Thanks for having me here today, courtesy of Orangeberry Book Tours. It’s always a pleasure to share my books with readers, especially with sneak peeks like the one below. This excerpt from Bulletproof showcases Amelia, the heroine in this first book in my new paranormal romantic suspense series, Unknown Identities.

Amelia is a tough investigative reporter in Boston. She always gets her story and this one could make her career. But the powerful politician she’s after isn’t ignoring her investigation with a simple ‘no comment’:

~~

Her apartment had been ransacked.

No… no. That wasn’t right.

Ransacked was nowhere near an apt description of the damage done. The whole place looked as if a scare-the-controversial-reporter bomb tucked into the sofa had exploded. About the only item still intact was the front door. The same door with – count them – three state-of-the-art deadbolts that were still locked when she arrived home to this chaos.

The intruder must have had a key… or maybe he was a ghost.

Amelia Bennett took a big, deep breath. She forced her respiration to slow, and outright refused to permit her heart to keep up the wild pounding.

The intruder had succeeded in scaring her. Bully for him.

She’d found the mess and called 9-1-1 as she ran out of the building. Like a stunned bystander watching the rescue efforts after a massive pile-up on the Turn Pike, she’d stood outside – in the rain – until the police arrived.

Anger compressed her lips. The first officers on the scene had gotten a good look at Amelia Bennett scared witless. Cutting herself some slack, she had to admit that this was not just another nasty phone call or threatening letter.

This was over the line…way over the line.

One thing was absolutely certain…whoever did this wouldn’t get that opportunity again.

In the last hour she’d grabbed back control. Staying calm and rational was essential. Her competition didn’t call her the stone maiden for nothing.

Tomorrow she would have her locks changed and call in a contractor for her own personal security system.

The mutilated and busted furniture she could deal with. It wasn’t even the end of the world that so many of her most personal belongings, photos, clothes, basically everything, were damaged beyond repair in one way or another. What really made her nuts was the idea that someone had gotten in here so easily and had the balls to leave her a message on the living room wall scrawled in blood.

Knock, knock… you’re dead, bitch.

According to one of the techs, who wasn’t supposed to tell Amelia anything, particularly at this point in the investigation, it was not human blood.

That she was thankful for.

Amelia took a mental step back. Dragged in a deep breath. She spent an enormous chunk of her paycheck each month on a Back Bay location. The building had topnotch security and was located on the best block in the area. She’d had two extra deadbolts installed when she moved in. And it hadn’t been enough to stop this.

“How long will it take to determine if there are prints or whatever?”

The idea that someone had come into her place and touched her stuff gave her the willies. Banished any patience she attempted to dredge up for the weary detective who’d been here for hours already. He hadn’t offered much in the way of hope for finding the culprit. She doubted any amount of time was going to change that sad fact.

“Depends,” Detective Arnold Fincher scrubbed a hand over the salt and pepper stubble on his chin, “we’ll run everything we get through the usual databases.” He executed another of those listless shrugs. “Techs took photos. Video.” He gestured to the man and woman still picking through Amelia’s stuff. “Soon as we have something, I’ll let you know.”

~~

Writing strong, independent female leads is important to me. Amelia might not have the covert skills or martial arts expertise of my previous heroines, but she has grit and determination in spades. Which made her journey to survive the process of getting the story out there a fascinating roller coaster ride for me and I hope readers will feel the same way.

Live the adventure!

Regan

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Genre - Romantic Suspense

Rating – R

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Connect with  Regan Black on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.reganblack.com

II

It was fitting that the oldest building on Hephzibah Regrets housed the most beloved of its institutions. Hephzibah Regrets was the actual name of the two hundred acres of rock sticking up out of the Gulf of Maine on which Wyatt Quinn Ravenscroft built Hathor. Over the course of the twentieth century, more people knew the island as Hathor than by its actual name. Fourth and fifth generation islanders still used the name Hephzibah Regrets and had been known to tartly respond, “Never heard of it” to mainlanders who asked about Hathor. The rocky cliff that formed the seaward side of the island harbored a few inlets where the first settlers, who more than likely were not on good terms with the law, gained access away from observation.
Triangular in shape, Hephzibah Regrets had once been the summer home of the Algonquin tribes that fished the waters off of Cape Ann. It was said then that the cod was so plentiful they could be scooped up in baskets along the shore. The forest that covered Hephzibah Regrets was filled with oak and pine trees. The cliffs were covered with rosa ragusa, blueberries, beach plums and raspberries, and the beaches that rimmed the inlets were backed by dunes in which wild birds were plentiful. Located midway between the cities of Salem and Gloucester, the island belonged technically to Salem but it inhabitants, mostly fishing families, did more business in Gloucester, which had been known for its fishing fleet since its beginning in 1623.
When W.Q. Ravenscroft bought the westernmost half of the island there were two settlements, one seasonal, one year-round. The islanders, never given to affectations of any kind, referred to them as The Camps and The Village, respectively. The Camps to the north was a small collection of wooden cottages owned by Boston people who came in the summer to swim, fish, and escape the heat and noise of the city. In more recent years the cottages had been “gussied up”, as Priscilla Nettleton put it, and a seasonal business was added, a combination clam shack/ice cream stand/rental shop for everything from surf boards and kayaks to motorbikes and dune buggies. The villagers tolerated the summer residents as long as their boats didn’t interfere with their lobster trap lines and they minded their manners when they ventured into their territory.
The Village occupied the widest part of the island. Snug inlets provided some shelter for fishing boats. Most of the men fished for lobster, though a few gill netters still eked out a living, and the piles of lobster traps that covered the docks and the beaches below the cliff shrunk or grew according to how good or bad the fishing was in any season. Years back one of the early settlers had introduced goats to the island and some of the island women kept their own herds corralled by low stone walls. They made butter and cheese, which was sold both on the island and in gourmet shops along the North Shore. A few island women had taken up spinning and the income from their yarns helped compensate for the decline in fish catches.
The earliest structure was built as a combination barn and livery where goods, both legal and otherwise, could be unloaded. It was a stout building of native granite, surrounded by a seawall that had been carefully improved over time. For nearly a century it housed a dry-goods store - called simply The Grocery - a fish-packing plant, town hall, and most important, a tavern known by all as the Riptide.
It was in the Riptide that everything of significance on the island either took place or was discussed until it might as well have taken place there. It was in the Riptide that William Silver, local fisherman and scalawag, had created a scandal by romancing Rosalind Ravenscroft, the wild and impetuous daughter of W.Q. and Lisette’s son Wyatt - called the Old Man by the locals. And it was in the Riptide that everyone gathered to watch the televised trial of Syd Jupiter when he was accused of shooting his brother-in-law, Raven Silver, the offspring - along with Syd’s wife, Rachel - of William’s seduction of Rosalind. During that time, when reporters swarmed over the island trying to find fresh information to add to their coverage of the story, Riptide patrons were often asked if Syd frequented the tavern. Not a one of them could ever recall seeing him there, but that was nobody’s business but his, in their opinion.
Gracie Silver, who ran The Grocery, recalled the visits Syd made to the store when he jogged along the island’s cliff-walk. Since the store was roughly half the distance from Hathor, he often stopped for a bottle of water on his daily run. Once Gracie learned the brand of water he preferred she stocked it just for him. Like the other islanders who met him, she recalled Syd as being quiet, soft-spoken, and slightly hard to understand thanks to his gently drawling New Orleanian accent. What she didn’t say was that she also found him devilishly attractive.
Gracie was an islander like most of the patrons of the Riptide. She’d worked as a backman on her father’s lobster boat from the age of ten, then on The Quicksilver, the boat belonging to her husband Harry and his brother Will, the father that Rachel and Raven never knew. The first time she saw Syd in the store - there was no mistaking who he was - she wondered what he would say if she told him she was married to the brother of his father-in-law but she held her tongue. It didn’t do to meddle in other people’s affairs and she didn’t know how much Syd, or for that matter Rachel, knew about the Silver side of the family. Still, the twins had been given their father’s family name. She suspected that was poor Rosalind’s doing.
Poor Rosalind, indeed. She was born on Hathor, the only child of Wyatt and his first wife Natalie. As a boy Wyatt’s life was divided between elite boarding schools and Hathor. He had been both well-known and well-liked among the islanders. He was a strong, sturdy boy who spent summers working alongside his buddies on their fathers’ fishing boats, digging clams, and scouring the beaches for salvage. He didn’t care if he got paid or not and complained when he had to leave to go back to school. The islanders considered him one of their own. He finished college and law school and was gone for some years before he returned home with his bride, a Boston beauty named Natalie, and settled into a career overseeing the legal interests of his father’s investment firm - and into life at Hathor.
Wild Rosalind. She was their only child and, like her father before her, she loved island life. Right from the beginning Rosalind had the run of The Village. Everyone knew her and she knew the names of everyone. She came and went from The Village and was known to turn up at any number of kitchen tables at meal time. The story was that Natalie, born and raised on Boston’s Beacon Hill, never really took to island life. She preferred to spend her time in the city. Those villagers who found employment in the house at Hathor told of screaming fights between mother and tiny daughter who refused to accompany her mother to the mainland.
Once she was of school age Rosalind was sent off to a series of boarding schools but she demonstrated a talent for getting herself kicked out of them, usually in short order. At the age of thirteen she was shipped off to a school in Austria but even Austria could not contain her. She was back at Hathor before the beach roses that covered the cliffs to the south of the island were in bloom. Natalie washed her hands of the girl and Wyatt made a deal with his maddening gypsy daughter, he would allow her to stay at Hathor with the housekeeper and a governess as long as she spent four hours a day with the private tutor he brought up from Cambridge for her. If she studied, maintained her grades, and passed her exams, the rest of her time was her own. Rosalind agreed.
Wyatt divided his time between his wife in Boston and his daughter at Hathor. Rosalind grew wilder with each passing year. By the time she was fifteen the women of the island knew two things for sure about Rosalind Ravenscroft. She was going to be a great beauty and she was headed for big trouble.
“I hope those rich folks ain’t got their heads so far up their asses they don’t see what’s going on,” Prudence Wainwright observed watching Rosalind, in tight jeans and a sheer cotton peasant blouse that was doing its best to fall off of her, perched in the bow of Bart Sparrow’s dinghy as Bart energetically rowed toward his boat.
“Hope they have her on birth control,” was all Bart’s sister-in-law, Maddie Sparrow, had to say.
Rosalind tilted her head back and her long auburn curls fluttered in the breeze as she placed her bare feet in Bart’s lap. Maddie could see the sweat on Bart’s upper lip from all the way up on her front porch - and it was a chilly day.
Will Silver was as good-looking a young fellow as the island had ever produced. He was no damn good, or at least no better than he had to be, but the islanders, whose standards for acceptable behavior consisted of little more than being neighborly and not attracting the attention of the law, weren’t too concerned about that. He fished with his brother Harry and lived in his father’s stone cottage on the cove where they had grown up. Their mother had died when Will was still a toddler. Their father, a third generation lobsterman, suffered a stroke when Will was seventeen and spent the final years of his life sitting on the dock, repairing lobster pots, and hurling clam shells at seagulls while screaming unintelligible curses at them.
Will turned twenty-one the same summer that Rosalind Ravenscroft turned eighteen and, when they started showing up at the Riptide together, everyone took notice. Collectively the islanders decided, after a few evenings of watching those two good-looking young folks swarming all over each other, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Rosalind, it was believed, was living on borrowed time when it came to getting in trouble, and Will might just be the fellow to scratch that wild itch of hers. There was even idle speculation about when the wedding would take place, how grand an affair the Old Man would spring for, and, since both Will and Rosalind were true islanders, it was expected the entire island would participate. Not a one of them was prepared for Wyatt’s reaction.
It was a rainy night in September when Will Silver showed up at the Riptide alone and well on his way to bat-shit crazy intoxication. He sat at the end of the wooden bar on a stool and ignored all attempts at conversation as he kept his nose buried in mug after mug of Smuttynose Ale. Finally Darren Finn, himself a good ways along to feeling no pain, clapped Will on the shoulder and asked him what-the-fuck was eating him. Will responded with a right jab that sent Darren backwards over the table where four old-timers were deep in a heated game of Cribbage. Will stomped out.
The next day the story was everywhere on the island and on fishing boats halfway out to Stellwagen Bank. Wyatt Ravenscroft had responded to his daughter’s announcement that she was going to marry lobsterman Will Silver by packing her into his high-speed motor boat and heading straight down the coast to Boston. He said he’d set Hathor on fire and lock her up in the Carmelite Convent on Beacon Hill before he’d see her married to a fisherman. The islanders were flabbergasted.
But, as history had demonstrated, Rosalind was not to be thwarted. Thus began a series of moves and counter-moves that climaxed in the simultaneous disappearance of Rosalind from her mother’s Louisburg Square brownstone, Will from his cottage on Hephzibah Regrets, and The Quicksilver from its mooring in the harbor. All three were discovered within days on Cape Cod. Will and Rosalind were married and, as time would tell, Rosalind was pregnant with twins. Safe, they thought. Even the Old Man would have to admit defeat in the face of wedding rings and pregnancy positive tests. Or so Rosalind thought, but she was about to learn something she should have known by now - she may have inherited her willfulness and her obstinacy from her father but she had not inherited his ruthlessness.
Rosalind had, unfortunately for her, made one fatal mistake. She had fallen madly, wildly in love with Will Silver but, in her willfulness, she had overlooked one regrettable thing - Will Silver was no damn good.

