🌈🌻🌼Father's Day 2023🌼🌻🌈

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In honor of Father's Day here in the US, I wanted to showcase stories with strong, influential father figures. Some aren't necessarily a lengthy factor in the story, perhaps it's even just one chapter, or a flashback, a memory, etc.  The father figure has however, left a lasting impression on the characters, the story, and the reader.  For Father's Day 2023, I chose 5 stories where the fatherly figure helped to shape the characters, made them stronger and in doing so made the story even more brilliant and left me smiling.  If you have any recommendations for great father figures in the LGBTQIA genre, be sure and comment below or on the social media post that may have brought you here.  The purchase links below are current as of the original posting but if they don't work be sure to check the authors' websites for up-to-date information.

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Breakfast Included by LC Chase

Summary:

Snowed Inn

What’s worse than being stranded at a mountain resort by an avalanche three days before Christmas? Being trapped with your teenage crush—who kissed you and ran away.

Reno Pierce spends all his time creating music in his studio, quite happily alone, but at the insistence of his rom-com-loving dad, he finds himself at a Colorado mountain resort speed dating event. His dad wants Reno to bring his ‘Mr. Right’ home for Christmas, but what he finds instead is his teenage crush. Twelve years ago, he’d been head-over-heels in love with his older brother’s best friend, Tate. His straight best friend. But everything changed one magical night, when Tate kissed him like his life depended on it—and then ran away.

Six months after a bad breakup, Tate Boylan is still feeling the damage done to his confidence. Thanks to his hopeless romantic sister, who booked him a quaint cabin at a mountain resort and insisted he ‘boost his morale’ with a night of speed dating at The Retreat, he’s feeling much better. Until he sits at a table across from his best friend’s younger brother. The one he’d fallen for as a teen, kissed at a party, and never saw again.

Now that an avalanche has cut the hotel off from the rest of the world, Tate might have a chance to prove to Reno that this time he won’t kiss and run.

All the books in the Snowed Inn collection are standalone stories and can be read in any order.

Original Review December 2022:

Forced proximity and at Christmas to boot, what can I say?  When done right it can bring a sense of realistic warmth to make your cold winter nights cozy.  When done wrong it can be riddled with cliches that are a checklist of what not to do.  LC Chase has gotten it right, and not just right, but brilliantly heart-stirringly right.

Brother's best friend, best friend's brother . . . however way you see it Reno and Tate shared a kiss that ended in one fleeing and leaving the other heartbroken and probably a bit jaded.  I think one thing I loved was the brother knew but off page with Reno only learning of it now rather than then so we know there wasn't the big bro shakedown even though Tate said Riley(the brother) never thought he was good enough for Reno.  Some don't like "off page" scenes but I enjoy them because it shows us that there is so much more to characters than what they decide to fill the author in on.  And of course that also leaves room for more in the future if the characters decide to tell more😉.  Breakfast Included is all about Reno and Tate.

Through some internal monologue we discover the past but the main story is the here and now.  The chemistry that lead to that heartbreaking kiss is obviously still there but is it enough?  I think we all know this will end in a HEA but to find the journey the men take you will have to read Breakfast Included yourself but trust me, you won't be sorry. There is humor, drama, romance, friendship, and of course heat, 5 elements that make Breakfast Included memorable and a joy to experience.

One One last series note: Snowed Inn is a multi-author series of standalones with the only real follow thru being the avalanche that traps the main characters at The Retreat.  The entries can be read in any order although if I'm completely honest I'm glad I read RJ Scott's Stop the Wedding first simply because there are the occasional wedding(or non-wedding) comments, none of which really effect or play a role in any of the other entries but I was glad I knew what they meant having read Wedding first.  But that's more a personal preference of mine than an actually need to know scenario.  I still have a couple of entries to read but so far they are all topnotch.

RATING:

The Button Man by Davidson King

Summary:

Button Man #1

A visit from Button Man means only one thing: someone wants you dead.

Duke is born into the world a hired killer. It’s his birthright—all he knows, all he thinks he’ll ever be. Then one fateful night, the unthinkable occurs and in the most tragic of moments, a promise is made. That promise is kept for almost fifteen years, until he comes face-to-face with a target he never expects and a future he never sees coming.

Kelly spends his days in a classroom, while his nights couldn’t be more different. Unbeknownst to those around him, their friendly neighborhood teacher is the handler for a hit man. For over a decade he has watched Button Man’s back from behind a computer screen. He is content living his double life, believing he will never cross paths with the dangerous assassin, but fate has a different plan.

When the past collides with the present, Duke and Kelly must prevent it from destroying the future. It’s not just their lives they need to think about—the entire world of a fourteen-year-old girl is about to spin on its axis. Dodging bullets and uncovering truths bring the two closer than they could have imagined. But lust takes a back seat to survival when enemies threaten to drown them both in blood. Can they navigate these twists and turns when death is lingering at every corner, or will they die trying?

Original Review September Book of the Month 2022:

HOLY MOLEY SWEET PETUTIE!   Davidson King has done it again! AGAIN I SAY!  How is possible that so many dramatic danger-filled romantic suspense stories keep percolating in one author's brain?  Must be all the coffee I know she refuses to start the day without.

Seriously though, The Button Man is brilliant in so many ways.  

First:  the name.  The Button Man.  Such a common daily item that most of us use at least once a day.  Let's face it as a nickname you'd expect the moniker for someone who dresses dapper with high end suits or perhaps likes lots of bling on his body.  But not King's anti-hero MC.  I won't spoil the reason behind said nickname but I love it.  Common, clever, unique, legacy . . . sometimes the simplicity of titles can make the biggest impact.

Second: the cast of characters.  As for Duke and Kelly, they are a meshing of both sides of the scale. Duke is the hired killer with a legitimate business front and Kelly is the computer geeky teacher with a keeping the hired killer safe sideline.  Polar opposites that occupy the same existence without knowing it.  When their worlds collide, you can literally see them being totally gobsmacked, that's just how vivid Davidson King's creativity shines.  As for the rest of the cast, also equally lovely and 150% needed, not a single character is just thrown in for page or scene filler, they all have a part to play.

Third: the mystery.  I love a good who done it or who's behind it woven web.  I won't go into too many details because I don't want to spoil this masterpiece for others.  I'll just say that I had a few inklings early on that were partially right and there were a couple possibilities that floated in about 2/3 of the way through that ended up being nearly completely wrong.  By the time revelations were shared, my brain was a mish mash of "I thought ??? would factor in" and "HOLY CRAP! ??? never even fluttered in".

Last but not least: the family man.  I've made no secret of the fact that I have found men who care for kids sexy as hell and Duke's little Everleigh, or Ever as she's called, is a delight.  Seeing Duke, and eventually Kelly as a bit of an outsider acquaintance, care for her, protecting her, loving her is just icing on the cake.

Davidson King's talent for storytelling is once again rich and flavorful, a well stirred pot of spicy and sweet with just the right pinch of salt to enhance the taste.  I don't know if the author has plans for this setting beyond The Button Man(either way is okay with me, as a standalone it's great but there is definite potential for more which would be equally as great) but I do have to admit that in a seemingly throwaway line, a one sentence statement in passing, Duke mentioned a name to someone in the same line of business he reached out to on the phone.  I couldn't help but notice the name is a prominent character name in one of the author's other series.  Coincidence? Perhaps. Hints at a future crossover? Perhaps. Please, oh please let it be the latter because seeing Duke and Kelly mixing with that crowd? Talk about mayhem X10.  *😉Hint Hint😉* BTW: I won't say the character name because I don't want to spoil anyone else's Easter Egg find if that really is what this was. 

To sum up quickly yet another bit of a wordy review: The Button Man is a masterful blend of drama, action, friendship, family, mystery, heat, romance, humor, and of course my personal favorite: mayhem, loads and loads of mayhem.  If you've never read Davidson King, this is an excellent pool to wet your feet in.

RATING:

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.

Original January Book of the Month 2022:

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.

RATING:

The Crow and the Sparrow by VL Locey

Summary:

Sometimes a man’s biggest blunder can turn into his greatest triumph.

Orphaned at fourteen, Crow Poulin now has to hunt and trap the White Mountains of Arizona, as his father had taught him, all alone. It’s a lonely existence, until one morning, while checking his trap line, Crow finds more than a rabbit in a snare. He stumbles across the outlaw Jack Wittington lying half dead in the wilds. He takes the wanted man in, heals him, and in return for saving his life, the smooth-talking criminal invites Crow to join his family. Starved for human interaction and a father figure, Crow leaves the mountains behind for what he assumes will be a brighter future.

Six years pass. Crow is now a man, as well as a member of the Wittington Gang. He may be considered an outlaw, but his father’s morals are warring loudly with the lifestyle of his adopted family. When the gang decides to rob a train, Crow has no choice but to go along to keep a tight rein on the more bloodthirsty members. It doesn’t take long for the scheme to go horribly astray.

Instead of gold-filled coffers, the gang finds Spencer Haughton, son of cattle baron and railroad tycoon Woodford Haughton, cowering in the family’s opulent private car. The outlaws grab the sickly heir in hopes of ransoming him off. Things then go from bad to worse for them when the law rides down on the Wittington hideout and Crow is given Spencer to hide until the ransom is paid. The pretty young man is nothing at all like anyone Crow has ever met before. Delicate, refined, well-educated, and possessed of a singing voice to rival the songs of the birds in the trees, Crow slowly finds himself falling for the winsome rich boy. But can two such opposite souls find the love they’re both seeking in each other’s arms?

Original Review May Book of the Month 2021:

Historical, western, romance . . . what else is there?  

When I started The Ballad of Crow & Sparrow I wasn't sure what to expect.  I knew it would be good and that I would walk away entertained because it was written by VL Locey.  I've loved her co-authored work with RJ Scott and loved the few solo stories of her's that I've also read but none were historical.  No worries because this story was beautifully written.  I loved the balance of accuracy and fiction, it was the little elements that really suck you into the era, you know she did her research but she also isn't delivering a history lesson.  Entertainment all the way.

As for Crow & Sparrow, love the names by the way, I won't go into too much detail as I don't want to give anything away.  I'll say this, their meeting is not what I would call a "cute meet", honestly it's fraught with tension and "never gonna happen" atmosphere but right away you know it's definitely gonna happen all the same.  Balancing that tension and danger with romance can be risky but Locey not only pulls it off, she knocks it out of the park.

If you don't usually read historicals I still highly recommend reading The Ballad of Crow & Sparrow.  The blending of friendship and danger, strength and discovery, romance and feuding brings to life a really great read that will entertain from beginning to end.

RATING:

Comic Sans by Jordan Castillo Price

Summary:

The  ABCs of Spellcraft #13

If a man’s home is his castle…then his stash is his treasure.

When a traveling comic book auctioneer comes to town, Dixon is thrilled to hear his father’s beloved basement stash might contain something valuable after all: a mint condition copy of the rare Eel Man #1.

But when they unearth the comic book, Yuri ends up finding a lot more than he bargained for. Now he’s no longer sure if Dixon is really the product of a loving, happy home…or if Spellcraft the only thing holding his family together.

To make matters worse, the comic book has a major “issue” of its own.

The quest to restore the comic takes Dixon and Yuri from one wonky end of Pinyin Bay to the other. Can they salvage their big find and save a marriage—or is their copy of Eel Man #1 worth nothing more the paper it’s printed on?

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.

Original Review October 2022:

I hate to hear that this series is nearly over and there is only one new ABCs of Spellcraft yet to come . . . how can it nearly be done?  So unfair.  Oh well, sometimes the characters just stop talking to an author, if Dixon and Yuri want to keep their further adventures to themselves then that's what must be.  I'll love ABCs right to the end, oh who am I kidding? I'll love and cherish them every step of the way and beyond in rereads & re-listens, the adrenaline rush may not be quite the same but the enjoyment factor will always be topnotch.

