Summary:
Horse shifter Nick has one rule: never trust a witch.
Nick has devoted his life to making his saloon a safe haven for the feral familiars of New York. So when a brutal killer slaughters a feral under his protection, Nick has no choice but to try and catch the murderer. Even if that means bonding with a handsome Irish witch.
Officer Jamie MacDougal came back from the war in Cuba missing part of a leg and most of his heart. After his former lover becomes one of the killer’s victims, Jamie will do anything to solve the case.
Nick comes to Jamie with a proposal: after making a temporary bond, they will work together to stop the murders. Once the killer is caught, they walk away and never see one another again.
It sounds simple enough. But the passion that flares between the two men won’t be so easily extinguished. And if Nick can’t learn to trust his witch, he stands to lose everything—including his life.
Click for Saturday's Series Spotlight: Hexworld Part 1
Click for A Christmas Hex #2.5
Nick has spent his life hating witches, or at the very least not trusting them, not even his brother's witch. His life's mission is to protect familiars, specifically feral familiars. Jamie McDougal, one of Roosevelt's Rough Riders, is a witch without a familiar and an uncle who's views on familiars are not the same as Jamie's. When familiars are being viciously killed, Nick decides he has to work with Jamie to stop the murderer but what happens once the case is solved? Will Nick be able to let Jamie go and return to his anti-witch stand?
I knew we would eventually get a book in this series about Nick and to be honest I wasn't really looking forward to it. I liked his need for freedom but his anti-witch stance always grated on me a bit and I was afraid I wouldn't be able to like him as a main character. Its not that I felt he was irredeemable, he hadn't gone that far whenever he appeared in previous installments but I just wasn't sure I'd be ready to cheer him on. Well! I'm adult enough to admit when I'm wrong and was I ever wrong! Nick was fun, frustrating, enjoyable, irritating, and yes he still grated on my nerves at times but I most definitely wanted to see him happy.
As for Jamie, well what's not to like? He is a man with a heart that is "Grinch after finding Christmas spirit" big who wants to find the killer and find happiness all at the same time. It's easy to say that Nick doesn't deserve someone like Jamie but truth is, they are perfect for each other. Now, that's not to say everything is smooth sailing for the pair just because I found them perfect for each other, quite the opposite really. Ms. Hawk really puts her couples through the wringer and Nick and Jamie are no different, most of the time that wringer is Nick but who can blame him considering the feelings he's been holding on to for so many years.
As for the killings, well as usual I don't do spoilers so I won't touch on that aspect of the story too much other than to say I was completely hooked from beginning to end. Even without Nick and Jamie, Hexslayer would have had me on the edge of my seat with just the mystery alone. Thankfully, we do have Nick and Jamie so once again Jordan L Hawk has brought us into a world of magic, mystery, mayhem, and just the right amount of mushiness to make this a perfect paranormal package fitting for this time of year. However, if you don't have the time or opportunity to dive in now, you will be enthralled whenever you do give it a go because even though October is my favorite month to read all things weird and out there, I'll be reading this series whenever the author decides to give us another entry. Simply put, Hexslayer and the whole Hexworld universe, takes us on an amazing journey of the magic most of us loved as children and gives it an adult flair that lets us delve back into the "what ifs" and "could bes" that we tend to forget as we grow older. Just brilliant fun from beginning to end.
RATING:
The Tourist by Clare London
Summary:
Visiting isn't a science, at least not for me. It's just what I do. Not that I mind, though. It's not a bad thing, you understand, to find yourself in someone else's body, stepping into a hot shower stark-naked and sporting a decent-sized morning wood.
Ace is a tourist. A spirit who spends his time visiting the lives of others for entertainment and sexual satisfaction. He can't make anyone do anything they aren't willing to do-but he is able to push them to their personal limits.
He's currently visiting Dan and his lover, Ricky-a couple struggling with jealousy and words left unsaid. Emboldened by Ace, Dan becomes more sexually aggressive, a pleasant surprise for Ricky. But when an abusive ex threatens their newfound happiness, how far will Ace want to get involved? Will his fascination with the couple's sexual games tempt him to protect them from a very real physical danger?
Summary:
Two hundred years ago on Christmas Eve, William Mashinter was frozen in time, cursed by his wife to roam the world on his own, waiting for the love of his life to find him. The love of his life, whom she killed. Time hasn’t healed this wound, and William is tired of the happy holiday and the constant reminders of a love that’s been taken from him. But then the impossible happens, and maybe… maybe he can get a new Christmas perspective.
