Edge of Night

by Ann Gimpel

  His brows were drawn together, and he looked serious. “I see you got my note,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” She balanced on the balls of her feet, arousal fading as she wondered if she was going to have to fight him to the death. Maybe she was supposed to die last night, and he was planning to finish her off. Or try to. The wolf part of her liked the prospect of a brawl, and she smothered a growl so the chairman wouldn’t hear it.

  The corners of his mouth twisted downward into half a frown, and he turned the full force of his gaze her way. Because her survival might depend on it, Miranda gathered the tattered edges of her frayed nerves together and really looked at him.

  Her mouth fell open. “Your eyes—” she began, pointing. She yanked her hand down when she realized she was being rude, and to her boss no less.

  “Yes, my dear. What about them?”

  “They’re silver,” she gasped. “N-not blue.” And then she put two and two together.

  “Contact lenses.” He laughed, holding out his arms. “After all, no one has silver eyes. No one human, anyway. Come to me, Miranda. You’re all I’ve thought about since last night.”

  She fell against him, sensation roiling through her as her body pressed against his. He bit her neck and they tumbled to the floor, her skirt up around her waist. A zipper rasped, and she closed a hand around his ridged flesh, guiding him inside her. Everything happened fast, but time skidded to a halt once they were joined. Gasping and moaning, she bit him back, body bucking beneath him. Fur sprouted as her passion caught fire but, for once, she let the half-transformation run its course. Lucifer already knew about her dual nature. There was nothing to hide.

  “They said you liked boys,” she managed when she could talk again.

  “They say lots of things,” he replied. After a hesitation, he added, “We say lots of things to keep our secrets.”

  Sitting, she pushed hair out of her face. “What about Joe?” she asked, curious now that her passion had spent itself.

  “He wasn’t one of us.” Lucifer shrugged. “He told me he was, but he wasn’t. So he had to go. Never would tell me how he found out about Rubicon International. Only reason he lived as long as he did was I was trying to pry the information out of him.” Pushing to his feet, Lucifer disappeared through a door. She heard water running. When he returned, he handed her a warm, damp washcloth.

  Understanding dawned as she cleaned her sticky thighs. “The company is all...those like us?”

  He nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  A low growl escaped her. “Did you find whomever compromised us?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Still working on that. Let’s not talk about unpleasant things just yet, Miranda.” Dropping to the floor next to her, he draped an arm across her shoulders. “You asked about Rubicon— It’s not like we can advertise for lycans, but there is, shall we say, a natural sorting process. I wasn’t even quite certain about you—until last night that is. You were quite careful to keep your wolf nature under wraps.”

  “So were you,” she countered. “Who would’ve guessed Lucifer doubled as the head of Rubicon International?”

  He quirked an eyebrow, and light dancing behind his silvery eyes warmed her down to her toes.

  Miranda eyed him speculatively. “What happens next?”

  “You become a part of the inner circle, and whole new worlds will gradually open before you. We hold incredible power. You’ve barely begun to scratch the surface of what we can do.”

  “Like where you talk in my mind?” She found she was intrigued. “And I can answer that way?”

  “Uh-huh. That’s one of the things you’ll learn more about. One of the lesser lycan magics, actually.”

  “Will I still be working?”

  “Oh yes, my dear. But that can wait for a bit.” He smiled lasciviously, part wolf, part human.

  She felt as if she’d come home.

