The Wild Side: Urban Fantasy with an Erotic Edge (16 page)

We kissed and kissed again. He removed my clothes slowly, reverently, as though I were a holy relic. His hands, soft-strong, ran along my body, wakening feelings I’d never even known could exist.

I don’t remember his wings disappearing. Perhaps it happened while we were making love. I woke up to the grayish light of morning, to see him standing by the window, looking out. I knew the view well—the clustered rooftops of the older part of the city. At this time of year, doubtless with a fine dusting of snow making the whole look like holiday decor.

He looked tired and also inexplicably sad. The wings were gone, leaving only the tattoos of wings across his muscular arms. Heaven Bound. I guess it was the equivalent of Pikes Peak or Bust on the back of wagons climbing the mountain at the turn of the century. Perhaps he needed to remind himself he was headed back there, eventually, no matter how hard he fought it.

Uri looked at me and smiled a little, a crooked smile. “Thank you,” he said. “I miss . . . I miss my rightful sphere but I can’t go . . . yet.”

I sat up in bed, and gathered the sheet around me, as though there was an inch of me he hadn’t seen. “No,” I said. “I’m sorry I called the police. I guess the officers went to check the place, just as Phil was waking up?”

He nodded. “The sacrifice himself often becomes a vampire,” he said. “I wasn’t sure, and he would be shielded by the forces of the ritual, so I couldn’t get near him and make sure. And, of course, the others followed the scent on your jacket. I’m sorry I . . . had to deal with something else, and when I got back, I didn’t realize your . . . the sacrifice had already made it up the stairs.”

“I wonder . . .” I wondered if he’d stay with me, to protect me from those vampires that had escaped? But I imagined there were other dangers he was watching, other perils to defend Denver from. He’d alluded to many perils, not just this one. And if the vampires came for me, I could battle them. I thought I’d proven that.

He smiled again, sadly. “You’ll do fine. You have my card, if you need me. But I don’t think you will.”

After a while he dressed and left, locking my door behind him. And I stayed on the bed, leaning back. Presently I’d have to go and sweep Phil up off the bathroom floor. I suspected soon enough shock and grief would set in.

But for the moment I’d lie there, cherishing the memory of two wings woven out of light and the soft wonder of touching eternity.

SARAH A. HOYT
has published seventeen novels under various names. The most recent publications are
No Will But His
, a story of Kathryn Howard,
A French Polished Murder
(as Elise Hyatt), and her first space opera and possibly her favorite of her own books,
Darkship Thieves
. She’s also the author of an urban fantasy series—
Draw One In The Dark
,
Gentleman Takes a Chance
—for Baen Books.

Her short fiction has been published by such magazines as
Dreams of Decadence
,
Amazing
,
Analog
, and
Asimov’s
.

At my request, she supplied the following afterword:

In many ways, “Unawares” started on a hot muggy summer, when I was a young mother living in Columbia, South Carolina, with a one-year-old, without air conditioning, and with only one car shared between myself and my husband. We didn’t know anyone and, having moved away from Charlotte, North Carolina, I’d lost the client list my incipient multilingual translation business had built over the last five years.

The plan, such as it was, was to devote myself to writing, but between the baby, my husband working sixteen-hour days, and the fact that we were nearly broke, most of the time I just sat around looking at the lake at the back of the yard and brooding over the various stories—none of them happy—associated with the property.

This is when my friend Charles (Quinn), who worked—still does—in a bookstore (though one in Colorado now) thought I needed a pick-me-up. In the past, the man had given me books about the Civil War, about Roman architecture, about strange experiments in biology undertaken by nineteenth-century madmen, or really about any crazy thing he could lay his hands on. Some years after this, by giving me a biography of Elvis Presley, he became responsible for the short story “Elvis Died For Your Sins.” The novel started by his giving me
The Day The Red Baron Died
is still in progress. I think he has a bet with himself on whether he can find a book so bizarre I won’t read it or it won’t inspire me to write something.

