The Wild Side: Urban Fantasy with an Erotic Edge

THE WILD SIDE

Edited by

Mark L. Van Name

BAEN

BAEN BOOKS by MARK L. VAN NAME

THE JON & LOBO NOVELS

One Jump Ahead

Slanted Jack

Overthrowing Heaven

Children No More

Jump Gate Twist
(omnibus of
One Jump Ahead
&
Slanted Jack
)

No Going Back
(forthcoming)

Anthology

Transhuman
(edited w/ T. K. F. Weisskopf)

The Wild Side

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Mark L. Van Name

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

“Introduction: Take a Walk on the Wild Side” copyright © 2011 by Mark L. Van Name

“Songs Sung Red” copyright © 2011 by Tanya Huff

“Careless of the Night” copyright © 2011 by Gina Massel-Castater

“For a Good Time, Call . . .” copyright © 2011 by Toni L.P. Kelner

“Fine Print” copyright © 2011 by Diana Rowland

“Unawares” copyright © 2011 by Sarah A. Hoyt

“Of Sex and Zombies” copyright © 2011 by Ticia Drake Isom

“Love Knot” copyright © 2011 by Dana Cameron

“Beauty is a Witch” copyright © 2011 by John Lambshead

“The Long Dark Night of Diego Chan” copyright © 2011 by Mark L. Van Name

“Born Under a Bad Sign” copyright © 2011 by Caitlin Kittredge

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 978-1-4391-3456-6

Cover art by Dan Dos Santos

First printing, August 2011

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

The wild side / edited by Mark L. Van Name.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-4391-3456-6 (trade pbk.)

1. Fantasy fiction, American. 2. Noir fiction, American. I. Van Name, Mark L.

PS648.F3W55 2011

813’.087308--dc23

                                                            2011016243

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Pages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com)

Printed in the United States of America

For Toni Weisskopf,

Publisher, Editor, and most importantly, friend

INTRODUCTION:
TAKE A WALK ON THE WILD SIDE

MARK L. VAN NAME

When Lou Reed exhorted us to do just that in his 1972 song, he was singing about a very particular urban landscape—New York City—teeming with many different types of people. Urban fantasy writers have for some time explored a far broader range of cityscapes—and inhabitants. When I invited the authors whose tales you’re about to read, I told them only that we were looking for stories that mixed urban fantasy and an erotic edge. The way each combined the ingredients was up to her.

The resulting stories cover a wide range indeed. Vampires, shape shifters, witches, demons, fallen angels, and more. Toronto, Las Vegas, San Francisco, London, New England, and other locales. Positively chaste to a tad raunchy. What they share, though, is more important than their differences: all are good stories that will take you into another world.

As a reader, I’m always curious what writers have to say about their works, so I asked these authors to provide afterwords. I think you’ll find them interesting.

Enjoy.

SONGS SUNG RED

TANYA HUFF

In a few short weeks, Millennium Ten, the latest club to spring up on Queen West’s transitional block between money and attitude, had become the place to be on a Friday night. It didn’t seem to matter that the bouncer guarding the entrance was an arbitrary ass, that the drinks were expensive, that the dance floor was too small; people still waited for hours in line, determined to get in.

Vicki didn’t like waiting.

As she made her way up the line, she let the Hunger rise. Not enough to give anything away, but enough that the people she passed knew. No one protested when the bouncer’s gaze skittered off her face and he stepped aside.

The stairs down to the lower level were lit with strips of neon, mounted low on the walls. Descending patrons could see their feet clearly while their features were already wrapped in a play of light and shadow that made everyone, if not more beautiful, more mysterious.

Vicki carried mystery with her.

A cluster of young women in brightly colored, nearly there dresses—high on thighs and low over breasts—shuffled aside on spike heels when she passed, instinctively giving way before the superior predator.

Making her way slowly around the room, Vicki ignored the crowd at the bar, her eyes locked on the moving bodies that filled the dance floor. It wasn’t easy, not with the combined scents of heated flesh and arousal, but she kept the Hunger damped down far enough it attracted only positive attention. Dangerous but not deadly.

No one likely to approach her would believe the danger was real.

“You here alone?”

She’d known he was there before he’d spoken. Felt his eyes on her. Felt him move up behind her, close enough she could feel his clothing brush against her shoulder blades. He’d tipped his head forward to ask the question, warm breath lapping against her ear, his voice low, as intimate as possible given the ambient noise. He was tall, he had to be to pull off that maneuver when she was in heels, and he smelled like clean sweat and fabric softener.

Stepping back just a little, just enough for her ass to accidentally brush against him, she turned and smiled. “I am.”

He was in his mid-twenties, seven or eight years younger than she’d been when she changed. His eyes were a medium blue flecked with gold. His hair was the same dark blond as hers, short enough to be military, but his beard, even though it was barely more than stubble, suggested otherwise. He wore a dark blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms, black jeans, black boots. Fully aware she was checking him out, his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled and his smile said he thought he controlled their interaction.

“Do you want to dance?” He nodded toward the dance floor as if reassuring her that he actually meant dance—although given the vertical foreplay happening out there, Vicki wasn’t sure why he thought drawing her attention to it would be reassuring.

“Love to.”

There were protocols for this type of hunt. As easy as it would be to lead this young man out into the alley behind the club and take what she wanted, part of the fun was allowing him to believe he was leading her.

That way, everyone was happy. And besides, no one wanted fast food every time they ate out.

