The Renfield Syndrome

  “Bartender!” Lonnie yelled.

  I rolled my eyes. The most demanding of them all was the shittiest tipper to boot.

  What I wouldn’t give to shove a bottle of Crown up his ass.

  I unplanted my feet, rubber-soled boots squeaking against the wet plastic floor mats. I always wore my shit-kickers, even on nights like tonight. The laced-up boots were reminiscent of emo goth punk, but they did far more than help me seem fashionably depressed. The reinforced steel toe was great for shots to the crotch when I needed to exert a little extra bartender attention.

  “What do you want, Lonnie?”

  “When’s Deena coming back?” He didn’t bother looking at me. That would take too much effort. Instead, his beady eyes remained locked on the stage. Typical.

  “When she comes back,” I answered flatly. “Can I get anything else for you?”

  He shook his head, and I rolled my eyes again.

  Poor Deena. Her best client was a pot-bellied pig living in the bright lights of New York City. I hoped she was enjoying her time away from this clandestine hellhole while soaking up the cancer-laced rays in sunny Florida.

  A surge of black snagged my attention and I chanced a glance. Disco was there, staring at me again. I couldn’t read his expression.

  Shit.

  My thoughts tumbled back, taking me into the past.

  Why did his undead—and I mean un-dead—friend have to show up on the one night I decided to take a breather, shoot a game of pool, and serendipitously rub elbows with Disco and his partner in crime, Cash? I remembered our introduction all too well. I was on the nine, slinging the money, when I noticed someone standing over the pocket. When the eyesore in question didn’t move after a polite request, I lost my genteel sensibilities and yelled for him to get the fuck out of the way. I realized my mistake, of course, when I took a better look and could see the people directly behind his airy body.

  The ghost had revealed my nature to Disco.

  I had been at the wrong place at the wrong fucking time.

  Necromancy—or as it is defined in the dictionary, divination by means of the spirits of the dead—is a bitch, and I hate the hell out of it. I see some pretty insane shit whether I want to or not. Since the state in which a person dies is the state they maintain in spirit, it’s a constant box of chocolates, and I don’t mean the momma always says kind, either.

  Death by heart attack—just another day at the office. Death by electrocution—not so bad. Death by car, head sliced neatly open with brain matter galore—beyond all concepts of nasty.

  I discovered my nifty talent when I was just a kid. I’d started seeing deceased neighborhood pets, followed by Mrs. Beaterman mulling over her neatly manicured lawn a week after the heart attack that killed her. I thought it was normal.

  That all changed the day a drunk driver blew past a stop sign and plowed into my parents’ van. When Mom and Dad paid a visit to their own funeral, I knew I had issues.

  “Bartender!” Lonnie yelled, his gaze remaining on the stage.

  I bit my tongue—literally. The sharp edge of my incisor hurt, which was the point. I had to hold it in or I was going to blow.

  “What can I get for you, Lonnie?”

  “Will Deena be back next weekend?”

  Count to ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and ten. Got your shit together? Okay, good. Answer the gentleman.

  “I don’t know, Lonnie.” I smiled, speaking through my teeth. “She’s on vacation. An extended vacation.”

  “Yo, Rhiannon!” Cletus called out and stepped up from the lower floor, coming right at me. His smooth muscles bulged under the lights, bringing attention to his warm, chocolate-colored skin. His bald head gleamed as he neared. New York’s most intimidating bouncer and I shared a happy working relationship, and the rules that governed that relationship were simple. No lies, no ass kissing, no bullshit. It worked better than most marriages.

  “Yo, Cletus,” I responded, walking in his direction.

  Everyone made way for him, backing off. No one wants to be in the path of a six-foot-four Mack truck with guns the size of two-by-fours. He stopped at the bar and asked, “You headed to the gym after this?”

  I glanced at Disco, who was undoubtedly listening. “Probably. I missed my set last night. Why do you ask?”

  He produced a set of keys. Nothing fancy, just a plain ring surrounded by various scraps of metal that held the power to unlock doors. “Give that to Mike. He’s on tonight.”