Brady Gallagher has lived three different lives, always aware of the first and most important, yet unable to find the man who will fill in the missing pieces and let him know he’s not crazy. He encounters him at a work event, of all places, but is he willing to throw everything else to the wind and embrace the miracle laid out before him?
Origingal Review December 2016:
Cursed Miracles is the perfect blend of romance, history, paranormal, contemporary, and it's all wrapped up together in a beautiful Christmas package, small maybe but Miracles will warm your heart, not to mention spice it up just the right amount, faster than a bag of roasted chestnuts and a glass of mulled wine. A lovely little holiday novella that I look forward to re-reading next year and many Christmases to come. Meg Harding is another new author for me and I look forward to checking out her backlist and future tales in 2017.
RATING: 
Human Rights by SL Armstrong
Summary:
After landing in the pound after being abandoned by yet another family, Ewan is convinced he's too old to be adopted out again. For a pet like him, the only fate left is to be put down. But when Sir Jiat—of the City Guard, no less—visits the pound, he goes straight to Ewan. Jiat prefers the more mature pets and treats Ewan better than he's ever been treated by any previous owner. Ewan sleeps at the foot of his master's bed, not on the floor or outside; he is given toys and other pets to play with and plenty of room to run; and he's fed on a schedule and eats very well. But Ewan's love for his master begins to change, to become something else, something more.
Plenty of pets have been killed over the years for acting on the feelings that Sir Jiat inspires, so he dares not express the desire building inside him. And yet, Ewan can't help but notice that Sir Jiat has begun to act differently as well, more doting, treating Ewan almost as an equal. So even though the thing he wants more than anything is also their society's greatest taboo, Ewan resolves that if he must die, he will die having felt, just once, the warmth of Sir Jiat's soft fur pressed against his bare naked skin.
Summary:
Daniel Van Doren was once a renowned writer, until he was blinded in the car accident that killed his lover. Now, all he sees are ghosts in need of help. They follow him everywhere, and the only way to be rid of his ethereal visitors is to help them resolve their unfinished business here on earth so their spirits can find peace.
Ghostwriter Logan Riley is assigned to pen Daniel's biography. He plans to reveal him as a fraud, but when they meet he's struck by Danny's quiet sincerity--and a growing attraction. Which makes sticking close to Danny to find out the truth more than a little distracting.
When they are attacked by a violent poltergeist Logan begins to believe Danny's not just telling the truth, he's in grave danger. A spirit has learned how to harness the energy of the living to break through the barrier between worlds to harm Danny. And Logan may be the one to blame...
Daniel Van Doren lost his writing mojo when he lost his sight but he gained ghostly visitors that need closure. Logan Riley is sent to ghostwrite Dan's biography and in doing so is determined to prove him a hoax and con-man. What they find together is pain, frustration, unwanted company but will they also find exactly what they need?
I first featured Sight Unseen a couple of years ago in my Random Paranormal Tales on my blog but I just now got around to reading it. I loved it! There is many times I just wanted to bang their heads together to get them to talk to each other but you just need to let the characters find that out at their own pace. There really isn't too much I feel I can say about Sight that won't give away plot points and as you know I don't do spoilers so let me just say that Hunter Raines has brought together a wonderful blend of paranormal, lust, drama, romance, with just the right amount of fear and heart to make this a must read. One thing I can say is I really appreciated the fact that we don't see Dan having to convince the cops that he isn't a charlatan or crazy, yes it helped that the cop he works with the most is his ex-brother-in-law but I still found it refreshing to not have to see the main character go through that aspect.
Overall, Sight Unseen is a great read that I wished I had read sooner but whenever you come to the party doesn't always matter, its the fun you have when you get there and that is the same when it comes to books. Whether you read it as a new release, years later, or a re-read doesn't matter if it thrills the soul and gives you enjoyment than the author has done their job and that is what Hunter Raines' Sight Unseen has done for me. A great addition to my paranormal library.
RATING:
The Tourist by Clare London
It isn’t a bad thing, you know, to find yourself stepping into a hot, fresh-smelling shower, stark bollock naked and sporting a decent-sized morning wood. Even if the period immediately beforehand is a bit of a blurred memory. Even if you can’t remember where the hell you are, exactly how you got there, what day it is, or even how much shampoo you’re going to need because you can’t remember if you’re bewigged, buzz-cut or bearded.
I reached for the plastic curtain, not sure how firm my grip was, tugging it back awkwardly. When I stepped forward onto the smooth tray, I stubbed my toe against the tiled wall and yelped. Seemed I couldn’t even gauge the size of my own bloody feet.
