Present Tense by Jordan Castillo Price
Summary:
The ABCs of Spellcraft #8
Christmas is a festive time of year, one filled with food, family and tradition—Dixon Penn’s ideal holiday. Too bad Spellcrafters don’t celebrate Christmas.
Dixon’s parents have always been strict about their no-present rule, reluctant to entrap anyone in an “endless cycle of reciprocal obligation.”
Yuri Volnikov was not raised in the Craft, but Dixon has made sure he understands that for Spellcrafters, Christmas presents are verboten.
No gifts. None. Nada. And everyone is on the same page in regards to presents….
Or are they?
The ABCs of Spellcraft is a series filled with bad jokes and good magic, where MM Romance meets Paranormal Cozy. A perky hero, a brooding love interest, and delightfully twisty-turny stories that never end up quite where you’d expect. The books are best read in order, so be sure to start at the beginning with Quill Me Now.
This holiday short is set after What the Frack? and contains series spoilers.
Oh my gosh, Dixon Penn at Christmas? Talk about a character that was made for the holiday. In the world of magic you'd think conjuring up the perfect Christmas gift would be easy peasy but then again when did Dixon and Yuri ever do anything easy and without a few mishaps?
Present Tense is short, sweet, adorable, funny, and the way both Dixon and Yuri are left scrambling to come up with last minute gifts for the other is priceless. I don't want to say "predictable" because let's face it, when you are dealing with Dixon and Yuri(especially Dixon) nothing is predictable, nothing is certain other than their love for each other but you know Present Tense is going to end in HEA for the pair, so in that regard I know some might use the term but not me. As so often with great stories, the fun isn't in the ending but how they get there and this Christmas short is no different.
If you've been reading ABCs of Spellcraft as it's been written than you'll definitely want to read this holiday gem, if not . . . well what are you waiting for? Short, long, in-between, this series is brilliant and the characters are just so darn loveable you can't help but smile.
RATING:
Summary:
Legend Tripping #2
What do you do when you finally prove the existence of the otherworld, but the ghosts kick your ass?
For Trent Pielmeyer, the answer is run like hell—away from his hostile family, away from the disbelieving cops, and far, far, far away from anything that smacks of the supernatural. After seven years’ captivity in a whacked-out alternate dimension, he is so over legend tripping.
When Christophe Clavret spots Trent in a Portland bar, he detects a kindred spirit—another man attempting to outrun the darkness of his own soul. But despite their sizzling chemistry, Trent’s hatred of the uncanny makes Christophe hesitant to confide the truth: he’s a werewolf, one of a dwindling line, the victim of a genetic curse extending back to feudal Europe.
But dark forces are at work, threatening more than their growing love. If Christophe can’t win Trent’s trust, and if Trent can’t overcome his fear of the paranormal, the cost could be Trent’s freedom and Christophe’s humanity. Or it might be both their lives.
Summary:
Vampires are attempting to integrate into human society.
When Alec MacCarthy first meets a ‘haemophile’ in the flesh, it’s not the obvious dangers that frighten him.
Alec MacCarthy, Lord of Aviemore and largely-forgotten descendent of a once-proud family line, keeps the wolf from the door of the crumbling family mansion by restoring classic cars.
He leaves the real world alone and wishes nothing more than for it to return the favor. But in a reality where haemophiles—still colloquially known as vampires, despite the publicity campaigns—have come out of hiding and are attempting to integrate into human society, the real world is rapidly becoming a disrupted and conflicted mess that threatens to trouble even Alec in his remote Scottish hideaway.
When he unwittingly attends a Blood Party to please a friend, he has his first meeting with one of these mysterious and dangerous beings. Terje is like nothing he has ever encountered before…literally. His reactions are as troublesome as they are undeniable.
Alec’s snap decision to help the haemophile rather than sample his sense-heightening and addictive blood sets them both on a path that will lead them into a tangled web of intrigue with consequences that will change their lives—and the world—forever.
Reader advisory: This book contains scenes of violence, murder, kidnapping, blood stealing, drug use, addiction and blood drinking.
Summary:
Magic Emporium
Theodore Knight has a curious nature. Ever since he was a child, he’s loved books that are full of danger and adventure. In real life, he’s a simple bookstore owner. But in his imagination, he’s a hero who goes on great quests to save the princess, or in his case, the prince, from evil dragons.
Until one day, real life starts to look a lot like his imaginary world. . . and the fate of an entire kingdom rests on his shoulders. The world is more magical than he ever thought, and he will have to learn to accept the impossible as possible, if he and Samuel are to succeed.
Samuel Day had never journeyed to the human realm, and he sure didn't mean to get stuck there. That said, he’s found it all incredibly fascinating. Especially Theodore, the adorable human who holds a piece of the puzzle necessary to stop an evil immortal and save the magic realm known as Evorea. His loyalty is to his king, but it doesn’t take long for Theodore to become equally important.
They come from different realms and are as different as night and day, but together they have everything they need to save Evorea from ruin. They just have to find their way back there.
Knight and Day is part of the Magic Emporium Series. Each book stands alone, but each one features an appearance by Marden’s Magic Emporium, a shop that can appear anywhere, but only once and only when someone’s in dire need. This book contains a magic realm, a handsome guardian, one clueless human, and a guaranteed HEA.
Summary:
Offbeat Shifters #1
I’m being paid to spend a month on tour with Jesse Steele, to keep him safe and protect his image. Simple.
The first rule of being a bodyguard is never get involved with your client. It should have been easy to follow, but Jesse Steele is a beautiful, kind omega, who’s far more down to earth than a pop star has any right to be.
Someone discovering our tryst becomes the least of our worries when it becomes clear Jesse has a stalker.
Can I love Jesse and protect him, or will my emotions cloud my judgement and put him in danger?
Secretly Mine is an m/m paranormal romance with a protective tiger shifter, a sweet monkey shifter, lots of cuddles, secret kisses, and piggy back rides. Whilst it is set in an alternate universe where omegas give birth, there are no pregnancy or birth scenes in this book.
Trigger warning for mentions of infertility.
