Here we go! You know the drill!
1. “Zeus has summoned you.”
With a growl, Markus rolled over on the giant four poster bed and scowled at Octavious, who stood at the entrance to his chambers, arms crossed over his chest like the arrogant bastard he was. As usual, he wore a long blue velvet robe that trailed to the floor, and his white-blond hair fell straight to the middle of his waist, giving him the appearance of a serene and youthful Merlin.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Markus snarled, closing his eyes again. “Zeus will have you by the throat if he catches you.”
“It was Zeus who sent me.”
2. It was feeding time and humans were the only thing on the menu. Krystoff’s acute vision took in the deep crimson that covered the gray cracked sidewalk, the smell of blood thick on the air. Krystoff stopped to inhale, “You can’t hide” he said mockingly, his words echoing off the cold concrete. He knew he was close; the signs of their victims’ struggles were still fresh. “I know you’re here,” Krystoff said as he felt his body tense in response to the coming battle. His enemy was becoming reckless, leaving bodies littered in the wake of their feeding frenzies.
3. Even after he was dead, my father’s obsession with magic continued to color my life. He hadn’t been dead so long that I didn’t have many memories of him, but my strongest were of sleight of hand and illusion. I still had a perfectly clear picture, even at seventeen, of being four and my father reaching behind my ear for a coin, myself laughing in delight.
Those were good times, but they weren’t enough to erase this.
Mom was gesturing out the windows of our two year old Sedan, the one we’d bought when we still had money, and giving commentary on our new home. She’d gone into her super-mom mode, just like every time she talked to me since her therapy “break through.”
4. Sitting in a graffiti-smeared cell on a Sunday afternoon wasn’t what Molly Hicks would call a good way to end a weekend.
“Dammit, Molly! Even if you believe I deserve being shot, it’s against the law, a federal one for that matter.” Sheriff J.T. Rogan held his arm across his bare chest, babying the wound in his shoulder. Eyes dark as hell glared at her. So appropriate as he was the devil incarnate for sure.
5. Fate had painted a bull’s-eye on my back. The ironic thing, I didn’t believe in fate or karma before my brother left a message on my office’s answering machine that was the equivalent to Armageddon dropping a line just to say hey. Being the self- designated birdie-flipper of fate I had to know if listening to the message would be like Darth Vader—Phoenix, I am your brother.
After six years of silence, only one thing would have made Samuel call me. Earlier this week the family had been going through the family bible, and would I mind if they whiteout my name? But, no, instead of letting the call stay a mystery I helped fate change my course, and pushed that stupid button to listen to the message.
6. Thick clouds of steam puffed out of manhole covers and sewer grates, making it extra hard for Henry to see while driving in the dark. The radio sputtered and he reached outside the cab’s window to give the bulky antenna another twist.
“Damn new-fangled gizmo has more kinks than a pad of steel wool,” Henry told Mystic. The static cleared and a sultry melody of band music hummed through the Victrola horn protruding from the dash.
He patted Mystic’s steering wheel and said to the demon-possessed cab, “Take over for me while I grab my dinner from the back seat.”
Lights on the dashboard blinked and the radio tuner cycled through a dozen stations like a strobe.
7. Guilty or not, Leonardo faced a death sentence.
Alone in his father’s house, he paced his room, fearful that any moment the Governor’s guards would pound upon the door, drag him to Florence. His knees buckled at the thought, and clammy hands grabbed the doorway for support.
“Damn you, Jacopo! Which of your lovers accused me?”
In countless sketches, Leonardo had rendered the model, striving always for perfection, never dreaming the late hours alone with this Adonis would lead to such salacious charges.
8. Lacey knew the moment she opened her eyes that something was wrong. The fact that the sun was coming through a window where there should not have been a window, was her first clue, the black cotton sheets covering her naked body was the second. She looked over at the man that lay beside her, a very naked, dark haired Ewan Stevens and that was her final clue.
She lifted the sheet to see Ewan’s well-toned white butt, her heart skipped a beat. Lacey closed her eyes and took slow deep breaths for a moment before she slipped steadily out of the bed being careful not to wake the man next to her. Picking up her discarded clothes scattered about the room from the night before and hugging them close to her naked body, she crept out of his room.
