The Wild Side: Urban Fantasy with an Erotic Edge (12 page)

“Hello, Maura,” Wanda was saying. “Are you there?”

It was Rocha who said, “She’s lost her warranty certificate. Can you explain how it works?”

Wanda sighed, and more boredom wafted from her. I sucked all I could from her, but I’d already taken all I could from the others in her building. So I went on through the networks and wires and whatever it was that carried voices through the air. I found the people who were waiting for an overdue bus or stuck in traffic, who were complaining about spreadsheets and proofreading at work or tedious homework assignments, who couldn’t find anything worth watching on TV or any books to read. So much boredom, and I grabbed every bit of it and shot it at Alejandro as hard as I could, ignoring his entreaties and shrieks and then . . . Then there was nothing to hear but Wanda, who must have been reading the third page of text by then.

Rocha asked me, “Did it work?”

I waited, and then the most wonderful sound I’d ever heard came from Carmen’s phone: a dial tone. “It worked!”

Rocha said, “Thank you, Wanda, that’s all we need. Please tell your boss you’re doing a terrific job.” He hung up on her surprised thanks.

We stayed there a little while longer, just to make sure. Then slowly Rocha levered himself off me, pulled out Carmen’s purple cell phone, and pressed redial. He grinned, then held the phone up to my ear.

A mechanical voice said, “The number you have called is no longer in service.”

Only then did Rocha and I realize that I was practically naked and he still hadn’t zipped his pants. It made for an awkward few minutes before we decided it was late and time for him to go.

A few days later, I was alone in the shop watching the clock. The Kith was due to shut down the circle at twilight, meaning that they’d be accessible by phone again. I was still waffling about who to call first. Was it going to be Aunt Hester, so I could tell her she’d been right about me all along, or Ennis, so I could tell her she’d been wrong about me all along? I hadn’t heard from Rocha, and had decided I wasn’t going to. It wasn’t as though we’d had an actual date—screwing to save me from a rampaging incubus didn’t really count.

Then the bell over the door tinkled, and Rocha stepped in carrying a dark blue gift bag with gold stars on it.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“I brought you something. I thought about flowers, but I figured with your sister . . .”

“Yeah, flowers aren’t my favorite thing.”

He handed me the bag, then shuffled his feet as I pulled out what I could only assume was a top-of-the-line cell phone, all gleaming and shiny.

“It’s beautiful. But you didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, I did. For what you did for me and Carmen. I, um, programmed my phone numbers into it already. In case you want to call me.”

I held the phone up to my ear as if I were talking on it. “Rocha? This is Maura. Are you free for dinner tonight?”

He smiled. “You bet. I’ll pick you up at your shop.” He leaned toward me to give me a much softer kiss than we’d shared before. Overall, I preferred it to the previous ones.

Then he said, “There’s a case, too.”

“Rocha, you’re amazing.” I reached back into the bag and found a sleek leather case, with a silver charm dangling from it. The charm was even engraved: Good Witch.

Robert Heinlein said, “Specialization is for insects,” and
TONI L.P. KELNER
concurs, at least where her writing is concerned. Kelner is the author of the “Where are they now?” mysteries, featuring Boston-based freelance entertainment reporter Tilda Harper, and the Laura Fleming series, which won a
Romantic Times
Career Achievement Award. Her most recent novel is
Blast From the Past
. She also co-edits urban fantasy anthologies with Charlaine Harris. Their most recent is
Home Improvement: Undead Edition
, about supernatural beings taking time off. In between books, she’s a prolific writer of short stories, including the Agatha Award winner, “Sleeping With the Plush.” Kelner lives north of Boston with author/husband Stephen Kelner, two daughters, and two guinea pigs. She admits that she is addicted to her cell phone.

She provided this note about her story:

Most writers will tell you that story ideas are everywhere, but you know what’s really ubiquitous? Cell phones. When was the last time you went out that you didn’t see somebody with one? People talk while driving, grocery shopping, and watching their kids. They text during meetings and while getting their toenails painted. They check e-mail while waiting in line at McDonald’s. At any given moment, people are making dinner plans, sending sexy photos, complaining about traffic, and laughing at dirty jokes. And as far as I can tell, thousands are telling each other how bored they are.

