“Yeah, I did. For what you did for me and Carmen. I, um, programmed my phone numbers into it already. In case you want to call me.”
I held the phone up to my ear as if I were talking on it. “Rocha? This is Maura. Are you free for dinner tonight?”
He smiled. “You bet. I’ll pick you up at your shop.” He leaned toward me to give me a much softer kiss than we’d shared before. Overall, I preferred it to the previous ones.
Then he said, “There’s a case, too.”
“Rocha, you’re amazing.” I reached back into the bag and found a sleek leather case, with a silver charm dangling from it. The charm was even engraved: Good Witch.
* * *
Robert Heinlein said, “Specialization is for insects,” and TONI L.P. KELNER concurs, at least where her writing is concerned. Kelner is the author of the “Where are they now?” mysteries, featuring Boston-based freelance entertainment reporter Tilda Harper, and the Laura Fleming series, which won a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award. Her most recent novel is Blast From the Past. She also co-edits urban fantasy anthologies with Charlaine Harris. Their most recent is Home Improvement: Undead Edition, about supernatural beings taking time off. In between books, she’s a prolific writer of short stories, including the Agatha Award winner, “Sleeping With the Plush.” Kelner lives north of Boston with author/husband Stephen Kelner, two daughters, and two guinea pigs. She admits that she is addicted to her cell phone.
She provided this note about her story:
* * *
Most writers will tell you that story ideas are everywhere, but you know what’s really ubiquitous? Cell phones. When was the last time you went out that you didn’t see somebody with one? People talk while driving, grocery shopping, and watching their kids. They text during meetings and while getting their toenails painted. They check e-mail while waiting in line at McDonald’s. At any given moment, people are making dinner plans, sending sexy photos, complaining about traffic, and laughing at dirty jokes. And as far as I can tell, thousands are telling each other how bored they are.
One cell phone company has a series of commercials about things going on at any given moment, everything from the number of text messages being sent, to lovers breaking up, from how many people were listening to music on their phones to how many were using theirs as flashlights.
All that data is just floating through the air. Except it’s not just data—it’s a whole lot of emotion.
Some of it must have been floating in my direction when Mark asked me to write a story for this collection. I’m a big fan of urban fantasy, both reading it and writing it, but there’s so much good stuff out there that it’s hard to come up with something original. I’d done vampires, and werewolves, and even vampires dating werewolves, but I’d never done a witch of any description. If only I could come up with a different source of power for a witch.
A witch looking for power . . . cell phones filling the air with powerful emotions . . . is it any surprise that I made the connection?
FINE PRINT
DIANA ROWLAND
One second I was sitting on the couch in my living room, mentally rehearsing what I wanted to say to my girlfriend. The next second the house shook as my front door exploded inward.
I let out a shocked yell and jumped up from my spot on the couch as shards of wood scattered far into the front hallway. I started to grab for my phone to call 911, but stopped in mid reach as a tall, drop-dead gorgeous woman dressed in red leather strode through the smoking hole that used to be the doorframe. Silky black hair flowed about her like a living creature and rage permeated every fiber of her being as she flung something at me, striking me hard in the chest.
“Ow! Shit! What the hell?” I staggered back a step, making an awkward grab to catch the object.
“Jason, you worthless fuck!” the woman snarled. “It’s not in there. Where is it?”
I stared at her with a total lack of comprehension, then dropped my eyes to the thing that she’d thrown at me, bafflement increasing as I saw that it was a copy of Black Magick Stories—the magazine I edited. The October issue. I looked back up at the woman in shock as recognition abruptly clicked. “Rachel . . . ?” It was my girlfriend, but she sure looked different. Sexier. Taller.
Meaner.
Oh shit. I’d had an odd suspicion that my girlfriend was more than she seemed, that perhaps she was hiding something from me, but I hadn’t truly believed it could be anything that would allow her to change her appearance like this. I mean, why the hell would I? Some things were beyond the realm of rational thought.
