Summary:
ABCs of Spellcraft #10
They say a picture's worth a thousand words. But once in a while, you really hit pay dirt.
Yuri is no stranger to pigment and brush, so he can't help but be curious when he reads about a rare piece of art discovered in Pinyin Bay—a Shul Cadfur painting rumored to be worth a million dollars. And the painting soon turns up on his doorstep in the hands of his Boardwalk buddy, Drew Draws, who's desperate to have his find authenticated.
If only the reclusive Cadfur had signed the canvas.
Fortunately, Dixon loves to sign things—whether or not the name he's signing is his own. All he needs is a good look at the artist's signature. Not only has Cadfur himself mysteriously disappeared, but even his signature proves more elusory than a wolverine in witness protection.
The situation is so convoluted, one might even suspect Spellcraft is involved.
Can Dixon and Yuri square away the painting before the art appraiser gets there? Or will the million dollars dry up like an open tube of paint?
Dixon and Yuri just keep getting better and better. Their connection and chemistry is stronger with each new entry in this amazingly fun, clever, and entertaining series. How two people can find themselves in the middle of such adventures is equal parts zany and adorable. Dixon may be a trouble magnet but Yuri can stand his ground when it comes to trouble too.
In Forging Ahead, the author jumps right into the zany-pool from the first page as Dixon finds himself at the Creature Feature Talent Show, what could possibly go wrong? Well I won't spoil it but lets just say he is in fine form. As always I find I loved every word of this ABCs of Spellcraft entry but what really grabbed my attention was it appears to be the first time Yuri really feels part of the Penn family not just someone they tolerate as Dixon's partner.
I find it safe to say that each entry has a certain level of Lucy/Ethel mischief but Forging Ahead really captures that comedic chemistry, not just between Dixon and Yuri but between all of the characters. As much as I laugh at each of the previous stories, there was just something that I can't quite find the right words for in Forging that gave it an extra special layer of hilarity.
I don't wish to spoil so I'll end there but I will add that if you are new to ABCs of Spellcraft, I definitely recommend reading in order. Each installment has it's own spellcrafting hi-jinkery but the relationships are ongoing and some even have elements that overflow into the next. Would you be lost if you started in the middle? Not really but I think there would be more than a few moments of "wonder what's behind that comment?" or "that sounds like an interesting scenario, wonder what brought that up?". Dixon and Yuri's adventurous journey is not one to be missed.
RATING:
The Selkie Prince's Secret Baby by JJ Masters
Summary:Royal Alphas #5
An alpha prince, required to find his fated mate, has already pledged his love to another. But there’s a problem...
Prince Caol of the North has enjoyed a very active, carefree life. Being the youngest of five alpha-born princes, he hasn’t had a lot of responsibilities. As he watched his brothers find their fated mates and produce sons, he knew the time would come when he’d be forced to do the same. However, he’s in no rush since he’s quite happy with his current lover. While Caol wants to take his beta servant as his mate, the king demands the law be upheld and he find an omega who can give him sons to continue the Selkie race.
Beck can’t bear the thought of losing his alpha—the prince he not only served for years but loved just as many—to an omega. A male fated to bear his alpha sons. However, Beck’s gender makes it impossible for the prince to take him as his mate since betas cannot produce heirs.
Galen has lost so much. Trying to mend his broken heart, the omega’s thrown into the path of his alpha when he becomes a wet-nurse to the prince’s son. A son Caol has no idea even existed. The only problem is his alpha already has a lover. One Caol’s been with for years, one he loves. Just when Galen thought he’d never find a mate due to his past circumstances, the omega unexpectedly finds two. Was this what the fates intended?
Note: A 66k-plus word m/m/m ménage shifter mpreg story, this is the fifth book in the Royal Alpha series. Due to the “knotty” times in this book, it is recommended for mature readers only. While it can be read as a standalone, it’s recommended to read the series in order. And, like all of my books, it has an HEA.
Prince Caol of the North has enjoyed a very active, carefree life. Being the youngest of five alpha-born princes, he hasn’t had a lot of responsibilities. As he watched his brothers find their fated mates and produce sons, he knew the time would come when he’d be forced to do the same. However, he’s in no rush since he’s quite happy with his current lover. While Caol wants to take his beta servant as his mate, the king demands the law be upheld and he find an omega who can give him sons to continue the Selkie race.
Beck can’t bear the thought of losing his alpha—the prince he not only served for years but loved just as many—to an omega. A male fated to bear his alpha sons. However, Beck’s gender makes it impossible for the prince to take him as his mate since betas cannot produce heirs.
Galen has lost so much. Trying to mend his broken heart, the omega’s thrown into the path of his alpha when he becomes a wet-nurse to the prince’s son. A son Caol has no idea even existed. The only problem is his alpha already has a lover. One Caol’s been with for years, one he loves. Just when Galen thought he’d never find a mate due to his past circumstances, the omega unexpectedly finds two. Was this what the fates intended?
Note: A 66k-plus word m/m/m ménage shifter mpreg story, this is the fifth book in the Royal Alpha series. Due to the “knotty” times in this book, it is recommended for mature readers only. While it can be read as a standalone, it’s recommended to read the series in order. And, like all of my books, it has an HEA.
Summary:
Magic Emporium
Merseton Tales #1
An outcast necromancer and a half-demon clerk need to save the world from seashell zombies. No pressure.
Everyone's always told Aspic that trouble can't help following him because of his heritage. Determined to put the lie to half-demon stereotypes, he's finally landed a good, quiet job as an herbalist's clerk where the owner trusts him to man the shop alone. What could go wrong selling coriander and thyme?
When Geoffrey first enters the shop, Aspic finds the little man's eccentric appearance startling, then intriguing. Geoffrey explains, in stops and starts, that he is a theoretical necromancer researching replacements for blood magic. His current line of inquiry involves seashells—do they have any in stock? Aspic's co-workers warn him that Geoffrey is a walking disaster, but he finds himself more and more drawn to a necromancer concerned with ethical death magic.
Aspic is with Geoffrey in his lab when he has his first success, but the results aren't at all what he was aiming for. Instead of raising the dead rabbit on his table, the ritual animates the seashell and rock spell components, which flee the lab and cause havoc. They soon discover that the spell-animated objects are "zombies" in that they can "infect" other inanimate things.
An unorthodox necromancer and an exasperated shop clerk are going to need some unconventional help to find a working de-animation spell before the world is overrun by zombie seashells and stones gone mad.
Geoffrey the Very Strange 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 theoretical necromancy, unexpected spell outcomes, some extraordinarily angry seashells, and a guaranteed HEA.
Summary:
Quest Investigations #1
Something’s definitely fishy about this case…
On my last stakeout for Quest Investigations, I nearly got clotheslined by a grove of angry dryads. I expected my bosses to reprimand me, but instead they handed me my first solo assignment. Me! Matt Steinitz, the only human on the Quest roster!
Okay, so the mission isn’t exactly demanding. Obviously, the bosses wanted to give me something they think I can’t screw up. I’m determined to show them what I can do, however, so I dive right in with no complaints.
At first glance, it looks as simple as baiting a hook: A selkie’s almost-ex-husband is vandalizing his boat with unwanted deliveries of deceased sea life. All I have to do is document the scene, tell the ex to cease and desist, and present the bill for property damages. Boom. Mission accomplished, another Quest success, and as a bonus, I get to keep my job.
