Part 1 (1/2)

THE WEIRD GIRLS.

Cecy Robson.

Dear Reader, The night I was born, a bat swept down in front of my father as he ran along a cobblestone road. My father ignored the bat in his haste to reach the Central American hospital where my mother labored with me. The bat disappeared in the shadows. In its place emerged a man, his dark skin bare, his voice ominous, his imposing form blocking my father's path. ”Be wary of this one,” he warned in Spanish. ”She's not like the others.”

Okay, I'll confess. This didn't happen. But it sounds way cooler than simply admitting my father used to kiss me goodnight wearing vampire fangs, and that he was the first person to trigger my overactive imagination.

I've always loved telling stories and getting a laugh. I've also enjoyed hearing stories, especially of the paranormal variety. Being of Latin descent, I heard many tales of spirits who haunt the night, of Ddeath lurking in the darkness waiting to claim her victims, and of circ.u.mstances which could only be explained by magic and creatures not of this earth.

The stories frightened me. I often slept clutching a crucifix while my plastic glow-in-the-dark Virgin Mary stood guard on my nightstand. And still I begged for more.

Sometimes the beasties of the night b.u.mped too hard, and I swear I could see ghosts floating above me. I trekked on despite my fear, surviving each night while my plastic protector looked on.

On May 1, 2009, I decided to write a story about four unique women who must trek through their own darkness where supernasties b.u.mp hard, and bite harder. The Weird Girls series is the journey of Celia, Taran, Shayna, and Emme Wird, sisters who obtained their powers as a result of a backfired curse placed upon their Latina mother for marrying outside her race. Their story begins when the supernatural community of Lake Tahoe becomes aware of who they are, and what they can do.

”Weird” isn't welcomed among humans, nor is it embraced by those who hunt with fangs and claws, who cast magic in lethal blows, and who feast on others to survive. I wanted to show ”weird” could be strong, brave, funny, and beautiful.

My ”weird” girls will often face great terror, just like my seven-year-old frightened self, except without a glow-in-the-dark icon to keep them safe. Despite their fears, they fight like their lives depend on it, with only each other to rely on.

Sometimes, the darkness will devour the sisters. And sometimes, good won't succeed in kicking evil's a.s.s. But just like glow-light Mary, there is hope. And there is humor-often twisted, a little inappropriate, and always hilarious-very much like a father saying goodnight to his children wearing a rubber ghoul mask and owning a collection of fake fangs no adult male should possess.

So read on and check out my Weird Girls series. Maybe you'll find I'm really ”not like the others.”

Salud!

Cecy.

Chapter One.

The music pounded hard enough to shake Emme's fuzzy navel, the umbrella in Shayna's pina colada, Taran's martini, and my Corona. I'd shoved pieces of c.o.c.ktail napkin into my uber sensitive ears the moment we sat. But I wasn't going to complain about the eardrum-busting music or the crowd of young men sitting across from us ogling my sisters. We were there to celebrate.

Two years had pa.s.sed since we'd left our native New Jersey. Two years of roaming the States as travelling nurses. Two years of searching for a place to settle down. We'd stumbled into the Lake Tahoe region when our agency transferred us to a local hospital on temporary a.s.signment. We'd thought it would be fun to check out the area. We hadn't expected to fall in love with the lush forests, the breathtaking mountains, or the mysticism of the lake. But we had, and collectively agreed to make it our home sweet home.

Shayna raised her girly drink; her blue eyes and grin sparkled despite the dimness in the booth. ”To the Wird Girls finding an awesome place to live,” she hiccupped.

”To a thirty-year mortgage and a s.h.i.+tload of remodeling,” Taran muttered. She tried to complain, but couldn't hide that siren grin that made males trip over their erections. She was happy to settle down, and she d.a.m.n well knew it.

”To beautiful Lake Tahoe,” Emme added almost silently. She blushed when I glanced her way. I'd like to say she was just tipsy, but no. Emme blushed as easily as the wind blew fireflies. ”W-well it is beautiful here, Celia.”

”I know, sweetie.” I tapped my bottle against her frou-frou drink. ”Salud.”

I polished off my beer. It was my sixth round, still no buzz. Then again I could chug a keg. Alcohol had no effect on me. My lightweight sisters already slurred their words after three. In their defense, they didn't have an inner beast with the metabolism of four linebackers to help them out. The waitress rushed over and slapped another Corona down before I could ask and hurried off. I snagged it before it tipped over. Ordinarily one might think of her as a diligent, fast, hardworking, go-getter-nah, she was just scared I'd eat her. Humans never knew what we were, yet they perceive we weren't anything like them. They didn't need the amplified senses of preternaturals to know we were different. Problem was, different didn't appeal to most. And ”weird” just plain terrified.

