Summary:
The Supers #2
Can love survive the perils of MacGregor House?
The Supernatural Explorers are back and looking for their next big paranormal case. They might’ve found it in a plea from Payne, a mild-mannered librarian who has inherited the family mansion—MacGregor House. Since moving in a few months ago, Payne’s exhausted the list of ghost hunters and experts in his quest for help. The Supers are his last chance.
So why does normally good-natured cameraman Will take an instant dislike to Payne? For that matter, why has he felt irritable and angry since they arrived at the site? It soon becomes clear that the answers they seek will be found in the basement—where nobody has gone since Payne was a little boy. As the haunting grows deadlier, things get sweeter between Will and Payne, but all hell’s about to break loose when they breach the basement door.
Will they be ready?
Someday It Will Be by SA McAuley
Summary:
Poe is about to learn death and time are fragile barriers. But only if he has the strength of will to let go.
Poe passes through a graffiti-laden alley, his chin tucked into his chest, a scarf wrapped tightly over his mouth to keep out the cold. He has nowhere to go since Isaac's death, but something compels him out in the frigid Chicago winter.
He steps out of the alley, off the curb, and...into sand. In summertime. Isaac told him it would happen but Poe doesn't care how it's possible, only that now he has a chance to make everything right.
Reader Advisory: This book contains mentions of suicide and drug abuse.
The Servant by Mary Calmes
Summary:
After saving his younger brother’s child, Daemon Shar is cursed by a witch and runs far from home, a stray who will seemingly never be anything more. But destiny is hard to outrun, even for a man who is now more cat than man beneath his robes and cowl. A chance battlefield meeting between he and Ehron, a foreign lord, gives him purpose amidst the darkness of his accursed life. Soon Daemon finds that his true nature cannot be corrupted no matter the form he inhabits.
As Ehron’s consul, Daemon plots and plans to shape his new lord's future so that he may leave it blessed when he runs away yet again. But he never counted on his soul hungering for Ehron’s brother Gareth or for his past to catch him by the tail at last.
Summary:
Beau is a down-on-his-luck street artist living on the streets of Seattle. One rainy night, he is accosted by a group of fag-bashing thugs, intent on robbing him of his art supplies and humiliating Beau for who he is. Beau is beaten into unconsciousness ...
... And awakens in a bedroom, head bandaged, with no memory of how he got there. Outside his window pine trees and mountain vistas beckon.
Beau’s tale grows more mysterious when a large, muscular man begins bringing Beau his food. The man says nothing -- and wears a wolf mask. When he finally does speak, it’s only to tell Beau to call him “Beast.”
What secrets does the mask hide? What do these two outsiders have in common? And will their odd circumstances bring them to the brink of love -- or rip them apart? Inspired by the timeless fairy tale, this is a haunting love story that reveals that beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder.
Beau and the Beast is a lovely written modern day fairytale. Truth is its more than just an updated take on a beloved classic, it takes what we grew up with and gives it a horrifying yet fun and entertaining spin. What I loved most about Rick R Reed's Beau and the Beast is how you don't even truly realize that you are learning, well not really "learning" because I hope you already know the old adage about not judging a book by its cover so perhaps "being reminded", a valuable life lesson. Now having said that, don't think the author is trying to teach you anything or that the book reads as a learning course, because it doesn't. Oh no, Beau and the Beast is most definitely first and foremost, entertainment and if you walk away learning something about yourself well then consider it just an added bonus.
Some might find that the near insta-love is a little too much but considering this is a short story you really don't have the pages to fill with prolonging their connection. I personally found their instant connection, even if Beast tries to deny it and shy away, to be endearing and very believable. The characters are intriguing, the setting brings to life what said characters are experiencing, and watching their journey unfold is magical. This tale may be short on pages but it is certainly not short on enjoyment. Could this have been even better had it been a full length novel? Perhaps, but its pretty perfect in my opinion just as is and its won a space on my future re-reads shelf.
RATING:
Summary:
Derlin thought working at a dragon stable would be the job of a lifetime. Little did he know he’d find the man who would become his world.
As soon as he spotted the dragon groomer Tyron knew he’d found his match. Never before had he felt such an instantaneous attraction.
Derlin has secrets he can’t share, secrets that aren’t only his. When Tyron’s life depends on Derlin’s abilities does he dare to take a chance or does he let Tyron die to protect his family?
Click to Check Out Previous
Random Paranormal Tales of 2018
The Librarian's Ghost by Sean Michael
Chapter One
FOR ALL the Wexford House was two stories with a warren of a basement, there wasn’t a lot of square footage. The Supernatural Explorers had examined the place thoroughly over the last three weekends, and Will Gregson felt like he knew each of the rooms inside and out. There was nothing new to find here.
It was definitely a creepy place. Old and abandoned with most of its original furniture after the owner’s family—four daughters, three sons, two of their wives, four grandchildren, and his wife—were all wiped out by influenza. That the old man hadn’t also died was a miracle. Or a curse, depending on which story you read. Rumor had it that his mistress had been a witch, and when he abandoned her, she protected him from the sickness that ravaged his family so that he would live the rest of his days alone and mourning. It was a nasty story, but one that persisted through the years.
The house was said to be haunted by Wexford’s family, which was why they were here. Sure, they were hoping to concentrate on “gay ghosts,” but there were only so many haunted places, so they were doing what they could when they could. Surely those types of cases would come, and when they’d made a proper reputation for themselves, they’d be called in from far and wide to check out gay hauntings. In the meantime, ghosts were ghosts, and they were happy to investigate, especially if the place was in the vicinity.
So far, the only thing they’d found at the Wexford House was disintegrating furniture and the bodies of various animals that had made their way into the place. Most of them had been dead for long enough that they didn’t smell anymore. Hell, plenty weren’t even identifiable. Though the one raccoon in the master bedroom had been fresh. Pretty damn gross. And while Will might have been morbidly fascinated with something like that as a boy, it wasn’t something he enjoyed now that he was a grown man.
The dust was playing havoc with his sinuses too. They’d disturbed a lot of it during their explorations. That they weren’t the first ones to do so had been apparent as well, and there were plenty of places where the dust was less thick in variously shaped spots—little circles and squares on the mantel and tables, spots where one might have expected to find various knickknacks. No doubt the place had been ransacked. Which sucked because when thieves stole pieces of history and the Supers—as they called themselves for short—couldn’t find any ghosts, they could have maybe found some interesting museum pieces. It appeared the Wexford place had neither ghosts nor artifacts, so they were doing one last run-through to make sure they hadn’t missed anything.
A low creaking noise sounded from upstairs, followed by tapping on glass. Will shivered. He knew it was the wind in the trees and the branches hitting the house—it was especially creepy when they tapped at the windows—but that didn’t make it much better.
“Let’s take one last sweep upstairs where that sound is coming from,” Jason suggested.
