Lori Devoti's Blog, page 17

Trust Me, excerpt

This is an unedited excerpt from my October 2011 release, Trust Me.

Prologue

Marie Jean

Ste. Genevieve, Illinois Country

May 1, 1785 – great flood

The water shifted beneath her feet, as if the Mississippi wasn't just swollen with flood waters, but angry, boiling.

The others had left long before, gathering whatever they held dear and scurrying for higher ground, but not Marie Jean. She held nothing dear–not since that bastard Cruzat doomed her to marriage with the monster others called her husband.

Damn Cruzat. Damn the church. Damn everyone who told her she had no choice–that God's will was greater than her own.

She would show them all.

Grasping the rough logs of the cedar stockade she clung to, she stared down at the water. She could give in, throw herself into the angry current of the Mississippi, but there would be no satisfaction in that–no revenge.

She had a better plan. She'd thought of it last night, when the others were packing, when her husband was chortling about the Lieutenant Governor's denial of her request for a divorce. How she had wanted to kill him then–pick up the saber he kept hanging on the wall of their cabin, and pierce

his heart, stand there laughing as the black blood of his soul spilled out on the dirt.

But no, her body was too weak. He would have used the weapon on her instead, but damn his twisted soul, he wouldn't have shown her the mercy of death–just continued the same torture she'd endured for years.

Enough. She'd had enough.

"So, you came." The voice was low, masculine in a way that sent shivers of expectation up Marie Jean's spine.

She turned. He stood an arm's length away, his feet braced on the roof of a cabin, his waist-length hair clinging to his bare chest. His eyes glimmered at her in the growing darkness. A second shiver danced over her rain-soaked skin.

"You expected me?" She pressed her back against the stockade, her heart beating like a bird's.

"Come." He held out one hand. "The water is rising. There isn't much time."

She paused only an instant before slipping her work-calloused hand into his and letting him pull her to the safety of the roof

beside him.

He stared down at her, his eyes an eerie blue against his dark skin.

"Will you help me?" she asked. Her fingers tangled in his hair; her palm brushed his skin.

"I'm here," he replied. "What is it you want?"

She swallowed, her heart expanding at the thought of her vengeance. "My husband dead, and then…" she paused deciding what to ask for next. "…a curse. Can you curse them all?"

He threw back his head, laughter rolling from his throat. "A curse? This…" He swept his arm out, gesturing to the hellish waters of the rising Mississippi surrounding them. "…isn't curse enough?"

She narrowed her eyes, thinking of her sister and her aunts, all prim and pious. Judging her for not accepting her fate. "Not for what they would have left me to. No, I want revenge that will last for centuries, eternity." The last came out in a hiss.

His arm slipped around her waist, pulling her close against the hard length of his body. "You have the wrong demon, mon oiseau. I am no witch. I have no magic for you."

"But…" She pushed her hands against him.

He ran his hand down the length of her back, making a shushing sound against her ear. "No magic, but if it is revenge you seek. I can give you that, and the ability to survive this." He nodded to the water now lapping at their feet.

Marie Jean relaxed her body back against his. "Power, can you give me power?"

He nodded, his head dipping toward her neck as his hand swept her long hair over her shoulder. "Ah, mon oiseau. That I can

do."

Chapter One

Central West End, St Louis, Missouri

Present Day

The letter was soft as cotton from being folded and unfolded, but even though Lindsey had the short text memorized, she pulled the slip from her pocket again.

Bloody Harry's in St. Louis' Central West End.

She was here. Feeling a bit like Dorothy when she was set down in Oz, Lindsey tugged at her denim shorts and wished she'd worn something nicer. Wished she owned something nicer, nice enough to be dining in one of the side walk cafes that lined the cobble-stoned side walk.

Beside her, a street light, made to look like an old gaslight, clicked on. It was just after eight on a Friday night and the Central

West End was bustling. Young professionals out and about, drinking wine and dining on food that to Lindsey's unschooled eyes looked more like art than dinner. Soft jazz and the scent of melted butter and warm garlic wafted from one restaurant.

A girl, standing behind a hostess podium, glanced her direction. Lindsey dropped her gaze and hurried past.

She looked at the note again. Bloody Harry's. The name itself was intimidating, but finding the place was even worse. Lindsey had searched the Internet for an address or phone number and come up empty. The email she clutched in her hand was the first promise she'd had of finding family–of belonging somewhere.

Drawing in a breath, she turned and walked back to the hostess. The woman raised a brow, but more in question than in judgment of Lindsey's appearance.

"I'm looking for Bloody Harry's," Lindsey mumbled.

A couple, dressed for the theatre or some other high class entertainment that Lindsey couldn't imagine, brushed past her, jostling her. She took a step to the side. The hostess plucked two menus from a slot on the glossy black podium, tucked them under her arm and strode off. The couple followed.

Lindsey stared after them. Then, feeling the attention of the other patrons pressing against her, she took a step back onto the road.

"Did I hear that you are looking for Bloody Harry's?" A woman dressed in a short flowy dress, belted at the waist, tilted her head to the side.

The woman's eyes were bright green, an unnatural green that made Lindsey want to look away. She forced herself to keep her gaze steady and nod.

"How…" The woman placed her index finger on her lower lip and pulled, giving her a pouty screen siren look. "…did you hear of Harry's?"

"My cousin…works there." Cousin…family. A thrill raced through Lindsey.

"Really? Interesting." The woman tilted her head again and studied Lindsey as if measuring her for size.

Lindsey resisted the urge to pull back her shoulders or adjust her shirt which suddenly seemed to cling too tightly in some places and gap in others.

"Well, then…" The woman took a step closer, forcing Lindsey to move back, into the glow of the street lamp.

The woman inhaled with a hiss, and her eyes glittered.

Every instinct telling her to run, Lindsey lifted her foot. A pale hand, tipped with perfectly manicured magenta nails, gripped Lindsey by the arm. "Then you must be welcome at Harry's." She lifted her free hand and gestured across the street to a line of iron fencing. Another cafe sat behind it.

For a second, Lindsey thought the woman was toying with her. Then she saw the sign, Bloody Harry's, small but, even in the dusk, impossible to miss.

Lindsey had walked down this street three times. How had she missed it?

"It's in the basement, outside entrance. Tell Harry, Emilie sent you. He can pay me back later." She laughed, a low rolling sound that made Lindsey shuffle her feet and glance toward the street.

"Anyway." Emilie released her hold on Lindsey and waved her hand toward the sign. "You'll want to get inside soon, while it's still early and somewhat light." She stepped back, but didn't leave.

A strange mixture, of compulsion to do as the woman had said and a stubborn desire to do the opposite, filled Lindsey She stood rooted between the two.

"Go."

And with that one word from Emilie, Lindsey found herself moving toward the small painted sign and whatever business lay below it.

o0o

A cafe sat on the ground floor of the bar's building. It wasn't as busy as the cafe Lindsey had just left. It also had a different vibe than the other businesses she had passed, more urban grunge than upscale professional. Alternative rock flowed from the windows, open despite the heat, and the smell of coffee and burgers engulfed her, making her stomach rumble.

A slim man dressed in clothes so dark he blended into the unlit patio area's background stood as she approached. Lindsey slowed her steps, but the man simply crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

Unsure, she walked closer, this time stopping at the top of the metal steps that led from the street to a door below. Bloody Harry's door.

"Opens at ten." The man from the cafe stood two feet away. His arms were still crossed, but his body was stiff and his gaze intense, and, somehow, he had moved twenty feet, past an iron fence, in a matter of seconds.

He sniffed, a loud almost sensuous sound. "You haven't been here before."

A statement, one that made Lindsey slide her feet to the side to put more distance between her and the man. Her hip bumped into the line of fencing, designed to keep unsuspecting pedestrians from tumbling down the basement stairs.

"Emilie sent me," she murmured.

"Did she?"

"Are you Harry?"

"So, you haven't met him." His eyes flicked from her to the stairwell, and for a moment, Lindsey thought he might leap over the railing and grab her.

Lindsey's fingers tightened on the metal handrail. The stairwell was unlit, stepping into it would be like descending into a well. But the man. She couldn't help but want to get away from him.

Staring into the darkness, cold beads of sweat ran down the back of her neck.

"Afraid?" His voice seemed closer.

The realization sent Lindsey rushing forward.

Behind her something hissed. Hot breath raced down her neck. Standing on one leg, her other foot moving forward toward the step below, she teetered. Her body lurched, and she hit the metal steps hard. Pain punctured the balloon of panic that had engulfed her. She tumbled forward, down the stairs.

Then she hit, not the cold hard concrete she'd expected, but the solid warm mass of a body, a male body that scooped her up and held her pressed against his chest.

Struggling to keep the tears that had built up behind her eyes inside, she inhaled and clutched at the man's clothing. Her face pressed against stiff cotton. She could hear his heart thumping in his chest, slow, steady and more reassuring than any mantra she could have muttered. She concentrated on the steady beat and waited for the panic that had griped her to subside.

"It appears Emilie was right to call. She said Randall is about. Was he behaving badly?"

A light switched on overhead, and Lindsey squinted against the unexpected glare.

"Oh." The man holding her exhaled the word, so softly she wasn't sure she'd heard it correctly. Then he flung open the door behind him and strode into the bar.

Look for Trust Me, coming to online digital booksellers in October 2011

Demon High, excerpt

Chapter 1

The envelope had arrived open. I wouldn't have read the page inside otherwise, wouldn't have thought to, honestly.[image error]

And I wouldn't have known I was about to lose my home. The only home I'd ever known.

Letter still in hand, I went where I always went when I needed to think, the hall closet. It was a big for a closet but cram-packed with old comforters, wool coats and the scent of my grandmother's perfume. The space had got me through a lot of bad, scary and lonely times.

As I pulled open the door, the hinges creaked. As I tugged the heavy door closed the knob rattled and came loose in my hand. A line in the letter came back to me…"due to disrepair and continued devaluation of the property."

This was what the bank executive whose name was scribbled across the bottom of the letter had been talking about. This and the peeling paint, rotting windows and cracked sidewalk. The tree branch that had crashed through our front porch during a summer storm probably hadn't helped either.

I settled myself on the floor and stared at Nana's green wool coat—the one with the real fur collar. The collar had bald spots. What I'd once thought of as luxurious was just old and worn out.

I hadn't noticed before.

I glanced around the closet's interior, taking in cracked plastered walls and the worn oak floors. Even the old heat vent was rusty.