The press of bodies kept them close. He kept his eyes on her face as they danced. He was good, Vicki gave him that—one Hunter to another. She had no idea what song was playing; as his heart began to beat in sync with the throbbing bass from the surrounding speakers, she danced to the pulsing of his blood. The thin fabric of his shirt began to stick to damp skin, outlining muscle, accentuating movement. As she breathed in his desire, a little more of the Hunger slipped free.

Outside, in the real world, people would have instinctively moved away. Down here, in the fantasy, they moved closer, flirting with fear, believing the same anonymity that allowed Vicki to Hunt would hide them. Like lambs to the slaughter.

Clubs like this were practically designed to become bloodbaths.

Vicki hurriedly damped it down at the look of terror on her partner’s face and, rather than make her move at the end of the song, kept them dancing until he regained his confidence. It didn’t take long. When she slid her leg between his, rubbing against the hard muscle of his thigh, showing him what she wanted, he closed his hands on her hips, fingers hot and strong, directing her movement.

She let him think so.

At the end of the song, the music stopped. Before a protest could rise from the dance floor, the DJ leaned into his microphone and said, “And now the voice you’ve all been waiting for!”

A single spotlight illuminated a tiny blonde woman standing alone on the small stage at the narrow end of club.

Vicki had no interest in even high-end karaoke, so she tucked herself up close to the young man’s body, tilted her face up—barely resisting the urge to lick the salt off the tanned column of his throat—and opened her mouth to suggest they take their dance elsewhere.

And the tiny woman began to sing.

Vicki closed her mouth again.

Soaring melodies and raw emotion held the audience in thrall without the need for words. Looking around the dance floor, Vicki could see smiles and tears and want and near worship. Strong arms wrapped around her from behind. His cheek resting against the side of her head, their bodies in contact from shoulder to floor, Vicki could feel the fine tremors running under her young man’s skin. He rocked his hips gently forward, in time to the music, and she knew the way no one else in the room could that neither the motion nor his arousal had anything to do with her.

That wasn’t right.

At this stage in the game, that wasn’t possible.

As the last note soared through blood and bone, blue-green eyes met hers for an instant.

Then the spotlight went out.

Before mortal eyes had time to adjust, Vicki had slipped through the door marked staff only and was moving down the corridor behind the stage. Under normal circumstances, she’d have lingered long enough to tell the young man to forget he’d ever seen her but these were not normal circumstances and she very much doubted that, while he was still in thrall to the song, she needed to bother.

Light spilled into the far end of the hall through an open door. As she walked at a mortal pace toward it, her heels announcing her presence against the worn, tile floor, Vicki could hear a single heartbeat and smell . . .

Seawater?

The dressing room was functional rather than opulent—cinder block walls, a rack for clothes, a dressing table.

The young woman sitting in the captain’s chair, combing her hair, looked better than she had any right to, given the industrial lighting. Her song had commanded all available attention while she was on stage, but here the silence paid her beauty its due. She sat facing the door, her back to the mirror. Her feet were bare. The hem of her floor length dress was . . .

Wet.

There was a drain in the floor, not really surprising in a basement room that had likely gone through a hundred renovations over the years, but the tiles looked dry.

As Vicki closed the door, the young woman looked up and smiled, familiar blue-green eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “I know you,” she said softly. The comb slid through the long fall of her hair. “Vampire. Nightwalker.”

“I prefer Vicki, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Vicki?”

She frowned and Vicki had to fight the urge to run her thumb over the delicate arch of her brows. Interesting. Probably a leftover from the dance floor; she’d never been physically interested in women.

On the other hand, as Henry was fond of saying, blood had no gender.

“Victoria.” Her voice slid over the syllables like she was tasting them, making them into a song. Vicki could see the tip of her tongue moving behind the parted barrier of her lips. “No, Vicki suits you better. Direct. To the point.” The comb slid through her hair again. “You may call me Lorelei, if you wish.”

“What are you?”

The question surprised a laugh out of her. “You’re young to the night. The day is not far behind you.”

“I know what I am.” Vicki allowed a little more of the Hunger to show, let it ride the throb of the bass beat from the club up to the surface. Allowed it to imply she was not going to ask again.

“What am I . . .” Lorelei tilted her head and watched the comb stroke through her hair, the movement slow, almost languid. The comb didn’t appear to be anything special; plain tortoiseshell plastic, wide teeth, and from the wear, she’d obviously had it a long time. “I am vaguely appalled by modern education. I am a stranger on these shores. I am a woman wronged.” When she lifted her head, her eyes were sad and she met Vicki’s gaze as though she had nothing to fear. “Tell me, has your heart always been true?”

“I don’t . . .”

“Know what I’m talking about? Yes, you do.”

Vicki couldn’t remember when the other woman had started to sing, thought maybe she’d been singing throughout their conversation, although that would be . . .

“I give you the freedom to be yourself, Vampire.”

* * *

“Looks like someone really hated these guys.”

Moving carefully through the destruction, Detective Sergeant Mike Celluci glanced over at his partner and muttered a terse, “You think?” The head office of Droege Shipping had been literally ripped apart. Desks and filing cabinets had been thrown through walls and windows, doors had been ripped from their hinges, and computers had been smashed. Even the light fixtures had been ripped from the ceiling and if there was an unbroken piece of glass anywhere on the 26th floor—excluding the external windows—Mike hadn’t seen it.