“Yeah, the master bedroom was the only place where I got any sort of hit.” Blaine led the way, moving slowly to try to mitigate how noisy the stairs were.
Personally, Will didn’t think there were any ghosts to scare off with creaking stairs, but it didn’t hurt to be as stealthy as possible. He avoided the big squeak on step three but managed to forget about the sixth stair until he was on it and it moaned beneath his weight. All four of his companions whipped around to stare at him, and he gave them an apologetic smile. He hadn’t done it on purpose. Blaine was clearly biting the inside of his cheek while Flynn and Jason chuckled nearly soundlessly. He grinned back and put his finger in front of his lips. “Shh.”
That set them all off, and they abandoned not making any noise in favor of their laughter and getting up the stairs quicker.
“Okay.” Blaine turned to face him once they’d made the upstairs landing, and Will focused the camera on his friend’s face. “We’re in the Wexler House for the last time. We’re hoping to communicate with what we think might be an entity in the master bedroom. Wexler’s wife and most of the children supposedly died in the very bed that continues to dominate the room. We have our EMF readers at the ready, along with the infrared filter on the second camera. If there’s anything to find, we’re going to do exactly that. Find it. Document it. Deal with it if possible.” Blaine turned back to peer into the master suite. “Will, why don’t you and Darnell go in and do a scan of the room? Then Jason, Flynn, and I will follow.”
Will nodded, keeping his voice off the audio, which would make it easier in postproduction. (Look at them, having postproduction now!) Despite the last few houses having been disappointing from a ghost perspective, the Supers were doing well. He focused on what the camera was seeing and stepped into the doorway. He did a long pan and scan from the door all the way around and back to it. He didn’t see anything that looked like anything but shadows on the floor and back wall, but he was filming straightforward shots. Jason or Darnell could be picking something up on the more sensitive equipment.
Blaine and Flynn came in last and spread out across the room, Flynn going toward the window where the tapping was coming from while Blaine headed for the bed where the deaths had purportedly occurred. Blaine had his head tilted in what Will thought of as his listening stance. He waited, following Blaine with camera, holding his breath as if the sound of his breathing would disturb Blaine at work.
They all waited, hushed and still, as Blaine slowly moved around the bed. Even the tapping at the window had ceased, an eerie silence settling around them. The tension built, and Blaine froze, leaning in to look at something, though Will wasn’t sure what. He certainly wasn’t seeing anything.
All of a sudden came a terrible groaning, making them all jump.
Flynn laughed, the sound a touch strained. “That’s the wind in that big willow.” The branches began tapping at the window again, stronger than ever the breeze picked up outside.
Blaine sighed and nodded. “Yeah, it’s nothing but the wind as far as I can tell.”
“The instruments are pretty damn quiet too,” Jason noted. “Do we need to go back to the basement one last time, or should we call it a night?”
“The ground is really uneven down there.” Will had almost twisted his ankle on the dirt floor, and Blaine had actually fallen when he’d tripped over an unexpected rise between rooms.
“I don’t feel anything at all, not even that small hint of something I felt the first time.” Blaine shrugged. “Not proof of a lack of ghosts, of course, but this is our seventh day out here, and we’ve had nothing on any of the equipment either.”
The sound of a stomach growling punctuated Blaine’s words, and they all laughed.
“When the scariest thing in the room is Flynn’s stomach, the best thing we can do is pack up and go get pizza.” Jason made his pronouncement and headed back downstairs, the rest of them trooping along after him.
Will kept filming until they’d not only left the house but were back at the van. Once there, he did one last panoramic shot of the property before turning off the camera and packing it up.
PAYNE MACGREGOR watched his pot of soup, waiting for it to begin simmering. He didn’t want it to boil over. Hell, he didn’t want to turn his back on it in case the thing went flying across the room and sprayed everything with hot soup either. It was tomato too, which would be hell to clean up.
Truthfully, he was at his wit’s end. At first he’d thought he was being absentminded, forgetful. Then he’d begun to wonder if he was losing his mind. None of the workers seemed to notice anything wrong. But he put that down to their being transient. They weren’t there day after day like he was and were hardly likely to notice books and dishes being moved. Things flying across the room seemed to be reserved for him too. And that was harder to put down to his imagination. It wasn’t like things were simply falling off shelves or tables; they were getting some distance.
Then he’d overheard arguments between some workers over items taken out of toolboxes and hidden. No one claimed ownership of these “practical jokes,” making him think they weren’t practical jokes at all but the work of the same… well, ghost—he was embarrassed to admit the assumption even to himself—plaguing him.
He took the soup off the stove the moment steam began rising from it and poured it into a bowl as his toast popped. Unfortunately, all but a corner of it was almost black. He was not one for toast that well done, so he put it in the garbage and took his bowl to the library to eat by the fireplace with his favorite books.
He had to wonder if he was simply being paranoid for believing that the burned toast was the responsibility of his ghost. On the other hand, the toast he’d had yesterday had turned out perfectly, and he was the only who could have changed the setting. Which he hadn’t done.
One of the books went flying across the room, and he pretended he didn’t see it, concentrating on his soup instead. He would do some work once he’d eaten, put in enough hours that when he did close his eyes, he’d fall asleep right away and wouldn’t dream. At least he could hope that was how the evening played out, but it didn’t mean that was what would happen. He pushed aside the niggling thought that he might have to do something about the strange things going on in the house at some point. Certainly if it got worse than the current annoyances. If not, well, he would deal with it.
As soon as he’d finished his soup, he set the bowl on his side table, right in the middle of it so it couldn’t accidently fall to the floor. Then he grabbed his laptop and booted it up. In no time he was hunched over it, safely lost in his research.
Chapter Two
THE VAN pulled up in front of the converted barn where Blaine and Flynn lived, and they all spilled out, Darnell carrying the three large pizza boxes and Flynn holding the bags with their sodas.
“I’ll be up in a minute,” Will told them as he went around to the back. “I need to make sure we didn’t leave anything behind.” He was pretty sure they hadn’t, but he wanted to rearrange how the equipment had been packed. When they finished up for the night, they tended to be wired and simply tossed everything into the back. That always made Will twitch. He might look like a rough-and-ready biker on the surface, but he liked everything in its place. It not only made it easier to find, but things were less likely to get broken or lost if they were properly stored.
While he might admit to himself that he probably had a touch of OCD, he wasn’t going to say it out loud. He didn’t want to be teased about it. His mother had considerably more than a touch of OCD, and until they’d gotten her meds sorted out, it had been debilitating.
It didn’t take him long to manhandle the equipment out of the van, then put it back in so everything fit snugly in with everything else. In other words, he Tetrised it. Heavy stuff on the bottom, lighter stuff on top, holes where things could drop and get crushed kept to a minimum.
Satisfied, he locked up the van and headed inside. The place was nice and warm, and there was a cheery fire crackling away in the hearth. The guys were already a couple slices in on the pizza, but they’d started with the Greek pizza, which he didn’t like thanks to the olives, so no harm, no foul.
