The Omega's Krampus Christmas by Lorelei M Hart
Summary:Never take an elf’s cookie… even if it is for a good cause.
School teacher Alger loved his job, his town, and his volunteer work at the local children’s hospital. That is until he loses it all with one mistake: he gave away the wrong cookie. Now cursed to be a Krampus and scare children into behaving, he is miserable. Beyond miserable. At least there’s an out to his curse: Find unconditional love. If only it were as simple as that.
Widower single father Jordan is not a fan of Christmas, not since his alpha’s accident. Each year Jordan fakes it, slapping on his best Christmas Cheer persona in the hopes of making it special for his son. Each year it gets a little bit easier. Who knows… maybe one year the holidays will be merry and bright.
When an unexpected blizzard comes to town, Alger and Jordan end up trapped together and learn that there really is magic in Christmas snow.
The Omega’s Krampus Christmas is a super sweet with knotty heat MM Mpreg Holiday retelling of the fairy tale Beauty and the Beast featuring an alpha who accidentally pissed off the wrong elf, an omega who sees the heart within, more Christmas cookies than anyone should eat in a lifetime, a magical sleigh ride that leaves more than just Santa’s bag being filled, the cutest cat ever…as in ever, Christmas wish lists a mile long, a Christmas miracle or two, including an adorable baby on the way. If you enjoy true love, fated mates, a little bit of whimsy, and your mpreg with heart, download The Omega’s Krampus Christmas today.
I gotta start by just saying: WOW!!!
Christmas romance with a twist✔️
Fairytale with a twist✔️
It's that "with a twist" that gives The Omega's Krampus Christmas an extra special level of holiday yummyness. I've always been intrigued by holiday stories that go outside the box by having Krampus involved and Lorelei M Hart really brought the intrigue to the table here. I should add that not only did I find this story to be my favorite of this holiday season's reading but it is also my first mpreg, first omegaverse, and my first Lorelei M Hart read. That's a lot of firsts to venture into especially with a holiday story.
Alger, aka Krampus, and single dad Jordan have an instant connection but after decades of a lonely existence, Alger has built a wall around his heart. Will he let Jordan and his daughter Thea in? As you can probably guess my answer: you'll have to read this one for yourself to discover if Alger opens up. I will say that I couldn't help but love every character in the story, each one played a part, nobody was extra, nobody was page filler they all added to the story and to Alger and Jordan's journey.
There is really not much more I can add without being tempted to divulge too much of the story. I will say that if you aren't fond of mpreg, I still highly recommend this Christmas tale because The Omega's Krampus Christmas is so much more than mpreg. This is a story about seeing beyond the surface, letting someone in, and opening one's heart which is something we all need to do more of and not just during the holiday season. Definitely a delightful, heartwarming holiday gem.
Summary:
Supernatural Explorers #2
Can love survive the perils of MacGregor house?
The Supernatural Explorers are back and looking for their next big paranormal case. They might’ve found it in a plea from Payne, a mild-mannered librarian who has inherited the family mansion—MacGregor house. Since moving in a few months ago, Payne’s exhausted the list of ghost hunters and experts in his quest for help. The Supers are his last chance.
So why does normally good-natured cameraman Will take an instant dislike to Payne? For that matter, why has he felt irritable and angry since they arrived at the site? It soon becomes clear that the answers they seek will be found in the basement—where nobody has gone since Payne was a little boy. As the haunting grows deadlier, things get sweeter between Will and Payne, but all hell’s about to break loose when they breach the basement door.
Will they be ready?
Originally released by a different publisher.
Summary:
The Brotherhood of Ormarr #1
Azaran~
I was born a dragon rider. A member of the Brotherhood of Ormarr, son of Cadmar, and the eldest of four sons. I was raised to defend the innocent and protect the secret of the dragons, but when I was eighteen, my parents were brutally murdered and the training and care of my brothers fell to me. My entire adult life has been spent helping my brothers grow into the strong, brave dragon riders they were born to be. Now that the youngest of my brothers is close to adulthood, the last thing I need is someone else to worry about—someone else to be responsible for. If only the handsome doctor fate had chosen for my mate wasn’t so perfect for me.
Toby~
AlI I ever wanted was to help people, that’s why I became a doctor, but I quickly learned that modern medicine was more about the all-mighty dollar and less about saving lives. It wasn’t long before I was doubting my life choices. A vacation to the ocean was supposed to leave me refreshed and ready to get back to work, but instead, I found myself pulled into a world I never knew existed. A world where dragons are real, men fight like medieval warriors, and my soulmate has his very own bat cave. Azaran thinks the last thing he needs is a mate to worry about. Good thing I don’t need anyone to take care of me. My sexy dragon rider, on the other hand, needs someone to take care of him, and I think I’m just the man to do it.
Azaran is the first book in The Brotherhood of Ormarr series. While each book focuses on a different couple, the overall story arc continues in the next installment. For maximum enjoyment, we suggest reading in order. Azaran is a m/m romance, and is recommended for adults 18 years and older.
Escape by Annabelle Jacobs
Summary:Rebellion #1
This isn’t the life Cole dreamt of, but what choice does he have?
