“Genevieve,” he said starkly.
“Hunter? Hunter!” With a cry, she raced to him.
Eight
Hunter opened his arms and welcomed Genevieve as she threw herself at him. He twirled her around, reveling in her luscious female scent, the soft curves of her body.
“Where have you been?” she demanded. “You stupid, stupid man. I’ve been so worried about you. You didn’t hurt me out there, okay? You didn’t hurt me. You stopped in time.”
“I could have hurt you, and that was enough reason to die.” He pulled back and cupped her face in his hands. Would he ever get enough of this woman?
Tears streamed down her face. “Why are you here, then? Why?” “I talked to Barnabas. His creator hated and feared blood like me, so he took something called a blood-appetite suppressant. I didn’t think it’d work, but I took it and my cravings went away. I won’t hurt you now. I know it sounds too good to be true,” he rushed on, “but it’s true. Trust me not to hurt you. Please. I want to be with you.”
“Why do you want to be with me?” she interjected. In that moment, her relief and joy overflowed, but she needed to hear the words.
His expression became tender. “I kept picturing your face and I began to realize that even in death, you would haunt me. I began to realize that leaving you would be more vile than drinking from you. I began to realize that I couldn’t leave you again. You’re my reason for being. You’re my everything.”
She blinked through her tears, barely daring to breathe.
“Will you have me, Genevieve Tawdry? Vampire that I am?”
“With all of my heart.” Laughing, she kissed him over and over again. Loving kisses, happy kisses. Relieved kisses.
Hunter hugged her fiercely. That laugh of hers . . . glorious, uninhibited, he would never get enough of it. “I want you. I want you naked.”
“Uh, Genevieve,” came a female voice.
Genevieve’s cheeks reddened, and she pressed her lips together. She’d forgotten about their audience, he realized with satisfaction, just as he had.
“Hunter, you know my sisters.”
He nodded in their direction, but his eyes were only for Genevieve. “Godiva. Glory. Nice to see you again.” His fingers played with the silky soft hair at the base of Genevieve’s neck. He couldn’t stop touching her. He still didn’t like the fact that he was a vampire. He still didn’t like that he had to drink blood, even though the cravings could be controlled. But he would put up with anything to be with his Genevieve.
“You, too,” they said simultaneously.
“The man with Godiva is Romeo,” she said breathlessly. Her eyes closed and a look of rapture blanketed her expression. “You can meet him later.”
Romeo nodded in acknowledgment. He placed a protective arm around Godiva, as if Hunter might leap off the porch and attack at any moment. Hunter tried not to take offense. He had better get used to people fearing him.
“Hunter and I are going to my room,” Genevieve said. “To, uh, talk.”
“Dirty,” Glory added.
He allowed Genevieve to take his hand and lead him inside, down a hallway and into her room. It was a neat, tidy space with everything color-coded and organized. The bed was made for sin, however. Black silks, crimson pillows. Cerulean velvets. “You want to talk?” he asked with a chuckle.
Her lips lifted in a sensual grin that caused his stomach to clench. She hurriedly secured all of the drapes over the windows so that when the sun rose, it wouldn’t hurt him. “We can talk while you’re inside me.” She raced to him and tugged at his clothes. “I need you so desperately.”
He slipped her shirt over her head, then pushed her pants to her ankles. She stepped out of them, completely naked. The sight of her naked beauty almost made him come, right then, right there. Supple curves, ripe nipples, milky skin. The long length of her dark hair provided a mesmerizing contrast.
“I can’t wait,” he said raggedly.
“No waiting,” she agreed.
He took her quickly, with all the urgency he felt inside. Filled as he was with blood and the suppressant, he didn’t have the slightest urge to bite her—except in pleasure. They rolled atop the bed, panting, growling, straining. Her breasts filled his hands. Her legs anchored around him as he pounded in and out.
“Hunter,” she screamed as a sharp peak tore through her. He felt every spasm and it fueled his own.
He spilled inside her with a loud roar.
