Feeling lighter by roughly a hundred pounds, I headed back to the house and let myself in the back door, through the mudroom. I scraped off my boots, set down the basket of eggs before I took off my jacket, and then went into the kitchen. Jasreel wasn’t there, but I noticed that he’d cleaned out his coffee mug and put it on the dish drain. That wasn’t just sucking up, either; he always cleaned up after himself.
“Jasreel?” I called out, the syllables of his proper name feeling strange on my tongue.
“In the living room,” he replied.
I wondered what he was doing there. Figuring I’d find out soon enough, I headed in that direction. He was standing in front of the fireplace, which we had going pretty much twenty-four/seven these days. In his right hand he held a log, so it appeared he’d gone in to stoke up the blaze. Dutchie was lying next to him, patting at his leg with one paw. Obviously, someone thought it was time for a belly rub.
Smothering a smile, I said, “So….”
“So?” He set the log on the fire and turned toward me, disrupting the dog’s pant-pawing. She gave me a disgusted look and rolled away from Jasreel, toward the hearth.
“So…I’ll go to Taos with you. If you think it’s for the best.”
An expression of such joy spread over his face that, for an instant, all my doubts and worries deserted me. Surely no one who could look like that would ever mean me any kind of harm. He came to me and cupped my cheeks in his hands, turning my face up toward him.
“You’re sure?”
Was I? His fingers were warm on my face, reassuring, strong but gentle. No one had ever touched me like that. No one except Jace…Jasreel.
I nodded.
He bent and kissed me then, and it was the first time I had kissed this version of him, the first time I had felt the contours of this particular mouth, the taste of this tongue. Not so very different from “Jace,” but different enough that I had to remind myself that it was still him, still the man who had kissed me before, who had made love to me on those cold winter mornings and stood laughing in a field after a billy goat knocked me on my rear end.
But then I felt his body go rigid, and he took a step away from me, one hand going to his throat.
“What is it?” I asked, reaching out to hold on to his fingers. They felt like ice.
His hands had always been warm. Always, no matter how cold it might be outside, as if the weather didn’t affect him the same way it affected me.
“Can’t…breathe….”
I put my hand on his chest, felt his heart beating wildly within, felt him laboring to pull in a breath. Which he did, a short, shallow gasp. Better than nothing, but it didn’t explain what was happening to him.
Dutchie got to her feet, nose pointed toward the doorway. A low, penetrating growl emerged from her throat, and her ears flattened against her head.
What the —
I didn’t have time to complete the thought, because in the next second, the front door was flung open, and a group of seven men wearing parkas and heavy boots burst into the living room. Six of them carried guns, and the seventh some sort of strange device, no more than a little black box, really, with lights that seemed to flicker deep within it, as if buried under a layer of dark translucent plastic.
The scream that had been building in my throat died when one of the men with the guns stepped forward and said, “It’s all right, Ms. Monroe. We’re only here for him.” He pointed at Jasreel, who had taken a step backward, toward the hearth. Sweat was beginning to drip down his temples.
“Who — what — ” I swallowed, knowing I had to keep it together, at least until I found out what the hell was going on. I began again. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
He nodded at the men who flanked him, most of whom were large, burly types, the kind of guys who once upon a time probably could have been found drinking beer at some back-road dive bar. They went to Jasreel and surrounded him, then began dragging him back toward the man in charge and the other one, the one holding that strange box. He, unlike his compatriots, was slender, of average height, and wore wire-rimmed glasses. Despite the commotion around him, he didn’t look up from the box he held, kept his fingertips moving over the surface, as if controlling it via touchpad.
The leader, who held himself like a military man and had the short-cropped hair to match, said, “Ms. Monroe, we’re survivors from Los Alamos. We’re collecting as many of these scum as we can” — a jerk of his chin in Jasreel’s direction— “and are putting them on trial for crimes against humanity. Seems the least we can do, in the name of those who are no longer around to seek justice.”
My mouth was so dry it physically hurt to swallow. But somehow I forced myself to do just that, even as I sent an agonized glance toward Jasreel. He had gone pale under his olive-toned skin, his breath coming in short, labored pants. What the hell were they doing to him?
“He’s not guilty,” I managed to get out. “He hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“Beg to differ, miss.” The leader of the Los Alamos gang gave a faint nod, and the four men holding him began to drag Jasreel out the front door.
“No!” I began to move after them, but another of the group, one of the two men flanking the guy with the black box, took me by the arm.
“I wouldn’t,” he said in a murmur. “Right now you have the benefit of the doubt, but….” He let the words die away, but I got his meaning. It was Jasreel these men were after, not me. The last thing I should be doing was provoking them.
I gave the fair-haired man, who seemed to be about my age or a little more, the faintest of nods, then held my position, just a few feet away from the guy in charge. “What proof do you have that he’s guilty of anything?”
“His nature is proof enough.” He gave another of those chin-jerks at the man with the black box and the two men with him. For the first time, the one wearing glasses looked up from his device, whatever it was, then gave a faint nod, right before they went out the front door. The blond one gave me a warning glance before he turned and took up the rear, as if to tell me that I needed to stay put and keep my mouth shut.
