Wicked After Dark: 20 Steamy Paranormal Tales of Dragons, Vampires, Werewolves, Shifters, Witches, Angels, Demons, Fey, and More

by Mina Carter

  He wasn’t just a very fine hottie. Free-spirited, he acted the gentleman, yet he was strong and authoritative, knew what he was about, and…

  And then it was as though she split in two and began conversing with herself.

  What if those blue eyes and that oh-my-God hot body—what if his looks hide an evil heart?

  Good girl Chaz responded innocently to herself. No. He can’t be evil. You would know. You would feel it.

  Why don’t you just jump into bed with him and find out what he really is? Inner naughty Chaz encouraged.

  Because I need more reason than that.

  “Hard at work, are ye?” In spite of his smooth brogue, she jumped at his sudden appearance.

  A zigzag thrill rushed up her spine when she twisted to look up at him. She tried to ignore it and gave him a cool smile. “Your library catalog is turning out to be, shall we say, a challenge.”

  Indeed, she had discovered that many books had not even been listed in the extensive catalog and few books carried a bar code. This meant manual (hard labor) entries. With a grimace she reminded herself these were collector items, ancient texts, collected over centuries. Of course, no bar codes.

  “I never promised the job would be easy, but I am back. If ye need help, use me.”

  She met his gaze. A hint of something underlined his words. Flirting? Had her knees, which were clanging together out of nerves, now actually crumbling into dust? Was she—Lord save her—imagining him in a position to be used?

  “Use you?” Chaz managed to squeak.

  “Aye. I can help ye sort out the books, haul them to their designated sections, call out titles so ye can enter them. Use me.” A mischievous smile curved his sensuous mouth and lit in his blue eyes.

  She found herself licking her lips and silently admonished herself. “Yes, well…if you really don’t mind, that would be a great time saver. When I’m ready.” A small part of her still wondered what he had done with his nights while in Dublin. Did he have a significant other? Did he have many significant others? The same old questions she had been asking herself for three days.

  “Look, it is nearly 5:30. Time to quit. We should have a glass of wine and see what Beth has left us in the kitchen,” he offered casually.

  “Beth said to tell you she made chicken potpie.”

  “Excellent. One of my favorites. White wine it is. Come on.” He took her hand and tugged her up and along.

  Her body filled with sensation at the touch of his hand, his fingers firmly wrapped around hers. She tugged her hand out of his warm grasp. Maybe holding hands was something he did easily, but it wasn’t her style.

  She managed a smile in spite of the turmoil her brain and body were going through, and again, she thought her voice sounded an octave higher. “Now that I think about it, I am starving and a glass of wine sounds divine…” Divine? Really? she scoffed. Since when did she use that word? Nuts, she was going nuts.

  He looked at her a long moment, but his dark blue eyes hid his thoughts as he responded as though reading her mind. “Aye, good word that—divine.” His eyes lazily traveled over her and he made no effort to hide it.

  Heat infused her cheeks. Oh puh-lease—she felt like a schoolgirl.

  Mortification deepened her blush when he laughed and commented, “Well look at ye all pink and flushed like a child. If I didn’t know better I would say ye aren’t used to compliments.”

  In answer, she kept on walking toward the kitchen and naughty girl Chaz made an appearance and moved away with a deliberate and provocative sway of her hips.

  ****

  Sleep had not come easy. Dinner had crumpled up her mind and given it back all bent, jumbled, and confused.

  Jethro had been entertaining, charming, and oh-so-distant, as like on another planet. His continual banter engaged her in a wonderful superficial conversation that erected a barrier between them. Gone was the flirtatious side of the man. Gone was any touching whatsoever. She had pulled out of his hold as he led her to the kitchen and he never tried to touch her hand, her finger, her anything during the rest of their evening. It was all very proper. He was very proper. It was extremely annoying.

  Why she should be annoyed was beyond her present ability to reason out. After all, she did not want to fall for this hottie: too dangerous, too off limits, just too—

  Maybe she should have gone upstairs before dinner and made some effort to look sexier, prettier, and more tempting. Absurd, but there it was.