But then things get…complicated. Suspicious undercurrents muddy up my oh-so-easy case. Nothing is as clear as it should be. And the biggest complication? My inappropriate attraction to the client, who may not be as blameless as he claims.
Turns out those dead herrings aren’t the only things that stink about this situation.
Dammit.
Five Dead Herrings is the first in the Quest Investigations M/M paranormal mystery series, a spinoff of E.J. Russell’s Mythmatched paranormal rom-com story world. It contains no on-page sex or violence, and although there is a romantic subplot, it is not a romance.
Summary:
Copper Creek Shifters #2
Tate: I’ve spent most of my life waiting for my fated mate. The one person in this world made just for me. The one Fate had determined was perfect for me in every way. And now that he’s here, he isn’t anything like I expected.
Hollis: No ties, no clans, no mate; that’s the way I choose to live my life. I don’t want anyone having power over me in any way, and if anyone thinks that just because Tate is my mate, I have no choice but to stay with him, they’re mistaken.
When lynx shifter Hollis Roby is sent to Copper Creek to assist with a murder investigation, the last thing he expects to find is his fated mate; especially since he doesn’t even believe fated mates exist. However, that’s the only explanation for the irresistible pull he feels toward clan Beta Tate Decker.
The deeper they go into the investigation, the more obvious it becomes that there’s more going on in Copper Creek than a simple homicide. Trapped in the middle between a corrupt Council and a human supremacist group, the clan is counting on Hollis and Tate to figure out who’s responsible. Not only for the murders, but for the other odd happenings in the area, as well.
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Random Paranormal Tales of 2021
Forging Ahead by Jordan Castillo Price
1
Dixon
What is talent? Is it something you’re born with, a skill that just comes naturally? Or is it the result of hours of practice—of focus and interest and keen self-discipline?
Maybe it’s a bit of each.
I was born a Spellcrafter, though that birthright was followed by years of training. I’m not sure if it was nature or nurture that made my failed quilling ceremony sting so badly. I suspect that despite the lack of a quill, some part of me knew that not only was I indeed a legitimate Spellcrafter—but a talented one.
Though I don’t suppose animals have so much ego and backstory wrapped up in their success.
I’d spotted the ad for Creature Feature Talent Show in the Pinyin Bay Journal as I was perusing the latest juicy exposé. You wouldn’t think a city the size of Pinyin Bay had quite so many secrets and scandals. But now that my friend Charlotte (of the tinfoil hat fame) was their top investigative reporter, all sorts of shocking secrets were being uncovered.
And some of them were even true.
It was tempting to read more about the famous painting someone had uncovered in the back of their garage…but like so many of Charlotte’s articles, it was light on speculation and heavy on dry facts, so my eyes kept drifting to the little ad instead.
Does your four-legged friend perform tricks? Can they carry a tune—or even speak a word?
The presumption that all pets had four legs was awfully mammalist. Meringue could do all those things and more. She knew several words, in fact. Insulting words…but words nonetheless. Her singing was melodic, her dancing was hypnotic, and her tornado siren imitation never failed to send us scurrying down to the basement.
Show me a dog who could do all that—and pluck a magical quill from its own pinfeathers.
I didn’t think so.
Yuri is just as appreciative of Meringue’s talents as I am. He may claim he feeds her just to give her something to do with her beak other than squawking…but given that he’ll dispense a peanut every time Meringue calls out, “Nom nom!” I’d say she had him wrapped around her little finger…er, wing. So, Yuri would undoubtedly believe in Meringue, however, he’s still an artist. And as such, he can be particularly sensitive to the criticism of others, especially when they hold themselves up as arbiters of taste.
Judgers gonna judge, I always say…but since Yuri would only look at me funny and question the grammar, I’d decided it was best to spare him the anxiety of entering Meringue in a talent show. Not by not-doing it, of course—but by sneaking out the door with the bird in my messenger bag while Yuri was in the shower. There was a thousand-dollar prize on the line, and with Uncle Fonzo’s lady-friend in the “family way,” we’d need that money.
Auditions for the Creature Feature Talent Show were being held in a big tent outside the scratch ’n dent grocery outlet where they sold expiring perishables, discontinued flavors, and unlabeled cans. It’s in an oddball part of town, pretty far off the beaten track. Since my mom is one of their top customers, and since I’m a loyal son who was often roped into helping with the shopping, I found my way there, no problem. Despite the relative obscurity of the locale, though, it seemed like half of Pinyin Bay had turned out in hopes that their family pet might break into show business.
The parking lot was overflowing. There were dogs. There were cats. There was even a miniature pony. But I was the only one with a bird, so I had high hopes that Meringue would make a big impression.
Until I ran into Rufus Clahd, anyhow.
Rufus has a really weird afro. Sometimes you can gaze into it and see the shapes of other things, like you’d do staring at clouds—but with hair. He was also the Seer who’d worked at my family’s shop ever since I could remember…if by “worked” you mean “napped on the Murphy bed in his office.” But since Yuri has confirmed that painting Seens is actually pretty tiring, I supposed I should cut our official Seer some slack.
As long as you didn’t mess with his stuff, he was a pretty chill guy. If there was a weird angle to come at a given situation, Rufus always managed to find it. So he hadn’t brought a dog or a cat or even a miniature pony…but something in a very small covered cage. The thing about Rufus is that you can never quite tell what he’ll do next—and whether it’ll be genius or nonsense. While I knew darned well I should just ignore him and get on with winning the show...of course I had to see what was in that cage.
“Hey, Rufus,” I said casually. “Whatcha got there?”
“A breakfast sandwich from the gas station on the corner. I do believe they use a different sausage than the food truck by the shop.”
“Er…the other hand.”
“Ah, yes!” he said cheerfully, blowing out a few soggy biscuit crumbs. “Why, this delightful creature is truly one of nature’s miracles. Behold!” He shoved the sandwich in his mouth, plucked off the cover, and swooped the small plastic box right under my nose. “The chameleon.”
The lizard was clinging to a small plastic branch. Despite the fact that Rufus was swinging it all around, it managed to stay so still it looked as fake as the decorations…except the way its nearest eye was swiveling all around.
Had I encountered this particular chameleon before, I wondered? My parents’ Spellcraft shop was full of random exotic pets we’d inherited from Precious Greetings. “Did that critter come from Practical Penn?”
“I presume it came from an egg.”
“And you’re sure it’s a chameleon? None of the creatures at Practical Penn camouflage themselves.”
“It’s a common fallacy that chameleons try to mimic their environments, but when excited, they do indeed change color. I can’t imagine a more inspiring companion for an artist.”
“Absolutely,” I said, hoping I sounded sincere. Referring to the Seens he painted as art was a stretch. But since their main purpose was to power a Crafting, they didn’t need to look like much. Which was good. Because they didn’t much resemble anything at all.
As Rufus meandered off, trailing crumbs, a woman’s voice called out, “Dixon? Is that you?”
I peered into the crowd and found not one more familiar face, but two. And they were one another’s spitting image.
Pansy and Violet Strange are identical twins who are no longer completely identical, thanks to a misfired bit of Spellcraft that left one of Violet’s eyes an unnatural shade of purple. While I couldn’t see their irises from across the parking lot, I did note that the sisters weren’t dressed the same. Violet was pursuing a career as a fetish model, and Pansy had aspirations of being a professional baton-twirler. So, I figured Violet was in jeans and a T-shirt while Pansy was the one in the majorette getup…unless it was Violet in costume, catering to a highly specific kink.
