Summary:
Theater critic Artemus Bancroft isn’t sure what to expect when his aunt summons him home to California with vague but urgent pleas about being unable to cope with “the situation.”
The situation turns out to be the apparent haunting of Green Lanterns Inn—along with alarming rumors that long-suffering Auntie Halcyone may have murdered her philandering husband.
In fact, the rumors seem to have been started by the late Mr. Hyde himself—from beyond the grave.
Original Review February 2019:
When Artemus Bancroft is called home by his aunt to help with a "situation" he isn't sure what to expect but it certainly wasn't that his aunt's deceased husband was haunting their home or the growing rumors of her involvement in his death. Will Artemus be able to clear his aunt's name when the rumors appear to have come from the deceased himself?
I can't really call this a surprise story by one of my favorite authors as it was originally serialized for her Patreon supporters last year but timing just never seemed to be on my side and didn't get or take the opportunity to read it as it was being written. Now with the official release and the new year and holidays being over it seemed the perfect time to get stuck in. Plain and simple: WOW!!! Seance on a Summer's Night is everything I have come to love in Josh Lanyon's work and why she is one of my favorite author's and top automatic "1-click" purchases.
Artemus is funny, clever, and a bit pig-headed with his skepticism which can make the reader want to give him a good shake every few pages but in a good way, afterall he is just looking out for his beloved aunt and how can you fault him for that? I may be a bit more open to the idea of hauntings and the afterlife than Artemus but I like to think I'd be equally determined to get to the truth, be it a real haunting or something even more sinister. As for the gardener with glowing references that doesn't seem to know one flower from the next? Well, Seamus has his own secrets that I won't delve into but let me just say the connection and attraction between him and Artemus is instant, off the charts, and yet Artemus doesn't let it get in the way of keeping his Aunt Halcyone safe.
I haven't said much about the supporting cast of characters and I don't really think I will because each one brings something to the mystery that I don't want to give away but trust me when I say once you meet them you won't soon forget them. Some I wanted to wrap up in bubblewrap to keep them safe and others just gave me the heebie jeebies from the getgo but they all heighten the WOW-factor that made this story unforgettable.
From the mystery to the romance to the humor, Seance on a Summer's Night is an edge of your seat read that makes you forget about eating and sleeping so if you have something else pressing on your calendar you may want to save this gem for a day that is wide open because you will not want to put it down once you pick it up. There is something about Seance that is obviously present day but with a 40s feel looming throughout, a lovely blend of gothic and noir flavors make this contemporary setting a very intriguing reading experience.
I can't really call this a surprise story by one of my favorite authors as it was originally serialized for her Patreon supporters last year but timing just never seemed to be on my side and didn't get or take the opportunity to read it as it was being written. Now with the official release and the new year and holidays being over it seemed the perfect time to get stuck in. Plain and simple: WOW!!! Seance on a Summer's Night is everything I have come to love in Josh Lanyon's work and why she is one of my favorite author's and top automatic "1-click" purchases.
Artemus is funny, clever, and a bit pig-headed with his skepticism which can make the reader want to give him a good shake every few pages but in a good way, afterall he is just looking out for his beloved aunt and how can you fault him for that? I may be a bit more open to the idea of hauntings and the afterlife than Artemus but I like to think I'd be equally determined to get to the truth, be it a real haunting or something even more sinister. As for the gardener with glowing references that doesn't seem to know one flower from the next? Well, Seamus has his own secrets that I won't delve into but let me just say the connection and attraction between him and Artemus is instant, off the charts, and yet Artemus doesn't let it get in the way of keeping his Aunt Halcyone safe.
I haven't said much about the supporting cast of characters and I don't really think I will because each one brings something to the mystery that I don't want to give away but trust me when I say once you meet them you won't soon forget them. Some I wanted to wrap up in bubblewrap to keep them safe and others just gave me the heebie jeebies from the getgo but they all heighten the WOW-factor that made this story unforgettable.
From the mystery to the romance to the humor, Seance on a Summer's Night is an edge of your seat read that makes you forget about eating and sleeping so if you have something else pressing on your calendar you may want to save this gem for a day that is wide open because you will not want to put it down once you pick it up. There is something about Seance that is obviously present day but with a 40s feel looming throughout, a lovely blend of gothic and noir flavors make this contemporary setting a very intriguing reading experience.
RATING: 
Summary:
Bad Guys and Babies #1
I’ve been taken. The alpha, Jack, who’s holding me captive seems to hate me, even as he sends me lusty glances. My dad will pay the ransom. There’s no question of that. I’ll be fine. I should be fine.
It’s been days and Jack keeps promising me I’ll be going home soon. But now another alpha just showed up because something has gone wrong. This other alpha wants me dead.
Strangely enough, Jack is arguing with him. Jack is trying to protect me. But I barely know Jack, and he’s not going to die for me. I have one chance of survival, and that’s to run.
I sneak out the bathroom window, and I bolt for the trees as if my life depends on it.
Because it does.
This darker romance is a non-shifter story set in an Alpha/Omega world and contains mpreg (male pregnancy). This is a standalone fated-mate, gay for you story and Book One in the: Bad Guys and Babies mpreg series.
Summary:
Venom Valley #1
In the frontier town of Belkin’s Pass, as a vampire quietly feeds on the local saloon girls and their customers, a tragedy teaches resident Josh Stanton he has the ability to raise the dead. Knowing he is now a wanted man, Josh flees into the arid plains of Venom Valley.
Dex Wells, the town deputy and Josh’s best friend, catches up with Josh. During the confrontation, both men realize their friendship is truly something deeper, and Dex has to decide if he’s a man of the law, or a man in love.
As Josh and Dex ponder a viable course of action, the vampire circles ever closer, drawn by Josh’s power and gathering his forces against them.
Thaw by Jordan Castillo Price
Summary:
PsyCop #1.1
Victor Bayne is a PsyCop, a psychic medium who sees dead people as plainly as if they were alive. People assume that Vic's psychic abilities are his only talent, but in Thaw, he shows his boyfriend Jacob that he's got other secret skills up his sleeve.
I wasn't going to read any more of Jordan Castillo Price's Psycop series right now, not that I didn't want to it's just that it is a long series and unfortunately time isn't on my side to tackle such a series because I knew once I read more I wouldn't quit. Then I saw this short entry was next in line and couldn't help but make an exception. So I read Thaw and it was great. Yes, it's short. Yes, it's sweet. Most importantly it is a look at some downtime in between the murder and mayhem Victor and Jacob normally experience. I love the murder and mayhem but sometimes it is just nice to see the couple at play.
Now I really will wait to read further entries in the author's Psycop series when I can give them the proper time they deserve. Thaw has only cemented my desire to do so and I can't wait.
RATING:
Protector of the Alpha by Parker Williams
Summary:
Shifting Needs #1
Adopted at an early age by a wealthy family, Jake Davis has always seemed to have an easy life. Even in college he was blessed with good grades and an apparently clear path to a pro football career. Good thing his best friend keeps hanging around to keep his head from getting too swollen.
Zakiya Incekara has always been...odd. Being fluent in six languages and having a flair for international cooking should open the world to him, but those skills leave him isolated.
When Jake sees Zak for the first time, with water beading down his slender form, something inside him shifts, and it hungers for Zak. To have him. To claim him. And Jake knows that whatever it is, it won’t be denied.
When they are approached by a man who claims knowledge of a secret past they share, Jake and Zak are thrust into a world they would never have believed existed. The forests of Alaska might seem an odd place to find your destiny, but these men will meet the challenges head on, as they learn that sometimes you have to make sacrifices to be Protector of the Alpha.
