“So, how was your day? I noticed you were conveniently MIA at school today. You didn’t answer or return any of my texts or calls either—what’s up?” I caught the hostility in her voice.
“My father is what is up. It was like an episode of the Twilight Zone today. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I’m going to find out,” I vowed.
“Just be careful,” Peyton warned, her face crinkled with worry.
“Always am,” I lied, inching closer to her. I swiveled her chair around so she was now facing me and lowered my lips to hers in a short, sweet kiss. “How’s my song coming along?”
The look on her face gave her away.
“You finished it?” No one had ever written anything about me before. The idea that she went through all the trouble was fascinating.
She nodded, attempting but failing miserably at hiding her grin.
“I want to hear it,” I demanded.
“Now?”
“Now. I’ve been waiting forever!” Okay, to be fair, it had only been a week, but I was anxious.
“You’re making me nervous. What if you don’t like it?” Her hesitation was endearing.
“Not possible.”
She took a deep breath in, exhaling slowly. “Okay.”
She stood up and I took her place in the chair. She began wringing out her hands nervously and rubbing them up and down her jeans.
“Peyton, look at me, it’s just me. You have nothing to be nervous about. Imagine me naked if it helps.”
Her eyes bulged out of her head at my comment.
“Or not…” My cheeks grew red from embarrassment.
She began giggling, shifting the mood.
“Just remember…you asked for it,” she warned.
She took one more deep breath, closing her eyes before opening them again and beginning. “This is called ‘You’.”
Chapter One
Jennifer Bannister’s footsteps echoed down the hall. The uniforms of the inmates dampened the sound. Her ears tried to follow the faint sound, if only to affirm that she was still moving forward. There wasn’t anyone to hold her hand. She just trusted that each sign would guide her in the right direction.
I’ll get there at some point, Jennifer thought, trying to convince herself that she was doing the right thing. You can’t get lost in here; they don’t let you go off course. Her words slipped away. She felt the cold air settle over her skin. She glanced at a placard marked Visitors Only.
In the cool air, her skin tightened. Jennifer shivered and wished she were somewhere warmer. Seeing Violet for the first time was going to be hard enough. She was going to look the woman she hated most in the world in the eye. She didn’t want to be shaking from the cold and covered in goose bumps.
Jennifer peered through the bulletproof glass at Violet. There were markings embedded in the glass, swirls that made it harder to look directly into Violet’s eyes. Jennifer picked up the phone and listened. Violet grabbed it and began to speak, “It was never you that he loved. You know that right?” Violet’s voice was raspy.
Her expressions and mannerisms changed from static to fully engaged. She stood up and waved her hands maniacally at Jennifer, and then she slammed her fist against the glass.
Jennifer hung up the phone. Her blonde hair got caught in between her hand and the receiver as she placed it back on the black hook. Turning, she slid out of the red plastic chair and down the corridor, guided by the exit sign’s green light. In the stale air of the prison, she searched for a pack of cigarettes, unsheathed a Parliament, lit it, and smoked nervously.
Two overweight guards carrying guns in nylon hip holsters directed her to the parking lot, where they offered her matching robotic waves good-bye. The midnight blue 2005 Jaguar xk8, which her parents loaned her for this visit, was the only vehicle in the parking lot row. Her parents thought she would feel safer in their car rather than her own bright red Honda.
In either case, she seemed to fit this car, or the car fit her a lot more. Her lean physique matched the lines on the Jag, and it made her feel more mature. She was constantly trying to act older than she was. Jennifer went around to the passenger side of the car and opened the rear door. She set her oversized black leather purse on the back seat and took out a translucent orange bottle filled with tiny white pills. She slung her head back, popped two, shut the door and walked around to the driver’s seat.
The heat had melted the surface of the Jaguar’s leather seats, reducing the fabric to a buttery texture. Jennifer’s blonde hair clung to the sides of her shoulders, heavy with sweat. She retrieved her car key from the passenger seat, pressed the key into the slot, and burst into tears, suddenly unable to move.
Jennifer hadn’t eaten all day. The heavy dose of Xanax caused her to feel excessively nauseous. She blacked out and fell forward, hitting her forehead on the steering wheel. The car increased in temperature with the late afternoon heat. Her powder-white skin grew red.
“Miss. Are you alright? Miss?” A young guard, Bill Marsh, had spotted the car, and decided to go in for a closer look.
When Jennifer didn’t move, he took out his club and smashed the window. She woke up from her temporary coma and lashed out.
"You Fuck!" Her voice was barely audible, even with the window smashed. Her energy was gone.
"Miss--I, I’m sorry you didn't look okay."
"I am! What business do you have involving yourself in my business? Do you know what you did? You just fucked up my car, you moron.”
“Look, I just saw you from my station.”
To Bill, her face looked familiar, though he couldn’t place where he had seen her before.
"You have no idea. Sitting in your stupid box, behind that intercom.
"I’m sorry, I know we’ll pay for the window. Hell, if the prison won't, I personally will." Bill said.
