Heroines and Hellions: a Limited Edition Urban Fantasy Collection

by Margo Bond Collins

  “What kind of research?”

  He shook his head. “All kinds. First, just to study them. Try to figure out where they’re from. Why they’re hidden. Why nobody knows about them. Some of them have . . . powers.”

  “You mean shape shifting? Teleportation?”

  “Yes, yes. That’s exactly right! Do you have any idea—any at all—how wonderful it is to have found you? To know you understand exactly what I’m talking about? To know someone with the sense?” There was genuine fondness in his eyes as he spoke.

  “All right,” I said after a few moments. “I’ll work for you.”

  His smile was huge and genuine. “You are not going to regret this. At all. Ever. This is going to be an amazing partnership.”

  It was hard not to get excited, not with the way his eyes shone. Not only had I found a job, but one where I would be respected and wouldn’t have to hide who I really was. One where I could study the creatures that had called to me my entire life.

  Looking back at the way Marcus tracked me down, it’s ironic that I’m the stalker now. I guess I learned from the best.

  In the morning, I drag myself out of bed early to watch Foster at his apartment; it’s Day Two of Foster Stalking. I’m parked outside by 6:30 a.m. and have to wait till eight o’clock till I see him exit, looking as hot as he did yesterday. You know, when he was fucking the girl he’d been tattooing.

  His hair looks damp, like he just showered. What does he smell like? I imagine mint from his toothpaste mixed with the smell of men’s body wash, crisp and clean. It looks like he skipped shaving today, his stubble rough. My fingers itch to touch it, run my hands over his jaw.

  Which is fucking ridiculous. Because I’m stalking him. He’s my prey. My assignment. Not a guy I should even think about sleeping with. He’s not even human.

  Still. His jeans hug his ass and thighs. His leather jacket is rough and worn. And I slowly pull out of my parking spot to follow him as he walks down the sidewalk.

  I don’t have to track him far. He dips into Mugz, an independent coffee shop next to the graffiti-decorated green line train stop. I put on my hazards to wait till he comes back out, but instead I see him get a drink at the counter, then sit at a table near the window. He’ll be awhile.

  Parking’s a bitch, so I circle the block once, cursing at the time it’s sucking. Finally, I find a spot and parallel park in it, then head out onto the sidewalk. It’s fall, chilly already, and I pull my leather jacket around me tighter. It’s not as good as the one that chupacabra-wannabe ruined, but it’ll do.

  As I get closer to Mugz, I grab the knit black hat from my pocket and cover my hair and ears with it, donning a pair of huge sunglasses as well to hide as much of my face as possible.

  I’m being an asshole. I’m being stupid. I should stay outside, pretend to smoke a cigarette or check my phone, find some reason to be idle while I wait for him to come outside. Going in, getting that close, is dangerous.

  But I can’t fight the draw. The urge to walk the line. My brain buzzes, electricity crackling in my head, my body. With a deep breath, I calm myself down and fight the connection. It’s dangerous enough if he sees me. Even worse if he senses me as well.

  The bell jangles as I enter the coffee shop, and I’m greeted with the loud rumble of a blender and the smell of freshly ground coffee. People chat as they sit at the shabby chic painted metal tables. A few lush spider plants hang near the windows, and some random artist’s paintings hang on the walls, price tags next to them.

  At the counter the baby-faced barista takes my order: large black coffee. “Anything else? Fresh baked pastry?” He gestures at the display case, where sliced lemon bread and old fashioned donuts are set up to tempt customers.

  “Nope. Just coffee.” I don’t have time to eat.

  “All right. Four twenty-three.”

  “For a cup of black coffee?”

  He shrugs. “Do you still want it?”

  “Fuck. Whatever.” I slap a five on the counter.

  When he gives me my change, I briefly consider putting it in the tip jar, an old coffee can with a taped paper on which someone’s handwritten College Fund. But I already feel like I’m getting ripped off. Instead I pocket the coins. Then, feeling like a total asshole, I scoop them back out of my pocket and put them in the jar.