Someone banged at the wall. “Enough already,” he heard one of her sisters say. Glory, most likely. Godiva was probably otherwise occupied. He chuckled into Genevieve’s neck. Nope. He still didn’t want to bite her. Relief consumed him.
Playfully she bit his collarbone. “I love you so much.”
Her words filled his mind as surely as he’d filled her body. Even his heart stopped beating—or maybe it had never started up again after his death. Women had said those words to him before, but he’d never felt them in his bones. Even Genevieve had said them before. He’d never returned them.
“I love you, too, sweetheart.”
She sucked in a slight intake of breath. “Do you really?”
“I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you.”
“Then why did you push me away for so long?” she asked with a frown. “You never really answered that question.”
He placed a sweet kiss on her temple. “Sweetheart, the answer doesn’t matter anymore. Let’s just—”
“Please. Tell me.”
Unable to deny her anything, he explained. As he spoke, she paled. Tremors reverberated through her by the time he finished. “You should have told me the truth years ago,” she said. “I would have left you alone.”
“I know, and that’s exactly why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to leave me alone. I loved you too damn much.”
“What a pair we make, hmm? The dead man and the witch.”
He chuckled. Life—or death, rather—was ripe with promise. He was happier than he’d ever been and he owed it all to the sweet, sweet witch in his arms. “I’m looking forward to spending eternity with you.”
Slowly she smiled. “Eternity with Hunter Knight. Now that’s something I can look forward to.”
CANDY COX AND THE BIG BAD (WERE)WOLF
P. C. Cast
For S.L.,
with a smile and a wink.
Thanks for the . . . inspiration.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank Berkley, and especially my talented editor, Christine Zika, for publishing this author-created anthology. It’s wonderful when your publisher believes in you.
Thank you to my agent and friend, Meredith Bernstein, who said, “Absolutely!” when I called her with this idea.
And a big THANKS GIRLFRIENDS to Gena Showalter (my partner in crime in the inception of this anthology), Susan Grant, and MaryJanice Davidson. It was such fun to work on this with the three of you. Let’s do it again soon!
One
“Godiva! Wait—wait—wait. Did you just say that you and your sisters called forth the dead two nights ago?” Candice said, rubbing her forehead where it was beginning to ache.
“Yeah, but you missed the important part. Romeo was . . . spectacular,” Godiva said breathlessly into the phone. “Who knew that poor, wounded wolf would turn into something—I mean, someone—so delectable.”
“So he actually did more than hump your leg this time?”
“Candy Cox—I swear you haven’t been listening.”
“You know I hate it when you call me that.”
“Fine. Candice, you haven’t been listening,” Godiva said. “He’s not just a wolf. He’s a werewolf, which means he has an excellent tongue and he humps a lot more than my leg.”
Candice kept muttering as if Godiva hadn’t spoken. “It’s not like I don’t get enough of that name crap at school. Why I ever decided to attempt to teach high school morons I’ll never know.” She cringed inwardly, remembering the coun
tless times some hormone-impaired sixteen-year-old boy had made a wiseass remark (usually replete with sophomoric clichés) about her name. God, she was truly sick and tired of Mysteria High School—Home of the Fighting Fairies.
“You could have kept one of your ex-husbands’ names,” Godiva said helpfully.
“Oh, please,” Candice scoffed. “I’d rather sound like a porn star than keep any reminders of ex-husband numbers one through five. No. My solution is to change careers. As soon as I finish my online master’s in creative writing I can dump the fucking Fighting Fairies and snag that job in Denver as assistant editor for Full Moon Press.”
“Honey, have I told you lately that you have a very nasty mouth for a schoolteacher?”
“Yes. And I do believe I’ve told you that I have said nasty mouth because I’m a schoolteacher. Uh, please. Shall we take a moment to recall the one and only day you subbed for me?”
Godiva shuddered. “Ack! Do not remind me. I take back any form of criticism for your coarse language. Those teenagers are worse than a whole assortment of wraiths, demons, and undead. I mean, really, some of them even smell worse!” Just remembering had her making an automatic retching sound. “But Candice, seriously, I don’t want you to move!”
