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  A FAMILIAR FACE

  by Marie Harte

  Trade witch Mallory West is a heartbeat from losing her rent-controlled apartment, susses spells for a living, and can't afford a decent familiar. In an effort to ease her financial hardship, she works part-time waiting tables. Late one night after working an unexpected shift, she receives an invitation from her boss to take a rest upstairs in the exclusive Lounge. Drawn to one of the mysterious black doors, she enters and takes a well-deserved nap. But the world to which she wakes is nothing like the one she left. The large, incredibly sexy gray-skinned warrior she first encounters could be her boss’s twin, but he’s the War Leader of the Talians--a fierce race fighting desperately to survive a crushing enemy. Mallory’s sudden appearance stuns the wary Talians. And they don’t tolerate surprises or those they think might be enemy spies well at all.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and plot points stem from the writer’s imagination. They are fictitious and not to be interpreted as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locations or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  A Familiar Face

  Copyright ©August 2011 by Marie Harte

  Revised April 2013

  Cover by TINB

  All Rights Are Reserved. None of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for reviews or promotion.

  http://www.marieharte.com

  Chapter One

  Trotting down Newtown’s crowded sidewalk on four padded feet, her tail flat with irritation, trade witch Mallory West had sunk to an all new low. Acting as her own familiar, she wrinkled her nose and tried her best to focus on the rank smell of her quarry, rather than the seafood market so tantalizingly near.

  Frank would have to flee before she’d been able to fix dinner, and after a hellish Friday at that. Trust him to skip bail on her worst night of the week. Two more skipped claims, three more orders for restraint spells she couldn’t possibly finish without wasting away her weekend, and the little rat shifter just had to decide he couldn’t possibly do his time in Takori prison, not for a whole four more months.

  Pansy-ass. She sighed, a rumbled purr that irritated her whiskers, and followed him past the crowded markets, across the street and into a seedy-looking alley. Hecate’s cauldron, but the magically-minded criminals in town weren’t even criminals anymore. The clear-cut evil that used to comprise the baddies had denigrated into whining, sniveling scum that took too much effort to catch and afforded little in the way of reward. Serving the greater good seemed to be no more than an unappreciated headache lately.

  Her energy bill was past due, her wax lien perilously close to being called, and her super promised to evict her if she didn’t pay her late rent by Monday. As it was she’d managed to eke this past week out of him by promising to acquire and return his precious videotape, an ancient relic Frank had stolen for leverage. Leverage against what, she didn’t know and frankly, didn’t care. Her super could have screwed the entire police force, disgusting as the thought was. She wanted to continue living in her rent-controlled apartment. And if catching Frank “The Rat” Henderson was her only way out, so be it.

  She sighed again and slid through a rotting door into an abandoned building. Trash and dead roaches littered the cement floor. Graffiti and hexes covered the walls. She itched to leave, her feline senses tingling with displeasure. Soon. I’ll be out of here just as soon as Frank transforms back into his wiry, slovenly self. Forcing herself to not think of him as literal prey, she refrained from pouncing on the nervous little rodent and settled in the shadows to wait.

  A hazy rush settled over his body, and with a quickness she admired, he regained his human feet. She tried not to stare at the natty man still quivering like a rat. Instead, she mentally prepared her spell and rubbed the silver charm around her left front paw. Narrowing her eyes, and with no help for it, she meowed the verbal command. In the seconds it took her to resume her natural form, she teleported Frank to Takori Prison. Whipping out her cell phone, she autodialed Sherman Jakes, her best friend.

  He answered on the first ring.

  “Yo, Sherm. Another one coming your way. Yeah, Frank Henderson, wanted on extortion and assault charges. He skipped last week. Oh, and do me a favor. The videotape he has on him? Shoot it back to my place, would you?” She paused, shaking her head at his comments. “No, sorry. I’m really not in the mood for The Palace tonight. What? Sheila’s coming? Oh hell, okay. I’ll see you there at nine.”

