Elements of Mischief

by Tate James

  Unbe-fucking-lievable.

  My best friend was a goddamn werewolf and never thought to tell me!

  The expensively dressed wolf ignored me as the red-haired woman rolled, narrowly avoiding Britt’s snapping jaws, then threw a bitch slap across my wolf-friend's snout, raking bloody lines through Britt’s fur.

  Scrambling for my dropped clutch, I grabbed out my little can of pepper spray and pressed down hard on the trigger. A thick stream of the spicy stuff flew out, hitting the crazy winged chick dead in the eyes as she launched herself at me, and she screeched in pain.

  Occupied as she was, clawing at her burning eyeballs, she didn’t even see it coming when Britt pounced on her. My furred friend then proceeded to sink her massive fangs into the neck of the winged … thing. Whipping her huge furry jaws to the side, she tore the head clean off my would-be killer while somehow managing to keep the spinal column intact.

  The string of bones, still held together with cartilage and pieces of muscle, slithered free of the winged woman's corpse and landed with a splat at my feet.

  “Seriously?” I narrowed my eyes at my newly furred bestie as she licked her bloody chops and bared her teeth in what was probably meant to be a grin. “Ugh, I think I'm gonna vomit.”

  Closing my eyes, I took a few deep breaths to try and hold the rising bile back but all I ended up with was a nose full of coppery blood, and I bent double to empty my guts all over the recently deceased face of my almost executioner.

  “What is that, just red wine and vodka? Have you actually eaten any food in the past twenty-four hours, honey doll?” Shane's Southern drawl scolded me, as his gentle hands collected up my long hair and held it out of the mess at my feet.

  Where in the bloody hell had he come from?!

  “Fuck you, Skeeter,” I growled, retching up a bit more red wine-colored bile before I straightened back up and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand, like a really classy bitch.

  “Now, now, that's no way to speak to your new husband, darlin'.” His syrupy voice was heavy with amusement and I wanted to hit him. So bad. Eyeing up his chiseled jaw, dusted with dark stubble, I decided against further violence. For now.

  “You're not my husband, you delusional supernatural bastard. Thanks for warning me that my best friend was a mother fucking werewolf, too!” My death glare was centered on Britt, who seemed to be watching us with interest, her long tongue lolling out of her jaws. “By the way, how long have you been standing there? A little help would've been nice.”

  “We weren't gonna let anything happen to you, sweets. But your girlfriend here, well she took care of the problem before we did.”

  “We?” I asked, feeling the blood drain from my face.

  “Very stylish, Fido,” Reg commented, clapping his hands as he came around the corner and joined us in the alleyway. “I always did think wolves would look great in pink sequins.”

  Britt shifted back into her human form with a shimmering of light, and reached into the neckline of her slightly stretched out dress to rearrange her boobs.

  “I will take that as a compliment,” she told Reg, flicking her dark hair over her shoulder with an eyebrow raised in challenge. “Now, have you four finished making your point to my girl? I would really prefer no one else try to kill her; I'm quite attached.”

  “Wait, hold the phone!” I snapped, flipping my own hair over my shoulder in similar fashion (mostly to keep it away from my mouth in case I retched again). So effing classy. “Does this mean I have to mate with you too, Britt?”

  My stylish bestie licked her lips and winked at me.

  “Only if you ask really nicely …”

  A low, angry sounding growl came from Shane beside me as he glared at Britt.

  “She means no, sugar. It's usually only the very first supernatural contact—which was Reg and George—but there are some gray areas for elemental quads. Due to the symbiotic nature of our species, we're the exception rather than the rule. These things aren't usually an issue as we generally mate ... within the supernatural community.”

  There was a pause there that I didn't like.

  I narrowed my eyes.

  “But you haven't accepted us as mates yet, so you're fair game for the executioners.” The smoky voice belonged to the new guy, Billy, who had just arrived with George. Billy’s burning gaze raked over me in a judgmental sort of way and I shivered in response. He was seriously smoking hot in black distressed jeans, combat boots and a leather biker jacket.

