“Uh-huh.” I bet that had thrilled Mom. I made a mental note to call her and plead Dad’s case since he had been helping me out with research. “So, what did this old drinking buddy of yours have to say?”
“He mentioned an ancient from the region who went missing a hundred and fifty years ago, give or take a decade. According to lore, a plague wiped out his household, and they took the knowledge of his resting site to their graves.”
Interest piqued, I fumbled for the cheap notepad the hotel provided. “Does he have a name?”
“Captain Fenton Rawlins.” Sounding pleased with his grasp of modern lingo, he added, “You can Google him.”
“I’ll do that,” I promised, ending the call with a tried-and-true hangover recipe.
A quick Internet search provided me with the basics on Captain Rawlins. He had been a rather infamous pirate, born right here on St. Kitts. That set an electric tingle under my skin. This was it. It had to be. Many of the old vamps returned home to sleep. A pity, I had always thought, considering how much it must have changed from the time of their birth, and how much more it would be altered again by the time they rose. Still, I suppose there was comfort in that, even when modern times stripped away the familiar.
With that done, I dialed up Jones. “Hey, I’ve got a bead on our guy. Let me read you what I’ve got, and you tell me if you think it’s plausible.”
I read off my notes and a few choice passages from Wiki corroborated by other sources.
“It fits.” He yawned, making me feel guilty for rousing my second guy in as many phone calls. “An ancient rising would explain the spree and why we’ve only found traces of one killer at the scenes.” Keys tapped in the background. “Saliva tests came back. We’ve got a match on victim one and three.”
I blew out a slow breath. “So how do we stop this guy from taking victim number four?”
“You said he got pissed when you entered his territory, right?” He sounded more alert. “Why don’t we do another sweep of the sites? Maybe you could take a nibble while you’re there. Wouldn’t that be the vamp equivalent of marking your territory?”
“I don’t have a donor here.” I lowered my voice, part embarrassment and part, well, no. It was all embarrassment. “I pour dinner from a plastic bag into a mug and stick it in the microwave.”
“But you can feed?”
The gentle question made my gut twist. “Yes.”
“Then we’ll try my plan and see where it lands us.”
Did he mean in hot water? “Um, feeding is kind of a personal experience.”
“Which is why I’m willing to shower now to give you a clean place to grab a bite to eat.”
Scalding heat flooded my face, and all the air got sucked from the room as my fangs descended, sharp and eager. “Gotta go,” I lisped around them. “Thee you thoon.”
This was such a bad idea.
So why was my stomach growling?
Chapter 9
Jones and I rendezvoused in the hall. Me frazzled, hungry and mortified. Him clean, freshly shaved and showered, and smiling. Dimples displayed to full effect.
“Have you ever…?” I couldn’t find the words to finish the thought.
“No.” He ducked his head. “You’ll be my first.”
With great effort, I kept my fangs, which stood at attention around Jones, from lengthening. “It’s probably going to hurt. I’m not great with the—” I snapped my teeth together. “I buy bagged. It’s easier.”
“I trust you not to hurt me unnecessarily.” His warm hand landed on my shoulder. “The rest… It’s worth it if we catch this guy.”
Nodding agreement, I bolted out of the hotel, grateful for the cool night air as it hit my face. Jones had pulled on his cop mask, and we didn’t talk on the way to the first kill site. He walked me into the woods, to the location still marked by crime-scene tape knotted around tree trunks, and stood there, expectant.
“I’m not sure…” I didn’t want to hurt him, and worse, I didn’t want my fangs to fail me. How awkward would that be? It’s not like they made little blue pills for vamps.
“Try it.” He unbuttoned his shirt and shoved it partway down one arm, giving me full access to his bare throat and the smooth curve of his shoulder. “If it doesn’t feel right, stop. No harm, no foul. I’m not going to force you, and I’m here of my own free will.”
Screwing up my courage, I crossed to him and curved a palm around one side of his neck, the heat of his skin sending my gut into fits. He bent down, granting me easier access, and I inhaled the column of his throat. Yep. There they were. Fangs punched through my gums so fast they nicked my bottom lip.
