Accidentally...Evil?

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  “Yesss.” Cimil narrowed her eyes. “And watch your tongue. I happen to be partial to humans—most, anyway. Clowns, not so much. Those evil bastards never stop smiling.”

  Niccolo didn’t know what these “clowns” were, but he made a mental note to stay away if he ever encountered one. Sounded unpleasant.

  “I did not say a word,” he retorted innocently.

  “Good, because I’m warning you, if you’re not in this for the long haul, jump off the Cimil Soul Train now and boogie your naked body home.” Her eyes quickly shifted to a squawking toucan perched above on a branch. “Who the hell asked you? You can’t even dance. I mean, really.”

  Niccolo scratched his chin, ignoring the bizarre behavior and the urge to wrap his hands around her neck. “My resolve will not waver.”

  She stifled a laugh. “Even though your kind considers such a fate, to be with a human—your food—a curse?” She began laughing again. “This particular female will be disobedient, demanding, and a pain in your cold, old, naked ass. She’s also hotter than an apple pie fresh from the oven.”

  Cimil’s description piqued his interest. “You mean to say… she is beautiful?”

  Cimil smiled. “Irresistible. Sharp as a whip. Sexy. Perfect for you in every way.”

  Niccolo felt his insides twist with anticipation. She would be his? All his? Hmmm. “Go on.”

  She raised her brows. “Before you get all excited, Mr. Stud-tastic, there are rules. First, you must continue to uphold the Pact. No ifs, ands, or buts. That means you must keep that”—she pointed to his penis—“in your pants… when you find some, obviously. And those”—she pointed to his fangs—“in your mouth.”

  The Pact had many parts to it, and he knew them all since he’d spent the last thousand years upholding its laws. It was central to maintaining the vampires’ existence; as long as they followed the commandments, they would be left alone by the gods to live. Rule one: Vampires could not kill innocent humans—Forbiddens—although the queen’s compliance to this law was highly questionable. In any case, even the most honorable of vampires were known to lose control in the throes of feeding or passion. Therefore, those activities with Forbiddens were strictly off-limits, too. The only exception was for those mated to a Forbidden—practically unheard of—in which case, a careful, consensual nip here or there was allowed, but nothing more.

  “Done,” he said. “I will refrain from biting without her permission. Nor will I sleep with her until she has been turned.”

  “Not so fast, tomcat,” she added. “No biting, even if she begs. And she must be turned with her permission on the anniversary of your third month together. That very same day. Understand?”

  “Why three months?” he questioned.

  “Hey buddy, my gig is prophecies and hunting for garage sales. I don’t make the signs, I just follow them.” She shrugged. “Anywhooo, the rest is up to you.” She turned and continued marching forward, quickening her pace. “So. You in?”

  Niccolo looked from side to side. “In? In what?”

  “Yes. In. Are you on board? Ready to throw down. Roll the dice. Ride that crazy cow called life and make her your bitch?”

  Niccolo frowned. Her colloquialisms were simply offensive. And this coming from a ruthless vampire. “You are asking if I am committed. Sì?”

  “Siii.” She rolled her eyes.

  What other choice did he have? Besides, he did not believe in this ridiculous mate business. He had known tens of thousands of vampires over his existence, but only a dozen or so claimed to have found their true mate. It was extremely rare. And for those few, he saw no evidence they were anything more than contented couples who’d beaten the odds. There was no cosmic force at play.

  As for his “mate” being human, he could find a way to cope temporarily. Sure, humans were only a step up from a cow or goat one would eat, or perhaps keep as a favorite farm pet; however, he wouldn’t be the first immortal to bear the shame of coupling with a human. It was manageable. Especially if she happened to be beautiful.

  Whoever she was, he would woo her, set her up with only the finest of things, and after the three months were up, he’d have her begging to be turned. Once he was free from the queen, he had ample resources to provide his mate with a comfortable, separate life for eternity. Everyone would win. Everyone would be happy.

  How doing all this could possibly free him from being that festering bunion of a queen’s general, he had no clue. He’d been warned that Cimil’s instructions were cruel at best, fatal at worst, and required an extreme leap of faith. But at this point, anything was worth trying. Hell, if he failed, there was always death. He hoped. The queen’s dungeons were notoriously hellish.