9. “I am the Keeper of Paradise, Purgatory and Hell.”
John Parker realized his tone was over-harsh when the shipping clerk backed away, stammering, at his response. He wasn’t used to being challenged. Well, not these days. He’d forgotten it brought out his temper.
His anger would have been hotter if he’d been let through unquestioned, though.
10. The warmth of the desert vanished under a shroud of bone-chilling twilight. And Jackson Neale, cautious now after four bloody years of war, slipped deeper into its murky, concealing cloak. Anyone he’d befriended on the trek westward from Virginia could be counted on one hand, and he knew with absolute certainty that the person riding into his camp tonight wasn’t one of them.
Only a fool would enter another’s camp without hailing first, and this brazen bastard displayed a boldness that truly amazed him.
Jackson lowered his hand to his hip, calm assurance enveloping him as his fingers slipped around the worn, wooden grip of a well-oiled Army Colt. Patiently, he waited as the rider guided a handsome Bay straight toward the saddlebags near the fire; the glow from the low flames highlighting expensive leather chaps and a set of Mexican spurs strapped snuggly around dusty, silver-tipped boots.
11. Cold trembling fingers reached out to trace the letters engraved on the headstone, the chilly marble slab the only tangible link to the family Jolene still missed. Ten years hadn’t even begun to numb the pain or take away the gaping hole in her heart. The years hadn’t answered the questions that screamed to be answered.
Set back from the rest of the graves, the stone sat under a shady tree. She’d picked the spot for the lack of light, her babies would never again enjoy the sunshine and neither would their final resting place. She knew it wasn’t a rational thing to want for them but at the time, and even now, it seemed fitting.
12. The culinary Casanova was at it again. No way would she go next door for breakfast no matter how tempting the fare. And damn, but Cory Traven surpassed enticing. Meg didn’t have the strength to face him after she’d been screwing him all night—in her dreams—and had been every night for the past three weeks. Quite a disturbing notion considering she’d known Cory since…well…birth.
Meg stretched her arms over her head then combed her fingers through her snarled locks of hair.
13. The piercing pain in her chest grew worse, but she couldn’t stop running. A flash of lightning split the darkness once again, temporarily blinding her as thunder roared in her ears and her racing heart felt as if it would burst. The pounding of the horse’s hooves continued to beat the dirt path behind her, closer this time. Oh God, he was closer. A high-pitched scream sliced through the night, the horrible sound quickly swallowed by the thick mist.
“Erin!” she yelled.
14. She was going to die.
What cruel twist of irony would take her life at the hands of the very people she’d tried to save? It wasn’t fair, certainly unjust, but as she dropped her head to her knees, she knew it was the truth.
The hard jungle ground beneath her rumbled with the pounding of the natives dance. Darkness enclosed the clearing where the tribe congregated and the startled cries of jungle creatures filtered through the trees from all directions.
She should be scared, terrified really, but somehow – she wasn’t.
15. “Even Jane Eyre found her Mr. Rochester.” Lucy Bennett caressed the spine of Charlotte Bronte’s novel and released a sigh.
“I thought you wanted hot and uncomplicated. Are you now saying you’d settle for dark and moody?”
“I wouldn’t consider it settling if it meant love.” Lucy slid the book onto the shelf, turned to Angela Patterson, her best friend since grade school, and said, “But this week has nothing to do with love.”
16. That’s where the body is.
Amelia’s stomach knotted as she trudged toward the recovery site, carefully watching where she placed her feet in the snow. She yanked on the sides of her wool hat and tucked her chin into her scarf as she strode through the fluff, blinking away the swirl of snowflakes.
The weather was for skiing, sledding, and snowball fights, not for investigating old bones in a frosty tent in Boondocks, Oregon.
Her target, the old single story apartment building, looked deflated, concave along the roofline, as if it was too exhausted to stand up straight.
17. The Lord of Harmeswood was a madman and a murderer, and Alexandrina Whitsett was headed straight for his house.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true — she and her brother, James, were returning from a weekend house party in Kent and were about to drive past Harmeswood’s ancient moldering pile, but even that was too close for comfort. In dread, she glanced out the carriage window at the ominous scenery.