  “No problem.” I took them and pushed the jangling chain into my skirt pocket. I had to pay my dues anyway, and since Mike owned the joint, it was a win-win.

  Cletus returned to the floor and the night picked up. I was thankful for the distraction. I filled drink after drink, order after order, and I loved it. I didn’t want to be in this place any longer than I had to, and Friday and Saturday were the busiest nights of the week. A fast pace made time go by faster.

  I was filling a shot of Absolut—focused entirely on work—when I heard Erica snarl, “You fucking skank!”

  My chin snapped and I turned toward the sound of a bitch fight in progress. Erica and Lacey were engaged in a heated discussion at the opposite end of the bar. They pointed at each other and exchanged insults. I topped the shot of vodka and plopped the bottle under the counter when Lacey started pulling off her three-inch, red patent leather, fish high heels.

  I ran to the lift and tossed the heavy wood aside, shouting, “Cletus!”

  Someone yelled as his fingers got smashed beneath the lift, but I didn’t have time to apologize, and I didn’t have time to be courteous. Lacey was barefoot and ready for battle. The clock was ticking.

  Oh shit.

  There are a few things everyone should know about the women who work in these establishments. They are very savvy. Exotic dancing is a business, and many of them can retire young with sound financial planning. They are excellent actresses. That little show you see up on stage every night is just that—a show. And they scrap. I don’t mean as in going to the local dump to look for spare aluminum. I mean as in they will eat your ass for lunch.

  Lacey’s punch came before Erica could take off her shoes. The blow sent the older stripper to the ground. Lacey pounced on top of Erica and straddled her prey. She struck Erica again, landing a solid blow to the woman’s mouth. A crowd started forming around them, intoxicated men cheering them on. I shouldered past the group, forcing my way toward Lacey and Erica. Lacey pulled her arm back, poised to strike another time. I grasped her wrist, holding on tight.

  “Cool down,” I commanded softly, not wanting my voice to carry. “Hector’s coming over. You don’t want to lose your job. The bitch isn’t worth it.”

  That got her attention. The fight left Lacey’s body. She stood, chest heaving as she drew deep breaths. I let her go, stepped back, and watched Erica’s head slump to the side.

  Girlfriend was out cold.

  Blood mixed with her lipstick, covering the lower half of her face in blotchy red. She looked like a deranged life-size Joker Barbie doll, complete with bouffant hair, rhinestones and fingernails that made it impossible to scratch certain surfaces.

  Cletus picked Erica up and tossed her over his shoulder. Her head flopped as he carried her to the curtains, reminding me of a bobble head doll.

  Hector walked over, addressing Lacey. “Mind telling me what happened?”

  “I’m tired of her shit. I warned her.” Lacey pouted like the diva I knew her to be, appearing her actual, youthful age for once. “I told her to back off.”

  Hector frowned at her for a moment, then his face smoothed and relaxed. The big boss could be an asshole but, for the most part, he was a decent employer. He understood the human condition. As well he should. He profited directly from it.

  Hector Fernandez peddled in the most dependable and luc
rative of markets—sex. He was all about the good old-fashioned dollar. The expensive suits he always wore, the Mercedes parked outside, and the cash in his bank account were a testament to his success.

  He pushed chin-length mahogany hair away from his sublime face, his full lips curving into a thin smile. His Dominican heritage made him a natural ladies’ man. He was handsome, tanned and had an attractive lean build. Women couldn’t stay away from him.

  “Consider this strike one,” he warned Lacey, scolding her as if she were a child who had stolen a cookie. “Don’t let it happen again.”

  “I won’t,” Lacey promised and leaned over to pick up her heels. She stood tall when she had her shoes in hand, her spine erect and her head held high, and pranced toward the curtains.

  “And you, Rhiannon.” His dark eyes turned to me, and I steeled myself for a lecture. “You are supposed to be on the lookout for this very type of transgression. Where were you?”

  “Doing my job.” I folded my arms, going on the defense. “I’m the bartender, not the bouncer.”

  “Then I suggest you multitask. Or is that too much to ask?”

