by Jodi Redford
“Let me go.” Panic clawing like a wild beast within her, Jemma struggled to escape Clarissa’s surprisingly tenacious hold. “We have to help Griff.”
“Logan’s already on it.”
Jemma didn’t know what to make of Clarissa’s statement until she spotted the enormous black wolf bounding through the trees. His ferocious howl renting the air, Logan’s lupine form lunged at the zombie pinned on top of Griff. Snapping teeth and skeletal fingers fought to sink into fur and living flesh. Somehow Logan rolled the male zombie off Griff. Freed of the corpse’s burdensome weight, Griffin snapped the female’s neck before rushing to Logan’s aid. Five more zombies shuffled from the concealment of the dense shrubbery.
“Ah shit.” Grunting, Ms. Peach hobbled down the steps and straightened her spectacles. “We’re gonna need more shovels.”
Jemma stared at the gang of zombies, her heart banging. “We’ll never be able to stop them.”
“No. You will not,” a rattling voice whispered into Jemma’s ear.
She whipped around, almost tripping on her own feet. Other than Clarissa, Gloria and Peach, no one else stood nearby. Certainly no one who might have produced the mocking whisper. Just as she was about to chalk the phantom voice to nothing more than a trick of the wind, a creepy-crawly sensation slithered along the back of her neck. She slowly turned her head toward the porch. A ghostly figure stood at the farthest corner. Despite the growing breeze, neither the woman’s black cloak nor the ratty coils of her auburn hair so much as flickered out of place.
Jemma stumbled backward into Clarissa.
“What…?” Clarissa’s voice trailed off. Jemma glanced over her shoulder to find Clarissa staring at their semi-transparent visitor.
“It’s Nettie, isn’t it?” Not waiting for a response, Jemma shifted her attention to the zombies in the distance. Each corpse had frozen to a standstill, their vacant gazes trained on the spectral vision on the porch. She shivered.
Another whisper unfurled in the wind. “Return home, my pets. You have done well.”
One by one, the zombies slunk into the shadowy woods. Jemma swung back toward the porch and frowned at the now-empty corner. “Nettie’s gone.”
“Of course she is.” Clarissa’s tone held a weary edge. “She accomplished what she wanted.”
Jemma swiveled and blinked at her. “Other than sic a couple of her pets on Griff, she didn’t do anything.”
An almost imperceptible twitch fluttered at the corner of Clarissa’s eye. “Nettie’s aim was intimidation. Obviously.”
Clarissa’s declaration was a little too forced to Jemma’s way of thinking. She opened her mouth to demand further explanation from the coven mistress but became distracted by the loud groan Ms. Peach uttered when the elderly woman stooped and grabbed the discarded shovel.
“Nothing like a little zombie dismemberment to brighten a gal’s day.” Straightening, Ms. Peach tucked her shirt into the waistband of her polyester slacks and set off across the lawn. Jemma jogged after her but hung back as Logan trotted in their direction. He made a hacking noise similar to a cat hawking up a fur ball before shaking his shaggy black head. Up close, he looked even bigger and more menacing. She swallowed and tamped down the urge to duck behind Ms. Peach. Yeah, that’d be real brave, using a defenseless little old lady to protect her from the big bad wolf. “Uh…nice doggie?”
She couldn’t say for certain, but she swore Logan’s eyebrows arched. Wait a minute, did wolves even have eyebrows? Before she could fully ponder that mystery of life, Logan stretched onto his hind legs and instantly morphed from canine into man. Talk about a truly awe-inspiring spectacle. Particularly since Logan just so happened to be buck naked.
A female would have to be blind not to be left gaping at the outrageous display of man candy. Fortunately she’d been gifted with 20/20 vision.
Clarissa joined them, her cheeks wearing an identical shade of red as the rhododendron blooms in the distance. “For goddess’s sake, Logan, how many times do I have to ask you not to shift like that out in the open?” Clearing her throat, she averted her gaze. “You know how it embarrasses Peach.”
Jemma glanced sideways and spied the older woman vigorously cleaning her spectacles. Stuffing her hankie back in her pocket, Ms. Peach returned to ogling Logan’s dangly man bits. Oh yeah, clearly the woman was mortified.
