Alphas Unwrapped: 21 New Steamy Paranormal Tales of Shifters, Vampires, Werewolves, Dragons, Witches, Angels, Demons, Fey, and More

by Michele Bardsley

  This was the moment of truth—and as much as it killed Finn, he didn’t have a choice. “I don’t think she was really a blonde; the carpet didn’t match—”

  Ridge stepped out from behind the screened door and nailed him, right in Finn’s face with his wide fist, knocking him down the wide front porch stairs and almost taking out Miss Prissy the hen, who squawked her discontent with flapping wings.

  Finn slammed to the ground from the impact, his head hitting the hard dirt before bouncing back up. Using the edge of his hand, he wiped the blood dripping from his nose and rose to his feet to face Ridge, whose chest heaved.

  “You got more in you?” he asked on a hiss of breath, ready to have the piss deservedly beaten out of him.

  “Fuck you, Finn!” Ridge roared, the veins in his neck and arms pulsing blue. “Fuck you for making me hit you! What the hell do you want? Did you come to apologize for leaving the farm without a word? Did you come to ask forgiveness for leaving this place looking like a tornado had landed clear in the middle of it, in such bad shape I had to leave my securities firm in Dallas and come back on Baba’s orders?”

  Finn held up a finger as he tried to keep from wobbling and his face throbbed. Damn, his brother packed a punch.

  “Ah, but you did get your girl because Baba made you come back, didn’t you? She’s a pretty lady, your Bernie. Bet Mom would have liked her. So all’s well that ends well, right, my man?”

  Ridge flew down the stairs at him so fast, he almost wished he could use his magic on the farm to make a wall appear between them. But their deceased father, Ramsey, had placed a spell on the farm, insisting his sons know the meaning of hard work rather than the easy out of using their magic to care for their vast acreage.

  Ridge grabbed him up by the pointy collar of his outdated shirt and snarled, “You know shit about what went down while you were off boozing and whoring, Finn. Shit. And don’t ever let me hear Bernie’s name roll off your tongue again. You stay the hell away from her. Now what do you want? Speak your piece and then get the fuck out of here.”

  Finn held up his hands in submission. “I just came to see if I could grab some of my old clothes. Obviously, the council doesn’t just want me to be humiliated due to my poor life decisions; they also want my fashion choices questioned. As you can see, there isn’t much to pick from in the donations box at Winnie’s House of Ex-Con Ill Repute.” He plucked at his shirt, noting droplets of blood on the collar. “Aw, damn, dude. You got blood on my shirt. How the hell will I ever get it out?”

  Ridge straightened his white Stetson and planted his hands on his hips as dust swirled around him and the skies grew overcast. It was obvious he wasn’t going to get Ridge to warm up—even just a little.

  “You have nothing left here to take. I burned your clothes and gave away anything that was even remotely attached to you. Now get the fuck off my farm and don’t come back. We have nothing to say to each other that I haven’t already heard from someone else.” His brother pointed to the dirt road where he’d parked the Pacer.

  It was easier this way. If Ridge didn’t want to speak to him, that meant he didn’t have to explain—or worse, make more shit up. So he backed away, keeping the fake smile on his face.

  “So I guess this means no invite for Christmas dinner? Sure would be nice to meet your soon-to-be bride.”

  “Get the fuck off my land, Finn!” Ridge roared.

  Finn threw a casual hand up and waved. “You have a Merry Christmas, too, brother.”

  He turned his back to Ridge, turned his back on the place he’d once called home, now decorated for Christmas—he assumed by Ridge’s fiancée. Turned his back and walked to the car, his heart heavy.

  He knew what Ridge and everyone in town had heard about his sudden departure—the rumor mill was strong in a small town like Paris. It was true. He had been with a busy blonde, drinking whiskey in a bar in Galveston a couple of months after he’d disappeared.

  Freemont Gable had probably borrowed a broom to get back here lickety-split to tell everyone he’d seen that deserter Finn Donovan sluggin’ ‘em back like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  It was also true he’d left the farm a disaster area, but it sure was a sight for sore eyes right now.

