Summary:
THIRDS #10
When THIRDS agent Dexter J. Daley met Team Leader Sloane Brodie, he couldn’t have imagined how slamming into his new partner—literally—would shake both their worlds. Now four years later, they’ve faced dangers, fought battles both personal and professional… and fallen deeply in love. Now their big moment is finally in sight, and they’re ready to stand up together and make it official. Unfortunately, as the countdown to their big day begins, an enemy declares war on the THIRDS….
With their family in danger, Dex and Sloane are put to the test on how far into darkness they’ll walk to save those they love. As secrets are unearthed, a deadly betrayal is revealed, and Dex and Sloane must call on their Destructive Delta family for one last hurrah to put an end to the secret organization responsible for so much devastation.
Dex and Sloane will have plenty of bullets to dodge on the way to the altar, but with happiness within their grasp, they are determined to get there come hell or high water….
Original Audiobook Review October 2023:
I don't think I can add anything that hasn't been mentioned in my original read as to how much I love this story. Dex, Sloane, and wedding bells? Yes, Please!!! I haven't started the author's continued series, TIN, yet but after these couple of revisits in audio that spin-off has definitely moved up on my 2024 TBR list.
Once again, Mark Westfield has brought Charlie Cochet's words to life in a way that is perfect for the characters, the setting, and the overall story. Not only does he bring life to the THIRDS gang in amazing fashion, he's not hard to listen to either. Some narrators take getting use to before you realize how perfectly matched they are but Mark was spot on from the getgo.
Just an all around perfect reading and listening storytelling experience and one that I look forward to enjoying over and over again for years to come.
The time has finally arrived! Dex and Sloane are ready to make their commitment to each other official but before the big day gets here, someone has declared war on THIRDS and puts the men's family in harm's way. Will Destructive Delta be able to rally one more time and save everyone in time for the wedding march? Dex, Sloane, and their dearest and nearest have never walked away from a fight and certainly are not about to walk away from this one but will every one make it to the ceremony on time?
This series was amazing when I read it back in October and Tried & True was just as thrilling. The passion between Dex and Sloane is still as wild and untamed as it was in book one, Hell & High Water, truth is its grown even stronger. On one hand, T&T is a bit of a sad read seeing how its the end of the THIRDS series but knowing the gang will return in all new adventures has my pulse racing and adrenaline pumping with all the possibilities yet to come. So much goodness from beginning to end.
Being released around the holiday season put me in a quandary. I love reading Christmas themed stories and once Turkey Day arrives then its time for all the halls being decked and the trees being trimmed. But then Charlie decides to tell a little wedding tale mixed with all the ups, downs, humor, drama, claws, fists, and jaw-dropping WOW-ness that we've come to love about the THIRDS universe. How was I going to put aside my ever growing list of fa-la-la-ing romances to read about Dex and Sloane's latest adventure? Well, I just had to make myself. Okay, that's a lie. There was no amount of "making" me do it because even though I didn't take the time to write & post my review until the week between Santa's visit and saying goodbye to Father Time & hello to the New Year baby, I read Tried & True only days after it appeared on my Kindle, I had to get the tree up and house decorated after all😉.
I'm not going to touch on any particulars but let me just say this: Tried & True lives up to the level of HOLY HANNAH BATMAN that Charlie's entire THIRDS series has reached for me. There is no amount of clever words that would even begin to express how much I have loved this unique and intriguing universe that she has created and even though we have reached the end of the THIRDS series, there is so much potential for future stories as the team moves on to their new positions. I for one will be among the first in line to read them. If you haven't started this series yet, now is the perfect time to begin the journey. Don't be put off with the number of entries in the series because once you start, you'll just keep going and before you know it you will be reading Tried & True and be singing its praises as much as I am. Thank You, Charlie Cochet for giving us Dex, Sloane, Ash, Cale, the rest of Destructive Delta, and their trusted friends and family.
Summary:
In a tiny Vermont town two men are about to discover the joys of falling in love all over again.
Taliesin Wadleigh has lived in Couton-on-the-River for his entire life. Six of those twenty-six years were spent with the first man who had ever captured his heart. Those times were the happiest of his life and then, without warning, his fiancé was taken from him. Physically at least. Spiritually Carmichael is still in that whimsical shop with his beloved. Having a charming spirit close at hand to share late night tea with has helped heal Taliesin’s aching heart and he’s happy spending his days selling antiques to tourists and avoiding the outside world and all those who inhabit it. Or so he tells himself…
Then a tall, handsome stranger walks into his shop and Taliesin, as well as Carmichael, senses that their life – and perhaps their afterlife – is going to change dramatically.
When Eason Dunne retired from professional baseball two years ago he had plans. Amazing plans. Happy plans. Two years after he hung up his cleats all those glorious ambitions have fizzled. He’s now divorced and flitting from one project to another hoping to find…something special. Inheriting an old inn in some one horse – pardon him one moose – town in Vermont was not at all something special. Lacking anything else of meaning in his life he makes the trip from Las Vegas to Couton-on-the-River to try his hand at innkeeping. It’s in this little tourist trap that he wanders into the local antiquity shop and meets the eclectic, bespeckled, adorable owner. A man with somewhat offbeat taste in furnishings, a cross-eyed cat, a seemingly haunted radio, and one rather protective ghost. Eason isn’t sure what to make of the situation or his attraction to the skinny man in the bow tie but when danger threatens Taliesin both the men who love him are going to have to work together to save him.
Spiritual Whispers is a standalone small-town gay paranormal romance with a lovely age gap, a quirky antique shop owner, a disillusioned retired baseball player, a ghostly protector, a lazy shop cat, lots of tea, the occasional moose, and a happy-ever-after.
Paranormal stories may not be VL Locey's go-to genre for storytelling but that doesn't mean she isn't good at it, it just means when she ventures down that rabbit hole it was a story the characters were ready to clue her in on. With Spiritual Whispers, Taliesin and Eason had a whopper of journey to share.
This is a lovely, fun, heat-filled, slightly spooky tale of moving on. I say slightly spooky because the ghostly visits from Taliesin's love, Carmichael, are not scary at all, a bit mischievous once Eason enters the picture but not scary. Though to be completely honest I can't deny my first reaction probably wouldn't be much different than Eason's freakout. On the surface, Taliesin and Eason appear to be an opposites attract scenario which is true in part and yet they are perfectly suited. From business associates to friends to lovers, the chemistry is there from day one and watching it grow is just one of the things that makes Spiritual Whispers such an enjoyable treat.
There are tendrils of drama in their journey which are wonderfully meshed within the fun side. Some authors will rely on those dramatic tendrils a little too heavily which is fine if the story needs them but when they aren't needed it can weigh down an otherwise enjoyable read. Locey pulls at those tendrils just enough to further weave an intriguingly fun web. I loved how the author balanced all the elements and emotions which made Spiritual Whispers such a delightful read.
Summary:
We met when you were just a child, but you’re a man now and need my protection.
With Christmas Eve approaching, I’ll watch over you.
Whether you know it or not.
Because no one is allowed to hurt you.
No one but me.
At 20K words, He Sees You When You’re Sleeping is a twisted take on Santa, featuring M/M romance, horror, and the holiday season.
Original Audiobook Review October 2023:
Can't believe it's been 2 years since I read this novella. I loved it then and loved the audio now. I know I should have saved it for my Xmas listening but there's just something special about a dark, paranormal take on the sweet holiday that makes it perfect for the spooky, creepy Halloween season too.
This is the first time I've listened to an audiobook narrated by Blake Lockheart which can be almost as scary and anxiety-inducing as a new author but there was no reason to be. The narration is spot on and somehow makes the author's words even edgier and darker when needed and full of heart and care when called for.
I didn't think I could pull for Kris and Jack more than I did with my original read but the combination of Lockheart's voice and Bauer's words made my heart desire nothing but goodness for the pair 150%. Now He Sees You When You're Sleeping truly can become an annual holiday staple in the York household just as Dickens' A Christmas Carol is.
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!! How did I miss this last year? This is my first read from Sara Dobie Bauer but it won't be my last!
I won't say too much about He Sees You When You're Sleeping so not to spoil this short novella. I will say that I don't think I've ever read or seen such a unique and intriguing take on Santa Claus before which probably made me love it even more. He Sees You may not be the family oriented, animated classic, Hallmark brand of the man in the red suit that has dominated our Christmas memories but Sara Dobie Bauer's Kris will forever live on in my future holidays.
Despite the darker take on a holiday staple, you can't help but cheer for Kris and Jack, wanting them to have that Hallmark HEA but whether they do is something you will have to read for yourself. Trust me if you enjoy a little dark mixed with holiday light than He Sees You When You're Sleeping is definitely up your Christmas chimney.
Summary:
Outfoxing the Paranormal #1
Parapsychologist Dr. Nigel Taylor doesn’t work with psychic mediums. Until, that is, a round of budget cuts threatens his job and an eccentric old woman offers him a great deal of grant money. The only catch: he must investigate a haunted house with a man she believes to have a true gift.
Oscar Fox, founder of the ghost-hunting team OutFoxing the Paranormal, has spent his life ignoring the same sort of hallucinations that sent his grandmother to an insane asylum. When he agrees to work with the prestigious—and sexy—Dr. Taylor, he knows he’ll have to keep his visions under wraps, so his team can get a desperately needed pay day.
Soon after Nigel, Oscar, and the OtP team arrive at the house, the questions begin to pile up. Why is there a blood stain in the upstairs hallway? What tragedy took place in the basement? And who is the spirit lurking in the closet of a child’s bedroom?
One thing is certain: if Oscar can’t accept the truth about his psychic abilities, and Nigel can’t face the demons of his past, they’ll join the forgotten souls of the house…forever.
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN! How did I not read this before now?!?!?!?! I don't think anything will ever top my love of the author's Whyborne & Griffin series but Outfoxing the Paranormal definitely has the potential to give it a run for it's money. Some paranormals are tailor made for October reading and can only tickle one's fancy at Halloween time but Jordan L Hawk has a knack for creating Octoberesque reads that are so brilliant you can enjoy them all 12 months of the year.
