This year was a little less trying than 2022 but my reading mojo was still lagging and I only read 141 books. So once again my Best of lists may be shorter but everything I read/listened to were so brilliant it was still a hard choice. So over the next two weeks I'll be featuring my Best Reads as well as Best ofs for my special day posts which are a combination of best reads and most viewed, I hope my Best of list helps you to find a new read, be it new-new or new-to-you or maybe it will help you to rediscover a forgotten favorite. Happy Reading and my heartfelt wish for everyone is that 2024 will be a year of recovery, growth, and in the world of reading a year of discovering a new favorite.
👀I try to keep the purchasing links as current as possible but they've been known to change for dozens of reasons, in case any of those links no longer work be sure to check out the author's social media links for updated buying info.👀
* Instant NEW YORK TIMES and USA TODAY bestseller *
* GOODREADS CHOICE AWARD WINNER for BEST DEBUT and BEST ROMANCE of 2019 *
* BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR* for VOGUE, NPR, VANITY FAIR, and more! *
What happens when America's First Son falls in love with the Prince of Wales?
When his mother became President, Alex Claremont-Diaz was promptly cast as the American equivalent of a young royal. Handsome, charismatic, genius—his image is pure millennial-marketing gold for the White House. There's only one problem: Alex has a beef with the actual prince, Henry, across the pond. And when the tabloids get hold of a photo involving an Alex-Henry altercation, U.S./British relations take a turn for the worse.
Heads of family, state, and other handlers devise a plan for damage control: staging a truce between the two rivals. What at first begins as a fake, Instragramable friendship grows deeper, and more dangerous, than either Alex or Henry could have imagined. Soon Alex finds himself hurtling into a secret romance with a surprisingly unstuffy Henry that could derail the campaign and upend two nations and begs the question: Can love save the world after all? Where do we find the courage, and the power, to be the people we are meant to be? And how can we learn to let our true colors shine through? Casey McQuiston's Red, White & Royal Blue proves: true love isn't always diplomatic.
"I took this with me wherever I went and stole every second I had to read! Absorbing, hilarious, tender, sexy—this book had everything I crave. I’m jealous of all the readers out there who still get to experience Red, White & Royal Blue for the first time!" - Christina Lauren, New York Times bestselling author of The Unhoneymooners
"Red, White & Royal Blue is outrageously fun. It is romantic, sexy, witty, and thrilling. I loved every second." - Taylor Jenkins Reid, New York Times bestselling author of Daisy Jones & The Six
Original Audiobook Review September 2023:
I have been listening to audiobooks for way too many years to count, I go all the way back to when they were on audio cassettes and were never unabridged. In all these years I can honestly say I have NEVER listened to a book within a month of the original reading so that right there goes a long way as a testament to how much love I have for this story and the characters. It's been about a week since I finished listening and I am already seriously contemplating listening again . . . that is great storytelling in my opinion.
I really can only think of one thing to talk about that I didn't touch on in my original review: Zahra Bankston! How in the world did I fail to mention this brilliantly created character? I gave voice to how much I enjoyed June, Nora, and Bea but not Zahra?!?!?! We all know Nora is Alex's best friend but seriously Zahra is the second best friend he probably didn't even realize he needed or she would even contemplate the possibility of being. She keeps him, well I can't say she keeps him in check because there is no keeping Alex in check but she definitely calls him on his BS and holds nothing back doing it. Just love her! I want a Zahra in my life.
As for the narrator, Ramon de Ocampo does the story justice. Familiar and fresh all at the same time. Because I watched the film prior to reading the story I was able to picture the film actors while reading and though it can be hard to do with an audio narration becoming the characters, De Ocampo's voice "fits the features" of the actors making it quite easy to continue picturing Taylor Zakhar Perez and Nicholas Galitzine as Alex and Henry. I'm not ashamed to admit I've watched the film multiple times in the past month but while listening to Ramon de Ocampo bring Casey McQuiston's words to life I swear I could see the written version playing out in front of me like my own little personal Saturday-in-the-park production and that speaks volumes to how incredibly blended voice and word is making Red, White and Royal Blue not only one of my absolute favorite reads of 2023 but also top audios.
Original Review August Book of the Month 2023:
I've had many friends whose opinions I highly respect say how much they loved Casey McQuiston's Red, White and Royal Blue and it definitely sounded good so I knew I would read it one day but that day had yet to cross my reading journey. A couple of years pass and I discover it's being made into a movie and that the film would be on Prime in August of this year so it seemed that the time may be getting nearer. Since I hadn't read it yet I decided to wait until after I saw the film so there wouldn't be any preconceived expectations of what should or shouldn't be in the film.
Glad I did. I loved both the book and the film, equally brilliant, equally entertaining and any changes that were made most likely for time constraint helped the film flow better but at the same time those scenes that got cut/changed helped to create a fuller visual reading experience in my mind's eye. So again both brilliant in their own way.
I'm not going to talk too much about the plot as I know I'm not the only one who is late to the reading party and I don't want to spoil the book or film. I will say I don't think there was a single character I didn't like. Well, sure there were a few I didn't like but you weren't suppose to like them for reasons I won't spoil. Red, White and Royal Blue is a wonderful rom-com dramedy that makes you smile, swoon, and sweat. Alex and Henry are the epitome of swoony-ism. Going from lust to love while navigating life in the public eye had me falling even more deeply for the pair, I can't even begin to imagine what it would be like to be in their shoes. In this day and age you'd think society would be more tolerant and accepting but we all know there is still too many who hate to accept differences in people. Humanity may have come a long way but there is still a long road ahead. I think the author has hit that part of Alex and Henry on point.
