by Michele Hauf
Did she believe in them? No, such things were mythology. Fantasy bred into wild stories designed to entertain the masses. Which made this guy, as handsome as he was, some kind of wacko.
“I am not a demon.”
She turned to march around the side of the house. She wasn’t going to find what she was looking for here. And most especially, she did not want to deal with a crazy man. Even if he was the most remarkable specimen of male she’d seen. Ever.
A hand grabbed her by the arm, halting her near the picket fence that hugged in the front yard. “Yet you are familiar with the terminology?”
She shrugged. Annoyance felt new to her, and she didn’t like the feeling so she tried to look beyond it. Was his hair so black it gleamed blue? When the sun shone on it, it appeared blue. Kinda cool. She wondered if it was as soft as it looked.
Oh, Zenia, do not let his good looks distract you!
“I know a lot of things,” she offered when he gave no sign to leave her alone. “Except who I am.”
“So then how can you be sure you are not a demon?”
Zenia slammed her hands to her hips. “Are you for real? Demons are myth, buddy. Stories. Fantasy. I think it’s time I got some facts from you. Who are you?”
“Blade Saint-Pierre.” His shoulders stretched back proudly, yet his eyes remained dark. Uncertain? “I live on the outskirts of Tangle Lake. I was helping Mr. Larson across the street fix his trellis.” She followed his gesture to the yellow rambler across the street and spied the climbing purple flowers on the side of the house. “And who are you? Oh, wait, you don’t remember.”
“Zenia,” she offered with a lift of her chin. “It’s the name I’m using until I learn my real name. And I’m quite sure you and your weird fantasy ideas will be of no help to that quest, so if you’ll leave me alone, I’ll be on my way. Do not follow me!”
Stalking away from the man’s accusing stature, she strode through the long grass toward the sidewalk. Her truck was parked down the block. Feet shuffling quickly, she landed on the sidewalk and did not look back. A weird feeling that she was rushing forward, walking toward knowledge, flittered into her brain, and as quickly, fluttered back out.
And yet...it had been a familiar feeling. She’d felt the very same when she’d been walking this sidewalk previously. Before the bus had changed her destiny.
Destiny?
Hmm... It felt right to think that. At least, nothing in her being screamed, No, you’re on the wrong path. Interesting. Maybe she had gathered a bit of her memory by retreading her footsteps? Albeit, memory she didn’t know how to decipher. A quest for knowledge? It meant nothing to her.
The man followed so close behind her she could hear the trod of his boots on the concrete sidewalk. His name was Blade? Interesting name. Sharp and dangerous. It certainly matched his demeanor.
And he was stalking her.
“I have a weapon!” she called out, and scrambled for the truck keys in her skirt pocket.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said firmly.
“Says the serial killer before he dumps the girl in the pit,” she called over her shoulder.
Where had she mined such macabre information? It was frustrating to Zenia that she knew things—weird, odd things—and yet, knew nothing about herself.
“A knowledge walk?” she whispered as she neared the truck. Her stalker’s black truck was parked across the street from it. The truck bed was loaded with lumber and tools. So he’d been telling the truth about helping the old man. He earned trust points for doing a kind thing. Right?
“I need to make sure you are safe,” Blade said as he strode beside her, intent on not leaving her alone. “If you’re not from around here, and you don’t remember anything, you could be in trouble.”
“I appreciate that,” she said, still walking. “Really. Kindness of strangers, and all that. But I don’t know what I have to worry about. Wait. The old lady. I should have checked on her.”
“She’s...fine.”
“You said that with a pause. As if maybe she’s not fine. As if maybe you’ve just murdered her.”
He managed to overtake her rapid steps and stop before her on the sidewalk, planting his boots and slamming his fists akimbo. “Will you quit with the serial killer bit? I didn’t kill...the old lady. She wasn’t in the house when I went in there. I promise. There were others inside. Others who mentioned you.”
“Me? Really?” She turned at the hip to eye the pink house, then swung back to Blade. She had to tilt her head to meet his gaze; he was a tall one. “Who were they? They must know me. Maybe they can tell me who I am.”