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We ran to the hospital. On the way, we encountered hardly anyone, alive or dead. Where were they all? When we arrived at the hospital car park, I understood. Zombies were pack animals. A massive crowd of them were crammed in and around the main building like they were waiting for a concert to start, all barely paying attention to their surroundings and seemingly swaying against the force of gravity. The other thing was the smell. When watching horror films filled with shuffling zombies, the horror came from their ghastly looks—the reminder that death has a tight grip on us all, well, most of us. But what the filmmakers should focus on—if they could—was the acidic rank odor zombies gave off. They had been dead barely twenty-four hours. It took a normal human body at least thirty-six hours to really start to smell, and that was with a vampire’s heightened senses. These guys smelled like they’d been out in the sun for three weeks covered in rubbish and besieged by wily maggots. They were mostly intact, though. Maybe this hospital had been Zombie Ground Zero. Most had turned so quickly their comrades hadn’t had time to feed.
“Maybe we should try a less populated target.” Nicholas twitched his nose and turned away from me to dry retch.
“Maybe you should grow a pair.”
“Maybe you should act like a lady.” He now had his hands on his hips, squaring up for yet another argument.
“Acting like a lady isn’t going to help now, is it? What do you want me to do? Drop my handkerchief in front of the zombies and watch them fight one another to scoop it up for me? Moron!”
“Always to the ‘nth degree with you, isn’t it?”
“Shut up. Look, the doors are holding, and they’re outside, not inside, which means there must be some people left in there alive to have barricaded this place so tight.”
“Or maybe there are just more zombies in there.”
“Well, there’s definitely a blood bank in there, and that’ll help matters no end!”
Nicholas looked thoughtful then nodded. He of course didn’t want to actually say aloud that I’d had a good idea. “So, how do we get past them?”
I assumed it was a rhetorical question, so I started down to the car park entrance, where most of the zombies were mobbing. I opened the outer door as quietly as possible.
“Ladies first,” Nicholas whispered in my ear.
“I thought we’d agreed I wasn’t a lady.” And with that, I shoved him as hard as I could into the throbbing throng of zombies.
by Janine Ashbless
I’m not sure I should be saying this, but I never expected to write a novel – never mind a trilogy – about fallen angels. I thought all that was behind me. You see, Cover Him with Darkness started life as a short story in which it was never made entirely clear what the gorgeous male prisoner in the cell was – pagan god, titan, angel or demon. Then Cleis Press mailed me out of the blue with “What happened next? We need to know!” and suddenly, WHAM, I was up to my neck in the Old Testament, Orthodox iconography and the Apocalypse.
Not that this was unfamiliar territory – far from it. My family were (and are) Christians, and I’d been brought up in a Bible-believing/charismatic/evangelical circle, so angelic intervention was something categorized in an understated British way as ‘Not Impossible’. And we didn’t picture them as hunky guys with wings!
I was always, it must be said, one of those uncomfortable Christians that asked doubting, awkward questions about things in the Bible. Now of course there are (complex) answers to those awkward questions. Personally I ended up, in my twenties, cutting the Gordian knot and taking the simple solution, i.e. deciding that the Bible was fiction and God did not exist: “TA DA! The Problem of Evil dissolves into nothing! Hurray, now I can go worry about something else!”
But with writing Cover Him with Darkness, suddenly I’m back asking those questions. I’ve got angels who come to earth and have sex with human women (Genesis 6: 1-2). I’ve got a hot, messed-up anti-hero who’s standing up against God Almighty, and been punished horribly for it. And within my fictional universe there’s no room for doubt or atheism – given that several of the characters have actually met God. Eeeeek! How am I going to make sense of it all?
Well I promised myself from the start I wouldn’t dodge the issues, even though I was “only” (as some might see it) writing an erotic romance. I wouldn’t pretend that the questions of sexual sin, divine justice and free will were just invisible; I would face them down and try to come to some answers. Inevitably I’m going to upset people for whom my conclusions, in the fictional world, don’t fit their real-world view.
My mother has bought Cover Him with Darkness, by the way. Maybe I need to make my own plans for Christmas dinner...
Xxx
Janine Ashbless
Two sets of footsteps clipped across on the cobblestone. Before they rounded the bend to the stable door, Raven’s fingers twitched over her knife. When she saw Gorman and the younger baron, she relaxed and continued attaching her weapons.
“Can I trust you?” Baron Darius’s voice rose hesitantly as he approached.
She smiled. “I’ve saved your life once and promise to do it as many times as necessary.”
“Why?”
“It’s the reaper’s way. A life for a life.”
“How many have you killed?”
Raven clinched her jaw. “Too many.” Her gaze met the butler’s. “Will he have his own horse?”
“No. The young master’s condition makes him subject to untimely fits. He would be in danger of falling.” His ice blue eyes held a fire unmatched by his frozen features.
“Right. I expected as much.” She placed her boot in the stirrup and mounted. “Hand him to me then.
The butler lifted him to the front of her saddle. She knew it would be an uncomfortable place to ride for a long period of time, but he’d only have to make it to Gregory’s house. On a horse, it should only be about four hours if they took it slow, less than three if needed.