Fat chance of that. Instead, I followed them. As soon as I was outside, the chilly air seemed to bite at me, piercing the thermal shirt I wore, but I ignored the momentary discomfort. Parked a little ways down the drive were two Hummers, one bright yellow, the other red. Clearly, these were some of the vehicles “liberated” from Santa Fe and the surrounding area.
I could see Jasreel being bundled into the yellow Hummer and cursed mentally. What was I supposed to do? There were seven of them — all right, the guy with the box seemed peculiarly uninterested in his surroundings and kept fiddling with the device, whatever it was, so maybe he wasn’t much of a threat — but the rest of them were all big enough to take me individually, let alone as a group. And all my weapons were currently locked up in the gun safe.
The leader of the group paused and glanced down at me, seeming to really assess my appearance for the first time. He didn’t leer, but I could see the look in his eyes take on a certain glint. “You should come with us,” he said casually. “We’re trying to in-gather as many of the Immune as we can. You’d be safe with us in Los Alamos. We can protect you.”
For a second, I actually considered it. Not because I wanted to go with this bastard and his crew, but because that way I’d be closer to Jasreel. I’d still have to figure out some way to free him, but I thought attempting a rescue would be a lot easier if I were nearby.
No, beloved.
The words were barely more than a gasp in my mind. I couldn’t speak aloud, not with the leader of the band of thugs standing close by, so in desperation I tried to respond the same way. Amazingly, it seemed to work.
But I want to stay with you!
You will be…better able to help me if you stay away from them, and free.
How?
You will need assistance…and you will not be able to get it if you come with me to Los Alamos now. I do n
ot think they intend to kill me right away.
And that’s supposed to be reassuring?
Yes, beloved.
I had to ask. How are we doing this?
The bond between us. They have trapped me here on this plane, cut off my powers, but I can still speak to you thus. At least —
But then the thought-speech abruptly broke off, and I realized it must have been because they’d finally hauled Jasreel into the Hummer and shut the door behind him. So our mental connection was limited — by space, and by physical barriers.
Luckily, the entire exchange had taken place in less time than the blink of an eye.
“Thanks for the offer,” I told the leader, my tone as casual as I could make it, as if I hadn’t just held a desperate mental dialogue with their captive. “But I’ve got goats and chickens to tend. I think I’ll stay right here.”
His eyes narrowed. “You sure? It’s not safe for a woman alone.”
And I’d be so much safer in Los Alamos. Right. Evenly, I replied, “I’ll take my chances.”
A long hesitation, and I worried that he might try to force me into the other Hummer. But then he shrugged and said, “Door’s always open. Come find us there when you’re ready.”
I nodded, and he seemed to take that as the conclusion of our conversation, because he signaled the three men still waiting outside to get in the red Hummer. Immediately afterward, he crossed to the vehicle and climbed in the passenger seat. A slap on the door, and both vehicles moved off, heading down the drive and out through the gate, which I noticed was standing wide open. They must have shorted out the mechanism or something, although that should have triggered the alarm system. Then again, I didn’t know what the black box the weedy-looking man had been holding could do. Maybe it could simultaneously short out the alarm and somehow trap Jasreel here in this world, with no hope of escape. Or maybe one of the men in the Hummers had just stepped out and clipped a couple of wires.
In a minute or two, I’d have to go inspect the gate and see if what they’d done was anything I could fix. In a minute or two, I’d have to take Dutchie back into the house and lock up, and pray that no unfriendly eyes had seen me in my current vulnerable state.
Right then, though, I could only stand there in the driveway and feel the icy tears roll down my cheeks, stinging in the bitter wind that was blowing down from the north. Jasreel was gone.
I turned so I faced west, in the direction the vehicles had disappeared. And although I knew he couldn’t hear me, I still sent the words out to him, letting them ride on the wind.
I will find you…beloved.
Taken, Book 2 in the Djinn Wars series, is available at your favorite online retailer.
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Three Wishes
Debra Dunbar
Dar helped his foster sister become the ruler of Hel, and helped her free the enslaved humans from the elves. It’s about time he helped himself – to a fun week of mayhem in the Windy City. Collapsing a few buildings and corrupting politicians is an ideal vacation for a demon in Chicago, but Dar didn’t count on a beautiful angel sabotaging his fun and putting him to work.
Asta is an angelic enforcer, scanning for demons in her assigned territory and sending them to an early grave. Unfortunately, the latest trespasser from Hel has diplomatic immunity - but immunity doesn’t mean she can’t coerce him into helping her track and dispatch the powerful demon that’s been cycling in and out of her radar for the last few days.
Demons are the sworn enemies of every angel, but Asta must learn to trust Dar or the dark presence that is growing in Chicago will spread - and this particular enemy has the skills and knowledge to send human civilization back to the dark ages.
She has one week left as an enforcer before she returns to her heavenly home – one week to catch an elusive monster, and one week to safeguard her heart from the demon who is determined to seduce her to sin.
Special thanks to Racy Tracy and Ronnie Caliente - my Chicago besties who helped me bring this fantastic city to life on the page.