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Random Paranormal Tales of 2021
Present Tense by Jordan Castillo Price
He tilted his chin slightly. “I knew you must live here when we arrived. I could smell it. But the place looks like it belongs to someone else.”
I scrambled up into the trees, my hands and feet deftly gripping the trunk. I paused and studied Isaac’s tiger form. Now that his teeth and claws were well away from me, it was easier to appreciate how stunning he was. He was long and sleek, with thick black stripes breaking up his rusty orange fur. He looked up at me, his pale green eyes searching mine. He had to be wondering why I’d stopped to stare at him. Did he know how beautiful he was?
1
DIXON
Winter. It’s the time of year when frost etches pretty pictures on your windows and the world outside is nestled in a soft white blanket. A time when you get to snuggle up in your mismatched mittens, and no one comments on how many hot chocolates you’ve had—if you don’t start acting too hyper, anyhow.
I’ve always had a fondness for winter. And since there was snow on the ground and a nip in the air back when I first met Yuri, now I love it even more.
December is also traditionally a lucrative time for my people. While it’s widely known that Spellcraft has no business in politics or religion, nowadays Christmas is pretty secular. And who wouldn’t want to impress their special someone with a bespoke piece of Crafting?
My family had been working hard these past few weeks, and if my dad had his druthers, Practical Penn would be open on Christmas Eve to snag those last-minute shoppers. But our official Seer had negotiated Christmas Eve as one of his annual days off, and we didn’t dare break his contract by letting Yuri fill his shoes. Or wield his paintbrush, since shoes don’t really have anything to do with Spellcraft. And Rufus Clahd has unusually small feet.
Speaking of feet—there was still a bit of snow clinging to my shoes. I stomped it off on the welcome mat in my parents’ vestibule, then hung up my winter coat on the nearby coat tree. It was actually more like an alien life form than a tree, with a giant ball of winter coats up top that took up half the room. I’m not sure it was even possible to dig down to the innermost layers anymore. But if you did, you’d probably find something so old it had come back in style again. Maybe more than once.
My mother hustled in as I was draping my coat over the top of the coat-ball. Once my hands were free, she enveloped me in a big, squishy hug, and greeted me with, “Where’s Yuri?”
I adored the way she loved him as much as I did. “Picking up dinner.”
“That’s generous of him—but he really didn’t need to. We’ve got plenty of leftovers in the fridge.”
“What can I say? He insisted.” I steered Mom into the living room where my dad was clicking through channels from his favorite recliner. I gave him a kiss on the top of the head, then said, “You guys’ve both been working so hard lately, might as well let us pamper you.”
Mom settled into her chair with considerable arranging and re-arranging of her bulk—not unlike the way my cockatoo friend, Meringue, fastidiously fluffs her feathers as she’s settling onto her perch. “Just so it’s understood this isn’t a Christmas present.”
“Don’t worry, Mom, it’s not. He just wanted to do something nice.”
“Yuri might be a Seer, but he wasn’t raised in the Craft.”
“Trust me—I’m awesome at explaining our traditions. And Yuri knows. No gifts.”
Mom was skeptical. “Because there’s nothing less meaningful than being trapped into an endless cycle of reciprocal obligation with the people you’re supposed to love.”
“That’s just what I said.” Actually, it was more like, Spellcrafters don’t do Christmas presents. Same difference. “I think Yuri actually seemed pretty relieved.”
Dad paused in his channel-changing, looked at my mom and said, “Speaking of traditions, you told Dixon about the Magi…right?”
Normally, I would’ve presumed this was some kind of setup for a cheesy joke—except that my mother stopped rearranging herself and said, “I thought you did.”
“Magi?” I said. “As in the story about the guy who sold his pocket watch and the girl who cut off her hair?”
“As in the three wise men,” my mother said testily.
“That sounds kind of…biblical.” I could’ve sworn my mother thought the Bible was full of baloney. Speaking of which, I hoped Yuri remembered to grab us a nice relish tray, since I was feeling a mite peckish.
“I’m sure it’s all just superstition,” Dad said.
Mom gave him her patented single-squinty-eyeball look. “And since when does superstition stop a Spellcrafter from doing something? Everyone knows superstition is just the poor cousin of luck. The way my parents explained it to me, the Magi were the first Seer and Scrivener.”
I supposed legends had to start somewhere. “But aren’t there supposed to be three Magi?”
“The third guy was their customer,” Mom said. Huh, lucky him. I wonder if they Crafted a way for his camel to go faster…or at least not spit so much. “The Magi didn’t turn up for every single one of their messiah’s birthdays bearing gifts…just the first one. And so, it’s Scrivener tradition to surprise your partner with a small gift on your first Christmas together.”
“In fact,” my father said, “it’s bad luck if you don’t.”
“And you’re just telling me this now?”
Mom looked somewhat chagrined. “We meant to say something. You know how crazy it’s been at the shop.”
“And now I’ve got nothing for Yuri!” I scrambled to recall if I’d seen any stores open on our way over, but all I could think of was the car wash with the big inflatable noodle-guy flailing around in the parking lot. Was a premium car wash a good gift? Maybe for some people. But if I ran the pickup truck through the high-powered water jets, I’d likely blast off the rust that was holding on the fender. “It’s too late to shop online, and all the local stores are closed.”
“How about the gas station?” Mom suggested. “The one by the highway to Strangeberg is open twenty-four-seven.”
Dad set down the remote, pried himself from the recliner and dusted his hands together. “Before Dixon tries to figure out how to make an air freshener and a bag of pork rinds look festive, I suggest he take a gander at The Stash.”
The Stash was Dad’s collection of assorted useable objects that just needed a little TLC to bring them back to their former glory. In theory, it was a great resource for someone looking to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon tinkering at the workbench. But in reality, my father just can’t stand seeing anything of potential value being thrown away…and he likes gathering things a lot more than he likes fixing them. I wasn’t quite sure how much longer I could count on the supermarket keeping Yuri busy—but since those places are more cutthroat on Christmas Eve than a roller derby, I hoped I could head down to the basement and find some random item that would pass for a thoughtful gift.