I backed away from her, glad that the coffee table was between us. Not that it made a difference. She reached down and grabbed the table with one hand, flinging it against the wall as easily as tossing a pillow, then closed the distance between us before I could blink. In the next instant pain exploded through my face as she backhanded me hard enough to send me sprawling to the floor.
She had her boot planted in the middle of my chest before I could do more than let out a choked cry of shock. Under different circumstances I might have found it incredibly sexy. Right now I was scared shitless.
“You promised me my story would be in the Halloween issue!” Rachel raged, red flecks glowing in her crystal-blue eyes. “We had a contract!”
I let out an involuntary scream as she ground the point of her heel into my sternum. “I can explain!” I gabbled, terror beginning to overwhelm my confusion. “It’s in the November issue instead!”
“Halloween is in October, you fucking moron!” She bared her teeth in a snarl. “Damn you to all the hells!” To my immense relief she removed her boot from my chest and crouched beside me. I took several ragged gasping breaths as I struggled to work moisture back into my mouth.
“But at least I’ll have you to share the next few centuries with me,” she said, a cruel smile curving her lips. “Though I don’t think you’ll enjoy the time.”
* * *
I’d met Rachel at a science fiction convention earlier in the year, though I realize now that it had been far from a chance meeting. She’d no doubt orchestrated every aspect of our first encounter, even down to somehow giving the guy sitting next to me at the hotel bar a sudden case of the runs that had him dashing to the restroom.
She slid into the empty seat and gave me a smile that caught my attention. Hell, it wasn’t just her smile that did it—she was damn pretty, with long brown hair, blue eyes, and a slender figure. She wasn’t overly sexy—which was probably deliberate. If a model-gorgeous sex vixen had sat next to me, I’d have been too intimidated to even look at her, much less strike up a conversation. I also wasn’t exactly dressed for picking up hot sex vixens—my garb du jour was jeans and a “Fruity Oaty Bar” T-shirt.
“So,” she said with a cheeky grin, “is it true that sleeping with the editor is a viable way to get published?”
I blinked at her in shock for several seconds. Black Magick Stories was a small—though well-respected—fiction magazine, and this was the first time I’d ever heard anyone suggest a possible exchange of sexual favors for publication. And here was someone I might actually want to exchange sexual favors with. Though, of course, that would be totally unethical . . .
She tipped back her head and let out a delightful peal of laughter. “I’m so sorry, I just couldn’t resist. You looked so damn serious and in need of some shaking up.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Rachel. And don’t worry, I won’t ask you to publish any of my stories.”
I took her hand and shook it obligingly. Her humor was infectious instead of insulting, and I found myself smiling at her.
“So does this mean that you won’t sleep with me?” I cringed mentally as soon as the words were out of my mouth. I was never this forward, but to my relief she merely laughed again and winked.
“I’ll answer that question at a later time. How ’bout I buy you a drink instead?”
I grinned and lifted my nearly empty beer. “Now that’s the way to g
et published!”
* * *
By the second night of the convention she’d invited me to her hotel room. By the end of the convention I’d learned—to my delight—that, by bizarre coincidence, we lived in the same city. A week after we returned home she was firmly entrenched as my girlfriend, and I was in heaven.
* * *
I tried to make a dash for the door, but Rachel snagged me by my hair as easily as a mother dog snatching up a wayward puppy. “By all means, make this entertaining for me, Jason,” she hissed as she dragged me over to the wall. “You’ve ruined a great deal of careful planning, and I’m going to need to find some way to regain my usual calm.”
I clutched at her grip on my hair. “Rachel, wait . . . I can explain—” The rest of my sentence dissolved into a pained yelp as she hauled me upright. She lifted her other hand, and then suddenly she was holding a thick iron nail, six inches long and about a half inch in diameter.
My eyes widened as she raised the nail high. “Shit, Rachel, wait!”
