Summary:
The ABCs of Spellcraft #12
Dixon might not be the obvious choice for the new Hand of the Penn family, but since an enchanted string marked him as Fonzo’s replacement, everyone’s on board. Especially Yuri.
But with great power comes great responsibility. The new mayor’s brother is in a real pickle—but since he’s been blacklisted by the Spellcraft circuit, no one can Craft for him. When the man begs for help, even Dixon’s hands are tied.
Or are they?
Now that Morticia Shirque is officially part of the family, Dixon could prevail on her wisdom to find a good loophole. Unfortunately, the venerable Scrivener is working on her bucket list and won’t be able to advise him anytime soon.
Uncle Fonzo is no help either, since he’s suddenly dealing with his fair share of unwanted attention. Not from the law, strangely enough, but from every single Scrivener lady in town…and even a few not-so-single hopefuls.
As Dixon and Yuri scramble to solve the problem the “old-fashioned way,” one thing is certain: you never can tell where the power of Spellcraft will lead you.
The ABCs of Spellcraft is a series filled with bad jokes and good magic, where M/M 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.
I never want this series to end! But all good things find their finish line eventually and one day, probably sooner than we'd like, The ABCs of Spellcraft will have fulfilled it's duty to entertain while conveying the zany hijinks of it's starring couple, Dixon and Yuri.
Just when you think there isn't possibly any more trouble the men(or more specifically, Dixon) can stumble their way into they find another street to travel. Just as Uncle Fonzo has stepped up into a new role, Dixon also finds his new path as the top dog , Hand of the Penn family. He's not exactly the most qualified candidate but perhaps that is what makes him perfect for the role as he has definitely seen his fairshare of the good and bad on his magical journey.
When faced with his first big crisis, Dixon goes at it as only he would: backwards or more precisely, finding a way to break a long-standing ban for assistance to the mayor's son. Dixon has definitely got the gene that says "you tell me I can't so I'm going to prove to you I can do it anyway". He may not take Yuri on a straight-line journey but they always get to where they're meant to be.
The Bucket List is another great entry in a series that is so full of fun adventures I can't stop smiling just thinking about it. If you haven't started this series yet and are a fan of heat and humor balancing with the magical side, I strongly recommend ABCs of Spellcraft from beginning to end. You won't be sorry.
Summary:
Drink way too much tequila at the office Christmas party? Check.
Get fired after doing something stupid at said Christmas party? Check.
Hallucinate flying reindeer in the sky? Check.
Watch those flying reindeer turn into naked people …? Check?
Discover magical elves are trying to kill you? Um … Wait! I don’t want to check that one!
Either I’m having the most epic blackout or my hangover has thrown me into the craziest world that has ever existed. I just found out that Santa is not only real, but he and his people can shapeshift into reindeer. I also just discovered that elves are real, which would be cool, except they’re evil and want to kill me! If that wasn’t bad enough, the elves and reindeer are at war with each other. So, not exactly like the cheery, heartwarming stories we’ve been told.
If a war between elves and reindeer isn’t shocking enough, it hardly holds a candle to finding out that I’m supposed to be the one person who can save an entire planet. Yeah, talk about being totally unqualified for the job. At least that overshadows the fact that I might now have a Santa kink when the young, hot, white-haired warrior is sent to protect me. But can I really help save Santa and his people? Can I stop the elves? Or is everyone doomed to suffer the deadliest Christmas ever?
To find out if this will be a Christmas to die for, buckle up in your sleigh, pour yourself an eggnog, and sing a Christmas tune, because this tale is about to get jolly and insane.
Summary:
Monster & Mayhem
Dracula retold, with Jonathan as the object of the legendary vampire’s obsession.
Engaged to his dear friend Mina, Jonathan Harker jumps at the chance to delay their wedding by accepting an assignment in far-off Transylvania. Jonathan loves Mina but not in the way a man should love a wife, for his true passion lies with the company of men, an illicit craving he can never indulge.
Upon arriving in Transylvania to help the elusive Count Dracula purchase an estate in London, Jonathan makes some surprising if tantalizing discoveries. It seems his mysterious client has similar proclivities and encourages his male servants to explore their forbidden desires, all the while tempting Jonathan to partake.
Carnal pleasure isn’t the only surprise awaiting him, however, as Dracula’s secrets are far deadlier than Jonathan ever imagined, and as alluring as his new master’s touch.
A Delicious Descent is an MM horror retelling of Dracula, as part of the collaboration Monsters & Mayhem: An MM Horror Collection, adapting some of your favorite classic horror stories with an MM romance twist. Contains MM with sharing, MMM, and brief FF.
Summary:
Honey Creek Den #2
Troy left his den in Alaska when his Alpha wouldn’t accept same-sex matings, even if they were fated. Tired of being alone, and knowing his mate wasn’t going to be a woman, he set out in search of not only his fated mate but also a den and Alpha that were accepting of not only him and his bear but also male-paired fated mates.
Elliot grew up in the coven his Papa was master of. Two of his brothers have found their One, and one a mate the fates destined for them. After a year of being drawn to Alaska, hoping to find his One, he’s called back to Amherst and then Honey Creek where his youngest brother has mated with the Den’s Alpha.
The last thing Troy ever expects is to scent his mate at a den celebration. When he realizes it’s the Alpha Mate’s older brother, will his Alpha accept him as a member of the family? Will the young warlock’s centuries-old terrifying parents be welcoming? Even polar bears know not to piss them off.
Witch problems are escalating; old hook-ups are showing up; babies are starting to crawl; more babies are on the way; mates are cranky; and warlocks are still “poofing” in and out at odd times. Will Troy and Elliot ever sleep again?
Troy’s Warlock is book two in the Honey Creek Den Series. Each book contains a fated mate pair, Mpreg, lots and lots of knotting during growly sexy times, and babies, lots of babies. These bears will do anything their mates ask, just listen and see. The Honey Creek Den Series is a continuing series and is meant to be listened to in order even though each book focuses on a different couple.
This book is intended for adults only as these shifters tend to get growly and don’t watch their language.
Trapped in a growing sense of restlessness, Oxen the hunter is lonely. Feeling like he's waiting for something—or someone—he's unable to focus on getting ready for winter. But when a handsome and very ill stranger collapses on his doorstep, everything changes.
Vinge is from a Pegasus family but has never been able to transform. As soon as he awakens in Oxen's care, both men feel an instant connection, which grows deeper as Oxen nurses him back to health. Something profound within each man calls out to the other, but neither knows what it is.
The questions surrounding Vinge and their deepening relationship are many. Why is Vinge so familiar to Oxen when they have clearly never met? Why are they both reluctant to take the first step to a real commitment? And what will it take for the true depth of their connection be revealed?
Bucket List by Jordan Castillo Price
1
YURI
“Say, Yuri—which tie do you prefer? The purplish blue one…or the bluish purple?”
Dixon stood in front of the full-length mirror attached to our bedroom door with both ties in hand. Perhaps they had started out the same color, though one had spent more time in a shop window being bleached by the sun. While I knew much about color (one was deep periwinkle, the other faded plum) I was the last person to help anyone decide on a purple tie. I owned only three ties, myself—drab things I’d chosen to avoid drawing attention. Besides, Dixon would look just as handsome in either.
And just as nervous.
I didn’t blame him. Tonight, the Hand of every Scrivener family in the Pinyin Bay circuit might think they were attending just another dull meeting—but instead, they would witness Morticia Shirque appointing the successor she’d chosen as Head: Fonzo Penn. But while Fonzo might be the primary focus of attention, the Penn family would also “Change Hands” as he transferred his old position to Dixon.
I despise the limelight, and personally, I would have shrugged off the responsibility to someone else by now. But Dixon was not only born and raised in this Spellcraft tradition…he was chosen. He felt it was his duty to accept the position of the Hand.
Even if it was the prospect of it left him agonizing over two nearly identical purple ties.
“The plum complements the brown in your eyes,” I said firmly. I have found this tone is a great comfort to him when his thoughts are racing and his stomach is filled with butterflies. But I did need to add, “The one on the right,” to avoid any confusion. “Your right.”
Once Dixon’s hair was re-primped, his eyebrows smoothed down and his purple tie tied, there was nothing more to do but make our way to the ceremony…though he was so beside himself with nerves, he missed directing me to the proper turn-offs on three separate occasions. And given the size of Pinyin Bay, there were only so many turn-offs to miss.
Eventually, I pulled down the service road we had doubled back to. There was nothing there but an elaborate drainage ditch on one side and a furniture store called Have A Seat on the other. I did a three-point turn at the entrance to the cracked asphalt parking lot to retrace my steps yet again, when Dixon said, “Where ya going, Yuri? We’re here.”
