Semi-Twisted:

by Isabel Jordan

  “Got it.”

  “Well…all right then.”

  “You’re going to have to get married here,” Harper said from behind them. “I’m out if you’re going to Vegas.”

  “Fucking Vegas,” Riddick muttered.

  Since she’d died there, Mischa couldn’t see herself ever returning to Vegas, even if Elvis himself turned up and wanted to give one last performance at the Bellagio. Then another thought occurred to her.

  “Do you think…do you think vampires are ever allowed to adopt children?”

  Hunter looked thoughtful. “Between the two of us? I don’t think there’s anyone we couldn’t convince to let us adopt.”

  “Not even the Council?” she asked, scowling on the word “Council.”

  “The Council is made up of the strongest vampires who want the job,” Hunter reminded her. “If they were to say no to you and you—or me, for that matter—happened to want a place on the Council, there’s no one there who’s strong enough to challenge us.”

  Behind her, Harper said, “Shit. Looks like I’m about to lose a skip-tracer.”

  “We’ll hire another,” Riddick said in his usual bored tone.

  Mischa ignored them, suddenly feeling like everything she’d ever wanted in her life was now within her grasp. Like she was slowly…untwisting. The old Mischa would’ve been scared at this point. Been sure the tide would inevitably turn against her. But the new Mischa?

  “Can we get married next week and take over the Council right afterwards?”

  Hunter gave up the pretense of looking serious at that point and smiled so big and beautiful it made her lightheaded. “As you wish, love. As you wish.”

  The End

  (But stay tuned for Lucas’s story, coming in 2017)

  And in case you missed them, keep turning the pages to find excerpts from books 1 & 2 of the Harper Hall Investigations series, Semi-Charmed and Semi-Human!

  A personal note from Isabel:

  If you enjoyed this book, first of all, thanks! It would mean a lot to me if you would take a moment and show your support of indie authors (like me) by leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Your reviews are a very important part of helping readers discover new books.

  Want to know more about me, or when the next book release is? You can email me directly at: isabel.jordan@izzyjo.com. Also feel free to stalk me on:

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/SemiCharmedAuthor

  Twitter:@izzyjord

  Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/author/IsabelJordan

  Website: http://www.izzyjo.com/

  Thanks so much, and happy reading!

  Sincerely,

  Isabel

  About the author

  The normal:

  Isabel Jordan writes because it's the only profession that allows her to express her natural sarcasm and not be fired. She is a paranormal and contemporary romance author. Isabel lives in the U.S. with her husband, ten-year-old son, a senile beagle, a neurotic shepherd mix, and a ginormous Great Dane mix.

  The weird:

  Now that the normal stuff is out of the way, here's some weird-but-true facts that would never come up in polite conversation. Isabel Jordan:

  1. Is terrified of butterflies (don't judge...it's a real phobia called lepidopterophobia)

  2. Is a lover of all things ironic (hence the butterfly on the cover of Semi-Charmed)

  3. Is obsessed with Supernatural, Game of Thrones, The Walking Dead, and Dog Whisperer.

  4. Hates coffee. Drinks a Diet Mountain Dew every morning.

  5. Will argue to the death that Pretty in Pink ended all wrong. (Seriously, she ends up with the guy who was embarrassed to be seen with her and not the nice guy who loved her all along? That would never fly in the world of romance novels.)

  6. Would eat Mexican food every day if given the choice.

  7. Reads two books a week in varied genres.

  8. Refers to her Kindle as "the precious."

  9. Thinks puppy breath is one of the best smells in the world.

  10. Is a social media idgit. (Her husband had to explain to her what the point of Twitter was. She's still a little fuzzy on what Instagram and Pinterest do.)

  11. Kicks ass at Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.

  12. Stole her tagline idea (“weird and proud”) from her son. Her tagline idea was, "Never wrong, not quite right." She liked her son's idea better.

  13. Breaks one vacuum cleaner a year because she ignores standard maintenance procedures (Really, you're supposed to empty the canister every time you vacuum? Does that seem excessive to anyone else?)

