“Try me,” I said. “I dare you.”
I left the party, walked around the side of the house, and found the darkest shadow to loiter in and see if the vamp duo followed. I entertained the idea of pulling a Jericho and gruffing: “Feeling lucky, punk?” Of course, reality would be clumsier and end with vampires devouring me on prime real estate. Tad would have an apoplexy over the resulting scandal.
The first glug of liquor burned like ignited kerosene. Coughing, I pulled a face. Who could bear to drink this stuff if they didn't have horrors to kill? I leaning against the building and waited for death to find me. My soul oscillated between self-pity and self-righteousness.
Poor me. Who do the bastards think they are, anyway?
Soon the tequila tasted good and my body buzzed for reals.
No vampires appeared, which was anticlimactic. They didn't care enough to kill me. No one cared. Half a bottle of alcohol sat in my gullet, and I might as well finish. At this point, I should enjoy myself.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I nearly shat. Could have sworn it was Sarakas' voice. I was doomed. Preemptive guilt burned me, but it was only the supremacist security guy.
“Are you okay?” he said. Genuinely concerned. That was a turn-about.
“Oh yeah. Peaches. Peachy. Yep. Didn't happen to see two vampires around, did you?”
“Can I call you a taxi?”
“Call me Kaid.” I snickered.
“What?”
“Nothing. No. I'm good.”
“You need to leave.”
“Yep.”
One handed, I touched keys.
No, no: bad idea. Don't wanna mess up the truck. I'd walk. Exercise was good for people. So what if it was a long way home? Hell, who knew the shortcuts through Phoenix better than me? Off I tread, downing tequila. This was an adventure!
Empty streets echoed my footsteps. The good citizens of Phoenix were all tucked in their beds. Only troublemakers and drunks ventured out so late.
Anger devolved into self-pity, which was worse, of course. With a sneer, I realized I was crying again. Slow, leaking tears. Revolting. I continued weeping and sneering and drinking and walking. Stumbled to climb the iron fence guarding a massive, overgrown cemetery. I cried more because my brother, Jacob, didn't have a memorial site.
The shame of his death remained overwhelming. A fairytale disease got personal, went horror-story wicked. Family was too afraid of contamination to worry about a dead monster's memory. I thought of my mother's grave and wondered if it, too, was overrun, or if my father put flowers down. It shouldn't matter; she wasn't buried there anyway. I never saw the body, but the state declared her deceased.
In those days, the program was more about taking people out back, shooting them fast, and burying them shallow.
She was gone because I had been slow to pull a trigger. I hadn't predicted violence, instead, I had cowered in fear. Wasn’t fast enough to save her.
Another swig of scalding tequila helped the morbid thought along. I cried myself dry. Stumbling past gravestones hidden in the weeds, I hugged the bottles to my chest and tucked my hands under my arms to warm them.
When I get home, I should ride the motorcycle sitting in the corner of the garage, accumulating dust. A nice, fast, long ride in the desert, wind in my hair, cruising until I ran out of gas or crashed. I laughed, picturing my death in a blazing pile of custom motorcycle rubble. I swigged more alcohol. Some dribbled over my chin.
My hair blew into knots around my head. The cold bit my nose. I decided to take another shortcut through Whitesnake Crater, where the second largest massacre in Phoenix occurred during a wedding. Instead of the father walking his daughter down the aisle, he ate the bride and groom. And that was only the beginning. The disease had circulated among the family. They shed and killed fifty guests before being put down.
The crater's depression was ringed with debris. Some people came to pay tribute to the dead, others had come to dump their garbage.
Superstitious people swore more ghosts than humans visited the sector, but I didn’t believe in ghosts. I stepped into the depression and my boot shifted loose gravel, broken glass, and yellowed pearls.
Nope, not pearls. Teeth. In bigger massacres, sometimes pieces get lost.
Above, the sky was cloudless and star-laden. Below, very few footprints tracked inside the rim. I stood in a bone-yard the size of a football field, removed from the urban sprawl. Finding constellations, I savored a slow sip of tequila. The sloshing liquid sang through the night.