“Denver’s not that far away—we shop till we drop there several times a year. You know I need a change. The teenage monsters are wearing on me.”
“I know,” Godiva sighed. Then she brightened. “Hey! I could work on a spell that might help shut those boys up whenever they try to speak your name. Maybe something to do with testicles and tiny brains . . .”
“That’s really sweet of you, but you know that magic doesn’t work on or around me, so it probably wouldn’t work on my name, either.” Candice sighed. It was true. As a descendant of one of the few nonmagical founders of the town (his name was, appropriately, John Smith), Candice had No Magic at All. Yes, sadly, she lived in a town full of witches, warlocks, vampires, fairies, werewolves, et cetera, et cetera, and her magic was nonmagic. It figured. Her magic worked like her marriages. Not at all. “Men are such a pain in the ass.”
Without losing a beat at her friend’s sudden change in subjects, Godiva giggled. “I agree completely, which is why I know exactly what you need—a werewolf lover.”
“Godiva Tawdry! I’m too damn old to roll around the woods with a dog.”
“A werewolf is not a dog. And forty is not old. Plus, you look ten years younger. Why do you think high school boys still get crushes on you, Ms. Candy Cox?”
“Put boobs on a snake and high school boys would chase after it. And don’t call me Candy.”
Godiva laughed. “True, but that doesn’t make you any less attractive. You’ve got a killer body, Ms. Cox.”
“I’m fat.”
“You’re curvy.”
“I’m old.”
“You’re ripe.”
“Godiva! Do you not remember what happened last time I let myself commit matrimony?”
“Clearly,” Godiva said. “It took ex-husband number five less than six months to almost bore you to death. And he seemed like such a nice guy.”
“Yes, I admit he did seem nice. They all did at first.” Candice sighed. “Who knew that he would literally almost kill me? And after my brush with death, I decided that I. Am. Done.”
“Okay, look. You accidentally took an unhealthy mixture of Zoloft, Xanax, and pinot grigio. It could happen to anyone, especially when she’s being bored to death by a man scratching himself while he incessantly flips from the History Channel to CNN—”
“—And pops Viagra like they’re M&Ms and thinks that the telltale oh-so-attractive capillary flush constitutes foreplay,” Candice interrupted. “Yeesh. I’m going to just say no from here on out. Truly. I’ve sworn off men.”
“No, I remember exactly what you said. ‘Godiva’—here you raised your fist to the sky like Scarlett O’Hara—‘I will never marry again.’ So you’ve sworn off marriage, not men. And anyway, a werewolf is not technically a man. Or at least if he is, it’s only for part of the time. The rest of the time he is the most adorably cuddly sweet furry—”
“Fine.” Candice cut off Godiva’s gushing. “I’ll think about it.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” No, she thought. She hurried on before Godiva could press the point. “I’ve really gotta go. I’m deep in the middle of Homework Hell. I have to turn in my poetry collection to the online creative writing professor next week, and I still haven’t figured out a theme for the damn thing. I’m totally screwed if I can’t get rid of this writer’s block.”
“Well . . .” Godiva giggled mischievously. “I don’t know how it’d work on writer’s block, but Romeo sure unclogged me last night.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m just saying—a little werewolf action might fix you right up.”
“You’re still not helping.”
“Sorry. I’ll let you get back to your writing. Remember, you said you’d think about a werewolf lover.”
“Yeah, I’ll think about it right after I think about my poetry theme. Uh, shouldn’t you and your sisters be frolicking about the graveyard checking on the dead or whatnot?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. Our little screwup actually ended up being a good thing, what with those horrid demons on the prowl; the town could use the extra protection. And anyway, it’s only temporary and the dead have already quieted down. Uh, but since you mentioned it . . . are you planning on going jogging today?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think you could take a spin through the graveyard and keep your eyes open for my broom? I must have forgotten it in all the excitement that night, between Genevieve scampering off into the woods with Hunter—whose eyes, by the way, were glowing bright red—and my Romeo morphing from wolf to man rather unexpectedly. Anyway, if you see it would you please grab it before somebody flies off with it? You know a good broom is hard to find.”
