Experiment in Terror 05 On Demon Wings (42 page)

grab hold of her, and saw Dr. Freedman walking calmly

down the steps. “You’re not wel , Perry, and you cannot

make decisions for yourself.”

“No,” I uttered, and tried again to get away from

Maximus. I wanted to run to Dex, pul him away from the

cops and run free. I could see from his face, as the cops

frisked him, as his head was squished hard against the car,

that he felt the same. Panic and indignation flared in his

eyes.

“Don’t fight it, Perry, do as I say,” Maximus whispered in

my ear. “I won’t let them take you anywhere but you have to

play nice and play fair. Calm down.”

I didn’t care what Maximus had to say. There was only

one person I was going to listen to and he was being

arrested.

Dr. Freedman stopped in front of me and smiled in his

condescending way.

“Perry, take a deep breath and look where you are.

You’re with us. With your family. We’re going to help you.”

I heard Dex cry out and tore my eyes away from the

doctor. Dex was shaking his head, trying to fight and losing

as the cops tried to force him into the back of the cruiser.

“Dex!”I screamed. But it was useless. The car door

slammed in his face and the two officers got in the front.

The car started and pul ed away from the road, leaving

me in the dust.

I screamed again and struggled but it was useless. I was

trapped.

“Relax, Perry,” the doctor said. “You’re in my hands.”

He stepped closer to me until he was al I could see.

“You’re safe now.”

“You’re safe now.”

I screamed somewhere deep inside.

Look for
Old Blood
(5.5), an Experiment in Terror Novel a

coming in July 2012. You know part of Pippa’s story, now’s

your chance to learn more. Includes the first few chapters of

EIT #6
Into the Hollow

For more information about the series, visit:

www.experimentinterror.com

Fol ow the author on Twitter at
@MetalBlonde

Become a fan of the EIT Facebook Page

by liking us at
www.facebook.com/experimentinterror

(get exclusive content + giveaways too)

Read on for the first few chapters of Hal e’s
Lost in

Wanderlust
, a rowdy contemporary romance set on the

Mediterranean – coming June 2012

1

JAMIE

th

June 18

I nearly died last night.

I guess this isn’t the only time I’ve written this down

here. And it’s not the only time it happened because I was

swept away by some exotic version of Ian Somerhalder

(SMOLDERHOLDER).

I ate at this little place near the docks, kind of a busy

area but recommended by Hildy and more than a few

locals. It was nice; I mean the fish was fresh as could be,

but what was really fantastic was that no one seemed to

care that I was a blonde, white woman eating alone. It

wasn’t a tourist trap either, just a delightfully progressive

eatery in Tangier.

OK,

so

what

was

even

better

was

that

SMOLDERHOLDER (as I shall call him, the harbinger of

my almost death) was across the room. Yeah, he was with

a woman who was probably his wife but he was still looking

my way. Maybe it’s because I nearly choked on a

fishbone, or perhaps because I dumped my cup of mint

tea down my shirt (why do I wear white?) but he was

looking at me. And he might have liked what he saw.

I say this because when I was getting up to leave, he

suddenly got up to leave too. I mean, just him, no one

else, like he was going to time it so we walked to the

washrooms together or something, like you did in high

school. But just as I was near his table, radically

conscious of my ink blot-shaped tea stain across my

boobs, his wife/she-devil woman reached up and

snatched him by the elbow, seating him back down.

I couldn’t stop and wait to see what he was going to do

next, though, so I kept walking. I walked out of the

restaurant, onto the street and saw a cab waiting on the

other side.

My thoughts were a mix of planning my cabbie strategy

(I am NOT getting ripped off in this damn city anymore!)

and yearning for SMOLDERHOLDER when suddenly I

heard an American voice behind me. An American MALE

voice.

“
Hey, you left your book!”

I stopped in the middle of the road. I turned around.

SMOLDERHOLDER was holding my diary. Yes, diary,

I forgot you once again.

I smiled and was about to say something witty like “Oh!”

or “Ah!” when I was hit by a rickshaw.

