Copyright © 2006 Elisabeth Drake
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
By reading this excerpt, you are stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are younger than 18 years old, you must exit this site at once.
There are some things you expect when you sign on with the FBI as resident preternatural specialist and paranormal investigator. Tracking down "odd" crimes, taking out master vampires, trolls of the non-Internet variety, hell, even your over-nosy hearthwitch here and there.
Stomping through a smelly Louisiana peat bog? Wasn't on the list.
"What kind of demon sets up shop in a swamp?" I grumbled as I waded through thick marsh, wrinkling my nose and wishing I'd held out for a wetsuit. Thigh-high rubber boots don't cut it. Not by a long shot.
Jackson, my partner, shrugged. You'd think being a vampire, with the whole heightened senses deal, he'd be more sensitive to the pungent smell, but apparently not. "It's certainly an out-of-the-way locale."
"Yeah, well, if they wanted out-of-the-way, why couldn't they go to fucking Bermuda? Someplace where they wouldn't be my problem?"
He didn't bother answering. As usual. But that's Jackson for you. Logical and practical to the point of infuriation. At least he's got a cute ass. I don't know if I'd put up with him otherwise.
Sludge. Sludge. Sludge.
And for a change of pace, even more sludge.
God. As soon as we clear up this whole demon problem and get back home, I'm taking a bath. With scented oils. And candles. And a book. And I'm not coming out till I've scrubbed every last bit of swamp out of my skin. Period.
"Look." Jackson pointed, interrupting my fantasies of hot water and rose petals. Light glowed in the distance. I narrowed my eyes. It was coming from a run-down shack.
"Yeah, so?"
He let out a sigh. "Look."
* * *
Copyright © 2006 Elisabeth Drake
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
"Better get up soon, or there won't be any left," I called as I walked into the kitchen. I poured myself a cup, added a liberal dose of sugar and cream, and sat at my computer to check my e-mail and read the morning news.
Twenty minutes and two cups of coffee later, Jackson still wasn't up. I frowned and stood, pushing my chair back. This isn't like him. He's bad about getting up in the mornings, but not this bad. Worry clenched in my gut. I went back into the bedroom and sat on the bed, putting my hand on his shoulder.
"J?" I shook him lightly. "Hey, J. You ok?"
He didn't give any indication that he'd heard me at all. I raised my voice, to the point I was near yelling. Still nothing.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Frantic thoughts assaulted my mind. What if he was - dead? For real? The thought sent my emotions spiraling downward in a maelstrom of despair.
Get a grip. This isn't going to help J. I tried not to cry. Don't go mourning him before he's already dead.
Pain flashed in my thigh. I looked down and realized that I'd been digging my fingernails into my skin. Lovely. I let go, hissing at the sting, and looked back to Jackson. Long hair dark and shiny as a raven's ring fell partly over his face. I moved the strands out of the way, his relaxed eyes and lips so beautiful in the sunlight...
Yeah. I know. You're not supposed to call a guy beautiful. Screw that. He is.
What would I do if I lost him? Stop thinking that. He's just asleep.
No. This kind of deep sleep wasn't normal. Jackson always slept fitfully, tossing and turning, like wrestling with horrors from the past. Sometimes it annoyed the hell out of me, especially when my monthly psychosis dropped in for a visit, but I'd never said anything. I held him more than once as he battled the nightmares, and even a few times when he woke up in a cold sweat, shivering. He never told me about them, though. I don't know whether to protect me - or himself.