by H. A. Fowler
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Cobblestone Press
www.cobblestone-press.com
Copyright ©2007 by H. A. Fowler
First published in 2007
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Neptune Rising
Copyright© 2006 H.A. Fowler
ISBN: 978-1-60088-103-9
Cover Artist: Anne Cain
Editor: Tracy Seybold
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Cobblestone Press, LLC
www.cobblestone-press.com
Dedication
To Cristina M., one of the first people who believed that I could. Thank you for all your encouragement and support over the years. I'm so glad you're still with me!
[Back to Table of Contents]
CONTENTS
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Author Bio
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[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter One
"Of course I know what I want in a man. I've only been angsting over it since puberty."
Kimber Andrews opened her wallet and withdrew a small, laminated card with ‘Kimber's Perfect Man’ printed in bold letters at the top. She had painstakingly crafted the list in college, and took it out for regular review on occasions when having the elusive Perfect Man in her life would come in handy. Holidays, reunions, Sunday afternoons at a gallery or a theater matinee, family functions, late at night while lying alone in bed, or, like now, on her birthday. The card reminded her of what she could never seem to find.
She cleared her throat and began. “He must be kind, generous, incredibly sexy, completely alpha, tall and muscular with broad shoulders and big thighs, intelligent, funny, accent nice but optional, dominant in bed—"
"Jeeze, Kimber, that's what every woman wants. Although I'm more partial to Beta's, myself.” Her best friend, Tiff Douglas, grinned suggestively. If there was such a thing as a female chauvinist pig, Tiff qualified. “I mean, do you know what would make a guy special for you?"
Kimber narrowed her eyes at her friend, suddenly and acutely aware that Tiff was being uncharacteristically nosey even for her. They were ensconced at their favorite patio table in their favorite Italian restaurant—Il Cartese—sipping white wine and enjoying the scents of sauce and fresh bread as they waited for the main course to arrive. It was a beautiful, unseasonably warm, late winter afternoon in Northern California, and the bright sunshine poured in through the floor to ceiling windows around them. Perfect weather to celebrate the glory of love on the upcoming holiday.
"I would know him if I saw him,” she finally replied. No matter what answer she gave, Tiff would take it as a sign that whatever she was about to do was precisely the right thing. Her best friend would have consulted Kimber's horoscope before she bought her present, and remembering that morning's entry in the local paper heightened the sinking sensation in Kimber's belly.
Today is the day for a radical change, Pisces. You tend to live in your head, and miss out on the best that life has to offer. Cut your hair. Buy an outrageous pair of shoes. Book a singles cruise to the Caribbean. Whatever it is, make it big, and make it permanent!
Tiffany Douglas, practicing Witch, was very big on signs and fate. As she drew a piece of paper out of her Prada bag and laid it on the table, a flash of victory lit her fine WASP features, and her smile made the fine hairs on the back of Kimber's neck stand on end in dread over what might be coming next.
A piece of pink paper covered in her best friend's loopy scrawl was not exactly the Valentine's Day present Kimber had imagined when she agreed to come to lunch. But she wasn't one to complain ... or speak up much at all, really, as evidenced by the wilted lettuce and single slice of over-ripe tomato on her plate trying to pass as a ‘garden salad'. Usually Il Cartese had such great food that she'd feel stupid sending back one little salad. Why make waves over something so minor?
The paper was an expensive linen kind, like lawyers used. She couldn't read a word of the strange symbols scribbled all over the page, and that in itself hitched her anxiety up a notch.
"Um. Thanks, Tiff. This is, uh ... pretty.” No need to be rude. At least it wasn't a ticket for a singles cruise to the Caribbean or some other embarrassing attempt to set Kimber up with random strangers.
Tiff grinned, her sparkling teeth shining like tiny white suns against the smooth, tanned landscape of her face. “It's a ritual."
Oh, dear. Kimber gulped and tucked a wayward clutch of curls behind one ear. She respected her best friend's spirituality, really she did. She baked Samhain cakes for the beloved dead and had a Yule log on the Solstice every year to show just how much. She was not, however, completely comfortable with the concept of Magick (not to be confused with magic, as performed by David Copperfield). Probably a residual of her Presbyterian upbringing, though she wasn't much of a churchgoer anymore. Or maybe it was the fact that Tiffany didn't exactly have the best record with spell casting.
At an even bigger loss of what to say now, she asked, hardly wanting to know, “A ritual for what?"
Her best friend gave a woeful sigh and crossed her slender, twenty-mile-long legs, revealing her brand new Christian Louboutin pumps. “What have you wished for on every birthday since we were twelve and saw The Outsiders a dozen times?"
"That Ralph Macchio would come and take me away from all of this?"
"No.” Tiff laughed. “That you would find your Prince Charming and all that happy horse-pucky. This ritual, according to my HP, is guaranteed to draw him to you.” She tapped a perfectly manicured fingernail on the parchment for emphasis.