A horn sounded, and the butler paled. “It’s him. The duke approaches.”
“Father is early.” The boy sounded happy but tentative.
Gorman gripped the horse’s rein and turned it toward the other stable exit. “We must leave by the north gate. The duke approaches from the south. You may have as much as an hour’s head start before he commands a pursuit.”
Raven swallowed hard. “That’s not enough time.”
“Follow me.” He released the rein and jogged forward.
The horse trotted in response. Even in the jarring up and down motion of the trot, the young baron remained silent. He gripped the chestnut mare’s mane with both hands. His knuckles glowed white under the lamps. Raven pulled gently on the reins to slow the horse to a more tolerable speed but followed the butler closely.
“Guards!” Gorman reached the gates, speaking in breathless tones. “Baron Solomon orders passage for this woman and the young baron.”
Raven recognized Grant’s red band before he turned around. He narrowed his eyes at her and barked the order to open the gate. Before she could urge her horse forward, Grant gripped the bridle by the cheek piece. He called back toward the butler, “Will she need guard?”
“That will not be necessary. She is capable of caring for the young baron on his errand.”
Even in the half-light, Raven could see the guard’s jaw tighten and nostrils flare in indecision. “Baron Solomon trusts this woman?”
The butler frowned and stiffened in disapproval. Still he answered softly, “Yes, with his brother’s life.”
I sigh and step out of the Beemer. This is where rich parents send their children for college. I don’t know how much the rent is, but I know it’s a butt load. Dad doesn’t think twice when Adam asks for money, or me. It’s like second nature to hand over wads of cash. It means he is taking care of his children. More like bribing them, but whatever helps him sleep at night.
I follow him up the three flights of stairs to the fourth floor. There is music vibrating from the other side.
Dad raps his knuckles roughly against the door.
He knocks louder, grumbling underneath his breath. His arm flies up, and he glances at his watch. He’s sweating in his damn suit. Only my dad would wear a suit to help his daughter move. Not that we have to actually do any moving.
Dad pulls out his cell. I figure he’s calling Adam, but it goes straight to voicemail. “Damn it,” he grumbles before pounding his fist against the door. “Open the door, Adam!” he yells.
I play with a dark curl hanging against my shoulder and bite my lip to keep from laughing. A bead of sweat drops from Dad’s upper lip. Then the door swings open and my eyes snap upward.
Holy Shit.
My. God.
A shiver shoots down my spine as I drink in everything that’s standing in front of me. He has dark brown hair that’s standing up like a woman has recently been raking her hands through it. My eyes drag down his body over each lean, long muscle. Tattoos cover his torso, from a long, tribal tattoo to something peeking out of his low-rise sweats, to a cluster of them along his other arm. Jesus Christ.
Something settles in my lower stomach, and I squeeze my thighs together to keep the heat in. Is this a dream? Are we at the right apartment? We have to have the wrong apartment. I glance at the door.
306.
Nope, right apartment.
Dad makes a disgusted snort and waves his hand in front of him. It isn’t long before I smell why. Either a skunk died in their apartment or they’re smoking weed.
“I’m looking for Adam.”
My eyes settle on his dimples—of course, he has dimples—and then move with him as he rests against the doorframe.
“Adam Baker?” he asks. His voice sends another roll of lava under my skin while my toes curl in my Dolce & Gabbana suede, knee-high boots. Damn.
Dad’s teeth grind together. “Yes, my son. Is he here?”
Pursing his thick, pink lips, he strokes the scruff on his jaw with a long finger. Dad seems uneasy. “Adam. Hmm, Adam.”
His gaze drifts over to me for the first time, and my sex clenches. Lifting a brow, he rakes his eyes from my hair to my toes. I squeeze my already curled feet into my shoes. What. The. Hell?
Dad snaps his fingers in front of his face, and he drops his “I’m-taking-all-your-clothes-off-in-my-head-right-now” look. “Is Adam here?”
He smiles—God, he smiles—and I bite my tongue. He’s making fun of my dad, and I can’t help but grin. “Yeah, he’s in the living room.”
Dad pushes his way in. I wait in the hall unsure of what to do and fighting the urge to drink him in again. When I do look his left hand is wrapped around the top of the doorframe, and he leans toward me. His dark eyes penetrate me, and I’m trying not to lap like a dog from the heat of it.
“You can come in. I won’t bite you, Princess,” he whispers before his tongue darts out of the side of his mouth. “But no promises about licking.”
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"Afterward, when my heart has had about all it can take, I need you. I need this. You make it better. When I'm with you, I can breathe again." His arms tighten around me and he tucks his face into the crook of my neck, his hot breath sending a jolt of a different kind of energy straight between my legs.
Whoa.
I close my eyes and focus on calming the blood racing through my veins much too fast. I'd do anything for Zander. I'd take away all his pain if I could, but I haven't done anything yet. I'm just here, and for him it's enough. I know because it's like that for me too. Having him close makes everything tolerable. I'd tie myself up for a million whippings if it meant Zander would be there to hold me when it was over. I don't know how we got here, but being with him is everything that makes every day worth any pain that comes with it.