  Hanging up, she muttered to herself and refrained from licking her arm to smooth down her hair. Drop the familiar. She wiped at a descending spider and quickly exited the building, kicking through the decayed door. Well, at least tonight hadn’t been a total waste. She hadn’t had to expend but the one charm on the capture. And she’d have a check coming—

  “Well, well, well. What do we have here? An actual witch on ghoul territory. Where’s your sugar daddy, baby?” Ace MacNafee grinned, his blackened teeth on par with his odious breath. Terrific. He had what passed for his friends with him, four snotty teenagers with more brawn than brain. All undead and rotting from within. Smelly, obnoxious, and unbelievably stupid. She grimaced at the skin and sinew hanging off the tallest man-child. Did his parents have no concept of hygiene? How hard would it have been to tell him to trim that excess flesh?

  “Not now, Ace. I’m leaving. I’ll come back to play on Monday.” Like hell I will.

  “You’re leaving when I say you can leave. Now come here and gimme a kiss. We don’t get many aristocrats in the alleys, Mal-or-ee. And we sure don’t get superfreak ass like yours.” He licked his lips and lingered over her breasts before opening his mouth wide. He blew out a noxious red gas--dreaded ghoul toxin that could paralyze if ingested in sufficient quantity.

  Mal suddenly felt her exhaustion as if someone had dropped a blanket of it over her head. She twisted the charm bracelet on her wrist. As her fingers closed over a miniature iron dagger, she lamented the expense of another charm. But she knew without it, she wouldn’t be leaving the alley intact, let alone meeting Sherm and Sheila in a few hours.

  As a mystic dagger suddenly appeared in her palm, she aimed and threw, chanting under her breath. Though pleased at a ghoul’s shrill cry, a bit of the toxin entered her bloodstream, making her slightly dizzy. Weakened, she wasn’t surprised to feel rough hands grabbing her forearms.

  “Ace,” she said through gritted teeth, wishing the chief of police would rein in his worthless kid. “I’m not playing. Keep it up and I’ll remove those fingers, regardless of your dad’s status.”

  “Oooh. I’m so scared.”

  Tired of dealing with the literal scum of the earth, she stared hard at his left hand and released the holds on her magic. Within moments he was screaming, his friends were screaming, and a squad of police had entered the alley with their guns drawn.

  * * *

  Sherm sipped his beer. “I don’t know, Mal. I think you may be the unluckiest witch I’ve ever met. Your familiar left you, you’re nearly flat broke, the only witch I know without a trust fund, and you just maimed the chief’s only son.”

  Sheila, his fiancée, laughed. “You go girl. You’re on fire!”

  Several nearby patrons, regulars at The Python Palace, saluted her with drinks. Though she’d only brought more trouble upon herself by roughing up Ace and his goons, she’d actually done the city a real service. Everyone hated the ghoul gangs that paraded around the wharf. And Chief MacNafee should have retired years ago.

  Mal sipped her wine. “You know, Sherm, you have an amazing tendency to make my life sound even dourer than it is.”

  He grinned, white teeth
flashing against dark brown skin. “I do have skills, you know.”

  “Does he ever,” Sheila murmured, sliding him a wink. He gave her a thorough kiss, what looked like a rousing game of tonsil hockey.

  Mal sighed. “Not more of this lovey-dovey crap. Can’t you two contain yourselves for a night, get a room or something?”

  Sherm eyed the Palace’s second floor, the one off-limits to seemingly everyone.

  “What? Don’t tell me you’re not on the list?” Mal blinked then added in a sing-song voice, “But Sherm, you’re so big and handsome, so strong.” Sheila laughed at his chagrin, and Mal couldn’t help twisting the knife. “Couldn’t bribe Rattler either, eh?”

  “No. I swear, I’ve never met a bartender so close-mouthed. Hell, I’m law enforcement. You’d think he’d accept the bribe, a favor for a favor or some shit. But not Rattler. ‘Mr. Python’ will not budge.” He glared when she would have spoken. “And don’t give me any crap about you being special. We both know the only reason you’ve been allowed to even walk upstairs is because of your part-time status here.”