'Guaranteed?’ The last time Tiffany's ‘HP'—High Priestess—had ‘guaranteed’ magick to work for them, she and Tiff had added too much rosemary to a diet spell and ended up with diarrhea for a week. Which did result in the desired weight loss of ten pounds—but was completely not worth the agony.
Magickal guarantees didn't really make Kimber feel better about the product. Not to mention the fact that casting a spell to find a date seemed one step lower on the Pathetic Loser scale than hanging a sign declaring ‘Please! Men wanted ASAP!’ outside her apartment door.
"Oh. Tiff, that's so...” Kimber's caution and growing sense of dread warred with her good manners and gratitude for Tiff's ongoing attempts to help her find romantic bliss. It was a lack Tiff never seemed to feel, as she preferred having a small stable of regular, non-exclusive ‘Fuck Buddies’ to keep her company. Men were lining up from here to Cape Cod hoping to join the team. “Um ... nice. Thank you."
Good breeding always won out.
Tiff gave her a knowing look. “You have to do it tonight—it's Valentine's Day, and the full moon. There's no better time to start a new project of the heart. Besides, I'll be personally insulted if you don't."
Kimber turned the paper over, finding an ingredient list and a
translation written on the back in clear block letters. It looked harmless enough—a few candles, some incense, a ritual bath and some ‘I love me’ sort of affirmations. No toil and trouble in sight, and not even a flake of rosemary.
She looked up into Tiff's blonde/blue supermodel features and lamented her own squat, girly, earth-toned ones. Her pinchable chipmunk cheeks, her too-big—like, Precious Moments, Anime-character big—hazel eyes, unmanageable mouse-brown hair, and puffy, no-I-swear-it's-not-collagen lips. Like a mirror of Tiffany—in Polar Opposite Land. It was the same with their personalities—Tiffany's was a huge, sparkling guy magnet everywhere she went, while Kimber's was tiny and cowering, and only came in handy for bonding with the nearest clump of geeks hiding in the corner.
The way she'd chosen to live her life seemed much sadder than usual, all of a sudden. Here she was, 35 years old and still single, with only two ‘real’ relationships—that is, lasting more than three months—under her Kmart special belt, and her only prospect for Valentine's Day excitement was getting drunk and spending the evening masturbating to her Gerard Butler DVD collection.
She scanned the list again. A quick stop at the grocery store, and she could get all of this before dinner time, putting her in the tub just before moonrise when the ritual was supposed to begin.
"It's great, Tiff. Thank you. I'll do it tonight."
"Yay!” Tiff squealed, and nearly plowed their ‘appetizer’ off the table reaching across to hug her. “My HP says you won't believe the results!"
Sorry, Gerard. Looks like you'll just have to pine for me until tomorrow night.
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If all else failed—and Kimber was fairly certain that it would—this whole business was worth it just for the bubble bath and the ambiance. The rose petals strewn everywhere, the soft strains of Tchaikovsky mingling with the scent of lavender incense and the dim light from the dozens of pink and red pillar candles she'd placed all over the apartment lent the small space a luxurious, romantic air. Just the sort of atmosphere she needed to relax and play with a little magick.
It wasn't the worst way to spend a holiday—she could always use a nice self-esteem boost, and it never hurt to speak her wishes for the Perfect Man out loud every once in a while. It kept things clear in her mind so she wouldn't start compromising as time passed just because she was lonely and felt like she was running out of time before spinsterhood descended upon her like some bloodthirsty monster. Which it absolutely was not. Most of her friends, including Tiff, were single. But then, many of them had already been married and divorced at least once. Tiffany, twice. Did people even say spinster anymore?
Kimber washed with rose-scented soap, rinsed off, then climbed out of the tub and patted herself dry with the biggest, plushest bath sheet she owned. She blushed just thinking about doing this whole thing ‘skyclad'—Tiff's Witch Talk for ‘naked'—but Kimber was nothing if not a girl who followed directions. Although, granted, drinking two bottles of wine instead of the proscribed ‘glass or two to relax’ was not strictly ‘following'. It seemed harmless enough, since it was Valentine's Day and the sensation of being tipsy and off balance lent a whimsical air to the silly situation.
Kimber drew the sacred circle with salt, and retraced it again in her mind with concentrated mental energy, the way Tiff taught her. In the center of the physical circle was a single crimson floor cushion she usually kept in her bedroom. She took up the Lotus position on top of it, closed her eyes, and concentrated on her breathing for a while. In, out ... in, out ... in, out.
The rest of the ritual was a blur. Once done with her meditation, Kimber read her lines aloud: all the things she liked about herself, while ruthlessly suppressing thoughts of all the things she hated, adding all the wonderful things she dreamed of in a mate. Someone solid and down to earth, who balanced her. Someone who could anchor her from her tendency to get lost in fantasy and daydream. Someone exciting, yet stable. Someone who could be practical in comparison to her flightiness, straightforward versus her tendency toward babbling and—
A deafening crack split the air, knocking Kimber backwards and a few feet outside the circle. She was so shocked, she could barely pull herself together enough to look up and see what had happened.
