Undead for a Day

by Chris Marie Green, Nancy Holder, Linda Thomas-Sundstrom

  Without a word.

  Dawn collapsed on the ground as the dragon lost strength and Costin heaved him back to the right side of her body. She flinched at the final thud of battle, panted, rolling to her back, unable to move another inch while Costin spread himself through her, as if in relief that they’d avoided darker magic than they’d ever encountered before.

  Or it could be that he was just taking advantage of the one last spot of lightness in her, embracing it as the sun beams broke through the trees and her soul stain got even heavier.

  Finally returning to what it’d been before.

  ELEVEN

  The Day After

  Jonah and Kiko sat next to Dawn’s bed as she rested, all bandaged up and tended to.

  “I’m never forgiving myself for this,” Jonah said. “We should’ve been there.”

  She tried to smile but it took so much effort. “How could you have known that the Meratoliages weren’t on either property we’d identified?”

  Kiko scowled. “I’m psychic. That’s how I could’ve known.”

  The family had built their bonfire to the southeast of the beach house, on a ranch going toward Santee that the Meratoliages had rented, according to Natalia, who’d been working the computer the whole time. Kalin, who’d been as safe as could be after discovering that the Carlsbad property was empty, had been scouring the county for bonfires, traveling the air as Friends did. She’d found a fire, all right, and come back to report her findings to Jonah and Kiko, who’d been trying to track Dawn.

  After Kalin had led them to the ranch, where they’d found Dawn and Costin coming out of the woods, they’d done some cleanup, getting a hold of a weapon or two that Lilly had evidently used during her attempt to stay unretired. From psychically reading the items, Kiko and Natalia had vibed that Lilly had indeed been exacting her own form of revenge against her family and seeing to her undead future. Dawn had been right about that.

  Thing was, there’d been no other sign of Lilly nor the Meratoliages when the rest of the team had arrived. There’d been only a smoldering bonfire. It was an ominous sign that already had Costin talking about pulling up stakes and changing their location, just in case.

  “Kik,” Dawn said, “you can’t know everything.”

  He stayed silent, clearly disappointed in himself.

  But Kalin had been lingering near Dawn’s bed, and the Friend spirit whooshed over to Kiko, as if to pat him on the shoulder.

  “It’s a nice job you did,” her voice said.

  Then she made her way over to Jonah. As she blew against his short, dark hair, he looked like he’d rather be anywhere but near the spirit. Dawn guessed that it wouldn’t be long before he put the Friend back in her portrait for another few months as she waited for him to finally realize that he loved her. Which he didn’t.

  Dawn didn’t want to think about who he thought he loved as his gaze locked to hers. She rolled her eyes and looked away, toward the spot where Costin was making an indentation next to her on the bed.

  Natalia came into the room with a fresh compress and sat near Costin. There was a band of tension that stretched between her and Kiko that everyone was trying to ignore.

  “How do you feel, Dawn?” she asked civilly. But Dawn knew that as soon as she was in tip-top shape, Natalia was going to hate her.

  “Probably not as bad as Costin feels,” she said.

  Next to her, the impression from his essence shifted. “I am...fine.”

  Yeah, judging by his weak tone, he was also a liar. But she rested her hand on him. Her soul stain was trying to make her feel guilty about what she’d put Costin through last night, but she battled the dark thoughts.

  She’d made a promise to herself—she was going to find a way to lift the soul stain again, one way or another. She’d experienced light, and she wanted to go back to it.

  Inside her, the dragon grumbled. It seemed just as drained as Costin.

  Aw. Poor woobie.

  Dawn’s eyes started to close, but she battled to keep them open. Jonah rose from his seat, pulling at Kiko’s shirt. He shrugged him off, staying by the bed.

  Jonah let him be. “Rest well, you two.”

  As he left, Natalia pressed the wet cloth against Dawn’s head, then removed it, setting her nursing tools on the nightstand before joining Jonah on his way out the door.

  Kiko put his hand on Dawn’s, his smile sad. She knew it was a goodbye gesture. Still, Dawn couldn’t help trying to spin that melancholy grin into a positive thing.