The dark forest that covered most of Harmeswood’s land barely let in any light from the late-afternoon sky, and the tangled tree limbs reminded her of nothing so much as spindly arms that had a stranglehold on everything within their reach.
Harmeswood… the name alone was enough to send a fearful tingle down a person’s spine, never mind that the legend attached to the lord of Harmeswood was almost as frightening.
They said he’d killed his wife.
18. Ephraim MacNeill would kill anyone who stood in his way. Still not believing his luck at locating Elizabeth’s current place of imprisonment, he feared the rumor a ruse, or worse—a calculated attempt to draw him into the spider’s web. Then the sight of a woman paralleling his path in the deepening shadows drew his attention. She fled across the rain-soaked valley, her red curls whipping behind her in the breeze like a proud knight’s banner.
“Elizabeth!” Ephraim shouted, resheathing his sword, and dashed for her—the fear they’d soon be caught, cutting short the brief elation.
Bolting through sweet heather, she altered her course in the direction of his voice.
19. It came to Nick Holloway, gradually, that he was lying on cold, hard concrete. Something above held him fast. His shirt was hooked on the undercarriage of a car.
He managed to get loose—tearing his new Rag & Bone combat shirt in the process—-and crawled out from under. Enveloped by the stench of motor oil, shaking and sick, Nick finally realized where he was: the two-car garage beneath the Aspen House.
The last thing he remembered was talking to a guy named Mars at the “Soul Mate” wrap party.
20. The man holding the gun to her head didn’t know what she was capable of.
Tess Damon braced herself in the open doorway of the airplane while shivers raced up and down her body. The frigid temperature stole precious air from her lungs. Her eyes watered. Her ears ached. Every muscle in her body flexed as her hands pressed against the metal surface and she dug her shoes into the floor.
21. The blood on her hands trickled down between shaky fingers. Slowly, Marisol curled her fingers into fists, resting them on her knees, and looked down at the dead man before her. The spent gunpowder from the pistol still singed her nose.
No pity would be spared for the likes of him, a paltry criminal. She willed herself not to think of him as a man who might be mourned by someone who loved him. She would not let the compassion seize her heart.
22. Megan Trent jerked out of a deep sleep at the sound of her clock radio turning on and off by itself in a rapid beat of white noise and eerie silence. She watched as the red display numbers flickered in and out with a frantic Morse code lightshow. Gasping in an ice-cold breath, goose bumps pimpling her skin, she knew he had come again in the deep, pre-dawn hours of the night.
Her dead husband’s ghost.
Like a Ouija board’s planchette, her thoughts stood uncertain and shaking between yes, I should and no, I shouldn’t.
23. The young prince was going to die. When the angry mob of outlaws and outcasts finally realized who it was that had fallen into their clutches, they would tear the young nobleman to shreds, and there was nothing Shallah could do to prevent it. Blood caked his face and hands, obscuring his features, mute testament to the fact that he had not been captured without a fight. One wrist was manacled to the wall at the far end of the cavern; in the chains that were reserved for criminals among criminals, those who had somehow betrayed the tightly woven structure of this band of misfits.
Drawing her dark cloak tighter around her, Shallah edged quietly through the throng gathering around him, never taking her gaze from his battered face. Even partly obscured by his matted, bloody hair, she could see his dark eyes were keenly intelligent, dangerously angry…and hauntingly familiar.
24. “That man would have taken you off my hands had you shown one iota of intelligence.” Every one of Uncle John’s hate-filled words was a lance piercing Desiree’s flesh and she didn’t have the armor necessary to withstand the pain.
“I-I am s-s-sorry.” Desiree bowed her head, unwilling to struggle through any more vowels and consonants that wouldn’t come out right no matter how hard she tried.
Why did her mind form each word perfectly, yet her tongue stumble over almost every first letter? She turned to the window and flinched when the door slammed shut behind her
25. “We have a visual on the boat,” Coast Guard Lt. Commander Jake Carver reported. Her gloved fingers tightened around the helicopter’s control stick and she increased air speed. The chase was on. Counter-narcotics had become her reason for existing and she was damn good at it.
Jake’s heartbeat matched the tempo of the helicopter’s rotors and sweat bonded her flight suit to her body.
