by Unknown
The spark that made Adam.
If Roanridge was aware of her new proclivities, it wasn’t addressed.
Unwrapping the books from the pouch, she carefully laid them out side by side and turned to chapter seven in each volume.
There, in the chapter heading were alchemical sigils.
The same elation she’d felt watching PrPM attack that glioblastoma flooded her. She’d found it. She’d found the keys.
Now, all she needed was Adam and his willingness to rip his chest open and give her a rib. Elizabeth didn’t doubt for one second that he would.
She watched the door, half expecting to see him there. He’d said when the time was right, and it had never been more right.
But life didn’t happen in perfect plot arcs. It couldn’t be wrapped up so neatly. She sank down in the chair.
“It’s not like you to give up so easily.”
There he was. Just as he’d promised. When the time was right.
She ran to him, and he swept her up into his arms. “You know how to do this?” He whispered against her lips.
“I have a lab we can use to operate. It’s ready.”
“Then so am I, because I want to give you forever.”
The monster carried his bride to the lab where he did, indeed, give her forever with his rib bone grafted to her own that caused a second heart to grow in her chest and electricity to crackle around her fingertips.
THE EVER AFTER
Dr. Elizabeth Wollstonecraft still works for Bureau 7. She plans to cure brain cancer someday and still believes reprogrammed prions are key. Under interests in her company biography, she’s no longer ashamed to list “reanimation” as one of her hobbies.
Adam is a content house monster and lives to care for Elizabeth and, after writing his memoirs, has decided to pursue a career in fiction.
Dr. John Polidori washed up on an uncharted island populated by sirens. The giant electric eels have taken up patrols to keep him from leaving. He contemplates his life choices and decides that perhaps he should’ve turned left at Albuquerque.
Mad Dog Whitman officially returned home to Sleepy Hollow for some R&R, but she’s really there on a secret mission for Bureau 7. There’s a killer loose in Sleepy Hollow, but it’s not the Horseman. It’s something much worse. Read her story in The Horseman’s Lady coming soon.
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Check out Big Bad Billionaire, the first in The Woolven Secret series. It’s currently free. Stay tuned for the rest of Bureau 7, coming coon.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Saranna De Wylde has always been fascinated by things better left in the dark. She wrote her first story after watching The Exorcist at a slumber party. Since then, she's published horror, romance and narrative nonfiction. Like all writers, Saranna has held a variety of jobs, from operations supervisor for an airline, to an assistant for a call girl, to a corrections officer. But like Hemingway said, "Once writing has become your major vice and greatest pleasure, only death can stop it." So she traded in her cuffs for a full-time keyboard. She loves to hear from her readers.
WITCHMATE
RENEE GEORGE
While robbing an art collector’s vault, Emma Watson finds herself trapped. When she finds a spider key, a mysterious door appears at the back of the room. The key fits, but instead of finding freedom on the other side, she finds herself in an unfamiliar world where the only two species, witches and wolves, are at war. When she is caught in the magical crossfire, a gorgeous wolf Shifter, Keir D'San, rescues her. But when she begins to manifest magic, it sets her on a dangerous path that may lose her the only man she's ever wanted to love.
Keir has spent his entire life fighting witches. In the middle of another battle with his bitter enemies, he comes upon a spirited woman who is neither a witch nor a wolf and rescues her. Their chemistry is instant and their attraction explosive. But when Emma begins to turn into the enemy, Keir has to choose between his wolf Shifter clan and the witchy woman who is his true mate.
COPYRIGHT
Witchmate by Renee George
Copyright © Renee George 2016 – All Rights Reserved All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright holder.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement by the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and storylines in this book are inspired only by the author’s imagination. The characters are based solely in fiction and are in no relation inspired by anyone bearing the same name or names. Any similarities to real persons, situations, or incidents is purely coincidental.
RIVER OF TEARS
The witch in the wood, she cries, “Evil is done!”
She screams at the moon, curses the sun.
Her hair is black, as her cold, cold heart.
She catches wolf pups, tears them apart.
The witch in the wood befouls the air.
No creature can survive in the midst of her lair.
The loss of her love made her wicked, profane.
She catches wolf pups, drives them insane.
The witch in the wood always weeps.
She watches, waits, never sleeps.
A grave she has made for one and all, Lies in the depths of a bottomless fall.
The witch in wood brings death and grief.
Steals wolf cubs in the night like a thief.
She preys on children, their doubts and fears.
Drowns them one by one in her river of tears.
Excerpt from Wolfkind Folklore Volume VI, River of Tears – Author Unknown.
1
“Y our invitation,” the stiff in the three-piece tux demanded. He held out his hand, not bothering to make eye contact with Emma Watson. She’d seen him treat more than a dozen people the same way, all of them waiting to trade their invites for entrance into Lucinda Mowry’s home. After all, it wasn’t every day she allowed access to her private art collection. The entrepreneur was rich enough to give Oprah Winfrey a run for her money, but she wasn’t quite the philanthropist as the talk show queen.