So on to Comic Sans.

With a title like that you just know comic books will factor into the trouble Dixon undoubtedly finds himself facing.  Sure enough, a rare, mint condition Eel Man #1 could fetch a pretty penny and where does Dixon's dad thinks he seen one last?  In his never-ending always-growing pile of stash of what-nots and doo-dads.  Once the men are told of a flaw in the comic, Dixon hatches a scheme to recondition said comic . . . and that's where the true fun begins.

That's the end of the plot I'll give away but just know that there are plenty of hi-jinks that only Dixon and Yuri can discover on their path to mint condition.  What fun it is.  We see Pinyin Bay characters that we've met before, we see plenty of Penn family time as well.  Truthfully, I'm not sure if I'd say this is the most we've seen of Dixon's parents yet but their chemistry, their banter, their unique look at things is an absolute treat and I think it gives us plenty of insight into how and why Dixon is the way he is: delightful blend of quirky, charming, loving and all around instantly likeable.  Yuri is more stoic, I think anyway, than Dixon's mom but I can't help but think when you look at Johnny and Florica Penn you're actually getting a glimpse into what Dixon and Yuri's future years will be like.

The series may be nearly over and yet after 13 novellas, The ABCs of Spellcraft just keeps getting better and better.  

RATING:

Breakfast Included by LC Chase

Chapter One 

Thursday, December 22 

“Ugh, kill me now.” 

Reno dropped his head into his hands when his tenth date of the night got up and moved to the next table. He drew in a deep breath, held it, and exhaled slowly on the off chance he could “Zen away” his frustration. Who knew four-minute speed dates could be so painfully long? Only halfway through the event, and he didn’t know if he could make it to the end. 

“Go to The Rainbow Inn,” his dad had said. “Get out of your music studio and meet some men,” he’d said. “It’ll be good for you.” 

Reno snorted. Right. 

He really hadn’t had the time to spend driving all the way up to The Rainbow Inn—as it was known to the locals but was officially named The Retreat—for their gay speed-dating event, but his dad was set on him finding someone to share his life with. Before Christmas, which was all of three days away. He thought Reno spent too much time alone with his music and was constantly trying to set him up on blind dates. 

Reno loved his dad. He couldn’t have asked for a better role model growing up, and his dad hadn’t batted an eyelash when Reno had come out. He’d just ruffled his hair, kissed the top of his head, and said, “I love you. Now, go set the table for dinner.” 

So, for his dad’s sake, Reno said yes to a night of festive speed-dating. At least this way he didn’t have to spend half the night trying to come up with the politest way to cut a date short. A couple dozen four-minute dates with built-in endings he could handle much better. 

And thank his gay stars for that. 

His first date’s opening line was “I just want someone to have sex with while I look for my soul mate”. Insulting much? Reno had never used it before, but he was pretty sure that was what Grindr was for. 

Things hadn’t improved a great deal from there. 

Next up was a gorgeous young man—emphasis on young. He must have had some incredible fake ID because there was no way the kid was even old enough to drive, let alone attend a speed-dating event where the minimum age was midtwenties. He’d only been interested in finding a Sugar Daddy, it seemed. The moment Reno had said that wasn’t his scene, his “date” spent the remaining few minutes scanning the crowd for better prospects. Interesting thing Reno noticed: when the young man wasn’t all bright eyes and big smiles, he did look old enough to be there. 

Following him was a very attractive man in a stylish suit that probably cost as much as Reno’s baby grand piano but whose personality was drier than the first Christmas turkey his dad had cooked after his parents divorced. All Reno could glean from the guy was that he worked at some legal firm in downtown Denver and was, of course, rich. Maybe this man was whom Reno’s last date was looking for. 

There had been one interesting man. He was shorter than Reno by a good half foot, with curly dark hair, a closely trimmed beard, and kind brown eyes, who worked as an oceanographic cartographer. He’d been wearing an ugly green Christmas sweater depicting a naked muscular man with a Santa hat. A gift box hid his junk, and the saying read, “I have a big package for you.” Reno had laughed out loud. The ice breaker had been perfect, and he’d enjoyed their short conversation. Unfortunately, there had been zero spark. A romantic relationship wasn’t on the horizon for them, but Reno could see them becoming good friends. 

Then there was the guy who looked down his nose at Reno with disdain after learning Reno was a musician. Funny how so many people assumed the “sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll” stereotype when he told them what his career was. Of course, his age and appearance leaned a little more toward rock ’n’ roll than classical composer. He didn’t have long hair or wear dark eyeliner; he didn’t have a ton of piercings and wasn’t covered in tattoos, though his fashion sense did tend toward denim, leather, and Doc Martens. 

But the date that took the cake was the one that had just ended. The man hadn’t fully sat down before he started talking a mile a minute. His hair was dyed as black as night, and his complexion was so pale he could have passed for a vampire. His eyes were an unnatural shade of gold that could only be attained with colored contacts, and his veneers were so blindingly perfect Reno found he couldn’t look at them directly for more than a couple of seconds. Reno hadn’t said a single word as his vampire date barely took a breath—maybe he was a vampire!—as he regaled Reno with stories of his lavish jet-set lifestyle and all the countries he’d visited. The man had been trying way too hard to impress.  Under all that costume and big talk and name-dropping, he was probably a great guy, if terribly insecure in himself to be putting on such a show. 

Reno sighed and took a long draft of his microbrew. One thing about The Rainbow Inn, they always had the best local beer in Colorado. He rolled his shoulders back and mentally sang along with a jazzy Christmas song playing in the background while he psyched himself up to sit through another painful four minutes. 

His next date, a tall, lean-muscled redhead, sat down, and the world tipped on its side. Or maybe it was just the ground shaking. Like when a semitruck and trailer rumbled past his house and the whole place shook. 

Tate . . . 

Reno’s breath caught in his throat. 

It was Tate-fucking-Boylan. His eyes—a gold-specked green hazel that Reno had never forgotten—widened in surprise, and his mouth formed a soundless O. It had been over a decade since Reno had last seen Tate. Twelve years to be exact. Tate was his older brother Ricky’s best friend—the “straight” best friend who’d kissed Reno and then run away—but Reno would have recognized him anywhere. His heart raced and lurched to punch at his ribs as though it knew the heart beating just a few feet away was its other half. 

“What are you even doing here?” Reno blurted. 

Shit. Even he heard how breathy his voice sounded. Heat burned his cheeks, and he took a desperate gulp of his not-nearly-cold-enough-to-cool-him-down beer. How could he still react like he did as a teenager after all these years?

This was so not how Reno had pictured seeing Tate again. Not once in the thousands of reunions he’d imagined in his mind, year after year. He should be angry. Thought he would be. Wanted to be. He was due some righteous indignation for the way Tate had bolted on him. But at that moment, he felt like he’d finally reached an oasis after walking too many miles across a sweltering desert. 

“Reno Pierce,” Tate replied with a note of awe in his voice, a voice that was deeper and huskier than Reno remembered. A shiver of excitement cascaded over his skin. “As I live and breathe.” 

Dumbstruck and lovestruck. That’s what he was, and it was just as frustrating as it had been when he was a kid. When he’d followed Ricky and Tate around like a lost duckling that had imprinted on the wrong species and was never more than a foot off Tate’s heel. When he’d worshipped the ground Tate walked on, hung on his every word, and doodled their initials inside hearts in his schoolbooks. When he’d dreamed that Tate loved him as much as he loved Tate, and Tate would sweep him off his feet, and they’d live happily ever after. Just like in the movies. 

But then Tate had broken his heart after one blissfully exquisite moment in time when their lips had touched and every single nerve in Reno’s body had lit on fire. Reno closed his eyes for a second, needing to push away old memories and regroup. He’d outgrown his Godzilla-sized Tate crush years ago. Or so he’d thought. 

A round of gasps spread throughout the room like a wave. 

“Well, this is different,” Tate said in a hushed amusement-infused voice. He sounded the same, but there was a lower resonance to his voice that came with age and experience. 

Reno briefly wondered what Tate’s life had been like during their years apart before he opened his eyes to . . . total darkness? He blinked a few times, attempting to adjust to the lack of light, but there wasn’t anything to adjust to. Not even a sliver of light filtered below the doors to the main hallway.

Light from a cell phone flashlight punched a hole in the black, waved back and forth, and a few seconds later, Clark, their event host, shouted to be heard above the confused crowd. “Can everyone look this way, please?” 

He clapped his hands, and once he had everyone’s attention, he set his phone down so the flashlight created a spotlight on him. 

“Okay, I know that was a bit of a surprise, but I need you all to keep calm.” 

Nothing in Clark’s voice gave Reno any cause for concern. Power outages in the mountains were a thing. Heck, he lived on a mountain, and it happened more often than he could count. “Honestly, this isn’t anything strange for an old hotel all the way out here in the mountains.” 

“It isn’t?” someone a couple of tables over from Reno’s asked. Reno could just make out the speaker’s features—it was dry-personality guy in the expensive suit. 

“Last year, we had the same thing one night. Turned out it was a blown fuse. And I believe up here, power lines go down all the time. Before you know it, the generator will kick in and—” 

Reno shielded his eyes and blinked a few times. It took a few seconds to readjust to the sudden brightness. The overhead lights had been low to begin with, so the Christmas lights that ringed the room could take center stage and set the mood for the daters, but after the few minutes of complete darkness they may as well have been high-powered floodlights. 

“See, just like that,” Clark said with a note of pride in his voice. 

Reno’s vision cleared, and Tate was right there. In full living, breathing, technicolor-vision focus before him. He was even more gorgeous than Reno remembered, and Reno’s heart did that excited little fluttering thing it had done every time his teenage self had seen Tate. As though his heart didn’t understand the passage of time and he was still that clumsy kid tripping over feet he hadn’t yet grown into. 

“This is wild, seeing you here,” Tate said once everyone settled back down. 

His grin was conspiratorial, like he had a secret to share. Tantalizing lines bracketed his mouth. They didn’t quite form a dimple, but close enough that Reno wanted to slide his tongue along them. The kiss they’d shared once upon a time replayed in his mind again. 

The best and worst moment of his life. 

His greatest desire and biggest embarrassment. 

He’d crushed so hard on Tate back then, but Ricky had taken his big brother role seriously and was protective of him—overly so. He’d noticed how Reno looked at Tate with hearts bulging out of his eyes like a cartoon character. He’d sat Reno down and explained that Tate was straight and to let it go. But Reno hadn’t believed him. He’d seen the way Tate looked at him when he didn’t think anyone was looking. 

It had all come to a head the summer Ricky had thrown an “adios, high school” party before he left to play for an American Hockey League team out of state, and Tate left for university in California. Every time Reno scanned the crowd for Tate, he found Tate looking at him. Tate would only hold his gaze for a second and then turn away as though suddenly realizing he’d been caught staring. At some point during the party, Reno wandered off to the bathroom. When he’d opened the door to leave, Tate had been standing there, looking nervous but determined. He’d looked over both shoulders and then walked Reno back inside, closed the door, and after a long stare, leaned down and kissed him. Though it was Reno’s very first kiss, he’d thrown everything he had into it. He hadn’t done too bad either, he remembered proudly, if the hardness of Tate’s erection pressed against his thigh had been anything to go by. That single kiss had been the most amazing of his life. Even after all these years, no kiss had ever truly compared. There was always something missing. 

The day after that life-altering kiss, Tate had ignored Reno. At first, Reno had chalked it up to Tate being majorly hungover. But then he’d taken off early for university, without saying goodbye, and Reno hadn’t heard a single word from him since. Ricky had told him to stop mooning and not to lose his heart to straight guys, but Ricky had never known about that kiss. He didn’t know his best friend wasn’t quite as straight as he’d thought. 

