WG2E All-For-Indies Anthologies: Viva La Valentine Edition (20 page)

She watched as he unwrapped something she
hadn’t seen since she was a little girl.

“Venus’ Orb of Truth?” she gasped with
surprise as the pearly white stone glowed supernaturally in the
moonlight. “He never lets this out of his sight. It reveals the
truth of everyone’s feelings. Why would he give it to you?”

“For this reason” Gabe responded, decisively
slipping the ring on his pinkie finger. It immediately began to
glow a deep crimson red.

Dara remembered playing hide and seek as a
little girl in her Grandfather’s office and coming across the ring.
She’d put it on her little thumb pretending it was her engagement
ring. She remembered it changing to a pretty light pink before her
grandfather caught her with it.

Her fear of his reaction had changed it to
black before he gently removed it and explained its intended use.
His mother, Venus, realized Cherubs had difficulty deciphering the
truth of those seeking their affection despite the fact that they
created it for a living.

The ring would illuminate the truth of their
lover’s feelings. Deep crimson if the affection was pure, ice blue
if it wasn’t. Pink meant happiness and black was fear. From time to
time, Cherubs would visit Cupid to use the ring. It was rumored
that Cupid would not marry until he met a woman who caused the ring
to glow crimson when she wore it in his presence.

Seeing the ring glow crimson now swept any
lingering doubts from Dara’s mind. The fact that Gabe was allowed
to carry the ring meant Cupid had given his blessing as well.

“I love you Dara, please marry me,” Gabe
asked a final time.

Looking up at the handsome Guardian standing
before her she whispered, “Yes, but no more secret plans, OK?”

His answer was to pull her in for a kiss so
deep it left her short of breath and filled with promises of living
happily ever after.

ABOUT MG AINSWORTH

MG Ainsworth is a thirty something wife and
mother of two kids, two dogs, a cat, 5 hens and a rooster named
Rumpelstiltskin. Writing has been her lifelong passion. She also
works full time, reads excessively, grows prizewinning Walla-Walla
sweet onions and avoids dishes if at all possible while living her
dream of being a writer after 9 PM at night. Her dream, in addition
to seeing her stories in print, is to have 12 hours of
uninterrupted sleep - preferably in the dream suite above Pirate’s
of the Caribbean at Disneyland. MG’s short story in this anthology,
The Cherub’s Choice
, is a prequel to the Cherub series. Book
one in the series,
Venus Vexed
, is scheduled for publication
early summer 2012. She is also writing a young adult paranormal
novel,
SPF
, and has a short story, “Bubbles,” coming soon in
the
Dream On: A Dream Anthology
from 4 Corners Press. She
was a winner of the 4 Corners Press 444 word short story contest
last year. You can find out more about MG Ainsworth and her books
through her blog,
writingafternine.blogspot.com
.
She can also be found on social networking sites
Facebook
and Twitter
@MGAinsworth
.

By Buck Buchanan

Hugo’s classic Yugo rattled down Murray Road
in the East of Olive section of West Palm Beach. Older, beautifully
maintained homes with manicured lawns lined the street. Palm trees
cast long shadows in the morning sun.

“This is it, angel, the residence of Ginger
Breadman.” He turned into the wide red brick driveway of a
two-story English Tudor home and parked next to a pink Dodge
Sprinter van. “Let’s hope she’s here. I don’t want to waste a lot
of time on this. I’m not sure why we’re involved. We’re not
financial negotiators and there’s not a murder in sight.”

“Because we need the money,” I said putting a
little extra honey in my voice. He was annoyed with me for
committing to this gig, but I couldn’t tell him my real reason for
taking it on.

A red brick walkway led to a wide-open front
door. A shot rang out, as shots are prone to do. Two quick bounds
into the foyer and I was able to see through the great room to the
kitchen.

A blond woman holding a large semi-automatic
pistol fired two shots into the jamb of the kitchen side door which
was swinging open. A dark-haired man holding a machine gun stepped
in and sprayed a nearly soundless burst into the ceiling over her
head.

