Voracious Vixens, 13 Novels of Sexy Horror and Hot Paranormal Romance

by Travis Luedke

  “Pryor Cane, your behavior will not be tolerated. You have been given many warnings, and I’m afraid there is only so much we will take from you,” he vows.

  I should be paying attention to his words, but the quiver of his round belly distracts me. It quakes every time he speaks.

  “Principal Walsh, I wasn’t the one who started the fight. Why am I the only one in here?”

  “Everyone in your science lab said you started it,” he barks.

  “You ever thought maybe they’re lying?”

  “Why would everyone lie about you?”

  “Because they all want to kiss Harper Kingsley’s ass. And she’s pissed that I’m not lining up to do the same. That’s why she knocked my project over.”

  “She says she did that by accident and that she apologized.”

  “She was smirking the whole time. I’m telling you, she did that shit on purpose.”

  “Ms. Cane, we will not allow that language in here!”

  “Sorry.” I pause. “But Harper and her minions are out to get me. They don’t...like me.”

  “And why don’t they like you?”

  “Because I don’t worship at the altar of Harper. She’s a snobby, plastic cliché and I hate her.”

  I know, I know, I sound like every other girl to Principal Walsh, but it’s not like that. I mean not really.

  “Pryor, you can’t behave like this. Why don’t you try to fit in? It will make things easier for you.”

  “I have a better idea,” I reply.

  I start to Bind his wave. His level of fear begins to increase. Mr. Walsh’s eyes begin to widen in terror. His lips start quivering and his hands begin to shake. He stands up, suddenly fearful that something harmful may be in the chair. I stand up too so that we are both eye level. I Bind his levels up another notch. Then suddenly, Mr. Walsh is frozen in place.

  That can’t be me because Binding doesn’t cause time to stop. I look outside the window and see that everyone is frozen: the deliverymen across the street, a couple mid-kiss, and a dog with his leg over the fire hydrant. They are all frozen.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say before I turn around to face her.

  She didn’t come alone. She brought my father. Great. Now the two of them stand there looking at me as if I’ve killed a puppy with my bare hands.

  My mother, Emerson Baxter-Cane, stands before me looking radiant as usual. She takes the hood off her head and reveals her flowing raven hair and sparkling purple eyes. Her skin is nearly translucent. She has perfect bone structure and a slim figure. I bet humans would be shocked that Death looks so good.

  Yes, my mom is the Angel of Death; meaning she oversees who lives and dies. She doesn’t have a long cane with a blade on the end of it. She doesn’t wander around howling or anything. But yes, she could kill you with little more than a thought.

  She is part of a Council. The Council was formed by Omnis, who created, well...everything. But Omnis wanted a separate group to be in charge of maintaining the balance of good and evil. So, he came up with the Council: Time, Fate, and my mom, Death.

  My father, Marcus, has been called among the most gorgeous of angels. He has been appointed the sexiest Guardian alive by angel gossip blogs all over the world. It’s so not right.

  Okay, okay, to be fair, I guess he is kind of good looking. He has deep brown eyes with gold colored specks. He’s over six feet tall and in top shape due to his never ending battles with evil. My parents look no older than twenty-two. Angels hardly ever age. But while they may look like hot young models, trust me, they are very much “parents.”

  And they are parents who have perfected the “I’m disappointed in you, young lady” head tilt. They both have a way of saying my name that makes me stop dead in my tracks. And they somehow always know when I’m up to something. Seriously, somehow they always know.

  “What were you doing to Mr. Walsh?” my mom asks, nodding her now hoodless head in his direction.

  “Nothing,” I reply, looking away.

  “That didn’t look like nothing, Pryor. He’s terrified. You were Binding him,” my dad accuses.

  “A little,” I admit, avoiding eye contact.

  “You could have killed him,” she says.

  “I wasn’t going to hurt Principal Walsh. I just wanted him to shut up. He was going on about conforming to the status quo, and frankly that’s unacceptable behavior for an educator. I was doing humanity a favor by rendering him silent.”