  I groaned inside my head. I bet he drove a motorbike. So damn sexy.

  “Oh, we're all here. What are you, following me? Don't you have shit filled toilets to unclog somewhere?“ It was a bit petty of me, but my head was pounding and someone had literally just tried to fucking kill me. Also, getting aggressive with these dickheads was covering up my crazy hormonal urge to strip down and let them have their way with me.

  “Sweetheart, you're bleeding …” Seeming to ignore my righteous indignation, George stepped into my personal space and cupped my cheek in one huge, soft palm. The heady scent of moss and damp earth washed over me and I sighed, leaning unintentionally into his touch. An easy smile curved his lips.

  “We're taking you home. Until you accept us, you're a sitting duck,” Billy snapped, his smoky voice brokering no arguments and jolting me right back into the boiling anger that George’s touch had somewhat cooled.

  Giving him a disgusted look, I whipped back around to face my best friend, who was watching our interaction with a wolfish grin.

  “Britt, let's head back inside. I'm in the mood to get my sinkhole plumbed, and not by any of these four.” Okay, that was an outright lie. I really wanted to get down and dirty with these four, possibly together, but they came with way too much supernatural baggage for my liking.

  “Arizona! You're being ridiculous!” This from Shane, who had deliberately stripped down and exposed himself to me, and also showed me his elemental form, just to try and force me into bed with him?

  Uh-uh. I don't think so.

  Tossing my hair over my shoulder again, I threw a bit of extra sway into my step as I stalked back into the club with Britt close behind.

  Once inside, I headed straight to the bar and ordered us three shots of tequila each. As the bartender poured them and Britt and I slammed them back one after another, I could sense four sets of furious eyes following my every move.

  Deciding to really give them something to be mad about, I turned to the guy standing beside me at the crowded bar and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to face me and I quickly glanced past him to be sure he wasn't with a girl—because bitches can get violent—then grabbed his face in my hands and sealed my lips to his.

  The poor guy froze for a second, then shrugged and kissed me back, his tongue slithering into my mouth without warning as he took control. He was, quite possibly, the worst kisser I had ever met in my entire life, but hell if I was going to admit that. I was proving a point goddamn it, and if that meant letting this random dude plunder my throat like he was looking for treasure then so be it.

  After way, way too long, and far too much excess saliva, I politely extracted my face from his tight grip and grabbed Britt's hand. Meeting her surprised gaze, I jerked my head to the sweaty, writhing dance floor.

  “Come on, Furball. We're not here to fuck spiders, let's dance.” I gave Britt a look once I felt we were safely out of earshot from the boys. “Why didn’t you warn me when you heard I was a shimmer?”

  “It took me a while to remember what a Shimmer was,” she said as she gyrated and ground her shit to Cardi B’s Bodak Yellow. I joined in, scooting close enough that I hoped it looked like we were really into each other. I just needed a minute without elementals, winged women, and stage five clinging mouth breathers.

  “It took you a while to remember?” I asked, weighing both the pros and cons of strangling my best friend in the middle of a crowded club. “What do you mean it took you time to remember? It seems like a pretty big fuc
king deal to me—a winged woman just tried to shoot me, Britt.”

  “First of all,” she said, pausing to mouth the words to the song, “that was a succubus. Second, werewolves don’t call you guys shimmers—that’s an elemental thing.”

  “Then what do you call us?” I asked through gritted teeth. This whole thing was not just verging on ridiculous, it had like gone full-on overboard.

  “Dog chow,” Britt said, and she didn’t even crack a smile. Instead, she started twerking.

  “You do not,” I ground out, still trying to reconcile the fact that my best friend, the one in the (slightly distorted and stretched out) cocktail dress was actually a werewolf.

  Maybe after I’d lost my job at the coffee shop, I’d started on a drug binge and completely lost touch with reality? That made more sense than my other options.

  “We do so,” she said, swishing her hair around with her fingers and closing her eyes in musically induced ecstasy. “It’s in our bylaws and everything.”

