Bustin'

by Minda Webber

  Grimacing in pain, Sam retained a half grin. She knew she had to. Never let them see you sweat: Her parents had drilled that into her as a child. Supernatural creatures thrived on fear and pain, and Sam wasn't about to give this venomous vamp the thrill.

  Jerking out a cross she had hidden in her jacket pocket, she pressed it down on Forest's arm. Immediately the Irish vampiress's skin began to smoke.

  "Short maybe, human, definitely, but stupid, no way."

  Forest jerked back her scorched arm, her fangs extended. She hissed at Sam, "You're stupider than I thought!"

  "But you aren't as tough as you think you are," Sam wisecracked unwisely. She ignored Nic's nervous expression.

  "You'll pay for this, you malicious miscreant!" the vampiress howled, cradling her arm.

  "No, she won't," Nic broke in harshly. "We are at serious business here, and you provoked her."

  Sam agreed. "We have better things to do than trade insults all night. I get enough of those from Nic," she said. But she was pleased as punch that Nic had taken up for her.

  Before Forest might launch herself across the table, Nic staunchly placed both hands on the woman's shoulders, suggesting firmly, "Forest, remember that Sam was invited here by the Prince of New York, New Hampshire and Vermont. Prince Varinski wouldn't like it if you attacked her. She has Petroff's protection as well as my own."

  Then, dropping his hands from Forest's shoulder, he grabbed Sam's hand and pulled her to her feet. "Let's dance, Sammy." He gave her no chance to object.

  "The name is Sam," she protested, tugging slightly on her wrist. Forest gave her a look that would have sliced her to ribbons if it was a blade, then stormed off in a huff, her red miniskirt barely covering her fast-moving bottom.

  "I'm really not in the mood to dance with a devil," Sam spoke up as Nic led her to the floor.

  "Tough."

  On the dance floor, the band was playing an old Chicago tune; "Colour My World." Glancing over Nic's shoulder, Sam couldn't help letting her feminine side enjoy a victory; Nic had taken up with her and Forest was stomping upstairs to the bar area of the club!

  "That's some playmate you've picked out for yourself," she said snidely.

  Nic only smiled.

  "Better watch your neck, your back and anything else that gets in the way of those snapping fangs," Sam remarked, secretly savoring his closeness.

  "I'm a grown boy. I can take care of myself."

  Sam snorted. "You're not as smart as you think, buster. You're not as tough as you think. You may be good-looking and all that, but good looks don't cut it with a fang-face."

  "I happen to like fang-faces."

  "What, you want to end up sharing a sepulcher with some nasty Nosferatu? Funny, I didn't take you for a sucker."

  "I think I'll manage."

  Sam couldn't stop herself. "You may not realize it, but you're heading the way of the uneternal big sleep by letting her hang all over you."

  "She's beautiful, sexy and none of your business," he replied, stoking her jealousy. She was hot and bothered; her lips were in a pout, her pink, ripe lips, making him ache for a taste. She pushed against his chest, but Nic didn't release her. She felt too good in his arms.

  "Are you always this charming, or did you take piss-women-off lessons?" How dare the rotten rake flirt with both her and Forest! He couldn't have that birch and her too; only he was too dumb to recognize that fact.

  "You know, you're adorable when you're mad, Sam. It makes me want to kiss all the spit and vinegar out of you."

  "I don't think that can be arranged," she replied angrily. His face was just inches from her own, with its dark smoldering gaze daring her, challenging her. But he had used and abused her, and he didn't deserve for her to give him the time of day, much less a kiss. He could have all the vinegar he wanted, though.

  "Too bad. We could have a lot of fun."

  "Ha!" Sam knew it wasn't her best comeback, but she was again thinking of how hot and honeyed Nic's kisses were; how much she wanted not only his lips, but also wouldn't mind another in-depth history lesson about Peter the Great. She stifled a groan.

  "We can have a lot of fun, Sam, if you let us."

  "In your dreams. I won't sit through intimacies with liars, betrayers, or one-night standers."

  Nic stopped dancing and held her at arm's length. "You better walk easy around me, Sam, and learn where to draw the line. I'm prepared to give you some leeway because of our past, but don't insult my honor anymore. And for the hundredth time, you're not a one-night stand!"