I've heard some say there is too much politics or at least too one-sided, that it makes all Republicans into the big bad and Democrats can do no wrong. I don't see it that way. Yes, there is more negativity from the GOP-referenced parts of the story but let's face it, like it or not that is how the American political scope trends: GOP = anti LGBTQ and DFL = ally. There are exceptions on both sides of the aisle of course but not many and I think the author has incorporated those viewpoints perfectly as to how it pertains to the guys' journey. I also feel that some people tend to forget this is a work of fiction not Political Science 101.
As for the friends and family of our star couple, I loved every bit of their interactions with the men and each other. I think June, Nora, and Bea have more scene time and they definitely steal the spotlight when they appear. Madame President Ellen Claremont is in a tough spot balancing her role as leader of the country and mother and though there were a couple of times I wanted the mother side to shine more I understood why the leader had to step up. As an American woman who is only a couple of months away from her 50th birthday, I firmly believe I will see the day we finally break through that final glass ceiling and have Madame President, but until that day arrives, fictional characters such as Ellen Claremont give us hope.
I can't believe I waited so long to read Red, White and Royal Blue and now that I have, I look forward to listening to the audio in the near future and though time may not allow this to be added to my annual re-read/re-listen list, it will definitely be explored again and again for years to come. What I wouldn't give to see a follow-up novel to see where Alex and Henry are once his mother's term is up or the pair dating now that Alex has been marked as the official royal suitor😉(and these are not spoilers because the meat and potatoes of the story is the journey getting here not whether or not they arrive).
So much goodness from yet another new-to-me author. I know not everyone enjoys rom-com, feel good, HEA yumminess and that's okay because it would be a pretty boring world if we all liked the same books just don't yuck in somebody else's yum.
RATING:
Love for the Reaper by Charlie Cochet
Summary:The Elite #8
Devlin “Dev” Espinosa lives in the shadows of the criminal underworld. As a Ferryman, his job is to safely transport “the dead” to their new lives, no questions asked. With no one to answer to, lots of cash, and access to The Anonymous–an exclusive club for the elite–Dev is loving life.
Until Remy Corbin gets into his car.
Remy is just a regular guy working a regular bartending job. At least, that’s what he thought before walking in on his boss taking someone out. Witnessing the assassination paints a target on Remy’s back, and when the bullets fly, he jumps into a stranger’s car.
Dev has no intention of getting involved in Remy’s problems, but something about the guy brings out protective instincts Dev didn’t know he had. Going against his better judgment, Dev vows to keep Remy alive.
Can wild nights fueled by danger and explosive passion lead to more? Or will the hitman on their tail cut their romance–and lives–short?
Love for the Reaper is a part of the multi-author series The Elite. Each book can be read as a standalone and in any order. What links these books together is The Anonymous, a club beneath the gritty city where only the elite are welcome.
Original Review September Book of the Month 2023:
Generally multi-author series isn't really my thing(I don't avoid them I just don't go looking for them) simply because the tendril that connects them is minimal, a town, a holiday, an event or in the case of The Elite, a club called The Anonymous.
The Elite is definitely worth looking for.
Love for the Reaper, Charlie Cochet's entry is definitely worth taking a chance on. Talk about wrong place, wrong time or perhaps right place, perfect time . . . depends on what side of the coin you look at. Remy has found himself falling head first into the pickle jar when he goes back for his paycheck and Dev holds the tongs to pull him out. Remy is certainly not what Dev was sent there to transport but when bullets start pinging off his car, he finds his plans changed, like it or not he's got to go.
That is the extent of plot points I'm going to touch on so as not to spoil Reaper. Just know that the author throws in a bad guy or two(some badder than others), high danger, a friend or two(both obvious and unexpected) and what you have is a twisty tale of "HOLY HANNAH BATMAN! I NEED MORE!!!" The characters are well defined, well scripted, and completely likeable(or hateable depending on your bad guy views😉).
Once again Charlie Cochet hasn't let me down, topnotch reading. Friendship, danger, humor, enemies, lust, mayhem, and of course heart. Love for the Reaper is the whole package.
With the month of all things spooky nearing closer and closer, it's probably a safe bet that this is the last of The Elite series entries I'll get read in 2023 as the last 3 months of the year are my most "theme oriented" reading blocks. Trust me when I say I will return to The Elite because if the remaining entries are only half as good as the 3 I've read, then the probability they will all be grab-my-attention, hold-on-to-my-seat, and never-let-my-heart-go reads is off the charts high. And I look forward to every word of them.
The Golden Haired Boy by Scarlet Blackwell
Summary:He was nothing but a beast in heart and mind, pretending at love when he knew not the first thing about it.
When Johann, a two-hundred-year-old Austrian vampire meets Lucas, an English student at the turn of the twentieth century, it’s love at first sight. The golden-haired beauty is nineteen and bewitches him, becoming an all-consuming obsession. But Johann has vowed never to confer his dark existence on anyone and so he is cursed to walk his immortal path alone, no matter that Lucas returns his feelings.
The two continue to meet once a year and their love remains unrequited until they, and the world, are shattered by war, and life will never be the same again.
A sweeping novella of love and loss taking the reader from the slums of Whitechapel to the battlefields of World War Ⅰ and beyond. HEA guaranteed.
Possible spoilers:
Themes: hurt/comfort, angst
Genre: Historical vampire romance
Warnings: Harrowing scenes and death. Suicidal ideation.
Original Review September 2023:
Paranormal and WW1 . . . EEEEEEP!!!!
Granted the WW1 content is relatively minor in size but since there is just not enough stories that(at least in some part) set during The Great War, I definitely knew I had to read and file away for Veteran's Day finds as well.
