The Bewitched Box Set

by W. J. May

  “I told you to scram,” he said, getting out of the car. “But since you can’t listen...”

  Ace waved his hand over the small flame of the lighter and right before everyone’s eyes, created a large ball of fire in his fist. He launched it right at the tough-looking vampire, who of course, let out a piercing screech as the flames hit him. He fell to the ground, his body quickly consumed by flames. The pile of ashes he left behind was an appropriate end to him.

  Lauren couldn’t comprehend what Ace had just done, but decided she’d dissect it later. It was go time.

  She ran toward the van, which was now engulfed in flames, and put the gun up. She saw one of the creatures exiting the van, half of her body on fire, and smiled.

  Quinn.

  She walked straight up to her and fired a burst of lightning-fast shots into her chest and head. Lauren watched in sick satisfaction as Quinn screamed and turned immediately to ash, leaving only a small white dress, which was being quickly consumed by the fire.

  She felt Ace yank her backward and grab the gun from her. As she turned around, she saw him fire three shots into another vampire, who had escaped the van and was heading straight for them. He fell to the ground and Ace finished him off with two more shots to the heart. The vampire didn’t turn to ash, but quickly took on the appearance of a very dead, brown corpse covered in clothes.

  She shuddered then looked over and saw Erick fighting with a vampire. This one was not on fire and they were throwing punches. The vampire was hissing fiercely as it tried to get its fangs into Erick. Lauren watched in horror as the vampire jumped onto Erick, and just as it was about to bite him, Erick grabbed its head and twisted. It slumped to the ground, lifeless, and Erick stood up, a murderous look on a face that Lauren had only ever seen shyness and friendliness. He bent down, twisting its head once again, but this time, separating it from the neck. Erick grinned evilly, and as he was about to toss it into the open door of the now fully-involved burning van, it turned to ash in a puff, leaving him holding nothing.

  “Aww man, I wanted to throw it!” he said.

  Ace laughed. Lauren just stood there dumbfounded.

  The backdoor to the club opened and Ace grabbed Lauren and shoved her into the black Camaro. They quickly peeled off, leaving the burning van behind with no bodies inside.

  “But my car’s there,” she said, panting and shaking.

  “We’ll drive you back here tomorrow to get it,” Erick said.

  She nodded and tried to take deep breaths. After a few minutes of silence, she said, “You two better start talking.”

  Erick smiled. “We’re headed back to our place. We’ll explain everything.”

  ––––––––

  ∞∞∞

  Ace and Erick walked away from the gravesite of the same cemetery they had been staking out a couple of weeks prior.

  “That was a nice service,” Ace said.

  “Yes, it was. At least his family will have closure now,” Erick replied.

  “It’s only right. The poor kid wouldn’t be a very dead vampire if it wasn’t for the BSI. The government owes it to his family.”

  Erick nodded as they got into the Camaro and drove away from Special Agent Tristan Ellis’s funeral. Ace helped SAC Morris put together a report stating Tristan had walked in on a drug deal and had been shot. Normally vampires would turn to dust when meeting their final death, as their true age catches up to them, but because Tristan had been such a new vampire, he still had a body to bury.

  “His partner’s kinda hot,” Ace said.

  Erick looked at him. “Lauren’s too sweet for you. Don’t even think about it.”

  Ace chuckled. “We’ll see.”

  * * *

  EPILOGUE

  Washington D.C. – 1947

  Jim Blackwell was again at his desk in his large office in the FBI building. Two years had passed since he started up the BSI and his son’s undead murderer was still at large.

  Jim had learned all he could about the Fae – the vampire and shapeshifters in D.C. – but had given up on finding Paul’s killer. That is, until he met Andrew Davies.

  “Thank you, General Frost,” Andrew said, taking one of the plush chairs set in front of Director Blackwell’s desk.

  The general removed his green cap and took the other seat.

  As Jim studied Andrew, he thought the man looked pretty unremarkable. Average height, probably late twenties or early thirties, and moderate good looks, but there was something in his eyes that seemed very wise.

  “So, Jim, as the director of the BSI, I think it’s time you know about the Immortals.”