Unfortunately, the current state of The Stash was less than encouraging. You’ve seen organizing shows where a stack of plastic bins makes a roomful of stuff miraculously fit onto a closet shelf? This wasn’t like that. At all. Cheap plastic storage containers teetered in tall stacks, and because they were all from some no-name bargain bin, most of them were cracked or warped, and none of them quite fit together.
Still, an invitation from my father to go through The Stash was not to be taken lightly. With Mom always hinting that she’d take great pleasure in throwing it all away, over the years he’d grown protective. But as I rifled through bin after cracked plastic bin, I wasn’t so sure there was anything there worth protecting. Jewelry—not even the good stuff, with its faux gemstones and plastic pearls scattered like ball bearings in the bottoms of the containers. Weird kitchen gadgets you might buy on TV when insomnia struck. Kitschy little statuettes that needed a touch-up to their paint job. And while I did know my way around a paintbrush—I’ve always been fond of flourishing—I strongly suspected Yuri was the wrong audience for the big-eyed baby statuettes and chubby-cheeked cherubs. He’s none too keen on looking at an inanimate object only to find it looking back.
“Aha!” my father said. “This looks promising.”
Too bad that exclamation could only work so many times. And since I couldn’t really see Yuri being particularly enthused over a broken foot massager or a promotional backscratcher, it took me a moment to realize precisely what had been plucked from the teetering stack. “Dad…is that what I think it is?”
“No clue. I’m still trying to get the top open.”
“That box you’re holding…it’s my favorite box!”
Dad looked skeptical. “It’s just your average cardboard box, Dixon.”
“You say average like it’s a bad thing—but just look at it. Not too big, not too small, not too flimsy, and not too thick. In short, it’s an absolutely perfect box. I thought it was long gone, smashed flat in some far distant recycling bin. But here it is!” I took it from his unresisting hands with a happy sigh. “In all its boxy glory.”
“And even better, if you look inside, you might find something for Yuri.”
After a few tries, the old cellophane tape yielded to my thumbnail, and with great eagerness, I pulled open the flap. And inside was….
Another box.
Not a cardboard box, but a wooden box. A fancy wooden box—very sturdy. Very solid. And very elaborate. My breath caught as I held it up to the fluorescent light and said, “What’s this?”
“Dunno. Open it and see.”
When I popped the seal, a smell wafted out that was mostly dust, but something else, too. Oranges. Cloves. And beneath it all…cedar. I opened the lid to a bunch of wood shavings. “I hope there wasn’t originally a hamster in here.”
“Potpourri,” my father said decisively. “All the rage in the eighties. You’d be hard-pressed to find a bathroom without it.”
I gave the box a dubious shake. The smell of mingled spices tickled my senses.
Dad said, “That lid’s awfully plain, though, don’t you think? Maybe you’re holding it upside down.”
I flipped it over and discovered he was right. The actual lid was very decorative. Unfortunately, there was a word etched within the carvings. A very unfortunate word.
Poopourri.
My heart sank. “Well, that’s a shame. I was just thinking Yuri would actually like this. But he’s never once laughed at an American pun. Not in my presence, at least.”
“Maybe he’s just never found the right one.” Dad eyed the lettering. “Though as jokes go, this one’s not so hot. But take a look at the etching. It’s pretty shallow. You could add some flourishes with a wood burner and turn the word into a decorative design.”
I’d only ever seen my father use the wood burning tool to singe our name onto our patio furniture in case any of our neighbors ever decided to appropriate it—which they never did—but it seemed straightforward enough. I’m no artist. Not like Yuri, with his ability to evoke a morning mist with a swipe of a half-cleaned brush or a distant horizon with a single horizontal stroke. But all Scriveners receive extensive calligraphy training, so decorative elements like cartouches and ornaments were certainly in my calligraphic vocabulary. As I considered the shape and position of the current lettering, the bowls and stems of the letters shifted in my mind’s eye to become the twigs and fruits of an elaborate bouquet of holly. Seasonal, yet secular.
In other words, perfect!
Wolf's Clothing by EJ Russell
Chapter One
Sunlight. Damn, it was awesome. After seven years living only the hour between midnight and 1 a.m., Trent Pielmeyer didn’t think he’d ever get enough.
Every night since he’d gotten out of the private-care facility—fuck, just call it what it is: a loony bin—his recurring nightmare had driven him out of the house into the dark. He’d logged countless miles along the shore or through neighborhoods where houses stood shoulder to shoulder, but he always timed it so he’d catch the sunrise over the ocean. Then he’d run home with its warmth on his back and the streets of Newport brightening before him.
He slowed as he approached his family’s estate. Shit. His timing was off this morning. The sun hadn’t yet topped the evergreens that lined the property. The driveway was as murky as if it were still the middle of the night.
He jogged up and down in front of the gate, panting and sweaty.
Do it. Just do it. Sure, the shadows are really fricking dark, but they’re only trees. Half a mile to the house. Piece of cake. Now!
He sprinted for the mouth of the drive, his Nikes crunching in the gravel, but as soon as he got to the shadow of the first tree, he stalled.
Jesus, why couldn’t his inconsiderate ancestors have planted maples instead of evergreens?
He made two more abortive attempts, but it wasn’t until the sun cleared the treetops that he was able to force himself to run down the driveway. How many miles had he clocked this time? Twelve? Thirteen? Hell, he could run a half marathon, but he couldn’t sleep through the night without waking in a cold sweat, his throat raw from useless screams.
Trent slowed to a stop by the giant magnolia tree next to the koi pond. He could handle the magnolia—barely. Not a fir tree. Good job, ancestors. A few brown-edged petals clung to the chest-high canvas-shrouded object at the edge of the pond. He removed the stones weighing down the tarp and flipped it up, revealing the marble plinth underneath.
Trent McFadden Pielmeyer, Beloved Son, May 14, 1990 - October 17, 2009
His tombstone.
Or was it technically a memorial, since his parents had had no body to bury?
