by Sierra Dafoe
Jack-O-Lantern: Witch Hunting
Sierra Dafoe
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2006 Sierra Dafoe
No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file copying or sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Changeling Press LLC. Willful violation of this policy will result in suspension of account privileges and will lead to prosecution.
WARNING: Illegal files may contain viruses.
ISBN (10) 1-59596-565-3
ISBN (13) 978-1-59596-565-3
Formats Available:
HTML, Adobe PDF,
MobiPocket, Microsoft Reader
Publisher:
Changeling Press LLC
PO Box 1046
Martinsburg, WV 25402-1046
www.ChangelingPress.com
Editor: Chrissie Henderson
Cover Artist: Bryan Keller
This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
Chapter One
Impatiently, Zlon pulled Kima to him. His masterful hands closed on the lush, ripe melons she meekly offered to his view.
“Ah, yes,” he breathed. “Now that is more like it, Lady of Dumas.”
No. It wasn’t. Why was it always the same? Strong, smart, spunky heroine -- right until she met some enormous asshole with an enormous dick. Then, after a few chapters of sparring, in which the heroine (in this case the tall, tempestuous Lady of Dumas) proved herself the equal of the warrior-king who’d abducted her, she invariably caved. Crumbled like a child’s sandcastle under wave after wave of alpha-spunk.
Typical.
And Rianna hadn’t reached for her vibrator once.
She chucked the book across the loft. It hit the far wall with a satisfying thump and fell to the floor, its pages as splayed as the heroine’s thighs were about to be. Sighing, Rianna rolled onto her stomach, rested her sharp little chin on her folded arms, and stared at herself in the mirrors lining the wall across from the bed.
She was certainly no Kima Dumas with her willowy frame, her long, lithe legs, her flowing auburn hair. For one thing, she was short. For another, she would never be stupid enough to let her orgasms rule her. A little passionate rough-and-tumble, hell, even a bit of feeling overpowered might be nice once in a while -- but let’s face it, even after all the mind-blowing sex and the tormented declarations of love, the assholes would still be assholes. Thanks, but no thanks.
Rianna smiled at her reflection, watching her dark eyes take on a certain mysterious smolder beneath her chopped ebony bangs. No, she was definitely no Kima Dumas. Small, cat-like features set in a broad, almost Slavic face. Her cheeks… She sucked them in experimentally, then let out an exasperated breath. Yup. Decidedly chubby.
The nebulous restlessness she’d felt all day still plagued her. It was partly the season, she knew. Fall always made her feel jittery, impatient, her blood singing through her veins under the impetus of the changing seasons and the crisp, cool air. But there’d been something else, too, that afternoon. Something like the sensation of cool fingers trailing down the back of her neck. A sensation of being watched, observed…
Rianna shook her head. That was nonsense. She was just horny, that was all. Well, Lady Kima and asshole Zlon hadn’t done anything to relieve it. Hell with them.
The unused vibrator tumbled to the floor as she rose and pulled on the jeans she’d so hopefully discarded. Reaching for her leather jacket, Rianna gave her hair a quick tousle, stomped into her boots, and clomped down from the loft.
It was definitely time for a hunt.
* * *
A lazy half-moon floated above the waters of Portland Bay as she strode down Fore Street. It was a gorgeous night, cool and clear, with a sharp nip in the air. Under the amber glow of the streetlights, the trees blazed with autumnal colors. A seagull cried somewhere out over the moon-painted water, and Rianna lifted her head, breathing in the sharp salt tang of the air.
Halfway to the Underground, she stopped abruptly. Shit. She hadn’t gone to the bank this morning. Drawing out her wallet, she glared at the four crumpled bills inside as if it were somehow their fault she’d forgotten. Damn. Well, she’d just have to replenish her resources.