You might have noticed I said "minor in size" well that's because I think despite so few pages concerning the war, it does have a huge payoff that I'll admit I could see coming but guessing it and actually reading it is two very different emotions. Any time my emotions run the gauntlet while pretty much knowing what awaits the characters at the end is a mighty fine piece of storytelling IMO.
Johann and Lucas are so wonderful, I just loved watching them navigate meeting again and again. The pain Johann inflicts upon himself by both reaching out the way he wants and his determination not to put the vamp horrors he faces onto such an innocent lad like Lucas rips at your heart. Lucas wars within himself his desires for Johann and his fears at just what Johann actually is also pulls on the heartstrings. Despite at times wanting to bang their heads together at their internal conflicts, it's these kind of character developments that can often get, well not overlooked but glossed over in short novellas but Scarlet Blackwell balances it perfectly.
Do I wish it was longer? Of course.
Do I think it could be better as a full length novel? Perhaps, if only to see more of Johann's past as well as his future.
Can I imagine loving The Golden Haired Boy any stronger with more content? No. Don't get me wrong, I would most definitely love it longer but more than I already love it, that's a no because the lads are already occupying my heart as is.
So to reiterate more succinctly: The Golden Haired Boy is a brilliant tale of wanting, leaving, returning, accepting, and above all else discovering and surviving.
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.
Original Review October 2023:
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:
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.
Original Review October 2023:
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.
Red, White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston
CHAPTER 1
On the White House roof, tucked into a corner of the Promenade, there's a bit of loose paneling right on the edge of the Solarium. If you tap it just right, you can peel it back enough to find a message etched underneath, with the tip of a key or maybe a stolen West Wing letter opener.
In the secret history of First Families — an insular gossip mill sworn to absolute discretion about most things on pain of death — there's no definite answer for who wrote it. The one thing people seem certain of is that only a presidential son or daughter would have been daring enough to deface the White House. Some swear it was Jack Ford, with his Hendrix records and split-level room attached to the roof for late-night smoke breaks. Others say it was a young Luci Johnson, thick ribbon in her hair. But it doesn't matter. The writing stays, a private mantra for those resourceful enough to find it.
Alex discovered it within his first week of living there. He's never told anyone how.
It says:
RULE #1: DON'T GET CAUGHT
The East and West Bedrooms on theb second floor are generally reserved for the First Family. They were first designated as one giant state bedroom for visits from the Marquis de Lafayette in the Monroe administration, but eventually they were split. Alex has the East, across from the Treaty Room, and June uses the West, next to the elevator.
Growing up in Texas, their rooms were arranged in the same configuration, on either side of the hallway. Back then, you could tell June's ambition of the month by what covered the walls. At twelve, it was watercolor paintings. At fifteen, lunar calendars and charts of crystals. At sixteen, clippings from The Atlantic, a UT Austin pennant, Gloria Steinem, Zora Neale Hurston, and excerpts from the papers of Dolores Huerta.
His own room was forever the same, just steadily more stuffed with lacrosse trophies and piles of AP coursework. It's all gathering dust in the house they still keep back home. On a chain around his neck, always hidden from view, he's worn the key to that house since the day he left for DC.
Now, straight across the hall, June's room is all bright white and soft pink and minty green, photographed by Vogue and famously inspired by old '60s interior design periodicals she found in one of the White House sitting rooms. His own room was once Caroline Kennedy's nursery and, later, warranting some sage burning from June, Nancy Reagan's office. He's left up the nature field illustrations in a neat symmetrical grid above the sofa, but painted over Sasha Obama's pink walls with a deep blue.
Typically, the children of the president, at least for the past few decades, haven't lived in the Residence beyond eighteen, but Alex started at Georgetown the January his mom was sworn in, and logistically, it made sense not to split their security or costs to whatever one-bedroom apartment he'd be living in. June came that fall, fresh out of UT. She's never said it, but Alex knows she moved in to keep an eye on him. She knows better than anyone else how much he gets off on being this close to the action, and she's bodily yanked him out of the West Wing on more than one occasion.
Behind his bedroom door, he can sit and put Hall & Oates on the record player in the corner, and nobody hears him humming along like his dad to "Rich Girl." He can wear the reading glasses he always insists he doesn't need. He can make as many meticulous study guides with color-coded sticky notes as he wants. He's not going to be the youngest elected congressman in modern history without earning it, but nobody needs to know how hard he's kicking underwater. His sex-symbol stock would plummet.
"Hey," says a voice at the door, and he looks up from his laptop to see June edging into his room, two iPhones and a stack of magazines tucked under one arm, and a plate in her hand. She closes the door behind her with her foot.
"What'd you steal today?" Alex asks, pushing the pile of papers on his bed out of her way.
"Assorted donuts," June says as she climbs up. She's wearing a pencil skirt with pointy pink flats, and he can already see next week's fashion columns: a picture of her outfit today, a lead-in for some sponcon about flats for the professional gal on the go.
He wonders what she's been up to all day. She mentioned a column for WaPo, or was it a photoshoot for her blog? Or both? He can never keep up.
She's dumped her stack of magazines out on the bedspread and is already busying herself with them.
"Doing your part to keep the great American gossip industry alive?"
"That's what my journalism degree's for," June says.
"Anything good this week?" Alex asks, reaching for a donut.
"Let's see," June says. "In Touch says I'm ... dating a French model?"
"Are you?"
"I wish." She flips a few pages. "Ooh, and they're saying you got your asshole bleached."
"That one is true," Alex says through a mouthful of chocolate with sprinkles.
"Thought so," June says without looking up. After riffling through most of the magazine, she shuffles it to the bottom of the stack and moves on to People. She flips through absently — People only ever writes what their publicists tell it to write. Boring. "Not much on us this week ... oh, I'm a crossword puzzle clue."
