Heroines and Hellions: a Limited Edition Urban Fantasy Collection

by Margo Bond Collins

  Cassio crossed the threshold with ease, like going through a water fall. The tiny bubble became unbearably smaller. I wanted to put on a brave face, but the trembling of my body was a dead giveaway.

  "I don't want your medallion." I lifted my chin and balled my hands into fists by my sides.

  "I don't want to give it you. But it doesn't seem either of us has a choice."

  "I'll flush it down the toilet as soon as I have the chance."

  Anger flashed in his eyes and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep myself from breaking down and crying. I needed Mom and Dad. I wanted to yell at Camille for stealing my clothes. I wanted to see Tammara and Amber's happy faces again.

  Cassio grabbed my wrist and I was surprised by his scorching touch. I expected him to be cold, like water. He pried my fist open and put his medallion on my palm. The urge to throw that damn thing out of the bubble and into the oceanic void came and went in a flash. I stared at the rustic medallion, mesmerized by it. There was a symbol engraved, a pair of entwined swirls, and it shone blue for a second before returning to black. When I looked up, Cassio had already rejoined his sister.

  "It's all settled then," Queen Iemanjá said.

  I had so many questions but my time was up. The bubble began to ascend, and despite my need to know more, I was anxious to be rid of my glorified prison.

  "Wait!" Cassio shouted and the movement stopped.

  "What is it now, boy?"

  "I have a request to make."

  "You are not in any position to make requests."

  "I know. It's not for me. It's for my people. This human, she has seen too much."

  "You forget she's an Indigo. She can handle the knowledge." There was a pause, and before Cassio could counter the queen, his sister put a hand on his arm and shook her head. The queen continued. "However, I agree that the time has not yet come for her to know everything. She's not ready. Very well."

  Very well what? Was she going to erase my memories? I tried to protest but no sound escaped my lips. The bubble resumed its ascension, going faster than before. I heard a soft lullaby that turned my eyelids into lead. I fought to remain awake, but the idea of closing my eyes and putting the nightmare behind me sounded like the best idea in the world.

  My eyelids were heavy, and the longer I tried to lift them unsuccessfully, the more I panicked. Muffled sounds were all around me and I strained my ears, trying to make sense of the mangled words. Slowly, their voices became clear. Mom, Dad, and Camille were somewhere nearby. Giving up on opening my eyes, I focused on saying something instead. My lips were chapped and the dryness had glued them together. With some effort, I managed to part them enough for my tongue to apply some moisture to the lower lip. Success. Now, the talking part.

  "Mom?" I didn't recognize my own voice. It was raspy and my throat burned like I had drunk gasoline.

  "Kenzie, sweetie. You're finally awake." I felt her warm hand cover mine and press gently. Then her lips touched my forehead before she stroked my hair.

  Bigger hands touched my other arm. "How are you feeling, honey?" Dad asked in the smallest voice and I wondered for the first time what had happened to me to make him so worried.

  "My throat hurts something fierce and I can't open eyes."

  "Eye goo sealed them shut. You've been sleeping for days." Camille's chipper voice lifted my spirits despite the blank space in my mind.

  "Here, let me clean that for you," Mom said.

  Cool moisture covered my lids, and after a moment, I felt the seal dissolve into nothing. The sudden brightness created havoc with my vision. I blinked a couple of times, trying to disperse the haziness.

  My torso began to lift and it took me a few seconds to realize Mom was putting the hospital bed in the upright position. The first person I saw was Camille standing by the foot of the bed. Her blond hair was pulled up in a messy bun and she wore one of my old surf competition T-shirts. Her ever-present tan was gone. I'd never seen her so pale in my life. She shifted from foot to foot and munched on her thumbnail.

  I caught movement behind her and my stomach dropped when I recognized my fourth visitor, Peter. He took careful steps toward me, like he was afraid of my reaction. I might be missing a big chunk of my memory, but I remembered vividly the last time I had seen him. It was right before the Vans US Open of Surfing. I had been a nervous wreck. It was going to be my first big professional surf competition, and Peter had deemed it an appropriate time to break my heart to pieces. I still competed but I sucked ass.

  Mom let go of my hand and made space for him next to me. I followed his every move, unable to comprehend the reason for his presence. His button-down shirt was untucked and wrinkled. He had also missed a few days of shaving. I didn't need his pity visit. He took the seat Mom had vacated and stared at me with an expression I couldn't decipher. The skin around his eyes and eyebrows were red, so was his nose, a telltale sign that Peter had been crying recently.

  "Peter, what are you doing here?"

  "Kay-kay, I…" New tears rolled down his freckled cheeks, and to my surprise, Peter brought his head down to my lap, hugging me in a most awkward way. "I'm so, so sorry, Kay-kay. I was a selfish man for breaking your heart like that. I don't know what I would’ve done if I had lost you."

  I glanced at Dad, not knowing what to do. What had happened to me to bring this bounty of guilt on Peter? And why couldn't I feel anything besides confusion at hearing him utter those words? For weeks after our break-up, I wished he would come back to me.