I hit the brakes, turned to Dixon, and narrowed my eyes.
“Look,” he said brightly. “The welcome wagon.”
At the edge of the drive, the Pinyin Bay Perch emerged from behind a ragged bush, holding a sign shaped like an arrow. I knew the mascot from Precious Greetings—or, more accurately, the costume—but I had no quarrel with it. The furry, striped pelt looked as if it had been laundered recently, though it was growing a bit threadbare in patches, and the tips of the red fins were beginning to fray.
“Okay, there’s not actually a wagon involved in a welcome wagon,” Dixon allowed. “Just one of those quaint American expressions you love so much.”
“I do?”
“Wouldn’t it be fun if he were on a wagon? Or maybe pulling a wagon behind him. Ooh, I know, he could be doing a handstand in the wagon while someone else pulled him—especially if that someone was a miniature horse. Either way, it would be a real sight to see. The Pinyin Bay Perch is such an important part of the city’s history, it’s practically an institution.”
If any city would place undue value on a tattered costume, it would be Pinyin Bay. “But why the furniture store?”
“It’s bad luck to induct the Head on a property with ties to any one Scrivener family, so as not to show any favoritism—and this place is totally Handless.”
I squinted harder.
“Besides, there’ll be plenty of places to sit.”
We coasted past the Pinyin Bay Perch, who waved listlessly. Dixon waved back. As we rolled into the parking lot, I spotted Fonzo’s Buick and pulled up beside it. I said, “I suppose I should be grateful we weren’t on the bandstand in the park, where pieces of airplane rain from the sky.”
“That only happened twice. And it only killed someone once—so, statistically speaking, it’ll probably be free from airplane parts for at least a few more months.”
The automatic doors whisked open to a drab, low hangar of a building, filled with hundreds, if not thousands, of chairs. Collections of chairs were gathered into conversational groupings like flocks of seagulls squabbling on the beach. They had been matched not by style or function, but rather, color. In the hands of the right designer, it might have come off as edgy, even artistic. But here, in this plain bunker of a showroom, it simply looked strange.
As soon as we cleared the threshold, a pale Handless man in a rumpled suit rushed over and said, “Welcome to Have A Seat, where we make tushies happy!”
Dixon said, “Is that your official slogan, or…?”
“We are just looking,” I snapped—a necessary response in America, I have discovered, where salespeople will descend on you like a swarm of persistent sandflies if you do not refuse to be cowed into buying something you can’t afford.
But instead of backing off, the salesman simply deflated. “I don’t get it,” he complained. “This is the most foot traffic we’ve had in...well, forever. But not a single sale.”
Probably because Scriveners are so notoriously cheap. They would rather truss together a chair with splints and packing tape than spend their money on a new piece of furniture.
“Don’t worry,” Dixon said. “Your slogan might need work, but word of mouth is invaluable. Just let your shoppers browse to their hearts’ content, and no doubt they’ll tell all their friends about what a relaxing shopping experience they had in your store.”
For a shop full of chairs, it was anything but relaxing. But at least Dixon’s reassurance encouraged the anxious salesman to retreat.
Not only were chairs huddled in crowded, color-coded groups, but they were crammed on shelves ten feet tall, forming a maze. Chairs on their sides. Chairs upside down. Chairs disassembled, reassembled, and nested together like great stacks of paper cups in a break room. We wended our way up and down the aisles until we caught the sound of some familiar voices.
Lucky for us, when Sabina complains, she does so loudly.
“How long is this dumb thing gonna take? We can’t stay out all night, ya know. We’ve gotta put the baby to bed.”
We turned the corner on a precarious stack of barstools and found Fonzo checking his watch. “It’s barely six.” He gestured at Vano, who was jiggling Tuesday in a sling that I suspect was meant for groceries, given the onions and potatoes printed on the fabric…but it seemed to fit the baby well enough. “And your kid could sleep through a tornado. Unlike you, at that age. Your mother and I used to drive you up and down the block for hours on end just to get you to stop crying.”
“That explains the console scar on my forehead. Would it have killed you to use a car seat?”
“Adversity breeds character. Anyhow, you don’t see a new Head every day. It’s history in action. Morticia Shirque has been in charge of this circuit since my father was a twinkle in your great-granddad’s eye.”
“Dad—ew!”
At Sabina’s side, the baby began to fuss. Tuesday was not generally a demanding child, but given the chemical smell of fake leather coming off the store’s goods, I couldn’t blame her for being uncomfortable. Vano brightened when he spotted Dixon and me.
“Just in time,” he murmured. “Tuesday is always thrilled to see her favorite uncles.”
While I am not so sure an infant of her age even registers the fact that Dixon and I are anything more than a couple of fake leather chairs, I felt a bit of pride welling up inside over this statement nonetheless.
Vano unlooped the sling from his neck and headed toward Dixon with the baby, but Dixon waved him in my direction. “I’d love to hold her—but I can’t afford to have another spit-up incident just now, not when I’m about to go in front of all these people.”
“Gotcha.” Vano veered my way with the potato-and-onion printed bundle. It had looked manageable enough hanging around his neck, but as he passed the baby to me, I suddenly felt ill-prepared to accept such a delicate burden. Every time I held the baby, thoughts of inadequacy raced through my mind. What if I dropped her? What if I held her too tight? Maybe Sabina’s encounter with the Buick’s console had bred character, but I had no desire to be the one who squashed the next generation.
But as Tuesday regarded me with her huge brown eyes, blew a spit bubble, and began to coo, a sense of elation mingled with my fear. Though practically frozen stiff, I managed to hug her to my chest with just the right amount of force.
The baby wriggled and flashed her tiny gums in a broad smile. According to the internet, infants cannot truly smile until they are at least six weeks old, and Tuesday had not even been with us for quite a month. But we’d all known there was something special about this baby….
Or, in this case, especially stinky.
“Whoops, I could’ve sworn she was done pooping.” Vano held out his hands to take the baby back.
“And there’s not even a changing station in the restroom,” Sabina complained. I was not about to be bested by a dirty diaper. “I will handle this. We have a spare diaper in the truck.”
Frankly, the desire to prove my mettle was not my only motivation. As I wove through the aisles, I gently cupped Tuesday to my chest and whispered, “I envy your ability to carry on as if this were just another trip to the chair store. Tonight, your Uncle Dixon will receive a great honor. (Okay, your grandfather, too.) Seeing the Hands of all the families in one place, I am confident the volshebstvo has chosen well. Among all those tired old Scriveners, Dixon is sure to shine.”
Holding the baby never failed to make me self-conscious, but changing the baby was another matter. I have always found solace in making myself useful. In the open door of the truck with a blanket spread over the bench seat, I swapped out the diaper with quiet efficiency, holding my breath to escape the worst of the stink.
Once I fastened the new diaper in place, I finally found the words to express what was worrying me. “Hopefully Dixon does not shine too much. He has seen the world, but these other Scriveners have been in Pinyin Bay their whole lives. Their only ambitions are for a good hand of poker and enough paying customers to keep the lights on. What if they find Dixon too exuberant? Too colorful? Too…Dixon?”
Tuesday gave this worry a moment of consideration, then replied with a thoughtful bubble of spit.
Since that was probably all the input she would have on the matter, I decided we should head back in. The salesman tried to accost me when I re-entered, but a firm look from me froze him in his tracks. I threaded up and down the aisles, annoyed with the fact that the stacks upon stacks of chairs all looked the same. Somewhere in the distance, Sabina found something else to complain about, and I was able to follow her voice and make my way toward the gathering….
Only to turn a corner and find myself in a dead end of floor-to-ceiling chair piles. And while I might be able to create an exit with a well-placed shove, I refused to be the cause of a scar on the baby’s head that would rival the console-shaped mark on Sabina’s temple.
I heard Morticia’s strident voice cutting through the dull murmur of the gathered Hands. “All right, everyone, let’s take our places and get started. I don’t want to be here all night. Things to do—and I’m not getting any younger.” It came from perhaps two aisles away, and yet I could not tell which way would lead me to the gathering, and which would loop back to the customer service desk.
Had I passed that particular stack of barstools on my way in, or was this another, nearly identical stack? I tried to get my bearings, and of course neither Sabina nor Morticia was speaking now—and all I could hear was the muted drone of many hushed voices that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
If I did topple that wall of chairs, I could always claim it was an accident. But since Dixon might very well be quietly fretting on the other side, I could not risk it. I found myself in another dead end—or was it the same one from before?—and whirled around to find a solitary figure blocking my way out.
