The Wild Side: Urban Fantasy with an Erotic Edge (13 page)

“You like that?” she murmured.

“Holy fuck,” I said with a shaky laugh. “You could say that.” I took a deep breath, fairly certain now that I wasn’t about to die of a heart attack, then kissed her lightly. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”

She shifted up to one elbow and gave me a grin. “Since I’m sleeping with you now, that means you’ll publish all my stories, right?”

I gave a mock groan of despair. “I knew it! You’re only dating me because you know that getting a story published in my fourth-tier magazine will bring you all the fame and fortune your heart desires.”

“Curses! You’ve figured out my evil plot,” she said, smacking me with a pillow. Then she leaned over and kissed me on the nose. “Don’t sell yourself short, honey.
Black Magick Stories
is at least third tier.”

“Bitch.” I smiled and pulled her down on top of me. “Seriously, though, why haven’t you let me see any of your stories?”

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “Perhaps I was waiting until I had you completely under my sexual spell?”

“I’m there, trust me,” I assured her. “Look, I can’t promise that I’ll put it in the magazine, but I’ll at least give you an honest critique.”

A strange fury flickered in her eyes, so quickly that I wasn’t even sure I’d seen it. Then in the next second she leaned down and kissed me again, thoroughly enough that I completely forgot about the odd flash of anger. “Of course, baby,” she murmured against my lips. “I understand perfectly. I’ll do whatever I need to do to get a story in your magazine.”

* * *

“I know what you are,” I managed to croak out. “Y-you’re a greater demon,” I continued, my breath coming in labored pants as she trailed her sharp fingernails up the inside of my thigh. I was pretty sure she was drawing blood. My hands were already going numb from the ropes on my wrists, and my shoulders were on fire from the position I’d been tied in, but a sudden realization briefly distracted me from my physical predicament. “Oh my god. You need people to read your story so that you c-can come through and establish power on earth.”

She paused the progress of her nails, to my relief. “And how did you figure that out?”

Shit. There went the sliver of hope that she’d deny it and I could keep pretending this wasn’t happening. “Google,” I gasped. “That poem . . . the one you insisted be untouched. I . . . I looked it up.”

“Clever boy,” she said, rewarding me with a tight smile. “Yes, I wish to establish a presence on earth and wield my full power while here. All I need is that one passage to be read . . . aloud . . . by a number of oblivious humans.”

I gave a jerky nod. “Right, a-and you figured the readers of my magazine would do that?” I hated the way my voice shook, but at least she wasn’t hurting me at the moment.

She shrugged. “Enough would.”

“Why couldn’t you just . . . make people read it?”

“No direct coercion is allowed in any stage of the process,” she replied. “Incentives and encouragement are permitted.” She gripped my hair at the back of my head and kissed me hard and deep, grinding herself against me. My whimper shifted to a groan as my body responded. This was pathetic. Here I was, about to die in some sort of hideous fashion, and I was getting turned on.

She released me and then crouched before me. A second later, I jerked at the feel of her tongue on my thigh, slowly working upward. I had a sick feeling she was licking up the blood that her nails had drawn, but my dick didn’t seem to care, and by the time she made it up there I was at full attention. I expected her to do something vicious, but to my shock I felt her mouth slide over me.

“Oh fuck,” I whimpered, squeezing my eyes shut as she continued to work me with her mouth and tongue. I was shaking, as much from what she was doing as from the terror of what she could do to me in this position. But she merely continued to stroke and suck until I was gasping and shaking, right on the brink of coming.

And then she stopped, leaving me practically keening in need. She laughed and pulled away, then stood while my dick throbbed and I whimpered like a helpless idiot. “And you, my darling Jason,” she said with a throaty laugh, “were very easy to encourage.”

* * *

I looked up at Rachel over the last page of her manuscript. “Honey, this is”—I shook my head in amazement—“this is an incredible story.”

A broad smile stretched across her face. “You think it’s good? So you’ll publish it?”

“It’s a fantastic story!” I said fervently. “But, as much as it pains me to say it, you should try and sell this to one of the bigger magazines.”

She shook her head slowly, eyes staying on me. “No, I want it in yours.”

“Then I’m one hell of a lucky guy,” I said. “Where’d you learn to write like that?”

“Oh, I didn’t write it,” she said with a casual shrug. “I used threats of torture and coerced an award-winning author into writing it for me.”