  Under the watchful glare of Ridge’s gaze, he didn’t linger long before he turned the key in the ignition and took off.

  But a quick scan of the property, with its vast acres, made him happy for Ridge. The old barn was like new again. The house was freshly painted, curtains hung in the windows, and the front porch steps were lined with red poinsettias and strand after strand of multicolored lights.

  As he drove away, Finn fought the impulse to go back and try to explain. Try to make everything right.

  But he couldn’t. How did you make leaving such a goddamn mess right?

  Pembroke better be right about the timing on this shit, because he didn’t have much longer left in him before he blew it all.

  Chapter Five

  COZY WINCED AS Clive made his entrance across the stage Ridge had built for them. He was using his arms as pretend branches while the costume department—better known as Joellen, Flora, and Glenda-Jo—tried to construct a facsimile close enough to a pine tree that would please their resident diva gone actor, Clive.

  She stilled her fingers on the keys of the piano and rose from the bench with a chuckle. “Clive? You’re not on Dancing With The Stars. You don’t have to float across the stage. Just stop on your mark and stand still. Remember? All the angels are holding hands and swaying around you. If you keep moving like you’re the prima ballerina in the Nutcracker, you’ll knock them over.”

  Clive cupped his hands over his eyes and looked out into the audience toward Cozy. “I was pretendin’ the wind was bendin’ my branches in a snowstorm, Cozy. You know, improvising.”

  “Clive? It hardly ever snows here. It’s still sixty degrees as we speak. I understand you’re trying to be authentic, but it’s not necessary. Just stand still, okay? I’m begging you.” She rubbed her temples with two fingers to ward off an oncoming headache.

  As the day had worn on, and she’d managed to survive a group of middle-schoolers on their last day before the holiday break, she’d continued to fight the good Finn fight.

  Calla had made sure she missed Finn, giving her the signal when all was clear to enter the center and set up for rehearsal. But the stress of avoiding him was killing her.

  “Ay! Por la virgencita de Guadalupe que desastre! De esta, a risas te sacan de Tejas! Nunca podremos asomar las caras por aca!” Jorge cursed on a snort as he repositioned himself in his doggie bed atop the piano.

  “Don’t you break out the fancy Spanish with me, buddy. No one’s going to laugh us out of the state of Texas over a Christmas recital. It’s all going to be fine.”

  Right? Yes. It was going to be fine. She’d told herself that a hundred times last night after her encounter with Finn had left her shaken to the core. If she could get over him leaving, she could get over him returning.

  “This is going to be an epic mess. Surely you can see that? The council’s going to want to blow out their eardrums when all’s said and done.”

  She tugged at his diaper and narrowed her eyes. “Hush. I’m corralling cats. Your wisecracks don’t make it any easier.”

  “Spielberg and Clooney couldn’t make this easier, C.”

  “Could you at least try and be supportive? Just a little. I’ve had a long day—”

  “Silencio!” Jorge ordered, lifting his head, his short tan ears perking up, his eyes searching the room.

  “Don’t you shush me, mister—”

  “I said, pipe down!” he hissed back at her, which was very unusual for her familiar. Sure, he was cranky and irritable, who wouldn’t be when you had to wear a diaper all the time? But she knew a true warning when she heard one.

  Fear skittered up her spine. Cold, dark fear.

  And then she heard it, too—or rather, felt it—the oppressive pr
essure of magic in use. The familiar static crackle of electricity just before something big was about to occur.

  Something big and bad.

  Who in the center would use their magic for ill? Everyone knew it was strictly forbidden. Cozy grabbed for her purse, pulling out her wand and tucking it to her side.

  And then the whoosh of wands like light sabers everywhere whipped through the room as the seniors swished theirs in the air, each of them on guard.

  The lights flickered over the stage and the small Christmas tree in the corner of the rec room went dark.

  Before she had the chance to do anything, Jorge yelled, “Cozy—duck!”

  Her eyes scanned the room as best she could in the darkness as her head whipped around and she snatched Jorge from his bed, diving for cover behind the air hockey table.

  A fiery arrow sprayed across the room, pinging the wall before knocking a ball off the Christmas tree.