Thankfully not. Once I was in range, I saw the twin covered in gold braid had two brown eyes.
“Hey, Dixon—where’s your grown man friend?” Violet called over as she tried to wrangle something large and furry out of her tiny hatchback.
“Back at the apartment…doing something, ah…Russian—say, is that a large dog or a small bear?”
The creature in question flopped out of the back seat in a flurry of slobber. Its tail whomped back and forth hard enough to bruise, and it peed ecstatically the moment its feet hit the ground.
Violet and Pansy both gave an identical wince. “That’s Cosmos,” Pansy said.
With a sigh, Violet added, “He’s kind of excitable.”
Pansy pulled a slobbery baton out of the car. “But I’m sure he’ll calm down by the time we get in front of the judges. We’ve been practicing our act all week.”
Uh oh. It had never occurred to me to practice any sort of routine. Hopefully Meringue could win over the judges by just being her charming self.
The dog was on one of those spring-loaded leashes that reels out from a plastic holder. As Violet attempted to unwind the leash from her left foot, Pansy shook the spit off her baton and said, “Cosmos, speak!”
The dog flopped onto its side, grinning maniacally, and thrashed Violet’s foot with his tail.
“I’m sure he’ll do great!” I said with lots and lots of enthusiasm, and went to take my place in line.
I’ve never been much good at waiting, but luckily there were all sorts of interesting people to talk to. Unfortunately, upon learning that I was a Spellcrafter, several of them demanded I Craft something on the spot to ensure they passed the audition. By the time the long line crept forward enough to get us through the door, there were only a few available spots in the show, but at least a dozen requests for Craftings.
Maybe I should’ve shown up with a bunch of Seens in my bag instead of a big sassy cockatoo. There’d be way better odds of making a profit. But if I had, the judges would be deprived of Meringue’s dulcet voice!
As if she could sense me thinking about her, Meringue began to stir. What’s the expression—are your ears burning? Birds didn’t have ears. Just ear-holes. Though Meringue sure made good use of hers when she heard Yuri muttering to himself in Russian. This was a family-friendly event, so hopefully none of the judges were Russian expats. I was craning my neck to see if any of them looked particularly Slavic when my view was blocked by a broad expanse of polyester shirt tucked into Sansabelt slacks, and the whole ensemble topped with a fur-collared vest. “Ladin Silver?” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“With a thousand smackeroos at stake? Auditioning for the talent show, of course!”
Darn. I was hoping he’d finagled his way into a stint as a judge, since we Spellcrafters always look out for our own. Unless we’re competing for the same prize—in which case, may the craftiest man win. But Ladin didn’t have a pet with him. Hopefully his tendency to bend the rules would knock him out of the competition and leave me one step closer to the big payout.
The line had inched forward so we were now inside the tent, nearing the judges’ table. Unlike reality show judges, this particular trio didn’t laugh or roll their eyes or stand up and insult people. They just scribbled on their clipboards, and called out, “Thank you, next!” approximately thirty seconds into every act, as a bunch of disappointed hopefuls shuffled out the door.
Somewhere behind me, I heard Violet and/or Pansy saying, “Cosmos—sit. Cosmos? Cosmos! Sit!”
Ahead of me—having cut the line, though I couldn’t exactly prove it—Ladin rocked expectantly on the balls of his feet. And then his gaze shifted slyly back to me. “You did know this was an animal act,” he said, “didn’t you?”
“I could say the same to you.” I’d been playing coy, keeping an ace up my sleeve—or a bird in my bag—hoping to outmaneuver a guy who, for his size, was surprisingly maneuverable. But before I got too smug, my bag took it upon itself to make an announcement.
“Nom nom!”
I patted down my pockets in search of a peanut and came up with nothing but a lip balm and half an eraser. “Not right now,” I whispered into the bag.
“Nom nom!”
“Just as soon as we’re done here, we’ll swing by the store and—”
“Nom nom!”
For an animal with a brain the size of a Raisinette, Meringue is pretty darned smart. Unfortunately, she’d never quite grasped the concept of delayed gratification. (Then again, neither had my cousin. But Sabina could be distracted with compliments about her hair, whereas Meringue simply took such observations as her due.)
I lifted the flap of my bag and found a beady little bird-eye giving me a reproachful look. How that cockatoo manages such a wide range of expressions without being able to smile or frown or waggle a pair of eyebrows, I’ll never know. But since it was clear I’d never appease her without coughing up a peanut, I decided to try and distract her instead by whispering, “Night-night.”
This is what I told her at the end of a long day as I covered her cage with a sheet so she could settle in for the evening. Hopefully the darkness of my messenger bag would be enough to convince her to keep quiet until it was our turn in front of the judges…though there may have been some grumbling in Russian as I closed the bag again.
Before I knew it, Ladin Silver was mounting the stage, which creaked alarmingly under his ponderous weight. Like so many Spellcrafters who use the gift of gab to secure their clientele, Ladin is a natural showman. And when he addressed the judges, he laid that salesmanship on really thick. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve seen many a furry friend today—cats, dogs, and even an intrepid goat.”
Actually, I was pretty sure that had been a Dalmatian in a goat costume. But a rustling sound in my bag sidetracked me before I could comment on it. It was a papery sort of rustle. A fine papery sort of rustle. The kind of rustle you’d hear when you clean out the paper shredder. That didn’t make any sense, though. I wasn’t carrying any shredded paper in my bag.
Though I was carrying around a piece of…uh oh.
I make a big impression.
The Crafting was meant for the painfully shy salesman who’d helped us get a great deal on a slightly used writing desk. But I had the sinking feeling that I’d need to go back to the drawing board before I swung by the furniture store. Unless the papery thing Meringue had gotten hold of was my shopping list instead....
Onstage, Ladin produced a miniature piano—where on earth had he been hiding that?—and declared, “Anyone can traipse into a pet shop and buy an animal. But it takes a special kind of brilliance to tame a creature from the wild.”
As I lifted the flap of my bag to see exactly how shredded the contents might be, Ladin’s fur collar sprang to squirrelly life as he chose that exact moment to brandish a peanut....
And my bag exploded in a cloud of Spellcraft shreds and feathers.
“Nom nom!” Meringue cried triumphantly as she dive-bombed the stage. How a cockatoo can smell a peanut at thirty yards without a nose I’ll never know. Bits of set Spellcraft rained down on my head, ensuring that I was the one who’d make the “big impression.” Meanwhile, Ladin Silver was surprisingly calm about the burst of exclaiming white feathers hurtling toward him…however, his fur collar most definitely was not. The semi-tamed squirrel bolted right down his leg, across the stage, and into the crowd.
“Cosmos, stay!” one of the twins cried.
Ladin might be calm—Cosmos, though, was anything but. The dog gave a bellow and was off like a shot. And while Violet had the wherewithal to hold on tight, there was a heck of a lot of leash wound up in that holder. It spooled out like fishing line, whipping back and forth through the crowd in the dog’s wake.
If only Ladin thought to let go of the peanut. Spellcrafters are notoriously…frugal. Instead of relinquishing the treat, Ladin spun in a circle, protecting it with his massive body. Meringue was coming at him from every which direction, though, and Ladin hardly stood a chance.