  “Why were you in his office in the first place?” Mom asks.

  I don’t reply. I just look out the window at the dog, frozen mid pee.

  Man, I wonder if that hurts...

  “Hey, don’t zone out on us. Why are you in the principal’s office yet again?” she asks.

  “I had a fight,” I confess.

  “Oh, Pryor, honey, this can’t keep happening,” Mom reminds me.

  “You don’t understand. They started it,” I try to reason.

  “That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” Dad says.

  “I didn’t Pull her. I just punched her in the face a few times. She has a plastic surgeon on speed dial. She’ll be fine,” I assure them.

  “That’s not the point. You have to stop resorting to violence,” my mom says.

  “Says the woman who kills for a living,” I remark.

  “Little girl, watch how you speak to me. I am your mother and I will pluck both your tongue and wings if you don’t change your tone. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes,” I reply reluctantly.

  “Yes, what?” she asks.

  “Yes, I hear you, Mom.”

  “You wanted to go to a human school. The new Human Incentive says that angels must live on earth for a portion of their lives. But it doesn’t say that you have to go to a human school. You wanted that, not us,” she reminds me.

  “I don’t want to go to school in Daraquin; the city of angels is not the right place for me. Everyone there wanted to be my friend just because my mother is Death and my father is a First Guardian. Everyone there is so phony. I hate them all.”

  “You hate all of them?” my mom pushes.

  “Yeah,” I reply after a brief hesitation.

  “What about Aaden?”

  Please, please stop talking about Aaden.

  “Aaden-Grey is just some guy. He doesn’t even matter. He’s like...whatever.”

  “Honey, you two have a thing for each other,” my mom reminds me.

  “YOU TWO HAVE A WHAT?” my dad says in full heart attack mode.

  “Really Mom, right in front of him?” I shout.

  “I’m sorry, honey, but he was going to find out,” she says gently.

  “Emmy, you knew our fourteen-year-old child asked out a boy and you kept it from me?” dad accuses.

  “Marcus, he is not just a boy; Aaden is the son of one of your best friends.”

  “Yeah, he is Rage’s son. That also means he’s half demon and full of hormones. I don’t want our daughter...dating.”

  “We’re not dating,” I protest.

  “Don’t run from him because he’s half demon, Pryor. That’s not fair,” my mom says.

  “That’s not the reason,” I reply.

  Dear Omnis, you are the God of angels and all of humanity. Please, just kill me now.

  “Why are you trying to push them together?” my father says.

  “I’m not. I just know what happens when you try to keep two people apart. That’s what happened to us and it just made us closer,” she replies.

  “So you want Aaden and our firstborn to be together?” he asks, dumbfounded.

  “I don’t know. Maybe they should be together. They have been around each other since they were babies,” Mom replies.

  “We are not gonna be together, okay?” I bark at them.

  “Why? Did something happen?” my Mom asks.

  “No.”

  “C’mon, honey, talk to us. What happened with you and Aaden?” my mom pushes.

  “Nothing.” />
  “There had to be something.”

  “Nothing—”

  “Carrot, what happened?” my Mom asks.

  “Please, please stop calling me that,” I beg her.

  “Okay, I’m sorry. Now, tell us what happened with you and Aaden—”

  “I ASKED HIM OUT AND HE SAID NO.”

  I open the door and storm out. I run though the hallway of frozen students and I hear my dad call after me. I keep going until I hear him call me by my full name.

  “Pryor Reese Cane, I said stop,” my father orders.

  A cold chill races down my body. When my dad takes his First Guardian voice, it scares me. There’s a certainty and firmness in his tone that could halt armies. In fact it has done just that, many, many times.

  I stand still. He comes over to me and places a hand on my shoulder. I lower my head. I don’t like making eye contact when I feel like hell. I just want to crawl into a hole and be left alone. He lifts my head up gently and looks into my grey eyes.

