Killer Kisses

by Sharon Buchbinder

  “We’re on to you.” Her voice was defiant. “Your DNA was all over that gum at my house.”

  “So, what? It ain’t in no police database. I’m no dummy.” Tony guffawed. “Enough small talk. Lemme see those tits.”

  Jim slipped around the corner—and froze.

  With both arms bound behind her, Genie sat in a kitchen chair with her blouse torn open. The creep’s hands were on her breasts. She looked up. Her eyes widened—and Tony wheeled just in time for his chin to meet the butt end of the kitchen extinguisher.

  The Neanderthal wobbled—but didn’t fall.

  Just as Tony pointed his weapon at Jim, Genie lifted her leg in a sweep, connecting with the thug’s crotch.

  He dropped the gun, went down like a tree, grabbed himself and shrieked, “You bitch!”

  Jim grabbed the gun and trained it on the creep.

  In the distance, the reassuring sounds of sirens came ever closer.

  ~*~

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—”

  “Stupid pig.” Tony smirked the whole time Officer Bond read him his rights. “Your boss will have me out in two heartbeats.”

  “I called Chief Heade on my way over, to see if he wanted to join us.” Bond shook his head. “Said he didn’t know you. Only met you that one time at the auction. Told me to treat you like any other criminal.”

  Tony glared at the uniform, not believing his ears. “I’ll have your badge.”

  “I don’t think so. You’re going to give us a nice DNA sample and we’ll tie you to arson and attempted murder—in addition to burglary, and now, attempted rape.”

  Tony shouted, “Vinny DeCapo will have your head!”

  Standing to the side of the room, the bimbo’s boyfriend asked, “Did you say Vinny DeCapo?”

  “Yeah, jerk-off,” Tony snarled. “You heard me right.”

  The jerk-off boyfriend started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Vinny and I are old gambling buddies from Atlantic City. I pulled him out of the ocean one time. He couldn’t swim. And he almost drowned. He gave me his medallion.” He held up what looked like a gold coin. “He told me, if I ever needed a favor, to just call him. I think I’ll do that right now.”

  Suddenly, Tony wished he was someplace far, far away.

  ~*~

  A cat yowled from the basement.

  Releasing herself from Jim’s arm, Genie straightened up, pulled her blouse together, and wiped the tears off her face before calling out, “Kitty, kitty?”

  She flipped the light switch and opened the door, expecting to see Hope on the top step. Instead, she heard water rushing in the background. She whirled on Tony who was being led out of the kitchen by Officer Bond. “What did you do?”

  The creep snickered. “Just a little housewarming present for you and Ichabod Crane.”

  She ran down the stairs. The sound of rushing water grew stronger. Water covered the bottom step. Where was Hope? Tears filled her eyes. That black cat was their good luck charm and she loved her. Where was she? “Hope? Here kitty, kitty.”

  “Meowrp?”

  Water lapped at the next step—the one she stood on. She yelled up the stairs. “Jim, find the main water cut off.”

  Footsteps pounded overhead and the gush of the water slowed down to a trickle, then just a drip-drip-drip.

  “Hope?”

  “Don’t go in the water,” Jim shouted. “You could be electrocuted.”

  In the gloom of the dimly lit basement, Genie strained to see beyond the steps. Boxes they had left down there floated on the water, along with newspapers and other detritus.

  “Kitty, kitty?” Her voice choked. If that creep hurt her cat, she’d—

  “Meowrp?”

  She looked down. Floating in front of her was Hope’s litter pan—with the proud new mother and three black-and-white kittens.

  Epilogue

  ~*~

  The ballroom of the Summerville Inn shimmered with candles; the air was filled with the scent of white lilacs, the first of the spring from the English gardens surrounding the property. A string quartet played classical tunes and the crowd chattered happily. Genie smiled at Jim and gave his hand a tight squeeze. Everything was set for the big event. Not that it had been easy over the last four months.