Samples to Savor: Book Club Picks, presented by Her Books:

Discover your book club’s next page-turner and spark fascinating conversations with your friends in this free sampling from eight bestselling authors. You’ll find rich prose, evocative plots, compelling characters and surprising twists from:

Finding Emma by Steena Holmes
Composing Myself by Elena Aitken
Spare Change by Bette Lee Crosby
The Scandalous Ward by Karla Darcy
The Tree of Everlasting Knowledge by Christine Nolfi
The Promise of Provence by Patricia Sands
Broken Pieces by Rachel Thompson
Depraved Heart by Kathleen Valentine

About the Author(s):
Bestselling authors Steena Holmes, Elena Aitken, Rachel Thompson, Patricia Sands, Christine Nolfi, Kathleen Valentine, Bette Lee Crosby and Karla Darcy provide readers worldwide with contemporary fiction and nonfiction releases ranging from historical romance to literary.

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Genre –  Women’s Fiction

Rating – PG

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Website http://herbestbooks.com/

The Insatiable

-

A rising moon hovers over Hawk Peak Mountain, magnified through a crimson haze. Its fiery glow washes over the treetops and into a valley thick with pine trees. As the moonlight creeps over the forest, an old van struggles to reach the top of Dark Fall Pass. It’s overheated motor clanks loudly and leaves a trail of fumes polluting the air behind it, and as the pass becomes steeper, the van moves slower.

Inside the old van is five college students dressed for cold weather. The driver with the dark, squared off chops is Mark, and the smaller, athletic girl in the passenger seat is his girlfriend, Jennifer. Squeezed into the backseat are the remaining three; David, Rachel, and Jeff. David has short black, messy hair and has his arm around Rachel. Jeff is the heavier set one with long, stringy hair and has a bag wedged between his knees and the front seat. Rachel’s slender figure allows her squeeze between them both with ease, and together, they all sit quietly watching out the front windshield as they drive into Shadow Pines.

As they approach the top of the pass, Mark floors the gas pedal and shifts his body forward, trying to help push the van along. “Come on baby, you can make it,” he says as he rocks back and forth.

Jennifer sighs and speaks with a soft voice, “We should have taken my car. The rest of them are already at the campground having a good time, and watch, we’ll be broke down on the side of the road inside this greasy heap.”

“Hey... Don’t be calling her names. She has feelings you know?” Mark rubs his hand across the dashboard.” Besides, if it wasn’t for the extra weight she’d make it just fine.”

“You best not be talking about me,” Rachel states from the backseat.

“He wasn’t, babe,” David replies. “He’s referring to your obese brother. If he’d pack clothes like a normal person and not the entire refrigerator, we wouldn't have this problem.”

Jeff responds with a mouthful of chips, “I didn’t pack the refrigerator.”

“Yeah, right. It’s not like you’d starve to death anyhow. You could just live off of your own fat,” David implies.

Jennifer covers her mouth. “Oh that's disgusting.”

“Quit picking on my brother. You’re not so thin yourself,” Rachel replies.

Tapping the oil gauge, Mark interrupts them, “Um, guys… We’re low on oil. I’m gonna have to pull over soon.”

“Big surprise,” Jennifer sarcastically states. “And let me guess, you don’t have any, right?”

“I… forgot.”

“Great, just great. You do realize that we’ve already passed the last...” Before she can finish speaking, a blinding violet light bombards her vision then dissipates. She feels panicked, and her heartbeat becomes erratic. The feeling lasts for a few moments then passes. “...town,” she abruptly finishes her sentence.

A deep gloom embraces the night sky, the stars stop twinkling, and the headlights no longer reflect into the forest off the steaming asphalt. A dark fog drifts across the road, but they drive straight through it.

Mark asks, “How many times have you been up here?”

Blinking sluggishly, Jennifer slowly gazes over at him. Uncertain, she replies, “Enough times to know there isn't another town.”

Jeff crumples the bag of chips in his hands and points to the sky. “Hey there was that strange lightning again, did you see it?”

“Yeah... Both times now. I don't know what's going on,” Jennifer replies as she sinks into the passenger seat and folds her arms over her stomach.

“That's so weird, there's hardly even a cloud in the sky. Maybe they’re lighting off fireworks.”

“I don't think fireworks can light up the entire mountain,” she replies.

The van finally reaches the top of the twisting pass, and as the desolate road levels out, they rapidly gain speed. Coming over a small hill, the headlights breach the surface of the road just as a man and a woman appear right in front of them. Jennifer screams and covers her eyes. Mark hits the brakes and jerks the steering wheel. The tires screech and the van veers off the road just as the couple dives out of the way. Tree branches bash into the windshield. Rocks bang into the frame, and Mark jerks the steering wheel again causing the van to violently skid back onto the road.