You see, visiting isn’t an exact science. Hell, it’s no science at all, at least not for me. It’s just what I do. I drift in my strange but by-now-familiar limbo, jumping in and out of human bodies for a bit of a laugh and—you must understand, I’m not going to lie about it—for sexual satisfaction. From men.
I get a thrill from it; I get off on it.
The last thing I remembered? A rewarding couple of days in the bed of two very limber athletes. Moroccan, maybe. On a work visa, staying in a tiny but over-warm bedsit, the best they could afford so close to London. I never knew whether they were legally in the country or not, and didn’t really care. I was only passing through. They were dark, with sun-salty skin, and full of youthful strength and stamina. An imaginative collection of toys, too. Delicious. But their bickering wore me ragged in the end, even though it was their idea of foreplay. And so I moved on. Took that deep breath of virtual anticipation, and jumped. Never knowing quite where I’d end up.
But, like I said, it wasn’t always a bad thing. Particularly when I found myself pressed up against the side of another body in that shower, equally naked, slick with water and warm with sexy, willing enthusiasm. How did I know “willing”? Pretty obvious, if you ask me. He had a thick, solid dick, happily nudging against my thigh. Just what I like the best. There was barely enough room to turn one person around in there, let alone two, but it didn’t seem like either of us resented getting up close and personal.
I leaned in, just to make sure, and he moaned with pleasure. Yeah, that confirmed it. I gave up worrying about shampoo and went for groping his hips instead.
“Hey, there.”
He sounded startled and I paused. I mumbled something under my breath that could have been taken as a tentative apology.
“No. It’s fine.” He twisted around to face me and that delicious dick rubbed against mine. It was long and curved up toward his belly, eager for action. Mine was no slouch, either. Looked like I had plenty of inches, and at the moment they were all standing to attention. “Just…it’s a surprise, that’s all.” He tilted his head and touched the side of my neck with his lips, quick and sloppy. “I didn’t want to wake you just yet. It’s not your fault I’m up so early.”
“Up?” My voice was low and firm. I liked the sound of it. I smirked and ran my hand along the length of his cock. It was a broad hand; looked strong, the skin tanned, fingertips calloused.
He sucked in a breath. “God. Yeah. I know you’re not so keen on the morning…”
I squeezed, not that gently, and he shut up immediately. “You think you should be telling me what I am and what I’m not?”
He stared at me. Deep brown eyes, an expression of excitement and confusion, all mixed in with the twinkle of morning lust. And something else even more promising. “I…guess not. Sorry.”
His hair must have reached just under his ears when it was dry. The water made it cling lower to his neck, creating small dark licks of sensuality. I imagined twisting one around my fingers and tugging. Hard. “So make it up to me.”
“Dan?” He laughed shakily. “What’s up with you this morning?”
“Nothing different. You feel good and I want it.”
He shuddered and his lips dragged across my jaw. I had quite a lot of morning stubble. His hand grasped my hip, his palm slippery with soap. “Well, this is a surprise, but a very pleasant one, you know?” He moaned softly and his fingers tightened on my flesh. “Very good. I think you can tell—”
I pressed against him again and he sucked the words back in. After a second’s hesitation, he stepped back, close up to the tiled wall. His heart was beating so fast I could feel the vibration in his chest. I knew then what he needed. Doesn’t take me long to know what a man’s like, not nowadays.
“I think you do far too much of that,” I said. “Thinking. I’m not a whole lot keen on it myself, at least not at this moment.” As far as I was concerned, feeling was taking up most of my attention. I knew what I wanted, I knew what my body was aching for. Good. It’s a special treat when I find a like-minded libido to host my fantasies.
I rubbed my dick against him again, this time bending my knees to get better effect. I was an inch or so taller than he was and I needed that angle so that I was sliding against his cock, not into his navel. Though that looked and felt pretty fine, too. The whole torso was nicely defined, not too muscle-bound. He was what they called hot these days, well-proportioned like one of those underwear models who were so popular in magazines. I reckoned he was younger than me, but not too young. Perfect. His skin was slightly plump, with a healthy sheen and barely tanned. I nudged again and dropped my lips to the junction of his neck and throat. His head went back and he gasped.
He wasn’t as broad as I was—I could instinctively tell from the position of our arms—and his pecs were covered with a mat of fine hair. The nipples were dark brown mounds poking up through it. Made my mouth salivate. Another thing I knew instinctively—I loved nibbling. I sucked at the skin of his neck and the little buds tightened. I felt them push against my own chest, and the excitement rippled straight down to my balls.
