Bite Me
Cilla decided that the inventor of the caps lock key should die a horrible, agonizing, super bloody death. Twice. Maybe three times, if there was enough left of him and she found a strong enough witch.
She skipped over the first fifty emails waiting in her inbox, each of them containing all capitals in their subjects. Irate customers used capitals. Ingrates. Okay, “ingrates” wasn’t a very nice thing to say about Blue Hedgehog Press readers. She was just so…mad. And the caps lock key creator wasn’t around to torture.
Cilla pushed her sliding glasses further up her nose and blew the falling tendrils of hair out of her face. She’d have to fix her bun sooner or later, but she still had over a hundred emails to look through.
On the plus side, half of the emails were praise for Blue Hedgehog Press and its authors, especially Minz Carter. It was the other half she dreaded. If only…
If only she hadn’t fallen for the Harpy’s tricks. Toll collector by night, she was the whip-wielding General Manager of the publishing house by day. And she’d duped Cilla like she was a hatchling just getting her wings under her. Geesh.
“Shift for me, dear Cilla,” she’d cooed. “Let me see those lovely, lovely scales of yours.”
One. One tiny little scale from the tip of her tiny little tail was stolen. Now Cilla was stuck working for the Harpy bitch forever and ever, amen. Only God couldn’t save her now. She wasn’t sure if anyone could save her.
Cilla’s powers were tied to her scales. They lived just beneath her skin, waiting for the moment when she’d set them free, and then whamo! Dragon. Except nothing happened if one of her scales was missing. If it shed naturally, she could shift as soon as a new one grew in. But since it was plucked from her like a feather, no amount of wishing would force the scale to return. She had to have that pesky missing piece handed back to her safe and sound.
The Harpy wasn’t likely to do that any time soon. Hell, it’d been nearly six years, and still the scale was nowhere in sight.
“Cilla!” the Harpy bellowed through the intercom system. “Silly Cilla!”
With a sigh she pushed away from her desk and padded toward the Harpy’s domain. The General Manager’s office had been decorated to resemble her favorite place: the underside of a bridge. It was just like home, she said. Blech.
“Yes, ma’am?” Must act submissive. Must. Six years the Harpy had said. Six years and then she’d be free. Of course, each time Cilla pissed her off, the sentence was changed. Hell, sometimes it changed on a whim.
“Come in, come in.”
Cilla stepped across the threshold and froze. Holy fire and may water be merciful.
The most gorgeous man Cilla had ever seen stood before the Harpy’s desk. His hair was dark, almost midnight-black, and held the tiniest hint of a curl like a calm day at sea. The man’s forehead was wide, but not high—strong. Those eyes… Amber like a cat’s, but they held a hunger she couldn’t identify, and she wondered if this was another of the Harpy’s lovers. His nose wasn’t too large, but matched his face. A small bump along the bridge showed that it’d been broken at one time over the years. But it was his lips she wanted, needed, desired. She imagined them to be soft, so kissably soft, and sweet. Something about this man drew her in.
A polo shirt just loose enough not to be considered indecent encased his broad shoulders, accentuating his pectorals and tapered waist. She curse the cotton fabric of his loose-fitting khaki pants, wishing she could see if the rest of him was as well-defined as his torso.
This stranger, this smiling man with his rakish grin and strong body…he made her want. Bad.
“Sit, Cilla, sit,” the Harpy ordered.
She wondered if she’d get a doggy or dragon treat for listening. Not likely . Not waiting to find out, she stared over the Harpy’s shoulder and settled into one of the chairs before the woman’s
Cilla decided that the inventor of the caps lock key should die a horrible, agonizing, super bloody death. Twice. Maybe three times, if there was enough left of him and she found a strong enough witch.
She skipped over the first fifty emails waiting in her inbox, each of them containing all capitals in their subjects. Irate customers used capitals. Ingrates. Okay, “ingrates” wasn’t a very nice thing to say about Blue Hedgehog Press readers. She was just so…mad. And the caps lock key creator wasn’t around to torture.
Cilla pushed her sliding glasses further up her nose and blew the falling tendrils of hair out of her face. She’d have to fix her bun sooner or later, but she still had over a hundred emails to look through.
On the plus side, half of the emails were praise for Blue Hedgehog Press and its authors, especially Minz Carter. It was the other half she dreaded. If only…
If only she hadn’t fallen for the Harpy’s tricks. Toll collector by night, she was the whip-wielding General Manager of the publishing house by day. And she’d duped Cilla like she was a hatchling just getting her wings under her. Geesh.
“Shift for me, dear Cilla,” she’d cooed. “Let me see those lovely, lovely scales of yours.”
One. One tiny little scale from the tip of her tiny little tail was stolen. Now Cilla was stuck working for the Harpy bitch forever and ever, amen. Only God couldn’t save her now. She wasn’t sure if anyone could save her.
Cilla’s powers were tied to her scales. They lived just beneath her skin, waiting for the moment when she’d set them free, and then whamo! Dragon. Except nothing happened if one of her scales was missing. If it shed naturally, she could shift as soon as a new one grew in. But since it was plucked from her like a feather, no amount of wishing would force the scale to return. She had to have that pesky missing piece handed back to her safe and sound.
The Harpy wasn’t likely to do that any time soon. Hell, it’d been nearly six years, and still the scale was nowhere in sight.
“Cilla!” the Harpy bellowed through the intercom system. “Silly Cilla!”
With a sigh she pushed away from her desk and padded toward the Harpy’s domain. The General Manager’s office had been decorated to resemble her favorite place: the underside of a bridge. It was just like home, she said. Blech.
“Yes, ma’am?” Must act submissive. Must. Six years the Harpy had said. Six years and then she’d be free. Of course, each time Cilla pissed her off, the sentence was changed. Hell, sometimes it changed on a whim.
“Come in, come in.”
Cilla stepped across the threshold and froze. Holy fire and may water be merciful.
The most gorgeous man Cilla had ever seen stood before the Harpy’s desk. His hair was dark, almost midnight-black, and held the tiniest hint of a curl like a calm day at sea. The man’s forehead was wide, but not high—strong. Those eyes… Amber like a cat’s, but they held a hunger she couldn’t identify, and she wondered if this was another of the Harpy’s lovers. His nose wasn’t too large, but matched his face. A small bump along the bridge showed that it’d been broken at one time over the years. But it was his lips she wanted, needed, desired. She imagined them to be soft, so kissably soft, and sweet. Something about this man drew her in.
A polo shirt just loose enough not to be considered indecent encased his broad shoulders, accentuating his pectorals and tapered waist. She curse the cotton fabric of his loose-fitting khaki pants, wishing she could see if the rest of him was as well-defined as his torso.
This stranger, this smiling man with his rakish grin and strong body…he made her want. Bad.
“Sit, Cilla, sit,” the Harpy ordered.
She wondered if she’d get a doggy or dragon treat for listening. Not likely . Not waiting to find out, she stared over the Harpy’s shoulder and settled into one of the chairs before the woman’s
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