I should get out more. And run. Make use of this open space. I jogged three heavy paces before a flare of white caught my eye. I skidded to a stop, spraying gravel.
Nothing there. Hmph.
Definitely drunk. Yep, yep, or crazy.
On the far rim, a figure danced in the dark. She wore a knee-length white dress. What was she doing out so late? Only a crazy woman would walk alone in the dark, unprotected, through a barren crater. I waved and called, “Hey!” She waved softly and loped over the rim, disappearing behind a sprawl of abandoned vehicles.
My pulse sung with excitement, which I attributed to a chance meeting in the dark. Kindred spirits, we were. Roamers of untread paths, dancers in the night. I smelled flowers and salt and stale earth, all riding a wave of tequila on my breath. The urge to run returned like a childhood memory. Irresistible, nostalgic. And why not run? I had so much ground to cover. When I got home, I could take a bubble bath and drink my second bottle of fine tequila. A perfect plan.
With a kiss, like a priest blessing a child, I set the empty bottle down on the gravel. Tightened my ankle holster. Stretched my calves and hamstrings. Clutched the full bottle tight and ran.
Sloppily, sure. Stumbling, sometimes. Yet with great determination. I sprinted, loped, and cantered through the refuse of low-income neighborhoods, hopped some of the less impressive fences, skirted around a few gang territories, scampered across a few more craters, and caught my second wind.
All the running I couldn't do in the face of danger, I did then. For fun.
* * *
Pushing the key into the lock required a feat of agility beyond my immediate ability. I stood on the porch and fumbled with the key like it was a goddamn Rubix cube.
“Let. Me. In.”
I finally set the correct key at the right angle, entered my house, shut the door, and sagged against it. So tired. Ready for my bath and my second bottle. My drunkenness slipped into soggy inhibition, like my brain had pudding for synapses.
I left a trail of wet clothes on the floor to the refrigerator. Jacket. Vest. Kicked off the boots, tore off the socks. Put the Jericho and the back-up Glock on the table. I went to the fridge and sucked down a bottle of water.
Sighed. Looked up.
Yellow eyes glared at me from atop the fridge. I shrieked. The orange cat shrieked back and leaped at my face, claws first. I bobbed out of the way and crashed against the counter. The tabby devil twisted acrobatically and changed direction midair, somehow landing in upright pouncing position. He dug his hind claws into the counter and poised to launch himself at me again.
Oh, hell no.
I lunged for the gun. He sprung over my head and ran. I grabbed the weapon and went to plug that furry shithead between his feline eyes. He hissed and darted into the backyard. I sprinted after him and raised the weapon.
Naked people swarmed my backyard. Cats darted underfoot.
I blinked desperately, waiting for my pudding brain to make sense of it.
Zelda's coven.
I hid the firearm behind my back. The witches, all naked and laughing and dancing, hadn't noticed my entrance. They passed ale, stoked the fire, shared food, and pranced. Dozens of women, singing and chatting and hugging. Celebrating. I couldn't recall ever seeing so many women together without a man present. Startling, at once, to be in the company of happy females.
It was a whole different world.
Zelda cantered up to me, nake
d and shameless. She was beautiful in a way that only older women can be beautiful, with a roundness and confidence of maternal glory. Smiling like joy incarnated. Contagious. I grinned back at her. She gave me a beer. I tucked the gun into my pants as she took my other hand. And she pulled me into the frolicking, rejoicing circle. I drank the top off the beer so I wouldn’t spill it, and it was glorious. I stayed with the circle, walking until I realized there were no dance moves, simply free movement. I caught a rhythm, jumped, and swayed. Cold air bit my skin. My bare feet, sore from running in boots, filled with new life.
Laughing, I gave myself up to the naked heathens and their joyful song.
Chapter 23
Woke feeling like a mutt had dragged me through ten kilometers of dirt. My feet were heavy, swollen, and throbbing. Sand irritated my ass. The dull light pressing against my blinds was too painful to look at and my eyes scrunched shut. Why? Because I was freaking hung-over, crushed by the wagon I fell from. Damn it.
This is what happened to alcoholics who shoot their sponsors.