Following their tabloid coverage is something of an idle hobby of hers, one that in turns amuses and annoys their mother, and Alex is narcissistic enough to let June read him the highlights. They're usually either complete fabrications or lines fed from their press team, but sometimes it's just funny. Given the choice, he'd rather read one of the hundreds of glowing pieces of fan fiction about him on the internet, the up-to-eleven version of himself with devastating charm and unbelievable physical stamina, but June flat-out refuses to read those aloud to him, no matter how much he tries to bribe her.
"Do Us Weekly," Alex says.
"Hmm ..." June digs it out of the stack. "Oh, look, we made the cover this week."
She flashes the glossy cover at him, which has a photo of the two of them inlaid in one corner, June's hair pinned on top of her head and Alex looking slightly over-served but still handsome, all jawline and dark curls. Below it in bold yellow letters, the headline reads: FIRST SIBLINGS' WILD NYC NIGHT.
"Oh yeah, that was a wild night," Alex says, reclining back against the tall leather headboard and pushing his glasses up his nose. "Two whole keynote speakers. Nothing sexier than shrimp cocktails and an hour and a half of speeches on carbon emissions."
"It says here you had some kind of tryst with a 'mystery brunette,'" June reads. "'Though the First Daughter was whisked off by limousine to a star-studded party shortly after the gala, twenty-one-year-old heartthrob Alex was snapped sneaking into the W Hotel to meet a mystery brunette in the presidential suite and leaving around four a.m. Sources inside the hotel reported hearing amorous noises from the room all night, and rumors are swirling the brunette was none other than ... Nora Holleran, the twenty-two-year-old granddaughter of Vice President Mike Holleran and third member of the White House Trio. Could it be the two are rekindling their romance?'"
"Yes!" Alex crows, and June groans. "That's less than a month! You owe me fifty dollars, baby."
"Hold on. Was it Nora?"
Alex thinks back to the week before, showing up at Nora's room with a bottle of champagne. Their thing on the campaign trail a million years ago was brief, mostly to get the inevitable over with. They were seventeen and eighteen and doomed from the start, both convinced they were the smartest person in any room. Alex has since conceded Nora is 100 percent smarter than him and definitely too smart to have ever dated him.
It's not his fault the press won't let it go, though; that they love the idea of them together as if they're modern-day Kennedys. So, if he and Nora occasionally get drunk in hotel rooms together watching The West Wing and making loud moaning noises at the wall for the benefit of nosy tabloids, he can't be blamed, really. They're simply turning an undesirable situation into their own personal entertainment.
Scamming his sister is also a perk.
"Maybe," he says, dragging out the vowels.
June swats him with the magazine like he's an especially obnoxious cockroach. "That's cheating, you dick!"
"Bet's a bet," Alex tells her. "We said if there was a new rumor in a month, you'd owe me fifty bucks. I take Venmo."
"I'm not paying," June huffs. "I'm gonna kill her when we see her tomorrow. What are you wearing, by the way?"
"For what?"
"The wedding."
"Whose wedding?"
"Uh, the royal wedding," June says. "Of England. It's literally on every cover I just showed you."
She holds Us Weekly up again, and this time Alex notices the main story in giant letters: PRINCE PHILIP SAYS I DO! Along with a photograph of an extremely nondescript British heir and his equally nondescript blond fiancée smiling blandly.
He drops his donut in a show of devastation. "That's this weekend?"
"Alex, we leave in the morning," June tells him. "We've got two appearances before we even go to the ceremony. I can't believe Zahra hasn't climbed up your ass about this already."
"Shit," he groans. "I know I had that written down. I got sidetracked."
"What, by conspiring with my best friend against me in the tabloids for fifty dollars?"
"No, with my research paper, smart-ass," Alex says, gesturing dramatically at his piles of notes. "I've been working on it for Roman Political Thought all week. And I thought we agreed Nora is our best friend."
"That can't possibly be a real class you're taking," June says. "Is it possible you willfully forgot about the biggest international event of the year because you don't want to see your archnemesis?"
"June, I'm the son of the President of the United States. Prince Henry is a figurehead of the British Empire. You can't just call him my 'archnemesis,'" Alex says. He returns to his donut, chewing thoughtfully, and adds, "'Archnemesis' implies he's actually a rival to me on any level and not, you know, a stuck-up product of inbreeding who probably jerks off to photos of himself."
"Woof."
"I'm just saying."
"Well, you don't have to like him, you just have to put on a happy face and not cause an international incident at his brother's wedding."
"Bug, when do I ever not put on a happy face?" Alex says. He pulls a painfully fake grin, and June looks satisfyingly repulsed.
"Ugh. Anyway, you know what you're wearing, right?"
"Yeah, I picked it out and had Zahra approve it last month. I'm not an animal."
"I'm still not sure about my dress," June says. She leans over and steals his laptop away from him, ignoring his noise of protest. "Do you think the maroon or the one with the lace?"
"Lace, obviously. It's England. And why are you trying to make me fail this class?" he says, reaching for his laptop only to have his hand swatted away. "Go curate your Instagram or something. You're the worst."
"Shut up, I'm trying to pick something to watch. Ew, you have Garden State on your watch list? Wow, how's film school in 2005 going?"
"I hate you."
"Hmm, I know."
Outside his window, the wind stirs up over the lawn, rustling the linden trees down in the garden. The record on the turntable in the corner has spun out into fuzzy silence. He rolls off the bed and flips it, resetting the needle, and the second side picks up on "London Luck, & Love."
* * *
If he's honest, private aviation doesn't really get old, not even three years into his mother's term.