In the summer of ninety-two, the book he chose was
A Dictionary Of Angels
. And I think up till now Charles thinks he has hit on the book too weird to be made into a story. That summer long, I sat on the back porch and found out things I never knew about angels—such as that they’re much older than Christianity. Heck, they’re older than Judaism. Odder too. The word “angel” comes from “messenger” in Greek, and as we know, messengers can come from anywhere, and bring any kind of news. They have to be tough, too, for the perils of the journey.

Even in modern days . . . well, you’ll be surprised to find that most angels also have a demonic identity. (Think what a film noir that would make.) And though they show themselves as humans—often, at least—they can be very weird creatures with multiple eyes and more than one pair of wings. Then there’s the whole fiery sword thing. In fact, when it comes down to it, angels are both more dangerous and more ambiguous than all the favorites of urban fantasy. Vampires and werewolves are very simple creatures by comparison and have nothing on these bad boys.

So this is where “Unawares” originated, in that back porch, looking at a lake that was said to be haunted and at which one of our neighbors shot regularly because she believed the fairies that lived under the lake had stolen her boyfriend.

I have started a novel, featuring Uriel as well, that will see the light of day in the fullness of time. I guess all these years I’ve been entertaining angels unawares.

OF SEX AND ZOMBIES

TICIA DRAKE ISOM

Weddings are supposed to be sedate, orderly affairs, full of flowers and sappy love songs. Standing shoulder to shoulder with my beloved, in all of our wedding finery, while facing zombies is not an auspicious beginning to a new life.

“Are we married or not?” Michael asked.

Our wedding officiate, human like Michael, lay dead between us.

I shrugged. “No rings, no vows. I say not married.”

“That blows!” Michael kicked a pimply-faced teenage zombie off the dais.

Every supernatural seems to hate the idea of fairies marrying humans, so I had expected some form of attack—just not from the undead.

Michael and I both reached for the nearest weapon, an ornate candelabrum with fat candles glowing at the top that stood as tall as I did.

“Ladies first.” With a flourish, he relinquished his hold on it and jumped off the dais to find another weapon. He winked at me, and I watched as his tall, rangy figure disappeared into the fleeing crowd.

I kicked myself for not having a knife or revolver on me. I never go anywhere without some way to defend myself, but the thigh holster ruined the clinging line of my wedding dress, whose plunging neckline left no hiding place.

I grabbed the candelabrum and dropped it, cursing, as red welts appeared on my palm. Stupid wedding planner. Iron is poison to fairies.

I ripped a chunk of Swarovski-crystal-encrusted train from my dress and wrapped my hand in the protective cover before reaching for the iron candelabrum again.

I stand five foot six and I’m strong and healthy, but I’m no warrior or magician. My skill is glamour. Glamour is not going to stop a horde of zombies the way a machete or a semiautomatic will.

I hiked up my skirt with my left hand and clutched the candelabrum in my right.

Michael appeared at my side, his dark hair mussed, his tuxedo jacket missing. He clutched a metal folding chair in both hands.

I snickered.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Next time we get married, I’m bringing an Uzi!”

What can I say? Great minds think alike. I stepped into him and, thanks to my red-soled Louboutin shoes, which made me almost as tall as Michael, leaned over to kiss him.

His gaze darted to the right. “On your left!”

I spun and, throwing all my weight behind the swing, smashed the rushing zombie across the side of her head with my vanilla-scented bludgeon.

“Double-tap,” Michael said.

I reduced the zombie to a bloody pulp.

Near the edge of the clearing, Alex, Michael’s best man and Special Investigations partner, was herding the human guests out of harm’s way. His werewolf form was scaring some of them more than the zombies. Alex is a big human. In werewolf form, he’s huge.

The Fey Guard entered, Grig in the lead.

“Your boyfriend’s here,” Michael said.

“Would you be quiet? He’s going to hear you.”

“Just tell him you know he loves you. Maybe he’ll back off. Of course, you’re getting married and that hasn’t stopped him rushing to your rescue. . . .”

“More fighting, less talking.” I rolled my eyes and nailed a zombie in a three-piece suit across the back of the head.

Michael crammed his chair into the gut of a charging middle-aged woman wearing a hospital gown and a toe tag.

“That’s bad fighting manners, Sylvie,” Michael said. “Never hit an opponent when their back is turned.” He smashed his zombie across the back of its head once it fell to the ground. “It’s rude.”

