The Halloween Collection (12 page)

“Yeah.” Ralphie shook his head. “But I
didn’t have sex with her.”

An enormous grin split Alpha’s face, and the
black flames painted around his eyes seemed to twinkle. “You know
what? There’s no way we can neuter you now.”

Ralphie perked. “Really?”

Alpha tossed his bag to the floor and
crossed his arms over his chest. “You gotta have some pretty big
gonads to take down a vampire. No way I’m letting Dr. Baker cut
those off. I’m making you my new number two dog.”

Buster turned to their leader with a pout,
and the lone star over his eye began to smear as tears ran down his
face. “Alpha!”

Alpha rolled his eyes. “Can it, Buster.”

Their leader walked over to the mini-fridge
in the corner of the room. “This calls for a celebration. I’ve got
a jar of week-old bacon grease I’ve been saving.”

“Thanks, Alpha, but I don’t want any bacon
grease.” Ralphie slowly stood on wobbly legs, hardly believing his
stroke of good luck. He got to keep his nuts and get the number two
dog spot!

Alpha dipped his index finger into a jar of
grease and sucked his finger clean. “You name it, Ralphie. Whatever
you want, we’ll get it.”

Ralphie’s heart pounded in his chest as hope
surged inside him. There was only one thing in the world that could
fill the ache in his soul. “I want my damned pillow cushion.”

* * *

Dear readers, thanks so much for reading this story
to the end without burning out your eye-sockets. Sincerely, PJ
Jones.

* * *

Check out these hilarious parodies by PJ Jones:

Will Deadward and Smella find true love, or will
Smella’s fish tacos ruin the moment?

Romance
Novel

The Vampire
Handbook

With bonus were-thing/shape-shifter and zombie
handbooks

One man’s desire to prove small is the new big

Naughty Little
Schnitzel

Melvin, the Dry
Cleaning Zombie and Vampire Shoe Warehouse

Prior to becoming a full-time chair warmer, PJ Jones
not-so-enjoyed a short stint as a journalist and then seven
agonizing…eh blissful years as a high school English teacher. Rest
assured that none of her sentences will end with prepositions cuz
she studied grammers in that there college and she ain’t
stoopid.

http://pjjonesramblings.blogspot.com/

Had they seen her?

Amara’s heart thudded in her chest as she
tugged the hood of her cloak further down over her eyes. Protection
not just against the twilight rain, but from the eyes of the
hunters. She pressed closer to the cold stone of the blacksmith’s
shop, praying they’d keep going.

They didn’t.

“Did you see that?” The stridant voice
carried halfway across the village.

“See what, my lord?”

“The witch? Did you see the witch?” Sir
Reginald’s eyes filled with fury as he wheeled the bay around,
sharp eyes searching the street. The horse protested the rough
treatment, but Sir Reginald was not a man who cared for the pain of
dumb animals.

She melted further into the shadows,
whispering an incantation under her breath. “Hide me from my
enemies.” The amulet lying between her breasts warmed at the small
use of power.

“She is near. I can feel her unholy
magic.”

Though he refused to admit it, Sir Reginald
was born of witch blood just as she had been. Even her small use of
power had alerted him. Something no ordinary human could ever
sense. A fact which made him all the more dangerous.

His underlings began the search on
horseback, riding the length of the street, peering into alleyways.
If Sir Reginald said a witch was near, then they believed him.

She took another step back. Her foot sent a
stone skittering across cobbles. Almost as one, the men’s heads
turned in her direction. The look on Sir Reginald’s face was
unmistableable. If he caught her, she was dead.

She ran.

Dashing around the corner of the smith’s,
she ran as though the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels. Not
far from the truth.

Her cloak billowed behind her, the hem
weighted down with rain and mud. Fingers numb with cold fumbled at
the ties to no avail. The muddy ground sucked at her feet. Her
breath burned in her lungs. The clatter of hooves over stone was
loud in her ears.

