“Di-a-fucking-bolical!”
Earl lifts his palm, and they pop a high five. Bray knows that Earl’s a dumb fuck, but he boosts his ego pretty fine sometimes too. He’ll keep him around.
“When are we gonna do it?”
Bray scowls. Really a dumb fuck. “Now, numbnuts.”
“Oh,” Earl scratches his head.
Christ. I gotta do all the work.
Jenni
“So what’s the plan?” Devin asks quietly.
Jenni wipes her mouth with a napkin after polishing off her third piece of chicken and an entire bucket of potato salad.
Ella makes a face, pointing her spork at the empty potato salad container. “Gross.”
Devin smirks knowingly, patting her head. “Ella here is a texture kid.”
“Well, Jenni is an eat-everything adult,” she says about herself.
“No kidding,” Devin says, eyeing Jenni’s plate.
“When are we going back to the betch?” Jenni barely makes her words out because Ella’s talking through a mouth of wedge fries.
“Beach,” Devin corrects absently, scooping out the rest of her yogurt, clearly having zero interpretation problems.
Jenni, Devin, and Ella are in the cafe part of Safeway. Jenni has her back to the wall and her front facing the entrance.
Paranoia at its best.
Bray, or any other pack of killer werewolves, aren’t likely to burst into Safeway. But less than forty-eight hours ago, Jenni was a nurse dying of terminal cancer, so she’s willing to entertain the outlandish.
Now her biggest consideration is if she can get enough food and if a bunch of werewolves are going to kill them all. They were lucky with Bray. The puncture marks on the hood of Devin’s car prove it.
So far, the Were have made a terrible showing.
Her patient, also a werewolf, threw herself into traffic to escape three male werewolves who were going to force-breed her. One of them even tore half of Jenni’s throat out in the process.
Then Adi, in what she assumes was a compassionate moment, made Jenni into a werewolf. Now Jenni’s trying to be grateful. Really trying.
But she can’t quite manage it.
Adi saved her, but she also threw her to the wolves, no pun intended.
“What’s wrong?” Ella asks, tiny brow furrowing. She has clearly been watching all the expressions cross Jenni’s face.
“I—gah. I don’t know what to do, really.”
Devin leans back in her bench seat, folding her skinny arms over her chest, and jerks her chin a fraction. “Figure the cops are looking for us.”
Jenni nods. “I’m surprised my debit card is still working. Though the cop that shot at me probably didn’t know who I was—that I was the missing Jenni French. But let’s tick off the finer points.” Jenni raises her hand, putting her index finger to her thumb. “I did not return to work. I did not pick up my car—but I retrieved my purse.” Jenny lifts her bright, multi-colored paisley Vera Bradley crossbody handbag.
“Oooh,” Ella says in an excited voice, “that’s so pretty!”
It’s kind of lame, but the little girl’s compliment instantly makes Jenni feel better. Sometimes, you have to grab the small chunks of happiness when they present themselves.
“Thank you, Ella,” Jenni says softly, clutching the purse.
Devin reaches across the cafe table and squeezes Jenni’s arm. “Hey, I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think the cops believe you’re the victim—they gotta. Your purse is gone. You’re not at your condo. You’re not at work? You didn’t kill anyone.” They’re silent for a minute, then Devin asks in a low voice, “Did they know about your situation at work?”
Ella looks between them like she’s watching a ping-pong match. Neither of them say the C word.
With a deep sigh, Jenni admits, “Just a gal I was friends with, another nurse. I still wanted to work. It was the one thing that made me feel fulfilled. I thought they might not let me continue if they knew the truth.”
Devin gives a sympathetic nod. “Would she tell anyone? I mean—maybe they think you’d Kevorkian your own ass.”
“That’s a bad word, Mama.”
Devin pulls Ella against her side. “I know baby, shhh.”
“That crazy doctor from the ’90s—the suicide advocate? Pfft—no way. We weren’t super close, but she listened.” Jenni meets Devin’s brown eyes. “Really, she just listened and offered an ear. Didn’t demand anything. And there’s no way anyone would think I’d...” Jenni looks at Ella then shifts her attention back to Devin. “I’d make that permanent decision for myself.”
Devin rolls her lower lip inside her mouth. “So nobody will easily understand why you just up and disappeared?”
Jenni shakes her head. “They’ll definitely assume foul play, and eventually, some judge will give them permission to get at my condo. Damn.”
“But you’re not the bad guy, Jen-Jen.”
Definitely not. “No.”
Devin whips her hands up by her ears. “See? They’re looking for a whole other thing. How could you be ʽsomeone of interest,ʼ” Devin says, using her fingers as imaginary air quotes.
Jenni feels very uninteresting at the moment. “I’m glad, because I need all the money I can get with how much food I need to eat. I need that bank account.”
I need the money my parents left me, because my life’s a disaster.
“Yeah,” Devin says, stealing one of Ella’s fries, “when’s that gonna quit? That eating biz.”
Yeah, when is that going to stop?
Jenni sighs.
Jenni fuels up Devin’s car then makes the short trip to Forest Beach.
“Tent’s going to be okay, right?”
