My Paranormal Valentine: A Paranormal Romance Box Set

by Michelle M. Pillow

  The muscles in his calves and thighs began to ache and his side cramped, pain stabbing his lungs. He slowed his stride and lifted his gaze. Goose bumps prickled his arms. He was in the shadows of a run-down theater. He turned around, frowning. How far had he run?

  Chest heaving, he crossed the street to the chain-link fence surrounding the building. He never asked Mel for an address. And yet, he ran all the way to the door. Miles. No wonder his legs were like giant sequoias.

  He walked the perimeter, scanning the area. There was a “No Trespassing” sign, and a banner for a contractor, but no mention of Muses Anonymous, LLC. So how could this cult—if there even was one—know Mel’s roommate had been involved in restoring the theater? Maybe they were watching it, stalking the sisters?

  Around the back of the building, a cracked parking lot with faded white lines sat forgotten, except for a single silver sedan at the far corner. He frowned, walking in its direction. Suddenly the engine came to life and the tires squealed as the car raced out of the lot.

  He’d only had time to grab the first three numbers on the plate. He pulled out his cell phone and typed in Silver Honda Accord – 358. It wouldn’t be enough to find the car, but he would at least have a list. It was a starting point.

  Not that he had any proof to link that car to the crime. Maybe the driver had been smoking weed and didn’t want to be bothered. But they also could have been waiting to see if Mel and her friends were going to show up to work on the building today.

  Nate tucked his cell back into his running armband and leaned against the fence to rest. A vision exploded in his head. A man dressed all in black squeezed through a hole in the chain-link. He had a toolbox in his hand.

  Then as quick as it came on, the vision was gone.

  Nate cased the fence line until he found a clipped opening hiding at a corner post. Just like the vision. Adrenaline laced his bloodstream. He tugged the fencing back and slid inside. Without his badge, he had no business trespassing, so he jogged to a smashed door and disappeared into the shadows. The last thing he needed was to be seen and have someone calling the police.

  Not only would his boss hand him his ass on a platter for going in without a warrant or a badge, but John wouldn’t leave him alone again if he discovered Nate was still working this case.

  Without the lights on inside, his eyes struggled to adjust to the thick shadows. The musty scent added to the atmosphere of dread, putting his senses on high alert. He retrieved his cell and turned on the flashlight app. Cobwebs and dirt lined the rows of seats leading up to the stage. He had no idea what he might be looking for, but if his vision was real, someone else had been in here.

  As he reached the front row of seats, his gut twisted into a tight knot. He didn’t need a blast of pictures in his head to know something was off; he just needed to spot it. He ran the flashlight beam along the stage and swung it back again. Although most of the stage was covered in dirt and debris, there was a clean spot in the middle.

  He was pressing his hands on the stage floor to boost himself up when another vision hit. The man in black. He’d been here. Nate’s heart raced. The man opened the case he had been carrying and took out two gray squares of putty.

  Explosives.

  “Oh shit.” His voice echoed through the empty hall.

  He hopped up, wishing like hell he had his gun—not that a weapon was going to help him if the building collapsed. He circled the clean area and knelt down to run his fingers over it. There was an edge. He set his phone down, tracing the cut in the floor. The square popped up exposing two blocks of C-4.

  He grabbed his phone and called the station. “I need the bomb squad out here now.” He told dispatch what he’d found, as well as the cross streets for the theater.

  Then he got the hell out of dodge.

  The SWAT team rolled up ten minutes later. Nate was at the back of the parking lot when John parked and got out of the unmarked sedan. He stared at the dilapidated theater and then back at Nate. “What in the hell were you doing all the way out here?”

  “I went for a run.”

  He cocked his head, crossing his arms. “And you ran through a hole in a chain-link fence, into an abandoned building, and just happened to pull up the floorboards and find explosives inside?”

  “Well, when you say it like that …”

  John chuckled and sighed. “Talk to me, Malone. What the hell is up with you?”

