Summary:
DarkWing Clan #1
A gargoyle hotter than Goliath (IYKYK) meets a human bad-luck magnet whose rare power attracts danger like catnip to cats. Will it be destiny or disaster?
Noah Price
When a mysterious stranger in a magic shop pulls the Star card for me, I take it as a sign from the universe. Scotland, here I come! Outlander vibes? Check. Highlander daydreams? You bet. My expectations are nothing but epic.
What I don’t expect? Danger, near-death experiences, and being saved by a literal freaking gargoyle in a kilt. Okay, maybe that last bit’s kind of epic.
Enter Elryk DarkWing: grumpy, growly, and so hot he might make me spontaneously combust. Swoon levels: critical.
Turns out, I’ve got a magical ability people are willing to kill for, and Elryk is the only one who can keep me safe. But even with danger all around us, the real risk might be falling for someone who sees fated mates as fairy tales—and love as a luxury neither of us can afford.
Elryk DarkWing
Protecting Scotland’s ley lines is a deadly duty passed down through generations of my clan. I didn’t choose it—but I’ve made peace with it. Monsters and mayhem are just part of the job. But I never expected my greatest challenge to be a courageous but rather reckless human with a smile that could melt even my heart of stone.
Noah’s arrival sets off every internal alarm I have. He’s sassy, stubborn, and entirely too soft—but somehow he’s exactly what I never knew I was missing.
I should push him away. It’d be safer for both of us.
But forces I can’t comprehend delivered him into my arms—and now I’ll be damned if I ever let him go.
A Highland Gargoyle’s Lucky Star is the first book (72k) in the DarkWing Clan series, a spin-off set in the Monsters Hollow universe, featuring a warrior gargoyle clan in Scotland.
Summary:
Bitter Legacies #1
If the forest stares back at you, you’re already prey.
Bran Gallagher grew up with three rules passed down through his coven: beware forest paths that lead to dangerous mounds, always keep iron close, and never speak of magic.
Cillian Dunne grew up with his mother’s love, his father’s absence, and secret warnings to never trust a witch.
In Pelham’s forest, where bright lights haunt the trees and hunt the lost, there are traditions kept for survival and others out of habit, none of which should be broken.
Bran and Cillian unknowingly broke tradition and ruined each other in the aftermath of a kiss years ago. Reunited in the wake of a family tragedy, they cross paths with something old, something terrifying—something that wants them dead. When Bran’s younger sister is stolen away by a nightmare into the Otherworld, they can only follow and try to keep each other alive in a strange and haunting land.
Trapped in a dangerous Fae Court, Bran learns being a witch comes with a death sentence. To save him, Cillian must fight against those who seek power from a past he has no memory of, and the only person he can trust is the witch who broke his heart.
But it might be too late.
For the Fae have never been kind, and they have always hungered, and this time, what they hunger for is revenge.
TROPES:
MM Romantasy
Fantasy Romance
Second-Chance Romance
Fae Courts
Forbidden Love
Forced Proximity
Protective / Possessive Hero
Slow-Burn Tension
A searing M/M fantasy romance full of magic, Fae lore, high-stakes, courtly intrigue, and a forbidden love readers will be sure to devour. Please see the beginning for TWs.
Summary:
Cold Case Psychic #8
No one is more surprised than Cold Case Detective, Ronan O’Mara when he answers his doorbell one night to see members of Salem’s Wiccan community standing on his doorstep with an unbelievable story to tell. According to them, members of their coven are being murdered in a modern-day witch hunt and they want Ronan to look into the matter for them.
Psychic, Tennyson Grimm is skeptical of the witches’ claims. After the initial investigation turns up ordinary deaths in car accidents, house fires, and by suicide, Ten feels that the witches’ suspicions, are just that: suspicions. His sixth sense is not giving him any clues that these are anything but untimely and tragic deaths.
When another witch dies mysteriously, Ronan turns up the heat on the Salem Police Department to investigate and finds himself in an unusual position: in hot water with Fitzgibbon and his husband. Suspended from the Boston Police Department and abandoned by his family and friends, Ronan goes rogue, conducting the investigation on his own.
Uncovering an insidious plot with roots reaching back to the Salem Witch Trials, Ronan must battle a force so evil, it has managed to stay hidden for centuries. Without the power of his badge or the backing of Tennyson, does Ronan have the strength to survive something that hunts in the dead of night?
Summary:
To Kill a King #2
I have been a runt, a disappointment, and a monster. Now, I am simply a man.
This wouldn’t be so strange, if yesterday, I weren’t a dragon.
Locked away and isolated after a vicious attack left a princess blind, my greatest joy has been my bonded rider, Kostya.
My Kostya is a prince with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders. When his world begins to crumble, a witch offers me the chance to escape my cell and stand beside him.
But on two legs, without my scales and claws, Kostya doesn’t recognize me. He fears his dragon was stolen, and when suspicion turns my way, I learn that there are prisons darker and more dangerous than a dragon pen.
A little very big dragon finds his voice, two legs, and some delightful human appendages beyond in this MM high fantasy romance, featuring: one forlorn dragon-riding prince, a dragon who just wants to kiss the boy, two incredibly self-sacrificing doofuses, a road to pain paved with all the best intentions, and a plot to upend a kingdom.
The Accidental Christmas Omega by Ava Beringer
Summary:
Omega Holidays #1
A fire took everything…except my unborn child, due Christmas Day. When the alpha of my dreams temporarily takes me in, can I resist falling for him?
Hapless rookie FBI agent Shane Hawkins loves showing off his badge to impress to omegas. When he falls in love with a vulnerable omega on the news, he rushes to find a safe place for him. When a mix-up makes him responsible for Drew Darling and his unborn child, Shane has to become a stand-up alpha quick. Can he figure himself out before Drew and his baby leave forever?
Omega military widower Drew Darling’s house just burned down. Oh, and he’s eight months pregnant. With a baby due on Christmas day, he has no place to go and no one to turn to. FBI agent Shane Hawkins comes to his rescue, and Drew falls for him on day one. Shane’s irreverence grates on him, but there’s no denying Shane’s heart of gold, or the immediate animal attraction. Will Drew’s grief stop him from embracing a brand new love?
Can Shane sacrifice for a life of love? When the new year comes, will it be time for Drew- and his newborn- to go? Will the baby really arrive on Christmas day?
This book is about 37,000 words and has a HEA. 18+ readers only please! This book contains occasional strong language, MPREG/Omegaverse, and hot, spicy grownup stuff. The omegas are heating up and the alphas are very knotty boys.
Original Review December 2025:
This is only the second story in the author's Omega Holidays series I have had a chance to read and loved it just as much as the other, if not more actually. Perhaps it is just the Christmas element that put this above His Accidental Memorial Day Omega but I have loved them both.
As for Accidental Christmas Omega, this is a sweet and fun read, despite the heartache that puts Shane and Drew on the same journey. Drew, having lost almost everything is facing a lonely and long road ahead and Shane is a very brash, act before thinking things through FBI agent. When fate brings them together, the author provides a story of healing and discovery, with just the right blend of heart and romcom, making for a very enjoyable, emotional at times, entertaining read. Being Christmastime is just icing on the Christmas cookie that will put a smile on your face.
RATING:
A Highland Gargoyle's Lucky Star by Chloe Archer
CHAPTER ONE
Noah
Mama Delilah’s Daily Horoscope Reading
Uh oh, Sagittarius! The stars are not aligning for you today. Trouble’s brewing and you need to watch out. Or maybe you should just roll with it? After all, what will be, will be. Roll with the punches and protect yourself as best as you can. Things will get better… eventually.
Getting fired is like a box of chocolates. You never know what flavor of rejection you’re going to get.
At this point, I’ve sampled the entire box of chocolates and then some, to the point where being booted doesn’t even surprise me anymore.
“Sorry, kid,” Jared says, shaking his head, “I have to let you go.”
The flavor of this firing is rather bittersweet. Working as a server at Jared’s bar had been a lot of fun, but I knew it wouldn’t last from the start. Trouble always manages to find me no matter how hard I try to avoid it. If my math isn’t wrong, this is the twelfth job I’ve lost in the last nine months.
A new record.
Although this was one of the positions I’ve managed to hold on to the longest—Jared gave me plenty of chances and was more than fair.
Unfortunately, good intentions don’t have much of an impact on the chronically bad luck that is my personal plague of doom.
My mind drifts back to the events of the evening.
It’s a typical busy Friday night at The Watering Hole. I’m making some good tips as I bustle around the place, taking orders and serving up everything needed for people to get a head start on their party weekends.
It’s just after nine o’clock when things suddenly go haywire.
