Summary:
After leaving a trail of terror and death in his wake, the notorious “Missouri” Boone Jennings finally meets his match in San Francisco when US marshal Ambrose Shaw catches up to him. The story of his capture, and the marshal’s bravery, has already become legend back east by the time Pinkerton inspector Ezra Johns gets off the train from New York City to testify in the murderer’s trial.
When Ambrose is unable to give witness to the evils he’s seen, Ezra becomes their lone hope for putting Jennings in a noose. But if Ezra thinks that’s his biggest problem, he’s got plenty to learn about life—and the afterlife—in the spirited West.
Fortunately, Ambrose is there to assist, and more than happy to oblige Ezra—in the courtroom or the bedroom. He spent his life bringing justice to the Wild West, and if he has a say in it, that’s how he’ll be spending his death too.
Really not much more I can add to my previous reviews of this wonderful Roux novella. Still an amazing blending of old west and ghostly romance. Watching time move forward through the eyes of the ghosts, Ezra and Ambrose is an interesting take on progress. As for the narrator, Nick J Russo, well I can't say I've listened to an audiobook with his narration before but his voice is perfectly suited for the two lawmen and their evil enemy, Boone Jennings. Not sure which was more memorable, the deep-voiced Ambrose, the soothing-toned Ezra, or the evil cackling Jennings? He brings life to this amazing story that I look forward to re-listening to for years to come.
Re-Read Review July 2018:
I'm not sure what took me so long to re-read The Bone Orchard and I'm not sure what more I can say that I didn't say in my original review over 3 years ago. I grew up watching westerns(I still watch plenty actually😉) and even though Hollywood never shined a light on same sex connections of the era, Abigail Roux really helped me to remember what I loved about those old movies: good guys vs bad guys. Now for those who haven't read The Bone Orchard, I won't give anything away but I will say that Jennings may win a few battles throughout the pages but never count a US Marshal or a Pinkerton agent down, especially the ghostly variety. Despite Jennings evil ways that brought him to the hangman's noose, Orchard is a fun read that entertains. This is one I'll be re-reading for years to come.
Original Review April 2015:
In this Abigail Roux creation we have lawmen, outlaws, hanging, shootouts, all the elements of a great western and then of course we also have ghosts. Oh and for Roux fans, we also have a great little surprise treat near the end of the story. Knowing her work as I do and I never saw it coming, afterwards, I realized I should have had more of an inkling that it might happen, but I didn't and that made it all the more sweeter. Ezra and Ambrose have an instant connection that goes beyond their common lawmen occupation and it's just fun to watch unfold. In Marshall Ambrose Shaw you have the quintessential old west lawman, in Inspector Ezra Johns, you have the apparent bookish Pinkerton agent and you really don't expect their commonalities to go beyond the badge but boy does it ever. Throw in the evil ways of the outlaw Boone Jennings and you have the workings of a great western and of course love story doesn't go unnoticed. A perfect addition to your bookcase.
RATING:
Summary:
Witches of the Big Easy #1
Self-exiled to New York for the past two years, Nic Gaudet never planned to return to New Orleans. But with the mysterious death of an old man named Abel Delessard, a member of a family of Cajun witches who were his own family’s greatest enemies, it seems he has fallen under suspicion of murder. He’s been accused by none other than the man’s grandson—and Nic’s former lover—Thibeau Delessard. Nic is furious and travels to confront Thibeau and his family in an official capacity—Nic is a member of the Legislateurs, the governing body of all the magic practitioners in the Big Easy, both the living and the undead. What he doesn’t expect is for all his old feelings for Beau to come rushing back in the moment he sees him again.
Thibeau Delessard had an excellent and heartbreaking reason to break up with Nic two years earlier, but it hasn’t been anything he could tell him until now. Secrets and lies separate them now as they did in the past, but soon, they find themselves back in love and back in danger. Someone is trying his best to use magical spells and hexes to kill Thibeau. Evil pervades not only the French Quarter, but also the old Creole style house where the Delessard family lives. A web of plots is closing around Thibeau and his family, and if Nic can’t find a way through it—and defeat the warlock magic with his own--they’re all going to die. A cursed diamond, an evil book of spells and danger surrounds them on all sides in this city where the veil is thin between this world and the next, and most especially, after dark.
Summary:
Bisexual/Paranormal/Erotic
When I saw him, I knew I had to save him. His blood called to my ancient memories of times gone by, his soul to my undead heart.
Gemini Thelessi is an ancient soul, turned to the undead in Ancient Rome at the age of eighteen. Justice is a young modern man looking for something more than his shallow day-to-day existence. When the two meet something pulls them together and Gemini takes Justice home to meet his human lover, Yvonne. Sparks fly when the three spend their first night together and Gemini attempts to be an honourable host.
I'm going to be quick and to the point with this short story: sexy, fun, heated, and definitely entertaining. Gemini Thelessi, a vamp from Ancient Rome and he's managed to survive all this time so you know he's something special and through his interactions with Justice and Yvonne we get to see just how special he really is. I've never read Elizabeth Lister before and new authors can be a gamble, well this one is a winner. Talk about a great way to be introduced and I look forward to reading more.
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Summary:
What if the one thing you wanted most was forbidden?
Alpha werewolf King Howler seems to have everything he could want: power, wealth, and his own club where he can act out his dominant fantasies. But the one thing he lacks is his fated mate.
Shy loner Emerson has always craved submission, not to another human—to a shifter. Handing over control to anyone could be dangerous, but with a shifter, it might be deadly. Yet all his fantasies star a werewolf who can make him beg.
When King and Emerson meet, the bond between them is instinctive and undeniable. King can't resist the pull he feels toward the younger man, even though giving Emerson what he longs for is risky. Emerson doesn't care how vulnerable he is. He knows he belongs with King, and he's willing to do anything to prove it. As longing turns to love, King knows he must find a way to keep Emerson safe, both from his enemies and from himself, because in the end, nothing can stop an alpha from claiming his mate.
Summary:
Paranormal Princes #1
Prince Owin
Being a fierce predator—not at all adorable, despite my graceful stature—the last thing I needed was a bodyguard. Especially a wolf shifter, whose presence alone was an insult to my princely principles. As Prince of the Ocelot Shifters, I prided myself on my infallible feline instincts, uncompromisable dignity, and flawless fashion sense. If having a canine follow me around at all times wasn’t bad enough, I now faced the most important moment of my entire life. The time had come to prove I was worthy of my crown. If only I could find a way to get rid of the pesky bodyguard.
Grimmwolf
When the King of All Shifters asked me to guard Prince Owin, I admit I had no idea what to expect. Cat shifters tend to be a little intense, not to mention kinda cranky. Owin was no exception, though he seemed crankier than most. Being his bodyguard was proving to be one of the greatest challenges of my life—but not nearly as great as convincing him there was something special between us. When Owin is faced with a perilous quest to prove his worth, I was determined to keep him safe, even if the same couldn’t be said of my heart.
Charlie Cochet has done it again! Are there authors who might do the whole scary side of shifter stories better? Sure, but personally I have not a read an author who is better at blending paranormal, romance, AND humor than Cochet. The Prince and His Bedeviled Bodyguard is an A-Freakin'-Mazing introduction to her new series, Paranormal Princes. The danger and angsty levels are pretty low but the meshing of paranormal and rom-com is . . . well . . . heavenly, I can't think of a better word other than perhaps old fashion fun!
Owin and Grimmwolf are about as mismatched as you can get: a spoiled prince cat shifter and a dedicated but carefree bodyguard wolf and yet you know where the pair will end up(and that's not a spoiler because this story is about the journey getting there not the destination😉). Knowing where they'll end up doesn't make you not want to whack Owin upside the head a time or two though or better yet throw a bucket of water on him(we all know how much cats hate getting wet despite how much time they spend cleaning themselves😉). How Grimmwolf can be so positive and smiley when he's around Owin all the time is beyond me, I guess he's better than I. Are they enemies? No but I certainly wouldn't call them friends in the beginning, at least from Owin's viewpoint. Watching them together is magical though and for a story that made me laugh so much I just couldn't put it down any more than I could a heart-pounding nailbiter, that's how addictive this pair is and I look forward to seeing more of the Paranormal Princes and what makes them all tick.
As I stated above The Prince and His Bedeviled Bodyguard is a beautifully scripted paranormal rom-com, okay you might not find it on the Hallmark channel but if it was I can promise you I would be watching the channel a lot more. Humor isn't exactly the first thing that comes to mind when talking paranormal shifter stories but it definitely fits here. Shifting, romance, fantasy, humor, fairytale, friendship - it's all here making this gem an all around heartwarming fun experience.
RATING:
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Random Paranormal Tales of 2019
The Bone Orchard by Abigail Roux
Chapter 1
Fangs by Elizabeth Lister
Chapter 1
Marshal Ambrose Shaw shoved through the doors of the Continental Hotel, squinting into the dim interior. He headed for the rowdy saloon, following the sound of the piano, and gave the patrons a once-over before moving toward the bar and the dapper tender behind it.