  Jim smiled. “I already know about them. Vampires and shapeshifters.”

  Andrew looked to General Frost. “You want to explain?”

  Alexander Frost shook his head. “Go ahead, Andrew.”

  Andrew nodded and adjusted his black tie and smoothed down his brown suit pants. “Long before you started the BSI, there has been an organization of us who have been policing the Fae in the major cities of this country. Even in other countries for that matter.”

  Jim nodded. “I see. And how do you do this? Do you have special weapons to kill them with?”

  “Yes and no. I know this is going to sound crazy, so just stay with me.”

  Jim laughed. “Crazy I can handle. Go on.”

  “We all have gifts. For instance, I’m sixty-five years old.”

  Jim’s eyes got big and Andrew heard Jim think, Get this crazy piece of shit out of my office.

  “You think I’m a crazy piece of shit, don’t you?” Andrew asked.

  Jim gasped. “How did you...?”

  Andrew tapped his temple. “Like I was saying, each Immortal is bestowed a gift. Mine is mind-reading. It wouldn’t have been my first choice, but we don’t get to choose. It kind of chooses us.”

  Jim sat back in his seat and stared at Andrew, willing himself not to think of anything specific.

  “I have a friend, Jonathan, who has the gift of extreme strength. That would have been my personal choice but it wasn’t my lot in life. I had another colleague named William who had the gift of flashing. He can move so fast, you won’t even see him. There are others who can manipulate the elements.”

  Jim turned his head. “Elements?”

  “Yes, water, air, fire... sometimes even weather.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  Andrew shook his head and laughed. “No, sir, I am not.”

  “Are you all males?” Jim asked, sitting forward, becoming more intrigued.

  “No. There are females among us. Not a lot, but there are,” Andrew replied.

  Jim nodded. “Go on.”

  “So the reason I’m here is to let you know if you ever need help, you can call on us. We prefer to blend in with the humans, so please keep it discreet. I have just moved here from the Los Angeles area, and am setting up a coven here. I’ll be in D.C. for a few years, then I’m going back to L.A. It’s too cold here.” He smiled.

  “Wow, this is... overwhelming,” Jim said, sitting back. He looked at General Frost. “How long have you known?”

  “Only a few months, sir.”

  Jim nodded. “I see.”

  “I’d like to help you find the vampire who killed your son,” Andrew said, fixing Jim with an serious stare.

  “I’m listening.”

  As Andrew laid out the details of his trap and ensnare plan, Jim listened intently, but he tried not to get his hopes up.

  ∞∞∞

  Andrew Davies and one of his new coven members, Hank Sorenson, were hanging around outside Joe’s Tavern, smoking cigarettes. Jim Blackwell was sitting in a parked car across the street, watching the Immortals, hoping the vampire would take the bait.

  The incidence of vampire attacks outside that particular tavern had been frequent over the past two years, and both the BSI and the Immortals believed it was the work of one or two vampires.

  Not only that, they had an eyewitness.


  The night Paul was killed, both he and poor Ronnie lay on the sidewalk dying, and were discovered by a couple of college students passing by. Only Paul was dead; Ronnie still had a faint pulse and was rushed to George Washington Hospital, where he eventually recovered.

  Physically, anyway.

  Ronnie had said the vampire was definitely a Caucasian-looking male, short brown hair. He had some kind of scar on the left side of his face, like a knife wound. He wasn’t even very tall or big in stature. Just very pale and very, very frightening.

  This was the third night in a row they were out there, and as it turned out, third time’s a charm.

  Andrew and Hank stood in a purposely dark area outside the pub where the streetlights didn’t quite reach. Before the vampire even turned the corner, Andrew heard his thoughts.

  I’m starving and something smells like dinner. Followed by a demented laugh.

  Andrew nudged Hank. “Get ready.”

  Sure enough, the vampire came sleazing around the corner very slowly and smiled at the two men standing against the building, the scar on his left cheek wrinkling as he grinned.

  “What do you want?” Andrew asked the vampire, faking fear.

  The vampire said nothing, just got very close, showing no fear at all to the two men he made the mistake of thinking were merely human.

