London Mates: Paranormal Romance Collection Page 2

  4

  Jane

  “What’s happening?” Jane asked as she was shoved into the showers. The guard just shrugged, throwing soap in her direction. None of the other prisoners had been in their usual cells on their walk through the main, dark, dank, mildew-smelling wing of the jail. It was all underground, of course, a pocket beneath the earth with a skin of silver around its edge to dull all magical powers. At first, the silver had felt palpable to Jane. It had been like an itch, but an itch she could never quite touch. A subcutaneous itch. But she had gotten used to it, she supposed. Over the years, it had become just how she always felt. Just like how her eyes had gotten used to the dimmer light, and she had gotten used to the loneliness. She had stopped missing the people she knew and loved. She had made a couple of card-playing friends, and had started living in her daydreams—the strange world she had built in her head of angry bright machines, screaming-tall buildings, and now these moving frames of color.

  Jane soaped up. She couldn’t remember the last time she had washed. No washing in solitary. Whatever the occasion, she’d take it. Maybe, she thought vaguely, there had been an outbreak of something. Fleas. Lice. Ringworm. Jane sniffed the soap. It didn’t smell medicated. It was flower scented, she thought. Strong, sickly, a little like death. Or maybe that was just what flowers smelled like? She couldn’t really remember anymore. When Jane was younger, she had helped her mother to garden. But that had been more vegetables than—

  “It’s not a spa!” the guard hollered, hammering what sounded like a hammy fist on the steel wall of the shower. “Get a move on!”

  Jane sucked in her breath. She would be jumpy for days after so long alone. If it had even been long. “I don’t have a towel,” she said. But she said it way too quietly. So she tried again. This time, she was shouting. Unintentional, but it got the job done.

  “Okay, inmate, I get the bloody idea,” came the guard’s answer, and then the flimsy plastic curtain of the shower was slid slightly open and the guard’s hand came in, fist tight around a ratty orange towel.

  “Thanks,” Jane muttered. The guard made a noise like a tired dog. A harrumph, sort of. “Clothes are out here,” she added.

  Jane tried her best to dry herself, but it was a losing battle with the old towel. Even when it was new, it would have been a task. As she dried herself, Jane realized she hadn’t seen her own body properly in a long time. Group showers were the only reason to undress, usually, and they were something to get over as soon as remotely possible. She had been living in her dreams so much, she had almost forgotten she had such a thing as a body… but here it still was. Brown hair, longer than she had ever willingly kept it, curls pulled straight by the weight of the water, still twisting slightly, though, as it cascaded down her front and over her breasts. Five-foot-six, and green eyes. Jane knew these things about herself, though she hadn’t observed them in a very long time. Pointy elbows. This, she could see. She flexed her arms and ran her fingers over the joints. It kind of tickled. She had just begun to smile when the guard’s voice came from outside again. “Inmate, your clothes are waiting. I don’t have all day.”

  Jane wrapped herself in the towel as best she could. She was still damp. The towel could not compete with her thick, tangled hair. The shower had been a distraction, at least. Maybe they were allowed one every hundred years? Again, Jane nearly laughed. Clearly she had been locked away long enough to start finding herself amusing. She stepped out of the shower, her footsteps a little precious on the dirty tile floor, as if she was trying to keep her feet clean for something. As if she had somewhere to be later, or might ruin her cleanliness and need to step into the shower again.

  “Okay,” she said, “ready for my look. What size will the sack be today?” She locked eyes with the guard, who had a stony face on her. Even stonier than usual. Yet, there was some color in her cheeks.

  Jane’s eyes drifted to the pile of clothes beside the guard.

  “What the hell?”

  5

  Boden

  “This is an abomination!” Talia was leaning on the wall of the office, as if she needed it for support. “On your watch, Boden.”

  Boden’s eyebrows knitted over his sea-blue eyes. “Everything’s on my watch. And it’s your watch too, isn’t it?”

  Talia sucked in a breath, turned her dark gaze on him, “I am simply privy council, you are in charge of everything that happens in this damn castle. And in this land.”

