Death Fricassee

  ***

  Death Fricassee

  Recipe for Death, Book 1

  Copyright ©2014 Tawdra Kandle

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Formatting by Champagne Formats (http://thewineyreader.com/champagneformats/)

  ***

  Other Books by the Author

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Author Love

  Death Fricassee Play List

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by the Author

  The King Series

  Fearless

  Breathless

  Restless

  Endless

  The Posse

  The Perfect Dish Duo

  Best Served Cold

  Just Desserts

  The Serendipity Duet

  Undeniable

  Unquenchable

  The One Trilogy

  The Last One

  ***

  This book could only be dedicated to Mandie, because she loved it first (five years ago!) and pestered me to finish the story. With much love for all you do, all you are and for always believing.

  ***

  Lucas

  AWARENESS, WHEN IT pounced on me, was swift and brutal.

  I groaned. My tongue felt like sandpaper, and the tip of it was stuck to the roof of my mouth. When. . .and why. . .had I eaten a bundle of copper wire. . .from the bottom of a garbage can? My mouth tasted like shit, with a subtle metallic undertone.

  I rolled over, which wasn’t as easy as it sounds since every muscle of my body, large and small, felt like it was on fire. The sheet around my hips slid down, and a cool draft of air hit me where it shouldn’t have. Why the hell was I naked? My eyes flew open, and I leaped off the bed, my gaze darting around the room. Waking up nude only happened when I was in bed with a woman, and there wasn’t one of those in sight.

  I grabbed my head, moaning at the stabbing pain between my eyes. I sank to the edge of the bed and then fell back, hissing, when the sunlight that filtered through the heavy hotel room curtains hit me. The brightness intensified the pounding in my head.

  Nausea gripped me. Hangover. Maybe the worst one I’d ever had. Christ almighty, what’d happened last night?

  Memory began to return. A farewell party, thrown by some of the faculty of the college I was leaving as well as some of my former students, now proud college grads. We’d met at the local bar in town, the plan being to toss back a few beers, have some laughs and say good-bye before I took off for my new life in Florida. But somehow after four or five beers, staying to enjoy the local band had become more appealing. We’d done shots, and other people had joined us.

  I’d turned to speak to a friend, and that’s when I’d seen her. She stood at the bar between two stools, both of which were occupied by guys who were checking her out. She didn’t even acknowledge them. Dark hair waved around her shoulders and her lithe body screamed to be touched, but it was her eyes that haunted me with their familiarity. When she turned that startling blue gaze on me, I nearly stuttered, because she reminded me of Cathryn, my ex-girlfriend. Or rather, the girl I’d hoped would be mine, until she’d broken up with me two weeks before. This woman’s eyes were the same, yes, but there was more. She was taller than Cathryn, and her hair was shiny black instead of white-blonde. But they both had the simmer just beneath the cool exterior, an occasional flash of molten lava under a layer of rock.

  I didn’t remember anything after I’d begun talking to the woman. The rest of the night was a blank, as though I’d traveled in time from the moment we’d met to the second I’d opened my eyes just now. Maybe I had. I’d learned from Cathryn that there was more to the world than most of us guessed, much more than what we saw on the surface.

  At least I knew where I was, even if I didn’t recall how I’d gotten back here last night. I’d checked into the hotel just before meeting my friends. There was a few days’ gap between the end of my lease on the townhouse just off campus and my scheduled departure to the Sunshine State, so I’d decided to hang out at the local Holiday Inn while I tied up a few loose ends.

  I was pretty certain I wouldn’t be doing anything today except groaning in bed, and maybe worshipping at the porcelain throne. At least I’d be doing it at a hotel, where I could lay around in peace and not have to clean up after myself. My stomach turned over again, and I sprinted for the bathroom, barely making it before retching over the toilet bowl.

  I collapsed back against the cool tile wall, breathing hard. God, I was too old for this shit. I hadn’t gotten that wasted in years—I remembered doing shots last night, but I didn’t think I’d done enough to make me feel this bad. I frowned, wondering if this were something else. Food poisoning, maybe? Or death eating me from the inside out?

  I pushed myself up, and as I did, a flutter of white paper caught my eye. It was taped to the bathroom mirror, blowing a little in the rush of air from the vent in the ceiling. I reached for it with hands that still shook from my vomit session.

  The writing was slanted, neat curlicues that made me think of the copy of the Declaration of Independence I’d seen in Philadelphia on school trips. Or maybe on the wedding invitations from all my friends who’d gotten married over the years. None of my students submitted anything that wasn’t computer-generated these days, and it was weird to see handwriting.

  Lucas,

  I realize you’re awaking with many questions, and quite likely feeling rather ill. I apologize that I couldn’t linger to be more help to you, but my hasty departure was unavoidable.