There was a 7-Eleven three blocks over. She strode up toward Congress Street, pushed open the door of the convenience store, and went in. A sour-looking, sallow-faced old guy stood behind the register, watching a couple of giggling teenage girls trying on cheap plastic sunglasses as he waited on a pimply, punked-out kid in a green mohawk and flannel shirt, buying scratch tickets.
No one she knew. Good enough.
She waited while Mohawk paid for his tickets, then slid in front of the counter, trailing her hand over the heavy glass covering the ticket display. “So which do ya want?” The geezer, looking intensely bored, reached for a one-dollar game with lobsters on it. “We got Lobster Pot, Lucky Strike, Tic Tac Dough…”
“That one.” Rianna pointed, pulling out her crumpled bills. “Give me two, no, three of them.”
The first one, she knew, was a winner -- twenty dollars, at a guess. She’d long ago stopped wondering how she knew. She just did. But she’d learned, over the years, to buy a few clunkers each time. Otherwise it looked bad.
She scratched the two losers off first, while Mohawk, smelling faintly of hair-dye and clove cigarettes, bought five more. He glanced over as she scratched off the twenty-dollar one.
“Wow. Guess you got all the luck tonight.”
She smiled at him blandly, handed the winning ticket back to the cashier. “Give me…” Again, she trailed her hand over the glass, tapped it twice. “Two of those, and four of the Lobster Pots.”
Mohawk watched curiously as she scratched off her tickets. A five, a twenty, and a fifty. “Holy shit!”
She handed them back to the clerk who scowled as he gave her the winnings -- and no wonder, Rianna thought, I probably just won half of what he makes in a week. Shoving the bills into her pocket, she gave him a brilliant smile. “I better quit while I’m ahead, huh?”
Ignoring his glower, she headed for the door, only to find Mohawk already pulling it open for her. “How’d you do that?”
“I’m a witch.” Absolutely deadpan. She pushed by him, but he followed her out onto the sidewalk like a persistent puppy.
“Yeah? Me, too!” Fumbling through the mass of chains and pendants around his scrawny neck, he held one up. “See?”
As if. Rianna rolled her eyes. “That’s an ankh.” He looked at her blankly. “You know, an ankh. Egyptian symbol of life?”
“No shit? Wow.” He tilted his chin to gaze down at the cheesy amulet. “Chick that sold it to me told me it was like this Wiccan goddess symbol. Or something.”
Oh, ye gods. “I don’t think so. Have a good night.” Turning on her heel, Rianna strode away. Maybe it was his threadbare shirt, giving out at the elbows, that made her call back, “And go buy the next three Lucky Strikes before someone else does.”
She didn’t bother looking back to see if he followed her advice.
* * *
She wasn’t a Wiccan. She didn’t actually know what she was. “Witch” seemed about right, though.
It was sort of a voice inside her -- no. It was more like there was this internal magnet, one she could turn on at will. And when she did, she drew things. Scratch tickets, jobs when she had to or when
they interested her, which wasn’t often. The seals in the harbor -- she liked watching them, swimming just off the docks in the quiet hour before dawn, their soft brown eyes gazing up at her, curious and unafraid.
And men. Most definitely men.
She could hear the music pounding long before she reached the club, the heavy bass seeming to vibrate through the pavement beneath her feet. Rianna smiled in anticipation, and trotted down the concrete steps to the Underground’s entrance.
It was her favorite haunt -- a long, dark cave of a dance club, tucked in the basement of an old shipping warehouse down near the docks. The kind of place where you could see men dancing with men, women necking with women, grinning, fresh-faced boys from the University of Maine watching avidly and then, later, finding themselves on the dance floor, the center of a guy on guy on guy sandwich, with no recollection of how they’d gotten there and with a raging hard-on.
It was an interesting place, the kind of no-holds-barred club where even a for-lack-of-a-better-term witch could slide under the radar, unnoticed except by those she wanted to notice her.
And they always did. Whatever it was, magnetism or magic or the power of positive thinking, they always noticed her. Rianna smiled again, pulled open the door, and went in.