  “Au revoir, my friend,” she said, hoping she’d gotten the French right.

  Until we meet again, right?

  “Later, Dawn.” His voice was rough as he lifted up her hand to kiss it, then left her alone as the others had.

  But as the sun shone through the window, Dawn turned on the side of her that wasn’t wounded, laying her arm over Costin’s resting essence, loving that she still had him to hold on to.

  For the first time in a long time, she fell into a peaceful sleep while looking forward to tomorrow.

  THE END

  Chris Marie Green is the author of the urban fantasy Vampire Babylon series from Ace/Penguin Books and now the GothicScapes group. As Christine Cody, she also writes the supernatural post-apocalyptic Western Bloodlands trilogy. She’s working on the Jensen Murphy: Ghost for Hire series for Roc and, as if that isn’t enough, she also writes under the pen name Crystal Green. When Chris isn’t knee-deep in creating fantasy worlds, she spends her time devouring all the pop culture available to her and avoiding international incidents while traveling. You can get a peek at all her personalities at:

  www.chrismariegreen.com

  or www.christinecody.net,

  and www.crystal-green.com.

  She’s also on Facebook:

  (http://www.facebook.com/people/Chris-Marie-Green/1051327765 )

  and Twitter: (http://twitter.com/ChristineCody ).

  Into

  the

  Fire

  A Story of the Favored

  by

  Nancy Holder

  Dear Reader,

  It’s my pleasure to introduce you to Bridget and Colin Flynn, fire-haired siblings who live in Miami Beach. On Samhain—what we call Halloween—Bridget and her brother are sucked into a feud between two historic witch families that threatens to erupt into full-scale war. Twins with magical powers are precious and rare, and everyone wants to use the Flynns. On the second stroke of midnight, Bridget finds herself leaping through a bonfire to seal a year-marriage to a man she doesn’t know—only to wind up in an enemy graveyard battling the dead who have risen for Samhain.

  Linda, Chris, and I are thrilled to be working together to bring you urban fantasies from three of our favorite worlds. We can’t think of a better way to celebrate Halloween than sharing new dark tales with you.

  Blessed Be,

  Nancy

  CHAPTER ONE

  Enjoy this Halloween, Colin. It’s going to be your last, Bridget thought grimly.

  Gone was her amazing vampire costume; her annual Halloween party would have had to start without her. She’d taken two seconds to write a note and hang it on her door, but other than that, she’d barreled out of her condo like a bat out of hell, leaving artichoke dip, wine, and beer to grow warm in the sultry air.

  Now she was crouched behind a trio of palm trees, gripping Colin’s Beretta in one hand and her temper in the other. She’d tucked her eye-catching red hair beneath a knitted cap, but it was just too hot to wear much else in the way of commando gear. Especially since she had no commando gear. She was a karate instructor, and she threw a few parties a year for her martial students and assorted friends. Halloween was her favorite, when everyone came as someone they weren’t—no karate uniforms allowed—and all the kids in the neighborhood stopped by for her homemade treats. This year it was marshmallow-and-rice-cereal bats. Or rather, it was supposed to be. Answering the door for little monsters was off the agenda, too.

  “D
amn it, Colin,” she muttered.

  In a black tank top and khaki cropped pants, she offered a marked contrast to the formally-dressed crowd she was spying on. Maybe fifty people in tuxes and barely-there black gowns wore satin half-masks as they milled around a bonfire blazing in the center of a brick courtyard. Colorful embroidered shawls with black fringes hung loosely from the elbows of the women. Scarlet hibiscus blossoms were tucked behind their ears, accentuating their lush black hair.

  The glow of orange flames danced on sharp, dramatic facial features—well-defined chins, broad foreheads, and straight, slightly hooked noses. A few of the men wore a single earring. They all resembled each other, as if they were related by blood. Given what she was wearing, there was no hope of blending in, just as there was no sign of a burly, redheaded, blue-eyed guest sporting a spectacular limp, a facial scar, and an eye patch.