He doesn't get to travel this way a lot, but when he does, it's hard not to let it go to his head. He was born in the hill country of Texas to the daughter of a single mother and the son of Mexican immigrants, all of them dirt poor — luxury travel is still a luxury.
Fifteen years ago, when his mother first ran for the House, the Austin newspaper gave her a nickname: the Lometa Longshot. She'd escaped her tiny hometown in the shadow of Fort Hood, pulled night shifts at diners to put herself through law school, and was arguing discrimination cases before the Supreme Court by thirty. She was the last thing anybody expected to rise up out of Texas in the midst of the Iraq War: a strawberry-blond, whip-smart Democrat with high heels, an unapologetic drawl, and a little biracial family.
So, it's still surreal that Alex is cruising somewhere over the Atlantic, snacking on pistachios in a high-backed leather chair with his feet up. Nora is bent over the New York Times crossword opposite him, brown curls falling across her forehead. Beside her, the hulking Secret Service agent Cassius — Cash for short — holds his own copy in one giant hand, racing to finish it first. The cursor on Alex's Roman Political Thought paper blinks expectantly at him from his laptop, but something in him can't quite focus on school while they're flying transatlantic.
Amy, his mother's favorite Secret Service agent, a former Navy SEAL who is rumored around DC to have killed several men, sits across the aisle. She's got a bulletproof titanium case of crafting supplies open on the couch next to her and is serenely embroidering flowers onto a napkin. Alex has seen her stab someone in the kneecap with a very similar embroidery needle.
Which leaves June, next to him, leaning on one elbow with her nose buried in the issue of People she's inexplicably brought with them. She always chooses the most bizarre reading material for flights. Last time, it was a battered old Cantonese phrase book. Before that, Death Comes for the Archbishop.
"What are you reading in there now?" Alex asks her.
She flips the magazine around so he can see the double-page spread titled: ROYAL WEDDING MADNESS! Alex groans. This is definitely worse than Willa Cather.
"What?" she says. "I want to be prepared for my first-ever royal wedding."
"You went to prom, didn't you?" Alex says. "Just picture that, only in hell, and you have to be really nice about it."
"Can you believe they spent $75,000 just on the cake?"
"That's depressing."
"And apparently Prince Henry is going sans date to the wedding and everyone is freaking out about it. It says he was," she affects a comical English accent, "'rumored to be dating a Belgian heiress last month, but now followers of the prince's dating life aren't sure what to think.'"
Alex snorts. It's insane to him that there are legions of people who follow the intensely dull dating lives of the royal siblings. He understands why people care where he puts his own tongue — at least he has personality.
"Maybe the female population of Europe finally realized he's as compelling as a wet ball of yarn," Alex suggests.
Nora puts down her crossword puzzle, having finished it first. Cassius glances over and swears. "You gonna ask him to dance, then?"
Alex rolls his eyes, suddenly imagining twirling around a ballroom while Henry drones sweet nothings about croquet and fox hunting in his ear. The thought makes him want to gag.
"In his dreams."
"Aw," Nora says, "you're blushing."
"Listen," Alex tells her, "royal weddings are trash, the princes who have royal weddings are trash, the imperialism that allows princes to exist at all is trash. It's trash turtles all the way down."
"Is this your TED Talk?" June asks. "You do realize America is a genocidal empire too, right?"
"Yes, June, but at least we have the decency not to keep a monarchy around," Alex says, throwing a pistachio at her.
There are a few things about Alex and June that new White House hires are briefed on before they start. June's peanut allergy. Alex's frequent middle-of-the-night requests for coffee. June's college boyfriend, who broke up with her when he moved to California but is still the only person whose letters come to her directly. Alex's long-standing grudge against the youngest prince.
It's not a grudge, really. It's not even a rivalry. It's a prickling, unsettling annoyance. It makes his palms sweat.
The tabloids — the world — decided to cast Alex as the American equivalent of Prince Henry from day one, since the White House Trio is the closest thing America has to royalty. It has never seemed fair. Alex's image is all charisma and genius and smirking wit, thoughtful interviews and the cover of GQ at eighteen; Henry's is placid smiles and gentle chivalry and generic charity appearances, a perfectly blank Prince Charming canvas. Henry's role, Alex thinks, is much easier to play.
Maybe it is technically a rivalry. Whatever.
"All right, MIT," he says, "what are the numbers on this one?"
Nora grins. “Hmm.” She pretends to think hard about it. “Risk assessment: FSOTUS failing to check himself before he wrecks himself will result in greater than five hundred civiliancasualties. Ninety-eight percent probability of Prince Henry looking like a total dreamboat. Seventy-eight percent probability of Alex getting himself banned from the United Kingdom forever.”
“Those are better odds than I expected,” June observes.
Alex laughs, and the plane soars on.
London is an absolute spectacle, crowds cramming the streets outside Buckingham Palace and all through the city, draped in Union Jacks and waving tiny flags over their heads. There are commemorative royal wedding souvenirs everywhere; Prince Philip and his bride’s face plastered on everything from chocolate bars to underwear. Alex almost can’t believe this many people care so passionately about something so comprehensively dull. He’s sure there won’t be this kind of turnout in front of the White House when he or June get married one day, nor would he even want it.
The ceremony itself seems to last forever, but it’s at least sort of nice, in a way. It’s not that Alex isn’t into love or can’t appreciate marriage. It’s just that Martha is a perfectly respectable daughter of nobility, and Philip is a prince. It’s as sexy as a business transaction. There’s no passion, no drama. Alex’s kind of love story is much more Shakespearean.
It feels like years before he’s settled at a table between June and Nora inside a Buckingham Palace ballroom for the reception banquet, and he’s irritated enough to be a little reckless. Nora passes him a flute of champagne, and he takes it gladly.
