Two Polluted Black-Heart Romances Read online

  He laughed. “It is that charm that will make you famous, Sabrina.”

  She tipped her glass as if to toast. “More famous.”

  “That charm and more.” Peter took a sip of wine and then adjusted himself in his seat. “Here is what I am proposing. I think we should incorporate your wings in your live performances.”

  Sabrina’s heart dropped to the floor. What he was suggesting would mean outing herself to the public and the results would bring dire consequences—even death.

  “I can’t do that.” She felt the need to cover up, and as she said so she wrapped the sarong tightly around her chest.

  “I understand.”

  “No.” Sabrina’s voice raised, and she said, eyes wide, “You don’t.”

  “You are right. I don’t,” he replied. “But I do.”

  “Peter…” Sabrina began to stand but was halted by his hand.

  “Please. Let me explain. Okay?”

  Sabrina knew better than to squabble with her new boss over something he really had no idea about, so she tried to stay calm. Hear him out. Then say no. He’ll respect that.

  “Your wings, they exist on your back disguised as a tattoo, a kind of camouflage of sorts, right? You are hiding them in plain sight.”

  “Few fairies do it.” Sabrina pointed at her back. “Few have the balls. Fewer have the self-control.”

  “But you are known for that tattoo. It’s been the subject of thousands of photographs and interviews. It has been seen in web videos and on television.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s not like people see you and don’t think of these wings,” Peter noted. “They are part of your brand, and we would have further branded you as such: wing-related logos, cover art, and so on.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Now we can take it to the next natural step,” he interrupted, voice filled with excitement.

  Sabrina lifted her hands and motioned for him to stop. “Peter, you should know that there are rules. Rules that…when broken…well, the shit hits the fan. Real hard.”

  “But who will know other than those who already know?”

  She slouched back in her seat. “Huh?”

  “Other fairies, for example. If they saw a picture of you, say, in a formal dress. Would they know who and what you are?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would a regular guy, some college kid who thinks you are the hottest thing since Emily Ratajkowski, would he know?”

  Sabrina thought for a moment. “He might know who I am, but not what I am.”

  “So if we went out to the store and bought you a pair of those prop fairy wings, all faux feathers and cheap glitter—you know the ones, the kind young girls wear to prom or take selfies in all the time…”

  “Yeah?” Sabrina gave him an arched look.

  “If you wore those costume wings out in public, would people think you are anything other than human?”

  “No, they’d just think I was some kind of cheap stripper.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Wait, I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Have you ever been to a concert where they projected a hologram? Like the Billboard Awards in 2014? Or the Grammys of 2019?”

  “No.” Sabrina shook her head.

  “There is technology out there, pricy stuff. I could easily commission artists to render and project a pair of big, glowing wings on your back while you dance around stage, but coordinating it, the chorography alone would be a dreadful and nightmarish thing.”

  “Okay. I think I understand.” She put it together. “You’d tell everyone my wings are an elaborate hologram.”

  “Precisely.”

  The world may not realize I’m fairy-kind, but would the otherworldly kingdoms see this as a threat to their survival? Sabrina thought on it a moment, as Peter continued to rattle off ideas. They accept the boldness of my tattoo because of my father, but what Peter’s suggesting may be overstepping. No, it’s too risky, not to mention…

  “This all sounds a little too much like Vampire Lestat.” Sabrina crinkled her nose as she spoke.

  “So you do read.”

  “I told you, my father made me read things that were important to our…our culture.”

  “Listen, I would be remiss if I said that I was not borrowing from the idea. That being said, many musicians have had gimmicks. Think of the success KISS had or that Daft Punk and Deadmau5 are having now.”

  Sabrina wanted to say no but was afraid of how Peter would react. There was just so much passion behind his words. “I’m not sure, Peter.”

  “What if your backup dancers had wings as well?”