With his twenty-third birthday behind him, Cole Moreton now faces the shifter compatibility test which will decide his future. Testing positive means joining a pack and eventually taking the bite. Unfortunately, with enviable skills in self-defence and hand-to-hand combat, the kind of packs interested in him aren’t any he’d want to join.
Logan has been a member of the McKillan pack for most of his life. Pack is family and loyalty is everything, but when the shifter government turns out to be no better than the oppressive humans before them, he questions everything.
Right from their first meeting, Logan knows that a life with the McKillan pack isn’t right for Cole, but with his alpha taking a keen interest in Cole’s skills, Logan’s hands are tied. Mutual attraction builds between them, but acting on it is futile—helping Cole will put their lives at risk and an end to any future they could’ve had.
With his twenty-third birthday behind him, Cole Moreton now faces the shifter compatibility test which will decide his future. Testing positive means joining a pack and eventually taking the bite. Unfortunately, with enviable skills in self-defence and hand-to-hand combat, the kind of packs interested in him aren’t any he’d want to join.
Logan has been a member of the McKillan pack for most of his life. Pack is family and loyalty is everything, but when the shifter government turns out to be no better than the oppressive humans before them, he questions everything.
Right from their first meeting, Logan knows that a life with the McKillan pack isn’t right for Cole, but with his alpha taking a keen interest in Cole’s skills, Logan’s hands are tied. Mutual attraction builds between them, but acting on it is futile—helping Cole will put their lives at risk and an end to any future they could’ve had.
Creatures of the Night and Santa’s Christmas duties don’t mix. Every myth and bedtime story tells you so. But on Christmas Eve, when the Elves walked off the job over pension rights, it was time for me—Irwin, the only vampire on Santa’s payroll, despite recent diversity initiatives—and my trusty team to help out.
Just deliver a few parcels, Santa asked me. Just help out on your local patch. Just for one night. Armed with my reluctance to face all that human sentimentality, and accompanied by a wise-cracking werewolf and an unruly fairy with a taste for vodka, I did my best. Honest.
But we were heading for disaster until I came face-to-face with cute babysitter Benny. It’s Santa’s Number One Rule—no fraternising with the clients. But Benny somehow managed to upset my appetite, inflame my libido, and restore my faith in the Christmas spirit, with one cheeky smile and a tasty body piercing. It’s Christmas, and the show must go on!
The Omega's Krampus Christmas by Lorelai M Hart
Prologue
Alger
Once Upon a Time
Teaching school paid next to nothing, but I had cheap lodgings and some of the families made me meals from time to time, which helped keep body and soul together. Some did not consider teaching a man’s job, one that could support a family, but at least for the time being, my pleasure in helping to form young minds superseded any other factors.
Especially at the holiday season. On the last day of school before the Christmas vacation break, we suspended regular classes to bring all the classes together in the decorated auditorium for a holiday recital and festivities before sending the children to their frolics until the New Year.
This year, our class would be singing a selection of Christmas carols and I, dressed in the red suit of Saint Nick popularized by Clement Moore’s ’Twas the Night Before Christmas or A Visit from Saint Nicholas would appropriately read that story to close the event. As I prepared for my reading, a little sadness tugged at my heart. It was easy to pretend I had enough time with these children during class terms, but on holidays, when they were with their real families, the loneliness seeped in. Maybe I should have aspired to another career.
Sitting in the armchair placed at the front of the stage, with my students seated on the floor around me, my heart warmed. Sometimes the poverty many of them lived in daunted their spirits, but now smiles of pride at their performance lifted the corners of their lips. They’d indeed done well, and Santa Claus might have taken notice from his North Pole residence. I cleared my throat, bemused at my suspension of logic. Christmastime always made me sentimental, reminded me of my parents and brother, grandparents, all those who’d already departed this realm. They would celebrate the birth of the Christ Child with the angels in heaven, while I sat in my rented room eating whatever someone thought to bring me from their holiday table.
Even my landlady, who often included me in her holidays, would be away. I’d put her on the train myself, this morning, laden with presents and baked goods she’d prepared. I didn’t resent her good fortune this year. Her married daughter had remembered she had a mother for the first time since my arrival and invited her for the festive season. Mrs. Dougherty’s excitement had been contagious, buoying my spirits as I waved until the train disappeared down the tracks.
Such a good soul, she deserved happiness. A tug on my trousers reminded me of where I was, and I began the poem. I recited more than read the beloved verses, putting as much heart into them as possible. My gift to the children whose faces I gazed into every school day, who learned their letters and numbers at my tutelage.
I taught the youngest of them, tasked with giving them a love of learning as much as any specific knowledge. If they had that love, they would do well going forward.
Finishing the reading, I closed the large book on my lap and chuckled as I thought Saint Nicholas might have before going up the chimney after laying out the gifts for the children of the house in the story.
Silence for a moment had me worried I’d not done justice to the tale, but then appreciative applause reassured me. The book was one my mother read the same story to me from, precious in its faded covers and holding just as much magic now as then. After I finished, the headmaster stood from his seat at the back of the stage and made a short speech. The same speech, word for word, as last year and the year before. But it suited the occasion and sent everyone off with a smile and a wave.
A few other teachers and I supervised some of the older boys putting the auditorium to rights before closing the school for two weeks. When we were done, and all the handmade decorations removed, it looked so dull. But clean and ready for the events of a new term.