His treasure trail was darker, though that might just have been from the water running over his shoulders and down his front. My eyes slid downward, following its path, over the gentle mound of his belly, down to the curls at his groin, glistening, tangled, and then to our cocks, dancing their own version of a thrusting tango, seeking friction, swelling even further with eagerness.
He chuckled softly. “Dan, this is…”
“I say what it is.” I glanced back up at his face. The water pattered onto the tray at my feet and my voice had been more growl than whisper. For a second, he tensed and I wondered if I’d messed up already.
Then he relaxed, letting out a long breath. His eyes half closed. “Yes,” he murmured, delight in his tone. “You do.”
Cursed Miracles by Meg Harding
TWO HUNDRED years ago, William Mashinter the Third learned a very important life lesson. One he won’t forget—even if he lives two hundred more.
Don’t piss off a witch.
As he sits at his large oak desk, staring out at the city of Chicago with its sky-high buildings and abundance of snow flurries, he thinks back to the Christmas Eve that changed everything. The day where his life went to complete hell after being sunk partially in it for a too-long time. The events that led to it. When everything had been ripped from him because he’d dared to try and touch the stars.
He scowls.
He hates Christmas. It’s the only time of year he gets reflective. The one period of time when his pain is more present than ever. So many years later, and it’s still a raw wound. He doesn’t think it ever won’t be.
The scenery outside his window changes, his office vanishes, and he’s standing in an old Victorian room, staring at his father from across the man’s desk. His father, Lord Mashinter the Second, is an imposing man with iron-gray hair and an attitude that has people naturally bowing to him. His face is lined with age, his stomach going soft. His eyes are hard, like flint, and they’re not prone to displaying affection. This isn’t an exception. He’s staring at William like he’s talking to an underling, and for all intents and purposes, that is what William is to him.
“Lord Granger has agreed to marriage terms between you and Lady Jennifer Granger.” He says it casually, while barely looking up from the paper he’s reading.
William’s stomach feels like it plummets to his feet. The nightmare he’s avoided his whole life is finally here. Marriage. To a woman he doesn’t love. When he loves someone else. He has to reach for the chair back in front of him, grip tight to keep from falling. His world is being flipped upside down. “Father,” he says, protest on the tip of his tongue. He’s made his feelings on this matter as clear as he could without revealing the truth. He loves Lord Brady Gallagher. And he knows—is painfully aware—that their love isn’t conventional. That it won’t ever be accepted amongst these people he calls friends and family.
Human Rights by SL Armstrong
I'd had three masters in my life, and still, here I was, in the pound. I was nothing but a mutt, after all, and when one of the purebreeds they'd wanted so badly came up for sale, I was on the way out. Wouldn't want to risk having the pedigree of an expensive, beautiful bitch ruined by a mutt's seed. It didn't matter that Puan had adopted me when I was but four years old and trained me herself. I was her favorite stud until she'd landed one of the red-coated females that came from the High Breeders. Within two days, I was fifteen and foisted off on one of Puan's friends.
But Lienx wasn't as nice as Puan, and he didn't like the manners Puan had instilled in me. I wasn't allowed on the furniture. I wasn't to eat in the kitchen. I spent nights leashed to a small house outside in the yard. Lienx ruled his home with an iron fist, and when I misbehaved, I was thoroughly beaten. I learned quickly to remain invisible in Lienx's home, but then Lienx married, and his new wife, Moha, didn't like mutts. Within two weeks, Lienx had procured a purebreed. I was sent to the pound.
By the heavens, the pound. Cages. Left to wallow in our own filth because those in charge didn't want to bother. The food was tasteless. Sunlight was a treat once a week when we were taken out into the yards. Run. Play. Soak up the light until we were herded back into the large, hot buildings and locked away to be forgotten. Most pets came to the pound to die, and, at twenty-four, I resigned myself to such a fate. Two masters and well into my life, I wasn't the sort of pet a lovely master came looking for. Imagine my surprise when Kica came running through the pound, eager to find her newest pet.
Kica. Nine-years-old and the sweetest little girl. I think I loved her. She would play with me out in the yard, toss balls for me to run after, and she'd bring me scraps of her own meals. Little girls, though, grow up. For her sixteenth birthday, her father gifted her with a squealing, writhing purebreed with gorgeous, clear blue eyes. I saw her love for me die as the bawling mass in her arms demanded her attention. My heart broke when her father carted me back to the pound with not even a farewell kiss from Kica.
