Sunday, May 14, 2023
🌷🌹Mother's Day 2023🌹🌷
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In honor of Mother's Day here in the US today, I wanted to showcase stories with strong, influential mother figures. I say "mother figures" because it isn't always a mom, sometimes it isn't even family, sometimes it can be a stranger who steps up and fills in. Some aren't necessarily even a lengthy factor in the story, perhaps it's even just one chapter, or a flashback, etc. The mother figure has however, left a lasting impression on the characters, the story, and the reader. For Mother's Day 2023, I chose 5 stories where the mother, aunt, friend, and all around motherly figure helped to shape the characters, intentionally or not, made them stronger and in doing so made the story even more brilliant and left me smiling. If you have any recommendations for great mother figures in the LGBTQIA genre, be sure and comment below or on the social media post that may have brought you here. The purchase links below are current as of the original posting but if they don't work be sure to check the authors' websites for up-to-date information.
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It's All Relative by Jordan Castillo Price
Summary:The ABCs of Spellcraft #14
If Spellcrafters value anything, it’s family. (And a good deal from the clearance rack, and an exceptional hand of poker. But mainly family.)
So, when a long-lost relative surfaces, everyone is absolutely thrilled…until the newcomer challenges Dixon for the title of Hand.
Yuri is perfectly willing to force the usurper back under whatever rock he crawled out from, but Dixon insists on proving himself the best man for the job. A magic string chose him as the Hand, after all. And while Spellcraft can be capricious, surely it would never let Dixon down.
Would it?
To make matters worse, Dixon’s attention is divided. Not only is he scrambling through town on a magical scavenger hunt, but a Handless customer with a sob story has him searching for her lost dog. Because, as Yuri points out, there’s always a dog.
From one end of Pinyin Bay to the other, the whole family pitches in to help Dixon keep his rightful place in the final installment of this heartwarming series.
The ABCs of Spellcraft is a series filled with bad jokes and good magic, where M/M romance meets paranormal cozy. A perky hero, a brooding love interest, and delightfully twisty-turny stories that never end up quite where you’d expect.
Original February 2023 Book of the Month Review:
Say it ain't so! The end is here! No more Dixon and Yuri! As the saying goes, all good things must come to an end . . . doesn't mean I have to like it😉.
The ABCs of Spellcraft may be over. No more new adventures for the always over-optimistic and endless ray of sunshine Dixon and his stern but never not supportive man-friend Yuri, and the incredibly intriguing cast of wacky family, friends, and occasionally not-quite friendly characters. Yes, that's sad to hear but their adventures will live on in re-reads and re-listens and they will never get old, I will never tire of re-visiting Pinyon Bay for a ride-along. For me, that statement alone is the best way to explain how much I enjoy this series and characters. I have a list of books that I re-read/re-listen to every summer, it's not that long but the year would never be complete without them and I am 99.999% certain Spellcraft has just hitched a ride on that list.
Now, as for the final entry, It's All Relative, itself.
What can be said that hasn't already been mentioned in my previous entries reviews?
Jordan Castillo Price has a unique and creative way to bring the world of magic to life, to make it real, to make one look up and expect to see a crafting, or the result of a crafting, float by your front window. Frankly I don't know how Yuri stays so calm. If my significant other had the never-ending energy that Dixon lives life by I would be off my rocker. My mother always looks at life postiviely but her views on "it's going to be okay" has nothing compared to Dixon, so I don't know how Yuri does it but he manages to not only stand by his man sanely but he does so with Dixon's family as well. His desire in Relative to see Dixon keep his place as the Hand probably tests his control more than any other obstacle the couple has tackled but he maintains his voice of calm and focus.
I've probably given away more than I intended to so I won't say more but know it's brilliant and if this series had to end, I can't think of a better way to do so. This series is simply put: FUN! FUN! FUN! FUN! and what's the word I'm looking for? Oh yeah: FUN!!!!!
Now I realize that for some 15 books, even novellas, can seem daunting if you haven't been reading as they've been released. That's a lot of zany, madcappery magic to digest but trust me, you won't regret it. Dixon and Yuri and the whole Spellcraft gang is so enjoyable the time will fly by and before you know it you will be where I am right now, the end with no more new coming and you'll be a little sad but also happy for having discovered such a crazy, fun, romantic, entertaining universe.
Summary:
Single Dads #6
A blazing connection between single dads from opposite sides of the tracks is fraught with secrets and lies, and a happily ever after is impossible, unless they take a chance on love.
Saved a long time ago by a man who saw a diamond in the rough, Logan is a single dad and the owner of Redcars Automotive, a haven for those in need. With custody of his daughter under scrutiny, his life is upended when a journalist looking for a story slips into his life without him realizing. Logan doesn’t want Gray more than once, but when sharing the secrets of his past won’t get the journalist to leave, what else can he do?
After blaming himself for missing signs that his son was ill, Gray feels Ben is safer with his ex-wife and her new pediatrician husband. With a heart heavy with guilt, and his documentary company failing to find a story, he’s searching for some spark in his life to fix everything. When a series of arson attempts draws him to Los Angeles, he meets the secretive, scarred, and tattooed Logan, who makes him an offer that Gray knows he should refuse.
This opposites-attract love story features two single dads reaching a crossroads in life, angst, secrets, arson, intimidation, and a found family so tightly connected that nothing can break it apart.
Too often(or at least in my reading experience) in fiction we find divided parents that just can't find common ground to provide their kids with stability in joint custodies. Now I know that happens in reality so why shouldn't it happen in fiction? But in my reading recollections it seems like the author does that for drama purposes only and that's okay because we have to have some conflict but because it happens more than I'd like to see, when you have an author who goes the opposite direction and have amicable splits that can still enjoy each other's companies I feel a need to highlight it.
This is why I mention the above point: RJ Scott has done that beautifully. So fluently actually that for a few minutes you almost forget Gray and his ex aren't simply BFFs. Maybe I'm just not reading the right books but this just isn't seen enough for me so a huge Kudos! to RJ Scott for this factor. Now that's not to say Logan and his ex don't have the potential to be on the same level but her husband . . . well lets just say he puts off some not so super friendly vibes.
Watching both men with their perspective offspring is fun and heartwarming, perhaps neither child has as much page-time as previous entries but they own every scene they appear in. Delightful. Simply delightful.
There is a bit more of a mystery element to this Single Dads entry than others and I'll admit I had an inkling where it was headed but not quite how or the full extent behind the danger. Within or around the danger lies, Redcars Automotives, Logan's business that through classic car repair and rebuilts, help certain people get a second chance in life. It's due to Redcars and what they offer that Logan is leery of Gray's journalistic intrusion(or at least that is how Gray sees it). Will the danger be resolved? Will Gray prove to Logan he isn't out to destroy the stability Redcars provides? I think you know the answers . . . read for yourself and as always with RJ Scott's work, you won't be disappointed.
Pride is a journey of healing, discovery, and finding your place in the world through love, friendship, family, and second chances. Some use the label "found family" when it comes to family-not-by-marriage-or-blood, personally I just like "family", whichever label you find fits best, there is no denying family is important to everyone in this story and that makes the goodness of Pride all the more longlasting.
I may be repeating myself but the statement I made about the men and their kids also says it best when it comes to my overall reading experience with Pride: Delightful. Simply delightful.
One last note: I briefly talked about the second chances given at Logan's Redcars Automotive, it seems the author will be bringing to us a Single Dads spinoff centered around the classic car repair and rebuild business January 2024 starting with Logan's righthand man, Enzo. I for one can't wait!
RATING:
The Medium by Bonnie Dee
Summary:To win a heart, he must risk his soul…
Cast out of his family for being a freak, psychic Justin Crump helps others find peace by using his ability. When he’s called upon to release a distressed soul from a haunted house, a child’s angry spirit draws him into a dark mystery. Equally intriguing is the skeptical homeowner, Albert. A man who has buried his sexuality deeper than the grave.
