Boone Brux
Carole Gill
C.J. Ellisson
Danielle Gavan
Gregory M. Smith
Heather Hughes
Jennifer Feuerstein
Kelly Whitley
Marissa Farrar
Nickie Asher
Rachel Lynne
Riley Quinn
Shannan Albright
Digital Digest
Volume One
Tales from July 1st to 31st, 2011
Red Hot Publishing
P.O. BOX 651193, STERLING VA, 20165-1193
Ebook Edition
Copyright © 2011
All Rights Reserved
ISBN 978-0-9877042-2-1
License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
*You can click on the title from any author to be taken to the selection. Additionally, all chapter names will link you back to this table of contents.
Original Fiction:
Boone Brux – The Patron Chronicles
Carole Gill – Monster Inside
C.J. Ellisson – Just One Taste
Danielle Gavan – Untouchable ; Tempted
Gregory Marshall Smith – Slow Boat to China ; The Farm
Heather Hughes – Wildcat
Jennifer Feuerstein – Daria’s Dating Dilemma ; Story of Sebastian
Kelly Whitley – Foreplay
Marissa Farrar – Long Dead Lovers
Nickie Asher – Cat Burglar ; Restricted Zone
Rachel Lynne – The Hag That Rides You
Riley Quinn – Power Play Chapter One ; Chapter Two
Shannan Albright – Midnight Steam
** All chapters are linked to the table of contents, to return there simply click on the underlined heading.
The following work of fiction is an epistolary, a story told entirely through letters. The Patron Chronicles were inspired by C.S. Lewis’s ‘The Screwtape Letters’ and documents the age-old conflict between good and evil. This is an ongoing series.
The Universal Compliance and Violations Department
Dear Mr. Hazelsplat;
It has come to the attention of The Universal Compliance and Violations Department that you are in grave violation of section 6, paragraph 6.6 of the Eternal Humanities Pact, which states:
No entity from the upper or lower realms shall interfere in the natural progression of life in humans under the age of eighteen.
From our records, you’ve racked up numerous transgressions concerning a human named Edgar Pinyon. At age fifteen, Mr. Pinyon falls well within the Minor’s Act and is therefore protected from all outside interference.
This means you!
Please cease and desist!
Had you been unknown to me, and had this been your first pact breach, I would end the reprimand here. But this is not the case, as we both know.
You are a consummate liar and a conniver. If you think to subtly convince young Pinyon to embrace the dark ways by virtues of drugs, sex, and rock n’ roll, you’re in for a rude awakening.
I’m keeping my eye on you and will not rest until I’m certain the young man is free from your toxic influence.
And please don’t try to use the excuse, The Devil made me do it, again. As he well knows, tampering with the underage is and has been illegal for eons. Ignorance of the law is no excuse.
Please refrain from further manipulation or The Universal Violations and Compliance Department will be forced to take action. Consider this your formal warning.
If you wish to contest the allegations, please submit your statement to me within seven standard human days.
Sincerely,
Esseus Apollomae
Violations and Compliance Specialist
7th Level
Dear Esseus,
You can’t imagine my surprise upon receiving your letter. It does my heart good to know that you haven’t changed a smidge over the past three centuries and are still wound as tightly as the day we met.
I noticed you’re now a level seven pencil-pusher. Congratulations. Either you’ve diligently climbed the heavenly bureaucratic ladder or puckered up and kissed some serious ethereal ass. No matter, you were always far more ambitious than me.
Which brings me to the reason for this letter. I assure you, my dear Esseus, I have neither purposely nor did accidently partake in the corruption of one, Edgar Pinyon.
There was no need. The freewill your boss insists upon has produced more effective results, and has served me better than any attempts I might have made at meddling ever could have. Even you and your righteous cronies must admit that the freewill of a teenager nearly rivals that of God himself.
Arrogant and all encompassing, teenagers act and believe they are the center of the Universe. If the sun rises, it’s for their benefit. If somebody falls ill and disrupts their plans, it’s a personal attack. Always the victim, they believe that surely no other human in history has endured such heavy burdens or suffered such grievous affronts.
When they love or hate, it’s with such single-minded focus that not even my skilled influence could sway them from their course. Though a huge blow to my ego, I must admit, I’ve yet to figure out the illogical and erratic thought patterns of the pubescent human. They are as confounding to me as your do-gooder ways.
I will confess to being entertained by Edgar Pinyon, but merely as an observer, not a participant. If I’d been involved in his affairs, I wouldn’t have found satisfaction with his amature transgression of cheating on his biology test.
No. I would have goaded him to steal the test and make copies. My insidious suggestions would have urged him to sell the examination to other students for a tidy profit. You would have recognized my delicate touch in the way Pinyon went beyond simply passing the test to actually profiting from his deception.
I would have whispered that there was no need to provide the answers when selling the test would be equally as enticing to his classmates. As we both know, teenagers will spend ten times the effort trying not to do something they’re supposed to. A fortunate flaw in their character, and one I begin exploiting at the stroke of midnight on their eighteenth birthday.
With my influence, Edgar would have reaped more benefits with the least amount of effort. His transgression would have transpired as a flawless ballet of deception and manipulation. Not like some foot-pounding line dance performed by a group of drunk rodeo clown.
You might wonder why I’m taking the time to tell you all of this, and even to reveal a bit of myself and my ways. Call it pride, but I cringe at the thought of being accused of a crime so beneath me it would make me the laughingstock of the Fifth Circle.
And since you brought it up, let me take a sentence or two to boast about my position in Hell. The Devil rarely tells me what to do anymore. I have proven my effectiveness and he trusts my judgment in such matters. Perhaps one day you will enjoy the same freedom from your boss.
