Damned if He Does

By Marcella Burnard

Rejected by heaven, twisted by hell, what’s a damned dead man to do when he stumbles upon a life and love worth fighting for?

Though damned for his earthly sins, Darsorin Incarri likes being an incubus. Prowling women’s dreams to siphon off their sexual energy for Satan's consumption has its perks: an array of infernal power and a modicum of freedom. Sure, Ole Scratch holds Dar’s soul in thrall, and Dar has to spend a few hours recharging in Hell every day, but it could be much worse. All he has to do is hold up his end of his damnation contract – five women seduced, satisfied and siphoned per night for eternity. So when he encounters gorgeous, bright, and funny Fiona Renee, it’s business as usual. Deploy the infernal charm and rack up another score. Except it doesn’t work. She’s immune. He has to find out what’s gone wrong or face Lucifer's wrath.

Fiona Renee has the life she’d always wanted: a career, a home, a cat with a bad attitude, and peace. Fiona’s dated. Had boyfriends. And hated every minute of it. She’s reconciled to being lonely. So when a man shows up in her bedroom in the middle of the night demanding to know why her dreams turn to nightmares every time he tries to seduce her from within them, Fiona winds up negotiating a contract with a demon that allows him access to her life. She never anticipated that it would also give him access to her heart. If she's going to fall in love at all, something she never thought would happen, shouldn’t it be with someone who’s alive? If Fiona wants to hang on to Darsorin, she has to find his true name—the one he’d been given at his birth over a thousand years ago. But Satan, himself, stands in her way. Even if Fiona can dodge Lucifer, she and Darsorin have to face the question neither of them can answer: What happens to a dead man if you manage to wrest his soul from the Devil?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marcella Burnard
• Release date: Jul 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997724400

Book preview

Chapter One

The problem with being damned was that no one would meet your eye.

Darsorin Incarri squared his shoulders and glanced into the faces of the people passing him on the sidewalk. They'd look one another in the eye. Smile. Say, 'good morning.' But for someone whose soul had been claimed by the Devil? Nothing.

People would try. There’d be a split second of eye contact, then, as if the varied torments of Hell were somehow reflected in his eyes, their gazes would run away. Every time.

Shivering in the May sunshine, he shoved his clenched fists into the pockets of his black leather jacket. A single crumb of human warmth that wasn't infernally compelled, surely that shouldn’t be too much to ask. Even for a damned soul.

He pushed through the door of a tiny drug store around the corner from his office and trudged to the pharmacy in the back.

May I help you? The pharmacist wore her strawberry blonde hair pulled into a swinging ponytail. Her name tag said ‘Fiona.’ Glasses, thick jade frames and barely-there lenses, heightened the olive of her eyes and magnified the smoky eyeliner and shadow she wore. Lush, full lips, painted clear pink smiled at him.

She looked him firmly in the eye.

No flinching.

No hint of nervous energy.

He pulled in a slow breath. The woman of his dreams–dreams he didn’t know he had, because Hell has a way of grinding those right out of a damned soul–and here he was picking up itch cream for his boss.

Prescription for Louis Sieffer.

She turned away to leaf through the white prescription bags before turning back armed with one of them. Here we go. Have you used this medication before?

Her white coat washed out her pale complexion, but the lavender silk collar of her blouse, peeking from beneath the coat, caught his imagination. The silk must be worshipping the curves her abomination of a coat all but eradicated.

He sucked a breath in between clenched teeth as his body hardened. Game on. Another soul to seduce for Ole Scratch.

Without conscious thought, he hit her with sex magic. Marking her. Warning off rivals, and maybe, tipping her off, too, so they could both revel in the anticipation. Lust spiked all around him in the cramped, back corner of the drug store where three other women and one man, thin enough to blow away in a breeze, perched on hard plastic chairs, waiting for their prescriptions. He breathed it in, tasting, confused. None of it seemed to emanate from the young woman he held in his predatory crosshairs. She radiated friendly warmth, not insatiable desire like the rest of the females within ten feet of him–like she should.

He latched onto the desire surging around him. Three women. Three separate threads of want. All for the taking. Their want fed him, spilling into the empty space where his forfeited soul should have been. While he wanted the pharmacist, he’d been presented with a buffet of feminine sexual drive, he sampled the offerings. Longing was heady, addicting stuff. The unfulfilled yearning plunked into the dark well of him, tantalizing him with the sensation that he could be filled up, that he could feel almost human again. Briefly.