Albert Henderson humors his mother’s wishes by inviting the medium for a visit. While he doubts Justin’s gifts, he can’t deny one truth: the man stirs desire in him that Albert has spent a lifetime denying. Slowly, the walls of his proper life crumble. And when Justin proposes some emotion-free experimentation, neither imagines it might lead to love…and danger.
After learning the terrifying truth about the deceased child’s persecutor, the two men pursue a perpetrator of great evil. When they coax a confession from their quarry, the vengeful spirit unleashes power nearly beyond control. To free the earthbound ghost from the past that holds it shackled, Justin must risk his own soul. And Albert must find the courage to break free of the chains of doubt that will deny him and Justin the future of which they once only dreamed.
💥Warning: Contains mention of child sexual abuse.💥
Original Review July 2018:
Justin Crump, disowned by his family for who and what he is, uses his abilities to help others. When he's called in to help rid a haunted house of a distressed spirit he finds himself pulled into a mystery he wasn't expecting. Albert Henderson is skeptical of Justin's abilities but he humors his mother who is a believer. Finding himself intrigued by Justin on multiple levels, will the pair find love among the danger once the truth to the spirit is discovered?
Followers of my reviews have long ago realized just how big a fan of historicals and paranormals I am and when the two are put together, well then I am in reader heaven. Bonnie Dee has once again made history come alive, she has a way about her that makes even the paranormal element seem realistic without going over the top. Whether you believe spirits, ghosts, and mediums to be real doesn't really matter, with this book the author has you believing in the possibilities.
Justin and Albert are such a perfect match, not exactly the "opposites attract" trope and not really "enemies to lovers" either but a little bit of both probably. Justin is not your typical medium nor is he the typical con-artist that Albert believes him to be, he knows how the "upper class" works but he also knows the value of the "working man". Albert's not lost to the ways of either as well but he isn't easily won over as he thinks his mother has been. They both work for what they find and I really love that about both of them, it just adds to their chemistry.
As for the mystery part, I won't say much but I will mention that it will break your heart and just how Justin is able to deal with what he learns and continue on is beyond me. I would most definitely want to find answers but I don't think I'd be able to bounce back so quickly to do so but I think that is probably down to Albert at Justin's side. I will say that I certainly shed no tears when the mystery was brought to a conclusion 😉😉
The Medium is another prime example of the brilliance behind Bonnie Dee when she has her mind set on bringing history to life. Throw in a little paranormal, a little mystery, and just the right amount of romance and you are looking at great entertaining fiction. The title may be The Medium but the quality and talent that brought this gem to life is definitely The High.😉
Followers of my reviews have long ago realized just how big a fan of historicals and paranormals I am and when the two are put together, well then I am in reader heaven. Bonnie Dee has once again made history come alive, she has a way about her that makes even the paranormal element seem realistic without going over the top. Whether you believe spirits, ghosts, and mediums to be real doesn't really matter, with this book the author has you believing in the possibilities.
Justin and Albert are such a perfect match, not exactly the "opposites attract" trope and not really "enemies to lovers" either but a little bit of both probably. Justin is not your typical medium nor is he the typical con-artist that Albert believes him to be, he knows how the "upper class" works but he also knows the value of the "working man". Albert's not lost to the ways of either as well but he isn't easily won over as he thinks his mother has been. They both work for what they find and I really love that about both of them, it just adds to their chemistry.
As for the mystery part, I won't say much but I will mention that it will break your heart and just how Justin is able to deal with what he learns and continue on is beyond me. I would most definitely want to find answers but I don't think I'd be able to bounce back so quickly to do so but I think that is probably down to Albert at Justin's side. I will say that I certainly shed no tears when the mystery was brought to a conclusion 😉😉
The Medium is another prime example of the brilliance behind Bonnie Dee when she has her mind set on bringing history to life. Throw in a little paranormal, a little mystery, and just the right amount of romance and you are looking at great entertaining fiction. The title may be The Medium but the quality and talent that brought this gem to life is definitely The High.😉
RATING: 
Summary:
Boyfriend for Hire #5
Hiring a fake boyfriend for a school reunion seems to be the only solution, but love was never part of the equation.
Felix has enough on his plate looking out for his parents, let alone agreeing to being hired for a date with the friend of a friend. His instant attraction to the scatter-brained scientist has him making impulsive decisions he hopes he won’t regret. But, somehow, he’s agreeing to more dates, and more time with sexy Ethan and his non-stop talking. When stolen wintry kisses turn to love, and Christmas works its magic, Felix knows he’s losing his heart.
The science of chemistry makes more sense to Ethan than connecting with potential boyfriends, and he’s wary of romance. Unsettled by a string of failed hookups, he knows it’s on him when everything goes wrong and he can’t help but wonder what has made him this way. His friend Jared says that Ethan needs to close metaphorical doors on past hurts—whatever that means—and that the school reunion might just be step one. Determined to show himself as confident and happy, he hires Felix to be his date for the night, but a kiss to make up for the one he missed at prom, and abruptly, it’s not the past that is consuming his thoughts.
Now all Felix has to do is show Ethan that it’s okay to love and be loved in return, and that chemistry can lead to a happily ever after.
Original Review January 2023:
I love this series so much and I have no idea how I missed reading Jared, the 4th entry but I did and I'll have to go back and check it out. I mention this for those who are wondering about reading order. Boyfriend for Hire is a series of standalones where the connection is the fake boyfriend service the men in the titles work. As stated each entry is a standalone but there are a few cameos of previous characters however knowing their journeys is not a must to understand the entry you are reading. In Felix, there are a few mentions of Jared as Ethan, the man in need of a fake boyfriend is Jared's roommate but I wasn't lost having not read Jared's story first.
On to Felix.
I could empathize with Felix in his need not to have jobs that lasted more than 24 hours because he needs to stay close to care for his parents. Being my mom's 24/7 live-in caregiver I don't have the luxury of a time card but I have turned down many social functions because I was uncomfortable being away for extended hours so I completely understood where Felix was coming from and I loved how the authors really convey that pull on an adult caring for a parent. It may only be a small factor of the story and more of a set-up situation that makes Felix the perfect one to step in as Ethan's date but it really stood out for me and gave me that connection to the character and it's that connection between reader and character that can turn a good book into a great story.
Ethan. What can I say about Ethan? I just want to wrap him up in bubblewrap to keep him safe. His inner struggles and introverted-like social skills scream "love him, for the love of everything holy in the universe give this man the HEA he deserves!" He has issues, or doors that need closing as Jared points out and having Felix on his side be it professionally at first and then emotionally is one of the most heartwarming stories I've read in a long time. Why you ask? I don't really know. Maybe it's my own brand of introverted-ness, maybe it's knowing he's had something locked away behind that door Jared says needs closing, maybe it's just my need to find goodness in my readings, or maybe it's a combination of all the above. What I do know is I'm not going to spoil it for you. Scott & Russell are all about the HEA in their Boyfriend for Hire series so we all know where the ending will lead but it's the journey the men take getting there that makes this story a heartwarmingly fun holiday gem and that is something you need to experience.
For those who don't like insta-love then this may not be up your alley and that's okay, it's not a trope for everyone and if it's not done right it's not a trope for me either but Felix is done right. But I just want to say for those who don't believe insta-love is real, I can prove you wrong because I wouldn't be here if it wasn't real. My grandparents met in January 1946, engaged on Valentine's Day 1946, married in July that summer and were still married in 1994 when my grandpa passed away. So it's real and it can lead to life long love.
Summary:
Secrets & Scrabble #1
Ellery Page, aspiring screenwriter, Scrabble champion and guy-with-worst-luck-in-the-world-when-it-comes-to-dating, is ready to make a change. So when he learns he's inherited both a failing bookstore and a falling-down mansion in the quaint seaside village of Pirate's Cove on Buck Island, Rhode Island, it's full steam ahead!
Sure enough, the village is charming, its residents amusingly eccentric, and widowed police chief Jack Carson is decidedly yummy (though probably as straight as he is stern). However, the bookstore is failing, the mansion is falling down, and there's that little drawback of finding rival bookseller--and head of the unwelcoming-committee--Trevor Maples dead during the annual Buccaneer Days celebration.
