Authors: Multiple
“Evil witch,” he growled.
“No, this is evil.” Pushing away from
him, she turned and bent over with her hands braced on her thighs. She peered
at him over her shoulder. The smoldering look on his face made her heart race.
“You naughty, naughty witch. What am I
going to do with you?”
“Fuck me?”
“Definitely.”
“Make me cum?”
“Goes without saying.”
“Love me?”
“Forever and ever.”
And then he was inside her, stroking her
with his hardness, filling her up, touching her, murmuring the words she
allowed herself to embrace. They came together in an explosive burst, linked
together for all time by contract, choice and most of all love.
A demon and
his witch, together, forever.
Epilogue
Grinning like a lunatic, Lucifer turned
his attention away from the happy – ugh – couple on his screen.
He’d done it. Paired his biggest pain in the ass with an infamous womanizing
demon. Doubts at the beginning of his project, ‘Increase My Demonic
Population’, now seemed ridiculous. Screw Cupid and his bow. He, greatest and
most evil ruler of all time, obviously possessed a knack for getting people
together. Not to mention, freed up a lot of the ladies for other males. Even
better, he’d gotten that bloody witch out of his hair. Not for long though, she
was too damned good at her job, which meant he’d have to rehire her, probably
for more money, but not right away. He’d take a week to enjoy himself first
before he let the harridan return.
While she would get to keep her job,
Remy, now that he’d settled down, would probably request assignments closer to
home. Lucky for him, a training position had just opened up – because
Lucifer killed the previous instructor for banging one of his daughters –
which would suit him. If he couldn’t have Remy in the field, then operatives trained
by him would have to suffice. Not to mention, having Remy close to home,
taking
care
of his new wife, meant the witch would start popping out little babies
anytime. What a powerful mix those two would make. Little demon/witchlings for
Hell’s ranks. All part of the plan.
With his army decimated in large numbers
because of his recent war with Lilith, he needed to rebuild. Getting demon
grunts was the easy part though. Those were a dime a dozen, but dumber than
rocks. What he needed was more smart, magic wielding soldiers. However, his
demons, witches and other magical beings populating Hell seemed determined to
avoid each other.
It was up to him, Lord of the Pit, and
now King Matchmaker, to get worthy, loyal demons paired with the right female.
Forced breeding wasn’t an option because as experience showed, couples in love
produced the most offspring, at least in the Pit. Gross. Encouraging affection
and healthy relationships went so against the grain, however, he couldn’t deny
results.
Hence his manipulation of events. Who
else but Lord of the Underworld could help five prisoners escape with no one
the wiser? Sure he used them, but they should count themselves honored as they
served a larger purpose. His purpose.
However one couple alone couldn’t give
him all the children he’d need to create his next generation of defense. More.
He needed more powerful matings, which meant a new project. But who next to
torture with that crazy little thing called love?
Hearing a shrill giggle – that was
borderline insane – and the shocking “What the fuck?” from his most staid
soldier, Lucifer smiled broadly. Oh fuck yeah. He knew just the pair. Next up
in his plan, a demon and his psycho. What a challenging match it would be.
If they didn’t kill each other first.
He gleefully rubbed his hands.
Time
for round two, in Hell’s mating game.
* * *
Meanwhile in a cell, several levels down
in Hell’s notorious prison, an enormous hellcat licked its paws clean as a
bloody heap whimpered in the corner.
Hurt his adopted mama would he?
Shifting to his man shape, Felipe stood
over the jerk who’d watched Ysabel burn alive centuries ago. He wished he could
have hurt Francisco more. How dare this sniveling piece of crap harm the woman
who’d taken in a lonely kitten and given it a loving home?
“Next time you get a chance to escape,”
he growled. “I’d throw myself in the abyss because if we ever meet again, I
won’t be so nice.”
Morphing back into his furry skin, Felipe
sauntered away and debated what to do next. With his mama now mated to a demon
capable of caring for her, it looked like he’d have more time to play because
unlike Remy, and other idiot males, no woman was ever going to put a leash on
him.
The End
Don’t miss the next story in the Welcome
To Hell series.
A Demon and His Psycho is available at
all major online stores.