  But he wouldn’t fail. He was the strongest warrior the vampire world had ever known. He had fought and won thousands of battles, upheld the Pact, and maintained the peace between the gods and vampires for a thousand years. This would be a stroll through the park… or jungle. Whatever.

  “It’s much better than I’d hoped for,” he stated coolly.

  Cimil’s eyes lit up. “All right then. Oh, and there’s one more thing…”

  ***

  Cimil waved her hands and watched the vampire collapse to the ground. She poked him several times in the chest, checking to make sure he was out cold.

  “Buon, Niccolo DiConti,” she said, perfectly imitating his deep voice. “Your mate will not be born for, oh, say, about three hundred years, and I have to entomb you in the meantime. Otherwise, you won’t live to see another full moon. Did you know your paranoid sorry excuse of a queen fears your strength and plans to kill you? Crazy shrew. I wish I could take her out myself. But nooo.” She shook her head.

  The beautiful naked vampire lay completely oblivious over a bed of leaves.

  Cimil sighed. “You are such a scrumptious man treat. How could anyone think of killing you? But I guarantee, after three hundred years, your queen will only be a teensy bit peeved by your absence, and she will have reconsidered her plot to murder you. You can thank me later.”

  She leaned down and pressed her mouth to his full lips and then ran her finger along his chiseled jaw.

  “Come, my handsome vampire. I have a few things I must do to prepare you. Then I’ll put you somewhere safe to await your bride. Oh—I know!” She clapped excitedly. “You can stay inside my piggy bank! And I’ll create a drama-tastic jungle intro to your lady! How about Romancing the Stone meets Apocalypto?”

  She flung the naked giant over her shoulder and gave him a loving pat on his bottom. “Watching you two will be so much fun! I might have to charge the other gods admission to this show when the time comes.”

  SUN GOD SEEKS… SURROGATE?

  ACCIDENTALLY YOURS, BOOK 3

  PROLOGUE

  Wondering which screw in her head had come loose this time, twenty-four-year-old Emma Keane strapped a parachute to her back in preparation for yet another fun-filled jungle mission.

  “Dammit! Stop wiggling!” she barked over her shoulder. “And that had better be your flashlight!”

  Well, actually, it was a cranky, rather large warrior named Brutus strapped to her back and wearing the parachute because she had yet to find time for skydiving lessons.

  Dork.

  In any case, looking like a ridiculous, oversized baby kangaroo wasn’t enough to stop her from making this nocturnal leap into enemy territory—Maaskab territory. She had scores to settle.

  Emma sucked in a deep breath, the roar of the plane’s large engines and Brutus’s growls making it difficult to find her center—the key to winning any battle. And not freak out.

  Funny. If someone had told her a year ago that she’d end up here, an immortal demigoddess engaged to the infamous God of Death and War, she would have said, “Christ! Yep! That toootally sounds about right.”

  Why the hell not? She’d lived the first twenty-two years of her life with Guy—a nickname she’d given her handsome god—obsessed with his seductive voice, a voice only s
he could hear. Turned out, after they finally met face-to-face, their connection ran blood deep. Universe deep, actually. A match made by fate.

  Emma rubbed her hands together, summoning the divine power deep within her cells. One blast with her fingertips and she could split a man right down the middle.

  “Careful where you put those,” Guy said, cupping himself.

  Emma gazed up at his smiling face and couldn’t help but admire the glorious, masculine view. Sigh. She knew she’d been born to love him, flaws—enormous ego and otherworldly bossiness—and all.

  His smile melted away. “Please change your mind, my sweet. Stay on the plane, and let me do your fighting.”

  “Can’t do that,” she replied. “The Maaskab took my grandmother, and I’m going to be the one to get her back. Even if I have to kill Tommaso to do it.”

  Guy shook his head. “No. You are to let me deal with him.”

  Emma felt her immortal blood boil. She’d trusted Tommaso once, and he’d betrayed her. Almost gotten her killed, too. But she’d known—well, she’d thought—it wasn’t Tommaso’s fault. He’d been injected with liquid black jade, an evil substance that could darken the heart of an angel. That’s why, after he’d been captured and mortally wounded, she’d begged the gods to cure him.