When she was finally able to, she froze. Standing in front of her television was a huge god of a man with a football player build, the face of some erotic statue, and eyes so dark they were nearly as black as his tightly clipped hair. His chiseled features split into a brilliant smile and his head to toe black leather creaked in a most tantalizing manner as he struck a pose for her shocked and wondering gaze.
"Good evening,” Tall, Dark, and Conjured out of Mid-Air greeted her. “I am Dirk van Ouwe. I've come to answer your call."
Kimber lay there, wondering if the wine had caused her to hallucinate. Or maybe she'd drowned in the bathtub, and Heaven looked just like her apartment, only with the younger, handsomer brother of Adrian Paul in it.
"Call?” she squeaked, that being the only word her befuddled brain could grasp at the moment.
The big Adonis marched across the room and hauled her to her feet, then stood there, grinned like a very large cat about to devour a very small canary.
"You called me, Witch, and I came. Now I shall feed."
"Feed?” she squeaked just as his demanding lips took possession of hers. He wasn't at all gentle as he plunged his tongue into her mouth and plundered its warm, sweet depths.
Kimber went rigid against him. His giant hands clamped her to his hard body, and she could feel his proportionately large erection pulsing against her belly. The sensation melted her bones and turned her pliant in his arms as his mouth continued its arousing, if disturbing, attack.
She did have a thing for being taken, and it had been a long time...
But no sooner had she decided she might enjoy it and was about to throw herself wholeheartedly into the hallucination, than his embrace stopped being firm and became hurtful. His mouth less devouring, and more bruising. His hands grabbed instead of caressed. She tried to pull away, to object to the unwelcome increase in violence, but one rough hand clamped on the back of her head and kept her mouth a prisoner of his. He kept fierce hold of her as he backed her toward her couch, never giving her enough room to so much as struggle.
This was not turning out to be a good hallucination, and it definitely wasn't Heaven. Kimber fought as hard as she could in his crushing embrace. She tried to bite his lips, but he yanked his mouth away. Tried to kick, but he only pushed her down onto the couch and dove down after her. He weighed more than twice her weight, all of it muscle, so she could do nothing but lie squashed in the threadbare cushions beneath him.
This was absolutely the last time she was going to take a spell from Tiffany Douglas and her obviously incompetent HP! If the whole point wasn't made moot by her grisly death, that is.
"Get off me!” she screamed as his mouth moved down her chest and his big teeth bit into the delicate flesh of her breast. She tried to kick him again, but managed only to send the coffee table spilling over and skittering across the wooden floor.
The noise of her failure was overwhelmed by another sound—a second crack like the one that had heralded Dirk the Rapist's arrival. Kimber took full advantage of Dirk's surprised glance over his shoulder to head butt him hard in the side of the face. He roared, but before he could turn his attention back to her, a hand even bigger than Dirk's dug into her attacker's shoulder and hauled him away.
Not caring who or what just came to her rescue, Kimber rolled off the couch and slid underneath the remains of the coffee table, where she lay, sobbing in shock and horror as she listened to the harsh curses, grunts and clanging metal sounds of battle all around her.
Wait. Clanging metal?
The fight was fierce but brief. With a final cry from Dirk, an identifiable slurp, and a sickening thud, silence reined over her apartment once more.
Kimber slowly poked her head out from under the table.
D
irk was gone without a trace, and in his place stood...
Great googly moogly! This uninvited guest was even bigger and more gorgeous than the last one. So tall his head almost touched the low ceiling, and so huge, she could barely see any of the small room behind him. He was dressed in what she could swear was an old-fashioned kilt of navy plaid wool, with a fashionable, white, skintight long-sleeved shirt tucked into the leather belt at the waist. The ensemble showed off his every huge, perfectly cut muscle in breathtaking relief.
"It's all right. You're safe,” the beautiful barbarian assured her, his dark velvet voice touched with a hint of Scottish brogue, his r's rolling in that sweat-inducing way that heroes’ did in the movies.
She pushed herself all the way out and accepted the hand he offered to bring her to her feet. She glanced up—way up—and found a rugged, rough-featured face, with kind, expressive eyes that sparkled at her like emerald stars. All her questions vaporized at the sight of their dark compassion.
One of his big hands steadied her, while the other hauled the giant sword he'd saved her virtue with back into the hard leather sheath hanging from the wide belt securing his kilt.
Kimber looked up once more, and wondered why there were dark, sparkly spots whirling around his handsome face.
"Thanks. That's very kind of you,” she said, and fainted.
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Chapter Two
Kimber woke stretched out on the couch, tucked beneath her favorite quilt, wondering what the heck just happened. Had she imagined it all: the grabby barbarian, the near-rape, the handsome Highlander with the big sword coming to her rescue?
The pair of empty wine bottles sat on the coffee table, mocking her confusion. It was a dream. A stupid, drunken dream. She'd passed out and imagined the ritual had worked and—
A set of bare, muscular male legs appeared in her line of vision. He wore black leather biker boots with large silver buckles on the side, that disappeared beneath his kilt, which she recognized was Campbell plaid. She had a skirt almost exactly like it, but made of a much less fine wool.