“They were demons.”
He said it without a smirk or a wink. And that pulled the cord on Zenia’s freak-out alarm.
She shoved the guy away and ran toward her truck. Keys in hands, she opened the door, slid in and started the ignition. She’d be damned if she was going to talk to him one moment longer and risk his kind of crazy.
“Demons?” she muttered. “Talk about attracting a weirdo. I’ll have to return later, after he’s gone. If someone in that house knows about me...”
She shifted into gear, and rolled quickly by him. He waved, but it was more of a dismissive gesture. In the rearview mirror, she saw him get in his truck and turn it around on the narrow street. She quickly turned at the intersection, hoping to lose him.
“Demons,” she whispered again. “Can’t be. No. I won’t believe it. He’s a crazy madman that I was lucky to get away from him. This is bad.” She pressed a palm against the thumping heartbeats under her rib cage. “Really bad. Now I’ve got to shake a serial killer. I don’t want to die. I can’t die. I don’t even know what name they’d put on the tombstone.”
The image of a fresh grave made her miss the next stop sign. A shout alerted her to the pair of teenaged girls who had stepped off the curb, and now shook their fists at the truck.
“Oops. Sorry! Concentrate, Zenia. You don’t want to be arrested for murder.”
She glanced in the rearview mirror. The big black truck still followed.
“But who might be more guilty of such a heinous crime?” she muttered to herself.
He’d said there were others in the house who had asked after her. What had happened to the old woman?
Chapter 3
She was the prettiest woman in Tangle Lake. Demons wanted her. And she had amnesia.
Blade had discreetly followed Zenia to the Blue Bass, a dive bar nestled at the edge of town. So the tail hadn’t been as discreet as he’d hoped. Not easy to be covert in a small town with only two main streets. It was nearing eight in the evening and he suspected she had tried to give him the slip, but again, one of the hazards of a small town was lack of privacy.
Normally, he was not a curious man. That was his brother Trouble’s mien. But it wasn’t every day he watched a sexy woman tread about in a dirt field, and then had to slay demons to keep them from going after her.
He wanted to know where the demons had come from and why. And if she thought to use an amnesia defense to cover her knowledge then she’d better think again. She had to be hiding something. If a person had amnesia, shouldn’t they not operate a motor vehicle, avoid drinking in a bar and most likely be lying in the hospital?
Yeah, she was definitely pulling something over on him. Yet if there was a slight chance she was on the up and up, he sensed she wasn’t safe.
He entered the bar, and stood by the door to take in the yawn of an establishment paneled in rough-cut timbers and decorated with fishing rods, neon beer signs and the mascot stuffed bass with the milky white eyes. At the bar, Zenia ordered a beer. She didn’t fit in this redneck outpost. She looked more like a wine kind of gal.
Currently, she held her own against Brock Olafson, the town asshole. The guy had been divorced twice, owned a tanning bed—which explained his weird orange leathery skin—and never slowed his Hummer for a stop sign unless he sighted a black-and-white nearby.
Asshole was try
ing to pick up the pretty woman. Blade’s fingers had curled into fists the moment Brock sat down next to her. He held his jaw soft, not tense. Years of practice had allowed him to remain calm while holding within the roiling need to attack. It was never wise to attack. At least, not with human witnesses.
On the other hand, if a man opened the door of a house and was greeted by three demons, by all means, attack.
Brock slid his hand up the back of Zenia’s T-shirt. She slapped at him and shifted over to the next bar stool. Blade could hear her politely say, “Leave me alone. I just want to finish this drink in peace.”
“I’ll buy you another,” Brock said, shoving thick fingers over his short blond crew cut.
Before the asshole could slide onto the vacant bar stool, Blade pushed his palm onto the bar between the two of them. The bartender nodded at Blade and poured him a shot of Krupnik, a honey-sweet vodka the owner kept in stock for him.