“You left,” Reno said flatly. He winced internally at the pout in his voice. He wasn’t a heartbroken kid anymore, dammit. Apparently, all it took was five seconds in Tate’s presence to regress twelve years. 

The spark in Tate’s gaze dimmed, but Reno refused to feel any guilt. He wasn’t responsible for Tate’s actions. Tate was the one who kissed and ran, after all.

Tate opened his mouth, but his reply was cut off by Clark, who’d called for a ten-minute break. Their four-minute date was over. 

“I’ll be right back,” Tate said as he rose from the table. He raised the empty bottle in his hand to indicate he was going for a refill. “Can I get you anything?” 

Reno shook his head and narrowed his eyes. Sure, he would be right back. Tate was running again. 

Reno cursed himself for noticing how nicely Tate’s ass looked in his well-fit pants as he walked away, and retrieved his phone from his back jeans pocket to check the time. There was a text on the lock screen from his dad. He opened it with a smile that slipped as he sighed. 

Dad: Hope you found your Mr. Right. 

Dad: Call me in the morning with all the details.

All the details. Reno snorted. His dad was a hopeless romantic—especially around the holidays. Even after a messy divorce, he still believed in true love. Reno did too, but he wasn’t going to find it tonight. 

Tate’s grin flashed in his mind. 

Reno shook his head and tapped out a quick reply to his dad. He hit Send, but a “message failed” error popped up. Huh, no bars. He shrugged and pocketed his phone. 

He should just head home now and be done with all of this. Except he didn’t want to leave just yet, not now that he’d reconnected with Tate. Even though he still harbored resentment at having been left behind, remnants of how he’d once felt for Tate—always felt for him—refused to fade. 

Before Reno decided to stay or go, Tate reappeared. He stood by the table and fidgeted with the label on his beer bottle. Reno’s gaze dropped to his long, slender fingers, and the first note of desire played low in his belly. 

“I went to university,” Tate said as if that answered why he’d taken off on Reno. 

He stared at the table for a second as though he was gearing up for a spiel. But once again, Clark interrupted to announce the official end of the break and start of the second half of the evening’s dates. 

“Wait for me after?” 

The vulnerable note in Tate’s voice shifted something inside Reno’s chest, and he nodded. He didn’t want to give in so easy, but of course he would wait for Tate. Who was he fooling? If he really thought about it, he’d been waiting for Tate ever since he’d run off to university without so much as a “see ya”.

After Reno’s “date” with Tate, he couldn’t stop thinking about him and couldn’t for the life of him remember a single guy who’d sat across from him for the rest of the night. If he’d thought the four-minute dates before Tate had dragged on, after the break, they were excruciating. Every minute until he could talk to Tate again felt like an eternity. 

When the last date finally ended, Clark called for everyone’s attention again. He quickly reminded them about filling out their match cards and how he would be contacting everyone who’d made mutual matches so they could connect on their own later. Then, oddly, he asked everyone to remain in the event room until further notice. A frisson of confusion ran through the crowd. Reno glanced at his watch. Whatever it was, he hoped it didn’t take too long. He’d have to get back on the road for home soon. It was already a late night, as it was. 

He flipped his match card over on the table and checked only one box—the one beside Tate’s name. He handed his card off to the bartender since Clark had left the room again and sat on a barstool. He ordered a virgin tequila sunrise since he didn’t want to be buzzed while driving the winding mountain roads home from the hotel. There was always the option of booking a room for the night—which was another reason The Retreat’s speed-dating events were such a big draw—but he’d rather sleep in his own bed. 

A waft of spice and bergamot teased Reno’s senses and announced Tate’s arrival as he sat on the stool next to him. From this point on, he knew he’d always associate those scents with Tate. His childhood crush ordered another beer before turning to face Reno. 

“I thought you stayed in California.” Reno picked up their conversation as if there hadn’t been an hour break in between. “After university.”

Tate shook his head. “Only for the summer after graduation. I live in Boulder now. I, uh, work at NCAR.” 

“You what?” Reno rocked back on his stool. He’d known Tate was into climate science, but figured he’d end up working at a research center in California. “For how long?” 

“Six years.” 

Reno snapped his mouth shut while his mind tripped over itself in search of words that made sense. Reno lived in Boulder. Well . . . he lived up the mountain in Nederland, but he was down in Boulder often. Tate had been living so close all these years, and Reno had had no idea. 

Not once had Ricky mentioned that to him, and they talked on the phone as often as Ricky’s hockey schedule allowed after he’d been drafted to play for Vancouver’s NHL team. Had Ricky kept that from him deliberately? Reno was a grown-ass adult and didn’t need his big brother to look out for him anymore. He could make his own mistakes quite nicely, thank you very much. Not to mention, Tate was obviously not straight. 

No, Ricky wouldn’t do that. More than likely, Ricky had just forgotten about Reno’s crush and Tate just never came up in conversation anymore. That and Reno never asked either, so he couldn’t lay it all on his brother. 

“Does Ricky know?” Reno asked. He avoided eye contact by swirling the straw in his glass, blending the grenadine into the orange juice until the whole concoction was a deep orange-maroon color. 

“That I moved back home? Yes.” 

“No, I mean, that you’re gay.” 

“What makes you think I’m gay?” Tate challenged, but there was a teasing note in his voice.

Reno turned a glare on him. His tone was sarcastic when he said, “Oh, I don’t know. Kissing other men? Attending gay speed-dating events?” He shrugged. “Just a guess.” 

Tate’s grin morphed into a brilliant smile that sent another flurry of flutters in Reno’s chest. “I’m bisexual if you need a label. And yes, Ricky knows.” 

Ricky knew? Reno looked away again, fighting down a flare of unexpected hurt. “He never told me.” 

“Ricky and I don’t travel the same circles anymore, and with him in the NHL and always on the road, we don’t get to catch up very often,” Tate said with a touch of regret in his voice. “And even though I was his best friend, he didn’t think I was good enough for you.” 

Reno swung his head around. “Are you kidding me?” 

Tate’s shoulders lifted and dropped. “I’m out now, but I was in the closet for a long time. It wouldn’t have been fair to you, and we both knew it.” 

“Neither of you had the right to decide what was or wasn’t right for me.” 

Tate studied him for a long minute and then said softly, “No, you’re right.” 

Reno fell silent. As revelations went Tate’s weren’t all that earth-shattering, but to know he’d been living so close all these years and their paths had never crossed . . . What did he say to that? Were they not ever meant to be? He sighed and looked away, but Tate kicked at the leg of his chair to get his attention. When he met Tate’s gaze, his big easy smile lit up his eyes. 

“We’re here now,” Tate said. “Tell me about you. I haven’t seen you gracing the cover of the Rolling Stone yet.” 

Reno laughed and fidgeted with his straw again. “I was never going to be a rock star. Fame wasn’t what I was after.”

“No? What was it, then?” 

“A compulsion to create emotion through sound.” Reno snapped his mouth shut. He had not meant to say that out loud. Now Tate would know that he hadn’t been just a geeky band kid; he was an adult band geek. Sure, his whole life revolved around music, but he was highly successful at it, and he did it without being on the paparazzi’s radar. Which was exactly how he wanted it. “I mean, I compose.” 

“Compose? Like for orchestras?” Tate sounded genuinely interested. 

Reno nodded as he warmed up to his favorite subject. “I’ve composed some symphonies for the Denver Symphony Orchestra and a few others, but these days I mostly compose film scores.” 

“No way!” Tate leaned forward on his stool, obliviously sending another wave of his distracting spicy scent Reno’s way. “Which movies?” 

Reno took a sip of his drink. “You know the new action flick with Chris Hemsworth?” 

“No!” 

“Yes.” Reno couldn’t help grinning back at Tate, who looked like a kid that had just been set loose in a candy store. 

“He’s hot,” Tate said with a dreamy note to his voice as a smile tugged his mouth sideways. 

Reno laughed and clinked his glass to Tate’s bottle. “Cheers to that.” 

Surprisingly, the conversation flowed easier than Reno would have thought after all their time apart, and he was glad his dad had talked him into coming up here tonight. Even the anger he’d harbored for so long after Tate ditched him faded into the ether. Perhaps this was the closure he’d needed to finally move on.

He sucked up the last drops of his mocktail and glanced at the clock behind the bar. It was getting late. He pushed his empty glass away. 

“Another?” Tate asked as he flagged the bartender down. 

“No, thanks.” Reno shook his head and, with a reluctance that surprised him, said, “I need to get on the road before it gets much later.” 

“I’m afraid you might be out of luck there,” the bartender said. His name tag read Grady, and he wore a revealing black tank top that showed off the amazing tattoos on his forearms and biceps. “Rumor has it there was an avalanche earlier, and the road is blocked.” 

“What?” Reno burst out at the same time as Tate, and for a split second, his thoughts wandered to how well their voices harmonized. They could make music together. 

Reno snorted at his stupid thoughts. He and Tate would not be making music together. Of any kind. 

Grady paused a second and then nodded as he grabbed Reno’s empty glass. He dropped it in a soap-water-filled bucket behind the bar. “That’s why we have to wait here for Bryan, the manager, to let us know what’s going on.” 

Reno slumped back in his seat, dismayed. “But I can’t stay here tonight.” 

“Uhm . . .” Tate shifted around to face Reno head-on. His expression was hopeful. “I have a cabin. You’re welcome to stay with me if you can’t get out.” 

Reno’s brain screeched to a halt. 

Spend the night with Tate? All alone in a snowed-in cabin up on a mountain? Sounded like the stuff of romance novels, and as much as the teenage Reno would have jumped for joy at the idea, the adult Reno knew that would be the worst of all the worst ideas. But also . . .

“You have a cabin?” Reno said instead. “That’s . . . a bit presumptuous, no?” 

Chuckling, Tate held his hands up in surrender. “It’s a rental. Kaylie booked it for me.” 

Reno opened his mouth and closed it. Twice. Reno had never spent much time with Tate’s older sister. She’d always seemed like a cool girl who had it all together and didn’t take any crap from anyone, and Reno had admired her for that from afar. 

“I’m not sure what to say to that,” he finally replied. 

He flagged Grady with the tattooed arms over and ordered another tequila sunrise. This time with the tequila since it didn’t seem like he’d be driving anywhere soon. 

A point proven when Clark called for everyone’s attention a little after midnight. He introduced Bryan, The Retreat’s manager, and turned the floor over to the slim, dark-haired man in a rumpled suit who looked just as frazzled. In his white-knuckled grip was a clipboard. 

“Thank you for waiting here,” Bryan began. 

After a few murmurs from the crowd, he continued. “So, here’s the long and short of it. An avalanche has blocked the road about half a mile from the hotel—” 

The crowd erupted into a frenzy of questions and complaints and ridiculous solutions like skiing or snowshoeing out—five miles, in the dark—or using sled dogs, of which there weren’t any. Even melting the snow to what . . . swim out? Reno shook his head. The only thing they could do was be patient and wait for the road to be cleared. Surely by morning, the road crews would have traffic moving again. 

Bryan clapped his hands and brought the crowd’s attention back around. 

“We think the best idea is for everyone to get at least some sleep, and we’ll regroup in the morning. We can double up in rooms with some careful organization, use rollaways, and luckily, we do have some empty rooms and some of the cabins.” He gestured to a tall, lean man with dark hair standing beside him. “Chet has some room assignments, so if you could come up one at a time.” 

“So,” Tate said beside Reno. “Looks like you’re going to need somewhere to spend the night after all.” 

Reno regarded him for a few seconds while his heart warred with his mind. He so badly wanted to say yes, but also, he had a feeling it would be a very bad idea. 

“Or I could get my own room,” he countered. 

“You heard the man.” Tate grinned that sexy grin of his again. “They’re pairing people up. Why not pair up with someone you know?” 

Because I won’t be desperately fighting to keep my hands off anyone else. 