I swear, it isn’t my fault either. Not exactly, anyway.
I’m carrying a tray full of drinks for a table of six when some big, beefy guy who’s already three sheets to the wind comes stumbling back from the bathroom. Before I can react, he collides with me and my full tray, sending us both flying in different directions.
The beers have the grave misfortune of landing on a group of young guys who’ve been drinking and watching a football game on the television. Beer goes everywhere.
For whatever reason, they’re primed for a fight and my bad luck is the spark that ignites a powder keg just waiting to blow.
Within seconds, tempers flare when the drunk guy starts laughing his ass off at the beer-soaked college bros. I manage to duck low just before the fists start flying and scramble out of the way—being smaller than your average Joe does have its advantages!
At first, it’s five against one belligerent asshole. But then some of the asshole’s pals see what’s happening and join the fracas.
Slack-jawed, I stare in disbelief while the situation turns into a campy fight scene right out of Roadhouse. But I sure as shit am no Patrick Swayze, so I will not be kicking any ass tonight. Instead, I opt to hide out in the relative safety to be found in the space behind the bar. I’m joined by Susie, our surly bartender of the evening, who’s tucked into a corner texting on her phone while chaos engulfs the entire establishment.
A chair goes sailing through the air and crashes against the wall near us, splintering in pieces on the ground.
Talk about a little too close for comfort.
I peek over the edge of the rail just in time to see someone get slammed down on a table, which collapses under them. Bottles and glasses shatter on the floor and people scream as they hurry to get out of the way of the melee.
The heavy thud of fists thumping into flesh has me returning to my hiding spot. By now, our more sensible patrons have gotten wise to the situation and skedaddled, most of them leaving behind their open tabs.
Fuck.
By the time Jared comes out of his office to break things up, the damage has already been done.
Jared sighs.
I peek at my soon-to-be-ex boss as he leans back in his creaky office chair, folding his hands over his gently rounded belly. “You understand, right? Nothing personal against you, but tonight was the third incident this month.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” I manage to mumble pathetically.
He scratches his bushy beard. “I know, but for some reason, you seem to attract problems—and costly ones at that.”
My shoulders slump.
I don’t blame Jared. He’s a pretty good guy and treated me well as a boss. The odds were just stacked against me, like always. Tonight just happened to hit a new low point in the cosmic clusterfuck that is my life.
He isn’t telling me anything I don’t already know, and I can’t really deny what he’s saying. Is it epically unfair that this is my fate? Fuck yes, it is. But I’ve also had a good twenty-six years to get used to it.
As much as one can, that is.
Mom always explained away my bad luck by saying that I was born under a wonky alignment of the stars.
“Noah, you were born under a Sagittarius Sun, a Scorpio Moon, and Capricorn Rising. It makes you adventurous, hardworking, and emotionally attuned to the world around you—but that Scorpio Moon. Scorpio moons are intense. They’re focused, they overthink. They’re not in the moment, so when you’re not present, that’s when bad luck happens.”
I don’t know if I believe in all of that astrology stuff, even though Mom has talked about it since I was a toddler, but there has to be some reason why I seem to attract more than my fair share of trouble.
Sometimes, I worry it’s karma from a past life. But I can’t imagine what kind of terrible person I must have been to warrant any of this.
“I understand,” I tell Jared.
I really need this job, but I can’t argue with the man. He’s given me a lot more chances than some of my other employers, and for that, I’m grateful.
“I’m really sorry that all of this happened,” I add.
He gets up and comes around the desk to clasp my shoulder in one of his big hands. “Like I said, it’s not directly your fault. It’s a tough break, but I can’t afford to keep filing insurance claims and losing money because of situations like this.”
I grimace. I don’t even want to think about how much money’s worth of damage was caused this evening.
Biting my lip, I look up at him nervously. “Am I going to have to pay for tonight?”
Jared gives me a reassuring smile. “Nah, that’s what my insurance coverage is for. When the cops were here, I filed a report for them again. It’s only the third time I’ve had to do it, so things should be fine. After all, it’s not unusual for a bunch of rowdy drunks to cause trouble in a bar.” He gives me an apologetic smile. “As long as I’m not filing insurance claims for this kind of thing on a regular basis, I’ll be fine.”
The underlying implication is clear, and I’m not an idiot. Besides, I don’t want to cause problems for a good guy like Jared.
He goes back to his desk and opens a drawer to pull out a stack of bills. Jared counts out some cash, folds it in a wad, and hands it to me.
“Your final pay.”
I take the cash, wide-eyed. There’s more here than he probably owes me.
“Are you sure?”
He nods. “Consider it severance. You’re a hard worker and that bright and cheerful personality of yours means my customers love you. I’m sorry to lose you, but I’ve got to focus on the business’s bottom line. Still, I appreciate all that you did for me in the time you were here.”
I’m oddly touched. Jared and I are nothing more than boss and employee, but he’s been one of the better people I’ve worked for over the years, and a lot more sympathetic to my situation than most.
Usually, folks just get irritated and frustrated before washing their hands of me.
Sometimes there’s a lot of yelling and pointing of fingers involved, but this is one of the more sedate firings I’ve ever undergone. I have to admit, I’m quite grateful.
Getting to my feet, I hand him my branded server apron. “Thanks for putting up with me as long as you did. I’m sure I’ll land on my feet somehow.” I give him a wry smile. “I always do.”
I don’t really have any other options anyway.
Jared shakes his head sadly. “I know you told me about your situation, but I never imagined your bad luck would be quite so…”
“Bad?”
“Yeah.”
Right now, jobless again, my options aren’t great. Sure, my parents would let me stay with them for a while if I needed to, but I was their late-in-life baby, born when they were both already in their forties. Now they’re retired and living out their lifelong dream of traveling the country in their RV.
I shudder at the thought of sharing that cramped space with them.
Only if things get truly dire will I go down that path.
I head to the back room where I keep my stuff stored in a locker and sling my backpack over my shoulders.
Jared sees me out of the building before he returns inside to lock up for the night.
Heaving an enormous sigh, I cast one last look at The Watering Hole and turn away heading toward home.
Like most sensible people in Chicago, I don’t own a car. I can’t afford one, and it wouldn’t be worth it anyway. The train system gets me pretty much everywhere I need to go and my feet take care of the rest.
From the bar to my apartment is only about ten blocks, so I normally walk it. I know it’s not always safe to be out on the streets late at night, but this part of town isn’t too bad.
Most of the time, I don’t have anything of value on me. If somebody wanted to mug me, they could have my empty wallet and backpack, and I wouldn’t be bothered. Even my phone probably isn’t worth much, considering it’s a good six or seven years old at this point, and wasn’t a high-end model to begin with.
Tonight I’m more flush with cash than normal, but thankfully the street is empty as I make my way toward home.
I sigh, my shoulders slumping. What a crappy day.
Getting fired was just the icing on the shit cake for me. The first blow had come when I’d woken up in the morning to yet another rejection from a publisher for the children’s book I wrote and illustrated.
I pull out my phone and like a masochist, re-read the email from my agent.
Dear Noah,
I wish I was writing with better news. The publisher I pitched your book opted not to make an offer. They’re looking for “something else.” Vague and elusive, I know. Your book is great. It’s why I signed you as a client, but I’m hitting nothing but dead ends here. We may have to shelve this project for a while and try again in a few years. Do you have anything new you’re working on?
Best,
Megan
This was honestly a bigger blow than losing my job at The Watering Hole. I’m used to rejections on all fronts, but it’s always more painful when it impacts your dreams.
I like to think I’m fairly intelligent, but school wasn’t really my thing. Standardized tests were the bane of my existence and a lot of the curriculum bored the crap out of me. The only things I did enjoy were my art and English classes. Drawing is one of the few things I’m really good at and picture books gave me lots of inspiration growing up. As I got older, I realized I wanted to make fun and inclusive picture books for LGBTQ+ kids like me.
But so far, no one wants to publish Dynamic Dan and the Magical Rainbow Drag Coat.
Who wouldn’t want to read a story about a fabulous little boy who discovers a magical rainbow coat that turns him into various drag beauties whenever he wears it? It also gives him superpowers to help protect himself and his best friend from school bullies. Awesome, right?
Sigh.
I still believe in my book but my self-confidence is getting shaky. What I need is something to revive my optimism.
God, I really need to get laid.
That brilliant idea instantly perks me up.
How had I not thought of this before? After the day I’ve had, I totally deserve a good pounding that will make me forget everything.
Pulling out my phone, I send a quick text to Matt. We’ve had a casual thing going for the last month or so. He’s cute and low maintenance. I know he sees other people but I don’t mind. I’m not looking for a real relationship with him. Besides, he likes to have sex.