  “Jesus,” I gasp as I pick up my cup and set it back down quickly. “You got any of those sleeve things?” The coffee’s too hot to hold.

  “Over there.” The barista gestures at the counter along the wall where silver insulated cream containers, sugar packets, and coffee stirrers are displayed. There’s a stack of coffee cup sleeves.

  Gingerly, I pick up the cup and bring it over there, taking off my sun glasses momentarily to see what I’m doing a little better. I’m not sure what my plan is. Should I sit down at another table and watch Foster? Should I wait outside, find a dirty bench to share with a hungover raver who’s been out all night until Foster leaves and I follow once more?

  I’m deciding what to do when I feel a presence behind me. Without looking, I know it’s him. Foster.

  Every hair on my arms stands on end, and I’m positive he must feel the connection too. He must sense me the same way I sense him. Except maybe I only feel it because I’m looking for it. Because I know who and what he is.

  He reaches past me for a napkin. He’s taken off his leather jacket, and his arms are corded. Muscled. His forearm is thick and strong.

  “Excuse me.” His voice is deep.

  “It’s okay,” I mutter, grabbing my sleeved cup, ready to dart away.

  And then his hand accidentally brushes mine.

  Time stands still. It’s a stupid phrase that people use too much. And yet that’s exactly what this feels like. The hissing of the coffee steamer, and the modern folk music playing in the background, and the muddled conversations of everyone around me: They all stop at once.

  My body is overcome, tingling, hot and cold at the exact same time. A flush of sensation begins in my head, warm and fizzy, washing down throughout me. It’s terrifying yet strangely erotic. The worst part is I’m aware that it could take me down. I could get lost in that feeling.

  With every single ounce of strength I have, I pull myself out, back into the reality of the bustling coffee shop.

  I need to get out of here. I need to get away from Foster Graham. This was a bad idea, and now I’ve fucked everything up.

  But before I can leave, he’s grasped my arm, and I look up into his eyes. Dark brown with hints of gold. Strong, stubble-roughened jaw. Proud nose. Full lips, slightly open in surprise. Or maybe shock.

  “What are you . . . who . . . ?” There’s wonder in his expression, but wariness too, and maybe even a hint of anger.

  I manage to pull myself away, to run out of the shop, coffee in hand. I don’t stop till I reach my car, and then I still keep going, turning the key in the ignition and pulling out of the spot, tires screeching, and I drive away as fast as I can.

  Fuck. I’ve fucked up. I bash my hand against the steering wheel, eyes prickling with tears of anger. I’m so fucking stupid. I knew it was a risk. I knew I shouldn’t have tried to get so close. I always listen to my instincts, and the one time I don’t, it’s a mistake.

  The clouds open up and sun streams in through the windshield. I squint and reach for my sunglasses, only to realize I left them back at Mugz.

  I spend the day away from Foster. I should be following him. Getting his patterns down better. But I need to hold back. I took a foolish chance this morning.

  I waste time till evening, and then I hit The Chooch, my favorite dive bar. It’s by an abandoned train line, and in the 1970s it was fancy and called The ChooChoo. The last two o’s in the neon sign have burned out, though, and never been replaced, so everyone just calls it The Chooch. And it’s definitely no longer fancy.

  The regulars know enough to leave me alone, and Jeb, the bartender, knows enough to keep the drinks coming. But I stop after t
wo. I just want to take the edge off, not get wasted.

  “The front door was so loud!” Mrs. Bachman sticks her head out of her door and scowls at me when I get home around midnight, her eyes glaring out of her wrinkled face.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bachman.” I bite my tongue so I don’t say the things I’d really like to express.

  “Lots of noise lately.” She makes a clucking sound with her tongue.

  “Sorry,” I repeat. “How were those muffins I dropped off the other day?”

  She’s quiet for a few seconds. “Delicious,” she finally responds, like the word is incredibly hard for her to say.

  “I’m glad you liked them.” I smile broadly at her before heading into my apartment.