Click to Check Out Previous
Random Paranormal Tales of 2019
Seance on a Summer's Night by Josh Lanyon
Chapter One
Insanity runs in my family.
That should go without saying. What the hell else could explain what I was doing sitting in a cab outside the Green Lanterns Inn at that time of night.
“This is it,” the driver said when I showed no sign of moving. And when I still made no sign, he said helpfully, “Green Lanterns Inn.”
Summer rain beat down, fat silver drops blistering against the windshield. The wipers squeaked out each second, dashing the rain away, illuminating the ivy-covered building before us for an instant before the scene melted away again. The seven eponymous brass lanterns were dark in the yellow glare of the car’s high beams. Not a light shone in the entire house.
But then at two o’clock in the morning, I’d have been surprised—even alarmed—to find a light on.
I felt ridiculous. I should have asked Aunt Halcyone for clarification. Insisted on a little more information. It wasn’t like me. But I’d felt her unease, her uncertainty in that last letter, and that was what had sent me jetting across the country. I could not ever remember my aunt admitting she was in over her head—let alone asking for my help.
Come as soon as you can, Artie, Aunt H. had written. The situation has spiraled out of control. I need your cool head and strong shoulders.
I guess my shoulders are strong enough and my head is relatively cool, but she’d never required them before, not even when Ogden, her second husband, had died the year before. As for the situation spiraling out of control, I’d had no idea there was a situation.
Anyway, at the time Ogden had died, I’d been dealing with my own situation. Aunt H. had been as unenthusiastic about Greg as I’d been about Ogden, and refraining from saying I told you so had been about the best we could offer each other.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay for a while?” I’d said after the funeral.
“No, no. I’m all right. I just need a little time,” she had returned.
She had seemed all right. Sad, of course; weary but not broken. It would take more than one dead, philandering husband to break my dear old Auntie Halcyone. When two months later she’d phoned to say she had decided to turn Green Lanterns into an inn, she had sounded enthusiastic and upbeat—almost like her old self.
“You sure they’re open for business?” the cab driver asked.
“Uh…yes.” I sounded as doubtful as he did.
“Okay. Well.”
My words exactly. I opened the door. The driver jumped out and grabbed my bags from the trunk. Shoulders hunched against the rain, he followed me as I ran up the flight of shallow stone stairs to the shelter of an overhanging portico. Ivy draped over the roof, crystal drops falling from the dark, glistening leaves. The brass gargoyle doorknocker eyed us balefully.
The driver dropped my bags at my feet.
“Funny they don’t have a night window or something.” He eyed the darkened house dubiously.
“Yeah, it’s not really that kind of a hotel.” I pulled a couple of bills out of my pocket, and he whistled.
He was still whistling—a cheery, ghostly little tune—as he trotted down the steps and jumped into his cab. As the red taillights disappeared through the gates, humid darkness closed in. I pressed the doorbell again, listening to it ring through the silent, sleeping house.
Once upon a time this had been my home. But that was a long time ago. I’d moved to New York over five years ago—when Aunt H. had announced she was marrying Ogden Hyde. It had been a shock at the time, but really, Ogden had turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. Without the spur of his arrival in Aunt Halcyone’s life, I’d probably still be living at home, writing my column for the New Fillmore, and hanging out with old college pals who were equally afraid to test their wings. As it was, I had taken the leap and moved to the Big Apple with Greg. I was now the theater critic for New York Magazine. Even removing Greg from the equation, it really didn’t get a lot better than that.
Or if it did, I didn’t want to know.
I had been back twice. For Aunt H.’s wedding, and for Ogden’s funeral. Aunt H. came to New York for theater season every year, so it wasn’t as though we hadn’t seen each other. I called her every few weeks. Well, perhaps not as often as I imagined, given that the summons home came out of the blue.
Rain, surprisingly cold for August, was dripping on my head and trickling down the back of my neck. Somewhere out in the wet, wind-whipped darkness, a dog began to howl, and I felt like howling with him. I leaned into the doorbell.
Where the hell was—
A white crescent appeared behind the fanlight. I stopped pressing the doorbell. The door creaked open, and a pale, suspicious eye peered out at me.
“Yes?”
I recognized the voice, if not the lack of welcome. “Hello? Tarrant? It’s me. Artemus. Artemus Bancroft.”
“Mr. Artemus?” His colorless eyes widened. “Mrs. Bancroft say you are not coming until tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m here now. I decided to catch an earlier flight.”
Tarrant didn’t open the door. “The house has all gone to bed.”
“So I see.” What the…? Was I supposed to leave and come back tomorrow because I’d arrived before check-in? With twenty-five rooms, I was pretty sure they could squeeze me in somewhere. I said impatiently, “Would you mind letting me in? I’m getting soaked out here.”
He widened the door but made no attempt to assist as I carried my bags over the threshold. I dropped them with a landslide of thumps on the gold-and-black Aubusson carpet.
We stood in the grand central hall with its sweeping white staircase and eight-arm macaroni bead crystal chandelier. A giant gilt-framed portrait of my aunt, painted right before her marriage to Edwin Bancroft, gazed bemusedly down at me from the first landing. She had been twenty-one at the time, and I had grown up thinking she was quite a mature lady in that portrait. Now that I was thirty, she looked like a kid to me.
“You should have called,” Tarrant said.
I didn’t think I imagined the hint of accusation in his voice. I took a good look at him. The absence of his dentures gave his face a caved-in look. He was wrapped in what looked like one of those original gray-and-white plaid Beacon bathrobes from the 1930s. It grazed his bony, bare ankles. Not that I expected him to be dressed at two in the morning, but I’d never seen him anything but immaculate in his severe black and snowy white butler’s garb. It was like sneaking a peek behind the stage curtain. It sort of took away the magic.
“Aunt H. sounded like the situation might be urgent.”
“Situation? Urgent?” He seemed more confused—and affronted—than ever.
“Right. Anyway, sorry to drag you up at this hour. If you want to tell me which room I’m staying in?”
“Your old room, of course. It has been made ready for you.” He stooped to lift one of my suitcases, and nearly dropped it. “What is it that is in there?” His pale gaze was reproachful.
“I’ll carry them up.”
I reached for the suitcase and he turned away, swinging the suitcase away from me.
“I have got it!”
“Really, Tarrant. There’s no reason I can’t—”
I was talking to his back as he lumbered unsteadily toward the staircase. Short of tackling him and wresting the suitcase away, there wasn’t much I could do. I followed him, swallowing my exasperation. He was an old man now. Nearly eighty. Time to retire, really, but it would have to be his choice. Aunt H. would never put him out to pasture against his wishes.
“How’s Betty?” I asked when we had safely reached the second landing.
Tarrant’s daughter was named Ulyanna. For some reason, in my younger days, I’d thought it was funny to rename her Betty. Fortunately, Betty had thought it was funny too.
Betty had replaced the late Mrs. Tarrant as cook and housekeeper. There had been Tarrants at Green Lanterns nearly as long as there had been Bancrofts.
“Poorly,” Tarrant said grimly. “Very poorly.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She is not a young woman! The house is too big for her,” he burst out.
“Oh? Well…” I wasn’t sure what to say. The outburst was as out-of-character as all the rest of this.
“We cannot get any help now. Twenty-five rooms and the girl is only coming twice a week.”
“What girl? What happened to Mabel and Cora?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Left. Packed their things, like the rest of them. They run off like scared rabbits.”
“But why?” I couldn’t understand it. Aunt H. had her faults, but she paid well and treated her staff with affectionate respect. “Mabel must have been with Aunt H. ten years at least. And Cora must have been nearly that long. Didn’t her mother work here before her?”