Still, it could be worse. And once Police Chief Carson learns Trevor was killed with the cutlass hanging over the door of Ellery's bookstore, it is.
**This story contains NO on-screen sex or violence.
I want to start by commenting on a couple of points.
1. I love a good cozy mystery, though to be completely honest, I never see them as "cozy" just mystery.2. I love the name Ellery Page. I don't know if it was intentional on the author's part by possibly making it a nod to the Ellery Queen Mysteries, but as a lover & collector of old radio shows and films, I thought of it right away.3. In the same fashion as 2, I loved that the cop's name is Jack Carson. Again I don't know if it was intentional but I immediately pictured the comedic actor Jack Carson of the 40s and 50s. From physicality to downplayed wit, it made perfect casting in my brain.4. The idea that Ellery inherits from his great great great aunt was a nice twist. Personally I was always closer to my great aunts(only one great not 3😉) than my actual aunt, but great-anythings tend to get overlooked or not used in fiction. Extra kudos for that.
Back to Murder at Pirate's Cove.
I won't say much about the mystery itself but I'll admit the "who done it?" crossed my mind early-ish in the investigation. Having said that, Josh Lanyon is brilliant when it comes to twists and turns that keep me on my toes so I was never 100% sure until the reveal.
The connection between the characters, and I don't just mean Ellery and Jack, is wonderful. Small town gossips, small town reporting, small town politics, and small town cops is all spot on. I can't speak for living in a touristy town but I can attest to small town atmosphere and everything Lanyon brings to the story definitely hits the nail on the head.
I guess I can't say too much more without leaking some spoilers and even though this is more than a year old release, I'm sure there are plenty who like me just got around to reading it. Normally I gobble everything by Josh Lanyon instantly but 2020 really screwed with my reading mojo so I just got around to Secrets & Scrabbles. I love the combination of mystery, wit, friendships, mayhem, possible romance and it's that blending that makes Murder at Pirate's Cove such a delightfully fun read.
It's All Relative by Jordan Castillo Price
1
DIXON
The Practical Penn Spellcraft shop has been in my family for years. My folks partnered with Uncle Fonzo to start the business while I was still in diapers—and, for the record, I was very easy to potty train, unlike Tuesday. Probably because even at that tender young age I was so concerned about disappointing anyone—while Tuesday is probably the least motivated baby I’ve ever known. Though she’s so utterly adorable, no one really minds.
I’d spent my childhood at Practical Penn playing hide-and-seek with my cousin in the various offices. My school years doing homework on a desk where enchantments were Scribed. And, more recently, the occasional weekend helping clean out the cages of the various small animals we’d inherited from Precious Greetings.
But as for actually working there as a Spellcrafter? Between my walkabout after college and the span of time I’d endured as an unquilled WheelMeal driver, the hours I’d clocked in the family business were surprisingly few.
I plucked a curved piece of metal from the supply cabinet and held it up for inspection. While my inventory list did contain some pretty obscure items, we Scriveners do know our stationery well. Surely it was just a matter of eliminating the various tools I recognized, and whatever was left would cause recognition to dawn.
I was debating whether the object seemed more like a distance page-turner or a rubber band stretcher when I realized a shadow had fallen across the curve of the metal. I turned and found my mother filling the doorway to the supply room, hands on hips, looking very businesslike indeed. She knew this office inside and out, so surely she’d know what it was. The trick was in not letting on that I didn’t. I smiled my winningest smile and said, “So, if one were looking to loosen up his rubber bands….”
“Give me that.” Mom snatched the mystery object out of my hands and tucked it into her cardigan. Either she has extra pockets in there or she’d just developed the ability to hold onto various small items with her body mass—a handy trick to be sure. “It’s the arm that holds a globe on its stand, but the globe shattered years ago and the stand turned to rust. I’d better get rid of it while your father’s off running errands.”
I turned to the list in my hands and added the words Globe Holder…then dutifully crossed them off.
Mom blinked in that way she does when she’s counting to ten. “Dixon, is this really necessary?”
“The Annual Reckoning must be completed in an orderly manner,” I said brightly, quoting a pamphlet I found stuck to the back of a desk drawer in Shirque Mansion. It was printed in 1948, so all the men in the photos are wearing hats and smoking cigarettes—but fortunately, Spellcraft traditions themselves are pretty timeless.
“Everything’s there in black and white on the spreadsheet I printed out,” Mom said. “All you need to do is sign it.”
“If I wanted to scrape by doing the bare minimum, then sure. I could read through the spreadsheet, ink my very fetching signature at the bottom of that form, and be done with it.”
“You think that’s the bare minimum? Your uncle never even bothered to sign the darned thing himself, let alone read it. Look, I get that you take pride in being the Hand of the family. None of us can argue with that. But no Hand in their right mind would do all this manual bean-counting unless they were planning to Fold.”
Obviously, the last thing I wanted to do was liquidate the business and leave everyone in my family unemployed. Not to mention invalidating the work order that kept Yuri in the country.
However….
“These beans you’ve just referenced—I’m not seeing them on the spreadsheet.”
The chime of a customer coming through the door interrupted our lively debate, and Mom threw her hands in the air and bustled off to go see what they wanted. And since the tallying of staples, pencils and paperclips had indeed grown truly tedious, I followed her out to the front counter.
A red-haired woman in her mid-thirties stood in the lobby, visibly fretting. There was a nylon strap of some kind in her hands, and she twisted and re-twisted it nervously as she rocked from foot to foot, scanning all the various signage, from the jaunty “Got Problems? Spellcraft is the solution!” to the stern, “No Bad Checks…Or Else.”
“Can I help you?” Mom asked the woman, in a brusque, no-nonsense way most Handless find oddly comforting.
“Gosh, I sure hope so. I was told that—”
Outside, a car horn blared. Not just a polite toot-toot, either, but a long and weirdly loud bellow that went on and on. I hurried around the counter and pressed my face up against the glass to see what such a beepable offense might be, only to find a little old lady pawing desperately at her steering column trying to get her horn unstuck. A truck driver had stopped to help her, but despite his intervention, the honk just kept right on honking. Eventually, he gestured in the direction of the nearest mechanic, and the old woman hastily drove off, the beep fading behind her as she turned a corner and was gone.
“Wow,” I said, “that must’ve been painfully loud from inside the car. I’d hate to have all that beepage blasting right in my face. Good thing the horn on our truck stopped working ages ago.” I turned toward the customer. “Now, how can we help?”
“This is a prime example!” she said. “Every time I—”
A raucous clatter cut her off. I whirled around and saw the truck that belonged to the helpful driver had opened up, and hundreds upon hundreds of cans had fallen out the back. I was excited for a split second there, imagining such syrupy delights as fruit cocktail and cherry pie filling up for grabs, distributed throughout the neighborhood like tiny treasures waiting to be stumbled upon later. But then the vegetables painted on the side of the truck quashed my nascent fruity fantasies.
Still, the spill was entertaining. Those cans could really roll! Though why they were just loose in the back of the truck to begin with was anyone’s guess.
Eventually, the cacophony ebbed long enough for the red-haired customer to say, “I can’t take much more of this. I need someone to—”
Suddenly, we were enveloped by the rousing sound of a marching band. Through every speaker in the building, from the stereo that usually piped in Musak to the intercom no one ever used (as it was a lot quicker to just yell) some vaguely patriotic parade music blasted forth. Rufus Clahd reeled out of his office with an empty CD case in his hand—the title of which was March! March! March! He waved it around a few times, then stumbled back in.
Mom held up a Just-a-Sec index finger and bustled off to help our Seer with his musical selection. That left me standing there in the lobby with the customer—not usually a problem, but the fact that we couldn’t talk was surprisingly awkward for me. I offered her an encouraging smile and she tried her best to smile back, though really, it came out as more of a wince.
Banging and clanging ensued, and the rousing march went skip-skip-skip, sounding oddly techno as it stuttered over the end of a cymbal crash replaying the blat of a trumpet. Several bangs later, the march fell silent, and my mother stomped out of Mr. Clahd’s office, muttering, “Why we let him have access to the sound system, I’ll never know.”
