this neighborhood. The walls were once a charcoal gray but have faded from the sun until the color looks more off-white than anything. Insufficient drainage has caused the roof to slump like a camel with a broken hump. I suspect any day now, I’ll be digging Hector out from under it. Dark rust stains trail from the metal hinges and handle, making it look like the garage is crying bloody tears. Inside is an entirely different story, and quite unexpected. I remember the first time I was invited in. I think my eyes bulged for three days after. NASA has nothing on Hector. Every dime he makes goes into his equipment.

  My bad arm hangs limply at my side. I use the other hand to rap on the window with my knuckles. Hector had them tinted so I can’t see if he’s here, but he’s never failed me in the past. Like clockwork, I hear four snicks, the sound of unlocking deadbolts, just before he opens the side door and motions me in like I’m his mistress and his wife is due home before the hour is up. I’m surprised he doesn’t make me recite a twenty-seven syllable password and give a DNA sample.

  I hurry by before he has time to slam the door in my face, though I do feel the wind as the door whooshes closed behind me. He never wastes time. Hector and I are pretty tight, but trust only goes so far. Both of us have been screwed in the past.

  I head to my favorite spot and hop up on the counter while Hector locks the door. A jolt of pain shocks my system and I can’t keep from wincing. Once everything is secured to his liking, he turns and offers me a toothy smile with one deep dimple accenting each cheek. I force a smile to replace my pain-filled grimace. Hector’s face has a ruddy tint from working construction for so many years. His cropped hair is raven black, almost to the point of appearing blue. He’s an attractive man, fit and trim, and he knows how to dress, even if his clothes are second-hand. Today he’s wearing European cut black slacks that taper at the ankle, and a short-sleeved cotton shirt of the same color. Dapper and dashing. If I had to pinpoint the exact reason he has next to zero luck in the dating category, I’d say it’s because of his height. I’ve never asked, but he can’t stand more than five foot four with his shoes on. Things like that shouldn’t matter. Sadly, they do. Sometimes I think the world would have been a better place if we’d been made without eyes.

  “You’re here early.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “About that. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to make this quick.” I jostle for a better position on the counter, but no matter what I do, I can’t get comfortable. My little alley skirmish bit into my allotted time, and my arm isn’t healing as quickly as I’d like. The throbbing is killing me. I bought a new shirt on the way over. Hopefully the blood won’t show through the black. I don’t want Hector to know I’m hurt. My motto is to never show weakness. Not even to those considered friends.

  Maybe I’m too guarded.

  Maybe I’ve got good reason to be.

  Hector chuckles and keys something into his computer. “That vamp of yours got you on a short chain or what?” Several screens flicker on throughout the room, lighting up the dim interior in a dazzling show of color. His screen saver, which is the same on all the computer screens, depicts a demon fighting a sorceress. Swirls of silver magic flash from the sorceress’s fingers every couple of seconds. Fire shoots from the demon’s eyes. Figures.

  I furrow my brow in mock confusion. Hector is not supposed to know that vampires truly exist. I refuse to be the one to confirm his suspicions. “You’re loony.” I also refuse to outright lie to him. His remark about Keller stings, though I know that wasn’t his intention. Keller doesn’t run my life, but lately I’ve been giving him more control. We always seem to choose the same path. The one that leads to the town of Demiseville. Over and over again, until there’s nothing left but shattered fragments of love and a suitcase full of resentment. This time is supposed to be different. Time to slice the leash and make things different.

  “So I’ve been told.” Hector leans against his stainless steel desk and crosses one ankle over the other. His shoes are as shiny as the instruments lying on the counters. Each tool is buffed to a high polish that only one who treasures each and every possession would take the time to do. “Whatcha got for me, Red?”

  I lean back against the cabinets to pull the baggie out of my pocket. I toss it to him, forcing my face to remain stoic when what I really want to do is scream in pain. He catches it with one hand.

  He shakes it. “Aren’t you sweet. A glittery love note?”

  “You tel
l me.”

  Hector lifts the bag to eye level and studies it from several angles. He holds it up to the light, and moves to open it. I jump off the counter, ignoring the stinging shockwaves. “Wait.”

  He stops and arches one brow in question.

  “You’ll need a mask before you do that. One tiny little sniff and you’ll be cruising down Trippy Lane.”

