Something Wikkid This Way Comes (8 page)

“Are you happy?” he yells, turning toward me. “Do you see?” He turns back to his minions. “I am your Master!”

I shake my head, then nod at Moo. The gnome, who’s finally managed to figure out which direction to face, raises a hand in warning, but it’s too late. Like a whip, Moo’s Alfar power lashes out and snares the being in front of us.

“What the—?” he squeals, struggling. “Let me go! I am Satan! I will crush you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Whatever.”

Moo pulls Satan well back from the gnome’s boundaries. But we still have that same gnome to deal with.

It’s turned toward us, watching its “master” avidly from underneath its hood, which tracks my movement as I go to stand in front of it, carefully staying on my side of its territory.

“So,” I say. “You gonna give up gracefully, or are we gonna have to call in the big guns?” Speaking of big guns, I really want our reinforcements to arrive. If we can’t get the gnome to come out with all the girls still on its side of the barrier, we could be in trouble.

The figure mumbles something inarticulate and its manicured hands ball up into angry fists. They’re youthful hands, and feminine—it must be an incredibly young gnome. It starts to reach deep with its powers, trying to bond further with the land, extend its territory…

“Shar, now!” I yell.

With a powerful shove, our little succubus reveals she’s not just a bamboozled high school student. While I engaged with the gnome, Shar had crept up behind it. Using a combination of her own magical powers and the biceps she keeps toned in weekly sessions of Body Pump, Shar shoves the gnome hard, sending it flying toward me. Once the gnome’s over its own territory lines, its power fizzles with an audible
pop
and I’m left holding its robed figure.

Those same manicured hands form claws as it reaches up to take a swipe at my face, but I’m too fast for it. I’ve got it turned around and in a choke hold before it can land a hit, tightening its hood down low over its face so it can’t see its target.

Moo has Satan, and I have the gnome. Shar returns to heal Jodi, yelling that she’ll round up the girls. I’m just about to pull the gnome’s hood off when I hear an engine roar up behind us. I recognize one of the power signatures, and I’m pissed it took them so long even as I can’t help but feel smug, knowing we got everything taken care of before The Powers That Be could even mobilize.

Tom pulls forward in a battered Jeep, along with two other supes whose power I can feel from here. One’s an ifrit and the other’s an incubus, and from their strength I reckon they’re the local investigators, or supernatural police, for Springfield. Moo and I herd our prisoners toward their fate, and Tom, the incubus, and the ifrit meet us halfway.

“What do we have here?” Tom asks, eyeballing Satan. The Prince of Darkness looks defeated, his forked penis flaccid and no longer quite so impressive. Before we can respond, a seminaked cultist runs at Tom, holding a corncob like a spear. The incubus stops her in midstride with a negligible flick of his magic. Shar apologizes for the runner from where she’s rounding up the girls.

“We’re not sure,” I say, once everything’s calm again. “We were just about to do the unmasking.”

“Nahual?” Tom asks, pointing at Satan. I nod. Now that the gnome’s juice has been shut off, it’s easy to feel Satan’s power signature. Like Tom and my dad, “Satan” is really a shape-shifter, and a powerful one. But he’s no more Lucifer than I am, even when I don’t get my coffee in the morning.

I gesture theatrically toward the couple but Tom shakes his head.

“You do the honors,” he says, with a small smile I can’t help but return. The investigators shift impatiently, and I manhandle the gnome so it’s facing the crowd and me.

We all gasp when I pull back the hood.

“Stacey?” I ask.

The girl’s vapid blue eyes blink up at me, registering a combination of confusion and anger. The ifrit takes her in hand as I turn toward Satan.

“Well, if you’re the gnome, then I bet I know who’s under there. Come out, come out, whoever you are!” Satan’s yellow goat’s eyes blink mulishly at me, and I nod at Moo, who smiles ghoulishly and uses her Alfar power to crash through Satan’s power like it’s Styrofoam.

“Hi there, Frank,” I say, walking forward to shake him by the shoulders as if greeting an old friend. “So that was you under there this whole time?”

“Mr. McEachern?” babbles one of the girls, followed by a chorus of
ew
s. Frank’s face is beet red with anger and humiliation, as he vainly tries to break through Moo’s hold on his power so he can shape-shift back into Satan form.

“It’s not so forked now, is it, ladies,” Shar chuckles, and at least one of the girls actually gags. They’re glaring so accusatorily at Frank, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

He can’t meet their eyes, and I don’t blame him. But he can meet mine.

“You bitch,” he snarls.

I nod obligingly.