The customer was just about to try again when Mom cut her off with, “Not one more word, young lady. Not until I get a look at that piece of Spellcraft in your pocket.”
The customer sagged all over with relief, pulled out the paper, and slid it across the desk.
The Seen was adorable—something right out of a children’s book, with a poodle frolicking in a green field of grass dotted with pastel wildflowers, puffy clouds overhead, and a butterfly circling lazily in the sky.
But the Scribing overlaid on the clouds was downright puzzling.
Nobody listens to me.
“I see the problem,” Mom said, as the customer nodded so vigorously I was worried she’d make herself dizzy enough to keel over. Not that that’s ever happened to me. Lately. “Crafting a Spell is challenging enough. It’s part discipline, part innate ability, and part luck. Most people who discovered a Crafting like this on their person would just tear it up, and it’s a good thing you didn’t. That might only make things worse. If you figure out who saddled you with this thing, you’d have a good case against them—though bringing it to the authorities would be a challenge in the state you’re currently in.”
The customer shook her head no.
“That’s good. I don’t recommend involving the law where something like this is concerned. Litigation and Spellcraft are an unpredictable combination. My advice would be to neutralize the Crafting—which just so happens to be my son’s specialty. But it doesn’t come cheap.”
The customer whipped out a credit card and flapped it up and down.
“Fine. Dixon?” Mom gestured at the Crafting. “It’s in your capable hands.”
Bursting with pride over my mother’s genuine praise, I gingerly picked up the Crafting and took it back to my office. It was the smallest office with the worst view—and it smelled like burnt mozzarella—but now it was so much more than a place to keep the nocturnal animals no one wanted in their house. Don’t get me wrong, the super loud toad was still there…but he was currently asleep, so he made a perfectly acceptable office mate.
Aside from the cages and tanks, there were now various Spellcrafty things a Hand might need. Copies of all the contracts and forms involved with the business. A giant box of dubious receipts. Contact info for the other local families, as well as a pile of generic gifts I might give if a social obligation cropped up…though someone had broken into the chocolates and taken a bite out of them. The fancy soaps, too.
In short, my office was a real office. And while I had once balked at the thought of joining my family business, now that I was actually rolling up my sleeves and getting down to work, I found it surprisingly empowering.
Though I had to admit, it was a lot more fun now that I was technically in charge.
I cleared my desk, drew my quill from its case, and lay the Spellcraft on the blotter. It wasn’t a curse—curses are in a horrific category all their own, and I’d be just as glad to never see one again—but it was definitely a hindrance. I would have expected the vibe it gave off to feel negative somehow. But when I turned it this way and that and tried to get a sense of the telltale tingle, it just felt…tingly. Nothing more.
If it weren’t for the actual words, I would’ve taken it for a perfectly benign Crafting. Maybe it was meant to teach someone a lesson. Or maybe it was just a poorly thought out practical joke. Whatever the reason, the only thing that mattered now was how to Uncraft the Spell.
Pride by RJ Scott
Chapter 1
Last week
After seeing every hour in the night, I’d banked no more than thirty minutes of decent sleep, every muscle ached, and my head hurt like a mother. The last thing I wanted today was to have to deal with lawyers, but there was too much at stake for me to fuck this up. I was early for the ten a.m. meeting—nervous as a racing driver with an engine fire—so I found a coffee shop within viewing distance of the office building that was home to Newman, Granda, and Lewis on the eighth floor. In downtown LA, it was impossible to walk twenty yards without tripping over the A-board of some artisan caffeine distributor claiming they served the best coffee in the city, and this one came with views of the 777 Tower as it soared to the sky.
Everything here made me feel small. I researched everything I could, and I fought for the right to be in my daughter’s life, and I hated feeling small.
God, I need caffeine.
“Logan? Coffee for Logan?” the barista called my name.
I stepped out from where I’d been hiding behind the unit displaying an artistically arranged set of mugs in what Millie’s Coffee Emporium called the Hollywood collection. Given we were miles from anything like the celebrity homes tourist trail in the hills, I thought Millie’s marketing was misguided, but who was I to comment. I might live and work in LA, but Echo Park was a long way from Hollywood. Instead of tourists, Millie’s was full of businesspeople who discussed everything from selling to buying in loud voices, and I’d yet to spot a single tourist; so, there was me, sticking out like a sore thumb.
I found a quiet corner with a view of the glass tower where the meeting would be held, and sipped my coffee, wishing for a distraction and damn thankful when my cell vibrated with a text.
Everything okay?
It was from Tudor Barrera, former boss, friend, pseudo dad, who would be waiting for me to tell him the meeting went well, as it usually did, but he was jumping the gun asking me too early.
Too early yet. Just got coffee.
I saw the dots dancing, and wondered what the comment would be.
Give ’em hell.
I snorted a laugh and sent back a simple LOL, but as I typed, I noticed a stubborn speck of oil down the side of my thumb, which had remained despite my best efforts to clean my hands. A mechanic was never truly clean of the sweat of honest work, of the oil and scent of leather and exhaust, although I picked at the spot as I finished my coffee just to see if I could clean it off, then pulled out the letter I’d received to read it one more time.
It was a non-specific, generic, letter-headed missive to attend a meeting regarding Cassidy’s welfare—something we’d done before, and nothing unusual. I had my daughter every other weekend, a precious forty-eight hours from the end of the school day on Friday to Sunday afternoon, but maybe Izzy wanted more time with her new husband and his family? Maybe after today, I could have Cassidy—the six-year-old, precocious, smiling, sunshine, center of my world—for more time.
I couldn’t avoid this thing any longer and headed out to the sixty-story glass building that housed the offices of Newman, Granda, and Lewis. After a warm welcome from the receptionist, I accepted another coffee with an undisguised enthusiasm that made her smile.
“Please take a seat in the family room.” She opened the door to a space off the main corridor, and her polite expression never slipped once, even if she had seen, as I guessed, the rough that I couldn’t hide. Then again, this was LA. I bet she’d seen some things, from actors and rock stars to sports heroes. Maybe she thought I had celebrity money and had chosen to wear an old suit and even older shoes, or maybe she’d just been trained to be welcoming.
“Thank you,” I said with a smile, which I was sure was little more than a grimace.
“You’re welcome. Mr. Granda will be starting the meeting shortly, and I will come to find you.”
My chest was tight, and I didn’t want to be here where I didn’t belong. I was thirty-one years old, responsible, owning and running a company. Hell, I even had a 401k. Still, I tugged down the sleeves of my shirt on instinct, and winced when I realized what I’d done.
Protection mode activated.
“Thank you, again,” I managed.
“Do you need anything?”
“Not to be here?” I quipped.
She offered me a soft smile that was probably meant to be reassuring.
I don’t feel reassured.
She pulled the door closed, and then it was just me with coffee, pacing the six-by-six room with its plush sofa and conspicuous lack of windows. I didn’t like small spaces at the best of times, or the feeling of being trapped, so I opened the door a little and hoped to God this would be over soon so I could get back to the garage.
I’d tried calling Izzy last night to suggest we didn’t need to meet so often—time was money. Only, it was a very polite Parker, aka her new husband, who’d answered the phone even thought I don’t like the guy, he was so damned reasonable that my piss and vinegar attitude had melted, and I found myself thanking him for taking the call, unsure how he’d encouraged me to reach that decision. I hated that he’d somehow gaslit me into feeling bad for wanting to talk to the mother of my daughter, but I couldn’t focus on that now. Did all rich people go somewhere to learn these let’s-be-reasonable techniques, or was I just out of my freaking depth? Probably the latter.
I was Izzy’s dad. I made smiley pancakes, and built Lego, and played tea parties, and loved her with every breath in my body. I may have had a complicated past, detailed in the tattoos etched on my skin, but I could teach Cassidy things Izzy never could. I knew how to stand up for myself, I knew how to strip and rebuild a beautiful lady of a ’66 Thunderbird until she purred like a kitten, or more likely, growled like a tiger. I knew the things Cassidy loved.
“I’m okay,” I muttered to the room.