As we were leaving, I spotted a bit of litter near the stage, so I bid the others goodbye, said I would lock the doors as I went, and crossed the room to pick it up. Alone, I looked around again. Just an hour or so ago, it had been filled with singing and laughter and bright colors both in the decorations and the students’ and their families’ holiday best attire.
Now, there was just me, in my brown jacket and trousers, not one sprig of greenery or red ribbon in sight. And since we’d turned down the furnace, the warm air in the room was being replaced by a distinct chill.
Time to go home.
I was about to leave the building when I saw a small boy sitting on a chair by the door, kicking his feet and staring at the floor. Little Timothy from my class. All by himself. I approached him and took the seat beside his.
“Timothy, did your fathers leave without you?” All the families were invited to the holiday recital, filling the auditorium with their appreciation for their children’s performances.
“No, Mr. Bobell.” His legs slowed their kicking but did not stop. Nor did he look up from his focus on the black-and-white tiles.
Oh. “They were unable to attend today, then.” He looked so sad.
“They never come. Like they didn’t come on Meet the Teacher night. Or our spelling bee or...or anything. Sir.”
I didn’t always get to speak to every parent when they came. Some were shy or just never made it to the front of the room for one reason or another. But from the children’s reports, nearly all their parents or guardians attended when we invited them. Making the invitations was always a fun and popular activity for our art class the week before, and I had some very talented artists in my room this year. Timothy was one of the best. “Sometimes parents are very busy with their responsibilities and cannot take time to enjoy themselves. It’s a shame. But we must try to understand.”
He did lift his eyes to mine at that point, and they held all the pain and disappointment no child should have to experience.
“I have to lock up now, Timothy. Can you see yourself home?” Some did, and some others had a parent or older sibling to walk them.
“Yes, sir. I always go home alone.”
Alone. I had a feeling he often arrived into an empty house. His worn shoes and everyday clothes had stood in stark contrast to most of the other children’s holiday outfits, but poor didn’t mean abused or neglected, and not all had new clothes. But his sad loneliness said it all. How had I not realized just how bad things were? Maybe because we were not allowed to interfere with students’ outside of school, and parents had absolute authority there. Knowing they had it rough made it even harder to do my job and treat all the children equally.
Still.
Timothy stood and started for the door, but on a whim, I stopped him with a question. “Timothy, what is your wish this Christmas?” If it was within my power to grant it for him, I would, even if it meant I skipped a meal or two.
“A cookie,” he replied. “Like my grandma used to make before she died.”
My heart squeezed so hard, I gasped for a moment before recovering my breath. My mind worked furiously. Where had I seen cookies? A big cookie on a plate! “Timothy, do not leave. I will be right back.”
I dashed down the hall to Mr. Samberg’s class where, on his desk, sat a plate with a large, perfect, dark-brown molasses cookie. A single delight that might bring a smile to a young man’s face. Mr. Samberg was gone already, and by the time we returned from our holiday, it would be gone anyway, food for a stray mouse.
Timothy was still there when I returned, and I gave him the cookie, thrilled to see the sadness retreat from his expression while he studied the marvel in his hands. “This is all for me? This whole cookie?”
“Merry Christmas, Timothy.” I held the door open, turned off the lights, and followed him outside. “Be a good boy, and I’ll see you after New Year’s.” I locked the door and by the time I turned to leave, the little boy was nowhere in sight. I wished I had so much more to give to this child and to the others who might have less-than happy Christmases for different reasons this year.
Like me, many had lost relatives in the Spanish Flu epidemic a few years before, others had folks who were out of work or had debt that made it impossible to buy things for a festive meal or gifts.
Saddened by the thoughts that not all the children I taught would have what all children should have for Christmas, I trudged away from the school building.
“Hey, you. I have a bone to pick with you, Mr. Teacher.”
That couldn’t be...but it was. An elf.
The Librarian's Ghost by Sean Michael
Chapter One
FOR ALL the Wexford House was two stories with a warren of a basement, there wasn’t a lot of square footage. The Supernatural Explorers had examined the place thoroughly over the last three weekends, and Will Gregson felt like he knew each of the rooms inside and out. There was nothing new to find here.
It was definitely a creepy place. Old and abandoned with most of its original furniture after the owner’s family—four daughters, three sons, two of their wives, four grandchildren, and his wife—were all wiped out by influenza. That the old man hadn’t also died was a miracle. Or a curse, depending on which story you read. Rumor had it that his mistress had been a witch, and when he abandoned her, she protected him from the sickness that ravaged his family so that he would live the rest of his days alone and mourning. It was a nasty story, but one that persisted through the years.
The house was said to be haunted by Wexford’s family, which was why they were here. Sure, they were hoping to concentrate on “gay ghosts,” but there were only so many haunted places, so they were doing what they could when they could. Surely those types of cases would come, and when they’d made a proper reputation for themselves, they’d be called in from far and wide to check out gay hauntings. In the meantime, ghosts were ghosts, and they were happy to investigate, especially if the place was in the vicinity.
So far, the only thing they’d found at the Wexford House was disintegrating furniture and the bodies of various animals that had made their way into the place. Most of them had been dead for long enough that they didn’t smell anymore. Hell, plenty weren’t even identifiable. Though the one raccoon in the master bedroom had been fresh. Pretty damn gross. And while Will might have been morbidly fascinated with something like that as a boy, it wasn’t something he enjoyed now that he was a grown man.