But with his luck, he’d probably end up paired in a room with his overcompensating vampire date and be stuck listening to endless tales of his incredible life all night. 

“Breakfast is included,” Tate sweetened his offer in a sing-song voice when Reno hadn’t replied. 

Reno studied him. He didn’t look like a scientist, but then, Reno didn’t look like a classical composer either. Not that either of them had to adhere to any specific appearance for their chosen fields. The warm-toned white Christmas lights hanging over the bar spun gold threads through Tate’s full head of fiery-red hair. It was riding that fine line of needing to be cut or left alone to grow out, and the perfect length to twine his fingers through. Would Tate’s hair feel as soft against his skin as it looked? His gaze dropped to Tate’s full lips and smirking mouth, bracketed by those damn enticing grooves in his cheeks. 

This was trouble, and he knew it. He didn’t do one-nighters. Not even with Tate Boylan, who had planned to hook up tonight, or he wouldn’t have booked a cabin. Reno had no intention of having his world rocked by Tate, which he knew it would, only to be left behind once again. But it would only be one night, right? Surely, he could be an adult and keep his wits about him. He could sleep on a couch or even the floor, and in the morning, the roads would be cleared, and he could hightail it home before he made a fool of himself. 

Reno huffed. “Fine, you win.” 

If Reno had thought Tate’s smile was blinding before, the one he graced Reno with this time might as well have been the sun. 

Tate stood and gestured for Reno to follow him. 

Such a bad idea . . .

The Button Man by Davidson King

PROLOGUE 

Friday, August 8, 2008 

DUKE 

From birth, my life was not what many would refer to as typical: I was born into a family of murderers. My great-grandfather bred an era of killers for hire, and because he never trusted anyone, they had to be blood. He raised my grandfather to be merciless, continuing the cycle with my father. When I was a baby, my father looked at me and already knew what my future held. There was never anything I could do to avoid it; embracing what I was secured my survival. 

I was eighteen when I made my first kill and when I returned home, covered in blood, and feeling like a piece of my soul had died with my victim, my grandfather handed me a little black box. Inside was a pin. It was made of gold, and it was a button. 

He and my father stood side by side that day, their eyes shining with pride, and informed me that I was now a button man. I knew what that meant— in order to be in this family, I had to earn my place. Killing a librarian who sold mafia secrets to the government was my way in. 

Many would think that very day was when my world changed, and nothing was ever the same again. Well, they’d all be wrong. August 8, 2008 was the day the earth shifted and everything I loved in the world, all the hope I had, was washed away.

*****

“It’s late, Pete. Why are we in a diner at two in the morning? I saw you three hours ago.” I sat across from Peter Panzavecchia. He was the man I mostly worked for, took out the trash for, and loved with my whole heart. He was more than my boss; he was my lover, and we lived that life in secret. 

“Yeah, sorry, Duke, um.” He cleared his throat, and my annoyance over being woken up to meet him at a hole-in-the-wall diner after only a couple of hours’ sleep vanished. 

Peter’s clothes were rumpled, and sweat beaded on his upper lip and hairline. I watched as he nervously tapped the fingers of one hand on the cracked Formica table, and judging by the slight vibration, he was bouncing his leg. 

“Hey.” I reached across the table, desperate to grab his hand and calm him, but he jerked away so fast. 

“Duke, no, just.” He took a breath. “I gotta tell you something, you gotta hear me, and what I’m about to say, it’s gotta die with you.” 

I’d thought I knew everything about Peter there was to know. But as the cold chill slithered up my spine and spiderwebbed in my brain, I realized I’d been wrong. 

“I promise, Pete.” 

He nodded curtly. “After we left I got a call, had to go meet at the docks.” He shrugged; it wasn’t a big deal— oftentimes that was where he met other bosses, but he shouldn’t have gone alone. “I went with Tony and Phil. I’m not stupid.” 

“Good.” 

His laugh wasn’t filled with humor. “Yeah, well, Tony and Phil are dead, Duke. When I showed up, no one was there. It took me like a minute to figure out it was a setup.” 

“What the fuck? Who called the meeting?” 

“I thought it was Vince, but—” 

“Thought? I don’t understand, Pete. How did you not know who you were meeting?” 

“I was told Vince wanted to meet. Fuck, Duke, I know what I’m doing—” 

“No, you don’t, ’cause Tony and Phil are fuckin’ dead!”

I lowered my voice when the waitress peered over at me from the counter. Pete sighed and ran his fingers through his dark hair. When his hazel eyes met mine, all I could see was fear. 

“Duke, I’m fucked.” 

Three hours ago, Pete had been the furthest thing from in trouble. He’d been cackling as we got into our cars, and seeing as I was with him most of the time, I’d have known if there was an issue. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Someone’s taking territories that aren’t theirs. Tony and Phil died so I could get away. When I was in the car, I called Frankie before you. Four bosses were hit tonight, Duke. I’m the last one.” 

“Vince is dead, too?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Then we hide you. No one’s killing you, Pete, I won’t let them.” 

“Duke, listen to me. I gotta tell you something; it’s why I asked you here. It’s the thing you gotta take to the grave with you.” His breath was shaky, and I kept my mouth shut. “I have a daughter.” 

This was a night of surprises. “What?” 

“She’s not even a year old; it was that night at the bachelor party, remember? I told you I fucked that dancer and… and how I thought of you the whole time just to get it up.” 

Pete and I had to put up a straight front— not many in our line of work thought kindly about homosexuality. 

“Duke, I need you to take care of her. I—” 

“You talk like you’re dying, like…” That was when Pete lifted his other hand, the one I realized he’d had hidden. It was covered in blood. 

“Duke, I am dying, and if they find my little girl, they’ll kill her too. I kept her hidden so no one knew. The dancer overdosed two months ago. My daughter, she has a nanny who loves her, but she can’t protect her. Duke…” 

“We gotta get you to a hospital.” 

Pete shook his head, chuckling darkly. “No time.” He coughed, and a small splash of blood painted the table. 

“You’re not dying here!” 

I went around and helped him up, happy when he didn’t argue. I didn’t ask the waitress, just went through the kitchen out the back, where I had my car. Keeping vigilant, I got Pete into the passenger’s seat and raced to the driver’s side. 

“She’s on Beechwood Lane in Fairfield, Connecticut.” I looked over to see Pete take out a thumb drive and plop it into the cup holder. “Everything you need to know about her is on there. Everything else has been destroyed.” 

“You hold on, I’m getting you to my father.” My dad had medical training, and I’d seen him stitch up quite a few people in his day. 

“Duke.” Pete coughed again, and this time blood flowed from his mouth. I knew it was bad— at least my head did; my heart was another story. “Pull over, please.” 

I was only five minutes from the house and knew if I floored it I’d get there. “Duke, stop the car.” 

His gaze met mine, and he gripped my forearm. With a nod, I slowed down and drove to a small clearing on the side of the road. 

“Promise me, Duke, promise you’ll keep her safe. No one can ever know.” 

I quickly got out of the car and ran over to his side, flinging the door open to kneel in front of him. 

“Let me see.” 

Pete shook his head. “Can you not? What I need, please.” 

I couldn’t hold back. At that moment, I didn’t care if people drove by and saw us. I reached in and scooped him into my arms. 

“Fuck,” he moaned, the painful sound filling the night. 

“I promise,” I whispered as I bent my head closer to his face. 

“Love her like your own.” A sob tumbled from his mouth. 

“Please, Peter Pan, 

I can’t do this without you.” I pressed my forehead to his, crying silently. 

“I hate when you call me that.” 

I’d called him that since the first time I met him. We were ten, my dad worked for his dad, and Pete and I were friends, later lovers. 

“Whoever did this—” 

“I’ll find them, Pete, I’ll hunt them down and kill them.”

He shook his head. “You need to run, take my daughter and run far from here.” 

We were silent. I stared into his dimming hazel eyes, knowing this was the last time I’d hold him. 

“I’ll always love you, Peter Pan.” I brushed his sweaty hair off his forehead. 

“I’ll meet you in Neverland.” His breath hitched, and right there on the side of the road, in my embrace, my heart died and my whole world changed.

The Omega's Krampus Christmas by Lorelei 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 Crow and the Sparrow by VL Locey

Prologue 

White Mountains, Arizona 

Fall 1879 

“…Et ne nous soumets pas à la tentation, mais délivre-nous du mal, car c'est à toi qu'appartiennent le règne, la puissance et la gloire, pour les siècles des siècles. Amen.” 

I knelt beside the grave, the freshly dug dirt ripe and pungent in my snotty nose and let the final words of Papa’s favorite prayer drift off on the cold wind. My back, arms, and legs ached as deeply as my heart. Staring at the mound of dirt over Papa, I felt drained. Digging the hole had taken me days, for the ground still had frost in it and I was weak from my own battle with the sickness that had claimed Papa. 

The pox had sickened me badly, but I had survived with only a few scars. Papa had not been so lucky. After nursing me back from a sure death, he had fallen ill. I tried my best to heal him, as he had me, but I was wobbly as a new fawn, sickly, and sleepy. I missed several cool water sponges for him, and the herbal tea he had forced into me to combat the fever were also missed, due to my falling asleep by his bed. 

“Forgive me, Papa. I failed you,” I coughed, patting the cold dirt with a blistered hand. Gin whimpered at my side. I petted her soft head. Papa had traded one of his prized bottles of gin for this dog. A gift for my fourteenth birthday. She was young still but possessed of great intelligence and obedient. Much more so than my father’s horse, Wind, who was whinnying at me to come feed him. He did not understand that I still had lines to check or a father to mourn. All he knew was that he was hungry. Sometimes, I envy animals. They did not have to mourn the dead or worry for the future. All they needed to do was what was asked of them. “I did not keep death from you as you did for me.” 

A wail of anguish washed over me, and I fell forward to the cold, cold ground and wept until darkness settled on the mountain. Wind had given up asking for his hay. Gin tugged on my sleeve when snow began to fall, and somehow the dog got me up and pulled me from the grave under the gnarled oak. I glanced back at the cross I had made, and felt a great loneliness settle inside me. Now I had no one save a horse and a dog. Mama had passed long ago, before I could get to know her face, and now Papa was gone. 

I pulled off my damp coat and fur-lined boots and crawled into my bed. Papa’s bed and bedding had been burned yesterday, the flames leaping up into the wintry sky for hours. I fell into bed fully clothed, hungry beyond measure, but too grieved to eat. As I waited for sleep, I heard the words of my father in my head. 

“You are a man now, Crow. You will do well. Be strong. Be pure of heart. Make me proud.” 

I did not feel like a man. I felt like a fourteen-year-old boy who was terrified of what the mountain would do to him. Gin lay down beside the bed where Papa had said she must sleep, for dogs had fleas. With the fire blazing and my heart heavy, I whispered to my dog to join me under the covers, fleas be damned. 

Spring, 1880 

The wind woke me. It whirled and roared around the cabin, small slips of frigid air seeping through the cracks between the logs. I rolled to my side, facing the fireplace, and pulled the mound of furs up over my ear. Eyes and nose exposed, I lay in my bed, the wool and horsehair padding under me doing little to keep my side from the rough ropes supporting the mattress. Next summer, I’d have to make a new pad, maybe trade some furs for cotton or shoot more goose for down to plump my new bed. The fire in the hearth was low, just some glowing red coals. The tip of my nose grew cold quickly, so I burrowed deeper under the furs and old military blankets. New old blankets. When Papa had died, I had burned every blanket we had traded for from that passing travelling caravan then I had lit flame to his bed. The blankets had brought the pox into our cabin. The few round scars on my belly itched just to remind me of the horrors. 