“Talking to yourself, Logan?” Izzy said from the doorway.
I spun to face her as she slipped inside and shut us in. I felt trapped, but she hadn’t closed the door on purpose because she didn’t know I was claustrophobic. Hell, she didn’t know a tenth of the things about me that’d make her stop and think before shutting us into this small room. She floated in on a cloud of perfume, her ivory skin flawless, every hair in place, and jewelry that would keep the garage afloat for years around her neck, in her earlobes, and weighing down her hands. I’d never have gone out of my way to go with a high-class girl like her, but she’d gone out of hers to find a bad boy. I couldn’t even regret that night, or the joyride in a stolen car, or the arrest, or everything after that… because out of all of it came Cassidy.
And she was every good part of me. She was everything.
“Izzy,” I acknowledged.
“Isabel,” she corrected, and fiddled with the handle of her purse. “Parker suggested that I talk to you alone before we reconsider the custody arrangement—”
“Which was made official with a court order two years ago,” I interrupted. “So, if we’re here to discuss me having Cassidy for more time, then I can agree to that without spending money on lawyers.” Money that I don’t have.
“Logan, stop.” She held up a hand, and I saw the French-polished nails—she used to wear her nails longer, painted them scarlet, but this wasn’t the Izzy I’d known oh so briefly, this was the new, improved Isabel, who wanted to slot back into the world she’d once tried to escape with her walk on the wild side. “It’s not that.”
“So, if you don’t need me to take her for more time, then what are we doing here?”
“Parker has been offered a long-term role within his family’s bank in Europe. Switzerland, to be exact.” She used words, but the rushing sound in my ears meant I couldn’t string them together in any order. Panic gripped my chest. I couldn’t breathe. Switzerland? That meant…
They want to take Cassidy.
“No,” I managed. “No.”
“Think of the opportunities—”
“No.”
“Please be reasonable—”
“You’re not taking our daughter to goddamned Switzerland.”
She winced at the harsh words, but I wasn’t going to be manipulated into thinking I was wrong in my reaction. How in God’s name would I see her? Would she fly back? Would I go there? How could I go there? Izzy was still speaking in that low, wheedling tone that reminded me of Parker, as if she had the right to stand there and rip my life apart.
“It might only be for two or three years, and we think it would be best—”
“No.”
Izzy’s lips thinned, her brown eyes flashing with temper, and that was the first glimpse of the old Izzy I’d seen in a long time. She’d been such a firebrand back in the day, a party girl, out for fun, and I’d witnessed the real temper in her, and I could handle that Izzy, the one who let emotions rule her head.
She took a deep breath, steadying herself, then placed her purse on the sofa, taking that time to get her thoughts straight. I could see the temper ebb and then disappear—ice replaced the heat—and my heart skipped a beat.
“Parker has suggested that Cassidy spend an entire four weeks in the summer with you and it makes sense because you’ll have quality time with her instead of four days or so every month. He knows the costs of flying may well be out of your reach, but he said he’ll cover the cost of a reasonable amount of flights.” She tilted her chin.
Fuck that. I could be just as stubborn.
“And I counter propose that Cassidy remain with me every other weekend, as per the legal agreement we reached, because there’s no way in hell you’re taking her to Switzerland.”
“You have to be reasonable.”
“‘Reasonable’ was me agreeing to only having her every other weekend because it was best for her to be with her mom. Her mom, Izzy! Not your new husband, who talks as if he knows what’s best for everyone just because he has money!”
She pursed her lips, and I could imagine her brain working out what valid point she had to make this a deal I’d agree to. “What about the garage?”
“What about it?” I owned it. It was profitable. Respected.
“Every time she comes home, she’s filthy with oil and her hair is a tangled mess. Do you really think the garage is a suitable place for her to spend time?”
Jesus. How did I defend that? I ran a place where curses were punctuation, where I worked from six in the morning till eight at night, sometimes even later. Objectively, not all my staff could be considered as good, wholesome people to be around a kid. Enzo had a record, Robbie wasn’t using his real name and I knew little about his background, not to mention Rio and Jamie, both of whom had only just gotten out of prison. We were a rough and ready crew, covered in oil, stinking of gas and exhaust, and yeah, there was nothing clean about my work or my life. But Cassidy loved spending time at Redcars Automotive—she thrived on spending time there—and everyone loved her right back.
“She’s happy. She loves the cars, and the guys, and they love her. You know that, so don’t start with that.”
“Parker said you’d be like this,” she snapped.
I saw red. Fuck Parker.
“So, in your plans, I miss her November birthday, and next year a seven-year-old turns up at my place, and we spend precious weeks just getting to know each other again, and then you swoop in to take her away again. Right?”
“Logan—”
“But then she turns eight, and nine, and soon she’s a teenager, and I’m just some random guy she has to spend time with every summer. Every year, my relationship with her is eroded by absence. It’s not happening.”
“Logan, please—”
“I know my rights; we have an agreement, and you’re not taking my daughter overseas.”
Izzy stiffened at what she likely perceived as a threat, but I wasn’t threatening her. I respected her as the mother of my child. Hell, I owed her for even telling me I was a father when she didn’t have to, but I was ready to fight to be a part of my daughter’s life.
“Logan… listen to me.” She stepped closer and placed a hand flat on my chest, and I got an up-close look at her face, her brown eyes bright with emotion. This wasn’t the Izzy I had lusted after, this wasn’t the Izzy from my past, this was some painted doll who stood there and demanded things of me that I could never agree to. “Don’t make this about what you lose,” she encouraged. “Make this about all the opportunities Cassidy will get in life.”
The fuck? “She needs her dad, and if you think I’m going to stand by and—”
“Maybe I used to think it was a good idea for you to be part of her life, but now…”
“What’s changed, Izzy? I thought we were doing okay.” I pleaded with her, but she glanced behind herself at the door, and seemed confused for a moment. What in the hell was going on? Was Izzy okay? She was pale, and the unforgiving light in the ceiling highlighted the anxiety in her expression. “Are you okay? Can I help with—”
“You’re a criminal,” Izzy snapped, and the temperature in the room fell a few degrees.
My sudden swell of sympathy at her confusion vanished in an instant. “I was,” I said. “You knew that when you wanted the bad boy.”
She went scarlet and couldn’t meet my gaze. “You stole cars, you have a criminal record—”
“Yeah, but when you got caught coming along for the ride, you had a daddy who could pay off the cops.”
“Your face scares Cassidy!” she pointed at the scar running from my eye to my lip.
I tapped it, and she winced. “This? Cassidy doesn’t care about my fucking scar,” I snapped.
She spluttered. “And you curse!”
“Never in front of Cass, so fuck you.”
We were toe to toe, and finally, everything heated up, her eyes brightened with emotion, and she took a step back. “And you spent time on the streets, doing God knows what.” She whispered as if she couldn’t bring herself to shout at me, knowing she was pulling on threads that should be left untouched.
“Surviving.” I knew I sounded tired. “Trying to stay alive. That’s what I was doing on the street, not that that meant much to you, but then, not all of us had Mommy and Daddy to run back to.” I knew the barb hit home when she winced, and that wasn’t me anymore. I didn’t want to stand here and hurt her; I just wanted her to realize that I was Cassidy’s daddy. I inhaled, then shook my head. “This isn’t you talking. This is Parker. I’m not doing this with you, and I will fight you every step of the way.”
“With what money? Parker said—”
“Parker said what? That I can’t afford a lawyer to fight this? That he’s won because of that. Fuck, I don’t need a lawyer anymore, I know my rights. We did the court thing. I got partial custody, end of story.”
She straightened the jacket of her scarlet suit, then picked up her purse. “Then there’s nothing more to say.”
I held her arm, and she let out a pained noise, and even though I hadn’t been holding that hard, I let go. “If the Izzy I remember is still in there, then she knows I’m a good dad. Please find that Izzy, and don’t try to take Cassidy away from me. I don’t want to have to go to court. I won’t let you do that to me and Cass.”
“Are you threatening me?” she snapped.
“What? No. Of course, not. I’m freaking pleading with you.”
