Eva lifted a brow. “What species are you?”
“Um … I’m a god.” He looked abashed. “Lower level. More of a minion, really.” He licked his lips and ran his hands through his thick, black hair. “Okay, confession time. My grandmother is stuck in Tartarus, so my mom ordered me to go release Harry and get his magic coin. It’s like a key or something that will unlock Gram’s cage. He tricked me into wearing that shitty shirt and I’ve been under his command ever since.” He opened his hands in an apologetic gesture. “I’m sorry I was part of unleashing Harry Little on Broken Heart. I swear I’m not like my family. They’re kinda assholes.”
“Well, minion god or not, you’re all I’ve got right now.” She grabbed his arms.
“Let’s go!”
Stri sighed. “I can’t. I don’t know how Harry did it, but he’s blocking me. We can’t move from this spot until he releases us.”
“Or until my husband makes him.” Eva smiled. “My bet’s on Lorcan.”
HARRY FINISHED THE spell and grinned widely. “Well, that ought t’ fockin’ do it, don’t you t’ink?”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Lorcan in a neutral voice. “That ought to fockin’ do it.”
Green and gold strands of dazzling magic twirled up from the page, entwining a delighted Harry. “Me coin!” he cried. “It’s about fockin’ time!”
The enchantment fully engulfed the leprechaun. Harry crowed in happiness, his tiny, bumpy fingers clutching at the multitude of frenetic swirls. It took him a moment to realize that the sparkling, ethereal ropes were pulling him toward the book. The tips of his outrageous shoes sank into the lower edge of the parchment—two daubs of black ink that spread into large blotches as his feet made the transition. His ankles were next and then his stout legs.
Harry tried to claw upward, straining to free himself. He punched and kicked and yowled, but the spell was too strong to be denied. “What fockin’ treachery is this!?”
“You’re gettin’ your wish. You have the coin, boyo.” Lorcan laughed. “Actually, the coin has you.”
“You gobshite trickster!” screamed Harry as his torso was sucked into the codex.
“You fockin’ cheater!” His arms and shoulders twisted grotesquely, appearing to melt like crayons left in the sun. His bushy red beard dissolved. As his head evanesced, Harry shrieked in impotent rage.
His last act was to aim a hateful, malachite gaze at Lorcan and shout, “You fockin’ gobshite thievin’ deamhan fola!”
His garish green hat popped off and rolled across the floor. Lorcan grabbed the tome and walked to the ostentatious chapeau, which he stomped flat. He looked down at the newest addition to his Irish creatures’ compendium.
Harry Little, Leprechaun was nothing but an image engraved on yellowed page.
The End of a Tail
THE SCULPTURE OF Brigid stood graceful and beautiful in the middle of Jessica and Patrick’s living room.
After Lorcan had secured the book with its newest character into the protection of his wall safe, Strife had taken them to the stone effigy and explained what Harry had done with Medusa’s dust.
Eva, Lorcan, Jessica, and Patrick encircled the ancient Celtic goddess. They watched Ruadan—Patrick and Lorcan’s father, first vampire, and the son of Brigid—twirl the double-bladed gold-hilted sword above his head.
“This belonged to King Haakon of Norway,” said Ruadan. “It was known as Quern Biter because the blade cut a ‘quern stone to the eye.’”
“What the fuck is a quern stone?” asked Jessica.
“Beehive or cylindrical shaped stones used to mill certain materials such as wheat into flour or tobacco into snuff.” Lorcan’s gaze remained on the spinning blade wielded by his father. “Quern Biter had a reputation for bein’ the best sword in Norway.”
“So, it should do the trick.” Ruadan brought the blade down expertly aiming the steel toward Brigid’s left shoulder.
Quern Biter bounced off the stone with such vehemence Ruadan stumbled backward and nearly lost his balance. “Dia ár sábháil!”
The sword visibly vibrated, causing tremors down Ruadan’s arms and hands.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. He dropped the sword and before it hit the ground, it disappeared in a blast of sparkling gold.