Perhaps it was the lightheartedness of the paranormal book I read before The Forgotten Dead that made the evil, creepy side of Nigel and Oscar's ghostly encounter even scarier or maybe it was just the nature of what happened in the house that is being investigated that raised the spooky side. Either way, Forgotten is definitely darker and bordering on horror more than straight on paranormal. It's hard to make me jump while reading a ghostly tale in the same manner I do when watching the genre but Hawk has managed to do just that. The saying goes: "It's Halloween, everyone is entitled to one good scare" well I definitely had more than my fair share then because I jumped out of my seat and was scared out of my wits many times.
I love the balance of cautious skepticism and committed belief when it came to what they are investigating. I really enjoyed the fact that that scale referred to everyone not just the MCs, it's one thing for the characters to believe in what they do but its another thing entirely to see it tackled when they all face the entity in the house, you just know that the fear is genuine which heightens the spookyness for this reader.
I'm not going to say too much more so as not to spoil anything for those who like me are first discovering The Forgotten Dead. What I will say is the chemistry between the characters, both romantic and friendship, is amazing and the evilness of the horror side is edge-of-your-seat-HOLY CRAP!-scream inducing that once you start, there is no way you want to stop.
ABCs of Spellcraft #8-11
Dixon Penn has settled happily into his role as the go-to Scrivener to fix wonky Craftings. And his grown man-friend, Yuri Volnikov, is fitting in perfectly with the Penn family clan - and not just because the Seens he paints are brimming with magic. But Spellcraft has a way of keeping a guy on his toes!
In a half-baked attempt to track down Spellcraft gone amok, Dixon and Yuri pull on their baking caps. Unfortunately, it takes more than a clever disguise to do the job.
The same could be said for impersonating a plumber. Or a painter. Or a competitive eater. But that doesn't keep Dixon and Yuri from trying.
And speaking of baking, brownies aren't the only treats in store. Someone's got a bun in the oven...and the Penn family will never be the same.
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. This collection contains stories eight through 11 of The ABCs of Spellcraft series: Brownie Points, Forging Ahead, and Mayor May Not, and the Christmas short "Present Tense".
Original Audiobook Review October 2023:
What can I say about the audiobook collection featuring books 8-11 that wasn't said in my original ebook reviews? Honestly? Nothing. Still brilliantly fun with hilariously intriguing characters that never let you rest. Seriously, if you let your guard down even for just a second and are reading/listening to Dixon and Yuri's journeys in a public setting you will find yourself being stared at with renewed sudden bursts of ROTF laughter. So be sure to keep that guard up especially in public so you can have some chance at controlled laughing outbursts to minimize starage😉.
Once again, as far as Nick Hudson's narration, well it's topnotch and perfect for this kind of series that may be made up of standalone-ish entries but listen as a long running sitcom with heart. I've said it before in this series and I'll say it again: between Hudson's voice and Price's words, the entertaining enjoyment I feel is reminiscent of the feels I have when listening to the old radio shows of the 30s, 40s, & 50s that I collect. For those who have never experienced that form of entertainment may not understand but for me that is the highest form of compliment I can give when reviewing audiobooks.
Present Tense #8
Original Review January 2021:
Oh my gosh, Dixon Penn at Christmas? Talk about a character that was made for the holiday. In the world of magic you'd think conjuring up the perfect Christmas gift would be easy peasy but then again when did Dixon and Yuri ever do anything easy and without a few mishaps?
Present Tense is short, sweet, adorable, funny, and the way both Dixon and Yuri are left scrambling to come up with last minute gifts for the other is priceless. I don't want to say "predictable" because let's face it, when you are dealing with Dixon and Yuri(especially Dixon) nothing is predictable, nothing is certain other than their love for each other but you know Present Tense is going to end in HEA for the pair, so in that regard I know some might use the term but not me. As so often with great stories, the fun isn't in the ending but how they get there and this Christmas short is no different.
If you've been reading ABCs of Spellcraft as it's been written than you'll definitely want to read this holiday gem, if not . . . well what are you waiting for? Short, long, in-between, this series is brilliant and the characters are just so darn loveable you can't help but smile.
Brownie Points #9
Original Review August 2021:
When I first started The ABCs of Spellcraft I knew right away it was going to be special. Dixon and Yuri are just plain fun! What I didn't expect was it to be one of my favorite series and I definitely look forward to their new adventures.
Speaking of their adventures, Brownie Points starts a new story arc in their journey and it's wonderful. The blending of magic, mystery, humor, family, friendship, and love is pure reading gold. I won't go into too many details but with spellcrafts possibly going wonky, Yuri's skin reaction, Dixon's desire to unravel the cause, and of course Dixon's family . . . well Jordan Castillo Price brings an all around great package to the party.
I've said all along that ABCs of Spellcraft remind me of the old movie serials of the 30s and 40s my parents collect as well as the audiobook versions having a quality of the old radio shows that I collect of the same era. This still rings true for me but it also combines the magical humor of Bewitched and the zany madcappery(and yes I know that's not a real word but I think it's very Dixon-ish) of I Love Lucy but also a hint of The Thin Man's Nick and Nora Charles chemistry between Dixon and Yuri as they trace their way around the spellcraft maze of what went wrong and who wrote what.
If you are new to this Spellcraft universe Jordan Castillo Price has created and wondering if you need to start at the beginning, my answer is "yes". Each arc ties up nicely and each entry has it's own little mysterious wonky-ness going on but if for no other reason than to watch Dixon and Yuri's journey evolve, I can't imagine not reading this series as it was written. The author calls it "cozy paranormal", I didn't even know that was a thing until I discovered this series but however you define it, I call it entertaining that sucked me from the getgo and left me hungering for more.
Forging Ahead #10
Original Review October 2021:
Dixon and Yuri just keep getting better and better. Their connection and chemistry is stronger with each new entry in this amazingly fun, clever, and entertaining series. How two people can find themselves in the middle of such adventures is equal parts zany and adorable. Dixon may be a trouble magnet but Yuri can stand his ground when it comes to trouble too.
In Forging Ahead, the author jumps right into the zany-pool from the first page as Dixon finds himself at the Creature Feature Talent Show, what could possibly go wrong? Well I won't spoil it but lets just say he is in fine form. As always I find I loved every word of this ABCs of Spellcraft entry but what really grabbed my attention was it appears to be the first time Yuri really feels part of the Penn family not just someone they tolerate as Dixon's partner.
I find it safe to say that each entry has a certain level of Lucy/Ethel mischief but Forging Ahead really captures that comedic chemistry, not just between Dixon and Yuri but between all of the characters. As much as I laugh at each of the previous stories, there was just something that I can't quite find the right words for in Forging that gave it an extra special layer of hilarity.
I don't wish to spoil so I'll end there but I will add that if you are new to ABCs of Spellcraft, I definitely recommend reading in order. Each installment has it's own spellcrafting hi-jinkery but the relationships are ongoing and some even have elements that overflow into the next. Would you be lost if you started in the middle? Not really but I think there would be more than a few moments of "wonder what's behind that comment?" or "that sounds like an interesting scenario, wonder what brought that up?". Dixon and Yuri's adventurous journey is not one to be missed.
Mayor May Not #11
Original Review November 2021:
Original Review November 2021:
I have loved this series from the very first entry, Quill Me Now and not to give anything away but there are a few elements that make Dixon and Yuri recall that first meeting and the situation surrounding it. Not spoiling anything of the plot aside, I just want to add that this pair of unique and intriguing gentlemen never fails to delight and Mayor May Not is no exception. Tack on a baby on the way, a mayoral(as if you couldn't tell from the title) election, a new Hand-job up for grabs(and yes that is what Dixon's parents call it and frankly I'm laughing too much to try and go into details), and Uncle Fonzo asking Dixon and Yuri to find a proper mayor candidate and what you have is a recipe for . . . well for fun.
As with the previous entry, Forging Ahead, Yuri further finds himself a true part of the Penn family. Truth is he probably has been for a very long time but it's just been the last couple of installments that he begins to feel it and I found that element quite heartwarming and gave an extra level of depth to the story and their journey together. There has never been doubt that Dixon and Yuri were in love but seeing the family chemistry deepen adds so much to the enjoyment.
As another story arc comes to a close in The ABCs of Spellcraft in the most deliciously way that only the brilliant Jordan Castillo Price could create, I am already anxiously awaiting the next round of mischief the men find themselves facing.
Random Paranormal Tales of 2023
Tried & True by Charlie Cochet
Chapter One
HE WAS on his own.
Dex breathed in deeply through his nose, then let the breath out slowly through his mouth. He steadied his heart, his pulse, his breathing. His body answered to him, not the other way around. It was three against one, though there was only the one he had to worry about. He had to stay on his guard with that one.
“You’re going down.”
Dex opened his eyes, his focus on the huge tiger Therian before him. His dear delusional friend had no idea what he was getting himself into. Seb would be the one going down, but first…. Dex curled his lip up on one side as he moved his gaze to Hudson. The good doctor would be the first down but the last man standing. Dex would make sure of it. His most challenging target, however, slowly circled Dex. He could feel his mate’s eyes burning over every inch of him.
Sloane came back into view, the predator inside him looking out at Dex through molten amber eyes, his pupils dilated. His Felid was awake, ready to hunt, and Dex was his prey, or so Sloane believed. Sloane flexed his fingers, the knuckles stretching the blue wraps around his hands. The black racerback tank accentuated his broad muscular shoulders, and Dex allowed his gaze to travel down the thick biceps to his deliciously corded forearms. The tank was snug against his expansive chest, down to his torso and tapered waist. The loose black yoga pants rested low on his hips, and his feet were bare.
“Holy shit, your eyes.”
Dex ignored Seb and kept his gaze on Sloane and the smug smile now on his face. He knew the change in Dex’s eye color was his doing. Didn’t matter. It wouldn’t change what was going to happen. His mate was going down.