One cell phone company has a series of commercials about things going on at any given moment, everything from the number of text messages being sent, to lovers breaking up, from how many people were listening to music on their phones to how many were using theirs as flashlights.

All that data is just floating through the air. Except it’s not just data—it’s a whole lot of emotion.

Some of it must have been floating in my direction when Mark asked me to write a story for this collection. I’m a big fan of urban fantasy, both reading it and writing it, but there’s so much good stuff out there that it’s hard to come up with something original. I’d done vampires, and werewolves, and even vampires dating werewolves, but I’d never done a witch of any description. If only I could come up with a different source of power for a witch.

A witch looking for power . . . cell phones filling the air with powerful emotions . . . is it any surprise that I made the connection?

FINE PRINT

DIANA ROWLAND

One second I was sitting on the couch in my living room, mentally rehearsing what I wanted to say to my girlfriend. The next second the house shook as my front door exploded inward.

I let out a shocked yell and jumped up from my spot on the couch as shards of wood scattered far into the front hallway. I started to grab for my phone to call 911, but stopped in mid reach as a tall, drop-dead gorgeous woman dressed in red leather strode through the smoking hole that used to be the doorframe. Silky black hair flowed about her like a living creature and rage permeated every fiber of her being as she flung something at me, striking me hard in the chest.

“Ow! Shit! What the hell?” I staggered back a step, making an awkward grab to catch the object.

“Jason, you worthless fuck!” the woman snarled. “It’s not in there. Where is it?”

I stared at her with a total lack of comprehension, then dropped my eyes to the thing that she’d thrown at me, bafflement increasing as I saw that it was a copy of
Black Magick Stories
—the magazine I edited. The October issue. I looked back up at the woman in shock as recognition abruptly clicked. “Rachel . . . ?” It was my girlfriend, but she sure looked different. Sexier. Taller.

Meaner.

Oh shit. I’d had an odd suspicion that my girlfriend was more than she seemed, that perhaps she was hiding something from me, but I hadn’t truly believed it could be anything that would allow her to change her appearance like this. I mean, why the hell would I? Some things were beyond the realm of rational thought.

I backed away from her, glad that the coffee table was between us. Not that it made a difference. She reached down and grabbed the table with one hand, flinging it against the wall as easily as tossing a pillow, then closed the distance between us before I could blink. In the next instant pain exploded through my face as she backhanded me hard enough to send me sprawling to the floor.

She had her boot planted in the middle of my chest before I could do more than let out a choked cry of shock. Under different circumstances I might have found it incredibly sexy. Right now I was scared shitless.

“You promised me my story would be in the Halloween issue!” Rachel raged, red flecks glowing in her crystal-blue eyes. “We had a contract!”

I let out an involuntary scream as she ground the point of her heel into my sternum. “I can explain!” I gabbled, terror beginning to overwhelm my confusion. “It’s in the November issue instead!”

“Halloween is in October, you fucking moron!” She bared her teeth in a snarl. “Damn you to all the hells!” To my immense relief she removed her boot from my chest and crouched beside me. I took several ragged gasping breaths as I struggled to work moisture back into my mouth.

“But at least I’ll have you to share the next few centuries with me,” she said, a cruel smile curving her lips. “Though I don’t think you’ll enjoy the time.”

* * *

I’d met Rachel at a science fiction convention earlier in the year, though I realize now that it had been far from a chance meeting. She’d no doubt orchestrated every aspect of our first encounter, even down to somehow giving the guy sitting next to me at the hotel bar a sudden case of the runs that had him dashing to the restroom.

She slid into the empty seat and gave me a smile that caught my attention. Hell, it wasn’t just her smile that did it—she was damn pretty, with long brown hair, blue eyes, and a slender figure. She wasn’t overly sexy—which was probably deliberate. If a model-gorgeous sex vixen had sat next to me, I’d have been too intimidated to even look at her, much less strike up a conversation. I also wasn’t exactly dressed for picking up hot sex vixens—my garb du jour was jeans and a “Fruity Oaty Bar” T-shirt.