Her lips pulled back from her teeth as her hand arced down toward me. I yelled something unintelligible and squeezed my eyes shut, every muscle in my body tensing in expectation of the feel of the metal driving into my flesh. A loud thunk rattled my teeth, but to my surprise there was no accompanying burst of agony anywhere in my body. I tentatively opened my eyes, legs almost shaking with relief to see that she’d driven the nail deep into the wall of my living room, over my head.
With her bare hands, I realized.
Oh shit. . . .
It took her less than a minute to strip me of my clothing and tie me by my wrists to the nail. I made another pathetic attempt to escape, but she was faster and stronger than I’d ever imagined. She was also barely recognizable as the woman I’d been dating. The basic features were the same, but this Rachel was several inches taller, much bustier, with a narrow waist, longer hair, plumper lips . . . exactly the kind of woman I’d never have been able to work up the nerve to talk to.
She stepped back and regarded me as I hung from the spike in the wall. “Well, this will do for a start,” she said with a shrug, full lips curving into a smile that made me want to run and hide under the bed. “And now for the real fun.”
* * *
My fingers clenched in the sheets and I gave an involuntary shudder as Rachel slowly stroked up the inside of my thigh. “You . . . are a tease,” I gasped, lifting my head enough to give her a shaky grin.
She responded with a laugh—not sultry and sexy, but one tinged with delight, as if she was amazed she could have this sort of effect on me.
“I take it you like what I’m doing?” she asked, giving me a mischievous smile.
“I’ll tell you in a few minutes,” I assured her.
She laughed again, just shy of a giggle, then lowered her head to let her tongue follow the path that her fingers had just traveled.
I groaned and let my head drop back, then sucked in my breath as she reached her destination. She seemed a little inexperienced, but she was eager and adventurous, and, truth be told, I was more comfortable and relaxed than if she’d been a seasoned pro in the sack.
But she was certainly good at what she doing right then and there. It seemed only minutes later that she brought me to the best damn orgasm I’d ever had in my life. I struggled to slow the slamming of my heart as she shifted up and snuggled into my side. She rested her head on my shoulder while I tried to catch my breath.
“You like that?” she murmured.
“Holy fuck,” I said with a shaky laugh. “You could say that.” I took a deep breath, fairly certain now that I wasn’t about to die of a heart attack, then kissed her lightly. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”
She shifted up to one elbow and gave me a grin. “Since I’m sleeping with you now, that means you’ll publish all my stories, right?”
I gave a mock groan of despair. “I knew it! You’re only dating me because you know that getting a story published in my fourth-tier magazine will bring you all the fame and fortune your heart desires.”
“Curses! You’ve figured out my evil plot,” she said, smacking me with a pillow. Then she leaned over and kissed me on the nose. “Don’t sell yourself short, honey. Black Magick Stories is at least third tier.”
“Bitch.” I smiled and pulled her down on top of me. “Seriously, though, why haven’t you let me see any of your stories?”
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “Perhaps I was waiting until I had you completely under my sexual spell?”
“I’m there, trust me,” I assured her. “Look, I can’t promise that I’ll put it in the magazine, but I’ll at least give you an honest critique.”
A strange fury flickered in her eyes, so quickly that I wasn’t even sure I’d seen it. Then in the next second she leaned down and kissed me again, thoroughly enough that I completely forgot about the odd flash of anger. “Of course, baby,” she murmured against my lips. “I understand perfectly. I’ll do whatever I need to do to get a story in your magazine.”
* * *
“I know what you are,” I managed to croak out. “Y-you’re a greater demon,” I continued, my breath coming in labored pants as she trailed her sharp fingernails up the inside of my thigh. I was pretty sure she was drawing blood. My hands were already going numb from the ropes on my wrists, and my shoulders were on fire from the position I’d been tied in, but a sudden realization briefly distracted me from my physical predicament. “Oh my god. You need people to read your story so that you c-can come through and establish power on earth.”
