WG2E All-For-Indies Anthologies: Viva La Valentine Edition

by Scott, D. D.

  Dara watched as Elias turned and walked back up the path, nodding his head at a figure in the shadows that she realized must be Gabe. She didn’t know what to make of Elias’ revelation. She was still terribly angry and hurt at being lied to. However, knowing that everything Gabe had done today, including his attempts to woo her and his proposal at the truck stop, were not due to love potion did start to make up for it.

  Even the feelings he expressed after receiving the antidote were genuine. Yes, it had all been one big plan, but it was crafted because he really might love her. Seeing something clutched tightly in Gabe’s hand, she wondered what was her Grandfather had sent with him?

  Gabe slowly walked down the aisle towards her, looking distressed but otherwise unharmed. Even though she was still angry, her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. Soon they were standing face to face in the moonlight, neither one of them speaking.

  Gabe began with “I’m sorry.”

  At the exact same moment, Dara blurted out “why?”

  Running his hand through his hair, which was loose from its tie and slightly disheveled, he decided to try the truth. “I’ve loved you from afar ever since I stopped your cousin Dario from ruining that royal wedding. You refused to give me the time of day when you lived here in Las Vegas and then you left leaving me with no more opportunities to let you know. I’d heard you were in Portland so I went there hoping to see you. I saw you and your old boyfriend Steve and was so jealous. I knew you deserved more and I came up with what I thought was a surefire plan that would give you a chance to get to know me. It also allowed me to show you how much I cared.”

  Gabe watched a myriad of emotions play across Dara’s face as he confessed for the second time that day to creating the rogue Cherub story, intentionally running the car out of gas in an area he’d scouted out to camp, asking Elias to shoot him prior to rescuing them, and getting her to agree to marry him if his feelings proved real.

  “So you see,” he concluded “I did it all out of love. If I hadn’t cared for you so damned much, none of this would have happened. I also never meant for you to be embarrassed in front of your family and friends. I’d hoped if you ever learned about my plan it would be far in the future after years of happiness together. What I feel for you is genuine.”

  Dara really wanted to forgive him and she acknowledged that not only was she attracted to him, but that she probably loved him as well. She shouldn’t love him after only spending one deceit-filled day with him, but she did. She just couldn’t get the cobwebs of doubts swept clear from her mind enough to trust him.

  Gabe seemed prepared for this. He picked up the story where he left off in Cupid’s office. “After I told my story to your grandfather, he told me I’d have a hard time convincing you my feelings were real. So he sent me with this.”

  She watched as he unwrapped something she hadn’t seen since she was a little girl.

  “Venus’ Orb of Truth?” she gasped with surprise as the pearly white stone glowed supernaturally in the moonlight. “He never lets this out of his sight. It reveals the truth of everyone’s feelings. Why would he give it to you?”

  “For this reason” Gabe responded, decisively slipping the ring on his pinkie finger. It immediately began to glow a deep crimson red.

  Dara remembered playing hide and seek as a little girl in her Grandfather’s office and coming across the ring. She’d put it on her little thumb pretending it was her engagement ring. She remembered it changing to a pretty light pink before her grandfather caught her with it.

  Her fear of his reaction had changed it to black before he gently removed it and explained its intended use. His mother, Venus, realized Cherubs had difficulty deciphering the truth of those seeking their affection despite the fact that they created it for a living.

  The ring would illuminate the truth of their lover’s feelings. Deep crimson if the affection was pure, ice blue if it wasn’t. Pink meant happiness and black was fear. From time to time, Cherubs would visit Cupid to use the ring. It was rumored that Cupid would not marry until he met a woman who caused the ring to glow crimson when she wore it in his presence.

  Seeing the ring glow crimson now swept any lingering doubts from Dara’s mind. The fact that Gabe was allowed to carry the ring meant Cupid had given his blessing as well.

  “I love you Dara, please marry me,” Gabe asked a final time.

  Looking up at the handsome Guardian standing before her she whispered, “Yes, but no more secret plans, OK?”

  His answer was to pull her in for a kiss so deep it left her short of breath and filled with promises of living happily ever after.

