Watergirl

by Juliann Whicker

  “Oh, yes,” he said, nodding as he rubbed the tip of his nose against my cheek. “You couldn’t see for a week. I’ve never seen such a colorful black eye.”

  “Huh.” I tentatively put my hand on his knee, feeling the solid flesh and bone beneath his wet jeans. “That’s a long time to think someone’s an idiot.”

  “It is,” he agreed, brushing my hair away from my face. “If it hasn’t gone away by now, it might be permanent.”

  I swallowed, leaning against him while his hands smoothed down to my neck to my shoulders.

  “What about your whole, ‘I don’t need anyone to tell me how to live my life’ thing?”

  He smiled as he leaned close to me, his breath swirling across my skin.

  “You’re welcome to try.”

  * * *

  First of all, thanks goes out to you, my readers. Thank you for reading, sharing and reviewing my books. I'd be at ground zero without you.

  I would like to thank all those who helped me create Watergirl: Prose 3 who had invaluable insight into grammatical and plot issues, Angie for loving Sean almost as much as I do, Jamie, for your meticulous editing work along with your stories of Japanese mermaids which started this whole thing beside the manatee tank.

  My sweet husband, John, you're my hero and the best live-in editor/formatter I could hope for. Nothing I make would be as good without you.

  To my God who makes all things possible.

  Juliann was born and raised in South Central Utah-the desert-and currently lives in the beautiful city of St. Louis. She studied, among more than a few other things, Creative Writing and Fine Art at the University of Utah. She also enjoys gardening, sewing, painting, fabric sculpture, and whatever else shiny crafty you can think of.

  Hang out with her online:

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  Read on for a look at House of Slide: Hotblood, Book one in Juliann Whicker's House of Slide series.

  Chapter 1~Lewis

  “It’s been too long, boy,” Old Peter said, looking up at me. I stood on the worn wooden floor of the hall and let the screen door snap shut behind me. I glanced around the small house purposefully avoiding his gaze, focusing instead on the faded wallpaper peeling behind the door. Calling me boy was one of his favorite ways to irritate me.

  In one of Old Peter’s large, gnarled hands he held a knotted brown cane. I gritted my teeth as I studied the cane, the way he clung to it as he sat at the table off the kitchen. The cane was a part of Old Peter, but usually it was leaning against a wall, a warning, not ready in his hand. I looked around the room again, more carefully this time but I saw the same dull brown paper, the small adjoining kitchen with its ancient appliances, then the table. I took a deep, even breath as I stared at the table and the deck of creased, well-used cards spread across the warped wooden surface. I ignored the knot developing in my stomach even as those huge hands gathered them up, clumsy as he shuffled them into a pile.

  “Nice hand,” I said, sounding casual however much I wanted to raise my voice. Old Peter had trained me, had treated me like a son of sorts. I respected him, loved him even, but I did not trust him. In my world, trust is the last thing you do with the people you love. The cards were obsolete, showing the four suits like they still existed. Obsolete, but my profile had been painted on one of them.

  “Practically apocalyptic,” he said as he shuffled the cards into the pocket of his worn brown trench coat that didn’t fit him anymore. He was dressed for going; he’d only been waiting for me.

  I edged towards the fridge around him, the sudden need for sustenance occurring at the same time I broke into a sweat. “Do you have anything to eat?”

  The chair groaned as he lurched to his feet and straightened slowly “Grab something then come along, boy. We’ve got places to go.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said as I rummaged through the fridge coming up with a couple of chicken legs and some sausage rolls. It looked like he’d been stocking up for me; apparently we were right back where we'd left off: him feeding me, me saying yes, sir. Yeah. Like old times. “Where are we going? To feed the animals?” I asked as I followed him out to the porch where he stood bouncing slightly to get the circulation going. Of course he didn’t need my help with that, he hadn’t asked me to come but he’d been expecting me, and not for help with his small, town farm, however ancient he was.