(see EveLanglais.com for info)
Blurb
Psychic P.I. Sofa Parker never thought
she'd date a ghost, but when she accidentally kills her boyfriend, the phrase
'eternal love' takes on an unwelcome meaning. Her ex doesn’t want a little
thing like death to come between them and plans to haunt Sofia until she
agrees.
Add a case that results in being stalked
by a necromancer, betrayal by dragons and the meddling of druids and things get
complicated, fast. But the latest Supernatural politics aren’t her biggest
problem.
Sofia’s met someone and she can’t stop
herself from falling in love. Life really hits the fan when her new
relationship drives the lovesick ghost of her boyfriend to come back from the
dead...
anyway
he can.
‘Bad break-up’ doesn’t even begin to
cover it.
What readers say about Michelle McCleod’s
work:
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Her
writing style is unique and fast paced. Very easy to get lost in the world.”
“I was
drawn into the characters, and I couldn't help but like them. I really liked
that the heroine wasn't too stupid to live! A nice bit of world building.”
“Sexy and fast,
with a quick-witted heroine and a hottie hero.”
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Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. All events
depicted are fictional. Characters are consenting adults. Any resemblance to
places and persons, living or dead, is unintentional coincidence.
Every effort has been made to provide a
quality reading experience, but editors and technology are fallible. Please
report typos or formatting issues to
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Chapter
One
Gold can make you rich, but only if it
doesn’t kill you first-- something the gossamer-winged pixie fluttering in
front me hoped I didn't know.
She had dodged the line for the Salem
Witch Museum that often snaked past the entrance, and entered the shop lugging
a gold bowl taller than she was and so heavy, she could barely keep herself
airborne. With a grunt that sounded more like it belonged to a
three-hundred-pound strong woman than the Barbie-sized frame of a pixie, she
heaved it up on the counter.
Panting, she said, “How much honey will
you give me for this?”
I set aside the antique price guide I'd
been paging through, and looked at the bowl. It was pretty and no doubt
valuable, but the decorative scrollwork had sigils in it that I recognized as
Sidhe. Humans with Sidhe gold never fared well, and, while most people would
not have realized the gold was bad news, I knew better. This bowl would kill me
if it could.
The pixie, counting on common human greed
and ignorance, failed to consider I might not be common. Understandable since
humans rarely had any innate magical ability, but I was one of the few
exceptions to the rule: I was psychic.
It runs in the blood. My family's roots
predated Salem's witch burning days when we escaped the noose by virtue of our
genetic second sight. Although I didn't have to use clairvoyance to be
suspicious of the pixie. A degree in art history and six years as an antique
dealer had given me a keen eye for forgeries, stolen goods, and the people who
sold them. Plus, while it was August, she was sweating like she was in a sauna
on high.
Looking at her flushed cheeks, the faint
gold sheen to her skin, and over-bright eyes, I doubted she had even considered
I might be a bad mark. She was obviously honeyed out of her mind, probably
hadn't planned much beyond scoring her next hit. The Sidhe had no moral or
legal prohibitions against drug use and honey was their favorite recreational
drug. One only humans could supply since there were no bees in Fairy. It hadn't
taken the Sidhe long to figure out that gold could buy them a lot of honey. The
faker the better, at least initially.
Humans wised up once people started going
to prison for fraud when their fairy gold turned to dust. There were several
deaths too, because, sometimes, Sidhe gold came with a curse. Nowadays, we
humans bartered honey in exchange for services like scrying or magical
teleportation. It was safer that way.
By current law, I had a duty to
confiscate the gold bowl. Same as people with bad credit had their credit cards
seized and cut in half right in front of them. But the last thing I wanted was
to deal with the police again. The red mark on my wrist still hadn't healed
from the last time I’d been cuffed. So I did the next best thing.
With a smile of false regret I said,
“Sorry, I don't have enough honey to buy this from you.” It wasn't a lie; honey
was more than fifty dollars an ounce.
The pixie's lower lip began to tremble,
and tears gathered in her eyes. “You don't?” She looked past me to the small
bottle of honey I kept on hand for Sidhe customers. Honey had helped me close
many a deal, but the bottle was less than a quarter full. Not nearly enough to
pay for the bowl. Although, from the desperate expression on her delicate face,
if I offered it to her, she probably would’ve taken it.