“Do either of y’all know what a viscount is?” June is saying, halfway through a cucumber sandwich. “I’ve met, like, five of them, and I keep smiling politely as if I know what it meanswhen they say it. Alex, you took comparative international governmental relational things. Whatever. What are they?”
“I think it’s that thing when a vampire creates an army of crazed sex waifs and starts his own ruling body,” he says.
“That sounds right,” Nora says. She’s folding her napkin into a complicated shape on the table, her shiny black manicure glinting in the chandelier light.
“I wish I were a viscount,” June says. “I could have my sex waifs deal with my emails.”
“Are sex waifs good with professional correspondence?” Alex asks.
Nora’s napkin has begun to resemble a bird. “I think it could be an interesting approach. Their emails would be all tragic and wanton.” She tries on a breathless, husky voice. “‘Oh, please, I beg you, take me—take me to lunch to discuss fabric samples, you beast!’”
“Could be weirdly effective,” Alex notes.
“Something is wrong with both of you,” June says gently.
Alex is opening his mouth to retort when a royal attendant materializes at their table like a dense and dour-looking ghost in a bad hairpiece.
“Miss Claremont-Diaz,” says the man, who looks like his name is probably Reginald or Bartholomew or something. He bows, and miraculously his hairpiece doesn’t fall off into June’s plate. Alex shares an incredulous glance with her behind his back. “His Royal Highness Prince Henry wonders if you would do him the honor of accompanying him for a dance.”
June’s mouth freezes halfway open, caught on a soft vowel sound, and Nora breaks out into a shit-eating grin.
“Oh, she’dloveto,” Nora volunteers. “She’s been hoping he’d ask all evening.”
“I—” June starts and stops, her mouth smiling even as her eyes slice at Nora. “Of course. That would be lovely.”
“Excellent,” Reginald-Bartholomew says, and he turns and gestures over his shoulder.
And there Henry is, in the flesh, as classically handsome as ever in his tailored three-piece suit, all tousled sandy hair and high cheekbones and a soft, friendly mouth. He holds himself with innately impeccable posture, as if he emerged fully formed and upright out of some beautiful Buckingham Palace posy garden one day.
His eyes lock on Alex’s, and something like annoyance or adrenaline spikes in Alex’s chest. He hasn’t had a conversation with Henry in probably a year. His face is still infuriatingly symmetrical.
Henry deigns to give him a perfunctory nod, as if he’s any other random guest, not the person he beat to aVogueeditorial debut in their teens. Alex blinks, seethes, and watches Henry angle his stupid chiseled jaw toward June.
“Hello, June,” Henry says, and he extends a gentlemanly hand to June, who is now blushing. Nora pretends to swoon. “Do you know how to waltz?”
“I’m… sure I could pick it up,” she says, and she takes his hand cautiously, like she thinks he might be pranking her, which Alex thinks is way too generous to Henry’s sense of humor. Henry leads her off to the crowd of twirling nobles.
“So is that what’s happening now?” Alex says, glaring down at Nora’s napkin bird. “Has he decided to finally shut me up by wooing my sister?”
“Aw, little buddy,” Nora says. She reaches over and pats his hand. “It’s cute how you think everything is about you.”
“It should be, honestly.”
“That’s the spirit.”
He glances up into the crowd, where June is being rotated around the floor by Henry. She’s got a neutral, polite smile on her face, and he keeps looking over her shoulder, which is even more annoying. June is amazing. The least Henry could do is pay attention to her.
“Do you think he actually likes her, though?”
Nora shrugs. “Who knows? Royals are weird. Might be a courtesy, or—oh, there it is.”
A royal photographer has swooped in and is snapping a shot of them dancing, one Alex knows will be leaked toHellonext week. So, that’s it, then? Using the First Daughter to start some idiotic dating rumor for attention? God forbid Philip gets to dominate the news cycle for one week.
“He’s kind of good at this,” Nora remarks.
Alex flags down a waiter and decides to spend the rest of the reception getting systematically drunk.
Alex has never told—will never tell—anyone, but he saw Henry for the first time when he was twelve years old. He only ever reflects upon it when he’s drunk.
He’s sure he saw his face in the news before then, but that was the first time he really saw him. June had just turned fifteen and used part of her birthday money to buy an issue of a blindingly colorful teen magazine. Her love of trashy tabloids started early. In the center of the magazine were miniature posters you could rip out and stick up in your locker. If you were careful and pried up the staples with your fingernails, you could get them out without tearing them. One of them, right in the middle, was a picture of a boy.
He had thick, tawny hair and big blue eyes, a warm smile, and a cricket bat over one shoulder. It must have been a candid, because there was a happy, sun-bright confidence to him that couldn’t be posed. On the bottom corner of the page in pink and blue letters: prince henry.
Alex still doesn’t really know what kept drawing him back, only that he would sneak into June’s room and find the page and touch his fingertips to the boy’s hair, as if he could somehow feel its texture if he imagined it hard enough. The more his parents climbed the political ranks, the more he started to reckon with the fact that soon the world would know who he was. Then, sometimes, he’d think of the picture, and try to harness Prince Henry’s easy confidence.
(He also thought about prying up the staples with his fingers and taking the picture out and keeping it in his room, but he never did. His fingernails were too stubby; they weren’t made for it like June’s, like a girl’s.)
But then came first time he met Henry—the first cool, detached words Henry said to him—and Alex guessed he had it all wrong, that the pretty, flung-open boy from the picture wasn’t real. The real Henry is beautiful, distant, boring, and closed. This person the tabloids keep comparing him to, that he compares himself to, thinks he’s better than Alex and everyone like him. Alex can’t believe he ever wanted to be anything like him.