  Between dealing with the insurance company—again—cleaning up the water damage, fixing the pipes that Tony had damaged, and removing the sodden trash out of the basement, they had hardly had time to relax and enjoy the reparations and decorating of the upper floors. At last, each suite was completely outfitted in the neoclassical lines of Hepplewhite-style furniture, the best bedding, marble baths, and thick white towels.

  Hope and her kittens, Faith, Charity and Love, had inspected each suite and deemed them all perfect.

  Maggie LaMonica found a new cook for Sips Coffee Shop—another refugee from New York City and the pressure cooker world of haute cuisine. Genie had stayed on at Sips to get the new chef settled in—and to release Jim from his duties as kitchen assistant. He lost no time getting the front desk up and running.

  She turned back to the crowded ballroom. She could not believe the turnout. It was beyond her wildest expectations. The food critics and journalists had gone over the top with the coverage. When the stories hit the wires about the CIA-trained chef, the Cornell School of Hotel Administration graduate, and their struggles with a low-level New Jersey mobster to return the Summerville Inn to her former glory, people sent cards, letters—and checks. With these generous donations, Jim and Genie started the not-for-profit Summerville Inn Foundation for the express purpose of providing scholarships to deserving students to attend culinary or hotel management school.

  After the bureaucrats in Albany were inundated with e-mails and letters of support from the town citizens for the Summerville Inn to be declared an historic property, the pencil pushers finally approved the application on the grounds the Inn would be creating employment opportunities as well as investing in the local community.

  Despite his protests all the way to jail, Tony ‘the Wolf’ Aiolfo was never able to make his allegations against Chief Richard Heade stick. The Wolf made bail, failed to appear for court—and was never seen again. Officer Bond had told Jim that when he asked Vinny DeCapo if he knew where the thug was, the head of the New Jersey mob had shrugged, said he had no idea where the arsonist went and he smiled while he answered.

  Jim leaned over to whisper in her ear, “This will be excellent practice for the new staff for the Class of ’85 Reunion. Are you ready?”

  She took a deep breath and nodded.

  He motioned to the musicians to begin the wedding march. Everyone stood and applauded as Jim and Genie walked hand-in-hand down the aisle, toward the justice of the peace and into their new life with the Summerville Inn.

  Release Your Inner Wild Woman Kiss of the Silver Wolf

  ~*~

  Prologue: The Hunt

  He leaned down on his front paws, relieved the kinks in his back, and shook out his thick coat. Beneath the cold air, a hint of spring tantalized his senses. Under the moist leaves, between the tree roots, alongside the chortling streams, the sleeping earth mother stretched her legs and wiggled her toes, too.

  He gazed at the pearl white moon as she rose on the horizon, full and iridescent in the February sky. Only a few days left to enjoy this part of his life.

  Time for a run. He began to trot, then broke into a long easy gait, loping around the perimeter of his territory, through trees and winter-bare brush. He picked his way across a snow-melt-swollen stream, past massive rock formations and darkened houses, enjoying the feel of his muscles as they kept pace with his pounding heart. This is what it feels to be alive!

  Too soon, he reached the asphalt and the end of his fun. Panting, he turned away from the road and walked at a slow easy pace, back to the pack’s meeting place. Time to speak to the Old One about th
e future. Midnight runs no longer suppressed his primal feelings, the visceral urge he felt when the full moon rose.

  Each month, the call to mate was stronger—irresistible as the pull of the moon on the oceans—and on him. The females in the pack were off limits, bonded forever to their soul mates. Besides, their scents didn’t arouse him. No, the one he wanted was far away, almost an unattainable being. The moment he saw her smoky-eyed image, he knew she was, The One. Often, when he was alone at night, he gave into his dark urges and fantasized about holding her and making her his own. But in the morning, he was still alone, his dream-mate a dust mote on a sunbeam. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and stepped into the apple orchard.

  Half-hidden in shadows beneath the moonlight dappled trees, the Old One nodded his head, a knowing glint in his bright orange eyes.