So, as you can see, Apollomae, your accusations and fears are unfounded. Relax in the knowledge that your rules and regulations are effectively keeping the young population safe from my nefarious hands.
Consider this my official reply to your allegations. I hope we can do this again real soon. Don’t be a stranger.
Sincerely,
Hazelsplat
Demon Extraordinaire and all around great guy
5th Circle of Hell
The Patron Chronicles will continue in Digital Digest Volume Two.
Another night after another day and him rotten like always, using his eyes to frighten her, his mouth to curse her and torment her.
He’s let her leave the room this time. Sometimes he doesn’t. It depends on his mood.
She can’t even remember what the fight was over—something stupid but not to him, never to him.
He doesn’t beat her; his mode of operation is to kill her slowly—destroying her mind and wearing her down. He wants her to die or to lose what’s left of her soul.
She doesn’t even want to run away anymore. Those pitiful dreams have died along with hope. Hope, a barely remembered word something lost from long ago.
The funny thing is no one would believe the truth. Take this evening; they had guests all over the place. Nice happy sparkly-eyed people; friends of his mainly. She hasn’t any friends now, they drifted away.
She’s protected his secret too long, you see.
“Don’t ever tell anyone, not a soul. Because I’d know Joanna and you’d pay for it…”
She had a good friend once, they used to phone each other up and occasionally go to the movies but then she married Donnie. And Donnie wanted her all to himself.
It was flattering to her. She didn’t understand about possessiveness then. Besides, no one had ever paid that much attention to her before.
Even her mother was quite taken with him.
“Where’d you meet him, he’s quite the thing, isn’t he?”
Quite the thing alright—a vicious blood monster that waited until after her mother exited the world before turning on her.
But first there were the plans.
They had been talking about marriage for a while. He wanted it a certain way.
“I want to be married on the beach in Oahu at dawn. I want you to wear flowers in your hair, a garland of white lotus flowers. I want the wedding to be special, Joanna because we will remember it for the rest of our lives!”
Oh yeah, she’d never forget.
They moved in together when her mother still lived in Encino. They were living in Boston then on a neat little street near the college.
She was proud of him in those days because he taught English literature and it was known that all the girls had crushes on him.
How many times had they been in a restaurant when some girl with sappy cow’s eyes would greet him and say dreamily, “Why good evening Mr. Mason…”
It didn’t bother her either because Joanna to her credit was not possessive in the slightest. Once upon a time she’d been an extremely well-adjusted confident happy person with no hang ups but one. She hated flies but they were dirty yucky things and they spread disease. Aside from that she was pretty normal.
She hadn’t ever panicked about anything either. She lived her life on an even keel. When her dad died and her mother went to pieces, she saved her mother, staying with her until her mom got back on her feet again.
“You’ll see Jo, the rewards that will come to you for being such a good daughter.”
She met her reward two years later when she was working in New York. Laura nearly died when she saw him.
“He asked you out?”
Joanna laughed. “Thanks a lot! You put a lot of stress on the word, ‘you.’
Funny cute, well she could laugh then. She didn’t laugh now though. Laughter had become an alien thing buried as if it had died and was relegated along with other things like happiness and love to lie in a forgotten old cemetery.
Besides even if she did laugh she reasoned the hurt would be the same as when she laughed after her father died. It had been such an odd feeling, like ice cold pain in her chest. Yes, laughter could hurt.
Her poor father had died too young—barely fifty, probably because he had worked for a couple of monstrous bosses who drained him and used him and then spit him out.
Monsters.
Joanna knew all about them. She now knew them to be all over.
People nearly always ran into one or two or ten in the course of a lifetime.
Some people said they were the psychopaths that make up eight percent of the population most of whom aren’t criminal psychopaths. But Joanna didn’t think so. She just considered them to be generic monsters: bullies first and foremost; those whose sole occupation on earth is to torment.
They had within their ranks school children and teachers too sometimes. Their membership also included demonic bosses, bus drivers, cabbies and occasionally in-laws but in Jo’s case her husband.
So when had she first noticed it: this proclivity of his to change into a demonic being?
Answer: their honeymoon. Even there, even then. There was hell in paradise.
It had started over something stupid, inconsequential. She hadn’t finished her omelet or fruit salad. She didn’t know the rules yet you see.
They were having room service and it was lovely eating breakfast out on the terrace—tropical breezes bearing down on them. She felt so happy, but then again she hadn’t looked carefully at his face.
“Aren’t you going to eat that?”
She smiled and shrugged and even giggled, because she felt cute and mischievous. “No I’m not!”
He blew up in a flash. There was no time to prepare herself. His screaming lasted for ten or fifteen minutes.
She didn’t know then that it would last much longer normally. He only cut it short because he didn’t want to be over heard there in the hotel.
She was in shock afterwards. He left her like that.
The phrase, what have I done, went through her head a few times.
Then he came back all remorseful and sweetly sorrowful with a coral necklace as a peace offering.
“Hold out your hand.”
She forgave him for some idiotic reason. But that was because she was stupid and didn’t understand that his words of apology meant nothing and would continue to mean nothing.
When he did it again, over something else, she left him, walked right out. They were living in New York then in a sweet little apartment off Gramercy Park.
She felt right about leaving him. After all New York women are so confident. Or they have secrets too some of them. Abusive partners are found all over the world in every city and town and village. Only those who are stomped on physically and verbally don’t like to discuss it much, so it’s often hidden and no one really knows how many people suffer the abuse of monsters.
She got herself a job and a little studio apartment on 19th Street, but then she ran into him. It must have been six months later. He was unshaven and thin looking, sitting in Paley Park off Madison Avenue.
She had just begun to eat her little salad from Gristedes when she saw him. “Don?”
