Once Upon A Midnight

by Stephanie Rowe

  “Don’t worry. I’m not that easy to get rid of.” I winked.

  “I’m beginning to understand that. I need that to be true—for you to be built from steel. The more indestructible, the better, because if something were to ever happen to you, I’d….” His head dropped.

  I looked around, thankful that most of the beasts had been disposed of. Any ghouls left standing were being made short work of by Rafe and Torra. My brain stuttered to a halt. Torra was there! She was safe and alive, and kicking some major ass, by the looks of things. My heart leapt with relief and pride. Then what the hell? Was Rafe…flying? I shook my head. I must have hit it pretty hard.

  “I’m not immortal, not by any means, Rush. And the only promise I can make to you is this. I will never give up in a fight. If I go down, it’ll be while clawing a motherfucker’s eyes out.”

  I wasn’t usually so vulgar. Rush needed some assurances, after believing that he could have lost me, and I didn’t mind punctuating my point with a little oomph to soothe his nerves.

  Blood from the ghouls he killed dripped from his hair. His clothes were in tatters, and not an inch of him was spared the desecration of blood and ash. He looked like a battle-worn soldier. Rush was my sexy warrior. If I wasn’t so anxious to hold my sister in my arms that very second, so I could feel and see for myself that she was really okay, I’d show that sex god just how much I missed him. There was a bed behind us, after all. That man made me feel like I was perpetually under the influences of that blasted Lothario.

  Rafe called out from across the blood-slicked room. “That’s the last of them. Can we get the fuck out of this creepy place now…please?”

  I turned and looked. Yep, he was still flying. “Mind explaining those wings to me later?” I yelled back at him.

  “I can’t wait to!” He sounded excited and a bit desperate.

  It made me wonder what they’d all gone through to reach me. Then I remembered the hellhounds and the cliff. Immediately, I felt grateful to all of them for their love and heroic bravery. They had literally traversed through Hell and battled beasts to save me. From what, they hadn’t known, but they faced all obstacles that came their way victoriously.

  Torra’s boots bounced off the ground as she tore up the several feet that separated us.

  “Kris! Oh my God!” she shrieked, throwing herself into my arms. Her arms banded around me tightly, refusing to let go. “I could kill you for this!”

  My grandmother walked behind Torra. I noticed a familiar ghost floating next to Lilly. The two of them seemed to be arguing about something. I would make it a point to find out what that was all about later. For that moment, I was grateful to see her in one piece, even if all her pieces were drenched in blood. Did I mention what a badass Lilly was?

  “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I choked over tears.

  Suppressed dread and foreboding was finally given its full release. Torra was well and truly safe. I could hardly believe it.

  “I could sure use some of that sweet lovin’,” said Rafe, cheerful as ever.

  I looked over Torra’s shoulder at him. He was smiling, a glint of humor in his eyes. His wings were gone and all he was wearing was a pair of pants and blood. Before Rafe could grab me for a hug of his own, I found myself pulled up against a sticky, blood-drenched shirt. Muscles large and defined, outlined by the nasty mess, pressed hard against my cheek.

  “Rush, you have got to stop being so jealous,” I said, not serious at all.

  He dropped his lips to my ear, nudging the rim with his nose before whispering softly, sensually, “In this, I give no quarter. I will be jealous of, and beat down, any man who dares touch you,” he purred, the vibration tickling my skin.

  My body instantly responded by becoming hot and, inside my panties, wet. I sunk against him—my very own Lothario rose. After a final shiver that ran through me, I said, “Let’s get out of here!”

  They all shouted out their agreement. The cheer felt like a euphoric after-battle cry.

  I looked around at all the smiling faces before me. I hadn’t known until then how lonely I had been. Granted, I always had my sister and the companionship of Jude, my BFF ghost, and Helen. But there was something to be said for having a group of people I could always count on, loved ones who would put their own lives on the line to ensure my safety. I had that…in spades. And I would do anything and everything in my power to make sure I lived up to and wholly deserved the trust and love those wonderful people so readily bestowed upon me.