  The younger male trotted over to him and bowed his head. Half a dozen adolescents tumbled over and around the Old One, bit his gray ears, and nipped his toes. When the smaller ones looked up and saw the younger male, they yipped, hobbled over to him, and threaded between his legs. The Old One’s mouth opened in a grin, and his tongue lolled.

  Okay, here comes the Uncle routine. The younger male fell to the ground, rolled on his back, and the six pups leaped on his belly. He chuffed and pawed at them, cuffing each one lightly. He enjoyed this role, but what he really wanted was his own pups to play with. After a few minutes, he gave a great sigh and flipped onto his belly. The little ones seemed to sense his change in mood and hobbled off to play with sticks.

  He locked gazes with the Old One. When will I have my own mate? It’s not enough for me to watch the little ones play.

  The Old One winked and nodded. My job is to preserve the pack, to keep our people alive. I have chosen your mate. You know who she is. You have my oath.

  The younger male shook his head. You didn’t answer my question. When? When do I get my mate and become Pack Leader?

  The Old One leaped to his feet, glared at the younger one, and growled a deep throaty roar that belied his age. You dare to question me? Me? The one who saved you? Is that how you show your gratitude?

  The younger male put his ears down and lowered his head, his nose touching the ground. Forgive me. I’m--I’m so lonely. My heart aches for a loving mate and my own pups. Every moon the urge gets stronger, the hunger greater.

  The Old One came closer, grabbed the back of the younger male’s neck with his teeth. The large signet ring on his iron necklace clanked as he gave the upstart a small shake. The time is coming near. I promise. You will—

  The unmistakable crack of a rifle sounded in the distance.

  The Old One’s mate barked out orders to the other females. Grab the pups. Get them home. Hurry, hurry.

  The younger male found a straggler hobbling along as fast as his legs permitted. He lifted him by the scruff of the neck. C’mon, little one. I’ve got you. You’re safe now.

  A second shot rang out closer by.

  The little one whimpered and shuddered in his grip. Please don’t let the hunters kill me, Uncle Zack. Please?

  ~*~

  “I told you to hold your fire!” Special Agent Eliana Solomon stood by the abandoned mine and drummed her fingers on the butt of her Sig Sauer.

  “Sorry, Sir—Ma’am…I thought I saw a wolf in my night scope.” The newbie looked downward as she glared at him.

  “This isn’t a hunting trip with your buddies. It’s an active operation and I’m in command. One more shot and I’m taking your rifle away from you. Got it?”

  He gulped, clutched his weapon, and nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”

  She had asked for experienced soldiers; instead they sent a bunch of green boys. She understood the Middle East took precedence, but didn’t the Army get the concept of domestic terrorists?

  The mission of Project Aladdin was to find jinn, the portals where they came through from a parallel dimension and to shut them down. Contrary to popular TV images of a pretty girl in a bottle, the jinn, or genies, were not nice. Powerful shape shifters, they hated humans and wanted to take over the world. If a terrorist ever found a way to conjure and command a jinni, the world would never know what hit it.

  Despite her obsession and round the clock investigations, she’d been unable to make any progress. With her evaluation coming at the end of the month, she had to find something. Otherwise, she’d be exiled to a desk and spend the rest of her professional life analyzing emails. She shuddered at the thought of death by tedium and twisted the heavy signet ring on her left hand.

  Strange energy signatures had been seen on satellite images of this area and identified as jinn. The abandoned mine was the logical place for a portal—but so far, the scout they’d lowered down into the shaft hadn’t reported anything. She glanced at her watch. In fact, he’d been silent for twenty minutes. He was supposed to be reporting in on the quarter hour.

  Mouth dry, she keyed her radio. “What’s going on down there?”

  Static.

  “Hello. Can you read me?”

  A long burst of static was followed by garbled voices. A man screamed.

  She wheeled on the pale-faced young corporal holding a rope. “Get him out of there!”

  He leaned back and grunted, red-faced with exertion. “Something’s wrong, Ma’am!”

  She raced behind him, screaming at the stricken-looking young men huddling together. “Get over here. Help us get him out.”

