Twice Bitten

by Aiden James

  Marissa’s playful look melted into one of worry and fear, as if this was the first time she considered such questions. Sheltered and watched over for hundreds of years, it was as if she had never considered that this nurtured state would cease to exist once she left the confines of her prison.

  “I-I…I’m not sure yet,” she said, and then suddenly looked around in a panic. “But, I’m not going back. “I’m not—”

  At the moment, there were a number of tourists on either side of us. Most had seemed oblivious to our conversation, and only became mildly interested when Racco crept to within twenty feet. But when a shrill scream erupted from the other side of the monument and cut off Marissa’s words, I turned my head in time to see a blur approach us. An instant later, she was gone.

  “Run, Txema! Run, Racco!!”

  Mohini came up beside us, stark naked, and immediately the center of attention for a bevy of cameras from a stunned audience of roughly sixty people. Extremely frightened, she looked behind her, and we followed her gaze. Xuanxang, who also was as naked as a jailbird, sprinted toward us. He elicited even more surprise from the burgeoning group of onlookers, since his torso was engulfed in flames. But only for a moment. In a matter of seconds, he shifted into his dragon form, roaring angrily as he approached us.

  I didn’t have the opportunity to see much else. Mohini grabbed Racco and I, lifting us both up off the ground. Then, she raced toward the parking lot where our limousine waited. Moving as a blur, I didn’t see much else—other than Xuanxang in his dragon form, and something much bigger than him coming up fast behind him, and obviously in pursuit of us all.

  A creature of nightmares. Black as coal with long wings and fiery red eyes from hell, it smiled. Its long crimson-streaked fangs announced its preference for blood, and a young man focused on capturing an impossible shot of us with his camera instead served as an appetizer for this fiend when he unwittingly crouched in its path. I closed my eyes before the blood gush fully erupted, sadly convinced that we had waited too long to secure our protection.

  The ancient shifters that Gustav warned everyone about had found us.

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  Deadly Night: The Murder of Candi Starr

  Ghosthunters 101 Series, Book One

  (Please read on for a sample)

  I’d never seen a fresh corpse before. At least not human.

  Blood dripped below her face, spreading across the chipped linoleum kitchen floor of our host, Johnny Rush. Candi Starr stared back at me, a red grotesque halo framing her tussled golden hair, still wrapped in foil strips. Her stone gaze faced us all as we stood in shocked silence.

  Her head was barely attached at the neck, and a deep jagged wound traversed from ear to ear beneath her chin. Sprawled upon the floor, the expression in Candi’s lifeless steel blue eyes was one of sudden surprise.

  Johnny sat at the kitchen table, across from Brenda Wright. Rope-bound to a pair of high back vinyl chairs, one olive green, and the other merlot. Both wore matching black t-shirts and jeans. Intense terror was visible in their eyes, and both mouths lay open, slack-jawed, and emotionless in contradiction. Their single fatal shots to the forehead announced assassination. Not intended victims, but here just the same. In all likelihood the pair not only witnessed the murder of their famous companion, but also had plenty of time to anticipate their own demise.

  So...correction: I’d never seen three dead human beings before.

  When I was finally able to tear my eyes away from the scene, my attention was drawn to Fiona. The loveliest, smartest and bravest woman I’ve ever known didn’t seem so at the moment. Two cops in the dining room were grilling her. One was dressed in uniform and the other wore plainclothes. Her gorgeous hazel eyes, which often morph to amber and pure gold depending on her attire and mood, were now swollen. They were puffy and red from a deluge of tears. Her grief was genuine, as these were real friends. She struggled to answer the cops’ questions—despite the pained looks each man wore, nodding quietly in response to her clipped answers.

  What questions did they ask? I could only imagine, but I managed to hear a few. Basic things like ‘how long have you known the victims?’ and ‘can you think of anyone who might hold a grudge, one bad enough to do something like this?’ No doubt they also want to know what she and the rest of us were doing there, anyway.