He glanced up at her with the most amazing look of abject misery she had ever seen in her life. “Joanna?”
His face and his tone of voice touched her and she found herself near tears.
They spoke for hours on neutral ground. She refused his offer to take her back to his place on the West Side. She was still being careful.
“How have you been doing?” her words asked gently because she did want to know despite being on guard.
He told her all kinds of stuff, some of it true.
They would not see one another for some time. That is she wouldn’t see him but then she did or at least started to.
“It doesn’t mean anything…”
Ah, but Donald and all the Donald monsters in the world knows it does, they know that they have just managed to get one of their scaly, beastly feet into the proverbial doorway.
The sex was never better there was tenderness like she had never known.
Now, he was her best friend, her lover, her husband. So she listened to him when he said:
“Can we just try again, once more?”
Why did she say yes?
Idiot.
Two years after the campaign, you see it begins always with a campaign, orchestrated as all good campaigns are—to defeat the enemy so that she has no self-confidence, no self-respect, no self-anything. She becomes in fact a hollowed out carcass that goes through the motions of pretending to live.
Talk about zombies!
Eventually they move to rural Connecticut. She’s not working but that’s because she can’t. She weighs 80 pounds because she has trouble swallowing. It’s a nervous thing. The doctor suggested a psychiatrist but this was of course not taken up.
“No, Joanna—stay on the medication and you’ll be fine, right honey?”
Yeah, right.
The beast works as an executive in Hartford. The closest neighbor is a half a mile away.
They never hear the screaming.
“What a nice man he is to care for her as he does…”
They just think he got stuck with a crazy lady.
These are the people who come to their house for a little get together. They were flattered to be asked and consider the Masons (just Donald, truthfully) their “dear friends.”
The rambling Dutch Colonial house impresses them. People see what they want to sometimes.
“Please try to look normal, Joanna. You make the worst impression and our neighbors do want to visit.”
She’s putting her lipstick on thinking of how corpses are made up for funerals. It amuses her, this thought, which is pretty scary really.
The party is an ordeal, but she’s got enough Valium and Vodka in her to make it a surreal experience she can get through.
She smiles, frozenly and nods occasionally and then the stupid bastards finally leave. “I’m going upstairs.”
Ah, but he doesn’t want her to, because he’s pissed off. Maybe something one of the men said, and since he won’t take anything out on anyone else, least of all a man, he focuses his fury on her.
At some point she does escape. Somehow she manages to even doze a little. But then she hears him moving around below. Her one wish is that he’ll fall asleep drunk and maybe she’ll have a few hours in the welcoming dark to rest.
Sleep is more elusive than ever—normal sleep—although there’s that lovely deep, dark haze that sometimes comes to carry her off in its painless embrace—don’t knock respite even if it is brief.
Her thinking is muddy now—she’s losing it, she knows.
A smile curls her pale lips, better to lose it—better to sink into some eternal oblivion where she won’t care anymore.
The room is cold, he won’t put the heating on—he likes to think of her huddled up there—curled up in an icy ball, suffering—enduring.
She falls asleep or passes out, the relevance is irrelevant.
Later she awakens, stands up on shaky legs and looks at the door. It must be locked. There isn’t any reason to check he’s not forgetful.
A crash from downstairs—and she jumps, startled—clutching her bony chest.
Her eyes light with a rare glimmer of expectation. That crash, did he fall down? Is he lying down dead, his monster’s head smashed open like an overripe melon?
But the hope is fleeting. “No,” she reasons, he probably just dropped something.
She waits—but there’s nothing, no other sound. She walks on trembling legs to patter over to the door to listen. The TV’s on, she can hear it.
The doorknob—like a magical orb—waiting to be turned, waiting to lead her into; into what, the Promised Land? Hardly. Yet, stupid creature that she is, she reaches out to feel its smoothness.
I only want to feel it—it’s not as though I think it would actually turn!
But the knob does turn—and her breath catches in her throat.
It’s open! He hasn’t locked it!
Dare she?
She dares. Soon, she is treading slowly—creeping along an inch at a time.
Don’t let the floorboards creak!
She leans over the banister—there’s nothing to see. Just his briefcase he put down earlier from work. Briefcase! His work colleagues don’t know him like she does!
She pauses at the stairs, waiting—too afraid not to be waiting. Donald?
His name, not out loud of course, it’s only in her head.
She’s half-way down the stairs when suddenly she stops—she can hear him now puttering around in the kitchen.
Something leads her down the stairs—her will (somehow regained) perhaps—and she finds herself standing in the doorway. He’s bent over, looking in the fridge.
He spins around.
She falls back—he’s covered in blood—blood down his arms and chest—and all over his mouth. He throws the food down and smiles, but his teeth look different, they’re yellow and pointed.
“Just snacking!”
Her eyes lock onto the thing lying near his foot—the sandwich. But then she screams because it isn’t a sandwich! It’s…!
He reaches over and picks it up. “Young, best when they’re young, darling!”
She’s used to hell, but this!
He holds it up proudly. It’s a child’s arm!
“There’s plenty for both of us!”
He begins to move sideways—dipping one shoulder first and then the other—then he smiles at her.
Something huge sweeps up from behind him—two some things. He moves again and she realizes what she’s looking at. He has wings—great, black wings!
He laughs but the laughter changes—and becomes a hawk-like shriek.
She tries to run, but he’s too fast for her. Swooping down and knocking her onto her back. Then, like the predatory beast he has finally morphed into, he begins to feed on her.
She was prey and nothing more. Her home, his nest. Her life, his sustenance.
By C.J. Ellisson
A tall man with sandy brown hair and a thick build sauntered to the front desk. He wore a crooked grin and travel-dusty clothes. He was out of place, arriving at midnight, wandering into my elegant establishment—and human to boot. Not my normal clientele.