  In my room, I throw myself down face first on the bed. I need to sleep. Hard and deep. But I force myself up for a shower first. I smell like old coffee and stale beer, and if I clean up I’ll be more comfortable.

  I kick off my leather boots and pull off my socks, then peel off my T-shirt and jeans, tossing them onto the floor, so I’m just in my panties and bra. I stop in the kitchen for a drink before I head to the bathroom.

  In an instant, a stranger’s hand covers my mouth as I’m grabbed from behind, an arm wrapping around my chest. I can’t move or scream.

  I struggle, kicking backward as hard as I can while biting down on the hand over my mouth.

  A man grunts in pain, a deep, masculine, and very pissed off sound. He releases his grip for a second, and I take the opportunity to kick backward again, then loosen the hold around my body enough to almost turn around, to almost see my attacker.

  “What the fuck do you want from me?” he demands.

  I can’t quite get out of his grasp, but his question stops me from struggling for a second.

  “Isn’t that what I should be asking you, asshole?” With a quick and sudden twist of my body, I break free for a glorious moment, but in the next instant he’s grasped my bare arms, holding both of them behind my back securely.

  “You’ve been following me. Why?” His voice is a hiss against my ear.

  “Foster?”

  “Theadora?” His voice is angry, more than a hint of sarcasm mixing with the rage.

  “How do you know my name?” I hold still while I plot my next move, eye on the butcher block with the somewhat dull but still useful kitchen knives.

  “Don’t like the taste of your own medicine? Stalker.” He gives my wrists an extra squeeze, like he’s reminding me who’s in charge.

  But he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. This will hurt me, but it’ll hurt him more. In one quick motion I drive my head back and up, so it collides—hard—with his nose.

  “Fuck!” His grip loosens just enough for me to pull away, lunging for the knives and grabbing one as quick as I can.

  I spin around facing him, knife in hand, crouching low like a panther. “Stay the fuck away from me.”

  Blood drips from his nose, but he grins at me all the same, a malicious smile. “What. You’re going to cut me?” He walks sideways like a circling predator.

  “Without a second thought.”

  “Oh yeah?” He stares hard, and suddenly I grow dizzy my brain fuzzier and fuzzier by the second. My body is weak, rubbery, barely strong enough to stay upright.

  And the signal. The high-pitched sound that tells me I’m in the presence of a supernatural creature. Except I’ve always had to turn it on. This time it’s out of my control.

  It must be Foster. I look up at him as my body sinks to the floor. He stares back, a smirk on his face, his pose casual as he leans back against the counter, watching me grow weaker and weaker.

  Fuck this. If I can turn the signal on, I can turn it off. I focus, trying to make my mind as clear and clean as possible, and imagine a huge black shield rising up, stopping the laser of thought he’s sending my way.

  The screeching in my head grows quieter, fading slightly, but it’s not enough. I envision the door thicker, stronger, impenetrable. Nothing can get through it. Nothing at all.

  It stops. I breathe in hard. The signal from Foster is gone, though my head is killing me. It’ll take a handful of Advil to stop this migraine.

  I open my eyes to see Foster glaring at me, but a hint of confusion crosses his face. “Nobody’s ever been able to do that.”

  I pick up the knife from where I dropped it on the linoleum floor. But I’m too weak to do much with it.

  “Do what?” I ask. If he wanted, Foster could come over here and pick me up. Toss me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. And I’d be too drained to do anything about it.

  But he doesn’t move. “How did you stop it?”

  “Stop what?” I run my hand through my hair and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to summon the energy to stand up. I need some water. And I’m still in my bra and panties, so I could use some clothes.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m not in the mood for games.”

  “Maybe you should have thought of that when you decided to break into my apartment.” I shoot him a dirty look.

  Foster’s nose isn’t bleeding anymore, but dried blood darkens his face and lips. He returns my look of disdain.

  “I need a drink.” I pull myself up using the counter edge and grab a glass from the cabinet. I head to the sink, then change my mind and grab the bottle of Jameson instead.

