Moments In Time: A Collection of Short Fiction (16 page)

Grey’s face had gone almost entirely wolf and with a sudden feral roar, Shayanne found herself flat on her back on the floor, Grey on top of her, his muzzle wide open, his fangs dripping with saliva.

His strong jaws clamped down on her shoulder, piercing straight through her skin and digging deep into muscle. Shayanne went instantly still, her body fell limp, and her mind went blank. There was no pain, only pleasure and . . . power. There was so much power. Grey’s power entering her body, seeping into her veins, mixing with her blood and whooshing through her body, taking over, taking her over.

Releasing her, Grey rose to his feet, his features shifting back to human. Darkly possessive yellow eyes raked up and down her body.

“Stand up,” he ordered. The direct order washed over her like a tsunami, permeating every pore in her skin, infiltrating her.

Claiming her.

She was on her feet almost instantly, waiting with anticipation for what he would say next.

Grey’s eyes were positively gleaming. “It’s time to go home, Shayanne,” he rumbled proudly. “To stand by my side, where you belong.”

Shayanne nodded jerkily as the heady haze of power that had numbed her own rational thoughts began to fade and the realization of what had just happened took hold inside her.

“You claimed me,” she whispered, feeling her eyes burn with threatening tears. “You claimed me—how were you able to claim me?”

He stepped forward and she instantly took a step backward, her thoughts spinning with the fear of her future, of pack life, of becoming nothing but a breeder, a mindless minion to her master.

Is that what she wanted? Her wolf had become so predominant in her life so suddenly, she had no idea what she, as a human being, wanted. And not knowing what she wanted or how she really felt scared her more than anything.

“Freeze,” Grey barked and she froze, not because she wanted to but because she had no other choice. Grey was her mate, her mate and her alpha. She belonged to him now, body and soul, and he would do as he pleased—love her or hate her, please her or punish her—she was his.

“I had a plan,” he said as he advanced on her. “I was going to claim you as a human male would his mate. I was going to take you out, buy you stupid shit, do whatever it took to make you mine.”

Her tears overflowed and fell down her cheeks. That was no longer necessary. All Grey had to do now to get her to do as he pleased was order her to do so, and she would have no choice but to obey him.

“But now,” he said softly, stopping directly in front of her. “I don’t need to, do I?”

Shayanne lifted her arm, covering her mouth with her hand in an attempt not to openly sob in front of him. Grey’s large hands came down on her bare shoulders, squeezing gently.

“I can feel your pain,” he continued, sounding surprised, “and your fear. We are that connected. I never knew .
 . . I never knew how this would feel. How complete I would feel.”

Shayanne said nothing and turned her face away from him, dreading what was to come next.

“Shayanne,” he said gently, yet still with force. “Look at me.”

She had no choice but to look at him. Releasing her arms, he cupped her face between his hands.

“I’ll give you your freedom back, Shayanne. I will never use my power over you, or against you. I give you my word as your alpha.”

Shayanne blinked owlishly up at him. He would do that? For her?

Grey smiled kindly. “On one condition.”

“What?” she whispered.

“That you come home with me, as my mate, to take your place in our pack as my alpha female, to lead the others . . . to see your father again. The rest of your life will be yours, and ours, to decide.”

Surprise froze her in place. “My father?” she whispered. “He’s with your pack?”

Grey nodded and her surprise bled to excitement and warmth. Her father. She’d longed to talk with him, to hear his voice just one more time. But to actually see him, to wrap her arms around him, and once again feel the love she’d always equated to home . . . again?

She was so torn, but even torn she knew there was no choice to be made. To see her father again, to let her beast run free? Both parts of her, human and wolf, were dizzy with excitement at the mere prospect.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes.”

Grinning, Grey crushed her body to his. “Who am I?” he asked.

Shayanne braced herself but then . . . felt no compulsion. He hadn’t used his power over her.

