Semi-Twisted:

by Isabel Jordan

Vi cringed, then shrugged. “S’all good.” She swiveled on her stool and grabbed Mischa’s arm. “Hey! You should totally call Hunter and tell him you’re sorry. Maybe he’ll listen now.”

  “Yeah, because drunk dialing is always a good idea,” Harper said dispassionately, tucking into her cheesy tots again.

  Mischa ignored her. “Do you really think he would?”

  Vi nodded with enough enthusiasm that Harper had to grab her and right her before she slipped off her stool. “Of course he would! Why wouldn’t he? You’re awesome.” She reached over and patted Mischa’s head. “And you have such pretty hair.”

  “Jesus,” Harper muttered.

  “Thank you,” Mischa said with a sniffle. “You really are a good friend, Vi. And you’re a really good terapus…theratis…shrink. I’m sorry I called you a low-rent Dr. Phil.”

  “You never called me that.”

  “Of course I didn’t.” To Harper, she added in a ridiculously loud stage whisper, “Not to her face, anyway.”

  Harper shook her head and took out her phone.

  “Are you calling Hunter?” Vi asked. “Tell him Mischa loves him, and he should love her, because she deserves to be happy and…” she trailed off, frowning. “Am I talking really loud?”

  “Yes, you are. And no, I’m not calling Hunter. I’m calling Riddick,” Harper said. “I’m going to need help pouring you two into a cab.”

  Mischa’s laugh ended in a snort. “Pouring. ‘Cause we’re drunk. See what she did there? I told you she was sooooo funny.”

  Vi and Mischa laughed until they slumped over on one another.

  They were still laughing when Riddick came in and slid an arm around Harper. “Sunshine,” he murmured before leaning over and kissing her like he wanted to devour her, and damn anyone who might be watching.

  Mischa sighed and leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm. “You guys are so cute together I want to vomit.”

  Harper ignored her. Instead, she turned to Vi. “Riddick, this is Mischa’s therapist…” she said, very carefully enunciating the word, the show-off, “…Dr.Violet Marchand. Vi, this is my husband, Noah Riddick.”

  Riddick reached out and shook her hand. Vi stared up at him, completely awestruck.

  “Holy shit,” she eventually whispered. “You’re so hot it makes my ovaries hurt.”

  Riddick’s brow furrowed as Vi slapped a hand over her mouth. “Jesus, did I say that out loud?”

  Harper nodded, looking amused. “And not in your inside voice, either, Vi.”

  Mischa could understand Vi’s outburst. Riddick was ridiculously good-looking, with his icy blue eyes, olive skin, and longish, sexily disheveled black hair. He was no Hunter, but then again, who was? As far as mere mortals went, Riddick was about as high up on the food chain as a body could get.

  “I’m so sorry,” Vi mumbled, lowering her forehead to her palm. “I get really nervous around hot guys and any control I have over the filter between my brain and mouth flies right out the window.”

  Unfortunately, on the word “flies,” Vi flung her arms out and smacked Mischa in the face, knocking her right off her bar stool.

  As Mischa hoped the liquid she was now lying in was beer and not biohazard, Riddick pulled her to her feet and bent down to look her in the eyes (he had to bend down because he was about a foot taller than her, too, she thought a little bitterly). He frowned.

  “How long has she been like this?” Riddick asked Harper.

  “Um, maybe an hour or so?”

  His frown intensified. “That’s not right. Vampires shouldn’t stay drunk for that long.”

  Harper turned to Vi, who’d laid her head back down on the bar and was mumbling something about her sore ovaries under her breath. “Vi, what’s wrong with Mischa?”

  “Fear of abandonment, rejection. Feelings of self-loathing and low self-esteem.” Vi sighed. “She’s all twisted and fucked up.”

  Mischa shook her head and sagged a bit in Riddick’s grasp. “I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”

  Harper scowled at her. “I’d feel better about that if you hadn’t just said, ‘I can take care of my shelf.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but all that came out was “Nuh.”

  Riddick shook his head. “That’s not right,” he repeated. “I’ve never seen pupils doing what hers are doing right now.”