That summer seven months ago seemed like a different lifetime now. On days like this, when the snow was blowing and the traps sat waiting, I wished I had someone to share the work with. Papa or Mama—although I recall little of her—or someone else. A nice man. Pretty, young like me, with soft lips who would let me stay in the bed—our bed—and go ride the lines. That was my special wish. I discussed it with no one, not ever, because it was forbidden, according to Papa’s God. Since I had no knowledge of Mama’s gods, because Papa had said they were heathen gods and forbid me to speak of them, I didn’t know if the Mohawk felt as Papa did about sins and deviants. Perhaps all people hated men like me. I’d not known many people. Papa had distrusted most folk. 

A yawn rose up. The wind blew and sparkling snow dust rode into the cabin on a sliver of morning sun. I had to get up. There were snares and traps to check. Papa had always been adamant about tending to the animals in the traps quickly. 

“It is cruel to let a creature linger in pain,” he would tell me as we rode along the slopes, rivers, and ponds. 

“Oui, Pére” I would reply. 

Papa favored agreement. He was a harsh man, but spoke two languages, French and English, which he taught me. He could read well and tried to teach me many times. I grew to hate those nights bent over his worn Bible, trying to make sense of the letters and sounds he said they should make. The letters and words looked backward to me. Papa concluded that I was simply dim-witted when it came to reading and stopped trying to teach me. Still, though, I liked stories when others read them to me. 

Perhaps I was dim-witted, but I knew the value of a fisher fur and how to track a deer through the summer woods. I could barter well but sang poorly. I knew prime pelts from poor ones, and my aim was sharp with a gun and a knife. Perhaps I wasn’t the smartest man, but I was clever and easy on the eyes, according to that whore I once met. 

She had been riding with three men who had come to our cabin with pox-ridden blankets and other items to trade last summer. She showed me her wares, then got mad when I’d not give her money to fuck her. She threw a boot at me, and I had to run to avoid the other pink boot aimed at my head. Papa had beaten me badly for even looking at the woman, but I had never seen what a lady had under her skirts. I’d not been impressed. The men bathing in the creek were much more appealing, but that was, of course, a secret buried deeply inside. 

A cold nose wiggled under the covers, wet and black it snuffled around in my hair, making me laugh softly and paw at the long snout. 

“Dumb dog,” I chuckled, lifting the mound of furs to let Gin join me on the narrow bed. Papa would never have allowed such a thing, but this tiny cabin was mine now, and Gin was my only friend in the world, next to Wind, who was probably chewing on his stall in frustration. 

The sandy-colored dog snuggled in close and sighed. I rubbed her belly for a while, but my conscience soon got the better of me and I had to get up. With Gin dancing around my feet, I leaped from worn woven rug to worn woven rug, the wooden floor as cold as Gin’s nose. I chucked some round pine logs into the fire, bending down low to blow on the embers until they ignited the sticky bark. Once the flames were leaping, I slid my feet into my moccasins, threw open the door and whined at the new snow that had piled up overnight. Gin sat beside me, whimpering at the sight as well. Then, my eyes found the beauty of the scenery. The mountains coated with white, the sagging boughs of the trees heavy with snow, the bright blue sky. I breathed in the cold air, admiring the land as Papa had before me. He would often say that God had given men the world to tame and tend, and so we must appreciate her beauty and treat her kindly. 

“March is bad, but soon, April will come,” I said, scratching the top of Gin’s head between short, erect ears. “Go do your business and I will do mine.” She raced off into the snow. I pissed out the door and to the left. That would help keep the porcupines from gnawing on my home, according to my father. The path that I had wallowed down to the barn was now partly filled in. The cold air whipped over my cock. I shuddered, shook, tucked it back into my long johns, and whistled for my dog. 

Gin raced inside, tongue lolling, and shook gobs of snow off. I threw up my arms to keep the icy cold fluff from hitting me in the face. I so wanted coffee, but there was no time to ready a pot and wait for it to perk over the fire, so Gin and I had some fish jerky and water for breakfast. Dressing was quick; buckskin pants over my long john bottoms, a thick wool sweater under a duster coat made of tough bison leather. It had been my father’s and now fit me reasonably well. I’d grown into it over the past few months. My boots were also leather, up to the knee with rabbit fur lining. Papa traded ten beaver pelts for them last summer and they were worth every fur we’d parted with. Leather gloves, a thick scarf knitted by my mother for my father, and a hat made from a red fox. The flaps covered my ears and could be tied tightly to keep it tight to my head. The fox’s tail hung down between my shoulders. Gin barked at the fox on my head, as she always did. 

“He’s not going to bite me now,” I assured her, grabbed my Smith & Wesson from the kitchen table, stoked the fire well, and waded out into the cold. The mountains were already alive with bird song that the wind carried along with soft flakes of snow. Gin and I waded to the barn, then threw the door open. It was a small building, just big enough for two horses. I’d thought of getting a mule. I still wished for one, but I’d not be able to afford to feed two animals through the winter. Perhaps if the payout for furs was high this summer, I could find a cheap mule, but for now my Paint gelding Wind carried everything for me. 

His ears were back when I walked to his stall. He flashed me some teeth when I reached out to pet him. Gin sat by the doors, tail wagging, ready to go because she knew breakfast—a real dog breakfast—was coming soon. 

“Un tel visage de cheval laid,” I joked as Wind had a handsome horse face, not an ugly one. Wind nickered, tossing his head, brown mane flowing, to show me just how angry he was. “Come now, I am only a little late.” 

The horse took a step, then two, and put his nose against my outstretched hand. I had been forgiven my laziness. I was then allowed to saddle the gelding and get on my way, rifle riding beside me, knife at my hip, Gin leading the way. The dog and the horse knew the trap line well. We rode up the base of the mountain, then across, lopping down along a small brook, then making a circle of the lake. This late in March, the furs were no longer quite at prime, many were already shaggy, but I was in no place to toss away lesser grade pelts. My food stores were low and the trip down to Sourwood to sell my furs was months away. 

The snares always did well. Four fat rabbits were caught. One I threw to Gin, and she ran off to eat her meal while I reset the snare. Wind carried me along the brook, the edges of the running water iced but the middle flowing freely. Gin stopped to drink, as did Wind, and I sat there watching a bright red bird flit from tree to tree. The wind was strong, shaking the naked branches and fat pine boughs, whistling through deadfalls. Gin’s head shot up, water running from her jowls and off she went, barking madly. Wind stomped a foot, the shallow water splashing up over his fetlocks to his knees. 

“Allez,” I said, giving the horse a soft nudge in the sides. He followed the barking dog, surefootedly picking his way along the snowy deer trail that Gin had streaked down. The dog had stopped running already, her frenzied barks coming from a thick swatch of blowdown trees to my left. I slid off my horse, tossed the reins to the ground, and grabbed my rifle from the leather scabbard that lay under the fender/stirrup. Then I began scrambling over dead trees coated with snow and ice. Perhaps she had treed something, or found a denned up bear or badger, neither of which I wanted my dog to tangle with. 

I spied Gin and her quarry ahead and slowed my dangerous rush over the uprooted pines and aspens. She’d not winded a grizzly or a fat boar raccoon. No, she had found a man. He was pale as the snow and weakly swatting at Gin as she tugged on his pantleg. 

“Stop,” I barked at the dog, and she dropped the man’s pantleg instantly, her lip still raised and the short golden fur on her back on edge. Such a scrapper, she was. Not knowing what kind of man I faced, I cradled my rifle in my arms, my approach slow. He was an older man, bald, a crooked nose, and a thick scraggly brown mustache. 

“Sweet Jesus, you’re a big one,” he coughed weakly. “You don’t want my scalp. It’s bald as a baby’s balls.” I came to a stop beside my dog, my sight roaming over the paunchy old man with the ugly face. He worked up a grisly sort of smile. His teeth were stained, but his blue eyes seemed kind. “Must be that squaw milk grows you bucks big and strong, eh?” 

Gin snarled a warning. I shushed the dog. 

“You speak any kind of English?” I remained silent, wary, looking for any signs that he planned to reach for the guns strapped to his thigh. “Okay, well, my Apache is rough but…” 

“I am not Apache,” I told him to spare his butchering of a proud language.

“Ah, well, you do speak English. Good. Fine dog you got there. Feisty.” Sweat ran down his brow into his eyes. I took a tentative step closer and sniffed the air. The scent of rot was thick around him. “I’ve been shot, you see…” He lifted the thick horse blanket from his lap. I drew down on him before he could blink. “No! Fuck sake, don’t fucking shoot me again!” 

My gaze darted to his legs and the red snow under him. The stench of infection was ripe and hot on the cold wind. 

“How long have you been here?” I enquired, lowering the barrel of my gun. The little color he had in his face leeched out and he slumped to the side, his eyes rolling back into his skull. Gin tipped her head and yipped. 

I thought to simply ride off, but couldn’t. Papa’s God said one should be kind to strangers. Path chosen, I gathered the sick man up, carried him to Wind, who tried to bite the feverish man several times as I loaded him up into the saddle, and then walked home with a sick man lashed to my horse. 

Wind was not happy, and kept trying to turn and nip at the stranger who woke and babbled and drifted off several times before we reached my cabin with the grave under the great oak. Wind was happy to have the man off his back. I carried him into my cabin—he was not a big man—and laid him on my bed. Gin sat down by the bed, her attention on the unknown person moaning and thrashing upon the mattress. 

It had been some time since I’d tended to a sick man, the last being my father. I’d been weak then myself, wobbling about like a newborn elk calf, just recovered from my rashes. Perhaps if I had been stronger, he might have survived. Perhaps not. I gathered around what I could of my meager healing supplies. I was no healer, but I could tend minor wounds well. 

Gin lay down beside the bed, nose resting on paws, giving me someone to talk to. The man was fevered and speaking nonsense. I cut off his pant leg and nearly gagged at the smell and sight of the festering wound. His thigh was fire red, the entry wound oozing foul looking pus. I glanced down at Gin. 

“This is going to be ugly,” I said. She whined in reply. I stood, then gathered up what I needed: hot water heating in the fire, my skinning knife, a pouch of healing herbs that Papa had traded for from an old Apache woman outside Sourwood, and an old shirt for bandages. I still needed rope from the barn, so I made a dash outside. Wind had wandered back into his stall while I’d checked the man. I hurried to unsaddle him and tell him he was brave and strong. He nipped my ass while I was forking some hay into his manger for thanks. 

When I returned to the cabin, Gin was on duty guarding the man. He was no threat to anything in his condition, but she was vigilant. Knowing things would get bad, I tied him to the bed, found an old bottle of gin—Papa’s favorite drink—and kneeled beside him. What came next was not pretty, but it was necessary. I doused the putrid wound with gin. My patient moaned. Then, I began cutting away the dead and dying flesh. He screamed and thrashed but the ropes were snug and soon, he passed out. Gin was glad. So was I. He screamed like a woman. 

I worked for a long time, until it was dark outside and I had to light the kerosene lamp to finish applying the slave I’d made out of the various herbs and some bear grease. Desert plants from down near Sourwood were helpful for many things, Papa had told me. When the wound had been cleaned and bandaged, I tossed the bloody rags and other foulness into the fire and washed my filthy hands in the remaining warm water. The lye soap burned the scrapes along my knuckles, but that was good. 

I then made a quick broth by tossing a rabbit into my pot of melted snow with a small cubed potato. Gin and I ate, then curled up in front of the stone hearth, her spine resting on mine. We shared a thin blanket to ensure the sick man had the good furs. It was so cold on the floor that I slept with my clothes and boots on.

That night, I dreamed of a beautiful woman with long black hair and soft brown eyes offering me a bowl of corn soup. I took it and ate it all quickly. She told me that the river of my life was now flowing in a new direction. When I asked where the river was taking me, she patted my cheek before fading away, leaving me gifts of corn, squash, and beans in my empty soup bowl. I awoke during the night, smiled into the murky darkness feeling safe and loved, and curled myself around Gin as my guest snored loudly. 