He smiled and sucked harder on the women’s dissatisfaction and burgeoning appetite.

Mr. Sieffer? Sir, have you used this medication before? the pharmacist repeated, her voice clear and alluring as a shot of the smoothest whiskey.

For eternity, he said. Why wasn’t she inarticulate with need?

Her smile fell and she leaned closer, lowering her voice. Captivated, he mirrored her until he could have pretended to lose his balance and have their lips meet over the middle of the counter. He caught the faintest hint of perfume. Rose and jasmine. Hunger he hadn’t experienced in centuries spiked his blood–different from his soul-bound compulsion to service as many women as possible in the name of Hell. This delectable morsel kindled the lecherous nature that had damned him in the first place. He could consume her. His mouth watered. He would.

Drunk with wanting her, he downed another shot of the unrequited desire he’d tapped from the other women.

Certain STDs can be difficult to control, but this ointment should give you some relief from the pain and itch . . .

Sympathy, cool, blessed sympathy, smacked him in the face like a dead fish. What she’d said–what she thought–registered. He jerked upright.

It’s not for me! he said. I’m picking this up for a–friend.

Her pink lips twitched.

Adorable. Kissable. Bitable.

Believe me, he said, vitally aware that his voice had dropped just like every ounce of blood in his body had. This is better than the snake oil and wormwood he’s been using for the past thousand years.

Oh, that didn’t sound weird. Or like he had a gay lover. He closed his eyes. Smooth, Incubus. Real smooth. What the hell had happened to his ironclad contract that assured he’d always be supernaturally sexy? Every woman’s dream?

You’ll want to watch that wormwood thing, she said, the melody of amusement turning her voice to music. Adverse liver implications.

Least of his concerns. He opened his eyes, locking his gaze on her. So prim. His chest tightened. What he wouldn’t do to shatter her façade.

Looks like there’s a twenty dollar copay with that medication. Is there anything else we can help you with, Mr. Sieffer?

He’s my boss.

I’m sorry?

Louis Sieffer is my boss. I’m Darsorin Incarri. I should be listed in his file as authorized to pick up his prescriptions. He handed over his debit card and smacked his lips on the desire he’d been chewing as if it were gum. Maybe another pull on that source. She had plenty.

The pharmacist glanced at the computer screen and nodded. Yes. You are. My apologies, Mr. Incarri.

One of the pharmacy technicians, a frowning young man eyeing him with suspicion, appeared at her shoulder. Ms. Renee, Dr. Cloust’s office on line one. May I finish ringing this up?

Thank you, Matt. Have a good day, Mr. Incarri, she said. When she met his gaze again, he swore her green eyes danced with suppressed mirth. His body went from ‘ask her out and nail her’ to ‘NOW’.

And yet, she gave off not a whiff of lust as she walked away to answer the phone.

Your PIN? Matt, the suspicious tech, prompted.

Darsorin didn’t waste a mote of demonic power on blowing the kid back. He was too busy watching the hem of Fiona Renee’s slate pencil skirt twitch as she picked up the phone and then sidestepped to access her computer. He’d dialed the sexual mojo to eleven, and she seemed so blissfully unaware. It made him glance down at himself to be make sure he was still corporeal.

Yep. Skin pale on the backs of his hands showed the veins underneath, a relic of his Celt/French heritage. A glance confirmed he was still dressed as he preferred, too. Jeans, black motorcycle jacket, boots. Was that it? He didn’t yet conform to her fantasy? He studied her. Did she not like dark-haired men? Or just men? No. He got no hint of ash and smoke in his mouth that would make him summon one of Satan’s succubae for her. What, then, would a sweet-faced woman with a sharp mind and a sense of humor want in a man?

He punched up the infernal sex appeal.

One of the women behind him whimpered. Her yearning seeped through his pores. Excellent. The offering soothed the confusion confronting him in the form of the lovely pharmacist.

She darted a glance his way, as if feeling his regard. Smiled. Nodded. Her gaze ran away from his, but not before her cheeks flushed.

Triumph eased the pressure of want in his blood. Not so unaffected, after all. Breathing rose and jasmine scented air in to cool his lungs, he took the medication and the receipt, since Satan feared only his accountants, and shoved them in the pocket of his jacket.

Mrs. DeWitt? The receiver dangled from the pharmacist’s hand. She stared past him, concern in the wrinkles between her brows. Ma’am? Are you all right?