He grabbed a beer and a couple slices of the meat lover’s and sat on the dilapidated easy chair, careful not to rest his elbow on the right armrest as it was wonky. Blaine and Flynn were squished together on the loveseat like there wasn’t enough room for both of them. It was adorable and nauseating at the same time. Jason and Darnell had set up residence on the couch—they knew Will liked the armchair. He wasn’t tall, but he was a big guy, and the thing fit him perfectly with a little wiggle room on either side.
“I’m going to put the footage together for the Wexford House,” Jason told them around a mouthful of food. “But I think we’ve pretty much concluded that there wasn’t any ghost activity there. Just a lot of dust and noisy trees in the wind. Right?”
Will nodded his agreement along with the others. Wexford had been a bust, the third in a row after the incredible experience they’d had at the hospital. It wasn’t surprising, really, but it was still a disappointment, and it wasn’t helping their bid for a TV series any. He wasn’t sure how many more episodes would get bought if all they were doing was debunking. Especially as they hadn’t been able to find anything nearby that also fit into the gay ghosts’ niche.
“So, I’ve got a job we might want to consider.” Jason took a swig of his beer. “It’s a little different from what we usually do, but it’s a paying gig.”
Flynn grinned. “I like getting paid. What’s the deal?”
“You know the McGregor Mansion? Apparently the latest owner believes it’s haunted, and he’d like us to come and investigate. He said something about an exorcism, so I do believe he wants us to get rid of the ghost.”
“We’re not priests.”
Will recognized that expression on Flynn’s face. That was pure stubbornness. Flynn was right too—they weren’t priests. But they were talking about ghosts here and not demons, which didn’t exist, right? He thought he knew where Flynn was coming from, though. Flynn’s mom’s ghost had hung around since he was little, keeping an eye on him. Not every ghost was bad, and they didn’t all need to be gotten rid of.
Jason shrugged. “Like I said, it’s a paying gig. And the owner is gay, by the way. Said so right up front. I guess that’s part of why he chose us. He knows we want to film as we go, and there’s a strong possibility we’ll actually find a ghost, which we could really use. I think the production company would be willing to buy several episodes where we don’t find anything if we can provide one every now and then where we do. Once we’ve confirmed a ghost, we can decide later whether we help him out or not.”
Will had to admit he was all for getting paid. He didn’t want to be a pizza-delivery guy for the rest of his life. “Let’s do it. You did a fine job with the hospital, you know.” The final cut of the show had rocked.
Darnell grabbed another slice of pizza and added before he shoved almost the entire thing in his mouth, “I’m in. Just point me in the right direction, and I’ll shoot it.”
“Good deal.” Jason looked expectantly at Blaine and Flynn.
The two looked at each other like they had some psychic connection or something, which they didn’t, right? Then Blaine nodded. “Okay, but if Flynn says the word, we’re out.”
Flynn took Blaine’s hand, and their fingers twined together. It was sickening how in love they were. Okay, so it was less sickening and more that Will was fucking jealous. Who could blame him? He didn’t have trouble getting laid or anything, but he wouldn’t mind a steady lover, someone who made him as stupid as Blaine and Flynn were over each other.
“Okay,” Jason said. “I’ll call Payne MacGregor back and arrange for us to go in and check the place out. I won’t promise more than that initially, but I’ll have all the paperwork set up so we can get his John Hancock on the dotted line if we decide to go for it.” He grabbed a beer and sucked half of it back.
Will took a Coke for himself, along with another piece of pizza. He had to drive the van home, so he was being good.
“Payne MacGregor sounds like a name from a children’s book,” Darnell said.
“Who would name their kid Payne?” was what Will wanted to know. “I bet he got the shit teased out of him growing up.”
“God yes. Good old Payne MacG.” Flynn started to giggle.
Jason rolled his eyes. “Get it all out of your systems now, boys. This guy is a client, okay? C-l-i-e-n-t. He’s going to give us money to hunt the ghosts in his house, and it’s one that’s famously haunted at that. So if you’re going to think ‘Payne in the ass,’ let’s at least not call him that to his face.”
Will snorted. They all fed off each other, as Jason very well knew. But they were professionals on the job. It was only when they were on downtime together that they let themselves go. Apropos of which Will couldn’t resist teasing Jason. “No promises, but I’ll try.”
“Well, if anything comes out, say the ghost made you do it.” Flynn was cracking up.
Will howled. “That’s fucking perfect. I’m using that!”
Chapter One
FOR ALL the Wexford House was two stories with a warren of a basement, there wasn’t a lot of square footage. The Supernatural Explorers had examined the place thoroughly over the last three weekends, and Will Gregson felt like he knew each of the rooms inside and out. There was nothing new to find here.
It was definitely a creepy place. Old and abandoned with most of its original furniture after the owner’s family—four daughters, three sons, two of their wives, four grandchildren, and his wife—were all wiped out by influenza. That the old man hadn’t also died was a miracle. Or a curse, depending on which story you read. Rumor had it that his mistress had been a witch, and when he abandoned her, she protected him from the sickness that ravaged his family so that he would live the rest of his days alone and mourning. It was a nasty story, but one that persisted through the years.
The house was said to be haunted by Wexford’s family, which was why they were here. Sure, they were hoping to concentrate on “gay ghosts,” but there were only so many haunted places, so they were doing what they could when they could. Surely those types of cases would come, and when they’d made a proper reputation for themselves, they’d be called in from far and wide to check out gay hauntings. In the meantime, ghosts were ghosts, and they were happy to investigate, especially if the place was in the vicinity.
So far, the only thing they’d found at the Wexford House was disintegrating furniture and the bodies of various animals that had made their way into the place. Most of them had been dead for long enough that they didn’t smell anymore. Hell, plenty weren’t even identifiable. Though the one raccoon in the master bedroom had been fresh. Pretty damn gross. And while Will might have been morbidly fascinated with something like that as a boy, it wasn’t something he enjoyed now that he was a grown man.
The dust was playing havoc with his sinuses too. They’d disturbed a lot of it during their explorations. That they weren’t the first ones to do so had been apparent as well, and there were plenty of places where the dust was less thick in variously shaped spots—little circles and squares on the mantel and tables, spots where one might have expected to find various knickknacks. No doubt the place had been ransacked. Which sucked because when thieves stole pieces of history and the Supers—as they called themselves for short—couldn’t find any ghosts, they could have maybe found some interesting museum pieces. It appeared the Wexford place had neither ghosts nor artifacts, so they were doing one last run-through to make sure they hadn’t missed anything.
A low creaking noise sounded from upstairs, followed by tapping on glass. Will shivered. He knew it was the wind in the trees and the branches hitting the house—it was especially creepy when they tapped at the windows—but that didn’t make it much better.
“Let’s take one last sweep upstairs where that sound is coming from,” Jason suggested.
