Don't Rhine on My Parade

By Erin Evans

“She speaks and they obey,” but even a supernatural ability can’t help this stay-at-home mom control her own life.

Don't Rhine on My Parade is a laugh-out-loud urban-fantasy with an unlikely protagonist, a young mother who has an unusual power. Blessed, or perhaps cursed, with the ability to command obedience, Piper Cavanaugh’s normal life turns upside down in this full-length novel.

A descendent of the sirens who sang sailors to their deaths, Piper has vowed to never use her power of command, but one little slip-up and her secret has come back to bite her – literally. Now she must gain permission to join the United Supernatural Beings, or it’s open hunting season on all of humanity. While juggling toddlers, keeping her husband in the dark, and babysitting her rebellious kid sister, Piper finds herself befriending a vampire, stealing from murderous witches, and doing battle with “Satan,” otherwise known as her mother-in-law. And she thought grocery shopping with her kids was hard!

Don't Rhine on My Parade is a refreshing switch for readers who long for a more relatable heroine. With commonsense and sass, Piper handles diapers to decapitations as only a mother can. Filled with comedy, action, and thrills, Don't Rhine on My Parade expands the borders of urban fantasy into the suburbs!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erin Evans
• Release date: Jun 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301398843

Erin Evans

Erin Evans is a stay-at-home mom of eight (!), wonderful, little children. When she's not chasing after children, changing diapers, teaching school, cooking, chauffeuring, or potty training, she is writing, playing drums at her church or crashed out dead asleep. In urban fantasy, she loves Charlaine Harris, Patricia Briggs, and Kim Harrison. All time favorite authors would be Robin Hobb and Jasper Fforde. Jim Butcher's Codex Alera has become one of her favorite series. BOOKS: - In her first series, "The Rhine Maiden", Erin based her character Piper Cavanaugh on her own life, but decided to have pity on Piper and only gave her two kids to start off with. - Erin's latest work, the "Pernicious Princess Trilogy" is a take on twisted fairy tales. - Her other works include "Food For Love", a foodie romantic comedy with a twist.

Book preview

Book One in the Rhine Maiden Series

by Erin Evans

Don’t Rhine on My Parade

Copyright Erin Evans 2008, 2013

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Chapter One

I dreamed again of those pitch black eyes, staring at me. Cold, alien, hungry. It was the same nightmare I always had. I was trying to run away, but this time my feet were stuck to the ground. The eyes were getting closer and closer and in a moment I would see the teeth I had tried so hard to forget: long, sharp, and deadly white. Then the dream changed. Instead of teeth, there were hands, closing around my neck and slowly choking the life out of me as I screamed and screamed and woke myself in a panic.

The piercing wail of screams moved from part of my dream into reality. A soft cloud was pressed firmly into my face, slowly suffocating me. Otis, my huge cat, got a shove that was meant to knock him off the bed but only succeeded in dislodging him from my pillow. I sat up, spitting out cat hair, my heart-rate still going a million miles an hour.

Your turn, my husband mumbled, rolling over and pulling the pillow over his head. I groaned. The dream was fading and my fear was quickly turning into resigned annoyance as the screams were increasing in volume and intensity. I gave Otis another shove as he tried to usurp my abandoned pillow and he waddled with as much dignity as he possessed to the end of the bed where he tried to skewer me with a look of abject disdain. He never seemed to understand why I didn’t appreciate his nightly show of affection. In his mind he was paying me the greatest compliment by getting as close to me as physically possible. (I’m sure it was also the height of compliment when he rubbed orange and white hair all over my black pants, but I didn’t appreciate that either.)

The screaming had now reached epic proportions. It sounded as if a hapless victim was being disemboweled and skinned alive at the same time. I threw on my bathrobe and staggered through the still dark house. It was way too early for this. It was always way too early for this. I missed the days when I got to sleep in. I popped open the child safety gate in the back hall with a little too much force and marched into my children’s room.