  “Gonna offer me one too?” He sends a cocky grin my way.

  And my stupid body reacts to him. He just used some weird mind force to practically drain me of all my energy. Not to mention the fact that he broke into my apartment and hid here, waiting till I returned. And still, my heart thuds—not in fear but in desire—when he gives me a smile?

  Also? I’m practically naked.

  You’re a goddamn idiot, Thea, I tell myself. Without responding to Foster, I head to the bedroom and pull on some clothes. Back in the kitchen, I grab a second glass from the cabinet and pour two generous servings of whiskey neat.

  Foster’s already moved out into the living room, where he’s sitting on the couch, blood still on his face.

  “Fuck.” I set the drinks on the coffee table. “Hold on.” My strength is returning, little by little. And even though I don’t want to help the man who just attacked me in my own home, there’s something different about him. About this situation. So I get an ice pack from the freezer and a wet paper towel.

  “Hold still,” I say as I sit next to him. He smells good. Like really fucking good. There’s an odor of soap mixed with a hint of cologne. But it pisses me off that I’ve even noticed that, so when I dab at the blood on his face, I do it harder than I need to.

  “Jesus. You trying to hurt me even more?” He moves back, glaring at me.

  “Pussy. I told you to hold still.”

  He does, and I clean off as much of the dried blood as I can without causing too much pain.

  “Here.” I hand him the ice pack. “Your nose and lip are swelling up some.”

  “Thanks to you.” His fingers graze my hand as he takes the ice pack, and I jump at the touch. So light, but somehow still like an electric shock. I can’t figure out if it’s because I’m attracted to him, or if it’s that weird mind thing he can do.

  I clear my throat. “You broke into my apartment, and you don’t think I had the right to fight back?”

  He grunts in response.

  “So, tell me why you’re here.” I down my whiskey, which I’d planned to sip. But I changed my mind.

  I get up and bring the bottle back with me, pouring myself another serving then setting it down on the scratched and worn wood surface.

  “I was figuring out who my stalker is.” He takes the ice away from his face long enough to sip his drink. His eyes, I notice, are fucking glorious—brown with golden glints in them. Five o’clock—or midnight—shadow darkens his jaw, and a lock of his hair flops down onto his forehead.

  But it’s the grin that I can’t resist, and when he raises one corner of his mouth at me, I h
ave to look away. Because otherwise I might blush. And I never blush.

  I’m not sure how to respond. I’ve stalked creatures before. It’s what I do. But never one that could question me. Never one with the intelligence to evade me, then figure out who I was to stalk me right back. Never one so human.

  “So normally in a conversation,” he says, leaning back and crossing one long denimed leg over the other, “one person says something and the other responds.” He gestures his hand to let me know he’s waiting for my response. “Why don’t we start with why you showed up at my shop, and why you went into my apartment.”

  “How did you know I was in your apartment?”

  “You watered my plants. And I could . . . smell you.”

  “Smell me?”

  “The second I went into my place, I could tell a woman had been there. And now, being here next to you, I recognize your scent. Your pheromones.” His eyes darken slightly.

  I force myself not to look away again. That would be a sign of weakness, and I don’t want him to know how light-headed this conversation is making me.

  He rakes a hand through his hair, and I try not to stare too hard at the tattoos that decorate his arm. I really want to explore them. To run my fingers over them, tracing the designs and swirls and colors.

  “I want to fucking know why you were following me,” he continues. “You owe me that much.”

  He’s right. But I’m still not going to tell him. I’m not that easy.

  I shrug. “I’m a debt collector.”

  He laughs out loud, throwing his head back. It’s the sound of someone used to having fun. “You’re so full of shit, Theadora.”

  “Thea.”

  “You think we’re on a nickname basis, but you still won’t tell me why you broke the fuck into my apartment?” He leans forward now, all traces of his previous good humor gone.

  “I . . . look. I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. I’ll leave you alone.”

  “You won’t, though.” A sliver of fear pierces his expression.

  I squint. “Why won’t I?”