  I have, however, set up a delivery for you. The messenger should be arriving before noon, at which time I hope you’re up and able to receive what you need. Follow your instincts, my friend.

  I’ll try to be in touch with you as soon as possible, but until then, trust that I did what was necessary, and try to forgive me.

  Fate is a tricky thing. Yours has been set for years, and I’m not yet certain whether my own actions have circumvented it or complicated it. Time will tell.

  Veronica

  P.S. I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank you for an enjoyable evening prior to our business. Your
enthusiasm is matched only by your endowment. Our time together brought me more pleasure than I’d anticipated. Until next time.

  I read it once, twice and then let the paper fall to the counter. None of the words made any sense, beyond her observation that I was probably waking up with questions. And vomiting. She hit the bulls-eye there.

  But what kind of delivery had she arranged? Drugs? Had this chick dosed me with something? I’d read a book once where an enemy agent had seduced a regular guy, injected him with a toxic cocktail and then used the promise of an antidote to blackmail the dude into going on missions for her. Was Veronica an undercover spy? And just what did she expect from me?

  I scanned my arms for any signs of needle marks, but there were none I could see. I twisted in front the mirror, checking out my ass. I didn’t see tracks, but maybe she’d used one of those super-fine needles. Who knew what secret agents were capable of doing?

  And what was all the fate shit in the note? She’d circumvented or complicated what? Was I supposed to be killed last night, and she’d saved me? I raked my hand through my hair, making it stand on end. Leaning in closer to the sink, I studied my face in the mirror. Did I look different? Paler? I narrowed my eyes. Nah, that was probably just side effects of my hangover. I hoped. But my eyes. . .I opened them wide now. Instead of the blue I’d looked out through my whole life, they were now brown. What the hell had happened to my eyes?

  The rest of my body felt okay. It was in the same condition I’d been maintaining for a long time. Not too bad for a guy pushing forty, I thought. And hey, apparently I’d impressed the mystery woman who may or may not have tried to kill me, both with my endurance and endowment. That was something. I glanced down at the note again and realized she hadn’t written ‘endurance’, she’d said ‘enthusiasm’. Well, I’d just focus on the endowment part.

  A pounding at the door made me jump. I staggered out of the bathroom, and finding a pair of basketball shorts hanging out of my duffel bag, pulled them on. Another fist on the door was accompanied by a voice.

  “Hey! Delivery for Mr. Reilly here.”

  I cleared my throat. “Yeah, hold on. I’m coming.” I turned a T-shirt right side out and stretched it over my head. Before I opened the door, I put one eye to the peephole.

  The guy who stood on the other side was probably older than me by about ten years. He was balding, with a paunch and a bored expression. The muscle shirt he wore had seen better days; the slogan across the front—Trust Shorty—was barely readable. He held a cooler in one hand.

  I unlocked the door, and sliding back the chain, cracked it open. “Hey. Sorry. I was. . .” I cleared my throat. “Sleeping.”

  He smirked, his eyes raking up and down my body. “Yeah.” He thrust the white and red cooler toward me along with a printed form. “Here ya go. It’s pre-paid, so you’re good to go. Sign on the bottom line. Lady said to tell you to look for the note.”

  I braced one hand on the door jam. “Yeah, I got it. What lady? What’d she look like?” I wanted to grab this guy by the collar of his grimy shirt and shake answers out of him.

  He held up the hand not holding the cooler and stepped back. “I got no idea. I just make the deliveries. I know nothing.” His beady black eyes met mine, and abruptly, I was dizzy, as numbers floated in front of my mind.

  Five years, six months, three days. Five years, six months, three days.

  It repeated, the words ringing in my ears and blinking into my field of vision. I stumbled back into the room, just catching the edge of the door before it swung shut. “What is that? What does it mean?”

  “Buddy, what’re you talking about?” Shorty glanced behind him, up and down the empty corridor of the hotel. “I didn’t hear nothing. Or see nothing, either. You sick or something?” He dropped the cooler on the floor and backed up further, his forehead wrinkled and his mouth tight.

  Five years, six months, three days. Five years, six months, three days

  “What the hell is going on?” I was almost begging him now.

  “I’m telling you, I don’t know. Some dame came by, paid ahead and set up a delivery schedule. We don’t ask questions, we just do our jobs.”

  “This woman—did she have black hair? And really bright blue eyes?”

  Shorty shrugged. “I dunno, man. I didn’t see her. She talked to the front office, and I’m just the delivery guy, right?” He must’ve decided I wasn’t too great a threat, since he took a tentative step forward. “You don’t mind me saying it, you don’t look so hot. Want me to call you a doctor or something? Tell the front desk to send you someone?”