She shoots Devin a curious look. “Yeah, why?” There aren’t many campers right now, and they left nothing of value behind.
As Jenni makes the turnoff, Ella points to a spot ahead of them.
Slowing the car, she sees that there is a problem after all, and her heart sinks.
The tent is definitely not all right. Slash marks mar all four sides, and the shreds of the Day-Glo orange fly in the breeze like sad tongues of a weathered flag.
Jenni parks in one of the parking spaces on the asphalt lot on the shore of the small state park, and Ella asks slowly from the back seat,
“What happened?”.
“Oh my God,” Devin says, stepping out of the car and shutting the door. “Stay there, baby,” she calls out to Ella.
Jenni doesn’t say or do anything.
Her eyes scan the immediate area. Then she exits the car, putting her back to the door.
And on her third day being a werewolf, she flares her nostrils, the gesture as automatic as her next breath.
She scents her own kind.
Talons punch out of her fingertips, and Jenni raises hands that suddenly look like Wolverine’s.
She calls out in a voice gone low and growly, “Get in the car, Devin.”
Devin’s head whips to her, and their eyes meet over the roof of the car. “What, why?”
“Because we need to get the fuck out of here.”
Ella chimes from the back seat, “That’s a bad word, Jen-Jen.”
Sure is, Jenni thinks as three men walk down the two-lane paved road from where they just came, blocking their escape.
“Holy crap,” Devin says, eyes taking in the men. “Are those what I think they are?”
“Uh-huh,” Jenni growls, sinking low. “Get in the car.”
“Yup!” Devin tears open the car door she just closed and slides in.
Jenni feels for the handle behind her and jerks open the car door.
The handle comes off in her hand.
Shit.
Gripping the side of the driver’s door, she stoops over, attempting to slide into the car.
Jenni smells them coming. And with dawning horror, she realizes what the problem really is—she can’t fit. Her body’s too big, and the car’s too small.
&nb
sp; Whirling, she crouches low, talons clicking.
They come.
Jenni growls deep in her throat, ready to defend.
She didn’t survive the stupid ordeal at the end of her human life to be killed by a pack of dogs.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dark Master
Dark Master is steaming pissed. Literally. Heated vapor flows from his orifices. His nethers omit a noxious cloud that gives new meaning to flatulence.
To humans, it would smell like a fog of sulfuric farts.
And he can’t just wallow in the fact that he is still in Between, tasks piling up unfulfilled.
The only thing that can possibly console him is the luck of the Singer stumbling into his lap.
However, problems arose when he began the wretched process of taking over another ridiculous human costume. If possible, this costume fits worse than the last... and would be just as permanent.
And what really rankles Dark Master is the fact that he can switch bodies indefinitely with other angelics, but can he hop back into any host of the demonic?
No.
It is the most cruel of ironies.
Nevertheless, he will try to face what he must do next. And there will be very little time upon entry before he seeks the Rare One, kills her if possible, and effectively zeroes out the threat against Below.
Once he changed costumes, he was forced to devise a plan to hide the human vehicle. Having never been Between—and certainly he and Praile didn’t discuss machines of Between—Dark Master had no idea how to manipulate the machinery.
After much trial and error, he was finally able to get the thing to run. Shortly thereafter, he was able to understand the mechanics of the shifting mechanism.
However, his foot became hooked in some insane apparatus meant to hold a body within, and he was drug into the ravine, all the while furiously trying to not find himself underneath the wheels.
Therefore, he is now covered in mud and debris, along with various lacerations, aches, and bruises. His lip is the size of a boil he would typically bestow upon his torture victims.
The body he now wears heals slowly, causing Dark Master further irritation.
Nonetheless, he slowly trudges toward the mound of the Fey. The sithen will know him instantly, and really, that is the primary issue.
If the sithen allows him to pass, there will be no problem. But if it decides the Dark Master should not be there, things will end badly.
He will go back a failure and remain ugly.
And the possibility of Below being compromised by that slip of a girl will remain.
Her blood is powerful, though.
Dragging the damaged foot behind him, Dark Master understands that even if he can get past the briar and get within close proximity to Julia, that will not be enough.
He must also slay her.
Dark Master finally comes to within touching distance of the vague door within the mounds of grass that appear to roll on endlessly, even to his sharp vision.
But Dark Master is not confused. He could discern the location of the Fey mound no matter where it was.
This magical place was created with old magicks, which have a tendency to linger like an ancient signature of sorts, causing the very air surrounding such a place to thrum with a distinctive energy.
Dark Master reaches out, placing his palm flat against the door.
Instantly, the grass beneath his palm heats.
For the first time since entering this horrible realm, Dark Master sighs in contentment.
Heat, blissful heat, sears his palm, traveling to his elbow and shooting like contained stars to every region of his body, making the dick of this costume stand up at stiff attention.
Marvelous, Dark Master thinks before he loses his balance.
The door, as it were, opens.
One minute, it is grass and nature, and the next, a yawning dark hole in a vaguely arched shape opens like a sucking mouth, drawing him in. Dark Master falls forward, his bad foot caving at the exact moment he needed to stay upright.
His palms take the impact of the fall.
