Demons in My Driveway Read online

  Demons in My Driveway

  By R.L. Naquin

  A Monster Haven Story, book five

  Zoey Donovan—Aegis and co-opted protector of all things supernatural—is moving up in the Hidden world. Actually, she’s being dropkicked onto the front lines of a fight between the newly formed Cult of Imagination and Hidden governments everywhere.

  The Cult is opening portals and unleashing demons, vampires and werewolves, growing closer to breaking the lock that holds back the zombie apocalypse with every world they crack open. Oh, and they want every last Aegis in the world dead, and a roving band of Hidden worshippers is only too eager to assist.

  On the upside, Zoey finally has her mother back. But having another Aegis around—one with very different ideas on how to run things—is proving difficult. For their own safety, they’re stuck inside Zoey’s home. What was once a haven is now a prison, further straining maternal relations and alienating her reaper boyfriend. Taking down a cult and saving the world—again—would be a lot easier if she could go farther than her own driveway.

  81,700 words

  Dear Reader,

  Happy October! I think I’ve mentioned this before, but I love October. Not only is it the month in which my daughter was born (ten years ago!!) but I love the weather, the scents and the activities of October. Everything about the month combines to something fun and transporting for me. Of course, I’m sure not everyone feels the same about this fall month, but I’m happy to say we have a great collection of fiction releases to help aid all of you with fun escapes.

  In the spirit of the somewhat paranormal mood of the month, I’ll start with paranormal and fantasy genres. R.L. Naquin returns with an installment in her quirky, fun, romantic urban fantasy Monster Haven series. With Aegises dying all over the world, the only safe place for Zoey is the protection of home—but hiding doesn’t come naturally for Zoey, and she’ll have to act fast to prevent a zombie apocalypse in Demons in My Driveway. And in Dana Marie Bell’s paranormal romance Of Shadows and Ash, when evil attacks from the shadows, dryad Ashton Ward will be the only one who can save his beloved witchdoctor from eternal darkness.

  Matt Sheehan brings back the ever-lovable Helmut and his sidekick in urban fantasy Helmut Goes Abroad. Another round of magic, fistfights and one-liners with the best, most handsome, and of course humble detective Helmut Haase and his apothetic sidekick Shamus O’Sheagan.

  Futurisic romance In the Void by Sheryl Nantus gives us romance set in space—and a brothel spaceship. Answering a distress call can spell the end of the Bonnie Belle and everyone aboard...

  A dragonshifter intent on executing a high-stakes art heist is forced to juggle a wedding, a family and a pesky attraction to her target’s head of security in paranormal romance ’Til Dragons Do Us Part by Lorenda Christensen. April Taylor’s alternate history fantasy Taste of Treason, the second in her Tudor Enigma series, also releases this month. Master Elemancer Luke Ballard has grown his magical powers since his last encounter with the dark sorcerers who will stop at nothing to destroy the English throne. But is he skilled enough to both protect his own and prevent tragedy from reaching the royal family?

  Moving on to contemporary romance releases in October, the last man that handywoman Georgia Lennox expects to break through her tough-as-nails, ugly-duckling exterior is John Montgomery the Third, the millionaire philanthropist she works for in Because I Can by Tamara Morgan.

  In military contemporary romance His Road Home by Anna Richland, a false engagement story gives injured Special Forces Sergeant Rey Cruz a surprise gift: love. Pitch Imperfect by Elise Alden is a contemporary romance in which the last thing celebrity singer Anjuli Carver wanted was to be dependent on her ex-fiancé to restore her dilapidated manor. Will he rebuild her crumbling walls or demolish her defenses with his sexy pursuit?

  Male/male romance Follow You Home by A.M. Arthur is the story of a broken soul who finds solace and safety in the company of a gentle janitor—as well as an unexpected chance at real love.

  Last this month, we’re pleased to welcome co-authors Eileen Griffin and Nikka Michaels with In the Raw, part one of a male/male romance duology about culinary students Ethan Martin and James Lassiter. When they find themselves competing for the same scholarship they also discover they’re competing for something more important—love. Look for part two, In the Fire, next month, in November 2014.

  Coming in November 2014: Carina Press and I both celebrate an anniversary. And we have books from a number of powerhouse authors including Josh Lanyon, Shannon Stacey, Lauren Dane and so many more!

  Here’s wishing you a wonderful month of books you love, remember and recommend.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Editorial Director, Carina Press

  Dedication

  For Matt. There’s never been a moment since you were born when I wasn’t proud to say “That guy? He’s my brother.” No matter what happens in life, we’ll always have each other.

  And for the real-life Howard, who was not nearly so grumpy as this one. May he live forever in these pages, nibbling grass and giving rides to laughing brownie children.

  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

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  The gremlins must have known I was coming, because they mobbed me the minute I walked into my hotel room. What do you call a group of gremlins? A pod? A flock? A quorum? A lot of gremlins. The Goblin Switchboard I’d seen in the past had nothing on the Gremlin Information Superhighway for passing around information. And apparently, I was big news.