Thirty-one-years-old and back at the pound. I hated it. There was nothing I could do about it. I was nothing but a mutt, passed around. I would die here. I knew it in my very bones. There were younger, more beautiful pets to be found in the small cages, with bright eyes and unusual hair. I was plain. Forgettable. I was also tired. I didn't want to go home with someone else who would either abuse me or earn my trust and love only to betray me when something better, more expensive came along.
If I wore a collar and leash, I wanted it to mean something. I wanted to be wanted, needed. Heavens, perhaps even cherished, loved. Loved. I thought Kica had loved me. She'd said as much so many times as she'd brushed my hair, oiled my skin. But love, it seemed, was fickle. I was expected to give mine without pause, but my masters? They were allowed to gift it and take it back without any thought to my heart. Best to die in this sweltering hellhole of a building, thirsty and hungry and craving the sunlight, than to slowly wither as I bounced from home to home.
"What's down this hall?"
I couldn't help but lift my head as the question filtered down the dingy hallway. Was someone actually looking for an older pet? Surely not. Even if they were, I refused to allow my hopes to rise. There were two dozen other pets in this hall, all over the age of twenty-five and as tired as I was, that this person could potentially choose.
"Those are the older pets. Male. Ones that have been here more than once. You don't want any of them. They'll be taken care of when they've been here six months."
I hated that voice. Miab. He was an asshole. He liked to use the older female pets for copulation, which was—technically—against the law. Even pets knew that. We could be beaten, starved, denied water or baths, but we weren't supposed to be used sexually. Not that we weren't, but who believed a mongrel over an upstanding citizen? Miab, though, was a sick sonovabitch. He liked to hurt the females that he fucked, and none of us trusted him. I often wished to claw his eyes out.
"I want to see them. Age doesn't matter. None of your younger pets caught my attention. Maybe I need an older one."
Miab sighed, loud and annoyed. "All right. Come on."
Footsteps. None of us looked up. None of us moved. I don't think any of us wanted to go to another home. Six months, and then we'd be destroyed. Better than this indefinite hoping, and we wouldn't be a drain on the state's resources anymore.
"How old is the oldest here?" That voice was smooth, deep, and it made something in my gut flutter. "How old is the youngest?"
"Eldest is there, Henri. Has had six homes. Likes to bite. He's forty-six." Miab walked past my cage and pointed to an end cage. "Youngest is Fredrick. He's twenty-seven. Had three homes. Last home surrendered him because he attempted to seduce their youngest daughter."
The visitor walked up and down the corridor, pausing at each cage, but I didn't hear anyone move. When his shadow fell over me, I didn't bother to look up. The shadow didn't move, though, and after a moment, the visitor spoke.
"I'd like to see this one is the playroom, please. I'd also like to read his file."
Miab scoffed. "Ewan? He's had three previous homes."
"Why was he brought here?"
"The file says..." Miab flipped through paperwork, but I still didn't look up. "He was the pet to Master Dierr's daughter, but he secured her a purebreed. Ewan was no longer needed."
Don’t piss off a witch.
As he sits at his large oak desk, staring out at the city of Chicago with its sky-high buildings and abundance of snow flurries, he thinks back to the Christmas Eve that changed everything. The day where his life went to complete hell after being sunk partially in it for a too-long time. The events that led to it. When everything had been ripped from him because he’d dared to try and touch the stars.
He scowls.
He hates Christmas. It’s the only time of year he gets reflective. The one period of time when his pain is more present than ever. So many years later, and it’s still a raw wound. He doesn’t think it ever won’t be.
The scenery outside his window changes, his office vanishes, and he’s standing in an old Victorian room, staring at his father from across the man’s desk. His father, Lord Mashinter the Second, is an imposing man with iron-gray hair and an attitude that has people naturally bowing to him. His face is lined with age, his stomach going soft. His eyes are hard, like flint, and they’re not prone to displaying affection. This isn’t an exception. He’s staring at William like he’s talking to an underling, and for all intents and purposes, that is what William is to him.
“Lord Granger has agreed to marriage terms between you and Lady Jennifer Granger.” He says it casually, while barely looking up from the paper he’s reading.
William’s stomach feels like it plummets to his feet. The nightmare he’s avoided his whole life is finally here. Marriage. To a woman he doesn’t love. When he loves someone else. He has to reach for the chair back in front of him, grip tight to keep from falling. His world is being flipped upside down. “Father,” he says, protest on the tip of his tongue. He’s made his feelings on this matter as clear as he could without revealing the truth. He loves Lord Brady Gallagher. And he knows—is painfully aware—that their love isn’t conventional. That it won’t ever be accepted amongst these people he calls friends and family.