Pain pings up his arms, radiating from his shoulders to every vertebrae in this pathetic thing’s back.
The fall is almost enough to make him forget the foot.
Almost.
Shaking his head, Dark Master slaps a palm against the wall at his right, for the corridor is narrow and barely lit. Not that he needs light to see.
Some terrible aesthetic has taken hold, and the sithen has begun to masquerade to be a sort of heaven here.
Dark Master shudders. Heaven. What a hell.
He walks his palms up the wall and rests against stone that by all rights should be black and oozing with heat and sulfur.
Setting aside his distraction, he takes stock of the sithen.
The magick breathes around him, pulsing with a low level of thrumming life. That sentient surrounding likes Dark Master because he resonates with the deep magick. The ancient magicks are automatic, within the very fabric of his being.
Also, the sithen is not a judge. The sithen allows or disallows. Closing his eyes, Dark Master can feel the Fey who dwell here.
His eyes snap open.
They are currently without a queen. There is no ruler here.
Excellent.
Sometimes, a king rules the mound. But Faerie is not biased against gender.
The leader is whoever the sithen chooses. And without that acceptance, the sithen will slowly perish.
Dark Master likes that on principle. But he also likes the added bonus of fouling Faerie because the leader is... he inhales deeply, his chest expanding along with his thoughts... dead.
Most excellent.
Dark Master is a big believer in coincidence, feeling that his role in the universe is very secure and if he stays true to his being and unique purpose, all the things that his realm deserves will come to fruition.
Making his way down a hallway with garish veins of gold and silver struck through stone like lightning strikes, he quickly find that the corridor shifts directions randomly.
Dark Master knows the work of the sithen intimately. The cogs of Below function similarly. All that one must do—a high demonic, that is—is think their intent of direction clearly enough. He has found that channeling his desire opens doors or, in this case, literally shifts hallways so that he will find himself wherever his chosen location is. He wishes to be near Julia Caldwell, so that he might tear the spore from her womb and squeeze the head from her body.
A strange sensation begins in the region of his groin.
Dark Master casts a glance downward—and behold, once again, the penis of this costume is standing erect.
What in Below is happening here? The thing will not remain soft, allowing him freedom of movement, and it will make for an inconspicuous entrance when he does finally come before the Rare One.
Dark Master’s cock does what he wills it to do. Always. This Singer appendage appears to have a mind of its own. Is this what human males must deal with?
And why would it rise upon his thoughts of murdering the principle angelic? Hades!
Perhaps this suit of human flesh will behave better once he has returned to the hot place.
Yes. That will be the singular thing he will rest his thoughts on.
Later, all will be well.
Like steel being pulled toward a magnet, Dark Master follows a melody only he can hear, and the sithen shifts walls and opens doors where none were before.
Julia
Julia’s nervous.
She’s never been before a royal court before. Though she is technically a queen, she hasn’t fully digested that fact yet.
Glancing at the empty throne, she thinks of Queen Darcel. Then she thinks of Delilah, who right now, as Julia is meeting the Fey responsible for Delilah’s release, is wasting away.
Delilah is part vampire. Genetics being the weird mess they are, Delilah got stuck with mostly the vampire genes. She’ll need blood.<
br />
Of course, no Fey within the mound would let her feed from them.
Except Tharell, whom she saved. Tharell is right next to her. But there’s not a chance he’ll be allowed to help her.
“Blooded Queen,” a member of the court says, startling her from her thoughts.
Scott’s warm presence remains at her back.
The white noise of their thoughts is a buzzing in Julia’s head, but when she attempts to hear more, the buzzing becomes a headache.
I can’t read their minds, she thinks at Scott.
His large hand touches the small of her back.
No worries. They want something from us. And this gives us a way to communicate without them being aware, right?
Julia fights not to nod her head, but Scott “hears” her yes loud and clear.
Her shoulder blades unknot, and she takes a step forward.
Domi is present and gives her a subtle nod of encouragement.
“Hello,” Julia says awkwardly. They’re all dressed up like her, but she feels like she’s pretending, like she’s about to perform in a play, or join a circus. It wasn’t too long ago she was wearing ugly boots and navigating ice to get to her old beat-up Chevy Suburban.
And now she’s this.
With a deep inhale, Julia takes another step forward and tries not to be nervous.
“You’re quite lovely, I will say.”
Julia turns to the woman who said the comment.
She is not beautiful. This woman is.
“I am Nirvana.”
Like the music group? Julia bites her lip to keep from laughing. “Ah... thanks. It’s good to meet you.” Not awkward at all.
Julia shifts her weight, and Scott comes to her side, taking her hand.
Hers is cold within his grasp.
Two other Fey introduce themselves: Starr and Lachlan. Of course, Domiatri doesn’t need introduction.
Lachlan reminds her of Tharell, but he is ebony, whereas Tharell has a deep plum-colored skin, almost like a fresh bruise. This Fey is black with a shade of white hair that is shocking against all that dark skin. But it is braided tight to his head, creating the illusion of short hair, but the braid curls around his thick neck, and the tail rests in his lap. His white eyes, rimmed with bright silver, appear to be narrow slits on Julia.
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