She paused with her fingers on the handle, but she didn’t turn to face me. “I’m sorry, Logan, but Parker’s family is not willing to back down on sending us there.”
“I won’t lose Cassidy. I will fight this,” I said and left no room for discussion.
The only indication she’d heard was the stiffening of her shoulders. “Parker will use everything he has to make sure you lose,” she murmured, then she glanced back at me, her lips trembling, real tears brightening her eyes. “I’m sorry. You can’t fight him on this, you should just accept what happens.”
“‘Him’?” I softened at her tears. I was a sucker for tears. “What about you?”
For a moment, I thought we’d connected, and then she blinked away the emotion and turned back to the door. “You can’t stop him.”
“Then you stop him.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
She met my question with a tilt of her chin, and I thought I might get honesty from her. “I won’t,” she said, then left the room.
I wanted to leave—turn around and walk out of the high-rise and ignore this meeting, but if I did it was something Izzy and her new husband could use against me.
My heart ached; I felt sick; and there was no air in this room. I was in a world I didn’t understand, but I refused to fall back on my destructive, self-doubting behavior, and be who they expected me to be.
Shoulders back, I stalked past the receptionist to the exit.
“Sir?” she asked.
“I’m leaving!” I snapped at her, then stopped and turned back. “Sorry, that was rude. I can’t… I just… can’t…”
“It’s okay, sir, I’ll let them know.” She gave me an apologetic half smile—didn’t stare at me, my clothes, my tattoos, or my scar—then nodded as I left.
I’m Cassidy’s daddy. Not Parker with his money and his lawyers—me.
And they can’t change that.
However hard they try.
The Medium by Bonnie Dee
The day Crump was to arrive, I could not concentrate on my work, even though the factory in York was faltering and I needed to review their finances. Our groom, Flint, had taken the pony trap to the Mewsbury train station to fetch the visitor. I kept drifting to the window to check if the trap had returned. I might have been a ghost myself, haunting the den where several generations of Kingman males had retreated for privacy. Fresh paint, new drapes, carpet, and furniture could not completely extinguish the odor of smoke from years of pipes or cigars. I imagined Sir Cyrus sitting at the fireplace with his cronies making plans for a fox hunt or to seduce a housemaid or whatever else their sort got up to for entertainment.
My father had sneered at the landed gentry who had run their estates into the ground through lack of any business or common sense. Father only believed in what he could own, bank, buy, or sell. He never let a penny lie idle and expanded his machinist father’s company into a conglomeration of businesses. But new Henderson wealth couldn’t buy the respect of our social betters. Father hadn’t cared, but of course, he’d never had to attend Eton as I had and suffer the snobbery of brats. Only breeding separated my tormentors from vicious lowlife thugs. Once one was appointed the role of victim, there was little hope to escape it.
I heard a noise and bolted up from my seat to make another trip to the window. My nape prickled as I waited for Justin Crump to arrive. Why did his imminent arrival affect me so? From the moment I’d looked into his pale blue eyes. I’d felt something akin to instant recognition, coupled with an electrical charge that set my body buzzing. It must be this magnetic personality that made him such an expert at winning converts. I could find no other way to explain why Crump influenced me so.
At last I heard the distant clip-clopping of hooves on the driveway and caught a glimpse of the pony and cart. I hurried back to my desk like a lad pretending to study when he’d been daydreaming the afternoon away. I stared at the quarterly spreadsheet for Drayton Ironworks, but listened for the sound of Lassiter’s footsteps in the hallway. After a light tap, the butler opened the door. “Mr. Crump has arrived, sir, and awaits you in the parlor.”
“Very good. Thank you.”
I forced myself to take my time putting away my pen set before walking casually toward the parlor. I refused to appear eager, although my pulse was racing as I entered the room and beheld Crump’s backside. That is to say, I beheld his back since he was facing away from me—not that I was staring at his arse.
He stood studying the large oil painting above the fireplace mantel, a pastoral featuring a forest at night with a full moon glowing between tree branches. He turned to greet me, the unusual light hue of his blue eyes stopping me short and stealing my voice.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Henderson. I was just admiring this painting. Quite an unusual scene, mysterious yet strangely welcoming.”
I looked at the artwork I’d hardly noticed before. Room decorations were not something I generally paid much attention to.
“One of Mother’s choices,” I remarked, wondering what he’d meant by welcoming. “She has greatly enjoyed overseeing the remodeling. Or she seemed to at first before this gloominess set in. Won’t you sit down?”
“Where is your dear mother?” Crump settled in the chair facing mine, his legs gracefully crossed. He had a gentleman’s way about him that told me he wasn’t some jumped-up sales clerk having a field day fooling the swells.
“She is resting and will join us directly. I wanted to take an opportunity to speak candidly. As I told you, I haven’t felt one iota of the negative energy in this house that my mother speaks of.”
“It’s not uncommon for most people to remain unaware of psychic disturbances which to others are as concrete as anything in this world,” Crump replied.
I cleared my throat. “At any rate, these negative feelings are very real to my mother. I’ve begun to fear she suffers from melancholia, but I would never send her to a sanitarium for treatment. The idea of cold-water baths or electrical stimulation jolting a person out of a dark mood is as nonsensical as believing in ghosts.”
If he felt insulted, Crump didn’t show it. “You’ve made your skepticism quite clear. I promise to do my best to dispel this darkness that haunts your mother, but it will be of great help if you refrain from using the term ‘nonsensical.’ She should feel she has your support.”
“She would see right through me if I pretended to believe, so I’ll simply keep mum.”
Crump glanced at the moonscape above the fireplace. “What can you tell me about the history of this house? Your mother mentioned it was built by more recent generations of Kingmans.”
“The ruins of the original structure are on a rise toward the north. Cyrus Kingman, the current baronet, could no longer keep the entail intact. I suppose some king granted the land and baronetcy to a Kingman forebear, but I couldn’t tell you the date or the king. I was far more interested in learning the condition of the masonry and roof than in historical details about the house.”
Crump’s smile formed crescent grooves on either side of his mouth. “You are a man who exists very much in the here and now.”
For an employee, he didn’t show much deference. I didn’t like the way his smile set off a skittering feeling through me like a dog trying to run on a polished floor. “It’s the sensible way to live. No good dwelling on the past, or in existing in a dream world. Such frivolity doesn’t affect the price of tea,” I snapped, sounding disgustingly like my father.
Crump’s smile died, and I immediately regretted my sharp tone. No need to start off on the wrong foot if he was sincere in his desire to help Mother, and I believed he was. He had a gentle, nurturing manner which might ease her troubled spirit.
I added, “There are estate ledgers in the library. Feel free to search the shelves for whatever might be of use to you.”
Crump did not reply. His eyes had grown unfocused, and I realized he hadn’t heard me. His mouth dropped open slightly, and his breathing grew shallow.
“Mr. Crump?” I prompted.
There was still no response, as if he could neither hear nor see me, and his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Was this the prelude to a seizure, or was he putting on a psychic show for my benefit, trying to draw me into his imaginary world?
“Mr. Crump.” I spoke louder.
He shook his head. “No. Please,” he murmured.
This was different from his display at the séance, when he’d pretended to speak for Lady Barton’s son. He’d used his own voice then. Now his tone was lighter and higher.
I shivered as if a cold gust had invaded the room. “Mr. Crump!” I shouted, determined to either draw his attention back to this world or demand he quit playacting.
His body began to shake, and I grew truly frightened. What was one supposed to do for an epileptic? If he fell to the floor twitching and frothing at the mouth, I had no idea how to help.
I lunged forward, grabbed his shoulders, and shook him hard. “Mr. Crump, wake up!”
I felt the solid warmth of his body under his jacket and inhaled a whiff of the pomade that slicked his wavy hair. Tears had escaped his eyes, one of them cupped like a diamond at the corner of his mouth. Something stirred in me at that detail, something protective, yearning, and inexplicable.
He shuddered and blinked, lashes fanning slowly. When he opened his eyes, I noticed the navy ring of the outer iris wrapped like a frame around the paler blue within.
I exhaled a pent breath. “Good Christ! Are you all right?”
