Summary:
Love longer than forever.
Quinn Laramie moved to Mill Valley to care for his sick Aunt Betsy. After her recovery, he invested hours once spent in hospitals hiking and exploring the surrounding hills rather than returning to an empty apartment in the city.
Patrick, a photographer and self-proclaimed paranormal expert, saved Quinn from tumbling into a flooded creek where a bridge had washed away years ago, taking a pair of doomed lovers with it. Quinn and Patrick meet for other creepy jaunts thereafter: a derelict one-room schoolhouse, an abandoned cemetery, the burned-out shell of a home… Quinn hasn’t seen any ghosts yet, but Patrick’s shy kisses haunt him after each paranormal adventure ends.
Quinn wants more, and with their next spooky tour set to begin, Patrick is finally ready to give in. But what surprises wait them in the eerie manse atop Warner Hill?
Sightings is a beautiful little blend of paranormal and romance with a dash of mystery. Could it have been better had it been a bit longer? Perhaps but frankly, I loved it just the way it is. Sweet, tender, and yet a certain splash of eerie that makes perfect Halloween reading.
RATING:
Summary:
After losing both of his parents, Academy of Magecraft student Steven Durant doesn't want to see anyone else lose a loved one before their time. Traditional resurrection methods, however, only create mindless, flesh-hungry zombies; they're no cure for death. He's certain his unique brand of necromancy—using alchemy and blood magic—is the only answer.
When his boyfriend, Dax Everhart, has a fatal accident, Steven sees no choice but to use his experimental Lazarus Elixir. Dax comes back wrong, but the more humans he consumes, the more human he becomes.
With the help of his best friends, his ghostly aunt, and her living doll homunculus, Steven fights to regain normalcy and repair his shattered relationship with Dax. But with Dax openly embracing his monstrous nature, Steven shoulders the guilt of assisting in a murder spree that could lead the mundane and magical police right to their door.
Summary:
Jason Grant runs his own IT business from home, owns his own home, and has the best friend he could imagine. What he doesn’t have, or believe he will ever have, is love. When Jason catches a glimpse of his new neighbor on moving day, his libido ignites and his fascination in piqued. He even manages to concoct an excuse to go over and meet the man who makes him hope and want for more than he has in years.
Keith Skyler is a shifter in a world where his kind is known to only a few, but they don’t often mix and they never mate. Keith has been hoping for a mate since before he can remember, but gay lynx don’t have true mates. As far as he knows, they don’t have mates at all. However, while moving his little family across Seattle—and away from their tribe—his reality tips and spins more than he thought possible.
When these two men meet over a dish of five-cheese broccoli-noodle casserole, sparks fly. Who knew a welcome to the neighborhood gift could give both of them their chance at love?
Summary:
Forty-year-old, hard bitten, foul-mouthed, homicide detective, Hiro Santos, suspects the owner of the art studio committed the gory killing. Too bad. There are other things he'd like to do to the gorgeous young man than book him for murder. Worse, his sexy suspect is certifiable. The nutcase claims he's some kind of high wizard from an alternate reality and needs Hiro's help to save their worlds.
While the striking Sable Campion appears a youthful twenty-five, he’s endured over two-hundred lonely years as guardian of the portal between Everlight and Elysium. None of those centuries offered him any experience finding a vicious killer. That's where Hiro Santos comes in; but convincing the virile detective to trust Sable will take all his persuasive skills...and perhaps a bit of magic.
The magic they find in each other's arms will rock each of their realities.
The Master of Seacliff by Max PierceSummary:
It is 1899, and young Andrew Wyndham has accepted a position tutoring the unruly son of wealthy industrialist Duncan Stewart in the hopes that the work will be brief yet provide an avenue to pay for his passage to France to study art. But Seacliff is a dark mansion enshrouded in near-eternal fog, dark mystery and suspicion—perhaps a reflection of the house’s brooding master. An imposing Blackbeard of a man, Duncan Stewart is both feared and admired by his business associates as well as the people he calls friends, for Stewart may have murdered his own father to gain control of his business.And his home, in which Andrew Wyndham must now reside, holds terrible secrets—secrets that could destroy everyone within its walls. For pure gothic escapism with a decidedly masculine point of view, The Master of Seacliff is an enthralling and satisfying read.
Such a great read and a new author for me. Very Jane Eyre-ish, not better after all Jane Eyre is a classic, but similar and in my opinion nearly as good. Duncan definitely has Mr. Rochester's brooding down and Andrew certainly shares Jane's curiosity. Did Duncan really kill his father & Albert then make it look like murder/suicide? For that you'll have to read and you really won't know until near the end, I will say that my suspicions changed a few times. Very rarely does a story come together where every single character has a true purpose and effect on both the tale and the reader. There is a little something for everyone and just because I have made comparisons to Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre, don't think this is just a M/M genre retelling of the gothic classic, aspects are remnant but not a copy. The Master of Seacliff is a story all its own and I am so glad that luck or fate brought it to my eye.
RATING:
Random Paranormal Tales 2016 Parts
Sightings by Kari Gregg
Chapter One
“Fuck. Shit, shit, shit!” Teeth gritted, Quinn drove into the skid, his foot pumping the brake pedal of his rattletrap Mazda. Time slowed. Terror jolted down his spine. The screech of the car, the rumble of thunder from the torrential storm, and even the musical clamor from his iPod faded. Only the quickening thud of his heartbeat echoed in his ears as he wrestled the steering wheel. He screamed when his wipers cleared the flood of rain from his windshield long enough to reveal a cluster of thick sturdy oaks in his path, but then he was spinning… spinning… spinning…
Between one blink and the next, his car straightened out on the single lane blacktop. Still gliding on water sluicing off the hill. Quinn fought to point the car down the road. He shook, hands trembling despite his tight grip on the steering wheel. His nuts crawled inside his body, but miraculously, astoundingly, his tires gripped asphalt. The Mazda shot down the deserted country road like a bullet.
The laws governing motion and centripetal force pushed Quinn’s body against the driver’s side door when he cornered the next curve and he prayed he wouldn’t hydroplane again. Pulse racing, he glanced through the late afternoon’s stormy gloom in the rearview mirror to try to catch a glimpse of the slick stretch that had almost cost him his life, but between the downpour, tree limbs whipping in the wind, and the mountain the road curled around, he couldn’t make out anything. Blowing out a shaky breath, he eased off the gas and slowed the hell down. Delayed by bad weather or not, Patrick wouldn’t be pleased at Quinn risking an accident to reach the manse faster.
The wide turn-off Patrick had described in his directions to Warner House appeared through the sheeting rain a couple miles after Quinn’s near-catastrophe. He edged the Mazda off the road, hoping the tall grasses his fender mowed down were a promising sign he wouldn’t need a tow from the muck later. Climbing from the car, he grabbed his bulging backpack and pulled on a disposable poncho he’d picked up when he’d stopped for gas. Frigid rain drenched him before he’d finished unfolding the cheap plastic, long before he pulled the rain gear over his head, but keeping the contents of his pack dry was more important. He reached into the Mazda for the scrap of paper upon which Patrick had neatly printed the directions. He tucked that under the poncho too.
Spying the trail Patrick had mentioned, Quinn took off into the woods. Wet, dripping vegetation swallowed him. Mud caked Quinn’s boots, the path as slick as the road had been, but the hike settled nerves that still jangled from almost hitting the trees head-on.
Quinn loved the woods. The slow incline of the flat valley creeping up and into the mountains got his blood pumping, warming him despite the arctic rain. Forest critters stayed in their burrows during storms and mist shrouded wild greenery the farther up Warner Hill he climbed, but it was still a pretty hike.
In the year and a half since he’d moved in with Aunt Betsy, he’d never explored past the city limits on this side of town, only going as far as the ruins of the old covered bridge—replaced by an ugly, though sturdier, steel bridge decades ago. Why come out here when spooky riches filled the western woods? He’d liked the derelict one-room schoolhouse where a teacher had murdered her lover and then hung herself from the rafters. He’d spent weeks in an abandoned cemetery where many swore another murder victim, this one headless, roamed. Quinn had never seen the ghost, no matter how much time and sweat he’d invested in righting the disintegrating tombstones and clearing weedy overgrowth. He hadn’t seen the school marm’s corpse swinging from a noose at the schoolhouse, either. That failure hadn’t stopped him from climbing into the burned-out shell of a home—bricks scarred with black soot—where a mentally disturbed young man had nailed the doors shut one night and set fire to the place, killing his entire family including an aunt, two nieces, and his grandfather. That time, he’d experienced something. He’d heard the creaks and groans of the wrecked house and sly whispers that could have only come from the murdered young girls—just as the locals of Mill Valley had reported.
Mill Valley, with a population of a scant few thousand, hadn’t been overrun with ghost hunting teams and paranormal adventure tours because locals shunned outsiders. Plus, the valley was prone to flooding and a deluge in 1984 had destroyed most of the town’s historical records. Residents of Mill Valley alone knew the old stories now and they didn’t talk to anyone they didn’t consider one of their own.
Luckily, Aunt Betsy had gone to bat for him these past weeks. Quinn hadn’t been raised in Mill Valley, hadn’t even been born in Pennsylvania, but when his single and childless aunt had been diagnosed with lung cancer, he’d moved to the rural isolated town to help in whatever way he could. His job as a medical transcriptionist allowed a flexible work-at-home schedule, which had adapted to appointments for chemo treatments and to otherwise tending to his aunt’s needs. The valley had become home to him. He’d learned to love his compassionate yet stubbornly independent neighbors and the beauty of the mountains. After Betsy’s lung cancer went into remission, neither one of them had talked about him returning to the city.
Instead, Quinn had shifted the hours he’d once spent caring for his aunt to exploring the haunted places the townspeople had started mentioning to him once he’d met Patrick.
His heart thudded, and though Quinn panted a little, the sprint of his pulse had little to do with exertion from the steep path up Warner Hill. His blood heated. His cock hardened. The cold rain stopped annoying him and he quickened his pace.
Because Patrick waited at the end of this hike.