The front door flew open, smacked into the other side of the wall beside me.

"Lucinda?"

Nana back from the store.

Still holding the letter, I waited for her to hobble away before burrowing deeper into the closet. I shoved aside a stack of embroidered pillow cases that hid the floor board I had loosened when I was eight. Under it was a cloth-covered box, my storage place for things I didn't want my grandmother to find.

Memories of my mother, mainly. Pictures, some of her books.

Old report cards were stashed there too. The ones with notes about how I didn't talk, seemed withdrawn, and one letter suggesting that my grandmother come in for a meeting.

I stared at the stack of papers and odd objects, my secret life of not having a life tucked away under once-crisp cotton linens.

My fingers brushed over the leather top of one of Mum's books. A shiver shot through me.

I tried not to touch my mother's things. I just kept them stored away where Nana wouldn't find them and throw them out.

Today, though, I paused. There were no words on the book's cover, but I knew what was inside.

"Lucinda?" Nana stomped away from the door, heading toward the kitchen.

My fingers wiggled. The letter fell from my hand and floated into the box. It landed on the book.

I hadn't touched the book since I'd put it in this box. I didn't touch anything once it was in the box. The box made things go away. At least that's what mother had told me when she'd given it to me. She'd had me write down my nightmares and place them inside.

And she'd been right. Those nightmares had gone away, but then she had too.

"Lucinda!"

Nana was getting angry. There was a thump, her cane hitting the floor. If I didn't appear soon, she'd get suspicious.

I slid the lid onto the box and shoved it back under the floorboard. Then I reached for a striped stocking cap. Before pulling it onto my head, I glanced back at the floorboard and book hidden beneath it.

I hesitated.

The door flew open. "What are you doing in there?"

I held up the hat. "I was cold."

Nana leaned to the right, putting her weight onto her cane. Her gaze darted behind me, over the contents of the stuffed closet. Apparently not seeing anything suspicious, she looked back at me and the hat. She wrinkled her nose. "Not that cold."

I glanced at the cap. It was gold and green with a tassel on the tip. I jerked it down over my ears.

Shaking her head, Nana tromped toward the kitchen. "Dinner's soup, from a can. Tomato or chicken noodle. Your choice."

She pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen then one foot in the kitchen, the other in the dining room, she paused.

"Nana?" I asked.

She tilted her head, waiting.

"The Baxters moved. Do you know why?"

Her cane rose an inch, then slowly settled back onto the floor. "Spent too much on cruises and big screen TVs. Bank foreclosed."

"Really?" I'd already known that, but I'd hoped bringing it up would get Nana to come clean about our own situation.

"Really. Now what do you want for dinner?"

"But we own this house, right?" She'd always said we did. It was one of the reasons the letter had been such a shock.

She stood straighter, her gaze shooting across the room and locking onto me like a spotlight on an escaping convict. "I'm not making payments to anybody on anything. You know that."

Buy what you can afford and nothing more. It was the mantra I'd been raised with.

Nana didn't borrow money. The letter had to be a mistake.

But still as I followed her into the kitchen, I couldn't let it go, couldn't put the letter or what it would mean to my grandmother and me, if it was true, out of my mind. But I couldn't bring it up either, couldn't ask her if we were at risk of losing our home.

This house had been in our family for generations. It was where I'd grown up; it was my entire history.

But it was more than that. It was where my mother had disappeared, where she would reappear…if she could.

Fiddling with a stray strand of yarn that dangled from the side of the hat, I pulled open the silverware drawer and picked out two spoons.

"Do we have savings?" I asked, hoping I was being casual.

Nana, busy sliding a can of tomato soup under the can opener's blade, stilled. "We have the house. That's enough."

"But what if…?"

She plopped the open can onto the counter and turned. The lid slipped into the can and soup slopped onto her hand. "What's going on, Lucinda? Why are you asking me this?"

I couldn't tell her about the letter. She would have known I'd been snooping. "Someone called, from the bank."

"The bank…" She shook her head and reached for a towel. "It's nothing."

I swallowed. "They said we owed taxes and that the house was getting run down. They said they could take it from us if we didn't take care of things."

She waved the towel in the air, but not before I caught the flash of worry in her eyes. "Nonsense. They can't do that." She turned back to the can and poked her finger into the soup to retrieve the lid.

Her hands were shaking. "Forget about the bank and get bowls. Get yourself a TV tray too. You can eat in front of the TV."

We never ate in front of the TV.

"Where are you eating?" I asked.

Busy dumping the soup into a saucepan, she looked up. "I'll eat later. There's something I need to do. Something I forgot at the store."

After turning the burner to medium, she hobbled from the room. A few minutes later she had on her coat and was headed out the front door. She didn't say anything as she left and I didn't either.

Nana and I had a long history of pretending bad things didn't happen.

Unfortunately, pretending never made them go away. Not really.

Chapter 2

The next day, Nana didn't bring up the bank and neither did I. She'd come back the day before looking drawn and worried. She'd spent the rest of the day in the attic rummaging through boxes.

This morning I'd found the phone book lying open. An ad for an auctioneer popped off the page at me and there was a stack of boxes by the front door.

When I stopped to stare at it, she made a shooing motion with her hands. "Spring cleaning. There'll be men coming this afternoon. Don't get in their way."

I didn't mention spring was long over.

She walked past, her cane making a solid determined sound as it struck the wood floor. At the piano she stopped. She laid a hand on the lid.

Nana didn't play. I didn't either, but my mother had and so had Nana's.

My grandmother stroked the old wood like she was smoothing a child's hair. "Your great grandmother taught your mother to play on this piano. You know that?"

I hadn't, but it made sense.

"Don't guess we have much use for it now though." Her voice cracked. She picked up her hand.

"I can learn." I'd never wanted to play. I had actually fought the suggestion more than once.

She turned, her fingers folding into her palm and her cane landing on the floor with a thump. "Not who you are, Lucinda. Not who you are." Then she hobbled into the kitchen.

Not who I was.

I wasn't sure Nana knew who I was as well as she thought, or maybe I wanted to believe there were parts of me she hadn't seen. That there was more to come from me.

And maybe it was time I stepped out of my box and found that something more.

o0o

I waited until the men had left and Nana too. She'd gone to the store. We'd run out of peanut butter. Nana couldn't last a day without a PB and J. She'd taken the bus, instead of our unreliable car, which meant I had at least an hour and a half until she got back.

I went to the closet first.

The book was still there and my hand still tingled when I touched the leather, but the feeling passed. In fact after only a few moments, my fingers seemed to curve around the spine naturally, like they'd been meant to hold the book, and the tingle switched to warmth.

Comforting, like when you hold a cup of hot cocoa after being out in the cold. I didn't want to set the book down. I tucked it under my arm; the warmth spread to my body.

It wasn't a good thing. I had enough sense to know that. A book about demons…any good feelings it brought couldn't truly be good.

But instead of setting the volume down, I hugged it tighter.

Nana was selling her things, but her things were limited. I had to do my part. It was time, past time.

I'd lived with Nana all my life. She was the only person who had never left me. My mother left. I wasn't even sure she didn't choose to leave. No, correct that. She did choose to leave, by choosing to call demons, constantly.

My grandmother had warned Mum about calling them as much as she did. She told her it could be addicting, but I think Mum was lost from the beginning.

The rush she got from that circle was impossible to miss, even for a six-year-old.

After she'd spent time in the basement calling, she would glow for days afterward. But eventually the rush would wear off. Then she'd crash, get the shakes–show all the classic signs of withdrawal. And she'd be back in the basement, inside her circle, chanting.

Times would be perfect then, for a while. I'd get gifts; Mum would be happy and kind. Life in general would be good–for months, weeks…days. The time kept getting shorter until one day she went down into the basement and never came back.

Calling demons was stupid. No doubt about it.

But sometimes, stupid is all you got.

I wedged my body behind the old furnace. It was made of iron and huge. Behind it was a door my grandmother thought was hidden. And it was–if you didn't know it existed. But I'd watched my mother go in and out it on too many occasions.

Nana had boarded the door up after Mum disappeared, but I knew her calling tools still lay somewhere behind it. I knew because Nana wouldn't have touched them. She was afraid of them.

I slid the tip of a crow bar under the top board and leaned. The wood creaked. I stopped and checked the damage.

No cracks. That was good. I'd need to board the door back up when I was through, so Nana wouldn't know what I'd done. I wouldn't need to get in here again. I just needed Mum's tools. I'd be doing my demon calling outside the house.

That was an important part of my plan–calling places outside of this house. Mum had used the space too often, weakened the veil here. I figured that's how she'd got caught, something nasty, maybe even a demon lord, had got through and snatched her.

Secure my work so far would be easy to cover, I continued sliding the bar under the wood and leaning until the first board popped loose. I continued working on the remaining two until the door wiggled under my hand.

The door stuck a few inches in, but I put my shoulder against it and pushed. It scraped over dirt as it inched inward. The basement had a cement floor, but this little room was still dirt, walls and floors. Cobwebs grabbed onto my hair and face as I stepped inside.

The space was tiny, probably originally meant as a root cellar, or maybe not. Demon calling was in the blood. Generations of Dents may have used this space for the same purpose my mother had. Nana might know, but I sure wasn't asking her.

I pulled the string on the lone light bulb that hung from the ceiling. Amazingly, it worked. I'd brought a flashlight just in case, but was pretty happy I wouldn't need it. The glare of the stark bulb felt warm, gave me a tiny sense of security. Enough that when the door creaked closed behind me I didn't jump, at least not visibly. Feeling stronger than I'd thought I would, I left the door closed and turned to face the room.

A circle drawn with white paint dominated the floor. It was impossible to miss. I knew it was paint without touching it. My mother had made a lot of jokes about people who drew their circles with chalk–said they were one smudge away from "home." Most people thought of home as a good place, but I'd known by how she'd said the word, it wasn't.

Mum must be "home" now too. I drew in a breath and let my body adjust to the cold clamminess that had suddenly formed on my skin. There was moisture in the corner of my eyes too. I blinked that away. Even when I was six Mum hadn't hid the dangers of what she did from me. She'd raised me to be pragmatic.

Mum was gone. Nana and I were here…in this house. I needed to keep it that way.

I stepped closer to the white line. I let my foot break the circle. My feet were bare. I didn't like wearing shoes when I didn't have to. My toes looked strange poking into that circle, made the whole demon thing seem like something I'd dreamed, but then I looked up and saw my mother's leather pouch laying open on the other side of the room. It was flat, empty.

