Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology

by Colleen Gleason

  “I don’t want a slice of ca…” Logan trailed off as Silas turned him toward the cake table. What had he been saying? His mind blinked like a cursor on a blank screen. A vision in gold had officially wiped his mental hard drive. Long waves of intensely red hair. Creamy skin. Full breasts that mounded over a beaded gold corset. Long, muscular legs. High heels. And sapphire blue eyes that drifted absently over the small group of wedding guests.

  “Who’s the warrior princess?” Silas whispered into his ear.

  Logan snapped out of it. He blinked a few times before answering his friend. “You’ve never met Polina?”

  “That’s the Smuggler’s Notch witch? Soleil told me about her, but I’ve never seen her in person. She looks like a badass.”

  “She’s got a personality to match.”

  “I’m not looking at her personality.”

  Logan punched him in the side. “What would Soleil say?”

  Silas smirked. “She’s the madam of a fae bordello, Logan. She’d be looking with me, perhaps asking Polina to join us later.” He jostled Logan’s shoulders roughly. “Besides, I’m not interested for me. I’m only thinking of you. Come on.”

  “Oh no.” Logan struggled, shaking his head, as Silas forced him toward the cake table. “Silas, she’s… we… witch.” It was no use. Although Silas was slightly shorter than Logan and no more muscular, his werewolf constitution gave him superhuman strength. Tripping forward, Logan fought against the man’s viselike grip until Polina’s gaze flicked from her slice of chocolate cake to him. The moment those sapphire blues locked on, Logan stopped struggling and floated toward her. It wasn’t magic but attraction that drew him in.

  He should leave. A smart man would turn and run, sober up at a safe distance, maybe locked inside his car.

  “Hello.” Her voice was confident but somehow sweet, as youthful as the straight-toothed smile that spread her lips. That smile cut through his sternum, her stare seeming to weigh his soul.

  “Polina.” Why did his heart have to race when he looked at her? From the first time Grateful had introduced them, she’d seemed familiar, like her face was a long-forgotten memory. Part of him was sure that if he could stare at her long enough, he would figure it out. Maybe she held a resemblance to a celebrity or distant family member.

  She fidgeted with the side of her plate. Awkward. He’d stared too long. Now, she knew he was staring. Fuck. Polina never let him forget he was a mere human. She probably thought he worshiped her. He turned to Silas to break the tension.

  “Polina, I’d like to introduce you to my friend Silas,” Logan announced formally.

  “A pleasure,” Silas said, extending his hand. “Any friend of Logan’s is a friend of mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Silas released her hand and with a nod of his head, disappeared into the crowd of wedding guests.

  “Silas!” Logan called, sending death rays in his general direction.

  “Was it something I said?” Polina asked.

  “How could it be something you said? You said, ‘Hello.’ That couldn’t have possibly been offensive.”

  “Why would he leave so abruptly?” She motioned in the direction of Silas’s disappearance with her delicate hand.

  Truth was, Logan suspected that Silas wanted to play matchmaker and had abandoned the two of them on purpose. He couldn’t say that. For one, Logan understood something Silas did not: Polina hated humans, and Logan was more than slightly wary of witches.

  “Who knows?” He shrugged. Oddly nervous, he reached for a piece of cake, trying not to notice how close his arm came to her hip. A circle of heat formed on the inside of his elbow where it brushed past her. What was wrong with him?

  “Werewolves,” she said with a weak laugh. “Cheeky bastards.”

  “How did you know he was a werewolf? You just met him.”

  “I can taste it on his aura. It’s unmistakable. Along with the hint of wet dog he leaves in his wake.”

  Logan poked his cake with his fork. The chocolate was a wretched orangish brown and it crumbled like sand under the pressure of the tines. Along with the oil separating from the frosting, Logan deemed the dessert an inedible disaster.

  “Do you hate werewolves, too?” he asked.

  “Too?”

  “Like you hate humans?”

  She leaned a hip against the table and cocked an eyebrow at him. “I never said I hated humans or werewolves. I don’t hate anyone.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You said my kind was inferior. That’s different than hate.”

