Hung Like a Dead Man

Sherri L. King

Telling scary stories in a graveyard on Halloween is a tradition Yancy has enjoyed for years. It’s just good, spooky fun—until a chance encounter with an isolated, neglected grave plunges her into her own terrifying tale, complete with a nineteenth-century zombie.

Conrad’s not your average walking dead, as Yancy soon learns. In fact, after plundering her pantry and putting some much-needed meat on his bones, he looks more like her very own historical hottie. One she’s perhaps known before…

So what’s a modern girl to do when she finds a dashing, not-quite-deceased man in her house? Indulge in some hot Halloween sex, of course. Especially when the tantalizing zombie is hung like a dead man.

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Hung Like a Dead Man

ISBN 9781419925108

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Hung Like a Dead Man Copyright 2009 Sherri L. King

Edited by Kelli Collins

Cover art by Darrell King

Electronic book publication October 2009

The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Hung Like a Dead Man

Sherri L. King

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Baby Phat: Phat Fashions LLC

For Dummies: Wiley Publishing, Inc.

Southern Comfort: Southern Comfort Properties, Inc.

Chapter One

Halloween

“C’mon, it’s almost midnight. One more story, we’ll pop the cork on this fine champagne and toast to our good health and the very good fortune of Yancy, who made all this extra food possible with her big, fat commission check from Jem Key Cosmetics.”

“Here, here,” Angel resounded as she, Robin and Yancy clinked their thermal mugs of hot cocoa together in a toast. “Okay, Yancy, it’s your turn again.”

Yancy smiled wickedly, thoroughly enjoying the ritual she and her friends had performed for the past eleven years. They’d started coming to this graveyard when they were sixteen—too old to trick-or-treat, but far too young not to still adore the ghoulish holiday. They had grown older and their stories had grown more risqué, but their love for Halloween had not waned in the slightest.

“Okay, let’s see…” Yancy pretended to search deep in her imagination for the next spooky yarn, as if she hadn’t been prepping her stories for this night for the past several weeks. “Ah. I’ve got one.”

Robin and Angel leaned forward expectantly.

“This one’s called ‘The Prisoner’.” She paused for dramatic effect and was rewarded with the sound of Robin’s breath catching. Pointing her flashlight upward beneath her chin, she began her story.

“Did you all know that there’s a law here in Montana that says any death row prisoner who survives two trips to the chair can go free?”

Yancy’s audience shook their heads. In the glow of their flashlights their skin held a pallor that well suited the mood of the chilly night. The shadows cast by the surrounding headstones fell heavy, shrouding the leaf-strewn ground around the blanket they had spread out beneath them.

“It’s true,” she continued. “Get sent to the chair and survive once, they wait a day and send you back. Survive the second jolt and they let you walk out with a clean slate. Of course no one could survive one trip, let alone two, right?

“Wrong.

“For the most part, you’d be right. There’s never been a recorded case of a prisoner being set free under this clause. But there is one unrecorded case.”

“Ooh,” Angel murmured, eyes wide.

Yancy nodded sagely, enjoying her turn in the spotlight. Well, flashlight anyway. “You might wonder why it’s unrecorded.”

“Better make it good,” Robin mockingly threatened.

Leaning forward conspiratorially, Yancy whispered the next words in her tale. “No one was ever supposed to be able to use that law. It’s ludicrous that the law even exists—but it had been put into the state charter by the founders like a hundred years ago. And before that it had been a law of the land—try to put a prisoner to death twice and if it failed, he was let go. Even the natives had a similar law. So it was just a formality when the founding fathers of this state put the thing in writing on the charter.

“But one night, on Halloween night, if you want specifics—”

“We do,” Angel quipped.

“Shh!” Robin pulled the throat of her coat closed and took a deep gulp of her hot cocoa.

“One Halloween night,” Yancy continued easily, “a man named Tommy Two Hands—”

“Wait.” Now it was Robin who interrupted. “Two hands? Not one hand or two fingers—you know, because of some horrible accident?”

“Nope.” Yancy blew an auburn curl of hair out of her face and sipped her own drink. “Tommy Two Hands, because he used both hands to stab his victims to death with rusty railroad spikes.”

“Eww.”

After the giggles had died down, Yancy resumed the tale in the most somber tone she could muster. “Tommy Two Hands had somehow survived his first visit with the electric chair. He’s been burned up pretty bad, but was otherwise given a clean bill of health, baffling the prison doctors. The warden—who had a personal grudge against Tommy Two Hands, who had killed his niece—ordered Tommy to be sent back to the chair the very next night. The night before Halloween.

“But on that night there was a freak storm that blew out the power in the prison, and no way would they use their backup generator to kill a prisoner when they needed the juice to keep the prison bars locked up tight.”

“So they had to chair him on Halloween night.”

“Shut up, Angel, and let me tell it my way,” Yancy chuckled.

“Okay, okay.”

“So Tommy Two Hands went to the chair on Halloween night. All the families of his victims were in attendance to watch his demise. Everyone waited for the state’s justice to be meted out to this monster who had killed nine people with no thoughts of remorse.

“Tommy was marched, wrists and ankles chained, to Ol’ Sparky. The chair was as old as the prison and had seen more than a hundred men die a nasty death. But Tommy Two Hands wasn’t afraid. He had an ugly smile for his audience to see and danced a little jig when the guards removed his restraints. All the witnesses were shocked when he seemed to settle himself comfortably into the chair while he was strapped down.

“Traditionally, all executions were performed at the stroke of midnight. And even though this was Halloween, no superstitions were going to get in the way of the law.

“As the clock ticked, Tommy Two Hands began to whistle.

“When the second hand reached its destination, the warden himself pulled the switch.

“And Tommy Two Hands began to laugh.”

The wind picked up, scattering leaves all over their picnic, and the story was interrupted once again as they righted their things and settled back down.

“Go on, finish,” Robin urged.

“After a few minutes, the laughing stopped and everyone was sure that Tommy Two Hands was finally finished. But when the Warden flipped the switch off there was so much smoke from the burning body no one could see into the room where Ol’ Sparky rested. So two guards were sent in to check on the prisoner’s remains—”

“Only they were gone,” Angel guessed.

“Wrong again. Tommy was there all right and he was burnt to a crisp. His skin was black and his eyes had melted out of his head. It was the most horrible thing anyone there had ever seen, and even the victims’ families felt pity for the guy.”

“But…” Robin urged.

“But,” Yancy conceded, playing her storyteller role to the hilt, as she’d rehearsed so many times before. “Just when one of the guards reached to feel a pulse, Tommy Two Hands screamed.

“He screamed and he cried. His body was a smoking husk, he had no eyes, and the tips of his fingers and toes had exploded from the electricity shooting out in sparks during the electrocution. In a panic, the guards ran for the exit and the warden—now more out of desperate fear than any thought to personal revenge—began to pull the switch again.

“But someone in the audience, someone who had gone unnoticed until then, called out, ‘Stop! You can’t do that. The law says two tries and you’re free.’”

“Needless to say, this caused no small uproar. Arguments broke out amongst everyone there. No way could they let the man suffer as he was. While his screams and sobs still filled the air, the lawyers were consulted and at last the warden was forbidden to try a third time.

“Tommy Two Hands made such a racket that the guards who’d gone into the execution chamber earlier went back in again to free him. But once they’d released the last restraint, something even more unexpected happened.

“Tommy Two Hands got up out of the chair and reached out with his ruined hands and killed the two guards with one blow each!”

“Whoa.”

“Nice.” Robin nodded, grinning.

“Panic erupted in the audience and people were trampled as the crowd fled. All but one stampeded toward the door. All but the person who had spoken for Tommy, who’d reminded everyone about the law of setting the prisoner free. This person sat in his chair and watched the chaos, a small smile playing on his lips.

“For you see, Tommy Two Hands had made a deal with the devil. That’s how he made it through the first execution without much damage. And Tommy was sure the second trip would be just as easy. But the devil wanted more than just the soul of Tommy Two Hands. He wanted the fear of the entire state of Montana when everyone heard about the horrific state of the prisoner and how said prisoner was now free to kill and wreak havoc in any way he pleased, thanks to that stupid law.”

“Only once the panic had died down, the lawmen made a pact not to tell anyone,” Robin predicted.