  Sabrina wasn’t sure if he meant the real thing or fake ones. “Do you mean other fairy-kind?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” He scratched his chin. “I was thinking grander. We hire one of those designers who works the Victoria Secret runway shows, have him or her make us some very big and beautiful wings for your girls to wear.”

  “I’ve been to those shows,” Sabrina said as she uncrossed her arms. “I’ve always wanted to walk that runway. You know, those props can be very well made. Very intricate.”

  “So what do you think?”

  She thought it was dangerous to display her wings in public as Peter described. Yet, at the same time, some of what he was saying made her skin tingle. She wanted to unfurl her wings again right now, show them off, be proud of them, but something told her to hold back.

  As she sat there trying to come up with an answer, she thought of Alexander Kintner—he’d wanted her only for her wings. Kintner had stood to benefit from them, and now Peter wanted to profit from them as well.

  Maybe showing them to Peter was a mistake. I’m more than an awesome pair of wings…

  “I—I need to think about it.”

  Her demeanor must have spoke louder than her words, because Peter got up and kneeled before her.

  He took her hand and held it tight. “I don’t want you to do anything you are not comfortable with.” He gazed deep into her eyes, making her squirm. “We could always have a pair of wings designed and constructed for you to wear too.”

  “I—”

  “Enough. I do not want business to spoil the wonderful evening we were having,” he said with a kind smile. “Now, I believe we still have a bottle to finish.”

  Sabrina felt instantly relieved. “We do.”

  “And where would you like to finish it?”

  Earlier, Sabrina might have said in the hot tub or maybe skinny-dipping in the pool, but now she just wanted to relax the rest of the night.

  “I passed by your theater earlier today. Maybe we could go there and listen to some music?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  Sabrina frowned. “I wish I hadn’t broke my phone. All my music was on it.”

  “No worries, my dear. My house is hardwired to a media server in the basement. I have nearly five terabytes of movies and music, all loaded and ready to be played.”

  “Peter…” Sabrina stood confidently.

  “Yes?”

  “You had me at hardwired.”

  Out of Air

  After he parked the car in Moselle’s driveway, Jackson broke the silence by clearing his throat. “Hey, we’re here.”

  The air spirit had not said a word in the last ten minutes, and no longer looked like a person, more like a mass of smoky air in the loose shape of motionless mannequin.

  “Weston? Ghost man? You awake?” Jackson felt it off to say, “You alive?”

  “Yeah…I hear you.”

  “We’re at Moselle’s. You okay? You look bad.”

  “I just need to get out of the car and filter myself with the fresh air.”

  “Okay.” Jackson got out of the car and walked around so he could open the passenger side door. “Here you go.”

  “There’s stuff in the trunk. Make sure Sabrina gets it.”

  “I will, but what about…” He heard a gust of air, and fe
lt the breeze push up from the car seat over his head. Weston had moved and was no longer visible to the eye. “Hey?”

  Jackson stared up for a bit. He didn’t know what to expect. Was he supposed to wait for the ghost, or not. He looked around, even walked to the other side of the car—nothing.

  “Well…let’s see what in the trunk.”

  He opened the trunk and was truly amazed by what sat there: the platinum record Sabrina had told him she owned. The frame was banged up, but otherwise it looked like it was in good shape.

  “Holy shit,” Jackson said and then laughed. “How the hell did this survive the building collapse?”

  Underneath it were some clothing, a small purse, and several pairs of shoes—all were soaking wet.

  “Hey, she’s gonna love that you found all this,” Jackson called out, picking up a cocktail dress by its thin straps. “Weston? Weston?”

  “Jackson?” Moselle yelled from the front door, five of her guards surrounding her. “Jackson, is everything okay, my love?”

  In many ways, Jackson dreaded this moment; it felt awkward. He had left things in a bad state: confused, angry, and disappointed. He still needed some time to think about what Moselle had done. Murder—having bore witness to it, the word had new meaning. Moselle had murdered an innocent pizza guy. Jackson had a hard time seeing her actions as any different than Alexander Kintner’s. He still needed time, but circumstances prevented that.