Brock stepped away from the bar, muttering something about weirdos under his breath, but Blade kept an awareness of the man’s location in his peripheral vision as he tilted back the shot.
“Despite his rudeness, he did pin you correctly,” Zenia said and sipped her beer.
“How’s that?”
“You’re a weirdo. And I’ll ask you to leave me alone just like I did the other guy.”
“Sorry,” he said, and pushed the shot glass forward. “Did I interrupt something promising?”
She snickered and when she looked at him, he was momentarily fixed to her green eyes. She was so exotic and colorful, this memory-less woman who didn’t seem to belong, no matter the setting. And she smelled like the long grass and flowers he’d followed her through but an hour earlier. Blade lost track of Brock.
“Thanks,” she said. “But you can leave now.”
He sat on a bar stool and propped his elbows before him. “I’m not a weirdo,” he offered.
“You accused me, a person you don’t even know, of being a demon. Your hair is blue. You look like a goth. And you followed me here like some kind of serial—er, stalker. In my book that’s considered weird.”
The bartender poured another shot for Blade. He swallowed the vodka with a wince. Good stuff. He had a difficult time getting drunk. Blame it on his genetics. Being vampire and faery did come in handy when he wanted to hold his liquor. The only time he got drunk was when drinking from someone who had consumed whiskey. Whiskey-spiked blood always went straight to his head.
“It’s black,” he offered regarding his hair. “The neon light from that sign over the bar makes it blue.”
“If that’s your story. But I did see it in the sunlight. It’s blue.”
It wasn’t. Well, it sort of was. It was the faery in him. It sheened his black hair blue. It was a damned sight better than the pink that donned his sister, Daisy Blu’s, head.
“And yours is copper,” he offered. “Like a precious metal that someone steals to hock for as much cash as they can manage. It suits you. Looks great with your skin tone. Sorry.” He shoved the empty shot glass toward the bartender. “I don’t say things like that to women—”
“You mean compliment them? Are you flirting with me? Trying to pick up a demon?”
She was going to work that one until he surrendered. So he would. But only because she was pretty.
“Listen, can we start over? I’m Blade.” He offered his hand to her and she stared at it. “I live about ten miles out of town near the Darkwood.”
“That sounds...dark.” She smirked and he wondered if she might be a little tipsy. But when she took his hand and shook it, he felt a good firm clasp warm his fingers. “Zenia. No last name. At least, not that I recall. I live nowhere, or probably somewhere. But you know, Amnesia Chick.”
“So, Zenia, who is only recently Zenia, what’s up with that? Did you used to be Martha or Gertrude?”
This time she laughed out loud. Blade heard Brock’s huff on the other side of the pool table. The asshole tossed a dart at the board nailed on the wall—and missed.
When Zenia looked at him now he decided she was assessing him. A better risk than Brock? He should hope so. And then, he knew he was not.
“For all I know, I probably could have been Gertrude,” she said.
“You don’t look like a Gertie. The hair is all wrong. Gertrude likes curls and something shorter. Maybe even a blue rinse.”
“You could be right. Okay, so weirdness aside, I like you, Blade.” Her long dark lashes fluttered with a look over his face. “I’ll reserve judgment on your weirdness quotient until I get to know you better.”
He was about to say that she would be better off not liking him, but instead he simply smiled. A rare thing for him. Just ask any of his brothers or sister. The dark silent one put people off with his stoic expression. And for good reason.
He’d learned that keeping his head down was best for all. And yet, his surprising curiosity for this woman demanded satisfaction.
“No memory?” he asked. “How did that happen? Or do you know?”
“I think I only lost personal stuff. I know things. It’s as if I know crazy stuff like Russia’s population is almost one hundred and fifty million. The main ingredient in miso soup is dashi. And it would take the average person about eighteen months to traverse the wall of China. But I don’t know my name, who I am or where I came from. That’s why I’m here in Tangle Lake. I was hit by a bus in front of that old woman’s house.”
Blade was about to order another shot when he paused. “Seriously? Hit by a bus?”