“Right.” Yancy grinned huge in the flashlight’s glare. “Because when they could think clearly again, they knew they couldn’t let anyone on the outside know about it or there would be hell to pay. Pun intended.

“So that’s the story of the one man who survived two executions and was set loose. Tommy Two Hands, who was so maimed and deformed, he could never mix in with regular people after that debacle. Tommy Two Hands, who made a deal with the devil and lost. Tommy Two Hands, who even to this day creeps into unlocked homes and uses both hands to stab his victims with rusty railroad spikes!”

“The end!” all three women finished in unison.

“Well, that one was pretty good, but not as good as Angel’s Voodoo Blow-Up Doll story.”

“Yeah,” Yancy conceded. “I should have added something sexy.”

“Like maybe the devil was a woman and had it on with Tommy Two Hands to seal their deal,” Angel offered.

“Or that the warden’s wife was having an affair with Tommy Two Hands and that’s why the warden hated him so much.”

“Meh. That one sounds too complicated.” Yancy shrugged. “Maybe Tommy Two Hands lured his victims with his charm and good looks before he murdered them. Sex and death make for a darker tale.”

“Yucktastic.” Angel gave a mock shudder.

Robin uncorked their bottle of champagne and this time they used the three glass flutes they’d brought to make their toast.

“To another great Halloween. Can’t wait until next year’s stories!”

Their glasses made a resounding chime in the night.

After more than half the bottle had been consumed and they’d all gained a dizzying new perspective on the holiday, Yancy rose and dusted off her jean-clad behind. “I’ve gotta pee. I’ll be baaack.”

“Oooo. Spooky.” Angel waggled her fingers toward Yancy and all three friends laughed.

Once Yancy found herself alone in the dark, away from their cheery little midnight picnic, it really was spooky. The shadows swallowed her like a closet monster and the graves welcomed her into the bosom of the dead. This being a graveyard and there being no toilets nearby, she walked a far pace away from her friends for privacy along the tree line that embraced the old, boarded-up church.

Even if the graveyard hadn’t been there, the church itself would have been a spooky enough destination to entice them to celebrate the holiday here. When Yancy had been just a child growing up in Fell Falls, the old, frontier-era building had already been boarded up. But the graveyard had been in use up until she’d been in her twenties and she’d often wondered why the church hadn’t been torn down and rebuilt during that time.

The windows had long ago been busted, most shored up with rotted wood. Those that weren’t seemed to see, staring out at Yancy from dry, eyeless sockets. Their staring blackness intimidated her, their too tall, too narrow openings easy hiding places for horrible, sinister things.

“It’s just monsters,” she whispered to herself, trying to lighten the mood that had descended upon the quiet. “And ghosts. No biggie.”

Of course, the forest at the end of her stroll was no more welcoming. The moon was not yet full, only waxing, but it cast enough cold light to spill menacing shadows across her as she squatted in the low brush.

It was a perfect All Hallows Eve, that much was certain.

The weather was a biting chill, the wind sharp, raking claws. The scent of decaying leaves, autumnal mold and arctic ice hung thick in the air. The old dirt of the graveyard had a perfume like charcoal and powdered bone. The rotted timbers of the old church groaned with the shifting of the wind, plaintive and loud in the haunted breeze.

A twig snapped behind her.

Yancy rose, pulling up her size sixteen jeans and peering into the trees. A murmuring sound, like rolling gravel, echoed from deeper within the grove. “Damn kids.” Yancy smiled to herself, remembering her own antics in younger years.

The trees yawned, their shadows creeping. A cool chill raised the hairs on her arms. She stepped deeper into the forest.

And tripped over her own feet.

“Oof!” She threw her shaggy hair out of her face and spit out a musty leaf that had crawled into her mouth.

However, once she’d recovered, she found that it hadn’t been only her feet that had tripped her. Nuzzled into the ground, set deep with time and weight, was a tiny grave marker not much bigger than a hardback book. A root had sprouted up in recent years, knocking it slightly askew so that one corner was higher than the others.

Frowning, Yancy bent and cleaned off the debris that obscured the inscription, but her efforts didn’t yield much. The years had worn the stone to nearly river-rock smoothness.

“Hey! Get over here, you two,” she yelled, knowing her strong voice would carry to her friends. “Come see what I found.”

Angel reached her first, her long legs eating up the distance. Her pale blonde hair was tangled and, as the moonlight hit her full face, for a brief second Yancy saw the gangly, awkward youth her friend had been before puberty and beauty had bloomed. “What is it?”

“It’s a tombstone.”

“Big deal,” Robin huffed as she arrived, breathless from the cold. “There were plenty of those back there, where our alcohol sits all by its lonesome.”

Yancy chuckled. “Yeah, but this one’s all old and gnarly. Like it was handmade.”

“And in a hurry,” Angel remarked, peering.

Yancy realized she kept running her fingers over the stone, as if trying to read Braille. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a dog-eared moleskin notebook.

“Sorry baby,” she crooned to it when she ripped out one of its blank pages.

“Gawd, you are such a freaktard.”

“Shut up, Robin. I think it’s cute,” Angel defended.

“Maybe when we were, like, twelve it was cute. Sheesh. I can’t believe you still name your notepads, Yance, let alone use them. Grow up and get a planner for cripes sake.”

Her friend’s ribbing didn’t bother her. “His name is Tofu and he is a notebook, not a notepad. And he’s almost grown up, so show some respect,” Yancy insisted with feigned indignation.

“Jeez.”

Angel giggled.

Indeed Tofu was almost “grown-up”, meaning nearly every page was full. It was yet another in a long line of poetry diaries she’d been creating since childhood; ever since her great-grandmother had shown Yancy some haibun journals from her own youth. Yancy named them to keep them straight in her head and to feel connected with them in a way that dating and shelving them would not. Plus, she liked having fun with the creative process and finding names to suit each notebook was an adventure.

But now she took one of the precious pages and a tiny charcoal pencil from the paper-folder built into the moleskin’s cover. Gently laying the paper over part of the headstone, she rubbed the pencil lightly across the surface and was rewarded with the faint tracery of letters. “Conrad…something with a w,” she read aloud. “Welsh? No, it’s Walsh. Conrad Walsh.”

“Is there a date?” Angel asked.

Yancy flipped over the paper, which was now limp with dew but still durable enough for another rubbing. After a minute she grinned triumphantly. “Says 1851.”

“Neat.”

Robin huffed. “Super. Now can we get back and pack it up? I’m more than half drunk but cold as a mo-fo in this wind.”

Indeed the wind had picked up, throwing up a storm of dead leaves and whipping their hair about their pink-cheeked faces. “Yeah, in a sec. You go ahead.” Yancy leaned down and ran her fingers over the headstone again, marveling at its lonely placement here in the woods.

Here this grave had sat for ages, its resident forgotten to the point that another graveyard and church had grown apart from it. It was sad, really. Obviously the person planted here had received few, if any, visitors over the past century. Yancy wondered if he had any living descendents. Perhaps they still lived in Fell Falls. Maybe she even knew one or two of them.

With a heavy sigh, she cleaned away as much of the debris from the edges of the grave. “Sorry, Conrad,” she murmured. But it wasn’t enough. She took a breath, looked around self-consciously to make sure her friends were far enough away that they wouldn’t overhear, and whispered a small poem just for him.

Dreaming state beneath the earth

No kisses, no tears but mine

Crying for the boy in the garden

Who slumbers

Wishing you weren’t so lonely.

She’d write the words down in Tofu’s pages later to mark the occasion, but now the wind had picked up with renewed savagery and Yancy felt its cold deep in the throb of her heart. The clouds moved fast overhead and covered the broken moon, completing the darkness. “Sweet dreams.” She turned and fled back away from the woods and the haunted church.

Back to the living.

But from the corner of her eye she saw a solemn figure move in the shadows. And something inside her moved with it, making her blood sing. She darted her glance back, but could sight nothing on closer inspection and then it didn’t matter, for it was Halloween and she was with her friends.

* * * * *

Her heart throbbed, but gently like a soft orgasm in her breast. It was both sweet and painful, squeezing tears into the corners of her eyelids. Her mouth watered and she tasted spring, new and fresh and green, her tongue hot behind her lips. The tips of her fingers tingled, the skin at her loins aching, her nipples furrowed like lace.