  ABOUT MG AINSWORTH

  MG Ainsworth is a thirty something wife and mother of two kids, two dogs, a cat, 5 hens and a rooster named Rumpelstiltskin. Writing has been her lifelong passion. She also works full time, reads excessively, grows prizewinning Walla-Walla sweet onions and avoids dishes if at all possible while living her dream of being a writer after 9 PM at night. Her dream, in addition to seeing her stories in print, is to have 12 hours of uninterrupted sleep - preferably in the dream suite above Pirate’s of the Caribbean at Disneyland. MG’s short story in this anthology, The Cherub’s Choice, is a prequel to the Cherub series. Book one in the series, Venus Vexed, is scheduled for publication early summer 2012. She is also writing a young adult paranormal novel, SPF, and has a short story, “Bubbles,” coming soon in the Dream On: A Dream Anthology from 4 Corners Press. She was a winner of the 4 Corners Press 444 word short story contest last year. You can find out more about MG Ainsworth and her books through her blog, writingafternine.blogspot.com. She can also be found on social networking sites Facebook and Twitter @MGAinsworth.

  HEART BREAKER

  By Buck Buchanan

  Hugo’s classic Yugo rattled down Murray Road in the East of Olive section of West Palm Beach. Older, beautifully maintained homes with manicured lawns lined the street. Palm trees cast long shadows in the morning sun.

  “This is it, angel, the residence of Ginger Breadman.” He turned into the wide red brick driveway of a two-story English Tudor home and parked next to a pink Dodge Sprinter van. “Let’s hope she’s here. I don’t want to waste a lot of time on this. I’m not sure why we’re involved. We’re not financial negotiators and there’s not a murder in sight.”

  “Because we need the money,” I said putting a little extra honey in my voice. He was annoyed with me for committing to this gig, but I couldn’t tell him my real reason for taking it on.

  A red brick walkway led to a wide-open front door. A shot rang out, as shots are prone to do. Two quick bounds into the foyer and I was able to see through the great room to the kitchen.

  A blond woman holding a large semi-automatic pistol fired two shots into the jamb of the kitchen side door which was swinging open. A dark-haired man holding a machine gun stepped in and sprayed a nearly soundless burst into the ceiling over her head.

  Before we could move, four uniforms raced in, guns drawn, barking orders impossible to obey, “Police. Don’t move. Hands up.”

  Hugo and I looked at each other, shrugged, and decided to go with the hands up order. One of the officers stayed with us, his gun trained on Hugo. “What’s going on here?”

  “We just got here ourselves, Ham.” Hugo said.

  I peeked at the nametag on the cop’s shirt. Hammond Smithfield.

  Ham smiled. “Damn, Hugo, I was so focused on the gunfire, I didn’t realize it was you.” He jerked his head toward me. “I assume this lady’s with you.”

  “This is my partner Victoria Station.”

  He holstered his gun and gave his head a quick shake. “Sorry… you can drop your hands. Victoria, you’re lucky to have the world’s greatest private eye writer as your partner.”

  Ham wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know. Hugo and I met when he rear-ended me. Fortunately, my car didn’t suffer any damage because of, as Hugo explained it, the breakaway safety features of his classic Yugo. I helped him du
ct-tape the front fenders and bumper back on then I pumped his brakes while he added fluid and bled them.

  We shared the GoJo hand cleaner he kept in his trunk. As we rubbed our hands on red mechanic’s rags we looked into each other’s eyes and the connection was made.

  He said, “Excuse my bad manners, I haven’t introduced myself. The name’s Rongg, Hugo Rongg, private eye writer.”

  The way he said that, the way he dressed in a dark-gray double-breasted pinstriped suit, charcoal shirt, pearl-gray tie, and gray fedora… my knees got all melty. We exchanged cell phone numbers in the flickering of his trunk light. It was so romantic.

  I was a feature writer for a magazine at that time. When our paths crossed again a few months ago on one of his case stories, I knew I wanted to be a private eye writer with him… forever.

  Hugo’s voice brought me back to the present. “How’d you get here so fast? The gunplay had barely ended when you rushed through the door.”

