Please, please, announce. I have to get some work done here.

***

She spotted him in one corner, two vampires working him over, and not in the bad way. She watched him as his eyes rolled back, face slack, and throat working as one pale, fine-boned hand slid up his cock. He might desperately like the sensation right now, but he wouldn’t be too happy tomorrow.

Almost immediately they took notice of her lucidity amidst the stench of blood, sex, and sweat, as she purposefully strode towards the threesome. Her sword cut like butter through the first two that came at her, blood flying cleanly from the blade, a soft whisper of death in the heavy air.

The two vampires took to the scent of fresh blood slowly, pulling away from her prize with arrogant leisure considering their dead fellows and the speed at which she knew they could move.

One blurred and had a hand grasped beneath her chin before her sword finished slicing halfway through his leg. Sword met bone in a sickening crack and the hand around her throat clenched. She thought he was going to break her neck, then he let go. She fleetingly considered that maybe death would be preferable. Now he was going to play.

He threw her into the wall where she lay stunned, the act of breathing a hot agony through her severely bruised throat. Her sword hand clenched air and she realized she must have involuntarily dropped it. She flexed the muscles in her forearm, allowing a small, vicious blade to slide into her hand, waiting for the right moment as her vision pulsated dark and light with each throb of her heart.

His face slid into view, dark eyes gleaming with unholy mirth and something akin to curiosity. He leaned down to sniff her and she jammed the point into his neck, digging it in as a hot, sloppy torrent of blood shot from the jugular. Her hand slipped but she kept pushing, rolling with the momentum, until his hand threatened to break her wrist and she let go to stagger back.

The other one came at her and she ducked into a spinning hip check, barreling him down and using her hard landing to sickening advantage as several ribs snapped beneath her weight. She bounced up, head not quite catching up with her until she was halfway to her prize. She fought the momentary dizziness and grasped him under the arm pits. She couldn’t put him over her shoulder so she dragged him, dazed and half-clothed, to where her sword lay.

The room had cleared and she spared a word of thanks. Both vampires were recovering slowly, still not ready to come at her again. She tucked her sword in and wrapped her fingers in the prize’s luxurious hair, using it to drag him as fast as she could. She was through one door and over the threshold to the final room when one of them stood. He staggered through behind her holding his neck.

She barely looked back, just pumped her legs as hard as she could dragging dead weight, and half stumbled down the steps to her SUV. She shoved him over the driver seat, uncaring for cramped limbs, sure she could feel vampire breath on her neck the whole time. He was rushing the vehicle as fast as he could, which was slow for a vamp, when she sped away, almost jumping the curve on the empty street.

An hour later she stopped in a church parking lot and contemplated her prize. He was kneeling uncomfortably on the floor board, his upper body sprawled face down in the passenger seat, as he slept the sleep of the unnaturally sexed. She took a deep breath, wondering if she had time to clean him up a little first, maybe in a hotel room with warm water and a soft bed. She snorted. The bed would be too soft or too hard and the bathroom would be soul-killingly sterile.

Might as well do it here.

She brushed his hair back, dry blood from her hands flaking over his forehead, and let her fangs descend.

“We got a deal!” Even in the noisy tavern, Frauk was as subtle as a foghorn, bless him. He reached for the money but Leese was faster. She pushed the embroidered pouch back across the table.

“No,” she told the man in silver. “Thanks.”

He continued to ignore her, as he’d done since he’d sat down across from them. “You finish the job by the time-“

Frauk, however, knew better than to ignore his usually silent partner. Leather creaked as he twisted to look down at her. “Why not?”

“You do protection. Not assassination.”

“It’d make a nice change.” Frauk sounded hopeful. Under the table he put a big hand on her thigh, covering most of it.

The man in silver shifted his chilly gaze to Leese for a heartbeat. When she looked into those eyes, she knew she was right.

The man sneered at Frauk. “And you listen to her?” Hen-pecked. Led by the balls, that tone said.

Frauk’s hand tightened on her leg. Sometimes he had to warn her, too. “Yes,” he told the man cheerily. “Be just a minute.” He hauled Leese from the bench into a darker corner.

“So? Why not?” He sounded only curious. The good thing about her Frauk was he didn’t mind listening to her. You’d never guess a brute endowed with those muscles would heed a slip of a female.

He smiled encouragingly. The other good thing about him was he didn’t understand what his muscles and those white teeth did to her or he’d flex and grin far more often.

“First. The target is too risky. A judge? And then. You’re not thinking, sweetie. Look at our client.”

“Huh.” He twisted and gave a quick examination at the man who watched them. “Oh. He’s a professional. Bristling with weapons. Shoulda seen that.”

She didn’t want to belabor the point but she said, “You’d kill the target and our man would jump out kill you and claim he was on the side of justice.”

Her Frauke’s heavenly blue eyes lit. “If he’s trying to get me killed, then it’s best we do him, hey?”

