The Monster Ball Year 2

by Heather Hildenbrand

  “Yes, he is very much like me, just a little taller and bigger,” I explain, fondly thinking back to the first time we shifted together and went running through the forest. We now shift and go running every morning before he goes to work and after dinner in the evening.

  “And have you guys done more than just kiss yet?” she asks, bumping my shoulder.

  “No, but his grandmother said something that makes me understand why we haven’t gone further. When people who are each other’s imprints have sex, they are bonded for life,” I explain to her.

  “But you love him, so that wouldn’t be a problem,” she points out.

  “We have only known each other for two months,” I mutter, not that she is wrong. I find myself thinking of Brandon all of the time, and when I’m not, it’s only because I’m with him. He has swiftly become my best friend and the man I love, all wrapped into one. I now know why it never worked out with anyone I dated—they weren’t Brandon.

  “That doesn’t matter when you love someone, Raine,” she tells me and looks down at her watch. “I have to go to work. Are you coming with me today?” I promised to help her out with a big family of wolf shifters who are coming in for a wedding, and she needs to make seven dresses for them. It’s a big contract, and I know how much it means to them.

  “Of course,” I say, following her out of the room. “When I get my paycheck from the gallery, I am going to buy you a house in town.”

  “No, you are not. Keep the money, and let me stay here a little longer. This place has sixteen bedrooms, and I’m hardly here anyway with work,” she tells me, and I know her stubbornness is speaking more than she is right now.

  “You are always welcome to stay. Brandon said so,” I remind her.

  “I am saving up, and this wolf shifter contract will be a big chunk towards my own house on this side of town. I don’t want to be too far from my sister,” she says, winking at me, and I chuckle. We head outside, and I unlock the Land Rover that Brandon has given me to drive around town. We drive out of the long driveway and wait for the electric gates to open. I pull out of the driveway and head down the street, passing the seven other gated houses where each of the council members live. It’s a half an hour drive to the shop, and I know something is wrong the second we get to the street. Sirens sound in the distance. People are running away, and the cars that are blocking the road say it all.

  “What is going on?” I say, parking at the side of the road.

  “Let’s go and find out,” Ivory suggests, opening her door and getting out. I get out next and jog to my sister’s side before we quickly walk around the corner and smell the smoke. “No!” Ivory screams when she sees her shop and the two next to it on fire, thick flames spreading down the building. I grab my sister when she tries to run to the building and pull her into my arms as she cries.

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell her, watching the flames.

  “All my work, all my designs and fabrics are in there. Everything is gone,” she says, and I can do nothing but hold her as she cries her heart out. I’m sure it was just a terrible accident, but what if it wasn’t?

  “Raine!” Brandon shouts in the distance, and I gently slide off the sofa, covering Ivory with a blanket since she cried herself to sleep. I walk out of the living room, softly closing the door behind me just as I hear Brandon find me. I turn around to face him, and he pulls me into his arms, squeezing me tightly. “When I found out there was a fire, I left the meeting straight away. I thought you—” He stops and takes in a deep breath.

  “I’m okay. We were running late to work, so the fire had destroyed everything before we got there. Ivory is really upset,” I explain to him.

  “She has insurance, right?” he asks.

  “No. Insurance is extremely expensive for humans in this city, and most companies won’t give it out to humans anyway,” I explain to him.

  “I didn’t know that,” he replies, looking angry. “That isn’t fair. Humans do a lot for our city, and they should have the same rights as we do.”

  “What is Ivory going to do?” I whisper, a tear falling down my cheek. “She saved for years for the deposit on that shop, and then she worked her butt off to pay the rent. All her designs and everything were in there.”

  “The police are looking into it, and if it wasn’t an accident, we will find out soon,” he tells me, running his hands down my back. “As for Ivory, she is family and will always have a home with us. I doubt she will let me buy her a new shop—”

  “Nope, I tried to offer her the money I will make from the gallery, but she said no because she needs to do this herself,” I explain to him.