  I stopped dancing all of a sudden, just stopped right there in the middle of the dance floor.

  “Screw you, Britt,” I said, and then I turned and left.

  Unfortunately, all four assholes followed me outside—Britt trailing along behind them.

  I walked about two blocks in heels before my feet started to crumble off my ankles. Pausing to take them off, I whirled around to glare at the guys.

  “What is it going to take to get some goddamn peace?!” I asked, breathing so hard I was spitting. Definitely not my most attractive moment.

  “Well, sweet thing,” Shane said, stepping forward and rubbing at his ridiculously masculine chin with a tattooed hand. I wanted to trail my lips along the stubbled side of it, see if he tasted as good as he smelled. His dark hair gleamed in the light from the street lamps and his smile ... was as warm and sultry as honey.

  I put both hands on my hips and tried to mentally shut my ovaries up.

  “If you want us to leave you alone, we will,” George inserted, his dark blue-button up open and flashing a whole hell of a lot of bronze chest and abs. “We just …”

  “Don’t want to see you get ripped into teensy-weensy little pieces and shoved down a storm drain,” Reg finished, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. His short blonde hair was slicked back, tattoos oddly bright in the dusky navy light; they looked almost painted on.

  “That was … oddly specific,” I said slowly, closing my eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath. As much as I wanted to deny this shit was happening to me, I could still taste the metallic tang of blood on my lips, and my knees had tiny rocks embedded in them that I was going to have to pick out later with a pair of tweezers.

  Oh, and a woman had sprouted wings in front of me and tried to blow my head off. There was that, too.

  “How do we get out of this then?” I asked, opening my eyes and trying not to notice the width of each man’s shoulders, the way their bodies filled out their clothes … the disturbing resemblance they bore to the Thunder from Down Under performers I’d seen when my mom last came to visit (and yes, it was creepy to attend the show with her, thanks for asking). “This mating thing? Surely, there’s a way.”

  The men exchanged glances, and it was George who spoke up this time. His voice was like the soft dripping of dew on leaves, but with a strength behind it that promised a storm was coming, that thunder would soon boom in the distance.

  Cheesy and lame, I know, but I was a barista, not a poet.

  “There’s really not a lot we can do,” he said slowly, like he was actually putting some thought into this. “I mean, once we mark you, I guess you’d be safe—even if we were to ... leave.”

  “Mark?” I asked, raising one skeptical brow. “Is this a corny euphemism for fuck?”

  “Sex, sure,” George said, nodding like it was no big deal that he was offering to do me four ways with his friends. “But it’s more than that—there’s magic involved.”

  “Magic, great,” I said, putting on a scarily enthusiastic shark smile. “And group sex. Even better. Fuck, why don’t you guys just move into the house? You can fix Gram’s plumbing”—and fix my plumbing while you’re at it—“and pay me rent. It’s five hundred a month.” I paused, reconsidered. “Each.”

  I wasn’t sure if I was being sarcastic or serious, and the boys didn’t seem to know either.

  “Look, you guys are hot, and I’m horny and that guy at the bar was a really bad kisser and possibly the worst mouth breather I’ve ever seen in my life. Let’s go back to the house, sleep on it, and then reconvene in the morning.”

  I had no idea that reconvene was actually a euphemism for orgy.

  How fun.

  The next morning, I had the worst effing hangover of my life. And I was pretty sure it was more from the influx of new knowledge and life changing facts I’d uncovered than it was about the alcohol.

  “Morning, ST,” Reg said when I came into the hallway and padded mindlessly toward the bathroom. He was slouched against the wall across from the door, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a wily smile, his tattooed left arm slung over the flatness of his belly.

  In my disoriented state (Reg's hotness wasn't helping), I hadn't yet remembered I was going to have to walk to the antique store to pee.

  “ST?” I asked with a long sigh. “Is that short for sugar tits?”

  He grinned at me and I used my frontal cortex (the part of the brain that’s, like, a million times bigger in women than it is in men, the one that controls aggressive urges) to not punch him right in the nuts.