And often.
With lots of different people.
And damn if he isn’t really fucking good at it too. A first-class railing from him would help me forget about getting fired.
Me: Shit day. Need a good, hard fuck. When can you come over?
I wait for a while, frowning as my screen shows the message has been read but I get no response. This isn’t late for Matt. In fact, it’s right about the time he’s usually getting his night started.
Me: You there?
After what feels like ten minutes but is probably only two, I see the dots dancing as he types out a response.
Fuck yeah, I’m gonna get fucked!
Matt: Hey. So here’s the thing. I kinda met someone.
Me: I don’t want a threesome. Come see me after you’re done.
Matt: No, I MET someone. As in, it’s serious.
Me: Shut the fuck up.
My mind’s reeling. Horndog Matt of the “monogamy is for suckers” camp can’t possibly be serious with someone. Right?
Matt: Dude. It’s true love or something. I’ve never felt like this before. We’ve got a love nest happening and everything.
Before I can even come up with a response another text chimes.
Matt: Sorry, man. I promised to commit to my guy so you and I need to end things. It was fun while it lasted. Have a good life!
I frantically try to send him a reply only to discover I’ve not only been dumped but summarily blocked as well.
Fuck. My. Life.
As I trudge along the sidewalk, I ponder yet again what I could have done in a past life to deserve this. I must have been a truly heinous piece of shit. Nothing else explains why I’m plagued by one bad thing after another. And today has been a doozy.
I’m zero for three so far.
Dream crushed? Check.
Job lost and destitution on the horizon? Check.
Left for someone else without so much as a farewell fuck? Check.
I’m sure there’s a country music song out there that would fit this moment perfectly right about now.
My wandering, woebegone mind comes to a halt and I pull up sharp to blink in surprise at a storefront I’ve never noticed before.
An ornate black sign with elegant red lettering above the door proclaims it to be The Magic Shop.
I glance around me, frowning. This is still the same old street I normally walk when heading home, but I’ve never seen this place before. The storefront I recall was boarded up and vacant anytime I passed by, but now it’s like it’s been revitalized overnight.
The exterior is dark and mysterious, but also strangely alluring. Soft, golden light emanates from the front windows, and a red neon Open sign glows in welcome.
My curiosity piqued, I find myself drawn toward the door.
It’s going on midnight now, and I’m surprised that the place is open. Sure, this is Chicago, but at such a late hour there usually isn’t much open in the area besides bars and convenience stores. It’s the only establishment on the block that’s got its lights on right now.
I can’t put my finger on it, but something about the place is practically calling to me.
A cool October breeze rushes by and I shiver. It wouldn’t hurt to stop in for a minute, just to check it out—right?
My entire body tingles with awareness and before I fully realize what I’m doing, I’m heading inside.
Bright Dead Things by Hailey Turner
Chapter One
There was a body in the woods.
Park ranger Cillian Dunne grimaced as he drove his government-issued Ford truck down the dirt road within the Quabbin Reservoir wilderness. Vehicles weren’t typically allowed in this part of the state-owned land in order to keep the water clean, but his supervisor was turning a blind eye to that particular law after the 10-65 had been called in. Cillian was glad Captain Henry MacIntyre—call me Mac—had waived the no-driving rule for the moment. The early July heat meant hauling a corpse out of the forest on foot wouldn’t have been pleasant.
Cillian didn’t know what to expect when he finally pulled off to the side of the dirt road and parked behind Mac’s truck. He turned off the engine and picked up his wide-brimmed hat from the passenger seat, putting it on once he got out. He left his rifle secured in the truck cab, but his duty-issued Glock was holstered to his belt. Its presence was a comfort in the quiet of the forest.
At twenty-five, Cillian had always preferred the slow pace of the outdoors over the hustle and bustle of a city. He’d grown up in Pelham, Massachusetts, busing to school in Amherst with his childhood best friend for years. Small-town life was all Cillian had known before going to university to get a degree that would let him become a park ranger. He liked Pelham better than Boston, liked the quiet and the seemingly endless stretch of forest he’d spent hours playing in during daylight hours as a kid, but never at night. No one went into the forest at night if they could help it.
The Quabbin Reservoir was acres of wilderness surrounding a man-made body of water where the only recreation allowed was fishing, biking, and hiking in designated areas. Because it served as drinking water for over two million people, swimming, boating, and anything that required an engine were prohibited. Which meant the unfortunate hiker who’d died within the tree line hadn’t had an easy way to escape.
From what, Cillian didn’t know for sure.
“Over here,” Mac called out from where he stood beneath the shade of a white oak tree.
Cillian stepped off the dirt road into the sparse grass, the tread of his work boots catching on loose pebbles. The black cloud of buzzing flies swarming over a body sprawled on the ground was impossible to miss. Cillian could smell the decomposition in the air, like meat that had sat out in the sun for too long, spoiled and rotten. “So it’s definitely a body, not a possible one like you radioed.”
“Unfortunately,” Mac said with a grimace, looking at the corpse rather than at Cillian. His graying brown hair was shaved close to his skull and mostly hidden beneath the wide-brimmed hat he wore. His tan shirt with the ranger badge insignia patch sewn onto the left shirt sleeve, dark green pants, and black work boots that were good for hiking, was the same uniform Cillian wore. Cillian’s hair wasn’t quite regulation, falling a little past his shoulders when it wasn’t tied back while on duty, but Mac had never complained.
Mac had been a park ranger for almost twenty-seven years now, having lived in Pelham most of his life. He was older than Cillian, a good man, a great mentor, and a pillar of their small town’s community for as long as Cillian could remember. Mac was rarely fazed by the calls they all found themselves on, but today, the most senior ranger in the Division of Water Supply Protection Rangers assigned to patrol the Quabbin Reservoir appeared tight-lipped and worried.
Cillian stopped a few feet from the corpse, knowing better than to get any closer. He didn’t want to disturb the crime scene. But no matter how far away he stood, Cillian knew he wouldn’t be able to get the image out of his mind of the ravaged body with its ripped-open torso and last bits of intestines and other organs hanging out from the cavity. It was as if some vicious animal had clawed the man open and feasted on his insides.
Despite the sun overhead making the air heavy with summer heat, a chill ran through Cillian’s body. His teeth clacked together faintly for a moment, jaw twitching. “Was it a bear?”
Mac raised a hand to rub at his mouth, eyes on the body. “Best if it was.”
That wasn’t an answer. “Mac.”
“I had to call it in to the police. They’re sending a couple of patrolmen out to take over, but the county’s Crime Scene Unit and medical examiner are coming from outside Pelham. They won’t get here and be done with two crime scenes in time before sunset.”
Cillian jerked his head around. “Two? Where’s the other body?”
Mac finally raised his gaze and looked at him, something like grief in the older man’s eyes for a split second that disappeared so quickly Cillian questioned if he’d even seen it in the first place. “This is Ray Carroll. Patrolmen went to his home after I called in my report. They found it ransacked and Juliana dead. I wanted to be the one to tell you. I’m sorry.”
Cillian stepped forward without thinking, stopping only when Mac held out an arm to block him from getting any closer. He stared at the body of his childhood best friend’s stepfather in disbelief. He couldn’t see the man Ray had been in the ragged remains of his face, but Cillian recognized the gold Catholic saint medal the electrician had always worn. Other details clawed their way through the shock, rattling through him, making it difficult to breathe, making it impossible to deny the bloody truth lying at his feet.
Ray Carroll had been Bran Gallagher’s stepfather since he was thirteen and Cillian fourteen. Juliana Gallagher had married Ray but hadn’t taken his name, even after they had a daughter. Cillian hadn’t much liked the man growing up because Bran hadn’t, but he’d never wish this kind of death on Ray. He didn’t think even Bran would, and Cillian hadn’t seen Bran since the night before their high school graduation, when he’d ruined everything by pushing the younger boy away.
Seven years since that fateful night, and Cillian still thought about Bran.
Which meant, in that moment, he thought about Aisling as well.
“Where’s Aisling? What happened to her?” Cillian asked, forcing himself to work past the shock and focus on the job at hand, which was worrying about Bran’s younger sister. The thought that she might be dead as well made his stomach clench into a horrific little knot.
“She wasn’t in the house or on the property. The police are checking with the neighbors. If we can’t find signs of her, we’ll need to start a search. First places we’ll look will be the cabins.”
Cillian looked past Mac at the trees stretching deep into the forest and the shadows that existed beneath the leafy canopy. It was instinctive to want to stare, but he knew better than to look for long and so jerked his gaze away from the trees. “Why? You don’t really think the stories are true? That it’s the lights?”