  Mal shrugged. “A witch has to eat.”

  “I still don’t understand why you haven’t married.” Sheila motioned to a waitress for another round. “Even though your parents are total assho—ah, oddballs, they still don’t have the authority to prevent you from marrying up.”

  “Sheila, you and Sherm are in love. Why should I settle for less?”

  “Yes, but I can afford to eat, with or without Sherman.”

  “Good point. But I don’t want to marry. I don’t want a man telling me what to do all the time. And you know how arrogant warlocks are. You two are different from any couple I know. You’re actually in love.” Mal clung to her stubborn delusions. “I won’t marry an asshole like my parents, but I admit I’m tired of living claim to claim, of being considered the lowest of the low because I’m forced to earn a living.” She rubbed her aching ribs, having suffered several unnecessary pat-downs from the chief’s men before the news cameras had arrived. “My rent is due, my energy bill is overdrawn, and I never seem to have time for me anymore.”

  Sherm looked sympathetic. Sheila captured her hand and squeezed.

  “I’m sorry guys. I’m just feeling sorry for myself tonight. I told you I shouldn’t have come.”

  A sudden presence behind her made her still, but the familiar sensation of sheer power pressing against her back told her who’d neared, and she relaxed. “Rattler, what can I do you for?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you three, but Mal, I could really use a hand tonight.” He nodded to the thickening crowd spilling toward the throbbing dance floor a split-level below. “Festival always perks sales, and Becky called in sick. You mind filling in? Double your wages…”

  Hell, her night was shot anyway. Why not make some much-needed money? Besides, in here, she didn’t have to worry about being shot or cursed. No one screwed around in Rattler’s Python Palace, not if they wanted to live. The police skirted the place, and Rattler’s mysterious otherworld connections made him a powerful man indeed.

  Hairless but for his thin black eyebrows and wicked goatee, Rattler was covered with multiple piercings and an intricate snake tattoo, which covered him from the back of his neck and around his shirtless, muscular torso and presumably further beneath his jeans. The man should have looked too freakish to be attractive. But something about him had always made her feel comfortable, protected. The grayish tint to his flesh made him almost as unique in the community as Mallory. A snake man running a dance club who answered to no one. A witch without means or a familiar. Two peas in a pod, except Rattler was a success, and Mal simply aspired to be one.

  She nodded. “Okay, you’re on.” She turned back to Sherm and Sheila. “Sorry guys. I’ll stop by later to chat.”

  Her friends took her departure easily, sinking back into that couple’s connection that made her both envious and a little sad. She’d been close to that once, or at least, close to that picture. Her relationship with Aaron Floyd Crowe the Third had been anything but loving and all about appearances. He’d have made the perfect son-in-law.

  “Mal,” Rattler prodded. “I need you now.”

  Four hours and a pair of throbbing feet later, Mal reminded herself how fortunate she’d been that Rattler needed help. The bills, remember the bills. Maybe with tonight’s take she could give herself a day off tomorrow. The tray on her arm wobbled, so she righted it and carried out another order, complete with a too friendly hand over her ass. She shot a subtle glance toward Rattler. Seeing him occupied, she mumbled a curse under her breath at Mr. Grabby Hands. The jerk would feel it tomorrow when he couldn’t stop scratching his balls. Considering his type, she thought it more than probable he’d pick up a disease from any skank willing to do him anyway.

  She’d done her best to resist using her magic, but enough was enough. The human octopus didn’t seem to understand the word no. She returned to the bar to place her order.

  “Everything okay?” Rattler asked. His fathomless black eyes narrowed on her.

  She did her best to appear innocent of any wrongdoing. God forbid he caught her doing magic in his place. She couldn’t afford to alienate Rattler—literally.

  Sighing and trying to appear pathetic, she didn’t have to fake her yawn. “Sorry, but it’s been a long day. I wasn’t prepared for tonight.” She glanced down at her stained jeans, cropped t-shirt and beer-covered mocs. Normally when she waitressed, she wore her snakeskin boots, waterproofed and comfort-lined.