The dust was playing havoc with his sinuses too. They’d disturbed a lot of it during their explorations. That they weren’t the first ones to do so had been apparent as well, and there were plenty of places where the dust was less thick in variously shaped spots—little circles and squares on the mantel and tables, spots where one might have expected to find various knickknacks. No doubt the place had been ransacked. Which sucked because when thieves stole pieces of history and the Supers—as they called themselves for short—couldn’t find any ghosts, they could have maybe found some interesting museum pieces. It appeared the Wexford place had neither ghosts nor artifacts, so they were doing one last run-through to make sure they hadn’t missed anything.
A low creaking noise sounded from upstairs, followed by tapping on glass. Will shivered. He knew it was the wind in the trees and the branches hitting the house—it was especially creepy when they tapped at the windows—but that didn’t make it much better.
“Let’s take one last sweep upstairs where that sound is coming from,” Jason suggested.
“Yeah, the master bedroom was the only place where I got any sort of hit.” Blaine led the way, moving slowly to try to mitigate how noisy the stairs were.
Personally, Will didn’t think there were any ghosts to scare off with creaking stairs, but it didn’t hurt to be as stealthy as possible. He avoided the big squeak on step three but managed to forget about the sixth stair until he was on it and it moaned beneath his weight. All four of his companions whipped around to stare at him, and he gave them an apologetic smile. He hadn’t done it on purpose. Blaine was clearly biting the inside of his cheek while Flynn and Jason chuckled nearly soundlessly. He grinned back and put his finger in front of his lips. “Shh.”
That set them all off, and they abandoned not making any noise in favor of their laughter and getting up the stairs quicker.
“Okay.” Blaine turned to face him once they’d made the upstairs landing, and Will focused the camera on his friend’s face. “We’re in the Wexler House for the last time. We’re hoping to communicate with what we think might be an entity in the master bedroom. Wexler’s wife and most of the children supposedly died in the very bed that continues to dominate the room. We have our EMF readers at the ready, along with the infrared filter on the second camera. If there’s anything to find, we’re going to do exactly that. Find it. Document it. Deal with it if possible.” Blaine turned back to peer into the master suite. “Will, why don’t you and Darnell go in and do a scan of the room? Then Jason, Flynn, and I will follow.”
Will nodded, keeping his voice off the audio, which would make it easier in postproduction. (Look at them, having postproduction now!) Despite the last few houses having been disappointing from a ghost perspective, the Supers were doing well. He focused on what the camera was seeing and stepped into the doorway. He did a long pan and scan from the door all the way around and back to it. He didn’t see anything that looked like anything but shadows on the floor and back wall, but he was filming straightforward shots. Jason or Darnell could be picking something up on the more sensitive equipment.
Blaine and Flynn came in last and spread out across the room, Flynn going toward the window where the tapping was coming from while Blaine headed for the bed where the deaths had purportedly occurred. Blaine had his head tilted in what Will thought of as his listening stance. He waited, following Blaine with camera, holding his breath as if the sound of his breathing would disturb Blaine at work.
They all waited, hushed and still, as Blaine slowly moved around the bed. Even the tapping at the window had ceased, an eerie silence settling around them. The tension built, and Blaine froze, leaning in to look at something, though Will wasn’t sure what. He certainly wasn’t seeing anything.
All of a sudden came a terrible groaning, making them all jump.
Flynn laughed, the sound a touch strained. “That’s the wind in that big willow.” The branches began tapping at the window again, stronger than ever the breeze picked up outside.
Blaine sighed and nodded. “Yeah, it’s nothing but the wind as far as I can tell.”
“The instruments are pretty damn quiet too,” Jason noted. “Do we need to go back to the basement one last time, or should we call it a night?”
“The ground is really uneven down there.” Will had almost twisted his ankle on the dirt floor, and Blaine had actually fallen when he’d tripped over an unexpected rise between rooms.
“I don’t feel anything at all, not even that small hint of something I felt the first time.” Blaine shrugged. “Not proof of a lack of ghosts, of course, but this is our seventh day out here, and we’ve had nothing on any of the equipment either.”
The sound of a stomach growling punctuated Blaine’s words, and they all laughed.
“When the scariest thing in the room is Flynn’s stomach, the best thing we can do is pack up and go get pizza.” Jason made his pronouncement and headed back downstairs, the rest of them trooping along after him.
Will kept filming until they’d not only left the house but were back at the van. Once there, he did one last panoramic shot of the property before turning off the camera and packing it up.
PAYNE MACGREGOR watched his pot of soup, waiting for it to begin simmering. He didn’t want it to boil over. Hell, he didn’t want to turn his back on it in case the thing went flying across the room and sprayed everything with hot soup either. It was tomato too, which would be hell to clean up.
Truthfully, he was at his wit’s end. At first he’d thought he was being absentminded, forgetful. Then he’d begun to wonder if he was losing his mind. None of the workers seemed to notice anything wrong. But he put that down to their being transient. They weren’t there day after day like he was and were hardly likely to notice books and dishes being moved. Things flying across the room seemed to be reserved for him too. And that was harder to put down to his imagination. It wasn’t like things were simply falling off shelves or tables; they were getting some distance.