I looked in the circle then. An athame and stone bowl lay near the center. The athame was shoved hilt to dirt into the floor, but the bowl was turned over. The dirt was darker around it. I didn't want to think about what had been in that bowl that the stain was still there ten years later. So I shoved that question into a little box in my head where I kept my grief and shut it off too, concentrated on finding the rest of Mum's tools instead.

They were all there, but they were scattered–as if a big wind had exploded from the center of the room…the circle…and blown them to the four corners.

I didn't think about that, either. I just went about picking everything up and shoving the items into Mum's leather pouch.

When the bag was bulging, I turned to leave. I got as far as the door before I stumbled. My bare toes made contact with something hard and cold. A shiver shot through me and it took all the courage I could muster to look down and see what had stopped my step.

It was a statue, about six inches tall and carved out of something white–bone. Had to be from a big animal–or a human. I gripped the bag tighter. My hands were sweating now. If Mum had been there she would have laughed. Here I was wanting to call demons and the sight of a little bone statue almost sent me running.

Not just the sight, I corrected mentally, the touch too. It had been…slimy. Crawled up my leg and wrapped around my calf. I could still feel it even though the object was no longer in contact with my skin. I picked up my foot and shook my leg.

It was a silly thing to do, but it made me feel better, broke the tension somehow.

I managed a chuckle at myself then, and ordered my knees to bend so I could get a closer look at the figure. It was one of Mum's tools. I might need it.

I should take it.

I reached out thinking if I grabbed the thing fast, I'd get past the part of my brain that was screaming no, but it didn't work. My hand stopped three inches above the small statue and hovered there, shaking.

I started humming, a bad habit I was trying to break. I managed to stop the sound, but gave up on picking up the figurine. I lowered my hand to the ground beside the thing instead and stared at it.

I knew instantly I was looking into the face of my mother's killer. Horns sprouted from his forehead and curled down the back of his head, ending at his shoulders. His face was long and angular, but strangely attractive…aristocratic.

A demon lord. Where had my mother found the object? And more important, why had she called him up?

His eyes seemed to glimmer, to watch me. Something urged me to pick up the statue. My hand even moved toward it. I curled my fingers into the dirt. A nail broke off into the packed earth, and pain shot through my finger. I winced and glanced at my hand.

Blood beaded where the nail had been; it mixed with the dirt.

Someone exhaled, sighed. I thought for a second it was me, like my humming, but then the statue turned his head and his tongue, skinny and white, flicked from between his teeth and lapped at the blood-stained earth.

I picked up the bag and ran like hell–from hell or "home" or whatever lived in my basement.

o0o

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Glossary, Unbound Series

Creatures

Draugr Corporeal undead. Can take a rough human form with bluish skin or travel as smoke forming dark clouds. Not very intelligent, but deadly. Can grow in size and smell of rotting flesh. Crushes or eats their victims alive. Only a few "heroes" can kill them.
Dwarves Live in Nidavellir. Known for strength and ability to work with all metals.
Feil Guardians of Fenrir. Made from the earth of Lyngvi, they can only exist on the isle.
Garm Human/wolf shape-shifters. Garm are guardians by nature. Garms serve as guardians to portals, other paranormal beings and worlds. Being a guardian is an essential part of what garm are. Losing their charge, whether a being or a portal, is like losing their purpose for existence. Without such a duty, they become rogue.
Hraesvelg Giant corpse-eating eagle who sits at the edge of Helheim. The flapping of his wings creates a terrible wind.
Hellhounds Human/massive dog shape-shifters. Hellhounds are hunters by nature. In the past they were used by the gods to run the Wild Hunt–dragging back souls of the evil (or those deemed evil by the gods). Today, with the hunt a thing of the past, they survive as they can – working for whoever has a need of their deadly skills.
Light Elves Live in Alfheim. Don't have magic of their own, but can put magic into objects. Also known for agility and beauty.
Svartalfars Dark elves. Live in Svartalfaheim. Frequently make their living as mercenaries. Cunning and agile.

Nine Worlds

Alfheim Land of light elves.
Asgard Land of the Aesir.
Jotunheim Land of giants and trolls.
Muspelheim Land devoured by fire, impassable to anyone not native. Guarded by Surt and his fiery sword.
Nidavellir Land of dwarfs.
Niflheim Land of freezing mists.
Midgard Land of humans.
Svartalfaheim Land of Svartalfar/dark elves.
Vanaheim Land of the Vanir.

Other terms, places and events

Elf Lords Political leaders of Alfheim and light elves.
Forandre Shape-shifters.
Forandre Rules In a battle between forandre when "forandre rules" is called both participants must fight in their weakest form (usually human). If either is overpowered by blood lust and changes to their stronger form, they lose and forfeit their life.
Garm Council A small group of garm who oversaw the guardians of the most important portals, landmarks, and beings.
Gunngar Land that used to serve as a passageway between Svartalfaheim and Alfheim. Shut down by Elf Lords, then reopened in Dark Crusade. Gunngar is only accessible through two tunnels one leading to Svartalfaheim and one leading to Alfheim; and one main portal. Other portals to Gunngar are roavers–meaning they jump around, you never know where they will open. Although Gunngar is accessible by tunnels, it is not below ground.
Helheim Land of the dead and Hel which lays within Niflheim.
Lyngvi Mist-covered, rocky isle. Prison of Fenrir.
Midgard Sea Sea that encircles Midgard, world of humans. Also home of Jormun.
Ragnarok The legendary final battle which will destroy all nine worlds.
Wild Hunt Hunt for souls led by various gods and other powerful beings using hellhounds.
Yggdrasill The world tree which holds the nine worlds of Norse mythology.

Characters, Unbound Series

Unbound, Unbound Book 1

Risk Leidolf (hero UNBOUND) is a hellhound owned by immortal witch Lusse.

Kara Shane (heroine UNBOUND) is a witch, half of a set of identical twins. Twin witches are believed to be the most powerful witches to ever exist.

Lusse (UNBOUND) is an immortal witch who keeps a kennel of hellhounds and uses them to hunt down other witches whose powers she drains to build her own.

Image from Unbound with Kara and Risk (in hound form).

Art by Lindsey Lewellen.

Guardian's Keep, Unbound Book 2

Kol Hildr (hero GUARDIAN'S KEEP) is a garm (wolf-shape-shifter) and owner of The Guardian's Keep (bar with portal).

Kelly Shane (heroine GUARDIAN'S KEEP) is Kara's sister – the other half of the twin witch set.

Fenrir (GUARDIAN'S KEEP) is the most powerful garm of all time. He is the son of Loki (a god) and brother of Jormun (UNBOUND).

Wild Hunt, Unbound Book 3

Venge Leidolf (hero WILD HUNT) is a hellhound and son of Risk (UNBOUND).

Geysa Brynhild (heroine WILD HUNT) is a valkyrie whose mother was taken by the Wild Hunt.

Erl King (WILD HUNT) is the leader of the Wild Hunt. He is neither a god nor a man, but something in between. If the Erl King is killed, another takes his place, by taking up the horn.

Captured, Unbound World, Nocturne Bite

Gray Barsk (hero CAPTURED) is a hellhound who trained in meditation to control his bloodlust.

Leve (heroine CAPTURED) female hellhound who was sold to the Kamp to fight in the Arena. Her previous owner was Lusse (UNBOUND). She is also Venge's (WILD HUNT) mother.

Dark Crusade, Unbound Book 4

Kerr Vik (hero DARK CRUSADE) is a garm who was exiled from the human world in Guardian's Keep attempting to overthrow the Garm Council. His greatest desire is to live in a world where all garm can have a role as a guardian.

Heather Moore (heroine DARK CRUSADE) is a witch who was exiled from the human world in Guardian's Keep for her part in helping the rogues' attempts to overthrow the Garm Council.

Amma (DARK CRUSADE) powerful witch who is half-elf. She was separated from her body by the Elf Lords. Her body was kept in Alfheim; her spirit (and magic) was put in an object and sent to Gunngar. Gunngar was then shut down to keep her there. She is Lusse's (from Unbound) sister.

Marina Adal (DARK CRUSADE) leader of the Jager, a force of light elves sent by the Elf Lords to keep Amma in Gunngar.

Unbound, excerpt

Chapter One

It was the fear he smelled first, a pheromone-laden scent almost irresistible to the hell hound within him. She was here–somewhere.  

Risk Leidolf spun on one worn boot heel, searching the dim interior of the bar for his latest assignment. He didn't have much information: young and pretty, Lusse had said. She hadn't bothered to tell him anything more. It didn't matter. Whatever Lusse's latest target brought to the fight–talents or temptations–she would be no match for him.

They never were.  

The room was a kaleidoscope of sounds, smells, and emotions–an onslaught that would be overwhelming to a less experienced hunter, but sadly for his prey, it would barely slow Risk down. He inhaled, dissecting the surrounding scents. Stale beer and human sweat. He shoved them aside.

Emotion was what he sought. What he craved.

A tinge of desperation wafted toward him. He ignored it too. Despair and what followed, guilt and sorrow, held no appeal for Risk. No, much as he wished it different, adrenaline was what lured him–fear, anger. They called to him, making him a slave to urges he wished he could forget.

Clearing his senses, he concentrated, listening to the low murmur of voices around him. It was quiet for a bar, but an undercurrent ran through the place, a vibration of danger humming around him like a tuning fork held to his ear.

The bar held secrets, but Risk was unconcerned. He had one job tonight, to retrieve the female for Lusse, and save himself from another period of service in the kennels. Torture he could handle, but being forced to live with the other hounds, fighting daily just to survive, perhaps even losing the small piece of territory he had secured for himself in this world, that would surely drive him mad.  

He laughed, a dry hollow sound. Like a hell hound could ever be called anything but mad, soulless according to his owner.

Thoughts of Lusse caused his jaw to tense, brought him back to his purpose. Enough. Get on with it.  

Adjusting his dark glasses down his nose until he could peer over their tops, he studied the room. Grizzled men and timeworn women filled battered tables around him. Not sparing them more than a glance, his gaze shifted to the back, where the shadows grew deeper. Instinctively, he knew that was where he would find her.