“Oh my god, slow down,” Jennifer yells while bracing herself on the dashboard.

“We're fine,” Mark replies as he glances into the rear-view mirror, but all he can see is darkness.

“Who the hell was that,” Rachel asks.

“I don't know... Some dude with a freaky looking chick.”

“Maybe they need help,” Jennifer suggests.

“Screw that,” David replies. “Just keep driving. There's no way in hell I'm stopping in the middle of the mountains at night just for some freaks to kill us.”

“Oh quit being a big baby.” Rachel nudges her shoulder into him.

“Well I didn't hear you offer to help,” he replies.

Noticing a reflective sign posted on the side of the road reading 'Shadow Pines Campground 5 miles' Mark intervenes, “We're not stopping. The campground is just over that ridge. If we stop now we'll have to wait for the motor to cool. Besides, I'm sure somebody there will have some extra oil we can borrow.”

“We're probably gonna breakdown anyways,” Jennifer says just as a small cabin nestled between several pine trees comes into view. Above the cabin door is a lit sign reading 'Shadow Pine Supplies' that turns on and off in awkwardly long intervals.

“Well what do you know?” Mark grins at her. “No more towns, eh?”

“This... isn't a town.”

As they pull up to the cabin, the paved road comes to an end and is replaced by a smaller gravel road that continues through the forest to the campgrounds. They drive into the rocky parking lot and park beside a pickup truck with a small flatbed trailer. Mark climbs out of the van as David opens the rear sliding door and a rush of cool mountain breeze sweeps inside.

Jennifer rubs her forehead nervously. “I don’t think we should be stopping here. Besides, I thought we were just going to borrow some oil at the campground?”

“That's if somebody has some. It'll just take a minute, I promise,” Mark replies.

“Fine.” She sighs. “But why does David have to go?”

Mark shrugs. “What does it matter?”

“I don’t know. I… I just feel as if something isn’t right. Let's just go to the campgrounds.”

“We're already here, and besides, I need a couple more for the road unless you'd rather risk being stuck up here. We'll be out of here in ten minutes tops.”

Jennifer runs her hand through her brown, shoulder-length hair and removes it from her face. “Fine... Just hurry, please.”

“I'll be right back.” Mark slams the door.

“It'll just take a minute,” David adds.

Rachel shivers. “Whatever. Just shut the door its freezing.”

“Dude could you grab me a soda,” Jeff asks.

“Oh shut the fuck up,” David says then slides the door shut.

Both Mark and David head over to the rundown cabin. The door is squeaky and barely movable, but Mark just muscles it open. Inside the dimly lit room, the flooring is covered with pine needles and bits of tree branches and bark, and a not-so fragrant smell of sap permeates the air.

“Let’s hurry up and get the hell out of here,” Mark says as he steps over a small pile of boxes and heads towards the back.

Nodding, David waits by the entrance when he hears a muffled radio voice coming from the corner of the room. Curious, he walks around the shelving towards a small wooden table where somebody has swept several items from it onto the floor. Setting on the table now is a large black satchel.

Again the muffled radio voice speaks, “Cshhshsh... Hunt can you r... me. Over. Cshhshsh.”

David checks over his shoulder for prying eyes, and with nobody watching, he opens the flap on top. A yellow two-way radio sits inside along with several glass jars and a row of side pockets packed with syringes, tubes, and small metallic tools.

He removes the radio from the case, and the voice speaks again, “Cshhshsh... Prof...sor Hu.., this is Bruce, can you r..d me. Th..s a dark fog moving in .. your locat...n. Cshhshsh.” The radio cuts out.

Something inside the satchel catches his eye, and he ignores the broadcast and sets the radio aside. One of the jars has something moving inside of it, and he lifts it out. In awe, he slowly rotates it in his hand. “Whoa, what the hell is that?”

Trapped inside the jar is a blackish creature about half the size of a human hand with grasshopper-like legs that run like little motors, constantly moving as it attempts to climb the side of the glass. It has two bulging black eyes with wiry white hairs scattered over its body and an oversized mouth lined with tiny serrated teeth. David glances over his shoulder, and with nobody watching, he quickly slips the jar inside his jacket and exits back outside to the van.

Meanwhile, Mark walks over to an elderly man standing behind a counter at the rear of the cabin and sets the oil cans down. He waits for him to respond, but the man just ignores him and stares off into space. “Hello, dude you awake,” Mark asks as he snaps his fingers in front of his face, but the man does not respond. Noticing a golden shimmer in his eyes, he leans over for a closer look when all of a sudden the man opens his mouth and grabs him by the sides of his head, pulling his face closer. Several blackened insect legs reach out from the man’s throat followed by two whip-like antennae that curl and twist.

Mark strains to pull away but is overpowered as the insect forcefully stretches his lips apart. A black caterpillar shaped creature with dozens of legs crawls out and into his mouth. His neck swells as the creature forces its way down his throat causing him to heave. He folds over, slamming face first into the counter, and lies there motionless. The lump in his throat jams down into his chest like a rat down the belly of a snake. His chest snaps, and his eyes sparkle with a golden hue.

The elderly man remains behind the counter, standing in a trance. Gray blisters slowly form on his face, and he slumps to the floor and vomits thick, black mucus that bubbles on the ground. Blisters spread rapidly over his skin, covering his face, arms and hands, and lying on the floor next to him is the dead body of another man covered with the same crusty fungus.

Mark, now controlled by the creature, sits up and pays no attention to either of them. He grabs the cans and proceeds outside to the van. After adding the oil, he slams the hood shut and climbs inside to start it. The motor clanks and backfires then shuts back down. “Just give it a minute. She'll start,” he says while gassing it a few more times, and after a couple more tries the motor reluctantly fires up. “Oh yeah,” he yells then looks over at Jennifer, “I'm feeling good now, how about you?” He winks at her.

She gives him a strange look and replies, “...I guess. Let's just get the hell out of here, okay?”

“Yeah, this place gives me the creeps. Let's just go already,” Rachel says.

Just then, the elderly man covered with blisters from inside the cabin appears at the door waving his hands and begins chasing them.

“Go dude,” David yells.

Mark, without hesitation, slams the shifter into reverse and backs the van out of the parking lot. He just misses the man but does not slow down. He shoves the shifter into drive and guns it, and they tear down the gravel road towards the campgrounds.

Rachel watches the man as they drive off, when all of a sudden both the man and the cabin are consumed by a thick, rolling fog. “Did you see that,” she asks.

“See what,” David replies.

“Everything just… disappeared.”

Glancing out the back window, David replies, “It’s just behind the trees. Anyhow, guess what I got?” He removes the jar with the insect from his jacket, flaunting it before her. “Creepy isn't it? Just like your brother.”

“Eww!” Rachel screeches, pushing his arm away. “Get that hideous thing away from me.”

“You're such an ass,” Jeff says.

“Oh yeah?” David opens the rear sliding door and wind blasts inside the van. He grabs Jeff's food bag and holds it outside and taunts him, “I'm gonna drop it...”

“Give that back,” Jeff yells while trying to reach for it.

“Only if you give the spider a big, fat, kiss.” He laughs while shoving the jar over into Jeff’s face.

Jeff abruptly pulls away. “Get that shit away from me.”

Jennifer turns around in her seat. “Knock it off,” she says when the van abruptly turns off the dirt road, knocking her into the door. Rocks bang into the floorboards and the van rocks, jolting them from side to side. They head down a small path in the forest, and a single headlight pierces through the back window. “What the… What’s happening?”

They vault down a steep, tightening trail, and the forest closes in from all sides. Tree branches screech sharply down the outside of the van, and David tries to jerk the bag back inside, but it is too late. One of the branches yanks it right out from his hand, tearing it open and scattering food over the forest floor.

“Noo,” Jeff yells, swinging at David and knocking the jar right out of his hand.

The jar tumbles to the floor and shatters. The shadowy creature escapes and scrambles up Jeff's pant leg and onto his face. He tries knocking it off, but it clings to his skin with hooked talons and forces its way into his mouth and tunnels down his throat. His chest inflates, cracking as it expands. His skin turns a scaly black, and his body begins growing in size. Two jet-black eyes bulge from his sockets. Thick strands of wiry white hair sprout from his flexing skull along with two thick ramming horns that burst out from both sides of his head. His jawbone clanks wide-open, and an army of serrated teeth bore out from his gums.

Mark floors the gas pedal and cackles madly, “Isn't this fun!”

Rachel and Jennifer scream with horror.

The growing beast roars with a rumbling low-tone and immediately turns to Rachel and devours her entire head in an instant. Her body slumps over onto David, and he shoves her body aside and begins kicking the beast while screaming. Its mouth clanks open, and he pushes away, flipping backwards, and falls outside the open slide door. He spirals into the forest, bashing into trees, and hits an all-terrain vehicle that is following the van.

Mark continues to cackle as the van gains speed. It vaults over rocks and smashes through shifting trees. Pine-needles explode into the air when suddenly they launch over the side of a small ravine. The crimson-washed moon hovers before them reflecting its fiery glow from their eyes. Broken branches topple through the air as they plunge into the darkness below. The van crashes into the ground with tremendous force. Mark smashes headfirst through the windshield, and both front doors blast open, ejecting Jennifer from her seat.