But the squirrel? Apparently semi-tame rodents have pretty good survival instincts. The squirrel quickly determined that while Meringue was only after the peanut, Cosmos was another story. It knew enough to put both distance and roadblocks between him and the perceived threat…which meant weaving in and out of the legs of the crowd: contestants, animals, and judges. And Cosmos was hot on its furry little heels.
The leash lashed back and forth, smacking into the lizard cage in Rufus Clahd’s hands. The top popped off, spinning high into the air, while the chameleon, startled, scrambled up Rufus’s arm and across his shoulders, changing colors all the while. By the time he scooted down Rufus’s pant leg, the swivel-eyed lizard had gone from a boring, solid green, to a scintillating stripey pattern of blacks, yellows and reds. And while it might be scientifically accurate that he wasn’t deliberately camouflaging himself by trying to mimic his surroundings, the floor of the tent was a surprisingly good match.
Rufus dropped to the ground so fast I thought he’d fainted, at least until he started commando-crawling through the squealing crowd in pursuit of his chameleon. Meanwhile, the squirrel was desperate for some camouflage of its own, and it must’ve mistaken the Seer’s afro for a small, mobile tree—or maybe a convenient crawling bush. It flung itself at the hair, but Rufus is pretty hard to shock. He took it all in stride, crawling after his lizard with the squirrel clinging to him like an avant-garde hat.
Up on the stage, Meringue was bound and determined to get her claws on that peanut. As tiny, off-kilter piano notes chimed under the onslaught of her impressive black beak, the holder Violet was gripping ran out of leash, and the line snapped taut. Violet’s heels were dug in hard, and Cosmos had some incredible momentum, but something had to give. That “something” was everything in between them. Things went flying every which way. People, animals, tables and chairs.
And judges.
As the fur, feathers and Spellcraft shreds settled, a stunned silence fell over the tent as everyone tried to figure out how they’d ended up on the floor. (Except Rufus, who’d sprung back up with a squirrel on his head and a chameleon in his arms.)
The silence was broken by the repetitive plink of a single piano key.
Time for damage control. I hopped up onto the stage and said, “Jingle Bells! You all heard it—the first seven notes, anyhow. Let’s all give a big round of applause to Meringue, the Caroling Cockatoo!”
Those judges who’d seemed so bored a moment ago were suddenly a lot more engaged. Unfortunately, they were also pretty angry. Not a single person clapped, either—unless the hearty smack of Cosmos’s tail against the floor counted as applause.
When a stray peck landed on Ladin’s thumb, he juggled to keep hold of his tiny piano—and peanuts scattered everywhere. Meringue happily launched off in pursuit of her nom-noms as a couple of determined-looking folks in security windbreakers strode my way.
A single peanut rolled toward me, coming to rest against my shoe. I scooped it up, grabbed my bird…and shot the security guards my most conciliatory smile while I beat a hasty retreat.
The Selkie Prince's Secret Baby by JJ Masters
Caol’s eyes popped open, but all he could see was a thick head of hair. His face was buried in the dark blond mane as he spooned the male against his naked chest. He inhaled the familiar scent of his lover deeply as he nuzzled his nose farther into the wavy locks.
His lover who was also his beta servant.
His beta servant who was also, as it turns out, the unwanted son of a king.
His arm tightened across Beck’s chest and he shifted until his morning erection nestled between the crease of his beta’s muscular buttocks. A place he knew very well. A part of his beta that Caol had worshipped time and time again.
Was it wrong that the beta servant assigned to him so many years ago, when he came of age, had been his lover for almost as long?
Maybe, according to some. Like his late father, King Solomon. Or the current king, his eldest brother Kai.
But no matter how many times Caol, the fifth and youngest alpha-born son of the late King Solomon, promised he’d stop rutting with Beck, he couldn’t.
Truth was, Beck didn’t want him to, either. Even when Caol, with good intentions, sent Beck back to his own quarters in the beta servants’ section of the compound, Beck would sneak back into his bed in the middle of the night. There was rarely a morning that Caol didn’t wake up with the beta in his arms.
No matter what anyone said, the connection between the two, an alpha Selkie prince and his beta servant, just felt right.
They had a special relationship. A deep love and affection for each other.
While his brothers all had their own betas, who they loved and treated as part of their family, Beck had always been more to Caol.
No matter how many lovers Caol had, be it human, betas, and even forbidden omegas, he always came home to Beck.
His beta never said a word about it. He didn’t have to. After years—almost a decade and a half of being together—Caol could easily read Beck’s expressions and his moods.
Even when Caol would return reeking of another male, Beck would only give him a pointed look and then help him clean up.
He knew Beck wanted to be the only male in his life, but that wasn’t possible. Caol was obligated to find his fated mate, an appropriate omega to produce heirs. By law he was expected to produce pups. He couldn’t do that with Beck.
Quite simply because betas were infertile.
But also, because Caol wasn’t certain he could only be with one male for the rest of his days on this Earth and in the Great Sea. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be satisfied with just one. Even if it was the omega who was his fated mate.
Honestly, that scared him.
Not just due to the fact he should be loyal to his future omega, the future paterof his pups, but the fact he’d have to give up Beck. Not necessarily as his servant, but as his lover.
No, Beck looked forward to helping raise Caol’s sons, even if he didn’t whelp them himself. Caol knew Beck would treat any sons born to his prince as his very own. He would be fiercely protective and loyal to his alpha’s offspring.
That was another reason why Caol loved Beck so much.
His lover who was also his beta servant.
His beta servant who was also, as it turns out, the unwanted son of a king.
His arm tightened across Beck’s chest and he shifted until his morning erection nestled between the crease of his beta’s muscular buttocks. A place he knew very well. A part of his beta that Caol had worshipped time and time again.
Was it wrong that the beta servant assigned to him so many years ago, when he came of age, had been his lover for almost as long?
Maybe, according to some. Like his late father, King Solomon. Or the current king, his eldest brother Kai.
But no matter how many times Caol, the fifth and youngest alpha-born son of the late King Solomon, promised he’d stop rutting with Beck, he couldn’t.
Truth was, Beck didn’t want him to, either. Even when Caol, with good intentions, sent Beck back to his own quarters in the beta servants’ section of the compound, Beck would sneak back into his bed in the middle of the night. There was rarely a morning that Caol didn’t wake up with the beta in his arms.
No matter what anyone said, the connection between the two, an alpha Selkie prince and his beta servant, just felt right.
They had a special relationship. A deep love and affection for each other.
While his brothers all had their own betas, who they loved and treated as part of their family, Beck had always been more to Caol.
No matter how many lovers Caol had, be it human, betas, and even forbidden omegas, he always came home to Beck.
Even when Caol would return reeking of another male, Beck would only give him a pointed look and then help him clean up.
He knew Beck wanted to be the only male in his life, but that wasn’t possible. Caol was obligated to find his fated mate, an appropriate omega to produce heirs. By law he was expected to produce pups. He couldn’t do that with Beck.
Quite simply because betas were infertile.
But also, because Caol wasn’t certain he could only be with one male for the rest of his days on this Earth and in the Great Sea. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be satisfied with just one. Even if it was the omega who was his fated mate.
Honestly, that scared him.
Not just due to the fact he should be loyal to his future omega, the future paterof his pups, but the fact he’d have to give up Beck. Not necessarily as his servant, but as his lover.