The clanging woke her, but for a long beat she was still lost between dreaming and awareness. The elements of the fantasy escaped her, yet Yancy felt as if she’d lost something dear. Whatever fled her waking mind had been precious and whatever woke her would pay for the loss of what must have been a whopper of a dream.

Throwing aside her quilts, she hissed as her bare toes pressed to the cold wooden floor. It was still dark outside, which meant she hadn’t caught more than an hour of sleep, if that. The green letters of the digital clock on her nightstand screamed that 4:50 in the morning was no time to be awake, let alone out of her warm, soft bed.

Another loud racket came from downstairs and this time, Yancy started, jumping free of the bed and toward her bedroom door. “That’s no squirrel.” She grabbed her robe and shoved her arms into the sleeves, gathering the folds over her double D breasts before venturing into the hall. There was another thud, this one the loudest yet. “Jeez, come on in why don’t you.” Her lips twisted wryly as she wondered what was behind the god-awful noise.

Probably just two raccoons fighting. Or a really pissed-off coyote. Wild animals were quite abundant this far out in the boonies and Yancy wasn’t too surprised at the god-awful noises breaking through the early morning darkness.

Her feet were silent as a cat’s on the stairs, but even if she’d been wearing combat boots and stomping it would have gone unnoticed in the din that now came from her living room.

Shit. Was it a bear? Granted, she lived in a little-populated area, but Yancy had never heard of a bear breaking into someone’s house around these parts. She didn’t have any kind of weapon that would fend off a bear, but that didn’t stop her looking around her kitchen for something—anything to make her feel less helpless.

Her hand seized upon a rolling pin. Rolling her eyes at the cliché, she immediately put it back and reached for the butcher’s block and the largest knife she owned. But she’d likely only cut herself with that unwieldy thing. She gently opened drawer after drawer, choosing then discarding potential weapons.

Turkey baster? Negative. Soup ladle? Again, definitely not. Then she found it—the perfect blunt weapon. A heavy, stainless-steel tenderizer that looked more like an archaic mallet than kitchen utensil. A few smacks from this should fend off anything that got too close—though nothing would deter a bear save a bazooka, and she knew it.

It was then she realized…

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

She waited for the beastie to move about, make any kind of noise, but in vain.

Several minutes passed in total silence. Whatever it was had left as unexpectedly as it had come.

Yancy felt her shoulder drop and her grip on the tenderizer relaxed, though she did not put it away just yet. With a twist of her lips and a huff of harried breath, she cautiously crept toward her living room to see what damage had been done.

And stubbed her toe on the baseboard at the kitchen entrance.

Sharp, screaming pain lanced through her big toe, cutting a swath of agony up her foot and into her leg. She bit back a roar of anguish and rage. Hopping back, she brandished the mallet at the offending baseboard threateningly, as if by doing so it would feel shame to have injured its mistress.

When the pain died down, she let out a slow breath and went to the living room.

There was a dead guy standing there.

Motionless.

The zombie’s left cheek muscle was missing, she noticed, as she walked straight into him, her breasts pressing into the dusty, worm-eaten cloth of his shroud. Even in the darkness she could see the pearly white of his molars.

Gasping, Yancy fell back, scrabbling away from the monster, speechless with terror as it approached her on shambling feet.

Chapter Two

For two hours Yancy cowered in fear behind the refrigerator door—no small challenge for a woman with her lush curves—clutching her weapon and watching with dazed eyes as the zombie ate everything in her larder. Her muscles ached and her throat was sore from biting back screams, but she couldn’t move for it was apparent that the only thing protecting her from the ghoul’s attention was the precious cover of the open door.

Cold light spilled from the fridge, and until the gray dawn light further illuminated the room, it had been more than enough light to see the horrible features of the monster.

Its hair was dirty and matted, patches of it missing along with the flesh of the scalp, exposing the ivory bone of its skull. It wore a long black coat, vest and pants. The boots it wore were very plain and so coated with grime—mud, mold and age—that it was impossible to tell what material or even what color they had been originally. The shirt collar that peeked above the vest was threadbare and might have once been white or blue, but was now the color of slate rock.

Upon discovering this walking corpse in her doorway, Yancy had been certain she was a dead woman. She figured this creature would be the last thing she saw before it chomped on her brains. Cringing, she’d prepared for death. But instead of grabbing for her, as she’d feared, the thing had stepped past her and into the kitchen.

It grabbed at cabinet handles and its strength must have been great because the poor doors had been ripped right from their hinges. It had dropped the doors on the floor, raising a horrible clatter as it rifled through the dishes, breaking glasses and plates with little regard for the shards that cut into the flesh of its hands.

It didn’t bleed, Yancy was quite alarmed to notice.

When it found the tins of food in the pantry, it grunted and fumbled with them. After the thing spent several minutes struggling with those, Yancy was sure its attention was distracted enough for her to sneak by and out the back door. But as soon as she’d taken a few steps to make her escape, the thing roared and threw a large can of peaches against the wall, leaving an impressive dent behind—both in the wall and the can.

Then it turned its gaze to her.

How the damn thing had eyes—soft tissue that should have dried to raisins around the same time the skin of its jowls had dissolved—Yancy didn’t know. Or care to ask.

It made its move, so Yancy made hers—the only one she could. The refrigerator was the closest object, so she reached out, opened the door to put it between them and raised the meat tenderizer high above her head, backing against the wall to brace herself.

When the zombie saw the contents of the fridge, it froze. And seemed to dismiss Yancy completely when its hand—all but one finger was intact and that finger was fine, if you didn’t need flesh to cover the gray bone—seized upon a packet of bologna.

My bologna has a first name… The jingle must have run through her head a good half dozen times as she watched the thing solemnly masticate the cold cuts until every piece had been devoured.

The monster then proceeded to murder her breakfast sausages, leftover pizza, still-thawing ground chuck and hot dogs. Every piece of food it could get its hands on, it devoured. Even down to the last stick of sweet-cream butter.

It appeared to have some trouble with opening her pickle and jam jars, no doubt due to the morbidity of the finger joints that popped whenever he tried to grip the lids. But it only took it a few minutes of determination to get at the contents and consume them as well. If she hadn’t been so freaked out, Yancy would have marveled at its appetite.

Yancy’s own fingers were numb, her fist tight around her feeble weapon, and she prayed its appetite wouldn’t turn its attention to her.

When the refrigerator was bare but for the discarded wrappers, empty jars and looted casserole dishes, the zombie paused as if to catch its breath. Yancy realized, indeed, it was breathing. She didn’t think it had been breathing when it had first appeared, but now its inhalations wheezed audibly in the tense silence.

In addition, it seemed to stand straighter now. And it was certainly more agile on its feet when turning from the fridge to the sink. The flesh on its brow—was that fresh, pink skin?—furrowed as if in thought while it regarded the faucet. Awkwardly maneuvering the single lever that operated the hot and cold water, he huffed, apparently pleased when water flowed freely from the spigot.

But the water fell through the perforations in the thing’s flesh when it cupped its hands to capture enough for a drink. Several attempts met with failure, its palms too ragged and damaged to hold enough for the smallest sip. Its shoulders slumped and head hung low, as if in defeat.

Yancy terror ebbed, watching the poor thing struggle with so simple a task. It looked so forlorn. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for it now.

Forgetting the absurdity of the situation—which she would have freely admitted was FUBAR—she cautiously stepped forward and reached out with her tenderizer to a coffee mug on the littered counter, nudging it closer to the zombie. He—yes, she now thought not it but he—immediately grasped her intention and took the mug, filling it with water, which he then drank.

The first cupful was messy, as the liquid fell out of the gap in his cheek. But then the skin pinkened before her eyes, threading together, and the second cup he easily drank without leaking too much. After that, with each swallow, his tattered wounds healed.

Yancy would never have believed it if she hadn’t seen it. Hell, even witnessing the change, she could hardly credit it. But after a dozen mugs of water, the guy—he no longer resembled a horror-movie creation—was practically healed. Even the exposed bone of his finger had grown a new coating of baby-smooth flesh.

He tossed back a last draught and let out a low belch.