“They’ve got those motors running wide open; the fricking hull is half out of the water” her co-pilot, Tom Crenshaw, said.
26. “You want me to do what?” Ainsley asked, nearly choking on her tea at her mother’s announcement. She knew the invitation was not for a pleasant chat, but she had no idea her mother would stoop to this.
“It’s very simple, Ainsley,” her mother answered calmly, tapping her Montblanc pen against her leather planner. “You have the perfect man right here, and yet you persist in rejecting his proposals. Go to Wyoming and see the dirty, rough life that waits for you if you don’t make the right choice and marry Edward.”
Her mother tossed her a small manila envelope, decorated with a swirling script and addressed to Ainsley at the Fairfax home.
27. He brought four items to their first date: a spray of orange roses, because he knew they were her favorite flower; a duffle bag containing a change of clothing; three condoms to capture any stray DNA; and a freshly sharpened hunting knife.
With anticipation fizzing through his veins—as effervescent as the finest batch of imported champagne—he plowed through the sprinkler mist dampening the walkway and took the steep steps to her porch two at a time. The sheath strapped to his ankle pinched with each step. Trying to ignore the irritating sensation, he concentrated on the sprinkler mist cooling his face. The tactic had a secondary, even more welcome effect, it curbed the eagerness.
Upon reaching the cover of the porch he shook the moisture from his hair and paused to look around.
28. Even two hundred yards away in near-whiteout conditions, Locklen Roane saw the red Accord careening too fast down Highway 145. Had to be a tourist—who else would risk driving in this blizzard? He shook his head, about to continue trudging the steep hill home when the Honda lurched once then slipped sideways on the highway. He stiffened, squinting through the dense snowflakes and mist of his breath as the car now faced backward but skated forward, gathering momentum as it slid straight for the guardrail and the San Miguel River beyond.
“Holy sh—” Lock whispered, his words drowned out by the metallic screech of the fender smashing through the guardrail, words forgotten as the Honda toppled into the dark abyss below.
“Hold on, just—I’m coming,” he shouted into the eerie silence and began stumbling downward, the horrific grinding sound still echoing sickly in his head.
29. The man slouched on the edge of the bed, his fingers clutching the deadly syringe hidden in his jacket pocket. Despite the timpani drum pounding in his chest and echoing in his ears, his face was expressionless.
He stared at the naked, unsuspecting woman asleep on the bed, her slender body seductive even in slumber, her blonde hair a halo on the pillow.
The guilt gnawing at the man’s gut did not spring from having been inside her, making love to her earlier in the night, but from what he knew was inside her heart and mind and soul. That knowledge made killing her wrong—wrong on so many levels. Sadly, he had known it was wrong for a long time, but he had been powerless to change the course of events set in motion all those weeks ago.
30. The mansion loomed eerily through the swirling mist, a sinister shadow against the backdrop of a storm darkened sky.
Destiny Ryder hunched over the steering wheel and stared through the car window in awe even as apprehension skittered down her spine.
“This is beyond insane,” she muttered as she put the car in gear and coasted through the beckoning wrought iron gates.
The crunch of tires on gravel was the only sound as she pulled up in front of the ghostly yet captivating manor and leaden legs carried her up the cracked marble steps leading to the scarred wooden doors.
Heart pounding, she raised a hand to knock but before she made contact with the door, it was wrenched open with such haste, she jumped back in fright.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Miss Ryder.”
31. The hate mail started Monday morning.
If Parker Kennard had known about it, she might have just stayed in bedâ€“or at least stayed away from the office.
She’d woken early, partly because she always woke early. She squinted at the alarm clock and groaned. 5:04; three hours sleep wasn’t enough when she had to face the office, Manny, and her clients, but it wasn’t going to be any easier tomorrow.
Rolling over and snuggling back into the pillows was pointless with the sound of the surf crashing through the open window.
32. If she’d been a bad girl when she had the chance, she probably wouldn’t be dying right now. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. When she sucked in a breath, the metallic scent in the air made her gag. The queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach told her it wasn’t just her blood. She would never forgive herself if…
33. Jackson Taylor’s toes clenched as he came abruptly awake, the left side of his body shivering. A soft weight held his shoulder down, the feel of a woman’s curves pressing hard against his chest, keeping the right side delectably warm. Cold water tickled his feet, wet sand dug into his butt and the tangy, salty smell of the ocean filled his nostrils.
