The Obsidian Collection Read online

  The Obsidian Collection

  Obsidian Escape Copyright 2014 Rebel Adams

  Obsidian Liquor Copyright 2014 Scarlett Dawn

  Obsidian Faith Copyright 2014 Bev Elle

  Obsidian Heart Copyright 2014 Nicole Flockton

  Obsidian Sky Copyright 2014 Lara Henley

  Obsidian Ice Copyright 2014 Missy Johnson

  Obsidian Jewel Copyright 2014 Angel Lawson

  Obsidian Desire Copyright 2014 T.H. Snyder

  Obsidian Beauty Copyright 2014 Emily Walker

  First Edition

  All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of these publications may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the Author. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the publisher.

  These books are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Published by Divine Nine, LLC.

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Cover and formatting by ShoutLines Design

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To the readers who have read our separate works, whom we hope will be equally intrigued with this, our first anthology. We shall be ever grateful for your support.

  To Hot Tree Editing for taking our stories, some as diamonds in the rough, and helping them emerge for the world as richly faceted stones.

  To ShoutLines Designs for crafting a gorgeous cover and beautifully formatting the stories contained inside.

  Everything each of you have done, and will do, shall play an integral part in the success of this anthology. Many thanks from the Divine Nine!

  DEDICATION

  To Divine Nine,

  Burning together as one,

  the divine rage on.

  From an imaginative spark,

  they are the oxygen.

  A group of the cherished,

  their souls bleed into the fire.

  True to one another,

  the flames trust. Conquer.

  How the tiny spark adores each divine flame...

  To many more joined victories,

  - S.D.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Obsidian Escape by Rebel Adams

  Obsidian Liquor by Scarlett Dawn

  Obsidian Faith by Bev Elle

  Obsidian Heart by Nicole Flockton

  Obsidian Sky by Lara Henley

  Obsidian Ice by Missy Johnson

  Obsidian Jewel by Angel Lawson

  Obsidian Desire by T.H. Snyder

  Obsidian Beauty by Emily Walker

  More From the Authors

  Scarlett Dawn

  Bev Elle

  Nicole Flockton

  Lara Henley

  Missy Johnson

  Angel Lawson

  Emily Walker

  She was wrecked.

  Ogden’s lip curled, disgusted by what he saw. Not the girl herself, but what she represented. Some prick, who called himself a man, had beaten the shit out of this little thing. Her lip was busted; her eye was swollen shut.

  The doctor stood next to him just outside the door. “Broken arm, too, detective. Sprained an ankle trying to back away.”

  “Do they have him?”

  “Dunno. That’s your department.”

  “Christ, I hope she’s ready to get out of that house.”

  The doctor nodded. “I think she is. Scared as fuck, but ready.”

  Jackson Ogden slowly moved into the room. He’d dealt with too damn many abuse cases like this, and he wished Gretchen were there. Women didn’t trust men after getting the ass whooping like this one had. Gretchen Lopez knew exactly the kind of psychology that went into abuse—she’d left her abusive marriage ten years earlier. She’d been schooling him, but now that she was out on maternity, he was on his own.

  The woman hadn’t seen him yet. She could be asleep. She could be just lying there with her eyes closed. He looked down at the notebook. Whitney Geddings. Age twenty-four. Brown hair, brown eyes, five-foot zip. One hundred and eight pounds. He looked up, and eyed the body in the bed. Maybe. Soaking wet. Married to Sean Geddings, current whereabouts unknown. Asshole.

  “Never go in there with a coat on. Never come at them with a notebook and no sympathy. Put your notebook away and embrace the micro-recorder. Show it to them, turn it on, put it down and leave it alone.” Gretchen, why’d you have to go and get knocked up by your husband?

  He pulled the coat off, but left the suit jacket on. An instinct told him that wearing it was something that would distinguish him from her piece-of-shit husband. Instincts weren’t dismissed. He pulled the recorder out of his pocket and walked around the bed in a large arc.

  “Mrs. Geddings?”

  Her eyes popped open.

  Jackson felt her gaze shoot through him. Those aren’t brown eyes. They were chocolate, swirled with the tiniest of gold flakes. The blood-matted hair was a soft chestnut brown. His heart stuttered. Despite all the damage The Asshole had managed, this tiny little woman was gorgeous.

  Gorgeous, and as he’d expected, distrusting.

  There was no mistaking the vibe she was throwing. Her gaze shifted from him to the door and back again. It was impossible to tell whether she was hoping he would use it to go back to where he’d come from or if she was gauging her own chances of escape. Regardless, it was immediately apparent that she didn’t want to be alone in the room with him.

  Call it another instinctual hunch, but Jackson could already tell that this was going to be an unproductive interview. Despite the damage done to her, getting Mrs. Geddings to talk was going to be difficult.

  “Whitney?” he asked, taking a different approach, a more familiar approach. If he could just get her to separate herself from the bastard who’d done this to her, she might be willing to talk.