“Superstitious nonsense,” muttered Tarrant. He dropped my suitcase on the pale blue and ivory runner and mopped his forehead.
“Here. Let me—”
His look of outrage stopped me mid-reach.
I pretended we had simply paused for a bit of sightseeing, gazing around the landing as though I’d never seen it before. In fact, I never had seen it before. Not like this. The carpet smelled musty, and a film of dust coated the railing and edges of the bannister. There was even a cobweb—granted, a tiny one—on one of the brass wall sconces. The very light seemed faded and tired.
“How many guests are staying here?” I asked.
Tarrant picked up the suitcase again. “None.”
“None? But I thought—”
“People are saying the house is haunted.” His gaze was bleak.
“Haunted,” I repeated. And then, when it was clear he was not joking—not that he had ever been one for joking, “Haunted?”
“That is right. Yes. Haunted.”
“Who’s supposed to be…” I stopped. My heart sank. “Oh no. Is Ogden supposed to be haunting the place?”
Dour satisfaction gleamed in Tarrant’s eyes. “That is one opinion. Is not the only opinion.”
“Why the hell would Ogden haunt this house? He barely lived in it. If anyone ought to haunt Green Lanterns, it’s Edwin. He loved the place.”
Green Lanterns had been in my family for generations. Edwin Bancroft had been a distant cousin of my aunt’s, so he’d spent a lot of his youth in the house even though it had not been his official home until he and Aunt H. had tied the knot.
“It is not for me to say.”
“It’s bull—nonsense. The girls got tired of having to maintain such a big house or didn’t like the place being turned into a hotel. That’s all. They felt guilty about taking jobs that suited them better, so they cooked up some ridiculous story.” Even as I said it, I felt the wrongness of it. Mabel had been blunt and forthright. I couldn’t imagine her lying about her reasons for leaving. Neither woman had been the fanciful type.
Tarrant turned away. “That may be, Mr. Artemus. We hire two new maids last month. They stay for one night. Both left the next morning, with same story. The only new help we can keep is the gardener. And he do not sleep in the house.”
I stared at his retreating back.
“Why would Ogden haunt this house?” I demanded. “What are people saying?”
Tarrant stopped, giving me a funny sideways look. “People talk foolishness.”
“I know people talk foolishness. What foolishness are they saying about my aunt?”
His struggle seemed genuine. He said at last, “Only that Mr. Hyde’s accident is maybe not an accident.”
“What?”
“It is gossip. That is all. People say maybe police hurry their investigation because Chief Kingsland is such great friend of Mrs. Bancroft.”
“They suspect Aunt H.?”
He shook his head quickly. “No. Not that so much. More they say there was not a real investigation.”
I had no response to that. We went up the next flight of stairs in silence.
The family suites were on this level. Aunt H.’s rooms at the far end. Liana, Ogden’s sister, near the staircase. My old rooms between them.
Tarrant stopped in front of a heavy oak door and threw it open. “Everything is as it was,” he announced as he switched on the light.
He was right about that, although hopefully the sheets had been changed. A giant bed with a brown velvet canopy and draperies fringed with gold dominated the long room. At the far end was a marble fireplace. The tables and dressers were all marble-topped. Bronze and gold Persian carpets. Brown velvet draperies looped back with gold tassels. Ridiculous accommodations for a seven-year-old boy, but this had been my father’s room, and Aunt H. had decreed that I would grow into it. And I did, sort of, although my apartment in New York was furnished a lot more simply and cozily.
Everything was familiar—except the cold. The house had always felt warm, alive, welcoming.
I shivered. “It feels chilly for August.”
“The furnace, it is out,” Tarrant replied with gloomy satisfaction. “The man is supposed to come yesterday. He did not. The fire is laid.” He nodded at the fireplace, where a couple of logs and twists of kindling had been stacked on the grate, but made no move to light it.
In fact, he stood eyeing me, purple-veined hands at his sides nervously plucking at the nap of his robe. Was he trying to decide whether to speak or not? I couldn’t tell, but I felt uncomfortable, unwelcome, under his somber stare.
“Was there something else?” I asked.
An unreadable emotion flickered across his face, but his features smoothed into blankness. “Good night, Mr. Artemus.” He turned away.
After he had gone, I touched a match to the kindling and watched as a tiny blue flame licked through the twigs and newspaper, catching at the larger log with a comfortable crackling sound. I put my hands out toward the heat.
It was late, that was all. Tarrant had been half asleep and grouchy at being hauled out of bed at this ungodly hour. He was always a little on the eccentric side. They all were in this house.
I was no exception, according to Greg.
Even so, and despite my exhaustion, I was too uneasy to sleep. I rose and began to unpack, quietly sliding open drawers and cupboard doors. The closets and bureau smelled of mothballs. I glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. Two-thirty. Maybe I’d slip downstairs and get a drink from the liquor cabinet. Assuming the liquor cabinet was where I remembered it. Nothing else had really changed, at least not as far as location. In other ways…everything had changed.
There was a soft tap on the door.
I knew that tentative knock. Smiling, I went to answer it.
Aunt H. stood in the hall. She wore a pink silk brocade dressing gown and a sleepy smile. “Welcome home, dear Artie!”
We hugged tightly, and I kissed my aunt’s cheek, which was soft and warm—as if she was the only living thing in this house. She smelled like Chanel No˚5 and apple blossom soap—scents straight out of my childhood. When she rested her head briefly on my shoulder, I felt a sudden onrush of protective tenderness that closed my throat. I hadn’t realized how much I missed her—or how worried I’d been.
She held me tightly for a moment, then pushed back. To my alarm, I thought I saw a glitter of tears in her eyes. I could only remember her crying once before, and that was at the funeral of my father and mother.
“Let me look at you!” Auntie H. said. “Still handsome as ever! I suppose you’ve been breaking hearts up and down Broadway now that Gregory is out of the picture.”
I laughed. “Hardly. I’m too busy dashing the dreams and desires of starstruck kids and hacks old enough to know better. How are you, me old darling?”
“Wonderful, now that you’re here. I’ve missed you so, Artie.”
She was still smiling, but the smile couldn’t hide the worrying change in her appearance. Aunt H. had always looked much younger than her years, and after all, fifty-five wasn’t that old, but in the months since Ogden had passed, she seemed to have aged a decade. There were grooves in her cheeks and forehead, lines around her blue eyes, and deep creases running from her nose to mouth. That wasn’t age, though; it was worry and tension. I could see the strain in her eyes. Even her slim, sturdy body had grown small and frail, as if she’d been buffeted by too many hard winds.
“What the hell has been happening?” I asked, and I couldn’t hide my consternation.
“Oh!” Her gaze evaded mine. “Now that you’re here, I wonder if I’ve…”
“If you’ve what?”
“Let things…get me down. So much has happened. I can’t blame it all on Liana.” Abruptly, she turned away, clearing a space on the bed and sitting.
“Liana. What’s Liana got to do with it?”
“You know how close she and Ogden were.”
Yep, and I’d always thought it was a little peculiar, but then I’d been an only child. “I realize Ogden’s death must have been hard on her. It was hard on you too.”
“Yes. Of course. But Liana is…older.”
What the hell did that mean?
“You were his wife. How could it possibly be harder for Liana?”
She was avoiding my gaze again. “She’s always been very sensitive.”
I snorted.
“But she has, Artie. Anyway, she was in shock at first. We both were. But after the funeral, I think it all hit her. Very hard. That’s when everything began to change.”
“What everything?”
“Liana locked herself in her room and refuses to see anyone except me and the Tarrants. And Roma, of course. She’s become a-a literal recluse.”