Darsorin glanced over his shoulder. His prey. One of the women he’d been draining had paled. Sweat beaded on her forehead and upper lip. She sagged in her chair. Oops. Indulging a little too enthusiastically in feeding from the cattle. Covering a snicker with a faked cough, he shut down snacking on Mrs. DeWitt, and backed away a step.

The lady slid out of her chair onto the polished linoleum.

Matt! the pharmacist yelped. She dropped the phone, grabbed a bright red first aid kit from a holder on the wall, and bolted around the counter. Call 911!

The pharmacist knelt beside the fallen woman, calling her name. The tech clutched the phone to his ear, reporting ‘medical emergency’ and relaying address information.

Darsorin scooped up the last dregs of sexual excitement zinging around the pharmacy. Mrs. DeWitt’s collapse had capped the want emanating from the other two women. Too bad.

Mentally, he slotted each into his work schedule for the coming night. He fed on want. Ole Scratch demanded that his incubi siphon and bottle the prey’s moment of satiation. Win/win. He glanced at the woman on the floor slowly rousing from her faint. Except maybe for his victims.

Weak desire from the waking woman brushed him. He grinned. Down but not out. The women he visited all got what they wanted. Eventually. Definitely a win all the way around. So when Mrs. DeWitt recovered, he’d cut her a break and slot her in as tonight’s appetizer. The other two ladies would provide the soup and salad courses. The intriguing Ms. Fiona Renee–her he’d leave for last–main course and dessert.

Later, Darsorin said, lacing every ounce of anticipation thrumming his nerves into his voice. For the lovely Ms. Renee’s benefit. He turned. The two women who remained conscious followed him with palpable gazes, each prying at his form, demanding that he adhere to their fantasies–both at once. Skin stretched, splitting and healing over as his bones popped in response to one woman’s demand that he be taller, broad-shouldered. The skin and bones of his face crawled, answering her demand for Asian features. At the same time, his shoulder blades ached. Pressure built in his back. Wings. One of the women had an angel fetish. Or, given the mottled, granite gray color over taking the skin of his hands, a gargoyle fetish. Grunting at the pain of competing demands, he shoved his hands in his coat pockets, and stumbled.

Ladies. He nodded. One at a time ladies. One at a time. He walked away. Sirens and flashing lights filled the parking lot. Paramedics rushed the shop door.

Darsorin stepped aside. Chaos surged past. He cast one last glance at the pharmacist. As if sensing his regard, she glanced over her shoulder at him. Even with the entire store between them, her frown suggested suspicion. Ridiculous. She couldn’t possibly know he’d caused Mrs. DeWitt’s collapse.

Uneasy pressure landed on his sternum. She couldn’t know.

The paramedics swarmed the fallen woman and Ms. Renee. Darsorin looked away and shook off his edginess. No reason for anyone to connect the emergency service sirens to him. No reason for Ole Scratch to find out that Darsorin had just violated probation by getting carried away with feeding. Again. Mrs. DeWitt was recovering already. She’d be fine. He’d be fine. The incubus made it out of the drug store without looking like he might be running for his unlife.

He sprint-walked back to the office building and stiff-armed the lobby door open. Hell paid for premium digs. The glass and polished metal door didn’t even bang.

Did you get the meds? He’s cranky. The receptionist rose from behind her curved, travertine reception counter.

Dar plunked the pharmacy bag and the receipt on the counter.

I heard sirens, she said, picking up the phone and pressed a single button. Without waiting for a response, she hung up.

Wasn’t me, Darsorin said.

The woman’s sapphire gaze locked on his. She scowled. Dar. What did you do?

In a dark, stinking puff of brimstone scented smoke, the sack, contents, and receipt vanished. The devil, reaching through reality to claim his prescription.

Darsorin scanned the otherwise empty lobby and shrugged, Had a snack. She passed out.

You overfed. Again? Do you not remember what happened the last time? the receptionist demanded.

Thanks for that vote of confidence, Eodain, Dar said. Mrs. DeWitt is a diabetic. I didn’t taste it until just before she crashed. The paramedics will figure it out.

You better hope they do, the black-haired succubus disguised as a human receptionist growled. Having her diagnosed would negate the ‘harm to an innocent’ charge you’re facing if they don’t. You’ve gone six hundred years without messing up. Don’t get complacent.

I’m not the one who rejected Heaven in favor of revenge only to wind up sentenced to spending eternity bored out of my fucking mind.