  Meanwhile, two forensic techs brushed past our group on their way to beginning the painstaking task of moving from the stiffening corpses in the kitchen to the living room to look for more evidence. It made me feel awkward, standing near the entrance to the living room. I fidgeted, unsure of what to do…or where to go, half horror movie, half feeling five years old and told to stand in the corner.

  The plainclothes cop kept eyeing the rest of us. He glared a bit while the other continued questioning Fiona. I’m sure my face was turning red, thinking of what I might have to explain.

  My name is Jimmy Alea, and I’m a paranormal investigator. Spook chaser, ghost hunter, or a supernatural whack-job, whatever euphemism makes normal folks feel any better. Hell, that’s what my pop thinks back in Denver, my hometown. I came to Nashville, or as we serious musicians like to refer to it—‘Nash-Vegas’, nine years ago. But like 99.99% of the more than 80,000 music hopefuls who call this place home, I haven’t made it yet. Maybe I never will, but I try not to think about that.

  Yeah, the cop probably passed judgment just the same. I could picture him saying something smartass like, “Did Casper call and tell you there are three brand new ones?”, and then laugh at his own lame joke. But this is what I do. I don’t try to see dead people. Rather, I attempt to catch evidence of their spiritual essence, whether ethereal or physically tangible. It’s somewhat like TAPS and the other ‘hauntings’ shows on TV.

  But that ain’t the story here…not exactly. My gang and I were just stopping by to drop something off at Johnny’s. A little something to welcome him and Brenda to their new digs. Fiona planned to do a quick psychic reading for Candi before she set off on her first international tour. Afterward, the plan was to investigate another home where supposedly a lot of weird shit’s been happening. A ‘paranormal event’ is what we call that sort of thing. Apparently stuff’s been going on for several years at our next locale along the Cumberland, and getting worse and more aggressive lately.

  But at the moment, it seemed best to stop thinking about the cop and my imagined exchange. I focused again on Fiona. She was still talking to both him and the uniform. How I wished to wrap my arms around her and somehow ease her profound pain. She is my wife, and I will always feel the need to protect her. If only I could erase this scene from her memory and make the cops shut up.

  The uniformed guy was really trying to flirt with her. Granted, Fiona’s a tall, gorgeous blond with a smile that lights up any room, and a statuesque build that spells trouble for any male with a pulse. She’s the only thing that’s ever distracted me long enough to make me reconsider my life’s direction. She literally saved me from the destructive course I once was on. I truly pity the dudes who wish they were me.

  I soon realized that I needed a temporary diversion—anything to take my attention away from the bodies and some dude smiling at my wife at such an inappropriate time. I noticed a female cop staring at me from near Johnny’s bedroom. I’ve often wondered about homicide detectives and how they deal with it. When I looked again at her she smiled. Maybe for some cops...the aggressive ones...a scene like this is a type of foreplay. Kind of like people who go home with a complete stranger and screw their brains out.

  As she looked at me her smile was getting wider. I’m pretty sure I know what she gathered from looking me up and down.... My wife, among others, tells me it’s a six foot two, one-ninety pound man, with very little body fat. Hard and lean, with chiseled features inherited from a han
dsome Cuban/Italian line, I possess an easy smile, and piercing blue eyes that become deep cobalt pools if I’m pissed. And, I’m lucky to have a full head of dark wavy hair hanging down to my shoulders.

  Nobody will ever find me wearing a suit—not unless somebody’s getting married or buried. T-shirts, jeans, and boots—I’m either biker or cowboy, depending on my mood and the weather. Thank God the dudes I roll with share my taste in threads, and my daytime employer can hang with the way I am, too. As long as I occasionally wear a polo shirt and slacks, nobody gives me shit. It sucks a little, but I’ve gotta have something steady to pay the bills.