Patrick had saved Quinn’s life when Quinn had gone to the old covered bridge on his first hike in Mill Valley. Sure, the state had put in a new bridge after the historic landmark had washed away during a flood in the 1970s, but stubby remnants of wood buttresses, which had made the Valley Bridge an historical oddity, still speared from the shores of the creek if you knew where to look.
How was Quinn supposed to know the hillside to the creek was prone to sliding?
Patrick had grabbed him and pulled Quinn from a perilous tumble into the rushing water. Patrick’s camera had dangled from a strap around his neck and had repeatedly clocked Quinn while Patrick had hauled him from danger. When they both had reached the safety of the road, Patrick pointed an angry finger at a triangle-shaped caution sign that had escaped Quinn’s notice, as well as the extra sign bolted beneath: Slide Area.
“It’s rained for the last three days and the creek is at flood stage. The bank’s eroding. You can see it crumbling and falling into the water! And you, genius, decided to climb down?” He planted his hands on his hips and glared at Quinn. “Are you suicidal? Or stupid?”
Rubbing his abused head, Quinn had peered up at him. “Er…stupid?”
A shaken and distraught Patrick had berated Quinn for a solid ten minutes—Patrick could be the king of paranoia when it came to safety and taking every precaution—but they’d become friends.
Patrick had told him about the legend of the covered bridge over a thermos of coffee fetched from Quinn’s pack. “They probably told you in town the bridge washed out in the seventies,” he’d said, arching a devilish eyebrow while his lips curled in a hint of a smile, “but I bet they didn’t mention the two men driving across the bridge when it let go.”
Quinn had felt like his eyes would bug out of his head as he’d gulped his coffee. “No shit?”
Patrick had nodded. “One of the men is said to haunt the road here.” His lips had quirked. “Sightings are sometimes reported after storms, while the creek is flooding.”
Nobody loved spooky stories more than Quinn did so he’d angled his head and squinted at the buttresses he’d glimpsed from afar. “To warn other drivers?” He glanced up and down the road. “Maybe if I hang around, I’ll catch a glimpse of him.” He returned his attention to his goal: the buttresses.
“You’d better hope not. Only those who have been marked for death can see him …or so the story goes.” Nose wrinkling, Patrick had lifted the camera strap over his head and passed the camera to Quinn. “Here. Use the zoom lens to look.” When Quinn reached for the camera, Patrick held on. Tight. “No climbing down to see the buttresses yourself until the weather dries out and the ground stabilizes. I mean it. You could’ve been hurt. Maybe killed.”
Quinn had liked Patrick’s hand beneath his on the camera, the strength and warmth of his grip. “All right,” Quinn had said in immediate agreement. Whatever Patrick wanted was okay by him. Without letting go of the camera, Quinn had thrust out his other hand and introduced himself. “Quinn Laramie, medical transcriptionist and newly-intrigued paranormal investigator.”
“I’m Patrick.” He’d shaken Quinn’s hand, his grip neither weak nor crushing. Patrick’s chin had lifted toward the camera. “Photographer.” He’d grinned. “And paranormal expert. Are you genuinely interested in ghosts and hauntings?”
Before that moment, Quinn would’ve said no. He’d seen the shows on TV and thought they were bullshit. People with questionable acting skills scrambled around abandoned prisons, condemned mental hospitals, and other predictable sites of urban decay with video cameras and various whacky gizmos. If Quinn were a ghost, he’d stay the fuck away from rude intruders and their unwelcome spotlights, thanks. With Patrick staring at him with eyes the color of jade, though, Quinn had decided he wanted another ghostbusting day with Patrick and if he had to lie to get it? Oh well.
“Yeah, I like ghosts.”
Patrick had chuckled. “Okay.”
That had been four weeks ago—four perfect, arousing, frustrating, and ultimately romantic weeks. Quinn hadn’t known for sure Patrick was gay at first. The valley could be as good as time traveling back a few decades—discretion was smart, but even the day Patrick had yelled at Quinn at the bridge, Quinn had caught him staring at Quinn’s mouth. Patrick hadn’t kissed him at the bridge and Quinn hadn’t worked up the nerve to try. Their first magical kiss hadn’t happened until Patrick had met Quinn to show him where to find the schoolhouse later in the week.
“She shot him,” Patrick had said inside the grayed wreckage. The door had been gone as well as all the glass in the window frames, but aside from spots of splintering wood and a few missing floorboards, the structure had seemed basically sound when Patrick had insisted both he and Quinn stomp on the stairs and floor to test them. “After she killed him, she returned here and hung herself from the rafters.”
When Patrick had shone his flashlight beam toward the decaying ceiling, Quinn had shuddered.
Patrick cocked his head at a curious angle. “Can you see her?”
Squinting at the darkness inside the ruined schoolhouse, Quinn shuffled to the front of the single room, where Patrick’s flashlight beam shone.
“Careful.” Patrick had grabbed Quinn with a steadying hand. “We didn’t check that part of the floor. You could fall through.”
“I thought a shadow shifted in the rafters—Probably just a bat.” His shoulders had slumped with disappointment. “No ghosts. I don’t see anything.”
“You will. One day.” Patrick had wrapped his arms around Quinn. He’d pulled Quinn against him. “I promise.”
When Patrick’s lips had brushed Quinn’s, something beautiful and right had settled deep in Quinn’s bones. Patrick’s warmth had seeped into Quinn’s body where their chests had brushed. The softness of Patrick’s kisses had dizzied him. Patrick had tasted of cinnamon and the coffee they’d shared from Quinn’s thermos. He’d tasted like home.
Quinn hadn’t been able to get enough of Patrick’s kisses since.
In his old life in the city, Quinn would’ve assumed a man who hadn’t touched his cock in a month of dating—and the spooky jaunts were dates—was either a tease or disinterested. Moving to Pennsylvania must have changed Quinn, though, because he’d realized from the moment their mouths had first met, Patrick was definitely interested and he wasn’t a tease. He was just shy. Painfully shy and awkward. When he had his hands on his camera or spoke of the histories behind the haunted places they visited, Patrick stood tall, his broad shoulders squared with unshakeable confidence. The man was very much in his comfort zone when he discussed his area of expertise, Mill Valley’s ghosts, but the moment Quinn caressed him, Patrick’s self-assurance evaporated. Instead of boldly meeting Quinn’s gaze, he glanced under his lashes. His fair, freckled face colored a bewitching pink that highlighted copper streaks in his choppy brown hair. He trembled when Quinn twined his fingers with Patrick’s. Patrick topped Quinn’s six foot height by a couple inches, but when Quinn kissed him, Patrick seemed more delicate somehow. Fragile.
The hunger in Patrick’s returning kisses might be nervous, but Patrick had been far from disinterested these past weeks. Shifting the weight of his pack on his shoulders, Quinn hurried up the slippery path in renewed determination to faster reach Warner House—and Patrick.
They’d planned the daring trip after they’d finished cleaning up the forgotten cemetery on the other side of town. Warner House wasn’t abandoned. Though no one lived in the manse, fully paid property taxes year after year proved its continual private ownership. Not by locals. A wealthy family from Philadelphia had bought the land and built the place as a vacation home ages ago. The parents had left the house, clothes still hanging in the closets and a teacup allegedly resting on a table in the sitting room, the day their child had disappeared. Neither they nor their son had ever returned. Like Mill Valley’s version of the Mary Celeste, the eerie manse squatted empty and derelict atop Warner Hill and peered down onto the town, which was why Quinn had to sneak up the back of the property. If he and Patrick were caught inside the house, the cops wouldn’t be amused.
Patrick had sworn the house wasn’t in ruins. Aside from dust easily wiped away, he’d said the place was comfortable if a little spooky, still outfitted with furniture, kitchenware, linens, and everything else a family might need.
“Warner House is a popular trysting spot for brave teenagers from the Valley,” he’d said, blushing tomato red when he’d suggested the manse for their next ghost adventure.
Quinn had been pushing for a real date. Well, a more traditional one anyway. Dinner at the steakhouse by the highway, maybe a movie. He wanted Patrick on every level. He’d enjoyed crawling around the woods with him, gleaning details about the reticent Patrick along with the tales of doom and death crowding this patch of ground. He’d loved Patrick’s shy kisses too, the tentative dance of Patrick’s fingers over Quinn’s stomach, and the salty flavor of Patrick’s neck. But he wanted more.
“The manse has… b-beds,” Patrick had stammered, staring at the leaf-strewn ground rather than Quinn as he spoke. “I can change the linens.” He’d gulped. “The candles are all gone, though. Kids steal them.”
Quinn had stuffed his backpack with candles. Wine. An army of his aunt’s Tupperware filled with what he hoped Patrick would consider a romantic dinner as well as one of Betsy’s handmade quilts, in case his skittish soon-to-be lover was wrong about the sheets. Nothing could keep Patrick from Quinn tonight. Not the presence or absence of furniture at the manse. Not the wild storm that had blown into the valley the night before and lingered, swelling the creek and pouring rain down in torrents. Nothing. Patrick was his.
Rounding a bend in the path, Quinn marched from the tree line and into an overgrown yard. He’d made it to Warner House.
The place truly was a mansion. Despite the downpour from the storm, he slowed to assess the place—he hadn’t studied architecture, but he thought the style might be Tudor? The house rose three floors high at the crest of Warner Hill, a pair of gables from the steeply pitched slate roof vanishing into the stormy mist at both ends of the structure. The long stretch between featured a wattle and daub pattern of crisscrossing wooden beams that might be teak, interspersed with tall windows, each’s small diamond panes glinting off distant flashes of lightning. As Quinn neared the back of the house, he frowned in consternation at the windows, or rather the very intact windows. None of the panes appeared to have been broken during what must have been decades of neglect. Wild grasses grew up to Quinn’s waist in the backyard, and he’d circled around a cement birdbath and a stone bench hidden by the overgrowth. Ivy grew up the side of the manse, smothering half of the house. When he drew closer, he crossed from the jungle of the yard onto a brick patio with spongy moss growing between the stones under his hiking boots. He passed a rusted wrought iron table, chairs still gathered around it. A shiver ran up Quinn’s spine.
