Paranormal Magic (Shades of Prey Book 1)

by Margo Bond Collins

  "Well, yeah. I expected it to be the usual, not something that sounds like a bad Frankenstein's monster attempt. And who the hell uses words like guffawing?"

  "Whatever. As the legend goes—"

  "Hold up." Cindy jumped to her feet and grabbed the hotel keycard off the table. "Let's film this so we don't have to listen to crazy talk twice while Ricardo here is trying to contain his amusement." Rick grinned like a fool as she pulled him to his feet and pushed him past the calico-patterned curtains of various greens and reds. She shoved him out the door with the keycard to collect his equipment from their room, three doors down to the right. Cindy made a shooing gesture with a wave of her hand at Rick's retreating form.

  They joked with each other, but they knew the project was a wonderful opportunity for all of them. Rick had filmed some weddings here or there, but he had a hard time working for other employers. He'd encountered every issue from pushy directors to ignorant assholes who assumed he was an illegal alien when he was an American citizen, as were his parents before him. His grandparents had come to the States from Mexico in the sixties. He was born and raised in Texas, and his father had been a wealthy landowner there. Rick was full of good humor and a great husband to Cindy. On top of it all, he was an excellent cameraman who could navigate his way out of a maze using tracking skills and the sky.

  Then there was Cindy. She was a true-blue Southern girl through and through. Born and raised in Alabama, she'd moved to Florida after college and met Kat. Both had recently moved into the Tampa area, excited about warm weather and Florida beaches. She was as girly as they came. She loved pink, always had fresh-cut flowers in her house, and her fingernails were never void of color. While Rick had become the most important aspect of her life, Cindy still occasionally kicked him out for a few moments of girl time with her best friend.

  Cindy flopped back on the bed, the back of one hand against her forehead, imitating a theatrical swoon. "I thought he'd never leave. He's such an attention whore."

  Kat giggled. She knew Cindy was well aware Rick hadn't been part of the previous conversation. "You married him knowing he'd be in the middle of everything."

  "You're right." She sat up in the middle of the bed. Her white shirt and light blue jeans stood out against the dark comforter. "What was I thinking?"

  "I know exactly what you were thinking." Kat wagged her eyebrows, getting herself smacked with a pillow in response.

  "Do you think we'll find the Jersey Devil? I mean there has to be something causing all the sightings in the area. The most recent one was three weeks ago, about a twenty-minute drive away. Don't give me that look. I read your notes while you were napping in the car. I find it interesting. Hilarious, but interesting."

  Kat flopped on the foot of the bed and stared at the bumpy ceiling. The hotel room had the faint smell of lemon cleaner in the air. And the chair had been uncomfortable. She rubbed her thigh where the cougar had bit into her. "Mass hysteria maybe. People wanting attention. Large owls scaring people in the dark. Teenagers chasing their friends while wearing demon costumes." She nodded toward Rick's mask. "I doubt anyone will ever find a specimen that remotely resembles the Jersey Devil. And if they do, I bet you fifty bucks it's a hoax." She had read there were a few local stops that claimed to have skeletal remains, and resigned herself to the knowledge she'd have to go take samples from them before they left town, even though she knew if the bones were legit someone would have reported it already.

  "Your scar is bothering you, isn't it?"

  "It still feels a little tender sometimes. I think I sat in the chair too long."

  Cindy hadn't been in the woods the day of the cougar attack. She'd been in the hotel suite, cooking dinner, when she received the call from Rick and rushed to meet them at the hospital where Kat had been air-lifted. Cindy sat with her in the hospital, held her hand, and shared her despair as the news anchor sang the praise of the animal control officials who hunted the poor cat down and ended its life for being true to its species. For defending its territory and protecting its young. She also called Kat's family to inform them of the accident, even though Kat rarely stayed in contact with them due to schedules and distance. And it was Cindy who helped her through physical therapy, always smiling and sunny even when Kat was at her lowest.

  She had also been the one to argue with Kat that she wasn't selling out by doing the Jersey Devil documentary, even though Kat still believed she had. At least it would fund future fieldwork, which other scientists would understand, especially since she hadn't been able to do much more than research at home until she healed enough to walk. The cat had taken a good bite out of her leg. Since money was short due to medical bills, Kat was forced to return to the labs, but the sterile environment reminded her of the hospital. Sitting at home, pouting over her online banking account, she’d received the call from Bach Industries. When Mr. Bach offered the job to her, she'd caved so fast, it was tragic.

  However, Kat worried the scientific community would never let her live it down. The only reason she didn't hear smart-ass comments about her screw-up with the cougar was because she'd been badly injured. Most people knew good and well Kat had learned her lesson, and she wouldn't make the same mistake twice. As for this project, she didn't anticipate any danger aside from the damage to her reputation because the people she usually worked with didn't take cryptozoology seriously at all.

  The beep of a keycard being swiped through the mechanized door lock had her glancing up as Rick stepped into the room carrying a camera bag, a tripod, and a microphone on a stick he referred to as a boom. When following her about as she worked, he had a handheld camera and a microphone that would be attached on her person so she didn't have to be right in front of the camera to talk. But for interior shoots, he liked to use the better equipment.