Only when I’m talking to you, Demon.

Darsorin snarled.

In a flash, Eodain morphed. Her navy business suit stretched, thinned and turned to black leather snug enough to be a second skin. Her blue-black hair swung in heavy curls to the middle of her back. Her eyes flashed crimson and her bared teeth sharpened to razored canines.

The lobby doors rattled. Locked. Black, oily smoke roiled between them, pouring from the glittering, blood-red claws Darsorin’s fingers had become.

With an ominous whomp of plate glass, the building shuddered.

Satan. Issuing a warning. Don’t make me come down there.

Eodain gasped, rolling her eyes upward. She subsided and shifted back into human form.

Darsorin ducked and did what every damned soul learned soon after being consigned to the pit: he swallowed the cinders of his rage. Nothing attracted Ole Scratch’s vengeful eye quite the way resentment and anger did.

Nice to know he cares, Darsorin muttered.

About the cleaning bill and damage deposit for the building, Eodain said. He doesn’t care that I’d gladly flay every ounce of hide from your body and laugh while you scream.

Promises, promises, Dar said, leering.

She sneered. Hell. Right now.

He shook his head and bared his teeth in a grin that had nothing to do with humor. We’ll play later. Right now, I need you to find an address for me. It’s for work.

Her blue eyes glinted crimson for a moment. She snorted. Search engines, Incubus. Let me introduce you.

Two hours later, Darsorin hunched into his motorcycle jacket and studied the steep gables of the roof line of the house before him. It looked like the big old brick house had been split, turned into two units. Fiona lived in one half, her sister and family in the other. Had he been tracking her sister, he’d have had no need for the hours of research he’d put in to find Fiona Renee. He’d have been able to trace her unique sexual energy signature. Another perk working for the Devil–get a bead on a woman’s lust and he had the ticket into their bedrooms and their dreams. All without having to case the chilly Seattle streets in the wee hours of barely morning. Not to mention breaking and entering.

All in the name of syphoning off sexual energy and bottling it for Satan who used the vials as a kind of medication. Dar considered it easy work, meeting Ole Scratch’s five-vials-a-night quota. Maybe other incubi struggled. They were weighed down by sentiment, by the longing to be wanted.

He snorted. He’d avoided messy emotional entanglements with his victims. Until now. Standing outside Fiona’s house, registering the physical pull of attraction, he wished he dared seduce the pharmacist just for the thrill of it. Just for him. Not as a job. No draining her sexual energy for Satan’s consumption.

But. The Devil’s rules were clear. No sexual escapades without benefit to Ole Scratch. Course, the rules also dictated no harming his subjects. At least, not in material, waking life. If a victim’s sexual fantasies included playing rough, an incubus obliged.

He’d skated that woman’s collapse today. As much as Darsorin hated to admit it, Eodain was right. He couldn’t afford to be out of compliance again.

Ms. Fiona Renee had to be just another job.

Headlights swept around the corner at the end of the block, heading his way. Darsorin pulled a wad of keys from his pocket, and crossed the street to the sidewalk in front of Fiona’s house.

His blood hummed in his veins. Who was he kidding? Self-control had never been his strong suit. Not when it came to women. Certainly not when it came to Fiona. A millennium of having things go his way made the single bump in the road unique. Her dearth of lust represented the first real sexual challenge he’d faced since before he’d died.

Exciting.

That was probably stupid. Satan loved crushing the enjoyment out of his demons. Always had.

If I don’t squeeze the juice out every once in a while, Ole Scratch liked to say, the demons swell up and imagine following in my footsteps.

Dar snorted. He had a different path in mind. He climbed the three steps to Fiona’s front door as the car passed in the street behind him. Plants and flowers on either side of the porch nodded in the night breeze. He closed his eyes and held his breath.

His favorite demonic perk. His physical form dissolved into something that passed through the material substance of her front door as if it stood open to him. Without bothering to manifest, he willed himself into the bedroom where she slumbered, stretched out on her side. A huge cat occupied the pillow next to her. He lifted his head and stared at the corner where Darsorin materialized. In the gloom, Dar couldn't detect the cat's color, but he sure could see the reflective membranes in the cat's eyes gleaming at him.

And people say demons are creepy, Dar muttered.

The cat growled.

Fiona shifted, rolled over to face the cat, and brought a hand up to stroke him.

Dar froze, imagining that hand caressing him, and waited for Fiona to drop back into sleep.

The cat still eyed him.