"What Is Going On?!" I queried in a calm and reasoned manner. Okay, it was more like a barely controlled scream. Not a good way to start the day. I’m sure there are parents out there that never raise their voices, but I am sorry to say that I am not one of them.

I took a deep breath and surveyed the room. Every book from the shelf was now on the floor. Every toy bin from the closet had been emptied onto the floor. Every puzzle had been dumped and the pieces scattered. Clothes had been pulled out of drawers, shoes were everywhere, and blankets and pillows had been ripped off the two twin beds. If the proverbial tornado had hit the room it could scarcely have looked worse.

In the middle of this mayhem, half buried in the mess, sat my two little daughters, Cassidy, age two, and Megan, age four. Cassie was the one emitting the migraine producing screams. Her hair was a tangled rat’s nest, a bright red mark adorned her cheek, and tears were streaming down her face.

I didn’t do anything! Megan yelled as soon as I walked in. She tried to hide a hairbrush behind her back.

What happened? I asked at a lower decibel, clearing a space on the floor with my foot so that I could flop down and gather Cassie up into my lap. She was still hysterical and impossible to decipher through the sobs. Not that I could ever easily understand her baby gibberish.

I pierced Megan with a gimlet glare. What did you do? Don’t lie to me.

I could see Megan trying to come up with the best story. I didn’t do anything! she repeated, I was just brushing her hair. I looked down at the knotted mess in question and sighed.

Cassie, still sobbing, burst out, Eg it me!

I rolled my eyes and sighed again, Did you hit your sister, Megan?

She was still trying to put a good spin on it, She wouldn’t sit still. I was trying to fix her hair and make her look pretty. I noticed that the tangle contained some added hair clips.

"And so you hit her?" I don’t know why I sounded so surprised. It wasn’t like this had never happened before.

But, Mom! Megan’s face told me she thought she had the perfect get-out-of-jail-free card. "Then she tried to bite me!"

Okay. I struggled to my feet, still holding an almost quiet Cassie, You are in time out.

"What?" You would think I’d just sent her off to Siberia.

Time. Out. I mouthed the words with emphasis. "You do not hit your sister. I don’t care what she tried to do to you. Do. Not. Hit." For a moment I felt the temptation to enforce the command welling up in my chest, but pushed the feeling down. Cassidy started squirming in my arms.

Wanna pay. Apparently her previously life threatening wounds had miraculously healed now that her sister was in trouble. I sighed once again and let her down. Exasperation seemed to be an almost constant emotion for me, only alleviated by moments of heartwarming bliss when everything was calm, and little arms clasped my neck and little lips whispered, I love you, Mommy.

I’m going to get a shower. You two play nicely together until I get back.

Am I still in time out? Megan interrupted.

I mentally slapped my forehead. Yes. You sit on your bed. Cassidy, leave her alone and play by yourself. The giggling started before I was even half-way across the living room. Giggling and laughing were good; they were also just a fraction away from screaming and fighting. Oh well, they were happy for the moment. I thought about going back to make sure Megan was really staying on her bed, but then thought better of it. It might not be the best parenting technique but sometimes I had to operate under what-I-don’t-know-I-don’t-have-to-deal-with.

My husband, Mark, was sleeping soundly when I returned and I almost crawled back in next to him, but I knew whatever sleep I managed to catch would be short lived. Besides, Otis was ensconced once more on my pillow and he looked adorable. Sue me, I love my cat. Before Otis I had always been a dog person. Cats were too unfriendly and detached for my liking. But Otis made it clear he adored me so I loved him right back. Cat hairs and all.

Thinking of dogs, I had forgotten all about Harvey. I turned back around and opened the laundry room door. Harvey was there, waiting patiently. He was a little, black Cairn Terrier. A Toto dog, if you will. He had to sleep in the laundry room at night because he sometimes forgot that the bathroom was outside. Cute as a button and probably about as smart (My apologies to buttons). We had adopted him from the Humane Society in a moment of weakness. He had been three years old and the sign on his cage said partially housebroken.

Why on earth would someone dump off such a sweet dog? I had cried, cuddling the squirming body that was trying to plant wet doggy kisses all over my face.