  "Don't threaten me, Nic!" she snapped.

  "Don't push me, Sam, or you're gonna end up on the floor with your skirt around your head." Nic stared at her, smoldering. Oh, how he wanted Sam—here and now! "You want to make a scene in the middle of a vampire bar?" His eyes were glittering with the red-hot glow of desire; this feisty female roused his passions faster than anyone he had ever known.

  "You know, buster, somebody needs to teach you a lesson."

  "Who's going to do it?" he asked smugly. "You?"

  "You bet. I'm the one wearing the boots that are going to kick your Russian butt right back to Vermont."

  "Sounds kinky. Let's go," he replied. He wore a wicked grin, a lady-keep-your-knees-together grin. "I'm all yours. I know you want me."

  Unfortunately, before Sam could punch Nic in the gut or let him have a piece of her mind or boot, Ripley interrupted them. "Outside, now. There's been another stoning."

  First-rate Dicks

  It was a night for detectives, Sam mused dispiritedly. Where was Columbo when you needed him? Sam had always felt that there was something comforting about Columbo's old trench coat and sad-faced dog look, just like Monk's ever-ready handy wipes. But they were on their own, no help to be had.

  Sam, Nic and Alex followed Ripley to the back of an alley on the corner of Baker Street and McCallam. Wearing only a short skirt and a long sleeve blouse, Sam certainly felt the nip in the air. But the chilly night winds were not what had frozen the woman on the ground.

  Moonlight filtered down, revealing the body. Sam studied it. This victim was marble hard, and death was death no matter how a person bought or paid for it.

  "Yep, it's murder," she said stonily. She didn't need to be Leonardo da Vinci to figure out that the gorgon had struck again. And if they didn't catch him soon, there would be a new exhibit of female stationary gracing the sidewalks of New York. She doubted the Met would approve of the competition.

  The woman lay with her skirt hiked up, her face frozen in pain and ecstasy for all time—just a stoned throes away from a big city that didn't care.

  Shaking her head, Sam remarked, "The NYPD Supernatural Task Force will be stumped." How could they suspect a mythical monster that hadn't seen the light of day for over eight centuries? Would they realize a gorgon was getting his rocks off by turning women to stone? "Will they even believe us?" she wondered aloud.

  She and Nic were between a rock and a hard place, like running a gauntlet blindfolded or walking a tightrope in high heels. She doubted the NYPD Supernatural Task Force would help them; more likely they would just slow things down. Even their best detective, Rockford, with his meticulous files, wouldn't be able to deal with this murder case. And CSI couldn't get blood out of stone.

  "I doubt it," Nic replied. His eyes narrowed in rage; nobody deserved to die like this.

  "The task force also won't know the weapons to kill a Meduse. They sure can't go after him with Remingtons or Magnums."

  "You're right. We shouldn't involve them yet," Nic agreed, sniffing the air and surveying the crime scene.

  Picking up the victim's purse, Sam found crackers and a wallet inside, along with other detritus. The lady's name was Harri Kenny. "Human female, five foot seven, one hundred and forty-two pounds and thirty-one years of age. Well, at least we know who killed Kenny. You don't have to be a psych to figure it out. What a tragic end to a life cut short. Dammit! We've got to stop Nero. This woman needs to be av
enged," Sam said.

  "We will, Sam, we will," Nic vowed. He was closely seconded by Alex, whose usual good spirits had vanished with the night's gruesome discovery.

  Ripley had been sniffing the air, and he remarked, "The Meduse doesn't leave any scent. Strange, but I can't get anything from either the victim or this alley."

  Sam frowned. A werewolf had a better nose than a bloodhound. "You didn't get a scent at Jessie's place either?"

  Ripley shook his head. "The Meduse must have some kind of spell protecting him."

  "Probably the de-scenting spell. Costly, very costly. And it only makes things harder for us," Sam complained, shaking her head. She pulled a card out of the dead woman's wallet, noting it was a pass card. "The victim works for Dragnet Industries, a business that goes over to Asia and captures dragons for domestic use here in the U.S.A. She's also a card-carrying witch. The Cagney and Lacy Clan."

  "Dragons for domestic use?" Alex asked curiously.

  "Yeah. Dragons are used for controlled crop burning in the midwest, and of course nationwide at funeral homes. Cremation."