His eyes—an eerie silver, but human—flew to hers. “I beg yer pardon.”

Contrarily, Yancy’s mouth opened around a shriek and she jumped.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, lass.” The man really did look apologetic, but Yancy was exhausted after hours of tense fear and incredulity. She choked on the next scream and caught the hiccups instead.

The two of them stood motionless, him silent, she shaking with hiccups, gazes tangled in the ruin of her kitchen.

And that was how she met the late, but not quite dead, Conrad Walsh.

* * * * *

It was amazing, really, how quickly an unbelievable situation could become commonplace. Such was the case now while Yancy gathered towels for her improbable guest while Conrad took his very first hot shower. Right now she felt downright domesticated with the zombie in her bathroom.

He’d been fascinated that the running water was so plentiful and openly delighted when it grew hot. Though Yancy still had a tendency to jump whenever he moved too quickly, she hadn’t hesitated to offer him the use of her shower. He was especially filthy still, though his body was whole and healthy beneath the caked-on dirt, and no way was she going to invite him to sit on her sofa in that state.

Yancy was definitely going to invite him to sit when he was clean—hell, she’d tie him down if she had to. She had a million questions for him and after the terrifying morning she’d just spent watching him come to life, he owed her. Plus, her meat tenderizer was in the pouch of the hoodie she’d hastily donned, along with some corduroy pants, so she felt somewhat safe should Conrad turn into a brain-eating fiend.

But she doubted it would come to that. Zombie or not, he had very nice manners.

He seemed so normal. For a dead dude. And very masculine, she’d been quick to notice—his strong, lean frame demanded a feminine response on her part. His faint brogue—Irish or Scottish, Yancy was terrible at correctly perceiving which—was downright adorable when he spoke, at first haltingly then with growing ease.

“You want to wash that crud off?” she’d asked him earlier.

“Aye, lass. Please.”

“I’ve got some clothes you can wear.” She’d eyeballed him, marveling at how hale and hearty he looked. He was bigger than she was, but they were both tall and he’d get by in a pair of her lounge pants and a big sleep shirt until they could get him something more suitable.

“If it’s no trouble.”

“No, not at all,” she’d insisted.

“You’ve my thanks for the hospitality. It’s sorry I am for your fright when I came in. I’m an oaf, I know, but I was famished.”

Yancy had guessed that was the understatement of the decade.

She now listened as he splashed and tried to guess what would happen next.

How did one prepare for a conversation with a formerly dead person? There had to be a For Dummies book on the subject somewhere.

Con stood beneath the hot water and stared down at his hands, turning them over one way and then the other. Well over a hundred and fifty harvests had seen him cursed and in the ground, near two hundred All Saint’s Day Eves that he’d been forced to haunt his own grave as a ghost before resting another year, only to repeat the horror. And yet now here he was, hale and whole.

She’d spoken to him, the lass—Yancy was the bonny name she’d given—and just like that he’d cast aside the chains of undeath to rise again. He’d torn the spirit world wide open and broken through the spell set upon him. Because, for the first time in all his long years of solitude, he’d heard her. Pretty words spoken just for him. Yancy calling him, her sweet voice the first sound he had heard beyond his own decay since the day he’d been planted in the ground.

He was no fool. He’d seen her reaction to him. It was clear she’d no idea what manner of magic she had worked on them both. Not only had she fled before he could arise, body and soul one at last, but she’d been stunned—terrified—to see him knocking on her door. The entire time he’d spent feeding, fueling the transition to healthy life once more, she’d held a mallet as if to fend him off.

As if he would ever hurt her.

Con now wondered if he’d traded one hell for another. True he was living flesh again, no longer a ghost trapped in the husk of his own corpse. But mayhap he’d slipped the chains of one kind of slavery for another, and only time would tell what that could mean for his soul. He prayed Yancy’s soul was a pure one or they were both doomed to misery.

Chapter Three

Boy, did he clean up well.

Yancy’s eyes tripped over him not twice but four times before she regained her composure. When he stepped from her bathroom in a cloud of steam, it had been like the reveal in some cheesy romantic movie.

His hair was shaggy and dark, likely a sun-kissed bronze when it dried. He was lean but the peek of taut abs beneath the hem of her largest sleep shirt proved he was all muscle and strength. His legs were too long and he loped when he walked, somehow looking graceful and awkward at the same time—probably the latter because her lounge pants were several inches too short and white, with the branding Baby Phat stitched down one leg.

His eyes were no longer an unearthly silver, but a blue that only an airbrushed model should possess. The color of clear London blue topaz, rimmed with even darker circles of lapis around his irises. His lashes were short and honeyed-bronze and there was a small dusting of freckles on the crest of his right cheekbone. He had great skin, invisible pores and what looked to be the faint shadow of new beard growth.

Beneath the threat of a thin, dark moustache, his lips were full. They were darkly pink—as if he’d been sucking on sweet fruit—and far too lovely set pouting as they were in such a raw, masculine face of tight planes and angles.

His hands, when he ran them through his wet, mussed hair, were long and strong, his fingertips blunt in his tangles.

“Seems I’ve impressed you as much as myself.” One blue eye winked at her sinfully on the trail of his flirtatious statement.

Yancy realized she was staring agape and clicked her teeth together. His brogue and that wink made her stomach feel sucker punched.

And she had to remind herself that this man was not really a man at all but a zombie.

Right?

Right?

Oh hell.

The wild beating of her heart informed her as clearly as her inability to tear her gaze away from him that the reminder didn’t take. Besides, he wasn’t the same creature now that he’d been just hours before. He was a much more interesting creature by far, every luscious manly inch of him.

“What—” She bit off her question, not knowing how to begin. “How…” No that wasn’t a good start either. “So are you going to eat my brains or what?”

He looked as shocked and disgusted as she felt by the very idea. “Heavens no! What gave you a mind I’d do such a thing?”

Yancy let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. “Well, you are a zombie.”

“I don’t know about this zombie fixation, but I assure you I’ve no taste for brains, yours or any others.”

“Then tell me, please, what you’re doing here. How you’re even here.”

He shrugged as if the answers were unimportant. “You called, I came. You invited me into your home. I’m in your debt, lass. I was fair tired of lying in the ground.”

“I invited you in?” She was losing the thread of the conversation, watching the muscles play on his arms.

“I heard you say so, yes.”

Thinking back, and it was a long way to think considering all that had transpired since, she vaguely recalled being in her room, muttering, when she still thought her evening visitor might be a woodland pest.

He’d actually heard that?

Yancy sat hard on her sofa, unable to stand. “You’re a dead dude. This is real, this is me awake…and you’re a walking, talking stiff. It’s insane. Ridiculous.”

He blinked, then grinned. “You’ve a strange way of talking, but I gather you’re in a bad state. I would be too. No worries, though. I’m no more dead now than you are. Truthfully I never was. Just hexed.”

She gaped at him.

He sighed and ran his hands through his drying hair again, giving her another chance to admire the muscles of his midriff and the lean loin muscle that created a downward V toward other, more interesting things.

When he froze, her eyes flew up to his and their gazes waged a war as old as man and woman. He’d seen her looking and it was clear he’d have her see more.

“I’m yours,” he said plainly.

Whoa. She struggled to find a way to respond to that.

“In every way.” His eyes were solemn despite his titillating words and tone. “I’ve always been yers lass. And a long wait it’s been for you to find me again.”

What?

He saw the question in her expression as if she’d shouted it aloud.

“You’ve no memory of me?” He looked so forlorn when she numbly shook her head. “I was afeared of it.”

She would definitely have remembered meeting him, either as he’d been that morning or as he stood before her now. Conrad was not a man one could forget.

“Ah, lass, I’m not dead. But good as, since the medicine man put his hex on me.”

“What did you do wrong?” she asked automatically.

He grinned ruefully, and Yancy had to wonder at the strength of spirit that would let him smile in the wake of what must have been horrible suffering. “I angered his tribe.”

She waited for him to elaborate, but it seemed he was a man of few words—like every other guy she knew. Then he was at her side, the cushions sinking beneath his weight.

“Can I feel yer skin, Yancy?” The way he moved his lips and tongue around her name smashed her higher brain to shuddering pieces. “’Tis been too long since I felt yo—a woman.”