  “We got a call a couple minutes ago about a shot being fired here. The door was open. We heard more shots so we ran in.”

  Two cops walked by us, escorting the shooters with their hands cuffed behind them. The blonde wore a pink shirtwaist dress under an apron with broad pink and white stripes and embroidered Mrs. Pye’s Pies. Was she smiling? The tall thin machine-gunner with spinning eyes definitely wasn’t smiling.

  The fourth cop walked up to Ham. “You and I are going to have to secure the scene until CSI and the medical examiner get here.”

  Ham raised his eyebrows. “Medical examiner?”

  We couldn’t have turned more in unison if we’d been synchronized swimmers. On the floor a pair of feet in reddish-orange high heels stuck out beyond the island separating the kitchen and the great room.

  Hugo spoke to me out of the side of his mouth, “My guess is those feet belong to Ginger and that was QT Pye being taken out of here in bracelets. She’s going to need our help with a lot more than finances.”

  “You’ll have to go to the station,” Ham said. “I don’t know which detectives will be assigned to this case, but I’ll call my cousin to see if he can take your statements now so you’re not tied up all day.”

  “Victoria and I appreciate that.”

  As we returned to Hugo’s car, I noticed Mrs. Pye’s Pies on the side of the tall pink van. It took ten minutes to drive to the West Palm Beach Police Department. Waiting for us in the lobby was a detective with a family resemblance to Officer Ham Smithfield, both about five-ten, a little overweight, smooth faces, and prematurely bald.

  He greeted Hugo like a long-lost brother then introduced himself to me as Art Jambon. He said he’d take my statement first and escorted me to an interview room. After I told him what happened at Ginger Breadman’s house, he asked why Hugo and I were there.

  “She doesn’t know it yet, but it’s because of QT Pye, the proprietor of Mrs. Pye’s Pies. I have a relative with a sweet tooth who’s hooked on her pies, especially her key lime pie with black raspberry and dark chocolate topping. He lives in another state, but whenever he’s in the area he indulges.”

  Detective Jambon looked up from his notepad with a question in his eyes.

  “He’s a businessman and somehow he heard that QT Pye was doing so well that she was going to expand her operation. He’s hoping to have a Mrs. Pye’s Pies near him. But she has a problem or, I should say, had a problem. Ginger Breadman was interfering with QT’s proposed franchising of her pie shops.”

  “Where do you and Hugo come in?”

  “My relative hired us to resolve QT’s problem and expedite the franchising by negotiating with the Breadman woman to end the dispute.”

  “Kind of strange. Hugo’s case stories usually involve murder.”

  “Hugo felt that way too, but business has been slow lately. In addition to making some money, we were helping a relative. And now it does involve murder.”

  “It’s always nice to help a relative. I’ll have this transcribed while I talk to Hugo.”

  He walked me to their coffee room and went for Hugo.

  I’d told the detective the truth, more or less. Okay, less. But I couldn’t tell him the real reason I’d agreed to help QT Pye.

  My mind drifted to the night I graduated from high school ten years ago when my little genetics problem, my LGP as I prefer to think of it, surfaced.

  For the very first time, I had sex. As my boyfriend and I made love, I nibbled and sucked on his neck, giving him a world-class hickey. Simultaneously with my climax, a drop of his blood seeped onto my tongue and I was overwhelmed by sexual fulfillment and another sensation I didn’t understand.

  The next morning I was having my morning herbal tea and whole-grain English muffin with marmalade when Mom came into the kitchen. I casually asked, “Have you ever had a craving for blood?”

  “Oh my god, you have the curse.”

  “Not until next week and, really, Mom, nobody’s used that term for a menstrual period for generations.”

  “No, I mean the Curse. I don’t understand it. Talk to your grandmother about it.”

  I went straight to Granny’s house. Tall and narrow, isolated on an unpaved road several miles into the dense woods of Western Pennsylvania.Shutters, half of them missing a hinge, flapped on all windows from the third floor dormers on down. Next to a foggy creek and surrounded by huge overhanging trees, it was dark and gloomy on the sunniest of days.