“If you hadn’t come along—”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s been said before,” I interrupt. “This is what we do, Frankie. We stop bad guys. You’re a bad guy.”

“Right, like you’re so good. You think you’ve done these girls a favor. But what have you done, really? I gave those girls pride. I gave them something to believe in. Everyone in that school treated them like garbage till I came along. They love me, and I love them.”

I feel Moo’s power blossom behind me, and I take a quick step back to place a hand on my friend’s shoulder. I make her meet my eyes and breathe with her until she calms down. Moo gets kinda upset when men like Frank claim they do what they do out of love.

She’s heard it before.

When I know she’s not going to slay him where he sits, I turn back to Frank.

“See, my friends and I have to disagree with you. You can’t say you gave these girls anything, when all you did was lie to them. They believed in something false, something you created.”

“And they were vulnerable,” Moo snarls. “You knew they were vulnerable, and you preyed upon their weaknesses. You’re a parasite.”

Moo’s mojo swirls, and Frank has the good sense to look nervous.

“They love me,” he insists.

“No. They loved your lies. They loved your drugs,” I say.

“They loved the revenge you offered,” Moo continues.

“Don’t forget the twofer!” Shar sings out from our left, making a lewd gesture with her fingers. We ignore her.

Frank’s changed his mind and now won’t look at us. The only safe place for his eyes is apparently the ground, but he’s still defiant.

“They did so love me,” he mutters to his shoes.

I sigh, then walk behind him and grab his hair. Yanking his face up, I make him turn to the girls.

“If they love you for real, Frankie my boy, they’ll love you even now. Ladies!” I call, so they can hear me. “How do you feel about Mr. McEachern here?”

The looks on their faces are answer enough. Various combinations of emotions play across their drugged faces, but they’re all of the same ilk: humiliation, anger, and accusation. If they can get that irate while still stoned, I can only imagine how they’ll be sober.

None of them is a big fan of our Frank.

To give him credit, he must have believed his own delusions. The sobs that tear through him are real. Stacey the gnome tries to comfort him, but he shrugs her off in violent repudiation. The only girl who really does love him, and he doesn’t love her back. It’s almost tragic.

Almost.

Not so tragic is seeing Stacey and Frank carted off by the supernatural police. They’ll both be going away for a while, although in Frank’s case I wonder if “away” isn’t going to be a shallow grave somewhere. Our justice is harsh, especially for those who involve the human authorities in our shenanigans.

Definitely not tragic is calling up Father Matthews and seeing the parents of the girls come pick up their children. It’s going to be a boom time for local psychotherapists. Although, after Moo makes a few careful wipes of their minds, the girls won’t remember much except randomly bonding together to become Satanists. All memories of a “real” Satan are expunged, and no connection will be made to Frank or Stacey.

It’s harsh, in that the girls will probably have to pay for their human crimes without being able to blame magical influence. But I don’t feel too badly for them. The only influence Frank exerted over them was offering them power. We probed their minds and he never seemed to have actually glamoured them to follow him.

Which means the girls willingly took him up on his offers of revenge, so they deserve some punishment. Just because someone’s feeling unpopular doesn’t mean she gets to slaughter a goat for some poor bastard making minimum wage to clean up all by herself…

All right, I’ll admit to feeling a little bitter about the goat. Scrubbing blood out of cuticles is a nightmare.

But glamouring the girls still leaves the job of explaining Frank and Stacey’s sudden disappearance. The Powers That Be obligingly leave that up to us. I graciously accept the command, even as I add 5 percent to their bill. Because yes, I’m charging them along with Father Matthews for services rendered.

“We’ll leave a note, telling everyone they eloped and they’re moving to Yemen,” I say as we pull up in front of Stacey and Frank’s little bungalow, right before Moo gasps and Shar makes an
eep
sound from the backseat.

“What the fuck?” is my reaction when I, too, see the figures of Stacey and Frank watching television, like they do every night.

Then I groan.

“Of course,” I say before getting out of the car and making my way up to the front door. A quick lock pick has me inside, and I don’t even bother to raise shields as I head into the front room.

Moo and Shar pant up a second behind me, mage balls at the ready, but there’s no need. Watching television in front of the gauzy curtains are two mannequins.

Moo and Shar’s mage balls fizzle out, and I walk forward to claim the bodies. They’d raise too many questions if we left them.

I have one mannequin tucked under each arm as I head toward the door. Right before I make it outside, Shar stops me.

Giggling, she takes the male model away and turns it to face Shar and me.

Standing behind it, she makes it talk.

“I would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for you meddling kids!”

Calmly, Moo blows its head off with a mage ball. Shar swears, dropping the smoking figure before lunging at Moo. I sigh, sticking the intact mannequin between them like a referee.