  He shook his head as he handed me a soft gray hoodie, like he’d had it in his lap all along, just for me. “Funeral,” he said, slowly moving down the steps.

  “Funeral? Is it anyone I know?” I shrugged on the old zip sweatshirt, trying not to notice how hot I was already, how little I needed any extra layers on a nicely overcast spring day. I followed him as he ambled down the gravel drive with the inevitable rolling gait of someone who would get there, however long it took.

  “The corpse is not the interesting one—well, not anymore,” Old Peter muttered as he walked past my beautiful restored Mustang, a dark purple color that looked practically edible. When I’d brought it down from the city, I was certain Old Peter would say something, knowing his love for fast cars, but he didn’t give it a second glance.

  “Why don’t we drive?” I asked hesitating by the door, wishing that he would get in and let me drive instead of having to keep with his slow pace.

  “Keep walking,” he said shortly. “What kind of accent is that anyway?”

  I took my time answering as I finished chewing. “South African. Do you like it?”

  “Hmmph. Won’t go over too well around here.”

  “I didn't think much of me would,” I muttered then more loudly, “What would you suggest?” I thought for a moment before quoting; “A thing of beauty is a joy for ever; It’s loveliness increases, it will never pass into nothingness, but still will…” From the look on his face my crisp British accent wasn’t going over well either.

  “No! Not that one. Suppose someone were to hear you?”

  I looked around at the unimpressive low-slung building that gazed back at me dully. The green lawn was as dull as the suburban housing. Not a soul was in sight—not any bodies either. “How terrible the need for solitude: that appetite for life so ravenous a man’s a beast in his own house, a beast with fangs, and out for his own blood…” I took a breath, mildly surprised he hadn’t cut me off yet. Old Peter was not a fan of Roethke. “Dream of a woman, and a dream of death;” I finished but the words left a bitter taste in my mouth. My accent was a flat American that could have come from anywhere and nowhere. Old Peter looked at me for a moment and nodded.

  “Now that’s the right one. Tell me what you know about Sanders?”

  Sanders was the town he’d retired to, a town that was as dull as it was avoided at all costs. For Old Peter to leave the action and find a nice quiet spot like Sanders had seemed strange to me since he’d never seemed too old for the game. I shrugged as I gave another look at the quiet houses crouched beneath the trees, the woods omnipresent in the background. In the distance a towering gothic relic from another world stood out from the rest of the place. It was just a little town based on the pharmaceuticals company that had moved here two decades ago. There was not much interesting to see, not when everything had been painted thoroughly normal, but I could feel the wildness of the woods on the other side of the river that used to cover most of what was now residential housing.

  I finally said, “Sanders is a new name for an old place; it used to be called Hollow Haven. What used to be the cathedral is the only thing left from Haven. This area is highly defensible, surrounded by the rivers and the woods. The woods across the river are old. They’re a refuge for some of the most dangerous creatures known and unknown to man. It’s a very good hunting ground.” This town used to be good hunting and would be again if given the chance. It felt like the neat lawns and shrubbery would be swallow
ed by the tangled vines if you didn’t keep constant vigilance.

  “Get that smile off your face. We’re not here for fun and games,” he snapped, his tone crusty.

  “No?” I studied him for a moment while he walked. He was old, age creased every inch of his skin, and he seemed to move by sheer will, well, will and momentum. He moved with confidence experience gave him, experience and the knowledge that he had in his hands a leveling tool that would work on any playing field. The cane was as innocuous looking as he was. So much for appearances. There was no one like Old Peter; it was almost good to be back. Almost. “You could tell me why we are here,” I suggested, looking up at the sky where low lying clouds scudded, ominous, ready to break at any second.

  “Me?” He blinked at me with blue eyes, eyes so intense that I forgot about the age, the stooped frame and the paper thin skin. “How would I know?” he asked with a shrug.

  I sighed only once before I shrugged back. “Oh I don’t know. You seem to be pretty well informed for an old guy. If you wanted an escort to a funeral, I could have worn a suit.” I glanced down at my jeans with my hands firmly in the pockets of the hoodie.

