by Sierra Dean
I flashed him my well-practiced innocent smile and said, “My dungeon master.” A spark of revelation lit upon his zitty face. “I just needed him to know the outcome of a campaign he missed.” I winked and took my drink out of his hand while he muttered something about rolling twenties.
It was late spring, and there was still a chill in the air, but the café had seen fit to set up its sidewalk patio a week or so after the snow melted. I pulled my jacket around me, though the cold didn’t really bother me, and sat on one of the wrought-iron chairs. My cell phone was securely in my pocket in case Holden called, but I expected I wouldn’t hear from him right away. I was also in no hurry to go back to the office and talk to Keaty about the state of affairs I now found myself in. I’d told him I was getting a coffee and then calling it a night.
Dawn was only an hour or two away, and there was nothing I could do to change what I’d done tonight. I would have to face the consequences when they came.
I tried to enjoy the hot, bitter sweetness of the latte, in sharp contrast to the coolness of the night, but my mind was reeling from what had happened. It took a lot to scare me, mostly because almost anything that went bump in the night I had killed at some point, but my encounter with Henry Davies had really shaken me.
The unshakeable, calm and centered Secret McQueen had been knocked on her proverbial ass by the impression of a bite mark. Maybe I had been mistaken. There was a chance part of the bite had healed faster or maybe I had been anticipating it so much I had imagined the missing tooth mark.
I prayed that I was wrong. In the six years I had been doing this, the closest anyone had ever come to truly killing me was Alexandre Peyton, and he had promised me that next time we met he wouldn’t fail. If I was right about it being his mark, I was going to need to be on my guard more than usual until things either came to a head or blew over.
As I sipped my coffee I was overcome by an unexpected warmth which had nothing to do with the drink. It was like a humid summer breeze was blowing down 81st Street, only it crawled over my body and into my pores. My mouth felt thick with musky, dense flavor. The sensation was invasive and overwhelming, and what scared me the most was how comfortable I felt with it. I licked my lips and tasted cinnamon.
My latte was vanilla.
It was then, with a ripple of electric pinpricks up my spine, I felt a man pass. He approached from behind me and seemed to be wholly unaware of my presence until he turned towards the café door. He paused before entering, his close-cropped ash-colored hair tousled by the cool night air, and fixed his radiant azure eyes on me. There were two men with him, one on either side—a brunet who was the same height, just over six feet, and another who was my height and blond. The one who was watching me looked as puzzled as I felt, but he snapped out of it after a brief period of stunned silence and took a step in my direction.
“Hello?” he said, the way people do when they believe they already know you and simply cannot place the who and how.
If I’d been on my game, I’d have a snappy shoot-down or roll my eyes and tell him to get lost. I might have ignored him under any normal circumstances, because as a general rule I try to avoid men who might try to flirt with me. I did not date, although I had tried once or twice in the past. I had no time or patience for it, not to mention there were certain aspects of my life I could never explain to a human boyfriend.
But I could not look away, and nothing about this felt normal.
Not only could I not tear my eyes from him, something inside me pulled closer, dragging me nearer like a leash being tugged. There was a piece of me that wanted nothing more than to go to him. He was beautiful, I couldn’t deny that, but he was a stranger, and this reaction was strange to say the least. This was more than magnetism; it was practically a law of attraction. The pull knotted inside me, fluttering in my stomach with the feeling of a thousand desperate moths crowding together to seek the light of a single bare bulb. My body demanded I go to him, and I realized I was now standing. My chair was several inches behind me, and I held my drink in trembling hands. When had I stood?
His friends were watching me too, like they knew what was happening between us. They were both interested and unconcerned by my reaction. I bet none of them had to make much of an effort to attract the ladies, considering all three were picture-perfect male specimens. The man in the middle smiled, a flash of white canines, and it dawned on me what I was smelling below the cinnamon and electricity. It stopped me dead in my tracks.
“Wolf,” I said. It was almost a hiss, the sound an animal makes when threatened.
My stupid werewolf half was being lured by him, and I wasn’t about to have any part of it. I had no intention of letting some animal dupe me with werewolf lust. I’d heard about this, weres using their powers to overwhelm newer or lesser wolves. I’d been dealing with my lycanthrope half since birth, which was a lot longer than most adults with the affliction. Just because I’d never shifted as an adult didn’t mean some twenty-something who’d probably been turned last week was going to get the best of me.
I tended to shut out my werewolf half far more than my vampire half. Vampires, for all their flaws, were still primarily human in their behavior. I could accept that and relate to it. Their society had laws, structure and regulation. They were very political in their hierarchical organization.
Werewolves left me feeling more unsettled. They were animals. Primal beings. They were willing to abandon the human aspects of themselves to embrace something wild and reckless. I’d never tried to learn about their world because I didn’t want to be a part of something that catered to such careless freedom. I did not have the luxury to let myself lose control in that way. If I did, I risked releasing much more than my inner wolf.
I turned away from him, and his face fogged with confusion again. I was not going to play his games. Heading towards the back entrance of the patio, I made a break for it. I was almost at the corner of the block before I hazarded a glance back. They were gone.