  Harper slid off her barstool and grabbed her phone. “Should I call an ambulance?”

  Mischa wanted to say that no, they should most certainly not call an ambulance because she’d had a few too many. How humiliating would that be? But she was all of a sudden so…tired. Maybe if she just closed her eyes for a minute…

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Riddick grumbled, giving her a hard shake. “Wake up!”

  Her eyes jerked open. “I was just trying to rest my eyes. Don’t be a dick,” she slurred.

  “Uh huh. Call me whatever you want, just stay awake.” He glanced over at Harper, who was shifting her phone nervously from one hand to the other.

  “I don’t think the hospital can do much for her,” he said. “The closest one is Whispering Hope General, and they don’t even have a vampire unit.”

  And why would they? Mischa thought. So few things could damage a vampire that it was hardly worth the cost of the space and personnel.

  Harper set her phone down and grabbed Mischa’s face with both hands. “Listen to me carefully,” she said, slowly, deliberately. “If you die on me again, I will follow you all the way to heaven—or hell—and drag you back. Then I will kill you myself. Do you understand me?”

  She didn’t. She really didn’t. That just didn’t make any sense at all. But she sounded super-serious, and usually with Harper, agreement was the best course of action, so she nodded.

  “Good,” Harper said, scooping up her phone again. “And you’re going to just have to forgive me for what I’m about to do.”

  “What…?”

  Harper looked her right in the eye as she spoke into the phone words that terrified and thrilled Mischa in equal measure.

  “Hunter, I need your help.”

  Chapter Eight

  It had taken three different soaps and twenty minutes in a scalding hot shower to rid himself of the prison stench he’d stewed in for the length of his stay at Midvale. The clothes he’d been wearing were a complete loss. He’d tossed them into the building’s incinerator almost immediately.

  Any plans of sleeping in a bed with an actual mattress instead of a wall-mounted slab of steel went out the window when Harper called.

  I need your help, she’d said. And like a fool, he’d rushed out the door without even bothering to ask any questions.

  He caught the scent as soon as he walked into the bar. It was a scent he’d know anywhere, a scent he could track across continents if necessary.

  Mischa.

  He followed the scent of cherry bark and almond shampoo layered over lime and coconut hand cream, layered over soft female skin. She always smelled edible. And like she was…

  Mine.

  It had taken every bit of restraint he had to not fall at her feet earlier. To beg her to give him another chance. To pull her into his arms and never let go. To be Pepé Le Pew and damn the consequences.

  Somehow, she was even more beautiful than he remembered, and that was saying a lot, since he’d pretty much built her beauty up in his head to goddess-level proportions while he’d been inside. The almond-shaped, sultry, cocoa-brown eyes, the delicate features she’d inherited from her Italian mother, and the hair…

  Jesus. The need to tangle his fingers in those soft, loose, chestnut curls that trailed halfway down her back was damn near crippling.

  If he hadn’t walked away when he did, he would’ve embarrassed himself by professing his undying love or some such shit, likely scaring her away again. Just like that damn cartoon skunk.

  Harper grabbed his arm when she saw him and dragged him through a crowd of halfers, weres, and vampires—fuck, what were
they doing here, of all places? They were lucky they hadn’t been eaten—to the bar, where he saw Riddick holding Mischa in his arms.

  His logical brain knew that Riddick loved his wife, and that he would rather die than disrespect or cheat on Harper. But Hunter’s vampire instincts? Yeah, those instincts were pretty much telling him to tear Riddick apart for daring to touch Mischa.

  Mine.

  Riddick glanced at him. “Thank God you’re here.”

  And with that, Riddick unceremoniously thrust a limp Mischa into his arms.

  He had to shift his hold because she wasn’t really doing much to support herself, and he finally managed to slide his hands under her arms and haul her up against his chest so that she didn’t melt to the floor in a boneless heap.

  She surprised him by gripping the edges of his battered army jacket in two white-knuckled fists. Slowly, she lifted her head, her eyes touching on his chest first, then his throat and chin, and finally, her gaze found his. She smiled a tiny, tired smile.