Mac’s lips twisted up at one corner, the grimace looking as if it ached. “Is your iron secured?”
The answer was in the question, and Cillian could only put his hand in his pocket and pull out the small iron disk the size of a quarter he carried with him every hour of every day he was outside his home. He forgot about it most of the time until moments like this. Mac stared at it for a few seconds before nodding curtly, and Cillian returned it to his pocket.
Everyone who grew up in Pelham carried a bit of iron with them wherever they went, admonished by the older generations to do so. Younger generations laughed off the stories that had been around as long as the town, but those who stayed never went without iron. Even those rangers who didn’t call Pelham home but were in their division carried iron because Mac made it a mandate, always saying the forest might be beautiful, but it wasn’t kind.
Cillian had lived his entire life with those stories whispered as warnings by town folk, but had never seen anything that meant they were real. Still, the unspoken threat was why Cillian didn’t leave Mac there alone on that dirt road, waiting with him until the patrolmen from the Pelham Police Department arrived. They exchanged greetings with the pair closer to the road than the forest, with Mac offering up a brief verbal report to the senior patrolman, a man about a decade older than Mac.
“Hikers found Ray’s body when they were coming back from the trails,” Mac said.
“Two deaths on the same day,” the older patrolman said, staring at where the body lay in the tree line. The name on his badge read Wilson. “We’ll need to warn for bears.”
Cillian frowned, eyeing the forest. He’d been a kid the last time there was a bear attack, and his mother had kept him inside the entire summer. He hadn’t even been able to see Bran except for a few times when Juliana had dropped the younger boy off for a sleepover.
Mac only nodded at the patrolman’s statement. “That’s the plan. I’ll have my rangers post signs at the area gates and begin outreach with people coming to the reservoir. It’s been years since we’ve had to discourage people from coming out here. We’re lucky the Fourth of July celebrations are over, but school is still out. It’ll be tough to convince people to find somewhere else to go for their recreation.”
“Better you than us.”
Mac snorted. “I’m not the one who needs to talk to the medical examiner about bear attacks.”
“The crime scene at the home is worse than this, from what I’ve heard, but the body looks the same as Ray’s. I don’t think it should be a problem.”
Mac flinched ever so slightly, but the patrolmen either didn’t notice or pretended otherwise. Cillian noticed. Cillian knew Mac and his wife had been friends with Juliana and Ray. As for Cillian, he was trying not to think about Bran’s mother being dead because that was a grief he couldn’t deal with right then.
His right hand started to itch, a faint burning sensation creeping across his palm. Cillian ignored it.
“Those not handling the crime scene at the Gallagher home are looking for Juliana’s and Ray’s daughter. We’re prepared to launch a search if needed. We also have a staff member trying to track down her son,” the younger patrolman said.
“Are your people willing to search at night?” Mac asked.
Patrolman Wilson hesitated before shaking his head, gaze flicking toward the trees. “Not in the forest.”
Pelham didn’t exactly shut down when it got dark, but people tended to stay within the town’s perimeter, driving between their homes and Red’s Diner or the lone bar if they felt the need to hang out. Stories about lights were still told to children and travelers passing through town, and ingrained superstitious habits were hard to break. People didn’t walk alone after dark, and they certainly didn’t go traipsing through the forest if they could help it. Rangers did because that was their job.
What the locals knew, and which rangers made sure all visitors were aware of, were the forest paths that led to tiny, one-room cabins dotting the wilderness surrounding the Quabbin Reservoir. The path to each one was designated by what locals called witchmarks carved into trees, carvings that Cillian had memorized as a child during summer camps. The cabins themselves weren’t meant for camping but for safety, a long-standing tradition that could be traced back generations, to a time even before the reservoir existed.
Cillian wondered if maybe Aisling had run to one of those cabins in the terror of whatever she might have experienced. He hoped so. It was better than the alternative. Cillian mentally mapped where he knew her home to be against the forest with its hidden cabins. A cabin might have been close enough for her to reach, but he wasn’t sure she’d go into the forest if the threat had come out of it.
“I’d like to head over to the Gallagher home and coordinate with the patrolmen about Aisling,” Cillian said to Mac.
Mac nodded. “I’ll go check on the Gallaghers’ Shoppe. Reports came back that nothing seemed amiss over there, but we can’t rule anything out. If we haven’t found signs of Aisling in the next hour, we’ll start an official search.”
No one asked about Bran, Juliana’s oldest child and only son. As far as Cillian knew, Bran had left for Boston after high school, leaving the running of his family’s Ye Olde Curiosities Shoppe to his mother. He’d come back to Pelham a few times, but Cillian never heard of his visits until after Bran was gone again. He no longer had Bran’s phone number and would have no idea how to locate him without breaking some laws when it came to accessing a search program. Sometimes he thought about trying social media, but never did.
He still missed Bran with an ache that hadn’t ever really gone away. Cillian had tried to fill that absence with other friends over the years, but even now, it still felt like he was missing half of himself.
“We’ll take it from here and keep you updated. The CSU team was instructed to start with this crime scene first. Don’t want to be wasting daylight,” Patrolman Wilson said. Cillian and Mac said their goodbyes to the patrolmen before returning to their trucks.
“Cillian,” Mac called out.
Cillian paused in climbing into the driver’s seat. “Yeah, boss?”
“Be careful. Keep your iron on you.”
Cillian nodded and hauled himself the rest of the way inside his truck. He closed the door and buckled up, grimacing at the reddened, raw-looking skin on the palm of his right hand where the iron disk had sat. He flexed his fingers, wincing at how his skin pulled. It looked and felt like a burn, an allergic reaction he had lived with all his life. His fellow rangers didn’t know about it, or anyone else for that matter outside medical providers, except his mother. He always forgot to mention it.
Shannon Dunne had raised him as a single mother, and her frustration with doctors when he was younger was what had caused her to become a nurse. Cillian had always been a little sickly growing up, with the doctors saying he might outgrow the allergy someday. He hadn’t, even though his immune system had gotten better at fighting off illnesses.
He leaned over to open the glove compartment, pulling out a small, dark jar of the ointment he’d used since he was a child. He stared down at the faded sticker on the lid, the Gallaghers’ Shoppe trifecta logo printed on it. It was the only stuff that had ever been able to heal the allergic reactions he experienced. His mother had been skeptical the first time Bran’s mother had brought up the healing ointment she sold in her Shoppe. Eventually, Shannon had bought a jar and used it, thinking it wouldn’t work, only it had.
Cillian had been five years old at the time, but the warning his mother had told him at such a young age was one she still spoke in the quiet moments just between them, mindful of everything and everyone around them, even the whispers on the air.
Never trust a witch.
She’d allowed his friendship with Bran, mostly because Bran had been his only friend growing up. His mother had never softened much around Juliana despite the years of knowing the other woman, even when she gave up on clinical medicine and bought the healing ointment from the only Wiccan in Pelham. Cillian never understood the distance between his mother’s words and her actions, but he loved her, and he still used the ointment she’d found to heal his hurts.
He wondered, in that moment, if this was the last jar he’d ever get to buy now that Juliana was dead.
“Fuck,” he muttered quietly.
He unscrewed the lid, dabbed a bit of the ointment on his palm, and rubbed it in. Then, he put the jar away, the itch already fading from his mind, started the engine, and turned his truck around to head back to town. The trees on either side of the dirt road rose up like a high wall of greenery, leaving only the sky visible. Cillian could see Mac’s truck farther up the dirt road, and the chatter on the radio channel the Rangers used kept him company on the drive out of the forest.
Once he made it to the two-lane US Route 202, he turned left, crossing the double-yellow line to head south. The Gallaghers’ home wasn’t located in what passed as the center of town. Like their Shoppe, it was on the outskirts. When Juliana had married Ray, she’d moved out of the two-bedroom apartment above the Shoppe into the home she and Ray had bought amid the trees and which everyone had always referred to as hers. The Gallaghers had always had a peculiar reputation in town, regarded with a sort of polite deference by the older generations. There wasn’t much of a younger generation these days, what with everyone moving to the cities.
Cillian had stayed. Once, years ago, Bran had promised to stay as well. Considering what had occurred today, it was probably for the best he’d left Pelham. Cillian had mostly survived Bran’s leaving. He knew, even now, after seven years of silence, he’d never survive Bran dying.
State Route 202 only had a few turnoffs and a couple of long drives leading to homes set far back from the road, deeper in the forest. Few homes were built directly adjacent to the road. Mostly, it was bordered by trees and the telephone poles stretching down one side, birds perched on the wires every few hundred feet.