“Nope, but I know someone who does.” And
who would also be happy to turn her over to the police and the Fairy
Intelligence Bureau (FIB for short). I gave her directions to Captain Joe's
Relics, an antique shop down by the wharf. We were friendly competitors, and he
knew enough about my situation to understand why I would send the pixie to him
instead of calling the police myself.
The pixie gave a nod of thanks, and,
stretching her thin arms back around the bowl, threw herself into the air with
frantic flaps of her wings. For a second, she dipped out of sight below the
counter, almost hitting the floor before recovering. I winced as she misjudged
her clearance, and smacked a shin on the corner of a vintage armoire.
Fortunately for her, she was feeling no pain and flew on without stopping.
I went back to my pricing guide. As far
as first days back at work went, things were going pretty well. No reporters.
No gawkers. No business either, but it had been more than six months since I'd
flipped the sign from 'closed' to 'open'.
A lot had changed since then.
The shop felt like a time capsule. A
perfectly preserved snapshot of my life before it fell apart. I had been happy
here. Before the accident, I had been in a serious relationship with a thriving
business. After...well, I wasn't lacking for dust bunnies. The store was dirty.
Dust coated everything, and mold grew fragrant in my favorite coffee cup. The
smell was so bad, I threw the mug away rather than clean out the fuzzy gunk
inside.
Note to self: Always wash out the coffee
mug. You never know when you’ll be accused of murder.
Boxes of inventory towered behind me,
waiting to be processed, and a pile of paperwork--receipts, auction catalogs,
correspondence, bills--covered the marble-topped bar that served as a checkout
counter. I'd been trying to figure out where to start when the pixie came in.
Organizing the paperwork had seemed like a logical first choice, but I couldn't
focus on it. The memories were too overwhelming, reminding me that, if life was
a ladder, I'd fallen from the top to the bottom, a bottom with a sinkhole
underneath, waiting to swallow me whole.
Tossing the pricing guide in the garbage,
I grabbed a rag and began dusting the jumble of armoires, dressers, and tables
scattered about the shop. Maybe I just needed to work out my anxiety with elbow
grease. As I dusted, I tried to keep my mind closed to the whispers of the past
that tried to push through my fingertips to my mind's eye.
Normally, I didn't mind the constant
barrage of history. Being psychic was a bonus in the antique industry, and I
enjoyed the unique perspective on days gone by that my clairvoyance gave me,
but there were a few recent events I didn't want to remember. The youngest
memories always had the strongest voice. If I let them, the walls would tell me
all about my fall again. They knew exactly what had happened. After all, my
downward spiral had started here, and the plaster, even the support beams
behind as well as every other item in the shop, chattered with the knowledge of
it.
Well, they weren't actually talking.
Inanimate objects didn't have personalities, but they did soak up impressions
and events around them. People didn't just leave behind fingerprints when they
touched something, but also bits of their energy, which then melded with
objects, preserving some moments in time with startling clarity.
A sudden chill raised the hair on the
back of my neck reminding me that, sometimes, a lot more than just energy was
left behind. Even with the warning the temperature change provided, I still
jumped when a familiar face smiled up at me from inside the oak table I was
cleaning.
Mark.
Also known as my recently departed
ex-boyfriend. Emphasis on the ex. As I liked to remind him, dead people don't
date.
He rose out of the table in a fog of gray
vapor that coalesced into the shape of the muscular, sandy-haired man I had
thought I would marry. Now I just wished he would leave me alone so I could
forget the guilt and get on with my life. Whoever came up with 'til death do us
part' knew what they were talking about. Sure, love beyond death sounded
romantic, but it didn't live up to the hype the vampire soap operas gave it.
Laughing, he raised his arms over his
head and said, “Boo.” His blue aura twinkled with good humor. Yeah, ghosts
have auras. I’d been surprised too. Even weirder, I didn’t have to squint to
see his. It was just there, no blurry vision required. On living people, I had
to practically cross my eyes to catch sight of someone’s aura.
I frowned at Mark. “That's not funny.”
When he'd been alive, one of the things I had liked about him the most had been
his sense of humor. Now that he was dead, not so much. Maybe I'd just forgotten
how to laugh.
“You act like you've never seen a ghost
before,” he said.
I gave him a dirty look. The whole ghost
thing was a sore point. Mostly because it wasn't normal to see them, and all I
wanted, after everything that had happened, was for things to return to some
semblance of normal.
