Kicking It

“What? Why?”

“The purse for the hammer. That was the deal. No hammer, no purse.”

“Wait. You stole the boots outright and won’t give those back, but I give you a purse for risking your life and you return it?”

“I earned the boots. Stole them fair and square. And the one knife. The other two are in there.”

Frustration rubbed along his skin, not because she’d taken one of the knives his dad had made, but because she was completely insane. “Really? That makes sense to you?”

She shrugged, and the motion drew his attention to the line of her neck. A few bruises lingered there, too, reminding him of just how terrified he’d been when that Fractogast had grabbed her by the throat. “You lost something precious to you. If I’d been better, it wouldn’t have happened. Every time I look at the purse it’s going to remind me of how I failed.”

He took the cool leather in his hands. He’d spent so many hours working on it, his fingers tingled in memory. It was like that sometimes, with his best work—almost like the object recognized him.

Marcus looped the strap of the purse over her head. “Just take it. And when you look at it, remember how you saved that kid. How we got out alive. How we blew that machine up beyond repair.”

“But the hammer is gone.”

“And will never again be used by those fuckers. I’m okay with that.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Then get over it, because I’m not taking the purse back. I made it for you. I want you to have it, even if you have to consider it a gift.”

“A gift, huh?” She ran her finger over the pattern he’d tooled into the leather.

What he wouldn’t have given to have her stroke him like that.

“It’s been a long time since anyone has given me anything.”

“Good, then. It’s settled.” At least he hoped. “Want to stay for dinner?”

She froze, shedding all her natural, fluid warmth. “I don’t think so. Places to go and all that.”

He’d scared her. With an invitation to dinner. After watching her face down a room full of Fractogasts, that seemed inconceivable.

“I promise to be a perfect gentleman.” No matter how much willpower it cost him.

She stared up at him, biting her bottom lip. He could see her quivering on the edge of giving in, but as soon as her eyes lowered, he knew he’d lost. “I should go. Rain check?”

“Sure. You obviously know how to find me.”

“Thanks for the purse. I owe you one.”

“No, you don’t. After the beating you took, we’re more than even.”

Her smoky green gaze hit him again, and this time he actually swayed with the force of it. She was so unbelievably beautiful it made him forget that the rest of the world even existed.

Simone looped her arms around his neck, went up on tiptoe, and pressed a kiss against his lips. It lasted only a second, and it was completely chaste, but it still felt scorching hot and rocked him down to his boots.

His lips tingled, and he felt a stirring of power lingering just beneath his skin.

When she was done shifting the ground under his feet, she let go and took a small step back. “I always repay my debts, Brighton. Call me if you need me.”

“I don’t have your number. It took me weeks to find you last time. If you hadn’t responded to my online messages—”

She pressed one slender finger against his lips. “Call my name. I’ll hear you. You’re not the only one with special talents, you know.”

That’s when he realized what she’d done. That kiss had left him with a gift—the ability to summon her.

Marcus was blown away by her trust. “You sure you want to give me such power?”

She moved past him, heading toward the door. “Too late now. Just give me a few weeks for the rib to heal before you run into trouble again, okay?”

She left the RV, and it suddenly felt empty. Too empty.

He hurried down the steps, around to the back side of the RV, where she’d parked her motorcycle out of sight, and held out his hand. “Give it back.”

A look of complete, shocked innocence covered her lovely face. “What?”

“The belt you stole.”

She gave him a slow, sexy smile as she fished the belt out from the back of her tight bodice. “You’re catching on, Brighton. There might be hope for you yet.”

THE GIRL WITH NO NAME BY CHRIS MARIE GREEN

1

I woke up in a strange bed in a strange bedroom, and it took me only a few seconds to realize I had no idea where I was.

Or who I was.

Heart thumping, mind skittering, I surveyed the closed, heavy curtains and the blazing lights that I had evidently left on. Round me, paintings of trumpets, saxophones, and clarinets hung on the walls. I kept anticipating the numbness of sleep to wear off, yet . . .

No. So I closed my eyes again, giving myself more time. When that didn’t work, my pulse pounded faster, like feet running over an endless street. I sat up in the bed, covers swaddling me to the hips.

Brain. Surely my brain would kick in any moment.

Yet my head was still a near blank while I inspected myself: fully dressed, in a tight thin-strapped black tank with a skull and crossbones on the front, cutoff jeans shorts. But then I focused on my legs. They felt heavy, encased, as if . . .

I whipped off the covers, then gaped.

A pair of boots—and not any sort of boots I’d seen before now. (As if I even faintly knew what I had seen before now.) These boots came to just below my knees, and they appeared to be made of . . . vines. A dark green mass of attractively entwined strands, wrapping round calves and feet, as if I had just now stepped off nature’s catwalk.

“What the bloody hell?” I whispered, still staring. Was I in an old episode of The Twilight Zone? Wait—how did I know what The Twilight Zone was when I couldn’t even remember anything about how I had gotten here or where I was or what I was doing in these tarty, out-of- the-ordinary boots?

Slowly, one fact caught up to me: I had spoken with an English accent. Somewhat posh. A touch salty, perhaps. And if I knew it was an English accent, that meant I could at least remember something about my world. I knew things, but not important things . . .

I rolled out of the bed. The sheets were clean, tidy. Clearly, I was not a restless sleeper. In fact, it was as if I had slept the slumber of the dead.

For some odd reason, that thought weighed on me as I rushed to the window, yanking aside the curtain to discover that I was on the second floor of a house, dusk pressing down on a view of a street decorated with wrought-iron galleries. Below them, people meandered down sidewalks, some wearing flashy beads under the flickering lanterns and carrying plastic cups. A fence enclosed the yard, and across the way a corner market was boarded up.

I sprang to a nearby desk, grasping at a folder, the golden lettering on the front confirming my growing