A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters - Martin Harry Greenberg [43]
Helen gave a weak smile. “Yeah, I know, but the way it’s making me feel . . .”
“It will go away when this all turns to shit, believe me.”
“But if this is the only way I can get it,” Helen said, looking down with concern at the wounded crumple of a man that was Jason Eros, “then I’ll accept that if the time comes.”
“Ha!” Leis said, actually laughing out loud this time. “Not if. When. When the time comes, and it will, Helen.”
Helen turned away from Leis and completely back to Jason, kneeling next to him, checking him over.
“Fine,” Leis said, storming off toward the elevators, “but don’t expect me to be back at the dorm when you get back. Go crazy, no, really. Maybe you’ll have little wolf babies, or some of those creepy cherubim. If nothing else, maybe this will keep him off my back.”
Realizing only the tourists and clichéd lovebirds were listening, she stormed off.
Helen didn’t even notice Leis was gone and with every passing moment, it mattered less and less. She was too busy worrying over poor beaten and bruised Jason to care about much else.
Jason looked up at her with a tremulous smile. Helen’s heart accelerated to an immediate flutter, not even minding the blood on his face that was already drying and flaking away. Why should she mind? Didn’t that just make him look a little more rugged?
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said, that irresistible smile growing stronger.
“Are . . . are you okay?” Helen asked, standing. She offered her hand to him. He took it and she felt an even stronger spark of connection pass between them. She knew it was just his power at work, that it was just the power to charm, but she didn’t care. After all, she had never been sure if the love in her life previous to this moment had ever been real anyway. At least Jason’s power gave her a thrill that certainly felt real enough. “Seriously, are you okay? Leis beat you pretty badly.”
“Yeah,” he said, standing and brushing off his clothing, the blood and debris fading away as he did so. “Don’t worry about me. I’m used to it. It happens all the time.”
MURDER, SHE WORKSHOPPED
Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Spending six weeks at a writers’ workshop in the Midwest would drive an empath insane. Or maybe it would make the empath suicidal. Or homicidal, depending on the emotions swirling around the empath that day.
I think about such things because 1) I am trapped at just such a writers’ workshop, and 2) I am in the process of divorcing said empath. He’s at home, with all our belongings and our cats, while I’m here for week four, when my target finally arrives. Fortunately for me, said empath (who shall remain nameless) didn’t get the bright idea to clear out our bank accounts until yesterday. I had that bright idea three hours before I started researching my lawyer months ago. All the money once labeled ours is now in several accounts now labeled mine, and no matter how hard said empath screams over the phone, he’ll never be able to find them.
Empathy works two ways. He can feel all of my emotions when we talk and I can feel all of his. His are extremely powerful. Mine are generally muted, which explains the initial attraction.
It also explains why I do what I do.
I kill people. Well, not people per se. Evil magical creatures that misuse a human form. Lest you think I am insane myself and use this explanation to rationalize my murderous tendencies, let me simply tell you that I have few murderous tendencies. That’s why I get the jobs I do. I’m a highly skilled, highly paid assassin who works only once every four to five years.
I also happen to have a 100% success rate.
Which might completely vanish on this particular job, distracted as I am by said empath and by the silly workshop itself.
Here’s the problem: I’m thinking seriously of retiring and taking up writing as a new career. Secretly, I’ve always wanted to write.
But if you had asked me—oh, say, three weeks ago—which would be harder, becoming a writer or an assassin who specialized in magical creatures that misuse human form, I would have answered writer every time.
Then I met the