“My alpha,” she whispered. More tears formed, happy or sad, she couldn’t tell. Maybe both.
She was feeling so much, the loss of her human life, thoughts of her father, the embrace of the wolf she’d long suppressed and ignored, and Grey, she was most definitely feeling Grey. It was all so overwhelming, but overwhelming in the most beautiful way. Through her tears a smile began to form. She pressed her face into Grey’s hard and unyielding chest, the chest of an alpha, strong and sure, and yet embodying comfort.

“Who are you?” he asked again without his authority.

“Your alpha,” she whispered.

There was a moment of silence, and then .
 . . Grey burst out laughing.

Shayanne knew then she was exactly where she belonged.

About the Author

Madeline Sheehan is the
USA Today
best-selling author of the Holy Trinity Trilogy and Undeniable Series. A Social Distortion enthusiast, Madeline was homegrown in Buffalo, New York, where she resides with her husband and son.

Madeline can be found on social media at:

Facebook:
Madeline Sheehan Books

Twitter:
@MSheehanBooks

Website:
www.madelinesheehan.com

Books by Madeline Sheehan include:

The Holy Trinity Series

The Soul Mate

My Soul To Take

The Lost Souls

My Heart and Soul
(coming in 2014)

The Undeniable Series

Undeniable

UnBeautifully

UnAttainable

UnBeloved
(coming in 2014)

by Karina Halle

Ghost hunters investigate a hotel rumored to be haunted, and discover more than they bargained for.

(previously published as part of the
Experiment in Terror
Series)

I have never been inside the Benson Hotel before. Looking back, it’s kind of weird since I’ve lived in Portland my whole life, but I guess there are a lot of things in your city you never see. Not the way the tourists do.

Tonight, though, I decided I would be a tourist. Having a camera at my side would certainly help in that pretense. I smile up at the doorman as I make my way up the sidewalk, pausing briefly at the bronze plaque on the ground as I have many times before when walking throughout downtown, and then timidly walk up the steps inside.

“Good evening and welcome to the Benson, ma’am,” the doorman says to me, cheery enough in his fancy gold-gilded uniform. Still, I feel like he’s judging me and what I’m wearing—my Doc Martens still muddy from the morning’s rainfall, my maroon leggings with a hole in them, and a scuffed leather jacket. I’m obviously not a guest here, not at one of the most prestigious hotels in the state of Oregon.

I give him a tight smile and walk past him into the revolving doors, which sweep me inside. The lobby is surprisingly busy for nine p.m., as there’s a line at the vast checkout counter a few people deep, and the bar/lounge to the right of me is crammed full of swanky patrons swilling martinis. I barely have time to take in the understated grandeur and opulence of the lobby—which totally reminds me of the golden age of Hollywood—before a waving movement brings my attention to the bar again.

In the corner, swilling what can only be a Jack Daniels and Coke, is Dex. Actually, he’s not swilling it. Rather, downing it in fast gulps, and as soon as he sees he’s caught my attention, he waves the prim waitress over and orders another one.

I swallow hard, feeling all sorts of strange feelings rush through my body. I’m nervous, I already was, but I’m excited, too, and though my breath catches slightly when I see him, it eventually flows out all hot, ragged, and sparkling with nerves.

I haven’t seen Dex since we parted ways at the airport in Albuquerque. It wasn’t long ago, but it still makes me feel like I’m going on a first date all over again. Not that we ever were dating and not that (considering his girlfriend, Jenn) we ever would. But I can’t help the way I feel. Stupid. And in love with my partner.

Giving him a smile, broad and completely natural, I make my way to where he’s sitting at a small table just big enough for two covered with a white tablecloth. Before I reach his side, I wonder if he’s going to hug me and before I can finish the thought, he stands up, stepping around the table. I am quickly enveloped into his arms. He smells like Old Spice and a bit like the hand-rolled cigarettes he picked up in New Mexico. His arms are strong and firm around my back. The hug is close, tight, and genuine. I relax slightly, wishing we were somewhere else and not in this busy lounge where people watch us with disinterest.

I’m the first to pull away, though I could have stayed in his arms all night. I give him the once-over now that I’m up close.

Dex looks pretty much as he did in New Mexico. The cuts on his face from the shape-shifter’s attack are faded; his moustache has been trimmed, almost gone, as is the scruffy beard under his chin. His eyebrow ring glints from his black brow. His cheekbones are high, perhaps higher than before. I take another step back and see that he’s lost a little weight. It shows in his face most of all.

