The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance 2

by Trisha Telep

  “Um.”

  “Jesus, Donatti. You’ve got to take better care with vehicles.” She refrained from bringing up what he’d done to her van. He knew what she meant. “What happens if we throw a rod out here? I didn’t bring a spare engine.”

  He flashed a quick frown. “I’ll fix it.”

  “Oh, no. I told you, I don’t trust that magic stuff.”

  “Jazz, come on. You know it’s real. You’ve been—”

  “No.”

  “What do I have to do, turn lead into gold?”

  “Nothing. Don’t do anything, okay? In fact, let’s make this a magic-free weekend.” She glared through the dark and the rain. Yes, she was being irrational. Donatti had just found out a few months ago that he was part djinn, and she’d seen him do impossible things. Like make himself invisible. And kill two thugs with one spell. But that didn’t mean she had to like it. For God’s sake, nobody believed in genies, any more than they believed in fairies and unicorns. “Promise me no magic.”

  “Fine. I promise.” He let out a sigh. “Look, why don’t you pull over a minute? I’ll see if I can make any sense out of the map.”

  Jazz shook her head. “If I get off this mud-bog excuse for a road, we won’t be able to get back on.”

  “All right. You’re the boss.”

  “Damn straight.” She allowed herself a smirk, but it faded fast. This was a mistake. Celebrating her birthday, which she didn’t give a shit about anyway, at some remote frigging romantic cabin with the thief who’d gotten her pregnant and then vanished for three years, only to turn up again just in time to completely eviscerate the life she’d made with Cyrus.

  Okay. Maybe not eviscerate. Disrupt, definitely. Donatti had smoothed things over pretty quickly, and Cy had taken right to his father like he’d been there all along. But between her and Donatti, there was just an old spark. She might have loved him once. Now she wasn’t sure. Hell, she didn’t know anything these days. Sometimes she wanted to strangle him with his own intestines . . . but he was adorable even in his incompetence, and she couldn’t stay mad at him for long. He wasn’t bad, really. Just unlucky as hell. And he’d turned out to be a good father, once she’d finally managed to inform him that he was one.

  Speaking of Cy, it was late and she hadn’t called to check on things at home. They were supposed to be at the cabin two hours ago. She pointed at the cell phone she’d plugged in to charge and said, “Can you dial the house? Put it on speaker.”

  “Sure.”

  Jazz realized she’d been gripping the wheel tight enough to cramp her fingers. She forced them to relax. Cy would be fine. She’d left him with Ian and Akila – Ian being the djinn who’d sprung himself on Donatti three months ago saying he was his great-great-great grandfather, or something. Akila, also djinn, was his wife.

  The phone wasn’t ringing. Wasn’t making any noise at all. She looked sideways at him. “Did you forget the number?”

  “Not exactly.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not getting any bars.”

  “Shit!”

  “Yeah. Listen, I’m gonna check the map again.”

  “You do that,” she muttered, and shifted her concentration back to driving. She didn’t expect him to find anything. Following directions wasn’t one of his strengths. He was more the type to accidentally wind up in the right place – even if it was almost always at the wrong time.

  The torrential downpour seemed to be slacking, and the road looked a little wider, a little firmer. That might’ve been wishful thinking. At least the car had stopped trying to fling itself kamikaze-style off the path. There was another little rise ahead. Maybe they’d find a new road on the downgrade. Or Atlantis. With Donatti around, she never knew.

  Paper rustled sharply from the passenger seat. “Okay, so did we pass Loon Lake?”

  “We passed a lot of lakes, Donatti.”

  “I think we did. And we’re looking for Wolf Pond.”

  She blew out a breath. “A pond in the Adirondacks. Shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

  “You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you?”

  “You win a cookie.”

  “Chocolate chip?”

  “Cut the wisecracks. I’m trying to drive.”

  He smirked at her. “Can’t have that now. You’ll get a DWL, and that’ll go on your record forever. When they put you away, they’ll make you watch Barney videos and listen to Rico Suave all day in your cell.”

  “DWL?” She arched an eyebrow. “Do I even want to know?”