Some people might wonder why his father hadn’t removed it. After all, Beloved Son was home again. Not dead. Not missing. Still gay, but, hey, can’t have everything.
Trent knew the truth, though. If his father had to spend money on something he considered outrageous—such as paying a crew for a whole day’s work just to remove one piece of marble—he might keel over on the spot. Forrest Pielmeyer might have more money than God—including a lot that should have been Trent’s by now—but he’d always be a frugal New England Yankee at heart. Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.
How many times had Trent heard that when he was growing up? Every time he’d wanted to do something that didn’t fit the Pielmeyer Way of Life—the perfect preppy image his father clung to like a life preserver from his yacht.
Trent peered at the sun. From the angle, he was late for breakfast. Again. He delayed another minute, closing his eyes and basking. Lizards totally have the right idea. Then he trudged up the vast slope of lawn and into the house.
The housekeeper, carrying the silver coffee service into the breakfast room, gave him her usual disapproving glare. Yeah, yeah. Get in line, sweetheart. Trent put on his best I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude and followed.
He settled at the table across from his mother, the sunlight playing off the crystal and silver and bone china. She glanced at him and then away.
“You’ll need to . . . freshen up soon, Trent. Deborah will arrive for your session at ten thirty.”
Deborah was the last of the lineup of therapists who had tag-teamed him since his return to Newport. All of them agreed he was either repressing memories of a traumatic captivity, or suffering from Stockholm syndrome and trying to protect his alleged kidnapper.
Whatever.
He couldn’t exactly confess what had really happened: See, there was this ghost war, and I got sucked into it. I’ve been appearing—or should I say disappearing—nightly as Danford Balch, frontier murderer and first man hanged in Oregon, for the last seven years.
That’d go over outstandingly well. They’d probably clap him back in the loony bin for life.
Other than the sheer unbelievability of the story, though, if he came clean about it, he’d implicate Logan Conner, his old roommate and best friend, who’d told Trent about the ghost war in the first place. Logan had been there that night, from slightly drunken beginning to horrifying end. But when the police had questioned Trent about his vanishing act, poking and prodding, looking for someone to pin the blame on, they’d never mentioned Logan as a “person of interest” in the case.
Trent hadn’t had a chance to talk to Logan before the Haunted to the Max medic had bundled him off to the ambulance, or afterward, when his family had descended like a plague of perfectly groomed locusts. Somehow, though, Logan must have found a way to keep himself out of the whole shit-storm, and Trent intended to keep it that way. After all, Logan had tried his damnedest to talk Trent out of doing what he did. It wasn’t his fault Trent had behaved like a fucking idiot.
Yeah, they were both better off with Trent insisting he couldn’t remember his supposed ordeal. Too bad it wasn’t true. How could he forget it when he relived it every fricking night in his dreams?
Trent sipped his coffee. Jesus, what he wouldn’t give for a nice heavy ceramic mug instead of the delicate china. He wanted something he could hold on to. Something weighty, that could anchor him to the world. Not something this fragile, something that could break and send him floating, adrift.
“Trent.” His father was apparently intent on smearing exactly one tablespoon of quince preserves on his toast. “It’s a bit morbid, don’t you think, to stare at your own headstone twice a day?”
Hunh. Guess dear ol’ Dad paid more attention to him than he thought. “I couldn’t see it if it wasn’t there.”
“It’s in a private spot, and the tarp is there for a reason. The stone can’t be seen, or wouldn’t be if you didn’t persist in uncovering it.”
“You know, anyone who knows you will figure you’re sparing the expense as usual. I mean, why undo something you’ll just have to do again sometime in the next seventy years or so?”
His father heaved a too-familiar sigh. “How many times have we discussed economies of scale? It’s inefficient to contract a single service of that sort. Better to wait until we have several similar tasks and put them out to bid at the same time.”
“Aren’t you afraid people might get the wrong idea—that you’re keeping it because you wish me under it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody thinks anything of the kind.”
I do. “Even if you can’t bring yourself to remove it, could you maybe zap the date of death?”
“That would mar the marble unnecessarily.”
“So what happens when I actually die? You gonna leave the 2009 date on there and add a fucking footnote?”
“That’s enough, young man,” his father boomed. “I will not have that sort of talk at the breakfast table.”
“Right. We save the really knotty problems for luncheon.”
His mother dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter. “Excuse me. I have a . . .” She rose and left the room, her back as straight as the creases in her beige slacks.
His father balled up his napkin and threw it on the table. “See what you’ve done?”
“Me? You ever think leaving that memorial in place might bother Mom? It sure bothers the gardener. Every time he sees me, he makes the sign of the horns, like he’s warding off the evil eye.”
“He does no such thing.” His father retrieved his napkin and shook it out, settling it on his lap before reaching for his egg cup.
“He so does.”
Jesus, how much longer could he stand to live here? He’d remained holed up in the ancestral pile after he’d emerged from the loony bin because even though his parents didn’t particularly like him, they were undeniably real. The housekeeper and the gardener might stare at him in contempt or fear, but at least they could see him. That none of them tried to hang him every night? Bonus.
Besides, he didn’t have anywhere else to go.
He took a deep breath. Antagonizing his father, no matter how gratifying, wasn’t a brilliant idea, considering he needed his cooperation. But as Deborah frequently pointed out—although in much more scientific and PC terms—his impulse control was for shit.
“So, Dad. Have the lawyers made any progress getting me declared undead yet?”
“It’s a complicated process. The conditions your grandfather saw fit to impose—”
“What’s the big deal? The trust would have been mine absolutely when I turned twenty-five anyway.”
“Why are you in such a hurry?”
“Hurry?” Trent’s voice slid up half an octave on the word. “It’s been seven months. My birthday is this week, and I’ve got sh—stuff I want to do.” Like maybe move out of my ex-bedroom, aka the Blue Guest Room.
His father squinted at him over a forkful of three-minute egg. “You have no need of your trust fund at the moment. You’re living in this house. Eating our food.” He nodded at Trent’s T-shirt—yellow, with a sad-faced cartoon brontosaurus and the caption All my friends are dead. “The housekeeper bought a number of perfectly presentable outfits for you, so you have no need to continue dressing like a derelict.”
