Out of Reach
Authors: Jocelyn Stover
Tags: #romance, #vampires, #angels, #paranormal, #demons, #shifters, #nephilim, #hot guys, #jinn, #legacy, #genies
The Wanderer Series
Book 1
By Jocelyn Stover
Copyright 2012 Jocelyn
Stover
Second Edition
Smashwords Edition
ISBN 978-0-615-74438-4
Published by Jocelyn
Stover
Cover Design by Nathalia
Suellen
Editing by Robin Banks and Michelle
Bettis
eBook formatting by Sharon Kay of
Amber Leaf Publishing
This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express
written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction.
Characters, names, places, and incidents either are a product of
the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is purely
coincidental.
Table of
Contents
Contents:
To my Josh,
thank you for taking care of the details...
and it’s all details.
Kade
“Man, I hate redheads.”
The muttered sentiment is quickly drowned
out by the everyday bustle and city noise all around me. If the
petunias sitting in their planter boxes share my thoughts, they
keep it to themselves, preferring to bask in the warming sunlight
that coats downtown Phoenix today.
Alone on a commandeered second story balcony
among the vibrant pink and purple blossoms, I maintain a silent
vigil, watching the café on the first floor of the building
directly across the street. I have been at this for several days
now, observing my target from a respectable distance. The scene
I’ve just witnessed of him berating a bus boy for some perceived
offense sets my teeth to grinding. The self-centered prick I’ve had
the pleasure of trailing this week has a short fuse, even for a
ginger.
Rising from a dilapidated lawn chair, I
stretch my legs, walking the length of the five-foot box I reside
in. Rolling my head from left to right, my neck cracks with an
audible pop. My body is tense and stiff from long bouts of sitting
on my ass, a problem that is about to be remedied. Moving through
the sliding glass door, I draw the curtains aside and quietly enter
the apartment.
Vera is puttering around in the small
kitchen, humming to herself. Seeing my appearance, she smiles.
“Will you be staying for tea today,
Kaden?”
Returning her heartfelt grin, I close and
lock the sliding door behind me.
“No not today. I’m afraid I have to leave,
indefinitely.”
“That’s a shame, dear; I’ve enjoyed your
company.”
In three long strides, I cross the quaint,
doily-covered living room, headed for the front door. Vera has
returned to her midday routine, preparing tea and cleaning the
already spotless kitchen. Wrapping my hand around the brass
doorknob I pause. Glancing back at my elderly companion of the last
few days, I wish her well before turning to go. With a thought I
wipe clean all memory of my existence from her mind.
Stepping through the door, I verify it’s
locked before pulling it silently closed behind me. An old woman
can never be too careful, even in an upscale apartment complex like
this. For her sake I would have liked to implant a suggestion
making her more wary of strangers, but changing things, even small,
seemingly insignificant things, has consequences, and as a rule
should be strictly avoided.
Besides, if not for Vera’s overly hospitable
nature and extreme loneliness, I might have spent the last few days
behind the complex’s dumpsters instead of her tiny yet reasonably
comfortable balcony. Not to mention the old soul was better
conversation than I’ve had in months. Having seen more than most in
her 83 years, the wealth of her experiences was priceless, the
quality far superior to anything that passes for entertainment in
this decade. It’s true there’s nothing new under the sun, but at
least in the old days they didn’t glamorize it. When exactly fringe
society became mainstream and broadcast over the television as
“reality” is beyond me.
Feeling the vibration of the cell phone in
my pocket, I pause mid-march toward the elevator. Pulling the thing
out of my pants and quickly screening the caller, I answer.
“Z, where are you?”
Staring purposefully at a landscape
photograph hung on the corridor wall I wait for his response. “No,
I’m done here. It’s been a waste of time,” I say, running a hand
through my hair in frustration. The elevator lets out its bright
ding and I glance over, alerted to the fact I’ll soon have
company.
When the doors slide open, a family of four
spills out. Mom is carrying a navy blue diaper bag, pushing a
crying infant strapped into a bright orange jogging stroller. A
firecracker of a toddler runs in circles, her honey-blonde pigtails
bouncing across her shoulders. Dad, arms full of fast food garbage,
wears a frown of annoyance and hollers at the little girl, trying
to bring her to heel.
A curve of a smile stretches up the left
corner of my mouth, the sight of the four inspiring an idea.
“Z, meet me at the café. I’m hungry,” I bark
into the receiver, ending the call. Striding to the lift with
purpose, I sidestep the chaotic group, and mutter an apologetic,
“Excuse me.”
