Magic After Dark: A Collection of Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels

by Margo Bond Collins

  “Oh, I’m sure we can find a better back-story than that for you.” Laughter threaded its way through Tomás’s voice. “No matter what our back stories are, however,” he reached over to flick one of the credit cards with one finger, “we’re set to be high rollers.”

  All the mirth fell from his voice like lead when he said the next sentence, though.

  “Let’s go find out what the werewolves did with your boss.”

  Before taking them to their hotel, Tomás drove by the casino. This one, newer than the other riverboat casinos that had been in New Orleans last time Tomás was here, sat on Lake Ponchartrain, comparatively close to the French Quarter—not far from the end of Elysian Fields Boulevard, in an area that used to be residential homes until the last big hurricane had swept through, leaving them moldy and destroyed.

  That proximity to the Quarter would make it easier to arrange for believable transportation. The car that Kyle had gotten for them was nicely nondescript, but it would never do for a high roller.

  It had been a few years since Tomás had done any work at all in New Orleans. Shifters in the city tended to take care of their own. They were insular, unwilling to invite others into their society.

  In the seat next to him, Bronwyn peered out the back window at the riverboat casino as they left it behind and headed toward the French Quarter.

  “I don’t get it.” She turned around and sat down firmly in the seat, staring ahead. “We’re not competition. Geographically, we’re far enough away that Cibola would never take any of the Pirate’s Booty’s business.” She chewed on the nail of one pinky finger thoughtfully. “Jeff isn’t even the same kind of wolf. So it can’t be a pack thing. And if it’s not business, and it’s not pack, then that leaves… personal?” The grimace that flitted across her face showed her opinion of anything “personal” in Jeff’s life.

  “It doesn’t have to be competition for a problem to be business related,” Tomás pointed out. “Maybe Jeff borrowed money from the wrong people?”

  Okay, but then why take Fred? He didn’t have anything to do with the business side of the casino.”

  “That you know of.”

  “True.”

  “At any rate, that’s what we’re here to find out. Let’s go check into our hotel, get some rest, and regroup.” He cut his eyes toward her, trying to determine her state of mind the moment. “If you’re up to it, we could go check out the casino some tonight. Do a little reconnoitering.”

  Bronwyn’s startled response—the way her hands flipped up a little and her head whipped around to look at him—reminded him of her bird form: quick and reactive.

  But anyone would be a fool to underestimate her. Her willingness to take out an opponent’s eyes had shown him that.

  Tomás supposed that some people might consider the sense of warm pride that swelled up in him when he thought of her attacking one of his kidnappers with such ferocity a little inappropriate. But he was absolutely certain that a response like that was exactly right for a jaguar.

  Two hours later, they waited inside the old-world elegance of the French Quarter’s Hotel Monteleone. Tomás couldn’t stop stealing glances at his companion. Kyle had done an amazing job arranging for clothing. The Navy blue silk dress draped from a single point of her throat, where it attached to a diamond, choker, leaving her back there and sliding down to end mid-thigh. On another woman, it might have looked too bare, but it suited Bronwyn’s tiny frame perfectly. The shade brought out the deep blue glints in her blue-black hair, and set off her perfectly pale skin, like moonlight on cream.

  His inner cat stretched languorously, eager for a chance to taste that creamy skin. Later, he assured himself. When all this was over.

  Bronwyn tapped the armrest of her chair impatiently. “Where’s the driver?”

  Tomás didn’t answer—he recognized her jittery conversation for the distraction it was. Instead, he reached out and placed his hand next to hers, palm up, an invitation to touch. With a sigh, she nestled her hand down in his, her fingers clasping briefly, tightly, then fluttering up and flying away. With a swift move, he trapped her hand in his once again, this time using the fingers of his other hand to gently stroke the back of her wrist and hand. After a few seconds, her fluttering subsided, and she took a deep breath.

  Only then did Tomás speak. “It’ll be okay, Lola,” he said, using her cover name. “Everyone will be at the casino—but no one knows we’re coming to the party. It’ll all be a great surprise.”

  They had left their borrowed car in a paid parking lot at the airport, agreeing to leave their real identities behind along with it. Inside the airport, he had ditched the burner phone and bought two more—one for himself and one for Bronwyn. From there, they had taken a taxi to the French Quarter and paid cash. It was all probably a little too much subterfuge for their new identities, but Tomás didn’t want to take any chances. Once he had agreed to get involved, he was determined to go all in. More to the point, when someone had him abducted, they had guaranteed his full investment in this issue. And although he couldn’t be certain, he had to assume that the same people who’d had him kidnapped that morning would be searching for him throughout the state that evening—especially if the two dead shifters he and Bronwyn had left in the ditch had been discovered.

  Now, a dark limousine pulled up outside the Monteleone, and the driver stepped into the lobby. Tomás stood to meet him.

  “Mr. Abernathy?” The driver was nondescript, impassive, and perhaps most important, another shifter, though Tomás couldn’t tell what kind.

  Tomás nodded. “I trust you have everything we will need for dinner?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  Kyle had arranged for weapons. Good. Shifters might not necessarily need them, but they were often effective props when dealing with humans.