Mark pointed to the sign, Maybe because he’s not housebroken.

Oh no. I was totally confident. They probably abused him and locked him alone in the house all day. He’s probably perfectly housebroken if taken care of.

That was three years, tons of frustration, multiple rug cleanings, and repeated training attempts ago. Harvey could now be trusted in the house as long as someone was there to open the sliding glass door as soon as he whined to go out. Harvey was also the cause of the biggest rationalized compromise in my life. I always felt a little guilty when I looked at him, but my sanity and the cleanliness of my house were totally worth it. Or so I told myself.

I walked Harvey to the back door. Go off the porch, through the dog door and go potty outside, I commanded him. He gave me a happy dog look and trotted off. I slid the door closed but watched to make sure he obeyed. His memory was not the greatest and I had to be very specific with my commands. One day I had opened the door, half asleep, and just commanded, Go potty. You can imagine what happened.

Mark made jokes about how specific I was in my instructions, as if I thought Harvey actually understood me. Those jokes made me hugely uncomfortable, since he also noticed that Harvey obeyed me better than anyone else.

By the time I got a shower, got dressed, and started getting the girls’ breakfast, my sleepy husband was up moving around. Mark! I hollered from the kitchen, Do you want eggs for breakfast? He rushed out of our room, laptop case in hand, and gave me a quick kiss.

I’m late, babe. I’ll just grab a breakfast bar. He planted a kiss on each of the girls’ heads and was out the door. Amazing that, no matter what time he woke up, he always had to rush out the door without helping with breakfast. Okay, that’s not totally fair. Some days he tried to let me sleep in, but it is impossible to sleep in a house where little children are awake and squealing and I always gave in and got up.

I don’t like eggs, Megan announced.

I wasn’t going to give you eggs.

"But I don’t like them," she insisted.

"I’m not giving you eggs," I said again a little louder.

"Mommy, I don’t like them."

I sighed yet again. It was going to be one of those days. Don’t get me wrong, I love being a stay-at-home-mom! It’s just that sometimes I yearn for more adult conversation. Eight hours alone with a four year-old and a two year-old can drive you a little bonkers.

Mark and I had gotten married right out of college so I had never had a real job. Like everyone in college I had been full of high aspirations. I was going to conquer the world! Be the best! Have people looking up to me and respecting me! Well, some of those came true. I hadn’t conquered the world, most days I was happy if I could just conquer the laundry. I wasn’t the best or even close. But I did have people looking up to me, mostly because I was taller, but it still counted.

What I really wanted, more than anything in the world, was to be normal. Every day that went by where no one looked at me and said, "What are you?" was a success in my book. Most people don’t want to think of themselves as normal. It seems too mundane. They want to be different and exciting. Not me. I was different, and I didn’t like it.

I’m not your normal mom. I’m not even your normal person. Some days I worry that I’m not a person at all. Except for commanding Harvey around, (which is totally called for) I’ve been able to completely repress my ability. Not even my husband knows what I am.

I am a monster.

Chapter Two

It started when I was twelve. I wanted to get my ears pierced. Dad thought I was too young. He said I didn’t take care of my belongings and I wasn’t responsible enough to care for the piercings. He told my Mom horror stories of infected ears and girls losing their hearing.

My older sister Karen had pierced ears. All my friends had pierced ears. I was convinced that I was the oldest girl in the entire world to not have her ears pierced. It made me look like a baby. I knew that if only I could wear earrings a whole new world of adult emotions and maturity would be mine. I would finally be what I so wanted to be – grown up.

I begged. I pleaded. I pouted. I connived. I tried everything I could think of. I made promises that, in retrospect, would have been impossible to keep. I tried mature, rational negotiating. I tried the silent treatment. Nothing changed my Dad’s mind.

One day all my frustrations boiled over. A popular girl at school had just gotten her second set of piercings, and was flaunting them to the entire class.

I could see how fascinated everyone was. How the boys laughed and joked with her. How the girls looked up to her. And I longed to be that confident and carefree. If only I had pierced ears, I would be a new me. People would like me. People would think I was beautiful.