She might think the gloom would disguise her, but it offered no protection from Hel's hunters. With a sigh, he continued his scrutiny.  The booths were empty–save one. Huddled in the cubby furthest from the door was a small lone figure. His prey. Even with Lusse's vague description he couldn't miss her. Young, pretty and fresh. She stood out in the place like an angel dropped into a pit filled with vipers.

Leaning against the rough paneling on the wall behind him, he took a moment to study her. Petite, probably only one hundred and ten pounds, and with dark hair that fell past her shoulders, she seemed lost in thought. Her hand hovered over a shot glass of amber liquid and a crumpled paper was smoothed out on the table in front of her.

Now that he had her pinpointed, he focused on her fully. Fear. The strength of it caught him off guard. Placing his hand on the unfinished wood, he inhaled, nostrils flaring. How did one so small contain so much emotion? Willing himself to stay controlled, he turned to her again. Yes, fear, but there was sorrow too, and…she plucked the shot glass off the table with her finger and thumb and tossed the liquid to the back of her throat…determination.

This one might be afraid, but it wasn't for herself. 

This one was a fighter.  

A sliver of respect sliced into him. With a shake of his head, he tamped it down.  Let her fight.  

A lot of good it would do.  The cynical thought should have urged him to action, but he waited still. She would be easy to capture–why rush?  The female slid the empty glass across the table and signaled the waitress for another. As she waited, she ran a pale hand over the crumpled paper in front of her, caressing it, as if trying to gain reassurance or knowledge from its length.

The waitress returned and his prey looked up to thank her, but her gaze wandered to Risk instead. Startled, he stepped sideways, further into the gloom. Could she see him? He had guarded himself carefully tonight. Perhaps Lusse was right. Perhaps his human half was growing too strong, weakening the hell hound, weakening his hunting powers. And, as Lusse was fond of pointing out, weakness equaled only one thing–death.

He peered back at his prey. Did she see him?  

Her gaze passed over him, and he relaxed. Just coincidence, but still…he hesitated. There was something different about this female, something that made him reluctant to deliver her to Lusse, the witch who kept him chained in her service.  

He shook his head. This was insane–he should just be done with it, lure the female to the parking lot, Change and carry her to Lusse.  The female downed her second drink, picked up the paper and stood to leave. This was Risk's chance. One husky whisper in her ear, and it would be over. Another soul, another power, in payment toward his eternal debt.

The female strode past him, close enough he could smell the undertones of spice in her perfume, and he let her pass. 

He pushed his glasses back into place, hiding eyes that almost surely glimmered red by this time. What was wrong? Why was he reluctant? Why did a piece of him almost wish she had seen him–proven he was more human than beast. Why did the thought of destroying one more life seem a much bigger price than the torture and loss he faced if he didn't.

Cursing, he concentrated on that loss. This female was nothing to him, but he, he had an eternity to suffer.  

Damn Lusse, and her quest for souls.  

He forced his hand to the silver chain around his neck, letting the ancient metal links dig into his palm. This was who he was–property, nothing more. Pulling his coat more closely around him, he turned to follow.

# # #

A cold blast of air hit Kara Shane as soon as she left the bar. The two whiskeys she'd drank did little to warm her now, and they'd done nothing to lessen the pain of losing Kelly.  

Her sister had been missing a full week today. The police seemed to have given up hope, but not Kara. Kelly was out there somewhere–she had to be, Kara couldn't accept anything else.

She gathered her coat more closely around her and walked into the wind. Maybe the frigid air would do what the whiskey hadn't–knock loose some idea that would lead her to Kelly. Something different than the dead end that had led her here tonight. A discarded match book, how cliché. Was she really so pathetic she'd jump at any straw?

She'd known she was out of her element as soon as she stepped into the bar. Part-time employees of cute little tea shops did not stride into a place like the Guardian's Keep and leave with the name of their sister's abductor in hand. No, part-time employees of cute little tea shops were lucky they left…at all.

She'd thought she could brazen it out. Even borrowed Kelly's floor-length leather coat–very Matrix–but it couldn't make her strong, confident, something she wasn't. The bartender hadn't bothered to look at the missing flyer she'd edged under his nose. The waitress was worse, coarsely suggesting she take her size four ass back to the mall while she still had a chance, and the patrons…well, Kara didn't even have the courage to approach them.

She was failing, and Kelly was somewhere, suffering because of it.

Lost in her thoughts, it took a few seconds for her to realize something wasn't right, that she was being followed. There was no sound, just a sensation. An eerie knowledge that something was behind her and getting closer. With an uncharacteristic calmness, perhaps brought on by the whiskey or the numbness from losing Kelly, she slipped a hand inside her coat and removed the can of mace her sister always kept tucked in the inside pocket.

Kelly with her "I can take on the world" outlook wouldn't be afraid–neither would Kara. She slipped her thumb under the safety cap.

Despite her resolve, the combination of alcohol, pain, and adrenaline made her almost giddy. Why didn't the bastard just jump her and get it over?

She didn't have to wait much longer. Within seconds, the heat of his breath crawled over the back of her neck. She spun, the can hissing as it released a steady stream of mace.

Instantly, she realized her error. Too soon. Her would-be attacker was still fifteen feet away, and…she took a steadying breath…wasn't human.

A shaggy-looking dog stared back at her.  

"Go home, puppy," she called, suppressing the sudden surge of panic that threatened to drive her to her knees. Dogs, she hated dogs. Had since…refusing to let her mind slip back in time, she gripped the mace can, the feel of the cool metal against her palm reassuring.

Stay calm, she recited mentally. That was what the trainer she'd talked with afterwards had told her. Don't panic. Don't run. It is very rare that a dog attacks for no reason. Don't give him one. Filling her lungs with air, she forced herself to stand still. "No food on me," she murmured.

The ginger-colored dog tilted his head as if studying her, then lifting his nose, took a long whiff of the frigid air.

Nothing to be afraid of. Just a lost dog, a stray. She wasn't in his yard, his territory. Nothing about her was threatening. It would wander off now. She willed the thought to be true.

Kara waited, her breath puffing white in front of her.  

The dog lowered its head then lifted it one more time to study her.

Kara froze. "Go home puppy", she whispered.  The dog glanced over its shoulder, then turned to face her. Taking two steps forward, it glanced up. 

Kara's next breath caught in her chest.

Its eyes…were red.

Kara blinked, unable to believe what she was seeing. The dog moved forward a step, then two. His head held low, his tail stiff behind him, he glanced at her, an almost human intelligence in his eyes. The cold determination she saw there sent a shiver dancing up her spine.

This was no ordinary dog.

No, she corrected herself. It was. It had to be. Her mind was just playing tricks on her–too many sleepless nights worrying about Kelly causing old phobias to come back and haunt her.

Now firmly in the circle of light, the dog stood facing Kara its jaws gaping, drool streaming from its mouth, red eyes flickering like windows in a burning building.

Ordinary? Not quite. What was wrong with the thing?

Her hand tense around the mace, Kara kept her gaze steady. When you looked away, that's when they attacked. Or at least that was what happened with Jessie. The dog was there one second, staring her and her friend down, then Kara looked away, just to search for an escape, and the dog sprung. Not on Kara, no on Jessie. Just on Jessie. Kara didn't remember much after that, except the screams–always the screams. She still didn't know if they were hers or her friend's.

Tears threatened to spill from her eyes. This wasn't helping. Forget the past.

Blinking hard, she edged backward, making what she hoped were soothing sounds. "Nice dog. Nothing to eat here." Be strong. Think like Kelly. Kelly who had saved her that day, and kept her sane every day since.

Cell phone. She had her cell phone. Tugging it from the pocket in her backpack with her free hand, she continued talking. "How would you like to meet some new friends?"

Friends with shock collars and nice strong steel cages.

The dog raised his lip in a snarl, revealing a three-inch-long canine.

Maybe a friend with a nice .38 would be better. Kara used her thumb to flip open the phone, and began punching. She would survive this.

She had to survive this.

The squeal of a wrong number answered here. Damn. She glanced down to redial…and instantly realized her mistake.

The dog backed up, bracing itself on its hind legs as it prepared to leap. With no where to run, Kara pointed the can in the creature's direction and steeled herself for the impending attack.

For the second time that night, the can hissed, but the dog didn't waver. With a chilling growl, it shot off the ground soaring directly toward Kara. 

The world slowed around her. She should run now. She knew it, but somehow she couldn't. All she could do was wait, knowing there was no way she would survive this attack.

As the parking lot swirled around her, the dog close enough she could smell the rotten egg stench of his breath, a blur of silver shot forward from the shadows, knocking her assailant to the asphalt.

Elation swept over her. A second dog, a silver one, stood poised above the first. Kara used a shaking hand to brush hair from her face. He saved her.

The new arrival glanced up. Red eyes glowed back at her.

Her own rounded in horror.

-o0o-

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Love is All You Need, excerpt

Pearls before swine… "You want me to buy a pig in a poke?" Del Montgomery twisted the necklace at her throat and struggled to remember that the man sitting across from her desk had the power to take away everything those pearls represented.

"Not just any pig in a poke, the pig in a poke. The Unruh Pig." Her boss, Benjamin Porter, couldn't have been any more condescending if she'd asked "Which Liberty Bell?" Of course, Del was used to his attitude. As creator of Porter Auctions, the premier auction house of the Midwest, Porter tended to address her with a certain level of disdain on a regular basis.

She was used to it, but she didn't like it.

"Ah, the Unruh Pig." Del searched her memory for mention of any swine in Unruh's history. The pottery company, though legendary, had enjoyed a brief existence in the early 1900s. They were best known for their founder's eccentric free-form designs—never had she heard of anything resembling a pig.

"That was before the second fire, wasn't it?" A safe question, since everything of any value was created before the second rebuilding of the factory.

"So, you have heard of it?" Porter beamed at her. "I was certain if anyone knew the history, it would be you."

Lucky her. Rolling her pearls between the pads of her index finger and thumb, she asked, "Who did you say tipped you off the Pig was back in circulation?"

Porter leaned against the worn leather of the one side chair allotted to her office and watched her over the top of his tortoise-shell glasses. "I didn't."

Ass. "Fair enough." She pulled a spiral notebook that served as her Day Timer from her lap drawer. "So you want me to authenticate the piece before we accept it?"

"Yes." Porter adjusted his skinny butt, like he couldn't get comfortable in the hand-me-down seating. Del hoped both of his cheeks went numb.

Expecting more information, she waited, pen poised over paper. Nothing came.

Okay, try another tactic. "Is this to be an open auction or are we just acquiring it for a 'special' client?"