“Yeah, the master bedroom was the only place where I got any sort of hit.” Blaine led the way, moving slowly to try to mitigate how noisy the stairs were.
Personally, Will didn’t think there were any ghosts to scare off with creaking stairs, but it didn’t hurt to be as stealthy as possible. He avoided the big squeak on step three but managed to forget about the sixth stair until he was on it and it moaned beneath his weight. All four of his companions whipped around to stare at him, and he gave them an apologetic smile. He hadn’t done it on purpose. Blaine was clearly biting the inside of his cheek while Flynn and Jason chuckled nearly soundlessly. He grinned back and put his finger in front of his lips. “Shh.”
That set them all off, and they abandoned not making any noise in favor of their laughter and getting up the stairs quicker.
“Okay.” Blaine turned to face him once they’d made the upstairs landing, and Will focused the camera on his friend’s face. “We’re in the Wexler House for the last time. We’re hoping to communicate with what we think might be an entity in the master bedroom. Wexler’s wife and most of the children supposedly died in the very bed that continues to dominate the room. We have our EMF readers at the ready, along with the infrared filter on the second camera. If there’s anything to find, we’re going to do exactly that. Find it. Document it. Deal with it if possible.” Blaine turned back to peer into the master suite. “Will, why don’t you and Darnell go in and do a scan of the room? Then Jason, Flynn, and I will follow.”
Will nodded, keeping his voice off the audio, which would make it easier in postproduction. (Look at them, having postproduction now!) Despite the last few houses having been disappointing from a ghost perspective, the Supers were doing well. He focused on what the camera was seeing and stepped into the doorway. He did a long pan and scan from the door all the way around and back to it. He didn’t see anything that looked like anything but shadows on the floor and back wall, but he was filming straightforward shots. Jason or Darnell could be picking something up on the more sensitive equipment.
Blaine and Flynn came in last and spread out across the room, Flynn going toward the window where the tapping was coming from while Blaine headed for the bed where the deaths had purportedly occurred. Blaine had his head tilted in what Will thought of as his listening stance. He waited, following Blaine with camera, holding his breath as if the sound of his breathing would disturb Blaine at work.
They all waited, hushed and still, as Blaine slowly moved around the bed. Even the tapping at the window had ceased, an eerie silence settling around them. The tension built, and Blaine froze, leaning in to look at something, though Will wasn’t sure what. He certainly wasn’t seeing anything.
All of a sudden came a terrible groaning, making them all jump.
Flynn laughed, the sound a touch strained. “That’s the wind in that big willow.” The branches began tapping at the window again, stronger than ever the breeze picked up outside.
Blaine sighed and nodded. “Yeah, it’s nothing but the wind as far as I can tell.”
“The instruments are pretty damn quiet too,” Jason noted. “Do we need to go back to the basement one last time, or should we call it a night?”
“The ground is really uneven down there.” Will had almost twisted his ankle on the dirt floor, and Blaine had actually fallen when he’d tripped over an unexpected rise between rooms.
“I don’t feel anything at all, not even that small hint of something I felt the first time.” Blaine shrugged. “Not proof of a lack of ghosts, of course, but this is our seventh day out here, and we’ve had nothing on any of the equipment either.”
The sound of a stomach growling punctuated Blaine’s words, and they all laughed.
“When the scariest thing in the room is Flynn’s stomach, the best thing we can do is pack up and go get pizza.” Jason made his pronouncement and headed back downstairs, the rest of them trooping along after him.
Will kept filming until they’d not only left the house but were back at the van. Once there, he did one last panoramic shot of the property before turning off the camera and packing it up.
PAYNE MACGREGOR watched his pot of soup, waiting for it to begin simmering. He didn’t want it to boil over. Hell, he didn’t want to turn his back on it in case the thing went flying across the room and sprayed everything with hot soup either. It was tomato too, which would be hell to clean up.
Truthfully, he was at his wit’s end. At first he’d thought he was being absentminded, forgetful. Then he’d begun to wonder if he was losing his mind. None of the workers seemed to notice anything wrong. But he put that down to their being transient. They weren’t there day after day like he was and were hardly likely to notice books and dishes being moved. Things flying across the room seemed to be reserved for him too. And that was harder to put down to his imagination. It wasn’t like things were simply falling off shelves or tables; they were getting some distance.
Then he’d overheard arguments between some workers over items taken out of toolboxes and hidden. No one claimed ownership of these “practical jokes,” making him think they weren’t practical jokes at all but the work of the same… well, ghost—he was embarrassed to admit the assumption even to himself—plaguing him.
He took the soup off the stove the moment steam began rising from it and poured it into a bowl as his toast popped. Unfortunately, all but a corner of it was almost black. He was not one for toast that well done, so he put it in the garbage and took his bowl to the library to eat by the fireplace with his favorite books.
He had to wonder if he was simply being paranoid for believing that the burned toast was the responsibility of his ghost. On the other hand, the toast he’d had yesterday had turned out perfectly, and he was the only who could have changed the setting. Which he hadn’t done.
One of the books went flying across the room, and he pretended he didn’t see it, concentrating on his soup instead. He would do some work once he’d eaten, put in enough hours that when he did close his eyes, he’d fall asleep right away and wouldn’t dream. At least he could hope that was how the evening played out, but it didn’t mean that was what would happen. He pushed aside the niggling thought that he might have to do something about the strange things going on in the house at some point. Certainly if it got worse than the current annoyances. If not, well, he would deal with it.
As soon as he’d finished his soup, he set the bowl on his side table, right in the middle of it so it couldn’t accidently fall to the floor. Then he grabbed his laptop and booted it up. In no time he was hunched over it, safely lost in his research.
Chapter Two
THE VAN pulled up in front of the converted barn where Blaine and Flynn lived, and they all spilled out, Darnell carrying the three large pizza boxes and Flynn holding the bags with their sodas.
“I’ll be up in a minute,” Will told them as he went around to the back. “I need to make sure we didn’t leave anything behind.” He was pretty sure they hadn’t, but he wanted to rearrange how the equipment had been packed. When they finished up for the night, they tended to be wired and simply tossed everything into the back. That always made Will twitch. He might look like a rough-and-ready biker on the surface, but he liked everything in its place. It not only made it easier to find, but things were less likely to get broken or lost if they were properly stored.
While he might admit to himself that he probably had a touch of OCD, he wasn’t going to say it out loud. He didn’t want to be teased about it. His mother had considerably more than a touch of OCD, and until they’d gotten her meds sorted out, it had been debilitating.
It didn’t take him long to manhandle the equipment out of the van, then put it back in so everything fit snugly in with everything else. In other words, he Tetrised it. Heavy stuff on the bottom, lighter stuff on top, holes where things could drop and get crushed kept to a minimum.
Satisfied, he locked up the van and headed inside. The place was nice and warm, and there was a cheery fire crackling away in the hearth. The guys were already a couple slices in on the pizza, but they’d started with the Greek pizza, which he didn’t like thanks to the olives, so no harm, no foul.