  Wait, an arrow? What the hell was going on?

  As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she pointed a finger at Jorge. “Stay put!” she whispered.

  “No, Cozy! You’ll get yourself set on fire, mi amor!”

  But the seniors were out in the open, exposed. They couldn’t move as quickly as she could, they couldn’t see as well as she could in the dark, and as the lights flickered off completely, she knew she had to do something.

  “Grab hands everyone! Stay together!” she yelled, just as a slew of arrows flew through the air at the sound of her voice. They hit the walls with a hiss, melting their target.

  Magic arrows?

  On her belly, Cozy crawled, kicking her heels off, forcing her eyes to look for orthopedic shoes and sandals with socks.

  Chairs scraped the floor and toppled as the seniors stumbled. “Move your old ass, Gus! I’m gonna break a hip if I keep trippin’ over you!” Flora yipped.

  “Who’s got a dang phone? Call 9-1-1!” Roscoe Brown ordered in his deep baritone.

  Oh God, no. If the face of a phone lit up, it would be like a beacon in the dark for whoever was taking potshots at them.

  “No! Don’t use the phone!” Cozy ordered, still struggling to feel her way across the floor.

  More arrows flew, sizzling in a screech of orange and blue, one after the other, setting the angel costumes on fire on the table just above her. They sizzled and frothed, the stench filling her nose and making her eyes water.

  God, where were the seniors?

  There! Clive was mere inches from her; his plaid trousers still had the remnants of pine needles from practicing his reenactment of tree branches. She smelled them. She slithered forward, wand in hand, and yanked his pant leg.

  “Everyone grab hands and get down on the floor,” she demanded in a whisper as another arrow zipped through the air before landing right in front of her.

  Oddly, even in panic mode, she was able to determine the arrows appeared to follow the sound of her voice. Was she the target?

  Their bodies began to pile on the floor with heaves and grunts of air escaping their lungs. Using her toes, Cozy pushed herself forward, drawing her knees to her chest, her heart pounding as she assessed where they were in relation to the hallway that led to the kitchen and a way out.

  It was too far. If whoever this was started shooting again, someone would end up dead.

  And then she remembered the stacks of metal chairs that Ridge and Calla’s husband Nash had brought in for the guests for the big show on Christmas Eve. That would make at least a temporary barricade and provide some protection.

  “All of you listen closely to me. Get back behind the racks of chairs to your left. Stay there, keep as far back as you can, and whoever has a phone, give it to me, please!”

  She heard rather than saw a phone slide across the floor, her shaking hands reaching in front of her and groping until she touched the square edge.

  Headcount. She needed to do a headcount, but before she had the opportunity, someone called out from the hallway that led to the kitchen.

  “Hey, y’all! Why’d ya turn the lights off? How the heck’s a gal supposed to find her way around in the dadgum dark? Land sakes, if this is some kind of joke, Gus Mortimer, I’m gonna give you a hemorrhoid the size of a beach ball!”

  Glenda-Jo. Oh God. She was out in the open. But if she yelled to her, she’d attract the shooter’s attention.

  Panic began to wrap its claws around her brain… Her wand! Gripping her wand tightly in hand, Cozy lifted it and pointed it at Glenda-Jo, and muttered the Latin word in a low whisper, “Dormire!”

  But Glenda-Jo was a tough broad, and she clearly wasn’t going down without a fight, if her muffled protests were any indication.

  And then Cozy saw the flash of her wand, glowing blue in the darkness, her intention likely to break the spell Cozy had cast.

  That glow was soon followed by the whiz of another slew of arrows rushing directly toward Glenda-Jo.

  No, no, no!

  Using her wand, Cozy whispered a spell, hoping to thwart the deadly points, but they continued their lethal path.

  What the hell? Why wasn’t her magic working now?

  For that matter, why weren’t the sprinklers working?

  There was no other choice but to do something she wasn’t ever supposed to do—something that would have her locked up if Baba Yaga found out. But she didn’t care if it landed her in jail. If it came down to a choice between Glenda-Jo’s life and some time served with the women Winnie had talked about, like her fellow inmate Chi-Chi Gonzalez, then she’d just have to call prison home.