  When she looked at that smile, she knew exactly what he wanted. A lewd grin of her own formed on her lips. Sex with Lucifer as human was even better than it had been last night. If he wanted more, well that could certainly be arranged. For once, her wolf and human natures were in absolute agreement and she howled, but softly, as he pulled her close.

  ~~~~~~~~

  Miranda’s story doesn’t end here. If you enjoyed this short story, which was originally published by Sam’s Dot Publications in February 2012, you can read more about Miranda and Rubicon International in Garen and Lars, books one and two of the Rubicon International Series. Also available in print and audio. Here’s a link for more information.

  The Oracle

  “Cassandra! Up, you lazy slut. Up, I say. Right now.”

  She cringed away from the rough male voice, but the expected prod in her bruised ribs from his hob-nailed boot didn’t happen. He was bending closer to her, though, the cloyingly rancid odor from his unwashed body and rotting teeth almost unbearable. She buried her nose in the crook of one arm, trying to block it out.

  “There’s people that’ll be here soon. Get up. You’re scarcely presentable.”

  “I am up.” She rolled over, but came up short as her manacles and chain reached their limit. She scowled at her captor. “If you cared about me being presentable, you wouldn’t keep me on a chain.

  He glared right back. “Shooting daggers out of those green eyes won’t help a bit. You’re my property. I can treat you however I want.”

  “Are you going to unlock me?” she demanded, curling her mouth into a snarl. “Not much I can do chained up like a dog.”

  Gretch rocked back on his heels and shot an appraising glance her way. “Will you promise to behave?”

  “If you’re asking whether I’m going to run away again, the answer is no.”

  The whipping he’d administered after catching her sneaking down to the riverbank, manacles and all, still bloomed bright in her mind. Iron dimmed her power. It was still there, just much harder to access. She muffled a snort. No one realized iron’s potential until a misogynistic cleric in the fifteen hundreds bound witches in chains as an experiment—and was delighted with the results.

  Her life hadn’t been worth much since then. Not much at all. Inner laughter chimed bitterly. Witch trials! Hah! All they’d provided was a handy excuse to hang or burn mostly-innocent women, so their falsely-devout husbands could find someone younger or prettier.

  Not that she was a witch, but she did hold magic within her, and the same principles applied.

  She eyed Gretch. “Thought we were in a hurry. People coming and all that.”

  Pulling a large key from a filthy pocket, Gretch reached for her wrist. He inserted the key and tugged on the iron bracelet. Rusty hinges groaned then popped open. She rubbed her wrist and mutely held the other out for him.

  Gretch held onto her wrist for too long once she was free, but she knew better than to pull away. The man was a bully, and she didn’t want to give him an excuse to hurt her.

  “Get behind the wagon and wash up,” he hissed. “You have straw in your hair, and your face is dirty. Don’t try anything. I have sharp ears. You’re mine, and don’t you ever forget it.”

  Anger surfaced, but she reined it in. She wanted to scream at him. Rake her nails down his face and tell him his entire body was riddled with lice, and he smelled so bad he turned her stomach.

  Bastard! How dare he complain about her being dirty? He reveled in filth.

  Cassandra stumbled to her feet still rubbing her wrists. They burned from the iron manacles. When she was chained it felt as if her skin were on fire wherever the unclean metal touched her. Gold now, or silver, or even bronze. Those metals were worthy of her. But iron? Laying eyes on the bucket of sour water behind the wagon, she recoiled. Why’d he have to use the same bucket he used to pick up horse shit?

  “Gretch,” she called.

  “Your highness?” Sarcasm dripped through his tones.

  He wouldn’t come around the wagon unbidden. He was afraid if he saw her unclothed, she’d ensorcel
him, and he wasn’t far wrong. That was how she’d gotten away from the last two men who captured her. Once they spilled their seed in her, they were hers, and it became a simple enough matter to steal a few coins and fade away unnoticed.

  Maybe, just maybe, that might work here too. She’d seen the bulge in his breeches as he gawked at her, lying helpless in her chains. Once she’d even caught him watering the ground with his semen. Though she waited for Aphrodite to strike him down for such sacrilege, it hadn’t happened.