  “It’s okay. We will help her however we can,” he replies, as I look up at him and lift my hand, placing it on his cheek.

  “I love you,” I tell him, knowing it’s super early to say it and feeling scared of how he looks utterly shocked in a cute way. “And I want to be with you for the rest of our lives. You are my imprint, and since I’ve met you, I have felt like I finally found my home. I feel like I was just waiting to meet you my whole life, Brandon Rivera.”

  “And I was waiting for you. I love you, too. We’ll get through this together as a family, because that’s what we are now, family,” he tells me before passionately kissing me, and I know in my heart that this is just the start for us.

  I will always be thankful to The Monster Ball for starting my future. For showing me who I am and who I am meant to be with. After all, what happens at The Monster Ball doesn’t have to just stay at The Monster Ball.

  The End

  Turn the page for more Monster Ball…

  Agents Of Night

  By

  Nikki Jefford

  Chapter One

  Agent X-cuse Me?

  I slouch in a metal chair—my only company the gray walls and my reflection, astonishingly calm eyes framed by purple hair, in what I presume is a one-way mirror. My pink burn-out tank top reads “I Laugh in the Face of Gravity” and hangs comfortably above a pair of relaxed-fit jeans. I’m pretty sure I don’t have any underwear on. The bra has been confirmed—a neon-green demi lace push-up. A small silver hoop pierces one nostril. My mouth feels fuzzy.

  It looks like I’m in an interrogation room.

  I lower my chin and lift messy lavender strands of hair. I give it a light tug, feeling it connect to my scalp. Not a wig, then. I touch my nostril around the nose ring. The skin feels tender, the piercing recent. The room’s only door opens, and two young men stride in. They’re both deliciously handsome with lush brown hair and fit bodies covered in dark jeans and black tops. The one with the clean shave and the crew cut wears a long-sleeved black button-up shirt over a gray tee. The other one has a sexy haircut that increases in length as it travels above his ears to the dark strands on top. A taut black tee reveals inky black tattoos over his toned arms, symbols and words I cannot make out. He frowns the moment he sees me.

  Crew Cut approaches me while Broody McTats lingers behind, arms folded, and lips pursed as he glowers at me like I’ve done something wrong. I must have to be here, wherever here is, and whoever I am. For some reason, I’m calm. Maybe they sedated me.

  My eyes return to Crew Cut, who speaks first. “I am agent Barrett Rathmore, and over there is agent Gunnar Cox. You are agent Sabine Lasalle, and we are all Agents of Night.”

  A frisson of unease causes me to sit up straight.

  “Unfortunately, Sabine, your memory was wiped. We believe the lover of a former target got to you.”

  I look from Barrett to Gunnar, aka Agent Cox. I’m sure I’d find his name more amusing if I wasn’t so confused. Agent Cox narrows his eyes when I look at him. The name Gunnar suits him. He looks ready to fire bullets at me, and I have no idea why.

  “I’m some kind of agent?” I ask slowly, swinging my gaze back to Barrett. Is this why my hair is purple and my nose pierced? Was I undercover?

  Barrett places his palms on the table and leans forward, his green eyes lasering in on me. �
��Not just an agent, also a witch.” Unnatural light flashes around his pupils.

  I jump back, knocking my chair to the hard floor with a clatter.

  “How did you do that?” I demand.

  Barrett turns to Gunnar and sighs. “This is just swell,” he says sarcastically.

  Gunnar’s shoulders relax when he shrugs. “What did you expect?”

  “A little common sense, for starters,” Barrett says to him before turning his attention back to me. “You may not have your memories, but you still have your powers. Do you remember how to use them?”

  “I didn’t even know my own name until a minute ago,” I snap. I was calm before, but now I feel angry. When I saw Gunnar glare at me, it sparked a rage inside my chest. “If we’re all Agents of Night, then why am I in some kind of interrogation room?” I don’t know what an Agent of Night is, but my brain quickly stores every piece of information Barrett feeds me. It’s not as though I have a whole lot else mucking up my mind at the moment.

