Angels & Sinners: The Motor City Edition (30 page)

A cold wind slipped down my neck, and I looked around me in the present. I surveyed the ravaged land and shuddered. The physical pain would fade, but my emotions would forever be damaged. I stared down over the edge of the cliff, looking into the small cave, and counted time by the loud sound of my blood dripping on the frozen ground. Minutes passed as drop after precious drop left me. A thick black smoke wound its way up toward me. The charred remains of the gazebo where we had fought still smoldered. I could smell the coppery sweet, tainted blood, spilled out on the ground. I imagined I could see the sickening score marks deep in the brick foundation in taunting patterns, left by claws of the victims.

I hated
him
for taking Amber from me in the grossest violation possible. The temptation to follow Amber into death, as I’d followed her through life, pulled, but I resisted. How could I have been so blind? How could I have not seen the slow control he took over her life? If I had only figured it out sooner, the loss might have been less.

I’d thought all the changes in my sister had stemmed from her new boyfriend of a few months. I had been partially right. I whined to her about him taking all over all of her time, and she had laughed it off. Amber had always been the strong one; she never played silly games, like the other girls. She had plans to leave our sleepy little town and our small pack to do bigger and better things out in the world. But retrospect, after Gar, she’d become erratic, less focused and more frantic. In my naivety, I’d thought she had given in to the throes of love, but now I wondered. Had she been corrupted from the very moment Gar came into her life? When had she decided to follow the path that would cause me to eventually lose my sister, my family, my protector?

Gar had entered like a whirlwind of energy and newness. Despite being my older sister’s beau, he had made it a point to become my friend. He treated me like the grownup I pretended to be, and I grew to adore him. During the few times they hung around at my home, I spent time laughing at his jokes and enjoying his company. But they were hardly ever around and he made sure that I never saw him with open eyes. He changed my sister, not in an obvious heavy fisted manner, but through small requests. He would express displeasure, and she would jump to fix what had caused him to frown, to do as he asked and never questioned him. He had sabotaged us from the inside out before anyone even suspected anything.

Amber and Gar had called a special meeting at the small gazebo in the center of town, our sacred place. We all had assumed it to be their engagement announcement, which had my parents worried. Gar was an outsider; good enough for a boyfriend, but he certainly would not be allowed to marry into our family. He stood tall, and Amber looked up at him waiting to follow his lead. His yellowed fangs descended and a sneer covered his face. I remember staring, dumbfounded, as my sister stood by Gar’s side. I knew I must have looked like an idiot. No one ever guessed him to be a vampire.

The longstanding hatred between the Loup and vampires was well known in our community. They were killed immediately upon sight. The idea that one of us could not only spare a vampire but fall under their sway and become corrupted was something that had never happened. I couldn’t understand how Amber could have fallen in love with that thing. The swift but brutal attack came by surprise and left no one time to ponder how it had all come about. After revealing his nature, he gave us his ultimatum, along with a condescending speech.

“I believe now is the time for you all to accept the new, rising power. You will either bow to me or die.”

The elders stood in shock as my sister and a small group of her friends shifted into their warrior forms and stood ready to do Gar’s bidding. Indecision lasted for a heartbeat before one young and rash pack member rushed Gar. The effort was made futile by the ranks of vampires that suddenly surrounded the gazebo and trapped us. Snarls and growls filled the air as my parents and the elders moved to kill Gar’s army, even as he stood protected by my sister.

I looked at Amber, into the dull gaze she wore. The drugged look, from whatever had taken over, wasn’t my sister. How many times had she carried me to safety or protected me? The thing she had become didn’t even resemble her. I screamed her name while shifting to warrior form myself. I stood before her, wanting to attack. She snarled at me, as if I were the enemy. I couldn’t bring myself to actually hurt her. I could do nothing but watch as she protected the creature that had ruined her.

Where I couldn’t make a decision, others made it for me and rushed her. They broke through the protections, and Gar fled to safety, leaving Amber to fend for herself. More attacked, slipping in the pools of blood as they moved toward my sister. Immobile, she drew in a slight breath, and three pack members drove their claws into her. She hadn’t attacked me, and I hope it meant there was something of my sister left inside. I went to her and bent down by her side.

