Dearest Half: It would help to know what species we’re talking about here. If he’s human, well, no big deal. Just say, “I want to date other people.” If he’s a werewolf ... you may want to text him—from another planet. If he’s a vampire, well, just say you’ve been thinking about that whole binding thing and you don’t think you can do a hundred years. (I mean, really, who wants a century commitment for a little nookie?) If he’s a fairy, then no worries, love, because those winged bastards wouldn’t know fidelity if it sprinkled gold dust on their wee willies.
Dear Zerina: I keep having dreams about a mummy. He shuffles into my room and looks down at me. Least I guess so because he’s all wrapped up and I can’t actually see his eyes. What does this mean?
~ I Dream of Mummies
Dearest IDoM: I’m guessing it means you shouldn’t watch Supernatural before you go to bed. Seriously. Not every dream is a portent or a vision. I know living in Broken Heart means we all think everything is all complicated and symbolic, but c’mon. A mummy? Stop eating before bed and cut out the late-night horror flicks.
Dear Zerina: My house is haunted. What do I do?
~ Ghost Screamer
Dearest GS: This is Broken Heart, sweets. Every bloody house is haunted. If your ghost is behaving, then suck it up. If your spirit is violent or bossy, then put in a call to our ghost buster, Patsy. Be prepared to wait ’cause she’s busy bein’ queen an’ all. You can also called our local witch Lenette. She’s been known to toss out a poltergeist or two.
Dear Zerina: Do you grant wishes?
~Just Wondering
Dearest JW: I’m not that kind of fairy, and even if I was, I wouldn’t tell anyone. Then people would bug me all freaking day about granting their bloody wishes. Life
shouldn’t be easy. If it was then chocolate wouldn’t taste as good.
Dear Zerina: What should I do about a cheating girlfriend?
~ Heart Broken
Dearest HB: Dump. Her. You. Twit.
Dear Zerina: I am a blood donor who likes this vampire. He’s really cute. I’m
not sure if I should say anything. Do humans have to Turn if they want date
the fanged ones?
~Blood Happy
Dearest BH: Sweetie, he’s only in love with your neck. Stop crushing on the
bloodsucker and go find a man who can still tan.
Dear Zerina: I recently moved into town and noticed a couple of naked men
running in the woods just behind my house. As a practicing witch with the
gift of Sight, I’m used to seeing strange things. Still... What I should do if I see
them again?
~ Moon Blind
Dearest MB: What should you do if see them again? Is this even a question?
Invest in a pair of binoculars so you get a close-up of the good stuff. And tell me
what your address is ... I’ll bring the wine.
Damn it, Z: Turn my hair back to its original shade. I hate blue.
~ You Know Who
Dearest YKW: Take back what you said about my shirt, and I’ll think about it.
He Said, Sidhe Said
Damian cradled his head in hands. He’d been sitting in the conference room for more than an hour trying to figure out the situation. The other occupant of the room hadn’t tried to make his job easier. He sighed, straightened, and looked at the angry purple-haired sidhe sitting across from him.
“Zerina, why did you try to set Faustus on fire?”
Her eyes were purple, too, and though he would never admit it out loud, her gaze made him a little uneasy. She had a bad attitude, which was worsened by her temper. She wore a black bustier with purple ribbons, a skirt that barely covered her ass, and thigh high black boots. She always dressed like a fairy on acid. Damian was the crown prince of the full-blood lycanthropes–a title he’d given up long ago. However, he was still royal in blood, and even in thought, and not to brag, but the fiercest of his kind. He was personal security for the vampire queen, as well as the head of security for the entire town of Broken Heart. There weren’t too many creatures who could claim to inspire in him even an ounce of fear. But Zerina … well, she terrified him.
“If I’d wanted to set him on fire,” she said, her English accent thick with censure, “he’d be a pile of ash.”
“So … the fire was accidental?”
“It was a barbecue! I was trying to help. He couldn’t get the cedar to light.” She fluttered her fingers. “My magic got away from me is all.”