A flash of red hair, spinning lanterns and Latin dance music raced through his mind before it went blank. Levering his eyes open, he winced as the first fingers of yellow sunlight bounced off the white sand to hit him right between the eyes. The infernal beat of bongos intensified just behind his right temple.
34. It may sound odd, but sometimes moments in life seem to have a distinct smell. At any moment, of any day, a plethora of aromas can summon a wealth of emotions and memories. To Grace Riley, life’s happy moments were tinged with the perfume of sunshine and fragrant grass. During the moments of sorrow, sadness polluted the air with an oily, suffocating smoke, and even danger caused a detectable metallic scent. The odor that wafted up to her sensitive nose now was none of these.
The smell assaulting her, the repugnant odor of dust and stagnancy, was the same scent that had haunted her steps these last four years.
35. Darkness did not fall gently this day.
It scourged the land like a rolling plague, leaving shadow where there had been shapes—a predatory hunger not unlike his own.
He smiled at his conceit, cradling his cracked rib with one arm, and plunged into the heart of the night. They’d never catch him now. The fringes of Hell were his Heaven, and he was born of the blood.
Plowing a twisted path through the woods, he ignored the slashing pines that made his cheek sing.
36. Jill tried to stand straighter, though the handcuffs bit into her wrists. If this was to be her last moment alive, she was determined to go bravely. Panic clawed at her throat, but she refused to cry out as the huge machine bore down on her, its massive treads sending a stomach-clenching, teeth-gritting tremble through the earth beneath her.
Her heart drummed against her ribs as she convulsed in a violent coughing spasm, her lungs burning from the acrid stench of diesel and east Texas red dust swirling in the air.
Over the roar of the caterpillar, a deep mechanical voice crackled through a bullhorn, “You people will have to leave!”
A tall, broad-shouldered man strode angrily toward her, the filtered sunlight glinting off his hard hat as he shouted, “Get those chains off her!”
37. My name is Isadora Macleod and I am haunted. Take it from me, a life where the dead are your regular clientele is nothing like Hollywood would have you believe. I’d love to claim some saint-worthy purpose, that it’s my calling to guide lost souls to a better place, but that would be a lie. I didn’t choose this life — it chose me. And destiny can be one mean sonofabitch.
Something was in the wind — if I’d been a comic-book superhero my spidey sense would have been at full tingle.
38. They had been in the interrogation room for twelve hours straight. He hadn’t left, not even to get coffee or a donut or to tag team in his partner for that whole good cop-bad-cop game. Mia’s eyes were dangerously heavy and though she had propped her chin in alternate hands for the last few hours, both of her biceps were beginning to feel like three day old spaghetti. Across the table, the detective stared that same level stare, the green of his eyes striking her like a backhanded slap.
“I’ve already told you,” she said, exhaustion slurring the edges of her speech,” my name isn’t Bridget, it’s Mia.”
A days’ growth of beard shadowed his jaw, the only sign that he was any worse for wear from their time in this cinder block hell hole.
39. Looking back, my mid-life crisis began on a Tuesday in March, right there on aisle twelve of the local supermarket between the laxatives and the condoms. That’s the day I confronted an assortment of tampon boxes and wondered if my diminishing egg production warranted the forty-eight count economy size. See, I worried about a future when the half-empty box, now faded and kinda tattered around the edges, still sat beneath the sink ready to mock me every time I reached for a hair dryer or fresh roll of TP.
“Can I help you find something, ma’am?”
“Yeah, could you put out an APB on my youth?” A rhetorical question, but when the kid gasped and made a move as though to summon the men in white suits, I dredged up a reassuring smile.
40. Seven lockers down, my boyfriend was making out with Cheryl, the way-too-perky head cheerleader.
I tried not to stare, but when his hand slid past her waist and over her hip, I slammed my locker shut and stormed off in the opposite direction. Not that anyone noticed. The problem â€“ not only was I that gorgeous jock’s secret girlfriend, I also had a secret power.
OK, not invisible invisible.