The man greeted him with a nod, tossed a rag over his shoulder, and came over. “What can I get you, sir?”
“Top-shelf,” Ambrose said, jutting his chin toward the row of bottles above the mirror on the back wall. Anything from below the bar, even in an establishment as fine as the Continental, was sure to make a man blind. As the bartender moved away, Ambrose reached into his vest and pulled out a cigarillo he’d rolled the night before. He placed it between his lips, then patted himself down, looking for a light. He found none, which was why he hadn’t smoked the damn thing earlier. With a sigh, he reached in again for a folded-up piece of paper he’d been carrying with him clear across the country.
He spread it out on the bar, smoothing his fingers over the creases.
The bartender set his glass and bottle beside the paper, then silently lit Ambrose’s cigarillo for him.
“Obliged,” Ambrose said around the cigarello. He tapped the drawing of the man on the paper. “You seen this man hereabouts?”
The bartender raised both brows, then met Ambrose’s eyes again. He shook his head slowly, but his eyes darted to a dark corner of the saloon, to a table that was shielded from the doorway by the player piano.
Ambrose sighed deeply, smoke wafting from his lips. “Is that right?” he murmured.
The bartender’s eyes darted toward the corner again, and he moved away, putting as much distance between himself and Ambrose as the bar back would allow. Leaning to his left, Ambrose could see “Missouri” Boone Jennings in the mirror behind the bar, and he tracked the man’s movements. He took the cigarillo from his lips and set it down, then pushed back his overcoat, revealing the pommel of the six-shooter at his hip.
The saloon cleared almost by magic, with gamblers, grifters, miners, traveling businessmen, drunks, and dancing girls scrambling for cover or slinking away to safety in corners and behind solid tables. Even the piano had gone silent. Ambrose didn’t turn around; to do so would have been deadly. Instead he watched Jennings in the mirror, trying to judge the distance of the reflection.
Jennings stood from the table he’d been drinking at, his feet spread apart, his jacket pushed back to reveal twin sidearms. His fingers tapped the ivory butt of one gun. “You come to take me, Marshal Shaw?”
“That I did,” Ambrose answered. He kept his back to Jennings, almost a dare for the wanted man to shoot him down like a coward. Jennings wouldn’t do that, not in front of people who would tell the tale.
“You been on my dust since St. Louis. Took you long enough, Shaw; I hit the damn ocean before you found me.”
Ambrose smiled sadly. “Had a handful of funerals to attend. You been collecting quite the bone orchard.”
“You find any witnesses to testify to my . . . ownership of that bone orchard?”
“Not any left alive.”
Jennings’s shoulders relaxed. “Then you’re wasting your time, ain’t you, Marshal?”
“Last one I saw buried was nothing but a boy.” Ambrose took a gulp of whiskey, then set his glass back down with a clink. “I decided I ain’t going to let you get in front of a judge.”
Jennings moved, his muscles tensing, his hands merely a flash. Ambrose pulled his gun and turned, firing. Bottles behind the bar popped and exploded. The glass in Ambrose’s hand burst into a million fragments. The mirror shattered, filling Ambrose’s vision with glittering shards of light like quartz dust on a sunny afternoon.
Jennings went to his knees, though Ambrose couldn’t say where he’d hit him. Then warmth and pain began to spread through his belly, and the shards of refracting light surrounding him turned blindingly white, brighter and warmer until he could see and feel no more.
*****
Ezra Johns was hot, dusty, and sore. It had taken five rail days to make his way from New York City to San Francisco. After the chilly peaks of the Rocky Mountains and Sierra Nevada range, with stars so large and bright Ezra thought he must have been taken to another world, the heat of the California coast was enough to knock him back.
He stepped out of the carriage in front of the Continental Hotel and Saloon. Down the street, he could see the monstrous frame of the Palace Hotel, where the trial would be held. Just two years old, it was arguably the most luxurious building west of the Mississippi, built in 1875 with all the modern fineries of the time. The Pinkerton Agency would never pay for a room there, though, so Ezra would make do with the Continental.
It would be but a short walk each morning to get there for the trial. Ezra had been summoned to testify against one “Missouri” Boone Jennings, a man wanted for murder as far back east as New York. As many as eleven deaths had been pinned on Jennings, who was notorious for his cruelty and violent nonchalance. None of those eleven murders, and there were probably even more than that, could be proved. None but the Irish dockworker Jennings had beaten to death in the streets of New York City.
Ezra had investigated that murder. He had a leather satchel full of evidence and witness statements. Proof beyond the shadow of a doubt that Jennings was the killer. And it would ultimately be Ezra’s testimony that would put Jennings in a noose.
That was what his superior had told him, anyway, to justify dragging him across the country.
Ezra entered the Continental. The saloon appeared to be under construction, with workers hanging an ornate mirror behind the bar. Ezra gave the dining room and saloon another glance before heading for the proprietor’s desk.
“We have one room available,” the attendant told him, casting a hesitant glance at his ledger.
“Is there a problem?” Ezra wiped down his spectacles so he could read the book.
The man winced and looked around, as if making sure no one else could hear him. “An injured lawman died in that room some time back. Our guests complain of there being . . . spirits.”
“Spirits?” Ezra couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice. He smiled and gave the attendant a nod. “Well. I’m not opposed to double occupancy, so I’ll take it.”
He received his key and turned down assistance with his luggage, considering he only had his small canvas bag and the leather satchel full of evidence. He didn’t intend to let anyone handle that until it reached the court.
He trudged up the flight of stairs to his room, sighing in relief when he was finally able to close the door behind him and shrug off his frock coat. He’d not been prepared for the warmth out here; he might have to find a mercantile to purchase a summer coat.
The room was a nice one, almost comparable to his accommodations back east. It had a bed large enough for two, a washbasin and a private entrance to a water closet, not one but two armoires, and a sitting area. It was possible this room was the honeymoon suite. Considering the affordable rate, there must have been some powerful lore to keep it from being rented nightly. Ezra didn’t put much stock in spirits or hauntings, but he was grateful for the discount.
He set his bag on the end of the iron-framed bed, but before he could begin unpacking, he heard a scratch at the door. He turned, frowning as he watched the doorknob rattle. After a moment, the door creaked open, and just as Ezra was beginning to second-guess his belief in the afterlife, a man pushed the door open.
He was handsome. Blond, with a well-groomed mustache, a tan that gave evidence of many days spent in the sun, and blue eyes so clear they seemed almost silver peering out from under the brim of his hat.
“Can I help you?” Ezra asked, flustered from the intrusion.
“Name’s Ambrose Shaw.” He pushed the door open wider. His saddlebag was draped over his shoulder. “Man at the front desk said you might not mind sharing a room.”
“Oh. Oh! Of course not.” Ezra gestured to the room, then walked forward and offered his hand. “Ezra Johns.”
Ambrose looked down at his hand and nodded, but he didn’t take it.
“Right.” Ezra backed away to allow Ambrose into the room. He wasn’t sure if the lack of a handshake was supposed to mean something in the west or not, but he was too distracted to be offended. “Ambrose Shaw. You’re a US Marshal, aren’t you? You’re the one who finally brought down Boone Jennings?”
“I suppose I am,” Ambrose said, gravel in his voice. “Where’d you hear that?”
“The telegraph wire. News reached the east two weeks ago; it was huge. I work for the Pinkerton Agency.” Ezra fumbled in his pocket for his badge and showed it to Ambrose. He’d heard about the steely-eyed western lawmen with their unflappable demeanors and six-guns strapped to their thighs, but he’d not been prepared to meet one. Or room with one. “I was brought in to testify against Jennings.”
“For the murder of the Irishman, right?” Ambrose nodded and tossed his saddlebags onto the delicate rocking chair in the corner. Dust rose around it.
“That’s correct, yes. I was told there was no one else to testify, that all the witnesses . . . But you tracked him across six states and two territories.”
“I did.” Ambrose grunted. “Man shot, strangled, beat, knifed, and poisoned victims all across the damn country, but I never could prove it was him.”
“But you were involved in a gunfight with him, were you not?”
“That’s what I’m told.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t remember.” Ambrose gestured vaguely to himself and gave Ezra a crooked grin. “I certainly can’t testify to it.”
Ezra frowned in confusion, but nodded anyway, not wanting to appear inexperienced in front of the legendary marshal. “If you can’t testify, then why are you here?”
“To watch,” Ambrose growled. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes catching the light from the hurricane lamp and glinting dangerously. “I came to see him hang.”
Ezra’s mouth was suddenly too dry for him to swallow. “I . . . I suppose that’s a good reason.”