  He might actually have food, too.

  Tomás wouldn’t turn that down, either.

  He faced Bronwyn and held out an arm. “Ready to go, my dear?”

  Bron couldn’t stop the thrill that shivered up her back as she reached out to loop her arm through the elbow Tomás crooked out toward her.

  He was devastatingly handsome in his black suit and blindingly white shirt against his bronze skin, with his dark hair slicked back. When she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, he looked as if he had been carved out of stone, some Mayan god surveying all his domain.

  Everything about him drew her, pulled her to him with an intensity like none she’d felt before.

  As they pulled into the casino parking lot, Bronwyn realized that Tomás had again been stroking the back of her hand, calming her incipient anxiety—and possibly his own. Slowly and deliberately, she turned her hand upwards so they were palm to palm, and threaded her fingers through his. He wrapped his strong fingers around hers and held her gaze with his own. Just those two points of contact felt like being cradled.

  Felt like home. Like the moment the elder ravens had described to her when she was young—the moment when a raven found her forever mate.

  And in that instant, she discovered at her core not darkness, but a light so dazzling it almost blinded her, even as it drew her in with its shining, glinting appeal to every one of her raven senses.

  She wanted to laugh out loud at the joy of the realization.

  Her rational, human mind gave her all the logical reasons she shouldn’t feel that way. They barely knew each other. They hadn’t even kissed.

  Hell, I’m not even sure Tomás feels the same way.

  But her shifter self knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she was right. Whether Tomás felt the same way or not, Bron had found her mate.

  She would simply have to deal with any obstacles that might appear—but later. There was too much to be done right now.

  The limousine drew to a stop in front of the covered walkway-turned-gangplank leading from the parking lot to the enormous, luxurious riverboat permanently docked in Lake Ponchartrain.

  As Tomás hand
ed Bron out of the car, her heart pounded against her chest. The taste of copper flooded her mouth, and she had to fight herself not to shift, the urge to flight was so strong within her.

  “Breathe,” Tomás whispered against her forehead, disguising the word in a brush of his lips against her skin. That simply made her heart trip for a different reason, however.

  Still, she nodded, squeezing his fingers in acknowledgment.

  They had agreed on a relatively straightforward plan: learn the casino’s layout, see what they could find out on their own, and get out again. Tonight was reconnaissance—unless, of course, they actually found the missing men.

  “This would be easier if any of my contacts in New Orleans knew the first thing about this wolf pack,” Tomás had complained bitterly that afternoon, after a round of fruitless phone calls. He had suggested holding off entirely, waiting until Kyle arrived to do any reconnoitering at all, but Bronwyn couldn’t bear the thought of potentially leaving Jeff and Fred both to the mercies of this werewolf pack and whatever plans they might have in place.

  So now Bron re-centered her grasp on Tomás’s hand, squared her shoulders, and did her best to emulate the attitude of high rollers she had seen at the Cibola.

  The remaining tension drained out of her shoulders when she stepped inside. When it came down to it, most casinos were essentially the same, and Bron had been working in the Cibola for the last three years. The haze of smoke and the dinging bells of the slot machines smelled and sounded familiar. Comfortable.

  A single glance around told her everything she needed about the Pirate’s Booty.

  It’s like every other casino I’ve seen.

  I can find anything we need.

  She was so distracted by this casino’s similarities to the Cibola that it took a second glance to realize that the security guard in the pit who looked like her coworker Vance actually was Vance.

  There were Cibola employees in on whatever was going on here.

  Chapter 8

  Bronwyn gasped and hid her face in Tomás’s chest.

  “What is it?” he whispered, hiding the comment in a carefully timed caress.

  In terse whispers, Bron explained the situation to him.

  With a single step and a twirl, Tomás backed her into a slight indentation between two slot machines. Leaning so close to her that his breath feathered her hair back from her neck, he said, “Go with it.”

  Before she had a chance to respond, his mouth slanted across hers, pressing his heated lips against her mouth.

  It’s an act, Bronwyn reminded herself.

  Somehow, though, it didn’t feel like an act. And even if it was, suddenly it didn’t matter.

  Allowing herself to slip into the role, she twined her arms up and around his neck, using the moment to pull her body even closer to his. Almost involuntarily, his arms slid around her waist, and she found herself standing so high up on her toes that even the heels of her high-heeled shoes lifted up off the ground.

  The tips of her breasts brushed against his chest, and Bronwyn opened her mouth in a slight gasp at the unexpected shiver of sensation it sent through her. Tomás stepped her backward so that they leaned against the machine, one hand sliding up the center of her bare back, and the other down far enough so that his fingers played along the edge of the waist, trailing along the bare skin and dipping briefly below the fabric. The move molded her against him so that she could feel every lithe muscle corded under his skin.

  His fingertips ran up her spine, and she arched her back, pressing herself against him.

  A last, incoherent thought tumbled through her mind as he deepened the kiss.

  Oh. Maybe beaks aren’t always better than paws.

  Tomás Nahual never lost sight of his goals—especially not during the job, even if that job was self-assigned, like this one.