Then he’d overheard arguments between some workers over items taken out of toolboxes and hidden. No one claimed ownership of these “practical jokes,” making him think they weren’t practical jokes at all but the work of the same… well, ghost—he was embarrassed to admit the assumption even to himself—plaguing him.
He took the soup off the stove the moment steam began rising from it and poured it into a bowl as his toast popped. Unfortunately, all but a corner of it was almost black. He was not one for toast that well done, so he put it in the garbage and took his bowl to the library to eat by the fireplace with his favorite books.
He had to wonder if he was simply being paranoid for believing that the burned toast was the responsibility of his ghost. On the other hand, the toast he’d had yesterday had turned out perfectly, and he was the only who could have changed the setting. Which he hadn’t done.
One of the books went flying across the room, and he pretended he didn’t see it, concentrating on his soup instead. He would do some work once he’d eaten, put in enough hours that when he did close his eyes, he’d fall asleep right away and wouldn’t dream. At least he could hope that was how the evening played out, but it didn’t mean that was what would happen. He pushed aside the niggling thought that he might have to do something about the strange things going on in the house at some point. Certainly if it got worse than the current annoyances. If not, well, he would deal with it.
As soon as he’d finished his soup, he set the bowl on his side table, right in the middle of it so it couldn’t accidently fall to the floor. Then he grabbed his laptop and booted it up. In no time he was hunched over it, safely lost in his research.
FOR ALL the Wexford House was two stories with a warren of a basement, there wasn’t a lot of square footage. The Supernatural Explorers had examined the place thoroughly over the last three weekends, and Will Gregson felt like he knew each of the rooms inside and out. There was nothing new to find here.
It was definitely a creepy place. Old and abandoned with most of its original furniture after the owner’s family—four daughters, three sons, two of their wives, four grandchildren, and his wife—were all wiped out by influenza. That the old man hadn’t also died was a miracle. Or a curse, depending on which story you read. Rumor had it that his mistress had been a witch, and when he abandoned her, she protected him from the sickness that ravaged his family so that he would live the rest of his days alone and mourning. It was a nasty story, but one that persisted through the years.
The house was said to be haunted by Wexford’s family, which was why they were here. Sure, they were hoping to concentrate on “gay ghosts,” but there were only so many haunted places, so they were doing what they could when they could. Surely those types of cases would come, and when they’d made a proper reputation for themselves, they’d be called in from far and wide to check out gay hauntings. In the meantime, ghosts were ghosts, and they were happy to investigate, especially if the place was in the vicinity.
So far, the only thing they’d found at the Wexford House was disintegrating furniture and the bodies of various animals that had made their way into the place. Most of them had been dead for long enough that they didn’t smell anymore. Hell, plenty weren’t even identifiable. Though the one raccoon in the master bedroom had been fresh. Pretty damn gross. And while Will might have been morbidly fascinated with something like that as a boy, it wasn’t something he enjoyed now that he was a grown man.
The dust was playing havoc with his sinuses too. They’d disturbed a lot of it during their explorations. That they weren’t the first ones to do so had been apparent as well, and there were plenty of places where the dust was less thick in variously shaped spots—little circles and squares on the mantel and tables, spots where one might have expected to find various knickknacks. No doubt the place had been ransacked. Which sucked because when thieves stole pieces of history and the Supers—as they called themselves for short—couldn’t find any ghosts, they could have maybe found some interesting museum pieces. It appeared the Wexford place had neither ghosts nor artifacts, so they were doing one last run-through to make sure they hadn’t missed anything.
A low creaking noise sounded from upstairs, followed by tapping on glass. Will shivered. He knew it was the wind in the trees and the branches hitting the house—it was especially creepy when they tapped at the windows—but that didn’t make it much better.
“Let’s take one last sweep upstairs where that sound is coming from,” Jason suggested.
“Yeah, the master bedroom was the only place where I got any sort of hit.” Blaine led the way, moving slowly to try to mitigate how noisy the stairs were.
Personally, Will didn’t think there were any ghosts to scare off with creaking stairs, but it didn’t hurt to be as stealthy as possible. He avoided the big squeak on step three but managed to forget about the sixth stair until he was on it and it moaned beneath his weight. All four of his companions whipped around to stare at him, and he gave them an apologetic smile. He hadn’t done it on purpose. Blaine was clearly biting the inside of his cheek while Flynn and Jason chuckled nearly soundlessly. He grinned back and put his finger in front of his lips. “Shh.”
That set them all off, and they abandoned not making any noise in favor of their laughter and getting up the stairs quicker.
“Okay.” Blaine turned to face him once they’d made the upstairs landing, and Will focused the camera on his friend’s face. “We’re in the Wexler House for the last time. We’re hoping to communicate with what we think might be an entity in the master bedroom. Wexler’s wife and most of the children supposedly died in the very bed that continues to dominate the room. We have our EMF readers at the ready, along with the infrared filter on the second camera. If there’s anything to find, we’re going to do exactly that. Find it. Document it. Deal with it if possible.” Blaine turned back to peer into the master suite. “Will, why don’t you and Darnell go in and do a scan of the room? Then Jason, Flynn, and I will follow.”