The man never woke up that first night, but he cried and cussed and spoke of bizarre things. He lingered in a fevered state for five days. I returned from checking my traps and doing a bit of hunting on the sixth day to find him sitting up in my bed, ashen and wobbly. Gin had been left behind to guard him. He lifted a shaky hand in greeting, then wet his cracked lips. 

“That dog…she don’t like me,” he said, then paused to lap at his lips again. “Christ, you’re a big son-of-a-bitch.” 

“You said that already,” I replied, stomping snow off my boots, then tossing the three gray squirrels to the kitchen table. 

“I did?” He blinked clear eyes at me. I nodded, untied my boots, dipped a tin coffee cup into the bucket of water on the floor, and walked to my bed. Gin padded over to the hearth to rest, now that her job was done. I helped him lift the cup to his lips. He drank greedily and I eased the water from him. 

“Not so much too fast,” I said, leaving the mug with him as I untied my boots and began cutting the back legs off the skinned squirrels. One got thrown to Gin. She fell on it ravenously, her gaze on the stranger as she ate. 

“What else did I say?” I turned my head to look over my shoulder at him. 

“Crazy things.” I went back to preparing our dinner. There were a few spongy potatoes left and two carrots. Then, we would be down to simply meat until spring thaw came. I prayed that fur prices were high this year. I needed so much. 

“What kind of crazy things?” 

I chucked a fat rear leg into the cast iron kettle. “Things about money, mostly, and loose women.” 

That made him laugh. He had a hearty laugh. “Ah, well, sure enough that’s a man, eh? Lying on death’s door but still talking about pussy.” I shrugged. Gin was busy with her dinner, the sound of thin bones crunching and the chop of a cleaver hitting old wood filled the cabin. A log popped and rolled in the fireplace. “You don’t say much, do you?” 

“I’m not sure what you want me to say.” 

“Well, how about we exchange names. Seems the least I could do for a man what saved my life is to give him my name.” I nodded, wiped my hands on my pants, laid down the cleaver, and turned to look at him. He was sound asleep, tin cup dangling off a finger, mouth open, snoring like a fat dog in front of a warm fire. I padded over to the bed, took the cup from him, and pulled a soft gray wolf fur up to his round chin. 

Several hours later, he roused again, this time asking to use the latrine. I handed him a chamber pot and waited. 

“Guess you done this for me when I was talking nonsense, eh?” I inclined my head, took the pot and tossed the urine out the door. “I appreciate your saving me, but I must ask. Where the hell are my clothes?” 

“You soiled them. They were burnt in the fire. They stank.” Gin lay by the fire, nothing moving but the whiskers over her eyes. I returned to my seat in the corner and the beaver pelt stretched over a fleshing board. This one was still prime and would fetch a nice price. The meat would be dinner tomorrow, most of it. Some I put aside with the castor for bobcat lure. 

“Well, shit,” he muttered. 

“Yes, exactly.”

That made him laugh. “You’re a funny kid. Any chance I can get some drawers?” 

“When your shit has firmed up, you can have some of mine. Not before.” 

“Fair enough.” 

I thought so as well, and went back to drawing my fleshing knife along the inside of the pelt. After all the meat I could remove was taken off, the pelt would be stretched and dried and tanned. When summer came and it was time to go to town to trade, all the pelts would be gathered into a bundle, wrapped up in poor quality skins, such as summer beaver or badly cured or shot-up elk, to protect the better quality fur. These bundles were called a pièce and weighed roughly about ninety pounds. 

“That food I smell?” I glanced up from my work. The man was staring at me. I laid aside my knife and went to the hearth, using the ladle that hung beside the hearth to pull the pot away from the fire. “Thank you kindly. I’d thank you by name, as is fitting, but I don’t recall you telling me your name.” 

He took the bowl and spoon with tender care. The furs had slid down to his lap to reveal a soft belly covered with grizzled brown and white hair. 

“My name is Crow Poulin,” I said, then offered him my hand. He slid his palm over mine and gave me a weak shake. 

“Crow Poulin. Poo-lihn. That’s a right odd combination of names.” He spooned some broth to his mouth, droplets of rich brown liquid dribbled to his bare chest. “You look pure Injun, ’side from them gray eyes, but you sound like a Frenchie. Damn, this is good soup.” 

“My father was from Château-Richer in Quebec, Canada. He come down into America and met my mother while trading furs with a Mohawk tribe in New York State. Her name was Katsitsienhawi, which means ‘she carries flowers’ but Papa could not pronounce her Mohawk name so he bade her to change her name to Rose.” 

I wasn’t sure why I was telling this man such personal details. Perhaps it was just because I was so lonely, or because he listened to me and seemed to be interested. Few people paid mind to what a half-breed had to say. 

“Rose is a pretty name. Mine is John Wittington, and I am indebted to you for saving my life, Crow Poulin.” 

“And for washing your flat, hairy ass,” I added, which made him snort and choke on his soup. 

“You’re a funny buck. I like you.” I turned from the compliment, uneasy with hearing such things from a white man. Hell, from anyone to be honest. Even Papa wasn’t given to handing out sweet words or sentiments. “You ever consider doing anything else for a living?” 

I returned to my stool and my pelt, the flesh already growing tacky on the sharp blade of the two-handled knife. 

“No.” Gin got up and went to the door. Again, I left my work to tend to someone else. She made a round of the cabin as she always did, then squatted to piss. Once back inside, John wanted more soup, so I fetched it for him. “Who shot you?” 

He glanced up at me, his thick brown mustache wet with broth but his eyes twinkling with mischief. 

“Well now, Crow Poulin, that’s a long story.” 

“It will be a long night,” I pointed out, went back to my stool, and returned to preparing my pelt, the fire cracking in the hearth, sweet pine smoke lying along the ceiling timbers like fog. Gin stretched out; her feet pointed at the flames. Outside it was still. The call of a nearby owl could be heard through the walls. 

“Aye, that it will. Well, the bullet that left me in such an unseemly and sickly state was the result of a slight altercation with a lawman who, if I may say, was incorrect about his assumption of my presumed guilt.” John took a loud sip of soup. “It had not been me who had stolen that horse. Surely a smart and handsome boy as yourself can tell that I’m far too knowledgeable to steal a horse of such inferior quality.”

“All I know of you is that you are too stupid to hide when someone shoots at you.” 

He grinned and winked. “There’s that wit,” he said as he waved his spoon at me. “Damn bastard shot my horse, too. Course, he was a stupid shit of a horse, but still…” 

“I would hunt down and kill any man who shot my horse or my dog. They are my only friends,” I said flatly because I spoke the truth. John studied me over his steaming soup for a long, long time. 

“Not anymore. Now you can count John Wittington as your friend, Crow Poulin.” I nodded and smiled down at my pelt. It was nice having a friend here to talk with. Gin was a good dog, but she was not much of a talker. Wind was a fine horse, but also not much for talking. “So, this sheriff from over in Tame River tracked me up into the mountains. I finally lost him, but the bullet that took down my horse had now began to sicken me. I walked for days in the snow, feeling the life draining out of me as the heat inside me built. I sat down in the blowdowns to wait for the grim reaper and was instead discovered by Mr. Crow Poulin!” 

I gave him a sideways look and said nothing, but he continued to talk. He talked. A lot. And over the next several weeks I found myself genuinely liking the man who had been falsely accused of horse thievery. John was intelligent, a learned man who could read and write. Ugly he may be, but he had a certain charm that began to ease me into a friendship with him. As he healed and grew stronger, the tight grip of winter began to lessen. By the time he was up and walking, tripping over my too long pant legs, spring had started to force its way through the snow and ice. The brooks coming down the steep slopes were rushing torrents of spring thaw. The ground was a broken artwork of white and brown, snow and mud vying to see which would win. 

John recited stories he’d read in books as I worked my pelts or tried to find a way to cook meat in a way that made it something other than meat. All the root vegetables were gone, as were most of the canned goods. Flour and sugar were also a memory, the strain of having another mouth to feed becoming evident as supplies dwindled. It was worrisome, as we had at least two months, perhaps three, before it would be time to head down to sell the furs and stock up. John’s retellings of the many books he’d read was enjoyable and erased my concerns for a short while. 

He recounted tales of a boy name Huckleberry Finn, an odd tale about a Dr. Jekyll, a woman with a scarlet letter, and a Yankee in King Author’s court. Perhaps my favorite story was the one he told that was about a mighty white whale and a Captain Ahab. I had never seen the ocean, but Papa had. He’d said it reached out forever and that great monsters lived in its depths. Much like the Great Lakes, which I had seen once, when we had moved west from Mama’s lands. I remembered little of the lakes, but did recall a whispered story about a horned serpent, Onyare, who lived in the mighty waters. He capsized canoes and ate the people who tumbled into the stormy depths. 

“Someday, I should like to stand by the sea,” I said as John, dressed in buckskin, sat beside me on the front step of my cabin. Gin had now grown used to John, as had Wind. Neither quite loved him as they did me, but they no longer tried to bite him every chance they got. 

“You’ll never see the ocean living up here all alone,” he pointed out. A fly slowly buzzed past, dopey and drowsy. It bounced off the side of the cabin, then flew away. “Crow, there is a big world out there just dying to be discovered by a man such as yourself. Just think of the adventures we could have, the fun and good times!” He spoke of his ‘family’ often now, tempting me to give up Papa’s cabin and the harsh wilderness to ride with him and his friends. Good men all, he told me. “Why, I can show you things you’ve never imagined seeing. And, there are other reasons to come ride with us. Money.”

“Stolen money,” I pointed out yet again. We had this talk almost daily. 

“Now, Crow, what have I told you about simplistic thinking such as that?” he asked as if greatly offended. “There is no such thing as stealing money from the wealthy. It’s more a humanitarian effort. We’re easing the burden of the upper class by lightening their taxes. The more they own the more they pay. So when we borrow cattle or horses, it’s a favor to them.” 

“If it’s such a goodness that you do, why does the law hunt you?” I shifted my sight from Wind out in his small muddy paddock enjoying the sun to John at my left. 

He puckered his lips, making his fat mustache ride up and bury his nose. “They are shortsighted,” he said, then quickly slipped into a new thing to dangle under my nose. “Plus, my camp has women in it. White women.” 

I gave him a quirked eyebrow. “I have no interest in white women.” 

“Right, sure you don’t.” He drove an elbow into my side. “I’m just saying that the gals in camp would be right happy to make nice with you. I bet even one or two might be willing to give you a fuck under cover of night. You ever been with a woman?” 

I shook my head and thumbed back a strand of hair that clung to the new whiskers growing from my cheeks. It needed cut badly. It was to my shoulders now and annoyed me. Soon, I’d take my knife to the thick black mass and hack it down to my scalp. 

“You poor bastard. Tell you what. Why don’t you just visit for a spell when you take me home?” He smiled over at me, a welcoming sort of smile. “Check things out. See how tight our family is, how welcoming the women, and maybe ride out on a job or two with us. Get some money in your pockets and some whiskey in your belly! What do you say?” 

I bit down on the inside of my lower lip. Friends and money. Those were the biggest temptations. The women didn’t interest me, of course, nor the whiskey. Papa had warned me about whiskey. He had said a boy like me, half Indian, should never touch it, because red men were prone to overindulgence. Gin was fine, but not whiskey. Papa had many bottles of gin hidden in the cabin, several in his old chest. I never touched it. The taste of both was disgusting to me, so I rarely drank either. 

“Crow, son, listen to an older gentleman.” He draped his arm around my shoulder. He smelled of unwashed man. He refused the offer of joining me at the creek to wash with lye soap or even to use the tin tub as Papa had once a month. “This life isn’t for someone with your vision and drive. You come ride with me, with the Wittington family, and I can promise that you’ll never be bored, broke, or lonely again. Also, I’ll make sure you see the ocean.” 

