Harper Hall Investigations
The Complete Series
By
Isabel Jordan
Copyright © 2018 by Isabel Jordan
All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictitious and are not based on any real persons living or dead.
The Harper Hall Investigations series reading order (all books now available everywhere books are sold):
Book 1: Semi-Charmed
Book 2: Semi-Human
Book 3: Semi-Twisted
Book 4: Semi-Broken
Book 5: Semi-Sane
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Table of Contents
Book 1: Semi-Charmed
Book 2: Semi-Human
Book 3: Semi-Twisted
Book 4: Semi-Broken
Book 5: Semi-Sane
Semi-Charmed
Book 1: Harper Hall Investigations Series
Acknowledgments
To my endlessly supportive parents, who are convinced I can do no wrong (even in the face of glaring examples to the contrary).
To Patty Travis and her bionic proofreading eye. (No, everyone cannot tell if a period is italicized; it’s just you and I love you for it!)
To my son, Connor, because he’s awesome (if I do say so myself) and brings me joy every single day.
And to my husband, Don, who taught me the meaning of true partnership. You’ve never let me down, and something tells me you never will. Sleedleshoo!
Chapter One
Whispering Hope, New York, today
Harper Hall swatted the fast-fingered hand of yet another horny, middle-aged CPA off her ass, but resisted the urge to dump tequila in this one’s lap. After all, the Prince Valiant haircut and underbite he was saddled with were punishments enough for his crimes.
“Hey, baby,” Valiant’s friend said as he fondled his shot glass suggestively. “Is that a mirror in your pocket? ‘Cause I can definitely see myself in your pants.”
Harper rolled her eyes and shot back, “Darlin’, I’m not your type. I’m not inflatable.”
And with that, she turned on the heel of one of her requisite six-inch platforms and started for the bar as the CPAs chortled and bumped knuckles. They were probably looking at her butt too, but Harper chose not to dwell on that, or on the fact that most of said butt was probably hanging out of her Daisy Dukes. Not her best look, to be sure.
Lanie Cale, one of the other waitresses, grabbed her arm and leaned in, shouting over the music, “Hey, can you take over for me with the guy at table five? Carlos is letting me dance tonight. I go on in ten.”
Harper gave her a quick once over. Lanie was five years her junior, ten pounds lighter, and had her beat by a full cup size. If she was Lanie, she’d probably aspire to be a stripper too. But as it stood, she was stuck waiting tables with the other B-cups.
“Sure,” she answered. “But, Lanie, this guy at table five…he’s not a CPA, is he? I don’t think I have the strength for another CPA.”
“No way is this guy a CPA. I’d bet Hugh Jackman’s abs on it,” she promised solemnly as she disappeared into the crowd.
At that moment, the sweaty throng of dancers and customers and waitresses parted, giving Harper her first glimpse of the guy at table five.
Wow. Hugh Jackman’s abs were in no danger tonight.
The guy at table five was definitely not an accountant. Serial killer, maybe. CPA…um, no.
Table five was wedged in the corner, to the extreme right of the stage, which was why no one usually wanted to sit there. But instinct told Harper this guy had refused to sit anywhere else. This was one of those never-let-anyone-sneak-up-behind-you types, maybe with a military or law enforcement background. Paranoid and probably with good reason.
Everything about him screamed tall, dark, and brooding. From the black hair long overdue for a trim to the black-on-black wardrobe, complete with biker boots and a Highlander-like leather trench, this guy was either a true rebel without a cause, or the best imitation of one she’d ever seen.
And he was drunk off his ass. Not the kind of happy, silly drunk the CPAs at table ten had going. No, Harper could tell by the way he was ignoring the half-naked dancer on stage that he was drowning his sorrows.
Ignoring Misty Mountains wasn’t easy, either. Her brand new double D’s were mesmerizing, and the nipples kind of followed you wherever you went like the eyes on the creepy Jesus picture in her mom’s living room.
As Harper watched, he polished off a bottle of Glenlivet and set it beside two other empties. She sighed. He’d probably pass out before he remembered to tip her. God damn drunks would be the death of her.
Harper squared her shoulders and walked up to the table, then knelt beside him so he could hear her over the bassline of Bon Jovi’s Lay Your Hands On Me.
“Can I get you anything else, sir? Like coffee?” Hint, hint.
He didn’t even glance at her as he slid the empty bottles to the edge of the table and said, “Another bottle.”
His voice sent a shiver down her spine. It was gravelly, raspy, almost like he’d growled the words instead of speaking them. Sexy.
But sexy voice or not, she wasn’t about to serve him another bottle. He was probably a few inches over six feet and maybe a little over two-hundred pounds, but no one—not even a manly man like this one—could down four bottles of eighteen-year-old Glenlivet and blow a Breathalyzer that wouldn’t get him immediately arrested.
“I think you’ve probably had enough for tonight.”