  Thus, sleep had been a chore she had not completed satisfactorily. In fact, it turned out to be a restless job that made her toss and turn, throw the covers off, pull them back on, and punch her pillow. Sometime late, her light doze was interrupted by a sound she heard in her head. It wasn’t her ears, but the hidden place in her brain where she stored her box of magic.

  Glancing at her nightstand clock, she saw it was just after midnight. She rubbed her eyes and turned over, but even as she situated herself, she heard it again: a soft chanting.

  Chaz jerked upright and closed her eyes. Her fingers touched her forehead as she concentrated. Homing in, she determined it came from the side of the house Jethro had said was not in use.

  What could it mean? Who was doing the chanting? Was it one person or many? The voice sounded like many, and yet it was one voice. She knew of only a very few who knew the art of compulsion. Was someone practicing the voice of compulsion?

  Jethro had her mind tossing about questions. She had to wonder what he was doing in that part of the house. The chanting was nothing like any she had ever been taught, and this new development disturbed her. Who else but Jethro could be in that part of the house? Were there others with him—chanting? What could it mean?

  Not a dream. In fact, she hadn’t had a dream or even the awful nightmare all night. The archaic Gaelic chant wafted in the air, low, hungry, and potent. It was testing itself. Chaz understood the language. She had never been taught Gaelic of any sort, but she had discovered her magical skill to translate during her first visit to Ireland. Her mother had explained and helped her gain a command of the language. Now her mother was gone. Oh, Mom…I miss you.

  She shook herself free of the sudden weight of grief and concentrated on the chant. She couldn’t quite make out said the context as she was only catching a fundamental word here and there until she clearly heard her name: Chazma Donnelly.

  Chaz got up and pulled on her satin robe over her light cotton nightie, stuck her feet in her slippers, and moved quietly out of her room and toward the sound. The chanting still thrummed in her head. If anyone else (anyone all human) were with her they would not have heard it. She made it to the bottom of the staircase and halfway down the long hall, when the chanting abruptly stopped.

  She stood for a long moment before she heard footsteps. Hurriedly she backtracked and hid behind a large winged chair which reposed behind the curvature at the bottom of the grand staircase.

  As she heard a man’s footsteps take the stairs, she took a peek and saw that it was Jethro. What in hell had he been doing, and why had he chanted her name?

  She hurried on tiptoes back to her room, locked her door, and ducked deep under the covers. Sleep for the next couple of hours was nearly impossible, so when she finally dozed off again it did not have the desired effect of rested brain and body. She awoke the next morning heavy-eyed, heavy-minded, and quite surprised she had slept at all.

  She turned on the hot water and blessed the plumber for the many showerheads as she stood under its soothing spray. Wrapped in a towel, she glanced at the clock and rushed to throw her clothes on as it was too close to seven for comfort. She pulled her summer-blue knit top into place and wondered if it was too come-on as it was scooped low and did not reach her waist. She didn’t have time to change and let the thought slide with a sigh.

  Downstairs she found Beth, coffee, and scones. She kissed the housekeeper lightly on the cheek as she took up her coffee. Beth whooshed her away but looked pleased as punch all the same.
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  Hurriedly Chaz downed her coffee and ate nearly everything in sight before she grabbed a cardigan and was out the door with a quick wave. She wanted to have a look, get a feel for the supposedly unused part of the house from the outside.

  Cool morning air caressed her skin and she held her dark blue cardigan closed as she walked down the long driveway, turned, and casually glanced back. She had to be careful, as she didn’t know where himself (as Beth referred to McBain) was at the moment, and she sure didn’t want him to see her studying the left wing.

  The bright, rising sun forced her to shade her eyes. Scanning the left wing, serious magic rebuffed her. The left wing had some potent mojo going on.

  The wards blocking her scan out registered stronger than the wards that protected the remaining sections of the house. Although they had been installed centuries ago, they had been fine-tuned by someone with potent power in this century. Could she penetrate with her Fae magic, or should she try the softness of white mana?