  “Damn. I hadn’t thought beyond replacing Becky. I’m sorry, Mal. Your feet are probably killing you. Why don’t you head upstairs and rest a few minutes?”

  She gaped at him, she couldn’t help it, and automatically glanced at the imposing, guarded entrance to the Lounge’s stairwell. She’d only once before served drinks in the modern loft area, accompanied by Palace security. No one knew what was up there except Rattler and a few select guests. From what little she’d seen, the Lounge sat between the low wall visible to the downstairs and three black doors spaced evenly against the inner wall.

  A black floor, hot pink walls, neon lights and a disco ball made the place garishly attractive when active, a rare occurrence in itself. The lights and hot pink paint made the three ominous black doors even more arresting.

  She’d been dying of curiosity about those mysterious doors since she’d first seen them, but damn if she’d ever had a chance to investigate. Exposed to the familiar within her, her feline senses ached to see, to know. But she’d have to use magic to work around Rattler, and she respected him too much to violate his trust. A harmless spell here or there hurt no one. But she’d never violate his one rule to working at The Python Palace—never, ever go upstairs without Rattler’s express permission.

  “Mal?”

  “Go upstairs? Sure.” She paused, waiting for him to say more. He didn’t, and the look on his face made her uneasy. “What?”

  “Nothing.” But he was smiling. “Go on up. Don’t worry about it, Mallory. You need some time to regroup, even the ‘slave master’ that I am can see that.”

  She flushed. “You heard that, hmm?”

  He raised a brow. “You said it loud enough to be heard three blocks down.”

  “Yeah, but that was a week ago and to Becky.” She turned and headed eagerly toward the stairwell and muttered under her breath, “You have ears like a bat.”

  “I heard that too,” he shouted and laughed. “See you when I see you.” And with that, he turned to help another customer.

  The massive bouncers positioned at the stairway entrance nodded her through. As Mal climbed the steps to the second floor of The Palace by herself for the first time, she wondered why she suddenly had a feeling that facing those three black doors might be a huge mistake.

  She paused at the landing and took a deep breath then let it out. Her imagination ran rampant when she grew tired. The Lounge was empty, unless Rattler had a secret passageway through which he smugg
led privileged customers. Walking through the entrance, she noted the cleanliness and order in the oversized loft. Magazines tidied, vids scrubbed free of smoke, the black lacquered floor a study in clean. But those three doors captured her eyes like magnets.

  Her nose twitched as she stared at them. What the hell lay beyond those doors?

  Approaching them, she studied each one. Of average height and width, black with gold knobs, they looked standard. Normal. The same. So why did the familiar within her guide her to the middle door?

  Almost as if in a dream, she watched her hand grasp the knob, felt the cool glide of metal under her palm, and listened to the quiet click as the catch released. She entered the room. A dim overhead light illuminated the space.

  Huh. A plain, average bedroom. Same lacquered floor as the lounge, white walls. A king-sized bed with black sheets and a white downy duvet. No other doors or windows, and no furniture. Hell, not even a mirror. The door closed with a soft click, and she couldn’t help turning back to Rattler’s suggestion. The duvet looked soft, inviting.

  The bed seemed as close to heaven as she might ever get. Without another thought, she lay down and sighed at the feel of silk under her tired and aching muscles. She closed her eyes, and in seconds sank deep into the comfort of sleep.

  Minutes or hours might have passed when a noise interrupted her rest. Shouts and moans, what sounded like fighting and impossibly, sex, increased in volume until she couldn’t stand it. That curiosity again. But at least she felt refreshed. She mentally thanked Rattler for her small nap.

  A loud thunk rapped the wall outside the door, and she heard what she imagined to be cursing and threats in a foreign language. Opening the door, she came face to face with a man who could have been Rattler’s twin. He had shoulder length black hair, gray skin, and a snake tattoo curled around his muscular body. A leather kilt wrapped around his waist, over which a thick belt rested. Straps crossed over his chest and attached to the belt. She could make out the hilts of crossed swords behind him, caged in a back harness, she guessed.