“You boys going to stand around all day?” Dex balled his hands into fists at his sides, the orange wraps shifting against his skin.
As expected, Seb charged first. Dex ducked beneath his right hook, spun, and slammed his hands into Seb’s back, sending him reeling forward. Dex lashed out, grabbed Hudson’s arm, and kicked his leg out from under him. He used his weight to flip Hudson over his shoulder and throw him onto the mat. Seb lunged at him, but Dex was quicker. Much quicker. He dropped and rolled out of the way, then popped up behind Seb and kicked at the back of his bad knee.
Seb roared, and Dex smiled.
That’s it, big guy. Get pissed. But don’t get sloppy.
Seb snarled as he pushed through the pain and came after Dex, his Felid half shining through his green eyes. Dex ducked and dodged. He slapped Seb’s fists away from him. Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention, and Dex brought both fists down against Seb’s arms, then came up with a fierce uppercut and a kick to the abdomen that sent Seb rolling across the mat. Then Dex spun and ducked under Hudson’s right hook, landing a punch against Hudson’s ribs that left him gasping for breath. Dex pulled Hudson’s leg out from under him and brought both fists down against Hudson’s back, slamming him down hard into the mat, knocking the wind out of him. Hudson inhaled sharply as he writhed in pain. A low growl rose through him, and when he tried to get up, Dex put his foot on Hudson’s back and pushed down.
“You’re not even trying,” Dex growled.
“Dex,” Seb warned.
Dex stepped back and motioned for Seb to advance. “I’m not going to baby him, Seb. You want him to be prepared? You want him to survive out there? Then he has to learn.” Dex moved his gaze to Sloane, who was circling him, a barely there smile on his face.
I haven’t forgotten about you, baby. Your turn will come.
Hudson was still on the mat, his forehead pressed against it.
“Get up, Hudson,” Dex demanded. “Get your ass up off that mat right now.”
Seb and Hudson might have been sworn in and were officially TIN, but they were behind in their training. Sparks arranged for them to start their TIN Operative Training Program as soon as Dex and Sloane returned from their honeymoon. Since their recruitment, Seb and Hudson had been doing the same TIN Associate Training Program Dex and Sloane had been doing for months. The two had a hell of a lot to catch up on, and Dex felt for them; he did. Especially Hudson. As a medical examiner, Hudson had never been put through the training as a THIRDS Defense agent, so he had the most to learn. Making him the most vulnerable. Not to mention the most hesitant. Hudson was a wolf Therian, and although he could be as fierce as any Felid, he was soft-hearted and tended to be a nurturer. Hudson was a logical thinker, which was great, but his new role with TIN required instinct and action.
Dex wouldn’t go easy on them because they were his friends. His family. In fact, it was precisely for that reason he couldn’t go easy on them. Shit was about to get real, and he needed those he cared about to be prepared. If he had to be the one to push, to break them and help put them back together, then so be it.
Hudson glared at him and sat back on his heels.
Dex marched over, grabbed his arm, and hauled him to his feet. He thrust a finger in Hudson’s face. “I said get your ass up.”
Hudson’s wolf Therian growled at him, his steel-blue eyes intense. Good. Hudson had a temper buried deep down behind all that sweetness and timidity, and Dex knew just how to expose it.
Dex took a step back, his attention moving between Seb and Hudson. The two exchanged glances, and Dex grinned. Now we’re talking.
The pair came at him at the same time, and Hudson even managed to land a hit, punching Dex across his jaw. Finally, they were getting somewhere. Dex maneuvered around Seb, making sure none of Seb’s punches landed. If they did, he wasn’t too worried. Not that he wanted to get punched in the face by a tiger Therian, but where it once might have broken his jaw, now he could take the hit and bounce back.
“Why do you keep trying to punch me?” Dex asked Seb.
Seb spun with a snarl. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact you’re underestimating me, seeing me as a Human, as someone smaller and weaker than you that you can overpower. Your punching me is not going to knock me out.”
“I never said you were weaker,” Seb replied, his eyes narrowing.
“No, you’re just treating me like I am.” Dex motioned to Sloane. “Would you attack Sloane the same way?”
Seb frowned, puzzled. “Well, no, obviously.”
“Why? Because he’s bigger? Stronger? A jaguar Therian?” Dex shook his head. “Never underestimate your opponent.” Seb took a step forward, and Dex put a hand up to stop him. “Stay there. Both of you. Observe.” Dex turned to Sloane and took his position. “How about showing them how it’s done?”
Sloane ducked his head, his amber eyes almost black as he met Dex’s gaze. “My pleasure.”
Dex readied himself. This was going to hurt oh so good. He’d done it before. Several times. Dex grinned wickedly. Sloane wouldn’t attack first. He never did. His Felid half wanted to stalk, to catch Dex unawares, which was why Dex wouldn’t give him the opportunity. He took off in a run toward Sloane. Sloane was heavier, bulkier, and weighed a fuckton more than Dex, which worked to Dex’s advantage.
Whatever Dex did, Sloane would do his damn best to keep his feet on the mat. The floor was not where he wanted to be. Which was why it was exactly where Dex had to get him. The bigger the Therian, the harder they fell. Sloane took his stance—left leg forward, right leg back, knees slightly bent as he anchored himself. He held up his fists, ready to strike. Dex picked up speed, grabbed Sloane’s shoulder, flung himself up in a flying scissor kick, and wrapped his legs around Sloane’s neck, using the force of his momentum to bring Sloane down, flipping him over onto the mat. Dex kept his legs wrapped around Sloane’s neck. This was where Dex would have gouged out the dude’s eyes, but he wasn’t about to do that to his beloved, so instead, he tightened his hold and smacked Sloane in the face.
With a feral growl, Sloane rolled with Dex still on him so Dex had his back to the mat. He thrust his hands down against Dex’s groin and jerked backward, but Dex only squeezed his legs around Sloane’s neck. He grabbed Sloane’s thumb and bent it back, forcing Sloane’s arm—and more importantly his elbow—away from Dex’s groin area. Had this been a real scenario, Dex would have won by now. Sloane twisted and threw his weight against Dex, thrusting his elbow back and hitting Dex in the balls.
“Fuck,” Dex said through gritted teeth, loosening his grip enough for Sloane to force one leg off him and giving Sloane the room he needed to slip out. Dex rolled away just as Sloane came down elbow first, hitting the mat right where Dex had been. That would have hurt like a son of a bitch. Dex pushed through the pain to his boy bits and got to his feet in time to have Sloane slam into him from the side. Dex landed several feet away, his whole left side throbbing from being bodychecked by a two hundred forty pound—probably more like two hundred fifty pounds now—Therian.
All he could do was push through it and get on his feet quickly. When Sloane lunged at him, Dex dug deep. His eyesight sharpened, and he let out a fierce growl as he threw one arm around Sloane’s waist and grabbed at the back of Sloane’s right leg, jerking it forward so he could lift Sloane off his feet and slam him onto the mat where he brought his knee down against Sloane’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He was mindful to use just enough force to hurt but not seriously injure his boyfriend. With an arm pressed to Sloane’s neck, his knee ready to do some damage, and a fist over Sloane’s face, Sloane tapped out.
Dex grinned down at him and kissed him before rolling off. Sloane laughed softly as he lay on the mat, his chest rising and falling in rapid breaths. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrapped hand. He turned his head to look at Dex.
“Nicely done.”
“Thanks.” Dex got to his feet and held his hands out to Sloane, then helped him up. He turned to Seb and Hudson, who were gaping at him. “Obviously that would have ended a lot sooner had I gouged out his eyes, but I kind of like his eyes,” Dex said, batting his lashes at Sloane. “They’re pretty.”
Sloane chuckled. He shook his head and wiped more sweat from his brow.
Rolling his shoulders, Dex turned back to Seb and Hudson, his expression stern. “Now, let’s try that again.”
HE WAS on his own.
Dex breathed in deeply through his nose, then let the breath out slowly through his mouth. He steadied his heart, his pulse, his breathing. His body answered to him, not the other way around. It was three against one, though there was only the one he had to worry about. He had to stay on his guard with that one.
“You’re going down.”
Dex opened his eyes, his focus on the huge tiger Therian before him. His dear delusional friend had no idea what he was getting himself into. Seb would be the one going down, but first…. Dex curled his lip up on one side as he moved his gaze to Hudson. The good doctor would be the first down but the last man standing. Dex would make sure of it. His most challenging target, however, slowly circled Dex. He could feel his mate’s eyes burning over every inch of him.
Sloane came back into view, the predator inside him looking out at Dex through molten amber eyes, his pupils dilated. His Felid was awake, ready to hunt, and Dex was his prey, or so Sloane believed. Sloane flexed his fingers, the knuckles stretching the blue wraps around his hands. The black racerback tank accentuated his broad muscular shoulders, and Dex allowed his gaze to travel down the thick biceps to his deliciously corded forearms. The tank was snug against his expansive chest, down to his torso and tapered waist. The loose black yoga pants rested low on his hips, and his feet were bare.
“Holy shit, your eyes.”
Dex ignored Seb and kept his gaze on Sloane and the smug smile now on his face. He knew the change in Dex’s eye color was his doing. Didn’t matter. It wouldn’t change what was going to happen. His mate was going down.
“You boys going to stand around all day?” Dex balled his hands into fists at his sides, the orange wraps shifting against his skin.
As expected, Seb charged first. Dex ducked beneath his right hook, spun, and slammed his hands into Seb’s back, sending him reeling forward. Dex lashed out, grabbed Hudson’s arm, and kicked his leg out from under him. He used his weight to flip Hudson over his shoulder and throw him onto the mat. Seb lunged at him, but Dex was quicker. Much quicker. He dropped and rolled out of the way, then popped up behind Seb and kicked at the back of his bad knee.
Seb roared, and Dex smiled.
That’s it, big guy. Get pissed. But don’t get sloppy.