Several yards away from the crashed van is a small campsite with several tents. A blazing fire flickers from the center of it sending shifting shadows over the pine trees. Three men with rifles stand up, cautiously watching over the wreckage. One of them fires their gun, and the bullet punches through both side walls of the van and tumbles through the woods.

Meanwhile, on the opposite of the van, Jennifer lies motionless filled with cuts and bruises when the sound of leaves begin to rustle nearby. Drifting in and out of consciousness, she weakly calls out, “Mark… Mark, is that you?” Rolling over to her side, she tries to focus on the image that is moving towards her.

Limping out from the shadows, Mark collapses to his knees in front of her. He is covered in blood and pain radiates from his bloodshot eyes. His mouth stretches open as a lengthy, black creature climbs out and disappears into the night. He begins coughing up black mucus and gray blisters bubble over his skin, when finally, he timbers over face first into the dirt, dead.

In the distance, a loud pound vibrates throughout the ground. Branches savagely snap as an enormous bull-like beast crashes through the pine trees and roars in a terrifying deep bellow. It leaps over at Mark and sinks several sharp claws into his back, thrusting him away. His body twists and snaps and tumbles heedlessly for several yards and then lays limp, folded in half.

Jennifer becomes paralyzed as the beast inches up to her. Two pearly, jet-black eyes block her vision and toxic fumes from its cavernous mouth poison the air. Its lower jaw clanks down and a putrid, warm stench envelopes her head. Blood-soaked saliva drips into her hair, and she closes her eyes tightly.

A sharp, piercing pain races through her chest, and she lets out a garbled shriek. Darkness shrouds her world for several minutes. She helplessly floats through an empty void when suddenly she is struck by a blinding, violet light. Timeless understanding bombards her mind as she awakens back inside the van with Mark, David, Rachel, and Jeff.

They inch up the steep mountain pass, and a dark fog races across the road. A deeper gloom blankets the night sky, and the stars stop twinkling. Jennifer trembles, trying to grasp what had just happened. “...town,” she squeaks not realizing why she said it then gazes over at Mark.

He asks, “How many times have you been up here?”

Saddened, she is struck by the terrifying realization that she has relived the entire event over and over. A tear forms in her eye and she replies, “Enough times to know… That it will never end.”

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Genre – SciFi Horror

Rating – PG-13

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* * *

Jaden saw the mottled gray police unit barreling down the street and sighed. If she let the street rat take the fall for her burglary, she'd have joined the ranks of the despicable thing she hunted. As she organized her explanation to enable his escape a bright flash came from the Museum side of the street.

Instinct had her tucked and rolling out of danger as the driver of the evidence van fought for control with a laser-melted front tire.

How in the hell did a smart aleck street rat land a police-issue pursuit-stopping device?

When the raucous scrape of metal on asphalt ceased, she came to her feet and stared at the van. It lay on its side with black clouds of electrical smoke rising from the rear. Watching the driver stumble from the wreck, she turned for home. But when his agonized bellow carried above the screeching of the alarms, Jaden felt the pull of the driver's desperation.

Mindful of the diary, she approached. Keeping her hands visible, she moved with caution born of several hard lessons. The cop looked as hopeless as a drowning victim. She didn't intend to let him drag her under.

He ranted and wrestled with the crumpled door, too busy to worry about her.

Jaden didn't need cohesive conversation to understand there was another man trapped inside. Evidence processing equipment was expensive, but not priceless. It gave her weary spirit a lift to see how frantic one man could be to save another.

Leaving him to his battle, she put her dagger to work on the hinges of the door. Between adrenaline and training, the door gave way and the cop outside pulled the inside man clear of the burning van.

Familiar enough with death, Jaden knew they were too late, and she wished for tears enough to weep over the loss. One bold street rat bent on escape just cost a man's life.

Everything has a price.

The echoing words taunted her. Then she recognized the dead man. "Larry," she gasped.

The surviving partner heard and turned on her. "What do you know about him? About this?"

He grabbed her shoulders and shook her while she tried to recall his name. Chad, Charlie, no–

"Chuck. Chuck, ease up buddy," she said through rattling teeth.

"Who the hell are you?" Chuck demanded.

"Jaden Michaels–"

"The security specialist? This was some miserable test run?"

She wouldn't take the easy way out–couldn't. Not with Larry's blood staining the street. "No, no test. It must've been a real call."

"And you just magically appear during a real call? This was some damned department party. Well I hope they're slaphappy about it. I'm a man short and he was a good one. He had a future."

His fingers bit into her shoulders, taking her body back to another man, a different sort of attack. In a blur, she broke his hold and caught herself before she landed the follow-through punch.

"Take a step back, Chuck. You're upset. When you see the download, you'll feel better." It pained her to lay blame on Larry, but she offered the most likely scenario. "If Larry wasn't buttoned down, it's no one's fault."

Chuck's face reddened and she saw his pulse accelerate in the jump of a blood vessel in his temple. "I know what a lasered tire feels like. And I know how and where to look for evidence, Michaels. Get the hell outta my face before I do something real stupid."

The adrenaline made her itch for the fight he offered. But pushing her luck here and now put the diary at risk and muddied her true path. She left the messy scene in Chuck's capable hands and replayed the events in her mind.

She hoped the street rat made the best of his good fortune. She'd count her blessings to never cross paths with him again.

The ache began as a slow burn in her stomach and climbed painfully toward her heart with every step away from the collateral damage. She knew her normal cool detachment would eventually return, but prayed it would hurry.

She could've spared the street rat a month of prickly injections by providing a cover story, especially with Larry on the case. Hell, she never should've let the street rat into the museum at all. She'd been around often enough to have developed better judgment.

"Ah, don't beat yourself up."

She gasped. "Quit sneaking up on me, Cleveland."

"Pay more attention," he countered.

"I've paid enough as it is." Jaden made a valiant effort to control her sorry mood. "How'd you find me?"

"Anyone with a scanner could find you, girl."

She knew she paled because Cleveland reached out to steady her. She brushed aside the assistance.

"I meant anyone who knows you and has a scanner."

"Funny." No one really knew her. "What do you want?"

"I'm your escort to your next appointment."

"My next appointment's with my pillow."

"Tempting as that image is," he said, wiggling his brows. "You've got a class first."

"How'd you know anything about that?"

He swung an arm over her shoulder and guided her around a corner away from her own place. "I'm the only trusted soul on the street, my fair Jaden."

"You've been watching the history channel again."

"Nope. But I've been through a museum or two lately. You should go. Get you some culture," he teased.

She glared at him.

"Ouch girl, don't give me the hairy eyeball just 'cuz you screwed up."

She glared more, but at the ground this time. "He wasn't strapped in. Couldn't've been." Completely unlike the Larry she'd worked with for years. "Follow protocol or die, I always say."

"Protocol!" Cleveland laughed. "Keep it up and some day you might convince me you're just that harsh."

He opened his arms and she stepped into his embrace, taking this one moment to grieve the unnecessary loss. She backed away, automatically checking for the diary and daggers. True to his word, Cleveland hadn't ripped her off.

"Told you I wouldn't," he said.

She smiled, feeling better. "Guess there's good reason you're the only trusted soul on the street."

"Yup." He grinned. "You live above it."

She shrugged off the odd compliment. "Whatever. Let's get this gig over. I've got things to do. Like sleep. If you're the escort, show me proof of the transfer."

He pulled the slim black remote from his inside pocket. The monitor showed the agreed amount ready to transfer to the account of her choosing. She made Cleveland turn away and shielded the keypad with her free hand as she punched in her codes.

"Done," she said, handing the remote back to him. "Lead on, oh trusted one."

He replaced the remote and wrapped her hand around his arm, a chivalrous move she hadn't seen in ages. "Such lovely company in the past. Wouldn't you agree?"

She made herself chuckle. She hoped the past would be her friend and provide the answer to get her soul 'unstuck'. She was tired of battle and desperate to break the cycle. She couldn't fail to banish the evil this time. She wasn't sure she had the strength to live again.

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Genre – Paranormal Romance, Urban Fantasy

Rating – PG-13

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Website http://www.reganblack.com

CHERYL

Yeah, why?

LARRY

Did you put anything in it?

CHERYL

Water.

LARRY

I have a buzz from this coffee like you wouldn't believe.

CHERYL

Buzz?

LARRY

You know what I mean, like a high.

CHERYL

You can't blame that on the coffee, Larry.

LARRY

No, I'm serious, there's more than just coffee in this coffee. I might have to take something to bring myself down.

CHERYL

Larry, it's just Folgers. If you want to believe that you can get high off coffee, then go right ahead.

Larry looks for the morning paper.

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Rating – PG-13

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Chapter Two

Chad suppressed a grin as he watched Jennie. At the moment, Jennie and Chad were in the pool at Kelly and Jack’s house, where everyone had gathered for one last party before the baby arrived. Chad stood on one side of a volleyball net and Jennie stood on the other. Somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten what Jennie was arguing about, but he didn’t care. Chad loved to see her fiery eyes sparkle as she fisted small hands on her hips and lit into him. She barely reached his chest, but she should get points for trying. Jennie tossed her head, flinging her strawberry-blond curls out behind her and kept right on going.