  “Put up the hood, and you’ll be fine. Shut up now, and listen closely.” He frowned at me to make sure I was paying attention. “Sanders was established twenty years ago or so by Alex Sanders and his wife Helen. Helen is the daughter of the House of Slide. Keep up, boy.” I glanced up at the sky and thought I knew why the clouds looked so ominous.

  “I’ve never heard of Sanders House. Is he a normal warm blood?” It wouldn't be entirely unheard of for a prestigious daughter of a House to marry a nice normal man who didn't know that his wife was the daughter of one of the most notorious Wild Houses, probably raised knowing all the most interesting ways to kill someone. It wasn’t impossible, but the chances of a daughter of any House, particularly an elitist House like Slide giving up her birthright was hardly likely.

  Old Peter looked irritated at the interruption. “No. He’s Cool.” I stopped walking again and then took a few strides to catch up when the implications had set in.

  “Wilds don’t marry Cools. It’s illegal.” It was obvious but had to be said, particularly when Slide was White, a code follower, the kind that minded if something was illegal.

  “Usually, but this isn’t just any Cool. Besides that, they’re soul mates.” I snorted. I couldn’t help it. The idea of a daughter of any House, least of all The House of Slide, giving up her birthright for love was ridiculous.

  "You're telling me that the Daughter of Slide married a Cool, and that they weren't destroyed by every Wild House on this continent? Really?" He shook his head, not bothering to turn around and look at me as he kept walking. Apparently this wasn't news to him. Maybe he’d found an interesting place to retire after all.

  “He didn’t used to be Alex Sanders. That’s a nice new name that makes people a little less nervous around him.” Old Peter chuckled like he was looking forward to the time when people got nervous again. He sounded less and less retired all the time.

  “Oh? Do you know him?” Old Peter knew practically every dangerous bloodworker, Hotblood, Hunter, and anyone else you should avoid.

  Old Peter chuckled. “Know him? He thought he killed me a few times.” Old Peter was not easy to kill. “He’s even harder to kill than I am,” he said almost reading my mind. “He’s an interesting man. I can’t quite make out what he’s got going on right now. You need to stay far away from him at the funeral. Shouldn’t be a problem though since he’s likely to be otherwise occupied.”

  “You’re taking me to a funeral so I can avoid the people who are there? That sounds like your idea of a good time. Why don’t you tell me exactly what I am doing here, Old Peter? Oh that’s right, because then you’d have to explain things instead of just leaving me to blindly wade into all kinds of fun. Wouldn’t want to spoil your fun by turning on the light every now and then.” All right, I did sound a little bit irritated, but with Old Peter I had to stay on my toes, and I was already getting a headache from trying to keep my temper.

  “You’re not still bitter about that time in upstate New York?” He chuckled. “You handled yourself very well, boy.”

  Boy. He’d called me boy three times already, reminding me of my place and his. The boy and the reminder of the time in upstate New York did not help with my temper or the heat behind my eyes. “Thanks. The compliment makes me all warm inside.” I wouldn't have had to handle myself well if Old Peter hadn't dragged me into the middle of a Hotblood war, a war that we could not afford any Wilds knowing about. I grinned at him, and he raised his hairy eyebrows as he took in the unmistakable signs of my fury. I wasn’t kidding when I said I felt warm, not when I could feel my heart race, beating faster as my entire body heated up. The fury was controllable, of course. I’d been working on it for some time, but the headache was something I could live without. The terrible migraines were the worst part of having a fury—unless it was waking up covered in blood, unable to remember the events in the previous 24 hours; that took getting used to.

  “You came here fast, boy, faster than you should have if you’ve been loafing in South Africa. What brings you to the area? Good hunting?”

  I gave him a level gaze before I shrugged. “For somebody.” He knew I would come—he’d been waiting for me. If I were patient and didn’t lose my temper first, he might tell me why.