What'll it take to get you to sleep somewhere else for the night? Darsorin whispered. Can you be bribed?

Demonic perk number 476. He concentrated on sending a message to Ole Scratch. Three breaths later, a soul damned for cruelty to cats popped onto the room. Darsorin slapped the soul into the shape of a field mouse.

It shrieked, a tiny, barely audible sound of protest.

The cat stood up.

That's right, Darsorin said. Just for you, mighty hunter. But I tell you what. When you kill this one, no leaving it for her as a present on the pillow.

The cat huffed and stalked to the end of the bed.

Darsorin dangled the mouse.

The cat considered for several seconds, then swatted the rodent from his grasp. The chase was on. Right out the bedroom door. Dar shut the door, and then, making sure he pulled his atoms apart enough that she wouldn't see him if she woke, he went to stand beside the bed.

Entering a woman's dream state had become reflex. Switch on the sex magic, the power inherent to all incubi, and wait. The magic acted like contagion. He breathed out sexual intent. The sleeper breathed it in. Her body responded.

At the same time, he shifted his physical essence apart enough to insinuate bits of himself into the outer edges of his target’s body. It allowed him to read states of readiness and to receive whatever instructions the woman's dreams would convey about who or what he should be to satisfy the desire his power had kindled.

Fiona proved no different. He met no resistance when he penetrated the surface of her form. Her body responded to his intent, though it did so slowly. No matter. He'd relish rousing her himself, within the confines of her dream.

Unless he pulled away and remained material. He could slip into bed with her, wake her and seduce her. He could still rouse a woman with the touch of his hands and mouth. Being damned hadn’t changed that. Had enhanced it, if anything.

But she’d been so hard to pin down to this point. He wouldn’t take any chances. He shrugged off temptation and waited for her dreams to tell him what to be.

And waited. He frowned.

Her dreams went on, fractured, normal, nonsensical images that never once hinted at any awareness of the aroused state of her body.

Okay. He couldn't recall the last time he'd had to initiate a sex dream for someone. Certainly he'd had to at one point in history. That had lasted for centuries. He’d thought times had changed on that front.

No problem. He could start the game. She would change it to suit her subconscious longings, or she'd go along for the ride. He looked forward to either. The only thing required was a bit of enthusiasm. So he'd start with his fantasy.

Closing his eyes to invade and co-opt her dreams didn't seem necessary. He meshed smoothly into her skin and blood and bone and, finally, into her mind. Again he paused, waiting, allowing her subconscious to process his insertion before he shaped a dream location for them.

He built the pharmacy where he'd first met her, one detail at a time. Shelves of medication bottles. Computers. Bland speckled counters. Cash registers. Her as he'd seen her that day, dressed in lavender silk and slate gray skirt, covered by a crisp, officious white coat. He ached to peel that from her body.

Her dream-self complied. She appeared within the dream construct he'd provided. Only the tiny furrow between her brows betrayed any hint of confusion at being back at work in her dreams.

He stood on his side of the service counter. She on the other. No one else in the store. Not even the sappy oldies music played from the overhead speakers. The lights had been banked to 'store closed' mode. Only every third fluorescent lightbulb flickered in the dim store.

He presented himself as he'd been that afternoon. At least until she expected someone else. Standard procedure, not to be deviated from. The dreamer determines the shape of the dream. In order to achieve the greatest sexual energy, his targets decided who he'd be. It had been that way since the day he'd died.

Being forced into a form not his own wasn’t comfortable, but he’d never once resented it. Why now? These encounters weren't about what he wanted. And that was the whole point of having been damned, wasn’t it?

Focusing on dream Fiona, he propped a hip on the counter, hiked himself up, and in one swift move, swung over to her side.

The quizzical lift of her brows fell. She backpedaled.

He closed the distance in a stride and caught her against him. Her gasp drew him straight to her lips. She rested a hand against the leather of his jacket.

He kissed her. Soft. Waiting. Waiting for the inevitable pain of being ripped asunder and remade. But the kiss went on. And the honey wine taste of her kindled a fire in his blood. The heat jolted straight to his cock.

He deepened the kiss, turning them both and backing her against the counter.

She started.

Running his hands up the line of the professional coat, he soothed her. And the scorching fire in his blood urged him to sit her on the edge of the counter and ravish her.

His breath caught. He would. But only after he'd worked her to the point of begging him to.