Hearing him call me son warmed me, and so I agreed to take him to his family and linger, just for a bit, to see if the life on the plains was better than life in the mountains. I stared up at the crystal blue sky and tried to imagine the ocean and the mighty white whale and felt a shiver of excitement skip down my spine. Perhaps John was right. Perhaps I was destined for more than dying up here alone with only a dog and a horse to mourn my passing. Perhaps someone special awaited me down by the sea. 

We packed out during the first few days of May. John had recuperated fully. His leg was badly scarred and he walked with a slight hitch, but he was alive and walking. He tended to heap praise on me unduly, as I’d done what any man would have done in that situation. 

“Oh no, you are sadly mistaken, Crow Poulin. You are the exception to the rule, trust me. Which is why my family needs a man like you.” 

“And what kind of man is that?” 

“One that is rife with good intentions.” 

I glanced up at him riding my horse. He was a slick talking man, I felt, and I had suspicions about how warm and welcoming his family would be. Most people tended to shy away from a man such as myself. My size and skin tone intimidated or repulsed. Gin trotted along in front of us, her nose to the ground. 

“I’m just a man like any other,” I said, the cool air whispering through the newly-budded branches. 

“That is where you are wrong, young Mr. Poulin. You have a simplistic code of ethics that you abide by. I admire that and so will the others in camp. Perhaps someday you’ll work yourself up to being one or two of my most trusted associates. Hell, you might even be able to woo one of the women in camp to settle down with you! How does that sound?” 

He reached down to slap my shoulder. Wind whipped his head around to nip at John, but I tugged on the reins to remind him to be polite. The horse jerked his head up and down in frustration. I knew he wished to run a bit, and that he did not cotton to a stranger on his back, but this was how it must be. He had to accept John on his back, the travois of my furs bouncing along behind him, and his wishes to race around and kick up his heels would come later. Right now, the man with the limp rode, I led, and the dog worked ahead of us. 

“I’ve told you before, I have no desire for a white woman.” I kept one eye on Gin and the other on the still sloppy ground. A late snow followed by a cold snap meant the way was slick with mud on top of frozen ground. 

John laughed. Every time I spoke those words he laughed. As if there were no greater treasure than what lay between a woman’s legs. 

“Of course not. Next thing, you’ll be telling me you’re one of them sodomites!” 

I said nothing in reply and simply walked, letting John ramble on about his family and the riches that awaited me in their camp. He sensed I wasn’t sold on the idea of giving up my cabin to live among him and his followers. 

“Did I ever tell you about the time Silva—he’s my second in command, fine man, short-tempered now and then but loyal to a fault— him and me snuck across the border and found us a couple of them pretty Mexican gals who…” 

His words drifted off with the spring winds buffeting my face. I made the right sounds at the right times, grunts and gruff chuckles, but my mind was on my dog, the path, the movement of animals in the thick woods, the price I would get for my furs, and the worry of moving among people I didn’t know. John told me that I was the youngest hermit he’d ever met. He felt that a man of my age shouldn’t be sequestered up in the fucking mountains without human interaction. He wished for me to experience the love of a true family. And while I carried doubt inside me, there was no denying that I longed for a fellowship like the one he promised me. 

It took us two weeks to leave the White Mountains. We stopped in the small town of Sourwood and I sold my furs to the man who now ran the mercantile. He seemed disinterested in taking them at all, which I found odd, but after much discussion with his sons he gave me an offer that was an insult. When I mentioned that in previous years, a large made beaver pelt would get me two pounds of sugar or a blanket or twenty fishing hooks, he scoffed. 

“You’re free to haul them to the fort over in Lonely Dawns, if you think you can fetch a higher price for them there.” He rose up to his toes then rocked back on his heels, his two sons standing on either side of him, cradling shiny new repeating rifles. “If I were you, and I know you don’t understand complicated business things, I’d take what was offered to you and get back where you came from.” 

Bickering further seemed pointless. This new man and his grown sons had made their points clearly when they’d brought out their guns and asked why I wasn’t off on the rez with the rest of my people. Explaining to them that I was more Canadian than Mohawk would make no difference, so I took the lesser payment, eased out of the mercantile, and went to find John. Wind and Gin followed along meekly, neither of them fond of towns nor strange people, much like their owner. 

The saloon was dark, musty, and smelled of sour ale and cheap women. Gin sat beside Wind, who was lashed to a hitching post. Her body was tense. I felt much the same. Several patrons gave me a long look as I walked to the bar and stood beside John. He looked up from his drink, then frowned, his bushy mustache drooping. 

“You look like that wild bastard horse of yours just kicked you in the balls.” He offered me a sip of his drink. I shook my head. The barkeep jerked his head at the doors to indicate I wasn’t welcome here. 

“We’re leaving now. Finish that drink.” 

I backed away from the bar and left, my horse and my dog glad to see me. John followed in a moment, wincing with each step and dragging his leg just a bit. 

“You do realize that your uppity tone in there got me no shortage of odd looks,” he said as he limped down the creaky wooden stairs to my horse. Wind bared his teeth at the only man in this town not looking down at me. “What the hell crawled up your ass?” 

“Intolerance.” I helped him onto Wind, blocked the bite aimed at John’s leg with my forearm, scolded the horse, and then led us out of Sourwood with the promise to myself that I would never return. I would have to make the longer trek to the fort to sell my furs next summer. 

“Okay, so you planning on telling me what the hell is wrong?” John asked after a few hours on the dusty road leading out of town. Gin loped along at my side. Wind was still itching to break free, but a firm hand on his reins kept him in check. “And don’t be throwing one word answers at me.” 

I relayed the unfair exchange that had taken place back in Sourwood. He sat tall in my saddle; his head craned around to study the direction we’d come from. 

“And you figure this unfair practice was perpetrated upon you because of your Indian blood?” I nodded. He mumbled something under his breath that I didn’t hear. “Well, Crow Poulin, do not let it worry you overly. Someday, that man and his evil offspring will pay for their hatred.” 

Assuming he meant when they died and met their savoir, I swallowed down the upset still plaguing me, or tried to. The hurt lingered for a few days, but then it was buried under the mound of hurt that already resided in my breast. John never said another word about Sourwood, nor did I, and our slow steady trip to the outskirts of Aurora Gorge continued. After another two weeks on the road moving with snail speed, John grew tired of our pace. 

“We require another horse,” he announced one night at camp. The landscape had shifted gradually from mountain to grassy plains to sandy desert scrub lands. Instead of towering pines, we were now sleeping by buckthorns. We checked our boots every morning for scorpions and kept keen ears open for the rattle of a diamondback. The moon was fat and low and the coyote calls seemed loud. Gin whined at the coy-dog song, but never left the glow of the firepit. 

“If I purchase another horse, I’ll be broke,” I told him as I poked at the fire with a stick. “A decent horse would cost at least fifty dollars plus forty for a saddle and another two dollars for a blanket. The connard in Sourwood only gave me sixty-seven dollars.” 

“Bastard is right,” John mused as the fire danced skyward, then calmed. “He’ll get his, trust me, son.” He gave my right bicep a small pat. It had been many years since anyone had called me ‘son’ or touched me in a kind way. “So, our predicament is this. We need a horse and we do not have the funds to purchase said animal. This being a situation with no legal outcome, we shall have to—just this once, mind you—skirt the legality of horse ownership.” 

I stared at him openly. “You want to steal a horse?”

He puckered his lips, which made his fuzzy upper lip dance. “We’ll simply borrow one.” I shook my head. “Crow, if we do not avail ourselves of another horse, we’ll be travelling at this miserly pace for another month.” 

“But stealing is wrong. Papa quoted me from the Bible and he said—”

“Yes, yes, so sayeth the devout, but God also looks out for them that look out for themselves. Did your papa never repeat that quote from the good book?” I tried to recall that passage but couldn’t so I shook my head then took a swallow of strong coffee. “Then you’ll just have to trust me. I have not steered you wrong yet with my knowledge of books and the words contained within them. So, with the Lord’s blessing, we shall find a nag to ease our burden and your boot leather. Now, all we need to do the next time we pass a farm is…” 

He leaned in and whispered to me as if he feared that Gin would overhear his plans and turn us over to the nearest lawman. I nodded along as my friend laid out a simple means of doing as the Bible said and looking out for ourselves. Still, when we approached a small farmstead, I felt a prickle of guilt about taking one of their horses. It was a simple enough thing to do. I merely rode up to their front door and sat silently on Wind’s back. The man of the house stepped out and we had a long discussion while any womenfolk hid inside. While we were talking and posturing, John was leading a workhorse out of a ramshackle barn. When I thought John had been given enough time, I thanked the man for not shooting me, and rode away, the barrel of several guns inside the house aimed at me, I was certain. John and I met up in a narrow ravine filled with rocks and a trickle of water. He sat upon a black workhorse. The saddle he’d found was well used, as was the old horse whose muzzle was more silver than black. 

“Ain’t she fine?” John asked, then smiled that engaging smile. 

“She’s old and swaybacked,” I pointed out as we picked our way down the creek bed, Gin splashing ahead in hopes of finding a ground squirrel to catch for her morning meal. 

“Same as me, Crow,” he said, then threw back his head and laughed. 

That old black horse was surefooted but slow, her thick muscled body bred for pulling a plow or a wagon and not speed and distance, as Wind was. With John’s vow that we would return the horse we had borrowed, we rode off. Even with a plow horse under John, we still made much better time and arrived at his camp fifty miles east of Aurora Gorge. The camp was settled in a slot canyon with a narrow entrance and stone walls of deep red and orange. Once you rode through a one horse wide opening, the canyon opened up to reveal several small cabins and one large barn completely hidden from view. 

Ten or so men and perhaps five women filed out of the cabins, shouting and cheering John’s return. I sat on Wind, gaze flickering around to the sixteen or so people gathered around our horses. They seemed to be relatively well-fed and dressed, none were in rags, and all seemed healthy for the most part. Many of them eyed me warily, as they did Gin, but soon, John was off his horse and waving a hand at me to dismount. 

“This here handsome bastard is Crow Poulin, the man who save my life!” He clapped me on the back soundly, his smile wide, and his bald head gleaming under the desert sun. “Where are Silva and Felipe?” 

“Off tending to a bit of personal business,” a tall man with bushy brown hair replied, his uneasy gaze on me as he spoke. 

John bobbed his head. “Luthor, tend to the horses and let the dog sleep inside the barn. Let us go inside and celebrate my return!” 

Bushy-haired Luthor reached for Wind. My horse balked. I whispered to the gelding and then passed the reins to a wary Luthor. Gin refused to leave my side, so she accompanied me into John’s home, the largest cabin sitting back by a thicket of scrub brush. Everyone filed in, and soon, bottles of whiskey and pots of stew and soup were being served. The more whiskey that flowed, the more friendly the others became. At one point, late into the night, a skinny woman with brown hair and a toothy grin fell into my lap. I’d not drank any of the whiskey, so my mind was clear. The woman in the patched gingham dress began snuggling up to me, her arms around my neck, and her bare feet dangling off my lap. 

John gave me a randy wink from across the room. She was whispering things into my ear that I’d never heard before, her fingers toying with my dirty hair, when she was knocked off my thighs and sent sprawling on the floor. I went to stand, but was hit in the face, hard, sending me to my back with a thud, a grunt, and a bloody nose. I pushed up to rest on one elbow, Gin now standing over me, teeth bared. 

There was a small skirmish between the members of John’s family. I glared at the man who had sucker punched me. Tall and lean, narrow-shoulders but thick arms, he had lanky brown-red hair gathered back into a braid. His dark blue eyes were set narrowly in his long face and held nothing but contempt. John pushed through the men holding my attacker back. 