“That’s kind of my point. On this birthday, I’ll officially be twenty-seven. Don’t you think I’m a little old to have someone else dress me?” Trent had ignored the stack of junior executive outfits and chosen his own wardrobe from the thrift stores in North Providence, like any good ex-college student. “Isn’t it time for me to rise above parental handouts?”
“What do you imagine trust fund income is?”
Trent put his toast down and clenched his hands together in his lap. “I think it was Grandfather’s attempt to make sure I got an education that I chose for myself.”
“Well you’re not pursuing that at the moment, are you? As far as I can see, you’re not pursuing anything except the best way to embarrass me and distress your mother.”
“I’m trying to get it together.” He was. He really was. But while he was unable to escape the recurring nightmares, the lack of sleep was a real handicap to rational thought. Maybe if he could tell someone about them, share the experience, he could—
No. Safer to keep the truth under wraps. Safer for Logan. Safer for himself, if he wanted to avoid mental health arrest.
If he had his trust fund, though, he’d leave. Go back to school, get the gen. ed. stuff out of the way while he decided whether he could ever face the stage again.
That was the worst part about the ghost war experience. Clueless asshole that he’d been, he’d leaped into the role of Danford Balch as if he’d been making his Broadway debut, without realizing the contract had no opt out. It had been horrible and dehumanizing and terrifying while it was happening, and continued to rob him of his sleep seven months after his rescue. Worst of all, like seven years of aversion therapy, it had also robbed him of the thing that he’d loved most in the world—acting. Now, the very idea of auditioning for another play was enough to send him scurrying back to the safety of the loony bin.
But he had to start somewhere.
“When I head to school this fall, I’ll—”
“Where exactly were you planning to go?”
Trent blinked. “Uh . . . well I . . .” How stupid was it that he hadn’t thought about it? “I guess I assumed Portland State would let me reenroll. I mean . . . unless their requirements have changed in the last seven years. I should—”
“Do you seriously imagine we’d allow you to return to Oregon after this whole escapade?”
Trent frowned. “‘Escapade’? You make it sound like it’s something I did for fun.”
“Wasn’t it? You refuse to divulge the details, name your accomplices—”
“‘Accomplices’?” Dread pooled in Trent’s belly. Don’t mention Logan, not when they’re still searching for someone to blame. “I told you, it was all me.”
“You were obviously somewhere, Trent. And under the terms of your grandfather’s trust, you’re not owed a penny if you’ve committed any crime greater than a misdemeanor.”
He’d been in Forest Park after hours—a violation of a city ordinance, but surely that wasn’t enough to rob him of his inheritance. “I haven’t—”
“Until the authorities are satisfied that you didn’t engineer your own disappearance in an attempt to extort more money from this family, the trust will remain precisely where it is. Invested under my name.”
Trent jumped to his feet, and his chair toppled over in a crash of oak on marble. “Did you ever get a ransom demand? A single hint that I was trying to scam you? Jesus fuck, Dad.”
“Trent! If you can’t moderate your language, you may leave the room.”
“Excellent idea.” I’ll leave the room. I’ll leave the house. I’ll leave the whole damned state! He stalked out into the foyer and ran up the staircase, his father’s voice echoing behind him.
“You want to know when I’ll take down that memorial? When I’m convinced my son isn’t dead to me!”
Trent stumbled on the last step. Jesus.
His therapist thought he was shielding his kidnapper; the police thought he was covering for an accomplice; and his own father thought he’d kidnapped himself for some never-demanded ransom.
The worst part was, he couldn’t tell any of them the truth. How could he convince them that a cheesy paranormal investigation show had gotten it exactly right? Nobody would buy anything that unbelievable.
Except for one person. Logan.
Trent’s birthday was on Friday—he wasn’t sure if it counted as the twentieth or the twenty-seventh, and no way was he celebrating it alone except for his parents and one of the housekeeper’s heavy cakes.
Damn it, he’d spend the day in Portland with Logan, the only person on the planet who knew he wasn’t insane, hallucinatory, or a goddamn fucking criminal.
Blood Winter by SJ Coles
“You have questions.” He sat and uncorked the bottle. The electric lantern made his pale skin glow. It shone off his high cheekbones and the lines of his neck. His mouth was soft, his lips slightly curved, even at rest. I remembered it open, redder than blood, the teeth shockingly white and sharp. I remembered his hands, strong enough to crack the wood of the basement door, strong enough to break Brody’s bones. But now he sat easily in my kitchen chair, regarding me steadily with calm, entrancing eyes. He was terrifying, but he was beautiful, like a freezing winter morning in the very heart of the mountains. I bridled at the thought and dropped my gaze to the tabletop.
“How old are you?” I heard myself ask.
“Not old enough to have known Jacob More,” he said, with something like amusement in his voice.
“That’s not an answer.”
He still didn’t smile but something like humor flickered in the dark depths of his eyes. “I don’t know exactly. Over eighty, less than a hundred.”
“How do you not know how old you are?”
He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “You stop counting after a while.” I narrowed my eyes and his mouth twitched. “And, well…at the time, it wasn’t considered important where I’m from.” His brow creased slightly, his eyes far away. “I remember the Second World War but not the first. Do I get to ask a question now?”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek, regarding him closely and trying not to think about the fluttering in my belly. “What question?”
“Is this really your home?”
“Why?”
Something prickled over the skin of my back. “Again, why do you care?”
“Just curious, like you.”
“I’m not curious about you,” I said in tight voice. “That’s not what this is.”
He inclined his head. “Very well. You don’t have to answer. Next question?”
I picked at a splinter on the table, not looking at him. “Daylight…”
“What about it?”
“Does it kill you?”
“No.”
“Then why—?”
“The cellar?” He sipped his wine. His mouth was stained slightly pink. I hurriedly lifted my gaze. “We have to sleep, just like you do.”
“During the day?”
“We’re sensitive to sunlight,” he said slowly, factually. “We don’t produce melanin in the same way, so we burn easily. And it’s hard to see.”