  Barrett nods like it’s a fair question.

  “You came to us right before the memory wipe hit you. We gathered in here to find out what you knew, what had happened. Unfortunately, the spell took hold before you could tell us anything useful. What we do know is that you failed to complete your current mission.” Barrett frowns at me.

  My hackles rise. I want to defend myself, but I still have no idea what happened to me or what I did wrong.

  “There’s still time to make it right,” Gunnar says. He’s unfolded his arms and flexes his fingers.

  Barrett twists his lips to one side, speaking to Gunnar while looking at me. “She’s not going to be ready in time.”

  “She has to be. The Monster Ball is in five days.” Gunnar looks me over. “Leave her to me. She’ll be ready.”

  Barrett faces Gunnar, shaking his head. “You’re partly the reason we’re in this mess.”

  “Then let me make things right.”

  The agents stare each other down. Finally, Barrett grunts. “Fine. Maybe this time, try keeping it in your pants.”

  I take a good long look at Gunnar, searching my mind for any hint of our shared past. I concentrate on my heart for any flutter of recognition. Any hint. One tiny clue. But there is no feedback other than a feeling of trepidation. Besides, the tough guy act isn’t winning me over. Gunnar should definitely keep it in his pants. He’s not my type. At least . . . I don’t think he is. I really like his tats, though.

  “Okay, Gunnar. I’ll let you take it from here.” Barrett looks at me and offers a forced smile. “Good luck, Sabine.”

  Barrett sweeps out of the room, leaving the door propped open and me alone with Gunnar.

  “Quick briefing, then you’re going home to sleep until we prepare you for your mission,” Gunnar says. He folds his arms again, muscles flexing as though he’s here to intimidate rather than train me. “Samson!” he hollers.

  A skinny blond guy runs in with a file folder, hands it to Gunnar, and skitters back out. Gunnar opens the file and slaps a photo down hard on the metal table, followed by several more. I remain where I am, leaning forward to get a look at surveillance shots of a devastatingly gorgeous young man with dark brown hair swept up into one of those fifties idols’ styles with a slight curl to one side that wisps over a lightly tanned face. His eyebrows are thick, sultry light brown, and his green eyes gaze to one side. There’s an indent beneath his smooth nose and below that, pouty lips. I dig the threads: taut white tee with black stripes in the center, rippling down a toned chest; round vintage sunglasses hooked at his collar; a black woven leather bracelet; and a stud pierced into his ear. A black tribal flame tattoo licks up his left arm.

  Heat blasts through my body. Wow. I mean, wow! If this was a dating agency, I’d be stamping my approval all over these photos.

  ACCEPTED!

  “Blaze Addington,” Gunnar says. “Your target. Our spies confirm he received a ticket to The Monster Ball.” Gunnar pulls out another photo and slaps it down. “Chilton Addington, Blaze’s younger brother. He, too, received a ticket to the Ball. You will steal Chilton’s ticket, attend, and get close enough to Blaze to place a tracking substance on him. The Monster Ball is enchanted. There is no leaving until it ends, and no killing allowed.” Gunnar purses his lips and pauses a moment. “At the conclusion of the Ball, we will be ready to capture him.”

  I take a step closer to the table and study the two photos. Whereas Blaze looks rebellious and smug, Chilton has the whole chic nerd thing going on. He’s tall with short, shaggy brown hair, and thick-framed black glasses—a total cutie, but he looks like a runner-up next to Blaze’s photo.

  “What did this Blaze guy do?” I ask.

  Gunnar puts his hands on his hips and lifts his chin. “He’s an agency Top 10 Most Wanted. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Am I putting myself in danger?” My eyes flick to the photo of Blaze. He looks more like a rocker/model/actor than a villain. I can picture women attacking him rather than the other way around. I fold my arms over my chest.

  Gunnar sneers at my question. “You’re in no personal danger from Blaze. Smile and flirt with him, and you’ll have your mission wrapped up in no time. Easy.”

