The Impetuous Amazon

by Sandy James

  Like that’s a surprise.

  She couldn’t remember the last decent meal she’d eaten. She was always too busy to do anything except live on Taco Bell or White Castle. Both places stayed open twenty-four hours, although their food gave her a perpetual stomachache. When she managed to find time to go to the grocery store, she usually walked out with potato chips and beer. If there was anything green in that kitchen, it was probably mold.

  “You need to take better care of yourself.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I mean it, Megan. You’ve got a tough job. You need to eat right and exercise every day. And you need to get some sleep.” He’d snuck up behind her and grabbed the remote right out of her hand. The television screen went black. “It’s after midnight. There’s nothing more we can do tonight.”

  “Who do you think you are?” she asked, glaring up at him.

  “Your Sentinel.”

  His smug grin was more than she could take. A burst of sparks shot from her hair.

  “See? You’re exhausted. Otherwise, you’d be able to control your powers.”

  Megan wanted to throw something heavy at him. “You’re not my Sentinel.”

  “The hell I’m not. I’m here to take care of you.”

  The pillow hit Johann in the face, and she was out of chair and heading toward the bathroom before he could follow.

  “I can take care of myself,” she called back over her shoulder. She slammed the door and turned on the shower. “I won’t cry. I won’t cry, damn it.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  The tears couldn’t be stopped. She’d fought them since they’d found the bodies at Aunt Tillie’s Self-Storage, since the instant she realized her intuition was right.

  As usual.

  She flipped on the faucet and flushed the toilet, hoping the sounds would drown out the sobs slipping from her lips. She’d been too late. She hadn’t saved Ashley Douglass. Just like she hadn’t saved Hector Fuentes when Jimmy Duncan had shot him.

  What had her partner been thinking?

  She asked herself that question every damn day, wondering if she could have done something—anything—to prevent Hector’s death. If Jimmy had only listened to her. If she’d only made him listen to her. Hector was nothing but a scared kid Megan had been trying to keep out of a gang. The gun was just a show of how “manly” he was. She knew he wouldn’t use it. He would have surrendered if she’d insisted her partner give him some space and a little time to think over the situation.

  But Jimmy wanted to show exactly how big his balls were, and he wasn’t about to take advice from his partner—especially his female partner. He’d taken the shots before Megan could stop him. Hector was dead before he hit the floor.

  She’d turned in her badge the next day, unable to come to terms with watching a fifteen-year-old boy die for no reason except her partner’s macho pride. She’d walked away from a career she knew would bring nothing but more situations where she had no control, where she was pushed aside because she was a woman. She’d never seen Jimmy Duncan again.

  Once Megan’s temper took full flight, the tears stopped and the sparks started. She stripped her clothes with heated fingers, knowing she was charring another shirt and hoping the smoke wouldn’t alert Johann to her sorry emotional state. She stepped into the shower, drowning the angry flames now shooting from her hair and hands.

  The last time she’d been this upset was back when Rebecca talked to her about Sparks’s death. Megan had shape-shifted into a hawk without any warning. Luckily, only Rebecca had seen the transformation and had sworn to keep the secret that Megan had lost control.

  God, what would Johann do if she became a red-tail right now?

  She turned her face to the water, letting the slow pounding of the shower massage soothe her. Time slipped by until she heard the loud knock.

  “You okay?” Johann called through the door.

  “Fine.”

  After washing her hair, she gave her body a quick soaping and rinsed off. Stepping out of the stall, she grabbed a towel from the rack and wrapped it like a turban around her hair. After she dried her skin with another towel, she cocooned herself in the terrycloth, tucking the end between her breasts.

  Thankfully, Johann wasn’t standing right outside the bathroom. Before she could slip into her room, she heard his call.

  “Come here for a minute.”

  With an exhausted sigh, she went to the blue bedroom. He had scooted back on the bed so his shoulders rested against the wall and his computer sat on his lap. Dressed in only a gray T-shirt and blue plaid boxers, he was far too appealing for her to ignore. As usual, his fingers flew over the keyboard. She had no idea a man could ever learn to type that fast.

  Without looking up, he said, “I found some interesting stuff about Maksim Popov.”

  “Like what?” Her curiosity forced her to pay attention despite her overwhelming fatigue.

  She crawled up on the bed and knelt next to him to look at the computer screen.

  * * *

  Johann froze, gaping at Megan and wondering if she thought he was made of stone. The towel holding her hair came loose.

  She pulled it away and rubbed the dampness out of her long, red hair. The towel tucked between those gorgeous breasts was precariously close to coming undone too.

  His mouth went dry.

  She didn’t seem to notice her disheveled and entirely irresistible appearance. “Well?”

  “Well, what?” he asked.

  She frowned.

  He was surprised he noticed the expression on her face because he sure hadn’t been staring that far north.

  “What did you find, Joeman?”

  He took a deep, ragged breath and forced himself to look back at the laptop. “The guy had an extended run at the Paramount. It’s kind of unusual, but he’s been there almost every weekend the last two months. All sellouts. The string ends in a couple of nights, then he’s off on some national tour.”

