Samhain Publishing

If she’s a tree fairy, how come he’s the one with the wood?

Afterglow, Book 2

Detective Cheney Fisher is used to the back-of-the-neck feeling that tells him he’s being watched. When attorney Pandora Jackson strides into the precinct, he’s the one doing the watching—and drooling. Her mile-long legs and fiery hair encase a sharp legal mind and a body he’d like to de-brief.

Despite his effort to keep his powers on the down-low, Pandora knows that Cheney is uniquely qualified to solve her problem—evaluating a strangely unfriendly bit of evidence from a court case. But it’s her instant attraction to the detective that scares her. Any loss of control and her powerful Fae ability could consume her, body and soul.

A suspicious fire in Pandora’s apartment drives Cheney’s suspicion that she’s being stalked by a very real threat. Bringing her under protection is the only option, even though proximity means there’s no way to fight the searing passion erupting between them.

Cheney’s instincts are spot-on, though. A madman with a taste for unnatural selection has a plan for Pandora. The only way to fight it is trust themselves, their powers…and each other. 

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Copyright © 2010 Wynne Hayworth
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication

Chapter One

Cheney Fisher was tired.

He hadn’t slept very well, he’d woken up too early and had a rougher-than-usual commute to his desk at the precinct, thanks to a unicorn that had managed to nail itself to a tree and block the road.

He sighed and pulled a little of his magic around him, creating the illusion of normalcy and tightening the bags he knew were sagging beneath his eyes. He’d let it wane during the day, but right now he didn’t need any questions from his eagle-eyed peers in the detective pool. Especially his partner, Buck Shand.

Although since Buck had found himself a real, honest-to-God woman and they’d established themselves as a couple, Buck’s attention to such details had slid considerably. He had worse bags under his eyes than Cheney did.

Lots of great sex did that to a guy.

Or so he’d heard. He could have sex anytime he wanted it, but in spite of the charm he radiated, he chose not to screw around. If others imagined him with a different babe every night, that was their problem. He wasn’t a sharing kind of guy about his personal life.

And even though everyone recognized the tiny dot on his earlobe that marked him as an AG, he’d told very few people what he actually was.

As a matter of fact, even he wasn’t sure what he was. But he’d found the one word that seemed to cover his skills. He thought of himself as an illusionist.

Not for him the fairy wings, the vampire fangs or the shape-shifting abilities. Those creatures of legend were now plentiful thanks to Afterglow. There were nightclubs and fashions designed for fairies, diet blood substitutes for vampires trying to drop a few pounds, and various drop-off points for werewolves about to shed their clothes and get furry.

Embarrassed, naked, middle-aged men trying to hide their paunch after a night howling at the moon in their lupine forms—well, accommodations had to be made. It was all part and parcel of his world, and he pretty much took it for granted like the rest of Earth’s inhabitants.

The mutations were accepted and variations were logged, filed and entered into the databases of scientific institutions around the world. But science aside, there were still humans at the core of these creatures, humans with their own foibles, issues and personalities. Thus pixies could be as nice or as annoying as their intrinsic natures, fairies needed to learn how to use their wings if they wanted to flutter—it didn’t always come naturally—and elves were green. Not chartreuse, or emerald, just flat-out green. They weren’t always happy about it, either, but it was what it was.

Vampires bought the latest designs in sunglasses and were into hats big-time. Even when not dentally challenged, they were sun-sensitive. They dealt with it, as did everyone, by adapting—the species as a whole was pretty well-adjusted, realized Cheney as he strolled into the precinct and nodded at a couple of guys from the night shift who were logging out.

One still had pointy ears—he’d probably spent the night picking up street gossip down in Woodville where fairies and elves hung out in bars with inventive names like “The Green Glade” or “Mushroom Dell”.

The blands, folks who didn’t have any special mutations, took it all in stride. After all, when your kid becomes something magical, you couldn’t not love them just because you had both feet firmly on the ground and didn’t shift into anything other than an overbearing parent demanding they brush their fangs before they go to bed.

“Hey, dude. How’s it hangin’?” Buck offered his customary morning salute.

“Bigger, longer and harder ’n yours, dude.”

Having dispensed with the daily pissing contest, Cheney sat behind his desk, frowning at the paperwork that seemed to magically appear overnight. “What the hell’s all this crap? I thought we took care of the basilisk killer stuff.”

“We did.” Buck leaned a hip on a bare spot and looked down at the folders. “This is the latest from the DMD.”

Cheney grimaced. “Ah. Them.” The Department of Metaphysical Developments kept track of human DNA mutations and alerted the authorities to any new wrinkles in the growing complexity of the human crossbreeds. They accomplished this mammoth task in the most boring way possible, so it was with a great deal of sarcasm that he posed a question to his partner. “Anything interesting?” He scanned the pages idly.