  Shit. She’d gone all archaic on him. That meant she really was angry.

  “We’ll just explain, won’t we? How annoyed can Alisdair be?”

  Aaron, still perched on the chair, looking like he may have wet his pants, raised a hand.

  “What, Aaron?” Boden snapped.

  “The enchantments. Are they as strong as I’ve read they are? Is this…”

  At that moment, there was a deep rumbling. The walls seemed to shake. Books tumbled from a shelf behind Boden.

  “Shit!” he leaped forwards.

  “I’m calling the council of witches,” Talia said. “Just sit tight, Boden, and don’t do anything stupid. I’ll clean up your mess, just like I always have. And you can pretend it was all you when the ceremony goes off without a hitch tomorrow. Sound good?”

  The questions were obviously rhetorical. Boden hated it when she trotted out all that old terminology. And when she bossed him around. He was alpha. He should be taking charge. This was the kind of disaster that could really make a man. Well, if it was handled correctly. If the whole “losing the important ancient scroll” part was left out of the immortal press.

  “Was that the curse?” Aaron asked, snapping Boden out of his reverie.

  “What?” Boden asked, his eyes flitting to the books that had fallen to the ground and now lay open on the rug beneath his desk.

  “Well, the reconciliation scroll, and its enchantments are important, right? If it’s not given from the Alpha of the North to the Alpha of the South on the correct day, or vice versa, or if it ever leaves the vicinity of its resting place, then chaos will occur, right? Like, everyone will fight and stuff? Maybe there are earthquakes too? Or…sorry. I’m sure you know all of this. I just love history. I’m a keen reader.”

  Boden nodded. “Mhmmm. Well. I don’t think earthquakes. But the rest of what you said sounds…” he trailed off, unable at this point in his hangover and this absolute shitshow of a day to muster the charisma needed to lie to this sad, pale boy.

  “Aaron,” he tried instead, “I’m going to be real with you. I need to contain this situation, and I don’t know what to do. There’ll be a title in it for you, just tell me what to do.”

  Aaron looked at Boden, clearly aghast. His mouth was open and his eyes glassy. He looked a little sweaty. It was about thirty seconds before he said anything, but when he finally did, it was, “Well, I suppose first we’ll need a witch. Isn’t Talia—”

  “WE CAN DO IT!” Boden yelled, his temper surprising him once again. “I am perfectly capable of clearing my own messes up. Not that this is my mess, exactly. I mean, it happened to me, but who knows who took the scroll? I don’t know how I was supposed to do anything about it. I just hand it over every couple of centuries, for goodness’ sake. It’s only my second of these—” Finally, he remembered what he’d just asked Aaron. Something clicked into place in his spinning head. “A witch?” he asked, and he fished his phone out of his pocket, blew a long sigh past his lips, and dialed Drucilla’s number.

  The first thing she said when she picked up was, “What’s happening to the magic-field today? It’s making me dizzy.” Then, after a short silence from him, “Boden, did you do something dumb?”

  Drucilla got herself to Boden’s office in an extremely short time, appearing in the fireplace barely more together than Boden had left her earlier. He had to admit, she was a good friend. Just, normally she was the “getting in trouble” kind rather than the “getting out of trouble” kind, but she was also the only witch Boden really knew
. Or, the only one who was talking to him, anyway.

  “You still smell,” Boden said when she stepped into the room. Her hair was pulled back, roughly, in a ponytail. She was wearing sweatpants and a tank top. The tattoo of a snake on her arm was visible.

  “You want my help, oh great leader?” she asked, shooting him a look. He was cowed by this. Shrugged.

  “Come on,” she said, “like you have anyone else to count on.” She had noticed Aaron. “Who’s this? Have you taken him hostage?” She addressed the kid, “Blink twice if you need me to help you escape—”

  Boden punched his friend in the arm. “He’s my intern,” he said, then, turning to Aaron, “Don’t listen to her. She’s…she’s freelance.”

  Dru rubbed her hands together performatively. “Yeah, yeah. And how can I help you? Lost something, I hear?”

