Fashionably Dead Down Under (35 page)

Yes, I’d been disciplined occasionally for
mouthing off to superiors and using the company credit card for
shoes, but other than that I was a damn good agent. I’d
singlehandedly brought down three rogue Weres who were selling
secrets to the Dragons—another supernatural species. The Dragons
shunned the Council, had their own little club and a psychotic
desire to rule the world. Several times they’d come close due to
the fact that they were loaded and Weres from the New Jersey Pack
were easily bribed. Not to mention the fire-breathing thing . .
.

I was an independent woman living in the
Windy City. I had a gym membership, season tickets to the Cubs and
a gay Vampyre best friend named Dwayne. What more did a girl
need?

Well, possibly sex, but the
bastard
had ruined me for other men . . .

Hank
the Tank
Wilson was the main
reason I’d rather chew my own paw off than go back to Hung Island,
Georgia. Six foot three of obnoxious, egotistical, perfect-assed,
alpha male Werewolf. As the alpha of my local pack he had decided
it was high time I got mated . . . to him. I, on the other hand,
had plans—big ones and they didn’t include being barefoot and
pregnant at the beck and call of a player.

So I left in the middle of the night with a
suitcase, a flyer from the hot recruiter and enough money for a
one-way bus ticket to freedom. Of course nothing ever turns out as
planned . . . The apartment was the size of a shoe box, the car was
used and smelled like French fries and the benefits didn’t kick in
till I turned one hundred and twenty five. We Werewolves had long
lives.

“Angela, you really can’t do this to me.”
Should I get down on my knees? I was so desperate, I wasn’t above
begging.

“Why? What happened there, Essie? Were you in
some kind of trouble I should know about?” her eyes narrowed, but
she wasn’t yelling.

I think she liked me . . . kind of. The way a
mother would like an annoying spastic two year old who belonged to
someone else.

“No, not exactly,” I hedged. “It’s just that
. . . ”

“Weres are disappearing and turning up dead.
Considering no one knows of our existence besides other
supernaturals we have a problem. Furthermore, it seems like humans
might be involved.”

My stomach lurched and I grabbed Angela’s
office chair for balance. “Locals are missing?” I choked out. My
Grandma Bobby Sue was still there, but I’d heard from her last
night. She’d harangued me about getting my belly button pierced.
Why I’d put that on Instagram was beyond me. I was gonna hear about
that one for the next eighty years or so.

“Not missing—dead. Check the folder,” Angela
said and poured me a shot of whiskey.

With trembling hands I opened the folder.
This had to be a joke. I felt ill. I’d gone to high school with
Frankie Mac and Jenny Packer. Jenny was as cute as a button and was
the cashier at the Piggly Wiggly. Frankie Mac had been the head
cheerleader and cheated on every test since the fourth grade. Oh my
god, Debbie Swink? Debbie Swink had been voted most likely to
succeed and could do a double backwards flip off the high dive.
She’d busted her head open countless times before she’d perfected
it. Her mom was sure she’d go to the Olympics.

“I know these girls,” I whispered.

“Knew. You knew them. They all were taking
classes at the modeling agency.”

“What modeling agency? There’s no modeling
agency in Hung Island.” I sifted through the rest of the folder
with a knot the size of a cantaloupe in my stomach. More names and
faces I recognized. Sandy Moongie?
Wait a minute
.

“Um, not to speak ill of the dead, but Sandy
Moongie was the size of a barn . . . she was modeling?”

“Worked the reception desk.” Angela shook her
head and dropped down on the couch.

“This doesn’t seem that complicated. It’s
fairly black and white. Whoever is running the modeling agency is
the perp.”

“The modeling agency is Council
sponsored.”

I digested that nugget in silence for a
moment.

“And the council is running a modeling
agency, why?”

“Word is that we’re heading towards revealing
ourselves to the humans and they’re trying to find the most
attractive representatives to do so.”

“That’s a joke, right?”
What kind of dumb
ass plan was that
?

“I wish it was.” Angela picked up my shot and
downed it. “I’m getting to old for this shit,” she muttered and
refilled the shot glass, thought better of it and just swigged from
the bottle.

“Is the council aware that I’m going in?”