I laughed at the joke. “Hey, whatever works, right?”

She grinned. “Whatever works. So you’ll publish it?”

I gave an emphatic nod. “Hell yeah. It just needs a couple of tweaks. I’m not so sure about that poem in the middle and the bit where you tell the reader to say it aloud—”

A heartbeat later she was pulling the manuscript out of my hands and straddling me. “No changes,” she said, nuzzling my neck and lightly nipping my earlobe.

I exhaled and dropped my head back. “Mmm . . . I suppose I could be encouraged to leave it as it is.”

She gave a throaty laugh and slid a hand beneath my shirt. “And you’ll put it in the Halloween issue?”

A shudder raced across my body and I could feel my nipple harden against her touch. Other parts of me were beginning to harden as well. “Um, sure, yeah. Halloween.”

She unzipped my pants and began to slowly fondle me. “Can we go ahead and do the contract now?”

“Right now?” My voice might have squeaked a little.

She slid a hand into my hair, then pulled my head back and kissed me hard. “Right now, baby,” she purred. “I just have a couple of details that need to be included. Let’s get the technicalities out of the way, and then I can show you how grateful I am.”

* * *

“But I don’t understand why you’re so angry!” I finally managed to say. “I fulfilled the contract. The story will be published, just like you wanted.”

She took hold of my earlobe and dug her thumbnail into it, wringing a scream of pain from me. “The contract stated that it would be in the October issue,” she hissed, fury filling her eyes again. “The November issue is too late, you stupid fuck.”

I tried to shake my head, but the grip on my earlobe prevented it. “No, no, no. Please, I knew what I was doing. I swear! I . . . I wanted to help you. I told you, I’d figured out what you were.” And the truly stupid part of this was that I was telling the truth. I’d looked up the passage and found out that it was part of a ritual for calling forth a greater demon. But I hadn’t really believed it, of course. I’d just assumed that it was a big game to Rachel, and that it would be a fun thing to do for Halloween.

She released a fraction of the pressure on my earlobe. “What do you mean?” she demanded, eyes narrowing.

I took a shuddering breath. Maybe I would still survive this? If so I’d be the luckiest guy in the world. “Th-the publication schedule. The Halloween issue came out in September. That issue”—I jerked my chin toward the magazine that lay crumpled on the floor—“has been on the stand for weeks. It’s about to be taken off, because the November issue comes out next week. Most magazines are like that. Haven’t you ever noticed?”

“Gee, sorry,” she sneered. “I’ve had a bit of trouble getting magazines delivered to my address in hell.” She stepped back and put her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes at me. “So . . . my story is in the November issue? And it will be out before Halloween?”

I gave a frantic nod. “Yes! Yes! I swear! It’s been printed and everything. And . . . it’s better for you this way,” I babbled. “I knew that putting it in the Halloween issue wouldn’t work for you. It would be too soon!”

A smile began to spread across her face—one that reminded me of my Rachel, not this demonic version of her. “Oh, sweetie, were you really thinking of me?”

Relief flooded through me. “I was! Please believe me.” It was true enough. I was thinking of her—the human version of her. “Rachel . . . I love you.” A pang went through me. I did love her. Okay, not so much the being tied to a wall and being tortured part, but she was still beautiful and sexy . . .

Hell, I could handle being boyfriend to a demon Rachel, too, right?

“I just wanted you to be happy,” I sighed. “I was going to ask you to move in with me.”

She bit her lip, then moved to me and gave me a long lingering kiss. “Oh, Jason, I . . . I don’t know what to say. You’ve made my dreams come true.” For an instant I thought she was going to wipe away a tear. “In just a few days, I’ll have a link to earth. I’ll take my place among the other demons who’ve preceded me. Genghis Kahn, Pol Pot, Bill Gates—”

What had I done? I gulped as sick fear coiled in my belly. “Are . . . are you planning to unleash a new operating system onto the world?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no, nothing like that.” Her smile turned feral. “E-reader, baby. Print will soon be a distant memory, and I’ll have total control over the world’s reading material!”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, okay. And, so, we’re cool, right?” I asked, twisting my wrists in the ropes.

She tilted her head. “Well, if it wasn’t for you, this never would have worked out for me.”