Jones’s hand found my hip, squeezed, and I let instinct take over. I raked my teeth down the length of his carotid, found the sweet spot that smelled strongest of him, and bit down with a gentleness that astonished me, given the rumble in my stomach.
Swaying toward me, Jones held on tight to steady himself, moaning into the bite. I took a sip, barely a mouthful, and withdrew. Breathing fast, Jones rested his forehead against mine. Pheromones spiked the air, and I inhaled them, pleased that I had given him pleasure. The numbing solution in our fangs caused euphoria in our victims, but only when I was, ahem, fully engaged.
“That was…” He swallowed hard. “I could do that again.”
Laughing softly, I meant to rest my cheek against his since his blood smeared my lips, but he turned his head at the last second, and our mouths collided. His kiss tasted of mint and copper, and it left my toes curled in my boots. A needy sound clawed up the back of my throat, and he responded with an urgent growl.
Between one press of his soft lips and the next, Jones vanished. My eyes popped open, and a chill rippled down my spine. I was alone in the clearing. Jones was nowhere in sight.
“You dare hunt on my lands?” a voice thick with an accent I couldn’t place rolled through the trees. “You. A child. A female.”
Oh great. He was one of those vamps. I suppose it came with the centuries-old territory.
“Where’s my partner?” The high of Jones’s blood singing in my veins forced me to see Dad’s trip to DeLuca’s in a different light. “My—meal.”
“I am Captain Fenton Rawlins, and this is my land,” he snarled again, sounding closer. “He is mine to take, and you are mine to punish.”
As much as I appreciated the confirmation, the reek hit me then, almost sending all that delicious blood splashing onto the sand. God, he hadn’t bathed since rising, and the rotting blood scent compounded his own moldering body odor. And then there was his breath.
Gag.
The vamp council ought to include a toothbrush and toothpaste in his Welcome to the 21st Century gift bag.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” I squared off against the deepest shadows. “He’s mine.”
A sibilant hiss erupted from the trees, and a blur of pale flesh rushed me. The feedings had filled out the vamp to anorexic human proportions, and he was well on his way to being reconstituted.
Lashing out with his claws, he raked the ragged tips across my cheek. I reared back, too slow. Vamp beat dhampir any day, and this one was buzzed from gorging. Blood poured down my chin, a scent that mingled mine with Jones and set my inner predator purring.
“Leave.” He jabbed the air with a withered finger. “Go now, and I will take your meal as payment for your trespass.”
“Again, I hate to tell you this, but he’s mine. You can’t have him.”
A shaft of clear moonlight hit him square in a face that might have once been considered ruggedly handsome, but now looked mostly pissed and insane. A combo I had gotten up close and personal with one too many times in this line of work.
“Then you sign your own death warrant,” he yelled, leaping into the air and tackling me to the ground. Straddling my chest, he wrapped his palms around my throat, tightening his grip until I gasped. “This is my home. Mine.”
“Not anymore,” Jones said from behind him then fired three rounds into the
ancient’s skull.
Old blood sprayed my face, black and tarry, and Captain Rawlins collapsed on top of me. A sliver of me, more vamp than fae, urged me to lick my lips, absorb the power in that crimson smear. The rest of me recalled the faces of his victims, and I kept my mouth shut.
“Hang on.” Jones gripped the vamp by the collar and lifted him off, dropping him facedown in the sand before murmuring a restraining Word to bind his wrists and then his ankles together with magic. “You okay?”
I held up a finger then used the tail of my shirt to wipe off the blood. “Yeah. I appreciate the save.”
He offered me his hand and hauled me to my feet, flashing dimples all the while. “We make a good team.”
“Yeah.” I had to admit, dusting sand off my pants, we did.
Jones called in the capture, and soon the night was saturated with wailing sirens and flashing lights. We stood aside while Captain Rawlins was collected by four men dressed in black suits. Those must be the vamp reps. No one else would fuss with a tie before wrestling an animated cadaver with breath that could shrivel the tassels on their loafers.