Cillian didn’t need the GPS to take him to the Gallaghers’ home; he still knew the way. Which meant his eyes were on the road, not on the screen of his phone attached to the hands-free cradle on the dash. That was the only reason he saw the flash of white amid the trees to his left.
He slammed on the brakes, seat belt cutting into his shoulder and locking from the force of his stop. Cillian yanked the steering wheel to the right, driving onto the shoulder to get off the road. He pulled up the emergency brake, put his hazards on, and reached for the rifle secured in the rack behind the two front seats before getting out.
The summer sun beat down on him as he stared across the road at the expanse of trees there and the soft shadows that lingered beneath the branches. The greens and browns of summer nearing its peak filled his eyes, that flash of white nowhere to be seen, but Cillian knew something had been moving there between the trees.
Not lights—if the stories were true—but someone.
“Aisling?” Cillian called out as he crossed the road, cradling the rifle in both hands, finger resting over the trigger guard. “It’s me, Cillian. I promise I don’t mean you any harm. You have a lot of people worried about you.”
He reached the other side, stepping over the guardrail, careful of the slight incline below it. The only thing in front of him was trees, some ferns, and a few bushes, all of it blocking the view deeper into the forest. The wind blowing through the branches made the leaves rustle, the soft susurration not quite loud enough to hide the delicate sound of a twig breaking.
Cillian raised the rifle, bracing the buttstock against his right shoulder as he stared down the rifle sights into the forest. “Aisling?”
Mac always said one couldn’t trust what came from the forest, but Cillian trusted his own eyes. He stayed right where he was, staring into the forest, willing for it to give up the lost. Seconds that felt like hours passed, and that flash of white he’d seen while driving finally resolved itself into the slim figure of a young teenage girl who crept out from behind a tree.
Aisling looked nothing like her mother and father, nothing like her brother, with their dark hair and dark eyes. She stood out and always had with her startling white-blonde hair and deep blue eyes he remembered looking almost black in the shadows, like right now. Aisling’s appearance hadn’t changed much since the last time Cillian had seen her a few months ago in passing. She was tall for thirteen, skinny and pale, standing before him barefoot in bloody clothes, looking as if she’d seen a ghost.
Or a nightmare.
Cillian lowered his rifle and let out a heavy breath. “Aisling.”
She didn’t respond, only watched him with those big eyes of hers, body stiff in a way that spoke of being primed to flee. Cillian didn’t know how long she’d been out there in the forest, but it had been long enough to make her want to run. Cillian trekked through a bit of vegetation to reach where she stood, going slow so as to not spook her.
“Let’s get you out of here,” he said quietly, offering her his hand. She stared at it for a long moment, shivering in a way he didn’t like. He wiggled his fingers at her, trying to ignore the way his heart beat hard against his ribs. “Come on, Aisling. I’ll keep you safe.”
She grabbed his hand with shaking fingers, and the moment she touched him, her expression crumpled. Her lips trembled badly as tears welled up, but she didn’t make a sound as she cried. Cillian carefully guided her out from the tree line and back toward the road. Once in the sunlight, the cuts and scratches on her legs became more apparent. Her bare feet were dirty and bleeding in areas, and her sleep clothes looked as if she’d rolled down a couple of hills in them.
He needed to get her somewhere safe.
“My truck is right there, and I’m going to take you back into town.”
From the time he’d stopped his truck to when he got Aisling situated in the front passenger seat, not a single vehicle had driven by. It was just the two of them out on State Route 202, the next house maybe half a mile down the road, so that didn’t explain why the hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end.
Aisling finally made a sound, a breaking sort of whimper as her hands gripped his, her ragged fingernails biting into the rash stretched over his palm. He noticed her fingernails were painted robin’s-egg blue, but the polish was all chipped now. The beaded bracelet she wore seemed to be intact. She wasn’t looking at him but back the way they’d come, face going as white as her hair.
Cillian carefully caught her chin, turning her head around to focus on him. “Look at me, not the forest.”
She was breathing so hard her entire body shuddered from it. But her gaze returned to him, no longer lingering on whatever she thought she saw in the trees. Cillian wasn’t going to check. He buckled her in, wrapped an emergency foil blanket around her, and then hurried around the front of the truck to get into the driver’s seat. He racked his rifle, then started the engine, intent on getting back to Pelham. He didn’t reach for the radio receiver until he was already driving down the road well above the speed limit, heading north.
“Dispatch, this is Ranger Seven. Aisling Gallagher has been located alive and in need of medical assistance. I’m bringing her in, over.”
Beside him, Aisling tucked her head beneath the edge of the emergency foil blanket and curled up in a ball beneath it, as if she could hide from whatever she had suffered through in the last twenty-four hours.
Cillian watched the road, and he watched Aisling, and he watched the forest out of the corners of his eyes, hoping to see nothing there in the shadows of the woods.
Hoping the stories about lights weren’t true.
Dead of Night by Pandora Pine
PROLOGUE
Ronan
Heavy pounding on a wooden door woke Ronan O’Mara from a sound sleep. He struggled to open his eyes. It felt like they were glued shut. Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he was surprised when they encountered what felt like hard-packed dirt rather than the soft throw rug that sat at the side of his king-sized bed.
Finally prying his gummy eyes open, Ronan quickly realized he wasn’t in his plush bed in his row house in Salem, Massachusetts. He was in some kind of a cabin.
Hovel might be a better way to describe his current lodgings. A homemade quilt was lying on what felt like a horsehair mattress. Looking down at the floor, he saw that his bare feet were indeed sitting on top of a dirt floor. The small room was lit by the embers of a dying fire.
The pounding on the door continued. “Ronan! We know you bide here!” a deep voice shouted.
“I’m coming!” Ronan called back. Thankfully, the voice sounded familiar. Nothing else here was, that was for sure. Grimacing as he walked over the dirt floor, Ronan grabbed the handle to the cabin door and gave it a jerk to open it. Standing on the other side with a flaming torch in his hand was his boss, Captain Kevin Fitzgibbon. “What the hell is going on, Cap?” Ronan could hear the confusion in his own tone.
“You must come now. It is time,” Kevin said simply.
“Come where?” Ronan looked past Fitzgibbon to see a full moon high in the sky. “It’s the middle of the night.
“We do not have time to converse. Dress quickly,” Fitzgibbon commanded.
Looking down at himself, Ronan saw that he was wearing some kind of long white nightshirt that reached his ankles. What the hell was going on here? “Fine.”
Shutting the door in Kevin’s face, he went back inside the cabin. Did he even have clothes here? Wherever here was. He walked to the small table positioned near the fireplace and saw pants and a shirt hung over the back of chair. “Guess these belong to me.”
The fabric was rough against his fingers, not what he was used to wearing at all, but there was nothing for it. He slipped into the shirt and pants, even found a pair of socks which were more like hose, and a pair of shoes that reminded him of what the pilgrims wore when disembarking from the Mayflower. “What the hell is going on here?”
Ronan supposed, for the second time, that there was nothing for it. Fitzgibbon was waiting for him outside with a torch. A torch! The man didn’t look like he was in the mood to be trifled with either. He put on the pilgrim shoes and headed out the door.
“Where are we going?” he asked as Fitzgibbon started leading them toward the woods.
“You know where we are going. Silence!” Fitzgibbon ordered.
Not liking his friend and boss’s tone one bit, Ronan obeyed. Things were crazy enough at the moment without further alienating the one person in this strange place that was familiar.
Speaking of familiar, where the hell was Tennyson? It was on the tip of Ronan’s tongue to ask, but with the mood Fitzgibbon was in, he figured it would be best if he shut up and waited to see how this played out.
As they continued to walk through the woods, Ronan could smell fresh rain and decay of the forest floor. The scent of woodsmoke caught his attention, setting him on high alert.
“Kevin, where are we going?” Ronan grabbed his robed arm and pulled the bigger man to a stop.
“See for yourself.” Fitzgibbon pointed ahead to a clearing.
Ronan stepped past him and saw a towering bonfire in the center of a clearing in the middle of the forest. There appeared to be a man tied to a post in front of the roaring flames.
“Jesus Christ! Why are you just standing here? We have to help that person.” Ronan took a step forward, intending to run to the man tied to the pole when Kevin grabbed his elbow in a vice-like grip. “You wish to bring more trouble down upon yourself, I see.”
“What?” Ronan didn’t understand. “There’s someone tied to a pole in front of an inferno. It’s up to us to save him.”
Fitzgibbon wore a curious look on his face. “We have been through this Ronan, either give evidence against the Witch Grimm or we fashion a noose at dawn for you as well. Choose now. The time is upon us.”