  No Colin, in other words.

  Thirty yards beyond, a Spanish-style mansion loomed like a castle. Torches planted on either side of the entrance flickered in the balmy Miami breezes. Maybe her roguish brother was in the dungeon—if he could be in two places at once. He was already in the doghouse.

  The note in Bridget’s fanny pack read Marica, Shadow Island. HELP!!!! According to the boat captain Bridget had cajoled into ferrying her from the mainland, this tiny, remote rich-people’s playground was Shadow Island. So she’d come to the right place.

  Problem was, Bridget had no idea who Marica was.

  And her twin had never, ever asked her for help before, even though she rescued him on a near-weekly basis. Actually, “rescued” was too strong a word; she retrieved him. Like a long-suffering parent, she had bailed him out of trouble many times since his honorable discharge from the Marine Corps he loved so much. War injuries had tagged him as disabled, no longer good in battle. He’d been offered a desk job, but he’d refused it. Then he had spiraled down, but not too far. She dragged him out of South Beach bar fights, covered his gambling debts. Lied to old girlfriends when they came to the door. All his antics had been annoying scrapes that he’d always, eventually made right.

  But this time things felt different. This time, she couldn’t shake a conviction that he was in real danger.

  She didn’t know how she knew—all those stories about twins having a special bond? She and Colin had never experienced that. She hadn’t felt a thing when he’d been shot and nearly died in a field hospital in Afghanistan. She never knew where to find him when he went on one of his binges. Instead, she relied on a network of sympathetic bartenders and working girls who phoned when it was time to pick up the pieces of Colin Brian Flynn.

  But as flamenco guitar music carried toward her on a blessed breeze, she fought down real-time panic over the safety of her brother. She stared at the strangers with dread in her heart as if they were mass murderers. Had this Marica kidnapped him? Rolled him and robbed him? It was difficult for her to imagine anyone, man or woman, getting the upper hand on him, no matter his prosthetic leg and vision problems. And no one here needed money.

  She squinted, surveying the scene, wishing she’d thought to bring Colin’s field glasses. Or that she had called the police. Colin was a bit notorious in law enforcement circles, but not in an extreme way: the cops respected the Marine Corps and understood the bitterness of a permanently benched warrior. They usually drove him home without issuing him a citation. If she’d asked for help, the South Beach division would have come.

  Correction: Jack Stone would have come. An image of the easygoing Texas transplant—more cowboy than cop—rose in her mind, and she pushed it away. Their brief romance had been a disaster. And besides, what would she say to Jack about the current crisis? That she had found a note containing a woman’s first name on the breakfast bar of her brother, who was infamous for getting into hot water because he got into too many beds? All that would get her was another pitying look and the inevitable lecture about enabling Colin’s irresponsibility. So no Jack. No anyone.

  Colin and Jack both said that her biggest weakness was trying too hard to go it alone. She’d had a lot of practice.

  Enough. She had to stay sharp, focused. Given the ice water washing up and down her spine, it was amazing to her that she could think of anything except finding Colin and getting the hell out of there.

  Suddenly, there was a shift in the mood of the partygoers. Glances were traded; lips curled in whispery smiles. Bridget’s twitchy foreboding surged and she gripped the sweaty Beretta more tightly. Funny thing about firearms: even if you worked out every day in a dojo and threw punches that could knock bar bouncers on their butts, guns still weighed a lot. And thigh muscles still got progressively more irritated the longer you had to crouch.

  One of the women placed a champagne flute on the tray of a passing waiter and pulled a shimmering beaded clip from her hair. She shook her head and ebony curls cascaded down her tanned back. She raised her hands above her head, rotating her wrists and spreading her fingers in a classic flamenco pose. Chin up, chest out. Yo. Big chest. Maybe this was Marica. That would explain a few things.

  “Andale,” the woman said huskily, pronouncing it “An-da-lay.” Meaning, “let’s go.”