Apparently more comfortable with this topic, Porter replied, "An open auction. The tip was a personal favor to me, a repayment of sorts."

Del gave him time to continue.

He didn't. Fine, she wasn't in the "need to know" club. Hell, she got kicked out of Brownies; she couldn't expect more from Pompous Porter. He had to give her something though.

"Did this person mention where the Pig is now?" He had to answer that—unless the thing was supposed to materialize at midnight under the light of a gibbous moon, or some other such nonsense. She tapped her pen against her desk calendar.

Porter took a moment to check his cell phone for text messages. Looking up, he seemed surprised to see her. "You were saying?"

That you are a complete moron, with a dick the size of a toothpick. She smiled. "Just wondering where the Pig is now. Did this person give you an address or just a contact name and number?"

"Neither, actually." He flipped his phone shut. "Just somewhere in southern Missouri."

Somewhere in southern Missouri? Del kept her face purposely blank. "Really. Do you have a starting point?"

"Allen County, that's where the rumors started. So, that's where we'll start. Well, you, anyway. You can leave tonight."

Leave tonight? For southern Missouri? Del pasted a cooperative look on her face. "Are you sure I'm the right person for this? David has a lot more experience in acquisitions than I do, and this could be a big one. I don't want to step on any toes." Or have my toes caught and hauled off.

Porter stood. "Stomp on toes if you have to, but get the Pig. We have an Unruh collection slated for sale in one month. I want the piece by then."

"But David-"

"Will do as I tell him. He'd be as out of place in southern Missouri as a Loetz vase at a Five and Dime. You'll blend right in."

Gee, thanks. Del's smile was getting a little tired. Porter didn't seem to notice. He headed for the door.

"Wait, do you have any more information other than just Allen County?" Was the frustration beginning to edge into her voice? "I mean, that could be a big area."

He halted. "Not so big, the place is a speck of dirt on the map—maybe five thousand people in the entire county. Good news for us."

"Good news?" Del didn't see how leaving the conveniences of Chicago for a half-a-horse town in southern Missouri could possibly be good news.

Porter slipped her a self-satisfied smile. "Certainly, think about it. Even if the Pig turns up, who there would have the sense to know what it is?"

* * *

Sam Samson gripped the head of his mallet and surveyed the crowd from atop a flatbed trailer. All the usuals were here: the rusty-junk crowd, the pretty-glass set, and even the I-can-make-a-buck-on-anything throng. Yep, the players were here, but their dollars weren't on the board.

He motioned for Kenny, who was sitting at the wheel of Sam's dually, to pull forward another five yards. His friend complied, towing the trailer over the rutted ground until Sam was even with a stack of discarded auto parts and old farm tools.

Sam studied the bidders digging through dirty boxes and dingy bedclothes. He spied a likely target.

"Earl, you got your number ready?" Sam called over the bullhorn.

A man in worn overalls and a greasy feed hat waved a white card with a black 87 on it.

Sam lowered the horn. "Where's Gail?" he called to Earl. The older man was almost always good for upping bids on auto parts. Sam had no idea what Earl did with the dirty crap he hauled home after a sale, but he did know he'd get a lot more action out of Earl if his wife wasn't around to smack down his bidding arm.

"She's in the house looking at fancy glass," Sam's pigeon yelled back.

"Lot of nice stuff in there," Sam replied, then searched the trailers for his assistant. Spotting Charlie, he motioned her over.

With his voice low and his gaze on Earl, he said, "Why don't you go in and help the ladies out? Get them started on the small stuff and I'll be in just as soon as we're done with this lot. But whatever you do, keep Gail inside." Sam nodded toward Earl.

"Will do, boss." Charlie all but clicked her heels together in a sign of false subservience. Grinning, she whipped her ponytail around and jogged toward the white clapboard house. Sam dragged his hand over his face. She might be cocky, but she'd do her job; now he just had to do his.

Thirty minutes later, Sam had unloaded two tons of spare parts not worth the gas it would cost to haul them to the dump and had made a thousand dollars in the process. Well, not a thousand to him; his cut would be more like three hundred, then he'd have to pay Charlie and the kids who helped out, sorting merchandise before the sale and holding up boxes during. Hell, when you thought about it, Sam probably lost money wheedling and cajoling every penny out of today's tight-fisted crowd.

He needed a break. He was never going to get the money to set up a second office in Springfield at the rate he was going. One good break, that was all he was asking. Something simple like Jesse James' gun belt or a previously unknown novel by Mark Twain, anything really. Just something worth some decent cash and with enough mystique to guarantee him lots of bidders and plenty of press. Yep, that was all he needed.

He hopped off the trailer and trotted toward the house. His pointy-toed cowboy boots hit the kitchen's worn linoleum just in time to hear Charlie call a set of Pyrex bowls sold for one dollar.

Yep, he needed a break. Fast.

* * *

Del backed her Insight into the tiny space in front of a diner creatively named the Bunny Hutch. She'd bought the car the same weekend Porter had presented her with her pearls. Naively, she'd been under the impression that along with the pearls came a raise in salary, but no, she still had to prove herself for that. In the meantime she was saddled with car payments she couldn't afford while she continued to fling herself into work and toward the as-yet-invisible brass ring. This search for the Unruh Pig was, she hoped, the boost she needed.

Porter had been no help whatsoever, not even a vague suggestion on where to start her search. Somewhere in Allen County—maybe. Talk about a needle in a haystack, and only a month to find it. Boss or not, the man was insane.

The thing probably didn't even exist. If she'd ever heard a tale, and she'd heard plenty, the Unruh Pig had all the markings.

She slammed her car door and went to feed the meter. Illinois plates, small Missouri town, the meter maid was probably salivating already.

It was early, not quite eleven. The lunch crowd hadn't arrived and the breakfast crowd was gone. That left the regulars—old men who did nothing all day but sit at a Formica-topped table and drink coffee, when there wasn't a sale within a sixty-mile radius, that was. If anyone could point her in the direction of the Pig, she'd find him here.

She loosened the collar of her silk blouse and slapped a smile on her face.

"What can I getcha?" The waitress had a coffee stain the size of a saucer on her white apron and circles the size of Utah under her eyes. Her name tag read "Becca."

"Hard day?" Del slid onto a stool at the counter. The seventy-something man sitting near her pushed back his feed cap and nodded. Not one to waste an opportunity, Del flashed him her brightest Crest Whitestrips smile.

"Nothing out of the ordinary." Becca rested her elbow on the counter-top. "You want coffee?"

Del returned her attention to the woman. She couldn't be more than twenty-five, but Del knew too well problems didn't come just with age.

"Decaf, if it's fresh, and a doughnut." Del pointed to the glass display case that housed stacks of pastries in various degrees of wholesomeness.

"How about a tractor tire? They're the freshest." The waitress filled Del's cup and at Del's nod, retrieved a three-inch high doughnut.

Del added cream to her coffee, picked up the dessert and dunked as much as would fit into the hot liquid. For a few minutes she forgot her mission, the waitress' sad eyes, and her own problems. She hadn't had a fresh doughnut like this since, well it seemed like forever, definitely a life-time ago.

"Where you from?" The spark of interest brought Becca to life, telling Del maybe this one could still be saved, not that Del was in the saving business. She had her own hide to look out for.

"Not from around here, I'm guessing." Becca nodded to Del's silk shirt and A-line skirt. Del couldn't say why she'd donned her normal work apparel today. For some reason the business attire made her feel safe, distanced a bit, and she wanted to prove Porter wrong. She didn't blend in southern Missouri anymore than David would have.

Glancing at the other woman's stained apron, she realized she'd made a mistake. She wasn't here to prove anything, even to herself. She was here to find the Pig and get back to Chicago—period. To do that she was going to have to build trust fast; looking like a foreigner wasn't going to help any.

"Not too far from here, just haven't been home in a while." Del purposely let the accent she had spent the past seven years stamping out of her voice seep back in. It was easy, too easy.

The waitress' smile warmed another degree or two. "You want another doughnut? How about a bear claw?"

Feeling smaller than a two dollar bid, Del swallowed her last bite. "No thanks."

Becca grabbed the aluminum-bottomed coffee pot. After refilling Del's cup, she wandered over to a couple who had just come in.

Del refocused on her purpose. No time for morals, she had a room to work.

Again realizing she was sliding into old habits, Del winced, but shook it off. There was no help for it. As Daddy always said, do unto others before somebody bigger comes along and kicks you in the butt. And she had no desire to be pulling Porter's Italian loafer out of her behind.

Her friend in the feed hat picked up a newspaper someone had left on the counter. He snapped it open and turned to the classifieds.

Pay dirt.

"Any good sales coming up?" Del turned on the swivel stool until she faced him.

"Missed a good 'un this Saturday, Delbert Perkins' place. His kin shipped 'im off to the home. Can't likely picture ole Delbert sitting in a rocker, sipping apple juice, and pissing in a diaper." Her friend clicked his false teeth. "Them young'uns of his didn't hardly wait till his bag was out the door before they called in Sam and his outfit. Sold everything, even the family Bible." He adjusted his dentures with his tongue. "Now what kind of folks got that little respect for family, you tell me that."

Del made sympathetic noises in the back of her throat.

"I tell you what, anymores people think they can make two bits on somethin' and they get down right stupid." He took a loud slurp from his cup.

Shaking her head, Del added more cream to her cup. She could use a little stupid to good advantage right about now. "You get anything good?"

He grinned. "Lever action .22, Delbert was always right proud of that gun." Slapping his hand on the counter, he laughed. "I picked it up for only sixty dollars. Sam was madder than a tomcat with his tail caught in the garden gate."

Del smiled in appreciation. "Sounds like a good one. Was there not much turnout or just lazy bidders?"

"A bit of both, the regulars was all there, but they were keeping their hands in their pockets. Just the way I like it." He winked. "And there weren't no turnout from Springfield either. Sometimes them dealers come over and you can't get a decent buy to save your granny's knickers."

"So this Sam, he any good?" A big-mouthed small town auctioneer was just the kind of tour guide Del could use to her best advantage.

"Good enough. He's about the only game in town, 'bout run everbody else out. He knows how to work a crowd, gets people bidding so fast they lose track of what they're buying and for how much. Nobody seems to mind much though, can't stay mad at Sam, especially the ladies." He threw her another wink. "You looking to go to a sale?"