  He glanced around the open trunk again, afraid of what he would find. Would he see a murderer, a monster, or the woman he loved?

  Moselle, as always, looked stunning. She was dressed in her black robe, the one that was made of such a sheer fabric it might as well been nonexistent. Jackson bet that, even from his distance, he could distinguish the soft curves of her breasts and hips illuminated by the light from inside the house if he looked more closely. But he didn’t want to stare, and he looked away the moment he felt his cock stiffen.

  “Jackson?”

  This time when she called his name, he could hear her anxiety—her voice shook. She sounded miserable. I wonder if she was afraid I wouldn’t come back?

  “Yeah?” He peaked out from behind the trunk again. “Sorry, I didn’t answer your calls or call you back. Too much was happening.”

  “Happening? What was happening?” Moselle’s voice sounded deeply troubled now. “Please, my love, come inside. We need to talk.”

  “Yeah, I’m coming.”

  Jackson shut the trunk after he pocketed a hot pink lace thong that was crumpled up in Sabrina’s wet clothing. It reminded him of the one she’d worn in the bathroom at the gun shop, the one she’d worn when she was coming on to him. Again, Jackson felt himself getting hard.

  Maybe I should’ve fucked her when I had the chance… Sabrina may have a killer body, but she’s no killer.

  Jackson then gazed at Moselle; she looked horribly impatient. This is so messed up.

  “Sorry about the car, Moss. The tires are covered in oil.” He pointed back at the vehicle. “And some other muck is all over the sides. I hope nothing is ruined.”

  “Worry not.”

  Moselle was beautiful and Jackson was sure they would end up having sex before morning—hot, passionate sex—but he still could not shake the fact that she was a murderer. I’m in love with a killer…a dead-alive killer…

  There were seven guards now, and they had repositioned themselves so they stood between him and Moselle. He didn’t know what they were up to, and he didn’t care. He paid them little mind as he walked past. The tall guard who’d given him problems in the past stood closest to Moselle, and when Jackson spotted him, he tossed the man the keys to the car.

  “Here,” he said with a nod. “Park the car. And empty the trunk. Careful. It’s Sabrina’s stuff and she’s going to want it.”

  Moselle’s concerned face brightened. “Did you find Sabrina?”

  “No, I found her bodyguard.”

  “You found Mira?” Moselle looked elated.

  She reached out to take his hand, but Jackson walked past her too, directly into the house. Once inside, he took a look around. Nothing. No dead bodies. No police lines. No crime scene. He felt slightly better now. “No.”

  “You did not find Mira…the water spirit?” Moselle stepped in front of him as she spoke. “Who did you find?”

  “Well, to be honest, he found me.” The corners of Jackson’s mouth turned up in a slight smile. “Just appeared out of thin air.”

  “An air spirit?” Moselle guessed. “Wes…”

  “Weston.” Jackson gazed up, looking for him. “Have you ever met the guy?”

  “No, but Sabrina told me many stories about him. I wish I could recall them.” Moselle rubbed her temples. “With the events of late… my memory is hazy at best.”

  She reached for Jackson’s shoulder, but he stepped away.

  “He said he was her first bodyguard.” Jackson walked toward the kitchen; wanting to maintain a good space between him and Moselle. At least until he figured out what to do with his troublesome thoughts. “Back in Europe when she was younger.”

  “What is he doing here? Now?”

  “All he said was that Sabrina called him for help when she figured you, me, and maybe even Cade, were all dead…”

  “She thinks we died in the hospital collapse.”

  “She does.”

  Moselle frowned. “Well, at least we know she is safe. Cade will be very pleased when I tell him the good news.”

  “Yes and no.”

  Moselle once again stepped around and tried to engage him in eye contact. “Is something wrong, Jackson?”

  “According to Weston, Sabrina is happy where she is. She doesn’t need our help.”