I stopped walking, still clutching my latte. Maybe he’d been willing to let it go when he saw I clearly wasn’t interested. I breathed a sigh of relief. One less thing to worry about for the night. My plate was already overburdened as it was. The last thing I needed was to fend off some pushy frat boy’s puppy love.
Turning back to the corner, I walked smack into the tall brunet who had been with the man. A small sound of surprise escaped my lips.
“What the—?”
“I’d like you to come with me, miss.”
“Like hell.” I dropped my drink and was reaching for the gun at the small of my back, but he grabbed my arm first.
“That won’t be necessary. We only want to have a quick word with you about what just happened at the café.”
Before I could find the proper string of profanities to explain I had no intention of going anywhere with him, he was dragging me none too gently towards a waiting car. He pushed me into the backseat as the door opened, pulling the gun from the back of my belt as he did.
And I thought my night couldn’t get any worse.
Magic, matchmaking and murder…
The Importance of Being Emily
© 2011 Robyn Bachar
Lord Willowbrook’s spring ball is supposed to be a magical celebration, but Miss Emily Wright is bored. The only outlet allowed for her magic is matchmaking—for others, not herself. Why bother? The only man she wants, Michael Black, is a man she can never have.
Suddenly the guests are abuzz with news of a young sorceress found drained of blood in the parlor. The mystery calls to her, and since she is the only available seer in all England, she jumps at the chance to prove herself.
Michael has spent his life preparing for his ritual death, when he will join the Order of St. Jerome as an immortal chronicler. Now that dream hangs in the balance, his mentor accused of the murder. Worse, gentle Emily, the woman he silently loves, is walking into a world of horrors beyond her imagination.
Torn between duty t
o the order and desire to keep her safe, Michael fights his growing need for a love that can never be his. All the while the real killer stalks the shadows of Willowbrook Hall, homing in on the next victim.
Warning: This book contains a tough but tortured seer, a hero with an expiration date, scandalous kisses, scheming vampires and bloody corpses.
Enjoy the following excerpt for The Importance of Being Emily:
The night air held a damp chill that was blessedly soothing after my skin had been seared by the bonfire of embarrassment. Though I knew I would regret not stopping for my wrap within a few minutes, I closed my eyes and enjoyed it. For a moment everything was cool, quiet and peaceful, and then Mr. Black interrupted my calm.
“What did you see?” he asked.
Sighing, I opened my eyes and looked up at him. “I would rather not discuss it. I assume it was not your mentor, but I cannot say for certain. I did not see his face.”
Not eager to continue the discussion, I walked deeper into the garden. Some of the braver plants had begun nosing their way from their beds, but for the most part the barren clutches of winter still gripped everything around us. The potential hummed beneath the surface, waiting impatiently for a few warm days to free it. In summer everything would be lush and green again, but for now bed after bed was empty.
Like the cradle. An empty cradle for my empty life.
Shivering, I rubbed my arms above the tops of my gloves. Without a word Mr. Black removed his coat and draped it over my shoulders. It was warm, but it also carried a strong impression of him—his thirst for knowledge, his dedication to his studies and his loyalty to his mentor. The corners of my mouth twitched as I pictured him as a very tall Labrador dog. If only Mr. Farrell shared a few of Mr. Black’s honorable qualities.
“Thank you,” I said. He stood close to me, and I hesitated, torn between moving away and staying still to see what he intended.
“Simon would never do this,” he assured me.
“I believe you. Once I am able to prove that, we can focus on finding the true killer. With your tight schedule I’m sure you are anxious to return to your studies.” I winced, feeling guilty for my unkind words. It wasn’t his fault that his dreams for the future were so very different from mine. What could the higher powers be thinking by connecting us?
“I apologize for involving you in this.”
“Well it has certainly been revealing, but don’t be silly. I wanted to help you. Your mentor was not…acquainted with Miss Morgan, was he?”
“No, I don’t believe they ever met. Why?”
“That will be in his favor then. It appeared that she knew her…” I trailed off, searching for the right word, “…companion well.”
“Oh.” Mr. Black’s eyes widened at the implication.
“I shouldn’t have been so blithe earlier about being unconcerned about the subject matter of visions. But it was necessary to help vindicate your mentor.” I shrugged, and the hem of his coat rustled against the skirts of my gown. If I rejected Mr. Farrell, it was likely that the vision was the closest I would get to experiencing that sort of passion. Unbidden, my mind whispered that when Mr. Black became a chronicler, he could bite me, and I could feel the same lustful pleasure for myself…
I shook the thought away and hastily removed his coat. “We should go back inside,” I said as I returned it to him.
Michael shrugged the coat back on. “Wait. I want to discuss what you mentioned earlier.”
“There is nothing to discuss. In a few months you will be a chronicler, and I will still be a matchmaker. Our paths are star-crossed.” This time I held tight to my control, afraid of falling apart again, and I turned to walk back to the manor. He caught my hand and pulled me to him, wrapping his arms around me. I gasped and shook my head.
“Please, don’t do this,” I whispered.
His lips hovered above mine. “Don’t you want to know?”
