Semi-Twisted:

by Isabel Jordan

  Uh oh.

  “Hunter, did you—”

  “Yep,” he said, gently nipping at her collarbone. “One of us—or both of us—shut down the power grid.”

  He didn’t seem overly concerned about it, so neither was she. Until her phone rang.

  She glanced over at the phone on her nightstand and saw it was Harper calling.

  Uh oh.

  Hunter reached over, grabbed the phone, hit the answer button and snarled, “She’ll call you back later.” He glanced down at her breasts and she felt him hardening inside her once again. “Much later,” he added before hurling her phone at the wall.

  “You’ll pay for that later,” she said lightly, not knowing for sure if she meant the shattered phone, or for ignoring Harper. With him inside her, looking down at her with such dark hunger in his eyes, it was hard to keep a coherent thought in her head.

  “Later,” he repeated, capturing her lips with his own. “Much later.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Later—much, much later—Mischa lay sprawled, limp and sated, across Hunter’s chest while he ran his fingers through her hair, making her scalp tingle most pleasantly.

  “Can you tell me about prison?” she broached quietly.

  He sighed. “There’s not much to tell. If you want to know if I dropped the soap, I already told Harper I didn’t.”

  She snorted. That sounded exactly like what Harper would ask. “No, that isn’t what I was asking. When I saw you, that first night out, you had a bad cut on your cheek. Were you…in a fight?”

  He was silent for so long she didn’t think he was going to answer. But eventually, he said, “Yes. There were many fights.”

  There was pain in his voice. He did his best to mask it, but his time in prison had left marks on him, and not just the physical ones she’d seen when he was released. She couldn’t make him talk about it, but…she had to know. She was the reason he’d ended up in that place to begin with. How could they move on together if she didn’t understand everything he’d been through?

  Her instincts told her not to do it, but she ignored them. Time to make Vi’s advice really work for her.

  Closing her eyes, she visualized the mental wall she’d had up in her mind for so long crumbling, toppling to the ground. Tentatively, she reached out with her mind, searching for his.

  She gasped, feeling as if she was being pummeled with stray thoughts and voices, all speaking at once, some yelling, some rough and ugly. Moving her hands over her ears (which of course did no good, because the voices she was hearing were all inside her head), she shook her head, struggling for focus.

  Pain lashed her temples like the crack of a whip against her flesh, but she gritted her teeth and fought through it, finally, finally managing to sort through all the voices—the memories and thoughts—she realized, until she found the one consciousness she was searching for.

  Silver bars that burned into vampire flesh like a branding iron when touched. The stench of sweat and delousing spray and mildew from the walls seeping into your nostrils, into your skin. The noise—oh, God—the noise. Clanging metal and raised, angry voices and…hatred, sadness, violence everywhere. And the thirst…like lava eating a hole through your throat. Wracking, gut-wrenching hunger like he’d never known. Feral, snarling vampires everywhere, clawing, fighting, teeth snapping, tearing. This was hell…

  “Mischa!”

  Hunter gave her a hard shake and finally, his anxious voice jolted her back to reality, jerking her out of his memories where she’d felt like so much more than an observer.

  When she managed to open her eyes and blink back the tears that filled her vision, he was sitting on top of her, thighs bracketing hers, hands on her shoulders, looking down at her with concerned eyes. “What the hell was that?” he yelled.

  She cringed and covered her face with her hands. “I’m so, s-so sorry,” she sobbed. “You never should have been in that place. I s-should have done more to get you out sooner. I—”

  “Hey,” he said, his voice gentling. “Stop that.”

  He repositioned them so that she was in his lap, curled up against his chest. “There wasn’t anything you could’ve done,” he said, resting his chin on top of her head. “I was there because I broke the law. I turned you without your written consent. I deserved my sentence.”

  She hiccupped loudly and would’ve been embarrassed if she wasn’t so upset. “No one deserves what happened to you there. That place should be s-shut down.”

