Nine by Night: A Multi-Author Urban Fantasy Bundle of Kickass Heroines, Adventure, & Magic Read online

  Nine by Night: A Multi-Author Urban Fantasy Bundle of Kickass Heroines, Adventure, & Magic

  Including works by ~

  SM REINE

  CJ ELLISSON

  LINDSAY BUROKER

  ANTHEA SHARP

  BOONE BRUX

  JC ANDRIJESKI

  ANNIE BELLET

  JESI LEA RYAN

  KARA LEGEND

  Nine by Night Multi-Author Bundle copyright 2014 by White Sun Press. All titles copyrighted by the individual authors. Published August 2014 by WHITE SUN PRESS.

  Cover Art Design 2014 by Damonza.com

  All rights reserved.

  Kindle Edition

  Nine by Night: A Multi-Author Urban Fantasy Bundle of Kickass Heroines, Adventure, & Magic

  Nine books. Nine bestselling authors. Nine heroines that take names—and chances—while confronting dark foes, whether by force of arms or magic, that threaten their entire world.

  Over two thousand pages of epic reading await! Let the adventures begin.

  From NYT and USA Today Bestselling Author, SM REINE, WITCH HUNT –– Shaman on the run. Isobel Stonecrow speaks with the dead...for the right price. She brings closure to the bereaved and heals broken hearts. But when she resurrects someone for the wrong client, she ends up on the OPA's most wanted list.

  From NYT and USA Today Bestselling author, CJ ELLISSON, DEATH’S SERVANT –– Jonathan Winchester has clashed with his werewolf alpha one too many times. He returns to Virginia to find work and meets a young waitress, Raine. As their relationship progresses, Jon's embroiled in more intrigue than he bargained for and a danger bigger than he can handle.

  From bestselling author, LINDSAY BUROKER, TORRENT –– When Delia chose to major in archaeology, she imagined herself as the female Indiana Jones of the Southwest. She didn't imagine herself stumbling across decapitated bodies in old mine shafts or learning that monsters are real…

  From bestselling author, ANTHEA SHARP, SPARK –– What if a high-tech game was a gateway to the treacherous Realm of Faerie? Superstar gamer Spark Jaxley's life might look easy, but she's part of an elite few who guard a shocking secret; the Realm of Faerie exists, and its dark magic is desperate for a foothold in the mortal world.

  From bestselling authors BOONE BRUX and CJ ELLISSON, DEATH TIMES TWO –– The V V Inn has a ghost problem. New grim reaper, Lisa Carron, accepts the job. She quickly learns the hotel is full of the dearly departed—and she’s working for vampires. Throw in Asa, a young vamp hot enough to melt the Arctic ice, and Lisa realizes she’s way out of her element.

  From bestselling author, JC ANDRIJESKI, ROOK: ALLIE’S WAR EPISODES 1-4 –– Like most humans, Allie distanced herself from Seers, a race of human-like beings discovered on Earth. Yanked out of her life by the mysterious Revik, Allie finds out her blood may not be as “human” as she thought, the world is nothing like it appears to be...and she has more in common with Seers than she ever wanted to believe.

  From bestselling author, ANNIE BELLET, JUSTICE CALLING –– Gamer. Nerd. Sorceress. Jade Crow lives a quiet life running her comic book and game store in Wylde, Idaho. After twenty-five years fleeing from a powerful sorcerer who wants to eat her heart and take her powers, quiet suits her just fine. Surrounded by friends who are even less human than she is, Jade figures she's finally safe. As long as she doesn't use her magic…

  From bestselling author, JESI LEA RYAN, ARCADIA’S GIFT –– Teenager Arcadia (Cady) Day’s family tragedy unleashes a hidden power. After experiencing what can only be called a psychic episode, her home life crumbles. As her emotional control slips away, Cady begins to suspect that her first psychic episode was just the beginning…

  From Urban Fantasy author, KARA LEGEND, WILD NIGHT ROAD –– One innocent hex sets off a chain reaction of trouble among the shifters of the Kinraven that threatens war between werewolves, seraphim and witches. Lilith Darke will do anything to be free of her seraphim master. All hell breaks loose when rival packs face off only to discover a new, deadly threat that will take all their magick to survive.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  More by SM Reine

  WITCH HUNT

  A Preternatural Affairs Novel

  BY SM REINE

  There are scratches on Cèsar Hawke’s arms, a discharged Glock on his coffee table, and a dead woman in his bathtub. Yeah, maybe he brought the waitress home for some fun—he was too drunk to remember it—but he knows for a fact that he didn’t kill her. He’s an agent with the Office of Preternatural Affairs. He doesn’t hurt people. He saves them.

  The cops disagree. Now Cèsar is running.

  Isobel Stonecrow speaks with the dead. She brings closure to the bereaved and heals broken hearts. But when she talks to the wrong spirit, the OPA puts a bounty on her head.