  She focused on the inside of the left wing and whispered a rhyme her mother had once taught her.

  Witch of light, vision, and heart, will you let me see?

  Earth, wind, and fire are the elements that encircle me—

  Tentacles of darkness hold me at bay.

  Disperse them, and let me enter with my ray.

  Chaz waited as she looked at the house. Nothing.

  Her spell should have at the very least jiggled the air—made some noise. Dark magic could never completely withstand white and yet it had. She couldn’t figure out what Jethro McBain was. Power thrummed in the very walls of the house, but she couldn’t fathom its source. Just what was she up against in this house? And what is Jethro McBain?

  Something flitted through her memory. Somewhere in her brain an answer lay, but she couldn’t quite grasp it. There was something familiar about his style of magic, and the voice of compulsion, but what it was she couldn’t get. And why, for goodness’ sake, had he chanted her name?

  Bewildered by her attraction to the man, her mind refused to function. At any rate, bottom line, his house, his secrets to keep. She cursed to herself with a scowl.

  A little beep of a car horn made her jump. She turned around to find a white patrol car with the official gardai seals of blue and white emblazoned on its doors coasting to a stop beside her.

  “Sorry, lass, didn’t mean to get you jittery.” Inspector Tom Murphy grinned at her as he hopped out of the car and came round to tower above her.

  Chaz laughed and wagged a finger. “I wonder about that, Inspector Tom.”

  “Tom…just call me Tom, please.”

  “Sure, it suits you…Tom.” She tried it on for size. “Are you going up to the house?”

  “No, that I am not, my lovely.”

  Chaz cocked a questioning glance his way.

  He flashed her a wide grin. “I was only going up that way to have a little visit with you and invite you to lunch, but now that I have found you here, there is no need to tackle McBain.”

  Chaz smiled and nodded but her mind already filed. That was an odd way of putting it. She liked Tom Murphy and a friendship with him was just what she needed.

  He was garda and she needed to know firsthand what was going on out in the field. However, in that moment, Chaz sensed something about him that made her rethink her first impression about Tom Murphy.

  Although the inspector flirted mildly with her, that wasn’t his reason for pursuing their friendship. She suspected something very different motivated him. She regarded him questioningly for a moment. Amiable but cautious, she said, “I would like that. I’ll take a break around twelve and meet you in town.” Chaz paused. “Same pub okay with you?”

  “Aye, it is a local favorite, but won’t ye be needing me to pick ye up, love?”

  “Nope. His lordship has relegated his old jeep for me to use.”

  “Has he now? Well, well.” He gave her a wickedly suggestive look.

  Chaz put up her chin but smiled in response. “Easy there, fella. Cop or no, I don’t take well to innuendo.”

  “No, a straightforward, straight-speaking sort of wee woman ye are. I can see that. Aye then, I’ll be keeping that in mind and come right out with what I’m thinking in the future.” He gave her a quick cock of his head and again a wicked grin. “Twelve it is, Chazma Donnelly—at the Red Bull near the square. I’ll get us a quiet table in the back where we won’t be disturbed. I’ll be there waiting on yer lovely self.”

  He tipped his hat at her and jumped back into his vehicle. “Till later, Chaz m’darlin’, till later!”

  Now, what does he want? I am pretty sure Garda Tom wants something more than my company.

  Chapter Nine

  CHAZ WALKED INTO the Red Bull Tavern just shy of twelve. Patrons trickled in behind her. It looked as if the entire town was finding their way inside. Guys collected at the dartboard and were passing ales to one another. Friends waved at one another, their chatter loud and lively.

  She spied Murphy seated in a corner at the far end of the busy establishment and squeezed and tapped and made her way toward him as he stood and reached out a hand to take her elbow and pull out a seat for her. She pulled off her denim jacket and watched him sip his Guinness and chat up the waitress. The smile and wink said the pretty waitress liked him very well. In fact, from the grins and nods he was getting from the oncoming crowd, Chaz could see he was well liked by a lot of the locals.