She stroked his massive forearm. Poor Frauk. He was so bored. Watching and waiting was dull work compared to going out and doing. She’d have to find something exciting for him. But not this. He was all bulk and noise and obvious.

“Yes, love. But I’ll do it.”

The gleam in his eyes faded but he nodded agreement. Her Frauk had common sense.

Amanda knelt in the shadow of a pine tree and pulled the instructions from her back pocket. She bit her lip, smoothed the wrinkled paper in the dirt and placed the gun carefully in front of it. Her hurried notes were almost indecipherable, but she somehow managed to get the gun loaded and ready to fire.

She cradled it in her hand, pointing it away from her and at the ground. Crouching low, she crept beneath the window.

“Where is the blasted painting?” O’Connell’s accent was unmistakable. Amanda shivered in spite of the heat, remembering his chilling smile when he’d ordered Alejandro’s murder.

“I told you, I do not have it.” Sendoa’s voice was tight, as if he was having difficulty breathing.

Amanda rose to the window ledge and cautiously peeked through the green wooden slats. The two men she’d seen at the hotel held Sendoa’s arms, and Foster faced him, his broad back almost obscuring her view. She saw enough to know that Sendoa had been through a pounding.

He looked at O’Connell and smiled.

The Irishman roared with rage and delivered a roundhouse blow to Sendoa’s left side. The smile on Sendoa’s face turned into a grimace as he doubled over.

God, they’re going to kill him. She raised the gun and rested it on the sill, tucking the barrel between the lowest slats. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t bear the thought of shooting anyone, even if it was O’Connell. With her luck, she’d probably hit Sendoa instead.

She aimed at a shelf piled high with brass cooking containers. Maybe the noise would distract them. Maybe he’d break free.

She peered along the short barrel and squeezed the trigger.

The recoil smacked her squarely on the bridge of her nose. She squeaked with pain, dropped the gun and tumbled backward into the dust, clutching her face. Shouts exploded from the farmhouse and she scrambled on her hands and knees, taking shelter behind a fig tree.

More crashes and yelling. Shots rang out. She crouched lower and rubbed the tears from her eyes. She couldn’t see and her nose felt like it was on fire.

Someone jerked her to her feet and clamped a hand over her mouth before she could scream. Sendoa’s voice caressed her ear. “Quickly.” He pulled her down the hillside until they were out of sight of the farmhouse.

I was wondering when this contest will be over and if you’d just go ahead and tell me what you think of my entry…please…when you get the time to read it. I’m an impatient person, I know. It’s one of my main flaws.

Thanks!!!

They must have used two full rolls of tape on him. Every time he moved, another two or three hairs parted from the skin on his wrist, leg, belly or head. That didn’t stop his useless wriggling.

Between painful attempts to free himself, he wondered what they would do once they finished with his bank card. Just stay the hell away, he thought. He’d rather die from starvation or smashing his head if he ever managed to tip the damned oak dining room table.

At least they’d left him in boxers so when his body was discovered he wouldn’t be naked–just firmly attached to the table with silver duct tape as if he’d been attacked by an amateur but enthusiastic spider.

Oh, shit they were back. No, way too quiet—and then he remembered. It was Mrs. Besovic’s day. He’d forgotten she existed. Thank God, the cleaning lady would rescue him. He tried to yell but only a pathetic moan came from his duct taped mouth.

She found him within five minutes. Her severely plucked dark brows went up and she crossed her arms over her large chest, dust cloth dangling from one gloved hand. Jesus, she thought he wanted to be there. He squirmed and widened his eyes.

She finally spoke. “Meester David? Okay?”

Ignoring the chunks of hair pulled from his scalp he twisted his head from side to side.

“Ah.” She easily ripped the tape from his mouth and stepped back. “Who do?”

“Two of them, Mrs. Besovic. Bad men.”

That was a phrase she used herself. Bad men came to her country, she’d told him, all he knew of her past as a refugee.

For a long moment she only blinked at him, then she straightened her apron and strolled to the kitchen, returning with a long kitchen knife. Humming, she sawed at the tape wrapped around David. As she cut the last of the tape on his legs, the sound of his own car drifted through the open window. The engine stopped.

“Shit, they’re back.” He pulled his leg from the tape and lunged at the phone. “I’ll call the police.”

“No.” She held the knife in her yellow gloved hand and pointed it at David. A suggestion, not a threat. “Police never enough,” she whispered. “Never.”

Looking into those dark eyes, he suddenly understood the real danger was for bad men. She witnessed slaughter and knew demons more intimately than he or even the men coming through the door.

The short squat woman met the two men at the door of the dining room and with a few deft, merciless slashes dispatched them. David shouted, “Stop,” but she ignored him.

Less than five minutes later, humming again, she carefully wiped the knife on a paper towel and peeled off the yellow gloves “Yes. Now call police.”