He grabbed a beer and a couple slices of the meat lover’s and sat on the dilapidated easy chair, careful not to rest his elbow on the right armrest as it was wonky. Blaine and Flynn were squished together on the loveseat like there wasn’t enough room for both of them. It was adorable and nauseating at the same time. Jason and Darnell had set up residence on the couch—they knew Will liked the armchair. He wasn’t tall, but he was a big guy, and the thing fit him perfectly with a little wiggle room on either side.
“I’m going to put the footage together for the Wexford House,” Jason told them around a mouthful of food. “But I think we’ve pretty much concluded that there wasn’t any ghost activity there. Just a lot of dust and noisy trees in the wind. Right?”
Will nodded his agreement along with the others. Wexford had been a bust, the third in a row after the incredible experience they’d had at the hospital. It wasn’t surprising, really, but it was still a disappointment, and it wasn’t helping their bid for a TV series any. He wasn’t sure how many more episodes would get bought if all they were doing was debunking. Especially as they hadn’t been able to find anything nearby that also fit into the gay ghosts’ niche.
“So, I’ve got a job we might want to consider.” Jason took a swig of his beer. “It’s a little different from what we usually do, but it’s a paying gig.”
Flynn grinned. “I like getting paid. What’s the deal?”
“You know the McGregor Mansion? Apparently the latest owner believes it’s haunted, and he’d like us to come and investigate. He said something about an exorcism, so I do believe he wants us to get rid of the ghost.”
“We’re not priests.”
Will recognized that expression on Flynn’s face. That was pure stubbornness. Flynn was right too—they weren’t priests. But they were talking about ghosts here and not demons, which didn’t exist, right? He thought he knew where Flynn was coming from, though. Flynn’s mom’s ghost had hung around since he was little, keeping an eye on him. Not every ghost was bad, and they didn’t all need to be gotten rid of.
Jason shrugged. “Like I said, it’s a paying gig. And the owner is gay, by the way. Said so right up front. I guess that’s part of why he chose us. He knows we want to film as we go, and there’s a strong possibility we’ll actually find a ghost, which we could really use. I think the production company would be willing to buy several episodes where we don’t find anything if we can provide one every now and then where we do. Once we’ve confirmed a ghost, we can decide later whether we help him out or not.”
Will had to admit he was all for getting paid. He didn’t want to be a pizza-delivery guy for the rest of his life. “Let’s do it. You did a fine job with the hospital, you know.” The final cut of the show had rocked.
Darnell grabbed another slice of pizza and added before he shoved almost the entire thing in his mouth, “I’m in. Just point me in the right direction, and I’ll shoot it.”
“Good deal.” Jason looked expectantly at Blaine and Flynn.
The two looked at each other like they had some psychic connection or something, which they didn’t, right? Then Blaine nodded. “Okay, but if Flynn says the word, we’re out.”
Flynn took Blaine’s hand, and their fingers twined together. It was sickening how in love they were. Okay, so it was less sickening and more that Will was fucking jealous. Who could blame him? He didn’t have trouble getting laid or anything, but he wouldn’t mind a steady lover, someone who made him as stupid as Blaine and Flynn were over each other.
“Okay,” Jason said. “I’ll call Payne MacGregor back and arrange for us to go in and check the place out. I won’t promise more than that initially, but I’ll have all the paperwork set up so we can get his John Hancock on the dotted line if we decide to go for it.” He grabbed a beer and sucked half of it back.
Will took a Coke for himself, along with another piece of pizza. He had to drive the van home, so he was being good.
“Payne MacGregor sounds like a name from a children’s book,” Darnell said.
“Who would name their kid Payne?” was what Will wanted to know. “I bet he got the shit teased out of him growing up.”
“God yes. Good old Payne MacG.” Flynn started to giggle.
Jason rolled his eyes. “Get it all out of your systems now, boys. This guy is a client, okay? C-l-i-e-n-t. He’s going to give us money to hunt the ghosts in his house, and it’s one that’s famously haunted at that. So if you’re going to think ‘Payne in the ass,’ let’s at least not call him that to his face.”
Will snorted. They all fed off each other, as Jason very well knew. But they were professionals on the job. It was only when they were on downtime together that they let themselves go. Apropos of which Will couldn’t resist teasing Jason. “No promises, but I’ll try.”
“Well, if anything comes out, say the ghost made you do it.” Flynn was cracking up.
Will howled. “That’s fucking perfect. I’m using that!”
Someday It Will Be by SA McAuley
The abrupt transition from overcast winter skies to feral summer sun left Poe blind and reeling. Where there had been concrete and skyscrapers, water now stretched off to the horizon and sand shifted below him. His knees buckled, and he fell down the steep dune, towards the distant shore.
There was little danger in the fall, so he held his breath, instinctively trying to keep the coarse grains out of his nose and mouth. The sand cushioned his thin frame as he tumbled, protecting him from any real harm. He wore fingerless gloves which filled as he rolled, the prickling of the hot sand pushing the numb chill from his fingers.
Poe tucked in, then slid to a stop at the bottom of the hill and pushed himself to his feet. The sudden stillness was so jarring his stomach clenched.
Where was he? How had he got here?
He shrugged his heavy, ankle-length wool coat off his shoulders, pulling his scarf and gloves with it. Heat and humidity pressed into him, bringing a light sheen of sweat to his skin as he struggled to breathe under the layers that weighed him down. He pulled at the zipper of his hoodie and tore it off, yanking the headphones, which had been threaded through the jacket and under his shirt, from his ears. The heavy bass line and shrieking guitar he used to shield himself from the streets of Chicago continued to thump from the headphones which fell around his neck.
His phone dropped out of his pocket and landed with a soft plop in the sand. He kicked off his sneakers, still feeling the chill in his toes from the snow and the subzero wind he had encountered on his walk to the Metra train stop at Clark and Lake.
He popped the button on his jeans and pushed them over his hips then removed his black undershirt. His bare chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath. He stumbled to the shore where he sagged to the ground and splashed water into his face. He was relieved to find the water was fresh, not salt, as he had anticipated.
He'd been passing through a graffiti-laden alley only seconds ago, his chin tucked into his chest, a scarf wrapped tightly over his mouth to keep out the cold, and now he stood on a beach. In summertime.
Waves lapped at his toes, soaking his cotton socks and the tattered hem of his jeans. He closed his eyes and put his head between his knees. His brown hair, shaved on the sides and long in the middle in the mohawk he had favoured since rehab, hung down over his eyes, the soft ends brushing against his cheeks.
He remembered the haze of a morning routine, a routine that kept him alive and moving, but nothing else. He'd showered and dressed. He thought he'd eaten, but didn't know for sure. He'd stopped for coffee at the Starbucks below the Lake Shore Drive condo which now belonged to him, but would never feel like home. Then he'd manoeuvred through the alleys, away from Michigan Avenue.