“What do you think?”

“I think they’re old and stupid and send in
dispensable agents like me to clean up their shit shows,” I
grumbled.

“Smart girl.”

“Who else knows about this? Clark?
Jones?”

“They know,” she said wearily. “They’re
checking out agencies in New York and Miami.”

“Isn’t it conflict of interest to send me
where I know everyone?”

“It is, but you’ll be able to infiltrate and
get in faster that way. Besides no one has disappeared from the
other agencies yet.”

There was one piece I still didn’t
understand. “How are humans involved?”

She sighed and her head dropped back on to
her broad shoulders. “Humans are running the agency.”

It took a lot to render me silent, like
learning my Grandma had been a stripper in her youth and that all
male Werewolves were hung like horses . . . but this was
horrific.

“Who in the hell thought that was a good
idea? My god, half the female Weres I know sprout tails when flash
bulbs go off. We won’t have to come out, they can just run
billboards of hot girls with hairy appendages coming out of their
asses.”

“It’s all part of the Grand Plan. If the
humans see how wonderful and attractive we are the issue of
knowingly living along side of us will be moot.”

Again. Speechless.

“When are Council elections?” It was time to
vote some of those turd knockers out.

“Essie.” Angela rolled her eyes and took
another swig. “There are no elections. They’re appointed and serve
for life.”

“I knew that,” I mumbled. Skipping Were
History class was coming back to bite me in the ass.

“I’ll go.” There was no way I couldn’t. Even
though my knowledge of the hierarchy of my race was fuzzy, my
skills were top notch and trouble seemed to find me. In any other
job that would suck, but in mine it was an asset.

“Good. You’ll be working with the local pack
alpha. He’s also the sheriff there. Name’s Hank Wilson. You know
him?”

“Yep.”
Biblically, I knew the son of a
bitch biblically
.

***

“You’re gonna bang him.”

“I am not gonna to bang him.”

“You are so gonna to bang him.”

“Dwayne, if I hear you say that I’m gonna
bang him one more time, I will not let you borrow my black Mary
Jane pumps. Ever again.”

Dwayne made the international zip the lip and
throwaway the key sign while silently mouthing that I was going to
bang Hank.

“I think you should bang him if he’s a hot as
you said.” Dwayne made himself comfortable on my couch and turned
on the TV.

“When did I ever say he was hot?” I demanded
taking the remote out of his hands. I was not watching any more
Dance Moms
. “I never said he was hot.”

“Paaaaleese,” Dwayne flicked his pale hand
over his shoulder and rolled his eyes.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” he asked, confused.

“That shoulder thing you just did.”

“Oh, I was flicking my hair over my shoulder
in a
girlfriend
move.”

“Okay, don’t do that. It doesn’t work, not to
mention you’re as bald as a cue ball.”

“But it’s the new move,” he whined.

Oh my god, Vampyres were such high
maintenance. “According to who?” I yanked my suitcase out from
under my bed and started throwing stuff in.

“Kim Kardashian.”

I refused to dignify that with so much as a
look.

“Fine,” he huffed. “But if you say one word
about my skinny jeans I am so out of here.”

I considered it, but I knew he was serious.
As crazy as he drove me, I adored him. He was my only friend in
Chicago and I had no intention of losing him.

“I know he’s hot,” Dwayne said. “You’re far
too beautiful to be hung up on a goober.”

“Are you calling me shallow?” I snapped as I
ransacked my tiny apartment for clean clothes. Damnit, tomorrow was
laundry day. I was going to have to pack dirty clothes.

“So he’s ugly and puny and wears bikini
briefs?”

“No! He’s hotter than Satan’s underpants and
he wears boxers,” I shouted. “You happy?”

“He’s actually a nice guy.”

“You’ve met Hank?” I was so confused I was
this close to making fun of his skinny jeans just so he would
leave.

“Satan. He’s not as bad as everyone
thinks.”

How was it that everyone I came in contact
with today stole my ability to speak? Thankfully I was interrupted
by my door.

“You expecting someone?” Dwayne asked as he
pilfered the remote back and found
Dance Moms.

“No.”