The place looked and felt hollow, vacant, like a dried out husk. Yet, not one pane of window glass had even cracked.
“The kids alone…” Quinn muttered under his breath. Partying kids would’ve broken something, torn up a lot probably, but as Quinn walked around the ivy-covered right wing of the house, examining the house instead of making for a surprisingly undamaged back door, he recalled Patrick had mentioned teenage lovers. Not parties.
Stepping close, Quinn pushed heavy vines aside to peer into one of the many windows and shuddered at hulking shadows of furniture draped by filmy sheets. No debris marred the room, though. No mold or water stains defaced its pristine walls. With a little cleaning, the house would be habitable once the dust cloths were removed.
Why wouldn’t local kids take advantage of a dry place to drink and get into trouble? For that matter, why wouldn’t vagrants strip the copper wiring for extra money?
The manse was empty, felt almost skeletal, but the house, if not the yard, had been maintained. Cared for. Someone had made sure the roof didn’t leak and the unbroken windowpanes continued to keep out the elements.
Mindful of the mud, Quinn worked his way around the house, goose bumps that had little to do with the storm’s chill raising on his skin under his wet clothes. Something was wrong, very wrong about this place. Quinn couldn’t put his finger on what. If he hadn’t spotted a flicker of light through a window, inside where Patrick waited, Quinn might’ve boosted his pack higher on his shoulders and hiked back to his Mazda. The sense of utter wrongness was that disconcerting. The light beckoned him, though, called to him. If Quinn concentrated, he could almost hear Patrick whispering to him and feel Patrick’s shy fingers exploring Quinn’s body.
Spooky house or not, Patrick was in there. Waiting. Wanting him.
Stiffening his spine, Quinn stalked to the front door. He reached for the knob… and screamed when the door jerked open.
The old woman inside screamed, too.
My Boyfriend's Back by Elliot Cooper
Catrina skipped through the garden, her bangs fluttering below the neat braid pinned across the top of her head. Her hair was darker than the rest of her unearthly blue-green form, the yard partially visible through her translucent skin and clothes. She flopped down on the ground in a way that made her appear to have mass and then poked at the fetid opossum corpse until she managed to flip it to its belly.
“Told you so,” she said matter-of-factly. “You didn’t use enough.”
Steven ignored her and kept digging. She didn’t have any idea what she was talking about. Catrina had admitted to him multiple times that she’d never dabbled in necromancy in life; she’d been too young to get much further than simple charms and potions. Back in her day, they hadn’t even had the local campus of the Academy of Magecraft, which meant she’d been homeschooled by his great-great-grandmother.
“Did you run it over yourself?”
Steven huffed in annoyance and jammed his shovel into the earth. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one gloved hand and glared at the little ghost.
“No. I found it. I’m a necromancer, not a murderer.” He looked down into the hole he’d made, judged it to be deep enough for the poor animal, and then gently lowered the opossum body into the ground.
The potion hadn’t been potent enough, which wasn’t entirely his fault. Several of the ingredients were out of season and expensive. His little herb garden was already done for the year with the cooler fall weather turning the trees in his yard gold and umber. Steven didn’t like to waste any of his potion supplies and didn’t think it was a fault to be conservative with his elixirs.
Only maybe he’d been overly cautious. Maybe he needed to take a cue from his boyfriend, Dax, and get overzealous with his potion making and application rituals.
Steven’s mouth screwed into a sour frown at the thought as he shoveled the pile of dirt back into the hole.
“Is it really smelly?” Catrina peered up at Steven from her seat on the grass. She plucked at the hem of her dress and pulled it down over her knees.
“It’s not too bad.” Steven shrugged one shoulder as he tamped down the loose dirt with the flat side of the shovel. “I can’t even smell it now.”
“So that’s your ‘I just thought of something that offends my Stevie senses’ face.” Catrina pursed her lips at him and then skipped off toward the house.
“Don’t call me that!” Steven called after her. Catrina was the only one who called him that, and she’d done so since he was little enough to want to play games with her. But he’d outgrown the nickname a long time ago. It was a child’s name, not the name of a future world-renowned mage.
He heard Dax’s car pull into the driveway as he put the shovel and gloves back in the shed with the rest of his gardening equipment. At least Dax wouldn’t get all holier than thou about his failed attempt to raise roadkill from the dead. Again.
“Hey, babe!” Dax called to Steven as he walked around to the front of the house. “You wanna help me with these groceries? I got you a little something special.” He waggled his dark brows and grinned but then noticed his jovial expression wasn’t catching. “Everything all right?”
“Opossum number three was not, in fact, the charm,” Steven said with a shake of his head. He let out a sigh and sidestepped Dax to reach into the car for the bags.
Whiskers of a Chance by Tempeste O'Riley
Chapter One
KEITH SKYLER sat in the hard, high-back wooden chair across from his father, Adam, fighting the desire to scowl at the ignorant male. It was bad enough to be called into his office like a recalcitrant child, but to have to sit in the uncomfortable chair while Adam sat in the plush office chair irked him even further. The positioning was deliberate, to remind Keith that his father had the power, as if he didn’t know that already.
“What part of ‘Taylor and I are moving to one of the outer areas of town’ don’t you understand? You insist that since Taylor is without a mate, she needs me to live with her. You also demand it so Zeke can have a male figure in his life, at least until Taylor or I mate. She wishes to move closer to her work, as do I.”
Adam Skyler’s expression was stoic, as always, but the energy pouring off him was bordering on violent. Keith waited for his father to respond, knowing Keith would get what he wanted, though not certain what the cost would be yet. One did not simply do things without the great and mighty Adam Skyler, Alpha of the Glacier Rim Tribe, giving his approval… except when he and Taylor did.
“Why are you only bringing this to me now, Keith? You know how I feel about your sister’s wild ideas of living with the humans. It’s dangerous!”
“Other tribes live—”
“Chain.” Adam closed his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “A ‘tribe’ of lynx is called a chain, and you know it.”
“That’s a human term, one that isn’t even agreed upon by the inter-tribal council. Other lynx call their groupings tribes, not chains.” He hated the term chain. It made them sound like a stupid fence instead of the extended family and friends that make up a tribe. Well, that’s what tribes ought to be. Theirs failed on many points to be that, mostly thanks to his father’s extreme patriarchal methods. When he took over, if he ever did, he swore to make their tribe more egalitarian—though Adam did not know that yet.
“I will not debate this with you, nor do I approve of Taylor and you moving away from our area.”
“Father, the house is already bought. We signed the papers yesterday and picked up the keys.” Yeah, he knew their method of gaining a little independence was inappropriate, willful, and could easily backfire, but he was determined to give his sister all the freedom he could and hopefully teach Zeke to be a good man, as well as a good lynx.
“You already did what?” Adam bellowed, his stoic demeanor finally cracking.
“We bought the house.”
“On whose authority?”
“Mine. I am the prince and heir, and well over the age of adulthood. I need room to live and breathe. Taylor needs room to raise Zeke without the other females in her space. I know they mean well, but Zeke is her son, not theirs.”
“They are only trying to help your sister. She’s all alone and trying to raise her child.”
“No, she’s not. She has me. I know her mate died, leaving her single and with kit, but I am there for both of them. Besides, with both of us working in town, this arrangement makes the most sense. And don’t worry, the house abuts the woods, giving us plenty of room to hunt, roam, and live in both our skins.”
“And if I forbid this move?” Adam asked, his tone dropping to one of resigned irritation—a sound Keith was well used to.
“We are locked into the mortgage, Father.” Adam Skyler was never one to waste money, a fact Keith was exceptionally glad of right then. “We will have to pay for it either way, and it would be foolish to own a home and not use it.”
The growl from his father was not unexpected. Still, were he in his feline skin rather than his human skin now, his fur would want to stand on end.
“Since you have made it difficult to argue against this nonsense, you and Taylor may move, but I will visit shortly after you are settled. If the residence does not meet with my wishes and standards, you will come home and find a way to sell the house.”
Thank you! “Give it a chance, Father. You know Taylor’s tastes. She wouldn’t live anywhere unsuitable.”
“Anywhere among humans is already unacceptable, but we shall see.”
“Thank you, Father. I need to make sure things are ready for our move.” Keith waited, hoping Adam would allow him his leave and not push further.
“You are excused, Keith. However, I do not appreciate being managed this way. Until you come of age, I am still the alpha of this chain.”
Tribe, dammit! “Understood, Father.”
Keith quickly stood and exited the room, then maneuvered through the house to find Taylor. He was itching to shift and go for a run. His lynx always wanted to be outside, in his fur, after he was called before his father—or the council for that matter. By the time he found Taylor, outside playing with Zeke, he was bordering on screaming. Seeing them playing in their lynx forms helped calm him, allowing him to breathe easier.
“Taylor?” He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips when she turned, her tufted ears swiveling before her gaze met his. “When you’re ready, I need to pick up the U-Haul and get things loaded.”
They had been packing, but as their father never came to their part of the house, even though it was just one floor up from his own suite, he hadn’t noticed all the boxes or layout plans. Their father’s home was more akin to two houses stacked one atop another. He and Taylor had their own kitchen, living room, dining space, and bedrooms, but they didn’t have any freedom or real space to be themselves. Not with their father and his advisers always underfoot and snooping into their lives.
Taylor hurried to where Keith stood, shifting as soon as she stopped in front of him—luckily her nudity no longer fazed him. When he was younger, her doing that had bothered him a great deal, but only because she was his sister. “He said yes?” she asked, her voice cracking on the last word.
Damn, she must have been more worried than she’d let on. “Of course. He insists upon checking on us once we’ve moved in, but that is to be expected,” he explained, shrugging one shoulder. He didn’t want to make a big thing about their move while they were outside. He never knew who might be within hearing range, after all.
Taylor grinned as she launched herself at Keith. “Thank you!” Without letting him go, she turned her head and called to Zeke, “Go make sure all your things are packed for Uncle Keith to take with him. I don’t want you upset that something special left with him instead of being in your travel bag.”