  “You’ve got me all figured out,” he said as I gave him a wide berth and opened the bathroom door.

  Curls of gorgeous white steam rolled out and over me, making me eyes go wide.

  “You did it,” I said, realizing that the shower was running and the floor was not flooded with gooey brown water. “You actually cleaned my pipes.”

  “Well, we haven’t yet, but isn’t that the plan?” he asked, putting his hands on my shoulders and sending lightning bolts of electricity arcing through me. He smelt like fresh rain and musk, masculine but clean.

  A low groan escaped my throat as I leaned into his magical touch. The combination of near death and a wicked hangover was not making for very strong defenses against their sexual advances. I wonder how far we can take it without activating this magic ritual crap …?

  “Reg …” I sighed, letting him rub the stress of the past twenty-four hours from my tense shoulders with his smooth, liquid movements. His fingers dug into my muscles, kneading all my inhibitions away.

  “Yes, sugar tits?” he purred, his lips brushing my ear as he stepped in close behind me, his body aligning with my own and his already rock-hard dick pressing into my lower back. I was decently tall for a girl, around five eight or so, but these guys towered over me.

  An intense mental image hit me, of myself climbing up on Reg, wrapping my legs around his waist and holding on for dear life while he pounded into me against the shower wall.

  “What the shit was that?” I gasped, shaking my head to clear the vision and stepping out of the horny water elemental's reach. So, they used to be called nymphs, huh? Nympho was far more accurate than elemental. Hell, as wet as I was getting right now, maybe I was one, too?

  “What was what, ST?” His smug grin said all I needed to know about the origin of that little daydream. Reg had the look of a man who was used to giving women wet dreams with a simple touch. “You look like you're thinking naughty things about me … perhaps I can give you a hand into the shower and you can tell me all about it?” He took another step toward me, and closed the bathroom door behind himself, shutting the two of us into a confined space full of steam.

  Heat flushed my lips—not just the ones on my face—as I backed up a couple more steps and my butt hit the vanity.

  “Reg …” I warned, a little breathlessly. “I'm not doing this magical mating bullshit with you right now, so get that idea out of your head.”

 
He prowled closer to me, until there was barely an inch separating our bodies; I could smell his clean, fresh waterfall scent and feel his warm breath against the curve of my neck.

  “What if I said we could just fuck, and not mate?” he murmured seductively, his voice pitched low, shivers of arousal rolling over me like a gentle ocean tide.

  Wait, did he just say what I think he just said? Holy fucking shitballs, yes!

  “How do I know you're not just saying that?” I whispered, the desire riding thick in my voice because fuck, all I could think about since these assholes burst into my life was exactly what Reg had offered—getting my pipes cleaned out.

  “I guess you'd have to trust me, ST. And I'd say it'd be pretty obvious if I suddenly started chanting in the language of the elementals, and drawing runes on your skin while we came …” He pulled back just far enough to look me in the eye with a challenging brow raised.

  I was around ninety nine percent sure he was lying but, I mean, surely if we didn't go all the way …?

  “Maybe just a little foreplay wouldn't kill me …” I was mostly thinking out loud, but the wicked smile curving across Reg's face said he was one hundred percent on board with my suggestion. “But I swear to god, Reginald, if you try any magic shit—”

  “I won't,” he promised quickly—a little too quickly.

  “And we're just fooling around, not playing hide the plunger.” I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to look stern but probably failing miserably. Just the idea of playing hide the plunger with Reg was making me insanely wet. Good thing it was already so steamy in the bathroom.

  “I reserve the right to hide the plunger, should you change your mind at any point,” he smirked, then without waiting for further rules from me, dipped his head back down and claimed my lips with his own.

  Kissing Reg was, without a doubt, like nothing I had ever experienced before. His lips were soft and supple as they caressed mine, applying the perfect amount of pressure while my heart raced out of control. His tongue teased the tip of my own, flicking and then drawing away just enough to make me want more, more, more.