Human Rights by SL Armstrong
I'd had three masters in my life, and still, here I was, in the pound. I was nothing but a mutt, after all, and when one of the purebreeds they'd wanted so badly came up for sale, I was on the way out. Wouldn't want to risk having the pedigree of an expensive, beautiful bitch ruined by a mutt's seed. It didn't matter that Puan had adopted me when I was but four years old and trained me herself. I was her favorite stud until she'd landed one of the red-coated females that came from the High Breeders. Within two days, I was fifteen and foisted off on one of Puan's friends.
But Lienx wasn't as nice as Puan, and he didn't like the manners Puan had instilled in me. I wasn't allowed on the furniture. I wasn't to eat in the kitchen. I spent nights leashed to a small house outside in the yard. Lienx ruled his home with an iron fist, and when I misbehaved, I was thoroughly beaten. I learned quickly to remain invisible in Lienx's home, but then Lienx married, and his new wife, Moha, didn't like mutts. Within two weeks, Lienx had procured a purebreed. I was sent to the pound.
By the heavens, the pound. Cages. Left to wallow in our own filth because those in charge didn't want to bother. The food was tasteless. Sunlight was a treat once a week when we were taken out into the yards. Run. Play. Soak up the light until we were herded back into the large, hot buildings and locked away to be forgotten. Most pets came to the pound to die, and, at twenty-four, I resigned myself to such a fate. Two masters and well into my life, I wasn't the sort of pet a lovely master came looking for. Imagine my surprise when Kica came running through the pound, eager to find her newest pet.
Kica. Nine-years-old and the sweetest little girl. I think I loved her. She would play with me out in the yard, toss balls for me to run after, and she'd bring me scraps of her own meals. Little girls, though, grow up. For her sixteenth birthday, her father gifted her with a squealing, writhing purebreed with gorgeous, clear blue eyes. I saw her love for me die as the bawling mass in her arms demanded her attention. My heart broke when her father carted me back to the pound with not even a farewell kiss from Kica.
Thirty-one-years-old and back at the pound. I hated it. There was nothing I could do about it. I was nothing but a mutt, passed around. I would die here. I knew it in my very bones. There were younger, more beautiful pets to be found in the small cages, with bright eyes and unusual hair. I was plain. Forgettable. I was also tired. I didn't want to go home with someone else who would either abuse me or earn my trust and love only to betray me when something better, more expensive came along.
If I wore a collar and leash, I wanted it to mean something. I wanted to be wanted, needed. Heavens, perhaps even cherished, loved. Loved. I thought Kica had loved me. She'd said as much so many times as she'd brushed my hair, oiled my skin. But love, it seemed, was fickle. I was expected to give mine without pause, but my masters? They were allowed to gift it and take it back without any thought to my heart. Best to die in this sweltering hellhole of a building, thirsty and hungry and craving the sunlight, than to slowly wither as I bounced from home to home.
"What's down this hall?"
I couldn't help but lift my head as the question filtered down the dingy hallway. Was someone actually looking for an older pet? Surely not. Even if they were, I refused to allow my hopes to rise. There were two dozen other pets in this hall, all over the age of twenty-five and as tired as I was, that this person could potentially choose.
"Those are the older pets. Male. Ones that have been here more than once. You don't want any of them. They'll be taken care of when they've been here six months."
I hated that voice. Miab. He was an asshole. He liked to use the older female pets for copulation, which was—technically—against the law. Even pets knew that. We could be beaten, starved, denied water or baths, but we weren't supposed to be used sexually. Not that we weren't, but who believed a mongrel over an upstanding citizen? Miab, though, was a sick sonovabitch. He liked to hurt the females that he fucked, and none of us trusted him. I often wished to claw his eyes out.
"I want to see them. Age doesn't matter. None of your younger pets caught my attention. Maybe I need an older one."
Miab sighed, loud and annoyed. "All right. Come on."
Footsteps. None of us looked up. None of us moved. I don't think any of us wanted to go to another home. Six months, and then we'd be destroyed. Better than this indefinite hoping, and we wouldn't be a drain on the state's resources anymore.
"How old is the oldest here?" That voice was smooth, deep, and it made something in my gut flutter. "How old is the youngest?"
"Eldest is there, Henri. Has had six homes. Likes to bite. He's forty-six." Miab walked past my cage and pointed to an end cage. "Youngest is Fredrick. He's twenty-seven. Had three homes. Last home surrendered him because he attempted to seduce their youngest daughter."