The Witch Grimm? Oh, sweet Jesus... It hit Ronan all at once where he was and what was going on. The reason his shoes reminded him of something the pilgrims wore was because, unless he missed his guess, they only landed in the New World seventy-two years ago. Ronan had a feeling if he asked Fitzgibbon what year it was, after giving him yet another puzzled look, Kevin would tell him it was 1692.
“We go.” Fitzgibbon grabbed his arm and began dragging him toward the raging fire.
Ronan could feel the heat of the flames against his face. As he got closer, Tennyson came into view. He was wearing a dark robe. The look on his face was unreadable until he caught sight of Ronan. Recognition lit in his dark eyes.
Ronan wanted to call out to his husband. He wanted to break free from Fitzgibbon’s iron grip, but in the time that it had taken them to walk from the edge of the forest to where Ten was being held something else had taken over Ronan. It was an emotion he wasn’t used to feeling, stone-cold fear.
He didn’t know what this was, a dream, visitation, vision, but whatever it was, it was real. There was nothing dream-like about this situation. There were no fairies dancing around the fire. No buff naked men were offering to take him to bed. He wasn’t giving the winning answer on Final Jeopardy. This was happening. This was real.
Fitzgibbon marched Ronan to where a group of similarly robed people were standing a distance from Tennyson.
“It is about time, Brother Fitzgibbon,” a man Ronan did not recognize said.
“Brother O’Mara was not ready when I arrived, Preacher Black.” Fitzgibbon shot Ronan an angry look.
“It is of no consequence. Your lateness merely bought the witch a few more minutes of life upon this earth.” The preacher wore a look of satisfaction.
A few more minutes of life? Ronan felt his stomach lurch. He sucked in a deep breath. The last thing he wanted to do was start throwing up.
“Are you prepared to give your evidence against the Witch Grimm?” Preacher Black asked.
Ronan blinked a few times against the bright light of the fire. Why did that name sound so familiar? Who the hell was Preacher Black? He opened his mouth to buy some time when the answer came to him. Gideon Black.
Ronan and Tennyson had helped out friends of theirs, Niall Gallagher and Tobin Woods, with a haunting a few months back. Through them, they’d met the spirit of Mariah Goode, one of the victims of the Salem Witch Trials. Preacher Gideon Black was the man who’d pronounced sentence against her.
Now, it seemed he was asking Ronan to give evidence against Tennyson.
“The man asked you a question.” Fitzgibbon gave him a shove from behind.
Meeting Tennyson’s eyes across the expanse separating them, Ronan didn’t know what to do. There was acceptance and love in Tennyson’s dark eyes. His mind flashed back to an impossible scene. Tennyson was standing in front of the fireplace in the cabin begging Ronan to save himself if Black arrested him. Tears were flowing from his eyes as he told Ronan they’d be reunited one day.
“Yes,” Ronan said, his voice weak. “I am here to give testimony against the Witch Grimm.”
The hooded figures, who until this moment had their backs to him, turned. Ronan could see their faces now. Carson, Truman, Cassie, Cole, Greeley, and Jude were staring at him, their faces expressionless.
“Do you accuse him as a witch?” Preacher Black asked. His blue eyes blazed with glee.
“I do.” With those simple words, Ronan knew he’d sealed Tennyson’s fate.
“I commit Tennyson Grimm, a known witch, to the flames!” Gideon Black proclaimed.
The last thing Ronan heard before the blackness took him was Tennyson screaming.
“Tennyson! Ten, no! NO!” Ronan shouted, twisting and turning.
“Ronan!” Tennyson shook his shoulder. “Ronan! Wake up!”
“Ten?” Ronan sat bolt upright in bed. He reached for Tennyson who was still holding on to his right shoulder.
“I’m here. Are you okay?” Ten sounded terrified.
Was he okay? Reaching over to turn on the light, Ronan was relieved to see he was lying in his king-sized bed in his and Tennyson’s Salem townhouse. Gone was the 1692 bonfire, although Ronan would swear he could still smell woodsmoke, somehow. “Yeah, I’m okay. It was just a bad dream.”
“What happened?” Ten asked, still sounding a bit shaken.
“We ran out of lube!” Ronan kissed the side of Ten’s head and bounced out of bed on his way to the bathroom. Even now, wide awake and back in the present, the dream was too raw to talk about. He was afraid that if he told Tennyson what happened, it would somehow still have power over him. Which was ridiculous, wasn’t it?
Dragon's Dusk by Sam Burns & WM Fawkes
Kostya
F lowers didn’t bloom in Voronezh anymore.
Not for lack of trying, of course. They were still planted every year, and those plants that didn’t die over the winter remained and continued to grow. They simply remained bloomless.
None of it stopped Dasha, sweet Dasha, from trying.
She had a dozen pots placed strategically throughout her private solarium, trying to capture as much sun as possible for as many hours as she could.
Blood lilies, all of them.
The blood lily was the royal flower. The flower that had once grown in front of every house in the realm, in all the public garden beds, and in whole fields in the mountains outside the palace. Deep crimson and soft as velvet, they reminded everyone of the golden era of Voronezh.
Except that these twelve pots grew steadily, lush and green, but without so much as an attempt to bud. The only thing blood lilies reminded anyone of anymore was the miserable, broken state of the land. Of their king.
Upon his ascension, Dima had gone through the same ritual as his ancestors, making him one with Voronezh. And Voronezh was dying, slowly but surely, one flower at a time.
Only his beautiful twin still had this much faith, believing that things would get better.
As I watched, she pricked her finger, letting a few drops of her blood fall on the stem of the plant.
“An interesting technique,” Zoya said from where she was lounging on a black chaise, also turned to face the sun. My sister was like one of those very hothouse flowers, with dark hair and bright red lips, and eyes that seemed to hold more mysteries than all the libraries in the world.
She was dark where Dasha was light, like the rest of the royal family. The lot of us with our white hair and bright eyes, only Zoya full of shadows and mystery.
The biggest difference between Dasha and the rest of us was that Dasha’s eyes were as pale as the rest of her. They’d been blue like mine once. Like Misha and Dima and our fathers.
Then, I’d lost control, and she’d been hurt.
Dasha lifted her head and turned in Zoya’s direction, offering a smile. “They are blood lilies, after all. I thought perhaps the blood of a royal dragon rider might help.”
Zoya shrugged and reached for a dried cherry, even darker than her stained lips. After chewing and swallowing, she pushed out of her seat and came to join me where I stood with Dasha, to look at the plant.
Dasha’s nimble fingers ran lightly over the leaves, testing, and her face gave no sign of disappointment when they found no bud.
“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Zoya finally said, though her expression was more sad than hopeful.
None of us thought the plants would bloom.
But who could kill Dasha’s hope? Only a monster would want to hurt our sweet cousin. Even Dima, hard and angry as he was now, wouldn’t hurt his twin sister.
Not deliberately, at least.
“Perhaps this year,” I said, my voice too soft, even for the quiet room. It was hard, with Dasha, to be anything but that. To take up space in her life. I had no right.
Not after I was the one responsible—
All I could see was the point of the dagger.
The king’s dagger, held in front of my eye. “I should take your eyes in recompense,” he hissed, teeth bared.
I tried my best not to blink. Not to move. Not to let a single expression cross my face. Behind me, my father was ranting about accidents happening, and children being innocent. Mother was sobbing, pleading with the king. I could have told them both that did nothing. There was only hate in my uncle’s gaze. He didn’t give a damn about accidents or apologies. He hated me for what I’d done. For what I’d allowed to happen.
So did I.
Some sick part of me wanted him to do it. Wanted him to put out my eyes, so that I would share Dasha’s suffering. The only reason I didn’t say so was because of Kirian. I couldn’t do that to him.
He’d always been a small dragon. Smaller than any other his age, and even some who were younger. Many of the other dragons treated him like some animals did runts: they rejected him, abused him. It had gotten so bad that the handlers had given him his own private room in the stable. So he was nervous. Easily frightened.
When Dasha’s dragon, Adorjan, had tried to leap upon him unexpectedly in play, he’d reacted swiftly and violently, spraying a gout of flame in her face. Burning her badly, almost killing her. Blinding her. Blinding Dasha forever through their bond.
“No, you’re right,” the king hissed at my father. “I should just kill him if he’s too weak to control his dragon. Voronezh has no place for weaklings.”
That moment, I suspected, was the one my father decided to kill his brother.
Also my fault.
There was a scuffle at the side door, and everyone turned. Everyone but the king and me. I could see from the corner of my eye, Dima and Dasha, his arm around her waist, holding her up and back at the same time. Protecting her from their father’s anger, which he would easily turn on her, despite the fact that it was currently aimed at me because I had hurt her.