  Tracking down Isobel is the last case assigned to Cèsar before he bolts. If he finds her, he can prove that he didn’t kill that waitress. He can clear his name, get his job back, and bring justice to all those wronged families.

  She’s just one witch. He’s bagged a dozen witches before.

  How hard can one more be?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hell of a night.

  It was my first thought when I peeled my eyelids open—an immediate precursor to “everything hurts” and “screw tequila, I’m never drinking alcohol again.” My mouth was dry like I’d licked that brown apartment carpeting that every sadistic landlord inflicts on his tenants, including me. My muscles were petrified into knots.

  Somehow, I stretched my legs out, flexed my toes, twisted my hips. My spine popped a few times. My body creaked.

  And something jangled.

  Would you look at that? A pair of open handcuffs dangled from my headboard. The key glistened on the bedside table, reflecting a sunbeam right into my aching eyeballs. I didn’t make a habit of decorating my bedroom with my work equipment, so I assumed that recreational use of my cuffs meant I had company. The best kind of company.

  I swatted it with a finger and grinned at the clatter of chains.

  My eyes traveled from the cuffs to my arm. Four bloody scratches spanned the space between wrist and elbow.

  I’d handled enough crime scenes to recognize fingernail marks. And I’d been with enough women to know that some wildcats liked it like that.

  Yeah, definitely a hell of a night.

  Too bad I couldn’t remember it.

  Grabbing at the scraps of memory made them float away faster. I thought I remembered a beautiful woman with beautiful curves and the kind of throaty giggle that wo
uld make me instantly hard. I had half a stalk just trying to remember her.

  I sat up, checked the clock. I was late for work. Twenty minutes late, in fact. Should have woken up hours ago, showered, put on my monkey suit, gone into the office. No way I would be in before lunch now. Talk about an instant boner-killer.

  Standing hurt in all the bad ways. My throbbing skull made my nuts shrivel into my body. Worst hangover I’ve ever had? Probably. There wasn’t much competition. I wasn’t a drinking guy. If I'd been partying this hard last night, she must have been really worth it.

  Where was she, anyway?

  I was alone in my bedroom. The open windows cast unforgiving beams of yellow light on the wall, cut into slices by my mini-blinds. The curtains were open. The neighborhood must have gotten a pretty good show.

  But there was no woman in sight—no souvenirs but a misused pair of cuffs and a backache.

  Out of habit, I opened my side drawer and grabbed a poultice that I’d prepared on the last full moon. Only two of them left. I’d need to do another ritual soon. I popped one into my mouth, chewed the grave dirt and oak, felt my muscles warm with magic. I grimaced as I swallowed. It was about as pleasant as drinking the clumps at the bottom of a protein shake.

  I scratched a few unflattering itches as I snagged a suit out of my closet. Looked like I needed to steam out the wrinkles while I showered. Always did. I wasn’t good at getting my clothes out of the dryer in time, and government work didn’t pay well enough to justify the dry cleaners.

  I hung it over my arm and dismantled the wards on my bedroom door with a wave of my hand. Or at least, I tried to dismantle the wards, but they weren’t active. I must have forgotten to turn them on during my drunken haze.

  As soon as I stepped out and saw the rest of my apartment, I gave a low whistle.

  My kitchen was a wreck. The contents of the counters had been dumped on the linoleum. The unplugged microwave was upside down on the toaster like they were the ones having a hot tryst. My jar of dried beans had shattered and spilled its guts all the way into the living room. The Blu-rays were everywhere. Oh man, even my eight-track collection had been screwed up.

  There were stains on my couch and I didn’t want to know what they were. Lubricant or bodily fluids or whatever. The damn thing was from IKEA anyway. I would just toss it and get another one.

  Again, I tried to remember the night before, and failed.

  “Hope you were worth it,” I muttered, mentally tallying the cost of restoring my collections.

  Fortunately, my fire safe was untouched, and my badge for work and my wallet were still on the bookshelf. I took a quick inventory of the contents. Cash, driver’s license, genuine counterfeit FBI identification, unmarked key card, St. Benedict’s medallion. Everything in its proper place.

  My apartment had been turned upside down by a mysterious woman, but at least she had been honest about it.

  Something out of place caught my eye. Not something that had gone missing, but something that didn’t belong to me.

  A Glock.

  I was already right in front of the bathroom when I saw the gun on my coffee table, so the unpleasant shock of possessing a firearm I didn’t recognize was interrupted by another kind of shock.

  The floor in front of the bathroom door squished. I stepped back and lifted a foot to see what I’d touched.

  It was red. It was slick. It smelled like a slab of rare steak.

  It definitely wasn’t lubricant.

  Once I realized that I smelled meat, I smelled more of it. It was thick in my sinuses. I wasn’t just nauseous because of the stiff neck and the hangover; I was nauseous because I smelled something dead.

  In my apartment.

