by Candace Sams
He softly moaned as he moved closer to her and ran his hands over her body. His caress stopped at the curve of her butt. “I’ve got the shuttle on auto-pilot. There’s a hamper full of food in back along with chilled champagne. Let’s get out of here and start the weekend.” To punctuate his need, he gently swiveled his hip against hers. “I’ll make you forget this entire situation. Nothing is going to exist outside the cockpit of our shuttle. Promise, baby.”
She felt his erection and the heat of his glowing testicles, even through the thick fabric of his black uniform pants. “I’m so glad I married you … so damned glad!”
Without another word, he whisked her into the shuttle and hit the control button. They slowly glided away into the late spring sunset and the rest of their lives.
About the Author
Candace Sams (aka C.S. Chatterly) graduated from Texas A&M University with a BS in Agriculture, worked as a police officer with the State of Texas, did a brief stint with the Texas Department of Public Safety Undercover Narcotics Task force, and was also with the San Diego Police Department. She taught for the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department and worked in law enforcement in Alabama.
She currently trains as the senior woman on the US Kung Fu Team (working on her fourth black belt), and has been awarded the Medal of Putien from China and the Statue of Tao for her work in martial arts. She is the holder of several international martial arts titles. In 2000, she was one of a fifteen-member team, authorized by act of Senate-to represent this country as a martial art’s ambassador to mainland China. Experiences in law enforcement, martial arts (Shaolin Kung Fu) are frequently used in her career as an author ― she is known for writing fight scenes into her fictional works. As an added note, Ms. Sams is also a master gardener and loves working outdoors.
After publishing more than fifty titles in the fantasy, science fiction, paranormal, and action-adventure genres, she’s received more than thirty awards from various organizations, including five National Readers’ Choice Awards and a USA Today Best Book nomination. Her Tales of The Order™ series, as well as several other works, are now being vetted for movie options.
Hailing from Texas, Candace loves the country life. She and her husband of over twenty-five years, live in a rural area of the US. A plethora of dogs and cats have adopted them. She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted through her website at www.candacesams.com. Candace also writes erotica as C.S. Chatterly and can be contacted from www.cschatterly.com.
More from This Author
(From The Peacekeeper’s Soul)
“I am so very hungry. Even though he does not want to recognize my presence, and has done all he can to attribute it to waning sanity, he will soon have no strength left to defy my haunting manifestation. As always, I will grow strong from his pain. No one on earth can break my spell.”
• • •
“Same as usual, Sarge?”
Cort O’Leary nodded and pulled some bills out of his pants pocket. As sergeant was — by act of law — the highest rank any peace officer in town could reach, most folks used the moniker as a show of respect. The mayor got the same deference. He couldn’t be chief, when the head of the local fire department already held that honor. The allocation of specific titles made things easier on town folk. Everybody knew who was being spoken about when there was any kind of emergency. But what the heads of various civil institutions were called mattered little to Cort. He just did his job.
As he paid for his meal, Millie, the girl who worked behind the counter of Haskell’s café, shot him a come-hither look. Although pretty and hot, Cort wasn’t interested in her. Luck always passed him by in matters of love. Better to leave amorous thoughts to the small town Lotharios who vied for Millie’s attention. She’d be better off and so would he. The only hot thing he wanted from the café was his damned chili. He worked out hard every week just to enjoy this one meal.
After making his purchase, Cort went outside and leaned against the side of his patrol vehicle. The DEA-seized sports car was a perk the town had offered him to come and work in an out-of-the-way burg like Maple Corners. It was his to use as he saw fit, but the small interior wasn’t suitable for hauling prisoners. As it happened, he’d seldom had to arrest anyone. As bad as New York had been, his current address was the exact opposite.
He carefully set his coffee cup on the hood, opened the carton containing his chili, and prepared to raise a spoon of the greasy, thick stuff to his lips. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground with hot coffee pouring over the inside of one thigh and thick chili oozing down his clean, light-blue uniform shirt.
“What the hell!” Cort swiped at the mess on his shirt. A figure bent over him and swayed.
“So very s-sorry, old chap … must have l-lost m’balance a bit. Terribly clumsy of me.”
“Mister, you just lost more than your balance.” Cort grimaced at the hiccupping, burping man standing over him. A drunk. If the older man’s difficulty in speaking hadn’t given him away, the smell of whiskey on his breath and his staggering certainly did.
Cort jumped to his booted feet and winced as his uniform pants brushed the coffee burn on the inside of his thigh. “You picked the wrong guy to piss off, mister!”
The drunkard held one hand over his mouth as he burped yet again. “M-my sincere apologies, dear fellow. I’m afraid I’m in me cups.”
He glowered at the English-accented boozer, put his hands on his hips, and glanced back down the street. It was late in the day and Flaherty’s Tavern had been open for several hours. Apparently the stranger in town had found a way to quench his thirst, and the staff at Flaherty’s hadn’t cared if the old guy got behind the wheel of a car or staggered out into traffic.
“What’s your name?” Cort demanded as he pulled off his service cap and set it on the hood of his patrol car.
“P-pardon?” The man asked and swayed dangerously close to the curb. “I’m afraid my hearing isn’t what it should be.”