Chad loved this side of Jennie. She was bold and brash and confident. She was feisty and fun loving and nothing seemed to frighten her. Not many women Jennie’s size – a mere 5’4” and 115 pounds – would try the irreverent things she did with Chad. At 6’4” and about 265 pounds of pure muscle, there weren’t many people who treated Chad the way Jennie did. Jennie taunted and teased Chad at every turn, as if she were two or three feet taller than him.

Chad knew why she did it. They both felt the wild attraction that sizzled between them and they both worked hard to control it. With so many mutual friends, coupled with the fact that they worked together all day during the week, they couldn’t avoid seeing one another. So Jennie seemed to deal with things by throwing her saucy, cheeky attitude at him all the time. It was almost as if she tried to keep their interactions superficial, never going deeper than the surface. If she was busy yelling at him or taunting him, there wasn’t any room for anything else.

Chad dealt with the attraction by staying in complete and utter control at all times around Jennie. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on the curve of her tiny waist or the swell of her breasts in the bikini she wore as she fought with him now. He focused on her eyes, ignoring her body. Then, he’d spend about five minutes telling himself that her eyes were nothing special. He’d tell himself her eyes weren’t warm and rich like melted caramel. That her eyes didn’t have a mysterious quality to them as if she held a world of secrets waiting for him to explore.

Shit. So much for control. 

Chad wondered if Jennie would keep up her tirade if she knew just how sexy she was when she was angry. Or if she’d keep up the nicknames if she knew just how much he liked to see what she’d call him next. Would it be ‘Tank’ today or ‘Little Bit?’

Jennie cupped her hand and splashed water across the net at Chad, pulling him from his thoughts.
Yeah, so much for maintaining control.

“Are you even listening to me, Chad?”

Chad’s grin broke through as he shook his head, willing it to clear. “Sorry, Jen. I tuned out five minutes ago.”

Chad knew that would really get her going and he’d get to watch her fume for a while longer. He loved the way her eyes sparked when she was angry and the way she pursed her lips and balled her fists at him. He could watch Jennie storm at him forever and not get tired of it.

***

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Genre –  Romantic Suspense

Rating – R

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Bio:

Lori Ryan is a NY Times and USA Today bestselling author who writes contemporary romance with a twist of suspense. She lives with an extremely understanding husband, two wonderful children, two mostly-behaved dogs, and a lone little cat in Austin, Texas. It’s a bit of a zoo, but she wouldn’t change a thing.

Lori published her first novel in April of 2013 and has written three more books since then. Each of Lori’s books have made their way to the Amazon bestseller list and she quickly climbed the Amazon bestselling author list, as well. In November, 2013, Lori and a group of romantic suspense authors landed on the USA Today and NY Times bestseller lists with an anthology only eight months after the release of Lori’s first book. Lori loves to connect with her readers. Follow her on Facebook or Twitter or subscribe to her blog. Oh, and if you’ve read Lori’s books and loved them, please consider leaving a review on Amazon.com. Writers live and die by their reviews and Lori promises to do a happy dance around her office every time you write one! a Rafflecopter giveaway

Chapter 2

1.

It was autumn, 1997. I was forty-five years old. I had just returned from a fitness class. No one else was home that afternoon. My husband — we’ll call him Seth — was at the office. My eldest, Jeremy, 23, was away, working in Switzerland. Simon, 18, was away at school. Tania, 12, was at school locally. I took a shower.

As I let the hot water massage away the tension, I stopped, freeze-frame. There was a lump in my right breast, just below the nipple.

I washed the soap off my legs and feet and went back to it. Still there.

It was still there, too, when I put my bra on: a lump about the size of a plum. The lump of panic in my throat was the same size.

‘We’ll just take a peak,’ the consultant said and slotted me in for day surgery.

His hand-out said I might feel groggy afterwards. I shouldn’t drive or take any major decisions for twenty-four hours. But I lay in the hospital bed afterwards, feeling fine, a little light-headed, maybe.

My consultant came in. ‘Mind if I sit on the bed?’

I hoisted myself onto my elbows and nodded, pleased. I’d had him down as stuffy and here he was being chummy.

‘We have the results of the frozen section,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes?’ I hadn’t expected to know today.

‘I’m afraid the lump is cancerous.’

Seth and I exchanged looks.

‘The normal treatment is mastectomy,’ he continued.

I found my voice.  ‘That’s ludicrous!’

Later, as I waited for Seth to bring the car round to the front entrance of the clinic, I watched rooks flocking to a great, wizened oak, its leaves streaked with orange. High above me in the blue sky was a plane the size of a fly, with a long, white tail.

How come the world hadn’t stopped?

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Genre –  Faith Memoir

Rating – PG

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Hundreds of miles away, in the west, dawn was breaking over an empty countryside. The cold morning light shone through the skeletal trees and scattered across winter snow drifts and dead leaves. The still wilderness was undulating, with rolling hills and patches of woods springing up between boulders, frozen streams, and endless snow. Apart from the drip of melting ice and the rattle of wind in the finger-like branches, not a sound could be heard.

A broken castle rose from a tall mound, crowned by concentric rings of ruined walls and dilapidated stone ramparts. A round tower squatted in disrepair at the centre of the castle still sporting an empty flagpole. The massive stones of the walls were covered in brown moss and hanging icicles, the crenellations adorned with cuts and gashes made by the war engines of old.

Soon the pale morning was disturbed by the faint noise of a heavy-breathing newcomer. A hooded figure came from the south trudging through the deep snow towards the castle, his long brown cloak billowed behind him in the icy breeze. Hot breath escaped in smoky plumes from his mouth and the sound of his labouring was loud against the dripping silence. The man stopped and pulled his clothing around him. He took a minute to catch his breath. In the half light of the early morning his grey-green eyes could pick out a low arched door set deep into the thick outer wall.

‘Carn Breagh,’ muttered the stranger, lowering a plain red scarf from his face. Clearing his throat he checked the woods to the left and right with a wary glance, and then trudged on through the deep snow. Beneath his cloak the man wore light steel plate armour over his shoulders, chest, and thighs, which clanked together softly as he moved. A black and brown tunic lay underneath with a thick leather belt holding onto his supplies and an old sword encased in a dark red scabbard. Something gold and scarlet and metal peeked out from beneath the sleeves of his thick cloak. The man’s sturdy black boots wearily plunged into the pure white snow, making creaking noises with every step.

The stranger reached the old wall and the small stone archway and spread his hands over the thick oak door, feeling the splintered wood and the thick spikes that held the gate together. The man gave it a light push but nothing budged. It was locked tight from the inside. He shoved a shoulder against it in a futile attempt to move the ancient wood. But still nothing. He looked at the door quizzically. The planks were weathered from hundreds of years of wind and snow, yet for some reason they had not rotted away like the other wooden features of the ancient castle.

The hooded man stretched his back and neck and rolled up the sleeves of his cloak. Adorning his wrists and lower forearms were thick vambraces made of interwoven red and gold metal scales that glittered faintly in the dawn light. They clinked as he held them together. He closed his eyes briefly and then placed his palms on the door. All of a sudden a pulse rippled across the wood and there was a dull clang from the other side. The man gave it a little push and the door swung open with a creak.

He allowed himself a faint smile and pulled his cloak around him as he peered into the gloom. The man wrinkled his nose. It smelled like a thousand years of damp and there was the faint sound of dripping on stonework coming from somewhere in the darkness. Mould hid between the cracks in the walls. Without a sound the man ducked under the thick stone archway and stood in the dim corridor, listening. He made a fist. White light shivered around his fingers and suddenly the corridor was bathed in a pale moon-like glow.

Surrounded by his light the stranger began to investigate the old castle, poking around in holes and long-lost underground chambers. Cavernous halls and old rooms spread out like a warren left and right as the explorer went deeper and deeper into the castle. Everything was rotting and damp. Old curtains decayed where they had been thrown, chests and furniture had been smashed against walls and lay in dark heaps and broken postures. In old abandoned barracks benches and tables were pushed up against splintered doors. Rusty swords hid under the rubble.

For hours he searched the dank castle and found nothing except darkness and ruin. In a tiny room deep underground, the cloaked man carefully took a seat on one of the less broken chairs and rested his feet for a moment. He was beginning to get a little tired from keeping up his light spell, but he was sure there had to be something inside the old castle. Absently he picked up a small piece of rubble and toyed with it for a few moments before tossing it across the room in boredom. To his surprise the stone sailed straight through a frayed tapestry and disappeared, landing with a clang somewhere far behind it. The man clenched his fist again and a fresh wave of light penetrated the gloom. Eagerly he tore the tapestry from its rusted hangings and threw it on the dusty floor. Hidden behind it was a staircase that spiralled down into the dark shadows. Curiosity sparked in his mind he jogged down the steps, his footsteps echoing against the narrow walls.

All of a sudden the stairs came to a halt and a long hallway snaked around a corner. Sconces holding long torches poked out from recesses in the walls. The man moved to the nearest one and felt the oil-soaked wick between his finger and thumb. It was dry enough so the man clicked his fingers over the torch. Sparks flew from his fingers and sent flame curling up the wall.