After a beat she nodded wordlessly. When his fingertips brushed aside a stray lock of her hair, scraping against her temple with rough calluses, she jumped. But it was not a motion of fear. It was just that he felt so real. More real and solid and strong than anyone she’d ever known, in a way that resonated.

Then he leaned closer and breathed her in, his lashes lowering, shuttering the intensity of his azure gaze. For all the bizarre and unexpected drama of their meeting, she didn’t feel awkward now or afraid, but aglow from within.

“What’s happening?” she whispered, bewildered.

“You feel it too.” He leaned closer. “Our magic.”

She did feel it. Washing through her like a flood, coming on her like ocean waves, unavoidable as the tide, inevitable as the pull of the currents. He found her hand and put it over his heart and after she let out a shuddering breath, he placed his over hers.

Their gazes met. Their hearts beat the same rhythm. He bent his head and laid his forehead to hers. She felt at once whole and complete and at peace. Excited, but soothed. Comforted, protected and desired. Yancy stared down at their hands and listened to the singing of their blood.

“Can I kiss you, Yancy?”

She blinked. No one had ever asked her before. But no one had ever made her feel quite like this either. It was a time of firsts, and lasts—because she knew at once that she’d never want another man after Conrad kissed her, not ever.

He didn’t wait for her answer—he didn’t need to as far as she was now concerned. Instead he brushed his lips over her cheek, surprising her when he didn’t hone in on her lips first thing. The innocence of the gesture made it all the more erotic. And the skip in his strong heartbeat made hers beat faster too. His breath whispered warm over the shell of her ear and she sighed.

“My wait has been the wait of decades,” he murmured. “I was in the dark, alone for so long. Missing you every moment, every passing night.”

“I’m here, Con.” She heard the words fall from her tingling lips and realized she’d said them before even thinking them and they were the purest truth. His shortened name felt like an endearment and was just as natural as leaning in to him, pressing her own mouth against the line of his jaw.

“Do you know me now?” He seemed to demand that she answer. “Do you remember me? Say you do, lass. Say yes. Please.”

“Y-yes. I do know you.” But how? She reached up and put her palm against his cheek, which was at once familiar and strange. He turned and pressed a fierce kiss to her palm. She gasped and shook her head. “I don’t understand any of this.”

He put his finger to her lips, then caressed them, first the upper then lower lip. “Shh. Don’t be afraid. Never fear me.”

“I’m not afraid.” Yet of course she was, a little. Yancy felt an overwhelming need to hold him, as if she’d held him before many times and she couldn’t understand such powerful need. Her fear did not lessen her yearning, but sharpened it to a point of near agony. If she didn’t have his mouth on hers soon Yancy was certain she would die. It was lunacy but it was also the most perfect feeling she’d ever experienced.

He grabbed her hands in his, rose in one languid motion and took her to the near window, standing with her in the sunlight. The warm rays bathed them in gold splendor. “Look at me, Yancy.”

There was nothing she’d rather do.

He threaded their fingers together and held them to the light. It spilled through their skin until it glowed, until they were fused in the slanting sunshine.

Yancy felt the heat of their connection spread from their hands up her arm. Her blood was warm honey, heavy and sugared. Light came from within her as much as from without. It defied explanation. It refused all logic. It was what it was.

Inevitable.

Destiny.

When his lips touched hers at last, the solar fire blinded her. There in the wash of the sun they embraced, they kissed, and Yancy fell back through time…

Con laid her back against the furs and pressed his naked length to hers. His flesh, so pale in contrast with hers, warmed her like an open flame. His mouth tasted sweet, his tongue smooth, rubbing along hers.

It was a sweet burden, his weight pressing her down. And when he suckled her tongue into the cave of his own mouth, she shivered from head to toe with delight. No dream could equal this reality, though she had dreamt of this moment all her life. He was hers and she his, and nothing could ever come between them.

She wouldn’t allow it.

“Anpaytoo, slow down,” he whispered raggedly against her mouth, even as he took her breast in his calloused palm. His tongue was stiff around her language, but their own private world transcended words. Theirs was the language of lovers and they both understood that slowing down was the last thing they could have done then.

The sound of rain stampeding down the rugged hide of their hut did little to drown out their sighs and moans. Con’s body undulated against hers and her woman’s mound wept hot tears.

They had no need for shyness. Though this was her first time she felt no hesitation, only eager anticipation. For in previous lives they’d known each other well, just as they did in this one, and would in future times. Con would never hurt her. Never fail her. She was all soft woman for him. He was all gentle warrior for her. No matter the laws of this world, their world held no bounds, no imperfections.

Their heaven was in each other’s arms.

His fingers found her slit and glided through her hot wetness. The swollen bud of her aching nub drew the pad of his thumb again and again until she was arching, dancing beneath him, spreading her knees wide for more…

And then she was breathing hard, but not in pleasure this time. Their child was dying in her womb and she was going with it. Anpaytoo/Yancy reached out for her husband, but he wasn’t there. “Con,” she called, but there was no answer and then it was too late. She knew her vengeful father would blame the white man for her death, knew her father would pay the price for that shame too but be unable not to pour out his hate. Anpaytoo only prayed to the Great Spirit that the two could find peace before too much damage was done to both their stubborn souls.

She sank into the breathing lung of all life force and knew this life would not be the last…

Yancy cried out.

“Shh.” Con stroked her hair.

“You’ve been trapped all this time?”

“Aye. Yer father was a broken man after you and the babe died. He felt I’d stolen you from him and the tribe felt much the same.”

“God.” She felt hot tears rolling down her cheeks as the pain of her past self merging with her present assaulted her senses.

“He ordered me slain. But I survived being dragged behind a horse. My grief was so great I wanted to die, but it wasn’t to be. So they hanged me from a tree. But not even that ended my suffering.”

“What you went through because of me…”

He cradled her head in his hands. “No. Not because of you. None of it was our fault. It was just the way fate dealt its hand. And after your father cursed me to wait between worlds until you came to forgive me, I eventually understood that fate was neither cruel nor kind, just as you’d always taught me.”

“Con, how could you survive all of that and not hate me?”

“I knew you’d find me again.” He took her mouth in a kiss that told her emphatically that his love for her was still as real as the earth beneath their feet. The lush moue of his mouth hardened on hers, his arms gathering her to him, lifting her off her feet as he held her to his heart.

She’d loved him in her last life. No doubt they’d loved in lives even farther past. And now, held in his strong arms with such passion it seemed he never wanted to lessen his grip, Yancy realized that beyond all reason she loved Conrad Walsh in this life too.

“I need to touch yer bare skin,” he growled against her mouth.

She needed it too.

His hand found the bottom edge of her pullover and pushed it upward slowly. When he paused, she pulled away from their kiss for a breath and looked down at the very miniscule distance separating them.

“Oh. Sorry. I thought I might need it,” she mumbled stupidly as she removed the laden weight of the meat tenderizer in the pullover’s tummy pouch.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating down from her temple, where he pressed a scorching kiss, all the way to her nipples, which immediately hardened and lengthened.

The tenderizer fell to the floor with a loud clunk that neither paid heed to.

Conrad kissed her nose, her chin, pushed her face upward with his thumbs and nuzzled deeply the arch of her throat.

It was impossible not to respond to his gentleness. It was even harder not to be swept away when he grabbed her tighter, kissed her throat harder, her clavicle and shoulder, pressing her full length to his. The fierce prod of his heavy cock made drum beats sound in her ears that she would swear he, too, could hear. His mouth returned to hers and she swallowed the spice of his possessive growl.

Her arousal matched his, danced his rhythm, and soon she was panting into his mouth, squirming her hips against his, sex wet and pulsing.

His hair was damp in her fists, but soft and sleek as mink, thick and dense. His height swallowed her up and though she was a lushly rounded, full-bodied woman, she felt delicate in his arms. Small and dainty, yet powerfully female and thoroughly ravished by this wild, sexy man.

Con wrapped a length of her hair around his fist and wrist, tying them together. He buried his face in her tangles and breathed deeply. Yancy’s hands were busier, roving over the familiar and yet still unfamiliar lean muscles of his chest and abdomen. He was all angles and planes and firm, powerful muscles honed from a frontier life.