  Nate shook his head. Even if he understood what was happening, this was one thing he couldn’t share with his partner.

  “I was running by and noticed an idling car back here. When I approached, they peeled out and drove away. I got a partial on the plate, but I thought I’d better investigate.” He cleared his throat. “Any chance you could give me a lift back to my place?”

  John pulled off his sunglasses. “You really ran here from your condo? Christ, Malone, that’s about fifteen miles. You training for a marathon or something?”

  No wonder his legs were like limp spaghetti noodles. “I was trying to figure things out. I guess I lost track of how far I’d come.”

  “Get in. The bomb squad’s got it from here.”

  Chapter Six

  The police detective was becoming a problem.

  The leader of the Order wasn’t going to be pleased. The enforcer carried his toolbox into his tiny apartment and locked the door. He’d barely gotten out of the parking lot unseen, and by the time the detonators were set to go off, the bomb squad had already completed their work.

  The theater was still standing, an affront to the Order of the Titans.

  If he couldn’t take down their precious theater, he would cross another muse off his list. He opened the cupboard by the sink and carefully removed the paper taped under the shelf. Nia was blacked out. Next in line, her roommate, Melpomene. The Muse of Tragic Poetry went by Melanie Jacoby now.

  And her demise would definitely be poetic.

  He sat in his stark living room envisioning scenarios. He could crack her head with a bat while she graded term papers. Or maybe poison her tea. He rocked in the chair with a warm smile on his face. Time was on his side. Their leader had blocked the building permits on the theater for at least a month. Plenty of time to thin out the herd.

  Mel waited at a back table in Gracie’s, unable to sit still. Detective Malone, Nate, had discovered explosives planted inside the floor of the stage of the theater. Impossible on many fronts, but somehow he’d found the theater, gotten inside, noticed an uneven floor, and called the bomb squad in before all her and her sisters’ work went up in flames.

  He was like Superman with a gun.

  His broad shoulders filled the doorway as he tugged his sunglasses free. He was in a T-shirt and shorts: tan, muscled, and walking toward her table.

  Yeah, the no-dating pact was flying right out the window.

  He sat down across from her, but he wasn’t smiling. “We have to talk, but not here.”

  “Okay.” She stood and grabbed her messenger bag from the chair. “You told me to meet you here, right?”

  He nodded. “So we could meet up. Not to stay here.”

  He spoke quickly, agitated. Before she could respond, he caught her hand, his fingers lacing with hers, and instead of being shocked or annoyed at his alpha tendencies, her pulse kicked up a notch. She followed him out and across the street toward the shoreline. He donned his shades again and walked her to a bench overlooking the beach.

  “We need to lay some cards on the table,” he said as he sat.

  She stared at his profile, but he didn’t turn her way, his bright eyes hidden by his sunglasses. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I ran to your theater even though I had no idea where it was.” He finally turned her way. “How is that possible? And this…” He raised their joined hands. “This is the first time I’ve been able to breathe in two days.”

  Mel gnawed at her bottom lip. Could he truly be the Guardian Clio found in the scrolls? It wasn’t like s
he could just ask. But she had to do something. “This is going to sound crazy…”

  He gave a soft chuckle. “You wouldn’t believe how crazy my life has been since I met you.”

  “Okay.” She pulled her hand free of his, readying herself for him to run. “Do you have some kind of odd mark on your body anywhere?”

  He slid his sunglasses off, cringing as if she’d suddenly grown a third eye. “A mark?”

  “I told you it would sound crazy.”

  He shook his head, staring at the waves crashing on the sand. Finally, he tensed and faced her again. “Wait a second.” He tugged his T-shirt over his head, exposing a rock-hard six-pack. Before she could get a good look, though, he turned the other way, putting his back toward her. He reached around and pointed up to his right shoulder. “I have a birthmark that’s been feeling strange. My doctor thinks it might be a rash, but I’m leaning toward skin cancer.”