“So you just…sleep?”
He frowned at his glass. “Not the way you sleep. The Blood requires us to…offline. Recharge.”
“Could you stay awake if you wanted? During the day?”
“Yes, though it’s hard. But the Blood wakes us if there’s a threat. Is it my turn now?”
I hesitated and reached for the other glass. “I thought you said you were supposed to answer my questions.”
“Polite conversation normally goes both ways.”
I fought a scowl. “We’re not exactly meeting at a dinner party here.”
“No,” he said softly, looking into the fire. “But that’s not my fault, is it?”
Knight and Day by Jackie James
Chapter 1
Theodore
It was a Tuesday afternoon that was just like every other Tuesday afternoon. Until it wasn’t.
I flipped the sign on my shop’s front door from open to closed, stepped outside, and locked the door. I stepped back and looked at the sign. Knight’s Books. A simple name for a simple shop, as my father liked to say. I slipped my hands into my pockets, turned to the left, and headed down the street. There were people milling about, and I knew them all. I’d grown up here in this neighborhood, and while Dunston may have been one of the largest cities in the state, my area was a close-knit community.
“Hello, Theodore,” Mrs. Thurston said as I walked by. “How were sales today?”
“Good, good,” I said. “Here, let me help you with that.” She was trying to manhandle a sandwich-board style open sign that she placed outside her shop each morning back inside. I swear one of these days, the wind was going to blow both of them away.
“Thank you, Theodore, you’re such a helpful young man, but I can manage it.”
“No, please, let me,” I insisted, same as I did every day. I got the sign folded up and set it just inside her door.
“You have a good evening, madam,” I said with an exaggerated bow, and she giggled like a schoolgirl and closed the door. A little farther down the road, I waved to Alfred, the gentleman who owned the flower shop, and he returned it as he flipped his sign to Closed as well.
A cool breeze made me shiver, and I pulled my coat a little tighter around me. We’d had a mild winter, which had been nice because I’d been able to continue to walk to work each day, but this wind made me think I’d better check the forecast to see if I should take my car tomorrow. It always seemed like such a waste to drive such a short distance. But then, owning a car in the city seemed like a waste in the first place. It had been my one frivolous purchase with the money I’d inherited from my grandmother. At the time, I’d thought of it as a means to escape. To leave Dunstan and see what the world held, but that wasn’t to be, so the car mostly sat in my garage, waiting for the day it might get to go farther than the local market when I planned to buy more than I could carry home.
I was almost to the end of the street where I would have to make a right to go to my house when I noticed something wasn’t right. There was supposed to be a small antique shop, followed by a bakery, but that wasn’t what I saw at all. The antique store was there, and the bakery, but between the two sat the strangest thing. A store where one didn’t belong. That made no sense. Buildings didn’t just appear out of thin air, and that was most definitely not there when I stopped at the bakery for muffins this morning.
The door looked old and very out of place next to the other two shops. I stood there and stared at it, trying to decide what to do. Instinct said I should keep walking, or call someone, anything but go inside. But curiosity got the better of me, and I stepped toward the door. There had to be a logical explanation for this. Although no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t think of a single one that made sense. The door had a slight glow to it that called to me and made me want to go inside. A sign on the door read Marden’s Magic Emporium. Marden’s Magic Emporium? That sounded like some crazy shop from a carnival where ladies in colorful gowns pretended to read palms and crystal balls. What was this doing in Dunstan?
I took a deep breath to prepare myself, and slowly released it, then I opened the door and stepped inside. Whoa. I looked around only to find that instead of answers, I was more confused than I was before I walked in. When I was a kid, probably around ten or so, my friends and I went to a local haunted house on Halloween. It had been so overdone that we thought it was comical instead of scary. But this put that place to shame. However, this wasn’t comical at all. It was creepy as hell. There was a large black pot—or I guess, in this case, it was a cauldron—in one corner. It had some strange bubbling concoction in it that I couldn’t begin to identify. A weird purple haze floated along the ceiling giving the place an eerie feel. But the huge mermaid statue holding what appeared to be a crystal ball felt…welcoming somehow.
Arrows were pointing to the left around the mermaid, so I cautiously stepped deeper into the store. One step, then another, until finally, I was far enough inside to see where the arrows pointed. Three people—they had to be people right—stood behind a large stone counter. They were dressed up in costumes like those people who go to conventions to role play games and comic book characters. One was dressed like an elf, and the other two were maybe dwarfs? But either way, the costumes were first class. I was just about to speak when a tall man appeared in the doorway behind the counter. He was also dressed in a costume, but his was a wizard or a warlock or something like that. He wore a long flowing robe and had a beard that came down to his chest.
“Oh,” I said. “Gandalf, right? Or is it Dumbledore?”
He didn’t say a word. He just glared at me for a moment and rolled his eyes. He turned to the girl who was dressed as an elf, nodded, and then walked back into the room he had entered from.
“Hello,” she said, coming around the counter to stand in front of me. “My name is Pree. How can I help you today?”
“I don’t need any help. I’m just trying to figure out what this place is. It doesn’t belong here.”
“Of course it does, and of course it doesn’t. The Emporium belongs nowhere and everywhere all at the same time.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s hard to explain, but you’re wrong, Theodore. You do need something. That’s why we’re here. We only show up when someone needs us. Now, why don’t you come with me. If you don’t know what you’re here for, we will see what the sack says you need.”
“What the sack says? Do you ever say anything that makes sense? And how do you know my name?”
“Just because you don’t understand something doesn’t mean it doesn’t make sense. But it will. Now follow me.”
I watched as she walked back behind the counter. I hesitated and glanced back over my shoulder toward the way I’d come in, considering making a run for it. The inside of this place made no more sense than it being here did.
“Come on, Theodore,” she said as she reached for a burlap sack that sat on the shelf behind the counter.
I sighed and walked to the counter. I wasn’t going to get any answers if I left now, that was for sure. I watched as she stuck her hand inside the bag and fished out a piece of paper. “Oh,” she said. “Room nine, aisle five, bin three. Nice, room nine. That’s Evorea. It’s a perfectly lovely realm. Although, I have heard some grumblings about some unrest there. Anyway, if you will follow me, we’ll see what it is you need.”