She paused the progress of her nails, to my relief. “And how did you figure that out?”
Shit. There went the sliver of hope that she’d deny it and I could keep pretending this wasn’t happening. “Google,” I gasped. “That poem . . . the one you insisted be untouched. I . . . I looked it up.”
“Clever boy,” she said, rewarding me with a tight smile. “Yes, I wish to establish a presence on earth and wield my full power while here. All I need is that one passage to be read . . . aloud . . . by a number of oblivious humans.”
I gave a jerky nod. “Right, a-and you figured the readers of my magazine would do that?” I hated the way my voice shook, but at least she wasn’t hurting me at the moment.
She shrugged. “Enough would.”
“Why couldn’t you just . . . make people read it?”
“No direct coercion is allowed in any stage of the process,” she replied. “Incentives and encouragement are permitted.” She gripped my hair at the back of my head and kissed me hard and deep, grinding herself against me. My whimper shifted to a groan as my body responded. This was pathetic. Here I was, about to die in some sort of hideous fashion, and I was getting turned on.
She released me and then crouched before me. A second later, I jerked at the feel of her tongue on my thigh, slowly working upward. I had a sick feeling she was licking up the blood that her nails had drawn, but my dick didn’t seem to care, and by the time she made it up there I was at full attention. I expected her to do something vicious, but to my shock I felt her mouth slide over me.
“Oh fuck,” I whimpered, squeezing my eyes shut as she continued to work me with her mouth and tongue. I was shaking, as much from what she was doing as from the terror of what she could do to me in this position. But she merely continued to stroke and suck until I was gasping and shaking, right on the brink of coming.
And then she stopped, leaving me practically keening in need. She laughed and pulled away, then stood while my dick throbbed and I whimpered like a helpless idiot. “And you, my darling Jason,” she said with a throaty laugh, “were very easy to encourage.”
* * *
I looked up at Rachel over the last page of her manuscript. “Honey, this is”—I shook my head in amazement—“this is an incredible story.”
A broad smile stretched across her face. “You think it’s good? So you’ll publish it?”
“It’s a fantastic story!” I said fervently. “But, as much as it pains me to say it, you should try and sell this to one of the bigger magazines.”
She shook her head slowly, eyes staying on me. “No, I want it in yours.”
“Then I’m one hell of a lucky guy,” I said. “Where’d you learn to write like that?”
“Oh, I didn’t write it,” she said with a casual shrug. “I used threats of torture and coerced an award-winning author into writing it for me.”
I laughed at the joke. “Hey, whatever works, right?”
She grinned. “Whatever works. So you’ll publish it?”
I gave an emphatic nod. “Hell yeah. It just needs a couple of tweaks. I’m not so sure about that poem in the middle and the bit where you tell the reader to say it aloud—”
A heartbeat later she was pulling the manuscript out of my hands and straddling me. “No changes,” she said, nuzzling my neck and lightly nipping my earlobe.
I exhaled and dropped my head back. “Mmm . . . I suppose I could be encouraged to leave it as it is.”
She gave a throaty laugh and slid a hand beneath my shirt. “And you’ll put it in the Halloween issue?”
A shudder raced across my body and I could feel my nipple harden against her touch. Other parts of me were beginning to harden as well. “Um, sure, yeah. Halloween.”
She unzipped my pants and began to slowly fondle me. “Can we go ahead and do the contract now?”
“Right now?” My voice might have squeaked a little.
She slid a hand into my hair, then pulled my head back and kissed me hard. “Right now, baby,” she purred. “I just have a couple of details that need to be included. Let’s get the technicalities out of the way, and then I can show you how grateful I am.”
* * *
“But I don’t understand why you’re so angry!” I finally managed to say. “I fulfilled the contract. The story will be published, just like you wanted.”
The Wild Side: Urban Fantasy with an Erotic Edge Page 10