No, Beck looked forward to helping raise Caol’s sons, even if he didn’t whelp them himself. Caol knew Beck would treat any sons born to his prince as his very own. He would be fiercely protective and loyal to his alpha’s offspring.
That was another reason why Caol loved Beck so much.
Geoffrey the Very Strange by Angel Martinez
1
The Very Strange Customer
In his defense, Aspic had been working for Talondon's Herbs and Sundries less than two weeks, so he didn't know any better. When he thought about it later, his coworkers vanishing on suddenly pressing errands should have been a red flag the size of a draft horse, but at the time, he'd been too busy taking mushroom inventory for their desertion to register.
Arrhythmic tapping on the shop's doorframe was the first hint of something not quite right. On such a beautiful spring day, the door had been propped open, and a black placard nearly Aspic's height sat outside the shop with OPEN written in fanciful lettering decorated with vines and birds—Heliotrope's work. The shop was unequivocally, without a doubt, open. Customers wouldn't have any reason to knock.
With a tiny sigh, Aspic placed his pad over the basket of snakeskin grisettes so he wouldn't lose his place in the mushroom count, gathered up his best customer smile, and turned toward the door. The smile scampered off in shock at the sight of what had been tapping. What in that moment instead of who, since the personhood wasn't at all a certainty. A pile of scraps occupied the lower-left portion of the doorway, tapping carefully on the frame. When the pile rose, it resolved into an outlandish, floor-length coat made of feather-shaped fabric scraps of every color and clashing pattern imaginable, interspersed with glittering bits of glass. A broad-brimmed hat completed the look, though the material appeared to be holly leaves rather than cloth.
"Can I help you, erm… citizen?"
The person-being still tapped, muttering, "Spider sprites. Sebaceous beasts."
Human, probably. When the person turned, Aspic revised his assessment to human male, probably. He wore thick, wire-rimmed spectacles, but the lenses were a gradient of garish purple, darker toward the top and gradually lighter toward the bottom. The shadow of that hat did an excellent job of obliterating any other identifying characteristics.
Aspic hoped his smile wasn't frozen as he repeated, "Can I help you with something?"
The person stared at him or possibly through him for a long moment that made the hairs on Aspic's arms itch. "Half-demon. Probable ghour demon heritage." The person tilted their head. "Possible pink rose-petal dye."
"Excuse me, sir, but that's really personal. And the pink hair is natural, thank you." Aspic's customer service voice had slipped, and he fought to regain control. Getting fired wasn't in the plan that day. He was about to repeat his question, sweetly, when something crawling in the customer's leaves caught his attention. "Is there… something living on your hat?"
"Geoffrey!" Mr. Talondon roared from the back room. "You leave your damn bug-infested hat outside my store!"
The customer, presumably Geoffrey, hunched farther inside his feather-rag coat. "The sebel beetles are beneficent, Mr. Talondon. They won't harm anything."
"I don't care if they're moon-cursed gold beetles with gold-plated wings and gold blood who shit gold!" Mr. Talondon had stomped out to the front counter, his face dark with rising anger, the hair on the backs of his hands a little too long and thick and getting thicker by the moment. "Hat out now, Geoffrey!"
The bundle of rags scurried out, and though Geoffrey returned without his hat, he'd pulled his coat up over his head. Aspic's brain invented a hundred reasons for this from a hair day from hell to tentacles growing out of Geoffrey's head. Hey, he looks more or less human. Doesn't mean he is.
Aspic first glanced at Mr. Talondon, who nodded and shambled back to his office before addressing Geoffrey again, "What can we help you find?"
"This shop isn't warded." Underneath the coat, Geoffrey's head twisted right to left as if he could take in all the shelves at once. "What magic shop has no defenestrative wards?"
"No idea, sir. But this isn't a magic shop. We sell herbs and spices. Dried flowers and seeds. That sort of thing."
Geoffrey's stare clearly conveyed you idiot without a word uttered. It was a look Aspic had seen enough to recognize even behind dark glasses. Right. Geoffrey obviously lived here, since Mr. Talondon knew him. He knew what the shop sold. "Shells."
Sure. Don't make it easy for me. "Of course, sir. We have nutshells for your garden path. Or beetle shells for dye—"
"No, shells," Geoffrey barked out, the hand not keeping his coat on his head waving wildly.
Aspic's thoughts froze. He couldn't think of any other shells, and the customer was going to start getting angry because Aspic wasn't clever enough. "Um…"
"Sand. Water. Shells!"
"Oh, seashells. I'm sorry." He was sorry, since he should have thought of something so obvious, but more importantly, that was How to Talk to Customers. "We don't have any in right now, but we could order some? How many do you think you need?"
Geoffrey pointed to one of the tall baskets that held cattails.
"You'd like a bushel's worth?"
The strange little man held up three fingers.
"Three bushels?"
He nodded sharply and hurried out of the shop. Tempting, to go to the door to make sure he continued walking down the street rather than vanishing in a puff of smoke, but after their conversation, Aspic had trouble getting his feet to listen to him. He was still staring at the doorway when Heliotrope popped around the counter.
Convenient.
"Your first Geoffrey the Very Strange encounter!" Her pointed little gnome ears wiggled at him in amusement. "Now you officially work here."
"That's his name?"
"It's what everyone calls him."
Aspic twitched his tail and smacked her on the hip. "You deserted me. Traitor."
"Trial by fire. Everybody has to learn to deal with the town eccentrics." She tried to punch him in the shoulder and couldn't quite reach high enough. At least she missed his elbow.
"Oh great," Aspic muttered, rubbing his arm. "Eccentrics. Plural. So what's his story?"
"He's a necromancer—"
"What? You let them in town?"
"Cool your horns." Heliotrope waved a hand at him as she climbed onto her stool behind the counter. "Theoretical necromancer. Interested in the occult science of death, not taking over the world. He has some weird ideas, but he's harmless."
"Uh-huh. Necros are never harmless. Why does he need his head covered?"
"His hat and coat have special wards. Protection. Not sure against what. Probably other necromancers. Never met a necro who wasn't paranoid." Heliotrope shrugged. "His beetles won't hurt the stock—he's right about that. Dire just doesn't want other customers seeing bugs in the store."
Aspic wasn't sure he would ever be comfortable enough to call Mr. Talondon by his first name, but Heliotrope had known him for years. "And his speech, um, issue? With the wrong words?"
"I think it happens more when he's nervous." She had the gall to wink at him. "I think you made him very nervous."
"Not like I can help how I look." Aspic struggled to keep his smile from sliding away.
"Oh, sweetie. I didn't mean he was scared of you. Well, not in the scared-of-demons kind of way."
He met her gaze, eyes dancing with laughter, and finally caught on. "Oh. Oh. Flattering, but nothing close to any of my types."
"Heartbreaker." Heliotrope snickered, then pulled the book of suppliers out from under the counter. "Now. Let's see who can get us a bulk order of seashells." Paranoid. Aspic understood that. He still couldn't get used to walking home from work with his head uncovered, his tightly curled pink hair a glaring beacon that in other towns, in other counties, would've been a klaxon call to the constabulary, to every bigot within shouting distance, that here was someone different, someone who didn't belong.
Merseton… This town had little in common with any other place he'd been. Here, his employer was a lycanthrope who didn't care who Aspic was as long as he worked hard and didn't eat the stock. His co-workers were a gnome, a minotaur, and a sylph. The blacksmith was a fire elemental. The baker, a kitchen witch. Griffins ran the town's cozy little library.