It was a middle-aged Scrivener woman. Tall. Gaunt. And dressed as if she’d blundered into the custom upholstery display and snagged a bunch of fabric on her way past. Her black hair was long and elaborately curled, threaded through all around her head with flowers. Plastic flowers, at that, judging by the colors. Vibrant primaries. Neon pink. Sparkling purple. A veritable rainbow of plastic blossoms which was so heavy, it practically clattered when she gave me a nod.
“So…that’s the new great-great grandchild? Lady Luck truly smiled on Morticia to provide the family with a girl.”
While most cultures prefer male children, Scriveners are eager for girls. Not only will they someday provide more offspring to add to the family, but a lucky one might win the heart of a Seer.
Yet another way in which Dixon managed to break the mold.
The woman took a step closer, peering at Tuesday through mascara-clotted lashes. The layers of her strange outfit swished as she walked, and the plastic flowers bobbed in her hair. But as ridiculous as she might have appeared, her eyes were shrewd.
“Potatoes,” she said.
Shrewd…or crazy.
And then I realized she was talking about the shopping bag in which Tuesday was wrapped.
“Potatoes are very auspicious. They’re a symbol of prosperity. Cut up a potato and plant the eyes, and you’ll find yourself overrun with potatoes when the season is through. Onions, though, are another story. What other vegetable will cause even a grown man to cry?”
“Superstition,” I said bluntly—even as I was itching to make the sign of the koza and ward her away. “The baby fits inside. That is all that matters.”
“Interesting. I would think if anyone would understand the importance of symbols, it would be a Seer.”
“You know who I am,” I said.
“Indeed, I knew it the moment I heard your accent, since a new Seer is always big news for a circuit. I am Fortunate.” To make my acquaintance, I thought she meant—Americans are always claiming such ridiculous things. But then she said, “Fortunate Jones, Hand of the Pinyin Bay Jones family, no relation to the Strangeberg Joneses. A good many Scrivener forebears claimed the name Jones on Ellis Island—probably to escape some debts. Pity. No doubt surnames from the Old Country would have so much more panache.”
I wondered which country she was referring to, since Scrivener populations have cropped up all over the world, from Austria to Zimbabwe.
I did not ask. And the woman kept talking. “You’d be better off swaddling the child in a MallMart bag.” She rifled through her outfit and pulled a streamer of blue fabric from among the swatches, waggling it under my nose. “Blue is a lucky color, inviting wealth as broad as the sky and as deep as the ocean. Those bags might be a bit itchy, mind you, but you can’t beat the price, since they give them out free on the first Friday of every month. But you know all about color. Don’t you, Seer?”
Enough to know periwinkle was no different from a dusty plum as far as most people were concerned.
Fortunate looked me over, assessing me from the top of my shorn head to the tips of my worn shoes. “I know you’re rather attached to the Penn boy, but the Jones Family would be willing to offer you a very lucrative contract.”
“Are you mad?” I blurted out.
“Just pragmatic. Everyone knows the Penns don’t exactly rake in the big bucks—hardly enough to support you, Rufus Clahd, and that exuberant Boardwalk fellow. And while Dixon’s little Uncrafting hobby might be...interesting…it leaves him with no use for a Seer.”
“The Penns are not just my employers. They are my family.”
Her gaze grew even more cunning. “Are they? The girl secured Vano—quite a catch—by having his first child. But unless Seers possess certain talents I don’t know about….”
“We should rejoin the group,” I told Fortunate firmly, since the conversation was veering into territory I had no desire to explore.
A Christmas to Die For by Jessica Frances
CHAPTER ONE
Toby
Leaving my office Christmas party at three in the morning, after drinking far too many spiked eggnogs and tequila, is probably standard practice for this type of event. Walking in on your married boss getting it on with your barely-of-age coworker … is probably also standard craziness for this type of party. But what is frowned upon, and not recommended, is shouting out to everyone in the office what you just walked in on, and doing said shouting next to the boss’s husband. I blame the alcohol for my loose lips and because I didn’t think ahead for even one second. If I had, I would have realized that outing my boss to everyone would have serious consequences. This is why I’m now an unemployed assistant.
“Come on, Toby; another fuck up? Seriously?” I growl out loud.
Talking to myself is a habit I have never been able to break. I have had several boyfriends and coworkers comment about how annoying they find this habit, but it apparently isn’t an easy habit to break. Or, at least, not easy when I’m tipsy and full of self-loathing.
I groan, realizing that my hangover from another job loss and lack of future income won’t be the only reasons I feel like shit tomorrow. I didn’t think I drank that much, or that it would affect me so quickly. Damn alcohol.
Really, why did I have to drink at all? After last weekend, I promised myself that I was giving it up. I had too much to drink, and then I had it out with my one and only friend in this small-ass town, leaving me friendless to match my now being jobless.
Evidently, when I drink, I have zero self-control. If that wasn’t completely obvious after tonight, I should have seen the signs after I unrepentantly told my now ex-friend, Derrick, that his girlfriend was a horrible cook. Obviously, that was fucking rude to say, which he’s probably right, but I wasn’t lying. When you get food poisoning three times in a row, there is a problem. Hell, Derrick’s lost half his body weight since he started dating her! I swear he’s sick more often than healthy. Good luck talking sense into anyone when they’re in love, though.
The next thing I knew, things had gotten out of hand and a lot of nasty words were said between us, including Derrick telling me that I’m a lonely, bitter bastard who is clearly just jealous since I’m so damn unlovable and terminally single.
Anyone would think never being in love before, and not having had a proper relationship in over six years, as well as it being eight long months since I had sex, made his statement true. Fuck, even I think I’m a sad, lonely, bitter bastard. And it’s depressing that I’m about to enter my thirties next year with these stats.
“Sad, lonely Toby Kinsley, forever blue-balled and single,” I grumble, almost falling on my ass as I slip on the icy sidewalk. I grab ahold of one of the many tree trunks that surround both sides of the street and give myself a moment to catch my breath.
One of the reasons I fell in love with the small town of Tinselballs, North Carolina wasn’t just the hilarious name, or the fact that I’m childish enough to laugh at the word balls being on every piece of mail, but because the place is straight out of a horror movie.
The town itself is eerily utilitarian and creepy looking, as though it’s stuck in a time bubble. Hell, even most residents dress as though they’re wearing a wardrobe designed in the sixties. But it was the houses that sold me.
While there are a few apartments situated in town and above shops, the actual houses are in the woods and on farmlands that circle the entire town. You never see your neighbors because each home is drowning in the surrounding high trees or wide open fields. Hell, you could probably be abducted by aliens and your neighbor would be none the wiser.
With a population equaling just under a thousand people, everyone has their privacy. Then again, you have zero privacy when it comes to town gossip, something I will no doubt realize tomorrow if I decide to show my face at the local diner, but still.
Other than Derrick, no one has visited my little humble abode since I moved in a year ago. The long driveway just to get to my house keeps my home hidden from the street. I enjoy feeling like I’m in the middle of nowhere when I’m at home.
That doesn’t mean there aren’t some serious downsides to living in Tinselballs, and one of those major disadvantages is the lack of job opportunities. My now ex-job was the only one I was able to find close by, given my lack of stability or experience in most fields, and the only reason I got it was because I was the only applicant.
Do I seriously want to spend a couple hours driving to work each day for another job I won’t love?
And that’s the problem. I have never loved a job.
I’m twenty-nine, and I have held twenty-seven jobs since I just scraped by and graduated high school. Yes, almost one job for each year I have been alive. Or, for those of you playing at home, since finishing school, it’s been an average of two point … um … something jobs a year. Okay, I suck at math. But you get the point. Too many jobs to look good on my résumé, and definitely too many jobs for someone closing in on thirty.
Maybe I’m just destined to be forever horny while drifting from one soul-sucking job to another soul-sucking job?
I shake my head, causing me to almost go ass up again.
Tipsy Toby is a depressing one.
I need to snap out of it, or at least snap out of this depressing circle of thoughts until I’m home and not with a broken ass after falling on it. Who knew walking could be so hard when there is the combination of icy ground and drunkenness? Okay, probably everyone could guess that. Still, I need to drop my mopey act until I get somewhere heated and less slippery. The afterglow of booze keeping me warm won’t last forever.
“Keep moving, Toby,” I mutter. “You’re nearly there. Don’t fall on your ass now.”
Huh, maybe my next job could be writing motivational quotes. Or, maybe I need to be more realistic and have short-term goals, instead of career goals that continually fail. I need to think about just walking ten minutes to make it home. And then, once in my house, my next goal can be the dozen or so steps until I can step into my shower and wash away this shit night. And tomorrow, I can think about keeping down my breakfast. Career dreams and relationship goals are clearly just asking for misery when I think ahead.