Seb snarled as he pushed through the pain and came after Dex, his Felid half shining through his green eyes. Dex ducked and dodged. He slapped Seb’s fists away from him. Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention, and Dex brought both fists down against Seb’s arms, then came up with a fierce uppercut and a kick to the abdomen that sent Seb rolling across the mat. Then Dex spun and ducked under Hudson’s right hook, landing a punch against Hudson’s ribs that left him gasping for breath. Dex pulled Hudson’s leg out from under him and brought both fists down against Hudson’s back, slamming him down hard into the mat, knocking the wind out of him. Hudson inhaled sharply as he writhed in pain. A low growl rose through him, and when he tried to get up, Dex put his foot on Hudson’s back and pushed down.
“You’re not even trying,” Dex growled.
“Dex,” Seb warned.
Dex stepped back and motioned for Seb to advance. “I’m not going to baby him, Seb. You want him to be prepared? You want him to survive out there? Then he has to learn.” Dex moved his gaze to Sloane, who was circling him, a barely there smile on his face.
I haven’t forgotten about you, baby. Your turn will come.
Hudson was still on the mat, his forehead pressed against it.
“Get up, Hudson,” Dex demanded. “Get your ass up off that mat right now.”
Seb and Hudson might have been sworn in and were officially TIN, but they were behind in their training. Sparks arranged for them to start their TIN Operative Training Program as soon as Dex and Sloane returned from their honeymoon. Since their recruitment, Seb and Hudson had been doing the same TIN Associate Training Program Dex and Sloane had been doing for months. The two had a hell of a lot to catch up on, and Dex felt for them; he did. Especially Hudson. As a medical examiner, Hudson had never been put through the training as a THIRDS Defense agent, so he had the most to learn. Making him the most vulnerable. Not to mention the most hesitant. Hudson was a wolf Therian, and although he could be as fierce as any Felid, he was soft-hearted and tended to be a nurturer. Hudson was a logical thinker, which was great, but his new role with TIN required instinct and action.
Dex wouldn’t go easy on them because they were his friends. His family. In fact, it was precisely for that reason he couldn’t go easy on them. Shit was about to get real, and he needed those he cared about to be prepared. If he had to be the one to push, to break them and help put them back together, then so be it.
Hudson glared at him and sat back on his heels.
Dex marched over, grabbed his arm, and hauled him to his feet. He thrust a finger in Hudson’s face. “I said get your ass up.”
Hudson’s wolf Therian growled at him, his steel-blue eyes intense. Good. Hudson had a temper buried deep down behind all that sweetness and timidity, and Dex knew just how to expose it.
Dex took a step back, his attention moving between Seb and Hudson. The two exchanged glances, and Dex grinned. Now we’re talking.
The pair came at him at the same time, and Hudson even managed to land a hit, punching Dex across his jaw. Finally, they were getting somewhere. Dex maneuvered around Seb, making sure none of Seb’s punches landed. If they did, he wasn’t too worried. Not that he wanted to get punched in the face by a tiger Therian, but where it once might have broken his jaw, now he could take the hit and bounce back.
“Why do you keep trying to punch me?” Dex asked Seb.
Seb spun with a snarl. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact you’re underestimating me, seeing me as a Human, as someone smaller and weaker than you that you can overpower. Your punching me is not going to knock me out.”
“I never said you were weaker,” Seb replied, his eyes narrowing.
“No, you’re just treating me like I am.” Dex motioned to Sloane. “Would you attack Sloane the same way?”
Seb frowned, puzzled. “Well, no, obviously.”
“Why? Because he’s bigger? Stronger? A jaguar Therian?” Dex shook his head. “Never underestimate your opponent.” Seb took a step forward, and Dex put a hand up to stop him. “Stay there. Both of you. Observe.” Dex turned to Sloane and took his position. “How about showing them how it’s done?”
Sloane ducked his head, his amber eyes almost black as he met Dex’s gaze. “My pleasure.”
Dex readied himself. This was going to hurt oh so good. He’d done it before. Several times. Dex grinned wickedly. Sloane wouldn’t attack first. He never did. His Felid half wanted to stalk, to catch Dex unawares, which was why Dex wouldn’t give him the opportunity. He took off in a run toward Sloane. Sloane was heavier, bulkier, and weighed a fuckton more than Dex, which worked to Dex’s advantage.
Whatever Dex did, Sloane would do his damn best to keep his feet on the mat. The floor was not where he wanted to be. Which was why it was exactly where Dex had to get him. The bigger the Therian, the harder they fell. Sloane took his stance—left leg forward, right leg back, knees slightly bent as he anchored himself. He held up his fists, ready to strike. Dex picked up speed, grabbed Sloane’s shoulder, flung himself up in a flying scissor kick, and wrapped his legs around Sloane’s neck, using the force of his momentum to bring Sloane down, flipping him over onto the mat. Dex kept his legs wrapped around Sloane’s neck. This was where Dex would have gouged out the dude’s eyes, but he wasn’t about to do that to his beloved, so instead, he tightened his hold and smacked Sloane in the face.
With a feral growl, Sloane rolled with Dex still on him so Dex had his back to the mat. He thrust his hands down against Dex’s groin and jerked backward, but Dex only squeezed his legs around Sloane’s neck. He grabbed Sloane’s thumb and bent it back, forcing Sloane’s arm—and more importantly his elbow—away from Dex’s groin area. Had this been a real scenario, Dex would have won by now. Sloane twisted and threw his weight against Dex, thrusting his elbow back and hitting Dex in the balls.
“Fuck,” Dex said through gritted teeth, loosening his grip enough for Sloane to force one leg off him and giving Sloane the room he needed to slip out. Dex rolled away just as Sloane came down elbow first, hitting the mat right where Dex had been. That would have hurt like a son of a bitch. Dex pushed through the pain to his boy bits and got to his feet in time to have Sloane slam into him from the side. Dex landed several feet away, his whole left side throbbing from being bodychecked by a two hundred forty pound—probably more like two hundred fifty pounds now—Therian.
All he could do was push through it and get on his feet quickly. When Sloane lunged at him, Dex dug deep. His eyesight sharpened, and he let out a fierce growl as he threw one arm around Sloane’s waist and grabbed at the back of Sloane’s right leg, jerking it forward so he could lift Sloane off his feet and slam him onto the mat where he brought his knee down against Sloane’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He was mindful to use just enough force to hurt but not seriously injure his boyfriend. With an arm pressed to Sloane’s neck, his knee ready to do some damage, and a fist over Sloane’s face, Sloane tapped out.
Dex grinned down at him and kissed him before rolling off. Sloane laughed softly as he lay on the mat, his chest rising and falling in rapid breaths. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrapped hand. He turned his head to look at Dex.
“Nicely done.”
“Thanks.” Dex got to his feet and held his hands out to Sloane, then helped him up. He turned to Seb and Hudson, who were gaping at him. “Obviously that would have ended a lot sooner had I gouged out his eyes, but I kind of like his eyes,” Dex said, batting his lashes at Sloane. “They’re pretty.”
Sloane chuckled. He shook his head and wiped more sweat from his brow.
Rolling his shoulders, Dex turned back to Seb and Hudson, his expression stern. “Now, let’s try that again.”
“HOLY….” PANT. “Crap.” More panting.
Sloane dropped onto the mat. He was dripping with sweat, and every muscle in his body ached. He wiped his face with the clean towel, then chuckled at Seb, who dropped next to him and lay sprawled on his back.
“I think… my heart… is going to… explode,” Seb said, breathless.
“I warned you, didn’t I? But you didn’t listen. Your exact words were ‘how strong can he really be?’”
Seb turned his head to pout at Sloane, his brows drawn together. “I was wrong, Sloane. So very wrong. I will never doubt your words again.” He sat up with a groan and grabbed one of the rolled-up towels beside him to wipe the sweat off his face. “I can’t believe Dex took me down.”
“The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”
Seb narrowed his eyes at Sloane. “I’m a tiger Therian. Your not-even-two-hundred-pound boyfriend is not supposed to be able to take me down.”
“Except he’s been training his ass off, is no longer Human, and I’m pretty sure he’s still getting stronger.” Every time Sloane sparred with Dex, he noticed an increase in Dex’s strength. It was in minimal increments, but enough for Sloane to see the difference. “It seems to come in little bursts when he gets worked up or pissed off, but when that happens, he’s stronger than I am. If this keeps going, he may even end up stronger than you, or who knows, maybe even Zach. Not even TIN knows what’s going on inside him. The tests are starting to come back inconclusive again.”
“How is that possible?”
Sloane shrugged. “No one knows. TIN’s brought in their top specialists, and every time they run a test for something, whatever they’re looking for, it’s gone, but they know it’s there because they can see it. They did a blood test, and it came back Human, but when they did a different test that wasn’t specifically looking at his blood, it pinged Therian. It’s like his DNA and everything that makes him a hybrid is trying to protect itself by avoiding detection.”
Seb seemed to think about it. “So if someone ran a test to see if he was Therian, they’d get something else?”
Sloane nodded. “Not sure if that’s a good thing or not. My worry is when he’ll need to get treatment. Unless whoever’s treating him knows what he is….”
“Fuck. It’ll be a mess.”
Which scared the living shit out of Sloane. They had Hudson and TIN to provide the best medical attention possible, but what if either wasn’t an option? How the hell did a regular hospital treat a half Human, half Therian? Especially if every test they ran came back screwed-up? Hopefully they’d be able to get to the bottom of it soon. Sloane didn’t like the idea of them not being able to get Dex medical treatment when he needed it.
Seb stared at him. “Shit, Sloane. What the hell is in that DNA of yours?”
“I don’t know, but as long as it doesn’t hurt him, I’m okay with it. Knowing he can hold his own against whatever he faces out there is good enough for me. Hopefully the rest will get sorted out.”
A slew of British curses met Sloane’s ear, and he cringed.
“Your man does not like to lose.”