  “Multitask? Do I look like a fucking secretary?” My temper flared before I could bite it back. Erica wasn’t the only one with a big mouth. I was constantly in danger of writing checks my ass couldn’t cash; the bearer a lifelong disease of potty mouth that no amount of soap in this world could properly cleanse.

  “If I say so, yeah.” Hector narrowed his eyes in a clear reprimand, his lips thinning in anger. “Next time, watch the floor. Butch and Cletus can’t cover everything. If you can’t handle it, tell me, and I’ll find someone who will.”

  He stormed off without another word, his back an adequate goodbye and dismissal. Hector was a man of few words. He said it; you did it. End of discussion. I released an exaggerated sigh and lowered my head. The night couldn’t end soon enough. I wanted to get my ass home.

  A cold hand grasped my arm, startling me. “We need to talk.”

  I knew the voice too well. Disco.

  I told myself to remain calm as I met his gaze. I could have attempted to yank free of his hold, but I’d only embarrass myself. Vampires are strong—unbelievably strong—and his grip was as unbreakable as steel.

  “Let go of me.”

  “Only if you promise we can talk.” His blue eyes flashed, striking against his pale skin and golden blond hair. His face was smooth, his jaw squared. With high cheekbones, a straight and lean nose, kissable full lips, and unbelievably smooth skin, he would be a twenty-something looker frozen in time.

  “Not here.” I glanced around, studying my surroundings. No one had noticed our little encounter. Not yet. I couldn’t afford to lose my job. If Hector saw me chatting while I was on the clock, he’d probably fire me. Personal visits during work hours were a big no-no.

  “Where?” His grip loosened as he studied me.

  “After close. Meet me outside, around the back.”

  He didn’t release me right away, gazing into my eyes. My stomach knotted and my palms felt sweaty. I couldn’t think when he looked at me like this, as though he was trying to find his way into my soul. The world was spinning and fading away, leaving the two of us alone.

  Slowly, he eased back and released my arm. The fogginess lifted, clearing my head.

  I turned from him and strode to the bar, trying to slow the erratic beating of my heart. Once I was safely behind the counter, I apologized to the gentleman I’d injured in my rush to get between Lacey and Erica. He displayed his purple thumb, clearly angry over what had happened. To make amends, I gave him a drink on the house. He went from annoyed to understanding, accepted the gesture. Alcohol always seemed to tame the savage beast.

  I peered up at the clock—12:58 a.m. Wonderful.

  I was on for another hour. Afterward, I had a meeting with a guy who scared the piss out of me. So much for making it to the gym.

  “Bartender!” Lonnie’s deep bellow ricocheted off the ceiling like a frazzled fart.

  I stomped over, feet pounding against the plastic mats, anger and agitation coursing through me. I always kept my head with Lonnie, but damn it, this was getting old. Deena would just have to find it in her heart to forgive me.

  “What the fuck do you want, Lonnie?” I couldn’t be certain, but I assumed my eyes had turned black—something that happened when my temper was stoked. The change in color was the first warning you’d pushed my big red button, or so I’d been told. For once, he didn’t order me around. Instead, he gawked at me, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and shocked. “What do you want?” I repeated, softening my voice. “Can I take your order?”

  “Can I have a Crown and Coke, Rhiannon?” he asked politely.

  Stunned by the swift change in his attitude, I managed to keep a straight face as I made his drink. He watched quietly as I poured the Crown, mixed in the ice and cola, and even thanked me when I placed the effervescent drink in front of him.

  The evening seemed to be full of surprises.

  All it takes is a little death and mayhem to make a spook catcher’s day.

  A Stitch on Time

  © 2014 Yolanda Sfetsos

  Sierra Fox, Book 5

  Sierra Fox has finally inherited her grandmother’s power to destroy demons, but what good is it when her werewolf boyfriend still lies in a coma? Worse, the decision she’s about to make could save him—but ruin their relationship.

  If that’s not enough bad stuff on her plate, she’s got a soul to save—the soul of her closest friend, killed by the Lamia that got away.