She had to taste the fabric of his flesh.

Becoming the aggressor, she shoved and pressed until his shirt fell to the floor. She used her nails on his chest, feeling a primal need to assure herself of his substance. Her lips anointed every inch of exposed skin. His nipples were tiny and hard in her mouth, soft but rough with light hairs beneath her tongue.

He groaned and gathered her in a possessive hug that did nothing to dissuade her plundering. Dragging her teeth across his chest, she tasted the pounding of his heart and knew it beat in unison with her own.

The smell of him enveloped her—no perfume, no detergent, just pure, aroused man. She could smell his sex in the waft of heat rising between their eager bodies. The scent she’d known in every incarnation. Known and recognized for what it was—the mark of her mate. Her mate.

They laughed, private lovers’ humor, as they quickly helped each other disrobe. Their fingers quivered with anticipation. Their mouths met again and again, interrupting the process, heightening their need.

A second of hesitation on her part—would he be disappointed in her body? But she needn’t have hesitated even a micron of a second—the worship in his eyes told her all that words could never express. He fell to his knees and buried his face in her large breasts, cradling them, seeking her pouting nipples and finding them with rough fingertips.

He gazed up at her with blue eyes that flickered to silver—the only reminder of his centuries of torment—his lips swollen from her kisses and from kissing her. “If you only knew how much I want to take you now.”

Gasping, she knelt with him, putting her knees on either side of his hips. “Then do it.”

“I-I…no lass. Yer not ready to accept me.” He looked down pointedly and their fully nude glory revealed his hesitation.

He was a very large man. Larger than any she’d ever seen, long and hard but also extremely thick and heavy. The weight of his cock bobbed with his every shuddering breath. Seeing him, Yancy knew she had to have him, but knew she must first put him at ease.

With firm palms pressed against his pecs, she made him lie beneath her. When he would have protested—ever a man who wanted to dominate—she put her finger to his lips and scooted down over his form.

He knew at once what she intended.

With a groan, he buried his hands once more in her hair as it fell over his loins. His scent once more flooded all of her senses, drowning her in lust. She bent and licked his cock from crown to base before wrapping her fingers around him as best she could manage to hold him for her ravishment.

Opening her lips as wide as possible, she fit the salty-sweet crown of him in her mouth and began to suck gently. Sweeping her tongue around him as if he were a scoop of the most sinfully delicious dolcé ice cream, she tasted the first tiny drops of his pre-cum as he fought not to buck beneath her.

Her mouth watered, helping them both—she fit more into her mouth and felt the heat drip down his length before she caught it in her hand and used it to pump him in a tender rhythm. His skin was so hot in her mouth it almost burned. Her lips swelled and became plumper cushions with each greedy suck. The hand she used to stroke him sensed the pounding of the blood in his flesh and made him grow even heavier and larger.

Yancy was wet, but was she slick enough for all those fat, hard inches? She wanted to be certain—knew that nothing should be allowed to spoil their perfection. So her free hand moved down between her own legs to find her swollen flesh and stroke her moisture until it was a pool of honeyed fire.

Her clit pulsed beneath her fingertips. His cock pulsed in her mouth. His fists held her hair so tightly it tugged her scalp, the tiny pain adding to her arousal, as did his obvious stranglehold on his iron control.

His ball sac tightened to his body and Yancy opened her throat to swallow his thick cream—only to be denied.

Before she could blink he had her on her back, her legs over his shoulders and his mouth on the lips of her cunt. He sipped her flesh into his mouth, his tongue bathing her left labia, then her right before he settled on lapping apart the seam of her sex with his tongue flattened and firm.

Dizzying sparkles fired behind her eyelids and Yancy bucked up higher into his mouth. His hands grabbed the flesh of her ass and squeezed almost to the point of pain. He loved her so deeply, he buried his face in her wetness. His nose nudged her clit and he clearly enjoying breathing in her scent as much as she had his. Then his teeth whispered over her clit and she throbbed into a wet, quivering climax that stole away what was left of her sanity.

He pulled her to him, hard. Her butt rested on top of his thighs until he angled himself and used one hand to expertly place his cock at her entrance. Their eyes met—his blue and silver and flickering back again, hers wide and brown and full of her need.

“Now. Please, Con,” she panted.

He gently lowered her backward. “I can’t hold back, lass. It’s been too long.” He shook with his restraint.

“Don’t. Give it to me any way you want—I’ll love it.”

“Ah, sweet Yancy.” He charged forward, shoving his hips into hers.

He was big as a fist stretching her. She cried out, more in surprise than in pain, and then cried out in despair when he pulled back.

But he was only testing her readiness. When he thrust again he fit more of himself inside her. She felt the pulse of his blood and the silky flood of her own juices dance together. He thrust again, and again filled her with more of his length.

“Be strong, love,” he breathed against her temple.

And then he shoved into her. Hard.

Had she thought him big? He was enormous.

And he was hers.

Every inch of him was buried to the hilt inside her. Every delicious bit of his sweat-dampened skin was pressed to hers as they both panted and waited for her to fit more easily around him. He levered himself up above her, both of his forearms braced on either side of her head.

The kiss was scorching, the taste of his tongue in her mouth spicy and sweet. His breath became hers. Her breasts, pressed beneath his weight, felt heavy and tender. She hooked her ankles at the small of his back and the new angle gave them the delicious depth they’d been lacking, and eased some of the tightness of her vagina.

As one being they began to move together. No hesitation, no shyness or inhibition. Pure ecstasy.

The sounds of their wordless murmurs, sighs and moans undulated in the air. Her arms and legs were wrapped around him, her head tucked beneath his chin. His weight was balanced on his forearms and knees. With every withdrawal he found her mouth or her temple or her nose and pressed a quick kiss there before shoving himself back into her. The wet, sucking sounds her body made around his cock did not embarrass her, but enflamed them both further.

“Yancy,” he panted, picking up the pace.

She was so wet, swollen and ripe. The rough brush of his pubic hair scraped her clit until it felt like a bright star of fire.

Their climaxes bloomed. His cock shivered. Her pussy gave a wet throb that drenched them both in sleek syrup. The hot splash of his cum filled her deep. Her sex became a fist to hold him fast inside her. Their bodies trembled and quaked. Her tightness milked him, her tremors squeezing at his base and moving to drink in the cream of his release at the crown of his cock. His thickness, leaving her no room for want, fitting so tight, made her insides weep with their mutual release.

They panted. They pressed lingering kisses wherever they found each other’s bare skin. His cream and her honey made the floor slippery beneath her bottom. A delicious languor stole over their quaking muscles.

It was a perfect moment.

Then the doorbell rang.

Chapter Four

The bar was lively and still decorated with the garish oranges, purples and black of the Halloween holiday. Yancy, Con, Robin and Angel sat at a table on the edge of the din.

Con, now dressed in jeans and a pullover that not only fit him but looked damn sexy, hugging his every curve, looked ill at ease. Yancy took his hand in hers and their eyes met. He grinned, displaying a dimple in his left cheek that made her heart beat a triple threat.

Yancy scribbled a note in Tofu to mark the moment.

Tender. Sexy. Con.

My lover, forgotten, found.

No turning back now.

They hadn’t had much time alone during the long, eventful day. Not after Robin had shown up on her front porch and laid eyes on a disheveled—and hastily dressed—Yancy. When Con had appeared behind her with nothing but his damp bath towel—retrieved from the bathroom in a flurry of motion that left them both panting from exertion—Yancy had known there would be no keeping the truth from her best friend.

Robin was notorious for uncovering secrets anyway. And they’d been as close as some sisters ever since childhood. Yancy and Con had shared a glance that needed no words, and out had come the unbelievable tale.

“So Conrad has been waiting for you to come back all this time and now you’re together?” Robin assessed the situation with surprising aplomb.

Con had possessively put his arm around Yancy’s waist and pulled her tight to him.

“Cool.” And that was that. Angel was called to the scene—despite Yancy’s emphatic insistence that she and Con needed some more time alone.

“Honey, from what I can see, you’ve had enough for at least another half hour. I mean, Con may be supernatural but he’s not proven to be superhuman yet.”

Yancy had blushed. Adorably, so had Conrad. He didn’t need to be one hundred percent in on their twenty-first-century dialect to catch Robin’s drift.