“Yes. I was walking out of a yard—probably that old woman’s yard—and onto the street, and—bam! No memory of my life after that.”
“So you woke up in the hospital? They must have taken you to Unity. Closest hospital from here.”
“No. I, uh, stood up and walked away.” She offered a sheepish shrug. “Never saw a doctor.”
Blade put up two fingers when the bartender tilted the vodka bottle over his glass. This information was worthy of a double shot.
“It’s been a week,” she said. “I thought about going to the police, but—I don’t know, something inside me said they wouldn’t be able to help. So I hitched a ride into the Twin Cities and have been staying at homeless shelters, trying to make some cash to survive. A girl’s gotta eat, you know?”
“They have homes to stay in for people who have amnesia. Maybe.” What did he know? “If they don’t exist, they should. You should see a doctor.”
“I’m fine.” She bent her head and brushed aside her hair with a curl of delicate fingers over her ear. “I know it sounds weird, but I think the bus sort of...nudged me to pursue a different life. When it hit me, I was flung against the street pole and banged my head. Had a bruise right here.” She tapped her temple. “But that faded within a few hours.”
A hit that could take away one’s memory had to have left a big bruise. Blade had a hard time believing it had faded so quickly. There wasn’t a mar on her skin. Another reason to doubt her story. And she could be allied with demons. What game was she playing?
“So here I am.” She narrowed her gaze on him. “Do you know me?”
He had to chuckle at that hopeful question. “Never seen you before.”
“I had to ask. I’m not sure if I’m from Tangle Lake. Everywhere I’ve been no one seems to recognize me. Friendliest person so far has been that asshole behind us tossing the darts.”
“Name’s Brock Olafson, and you should stay away from him if you value your safety.”
“Thanks. I got that ‘stay away’ feeling from him.” She sipped the beer and wiped off the foam moustache. “I thought visiting the scene of the accident would make something click in my brain, you know?”
“Well, if you want me to hit you upside the head...?”
“Does that work? The knowledge I have on that is it’s mainly been used in children’s cartoons and tear-jerker love stories.”
“I was kidding. So were you hoping asshole would pay your tab?�
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“I, er...” She shrugged and focused on her drink.
Blade tugged out his wallet and laid enough cash on the bar to cover his and her tab. “On me,” he said. “If you don’t have memory, you must not have a job.”
“Nope. Not that I know of. There could be a cubicle that’s empty right now. Is the whole office wondering where I am? Do I have a big project due any day now?”
She didn’t look like a cubicle drone, but Blade couldn’t decide what kind of work she might have done. Her exotic coloring and flowing clothes hinted at a bohemian nature. And those sorts were usually musicians and artists. Maybe?
Why not go to the police? Her story just didn’t jibe.
“If I can ask, how do you survive?”
“I spent a couple days hawking raspberries at a farm stand just off Highway 35 and earned enough to eat on. And I have the truck.”
“You remembered you own a truck?”
“Uh, no. It was running and no one was using it, so...” She winced and tilted back another swallow of beer.
She’d stolen a truck. Blade was impressed. Pretty and devious. The woman had survival skills, that was for sure.
But she’d been hit by a bus and had stood up and walked away? Was she something beyond human? If her story was the truth, she had to be. He didn’t scent his own species on her. He could also scent when werewolves or demons were around. Faeries were a challenge.
He got nothing from her. Just plain human. A human who had attracted a shifter demon who had claimed she was their own.
“You’re not afraid the cops will remind you that you don’t own a truck?”
“I’m not sure what fear is, actually.” She offered her hand again to shake. “I should get going. I’m tired. It was nice to talk to a kind person for a while. Blade Saint-Pierre, right? Maybe we’ll run into each other again?”
“I’m in town a lot.” He almost offered his services if she needed anything, but...he’d learned his lesson with pretty women. They were nice to look at, touch and make love to. But getting to know them and caring about them? Wrong, just wrong. “See you, Zenia.”
She strolled out of the bar with a wave to him. And Blade remained to keep an eye on Brock.