“It took awhile, but I finally found you,” he said.
A tingle of danger ran through me and I straightened while taking in his appearance. His brown suit, suspenders and scruffy two-toned shoes reflected a common dress for most Europeans in post-war times. He looked familiar... those sparkling blue eyes weren’t a feature I’d forget anytime soon.
I raised an eyebrow, “Do I know you?”
“This is The V V Inn, right?” He said while looking around at the high ceilings, painted moldings and delicate French furnishings.
I nodded, racking my brain trying to place him. Had I fed off him recently and tossed him aside? A perusal of his tight hips and muscular thighs had my fangs itching to descend. Standing behind the gilt-covered antique writing desk, I extended a hand in greeting. “Welcome. Have you stayed with us before?”
While my property may serve the undead, we need humans for sustenance, so he could have traveled here with another vampire at one time—or been here for someone’s dinner.
His wide, rough hand encircled my smaller one and he pressed it to his lips in a chaste kiss. Sweat and dirt from his travels drifted to my sensitive nose. The scents, combined with a burning desire I lifted from his surface thoughts, triggered an old memory. I met this handsome man fifteen years ago when he was a teenager. My slow beating heart plummeted to my toes while I tried to compose myself.
A glint of mischief surfaced in his otherwise calm gaze, “No, but I’ve heard wonderful things, Dria.”
Crap! He even knew my real name. His mother must have sent him after me. I smiled to hide my discomfort while dropping his hand. “How is Olga doing? I haven’t seen her in ages.”
“Ahh... so you do remember. She’s well. She sends her regards and hopes you’ve kept up with her teachings.”
The image of his young form contorted in advanced yoga poses had seared my mind for over a decade. “Yes, daily. There are times it’s the only thing that saves my sanity.” I motioned to the formal sitting area to the right of the entryway, expecting him to follow me. “Are you Raphael?” There was no doubt in my mind he’s the same muscular seventeen-year-old who has haunted my dreams.
His expression softened as he settled himself on a dainty chair and placed a leather bag at his feet. “Yes, that’s right. I go by Rafe now. Time has been good to you.”
Was that mocking I heard in his tone? Or was he referring to my lack of aging? I decided to cut to the chase and see what this handsome man wanted from me. “Why are you here, Rafe?”
“I need a place to stay while in Paris, of course.” His eyes traveled over my curvy form and he smiled in pleasure. My blood warmed at his interest, but I left Germany and his mother’s secret yoga instruction for a reason—to save him from me.
“Sorry,” I said without a trace of remorse in my tone. “We’re booked.” Which was a complete lie, but the hotel doesn’t cater to humans and I needed to get him the hell out of here before I did something I’d regret.
Rafe stretched, the chair creaking a bit under his weight, and his glorious body was laid open for my greedy stare. His well-muscled chest pulled at the shirt buttons, exposing strips of bare skin. It required all of my will to keep my canines firmly hidden and my desires in check. He was even more delicious now than all those years ago.
“Really?” he looked around the deserted lobby. “Can’t even spare a room for an old friend to shower and rinse off the dust from the train?”
His open face and sincere expression almost made me change my mind. “No, but I can recommend a place down the street.”
“They’re closed at this late hour.” He removed his suit jacket and draped it across his thigh. “I walked by on my way here.” Rafe slowly folded the cuffs of his shirt back, exposing tight forearms.
Was this man trying to entice me? Me, a master vampire used to seducing her prey on a weekly basis? I fidgeted in my seat, trying hard to not focus on Rafe and his revealed skin. Real hunger didn’t stir me, but my panties felt suspiciously damp.
“I can call some friends and see if they have a room.” I reached for the phone on the round table next to my settee and found the line disconnected. Service was still sporadic in the years since the bombs, and today must be one of those days.
Rafe moved and sat next to me at my suggestion to call friends, possibly to hear if I’d made a connection. At my silence and return of the receiver he said, “No luck?”
His presence, so close on the cramped seating, pushed his aroma around me like a cloud. Swirling images of tearing his clothes off and drinking from his neck engulfed me. Could I stop at just one taste? That question had racked my conscience all those years ago and prompted my abrupt departure. I feared now what I feared then. No, I don’t think I could stop with one taste. For some reason, this man called to me on a deeper level.
I leaned in unconsciously, breathing deep of the salty scent of his sweat. My lids drifted lower and I jerked back when I caught myself reaching out to touch him. A small smile played on his soft lips, seemingly unaware of my near slip.
“No. I’m sorry. The line is out,” I said with a choked sound at the end. I bolted off the tiny couch and raced back to the safety of my desk. “You can’t stay here. Like I said, we’re full.”
Rafe rose from the settee and languidly made his way to me from across the marble foyer—resembling a cat stalking prey. “How about letting me stay in an empty employee room? Surely, you have some open with this being your off-season.”
How did he know the summer months were our slow time? So he must also know I lied about the hotel being full, yet he was still pushing to stay here. The broad-shouldered, slim-hipped man sat on the edge of my Louis XIV desk and crossed his feet at the ankles.
“Please, Dria? It’s late and I’m tired. I promise I’ll leave tomorrow and find a new place to stay.” His expression softened and his blue eyes conveyed his sincerity.
My desire to be near this glorious creature outweighed my better judgment and I heard myself saying, “Fine, but only one night.”
“Great, thanks.” He reached out and laid a hand on my shoulder in gratitude and before I knew it, I stumbled mentally into our physical connection, his thoughts and emotions tumbling at me.