  I tried not to flinch at how many there were. Gremlins were simple, but sweet. I’d never met one I hadn’t liked. Still—I’d never met so many at once.

  Gremlin voices collided with each other and overlapped in a mishmash of squeaky exclamations and breathless wonder.

  “The lady is here!”

  “She came to see us!”

  “It’s her!”

  Blurry spots on the flowered wallpaper bunched together and crawled in my direction. Lumps on the paisley duvet undulated in oranges and greens across the bed. My eyes needed a minute or two to adjust. Gremlins weren’t always easy to see with their natural camouflage. Once the small figures drew closer and stopped hopping around so much in their excitement, I was able to make out their faces and round eyes. I counted a dozen creatures, though I might’ve missed some.

  They climbed over each other, shoving and grunting in an effort to get close to me. Tiny hands brushed my legs, tugged the hem of my skirt, or reached high to pat my hip. Their attention should have been alarming—or at least disconcerting. But it wasn’t.

  Not in the least.

  I smiled and nudged a few to the side so I could sit on the edge of the bed.

  “Hello.” I folded my hands in my lap and gazed around the room. Definitely more than a dozen. I’d missed an entire wall.

  At the sound of my voice, the chatter stopped and, as one, they sucked in their breaths.
When they held themselves so still, it was more difficult to spot them as a group, but easier to see individuals. I focused on the gremlin who stood directly in front of me with his palm resting on my knee. The back of his hand was striped in turquoise and yellow with the illusion of a velvety texture. It blended into my skirt as if he wasn’t there.

  “Thank you for welcoming me,” I said. “Is there something I can help you guys with?” I sounded like Snow White, talking to gentle woodland creatures. Any second I’d start singing and we’d all dance into the bathroom to clean the toilet and re-grout the shower.

  My solemn, stripe-handed visitor shook his head. “No help. Came to see and touch the lady.” He gave me a shy smile. “Frit will be famous in his home now. Frit talked to the lady.”

  The chatter returned, and the room held a steady movement of bobbing paisley, striped and floral heads.

  “So,” I said, eyes narrowing. “Everything’s all right here? No one needs anything from me?” Everywhere I went these days, somebody needed or wanted something. In a space filled with this many Hidden creatures, they couldn’t possibly let me go without at least a small request.

  Frit shook his head. “Nope.”

  I opened my mouth to ask again, then shut it as I realized my mistake. I was in another country. They had other Aegises here to take care of the Hidden. My own country had lost all its Aegises, except my mother and me.

  I was in England now.

  “You must have a wonderful Aegis here. I hope I get to meet her—or him—while I’m visiting.”

  The chatter stopped again and the room stilled. Frit looked at his feet. “No, lady. No Aegis. We take care of ourselves, here.”

  I frowned. “You don’t have an Aegis?”

  He shook his head. “No Aegis. Maybe next year. Council says.”

  A tear rolled down his blurry face, a prism of light on shadow. I reached forward to wipe it away. “I’m sorry. How long has she been gone?”

  Frit sniffled. “Long. Gone long. Minutes and minutes ago.”

  The shared sadness of the group pattered across my shoulders like a gentle rain—not an intense downpour, but enough to dampen the room. Gremlins had a convoluted sense of time. Minutes and minutes ago could mean yesterday, or it could mean they’d been without an Aegis for twenty years. I made a mental note to ask someone what had happened, and how the search for a replacement was going.

  For that matter, why hadn’t the next closest Aegis stepped in as a temporary measure? If Mom and I could cover all of the United States while we waited for replacements to appear, surely someone in Germany or France could cover the U.K.

  Unless the European Hidden Coalition was as disorganized and useless as the U.S. Board of Hidden Affairs—which was pretty damn likely.

  My experiences with our own Hidden government hadn’t impressed me.

  Shuffling sounds brought my attention back to the room. As far as I could see, the gremlins had cleared out. When I looked back at Frit, he was gone too. Across my lap lay a sprig of heather tied with a red ribbon.

  I ran my fingers over the soft flowers and addressed the empty room. “They’re beautiful, thank you. And come back and see me soon.”

  Gremlins tended to come and go like that without warning. They probably hadn’t gone far. If I needed them, they’d be back. I smirked, thinking how difficult it must be to have a hotel infested with gremlins. Shiny objects, jewelry, hair scrunchies, mirrors—anything that caught a gremlin’s attention could go missing.

  I touched the satin ribbon around the gift they’d left me and wondered if another guest might be missing it.

  I placed the bundle of heather on the table next to the bed and shoved my suitcase in the corner, out of the way. The bed looked comfortable and tempted me with its soft comforter and squishy pillows. I rubbed my bleary, travel-weary eyes and looked around.

  The room wasn’t big, and the bathroom was a little weird. It wasn’t so much adjoining as it was in the room. A toilet with an old-fashioned overhead pull, a small sink and a shower stall took up the cramped space. Around these three fixtures, someone had built a wall to distinguish it from the rest of the room and allow for a bit of privacy. The wall, however, didn’t go all the way to the ceiling. If I stood on the bed, I could look over the wall into the bathroom.

  Weird.