She wasn’t to be stopped, though. “No,” she insisted, leaning forward, toward us, as though she would break away and run between us, even blinded as she was. “If you hurt Kostya, Father, I will never forgive you. Never.”
The king hissed in anger and spun to glare at her, so I looked at them as well. Dima was holding her so tight I thought she might bowl him over, and when he glanced up at me, I wasn’t sure if he pitied me or hated me. Both, maybe.
The king didn’t take my eyes, but it changed little. I had cost my cousin her sight, and the only person who would ever forgive me for it was Dasha herself.
Blood and land knew that I had not.
“—to see how Kirian is,” Zoya was saying when my mind came back to the moment.
She looked at me as though expecting an answer, so I nodded. “Of course. Kirian has not been feeling well, so I’ve been checking in even when I can’t go flying.”
Motion made me glance to Dasha, whose arms were pulled up in front of herself, clasped together as though she was terribly pleased. There were actual tears in her eyes. What had I missed?
“Good,” Zoya said. “I think Kirian will enjoy seeing Dasha again.”
The breath in my lungs turned to shards of ice. Dasha? Seeing Kirian? They hadn’t been in the same room in years. More than a decade, not since . . . not since then.
I’d never imagined she wanted to be in his presence again, after what I’d allowed to happen.
And yet the sheer joy on her face was—
“I’m afraid that is not allowed,” said a soft, hesitant voice from the door. Nikolai, Dasha’s personal guard. Also, I suspected, the love of my cousin’s life, given the way he’d refused every personal promotion offered to him in order to stay with her. His jaw was clenched, and he was clearly unhappy about what he was saying. He wouldn’t even look me in the eye. “The king does not wish Lady Dasha to be in the presence of . . . of Kirian.”
My cousin had said something considerably less pleasant than my dragon’s name, no doubt. Called him a monster or a demon, the way some others did, either because of Dasha’s injury, or because there had been a green dragon spotted mauling cattle in recent months. There were only two members of the royal family with green dragons, and no one suspected that Uncle Georgiy’s tame old Gerasim was the one doing it. Everyone assumed it was Kirian and not a wild dragon, because he was the only dragon in the royal stable with a history of hurting anyone.
No one ever put the blame where it belonged: on his rider.
Because that was a simple fact. The former king, while an unmitigated ass in many ways, had been right. I had not controlled my dragon, and my cousin would spend the rest of her life paying for my failure. And so would Kirian.
The smell of salt filled the air, and Dasha turned away. “I . . . I shall have to speak to Dima on that. It’s not right.”
Nikolai winced at the notion of even Dasha trying to approach the king. We all did. She was perhaps the only person left in the land that he cared for, but that did not mean he would listen to her. Dima listened to no one.
“You cannot blame Dima for his concern,” I told her. “I wouldn’t wish Kirian to hurt you—”
“He would never,” she insisted, spinning back toward me, her hand darting out to wrap around my upper arm, squeezing hard. “He was a scared baby who made a mistake. We cannot spend the rest of his life punishing him for it.”
I had to close my eyes and breathe deeply for a moment. How many times had I thought the same? But Dasha and I were perhaps the only people in all Voronezh who believed it.
And yet, when I looked to my sister, the hard anger in her eyes told me that she, too, agreed with our cousin. And even Nikolai, who adored Dasha above all others, ducked his head at me when I glanced in his direction.
“Adorjan misses him,” she added as she let go. “But I suppose upon Dima’s orders, that is not a matter for today. You should go see him, even if I cannot visit. Give him an extra kiss for me?”
I tried not to flush at the implication that I would be kissing my dragon on my own behalf, but cleared my throat and agreed. “Of course, Dasha. I’m certain he’ll be happy to have it.”
Zoya said her goodbyes and wrapped an arm around my waist, leading me out, as Dasha went back to bleeding for her lilies. I sent a thought into the land, hoping that if there was any higher power listening, it would give her what she so wanted. A single flower wasn’t so much to ask for, was it?
The Accidental Christmas Omega by Ava Beringer
1
DREW
A sound; Plunk. A whisper; Drew. Wake up.
“Not yet. Five more minutes, you drill sergeant,” I groaned. A laugh. Come on, I wanna get some of those tamales at the farmer’s market and they sell out early.
“Not yet.” Plunk. Drew! “Five more minutes, then we’ll get your special tamales.” Plunk. Drew! Wake up. He grinned and shook me. “Drew! Wake up!”
I shot up in bed, expecting darkness, instead hell was waiting at my door.
My neighbor Helga was under my window, throwing rocks and screaming frantically. The air was thick with smoke, billowing all around.
“My house is on fire,” I said out loud, dumbly. “Help!” I yelled, but the roar of the flames, trying to break through my door, swallowed my voice.
“Don’t open a door when there’s fire on the other side,” Jimmy used to say in his serious, soldier-y way. “When it gets more oxygen it’ll really go up.”
“I got it, I got it,” I would tease. “I promise not to get cooked in a house fire. Thanks, baby. I’m keeping that promise. But if I couldn’t go out the door, how did I get out?
I cradled my belly, big and round with my husband Jimmy’s baby, thirty-seven weeks along. I have to save our baby.
“The balcony.” I leapt out of bed, tripping on the sheets wrapped around my legs, uncoordinated because of my size and precious cargo. I paused a moment, grabbing Jimmy’s working parka and slinging it around my shoulders as I ran. Some nights I liked to put it in his spot and pretend he was still with me; luckily, I did it tonight.
I burst out of the French doors onto our balcony. Its view was nothing special, just the cul-de-sac in our quiet, sleepy little neighborhood in the hills beyond the state park. There was pandemonium in the street as my neighbors screamed and fires raged all around. I truly had woken up in hell.
A late season wildfire. The park rangers usually did an excellent controlled burn; what could have possibly happened to cause this? I had to get down from this balcony. I was low enough that if I jumped I would live, but it wasn’t gonna be pretty.
I had a choice to make. The heat cooked my back and more smoke poured out of my room as everything my husband and I had worked for went up in smoke. The fire ate through my door and crept up behind me.
Helga and a couple of my other neighbors gathered beneath my balcony.
“Drew, you have to jump! We’ll catch you! Jump, we have to get out of here!” Fire engines screamed in the background. Help was on the way, but how far were they? Not close enough. The fire finally ate away at the door and smoke poured out of the windows on my lower level.
“The fire’s eating through the house!” Helga yelled, hands cupped around her mouth. “The walls aren’t gonna hold!” My baby. With a final rub of my belly, I lifted a leg over the railing, then the other one. I held myself out over the open air, my heroic neighbors waiting for me with their arms outstretched. Gripping the railing for dear life, I slid down into a crouch. The railing groaned and heated up; it was starting to warp and melt; I didn’t have much time. I let my feet dangle, then slid off, still holding on. I went too fast, the angle nearly wrenching my shoulders out of their sockets when my arms were extended. My neighbors gathered below me.
“Drew, let go!” Helga called. I let go and fell…it felt like forever, but I was caught by four pairs of waiting arms. My ankle hit the ground at a bad angle and I rolled it, but the pain didn’t register. A fire engine roared up my street, calling for us to evacuate. My car was in my garage, already gone up in flames. Firefighters burst out of their engines and red-painted SUVs.
“In the truck, let’s go!” The closest fireman roared. He didn’t need to tell me twice. He jumped down to help me into the cab, his hands strong but caring. Everyone loaded in, slamming the doors. It was a tight squeeze, but the truck immediately did a three-point turn and raced out of our cul-de-sac.
“Who’s missing?” The driver, a muscular alpha woman, demanded.
“My wife,” One omega man piped up.
“My son and my dog.” Another voice said.
The firewoman got on her com. “Echo, we’ve got at least three missing. Woman, man, dog. Stand by for addresses…”
“We’re taking everyone straight to the hospital.” The fireman said, with the kind of authoritative voice that put you at ease. “Don’t worry. You’re safe now. I’m Jamison and this is Kelly with Primrose Keep Fire and Rescue, and we’ll be taking good care of you.” He turned to me. “Sir, are you hurt?”
I blinked stupidly. “I, um…yes?”
“Kel, radio it in. Pregnant omega male incoming, priority…” He started talking again, but it was like I was walking down a tunnel and couldn’t hear him. “Sir? Sir?”
“I think he’s in shock, Jamie.” The sound was far away. All the voices faded. I turned my head to look behind me. The last thing I saw was the home I shared with my deceased husband being swallowed by raging red flames.
Everything went black.
A few hours later, I woke up in the hospital under a mountain of pain, hacking and coughing from my battered lungs. The white lights were too bright and the sterile smell irritated my nose. My ankle throbbed and my shoulders were killing me, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the black hole inside my gut.