“Ladies! Let’s wrap this up and get home. C’mon now.”

Moo and Shar glare at each other, until Shar apologizes by picking up the beheaded mannequin herself.

“If this were a Scooby-Doo mystery, what would it be called?” Shar muses, inspecting the jagged edges of the mannequin’s neck.

“‘The Haunted Academy’?” Moo attempts. Creativity’s never been her strong suit.

“‘The Case of the Pronged Penis’!” Shar crows, although her eyes have gone dreamy. I sigh.

“‘Acting Out at Trinity Academy,’” I say. “Or ‘Trying Times at Trinity Academy.’ Or ‘Satan’s Surprise.’”

“You win,” Shar says. “I like the last. He sure
did
have a surprise.”

“I like the first,” Moo says, causing Shar to flash her a dirty look.

“Well,” I say, before they can start back up, “I’ve got a new case for us. It’s called ‘Write That Note and Get the Fuck Out of Dodge.’ You with me?”

“Hell yeah,” Shar says, before pulling Moo, me, and the creepy mannequins into a rough hug.

“Good work, ladies,” she says, standing on tiptoe to kiss both of us on our cheeks. I grin.

Good work, indeed. And soon I’ll have the invoices to prove it.

Nicole D. Peeler lives in Pennsylvania, where she’s an English literature and creative writing professor at Seton Hill University. Yes, folks, she’s mentoring students in writing urban fantasy. Or, as she likes to say, “Infecting them with her madness.” Equally infectious is her love of life, food, travel, and friends. To learn more about the author, visit
www.­nicolepeeler.­com
.

J
ANE
T
RUE NOVELS

Tempest Rising

Tracking the Tempest

Tempest’s Legacy

Eye of the Tempest

Tempest’s Fury

I
awoke slowly, languorously, my still-mostly-sleeping brain registering surprise when my nose smooshed into soft leather rather than sheets. For a second I nearly panicked, before I realized I was nestled into a hugely over-stuffed cushion that was part of a leather sofa. The sofa and the shabby, homemade afghan in which I was cocooned smelled deliciously of lemon polish, cardamom, and just a hint of something more masculine. I knew, then, where I was. Not least because I was soon brushing a few stray dark dog hairs off my face as I rolled over and stretched.

And where is the man himself?
I wondered, sitting up to peer around Anyan’s dawn-infused living room.

It was only last night that we’d rolled into town from the Alfar Compound. For almost the past month, Anyan and I had been on a desperate hunt to find my mother’s killers and shut down their pseudo-laboratories of torture, culminating in our finally outing Jarl as the menace he truly was. As tended to happen when I visited the Alfar Compound, a huge melee ensued, and the Alfar king, Orin, had been murdered by none other than his loving wife, Morrigan. Turns out the queen had been tupping her husband’s second and brother, the even nastier than previously assumed Jarl.

During the chaos of the fight, Jarl and Morrigan escaped. So not only were the bad guys on the lam, but the Territory had been left leaderless until Anyan suggested they make like humans and vote on a new leader. Next thing I knew, my former lover, Ryu, and his favorite nemesis, Nyx, found themselves tied as interim leaders of their Territory.

Much to my delight, I also discovered that Anyan did
not
want to stay in the Compound. Instead, he wanted to return to Rockabill. With me.

Where I thought we would make sweaty monkey lovin’
, I groused, sighing as I stretched out legs tight from the previous night’s ride back to Eastport on Anyan’s motorcycle.

Instead, all my fantasies of playing “hide the Milk-Bone” had been scuppered when, on the way home, we’d run into Blondie. The tattooed enigma had been shadowing me, saving my life quite a few times over the course of our recent shenanigans. We didn’t know who she was, or what she wanted, but last night she’d let us know she was an Original: powerful, ancient, and supposedly a myth.

“And a total cock-blocker,” I grumbled to myself as I stood, slowly and stiffly, before shuffling off to dig my toiletries bag out of my duffel.

I’d been looking forward to having Anyan alone, finally, and I’d nearly done a backflip when he suggested I spend the night at his place. His excuse was that it made sense for me to wait for the morning, as I had all of Rockabill’s supernatural community—plus Grizzie and Tracy—bunking down in my house for safety after Iris had been kidnapped. I knew, however, it was really because he wanted some patented Jane True sexorcizing. But then Blondie showed up, all nekkid and pierced and tattooed and totally foxy. After which, the conversation between Dog-Boy and me went (roughly) as follows:

So Anyan had tossed me through his front door with our luggage, telling me to “make myself at home.” I’d flipped off the shutting door, reminding it loudly that I
had
been planning to make myself at home
on his face
. At which point the door was thrown open again, and Anyan had demanded, “What?”