Will nodded, keeping his voice off the audio, which would make it easier in postproduction. (Look at them, having postproduction now!) Despite the last few houses having been disappointing from a ghost perspective, the Supers were doing well. He focused on what the camera was seeing and stepped into the doorway. He did a long pan and scan from the door all the way around and back to it. He didn’t see anything that looked like anything but shadows on the floor and back wall, but he was filming straightforward shots. Jason or Darnell could be picking something up on the more sensitive equipment.
Blaine and Flynn came in last and spread out across the room, Flynn going toward the window where the tapping was coming from while Blaine headed for the bed where the deaths had purportedly occurred. Blaine had his head tilted in what Will thought of as his listening stance. He waited, following Blaine with camera, holding his breath as if the sound of his breathing would disturb Blaine at work.
They all waited, hushed and still, as Blaine slowly moved around the bed. Even the tapping at the window had ceased, an eerie silence settling around them. The tension built, and Blaine froze, leaning in to look at something, though Will wasn’t sure what. He certainly wasn’t seeing anything.
All of a sudden came a terrible groaning, making them all jump.
Flynn laughed, the sound a touch strained. “That’s the wind in that big willow.” The branches began tapping at the window again, stronger than ever the breeze picked up outside.
Blaine sighed and nodded. “Yeah, it’s nothing but the wind as far as I can tell.”
“The instruments are pretty damn quiet too,” Jason noted. “Do we need to go back to the basement one last time, or should we call it a night?”
“The ground is really uneven down there.” Will had almost twisted his ankle on the dirt floor, and Blaine had actually fallen when he’d tripped over an unexpected rise between rooms.
“I don’t feel anything at all, not even that small hint of something I felt the first time.” Blaine shrugged. “Not proof of a lack of ghosts, of course, but this is our seventh day out here, and we’ve had nothing on any of the equipment either.”
The sound of a stomach growling punctuated Blaine’s words, and they all laughed.
“When the scariest thing in the room is Flynn’s stomach, the best thing we can do is pack up and go get pizza.” Jason made his pronouncement and headed back downstairs, the rest of them trooping along after him.
Will kept filming until they’d not only left the house but were back at the van. Once there, he did one last panoramic shot of the property before turning off the camera and packing it up.
PAYNE MACGREGOR watched his pot of soup, waiting for it to begin simmering. He didn’t want it to boil over. Hell, he didn’t want to turn his back on it in case the thing went flying across the room and sprayed everything with hot soup either. It was tomato too, which would be hell to clean up.
Truthfully, he was at his wit’s end. At first he’d thought he was being absentminded, forgetful. Then he’d begun to wonder if he was losing his mind. None of the workers seemed to notice anything wrong. But he put that down to their being transient. They weren’t there day after day like he was and were hardly likely to notice books and dishes being moved. Things flying across the room seemed to be reserved for him too. And that was harder to put down to his imagination. It wasn’t like things were simply falling off shelves or tables; they were getting some distance.
Then he’d overheard arguments between some workers over items taken out of toolboxes and hidden. No one claimed ownership of these “practical jokes,” making him think they weren’t practical jokes at all but the work of the same… well, ghost—he was embarrassed to admit the assumption even to himself—plaguing him.
He took the soup off the stove the moment steam began rising from it and poured it into a bowl as his toast popped. Unfortunately, all but a corner of it was almost black. He was not one for toast that well done, so he put it in the garbage and took his bowl to the library to eat by the fireplace with his favorite books.
He had to wonder if he was simply being paranoid for believing that the burned toast was the responsibility of his ghost. On the other hand, the toast he’d had yesterday had turned out perfectly, and he was the only who could have changed the setting. Which he hadn’t done.
One of the books went flying across the room, and he pretended he didn’t see it, concentrating on his soup instead. He would do some work once he’d eaten, put in enough hours that when he did close his eyes, he’d fall asleep right away and wouldn’t dream. At least he could hope that was how the evening played out, but it didn’t mean that was what would happen. He pushed aside the niggling thought that he might have to do something about the strange things going on in the house at some point. Certainly if it got worse than the current annoyances. If not, well, he would deal with it.
As soon as he’d finished his soup, he set the bowl on his side table, right in the middle of it so it couldn’t accidently fall to the floor. Then he grabbed his laptop and booted it up. In no time he was hunched over it, safely lost in his research.
Azaran by Jacki James
Malachite flew up next to me and we prepared to fight. Zale swooped down and Itsaso took Dr. Gibbs and his tube in his claws, and they cut to the left and headed for shore.
“What the hell are they doing here?” Malachite asked.
“I have no idea, but I’m getting pretty freaking tired of them knowing where we are all the blasted time.”
“This is the third time this month,” he said. “There’s no way that’s a coincidence.”
“Nope, not a chance. I think Zale’s far enough away. You ready?”
“Yep, let’s go.” We took off up into the sky and farther out to sea, away from where Zale had taken the doctor. I looked back to make sure they all followed us, and they did. So the doctor didn't seem to be the target. That meant either one of us was or The Order of Amsel were fucking with us. We led them on a merry chase through the clouds. I noticed a small island ahead, and the timing was perfect because I’d had enough.
“Time to get answers,” I told Malachite and sent a message to Sindri to land on the beach.
We climbed off our dragons and watched as the four wraiths soared above as if they couldn’t decide if they wanted to land or not.