Grief. Despairing loss and grayness weighed heavily on this man. Beneath it all shone a solid core of blue, a steel beam of inner strength and determination. Touches of black encased the snake-like desires of his surface thoughts. This man had handed out death to others and lived with the consequences of his actions. He’d overcome a lot in his life and had a depth to him, which didn’t show in his casual demeanor.
Rafe removed his hand and stood, an expectant look on his face. I jerked myself out of the emotions and images I’d seen, reaching for a key in the credenza behind my desk. By the time I made my way to the narrow hall off the foyer, Rafe had retrieved his suit coat and the small satchel he’d arrived with.
Heat radiating off his body followed me down the hall, warming my backside. A pounding pulse reached my ears and I realized with a shock that it was his heartbeat I heard dancing out a staccato in the dim light. Excitement poured from him, triggering my own instincts as well. The dampness in my underwear I ignored earlier now demanded attention, and the desire curling low in my body threatened to overwhelm my common sense.
Pausing outside the available room, I closed my eyes and tried not to breathe in his sexy, welcoming invitation. With only some minor fumbling, I unlocked the door and pushed my way in. “Here we are.” Where was my confidence and cool attitude? I hadn’t reacted to a man like this in a century or more.
Rafe entered the room, brushing up against me as he passed. “Excuse me,” he said while smiling at me to show it was no accident. Rich male musk coated the air, making it impossible to ignore his physical presence.
The son-of-a-bitch had unbuttoned half his shirt while walking down the hall! The sight of his bare chest dusted with light brown hair called to me, drawing my eyes to the succulent skin near his neck. He turned away, as if sensing my dismay, and proceeded to examine the modest room.
The violent urge to take him and make every inch of him mine began to flame inside me. “I need you... I need you out of here by daylight... er, um... morning.”
The well-toned man, oozing sex appeal, turned back to me with a knowing smile on his face. “Sure, Dria. Whatever you want.” He stepped closer to me, pinning me with his nearness to the wall at my back. “I’m grateful you’d help me out and let me stay here on such short notice. Considering you’re booked and all...” His voice trailed off at the end and he leaned in to my personal space, taking a deep breath. “You smell intoxicating. What’s the name of the perfume you’re wearing?”
“I’m not wearing any.” I tried to exit, but a solid arm came up to rest on the wall between the open door and me. Ducking under it would look childish and weak—two things I’m not after five hundred years of walking this world.
“Perhaps it’s your shampoo?” he said while lifting one of my long red locks to his nose. Again, he inhaled deeply, this time staring directly into my eyes. “Mmm.”
I could’ve mesmerized him. I should’ve slipped into his mind and made him forget his interest and me. But I didn’t. To do so might ensure his safety but it would also deprive me of the dream of having him as my own. The air in the room seemed to press upon me, stifling in its heat and density. As I squirreled around frantically in my mind for something witty to say to defuse the tension, Rafe leaned in and touched his mouth to mine.
Soft lips met my own, tentative in their pressure and exploration. I stood perfectly still, not allowing my own body to cave into the driving pull I felt toward this man. A warm hand rested on my shoulder, drawing me away from the comfort of the wall and into a loose, but warm, embrace. His wet tongue probed between my closed lips, begging entrance with a silent entreaty.
I opened my mouth. I let him in. And sure enough, the second he gained access to a deeper kiss, he plunged his tongue into my mouth, nicking one of my sharp canines on the way. A small drop of blood from the wound hit my senses and threw me into a past filled with shared love and lovers killed. Permitting another human male into my life would only lead to more pain and death.
But being alone sucked.
No! screamed my conscience as I leaned in to intensify the kiss and pull more from the shallow cut. He deserves better than you can offer!
The kiss continued on for a few more seconds, the exquisite taste of him a delicious and forbidden dessert. Firm hands ran up and down my back, encouraging the moment to go further. A soft moan escaped him, prompting me to come back to my senses. I pushed him, a little softer than I intended, sending him only a foot or so away.
“No. I’m not for you,” I said, moving toward the door.
Rafe stepped in front of me, blocking me from leaving. His eyes mirrored my own desire and he boldly reached a hand out to cup my breast while stepping closer. “Let me be the judge of who’s right for me and who’s not.” One work-roughened thumb brushed over the silk of my blouse, teasing the hardened nipple back and forth.
His erection pressed against the front of his trousers, the site enticing me more than anything had in ages. I knew I couldn’t use and discard this one like I had all the others. He was different and therefore a danger to me—and more importantly, to himself. If I cared what happened to him, truly cared, then I couldn’t let things continue.
I shut down my feelings and drew myself up straighter, breaking his contact with my breast. I allowed my vampiric power to come to the surface. The buzzing of my aura reached out and filled the space between us, causing him to react like an electric static shock jolted him.
I wanted him to feel the energy humming against his skin; I wanted him confused. I wanted more than just one taste.
And now I had to crush him.
“Do you think you’re good enough for me?” I stalked around him and stood in the door, my back to the man in the room. “You’re covered in dirt, reeking of sweat, and wearing thread-bare clothing. You’re not good enough to wash my floors.” I turned around, wearing a nasty expression, grasped the door handle and looked the handsome man straight in the eye before I closed it. “Be out by morning.”
I stormed down the hall, trying to rein in my impulse to fly back down to his room and throw him on the bed. A soft whisper of sound reached my ears before I made it to the foyer.
“I will never give up.”
Chapter One
By Danielle Gavan
“What’s so interesting down there? You’ve been staring at the same spot for nearly an hour.”
Matthias looked up the six foot five inches of his brother and sighed as he met the ice blue stare glowing in the darkness. Shrugging the heavy leather of his duster back into place, he rose from his crouched position by the parapet.
“There’s a woman in the alley – she’s about to birth a female,” Matthias confessed.