I peeked through the peephole. Nobody came to
my place except Dwayne and the occasional pizza delivery guy or
Chinese food take out guy or Indian food take out guy.
Wait.
What the hell was my boss doing here?

“Angela?”

“You going to let me in?”

“Depends.”

“Open the damn door.”

Angela tromped into my shoebox and made
herself at home. Her hair was truly spectacular. It looked like she
might have even pulled out a clump on the left side. “You want to
tell me why the sheriff and alpha of Hung Island, Georgia says he
won’t work with you?”

“Um . . . no?”

“He said he had a hard time believing someone
as flaky and irresponsible as you had become an agent for the
Council and he wants someone else.” Angela narrowed her eyes at me
and took the remote form Dwayne. “Spill it, Essie.”

I figured the best way to handle this was to
lie—hugely. However, gay Vampyre boyfriends have a way of
interrupting and screwing up all your plans.

“Well, you see . . . ”

“He’s her mate and he dipped his stick in
several other . . . actually
many
other oil tanks. So she
dumped his furry player ass, snuck away in the middle of the night
and hadn’t really planned on ever going back there again.” Dwayne
sucked in a huge breath which was ridiculous because Vampyres
didn’t breathe.

It took everything I had not to scream and go
all wolfy. “Dwayne, clearly you want me to go medieval on your lily
white ass because I can’t imagine why you would utter such bullshit
to my boss.”

“Doesn’t sound like bullshit to me,” Angela
said as she channel surfed and landed happily on an old episode of
Cagney and Lacey
. “We might have a problem here.”

“Are you replacing me?” Hank Wilson had
screwed me over once when I was his. He was not going to do it
again when I wasn’t.

“Your call,” she said. Dwayne, who was an
outstanding shoplifter, covertly took back the remote and flipped
over to the food channel. Angela glanced up at the tube and gave
Dwayne the evil eye.

“I refuse to watch lesbians fight crime in
the eighties. I’ll get hives,” he explained, tilted his head to the
right and gave Angela a smile. He was so pretty it was silly. Even
my boss had a hard time resisting his charm.

“Fine,” she grumbled.

“Excuse me,” I yelled. “This conversation is
about me, not testosterone ridden women cops with bad hair, hives
or food. It’s my life we’re talking about here—me, me, me!” My
voice had risen to decibels meant to attract stray animals within a
ten-mile radius, evidenced by the wincing and ear covering.

“Essie, are you done?” Dwayne asked
fearfully.

“Possibly. What did you tell him?” I asked
Angela.

“I told him the Council has the last word in
all matters. Always. And if he had a problem with it he could take
it up with the elders next month when they stay awake long enough
to listen to the petitions of their people.”

“Oh my god, that’s awesome,” I squealed.
“What did he say?”

“That if we send you down he’ll give you bus
money so you can high tail your sorry cowardly butt right back out
of town.”

Was she grinning at me and was that little
shit, Dwayne jotting the conversation down in the notes section on
his phone?

“Let me tell you something,” I ground out
between clenched teeth while I confiscated Dwayne’s phone and
pocketed it. “I am going to Hung Island, Georgia tomorrow and I
will kick his ass. I will find the killer first and than I will
castrate the alpha of the Georgia Pack . . . with a dull butter
knife.”

Angela laughed and Dwayne jack-knifed over on
the couch in a visceral reaction to my plan. I stomped into my
bathroom and slammed the door to make my point, then pressed my ear
to the door to hear them talk behind my back.

“I’ll bet you five hundred dollars she’s
gonna bang him,” Dwayne told Angela.

“I’ll bet you a thousand that you’re right,”
shot back.

“You’re on.”

## Look for it Summer 2014 ##

Visit
www.robynpeterman.com
for more info.

Book One of the Forced To Serve Series

By Donna McDonald

Onboard Liam’s ship and stashed out of sight,
Ania felt depression settle on her as she unpacked, putting her
meager belongings into the various compartments of the small room
Liam had assigned her.

No—stop calling him Liam
, she
chastised herself. It was
Synar
or
Captain Synar
.

Before they had left her parent’s house, he
had asked her to refrain from using his given name onboard. Ania
saw no reason not to comply with his request regardless of how much
it increased the emotional distance between them, or disrespected
what they once were to each other.