  Boden rolled his slightly bloodshot eyes, rubbed at his jaw. He’d showered, but he hadn’t shaved. He was stubbly. Was that bad? Would that give Talia more ammo to tattle on him to the council?

  “We need protection,” he said, dropping his hand. “Can you do your witch stuff?”

  “Already have,” Dru said, a little coldly, holding out her hand for goodness knew what. Boden stared at her. “Already have,” she said again, “a little at least. It should keep you safe for a few hours. I can’t feel anything new yet. Just that the scroll isn’t in its correct place. There’ll be more disturbances I’m sure. Give me whatever was there instead, then!”

  This was Aaron’s cue. He leaped up and made to run around the desk to her, but he bumped his hip. For just a second, the intern looked as though he might cry, then he made it to the witch and handed over the bag of dust. Drucilla looked at Boden.

  “His mum has a chihuahua,” Boden said.

  “A mix…” Aaron trailed off. Dru had dipped a finger in the dust and was licking it. She screwed up her face.

  “Yeah,” she said. “This wasn’t a witch. It was someone else, another immortal learned a basic replication spell. If they’d really wanted to fool you, a witch or a warlock really could have made this challenging. This was meant to be discovered. Have you spoken to Jane?”

  There was silence.

  “That’s a no?” Dru asked, chucking the baggy onto the oak desk.

  Boden was desperately trying to remember a Jane, a Jane he should know… Jane… Jane… when Aaron piped up.

  “Jane Axion?” he sounded reverential, and even more timid than usual.

  “Hey!” Dru grinned. “He’s no fool after all! Yeah, the Axion girl. She always said there was a plot, right? The rest of that crew are dead and gone. She’s the only one who knows the old enemies. Or claims to, at least. You know your history, kid!”

  Was Aaron blushing? Boden felt like kicking something. Maybe he shouldn’t have skipped out on his tutor so much, all those years ago.

  “Do you know her?” Aaron asked, worshipful.

  Dru shrugged. “Sort of,” she said, “we ran in similar circles, back when this one was probably learning to walk. And you,” she narrowed her eyes at the intern, “you were probably a glint in someone’s eye.” Aaron blushed again. Dru turned to Boden. “Come on, then,” she said, “surely you can put a call in? Let’s go and talk to her.”

  Boden walked over to the phone on his desk. Then he turned to Dru. Where was he even calling?

  6

  Jane

  The trousers were incredibly tight. She’d worn trousers before, of course, when she hadn’t had to blend in, but what were these made of? Sure, she had basically been wearing sacking for however long she had been down here (she’d stopped counting decades some time ago), but these were ridiculous.

  All the same, she followed the guard up one flight of stairs after another. And then another flight of stairs, and on and on, until she thought her legs might bust right out of whatever thick but oddly stretchy hell was encircling them. Also, the shoes were like nothing she’d ever worn. Puffy at the bottom. Comfortable underfoot, but what was it? She kept looking at them as she followed the wavering behind of the guard. She was happy to note that her guard was puffed out, and she was not. She, who had been underground for many, many years, was more in shape than this uniformed woman who had been keeping her there. Well, the silver and the shackles had been keeping her there. But the guard had been keeping her in line. Usually.

  Eventually, there was a brightness ahead of them. A door. And then, at the end of one more long flight, they were on a landing. The guard nodded to her, gestured, her face pink, sweat beading on her forehead. Jane tried her best to look totally together, though her legs were definitely burning and she wanted badly to take a gasp of air.

  She walked through a vaulted doorway and…sunlight!

  Jane doubled over, held a hand to her eyes. She certainly couldn’t catch her breath now. It was hot on her skin.

  And then, a hand on her. On her back. A rougher hand on her upper arm.

  “Who…” she managed. The hands led her to a corner, somewhat darker, and after a moment, she could squint at them.

  “What is going on?” she asked as her eyes adjusted.

  “Hi,” came a voice a little away in the bright light. She could make out a skinny figure. A lifted hand? “Big fan.”