  She continued to eye him warily, still not having said a word.

  He wished again that Gretchen were here. Gretchen would be better at this. She would empathize with Whitney Geddings’ situation. And then she’d work her Gretchen magic. Whether the woman wanted to talk or not, the story would pour out of her.

  Don’t assume that you have the answers she wants to hear. You don’t know what her situation is. Rest assured it’s far more complicated than you think it is. She’ll talk, but you’ve got to let her come to that decision on her own.

  Case after case, he’d tried. Honestly, he had, but he was still just a man. He was a fixer. All he needed was a few concrete details, and he could put the guy away. Then she’d be safe. Though it seemed like an easy decision to him, it never played out that way.

  He’d never understand why a woman would feel compelled to protect the man who’d just beaten her half to death. Yet, they always did.

  “I’m Detective Ogden. I know you’ve been through a lot tonight, Mrs. Geddings, but I just need to ask you a few questions.” Her eyes shuttered closed, and he mentally berated himself with a litany of profanities. He’d slipped up and used her married name again.

  It felt like an eternity passed before she finally blessed him with another glimpse at her stunning eyes. He should’ve felt relief at her reentry into their one-sided conversation, but what he saw gutted him instead.

  Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.

 
What the fuck was wrong with him. He’d seen plenty of women cry. It came with the territory. Yet, something about this woman crying tore at him in an unfamiliar way.

  “Are you in pain?”

  A tear slipped down her face, and she wiped it away with the hand that wasn’t tied to her chest in a sling.

  He was a jackass. Of course, she was in pain.

  “Is there something I can get you?” Jackson looked around for the rolling table that was customary in hospital rooms. It was shoved up against the wall behind the IV cart that thankfully wasn’t in use. At least that was a good sign.

  A pitcher of ice water rested on top of the table. He stepped in that direction while asking, “How about a drink? Can I get you a drink?”

  She shook her head and her good hand fluttered to her throat. The marks were faint, but there was no mistaking them. He couldn’t believe that he’d missed them during his initial assessment of her. He also couldn’t believe the fucking idiot of a doctor hadn’t thought to mention them.

  The fucker had choked her.

  The good news was that based on this evidence alone, he could upgrade the case from assault to attempted murder. The bad news was that, even more than before, he wanted her to talk.

  They already knew who her assailant was. In fact, he was almost certain the bastard was already in custody. But that didn’t change the fact that he needed her to say the words. More than that, he wanted to pick her up and carry her up four flights of stairs to the rooftop so that she could scream it for the whole city to hear.

  Jackson told himself that his motive for the image was merely the job. After all, the son of a bitch needed to pay for what he’d done. Absolutely, he did.

  However, he was suddenly glad that Gretchen wasn’t here. He’d never admit it to her or anyone else, but his motives weren’t pure. The mere thought of wrapping his arms around Whitney Geddings and her resting her head into the crook of his neck had done something to him. Something that no other victim had every done to him before.

  It had caused his dick to stir in his pants. She hadn’t said a single word. Yet, the woman was affecting him.

  Think about baseball and dead puppies, he told himself.

  “Can you talk?” he asked, trying to refocus on the task.

  “Not really,” she whispered. She grimaced as if just those two words, barely more than a breath, had caused her a tremendous amount of pain.

  He winced with her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to talk. How about I just ask you a couple of yes or no questions. You can nod your answers, and I can come back tomorrow when you’re feeling a little better to get a full statement.”

  She shook her head in response. Only the hair around her forehead was matted with blood. Chestnut waves brushed her shoulders.

  He wished he could wash away the blood … and the pain that accompanied it. “No, you don’t want to nod your answers or no you don’t want me to come back?”

  She shook her head no again, but a tiny smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

  “Okay, we’ll just cover the basics tonight. Were you the one that called the police?”

  Whitney didn’t shake her head this time, but she didn’t nod either. Instead, a single eyebrow raised, and her expression made it clear that she knew that he already had an answer to the question and was blowing smoke up her ass.

  “Do know who called the police?”

  Again with the eyebrow.

  “Okay, so we’ve established that it was your neighbor, Ms. Wallerton who called the police.” This time, an actual smile, appeared on her face and she quietly chuckled.

  Feeling like he’d made some progress with her, Jackson decided to cut to the chase. “Was anyone at home with you other than your husband?”

  The smile faded fast and the shutters came down. Whitney Geddings did not intend to talk about her husband.

  Jackson sighed. “Okay, last question for tonight. Did your husband put those marks around your neck?”

  She looked the detective dead in the eye and then shook her head a final time, before turning on her side. With her back to him, she looked again like the tiny frail little thing whom he’d first observed in the bed. Any fire that he thought he might have glimpsed in her had been snuffed out.

  The conversation was over. He wouldn’t be getting anything else from her tonight. He’d come back tomorrow and try again. He doubted that he’d be any more welcome in her room tomorrow, but he wasn’t going to give up. He just hoped she didn’t give up either.