  He thought his heart actually might start beating again. So, so beautiful.

  “Hi,” she whispered.

  He didn’t respond. If he stopped concentrating on not kissing her so that he could respond…well, he wouldn’t be able to not kiss her.

  That’s when he noticed her pupils seemed to be doing some sort of samba. He swore. “When was the last time you fed?”

  She blinked up at him, smile fading. “Um…”

  Harper said, “Benny took her out a few hours ago. He said she drank some bottled blood then.”

  He shook his head, still locked in the tractor beam of Mischa’s eyes. “No, not the bottled shit. Actual blood.”

  A little blond with her head down on the bar said, “She’s never had actual blood. She’s all twisted and fucked up.”

  That got his attention, and pissed him off pretty good. What the fuck made some drunk at a bar qualified to judge whether or not Mischa was twisted and fucked up?

  Harper cleared her throat. “That’s Vi. Dr. Violet Marchand. She’s Mischa’s therapist.”

  Oh. Well…all right then. Maybe she was qualified after all.

  The doctor raised her head off the bar regally. Or, at least, it would’ve been regal if she didn’t have mascara smeared on her forehead and a pretzel stuck to her cheek. But minus those minor details, Mischa’s doctor looked like a pint-sized Grace Kelly.

  She thrust a hand out in his general direction. “It’s a pleasure to meet…”

  Her sentence trailed off into an inarticulate squeak as she looked up and saw Hunter for the first time. She pulled her hand back slowly and tucked it between her knees. “Sweet merciful crap, they’re everywhere,” she whispered.

  “Oh, pull yourself together, Vi,” Harper grumbled. “Yes, he’s hot, too. We get it. There’s no time for drool; this is a crisis!”

  Vi mumbled an apology and laid her head back down on the bar.

  Mischa’s forehead dropped to his chest. “Hmmm,” she murmured, rubbing her cheek on his chest like a sleepy kitten. He went from zero to hard in approximately half a second.

  He was so damned pathetic.

  All right, enough was enough. Adjusting his hold yet again, he scooped her up and held her against his chest. “I’ll take care of her,” he said to Harper. He nodded to Riddick. “Can you get these two home?”

  “Yeah,” Riddick said, laying a hand on Violet’s shoulder. “Come on, doc, time to go.”

  Vi’s only response came in the form of a snuffling snore.

  “Fucking perfect,” Riddick muttered.

  In one smooth motion, Riddick chucked an unconscious Vi over his shoulder, took Harper’s hand, and started moving toward the door. Mischa lifted her head in time to watch them go.

  “You’re not taking me to the hospital, are you?” she asked.

  Hunter shifted her so that he could fish her keys out of her pocket. They’d have to take her car. He’d walked here (well, ran, really), and while he could carry her for miles, he knew she’d probably be more comfortable in a car. “No. They can’t help you. I can.”

  She shivered. “Where are you taking me, then?”

  The one place he knew he shouldn’t, which also happened to be the place he’d wanted to take her ever since they first met over two decades ago.

  “Home, Mischa. I’m taking you home.”

  Chapter Nine

  1992, Sentry Headquarters

  Hunter glared down at the name on the slip of paper he'd taken from the dead man. Mischa Bartone. The same damn Mischa Bartone who'd ordered nine slayers to kill him over the past year. Ten, if he counted the one whose blood still stained his hands.

  He didn't want to kill her, but he would. Something told him he'd never again know a moment's peace unless he choked the life out of her. She obviously didn't give up easily.

  Not bothering to hide from the security cameras, he walked right past no fewer than twelve guards at the main gate, and three inside the building. Weak-minded, all of them. One simple telepathic push and they'd all looked the other way as he strolled in as if he belonged there. And in truth, no one belonged there less than he did.

  Hunter didn't have to trail her scent—a fruity mixture—for long before he found her office. He didn't bother knocking. The door burst off its hinges with one well-placed kick.

  The woman standing behind the desk was...unexpected.