Seb’s eyes went slightly wide. “Are you kidding me? Everyone’s always surprised when he kicks their ass at pool, or football, or soccer, thinking that he’s this awkward science nerd, but he is ruthless when it comes to competition, and yeah, he hates losing.” Seb drew his knees up and let his elbows rest on them. “He doesn’t get pissed at his opponent, though. He gets pissed at himself. As if his losing reflects how inadequate he is. A complex gifted to him by his asshole father.”
Sloane turned his attention to Hudson, whose brows were drawn together in concentration as he circled Dex. Both had their shirts plastered to their skin with sweat, and Hudson had smartly worn contacts, even though he hated them. Sloane lost count of how many times Dex had dropped Hudson to the mat. Hudson charged, and Dex spun on his heels, ended up behind Hudson, threw his arms around his waist, picked him up, and slammed him down.
“He’s being a little hard on Hudson, don’t you think?” Seb asked, concern etched on his face.
Dex wasn’t holding back, but he had his reasons. “Hudson means a lot to Dex, and he wants to make sure Hudson’s prepared for whatever we face. If that means he pisses Hudson off, then he’ll do it. Dex might be a joker in a lot of respects, but when it comes to the safety of those he cares about, he’s hard-core.”
“I can see that.”
Even though Sloane felt for Hudson, especially every time he hit the mat, he couldn’t help but admire Dex. His perfect posture, his expertly calculated moves, the way his muscles flexed beneath his clothes. The loose black workout pants accentuated Dex’s perfectly rounded ass, and the sweaty shirt stuck to his skin outlined the delicious curve of his spine and the muscles of his finely sculpted torso. He’d wiped the floor with Sloane, and Sloane couldn’t be prouder.
Seeming to have had enough of being floored, when he next hit the mat, Hudson wrapped his legs tight around Dex, and the two crashed down together, thrashing about as each one tried to get the upper hand. They rolled around, grunting, Hudson’s legs wrapped around Dex’s waist, Dex’s head in a choke hold. Somehow, they ended up with their shirts halfway up their bodies, and Seb cleared his throat.
“I know this is probably inappropriate, but is it me, or is this kinda… porny?”
Sloane tilted his head for a better angle as Hudson arched his back to try to budge Dex, but Dex had managed to get out of the choke hold and had Hudson’s wrists pinned above his head.
“Uh, yeah, definitely porny.” Sloane stood at the same time as Seb. “Maybe we should take a break,” Sloane called out. Dex looked his way, and Hudson twisted his body, flipping the tables on Dex and rolling them over so he was sitting on Dex’s stomach.
“Ha!” Hudson threw his arms up in victory when Seb took hold of his wrist and pulled him up. Hudson smiled at his husband. “Hello, darling.” He put a hand to Seb’s cheek. “Your face is so red. Didn’t you get any rest?”
Seb cleared his throat again. “Um, yeah, just, you know, why don’t we hit the showers, and meet up for something to eat later?”
Before Dex could reply, Sloane spoke up. “Great idea.” He helped Dex to his feet, pretending he hadn’t noticed Dex narrowing his eyes at him. They agreed to meet up later, and Sloane took hold of Dex’s hand and quickly led him out of the training bay.
“Um, Sloane? What’s going on?”
Sloane shook his head. “Nothing. Just going to hit the showers.”
“The locker room is the other way.”
Sloane had no intention of showering anywhere near anyone else.
“Sloane?”
Sloane led Dex back to his new private training bay, and more importantly, his office with the fully stocked, brand-new shower. As soon as they got into his office, he put the room in privacy mode, turned, and pounced.
Spiritual Whispers by VL Locey
Chapter One
Taliesin
I was pretty sure exactly what had spurred Winston to sit on my face.
Generally, three possibilities lead to having a cat butt in the face at the crack of dawn. My old, fat tiger cat was hungry. My old, fat tiger cat was hungry. And my old, fat tiger cat was hungry.
“Winston, honestly, it’s too early,” I groaned, pushing a furry ass off my forehead, then attempting to roll over. With the twenty-pound tom on the blanket, moving was difficult. I huffed and lay there, staring at the window of my bedroom, blinking blindly at the small electric alarm clock on my bedstand. The numbers were unreadable. Slapping at the stand for my glasses, I yawned, the sound of rain hitting the window finally reaching me through the thunderous purrs.
I lay there for another moment, Winston resting on my chest, whiskers tickling my scruffy chin as he watched me with his cross-eyed stare, and reminisced. Rainy fall days had always been Carmichael’s favorite. Autumn really made the man insanely happy. He’d bounce around the shop humming those silly old songs from the twenties that we played all day long at Afterlife Antiquities. He’d always said he’d been born in the wrong era. He had a passion for all things from the turn-of-the-century to the forties. The shop was packed full of delightfully different furnishings, knick-knacks, clothing up on the second floor, and various odd and disarming tidbits that tourists filing into Couton-on-the-River, Vermont, to leaf peep gobbled up.
With the pitter-patter of precipitation on the panes, I let my eyes close as the memory of Carmichael’s strong arms soothed the loneliness away. If only we’d known he would go so soon, we would have moved up the wedding. But fate was unkind that way. We’d dilly-dallied. We’d postponed several times so that his children could come to terms with their father falling in love with a much, much younger man.
Even though Carmichael had lost his wife Penelope to cancer years ago and then came out to his two grown children before leaving the UK, his two daughters loathed me. They felt that I’d been using my youthful charms to bewitch their father in some sort of internet gigolo scheme. As if I had any charms! And we’d not even met online. We’d met years after he’d settled in Vermont, far away from the painful memories in their Cotswold cottage. Charms. Pfft. It was preposterous. I was a beanpole ginger with wild curls and a wickedly terrible myopia. Oh, and there were my freckles and the fact that a good New England wind could blow me down the main street of Couton-on-the-River. Yep, I sure was beguiling. Not. The fact that Carmichael had left me this shop was still a source of contention with the girls, but there was nothing they could do legally. They’d tried, God knows, sapping me of most of my funds, which made buying new antiquities difficult. Guess they figured if the courts wouldn’t help them, they’d just keep burying me in legal fees until I had to sell. To them.
Winston patted my face with his paw. I blinked at him. “Right. Yep. I’m on it.”
He proceeded to walk down my middle, stepping on my full bladder and my left nut. So all in all, a typical Monday in Couton-on-the-River. I heard Winston patter across the floor and out to the living room to use his scratching post. Still suffering from the effects of another midnight tea, I snuggled under the covers, inhaling the smell of wisteria fabric softener on the beautiful white chenille bedspread Carmichael had so loved. Eighteen months ago it had smelled of him and me but now all traces of his scent were gone on the bedding. Sighing deeply, I willed away the melancholy, but the rain and wind blowing outdoors didn’t help. Without warning, the blanket was tugged from under my chin. I smiled at the ceiling as the faintest trace of that familiar sea-faring scent tickled my nose.
“Okay, I’m up. I’m up.” I kicked off the covers, let my feet fall to the smooth wooden floorboards, and rubbed my hands over my face. Knowing that would be the last I’d hear from the other side for the rest of the day, I blew out a breath and found my glasses. Once they rested on my nose, the rest of the world came into sharp view. The small bedroom piled with to-be restored or priced items, many of which had been here when Carmichael had died, the four-poster bed of dark walnut, the huge armoire that held our suits, the Cheval floor mirror in the corner, and the old window with the Queen’s lace scalloped topper. I moved to one of several throw rugs. My feet grew cold quickly and I ran a hand over the chilly pane as if I could swipe away the droplets magically. “Please rest. You expended too much corporeal energy last night,” I whispered to the empty room. If he heard me or not, I couldn’t say.
Winston reappeared, rubbing around my bare ankles. With a smile, I left the window and padded to the cramped bathroom to piss and wash my hands. I’d shower after breakfast to give the ancient water heater time to warm enough water to bathe in. I slid my feet into my slippers, pulled a smoking jacket on, and made the bed. That habit I’d picked up from Carmichael. For a man who lived among so much clutter, he insisted the bed was always to be made. Not wishing to disturb anything we’d shared, I simply did as he did.
Leaving the bathroom, I slippered my way into my living quarters. It was a congested area that doubled as a living room/dining nook/kitchen space that kicked off awkwardly from the rear of the shop. I sighed when I spied the pink rose Royal Albert tea set and pot sitting in the sink, still dirty from last night’s midnight tea.
“Sorry,” I said to the ether. Carmichael was rather fastidious about his tea sets. He would have never let a rare set like that sit overnight with tea in it. He claimed doing so would stain the fine porcelain. Given that he had spent nearly forty years in the antique business, I generally deferred to his vast knowledge. What I knew about Balmoral vanities, drop-leaf tables, and Blue Willow dishes could fit into one of the sterling silver thimbles that were on display in the main showroom. I was more of a button, bow tie, and hat man, but since losing my fiancé, I was learning fast. I had to. Antiquities were hot commodities, especially in a tourist town that sat about forty miles from Manchester, Vermont. There was a woman in Manchester who ran a huge shop that pulled in triple the sales that I did. Her name was Cruella. Not really. It was Davina Crook, and her last name suited her. She had oodles of cash and always outbid me at the sales we attended.
“I’m going to use electric today,” I mumbled to whoever was listening. I could picture him scowling at me as he always did when I took the lazy way out.
“One must make real tea properly,” he would say and then insist I use the kettle on the stove so I wouldn’t overboil the water, which would remove oxygen. He would add, “When you get to my age, my sweet, you learn that taking time to do things with love is the only proper way to live.” After, he would kiss me softly and supervise the tea making from the breakfast nook.
“It’ll be Earl Grey,” I offered to the silent little apartment, knowing that would placate him. “Hot,” I added, then winked. I’d often teased him about being my version of Captain Picard. They resembled each other greatly, from the suave British accent to the balding head to the love of history and antiquities. Carmichael would usually preen a bit after the comparison was made, and rightfully so. Sir Patrick Stewart was incredible.
Making a mental note to clean the teapot and cups before I opened the shop, I brewed a cup of Earl Grey, toasted a bagel, and then fed poor starving Winston. The old tom dove into the dry food in his dish as if he’d not eaten in months. Which was simply not true. His dish was empty because he was a piggy. Still, I adored the old man. Guess I really did have a thing for mature men, be they furred or balding.