  Jackson took a step toward her bed. “I’m sorry, Whitney. I know you don’t want to talk about what happened, but we need to make sure that this doesn’t happen again. I know it’s hard. Get some rest and I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  She didn’t move, and he turned to make his exit. Just as he reached the doorway, a broken whisper of a voice stopped him in his tracks. “Detective Ogden?” she asked. “Where is he?”

  Jackson stole another look at the back of the battered woman. The report had listed Sean Gedding’s whereabouts as unknown. However, she should be safe in the hospital. There was no reason to worry her. “I believe he’s in custody,” he lied. “When I come back tomorrow, I promise to bring good news.”

  She nodded but said nothing else.

  Jackson paused again in the hall. He had a strange desire to sit vigil outside her door. To make sure that she made it safely through the night. Instead, he left the hospital, determined to make good on his promise.

  As he climbed into his unmarked car, he already had his phone pressed to his ear.

  “You’d better have a damn good reason for calling me,” she answered.

  “Hello to you, too.”

  “I’ve got two more weeks. Whatever it is, it’s not my problem.”

  “Come on, Gretchen. I just need you to talk me through this one.”

  “The protocol is the same. You don’t need my help. You could do this in your sleep.”

  “No,” he said. “This one’s different.”

  “Why? What makes this one different?”

  That was a damn fine question. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it yet, but there was definitely something different about this case. There was something different about Whitney Geddings. “She’s… strong. She’s fighting herself on this. She’s not afraid of him; she’s afraid of herself.”

  The phone was silent a minute. “You’re getting the hang of this, Ogden. You don’t need me for this. Chase that thought. And let me enjoy my last two weeks with my kid, okay?”

  Her words were earnest, and Jackson found himself nodding in agreement as if she were standing there with him. Jackson realized she couldn’t see him. “Right. Sure. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Of course you will. Later, Jack.”

  “Thanks, Gretch.”

  But the phone was already disconnected.

  The car slid into the driveway of the house. He had to see the place. He didn’t want her back there. Not if she was actually ready to change her situation.

  Jack almost hoped the scumbag had come back to gather his stuff. He would gladly leave his badge in the car and take care of this whole problem in one shot. Literally. No one should ever treat another human the way Whitney had been treated. Especially after taking vow in front of God and family to love, honor and cherish.

  Not every couple got a chance at a whole life of happiness together. There was that little matter of death.

  Don’t think about that, Jackson scolded himself.

  He slid out of the car, walking up to the front door. A uniform still stood just outside the door, messing with his phone while keeping an eye on the property. He barely looked up as Jackson passed. Jack looked at the screen. Fucking Candy Crush. “Level sixty-five. Good luck.”

  “It’s a bitch,” the uniform answered.

  “Wouldn’t your time be better spent actually watching the house?”

  “He’s not coming back here. Only an idiot would come back.” The officer f
inally looked up at him. “Detective Odgen, relax. He’s a dick with a record and—”

  Jackson slammed the officer against the wall, pinning him there. “A woman was beaten for no other reason than being a woman by this asshole. You’ll keep an eye out for him. And you can deal with level sixty-five after you deal with Level Ogden. Hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, detective,” the uniform grunted.

  Realizing that he’d overreacted and not fully comprehending why, Jackson let him go, walked into the house, and let out a sigh with a shake of the head. It was a typical lower-middle class home. Furnished with high-end Ikea and low end Macy’s, as Gretchen would say. There was nothing that stood out as unusual for a domestic violence call. The walls were busted up; the glass coffee table was cracked. There were drops of blood on the floor; a few things knocked off tables and destroyed on the ground. The chairs were pushed about, and of course—there was beer on the end table, a. half-consumed Coors Lite.

  How many more would be strewn around? There was probably a huge recycle can just for those.

  Wandering through, there was nothing out of the ordinary. That’s what put him off the most. The utter and complete normality of the place. Something that he and Lana once had. He wanted there to be graffiti on the walls. Mold in the sink. Urine stains on the bathroom carpet. Old food rotting somewhere in the kitchen.

  Nothing.

  A clean, normal house. Wedding pictures. A new flat screen. A Kitchen-Aid. A rickety looking pantry. Dishes in the sink. More beer in the fridge. Normal, normal, normal. There was even a Florida room off the kitchen. He flicked on the light.

  That was when it went to hell.

  Geddings stood in the middle of the room.

  Fucking lazy ass uniform outside! How could he not know that Geddings was in here?

  Jackson pulled out his gun and aimed at Geddings. “Don’t move.”

  “Fuck you.”

  The dude hurled a vase straight at his head, and Jackson ducked, moving the gun in the process. It was just long enough for Geddings to pick up a small wire spool table and throw it at the window. The windows exploded outward, taking a few supports with it and the metal groaned, struggling to hold up the roof.