“Yeah, sure. If I see it, I’ll get it for you. But wait, isn’t Hunter Knight supposed to be dead?” Candice said.
“Well, kinda. Actually, he’s a little undead.”
“Isn’t that like being a little pregnant?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass. It’s embarrassing enough for me to admit that my sister’s getting some vampire action. God, I wish the girl had better taste in men, alive or dead.”
Candice sighed. “Hey—don’t be such a prude. If I’d chosen one of the undead I might not be unmarried.”
“Candice, honey, I love you, but you are a hopeless piece of work. Now be a doll and go find my broom. Bye.”
Godiva hung up the phone and sat tapping her chin with one long, slender finger. Candy was getting old before her time. Goddess knew, she really did need a lover. A young lover. A young werewolf lover. A hot, naughty affair would be the perfect thing to keep her from moving to Denver. Her fingers itched to swirl up a little love spell, but magic wouldn’t work on her friend. Godiva’s eyes widened and her full, pink lips tilted up. Magic wouldn’t work on Candy, but it definitely would work on a werewolf....
Two
Candice would never get this damn assignment done.
“You’d think after teaching for almost twenty years I wouldn’t have any problem doing homework.” She grumbled at herself and ran a frustrated hand through her thick blonde hair. “Poetry themes . . . poetry themes . . . poetry themes . . .” Death, time, love, heartbreak, the soul, happiness, sex . . . “Sex,” she muttered, chewing the end of her well-sharpened #2 pencil. “That’s one I can’t write about. Like I’ve had sex in—”
She clamped her lips shut, refusing to speak aloud the ridiculous amount of time it had been since the last time she’d been laid. As if the last time even counted. Ex-husband number five had been, in politically correct terms, penis impaired. Spoken plainly, he’d had a pathetically small dick, and an incredibly large wallet. Unfortunately, one did not make up for the other. Candice grimaced. Quite frankly, women who said si
ze didn’t count had clearly never been with a man with a small dick. And, as if their, well, lack of substance wasn’t bad enough, SDM (small-dicked men) had the same problems short men had. They were mad at the world. Like it helped to make up for said unfortunate shortage by being a jerk? Sometimes men just didn’t make sense.
“Theme!” she said, forcing her thoughts back to the blank notebook page. She wanted to create poetry that would dazzle her professor, replete with complex symbolism, witty phrasing, and possibly even a few clever slant rhymes. What she had come up with was exactly—she glanced at the naked page—nothing.
She was, indeed, screwed (figuratively speaking).
“Okay, so write something . . . anything . . . write what you know. . . .”
What the hell did she know? She knew she was sick of teaching the Fighting Fairies and she knew she would never get married again. Well, she certainly didn’t want to write about high school, which left . . .
“What the hell. At least it’ll get me writing.”
She drew a deep breath and let her pencil begin moving across the blank page.
Keep your Errol Flynns, Paul Newmans, Mel Gibsons
all puppets—empty masquerades.
She blinked and reread the first two lines. Not Shakespeare, but it did have a certain ring to it. Candice grinned and continued.
Tom, Dick, and Harry, too
the boy next door
I want no more.
Wasn’t that the truth! Her pencil, with a mind of its own, kept moving.
You ask, what now?
Well,
And the self-propelled pencil stubbornly stopped. What now? What now? What now? She jumped as the clock in her study chimed seven times. Seven o’clock already? How long had she been on the phone with Godiva? Now she’d have to hurry to get in her five-mile jog, complete with graveyard detour, before the sun set. Crap! She absolutely didn’t want to be outside alone after dusk. Weird things had been going on around town lately—and it took some doing for anything to be classified as “weird” by a Mysteria native. Candice put down her pencil and began pulling on her running shoes.