It was a classic small town with two cobbled roads—Marigold Street and Mallow Street—and a cute little square with a fountain where the roads intersected at the center of town. Unpaved or gravel side streets and alleyways led to more residences and the town's single livery stables. The town only had a single anything when Aspic thought about it.
Shops were located on either Marigold or Mallow with residences in between and on the edges of town before the land gave way to the surrounding farmland, and finally, thick evergreen forest. The entire population, including the farms, couldn't have been more than three hundred people.
He whistled softly as he pushed open the gate to the rooming-house garden. Mrs. Pickle, his hedgehogfolk landlady, nodded to him before she went back to weeding her turnips. Sometimes, he helped her in the garden—they would chat and share the slugs they picked off the lettuce—but today he felt wrung out. The necromancer incident had been more than a little unnerving.
Nap before dinner. Just a quick one.
"Get fired from your new job yet, Ass-pick?"
Great. Aspic closed his eyes for a deep breath and dredged up his social smile again as he found the speaker at the top of the stairs. His obnoxious pixie neighbor must have finished early at the glassblower's. "Hello, Cormac. No. Not yet."
"Just a matter of time." Cormac pointed at him. "You are gutter trash. Mrs. Pickle might have a soft spot for you, but Dire Talondon's going to figure it out soon enough. I've seen enough of your kind to know. You'll always be trash, demon spawn, and they'll kick you back into the gutter soon enough."
Cormac cackled as he flew down the stairs and out the door, the carved bone necklace that declared his lineage clacking musically, his dragonfly wings shimmering in the late-afternoon sun.
Pretty wings. Pixies were always pretty. Cormac was devastatingly beautiful, but his heart was full of muck. Also, he reminded Aspic of an old boyfriend. The temptation factor had plummeted the moment they'd met, and Cormac had opened his mouth.
Now his heart hammered from the mild confrontation. A nap would turn into staring at the ceiling and replaying every awkward or horrible conversation in his life. That would lead to all the memories of hiding from beatings or hiding from the heavy booted steps of soldiers or hiding from the latest batch of humans who wanted to run him out of a city or worse. No nap, then.
He left his good shoes by the front door and went back out to the front garden to kneel across the vegetable bed from Mrs. Pickle.
"Don't let him get under your fur, hoglet. No person is trash," Mrs. Pickle said in her wheezy, soft voice. "Cormac was born bitter and mean."
Aspic had long given up protesting hoglet. He'd insisted to Mrs. Pickle when he'd first moved in that he wasn't a child, but she'd just shrugged and said forty years was terribly young still for a demon.
Being half demon didn't seem to enter into her calculations. That was all right. The endearment had grown on him.
"Chickweed's getting into the carrots." Mrs. Pickle pointed with her gardening trowel, her elegant little paw-hands encased in yellow ducky gardening gloves that day, and Aspic didn't need further instructions.
He moved down to the carrots and began to weed. Helping Mrs. Pickle struck him as the right thing to do—slug sharing aside—but he also found having his fingers in the warm earth, the rhythm of finding the root and pulling one of those pleasant, repetitive tasks that calmed him. Knitting was another, but he didn't have enough money for yarn yet. Soon.
Mrs. Pickle had just gathered up her tools and the herbs she'd cut in her basket when an odd rustling came from near the garden shed on the side with the water pump. At first, Aspic dismissed it as a swift or a swallow going after bugs on the shed's sun-warmed slats. But when the rustling, the fluttering gained a metallic clang, Mrs. Pickle scampered toward the sound with Aspic hurrying after.
The clanging came from the copper watering can beside the shed, the whole can rocking as something bumped frantically against the insides. Mrs. Pickle leaned over the opening and tutted.
"Poor wee thing."
Slowly, she tipped the can over, and after some more thumping, a bright ball of damp feathers tumbled out. Aspic jumped back at the violent fluttering and tiny, furious tsheer cries from the ball. The whirlwind of feathers soon settled to reveal a bird no bigger than Aspic's palm, bright feathers of red, blue and green puffed up in indignation.
"Is it a baby hawk of some kind?" Aspic took a cautious step closer. The ball of feathers struck out at his bare foot. "Ow!"
Mrs. Pickle's spines drew down over her forehead. "No. Fully grown. A miniature jewel kestrel." She huffed and threw her apron over the tiny raptor. It calmed underneath the pink-checked gingham. "Designer pet. Fancy city ladies have them sometimes."
Showpieces. Little mascots to carry in special embroidered bags. Aspic had seen tiny dogs and cats, absurdly tiny horses, and even a miniature dragon, which had to have been incredibly illegal. But never tiny raptors.
"You think someone lost it? I haven't seen any fancy ladies in town."
"Visitors come sometimes. But no. There haven't been any." Mrs. Pickle hunkered down by the misplaced pet. "Poor wee thing. Got caught up in a shipment, no doubt. Grain. Cloth. Can't live out on its own."
"I guess not. So bright and tiny." Even its wings didn't seem a good shape for swift flight. The first owl or hawk that spotted it would probably eat the mini-kestrel in two bites. "Should we put up notices or some such? To find the owner?"
The prickles had drawn down far enough to obscure Mrs. Pickle's eyes, a sure sign of displeasure. "Shame. To give the little one back to someone who only values life as ornament."
The little miscreant peeped under the apron, interrogative and demanding. So tiny and self-assured. Aspic sucked in a breath, knowing he had no right to ask anything. "Would it be all right if I took it? To take care of? So you don't have to take care of all the foundlings?"
Slowly, the prickles receded until her black eyes showed again. "You may, hoglet. Some company for you. Don't let the kestrel fly about your room alone. Good reasons chickens don't live inside." After wrapping the apron more securely, she handed over the kestrel bundle. "Come to the kitchen. Feed the little one crickets."
Without hesitation, Aspic tucked the kestrel close and trotted after her. He perched on the stool in the corner where Mrs. Pickle kept various preserves and staple items, including a bin of small, dried crickets she would grind up for flour. Carefully, Aspic unwrapped the kestrel just far enough so its head poked out of its gingham prison. The fierce little raptor tsheered and bit at his fingers for the first cricket but calmed after the second one, since the crickets kept coming.
By the time Mrs. Pickle was setting dinner on the table, the kestrel had decided Aspic was a tolerable person and left the apron calmly to perch on his shoulder and comb its beak through his hair. It was just hungry and scared. I get it, little hunter.
Aspic let the bird stay on his shoulder and joined his fellow lodgers at the table—Timms, the faun who had apprenticed to the town's stonemason, Ishi, the tengu assistant librarian, who kept his huge wings neatly folded when in the house, and Katya, the smallest dragonborn Aspic had ever met, who needed extra cushions for her chair. She was the shop assistant at Gerton's Chandlery. All good, solid working people whom Aspic liked but didn't know all that well yet.
"Cormac won't be joining us," Mrs. Pickle announced as she took her place at the head of the table.
No audible sighs of relief greeted her announcement, but Timms' ears came up a few degrees, and Ishi put down the book he'd been hiding behind. Soft murmurs accompanied the passing of plates that evening instead of Cormac's cackling and talking about his favorite subject—himself.
"Who've you got there, Aspic?" Katya pointed to the kestrel with her fork, earning a stern glare from Mrs. Pickle.