  Funny how much faster I could move once I’d stepped in a puddle of blood.

  I slipped back into the living room, dropped my suit on the chair, grabbed the Louisville Slugger from where it was propped on the wall. Everything was so much brighter and clearer than it had been a few seconds ago. My heart was hammering and every beat was a shot of adrenaline.

  As I curled my fists around the bat, my peripheral vision seemed like it widened. The whole world was quiet. The air conditioning clicked on and cool air whispered against my ankles.

  The apartment narrowed to the bathroom door as I approached. I didn’t hear anything moving on the other side.

  I opened it.

  The blood into the carpet was the end of a smear that crossed the linoleum and terminated at the other end of my bathroom—which, until that second, had been my favorite room in the apartment. The toilet and counter and fluorescent lights were standard Home Depot cheapies, but the bathtub was not. It was one of those big corner tubs with the jets that feel like sin after a hard workout at the gym. I’m enough of a man to admit to loving a hot bath. Sometimes even with bubbles and fizzy salts.

  And there was the woman that had given me such a wild ride. Legs like a colt. Firm, perky breasts. The kind of pouty lips my eldest brother, Domingo, used to call “beejay mouth” until I punched him hard enough to shut his stupid face.

  The mystery woman was real pretty. I knew her name—I was sure I knew her name. For sure she worked at The Olive Pit, a favorite bar for my office. It was where we relaxed on Fridays at six o’clock and held retirement parties and the annual Christmas gift exchange.

  This waitress had laughed at me the first time I asked for her name, and the second time, and the third, but eventually I wised up and just took a look at the schedule in the kitchen. I couldn’t remember making love to those long legs and perfect breasts, but I remembered her ridiculously feminine handwriting.

  Erin. Her name was Erin, punctuated with a smiley face encircled by a heart.

  She was dead in my bathtub.

  Hell of a night.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My name’s Cèsar Hawke. I’m a witch working for a division of the government you’ve never heard about.

  The world’s not what everyone thinks it is—unless you think that our world’s a pawn in a game of chess between Heaven and Hell, and riddled with as much magic and wonder as it is with evil.

  In that case, the world is exactly what you think.

  My place of employment—the Office of Preternatural Affairs—takes a modern approach to an ages-old problem. It used to be that inquisitors would burn demons and the people in league with them. Now we get warrants, perform arrests, put the suspects on trial, and send guilty parties back to the Hell from whence they came with the travel forms filled out in triplicate.

  Everything you’ve ever heard about demons, angels, and witches is true. I would know. I’m a witch myself. But the world’s in denial about us. The Industrial Revolution brought about an era of people too smart to believe in the boogeyman and everyone has spent long decades telling themselves comforting lies about the mundane world they think they live in. Aside from some priests, renegade demon hunters, and victims of demonic crime, nobody knows the truth.

  Nobody but me and the other magically inclined special agents I work with, anyway. And we work hard to keep it that way.

  This stuff I do with the OPA, it saves lives on most days.

  Most days, I said.

  I was still standing in the bathroom doorway and didn’t know how long I’d been like that. My arms were hurting from holding the bat with such a tight grip. My breaths were choppy and loud. It was the white roar of an approaching tornado.

  Erin had long, lacquered fingernails that were attached to long, shapely arms that were draped over the side of my previously favorite bathtub. The nail on her right-hand ring finger was missing. The one on her pinkie was cracked. They were the kind of fingernails that would leave gouges on a man’s arm during sex if she was having a real good time—or if she was trying to fight off a murderer.

  Glancing at the scratches on my arm a second time didn’t fill me with the same proud warmth it had the first time.

  Swallowing down the acid taste of bile, I took another step into the bathroom
, careful not to smear the blood more than I already had. I needed a better look at what had happened in my apartment—in my damn home.

  Her head was tipped back against the tile, so it was easy to see the startlingly dark bruises wrapped around her throat. They formed a perfect imprint of two long-fingered hands that must have seized her from behind.

  At a glance, it was hard to say if it was the strangulation that killed her or if it was the gunshot wound positioned directly between the globes of her breasts. I did feel safe guessing that the gunshot wound was where all the blood came from, though.

  The Glock on my table.

  I was suddenly in motion again, lifting the baseball bat, moving through an apartment that suddenly felt like six hundred square feet of deathtrap.

  My search for an intruder was short and fruitless. The closets seemed deep and dark and endless even though they were too small to hold all my TV show Blu-rays, much less a murderer. I opened every kitchen cabinet and there was obviously nobody in there, either. I just about tripped over my free weights as I searched behind the bloody couch—yeah, that was blood on the cushions, all right.

  Aside from poor Erin and a Glock that wasn’t mine, I was alone in my apartment.

  My cell phone appeared in my hand. I dialed without looking at it as I walked back to the bathroom. I didn’t want to see her like that again, but it seemed too cruel to leave her alone.