  My first step in fulfilling that promise would be to hunt down Wolf and his little flaming-haired phantom, Camille. They would pay dearly for all the hell they put my family through. They would regret every ounce of pain they’d ever caused. They would choke on their own blood, even if I had to bring them back to life to make it happen....

  THE END

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  MOONLIGHT SERENADE

  Copyright © 2016 Diane Rinella

  Cover art copyright © 2016 Diane Rinella

  Cover art and design by Heidi “Azurylipfe” Darras

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  Witchcraft

  One Year Ago

  DALE

  For most people, hidden desires seem like harmless little creatures. But guys like me see once a person’s yearning has been exposed, those buggers can light the fire of desperation. Now that I have confessed mine, this woman has me tossed over a barrel.

  “You don’t have to trust me,” Jennifer says in a relaxed tone. It reminds me of when I am on the verge of pulling in a client—hook, line, and sinker. “I take it this spiritual consultation is a tad out of character for a businessman such as yourself. You said you are in sales?”

  Out of character is right. How is it that I, the king of manipulating people into signing on the dotted line, am so willing to buy into the words of a psychic? “Right,” I say proudly, “West Coast Head of Sales, selling custom software to large financial institutions, such as—”

  “So it is important to remember you came here for a reason. One thousand dollars, and I guarantee my work.”

  Boom. Just like that she cut my small talk, making deliberations difficult. In this situation, are negotiations appropriate? Or are they an insult implying this woman’s services are not worth the price tag? My due diligence showed she is not a bottom-of-the-barrel charlatan, so what is a fair wage for a spiritual consultant?

  When it comes down to it, this is just a business deal, which practically require negotiations. But despite my nearly always being suited up and ready to play Let’s Make A Deal, this situation has my head so out of sorts I am questioning everything about my character.

  My squeezing gut tells me Jennifer is watching as I sip my second glass of wine. The stress of never getting out of my predicament makes my forehead hurt. I attempt to rub away the tension, and my hand glides across sweat. I fight the urge to wipe it on my pants, because that would give away how I am not the cool cat I should be.

  How did my head get so off? Maybe she put something in the wine. Why did she ask me to drink some, and then toss the rest onto a piece of paper? I played along, then started drinking a second glass. That may have been stupid.

  Come on head, get yourself back!

  My eyes scan the maroon dining room. Art and curios surround me—serene landscape paintings, a pedestal in the corner with a statue of an angel on it, a cabinet loaded with knickknacks and heirloom china. Where is the crystal ball? Why isn’t Jennifer consulting Tarot cards? Is that a hint of a drawl I’ve been catching in her voice? What is a Texan doing in Los Angeles?

  For some crazy reason, I expected her to have dark features like mine, but with her hair tucked under a turban. Instead, her blond hair flows in kinked waves, framing her middle-aged face. Does the contrast between what I expected and what
I found make me more, or less, apprehensive? Why can’t I tell? She looks familiar. Is that why I am thrown off?

  My attention locks on the dried wine I was asked to splatter on the notepad in front of me. What do three entangled swirls mean? How Jennifer nodded without the slightest blink as the spirals took shape reminded me of a robot receiving a message. Still, I’m skeptical over how legit she is; because she has yet to comment on something a person with her alleged powers should find obvious. Is she a fraud, or am I insane for thinking I often get impromptu visits from a ghost?

  Jennifer motions for me to hand her the notepad, and then writes a date nearly two years in the future. “By this date, your wish will be fulfilled. Pay me half now and half when all comes to fruition. Do we have a deal?”

  Two years is like an eternity. Then again, it is nothing compared to the five years I’ve spent hurting since my fiancée died. Since Abby passed on, I’ve been stranded in an ocean of loneliness. I am damn tired of happiness evading me.