  “Driving while laughing. It’s a serious offence in the great state of New York. Have you ever seen a trooper crack a smile?”

  She smothered a laugh. Damn, he always managed to make her grin, no matter how bad things got. She actually envied his endless supply of optimism – he could whip out a smartass remark while he was standing at the wrong end of a gun. Maybe he was a little stupid sometimes, but he made up for it with buckets of brass fucking balls. She had to admire that. “Happy troopers? That’d scare the shit out of me,” she finally said.

  “Me too.” He maintained the serious-like-a-church-service front. “I actually saw one, once. He was cuffing me at the time.”

  “Figures.” She smiled and glanced at the speedometer. The sedan was doing a whopping 24 mph. At this rate, they might make civilization some time before New Year’s. They cleared the rise – and Jazz eased the brakes down, practically gaping through the windshield. “Tell me I’m not seeing things,” she said. “Is that pavement?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Donatti grinned. “See any road signs?”

  “Yeah, sure. Right next to that mini mall over there.” She stopped with the front tyres on the paved surface, not in the mood to push this thing out of the mud. Trees to the left, and trees to the right. Nothing in either direction said head-this-way. She flicked the hazards on – as if anyone else would be out driving on East Bumfuck Mountain in this weather – and said, “Okay. Now what, Mister da Gama?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Turn.”

  “Brilliant idea. Which way?”

  “Hey, don’t look at me.” He folded the map in his hands a few times. “If I pick the wrong way, you’ll kick my ass.”

  “I should probably kick your ass anyway. This was your idea.”

  Donatti stiffened and stared straight ahead. “Yeah,” he said softly. “How stupid of me, thinking we might have a good time together.”

  I’m sorry. It was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to say it. Instead, she popped the car into gear and eased into a left turn. “I think this way’s down,” she said. “At least we should hit a crossroad or a sign eventually.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Jesus. Did he have to sound like she’d kicked him in the balls? Irritated, more with herself than him, she took the car up to a decent speed and listened to the tyres slice over drenched asphalt. After a long silence, she coughed once and gestured to the radio. “You want that on? It might take a while until we get oriented again.”

  “Nah. If there are any stations in range, it’s probably your choice of country, country and western.” He dropped his gaze to his lap. “Jazz, I’m sorry I got us lost.”

  His apology where hers should’ve been sent a spark of anger sizzling through her. She managed to throttle it back. “It’s not completely your fault,” she said. “I’m driving.”

  “Yeah, well – holy shit. You see that thing up there?”

  “What . . .” Thing? The rest of the question faded from her lips. The rusted hulk of an old car lay by the side of the road ahead, choked in tangles of weeds. She slowed when they passed it, and gave a low whistle. “That’s a DeSoto. Well, it used to be. Back in the fifties. Jesus, it’s crumpled to hell.”

  “Kind of weird, isn’t it? All the way out here?”

  “Yes. Weird.” It was damned unsettling. Like finding a horse in a parking garage – or rather, the bleached skeleton of a horse.

  The road curved, and when
they rounded the bend something shivered in her gut. “There’s another one,” she said. A rusted, twisted auto body overgrown with brown vegetation. This one had come to rest after a collision. “A Mustang. Early seventies.”

  Donatti stared at it. “Okay, I’m creeped out,” he said.

  “I’m turning around. We’ll go the other way.” She tapped the brake.

  The car sped up.

  “What the fuck?” Jazz gripped the wheel and tromped on the brake. It didn’t slip, shimmy or sink to the floor. Went down cushioned, like a normal pedal. But the sedan didn’t slow. The speedometer climbed to thirty-five, forty, forty-five. She didn’t dare take her eyes from the road.

  “Uh, Jazz?” Donatti’s voice shook a little. “We going for a Dukes of Hazzard turn here?”

  “It won’t stop.” She managed to sound calm. “I changed my mind. Use magic.”

  “Right.”

  They flew past another wreck, too fast to make it out – but definitely a classic car like the rest. She knew it took him a few minutes to do anything magic. It had to warm up or something. The needle climbed. Fifty. Fifty-five. The wheel strained in her hands, and the car tilted.