I wonder if my bank would agree with this and, instead of making my mortgage payments a monthly thing, they could take a more laidback approach.
I snort and almost topple over again.
“Go home, Toby. You’re drunk,” I grumble, making myself laugh at this and again almost collapsing.
I attempt to straighten up and look less clumsy when I see lights shining from behind. Must be a car approaching, though it sort of has a red tinge to the light.
Man, some people take Christmas way too seriously. Red is for braking, not to spread Christmas cheer in the middle of the road.
I don’t turn my head, not wanting to give the car any attention or encouragement for them to stop and ask if I’m okay, since this is the sort of small town that would. There is no need to add stumbling home drunk and needing to be picked up and driven thirty seconds down the road to the gossip.
Lost in concentration, I keep my head down, using all my attention for putting one foot in front of the other and not falling on my ass. I pull out the chain around my neck and slide my pendent from side to side, something I do whenever I’m bored or nervous.
I have had a lot of comments over the years about my pendent; some curious, some appreciative, but most are unkind. I can admit it isn’t the prettiest thing.
The pendant is the length and width of a couple side-by-side cigarettes, but when you get closer to the bronze pendent, you notice the weird markings on one side. I have often wondered if it’s a code for something cool, but as far as Google can tell, it’s complete gibberish.
I glance down at the family heirloom, wondering why I have never even considered getting rid of it. Mom gave it to me on my tenth birthday and made me swear to never take it off. Something about the promise felt unbreakable to me, so I have worn it every day since.
It usually alleviates stress, or at least gives my mind something else to focus on, but not so much tonight. Tonight, I’m too distracted and flighty as I drop the chain back under my shirt and my depressing thoughts push back in.
My mind drifts from inane memories of a loser past to my future prospects, which are as bleak as you would expect.
What am I going to do for money? What will I do for work? I just moved here a year ago. Do I pack up and leave again? Packing up and moving is getting old. I promised myself this time I would stick. I even put a down payment on the house I live in. That’s a huge commitment! The biggest I have ever made in my life. And now I have to give it up? I have to leave?
This is my little horror town, and I don’t want to give it up.
I groan in despair, though it cuts off when I see the tree line break up ahead where my driveway is situated.
I’m nearly home!
I speed up, uncaring now that I might fall on my ass. I’m close enough to slide the rest of the way if that happens. However, the lights behind me seem to be growing in size and brightness.
How has this car not overtaken me yet? And why can’t I hear an engine?
I stop and turn, facing the bright red light, which I realize isn’t coming from the direction of the road, but the damn sky!
Instinctively, I duck, which means I slip on the ice and fall down hard on my side, sliding dangerously close to the middle of the road, not that I really care, because a freaking plane is about to land on the street!
I screech, attempting to back up, but I just keep sliding back to the same dip in the road.
What the hell is going on?
Just as I’m about to bellow another shriek, the plane moves over me, and I realize it’s not a plane at all. It’s way too small. And … is that legs I see moving underneath? What flying vehicle has dozens of feet?
This obviously means I’m either already passed out and dreaming or about to be abducted by aliens.
Shit, why did I have to think about aliens?
I put that thought out into the world, and now the world has answered me.
Then the possibly alien thing lands, and I finally get a proper look at what the hell it is.
First, I see the gigantic hooves of some sort of animal that … I mean, it’s too large to be real. These animals are like horses on steroids.
A half dozen or so of these creatures are all standing in a uniformed pattern on the road, all their unnerving eyes scrutinizing me, while the air in front of their noses and mouths puff up with steam from the cold air.
What. The. Fuck?
The front one, which also happens to be closest to me, lowers its head, and I finally realize, from my position on the ground, that it has a glowing red nose which, as I quickly glance around at the others, is different since the other’s noses don’t glow. And then I notice they all have antlers.
Wait a minute. Are these …? Is this supposed to be …? No way! These can’t possibly be reindeer. For one, they’re too supersized. Not to mention reindeer don’t fly. And what the fuck is one doing with a glowing red nose?
I grab my head, feeling for any bumps. I find none.
What is happening?
I attempt to get to my feet again, but this time, instead of the ice hindering my movements, it’s the supersized reindeer. Collectively, their eyes follow my sad attempt to get up, and I freeze, wishing their attention could be on anything but me.
Did I think I used to like horror movies? Did I actually love being scared? Did I use to laugh at the ridiculous choices made by those characters? Because I take it all back. This is the scariest situation I have ever been in, and I’m ready to hightail it out of here, screaming at the top of my lungs. Because … I think I’m about to be mauled by some sort of experimental beasts!
I scramble along the ground when one of the supersized reindeer steps forward, the one with the bright red nose that practically glows in the dark night. And among my terror, something hits me.
Staring at this bright, glowing nose, I realize exactly what I’m looking at.
A burst of laughter explodes out of me, my eyes immediately glistening with tears, and my body sags as I confirm that I’m seeing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
And that is not possible.
Which means I’m just having some fucked-up hallucination, fueled by all the Christmas shit I’m bombarded with not only at work, or in town, but also because I have listened to nonstop carols during an entire party.
I keep laughing, uncaring when I collapse back onto the freezing ground and my beanie and back begin to get wet.
I either drank too much, had my drink spiked, or I have fallen into some sort of stressed state-of-mind, causing this insane hallucination.
That’s all. This isn’t real. It can’t be.
Flying reindeer aren’t real.
Rudolph isn’t real.
Suddenly, I stop caring about the supercharged reindeer that stops just before me, its intelligent eyes staring right at me and looking confused, if I can read mammal expressions correctly. Hell, this is my hallucination, so I can probably make it dance in a tutu if I wanted.
“Ru!” I shorten my imaginary reindeer’s name as I reach up and grab a hoof, ignoring how real it feels under my touch or how warm its breath is from the growl he emits directly into my face.
I have never hallucinated before, but I can’t believe how real it feels. Are all hallucinations like this?
“Ru …” I singsong his name now, extending the ooh syllable to a ridiculous length. “You need to go back to not existing. You’re going to make me think I’m having a mental breakdown.”
I use Rudolph to steady myself as I finally make it back to my feet, patting his side as I pass him as a thank you, and then I pat it again when I feel how rough the fur is, almost like he’s packing hard abs. Or are those his ribs showing? Is my imaginary Rudolph underfed?
Oh shit, I hope this isn’t some sort of weird prediction for my future. I have savings … sort of.
Despair, unlike any I have felt, hits me. I have had some hard hands dealt to me throughout my life. A military brat for most of my childhood meant I never stayed in one place long enough to make close friends. Then my mother was killed overseas in some sort of top secret mission, and my dad took me away, only to die of a heart attack much too young.
Ever since then, I have been mostly alone.
But, for some reason—probably because I’m drunk—I feel more alone tonight than I have in a long time. I worry that maybe I won’t bounce back as easily as I have before.
When am I going to feel secure? Safe?
“Ru …” I whine, moving back to the front of my imaginary friend and staring at his bright red nose. This has to be the most ridiculous thing in the world, but I still grab some of his fur in the front and tug. “Come down here.”
My six-foot two stature isn’t tall enough for my new fake, furry friend, but I need a hug. Hell, I can’t even remember the last time I felt like I needed this, or the last time I had a hug. How sad is that?
Given this isn’t real, Rudolph is surprisingly stubborn. In fact, I have to use every bit of strength I have to get his large face to come near me, and I get the distinct impression he’s not happy. But I don’t care. He’s from my imagination, and I need a damn hug.
I wrap my arms around his too-wide neck and attempt to pull myself together, finding a comfort there that would likely get me put in a mental institution for life.
Whooshing noises sound around us, but I barely hear it over my deep breathing.
Why do I feel like crying? Men don’t cry. Well, not unless they have just thrown their guts up over their naked body from stage fright after attempting a career as a cam boy. I gave myself a pass that day.
But, even though I’m in complete denial about crying, tears wet my face as I give in to the feeling of despair and loneliness. Why do I have to be such a fuckup? Why does everything and everyone I touch turn to shit?
Heat overwhelms me, soaking away the cold that crept into my body after lying on the icy ground, and though the breeze is chilly and promising a future snowstorm, I suddenly have the urge to take off my jacket.
“You’re like a furnace,” I grumble at Rudolph, not removing my grip.