  Jim Blackwell got out of his car and quietly crossed the street. He gripped the sharpened wooden stake in his sweaty fist, his whole body shaking with rage, fear, and adrenaline.

  As the vampire got close, Hank put him up against the tavern’s brick wall and the vampire hissed. Hank was a big boy, two hundred pounds and a former boxer, whose Immortal gift was strength.

  “Let me go, prick,” the vampire sneered.

  Hank laughed, holding the vampire against the wall one-handed. “Nah, not today, bloodsucker. Today’s your unlucky day.”

  “I’m gonna kill you slowly,” the vampire hissed through his fangs.

  “You sound real stupid,” Andrew laughed.

  “Oh look, our friend Jim is here,” Hank said as Jim approached.

  “Who the hell are you?” the vampire asked, eyeing the stake, his cockiness gone.

  Jim stood in front of the vampire and studied him, both of them staring each other down.

  Jim raised the stake, and with both hands wrapped around it said, “This is for my Pauly.” He plunged the stake into the vampire’s chest and it let out an ungodly screech, disturbing the quiet, dark night.

  Andrew and Hank stepped back, pulling Jim with them as the vampire’s body fell to the ground and began to turn brown, then gray, then to ash, leaving nothing behind but a pile of clothes and a wooden stake.

  Jim tried to maintain his composure but a stray tear did slip out.

  Andrew put his arm around Jim’s shoulders. “C’mon. I’ll buy you a beer.”

  THE END

  Please enjoy the first two chapters from “Soul Rebel”, book 1 of the Rebel Riders series:

  A vampire took his soul. He wants it back.

  When 21-year-old Nolan Bishop meets Eva, a seductive redhead at a dark club in downtown Shreveport, little does he know his soul will be gone as soon as she is. It doesn’t take Nolan long to realize that this succubus, who is now invading his dreams, has taken something from him. Through the underground network of the supernatural in New Orleans, he finds out he has a mere 7 days to destroy Eva before he turns into a sinister and inhuman vampire. In a race against all that is holy, Nolan meets Eva’s identical twin, Charity. He begs for her help to find Eva with the intent to kill her. But Charity doesn't want to see her sister die – succubus or not. Nolan has to serious decision to make with regards to his humanity and not a lot of time to do it – all while trying not to fall in love with Charity – and all in 7 days.

  Praise for Soul Rebel:

  "Great characters, original and racy. Always left wanting more!" ~Tim O'Rourke, bestselling author of Vampire Shift

  "I thoroughly enjoy stories with a good plot and exciting twist...this book had both." ~M. Nesbitt

  "CJ Pinard once again rocks my paranormal socks off doing what she does best." ~Jenn Green from the Bookworm Betties Blog

  ––––––––

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  Long Weekend

  The last time he could remember sweating this much was playing football in high school. The motorcycle he had been restoring just didn’t want to start. Who the hell buys a 1999 P.O.S. Kawasaki crotch-rocket and expects it to run anyway?

  He used a disgusting red oil rag to wipe the sweat from his forehead and tossed it overhand into a nearby bin. He had his coveralls stripped off before he reached the men’s room. Those too went into a bin, and he scrubbed his hands as best he could. Drying them off, he looked at his grimy fingernails, the dirt and grease a permanent fixture under them. He could vaguely remember his older sister’s warning when he told her he wasn’t going to college, and was going to restore old motorcycles instead.

  “Your hands will never be clean,” she chided. “No girl wants to be touched by hands that look filthy all the time,” she had scolded as she made a face.

  But he had proven her wrong. He’d been told many times that his hands looked strong and protective, despite the permanent half-moon of black under each nail. He grinned.

  He grabbed his backpack from the grungy locker in the men’s room of the small motorcycle restoration shop and fished out his keys. His red and white Ducati Monster was parked right out front. He looped his arm through the other strap of the backpack and mounted the death machine. It started with what passersby probably thought was an obnoxious rumble, but sounded more like a purr to him. He was shoving the matching red and white helmet on his head when he heard his name.

  “Nolan!”

  He slid the helmet back up and whipped his head in the direction of the voice. “Yeah, boss?”