“If Quern Biter won’t work, no sword will.” Ruadan tapped his chin and looked up, as if the answer was written on the ceiling. After a few moments of contemplation, he grinned. “I’ve got it!”
“Sharur?” he called out. “You got a sec?”
Next to Ruadan appeared a large, scary-looking mace. It floated in the air, slowly spinning. The metal ball was the size of a cantaloupe and sported a multitude of huge, sharp spikes. The chain links were a thick as a baby’s finger. The handle, at least three feet long and almost too wide for a man’s grip, was made from gold and decorated with lapis lazuli.
The mace was a gorgeous weapon meant to destroy—and look good while doing it.
What do you want, Ruadan?
“Oh,” Ruadan told the others, “this is Sharur. It talks.” He made a little bow to the weapon. “Me mother’s been cursed. I need your help.”
The mace drifted to the goddess’s granite figure. It circled Brigid indolently, tilting this way and that as if in deep consideration.
How did she become a statue?
“She was sprinkled with pulverulence from Medusa’s statue.”
Sharur stopped its examination. It zipped back to Ruadan and quivered in what was possibly outrage—or fear.
Medusa? Are you sure?
“We’re sure.”
The mace floated closer to Ruadan, still shaking so hard its handle nearly whacked the vampire in the head.
“So, Great Sharur, can you break the curse with your might?”
No.
The mace disappeared without any fanfare.
“Ah. I s’pose it’s dealt with a gorgon before.” Ruadan snapped his fingers and a long pink tail appeared in his hand. He flicked it against Brigid’s torso and swung it around her head for good measure.
“Da, what is that?” asked Patrick. “’Cause it looks like a rat tail.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s from an ROUS.”
“Rodents of Unusual Size?” Jessica slapped her father-in-law’s shoulder. “Get out! I didn’t know they were real!”
“O’ course they are.” Ruadan peered at his mother, and frowned. “Damn. Never have gotten a rat tail to work.” He tossed it onto the coffee table. “Och! ” Ruadan threw his hands up in the air. “Anyone else have an idea or two?”
“I do,” said Eva. “Medusa turned herself to stone by gazing into a bronze shield. Maybe that will work the opposite for Brigid. We put the shield in front of her and the reflection will turn her from stone to goddess.”
“Excellent idea, Eva!” Ruadan stood about two feet away from Brigid and lifted his arms. An ancient Greek shield appeared in his hands. The bronze was polished to a shine, belying its true age.
“How did you get that?” asked Lorcan.
“I might’ve borrowed it from Aphrodite’s stash.” Ruadan flashed a wicked grin.
“Don’t worry. She’ll never know it was missin’.” He held up the shield to catch his mother’s reflection in the bronze.
The stone cracked, and fissions zigzagged up her legs to her torso … her arms … her neck … her face.
Huge gray pieces popped off and fell to the carpet.
And then Brigid was revealed—in the flesh.
“Hello, mum,” said Ruadan. “I borrowed Athena’s shield. ‘Tis Eva’s idea.”
“Ah.” Brigid brushed off her arms and her dress. “Smart as a whip, our Eva.” She pulled Eva into a hug that was softened even more by the copious amounts of Brigid’s red hair. The goddess smelled like heather and lavender—a lovely combination.
Lorcan, Patrick, and Jessica came in for hugs, too. Finally, it was Ruadan’s turn.
Ruadan put the shield down and wrapped his arms aroun
d Brigid. “Let’s go to the seaside for a while. I hear Aphrodite’s opened a bed and breakfast in Broken Arrow, Oregon. Her apple fritters are s’pose to taste like ambrosia.” Ruadan tapped the shield. “Besides, I have to return this to her.”
“Hmm. It would be nice to see Darrius and Alaya,” said Brigid. “I do adore her shop. She has the best incense.”
“Let’s go now.”
Everyone received good-byes and another round of hugs from both Brigid and Ruadan.
The goddess and her son disappeared in a shimmering burst of magic.
Jessica and Patrick plopped down onto the love seat. Eva and Lorcan sat on the couch, and let out twin sighs of relief.