  Cindy bounced off the bed and assisted him as he set up. Kat wasn't much help with the technical aspects of filming, so she left that part to the Martinezes. She just had to look pretty and sound knowledgeable while she let Rick and Cindy do the recording, editing, and all that fun stuff.

  As they powered up the equipment, Kat meandered to the bathroom mirror to ensure she looked presentable for the camera. Her long coppery hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands curled down beside her face, and the rest was softly contained in an elastic band but not harshly slicked flat. Kat genuinely didn't like to wear a lot of makeup, but the camera and hotel lighting had the tendency to make her look like Casper. She powdered her face, hiding the few faint freckles that bridged across her nose. A little blush and a quick layer of lip balm finished her off.

  "One day you will wish you let me do your makeup," Cindy called from the other room, and Kat smiled. Cindy could make a frog look like a princess if given cosmetics to work with.

  Brushing lint off the sleeve of her dark gray cotton T-shirt, Kat wandered back into the main room. Rick had opened the curtains as far as they would go, and the setting sun allowed a small window of natural light. He positioned Kat's chair where the light would benefit the shot, and Kat, the best. She reclaimed her chair, sat up straight, took a deep breath, and smiled.

  "Ready?"

  "Just a moment." Rick angled the camera on the tripod, centering Kat in the shot. After retrieving the boom from the bed, he handed it to Cindy, and she positioned it to where the microphone would not be visible as the camera rolled. Rick hit a button on the camera. Then he nodded.

  Here goes nothing.

  "The Jersey Devil may very well be one of America's most notorious monsters. It makes its home in the New Jersey Pine Barrens, a densely forested area that stretches about one million acres. The origin of the legend begins in the eighteenth century, and some sources even pinpoint the exact year to be 1735. The most prominent version of the story involves a woman known as Deborah Leeds. While in the throes of birth to her thirteenth child, she cried out, 'Let this one be a devil!' Not long after the child was born, it supposedly sprouted wings and flew up the chimney, where it disappeared in
to the forest. In the early twentieth century, more and more reported sightings were documented, raising a panic that the creature was really lurking out in the pinelands."

  Kat paused, keeping a tight grip on her facial muscles. She struggled to avoid making a face in order to continue, "The appearance of the Jersey Devil is varied at times, but more often than not, pretty standard. It has a horse-like head, a humanesque torso, and stands on two feet, which are often described as goat-like with cloven hooves. It has wings resembling those of a bat and a serpentine, forked tail."

  She stopped once more and glanced down at her notes before regaining eye contact with the camera. "We're about twenty to thirty minutes away from Leeds Point, the supposed birthplace of the creature and the site of one of the most recent encounters with the cryptid. Tomorrow we will begin our search at the ruins of the fabled birthplace. We had to obtain special permits to visit and film there, as it is not open to the public. Later in the week, we'll be placing camera traps in various sections of the Pine Barrens where locals have heard strange shrieking and where sightings have occurred. Who knows, maybe the Jersey Devil will even allow us a fleeting glimpse to prove he is alive and well so many years after his mysterious birth."

  Oh, yeah. This was going to be a long two weeks.

  * * *

  The clamor of nearby voices woke Pan from a most relaxing slumber. Morning sunlight glared through the canopy of trees above, mocking him. Because the times he managed to sleep dreamlessly were few and far between, the disruption grated his nerves. He gritted his teeth at the sounds and held up a hand to shield his eyes from the bright onslaught. After adjusting, he yawned and supposed it was time to get up and occupy himself somehow. Finding a method to distract from his eternal boredom hadn't gone very well lately.

  There wasn't much to do aside from playing tricks on the hapless humans. He supposed he could fall back on old habits and allow himself to be ruled by his lust as he had three thousand years ago, but he worried he wouldn't be able to stop if he did. He'd been close to mindless, living for the pleasure of it. Something he'd been able to control enough around others like him, but not entirely.

  And now... Pan lived for a nice, leisurely nap. But at least he did eventually rouse, unlike so many of the other gods of olden times. Last he'd heard, most of them were just shy of comatose within their fortified realm of Mount Olympus, hoping to wake the day they had followers once more. Idiots. They were long forgotten, enjoyed as bedtime stories and fanciful movie characters. It amused him beyond words.

  The gods had become lessons in morality, gender, religion, sexuality, and culture. Reduced to a fictional existence because the humans who told their stories had long since died. Those who remained couldn't wrap their minds around anything other than science and what their own two eyes could perceive as reality. Sure, there were several religions that believed in a higher power capable of defying the laws of science, but even those individuals would scoff when confronted with the idea of an extraordinary being and turn the other cheek. Unfortunately, those who were open-minded feared the worst from the unexplained, considering anything unheard of as unholy monsters. Demons.