Laughing, Keith unwound his sister from around his body. “Go put something on, would ya? Like I want your girly bits on me.”
Taylor swatted Keith’s chest as she took off after Zeke—who had opted to stay in lynx form as he hurried inside and up the stairs.
By the time he’d caught up to them, Zeke was in his room, going through the special travel bag Keith had bought him the week prior. He’d been so proud of Zeke for not saying anything about their packing, not even to the other kittens in their tribe. Keith had been so careful when bringing boxes in and out of the house, making certain that neither his father nor his advisers were around to see what they were doing.
“Can’t believe you managed to get his approval so quickly,” Taylor said from behind him as he stood staring at the stacks of boxes ready to move.
“Hey, playing the money card usually works with him. Why do you think I wanted us to have signed the mortgage papers and all before I said anything to him? I’m not stupid, and moving away is the only way either of us will have any freedom to be who we are, instead of who he thinks we should be.”
She sighed contentedly. “I know, and I can’t wait to get going. Are you sure you want to do the move yourself? Zeke and I could help, instead of us only getting there after you have the house all set up?”
“Taylor, I know how you want everything set up. We’ve gone over the pictures and floor plan dozens of times already. This is safer for Zeke and will give me a chance to scope out the woods a little more before he gets there and wants to go run or climb.”
“Yeah, I just hate for you to do all the work like this.”
Her pout was adorable, but he had reasons, personal ones that he didn’t want to tell her yet, for wanting to go ahead of them. When they’d gone over to view the house the second time—which was when they’d put in the bid—he’d caught a scent he never thought to find. The pull had been almost painful, and now he just needed to find out who it belonged to. Even though he needed more information, his mind kept yelling mate. Being gay, he hadn’t believed he would have a mate, but he couldn’t think of any other reason for the insta-hard-on, the driving need to mate, or the way his cat paced just under the skin after he refused to go back to the house early and find who the luscious scent belonged. Hell, he wasn’t really certain he wanted to find the person. He didn’t want a female! And though only Taylor knew that his heart and body only craved others of the same sex, he feared finding who Baast had chosen for him.
“I’ve got some friends that are going to help me unload in exchange for pizza and beer.” He chuckled. “Seems that works for humans as well as cats.”
“All right, Keith. But if you need help, you’ll call me, right?” Her little upturned face always reminded him of her cat with its wide hazel eyes and tiny button nose, which she tended to wrinkle when annoyed. “Please.”
“Of course, but it’ll be fine. I promise. This time next week, you’ll be in our new home and won’t have anyone but me nosing into your business.”
“Won’t that be wonderful?” she chirped, bouncing on her toes. “Okay, go make sure you have your immediate-needs bag ready. When do you leave?”
“A little after lunch tomorrow. The cats helping on this end of the move will be here in the morning. The humans are, of course, meeting me at the house. It’s all going to work out, sissy, I promise.”
By the time Keith made it to bed that night, he was so anxious he barely managed to get any sleep. He wondered about the scent he’d caught, and the future, and hoped for freedom from his father’s keen gaze and bigoted mouth.
THE DRIVE to their new home wasn’t long, but loading everything into the U-Haul while his father looked on, scowling and making unhelpful comments, had Keith’s nerves frayed and his temper short. The hope-slash-fear of finding his mate added extra layers to his stress. By the time he arrived at the Wendy’s where he would meet the guys, he was in serious need of a drink—or three. Since that wasn’t an option yet, he pigged out on Spicy Asiago Ranch Chicken Club sandwiches and Frosty treats. Carbs instead of booze….
“Dude,” Dale groused. “How can you eat all that and still be as thin as you are?”
His eating habits drove his human friends crazy. If they ate like he did, they’d all be too big to get through the door. “Good genes,” he quipped, same as always.
“So not fair,” Ryan pouted. He struggled with his weight, wanting to be thin to attract guys at the club, but his body wanted to be slightly chubby no matter what he did.
Personally, Keith thought his friend needed to stop worrying about what shallow club-boys thought and focus instead on being happy and healthy for himself. “Sorry, didn’t mean to make you feel bad, Ryan.”
“You don’t. Just wish I had your metabolism. Seriously, I can’t figure out where you put it all.”
If he just told them he was a lynx shifter and they even knew what that meant, they would know why—all shifters had overdeveloped metabolisms, a side effect of all the shifting they did. However, he was forbidden to reveal his species, and as often as he hated not being able to share that part of himself with his friends, he knew it was too dangerous for humans to know of their kind… or of any kind of shifter, for that matter.
Well, a few humans knew, but it was exceedingly rare and considered dangerous to their kind as a whole. What if the government or scientists wanted to collect them and experiment? A shiver tore through him at the thought. He pushed the morbid thought away and focused on his friends again.
“Ready to head out?” he asked. He didn’t like depressing Ryan, so he usually didn’t eat around him.
“Yeah, let’s get this party started!” Dale crowed.
An hour later they were at his new home, with the U-Haul, and various cars filled with human and a few of his cat friends—the ones who didn’t look down on humans—parked along the driveway and curb. As soon as he opened the truck door, the scent of his mate slammed into him, stealing his breath for a moment. Conscious of the other cats close by, he schooled his face and took a few slow breaths, trying to force down his desire and need. No way did he want others to know what was going on before he found the woman. Woman, he groaned internally. Why did he have to have a mate? Being gay was hard enough and not something he could let others know about, as it just wasn’t done—not with how his father would react—and being mated on top of that would just be cruel.
By the time they were done with all the unloading, Keith decided that the Gods hated him. The scent of his mate constantly called to him—burning wood mixed with sandalwood and grass—teasing him mercilessly, and worse, he’d caught one of his neighbors watching him and his friends moving their things inside. The man pushed all his buttons—well, what of him he could see, thanks to the man being on the other side of a window from him—making him both thrilled that he’d moved and regretting it. His neighbor hadn’t come out to meet him yet, but if the man didn’t stop by soon, Keith decided he would just have to go over and say hello—if this whole mate thing didn’t interfere. If he mated, he’d be screwed… or rather, he’d never be screwed again. That depressing thought wound through him, helping him keep his hormones in check and his focus off sex.
Once all the unloading was done, they broke out the beers and called for pizza. That done, Keith cranked up his stereo so it could be heard outside, though not too loudly, not wanting the cops called, then joined his friends for food, booze, and relaxing. Though it would have been more relaxing if the two couples—both gay couples, no less—hadn’t been determined to dirty-dance and make out so much. Jealousy was ugly, he knew that, but right then it was a hard fact to remember.
Going to sleep the first night in his home, one that his father had nothing to do with, should have been an exciting and freeing event. Instead he tossed and turned, dreading the next day more than he had anything since his mother’s passing when he was a boy. He had nowhere to be, and the house was mostly put together. He’d been up half the night after his friends finally left, putting books on shelves, dishes in cupboards, and trying to convince himself that his mystery mate would be a male. The last item was his only failure of the night.
Chapter One
“Fuck. Shit, shit, shit!” Teeth gritted, Quinn drove into the skid, his foot pumping the brake pedal of his rattletrap Mazda. Time slowed. Terror jolted down his spine. The screech of the car, the rumble of thunder from the torrential storm, and even the musical clamor from his iPod faded. Only the quickening thud of his heartbeat echoed in his ears as he wrestled the steering wheel. He screamed when his wipers cleared the flood of rain from his windshield long enough to reveal a cluster of thick sturdy oaks in his path, but then he was spinning… spinning… spinning…
Between one blink and the next, his car straightened out on the single lane blacktop. Still gliding on water sluicing off the hill. Quinn fought to point the car down the road. He shook, hands trembling despite his tight grip on the steering wheel. His nuts crawled inside his body, but miraculously, astoundingly, his tires gripped asphalt. The Mazda shot down the deserted country road like a bullet.
The laws governing motion and centripetal force pushed Quinn’s body against the driver’s side door when he cornered the next curve and he prayed he wouldn’t hydroplane again. Pulse racing, he glanced through the late afternoon’s stormy gloom in the rearview mirror to try to catch a glimpse of the slick stretch that had almost cost him his life, but between the downpour, tree limbs whipping in the wind, and the mountain the road curled around, he couldn’t make out anything. Blowing out a shaky breath, he eased off the gas and slowed the hell down. Delayed by bad weather or not, Patrick wouldn’t be pleased at Quinn risking an accident to reach the manse faster.
The wide turn-off Patrick had described in his directions to Warner House appeared through the sheeting rain a couple miles after Quinn’s near-catastrophe. He edged the Mazda off the road, hoping the tall grasses his fender mowed down were a promising sign he wouldn’t need a tow from the muck later. Climbing from the car, he grabbed his bulging backpack and pulled on a disposable poncho he’d picked up when he’d stopped for gas. Frigid rain drenched him before he’d finished unfolding the cheap plastic, long before he pulled the rain gear over his head, but keeping the contents of his pack dry was more important. He reached into the Mazda for the scrap of paper upon which Patrick had neatly printed the directions. He tucked that under the poncho too.
Spying the trail Patrick had mentioned, Quinn took off into the woods. Wet, dripping vegetation swallowed him. Mud caked Quinn’s boots, the path as slick as the road had been, but the hike settled nerves that still jangled from almost hitting the trees head-on.
Quinn loved the woods. The slow incline of the flat valley creeping up and into the mountains got his blood pumping, warming him despite the arctic rain. Forest critters stayed in their burrows during storms and mist shrouded wild greenery the farther up Warner Hill he climbed, but it was still a pretty hike.