Dousing his light spell he continued down the corridor lighting each torch as he went, and it was not long before he came across a huge door set deep into the stonework, held by thick hinges and a massive bolt that seemed to be fused to the metal bracing it. Eyes closed, the man ran his hand over the wood, searching for the right spell to use, but when he threw a wave of magick at it the door didn’t even move an inch. Irritated, he tried again and the air hummed as he hit the wood with another spell. Nothing happened. He rubbed his stubbled chin and thought for a moment, adjusting the red scarf around his neck. All of a sudden a deep boom rang out somewhere below his feet and made the torches shiver in their sconces. The man slowly, and gently, drew his sword from its scabbard as a few specks of dust fell from the ceiling. He squinted at the torches as something caught his eye. The flames were shifting and leaning far out from the wall as if blown by a stiff breeze. He listened and watched, ready for anything. Nothing came, and all was silent again in the castle.

Bored, the stranger turned and sheathed his sword with a loud metallic ringing noise. He climbed the stairs, turning left, then right, then left again, up more stairs, retracing his steps. Abruptly he was out in the snow once more and the bright morning sun was stinging his eyes. He slammed the small door behind him and stepped out into the icy glare.

‘Hmm,’ mused the cloaked figure. He bent to pick up a handful of snow and rubbed it between his fingers to wipe off the dust from the castle. As he moved to pick up another handful a shadow passed over him without a sound, a flitting shape momentarily darkening the snow. The man sighed and stood up straight, throwing off his cloak and drawing his sword with a flourish. Spinning his blade in his right hand he surveyed the peaceful countryside calmly. Steel glinted in the sunlight.

‘It’s not even noon yet and a man has to deal with dragons,’ muttered the stranger to himself as he let his eyes rove over the horizon.

A huge screeching roar came from the skies above him and the man darted sideways with a running leap, narrowly missing a massive shape that plummeted into the snow behind him with a huge crash and a shower of snow. The man got to his feet and disdainfully brushed the white powder from his armour. He looked up. Out of the white haze there was a snarl and a creature reared its ugly blue head, shaking its horns with a rattling shiver and spreading stunted turquoise wings. A ridge of sharp brown spikes ran from its head to the tip of its serpentine tail. The monster’s claws dragged at the snow, razor sharp and curved like a cat’s, and its eyes were like black pools of jet. The wyrm let out a deafening hornlike scream and took one step forward, hissing at the man in the snow and rattling its aquamarine scales.

It had been a while since the man had seen such a large wild dragon, and even though it was a juvenile, no more than a wild wyrm, it still towered above him. The creature stank of old meat and a musky reptilian scent. The stranger began to circle the creature, holding his sword out straight towards it.

‘Leave now, or this will end badly for you,’ said the man in a measured tone, still treading sideways through the deep snow. The dragon snarled, obviously lacking the capacity to understand him, and stamped its enormous feet menacingly like an impatient bull. It roared an ear-splitting roar and foul spit flew into the man’s face.

The stranger grimaced and wiped the grotesque phlegm from his cheek and forehead, careful to keep his eyes on the snarling dragon. ‘I will take that as a no then, shall I?’ he replied, and before the words had left his mouth the beast charged with frightening speed. But the man was more than ready. Swiftly dropping to one knee he dug his blade into the snow with a rasping thud. A solid wall of magick tore through the snow like a rippling earthquake and knocked the terrifying reptile back with a low and somewhat disappointed whine. The man jumped up and swung his sword at the surprised beast. The blade cut a long path across its scaly back and blue blood splashed the snow.

Very suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere, the beast’s whip-like tail lashed out and struck the stranger hard in the chest. He flew into a nearby snowdrift with a crunch of armour. A star or two swam before his eyes. The man winced and sat up, but before he had time to take a breath the hungry dragon ran at him again. It snarled and spat and it scratched and it dug, furiously lashing out at the snow and at the man with its razor-like claws. He wildly waved his sword in front of him in an effort to keep the claws at bay, but a stray talon scraped across his armour and found his soft pale skin underneath. With a pained expression he rolled sideways through the snow and somehow managed to escape the long claws. Red blood stained the dirty snow beneath him.

Getting swiftly to his feet, the man smacked his two vambraces together and a blast of flame shook the cold air. The fireball hit the wyrm in the chest and sent the creature reeling backwards. It roared with pain and frantically shook its rattling spikes, in an effort to fend off the stranger, but it was already too late for the hungry beast. The stranger sprinted forward, dodging another tail swipe. A light pulsed down his forearm and his blue-stained sword burst into flame. As he ran he hurled the glowing weapon with both hands and like a bolt of fiery lightning it buried itself hilt-deep in the dragon’s ribcage with a thud and a flash of scorching fire. The beast uttered a last mournful whistle and toppled over against a nearby tree with a crash and a bang and a shower of pine needles.

Breathing a little on the heavy side and wiping snow from his face, the man slowed himself to a calm walk and strode forward to wrench his blade from the ribs of the smoking reptile. He put a hand to his side and winced, feeling the wet blood seeping from the long cut. Retrieving his cold cloak, he sighed and slowly began to follow his footprints back in the direction he had come from.

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Genre –  Epic Fantasy

Rating – PG-13

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Chapter 1

August, 2012

I sit on the balcony of my bedroom, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, and breathe in the salty sea air as I do every morning. Something about the ocean is healing, but I've been breathing in the same air for over two years now and I'm still not healed. I don't think I will ever be healed. They say that time heals everything, but I don't see how the simple ticking of a clock can heal a damn thing. It sure hasn't done that for me. Maybe I need a new watch.

Everyone thinks I'm okay now, at least those who know my secret. Everyone else just thinks I'm your typical nineteen year old getting ready to start college in a week. Moving across the country wasn't difficult for me at all. Leaving my childhood home and the people who hated me with a passion was a welcome event, but moving to Charleston, South Carolina where no one knows me hasn't exactly been easy either. I gave up the idea of having friends the same night I was put in that police cruiser. You can't trust people to have your back. Not even your own family. You can become enemy number one very quickly.

I take a final sip of my coffee as the sun rises over the ocean. Then I do what I do each morning. I breathe in one final lung full of sea air, and I let my past go for the day. I have to do it all over again each morning as it creeps back into my mind every time I sleep. Like an unwelcome visitor, I throw it out into the ocean every morning. It's a tug of war, and I'm not really sure who's winning at this point.

My days are spent being the fabulously wealthy step daughter of a real estate tycoon and the perfectly groomed daughter of an elite Charleston socialite. My mother has fallen into the life of her dreams here. She adores her husband of two years, Bruce Avery, and the fact that she no longer has to work is a plus for her. She spends her day shopping, laying out on the beach and occasionally volunteering to cement her place in the community.

Still, I'm glad my mother is happy even if I'm not. I released happiness in the back of a police car. I gave it away and allowed the Universe to give it to someone else. I couldn't enjoy it, and holding onto the hope that I could ever have a piece of happiness for myself again was too painful for me. Better to just release it into the wind. It's like having a beautiful pair of shoes that you leave sitting in your closet. You shouldn't do that; you should donate them to someone who can and will wear them.

"Bruce, we have to tell her sometime soon," I hear my mother saying downstairs. When will she ever realize how well this huge, hollow house transmits sound? I sneak to my doorway, cracking it open just enough to hear their conversation downstairs.

"I don't want Willow to be fearful of him. He was a good kid, just a bit misguided back then."

"Can't he stay somewhere else?"

"No. The probation officer said that this is how it's done, and I can't just abandon him. His mother is dead, baby. There's no one else."

I back away from my bedroom door and take a deep breath. What are they talking about? Who is coming to live with us? As far as I knew, Bruce never had children of his own. Maybe he's helping a friend?

Moments later, I hear my mother calling up the stairs for me. I walk out of my room trying to act like my normal self, whatever the heck that is.

"Good morning, dear," my mother says as she kisses me on the cheek at the bottom of the winding staircase that leads into the formal foyer with marble floors. Did I mention just how incredibly rich Bruce Avery really is? His house is like a freaking mansion sitting on the beach, and there is more gold and marble in it than I've ever seen in one place in my life.  The house looks like Donald Trump decorated it himself.

"Good morning. What's up?" I ask as she puts her arm around my waist and walks me into the living room. I sit on one of the overstuffed chairs next to the massive marble shrouded fireplace. She and Bruce sit on the sofa, and I know this isn't good. It's never good when two people sit down across from you and hold hands.

"Honey, we need to tell you something," my mother starts. Her new fake Southern accent is grating on my last nerve, but considering the amount of pain I've brought to her life in the last several years, I choose to keep my mouth shut. She could prance around naked all over town and I wouldn't utter a word. I have no right to criticize my mother after the compassion, albeit fake to me at times, she has shown me.

"Okay..." I stammer wondering where this is going. I hate suspense. I don't even watch Survivor on TV anymore because I can't stand the suspense of tribal council. How silly is that? Suspense brings anxiety for me. I'd rather just know everything that is going to happen in my life in advance so I can plan for it. Surprises are dangerous. That's a lesson I learned the hard way.