  “It wasn’t really all that bad. The worst of it all came from one guard. And I doubt he’ll be bothering any of the other prisoners from now on.”

  Yes, she’d seen that guard’s face. Just because Hunter was willing to let him get away what he’d done—with his skin still attached to his body—didn’t mean she was. She’d deal with him once their current case was solved.

  “Wait,” he said, “were you…in my head?”

  She sniffled. “I’m sorry for the intrusion. I just…had to know what happened. And I got the feeling you were keeping it from me to protect me. I just—”

  “Shh,” he interrupted. “It’s OK. Your…powers are strong for how young you are.”

  He did his best to keep the concern out of his voice, to sound neutral. But she heard it. The concern, the hesitation. “Is there any way to stop it?” she asked, almost afraid to hope.

  He sighed again. “No. I’m sorry. I can help you deal with it better, though.”

  Mischa did her best to choke back a sob. Didn’t quite manage it. An eternity spent knocking out the power grid and accidently controlling and reading peoples’ minds was wholly unappealing.

  Every fear and insecurity she’d ever had hit her all at once. Without his help…“I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered.

  Hunter merely cuddled her closer and kissed the top of her head. “It’s all right. Try to get some sleep,” he said, his voice gruff. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  The good thing about emotional rock-bottom, as she knew from experience, was that he was right. Everything was always better tomorrow. After all, it couldn’t get much worse, right?

  Later, Hunter laid in bed, staring at the ceiling with Mischa cuddled up against his side, one leg thrown over his, her hair splayed across his chest. He should be happy, feeling nothing but contentment. This was, after all, exactly where he’d wanted to be for years. Two decades, even. And yet…

  He was on edge. Off-balance. She’d always had this effect on him. But now, now that she was like him, it was worse somehow.

  He’d lied before. Her powers weren’t just strong for someone her age. They were strong for someone of any age. When she gained control? She’d be unstoppable. Stronger than him, even.

  Her family tree must have a few…interesting branches, he thought. Only someone with magic in their blood when they were turned could gain the level of strength she had so quickly.

  But that was a moot point if she never accepted her powers. It wouldn’t be easy for her. She’d have to work harder than she’d ever worked to harness or contain that kind of strength.

  And when things were at their darkest, when she was tired and didn’t think she’d ever master the power raging within her…would she lean on him and let him help her? Or would she push him away?

  I don’t think I can do this.

  That statement, in combination with her history of running, told him the odds were good that she’d push him away.

  And now that he’d tasted heaven once again, would he be able to let her go if she ran again? A sick sense of panic rolled through him at the thought.

  Mischa grumbled and squirmed in her sleep, and he realized he’d inadvertently tightened his hold on her.

  He loosened his grip and stifled a self-deprecating chuckle. He grabbed her, she squirmed away. If that wasn’t a metaphor for their entire relationship to date, he didn’t know what was.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Mischa jackknifed up in bed and flung an
arm out to the opposite side of the bed. Her heart sank as her hand failed to meet smooth male flesh, instead landing only on a crinkly piece of paper.

  Had to go help set up for the show tonight. We’ll talk later.

  Fuck! It had happened again.

  Waking up alone totally sucked ass.

  And, worst of all, it hurt her heart. She thought they’d really made progress this time. The sex, the apologies, the sex, the psychology tricks, all the talking, the sex…

  “Son of a bitch!” she blurted to the empty room.

  After everything they’d shared, everything she’d apologized for, everything they’d done, she’d never told him the most important thing. The only thing that really mattered at this point.

  She’d never told him she loved him.

  Well, hell, he must think…

  She frowned, having no idea what he was thinking. But the fact that he’d left without saying goodbye—the note was beyond inadequate and unsatisfying—certainly couldn’t be a good sign.

  I don’t think I can do this.

