I’ve been wrongfully accused.
Sure, everyone sent to prison says that.
It’s true, though.
I’m not who they say I am.
Dark. Evil. An abomination. The worst of the worst.
They sent me to the deepest, most awful catacombs of Nightmare Penitentiary. It’s where they put all their secrets they don’t want anyone in the world—both human and paranormal—to know about. I’m left to be forgotten and waste away until the day I die.
And I’m not alone.
I’m there with others. Others who are worse than me.
Terrifying. Horrible. Monsters.
Four demons in particular who seem to wake from their evil slumber the moment I enter their presence.
They want me.
All four of them.
I’m not sure what they plan on doing once they get their hands on me.
But one thing’s for sure…
It won’t be good.
To Mr. Webster and Marilyn Manson—my two favorite demons.
WELCOME TO PENITENTIARY PARANORMAL PRISON COLLECTION
Siren Condemned by C.R. Jane and Mila Young
Delinquent Demons by K Webster
Conveniently Convicted by Ivy Asher and Raven Kennedy
Noir Reformatory by Lexi C. Foss and J.R. Thorn
Blindly Indicted by Katie May
Wraith Captive by Lacey Carter Andersen
Stolen Song by Autumn Reed and Ripley Proserpina
Prison Princess by CoraLee June and Rebecca Royce
Succubus Chained by Heather Long
DISCOVER THE FULL COLLECTION HERE.
Charis
When Grandma finds out I tattooed my tits, she’s going to lose her shit.
She won’t find out.
This is okay.
We’re okay.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ribb, my best friend, whispers.
He, of all people, knows what a psycho Grandma can be. She’s not your typical grandma. Sure, she wears velour tracksuits, coupons, and watches Wheel of Fortune like it’s her job, but she’s also a witch. At least that’s what I used to tell the neighbor kids to scare them away when I was a kid. Maybe not a witch, but she’s definitely a bitch with a penchant for making strange soups with stuff like quinoa and seaweed—I mean, are those really even edible?—and burns a myriad of different plants to “cleanse the home of evil.”
Evidence suggests she could be a witch, or it could be that Grandma watches too much YouTube.
“I’m positive,” I tell him, nudging him with my shoulder. “I’ve lost it twice and that stupid guy from apartment twelve tried to steal it.”
Ribb lets out an exaggerated sigh. “But is it even sanitary?”
This comes from the guy who sometimes licks my face for the fun of it.
“Grandma says the medallion isn’t toxic. I asked.”
“She said it just like that? That it isn’t toxic?”
“Maybe not exactly. I asked her what would happen if I swallowed it.”
He lets out one of his throaty laughs that sounds like a frog croaking, hence the nickname Ribb as in ribbit. His real name is Thomas Jayden Eisenhower IV, which is a total mouthful and doesn’t fit my goofy bestie. Ribb fits. He’s skinny and so tall he towers over my five-foot-nine frame. When we go swimming at our apartment pool and his shirt is off, you can see his ribs too.
Definitely not an Eisenhower.
Just Ribb.
“What did she say?” he asks once he recovers from his laughter.
“She said, and I quote, ‘I’m not doin’ the Heimlich if you swallow that big ass coin. If you do manage to swallow it, you won’t die from lead poisonin’, but you’ll die from bowel obstruction. You’re blond, girl, but not that blond.’”
“Oh, Grandma,” Ribb says with a grin, “always has such a way with words.”
“So it’s safe.” I shrug my shoulders and point to another picture in the book. “What about this one?”
“A dagger through a heart? Super cliché, Char.”
“I could add wings. Wings are cool.”
“Like bat wings?”
I smack his thigh. “No, dummy, angel wings.”
“I think you’d do better adding horns and a tail.” He snorts out a laugh. “Maybe add in some fire…oh, and claws. Definitely claws.”
“Asshole,” I grumble. “I’m angelic.”
“In what world? Not this one.”
“I hate you.”
“Nah, you love me.”
I flip the page on the book and sneak a peek at Ribb. In another life, maybe I’d be attracted to him. Some days, I try. I really do. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with him besides being a skinny beanpole. He’s cute and funny and always there for me. I know one day he’ll be a good boyfriend to some lucky girl. And I’ll be the third wheel.
Tears prickle my eyes. Not because I’m sad about tagging along on my best friend’s future dates. No, the usual heaviness that seems to always sit on my shoulders feels unbearable when I see a tattoo picture with the word “mother” on it.
Momma.
God, I miss her.
So bad.
I quickly flip the page, blinking away my tears. Ribb, always in tune with my emotions, gives me a side hug, leaning his head on my shoulder.
She’s been gone a year, but it feels like yesterday. It was her heart, Grandma said. A literal broken heart. Small hole that led to bigger problems. But I think it was more of a figurative broken heart that killed Momma. Ever since I can remember, she’s pined over my dad. He’s gone. That’s all she ever offered me. At first, I took it that he died, but as I grew older, I wondered if he left us. If I ever probed her on the subject, she would burst into tears and I would end up soothing her until she smiled again.
Momma was perfect.
An angel in every sense of the word.
She was a teacher at the local elementary school and the kids loved her. Never had a bad thing to say about anyone. How someone could love her but leave her is beyond me. Impossible. Dad is most definitely dead. Or kidnapped.
Oh my God.
What if someone took him?
My skin burns hot with anger. It’s an angle I never considered before, but it does make sense. Who kidnaps a nice man from the South but leaves behind the loving pregnant woman? The whole thing stinks.
What if he has another family? A real family? What if Momma was the “other” woman?
“You’re doing it again,” Ribb says, a warning in his tone.
“What?” I snap.
“Obsessing over your dad.”
“I am not,” I huff, hating how he can always read me. “Fine. I am. How can you tell?”
“I just can. Bestie sixth sense.”
I peel my gaze from the book to look at Ribb. “Why hasn’t DNA Root Finder mailed me my results? I took the DNA test and mailed it two months ago. It was supposed to send me my packet after four weeks.”
“This isn’t CSI, so you won’t get your results within the hour and tied up prettily with a bow,” Ribb jokes. “Maybe they’re backlogged.”