The buttons of her coat gave beneath his fingers. He slipped his palms inside the rough cotton, savoring the smooth, sensual warmth of the silk covering her skin. Hungry for her response, he traced the fabric up her ribs to her breast.

She sighed into his mouth and her fist clenched on his jacket.

It torched his self-control. He shoved the hated white coat from her shoulders, wrapped his arms around her, and lifted.

She squeaked when her backside touched down on her beige-gold pharmacy counter.

He trailed the fingers of one hand up the inside of her knee.

She flinched and pulled away, breaking the contact of their lips. No.

Sh, he whispered against her lips. He tucked a hand into the hair at the nape of her neck, and claimed her lips again. But to pull her forward into contact with his erection, something he wanted even more than her kiss, required both hands. He rearranged his hold, opting for her hips.

Why was he still himself?

You are so beautiful, he rasped when she broke free again, her breath trembling. He pulled her to the edge of the counter so that her weight rested against his pelvis.

She gasped again. Her eyes widened.

You taste so sweet. I want only to give you pleasure. Permit me that gift. Let go. Allow yourself to want. I can be anything. Anyone. Whatever you can imagine, we can have.

Both of her hands landed on his chest. She'd wrestled free of her white coat. Her fists gripped the leather.

His lust hit the boiling point. He shifted the hem of her skirt up her thighs. He needed a taste, just a sip of her desire, something he could feed back to her to spin her tighter, to heighten her pleasure.

Only no hint of want colored the dream. Formidable control that not a mote of desire leaked past her defenses even within the egoless void of her subconscious. He’d have to go fishing for it, then. She’d thank him for freeing it. For freeing her.

She wouldn’t be the first.

Unholy power provided him the means to rummage around in the material substance of her soul, zeroing in on her primal drives.

Her body arched against him. She cried out.

Triumph surged through his blood. Almost as good as getting off. Almost. With her desire in his grasp, he’d make it good for both of them. There.  He latched onto a fleeting tendril of yearning. And reeled in—nothing. His incubus fingers closed on nothing.

Ow! Breath hissed in between her clenched teeth. Let go. Let go!

Darsorin started. Pain? She’d felt his attempt to tease desire from her? That had never happened before.

What’s wrong? He stroked the silken skin of her thighs, petting, gentling. And registered the increase in her breathing. It didn't sound like arousal. She gulped air into her lungs as if on the edge of drowning. Her eyes weren't glazed with desire.

She squeaked a protest and shoved against him. I said, ‘No!’ Her push slid her backward on the counter, away from him. Eyes wild, her face pale, she stared at his chest.

Hurt, sharp and ringing bright, sliced his breast. His physical form slipped his control. He shifted. Fingers lengthened to claws. Bones stretched. Skin thickened and flushed crimson in pale imitation of Satan’s.

She gasped, horror in her round eyes.

Definitely not her fantasy.

Aghast, Darsorin grappled his demonic form under the veneer of faintly remembered humanity.

Chin quivering, Fiona backed away another few inches, her gaze locked on his chest.

And it finally hit him.

Her fists in his clothes hadn’t been to keep him from leaving her. They’d pushed him away. Fending him off.

Ice dumped down his spine. He glanced at himself, following the line of her gaze. He’d meant to put on the form she knew, jeans, boots, jacket. Something had gone wrong. He wore a shirt of woven flax covered by an open tunic of green. Blood soaked his shirt, a growing, wet red rose. He gasped.

Fiona slid across the counter without looking. She fell off the other side.

Too late, Darsorin lunged to catch her.

The dream shattered on her truncated scream, tossing him on his abruptly material keister in the middle of the cold, dew-damp street fronting her duplex.

Chapter Two

In the darkest hours of the barely-morning, Fiona Renee bolted upright in her bed, heart pounding, sweat beading her skin.

What the hell was that? she gasped. Wrapping her arms around her chest, she shivered and switched on the bedside lamp. She glanced around the room, looking for comfort in the form of her orange tabby cat. Archimedes?

She frowned. No cat. He usually slept on the pillow beside hers. The bedroom door was closed. When had that happened? She climbed out of bed. The covers had been tossed askew as if she’d fought them the way she’d fought her dream. She hauled the sheet and blankets back into position. Her hands shook.

She opened the bedroom door. Archimedes?

He sat outside the door, staring up at her, expectation in the forward set of his ears and whiskers, and a dead mouse at his feet.

Gasping, she backed up a step. "Eugh. First a slightly rapey sex dream involving