“Well, we have more citizens for Broken Heart.” Jessica folded her hands over her lap. “Fred’s staying with us. Heidi AKA Juniper is haunting the gift shop until she finds a better gig.”
“Kevin and Gretchen have taken a room at the B&B.” Lorcan grinned. “I hear they’re looking for a house on Sanderson Street.”
“As long as they keep their blinds closed and keep all that naked in their house,” said Patrick, “they’re welcome to join the neighborhood.”
“And if they don’t behave, we’ll sic Fred on them.”
Patrick chuckled.
“Stri is hanging around, too.” Eva leaned against her husband. “I’ve had enough excitement. I would love to have boring for a while.”
Not too borin’, a stóirín. He leaned down and gave her a kiss that sent her pulse fluttering. Heat winged through her.
Let’s go home soon.
Yes. He brushed her hair back. I love you, Eva.
I love you, too.
“We could vacay in Switzerland,” said Jessica. “We have a fab castle there.”
“Now that’s a good idea.” Patrick kissed his wife. “I say the sooner we leave the better.”
“Yeah. Because you know that Easter’s coming up.” Jessica shook her head in bemusement. “I bet something crazy happens then, too … like vampiric bunnies, or shape-shifting chickens, or a zombie Jesus.”
They all stared at each other, horrified.
“Nah!” Jessica laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “There’s no way.”
Excerpt from Valentine’s Day Sucks
Broken Heart Holiday Tale #1
“I SHOT CUPID.”
“Mom?” I croaked into the cell phone. I cracked open an eye and rolled it toward the digital clock on my nightstand. “It’s barely 7 p.m.”
“I’m sorry to wake you early from your undead sleep, Jessica, but I didn’t know who else to call.”
“The police?” I suggested. What? I don’t like being jolted out of my vampiric sleep by crazy Mom phone calls.
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
Ugh. Grugh. Blurgh. “I’m not the one shooting love gods.”
“Jessica!”
“Sorry, Mom. Just gimme a sec to process.”
“Jess? Everything okay, love?” My husband’s voice wound through the dark room like awesome music. You know, like Wham’s “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.”
I reached out across the bed and stroked his shoulder. I had excellent night vision, so I saw the glint of his sex-me-up grin. My hunny bunny was 4,000 years old and counting, and he still looked as yummy as he did when he got vampified at the ripe ol’ age of twenty-five. He stretched so that covers slid down to his waist. My gaze followed the blanket’s progress, hoping for a big reveal. Patrick’s grin widened. My insides turned gooey, and my girl parts shouted, “Woo-hoo!”
“Everything’s great, honey,” I said cheerfully. “By the way, my mother killed Cupid.”
His expression turned to “let’s have evening sex, babe” to “what the bloody hell?”
He sat up. Sadly, the covers bunched at his waist preventing me from ogling his package.
“She killed who?”
I punched the “speaker” button on my phone just in time for Patrick to hear my mother screech, “That bow-wielding bastard tried to kill me first!”
Wait. What? I swallowed the laugh that caught in my throat. She really did mean Cupid. Tomorrow was Valentine’s Day, but it wasn’t exactly known as a prankster or party holiday. Besides, my mother wasn’t that kind of jokester. “Cupid? The flying angel boy with the bow and arrow and chubby thighs … that Cupid?”
“He’s not a cherub,” my Mom said through gritted teeth (I know this because that’s her primary mode of communicating with me). “He’s a grown man dressed in pink Armani. And he kept aiming gold arrows at me.”
“That sounds like him,” mused my husband.
“Seriously? You know Cupid?” I asked.
Patrick gave me a look. Okay, so vampires and fairies and werewolves were real … but c’mon ... Cupid? I was vampire for Pete’s sake, but even I had a hard time believing the mythological arrow-through-the-heart guy existed.
“His name is Eros,” said Patrick. “And yes, I know him. I haven’t seen him a hundred years or so.” He paused. “And he can’t be killed, o’ course.”
“I know! I shot him twice and he kept getting up,” said Mom. Panic edged her voice.