“If they’re smart, they'll keep going,” Malachite said.
“Yeah, but nobody ever accused The Order of being smart,” I said as I watched them descend. Wraiths were nasty looking creatures. They were dragons, but they weren’t. Their magick had been corrupted and turned dark. I had always thought they most closely resembled demons, all black and surrounded by smoke. The men landed on the beach and hopped off their wraiths, assuming a fighting stance. I shook my head and sighed. Malachite and I shared a look and prepared to fight.
“I’ll take the two on the left,” Malachite said. “And then if you need help, I’ll take one of yours.”
I laughed because he probably would. Where most people messed up when challenging Malachite was they assumed his size was his biggest advantage. They would be wrong. He was fast, and he was precise.
“Guys. I’m not really in the mood to do this today. How about if you just tell me what I want to know, and we skip the part where we kick your sorry asses?” I said.
“Kick our asses?” one of the men asked in disbelief. “There are four of us and only two of you.”
“Yeah.” I shook my head and sighed. “You should’ve brought more guys.”
Escape by Annabelle Jacobs
PROLOGUE
“Fuck, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Michael McKillan stood in the doorway to his brother’s room, staring at the open window and a pile of discarded clothes on the floor, the silver band of his tracker amongst them.
The police officer next to him sighed and waved his hand around the room. “I’m sorry, Michael. We’re gonna have to go after him.”
A low growl threatened to build in his chest, but he swallowed it down, refusing to give them a reason to detain him too. Perceived threats to a human were punishable by shifter prison. Even though this particular human was one of his best friends, the others with him weren’t.
“I know.” Fucking idiot. Sam knew damn well he needed permission to go on a run, needed to inform the proper authorities so security was in place to protect the fucking public. Michael scoffed. “He’s sixteen and stupid, that’s all. He wouldn’t hurt a soul.”
“I know that.”
“Do they?” Michael gestured to the other officers milling about his mother’s house. A few of them looking far too eager to hunt down his little brother.
“I’ll make sure they do.”
THEY FOUND SAM in the park less than two miles away, running in and out the trees with two of his friends. “It was a hot night,” they’d said. “We just wanted to run.”
Michael understood far too well. Being denied their most basic instinct made him feel caged, shackled. But the law was the law, even if it was ridiculously unfair and inhumane.
Despite protests from some of the other officers, those who caught Sam used excessive force to take him down.
Because shifters healed.
They shot him multiple times, bound him in chains of silver and iron that burnt his skin and sapped his strength, knowing full well that in the morning, all evidence of their ill-treatment would be gone.
Shifters were dangerous monsters according to the nightly news. It was only fair that they were tagged like animals and that the police were afforded the right to use excessive force when apprehending them.
Michael and his friends, along with shifters across the country, put up with it because there was no other choice. But watching the broken body of his little brother dumped into the back of a police car sparked a rage in him he struggled to quell.
Didn’t want to.
Walking over to his best friend, he pulled him to one side and leant to whisper in his ear. “This needs to stop.”
“It does.”
“And we’re gonna stop it.”
Ten years later the Shifter Alliance Party were in power. The oppressed became the oppressors, embodying the very thing they fought to overthrow.
Bite Nite by Clare London
I WASN’T meant to be caught.
I mean, it’s Santa’s #1 Rule for Gift-Delivery Operatives. No visibility with the clients. Ever. Get in the house, deliver the gifts, eat the cookies—or carrots, whatever’s there, get over yourself and any of your food fads—and get out as fast as possible.
This was a detached, double-fronted house in an affluent, peaceful street. Large garden, large drive, and equivalently large car parked in front. Stylish and smart and reeking of new money. We’d visited plenty of these places tonight on Stacy Street, and the blatant privilege thing was starting to irritate my skin, like I imagined microdermal piercings would do if my unique physical status didn’t rule them out. Pity: I’d always liked the look of body jewelry.
I slid through the wall into the house in my usual fashion, shaking off that prickly nausea I got from dry wall insulation, and arrived with my sack of goodies in just the right place beside the Christmas tree. It was obvious there was a small kid in the house because the tree was, one, better anchored than most people’s, two, artificial so no pine needles would fall on the furniture and get eaten by mistake, and three, with decorations placed high enough to be out of the reach of small hands. The thought of a kid’s innocent delight at the season should have warmed me from the inside out, right? Instead, I thought I might vomit from an excess of sentimentality.
“Irwin?” came a harsh whisper from behind me, at the window. “You eating all the cookies, you greedy bastard?”
I winced. That was another of the rules: no cursing or abusive behavior while on the client’s premises. Guess at least one of my team needed refresher training. Or would Wulf start arguing semantics, that he wasn’t actually on the premises until I let him in? I bit back a snappy reply and unlatched the patio window.
With a rush of hot breath and prickly fur, Wulf burst into the room and skidded to a halt beside me. On all fours, of course, with his sack clutched in his teeth. He’d leaped the fence and approached through the back garden. I could only hope he’d kept his claws sheathed: they wreaked havoc with clients’ lawns.
“I don’t eat cookies,” I said to him. “As you very well know. The food is for you, and the milk or juice for Zilith.”