Taking the hint, he changed the subject.
“I just came by to see how your first day back was going.”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
He surveyed the shop with raised
eyebrows. “I can see business has been good.”
“It'll come.” I forced a confidence I
didn't feel into my voice. “Could you get out of the table?” I asked,
uncomfortable with the way it bisected him like a magic trick gone bad.
“Why?”
“Because it's weird.”
He snorted and pointed to the door. “You
want to talk about weird? Look who's here.”
I turned to see a woman with blonde hair
pulled back into a ponytail standing in the doorway. Her jeans hung loose on
her bony frame and a too-big T-shirt in a soft, baby pink almost reached her
knees. In her hands she carried a plastic container. When she saw me, she smiled.
While thinner than I remembered, I recognized her instantly.
“Hello, Sofia,” she said, walking toward
me.
“Hello, Marjorie,” I said cautiously. I
hadn't seen her since the night I tried to save her daughter...and failed.
There was something about the rigid cheerfulness of her smile that put me on
edge. I cast a glance back at my ethereal visitor to see what he made of
Marjorie, but he had disappeared. Smart ghost. If only I could disappear too.
“I wondered if you had abandoned the
shop. You haven't been here in what? Months?” She ran a finger along the top of
a walnut buffet table from the late 1800s and showed me the dust.
I did my best to smile. “I plan to be
open regularly from now on.”
Marjorie nodded, rubbing her hand on her
jeans. “Onward and upward. Forgive and forget. Leave the past behind.” The
litany of clichés rolled off her tongue so easily, I knew she'd been subjected
to the same well-intentioned, yet meaningless phrases I had. After awhile, I'd
heard them so much it was hard not to parrot them back. I'd even caught myself
starting to tell someone that 'time heals all wounds'. Stupid, banal words that
did nothing except highlight how no one understood the pain of loss.
“Something like that.” Wanting to put
some distance between us, I moved behind the bar.
“Here,” she thrust the plastic container
at me, “I brought you something.” When I didn't move to take it, she set it on
the counter. “I wanted to thank you for finding Nikki.” Her voice fell to a
murmur at the end as if she didn't want to say the words. In her place, I
wouldn't have.
“Okay.” Her gratitude seemed misplaced,
since I hadn't found her daughter until it was far too late to save her. By the
time I regained consciousness, Mark had been dead two days and so had Nikki,
murdered by her kidnapper. All because of my psychic powers. Powers that
should've saved lives ended up taking them instead. My karmic balance sheet was
not pretty.
“It's not much. Just some cookies, but I
wanted to do something.” Her smile wavered and became apologetic. “I know how
hard things must be for you. I followed the story in the papers.”
“Thanks,” I said as I shifted my vision
out of focus so I could see her aura. I didn’t do that very often because it
made me effectively blind to the real world, but something was off, Marjorie
was just a little too happy to see me. The dark streaks and empty spots in her
aura confirmed my intuition. She was unbalanced and mentally unstable.
Unaware that I could see right through
her, Marjorie dismissed my gratitude with a wave of her hand. “I have to give
you credit for sticking around and keeping the store open. I'm leaving
tomorrow. Going south to stay with my sister. Everything here reminds me of her
and it hurts too much.” Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears and she looked up
at the ceiling, blinking rapidly to hold them back.
“Good luck.” I understood the urge to
leave. If I thought it would've helped, I might've considered it myself, but
ghosts didn't care about geographic distance. Mark would find me no matter
where I ran, my own personal cloud of guilt.
“Well, I guess I'll be going now.” She
didn't wait for a response, just spun on her heel and marched out, her back
stiff.
I watched her go with mixed feelings of
envy and relief. Envy that the solution to her grief was to simply leave the
state when I still had no clue how to handle mine, and relief things had gone
so well. Based on her aura, I would've expected her to launch herself at me,
ready to claw my eyes out, not bake cookies. At least I wouldn't have to face
her again, and the fewer reminders of my failure, the better.
Thinking to drown my sorrows in sugar, I
opened the plastic container and stared at the perfect rows of chocolate chip
cookies, bile suddenly rising in my throat. I'd had a flash of sight when I
touched the box, an image of Marjorie adding rat poison to the cookie batter.
With a sigh of resignation, I threw the cookies in the garbage. What a waste of
good chocolate.