To which I’d replied, “Nothing.”

So not only had we not had sex, but I’d also spent the night on the sofa, as I didn’t feel comfortable invading Anyan’s man space without express permission. Not to mention, my hormones probably would have forced me to do terrible things to myself in his bed, as he owned the raunchiest, Anyan-wrought, supernatural-Sutra headboard ever.

Still grumbling, I shambled over to Anyan’s downstairs bathroom to go potty and clean myself up a little. Staring into my own eyes in the mirror as I brushed my teeth, I reminded myself that, while it sucked I had yet to molest the barghest, at least I was alive. There’d been more than a few times during the past weeks when my survival was anything but guaranteed. Not to mention, quite a few people—supernatural, human, and halfling—had died before we’d stopped Jarl and his crazy experiments.

Including my mother
, I thought, my heart falling as I remembered what I had to do today. My dad needed to know that the woman he still loved and still waited for, after all these years, was never going to come home. She’d been murdered by Jarl, her body one of the first to be discovered in an abandoned laboratory.

You didn’t die for nothing, Mom
, I thought, outmaneuvering the tears in my eyes by washing my face rather roughly. My mother’s death had helped kick off the investigation that led to stopping Jarl. It wasn’t much consolation, but it was something.

It’d be even better if Jarl were dead
, I thought grimly, as I dried my face and hands. But at least he was on the run, his operations and people disbanded.
For now
.

Visibly shaking myself out of my depressing reverie, I tried to figure out what to do right then. Anyan must still have been out chasing Originals, and it was barely six o’clock in the morning.
I could go home, although no one will be awake. Or I could go for a swim…
Then I froze, a feeling of elation sweeping up from the soles of my feet as I put two and two together.

I’m in Anyan’s cabin
.

Anyan isn’t here
.

And Anyan did say to make myself at home
, I thought, audibly purring. I’d been so curious about Anyan’s life for so long now, and now I had his cabin all to myself…

Which means there is nothing standing between me and his kitchen
.

Like a flash I was out of the bathroom, all traces of sadness eradicated by my excitement. I peered around one last time to make sure I was alone, and then I darted toward what I knew was waiting for me. Every time I’d been here, it had taken pretty much every ounce of self-control I had not to go and hump the stove dominating Anyan’s kitchen. I don’t normally hump kitchen appliances, but this was no ordinary mod-con. It was something sublime. Something that transcended beauty, form, and function and could make an angel weep.

It was a Wolf Challenger Restaurant Range. And I loved it.

I skidded to a stop before my destiny, blinking as the ever-awakening sun gleamed off its brightly polished surfaces. Gliding a hand over its hard, proud, stainless-steel frame, I caressed its burners, prying one up just to see how unabashedly it opened itself to me. I thought of all the pots I could get on it, and how each one would simmer. Simmer just for me.

I dropped to my knees, pulling open the oven door. I could practically crawl inside. I wouldn’t, because I’d (almost) seen firsthand what ovens can do to a body—albeit a goblin body—but I could if I wanted to.
And if I can get in here
, I thought as I peered inside greedily,
just think what else will fit
…

“Jane?” asked a voice. It was curiously nonchalant, considering I was half in, half out of an open oven door. But it still scared me enough that I started, whapping the top of my skull for my trouble.

Anyan sighed as he dropped down to haul me out of the Wolf’s gaping maw. The barghest had a tendency to treat me like a sack of flour, and today was no exception. Without batting an eyelash, he lifted me up and set me on the counter, in order to look at the top of my head.

I was watching the little birdies fly in front of my eyes, so it took me a second to re-combobulate myself. In the meantime, he ran his fingers over my scalp, prodding until I winced, and then I felt a pulse of healing warmth filtering through my body.

“If we lived in a Road Runner cartoon,” his rough voice grumbled, “I would come home one day to find your teeny-tiny arms and legs sprouting from underneath a gigantic Acme anvil.”

I gave him the stink eye.

“You are a disaster,” Anyan clarified, in case I didn’t catch his drift. “And are you all right?” he amended, treating my head to one last gentle prod, followed by another rush of healing magics.

