Paranormal Magic (Shades of Prey Book 1)

by Margo Bond Collins

  A warrior stood at the edge of the woods, his crossbow leveled at a target over her shoulder. The arrow sped by, so close she felt its speed before the beast let out a bone-chilling scream. In slow motion she ran, glancing over her shoulder as terror froze her heart. The beast was dead. His long, pink tongue hung from the side of his mouth, his dark eyes fixed in a mask of death.

  Exotic vegetation surrounded her as she called out to her savior, the man with the piercing blue eyes and hair the color of spun gold, every inch handsome. The warrior's sapphire eyes cut through trees, and Kira froze. Through the cloudy mist, another pair of eyes surfaced and watched her with predatory awareness. She knew in an instant they belonged to The Story Mage.

  Only the echo of the warrior's voice remained now. "Burn with love for me…burn with love for me."

  Intense light blinded Kira when a woman floated down through the trees, her gown shimmering in vibrant shades of blue and green, her silver hair cascading in lush waves around her. I have sent ye across the wine-dark waters, and here ye will find your destiny.

  "Sirene," she whispered in her dream.

  The alarm jolted her from the nightmare. With her heart hammering in her chest, she pushed the snooze button and willed her body to calm. Ten minutes passed before she felt strong enough to drag her shaky body into the shower, and another ten passed before the pulsating water eased the tension from her muscles.

  Her mind still in an uproar from the dreams, she rifled through her closet, settling on a pair of faded denims, a pink cotton sweater and her trusty old sneakers.

  A whispered prayer left her lips as she plopped into a chair in front of the computer. "Send me one little clue I overlooked before, open the portal."

  The headlines from Yahoo's home page cut through her sluggish brain, Woman Infects Hundreds With Tainted Blood. Her sixth-sense kicked in as she clicked on Google and typed in Plasma Centers in Providence. Each selection blurred into the other until she came to number nine. The picture of the building at the intersection of Promenade and Rathbone looked familiar. There could be no doubt she'd seen it in her dreams.

  She picked up the phone and punched in the numbers to her office. Eva answered on the second ring. "I'll be late," Kira said. "I have an errand to run."

  "Kira, what are you about now?"

  “Don’t worry. I’m checking out a lead. Be in soon."

  She ended the call and tucked her cell phone into her purse. While printing off the map, she heard a knock at the door and sighed. Elmira Pettigrew, damn the busybody.

  Greeted by penetrating hazel eyes, her landlord stood before her when she opened the door. "Mrs. Pettigrew, to what do I owe this pleasant drop-in?"

  The woman strained her neck to look over Kira's shoulder. "You know perfectly well why I'm here. Are you still sheltering that-that animal?"

  Choking back her temper from a lack of sleep, not to mention raw nerves, she snapped. "I don't know why you bother to ask since you'll be conducting your own investigation the moment I leave the parking lot."

  Her expression brittle, Elmira snorted. "Well, of all the―"

  "In fact." Kira cut her off with a flourish of her arm. "Have at it, and lock the door when you're done."

  Overcoming a brief moment of guilt, Kira unlocked her car and slumped behind the wheel with a smile. It did her heart good to put the snoop in her place, leave her standing in the hallway with her chin in her bosom. The smile faded, replaced by a surge of panic. Who knew what the woman had discovered during her raids into tenants' apartments…her apartment. Had she found the diary, her sexually descriptive diary?

  Thoughts of Mrs. Pettigrew flew from her head as she pulled onto the interstate and focused on her mission. With traffic at a standstill, Kira tied her hair into a ponytail, glossed her lips and glanced in the mirror. She would have preferred to be blessed with her father's dark hair and green eyes but she looked like her mother. Mom's eyes were the same shade as hers—the color of eggplant or plum when something angered her. She wasn't fond of her turned up nose bridged with freckles or her mouth–a smidgeon too wide for her face. And God could have been a little more generous in the plump lip department. Oh, well, she'd have to live with her looks, unless she opted for laser surgery like her best friend Merryanne.

