Broken Heart Tails (11 page)

Dear Zerina:
I like my donor. I mean, I
really
like my donor. Do I tell him? Or do I keep my fangs to myself?

~ Female Who Likes Femoral Arteries

Dearest FWLFA:
Look. You’re a vampire. Practically an immortal. Dating a human is a bad freaking idea. Do you really wanna get stuck with some dude for 100 years because you can’t keep your panties on? Exactly. Go find another snack, and go date among your own kind.

Dear Zerina:
What if, hypothetically, I was harboring a zombie? I don’t think he’s been dead that long, and he can talk. A little. Mostly he slurs like he’s been on a three-day bender. Still. He’s nice. What should I do?

~ Digging the Dead

Dearest DtD:
Are you fucking kidding me? Ditch the dead dude, ya freak. Zombies aren’t sentient beings, and they so don’t bathe. I suggest you call Queen Patsy pronto and turn him over. And you know, get some therapy.

Dear Zerina:
I’ve been exclusive with my boyfriend for a year, but I think I want to date other guys. How do I tell him?

~Half In Love

Dearest Half:
It would help to know what species we’re talking about here. If he’s human, well, no big deal. Just say, “I want to date other people.” If he’s a werewolf ... you may want to text him—from another planet. If he’s a vampire, well, just say you’ve been thinking about that whole binding thing and you don’t think you can do a hundred years. (I mean, really, who wants a century commitment for a little nookie?) If he’s a fairy, then no worries, love, because those winged bastards wouldn’t know fidelity if it sprinkled gold dust on their wee willies.

Dear Zerina:
I keep having dreams about a mummy. He shuffles into my room and looks down at me. Least I guess so because he’s all wrapped up and I can’t actually see his eyes. What does this mean?

~ I Dream of Mummies

Dearest IDoM:
I’m guessing it means you shouldn’t watch
Supernatural
before you go to bed. Seriously. Not every dream is a portent or a vision. I know living in Broken Heart means we all think everything is all complicated and symbolic, but c’mon. A mummy? Stop eating before bed and cut out the late-night horror flicks.

Dear Zerina:
My house is haunted. What do I do?

~ Ghost Screamer

Dearest GS:
This is Broken Heart, sweets. Every bloody house is haunted. If your ghost is behaving, then suck it up. If your spirit is violent or bossy, then put in a call to our ghost buster, Patsy. Be prepared to wait ’cause she’s busy bein’ queen an’ all. You can also called our local witch Lenette. She’s been known to toss out a poltergeist or two.

Dear Zerina:
Do you grant wishes?

~Just Wondering

Dearest JW:
I’m not that kind of fairy, and even if I was, I wouldn’t tell anyone. Then people would bug me all freaking day about granting their bloody wishes. Life

shouldn’t be easy. If it was then chocolate wouldn’t taste as good.

Dear Zerina:
What should I do about a cheating girlfriend?

~ Heart Broken

Dearest HB:
Dump. Her. You. Twit.

Dear Zerina:
I am a blood donor who likes this vampire. He’s really cute. I’m

not sure if I should say anything. Do humans have to Turn if they want date

the fanged ones?

~Blood Happy

Dearest BH:
Sweetie, he’s only in love with your neck. Stop crushing on the

bloodsucker and go find a man who can still tan.

Dear Zerina:
I recently moved into town and noticed a couple of naked men

running in the woods just behind my house. As a practicing witch with the

gift of Sight, I’m used to seeing strange things. Still... What I should do if I see

them again?

~ Moon Blind

Dearest MB:
What should you do if see them again? Is this even a question?

Invest in a pair of binoculars so you get a close-up of the good stuff. And tell me

what your address is ... I’ll bring the wine.

Damn it, Z:
Turn my hair back to its original shade. I hate blue.

~ You Know Who

Dearest YKW:
Take back what you said about my shirt, and I’ll think about it.

He Said, Sidhe Said
 

Damian cradled his head in hands. He’d been sitting in the conference room for more than an hour trying to figure out the situation. The other occupant of the room hadn’t tried to make his job easier. He sighed, straightened, and looked at the angry purple-haired sidhe sitting across from him.

“Zerina, why did you try to set Faustus on fire?”

Her eyes were purple, too, and though he would never admit it out loud, her gaze made him a little uneasy. She had a bad attitude, which was worsened by her temper. She wore a black bustier with purple ribbons, a skirt that barely covered her ass, and thigh high black boots. She always dressed like a fairy on acid. Damian was the crown prince of the full-blood lycanthropes–a title he’d given up long ago. However, he was still royal in blood, and even in thought, and not to brag, but the fiercest of his kind. He was personal security for the vampire queen, as well as the head of security for the entire town of Broken Heart. There weren’t too many creatures who could claim to inspire in him even an ounce of fear. But Zerina … well, she terrified
him
.

“If I’d wanted to set him on fire,” she said, her English accent thick with censure, “he’d be a pile of ash.”

“So … the fire was accidental?”

“It was a barbecue! I was trying to help. He couldn’t get the cedar to light.” She fluttered her fingers. “My magic got away from me is all.”

“You know fire is bad for vampires, right?”

“I put him out, didn’t I?”

“With pink glitter.”

“I never said I was good under pressure. I was tryin’ to call up some water, I was. The glitter worked, so I don’t see the problem.”