  He quirks a half-smile. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  Flashbacks of Keller’s ashes swamp my mind until my legs nearly buckle. I take a deep breath and get a grip. It takes me a moment to collect my thoughts again. Hector waits patiently, like he’s dealt with swoon-prone girls a million times before. “Trust me. It’s a very bad thing.” Hector isn’t serious anyway. He gets high off research. He doesn’t need drugs.

  Reaching for two masks and tossing one to me before snapping his over his nose and mouth, Hector opens the baggie and lifts the note out with a pair of long tweezers.

  “You need the glitter analyzed, the paper, or both?”

  “Just the glittery substance. I already figured out who signed the note.”

  He looks up. “Gotcha. Admirer of yours?”

  I snort in a very unladylike fashion. “Hardly.”

  Using a scalpel to scrape the glitter off the paper and into a Petri dish, Hector creases his brows in concentration. I’m aware of the fading sun even though I can’t see well through the tinted windows. Even so, I attempt patience as I creep up behind him. His work fascinates me.

  Hector glances over his shoulder. Our noses hit and I back up a half-inch. “I won’t have answers for you until tomorrow,” he says. “You planning to spend the night?”

  I always forget that these things take time. “You wish.”

  He shakes his head. “Nah,” he says with a shrug. “I’m holding out for someone with fangs.”

  I place my hand on his shoulder. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I stayed at Hector's longer than I should have. Part of the reason makes what Keller and Sage think of me true. I'm stubborn. I've denied it in the past, but deep down, I know they're right. It has nothing to do with my bright red hair and everything to do with needing to be independent. My mother was human, which seems normal in the scheme of things. However, when your father comes from a long line of protectors, having a mere human for a mother is considered an insurmountable birth defect.

  Being a full-fledged warrior for your people means more than anything to a hunter. It’s in our blood. We’d rather cut off both legs than deny our heritage. This means I repeatedly had to prove myself at a very young age. It was either that or get my ass kicked by the other hunters and huntresses in the neighborhood—male or female matters not to us. They all knew my blood was fifty percent diluted, and they lived to rub it in my face.

  I was scrapping before I was walking. It only took one time of me hiding behind my mama’s skirts to understand the hierarchy and the expectations. Looking back, I can thank both of my parents for nudging me in the right direction. Had I chosen a different path, my mother and I would have been sent packing. It was only because of my father’s strength that we were allowed to live amongst the hunters.

  I didn’t grow up in Nashville, but I knew the moment I placed one foot on Tennessee soil, this would be my domain. Hunters must bond with the people and the place before deciding where they will lay down roots. Only every other generation gets that privilege. The others have to live in the commune and protect the young in training and those who have grown too old to fight from our enemies. That list is long and steeped in conflict deeper than a silo full of shit. I’m glad I was able to get the hell out. My only wish is that my daddy could experience a life outside the hunter community. Sadly, this can’t happen. He’s okay with it. I’m not. The laws are ancient and set in stone. One of these days, though…

  I constantly have to remind myself to focus on one battle at a time.

  After visiting every inch of Tennessee, I made my home in the capital. Like the ladies of the Grand Ole Opry, Nashville sang to my heart. I know in the end, these people chose me, not the other way around.

  So, I’ll take the late night fights and the drug-toting pixies, because this is what I was born to do. Half-breed or not, I will make my daddy proud and honor my mother’s memory.

  Someone brushes up against me. I turn to see a teenager with pink hair and three nose piercings. She mumbles, “Excuse me,” and continues on. She reminds me of Sage. Which, in turn, reminds me of my wounded shoulder.

  Sage has always worried about me. She swears one day soon she’ll be planning my funeral. My shoulder injury is bad. Even so, I know it will heal and I’ll be back in the game before tomorrow. Just because I’m injury prone, which is surely an impairment I was born with and something I can’t help, doesn’t mean I can’t get the job done. Considering I’m still walking while my opponents are nothing more than dust and sludge on the sidewalks, I’d say I’m ahead in this game.

  Sage has never been on a hunt with me. She doesn't have the stomach for it. Funny, that. A vampire with weak guts. Instead of bearing witness to my mad skills, she only gets to see the other side of it. Cuts, bruises, and gimpy days. I don't have a death wish. I'm careful. As careful as a huntress can be. Being born with extra abilities is a gift, and disregarding them in order to live a safer life is a slap in the face to the higher beings and ancestors.