  14. Is still mad at the WB network for cancelling Angel in 2004.

  15. Can't find her way from her bed to her bathroom without her glasses, but refused eye surgery, even when someone else offered to pay. (They lost her at "eye flap". Seriously, look it up. Scary stuff.)

  In case you missed it, here’s a sneak peek of Semi-Charmed!

  Whispering Hope, New York, today

  Harper Hall swatted the fast-fingered hand of yet another horny, middle-aged CPA off her ass, but resisted the urge to dump tequila in this one’s lap. After all, the Prince Valiant haircut and underbite he was saddled with were punishments enough for his crimes.

  “Hey, baby,” Valiant’s friend said as he fondled his shot glass suggestively. “Is that a mirror in your pocket? ‘Cause I can definitely see myself in your pants.”

  Harper rolled her eyes and shot back, “Darlin’, I’m not your type. I’m not inflatable.”

  And with that, she turned on the heel of one of her requisite six-inch platforms and started for the bar as the CPAs chortled and bumped knuckles. They were probably looking at her butt too, but Harper chose not to dwell on that, or on the fact that most of said butt was probably hanging out of her Daisy Dukes. Not her best look, to be sure.

  Lanie Cale, one of the other waitresses, grabbed her arm and leaned in, shouting over the music, “Hey, can you take over for me with the guy at table five? Carlos is letting me dance tonight. I go on in ten.”

  Harper gave her a quick once over. Lanie was five years her junior, ten pounds lighter, and had her beat by a full cup size. If she was Lanie, she’d probably aspire to be a stripper too. But as it stood, she was stuck waiting tables with the other B-cups.

  “Sure,” she answered. “But, Lanie, this guy at table five…he’s not a CPA, is he? I don’t think I have the strength for another CPA.”

  “No way is this guy a CPA. I’d bet Hugh Jackman’s abs on it,” she promised solemnly as she disappeared into the crowd.

  At that moment, the sweaty throng of dancers and customers and waitresses parted, giving Harper her first glimpse of the guy at table five.

  Wow. Hugh Jackman’s abs were in no danger tonight.

  The guy at table five was definitely not an accountant. Serial killer, maybe. CPA…um, no.

  Table five was wedged in the corner, to the extreme right of the stage, which was why no one usually wanted to sit there. But instinct told Harper this guy had refused to sit anywhere else. This was one of those never-let-anyone-sneak-up-behind-you types, maybe with a military or law enforcement background. Paranoid and probably with good reason.

  Everything about him screamed tall, dark, and brooding. From the black hair long overdue for a trim to the black-on-black wardrobe, complete with biker boots and a Highlander-like leather trench, this guy was either a true rebel without a cause, or the best imitation of one she’d ever seen.

  And he was drunk off his ass. Not the kind of happy, silly drunk the CPAs at table ten had going. No, Harper could tell by the way he was ignoring the half-naked dancer on stage that he was drowning his sorrows.

  Ignoring Misty Mountains wasn’t easy, either. Her brand new double D’s were mesmerizing, and the nipples kind of followed you wherever you went like the eyes on the creepy Jesus picture in her mom’s living room.

  As Harper watched, he polished off a bottle of Glenlivet and set it beside two other empties. She sighed. He’
d probably pass out before he remembered to tip her. God damn drunks would be the death of her.

  Harper squared her shoulders and walked up to the table, then knelt beside him so he could hear her over the baseline of Bon Jovi’s Lay Your Hands On Me.

  “Can I get you anything else, sir? Like coffee?” Hint, hint.

  He didn’t even glance at her as he slid the empty bottles to the edge of the table and said, “Another bottle.”

  His voice sent a shiver down her spine. It was gravelly, raspy, almost like he’d growled the words instead of speaking them. Sexy.

  But sexy voice or not, she wasn’t about to serve him another bottle. He was probably a few inches over six feet and maybe a little over two-hundred pounds, but no one—not even a manly man like this one—could down four bottles of eighteen-year-old Glenlivet and blow a Breathalyzer that wouldn’t get him immediately arrested.