  “I listen to the radio all the time.” She dropped the towel she’d been using to dry her hair on the bed and ran her fingers through the tangled locks.

  It was one of the sexiest things he’d ever seen.

  “How come I’ve never heard of him?” she asked.

  Pulling the computer a little higher up on his lap, Johann hoped to hell Megan didn’t see his physical reaction to her. He wanted her. Desperately.

  Everything about her appealed to him. That pert, freckled nose. Those full, sensuous lips. Her smooth skin that was never hidden by unnecessary makeup.

  The scent of her citrus shampoo drifted around him, making him want to bury his hands in the damp hair, pull her to him and kiss her senseless.

  No doubt she’d taste fantastic. Would she throw sparks if he touched her? Would she smolder if he made love to her? The woman had so much power, so much energy, she would possess enough passion to consume a man. Literally.

  That was a sobering thought.

  “Well?” Megan’s annoyed tone was enough to help break him out of his ludicrous fantasies.

  “Well, what?” He hadn’t meant to snap at her again.

  “Do you have ADD or something? You seem to have problem paying attention. I said I listen to music all the time. How come I haven’t heard of him?”

  He tried to focus on business, but she was too close. “Um—his recordings only hit the market a few months ago. The songs sold like wildfire.” He grinned. “If you’ll excuse the pun.”

  The warmth of her responding smile hit him so viscerally he sucked in some air. While he liked to treat his time in the Army as though it never happened, now Johann thanked his drill sergeant. The torturous basic training gave him discipline and helped him push aside thoughts of Megan to focus on the creepy phenomenon that was Maksim Popov.


  “He literally came out of nowhere,” Johann said. “Everything he’s released has skipped right up the charts. Right now, he’s got—” he checked the list again, “—the first, second, third, fifth, sixth and eighth songs out of the Billboard top ten. It’s unheard of.”

  “It’s magical,” she announced in an authoritative voice. “That’s the only way to explain it. The guy’s got the backing of some god. Or some demon.”

  “We don’t know that. You’re jumping to conclusions. He could just be really good.” He opened a media file and started playing Popov’s latest release.

  They sat quietly for a moment listening to a song about the beauty of nature. Sure didn’t seem like anything all that damned special.

  Then Johann saw the change.

  Megan’s eyes glassed over as she sat absolutely mesmerized. He waved a hand in front of her face—she didn’t flinch. The towel tucked between her breasts started to fall open. He grabbed it, hoping to spare her some embarrassment and himself some agony. The action broke the spell.

  “Hey! What are you doing?” She yanked the towel back and slapped his helping hand away.

  “Your towel was falling off.”

  Oh yeah, that sounded sincere.

  He tried to turn the conversation. “I lost you there for a minute. Where did you go?”

  “Go? What are you talking about?” She tucked the end of the towel in again, picked up the second towel and held it in front of her like a shield. Backing off the bed, she threw him a chastising glare.

  “You zoned out.”

  “I—I did?” Her voice quavered.

  He nodded and pulled a new website up. “I think you’re right. There’s something more than musical talent going on here. We need to check this out. Here.” He turned the computer to face her and pointed to the monitor. “There’s a big reception for him on Saturday at the Art Institute of Chicago. Some dinner and dance thing. We should go.”

  “A big party for a celebrity three days from now? Oh, I’m sure that’s easy to get invited to. Not.”

  The barb didn’t sting, because she had no idea the miracles he could perform with the technological power Rhiannon had put at his fingertips. He turned the computer back to face him and did his magic.

  After only a few moments, he gave her a smug grin and shut the laptop. “We’re in.”

  Those gorgeous blue eyes widened. “In?”

  “In. On the invite list. We’re going to that ball.”

  * * *

  After she returned to her room, Megan slipped on some red panties and an oversized black T-shirt. She brushed through the tangled mess of her hair, wondering if she should just cut it and be done with it. Her Air sister, Gina, had hair short enough it spiked in every direction. It was cute and so much more no-nonsense than the thick red tresses that spilled down Megan’s back. Demons didn’t seem to realize that a woman, even an Amazon, needed some time to look her best. Kneeling on the bed, she grabbed her blow-dryer, flipped her head upside down and dried her hair.

  When she righted herself, she almost fell off the bed. Sparks flew from her fingertips at the surprise visitor. At least she’d held back the damaging flames that threatened to explode from her palms in a reflexive defense.

  “Freya! You scared the shit out of me.”

  The goddess chuckled, the sound echoing through the room like the tinkling of wind chimes. She was in her typical medieval gown, this one ice-blue. Enormous diamonds were draped around her wrists and throat. “I came with a gift for my Fire.”

  Megan set the blow-dryer aside. “You didn’t have to—”

  Freya crinkled her nose. “Pish-posh. ’Tis little enough you ask of your goddess. I wanted you to have something special to wear for the gathering.”

  “You mean the one we just got tickets for? How did—”

  “You forget, my child. I am an Ancient. I know all things.” Freya’s eyes twinkled.