  Ahead, the road curved.

  A string of curses refused to pass her lips. She grabbed for the emergency brake, hit the button, and the steering wheel lurched from her grip. She didn’t even have time to shout a warning. With a squeal of rubber, the car spun out of control, rammed something on the shoulder and lifted, airborne.

  Her body jerked like a whip, and her head smacked the wheel. The lights went out.

  Sunlight and singing birds. The crisp, sweet smell of autumn leaves. All the ingredients for a beautiful fall day hovered just outside Jazz’s closed eyes.

  None of them were right. It was raining. Dark. And she’d crashed the car.

  Her eyes snapped open, and a startled gasp escaped her. No broken glass or twisted metal. She was on a bed, in a room – not a hospital. Thick log walls. Cabin walls. To her right, french doors stood open on a wooden patio overlooking miles of picturesque mountain forest, red and gold and green. It would’ve taken her breath away if she hadn’t already lost it.

  Though her body ached, there was no real pain. She touched fingers to her forehead where she’d cracked the wheel and found smooth, unbroken skin. No bumps or gashes. Had she dreamed the accident? Maybe they’d made it to the stupid cabin after all. But if they had, where was Donatti?

  Besides, it’d been too vivid for a dream. So maybe she was dreaming now, and she was actually lying unconscious in the wreckage. Not a cheerful thought.

  She sat up slowly. Movement flickered in her peripherals, and her hand went reflexively for the piece she’d stopped carrying after Cy was born. She turned towards the motion, and a figure walked through the french doors.

  Definitely not Donatti.

  The guy was tall and solid. Dressed in jeans and a dark tee stretched over lean muscle, his steps were practically silent despite the sturdy black leather boots he wore. Shaggy red hair framed angular features and light brown eyes, almost gold, sparkled at her over a sexy-as-hell smile.

  A hot guy in a cabin, in the middle of nowhere. This had to be a dream.

  “I hope you’re not too frightened,” the guy said. He had a deep, soothing voice, as hypnotic as his eyes. “I couldn’t leave you in your car.”

  “Christ, it really happened?” She shivered. Impossible. She’d damn near shattered her skull. Should’ve been in a lot worse shape than this. But she was uninjured and completely clean. Not a speck of dirt or rain anywhere. “Where’s Donatti?”

  His smile vanished. “Your friend,” he said, and the sympathy in his tone punched her gut. “I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”

  “No.” Not a dream, but a nightmare. The world dimmed and blurred at the edges. She was going to faint. She pinched her arm hard, and the pain snapped everything into too-bright focus. A cabin. A bed. A stranger’s face, lined with terrible sorrow. “He’s not dead,” she whispered. “Not Donatti. He always gets out of everything.”

  “I’m so sorry. You’re in shock. I shouldn’t have . . .” He hesitated, stepped closer to the bed. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “There was nothing I could do for him.”

  Jazz closed her eyes. A sob lodged in her throat, but she choked it back. He couldn’t be dead. She wouldn’t believe it. The force of her denial calmed her enough to breathe evenly, and she focused on the stranger. “Who are you, and where is this?”

  His smile eased back in, a tentative curl of his mouth. “My name is Seth, and this is my home. You crashed about a mile from here.”

  “But I whacked my head on the wheel.” Donatti’s dead. The words screamed through her, made her wince. She pushed them away. “And I’m not even hurt. Just a little stiff.”

  “You weren’t injured when I found you. Only unconscious. Miraculous, really, considering the shape your . . . Donatti was in.” Seth flashed a look of heart-melting sympathy. “Maybe you’re remembering the accident wrong. The mind plays tricks when it doesn’t want to recall something, especially trauma.”

  She shook her head. “No, I felt it. That’s what knocked me out.”

  His brow furrowed. After a few seconds, his features relaxed with a sigh. “We should take things slowly. You’re still a bit muddled,” he said. “I’ve made coffee. Would you like a cup?”