  Her face screwed up. “Are you baiting me?” The hand holding her fork turned palm up in question. “It is a simple fact that witches are the more durable species. Humans can’t do any sort of magic and are physically fragile. But I appreciate your race’s many accomplishments, all things considered. I’m not a human-phobe or anything. I’ve had plenty of human friends over the years.” She pointed a finger at his face. “Franklin…Benjamin Franklin. We spent time together once. Good times.”

  Logan’s chin dropped as his jaw popped open. After a moment, his spine straightened with offense.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “I’m not trying to be arrogant or elitist. I saved your life, after all.”

  It was true. She’d saved him from drowning a few weeks earlier when he’d gone on the road to help Grateful with her mission. A water witch almost turned him into fish food. If Polina hadn’t intervened on his behalf, he’d probably be dead.

  “I guess I owe you one,” he said flatly. Why was he letting her do this to him? The longer he talked to her, the more he felt inferior. It was always the same with witches. He seriously needed to start hanging out with his own kind. “Nice seeing you, Polina,” he mumbled, turning to leave.

  Her perfectly manicured fingers landed on his upper arm. “Wait. Stay. I wasn’t trying to be unkind. I simply—”

  “You needed me to know the truth.” Logan’s eyes fixated on the cake and something snapped. His mind pictured another witch, another pastry. No way would he allow her or any other witch to tell him what to do. Never again. Acting on a deep instinct, he stepped into her so that his chest was almost touching hers. In this position, her petite stature made it impossible for her to look him in the eye without wrenching her neck back. He wrapped his hands around her upper arms.

  “You think you’re out of my league, don’t you? That pretty little head of yours is so big under that beauty queen hairdo that you know without a doubt you could never stoop to associate with a guy like me.” He shook her slightly.

  She didn’t try to pull away, but focused on his mouth, her forehead furrowing.

  Logan continued, “Well, I need to tell you the truth. I’ve been with your kind and it was a major head fuck. I’ve been fed potions and had thoughts thrust into my brain to manipulate me. I’ve been forced to do things I didn’t want to do. I may be the more fragile species, sweetheart, but I’m also the more trustworthy. You don’t have to worry about making sure I know how superior you are. I couldn’t care less.”

  He released her with a little push. With only a small space between them, he expected her to back away. A human woman would storm off after a tirade like that. Not Polina. She stared at him like a bug under a microscope. Even leaned forward, narrowing her eyes in scrutiny. “Are you finished?”

  “Yeah,” Logan drawled.

  “Good.” She loaded her fork with the nasty brown cake on her plate. “I know Salem’s witch, Tabetha, misused you before Grateful and I killed her. I can understand why you are traumatized. But don’t take your human tantrum out on me. I’ve been quite generous with my abilities when it comes to you. The least you can do is show your gratitude.” The dry crumbles coasted toward her luscious mouth. Despite his anger, he couldn’t watch her full, red lips wrap around that disaster of a baked good.

  “Gratitu—” He slapped her fork away. “Don’t eat that.”

  “Why ever not?”

  Grunting with frustration, he broke off
a chunk and ground it to dust between his fingers. “I’m a chef, okay? Chocolate cake should be moist. It should be sweet perfection nestled in whipped heaven. This is a travesty.”

  “A travesty? Why?”

  “It’s under emulsified.”

  She shook her head.

  “An emulsifier distributes and stabilizes fats with liquids. Not only does this chocolate cake not have enough fat, it’s been overcooked and over processed.” He stepped in closer, lowered his voice to a sultry whisper. “Chocolate cake should melt in your mouth. When you eat a slice of Valentine’s chocolate cake, the cocoa hits your tongue first, followed by a burst of subtle sweetness. The consistency is loose but almost fudgy. It comes apart and permeates every corner of your mouth. And when you swallow…”

  “Yes?” Her eyes darted between his. One thing he’d learned about witches was that they couldn’t cook. It was the curse of their species and left them persistently obsessed with epicurean delights.