Before we could move, four uniforms raced in,
guns drawn, barking orders impossible to obey, “Police. Don’t move.
Hands up.”

Hugo and I looked at each other, shrugged,
and decided to go with the
hands up
order. One of the
officers stayed with us, his gun trained on Hugo. “What’s going on
here?”

“We just got here ourselves, Ham.” Hugo
said.

I peeked at the nametag on the cop’s shirt.
Hammond Smithfield.

Ham smiled. “Damn, Hugo, I was so focused on
the gunfire, I didn’t realize it was you.” He jerked his head
toward me. “I assume this lady’s with you.”

“This is my partner Victoria Station.”

He holstered his gun and gave his head a
quick shake. “Sorry… you can drop your hands. Victoria, you’re
lucky to have the world’s greatest private eye writer as your
partner.”

Ham wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know.
Hugo and I met when he rear-ended me. Fortunately, my car didn’t
suffer any damage because of, as Hugo explained it, the breakaway
safety features of his classic Yugo. I helped him duct-tape the
front fenders and bumper back on then I pumped his brakes while he
added fluid and bled them.

We shared the GoJo hand cleaner he kept in
his trunk. As we rubbed our hands on red mechanic’s rags we looked
into each other’s eyes and the connection was made.

He said, “Excuse my bad manners, I haven’t
introduced myself. The name’s Rongg, Hugo Rongg, private eye
writer.”

The way he said that, the way he dressed in a
dark-gray double-breasted pinstriped suit, charcoal shirt,
pearl-gray tie, and gray fedora… my knees got all melty. We
exchanged cell phone numbers in the flickering of his trunk light.
It was so romantic.

I was a feature writer for a magazine at that
time. When our paths crossed again a few months ago on one of his
case stories, I knew I wanted to be a private eye writer with him…
forever.

Hugo’s voice brought me back to the present.
“How’d you get here so fast? The gunplay had barely ended when you
rushed through the door.”

“We got a call a couple minutes ago about a
shot being fired here. The door was open. We heard more shots so we
ran in.”

Two cops walked by us, escorting the shooters
with their hands cuffed behind them. The blonde wore a pink
shirtwaist dress under an apron with broad pink and white stripes
and embroidered
Mrs. Pye’s Pies
. Was she smiling? The tall
thin machine-gunner with spinning eyes definitely wasn’t
smiling.

The fourth cop walked up to Ham. “You and I
are going to have to secure the scene until CSI and the medical
examiner get here.”

Ham raised his eyebrows. “Medical
examiner?”

We couldn’t have turned more in unison if
we’d been synchronized swimmers. On the floor a pair of feet in
reddish-orange high heels stuck out beyond the island separating
the kitchen and the great room.

Hugo spoke to me out of the side of his
mouth, “My guess is those feet belong to Ginger and that was QT Pye
being taken out of here in bracelets. She’s going to need our help
with a lot more than finances.”

“You’ll have to go to the station,” Ham said.
“I don’t know which detectives will be assigned to this case, but
I’ll call my cousin to see if he can take your statements now so
you’re not tied up all day.”

“Victoria and I appreciate that.”

As we returned to Hugo’s car, I noticed
Mrs. Pye’s Pies
on the side of the tall pink van. It took
ten minutes to drive to the West Palm Beach Police Department.
Waiting for us in the lobby was a detective with a family
resemblance to Officer Ham Smithfield, both about five-ten, a
little overweight, smooth faces, and prematurely bald.

He greeted Hugo like a long-lost brother then
introduced himself to me as Art Jambon. He said he’d take my
statement first and escorted me to an interview room. After I told
him what happened at Ginger Breadman’s house, he asked why Hugo and
I were there.

“She doesn’t know it yet, but it’s because of
QT Pye, the proprietor of Mrs. Pye’s Pies. I have a relative with a
sweet tooth who’s hooked on her pies, especially her key lime pie
with black raspberry and dark chocolate topping. He lives in
another state, but whenever he’s in the area he indulges.”