  Jane crumpled again and then took a deep, deep breath. “Right!” she said, standing tall and trying to open her eyes. “Am I getting out?”

  The hands on her were attached to two people. One, a tall, dark-haired woman with tattoos like a sailor. The woman looked familiar. She seemed a little worse for wear. But then, who was Jane to judge right now? The woman had a soft hand on Jane’s back and smiled at her. Her eyes were brown, big, warm, over the bags that didn’t age her so much as roughen her.

  Who was the owner of the other hand? He was over six feet, broad, oddly browned. She had only seen underground living and/or working people for a long, long time, she supposed. His hair flicked in every which direction. Surfer chic, she thought. But that was nonsense from one of her daydreams. A picture from one of her daydreams. Not even a moving one. He had his hand on her arm, on her skin, and it was warm and just a little rough. Like he went outside, but didn’t really work. His body, though, that looked like he chopped trees or built houses or some other sort of manual labor that carved out his god-like physique.

  She blinked again, cleared her throat, and shifted away from him just the slightest amount. He came close again with his hand.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. His voice was deep, worried. His eyes were soft on her, blue, they looked stormy. Like if he wanted, they could get dark, but like he rarely really wanted that. She was overthinking this. Massively.

  She nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine. Can I sit down?” His eyes were full of concern as the skinny figure, who had apparently been prepared, shoved a chair beneath her.

  “My twin sister,” the skinny guy said, “she has fainting spells. I just thought it would be a big shock and…”

  Jane fell back onto the chair. All hands left her. She hung her head for a moment and steadied herself. Then, “Okay, what can I do for you?”

  She said this with what she hoped was a smile on her face. Really, she had no idea at this point. “And what are you a fan of?”

  “Well, you know, your… I mean… if you really were framed, I...”

  The witch with the tattoos held a hand up, and the pale boy seemed relieved he was able to stop talking. “You’ve become something of a cult figure, Jane,” she said. “I’m Drucilla, by the way.” The witch held out a hand, and Jane took it. Squeezed it maybe too hard.

  “I was part of the Wessex Coven. We knew each other a long time ago.”

  Jane let her hand rest in Drucilla’s a moment longer. “I remember now,” she said, “when they dragged me away, you were there. Did you ever find out who gave me away?”

  Drucilla shrugged, pulled her hand from Jane’s. “I’m not part of any coven now. I choose who to trust.”

  This, under the circumstances, seemed
very sensible to Jane. Her eyes drifted once again to the larger man. He had a couple of days’ stubble across his chin, and he looked worried. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot. She could see the muscles in one thigh and then the other supporting him.

  Jane cleared her throat. “What are these made of?” she pointed at her trousers. “They cling in such a strange way.”

  The man furrowed his brow. “Your jeans? They’re just jeans. Cotton I suppose?”

  Drucilla punched him in the arm. They didn’t look like a couple to Jane. Friends? Close enough to hit one another. Weird colleagues. “She’s been in prison for three hundred years, bozo. There’ll be a few surprises coming up.”

  “Right! For a moment there I thought you definitely weren’t going to be able to help us.”

  Jane smiled at him from her lower position. Could she remember how to flirt? Not that she had been totally celibate in prison. No one could be for that long. No men, though. And no one good or kind. He seemed like he could be those things. Maybe not smart, though.

  “Are you going to ask about everything? Because we do need to get this done today.”

  Jane held up her hands. “I promise I’ll only ask important questions. Can’t promise to control the surprise on my face, though.”

  “Deal,” the man grinned, and now he held out his hand to be shaken. She took it. “I’m Boden,” he said, and just as she heard this name, the skin of their palms met and a warmth flooded through her, a tingling took her edges. After half a moment, she realized what he had said. She shook her hand from his. “Carvon’s son? Is that why I know your face? But you weren’t even full grown when—”

  Boden nodded. Was he blushing, or angry? He sounded at least terse when he said, “Right. Well, my father was killed soon after you were put in here. And…lucky me, right? Dream job.”