In the year and a half since he’d moved in with Aunt Betsy, he’d never explored past the city limits on this side of town, only going as far as the ruins of the old covered bridge—replaced by an ugly, though sturdier, steel bridge decades ago. Why come out here when spooky riches filled the western woods? He’d liked the derelict one-room schoolhouse where a teacher had murdered her lover and then hung herself from the rafters. He’d spent weeks in an abandoned cemetery where many swore another murder victim, this one headless, roamed. Quinn had never seen the ghost, no matter how much time and sweat he’d invested in righting the disintegrating tombstones and clearing weedy overgrowth. He hadn’t seen the school marm’s corpse swinging from a noose at the schoolhouse, either. That failure hadn’t stopped him from climbing into the burned-out shell of a home—bricks scarred with black soot—where a mentally disturbed young man had nailed the doors shut one night and set fire to the place, killing his entire family including an aunt, two nieces, and his grandfather. That time, he’d experienced something. He’d heard the creaks and groans of the wrecked house and sly whispers that could have only come from the murdered young girls—just as the locals of Mill Valley had reported.
Mill Valley, with a population of a scant few thousand, hadn’t been overrun with ghost hunting teams and paranormal adventure tours because locals shunned outsiders. Plus, the valley was prone to flooding and a deluge in 1984 had destroyed most of the town’s historical records. Residents of Mill Valley alone knew the old stories now and they didn’t talk to anyone they didn’t consider one of their own.
Luckily, Aunt Betsy had gone to bat for him these past weeks. Quinn hadn’t been raised in Mill Valley, hadn’t even been born in Pennsylvania, but when his single and childless aunt had been diagnosed with lung cancer, he’d moved to the rural isolated town to help in whatever way he could. His job as a medical transcriptionist allowed a flexible work-at-home schedule, which had adapted to appointments for chemo treatments and to otherwise tending to his aunt’s needs. The valley had become home to him. He’d learned to love his compassionate yet stubbornly independent neighbors and the beauty of the mountains. After Betsy’s lung cancer went into remission, neither one of them had talked about him returning to the city.
Instead, Quinn had shifted the hours he’d once spent caring for his aunt to exploring the haunted places the townspeople had started mentioning to him once he’d met Patrick.
His heart thudded, and though Quinn panted a little, the sprint of his pulse had little to do with exertion from the steep path up Warner Hill. His blood heated. His cock hardened. The cold rain stopped annoying him and he quickened his pace.
Because Patrick waited at the end of this hike.
Patrick had saved Quinn’s life when Quinn had gone to the old covered bridge on his first hike in Mill Valley. Sure, the state had put in a new bridge after the historic landmark had washed away during a flood in the 1970s, but stubby remnants of wood buttresses, which had made the Valley Bridge an historical oddity, still speared from the shores of the creek if you knew where to look.
How was Quinn supposed to know the hillside to the creek was prone to sliding?
Patrick had grabbed him and pulled Quinn from a perilous tumble into the rushing water. Patrick’s camera had dangled from a strap around his neck and had repeatedly clocked Quinn while Patrick had hauled him from danger. When they both had reached the safety of the road, Patrick pointed an angry finger at a triangle-shaped caution sign that had escaped Quinn’s notice, as well as the extra sign bolted beneath: Slide Area.
“It’s rained for the last three days and the creek is at flood stage. The bank’s eroding. You can see it crumbling and falling into the water! And you, genius, decided to climb down?” He planted his hands on his hips and glared at Quinn. “Are you suicidal? Or stupid?”
Rubbing his abused head, Quinn had peered up at him. “Er…stupid?”
A shaken and distraught Patrick had berated Quinn for a solid ten minutes—Patrick could be the king of paranoia when it came to safety and taking every precaution—but they’d become friends.
Patrick had told him about the legend of the covered bridge over a thermos of coffee fetched from Quinn’s pack. “They probably told you in town the bridge washed out in the seventies,” he’d said, arching a devilish eyebrow while his lips curled in a hint of a smile, “but I bet they didn’t mention the two men driving across the bridge when it let go.”
Quinn had felt like his eyes would bug out of his head as he’d gulped his coffee. “No shit?”
Patrick had nodded. “One of the men is said to haunt the road here.” His lips had quirked. “Sightings are sometimes reported after storms, while the creek is flooding.”
Nobody loved spooky stories more than Quinn did so he’d angled his head and squinted at the buttresses he’d glimpsed from afar. “To warn other drivers?” He glanced up and down the road. “Maybe if I hang around, I’ll catch a glimpse of him.” He returned his attention to his goal: the buttresses.
“You’d better hope not. Only those who have been marked for death can see him …or so the story goes.” Nose wrinkling, Patrick had lifted the camera strap over his head and passed the camera to Quinn. “Here. Use the zoom lens to look.” When Quinn reached for the camera, Patrick held on. Tight. “No climbing down to see the buttresses yourself until the weather dries out and the ground stabilizes. I mean it. You could’ve been hurt. Maybe killed.”
Quinn had liked Patrick’s hand beneath his on the camera, the strength and warmth of his grip. “All right,” Quinn had said in immediate agreement. Whatever Patrick wanted was okay by him. Without letting go of the camera, Quinn had thrust out his other hand and introduced himself. “Quinn Laramie, medical transcriptionist and newly-intrigued paranormal investigator.”
“I’m Patrick.” He’d shaken Quinn’s hand, his grip neither weak nor crushing. Patrick’s chin had lifted toward the camera. “Photographer.” He’d grinned. “And paranormal expert. Are you genuinely interested in ghosts and hauntings?”
Before that moment, Quinn would’ve said no. He’d seen the shows on TV and thought they were bullshit. People with questionable acting skills scrambled around abandoned prisons, condemned mental hospitals, and other predictable sites of urban decay with video cameras and various whacky gizmos. If Quinn were a ghost, he’d stay the fuck away from rude intruders and their unwelcome spotlights, thanks. With Patrick staring at him with eyes the color of jade, though, Quinn had decided he wanted another ghostbusting day with Patrick and if he had to lie to get it? Oh well.
“Yeah, I like ghosts.”
Patrick had chuckled. “Okay.”
That had been four weeks ago—four perfect, arousing, frustrating, and ultimately romantic weeks. Quinn hadn’t known for sure Patrick was gay at first. The valley could be as good as time traveling back a few decades—discretion was smart, but even the day Patrick had yelled at Quinn at the bridge, Quinn had caught him staring at Quinn’s mouth. Patrick hadn’t kissed him at the bridge and Quinn hadn’t worked up the nerve to try. Their first magical kiss hadn’t happened until Patrick had met Quinn to show him where to find the schoolhouse later in the week.
“She shot him,” Patrick had said inside the grayed wreckage. The door had been gone as well as all the glass in the window frames, but aside from spots of splintering wood and a few missing floorboards, the structure had seemed basically sound when Patrick had insisted both he and Quinn stomp on the stairs and floor to test them. “After she killed him, she returned here and hung herself from the rafters.”
When Patrick had shone his flashlight beam toward the decaying ceiling, Quinn had shuddered.
Patrick cocked his head at a curious angle. “Can you see her?”
Squinting at the darkness inside the ruined schoolhouse, Quinn shuffled to the front of the single room, where Patrick’s flashlight beam shone.
“Careful.” Patrick had grabbed Quinn with a steadying hand. “We didn’t check that part of the floor. You could fall through.”
“I thought a shadow shifted in the rafters—Probably just a bat.” His shoulders had slumped with disappointment. “No ghosts. I don’t see anything.”
“You will. One day.” Patrick had wrapped his arms around Quinn. He’d pulled Quinn against him. “I promise.”
When Patrick’s lips had brushed Quinn’s, something beautiful and right had settled deep in Quinn’s bones. Patrick’s warmth had seeped into Quinn’s body where their chests had brushed. The softness of Patrick’s kisses had dizzied him. Patrick had tasted of cinnamon and the coffee they’d shared from Quinn’s thermos. He’d tasted like home.
Quinn hadn’t been able to get enough of Patrick’s kisses since.
In his old life in the city, Quinn would’ve assumed a man who hadn’t touched his cock in a month of dating—and the spooky jaunts were dates—was either a tease or disinterested. Moving to Pennsylvania must have changed Quinn, though, because he’d realized from the moment their mouths had first met, Patrick was definitely interested and he wasn’t a tease. He was just shy. Painfully shy and awkward. When he had his hands on his camera or spoke of the histories behind the haunted places they visited, Patrick stood tall, his broad shoulders squared with unshakeable confidence. The man was very much in his comfort zone when he discussed his area of expertise, Mill Valley’s ghosts, but the moment Quinn caressed him, Patrick’s self-assurance evaporated. Instead of boldly meeting Quinn’s gaze, he glanced under his lashes. His fair, freckled face colored a bewitching pink that highlighted copper streaks in his choppy brown hair. He trembled when Quinn twined his fingers with Patrick’s. Patrick topped Quinn’s six foot height by a couple inches, but when Quinn kissed him, Patrick seemed more delicate somehow. Fragile.
The hunger in Patrick’s returning kisses might be nervous, but Patrick had been far from disinterested these past weeks. Shifting the weight of his pack on his shoulders, Quinn hurried up the slippery path in renewed determination to faster reach Warner House—and Patrick.
They’d planned the daring trip after they’d finished cleaning up the forgotten cemetery on the other side of town. Warner House wasn’t abandoned. Though no one lived in the manse, fully paid property taxes year after year proved its continual private ownership. Not by locals. A wealthy family from Philadelphia had bought the land and built the place as a vacation home ages ago. The parents had left the house, clothes still hanging in the closets and a teacup allegedly resting on a table in the sitting room, the day their child had disappeared. Neither they nor their son had ever returned. Like Mill Valley’s version of the Mary Celeste, the eerie manse squatted empty and derelict atop Warner Hill and peered down onto the town, which was why Quinn had to sneak up the back of the property. If he and Patrick were caught inside the house, the cops wouldn’t be amused.
Patrick had sworn the house wasn’t in ruins. Aside from dust easily wiped away, he’d said the place was comfortable if a little spooky, still outfitted with furniture, kitchenware, linens, and everything else a family might need.
“Warner House is a popular trysting spot for brave teenagers from the Valley,” he’d said, blushing tomato red when he’d suggested the manse for their next ghost adventure.