  The word was taken up by a few of the others. The atmosphere shifted again, intensifying, as if something more than dancing had been set in motion. An older man with a salt-and-pepper goatee began to clap out the rhythm of the guitar music. Still masked—they all were—a younger man faced the woman who had spoken; he grasped the lapels of his tuxedo jacket and thrust his elbows to each side. He stomped his foot once, twice, then broke into an elaborate staccato rhythm. The woman advanced on him, hips swaying sensuously, every inch of her body promising seduction.

  “Sí, Anita,” another woman called out in encouragement. “Ya, José.”

  Others paired up, beckoning, enticing without touching. They all danced the same steps, advancing, retreating, like fencers. It was the sexiest thing Bridget had ever seen, and her panic was overlaid by an erotic throb. She was surprised at the intensity of her reaction—she’d watched flamenco before—but this was more intimate, more sexual, and she felt like a voyeur peeping through someone’s bedroom window.

  The man—José—unthreaded his tie and took off his jacket, handing them without looking to a waiter who stepped forward quickly to retrieve them. José put his hand on Anita’s shoulder and inched the thin black strap of her gown off one shoulder and then the other. The bodice draped perilously low over swells of smooth, bronzed flesh.

  An older woman danced close to the bonfire. The man with the goatee came up behind her, placing his hands on her hips and gathering up the sides of her gown. The fabric slid up past toned calves and knees. Then he took off his shirt, revealing a pristine white sleeveless T-shirt stretched over solid pecs and a flat stomach.

  The woman named Anita was busily taking the studs out of José’s shirt, and José was unzipping the back of her dress. José’s smile seemed to throw light against Anita’s face—not torchlight or firelight, but a hot glow from inside his body. And the same glow appeared to blaze from Anita and shine on José. Bridget was mesmerized. How did they do that?

  Snap out of it, she thought, giving herself a mental shake. She didn’t know what to do. Maybe she had misunderstood the note. Maybe her brother had meant that he was coming here to help Marica, not that he needed help himself. But why leave her a note, then? He rarely checked in with Bridget about his comings and goings.

  Anita and José kept undressing each other until they were almost completely naked, and…things… were progressing toward doing more than dancing. Their bodies were pressed tightly together and he cradled her head in a mixture of passion and tenderness that took Bridget’s breath away. The other dancers entwined themselves around each other, and everyone began making out like crazy.

  She couldn’t, shouldn’t watch this. She began to crabwalk backwards, with plans to disappear among the palm trees and circle around to the back of the mansion.

  That was w
hen she ran into something very cold and very hard at the back of her head.

  Something like a gun.

  “Do not move,” a man said. His English was slightly accented. “Raise your hands.”

  “I mean no harm,” she managed to say as she obeyed. Adrenaline spiked and she fought it down, looking for the inner place of serenity, the place of strength. All her martial arts training—taekwondo, kickboxing, Krav Maga—snapped into place and she waited for an opening. The first tenet of her discipline was to avoid confrontation, but the prime directive was to survive.

  He grabbed the Beretta and she spun around and swept out her leg, hoping to catch him behind the knees and send him crashing to the ground. A blow came out of nowhere and she landed on her back instead. Pressure held her forcefully down.

  But he stood ten feet away from her, masked like the others, dressed in a tux. Blue-black curls framed an angular bronzed face with the same aquiline, hooked nose she had observed on the others; and lips that might otherwise be soft and generous pursed together in a tight line. Raven brows raised above black satin as he looked at her.

  The gun floated in the air beside him. Defying gravity, it pointed downward as if suspended by a wire.

  “What the hell?” she cried, struggling to get up. But something held her down—unseen, impossible to fight off.

  She could no longer hear the flamenco music. Her own heartbeat thundered in her ears as she fought for calm so she could strategize. As the man approached her, colors like the metallic pastels of an abalone shell danced around him. His gaze on her was intent and as concentrated as a shark’s.

  Without looking away from her, he held out a hand, and her gun glided into his grasp.

  “Did she send you?” he asked Bridget.

  She licked her lips. “Who?”

  “Maria del Carmen, of course.”