  When he looks at me, he sees his firstborn: his precious Pryor or ‘Reesie,’ as he likes to call me. To him, I’m the little girl who got his mother’s flaming red hair and his wife’s eyes.

  He sees the little girl who killed demons from her crib but was still afraid of the flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz. He sees the little girl who tampered with her uncle Tony’s mixtures and ended up with polka-dot wings for a week.

  The thing is, I’m not a little girl. I’m a grown-up. Okay, okay, not all the way, but I’m close. I’m fourteen years old and unlike my dad, I don’t see anything cute or adorable about me. I’m slender, 5’6, and have fire red hair.

  I have tried my whole life to change my hair color but it never works. No matter what hair dye I use, my hair always reverts back to the red. It’s like a super freaky curse. It’s one of the things that make it hard to blend in.

  “Pryor, I want to talk to you,” Dad says.

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  “No, I want to talk to the real you. My child. Not the girl you’re pretending to be.”

  “Dad, no. C’mon,” I moan.

  “You know I don’t like talking to you when you have them on,” he replies.

  I sigh and pop out my grey contacts. Now I stand before him with my natural eyes: my mom’s eyes. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were a light, misty sort of purple. But no, my eyes are actually violet. I have stared at them in mirrors for years and I still can’t believe just how purple they really are. And just like my mom’s eyes, they get darker depending on my mood.

  So, imagine trying to blend in when you have red hair and purple eyes. It’s a freaking nightmare; no one genuinely wants to be my friend. And my thoughts on that are as follows: they can suck it.

  Contrary to popular belief, not all teens want to fit in. We all don’t want to belong and we all damn sure don’t give a damn what others think of us.

  I handled the teasing pretty well but then they started attacking me. In the Angel world no one attacked me because they weren’t stupid. I mean if you go after the daughter of Death, you better know what you’re doing.

  However, in the human world, they have no idea what powers I have. To them my wings are invisible. That is unless they know, in which case they will appear.

  “I hate that you hide your eyes. Your eyes are as unique and precious as you are, Reesie” my Dad says studying my face.

  My parents gave me the middle name “Reese” in honor of their departed friend and teammate who died on their very first mission.

  “I don’t want to be unique, Dad. I want to be normal. I want to be...nothing special.”

  “That’s never going to happen, honey, you know that,” he replies.

  “You don’t know what it’s like to have you and Mom as parents. You can’t understand the pressure, Dad.”

  “I’m a First Guardian: all I know is pressure,” he reminds me.

  “Yes, but there have been other cycles of Guardians. But being a Noru...there’re only five of us in the world,” I reply.

  Suddenly my dad’s face darkens; something I just said disturbs him greatly. In order to become a Guardian, you have to be a human who died trying to help someone you loved. The story of how a human died and became a Guardian is called a Core. And that story is always gruesome and tragic. That is to say it takes a lot to scare or frazzle my dad. So reading the alarm on his face is unsettling.

  “Dad, what is it? What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing...nothing. You need to go back to class,” he says.

  “Are you sure nothing is wrong?” I ask again.

  “Yes, everything is fine,” he replies.

  Why is my dad lying to me?

  *******

  My parents scold me for what seems like another hundred years. Then they do the worst thing a parent could possibly do: They refuse to sign me out of school. So I suffer through the day. When school is finally over, I race outside and find Randy waiting for me near the football field. Randy Westfield is my best friend and the reason I’m not in the psych ward.

  He gets what it’s like to be on the outside. And he’s okay with not being Mr. Popular. Well, mostly. I think we always meet by the football field because it’s the closest he can get to making the football team.

  Randy is not the toughest guy around. He’s tall and on the scrawny side. He wears glasses and has a mess of dusty blonde hair that refuses to be tamed. He has a few pimples that never go away no matter what medication his dermatologist prescribes him. He stands a few yards away, backpack in hand, shaking his head at me disapprovingly.

  “Pryor, Pryor, Pryor. What am I going to do with you?” he jokes.