Logan gave his chiseled abdomen a lazy scratch. “Sorry, shug. I’ll try to remember to keep the public nudity to a minimum.”
“You said that last time.”
Flashing his incisors in a grin, Logan ambled toward the mansion. Jemma noticed she wasn’t the only one who turned to gawk at the man’s flexing butt. Grumbling beneath her breath, Clarissa grabbed the shovel from Ms. Peach and stalked to the portly zombie. Her face an emotionless mask, she pitched the tool’s blade through the corpse’s neck.
Stomach lurching, Jemma covered her mouth. Griffin released his grip on the now-motionless dead man and surged to his feet before striding to Jemma and enfolding her in his arms. Though she felt like a huge ninny, she pressed her cheek into the cotton of his shirt, her shaky exhale stirring the fabric. “Is it wrong that I can’t help feeling bad for him? He did just try to bite your face off.”
Griff’s fingers continued soothing along her scalp. “No. It’s not his fault an evil ghost decided to play puppeteer with his body.”
She watched as Clarissa finished off the female zombie. The dispassionate way the coven’s mistress handled the grizzly business of zombie dismemberment was a little disturbing. She could never lop off someone’s head—dead or not—without getting totally squicked out.
“Who wants to help me dispose of the bodies?” Clarissa flicked her ponytail over her shoulder and stared pointedly at Griff.
He sighed and gave Jemma a lingering squeeze before crossing the lawn. When he crouched down and reached for the head sitting nearby, she figured it’d be a good time to return to the mansion. Hugging her chest, she hurried toward the porch. The bouquet of lilies situated between the two rockers smelled inordinately pungent, reminding her of funeral homes and death. Nauseated all over again, she rushed inside the foyer and sucked in a deep breath. A new stench hit her and she scrunched her nose. “Ugh. What is that? Wet dog?”
She turned toward the stairway and froze at the sight of Logan standing there. His lips curving in a half grin, he knotted the white towel that was slung low on his hips. “Don’t look at me, sugar.”
The click of nails preceded Floyd’s appearance in the entry. Slimy pond water dribbled from the hound’s mangy coat.
Logan chuckled. “I do believe we’ve found our culprit.”
Floyd plopped down in the middle of the marble floor and rested his muzzle on top of his paws with a chuffing snort. Jemma eyed him skeptically. “Clarissa’s going to be pissed.”
“Clarissa’s always pissed. It’s her emotion du jour.” Logan leaned against the newel post, his towel dipping lower. A single bead of sweat slid down his sternum and meandered toward his abdomen.
Jemma fidgeted with the frayed hem of Griff’s T-shirt and pretended giant clothespins were affixed to her eyelids, preventing her focus from traveling south of Logan’s bellybutton. It didn’t help matters that she’d just been treated to a grand viewing of the impressive cock now modestly concealed beneath the towel. Nothing would shake that image from her brain.
She cleared her throat. “I’ve noticed Clarissa tends to be cranky with Griff but seems to get along fine with you.” She paused, suddenly recalling the half dozen times she’d spied Clarissa glaring at Logan in the past hour. “Well…mostly.”
“You caught us on a good day. Aquarius must be in the twelfth house, or some such shit.” Logan gave a crooked smile that managed to be both sexy and endearing.
Vastly discomfited by the flush of heat pooling at the apex of her thighs, she tucked her hands in the rear pockets of her jeans and casually peeked down the front of her shirt. Oh thank God. Her nipples were behaving for on
ce.
“If you want to know the truth, your cat used to be Clarissa’s favored pet.”
Logan’s unexpected admission—along with the faint note of bitterness in his tone—had her jerking her focus back to the werewolf. Tiny lines of tension bracketed his mouth, ruining his otherwise bland expression. Was he jealous of the relationship Griff and Clarissa once shared?
Come to think of it, the bristling hostility between Logan and Griff definitely seemed to fester from a sense of competitiveness. She’d just assumed it was the standard my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours bullshit. “What happened?”