And so Yancy, her two friends and her new lover had set off to find out how to bring a formerly dead man back to life in the modern-day world. The clothes had been easy, though his feet had been large enough that they’d had to hit three stores before finding him a pair of tan cowboy boots that looked as if they’d always belonged to him.

The proper documentation that would allow him to lead a normal life…not so easy a thing to come by.

Of course Robin knew a guy who knew a guy…

So here they were in the only bar in their small town that was seedy enough to ensure their privacy when they met their contact.

“This all feels so cloak and dagger.” Angel grinned. “I love it!”

“You look like jailbait in here, hon,” Robin warned. “Tone down the wattage.”

Angel tried and failed to contain her beaming smile. She sipped at her Southern Comfort and ginger ale instead.

In fact, they all looked just fine. It wasn’t as if Fell Falls was a big enough place to have too diverse a population, let alone one big enough that would warrant an underground culture of criminals.

“Are you sure this is all it takes to get Con an identity?”

Robin snorted. “Ten grand is more than enough if you ask me.” They had all pooled their money to get the funds they’d needed, and Yancy knew she owed her friends big for their unquestioning generosity.

“That’s not what I meant.” Yancy rolled her aching shoulders and Conrad—without needing to be asked—reached out and massaged them for her. When he touched her, no matter how innocent the contact, she immediately became aroused. “I mean, after we get this stuff he’ll be able to drive and work and whatnot?”

“Yeah. But I’d advise against voting.” Robin shrugged. “And maybe the census too. I dunno. Ask Otto when he gets here.”

“Otto.” Angel giggled. “What an appropriate name for—”

“For a fifth-generation resident from a Germanic family?” The voice of the newcomer held traces of amusement.

He picked an empty chair from a nearby table, turned it and sat at their table. Con stiffened and moved his chair even closer to Yancy’s in an unapologetic display of masculine possessiveness.

Otto merely smiled at them all in turn and signaled a waitress to bring them another round. When they were once more alone in their dark (well, darkish) corner, Otto pulled out a large manila envelope from a pocket inside his butter-suede coat.

He handed it casually to Con—but it was Yancy who opened and inspected its contents. She had her own driver’s license out to compare the two and she couldn’t tell the difference between the real and the fake. The same with their passports—identical in all ways but for their photos and personal information. To her untrained eye—and to Robin’s and Angel’s, for they inspected them after Yancy—everything looked one hundred percent legal.

The birth certificate, social security card, library card and—oh dear—voter’s registration card all looked very real too.

“Are you happy with them?” Otto’s question was for the group but his gaze kept resting on Angel, who blushed prettily under the attention.

“They look okay, I guess,” Robin said, peering intently at the birth certificate of one Conrad Eliza Walsh.

Otto’s good-natured face never changed, but his tone grew a tad more serious. “It wasn’t easy to get those together on such short notice, but your friend caught me on a good day. If you ever have any problems, I’ll make sure those problems go away. If you ever need anything else you let me know right away—you know how to reach me directly now. I can tell you I’ve done this for nearly eleven years and I haven’t had a single complaint. I can also tell you that whatever reason it is that has you needing this stuff is none of my business, and if you do something stupid you’ve never met me. Is that acceptable?”

“Oh yes,” Angel rushed to assure him.

But Otto’s gaze was now locked with Con’s. Con nodded wordlessly and Yancy gathered the documents back into their envelope and slipped them into her shoulder bag.

“Well, then.” Otto gulped down the last of his beer. “How about a dance?”

He stood and held his hand out to Angel. “I won’t bite.” He chuckled when she blushed a lovely rose and took his hand. He glanced back at the group and winked. “Wrong phase of the moon for that.”

And then he whisked Angel away to the gap in tables that served as the bar’s dance floor. The loud guitar and vocals of “Dark Night” by the Blasters roared out of the neon-flashing jukebox. Otto’s sleek, dark head bent to Angel’s bright halo and they danced as if they’d known each other for ages.

Con looked at Yancy and she grinned. They rose and joined the couple. Con was a natural dancer, taking to the rock beat with enviable ease until Yancy laughed and twirled and had to work to keep up with her boogie-woogie man.

And then the dance floor was crowded. Robin had found her own partner, and several others now bobbed and dipped with the jamming groove. The song changed to “Miles Away” by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. And the bar throbbed with motion, jukebox bass and the smell of strong spirits flowing freely.

Yancy hadn’t had so much fun. Ever.

Unfortunately some boozer got too close and groped her drunkenly, nearly knocking her to the floor.

Con’s fist flew out of the din and flattened the man’s face. The man went flying—literally flying backward—but Con was on him before he even hit the floor.

And just like every damn bar movie Yancy had ever seen, the clichéd fight scene exploded around her.

A chair flew over her head and she just barely ducked in time to avoid getting brained by it. The jukebox switched to “Kiss with a Fist” by Florence and the Machine and Yancy heard Robin’s wild laughter before the music hit its crescendo once more.

Yancy followed the sound and found Robin and Angel on the edge of the din watching raptly, shouting encouragement, groaning at appropriate times when Otto or Robin’s dance partner took a particularly painful-looking hit, and laughing their butts off.

Feeling a swell of mirth, Yancy shrugged mentally. When in Rome and all that. She laughed and joined her friends.

She couldn’t immediately see Con, but the man who’d touched her was a motionless heap on the floor beneath a wealth of broken glass. Then she caught a glimpse of him and Otto, both smiling broadly as they threw punches at adversaries Yancy couldn’t identify and danced around the room from opponent to opponent.

But when a burly guy with an old, faded Metallica shirt approached her beloved from behind, Yancy saw magenta and grabbed the nearest weapon she could find.

She was across the room like a shot, dodging blows and flailing limbs with the ease of a linebacker. With a wild yell, she brought the basket of fries she’d blindly grabbed down on the man’s head.

“Aw, shit.” She stomped her foot. But she’d grabbed the thug’s attention. Not the wisest move she’d ever made.

“C’mon big girl,” he leered.

Oh hell no. For the first time in her life, Yancy pulled back her fist and let it fly right smack into the asshole’s nose.

Her hand felt as if all the bones had broken in it.

But the pain meant nothing as the man screamed like a horror-movie queen and grabbed his bleeding nose like a child with a boo-boo.

Con was at her side. His eyes wide.

“What?” She tried to toss it off nonchalantly but he wasn’t fooled. He grinned at her. She grinned back and then they were both running for the door. Angel and Otto, hands fastened, followed with Robin and soon they were outside in the chill wind catching their breath.

A very faint wail of one of the town’s few police cars cried out distantly.

“That’s my cue,” Otto said.

He stunned them all—not least of all Angel—when he picked up Angel and gave her a full-on deep-tongued kiss that lasted way longer than was decent but all the sexier for it.

He set her down, waved jauntily and disappeared into the shadows of the unlit, gravel-covered parking lot.

“Whoa.” Robin, never at a loss for words, gathered a dazed Angel to her side. “Honey, you scored big time with that stud. Thank gawd we have his number.”

Angel nodded weakly, still breathless and stupefied by Otto’s unexpected forwardness.

They had only driven a quarter mile down the road before the police arrived—all five of them in their three cars—and Yancy breathed a sigh of relief, loosening her death grip on the wheel, making certain they weren’t speeding before fully relaxing.

Robin grinned at her from the backseat, teeth gleaming in the rearview mirror. “That went well.”

* * * * *

Her friends went their separate ways, leaving Con and her alone at last, waving their goodbyes from her front deck.

“Your friends care for you very much.”

“Yeah. They didn’t seem to have any trouble with the whole…well, you and our past and all.”

He pulled her to him and rested his chin on her head. “How about you?”

She smiled and buried her face in his throat. “It should be strange, but it’s not. I’ve always known you and I have no trouble accepting that.”

“You’ve always been accepting. Every time we’ve met, you’ve amazed me.”

Yancy thought to their last moments together, over a hundred years ago. “Con?”

“Yes, lass?”

“I’m not afraid.”

He held her tighter.

“And what my father and my tribe did to you…”

“There’s no need to speak of it.”

“How would you feel about starting a family? Right here? Right now?”

He shuddered against her.