Del picked up her cup. This Sam sounded perfect, a blow-hard who imagined himself a charmer—an easy mark in Del's experience. "I might. Looks like I'm going to be here awhile."

"You a dealer?" Becca had wandered up with the empty coffee pot. She slipped behind the counter and grabbed another pot.

"Not exactly. I'm more looking to add to a collection." The Unruh collection for Porter to sell, but there was no need to explain that.

"Well, if you're looking for something special you should see Sam. There's not a washboard in this county he doesn't know about. He scopes out his customers long before they're rolled feet first into Tyler's." Becca picked up a menu and wiped it with a wet cloth. "You want something else? It's getting close to noon. The lunch crowd'll be in soon."

Del glanced at the menu. One lonely little doughnut wasn't going to hold her any time at all. "How about chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes with gravy?" Del wouldn't be here long, she could afford a few extra calories.

While Becca scribbled her order on a pad, Del assessed her situation. She had one lead, this Sam. He sounded exactly the type she didn't want to deal with, but if you had to work a con, it was always better to target what you understood and Del understood shysters.

"So you think this Sam could help me out?" She tapped her fifty dollar manicure, a required expense in Porter's world, on the cup.

Becca raised one brow and looked Del up and down, pausing briefly on the pearl buttons of her shirt. "Oh honey, he'll help you out. The only question is, out of what?"

Del smiled. She knew his type all right.

"By the way, I'm Becca." The waitress pointed to her name badge. "I don't think I caught your name."

"Del, just call me Del."

"So what do you collect, Del?"

Glancing from Becca's stained apron up to her face, Del replied, "Pigs. I collect pigs."

* * *

Sam slung a bag of Hog Chow over his shoulder and slapped it onto the flatbed cart. Hog Chow. Seemed like the animals in this county ate better than the people. Of course, eventually most of the animals got eaten by the people so maybe it evened out.

He tipped his cowboy hat at the dirty-footed, six-year-old girl who stood next to her father while he waited for their order to be rung up.

Tugging on her pigtail, he asked, "You taking care of them hogs for your daddy, Jenny?"

Twisting her neck to look up at him, she replied, "I can't. Eloise, she's fixin' to have babies. Mommy says she's feeling awful mean right now."

"Eloise?" Sam had known more than one woman who got a mite mean at about eight months along, but he'd never heard anybody say it out loud.

Jenny nodded. "Yep, she just lays outside her house in the mud and grunts at me." She leaned toward him and whispered. "If you look real close you can see the babies moving inside her." The girl seemed both fascinated and disgusted by the revelation. Sam understood the feeling.

"Eloise a sow?" he asked.

"Course." The look Jenny tossed him said he was four eggs shy a dozen.

To be six again and so sure of your world.

"Daddy's expecting them piglets to come out any day now. I can't wait. They're Hampshires you know."

At this proud declaration, Jenny's father gave her a good-natured smack on the behind. "C'mon girl, we need to get home and give Eloise a good spray with the hose. It's getting hot." He nodded at Sam and rolled his cart toward the parking lot.

Kenny nodded toward another cart loaded with dog food. "You mind rolling that out to the lot? Someone from the shelter's gonna stop by in a bit."

Free office space in the back of his friend's feed store meant a few unglamorous jobs now and again, but in addition to providing the free room, Kenny frequently helped Sam at the auctions, like he had on Saturday.

"Sure thing, boss." Imitating the tone Charlie'd used on him at the auction, Sam pulled his hat lower on his brow and sauntered over to the cart.

Outside the sun was bright and the air was crisp. Perfect day for an auction—too bad he didn't have another one scheduled for weeks. Sam let the cart roll down the cement ramp, holding the handle just tight enough to keep it from racing down and smacking into a blue Honda parked six feet from the door.

Wait a minute, what did we have here?

Peeking at Sam from behind the windshield of the car was about the finest-looking rear end he'd seen in…well, way too long. Covered in gray cloth the butt in question wiggled and bobbed as its owner searched for something in the backseat.

Not wanting to get caught ogling a backside, Sam deserted the dog food. Whistling the theme from Green Acres, he hazarded one last glance and ambled back up the ramp.

* * *

Where were they? Wedged in between her bucket seats, Del struggled with her luggage. Somewhere in this mess she had a new pair of high-heeled sandals—strappy, completely impractical, and treacherously sexy.

Just the ticket for dealing with a womanizing shyster of an auctioneer, which is exactly how she had Sam Samson pegged. She knew his type, constantly hiking up his pants over a gut made bigger by the six-pack, winking and chuckling when he wasn't slapping backs (men) and butts (women). Yeah, she knew his type and his type called for man-eating shoes. The fat old codger wouldn't know what hit him.

Her fingers closed around white leather and beads. Bingo. Slipping back into her seat, she peered around. No one in sight. She hiked up her skirt and peeled off her pantyhose. This called for a bare-legged attack, a lot less ladylike and a lot more possibilities, at least in dirty old men's minds.

After tossing her jacket into the back, she undid three more buttons on her blouse and smoothed the material open until the hint of cleavage became reality. Perfect. After wiggling her toes into the shoes, she undid the snaps that concealed the slit in her skirt, swung her legs out onto the gravel lot and headed to battle.

At the entrance to the feed store she hesitated. Was Samson's office really here surrounded by goat chow and kibble? Sure enough, a letter-sized sign declared "Samson Auctions, in the back." She stepped inside.

The place was dark after the glaring sun of the parking lot and it smelled of milled corn and animal by-products. The combination sent her whirling back in time to when she was maybe seven and waited for her daddy in a store just like this.

She'd perch herself near the door and wait while her daddy did whatever he did to con a few bags of dog food out of the owner. Daddy had a weakness for dogs, but there was never enough food to spare, not even scraps. When things got real lean, they'd head to town and after an hour or so he'd reappear grinning and laughing and towing a bag of kibble after him. There were days the dogs ate better than she did.

She shook her head to dislodge the memories. That was then. Now she could at least afford to eat, if not a lot more, as long as she kept her job.

To do that she needed to find the Pig.

First step that direction, Samson. Spying a blond surfer type in a cowboy hat behind the counter, she put a swish in her hips and sauntered over.

* * *

Hello.

The bodacious butt had made its way inside. Leaning on an old iron and wood scale, Sam took his time admiring the view. She was cast in silhouette by the bright sunlight outside, and every delectable inch of curve was revealed. Based on her outfit, he was guessing she wasn't here to load up on hog chow. No, she was looking for something, and if it wasn't feed, it was probably him.

He stepped back into his office and slid behind his desk. Let her come to him. Pulling out a folder, he slapped it open and strived to look busy.

It was less than two minutes before he heard the clod of Kenny's boots followed by the tap tap of high heels.

"Sam, there's a lady here to see you." Kenny shot him a sullen look. The man needed to get over his Charlie-induced heart-ache so he could enjoy a few of life's simple pleasures—like Sam's visitor. Pushing his friends' problems from his mind, Sam gave her a quick glance.

A lady? He hoped not. That would be an awful waste.

Keeping his thoughts to himself, he lowered his pen and motioned her inside.

Blond hair, eyes the color of sweet tea, and breasts that peeped out of her shirt like they couldn't stand the containment and were aching to break free. Or maybe it was Sam aching for them to break free.

She cleared her throat. Oh, yeah, not proper to stare, he reminded himself.

"I'm sorry. Did we have an appointment?" Sam pulled open his desk drawer and dropped the folder inside.

"No." She hesitated a moment as if weighing her words. "Do I need one?" Her hand drifted to the swell of her breasts. Sam swallowed—hard.

"Well, it's usual, but since you caught me here, why don't you sit down and tell me what I can do for you."

Or to you.

With a smile she slid into the scarred wooden chair. She crossed her legs and let her foot bounce ever so slightly up and down. Her shoe, an impossible creation of twisted leather and beads, edged down her foot. She arched her foot and caught it, letting it dangle provocatively from her toes.

Those were not the shoes of a lady. No, those were shoes meant to be worn with red nail polish and nothing else, well maybe the pearl necklace that hugged her throat. An image of her lounged in his chair wearing nothing but nail polish, pearls and those do-me-now shoes slammed into him.

Damn, wasn't imagining the competition naked supposed to help negotiations? No, it was in underwear. Lacy push-up bra, thong, and a garter-belt.

Not helping. Sam shifted in his seat. How about boxer shorts and a thin tank? His groin throbbed with enthusiasm. Definitely not helping. Maybe without the tank…

She coughed.

"Hmm?" He returned to reality.

Her sweet-tea eyes weren't looking too sweet right then. "Sorry, I've got a lot on my mind," he said.

"I can imagine." She drawled the words out like what she imagined was less than complimentary, but then smiled and leaned forward slightly, allowing another half inch of breast to peek out of her shirt.

"What can I do for you?" he repeated. Determined to maintain the upper hand, he concentrated on the light freckles sprinkled across her nose.

"Nothing too exciting I'm afraid. I stopped in at that little coffee shop downtown—you know the one with the cute crocheted bunnies in the window?"

Like there were a half dozen coffee shops in this town. Besides, of course he knew it; his cousin owned it. "I think I know the one you're referring to."

Her nose twitched, just like Samantha's on Bewitched. "Well, while I was there, I just happened to mention that I'm a collector and some folks there said I had to come see you, that you'd know just where I could find some nice buys."

Some folks, huh? What was Becca up to now? "That right? What is it you collect?"

His guest fluttered her hand in front of her face. "Is it hot in here?"

The movement broke Sam's concentration. His gaze drifted south of her nose. Lips, stop on the lips—full, with a perfect little bow at the top.

She puckered them, then fanned her shirt against her breasts. "Do you think I could get something to drink?"

His gaze locked onto the flapping material.

"Excuse me, do you think I could get something to drink?"

Startled, he grabbed some quarters from his lap drawer. "Sure, how 'bout a Coke?"

"Diet, please." Another nose twitch.

He wandered to the back, waving off a surly Kenny. After feeding the Coke machine, he returned with two ice-cold cans in his hands. He rolled one across his forehead before stepping back into the office.

His guest had moved. Now perched on the end of his desk, she looked flushed and a few strands of blond hair had fallen out of the silver clasp at the base of her head.

What was she up to? Sam glanced around the office, but nothing seemed out of place. Handing her the Diet Coke, he walked back to his chair.

"What did you say you collected?" he asked.

She tapped the top of the can with a perfectly manicured nail. Watching him, she replied, "Pigs, I collect pigs."