For some unlikely reason, this hug with my fake reindeer is the best thing to happen to me since the two weeks I was able to get a signal on my TV at home and could stream unlimited shows for that entire fortnight. I’m not ready to give it up yet, even if I’m probably just hugging a tree while picturing my fake reindeer.
I keep my eyes closed, my breathing finally calming down, when I notice something moving against me—perhaps Rudolph trying to shake me off. Either way, at the feel of something hard against the entire length of my body, I open one eye to find I’m no longer hugging a supersized reindeer.
Huh?
I’m hugging a man!
“Shit!” I gasp, dropping my hands from around the neck of a strange man who must be over eight feet tall, given he still has to bend over for me to hug him. Then I promptly fall on my ass, not feeling the impact since I’m still in shock.
I wipe my eyes, first to get the wetness out of them, and then because what I’m seeing can’t be real.
At first, all I notice is that every bit of hair on this giant’s head is white, and he has a lot of hair—a mane on his head and a crazy huge beard any biker would be proud of. It’s so odd to see such prominent white hair on a man who looks my age, because this giant is not old, even given the wizened color of his hair. No, I would put money that he isn’t older than thirty. In fact, every person here has the same stark white hair as my Rudolph, though they all look similar in age to him.
That’s odd, right?
Okay, scratch that, the weird part is clearly the changing from animal to human. Not the hair situation. Still …
Moving on from the hair, his uncompromising gaze, which hasn’t left me for even one second, has a wise-beyond-his-years knowledge to it, and he has the body of someone young and incredibly fit. In fact, he has a very naked body on display right in front of me.
Unwittingly, my gaze glides over his naked, smooth, pale skin, starting with his bulky arm muscles, which bulge and protrude over his unblemished skin, and then I drool over his upper body and abs for days, before I predictably land squarely on the naked lower half.
My mouth goes dry to find what he holds in that area. Whether this person is a shapeshifter or not, they do carry the same genitals … as supersized as the rest of him.
What is this hallucination supposed to mean? That I am inadequate? I haven’t had anxiety about the size of my dick since I was a kid, worrying that I was smaller than average and would be known as Tiny Toby for the rest of my school days. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case and never happened. But what is my brain doing now?
I groan, knocking the side of my head in the hopes of dislodging this strange hallucination, but the naked man and, what I finally acknowledge as the eight other completely naked people behind him, aren’t leaving. In fact, the naked people, both female and male, all shapes and skin tones, are grunting aggressively at me.
Oh shit, is this some freaky orgy that has sprung up from the depths of my depraved mind? But then, why the hell are there women here, too? I have never felt an ounce of attraction toward women.
Honestly, my brain is messing with me in the worst possible way tonight.
They continue their weird grunting communication, no one bothering to speak English, or even anything that sounds remotely familiar.
Figuring I will take a stab at controlling my dream, I wave my hands and command them to, “Go away!”
It doesn’t work.
“Cover up!” I demand next.
Unfortunately, they remain naked and unapologetic about it.
Maybe if I keep my eyes closed, then I can believe that I haven’t gone mad and am definitely alone out here. Yes, then, tomorrow, I will wake up with a hangover from hell, but at least I won’t be seeing reindeer or naked giants.
I cover my ears when the grunting doesn’t stop. In fact, is it getting louder?
I squeeze my eyes closed tighter and chant out loud, “I’m not crazy. No one is here.” Something touches my face, and I cough before something gritty enters my mouth with my next inhale.
What the hell?
I betray my promise to myself and open my eyes, seeing some sort of glittery haze in front of me. Then, as it dissipates, the nudity assaults my eyes again.
“You’re still here!” I cry, closing my eyes again.
“Do you understand me, puny human?” a man bellows, making my ears pop from the blast of noise.
“Don’t shout at him. Humans are weak. You’re likely to deafen him,” someone else snaps, sounding even closer. Is that their breath I feel against my face?
“This cannot possibly be the one we seek. He is small and fragile.” This voice is female sounding.
Then someone pokes my side, earning a squeak from me, given it’s a particularly ticklish spot.
“Enough!” a new voice shouts.
I open my eyes, attempting to avoid the nudity, and glance around the circling gang of giants.
The man currently speaking is the one who I was previously wrapped around.
Everyone stares at him, as though mesmerized.
“We don’t have time for this. We need to take the human and go. The elves have already attacked tonight and no doubt will be back here soon.”
Elves? As in Santa’s little helpers?
My eyes widen at this, and I carefully crawl backward, needing to get away from all this crazy.
Due to their height and wide stances, I’m able to slip between the legs of one particularly huge guy whose dick is so massive that I worry it might knock against my head as I slide between his open legs.
What has my life become?
Fine, no more drinking for me. And no more drugs. Not that I ever took recreational drugs, but maybe I did tonight, because nothing is making sense.
Crawling backward, I feel the prickles and scrapes over my hands and clothing from the rough ground, fallen bark, and leaves as I push through the gaps between the trees, hearing a couple tears in my pants as I make my way to the other side.
Once I’m through the line of trees blocking my property from the street, I frantically run toward my small house. I run like my life depends on it, because I fear my sanity actually might depend on me getting back to the safety of my home.
It isn’t long before my crazy imagination catches on to my disappearance.
“Human!” a male shouts, sending cold shivers over my body.
Why can’t I just will these people away? If they are in my mind, why can’t I just make them disappear?
As the yelling behind me increases, I chance a glance back to find the crazy, imaginary, naked people are on my tail.
“No!” I moan, pushing myself faster. I don’t know why I think my home will solve anything; it’s just a house without good locks, definitely nothing that can keep these people out. But something tells me that, once I’m inside, I will have a clearer mind. I will realize that I was just having some sort of strange episode, and then, once I collapse into my warm bed, I will fall into a deep sleep and forget all about this.
Unfortunately, just a few feet from reaching what I hope will be freedom, several arrows—which look to be on fire!—shoot down from the sky. They miss me, but most become embedded against the walls and roof of my house.
I have one moment to wonder what the hell they are before the building explodes.
An invisible, heated shockwave hits me, taking me off my feet and pushing me backward. I slam into a tree trunk and crack my head, giving me an instant headache.
Arms wrap around me, gripping tight enough to cut off my breathing, and my view of my exploding home instantly changes to the tree line surrounding my property as I’m shuffled away from the wreckage.
I look up to find Rudolph holding me. So … not a tree, then.
Then I realize he’s still naked!
This can’t be happening.
He shields me from the debris flying through the air; all my worldly possessions becoming nothing more than burning embers and rubble.
“No!” I groan while the pounding in my head worsens.
I need to wake up. I need to get away.
A growl has me looking back up at Rudolph, the vibration of it rumbling through my own body while I’m still tightly held against him. He turns us back to the crater that used to have my house sitting there.
Rudolph’s gaze is fierce, and I notice the men and women from before are turning back into reindeer. As in, their bodies are changing shape until they are no longer human!
What the fuck?
“Ru?” I gasp, my entire world now shaken to its core.
I barely have time to process that everything I owned, everything I have collected over the years, is now gone before someone lands over the rubble. In fact, many beings land. Dozens of them.
Somewhat belatedly, under the light of the moonlit clouds and glowing embers that used to be my house, I register that these beings barely look human. Their ears are pointed, their teeth sharp as they hiss at us, and their eyes are black. The clothes they wear are a dull green, and they each have dozens of arrows and spears at their backs in a pouch. Actually, some of them already have arrows and spears in hand, moving their arms back in the same way a javelin thrower might.
Are these the elves Rudolph mentioned earlier?
Okay, reindeer and elves? This has to be some sort of cosmic joke on me. Then again, the destruction of my house is no joke. And the deadly intent on the elves’ faces, as they look to be preparing an attack, is definitely no joke.
In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m screwed. And crazy.
Can’t forget the crazy part.
A Delicious Descent by Amanda Meuwissen
Chapter One
My dearest Mina,
I have safely arrived in the heart of the Carpathian Mountains. My client, the count, has sent a carriage for me, and I am traveling toward his castle as I pen you this note.
They say this region, Transylvania, is one of the wildest in Europe. Surely, the countryside is beautifully lush with trees and rolling hills, and with the sun beginning to set and darkness filling the path toward the castle, I can hear wolves in the distance, but wild is yet to be seen. I am certain you would love it here, for the quaintness of the villages and kindness of its people.
A strange woman pushed a small silver crucifix into my hand when I told her about my client and where I was headed. It seems the count is as eccentric and reclusive as we imagined when I first received this assignment. Please know that, despite the locals and their charming superstitions, I am safe and miss you dearly. May my next letter be to inform you that my work is complete, and I am on my way home.