  Holy shit! She’d actually said that to him! She’d meant that she wouldn’t be able to do this, to learn to control her powers and be a vampire, without him. But since she hadn’t been able to articulate that, he probably thought she meant she couldn’t ever accept what she’d become. Or that she couldn’t be with him.

  Oh my God, I’m fucking this up again!

  Panicked, she groped on the nightstand for her phone, only to belatedly remember that it was now in pieces on the floor.

  “Shit!”

  Jumping from bed, not bothering to put on clothes, Mischa ran at top vampire speed to grab her house phone. Thank God the power seemed to be back up. She punched in Hunter’s number, waited, then growled when it went immediately to voice mail.

  Taking a few unnecessary deep breaths in an effort to calm herself, she punched in the first number that popped into her mind after Hunter’s.

  “Breaker, breaker. Come on back, breaker.”

  Mischa glanced at the caller ID on her phone to make sure she’d dialed the right number. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Harper sighed. “I’m bored. I’m watching Smokey and the Bandit. Sue me. What do you want?”

  Yeah, this wasn’t going to work with just the two of them. She was panicked and Harper was, well, Harper, so they needed a mature adult in the conversation.

  “Hang on,” she muttered, “I’m conferencing Vi in.”

  “Ten-four, good buddy,” Harper answered around a mouthful of popcorn, by the sound of it.

  Mischa face-palmed while she waited for Vi to pick up. About a hundred years later, Vi answered in her carefully cultured tones, “Dr. Violet Marchand.”

  “Vi, I’ve got Harper on the phone and I need help, damn it.”

  Vi’s tone was bone-dry as she said, “I don’t do therapy sessions over the phone with other people on the line, Mischa. No offense, Harper.”

  “None taken,” Harper said, then belched. “Sorry. Baby’s making me gassy.”

  Mischa chose to ignore that little tidbit and addressed Vi’s comment instead. “I don’t need a therapy session, Vi. I need advice from my friends.”

  She gave them the most succinct rundown of the night’s events she could possibly give without letting too many personal (or naked) details slip. She wanted help, but didn’t want to give Harper any ammunition for future teasing.

  When she was done, Vi said, “Well, you screwed up again.”

  Harper added, “Yep.”

  Mischa’s jaw clenched. “I know that! Now tell me how to fix it, damn it!”

  “You’re the worst apologizer in the world,” Harper said. “Remember that time you backed into my car? You never said a word. The only way I knew it was you was that you kept bringing me food. For a month I was drowning in doughnuts, chocolate, and ice cream. Guilt food.” She sighed happily. “Those were the days.”

  “Runners are always horrible at saying they’re sorry,” Vi added.

  Jesus, she thought. These were her friends! She should’ve just called some of her enemies for advice. It couldn’t have been much worse. “Fine,” she ground out, “I’m the worst apologizer ever and I forgot to tell him I love him. I also might have implied that I was reluctant to continue our relationship. I fucked up. Fine. How do I make it right? He’s not answering his phone.”

  Harper snorted. “He hardly ever answers that thing. And he won’t admit it, but I don’t think he knows how to pick up his voicemail. He sucks with technology.”

  “I’ve found that to be true with many of my older patients,” Vi said. “The ones over, oh, two hundred or so never really seem to take to technology.”

  “Really? I always kind of thought they’d be happy to try, you know, considering how they grew up and—”

  Mischa let out a snarl of frustration. “Can we discuss the technology habits of ancient vampires later and focus on, oh, I don’t know, me right now? I’m freakin’ losing my mind here!”

  “OK, calm down,” Vi said, adopting her best soothe-the-deranged-psychopath voice “Look, Hunter knows you pretty well. He’s aware of your strengths and limitations and loves you despite—and because of—them. I’m sure he wasn’t expecting a stellar declaration of love from you.”

  Harper crunched a mouthful of popcorn before adding, “Yeah. And I wouldn’t really worry about that note. Jesus, Riddick’s monosyllabic half the time. Hunter’s note to you was three times longer than any note Riddick’s ever left for me, and it doesn’t mean he’s any less in love with me, you know?”