He slowly glanced over at her as if he hadn’t really noticed her presence until just then. When her eyes locked with his, she completely forgot what they’d been talking about. Hell, who was she kidding? She forgot how to breathe.
This had to be the most gorgeous potential serial killer she’d ever seen.
He had a dark olive complexion most women would kill for, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes that were either black or the deepest blue she’d ever seen—it was too dark in the club to tell for sure.
His perfectly arched black brows—and they had to be naturally perfect, because she was pretty sure this guy wouldn’t be caught dead waxing—raised sardonically as his gaze moved over her.
Harper fought the urge to suck in her stomach and desperately wished her uniform was a size eight instead of a four. She had dignity in a size eight. Class, even. In a four…not so much.
He lowered his gaze to her chest, and then slowly lifted it back to her eyes. “I doubt they’re paying you to think, sunshine.” Sliding the empty bottles even closer to her, he repeated, “Another bottle.”
He’d said it very slowly, deliberately, in a manner most people reserved for slow-witted children and foreigners. The only part of her that wasn’t at all impressed with the guy’s fallen-angel face—which just happened to be her Sicilian temper—kicked in at that point.
Harper straightened and snagged the bottles off the table, preparing to verbally flay him, but just when she’d figured out exactly how many four-letter words she
could hurl at him in one sentence, a premonition hit her hard.
People often asked her what premonitions felt like. Imagine someone punching a hole through your forehead and making a fist around your brain, she always told them. This premonition was no different.
Harper staggered forward and planted one palm on the table to steady herself as images assailed her: a young, blonde woman in an alley pinned to a dumpster by a man twice her size.
A vampire, she knew instinctively. Cold chills always shot down her spine when she saw them.
Harper sucked in a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate on details other than the victim, just like Sentry taught her so many years ago. Instead, she tried to picture the dumpster, the buildings around it, street signs…anything that might tell her where this girl was so she could call the police and get her some help.
And then she saw a logo printed on the side of the dumpster as big as life. Kitty Kat Palace.
Holy shit, the vamp and his victim were here.
Harper staggered back toward the kitchen, shoving drunks and other waitresses out of her way. In the kitchen, she tipped a wooden stool on its side and stomped on one of the legs.
She bent down and scooped it up, testing its weight in her hand. Not the best stake, but it would do. Hopefully.
Normally in a situation like this, Harper would let Romeo go after the vamp first, then help him if necessary. After all, slayers, even crappy ones like Romeo, were ten times stronger than the average human, and unfortunately, being a seer didn’t afford her any supernatural strength.
But Romeo—the rat bastard—was probably at the Bellagio, hip-deep in hookers and craps winnings at the moment.
Harper heard the woman scream as she kicked the back door open and stumbled into the alley.
Just like in her premonition, a biker-clad vampire had the small woman pinned up against the dumpster with the weight of his body, one beefy arm across her shoulders, his other hand clutching her jaw so that he had a clear shot at her jugular.
Harper’s heart clawed its way up to her throat as she met the woman’s horror-filled gaze. She could practically taste the woman’s fear.
She swallowed hard and forced herself to break eye contact, taking stock of the situation. Her gaze flicked over the vampire.
The vamp had at least eight inches and a hundred pounds on her. This could be a problem, common sense told her.
But as usual, her mouth didn’t listen to common sense. “Hey, asshole.”
The vampire raised his head from the woman’s throat, a crimson ribbon of blood dribbling down his chin. Cute.
“Why don’t you pick on someone more my size.”
Okay, so it was a line she’d picked up from watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer reruns. Witty repartee should never be wasted, even if it wasn’t original.
He laughed, a hollow, cold sound that slithered up and down her spine, leaving goose bumps in its wake. “Run while you still can, little girl.”
She shook her head and clucked her tongue. “I don’t think so, Vlad. Running? Not so much a good idea in these shoes.”
His fangs slowly retracted like a cat’s claws, making him look almost human. Almost.
“I like a girl with spirit,” he said. “Enhances her flavor.”
“Wow, that was almost clever. I’m shocked. I had you pegged as stupid and ugly. Maybe I can upgrade you to just ugly.”
Harper had forgotten how fast a motivated vampire could move. One second he was ten feet away, and half a heartbeat later, he stood close enough to backhand her.
And backhand her he did. For him it was careless, effortless. Like swatting a fly. It was still enough to fill her mouth with blood and knock her on her ass.
From her position on the ground, she noticed the blond still frozen in place against the dumpster. “Run,” she mouthed.
Obviously in shock, the blond stared at her as if she hadn’t noticed, and this time Harper shouted, “Run!”
The girl finally seemed to snap out of her stupor. She spun on her heel and fled down the alley.
Harper breathed a sigh of relief as she shakily climbed to her feet and faced a very large, very angry vampire.
Yipes.
“Bitch,” he said through clenched teeth, “I’m gonna take you apart piece by piece.”