“So what? The humans birth females all the time. What’s so special about this one?” Marcus’ question earned him an arched brow and a tilt of Matt’s head. “Oh, shit.”
“Mhmm. A female Fractal, Marcus. I don’t have to tell you how rare that is, do I?” Matt returned his gaze to the woman straining six stories below them. “I doubt the kid will survive long after she’s born. We’re not the only ones watching. If the mother doesn’t kill her first, they will.” He tilted his head toward the adjacent rooftop where two groups of shadows lingered just beyond the bricked edge. The shine of their inhuman eyes the only tell of their presence in the inky darkness.
Matthias surveyed the Angels on the left and the Demons on the right. He let slip a short, bitter laugh before returning his gaze to the female.
“Do you recognize her?” Marcus asked.
Moonlight glistened off the jet black curls hanging to Marcus’ shoulder blades. Matthias smirked, Pretty boy. Their mother’s genetics had won the battle when Marc had been created. It suited him perfectly.
Matt shook his head and stretched his six foot eight frame to ease the tension in his muscles. Fixing his rusty brown eyes on his younger brother, he sighed. “She’s an angel, but that’s all I can tell. I need you to keep an eye on the bozos over there while I grab the baby.”
“What? Oh, no. No way am I playing Daddy. We do that, and we might as well pin a huge target on our asses. I’ve survived too long to let myself get taken out of the game for a kid that isn’t even mine.”
His words fell on deaf ears, or rather, no ears as Matt had already disappeared from their rooftop perch. Marcus turned back to the parapet and looked down at the alley. The angel, delivered of the baby in her belly, lay panting in a pool of blood and fluid – her child, gone.
“Son-of-a-bitch.”
“Not so. My mother was an angel, as was yours.” Matthias stepped from the shadows, a small bundle cuddled against his bare chest.
“Do you have a death wish? As soon as they realize we’ve taken it the Trackers are going to hunt us down. They will go to the ends of the Earth, and beyond, to get their paws on her.”
Matthias shrugged and pulled the edges of his leather trench closer together. “They’ll have to catch us first and seeing as we’ve been able to avoid them for, how long now? I’m confident we can hide one tiny baby from them.”
“Right,” Marcus snorted. “Because raising a baby in a barracks full of warriors is such a great idea.”
“I raised you there,” Matt countered. “You turned out fine.”
Shaking his head, Marcus let out a mirthless laugh. He extended his arms and wiggled his fingers. “Yeah, right. Gimme the baby. I’m going to regret this later but – I’ll raise her. You can…” he paused for a moment, clearly searching for the right words that wouldn’t offend him too much. “Help with diaper duty.”
“Fuck you,” Matthias retorted. Hesitantly, he handed the baby girl over and stepped back. “Her name is mine to choose, so is her training.”
Three push knives, a dagger and every throwing star she owned reflected the moonlight from their resting places in the heavy muscles of Marcus’ chest, shoulders and arms. Bloody patches bloomed from each wound and darkened the light gray cotton tee straining to cover his massive torso.
“Why won’t you leave me be?” she growled and viciously lodged her steel toed boot in his stomach. Marcus grunted, but showed no other sign of having been affected by her attentions. Instead, he flashed his perfect pearly whites and adjusted the set of his knees on the concrete.
“It’ll take a lot more than a tiny brunette to kick my ass, Kylar.” He flexed and one of the stars wedged into his left bicep pinged as it bounced on the concrete. The small steel weapon skittered to a stop, razor sharp point resting against the thick rubber lip of her left boot.
“Bite me, Marc.” She snarled at him. “Why did he send you? Did Matthias think sending you would sway my resolve and get me to run back home like a good little girl?”
He snorted, and then spat blood across the parking garage floor. “You? A good little girl? Honey, you were born bad. I was there, remember? My brother sent me because I’m the only one who can take whatever you dish out and still haul your ass in.”
Kylar twisted the dagger in his left shoulder and smirked at the crack it caused in the cocky look on his face. Marcus O’Shea might be the best warrior her kind currently had to offer, but she’d been a close second before going AWOL three months ago. It stood to reason – they’d both been trained by the same man, Matthias. Bringing her in would solidify his brother’s claim on her and she was determined to make sure that never happened.
“Come on, Ky,” he cajoled. “You know as well as I do, we need to keep you hidden. It’s your safety or death for all of us if the Trackers catch you.”
“Bastard,” she spat. “If Matthias hadn’t blocked my ability to dematerialize until I come of age, I’d go back to the barracks and kick his ass just for fun.”
Marcus snorted, a knife pushing from his right shoulder as the wound around it healed. The silver blade clattered to the ground between them. At the rate his body expelled her weapons she’d have to hurry their encounter along before he regained full strength and broke through the bonds around his wrists.
“Hold that thought for another two month,” he grinned. “I’ll help you.”
“I don’t need your help,” she retorted.
He laughed, another weapon dislodging from his skin to ping on the concrete. “Oh, honey. You do. My brother might be in love with you, but he’ll kick your ass seven ways from Sunday just to teach you a lesson.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Kylar muttered. Matthias’ training methods were brutal and he gave no quarter, even for her. More than a few of the scars she bore stemmed from sparing sessions with Matt.
The shriek of metal drew her attention back to Marcus. No longer peppered with weapons, he stood before her with the twisted scraps of her cuffs in his large hand. A cocky grin spread across his lips as he tossed the remnants aside and stepped into her personal space.
“And this,” he chided. “Is why you’re still a rookie. Never take your eyes off the prize. One mention of the big guy and you’re distracted.”
“Was not,” she protested. He grabbed her bicep, ignoring the comment and dragged her alongside the bank of windows. “What are you doing?” she hissed. “The Trackers will see us!”