"Well, you see, we've been keeping something important from you for a long time now. Bruce has a son." She takes a deep breath as if she has been holding in air for the last month.

"Okay. I can live with that. A step brother. Where is he?"

"In prison," Bruce pipes in. He is fidgeting and nervous which is completely out of character for him. I wonder why telling me is so nerve wracking for them. "He's currently in prison in Atlanta, but he is being released in two weeks." Bruce is talking faster than normal as if he's just trying to push the words from his mouth as fast as possible. I feel a little sorry for him.

"Where will he live?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"He will live here," my mother says looking down at her hands and trying not to sigh at the end of her statement. This must be hard for her because she wants to support her new husband, but I know she doesn't want her life derailed yet again by another unruly young person. She's already experienced that once with me, and now a convict is coming to stay. Lovely.

"Can I ask why he was in prison?" It takes a lot of courage for me to ask, but the truth is that I want to know who I will be living with. I need to protect myself, and one cannot protect themselves adequately without knowing what kind of threat they are dealing with in advance. I like to prepare myself for these kinds of things. I didn't used to be Type A, but I became one at fifteen.

"Willow..." my mother chides as if I have asked for the details of their sex life or something.

"It's okay, honey. She deserves to know more about her step brother," Bruce says. At least he gets my need to know although I am quite sure if my mother ever told him the truth about me, my butt would have been sitting on the curb long ago. "Kellan got involved in a bad crowd in high school. It was never drugs for him, only alcohol. One night, when he was seventeen, he made a really stupid decision and drank too much before driving a group of his friends home from a party. He fell asleep at the wheel and veered into oncoming traffic. His best friend, Jake, was thrown from the vehicle. He is paraplegic now. His other two friends got some minor scrapes, but they were okay."

"So why did he go to prison then? Because his friend was so badly injured?"

"No. There's more. When he veered into oncoming traffic, he hit a minivan with a young mother and her two toddlers inside. She was the wife of a police officer, and they were coming home from vacation. The father was following behind them in another car. She and those babies were killed instantly." Both Bruce and my mother start to choke up. I can tell the pain is so fresh for him.

"Wow. How horrible..." is all I can manage to say. I feel stupid. But really what does a person say to something like that?

"They sentenced him to five years in prison, and his time is up. He just turned twenty three years old."

"Have you met him?" I ask my mother. She shakes her head no.  "Why haven't I heard anything about this before now? I mean everyone around here seems to know everyone else's business."

"Because this all happened in Atlanta. My business used to be there. I moved to Charleston to get a fresh start and make a place for Kellan when he came home. A place where he could start over too." The pain on Bruce's face is palpable.

I'm not sure what else to say at the moment, so I look to my mother. Her face shows me nothing. "If there is anything I can do to help prepare his room, let me know."

"Thanks, Willow. I appreciate that, but Carmelita will handle it." His maid is like his right arm. She cooks, cleans and takes care of pretty much everything for our family.

I stand up and start toward the foyer when Bruce calls out to me.

"Willow, I hope you'll give him a chance. I know you're not used to being around someone who has killed other people, but please try to get to know him. He's going to need all the support he can get to shake the stigma of being a felon. I have no idea what kind of guilt the boy has been living with for all these years."

I give a slight smile and nod my head before heading up the stairs. I can't speak or look at him for fear that he will see my own demons in my eyes. I sure know what Kellan is feeling, but no one can ever know that or our cross country move was all for naught.

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Genre - New  Adult Romance

Rating – R

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Chapter 5: The Renegade Priest

Ryder stared at the sword enshrined in the glass case. The blue shimmer of its blade lit the room. Named Koldis, a single ruby crowned its hilt.

It was well past midnight. The halls of the library—famous throughout the Enchanted World and the purpose of the Order of the Idonnai’s existence—stood silent.

The young priest’s ragged breathing filled the room.

The first time Anton had brought him here as a seven-year-old boy, Ryder had wanted the sword. When he’d asked if he could have it, his mentor had boxed his ears and said, ‘Idonnic priests do not fight.’

It had been the first and last time he’d kicked Anton in the shin. His pious mentor hadn’t administered the whipping that had left three thin white lines across his back, but he’d watched until the young boy had stopped calling out for Garrick.

Ryder had been abandoned at the priesthood’s gates as an infant. Garrick, the baker who supplied the order with loaves of bread every morning before the sun rose, had been the one to find him. In the emotionally remote world of the priesthood, Garrick, and his wife, Shilda, were Ryder’s only source of affection.

Now, Anton was the head of the order. He’d never forbidden his protege’s visits to Garrick and Shilda’s home, but he’d made it clear he didn’t approve of Ryder’s fondness for them. He’d also contracted with another baker for his services, as soon as it had been in his power to do so.

Ryder tightened his grip around the large rock in his hand. He’d scoured Idonne’s rocky seashore for months searching for the perfect stone. The first rock he’d brought back to his austere quarters had had a single sharp plane. He’d traded it out with four more before he’d settled on the one he held tonight. One of the rock’s edges sharpened into a jagged point. For weeks, night after night, lying awake on his pallet, he’d practiced shifting it into the right position. He didn’t need to look down now to know the stone’s point was centered.

Garrick and Shilda would be disappointed with his decision to become a common thief. As far as he could see, that was the only flaw in his plan. But there was no way around it.

For twelve long years, Ryder, now nineteen, had been trained in the rigors of Idonnic research and documentation. Despite his lack of passion for the work, he had a talent. As Anton’s favorite, he’d been assigned to a closely guarded branch of Idonnic knowledge: The study of Umbra.

He’d read and reread every scrap of information the priests had collected about the mass of psychic ash accumulating in the Void. A product of mortal impotence, frustration, and failure, Umbra had formed a discrete identity and become self-aware over the eons. He intended to enter the realm of the material plane. He’d discovered a means to do so. He meant to destroy the Whole.

The priesthood was wrong to do nothing, and the Oath of Non-Interference Anton had tricked Ryder into taking a year ago—to the day—choked him. Vowing to chronicle and observe, never to act, violated every fiber of his being.

There was also the ill-defined thing the young priest could not name that called him. It radiated from deep within his heart, and of late, it left him sleepless most nights. As the summons grew more insistent, the need to leave Idonne dominated his thoughts. But he couldn’t leave without the sword.

He understood the consequences. If he took one step closer to the case, if he raised his left arm to shatter the glass with the rock, if he took the sword and fled Idonne, he’d be a fugitive throughout the Enchanted World for the rest of his life.

He looked around the room. There were no guards, no spells of enchanted protection. Only the library’s labyrinth of marble halls hid Koldis from the rest of the Enchanted World. The sword wasn’t safe. Rumors had already reached his ears. Sorcerers and witches from Kyrakkos sought the blade and its counterpart, the bejeweled basin Ormrun.

The magical sword and basin opened a portal in the veils between the worlds. Plunged into Ormrun, Koldis became the key to unlock the ancient door. Umbra could leave the Void and travel through the Parallel of Shadows. He could incarnate his consciousness into a vessel of his choosing.

Last week a war captain from Huros had dined with Anton. He’d asked about Koldis. His tone had been casual, but Ryder was convinced the pretense for the visit had been a charade. The captain sought the sword.

Ryder raised his left arm. No one who wanted Umbra’s power for themselves was going to get it.

He would sail to Faerie with Koldis.

Although there had been no sightings of Ormrun in more than a hundred years, there was no evidence the bowl had ever left the Realm of Faerie’s shores. The dwarves, Haff and Gweff, had forged the sword and the basin in the bowels of the Ruadain Mountains for the water elemental, Isolt. But Umbra had appropriated the basin’s power.

Ryder believed he could find Ormrun and take it, with Koldis, to the Grey Council on the Isle of Minnanon. The grey faeries who sat on the council were the only creatures in the Whole immune to the siren call of Umbra’s power. They were the ones to safeguard the sword and the basin.

Yes, his heart said, sailing to Faerie is the right thing to do.

He brought his arm down with all the force he could summon. A line appeared in the glass casing. The shield was stronger than it looked. He raised his arm and smashed the case a second time. Cracks spiderwebbed across the surface, but the glass remained intact. The third time, he aimed the rock’s sharpest point at the web of cracks. When his hand crashed through the glass, he dropped the rock and grabbed the sword’s hilt.

He wrestled the blade through the jagged hole. A sharp edge sliced the back of his hand. He didn’t feel any pain, but he saw the dark line of blood. The blade was lighter than he’d imagined. He ripped a strip from the length of cloth he’d thought to bring to make a rough bandage for his hand and then wrapped the remainder around the blade. He shoved the whole thing into his belt.

He eased opened the door and slipped into the hall where a few oil lamps cast a dim light. Although his impulse was to run, he forced himself to walk and catch his breath. On occasion a zealous novice studied through the night. If there were any around, running would bring unwanted attention.

By the time Ryder reached the library’s exterior stairs, sweat gathered on his brow. He’d made no specific arrangements to cross Idonne, but if he walked towards the mountains—and Garrick and Shilda’s home—there would be traffic on the road when the sun rose. He looked down at the plain brown pants Shilda had patched the last time he’d visited. His work shirt and bare feet would help. Although Ryder—with his dark hair and muscular build—stood out among the tall, slim, fair-haired Idonnai, without his robes, he could pass as a foreigner traveling to Typhos.