  I was grateful I’d insisted on my own room. The idea of sharing such a lack of privacy with Bernice, the head of our Board of Hidden Affairs, was about as distasteful as it got. I couldn’t imagine having to sit in the room while someone used the toilet right there. We might as well have been in a public restroom.

  I smoothed my skirt, tightened a buckle on my dark chocolate boots, fluffed my hair a little, then adjusted the yellow beret amid my wild, dark red curls. Determined not to give in to jet lag, I left my odd-but-cozy room and headed downstairs for a drink.

  The man who’d checked me in was now behind the bar. He was tall, with eyes that grinned and dark hair cropped neatly on the sides but in tight curls hugging the top of his head. His smile brightened when he saw me. “Alright, my angel? Do you want a drink? What would you like?”

  Most Americans expect two sorts of British accents. Either the snooty parody of the British well-to-do, or the fake cockney we learned from Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. Wiggy’s accent was neither. It was fast. It was friendly.

  “I’d love a glass of cider,” I said, stifling a yawn.

  “Point or hoff point?” he asked.

  Sometimes his speech was so fast, I lost a word and looked at him with my jaw hanging open, feeling like an idiot.

  I stared at him. “What?”

  “Point? Do you want a full point?”

  It was as if he were speaking a foreign language. Hell, maybe he was. I was in a different country. I shrugged and shook my head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He held up a tall glass in one hand and a short one in the other, his smile never wavering. “Point. Half point.” He indicated each glass as he spoke.

  My eyes widened, and I laughed. “Oh, pint! Got it! Sorry. A pint, please.”

  Chuckling, he filled my glass from the cider on tap then slid it to me. I tried to pay him, and he waved a dismissive hand at me. “No worries, my angel. Welcome to the U.K.”

  He wandered off to wait on a customer at the other end of the bar before I could thank him.

  I leaned an elbow on the bar and sipped the ice-cold, dry taste of apples while I took in my surroundings. The place was old. I wasn’t sure how old, but I’d been told on arrival the church across the street was twice the age of my own country. I found this far more disconcerting than a dogpile of handsy gremlins waiting in my room. It made me feel small and insignificant, realizing how young America was in comparison. History surrounded me in every stone and wooden beam—history that predated everything that was familiar to me.

  Hell, the wood that made up the bar had probably been blessed by Druids five hundred years ago before a peasant chopped down the tree and dragged it here. I ran my fingers over the scratches and scars of the polished wood and pondered in my own insignificance in the big scheme of history.

  Taking a sip of my drink, I glanced around the bar for other inconsequential humans.

  The evening was still young, so the pub hadn’t filled up much. A few people talked in hushed voices at a table across the room. Glasses clunked on the hard wood, missing the thick paper coasters. Smoke curled over the heads of patrons.

  Behind them, two teenagers faced a dartboard. The taller kid stood with his hand in the air and his face screwed up in concentration, ready to let his dart fly. The other sat slumped in a chair, arms folded across his chest. When the dart finally flew, two more followed in rapid succession, barely hitting the board.

  Somebody needed more practice and less beer.

  I squinted at the staircase. So far, Bernice hadn’t come down from her room. I sipped my drink and sighed. I’d known she wouldn’t. She’d regret it when she woke in
the middle of the night ready to start the day. I yawned again and rubbed my burning eyes. Just a few more hours and then I’d sleep.

  Movement to my right caught my attention. A guy in a tight T-shirt and even tighter jeans perched on the stool next to me and regarded me with careful attention. He tipped his head back and smiled. “What’s up?”

  I frowned and sipped my drink. “Hi.”

  “You alone?”

  I swear to God, his biceps flexed when he said it.

  “I’m never really alone,” I said.

  “Hey, you’re American too!” He scooted his stool closer.

  I nodded. “Pretty much, yeah.”

  The guy felt slimy. As an empath, I tried to keep myself as closed up as possible, only filtering in a measured amount of other people’s emotions. This asshat was horny, opportunistic and a dirtball. His groping need pulsed from his pores in repugnant waves, and my filters weren’t doing much to keep it out. Maybe my inability to block was due to lack of sleep, but my tolerance level wasn’t nearly as high as it usually was, either.

  Or maybe I was growing as a person. Taking shit from people was no longer one of my official hobbies. Go me.

  I scootched my stool a few inches away and watched Wiggy as he cleaned a couple of glasses in the sink. Toad-man leaned toward me, his arm nearly touching mine.

  “You know,” he said, in a low tone he probably thought was sexy. “The place where I’m staying is only a few blocks away. We could have a few drinks. Maybe watch a movie.” He drew even closer. “Or something.”

  I put both elbows on the bar and spread out causing him to move back. “Dude, I’ve got a drink already. But thanks.”

  Again with the husky, thought-he-was-irresistible voice. “I won’t charge you for the drinks.”

  I held up my drink, waved it at him without looking, then took a long pull. “I didn’t have to pay for this one, either.”

  I could have played the I-have-a-boyfriend card to get him to leave me alone, but I’ve never been a big fan of that one. I shouldn’t have to claim I’m somebody else’s property in order to be ineligible for groping.