  She was tiny. Standing on tiptoe, she probably didn't reach five-foot-three, and she couldn't weigh more than 110 pounds. The biggest thing about her was the mass of chestnut curls that fell to the middle of her back.

  She had almond-shaped, melted-chocolate eyes hiding behind wire-rimmed glasses and golden skin that hinted at Italian heritage. Her features were delicate, complete with full, pouty lips, high cheekbones, and a pointy little chin.

  That pointy little chin took on a defiant tilt as she stared back at him, looking insultingly unruffled. Obviously, she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of hearing her speak first.

  “You can’t be..." he began.

  One delicate black brow winged up. “I’m Mischa Bartone. I’m quite sure I’m the one you’re looking for.”

  Not possible. “But you’re…”

  “A woman?” she supplied.

  The most beautiful woman I've ever seen. “You’re a child.”

  She frowned. “How did you find me?”

  He tossed her the note. “I tracked your scent off this.”

  She looked a bit nonplussed by that. At least he'd gotten some emotion out of her. She'd seemed fairly bored up until that point.

  “If you’re waiting for an invitation, you won’t be getting one.”

  He liked her voice. It was smooth and rich and low-pitched, yet utterly feminine. “What makes you think I need one?”

  “Vampires 101. You can’t come in uninvited.”

  “You’ve received misinformation, I’m afraid, Miss Bartone. Quite a bit of it.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Really? What misinformation might that be?”

  “You and your superiors seem to think I’m in the habit of killing humans. That hasn’t been a hobby of mine for over a century.”

  Her lip curled at the word hobby. “I have nine dead slayers that might argue that point.”

  He pulled the dog tags he'd taken from the dead man out of his coat pocket and tossed them to her. She caught them without taking her eyes off him.

  “You have ten dead slayers, Miss Bartone," he said. "And I wouldn’t have killed any of them if given any other choice.”

  He heard her gulp, but her expression remained emotionless. “Congratulations, Wolf Hunter. Ten slayers. That must be some kind of record.”

  He growled as she dropped gracefully into her chair. “It’s just Hunter."

  The name Wolf Hunter, the rough English translation of his actual name, had been fine back in 1492 in Lakota territory, but these days, it made him sound like a Calvin Klein underwear model or struggling metal singer. "And I’m n
ot here to brag,” he snapped. “I’m here to tell you to stop sending slayers after me.”

  “I’m only doing my job.”

  “And I’m only doing mine.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then her gaze dropped. After a moment, she said, “Can I ask you a question?”

  The righteous indignation had bled from her voice and she sounded so...young. Sad. He steeled himself against feeling sympathy for the woman who'd ordered his death. Ten times. “I suppose so.”

  “Was it…” she paused, catching her full lower lip between her teeth. The sight did things to his libido he wasn’t proud of. “…Did any of them even present a challenge to you?”

  “You mean did any of them even come close to being able to kill me?”

  She nodded, curls bobbing.

  No one had ever asked him about the full extent of his powers. He imagined she wouldn’t be standing there so calmly if she knew what he could do. He sighed.

  “Miss Bartone, I’ve been around a very long time. I’ve fought in so many wars I probably can’t even remember all of them. I have more training and experience than all of your slayers put together.”

  He paused before adding, “So, to answer your question, no, none of them were even able to hurt me. And to answer what you really want to know, yes, I’ll keep killing the men you send after me, one by one. My existence isn’t ideal, but I intend to protect it nonetheless.”

  Her gaze turned speculative. After a few moments, she groaned. “All I can do is make a recommendation to my superiors to stop sending people after you. I can’t guarantee they’ll take it.”

  Hunter was over five hundred years-old. Nothing had surprised him in, well, centuries, he supposed. And yet Mischa Bartone, this tiny little slip of a girl, had just managed to shock the hell out of him. “You’d do that?”

  That defiant chin came up again. “Well, I certainly would rather have you killed, per my orders,” she said, voice prim. “But since it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen anytime soon, a truce certainly seems to be in my team’s best interest.”

  He resisted the urge to snort. “Truce, huh? I’ve heard that before.”