Purrfect Revenge

Prologue

Clarice casually licked her paws. She’d snapped up a few morsels and was taking a breather on the windowsill. Overhead, a full moon shone, and inside the house all was quiet. Just the way she liked it. Word in town had it there were rodents to be found at the beach house, and word hadn’t lied. She’d snapped up a few critters and decided this place was a keeper. Usually she liked to hang out in the hills west of Hampton Cove, but since she owed allegiance to no one, being a free spirit and all, she went where she pleased.

Clarice was a feral cat, her hide a mottled reddish brown riddled with bald spots. Once, she’d belonged to someone. Some tourists passing through who’d gotten her for their kid. When she’d gotten sick in the back of their Toyota Camry they’d decided she was more trouble than she was worth, and had tied her to a tree and left her. Good thing some kind soul had come along and freed her, or she would still be fettered to that damn tree, chewing bark.

The beach house was a property that had recently gone through a major renovation. They’d taken a worn-out beachfront property, completely gutted it and turned it into a remarkable success story. Currently it was occupied by a sprawling family of exceedingly attractive females who’d come straight down here from Hollywood to film some scenes for a popular reality show. The three sisters lived in the main house while a small film crew had taken up lodgings in the guest house. The house was guarded twenty-four seven, but since no one ever stopped to frisk a cat, Clarice had easily slipped in and out.

Luckily for her the sisters didn’t own a cat. Unfortunately what they did own was a nasty little yapper. A French Bulldog named Kane, who’d practically given her a heart attack when she’d entered the kitchen looking for some tasty little snack. The pooch wouldn’t stop yapping. Sheesh. You’d think he had to pay for the food out of his own pocket. Good thing she knew how to handle a bully. She’d given him her best hiss and claw routine and he’d quickly run off with his tail between his legs, crying for his mommy.

She now sat licking her claws, savoring those final pieces of rat guts, when she noticed that something was going on inside the bedroom. She stared through the window and saw that someone had decided to play dress-up. They were donning a black gown that extended all the way to the feet and even covered the face, leaving only a tiny slit for the eyes.

The masked person was standing at the foot of the bed, staring down at the sleeping forms of one of the sisters and her husband. Way creepy.

She watched intently as the intruder brought out a rag and a small bottle and sloshed some liquid on the rag, then walked around the bed and pressed the rag against the face of the man, then reached over and repeated the procedure on the woman. This was no game. He or she was sedating them.

And then it got really freaky. Whoever was beneath that black robe suddenly reached inside the folds and brought out a shiny meat cleaver.

Clarice's eyes went wide with horror and shock when the robed intruder heaved the cleaver high and then let it drop down with a sickening thud on the woman's neck. Ouch! She cut her eyes to the French Bulldog lying at the foot of the bed. The stupid mongrel was stoically staring at the scene as if everything was hunky-dory. How weird was that? And as she watched, she felt a little sick to the stomach. She knew all humans were nuts and some were a little twisted, like the guy who'd tied her to that tree back in the day. But this was beyond sick. This was some evil Game of Thrones stuff right there. After a while, she had to look away, her stomach lurching. And since she was Hampton Cove’s resident Feral Feline, that was saying something.

When Damien woke up it was as much from the rays of sun caressing his tan face as from the strong sense of nausea that assaulted him. It reminded him of that time he’d had plastic surgery, creating a cleft in his chin he’d hoped would add to his general look of cool dudiness. He’d woken up feeling just as nauseous from the anesthesia as he was feeling now. And then there was that smell. A pungent odor filling his nostrils and making him gag.

He groaned and rubbed his face. Did he have too much to drink last night? Nope. He and Shana had sat on the porch while her sisters cavorted in the pool. He hadn’t felt like jumping in and neither had Shana. They’d had a huge fight, and neither had felt like having a romp in the pool or the Jacuzzi.

He cast a quick glance at his wife and saw she was fast asleep, judging from the bump under the sheets. Oh, Christ, he just hoped she wouldn’t start screaming again. He hated when she did that. There was no real argument possible when she screamed her head off. The sense of annoyance suddenly returned when he thought about the predicament she’d placed them both in.

With a sigh, he swung his feet to the hardwood floor, fisting his toes.

Wow. He had to hold onto his head when a sense of vertigo assaulted him. It was as if the entire room was spinning out of control. He had no idea what was going on, but judging from that horrible taste in his mouth and that terrible smell, things definitely were not A-okay.

He stalked off to the en-suite bathroom and stuck his head under the tap, allowing the water to run over his close-cropped hair and into the marble sink. The cold water did him a world of good, and he almost felt human again. He toweled off his head and checked his face in the mirror. His skin was blotchy, eyes bloodshot. Nothing some makeup couldn’t fix. Good thing the camera crew wasn’t filming. He so didn’t want to go on TV looking like this. People would think he’d had too much nose candy last night. Which he hadn’t. With a marriage on the rocks he had no appetite for the stuff. If he got divorced, all of this would go away. No more Mr. Big Shot Fancy Pants.

He walked back into the room and was surprised Shana wasn’t up yet. All his stomping around and putting his head under the tap should have roused her by now. He took a deep breath and decided to get this over with. The mornings after a big fight were always the worst. He didn’t know what to say and neither did she. Better to address the elephant in the room right away.

He sat down on the bed and gently shook her shoulder. “Shana, we need to talk,” he said. When she didn’t stir, he gave her a slight nudge. “Shana? Come on, honey. Things can’t go on like this. I need some answers. Stat.”

With a frown he noticed a spot of crimson on her pillow and he started. What the hell… He slowly slid down the sheet to take a closer look. And as he did, his eyes went wide and all the blood drained from his face. He would have screamed but no sound came. Later he didn’t even remember staggering from the bed, falling to the floor and scrambling back, crab-style, to the door.

Like bile, a scream finally rose from his throat, coinciding with a scream that sounded from inside the house. He was up and racing down the corridor, and as he came hurtling into the dining room he saw Shayonne screaming her head off. When he turned to see what had set her off, he joined her in a long, protracted wail. Right there, in the middle of the table, was Shana’s head, her eyes closed as if she were sleeping, her mouth open and biting down on a Jonagold, like a frickin’ pig roast. A note was taped to her forehead, typed in Arabic script. And then he fainted and went down like a ton of bricks.