He'd always avoided the crowds, and this morning was no different. Just one heartbeat in the pulse of the city. Chicago was intoxicating and anonymous. But since Isaac's death, the city felt foreign. It offered him everything and yet provided nothing. It was more than he could handle, but he couldn't leave.
Then again, maybe leaving was exactly what he had been trying to do when he found himself on this beach. He'd been pushing towards the Clark Metra train station, but he couldn't remember where he'd planned on going or what had driven him into the cold. He'd stepped out of the alley, off the curb and into sand.
Now that the layers were gone, Poe rolled his shoulders and breathed in the humid air. It settled like a comforting hand, heavy on his back, becoming silken threads in his lungs, and chased the chill from his bones. He began to feel warm for the first time in months.
An awareness tickled at him, a whisper in his ear that reassured him this place was more familiar than strange. He ripped the headphones away from his neck, his iPod cascaded from his pocket and he picked it up and hurled it into the water. He couldn't think with the noise which had been the point all along but now the thumping bass was more of a nuisance than a necessity. With the driving beat gone, his senses began to come back online, one at a time. Slowly.
Something, an instinct he couldn't place, silently urged him to reserve judgment. To listen. He scrunched his eyes tighter, shutting down the drive to trust only what his eyes could see.
The Servant by Mary Calmes
They had been riding for days when they were finally rewarded with a view of Castle Iju. It was far worse than either of them could have ever imagined, both riders pulling their horses up hard, stopping on the crest of the first hill, awestruck and horrified at the same time.
“Guardians of Yuan defend us,” Ostyn Tan gasped as he stared out across the valley and took in the crimson-washed sky. He turned and looked at his friend and servant; wincing as he saw the visible pain and dread etched on the face of the only man he would willingly give his life for, Valian. Returning his gaze to the sight before him, he took a deep breath to steady himself. They had seen the smoke every day as they closed in on the site and had lied to themselves and prayed for a blessing, but now, seeing it, there was no question of enduring hope. All was lost.
From where they were, it looked as though the entire hill that the castle sat upon was burning. Every segment of the tower that they could see was engulfed in flames. Smoke rose in billowing clouds of debris and dust, and ash fell like black rain on the clashing armies. There would be no escape for the inhabitants of the besieged stronghold, and Valian shivered with fear even as he urged his mount forward, descending into the valley. They rode hard toward the inferno without hesitation, each knowing that they alone were the only hope for the child and his mother, for they were the only ones that had heard the order of execution given.
Valian chose a route that took him around the left side of what remained of the thick outer stone wall and into the first of many courtyards. Skillfully, he guided his horse through the maze of carnage and gore only to be faced with a barricade of slaughtered oxen. He felt his mount tense for the leap and felt himself rise up out of the saddle and then separate from it entirely. Instinctively, he curled himself into a ball as he was thrown into the press of bodies. Several men broke his fall when he hit the ground, and he heard them curse him as they got to their feet, pushing and shoving to get free. Winded, he rolled to his side and was stumbled over and stepped on several times before he could move. Struggling to his feet, he turned to his left and saw the flash of metal out of the corner of his eye a moment before he recognized it as a sword. It stopped inches from his face, met there by another sword, the scrape of steel on steel sending up sparks in front of his eyes. Bumped roughly backward, he steadied himself fast, finding his balance. Drawing his sword quickly, he saw Ostyn Tan slice first through the middle of the man that had just tried to attack him and then up in a blur of speed. Blood came from the warrior in a streaming geyser as Ostyn stood still as a statue over him, tense and ready.
“Come!” Valian screamed at him over the din, grabbing his friend’s shoulder, pulling at him to follow.
He pointed to the wall separating the inner bailey from the outer, and he and Ostyn shared a look of understanding. Side by side, they hacked their way through faceless men to reach first the courtyard and then the tower itself. When they arrived at the ground floor they ducked inside a hole made by a battering ram in the stone slab. There were fewer men there, as no one would willingly run into an inferno of falling plaster and collapsing wood. The framework was buckling in sections, and he and Ostyn ran around crushed and still-burning bodies as they made their ascent through the castle.
Up and up they climbed, hoping the stairs they ran over would still support their combined weight. Leaping over rubble, maneuvering through tight passageways created by falling debris, and climbing over dead and dying men, they moved as quickly as possible, needing to reach the top floor. They sailed across gaps in the wooden floors without thought to falling hundreds of feet to their death.
On the third level of the tower, they raced up the stairs only to find themselves looking down at where they had just been. Forward momentum nearly pushed them both over, but they recovered in time, regaining their balance with much effort, finding it hard to simply come to a dead stop after rushing up so fast and so far. They were faced with nothing, no beams to run across and no way of moving over the yawning expanse of air. Rooms that had been there were no more. Valian looked around fast, hoping for something, anything to aid them.
“Tan!” he yelled suddenly, grabbing Ostyn hard, pointing him to what he saw.
They crashed through a narrow window opening leading out onto one of the many wood-shingled roofs of the castle that extended out from each layered floor. Ostyn followed blindly, joining Valian for the run across that which collapsed under their feet. There was only one place to reach for safety, for a handhold, and they both saw it at the same time. It was a hurling leap, and a scream tore from both their throats as they launched themselves toward the broad overhang of the upper story, sailing through the smoky night sky.
The roof fell away beneath them as they hung there, suspended in mid-air, dangling from the edge, both panting. When Valian turned and looked at his friend, a bittersweet smile filled his eyes.
“Only you would follow me into such as this.”
Ice-blue eyes sparkled with pleasure. “I would follow you ever.”
And Valian knew that, even as he let out a deep breath and nodded. “Come, we must hurry.”
Ever dutiful, Ostyn began pulling himself up just as Valian was, moving up onto the overhang. They whispered prayers together, hoping that they would not plunge to their deaths. Hoping the shingles on the upper roof were still solid and holding together. Ostyn followed Valian as he had always done; there was not a time he could remember being without him. The man was the constant in his life. Only him.
They slipped back inside the tower through another window opening and stepped lightly onto the small beam that touched the stairs leading to the upper story. Arms outstretched for balance, they sprinted over the scaffolding brace, arriving at the foot of the last set of stairs. The quarters of the lord of the castle were reached in a heartbeat, as they took those last steps in a blur of movement. Once there, Valian looked around a moment to get his bearings and saw the door at the far end of a hallway surrounded by twelve heavily armed men. When they were halfway there, a woman in black armor emerged from the darkness of the room to the left, and they came to a dead stop.
“Ravel!” he roared at her. “Step aside!”
“You forget your place, Valian,” the woman yelled back. “Leave me to my duty!”
“I cannot.” Valian exhaled, almost sadly, his breath shaky, advancing slowly toward her, Ostyn walking warily at his side.