Knock, knock. A woman’s head poked into my emergency bay. The curtain hissed as she pulled it back.
“Mr. Darling, I’m Dr. White. I’m glad to see you awake and alert.” I tried to speak, but my voice wouldn’t come. I could only stare at her face, haggard from the frenzied rush and lack of sleep.
She took a step inside. “You’ve got a sprained ankle, but it isn’t broken. You suffered mild smoke inhalation. Other than that, a few scrapes and bruises-”
I found my voice then. “My baby?” My throat was raw and sore from the smoke. She offered a soft smile.
“Initial signs say perfectly healthy.” I let out a long, whistling breath from my inflamed lungs and laid my head back on the bed. The most important thing was safe. My precious child, healthy and whole. “We called your emergency contact; your grandmother in Augusta, Georgia, correct? Do you have any relatives or friends you can spend the night with?”
“No.” All I had was Jimmy and he was gone. I lifted my arm. His coat was still on me, but it was torn, singed, and streaked with smoke.
I broke down and wept again, but this time with an audience.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Darling. Truly, I am.” She patted my hand, and in that moment her genuine sympathy made me angry, because what was I supposed to do with it? Was it going to fix my ruined life? “We’ll be able to discharge you soon. Survivors like yourself are generally being sent to the Omega Center, and if not there than to one of the center’s trusted host families. You’ll be safe and warm and get good food and adequate care for your baby. It’s a safe place to start to make sense of all this.” There is no sense to this, I wanted to say, but all I could do was cry harder. The doctor set a box of tissue down by my side and tucked a couple in my hand.
“Zach Morrey’s on his way. He runs the center and as my kids would say, he’s the chillest guy I’ve ever met. You’re in good hands with him, you’ll see.” After another couple of arm rubs, she took her leave, probably to take care of the next wretch who’d lost everything tonight.
The baby stretched out inside me, turning my belly into a funny oblong shape, more like an oval. I let myself smile and ran my hand over the little bulge that I took to be their hand.
“Not everything,” I whispered. “I have the most important thing.”
Knock, knock. I jerked my head up. There was a man in the doorway; an omega with a backwards PK Thorns snapback and blond hair that reached the nape of his neck, wearing a t-shirt with the collar cut out. He was broad-shouldered and had some muscle on him, and along with a relaxed half-grin, looked more like a guy I’d see on a skateboard riding along the beach.
“Mr. Darling?” I nodded and he took a slow step into the room. “I’d ask you how it’s going, but that’d be a pretty dumb question, huh, man?” I snorted a bitter laugh. “I’m Zach from the Omega Center. We’re gonna get you down there and get you some hot food and rest. How’s that sound?” He smiled like he didn’t have a care in the world, one of his front teeth slightly overlapping the other, and I wanted to escape into that world. He held a hand out for me and I took it. He treated me carefully and gently, and I wondered how many times he’d done something like this, and for how many years.
It was a short drive to the center as we were already downtown. Smoke smothered the city like a sinister brownish-gray blanket. The building was nothing special, just an older seventies-era elementary school that had been repurposed. It was the energy that hung over it that bothered me.
Inside, I was greeted by misery and grief.
“I didn’t know the fire took so many homes,” I whispered.
Zach nodded as he led me through the cafeteria. “Yeah. Too many families suffering tonight.” It was mostly omegas and tons of children, but a few alphas were sprinkled here and there, huddling with their families. So many empty eyes stared back at me as I checked out the scene.
“Can I get a hot plate out here, boss?” Zach called into the doorway, like he wasn’t the boss. Food. My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten in ages. Zach chuckled. “Two plates.” Zach took the plates of what smelled like pasta from the cook and carried them for me.
“Why don’t we go straight to your room so you can have a little more quiet time?”
“That would be great, thank you.” The sadness, the weeping, and the boisterous kids were frying my nervous system after I’d already been traumatized. There was a massive Christmas tree, maybe twenty feet tall, in the corner of the cafeteria.
“Just put that up yesterday.”
“It’s nice.” It was a beacon of hope for me, a bright spot in all the gloom.
“Perfect timing, then. I’m gonna have you in a room with three other pregnant omegas. I apologize for having to squeeze you in like this.”
“I’m just happy to have food and a place to sleep. I can’t thank you enough, Zach.”
Zach shrugged, the half-smile on his face. “I’m just a guy who wants to help. I’m looking for host families and I’m prioritizing pregnant omegas and those with little babies. I’m hoping to get you someplace where you can be at ease real soon.” He stacked a plate on his wrist like a waiter, so he’d have a hand free, and opened a door into what probably used to be an office. There were four beds crammed inside. A pregnant woman was sleeping with her back to the door and the other two beds were empty, those omegas probably in the cafeteria. Zach set my plates down on a little side table and straightened up to leave, giving me a little smile.
I didn’t know why, but suddenly I was hugging Zach. He didn’t act surprised, just held me for a long time. I sniffled and a few tears fell, but I pulled myself together when the baby moved and the smell of lasagna and garlic bread called my name.
Zach left to go run other parts of the center and I inhaled both plates of food, trying to keep my lip-smacking and fork-scraping quiet.
Belly full, I laid down and rested a hand on my side. Grief, misery, shock, and terror for what the future held for me and my unborn child overtook me. I wept again, big, sopping tears that stained my clothes. My sore chest shook and an ugly whine snuck out of my mouth. “I have my baby. I have my baby,” I chanted. I curled up around my belly, determined to protect them from any harm that could befall them. “We’ll be alright. Me and you, we’ll be alright.”
I wrapped Jimmy’s coat around me tighter and cried myself to sleep.
Chloe ArcherChloe Archer writes queer sci-fi and paranormal rom coms with laugh out loud humor because she’s all about bringing the funny-sexy back. Oh, yeah!
She currently call Minnesota home, but has lived abroad in places like Montreal, Edinburgh, and Tokyo. She’s hoping to relocate to Scotland permanently in the next few years if the stars align.
Chloe is a fur mama to two adorable Yorkies, Jasper and Teddy, and she loves them in a crazy dog mama kind of way. When she isn’t busy writing, she enjoys visiting friends and family, traveling, reading, binge watching movies and TV shows, and practicing her karaoke skills. She does a mean cover of Pat Benatar and Cher, or so she’s been told.
Hailey Turner
Hailey Turner is big city girl who spoils her cats rotten and has a demanding day job that she loves, but not as much as she loves writing. She’s been writing since she was a young child and enjoys reading almost as much as creating a new story. Hailey loves stories with lots of action, gritty relationships, and an eventual HEA that satisfies the heart.
Sick of the slogging rat-race of her 9-5 job, Pandora Pine put pen to paper (literally!) to make her ambition of becoming a romance novelist a reality. She cut her teeth in the dog-eat-dog world of fan fiction, still dreaming of the day when she would be a published author.
In her spare time, Pandora fancies herself an amateur nature photographer. She enjoys mucking around in swamps, hiking through the woods and crawling around on her hands and knees in her backyard seeking out the perfect shot. Pandora is a fan of roadside seafood shacks and always thinks Mexican food is a good idea at the time.
Some of Pandora's favorite things are chocolate, writing longhand with purple pens, and handsome men falling in love with each other.
Sam lives in the Midwest with husband and cat, which is even less exciting than it sounds, so she's not sure why you're still reading this.
She specializes in LGBTQIA+ fiction, usually with a romantic element. There's sometimes intrigue and violence, usually a little sex, and almost always some swearing in her work. Her writing is light and happy, though, so if you're looking for a dark gritty reality, you've come to the wrong author.
W.M. Fawkes is an author of LGBTQ+ urban fantasy and paranormal romance. With coauthor Sam Burns, she writes feisty Greek gods, men, and monsters in the Lords of the Underworld series. She lives with her partner in a house owned by three halloween-hued felines that dabble regularly in shadow walking.
Ava Beringer is a major-league nerd who started off writing fanfiction and fell in love with mpreg and omegaverse. She loves to heat up a slick omega and a knotty alpha. By day she’s a good thirty-something midwestern girl, but she has a dark side. Okay, not really. She’s as bubbly as champagne but she can be pretty darn cheeky when you get her going.
She’s a digital nomad who’s traveled to thirty-five countries and counting. If she’s lucky, a cat will adopt her along the way.
Pick up your FREE SHORT STORIES, hear about her new releases and misadventures here, and tell her about yours! ❤
Chloe Archer
Hailey Turner
Sam Burns
EMAIL: sam@burnswrites.com
A Highland Gargoyle's Lucky Star by Chloe Archer
Bright Dead Things by Hailey Turner
Dead of Night by Pandora Pine
Dragon's Dusk by Sam Burns & WM Fawkes
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