Her eyes were alert, like she expected a response from him. "That's a pretty broad field, isn't it? Any certain kind of pig: cartoon like Porky and Petunia, or one to store your pennies, or maybe pigs on velvet?"

She hopped off his desk and dropped into a chair. "I take my collection very seriously."

Guess she didn't want any Elvis Porklies. "I'm sure you do."

"I collect all kinds, but since you ask, I do have a few holes in my collection—specifically pottery."

"Pottery pigs."

"That's right." The alertness was back in her eyes.

There was something going on with this woman, and her story was less believable than a politician's promise. "I don't think I caught your name."

"Del, Del Montgomery."

"You from around here?" He asked just to hear her answer. Everything about her screamed city, but still there was a hint of country that popped up every so often too. The lilt of her voice and the way she didn't even question his choice of office space. Most city folks, especially ones dressed like her, wouldn't seem quite so comfortable wedged between sacks of chicken feed and a salt lick.

He really needed to make Kenny haul that crap out of here.

"Of course, you're Sam Samson, auctioneer extraordinaire."

Sam's eyes narrowed as he waited for a sarcastic follow-up, but she just sipped from the Diet Coke can, then smiled.

"So, do you have any ideas of where I might find something for my collection?" she asked.

"I might." He didn't have anything to do, and this little number was just the ticket to get him out of his slump. "Why don't you let me make a few calls and I'll get back to you. My normal fee is 30%, but on a job like this I'd need to set a minimum, say a thousand?"

Her eyes flickered, and her fingers pinched the pearls at her throat, rolling them slightly, but she replied, "That sounds more than fair. I'll be staying at that little motel, The Ranch I think it is. You can reach me there."

It wasn't until she had sashayed out that he realized she never told him where she was from. He picked up her deserted Coke can—still full. Origins weren't the only mystery surrounding his bodacious visitor.

Yep, she had a lot of layers, each one of them tantalizing. He couldn't wait to roll up his sleeves and start peeling.

Love is All Around, excerpt

She peeled off her shorts and draped them over the log.

Will blinked away the sight. The same muscle tone he'd noticed on her stomach was apparent on her butt and thighs. Hell, that wasn't a butt. That was a booty. A vision of his hands gripping her firm backside as she pulsed up and down above him fogged his brain. And her thighs, he could almost feel the strength of them wrapped around his waist as he…

"You thinking about it?" Patsy brushed water off the thighs in question with an impatient flick of her wrist.

He blinked at her, then down at his shorts. Was he that obvious?

"Your left from your right? You trying to figure it out?" She held up first her left hand, then her right. "Maybe you could get a tattoo or something, you know, a little l and r."

Oh, that. He tried to focus on her smart-ass question, but the pressure in his shorts was a bit distracting. Maybe he should try another dip in the frigid river. He jerked his soaked T-shirt off and pretended to wring it out. Never show attraction or fear—they feed on it. "Just felt like a swim," he replied.

"Really? You usually take the cooler with you?" She held out her leg, removing a stray piece of flotsam with two fingers.

Swallowing hard, he focused on the tiny piece of debris pinched between her fingers. Don't look at her legs. "Keeps the beer cold." Good, nice and casual. He was under control.

"Well, that's important." She dropped his lifeline into the river and combed through her hair with her now unoccupied fingers.

He couldn't help but think of other things to occupy those skillful digits.

Unaware of his ongoing battle with his libido, she continued, "Next time, warn me though, so I can pull a can out. You caught me empty-handed." He couldn't help but smile at her joke.

"You have to stay aware." He flipped open the cooler and tossed her a beer. "This one's on me."

"I think the next keg's on you." She picked up her shorts and climbed into the canoe. Her bikini rode up, revealing a pale V of untanned skin where her butt cheeks peeked out of her swimming suit. He stood watching her, wondering if it was safer to stay behind on the deserted riverbank.

"What you waiting for? Let's go, but keep the trick steering to a minimum this time. Don't want to show up the natives."

What do you know, the siren-shrew had a sense of humor. And from this angle—okay any angle—a very fine backside. "No, we can't have that. They might get restless." Grinning, he placed his cold beer can next to his groin and slipped his oar into the water.

With her eyes on the river, she replied, "You have no idea."

No, he thought, adjusting the can, you have no idea.

-o0o-

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Wild Hunt, excerpt

The familiar smell of decades of alcohol spilled onto battered wood, and the sound of bottles sliding across table tops as patrons turned to size up the newest intruder assaulted Venge as he entered. He let their looks flow over him, his eyes returning their stares until one by one, they dropped their own back to their drinks.

Bar patrons, he was as used to dealing with them as he was with handling his own rage. But…his gaze slid over the tables. These patrons were different. The normal scent of sadness and desperation was missing. Instead the place teemed with aggression, eagerness for something. For what the horn had promised he guessed. And, even more unusual, the bar was filled with hellhounds.

Despite his best efforts to avoid such an event, Venge found himself surrounded by his own kind.

His brows lowering as he tried to figure out what all this meant, he strode to the bar. A woman possessing hair streaked with silver and a steely gaze stood behind it.

"You new?" she asked.

Not bothering to answer, Venge crossed his arms over his chest and studied her. One brow cocked, she met his scrutiny with a stare of her own.

"You drinking?" she added.

Not being able to peg the female unsettled Venge. He'd traveled to four of the nine worlds in the last five years and had come to know most of the inhabitants on sight. But this woman…he frowned. Despite the fact that she was behind the bar, a place he had come to associate with garm, she lacked the edge of wildness and scent of pine all garm possessed, and despite the fact the place was filled with hellhounds, she wasn't one of his kind either. So, what was she? What other type of being would choose to serve a bar filled with hellhounds?

"If you're new, you'll need a place to stay. Best talk to Geysa." She jerked her head toward a door in the back. "She's in the kitchen now, but she'll be out." With that she turned her back on him and strode to the other end of the bar where the hellhounds he'd seen fighting outside had gathered.

A place to stay? Venge twisted his mouth to the side. He still didn't know why he was here–or even where here was. It was like some strange dream. Somehow he'd fallen down the rabbit hole and found himself in a twisted version of the human world's old West. He wouldn't be shocked if the door the bartender had indicated flew open and the sheriff, six-guns blazing, barreled inside.

Instead, the door edged open, then bumped wider as another woman carrying a tray laden with plates pushed against it with a curvaceous, denim-clad hip.

As he looked at her, Venge became aware of the earth spinning on its axis, but slowly. Every movement the woman made seemed emphasized, slowed down, just for his enjoyment. She tossed her head, flipping her waist-long hair out of her eyes and away from the steaming plates. A few stubborn strands of the flame-colored locks refused to move, instead choosing to cling to her lips. She frowned and pushed her tongue out of her mouth, trying to shove the recalcitrant strands away, but it was a wasted effort. The strands hung there, somehow drawing attention to the perfect bow of her upper lip, and the impossible fullness of her lower.

With a sigh, she muttered something to herself and began maneuvering her way through the tables. Hellhound after hellhound stopped what he was doing and followed her with his gaze.

A surge in adrenaline and desire hit Venge like a boulder to the gut. She was almost next to him before he realized both were coming from him.

She brushed by him, barely giving him a glance, but he caught her scent–honey and spring. He inhaled, felt his nostrils flare, his eyes dilate.

He'd never wanted anyone or anything as badly as he wanted this woman. His feet shuffled forward, following her without his mind giving the movement a conscious thought. As he did, a hellhound at a nearby table surged to his feet, then another until all but a few were knocking over chairs and tables in an attempt to follow the red-haired siren.

"Geysa!" the woman from behind the bar yelled.

Geysa paused, her grey eyes flickering as she watched the males shove their way toward her. Her lips rounded into a perfect O, and the world picked up speed. The demanding desire Venge had felt just seconds earlier disappeared. He stumbled to a halt, a frown creasing his forehead as he blinked at the waitress. Still attractive, with red hair that danced around her oval face, full mouth, and a body that even clothed in loose jeans and a worn flannel shirt left no doubt of her gender. But that was all–just another attractive female. Not the irresistible, have-to-have object of desire she had been seconds earlier.

Her gaze wandered the crowd again, worry causing tiny lines to form at the edges of her mouth. When she reached Venge, she stopped. He could see her inhale sharply, her eyes bright, as if waiting for some response.

His frown deepened. He'd been trapped, almost unable to think of anything but this woman, and now nothing…at least nothing he couldn't control. He purposely let his gaze roam her body, let her see him do it–just to show how unaffected he was.

To his surprise, instead of insulted she looked relieved, at least until she disappeared from sight, a group of hellhounds knocking her over as they continued to brawl around her.

Without stopping to wonder at his actions, Venge leapt over the table that had fallen in front of him and kicked the top two hellhounds off the pile of bodies and onto the floor. He was struggling with a third, a male with the flat face of a boxer, when the sound of an arrow piercing the air sang overhead. Heat singed the side of his face. He shoved the boxer out of his way, wrapped his hand around Geysa's arm, and jerked them both away from the fray.

Sticking out of the nearest tabletop was a flaming arrow. Venge spun the waitress away and toward the door.

The bartender dropped a bow, then holding a four foot long sword, leapt onto the bar top. With an angry whack, she slammed the weapon into the bar, then stood there, her hand resting on the hilt.

"Let her go," she demanded.

It took Venge to the count of three to realize the bartender was speaking to him. He glanced to where his fingers pressed against the ivory skin of Geysa's arm. He had no reason to hold the waitress, hadn't pulled her from the other hellhounds with that intention, but for some reason, no matter that his brain said to release her, his fingers were unable to comply.

"I said–" The bartender's voice took on a new edge, like the shriek of an angry hawk.

"Yeah, she said to let her go." The boxer scuttled to his feet and chest pushed out, sauntered toward Venge. "She's mine."

Venge tilted his head to look at Geysa. "Really?" he asked.

A huff of air escaped her lips, and she met his look, but her expression revealed none of her inner thoughts.

Irritation flickered to life inside him. If she wanted the flat-faced cur, he should hand her over, leave her to her fate.

His eyes narrowed, he stared at her. Was she so naive to think she could survive an encounter with the other hound? She was tall for a woman, with impressive muscle tone, if the bicep he gripped was any indicator, but there was no way she'd be able to survive an assault by a hellhound riled to bloodlust. And the flat-faced boxer was close to such a state–Venge could smell

Venge's lips thinned, his index finger sweeping softly over the arm he held just to reassure himself he still had control.