Ambrose removed his hat and set it on top of the washbasin in front of the dainty mirror as he walked past. “You’re the prosecution’s golden bullet,” he told Ezra. They stood on either side of the bed, staring at each other. Ezra’s heart was beating harder than was healthy. Ambrose studied him from under lowered brows, his eyes magnetic, his jaw clenched. “Best not miss,” Ambrose said before turning and walking into the washroom.
Ezra put a hand to his heart and sat heavily. The bed squeaked beneath him. It wasn’t hot in here at all. In fact, he was shivering.
“God help my aim,” he whispered.
*****
When Ezra awoke, it was to the chirp of birds outside the window, the creak of wagon wheels and shouts of merchants, and the gentle, husky breaths of the man sharing the room with him. Ezra sat up, rubbing his eyes as he reached for his spectacles.
Ambrose was sitting in the rocking chair in the corner, watching him.
“Good morning,” Ezra mumbled to the marshal. He received a grunt in return. “Did you sleep there?”
“I don’t sleep,” Ambrose told him. “Best get ready. I intend to see Boone Jennings hang today.”
Ezra swallowed hard, nodding as he fumbled out from under the bedcovers. He splashed tepid water from the washbasin on his face, shivering even in the heat of the summer morning. He glanced in the mirror at the rocking chair, but Ambrose had moved. The chair was still rocking, but the marshal was nowhere to be seen.
Ezra turned, eyes sweeping the room. How the hell had he done that? It must have been a western lawman thing, like an Indian in high grass. The marshal’s saddlebags were nowhere Ezra could see either. Ezra shrugged and proceeded to dress, muttering to himself about the heavy frock coat he would be forced to wear through the first day of the trial.
As if he wasn’t going to be sweating already as the only witness capable of putting Boone Jennings in his grave.
“You seem nervous,” Ambrose said, his gruff voice just inches away from Ezra’s back.
Ezra jumped and turned, wide-eyed and blinking. “I am now, thank you! Do you make noise when you move?”
Ambrose pursed his lips and frowned. “Not really.”
“Could you try?” Ezra snapped as he shrugged into his vest and wrapped his tie under his collar.
Ambrose’s lips were still pursed, but one eyebrow slowly raised, and he nodded as if giving the request real thought. “Sure.”
Ezra turned to fix his tie in the mirror. He glanced up, expecting to see the marshal’s reflection, but the man was gone again. Ezra rolled his eyes and returned his attention to his appearance once more.
Once he’d finished, they made their way downstairs, Ambrose falling in step with Ezra. Ezra was clutching his satchel with the evidence for the trial so tightly his fingers were beginning to ache.
“You okay?” Ambrose asked. For some reason, he seemed to be fighting a smile, as if he found such serious business as life and death amusing.
Ezra gave him a tense nod.
“Still nervous,” Ambrose observed.
“You’re not helping,” Ezra said through gritted teeth.
“Sorry.”
Ezra gave him a sideways glare, then glanced toward the desk and offered the attendant a pleasant smile. “Good morning.”
“G-good morning, sir.” The man gave Ezra an odd, questioning look. What western custom had he violated now? “Is your room to your satisfaction?”
“It is, thank you.”
Ezra gave him a second glance as they walked past, then looked Ambrose up and down. “A little haughty of him not to speak to you.”
“I get that a lot,” Ambrose said with a shrug. He waved a hand at himself. “Folks don’t speak to the likes of me.”
“Really?” Ezra almost tripped over the doorway when they reached it. He turned and pushed the large wooden door open, holding it to let Ambrose walk out into the bright sunshine before following him. “Do people not recognize you as the law?”
Ambrose turned and squinted at him, his silver eyes sparkling in the sunlight. He laughed and headed off down the sidewalk. “That must be it,” he said over his shoulder.
Ezra stared after him, frowning for several moments before hurrying to follow.
Chapter 2
The trial itself had drawn quite a crowd of onlookers, and though Ambrose seemed to have no trouble slipping through the rabble of curiosity seekers, journalists, and possible vigilantes standing outside the building shouting for Jennings’s head, Ezra could barely squeeze by.
He was jostled and pushed, and he held closer to his satchel of evidence. A hand reached out of the crowd and gripped his shoulder. Shivers wracked his entire body, and he closed his eyes against the inexplicable chill. But it was only Ambrose, who dragged him through the crowd, holding tightly to him as people complained and were shoved out of the way. Ezra tried to offer apologies, but he was hustled along too quickly.
He headed up the steps of the Palace Hotel, glancing sideways at Ambrose with a disapproving scowl. “That was quite rude. Do you make it a habit of dragging people along by their collars?”
“No, I usually use shackles.” Ambrose hooked his hand in his belt, tapping the butt of his gun with his index finger as he sauntered toward the doors.
“Please never do that again!”
“Sorry, did you want time to go put your bustle on?” Ambrose stopped at the doors to the hotel, turning to cock his head at Ezra and raise an eyebrow. His manner was still gruff and imposing, but his oddly silver eyes shone like he was amused.
Ezra was still clutching his satchel to his chest with both hands. He glanced down at the crowd, who were being held back by wooden barriers and two overwhelmed constables. Ezra straightened his shoulders and raised his head, jutting out his chin. “This is a more rowdy environment than I’m accustomed to,” he admitted. “Thank you for your assistance.”
Ambrose nodded, then reached out and fixed Ezra’s collar, which had gone askew. He patted Ezra on the shoulder, knocking him sideways. Then he stood waiting for Ezra to get the door.
Ezra couldn’t help but laugh as he pulled the heavy wooden door open and gestured for Ambrose to enter first. “For a big tough western lawman, you sure do have some feminine sensibilities,” he said as he followed Ambrose in.
Ambrose merely laughed as he led the way to the courtroom.
They seated themselves on the left side of the room, in the only empty spaces in the very back row. The room was packed, and the heat was almost as oppressive as the tension in the room. When the side door shoved open and “Missouri” Boone Jennings shuffled in, chains rattling, two armed US Marshals following him, the room fell silent and still.
Jennings was dressed in a suit, his long hair slicked back and tied at his neck, his left arm in a cotton sling. He was clean-shaven and rather handsome—not at all the dirty, disheveled outlaw Ezra had been expecting.
A low hum started in the back of Ambrose’s throat, and Ezra glanced at him worriedly. Ambrose’s sharp eyes had gone cold, his shoulders tense. The mere presence of the murderer in the courtroom had caused all movement to cease, the temperature dropping by some trick of the mind. The man at Ezra’s side shivered.
The loudest sound in the room, other than the clanking of Jennings’s chains, was Ambrose growling.
Ezra patted his arm. “Be calm,” he whispered.
The man on his other side chuckled. “Ain’t nothing to be calm over, not being in the same room as that snake.”
An hour later, Ezra was called to take the witness stand. He carried his satchel up and placed it on the floor beside the chair.
“State your name and occupation for the record, please,” the judge requested.
“My name is Ezra Johns, of New York City. I’m a special investigator for the Pinkerton Agency.”
“How do you know Boone Jennings?”
Ezra took a deep breath, then described in detail the vicious assault he’d investigated a year ago. He pushed his satchel toward the prosecuting attorney. “All the evidence I collected is in there, including witness statements authorized by the district court of New York State.”
“Is there any doubt in your mind that Boone Jennings was the perpetrator of that murder?”
“There is none. He fled New York by rail, heading west to Chicago and then St. Louis. The US Marshals were brought in to track him down.” Ezra’s eyes strayed to the back of the room, where Ambrose sat, silent and stoic, his face enveloped in shadow.
The prosecuting attorney nodded, then retrieved a stack of telegrams from his table. He handed them to Ezra. “Can you tell us what these are?”
Ezra flipped through them. “These appear to be telegrams sent by Marshal Ambrose Shaw.” He glanced up at Ambrose again. The man had tracked Jennings clear across the country, sending out a telegram every time he found another body. A chill ran through Ezra. No wonder Ambrose was so invested in this trial.
“Can you find the last three, please, and read them for the court?”
Ezra nodded and paged through them, coming to the final telegrams. He cleared his throat. “Silver City. Victim thirteen years old,” he read, struggling with the telegram’s shorthand. He paused and glanced up, blowing out a breath of nerves. “Eighteen men, women, and children now in the orchard. Believe Jennings heading for California. Watch the ports.”
“Those are the words of Marshal Shaw,” the prosecutor said quietly. “The last telegram was sent from right here in San Francisco, a fortnight ago. Please read it, Inspector Johns.”
Ezra nodded, swallowing hard. He didn’t understand why they were having him read the telegrams with Ambrose sitting right there. The marshal would make a much more effective witness with his gruff drawl and haunting silver eyes.
He held the final telegram up. “Jennings in San Fran. I do not aim to let him leave. I bury him here, or they try him for . . . for my murder.”
The finality of those words echoed through the rapt courtroom, and Ezra shivered. He raised his head, staring at Ambrose with his lips parted in shock.