Emma pulled a gold embossed card from her black silk clutch, purposefully waving it in front of him to catch his gaze. When his brown eyes met hers, she smiled with her own personal invitation. He made a point of looking from her black leather corseted breasts to the black balloon skirt that hit mid-thigh to the four-inch Louboutin heels that added length and shape to her short legs. Without the heels, Emma was only five-two. Finally, the security guard turned his gaze once again to her eyes.
“Have a nice evening, Miss…” he glanced at the card in her hand. “Ms. Jones.”
“You do the same…”
“Roger.”
She smiled again. “Roger.”
He flushed with pleasure as he waved her through. She tucked the invitation back into her clutch, thankful for the art of misdirection. If Roger had looked closer, he would have noticed that the paper wasn’t milled with linen and the gold embossing was a substandard gold leaf. A finger scratch would have flaked it right off.
Emma pulled a burner phone out of her purse and texted, “IN.”
She grabbed a skewer of butter poached lobster but skipped the champagne tray—had to stay sharp—as she made her way through the crowd. Several paintings and sculptures were on display in the large receiving hall of the Mowry’s mansion. None of them caught her eye. She was here for one very special prize.
Lucinda Mowry, a tall wispy blonde, stood center stage in the large ballroom. Ah, the main event.
“Friends, fellow art lovers, I welcome you to my home. Feel free to browse my private collection. I think you’ll find it magical.” She lifted
her arms, her fingers elegantly stretching and swimming through the air. Confetti and blue, pink, and yellow balloons dropped from the vaulted ceiling. The multitude of wealthy party-goers, socialites, and social climbers clapped as Lucinda took a flourished bow.
Emma watched and waited for her chance to ascend the staircase to the second floor. After fending off several flirtatious men, she made it to the cordoned-off stairs. She stepped around the red rope and ran up the carpeted steps. She hid in the landing’s tiny nook, kicked off her heels, carrying them as she quietly raced to the third floor. According to the mansion’s blueprints, Lucinda’s vault was on this floor, and Emma’s current employer wanted her to steal a set of documents from inside. An actual paper file? It was so old-school.
Probably some corporate espionage bullshit, but who cares. The client was paying the crew two million for this job. The modular vault with an electronic keypad and blood verification system wasn’t easy to breach. However, Mike Bana, her crew boss and mentor, had managed to get her both. He would loop the camera when she was ready, and thank you hacking skills, turn off the motion sensors.
She ducked into the bathroom, two doors down from the office where Lucinda Mowry had the modular safe installed. Security was heavy on the priceless art tonight, which gave her a little breathing room. She took off the corset and allowed herself a deep breath. She pulled a black stretch-mesh long sleeve shirt on. Comfortable, but clingy, so it wouldn’t snag on anything. Next, she unbuckled the skirt, which quickly converted into a bag and laid it out on the sink. She rolled down the black leggings she wore underneath and took off her heels, stashing the expensive designer shoes in one of the skirt’s pouches. In the same pouch, she retrieved a pair of thin black slippers that were flexible and non-skid. Suitable for B&E work. To finish, she took off the deep auburn wig she wore, stuffed it into the bag, and pulled out a lightweight facemask specially made for black ops. The fabric was a polyester blend, developed to keep an operative’s head cool while wearing it. She slipped it on over her pinned up hair and straightened the neck to fit over the collar of her shirt.
Her boss Mike had never failed her when it came to patching into camera systems, but it was better to be safe than sorry. She pulled out a small lock pick gun, then tucked her clutch in its place, and turned the skirt inside out. With a few zips and snaps, the balloon became a backpack.
Lockpick in hand, she texted, “READY.”
“GO,” Mike responded.
She slipped the bag over her shoulders and peeked into the dark hallway. She stayed against the wall until she reached Mowry’s office. The room had a simple tumbler lock, and she was inside in less than five seconds. Not her record, but still, it was quick. Her gaze ghosted over the six foot-executive desk with a leather writing surface to a large balcony, her escape route. The large room also had a sitting area that included a high back, chocolate brown loveseat and two matching chairs. The nearest wall had several expensive artworks—including a Pablo Picasso oil painting worth at least a hundred million dollars on a bad day. The far wall was covered in bookshelves—the vault was hidden behind it. She tucked the lock pick into her bag and took the small vial of blood hanging on a chain between her boobs. Hopefully her body heat had kept it warm enough to fool the sensors.
She walked to the middle shelf and scanned the books until she found Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. With a straight tug, the book slid out four inches, and Emma heard a series of clicks then a whispering sound as the bookshelf swung away and revealed the safe.
“AT THE DOOR,” she texted.
“UR GOOD,” Mike texted back. “HALL CLEAR. NO ALARMS.”
The keypad was a nine digit digital screen with a blood scanner at the base. Two red lights blinked at the top.
It’s go time, Emma thought. Let this be easy.
She punched in the passcode praying Mowry hadn’t changed it. The first light turned green. Whew. She unscrewed the blood, shook it on to her finger and pressed it to the scanner.