I had wandered too close and the girl noticed me. She’d never noticed me before, but now I had caught her attention. She stopped in mid-laugh and gave me a stare that questioned why such a lowly worm was daring to intrude into her circle of sparkling awesomeness.

I wanted to sink into the ground, but I drew up my courage and said softly, I like your new earrings.

She’s rolled her eyes, Thanks, she said, looking around at her friends to show how silly it was for her to be talking with a lower creature.

Did it hurt? I’d asked, wanting to run and hide, but also taking advantage of the sudden lull in the conversation.

She had half-turned away, but now she swung back, annoyed at my persistence. Her eyes roamed my body from head to toe, zeroing in on my unadorned earlobes. What? she’d sneered, Is that why you don’t have pierced ears? Are you so much a baby that you’re scared of a little pain?

Baby! Baby! some of the other girls chanted, thrilled to join in with mocking someone else. It was either mock or be mocked and we all knew what side we wanted to be on.

I am not a baby! I’d yelled back, my eyes welling with tears.

You are too! the girl had shot back. If you’re not a baby, prove it! She grabbed a thumbtack off the wall. Stick this through your ear!

I was trembling with fear and excitement. I wanted those earrings so bad, but I knew that if I returned with holes in my ears I would be grounded for a month. I couldn’t deliberately disobey my father like that.

Stick it through your ear! she’d said triumphantly, seeing my refusal. "Stick it through your ear, baby!"

Rage rose in my chest till I could hardly see straight. Stick it through your own ear! I yelled at her and raced off to hide in one of the bathroom stalls. It wasn’t until the next day that I heard the story. Heard how a girl in my class had accidently fallen and gotten a thumbtack jammed in her ear. That was the official story. The one they had told the adults. But another story circled the school in whispers. Whispers that she had taken the tack herself and violently thrust it through her ear.

If I had stayed a minute longer, perhaps I wouldn’t have faced off with my dad that night. We were at the mall, shopping for a birthday present for my mom and we passed a piercing kiosk.

Please, dad? I’d begged. Please can I get my ears pierced?

No, he’d said, distracted and not taking me seriously.

I’d stamped my foot. It’s not fair! I’d snarled quietly. Everybody else has their ears pierced! You let Karen pierce her ears when she was younger than me! Why can’t I get mine pierced?

You’re just not responsible enough yet, Piper, he’d said calmly, refusing to budge.

In my head, I heard all the kids chanting, Baby! Baby! Baby! I was not a baby! I was not scared of the pain. I would show everyone!

My dad was already walking away and I tugged at his arm. You have to let me get my ears pierced now! I’d said, emotion filling me till I felt like a water balloon about to burst.

To my surprise, he’d sighed, squeezed my hand and said, Okay. If you really want it that bad, you can get your ears pierced, Piper.

I’d sat down on the chair in a daze, hardly believing my good luck. I didn’t understand why he had changed his mind so quickly. What had I said to convince him? I didn’t even feel the pinch as the needle shot through my flesh. I was just so happy. Now people at school would take me seriously. Now I would be a somebody.

As we drove home my dad kept looking over at me and shaking his head. I can’t believe I let you do that, he’d said in wonder.

Thank you so much, daddy! I’d smiled. You’re the best!

Your mother is going to kill me, he’d muttered.

She didn’t. She just laughed and laughed. After all the times he had stood his ground, she thought it hilarious that he had so quickly caved.

I went to school that next day proudly sporting my studs, reaching up to spin them gently, making sure that they were really there. I thought that nothing could ruin my effervescent mood, until I heard the whispers, saw the hooded stares, felt the nervous fear that followed me down the halls.

That was when I knew the truth. There was something wrong with me. I was a monster.

I tried to tell myself that I was imagining things and pretty soon it blew over, erased from memory by the latest teenage drama. I wondered though, but as the months passed, even I started to forget. Every time something happened I would explain it away. But there were more instances. Probably more than I even realized. A teacher who was notorious for never allowing extensions happily gave me an extra week on my paper. A police officer gave me a warning instead of the ticket I deserved. I was hired as a summer intern by a company who had filled their last slot the day before my interview, yet somehow made room for me.