Winston and I ate in companionable silence as a cold September rain beat on the windows. Afterward, I showered, shaved, and got dressed in a blue checkered suit with a white shirt and blue bow tie. I’d always loved skinny suits and bow ties. It was my esthetic. I raked my fingers through my wet curls—combing was impossible as I’d forgotten to condition the snarled mass of ringlets—and splashed on some sandalwood bourbon cologne. It stung a bit. I put on my wristwatch, checked the time, and entered Afterlife Antiquities via the woefully empty storeroom. I placed some bills and coins into the register and pulled up the playlist of songs from bygone eras on my phone and fed it through the stereo system via Bluetooth. That was one small concession I’d gotten Carmichael to make. He’d used cassettes for years for background music. I took pride in bringing computers and a small bit of tech to our store. It sure made bookkeeping easier.
Breathing in the smell of lemon furniture polish and fine wood, I made a quick sweep of the store to check for dead mice. Winston had a habit of leaving partially eaten rodents lying around, which skeeved out the customers. The ground floor held most of the antiques left in stock. We carried anything from a massive parlor organ and hand-crafted wardrobes to small trinkets and fine jewelry. Upstairs we had a small nook filled with antique clothing, ties, shoes, hats, and more hats. There was a small sitting area with two armchairs and a round table. In the corner was a maple stand that held a cathedral style radio circa 1931, the tubes on their last legs, but the teakwood veneer was still in perfect condition. I ran my fingers over the burnished knobs that controlled the volume, tone, and the lighted dial for seeking stations.
That was where we had midnight tea when the ether was conflux to supernatural communications. I’d found Carmichael here dead that day, sitting in the armchair on the left, reading one of the dusty old books that he loved so much, a cup of Earl Grey still steaming as it rested on its China saucer. He’d not been gone thirty minutes, citing his need for a break on that particularly busy early summer day. When I called him down for lunch, he’d never replied, so I went looking. Sometimes he would nap up there, but this time...well, this time he wasn’t asleep. The aneurysm had been painless, according to our local doctor. Which was a small blessing.
The rattling of the door pulled me from my memories. I patted the radio, straightened my bow tie, and hustled down the stairs to unlock the front door. I’d been expecting a slow morning due to the cold and rain. Peering around the sign that had our hours of operations on it, my gaze went up, up, up and locked on a woefully sodden man with a face of a battle god, scarred, yes, but masculine and beautiful. Dark hair plastered to his head and his shoulders drawn up by his ears.
The fine hairs on the nape of my neck rose as our eyes met through the wet glass.
“He’s so beautiful.” I sighed, my breath fogging the glass.
Mr. Handsome and Soggy jerked his wet hand at the door in a “Are you going to open the door or what?” gesture. I gasped at my rudeness, threw the deadbolt, and yanked open the door. A chilly wind whirled around me as rain blew into the shop.
“I’m so sorry, I—” I began. The door then flew out of my hand and slammed shut. My gaze flew around the shop. “What are you doing?!” I spat to the specter who had to be hovering nearby. Obviously, I got no reply. It wasn’t the proper time for communication across the void. Stunned by Carmichael’s behavior, I rattled the knob to no avail. “What on Earth?!” I growled, jerking on the knob with all my strength. It creaked open an inch. Mr. Handsome and Soggier said something that sounded rather snippy, and then the door crashed shut yet again. The deadbolt locked tightly a second later. “Why are you being such a temperamental turd?!” I shouted as I battled with the lock, to no avail.
Wasn’t this a fine way to start the day?
He Sees You When You're Sleeping by Sara Dobie Bauer
He went by Kris, although little children knew him by another name. When December 24 arrived, so did the woman in black, her face always hidden by a hood. Together, they would spend a night of toil that felt much longer than only one night. They had spent Christmas Eve together for decades, maybe more. Kris wasn’t clear on time. The only thing clear was his annual duty: walk the world every Christmas Eve, protect children, and leave gifts for the ones who believed.
There weren’t as many believers anymore; several houses didn’t glow as Kris walked a poor street on the outskirts of New York City. Sadly, most of the small houses were dark, which meant the children who lived there no longer awaited the entity known as “Father Christmas.” That meant Kris could pass by those homes. He and the woman in black had no time for unbelievers.
They stopped in front of one house, though, and Kris tilted his head to the side, curious. The house was ramshackle, probably built in the 1970s or early 80s. Bright white snow sat heavily on the roof—at least six inches—and Kris wouldn’t have been surprised if the roof caved in. He was impressed the house still stood at all with its decrepit, cracked siding; one broken window, covered in thick paper and tape; and not a single Christmas light.
Yet, the house …
It didn’t glow, per se. It flickered. Kris couldn’t remember seeing anything like it, and although his ageless memory was vast, he knew it couldn’t be trusted. There was a big, empty space in his life before he became “Kris.” He remembered nothing before that one Christmas Eve when he woke up and started walking with the woman in black, visiting all the houses that glowed—so many back then. So few now.
Why did this house flicker, like an aged light bulb about to go out?
He didn’t bother asking his companion for answers. In all their time together, the woman in black never spoke. When Kris approached the front door, made of scraped and weatherworn wood, she followed. Kris took them to The Other Place where they couldn’t be seen. Then, they walked through the front door.
As soon as they entered the cramped foyer, Kris smelled cigarettes and heard shouting. A child cried, “Run! Go!” followed by the sound of furniture being knocked over.
An adult voice joined the hubbub: “You little shit.”
Kris actually startled at the vicious smack of flesh hitting flesh. Then, the echo of a body hitting the floor. The misleading quiet swish of bodies in an altercation. The child cried out again just as Kris turned a corner, and the woman in black lingered behind, as usual.
Kris entered a living room with a threadbare couch, cheap TV, and dark fireplace. An overflowing ashtray was knocked over, spilled beside a three-legged coffee table held up by a stack of phone books.
Invisible to all present, Kris ground his teeth at the scene as a father knelt above his son, who couldn’t have been older than ten, and smacked him repeatedly, while the child flailed his skinny arms to no avail.
The father kept cussing, mumbling to himself, and Kris smelled alcohol from where he stood. A soft whimper caught his attention. In the back corner, beneath a kitchen table, two children—smaller than the one being attacked—stared in horror but remained hiding. Apparently, this was a usual occurrence, their bigger brother defending them by accepting the brunt of their father’s ire.
Kris’s heart ached.
After one more solid whack, the drunken dad pointed in the boy’s face.
The boy bled from his mouth but didn’t shed a tear.
“That’s what you get for asking for a goddamn fire because it’s Christmas.” The word came as a taunt. “Christmas ain’t even real, you fucking halfwit. It’s just another useless day.” Then, the father pushed to his feet and wove across the room unsteadily before disappearing down a dark hall.
It took a moment for the child on the floor to sit up, but he did eventually, dark hair a mess. He wiped his bleeding face on the sleeve of an oversized flannel shirt with a hole in the elbow. Kris recognized the boy, although on previous Christmas Eves, he had never looked so malnourished, so sick.
After a silent moment, the two other children exited their hiding spot and joined their brother in the center of the room.
The little girl, hair in a messy ponytail, said, “Told you,” and poked her brother in the knee.
He didn’t acknowledge her, just stared into the empty fireplace.
“Yeah,” the other child said. Although probably no older than six or seven, he had a rough appearance as though he’d spent several years living on the street.
The smaller children recovered fast and left, probably off to their bedrooms to play. Kris hated how fast they recovered, because it meant this third child—the elder child who had protected them—received beatings often. And no one cared.
Kris observed as the bleeding boy continued staring into the fire with his arms wrapped around his bent knees. That was when he noticed.
It was this boy who flickered. This boy had called Kris into the house.
With a snap, Kris produced a fire in the fireplace, and the child skidded backwards across the warped wooden floor. Then, Kris wrapped the boy safely in The Other Place and sat at his side. Kris might have expected some kind of reaction—a scream, perhaps, which was why he’d wrapped them in the place where no one could see or hear them until Kris allowed.
But the child didn’t scream. He looked at Kris, at the fire, and glanced over his shoulder down the hall.
“No one will bother us,” Kris said quietly.
The kid wrinkled his nose. “Shit, he must have hit me really hard this time.” The profanity sounded extra ugly coming from the mouth of someone so young.
“Does your father hit you a lot?” Kris asked. He felt huge next to someone so small and frail. He wondered when the child had last eaten.
The boy winced. “That’s not my father.” He shrugged. “I don’t know my father. Frank is just my foster asshole.” He wiped a drop of blood from the side of his mouth with his thumb. “Who are you anyway?” Reflected flames danced in his wide eyes, green as a freshly cut pine tree.
“Father Christmas.”
The child’s head whipped toward him. “What? Like, Santa?”
“Yes.” Kris nodded. “And you believe in me.”
The Forgotten Dead by Jordan L Hawk
Chapter One
“This isOscar Fox with OutFoxing the Paranormal! As usual, we’ll be bringing you a combination of urban exploration and ghost hunting as we investigate a location off the beaten path. Now, I can’t tell you exactly where we are for tonight’s hunt, because we’re here at the invitation of the property owner, who wants to keep his privacy intact. What I can tell you is it’s a farmhouse built in the 1870s and lived in by generations of the owner’s family. Unfortunately, they experienced more than their share of tragedy within these walls.”
The old woman hit pause on the remote, and the large screen on the wall froze. “Are you familiar with this internet show, Dr. Taylor?” she asked.
“No,” Nigel Taylor said, shifting in his seat uncertainly. “I’m not sure why you’re showing me this.”
This was supposed to be a meeting to talk about his grant proposal. The grant he desperately needed if he was to justify his continued employment as an assistant professor at Duke University’s Institute of Parapsychology.
“We need to tighten our belts,”the dean had said, and Nigel would have sworn he’d been looking right at him. “Cut the fat from the meat.”