Marcus grunted, pulled her close and wrapped his duster around her. “They already have, you idiot. Now shut up so I can transport us back to the barracks. You know I can’t dematerialize with this much concrete around us. I need the open space of the window to get us out of here.”
Kylar shut up and let him take her out of the garage. As soon as they were on solid ground again she planned to run for it again.
Matthias paced, his long legs taking him from one end of his room to the other in six impatient strides. He’d sent Marcus out to retrieve Kylar after the locator embedded in her favorite dagger triggered and revealed her location two hours ago.
“Damn woman,” he growled. “Why can’t you stay where I put you?”
The air shuddered and revealed Marcus between him and the bed. His brother parted the edges of the heavy duster they all wore to reveal Kylar in all of her perfection. Long brown hair braided back for battle, flashing green eyes that held a mutinous glare and the sexiest set of pouty lips ever created.
His cock twitched behind the fly of his pants, Matthias cut the randy bastard off with a ruthless thought and stepped forward. He studied her, petulant smirk and all, and wondered – not for the first time – why he’d stepped off a rooftop nearly twenty five years ago to rescue her.
“Take a picture,” she dared. “Might last you longer.”
“Marcus,” Matt flicked a glance at his brother. “You can go. Kylar and I have a few things to – discuss.”
“Discuss. Right,” Marc snorted, turned on his boot heel and evacuated.
Of course, he took his time about it and Matthias counted the seconds down until the door shut quietly. He had to give credit where it was due. Ky didn’t back down an inch while they stood in silence and faced off with each other.
“Do you know how many men we lost because of your little run?” he glowered at her.
Kylar flipped the end of her braid over her shoulder and shrugged, “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“No,” he hauled her against the hard wall of his chest. “I’m going to spank your ass for each Demonkin or Angelikin that went down trying to find it.” His hands skimmed down the smooth line of her back to cup the full curve of her backside. Marcus had stripped all of her weapons away. Good, with what he planned for the afternoon, a dagger in the back or heart was not part of it.
“Ooh, a spanking,” she taunted him. “Is that the best you can come up with?”
Matthias ground the thick ridge of his erection against the soft plane of her belly. “No, but it’s a starting point.”
“Matt, no.” Wide eyed, she struggled to escape the vice grip of his arms. “You promised.”
“I know what I promised, Kylar,” he growled. Lifting her into his arms, Matthias captured the full sweep of her lower lip between his teeth and tugged gently. “You’re little stunt forfeited our agreement.”
“You can’t! If I’m not a virgin on my twenty fifth birthday I lose the chance to come into full power. Matthias. Stop.”
A bucket of ice water would have been less effective than her reminder of what was at stake for them all. Without her at full strength everything the Fractals had been fighting for centuries to achieve would be lost.
“Fuck,” he cursed, dropping her like a hot potato. Kylar possessed the agility of a cat; he didn’t doubt she would land on her feet and be out the door before his heart beat twice. He was also reasonably certain she would try to run again.
Matthias smirked. “Try it, sweetheart. I’ve been busy while you were gone.”
Untouchable will continue in Digital Digest Volume Two.
By Danielle Gavan and Jennifer Feuerstein
“Why in hell am I here?” Demonica grimaced at her reflection in the cracked restroom mirror. Every year, middle of March, she inevitably ended up in the same dingy Irish pub. The only changes in the place over the centuries? The layer of grime on the floor and the revolving door of wait staff.
Quickly applying a fresh coat of gloss, Demo – as her friends called her – gave her appearance one last check before wading back into the mass of people occupying the bar. Waitresses in short black skirts and low cut tops scooted by. Trays laden with steins of frothy green beer balanced precariously on their hands as the girls navigated the rowdy revellers.
Scanning the room as she walked, Demonica located her companion for the afternoon and jostled her way back to their table. The flavor of the crowd carried an edge of danger she hadn’t detected earlier, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what caused the change as she scanned faces for clues.
“I was beginning to think you’d decided to skip out on me,” her date confessed in a bur softened voice. Medium height, strawberry blond and slight of build, he missed the marker for Demo’s type by several miles – and served as the perfect foil for keeping the riff raff from bothering her.
“There was a line,” she flicked her eyes at him briefly and resumed her surveillance. A cold chill ran down her spine, pulling a violent shudder through her delicate frame. Her companion moved to put his hand over hers and Demonica slid it out of reach. She gave him a vacant smile, “Sorry, I don’t like being touched without invitation.”
Intense blue eyes blazed at her from by the bar as she completed her third sweep of the room. Attention caught, Demo focused on the rest of him. Short, cropped hair, a strong jaw and panty wetting physique. Closing her eyes, she tasted the air and smiled as she opened them again. Whatever category he fell into, human wasn’t tops on the list of tall, dark and yummy’s attributes.
“Mmm, hello handsome,” Demo purred as she slid from her seat. She took a step toward the bar but got no further. A sweaty hand clamped down on her arm and stopped her.
“Monica? Where are you going?” her table mate asked.
“Let. Me. Go.” Demonica spared him a glance, demonic nature shining in her eyes as she ripped her arm free of his grasp. “You’re lucky I don’t break your fingers for that.”
Demo turned back and looked for the handsome supernatural. The brief seconds she’d been distracted were enough. When her gaze settled on the spot he’d occupied, she discovered it empty. He disappeared as quickly as she’d found him.
“Shit,” she tossed a few bills on the table and took off in pursuit. Whatever game he thought they were playing, she intended to come out on top.
Picking a seat near the door had been a smart move. Five long strides had her out the door and into the thick crowd milling about in all of their green finery. St Patrick’s Day celebrations were in full swing and the streets brimmed with people.