With the ancient surrendered to the proper authorities, and after the director’s apologies for Jones filling Captain Rawlins with lead, Jones and I stood shoulder-to-shoulder as we gave our statements.
It was over. The killer had been caught. The good people of St. Kitts were safe once more.
“I could go for lobster,” Jones murmured once we stood alone. “How about you?”
I cocked my head at him. “Are you asking me out on a date right now?” I gestured toward the blood soaking my clothes. “Really?”
“I warned you I would once the case was wrapped. Not my fault if you didn’t believe me.” He cupped the side of my neck with his palm and traced his thumb over the quick-beating pulse there. “I want another one of those kisses.”
Lips tingling with promise, I gave a slight nod, and he lowered his mouth to mine. This time, when my fangs snicked down, it was his lip I scratched, and he didn’t mind. He wrapped his arms around me, hauling me close, giving me more of his drugging blood.
“I like the way you taste,” I said against his lips.
“The feeling is mutual,” he replied between sharp nips of his blunt teeth, giving as good as he got. “Now, how about that dinner?”
“I’m not hungry.” I wet my lips, tasting him there. “Not for lobster at least.”
“How about we pick up a to-go plate for me, and I slather some of the lemon-herb butter on my throat for you back at the hotel?”
Mouth watering for another taste, I threaded my fingers through his. “It’s a date.”
The Bakers Grimm
A Gemini Short Story
The Bakers Grimm Blurb
When two struggling business owners compete for the contract of a lifetime, it's all bakers on deck. Mix in a dollop of rivalry, a tablespoon of romance, and a pinch of magic, and you've got the recipe for one heck of a bake-off. May the best decorator win!
Chapter 1
For as long as anyone could remember, Lookie’s Cookies, a specialty cookie shop, had shared a wall with Grimm Design, the cutting-edge bakery next door. Mom, Lookie Comeaux, was faithful to her royal icing and shortbread, but Bernadette Grimm held no such loyalties. She served sandwiches to lure in peckish passersby who nested in the patio furniture arranged in front of our window display. Mom had, on more than one occasion, threatened to place thumbtacks on the seats during Grimm’s lunch rush the way one might use bird control spikes to keep unwanted pests from roosting.
Week after week, month after month, year after year, petty skirmishes broke out between the two rival shop owners. It was to be expected, I suppose, considering Mom and I were elves and Bernadette and her star baker, her son, Daryl, were witches. Fae and earth magics never had learned to play nice together, and neither had our parents. And, if I was being honest, neither had we.
Still, the cycle might have continued unbroken until the day all-out war erupted in the otherwise peaceful town of Wink, Texas.
A lucrative contract for supplying the area’s multitude of Leonard’s chain stores with cookies had landed in Mom’s hands. Well, almost. She did have to beat one final competitor, the shop next door. That small detail failed to prevent Mom from crowing to anyone in hearing distance about her daughter’s—that would be me—dab hand with royal icing and a piping bag. How my skill alone would land her the contract and leave Grimm in her snickerdoodle dust.
And that’s also how Mr. Martin Dross, the marketing director of Leonard’s, who had stopped in to collect a sample tray, happened to be present for the brag heard ’round the block.
“Your daughter decorated all these?” Mr. Dross peered into the bakery case I was attempting to hide behind and caught my reflection. “The attention to detail is quite remarkable. These are all handmade?”
“Yes.” Mom beamed with pride. “We’re the only non-magic cookie bakery in town.”
Considering we were the only cookie specialists in town, that wasn’t saying much. But there was a cachet to having handmade treats as opposed to those concocted by magic. To me, the difference in flavor alone made the extra cost worthwhile. Magicked cookies tasted…generic. Similar to the end product of the refrigerated rolls of dough you could buy at the grocery store. Ours, however, had been known to cause swooning, drooling and, that one time, a marriage proposal.
Mr. Dross’s piercing yellow gaze flicked up to mine. “I have a proposition for you.”
Mom gripped my shoulders and shoved me into clear view. “Oof. I mean, yes?”