  “My hand slipped and landed on Harper’s face—a few dozen times. Guess I’m really clumsy,” I reply, teasing.

  “It was all anyone could talk about. Frankly, young lady, I’m disappointed,” he says seriously.

  “You are?” I ask.

  “Yeah, you should have texted me. You know I hate to miss your fights. I paid for season tickets and I expected to get front row seats.”

  “I promise, Randy, next time I will send out an alert.”

  We start walking down the New York City streets. We’re so used to the hustle and bustle of the city, we hardly notice the parade of people whizzing by us.

  Randy takes a pill out of his pocket and pops it into his mouth.

  “What’s this one called?” I ask.

  “Pro-Buff.”

  I burst out laughing, and he pushes me lightly to get me to stop.

  “It’s guaranteed to work this time,” he vows.

  “You know they are just scams, Randy.”

  “No, not this one. It was endorsed by this famous actor guy.”

  “Okay, what actor guy?” I ask.

  “He does all those action hero films overseas.”

  Randy has been trying to gain weight and bulk up since I met him a year ago. He takes a bunch of these crazy pills, shakes, and vitamins.

  They all promise to give him muscle mass and strength. So far all the pills have managed to do is take hair off his arms, turn his lips green and, my favorite, make him cross-eyed.

  That happened last month. It lasted about a week. I laughed so hard I was in serious danger of passing out.

  “This one is different; it generates cells or something,” Randy pushes.

  “So you’re going to turn into Spiderman?” I tease.

  “Maybe. Then I could scale tall buildings and cause havoc in New York.”

  “If you had super powers, you’d only use them to get laid.”

  “Well yeah, what do you think I’m scaling walls for?”

  We share a laugh just as a group of guys come from around the corner. We know them from school. They look like they are straight out of a bad after-school movie. There’s no need to describe them to you individually.

  Let’s just say there are five of them: Stupid, Brawny, Idiot, Stupid Jr., and Loser. The fact is none of them have had a single thoug
ht in their heads that wasn’t put there by someone else. They block our way and prevent us from getting by. There’s a smile on their collective face that tells me they are determined to be assholes. Randy looks at me, troubled.

  “Um...could you guys...excuse us?” Randy says, not making eye contact.

  “Why don’t you try going around us?” Loser says with malice in his eyes.

  Randy takes my hand and we try to go around, only to have them block our path once again.

  Randy flashes me a warning. He jokes about it, but he hates when I fight. He’s the kind of guy who avoids confrontation as much as he can. Don’t get me wrong; he’s not a coward. He would never take off and leave me with these ‘Vin Diesel’ knockoffs. Still, he would rather we cross the street. So we try and they block us yet again.

  “This ‘bully in the school yard’ crap is getting really old,” I warn them.

  ‘Brawny’ shakes his head and sneers as he talks.

  “You know what confuses me?”

  “Counting to ten?” I reply.

  “What confuses me is why an okay looking girl like you would be caught with this pimple-faced freak,” he says.

  The others smile, enjoying the look of defeat on Randy’s face.

  “Randy has pimples so you call him pimple face? Really? That’s as far as your imagination can go?” I ask.

  “It’s fine, Pryor, I don’t care,” Randy insists.

  “You want us to be more creative, then fine. Your friend is a freak who has to jerk himself off because no girl would ever touch him. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s still a virgin.”

  The group starts to laugh and move in closer. I step up to the leader, AKA “Loser,” and look him straight in the eye.

  “That’s much better. But you guys are not quite there. Say something really awful about Randy. Something that really shows how much of a prick you really are,” I challenge him.

  The army of rejects is taken by surprise and so is Randy. They can’t believe I’m encouraging them to insult my best friend. We have only known each other for a year, but Randy and I clicked from day one. And yet here I am, daring them to talk crap about him.

  See, the thing is I need them to say something really offensive so my parents won’t be too mad when I beat the hell out of the humans before me. The jackpot would be if they touched me. Then I could break a bone or two. At least that’s how I see it.