She darted around a corner, and down another
alley, but she was no match for mounted men. She sensed the
displacement of air and ducked just as Sir Reginald’s sword sliced
within a hair’s breath of her nape. The men surrounded her, weapons
drawn. She drew to a halt, panting. The other men were just doing
their duty, but the look on Sir Reginald’s face told her he was
enjoying every minute. This was it, then.

“Well, if it isn’t the witch of Denham
Forest,” he taunted.

She knew running was futile, so she drew
herself to her full height and stood proud as generations of her
kind had done before her. “What do you want, Sir Reginald?” She
tilted her chin up and hardened her jaw. He’d never see her
beg.

“You know what I want, witch.”

He wanted her dead. Everyone knew it. He’d
have hunted her down and killed her long ago if not for the fact
that she lived deep with the woods, surrounded by wards.

“I’m no witch.”

“So you say, the truth is clear to any
willing to see. You are a witch and a murderess.”

“I did not kill her, Sir Reginald. There was
nothing I could do. Sometimes the Goddess decides these
things.”

“There is only one God,” he snarled. “He
demands your blood, witch.” He raised his sword.

She braced herself for the blow.

* * *

Andre de Montbard watched from the shadows
as the armed men on horseback surrounded the woman.

Not Andre. Jack. His name was Jack.
Andre had been a
lifetime ago. A lifetime in which he had been a Templar Knight. A
lifetime best forgotten.

The woman’s hood had fallen back, revealing
a mass of thick hair the color of chestnuts. She was small and
fragile looking, no match for the half dozen grim faced men.

It was obvious she was defenseless. It was
equally obvious what was about to happen. He’d seen it happen again
and again the length and breadth of the country. Weak, small minded
men torturing and murdering women in order to keep their own power.
It disgusted him and he’d had enough. He’d been trained to protect
the defenseless and it was time to put that training to use once
again.

The overly elaborate clothing gave the
leader of the mob away immediately. Yes, he was exactly the sort of
man who would enjoy murdering a woman and claiming it an act of
righteousness.

Jack slid from his hiding place, silent as
the grave. The men were too busy to notice him, completely focused
on their self-important leader. He waited for just the right
moment, then as the man’s sword came down, he stepped in and thrust
his own sword up to meet it.

The clash of steel against steel rang
through the clearing.

* * *

Amara’s eyes snapped open at the sound of
clashing swords still ringing in her ears. It took her a moment to
register what she saw.

A large, powerful man dressed in ragged
clothing and wielding a falchion sword was fighting Sir Reginald.
He fought with the fierceness of a dozen men and the expertise of a
trained knight .

For a moment she stood gaping like an idiot
before she remembered Sir Reginald’s henchmen. Fortunately they had
been likewise occupied, staring with slackened jaws at their lord
and the stranger.

She knew she had little time, so she began
to mutter an incantation in a language no other human could speak.
Quickly she wove a spell around herself and the two men. The
ancient words spilled off her tongue like liquid silver, spinning
through the air in a shimmering circle.

“Careful lads, the witch is weaving one of
her spells. She’ll have us all dead.” It was Brack, Sir Reginald’s
right-hand man and greatest convert to the cause. His booming voice
rallied the others and they raised their weapons.

Amara cast a glance behind her at the two
men still locked in battle. She did not know the stranger with the
broad shoulders and the sun streaked hair, his powerful body
wielding the heavy sword with ease. Nor did she know why he was
helping her.

What she did know was that she must help him
however she could. And the one way she could help was by keeping
Sir Reginald’s men at bay.

Brack charged at her, but the instant his
horse’s nose touched the magical barrier, it reared back, sending
Brack tumbling to the ground. Unhurt save his pride, he snarled as
he staggered to his feet. Brandishing a pair of wicked looking
knives, he charged on foot this time. Once again he crashed into
the barrier. He was thrown halfway across the clearing.

Amara was the only human being alive who
could wield these impenetrable wards.