  Pulling into a parking lot one block from Rathbone, her thoughts wandered to the profile she'd compiled for Mr. Kissel on The Scarlet Angel—white male, mid-twenties, intelligent, an underachiever, no doubt an introvert who avoided direct eye-contact. Damn if the description didn't fit half the male population in Providence, if not the entire country. It didn't matter, she'd sit outside for days if need be, wait for him—her killer. It would be an adventure, a stakeout, and just a matter of time before he'd show. She only had to pray she'd recognized him when he did.

  * * *

  Choking on repetitive double lattés and glazed donuts, and sitting in her car for three solid days, eight in the morning until eight at night, Kira had second thoughts about her grand idea. Holding down the fort, Eva had called six times a day grumbling about rearranging her schedule while she played Nancy Drew. Eva had a point. Kira had asked the mirror numerous times what in hell possessed her to engage in this ill-gotten scheme to catch a notorious killer. The stakeout fell miles short of an exciting escapade. She'd watched hundreds of people come and go from the blood building, had counted every brick, brown, red, gray, and yellow, left-to-right, top-to-bottom and vice versa. She'd studied the donors, fat, thin, old, young, beardless and goateed. Not one matched her profile or caused her gut to clench.

  Until now.

  He couldn't have been more than thirty. Average in height at five-feet, ten inches, he weighed one-hundred seventy pounds. Calculating body weight and height went with her job. Although lean, his muscles were compact. He moved circumspectly, reminded her of a stealth bomber at liftoff. His physique accounted for the alacrity of The Scarlet Angel's attacks.

  His baseball cap matched the long-sleeved red shirt. Long sleeves in this heat? He couldn't be a needle-user; the plasma center would’ve picked up on this, refused to take his blood. With sickening dread, she realized he wore long sleeves to hide the scratches on his arms. Paula had fought hard for her life. Defensive wounds on her hands and skin-scrapings beneath her well-manicured nails bore the tale of her last minutes.

  A woman exited the building as the man entered. When she smiled at him, he pulled the hat low over his brow and ditched the cigarette dangling from his mouth. Kira's insight kicked into gear and the hairs at the back of her neck rose. It had to be him, The Scarlet Angel.

  An interminable amount of time passed, long, agonizing minutes while she sketched out a plan. Compelled to follow him when he came out, she exited the car and waited. An hour later, he emerged from the building and turned right at the corner. On the opposite side of the street, Kira paced her steps, but kept him in her line of vision. He stopped twice, before a bakery and a novelty shop and stared into the plate-glass windows. Kira ducked into the alley and peered between two buildings. Damn, had he spotted her?

  He started out again, setting a brisk pace. Breathless by the time he ducked into an apartment building—a seedy, rundown ramshackle dwelling—Kira lost sight of him. She entered, not realizing she stood in an abandoned building until an oppressive stillness settled in around her. The chatter of people and the laughter of children were missing. Nothing echoed in the empty air except her own heavy breathing.

  Shit, he's led me into a trap.

  She took in her surroundings. An odious stench permeated the empty room―animal feces, rancid food, and the smell of humans who hadn't benefited from a shower in eons. Empty pallets lined the walls, and others lay scattered throughout the center. Vandals had been at play here. Windows were smashed and several floorboards had been removed, no doubt to build fires on wintry nights. A well-used mattress sat in one corner―flea-infested and splattered with rust-colored streaks―an army surplus type that had lived through the Korean War. A discarde
d icebox sat on a shelf, the college dorm type. The leaky roof was blotched with stains and ringed with black mold. Long cords hung from the ceiling and plumbing fixtures jutted from the walls.

  The room emanated heat. With her every step, particles of dust scattered upward through the vacant air. Adrenaline coursed through her blood, her palms broke out in a sweat, and her heart pounded in triple beats. If she had any god-given sense, she'd turn tail and run as fast as her legs could move. Something evil lurked in the darkened corners, a living, breathing malevolence that made her skin crawl.

  Low and lethal, his voice drifted across the stagnant air. "Are you FBI or local?"

  "Neither." She prayed he couldn't detect the scorpion fear pedaling through her veins. A silver blade flashed beneath a rectangle of light streaming through a hole in the roof. "You're him, aren't you, The Scarlet Angel?"

  A sardonic grin curled his lips. "Angel? Whoever coined the name has a queer sense of humor."