  “What about his brother?” I ask, nodding at Chilton’s photo.

  “He’s innocent.”

  “How am I supposed to steal his ticket?”

  “We’ll go over that tomorrow night.” Gunnar scoops up the two photos and stuffs them back inside the folder.

  I suppose it would be inappropriate to request a copy of Blaze’s photo . . . You know, for closer inspection. Studying my target and all.

  Seeing Gunnar’s scowl, I don’t bother asking.

  “Come with me,” he snaps.

  I have no choice but to follow him out of the room and enter an open office space filled with desks sporting huge monitors. Whiteboards are set up all over the room and seem to serve as partitions between workspaces, which are mostly empty at the moment. Even Barrett seems to have vanished. Gunnar tosses the file onto one of the desks, not slowing his steps. Rooms line the opposite side. Gunnar walks briskly past them, and I have to jog to keep up.

  The only windows in the place are high up, showing that it is dark outside.

  As I pass an open door, I notice the room is full of young twenty-somethings dressed in plain black tees and dark jeans.

  “Agents of Night are agents for life,” they chorus. I pass the door and hear them repeat the phrase.

  Guess someone forgot to offer me Kool-Aid in the interrogation room. I suppose if I’m an Agent of Night, I must have already slurped it down. Mine must have been grape flavored. Maybe this whole memory wipe is a clean slate.

  Gunnar doesn’t stop until he reaches an elevator where he jabs the down button. The doors open and he strides in ahead of me. I follow, feeling as though oxygen is being cut off when the doors slide shut.

  We descend slowly, listening to the metal gears grinding. Gunnar stares at the doors, ignoring me. Hands on my hips, I turn to him.

  “Are you mad at me about something?”

  He looks sideways at me and scoffs. “You have no idea.”

  “No. I don’t,” I say, tapping my head.

  Sighing, he runs his hand through the thickest part of his hair. “Let’s just stick to the mission.”

  “Fine,” I say moodily. “Steal ticket, attend ball, plant tracking device on Mr. Agency Top 10 Most Wanted, and call it a night.” Gunnar’s broody mood is seriously getting under my skin.

  He snorts, sounding amused, then straightens up—the glower returning. “It’s a tracking substance, not device.”

  “Okay. I stand corrected.”

  “We’ll go over everything you need to know tomorrow night.”

  “I guess you guys take the whole ‘Agents of Night’ thing literally. Are we like bats—only coming out at night?”

  Gunnar gives a grunt, sounding amused again. Then, he sobers. Again. “We’re whatever we need to be for
the mission.”

  The elevator doors open into an underground parkade. I follow Gunnar to the Batmobile, a sleek black Ford Fusion. The car beeps when Gunnar pulls out a key fob. Inside, the dash clock reads 5:43 a.m. I keep quiet until we’ve pulled out of the garage onto a street lined with tall buildings.

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  “Vancouver, B.C.,” Gunnar answers, eyes on the road. There’s light traffic despite the early hour.

  “Canada,” I say, glad I know that much—relieved, actually, that I haven’t turned into Jodie Foster in Nell, unable to communicate or understand human language at all. Which, come to think of it, how come I know the entire plot to a fictional character’s life yet don’t recall what I ate for lunch yesterday—or ever? (Probably poutine.) This is one weird memory wipe.

  We’re still in the city when Gunnar pulls into a parking spot along a street filled with apartment complexes.

  “Home sweet home?” I guess.

  He nods curtly before getting out of the car and slamming the door shut. What is with Broody McTats? If he doesn’t want to share what has his boxer briefs tied in a knot, he can’t expect me to guess. He’s the one who needs a nap. Hopefully he’ll go home and catch some much needed Zs after depositing me at my apartment. And hopefully my home will offer some clues as to who I am.

  At the building’s glass door, Gunnar types in a keycode and there’s a click as it unlocks.

  “Eight, seven, four, five.” The numbers rush from his lips. “Think you can remember that?”

  “Eight, seven, four, five,” I repeat, followed by an exaggerated yawn.