Stifling heat suffocated my skin. I tossed off the top cover but kept the sheet. Reaching out blindly, I felt for the bedside Jericho. At least my drunk stupid ass hadn't shot someone. Though at one point I might have tried to kill a cat.
Something brushed against me.
Skin to skin.
My eyes popped open and I turned my head so quickly that I nearly vomited.
Unfashionably long blond hair with bits of mesquite leaves caught in it, slender shoulders, and small waist. Full, feminine ass.
Blinking, I pulled up the covers to hide myself.
Jesus Christ, Kaidlyn. What have you done now?
Judging by how drunk I had been, I probably had something to apologize for. I couldn't remember. Had we been intimate or were we merely sleeping side-by-side? I touched my lips. My mouth was tender, but that didn't prove I had spent all night kissing. Neither of us wore clothes, but the witches had danced naked. Not enough evidence to assume I'd been a lecher.
I needed to do the Spoon Test. If she responded favorably, I could wager we'd had an erotic evening. If not, maybe we hadn't had sex.
The fact that I even had a Spoon Test was bad.
My hand crossed the distance and cupped her hip. Warm. Full. She sighed and pressed against me, fitting into the bend of my body. Supple flesh nestled perfectly against my sore, cold body. Oh, boy. Wish I could remember what I got, because her body was very pleasant. Despite being a female myself, I was amazed at how soft a woman's flesh was. Easy to understand why the whole world worked itself into a tizzy over something as natural as sex.
My hand slid around her midsection to investigate her welcoming heat. She felt nice. The gentle tiger striping of motherhood interrupted her otherwise smooth belly. No visible tattoos, piercings, no ring. Her hair smelled of sage smoke. Dirt under her nails made me smile. If I could tactfully learn her name, this might not end poorly.
She stretched against me. My thighs slid against hers. My gut ached and my head throbbed, and she was like a hot water bottle. I cuddled and her heat flashed through my nipples.
Thank goodness I had surrendered the second bottle of tequila, or I'd be incredibly hung-over instead of vaguely sick. I remembered the naked women, old and beautiful and enchanting. Nature's women. I remembered dancing, jumping, and shouting along with the heathens. I groaned. Shit, I'd gone native.
My feet ached like bludgeoned cube steak.
My lips were chapped from dehydration and alcohol. Muscles I'd forgotten raged with complaints, but the slow burn was pleasant because it was the result of joyful moments (and shame, but I'd prefer to ignore that part for now). I was starving and didn't know if I could keep food down. I'd had worse hangovers, but today was going to suck.
The room was dark enough that I could sleep again, but my bedmate stretched herself deliberately, announcing she was awake. She took my forearm in her hand. Her skin was soft. Mine wasn't. I swallowed.
This could be bad. When intoxicated, I had the tendency to tell people I loved them. More like wishful thinking than an ill-intentioned lie. Unfortunately, my mouth often did things I'd have to pay for.
“Hi,” I murmured.
“Hi.” Her voice heady and rough like she'd been singing (or moaning) all night. She rolled over. Pretty. Button nose. Blue-eyed. Young. Her gentle smile lacked confidence.
Listen asshole, I warned myself, don't say anything to make her feel bad.
A challenge I was bound to fail.
Her hand became clammy. This was about to get awkward. With great hesitation, she completed the turn into me, her belly to my hip, and her hand on my arm, magically placed on a scar-free area. I wondered if she'd done that on purpose. Her cheek rested on my bicep while her breath washing my neck. She positioned for a kiss but didn't open her eyes.
Right-o then.
I sensed she was good. She certainly felt good. Her skin smelled of musk, smoke, and baby powder.
Unfortunately, not remembering how someone kisses means not knowing if it's worth repeating. I played with her long hair. I felt she was waiting for me to say something, but I didn't want to. Talking was not my strong suit.
“Want coffee?” I whispered.
My voice was rough like I'd been shouting—or moaning—all night. She shook her head. I hadn't wanted to get up, anyway. Her hand moved down my arm slightly, her fingers tentatively explored. I wondered how drunk she'd been last night.