Cort grabbed him by his coat sleeves and hauled him to a safer spot on the sidewalk, away from the street. “What is your name?” He repeated, and enunciated each word clearly so the man could better understand.
“Morbius … Morbius Nightshade at your service.” He bowed and almost stumbled again. “Always willing to oblige an officer of the law. A rather large officer, I must say.”
“Morbius Nightshade? Yeah, right.” Cort snorted in disbelief. Even drunks could make up names. He’d heard a thousand of them and every alias he’d ever come across had been better than this one. “Do you have some identification, Mr. Nightshade?”
“‘Course I do, my good man. S-somewhere … let me see … ”
When Nightshade began to fumble in his pockets, Cort’s guard went up. His right hand crept toward his weapon, and he silently unsnapped the holster. Even in Maple Corners, it was possible for bad things to happen.
As the older man drew out a wallet and it fell to the ground, a six-inch knife also fell out and landed at Cort’s feet. He gripped the butt of his semi-automatic and quickly withdrew it from his holster. “All right, mister. Don’t put your hands in your pockets again. Keep ’em where I can see ’em.” He aimed his weapon at the guy and had the satisfaction of seeing Nightshade’s face go completely white.
Cort pushed the fellow against a building. Then he restrained the older man’s hands with one of his own, holstered his weapon, and cuffed the guy. He then conducted a thorough pat-down of his suspect which didn’t reveal any other ready weapons. Nightshade didn’t resist.
“Please, my dear boy, I wouldn’t h-hurt a soul. The knife is just … just an old heirloom.”
“Yeah, tell it to the judge. You’re under arrest for public intoxication.” He then proceeded to recite his rights, although uncertain if Nightshade was sober enough to hear or understand what was being said.
Once he finishe
d telling the man he had the right to remain silent, he pulled Nightshade toward the knife, and held him upright with one hand while carefully retrieving the weapon and the guy’s wallet from the sidewalk. “What kind of knife is this anyhow?”
“Very old. Very rare.” Nightshade said as he nodded toward the object. “I have to take it to … to … oh my stars! I’ve forgotten.”
Cort examined the weapon in the setting sun. It looked like the smooth blade might be made of pure silver. Indeed, he found a hallmark that confirmed just that. The blade was straight but a careful edge-pass with his thumb revealed it was very dull. There were nuggets of either glass or semi-precious stones embedded within the black, wooden handle. “This doesn’t look like the kind of thing a person picks up just anywhere.”
“Very astute, m’boy. It’s special.” Morbius hiccupped again. “Very ceremonial and of great importance.”
“You said you were taking it to someone. It isn’t yours?”
Morbius didn’t respond. He just hung his head in shame.
Cort sighed heavily, flipped the wallet open, and found some money and a driver’s license. What he didn’t find were credit cards, pictures, or the other wallet paraphernalia people usually carried. Surprisingly, the license indicated that his prisoner’s name was Morbius Nightshade.
“All right, sir … we’re going to the station. I want to run a check on you and this knife. If it’s stolen, things will go a lot easier if you just speak up now,” Cort warned. “Will I find out you’re wanted for anything?” He wanted to give the older man a chance to come clean.
“Oh, no … of course not. I obey the law, my good fellow.” He wobbled toward Cort again, who caught the man before he could fall.
“Odd, but I sense that you really aren’t angry with me,” Morbius noted. “You seem to have a rather s-stern desire to do your job, but your hands aren’t those of an uneducated ruffian who abuses his powers. In fact, I’m sensing a g-great deal of patience; especially after seeing a knife come flying out of my coat pocket so … u-unexpectedly.” Morbius hiccupped. “In another place, officers of the law might not be so soft-spoken,” he finished.
Cort just shook his head. This was the first time a drunk had ever complimented him.
He raised one hand to his microphone. With it clipped to his epaulet, it made the job of calling for a patrol car easy. He need not reach to his side to remove his radio from his belt.
It would only take a couple of minutes for the evening shift officer to drive from his current position at the station, only three blocks away.
Cort hadn’t made that many busts in the three years he’d worked in Maple Corners. But because of all those he had completed while in New York, dealing with drunks now wasn’t any big deal. On the other hand, it was a great big flaming deal to the people who’d grown up in these parts.
Incidents like coming across a knife-wielding, smashed, British guy weren’t normal for the town’s citizenry. The event had drawn a crowd on both sides of the street with a few of the spectators pointing at the stranger. He could only guess about the gossiping comments. This was more action than the town had seen since the Farquar twins had got in a fight over Magdalena Knothill at the local Fourth of July sociable. Cort had had to break up that fight, and the locals commented for weeks on how big-city cops handled things so efficiently.
If his life weren’t so pathetic, the town’s interest in him and this ridiculous encounter would almost be funny.
To add to the town’s rumor-fodder, Bucky Porter, the evening shift officer, drove around the corner with his car’s overhead lights on and the siren blaring. Cort assumed it was Bucky’s one chance that year to make a showing for himself — hence the noisy, theatrical entrance.