Damian rubbed his temples. “How about the fact you dropped about a hundred pounds of it on top of him?”

“I dug him out!”

“Too bad you didn’t stop before your nails nearly gouged out his eye.”

Zerina crossed her arms and glared at Damian. He fought the urge to scoot his chair further away from her. “He’s all right, isn’t he?”

If Damian didn’t know better, he would think her question actually held concern. He studied her, and realized she was a bundle of nerves. She kept shifting, chewing the tips of her nails, and plucking at the ribbons on her bustier.

“Faustus is in the hospital recovering nicely from your help.”

“Then why am I still here?”

“For the protection of the town,” said Damian. “You killed three cars and a house, remember?”

“I was worried. I’m not good at keeping my emotions in check.”

Damian silently agreed, though the main emotion Zerina displayed was hostility. But he was beginning to realize she wasn’t as tough as she pretended to be. Everyone had scars, and secrets–who knew what Zerina’s were? Maybe he was looking at this from the wrong angle. She hadn’t been acting out from a place of anger at all. The revelation surprised him.

“Go home,” he said. “Straight home. Stay there until you hear from me.”

“But Faustus…”

“If you take a single step toward the hospital, I will throw you into prison.” He met her gaze and made sure she understood he meant every word. It might take him and half the town to do it, but he’d put her in the paranormal-proof cells, if only to give Faustus the time he needed to heal from his injuries.

“Fine!” She flounced out of her chair and slammed out of the room.

Damian followed her out. After she left the building, he directed one of his men to follow her home and keep an eye on her house. He wasn’t looking forward to talking to the queen about the destroyed property. It wasn’t like Broken Heart or the Consortium didn’t have the money to replace everything … it was just a pain in the ass.

* * * * *

Faustus was buttoning up his shirt when Damian entered the hospital room.

“They’re already sending you home?” asked Damian.

“All this fuss is driving me crazy. I’m going to stay with Eva and Lorcan until I can start re-building my house.” Like so many other vampires, Faustus had been infected with the Taint, a vampire disease, which nearly killed him. His cure had given him the ability to shift into wolf form, but he wasn’t a true lycan. Even so, Damian liked him. And better yet, he trusted him.

Faustus shook his head, looking more bemused than angry about his near death experiences. He was part of the security team now, but Faustus had once been a Roman centurion. Damian understand his friend’s need to get away from the hospital; nothing affected a warrior’s ego worse than being treated like a weakling.

“Did she tell you why she was trying to kill me?” he asked. He slid off the bed and worked at putting on his shoes.

“I don’t think she was trying to kill you, Faustus.”

“She set me on fire, buried me in glitter, jabbed my eye … she really doesn’t like me.”

“Oh, I think she does.”

Faustus looked up. “What?”

“Zerina has a crush on you.”

To Damian’s surprise, Faustus grinned. “I like a challenge.”

“Do you really want to go there?” asked Damian. “She blew up your house.”

“Yeah,” said Faustus, his grin widening.

“You thought she was trying to kill you,” said Damian, making a last attempt to get the man to see reason. “Think about what it will be like dating her.”

A moment passed between the two men as they envisioned the aftermath of Zerina in love. Faustus obviously imagined something quite different from Damian because he got a dopey look on his face.

“Faustus … no,
mein freind
.”

“I’m going to see her,” said Faustus, clapping Damian on the shoulder. “
Fac fortia et patere.
”

             
Do brave deeds and endure.
It was the motto of Faustus.

              Crazy bastard.

Damian sighed.

He hoped the town could endure Zerina in love.

In the meanwhile, Damian had to deal with other concerns … such as what the hell he was supposed to do with a hundred pounds of pink glitter.

Tax Not the Zombie

Meyer P. Dennison had worked for the Internal Revenue Service for less than a year. Eight months to be exact. He was made for the job. He was detail-oriented, had an even temperament, did not offend easily, and he was quick, too. Nine times out of ten, he managed to dodge the objects clients sometimes yanked off his desk and threw at his head. He loved numbers, as any good former CPA did. But he loved the complexities of the tax code even more. He enjoyed trying to make sense out of an archaic system still pulling and grunting its way toward the modern age.

Because he was the newest agent to join the IRS office in Tulsa, Oklahoma, he’d gotten the unenviable task of tracking down one Jessica Anne Matthews, resident of Broken Heart. Her file stated she was a widow, she had two dependents, she owned her home, had one vehicle for personal use only, and did not have a salaried position. Her family subsisted on the life insurance and investment residuals left by her deceased husband.

And she had failed to file her taxes.

Again.

Letters had gone unanswered. Her phone was disconnected. And so, his boss, Pete Landers, decided that she needed a personal visit. “Go scare the crud outta her,” said Pete, grinning. His rotund face always had a greasy sheen and he stank of stale beer and burnt sausages. Pete Landers had never met a bratwurst or a Budweiser that he didn’t like.

Meyer had gotten lost, twice, no thanks to his GPS, which kept trying to direct him back toward Tulsa. In addition, his Blackberry had stopped working despite the fact he’d recharged the battery before heading out. So, he rolled into the small and surprisingly deserted town of Broken Heart, Oklahoma just after six o’clock. It was already dusk, the sun starting its slow descent.