“Liana?” I wasn’t sure who Roma was, but this picture of Liana as a hermit was hard to believe. Liana Hyde-Kent put the word social in socialite. Okay, it was to be expected she might take a break from the endless rounds of luncheons and cocktail parties and charity balls while she was in deep mourning, but Ogden had been gone for a year. Close enough.
“She just sits up there, day after day, with the drapes drawn, dealing out tarot cards.”
“Tarot cards. Seriously?”
Aunt H. nodded. “That’s not the worst of it.”
“What’s the worst of it?”
“Roma Loveridge.”
“And she is—”
“A medium.”
“A…”
“Yes. A medium. A very odd person.”
“Well, yeah. I would say so.”
Aunt H. threw me a quick, chiding look. “Not because she’s a medium. I know you’re a skeptic, but there are more things in heaven and earth.”
“That’s right, Horatio. There’s fire and water.”
She laughed and caught my hand, gripping it tight. “I have missed you so much, dear.”
“I’m not surprised, with Liana locked in the attic and the very odd Roma Lovebridge for company.”
“Loveridge, dear. The thing is, Liana seems to live for those séances. For the chance to speak to Ogden once more.”
I recalled Tarrant’s comments about the maids claiming to have seen ghosts. No wonder, with this kind of bullshit going on. I said, “Isn’t it time Liana was thinking of getting a place of her own again?”
Aunt H.’s eyes widened. “Throw her out?”
“I’m sure there’s a tactful way to dislodge her.”
Aunt H. looked pained. “Oh, Artie. I couldn’t do that to her. Especially now.”
“Especially now is when a change of venue might be good. For everyone involved.”
As mentioned, I always thought Liana’s attachment to Ogden was the stuff of bad seventies’ horror flicks.
“But this is where she’s…comfortable. This has been her home for so many years. And I know what you’re going to say, but this is where she’s been able to make contact.”
Aunt H. lifted her chin with self-conscious stubbornness under my scrutiny.
“My darling Auntie,” I said. “It’s one thing to be open-minded about the possibility of the supernatural. It’s another to bundle the Psychic Hotline with other phone and Internet services. Don’t tell me you believe Liana is up there chatting with Ogden over a friendly hand of tarot cards?”
“Well, no. That is, Roma uses a Ouija board to speak to Ogden.” She clutched my hand more tightly. “Artemus, please don’t look at me like that. The thing is, Roma might be an oddball, but I’m absolutely convinced that she is not faking.”
A log settled, shooting a shower of sparks upward.
“No?” I said. “All right, then. What do I know? I guess I’d like to believe there was life after death.”
Aunt H. said eagerly, “After all, the greatest religions in the world are founded on the idea of life after death.”
“True enough.” I was still neutral, still doing my best not to show my increasing dismay.
Aunt H.’s eyes searched my face as though trying to determine if I was sincere or not.
In the ensuing silence, a gust of wind outside rattled the windows. Somewhere overhead a floorboard creaked. My aunt’s hand seemed to go ice-cold. Her face had suddenly gone very white.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Shhh!” Aunt Halcyone put a finger to her lips. “Don’t you hear it?” she whispered.
“Hear what?” I tried not to show how freaked out I was by this, but I was pretty sure a photo would show my hair standing up in porcupine quills.
“Someone walking…”
I listened. “It’s the wind. A couple of floorboards settling. That’s all. That’s what you used to tell me,” I reminded her gently.
Her eyes flashed to my face. “We can’t keep servants anymore. Only the Tarrants. The others have all left.”
“Tarrant told me. Superstitious nonsense.”
“I don’t know, Artie. There are so many strange things happening here.”
I wrapped an arm around my aunt’s slender shoulders. “Of course it’s nonsense. Don’t tell me you’re starting to get caught up in Liana’s fantasies?”
“It might not be fantasy. If she and Roma have truly managed to contact Ogden—”
Once again I had to hope my expression didn’t give me away.
I said firmly, “Now look, darling. You’re tired. It’s late. We’re starting to go in circles with this. We’ll talk in the morning. How about that?”
“But the thing is…” Halcyone lifted stricken eyes to mine. “Oh, Artie. If it’s true—”
“It’s not true. How can it be?”
“If it is true, Ogden says…”
I sighed. “What? What does Ogden say?”
“Ogden says he was murdered!”
Cowboys & Vampires by Hank Edwards
The thing across the room finally managed to find its balance. The books it had knocked from the table lay in tatters at its feet. Bright white gashes marred the surface of the side table she had lovingly polished so often over the years. Agnes stood, long skirt twisted around her legs, blouse torn in several places to reveal pale skin beneath. Her head hung down, chin against her chest, silver hair a long curtain that hid her face from his view.
Until the thing slowly turned its head and locked its cold, dead gaze on him.
Nothing of Agnes remained. Josh swallowed hard, feeling as if a large, hot stone had been stuffed in his throat. The fire burned fierce now, and sweat coursed down his body. His fingers fumbled with the rifle, working to cock it, his eyes locked on the thing as it turned and took a lurching, unsteady step toward him. Hands that had soothed his forehead when he had been sick with fever and held wet cloths to his skinned knees curled now into claws, eager to tear into him.
Josh double-checked to make sure the rifle's safety was off and that he had chambered a shell, then dried his palms on his breeches again. He took several deep breaths, watching as the thing lurched closer, its hands reaching out, fingers stiff, dirty nails ready to gouge his flesh. It was halfway across the room. Another five staggering steps and it would be upon him.
He stood and raised the rifle to take aim. His hands shook as the thing moved closer, its foot stomping hard against the floor. He licked his lips and dried his eyes on his sleeve. The lamp flame flickered again, slinging shadows around the room and across Agnes' chest.
As it approached, its steps became more certain. It was learning to walk again, and fast.
Josh blinked and thought back to Agnes's lessons on shooting. He could almost feel her standing behind him, arms around his shoulders, lips close to his ear as she said, "Don't pull the trigger. Squeeze it. Slow and steady."
"I'm sorry," he whispered and squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked in his hand and the flash lit the room, burning an image of Agnes's cruel, hungry face on his mind.
The thing jerked back, a dark hole blossoming on the blouse covering its left shoulder. It took a step back, seemed to hesitate a moment, then stepped toward him again.
Josh cocked the gun and moved around behind the chair, raising the rifle to his shoulder. His vision blurred and a tear slid down his cheek, forcing him to dry his eyes on his sleeve.
He shot her again and let out a frustrated, horrified gasp as the bullet tore into her throat. Her head snapped back and she staggered a few steps, hands reaching up to cover the black hole in her skin. Josh could see her jaw working as if she were trying to swallow the lead, then she lifted her head and pinned her cold, dead eyes on him.
"Agnes," he said, his voice high-pitched and strained in the room. "You gotta stay dead. You would not want to live like this."
He worked the lever of the rifle and, even as his blood practically boiled beneath his skin, a cold clutch of fear gripped his stomach when the lever froze in the open position. Jammed.
"Shit," he hissed and looked down at the weapon. He struggled with it, sweat running off his nose and dripping onto the rifle, leaving dark drops on the wood stock.
Cold fingers gripped his arm and he screamed. Jerking his head up, he found Agnes reaching over the rocking chair, the back of it bouncing between them and keeping her from getting a good purchase. Her mouth stretched wide, saliva spilling over her lower lip, teeth glowing in the lamplight.
Josh jerked his arm free and the thing staggered, unbalanced by his sudden movement and the rocking chair. It looked down at the chair a moment and Josh could almost see it thinking, figuring out it kept them apart. It pushed the rocker aside and reached for him again, eyes shadowed now with the lamp behind it.