  Old Peter glanced at me, a quick darting glance with those sharp blue eyes that made me feel like the rabbit instead of the hawk. My temperature rose a little bit more.

  “I’m here. You don’t have to play games with me,” I said, keeping my voice level with a ridiculous amount of effort. Apparently I’d spent too much time with rational people if I was already edgy.

  “But you’re so good at playing games. Listen, Lewis…” I jerked my head up when he said that name, a name no one else would have dared call me, a name worse than boy, a reminder of someone I tried hard to forget.

  “Lewis? I haven’t heard that name for a while.” It brought back the kind of memories that spread the heat in my chest through my limbs. I had to force my shoulders down and to relax hands that wanted to clench into fists. Being a Hotblood got rather tedious some days. Maybe it was being a disciplined Hotblood that was so annoying. If I ripped off Old Peter’s head like I wanted to, then it would be more fun. He was testing me, seeing how far he could push me. Like old times.

  “It’s Lewis now, or it will be soon. Listen Lewis, the cemetery’s getting close. Can you smell the rain and feel the electricity in the air? This is going to be some storm. Who knows when it’s going to end? Whatever happens, stay with me. Do you hear me, boy?”

  I nodded and closed my eyes trying to slow the beating of my heart. I hadn’t had trouble with a fury for years. It wasn’t simply that Old Peter knew how to get under my skin when he wanted to. For the past few months, I’d been tracking but it felt more like a scavenger hunt that led me from one clue to the next, returning me to places I’d tried to forget. The sense of being manipulated by an unknown hand had me nervous, but walking along with Old Peter, whatever he said, shouldn’t trigger a fury.

  I let the fury build up until my head pounded in time to my pumping heart. I concentrated on the heat and let go of my will, becoming lost as I submitted to the consuming rage. For an instant there was that feeling that my body would fly apart under the strain, but with the next breath the anger was gone leaving me a little light headed. Submitting doesn't come naturally to a Hotblood, even when submitting to the fury.

  As we got closer to the cemetery, I noted the long line of parked cars that stretched out as far as I could see. People hurried through the windy May morning towards the iron gate that clanged against an ivy covered wall with each gust of wind. At the end of the wall to the right was a slope dotted with headstones, and dead center was the coffin where people gathered, pale faces and hands in stark contrast to their black clothing. There were countless faces, each wearing an expression o
f deepest sorrow as they gazed at the coffin.

  We slowed down when we reached the fringe of the crowd. I still had no idea what I was doing there. All I really wanted was to get the names from him I needed to continue my hunt then get out of Sanders. Getting the names would take persuasion though, patience, and a ridiculous lack of dignity.

  “We are gathered together,” began the quavering of the priest. In spite of his weak voice we heard him clearly; his voice carried to us on the wind.

  I let my eyes and attention wander to take in the crowd. It looked like the entire town and then some had turned out for the event. I saw a few high schoolers standing around the coffin. One girl had white blond hair that stood in sharp contrast to the requisite black. When I looked past the coffin, a flash of lightning illuminated a line of men with umbrellas. It took that flash of light for me to see them in the growing darkness. I sighed at the heat and rush of adrenaline as my body prepared to fight. I inhaled deeply trying to contain the fury as my senses filled with the smell of their Wild blood.

  If I didn’t contain my irrational anger they would kill me, or worse. For a moment I contemplated how many I could take out first then shook off the thought. I’d put a great deal of effort into convincing Wilds that I was already dead. The dead were the only souls they didn’t try to manipulate. Wilds had a tenacious belief that whatever they were doing was morally justified, which was annoying enough, but when you add their abilities to manipulate the elements of nature, it was better to avoid them at all costs. House of Slide was different though—trained to kill. All of them had fought hand to hand in real battles. The big one, the one called Satan had taken out more Hotbloods than I cared to think about. He actually liked fighting, whatever your blood. Most Wilds thought that was beneath them when they could control things without getting their hands dirty, one reason Hotbloods were so often called in to do their fighting for them.