  Toying with the stiletto, and her, he ran his finger along the blade as if testing its sharpness. Her life flashed before her, all twenty-seven short years. Graphic photos of Emma, Antoinette, Nicole, and Paula loomed before her, their lifeless eyes fixed, their throats ripped open and oozing blood. He pulled something from his back pocket. Like the knife, it gleamed beneath the light pouring down.

  "Red," she rasped. "Oh, dear God, a red cross."

  He advanced, one slow foot at a time, his eyes glazed over with the thrill of imminent death. "Why did you follow me from the plasma center?"

  "Why do you think?" She paused, her thoughts scrambled. "I guess I hoped to talk you into turning yourself in."

  "Pity you stalked me." His cold, flat tone sent another frisson of fear down her spine. "Let's get this out of the way right now. I have no intention of surrendering. That would ruin all the fun." He advanced. "We're just getting started, honey."

  In an attempt to put distance between her and the knife, she drew back, stumbled on a two-by-four and fell to her knees. She searched the ground, her stomach heaving, praying she'd connect with something to defend herself. A rush of air left her lungs when her hand made contact with a steel pipe. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him. Bent at the waist, his head low, he came in for the kill.

  Their bodies rolled in a blur of heat and dust, the knife inches from her throat. She swung the pipe with fierce determination, cringing as a sickening thud reached her ears. Collapsing on top of her, his body went limp. With dwindling strength, she shoved him aside and drew several deep breaths. His body as still as the night closing in, a stream of blood oozed from a wound near his temple.

  Dragging herself to her knees, she inched her way to a standing position. Several feet away, she spied her purse and limped toward it. Cell phone, where's my cell phone? Oh, God, I've got to find it before he wakes up. With trembling hand, she fished out her phone and punched in the code for Frank Kissel.

  "Damn," she groaned when it rolled into voicemail. "Mr. Kissel, it's Kira, Kira Barton. You're not going to believe this, but I'm in an abandoned apartment complex several blocks north of Promenade and Rathbone with The Scarlet―"

  "You bitch! I'm going to take my time with you, cut that lily-white throat inch-by-inch!"

  A scream tore from her lips as she dropped the phone. In a heartbeat, he tackled her, pressing the cold, steel tip of the blade into her throat. I can't freaking believe this! "Believe it", her inner voice screamed. "It's happening". As his full weight pressed down on her, her starved lungs screamed for air. He smelled of sweat, cigarettes and stale booze. Please God, let me pass out before he does it.

  An ancient chant filtered down from the rafters, a soothing dirge that came from far away. She saw her then, hovering over them, her long, silver hair floating around her, the sea-green dress sheathing her like a giant cocoon…so peaceful, so tranquil.

  Kira looked into The Scarlet Angel's lifeless eyes. "What's the matter, bitch, giving up already?"

  His smile faded when she spit in his face, replaced seconds later by a look of blind rage. He pushed the knife into her throat, methodically. Kira clutched the ruby medallion around her neck and the stone pulsated with the vibrancy of a comet shooting through the sky.

  Above the cyclonic wind in the room, she heard the woman's voice, sweet and serene. "Full moon, winter's night; hear my call, see my plight. Come daughter of hope, savior of grief, come with me to a place of peace."

  With alarming speed, The Scarlet Angel's face contorted, twisted and flattened until his features vanished. Her vision blurred and her hearing faded. Isn't one's hearing the last sense to surrender before death? I'm too young to die, there's so much more to do. Thunder rolled and silver flashes of lightning lit the sky above them. It had been such a bright, sunny day, not a hint of storm clouds. Images of her closet flew through her mind―her best dresses cleaned, pressed and all lined up. Which one will Mom and Dad choose for my funeral?

  Kira tumbled through a great abyss, a tunnel of brilliant colors—blue, fuchsia, magenta and orange―the talisman clutched in her hand. Calm enveloped her as the words echoed in her ears. "Come daughter of hope, savior of grief, come with me to a place of peace."

  Those were the last words she remembered.

  Chapter 4

  Borderlands of Locke Cress

  They heard the scurrying of feet, tormented screams, and the echo of giant paws hitting the hard ground up ahead.

  Balion slid from his horse with crossbow in hand and sprinted toward the sound. "From there." He pointed to the dense woodland.