  Three of them put their backs into the effort, finally bringing the scout up into view. Limp-limbed, the young man’s head lolled back, his camouflage uniform covered in blood. They hauled him onto the ground and rolled him over.

  A soldier held a flashlight as Eliana pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face off. Something was on his forehead. She dabbed at it and stopped. The words burned into the man’s forehead told her all she needed to know. She stood on shaky legs.

  Bug eyed, the corporal turned to her. “What is it? What’s it mean?”

  She chose her words with care. “It’s Hebrew. It says: GET OUT.”

  She flexed her fist and rubbed the heavy signet ring inscribed with pentacles and letters from an ancient language. She was going to need help from a source that some people said didn’t even exist.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ~*~

  Say No Eulogies

  Charlene Johnson stood ramrod stiff in the over-heated, wreath-filled Serenity Parlor of Charles and Sons’ funeral home—half-numb with grief and shock from the sudden loss of her parents. I just need to get through the next two hours without falling apart. One foot in front of the other. A mélange of lilies, wet wool, body odor, and a hint of alcohol pressed against her nose as if it were a hot, wet rag. Despite the March winds and bitter cold rain lashing the building, she longed to go for a long run, stretch her legs, breathe fresh air, and ease the tightness binding her chest.

  What happened? What made her father drive into that concrete buttress? Was he trying to avoid something? A heart attack? Bad brakes? What? And why wouldn’t the police answer her questions?

  Despite making all the arrangements for the visiting hours and funeral, she still couldn’t believe her parents were gone, killed in a single-car accident on an empty road, on a bone-dry night, by the light of the March moon.

  A crowd of colleagues, co-workers, and friends, waiting to pay their respects, queued out the door, but Charlene had never felt so alone. A gangly, skinny outcast in high school, she’d been best known for her speed as a long-distance runner and her preference for practice runs at night. Even now, she still felt different, separate from her peers at her metropolitan university. Although she’d dated a lot of guys, and even had a serious relationship with one for a year, her family stayed her only real source of unconditional love.

  Her gaze snagged on the memory table laden with a satin stainless steel urn and photos of her parents. In one, Mom held her in the crook of her arm. Dad looked over her Mom’s shoulder, smiling broadly. In another, her grinning pare
nts stood behind her and Joey, her older brother. Someone in the funeral home had artistically arranged candid shots of her father at work in the Johns Hopkins genetics lab, and her mother in her nursing scrubs between the family portraits. A fresh wave of grief washed over her.

  She had to be strong for Joey. He was all the family she had left.

  A classical arrangement played in the background, not quite covering the crowd’s whispers and murmurs. “Tragic! So young…cause of accident?”

  She winced and mentally thanked her parents for their memorial service plans. Practical to the end, they had ordered cremations and no eulogies. She would have never been able to deal with a viewing. Not after what she’d seen in the morgue. She shuddered at the memory. No amount of post-mortem grooming and cosmetics would have covered—No. Don’t go there. Don’t think about the medical examiner’s odd questions. She had to focus on the here and now.

  “Thank you for coming, Dr. Hoffman.” She shook the stooped, gray-haired man’s soft hand.

  “Fred was a wonderful guy. I’ll miss his quirky sense of humor. We’ll be a boring bunch of nerds without him around.”

  “You believed in his research. That meant a lot to him.”

  Hoffman nodded and looked down at the floor. “He was passionate, obsessed with a cure for Joey.”

  A sudden vision of the medications, needles, and syringes she found in her brother’s room after the accident flashed into Charlene’s mind. Did her father use experimental drugs on Joey? She opened her mouth to ask Hoffman about it, but closed it, instead. She hadn’t been home much for the last year and a half, much less Joey’s caregiver. What choice did she have but to continue to use the medicine her parents had left for her brother? What right did she have to criticize her parents? She was always too busy with her life, her studies, her research, her career to ask how they were doing. She’d been self-centered and myopic. Now they were gone and she’d never get to talk to them again. Tears welled up in her eyes and she choked up.