“You know fire is bad for vampires, right?”
“I put him out, didn’t I?”
“With pink glitter.”
“I never said I was good under pressure. I was tryin’ to call up some water, I was. The glitter worked, so I don’t see the problem.”
Damian rubbed his temples. “How about the fact you dropped about a hundred pounds of it on top of him?”
“I dug him out!”
“Too bad you didn’t stop before your nails nearly gouged out his eye.”
Zerina crossed her arms and glared at Damian. He fought the urge to scoot his chair further away from her. “He’s all right, isn’t he?”
If Damian didn’t know better, he would think her question actually held concern. He studied her, and realized she was a bundle of nerves. She kept shifting, chewing the tips of her nails, and plucking at the ribbons on her bustier.
“Faustus is in the hospital recovering nicely from your help.”
“Then why am I still here?”
“For the protection of the town,” said Damian. “You killed three cars and a house, remember?”
“I was worried. I’m not good at keeping my emotions in check.”
Damian silently agreed, though the main emotion Zerina displayed was hostility. But he was beginning to realize she wasn’t as tough as she pretended to be. Everyone had scars, and secrets–who knew what Zerina’s were? Maybe he was looking at this from the wrong angle. She hadn’t been acting out from a place of anger at all. The revelation surprised him.
“Go home,” he said. “Straight home. Stay there until you hear from me.”
“But Faustus…”
“If you take a single step toward the hospital, I will throw you into prison.” He met her gaze and made sure she understood he meant every word. It might take him and half the town to do it, but he’d put her in the paranormal-proof cells, if only to give Faustus the time he needed to heal from his injuries.
“Fine!” She flounced out of her chair and slammed out of the room.
Damian followed her out. After she left the building, he directed one of his men to follow her home and keep an eye on her house. He wasn’t looking forward to talking to the queen about the destroyed property. It wasn’t like Broken Heart or the Consortium didn’t have the money to replace everything … it was just a pain in the ass.
* * * * *
Faustus was buttoning up his shirt when Damian entered the hospital room.
“They’re already sending you home?” asked Damian.
“All this fuss is driving me crazy. I’m going to stay with Eva and Lorcan until I can start re-building my house.” Like so many other vampires, Faustus had been infected with the Taint, a vampire disease, which nearly killed him. His cure had given him the ability to shift into wolf form, but he wasn’t a true lycan. Even so, Damian liked him. And better yet, he trusted him.
Faustus shook his head, looking more bemused than angry about his near death experiences. He was part of the security team now, but Faustus had once been a Roman centurion. Damian understand his friend’s need to get away from the hospital; nothing affected a warrior’s ego worse than being treated like a weakling.
“Did she tell you why she was trying to kill me?” he asked. He slid off the bed and worked at putting on his shoes.
“I don’t think she was trying to kill you, Faustus.”
“She set me on fire, buried me in glitter, jabbed my eye … she really doesn’t like
me.”
“Oh, I think she does.”
Faustus looked up. “What?”
“Zerina has a crush on you.”
To Damian’s surprise, Faustus grinned. “I like a challenge.”
“Do you really want to go there?” asked Damian. “She blew up your house.”
“Yeah,” said Faustus, his grin widening.
“You thought she was trying to kill you,” said Damian, making a last attempt to get the man to see reason. “Think about what it will be like dating her.”
A moment passed between the two men as they envisioned the aftermath of Zerina in love. Faustus obviously imagined something quite different from Damian because he got a dopey look on his face.
“Faustus … no, mein freind.”
“I’m going to see her,” said Faustus, clapping Damian on the shoulder. “Fac fortia et patere.”
Do brave deeds and endure. It was the motto of Faustus.
Crazy bastard.
Damian sighed.
He hoped the town could endure Zerina in love.
In the meanwhile, Damian had to deal with other concerns … such as what the hell he was supposed to do with a hundred pounds of pink glitter.