“Ow!” Something stung her. She yanked her hand away in time to see a tiny needle withdraw into the console. “What the fuck?”
She’d followed Mike’s instructions to the T. Had he gotten bad information? It would be a first since she’d known him, and he’d raised her. She wiped her bloody fingertip onto her leggings. When the second light turned green, she let out a nervous breath.
Other than the unexpected pinprick, everything was going well. She went to the vault door and turned the wheel-like handle. It spun with little effort. Unease skittered up her spine. She inhaled a steadying breath and focused on the task at hand. Doubt equaled jail. Mike had taught her that. Bucking up her courage, she walked into the twelve-by-twelve strong room.
The vault was lined with three-inch steel, no vents, and shelves on both walls that contained various pieces of art. The back wall was smooth, no shelves or cabinets, which seemed odd. Most people, especially the one-percenters, were utilitarian when it came to their home safes. It was about getting the most storage as possible. So why the blank wall?
She examined the shelves on the right before moving to the left. On the bottom, near the back wall, lay a cardboard box. Could a document worth two mil be in there? She dropped her bag, crouched down, and lifted the lid.
The vault door slammed shut.
“Shit!” Emma jumped up and stared at the closed door. She quickly crossed the room. Her heart hammered in her chest as she looked for a button, a handle, anything that might help her open the door from the inside.
Nothing.
“Okay. Okay. You got this.” She returned to the box and grabbed her phone from her satchel. “CLOSED IN. NEED EXIT.”
Emma stared at her phone, groaning when she saw “text failed.” She couldn’t get a signal. She couldn’t climb through the non-existent vents. Well, what did you expect? You’re standing in a state-of-the-art death trap. She had a few plastic explosives in her bag, but there was no lock on the interior of the vault to shove the C-4 into. Because of the thickness of the steel security door, if she tried to use the explosives to blow it, it wouldn’t put a dent in the door, but the concussive back blast would probably kill her. Which meant, she was screwed six ways from Sunday.
Sweat dripped off her brow as her options for escape narrowed down to one: The cops opening the safe and carting her off to jail. The air was already starting to feel thin and stale. Emma purposefully slowed her breathing.
How long did a girl have to wait to get arrested? Getting booked for larceny wouldn’t be too bad. Well, then there was the breaking and entering. But hey, no weapon. First-time offense. She swallowed hard knowing she could expect a minimum of ten years in prison. The thought of being confined in a tiny cell for an entire decade quickened her pulse.
Panic will get you killed. Another phrase Mike liked to say. Time passed, and no one came. Not the owner. Not security. Not police. Hell, not even Mike had tried to free her. Surely he’d realized something had gone wrong.
Emma knew it was only a matter of time before the oxygen depleted. She was going to die in here. She imagined Lucinda Mowry would be shocked to find Emma’s rotting corpse among her coveted treasures. On the up side, she’d have Emma’s fabulous Louboutin heels to comfort her.
What the hell happened? How had opening an ordinary box set off the vault’s protections? Well, if she was going to croak in this damned metal coffin, she could at least get a look at the file.
Trying not to think about how few minutes she had left, she pushed the lid off the banker’s box.
No file.
However…
She pulled out an old-fashioned key made of some kind of white ivory or something similar. It felt smooth and cool in her hands. It looked like it would open a haunted mansion or a pirate’s treasure chest. The head of the key had been crafted into a spider.
I hope I don’t get caught in its web, she thought.
She tracked movement in her peripheral vision and turned to look. On the back wall, a door appeared.
The wood door was six feet tall, four feet wide, and carved with elaborate symbols she didn’t recognize.
“I’m hallucinating,” she whispered. The lack of breathable air had messed with her mind--conjuring a door. Yeah. One last torment before she passed out. She staggered to the door, her lungs burning, her vision graying. She touched the handle. It felt real. Solid. An opening just below the knob was the same shape and size as the key she now possessed.
Feeling slightly delirious and with nothing to lose, Emma stuck the spider key into the lock. It clicked, freeing the handle to rotate. With only a moment’s hesitation, she pushed the door open, stumbling out of the vault and into…
…the woods? She gulped in the clean air, taking in the smell of the dark soil and the fragrance of the odd flowers that dotted the area.
When her mind cleared, she realized this was crazy. She turned around but the door was gone, and the key had disappeared. Only the forest and the night surrounded her.
I’m dead. And this is eternity. She looked around, frowning. She figured the afterlife would have fewer trees and darkness and more… well, fluffy gold clouds and soothing harp music.
A roar in the distance dropped her down to the ground. Thick underbrush dug into her body.
The angry sound vibrated right through her. Okay. She was in the other place. Hell. That made more sense given her life choices, but again, the trees were a surprise. Where was all the fire and brimstone?
An explosion rocked the earth, and she saw flames and smoke dart up into the blackened sky.
“Ack!” Emma hid behind a barrel-sized tree and covered her mouth. She heard the screams of the tormented along with strange electric noises that she equated with lightning strikes. Scary growls accompanied the evil cacophony. Jail would’ve been so much better than this.