He stepped away, his back coming up against the wall, and he realized he was cornered. It had trapped him.
His fingers continued to work the jammed lever as the thing advanced. It dug cold, cruel fingers into his shoulders and leaned in, mouth wide. He braced himself against the wall and kicked it hard in the stomach. The thing staggered back, nails tearing through his shirt and digging furrows into his skin.
Josh cried out and jerked on the lever again. It moved this time and he felt the shell seat itself before the lever closed.
It was coming for him, fingers clutching for purchase.
He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, closed one eye, lined up the sight on the middle of the thing's forehead, and squeezed the trigger.
Thaw by Jordan Castillo Price
I’m the last guy in the world who cares about sports, whether we’re talking about the Cubs, Sox, Bulls or Bears, or for that matter anything even remotely athletic. So I was a little surprised when Jacob suggested that we take a trip downtown to go ice skating. But nowhere near as surprised as he was when I told him I thought it was a great idea.
What Jacob didn’t know was that I’d played pee-wee hockey the winter I was eleven. (I didn’t give a rat’s ass about hockey. I had a crush on the goalie.) And what I didn’t know was that the ice rink would look so cool after sunset. All the bare trees along Michigan Avenue had been wrapped in white Christmas lights, and the whole Chicago skyline blazed behind them. Millennium Park was insanely cold, but it was gorgeous.
Jacob must have figured out that I could skate before we even got out on the ice. Not only is he smart that way, but I’m about as easy to read as a billboard. Even so, he still spent more time checking me out than he did enjoying the scenery. It’s weird, the way he stares. He doesn’t stop when I catch him at it. He just smiles a little.
Chapter One
Insanity runs in my family.
That should go without saying. What the hell else could explain what I was doing sitting in a cab outside the Green Lanterns Inn at that time of night.
“This is it,” the driver said when I showed no sign of moving. And when I still made no sign, he said helpfully, “Green Lanterns Inn.”
Summer rain beat down, fat silver drops blistering against the windshield. The wipers squeaked out each second, dashing the rain away, illuminating the ivy-covered building before us for an instant before the scene melted away again. The seven eponymous brass lanterns were dark in the yellow glare of the car’s high beams. Not a light shone in the entire house.
But then at two o’clock in the morning, I’d have been surprised—even alarmed—to find a light on.
I felt ridiculous. I should have asked Aunt Halcyone for clarification. Insisted on a little more information. It wasn’t like me. But I’d felt her unease, her uncertainty in that last letter, and that was what had sent me jetting across the country. I could not ever remember my aunt admitting she was in over her head—let alone asking for my help.
Come as soon as you can, Artie, Aunt H. had written. The situation has spiraled out of control. I need your cool head and strong shoulders.
I guess my shoulders are strong enough and my head is relatively cool, but she’d never required them before, not even when Ogden, her second husband, had died the year before. As for the situation spiraling out of control, I’d had no idea there was a situation.
Anyway, at the time Ogden had died, I’d been dealing with my own situation. Aunt H. had been as unenthusiastic about Greg as I’d been about Ogden, and refraining from saying I told you so had been about the best we could offer each other.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay for a while?” I’d said after the funeral.
“No, no. I’m all right. I just need a little time,” she had returned.
She had seemed all right. Sad, of course; weary but not broken. It would take more than one dead, philandering husband to break my dear old Auntie Halcyone. When two months later she’d phoned to say she had decided to turn Green Lanterns into an inn, she had sounded enthusiastic and upbeat—almost like her old self.
“You sure they’re open for business?” the cab driver asked.
“Uh…yes.” I sounded as doubtful as he did.
“Okay. Well.”
My words exactly. I opened the door. The driver jumped out and grabbed my bags from the trunk. Shoulders hunched against the rain, he followed me as I ran up the flight of shallow stone stairs to the shelter of an overhanging portico. Ivy draped over the roof, crystal drops falling from the dark, glistening leaves. The brass gargoyle doorknocker eyed us balefully.
The driver dropped my bags at my feet.
“Funny they don’t have a night window or something.” He eyed the darkened house dubiously.
“Yeah, it’s not really that kind of a hotel.” I pulled a couple of bills out of my pocket, and he whistled.
He was still whistling—a cheery, ghostly little tune—as he trotted down the steps and jumped into his cab. As the red taillights disappeared through the gates, humid darkness closed in. I pressed the doorbell again, listening to it ring through the silent, sleeping house.
Once upon a time this had been my home. But that was a long time ago. I’d moved to New York over five years ago—when Aunt H. had announced she was marrying Ogden Hyde. It had been a shock at the time, but really, Ogden had turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. Without the spur of his arrival in Aunt Halcyone’s life, I’d probably still be living at home, writing my column for the New Fillmore, and hanging out with old college pals who were equally afraid to test their wings. As it was, I had taken the leap and moved to the Big Apple with Greg. I was now the theater critic for New York Magazine. Even removing Greg from the equation, it really didn’t get a lot better than that.
Or if it did, I didn’t want to know.
I had been back twice. For Aunt H.’s wedding, and for Ogden’s funeral. Aunt H. came to New York for theater season every year, so it wasn’t as though we hadn’t seen each other. I called her every few weeks. Well, perhaps not as often as I imagined, given that the summons home came out of the blue.
Rain, surprisingly cold for August, was dripping on my head and trickling down the back of my neck. Somewhere out in the wet, wind-whipped darkness, a dog began to howl, and I felt like howling with him. I leaned into the doorbell.
Where the hell was—
A white crescent appeared behind the fanlight. I stopped pressing the doorbell. The door creaked open, and a pale, suspicious eye peered out at me.
“Yes?”
I recognized the voice, if not the lack of welcome. “Hello? Tarrant? It’s me. Artemus. Artemus Bancroft.”
“Mr. Artemus?” His colorless eyes widened. “Mrs. Bancroft say you are not coming until tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m here now. I decided to catch an earlier flight.”
Tarrant didn’t open the door. “The house has all gone to bed.”
“So I see.” What the…? Was I supposed to leave and come back tomorrow because I’d arrived before check-in? With twenty-five rooms, I was pretty sure they could squeeze me in somewhere. I said impatiently, “Would you mind letting me in? I’m getting soaked out here.”
He widened the door but made no attempt to assist as I carried my bags over the threshold. I dropped them with a landslide of thumps on the gold-and-black Aubusson carpet.
We stood in the grand central hall with its sweeping white staircase and eight-arm macaroni bead crystal chandelier. A giant gilt-framed portrait of my aunt, painted right before her marriage to Edwin Bancroft, gazed bemusedly down at me from the first landing. She had been twenty-one at the time, and I had grown up thinking she was quite a mature lady in that portrait. Now that I was thirty, she looked like a kid to me.
“You should have called,” Tarrant said.
I didn’t think I imagined the hint of accusation in his voice. I took a good look at him. The absence of his dentures gave his face a caved-in look. He was wrapped in what looked like one of those original gray-and-white plaid Beacon bathrobes from the 1930s. It grazed his bony, bare ankles. Not that I expected him to be dressed at two in the morning, but I’d never seen him anything but immaculate in his severe black and snowy white butler’s garb. It was like sneaking a peek behind the stage curtain. It sort of took away the magic.
“Aunt H. sounded like the situation might be urgent.”
“Situation? Urgent?” He seemed more confused—and affronted—than ever.
“Right. Anyway, sorry to drag you up at this hour. If you want to tell me which room I’m staying in?”