She rose on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “I’m ready.” She took his hand and placed it low on her tummy, against her womb. “I can feel it.” Somehow, she could. She was ripe. Their future child only needed a welcome—Con’s seed—and all would play out as fate intended.

This time, Yancy knew, their family would bloom, safe and healthy and vibrant. All it needed—

Con turned her and pressed her against the railing of her porch, pressing a passionate kiss to the nape of her neck. He pressed her forward gently but firmly, until her bottom was caught in the cradle of his loins.

“I want you heavy with my babe.”

Yancy melted like caramel in the summer sun.

Chapter Five

All she needed was a push and Yancy would be complete—just one little buck of his hips. Con’s fingers were in her mouth—she had to have some part of him in her and she sucked them hungrily. But he held his cock away, even when she wriggled her ass with eager invitation.

The tease.

He pressed the great round crest of his dick against her slit, rubbed it up and down in her wetness, but refrained from giving her the pressure she craved. She cried and begged and threatened, but he merely chuckled and took both her bared breasts in his hands to gently roll her nipples.

The wetness of her saliva on some of his fingers made her nipples ache, cold and needy in the night breeze. She panted, mouth swollen from his kisses, body hot and moist with perspiration despite the autumn weather. Con was an open flame at her back and she wanted him to burn her, consume her.

“Please,” she tossed over her shoulder, her hair fanning out as she bounced and presented, chasing his cock with unabashed impatience.

“Yer so beautiful, Yancy.” He ran his fingers up her spine then down again. He palmed her buttocks, kneading and squeezing the supple flesh. “The moon adores you.” The moon, still waxing and not yet full, bathed them both in its cold light. “You’re my heart, lass. My life.”

“Yes, yes,” she panted. “Do it, please. I need you.”

But he still held back, fingers roaming, finding her slippery and wet, delving but not plunging. Yancy groaned.

“Say what yer feelin’ in your heart. I need the words.”

Oh god. How could he not know the depths of her heart, as she knew his, without words? She’d never been in love, never told anyone she loved them so—not in this life. And the words, no matter how true, were still new on her tongue—but she had to give him what he wanted. She had to tell him. Everything.

“I love you, Con. More than anything. I’ll always love you.”

He turned her around to face him and lifted her. Whatever magic still worked on him had not faded, and his strength was preternatural. He held her as easily as if she were a flightless bird, raising her so she could wrap her legs around his waist.

And then…

So hot…

So big and thick and hard, he filled her. Every juicy, meaty inch stretched her until she cried out, wriggling down onto him, nearly weeping.

He anchored his arms around her waist and began pumping his hips. She bounced on him, her tits in his face, each nipple finding its way into his waiting mouth to be suckled and bitten and licked.

Yancy’s head fell back, and with it some of her weight, so that she was even more deeply impaled. They both yelled out their pleasure, Con’s hands biting into flesh, her fingers like claws in his strong shoulders.

“You’ve always been mine, Yancy,” he growled, bucking hard.

“Yes.”

“You’ll never want or need so long as I live and breathe, and even after,” he swore.

Her body quaked.

His strength was amazing, his stamina more so, and he was a wild stallion between her legs, giving her a long, hard, tireless ride. Yancy groaned her pleasure, a low sound from deep inside her center. And in her delirium she hardly noticed as, without breaking rhythm, Con carried her off the porch and gently pressed her into the cool grass of the Earth.

“Look at me, love.”

Her eyes flew open and their gazes locked. He was magnificent in the moonlight, rising above her like a sex god of endless appetite, his eyes flickering in their strange way between silver and blue.

She felt his cream flood her. Her vision grayed out, but the vibrant hues of his gaze followed her into her own oblivion as her sex clamped down upon his, drinking him greedily.

They continued to rock and buck against each other and the climax grew and exploded once again. She was full to overflowing with his cum, the both of them slippery with their commingled juices.

Con held her breasts, worshipped them with his eyes. He kept rocking into her, touching her womb. Yancy placed her hands on top of his and tightened her legs around his waist.

“Love you,” she panted. “So much.”

“My miracle,” he rasped. “My life.”

* * * * *

He carried her into the shower and they bathed together, playing like children, then loving again. Con was tireless but Yancy began to ache deliciously, her muscles quivering from exertion, and Con insisted she rest. Damp but clean, they lay down upon her soft bed and Yancy fell into a deep, dreaming sleep in which she relived every life she’d ever known, with Con always at her side.

* * * * *

With the morning sun warming her flesh pleasantly, Yancy felt a stirring at her side and awoke with a languid stretch that reminded her just how well loved she was.

Con was at the window, staring out, a hard look on his face that had her immediately rising to join him.

“Are you all right?” she asked, unable to keep the worry out of her voice. He looked haunted, almost as startling as he’d been the first time she’d seen him.

He looked at her and growled, eyes glowing.

“I’m hungry…”

Yancy started. He was eyeing her with a deadly severity that made her heart stop.

“I’m so hungry.” He grabbed her and tossed her into the air.

Yancy screamed bloody murder.

And landed with a soft thud back on her bed, Con’s body coming down on hers.

“Hungry for you.” He gently bit her nose and spread her legs, hooking them over his hips.

He entered her with one fierce plunge that had her screaming again, only this time in absolute rapture.

He thrust there for a few minutes, until she was wet and panting and clinging. When he pulled free, his cock bounced heavily between them and she roared with rage.

Chuckling, he flipped her over with such ease it stole her breath. He positioned her on her hands and knees and she cooperated fully, shuddering with excitement.

His fingers slipped into her, thrusting. His calluses, from a life of labor and horses and hunting, were rough but gentle inside her. He explored every nuance of her pussy, getting her more and more excited, wetter and hotter with each flex of his knuckles.

His mouth was fire on her spine. His tongue a bath of lava on the flesh of her buttocks. The sharp sting of his teeth on her ass made her cry out and arch back into his thrusting fingers.

Three fingers stretched her, calling forth her honeyed juices. Her clit was swollen, demanding, and his expertise at petting her there was enough to make her bones liquefy.

He entered her, thrusting hard, all gentleness gone. Yancy buried her face in her pillow and she let out a scream that would no doubt have shattered the windows. His powerful hips lifted her with each pounding, their skin slapping audibly.

Then he pulled free again and Yancy turned with a snarl.

The dark smile on Con’s face promised retribution. He held her down on her side, lifted one of her legs forward and shoved his cock into her once more.

Yancy moaned and held onto the bedclothes for dear life.

But Con wasn’t content with that position either. He flipped them, jarring her pleasantly when he brought her weight down on top of him, his cock entering more deeply than ever as he lay on his back and let her ride him.

She was crying and moaning and bouncing on him, her breasts held in his hands. Her clit scraped over his pubic hair. Her cunt was tight as a fist around the superheated thickness of his dick. He was so heavy in her, so hard and so perfect.

He sat up, holding her fast and tight, fucking her with a savagery that would leave bruises. Bruises she would carry with pride, for each one represented such amazing, exquisite, joyous pleasure that she had no words, only vowels—noises in the back of her throat that told Con all he needed to know about how much she was enjoying herself.

Con came first, the wet splash of his release sending her over so that they both clung desperately, trembling and sweating and aching in the storm of their climax.

But Con wasn’t finished. He kept thrusting inside her. He grew to full hardness and before Yancy had recovered from her dance in starlight, she was on her way to heaven again.

Each touch was a rediscovery. Each kiss a renewed vow. And from now until the end of time they would love anew each day. Each life. Together forever.

Not even death could keep them apart.

Fate had made certain of that.

About the Author

Sherri L. King lives in the American Deep South with her husband, artist and illustrator Darrell King. Critically acclaimed author of The Horde Wars and Moon Lust series, her primary interests lie in the world of action-packed paranormals, though she’s been known to dabble in several other genres as time permits.

The author welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

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Horde Wars: Lord of the Deep

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Moon Lust

Moon Lust: Bitten

Moon Lust: Feral Heat

Moon Lust: Mating Season

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Shikar: Ride the Lightning

Sin and Salvation

Sterling Files 1: Steele

Sterling Files 2: Vicious

Sterling Files 3: Fyre

Sterling Files 4: Hyde

Sterling Files: Selfless

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