Yours,
Jonathan
Jonathan’s pen hopped off the page as the carriage came to a stop. Guiding his composition had been a gilded lamp, brassy from soot and lengthy use, disturbed now to flicker shadows across the frayed velvet curtains. A lantern hung up front beside the driver, but a glance outdoors showed near pitch blackness everywhere else, silhouetting the untamed scenery.
Wolves howled, as Jonathan had recounted to Mina, sounding closer than before.
“Um… driver?” he called, hearing the man jump down from the coach box. “It is still a ways off yet, isn’t it?”
The door lurched open, nearly spilling Jonathan from the cabin.
“No closer,” the driver spoke shortly in his thick Romanian accent. What might have been rural fashion was hidden by a long black cloak, the man’s face equally covered with cloth wrapped around his head, though there was hardly any chill this time of year. His somewhat wide-brimmed hat left only the pierce of eyes without discernible color. “Now.”
Jonathan scurried to collect his things, fearing the driver might physically haul him from the carriage if he wasn’t swift. Once outside, he could see that they were quite close to the castle. Its looming form spoke of Eastern European design with jagged spires less commonly found on English castles, up a steep hill with a rocky cliffside behind it, as if warning all who might invade that there was only one way in. Or out.
Again, wolves howled, and Jonathan touched a hand to where the crucifix laid beneath his shirt. He felt foolish for his rush of fear. It was only a castle. Only the dark of night.
Only the threat of wild animals attacking when he had just written to his fiancé that he was safe.
“S-sir, surely your horses can make it up the remaining path—”
“No closer,” the driver repeated and slammed the carriage door behind Jonathan, clearly intent on leaving him right there in the dirt.
“Wait! At least ensure my letter is sent to this address.” He followed the driver up front, pushing the letter and a business card into the man’s hands. Mina worked with Jonathan at his law office as a stenographer, so it was easiest to send her correspondence there.
The driver said nothing but tucked both items into his cloak before climbing atop the carriage and urging the horses to turn around.
Distant but flickering, lanterns lit either side of the castle doors, and Jonathan sped toward them. He wanted to reach that beacon, or as close to it as possible before the light from the carriage disappeared down the road.
The trouble with being the youngest solicitor in the firm, yet unmarried, meant Jonathan was often given the undesirable assignments. All that was needed of him was to finalize documents, assist in moving arrangements, and secure a few signatures, and the count’s purchase of the Carfax estate would be complete. Much of it could have been done through letters, for money had already exchanged hands, but the count had insisted on someone coming in person before he made the trip to London.
Honestly, Jonathan had not minded receiving the assignment, for it ensured the postponement of his wedding. He loved Mina very much, but not in the way a man was meant to love his future bride. Jonathan had never felt the way he was meant to toward a woman. He had asked for Mina’s hand because she was one of his dearest friends, and at least with her, he would not be entirely miserable, even if he might never be stirred to passion in their marriage bed.
Another wolf howled, and Jonathan was not certain if it was his imagination that made it sound so close, or if the galloping paws at his heels were merely his own frantic footfalls. He hoped so, for the darkness was closing in on him, and his lungs burned from the effort to reach the castle doors before he could live—or not live—to regret this trip.
He did not dare slow his momentum and nearly rammed into the doors upon reaching them, stopping himself with outstretched hands as he gasped for breath. His knocks must have sounded like those of a madman, too terrified to look behind him and see if he was indeed pursued by something with vicious, snapping teeth.
The doors opened, toppling him into strong arms that righted him on his feet.
“Afraid of the dark, Mr. Harker?” an amused voice asked, accented like that of the driver.
Jonathan would have worried he made a fool of himself in front of his client if he had not looked up to see a savior who could not possibly be the count.
The man was young, younger than Jonathan, and though he sounded Romanian, he certainly did not look it. He was fair skinned, with ginger hair, and pale blue eyes, like the most expected of Irishman. Part of his heritage must be from that area, despite his accent saying he was local.
And oh, he was beautiful, as pretty as a maiden yet still distinctly masculine.
“Mr. Harker?”
“F-forgive me.” Jonathan straightened, removing himself from the man’s arms, should their nearness cause him to give away his vile desires for male companionship. Perhaps he would need that crucifix for temperance rather than protection. “The wolves sounded too close for comfort, I’m afraid.”
“Oh?” The redheaded beauty moved around Jonathan to peer outside, giving him the confidence to look as well.
There was nothing there but the dark.
The man closed the doors and turned to Jonathan with a wry smile. “It seems the bogeyman has been banished. We have been expecting you, of course. I am Lucian,” he introduced himself with a subtle bow, “one of the count’s valets. Shall I take your things?”
He was dressed as a valet, Jonathan saw now, in a crisp white button-down, black vest, black trousers, and an apron, as though he had been preparing the evening meal.
“Thank you,” Jonathan said, handing over his larger bag, valise, hat, and finally, removing his overcoat, all of which Lucian gathered with practiced ease. “One of, you said? Does the count have many attendants in the castle?”
“Only two.” Lucian gestured for Jonathan to continue inside. “Though I suppose we are far more than mere valets. Through that door you will find the dining hall. The count will join you shortly.”
Now that Jonathan was no longer plagued by fear of being eaten alive, he allowed himself to take in the castle foyer, which was more opulent than he expected, given most he had been able to see outside was shadowed. Everything indoors was also dark but in a manner that betrayed the count’s fortune, with black and deep-red tapestries and carvings in the stonework like great dragons, all illuminated by torches along the walls.
Two stairways flanked the high-ceiled foyer, each with once again dragon-like stonework, this time as gargoyle sentinels at the front of the banisters. The doorway Lucian had indicated was equally as grand, but what lay beyond was hidden by a thick red curtain.
“Oh, will you be—” Jonathan started to speak, turning around to ask if Lucian would be bringing his things directly to whatever room he would be staying in, but the man was gone.
Concluding his trek to the designated doorway, Jonathan swept aside the curtain for the dining hall. The spread upon the expansive table within was far more than he and an aging count could consume, even if two valets were to eat what remained. It smelled incredible and included several bottles of wine lining the end of the table.
A fire blazed to the left, with a mantel as tall as Jonathan, and above was a portrait of a handsome and richly ornamented man. He had a short, neatly trimmed beard and long wavy black hair, with a golden coronet upon his brow. His garments were embroidered red, black, and gold, and jewels adorned him like some long-lost prince.
“Please, Mr. Harker, sit.”
Jonathan spun, surprised to find a man in the corner beside the hall’s entrance.
The other valet, he assumed, given the man’s attire was very like Lucian’s, though he wore a jacket rather than an apron.
He was also just as young and beautiful, while being Lucian’s complete opposite, with a shaved head, dark skin, and nearly black eyes. His features were so perfectly symmetrical, he could have been a statue carved from obsidian.
Jonathan banished the fresh stir of lust from his loins and cleared his throat. “It is my honor to partake, but this is far too much for me.”
“It is rare we have guests,” the man said, coming forward with a sharper posture than Lucian and a more measured tone. “Allow the count to indulge any whims you might have. The same can be said of me and Lucian—whatever you may wish of us.”
Maybe that stir of lust was not so easily banished, and Jonathan was thankful to have been given an invitation to sit. Certainly, this man did not mean his words like that. “Th-thank you,” Jonathan managed, claiming a chair near the end of the table.
“We are honored to have you, Mr. Harker. I am Alexander. Do you have a preference in wine, or shall I choose one for you?”
Jonathan paused, realizing he could not place the man’s accent. It was not Romanian but sounded distinctly American, and yet as if tinged with the barest hints of Creole almost faded to undetectable. “Whatever you recommend would be wonderful, thank you. But may I ask… are you from New Orleans?”
“Quite the ear, Mr. Harker,” Alexander said as he chose a bottle with little deliberation. “I was once. Please, fill your plate with whatever you desire. Lucian will want to know what you think of his hard work.”
“Shouldn’t I wait for the count?”
“He insisted you start without him.”
As the guest, Jonathan did as told, feeling his hunger more acutely when presented with such a bountiful feast. Everything tasted as good as it looked, with perfectly seasoned meat, fresh vegetables, and warm bread that must have finished baking just as he arrived. The wine that accompanied it made the meal far better than anything Jonathan had experienced even in Mina’s well-to-do family home, or in the home of her wealthier friend, Lucy.
“You can tell Lucian his efforts outdo the grandest meals one can have in London,” Jonathan praised. “The count is lucky to have you both.”
“And now you have us too.” Lucian appeared, already inside the curtain, though it did not waver as though it had been disturbed. He had replaced his apron with a jacket to match Alexander’s and came forward with that same wry smile. “At least for a little while.”