  “I think you’ve probably had enough for tonight.”

  He slowly glanced over at her as if he hadn’t really noticed her presence until just then. When her eyes locked with his, she completely forgot what they’d been talking about. Hell, who was she kidding? She forgot how to breathe.

  This had to be the most gorgeous potential serial killer she’d ever seen.

  He had a dark olive complexion most women would kill for, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes that were either black or the deepest blue she’d ever seen—it was too dark in the club to tell for sure.

  His perfectly arched black brows—and they had to be naturally perfect, because she was pretty sure this guy wouldn’t be caught dead waxing—raised sardonically as his gaze moved over her.

  Harper fought the urge to suck in her stomach and desperately wished her uniform was a size eight instead of a four. She had dignity in a size eight. Class, even. In a four…not so much.

  He lowered his gaze to her chest, and then slowly lifted it back to her eyes. “I doubt they’re paying you to think, sunshine.” Sliding the empty bottles even closer to her, he repeated, “Another bottle.”

  He’d said it very slowly, deliberately, in a manner most people reserved for slow-witted children and foreigners. The only part of her that wasn’t at all impressed with the guy’s fallen-angel face—which just happened to be her Sicilian temper—kicked in at that point.

  Harper straightened and snagged the bottles off the table, preparing to verbally flay him, but just when she’d figured out exactly how many four-letter words she could hurl at him in one sentence, a premonition hit her hard.

  People often asked her what premonitions felt like. Imagine someone punching a hole through your forehead and making a fist around your brain, she always told them. This premonition was no different.

  Harper staggered forward and planted one palm on the table to steady herself as images assailed her: a young, blonde woman in an alley pinned to a dumpster by a man twice her size.

  A vampire, she knew instinctively. Cold chills always shot down her spine when she saw them.

  Harper sucked in a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate on details other than the victim, just like Sentry taught her so many years ago. Instead, she tried to picture the dumpster, the buildings around it, street signs…anything that might tell her where this girl was so she could call the police and get her some help.

  And then she saw a logo printed on the side of the dumpster as big as life. Kitty Kat Palace.

  Holy shit, the vamp and his victim were here.

  Like it so far? You can download your copy right here: http://amzn.to/2b8AS9d

  In case you missed it, here’s a sneak peek (well, more than a sneak peek, really, it’s the whole first chapter!) of Semi-Human!

  Whispering Hope, New York

  Harper Hall never thought she’d receive a marriage proposal while straddling a vampire stripper on the floor of the Kitty Kat Palace.

  The stripper in question was named Candy Kane, which, unfortunately for her, was her real name. She’d been arrested a few weeks ago for illegal use of vampire mind control and was released on a twenty-thousand dollar bond. She failed to show for her court appearance. That’s when she became Harper’s problem.

  Ah, the glamorous life of a paranormal PI.

  Skip tracing, or tracking down bail jumpers, was Harper’s least favorite kind of case. Bounty hunters and other PIs didn’t want to go after vampires because they always resisted being brought in, resulting in all kinds of fucked-up, fang-y asshattery.

  Hence her current position straddling Candy’s face-down, prone body, which she’d pinned to the sticky strip club floor—eeewww—with her weight.

  Sadly, skip tracing paid twice as much as any case she’d ever had, so she found herself doing it with disturbing regularity of late. Riddick seemed to enjoy it, though, given the semi-feral gleam in his eyes at the moment.

  Her partner, Noah Riddick, had just slammed Candy’s boyfriend face-first into the wall and wrenched his arms behind his back with enough force to break a normal human’s bones. Fortunately, Candy’s boyfriend, a real charmer by the name of Big Willy, was also a vampire.

  And having had the, uh, pleasure of seeing the all-vampire male review he put on at the brand new show club—Vamp Me—in downtown Whispering Hope, Harper could truly say he did the Big Willy moniker proud.