  “When you swallow well-made chocolate cake, there should be a buttery finish. Savory to balance the sweet. It leaves you longing for the next bite.” She leaned forward, lips parting. He could feel her breath on his chin.

  “Sounds delicious.” Her hand pressed into her stomach. All at once, she seemed to realize how close they were and she took a step back.

  “It is. You should come into Valentine’s sometime and try a slice.”

  “Do you make it yourself?”

  He nodded slowly. “Along with a positively wicked buttercream frosting.”

  He watched her throat contract with a swallow and her beautiful pink tongue dart along her bottom lip. He had her. She was practically drooling.

  The corner of his mouth quirked, and he backed away from her. “Oh, wait, you can conjure your own damn chocolate cake, can’t you? Being that you’re the superior species and all.”

  Her face twisted and her mouth gaped like a fish out of water.

  Logan turned on his heel and headed for the exit, giving a small wave over his shoulder. “Have a nice immortal existence, Polina.”

  Her mouth was still hanging open when the door closed behind him.

  Chapter Two

  The Visitor

  “Chocolate cake, he says. Like I would eat his chocolate cake.” Polina huffed over her cauldron, stirring like a madwoman, the human way. She could have used magic instead of elbow grease to do the job, but the latter was more therapeutic. Therapy was exactly what she needed. Only an unbalanced mind would still be thinking about the human.

  “Are you still fussing about that man Logan?” her owl familiar, Hildegard, asked. The bird sat on one of the many carved wooden perches that adorned their home, watching Polina’s flurry of activity with curiosity. “It’s been almost a month since the wedding. I’d think you’d be over it by now.”

  Polina straightened, placing one hand on her hip. “It’s confounding, Hildegard. The man approaches me in a crowded reception hall, obviously attracted to me.”

  Hildegard rolled her eyes.

  “Don’t make that face. I know when a male is attracted to me, especially a human male. He was the spitting image of Pepe Le Pew with his tongue hanging out. I could see the outline of his heart throbbing through the wall of his chest.”

  The owl laughed. “All right. All right. He was attracted to you. What happened next?”

  “He crossed the room and entered my personal space with the familiarity of a friend—”

  “He should think of you as a friend after how you saved him from the water witch. Not to mention the other reason.” She lowered her voice to a whisper on the last.

  “Regardless, he approached me, and I thought, sure, he’s human, no better than a dog, but even a dog might be a welcome diversion from the strange human wedding formalities. Do you know there is a thing called the Chicken Dance?”

  Hildegard shook her head. “Do they dance with poultry?”

  Polina inhaled deeply. “No. Heavy drinking and flailing of arms. Very disconcerting.”

  “So, you thought you would tolerate some mild entertainment by the human.”

  “Indeed. He was with that werewolf friend of Grateful’s. What’s his name again?”

  “Silas. Silas Flynn.”

  “Ah, yes. The detective. They were together and as we’ve had little experience with werewolves in Smuggler’s Notch, I thought the conversation might be enlightening. But no sooner were they in my company as the wolf wandered off, leaving me with the human, who immediately accused me of supernatural elitism.”

  “How did you respond?”

  “Honestly, of course. I suggested that although witches were the more powerful species, I respected humans for their many accomplishments over the centuries and had met quite a few reputable members of his race. I even admitted that his company was rather enjoyable at times.”

  Hildegard snorted. “Why on earth would he take offense?”

  “By your tone, I assume you’re being facetious.”

  “I’m simply suggesting that your comments may have been a bit heavy handed.”

  Polina grunted.

  “What was all that about the chocolate cake?”

  “He told me to go bake my own.”

  Hildegard inhaled sharply and then broke into a fit of laughter. “A sharp tongue on that one. Does he know what an insult that is to a witch?”

  “He knew exactly what he was saying,” Polina said. “That’s why it was so infuriating. The man was a ghost in Grateful’s attic for months. He’s annoyingly knowledgeable about all things witch.”

