On Demon Wings Part 34

"Can you do that, little fifteen?" Dex asked.

She crossed her arms. "Well, yeah, I'm pretty good at lying. I just don't think it's going to be the end of the world like you are both brewing over. They'll be upset and h.e.l.la mad but really they'll be glad you're OK. When I spoke to them, they were just really, really worried."

Dex and I exchanged a weighted glance and spent the remainder of the drive in silence. Silence except for my heart that was beating faster with every street we pa.s.sed.

By the time we turned onto our fair street, twilight hung in the sky, casting a moody glow over everything, and I was nearly sick with nerves. As we came up the house, we saw three extra cars in the driveway; two of them had Portland Police displayed on the sides. I gasped. Dex reached out for my hand and I clutched it hard.

"Wow," Ada said under her breath as she looked over the scene. "Think mom and dad overreacted much?"

The Highlander came to gradual stop, the asphalt crunching under the tires.

Ada hopped out of the car and started walking slowly toward the house.

Dex held my hand tighter and leaned across the console to me. "I have you. You're going to be OK. I won't let anyone take you anywhere."

Forget my parent's overreacting; I hoped Dex and I were the ones overreacting.

I nodded but my lips couldn't find a smile.

We got out of the car. He came around to me and grabbed my hand, holding it as tight as before. Ada was almost at the front door when it flung open and my father came roaring out like a charging rhino.

"YOU!" he screamed, as he stormed toward us, not even giving Ada a glance. He was surprisingly fast and his fury was directed at Dex, not me.

He came right up to Dex and swiftly clocked him across the face.

I screamed as my dad's punch knocked Dex back a few steps. He didn't fight back but he protected his nose with his hands as my father went after him again.

"That was for my daughters!" he yelped, as he threw another punch, which Dex managed to dodge.

There was something a bit touching about my father doing that for Ada and me, but that feeling didn't last long when there was a flurry of activity and three cops ran out of the house, followed by my mother and Maximus. My mother grabbed Ada, crying and holding her close, while Maximus called my name and trotted over.

I moved away and went to join Dex but the three cops were at him, one of them holding back my father while the other two grabbed Dex's arms behind him and threw him against the cop car. They fished out the handcuffs and began to read him his Miranda rights.

"What the f.u.c.k!? Nooo!" I cried out, and started running but suddenly arms were wrapped around me from behind as Maximus held me back. "Let go of me, you f.u.c.king a.s.shole!"

"Perry, calm down," he said, but didn't let up.

I screamed at my father, "What are they doing? They can't arrest him!"

"He's wanted for kidnapping," the officer with my dad said, letting him go. My dad adjusted his tie and kept his beady eyes on Dex, his face read and sweating.

"We've been looking for you all around the state," said the other officer who was holding Dex's head down against the car. I now recognized him as the Channing Tatum cop from the other day. "Two cases of kidnapping, crossing state lines."

"Hey, I chose to go with him!" Ada yelled, flinging herself out of my mother's hug.

"You're a minor," the officer responded.

I strained against Maximus's stronghold. "But I'm not! I willingly went with Dex too!"

"But you're not of your right mind," I heard a voice say from my right. I looked at the house, past Ada who was marching up to the cops, past my mother, who failed to grab hold of her, and saw Dr. Freedman walking calmly down the steps. "You're not well, Perry, and you cannot make decisions for yourself."

"No," I uttered, and tried again to get away from Maximus. I wanted to run to Dex, pull him away from the cops and run free. I could see from his face, as the cops frisked him, as his head was squished hard against the car, that he felt the same. Panic and indignation flared in his eyes.

"Don't fight it, Perry, do as I say," Maximus whispered in my ear. "I won't let them take you anywhere but you have to play nice and play fair. Calm down."

I didn't care what Maximus had to say. There was only one person I was going to listen to and he was being arrested.

Dr. Freedman stopped in front of me and smiled in his condescending way.

"Perry, take a deep breath and look where you are. You're with us. With your family. We're going to help you."

I heard Dex cry out and tore my eyes away from the doctor. Dex was shaking his head, trying to fight and losing as the cops tried to force him into the back of the cruiser.

"Dex!"I screamed. But it was useless. The car door slammed in his face and the two officers got in the front.

The car started and pulled away from the road, leaving me in the dust.

I screamed again and struggled but it was useless. I was trapped.

"Relax, Perry," the doctor said. "You're in my hands."

He stepped closer to me until he was all I could see.

"You're safe now."

"You're safe now."

I screamed somewhere deep inside.