Quinn had been pushing for a real date. Well, a more traditional one anyway. Dinner at the steakhouse by the highway, maybe a movie. He wanted Patrick on every level. He’d enjoyed crawling around the woods with him, gleaning details about the reticent Patrick along with the tales of doom and death crowding this patch of ground. He’d loved Patrick’s shy kisses too, the tentative dance of Patrick’s fingers over Quinn’s stomach, and the salty flavor of Patrick’s neck. But he wanted more.
“The manse has… b-beds,” Patrick had stammered, staring at the leaf-strewn ground rather than Quinn as he spoke. “I can change the linens.” He’d gulped. “The candles are all gone, though. Kids steal them.”
Quinn had stuffed his backpack with candles. Wine. An army of his aunt’s Tupperware filled with what he hoped Patrick would consider a romantic dinner as well as one of Betsy’s handmade quilts, in case his skittish soon-to-be lover was wrong about the sheets. Nothing could keep Patrick from Quinn tonight. Not the presence or absence of furniture at the manse. Not the wild storm that had blown into the valley the night before and lingered, swelling the creek and pouring rain down in torrents. Nothing. Patrick was his.
Rounding a bend in the path, Quinn marched from the tree line and into an overgrown yard. He’d made it to Warner House.
The place truly was a mansion. Despite the downpour from the storm, he slowed to assess the place—he hadn’t studied architecture, but he thought the style might be Tudor? The house rose three floors high at the crest of Warner Hill, a pair of gables from the steeply pitched slate roof vanishing into the stormy mist at both ends of the structure. The long stretch between featured a wattle and daub pattern of crisscrossing wooden beams that might be teak, interspersed with tall windows, each’s small diamond panes glinting off distant flashes of lightning. As Quinn neared the back of the house, he frowned in consternation at the windows, or rather the very intact windows. None of the panes appeared to have been broken during what must have been decades of neglect. Wild grasses grew up to Quinn’s waist in the backyard, and he’d circled around a cement birdbath and a stone bench hidden by the overgrowth. Ivy grew up the side of the manse, smothering half of the house. When he drew closer, he crossed from the jungle of the yard onto a brick patio with spongy moss growing between the stones under his hiking boots. He passed a rusted wrought iron table, chairs still gathered around it. A shiver ran up Quinn’s spine.
The place looked and felt hollow, vacant, like a dried out husk. Yet, not one pane of window glass had even cracked.
“The kids alone…” Quinn muttered under his breath. Partying kids would’ve broken something, torn up a lot probably, but as Quinn walked around the ivy-covered right wing of the house, examining the house instead of making for a surprisingly undamaged back door, he recalled Patrick had mentioned teenage lovers. Not parties.
Stepping close, Quinn pushed heavy vines aside to peer into one of the many windows and shuddered at hulking shadows of furniture draped by filmy sheets. No debris marred the room, though. No mold or water stains defaced its pristine walls. With a little cleaning, the house would be habitable once the dust cloths were removed.
Why wouldn’t local kids take advantage of a dry place to drink and get into trouble? For that matter, why wouldn’t vagrants strip the copper wiring for extra money?
The manse was empty, felt almost skeletal, but the house, if not the yard, had been maintained. Cared for. Someone had made sure the roof didn’t leak and the unbroken windowpanes continued to keep out the elements.
Mindful of the mud, Quinn worked his way around the house, goose bumps that had little to do with the storm’s chill raising on his skin under his wet clothes. Something was wrong, very wrong about this place. Quinn couldn’t put his finger on what. If he hadn’t spotted a flicker of light through a window, inside where Patrick waited, Quinn might’ve boosted his pack higher on his shoulders and hiked back to his Mazda. The sense of utter wrongness was that disconcerting. The light beckoned him, though, called to him. If Quinn concentrated, he could almost hear Patrick whispering to him and feel Patrick’s shy fingers exploring Quinn’s body.
Spooky house or not, Patrick was in there. Waiting. Wanting him.
Stiffening his spine, Quinn stalked to the front door. He reached for the knob… and screamed when the door jerked open.
The old woman inside screamed, too.
My Boyfriend's Back by Elliot Cooper
Catrina skipped through the garden, her bangs fluttering below the neat braid pinned across the top of her head. Her hair was darker than the rest of her unearthly blue-green form, the yard partially visible through her translucent skin and clothes. She flopped down on the ground in a way that made her appear to have mass and then poked at the fetid opossum corpse until she managed to flip it to its belly.
“Told you so,” she said matter-of-factly. “You didn’t use enough.”
Steven ignored her and kept digging. She didn’t have any idea what she was talking about. Catrina had admitted to him multiple times that she’d never dabbled in necromancy in life; she’d been too young to get much further than simple charms and potions. Back in her day, they hadn’t even had the local campus of the Academy of Magecraft, which meant she’d been homeschooled by his great-great-grandmother.
“Did you run it over yourself?”
Steven huffed in annoyance and jammed his shovel into the earth. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one gloved hand and glared at the little ghost.
“No. I found it. I’m a necromancer, not a murderer.” He looked down into the hole he’d made, judged it to be deep enough for the poor animal, and then gently lowered the opossum body into the ground.
The potion hadn’t been potent enough, which wasn’t entirely his fault. Several of the ingredients were out of season and expensive. His little herb garden was already done for the year with the cooler fall weather turning the trees in his yard gold and umber. Steven didn’t like to waste any of his potion supplies and didn’t think it was a fault to be conservative with his elixirs.
Only maybe he’d been overly cautious. Maybe he needed to take a cue from his boyfriend, Dax, and get overzealous with his potion making and application rituals.
Steven’s mouth screwed into a sour frown at the thought as he shoveled the pile of dirt back into the hole.
“Is it really smelly?” Catrina peered up at Steven from her seat on the grass. She plucked at the hem of her dress and pulled it down over her knees.
“It’s not too bad.” Steven shrugged one shoulder as he tamped down the loose dirt with the flat side of the shovel. “I can’t even smell it now.”
“So that’s your ‘I just thought of something that offends my Stevie senses’ face.” Catrina pursed her lips at him and then skipped off toward the house.
“Don’t call me that!” Steven called after her. Catrina was the only one who called him that, and she’d done so since he was little enough to want to play games with her. But he’d outgrown the nickname a long time ago. It was a child’s name, not the name of a future world-renowned mage.
He heard Dax’s car pull into the driveway as he put the shovel and gloves back in the shed with the rest of his gardening equipment. At least Dax wouldn’t get all holier than thou about his failed attempt to raise roadkill from the dead. Again.
“Hey, babe!” Dax called to Steven as he walked around to the front of the house. “You wanna help me with these groceries? I got you a little something special.” He waggled his dark brows and grinned but then noticed his jovial expression wasn’t catching. “Everything all right?”
“Opossum number three was not, in fact, the charm,” Steven said with a shake of his head. He let out a sigh and sidestepped Dax to reach into the car for the bags.
Whiskers of a Chance by Tempeste O'Riley
Chapter One
KEITH SKYLER sat in the hard, high-back wooden chair across from his father, Adam, fighting the desire to scowl at the ignorant male. It was bad enough to be called into his office like a recalcitrant child, but to have to sit in the uncomfortable chair while Adam sat in the plush office chair irked him even further. The positioning was deliberate, to remind Keith that his father had the power, as if he didn’t know that already.
“What part of ‘Taylor and I are moving to one of the outer areas of town’ don’t you understand? You insist that since Taylor is without a mate, she needs me to live with her. You also demand it so Zeke can have a male figure in his life, at least until Taylor or I mate. She wishes to move closer to her work, as do I.”
Adam Skyler’s expression was stoic, as always, but the energy pouring off him was bordering on violent. Keith waited for his father to respond, knowing Keith would get what he wanted, though not certain what the cost would be yet. One did not simply do things without the great and mighty Adam Skyler, Alpha of the Glacier Rim Tribe, giving his approval… except when he and Taylor did.
“Why are you only bringing this to me now, Keith? You know how I feel about your sister’s wild ideas of living with the humans. It’s dangerous!”
“Other tribes live—”
“Chain.” Adam closed his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “A ‘tribe’ of lynx is called a chain, and you know it.”
“That’s a human term, one that isn’t even agreed upon by the inter-tribal council. Other lynx call their groupings tribes, not chains.” He hated the term chain. It made them sound like a stupid fence instead of the extended family and friends that make up a tribe. Well, that’s what tribes ought to be. Theirs failed on many points to be that, mostly thanks to his father’s extreme patriarchal methods. When he took over, if he ever did, he swore to make their tribe more egalitarian—though Adam did not know that yet.
“I will not debate this with you, nor do I approve of Taylor and you moving away from our area.”
“Father, the house is already bought. We signed the papers yesterday and picked up the keys.” Yeah, he knew their method of gaining a little independence was inappropriate, willful, and could easily backfire, but he was determined to give his sister all the freedom he could and hopefully teach Zeke to be a good man, as well as a good lynx.
“You already did what?” Adam bellowed, his stoic demeanor finally cracking.
“We bought the house.”
“On whose authority?”
“Mine. I am the prince and heir, and well over the age of adulthood. I need room to live and breathe. Taylor needs room to raise Zeke without the other females in her space. I know they mean well, but Zeke is her son, not theirs.”
“They are only trying to help your sister. She’s all alone and trying to raise her child.”
“No, she’s not. She has me. I know her mate died, leaving her single and with kit, but I am there for both of them. Besides, with both of us working in town, this arrangement makes the most sense. And don’t worry, the house abuts the woods, giving us plenty of room to hunt, roam, and live in both our skins.”
“And if I forbid this move?” Adam asked, his tone dropping to one of resigned irritation—a sound Keith was well used to.
“We are locked into the mortgage, Father.” Adam Skyler was never one to waste money, a fact Keith was exceptionally glad of right then. “We will have to pay for it either way, and it would be foolish to own a home and not use it.”
The growl from his father was not unexpected. Still, were he in his feline skin rather than his human skin now, his fur would want to stand on end.
“Since you have made it difficult to argue against this nonsense, you and Taylor may move, but I will visit shortly after you are settled. If the residence does not meet with my wishes and standards, you will come home and find a way to sell the house.”