Anyan’s gray eyes sought mine but I ignored him, instead giving him a good once-over. Now that I could finally enjoy being around the barghest without all the stress of the investigation—not to mention the stress of not knowing whether or not he had any feelings for me—I felt like I hadn’t actually
seen
Anyan in ages. Starting at the top, I noticed that he clearly needed a haircut. His thick curls were extra poufy, sticking out in barghestian afro-puffs shot through with grass and twigs from last night’s Blondie hunt. Then my eyes raked downward, over his long nose and almost too wide mouth, loving the perfectly sensual imperfection of his features. His nose twitched at me, as if in response to my gaze, and I felt my own lips twitch in response. Traveling farther down, over clothes rumpled from undoubtedly being left to lie under a shrubbery somewhere while he ran about in dog form, I noticed he had a hole in his jeans, which rode low and sweet on his hips.

There’s bones under that there denim
, my libido reminded me, unhelpfully.
Bones for nibblin’
…

I told the libido to hush even as I felt my mouth water.

“Did you find Blondie?” I asked, as much to distract myself as to make conversation.

“Nope,” he grunted. “Chased her to the edge of Nell’s Territory, but then all scent of her faded, including magical. She must have holed up somewhere I couldn’t get to. Underground, or in the water.”

“Do you think she can do thaaaaaaa—” I tried to ask, before my whole body turned to goop as Anyan’s fingers started running through my long black hair. It was ridiculously erotic, until I winced as his fingers found a knot.

“Did you pack a brush?” the barghest chided.

“Did you raid a dog food convention to acquire your wardrobe?” I countered, jerking my hair out from underneath his hands in punishment.

After all
, I thought with irritation,
I’m supposed to have sexy, postcoital bed head. Not “I slept on your couch” head
.

His hands stilled in my hair as he looked down at his chest. His now filthy T-shirt sported an advert for Eukanuba. I’d already seen shirts for Alpo, Iams, and Purina, among many others.

“Okay, I admit, the joke got out of hand. But I’m not going to go out and buy myself a whole new wardrobe. These shirts are perfectly serviceable.”

I rolled my eyes. “Serviceable? Anyan, I get it that you’re utilitarian. If we were in the old country you’d write odes to factories. You’d sing the praises of the communal farm while you gnawed on a perfectly ‘serviceable’ radish. But this is the new millennium. In America. Buy a button-up.”

The very tip of his crooked nose twitched, something that would never cease to amuse me. The hand on one knee shifted to pinch my outer-thigh fat, something that I found significantly less endearing.

“Jane, I’m a barghest, not a Stalinist. And what do you mean by ‘the old country’? I was born in this Territory, as you well know. And you should talk about writing odes to factories. You were practically committing sex acts on my range.”

I cast a long, lascivious gaze at the Wolf. Gods, it was gorgeous. I had to come clean.

“I can’t help it, Anyan. I’ve never felt this way about a machine. It’s just so big…” My voice trailed off as my hot eyes roved up from its sturdily planted legs to the boldly flaring expanse of its saucy extractor fan.

“Jane, you are starting to creep
me
out. Someone who pees on the local fauna in order to mark his Territory. That says something.”

I eyed the Wolf, suddenly inspired.

“And no,” he added hastily. “If you pee on it you do not get to take it home.”

I pushed my bottom lip out in a pout, feeling a thrill up my spine when I noticed Anyan stare like he wanted to bite. His hands, resting right above my knees, squeezed lightly and I was happily visualizing pulling him in tight to make that bite a reality when he spoke.

“Speaking of home, do you still want to tell your father today?”

And just like that, the libido crawled back into its hole. I’d asked Anyan if he’d be with me when I told my dad about my mother’s death, mostly for support but also because the barghest—even with sticks in his hair, like he had now—oozed authority. I was going to have to tell my father a combination of truths about my mom, Mari’s, death and careful omission, and I figured Anyan’s presence would make the idea that I had outside sources more credible.

But mostly you just want him there
, reminded the part of my brain that always insisted on being brutally honest. I frowned, quashing the thought, unwilling to examine my emotions regarding the barghest too closely.

“Yes,” I replied, finally, my chin dropping to my chest. “I need to get it over with.”

Anyan’s big hand found its way under the heavy wing of my long, black hair, stroking gently at my nape. It felt as comforting as apple pie, and I marveled at how easily he touched me now. My own hands itched to reciprocate, but I still had to get used to the idea that touches were okay. Anyan had been a fantasy for so long; it was going to take me some time to adjust to the reality.

“Come on, then. Let’s clean up. You use my bathroom. I’ve a shower out in my workshop I can use.”

I raised my black eyes to meet Anyan’s iron-gray gaze, letting all my anxiety shine through. The hand on my nape squeezed, gently, in response.

“It’s going to be okay, Jane. We’ll find a way to tell your father so he understands. You’re doing the right thing. He can’t live in ignorance and false hope for the rest of his life.”