Look for Old Blood (5.5), an Experiment in Terror Novella coming in July 2012. You know part of Pippa's story, now's your chance to learn more. Includes the first few chapters of EIT #6 Into the Hollow For more information about the series, visit: www.experimentinterror.com Follow the author on Twitter at @MetalBlonde Become a fan of the EIT Facebook Page by liking us at www.facebook.com/experimentinterror (get exclusive content + giveaways too) Read on for the first few chapters of Halle's Lost in Wanderl.u.s.t, a rowdy contemporary romance set on the Mediterranean coming June 2012

1.

JAMIE.

June 18th I nearly died last night.

I guess this isn't the only time I've written this down here. And it's not the only time it happened because I was swept away by some exotic version of Ian Somerhalder (SMOLDERHOLDER).

I ate at this little place near the docks, kind of a busy area but recommended by Hildy and more than a few locals. It was nice; I mean the fish was fresh as could be, but what was really fantastic was that no one seemed to care that I was a blonde, white woman eating alone. It wasn't a tourist trap either, just a delightfully progressive eatery in Tangier.

OK, so what was even better was that SMOLDERHOLDER (as I shall call him, the harbinger of my almost death) was across the room. Yeah, he was with a woman who was probably his wife but he was still looking my way. Maybe it's because I nearly choked on a fishbone, or perhaps because I dumped my cup of mint tea down my s.h.i.+rt (why do I wear white?) but he was looking at me. And he might have liked what he saw.

I say this because when I was getting up to leave, he suddenly got up to leave too. I mean, just him, no one else, like he was going to time it so we walked to the washrooms together or something, like you did in high school. But just as I was near his table, radically conscious of my ink blot-shaped tea stain across my b.o.o.bs, his wife/she-devil woman reached up and s.n.a.t.c.hed him by the elbow, seating him back down.

I couldn't stop and wait to see what he was going to do next, though, so I kept walking. I walked out of the restaurant, onto the street and saw a cab waiting on the other side.

My thoughts were a mix of planning my cabbie strategy (I am NOT getting ripped off in this d.a.m.n city anymore!) and yearning for SMOLDERHOLDER when suddenly I heard an American voice behind me. An American MALE voice.

"Hey, you left your book!"

I stopped in the middle of the road. I turned around.

SMOLDERHOLDER was holding my diary. Yes, diary, I forgot you once again.

I smiled and was about to say something witty like "Oh!" or "Ah!" when I was. .h.i.t by a rickshaw.

Remember when I got hit by that car in Buenos Aires that the landlord's naughty old grandma was driving? Yeah, this wasn't as bad. But it was a rickshaw. And that's embarra.s.sing. It's, like, a bike.

I don't know where it came from or how I didn't see it, but d.a.m.n, those rickshaws don't have headlights and the streets in this d.a.m.n town are poorly lit and that stupid s.e.xy SMOLDERHOLDER had me so flabbergasted that it's possible I RAN INTO the rickshaw myself.

Anyway, it hit me. The driver and the pa.s.senger went flying (and when I say flying, I mean they just kind of slumped awkwardly and swore profusely in French). I bungled up my leg pretty bad. Next thing I kno,w the people from the restaurant are beside me. Turns out SMOLDERHOLDER'S wife is a doctor. Of course she is. They both took me to the emergency room, my body raked with the road, the tea stain now covered by horses.h.i.+t.

I'm fine, though, obviously. My leg is sc.r.a.ped ugly and bruised as h.e.l.l but I can walk. Nothing is broken. I was lucky. I always hear that, how lucky I am, how fortunate.

How lucky am I really, though? The night spent in the crazy emergency room with MR. and MRS. PHD SMOLDERHOLDER was ...I don't know how to explain this, but for once, I actually felt CARED for. Like I was a soul worth paying attention to. Last nigh,t I almost lost my life and it made me realize that I jet-setting travel writer Jamie Cooper - really don't have that much of a life to lose.

How sad is that?

2.

CHRIS.

There is nothing more terrifying than a blank page.

Scratch that. There is nothing more terrifying than a blank page when you have a deadline.

And there is nothing more p.i.s.s-your-trousers, fetal-positioning, terrifying when you have a blank page, a deadline, and a boss called Joe Bradley.

I have all three of those things. I haven't p.i.s.sed my pants yet, but if I have yet another cup of coffee this becomes more of a possibility. As for the fetal position, I've learned there is just enough room for that under my desk. Unfortunately, crawling under your desk rarely makes your problems go away. It only worked that one time when I faked having a delirious fever and Marilyn sent me home from work. G.o.d bless that woman; there's a special place in heaven for secretaries who know you're lying and still go along with it.