Thank you! “Give it a chance, Father. You know Taylor’s tastes. She wouldn’t live anywhere unsuitable.”
“Anywhere among humans is already unacceptable, but we shall see.”
“Thank you, Father. I need to make sure things are ready for our move.” Keith waited, hoping Adam would allow him his leave and not push further.
“You are excused, Keith. However, I do not appreciate being managed this way. Until you come of age, I am still the alpha of this chain.”
Tribe, dammit! “Understood, Father.”
Keith quickly stood and exited the room, then maneuvered through the house to find Taylor. He was itching to shift and go for a run. His lynx always wanted to be outside, in his fur, after he was called before his father—or the council for that matter. By the time he found Taylor, outside playing with Zeke, he was bordering on screaming. Seeing them playing in their lynx forms helped calm him, allowing him to breathe easier.
“Taylor?” He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips when she turned, her tufted ears swiveling before her gaze met his. “When you’re ready, I need to pick up the U-Haul and get things loaded.”
They had been packing, but as their father never came to their part of the house, even though it was just one floor up from his own suite, he hadn’t noticed all the boxes or layout plans. Their father’s home was more akin to two houses stacked one atop another. He and Taylor had their own kitchen, living room, dining space, and bedrooms, but they didn’t have any freedom or real space to be themselves. Not with their father and his advisers always underfoot and snooping into their lives.
Taylor hurried to where Keith stood, shifting as soon as she stopped in front of him—luckily her nudity no longer fazed him. When he was younger, her doing that had bothered him a great deal, but only because she was his sister. “He said yes?” she asked, her voice cracking on the last word.
Damn, she must have been more worried than she’d let on. “Of course. He insists upon checking on us once we’ve moved in, but that is to be expected,” he explained, shrugging one shoulder. He didn’t want to make a big thing about their move while they were outside. He never knew who might be within hearing range, after all.
Taylor grinned as she launched herself at Keith. “Thank you!” Without letting him go, she turned her head and called to Zeke, “Go make sure all your things are packed for Uncle Keith to take with him. I don’t want you upset that something special left with him instead of being in your travel bag.”
Laughing, Keith unwound his sister from around his body. “Go put something on, would ya? Like I want your girly bits on me.”
Taylor swatted Keith’s chest as she took off after Zeke—who had opted to stay in lynx form as he hurried inside and up the stairs.
By the time he’d caught up to them, Zeke was in his room, going through the special travel bag Keith had bought him the week prior. He’d been so proud of Zeke for not saying anything about their packing, not even to the other kittens in their tribe. Keith had been so careful when bringing boxes in and out of the house, making certain that neither his father nor his advisers were around to see what they were doing.
“Can’t believe you managed to get his approval so quickly,” Taylor said from behind him as he stood staring at the stacks of boxes ready to move.
“Hey, playing the money card usually works with him. Why do you think I wanted us to have signed the mortgage papers and all before I said anything to him? I’m not stupid, and moving away is the only way either of us will have any freedom to be who we are, instead of who he thinks we should be.”
She sighed contentedly. “I know, and I can’t wait to get going. Are you sure you want to do the move yourself? Zeke and I could help, instead of us only getting there after you have the house all set up?”
“Taylor, I know how you want everything set up. We’ve gone over the pictures and floor plan dozens of times already. This is safer for Zeke and will give me a chance to scope out the woods a little more before he gets there and wants to go run or climb.”
“Yeah, I just hate for you to do all the work like this.”
Her pout was adorable, but he had reasons, personal ones that he didn’t want to tell her yet, for wanting to go ahead of them. When they’d gone over to view the house the second time—which was when they’d put in the bid—he’d caught a scent he never thought to find. The pull had been almost painful, and now he just needed to find out who it belonged to. Even though he needed more information, his mind kept yelling mate. Being gay, he hadn’t believed he would have a mate, but he couldn’t think of any other reason for the insta-hard-on, the driving need to mate, or the way his cat paced just under the skin after he refused to go back to the house early and find who the luscious scent belonged. Hell, he wasn’t really certain he wanted to find the person. He didn’t want a female! And though only Taylor knew that his heart and body only craved others of the same sex, he feared finding who Baast had chosen for him.
“I’ve got some friends that are going to help me unload in exchange for pizza and beer.” He chuckled. “Seems that works for humans as well as cats.”
“All right, Keith. But if you need help, you’ll call me, right?” Her little upturned face always reminded him of her cat with its wide hazel eyes and tiny button nose, which she tended to wrinkle when annoyed. “Please.”
“Of course, but it’ll be fine. I promise. This time next week, you’ll be in our new home and won’t have anyone but me nosing into your business.”
“Won’t that be wonderful?” she chirped, bouncing on her toes. “Okay, go make sure you have your immediate-needs bag ready. When do you leave?”
“A little after lunch tomorrow. The cats helping on this end of the move will be here in the morning. The humans are, of course, meeting me at the house. It’s all going to work out, sissy, I promise.”
By the time Keith made it to bed that night, he was so anxious he barely managed to get any sleep. He wondered about the scent he’d caught, and the future, and hoped for freedom from his father’s keen gaze and bigoted mouth.
THE DRIVE to their new home wasn’t long, but loading everything into the U-Haul while his father looked on, scowling and making unhelpful comments, had Keith’s nerves frayed and his temper short. The hope-slash-fear of finding his mate added extra layers to his stress. By the time he arrived at the Wendy’s where he would meet the guys, he was in serious need of a drink—or three. Since that wasn’t an option yet, he pigged out on Spicy Asiago Ranch Chicken Club sandwiches and Frosty treats. Carbs instead of booze….
“Dude,” Dale groused. “How can you eat all that and still be as thin as you are?”
His eating habits drove his human friends crazy. If they ate like he did, they’d all be too big to get through the door. “Good genes,” he quipped, same as always.
“So not fair,” Ryan pouted. He struggled with his weight, wanting to be thin to attract guys at the club, but his body wanted to be slightly chubby no matter what he did.
Personally, Keith thought his friend needed to stop worrying about what shallow club-boys thought and focus instead on being happy and healthy for himself. “Sorry, didn’t mean to make you feel bad, Ryan.”
“You don’t. Just wish I had your metabolism. Seriously, I can’t figure out where you put it all.”
If he just told them he was a lynx shifter and they even knew what that meant, they would know why—all shifters had overdeveloped metabolisms, a side effect of all the shifting they did. However, he was forbidden to reveal his species, and as often as he hated not being able to share that part of himself with his friends, he knew it was too dangerous for humans to know of their kind… or of any kind of shifter, for that matter.
Well, a few humans knew, but it was exceedingly rare and considered dangerous to their kind as a whole. What if the government or scientists wanted to collect them and experiment? A shiver tore through him at the thought. He pushed the morbid thought away and focused on his friends again.
“Ready to head out?” he asked. He didn’t like depressing Ryan, so he usually didn’t eat around him.
“Yeah, let’s get this party started!” Dale crowed.
An hour later they were at his new home, with the U-Haul, and various cars filled with human and a few of his cat friends—the ones who didn’t look down on humans—parked along the driveway and curb. As soon as he opened the truck door, the scent of his mate slammed into him, stealing his breath for a moment. Conscious of the other cats close by, he schooled his face and took a few slow breaths, trying to force down his desire and need. No way did he want others to know what was going on before he found the woman. Woman, he groaned internally. Why did he have to have a mate? Being gay was hard enough and not something he could let others know about, as it just wasn’t done—not with how his father would react—and being mated on top of that would just be cruel.
By the time they were done with all the unloading, Keith decided that the Gods hated him. The scent of his mate constantly called to him—burning wood mixed with sandalwood and grass—teasing him mercilessly, and worse, he’d caught one of his neighbors watching him and his friends moving their things inside. The man pushed all his buttons—well, what of him he could see, thanks to the man being on the other side of a window from him—making him both thrilled that he’d moved and regretting it. His neighbor hadn’t come out to meet him yet, but if the man didn’t stop by soon, Keith decided he would just have to go over and say hello—if this whole mate thing didn’t interfere. If he mated, he’d be screwed… or rather, he’d never be screwed again. That depressing thought wound through him, helping him keep his hormones in check and his focus off sex.
Once all the unloading was done, they broke out the beers and called for pizza. That done, Keith cranked up his stereo so it could be heard outside, though not too loudly, not wanting the cops called, then joined his friends for food, booze, and relaxing. Though it would have been more relaxing if the two couples—both gay couples, no less—hadn’t been determined to dirty-dance and make out so much. Jealousy was ugly, he knew that, but right then it was a hard fact to remember.
Going to sleep the first night in his home, one that his father had nothing to do with, should have been an exciting and freeing event. Instead he tossed and turned, dreading the next day more than he had anything since his mother’s passing when he was a boy. He had nowhere to be, and the house was mostly put together. He’d been up half the night after his friends finally left, putting books on shelves, dishes in cupboards, and trying to convince himself that his mystery mate would be a male. The last item was his only failure of the night.
An Evidence of Magic by Kris Michaels & Patricia A Knight
“I’m finished here for the moment. Get me back to Everlight.”
He nodded and stood up from the sofa. “Of course. Stand next to me.”
Hiro stepped to within two arm’s lengths.
“A little closer, please.”
The detective eyed him suspiciously. “What? We having some sorta ‘Kumbaya’ moment?”
Sable dropped his head and bit the inside of his lower lip to conceal his smile. He raised his gaze. “The closer your proximity to me, the less energy I have to exert to open the portal.”
The light of challenge gleamed in Hiro’s eyes as he stepped up to him, wrapped an arm around his waist and jerked him against the detective’s muscular chest. Sable felt the man press his groin into his. Santos hardened against him and a provocative shiver traced erotic fingers up Sable’s spine. Mere inches away, Hiro’s brown eyes found his. “How’s this work for you, magician? Close enough?”
