ENTANGLED (8 page)

As for Mars—

Thunder roiled in the sky. The ground cracked, as if lightning struck it. She swayed and braced her feet. No time to be scared, only time to act.

This was happening. Really happening. Clouds appeared in the sky, gathering together in answer to his plea.

Adrenaline poured into Tory, through her. She started her own magic. Pulling it from the earth, the trees. Ripping it from her essence, her heart. She raised both arms, her hands open, the power pouring out of them into the moonlit sky. Speeding to Diana or whoever or whatever was watching over them.

Stop him, stop him, stop him, stop him, stop him.

Save the women!

The wind roared. Lightning zigzagged in the sky. Damon pointed one arm at her, and another at the moon, using its hunter’s energy.

Lightning blazed down from the sky to his pointing hand, down his arm, through his body, straight at her.

She hit the ground, the searing bolt streaking over her. The current sped through the ground, jolting her.

If she hadn’t dropped, the lightning would have lanced her in her heart.

He laughed, the sound of victory. And she knew at that moment she was doomed. That compared to him, she wasn’t even a David. She was an ant to be stepped on.

“You’re easier than I thought,” he said. “That wasn’t a fight. It was a romp.” His arm lifted toward the moon again, his other at her again. “Once more and you’re mine. This time I won’t miss.”

Even as lightning streaked toward him again, so did a black blob of a cat. Through the power-imbued ground, Tory felt the thumps of Samson’s paws.

She scrambled to her feet.
No!
She knew what would happen, could see it in her mind.

He’ll kill you
.

Samson kept trotting toward Damon, his breath rasping so loud that only a deaf man wouldn’t hear it. Damon’s arm and body lit up and his arm swiveled, pointing at Samson. Moonlight beamed out to Samson, hitting him, taking him up into a somersault then dumping him on his arthritic back before the normally noisy cat had time to make one screech.

“Samson!” She ran toward him. Falling to her knees, she took him up in her arms. “Speak to me, sweetie. Speak.”

His eyes gazed at her dully. Like Nikki’s eyes. Like the other six women in her vision.

No! Hell no. He wasn’t taking Samson, too
.

Her body stiff, she pushed up to her feet. Slowly. Deliberately.

Damon laughed. “You never had a chance. When your brothers come for you, the same thing will happen. Mars is on my side. Mars and the Hunter’s Moon.”

She looked at his exultant face. Shoving aside her anger, she reached for calmness and confidence. Found a sliver of it and grabbed onto it as she raised her gaze to the moon.

“Goddess Diana,” she said, her actor’s voice clear and carrying, “do you hear the disrespect this asshole is giving you? He’s using Mars to hunt women, to hurt them. To take their power. And to do it, he’s using
your
moon.
Your
power. Don’t let him do this. Take back your moon. Take back your power. Save the women.”

“You fool.” He laughed again. Loud. Victorious. The master of melodrama. “Diana’s a woman. She can’t take the power away from Mars any more than you can take it from me.”

The light on his face changed, a reddish patina instead of gold. Tory gazed up at the moon. Red streaks bled across the gold.

In her arms, Samson stirred, his head lifting. She looked down at green eyes reflecting the gold of the moon shining down on him. Giving him life again. Returning his soul.

He was alive! Alive! Samson was back.

“Thank you, goddess,” she whispered fervently. “Thank you.”

“Mars!” Damon shouted. “Give me the woman’s power. Do it now!”

Samson growled in a way she’d never heard before then jumped out of her arms.

Once again Damon raised one arm skyward, one arm toward her.

She raised her head. “Goddess Diana. Show this asshole what a woman can do.”

The words were no sooner out of her mouth than the moonlight striking down on Damon turned to a jagged line of blood red. Samson leapt like a cat in its prime, coming at Damon as fast as a lightning bolt. He hit Damon’s chest just as the light washed over them like a river of blood.

“Samson!” Tory raced toward them, fear in her throat, her hands out to grab her brave cat. Pull him from the bloody moonlight.

Oh goddess, oh goddess. Please, not Samson
.

As she reached them, the light blinked out. The man and the cat tumbled to the ground. She cried out and dropped to her knees next to Samson.

“Please, Samson. Be alive.” She put her hands on his chest, her fingertips on his throat. “Please, please, please.”

She couldn’t feel a pulse, and his chest didn’t move. Next to her, she heard rustling, Damon moving. The bastard was alive.

Beneath her fingers, Samson’s chest heaved. She sobbed and laughed at the same time. Thank the goddess, he was alive!

Samson’s eyes opened. “You dummy,” she said, sobbing. “Stop saving my life. You’re using up all of yours.”

He opened his mouth and screeched. His paw swiped her hand, his nails digging in. She yelled and jumped to her feet, grabbing her bleeding hand. “Samson! What are you—”

Hissing, he rolled to his feet and sent her a look of unmistakable hate. With another screech, he ran into the trees surrounding them.

“Samson,” she called out, cradling her hand against her jacket. “Come back.”

A strangled sound came from Damon. She turned to him. “You bastard. I hate you. I hope you go to hell with your devil master. I hope you—”

Help
.

She sucked in her breath. Looked at Damon.

He held his hand to her.
Help
.

Hope grew inside her.
Samson?

Yes!
He lurched toward her. Grabbed her. Held on tight.