The men came from the shadows, swarming around them, crowding him and his servant together, pushing them back-to-back to face them. They attacked fast and furiously, but Valian and Ostyn were of one mind, one body, fluid, effortless grace of movement and precision. They mirrored one another in perfect symmetry, and seeing them, Ravel knew she had only moments to carry out her task.
Kicking in the door, Ravel, the champion of the Ko-Tai, the Emperor of Narsyk, looked across the room at the woman cowering in the far corner holding a sleeping infant in her arms.
“No,” Tonteen Siu whispered at the approaching woman, the unharc. “You cannot mean to take him.”
“I was not told to take him, lady,” Ravel said solemnly, continuing forward, drawing her blade from the scabbard at her side. “I was told to kill him, as well you know. I am the unharc, the sword of the Ko-Tai, I am only sent to bring an end to life.”
“Wh- why…? What have we done to the Ko-Tai?” she asked, her voice cracking as she trembled, tears streaming down her cheeks as she clutched her son tightly to her chest.
“You know well what your mate has done. He leads the rebels, he challenges his brother for the throne, and now your blood will answer for those crimes.”
Tonteen Siu hugged her four-month-old son against her hard, and as she did, her breasts began to leak with milk. Ravel rushed toward her, sword raised. Tonteen looked as though she were accepting her death, her fate, and so when she lifted her head at the last moment and ran, Ravel was taken off guard. The death stroke caught her across the abdomen instead of severing her head from her body. Tonteen staggered forward and fell to her knees. The movement let her see out into the hall where Valian stood.
“Save my son!” she screamed, rolling onto her side, trying in vain to crawl away from the woman ordered to murder both her and her child.
Valian turned sharply at the sound and, ducking beneath a slicing arc of steel, charged into the room. There was no thought to leaving his servant behind to do battle with five men. He could not think of him, and in fact his mind went blank but for a single thought—that he must save Tonteen and her son.
Ravel was faster and closer. She drove the steel point of her sword down into the woman bleeding to death on the floor, through her back, through her right breast, down until it hit the wooden floor beneath her. Still Tonteen stretched out her hands to Valian, cradling her crying son, her milk and blood pumping from her body in a spreading pool. Valian saw the pleading eyes and leaped, diving toward his nephew held in the hands of his dying mother. Ravel pulled out the sword and blood came with it, covering Tonteen’s back and hair, coursing down her sides. Still she held up her son. Ravel walked in front of her and reached down for the child as Tonteen heaved an anguished cry.
The hand never reached the baby. Valian plowed into the middle of Ravel’s back with his shoulder, slamming her hard to the side, driving her down head first into the floor, knocking her unconscious. Valian was thrown halfway across the room but came scurrying back fast on all fours to Tonteen. He took the baby and cradled him against his chest as he looked down at the infant’s mother.
Eyes met eyes for what seemed a lifetime but lasted no more than a moment.
“Jaron,” Tonteen breathed.
“Jaron,” Valian nodded, assuring her. “Aye.”
Tonteen Siu had enough strength left to lower her head and tell Valian she loved him before she died. Valian heard a scream from the hall and scrambled to his feet as Ostyn flew into the room. His eyes flicked from Tonteen to Ravel and then came to rest on his beloved lord.
Moments passed.
“How shall we flee?” Valian asked Ostyn, taking a deep, quivering breath as he put Ioan’s head upon his shoulder, the infant pressed against the side of his neck as he patted his back gently.
He knew Valian was in shock, saw his slight tremble, and knew too if he comforted him now Valian would cease being able to breathe. He needed the man like this, clear-headed and ready to move.
“The way we came,” Ostyn answered matter-of-factly, leaning down and pulling free the silver talisman that Tonteen wore around her neck. It glittered in his hand, and he stuffed it into the top of the shirt he wore under his iron-plate armor. He stalked across the room and picked up Ravel’s sword from the floor beside her. He placed it in his scabbard but kept his sword drawn.
“Come,” he said gruffly to Valian, motioning him to follow. “We have to run before she wakes.”
“I’m already awake, you fools!”
They both turned to the woman who floated up from the floor, horrified at her display of power, watching, spellbound, as she lifted her hand toward Valian.
“So we finally see your true nature revealed, witch.” Valian spat at her. “I always suspected this truth.”
“You think you’ve won? You think saving this one child changes anything?”
“To his father it will,” Valian informed her, backing away slowly.
The growl that came out of her throat was full of anger and frustration. “Always you thwart my plans, Valian; always you come between me and my just reward.”
“There is reward in killing?” He asked, trying to distract her with his words, continuing to move back, fluidly, gracefully, making no noise to startle the child in his arms and make him cry out.
“There is reward from the Ko-Tai for carrying out his orders!”
Valian knew what the woman really craved, the love she hoped to receive if she was his brother’s perfect weapon. He knew too that she vented her frustration at being denied the heart of the emperor on her victims.
“You have followed me to places no other man could.” She glanced at Ostyn. “You and your wretched servant.”
He was almost to the door.
“You are more cat than man, Valian. Perhaps your true nature should be revealed as well.”
His dark amber eyes glinted gold in the fading light.
“What say you?”
He was silent and still even as it felt as though a hot wind blew over him, the hair on the back of his neck standing up.
“What have you done?”
Her sinister smile flashed only for a moment. “And to add to your pain, I will take your man from you forever.”
She flew forward in a blur of speed, but even as fast as she was moving, she was no match for Ostyn Tan. She thought, as did everyone at court, that Valian was the swordsman and Ostyn simply his servant, a man without training. The truth was that Ostyn Tan was much more proficient with a weapon than Valian would ever be.
Ostyn shifted his stance as Ravel came at him and as steel rang against steel, he drove her back deep into the cavernous room. A wall of fire exploded between them, and the floor fell away. Neither man checked to see if she had fallen to her death; they didn’t stop running to look. And there was always the hope that she had been consumed in the fire, her ashes mixing with those of the countless, faceless multitudes.
Beau and the Beast by Rick R Reed
The door opened and a large figure, clothed all in black, stood for a moment, framed in the doorway. His massive shoulders were so broad that Beau wondered if he would have difficulty making his way across the threshold. The man -- and Beau was sure it was a man despite not being able to see his face—stood well over six feet tall, perhaps closer to seven. In the form-fitting black jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, Beau made out a pumped-up body in which the muscles were piled on like slabs. His hands, huge, dwarfed the silver tray he clutched, a tray containing a ceramic teapot and several bowls and plates.
Breakfast? Dinner? What time was it, anyway?
And, more importantly, was he a prisoner here?
The last thought came unbidden, but bolstered by the logic of the most mysterious and disconcerting aspect of the man standing before him -- his face was completely covered.
And it wasn’t merely covered, but covered in a most unusual fashion: with a mask made of rubber that looked surprisingly realistic -- the visage of a wolf. The salt and pepper fur crowning the top of the mask blended perfectly with a mane of salt and pepper hair that hung halfway down the man’s back.
“Who are you?” Beau managed to stammer and his words seemed to propel the man forward, although he offered no response. His silence was equal to his appearance in eeriness.