“Silva Mason, you are truly one of the biggest asses I have ever had the misfortune to know,” John said, limping up to the irate man, then stepping around him to offer me a hand up. I slapped my palm into John’s and with a short jerk, I was on my feet. “This is our newest family member, Crow Poulin, the man who nursed me from the jaws of death so that I might return to our beloved clan.” 

Silva spat at the floor, his spittle speckling my moccasin. “You know how I feel about his kind, John.” 

“Yes, I do, but Crow here is one of them northern Indians, and therefore more agreeable and kind-spirited. He is also my guest, and will be offered a pallet on the floor of the main lodge.” John reached up to pat my bicep. I ran the back of my hand under my nose, a thin trickle of blood staining my knuckles. 

“Jesus and Moses, John, might as well ask us to lay down with darkies.” With that, Silva was tugged to one side of the room, by the fire, and given a bottle of gin to suckle on. 

“My apologies,” John said, leading me with an arm around my shoulders to the door. “Silva lost a sister to an Apache raid and it’s made a sore spot in his mind.” John tapped the side of his bald head. 

“I should go, then.” I threw a look over the heads of the people eating and drinking. “To save his soft brain from further soreness.” 

John smiled up at me. “He’ll come around, just like all the others. You’ll be a fine addition to our ranks. We need some young blood.” 

I slipped outside into the night, the barn my goal. I’d rather sleep with the horses than lay down where I wasn’t wanted. Gin ran off to sniff then squat, joining me on silent pads. I yanked the door closed behind us and used the light of the moon coming in the open windows to find Wind in a stall by himself. All the other horses, even the borrowed work horse, were doubled up. 

“Have you been unpleasant to your new friends?” I asked the Paint. He nickered softly as if amused, and threw his head up and down. I ran my hands down over his long neck, then placed my brow to his nose, inhaling the smell of horse and hay. “I’m not so sure of my special man by the sea now,” I confided on a whisper that only my horse and dog could hear. Gin dug at my leg for attention. I pressed a kiss to Wind’s snout, found an empty sheep paddock in the corner, and laid down with my dog and my horse blanket. The sounds of a drunken party drowned out the calming calls of nature. Papa’s cabin in the mountains never seemed so far away as it did that night. I got up and rummaged in my saddle bags for Papa’s Bible, then I crawled back under my blanket and looked at the words glowing black in the moonlight. What they said, I didn’t know, but I found some succor in seeing them and hearing Papa’s voice in my mind.

Comic Sans by Jordan Castillo Price

1 

DIXON 

Sunday dinners at my parents’ house were always such a treat! Mom put the leaf in the table and greeted us with big, squishy hugs, Dad wore his favorite vest and regaled us with stories, and Yuri and I got the chance to not only avail ourselves of some delightful, non-take-and-bake-pizza home cooking…but to break bread with the very best parents in the whole world. Though maybe Yuri shouldn’t have broken the bread so forcefully. 

There were crumbs everywhere. 

Mom eyed the crusty fragments with a sigh and said, “Told you we should’ve just taken a cheese grater to the black parts instead of trying to power through them. It’s like trimming a callus off your toe with lots of small passes—eventually you get down to the soft part. More mashed potatoes, Yuri?” 

Yuri looked oddly full as he shook his head, even though he’d hardly touched his plate. I’d warned him not to pre-eat before we came, but he’d scarfed down a stray piece of cold pizza anyway, and now he’d ruined his dinner. No doubt he was just being polite and making sure there was enough for everybody. 

So considerate. 

And it did leave plenty more for me. 

The potatoes were my favorite—the box kind, made with plenty of margarine—and Yuri’s loss was my gain. I was reaching for the potato scooper when something zipped across the tabletop, grabbed a crumb of bread, rappelled down the tablecloth on the opposite side, and disappeared under the china cabinet. 

“Was that…a mouse?” I asked. 

Mom rolled her eyes. “You should know—you brought it home from Precious Greetings.” 

To be fair, I’d brought home lots of critters from Precious Greetings back when we’d cost Emery Flint his business. I couldn’t be expected to remember each and every one. 

“I thought you shooed it out the door,” Dad said. 

“Apparently it came back,” Mom retorted. “Must’ve known which side its bread was buttered on.” 

Yuri made a small noise of agreement, and Dad said, “We can’t just have a rodent running around loose. Mice attract other mice—and they’re notorious for getting into Seens and nibbling on the paper. Once we lost an entire week of Rufus Clahd’s work that way.” He stood from the table and brushed crumbs from his lap. “I’ll dig out the mousetraps.” 

“But, Dad!” I said. “This is no stranger-mouse. You can’t just squish it. Maybe you should round up all the Spellcraft in the house and leave it at the office until we can trap the little guy and put him in a new (and more secure) home.” 

Mom scoffed. “If you took all the Craftings out of this house it would probably fall down around our ears!” 

Dad agreed. “And we’ve been here so long, adding to the collection over the years, I doubt we’d even be able to find them all. But what if…?” His eyes flicked side to side as he stroked his lustrous five-o’clock shadow in thought. 

“Johnny...” Mom said in a don’t-you-dare tone of voice. 

A tone that Dad totally ignored. “I can build a better mousetrap!”

“Aaand here we go,” Mom said. 

Yuri narrowed his eyes. “What is problem?” 

“Johnny is always full of beans whenever inspiration strikes, but mark my words. Before it’s even halfway done, he’ll get bored with the whole thing and just end up wasting a bunch of time, energy and money.” 

“We’ll never strike it rich with that attitude,” my father said. “How about this? Not only will I make the best darned mousetrap anyone’s ever seen—but I’ll prototype the invention using nothing but repurposed materials from my stash.” 

“Fine.” Mom thrust her hand across the table to shake on it. “And if you actually finish this prototype of yours, I’ll be the first to congratulate you.” 

Dad waggled his eyebrows. “In your lacy red brassiere.” 

“Wow, would you look at the time?” I said. “We almost missed the Pinyin Minute.” I scrambled for the remote control and started clicking furiously, hoping for something—anything—to interrupt the conversation before I heard anything more about my mother in sexy undergarments. After umpteen clicks, I finally managed to angle the beam around Dad’s recliner and power on the TV. 

Pinyin Minute is a news spot that historically featured puff pieces of local interest, from store openings to road closures. But since my friend Charlotte started reporting the news, it had become a heck of a lot more interesting…though not necessarily more reliable. I’ll say one thing for her conspiracy theories: they made the news way more fun to watch. 

I clicked to the right station and upped the volume to cover any more potential underwear talk. 

—murder rates continue to spiral out of control. Stay tuned for your local news after this message. 

“Oh good,” I said, “we’re just in time!”

All talk of unmentionables ceased as we all hummed along with the jingle for a nearby dry cleaner, right down to the very last note. Then, as we watched expectantly, the video quality shifted to something square, grainy, and generally oversaturated. A flesh-colored blur filled the screen, accompanied by the whispered admonishment, “Just because she’s your grandmother, Harold, doesn’t mean she can’t also be a spy. Wait, why didn’t you tell me we were—? Ahem.” 

The blurry figure backed up and resolved itself into none other than my old pal from the Barge of the Bay, looking intense and vaguely frazzled. In other words, like she always did. 

“While most folks these days consume their entertainment on various screens—and don’t get me started on what all that blue light is doing to your brain—the latest buzz on the street is surrounding something a lot less high-tech: comic books. 

“It may be hard to imagine, but in the golden days of comics, you could purchase an issue for as little as one thin dime. 

“But those ten-cent comics are huge collector’s items now. In fact, one particular comic—Eel Man #1—is worth a whopping ten thousand dollars. If you’re lucky enough to have a mint condition copy in your possession, that is.” 

The image of Charlotte talking cut to a still shot of a cheesy comic book featuring a guy in a cape beating up a bank robber. Did bank robbers really all dress like that back in the fifties? Frankly, I thought he looked more like a Beatnik. Though maybe that was part of his plan all along…. 

“Hold on,” my dad said. “I’ve seen that comic before.” 

The camera switched back to Charlotte. “Eel Man was a short-lived comic that fizzled out in less than a year, but its original creator hailed from our very own Pinyin Bay.

“According to a recent press release by an anonymous traveling comic auctioneer, Eel Man was not a particularly well-drawn comic. The storyline is a pastiche of several more successful comics of the day. But the comic book factory was lost to a freak lightning strike, leaving very few mint condition Eel Man comics in circulation. He estimates there are no more than a handful of Eel Man #1 comics left. And in all likelihood, if those issues will turn up anywhere, that anywhere is Pinyin Bay. 

“Anyone wishing to auction off their copy of Eel Man #1 should bring it to the Pinyin Bay Journal office by the end of the day Friday.” 

“And don’t be late,” an off-camera voice added. A vaguely familiar voice. “Once I leave a town, I don’t come back!” 

Dad clicked off the TV, insisting, “I know I’ve seen that comic. It was in the bottom of a box of flyers I ordered back when Practical Penn first opened. The printer was using them as filler.” 

“I remember those flyers.” Mom gave Dad the side-eye. “We couldn’t use them, thanks to a typo in the word public. I thought you said you threw them out.” 

“And so I did. Erm…say that, I mean.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “What? The backs of the flyers make for perfectly usable scratch paper!” 

Dad always gets a certain look about him when he’s getting ready to dive into his stash. His eyes light up with anticipation. His stance develops a pointedly forward slant. And his fingers twitch like they simply can’t wait to paw through all his dubious treasures. 

Mom, on the other hand, is not a big fan of the stash. While she appreciates that its sifting, sorting and overall curation brings my father no end of pleasure, she worries that someday we’ll find him buried under a collapsing pile of knicknacks, gewgaws and general detritus.

I patted Mom’s shoulder in consolation. “Look at it this way. 

At least now Dad can stop worrying about that mousetrap.” At the top of the basement stairs, Dad turned back and snapped his fingers. “Thanks for the reminder—while we’re looking for Eel Man we can keep an eye out for likely mousetrap parts!” 

Mom whacked me ineffectively across the butt with a kitchen towel. “You had to go and bring up that darn mousetrap!” 

Whoops. “We’ll just head downstairs and make sure he doesn’t get buried. Come on, Yuri, let’s go!”

LC Chase

Cover artist by day, author by night, L.C. Chase is a hopeless romantic, free spirit, and adventure seeker who loves hitting the open road just to see where it takes her. When not writing sensual tales of men falling in love, she can be found designing romance novel covers, taking photos, drawing, horseback riding, or hiking the trails with her goofy four-legged roommate.

L.C. is a two-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Pickup Men and Pulling Leather; an EPIC eBook Awards winner for Pickup Men; runner-up for Best Gay Contemporary Romance and Best Gay Book in the 2016 Rainbow Awards for A Fortunate Blizzard; honorable mention for Best Gay Contemporary Romance in the 2015 Rainbow Awards for Pulling Leather; and Best Gay Mystery/Thriller in the 2012 Rainbow Awards for Riding with Heaven. She is also a nine-time Ariana eBook Cover Art Awards winner.

You can find L.C. on her website, lcchase.com, and subscribe to her totally sporadic, no spam newsletter works in progress, new releases, newsletter exclusives, and more.

Davidson King

Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.

When she's not writing you can find her blogging away on Diverse Reader, her review and promotional site. She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.

If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she'd tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you're afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.

Lorelei M Hart

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 ;). 

VL Locey

V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.)

She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.

When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.

Jordan Castillo Price

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.

LC Chase

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Davidson King

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Lorelei M Hart

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VL Locey

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EMAIL: vicki@vllocey.com

Jordan Castillo Price

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EMAILS: jordan@psycop.com

jcp.heat@gmail.com

Breakfast Included by LC Chase

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The Button Man by Davidson King

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The Omega's Krampus Christmas by Lorelei M Hart

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The Crow and the Sparrow by VL Locey

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WEBSITE  /  GOODREADS TBR

Comic Sans by Jordan Castillo Price

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