“My mother’s birthday is tomorrow.” He tapped the base of his throat, drawing my attention to his sallow skin. “Father bought her a ruby necklace for her birthday the first year they were married. Do you think if I provided photographs that you could copy the necklace? I’m sure I have some on my phone. Say, duplicate the design on five or six dozen cookies? I’d need them in time for her party.”
My jaw came unhinged. Sixty or seventy-two more super intricate designs on top of all my other work? In under twenty-four hours?
No thanks.
“Of course, she can,” Mom butted in with a promise she didn’t have to keep.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a cake?” I cringed beneath her glare while cheerfully throwing her nemesis under the bus. Overbooked as usual, thanks to Mom’s inability to say no to a paying customer, I was hanging on to my present deadlines by my fingernails. I had no time for elaborate add-ons. Not this week. Not this month, according to my calendar. The rest of the year wasn’t looking so hot either, honestly. “The reason I ask is they do amazing things with isomalt next door. There’s a good chance that Daryl, Mrs. Grimm’s son, could replicate the stones in sugar and the settings in gum paste. Their creations are also handmade.”
Part of the lease agreement had included, to my understanding, a ban on spell casting to keep our product untainted, forcing the Grimms to uphold the same non-magic baking standards.
“Hmm. Mother has a fondness for shortbread, you see.” He gave the case one last glance then sighed. “It’s last minute, I know. I wasn’t sure she would be in town until she emailed her travel agenda this morning. If you can’t handle the order, of course I’ll go next door. I’m sure the Grimms would be happy for the commission.”
“I bet they would,” Mom muttered under her breath before cranking up her volume. “It’s no worry, really. Millie would be thrilled to help ensure your mother’s birthday is a truly special occasion.” She glared daggers at me when I parted my lips. “Here at Lookie’s Cookies, we’re always willing to accommodate our customers’ needs.” To me, she whispered, “Especially when contracts are on the line.”
“What about my other orders?” I hissed. “I’m booked solid.”
“Then you’d better get started.” After patting my cheek, she shuffled Mr. Dross to a corner table to sort out the gory details.
“How does she think you’re going to produce
the grandkids she keeps harping on if she works you to the bone?”
Smiling, I glanced over my shoulder at Sue, my assistant. “Where there’s a turkey baster, there’s a way?”
“Eww and yet… This is your mom we’re talking about.” The other woman anchored her hands on her hips. “She’s probably hoping your talent will breed true, and you’ll turn into a production line for cookies and heirs to her empire.”
“Be nice.” Laughter bubbled up my throat. “Come on. We better get started clearing the other orders.”
“Yes, boss.” She saluted me, whirled on her heel and marched into the kitchen.
I followed with a sigh, fingers aching at the hours of work ahead of them.
Through the miracle of delegation, and the part-time decorator we kept on standby, I cleared enough orders to work guilt-free on the Dross cookies after closing Lookie’s for the day. I lost myself to the mindless repetition, relaxing into the familiar motions, enjoying the small reprieve from Mom, who believed I required utter silence to create my masterpieces, a belief I was quick to encourage at every opportunity. I was using a toothpick to flood the liquid icing up to its piped border when a loud knock on the back entrance made me jump. The toothpick broke the line, and icing dribbled over the side, the cookie ruined.
“Good thing I baked extras,” I grumbled to the empty room.
Whatever late-night delivery had just arrived better be worth the interruption. Some of our suppliers were nocturnal fae, and they offered discounts for accommodating nighttime deliveries, but we kept human hours around here. I would have to remind Mom that the next time she wanted to save a few dollars, she needed to make sure someone would be here to receive the goods.
Crossing the kitchen, I opened the door. “Can I help—? Oh. It’s you.”
“Did you really encourage Mr. Dross to order a cake from me?” Daryl Grimm, handsome as sin and snarly as a bear, glared down at me from under a fringe of platinum bangs, the rest of his hair feathered and gooped in a messy style that made my fingers itch to tidy his part. “Do you know how many weddings I have booked this week?”
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