“This was a hardened US Marshal,” the prosecutor was saying to the judge and jury. “A man who saw war, a man who tracked murderers and thieves over deserts and mountains. The atrocities he witnessed in the aftermath of Boone Jennings’s wake drove him to forgo the due process of the law he had upheld all his life, to risk his life to take Boone Jennings off the face of this earth so no one else could be hurt by him.”
Ezra’s mouth went dry as he stared out at Ambrose, trying to imagine what would drive the man to such action.
The prosecutor stopped pacing, his hands behind his back as he stood before the jury with a grim set to his jaw. “Marshal Ambrose Shaw died of his wounds the same night he confronted Boone Jennings. He gave his life to bring this man to justice, to end his reign of terror. You the jury must be just as brave in your convictions as Marshal Shaw was in his.”
Ezra’s heart stuttered, and his gaze shot to the back of the courtroom. Ambrose was still sitting there, his face hidden in the shadow of his hat. He raised his hand, and tipped the brim toward Ezra.
Boone Jennings began to chuckle.
*****
“You’re a ghost!” Ezra shouted at Ambrose as soon as they were in the lobby of the Palace Hotel, the trial left to carry on without them once Ezra’s testimony was over. Ambrose was quite proud of him. He wished he could have sat up there himself, but he would settle for a front row seat to Boone Jennings’s hanging instead.
People stopped and stared at Ezra as he continued to rant at Ambrose, their scandalized murmurs growing louder the longer Ezra spoke.
Ambrose glanced around. “Most folks can’t see me. You might keep that in mind when you’re shouting at me.”
Ezra coughed and covered his mouth, glancing at the nearest hotel patrons. “Hello,” he said with a polite smile. He pointed at Ambrose. “He’s a ghost.”
The couple stared at him, and then the gentleman grabbed his wife’s arm and led her away in a hurry.
Ambrose laughed.
“I’m glad you find this funny, because I certainly don’t,” Ezra hissed. He stopped and narrowed his eyes. “Why can I see you and they can’t?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you got that second sight thing. Ain’t Pinkertons supposed to be all-seeing?”
“That’s not funny. Why did you choose me?”
“You were in my room, remember?”
“Your room?” Ezra spat. “It’s not your room, you’re dead!”
Ambrose reached for his arm, taking it in a pale imitation of the iron grip he’d once employed in life. “People are going to think you’re crazy, son. I’ll be damned if your testimony gets struck because you’re talking to air. Come on.” He dragged Ezra with him.
“Your hands are cold,” Ezra grumbled as he followed along.
“Of course they’re cold, I been dead for two weeks.”
“I’m dreaming right now. I’ve been slipped opium, and I’m in some sort of drugged daze.”
“Stop muttering to yourself, goddamn.” They got to the doors of the lobby, and Ambrose stood staring at them. Then he glanced at Ezra, who raised his eyebrows at him.
“Go ahead,” Ezra said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Open the door.”
“I . . .”
“You can’t, can you?”
Ambrose sighed at the grand doorway with its ornately carved wood and lead glass. “They’re awful heavy,” he said.
“Heavy,” Ezra echoed. His expression became more sympathetic. “I see,” he whispered, then opened the doors and let Ambrose walk through first.
The crowd was still waiting in the streets, but it had calmed. The rowdier element had drifted off to the saloons or the docks, and the curious had grown bored. The people waiting now were all silent, standing as if at a vigil. Ambrose’s hair stood on end, the air around him going colder despite his own state of ghostliness. He recognized every one of them.
“What’s wrong?” Ezra asked, finally remembering to speak under his breath so no one would notice him talking to nothing in the middle of the street.
Ambrose waved at the crowd. “You see them?”
“See who?”
Ambrose merely nodded. “I ain’t the only one he killed who’s been drawn here to see him hang. Guess that answers why I’m still here. They can’t get in. They’re left out here to wait.” He smiled sadly at Ezra. “Thanks for opening the door for me.”
His meaning seemed to hit Ezra suddenly, and the man looked out at the street again, going pale. “You mean . . . there are more of you? Spirits?”
“Men and women he killed.” There was a feeling in the pit of his stomach, the same one of helplessness and desperation that had driven him to sacrifice himself in a gun battle he’d known he couldn’t win. “A few little ones too. They look . . . they look confused.”
Ezra put both hands out as if to ward off the image of Boone Jennings’s victims wandering lost in the streets of San Francisco. “Oh this . . . this is so beyond my experience,” he said, then headed down the steps, still muttering to himself.
Ambrose watched him wade through the crowd, even walking through a few people. They shivered violently when he contacted them, then disappeared into the ether as if smoke to Ezra’s touch. The ones who remained didn’t seem to notice, all of them staring at the hotel, waiting. One by one they began to fade, pulled back to wherever they were doomed to spend their afterlives, just as Ambrose was sure to return to the bar of the Continental.
Ambrose glanced back at the doors, then lowered his head and followed after Ezra. For some reason, Ezra’s presence allowed him to travel off his tether; if he let Ezra get too far away, he’d surely be pulled back to the Continental and get stuck there again. He’d been trying to get out of there for two weeks now, but the damn doors were as solid as walls.
“Stop following me,” Ezra barked when Ambrose appeared at his side again.
“I’m not hurting anything being here.”
“Except my sanity!”
People on the street took pains to avoid Ezra, whispering or darting their eyes at him.
“You got to stop talking to yourself,” Ambrose reminded.
Ezra growled and gritted his teeth.
“Look, I don’t know why, but I can follow you out of the Continental, see? It’s the first time I’ve been able to leave the place where I died.”
“What about all the people you said you could see in the street, hmm? How’d they get here if you’re attached to me?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know the damn rules, I’ve only been dead a couple weeks!”
Ezra snarled and stopped in the middle of the street, shooing his hands at Ambrose, heedless of the attention he was drawing to himself. “Stop following me! It’s . . . it’s unsettling! I don’t wish to know there are ghosts roaming the streets, I don’t wish to know what happens after death, do you understand? I don’t need to know these things!”
“But—”
“I don’t wish to know this!” Ezra shouted. “I gave my testimony, I even read yours for you, and there’s no chance Boone Jennings will be anything but hanged at the end of this. I did exactly what you wanted, so stop following me.” He turned on his heel and stalked off.
“Thank you, Ezra,” Ambrose called after him.
Ezra didn’t turn around.
*****
Ezra shoved through the doors of the Continental so hard that one of them banged against the wall, rattling the frames hung there. People turned to stare. He cleared his throat, straightening his coat.
Aside from the fact that he’d just learned his roommate for the evening had been dead, he wasn’t sure why he was so upset. Yes, befriending a ghost was the most unusual thing that’d ever happened to him, but at least Ambrose had been pleasant company. It was the fact that he was here at all that was rocking Ezra’s normally placid mind. Was that what happened when you died? No Heaven? No Hell? Just . . . an eternity of hoping someone could see you?
Ezra shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “Good Lord.”
He didn’t head for his room, instead making a beeline for the saloon. If ever a drink was warranted, it was now.
The new mirror behind the bar had been hung, and the bartender was busy stocking bottles above it. It hit Ezra that this must have been where Ambrose had finally tracked down Boone Jennings and challenged him. Bullet holes littered the lower part of the bar, and one in the back wall must have gone right through a bottle of whiskey. This was where Ambrose had been shot. This was where he’d died.
“Best to order top-shelf,” Ambrose said to him.
Ezra jumped, holding a hand to his heart to calm its frantic beating. Ambrose was leaning on the bar, sipping from a shot glass and staring into the mirror on the back wall.
“You almost frightened me to death,” Ezra hissed.
Ambrose chuckled and took another sip of whiskey. “It’s not so bad, you know. Being dead.”
Ezra drew closer to him, still exasperated by his presence but beginning to truly ponder the implications of his being there. He stepped up the bar beside Ambrose and turned his attention to the mirror. Only his own reflection stared back at him.
He lowered his head sadly, glancing sideways at Ambrose. Was he stuck here? Doomed to forever haunt this hotel where he’d lost his life? If no one else could see him, was Ezra his only company? The thought made Ezra cringe at his earlier reaction on the street.
“What can I get you, sir?” the bartender asked him. Ezra tore his eyes away from Ambrose and gave the man a weak smile.
“Top-shelf,” Ambrose said. “Order top-shelf.”
“Top-shelf, please,” Ezra managed to say.
The bartender nodded and turned away. The smell of tobacco smoke wafted through the air, followed by a whiff of gunpowder. Ezra glanced around, frowning. The saloon was nearly empty, and no one had lit a cigarette.
“You here for the trial?” the bartender asked.
“I am.”
“They going to hang him?”
“I believe so, yes,” Ezra said, a hard edge creeping into his voice.
“Good.” The bartender set a glass and a bottle in front of him. “He killed that marshal right here in front of me.”