The other men stopped in their tracks, faces
ashen. Amara well knew that despite their years witch hunting with
Sir Reginald Jones, they had never once seen real magic. The truth
of it spread fear through their ranks and sent them fleeing back to
the village. Only Brack was left.

Satisfied they were once again safe from Sir
Reginald’s men, she turned back to the fight. A fight that was
nearly over.

While Sir Reginald dripped with sweat, face
red and muscles trembling, the stranger wasn’t even breathing
heavily. His movements were as swift and fluid as they had been in
the beginning.

With a final thrust of his sword, he sent
Sir Reginald’s weapon spinning across the clearing. Sir Reginald
lay huddled on the ground, a pathetic excuse of a man.

“Go ahead.” His voice was tired, none of the
bravado left.

The stranger raised his sword for the death
blow.

“No!”

Both the stranger and Sir Reginald turned to
stare at her, equal measures of shock written across their faces.
Part of her made note that the stranger was incredibly
handsome.

“My lady,” his voice was low and rough and
sent shivers running through her body. “If he lives, he will never
stop hunting you.”

She glanced down at Sir Reginald. Even
huddled on the ground with his life in her hands there was still
hatred in his eyes. She knew the stranger was right, yet this life
was not hers to take.

“I know,” her voice was soft. “But I have
vowed never to take a life.”

“The life taken shall be by my hand, not
yours.”

“And yet it shall be done in my name,” she
said. “The stain on my soul shall be just as great.”

“Very well.” Somewhat reluctantly he
sheathed his sword.

Amara knelt in the mud next to Sir Reginald.
“Remember this moment, Sir Reginald. Remember the day I let you
live.”

He spat at her, but she flicked it away with
a snap of her wrist. His lack of graciousness was only to be
expected.

She stood and turned to her savior. “Have
you a place to stay?”

“No, my lady.”

“Then I invite you to stay with me.” It was
not something a decent woman did if she wanted to keep her
reputation intact, but she had never been one to play by the rules.
Besides which, she didn’t have much of a reputation to ruin.

With a nod the stranger fell in beside her.
They disappeared into the woods, Sir Reginald cursing behind
them.

* * *

Amara cast a glance at the warrior. She’d
poured him a bath and taken his clothes to clean and mend. Though,
frankly, she wasn’t convinced they were worth cleaning and
mending.

What she didn’t tell him was that she could
see him plain as day through the gap between the curtain and the
wall. Every naked inch of him.

Her cheeks flushed hot as she watched
muscles shift and bunch under golden skin. His broad shoulders were
the stuff a woman dreamed about. His wide back tapered into a
narrow waist before flaring into the most amazing backside.

“Like what you see?” His gravelly voice
broke into her reverie.

If possible, her cheeks flamed hotter. Not
one to lie, especially about the obvious, she changed the
subject.

“I want to thank you for saving my
life.”

“It was nothing.”

She snuck another peek. He was wrapping a
blanket around his hips, leaving his torso bare.

She swallowed. “It was something to me.”

He stepped out from behind the curtain. For
the first time she was able to get a good look at his face without
the grime.

Her breath caught in her throat. If
beautiful could be used to describe a man, it would be used for
him. He’d the face of a fallen angel and a body that would make
those angels weep with envy.

But what truly took her breath away wasn’t
his face or his physique. It was his magic.

He was steeped in it. Every portion of his
being nearly drowning in magic as though he were made of it. And
all that power centered on the amulet he wore on a leather strip
around his throat.

“What are you?” she blurted.

His blue eyes narrowed. “What are you?”

Tit for tat, then. It was only fair. Still,
she hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“Sir Reginald named you witch.”

“You don’t think I’m a witch?”

“I know you are not a witch.” His tone left
no room for doubt. “But you are something.”

He would think her mad if she told the
truth. Utterly mad.

“I will not think you mad. I have seen more
things than you can possibly imagine. Nothing you can say would
shock me.”