Demonica scanned the crowd. Her senses picked up every kind of supernatural being for blocks around her – except for the one she’d spotted in the bar.
“Damn it.” The taste of power roiled inside her brain and taunted her to figure the puzzle out. Something animalistic about the ferocity she’d seen in his eyes when they’d met hers across the room amped up her curiosity. “What in hell are you?”
The inside pocket of her leather jacket buzzed with silent vibration and Demonica reached in to pull out the tiny black cell phone. She gave the Caller ID a passing glance before flipping the device open. One person called on this line and only in the case of an emergency.
“Hey, Marco.” She smiled at the code name. Marco Polo had been their favorite game as children. Of course, as old as they were, the game had a different name back then.
“Polo, you’ve got a tail again.”
Demonica laughed at the irony of the statement. “Again? Don’t I always have a one?”
A husky male chuckle caressed her ear over the phone line. “You do, and it’s a damn sexy one too, but that’s not what I meant and you know it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She scanned the crowd on the off chance her runner made another appearance. “I’ve already spotted one of them. Since when does he send the tall, dark and handsome type? Most of his goons are ugly, slavering beasts.” Silence greeted her question. “Kaleth?”
“If he’s good looking, he isn’t one of the goons chasing you. Honey,” her best friend’s voice softened and she knew – whatever he said next, she wouldn’t like it. “Let the pretty boy go. You can’t take the risk right now. We need your ass hidden until this shit blows over or we’re screwed.”
“Too late.”
Marco cursed vehemently and Demonica held the phone away from her ear. “What in hell do you mean, too late? Demo, what have you done?”
“Nothing,” she protested. “I was having a drink with one of the local yuppies and debating whether to dump his lame ass when I picked up another supernatural in the room…and hello, F.I.N.E. doesn’t even begin to describe what I found. When I located him – he was staring right back. You’re sure he’s not one of Bub’s goof troop?”
“Positive,” the sound of keys clicking told Demonica he was looking something up. Probably trying to bring up satellite imagery of her location to determine if he could work out the identity of her mystery man.
“Find anything?” she asked after a few minutes ticked by.
“No,” he growled. “Listen – you know as well as I do, Beelzebub’s men are not known for their looks or their subtlety. Whoever your man is… Just leave it be. Get your ass to safety and forget you ever saw him.”
“Fine.” Demo clicked the phone shut and pocketed the device. Her curiosity was piqued, and Hell would have a thick coating of ice before she let it go unsatisfied. “You can run, but you can’t hide forever.” A sentiment she was well acquainted with.
Focusing her energy, Demonica disappeared from the alley and rematerialized outside of her favorite inn. She smiled up at the sign and pushed open the door to Danny’s Pub. Warmth settled over her as she stepped over the threshold and into the familiar environment.
The people seated at the bar and scattered throughout the room were a veritable supernatural spumoni. Considering their proximity to the biggest fairy circle on the planet, Mission, Montana was a hotbed for all the things humans thought existed only in fairtytales and nightmares.
“Danny,” she smiled at the blond barkeep. “The usual, and keep ‘em coming?”
Finder grinned as the petite blonde left the safety of the bar he’d tracked her to in Ireland. The demon footing the bill for this track hadn’t given him details of the why’s or what’s for the mission and Finder didn’t really care as long as he got paid. At least he hadn’t until the beautiful Princess stepped into the crosshairs on his rifle’s scope a few weeks ago. His interest had peaked then, as did the price for bringing her in.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he cajoled. “A bit closer and I can tranq your sweet little ass for transport.”
No way would he dare taking her in without a healthy dose of tranquilizer on board. Tiny she might be, but the Princess of Hell packed more power than a legion of demons. The demon who tamed her would be a lucky bastard to come out the other side alive with all of his parts intact.
Fingers cramped from gripping the tranq gun for hours, he nearly dropped the damn thing when the phone in his rear jeans pocket buzzed. He ignored the first two rings but the momentary distraction cost him – his prey had vanished into thin air, literally.
Pulling the device from behind him, Finder accepted the call and jammed the phone to his ear as he scanned the crowd.
“What,” he barked.
His present employer’s voice oiled over the line and sent a shiver of disgust down his spine. “Progress report.”
“Fuck your progress report, Beelzebub,” he tossed back. “I told you I’d bring her in if, and when, I catch her. Your damned call just cost me two weeks of work. At this rate, I might just say fuck it and keep the bitch for myself.”
The sound of Beelzebub’s teeth gnashing reached his ears and Finder grinned. Yeah, keeping the Princess for his own enjoyment looked real good if it meant he could stick one in the fat bastard’s craw.
“You will bring Princess Demonica to me,” the other demon screeched into the phone. “She will be my bride and I will rule Hell through her.”
Finder arched a brow and relaxed against the wall at his side. So the lowlife thought to dethrone Lucifer, did he? Rumors had flown for eons about the Morning Star’s readiness to retire and hand the reigns over to his daughter – provided she find a suitable mate and breed a dozen little hell spawn. Huh, interesting.
“I’ll consider it,” he ended the call and smirked at the rage he imagined covered Beelzebub face.
Scrolling through his contact list, he stopped at the first one listed under the letter K and grimaced at his brother’s name. Kaleth, the king’s favorite and the princess’ trusted guardian. Finder punched a quick message into the phone and hit send.
Your charge is getting careless, brother. I nearly tranq’d her a minute ago.
The reply came back almost instantly. Nearly. Losing your touch, Carel?
Finder growled at the taunt and pocketed the phone. No love lost between them, but then – how did you love the brother who’d been responsible for tossing you into the deepest pit of Hell for seven thousand years?
Tempted will continue in Digital Digest Volume Two.
Chapter 1: Voyager
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