  Nic tapped his foot, his expression grave. "She wasn't exactly born a supernatural, but she did work for a more magical industry and is a witch. She was also blond. I wonder what else about her drew the gorgon?"

  "She's got great breasts," Alex volunteered. "So did Jessie."

  Sam narrowed her eyes and nodded curtly. "Thank you for telling me. Thank you so much. Now if you come a bit closer, I'll put my fist in your eye."

  Nic sighed. His brother had always been a breast man. He himself preferred the total package—a package very much in the shape and size of Sam Hammett.

  "I can't believe the gorgon struck again so soon," Ripley muttered, voicing everyone's thoughts.

  "Three nights and he's struck again. That's bad news," Nic agreed. Looking back at the sidewalk to where a few Goth-costumed clubbers were walking by, he noted, "It's a pretty public place to be getting his kicks in killing. He must not be afraid of capture at all."

  "Or John Q. Public. It appears that Nero's certainly not sitting around fiddling while we roam," Sam added hotly. She summed up her conclusions: "He comes out of nowhere and starts stoning women. This is the second victim we know of in three days. Usually a serial stoner works up to his killing. It usually takes months. Yet we have two occurrences in less than a week. You don't go from crawling to running. No, there must be other bodies that we know nothing about."

  Sam glanced at Nic, who was rising from examining the corpse. His stance was taut, his body weight evenly distributed; he stood on the balls of his feet, ready for the rocky path ahead.

  "If there were any other murders, we would have heard it through the paranormal pipeline. Petroff has good connections. So do I," Nic remarked as he glanced back down at the victim. "But I tend to agree with you, Sam. This hunter is skilled and unafraid. Maybe he just got to New York and his other kills are elsewhere—maybe the West Coast or Europe."

  "You aren't as stupid as you act, Nic," Sam remarked. "Congratulations."

  Alex hid his smile behind his hand, while Nic merely stared at her. After a moment he said, "Well, isn't this a Hallmark moment?"

  Turning her back on the brothers grim and grimmer, Sam headed back toward the club. Over her shoulder she called, "Just one more thing. I'll check my West Coast contacts tomorrow. Since you guys have friends in Europe, you can check there."

  "Where are you going?" Nic called out. He was irritated that the sight of her curvy, swinging hips could almost mesmerize him. She was dynamite in that short blue skirt, dynamite ready to go bang. Which was entirely the wrong train of thought. There was a big, bad monster loose in New York, and he was lusting after a maddening menace with a big mouth.

  "I'm going to bed," Sam said. Then she stopped and turned. "But that's not an invitation. Now be sure you dispose of the body properly; NYPD Supernatural just isn't up to it." She started briskly walking, trying to escape the cold night air and the hovering chill of death.

  Nic watched Sam go, his insides smoldering. Noticing that his little brother was avidly watching him watch her, he frowned. He shot Alex a hard look. "Don't press your luck, buddy. Just keep your mouth shut."

  For once Alex took his eldest brother's advice.

  After a moment, glancing back down at the woman in rock, he asked Nic, "What do we do with her?"

  "What would one normally do with a stone statue of erotic nature?"

  "Take it to a quarry?" his younger brother guessed.

  "Nope. To an art gallery specializing in erotic art," Nic explained, and they rolled the corpse in a blanket Ripley had procured.

  "Got one in mind?" the werewolf asked.

  "Yeah, the McCloud Gallery."

  "Ah. I know it. I'll take her," Ripley volunteered.

  "Okay, but while you're there, check and see if there's any more life-sized art like this. Maybe someone else has the same idea as me for getting rid of murder victims," Nic advised gravely. He turned. "Alex, you and I have to make those calls pretty soon, what with the time difference in Europe and all."

  Alex patted his brother on the shoulder. "You know, Nic, Sam was right. You aren't as dumb as you look."

  Give Us Your Tired, Your Poor, your Haunted Masses yearning to Be Free

  The next night was one to give a person the willies. Pea soup fog inched outward, spreading across the pavement and winding its fingers around buildings and cars. The air was cold enough to penetrate the bones, unseasonably cold for October in New York. The ride across in the ferry had been bitterly uncomfortable, and fairly silent since Sam was pouting and Alex was canceling a date on his cell phone with some bimbo he had met. High in the dark heavens, the wind blew a thick cloud across the waxing moon, which would be full in a couple of days, Sam noted as she walked off the boat.