  Moselle looked even more bewildered by this. “Excuse me?”

  He wasn’t sure where to go next, like he had run out of places to hide. “The kitchen looks good, Moss.” He nodded; the awkwardness killing him. “Maybe we should go back to the living room. I have more to tell you.”

  Once she was seated in the living room, Jackson continued.

  “So. Yeah. I went looking for Sabrina. I actually drove downtown to where her building was. Moselle, that whole area, for many blocks—it’s all gone. And there’s something strange happening down in the evacuated area.”

  “Jackson, going to such a place, so late at night, you were playing with fate.”

  “I know.”

  “So why would you risk—”

  “I needed to clear my head, okay?” he snapped. “I’m sorry. Look, I needed to do something good. I wanted to see if I could find her.”

  “But you found Weston.”

  “He was down there too. He was trying to salvage some of her stuff. But he…encountered something. I—I encountered it too.”

  “Where is Weston?” Moselle asked. “Where is he now?”

  “The ghost man’s outside, I guess.” Jackson shrugged. “He was trying to filter himself, whatever that means.”

  “So what was down there, at the sinkhole?” Her face turned pale. “Great Set, was it the wraiths? Did the wraiths find you?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t think so.”

  “If you encountered them you would know.”

  “Well, I encountered something. Something monstrous. Weston was going to tell me more, but he stopped talking on the ride here. All he said was pollution. Something about what I saw, what he saw, was pollution.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The whole place was covered in oil and in the air was a thick smog.”

  Moselle looked down. “Jackson, where are your shoes?”

  “Like I said, the place was covered in oil and other kinds of sludge.” He sneered. “And it smelled horrible. God, just horrible.”

  “I’ll have replacement shoes for you in the morning. What brand do you favor? What is your size?”

  “Moselle, listen. I’ve been asking myself the same question over and over since I saw what I saw downtown. Wha
t if that earthquake and the sinkhole are not acts of nature after all? What if something made them happen?”

  Moselle crossed her arms and stared at him a moment with a look he had only ever seen from his mother and college professors. “Darling, what was it you said the other day?” She crinkled her nose. “‘Sinkholes happen all the time.’ ‘California is going to break off’.”

  “I’m serious, Moss.”

  “I am too. I warned you of the wraiths. I told you none of this was natural, and what do you do after disagreeing with me? You go for a little drive only to come back shoeless, in a dirty car, talking of monsters and ghosts.” She shook her head.

  “Moselle—”

  “Jackson, it’s late. I am going to bed. Join me—”

  “I’m not sure-” he started to say.

  “Then spend the night down here rethinking the warnings I conveyed when all this was just beginning.” She stood. “Oh, and please do well to comprehend the time you have wasted that we could have used to distance ourselves from this mounting trouble.” Moselle exited the room, and at the bottom of her staircase, she looked over her shoulder. “For now, it may be too late to escape.”

  Prickly Memories

  Moselle had waited patiently for Jackson to come to bed, but when he did not, and chose to sleep alone on the hard couch instead, she sought out the comfort of her old journals.

  There had been something stuck in her mind, a nagging sense of unreconciled déjà vu. The one thing Moselle hated most about being cursed undead was that her memory was so poor, and at times it was nearly impossible to recollect important events in her life—especially those prior to her death. That was why her journals were so precious to her.

  She kept her journals carefully organized, sorted by date, and separated by decade. The oldest of which, the ones she had written shortly after being resurrected by her father, she stored in a fire-resistant lockbox. She may not have remembered much from that time, but she would never forget what her father told her throughout the years. Write down everything you remember because one day you will not. A man with no history has no future.

  Laid out over that thick comforter on her bed were three old, leather-bound journals. One of which was her first, the very one her father gifted her on the ride out of Libya. Much of it was written in his hand, but there were pages where the marks of ink and lead were made by her: drawings, maps, even a few hieroglyphs she had long ago forgot the meaning of.