He nodded. “Thirsty.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and another indefinable pang of emotion shot through me.
I released him and hurried to the sideboard to pour a glass from the pitcher. His hand trembled as he took the glass from me, and he drank it without a pause, his Adam’s apple moving up and down with each swallow.
“What happened to you? Do you often suffer from such fits?”
He smiled, and the tear caught at the corner of his mouth trickled down. “Not generally. Usually my contact with the other side is under my control, but this…” He shook his head. “I’ve never felt anything quite like the misery and fear of this entity. Its feelings became my own.”
I wanted to hit him! Here I was worrying about his physical health, and he was offering more nonsense. It was all an act designed to get me to buy in to his story. Either that, or he was mentally unbalanced enough to have gone into some sort of fugue state.
I folded my arms and glared at him, distancing myself from the proximity that had put odd notions of empathy and protection in my head. “Perhaps your presence here is not a good idea after all. I’m not sure my mother should have—”
“Mother should have what? Her fancies indulged?” Mother swept into the room, as self-assured as I’d ever seen her with none of her recent querulousness on display. “I am not a child, Albert. I don’t need to be either catered to or protected. I am not suffering the ‘nervous melancholia’ we women are supposedly prone to.”
“I didn’t say that.”
She gave me a hard stare, then held out her hand as Crump rose to greet her. “Good day, Mr. Crump. Lovely to see you again. I am so relieved you are here.”
“I’ve already encountered the entity you’ve described. The experience was not pleasant.”
She took his hand between both of hers and gazed into his eyes. A momentary thought flashed that I wished I were in her shoes, before I quickly squelched it. “I never considered myself receptive to the otherworldly,” she said, “but all this has made a believer of me. If I ever had any doubt that life exists beyond this world, it has been extinguished.”
“I hope, together, we may do some good for this tormented soul,” Crump replied.
The pair of them stood united, excluding me, the skeptic. They were of one accord. I could only watch and wish I’d put up more of a fight about bringing Crump into our home. The man disturbed me in ways I didn’t understand, and I wanted him out—probably more than Mother wished to exorcise her ghost.
My father had sneered at the landed gentry who had run their estates into the ground through lack of any business or common sense. Father only believed in what he could own, bank, buy, or sell. He never let a penny lie idle and expanded his machinist father’s company into a conglomeration of businesses. But new Henderson wealth couldn’t buy the respect of our social betters. Father hadn’t cared, but of course, he’d never had to attend Eton as I had and suffer the snobbery of brats. Only breeding separated my tormentors from vicious lowlife thugs. Once one was appointed the role of victim, there was little hope to escape it.
I heard a noise and bolted up from my seat to make another trip to the window. My nape prickled as I waited for Justin Crump to arrive. Why did his imminent arrival affect me so? From the moment I’d looked into his pale blue eyes. I’d felt something akin to instant recognition, coupled with an electrical charge that set my body buzzing. It must be this magnetic personality that made him such an expert at winning converts. I could find no other way to explain why Crump influenced me so.
At last I heard the distant clip-clopping of hooves on the driveway and caught a glimpse of the pony and cart. I hurried back to my desk like a lad pretending to study when he’d been daydreaming the afternoon away. I stared at the quarterly spreadsheet for Drayton Ironworks, but listened for the sound of Lassiter’s footsteps in the hallway. After a light tap, the butler opened the door. “Mr. Crump has arrived, sir, and awaits you in the parlor.”
“Very good. Thank you.”
I forced myself to take my time putting away my pen set before walking casually toward the parlor. I refused to appear eager, although my pulse was racing as I entered the room and beheld Crump’s backside. That is to say, I beheld his back since he was facing away from me—not that I was staring at his arse.
He stood studying the large oil painting above the fireplace mantel, a pastoral featuring a forest at night with a full moon glowing between tree branches. He turned to greet me, the unusual light hue of his blue eyes stopping me short and stealing my voice.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Henderson. I was just admiring this painting. Quite an unusual scene, mysterious yet strangely welcoming.”
I looked at the artwork I’d hardly noticed before. Room decorations were not something I generally paid much attention to.
“One of Mother’s choices,” I remarked, wondering what he’d meant by welcoming. “She has greatly enjoyed overseeing the remodeling. Or she seemed to at first before this gloominess set in. Won’t you sit down?”
“Where is your dear mother?” Crump settled in the chair facing mine, his legs gracefully crossed. He had a gentleman’s way about him that told me he wasn’t some jumped-up sales clerk having a field day fooling the swells.
“She is resting and will join us directly. I wanted to take an opportunity to speak candidly. As I told you, I haven’t felt one iota of the negative energy in this house that my mother speaks of.”
“It’s not uncommon for most people to remain unaware of psychic disturbances which to others are as concrete as anything in this world,” Crump replied.
I cleared my throat. “At any rate, these negative feelings are very real to my mother. I’ve begun to fear she suffers from melancholia, but I would never send her to a sanitarium for treatment. The idea of cold-water baths or electrical stimulation jolting a person out of a dark mood is as nonsensical as believing in ghosts.”
If he felt insulted, Crump didn’t show it. “You’ve made your skepticism quite clear. I promise to do my best to dispel this darkness that haunts your mother, but it will be of great help if you refrain from using the term ‘nonsensical.’ She should feel she has your support.”
“She would see right through me if I pretended to believe, so I’ll simply keep mum.”
Crump glanced at the moonscape above the fireplace. “What can you tell me about the history of this house? Your mother mentioned it was built by more recent generations of Kingmans.”
“The ruins of the original structure are on a rise toward the north. Cyrus Kingman, the current baronet, could no longer keep the entail intact. I suppose some king granted the land and baronetcy to a Kingman forebear, but I couldn’t tell you the date or the king. I was far more interested in learning the condition of the masonry and roof than in historical details about the house.”
Crump’s smile formed crescent grooves on either side of his mouth. “You are a man who exists very much in the here and now.”
For an employee, he didn’t show much deference. I didn’t like the way his smile set off a skittering feeling through me like a dog trying to run on a polished floor. “It’s the sensible way to live. No good dwelling on the past, or in existing in a dream world. Such frivolity doesn’t affect the price of tea,” I snapped, sounding disgustingly like my father.
Crump’s smile died, and I immediately regretted my sharp tone. No need to start off on the wrong foot if he was sincere in his desire to help Mother, and I believed he was. He had a gentle, nurturing manner which might ease her troubled spirit.
I added, “There are estate ledgers in the library. Feel free to search the shelves for whatever might be of use to you.”
Crump did not reply. His eyes had grown unfocused, and I realized he hadn’t heard me. His mouth dropped open slightly, and his breathing grew shallow.
“Mr. Crump?” I prompted.
There was still no response, as if he could neither hear nor see me, and his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Was this the prelude to a seizure, or was he putting on a psychic show for my benefit, trying to draw me into his imaginary world?
“Mr. Crump.” I spoke louder.
He shook his head. “No. Please,” he murmured.
This was different from his display at the séance, when he’d pretended to speak for Lady Barton’s son. He’d used his own voice then. Now his tone was lighter and higher.
I shivered as if a cold gust had invaded the room. “Mr. Crump!” I shouted, determined to either draw his attention back to this world or demand he quit playacting.
His body began to shake, and I grew truly frightened. What was one supposed to do for an epileptic? If he fell to the floor twitching and frothing at the mouth, I had no idea how to help.
I lunged forward, grabbed his shoulders, and shook him hard. “Mr. Crump, wake up!”
I felt the solid warmth of his body under his jacket and inhaled a whiff of the pomade that slicked his wavy hair. Tears had escaped his eyes, one of them cupped like a diamond at the corner of his mouth. Something stirred in me at that detail, something protective, yearning, and inexplicable.
He shuddered and blinked, lashes fanning slowly. When he opened his eyes, I noticed the navy ring of the outer iris wrapped like a frame around the paler blue within.
I exhaled a pent breath. “Good Christ! Are you all right?”
He nodded. “Thirsty.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and another indefinable pang of emotion shot through me.