Again, common sense wasn’t Harper’s co-pilot as she spat back, “Gee, that might be scary if I didn’t already know you hit like a girl.”
This time when he swung at her, she was ready for him. Harper kicked out as he lunged for her, catching him in the knee with her gold platforms.
He went down with a yelp. “You bitch!”
“Now, I’m getting real sick of you calling me that.”
Harper tried to kick him in the face, but he was too fast for her. He grabbed her ankle and yanked it out from under her. She landed on her butt with an unladylike grunt.
God, where was a good crossbow when she really needed one?
He was on her before she could scramble to her feet, pinning her to the ground with his weight. She managed to free one of her hands and gouged his eye, gagging a little as her thumb sunk in up to the knuckle.
The vampire screeched and leapt off her, one hand pressed to what was left of his eye.
Harper stood up and raised the stake. “Now, I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to. If you run away now, we can forget this whole thing ever happened.”
He whipped a wicked-looking hunting knife out of his jacket pocket. “You’re gonna die slow.”
Harper took a big step back. So much for diplomacy.
But before she could come up with any other bright ideas, someone moved up fast behind her and shoved her out of the way. She hit the ground again.
Being a hero certainly wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Very hard on the tush.
“Who the fuck are you?” the vamp yelled, clutching the knife in one hand and his eye with the other.
“Death,” the newcomer answered dryly.
Harper’s head shot up. She’d know that voice anywhere.
Standing a few feet away from her, presenting her with his impressive profile, was Mr. Congeniality himself: the gorgeous, potential serial-killer from table five.
On a happier note, Harper realized that Mr. Personality was at least a head taller than the vamp and seemed to have more muscle weight. That might even the odds a little for the home team, she decided.
The vamp took a step back and raised his hands, suddenly all friendly and peace-loving. “Look, man, I got no problem with you.”
Harper snorted. “Who’s the bitch now, you big pussy?”
She slapped a hand over her mouth. Damn it, she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
Her savior glanced over at her and that was all the time the vamp needed. He swung out wildly, slicing neatly into Table Five’s stomach. Harper gasped as blood quickly dampened the fabric of his T-shirt.
But the wound didn’t even seem to faze Table Five. He caught the vamp’s fist when he took his next shot and used his momentum to pull him closer, then drove his knee into the vampire’s stomach. The vampire dropped to his knees, arms wrapped around his middle as he coughed and gagged. Table Five kicked out without hesitation, catching the vamp in the chin, knocking him flat on his back.
Table Five yanked him up by the hair and twisted his arm behind his back. A sound akin to a dry twig snapping was closely followed by another pained groan from the vampire.
Harper blinked. It took a hell of a lot of strength to break a vampire’s bones. An unnatural amount of strength. This guy did it without even trying. Who the hell was he?
“Quit whining,” Table Five growled at the now blubbering vampire, then gave him a good swift kick in the ass. “And get the hell out of here while I’m still in a good mood.”
Harper kept her eyes on the vamp until he’d stumbled out of view, then turned her attention to the man who’d saved her life. The man who’d just reduced a violent vampire to tears.
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br /> “Who are you?” she asked suspiciously. “And don’t say Death.”
He glanced at her and the street light allowed her to see his eyes were blue. Deep, deep blue. Gorgeous, she thought, then mentally slapped herself for noticing something so trivial after what had just happened.
He paused as if contemplating not telling her his name, but eventually said, “Call me Riddick.”
Harper realized she was still on the ground and slowly climbed to her feet. All her parts seemed to be in working order, and she hadn’t peed herself. She supposed she couldn’t really ask for more than that, given the circumstances.
“Riddick?” she repeated. “Like the Vin Diesel movies?”
He stared at her like she was deranged. Must not be a Vin Diesel fan.
Then it occurred to her where she’d heard the name before, and Vin Diesel had nothing to do with it. “Are you Noah Riddick? The slayer?”
He wadded up the fabric at the hem of his T-shirt and pressed it to his wound. “There aren’t any more slayers.”
She rolled her eyes. Slayers and seers hadn’t fallen off the face of the earth when Sentry disbanded and vamps earned human rights. They might be jobless, but they still existed. “I’m thinking the vamp with the broken arm still believes in slayers.”
Noah Riddick in Whispering Hope, Harper thought when he didn’t respond. What were the odds?
Whispering Hope had been settled largely by Italian, Polish and Irish immigrants who hadn’t enjoyed big city life, which accounted for the fact that there were a ton of great restaurants in her beloved town, but no industry to speak of. And it was too far away from the real city for convenience, so truly, the only reason Harper could think of for anyone who wasn’t born in Whispering Hope to settle here was the food.
But she’d just bet that Noah Riddick wasn’t in town for a kolache from Majesky’s on High Street.
Riddick adjusted his makeshift compress and she stared at his bare stomach, not sure if she was more fascinated by the wound—which was pumping out a surprising amount of blood—or by his perfect abs.
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