Detective Jambon looked up from his notepad
with a question in his eyes.

“He’s a businessman and somehow he heard that
QT Pye was doing so well that she was going to expand her
operation. He’s hoping to have a Mrs. Pye’s Pies near him. But she
has a problem or, I should say, had a problem. Ginger Breadman was
interfering with QT’s proposed franchising of her pie shops.”

“Where do you and Hugo come in?”

“My relative hired us to resolve QT’s problem
and expedite the franchising by negotiating with the Breadman woman
to end the dispute.”

“Kind of strange. Hugo’s case stories usually
involve murder.”

“Hugo felt that way too, but business has
been slow lately. In addition to making some money, we were helping
a relative. And now it does involve murder.”

“It’s always nice to help a relative. I’ll
have this transcribed while I talk to Hugo.”

He walked me to their coffee room and went
for Hugo.

I’d told the detective the truth, more or
less. Okay, less. But I couldn’t tell him the real reason I’d
agreed to help QT Pye.

My mind drifted to the night I graduated from
high school ten years ago when my little genetics problem, my LGP
as I prefer to think of it, surfaced.

For the very first time, I had sex. As my
boyfriend and I made love, I nibbled and sucked on his neck, giving
him a world-class hickey. Simultaneously with my climax, a drop of
his blood seeped onto my tongue and I was overwhelmed by sexual
fulfillment and another sensation I didn’t understand.

The next morning I was having my morning
herbal tea and whole-grain English muffin with marmalade when Mom
came into the kitchen. I casually asked, “Have you ever had a
craving for blood?”

“Oh my god, you have the curse.”

“Not until next week and, really, Mom,
nobody’s used that term for a menstrual period for
generations.”

“No, I mean the Curse. I don’t understand it.
Talk to your grandmother about it.”

I went straight to Granny’s house. Tall and
narrow, isolated on an unpaved road several miles into the dense
woods of Western Pennsylvania.Shutters, half of them missing a
hinge, flapped on all windows from the third floor dormers on down.
Next to a foggy creek and surrounded by huge overhanging trees, it
was dark and gloomy on the sunniest of days.

The door creaked open to an interior even
gloomier. Faded floral wallpaper, dark heavy furniture, worn
oriental rug. Musty smell. Granny stood on the far side of the big
round séance table in the middle of her murky parlor. Wisps of fog
hung near the high ceiling. She wore a head scarf and gypsy garb.
Her palm reading get-up.

“I asked Mom about a craving for blood.”

“Oh my god, you have the curse.”

“Not till next week.”

She lowered her head like a vulture, looked
up at me from the corners of her eyes, and hissed, “The Curse of
the Curse.” Fog swirled down from the ceiling. A bat swooped around
us. Thunder clapped, lightning crackled, Granny cackled.

“Puh-leeze lay off the cheap séance
theatrics. What is the Curse of the Curse?”

She straightened, patted my cheek, and in her
normal voice said, “Sorry, dearie, reflex.” The fog dissipated and
the bat flew away. “Let’s sit down.”

We took adjacent chairs at the séance table
and she studied my face. “Did you enjoy your first sex?”

I was mortified. How could my grandmother ask
such a question? I stammered, “I… I… no… yes… no… yes… last
night…”

She grasped my hand. “It began in
Transylvania hundreds of years ago. Gregor, the patriarch of our
clan was a powerful warlock, married to a beautiful half-breed, a
part witch, part vampire named Yvonne. She incurred Gregor’s wrath
when he caught her with Lon, a local miller who was a
werewolf.”

“You make it sound like people with strange
powers and afflictions were as common as dandelions.”

“In Transylvania, they were called the
Powerful Ones and had existed since the beginning of recorded
history. But mixed marriages led to dilution of powers. Who knows
what you’re going to get when you cross a vampire with a werewolf?
Marriages to mere mortals caused further dilution.”