The pair looked even more beautiful standing side by side, complimenting each other’s contrasting appearances.
“Forgive Lucian,” Alexander said with a faint smile of his own. “He forgets proper decorum.”
Lucian laughed without denying it.
“I find it refreshing,” Jonathan said. “In England, decorum is often taken too seriously. The meal you prepared is truly wonderful, Lucian. Thank you.”
“I am pleased. A smile on your face is far more handsome than fright.”
Jonathan’s fork clinked against his plate at the flattery. He did not think himself handsome, least of all in the company of men like this. He was tall but too thin, almost gaunt, pale like Lucian, but not what one would call fair. He was freshly shaved like both men, as a beard did not suit him, but he had always considered his flop of brown hair too mousy, and his brown eyes too ordinary.
“Lucian, you bring a flush to our guest’s cheeks. Do behave yourself.”
It was not Alexander who had chided the redhead but a deeper, resonant voice that commanded all to be directed to it.
Through another curtain on the far side of the dining hall stood a tall prominent figure as if he had been there all along. Here, at last, was the count, and if his valets were attractive, then he was the epitome of regal beauty.
He was older than the man in the painting but a near spot-on likeness to what was no doubt a distant relative from centuries past. The count had the same bronze face, though his was clean-shaven, and his wavy black hair was shorter, swept back from his brow with the longest of it not quite reaching his shoulders. Jonathan guessed him to be about fifty. He had few wrinkles and only the barest hints of silver in his dark hair, but there was wisdom in his eyes like a man who had lived longer than he appeared.
His eyes were what stole Jonathan’s voice as much as the count’s handsomeness, for they were green, with a ring of gold around the pupils. Dragon’s eyes, he had heard someone call them once, joking, of course, but it made Jonathan think of the beasts carved into so much of the castle’s architecture.
Dracula was a fitting name for such a man.
Troy's Warlock by Taylor Rylan
1
Elliot
It was difficult to concentrate on what it was I was supposed to be doing. I had left our coven almost a year ago in order to find my One. Unfortunately, no matter where I looked, I wasn’t able to locate him. Something was most definitely drawing me to Alaska, and as far as I knew, there were absolutely no known covens up there. That meant one of two things: I was either destined to mate with a shifter of some sort, or I was going to be mating a human. I really had no preference, but when Papa called me home, my search had to be put on hold.
I knew that no matter what, family always came first. And when my family needed me, I was going to be there for them. Helping Arin with his inexperienced magic was certainly no hardship. It was a known fact that I was one of the most patient, kind, and nurturing of all of my siblings.
The sudden burst of air and energy toward me followed by the pungent smell of singed hair brought me back to the present. I really should have been paying more attention to Arin while he practiced the spells we were going over. Three years ago, when I turned one hundred, it seemed that all I could think about anymore was finding my One. Luckily, Papa understood and was more than willing to allow me to travel in order to search.
But when I was told of Arik’s mating and pregnancy, I knew I wanted to be closer to my family. Looking at Arik’s twin, I busted out laughing at my younger brother’s predicament. What should have been an extremely simple levitation spell somehow managed to incinerate the book that Arin was supposed to be levitating.
“Don’t worry, Arin, you’ll get it eventually. I just hope it’s before you burn down the house,” I told him before laughing at the way he was standing there holding a handful of ashes that used to be a book. With a wave of my hand, I cleaned up both the mess as well as my brother. Arin looked down at himself and then back up at me and smiled.
“Thanks, Elliot. At this point I’d be afraid to even try a glamour spell. Why is it that I’m struggling so much? I don’t want to be such a burden. And the last thing I want is to shame Papa.”
“Awe, don’t worry, Arin. You’ll get there. And there is absolutely no way you bring shame to Papa. So don’t even think that. We all struggle with certain things, and yours just happens to be spellcasting.”
“Thank you. I just want to make you all proud.”
“You do. And don’t ever think otherwise.”
“Do you think we should continue? Or should we get ready for the party in Montana?”
“We certainly have more time for practice if that’s what you want to do. But I can tell you this, if you’re tired or distracted, you’re going to make even more mistakes. Yes, there’s going to come a time when you actually have to be able to use your magic while under great pressure, but you’re not there yet. You’ll get to that point—you just have to remember that you are only twenty-eight. You know that is young for anyone in our coven to have mastered all of their magic.”
“Okay, can we try again?”
“Of course we can. I’m here to help you in any way I can. Now, let’s see what you’re doing wrong. First things first, clear your mind and focus on just you. Think about what it is that you’re holding. Think about what it is you want that object to do. Think about your power that comes from your center, and feel the power as it travels from your center and down your arm. Feel the power as it travels from your arm and into the object. Now remove your hand from the object and open your eyes.” I looked at Arin and couldn’t help but be proud of what he had just done. After dozens of mishaps, he’d finally levitated a book.
The look of shock and awe on his face most definitely made up for the few singed hairs I had earned for my troubles.
“Elliot. I did it. Look. I did it. Holy shit, I actually levitated something.”
“See. You just need to remember that your strength comes from here,” I said to him as I tapped him gently on the chest. I’d noticed that too often he became flustered and frustrated, and that only added to his mishaps.
We all started out somewhere; we all learned at different speeds. Arin had the potential to be so much, but he often didn’t recognize that. Seeing how happy he was at doing something so simple caused me to smile.
“Do you think we can try something else?”
“No. And I’m not trying to rain on your parade. But we need to make sure that you’ve mastered this before moving on, remember?”
“I know. I’m just excited and got carried away.”
“It’s to be expected. It’s unquestionably something to be very proud of. Definitely make sure you tell Papa and Dad tonight at the celebration.”
“I will! I can’t wait. Do you think that Papa will be proud of me?”
“Yes. You know they will both be very proud of you. As am I. Now, let’s stick with a book for a little while longer, and then we will work our way up in size and see how you do with levitating larger objects,” I told Arin reassuringly.
“Oh, hey. I never thought about that! I can’t wait to levitate larger things.”
I smiled at Arin and tried my hardest to remember what it was like to be so young. I wasn’t old, but I was almost seventy years older than the twins were. By paranormal standards, that wasn’t much. By human standards, that was a complete lifetime.
We spent the next several hours levitating various objects. We stuck with books to begin with and then slowly moved up in size. By the time it was time for us to get ready for the party in Montana, Arin was levitating entire rooms of furniture at a time. It had seemed that once he finally found his center, finally found his strength, he took it and ran.
“That’s great. You have done an amazing job today, Arin,” I told him before giving him a tight hug.
“Can we maybe try again tomorrow? I’m sorry, Elliot, with it being so close to the start of the party, all I can think about is Arik and the twins. I can’t wait to see them.”
“That’s fine. Why don’t we go get ready, and we’ll go in a little bit.”
“Yeah, that sounds like a great plan.” And with that, Arin was gone.
It had been a crazy few months, and it still upset me that I hadn’t yet seen my youngest brother and his new mate. I was supposed to have met them in Montana at the previous party celebrating their mating, but I could have sworn I was feeling the presence of my One and followed the trail. What I encountered wasn’t my One but the vindictive bitch that was out for the Honey Creek Den. Before I could stop her, she cast a spell on me and knocked me out flat. Most definitely not my greatest moment.
It wasn’t until later when Papa found me that I realized I’d been lucky. Because of who I was, the spell had simply knocked me out. On most other warlocks or any shifter or human, the spell would have killed them. It wasn’t widely known just how powerful Papa and his offspring were. There were just certain things that were better off remaining mysterious and unknown. I wanted to actually enjoy a long hot shower before joining our family in Montana, so I started toward my room in Dad and Papa’s house.
Once I arrived, I quickly and efficiently stripped with the simple swipe of my hand and then walked naked to the bathroom. Turning the water on hot, I climbed in and moaned when the spray first hit me.
“Mmm,” I said as I stood under the water. It had been a long day, and I was more than ready for a little bit of relaxation.
Even though I didn’t want the shower to end, I knew it must, so I started the routine of washing and rinsing. Like so many times when I was alone and left to my own thoughts, my mind wandered to my One and made me wonder who he was and what he was doing. Would he even want me?
Knowing that train of thought would lead me nowhere happy, I shut off those thoughts and finished up my shower. When I became aware that it was later than I first thought, I quickly dried and dressed myself and went in search of Arin.
The party was scheduled to have started almost an hour prior, and we were quite late. I found Arin pacing in the foyer while muttering to himself.
“I didn’t realize it had gotten so late and the party already started. I’m ready to go if you are,” I told him as I walked up.