“Follow you?”
“Yes, to room nine, so we can retrieve the object.”
“Okay,” I said hesitantly, as I followed her through a large doorway. We walked down a long corridor. All types of swords and daggers hung on the wall. “What on earth is this place?”
“We’re kind of like a general store. Except instead of dry goods and sundries, we have magical stuff.”
We continued on and turned down a wide corridor lined with doors as far as I could see. I mentally pictured where the shop sat wedged between the antique store and the bakery, and I knew there was no way this fit in that space. “Oh, look, it’s bigger on the inside.”
She turned back to me and rolled her eyes, “Oh shocker, a Doctor Who reference. Because I never heard that before. Come on, geek boy, room nine is just up here on the left.”
“I am not a geek,” I said with a pout.
“Sure you are. In just the ten minutes you’ve been here, you’ve referenced LOTR, Harry Potter, and now Doctor Who. But don’t let it bother you. My understanding is geek is the new sexy in your realm. I bet all the boys like it.”
“All the boys? How did you know I…” She shot me a are you kidding me look, so I shut up and followed her.
“Don’t touch anything,” she said, as she pulled open the door, and we stepped into the room. There were long narrow aisles lined with shelves. The shelves were covered in all kinds of weird items. As I followed her down the first one, I saw candles, vials filled with some kind of potions, a skull, and various crystals and stones. We made our way to aisle five, and she grinned at me when we stopped in front of the area labeled bin 3. A small cloth bag sat there. She grabbed the bag and said, “Okay, this is it. Let’s head back on upfront.”
“Hold on, what’s in the bag?”
“I don’t know yet.” She shrugged. “Let’s go to the front and check it out.”
“This store makes no sense,” I grumbled.
“Just because you—”
“Don’t understand it doesn’t mean it doesn’t make sense,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I heard you the first time.”
“But obviously you didn’t listen.”
We got up to the front, and she motioned for me to stand on the other side of the counter. She pulled a cloth pad out from underneath the counter and smoothed it out. Then she very slowly untied the string on the bag and emptied out the contents. “You can never be too careful. You wouldn’t believe what comes out of some of these bags.”
I stared in horror at the object that had tumbled out. It looked like a gnarled piece of wood. It resembled a chicken foot but was obviously carved and not real. “What on earth is that thing?”
“Well, I don’t know, Theodore, but whatever it is, you need it. Don’t lose it.” She held up the sack she had pulled the paper out of. “There is a reason why we call this the save-me sack. Because whatever it says you need could very possibly save you.” She slid it back into the bag and said, “Now let’s see what this little thing is going to cost you.”
“Cost me? I’m not paying for that.”
“Of course you are. We’re a store, not a charity shop.” She reached into the burlap sack again and pulled out another white slip of paper. “Oh, very interesting. I guess you were right after all. This says no charge for you. The price has been paid by the alchemist. How interesting, but it’s all yours.”
I thought about arguing with her, about trying to get some answers, like who was the alchemist for example, but at this point, I’d realized it was pointless. I took the small bag, shoved it down in my messenger bag, and left. When I got out front, I turned and studied the shop. There had to be an explanation for this being here, and some way to explain that huge warehouse-type area in the back. Tomorrow I would make some phone calls and see what I could find out, but for some reason, I was exhausted and just wanted to get some rest tonight.
I went straight home, fed my cat, Jake, and took a long shower. I let the hot water wash away the strange citrusy scent of the emporium off my body. I tried to make a plan for my next step, but all I could think about was that weird chunk of wood.
Why had I brought it home with me?
I got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around me, and marched out to my messenger bag. I took the small bag out and tossed it in the trash. Jake stared at me like I’d lost my mind, “What? I’ll carry it down to the dumpster in the morning,” I told him. I was going to bed, not that I expected to get any sleep.
The next thing I knew, light was streaming through my windows. I glanced at the bedside clock, and to my surprise, it was seven-thirty the next morning. Not only had I been able to fall asleep, but I also had one of the best night’s sleep I’d had in ages. I got up and stumbled into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee but froze in my tracks when I saw what laid on the counter. The small cloth sack that I knew I threw away laid there, with the carved wood piece laying on top of it.
How the hell had that happened? I did not put that there. No way. And there was absolutely no way I took it out of the bag.
“But it couldn’t have gotten up here on the counter by itself,” I said out loud.
“Oh, you mean like there couldn’t be a shop that magically appears and is much bigger than makes sense for its location,” I answered.
“Great. And now I’m talking to myself.” I threw my hands up in the air.
I stared at it for a minute trying to figure out what to do. Then it occurred to me. I would return it to where it came from. I didn’t even take the time to get dressed. I’d slept in my pajama pants and a t-shirt. That would just have to do because there was no way I was letting that thing out of my sight. I grabbed a pair of kitchen tongs and used them to pick up the hunk of wood. As I dropped it in the bag, a shiver ran through me as I noticed there was some kind of eye carved on the side. “Oh, hell no. You are going back to the crazy elf lady and room nine, bin…whatever it was.”
I grabbed my house keys, shoved the thing in my messenger bag, and headed back to Marden’s Magical Emporium.
I built myself up the whole way there. I was taking back the creepy-looking wooden thing, finding where the emporium came from, and I wasn’t leaving without answers. No woman in an elf costume was going to intimidate me today. I turned the corner and marched to the spot where the store had been. And it was gone.
I stood there on the sidewalk, staring. The bakery was right where it belonged, and so was the antique store. Side by side—no Marden’s Magic Emporium between them. I turned, looking around me. Everything looked exactly as it was supposed to be. Mr. Atwood waved at me from inside the bakery, grinning at me like he did every morning. I hesitantly waved back while wondering if maybe I was losing my mind. I hurriedly reached into my messenger bag and pulled out the cloth bag that held the wooden carving. I stared at the bag in my hand. I wasn’t crazy, and I didn’t imagine it all. I would take this to someone who could figure out what it was. I just needed to figure out who. And maybe we had something in the bookstore that could help. I needed to go back and write down everything I could remember. I would get to the bottom of this.