The older I grew the more I started to recognize the signs. The sudden change of mind in the person I was talking to. An uncharacteristic acquiescence to whatever it was I wanted, followed minutes later by a puzzled look, the person surprised at their own actions. I began to fear myself.

I didn’t know what it was, but I called it the Voice. I could feel deep inside me a change, a way of speaking that forced people to my will. Most of the time I could control it, I would begin to experience the feeling building inside me and I would push it down, refuse to speak, or simply flee the situation that was tempting me. But sometimes it would pop out when I wasn’t expecting and turn my words into horrible weapons against a person’s free will.

I wanted to talk with my parents. To ask what was happening to me. But I was too afraid. It was too strange. Too hard to explain. I doubted they would believe me and worried about what would happen if they did.

Every time I slipped up I would renew my vow to not use the Voice. It was evil and creepy and I was sure that I could control it, bottle it up, and never have to face it again. I thought I was alone, the only monster in the world, and I resolved to be even more normal than everyone else. Until one night in college I used the Voice again.

It was junior year and I was downtown, leaving the gym where I had been trying to work off my freshman fifteen at a Zumba class. The parking lot had been packed that night and I had been forced to park down the street. I had my gym bag slung over my shoulder and I trotted quickly to my car, eager to return to the dorm to shower and eat back all the calories I had just burned with a tub of ice cream.

There was a popular club on the corner, the kind where the music pulses so loudly that conversation is impossible, and dancing involves swaying in a huge group of tightly packed people. I’d gone once with my roommate, Beth, and had quickly decided that it was not for me.

As I passed the alley next to the club I heard a familiar voice laughing. It sounded like Beth. I paused in mid-stride and debated what to do. She was an adult and I wasn’t her keeper, but I didn’t want to leave her alone in a dark alley. Something seemed off.

I reached for my phone but stopped. I didn’t know who to call or what to say. I think I hear my roommate down a spooky alley and I’m going to investigate just sounded too silly.

I bit my lip and thought about it. As a child my mother had filled my head with warnings about strangers, about strangers’ cars, about strangers with candy, about going out at night alone, about drunk drivers, and especially, as I got older, about date rape drugs. There was no way you would find a Schultz girl alone in an alley at night! And yet here I was, ready to do just that.

I carefully arranged my car keys in my fingers so as to make a weapon which would probably be highly ineffective but made me feel slightly safer. So armed, I stepped out of the comforting glow of the street light and walked down the alley.

I heard Beth laugh again and I was sure this time that it was her. She sounded drunk, which was not exactly a surprise. Beth had no head for alcohol and made really dumb choices when she was drunk. Choices like leaving the club and hanging out in an alley. Oh, I could slap her!

Beth? I called cautiously. There were several dumpsters lined up by the club’s back door and the voices I heard were coming from beyond them. I rounded the dumpster and saw I had been right, it was Beth and she wasn’t alone.

She was leaning against the dirty alley wall, shoes held in one hand and laughing up into the face of a young man I had never seen before. He was hovering over her possessively, one hand on the wall by her head and the other placed on her bare thigh. I disliked him at once. This was clearly the sort of stranger that my mother had tried to warn me about.

I marched up to them, determined to take Beth home to safety. "Oh, there you are! I said cheerfully. I’ve been looking all over for you. It’s time to go home."

She laughed again in surprise. What’re you doing here? she slurred.

The man refused to back off of her, his eyes glittering strangely in the dark. I didn’t want to get close to him, but Beth wasn’t leaving me a lot of options. I approached gingerly and took her arm.

It’s time to go home, I said gently, trying not to make eye contact with the man.

I don’t wanna . . . she trailed off. Let’s get ‘nother drink! She squealed with laughter.

I got a firmer hold on her arm. Let’s go, Beth.

The man spoke, still not taking his hand off her leg. "She doesn’t