“I’m more than ready. I’m just upset that we’re late.”
“Don’t worry about it. There wasn’t a set start time or really a set schedule for things. Besides, he’s your twin. You know for a fact that he’s not going to be mad at you. We’re spending a few days there with them, so we’ll have plenty of time to spend with Harrison and Bradley.”
“True. Okay, let’s go. If you don’t mind, would you—”
“Of course,” I said, and with that I quickly teleported us to the backyard at the Honey Creek Den.
The sight that was before us when we arrived was not what I expected. The gathering wasn’t overly large but still had more guests than I anticipated. I quickly zeroed in on Papa and Dad, and when they realized we had arrived, they made their way to us.
“Here’s your chance to tell Papa just how amazing you were today,” I told Arin as I pointed to our approaching parents. It was reassuring to see him so excited about his magic. For so long he had struggled with it, and it had become an internal frustration for him.
“There you two are. We were just about to go in search of you,” Dad said when they arrived in front of us.
“Sorry. It’s my fault we’re so late. Arin was doing such an amazing job that I lost track of time and kept him practicing longer than I intended,” I said while giving Arin an opportunity to brag to them just how amazing he had done today.
While Arin told our fathers about his success in levitating the household furniture, I felt something unlike I ever had before. My entire body started tingling, and when the most gorgeous man I had ever laid eyes upon locked eyes with me, the feeling only intensified to an almost vibration. When I looked into those ice-blue eyes, I knew immediately that I was staring at my One.
Whoever the shifter was that appeared equally entranced was about to completely change my world. He was the one I had been searching for. How ironic was it that he was here with my baby brother all along. Everything and everyone else around us completely ceased to exist to me. My only thought was he was my fated One. I had finally found him, and he was slowly making his way toward me.
In My Arms Again by Nell Iris
As I feared, the effect of the fever-reducing tea wanes even quicker this time, and soon the stranger grows restless. His legs move under the covers, his head whipping from side to side, and he mumbles something I can't make out. I hurry over to his side and kneel by the bed. Carefully, I place my hand on his shoulder and squeeze.
"Honored stranger." I keep my voice low and movements slow, so I won't scare him. His eyes move rapidly under his eyelids and he turns his head toward my voice. It's the most reaction I've gotten from him so far.
He struggles to free his arms from under the covers, and I lift the rabbit fur to help them out in the open. He calms a little when his arms are no longer restrained, so I take the opportunity to study him.
His color is much better than before; the grayish tinge and the fever roses are gone. I lay my wrist against his forehead and sigh in relief as he's no longer burning up.
I sit back on my heels.
Curious. Very curious.
Maybe my fears that the tea hurt him were unfounded. Instead, it seems as though it has helped him, but at an accelerated pace.
Never in my life have I seen someone with such a high fever recover so quickly.
I brush away a strand of hair from his face. "Who are you?" I whisper.
When he seems to be sleeping restfully again, I get to my feet, but as I turn to leave, a tug on my sleeve and his faint voice stops me. "Do not leave. Please."
The sound of his voice makes me jump, even though it's more like a whisper than anything else. I look down on him; his arm out, hand holding my sleeve, eyes still closed.
"Do not leave," he repeats.
"I will only fetch you some water, stranger. You must be parched."
He tugs on my sleeve again as if to stop me, but after a moment he releases his grip. Crossing the floor with a few hurried steps, I pour fresh cool water from the flagon into a bowl.
His eyes are still closed when I kneel next to the bed again, but I can tell he's awake by the way his head tracks my movements.
"I will lift your head and help you drink," I explain before touching him again, and he tilts his chin down, giving me permission. I slide my hand around his neck, cup the back of his head, and ease it off the bed. He drinks in deep gulps until the bowl is empty, and when I lower him back down to the pillow, he sighs.
"Thank you, Hunter."
I stiffen at his words. "Do you know me?"
Slowly, he moves his hand from his side and lays it on his chest. "I feel you," he says.
"How?" My head is spinning with all the questions this man's arrival has brought. For every passing hour, they multiply, and I can no longer keep track of them all.
The stranger doesn't answer my question -- somehow I knew he wouldn't -- so I try another approach. "I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I know not who you are."
His pries his eyelids open, long eyelashes fluttering like a hummingbird's wing. Even in the dim light of the cabin -- cast only by the flames in the hearth -- I can make out the color of his eyes: so dark they're almost completely black, generously sprinkled with flecks of gleaming gold, and despite the obvious tiredness, his gaze is bottomless and intense. It pulls me in and settles some of the restlessness in my chest at the same time.
And when he looks at me, I understand what he's talking about.
I can feel him, his presence. As though his heart beats next to mine in my chest. As though his breath mingles with mine when it leaves my mouth, as though I see myself through his eyes. As though I know him.
"My name ..." His voice falters.
"... is Vinge," I finish, a gasp escaping at my own words.
"Yes."
Author 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.
Jessica lives in Adelaide, South Australia. When she is not writing, you can find her reading, napping or watching excessive amounts of TV. Connect with her on Facebook and Goodreads.
Amanda Meuwissen is a bisexual and happily married geek. Primarily an M/M romance author with a focus on urban fantasy, she has a Bachelor of Arts in a personally designed Creative Writing major from St. Olaf College and is an avid consumer of fiction through film, prose, and video games. Amanda lives in Minneapolis, MN, with her husband, John, and their cat, Helga.
The Men of Crooked Bend Series is what started it all for me and it was incredibly difficult to let those men go. It was originally supposed to be a trilogy but it ended up as a ten book series with a bonus book that's part of The Snow Globe Christmas Series. In the Men of Crooked Bend series, you get to know the cowboys and other men of Wild Creek Ranch in Crooked Bend, Wyoming (a totally fictitious town). The series is set in the foothills of the Grand Teton Mountains, a place I fell in love with as a teenager.
I have a closely related spin-off series called Sulfur Springs. In it you leave Wild Creek and go to the little neighbor town of Sulfur Springs and meet the sexy men of the Sulfur Springs Fire Depart, the sheriff's department, as well as quite a few US Marshals. You see some familiar faces but you also meet some very new ones. It’s finally finished and ended up being a nine book series.
I love to read, it’s always been one of my favorite things to do since I can remember. When I started writing, I couldn't decide if I wanted to write contemporary or paranormal as I love both. I chose contemporary but still, paranormal was talking to me and those darn shifters kept saying, “tell our story, it’ll be fun.” So I did. And it was. That’s how I started my Honey Creek Den series. Honey Creek is another totally fictitious town set on Flathead Lake (a real place) in Montana. I've never been there, but hope to get there at some point. Honey Creek Den is finished with the planned six books. The Timber Valley Wolf Pack is also finished with six books and now I've moved onto the Warlocks of Amherst Series. This series takes us away from the den and pack and we get to know Edison's warlocks in Amherst, Massachusetts.
When I'm not busy writing about cowboys, architects, sheriffs, firefighters, US Marshals, bears, tigers, or warlocks (to name just a few), I like to read (who doesn't?). Because of my limited free time, I’m fond of short stories and novellas. I can be found on Amazon, Book Bub, Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.
Nell Iris is a romantic at heart who believes everyone deserves a happy ending. She’s a bona fide bookworm (learned to read long before she started school), wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without something to read (not even the ladies’ room), loves music (and singing along at the top of her voice but she’s no Celine Dion), and is a real Star Trek nerd (Make it so). She loves words, bullet journals, poetry, wine, coffee-flavored kisses, and fika (a Swedish cultural thing involving coffee and pastry!)
Nell believes passionately in equality for all regardless of race, gender or sexuality, and wants to make the world a better, less hateful, place.
Nell is a bisexual Swedish woman married to the love of her life, a proud mama of a grown daughter, and is approaching 50 faster than she’d like. She lives in the south of Sweden where she spends her days thinking up stories about people falling in love. After dreaming about being a writer for most of her life, she finally was in a place where she could pursue her dream and released her first book in 2017.
Nell Iris writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angsty, short over long, and quirky characters over alpha males.
Jessica Frances
EMAIL: jessicafrances_author@yahoo.com.au
Amanda Meuwissen
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / KOBO
iTUNES / GOOGLE PLAY / AUDIBLE
EMAIL: ak.meuwissen@gmail.com
Taylor Rylan
EMAIL: AuthorTaylorRylan@gmail.com
Nell Iris
Bucket List by Jordan Castillo Price
KOBO / iTUNES / SMASHWORDS
A Christmas to Die For by Jessica Frances
A Delicious Descent by Amanda Meuwissen
Troy's Warlock by Taylor Rylan
In My Arms Again by Nell Iris
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