Ezra had to force himself not to glance at Ambrose. He nodded instead. “Why wasn’t Marshal Shaw’s murder prosecuted? His case seems far more compelling than the one being tried.”
“Self-defense,” the bartender grunted. “Marshal didn’t draw first, but no one who saw it was willing to say that. And the only other man still alive to tell it is Jennings.”
“What about you?”
The bartender smiled sadly. “Boone Jennings is a devil. Takes a brave man to stand toe to toe with him. And if I’ve learned one thing of myself, it’s that I am not cut from the same cloth as men like Marshal Shaw. I just serve the drinks.”
He took his leave then, stocking new bottles at the other end of the bar. Ezra turned his attention back to Ambrose, who was staring at the bar top.
“Are you here to protect me?” Ezra asked. “Is that why you won’t leave me alone?”
Ambrose spoke quietly. “I don’t know why I’m here. You left me standing in the street; next thing I knew I was sitting here.” He put his glass down and narrowed his eyes at Ezra. “Maybe you’re the one following me.”
There was a hint of amusement in his features, and Ezra found himself fighting a smile. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, then set the bottle between them. They sat in silence for some time, drinking together.
“I’m quite sorry you’re dead,” Ezra finally offered.
Ambrose laughed. “Me too, partner.”
It made Ezra chuckle. At least the man wasn’t a morose ghost. Ambrose pulled a cigarillo from his vest and frowned at it.
“I keep smelling those,” Ezra said. “Is it you?”
Ambrose shrugged. “Alls I know is it’s damned hard to light one when you can’t hold a match.”
He placed it on the bar. A moment later, it was gone. Ambrose stared dejectedly at the empty space, then reached in his vest again and pulled out the same cigarillo.
Ezra watched in fascination. “All you have on you is what you died with, isn’t it?”
Ambrose nodded. “I keep finding myself here, saddlebag over my shoulder. Pulling out a smoke. No one will light it for me though.”
Ezra wanted to reach out to console him, but he had the presence of mind to know that he’d likely reach right through him. He licked his lips instead, looking away. “I’m sorry I shouted at you. I was distraught by the thought of the afterlife you describe.”
“Yeah, well . . . I’m sorry I haunted you.”
They both chuckled softly. Ezra studied him, thinking of the sacrifice the man had made, the guts and bravado it had taken to walk into this saloon knowing he might die and not caring as long as Boone Jennings went with him. Ezra nodded. “I’ll open your doors until he’s hanged, Marshal Shaw.”
Ambrose tipped his hat, lips quirking. “Much obliged, Inspector Johns.”
Fangs by Elizabeth Lister
CHAPTER ONE
Neon red letters on the front of the converted warehouse spelled “FANGS”.
Except the G was sputtering, turning off for long moments then coming back on, so half the time the club seemed to be called FANS.
Ridiculous.
Gemini pulled his hood up to shield himself from the rain. Even though it didn’t really bother him, just as the damp chill of the fall night couldn’t penetrate his skin, it would seem a normal human thing to do if anyone was watching.
And he was sure someone, or at least, something, was watching. They wouldn’t have a home base out here without someone observing the immediate surroundings, especially one so obviously named.
Perhaps they thought a club named FANGS would be that much safer from suspicion. Too obvious to think they’d named it after themselves and their most direct weapon. The club had been theirs for over a year now and, despite a few close calls, as far as Gemini knew, the city police didn’t seem aware of what actually went on at the monthly parties.
But Gemini knew. He knew exactly what took place.
He knew they deliberately corralled the young and not-entirely-innocent from where they could find them and invited them to a fun evening of alternative beats, circulating cheap alcohol, and sexy sideshows that quickly became…something else.
They pulled these souls, quite deliberately, from a segment of society that wouldn’t notice their absence – the poor, the homeless, the disenfranchised. Gemini had been witness to one of their events, several months previous, and been disgusted by the blatant way these young vampires took advantage of the humans they seduced. It was disgusting and immoral to use the power they had in this way, at least to Gemini’s admittedly unusual sense of a vampire code of ethics.
For Gemini was as much a creature of the undead as they were. But he had existed for centuries, when these younglings had only been part of the underworld for decades, and some for just a handful of years.
There were other young vampires in the city who seemed to look at things the way Gemini did. They stayed out of trouble, tried to live among the human inhabitants of the city with respect and dignity, even though they killed when they needed to. They didn’t kill out of a need for entertainment, only for necessity, so they could maintain their sometimes lonely eternal existence.
But this group, made up of about twelve or thirteen vampires, had been creating a stir in the city for awhile. Gemini and a few of the other Older Ones had already discussed the situation and whether or not anything could or should be done about it. So far, in the larger scheme of things, the damage had been minimal and the group seemed to be flying under the radar. Gemini and his cohorts simply observed, prepared for if and when anything got truly out of hand.
Hence Gemini’s reluctant presence this evening. It was, unfortunately, his turn to quietly infiltrate the event — this one a Hallowe’en dress-up party — and see if things were as they’d always been. He could hope things had changed but he was too experienced, too old and jaded, to truly believe it. Young vampires could be reckless, were certainly hungry, and didn’t take kindly to their Older Ones telling them what not to do.
Much like their human counterparts, Gemini supposed. The people who came to these events were the rebels, the outcasts, the ones who had barely anything to live for.
The irony, of course, was that Gemini looked like one of them. He’d been called to the vampire existence at the age of eighteen, except in his day he’d been considered a man by then, and not just on paper. Not like these young humans who essentially enjoyed — or suffered — an extended childhood all the way through to their early thirties. But then, life had been much shorter for humans when he’d lived his brief existence. One was lucky to live to see thirty.
And now, although he’d seen so many years he’d stopped counting, his outward appearance was still that of a slim, dark-haired, blue-eyed youth. One with centuries of knowledge in the deep azure of his thoughtful gaze perhaps, but a youth nonetheless. Which was why he didn’t look out of place at a gathering such as this.
Grabbing the slick handle on the imposing metal door he hauled it open and stepped inside, not surprised to see two burly men guarding another door a few feet inside the dark building. Slipping his hand inside the pocket of his hooded coat, he pulled out a small piece of paper and handed it to the shorter of the two men. The guard looked it over, glanced at Gemini suspiciously, then nodded and motioned him past.
Just as Gemini opened the inner door, the man said:
“You should be wearing a costume. It’s a Hallowe’en party.”
Gemini glanced back, blue eyes flashing interest in the burly redhead. “You’re lucky I have clothes on at all.”
The redhead’s eyes widened and his lips curled in a grin. Gemini didn’t hear his response because he’d already stepped inside the club and let the heavy door close behind him.
A haze of marijuana smoke permeated the air and Gemini took a deep breath. It no longer affected him but he liked the smell of it. It reminded him of lazy days in his youth when he would smoke the ancient herb with his father while they relaxed on the loggia after supper. In those days it had been an accepted diversion among the lower classes and something he’d enjoyed fairly often.
Making his way through the dark, crowded space, he inhaled the smell of pot and human blood into his nostrils. He wasn’t particularly hungry — he’d fed off Yvonne last night and still tasted the particular rich tang of her blood. Nevertheless, his fangs ached at the proximity of ready food. Not just ready, but young, energetic and vibrant.
Although these particular humans might not have enough food to eat on a regular basis, some of them had managed to scrabble together some fairly extravagant costumes. Human ingenuity was unparalleled. Some of them had only painted their faces in an effort to accommodate the theme of the party.
And some, like Gemini, had disdained the idea, choosing to dress in dark colours and slink about on the periphery of the action.
While the human throng in the centre of the large room writhed and danced to the electronic beat, Gemini made his way through the outer edges of sweaty bodies to stand in shadow beside the bar. From this vantage he could comfortably scan the other patrons. He quickly noticed a few of the undead, costumed and dancing with the humans, but nobody he particularly recognized. He had only encountered a few of these young vampires in person, enough to remember names and features. But he could see who was alive and who was not. He could distinguish predator from prey quite effectively.
As his eyes took in everything, his ancient brain cataloguing and sorting the information into relevant versus irrelevant minutiae, they suddenly locked onto a slight figure standing by the sign for the public restrooms. He wasn’t sure what called to him about this particular human, but he felt something electric travel up his spine when the person turned their head and met his gaze.
They held each other this way for a long moment. Then the youngster, as if determined to remain untethered from attachment to Gemini, or perhaps to anyone, looked away.
But Gemini waited — one, two, three, four, five — seconds, until the slender human gazed back in his direction.
Then he moved. Slowly, deliberately, at the realistic speed of a human man, to disguise the fact that he was anything but.
When he got close enough to distinguish the scent of the blood teeming through the young person’s veins he halted, overcome by its particular perfume. But only for a moment. Using centuries of discipline, Gemini pushed the immediate urge to attack and consume down into the farthest reaches of his belly, even as his cock hardened.