  “And he can cook.” Hildegard raised the arched feathers that served as her eyebrows skyward, her massive yellow eyes twinkling. “I see the problem here. You like Logan, more than you want to admit.”

  “Humph,” Polina said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  Polina stirred her cauldron absently. “Although, there is something about the man. He knows I can destroy him with a wink of my eye but still he challenges me with his sharp wit. Plus, he’s a medium. He receives messages from the human heaven, a thing no witch can ever do. A creature with such a tenuous existence should be timid, but he charges into the world, flags flying. The way he helped Grateful was nothing short of selfless.”

  “So you do like him.”

  Polina’s stirring strokes became violent. “Pshaw. Even if my attraction to him was authentic and not a side effect of the incident—”

  “Rare if it were…”

  “Even if it weren’t, there’s a reason humans and supernaturals don’t mix. It’s a recipe for disaster. I’ve been down that road before. I know how it ends.”

  “Ronin? He’s long dead, my lady. Perhaps it’s time you let him go?”

  Angrily, Polina twisted the knob to turn the burner off under the cauldron and slapped the wooden spoon on the counter. Potion sprayed across the granite. Snatching a mug from the cupboard, she poured herself a cup of the brew.

  “I’ve had to let Ronin go, Hildie. He’s dead. Dead, because that’s what humans do. They die.”

  “I am sorry to dredge up the past,” Hildegard said contritely.

  “It’s all right.” Polina waved a hand dismissively. “It’s a good reminder. I have no business having feelings for a human.” She sipped the concoction in her cup. “It’s not real. It’s soul magic. Nothing more.”

  Hildie’s deep sigh filled the kitchen. “What’s in the cauldron, my lady?”

  Polina shook her head.

  Hildegard crossed the small space to the grimoire open on the counter. The book was covered in solid gold and inscribed with the title Elemental Alchemy. “Queen Mary’s brew. Essence of peace lily and lavender. This elixir calms the mind and eases strong emotions,” Hildie read.

  Polina shrugged. “It’s either this or vodka, and I can’t do magic drunk.”

  “Aye,” Hildegard said softly.

  Polina drained the mug and slammed the empty on the stone counter. �
��Sun is setting. Time to get to work.”

  “As you wish.”

  Polina hastened into the bedroom to a large looking glass inside a crafted pewter stand, what they called a cheval mirror in furniture catalogs. Only this particular piece of furniture held an important secret. Without pause, Polina walked directly into the center of the glass. The mirrored silver accommodated her body, flowing in a ripple across her skin before allowing her access to her sanctuary.

  At the heart of Aurorean House, the large Tudor mansion she called home, Polina’s seat of concentrated power was a multifaceted silver structure—the room of reflections. The mirrored walls shifted around her, their interlocking geometric formation constantly changing to meet her needs. With Hildegard on her shoulder, she crossed to the center of the living metal gem to a giant, table-height stretch of silver—a lucubratus—a magic mirror she used to monitor her realm.

  Polina wasn’t just a witch; she was a Hecate, a sorceress of the dead. A Hecate’s duty was to police the supernatural. The mirror was enchanted to show her possible futures, anyone or anything with malicious intent within her realm. Her job was to predict and prevent evil deeds from occurring. In Smuggler’s Notch, Polina was judge, jury, and executioner. Supernaturals who evaded or ignored her intervention were sentenced to her hellmouth, the small mountain cemetery behind her home that served as a supernatural prison after dark.

  In a loud, clear voice, she passed one hand over the silver and said, “Reveal.” The mirror melted to the consistency of liquid mercury, bubbling to a three-dimensional peak before settling into a reflective pool of molten metal. She leaned over it, her reflection dulling, replaced by the vision she was meant to see.

  At the base of her mountain was a human campsite. The silver depicted a man Polina had never seen before walking toward the trail opposite her property. This was to be expected. The enchantment surrounding Silver Sparrow Mountain not only made it effectively invisible to humans but produced a sense of dread that steered any who wandered too close toward the human trail. It was the natural alternative to the base of her dark forest.