  The shop’s owner, Archie Ross, a man in his sixties who lived hard and fast like he was still in his twenties, came lumbering out, waving an envelope. “Got the pay done early due to the holiday weekend ‘n all,” he said as he gimped up to Nolan’s motorcycle.

  Nolan took the envelope and smiled at Archie. “Thanks, boss. This’ll come in handy this weekend.”

  Archie reached up and scratched his head, the gray in his hair shining under the setting sun, a diamond stud glinting in his left ear. Archie was still in his coveralls, but Nolan knew he would be in his leather vest and pants later tonight when he met with his motorcycle club. Archie walked with a limp from a stab wound to the thigh he’d received in the 1980s during a bar fight.

  He spat a wad of chew in a brown stream out onto the sidewalk and looked at Nolan, raising his voice over the rumble of the bike. “No problem, kid. You gonna go show off the new bike this weekend?” He pointed at it.

  Nolan shook his head. “Nah, gonna take the car. My girl doesn’t like the bike so much.”

  Archie laughed and shook his head as he limped away. “Women.”

  Nolan smiled again, folding the envelope and putting it in his front pants pocket. He slid on his helmet. With a twist of the handlebar and a pulse of his foot, he was off, zooming down the street and weaving in and out of traffic, with horns blaring at his driving.

  It didn’t take much time to reach home. The large apartment complex was only five miles from the shop, and was one of those fancy ones with the immaculate landscaping, gym, tennis courts, and swimming pool.

  Because a swimming pool isn’t a luxury in Louisiana, it’s a necessity.

  Shreveport, a big city with a small town feel, was large enough to be the home to several big-name businesses, but was also known to be very family-oriented and slow-paced. There wasn’t much to do in Shreveport, but Nolan Bishop had lived there all his life and he knew exactly where the hot spots were.

  He parked his bike under the covered carport in parking spot 272, and dismounted the bike, his helmet under his arm. He sprinted up the stone steps to a
partment 272 and slid the key in the lock. The place was clean and tidy, just the way he’d left it.

  He always laughed when people would act shocked at his pristinely clean apartment. Just because he was a grease monkey and stayed dirty all day didn’t mean he liked his home that way, too. Refusing to get a roommate for that very reason, Nolan was happy to live alone. He was 21 years old and enjoyed his solitude.

  He closed and locked the door behind him. Dropping his backpack on the sofa and tossing his keys on the kitchen counter, he yanked a bottle of water from the fridge and cracked it open, practically downing its entire contents in one gulp. The humidity always made him thirstier, and being as it was July, it was all the more hot. He pitched the empty plastic bottle into the trash and had most of his clothes peeled off his sweaty body before he reached the bedroom. He left them in a pile on his bedroom floor and went into the adjoining bathroom and started the shower. As it heated up, he looked at his reflection. He had a smudge of dirt – or was it grease? – on his forehead and he wiped it away with his brawny hand. Lime green eyes stared back at him in the mirror, and he lifted a sleeved-up tattooed arm, flexing his bicep, admiring his muscle. He sucked in his stomach, which really wasn’t necessary since there was no fat there anyway, and ran his long fingers over the bumps of a developing six-pack. Scrubbing a hand along his light brown crew-cut, he huffed at the evolving blonde five o’clock shadow on his face. He grabbed the razor and shaving cream and decided to shave blindly in the shower today, as he had on many occasions.

  As soon as he was as clean as he was going to get, he wrapped a white towel around his waist and padded into his bedroom. He was a bundle of nerves and excitement thinking about the upcoming weekend. He felt himself being pulled as if by an invisible rope to his sock drawer, sliding it open and plucking out the small black velvet box. He turned it around in his hand and carefully opened its lid with a squeak. Staring at the one-carat marquis-cut solitaire diamond, he sighed.

  He remembered going to her house while she had been at school and speaking to her father, asking for his permission to marry his daughter. Her father was a friendly man, but was overly concerned with education, and hadn’t been at all thrilled that Nolan didn’t want to go to college. But with Nolan’s natural charms and strong argument about how most good mechanics could make as much as a lot of businessmen, her father had eventually relented and gave his blessing. Nolan smiled at the memory.