  I shook my head. “No. I’m okay.” I just needed to lie down and get these screaming numbers to stop. I reached over and dragged the plastic ice chest into my room. It was heavier than I’d expected. If it did contain drugs, there must’ve been a ton of them. I patted at my hips out of instinct before I remembered that I didn’t have pockets in these shorts. “I’m sorry, I don’t have my wallet right here to give you anything—if you want to wait, I can look—”

  He shook his head. “Nope, not a problem. Lady took care of me already. You just. . .” He pointed in the general direction of the bed. “You should probably lay down or something. Maybe you need what’s in the cooler, huh? Check it out.” He looked all around again, and I felt his uneasiness steal over me like a slickness. “I’ll catch you later.”

  He was gone before my door clicked closed. I dropped to my knees next to the ice chest and struggled to press the button to open it. My hands were shaking, although now that Shorty was out of sight, the numbers had quit shouting at me, and I couldn’t see them anymore either.

  The latch finally gave way, and the top swung down. I leaned to look inside.

  Bags of red liquid were stacked neatly in two piles of three. Steam rose from them as the warmer air hit the dry ice. I leaned back, recoiling at the sight. Blood? What the fuck?

  Did I need a transfusion? Gingerly I reached down to pick up one of the packets, wondering if I’d find tubing and needles beneath. Nothing. But honestly, did I really think I could give myself blood even if I had all equipment? Hell, I fainted at the sight of a paper cut. I was a total wuss when it came to medical shit.

  I held the bag of blood in my hand, and a roaring need consumed me. It was a thirst unlike any I’d ever known, worse than when I’d run the Ironman Tri on the hottest day in June a few years back.

  Follow your instincts, my friend.

  I didn’t seem to have any choice. All I could think of was the liquid in my grasp. I had to have it—now. There was a small circle near the top that was meant for a needle, I assumed. The plastic was thinner there, and I worked at it, tearing a little hole.

  Once it had broken, I could smell the blood, and the pounding in my head was inescapable. I held the bag to my lips and sucked, hard, reveling in the cold metallic taste rolling over my tongue and down my throat.

  I drained one bag and reached for another. When the second was dry, I dropped back, leaning against the end of the bed. The nausea was gone, and I felt stronger. More myself, and yet so different. I looked down at my hands, stained red with the few drops I’d let escape my mouth, and horror hit me.

  What had I done? What had I become?

  ***

  I’D BEEN WAITING a long time to eat at this elegant uptown restaurant, and now here I was, with succulent tenderloin of beef and the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. He was just about to reach across the table—to take my hand, I hoped, although it might have been to snag the last piece of beef from my plate—when instead he kissed me. I was confused; how had he reached my lips across the table, and why were his lips so wet and slobbery?

  I blinked into sunlight only partly blocked by a small ball of white fur. His solemn brown eyes regarded me with hope, and his tail thumped against the bed. He kissed me again, and I giggled. The man and the meal might have both been a dream, but morning puppy love was my reality.

  “Morning, Makani.” I touched the soft
fluff on his head. “Thanks for the wake-up kisses. Need to go out?”

  The pup’s tail wagged faster in answer. I swung my legs out of bed, groaning again, and paused momentarily to consider what I was wearing. An oversized tee completely hid my sleep shorts, but if I stuck to my tiny backyard, no one would see me. I decided it was a risk I could take.

  Makani was only ten weeks old, and I didn’t usually bother to put on his harness and leash for our first walk of the day, when the urgency was greatest. I scooped him up and hurried outside through the back door. Once we were on the small patch of grass that I generously referred to as my backyard, I deposited the pup on the ground.

  “Okay, Makani.” I used my best firm voice. “Be a good boy now. Come on, be a good boy.”

  According to the dog-training book, “be a good boy” was code for “go to the bathroom here and now.” So far it had worked sporadically.

  Makani was just getting down to business when I heard noise coming from the house next door. Instantly the dog’s ears perked up, and before I could react, he took off in the direction of the sounds.

  “Makani!” I yelled, giving chase. “Makani, you get back here! Heel! Stop!”

  I came to a sudden halt just before I ran headlong into a huge sweaty man wearing a bright orange T-shirt emblazoned with the words “Don’t Fuck with Number One”. The front of his ball cap read “Marvelous Movers” in block print. He leaned on a dolly and looked down at me

  “Hey there.” A meaty hand on my shoulder steadied me. “That your dog?” He gestured with his head toward the deck on the back of my next-door neighbor’s house, where Makani stood, alternately barking and whimpering.

  “Yes.” I hissed the word through clenched teeth, suddenly all too aware that I appeared to be dressed in only a T-shirt. My legs felt too long and exposed. I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to look casual. Relaxed.