”Oh my goodness,” Emme said. ”You didn't even peek her way or anything.”

My sisters had definitely received the less-daunting side of our backfired curse. I pushed my long hair from my face and shrugged. After years of being feared, I was almost used to it. Almost. ”I don't think tigers have to necessarily look at their prey to scare them.”

Emme placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. The jarring club lights further lightened her fair skin and blond hair and bleached out most of her freckles. ”It's not you, Celia. It's these silly humans who never want to give you a chance. You're beautiful. And so is your inner golden tigress.”

Taran rolled her huge blue eyes. ”Tigers are beautiful, Emme. But most people aren't stupid enough to pet one.” She sipped her martini as she gave me the once-over. ”Or p.i.s.s one off.”

Or date one, I thought to myself, taking in the frat boys on spring break continuing to stare and whisper about my sisters.

”Salma Hayek is mine,” one said of Taran.

”I'll take the blonde,” the other murmured.

”I'll go with the cute brunette with the ponytail.”

”Hey, I called dibs on her first,” his friend complained.

There were four of them. Four of us. One of the guys fighting over Shayna had taken an interest in me. That is, until he looked at me. Really looked at me. He smiled, but his scent of antic.i.p.ation and l.u.s.t quickly evaporated, replaced by the aroma of fear. He'd seen beyond my green eyes, olive skin, and long wavy hair to spot the predator lurking within. He saw her ready to pounce, ready to shred, ready to kill. Beautiful or not, tigers had that effect on humans.

Taran s.h.i.+mmied out of the booth. An impressive feat in the tiny, curve-hugging yellow dress she wore. If the hem lay an inch shorter, she'd end up on the Internet. ”s.h.i.+t. I have to pee.”

Shayna grinned at Taran as she ambled out, her eyes alternating from sparkly to gla.s.sy. So not a good sign. ”I think that's an oxymoron, dude.” She threw in a giggle, just to further clarify she was snockered.

I shook my head. Emme smiled softly. ”I'll go with Taran.” Emme was only five feet tall, and just shy of a hundred pounds soaking wet and bloated. Taran, although only three inches taller, towered over her in those step ladders she affectionately referred to as ”shoes.” Me? Nothing said comfy like jeans, Uggs, and a long-sleeved tee.

The minute they disappeared into the hall leading to the ladies room, one of the good ol' frat boys approached Shayna, careful to avoid eye contact with me. ”Hey, hot stuff. How about a dance?”

Shayna's glee faded when she realized I'd be alone if she went to dance. I smiled as best I could without scaring her potential date for the evening. ”It's okay. I'll just hang and wait for Emme. Go on,” I urged when she hesitated.

The guy snaked his arm around Shayna and led her onto the dance floor. Her sleek black ponytail whipped behind her as she shot me one more tentative glance. She watched me for a while. At first I thought she might return to hang with her spinster-in-the-making sister until the call of Beyonce loosened the hesitant muscles of her slender frame. It didn't take long for Shayna to move like the world's happiness depended on her booty shakes. It did, however, take a h.e.l.l of a long time for Emme and Taran to return from the bathroom. The waitress dropped my eighth beer down just as I spotted Emme's hands waving madly amidst the crowd forming near the ladies' room. ”Celia! Ceeeeeelia!”

What the h.e.l.l?

I slipped out of the booth and rushed toward the crowd. The throng of h.o.r.n.y and drunken patrons parted as I stalked, my hips swinging like a predator staking out her turf. That's right. Stay back. Scary female approaching.

As I reached Emme, a deep buzzing sound vibrated from the bathroom, followed by a high-pitched squeal, topped off by Taran's oh-so colorful language. I half-groaned, half-growled. c.r.a.p. How much trouble can someone get into in the bathroom?

I froze. Apparently a lot.

A fiery redhead stomped out of the restroom smelling like burnt toast, sporting a spiky new hairdo most porcupines would envy. I swore under my breath. Taran must have struck her with a mini-bolt of lightning. Her tresses stood out like wires, and the singed tips smoked. And G.o.d only knew what Taran had done to the rest of her dress. Scorched pieces of fabric barely covered Red's pricey and frica.s.seed bra.

Her crazed eyes scanned the crowd. ”Who's with the s.l.u.tty brunette?”

Emme glanced my way before raising a cautious hand. ”Sh-sh-she's my sister.”

The redhead stormed to Emme and jabbed an irate finger in her face. ”Your sister's a b.i.t.c.h.”

Maybe. But Emme certainly wasn't. I shoved my way between them. ”Leave her alone, and get out of our way.” My raspy voice remained deceptively calm. Yet Red easily picked up on my underlying threat: Mess with her, mess with me.