Logan gave his well-defined belly a lazy swipe. “Catman grew a backbone. Clarissa didn’t like that.”
She wasn’t surprised. The coven’s mistress gave off a strong vibe of authority. It probably chapped her panties to have one of her familiars rebel against her.
“You’re the cause of his transformation, you know. Being assigned to you obviously undomesticated our cat.” Logan rubbed against the newel post, using it as an impromptu backscratcher. He caught her frown and arched his eyebrows. “What, don’t believe me?”
“No, I was just wondering how in the world your towel hasn’t fallen off with all that wiggling around.” She caught the humor dancing in his eyes and coughed. “Sorry, whatever’s in my mind tends to flow freely from my mouth unfiltered. It’s like the damn Niagara Falls in there.”
Logan flashed a grin. “Nothin’ wrong with that, darlin’. I’ve been known to speak my piece freely m’self.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed that too.” She eyed him, her thoughts returning to the volatile nature of his and Griff’s interactions with each other. “Griff thinks you’re an asshole.” Good God, she really did need a muzzle for her mouth.
Rather than look offended, Logan hooted in laughter. “Well shit. I’m kinda disappointed he didn’t call me worse.”
She sighed. “I just don’t get why you guys can’t get along. It’s not healthy constantly going at each other the way you guys do.” It was beyond her how Clarissa could think Griff and Logan might stop sniping at each other long enough to…
Nibbling on her thumbnail, she met Logan’s intense stare. It seemed to peer straight into her head, rifling through her innermost thoughts. Oh Jesus, she hoped not. Because that last thought was pretty damn racy.
“Sugar, I’ll be the first to admit that Catman and I aren’t exactly best buds. But I’m willin’ to bet we can lay our differences aside and do what’s necessary for the greater cause of mankind.”
She didn’t need to read between the lines to know she was the greater cause and doing her was the necessity. It would have been easy to be infuriated, even convince herself she was only a commanded duty, except for the way Logan was looking at her. The fire in his eyes and the way he licked his lips didn’t suggest obligation. They hinted at hunger.
And she was the Happy Meal.
Chapter Eight
Griffin hoisted the female corpse from the wheelbarrow he’d carted across the lawn, guilt a heavy weight on his shoulders courtesy of the untraditional second burial he was about to treat the woman to. Still, the rose garden wasn’t the most terrible place to rest your bones. Certainly beat whatever dark hellhole Nettie had planned for her pets.
Clarissa stepped away from the grave they’d dug, giving him plenty of room to toss the corpse into the six-foot hole. Wincing, he offered a silent apology for the rough handling. He felt the heat of Clarissa’s stare lasering into his forehead.
“You need to stop whatever this thing is between you and Jemma.”
He’d wondered how long it’d take her to spit out the objections he’d seen looming on the horizon. She hadn’t exactly hidden the censure in her eyes when he’d held Jemma earlier. “Isn’t that counterproductive? I thought you wanted me to have sex with her.”
“Yes. Sex. Not a relationship.” Clarissa swiped a hand across her face, leaving a smudge of dirt on her cheek. “You know damn well the white-picket-fence delusion you’re erecting in your head is out of the question.”
He clenched his jaw. “You have no idea what I’m thinking.”
“Yes, I do. Hence the reason we’re having this conversation.” She pointed the shovel’s handle at him. “The path you’re heading down leads to nothing but trouble. I worry as it is what punishment the guild is going to slap you with.”
A current of dread zipped down his spine at the mention of the witches’ guild. “You’ve spoken with them?”
“Briefly. Domino and Willa will be stopping by tomorrow afternoon for a formal hearing.”
Jesus. That didn’t bode well.
Clarissa stroked his shoulder, the gesture stunning him. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d offered him any show of comfort, much less touched him. In the early years—before she’d sent him to Jemma—there’d been traces of affection. A genuine smile. A word of praise. He used to hoard each dangled carrot in the storage box of his memory, until the day came when forgetting Clarissa’s occasional rewards was less painful than noticing their absence.
“If you do your part to convince Jemma to accept Logan, there’s a good chance the guild might go easier on you.”