  Not wanting to anger her goddess, Megan bit her cheek to keep from reminding Freya she could have told them Ashley and the other girls were dead. She didn’t want to think about whether Freya could have prevented the murders.

  The patron goddesses were all big bundles of contradiction. They offered help, but only on their own terms and when they deemed it worthy of their time. Probably nothing short of boredom would prompt them to give the Amazons a hand. Perhaps their immortality kept them from understanding exactly how precious human life was.

  Freya snapped her fingers. A dress appeared on the bed. “For you, my darling.”

  Beware goddesses bearing gifts.

  Artair’s voice echoed in Megan’s mind. He’d always warned the Amazons to be cautious on that matter, because there were always strings attached.

  This time, she ignored his advice. The dress was absolutely beautiful, and she hoped she would look nice in it. Maybe nice enough Johann would take notice of something other than what he considered to be her inadequacies. Grabbing the impossibly thin straps, she lifted it off the bed.

  The dress was covered in red crystal beads that glittered with each movement. A delicate geometric pattern of white beads drew attention to the bodice. As she held it up, it became clear that straps weren’t really straps. They were simply there to hold the strapless dress on a hanger.

  This outfit was meant to draw attention, probably more than she’d want at a reception for a man she feared was involved in the deaths of at least four girls. “Wow, Freya. It’s beautiful. But I can’t—”

  “Aye, you can.”

  The goddess blinked. A black velvet box appeared in her outstretched hands. She opened the lid and turned the box for Megan to see. Ruby and diamond earrings rested against the soft material.

  “Oh, Freya. They’re lovely.” Megan brushed her fingers over the jewels. “But I can’t accept—”

  “Aye, Megan Feurer, you can. You must let him know you are a beautiful woman.”

  “But Maksim Popov—”

  Freya waved her hand. “I speak not of him. I have no doubt you will attract his attention as well as the attention of all the men at the gathering. I speak of your Sentinel.”

  “Amazons aren’t supposed to…be with Sentinels. It’s a rule.”

  “’Twas not my rule. ’Twas spun by a jealous goddess who sought to have her ego built up by handsome Sentinels. Until Artair MacKay, the poor men were no better than courtesans.”

  “But Rhiannon—”

  “Hmpf. Leave her to me. She opened this door by allowing her Earth to marry Artair MacKay. She may not cry foul now. Besides, my dear, you have a ball to attend.”

  Chapter Six

  “You’ve gotten better.” Johann wiped off the sweat on his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

  Probably should have worn short sleeves.

  He’d underestimated Megan. She’d always been the strongest of the women, especially when wielding her sword. But he was still a better swordsman. Artair MacKay had seen to training Johann personally so that he would be able to match the Amazons.

  Right now, she was beating him. He’d be damned if he’d let that happen.

  Had she set out to distract him? Perhaps that explained her workout clothes. Nothing but a black sports bra and black jogging shorts. Perspiration beaded on her skin, plastering her hair to her temples, trickling between her breasts and—

  “Joeman!”

  “What?”

  “Pay attention.” She swished her sword in front of her. “You wouldn’t want to get hurt.”

  “Come and get me.” He took a fighting stance.

  And so it began. Thrusts, parries, advances, retreats. Until both of them were huffing for breath.

  But neither would give in.

  Just when Johann was sure he couldn’t take another moment of the fig
ht, Megan took a bad step. One good swing with his aching arm, and her sword flew out of her hands. He took advantage of her surprise to sweep her feet out from under her, knocking her to the floor.

  Lowering his sword, he smirked at her. “Gotcha.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I want a rematch.”

  She had to be full of bravado if she felt as bad as he did. His muscles trembled already, and if they fought again, he’d get his ass handed back to him. “Another day.”

  The cardinal mistake was turning his back to grab his towel. Damn, but she was fast, and before he could grasp the towel, he had an enraged Fire Amazon on his back. She snaked her arm around his neck while she circled his hips with her legs.

  Johann dropped his sword and flipped her over his shoulder. While he wanted to excuse his slamming her to the floor as a defensive reflex, he knew better. There was no way Megan was leaving this training session without knowing she wasn’t invincible. Humility would be the lesson of the day.

  Then he saw the pain on her face. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to drop you so hard.”

  He hadn’t meant to apologize, wanting to be a tough-nose Sentinel.

  She grimaced as she pushed herself up. “I think you fractured my ribs.”

  Channeling his former drill sergeant, he squelched another apology. “You’ll heal.” He offered his hand to help her up.

  She smacked it away. Had she not been so clearly exhausted, flickers would be shooting out of her hair. Oh, yes, she looked that pissed.

  “Let’s hang it up. You’re exhausted.”

  “Fuck that.” On her feet, she grabbed her sword. “Let’s go again, Joeman.”

  “What about your ribs?”

  “I exaggerated. C’mon. Let’s tangle.”

  “Nope.”

  His phone chimed a message, a welcome distraction.

  It wasn’t a text but an alarm—one of the great advantages of having magical help. His little miracle constantly monitored the Internet and local news, searching for anything out of the ordinary that could involve a demon or need an Amazonian intervention. This alarm came as a surprise.