The man was taunting him. He knew it, and still, it was all he could do not to groan, close his mouth over the detective’s lush lips and inhale him. He trembled with the need to grind his cock against Hiro’s. Instead of doing either, he murmured, “Works just fine for me, detective.”
The Master of Seacliff by Max Pierce
“Why do you hate Duncan so much, Leo?”
Leo gave a loud laugh and turned to view himself in the mirror. “It’s not hatred, Andrew. Pure jealousy.” He lowered his voice. “You see, for all our pretense, my sister and I are not in the best of financial situations. I fear in another generation, the Van Hornes will be back on a boat to the Netherlands, rowing the entire way. Duncan would jump at the opportunity to purchase Glendower Hall and send me packing.”
I wasn’t sure if Leo was honest or if this was another of his inventive tales. “Why?”
He fingered the cuff of my nightshirt, rose from the bed and walked to the door. “I feel the need for a drink. Would you like one?”
I shook my head.
To my surprise, Leo did not leave, but knelt down by the green clock and ran his left hand along the side of the base. In a second, a door popped open at the bottom.
“Steven discovered this. Seems Janina didn’t want to trundle downstairs to get her liquor.” Leo removed a bottle of brandy and two glasses. “Join me? Makes the pain go away.”
“Duncan went overseas looking for Steven. If he didn’t want him back—”
Leo filled his glass, replaced the decanter and closed the secret door.
“As far as that grand display of combing the corners of the earth for his lost love, I’ve come to doubt those motives. My guess is that he actually tracked Steven down.”
“And?”
“Andrew, Duncan Stewart has contacts all over the world, from heads of state and religious leaders to some of the most dangerous thieves and blackguards since Ali Baba. I suspect he paid Steven to leave, but as a trump, I wouldn’t be surprised if Steven was dispensed with by an assassin shortly after. That would explain why his clothes remain here after so many months. And don’t forget our visitor during the séance.”
Except for the séance, his theory made sense.
“What does that matter, my heir apparent? I see you’ve acquired not only Steven’s wardrobe, but his bedroom as well.” He looked to the door behind the screen and his lips curled at the corners. “And room to spread out. How do you find—”
I was in no mood to be linked to Duncan, especially by Leo Van Horne’s cruel innuendos.
“I’ll be returning to my own room as soon as possible.”
“I most certainly hope so. I’d like to see more of you—” He started lifting the sheet that covered me. When I put my hands down to keep it secure he took my hands in his and kissed them.
“— when you are up and around and free of Duncan.”
“I have no romantic feelings for Duncan, or anyone, Leo.”
Leo’s face lost its color and for the first time, his expression scared me. “Don’t reject me Andrew. You may regret needing a true friend in this house. Steven located some documents. They stated Gordon’s intent to disinherit Duncan. I have them now. If you find anything else, you must come to me at once. I—”
“And what if I believe Duncan innocent?”
“He is fond of you, Andrew. I don’t deny that. Perhaps if you get him to confess…in a moment of weakness…using your charms.”
“Duncan is not guilty of killing Steven,” I said. I wished I could be as confident about the deaths of Gordon and Albert.
“Then prove it to me.” Leo gave a light laugh. “But now, I must fly; until later. Think about what I have told you, and perhaps you’ll be ready for some liquor at tea time. Or, if you get thirsty, remember our hiding place.” He swirled out, all green velvet and gold silk, leaving on the nightstand a small box tied with a bright yellow ribbon.
I clasped my hands together and shook my head. The thought of these two men trying to win my favor put Steven Charles’ fate right out of my mind. Plain Andrew Wyndham, heretofore resigned to a lonely life as a tutor and artist, now attracted two powerful men, in a grand mansion above the ocean.
One a possible murderer; and the other determined to prove it. Seacliff brought me an escape from my old life, but I debated the price of that escape. If Duncan were found guilty, my plans of going to France would be just a dream. As for Leo’s thoughts on Steven Charles, I suspected that was a blatant attempt to discredit Duncan, and cast himself in a better light. I couldn’t believe Duncan would have the man he loved killed. The man he loved—would I ever experience that?
“Why do you hate Duncan so much, Leo?”
Leo gave a loud laugh and turned to view himself in the mirror. “It’s not hatred, Andrew. Pure jealousy.” He lowered his voice. “You see, for all our pretense, my sister and I are not in the best of financial situations. I fear in another generation, the Van Hornes will be back on a boat to the Netherlands, rowing the entire way. Duncan would jump at the opportunity to purchase Glendower Hall and send me packing.”
I wasn’t sure if Leo was honest or if this was another of his inventive tales. “Why?”
He fingered the cuff of my nightshirt, rose from the bed and walked to the door. “I feel the need for a drink. Would you like one?”
I shook my head.
To my surprise, Leo did not leave, but knelt down by the green clock and ran his left hand along the side of the base. In a second, a door popped open at the bottom.
“Steven discovered this. Seems Janina didn’t want to trundle downstairs to get her liquor.” Leo removed a bottle of brandy and two glasses. “Join me? Makes the pain go away.”
“Duncan went overseas looking for Steven. If he didn’t want him back—”
Leo filled his glass, replaced the decanter and closed the secret door.
“As far as that grand display of combing the corners of the earth for his lost love, I’ve come to doubt those motives. My guess is that he actually tracked Steven down.”
“And?”
“Andrew, Duncan Stewart has contacts all over the world, from heads of state and religious leaders to some of the most dangerous thieves and blackguards since Ali Baba. I suspect he paid Steven to leave, but as a trump, I wouldn’t be surprised if Steven was dispensed with by an assassin shortly after. That would explain why his clothes remain here after so many months. And don’t forget our visitor during the séance.”
Except for the séance, his theory made sense.
“What does that matter, my heir apparent? I see you’ve acquired not only Steven’s wardrobe, but his bedroom as well.” He looked to the door behind the screen and his lips curled at the corners. “And room to spread out. How do you find—”
I was in no mood to be linked to Duncan, especially by Leo Van Horne’s cruel innuendos.
“I’ll be returning to my own room as soon as possible.”
“I most certainly hope so. I’d like to see more of you—” He started lifting the sheet that covered me. When I put my hands down to keep it secure he took my hands in his and kissed them.
“— when you are up and around and free of Duncan.”
“I have no romantic feelings for Duncan, or anyone, Leo.”
Leo’s face lost its color and for the first time, his expression scared me. “Don’t reject me Andrew. You may regret needing a true friend in this house. Steven located some documents. They stated Gordon’s intent to disinherit Duncan. I have them now. If you find anything else, you must come to me at once. I—”
“And what if I believe Duncan innocent?”
“He is fond of you, Andrew. I don’t deny that. Perhaps if you get him to confess…in a moment of weakness…using your charms.”
“Duncan is not guilty of killing Steven,” I said. I wished I could be as confident about the deaths of Gordon and Albert.
“Then prove it to me.” Leo gave a light laugh. “But now, I must fly; until later. Think about what I have told you, and perhaps you’ll be ready for some liquor at tea time. Or, if you get thirsty, remember our hiding place.” He swirled out, all green velvet and gold silk, leaving on the nightstand a small box tied with a bright yellow ribbon.
I clasped my hands together and shook my head. The thought of these two men trying to win my favor put Steven Charles’ fate right out of my mind. Plain Andrew Wyndham, heretofore resigned to a lonely life as a tutor and artist, now attracted two powerful men, in a grand mansion above the ocean.
One a possible murderer; and the other determined to prove it. Seacliff brought me an escape from my old life, but I debated the price of that escape. If Duncan were found guilty, my plans of going to France would be just a dream. As for Leo’s thoughts on Steven Charles, I suspected that was a blatant attempt to discredit Duncan, and cast himself in a better light. I couldn’t believe Duncan would have the man he loved killed. The man he loved—would I ever experience that?
Kari GreggKari Gregg lives in the mountains of Wild and Wonderful West Virginia with her Wonderful husband and three very Wild children. When Kari’s not writing, she enjoys reading, coffee, zombie flicks, coffee, naked mud-wrestling (not really), and . . . coffee!
Elliot Cooper is a creativity addict who prefers writing stories that embody adventure, a hint of the taboo, and shadows that are deeper than they appear at first glance. All the better if romantic or erotic elements are key.
Elliot also enjoys video games and knitting, and lives in the southern US with his human and feline family.
Tempeste O’Riley is an out and proud omnisexual / bi-woman whose best friend growing up had the courage to do what she couldn’t–defy the hate and come out. He has been her hero ever since.
Though new to writing M/M, she has done many things in her life, though writing has always drawn her back–no matter what else life has thrown her way. She counts her friends, family, and Muse as her greatest blessings in life. She lives in Wisconsin with her children, reading, writing, and enjoying life.
Tempe is also a proud member of Romance Writers of America® and Rainbow Romance Writers.
Kris Michaels is the alter ego of a happily married wife and mother who loves to write erotic romance with a twist of military flavor.
A chance meeting and immediate friendship with an established author propelled Kris into a world where her lifelong fantasy of publishing romance novels came true! Her vivid imagination and erotic fantasies evolved into the Kings of Guardian Series now under contract to be published with Troll River Publishing.
Kris believes in meeting life head on…as long as there is an ample supply of coffee, whiskey and wine! She believes love makes this crazy life worthwhile. When she isn’t writing Kris enjoys a busy life with her husband, the cop, and her two wonderful sons.
Patricia A. Knight is the pen name for an eternal romantic who lives in Dallas, Texas with her horses, dogs and the best man on the face of the earth – oh yeah, and the most enormous bullfrogs you will ever see. Word to the wise: don’t swim in the pool after dark.
Max Pierce enjoyed a successful career as a Senior Executive in the apparel industry while he developed his writing skills.
As a journalist, he began writing on Hollywood history in 1999 for CLASSIC IMAGES magazine. He has contributed to numerous anthologies and is the author of the Lambda Literary Award-nominated gothic suspense, THE MASTER OF SEACLIFF and the romantic comedy AT THE CROSSROADS, both published by Lethe Press.
He has called Los Angeles home since 1988.
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Sightings
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My Boyfriend's Back
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An Evidence of Magic