He shook his head in frustration. All they had was a drunk. Bucky would make a federal case out of the entire thing. Still, Cort couldn’t fault his fellow officer’s dedication to his work. Everything was a matter of perspective. To Bucky and the people of Maple Corners, they might have a real live criminal on their hands. To Cort, the entire episode was just a load of paperwork that would have to go before the town council, the mayor, and everyone else who thought they had a right to know.
The town’s people were lucky not to have experienced a real dirt-bag first hand, or to know any of the truly evil people who walked the face of the earth. But Cort would keep those stories bottled up. More to the point, he just didn’t want to get close enough to talk to anyone about the meaner side of life.
• • •
“Look, Bucky, just go home. I’ll take care of the paperwork.”
“Are you sure, Cort? Don’t you think you’ll need some help with this guy?” Bucky glared at Morbius.
Cort wasn’t sure the drunk would be safe with Bucky. It wasn’t that the younger cop would hurt anyone so much as Nightshade’s blood-alcohol level indicated he was probably on a real bender. If that was the case, the man might need medical treatment later. Since he’d made the arrest, it was his responsibility to see to the prisoner.
“Why don’t you go tell the mayor what happened?” Cort tactfully recommended. “This is just mundane work that I can get cleared up in no time. But you know politicians around here. They’re gonna want an official report. You’re the best person for the job, Bucky.” The response to that suggestion was a huge smile.
“Right, Sarge. You’ve got it.” Bucky saluted and strode out of the station.
Cort almost grinned. Bucky wasn’t a bad kid but he did need to lay off the TV cop melodramas.
Like most of the world, Bucky just wanted to be needed. Cort recalled having that same desire … once. Sadly, he couldn’t summon the will to care anymore.
“You have that young man’s respect. You know how to handle people, don’t you?” Morbius asked from inside the jail cell. “You certainly could have treated me with less dignity.”
Cort glanced up from his paperwork, but said nothing.
“Indeed, you’ve been very accommodating,” Morbius continued. “Why, this cell has a soft bed and a barred window that lets in plenty of fresh air.” He shrugged. “Of course, I dislike being incarcerated, but it’s entirely my own fault.”
Once more, Cort ignored Morbius’s comments and looked over all the documentation he had so far. When he spoke again, it was strictly about business — he wasn’t in the mood to be sociable. “According to the state and the feds, you aren’t wanted for anything, Mr. Morbius. You’ve got no outstanding traffic fines or an arrest record. Oddly, I can’t find out anything about this knife,” Cort mused. He turned the weapon over in his hands and studied it. “Are these real stones or do you know?”
“Oh, they’re quite real. They’re garnets, moldavite, citrine, and amethyst,” Morbius supplied. “Each stone represents a specific quality.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well … the garnets promote purpose and commitment. Moldavite is formed by meteors and is best used to serve humanity. And citrine … well it’s a stone that disperses negative energy. The last stone on the handle is amethyst. It aids in spirituality and peace. They’re very powerful minerals.” Morbius paused before saying more. “That object has been in my family for generations. I can’t believe I’ve allowed it to come to this.”
Cort noticed how his prisoner sounded almost sober. Still, what he was saying made no sense. It might be a good idea to monitor him just to make sure he’d be okay. “If the knife is yours, can you produce any paperwork?” Cort asked. “There’re no identifying marks on it.”
“No. I have no papers, but I have family members who can vouch for me,” Morbius insisted. “I am allowed a phone call am I not, my good man?”
“You can have any reasonable amount of time on a phone,” Cort relented. “Just don’t waste my time or the taxpayers’ money.”
“Upon my word as a gentleman, sir, I shall do
neither.”
Against his better judgment, Cort kind of liked the guy. Even half-sober Nightshade had a certain class and dignity. He took the time to look the older man over and sum him up.
Nightshade was dressed in a quality business suit that looked tailor-made. He had blue eyes, dark brown hair, and would have been rather stately in other circumstances. Overall, Nightshade reminded Cort of English lords he’d seen in old movies from the thirties. More to the point, there were no bad vibes coming from the man. For some odd reason, he didn’t think his prisoner was capable of lying and getting away with it. But he quickly tamped down the idea of giving the older gent a break. His cop’s cynicism wouldn’t let him go that far.
Shrugging off feelings of empathy, he studied the man further. When Morbius was cleaned up, he would probably be considered a very handsome individual. And at the age of fifty-five — according to the birthdate on his driver’s license — the man wasn’t all that old. So how on earth did this quiet-spoken, intellectual type end up in a place as dull as Maple Corners — drinking his ass off?
Despite his skepticism, Cort finally relented to his instincts, picked up the keys to the cell, and let Morbius out.
“The law says you have a right to be on the phone alone,” Cort advised. “It’s on the desk. I’ll step outside and will trust you not to run.”
Morbius straightened his tie, pulled at his shirtsleeves to remove the wrinkles, and raised one brow. “My good fellow, I’ll do no such thing. I am a Nightshade. We do not … r-r-r-r-run!”
As he walked out the front doors, Cort found himself chuckling at how the arrogant British gent rolled his r’s. Clearly the guy wanted to appear above such dastardly, ignoble acts as trying to high-tail-it out of town.