  Until now, as he ran his hand up her back and through her hair, pulling away from the kiss for an instant to drink in the sight of her.

  Her short hair was dark and feather-light—when he smoothed it down, the light caught it, turning it almost blue. He wondered what it would be like if she let it grow out, how it might slide over and through his fingers.

  No. It wouldn’t suit her. She was too small and fair—long hair would overwhelm her.

  This pixie cut suited her perfectly, framing her elfin features and highlighting her enormous, dark eyes.

  Then he captured her mouth again, holding her tight against him and sliding his hand down her back again. Her skin under his hands felt more like silk than the actual fabric of her dress, and the pliant feel of her mouth opening under his as she arched her body against him set every nerve ending on fire. The part of his mind that always kept track of his surroundings whited out as he wrapped her in his arms, holding her in his protective grip.

  He throbbed in response to the tiny whimper in the back of her throat that met his questing tongue, and all he could feel or know was her body against his for the space of one heartbeat, then two, then three.

  And in the spaces between those heartbeats, Tomás found a peace like nothing he had ever felt before. As his consciousness swam up to the surface of his thoughts, he knew with a deep, calm certainty that he would be exploring that feeling further. If he had his way, he would hold onto her tightly for as long as it took to learn every curve of her body, in both her human and her shifter form—and examine the responses she pulled from him, both physical and emotional.

  But only after they found out what had happened to Jeff Watson and Fred Rufus.

  With a wrenching effort, he dragged his mouth away from hers, pulling in a shaking breath as he glanced around to make sure the security guard was no longer in view. The sight of Bronwyn’s swollen lips and heavy-lidded eyes sent a tremor through him, and he had to force himself to put a few inches of space between them before he acted on the impulse to lift her up and let her wrap her legs around his waist while he pushed her back against the slot machines. It stunned him to realize how much willpower it required not to take her, right there in the middle of the crowded casino. Even the thought of burying himself deep inside her drew an almost pained groan from him as he rested his forehead against hers.

  “That was…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Yeah,” he whispered. “Back to that later?”

  A slight smile touched the corner of Bronwyn’s kiss-swollen lips. “Definite rain check.” Her eyes, so dark the pupil was almost lost in them, sparkled at him. “Where were we before that?” she asked.

  With a nod, he pulled them out of the alcove and back toward the main part of the casino floor. “If they have someone looking for us, they will almost certainly catch us on camera at some point,” he said, reiterating their earlier discussion. “But with any luck, not until we’re ready for them to. You know your objective, right?”

  “Find their holding office,” she said, referring to the room were security off and took suspected card counters and cheats to explain their future banning from the casino. “If they’re holding Jeff on the premises, it’ll be there.”

  “And in the meantime,” Tomás replied, “I’ll see what I can do to get picked up and taken to the holding room. If they’re not looking for me now, they will be before the next hour’s through.”

  She squeezed his arm gently and then was gone, her light footsteps spinning her through the crowds of people and machines until she had danced out of his line of sight entirely.

  Tomás shook out his sleeves and gave each cuff a tug. Time to get caught cheating a casino. Slicking his hair back with both hands, he made his way toward the tables.

  As she stepped out into what she presumed was the employees’ parking garage, Bron slipped off the spike heels Tomás’s employee had arranged for her. The clothing was lovely and certainly suited a high roller, but someone needed to tone down the Big Cat’s Security team’s clothing style. Dressing up was not the way to blend in at a casino.

  In fact, she was fairly certain that by this point, the c
omputers, at least, had begun tracking her unusual movements through the casino. Eventually, a person—either a shifter or a human—would figure out what she was doing. If, of course, they hadn’t already. However, she would continue with her plan until she could no longer move forward. It was the only thing she knew to do.

  So for the moment, she dangled her shoes from one hand by the heel straps and leaned back against the painted cinderblock walls next to a sand-filled ashtray. Pulling the cigarette she had bummed from a random slots player to her lips, she made a show out of taking a drag off of it and blowing the smoke from the ceiling. She had to clench her jaw against the resultant cough—she didn’t smoke, but this had been the only plausible excuse she could come up with for exiting the building altogether, even though she didn’t have to leave the pit for a cigarette.

  Still, a thin excuse was better than none at all. And she wasn’t the only person out here—the employee she had carefully followed outside took a few more puffs of his own cigarette, then ground it out in the tray next to her. With a friendly nod, he moved inside and used his key card to open the nondescript door Bron had noticed earlier. She gave him enough time to get out of sight before grabbing the door as it swung shut.

  After a count of five, she slipped inside.

  She had considered trying to find the security guards’ locker room and stealing a uniform, but far too many variables made any scenario involving that far too implausible. Instead, she used the one disguise she always had on hand—herself.

  Closing her eyes, she inhaled, the breath filling her up and rippling out through her. On the exhale, she expanded into herself.

  Knowing that her physical form actually became smaller would never change her sense of herself as growing into her raven shape. It was all she could do to keep from cawing out loud with joy.

  She didn’t have much room, but she launched herself into flight, arrowing down the narrow hallway to see what she could find, leaving behind a pile of discarded eveningwear to puzzle the next person who came to the door.