Yes. Every fiber of my seer’s body wanted to know more. Why were we meant for each other? How could we possibly make this work? What would it be like to share his life? To finally know the happiness that I found so often for others? “But you are spoken for,” I blurted.
He frowned. “By whom?”
“The Order.”
Michael laughed. “The Order is not a jealous wife. There are no rules prohibiting relationships, or even marriage.”
“No? What sort of marriage could we have? Should I offer you a vein instead of bringing you tea, until I fade away while you remain unaging? Immortal?”
“But we would be together.”
I sighed, thinking of my family’s definition of togetherness—in general it involved them poring over an old, moldering text while I looked on in irritation. It was not what I wanted in a marriage, though I supposed at my age I could not afford to be particular. In December I would be twenty-seven years old, an age my sister Sarah assured me was positively ancient. “But I am spoken for.”
Mr. Black frowned. “You’ve accepted Farrell’s proposal?”
“No. Not yet, but I should.” Shaking my head once more, I began to pull away, but he stopped me with a kiss. At first it was little more than a stalling tactic, a light brush of the lips meant to distract me from escaping, but then he drew me tight against him. Michael’s hand slid up my back and cradled my head, his thumb caressing the line of my jaw. He kissed me again, and my hands clutched the lapels of his coat for balance.
I must confess, I had been kissed before, though that was many years ago. Most of the appeal of that kiss had been in sneaking away from the Yule celebration and doing something forbidden, but this…was amazing. Everything that I expected a kiss should be—warm, soft and completely intoxicating. Closing my eyes, I abandoned myself to the experience, and he seemed happy to lead as I slid my arms around his neck. In the back of my thoughts a voice of reason lectured the need for caution. Being close to him had already triggered a flurry of visions, and I should be wary of more of them. A strong vision could incapacitate me for hours, possibly even days if it was very traumatic.
Like a fool, I ignored it, even when I began hearing his thoughts. My senses brushed against his as easily as our lips did. I caught a flash of a memory of the two of us sharing a quiet moment together at a previous gathering, and the impression of how much he enjoyed speaking with me. Mr. Black thought I was beautiful, and he had wanted to kiss me for a very long time.
Reality is a corkscrew and humanity is the wine.
The Facilitator
© 2011 Sahara Kelly
In one carefully compartmentalized section of her life, Martine TwoSeven likes stylish, sexy clothing and a meal that doesn’t come out of a mech vendor. In the other, she’s a Facilitator. She takes pride in her gift for helping souls pass with no pain, no sorrow, no fear, only pleasure. Whatever that pleasure may be.
A week after a particularly difficult case that feels “off” and goes terribly wrong, the dreams begin. Dreams inhabited by a mysterious man whose searing touch seems more real than it should. And who knows more than he should. Things that don’t add up.
When a new Facilitator arrives at Eternal Tranquility, Johann Seven steps straight out of her dreams, a solid presence in her bed—and her heart. First, he awakens her long-dormant passions. Then he reveals the unthinkable truth behind her life and her job—and her world shatters.
Before she can pick up the pieces, Martine receives her next assignment—to “facilitate” Johann. She has no choice but to obey, but when their neural pathways connect, she knows only one thing. If anyone’s going down today, it won’t be the man she loves.
Warning: Contains advanced concepts about human nature, life, death, sex and reality. Sometimes more than one at a time. Read at your own risk and keep one foot on the floor at all times.
Enjoy the following excerpt for The Facilitator:
Eternal Tranquility eased her back into facilitation, giving her calm and prepared patients with poignant memories, final moment fantasies that required
very little ingenuity and departures delicately tinged with emotions.
They made it clear she was a valued asset and that they’d treat her as such, giving her plenty of time to regain her equilibrium after the Taber experience.
It would have been frighteningly easy to slip into that diva mindset…the one that expected such treatment and behaved accordingly, making demands matching her elevated status, pissing off people around her with her attitude and generally living down to her worst personality traits.
But being Martine, she tended to do the opposite. Instead of demanding more perks, she stayed nearly silent. Instead of flashing her credits around, she spent hardly any of them and then only on necessities.
And she always had something nice to say to the techs and nurses she interacted with during her work. She laughed with the guys who eyed her legs lasciviously, and gave a couple of nurses her code for the leather tunic they both admired.
Life—and death—went on pretty much as usual for facilitators and clients.
She told nobody that she’d begun dreaming, or that those dreams featured one person.
John.
She’d occasionally wondered how far the level of surveillance went on Eternal Tranquility employees. Of course there was security. And that would go double for facilitators, since there were very few of them.
God forbid another company should try and woo her or her peers. It hadn’t happened up to now, so she figured security was solid. At what point security became intrusive-and-invasive monitoring was still an ongoing debate and probably always would be.
But she’d been dreaming for several weeks now with no interference or questions. Thus she arrived at the conclusion that her routine well-being was indeed observed, but that the dreams either didn’t register or were no problem to those who watched her.
They didn’t seem to be affecting her work nor was she dozing off in the middle of the afternoons. No, John’s increasingly regular nocturnal visits seemed to be something only she fully appreciated.