Chapter 1
Ten years previously – University of California, Berkeley
All that was left of his childhood was an eight-by-ten brown cardboard box.
Carter Phelps blinked to clear the fog from his eyes. For four days, the box had sat at the edge of his bed. Opening it would be like reading the final chapter of a book. Opening it would make him remember how much he’d lost. Opening it would signal the end of all the memories he’d cherished from his youth.
“Time for booze and babes!”
Carter tore his gaze from the box to watch his roommate saunter across the room, a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, the other noticeably empty of “babes”. Ryan’s huge grin and the open bottle of alcohol could only mean one thing — he’d passed his finals and had turned in the dreaded senior thesis.
A wave of envy and anxiety nearly launched Carter’s breakfast from his stomach. His thesis, half done, still mocked him from the computer screen. If his parents hadn’t been alumni and major contributors to the University, he would have been on academic probation his freshman year, and out by his sophomore. No doubt they’d come through again and he’d walk down the aisle with that precious diploma. He’d still be considered an idiot by everyone who knew him — the disappointing offspring of two brilliant parents. No one believed in him or knew about the ideas that burst to light inside his head — the ones he was unable to translate into words on a sheet of paper.
“Your grandmother died two months ago. Stop staring at that box; open it and get out here — we’re celebrating.”
The closet door swung open as Ryan dug through his clothing, searching for something party worthy. The box. It held everything his grandmother had left to him in her will. She’d practically raised him — a lonely woman who loved children versus a son and his wife who were too busy to care for the unsatisfactory child they’d sired.
Carter pulled the box toward him, and, with a quick slash of the scissors, opened the top. His roommate was right. It was time to put the past behind him and look toward the future — no matter how bleak and lonely that future was.
There were so many items, but his eyes were drawn to the worn pack of playing cards. He could see her hands, rings on each fleshy finger as she dealt. Poker, blackjack, pinochle, rummy, and bridge — by the age of six, he’d been able to beat her at every hand. Her smoky voice echoed in his memory, chuckling and calling him a clever boy. Carter rubbed a spot on his chest and blinked again as he set the cards aside.
Next he picked up a faded picture in a heavy brass frame. Carter traced the image of his grandmother in younger, thinner times, scandalous in tight khaki shorts and button-down shirt, a trowel in one hand. The grandfather he’d never known stood somberly beside her. He was dressed the same, holding a map. At their feet was a hole with partially exposed pottery. He’d heard the tales a thousand times — a wealthy girl at an ivy-league college swept off her feet by a brilliant, intense archeology professor. They’d spent two decades together on digs, dragging their infant son with them, before his grandfather had died suddenly. Carter’s father had inherited the best of both parents — looks, wealth, and brilliance. Carter had inherited nothing.
Beneath the picture, nestled carefully in a faded silk scarf, was a bottle. The bottle. Carter’s chest tightened as he lifted it out. Purple and smoky gray, the colors seemed to waltz around the base, lightening as they pressed against the cork that stoppered the gilded top.
“Don’t touch it,” his grandmother had always warned. “Some things are better left at rest.”
But she was dead, and the bottle called to him with a song so sweet.
“Clever boy,” it whispered to him. His heart skipped. Only one person in his life had ever thought so. Now, of all the millions of times he’d felt stupid, was the perfect moment to hear that reassurance.
Carter looked down at the dried, ancient cork wedged in the neck of the bottle. “Ryan? You got a corkscrew somewhere?”
Chapter 2
Humans looked so tiny when viewed from eleven-hundred feet up. They were little dark specks inching along the concrete and asphalt like pepper grains in a gentle breeze. From this distance, their actions didn’t spark improper desires; their troubles didn’t weigh so heavy on her heart. From this distance, they didn’t matter at all. This was just a job — a job that was one week from ending. One more week and she could go home, away from these beings that twisted her up with their lives.
Leaving should be a joyous occasion, but, instead, the thought filled her with a series of conflicted emotions. It had been difficult to keep a professional demeanor during her time here. She’d gotten attached to the city, to its residents. She’d miss them, even though keeping her distance had become increasingly difficult. The structure and rules of home would be reassuring, but she feared they’d also be . . . boring.
A bitter gust swayed the skyscraper, and Asta stepped closer to the edge. Early June rocketed between chill and humid warmth, as if the city couldn’t quite give up its harsh winters for the oppressive heat of summer. Here, the weather gave only the briefest nod to spring and fall, launching dramatically from one extreme season to another.
It’s one of the things she loved about Chicago — its honesty, its raw passion. Humans, whose sin rivaled Satan herself, walked arm-in-arm with holy saints. There were times when she felt herself sinking into their midst like quicksand. The top of these lofty buildings was the only place she could find refuge from temptation. Asta breathed the cold air, feeling it wash away the lingering scent of humanity. Her toes curled over the ledge, balancing her body against the strong wind. One more week.
One week to indulge, with the knowledge that the end was in sight, to do all the things she’d dreamed of as she walked the streets of the city. One week to sin.
Demons & Djinn: Nine Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Novels Featuring Demons, Djinn, and other Bad Boys of the Underworld Page 27