Remember when I got hit by that car in Buenos Aires

that the landlord’s naughty old grandma was driving?

Yeah, this wasn’t as bad. But it was a rickshaw. And that’s

embarrassing. It’s, like, a bike.

I don’t know where it came from or how I didn’t see it, but

damn, those rickshaws don’t have headlights and the

streets in this damn town are poorly lit and that stupid

sexy SMOLDERHOLDER had me so flabbergasted that

it’s possible I RAN INTO the rickshaw myself.

Anyway, it hit me. The driver and the passenger went

flying (and when I say flying, I mean they just kind of

slumped awkwardly and swore profusely in French). I

bungled up my leg pretty bad. Next thing I kno,w the

people from the restaurant are beside me. Turns out

SMOLDERHOLDER’S wife is a doctor. Of course she is.

They both took me to the emergency room, my body

raked with the road, the tea stain now covered by

horseshit.

I’m fine, though, obviously. My leg is scraped ugly and

bruised as hell but I can walk. Nothing is broken. I was

lucky. I always hear that, how lucky I am, how fortunate.

How lucky am I really, though? The night spent in the

crazy emergency room with MR. and MRS. PHD

SMOLDERHOLDER was …I don’t know how to explain

this, but for once, I actually felt CARED for. Like I was a

soul worth paying attention to. Last nigh,t I almost lost my

life and it made me realize that I – jet-setting travel writer

Jamie Cooper - really don’t have that much of a life to

lose.

How sad is that?

2

CHRIS

There is nothing more terrifying than a blank page.

Scratch that. There is nothing more terrifying than a

blank page when you have a deadline.

And there is nothing more piss-your-trousers, fetal-

positioning, terrifying when you have a blank page, a

deadline, and a boss cal ed Joe Bradley.

I have al three of those things. I haven’t pissed my pants

yet, but if I have yet another cup of coffee this becomes

more of a possibility. As for the fetal position, I’ve learned

there is just enough room for that under my desk.

Unfortunately, crawling under your desk rarely makes your

problems go away. It only worked that one time when I

faked having a delirious fever and Marilyn sent me home

from work. God bless that woman; there’s a special place

in heaven for secretaries who know you’re lying and stil go

along with it.

The article I have to finish is a piece on the economy.

Oh, I know. How unique. Another exposé on how screwed

Britain is and how the whole world is screwed and how the

newspaper is screwed because no one buys newspapers

anymore because of the damn economy (and Internet of

course, but Joe’s Jurassic way of doing news is about as

useful as the arms on a T-Rex). But for some darn reason,

people like to hear about how fucked up everything is and

these articles keep coming out. And I’m the one writing

them, which leaves me tremendously depressed every time

I hear an investor talk about the sorry state of affairs.

Actual y, they aren’t sorry. They are the ones with the

money. But the rest of us suffer.

Especial y me. Because if I don’t produce the article in

the next 20 minutes, that’s one more excuse for Joe to kick

me out on my arse. Then I’d be out of a job. And without a

job, I wouldn’t be able to save just enough to buy Alexa her

desired engagement ring and I certainly wouldn’t be able to

afford the holiday we’re supposed to be taking tomorrow.

Ugh. The space under the desk is starting to look

particularly inviting now.

Somehow though, I manage to pul myself out of my

nightly spiral of shame and loathing and the article gets

done. It’s not my best work…actual y I’m pressed to find any

of my best work lately. But it is something and something is

what The London Herald needs. Or, at least, gets.

I eye the clock. It’s already one minute late.

I hop out of my chair and walk past the row of cubicles

across to the other side of the office. It’s amazing how

something so large and open, with buzzing fluorescent

lights everywhere and blinking computers, can feel exactly

like an oppressive, dank cave.

As usual, I’m the only one here working late. Wel , me,

Joe and Marilyn. We used to have a few beat reporters who

would put in the long hours but Joe sacked them a few

months ago. Was a real shame too; one of them, Pat, lived

just down the road from me and would often give me a ride

home. Now I see him on the way to the tube in the mornings

and he won’t even look at me. Losing your job can make