Alex keeps drinking, keeps alternating between thinking about it and forcing himself not to think about it, disappears into the crowd and dances with pretty European heiresses about it.
He’s pirouetting away from one when he catches sight of a lone figure, hovering near the cake and the champagne fountain. It’s Prince Henry yet again, glass in hand, watching Prince Philip and his bride spinning on the ballroom floor. He looks politely half-interested in that obnoxious way of his, like he has somewhere else to be. And Alex can’t resist the urge to call his bluff.
He picks his way through the crowd, grabbing a glass of wine off a passing tray and downing half of it.
“When you have one of these,” Alex says, sidling up to him, “you should do two champagne fountains instead of one. Really embarrassing to be at a wedding with only one champagne fountain.”
“Alex,” Henry says in that maddeningly posh accent. Up close, the waistcoat under his suit jacket is a lush gold and has about a million buttons on it. It’s horrible. “I wondered if I’d have the pleasure.”
“Looks like it’s your lucky day,” Alex says, smiling.
“Truly a momentous occasion,” Henry agrees. His own smile is bright white and immaculate, made to be printed on money.
The most annoying thing of all is Alex knows Henry hates him too—he must, they’re naturally mutual antagonists—but he refuses to outright act like it. Alex is intimately aware politics involves a lot of making nice with people you loathe, but he wishes that once, just once, Henry would act like an actual human and not some polished little wind-up toy sold in a palace gift shop.
He’s too perfect. Alex wants to poke it.
“Do you ever get tired,” Alex says, “of pretending you’re above all this?”
Henry turns and stares at him. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean, you’re out here, getting the photographers to chase you, swanning around like you hate the attention, which you clearly don’t since you’re dancing with my sister, of all people,” Alex says. “You act like you’re too important to be anywhere, ever. Doesn’t that get exhausting?”
“I’m . . . a bit more complicated than that,” Henry attempts.
“Ha.”
“Oh,” Henry says, narrowing his eyes. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m just saying,” Alex says, resting an overly friendly elbow on Henry’s shoulder, which isn’t as easy as he’d like it to be since Henry has about four infuriating inches of height on him. “You could try to act like you’re having fun. Occasionally.”
Henry laughs ruefully. “I believe perhaps you should consider switching to water, Alex.”
“Should I?” Alex says. He pushes aside the thought that maybe the wine is what gave him the nerve to stomp over to Henry in the first place and makes his eyes as coy and angelic as he knows how. “Am I offending you? Sorry I’m not obsessed with you like everyone else. I know that must be confusing for you.”
“Do you know what?” Henry says. “I think you are.”
Alex’s mouth drops open, while the corner of Henry’s turns smug and almost a little mean.
“Only a thought,” Henry says, tone polite. “Have you ever noticed I have never once approached you and have been exhaustively civil every time we’ve spoken? Yet here you are, seeking me out again.” He takes a sip of his champagne. “Simply an observation.”
“What? I’m not—” Alex stammers. “You’re the—”
“Have a lovely evening, Alex,” Henry says tersely, and turns to walk off.
It drives Alex nuts, that Henry thinks he gets to have the last word, and without thinking, he reaches out and pulls Henry’s shoulder back.
And then Henry turns, suddenly, and almost does push Alex off him this time, and for a brief spark of a moment, Alex is impressed at the glint in his eyes, the abrupt burst of an actual personality.
The next thing he knows, he’s tripping over his own foot and stumbling backwards into the table nearest him. He notices too late that the table is, to his horror, the one bearing the massive eight-tier wedding cake, and he grabs for Henry’s arm to catch himself, but all this does is throw both of them off-balance and send them crashing together into the cake stand.
He watches, as if in slow motion, as the cake leans, teeters, shudders, and finally tips. There’s absolutely nothing he can do to stop it. It comes crashing down onto the floor in an avalanche of white buttercream, some kind of sugary $75,000 nightmare.
The room goes heart-stoppingly silent as momentum carries him and Henry through the fall and down, down onto the wreckage of the cake on the ornate carpet, Henry’s sleeve still clutched in Alex’s fist. Henry’s glass of champagne has spilled all over both of them and shattered, and out of the corner of his eye, Alex can see a cut across the top of Henry’s cheekbone beginning to bleed.
For a second, all he can think as he stares up at the ceiling while covered in frosting and champagne is that at least Henry’s dance with June won’t be the biggest story to come out of the royal wedding.
His next thought is that his mother is going to murder him in cold blood.
Beside him, he hears Henry mutter slowly, “Oh my fucking Christ.”
He registers dimly that it’s the first time he’s ever heard the prince swear, before the flash from someone’s camera goes off.
Love for the Reaper by Charlie Cochet
Logically, this was not a sound decision, but Remy was short on options right now. Running for the car, he grabbed the handle of the backseat and said a little thank you when it opened. He jumped inside, slammed the door shut, and locked it.
“Go!”
The driver slowly panned to stare at him. “Does this look like a fucking taxi to you?”
“Please, you need to go! Now!” Remy carefully craned his neck around the front passenger side seat to peek out the front windshield.
“Get out of my car,” the guy growled.
“You don’t understand; I just saw my boss kill someone and—”
“Congratulations. It’s a day that ends in ‘y’. Get. Out. Of. My. Fucking. Car.”
Was he serious? Did he not see the distress Remy was in? It’s not like he was asking for a free ride. He was asking for help not dying! “I need help.”
The guy paused for a second as if he was thinking about it. Then he shook his head. “Not my problem. Get out. Don’t make me—”
A shot pinged against the wall somewhere to the left of the car, and with a loud curse, the guy put the car in Reverse and hit the accelerator, the screeching of wheels was followed by the vehicle lurching backward and reversing out of the alley at full speed.