  The door creaked open to an interior even gloomier. Faded floral wallpaper, dark heavy furniture, worn oriental rug. Musty smell. Granny stood on the far side of the big round séance table in the middle of her murky parlor. Wisps of fog hung near the high ceiling. She wore a head scarf and gypsy garb. Her palm reading get-up.

  “I asked Mom about a craving for blood.”

  “Oh my god, you have the curse.”

  “Not till next week.”

  She lowered her head like a vulture, looked up at me from the corners of her eyes, and hissed, “The Curse of the Curse.” Fog swirled down from the ceiling. A bat swooped around us. Thunder clapped, lightning crackled, Granny cackled.

  “Puh-leeze lay off the cheap séance theatrics. What is the Curse of the Curse?”

  She straightened, patted my cheek, and in her normal voice said, “Sorry, dearie, reflex.” The fog dissipated and the bat flew away. “Let’s sit down.”

  We took adjacent chairs at the séance table and she studied my face. “Did you enjoy your first sex?”

  I was mortified. How could my grandmother ask such a question? I stammered, “I… I… no… yes… no… yes… last night…”

  She grasped my hand. “It began in Transylvania hundreds of years ago. Gregor, the patriarch of our clan was a powerful warlock, married to a beautiful half-breed, a part witch, part vampire named Yvonne. She incurred Gregor’s wrath when he caught her with Lon, a local miller who was a werewolf.”

  “You make it sound like people with strange powers and afflictions were as common as dandelions.”

  “In Transylvania, they were called the Powerful Ones and had existed since the beginning of recorded history. But mixed marriages led to dilution of powers. Who knows what you’re going to get when you cross a vampire with a werewolf? Marriages to mere mortals caused further dilution.”

  I didn’t buy it, but she had me interested. “Did Gregor kill Lon?”

  “No, Lon milled really good flour. Gregor divorced Yvonne and forced her to marry Lon. Then, to break her heart, he put a curse on all her female offspring. It didn’t bother Lon. What can you expect from a werewolf? They shed and slobber all over the furniture and expect you to have sex with them even in their hirsute state –”

  “GRANNY!”

  “Sorry, they give me the willies.” She shuddered. “What you experienced is Gregor’s Curse of the Curse, usually triggered by first sexual intercourse. The strongest effects occur during PMS. The twenty-eight day cycle of the moon controls the Curse as it does the transformation of the werewolf. Your vampire blood
is rising.”

  I expressed my disbelief as tactfully as possible. “ARE YOU FRIGGIN’ CRAZY?”

  Granny patted my forearm. “I had hoped the Curse skipped you as it did your mother.”

  “So you have the Curse.”

  “The witch blood is dominant in me but I have limited powers. I can’t do spells and other powerful witchcraft but can tell fortunes and hold séances and create cool special effects. All of which provides me a decent living and, combined with good investments and a solid 401k plan, money for small indulgences like the Ferrari stashed in the garage out back. The effect of the Curse on me is I lose my powers for a week each month which severely cuts into my income.”

  My head was spinning. “Aren’t vampires supposed to live forever and have incredible strength?”

  “Only pure-breds. Most likely you’ll live to be a hundred and fifty or so but look a lot younger. You’ll become much stronger than the average person but if you don’t satisfy the craving for male blood during PMS, you’ll quickly wither and die. Only a drop is needed if you like your donor. But if a man angers you, you must drain him dry to satisfy your craving and preserve your life.

  Granny’s words echoed in my ears as Hugo came into the coffee room. He sat in the chair next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. I rested my head against his chest and we waited.

  Finally, Detective Jambon took us back to the interview room where we filled out a giant redwood’s worth of forms and signed our transcribed statements. Before we left, he told us the machine-gunner had been released and QT had been arrested for murder and transported to the Palm Beach County Jail.

  When we arrived at the jail, Hugo gave his card to the guard working the desk and said we wanted to see QT Pye. Another guard led us to the visiting area and showed us where to sit.

  Lingering orange-scented industrial cleaner irritated my sinuses. The institutional green walls, scarred grey chairs, and concrete floor would have been too dreary for a black-and-white movie prison set. In my bright yellow dress I felt like a daffodil growing in the cracks of a crumbling macadam parking lot.