  On the back of his right shoulder blade was a crescent of color, like a waxing crescent moon. It was raised and bright red.

  “Has it always been this color?” she asked.

  He pulled his shirt back down in a hurry. “No.” He faced her again, suddenly very close. “It started burning the night I met you.”

  It was him. Her Guardian. He had to be.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Have you noticed anything else strange since we met?”

  A muscle jumped in his cheek, his green eyes cold. “My cards are on the table. I showed you the mark. Now tell me what it means. Does this have anything to do with how I ended up at your theater even though you never told me where it was?”

  “I don’t know, but it probably has to do with the mark.” She lowered her voice. “You’re a Guardian.”

  “I’m a police detective.”

  Mel sighed. “Yes, you are, but being a Guardian means you have a latent ability that only surfaces if you find your muse.” She pressed her lips together, trying to recall the exact wording. “Clio found a scroll that mentioned Guardians, mortal men marked by the gods to protect the daughters of Zeus. When he finds his muse, his abilities are revealed. Or something. That’s not the exact translation.”

  He opened his mouth to speak and stopped, then shook his head. “You’re telling me you’re my muse?”

  She nodded slowly. “It seems that way.”

  “Like, seriously a muse?” A humorless chuckle escaped his lips. “You look damn good for your age.”

  “No, it’s not like that.”

  “Then what is it like exactly?” His shoulders tensed. “I think I have the right to know.”

  She braced herself and forced out the words. “I didn’t know until I was eighteen. I started having dreams of all the Theaters of the Muses throughout the centuries, and the final one was here in Crystal City. So then I had to come here. I was compelled, I guess. Obsessed. Anyway, when I got here, I found my sisters. There were nine of us, and each of us had dreams that led us to the condemned theater.”

  “So your dad isn’t a Greek god?”

  “No. But after we found each other, we compared notes and learned we were all having the same dreams. Crazy, right?” Mel sighed. “Aspects of our personalities were enhanced by the muse inside of us, too.”

  She waited for him to reply or ask a question, but his silent investigator stare continued.

  She cleared her throat. “Anyway, Clio could read Greek and started researching. There are ancient stories about the muses being reborn to each generation. We’re charged with inspiring mankind to move forward—inventions, music, and science. We can change the world. So we all settled here, bought the theater, and now we’re trying to restore it.”

  Nate rested his hands on the edge of the bench, leaning toward the waves as if he was going to bolt at any minute. “So I was drawn there, too?”

  “As I understand it. Each Guardian is a mortal man, just like us, but he has a muse to protect and a ‘gift’ to help protect her, but it doesn’t present itself until he finds his muse. Honestly, I don’t know how this works. Maybe you were pulled there to stop the explosion, to protect us. Or me…”

  “Shit.” He pressed his lips together and blew out a pent-up breath. “And how was I picked for this detail?”

  Mel frowned. The prophecy hadn’t mentioned unwilling Guardians. It hadn’t occurred to her that he wouldn’t want the responsibility.

  Just when he was starting to make her believe the glass might be half-full…

  “Supposedly you were marked by the gods from birth,” she explained quietly.

  “They picked the wrong guy.” He got up and walked along the sand, his back to her.

  Mel’s heart hammered so hard she had to rub at the ache. She knew it was a lot to drop on someone. She didn’t blame him for running as fast as he could the other way. But she hated to admit that she was disappointed. At least Callie would be glad to know their pact was still intact.

  Mel got up and quietly went to crosswalk at the corner. Her car was parked at Gracie’s across the way. She reached to press the button when a large hand caught her wrist.

  Nate’s deep voice teased her senses. “Where are you going?”

  She dropped her hand and stared up at him. “You said you were the wrong guy. I thought we were done. I’m not going to force you to help us.”

  “Wow.” He rocked back, shaking his head with a humorless chuckle. “Forgive me for not embracing this insanity instantly. Give me a few minutes to think this through.” His tone softened a little. “I’m not turning my back on you.”