"It's a mini-jewel kestrel Mrs. Pickle saved from the watering can." Aspic reached up and stroked the bird's head with the tip of his finger. "She said I could take care of it."
"Take care of her," Ishi murmured as he arranged his beans in neat rows on his plate.
"Pardon?"
Ishi glanced up, though not quite at anyone. "Your kestrel is a she. The female mini-jewels lack the yellow chest and wingtips the males have."
"Oh. Good to know. Thank you. I was starting to feel bad calling her it."
"She needs a name," Timms said, swinging his hooves under the table. "I think you should call her Peppermint."
"Why would you call a rainbow-colored little hawk Peppermint?" Katya punctuated her words with stabs into her chicken.
Timms' jaw jutted defensively. "Because peppermints are little and cute."
"She's not quite as cute when she bites you." Aspic chuckled as the kestrel hopped onto his forearm to inspect his plate. "I think Sundrop. Like seeing the sun through a raindrop."
Ishi turned to him and blinked his round, golden eyes. "That's quite poetic, Aspic."
The implied who would've thought couldn't have been clearer, but Aspic still smiled. "Oh. Well. Half-demons have bards, too."
"Aspic." The thick tengu beak snapped twice as Ishi stared at his plate. "I didn't mean—"
"I know. It's all right."
Some days the thousand little cuts were harder than others, especially from people who didn't wish ill on him. Today hadn't been bad. Things were better here, so much better. Aspic let it go and fed his tiny kestrel a bit of cricket loaf.
After dinner, Timms helped him refurbish an old wicker basket as a house for Sundrop. A few reeds woven in closed a couple of the holes, and Timms repurposed the remaining hole as a doorway with a door he made out of scrap from the woodpile. Old blanket rags went underneath for the floor.
This way, Sundrop would have a safe place when Aspic couldn't have her with him, and she wouldn't be leaving little poop presents all over Aspic's room at night.
"Thanks, Timms. It's perfect." Aspic gave him a hard hug after he set the kestrel house on his dresser.
Timms blushed prettily, his goat ears twitching as he pushed away. "No big deal. Don't get all mushy. You're welcome. When you're ready to sleep, cover her cage with a shirt or something, and she should go to sleep, too."
I have a lot to learn about bird management. "Thank you for that, too."
"Self-preservation." Timms shrugged and grinned. "I do live right next to you, and I don't want her keeping me up at night, either."
He trotted off, and Aspic hummed to himself as he got his fancy new kestrel settled for the night. Some days really were better, and more often than not now, interactions with good-hearted people were enough to shove the bad memories back into the dark. Aspic settled into bed and cocooned himself in the covers, grateful for bed, food, job, and the possibility of having friends.
Five Dead Herrings by EJ Russell
Jordan handed me the bag. “I stopped by your office to pick up the pastry trays from that big meeting yesterday. Zeke was busy, so I offered to do the delivery.” His brown eyes sparkled. “Your job must be so exciting. Who are we spying on?” He bounced a little on his haunches. “Oooh! Oooh! Is it Sasquatch?”
“Not this time.” I smiled wryly. Ted used to imitate Sasquatch by partially shifting and lurking in the woods near his place. He was lonely back then and trying to attract someone to talk to. It certainly worked on me. He hooked me like a lovesick trout. “A tree.”
Jordan’s face fell. “A tree?”
“Yup.” I pointed to the tree of my-own-personal-purgatory. “That one right there.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Ugh. Those are so stinky.”
“You can smell it?”
“Can’t you?”
Ah. Right. Werewolves had a heightened sense of smell. “No.” I shifted uncomfortably, my bladder reminding me of my earlier coffee intake. I eyed Jordan, who was frowning at the tree. Since he was here, I might as well take advantage of it. “Say, Jordan, can you do me a favor?”
Immediately, he brightened. “Sure! Just name it.”
I handed him the camera. “Keep this focused on the tree and if the dryad emerges”—I pointed to the shutter release button—”press this and hold it.”
“Wow.” His expression was almost reverent as he took the camera. “I’ve never been an assistant spy before.”
I buried a snort. Jordan was even less unobtrusive than trows and duergar. “I won’t be a minute. Just gotta duck behind a bush for a bit, if you know what I mean.”
He nodded sagely, but I’m not sure he really got it. “Sure thing, Hugh.”
Nevertheless, I checked to make sure his fingers weren’t blocking the lens before I crept away, keeping low and moving as silently as possible in the underbrush.
I took care of business, which lasted a little longer than I anticipated—hey, I drank a lot of coffee, okay?—and slunk back toward my stakeout blind, keeping my head down. But when I got to the thimbleberry, Jordan wasn’t there. I would have thought that I’d mistaken the spot, except the falafel bag was there, as was my lens cap.
But not Jordan. And not my camera.
I peered through the screen of leaves. The tree of heaven looked just as boring and just as dryad-free as it had all day.
“Jordan,” I muttered, “where the heck are you and where’s my camera?”
I spotted a flash of white about thirty yards to my right, completely out of sight of the target, and controlled my urge to roll my eyes. “Seriously, Jordan?” I murmured. The white wasn’t his Wonderful Mug T-shirt. No, that would be his bare chest. I couldn’t see below his waist, thank goodness, but I expected his pants were gone too.
“Get back here!” I hissed, but he was either too far away to hear or he was deliberately ignoring me. He brandished the camera and then beckoned and pointed in some kind of weird and totally unintelligible sign language.
I held up my hands, palms up, in a helpless shrug. He scrunched up his face and then made an exaggerated point of setting my camera down carefully.
“Don’t do it. Don’t do it!” I muttered.
But we were talking about Jordan so of course he did it. He shifted, and suddenly there was a lean gray wolf with a white blaze on his flank slinking through the underbrush.
“Goddamnit.” I took off in a low crouch toward my camera and reached it just as Jordan paused by the tree of heaven. And lifted his leg.
“Are you kidding me?”
But after a morning of no action whatsoever, I couldn’t risk missing an opportunity. If I were a dryad and a werewolf peed on my shoes…roots…whatever, it would probably provoke a reaction. I raised my camera to catch the fallout.
But nothing happened.
Jordan cast a glance over his shoulder, and even though he was a wolf, that expression was nothing short of cheeky. He continued past the now-watered tree of heaven toward a massive Pacific madrone about a dozen yards further on. He sniffed around the base, then raised his head and caught my gaze, holding it long enough that I got the message.
I pointed the camera at the same time he lifted his leg and—
“Holy crap!”
A dryad burst out of the madrone, knocking Jordan head over tail. Jordan’s yip and sharp whine almost made me miss the shot. But then another dryad charged out, and another, and another.
“It’s like some freaking woodland clown car,” I muttered as I rushed toward where Jordan had landed against the base of a maple.
By this time, there were about a dozen dryads dressed in Robin Hood grunge, milling around, shouting, and waving their arms like trees in a windstorm. Then they all spotted me and froze.
“Human,” one of them choked out.
Uh oh.
“Jordan,” I called, “run!”
Tempting Tate by Jacki James
1
Tate
“You still looking at those maps?” Chase asked as he walked in carrying a box with Sweetie Pies on the top. He set the box on the desk in front of me, flipping it open. I peeked inside and saw one of the biggest cinnamon rolls I’d ever seen.
“Man, do you have any idea how many miles I’ll have to run to work that off?” I groaned.