“Any sherry?” The mention of her name—and the promise of booze—had brought in the third person on my team. There was a swish of air as her butterfly-sized wings fluttered past, followed by a trail of glittery pink light from her miniscule toes. It never ceased to amaze me how she could also carry a sack a hundred times her personal size.
“Drinking on the job must be moderated,” I quoted from Santa’s handbook. Did I love being Mr. Human Resources, or what? Or maybe that should have been Mr. Inhuman Resources…. “You’ve had three sherries and a whiskey already from this street. Luckily, there’s only milk left out here.”
Zilith’s disappointed sniff expressed her opinion of the word “lucky”.
“Artificial tree. Huh. It’s a modern disease.” Wulf had finished the plate of cookies already—an expensive, organic brand, I noticed—and was prowling around the tree.
“Don’t you dare!” I snapped at him.
“What?” His body was long, lean and lupine, but the eyes were all mischievous bad boy.
“Piss up that tree,” I hissed. “I’ve seen you do it before, remember?”
“That other household wouldn’t have noticed.” Wulf yawned, his bright, white canines reflecting the twinkling tree lights. “Didn’t look like they’d cleared anything away from the previous Christmas. And did you see what their own dog left on top of the TV remote control? A delightful nugget of steaming—”
“Enough!” This was only the beginning of a long, long night, and I was already losing patience with the pair of them.
And then the guy walked into the room. We all stopped dead, him included. He looked to be in his early twenties, blond and blue-eyed. Mussed hair, barefoot, and dressed in loose jeans and a thin T-shirt that showed off some modest muscle definition and a couple of really tight, luscious nipples. One had the shape of a tiny metal bar threaded through it.
My mouth went dry.
“Bollocks,” Wulf growled, his hackles rising.
“Hush. Maybe he won’t see us.” Zilith’s best baby-girl voice tinkled in my ear.
The guy looked from her to me, to Wulf. And then back to me, probably because I was the one nearest his own height. The bowl of popcorn in his hands dropped to the floor with a crash.
“Pass on that, princess,” Wulf growled to Zilith.
The guy swallowed really, really hard and took a step backward. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his jeans.
“He has a gun!” Zilith squeaked.
“Please don’t call the police,” I said quickly.
“Or post a photo on Facebook,” Wulf muttered at my side.
The guy’s mouth opened—a very cute, full mouth it was, too—and then closed again. Words obviously failed him. But he slowly removed his hand from his pocket and, presumably, his phone.
“Consider this just a bad dream,” I said. I was searching my mind for the instructions on Stacy Street. Had I missed the number of children at number 36? This guy was surely too young to be the dad of a toddler and an eight-year-old, but too old to be… another child? I tried the mind-meld thing. I did a couple of courses in Enhanced Hypnotism last summer while I was… you know… indisposed indoors. “You’ve had a few drinks too many. Things have been very stressful at work.”
Lorelei M. Hart is the cowriting team of USA Today Bestselling Authors Kate Richards and Ever Coming. Friends for years, the duo decided to come together and write one of their favorite guilty pleasures: Mpreg. There is something that just does it for them about smexy men who love each other enough to start a family together in a world where they can do it the old-fashioned way ;).
Best-selling author Sean Michael is a maple leaf–loving Canadian who spends hours hiding out in used book stores. With far more ideas than time, Sean keeps several documents open at all times. From romance to fantasy, paranormal and sci-fi, Sean is limited only by the need for sleep—and the periodic Beaver Tail.
Sean fantasizes about one day retiring on a secluded island populated entirely by horseshoe crabs after inventing a brain-to-computer dictation system. Until then, Sean will continue to write the old-fashioned way.
Sean’s available for interviews, by the way. He can always be talked into, well, talking about himself. Just drop him an email.
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.
When she isn’t writing she is either creating beautiful pieces of glass art or reading. She is an animal lover and dreams of having a small hobby farm where she can raise goats, chickens, and organic veggies. In the meantime, she lives in town with her two cats, awesome husband, and two college-aged kids.
Annabelle Jacobs lives in the South West of England with three rowdy children, and two cats. An avid reader of fantasy herself for many years, Annabelle now spends her days writing her own stories. They're usually either fantasy or paranormal fiction, because she loves building worlds filled with magical creatures, and creating stories full of action and adventure. Her characters may have a tough time of it—fighting enemies and adversity—but they always find love in the end.
Clare London took her pen name from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with her other day job as an accountant.
She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with award-winning novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic, and sexy characters.
Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter-three stage and plenty of other projects in mind… she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home.
Clare loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her on all her social media.
Lorelei M Hart
EMAIL: Lorelei@mpregwithhart.com
Sean Michael
GOOGLE PLAY / KOBO / FB GROUP
EMAIL: seanmichaelwrites@gmail.com
Jacki James
EMAIL: jackijames@jackijames.com
Annabelle Jacobs
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / iTUNES
EMAIL: ajacobsfiction@gmail.com
Clare London
EMAIL: clarelondon11@yahoo.co.uk
The Omega's Krampus Christmas by Lorelei M Hart
The Librarian's Ghost by Sean Michael
Azaran by Jacki James
Escape by Annabelle Jacobs
Bite Nite by Clare London
B&N / SMASHWORDS / WEBSITE
KOBO / iTUNES / GOODREADS TBR
No comments:
Post a Comment