He saw fear in the young human’s eyes as he approached, which meant they were suitably wary in a place like this and not drugged out of their mind. As he neared, he guessed his conquest to be a young man, about eighteen or so, the same age that Gemini appeared to be. The age he’d been when he’d been found by an Older One. Gemini pushed that thought from his mind.
He found it simple, after all of his time on Earth, to gauge the age of his prey. Not that this young man would be that. In fact, Gemini was averse to hunting in this milieu for a host of reasons. He wouldn’t use this reckless orgy as a source of prey, at least, not in terms of blood lust. Another sort of lust seemed to draw him toward the young man but Gemini exerted control over that as well. He didn’t want to frighten the creature more than he already had done.
“Hey,” Gemini muttered casually, pulling his hood back so the youngster could see his face and using the modern form of address for approaching a stranger. He smiled, keeping his fangs withdrawn and conveying as much warmth as an essentially cold-blooded creature could affect. “What’s going on?”
The young man’s pupils dilated and Gemini could not mistake the scent of his arousal.
Good. This was good. Although he still wasn’t sure he wanted to pursue that particular course with this man. His body did, but Gemini did not let his body’s hunger for anything rule him exclusively.
The youth shrugged, dark eyes roaming over Gemini. He didn’t say anything, just looked at Gemini with a hopeful vulnerability that immediately touched something responsive inside the old vampire.
“You’re not dressed up,” Gemini said, hands in the pocket of his coat and boot propped against the wall at his back.
A hint of a smile disappeared as quickly as it came. “Neither are you.”
Gemini nodded, still smiling. “True.”
He ran his eyes over the alluring creature, noticing the way the skinny jeans hugged the youth’s slender legs and hips. He leaned in, closing his eyes as he inhaled the sweet scent of the young man, and whispered in his ear as if they were already lovers. “What’s your name?”
The young man shivered, and looked down at his feet. “Justice.”
Gemini resisted the urge to lick the shell of his ear. “Justice?”
The youth nodded, turning to face Gemini, his sweet young face only inches away.
“That’s a lovely name.”
“Actually, I hate it,” he said, laughing softly and drawing back.
“Why?” Gemini asked.
The young man shrugged and moved in again so his response could be heard above the music. “It’s too different. And weird.”
Gemini’s smile widened. “Hmm. No. It’s unique. Like you.”
Justice laughed again, shaking his head, dark bangs swinging slightly. “I’m not unique. I’m like every other stupid kid here. Just trying to belong somewhere.”
Gemini was already charmed by this human and he felt a dangerous pull that he reigned in. He wasn’t going to kill an innocent human tonight. He wasn’t even going to seduce one. But he wanted to take Justice home — feed him and put him to bed like a child.
It wasn’t anything he was used to feeling.
He wondered what Yvonne would say to him showing up with this young man. Looking at Justice, his soft skin, innocent expression, full lips and too-skinny form, Gemini didn’t really care what Yvonne thought. She would simply have to accept Gemini’s choice to bring home this waif, if that was what he decided to do. If Justice would go willingly with him.
Maybe she’d even see what Gemini saw in Justice’s dark grey eyes. Something frail and grasping that needed purchase. Something that needed saving.
Gemini knew what would happen if the boy stayed here even if Justice didn’t. He would be yet another nameless human used to satisfy the bloodlust and sexual hunger of a host of vampires and discarded at the end of the evening a ruined shell of himself. Most died from the assault, the plain ones killed outright for strength and stamina while the pretty ones would be violated over and over for sport and pleasure.
Gemini was not one to prevaricate. “I’d like to take you home with me.”
Justice stared at him, as if trying to come up with a reason to protest. “You just met me.”
“Yes.”
“What if I say no?”
“Then I will leave you here. But it will hurt me to do so. Very much.”
Justice’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “How old are you anyway?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Justice seemed to think about that, and about what Gemini had said about taking him home. “You can fuck me, I guess. If you want.”
Gemini blinked. “That’s not what I mean.”
Although that thought did cross my mind.
“Don’t you want to?” Justice asked with the saddest look on his face that perhaps Gemini had ever seen.
Gemini reached out and placed gentle fingers on the youth’s chin, turning his face this way and that as if he were examining Justice the way Yvonne would for the purposes of sketching him. Justice reacted to Gemini’s touch by visibly shuddering and licking his bottom lip and Gemini tried not to show how much this affected him.
“Of course I want to, sweet thing, and perhaps I will someday. But not today.” He brought the young man’s face around so that they locked gazes. “Today I want to take you home, give you something to eat, and make sure you have a soft bed to sleep in.”
Justice hesitated, seeming to lose himself in Gemini’s ancient eyes, then shook himself free and forced himself to look away. “Why should I trust you?”
“Because I’m your only way out of this place tonight. And if you stay you won’t last until morning.”
“What?” Justice said, looking around him. “It’s just a party.”
Gemini shrugged. “Of course, that’s what it seems. Believe me or no, if you come with me you will be safe. If you say no I will leave you here. But I don’t want to. Please.”
Justice hesitated, looking out at the costumed patrons, then back at Gemini. “You promise?”
Gemini made a large X across his chest. “Cross my heart.” At least he still had a heart, even if it hadn’t pulsed for countless centuries. He held out his hand.
Justice took it, wrapping his fingers around Gemini’s hand with sudden relief, as if now he’d made the decision to trust him, he wanted to go. “Okay.”
“Stay close.”
As they approached the doors, a pale female figure in a burgundy velvet medieval wench costume stopped Gemini with a hand on his arm.
“Where do you think you’re taking him?” She asked, her voice thin and reedy, regarding Gemini as if he were a cockroach or something equally vile.
“Emily Rose.” Gemini said with clenched teeth.
The vampire nodded, baring her fangs. Gemini tightened his grasp on Justice’s fingers as he felt the young man relax his grip in shock.
“Gemini Thelesi. You wear out your welcome,” she hissed.
“I don’t believe I was ever welcome among you.”
“You should stay away. We don’t want you here. You can’t share in our feast.”
Gemini forced himself to remain calm even though he could have destroyed this youngling with a flick of his wrist.
“I’m taking him with me. And you will get out of my way. Now.”
Emily Rose seemed to want to protest, but another vampire stopped her. An imposing male figure in an ornate pirate costume loomed beside them.
“Emily Rose, you are needed in the lounge,” he stated, voice dripping authority.
“Certainly, Neil.” Emily Rose bowed and disappeared.
The vampire named Neil regarded Gemini with respect as well as distaste.
“Gemini Thelesi, if you want to partake in our banquet you only have to ask. We would be honoured to have you as a part of our group.”
Gemini tucked Justice against his side, holding onto him firmly and feeling the youth’s rapid heartbeat. He could smell Justice’s fear and so, he was sure, could Neil.
“I don’t want to be a part of any of this.”
“Then leave the boy. He came willingly and you know it.”
“He thought it a party. He doesn’t know what it really is.”
Neil shrugged. “And what is that, pray tell?”
“A feeding frenzy. A fucking orgy of blood and sex,” Gemini spat.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“For them, it is.”
Neil shrugged again, as if the entire confrontation bored him. “You cannot take from our banquet without permission. You overstep your bounds.”
Gemini stood taller and said with the most subdued threat he could manage. “I’m taking this boy. You cannot stop me, and if you try I will call down the anger of all the Older Ones upon you and your tasteless group. Get out of my way.”
Neil examined Gemini for a moment, the look of disgust growing. But he stepped aside and bowed, sweeping his arm before them in an exaggerated gesture.
“As you wish.”
As they passed him, he stood up straight. “But you won’t get in here again. I’ll make sure of it.”
“I won’t be back,” Gemini said with conviction and pulled Justice through the door with him.
As they strode past, the redheaded bouncer stood up from his seat. “Hey! You can’t — “
With his free hand, Gemini gestured behind him without even looking. The redhead slammed against the wall and collapsed, unconscious, to the floor.
“What the hell?” Justice exclaimed, pulling his hand away from Gemini’s grasp and looking like he was going to run back inside even though he was terrified of what he’d seen. “Who the fuck are you? Whatthe fuck are you?”
“Please,” Gemini said, throwing a warning look at the other bouncer who stood frozen in place, staring at his unconscious partner. “Please, Justice, come with me and I’ll explain everything. If you go back in there you’ll find out how many of them want to fuck you. And then they will devour you like you are nothing but an h’ordeuvre on their plate for the evening. Which is not a bad analogy for it really.” He reached out again, beseeching the young man with his deep blue eyes. “Please.”
Justice glanced at the closed door, at the comatose bouncer, then at Gemini’s hand. Finally, after a few moments, he reached out and took it.
Gemini nodded, relief flooding through him. “Come. Let’s go home.”