“Your old room, of course. It has been made ready for you.” He stooped to lift one of my suitcases, and nearly dropped it. “What is it that is in there?” His pale gaze was reproachful.
“I’ll carry them up.”
I reached for the suitcase and he turned away, swinging the suitcase away from me.
“I have got it!”
“Really, Tarrant. There’s no reason I can’t—”
I was talking to his back as he lumbered unsteadily toward the staircase. Short of tackling him and wresting the suitcase away, there wasn’t much I could do. I followed him, swallowing my exasperation. He was an old man now. Nearly eighty. Time to retire, really, but it would have to be his choice. Aunt H. would never put him out to pasture against his wishes.
“How’s Betty?” I asked when we had safely reached the second landing.
Tarrant’s daughter was named Ulyanna. For some reason, in my younger days, I’d thought it was funny to rename her Betty. Fortunately, Betty had thought it was funny too.
Betty had replaced the late Mrs. Tarrant as cook and housekeeper. There had been Tarrants at Green Lanterns nearly as long as there had been Bancrofts.
“Poorly,” Tarrant said grimly. “Very poorly.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She is not a young woman! The house is too big for her,” he burst out.
“Oh? Well…” I wasn’t sure what to say. The outburst was as out-of-character as all the rest of this.
“We cannot get any help now. Twenty-five rooms and the girl is only coming twice a week.”
“What girl? What happened to Mabel and Cora?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Left. Packed their things, like the rest of them. They run off like scared rabbits.”
“But why?” I couldn’t understand it. Aunt H. had her faults, but she paid well and treated her staff with affectionate respect. “Mabel must have been with Aunt H. ten years at least. And Cora must have been nearly that long. Didn’t her mother work here before her?”
“Superstitious nonsense,” muttered Tarrant. He dropped my suitcase on the pale blue and ivory runner and mopped his forehead.
“Here. Let me—”
His look of outrage stopped me mid-reach.
I pretended we had simply paused for a bit of sightseeing, gazing around the landing as though I’d never seen it before. In fact, I never had seen it before. Not like this. The carpet smelled musty, and a film of dust coated the railing and edges of the bannister. There was even a cobweb—granted, a tiny one—on one of the brass wall sconces. The very light seemed faded and tired.
“How many guests are staying here?” I asked.
Tarrant picked up the suitcase again. “None.”
“None? But I thought—”
“People are saying the house is haunted.” His gaze was bleak.
“Haunted,” I repeated. And then, when it was clear he was not joking—not that he had ever been one for joking, “Haunted?”
“That is right. Yes. Haunted.”
“Who’s supposed to be…” I stopped. My heart sank. “Oh no. Is Ogden supposed to be haunting the place?”
Dour satisfaction gleamed in Tarrant’s eyes. “That is one opinion. Is not the only opinion.”
“Why the hell would Ogden haunt this house? He barely lived in it. If anyone ought to haunt Green Lanterns, it’s Edwin. He loved the place.”
Green Lanterns had been in my family for generations. Edwin Bancroft had been a distant cousin of my aunt’s, so he’d spent a lot of his youth in the house even though it had not been his official home until he and Aunt H. had tied the knot.
“It is not for me to say.”
“It’s bull—nonsense. The girls got tired of having to maintain such a big house or didn’t like the place being turned into a hotel. That’s all. They felt guilty about taking jobs that suited them better, so they cooked up some ridiculous story.” Even as I said it, I felt the wrongness of it. Mabel had been blunt and forthright. I couldn’t imagine her lying about her reasons for leaving. Neither woman had been the fanciful type.
Tarrant turned away. “That may be, Mr. Artemus. We hire two new maids last month. They stay for one night. Both left the next morning, with same story. The only new help we can keep is the gardener. And he do not sleep in the house.”
I stared at his retreating back.
“Why would Ogden haunt this house?” I demanded. “What are people saying?”
Tarrant stopped, giving me a funny sideways look. “People talk foolishness.”
“I know people talk foolishness. What foolishness are they saying about my aunt?”
His struggle seemed genuine. He said at last, “Only that Mr. Hyde’s accident is maybe not an accident.”
“What?”
“It is gossip. That is all. People say maybe police hurry their investigation because Chief Kingsland is such great friend of Mrs. Bancroft.”
“They suspect Aunt H.?”
He shook his head quickly. “No. Not that so much. More they say there was not a real investigation.”
I had no response to that. We went up the next flight of stairs in silence.
The family suites were on this level. Aunt H.’s rooms at the far end. Liana, Ogden’s sister, near the staircase. My old rooms between them.
Tarrant stopped in front of a heavy oak door and threw it open. “Everything is as it was,” he announced as he switched on the light.
He was right about that, although hopefully the sheets had been changed. A giant bed with a brown velvet canopy and draperies fringed with gold dominated the long room. At the far end was a marble fireplace. The tables and dressers were all marble-topped. Bronze and gold Persian carpets. Brown velvet draperies looped back with gold tassels. Ridiculous accommodations for a seven-year-old boy, but this had been my father’s room, and Aunt H. had decreed that I would grow into it. And I did, sort of, although my apartment in New York was furnished a lot more simply and cozily.
Everything was familiar—except the cold. The house had always felt warm, alive, welcoming.
I shivered. “It feels chilly for August.”
“The furnace, it is out,” Tarrant replied with gloomy satisfaction. “The man is supposed to come yesterday. He did not. The fire is laid.” He nodded at the fireplace, where a couple of logs and twists of kindling had been stacked on the grate, but made no move to light it.
In fact, he stood eyeing me, purple-veined hands at his sides nervously plucking at the nap of his robe. Was he trying to decide whether to speak or not? I couldn’t tell, but I felt uncomfortable, unwelcome, under his somber stare.
“Was there something else?” I asked.
An unreadable emotion flickered across his face, but his features smoothed into blankness. “Good night, Mr. Artemus.” He turned away.
After he had gone, I touched a match to the kindling and watched as a tiny blue flame licked through the twigs and newspaper, catching at the larger log with a comfortable crackling sound. I put my hands out toward the heat.
It was late, that was all. Tarrant had been half asleep and grouchy at being hauled out of bed at this ungodly hour. He was always a little on the eccentric side. They all were in this house.
I was no exception, according to Greg.
Even so, and despite my exhaustion, I was too uneasy to sleep. I rose and began to unpack, quietly sliding open drawers and cupboard doors. The closets and bureau smelled of mothballs. I glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. Two-thirty. Maybe I’d slip downstairs and get a drink from the liquor cabinet. Assuming the liquor cabinet was where I remembered it. Nothing else had really changed, at least not as far as location. In other ways…everything had changed.
There was a soft tap on the door.
I knew that tentative knock. Smiling, I went to answer it.
Aunt H. stood in the hall. She wore a pink silk brocade dressing gown and a sleepy smile. “Welcome home, dear Artie!”
We hugged tightly, and I kissed my aunt’s cheek, which was soft and warm—as if she was the only living thing in this house. She smelled like Chanel No˚5 and apple blossom soap—scents straight out of my childhood. When she rested her head briefly on my shoulder, I felt a sudden onrush of protective tenderness that closed my throat. I hadn’t realized how much I missed her—or how worried I’d been.
She held me tightly for a moment, then pushed back. To my alarm, I thought I saw a glitter of tears in her eyes. I could only remember her crying once before, and that was at the funeral of my father and mother.
“Let me look at you!” Auntie H. said. “Still handsome as ever! I suppose you’ve been breaking hearts up and down Broadway now that Gregory is out of the picture.”
I laughed. “Hardly. I’m too busy dashing the dreams and desires of starstruck kids and hacks old enough to know better. How are you, me old darling?”