  Throwing her arms forward, Cozy spread her fingers and yelled, “Cease time and motion, cease them now! Thwart all movement, do not allow!”

  Everything came to a screeching halt—meaning, she had to move fast. Altering time was a tricky business with major repercussions out the wazoo.

  She needed to move Glenda-Jo to safety in as little time as possible for as little future impact as possible. Mere seconds wasted could alter too many things around the globe. Cozy made a break for Glenda-Jo, using the face of her phone as a guide, pushing her way past the halted arrows and their fiery embers.

  Tearing across the rec-room floor, she moved Glenda-Jo safely behind the chairs with everyone else, making sure to keep her hidden.

  Shuddering as she raced to find somewhere safe, she tapped out 9-1-1 on her phone just as she rasped the words, “Undo this spell, undo it well!” Then she hit the call button.

  The arrows began coming at a much faster pace now, setting everything in their path on fire as they zinged through the air, landing haphazardly across the room, spearing the walls and melting the sheetrock. The paper tablecloth on the snack table where they’d kept the juice and cookies went up in a hot mass of flames, setting the curtains behind the table on fire, too.

  Smoke began to billow in thick, black clouds as she put the phone to her ear and listened to see if anyone was on the other end. There was a static crackle on the line—one she sensed reeked with magic.

  “Hello? We need help at the Hallow Moon Senior Center!” she yelped into the phone, her throat on fire.

  Nothing but the hiss of a fading connection.

  Who was preventing her from calling 9-1-1 and who had the skills of a ninja with those damn arrows? As the smoke began to fill the room, she knew she had to make a break for the seniors and get them the hell out.

  Holding her breath, Cozy scrambled, ducking and bobbing arrow after arrow, she fought her way through the acrid smoke, her pulse racing.

  “Guys! Answer me! I can’t see you. Guide me to you!” she bellowed on a cough.

  “Over here!” Flora sputtered.

  Cozy’s head turned to the left, straining to the sound of Flora’s voice. If she could just orient herself enough to figure out where she was in relation to where the chairs were stacked, they had a chance to make the back patio door.

  “Cover your mouths and noses and stay down on the floor—all of you, do it now!”

  “We’re here
, Cozy!” Clive hacked out the words.

  “Jorge! Where are you?” she yelled while flames licked at the curtains and spread to a stack of boxes of decorations yet to be hung, turning them into a raging bonfire.

  She tore off her sweater and took her own advice, covering her mouth with the material and dropping to the floor.

  “I can’t see any of you! Clive, Flora, Glenda-Jo, Gus! Someone answer me!” she cried, her voice growing hoarse from the heavy smoke.

  Her eyes began to water, blurring her vision as she held the phone up again and pressed the numbers 9-1-1. Scooting on her belly along the floor, she listened once more to the mindless crackle of electricity.

  “Damn it!” She fought not to throw the phone and instead stayed as low to the ground as possible. “Someone please answer me!” she rasped out, to no avail.

  Her heart began to crash, her head growing light—and then she saw it, a glint of glass and light from the door, leading to the patio area.

  Pulling herself up, Cozy began to run toward the door when someone called out, “Cozy! Look out!” Just before a burly body smashed into hers, knocking her into the glass door and out onto the patio in a spray of shards of glass.

  Her scream of pain resonated in the patio area as she hit the hard concrete, her back cracking against it as someone landed on top of her. Someone big and heavy.

  “Cozy! It’s me, Finn!”

  Instantly, she tried to push her way up using her elbows, her eyes blurred by a constant stream of tears from the smoke. “The seniors and Jorge!” she croaked.

  Someone gathered her in their arms as voices began floating over her head and flashes of lights and ambulance sirens peeked through the haze of her watering eyes.

  Using her thumb, Cozy swiped at her face and looked up. Finn looked down at her, slivers of glass still in his thick hair, his eyes filled with concern.

  “They’re all okay. Somehow, they managed to get out the door just before you. The fire department’s got everyone. Jesus, I didn’t think I was going to get to you in time, Cozy,” he whispered, pulling her tighter.