Upon exiting the building, my eyes begin to
water in response to the intensity of the late afternoon sun.
Sliding down the aviator glasses from where they’ve taken up
residence on my brow helps to improve the glare. Cocking my head
left and right I pause on the sidewalk and wait for a break in
traffic.
Luckily for me not two minutes later I’m
able to capitalize on the signal change at the intersection down
the street. Jetting across the road at a decent clip I catch a
couple judgmental stares at my obvious jaywalking. I chuckle to
myself under the harsh frowns of two fortyish year old women who
meet the stereotypical depiction of desperate wives. In the wake of
their scrutiny, I proceed to the café. Neither woman has the balls
to confront my six-foot three-inch, lethally built frame in person,
and I refuse to pretend remorse I don’t feel.
Some regulations the humans have come up
with over the years are just ridiculous. Take jaywalking: if you
aren’t smart enough to be able to cross the street without getting
hit by a car, then you fully deserve the consequences. You can’t
regulate stupid, but the humans sure make a valiant effort these
days.
“I see you’ve made friends.”
A gravely, baritone voice greets me just
outside the door. The mountain of a man belonging to that voice
detaches himself from against the café’s wall where he had been
lounging. Stepping out of the shadows, Zafir’s stride has more
swagger than a pompous alley cat, and the look he throws the
desperate houseswives behind me is feral.
Clutching their packages tightly, the two
take Z’s invitation to move along without argument, hustling down
the street like someone just lit their Stilettos on fire. Nobody
messes with Z.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” I
complain.
“Hey, if you can’t take it you shouldn’t
dish it out,” Z replies. Clapping me on the shoulder Z spins me in
the direction of the café. “Let’s eat!”
If the timid little hostess is surprised by
our request to be seated in the redheaded server’s section, she
doesn’t let on. Avoiding eye contact, she stutters, “It’ll b-b-be
t-t-ten minutes or so?”
My reassuring smile goes completely over her
head as I tell her, “That’ll be fine.” Literally, the five-foot
nothing woman is too intimidated to peel her eyes away from her
shoelaces, so my effort to appear harmless is completely wasted.
The “fuck off” sticker permanently attached to Z’s forehead doesn’t
help.
“Geez, Kade, stop scaring the locals,” Z
teases, leaning over my shoulder, his grey eyes full of wicked
humor. Shrugging my shoulders I step back, disengaging Zafir from
my personal space. Grinning mercilessly he continues to stand in
the middle of the entryway, his size and demeanor making the other
patrons uncomfortable.
True to her word, the shy brunette leads us
to a corner table in the redhead’s section not ten minutes later. I
lay claim to the chair facing the open dining floor, leaving Z with
his back to the room. Stretching my legs out under the table I
peruse the menu while observing the target in my peripheral
vision.
Resting two large elbows on the table, Z
leans in. “So what’s this ginger’s name?”
“John Summers,” I answer.
“So what’s our play here? I assume this
isn’t really about the food.”
“I’ve found no evidence linking this guy to
the electrical disturbances. My observations this week lead me to
believe that this guy is nothing more than a prick.”
“So we’re here to push his buttons.”
“Yup.”
“I love this part, even when they don’t
pass.”
“One hour, Z. If we fail to elicit a
response, it’s done, we’re leaving.”
All business now, Zafir leans back, assuming
an arrogant posture, fingers interlaced behind his head. “Ok
brother.”
Thirty minutes and three drink orders later,
the tension is so thick you could scoop it up and cart it out in a
wheelbarrow like manure. Wiping his mouth on the pristine, white
tablecloth, Z looks around.
“You’d think a nice place like this could
keep a man’s glass full. John, another refill my man!” he bellows.
John, our waiter is red, flushed with annoyance from head to
toe.
“I’ll be with you gentlemen in just a
second,” he replies from a table down the row where he’s trying to
take the order of an elderly gentleman.
I continue to toss balled up pieces of bread
onto the floor, making a colossal mess, while Z runs his mouth—one
of his finer talents when harnessed for good. Most of the other
diners have left already, totally appalled by our obnoxiously rude
behavior, while we keep John running to and from the kitchen like a
chicken with his head cut off.
A bus boy places a large pitcher of lemonade
on the table and steps back, allowing John room to serve us our
meal.
“I hope this will be satisfactory,” he says,
inclining his head toward the pitcher.
“Yes, fine, fine,” I chime briskly.
Noticing Zafir staring down in disgust, John
asks, “Is there another problem, sir?” John’s tone takes on a
brassy quality, his words clipped and short.