  Then she did the unthinkable: she’d put her faith in him again.

  Stupid move.

  He’d turned on her a second time, the bastard. Yes, his betrayal—done of his own free will—was her prize on that fateful night almost one year ago when her grandmother showed up on their doorstep in Italy, leading an army of evil Maaskab priests, her mind clearly poisoned.

  “If Tommaso hadn’t helped her escape, we could’ve saved her,” she said purely to vent, because she really wanted to cry. But the fiancée of the God of Death and War didn’t cry. Especially in front of the hundred warriors riding shotgun on the plane tonight.

  Okay, maybe one teeny tiny tear while no one’s looking.

  “Do not give up hope, Emma.” Guy clutched her hand. “And do not forget… whatever happens, I love you. Until the last ray of sunlight. Until the last flicker of life inhabits this planet.”

  Brutus groaned and rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed by the sappy chatter.

  Emma elbowed him in the ribs. “Shush! And how can you, of all people, be uncomfortable with a little affection? Huh? You bunk with eight dudes every night. That’s gross by the way. Not the dude part. I’m cool with that. But eight, big, sweaty warriors all at once? Yuck. So don’t judge me because I’m into the one-man-at-a-time rule. That’s messed up, Brutus.”

  Brutus growled and Guy chuckled.

  In truth, Emma didn’t know what Brutus was into or how he and his elite team slept, but she loved teasing him. She figured that sooner or later she’d find the magic words to get Brutus to speak to her.

  No luck yet.

  Accepting a temporary defeat, she shrugged and turned her attention back to the task at hand. She took one last look at her delicious male—seven feet of solid muscle with thick blue-black waves of hair and bronzed skin. Sigh. “Okay. I’m ready,” she declared boldly. “Let’s kill some Scabs and get my granny!”

  She glanced over her other shoulder at Penelope, their newest family member. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail that accentuated the anger simmering in her dark green eyes. Pissed would be a serious understatement.

  Emma didn’t blame her. What a cluster.

  “Ready?” Emma asked.

  “You better believe it,” Penelope replied. “These clowns picked the wrong girl to mess with.”

  Guy frowned as they leaped from the plane into the black night.

  CHAPTER 1

  Penelope. Approximately Three Weeks Earlier

  “Sorry, but did you just say…? You want me to what?” I stared at the flaming redhead who’d trotted into the crowded café off the snowy New York street, helped herself to the chair across from me, and swiped her finger through the creamy froth of my eagerly anticipated cappuccino.

  Rude!

  Didn’t matter that the woman was disturbed, which she clearly was; the pink scuba mask on her head was a dead giveaway, as was the hot-pink mink coat.

  “You heard me, Penelope,” she said, rapping her glittery pink fingernails on the tabletop. “Five hundred thousand dollars—okay… I’ll make it one million. But not a penny more!”

  How the hell did she know my name? And had she really offered me money for what I thought? Was today April Fool’s? No. It was November 30th.

  Then it dawned on me. I was being Punk’d. Wait. That show was canceled. Yes, Ashton had moved on to corny camera commercials, a sitcom, and a very unflattering Ringo Starr beard.

  Well, double dammit, whatever was going on, I didn’t have the patience for this today; I’d just received bad news. The worst kind of bad news.

  I dog-eared my book, Spanish for Linguistic Tards—never too late to learn another language, you know—and slapped it down. “I don’t know which of my friends orchestrated this crappy prank, but I’ve got work in twenty minutes, and it’s going to be a long, long night—”

  “Hold your jicama!” she interrupted, shoving her index finger in my face as her phone squawked. She quickly dug through her oversized pink fuzzy handbag and pulled out the device. “Wassup? Yeah. Yeah. Oooh my…” The odd woman, who appeared to be in her thirties, continued her egregiously loud banter while stroking the lapel of her furry coat.

  I glanced over my shoulder, wondering if anyone else inside the bustling café was witnessing this obnoxious display. Oddly enough, not one person was.