*~*~*~*

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Genre – Fantasy

Rating – PG

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~1~

My obsession with calendars had become so obvious that when I started getting annoyed I knew I had a little problem. First off, the kitten calendar on the wall had to be there. I mean, who could resist kittens, right? Now, the firefighter calendar above my desk may have been a little much, along with the pocket sized calendar on the desk, the large desk calendar, the calendar on my phone, and a couple more I had tried to hang up in the apartment. I had to give Maggie credit though for putting up with it for as long as she did before they slowly started to disappear. The only one left was on the fridge written in erasable marker.

The need for calendars kind of came out of stupid worry and jealousy, something Maggie knew but didn’t pressure me about. For that alone, I loved her. From the time we met in middle school, we just had each other’s backs. I could always spot when she was in trouble and be there to save the day and she did the same for me. The only real distance was after high school. She left and I stayed put. We had an agreement to leave together, but I fell hard for Jared. Jared had a great job with his father’s construction company and, well, I had a great thing with Jared. Or so I thought. When he announced that he was going to be a father I packed my stuff and ended up at Maggie’s apartment. I always felt like I had backstabbed Maggie by not rushing away with her and maybe somewhere in there my need for calendars began. I remember always comparing the date to previous dates... how long I had been out of high school. How long I had been with Jared. How long since I had talked to Maggie. How long since Jared and I had gone out. When was the last time he kissed me? When was the last time we were, you know, together?

Nothing seemed to change now, and as I sat on the edge of my bed, I stared at my phone.

I had a part-time job waiting tables that thankfully tipped enough to let me survive for a week or more. I offered to get Maggie a job at the restaurant, but she was content working up the management and soon-to-be ownership role where she worked.

I had the day and night off work, something that felt like it hadn’t happened in a while. I promised myself I’d wake in a good mood and live the day carelessly. But as I sat on the edge of the bed, I looked at the phone. I looked at the calendar button. I pressed it.

It brought up the current day and was in week form. The press of a button took me to the month. The swipe of a finger took to the month before. I had been with Maggie now for a month. And in that month I watched her fall deep in love with her drummer guy, Tatum, and it almost made my own heart crumble. Tatum was tall and strong, his arms always around Maggie, holding her and protecting her. After being invited to meet Tatum’s band, DownCrash, a few times, I noticed a few things... first off, there were only three guys in the band. Second, they could play and were way too good to just be a local band. And finally, the bassist (who could also play guitar and piano) was sometimes dark but always sexy. He had these eyes - the blue eyes - that were just killer. I’d catch him looking at me, but I never did anything about it.

It wasn’t my position to do so.

I had made the first move with Jared and look how that turned out. I guess I made the first move and just kept going at him. He told me three weeks and four days ago (shut up, I remember dates) that I had been smothering him for a couple years now. That he wanted to give himself a chance to grow up, but when he did he couldn’t face the idea of spending the rest of his life with me. So, the grown up Jared decided it was time to get out there and spread his wings... and the legs of the first girl he met. The grown up Jared didn’t think to wear a condom or ask the girl with her legs wide open if she was on birth control.

Whoops...

Now the grown up Jared was going to be daddy Jared.

Just fucking lovely, right?

I always saved face in public, laughing that Jared had now thrown his life away, but I knew better. His life wasn’t thrown away. His life was just moving along, on a different path, sure, but what did he really care? His father was rich, which made him rich. His mother was the nicest woman in the world and I could just picture her doting over the idea of a baby in the family. That meant Jared’s life would continue as normal, his mother picking up any slack in the parenting department. Worse yet, this other girl, who spread her legs without protection for some guy (who had a girlfriend at the time, by the way) had just fucked her way into a great situation.

I can only hope for some serious stretch marks on the bitch.

Sorry.

Was that wrong?

I heard Maggie tap on my door.

“Morning sunshine,” she said. “I’ve got some scrambled eggs made. And fresh coffee...”

I nodded. “Cool beans, Maggie.”

“Annie, turn around and look at me.”

Shit.

How was I going to hide the tears in my eyes?

Yes, I was crying at that moment, okay?

My finger had continued swiping at the screen on my phone, going back in time. Well, not literally going back in time, but in my mind I was. I tried to find moments where things went wrong.

“Annie?”

“Maggie, just give me a minute, okay?”

I tried to be bitchy and rude but it never worked with Maggie. She could handle anything from me. That was the power of our friendship. We could push each other - sometimes even literally, if need be - and get to the bottom of the truth.

I knew Maggie was walking towards me and when she sat next to me on the bed, I turned my head. All she had to do was look at my phone to know the kind of trouble I was up to, which she did a second later.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked me. “What happened back in time, Annie?”

“How far along is she?” I asked, my bottom lip quivering.

“What?”

“The girl,” I said. “The girl he knocked up. How along is she now? Three months? At least, right? Maybe four by now...”

“Oh, Annie.”

“Is she showing yet? Does she have that little baby bump?”

“Why does that matter?” Maggie asked.

I finally got the courage to look at my best friend, knowing I was going to look like a messy hell. This is why you should never sleep with makeup on. Because in the morning when you wake up, think about your life, try to pinpoint where you fucked up, think about your ex and who he’s impregnating, you sometimes cry, and then your face looks horrible.

“Is everyone celebrating it?” I asked. “I mean, seriously. Am I not the one who got hurt in all this? And they’re all happy...”

“Who’s happy?”

“His family. I can see it, Maggie. You knew his parents.”

Maggie nodded. “I can’t control how people act.”

“No. I was careful. All the time with him. I always had protection. Because we didn’t want to have something happen. His parents used to commend me, us, whatever. We were... I don’t know, Maggie. But now he can go and fuck some girl when he’s with me. Get her pregnant. And I can picture his mother. I guarantee you she has a room set up. She has theme picked out. She... she’s probably so excited. And his father. I’m sure he was mad for a minute but is probably proud his son could fuck and squirt some winners into a girl.”

Maggie laughed and put a hand to her mouth. “Sorry. But you know how crazy this sounds, right?”

“I know!” I cried out. “But it’s true.”

“So what do you want? You want his parents to hate him? You want his father to fire him? You want his parents to send the other girl off to be alone? To have her baby in an alley and suffer for the rest of her life?”

I looked at Maggie and wiped my eyes. “Would that be too much to ask for?”

“Oh my gosh, Annie,” Maggie said. “You have to stop this.”

Maggie reached for my phone and took it. She turned the screen off and tossed it to the bed. I looked beyond Maggie at one of the calendars on my wall. She turned and saw it, sighing.

“At least the firefighters are hot,” she said.

“Yeah, they are.”

“Not as hot as rockstars,” Maggie said. “Too bad you can’t have a DownCrash calendar... or just one of Tatum.”

“You’re sick,” I said. “Seriously.”

“Maybe,” Maggie said.

“I don’t know, Maggie,” I said. “I’ve been here for weeks now. I feel like I’m just stalled. It’s hard to imagine Jared doing what he did. I knew it was happening and I knew it was coming. And when he told me he got someone pregnant, I loved it. I thought of him ruining his life... but the more I think about it, it was the next logical step. To cement his feet in that damn town forever. But he’ll be fine. He’ll never worry about money, life, anything.”

“So what?” Maggie said. “That’s his problem. You’re free. Happy to travel and enjoy life.”

“Look at me go,” Annie said. “I have a day or two off from work and I spend my morning obsessing over a calendar. Looking for something.”

“Fine,” Maggie said. “You want to look for something?”

Maggie grabbed my phone and stood from the bed. She walked away and I watched her navigating the phone and then typing. A minute later she threw the phone at the bed and smiled.

“Breakfast is ready,” she said. “I’m hungry and I won’t wait for you.”

I took my phone and went into the calendar. There was something added to my calendar, for today.

I opened it, expecting something stupid to be there... like come eat breakfast or take a shower because you smell like a restaurant and look like hell... but it wasn’t anything like that at all.

It was plans for that night.

DownCrash show tonight! You get to go backstage... and you never know what can happen backstage!

I closed the calendar and sighed.

I shook my head, trying to imagine what Jared would be doing that night. After a long day at work, he’d come home and shower. Would he shower with his new girl? Would they order food? Would they cuddle on the couch and watch a movie? Would they fuck? Would he touch her stomach and make her laugh, talking about the baby?

My mind raced and heart ached.

It shouldn’t have been aching like that, not after all these weeks.

But I knew one thing, I wasn’t going to sit home all day and night, thinking about it. Maybe I needed the loud noise. Maybe it would chase the thoughts away. Even if for a little while.

Plus, backstage... that sounded pretty cool, right?

I closed my eyes for a second and the first thing I saw had nothing to do with Jared or his grown up, baby making, idiot decisions...

I saw Logan’s eyes. Those killer, sexy, mysterious eyes.

Those eyes could be trouble and that was maybe just what I needed.

A little trouble.

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Genre - New Adult Romance

Rating – PG13

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