“I put another five bullets into his chest, and he finally stayed down. And then I ... well, I rolled him up in garden netting and staked him to the ground with yard ornaments.”
“Oh,” I said, not sure when my mother turned into Rambo. She lived in a secluded cabin at Lake Tenkiller. When I was kid, we spent every summer there. After my father died, Mom divested herself of nearly everything they’d built together and moved into the family cabin. I worried about Mom living in such an isolated location—especially after she refused my suggestion she get a Life Alert button. “I’m not old,” she’d responded.
Except, hello, she was.
And she wasn’t immortal. She didn’t want to be a vampire, either. Or live in Broken Heart where she’d be safe. Ugh. Mothers, you know?
“When do you think you can get here?” asked Mom. Her voice was still a little shaky, but she seemed back in control.
“On our way.” I hit the “end” button on my cell. I looked at my nearly naked husband, and sighed. “We have to go be responsible adults now.”
“Ah. Okay.”
We were used to all kinds of weirdness because we were vampires and most of our friends were paranormal creatures and we lived in a place filled with zombies and ghosts and shape-shifters. Still, “attack of the Cupid” was a new one.
Patrick took my hand and looked at me, and in that silvery gaze, I saw love for the all ages. When I met him, Patrick believed we were soulmates. The concept had scared me, especially since I’d been sunk into the mire of divorce when my husband was killed in a car accident. Suddenly, I was no longer a soon-to-be divorcée, but rather a widow with two young children to raise alone in the small town of Broken Heart, Oklahoma.
After the arrival of Patrick and his paranormal pals, several of us single parents had been turned into vampires. Being undead had its perks, but it sure as hell didn’t make parenting any easier.
As we quickly dressed, I told Patrick everything I knew about Mom-aggedon. We didn’t have time for a car ride, or even for the faster travel mode of flying by vampire (which is cool and fun). No. We were gonna have to sparkle our way over there in a burst of ancient vampire and fae magic. (Did I mention Patrick’s lineage was fae before the whole undead thing?)
Anyhoo.
“Why do you suppose Eros ended up at your mother’s cabin?”
I never tired of hearing my husband’s Irish brogue. It was like he was singing me a love song every time he opened his mouth. And that made me want to do things to him.
Naughty things. I guess I was doing that opened-mouth drooling thing again because he quirked an eyebrow at me, his lips lifting into a wicked, wicked grin. I can hear your thoughts, love. There’ll be time enough later for being naughty.
That whole soulmate thing? Well, for vampires, it meant we could get inside each other’s thoughts. You know, undead cou
ple telepathy.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, waving my hand. “We have other priorities because Cupid’s stalking my mother.” I tapped my chin, and thought about the problem. “Well, I would’ve said he was some drunk who wandered into in the wrong yard, and passed out. But he’s ignoring bullets like I ignore calories, so he’s probably not human.” I glanced at my husband. “Cupid wears pink?”
“Occasionally,” said Patrick. He wrapped his arms around me, and we began the magical transference of our atoms from Broken Heart to Lake Tenkiller. “I wonder who we might be rescuin’, love. Your mother … or Eros.”
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About Michele Bardsley
Michele Bardsley is a national bestselling author of paranormal, romance, and mystery fiction. She lives in Texas with her husband (The Viking), four dogs and two cats. She loves “Supernatural,” chocolate, crocheting hats, talking to her bestie Renee about writing (and, apparently, poop), and spending time with her awesome hubby.
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Michele’s Other Available Titles
BROKEN HEART HOLIDAY TALES
Valentine’s Day Sucks
Harry Little, Leprechaun
Peter Rottentail (Coming April 2014)
Look for more 2014 holiday tails about Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Fourth of July, National Dog Day, Oktoberfest, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Yuletide!
BROKEN HEART VAMPIRE SERIES
I’m the Vampire, That’s Why --- (Jessica & Patrick)
Don’t Talk Back to Your Vampire --- (Eva & Lorcan)
Because Your Vampire Said So --- (Patsy & Gabriel)
Harry Little, Leprechaun Page 4