Claiming Bite by Silvia Violet
The scent that had intrigued me earlier grew stronger as we approached the bar. I tried to ignore it, but it was so fucking intoxicating. I turned my head trying to find the source of it, tripped over something on the floor, and nearly crashed into a bear shifter. Storm caught my arm and kept me upright.
“Are you okay?” Even with our sensitive hearing, he had to yell over the music.
“I am. It’s just…”
Oh, fuck, the smell was coming from the young man trapped in the center of the lions. The young human man who was drunk and way too vulnerable.
My wolf stirred. Mine.
I pushed back against my animal instincts. I had to keep a clear head, so I could get these assholes out of my club without attracting too much attention. I was a businessman, not a savage. The last thing this boy needed was me being as insistent as the men who had him surrounded.
A growl rumbled in my chest as my wolf demanded I let him free.
No.
He’s mine. They’re touching him, and he’s mine.
My control wasn’t going to last long, not with the boy’s scent driving me crazy. My wolf gained the upper hand for a moment. I reached in between two of the Crown brothers who’d dared rub themselves on my boy. Once I had hold of his arm, I yanked him to me and held him tightly As I held him close, I experienced even more of the nuances of his scent. The reminder that he was human and fragile broke through my haze of lust and gave me the strength to keep my wolf inside where he belonged.
The Prince and His Bedeviled Bodyguard by Charlie Cochet
OWIN
The time had come.
I had finally been summoned by King Alarick. Next to my coronation day, this should have been the most exciting moment of my life, but was I jubilant over the occasion? No, I was vexed, oh so very vexed. Why? Because I was forced to share this moment with the most infuriating creature in all existence!
Grimmwolf.
Goddess above, who named this guy? Grimm was the most annoying wolf I had ever come across. Did I mention he was infuriating? First of all, he was a wolf. He smelled like a wolf. Ugh, so gross. It wasn’t bad enough King Alarick assigned me a new bodyguard—one I couldn’t get rid of—but a wolf? Of all the magical creatures in all the realms, why a canine shifter? The very idea had me instinctively drawing my claws out and hissing as I stomped up and down the ornate carpet in front of the king’s throne room. I, Prince Owin of the Ocelot Shifters, regal and pretty, was saddled with an overgrown, hairy dog. This was wrong on so many levels.
I tried to distract myself with my surroundings. It wasn’t every day one was called to the palace. As the king of all shifters, King Alarick’s palace was like its own city, nestled among lush forests on Heart Island in the St. Lawrence River. My palace would fit in his palace. His was grand in design, reminding me of several of the human palaces—all ivory walls and gleaming marble floors, gold accents, and red carpets—with the exception of the decor. Where most human palaces featured the royal family’s human ancestors, the many paintings and statues around King Alarick’s palace featured our shifter history, proudly displaying all manner of shifters, from the most delicate and beautiful to the most terrifying.
No one knew who birthed King Alarick, but we did know the sun was involved, hence the golden suns featured throughout the palace’s decor. It was really quite breathtaking. Spinning on my heels, I smacked into a wall and bounced off. Oh, wait, not a wall. Stupid wolf. Why did they all need to be so darn tall? Not that I envied his stature. Not. At. All. Naturally wolf shifters were bigger than ocelot shifters, and bodyguard wolves were even bigger than regular wolves, so it wasn’t the brute’s fault he took up so much space. I glared at the beast.
“I can’t believe you chose that to wear to see the king,” I hissed, waving my arms at his general person. “Humans invented fashion for a reason. Look at me.” I stood tall and motioned to my tailored blue suit and cute little bow tie, which I could totally pull off because I was fabulous. “Now look at you.”
Grimm shrugged. “This is my uniform. It’s what I always wear. Everything in my wardrobe is exactly the same.”
“Exactly!”
“That makes no sense. You make no sense.”
I poked him in the chest. “I don’t have to make sense. I’m the prince.”
“You’re something all right,” Grimm muttered.
“What did you say?” I narrowed my eyes at him, sizing him up once again in case by some miracle the guy had shrunk. Over the last six months that I’d been stuck with him, I’m not proud to admit I’d been tempted to smack him on more than one occasion, but that would have required having a chair brought to me, and that sort of indignity was beneath me. I could have shifted and bitten him, but again, not how the Prince of the Ocelot Shifters should comport himself. Or so I’d been told by my advisor. Several times. Whatever. I was the prince! If I couldn’t randomly bite someone who annoyed me, what good was my title? I was a cat, for crying out loud. Might as well tell the birds they shouldn’t chirp or fly.
Grimm pointed to the large painting on the wall beside us. “Isn’t that an interesting piece of art?”
“Don’t try to distract me, you—” I made the mistake of glancing to where he pointed. “Oh, it is, isn’t it? Look, there’s a little rabbit in its burrow!” I loved rabbits. Granted, I mostly enjoyed eating them, but they were fluffy and cute when they weren’t being eaten. They were an ocelot favorite, but then so were most small creatures that we could hunt and catch. Not that I couldn’t catch something bigger than myself if I wanted, but that’s what the royal hunters were for. As if I’d get my fur dirty.
“You’re right,” Grimm replied, sounding amused.
“Of course I am. I’m—”
“The prince,” he said with a smile. “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten.”
“I loathe you.”
“And I think you’re adorable.”
I hissed at him. Adorable? I was a predator! I was fierce! Fierce, I say! Stature wasn’t everything you know. Grimm was clearly compensating for something with his size and height.
“You’re only strengthening my case, really.”
“And you look like you’re about to go to war.”
He seemed to consider this. “As I’ve been assigned by the king to guard you, that’s a fair observation. And a fact.”
I chose to ignore that. “What’s with the gray camouflage?” Honestly, of all the clothing options available to us. The wolf had no sense of style whatsoever. My image had suffered greatly since his arrival. At least I thought so.
Grimm pointed to his face—“It matches my eyes.”—then his head. “And my hair.”
“I’m sorry, are you telling me you wear an all gray military uniform because it matches your eyes and your hair?” He couldn’t be serious, could he? Then again, he was a canine, and they were… easily distracted. Perhaps I should have done some research on wolves when he’d been assigned to me?
“I’m a gray wolf. See what I did there? Actually, I just like gray. But hey”—he pointed to his chest—“this part’s black.” He wiggled his fingers, drawing my attention to the black fingerless gloves. “See? Also black.”
“And what’s with all the pockets?” I motioned to his pants. “Who needs that many pockets?” No response. Ugh, whatever. “You’re a bodyguard. Shouldn’t you be wearing a suit or something?”
“That’s a little cliché, don’t you think?”
I rolled my eyes and started pacing again. This day was nerve-racking as it was, without adding him into the mix. “I don’t understand why King Alarick would assign you to me. I really don’t.”
“Probably because you ran off every other bodyguard you ever had, and anyone who hasn’t been your bodyguard refuses to be in the same realm as you?”
I rolled my eyes. “Such drama queens.”
“Or,” Grimm said, holding up a finger. “Hear me out now. Or, maybe you being a complete and utter jerk is the reason they wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. No offense.”
My jaw nearly hit the pristine red carpet. “What?”
“I said—”
“I heard what you said! That’s the problem. Aren’t bodyguards supposed to be silent? Shouldn’t you be standing stoically, brooding while you practice your menacing scowl?”
“Do I look like a cat to you? I’m a wolf. We don’t brood.” He paused in thought. “Okay, maybe some of us do, but generally we’re quite cheerful by nature. Unless you try to take our food. That would be bad. I enjoy conversing, smiling, and wagging my tail. Did you know a lot of humans don’t realize wolves can wag their tails?”
I stared at him. “Oh my Goddess, my bodyguard is an idiot.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Why are you smiling?” Who was this guy? All he did was follow me around and smile for no apparent reason.
“Why not?”
I was going to explode into sparkly prince confetti at any moment, I just knew it. He was going to make me burst. An earsplitting clatter made me jump and I spun around, claws at the ready. A member of the King’s staff was on the floor picking up pieces of scattered silverware. I hurried over and dropped to my knees.
“Here, let me help you,” I told the young girl. Her scent revealed her to be a fawn shifter. Her big brown eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed.
“Oh! It’s not necessary, my prince.”
“Nonsense.” I waved a hand at her in dismissal. As if it were a hardship. “What’s your name?”
“Ayla.”
“Well, Ayla, did you know that the kitchen is one of my favorite places? Next to the library and gardens of course,” I rambled on in the hopes she might feel more at ease since she was all but shaking from nervousness. “So much so that Faline—my head chef—has to chase me out more often than not. But can you blame me? It’s always so warm in there and it smells so good.” I picked up the tray that was bigger than her and stood. Turning to Grimm, I handed it at him. “Hold this.” I swiftly helped her gather all the fallen silverware and placed it on the tray. “Where would you like this delivered? I’ll have Grimm carry it for you.”