“You have shifter metabolism, you’ll be fine, but I can always tell Pax you didn’t want it.” He reached for the box and tried to pull it back.
“Don’t you dare,” I said, snatching it back. Paxton owned the bakery across the street and was Chase’s mate.
“Any progress?” he asked.
Copper Creek was mostly a peaceful town. Chase was one of the most powerful Alphas in the area and having him as our sheriff should’ve kept it that way, but we had been having some problems out in the canyons north of town. It started a few months ago when the local fish and game warden, Randy Meeks, and his mate, Lucas Whitney, stumbled across a camp where some men had been holding a young rabbit shifter hostage. Randy and Lucas freed the shifter, but some of the things they heard were really concerning. Seemed the men were debating whether or not killing the young man would count as murder since, as far as they were concerned, he was no more than an animal and not really a person at all. Randy and Lucas made it back to town with Taron, the rabbit shifter, and alerted us to the situation, but by the time we made it out there, they’d packed up camp and were long gone.
We’d also had a few people report being harassed on the trails by someone hiding up in the rocks. Nothing serious, just stupid stuff we probably would’ve assumed were teenage pranks if it hadn’t been so close on the heel of Lucas and Randy’s experience. One group of hikers reported someone throwing pebbles at them from up above as they hiked through the pass. Another guy who’d set up camp out in the canyon came back from a day of fishing and found all his stuff rearranged; nothing missing, it was just all moved around.
“Not really, I mean it’s all concentrated on the north end of the canyon near the place where the Western Trail’s pass opens up.” I pointed to the spot on the map that seemed to be the center of the incidents.
“So up near the caverns then,” he said thoughtfully.
“Yes, but as you know Grim and Hazzard have checked out the cave system all the way from the entrance to the cave-in and didn’t find anything unusual. Dimas is going to do a flyover later today and tell me if he sees anything noteworthy.” We both stood there looking at the map trying to force the randomly placed pins into something that made sense when Cindy rushed into the room.
“Sheriff Coleman, I have Randy Meeks on the phone. He says a couple of kids found a body up in the canyons and he needs y’all to come.”
“Well, shit. So much for harmless pranks. Come on, let’s go.”
As we drove out to the location Randy had called in, I let all the pieces of the puzzle move through my mind. We didn’t know for sure this was connected to the other incidents out in the canyon, but my instincts told me it was. We got as close as we could in the SUV, grabbed my crime scene pack, and walked the rest of the way. About the time Randy came into view in the distance, the unmistakable odor of death hit me, and my cat stirred.
Easy Pishu, I said in my head. The last thing I needed right now was an agitated lynx.
It’s shifter blood, not human.
Can you tell what kind? I asked him.
No, something small and helpless, smells like our Becky but not.
“You ready for this?” Chase asked as we got closer to the body.
“I am,” I said confidently. But I was wrong, so wrong. Nothing could prepare me for the sight that met us. The body had been splayed out on a large rock, arms out to the sides, legs spread. The man who appeared to be in his fifties had on a long-sleeved shirt, khaki pants, and hiking boots. The shirt was unbuttoned as were his pants. They’d been opened to give us the perfect view of his torso. He’d been gutted, his insides spilling out onto the rock beside him. And right in the middle of his chest, a knife stood at attention. I walked slowly toward him and saw that the knife wasn’t just there for show. It pinned a note to the poor guy’s body. It said, He died like the animal he was.
A satchel was on the ground near the rock. I used a pen to flip the flap over and peered inside. “Got a wallet.” I slipped on a pair of latex gloves, and taking out the wallet, I opened it up and found his ID. “New Mexico driver’s license. Name’s Bartholomew Scott, and I have a business card. Looks like he’s actually Dr. Scott, head of Native American Studies at a university there.”
“Damn, okay, bag the knife, the note, and the satchel. Go ahead and lock them up in the truck. The coroner is on his way. I’ll call Kota and let him know what happened, and then I’ll interview the hikers while I wait for the coroner to arrive. You take Randy with you and go hunting.”
“Yes, Alpha,” I said, letting him know that I understood this was now clan business, not county business. Shifting was different for everyone, but my cat had first come out when I was a small child, so for me, it was as natural as breathing. I simply opened the door in my mind that kept Pishu inside and invited him forward. A rush of energy ran through my body from my feet to my head. There was a slight shimmer in the air around me, and then I stood on four paws looking at the world through the eyes of a lynx. I inhaled through my nose taking in the surrounding scents. The odor of the dead body was overwhelming, but underneath it, I barely detected something else.
I followed the scent a short distance. The farther I was from the crime scene, the easier it was to track. It smelled human, but not a natural human smell, artificial like perfume or body spray. I made a small yowling sound at the little red fox, and he came to where I stood, sniffing the ground around me. When he caught a whiff of the same scent, his eyes lit up and he yipped his agreement. We set off following the trail. Randy and I were the best trackers in the area, and I felt confident we’d find whoever did this. We worked as an excellent team with Randy tracking and me on lookout, checking for anything out of the ordinary or for any danger.
I was grateful we were on the hunt for a human and not a shifter. They were easier to follow than shifters simply because of their physical limitations, which meant they stayed to trails or took easily navigated paths. We tracked the guy all the way along the west side of the canyon wall, up and over the peak, and down to the campground on the other side. We lost the scent there, and both shifted back, fully clothed.
“I guess this is as far as we go,” Randy said, frustration in his voice.
I knelt and studied the ground. “Looks like he parked here at this campsite. Maybe someone saw him.” We went around to all the sites and all we got was that he was an average looking white guy, he didn’t set up a tent, and he drove a red Chevy pickup. A description that basically described half of West Texas.
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.
JJ Masters
J.J. Masters is the alter-ego of a USA Today bestselling author who writes hot, gay romance filled with heart, humor and heat. J.J. became fascinated with mpreg romance as soon as she figured out what mpreg stood for. She loves to write about "knotty" men!
You can join JJ’s FB Group. And sign up to her newsletter to keep up with exclusive content and news.
Angel Martinez
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.
Jacki James
J.J. Masters is the alter-ego of a USA Today bestselling author who writes hot, gay romance filled with heart, humor and heat. J.J. became fascinated with mpreg romance as soon as she figured out what mpreg stood for. She loves to write about "knotty" men!
You can join JJ’s FB Group. And sign up to her newsletter to keep up with exclusive content and news.
Angel Martinez writes fantasy and science fiction with queer heroes. Currently living part time in the hectic sprawl of northern Delaware, (and full time inside the author's head) Angel has one husband, one son, two cats, a changing variety of other furred and scaled companions, a love of all things beautiful and a terrible addiction to the consumption of both knowledge and chocolate.
Visit her website for info on backlist titles, updates on releases, and works in progress.
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.
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.
Jordan Castillo Price
SMASHWORDS / LIVEJOURNAL / B&N
EMAILS: jordan@psycop.com
jcp.heat@gmail.com
JJ Masters
Angel Martinez
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / KOBO
EMAIL: angelmartinezauthor@gmail.com
EJ Russell
Jacki James
EMAIL: jackijames@jackijames.com
Forging Ahead by Jordan Castillo Price
KOBO / iTUNES / SMASHWORDS
The Selkie Prince's Secret Baby by JJ Masters
Geoffrey the Very Strange by Angel Martinez
KOBO / iTUNES / GOODREADS TBR
Five Dead Herrings by EJ Russell
Tempting Tate by Jacki James