Research into the survival of personality after death didn’t exactly bring in the big money, and hadn’t since the start of the Cold War. Telekinesis, telepathy, remote viewing…all of those could be measured in the lab, demonstrated with numbers and graphs to organizations with deep pockets.
Ghosts, though, were another thing.
Survival research had been hanging by a thread at the institute when his advisor retired and he was hired to take her place. If he wasn’t able to secure a hefty grant today, that thread would be cut.
This meeting was supposed to be his chance to salvage it. Patricia Montague was heir to a cigarette company fortune; her family had generously donated money to Duke University’s Institute of Parapsychology from the 1930s to the 80s, when they abruptly withdrew all funds. When she’d contacted him about a new grant for research into the survival of personality after death, it had seemed like the answer to his prayers.
And now he was sitting in a lavishly appointed hotel room with her, watching internet videos of all things.
“You teach a course on the history of parapsychology, do you not?” she asked. Patricia Montague was an imposing, pale woman in her 70s, her silver-white hair worn in a pixie cut, dressed in a tailored lavender suit. “Then you know as well as anyone that mediumship is not what it was in its heyday during the 1800s. Even then, most were frauds.”
“But some were—are—genuine.” Nigel looked back to the screen. The video showed a man’s affable face: white skin, dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a grin that invited you to smile along with him. He was a big guy in terms of both height and weight, but moved with the ease of an athlete. The abandoned farmhouse he stood in front of could have been found anywhere from North Carolina on south, its warped boards stripped of paint by sun and rain, century-old oaks towering overhead and dropping enormous branches in the yard and through the roof.
“Who is he?” Nigel asked, wondering what the hell any of this had to do with his grant. “That is, I caught the name, but I’ve never heard of him.”
A small smile touched the corner of Ms. Montague’s mouth. “I take it you don’t follow college football, Dr. Taylor? Back in his student days, Mr. Fox played defensive tackle at Clemson.”
“Right,” said Nigel, as though he’d ever heard the term ‘defensive tackle’ before in his life. “And now he makes ghost hunting videos?”
“Indeed. Keep watching.”
She clicked play again. The video had editing and production values that put OutFoxing the Paranormal above the usual amateur ghost hunting footage that Nigel had seen. Oscar and his camera person made their way through the dilapidated house, Oscar excitedly pointing out finds like an upright piano, in between narrating the tragic history of the house. He had the energy of a golden retriever; just watching him made Nigel feel exhausted.
They investigated the usual suspects: the basement, a bedroom where a woman had died, the stairway where a man fell to his death, a nursery where disease swept away a generation.
It wasn’t until they came to the kitchen, however, that Oscar paused. “Hey, let’s try an EVP—that’s electronic voice phenomena for any new viewers.” He went through the standard questions. “Is anyone here? What’s your name? Why are you here?”
EVPs could collect valuable evidence—or be faked by a bit of sound editing. Without access to the raw files, it was impossible to say which.
The video cut to Oscar listening to the enhanced audio in a studio. “Can you hear me?” seemed to whisper out of the laptop speakers. “Millie. I have to make dinner. It hurts.”
Ms. Montague paused the video and scanned back. “Look at his face immediately before he suggests trying to record any electronic voice phenomena.”
It was an easy face to look at; Oscar was pretty damn cute. With the video slowed down, it was easier to see the change that came over him in the kitchen. His pleasant face contorted, just a fraction of a second. Shock, fear, and pain all seemed to play over his features, before he wiped his expression clean and suggested the EVP.
“You’ll note he never mentioned any stories of the kitchen being haunted,” Ms. Montague said. “Despite the attempt at keeping the location secret, my assistant was able to easily track down the farmhouse in question. He found a brief newspaper article from 1901 about an elderly cook named Millie, who was scalded to death in the kitchen when she collapsed and accidentally pulled a pot of simmering stew onto herself.”
Nigel wasn’t at all sure he liked the direction this conversation was taking. “Maybe Oscar did the same research?”
“Then why not reveal it during the show?” She fixed him with sharp gray eyes. “Instead, Mr. Fox appears puzzled to have found anything in the location. Which in turn suggests the EVP is genuine, not faked.”
“He didn’t say anything about being a medium, though.”
“No, he did not.” She sat back, an almost triumphant expression on her face. “Mr. Fox has never made such a claim, and OutFoxing the Paranormal has never worked with a medium.”
Nigel had never worked with a medium, either, and wasn’t at all sure he wanted to now. Mediumship had been all the rage throughout much of the nineteenth century, and for the early decades of the twentieth. The science of parapsychology had been born through studying them. Hell, the original intent of founding the institute had been to investigate the big questions of life and death, hand in hand with mediums.
Unfortunately, problems cropped up quickly. A séance was hard to quantify scientifically; ESP was much easier to test in the lab. Then an argument arose as to whether mediums were even communicating with the dead at all, or unconsciously using telepathy to pick details about the departed from the minds of others.
Soon focus shifted to four subjects: telepathy, clairvoyance, psychokinesis, and precognition, all of which could be more easily measured in a laboratory setting. It wasn’t like you could get a poltergeist to come in for testing.
Over the decades, mediums came to be looked at as entertainers at best, frauds at worst. As far as he knew, no one at the institute had worked with one since the 1950s, and he wasn’t keen to be the first to break that streak.
“I’m not sure what this has to do with my grant proposal,” he said warily.
“I’ve looked over OutFoxing the Paranormal’s other videos with a close eye. I believe Mr. Fox is a true medium, who is either ignorant of the source of his impressions, or simply doesn’t wish to associate himself with a profession rife with fakes and grifters.”
Nigel felt a sinking in his gut. “What exactly are you getting at, Ms. Montague?”
“It’s quite simple, Dr. Taylor.” Her hawk-like stare pinned him. “You require three things for your research. The first is money, which I am now offering to you, no strings attached. The second is a team to help you actually do the fieldwork. I believe OutFoxing the Paranormal would be an excellent choice—they’re professional, and they’re based in Winston-Salem, so relatively local. Naturally, this would depend on your finding them a good fit for you, and if they’re amenable.”
No strings attached.Relief swamped him—he was going to get the grant—he could still save his job. Then sense broke through: despite her words, Ms. Montague was very much attaching strings. “What if they don’t want to work with me?”
She shrugged. “We can hardly force anyone to cooperate with us, so I would leave it up to you to find a replacement.”
We,she’d said. Oh yes, this money was indeed coming with caveats. “And the third thing?”
“In the old days,” she said, apparently apropos of nothing, “mediums did more than communicate with the dead. They helped restless ghosts to cross through the veil, to whatever awaits on the other side.”
He stiffened. “I’m quite aware.”
“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to explain your own course to you.” She smiled. “The third thing you need is a location. I’ve looked into your past, Dr. Taylor, and I believe you can provide one.”
Shock froze him to his seat for a moment. “I, uh—”
“I refer to the Matthews house, which has recently gone into foreclosure. One of my shell companies has already acquired it.”
Nigel shot to his feet, heart suddenly racing. Memories kaleidoscoped through his head: riding his bike with Mike in the warm Georgia sun, a fit of childish rage, a haggard man smiling at him from the dinner table. “How do you know about that?”
“Oscar Fox wasn’t the only one I looked into before making my offer,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I know all about you, Dr. Taylor. And I have a very good guess as to why you chose to study survival research, rather than any other field.”
His mouth had gone dry, and a part of him wanted to turn and march out the door. To flee this unexpected ambush. “Why?” he asked instead. “Why are you offering the grant? Why do you want me to go there? What are you getting out of this?”
“Is it so strange that a woman my age would find herself interested in whether our personalities survive after death?” she asked. Too lightly—he didn’t believe that was her only reason for a second. “As for the rest, don’t you agree that your personal involvement could lead to stronger manifestations?”
He swayed slightly, before catching himself. In his memories, a killer grinned at him over dinner. “I imagine you’re correct about that.”
“You need my help,” Ms. Montague said. “Or at least, my money’s help, if you want to survive the next round of budget cuts at the university. Work with me on this—interview the OutFoxing the Paranormal team, go with them to the house, discover whatever you can about both any hauntings and the possible medium—and I’ll make sure you still have a job waiting for you when you’re done.” She leaned over and extended a hand. “What do you say, Dr. Taylor? Do we have a deal?”
He didn’t want to go back to the Matthews house. Did. Not.
But it didn’t look like he was about to get much of a choice.
Nigel reached out and clasped her hand. “We have a deal.”
The ABCs of Spellcraft Volume 3 by Jordan Castillo Price
Present Tense #8
1
DIXON
Winter. It’s the time of year when frost etches pretty pictures on your windows and the world outside is nestled in a soft white blanket. A time when you get to snuggle up in your mismatched mittens, and no one comments on how many hot chocolates you’ve had—if you don’t start acting too hyper, anyhow.
I’ve always had a fondness for winter. And since there was snow on the ground and a nip in the air back when I first met Yuri, now I love it even more.
December is also traditionally a lucrative time for my people. While it’s widely known that Spellcraft has no business in politics or religion, nowadays Christmas is pretty secular. And who wouldn’t want to impress their special someone with a bespoke piece of Crafting?
My family had been working hard these past few weeks, and if my dad had his druthers, Practical Penn would be open on Christmas Eve to snag those last-minute shoppers. But our official Seer had negotiated Christmas Eve as one of his annual days off, and we didn’t dare break his contract by letting Yuri fill his shoes. Or wield his paintbrush, since shoes don’t really have anything to do with Spellcraft. And Rufus Clahd has unusually small feet.
Speaking of feet—there was still a bit of snow clinging to my shoes. I stomped it off on the welcome mat in my parents’ vestibule, then hung up my winter coat on the nearby coat tree. It was actually more like an alien life form than a tree, with a giant ball of winter coats up top that took up half the room. I’m not sure it was even possible to dig down to the innermost layers anymore. But if you did, you’d probably find something so old it had come back in style again. Maybe more than once.