  Fiona motioned toward me, and to be polite the two cops nodded. I wondered if they had heard of her, since she’s helped Metro’s finest solve nearly a dozen crimes over the past few years. Clairvoyant, clairaudient, and clairsentient. They are valued commodities among a few detectives these days, though most won’t admit it. Regardless, I could tell these guys didn’t think much of the thirtyish biker-looking dude and his cronies blocking the doorway to the living room. At least they liked her…certainly didn’t seem like her tear-streaked face had diminished her charm. Not in the least.

  “Do you want me to call ahead to Charlain and tell her we’re going to be late?” said Jackie Holland to Fiona from behind me. “Or, should we try and reschedule?”

  One of Fiona’s best friends since childhood, Jackie’s usual gruffness was muted. They grew up together in east Nashville. Her dark brown hair is almost kinky, but it fits well with her eyes. Almond shaped and light blue in color. And her athletic build is heavier than Fiona’s.

  A little on the short side, Jackie makes up for it with her commanding, almost abrasive presence. A no-nonsense girl with a dry sense of humor, she has a keen passion about all things paranormal. In fact, she’s the reason Fiona became interested in exploring haunted locales back when they were in high school.

  “I’m not sure if I’ll be up for it,” Fiona told her, and then looked back at me. “Unless y’all want to still do it. Jimmy knows how to get there.”

  The plainclothes policeman advised that he only had a few more questions for Fiona and then our group could leave. That sounded like an excellent idea, as the coroner had arrived and the red flashing lights from an ambulance announced the dead would soon be leaving Johnny’s house. A “News Channel Five” van pulled up beside the ambulance.

  Shit!

  I’d always dreamed of being on TV someday, but this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. I glanced back at the carnage in the kitchen one last time. Poor Johnny and Brenda. They barely got settled in their latest pad, and now none of their friends could throw them a nice house-warming party. They have, or had I suppose, an eclectic set of friends. Gay, straight, democrat, republican, and then...there’s us.

  It royally sucks that Johnny will never finish the restoration of this house. He got a great deal on the beige brick one-story he and his gal pal Brenda bought to set up for their West End neighborhood salon. When we walked in the front door, the scent of perm solution overpowered the onset of death. They were just getting a small taste of what could’ve grown into something great. All of this made the scene of what awaited us in the kitchen so much worse, since we had no warning other than the steady dripping from spilled bottles of color, acetate, and of course, blood.

  The interrogation finally ended, and Fiona was soon on her way over to me. But my plan to mosey up to her side and comfort her didn’t happen. Jackie and another female in our group, Angela Meyers, beat me to it.

  Damn it, Angie!

  Jackie’s roommate is strikingly pretty, with long hair that’s platinum blond. If you ask me, Angie’s beauty seems more ‘made up’ than natural, and we’re all still trying to decide what her real hair color is. But I’d never tell her this. Hell, she might beat me up, or try to incinerate me with her big green eyes. The girl’s incredibly strong, man, so I won’t mess with her, especially when we’re all tense. Not to mention she carries a third-degree black belt in karate.

  “Okay, let’s go,” said Fiona between sobs. “I guess we should take the wine with us, since I need a damn drink and soon.”

  She motioned to the good luck gift she brought with her, still sitting unopened on the coffee table, which had been ignored by the forensic team. Angie stepped over and picked it up, her eyebrows raised in admiration as she read the Frogs Leap label, which is the vineyard of Fiona’s favorite Merlot.

  “Babe, if you don’t feel up to going to the Thompson house, we can postpone tonight’s investigation to some other time,” I suggested.

  Really, I thought it was crass to even consider doing anything but mourn with my wife over her loss. And it’s not like the rest of us were strangers to Fiona’s pals. Jackie and Angie were friends of Johnny and Brenda too. The rest of NVP, short for Nash-Vegas Paranormal, had met them and Candi before, even though just in passing for Ms. Starr. I’d gotten to know Johnny a little, and he’d been to our home down in Arrington a few times. I probably would’ve spent time with Candi, too, but the only time she made it to Arrington was on a weekend night when I had to work late. Any other time she and Fiona hung out was either at Candi’s posh home or at other celebrities’ estates in the area.