“Check page four.” Buck’s voice was quiet. “Something there I can’t say I’m thrilled about.”

“Hell.” Cheney found it immediately. “A ghoul?”

“Yep.”

“Not much on it. Just a note that they’ve identified the ghoul gene. Someplace in Europe, apparently, but not here yet.”

“Good thing too,” said Buck. “From what Lian told me, ghouls aren’t the nicest of beings. They’ll eat you as soon as look at you.”

Cheney shrugged. “They’ll adjust, I guess. Or get wiped out.” He closed the folder and leaned back in his chair. “Anything else new I should know about?”

“Routine stuff. I guess you heard about the unicorn stuck in the tree.”

“Yep. Got hung up in the traffic mess.”

“There were a couple of domestic disturbances last night. The usual things. Some werewolf forgot himself and pissed on a neighbor’s lawn, leaving brown spots. A fairy said she was assaulted, but it turned out to be some tourist who’d never seen one before and wanted to know if her wings were real.”

“Christ. Are there still places where there aren’t any AGs?”

“Apparently. This guy was from out of town. Waaaaay out of town.” Buck chuckled. “Sounded like he was right off the farm. A bland with no real exposure to much of anything but manure.”

Cheney grinned. “If it wasn’t for the stink, I’d almost envy him.”

“Some days, I would too.”

The two men were silent for a moment or two, then Buck leaned a little closer. “It’s bugging you, isn’t it?”

They’d been partners long enough for Cheney to know exactly what Buck was talking about. “Yep. Bugging the hell out of me if you want the truth.”

Two lines appeared between Buck’s eyebrows as he stared at his friend. “Don’t let it get to you. We took a serial killer down. The Pleasure Pets can go screw their customers without worrying they’ll end up as mincemeat. Business is up, everyone’s back to screwing their brains out, coming like gangbusters and life is good.”

“I know, but still.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I can’t get rid of it, Buck. That knowledge. The idea that there’s someone out there who is trying to control AGs. Make them do things they don’t want to do. Turn them into killers.” He paused. “And there’s something else.”

“What?”

“Call me crazy, but I’ve had the strangest feeling since we closed that case. The feeling I’m being watched.”

Buck lifted one eyebrow. “By someone other than the usual gaggle of women, I’m assuming?”

Cheney snorted. “Up yours.”

“No thanks. I’ve got a headache.”

“Seriously, Buck.” He rested his arms on his desk. “It’s nothing I can put a finger on. Nobody I see more than once or a car that looks familiar. Just an itch on the back of my neck now and again.” He looked up. “You know what I’m talking about?”

Buck nodded. “Yeah. Instincts, I guess. You want me to look into it?”

“How?” Cheney shrugged. “There’s no one there. Nobody I can point to, no description—nothing. Hard to investigate an itch, and you know it.”

“Keep your eyes open, bud.” Buck straightened. “Just because we’ve taken care of one case and killed one crazy, doesn’t mean there aren’t others out there.”

“Yeah.” His lips curved into a grin. “You aren’t paranoid if they really are out to get you.”

“You got that right.” Buck grunted in agreement. “What’s on the schedule today?” He glanced at the paperwork. “Anything interesting?”

Cheney was about to reply when the distinctive sound of a woman’s heels clicked into his consciousness along with an increasing silence pervading the detectives’ usually noisy lair.

Along with everybody else, they looked up to see her walking toward them.

“Holy Mother…” Buck’s soft oath echoed Cheney’s thoughts exactly, right down to the little dots at the end of the trailed-off whisper.

She was tall, strikingly tall, and she walked with the confidence and purpose that came with money and success. Lots of both, probably. Blazing red hair was tightly knotted at the back of her head, throwing perfectly sculptured features into prominence. Full lips were curved beneath a strong nose, and dark eyebrows topped eyes that just had to be green, although from this distance he couldn’t be sure.

She wore a dark grey suit, snugly tailored to fit abundant curves, the waist of her jacket nipped in and her skirt smoothed over rounded hips that swayed as she walked. Every piece of her clothing was calculated to imply rather than reveal—the tiny little white lace collar of her demure shirt drawing attention to a flawless neck and merely hinting at the lush breasts beneath. The hem of her skirt fell discreetly to her knees but did nothing to obscure the obvious length of sleek leg, ending in a pair of killer-sharp spiked heels. Black of course.

Cheney swallowed roughly, responding like everyone else in the room to a stunningly sexy female. His loins twisted, and as she approached his desk, they did even more. Before she’d had a chance to open her mouth and say hello, he was hard.