Anger eroded any lingering sentimentality he might have harbored over Clarissa’s uncharacteristic display of emotion. Shit, how stupid of him to think she was capable of feeling anything inside that cold heart of hers. He took a jerking step backward, causing her hand to fall. “I won’t use Jemma as a means to cover my ass.”
Clarissa’s chest expanded with a deep sigh. “You wouldn’t be using her. In fact, you might be saving Jemma’s life.” She spoke with calm reason, knowing full well she was sinking an invisible knife in his chest. He hated her for being a master manipulator. He hated her even more for possibly being right, for knowing he’d do anything to protect Jemma. Even if it meant sharing Jemma with Logan—the last person on earth he wanted touching her.
Still, he wouldn’t coerce Jemma into doing something she had no desire to participate in. Not even for Clarissa. Certainly not for himself. “You heard her. She’s uncomfortable with the idea.”
“Because of you.”
He gaped at Clarissa and earned her humorless laugh in return. She sank the shovel into the ground and paced in front of the grave, her boots imprinting the freshly turned soil. “Jemma sees how much you’re against it—for goddess’s sake, all you’ve done is rant and rail over the suggestion. Of course she’s going to be uncomfortable. She doesn’t want to upset you.”
Could Clarissa be right? Deep down, did Jemma actually want to have sex with Logan? The possibility sat like a boulder in the pit of his gut.
Clarissa’s knowing gaze seared into him, leaving him vulnerable and exposed. “She’s seen you wearing that very expression. Tell me that doesn’t affect her.”
“What the hell do you want me to do? I can’t change the way I feel.”
“No. But you can lie. You can do whatever it takes to ease Jemma’s conscience over doing this. And you will do it. Unless you’d rather start digging another grave for Jemma.” She wrenched the shovel from the dirt and thrust it toward him. “The choice is yours.”
Sequestered in her room, Jemma stared at the small numeric buttons on her cell phone for at least ten minutes before she found the fortitude to hit the preprogrammed speed dial for her parents’ house. She’d already left a message at Nixon Investments, letting them know she’d run into a family emergency—ironically, not a fib—and needed to take an extended leave of absence. That call was a cakewalk compared to the one facing her.
Her dad picked up on the second ring. “Pumpkin, perfect timing. You can help settle the debate.”
A hot wash of tears stung her eyes. The very real possibility of never seeing her father again or hearing his familiar baritone left a gaping hole in her heart. “Let me guess. You and mom are knocking heads over Scrabble?” It was a regular occurrence in the Finnegan household. A weekend wouldn’t be complete without at least a half dozen alter
nating phone calls from her parents trying to win her tie-breaking vote.
“Your mother insists that frak is a legitimate word.”
“Sorry, but I’m siding with her this time.”
“Damn, you’re sure?”
In the background, Jemma could hear a whoop of glee, and she rushed to get the difficult stuff out of the way before her mom started in on her victory dance. “Dad, listen. I’m going to be out of town for a while. Do you think you could stop by my place and pick up my mail? Maybe water my plants while you’re at it?” Not that she really cared about any of that crap. In the event of a possible zombie apocalypse, dead houseplants were kind of irrelevant. Still, she needed to convince her parents that everything was hunky-dory so they didn’t flip out and decide to jump on the next plane to Savannah.
“What’s going on, Jemma Sue?”
Oh shit, her dad had called her by her full name. Not good. He only did that when he was either suspicious or worried. She sucked in a deep breath and quickly fabricated a white lie guaranteed to ease her father’s mind. “Griff surprised me with an impromptu trip.”
“Guess that explains the voicemail I picked up from him earlier.” A chuckle floated through the line. “He better be taking you to someplace nice to make up for me having to find a replacement manager on such short notice.”
After a long pause she realized her dad wasn’t merely speaking rhetorically. He expected to know where they were going. “Oh he is. We’re going to…” Panicked, she racked her brain for a good touristy location. Her gaze fell on the porcelain French poodle figurine sitting on the dresser. “Paris!” She winced at her over-the-top exuberance, praying her dad wouldn’t notice.