“Bite me!” I hit my zombie again, watching as it, too, crashed to the ground.

I glanced at Michael’s felled, toe-tagged zombie. No underwear. Great. “Could you at least close the back of your zombie’s gown? She obviously didn’t read the invitation. This wedding is semiformal.”

“I’m not touching that!” Michael ripped another strip off my wedding train and covered the offensive sight.

“Hey!” I said.

“Have you looked at yourself, Sylvie? You’ve got more blood on you than Carrie did at her prom. That dress is toast.”

I looked down and sighed. I loved this gown. “Point taken.”

Grig rushed over and, with more ceremony than the situation warranted, dealt my already dead zombie a killing blow with his sword.

Grig was gorgeous; the trouble was, he knew it. With his long blond hair braided and tied back, his almost feminine features, and sharp green eyes, he represented the perfect fairy ideal to humans. He even managed to look great in the hideous Fey Guard puce green uniform.

He glanced at our dead minister as he took my ringless left hand in his. “The ceremony wasn’t completed?”

I shook my head no.

He laid his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t do anything stupid, and call me if you need me.”

“Does he always have to touch you?” Michael said.

“Say what you want about his unwavering attention; he sure knows how to fight and make a girl feel special.”

“I told you about that zombie!” Michael protested. “If that doesn’t scream love, I don’t know what does.”

Fairies and zombies are not natural enemies. They don’t prey on us, and we don’t worry about them, because nothing dead or undead can enter Faery. Plus, the day a zombie can catch a fairy is the day we discover that chocolate is dietetic.

I glanced over at Michael and my heart melted. “If you didn’t want to get married, you could have just said so,” I said, grinning. “No need to call in the cavalry.”

He laughed. “You’re the one who was dragging her feet.”

I stuck out my tongue at him.

“Incoming!” Michael yelled. “Duck!”

I ducked.

Michael struck this zombie so hard with the edge of the folding chair that its head sailed into the empty seats.

“Who loves you, baby?” Michael said.

Unfortunately, being headless didn’t slow the zombie much. Michael knocked it off its feet with a roundhouse kick, and Grig swooped in and impaled it with his sword.

“A woman over there,” Grig said, pointing to the crowd behind him, “said she saw a small child running toward the forest. She said he was all dressed up and holding a small pillow. Shall I go after him?”

Michael and I looked at each other in horror.

“No, I’ll go,” Michael said. “It sounds like our ring bearer.” He glanced at me. “Will you deal with the cleaning crew and the police?”

“You shouldn’t go by yourself,” I said. “I’m going with you.”

He ignored me and sprinted into the forest.

I stared after him, wondering if I should follow.

“Okay,” Grig said, as if reading my thoughts. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll go take care of him.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Make sure he comes back in one piece.”

Grig started after Michael but stopped to deal with three zombies who were shambling toward us. “Go on,” he said. “I’ll take care of this bunch, then find Michael. You need to handle the police.”

I nodded, squared my shoulders, hitched my ripped wedding dress securely over my arm, and stomped my way through the wreckage to the parking lot where everyone was congregating.

I ignored the paparazzi that clamored for my attention behind the police barriers. I glanced down at my destroyed gown and knew that the pictures on the front page tomorrow would not be my most flattering. Oh well. I shrugged off my momentary fit of vanity. Short of glamouring the whole world, there was nothing I could do about it.

I searched the familiar faces around me. I almost crowed with glee when I saw Alex, naked except for a tablecloth slung around his hips, standing in the crowd ahead of me. I elbowed my way through the people, ignoring their questions, until I reached Alex.

“Nice look,” I said.

“I transformed too fast, trashed the tux.” He raised an eyebrow at my dress. “You’re looking a little worse for wear yourself.” He glanced behind me. “Where’s Michael?”

“He and Grig went into the forest to look for our ring bearer,” I said.

“You mean him?” Alex pointed to a little boy standing with a police officer I didn’t recognize.

“Yes,” I said. “You know,” I gave Alex the full benefit of my smile, “I have to run and tell Grig and Michael that the boy is safe. You’ll be a dear and handle the police, won’t you?”