When she stopped in front of his desk and smiled, he had to put a lot of effort into controlling an involuntary erection that would have embarrassed the hell out of him.

“Hi.” Buck’s voice was just the tiniest bit strained. “Can we help you?”

Those few seconds gave Cheney a chance to gather his errant thoughts, mentally stuff his manhood back into his briefs and at least try to be professional. “Mornin’, ma’am. Something we can do for you?” He stood slowly, grateful his control was holding.

It took every ounce of strength he possessed to counter the effect as her gaze drifted to his face and slammed into his brain.

Her eyes were the most unusual teal blue he’d ever seen.

“Detective Fisher?”

Bells were ringing in Cheney’s ears and he almost shook his head to clear it. Drowning in her eyes, he could barely swallow, let alone nod.

Buck cleared his throat. “That would be my partner. The one staring at you and trying not to drool.”

Cheney found relief in Buck’s humor and clung to it as the world snapped back into place. “Excuse Detective Shand. He’s not himself this early in the morning. I’m not sure who he is, but he’s auditioning for a standup routine in the Catskills.” He paused. “And failing.”

The woman laughed, a rippling sound that brought a sigh of delight to his throat and most of the rest of the room as well, to judge by the indrawn breaths clearly audible around him.

“Perhaps you’d better sit down before this crew of cartoon characters trips over their collective tongues.” He motioned to a chair, and Buck slid it in front of Cheney’s desk.

She nodded her thanks to Buck. “Sorry. It happens a lot. You get to ignore it after a while.” She sat, crossing those mile-long legs modestly. “Although it’s useful in court sometimes.”

“You’re a lawyer?” Buck looked surprised.

“Yes.”

“See you later, dude.” Buck tipped his head toward Cheney, winked at him and left.

“Something I said?” A perfect eyebrow quirked upward.

“Don’t take it personally. Buck doesn’t do well with members of the legal profession.” Which translated into he’s got more lawyer jokes than you’ve had hot breakfasts and thinks every lawyer on the planet should be taken out and shot.

“It happens.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I should introduce myself. My name’s Pandora Jackson and I’m here to ask for your help in a delicate matter.”

He couldn’t stop himself from extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Jackson. I’m Detective Fisher. How can I help?”

She took his hand and shook it, the most casual and professional of touches, but it was enough to nearly stop his heart in its tracks. Goddammit, this woman was stirring things best left unstirred. Like his lust, his dick and his AG talent that was busily creating a mental illusion containing X-rated sexual high jinks and nudity.

He turned away from her intense tropical-blue gaze under the pretext of finding a pad of paper and a pencil. He liked to do some things the old-fashioned way, and taking notes was one of them.

Having fidgeted his way to some semblance of normalcy, he relaxed and watched Ms. Pandora Jackson gather her thoughts. “What makes you think you need a detective?” He paused. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

She lowered her eyelids and flashed a glance around the room. “I need help with a rather personal thing.”

He frowned. “You’re a lawyer. Don’t you have resources for this kind of thing? Well-paid and discreet employees? A couple of private investigators?”

Pandora blinked. “I’m not talking about a divorce case, Detective.”

His gaze took in her ringless hands. “Oh.” He moved an arm in a gesture of enquiry. “Then what do you need?”

Stupid question. Because she’s not about to answer that she needs hours in bed with a certain detective who’s hard enough to hammer nails right about now.

“I need—” She swallowed, a rippling movement of that silken throat.

No, Cheney. Keep your mind on your job. Forget about wondering what her skin would taste like.

“I need help with an abandoned puppy.”

“A puppy.” His brain turned the word over, making sure he’d understood it correctly. “A puppy as in four legs, a tail and puddles all over the place? Squeaky toys? That kind of puppy?”

“Yes.”

He blinked. “You want recommendations for a vet? A shelter?”

The muscles in her cheeks moved a little as she clenched her teeth. “No, Detective. I need your help.”

“My help.”

“Yes.”

“With an abandoned puppy.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not going to adopt it, you know.”

“I know.” Her teeth clenched harder. “This is a special puppy.”

“A special puppy?”

“Yes.”

“How special? Three ears or something?”

She glared at him. “Very special.”

“So you said.”

She bit her lip, white teeth against pink flesh, looking about ready to leap out of her chair and sink those selfsame teeth into his shins. “Would it help if I mentioned that Roz Hammond’s husband is a client of mine?”

Cheney’s head snapped up. Yes, it helped. And it scared the crap out of him. He stood abruptly. “Let’s take a walk.”

She rose at once. “Okay.”

Ignoring the soft mutters and a tiny wolf whistle, he took Ms. Jackson’s arm in a firm grasp and led her out of the precinct into the sunshine of what was turning out to be a distinctly challenging day.