“Checking me out again?” he says, his voice low, his lips snaking to the side in a smirk. There’s something off about him, but I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s because, despite the closeness of the hug, there’s an awkward distance between us, like we aren’t sure how to act around each other now that the skinwalkers (you know, the evil shamans who can shapeshift at will) we encountered and us sharing a bed for a few nights are gone. We both almost died in New Mexico—I know it had an impact on us, but it doesn’t seem to have any bearing here in the swanky Benson hotel.

And then there are his eyes. Dex’s eyes are his focal point, the part of him that wins people over or drives them away. Dark chocolate in color, enigmatic and emotive. Sometimes they’re ruthless, sometimes seductive. They are a mystery as much as he is, and the one thing I can’t help from drowning in over and over again.

But here, tonight, they’re clouded. No, that’s not quite it. Not clouded but subdued. The sparkle and zest that roam in them, no matter what his mood, are gone. They are handsome, beguiling eyes, but not his.

I think back to what happened in Red Fox, and how he had gone so long without his antipsychotic medication that he began to actually feel again. It was scary for him, no doubt (and for me, let’s not kid ourselves), but in the end .
 . . he was free. Or so I thought. Now it seems that sparkle and life, the manic highs and lows, are gone. As destructive as they were, they are an important part of him.

“Sorry,” I mutter to myself, dropping my gaze quickly to the table just as the waitress comes by and puts down his drink.

“What would you like, Perry?” he asks me. I look up at him and the waitress. Her name tag states her name is Prudence. She has white hair and a friendly smile, but a stance that says I’d better be quick with an answer.

I don’t drink normally, especially not on the job—which is what I am doing here tonight with Dex—but I say, “A glass of the house red, thanks.”

It’s the cheapest and will relax my nerves. Prudence leaves with my order after Dex gives her a quick wink. He then turns to me as we sit down.

“So how are you, kiddo?” he asks, peering at my face, trying to read me before I say anything. “Is it nice having me in your neck of the woods again?”

“It’s just nice to see you again,” I say honestly. With Dex living in Seattle and me in Portland, I only ever see him when we film. And in the between time, I miss him.

A blush starts to creep up my neck. I can feel it.

He gives me a smile that reaches his eyes, then shows perfect teeth that are quite white for a smoker. “Well, it’s nice to see you. Too bad you’re not bunking with me tonight at my motel.”

I give him a sharp look, not sure if he’s kidding or not.

He smiles again, almost leering. “I’ll probably be shaking in my boots after tonight with only my pillow to hug.”

The waitress comes back and gives me my wine. He gives her the same kind of smirk. This is how I know he’s messing with me.

I roll my eyes. “So, what’s our plan for tonight anyway? Are we just going to sit here and drink and wait for the ghosts to show up?”

“Patience, Perry,” he says and takes another gulp of his drink. He gestures to my wine and nods at it. “Have some of that and relax.”

I take a sip of the acidic merlot and look around me. As gorgeous and old-fashioned as the hotel is, there are so many people about that I can’t imagine how on earth the place could be haunted. But apparently it is. In fact, Portland has a few ghost-tour groups that come around and poke their heads in the hotel a few times a week. I doubt anybody ever sees anything, though.

“Are we the first ghost-hunting show to come inside here?” I ask Dex.

He chokes on his drink and coughs, then shakes his head. “Fuck no. We’re a bit behind on this one. I think just about every ghost hunter has been in this hotel at some point or another.”

“Do they ever find anything?”

He gives me a wry look. “What do you think? Of course not.”

“What makes you think we will?”

He smiles again and reaches over with his hand to pat me softly on the head. “Because I’ve got you, kiddo. You’re my little ghost bait.”

I think back to Red Fox, to a moment when Dex said I might be offered up as bait to the skinwalkers. The idea bothered me then and it bothers me now. I take a longer sip of the wine this time.