The visitor walked up and down the corridor, pausing at each cage, but I didn't hear anyone move. When his shadow fell over me, I didn't bother to look up. The shadow didn't move, though, and after a moment, the visitor spoke.
"I'd like to see this one is the playroom, please. I'd also like to read his file."
Miab scoffed. "Ewan? He's had three previous homes."
"Why was he brought here?"
"The file says..." Miab flipped through paperwork, but I still didn't look up. "He was the pet to Master Dierr's daughter, but he secured her a purebreed. Ewan was no longer needed."
Sight Unseen by Hunter Raines
The stench of rot, mildew and decay jammed Danny's nasal passages. He'd tried breathing through his mouth for about a minute, but that only made him want to retch, so he returned to his original tactic. Slow, shallow breaths through his nose, taken one small whiff at a time.
If he survived this revolting trek through Phoenix's sewer system, he'd be showering for the next three days. And he'd spend every minute of those seventy-two hours inhaling the scent of fresh shampoo until his lungs went numb.
"You better be right about this, Van Doren." Detective Nick Samuels snorted, then gagged, before letting a gob of spit loose. It landed somewhere in the vicinity of Danny's feet. "If you're dragging me through shit for nothing, I'll spend the rest of my days making you pay. God as my witness."
"Right, Detective. Because this is where I always take my evening stroll."
Nick let out a groan that said he didn't give a damn if Danny walked off a cliff without bungee gear. "You just better be right. That's all I'm saying." No threat this time, but Danny heard it just the same.
Despite the fact that he'd helped the Phoenix P.D. solve six homicides in the last nine months, Nick didn't like him much. He never had, not even when he'd been married to Danny's sister. That was probably Danny's fault. They'd gotten their relationship off to a rocky start the first night he found Nick groping Elena in the front seat of his car. A decade later, Nick still hadn't forgiven him for that bloody nose.
The shape he followed flickered in the distance. She was short, maybe four foot six at best. Probably about ten years old. She ran ahead of them, but he couldn't give chase. Being blind made treading on a newly paved sidewalk as treacherous as skating on bare feet. Slogging through the sewers with the rank stench of waste sticking to his lungs and his feet sloshing through inches of foul water meant he had to shuffle rather than walk, and running was out of the question.
"Come on, honey." Danny kept his voice low, soothing, even though he had no idea whether the little girl could hear him. She pretended to, sometimes, and other times he might as well have been talking to a brick wall. A bystander watching him hold a conversation with himself would think he was doing just that. Most people who knew him already assumed he'd lost his mind along with his eyesight.
Hell, most days he thought the same.
"Right behind ya, pumpkin."
The sarcasm in Nick's voice grated on Danny's nerves. If he didn't need the man to identify the location of the body when Danny finally led him to it--and to guide him back out of this hellhole once his ethereal guide disappeared--he'd have been just as happy to leave the detective sitting in front of a box of donuts at the station.
Well, no, that wasn't entirely true. Danny wasn't stupid. Or reckless, for that matter. He needed Nick to watch his back on this ill-advised expedition, almost as much as the little girl's ghost needed him.
Two years ago, before Danny lost his sight, Nick had been tall, lean and handsome. These days, Danny liked to picture him based on his surly demeanor and gruff voice. It took some effort, but he pictured a barrel-chested, beer-gutted man with a bad comb over and a permanent snarl on thin lips crusted with powdered sugar. Danny grinned at that mental image and momentarily forgot his resolve to take small, shallow breaths. He sucked in a mouthful of the funky air before catching himself, and his stomach writhed.
If he survived this revolting trek through Phoenix's sewer system, he'd be showering for the next three days. And he'd spend every minute of those seventy-two hours inhaling the scent of fresh shampoo until his lungs went numb.
"You better be right about this, Van Doren." Detective Nick Samuels snorted, then gagged, before letting a gob of spit loose. It landed somewhere in the vicinity of Danny's feet. "If you're dragging me through shit for nothing, I'll spend the rest of my days making you pay. God as my witness."
"Right, Detective. Because this is where I always take my evening stroll."
Nick let out a groan that said he didn't give a damn if Danny walked off a cliff without bungee gear. "You just better be right. That's all I'm saying." No threat this time, but Danny heard it just the same.
Despite the fact that he'd helped the Phoenix P.D. solve six homicides in the last nine months, Nick didn't like him much. He never had, not even when he'd been married to Danny's sister. That was probably Danny's fault. They'd gotten their relationship off to a rocky start the first night he found Nick groping Elena in the front seat of his car. A decade later, Nick still hadn't forgiven him for that bloody nose.