  She pulled her hair back from her forehead, staring at her shoes. “I guess I should probably tell you that the muse that awakened in me is the Muse of Tragic Poetry.” She tentatively peered up at him. “Jumping to the worst-case scenario is sort of my go-to since I turned eighteen.”

  Nate laughed, a real, warm laugh that sent heat all the way down to her toes. “That’s why you teach high school poetry.”

  Mel elbowed him playfully and walked back over to the bench without looking back to see if he was following her. He took a seat beside her, and his smile faded.

  “When I took you home the other night, I touched the light switch and saw a man’s hand in a black glove turning it off. I thought I imagined it until I leaned on the banister and another vision showed up. In that one, a man wearing a black robe and a gold Kronos mask shoved your roommate down the stairs.” He brought a hand up to trace along the edge of her jaw. “I didn’t want you to be next.”

  Her pulse jumped at his tender caress. “Psychometry. You touch things and see what happened. Your gift.”

  He sighed and pulled away, leaving her aching for his touch again. “I wouldn’t call it that exactly. It doesn’t work all the time, and I can’t figure out how to turn it on.”

  “Maybe it only activates if there’s been violence.”

  He straightened up and met her eyes. “No. When we kissed the other night, I saw all the cities, all the Theaters of the Muses, and it ended here in Crystal City.” He took her hand. “It’s you. The visions have to be connected to the muses, don’t they? That’s why I saw your roommate’s killer and not the hit-and-run driver the other day. The injured bicyclist wasn’t a muse.”

  Okay, he was smart, too. Not only did he have a chiseled body and a scar, but with his intelligence and his ability to make connections, he would’ve been her type even if he weren’t sporting a mark from the gods.

  She nodded, refocusing. “Maybe that’s what drew you to the theater.”

  “Maybe? Once I got there and touched the fence, I saw a man in black sliding through an opening. The rest was instinct, I guess.”

  Her stomach chose that moment to remind them both that they hadn’t eaten dinner. Nate grinned and stood up, offering his hand. “Think they still have a table for us?”

  She took his hand, savoring the sizzle. “Only one way to find out.”

  Mel’s eyes sparkled as she discussed her students. She may have been the Muse of Tragedy, bu
t she had no trouble laughing and obviously loving her kids and her work. Nate had a soft spot for kids. It was the relationships that led to children that were a problem. His alcoholic father had beaten his capacity for love and trust—of adults, at least—out of him.

  The scar on his arm from the bullet wound was the least of the battle wounds covering his body. Cuts from broken beer bottles, cigarette burns, and gashes from being shoved to the ground made him into a canvas of abuse, a reminder to him that trust and dependency only brought pain.

  Maggie’s toothless grin filled his head. She had depended on him, and look where it got her. He sipped his soda and forced himself to focus on Mel.

  “Did you want to be a teacher before you found your…muse?”

  “Yeah. I think so.” She shrugged. “I always loved to write, but I’m too social to be a writer for a living. Hours of being alone at a keyboard would make me nuts. Plus, I like kids. There’s a moment when they finally grasp a concept and you can almost see it in their eyes.”

  She sat back against her chair and smiled. “It’s a high to know you inspired someone.”

  “I can imagine.” He could also get used to seeing her smile.

  “So what about you? Did you always want to be a policeman?”

  Too close to home. He cleared his throat and shrugged. “I don’t know. I was always tangling with the bullies in school. I wasn’t a big guy then, but I did what I could to keep them away from the smaller kids. I never understood picking on someone just because you could.”

  He ground his teeth, refusing to allow his father to ruin his night. He grabbed the check. “Are you still staying with your friend?”

  She nodded.

  “She was a firecracker. What’s her muse?”

  “I’m going to start calling her that.” Mel laughed. Jesus, he wanted to hear more of that. “Callie’s the Muse of Epic Poetry.”

  He chuckled. “All five feet of her?”

  “Right?” Mel grinned. “Obviously the gods have a sense of humor.”