  "Gee, Peter. Stop being so overly dramatic and give Kenzie some space. You're smothering her," Camille said and I sent her a silent thank you.

  Peter let go of me and straightened up on his seat. His russet hair was sticking out in odd chunks. He looked unraveled and completely un-Peter like. Ignoring his guilt-ridden stare, I turned to Dad.

  "Where are Tammara and Amber? Are they okay?" My muscles were rigid, my body bracing for bad news.

  "Yes, honey. They're fine. They came to see you yesterday before they flew back to the States."

  I sank back against the pillows. My best friends were safe. The wave of relief that washed through me was better than any medication they could give me right now.

  "But what happened exactly?" I asked.

  Dad's lips turned into a thin line and he looked at Mom.

  "You don't remember anything?" Camille said.

  I frowned and tried to collect my jumbled memories, assemble them in a way that made sense. "The last thing I remember is this massive, rogue wave bearing down toward the yacht and then a big crash. After that, there is nothing."

  Mom glanced out of the window, playing absent-mindedly with the beads around her neck. "It's probably for the best, sweetie. Some things should remain buried in the ocean."

  "That was deep, Mom." Camille rolled her eyes before she jumped on the bed by my feet.

  "Did the yacht sink?" I asked my sister since Mom and Dad appeared uncomfortable talking about my accident.

  "Yup. It made the news and everything, even back home. Everyone is reeling about it. Apparently, the yacht was hit by a mini hurricane."

  "How is that even possible? I've never heard of hurricanes in the Mediterranean Sea."

  Camille shrugged. "That's what the experts are saying."

  "The good news is that everyone survived the tragedy. The captain called for help before the yacht went under," Dad said.

  I stared at my lap and absorbed the information. My parents and Camille only knew about things that had happened after the boat sank. They couldn't help with the void that plagued my mind. I wanted to heed Mom's advice and forget about it. But I couldn't let it go.

  "Hey, I meant to ask you something." Camille retrieved some type of jewelry from her pocket. "Where did you get this?" She handed me a rustic medallion that hung from a thin leather strap. A beautiful design was engraved on it. I traced the symbol and felt an odd sense of possession.

  "So, where did you buy it?" Camille asked after a while snapp
ing me from my daze.

  "What?"

  "I want to know where you bought it so I can get one too. I've never seen anything so cool."

  I stared at her like I had lost the ability to speak. My heart began to beat madly inside my chest and I felt feverish all of the sudden.

  "Kay, are you okay?" Peter placed a hand of my forehead. I winced at his touch and he looked like I had slapped him.

  "Where did you find this?" My fingers curled around the jewelry.

  "You were clutching it when the paramedics brought you in. They tried to pry it from your hand but you wouldn't let go. Only Mom was able to take it from you."

  I opened my palm and glanced at the mysterious medallion again. I didn't know when or how I had come in possession of it, but I knew without a doubt that it was the key to my lost memories. One way or another, I was getting them back.

  The End

  About the Author

  www.michellehercules.com

  Michelle Hercules always knew creative arts were her calling but not in a million years did she think she would become an author. With a background in fashion design she thought she would follow that path. But one day, out of the blue, she had an idea for a book. One page turned into ten pages, ten pages turned into a hundred, and before she knew, her first novel, The Prophecy of Arcadia, was born.

  Michelle Hercules resides in The Netherlands with her husband and daughter. She is currently working on the Legends of Gattica series, and the Love Me, I’m Famous series.

  The Guardians

  Elise Marion

  The Guardians © 2017 Elise Marion

  * * *

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  The Guardians

  She’s a half-demon stripper with daddy issues … until they tell her she must save the world.

  Addison Monroe has been fighting dark urges her entire life, but it’s not until she uncovers a shocking secret that she realizes the truth behind her moments of insanity.

  She is one of the Nephilim—a child born of a human mother and demon father. And despite her tainted blood, Heaven has chosen her for a special mission: defeat the ten followers of Eligos, a demon known as the Great Duke of Hell.

  That will be hard enough, but when she finds herself falling for Jack, the demon hunter tasked with protecting her, things will get even more complicated.

  1

  Dark Nights

  The pavement thrummed under his feet, the vibrations echoing from the soles and up his legs, travelling the length of his body. This place teemed with life, pounding, resounding … brimming with temptation. Half-naked women struck a variety of provocative poses in the display windows of clubs, hoping to entice the men walking down the street to come inside.

  Jack Bennett avoided their unfocused gazes; the glazed eyes of drugged-up strippers didn’t appeal to him, and neither did the breasts pressed against the glass in tawdry exhibition. He moved on with purpose, weaving through the sea of bodies clogging the street. Ahead, in a large circle left open by spectators, a group of B-boys performed their best tricks for tips. Jack cut through the middle, ignoring the jeers and hisses of the gathered crowd and the largest of the three dancers who held his arms out in challenge and bellowed, “Hey, what’s your problem, asshole?”