I looked down at the bag in my hand, feeling good because I had a plan, when suddenly I felt it move. I froze, watching my hand, thinking I must have imagined it. There was no way that thing moved on its own, except as I watched, the bag shimmied and I could feel whatever was in it moving. At that moment, I made a decision. Fuck Marden’s Magic Emporium, fuck knowing where this thing came from, and mostly fuck whatever this thing was in my hand. I rushed over to the trash can that sat outside the bakery and threw it away. I glanced up at my reflection in the store window and realized I was still in my pajamas. I chalked it all up to temporary insanity and headed home to get ready for work.
Secretly Mine by Colette Davison
There was always a moment when I willed my body to shift that I regretted it. It was excruciating. For the few seconds it took for the transformation to take place, I saw nothing but white-hot fire. Felt nothing but searing heat as every molecule in my body rearranged itself. I heard nothing but my own pitiful sobs. Smelt nothing.
Then it was over, and I was considerably smaller and buried in a pile of my own clothes. The advantage of shifting to a smaller form was that I didn’t need to undress first. Unlike Isaac. He was still in his human form, staring down at me. I danced from foot to foot, impatiently chittering at him. I was desperate to climb up into the trees and swing from branch to branch.
“Turn around,” he said.
Rather than turning around, I put my tiny hands over my large eyes. I was good and didn’t peek as Isaac undressed, even though it was tempting. While he shifted, he didn’t sob, as I had done, but he did let out a wretched moan which morphed into a growl. Only then did I lower my hands. His tiger form was huge. He padded over and stared down at me. His incisors were easily as big as my head, and I realised that if he gave in completely to his animal side, he’d eat me up for breakfast. He turned his head to the side in a swift gesture, which I took as permission to go.
I let out an excited screech and tore off through the foliage. My long tail provided balance as I scampered along branches and then leapt from one tree to the next. Isaac ran along beneath me—beautiful, powerful, and graceful. He easily kept pace with my aerial antics.
My tiny heart beat wildly, and I felt completely and utterly free. It was so much better than being stuck on the bus. But it had to come to an end.
We reached the edge of the wood. I clung on to a fine branch at the top of the final tree, staring at the farmhouse opposite. Far beneath me, Isaac let out a short, sharp chuff, drawing my attention to him. He gestured with his head again, telling me it was time to go back. I nodded to show that I’d understood and then leapt through the treetops, back the way we’d come, until I spied our clothes exactly where we’d left them.
I scurried down to mine. I shifted back and got dressed just before Isaac caught up with me. Given how easily he’d kept up before, I decided he’d let me get ahead this time so I could get into my clothes without having him as an audience. He sat on his haunches and gave me a look that might have meant he wanted to eat me for dinner. I gulped and backed away a little. I was nowhere near as fearless in my human form as when I was a monkey.
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.
EJ Russell
Multi-Rainbow Award winner E.J. Russell—grace, mother of three, recovering actor—holds a BA and an MFA in theater, so naturally she’s spent the last three decades as a financial manager, database designer, and business intelligence consultant (as one does). She’s recently abandoned data wrangling, however, and spends her days wrestling words.
E.J. is married to Curmudgeonly Husband, a man who cares even less about sports than she does. Luckily, CH loves to cook, or all three of their children (Lovely Daughter and Darling Sons A and B) would have survived on nothing but Cheerios, beef jerky, and satsuma mandarins (the extent of E.J.’s culinary skill set).
E.J. lives in rural Oregon, enjoys visits from her wonderful adult children, and indulges in good books, red wine, and the occasional hyperbole.
SJ Coles
Jacki James
Colette Davison
Multi-Rainbow Award winner E.J. Russell—grace, mother of three, recovering actor—holds a BA and an MFA in theater, so naturally she’s spent the last three decades as a financial manager, database designer, and business intelligence consultant (as one does). She’s recently abandoned data wrangling, however, and spends her days wrestling words.
E.J. is married to Curmudgeonly Husband, a man who cares even less about sports than she does. Luckily, CH loves to cook, or all three of their children (Lovely Daughter and Darling Sons A and B) would have survived on nothing but Cheerios, beef jerky, and satsuma mandarins (the extent of E.J.’s culinary skill set).
E.J. lives in rural Oregon, enjoys visits from her wonderful adult children, and indulges in good books, red wine, and the occasional hyperbole.
S.J. Coles is a Romance writer originally from Shropshire, UK. She has been writing stories for as long as she has been able to read them. Her biggest passion is exploring narratives through character relationships.
She finds writing LGBT/paranormal romance provides many unique and fulfilling opportunities to explore many (often neglected or under-represented) aspects of human experience, expectation, emotion and sexuality.
Among her biggest influences are LGBT Romance authors K J Charles and Josh Lanyon and Vampire Chronicles author Anne Rice.
Jacki James has been saying she was going to write a book since she was sixteen and wrote fanfiction (before fanfiction had a name) about her favorite Rockstar. She is a believer in love of all kinds but MM romance is her favorite by far. She has a romantic heart and a dirty mind and likes to write stories that let both shine.
Colette’s personal love story began at university, where she met her future husband. An evening of flirting, in the shadow of Lancaster castle, eventually led to a fairytale wedding. She’s enjoying her own ‘happy ever after’ in the north of England with her husband, two beautiful children and her writing.
Jordan Castillo Price
SMASHWORDS / LIVEJOURNAL / B&N
EMAILS: jordan@psycop.com
jcp.heat@gmail.com
EJ Russell
SJ Coles
EMAIL: sjcolesauthor@gmail.com
Jacki James
EMAIL: jackijames@jackijames.com
Colette Davison
Present Tense by Jordan Castillo Price
KOBO / iTUNES / SMASHWORDS
Wolf's Clothing by EJ Russell
Blood Winter by SJ Coles
Knight and Day by Jackie James
Secretly Mine by Colette Davison