  My wife shook her head sadly, as if unsure what’d be best.

  “You and the guys should go on, and we’ll stay with Fiona,” said Jackie, with enough force to encourage us to follow her suggestion. She wrapped her arms around Fiona’s shoulders protectively. Angie gave an over-enthusiastic nod to support Jackie’s ‘directive’.

  “That sounds like the best idea,” Tom chimed in, before I could offer another rebuttal.

  I turned to look at him and the rest of the guys, and could clearly read the desire to get something productive done tonight. I might’ve resisted more, but since this genuinely seemed to be what Fiona wanted, I nodded my compliance. I knew she’d save the wine until after, but for now she wanted something else upon which to focus.

  “Y’all should leave now,” the uniformed policeman advised, stepping over to our group while motioning to the front door. Already, three more news vehicles were crowding the curved driveway.

  Flanked by Jackie and Angie, Fiona led the way out. She paused to give me a hug and kiss before we all stepped outside, squinting from camera flashes and the video lamps’ searing brightness.

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  Plague of Coins

  The Judas Chronicles, Book One

  (Please read on for a sample)

  When I regained consciousness I couldn’t move. Rope-bound to a wooden chair, my arms and hands were pulled tightly behind me. Only my head, lower legs, and my feet were free. Obviously, someone intended for me to stay put when I came to. Feeling disoriented, my head throbbed like a mother. I tried to recall the unclear events that had brought me to this point.

  Something about a dangerous secret mission, a burned-out car, and the Garden of Eden. That last part seemed to energize my recovery, and as the fog cleared from my mind I steadily remembered everything.

  “So, William Barrow, we meet again,” said a middle-aged man from behind me.

  The voice was mellow and yet at the same time ice cold. Like fine German ale kept in a freezer...undrinkable. Likewise, I pictured the owner of the voice to be just as disagreeable. But the man wasn’t German, the accent was too thick....Russian. And the familiarity was profound...both with this asshole knowing my name and my own recognizance of his unsavory persona.

  “Viktor?” I said, weakly. My mouth and throat felt as dry as sandpaper, like I hadn’t drunk anything for several days. “Where in the hell am I?”

  “How easily you remember me, William.” The man’s mellowness gave way to a frigid influx of disdain. He stepped around me and moved over to where a group of five other men and a woman stood
near the door, his boot heels clicking softly upon the linoleum covered floor. “It appears I might not have wasted my time waiting for you to wake up these past two days.”

  Huh?

  Once he moved past me, I fully confirmed it was Viktor. Viktor Kaslow, ex Lieutenant Colonel in the Soviet Union’s army from twenty-five years ago, and captain for one of Moscow’s most feared KGB death squads even after the Cold War ended. This man was among the Soviet’s most feared assassins, garnering that reputation based upon his supreme passion for his vocation.

  “You are in some trouble, my friend. We caught you and your father, Alistair, trespassing. As well as the archaeologist’s daughter. But have no worries, William. After you and my subordinates get acquainted, all three of you shall exit this world promptly and join your less fortunate CIA predecessors in the afterlife.”

  They—the Russians—had awaited my arrival. Viktor’s words alone confirmed that, but also a quick glance around the room affirmed the same conclusion. This had to be one of the trailers I spotted from my higher vantage point earlier. A double-wide large enough to fit several oversized pieces of furniture, including a large mahogany desk that sat close to the only door in the room. Both windows—each on opposite walls—were covered with thick draperies, making it impossible to tell whether it was morning or night.

  Other furniture included a long table that sat next to a suspended fireplace. Despite the oppressive heat outside and an inefficient air conditioner wall unit, small flames danced within the hearth. A row of shiny sharp cutlery, specially designed for either surgery or torture, was laid out upon a blood-spotted white sheet that haphazardly covered the table.