Tension hummed through her, and I knew she was still waiting. I should invest in conversation about intimate things. Pillow talk. What did I know about her? This conversation needed a launching point.
“How long have you been a witch?”
She skipped a breath and went still. Not the best ice breaker, probably because witches popped up dead in ashen pyres across the country. After a night of pagan dancing in my yard, I figured I was allowed to ask.
I figured wrong.
“Why do you carry a gun?” she retorted.
“I'm a fed.”
That chased her right out of bed.
“I was only wondered if you grew up in it,” I said. “Relax. I wouldn't put you on a Deviant Registry or anything.”
Couldn't put her on the list if I didn't even know her name, could I?
The cuddling was clearly over, so I threw back the sheet.
She flinched when she saw my naked body.
An-honest-to-god flinch. Unflattering to say the least. She must not have remembered feeling me when we rolled around last night. Yea, tequila. The scar cluster on my right oblique chose to be aggressively tight in defiance of her judgment. I didn't cover myself, more as an act of stubbornness than a display of confidence. She turned and searched the floor for a raincoat which wasn't there.
I offered her the sheet. With visible effort to meet my eyes, she came close enough to take it. She was younger than I first thought. I didn't know what to say. I wanted her gone, but I didn't want to hurt her feelings.
“Pleasure meeting you,” I said, trying to sound genuine.
She gave me a decent (albeit sympathetic) smile. Pity waited in the wings.
Yep, we were done here. Thanks for coming out.
Allowing her plenty of time to make her escape, I hauled my dehydrated, grumpy ass to the shower and pushed my throbbing head under hot steam. Nausea swirled inside me. Drinking some of the water eased my thirst but hurt my tummy.
Damn tequila.
I reflected on the previous night, or what I remembered. Off the wagon. An altercation with a trio of vampires, a near-disaster with a socialite blood pledge, and a pagan hoedown with a happy ending. What next? Time to get something off my chest. Literally. I had an appointment with my dermatologist and shouldn't miss it. I brushed my teeth twice and sat down in the tub until the hot water ran out.
I needed to see if my gut could handle anything. Neglecting a towel, I paraded through the house. Next to the coffee pot was a note from Zelda.
Come over when
you're awake.
A hesitation marked her penmanship, a drawn-out and back-tracked line. 'Awake' clearly meant no-longer-drunk-and-screwing-a-witch. I groaned like I'd been summoned to the principal's office. Undoubtedly, she'd want to talk about my disappointing behavior.
I took a fortifying breath.
Time to man up, as they say.
I dressed for my mood: a baggy tee, no bra, and yoga pants with a gun nestled at the curve of my spine. Squinting in the daylight, I walked across the lawn and past Zelda's flowers, conscientious herbs, overflowing plant boxes, hanging ivy, and climbing vines. Me, I tended to kill all things green. Cats skittered underfoot as I breached the porch. Other felines glared arrogantly from various lounging spots, more than one hissed at me. What can I say? I'm a dog person.
Trying not to glower, I knocked. Zelda appeared with a smile as soothing as apple pie. A cinnamon aroma made my stomach roll treacherously, yet I instantly wanted whatever yummy thing she'd baked. She waved me in.
Zelda's house was a fairytale woodland cottage and I was out of place. This is where people would come if they expected a happy ending or fairy godmother.
“Long night,” I said.
“Ah, but a good one, I believe. Come into the kitchen and sit. I've made chamomile tea to calm your stomach. Soda bread, if you wish. Cinnamon rolls if you dare.”
“Oh, I dare,” I said, even though I'd probably chuck up. I entered her kitchen, ground zero of culinary perfection. She didn't own a microwave. The dining room table was covered with freshly cut herbs. Cats glared. Dapples, grays, blacks, tabbies, splotches, spots, stripes, long and short hair: an army of felines.
I sat on a wooden stool.
While she poured tea, I happily noted spots of flour on her rosy house dress. Her white-blond hair gleamed in a French braid (another girl thing I had never learned). Her vibrant eyes made it impossible to guess she'd stayed up dancing with the devil. I was jealous of her energy. She had four decades on me, so why did I feel so old?
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