  Jennifer’s casual body language further disturbs me. Her features are soft. One arm rests at her side while the other hand has yet to leave her wine glass. I stretch out my legs and bump into hers, finding they are where they would be if she were relaxed into a slight slouch. She is using one of the tactics I pull on clients. I am a master at her end of the game, so why am I being roped in instead of countering her deal?

  I rub my finger over the rim of my glass. The resulting squeak sounds like a youthful voice cheering, “Live!” It makes me grin like when I hit my first home run. I pulled that baby off by loosening my focus on the technical stuff and yanking in some confidence. Watching that ball sail was exhilarating.

  My finger slips over the rim again. It repeats the command, “Live!”

  “Yes,” I say to Jennifer. “We definitely have a deal.”

  “Great. You can either pay me by check now, and I’ll be in touch once it clears, or you can return later with cash. All choices are yours. However, if you fail to act as instructed, I get to keep the down payment. Agreed?”

  Straight to the pocketbook, eh lady? I suck in my lips and taste my own medicine. I see the trick she slipped in. She’s made certain her pockets will get lined, even though she has implied she is taking a risk. There is no way she can know if I follow her words to the letter.

  Without prompting, Jennifer adds, “If you screw up, your remorse will be obvious.” Her tone is so nonchalant she might as well shrug.

  I try to fight back the widening of my eyes. How did I let her beat me to the zinger? Being able to foresee the other player’s actions is part of what makes me top of my game. In fact, I’m so methodical when it comes to closing deals I question if it is even possible for me to screw up.

  Hey, Dale. Reality check: it is definitely possible, because if you weren’t screwing up already, you wouldn’t be here now.

  Maybe that is my problem. I keep forgetting love is not a business. There is no dotted line to sign in matters of the heart.

  I knock back the rest of my wine and set the glass down with resolve. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “I won’t be here, but you can leave the money with Rob.” Jennifer points to the living room. A man with long, frizzy brown hair, ratty jeans, and no shirt or shoes waves to me as he slips into a maroon easy chair to read the latest issue of Rolling Stone. His hippie-like attire makes me see Jennifer’s flowing, long dress and lace scarves in less of a Victorian look and more like that of a rock star.

  My brain screeches to a stop. That’s how I know this woman. She looks like a seventies rock star. Stevie something …

  Yeah, from Fleetwood Mac!

  Now that I see it, I can’t imagine how I missed it. The resemblance is uncanny—so much her tone now sounds melodic. “Rob will give you a receipt.”

  The words hardly register. I need to force myself out of seventies flashback land and into the present. As I head for the door, Jennifer follows behind with her wine in hand, still as casual as ever. Maybe that is because she has never let that glass run dry.

  Her footsteps abruptly stop. “Do a teal feather and a grey fedora mean anything to you?” she asks.

  Oh, thank God! It’s about time that guy showed. I’m not going crazy!

  Just wondering what is up with him makes my body temperature drop a few degrees. Maybe now I can get some real answers.

  “Balding, dark hair, dark eyes, a gentle tan, a grey suit, smells of lime and musk …”

  I turn to see Jennifer’s gaze is set on the half-transparent man leaning into the corner behind me. He used to freak the crap out of me. Now I am so used to Fedora Guy I don’t know what is crazier, thinking I am being visited or being used to that notion.

  My yes is firm. “Just who is he? And why is he following me?”

  She gives him a slow nod and then a subtle wink, like they’ve met before. Jennifer then sprouts a smile and jerks her head toward me. “What kind of music do you enjoy?” she asks so fast and deadpanned, I question if her acknowledging Fedora Guy was a figment of my imagination.

  Nice question dodge, lady. I look to the corner, but my ghostly friend is already gone.

  Jennifer cuts me off before I can voice my suspicion she knows something she doesn’t want to share. “It’s relevant,” she says with the insistence of a SWAT team telling me to step aside.

  This time, my eyes are the ones that turn into slits. What does music have to do with anything? “I listen to—”

  She raises a finger. “I didn’t ask what you listen to; I asked what you enjoy.”