  Another untasty side dish: The Obscurus refuse to give up their relentless pursuit, and they’ve upped the ante. Mace is dead set on blowing up the Spook Catcher Council Tower, and the blowback will have devastating effects on Sydney and for Sierra. At least these demon-obsessed freaks aren’t counting on Sierra having a Goddess and a trusty demonic conduit as backup.

  All of this leads to a one-way ride into the abandoned part of town, where the Obscurus plan to summon Legion. With her demon hunter friend by her side, Sierra prepares for the final battle…because even she knows this will be The End.

  Warning: Phantasms, wraiths, orbs, demons, all guaranteed to ruin any spook catcher’s day. But you can always count on werewolves, land spirits, and a Goddess. Beware of explosions, demonic obsessions, and the battle that will tip the scales and change Sydney forever.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for A Stitch on Time:

  I parked my whale of a car just outside the werewolf estate. Well away from the surrounding brick wall, and concealed with a shrouding incantation. I didn’t want anything to happen to my 1972 Ford ZF Fairlane.

  As I strolled along the grass, trying not to get my boot heels stuck, I checked both of my blades—silver dagger tucked into my right boot, moonstone boline strapped to my left thigh. I’d left the revolver and crossbow in the car because I wasn’t expecting any rabid wolves tonight.

  This reservation was well concealed in the town of Wilson, near the heart of the Blue Mountains. It had become peaceful since what happened on Monday night, when the crazed werewolf couple tried to destroy everything. Luckily, the pack had recently stopped using the grid as their main power source, and instead relied heavily on solar power. After noticing the blue and white sparks chasing me along the highway via the overhead cables, I really appreciated that fact. Hopefully, no access to the grid would keep the phantom and his phantasms out.

  Without the power lines, I was pretty sure Mace couldn’t reach me, but he’d find another way eventually. Phantoms and phantasms travelled across power lines and electrical charges, but the former weren’t limited to such transportation methods.

  A chill wove its way down my spine, causing me to stop for a second.

  I looked over my shoulder, both hands ready to grab my weapons if someone dared attack. But there was no one t
here. I was just jumpy.

  The stormy clouds and lightning didn’t help my nerves. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and knowing a thunderstorm might be headed our way made me anxious. The commute to Wilson took too long and the sun had disappeared completely behind the horizon. I was looking forward to daylight savings next week, when the days became longer.

  I quickened my steps and reached the clinic in minutes. I waved to the nurse at the reception desk and strolled past the other nine rooms, until I stood in front of the one I was becoming very familiar with.

  “Let’s do this,” I said as soon as I stepped inside.

  “Hey Sierra,” called a friendly voice.

  “Lavie, hey, what are you doing here?” Not that I was upset about her presence. I’d just assumed Saul would do this alone.

  She stepped around the bed and threw her arms around me, holding on so tightly that I felt the air rush out of my lungs. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” Lavie murmured into my shoulder. “Eb was such a trooper.” She squeezed me before drawing out of the embrace. Her own eyes were red and puffy, like she’d shed plenty of tears already.

  It took me a few seconds to find my voice. “How did you find out?” I didn’t want to talk about what happened to Ebony. I’d cried on my way over, so the grief was too close to the surface. Just about anything would get the waterworks going.

  I swallowed it all down and sucked in a few shallow breaths, willing myself to be strong and stay focused. Or at least keep the tears at bay until I was back in my car.

  “Saul told me,” Lavie said. “He felt your pain.”

  I nodded and met the demon’s eyes from across the room. Of course he had.

  Saul felt my pain and sorrow because we were connected by the Hecate Ritual my grandmother performed when I was just a baby. I’d finally read all about it in her grimoire. The ritual wasn’t elaborate or even complicated and consisted of two overlapping circles—one salt for protection, the other grave dirt for summoning. Grandma used a blessed moonstone crystal to connect them, the correct colored candles, and the invocation to call on Hecate. Then the Goddess graced the offered infant. The hardest part had probably been sneaking me into North Serene Hills, the abandoned part of town, where a magical power grid was not only crisscrossed by countless ley lines, but also situated in the middle of a three-way crossroads.