“Yeah, exactly!” I said, a measure of hope beginning to steal in. “I mean, I can understand that you can’t move in with me now . . . but, um, you’re not still mad at me, right? You can let me go?”

She gave a long sigh. “Unfortunately, your soul is still forfeit to me.”

I stared at her in confusion as I tried to swallow back the rising horror. “Wh-what? But how can that be? I helped you!”

She kissed me again. “Putting it in the November issue really was thoughtful of you, baby,” she said, “and I won’t forget that. But you really gotta pay attention to the fine print. The contract specifically stated it would be published in the October issue.” Her expression grew serious. “Love is love, but a contract is a contract. If I let you slide, it’ll kill my reputation.”

I was silent for several seconds, then took a deep breath. “In other words, in a way, you’re asking me to move in with you . . . ?” I gave her a tentative grin.

She let out a peal of laughter. “Oh, sweetie, that’s perfect!” She parted the ropes holding me with a fingernail, then cradled my face in her hands. “But won’t it bother you that I own your soul?”

“Trust me,” I said as I kissed her, “it’ll be no different from any other relationship I’ve been in.”

DIANA ROWLAND
has lived her entire life below the Mason-Dixon line, uses “y’all” for second-person plural, and otherwise has no Southern accent (in her opinion). Despite having a degree in Math from Georgia Tech, she has worked as a bartender, a blackjack dealer, a pit boss, a street cop, a detective, a computer forensics specialist, a crime scene investigator, and a morgue assistant. She won the marksmanship award in her Police Academy class, has a black belt in Hapkido, has handled numerous dead bodies in various states of decomposition, and can’t rollerblade to save her life.

She presently lives in South Louisiana with her husband and her daughter, where she is deeply grateful for the existence of air conditioning.

At my request, she supplied this afterword to her story.

For some reason I feel I should state up front that I did
not
sleep with Mark Van Name in order to sell this story to him.

I mean, not that he isn’t a handsome and charming and terrific guy, but, well. . . .

Ahem. Anyway! The seed of this story came from a random conversation among publishing professionals, during which some were wondering if there really were some writers so desperate to get published that they would sleep with an editor. A common enough trope—the “casting couch” type of thing—right? But it got me thinking . . . What would be the consequences for the editor? And what if getting published wasn’t really the writer’s ultimate goal?

UNAWARES

SARAH A. HOYT

I remembered my name and the color red. My name was Serena Reis. Red had been dripping, dripping from—

Memory failed. I struggled. Under me the floor was gritty, hard. There was a smell of must and disuse, a smell of sweat and a smell of—

Blood. As the thought formed, I smelled it again, strong and tangy-sweet. I sat up before I realized I wished to, my hands pushing against cold concrete to impel my body upward, my head whirling suddenly. My head hurt and it felt like it swayed. I could only think slowly and as though through cotton wool.

“Easy,” a voice said. The sort of voice that makes one think of really dark chocolate, or of a hand running over black velvet. “Easy now. Slowly.”

I felt hands on my arms—warm, strong. Masculine hands, but very soft.

There is someone here. There is—I remembered someone. A group of tall, dark figures, gathered around a naked, bleeding corpse. My stomach shot towards my mouth and I bit my lips together. I opened my eyes, but everything was dark. I only knew my eyes were open because the darkness was more textured than the space behind my eyelids. I squirmed against the hands holding my arms, but all I got for my pains was, “Easy. You’ll be unsteady,” as the hands helped—forced?—me to stand.

“Who . . . ?” I started to say, but my voice came out raspy, hoarse. I knew the corpse they’d gathered around. I’d known it in life. I’d dated it for the last six months. “Phil.”

“Shh,” the man said out of the darkness, holding my arms firm and piloting me up what felt like a set of winding steps. “Shh. Not now.”

Just as he said that, he must have pushed a door with his back, because it opened and I was blinded by the scant light of a winter evening. Though there was no more lighting than the street lights—even the moon was obscured by heavy snow clouds—it felt like dazzling sunlight after the darkness of the . . . cellar? Yes, cellar, I thought as we came all the way out to stand on a broad sidewalk, near the door we’d just left. The door was painted red, and it was the only bit of the building that looked to have had any sort of upkeep in the last hundred years or so. The rest of it—massive, red brick, with a broad, boarded-up front door and a boarded-up row of windows at second-floor height—looked like it had been abandoned decades ago.