Ayla smiled sweetly. “Thank you, my prince. I can take it from here. I’d simply tripped earlier. Head in the clouds.”
“Are you sure?” She was a tiny little thing. I was certain the tray weighed more than she did.
She nodded and curtsied before taking the tray from Grimm. “Thank you again, my prince.” With a big smile she walked off, singing a little tune to herself.
I turned to Grimm and arched an eyebrow at him. “You heard her. I’m the prince.”
“Doesn’t make you any less adorable.”
I hissed, ready to give him a princely thrashing when the huge gilded doors opened, and the king’s advisor, Lord Jean Eldrich, appeared. “The king will see you now.”
Grimm smiled wide. “The king will see us now.”
“I heard him!”
With a frustrated growl, I marched into the throne room, ignoring Grimm walking beside me, his long strides making it so he was always at my side no matter how much I quickened my pace.
The throne room was impressive with all its ivory and gold, the only color coming from the vibrant red and gold throne, but then the king who sat upon it was far more impressive. King Alarick was bigger than Grimm, broad shoulders, muscular, strong, with pitch-black hair and amber eyes you could see the cosmos in if you stood close enough. They were a little freaky, to be honest. Not that I would tell him that.
My power came from my people, allowing me to control their shift. Technically, I could control Grimm’s shift, but a prince had to have a really, really good reason to force a shift in another species. Any prince or princess who abused their power would be stripped of it along with their title. They’d be banished from their realm. King Alarick was immortal and drew his power from all the shifter nobility, allowing him to change into any shifter he reigned over. I wondered how a prince could get in on that action. Being immortal, I mean, not action as in sexy times with the king, because ew. He was a father figure to us all, and that was not my kink. Not that I had any. Or maybe I did and didn’t know it? Being a prince sort of limited my dating options, and wow, maybe now was not the time to think about this.
“Welcome, Prince Owin of the Ocelot Shifters, and welcome Grimmwolf of the Grimm Wolves pack.”
I turned to Grimm. “You’re named after your pack?” So lame.
Grimm blinked at me. “Um, no. My pack is named after me.”
Why would a wolf pack name themselves after a bodyguard? I turned a questioning look to the king.
“Wolf shifter hierarchy is a little more complicated than your feline shifter hierarchy due to packs. Each pack has its own alpha, but like all my shifter children, they are all still ruled by one prince or princess. Grimmwolf comes from a long line of nobility,” King Alarick offered with a proud smile. “The Grimm Wolves pack is the monarchy wolf pack. Grimm’s mother is the current alpha of the pack, while Grimm’s father is the Prince of all Wolf Shifters. Grimm is an alpha wolf and the prince’s successor.”
“What?” I glared at Grimm. “You’re an alpha and the next wolf shifter prince and you didn’t tell me?” No wonder he was so damned smug and mouthy. Wait. I spun back to face the king. “Why is the prince’s heir my bodyguard?” I wasn’t fond of the twinkle in the king’s eye.
“I needed someone who could keep up with you, and Prince Grimmshaw saw this as the perfect opportunity for his son to learn about interspecies relations. Appointing him as your bodyguard seemed like a win for both of us.”
Interspecies relations? Unbelievable! Not like I had a choice. I narrowed my eyes at Grimm. “This changes nothing.”
Grimm shrugged; his ridiculous smile plastered on his face. “Sure.”
The king cleared his throat. “Let’s get started, shall we? As you know, Prince Owin, when a new generation of prince is crowned, he must prove he is worthy to rule. Each prince must complete a quest. Should the prince fail in his quest, he will forfeit his crown, his title, and his powers. He will be unworthy of his people. Your quest is to retrieve a priceless artifact from the Cù Sìth.”
Easy-peasy. “Wonderful. How long do I have to get my entourage together?”
The king arched a thick black eyebrow at me. “Honey, you’re not Beyoncé. You don’t get an entourage.”
“Pardon?”
“You get Grimmwolf.”
“Pardon?”
“Are you an ocelot or a parrot? Owin, your bodyguard is going with you. He is all you get to take on your quest. Which starts the moment you leave this room, by the way.”
I was horrified. No, beyond horrified. “I’m not sure I understand. I need to prepare. I need food, bedding, and the appropriate Jimmy Choo’s. I—”
“No need to worry.” The king motioned for Lord Eldrich. “Jean, the magic satchel, please.”
Oh good. I was being given a magic satchel. I sighed with relief. At least until Lord Eldrich appeared with a brown leather bag that was somewhat on the large side and a little rustic-looking for my taste. Did it come in different styles? The king moved his gaze to Grimm.
“Grimm, I gift you this satchel. Anything you desire is at hand. You have but to think it and retrieve it from the bag.”
Wait, what? “You’re giving the satchel to him?” What was happening right now?
The king nodded. “Should you need something, merely ask your bodyguard.”
Ask? I squinted at him, confused. What did he mean by… ask? Wait, I was supposed to ask a commoner when I needed something? That was absurd! I didn’t ask for things. I was—
“The prince. I know,” Grimm said with a chuckle.
I gasped. “Can you read my mind? Are you one of those creepy seer wolves?”
“Nope.” He leaned in and tapped my forehead. “I’ve just gotten pretty good at reading your scowls.”
I smacked his hand away. “How dare you touch me!”
Grimm reached into his magical purse—satchel my cute little ocelot tail—and handed me something. “Here.”
“A chocolate bar? I don’t need a chocolate bar! And certainly not from you.” I glared at him for good measure. How dare he! How dare the king! How dare everybody! Ugh, this was a nightmare. I should have stayed in bed, watching humans do stupid things on YouTube.
Grimm waved the chocolate bar at me. “But it has little crunchy bits in it. Your favorite.”
That was true, and it only pissed me off more. “You are so infuriating!” I spun on my heels and stormed toward the door.
“Good luck on your quest,” the king called out after me. “You’ll do great. I’m sure of it. Watch out for squirrels. They’re thieving little bastards!”
“Your Majesty, it was one squirrel. You really need to stop your war on squirrels.”
“But do I, Jean? Do I?”
Heavy sigh. “Yes, you do. We’re talking about a cinnamon bun.”
“A delicious cinnamon bun that I will never get to enjoy!”
“Come. Let’s go to the kitchen. We’ll have Chef make you something equally delicious.”
“Fine. But if a squirrel tries to get into the kitchen, I expect you to annihilate it.”
“I’ll be sure to vanquish the evil beast, Your Majesty.”
“Good. I’m in the mood for cookies.”
I was surrounded by weirdos.
Abigail RouxAbigail Roux was born and raised in North Carolina. A past volleyball star who specializes in sarcasm and painful historical accuracy, she currently spends her time coaching high school volleyball and investigating the mysteries of single motherhood. Any spare time is spent living and dying with every Atlanta Braves and Carolina Panthers game of the year. Abigail has a daughter, Little Roux, who is the light of her life, a boxer, four rescued cats who play an ongoing live-action variation of 'Call of Duty' throughout the house, a certifiable extended family down the road, and a cast of thousands in her head.
Shannon makes her home in Georgia and North Carolina with her husband and family. She believes that love is love, no matter the gender. Shannon mostly spends her days at the keyboard trying to elude housework, which stalks her relentlessly.
Kinky gay romance. Happy endings guaranteed.
I live in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada with my husband and two children. I have a BA in Psychology and a certificate in Dramatic Scriptwriting. I very much enjoy writing erotic fiction and exploring the vast arena of sexuality and relationships.
Silvia Violet writes fun, sexy stories that will leave you smiling and satisfied. She has a thing for characters who are in need of comfort and enjoys helping them surrender to love even when they doubt it exists. Silvia's stories include sizzling contemporaries, paranormals, and historicals. When she needs a break from listening to the voices in her head, she spends time baking, taking long walks, and curling up with her favorite books. Keep up with her latest ventures by signing up for her newsletter.
Charlie Cochet is an author by day and artist by night. Always quick to succumb to the whispers of her wayward muse, no star is out of reach when following her passion. From adventurous agents and sexy shifters, to society gentlemen and hardboiled detectives, there’s bound to be plenty of mischief for her heroes to find themselves in, and plenty of romance, too!
Currently residing in Central Florida, Charlie is at the beck and call of a rascally Doxiepoo bent on world domination. When she isn’t writing, she can usually be found reading, drawing, or watching movies. She runs on coffee, thrives on music, and loves to hear from readers.
Abigail Roux
CAFE PRESS / AUDIBLE / B&N / KOBO
EMAIL: abiroux@gmail.com
Elizabeth Lister
Silvia Violet
iTUNES / RIPTIDE / GOOGLE PLAY / PINTEREST
EMAIL: silviaviolet@gmail.com 
The Bone Orchard by Abigail Roux
Hexxed by Shannon West
Fangs by Elizabeth Lister
Claiming Bite by Silvia Violet
The Prince and His Bedeviled Bodyguard by Charlie Cochet
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