  Were the old gods still there? Their responses to things seemed desultory these days. Goddess knew they hadn’t answered any of her entreaties.

  “I need clean water, Gretch. I can’t wash in horse shit. How about if you take me down to the river?” She held her breath. Given the choice between escorting her to the river or dumping, then refilling, the heavy bucket, she hoped he’d chose the river.

  He might order her to wash in the fetid water and be done with it. Once when she’d complained, he’d upended the bucket over her head. That earned him censure from the gods in the form of a sudden lightning storm, but she was sure he didn’t connect the two events.

  “Are you decent?”

  “Yes, Gretch. All my clothes are still on,” she replied waspishly.

  He poked his head around the corner of the garish wagon emblazoned with, Mr. Smythe’s Traveling Wonders. “I’ll take you to the river. If you run, I’ll have the law on you for a witch, and you’ll be hung. Do you understand me?” Watery blue eyes looked at her through stringy black hair that fell in greasy strands around his smallpox-scarred face. He was on the short side for a man, but surprisingly strong with a wiry, fireplug build.

  “I understand. Let’s go.” Cassandra pushed her heavy red hair back over her shoulders and drew herself up to her full height of close to six feet, before setting off at a brisk pace for the creek. She longed for the feel of Demeter’s clean water soothing her skin, washing away iron residue that still tingled unpleasantly.

  “Thanks.” She bit off the word. “I give you my word I won’t run.”

  “Your word doesn’t mean much.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Witches always lie.”

  She rounded on him, blocking the path. Anger raced along her nerves, hot enough to scorch silk. “I am not a witch. How many times must we go through this? You advertise me as an oracle. You’ve seen that at least some of the things I predict come true.”

  And I’m destined to not have anyone believe a thing that I say, she finished silently.

  “No more talk, witch. I’m right behind you.” He crooked two fingers in the sign against evil.

  Shoulders sagging, she headed back down the worn path to the creek. As soon as she got to the water, she slipped out of her ill-fitting boots then slid a threadbare sweater off her shoulders.

  Red splotched his face, and his breathing quickened. “Just wash your hands and face. Forget your body.”

  Cassandra clutched the sides of her thin dress and turned to face him, noting his arousal with practiced eyes. “You don’t have to look,” she said and unbuttoned the garment slowly before slithering out of it and letting it pool on the ground at her feet.

  Gretch was panting now, and she turned toward the life-sustaining clean water. Wading in, she crouched in the shallows but kept her back to him. That way if he wanted to violate Aphrodite’s precepts and spill himself on the ground, he could delude himself she didn’t know.

  Cassandra cupped water in her hands and cleaned herself. The water was cool but not so cold as to create discomfort. How long since she’d had a proper bath? Not since she’d been with Gretch. That was certain. How long had that been, anyway? One month? No, probably closer to two, or even three.

  She’d lived so long she stopped keeping track of time eons ago. What wretched luck that Apollo’s curse included immortality. Or had that come along with her gift of prophecy? She’d never been quite certain. Not that it mattered.

  Another problem was that while she could see everyone else’s future, her own remained stubbornly dark.

  She waded farther into the stream until she found a deep pool. Dropping her head back, she used sand to scrub the grease from her thick hair. It felt utterly decadent to shed the accumulated layers of grime. She sent a hasty prayer up to Demeter and heard a muffled gasp from the bank.

  Gretch had apparently reached his climax.

  She took her time rinsing the last of the sand out of her hair to give him a few minutes to get himself back together. Just to be mean, she flashed a tantalizing glimpse of one curved breast before backing out of the creek. If she could find a way to coax Aphrodite’s blessing from him, she’d be gone from here. And a hell of a lot more careful traveling the byways in witch-riddled New England from here on in.

  She cast a sultry glance over one shoulder, but he wasn’t facing her anymore. Damn! Maybe next time she could plan better. If he ever let her bathe again. Cassandra wrung water out of her hair and pulled her dirty clothes back on. At least he didn’t chivvy her about hurrying. Nor did he turn around, waiting until she drew even with him to walk back to his wagon.

  * * *