“Amber?” I whispered.

When she moved, she used surprising speed and the last of her strength, raking her claws down my side and nearly gutting me. I yelped and pulled back from her, watching as she sank to the ground in pain, dying. The hate in those eyes didn’t come from my sister and yet her familiar body twitched and spasmed on the ground, trying to heal itself before death could claim her. But I had one thing more to do. I limped back over to her; one paw clenched over my wound, and lowered my muzzle to her ear.

“I love you,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”

I opened my jaws then, and clamped down on Amber’s exposed throat. I threw my head back and howled my grief. The sound rang out in the clear night, and I didn’t stop until I could no longer cry for her. I sank down beside my sister’s still warm body and lay there as my Pack tended to my wounds. There would be scars, but they wouldn’t kill me. I watched in despair and shock as our Pack clean up the bloody mess. I watched them carry my sister’s body off until I couldn’t see it any longer. But I would always see her in my heart and in my mind. The death tally made my eyes tear again. We had lost half our Pack. I was the sole survivor of my family.

The wind buffeting my fur brought me back into my body. The pain from my chilled paws kept me focused on what I knew I had to do. I didn’t care how long I had to hunt; I couldn’t allow him to walk away unscathed. I heard Amber’s voice clearly in my head, beseeching me to avenge her, to make things right. I promised he would understand the folly of coming after us. While I cried bitter tears for my sister, I vowed not to let her die in vain.

I would hunt Gar down and destroy his life. As he had mine.

FLOORED

Melanie Harlow

Dear Reader,

Remember that kid on your block who used to tease you mercilessly? Play tricks on you? Call you names?

In my neighborhood, his name was Charlie Dwyer, and the only thing bigger than his mouth was his ego. The day he moved from Michigan to Iowa is highlight of my eighth-grade diary, the page marked with about a million little stars and happy faces.

But he’s back.

And he’s a cop.

And he looks ridiculously hot in his uniform.

And the only thing more unfair than Charlie Dwyer ending up with those gorgeous blue eyes and that panty-melting deep voice is that the
one
time in my life I dial nine-one-one,
he’s
the officer who shows up at my door.

It’s enough to make a good girl do bad things . . .

CHAPTER ONE

October

I’m in the shower. The light in the bathroom is low, just a few scented candles burning on the vanity. The air is heavy and warm and suffused with the scent of orange blossoms. I close my eyes, the tension in my muscles melting away. When I open them again, a shadow appears beyond the curtain. Before I can scream, the curtain is thrown aside.

I gasp.

It’s Brad Pitt.

In his Achilles armor. (But not the silly helmet.)

His hungry warrior eyes devour the sight of my wet, naked body as he wrests the breastplate from his chest. It makes no sound as it hits the tile floor. “I want you.”

“But Brad . . . ” My eyes widen with shock as he sheds his leather . . . (skirt? shorts? No, that’s not right. Tunic! Tunic is good. Manly but still Greek.) . . . his leather tunic. “What about Angelina?”

“That unsightly hag? She’s dead to me.”

My nipples pucker at the sight of his rock hard body. His movie star skin is radiant in the flickering light. So is mine, and not in the usual blanched, I-just-crawled-out-from-under-a-rock-pass-the-SPF 90 way, either. In my fantasy, I am not pale . . . I am golden. I am shimmering. I am luminous.

But enough about me.

Brad Pitt steps into the shower.

At this point, I make a sort of half-hearted attempt to hide my nakedness behind the curtain, but my modesty is no match for Brad Pitt’s lust. Through the steamy semi-darkness, I see his towering cock, feel his penetrating stare, sense his uncontrollable desire. My legs start to tremble.

“Give me what I want, or I’ll take it from you.” He backs me against the wall, his muscular chest barely brushing the tips of my breasts, because Brad Pitt knows how sensitive they are. How crazy a light touch drives me.