My mother hustled in as I was draping my coat over the top of the coat-ball. Once my hands were free, she enveloped me in a big, squishy hug, and greeted me with, “Where’s Yuri?”
I adored the way she loved him as much as I did. “Picking up dinner.”
“That’s generous of him—but he really didn’t need to. We’ve got plenty of leftovers in the fridge.”
“What can I say? He insisted.” I steered Mom into the living room where my dad was clicking through channels from his favorite recliner. I gave him a kiss on the top of the head, then said, “You guys’ve both been working so hard lately, might as well let us pamper you.”
Mom settled into her chair with considerable arranging and re-arranging of her bulk—not unlike the way my cockatoo friend, Meringue, fastidiously fluffs her feathers as she’s settling onto her perch. “Just so it’s understood this isn’t a Christmas present.”
“Don’t worry, Mom, it’s not. He just wanted to do something nice.”
“Yuri might be a Seer, but he wasn’t raised in the Craft.”
“Trust me—I’m awesome at explaining our traditions. And Yuri knows. No gifts.”
Mom was skeptical. “Because there’s nothing less meaningful than being trapped into an endless cycle of reciprocal obligation with the people you’re supposed to love.”
“That’s just what I said.” Actually, it was more like, Spellcrafters don’t do Christmas presents. Same difference. “I think Yuri actually seemed pretty relieved.”
Dad paused in his channel-changing, looked at my mom and said, “Speaking of traditions, you told Dixon about the Magi…right?”
Normally, I would’ve presumed this was some kind of setup for a cheesy joke—except that my mother stopped rearranging herself and said, “I thought you did.”
“Magi?” I said. “As in the story about the guy who sold his pocket watch and the girl who cut off her hair?”
“As in the three wise men,” my mother said testily.
“That sounds kind of…biblical.” I could’ve sworn my mother thought the Bible was full of baloney. Speaking of which, I hoped Yuri remembered to grab us a nice relish tray, since I was feeling a mite peckish.
“I’m sure it’s all just superstition,” Dad said.
Mom gave him her patented single-squinty-eyeball look. “And since when does superstition stop a Spellcrafter from doing something? Everyone knows superstition is just the poor cousin of luck. The way my parents explained it to me, the Magi were the first Seer and Scrivener.”
I supposed legends had to start somewhere. “But aren’t there supposed to be three Magi?”
“The third guy was their customer,” Mom said. Huh, lucky him. I wonder if they Crafted a way for his camel to go faster…or at least not spit so much. “The Magi didn’t turn up for every single one of their messiah’s birthdays bearing gifts…just the first one. And so, it’s Scrivener tradition to surprise your partner with a small gift on your first Christmas together.”
“In fact,” my father said, “it’s bad luck if you don’t.”
“And you’re just telling me this now?”
Mom looked somewhat chagrined. “We meant to say something. You know how crazy it’s been at the shop.”
“And now I’ve got nothing for Yuri!” I scrambled to recall if I’d seen any stores open on our way over, but all I could think of was the car wash with the big inflatable noodle-guy flailing around in the parking lot. Was a premium car wash a good gift? Maybe for some people. But if I ran the pickup truck through the high-powered water jets, I’d likely blast off the rust that was holding on the fender. “It’s too late to shop online, and all the local stores are closed.”
“How about the gas station?” Mom suggested. “The one by the highway to Strangeberg is open twenty-four-seven.”
Dad set down the remote, pried himself from the recliner and dusted his hands together. “Before Dixon tries to figure out how to make an air freshener and a bag of pork rinds look festive, I suggest he take a gander at The Stash.”
The Stash was Dad’s collection of assorted useable objects that just needed a little TLC to bring them back to their former glory. In theory, it was a great resource for someone looking to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon tinkering at the workbench. But in reality, my father just can’t stand seeing anything of potential value being thrown away…and he likes gathering things a lot more than he likes fixing them. I wasn’t quite sure how much longer I could count on the supermarket keeping Yuri busy—but since those places are more cutthroat on Christmas Eve than a roller derby, I hoped I could head down to the basement and find some random item that would pass for a thoughtful gift.
Unfortunately, the current state of The Stash was less than encouraging. You’ve seen organizing shows where a stack of plastic bins makes a roomful of stuff miraculously fit onto a closet shelf? This wasn’t like that. At all. Cheap plastic storage containers teetered in tall stacks, and because they were all from some no-name bargain bin, most of them were cracked or warped, and none of them quite fit together.
Still, an invitation from my father to go through The Stash was not to be taken lightly. With Mom always hinting that she’d take great pleasure in throwing it all away, over the years he’d grown protective. But as I rifled through bin after cracked plastic bin, I wasn’t so sure there was anything there worth protecting. Jewelry—not even the good stuff, with its faux gemstones and plastic pearls scattered like ball bearings in the bottoms of the containers. Weird kitchen gadgets you might buy on TV when insomnia struck. Kitschy little statuettes that needed a touch-up to their paint job. And while I did know my way around a paintbrush—I’ve always been fond of flourishing—I strongly suspected Yuri was the wrong audience for the big-eyed baby statuettes and chubby-cheeked cherubs. He’s none too keen on looking at an inanimate object only to find it looking back.
“Aha!” my father said. “This looks promising.”
Too bad that exclamation could only work so many times. And since I couldn’t really see Yuri being particularly enthused over a broken foot massager or a promotional backscratcher, it took me a moment to realize precisely what had been plucked from the teetering stack. “Dad…is that what I think it is?”
“No clue. I’m still trying to get the top open.”
“That box you’re holding…it’s my favorite box!”
Dad looked skeptical. “It’s just your average cardboard box, Dixon.”
“You say average like it’s a bad thing—but just look at it. Not too big, not too small, not too flimsy, and not too thick. In short, it’s an absolutely perfect box. I thought it was long gone, smashed flat in some far distant recycling bin. But here it is!” I took it from his unresisting hands with a happy sigh. “In all its boxy glory.”
“And even better, if you look inside, you might find something for Yuri.”
After a few tries, the old cellophane tape yielded to my thumbnail, and with great eagerness, I pulled open the flap. And inside was….
Another box.
Not a cardboard box, but a wooden box. A fancy wooden box—very sturdy. Very solid. And very elaborate. My breath caught as I held it up to the fluorescent light and said, “What’s this?”
“Dunno. Open it and see.”
When I popped the seal, a smell wafted out that was mostly dust, but something else, too. Oranges. Cloves. And beneath it all…cedar. I opened the lid to a bunch of wood shavings. “I hope there wasn’t originally a hamster in here.”
“Potpourri,” my father said decisively. “All the rage in the eighties. You’d be hard-pressed to find a bathroom without it.”
I gave the box a dubious shake. The smell of mingled spices tickled my senses.
Dad said, “That lid’s awfully plain, though, don’t you think? Maybe you’re holding it upside down.”
I flipped it over and discovered he was right. The actual lid was very decorative. Unfortunately, there was a word etched within the carvings. A very unfortunate word.
Poopourri.
My heart sank. “Well, that’s a shame. I was just thinking Yuri would actually like this. But he’s never once laughed at an American pun. Not in my presence, at least.”
“Maybe he’s just never found the right one.” Dad eyed the lettering. “Though as jokes go, this one’s not so hot. But take a look at the etching. It’s pretty shallow. You could add some flourishes with a wood burner and turn the word into a decorative design.”
I’d only ever seen my father use the wood burning tool to singe our name onto our patio furniture in case any of our neighbors ever decided to appropriate it—which they never did—but it seemed straightforward enough. I’m no artist. Not like Yuri, with his ability to evoke a morning mist with a swipe of a half-cleaned brush or a distant horizon with a single horizontal stroke. But all Scriveners receive extensive calligraphy training, so decorative elements like cartouches and ornaments were certainly in my calligraphic vocabulary. As I considered the shape and position of the current lettering, the bowls and stems of the letters shifted in my mind’s eye to become the twigs and fruits of an elaborate bouquet of holly. Seasonal, yet secular.
In other words, perfect!
Charlie Cochet is the international bestselling author of the THIRDS series. Born in Cuba and raised in the US, Charlie enjoys the best of both worlds, from her daily Cuban latte to her passion for classic rock.
Currently residing in Central Florida, Charlie is at the beck and call of a rascally Doxiepoo bent on world domination. When she isn’t writing, she can usually be found devouring a book, releasing her creativity through art, or binge watching a new TV series. She runs on coffee, thrives on music, and loves to hear from readers.
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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.
Bestselling romance author.
Bisexual witch.
Feminist. Pro-choice. Anti-censorship.
Timothee Chalamet freak.
Horror movie aficionado.
Vampire mermaid in a past life.
Sara Dobie Bauer somehow survived her party-hard college years at Ohio University to earn a creative writing degree. She lives with her precious Pit Bull in Northeast Ohio, although she’d really like to live in a Tim Burton film.
Jordan L. Hawk is a trans author from North Carolina. Childhood tales of mountain ghosts and mysterious creatures gave him a life-long love of things that go bump in the night. When he isn’t writing, he brews his own beer and tries to keep the cats from destroying the house. His best-selling Whyborne & Griffin series (beginning with Widdershins) can be found in print, ebook, and audiobook.
If you want to contact Jordan, just click on the links below or send an email.
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.
Charlie Cochet
EMAIL: charlie@charliecochet.com
VL Locey
EMAIL: vicki@vllocey.com
Sara Dobie Bauer
Blake Lockheart(Narrator)
AUDIBLE / AUDIOBOOKS / CHIRP
Jordan L Hawk
B&N / SMASHWORDS / AUTHORGRAPH
EMAIL: jordanlhawk@gmail.com
Jordan Castillo Price
Tried & True by Charlie Cochet
Spiritual Whispers by VL Locey
He Sees You When You're Sleeping by Sara Dobie Bauer
The Forgotten Dead by Jordan L Hawk
B&N / iTUNES AUDIO / AUDIBLE
KOBO / iTUNES / SMASHWORDS
The ABCs of Spellcraft Volume 3 by Jordan Castillo Price
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