  Again Jennifer throws me off of my game. That question is more perplexing than it seems. Truthfully, the difference never occurred to me. She’s right though; it does exist. There is a type of music I love, but I’ve never made time to learn much about it, let alone find out its name. “I’ve always loved swanky, old school jazz but—”

  “Do yourself a favor, and buy some—tomorrow, after work. You may uncover a good luck charm.” She points a stern finger at me. “That is my only instruction, other than to come back and pay me first. After you do those two things, all will fall into place.” As she ushers me out the door, her parting words cause my brow to rise. “Don’t forget to tell your friends. I give referral discounts.”

  Referral discounts? Seriously? What a fitting end to a freak show.

  The door lock clicks, leaving me to face the cobblestone walkway in front of Jennifer’s home on my own. The distant glow of a 7-Eleven sign sends slivers of light through towering palm trees and reminds me this fairy tale cottage-style home is merely a few blocks from the heart of Los Angeles.

  Halfway down the path, the sign flickers off, and only the moon’s vibrancy spares me from being plunged into darkness. The glow nearly forces my eyes upward, as though I am about to be one of the UFO abductees seen on TV.

  A low whir enters my ears. The growing sound reminds me of the clarinet-led saxophone section—The Glenn Miller Orchestra’s signature sound—in “Moonlight Serenade”. I scan the yard with my heart rate increasing. Where the heck is that coming from? It sounds like someone is lurking in the trees while humming.

  The noise cuts with a click, and the path illuminates. My nervous chuckle snorts out in realization that it was just an electronic buzz from the ancient 7-Eleven sign that is probably in need of maintenance. I go on my way while sort of wishing the hum would return. Music is magic for the soul, and if there is anything I need right now, it’s a dose of magic.

  #

  Convenience makes Internet shopping a tempting dance partner. However, spending time web surfing in hope of defining the music genre that has taunted me like a satin-covered doll with red-stained lips ended in a big, fat goose egg of nothing. Since I can’t ask Amazon, “Who did that song that sounds like blah, blah, blah,” I am strolling into a record store.

  Records—people still buy and sell those? Baffling as it seems, apparently those who named a store Warped Records do just that. What idiot names a place something so cont
radictory to what the customer wants?

  I am greeted by the ding of an old-school shop bell, which I can barely hear over blasting harmonies and wailing guitars. Row upon row of vinyl, both in bins and pinned to the walls, capture my attention. The warmth traveling from my shoes and into my spine is a welcome contrast to the discomfort I expected when entering a place blasting music not in my vein of taste. I saw High Fidelity. I know what kind of jerks these people can be.

  Jennifer’s insistence led me here, so maybe this is where I will find the woman I seek. The musty smell shows I am about to find something. Hopefully it is still alive.

  I catch another whiff. Maybe it would be better off dead.

  All right, the smell is not that bad, but it does remind me of my grandmother’s basement after we drained the floodwater.

  “See, that right there,” comes from an impassioned, male voice on my left. “That is what I am talking about.” A guy stands in front of the checkout counter, emphatically talking to the clerk. Despite the fact he is in jeans and a leather jacket, his neat and polished appearance makes him seem as well dressed as I am in this pricy suit. Even his semi-short, dark hair is perfectly styled. However, my earlier thoughts of High Fidelity are coming back to haunt me, because he looks like John Cusack with an edge of rebellion.

  The guy behind the counter shakes his head. “Really? You want to buy this? Did you shack up with some old lady who’s tossing you mounds of cash to piss away? I can think of better things to waste your money on.”

  Leather Jacket Guy becomes indignant, but there is an air of ridiculousness about it. “Are you seriously dissing The Raspberries? The fumes in here have gotten to your head. When it comes to power pop, no one can top them.”

  The sales guy drops his angst and grins toward heaven, seemingly lost in nirvana. “Yeah, I could listen to these guys for days.” Then his look of ridicule returns. This is like watching The Muppets. “But despite that, I happen to know you have bought this album three times since you started shopping here.”