  Pan stretched before reaching his hand behind him to brush the moss and grass from his denim-encased backside. He'd gone through a period of nudity while living in seclusion at one point, a few centuries back. Wearing clothes served him no purpose or comfort, but rolling over on a pinecone was even less wonderful than the freedom being naked provided. In the old days, he covered himself in animal furs or even the light fabrics of the Greek and Roman civilizations of long past. But since arriving in North America, he'd had to adapt to new cultural trends should he wish to go among society without drawing attention to himself. The clothing over the decades changed rapidly, but he found jeans agreeable. Luckily, he could manifest his clothes, as he needed them tailor-made, so to speak. It was difficult to shop for pants that worked with hooves rather than feet. Too much length could trip him, and balance was still an issue—even for a god.

  Not that anyone could see him under his cloaking glamour, but if they could, they'd see a tall man in denim and a T-shirt. If they glanced at his head or his feet they'd believe he'd escaped from a circus sideshow. Unlike the common depiction of satyrs, his legs hadn't become scrawny appendages that could barely support his weight. Where his calves would have met with ankles and heels, they curved in the opposite direction of his knee and into thick cloven hooves. Curling along the sides of his head were two horns, like those of a ram. They were bulky and hard, the ends blunted.

  Mythology painted satyrs in various different forms, but he didn't have a goatee or elongated ears. His legs were hairier than a normal man's past his knees, but looked like any other man's above mid-thigh. He didn't have a tail or any other animal-like features. In truth, he was not part animal at all, though the horns, hooves, and hairy legs might seem that way. He had been cursed into this form, and his body had grown, reshaped, and mutated into the beastly appearance. An appearance was all it was; he didn't take on animal behavioral characteristics or anything crazy like that. He was just malformed and horny. Eternally horny. The punishment for a crime he'd not meant to commit. A crime that hadn't been truly a crime. A misunderstanding really...

  Fortunately for him, he was a god. He had powers at his disposal which allowed him refuge from his fate, but he always reverted to satyr form when he wasn't focused on cloaking himself in one illusion or another. He could appear as a he did once, like a human, although he never was one. If scientists had been able to study the ancients, they would have categorized gods and humans in the same family in their taxonomy charts, perhaps even the same genus. The species, however, was where things would definitely differ. Gods were immortal, for the most part, and had special gifts—powers, like magic. Humans were mortal. Mundane.

  The duet of yammering voices reminded Pan he had trespassers to elude. He debated wandering off in the opposite direction in order to continue enjoying the blissful solitude that was his life. Most days. He pondered if it wasn't time to find a new home as he wasn't in the mood to expel the energy it took to avoid people who hiked so far into the Pine Barrens. For them to do so meant they were looking for something. About eight times out of ten they were hunting him.

  There was never a truer word of advice than, "Be careful what you wish for." Those who hunted monsters would either go home empty handed or would find way more than they were equipped to handle. Oh, and making grown men scream like little girls... So amusing. He became particularly proud of himself if he could make them piss their pants, but even that had started to lose its appeal.

  As he turned north, intending to head deeper into the wilds, a female's whimsical laughter halted him, and his cock twitched in response. Pan rotated toward the mortals. It had taken him centuries to fight the impulse to stalk anything female until he'd seduced them and sated the limitless lust of his Satyros nature. In recent years, he'd even bypassed women without so much as turning his head to appreciate their voluptuous curves. He'd become so efficient at resisting that he'd been celibate for nearly three decades. He was proud of himself for mastering the desire, the arousal that ruled him. He knew the others had not been as fortunate.

  But that laugh...

  It was a melody of carefree wickedness, and it spoke to his soul. A temptation which beckoned him more than anything had in a very long time. The woman it belonged to could very well be his undoing.

  Then again, there was also that pesky little curse which made him an insatiable, rutting sex fiend, so mostly anything about a female could, in theory, spark a reaction from him. And thirty years was a long time, especially one with his condition. He wondered if he was experiencing a moment of weakness.

  Pan strolled toward the voices, coming across a dark-haired man holding a video camera. The man was filming a redheaded woman as she attached a video-recording device to a tree. Many people ventured into the Pine Barrens to do the same. These people were tracking wildlife, hoping to ca
tch a photograph of something in its natural habitat. They camouflaged the camera enough so animals would move close to it and not realize they were being observed.

  The woman turned and searched the area, her gaze brushing across the cluster of trees where he stood. Pan wondered if she felt him watching her and concentrated on maintaining his glamour to shield himself from view. The female was beautiful. Her hair, the perfect combination of copper and gold, as though someone had poured a chest of ancient treasures down her back where it had softened into loose, lazy ringlets. She dressed for comfort in a pair of dark blue jeans which were tucked into a pair of brown hiking boots. Her yellow flannel shirt was unbuttoned with a lacy, white shirt beneath to softly accentuate her ample breasts. The sleeves covered her upper arms down to her elbows, leaving the rest bare except for a silver watch on her wrist.

  He found himself gawking at her, entranced. Maybe he just wanted to hear her laugh again, and he imagined she did so because she was amused by something he had said. She'd later make wicked little sounds in the throes of passion, laughing in victory as she orgasmed astride him. All he knew was the sound of her laugh had grabbed him by his dick and pulled him toward her like a divining rod. Pan was tempted to march out into the open, drop every illusion he held in place, and proclaim himself the one she was looking for. And he might...if only she were alone.