  Chaz smiled as she looked around until, without warning, she felt as though someone punched her in the stomach. A wave of nausea swept through her. Her hand went to her stomach in a reflex action. She willed herself to keep the dizziness in check and get control. The awful sensations stemmed from magic. She knew it, understood it at once, and she immediately purged herself. Something bitter and full of ugly intent filled her personal space.

  Her gaze darted over everyone in the room. She called on her inner power, closed her eyes a moment, and just as suddenly as it had hit her—the sick sensation dissipated. Damn! He was testing her—and tasting her power with his own. Damn him…damn him! Where was he? She should be able to track his scent right to him.

  Tom Murphy touched her shoulder. “Aye then, lovely, are ye not well? Even in this dim light I could see ye go white. What is it? What did ye see?”

  She returned her attention to Tom and saw he studied her intently. There was no doubt in her mind that he had noticed something but he wasn’t quite sure what had just happened. Interesting. Tom was evidently acutely sensitive and aware of things beyond most people’s cognizance.

  She waved it off. “I’m fine, Tom, thanks. It’s dark in here, took me a second to adjust—that’s all it was.”

  Tom was a glan, but she suspected that he had old-world Irish in his blood and knew a great deal more about magic and such than he let on. Something in his eyes made her believe her theory was a certainty.

  She faced a large wood mullioned window, which overlooked the street. Hurriedly she did a scan outside the pub and immediately saw the back of a tall, broad man walking away. A dark vibe emanated from him. Him. If only she could see his face.

  Instinct urged her to give chase but if she did, then what? It was broad daylight. What would she say to Tom? What would she do—duke it out like a cowboy on the street? This wasn’t the time. She still felt the hatred inside of her trying to rule. She shoved it deep down and silently whispered, Patience.

  Dark X walked amongst the villagers as one of them. What was he doing in town? Should she have made some excuse and gone running after him? She berated herself. How had she allowed him to slip through her fingers?

  She made a mental note of his general appearance. Well dressed, tall, and broad. The dark wool cap, low and tight on his head, combined with the flipped up collar of his jacket had hidden his hair. He knew she would feel him and look his way. He knew it.

  Tom brought her back from her deep thoughts. “Chaz—what is it? Ye are far away and with someone else.”

>   Putting on a smile she didn’t feel, Chazma apologized. “Sorry, I was thinking of the stack of books I have to catalog this afternoon.” He didn’t believe her, but he let it go and slid a Guinness her way.

  “Then this is what ye need, love. Sit back, relax.” His look swept over her face, made an inconspicuous journey over her neckline, lingered on her breasts, and returned to her face. He reached out to take one of her long golden curls and bounced it against her shoulder. “I love the color of yer hair and the way it drapes down your shoulders,” he said absently.

  “Do ye now, Tom Murphy, but that isn’t why we’re here, is it—because of the style of my hair?” Chaz mimicked the Irish lilt and eyed him questioningly.

  He chuckled and then conceded. “What do ye think I want from ye, love?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Aye then.” He let out a long husky sigh and avoided the subject. “I ordered ye the Ploughman’s Platter. Ye Americans all love our Ploughman’s.”

  It might be true, because she did. A short laugh escaped. “Score one for the garda.”

  He leaned back into his chair and those hazel eyes took on a narrow, determined, and calculated expression. Oh yeah, she thought, he wants something more than just getting me in bed.

  “Forgive me, love, but I have a question or two I would like to put to ye.”

  “Right then, Inspector, fire away.”

  “Och then, now I’m ‘Inspector’?” he chastised gently.

  “Och aye, fer ye be asking questions like one,” she teased back.

  He smiled appreciatively. “Right then. Fire away it is. There are questions that have to be asked, answered, and then filed.” He regarded her tentatively as he formed the first one. “But ye knew that, didn’t ye? Ye have an…instinct for such things?”

  “Maybe.” She waved it all off. “Feel free, Inspector Tom, ask your questions, and if I can answer them, I will.”