Tax Not the Zombie
Meyer P. Dennison had worked for the Internal Revenue Service for less than a year. Eight months to be exact. He was made for the job. He was detail-oriented, had an even temperament, did not offend easily, and he was quick, too. Nine times out of ten, he managed to dodge the objects clients sometimes yanked off his desk and threw at his head. He loved numbers, as any good former CPA did. But he loved the complexities of the tax code even more. He enjoyed trying to make sense out of an archaic system still pulling and grunting its way toward the modern age.
Because he was the newest agent to join the IRS office in Tulsa, Oklahoma, he’d gotten the unenviable task of tracking down one Jessica Anne Matthews, resident of Broken Heart. Her file stated she was a widow, she had two dependents, she owned her home, had one vehicle for personal use only, and did not have a salaried position. Her family subsisted on the life insurance and investment residuals left by her deceased husband.
And she had failed to file her taxes.
Again.
Letters had gone unanswered. Her phone was disconnected. And so, his boss, Pete Landers, decided that she needed a personal visit. “Go scare the crud outta her,” said Pete, grinning. His rotund face always had a greasy sheen and he stank of stale beer and burnt sausages. Pete Landers had never met a bratwurst or a Budweiser that he didn’t like.
Meyer had gotten lost, twice, no thanks to his GPS, which kept trying to direct him back toward Tulsa. In addition, his Blackberry had stopped working despite the fact he’d recharged the battery before heading out. So, he rolled into the small and surprisingly deserted town of Broken Heart, Oklahoma just after six o’clock. It was already dusk, the sun starting its slow descent.
He drove past the darkened windows of an abandoned gas station called the Thrifty Sip. A few minutes later, he was coasting through downtown. It had a certain charm with its brick sidewalks and old-fashioned storefronts, most of which were empty. Only the sign of the Old Sass Café blinked neon.
The two-story house on Sanderson Street wasn’t very difficult to find, even with his GPS still insisting he go back to Tulsa. He pulled into the driveway behind the mini-van, gathered his briefcase and got out of the car. He strode across the driveway, preparing both his smile and his introduction.
“Uuuuhhh.”
Meyer stopped, his gaze riveted to the man shambling across the front yard. He was obviously homeless given his stained and torn attire, bad hair, and terrible skin condition. His eyes were a milky blue and his mouth gaped at an odd angle. Good Lord. The poor soul hadn’t seen a toothbrush in a long while.
“Uuuuhhh.”
Meyer was unsure what to do, and his confused hesitation was stupefying. Quick, efficient decisions were his forte. The homeless man shuffled faster, obviously heading in his direction. A shiver ran up his spine. He had the strange urge to run to the front door and pound on it like a screeching horror movie heroine about to get her innards ripped out. He was so shocked by his desire to turn into a sobbing wimp that he stood his ground and waited for the man to arrive. Meyer resisted the urge to cover his nose; his nostrils flared in a vain attempt to prevent breathing in the man’s considerable stench.
“May I help you?” Meyer inquired pleasantly.
“Uuuuhhh.”
“Yes. Well. I don’t actually live in this house, you see,” said Meyer. His legs wanted to scramble backward. His lungs wanted to scream. He clenched the briefcase and held on to his self-control. “I’m only here for a visit myself.”
As the man came within arm’s length, Meyer had a more horrifying thought. I made a mistake. It’s the wrong house. “Do you live here? I thought this was the home of Jessica Matthews.” One meaty, gray hand thunked onto his shoulder. He gulped. “Sir?”
“Uuuuhhh.”
Meyer realized several things at once, none of which were particularly helpful. The first was that this poor creature had long since ceased being a living man. The next was that he exuded such a noxious odor that Meyer was having difficulty keeping down his late-afternoon hamburger. There were other details, too, things that were rather unimportant—such as the unfortunate gap in the dead man’s trousers and the sad fact that one of his eyeballs was loosening from its cavity. Meyer’s last coherent thought, though, was that he had never, not once, considered the idea he would meet his end as dinner for a zombie.