At his small movement, Geysa tensed.

So, she wasn't as oblivious to what was happening as she would have him think. He smiled, then cocked his head toward the other male.

"I don't think so." Then still smiling, he shoved his body in front of Geysa and grabbed the boxer around the throat. His fingers digging into the other male's skin, Venge pushed him backward until the male was pressed next to the still crackling arrow. The smell of singed hair followed.

"Heard the phrase, finders keepers?" he asked.

-o0o-

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Guardian's Keep, excerpt

Chapter One
 
The bar was full tonight, the air thick with smoke–not unusual for a Friday night at the Guardian's Keep. Also not unusual, at least lately, the place was laden with tension, every customer coiled and ready for the hell that was about to break loose.Every customer but one, that was.

Kol Hildr dropped the damp cloth he'd been using to rub down the top of the bar and stared at the tiny figure slipping through the crowd in a direct path to the back of the room, to a booth right next to the four male challengers he was going to have to battle at any second.

Did the woman actually look for danger? Or did she just have a rare talent for stumbling across it? Mumbling a low curse, he flipped the hinged portion of counter out of his way and stalked after her.

"What are you doing here?" Kol stared down at the female now shoved into the corner booth. Two huge blue eyes snapping with annoyance stared back at him.

"You turning down customers?" Kelly Shane, a witch who had already managed once before to get herself kidnapped and traded for passage through the portal housed in his bar, pulled the ridiculous hat she wore off her head, plopped it down on the table in front of her, then smiled up at him.

"Go home." He slid his gaze to the table full of garm, wolf-shape-shifters like himself, only one space over.

"I'll take a beer. Thanks for asking." Kelly pushed her hand into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a wad of bills.

Annoyance prickling the back of his neck, he leaned over, placed his hand on top of the money and shoved it back toward her. "Don't you learn?" he asked.

"Learn what?" she replied, her face full of faux innocence.

Something tightened deep inside Kol–just like it always did when Kelly was around. He tried to convince himself it was irritation at her steadfast refusal to let go of what she saw as a wrong done to her. A few months earlier he had allowed the natural order of the portal to rule; he had done his duty as the portal guardian. Portal guardians maintained balance. That was all. They did not interfere with trade or transport–as long as fees and tolls were paid. He'd tried to talk the obstinate witch out of offering herself as such a toll, but she was determined to follow her friend who had been captured earlier. Thanks to her twin sister, also a witch, and a hellhound, she'd come out of the ordeal relatively unscathed. Her friend hadn't been so lucky.

Kelly's hand jerked under his. His gaze shifted to her face. Her brow furrowed, she tried to free her hand again.

She was an irritating little bundle of prickles, but something about her brought out every protective urge Kol possessed.

Low rumbles sounded from the booth next to them. Kol muttered a curse. The natives, or in this case, invaders, were getting restless. Time was running short.

Without pausing to analyze why he cared about her safety, or giving her time to argue, he scooped the little witch and her hat into his arms and strode to the door. She weighed little more than a breeze.

But her recoil was wicked.

Her thumbs pressed instantly into his trachea, a move that would have cut off the air supply of a mundane. Kol just blinked down at her. "You're leaving."

She blinked back, frustration warring with uncertainty in her eyes. She pulled her lip between even teeth. "I'm not."

In other circumstances, if he hadn't been in such a hurry to get her out of danger, Kol would have laughed at the statement. She hung dangling five feet off the ground cradled in his arms. She wasn't in much of a position to argue.

Then he saw it; her hand moved to her pocket. Growling deep in his throat, he shimmered, rematerializing outside the bar with Kelly still nestled against his chest.

Barely giving her time to emit a squeak of surprise, he dumped her onto the wet pavement. "Don't try your magic on me, witch," he warned her, then with a grin at her irritated grumph, strode back into the bar.

He waited, his back to the door, his gaze flowing over the bar patrons, watching for a sign of the attack that he knew was imminent. Since the hellhound and Kelly's sister rescued Kelly, there had been one challenge after another. Coincidence, or somehow related to those past events, Kol didn't know, and at this moment didn't care.

His back pressed against the door, he closed his eyes for a brief second. She was still out there. Disconcerting though it was, he could feel her. Up close, her heartbeats and breaths had tangled with his own. But even with her on the other side of the door there was an awareness, something he had never experienced with any other being, and didn't want to experience now. He let out a loud breath. He didn't need this. A muscle ticked in the side of his face. He waited a few more seconds, until the awareness lessened.

She had moved further away. Probably thought she was hidden.

Hidden enough the garm he was about to confront wouldn't spot her when Kol tossed them out on their asses?

He pulled open the door a few inches letting cool, damp air spill into the smoky space and stared out into the darkness.

He couldn't see her, but even without his senses telling him she was still lurking somewhere nearby, he'd have known she was waiting. Kelly Shane wouldn't leave so quickly, wouldn't give up that easily. He might be able to run her off, but he couldn't leave the bar unguarded–not right now. His fingers tightened around the worn wood of the door and his gaze probed the darkness one last time.

Tensing his jaw, he turned back to the bar. The door slipped closed behind him with a whisper. His irritation with the bewitching shadow who skulked out in the gloomy night still gnawing at him, his dark gaze drifted across the customers and toward the four men seated in the back. They'd arrived not long before Kelly, reeking of arrogance and garm, wolves, but without a portal or world of their own to guard.

Challengers. They didn't even bother to hide it.

Kol sighed. This was getting monotonous.

Deciding he didn't have the patience or time to wait for their attack, he huffed out a breath, grabbed the baseball-bat-sized piece of silver-coated iron he kept stashed behind the bar and strode to the back of the room, his heels making a sharp rapping noise against the wood floor.

He wasn't interested in stealth. Let them know he was coming, and he was pissed.

-o0o-

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Dark Crusade, excerpt

Chapter One

Her heartbeat gave her away–too fast, too erratic, too telling. Fear. She was coated in it.

But where?

Kerr Vik scanned the dark tavern, searching for the source of the emotions he sensed…felt.

Only one being would be so immersed in fear by the appearance of the Jagers and their mercenaries. The ones they hunted…a witch.

His gaze shot to the others. Marina, the Jager leader, placed one fingertip to her temple and closed her eyes. With a frown, she dropped her hand and raised her eyelids. "I know this is the place. I've sensed magic here before."

She spun; the gold threads sewn through her tunic caught in the light adding an ethereal quality to her movements as she leapt in front of the tavern's owner and placed the sharp tip of a dagger against his throat. "You say there are no witches here?" she asked.

The owner, a sturdy man with dark hair and a steady gaze, stared straight ahead. "You said yourself, there was no power coming from my tavern. Perhaps a witch was here and left. People don't tend to stay here too long."

Kerr stepped over a bench on his way to the back of the room. The fear was growing. It wrapped around him like a noose and tugged him deeper into the room, past the tavern owner and Marina.

The Jager leader ignored him, but the man she had pinned, jerked. "There is nothing in there for you."

Kerr stopped, his hand resting on the top of an iron bound ale barrel. Inside the cask, he heard a gasp and felt the fear begin to pulse. He had found her.

# # #

Heather Moore held her breath. Her hands, sweaty from fear, pressed against the rough wood surrounding her. She had no idea what was happening, where she was or why she had agreed to hide inside a musty barrel. There had been something about the light in the man's eyes she'd encountered as she stepped through the portal–joy turning to horror as the sounds of horses and men stomping outside thrust him into some kind of panicked action.

He'd urged her into the barrel, warned her to hold her tongue and her powers, then plopped the lid on top of her.

She'd sat, her knees curled to her chest, her forehead resting on her kneecaps while people stomped inside. Voices threatened the man who had hidden her, insisted they had sensed a witch inside his tavern.

Heather had pulled her knees a little closer to her chest at their tone when they said the word, witch. She had no idea why they searched for one, but every fiber of survival instinct she possessed told her it was for nothing pleasant.

The lid to her hidey hole edged to the side, letting in light and cool air. Heather held her breath, bit her lip and waited–readied herself to ignore the man's warnings and blast whoever held that lid with as much energy as she could muster.

Except she couldn't–as she tried to draw power from the room, she realized her resources were drained, perhaps from her journey through the portal.

She was stuck…no magic…and nowhere to hide.

# # #

His gaze on the tavern owner and Marina, Kerr waited. The witch inside the barrel was going nowhere. But the tavern owner…

As the thought formed in his head, the lid under his hand shifted. Whoever was inside wanted to come out.

Kerr turned his body, instinctively blocking Marina, his charge, from whatever danger waited inside the barrel and jerked off the lid.

A pair of brown eyes, wide with desperation, stared back at him.

The witch. He'd found her.

Elation flooded over him then like a slap a new emotion struck. Surprise. Shock.

A witch, but not any witch. Not a nameless body he knew nothing of, could turn over to the Jagers with little thought to her destiny.

No damn it. This witch he knew.

Heather. How had she found him?

"Did you find her?" Marina's dagger dug into the tavern owner's neck; blood dribbled down his dark skin onto his tunic. The man's gaze stayed steady, but defeat was written across his face.

Kerr plopped the lid back onto the barrel and turned. "Thievery."

Both Marina and the tavern owner frowned. "What?" Marina asked.

"A barrel full of elfin silk. We've caught a thief."

Marina pursed her lips, her gaze shooting to the tavern owner. His brows lowered in confusion for one brief second, then he smoothed his forehead and lowered his gaze to his hands. "I'm just a stopping place, a middle man. No real money in it for me, but I can offer you free drinks if you keep my secret from the government. Or at least give me a day or two to get the goods out of my place."

Marina cursed. "Silk?" She stepped away from the man, her dagger still held in front of her. Again she closed her eyes, after a second she cursed again. "Nothing." She rammed her knife into its scabbard and stared at the tavern owner. "I know a witch was here. If you want to keep your…" She gestured toward the back where Kerr stood. "…secret, next time you won't let her escape so thoroughly." She stepped close to the man and placed one finger over his heart. "Understand?"

The tavern owner's face was meek, his gaze dropped, but Kerr could see his posture…stiff and unyielding…as he muttered an agreement.

Without a word to anyone, Marina strode from the room. Kerr hesitated, his hand back on the barrel, but as the remaining Jagers flowed from the room, he dropped his hand and followed. Heather would wait. She'd have to. She had no more options for leaving Gunngar than he did.

-o0o-

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