Chapter Two
The music thudded around her as she paid the bouncer, pushed through the heavy velvet curtaining the foyer and made her way through the swirl of warm, sweaty bodies. A muscle-bound blond giant behind the bar sporting a leather vest and biker cap looked up, saw her, and automatically started mixing a Bombay and tonic.
“Heya, Hank,” she called. “Any live ones tonight?”
As he set her glass in front of her, he gave her a mock-scowl. “That one from back in August was in looking for you again last week.”
Rianna grimaced, hopping a bit to get onto the tall bar stool. Why didn’t they ever just go away? There was a certain irony in the situation she had to admit. For all her lack of height and rather more than ample curves, Rianna had long ago realized she could get any man she wanted.
The problem was, she’d never found one she wanted to keep.
Glancing at Hank’s cap, she asked, “Eighties flashback, there, or what?”
“Don’t mock the mixer, short stuff. You know, one of these days you’re gonna attract the wrong guy, Ree.” His level gaze was carefully neutral, but Rianna sensed a genuine concern behind the words.
“What? Stalker? Serial killer? Beggarman? Thief?”
“I’m serious.”
Rianna leaned over the bar counter, grinning unrepentantly, and whispered in Hank’s ear. “That’s why I never actually take them home.” Nor did she. Her waterfront loft was her castle, her sanctuary. Let a man in there? Rianna snorted. Not bloody likely. “I am careful, Hank. But why buy the whole pig when all you want’s a little sausage?”
At that, Hank threw his head back and laughed. Rianna smiled at him, sipped her drink, and turned to survey the room.
She’d developed rules, long ago. No married men. No guys with a date (except that once -- but the woman had been a busty, snotty, worship-my-perfect-ass bitch who totally deserved the comeuppance). There was no sense disrupting an actual relationship just so she could scratch an itch. And that’s all it had ever turned out to be.
Until now.
He was standing near the dance floor, turned half away from her, his thumbs hooked in the pocket of his jeans. A cascade of sun-bleached, wavy hair fell over his shoulders. Broad shoulders. Nice, broad, strong shoulders.
Oh, yeah.
The light almost seemed to glow around him, even in the spangled shadows of the club. She could see the curve of his cheekbone, the small dimple in the rounded muscle of his shoulder, his hair falling thick and soft down his back like silk. He was wearing a Guns N’ Roses t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Normally, the logo would have put her off, right there -- but not this time. Not with those arms. She studied the bulge of his triceps, the solid muscles of his forearms, feeling heat like a glow in the pit of her stomach. Her head swam, and Rianna realized her crotch was suddenly, unmistakably damp.
This wasn’t how it went. How it went was a guy caught her fancy, she smiled, and then they came to her. Puzzled, grinning confusedly -- but they came. Bought her a drink. Asked her name. All she had to do was make eye contact, smile, and then sit there and wait, feeling that internal generator humming along…
Not this time.
Rianna stared, devouring him with her eyes as she slid off the barstool and circled behind him. It was almost as if she’d been trapped in a vacuum, pulled without volition into his orbit by a force as irresistible and intangible as gravity. Her glass, forgotten, hung in her hand as her gaze moved over his shoulders, his broad back, his utterly squeezable ass…
Dear sweet Jesus, Rianna thought, if he’s this pretty from the front, I am in big trouble.
What the hell was happening here? Her pulse thudded in her ears, keeping time with the throbbing between her thighs. The lips of her cunt swelled, growing almost unbearably sensitive, sending a fresh jolt of lust through her each time she moved.
Then he turned around.
Rianna could feel herself gaping like a fish on dry land -- her eyes popped out like saucers, her mouth hanging open. God, how tall was he? Six-two, six-three? She stared at the ragged v cut into the front of his shirt, revealing a chest as tanned as his shoulders. Her head, if he drew her to him, would rest right there, right on the glorious swell of his pecs.
He was regarding her, a half-smile on his lips -- his full, finely shaped lips. “Hi,” he said. And waited.