The article I have to finish is a piece on the economy. Oh, I know. How unique. Another expose on how screwed Britain is and how the whole world is screwed and how the newspaper is screwed because no one buys newspapers anymore because of the d.a.m.n economy (and Internet of course, but Joe's Jura.s.sic way of doing news is about as useful as the arms on a T-Rex). But for some darn reason, people like to hear about how f.u.c.ked up everything is and these articles keep coming out. And I'm the one writing them, which leaves me tremendously depressed every time I hear an investor talk about the sorry state of affairs. Actually, they aren't sorry. They are the ones with the money. But the rest of us suffer.

Especially me. Because if I don't produce the article in the next 20 minutes, that's one more excuse for Joe to kick me out on my a.r.s.e. Then I'd be out of a job. And without a job, I wouldn't be able to save just enough to buy Alexa her desired engagement ring and I certainly wouldn't be able to afford the holiday we're supposed to be taking tomorrow.

Ugh. The s.p.a.ce under the desk is starting to look particularly inviting now.

Somehow though, I manage to pull myself out of my nightly spiral of shame and loathing and the article gets done. It's not my best work...actually I'm pressed to find any of my best work lately. But it is something and something is what The London Herald needs. Or, at least, gets.

I eye the clock. It's already one minute late.

I hop out of my chair and walk past the row of cubicles across to the other side of the office. It's amazing how something so large and open, with buzzing fluorescent lights everywhere and blinking computers, can feel exactly like an oppressive, dank cave.

As usual, I'm the only one here working late. Well, me, Joe and Marilyn. We used to have a few beat reporters who would put in the long hours but Joe sacked them a few months ago. Was a real shame too; one of them, Pat, lived just down the road from me and would often give me a ride home. Now I see him on the way to the tube in the mornings and he won't even look at me. Losing your job can make you pretend to forget a lot of people.

I pause in front of Joe's office. Marilyn sits to the right of the door, eyebrows furrowed as she types furiously at her computer.

I reckon Marilyn would have been quite a stunner back in the day. For someone in her 60s, she's quite a stunner now. She's gained a few kg over the years I've known her, but the weight keeps her looking youthful and smoothes out the "beak-face" older women get when their noses get longer but they pull their cheeks back with plastic surgery. Marilyn just has a warm, if somewhat anxious, visage, with friendly eyes that she denies behind cat-eyed gla.s.ses. She keeps her grey hair a rich brown and dresses in thick materials that seem opulent and itchy at the same time.

She pauses in mid "clackity clack" and glances up at me with a stern, motherly face.

"You done?"

"Just emailed it to him."

"You know you're late."

"One minute late."

"Two minutes late. You know Joe wants it printed out."

I sigh and look back at my computer. I know he wants our work printed out and handed to him, the old-fas.h.i.+oned way. But it seems like a waste of time when he can just read it on the computer. You know, like the rest of the planet.

"Joe can print it out himself if he needs to."

She rolls her eyes and resumes her symphony of keyboard sounds.

"No, he can't. I'll be the one printing it out for him."

"I just don't understand why you've figured out how the printer works and he hasn't. Weren't you both born around the same time? World War One?"

I grin at her and scoot over to Joe's door before she has a chance to whack me with her hand. Her nails are fake and sharp. I've learned the hard way.

I raise my hand and am about to knock on the door just beneath the gleaming plate that reads JOE BRADLEY EDITOR-IN-CHIEF when he barks from the other side. I'm sure there were words attached to the noise, but to me he just sounds like a dog more often than not.

I open the door cautiously and poke my head in. As usual, Joe's office looks like a bomb went off in it. The desk is piled high with folders and files that I haven't ever seen him move, and his blinds are so jumbled that it gives one the impression he spends half his time peering out of them with keen paranoia. Perhaps Joe's been in the Witness Protection Program. Would explain a lot.

Everything is just so grey in here. The skies outside the messy window are grey (even at night, it's a deep charcoal), the coffee in Joe's cup looks grey (expired Coffee Mate will do that), Joe's collared s.h.i.+rt is grey (was white once, I'm sure), his hair is grey and Joe's face is grey. The expression on his face is grey. I do that to him.

"Chris!" he barks, now making legible words. "Get your skinny British a.s.s in here."

I quickly close the door and stand nervously by his desk. Joe's an American. He believes all British men have abnormally small behinds. I haven't looked around enough to figure out if it's true or not.

"Where's the article?" he narrows his eyes at me. "It's late."

"I emailed it to "