  Whatever. Didn’t matter. I’d already decided to go find my pre–night shift triple-skinny cappuccino (hold the weirdo finger) elsewhere.

  I pushed away from the table, and she latched onto my wrist, instantly igniting a surge of numbing static throughout my entire body. Every muscle ground to a halt. Except my pounding heart. That worked just fine.

  She narrowed her eyes and then made a little no-no wave with her scrawny, pale finger.

  “Yeah. Uh-huh. Oooh. Nice,” she continued chatting on her phone while I experienced the world’s quietest panic attack. “I’m thinkin’ we go with the chicken fingers.” She shook her head a few times. “No, silly. Real ones. I just love crunchy food.” Pause. “How the hell should I know what to do with the chickens? Make them some special shoes.” Pause. “Yup. Yup. Clothing is optional. Except for the clowns. They get too carried away with the ball jokes. Seriously. It’s disturbing. Even for me.” Another pause. “We can talk about it later, Fate. I gotta take care of this girl before she throws a hissy.” Pause. “Yes. It’s that girl. This is gonna be drama-licious!”

  She ended her call and sighed happily in my general direction. “Gods, I rock. I should be a ride at Six Flags. They should name a country after me—wait! No. The planet. They should name the entire planet after magnifique moi!” She suddenly snapped back her head, and locked her eyes on the ceiling. “Oh yeah? You just try it!”

  I couldn’t move my head, but from the corner of my eye I noticed a little black dot.

  A fly? She’s talking to the fly?

  She then pointed right at the little bugger. “That’s right! I’ll take you down. I’ll cut you, bitch!”

  The fly buzzed away.

  The woman shrugged and then leaned into the table. A wide, evil grin stretched across her elfin face. “Okillee dokillee, Penelope. Let’s not play games—for the next five minutes, anyway—Pin the Tail on the Donkey is my favorite, though. Just in case you were wondering.” She snorted. “I like it when they squeal.”

  Her paralyzing grip didn’t allow a response, but I was all ears; this woman scared the crappity-crap out of me.

  “I know everything about you,” she continued. “You’re Penelope Trudeau. You were raised right here in good ol’ N-Y-C. You’re mother has been fighting a mysterious illness for the past year, which is why you’ve put off going to grad school even though you’ve been ac
cepted to several excellent programs.”

  Who the hell was this woman? She recited every fact about my life, including how I was a size eight—or size ten after the major holidays and sporting events—had a black belt in karate, was afraid of spiders, and had no intention of celebrating my twenty-fifth birthday tomorrow. Birthdays freaked me out.

  “My brother and I mean business, Penelope. This isn’t a joke. Though…”—she snorted twice—“did you ever hear the one about the porcupine who married the sheep?”

  She released my wrist.

  Ever so slowly, my body sparked back to life. Terrified, I blinked several times before nodding no. She was insane. Truly. Unequivocally. Bonkers. And she apparently knew how to do that Vulcan grip thing. Not a good combo.

  “Well, their children were able to knit their own sweaters!” She chuckled loudly and slapped her knee.

  Then, for no apparent reason, her expression transformed into a void of human warmth. It sent shivers deep down into the pit of my stomach, which was now telling me to run. Run far, far away. I didn’t know if her offer to pay me one million dollars was genuine or the ramblings of a madwoman, but God save me, I didn’t want anything to do with her.

  “So, you in or out?” she asked, crossing her arms. “One million dollars, honey. It will solve all your problems: help your mother, pay for school… What’s one little egg and nine months of your life?”

  The insane woman continued staring as I realized I had full control of my body again.

  The words “My womb is not for rent!” exploded from my mouth, and the entire café fell silent. Everyone stared with gaping mouths.

  “Oh, sure. Now you’re all paying attention,” I mumbled.

  I turned my attention back to Ms. Nut Job and slowly stepped away, preparing to make a mad dash for my life. “I’m not interested.”

  “Great!” She popped up from her chair and flicked her hand in the air. “You’ll get half the money now—just for showing up to the party. I mean that figuratively, by the way—’cause you’re not invited to my actual party. Friends and family only. Plus a few people who won the raffle. And some clowns. And my unicorn—don’t ask.”