“Wonderful, now that you’re here. I’ve missed you so, Artie.”
She was still smiling, but the smile couldn’t hide the worrying change in her appearance. Aunt H. had always looked much younger than her years, and after all, fifty-five wasn’t that old, but in the months since Ogden had passed, she seemed to have aged a decade. There were grooves in her cheeks and forehead, lines around her blue eyes, and deep creases running from her nose to mouth. That wasn’t age, though; it was worry and tension. I could see the strain in her eyes. Even her slim, sturdy body had grown small and frail, as if she’d been buffeted by too many hard winds.
“What the hell has been happening?” I asked, and I couldn’t hide my consternation.
“Oh!” Her gaze evaded mine. “Now that you’re here, I wonder if I’ve…”
“If you’ve what?”
“Let things…get me down. So much has happened. I can’t blame it all on Liana.” Abruptly, she turned away, clearing a space on the bed and sitting.
“Liana. What’s Liana got to do with it?”
“You know how close she and Ogden were.”
Yep, and I’d always thought it was a little peculiar, but then I’d been an only child. “I realize Ogden’s death must have been hard on her. It was hard on you too.”
“Yes. Of course. But Liana is…older.”
What the hell did that mean?
“You were his wife. How could it possibly be harder for Liana?”
She was avoiding my gaze again. “She’s always been very sensitive.”
I snorted.
“But she has, Artie. Anyway, she was in shock at first. We both were. But after the funeral, I think it all hit her. Very hard. That’s when everything began to change.”
“What everything?”
“Liana locked herself in her room and refuses to see anyone except me and the Tarrants. And Roma, of course. She’s become a-a literal recluse.”
“Liana?” I wasn’t sure who Roma was, but this picture of Liana as a hermit was hard to believe. Liana Hyde-Kent put the word social in socialite. Okay, it was to be expected she might take a break from the endless rounds of luncheons and cocktail parties and charity balls while she was in deep mourning, but Ogden had been gone for a year. Close enough.
“She just sits up there, day after day, with the drapes drawn, dealing out tarot cards.”
“Tarot cards. Seriously?”
Aunt H. nodded. “That’s not the worst of it.”
“What’s the worst of it?”
“Roma Loveridge.”
“And she is—”
“A medium.”
“A…”
“Yes. A medium. A very odd person.”
“Well, yeah. I would say so.”
Aunt H. threw me a quick, chiding look. “Not because she’s a medium. I know you’re a skeptic, but there are more things in heaven and earth.”
“That’s right, Horatio. There’s fire and water.”
She laughed and caught my hand, gripping it tight. “I have missed you so much, dear.”
“I’m not surprised, with Liana locked in the attic and the very odd Roma Lovebridge for company.”
“Loveridge, dear. The thing is, Liana seems to live for those séances. For the chance to speak to Ogden once more.”
I recalled Tarrant’s comments about the maids claiming to have seen ghosts. No wonder, with this kind of bullshit going on. I said, “Isn’t it time Liana was thinking of getting a place of her own again?”
Aunt H.’s eyes widened. “Throw her out?”
“I’m sure there’s a tactful way to dislodge her.”
Aunt H. looked pained. “Oh, Artie. I couldn’t do that to her. Especially now.”
“Especially now is when a change of venue might be good. For everyone involved.”
As mentioned, I always thought Liana’s attachment to Ogden was the stuff of bad seventies’ horror flicks.
“But this is where she’s…comfortable. This has been her home for so many years. And I know what you’re going to say, but this is where she’s been able to make contact.”
Aunt H. lifted her chin with self-conscious stubbornness under my scrutiny.
“My darling Auntie,” I said. “It’s one thing to be open-minded about the possibility of the supernatural. It’s another to bundle the Psychic Hotline with other phone and Internet services. Don’t tell me you believe Liana is up there chatting with Ogden over a friendly hand of tarot cards?”
“Well, no. That is, Roma uses a Ouija board to speak to Ogden.” She clutched my hand more tightly. “Artemus, please don’t look at me like that. The thing is, Roma might be an oddball, but I’m absolutely convinced that she is not faking.”
A log settled, shooting a shower of sparks upward.
“No?” I said. “All right, then. What do I know? I guess I’d like to believe there was life after death.”
Aunt H. said eagerly, “After all, the greatest religions in the world are founded on the idea of life after death.”
“True enough.” I was still neutral, still doing my best not to show my increasing dismay.
Aunt H.’s eyes searched my face as though trying to determine if I was sincere or not.
In the ensuing silence, a gust of wind outside rattled the windows. Somewhere overhead a floorboard creaked. My aunt’s hand seemed to go ice-cold. Her face had suddenly gone very white.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Shhh!” Aunt Halcyone put a finger to her lips. “Don’t you hear it?” she whispered.
“Hear what?” I tried not to show how freaked out I was by this, but I was pretty sure a photo would show my hair standing up in porcupine quills.
“Someone walking…”
I listened. “It’s the wind. A couple of floorboards settling. That’s all. That’s what you used to tell me,” I reminded her gently.
Her eyes flashed to my face. “We can’t keep servants anymore. Only the Tarrants. The others have all left.”
“Tarrant told me. Superstitious nonsense.”
“I don’t know, Artie. There are so many strange things happening here.”
I wrapped an arm around my aunt’s slender shoulders. “Of course it’s nonsense. Don’t tell me you’re starting to get caught up in Liana’s fantasies?”
“It might not be fantasy. If she and Roma have truly managed to contact Ogden—”
Once again I had to hope my expression didn’t give me away.
I said firmly, “Now look, darling. You’re tired. It’s late. We’re starting to go in circles with this. We’ll talk in the morning. How about that?”
“But the thing is…” Halcyone lifted stricken eyes to mine. “Oh, Artie. If it’s true—”
“It’s not true. How can it be?”
“If it is true, Ogden says…”
I sighed. “What? What does Ogden say?”
“Ogden says he was murdered!”
Cowboys & Vampires by Hank Edwards
The thing across the room finally managed to find its balance. The books it had knocked from the table lay in tatters at its feet. Bright white gashes marred the surface of the side table she had lovingly polished so often over the years. Agnes stood, long skirt twisted around her legs, blouse torn in several places to reveal pale skin beneath. Her head hung down, chin against her chest, silver hair a long curtain that hid her face from his view.
Until the thing slowly turned its head and locked its cold, dead gaze on him.
Nothing of Agnes remained. Josh swallowed hard, feeling as if a large, hot stone had been stuffed in his throat. The fire burned fierce now, and sweat coursed down his body. His fingers fumbled with the rifle, working to cock it, his eyes locked on the thing as it turned and took a lurching, unsteady step toward him. Hands that had soothed his forehead when he had been sick with fever and held wet cloths to his skinned knees curled now into claws, eager to tear into him.
Josh double-checked to make sure the rifle's safety was off and that he had chambered a shell, then dried his palms on his breeches again. He took several deep breaths, watching as the thing lurched closer, its hands reaching out, fingers stiff, dirty nails ready to gouge his flesh. It was halfway across the room. Another five staggering steps and it would be upon him.
He stood and raised the rifle to take aim. His hands shook as the thing moved closer, its foot stomping hard against the floor. He licked his lips and dried his eyes on his sleeve. The lamp flame flickered again, slinging shadows around the room and across Agnes' chest.
As it approached, its steps became more certain. It was learning to walk again, and fast.
Josh blinked and thought back to Agnes's lessons on shooting. He could almost feel her standing behind him, arms around his shoulders, lips close to his ear as she said, "Don't pull the trigger. Squeeze it. Slow and steady."