I released him and hurried to the sideboard to pour a glass from the pitcher. His hand trembled as he took the glass from me, and he drank it without a pause, his Adam’s apple moving up and down with each swallow.
“What happened to you? Do you often suffer from such fits?”
He smiled, and the tear caught at the corner of his mouth trickled down. “Not generally. Usually my contact with the other side is under my control, but this…” He shook his head. “I’ve never felt anything quite like the misery and fear of this entity. Its feelings became my own.”
I wanted to hit him! Here I was worrying about his physical health, and he was offering more nonsense. It was all an act designed to get me to buy in to his story. Either that, or he was mentally unbalanced enough to have gone into some sort of fugue state.
I folded my arms and glared at him, distancing myself from the proximity that had put odd notions of empathy and protection in my head. “Perhaps your presence here is not a good idea after all. I’m not sure my mother should have—”
“Mother should have what? Her fancies indulged?” Mother swept into the room, as self-assured as I’d ever seen her with none of her recent querulousness on display. “I am not a child, Albert. I don’t need to be either catered to or protected. I am not suffering the ‘nervous melancholia’ we women are supposedly prone to.”
“I didn’t say that.”
She gave me a hard stare, then held out her hand as Crump rose to greet her. “Good day, Mr. Crump. Lovely to see you again. I am so relieved you are here.”
“I’ve already encountered the entity you’ve described. The experience was not pleasant.”
She took his hand between both of hers and gazed into his eyes. A momentary thought flashed that I wished I were in her shoes, before I quickly squelched it. “I never considered myself receptive to the otherworldly,” she said, “but all this has made a believer of me. If I ever had any doubt that life exists beyond this world, it has been extinguished.”
“I hope, together, we may do some good for this tormented soul,” Crump replied.
The pair of them stood united, excluding me, the skeptic. They were of one accord. I could only watch and wish I’d put up more of a fight about bringing Crump into our home. The man disturbed me in ways I didn’t understand, and I wanted him out—probably more than Mother wished to exorcise her ghost.
Felix by RJ Scott & Meredith Russell
“So what is it you wanted to talk about?” He clasped his hands together.
Jared shrugged. “It’s nothing much. It’s just a small, tiny favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“Like I said. Small.” He held up his hand, his index finger and thumb close to each other. “The thing is”—This is going to be something I don’t like, isn’t it?—“Ethan is going to his school reunion next week.”
Felix narrowed his eyes. “Uh huh?”
“I am,” Ethan stated. “With a plus-one.”
Am I supposed to care? He vaguely remembered Jared telling tales of his roommate’s numerous boyfriends and the ridiculous antics he got up to. Felix’s favorite story ended with a purple-dyed police officer. He didn’t know who Ethan was dating now, but good for him if it was going well.
“And you’re telling me this because?”
“Well…” Ethan bit his lower lip, rolling his eyes upward as he seemed to process his words before speaking. There was something more sexy than cute about the way he tugged on his soft pink lips with his teeth.
He should stop doing that—he’ll end up bruising them, and they’re too pretty to be bruised.
Unless it’s me kissing them and… the fuck?
“The thing is Ethan’s plus-one kind of did him dirty.” Jared answered for him. “Ethan got dumped. Again,” he added straight-faced.
“I dumped him,” Ethan said in a strained voice.
Jared met Felix’s eyes and shook his head. “He didn’t,” he mouthed.
Felix snorted a laugh, but his smile faded as the favor Jared had in mind hit him front and center. “No,” he said.
“I’ve said nothing,” Jared said, blinking with all the innocence he could muster.
Felix ran his hand back through his bangs. “I know what you’re going to ask, and the answer is no.” He leaned back, side-eyeing Ethan. “Why don’t you ask Caleb? He’ll take anything you can throw at him.”
“Well, of course I tried him first, but he’s already booked. But we all know you’re the best person for the job, and you owe me one.”
Murder at Pirate's Cove by Josh Lanyon
Prologue
The damp night air was bracingly cold and, as always, suffused with the distinct ocean smell. Supposedly that seaside scent came from bacteria digesting dead phytoplankton. Ellery had picked that tidbit up that afternoon from a Tripp Ellis thriller.
The streets were quiet and strangely deserted as he walked back from the pub to the bookstore. His car—well, Great-great-great-aunt Eudora’s car, if someone wanted to get technical—was still in the parking lot. Captain’s Seat, Great-great-great-aunt Eudora’s decrepit mansion, was about a fifteen-minute drive from the village. Walking distance for someone who hadn’t been on his feet all day and didn’t mind a stroll down a pitch-black country road. None of which described Ellery.
His thoughts were preoccupied as he turned the corner onto the narrow brick street that held the little bookshop that had brought him to Pirate’s Cove in the first place.
The tall Victorian buildings cast deep shadows. Most of the storefronts were dark or illuminated only by the faint glow of emergency lights, so he was startled to see the bright yellow oblongs stretching from the tall windows of the Crow’s Nest across the gray pavement.
That’s weird.
He was positive he had locked the place up after shutting all the lights off. A larger than usual electricity bill was the last thing he wanted.
He sped up, his footsteps echoing down the silent street as he hurried toward the Crow’s Nest. He grabbed the doorknob, guiltily recalling that the first words Chief Carson had ever spoken to him concerned replacing the sticky old lock with a new deadbolt. His dismay ratcheted up another notch as the door swung open on well-oiled hinges.
Oh no.
No way had he forgotten to lock up. He had lived in New York most of his life, for heaven’s sake. Locking doors was second nature to him. Sure, Pirate’s Cove was a small town, but all you had to do was flip through a couple of titles in the cozy-mystery section to know that evil lurked in the cutest, quaintest corners of the universe.
“Hello?” he called.
His uneasy gaze fell on the thing lying just a few feet inside the shop. A purple-plumed green tricorn hat. He looked past the hat, and his breath caught. His heart shuddered to a stop.
“No,” he whispered. “No way…”
At first glance there appeared to be a drunken pirate passed out on the floor of the Crow’s Nest. His disbelieving eyes took in the glossy boots, black velvet breeches, long, plum-colored coat and gold-trimmed vest, the scarlet lace jabot…
Scarlet.
Because the lacy folds were soaked in blood. The same blood slowly spreading around the motionless—terrifyingly motionless—form sprawled on newly sanded hardwood floors.
He put a hand out to steady himself—except there was nothing to grab—so he stumbled forward, landing on his knees beside the body. He instinctively reached to check for… But there was no need. The eerie stillness of the man’s chest, the glassy stare, the gray and bloodless face… Trevor Maples was dead. Tiny, twin, horror-stricken reflections of himself in those sightless blue eyes.
He drew back, climbed clumsily to his feet, and staggered out the open door to the uncannily silent street.
“Help!” he cried. “Help! Murder!”
One by one, the street’s lamps turned on as residents in the apartments above the shops surrounding the Crow’s Nest woke to the cries of death and disaster. The windows of normally sleepy little Pirate’s Cove lit up like the stars winking overhead.
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.
Writing love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.
Dear Readers, I began telling stories as a child. Whenever there was a sleepover, I was the designated ghost tale teller guaranteed to frighten and thrill with macabre tales. I still have a story printed on yellow legal paper in second grade about a ghost, a witch and a talking cat.
As an adult, I enjoy reading stories about people damaged by life who find healing with a like-minded soul. When I couldn’t find enough such books, I began to write them. Whether you’re a fan of contemporary historical or fantasy romance, you’ll find something to enjoy among my books.
To stay informed about new releases, please sign up for my newsletter. You can also find me on Facebook and Twitter Bonnie_Dee.
Meredith Russell lives in the heart of England. An avid fan of many story genres, she enjoys nothing less than a happy ending. She believes in heroes and romance and strives to reflect this in her writing. Sharing her imagination and passion for stories and characters is a dream Meredith is excited to turn into reality.
Bestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Jordan Castillo Price
RJ Scott
BOOKBUB / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk
Bonnie Dee
It's All Relative by Jordan Castillo Price
Pride by RJ Scott
The Medium by Bonnie Dee
Murder at Pirate's Cove by Josh Lanyon
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