Beau caught his breath as the man approached the bed, his footfalls echoing on the hardwood. Beau wanted to ask more, but suddenly lost the power to form words. He could only stare.
The man paused at the bed and stooped over, one hand outstretched. Beau imagined he was going to touch him and recoiled, drawing back.
But all the guy did was push the Tiffany-style lamp on the bedside table over a few inches, so he could set down the tray. Once he positioned the tray just so, he stood back up and clasped his hands together, staring down at Beau.
Even though Beau could not see his face, he had a certainty that this man, creature, whatever was hiding behind the mask, was smiling. Beau glanced up at him and, for the first time, their eyes met.
Beau was struck by the intensity of the eyes peering out from behind the holes in the wolf mask. Not only was the gaze fixed and passionate, but also the eyes themselves were remarkable. They were a pale green, the palest shade of green Beau had ever seen on a person, almost a kind of aquamarine, and they were rimmed by long black lashes.
They were the kind of eyes, Beau thought, that had inspired that careworn cliché for the eyes: the window to the soul.
Just this connection with the man’s eyes calmed Beau somewhat. Even though the man had spoken not a word, there was something in those eyes of his that told Beau he was safe and that the man standing above him meant no harm.
The door opened and a large figure, clothed all in black, stood for a moment, framed in the doorway. His massive shoulders were so broad that Beau wondered if he would have difficulty making his way across the threshold. The man -- and Beau was sure it was a man despite not being able to see his face—stood well over six feet tall, perhaps closer to seven. In the form-fitting black jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, Beau made out a pumped-up body in which the muscles were piled on like slabs. His hands, huge, dwarfed the silver tray he clutched, a tray containing a ceramic teapot and several bowls and plates.
Breakfast? Dinner? What time was it, anyway?
And, more importantly, was he a prisoner here?
The last thought came unbidden, but bolstered by the logic of the most mysterious and disconcerting aspect of the man standing before him -- his face was completely covered.
And it wasn’t merely covered, but covered in a most unusual fashion: with a mask made of rubber that looked surprisingly realistic -- the visage of a wolf. The salt and pepper fur crowning the top of the mask blended perfectly with a mane of salt and pepper hair that hung halfway down the man’s back.
“Who are you?” Beau managed to stammer and his words seemed to propel the man forward, although he offered no response. His silence was equal to his appearance in eeriness.
Beau caught his breath as the man approached the bed, his footfalls echoing on the hardwood. Beau wanted to ask more, but suddenly lost the power to form words. He could only stare.
The man paused at the bed and stooped over, one hand outstretched. Beau imagined he was going to touch him and recoiled, drawing back.
But all the guy did was push the Tiffany-style lamp on the bedside table over a few inches, so he could set down the tray. Once he positioned the tray just so, he stood back up and clasped his hands together, staring down at Beau.
Even though Beau could not see his face, he had a certainty that this man, creature, whatever was hiding behind the mask, was smiling. Beau glanced up at him and, for the first time, their eyes met.
Beau was struck by the intensity of the eyes peering out from behind the holes in the wolf mask. Not only was the gaze fixed and passionate, but also the eyes themselves were remarkable. They were a pale green, the palest shade of green Beau had ever seen on a person, almost a kind of aquamarine, and they were rimmed by long black lashes.
They were the kind of eyes, Beau thought, that had inspired that careworn cliché for the eyes: the window to the soul.
Just this connection with the man’s eyes calmed Beau somewhat. Even though the man had spoken not a word, there was something in those eyes of his that told Beau he was safe and that the man standing above him meant no harm.
Often referred to as "Space Cowboy" and "Gangsta of Love" while still striving for the moniker of "Maurice," Sean Michael spends his days surfing, smutting, organizing his immense gourd collection and fantasizing about one day retiring on a small secluded island peopled entirely by horseshoe crabs. While collecting vast amounts of vintage gay pulp novels and mood rings, Sean whiles away the hours between dropping the f-bomb and persuing the kama sutra by channeling the long lost spirit of John Wayne and singing along with the soundtrack to "Chicago."
A long-time writer of complicated haiku, currently Sean is attempting to learn the advanced arts of plate spinning and soap carving sex toys.
Barring any of that? He'll stick with writing his stories, thanks, and rubbing pretty bodies together to see if they spark.
Sam is a wandering LGBTQ author who sleeps little and reads a lot. Happiest in a foreign country. Twitchy when not mentally in motion. Her name is Sam, not Sammy, definitely not Samantha. She's a dark/cynical/jaded person, but hides that darkness well behind her obsession(s) with shiny objects.
Mary Calmes lives in Lexington, Kentucky, with her husband and two children and loves all the seasons except summer. She graduated from the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California, with a bachelor's degree in English literature. Due to the fact that it is English lit and not English grammar, do not ask her to point out a clause for you, as it will so not happen. She loves writing, becoming immersed in the process, and falling into the work. She can even tell you what her characters smell like. She loves buying books and going to conventions to meet her fans.
Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at his website or blog. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband.
Amber KellAmber Kell has made a career out of daydreaming. It has been a lifelong habit she practices diligently as shown by her complete lack of focus on anything not related to her fantasy world building.
When she told her husband what she wanted to do with her life he told her to go have fun.
During those seconds she isn't writing she remembers she has children who humor her with games of 'what if' and let her drag them to foreign lands to gather inspiration. Her youngest confided in her that he wants to write because he longs for a website and an author name—two things apparently necessary to be a proper writer.
Despite her husband's insistence she doesn't drink enough to be a true literary genius she continues to spin stories of people falling happily in love and staying that way.
She is thwarted during the day by a traffic jam of cats on the stairway and a puppy who insists on walks, but she bravely perseveres..
She also writes under the name Mikela Q. Chase.
Sean Michael
PINTEREST / KOBO / ITUNES / GOOGLE PLAY
EMAIL: seanmichaelwrites@gmail.com
SA McAuley
FACEBOOK / TWITTER / FB FRIENDWEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / TUMBLR
KOBO / PRIDE PUBLISHING / AUTOGRAPH
INSTAGRAM / DREAMSPINNER / B&N
iTUNES / AMAZON / GOODREADS
EMAIL: authorsamcauley@gmail.com
Mary Calmes
EMAIL: mmcalmes@hotmail.com
Rick R Reed
SMASHWORDS / BOOKBUB / AUDIBLE / KOBO
EMAIL: rickrreedbooks@gmail.com
Amber Kell
SMASHWORDS / EXTASY / AMAZON
B&N / DREAMSPINNER / GOODREADS
EMAIL: amberkellwrites@gmail.com
The Librarian's Ghost by Sean Michael
B&N / KOBO / GOOGLE PLAY
Someday It Will Be by SA McAuley
The Servant by Mary Calmes
Beau and the Beast by Rick R Reed
The Dragon Groomer by Amber Kell
No comments:
Post a Comment