  He kept moving, jerking the hood of his sweatshirt over his close-shaven head. He didn’t have time for anyone’s bullshit tonight; the cold metal of the gun pressing against the small of his back reminded him of the urgency of his mission.

  Shouldering his way through the crowd, he continued on. Here and there, people dressed as ‘living statues’ entertained for money. He saw them everywhere—pulling out all the stops to make a buck on a Saturday night. Musicians sang, a group of gypsies danced, and one guy dressed as Uncle Sam would even pose with you—along with his cigar-smoking stuffed dog—for a mere donation of a few dollars. From the open doors of clubs and bars, music pounded out, a mingling of hip-hop, jazz, blues, and country that spilled into the street and mingled with the smell of crawfish being boiled outside a restaurant nearby.

  Bourbon Street … a place unlike any other; where all the best and worst parts of New Orleans converged into one debauched playground—one that served to mask the demonic activity going on here on a regular basis. A hotbed of depravity, the perfect stomping ground for a minion of the underworld. Eleven years as a Guardian had honed his senses and now, he could see them as if they’d shed their human disguises and stood exposed to the entire world. A man in a tacky linen suit and fire-engine red, alligator-skin shoes walked past him, a matching fedora sitting at an angle on his bald head. His skin appeared dark and oiled, gleaming in the moonlight, his eyes black as night.

  Demon pimp. With a mental eye-roll at the two half-dressed girls flanking the man, Jack pursed his lips. Demon hookers.

  One of them met his gaze, her smile wide as she let her human mask slip, flashing her red, glowing irises and a peek at a face even a mother couldn’t love.

  Jack curled his upper lip in disgust. His trigger finger itched to draw the pistol from his waistband and dispatch the ugly bitch back to Hell. Unfortunately, he couldn’t, so he moved on. Those demons weren’t breaking any of the rules, which made them off-limits to him. If he had his way, he would round them all up and drop them through the nearest portal. But there were rules involved, and he couldn’t break them or risk the wrath of Reniel … and worse, Michael. Those angels of war proved something to see when they got angry, and he would be damned if he had to be on the receiving end of that.

  Nearing his destination, he snatched his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans to check the time.

  Eleven forty-five. Right on time.

  Coming to a stop in front of two buildings, he slid into the narrow alleyway between them, remembering to snatch the zipper of his hoodie all the way up to his neck. The last thing he needed was for someone to notice the glow emanating from the symbol branded into his chest and come running down the alley to ‘check things out.’ He hated having to erase people’s memories, but this represented yet another necessity of his job.

  There didn’t appear to be anyone or anything in the alley. If he didn’t know better, the narrow space would seem to be no more than a dark slit stretching between two bars. But Jack did know better.

  Inching down the darkened space, he braced his hands on either side of the wall, forced to feel his way to what he searched for. As usual, his partner, Micah, could be found nowhere and Jack had to go at it alone. Micah always carried a flashlight; his absence left Jack in the actual dark.

  He smirked in satisfaction as his fingers found the right brick, which sunk in at the slightest pressure, causing a large panel of wall to slide away and reveal a secret passage. Without hesitation, he stepped into the now-open doorway. Swallowed up by darkness, he descended a narrow, curving staircase. His fingertips caressed rough brick as he felt his way along, drawn toward the orange light becoming brighter as he stepped downward on steady feet. The throbbing techno music coming from the club above him faded, suffocated by layers of stone and earth. As he went deeper underground, the hum of voices reached out to him. At first, their words proved indiscernible, but as he came to a rough wooden door, the chanting
became clear.

  “Baal Adramelech. Baal Adramelech. Baal Adramelech.”

  His source had led him to the right place—he wouldn’t have to go back to the sorcerer, Prema, and smash his face in, after all.

  Impossible to tell how many voices he heard, and he was running out of time. He pushed the door open and peered around it to see inside.

  Hundreds of candles, which sat dripping wax in sconces and candlesticks on several surfaces, lit the dark room. Figures in hooded, brown wool robes knelt before a makeshift altar, on top of which a man in a black robe strode back and forth, his face shadowed by a hood, as well. Those kneeling rocked along, their covered heads bobbing in a synchronized rhythm as they chanted, “Baal Adramelech”, their voices rising and falling like a song. Beyond the altar and the pacing man, a bronze structure loomed over them all. It had the upper body of a man, complete with a wide, rippling torso, and bulging arms. Its head and hindquarters would be better suited to a mule. Behind it, gleaming peacock feathers fanned out in a glorious display.

  A likeness of the demon Adramelech.

  The being pacing on top of the altar like a caged lion had to be the demon himself in human form.

  Jack slipped into the room, careful to close the door without making a sound. So far, no one had even noticed his entry, so wrapped up in their worship of the demon known as the ‘king of fire.’ Keeping his gaze fixated on the black, hooded figure, he leaned against the wood panel and waited for the right moment to make his move. The chanting began to swell even more, growing louder and louder until the repetition of ‘Baal Adramelech’ became enough to make him want to run screaming from the room. He gritted his teeth and waited, watching.