  What was going to happen would happen tonight; she felt it in her bones just like the chill. Just what would happen she couldn't say, since there was neither rhyme nor reason to her gut instinct, just a feeling she couldn't shake. The conviction blanketed her mind like the cloud across the moon.

  The others had scoffed at her insistence on the gorgon being infatuated with the Statue of Liberty. She could still hear Nic's parting shot as they'd split up to each go his merry way. Once again Sam had been tempted to tell him about the reference to the perverted sexual interest of Medusae, but some imp had kept her quiet. She and Alex had come her to kill the Meduse, and Nic could go hang. He and the others had split themselves between the various Goth clubs.

  "Happy hunting," Nic had called to Sam and Alex's departing backs. Forest had shadowed him, standing too close for Sam's taste, but Nic was lapping up the Irish vampire's regard like Irish whiskey, she noted peevishly. Also it had been more than obvious that the pair thought she and Alex were on a fool's mission. Forest had been giggling as they'd left the hotel.

  Well, let the woman laugh. Sam knew the old adage, He who laughs last laughs best, and she intended to be hysterical by the time she was in bed for the night.

  Slamming her mind shut against any more thoughts of Nic and the vexatious vamp, Sam glanced up at the Statue of Liberty, taking in its proud majesty. A feeling of profound pride flooded her system, as it always did when she gazed upon the grand old lady. This dame was something else, with her hand held high, loftily lighting the way for new generations to find their American dream, just as she had done for millions before. The lady was a beauty, no doubt about it, and no self-respecting gorgon would be able to resist.

  The poem inscribed at the base always affected Sam, that poem which had been changed slightly over the last eighty years to say, "Give me your tired your poor, your hungry haunted masses—your ghosts, your vampires, your werewolves and other supernatural predators yearning to be free."

  The poor saps, Sam thought. Americans just hadn't figured on the Meduse. No one would throw out the welcome mat for a creature like Nero.

  Glancing over at Alex, who wore a light wind-breaker, Sam
wondered why the cold didn't bother him. She herself was dressed in a Columbo-like trench coat and fur-lined cap, and she was shivering, but he seemed oblivious to the cold ocean gusts all around.

  Feeling Sam's eyes on him, he smiled. "She's something else," he remarked, his voice fraught with emotion as he glanced up at the grand old dame.

  Sharing the moment, she smiled back. "She always gets to people, no matter their race, color or species—and no matter how many times you see her up close and personal." In the car on the way over, Sam had found out that this was Alex's second time to view the Statue. "America is quite a country."

  "I guess," Alex agreed. "But I still miss Russia."

  Sam smiled sympathetically. "At least your homeland is gorgon-free," she remarked.

  "Yeah. Nic found out that there weren't any stonings there. Just in Italy, about a month ago. At least they think those two missing shapeshifters from Rome met with foul play, but with so many statues there, it's hard to tell."

  "Well, there were no reported stonings on the West Coast, so I think we are best off assuming that the gorgon was hibernating around Rome somewhere. And for whatever reason, he decided to migrate here." Glancing back up at the Statue of Liberty, she added, "Maybe he couldn't resist the lure of this monument."

  Alex shrugged. "In a crazy way, that makes perfect sense. Nero's a huge womanizer, so why wouldn't he carry a torch for the biggest woman in the world?" Observing the thin crowd outside the monument, he noted, "Nothing happening right now, though."

  "Let's try indoors."

  Inside, there was a small gathering of people.

  "Not many here tonight," Alex commented.

  "Too cold," Sam replied, scanning the crowd. Noting nothing, she nudged Alex's arm. "Let's go on up. Take the grand tour. I'm glad they're letting people do that again—I have something I want to confess."

  Inside the crown, the crowd grew thin until it was only the two of them. There Sam confessed the odd reference to statuary rape. Alex gaped at her then grinned, giving her a very American thumbs-up for keeping her mouth shut about the bizarre reference. After a brief discussion about her omission, the two stared out into space. Below, the city of New York was a glittering, dazzling feast of lights, along with waves of drifting fog curling sluggishly around the rocks and foundations of buildings.