  He’d made coffee. Donatti, who’d sleep until noon every day if she didn’t pull the covers off him, had gotten up before her and made the coffee the morning they’d left. She’d stumbled into the kitchen, where he’d greeted her with a steaming mug and that dangerous, adorable excitement – that usually got him into trouble – flooding his blue eyes and spilling into a crooked smile. Road trip, babe, he’d said. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? At least nobody’s chasing us this time.

  Yesterday. For fuck’s sake, that was yesterday. And today he was—

  Her stomach rebelled, and bitter bile scalded her throat. She bolted from the bed, pushed past a startled Seth and through the open doors, out to the patio railing. Leaned over and puked, emptied everything, dry-heaved again and again. Donatti’s dead. Dee Eee Ay Dee. Deceased. Lifeless. Gone, for good this time.

  Her knees buckled and she crumpled to the deck, aching like a sore tooth.

  Strong arms went around her, drew her to her feet. “Easy, now,” Seth murmured. “You’re all right. I have you. You’ve got to breathe.”

  She let him hold her and tried to obey, snatching deep, shuddering breaths of air. Her head throbbed, the heavy acceptance of Donatti’s death suddenly pushing against everything else she had to worry about – Cyrus, the ruined car, the fact that she was lost in the middle of nowhere with a man she didn’t know. A man who was warm and comforting, and had probably saved her life.

  “Bathroom,” she murmured.

  He drew back. “What?”

  “I’m sorry. I think I . . . need a bathroom.”

  “Of course.” He rubbed her shoulder, settled a hand at the small of her back and guided her gently inside. He pointed across the bedroom. “Through there, to the right. Can you make it?”

  She nodded and hitched a watery smile. “Thank you.”

  “Any time.”

  Jazz followed his directions and closed herself in a spacious bathroom appointed in rustic splendour. Almost everything was wood, from the walls and floor to the cabinets enclosing the sink and the large corner bathtub. Even the toilet seat was polished wood. At the far wall, sheer curtains covered a block-glass window that stretched from floor to ceiling.

  She relieved herself, and the fluttering nausea in her gut abated a little. She’d have to get it together fast. Get hold of Akila and Ian, tell them what happened. Somehow make arrangements to retrieve Donatti’s body.

  Jesus. They’d have to bury him. Have a funeral. The thought sent her stomach roiling again.

  She fought it, stood and dressed. The shelves by the window caught her eye. Folded towels, soap, bottles of sham
poo. And a . . . toaster? Frowning, she moved closer and stared. It was an old radio. A 1960s-style transistor, streaked with rust and dented near the top. Beside it was a scratched Polaroid camera with a cracked eye – not the plastic flip-out style, but a metal monster with an accordion lens. The kind that hadn’t been made since the 1970s.

  Her mind flashed to the decades-old wrecks they’d passed last night, and a cold splinter lodged in her chest. First classic cars, now this battered old junk. It didn’t make sense.

  Neither did waking up unharmed. She knew she’d smashed into the wheel.

  She made her way to the sink and turned the faucet on with trembling hands. This was all wrong. And it wasn’t a dream. She washed, splashed water on her face and glanced up, expecting to catch a glimpse of her own disturbed face.

  There was no mirror.

  With no concrete idea why that bothered her, she dried her face and hands with the towel hanging by the sink and scanned the room. No mirror on the walls or the back of the door. Block glass window. The french doors in the bedroom had been mesh screen panels, framed with more block glass. There were no smooth, reflective surfaces.

  The djinn could use reflective surfaces as transporters to move them anywhere in the world that had a mirror or window they could picture in their heads. Donatti could’ve used one to get them home in a few seconds. If he wasn’t dead.

  The reminder dizzied her, and she grabbed the sink to keep from falling over. Pull it together, Jazz. She had to get out of here, find other people, phones, transportation. Get away from Seth, before she found out what was wrong with him, with this place. Instinct told her that once she discovered the truth, it’d be too late.

  “Was he your husband?”

  Jazz, seated at a table in a charming little kitchen that made her want to puke some more, gripped the mug he’d given her and avoided meeting Seth’s eyes. She wanted to tell him not to refer to Donatti in the past tense, but that wouldn’t do any good. “No,” she said. “My . . . boyfriend. I guess.”