  Apparently, Candy and Willy planned to rob patrons at the Kitty Kat Palace by way of Candy’s mind control. By the time she was done with the hapless losers who requested lap dances, they’d think it was their idea to hand their wallets and phones and car keys over to Willy.

  What they hadn’t counted on was the bar’s owner, Carlos Mendoza, calling Harper the second Willy hit the door.

  Carlos would tell everyone he ratted out Willy and Candy out of concern for his patrons, but Harper knew he was probably just pissed off that the Bonnie and Clyde wannabes hadn’t offered him a cut of their earnings.

  “Get off me, you whore!”

  Harper pressed her knee down harder against Candy’s spine and wrenched the vamp’s arms up higher behind her back to still her wild squirming. “Those who live in glass whorehouses shouldn’t throw stones, sister,” she said. “And I’m not the one pinned to the floor of a strip club wearing nothing but a set of heart-shaped pasties and a bedazzled G-string.”

  She glanced over at Riddick just in time to see Big Willy throw his head back toward Riddick’s face in an attempt to break his nose. Riddick neatly avoided the head-butt, grabbed a fistful of Willy’s shoulder-length, dishwater-dull blond hair and slammed the vamp’s face into the wall.

  Willy groaned. “You broke my fucking nose, asshole!”

  Only it sounded like, “Ew boke my fuckin’ bose, ash hoe,” which made Harper giggle.

  Riddick shrugged and recaptured Big Willy’s arms, binding his wrists behind his back with a zip tie. “I told you to stand still or I’d start breaking your bones.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong, man.”

  Harper rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. Did you forget I’m psychic, Willy?” She tapped her temple with her index finger. “Past, present, and future, all up here. And as soon as I touched your girl here I saw everything.”

  And when she said “everything,” she meant everything. Not only had Candy and Big Willy robbed patrons at every strip club within a hundred-mile radius of Whispering Hope, they also had a very…active sex life. She’d seen things she was pretty sure weren’t legal in most states. And some that seemed to defy physics.

  “You can’t prove anything,” Willy said petulantly.

  “No, but I’m pretty sure there’s a reward for anyone who has information on the strip club robberies, which, I now do.”

  “Fucking bitch,” he muttered.

  The words had barely left Willy’s mouth before Riddick kicked him in the back of the knee hard enough that bone and cartilage snapped and cracked. Willy screeched like a little girl and fell to the ground, clutching his temporarily ruined knee. It would take a young vampire like Willy at least a we
ek to heal an injury like that.

  Harper frowned at Riddick. “Was that necessary?”

  He nodded. “I feel pretty good about it.”

  “You could’ve given him a warning.”

  “That was my warning.”

  She sighed. Riddick’s protectiveness occasionally bordered on obsessive. She’d told him repeatedly that she could take care of herself, and breaking someone’s bones over a little name-calling wasn’t necessary. But he just couldn’t seem to help himself.

  She supposed it was romantic…in a psychotic sort of way.

  Then he smiled at her, and her consternation vanished. Her heart kicked into an irregular, giddy rhythm that might’ve worried her if it didn’t happen every time he flashed that sexy grin at her.

  And the way he looked at the moment didn’t exactly help slow her heart rate, either.

  His thick black hair fell to his collar in careless disarray, giving him a just-fucked look that made her thoughts lean toward dirty, dirty things. He had the kind of lean, toned body that screamed badass instead of gym rat. And his face…

  Fallen angels wished they had a face like Riddick’s.

  And he was all hers.

  Suck it, other women everywhere!

  “Let me go,” Candy commanded, her normal Betty-Boop voice an octave lower than usual.

  Harper tightened her hold on Candy’s arms. “Don’t embarrass yourself. Mind control doesn’t work on me. Strong with the force am I,” she added in her best Yoda voice, which was really kind of awful, now that she thought about it.

  Note to self: no more Yoda voice.

  “Don’t bother trying it on him, either.” She tipped her head in Riddick’s direction. “He’s immune, too.”