The shape he followed flickered in the distance. She was short, maybe four foot six at best. Probably about ten years old. She ran ahead of them, but he couldn't give chase. Being blind made treading on a newly paved sidewalk as treacherous as skating on bare feet. Slogging through the sewers with the rank stench of waste sticking to his lungs and his feet sloshing through inches of foul water meant he had to shuffle rather than walk, and running was out of the question.
"Come on, honey." Danny kept his voice low, soothing, even though he had no idea whether the little girl could hear him. She pretended to, sometimes, and other times he might as well have been talking to a brick wall. A bystander watching him hold a conversation with himself would think he was doing just that. Most people who knew him already assumed he'd lost his mind along with his eyesight.
Hell, most days he thought the same.
"Right behind ya, pumpkin."
The sarcasm in Nick's voice grated on Danny's nerves. If he didn't need the man to identify the location of the body when Danny finally led him to it--and to guide him back out of this hellhole once his ethereal guide disappeared--he'd have been just as happy to leave the detective sitting in front of a box of donuts at the station.
Well, no, that wasn't entirely true. Danny wasn't stupid. Or reckless, for that matter. He needed Nick to watch his back on this ill-advised expedition, almost as much as the little girl's ghost needed him.
Two years ago, before Danny lost his sight, Nick had been tall, lean and handsome. These days, Danny liked to picture him based on his surly demeanor and gruff voice. It took some effort, but he pictured a barrel-chested, beer-gutted man with a bad comb over and a permanent snarl on thin lips crusted with powdered sugar. Danny grinned at that mental image and momentarily forgot his resolve to take small, shallow breaths. He sucked in a mouthful of the funky air before catching himself, and his stomach writhed.
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Random Paranormal Tales of 2017
Jordan L. Hawk grew up in the wilds of North Carolina, where she was raised on stories of haints and mountain magic by her bootlegging granny and single mother. After using a silver knife in the light of a full moon to summon her true love, she turned her talents to spinning tales. She weaves together couples who need to fall in love, then throws in some evil sorcerers and undead just to make sure they want it bad enough. In Jordan’s world, love might conquer all, but it just as easily could end up in the grave.
Clare took the pen name London from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with her other day job as an accountant.
She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with award-winning novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic and sexy characters.
Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter 3 stage and plenty of other projects in mind . . . she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home.
All the details and free fiction are available at her website. Visit her today and say hello!
Meg HardingMeg Harding is a graduate of UCF, and recently completed a masters program for Publishing in the UK. For as long as she can remember, writing has always been her passion, but she had an inability to ever actually finish anything. She’s immensely happy that her inability has fled and looks forward to where her mind will take her next. She’s a sucker for happy endings, the beach, and superheroes. In her dream life she owns a wildlife conservation and is surrounded by puppies. She’s a film buff, voracious reader, and a massive geek.
S.L. Armstrong was born in West Virginia and raised in Tampa, Florida with her younger brother and a family dog.
She has been a voracious reader since early childhood, a hobby encouraged by her mother. In middle school, S.L. began to write as a hobby, scribbling poetry and snippets of prose during her classes. By the end of her high school career, she’d filled three binders full of her writings. It was the beginning of a life-long obsession with words and worlds, characters and plots.
Shortly after high school, S.L. married her husband, who has always encouraged her in her chosen field.
S.L. writes primarily male/male romance or homoerotic fiction, and she tends to lean toward the fantasy, paranormal, and horror genres.
She and her husband currently live together in Bradenton, Florida with seven cats and two dogs.
Hunter Raines leads a double life. By day, she works in a male-dominated environment as a professional proposal writer responsible for securing multi-million-dollar accounts. By night, she pens naughty tales of hunky men doing wonderfully sexy things to each other. Her coworkers think they're the source of her inspiration, and she doesn't have the heart to tell them otherwise.
Hunter is the author of numerous short stories and novellas, and she holds an Honors B.A. in English Literature. When she's not working or writing, she can be found curled up in her library of more than four thousand books, or playing video games with her husband.
Jordan L Hawk
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EMAIL: jordanlhawk@gmail.com
Clare London
EMAIL: clarelondon11@yahoo.co.uk
Meg Harding
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SL Armstrong
Hunter Raines
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EMAIL: hrainesauthor@gmail.com
Hexslayer(Hexworld #3) by Jordan L Hawk
The Tourist by Clare London
Cursed Miracles by Meg Harding
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DREAMSPINNER / GOODREADS TBR
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Human Rights by SL Armstrong
Sight Unseen by Hunter Raines
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