  Mischa felt the knot in her chest loosen a bit. OK, maybe this wasn’t as bad as she’d been thinking. Maybe everything was OK after all.

  “Now, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tell him you love him right away,” Vi advised. “Go find him. Be straight with him.”

  The knot tightened up again. “I tried that the first night he was back,” she said, not caring that her voice had taken on a whining tone. “He said he wouldn’t believe I loved him until I’d accepted what I am and learned to love myself.”

  “Oh, he’s good,” Vi murmured. “It took me a ton more words to say it than it took him. He’s right, of course. Have you set yourself up with a blood donor? Have you contacted your family? Have you worked to gain control of your powers?”

  Shit, she hadn’t done any of that. And further, she’d asked him if there was any way to get rid of her powers.

  Mischa let her forehead drop to her palm and let out a defeated groan. “Oh my God, I really screwed this all up again.”

  “This is what I’m saying,” Harper garbled around a mouthful of popcorn.

  “It’s not too late,” Vi soothed. “You can fix it. It takes five minutes to set yourself up with a blood donor. It can all be handled online. You can call your mom and ask to talk to her after the pageant. She’ll understand. And as for the powers, well, you can always ask Hunter to help you with that. He’s probably the only one who can, anyway.”

  Well, that all sounded…doable. “OK. I can do that. Then can I tell him I love him?”

  Harper snorted. “I wouldn’t just blurt it out. You’ve jerked him around too long for that.”

  “That’s probably true,” Vi murmured. “A grand gesture may be in order.”

  A grand gesture? What… “The fuck?”

  “Time to hold your boom box up outside his house and blast some Peter Gabriel, Lloyd.”

  Of course. Leave it to Harper to explain the situation using an ‘80s movie reference. “A grand gesture. OK.” Wow, creativity had never been her strong suit but she could figure this out. Or… “Have any suggestions?”

  In the background, Mischa heard someone pronounce very distinctly, very slowly, “Show. Him. Your. Boobs.”

  You could almost hear Harper’s eye roll as she said, “She’s got it under control, Benny. Thanks, though.”

  “You gals always gotta complicate things,” he muttered.

  “We have to
go,” Harper said suddenly. “It’s getting to the good part.”

  Mischa wondered briefly what exactly the “good part” of Smokey and the Bandit was, but thought better of asking.

  Vi wished her luck and hung up as well, leaving Mischa alone with her thoughts.

  So, all she had to do was solve the case, catch a crazed stalker who may or may not also be a murderer, come up with the perfect “grand gesture”, and win back the man she loved, permanently.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  More things than you can count.

  Stupid brain, she thought. Always being all…reasonable and shit. That just had to stop if any of her long-term plans were going to pan out.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Mischa decided that multi-tasking was her best bet, given the short amount of time she had left before the pageant that evening.

  She decided to focus on the case first. After all, that was way easier to sort out than her love life.

  She had Leon researching greenhouses and growers who might be capable of cultivating Kadupol flowers. If they were truly as fragile as Emily’s research indicated, the stalker must have a greenhouse close by, or lots of cash on hand to get them transported quickly to Whispering Hope.

  Benny was currently scouring hours and hours of pageant footage, as well as the hidden camera footage Hunter had set up, looking for anything, anyone, who appeared onscreen that looked out of place, suspicious.

  Lucas had agreed—somewhat reluctantly—to run background checks on everyone who had registered to attend the swimsuit competition, in the hopes of finding anyone who might have ties to Emily and her hometown. The odds of him finding anything were slim. Pretty damn anorexic, really. But desperate times and all…

  And on the personal front, Harper was setting up her online account with the blood bank so she could get regular deliveries of bagged blood, in case Hunter decided he didn’t want to, um, donate to her anymore.

  Just the thought of him not wanting to be with her anymore—blood donor or not—made tears spring to her eyes.