"I'm sorry," he whispered and squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked in his hand and the flash lit the room, burning an image of Agnes's cruel, hungry face on his mind.
The thing jerked back, a dark hole blossoming on the blouse covering its left shoulder. It took a step back, seemed to hesitate a moment, then stepped toward him again.
Josh cocked the gun and moved around behind the chair, raising the rifle to his shoulder. His vision blurred and a tear slid down his cheek, forcing him to dry his eyes on his sleeve.
He shot her again and let out a frustrated, horrified gasp as the bullet tore into her throat. Her head snapped back and she staggered a few steps, hands reaching up to cover the black hole in her skin. Josh could see her jaw working as if she were trying to swallow the lead, then she lifted her head and pinned her cold, dead eyes on him.
"Agnes," he said, his voice high-pitched and strained in the room. "You gotta stay dead. You would not want to live like this."
He worked the lever of the rifle and, even as his blood practically boiled beneath his skin, a cold clutch of fear gripped his stomach when the lever froze in the open position. Jammed.
"Shit," he hissed and looked down at the weapon. He struggled with it, sweat running off his nose and dripping onto the rifle, leaving dark drops on the wood stock.
Cold fingers gripped his arm and he screamed. Jerking his head up, he found Agnes reaching over the rocking chair, the back of it bouncing between them and keeping her from getting a good purchase. Her mouth stretched wide, saliva spilling over her lower lip, teeth glowing in the lamplight.
Josh jerked his arm free and the thing staggered, unbalanced by his sudden movement and the rocking chair. It looked down at the chair a moment and Josh could almost see it thinking, figuring out it kept them apart. It pushed the rocker aside and reached for him again, eyes shadowed now with the lamp behind it.
He stepped away, his back coming up against the wall, and he realized he was cornered. It had trapped him.
His fingers continued to work the jammed lever as the thing advanced. It dug cold, cruel fingers into his shoulders and leaned in, mouth wide. He braced himself against the wall and kicked it hard in the stomach. The thing staggered back, nails tearing through his shirt and digging furrows into his skin.
Josh cried out and jerked on the lever again. It moved this time and he felt the shell seat itself before the lever closed.
It was coming for him, fingers clutching for purchase.
He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, closed one eye, lined up the sight on the middle of the thing's forehead, and squeezed the trigger.
Thaw by Jordan Castillo Price
I’m the last guy in the world who cares about sports, whether we’re talking about the Cubs, Sox, Bulls or Bears, or for that matter anything even remotely athletic. So I was a little surprised when Jacob suggested that we take a trip downtown to go ice skating. But nowhere near as surprised as he was when I told him I thought it was a great idea.
What Jacob didn’t know was that I’d played pee-wee hockey the winter I was eleven. (I didn’t give a rat’s ass about hockey. I had a crush on the goalie.) And what I didn’t know was that the ice rink would look so cool after sunset. All the bare trees along Michigan Avenue had been wrapped in white Christmas lights, and the whole Chicago skyline blazed behind them. Millennium Park was insanely cold, but it was gorgeous.
Jacob must have figured out that I could skate before we even got out on the ice. Not only is he smart that way, but I’m about as easy to read as a billboard. Even so, he still spent more time checking me out than he did enjoying the scenery. It’s weird, the way he stares. He doesn’t stop when I catch him at it. He just smiles a little.
Josh Lanyon
Bestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
S.C. Wynne started writing m/m in 2013 and did look back once. She wanted to say that because it seems everyone’s bio says they never looked back and, well S.C. Wynne is all about the joke. She loves writing m/m and her characters are usually a little jaded, funny and ultimately redeemed through love.
S.C loves red wine, margaritas and Seven and Seven’s. Yes, apparently S.C. Wynne is incredibly thirsty. S.C. Wynne loves the rain and should really live in Seattle but instead has landed in sunny, sunny, unbelievably sunny California. Writing is the best profession she could have chosen because S.C. is a little bit of a control freak. To sit in her pajamas all day and pound the keys of her laptop controlling the every thought and emotion of the characters she invents is a dream come true.
If you’d like to contact S.C. Wynne she is amusing herself on Facebook at all hours of the day or you can contact her at scwynne@scwynne.com.
Hank Edwards has been writing gay fiction for more than twenty years. He has published over thirty novels and dozens of short stories. His writing crosses many sub-genres, including romance, rom-com, contemporary, paranormal, suspense, mystery, and wacky comedy. He has written a number of series such as the suspenseful Up to Trouble, funny and spooky Critter Catchers, Old West historical horror of Venom Valley, and erotic and funny Fluffers, Inc. No matter what genre he writes, Hank likes to keep things steamy and heartfelt. He was born and still lives in a northwest suburb of the Motor City, Detroit, Michigan, where he shares a home with his partner of over 20 years and their two cats.
Jordan Castillo PriceAuthor and artist Jordan Castillo Price is the owner of JCP Books LLC. Her paranormal thrillers are colored by her time in the midwest, from inner city Chicago, to small town Wisconsin, to liberal Madison.
Jordan is best known as the author of the PsyCop series, an unfolding tale of paranormal mystery and suspense starring Victor Bayne, a gay medium who's plagued by ghostly visitations. Also check out her new series, Mnevermind, where memories are made...one client at a time.
With her education in fine arts and practical experience as a graphic designer, Jordan set out to create high quality ebooks with lavish cover art, quality editing and gripping content. The result is JCP Books, offering stories you'll want to read again and again.
Parker Williams began to write as a teen, but never showed his work to anyone. As he grew older, he drifted away from writing, but his love of the written word moved him to reading. A chance encounter with an author changed the course of his life as she encouraged him to never give up on a dream. With the help of some amazing friends, he rediscovered the joy of writing, thanks to a community of writers who have become his family.
Parker firmly believes in love, but is also of the opinion that anything worth having requires work and sacrifice (plus a little hurt and angst, too). The course of love is never a smooth one, and happily-ever-after always has a price tag.
Josh Lanyon
SMASHWORDS / iTUNES / SHELFARI
EMAIL: josh.lanyon@sbcglobal.net
SC Wynne
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / KOBO
EMAIL: scwynne@scwynne.com
Hank Edwards
FACEBOOK / TWITTER / FB FRIEND
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / KOBO
FB VENOM VALLEY / GOOGLE PLAY / B&N
INSTAGRAM / FB GROUP / AMAZON
PRIDE PUBLISHING / GOODREADS
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / KOBO
FB VENOM VALLEY / GOOGLE PLAY / B&N
INSTAGRAM / FB GROUP / AMAZON
PRIDE PUBLISHING / GOODREADS
Jordan Castillo Price
EMAILS: jordan@psycop.com
jcp.heat@gmail.com
Parker Williams
FACEBOOK / TWITTER / WEBSITE
KOBO / GOOGLE PLAY / AUDIBLE
SMASHWORDS / DREAMSPINNER / B&N
iTUNES / AMAZON / GOODREADS
KOBO / GOOGLE PLAY / AUDIBLE
SMASHWORDS / DREAMSPINNER / B&N
iTUNES / AMAZON / GOODREADS
EMAIL: parker@parkerwilliamsauthor.com
Seance on a Summer's Night by Josh Lanyon
B&N / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
Omega Kidnapped by SC Wynne
Cowboys & Vampires by Hank Edwards
Thaw by Jordan Castillo Price
👀Amazon US/UK, Audible, & Kobo included
in PsyCop Briefs V.1 a collection of shorts👀
👀Amazon US/UK, Audible, & Kobo included
in PsyCop Briefs V.1 a collection of shorts👀
Protector of the Alpha by Parker Williams
No comments:
Post a Comment