“I beg your pardon,” said Meyer. Then he smashed the briefcase into the zombie’s chest as hard as he could. The creature stumbled back. Meyer swung the case again, this time connecting with its massive shoulder. It staggered sideways.
The case still clutched in his sweaty hand, Meyer ran to the porch and proceeded to pound on the front door. “Hello? I need some help please!”
No one answered.
Then he felt two hands crush his upper arms, and the terrible sting of teeth digging into his shoulder.
Meyer screeched, louder and higher-pitched than all the horror-movie heroines before him, and swung the case backward into the zombie’s crotch. It lurched away, falling onto the porch. Meyer stumbled to it and kicked it very, very hard in the head. He heard a sickening crack and the zombie lay still.
Meyer straightened his suit, firmed his grasp on the briefcase, and returned to the door, giving three smart knocks. When it opened and revealed the annoyed countenance of a large man with impossibly silver eyes, he smiled.
And promptly passed out.
* * * * *
“I went through his wallet. He’s an IRS agent,” said an amused female voice. “I mean, he’s a zombie already, right?”
“No, IRS agents are just dead on the inside,” countered another female, her honeyed voice rich with laughter.
“Ha ha,” whispered Meyer as he opened his eyes.
“He liiiiiiives,” said the attractive brunette sitting at the end of the bed. She grinned and wiggled her fingers at him. “Hey zombie boy.”
“It was real then.” He looked up at the woman sitting next to him. Her long red curls drifted past her shoulders, and her eyes were green flecked with gold. She wore a white loose-fitting top and a crinkled black skirt with calf-length boots. “Who are you?”
“Lenette Stinson,” she said softly. “And that’s Jessica.”
“That thing,” he said. “Is it …” He realized “dead” was an ineffectual term. He sat up, leaning against the headboard. He glanced around the room with its soothing blue walls and simple white furniture. The pleasant scent of jasmine tickled his senses. His gaze flicked to the woman so close to him, and he realized it was her perfume. Her eyes were filled with warmth, and there was something else, too. Interest. He blinked. It had been a long time since a woman had looked at him with anything other than ire. His occupation often precluded dating.
“Don’t worry
,” said Jessica. “As soon as my husband brought you into the guest bedroom, he disposed of the zombie. Occasionally they still pop up. Most of the time we catch them before they actually chomp on someone.”
“You sound as though this was a common occurrence.” He tore his gaze from Lenette and looked at Jessica. Ah, Jessica Matthews. Excellent. He’d gotten the right house after all.
“Broken Heart isn’t your usual kind of town,” she said. “You’ll like it, though.”
“I’ll like it?” He shook his head. “I’m not moving here. I came here because you have not filed your taxes in two years, Mrs. Matthews. We need to discuss how—”
Her peals of laughter flummoxed him.
“I don’t find this situation merits joking,” he said stiffly.
Lenette laid a comforting hand on his thigh, and Meyer was immediately distracted by the intimate touch. “I’m afraid Jessica’s tax issues are no longer yours to worry about. It seems that the zombie bite has … infected you. You’re not quite human anymore.” She shot a look at Jessica who had her lips pinned together. Meyer realized the other woman was refraining from spouting more IRS jokes.
All right then. Bitten by a zombie, and now he was … something else. Meyer had no time to work his way through denial or put forth entreaties about the impossibility of his current situation. He was a practical man. “Will I turn into a zombie like the one who bit me?”
“Nah,” said Jessica. “Lenette’s a kick-ass Wiccan. She saved your butt with her magic. Dr. Michaels took some blood samples, but he seems to think that even though you’re sorta zombie, you’re not dead.” She patted his foot. Then she smiled, and he saw her fangs. “All this talk of blood is making me hungry. I’ll see you guys later.”
After Jessica left the room, Meyer turned a shocked gaze to Lenette. “Blood?”
“She’s a vampire, honey,” she said. “I’m a witch who practices white magic. And you are an almost zombie.”
Broken Heart Tails (Broken Heart Vampires) Page 8