  Jarlock ran through the forest behind him. Tall, broad of shoulder, and faultless with the broadsword, the man had fought beside his prince for years.

  Another deafening yowl screamed through the trees.

  Balion leveled his weapon. "The Pantherinae."

  "Aye," Jarlock said. "Straight ahead and to your left."

  A woman stumbled forth, chased by a beast with a coat of clouded spots.

  With one eye closed, a curse fell from Balion's lips. "Get down, ye fool woman. Drop!"

  The Pantherinae leaped into a tree and hung by his hind feet from a branch, watching them, watching her. The woman teetered and tumbled to the ground. Sharp white fangs, bigger than a man's hand, glistened through a shaft of sunlight. The beast let loose a savage roar. Balion's arrow whistled through the still air, but the spotted cat launched from the tree squirrel fashion—head first—and vanished into the dense bracken.

  "By the Saints." Jarlock bent over the still form. "He's punctured her neck but didn't kill her."

  Balion dropped to a knee and studied her, intrigued by the delicate features. Her breasts rose and fell in steady rhythm and carnal thoughts tumbled through his mind. His dreams surfaced with pungent intensity when her scent filled his nostrils.

  His delicious fantasies disintegrated with Jarlock's words. "My Prince, are ye going to drool spittle over her all day?"

  Drawing his scrutiny to an end, Balion probed the soft flesh around the wound on her neck and lifted his head. "The wound 'tis not from the beast's fangs."

  "From what then?"

  Balion shrugged. "Curse the Gods if I know. Do ye think any bones are broken?"

  Hauling her up, Balion bent her over the crook of his arm, alarmed by the tremulous beat of his heart when she opened her eyes. Purple. No, violet. Long, spiky eyelashes fluttered against her pale skin, and her full, pink lips had fallen slack, reminding him of a child in slumber. A mass of hair fell to the ground in a flood of burnished silk. How he wanted to run his hands through those silken tresses, feel the thick, lush strands between his fingers. At a loss to explain the bodice fastened with tiny pearl stones, he glanced at Jarlock again.

  Bewilderment augmented his cohort’s frown.

  Balion slipped his hand beneath the garment and trailed his fingers over her ribs. Soft and warm, her skin reminded him of the underbelly of a kitten. His hand touched a circular, metallic object between her breasts, sending an intense jolt of fam
iliarity coursing through his blood.

  His tone grim, Jarlock asked, "Are they broken, man?"

  Balion skimmed his hand over her flat abdomen and next her thighs, ending his examination with several deliberate strokes to her calves. Her narrow hips and slim waist were covered in a heavy blue fabric, and at the end of her long legs, an odd manner of shoe hugged her feet.

  "She is a strange lot," Balion said. "Do ye think she hails from across the sea?"

  "A mermaid are ye thinking, my friend?"

  Balion's gaze returned to her pale face. Perfection, I can think of no other word for it. "Think ye she a spy?"

  Jarlock shook his head. "She does not have the look of one." He bent over her for a closer inspection. "Well, is she harmed or knocked senseless?"

  "Other than the small wound to her neck, nay, she is not harmed."

  The thunder of hooves reached them. Jarlock cocked his ear to the left and readied his broadsword. "Remnants of Umargo's henchmen or mayhap a band of outlaws."

  "How far away?"

  "Just over that ridge."

  The time for action had come. Leave the woman or take her back to the keep. How could he leave her once he'd looked into those eyes, felt those perfect breasts, inhaled her distinctive scent?

  "By the Saints, Jarlock." Balion hauled her up. "Gather my crossbow."

  With the girl tucked under his arm, Balion climbed onto his stallion and pulled her against his chest. Jarlock tossed him the crossbow and mounted before they sped through the forest, knowing the bandits would ride down that crest soon. Balion would have preferred to stay and fight what remained of Umargo's conquered army but he couldn't risk the girl's life. Some day he would rid the land of Jangamoors. He prayed it would be soon.

  Certain no one had followed them Balion turned to Jarlock and found him grinning. "Ye find humor in the chase?"

  "Nay," the giant said. "I wait to see the look on Gwyneth's face when ye ride into the keep with a woman who makes the Gods weep."