“No.” My protest is demure, feeble. It turns him on.

Without another word, he grabs my wrists and pins them behind my head. Holding them there with one hand, he slides the other one between my legs, running the length of his index finger through my silken folds. I try to get my hands free, but I’m no match for the strength in even one of his warrior arms. “What are you going to do to me?” I whimper.

“I’m going to fuck you, Erin. Right now.” He takes his warrior cock in his hand and rubs my clit with the tip. “Would you like that?”

“Yes,” I breathe, giving in to the tension coiling at the center of my body. “Fuck me. Right now.”

He slides in slowly, a little at a time, until he's buried to the hilt, practically lifting me right off my feet. Then his cock begins to vibrate against my clit but it’s Brad Pitt so I don’t question it or anything and he’s whispering dirty words and fucking me hard and I want to claw at his perfect warrior ass but I can’t because I cuffed one hand to the towel bar behind my head with my pink fuzzy cuffs like it’s him restraining me and the other is holding my vibrator and oh god oh god oh god Brad Pitt can make me come so hard . . .

“Yes!” I cry out softly as the orgasm swells to the breaking point, my core muscles clenching the firm shaft of the Naughty Rabbit. “Oh God, Brad, you’re so—”

THUMP.

My eyes opened. Did I just hear something downstairs?

Fumbling with the off switch, I removed the Naughty Rabbit and hid it behind my back, as if shame would be my biggest problem if some intruder was in my house. (Actually, the thing was pretty solid. I could’ve probably used it as a weapon.) With my heart hammering in my chest, I set the vibrator down, uncuffed my hand from the towel bar, turned off the water, and listened.

Nothing.

I stayed that way, dripping and breathless and shaking for another minute or so, then I pulled the curtain aside. The bathroom door was still closed.

But I couldn’t remember locking it.

Stepping over the side of the tub with the fuzzy cuffs still dangling from my left wrist, I tried the handle. It turned easily, and the lock didn’t pop.

Omigod!
My jaw dropped open and my hands flailed. I’d been so anxious to get to the Brad Pitt part of my crummy day that I’d forgotten to lock the door! I lived alone, but I always,
always
locked the bathroom door when I showered at night, especially if I was taking toys in with me. (After all, my mother had a key to my house.) But I’d been so worked up—and tipsy—when I came upstairs that I hadn’t done it.
Note to self: three glasses of wine in an hour is too many.

Suddenly I couldn’t recall double-checking the lock on the front or back door before coming upstairs, either. Wait, had I even locked it after coming in from the grocery store? My stomach churned as I tried to piece together the last couple hours—after a late rehearsal at the studio and two difficult conversations with helicopter dance moms, I’d gone to Kroger, come home, put away groceries, and answered a phone call from another dance mom I should have ignored. Looking to unwind, I’d guzzled some wine and gotten distracted by
Troy
on HBO when suddenly the urge to shower with Brad took hold and I couldn’t ignore it (I wouldn’t have turned down Eric Bana or Orlando Bloom either. Sweet Jesus, all three of them in one movie . . . ). Telling myself I deserved a little break from reality after the week I’d had, I’d poured a third glass of wine, stumbled upstairs, and dug out my personal Secret Box of Sexy from under my bed. The wine and the Box were now sitting on the vanity next to the candles in a sad little romantic display of a typical Friday night in my life.

But I had a bigger problem.

Had someone gotten into my house? Worse, was he still there? Friday night fantasies aside, an actual stranger intruding on my shower was not sexy.

Grabbing a towel from the cupboard, I held it to my chest and peeked out into that hallway.

Nothing.

But something wasn’t right. I could sense it. With dread coursing through my veins, I slid the cuffs off my wrist, tossed them into the Box and hastily dried myself a little. Still half wet, I exchanged the towel for the robe on the bathroom door hook and slipped my arms into the sleeves, moving slowly, trying to calm my galloping-out-of-control heart by telling myself not to be paranoid.
Really, what are the chances that the one night you forgot to double check the locks is the night something bad happens? And you probably locked them anyway; you always do.