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, come visit the Oracle. She never lies. Ask her what you will. She’s bound by the gods to tell you nothing but the truth. Come on up. Don’t be shy...”

  Cassandra, her hair still damp, wore the buckskin dress with fringe and beads that Gretch forced her to don for these occasions. “But I’ll look like an Indian,” she’d protested the first time she saw it. “They know nothing of predicting the future. Besides, it doesn’t fit me. It’s too small.”

  He told her he wasn’t about to spend money on material so she could make a new dress. He’d shut up after that, but she plucked the rest of the tale from his mind.

  An exiled Pawnee squaw wandered through his camp a few months before. He had his way with her, starved and beat her, then buried her after she died. This was her dress, and Cassandra shuddered every time she put it on. The dead woman’s sorrow still clung to the well-chewed leather and made the dress feel like a shroud.

  The crowd was smaller tonight. Maybe only twenty-five people. She glanced at them, scrying their secrets as plainly as if they’d been stenciled on their foreheads. A heavily pregnant woman waddled forward, swatting at a slender twit of a man grabbing for her arm.

  “I want to know if I’m carrying a son this time,” she demanded. “Nothing but daughters so far...three of ’em. We’ve nobody to help in the fields.” She hesitated. “Oracle, if this,” she flicked at the bulge of her belly, “is another daughter. What must I do to have sons?”

  “May I touch you?” Cassandra inquired.

  The woman’s eyes widened, then her head jerked forward in hesitant acquiescence.

  Laying a gentle hand on the woman’s swollen abdomen, Cassandra closed her eyes as she called to Athena, asking for her wisdom. Under her questing hand the infant rolled over in its watery home, kicking softly.

  The corners of Cassandra’s mouth flickered upward. “’Tis a boy,” she said. “But it will be a difficult birth. He is turned within you. You’ll need a midwife. Your time will come upon you sooner than you expect. Within a fortnight. If a skilled woman isn’t nearby, you’ll need to travel to find one.”

  “Thank you for the news.” The woman placed a coin in Cassandra’s hand. “There’s no need for a wise woman. You’re mistaken. All my other births were quick and easy.”

  “You’d do well to heed me,” Cassandra implored. “If you don’t, your son will be stillborn.”

  White showed around the woman’s pupils. Her nostrils flared, and she made the sign against evil as she faded back into the crowd.

  Destined to speak the truth, except those who hear it won’t believe me...

  A man stepped forward. He was well-dressed, and handsome in a rakish sort of way. Brown curls framed a strong-boned face, and clear, gray eyes twinkled above several days’ growth of stubble on his cheeks an
d chin.

  “Louisa.” He looked right at her while he called her by a name not hers. “What on earth are you doing here, love. I’ve been looking for you for months now. Please come home. The children miss you.”

  Gretch stepped out of the shadows. “You think this woman is your mistress, sir?” He sounded incredulous. “She didn’t tell me she had kin anywhere. And I did ask, yes I did.”

  The other man swung around with his hand extended and glanced at the wagon. “Smythe, is it? Louisa isn’t my mistress. She’s my wife.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “She has a bit of trouble now and then. Forgets who she is and wanders off.”

  “And you are?” Gretch asked disbelievingly, his rheumy blue eyes narrowed as he took in the expensive cut of the other man’s clothing and his hand-tooled leather boots.

  “Cameron Tracy,” the stranger replied, his hand still extended.

  Ignoring the proffered hand, Gretch turned toward Cassandra. “Do you recognize this man?”

  She never seen him before in the entirety of her ridiculously long life. Cassandra tried to peer inside the stranger, but for once she couldn’t see a thing.

  Where will I be better off? Ach, I know what I’ve got here, and it’s not very damn much.

  “Cameron.” She beamed warmly and threw herself into his arms. “What a lovely surprise.”

  Pretty close to the truth. After all, whoever he is, he’s quite the surprise.

  Questing outward as she clasped the tall stranger, her gift ran hard against an iron wall, and she found nothing in the way of clues.

  What in the goddess’s name? He must have power of his own, but what manner of being is he?

  “There, there, Louisa. Come along now. Do you have anything here you’d like to bring with us?”

  She shook her head. “This dress isn’t even mine. Wait while I get out of it and into my own clothes.”