“So,” she said with a cheeky grin, “is it true that sleeping with the editor is a viable way to get published?”

I blinked at her in shock for several seconds.
Black Magick Stories
was a small—though well-respected—fiction magazine, and this was the first time I’d ever heard anyone suggest a possible exchange of sexual favors for publication. And here was someone I might actually want to exchange sexual favors with. Though, of course, that would be totally unethical . . .

She tipped back her head and let out a delightful peal of laughter. “I’m so sorry, I just couldn’t resist. You looked so damn serious and in need of some shaking up.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Rachel. And don’t worry, I won’t ask you to publish any of my stories.”

I took her hand and shook it obligingly. Her humor was infectious instead of insulting, and I found myself smiling at her.

“So does this mean that you won’t sleep with me?” I cringed mentally as soon as the words were out of my mouth. I was never this forward, but to my relief she merely laughed again and winked.

“I’ll answer that question at a later time. How ’bout I buy you a drink instead?”

I grinned and lifted my nearly empty beer. “Now that’s the way to get published!”

* * *

By the second night of the convention she’d invited me to her hotel room. By the end of the convention I’d learned—to my delight—that, by bizarre coincidence, we lived in the same city. A week after we returned home she was firmly entrenched as my girlfriend, and I was in heaven.

* * *

I tried to make a dash for the door, but Rachel snagged me by my hair as easily as a mother dog snatching up a wayward puppy. “By all means, make this entertaining for me, Jason,” she hissed as she dragged me over to the wall. “You’ve ruined a great deal of careful planning, and I’m going to need to find some way to regain my usual calm.”

I clutched at her grip on my hair. “Rachel, wait . . . I can explain—” The rest of my sentence dissolved into a pained yelp as she hauled me upright. She lifted her other hand, and then suddenly she was holding a thick iron nail, six inches long and about a half inch in diameter.

My eyes widened as she raised the nail high. “Shit, Rachel, wait!”

Her lips pulled back from her teeth as her hand arced down toward me. I yelled something unintelligible and squeezed my eyes shut, every muscle in my body tensing in expectation of the feel of the metal driving into my flesh. A loud thunk rattled my teeth, but to my surprise there was no accompanying burst of agony anywhere in my body. I tentatively opened my eyes, legs almost shaking with relief to see that she’d driven the nail deep into the wall of my living room, over my head.

With her bare hands, I realized.

Oh shit. . . .

It took her less than a minute to strip me of my clothing and tie me by my wrists to the nail. I made another pathetic attempt to escape, but she was faster and stronger than I’d ever imagined. She was also barely recognizable as the woman I’d been dating. The basic features were the same, but this Rachel was several inches taller, much bustier, with a narrow waist, longer hair, plumper lips . . . exactly the kind of woman I’d never have been able to work up the nerve to talk to.

She stepped back and regarded me as I hung from the spike in the wall. “Well, this will do for a start,” she said with a shrug, full lips curving into a smile that made me want to run and hide under the bed. “And now for the real fun.”

* * *

My fingers clenched in the sheets and I gave an involuntary shudder as Rachel slowly stroked up the inside of my thigh. “You . . . are a tease,” I gasped, lifting my head enough to give her a shaky grin.

She responded with a laugh—not sultry and sexy, but one tinged with delight, as if she was amazed she could have this sort of effect on me.

“I take it you like what I’m doing?” she asked, giving me a mischievous smile.

“I’ll tell you in a few minutes,” I assured her.

She laughed again, just shy of a giggle, then lowered her head to let her tongue follow the path that her fingers had just traveled.

I groaned and let my head drop back, then sucked in my breath as she reached her destination. She seemed a little inexperienced, but she was eager and adventurous, and, truth be told, I was more comfortable and relaxed than if she’d been a seasoned pro in the sack.

But she was certainly good at what she doing right then and there. It seemed only minutes later that she brought me to the best damn orgasm I’d ever had in my life. I struggled to slow the slamming of my heart as she shifted up and snuggled into my side. She rested her head on my shoulder while I tried to catch my breath.