“Samson, Samson.” She looked at the prince-out-of-a-fairy-tale face, made more golden by the moon, and struggled to pull one arm out from between them. Then it was free, and she lifted her hand to his cheek, curving it on the side of his jaw. He leaned into her palm.

“It’s really you.” She heard the breathlessness and wonder in her voice.

Why? How?

“I don’t know.” She dragged another arm out. Lifted it. Smoothed his hair. “Diana. She must have done this because she was pissed at Damon.”

Am I human now?

She nodded.

Do I look like him?

She bit her lower lip and nodded again.

You thought he was handsome
.

“On the outside,” she said aloud, her voice low. “On the inside, he was ugly.”

Am I handsome on the outside?

“Yes.” Looking into his eyes, she added silently,
On the inside, too
.

I knew that
.

“Do you want me to ask Diana to change you back?”

Remember the spell last night? To make me young and virile? Am I young and virile now?

“Kind of young.” As for the virile part… “I think my spell worked.”

Then let’s go home
.

They walked toward the imitation castle, Samson lurching, leaning on her shoulder and telling her how much easier it was to walk with four feet. Nikki was sitting on the front step, sobbing quietly instead of waiting like a statue. Whatever spell Damon had put upon her was broken now.

In different cities, different homes, different places, she knew six other women were coming back to life, their souls returned to their body.

She stopped and looked up at the moon.
Thank you, Diana. You’re…well, a goddess
.

He stopped, and so did she.

Everything is all right now?

“Everything is all right.”

I’ll never have to leave you?

“Only if you want to leave me.”

That will never happen
.

A glow started inside her. Like the moon at its most full and most glorious. “I’ll never want to leave you, either.” After all, beneath that human gorgeousness, he was Samson. He’d need her.

And hadn’t he risked his life to save hers? How could she walk away now, just because he was a man?

Looking at his beautiful face, she reached up and kissed him. A quick kiss she’d give her cat. Except he didn’t feel like a cat. And he didn’t look at her like a cat, his eyes shining with something she wasn’t ready to think about just yet.

Later, when she got used to him in this human body.

Is it like a fairy tale, with a happy ending?

She tugged him, drawing him toward Nikki. “The best ending ever.”

-The End-

Edie is a breast cancer survivor who knows it can happen to anyone. She was doing everything right—diet, exercise, weight. She was fairly young, and breast cancer didn’t run in her family. Until it happened to her. One of her best friends has been fighting breast cancer for years, another reason Edie is grateful to be involved with this anthology. She wants to be part of the cure, and she wants it to happen soon. Let that be “the best ending ever.”

A multiple award-winning writer, Edie is also a bestselling Kindle author. Tory, Sorcha, and Max from THE FAT CAT were first seen in Edie’s book CATTITUDE. To find out more about Edie and her paranormal romances, visit her at
edieramer.com
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.

“Is-is this where she wants the sofa bed?” Patti Coleman whispered the question even as her anxious gaze skittered past me to probe every corner of her spacious window-encased sunroom.

“Patti,
she
is Angelica and you don’t have to whisper. She’s standing by the French doors to the garden.”

I’d told my client the same thing for the last hour. No need to whisper. No need to fear. Then again, Patti
was
being haunted—even if the haunting was relatively benign. It wasn’t everyday that one rearranged furniture at the behest of a ghost.

A ghost who had a better sense of design balance than Patti herself.

Not that I’m a designer, mind you, or a ghost buster, either. And don’t ever call me a medium. That term makes me sound half cooked. Or sound like a kook.

Or worse, a charlatan, which I’m not, no matter what a certain male ghost investigator of my acquaintance might think.

An oh-so handsome specimen of a male who trips my feminine triggers way more than I want to admit, damn his vivid blue eyes. He was only on my mind because he’d left a cryptic voice mail this afternoon. A message I’d yet to decide if I’d answer.

For the record, I am Colleen Cotton, a psychotherapist who studied my butt off to get my Ph.D. and license, then came home to St. Augustine, Florida to open a practice. Clients barely trickled into my office door until my friend Dove referred a woman who was being driven to distraction by a ghost. After one evaluation and one spirit intervention, word of mouth discretely spread, and
voilà
! I became a therapist to the haunted.

Admittedly, I’m darn handy with the dead-but-not-departed, and I should be after years of up-close and personal experience. If it goes bump by day or night, I can often see it, usually hear it, and always feel it. Seeing as I grew up in a town where you can't, pardon the expression, swing a cat without hitting a ghost, dealing with hauntings keeps me busy and helps pay the student loans.

Trouble is I’m good enough at my job that, once I’ve brokered accords between the living and their spirits, the no-longer-haunted patients no longer need a psychotherapist. Or if they do, they don’t come to me.

Tonight’s intervention was a breeze compared to some. Patti called me about a ghost who kept rearranging the furniture in her enclosed sun porch. The ghost even moved a honkin’ heavy sofa bed Patti’s husband Jeff was tired of moving back into place.

On my first visit to the house, I’d sat on the same sofa while I’d explained to resident ghost Angelica that home insurance didn’t cover things broken by spirits. Angelica cried, apologized, and negotiated a deal that would do Donald Trump proud. In the end, Patti agreed to a new furniture and accessory arrangement, and Angelica promised to stop shoving the sofa, moving knickknacks, and fritzing out the flat screen TV.

Me? I promised never to move another sofa bed. Not even with the furniture sliders Patti had the foresight to buy.