First, Rianna realized she was drooling. Next, that she hadn’t replied. And then, after she’d swallowed twice and mustered a weak smile in response to his, she noticed his eyes were exactly the blue of an October sky -- and totally forgot about everything else.
His smile widened. Holding her gaze, he motioned with his head toward the exit, smiled invitingly, put his beer on the bar, and walked away.
Rooted to the spot, she stared blindly after him. What the hell was this? She’d seen -- and had -- men as good-looking as this one, more handsome even. But never had she felt like this -- like it was taking every ounce of control she had not to throw herself after him, rip his clothes off, and fuck him right there on the black painted floor. Looking down at the glass in her hands, Rianna realized her hands were shaking. What was wrong with her?
Suddenly the club seemed foreign, menacing. People leered at her, wet mouths gaping in demonic smiles from the swirling lights. On the dance floor, couples and trios writhed in time to the music, their faces flushed with arousal, their bodies intertwined. One woman turned her head to snake her tongue into the mouth of the man dancing behind her, grinding his erection against her ass as he fondled her breasts through her fishnet top. One dark pink nipple, taut and erect, poked out between the gaps.
Rianna shook her head, took a gulp of her drink -- the ice was melting rapidly -- and swallowed it with a shudder of aversion. It tasted oily, over-sweet, and she set the glass hurriedly on the bar before it could slide from her sweaty grasp. The sensation she’d had earlier -- fingers tickling the nape of her neck, distant eyes covertly watching -- was back, stronger than before. She looked around wildly, her gaze darting into dark corners, flicking over the gyrating dancers, scanning faces.
Nothing. There was nothing.
This evening was freaking her out.
She stared across the room to where he leaned against the wall near the exit, watching her with the lazy curiosity of a cat.
One of these days you’re gonna attract the wrong guy.
But she hadn’t. She hadn’t.
She could feel his gaze tugging at her, as if there was a line of current strung between his eyes and her crotch. Her clit ached, and she had to fight an urge to rock her hips, press the swollen nub against the inseam of her jeans. Her nipples had contracted into hard, sensitized points, pressing painfully against the lace of her bra. F
ire seemed to lick over her skin, making her shudder with desire. And he’d never even touched her!
Desperately, Rianna fought against the waves of lust pouring through her, trying to think. No way had he been around earlier, when she’d felt that curious, watchful gaze. And she didn’t feel it now, either. As suddenly as it had come, the sensation was gone.
Her arousal, however, wasn’t.
Who the hell was he? Well, damn it, she’d just go and find out.
She cut directly through the dancers, ignoring their glares. The man watched her approach, his eyes somehow different than they’d been a moment before. They weren’t as intense, for one thing -- the blue of his irises seemed clearer, less magnetic but more alert. His smile, too, had changed -- it was less cocky, less self-assured, but somehow all the more attractive for that. He seemed vaguely puzzled as he watched her stalk toward him and plant her hands on her hips. “Hi.” It annoyed her that she had to tilt her head so far back to look up at him.
“Hi.” He gazed down at her, his expression bemused, as if he didn’t know quite where he was or what he was doing here.
“So who are you, anyway?”
For a second, his eyes seemed to glaze, growing vacant, expressionless. It was almost like he’d disappeared, or something. Like she was suddenly talking to a mannequin. Creepy.
Was he on drugs?
But then the cerulean blaze came back, and his lips curved in a knowing smile. “Does it really matter?”
“What? Of course it --”
She broke off as he slid an arm about her waist, drawing her to him. Saliva flooded her mouth, and Rianna became aware of his thighs, full and firm, brushing against her crotch, his erection nudging the curve of her waist. Her breath hung suspended as he bent his head to hers, holding her pinned with his intense gaze, and pressed those soft, mobile lips against her own. Heat radiated from him, enveloping her, consuming…
Finally, he broke the kiss and murmured, his voice rich with amusement, “Does it matter now?”