He’s watching my face closely, as usual, and he still keeps his hand on my head. I’m not sure if he’s trying to comfort me or what. I shoot him a deadly sideways glance.

“I’m joking, you know,” he finally says, his voice less rough, less gravelly. “I just mean, well, you know there’s something about you, something that attracts these things. You’re like a secret weapon.”

“Some weapon.” I scoff and look down into the glass, my vision becoming a blur of deep reds. “What’s the point of just attracting these . . . things? These people? If I could use this . . . power . . . whatever it is, for good . . . that would be a different story.”

He shrugs and takes his hand away, his attention back to his own drink. The back of my head feels vulnerable without his hand there. “You never know. There’s supposed to be a shitload of ghosts in this hotel, maybe you can help one of them.”

I raise my eyebrows at him.

“A shitload?” I repeat. “Where do you get your information, Mr. Foray?”

“Wikipedia. That thing is never wrong,” he says without irony. He looks around him and takes in the scene. “We’re supposed to meet the night manager, Pam, in a couple of minutes. She said she’d find us. She’ll give us a tour of the place, hopefully give us the real story. I want that on film.”

“And what do you want me to do?” I ask. Once again, we’re going into a film shoot more or less blind. And by we, I mean I. Dex always knows what’s going on, and I’m always in the dark. I did research the Benson before biking over here and all that, but I have no clue what to do or say. There is no storyboard, no script. We just wing it and I usually end up looking like an idiot.

“Just be yourself. Ask her questions. I’ll film both of you. We’ll wander around the hotel. Then we’ll probably be allowed to go off on our own and do some exploring. I’ll give you the infrared camera this time so we can see if we pick up any hot or cold spots.”

I shiver at that thought. Using the infrared means we’ll be wandering around in the dark. Whether I’m in a lighthouse on the coast or in the New Mexico desert, the darkness still gives me the creeps. Especially now that I know there are things out there that want to hurt me. That know I’m a sort of “bait.”

By the time Pam shows up, I have finished my glass of wine. It has only left me anxious, not relaxed.

Pam is on the overweight side, similar to the way I was in high school, but unlike me, she seems to bustle with confidence. Or bustle with something. Her wide, cheery face gives her the appearance of being younger than she probably is, and she speaks a mile a minute.

“You must be Perry and Dex, I recognized you!” she exclaims, beaming at us and holding out her hand. We both give it a quick shake. She points to the name tag on her black suit. “As you can see, my name is Pam. Pam Gupta. I’m the night manager here at the Benson.”

“Thanks for having us,” Dex tells her sincerely, reaching under the table and bringing out a backpack and a camera bag.

“No, thank you,” she says, putting extra emphasis on the words. “As soon as you told me who you were, I looked up your ghost show and immediately fell in love with you guys.”

Dex and I exchange a quick look.

“I mean,” she says, correcting herself, and lets out an awkward clip of a laugh. “I was scared witless at the Darkhouse episode and the one in Red Fox, but I was so drawn in by you two. You’re just so . . . so . . .”

“Handsome?” Dex asks, flashing her a smile and stroking his chin stubble.

She blushes and giggles. “Well, yeah, I guess you are.”

I roll my eyes. Dex doesn’t need any more encouragement.

“But,” she continues, “you’re both just so . . . lucky!”

We look at each other again, even more confused.

“Lucky?” I ask.

“How about I explain as we walk? I don’t have much time to show you around before I start my shift.”

We get up, Dex giving the backpack of equipment to me, and we follow Pam through the lobby. For a larger woman she walks like a sprite, moving quickly between people and showering her big smile on all of them. The guests eye Dex and me curiously, intrigued by the camera he has placed up on his shoulder.

We stop before a grand staircase that leads up to the second floor. I glance at my reflection quickly in the mirror on the landing. My floral dress is sticking to my leggings with static cling, and my black hair is a mess from my motorbike helmet and Dex’s hand. I don’t look camera worthy at all. I shrug helplessly at my reflection and look to Pam, who is pointing up at the stairs.

“There’s been many sightings of one of our ghostly guests walking up and down this very staircase,” she says, sounding like a chipper tour guide talking about museum pieces and not dead people.