  Keller, on the other hand, simply wants to possess me: body, heart, and soul. At times, it's exhilarating, and I feel as if together we are unstoppable. Other times, it's overwhelming—smothering to the point of near hyperventilation. I laid the ground rules this time—and let me tell you, I was crystal clear. I know he's trying very hard to back off. But it's really not in his nature. Am I forcing him to be someone he isn't? That thought gnaws at me like piranhas nibbling on dangling toes.

  I love Keller.

  I truly do.

  Our souls seem to be fused together like Siamese twins, one unable to completely live without the other. I fear there’s a part of my soul bearing a dark smudge. A spot that wants to take over and separate the unnatural—separate Keller and I. I can no longer imagine my life without him. I also can't imagine living the rest of my days in his protective bubble, walking on eggshells one moment and fiery coals the next. Doing so doesn't allow me to be who I am either. Somehow, we have to find a happy medium. Either that or we're destined to dance this commitment dance for eternity, or until one of us kicks the proverbial bucket. Considering I'm half human, surely I'll be the first to go bobbing for caskets.

  The sun dips below the horizon just as I slide through the back entrance of Wolfie's. I pull the door shut and lean my head against the cool metal, mentally willing my shoulder to fuse back together. I imagine the tendons and fibers twining like braided hair and I grit my teeth against the pain. Theoretically, it shouldn’t be working, but I swear I feel a surge of energy concentrated in my shoulder. I can’t allow the injury to slow me down. There’s too much to do tonight to be shackled with a bum shoulder. I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and flick the screen on. No missed calls. I know Hector hasn’t had enough time to process the drugs, but one can wish for miracles.

  "Been out?" The voice comes from the shadows in the corner of the hallway.

  Chill bumps cover my skin and I shiver against my will. Heat blooms in my belly and reaches toward my toes with stroking fingers. Keller’s voice gets me every time, enveloping me in a cocoon that is both intoxicating and comforting. The pain dims as if someone has injected me with morphine, and I sigh in bliss and relief. It won’t last, but I welcome the reprieve.

  Sliding my phone back in my pocket, I turn. "Just stepped out for some air," I tell him. Seriously? Why the hell did I just lie? I'm better than that. I turn and toss my hair over my shoulder with a flip of my head. "And to have a chat with a shifter. And to drop off something at the forensics lab." There. That’s better. I release a long, silent breath.

  Keller sl
inks from the shadows and moves toward me. He’s wearing ripped jeans and a red vintage t-shirt bearing a faded skull and crossbones pattern, painted in black ink. His hair is mussed artfully, and his chin is covered with two-day-old stubble. "How is Hector today?” he asks, his tone melodically smooth.

  I’m taken aback to the point where my mouth falls open. What? No anger? No accusations? Surely this is a ruse. "Same as always. In control and on a mission."

  Reaching out with his right hand, he cradles the back of my neck and pulls me close. He dips in for a long, sensual kiss and I'm lost. If this is a trap, consider me a willing captive, because I’ve just come down with a serious case of the naughties. He gently bites on my lower lip and I lean closer, tucking my body against his. His velvet tongue slides across mine and we moan simultaneously. I swear I don't love him just for the sex, but at this very moment, all I can think about is crawling on top of his body. I’m on fire with need and this vampire is the only one that makes me feel this way.

  Hearing my thoughts, Keller chuckles. The rumble in his chest caresses my body intimately. I swallow his laughter to savor the flavor of his voice. If ecstasy came in a bottle, it would taste like Keller O'Leary. Sexiest. Vampire. Alive.

  He breaks the kiss and I am momentarily dizzy. Sliding his hand to my elbow, he steadies me.

  "Good evening, sir," I say and bite the inside of my cheek. I want him inside me so badly it hurts. Keller is the king of anticipation.

  "That it is." He leans against the wall, and I notice a set of drumsticks in his left hand. He thumps them against his chest.

  I follow the rhythm, almost afraid to look him in the eye as reality takes hold and extinguishes the last of the flames. Geez. Could I get anymore lame? Here I am, toting myself as Badass of the Year, and yet I’m worried about getting a lash down from my boyfriend.