“Son of a bitch. Did that asshole just shoot at my car?”
“That’s what you’re concerned about?” Remy asked incredulously.
The car reached the street, skidding to a halt only long enough for the man to put her in Drive and shoot forward. Thank goodness he seemed to be a really good driver.
They sped through the city streets, a sharp turn throwing Remy across the backseat and slamming into the door.
“Seatbelt!” The driver snarled. “Put on your fucking seatbelt!”
Remy scrambled back and quickly fastened his seatbelt, just in time. The car made another sharp turn, bystanders diving out of the way as they sped down a side street.
The sound of rapid gunfire filled the air, and Remy threw his hands over his head. “They’re firing at us with a machine gun!”
“No shit! Keep your head down. If they shoot out my windows, I’ll kick your ass!”
Remy supposed an ass-kicking was a better alternative to being dead. How the hell had this happened? Why was this happening? All he wanted was a quiet life, a fresh start, yet somehow he’d walked into…who the hell knew what?
Now his boss wanted him dead. He obviously couldn’t go home, and the only chance he had was the grumpy stranger driving the getaway car. Remy knew the man hadn’t been in that alley for any good reason. For all he knew, this guy would try to kill him too.
“Please don’t kill me,” Remy blurted.
“What? Are you serious right now? Someone’s shooting at you, you jump into my car, and you think I’m the dangerous one here?”
He had a point. The car’s engine roared. As they took an on-ramp to the highway, Remy had to ask. “Who are you?”
“I’m a Ferryman.”
Remy shook his head. “I don’t know what that is.”
“A Ferryman. Like in Greek mythology. The guy who transports the dead.”
Oh. Fuck.
Well, that couldn’t be good.
The Golden Haired Boy by Scarlet Blackwell
CHAPTER ONE
1900
Spring, and the gaslights were being lit later than usual. The vampire Johann stood in the darkest shadows, watching the man complete his task and hurry over to the opposite side of the square. This was the second time in a month Johann had visited the university quad. He hadn’t had any particular reason to be there the first time other than to feed, but he had more of one to be there the second. The golden-haired boy who lived in room thirteen.
He’d taken a sip that first night from a nice-looking girl of twenty or so and left her in the bushes behind the square, where she would wake in an hour with little more than a headache. Stepping out under the circle of a gaslight, he’d been startled by a boy hurrying past, and drawn back like lightning. Wearing a blazer and carrying a satchel, he moved under the light’s halo, and his hair shone like spun gold. His face was pale, his features fine, his lashes long and delicate over eyes whose colour was concealed by the shadows. Johann remained still until the boy had gone, then stepped out and followed him. He went in the direction of the university accommodation, his shoes ringing on the cobblestones, then ascended a flight of stairs to the first floor. Johann, trailing behind, sprang up the stairs in one leap and arrived at the top just as his quarry let himself into a room, closing the door behind him without looking back.
Johann approached the door with no sound. He stood for a moment, listening, noting the number. He thought about knocking, gaining admittance with some pretext, but it was a bad idea. He would lose control if he was alone with the boy, and he didn’t lose control. Not anymore. He retreated back to the university square.
It wasn’t his intention to return to bite the golden-haired boy. Or maybe it had been—he wasn’t sure. But Johann didn’t do anything as indiscreet as killing. He’d learned his lesson in Vienna and Prague long ago. No, surviving on sips from a few victims per day made his current stay in England much more harmonious. It was just that the boy had captured his imagination in a way no one had done for so long. Johann couldn’t get his beauty out of his mind. The golden hair, the porcelain skin, his long lean figure. Cultivating attractions towards humans only ended in disaster and misery. And the boy appeared barely eighteen or nineteen. He should go. He hesitated at the corner of the square, undecided. Then shoes clicked against the cobblestones and Johann drew back into his hiding place in the bushes.
It was the same time, on the same day of the week, and there he was. He must have a late class on Mondays. He walked quickly again. Perhaps he was cold, or maybe the class was a bore and he was just eager to be back in his room.
Johann clutched at a branch as the boy drew level, and his hair glowed like a halo. Johann fought with himself, because he heard the human’s heart beating like a drum and he wanted a taste. Just a little one. He cursed himself for not feeding before he came. For arriving hungry and putting this boy at such risk.
The boy stopped suddenly, and barely five feet away, Johann held his breath. The object of his attention peered into the shrubbery. His eyes were a pale, silvery blue. To Johann’s heightened vampire vision, they were hypnotic, glittering jewels. Johann caught his scent on the still night air. The smell of his blood, and manmade things, like soap and spicy cologne.
“Who’s there?” The boy seemed to stare right at him. His voice was deep, belying his youthful looks, his accent southern, perhaps Southampton, although Johann wasn’t an expert.
Johann’s mouth filled with saliva. He could have sworn he felt his dead heart stir to life.
“Is there somebody there?” The boy sounded nervous, afraid. Johann wanted to reach out to him, reassure him, but he did not. He remained as still as a cat, not allowing himself to take what he desired.
The boy bit his pale lip, looked around, then hurried on, redoubling his swift pace. Johann stayed where he sat. He put his hand over his chest and expected to feel a hard thudding beneath his ribs. The boy with the golden hair had revived him.
Johann was a model member of his small town community. He lived in a townhouse on the outskirts and was pleasant to his neighbours, if reclusive. He raised his hat at ladies he saw on the streets and politely declined invitations to visit clubs from the local gentlemen. He employed no staff, and his neighbours no doubt gossiped about a single man keeping house for himself. In a locked room at the top of the house, Johann kept a coffin filled with Viennese earth, where he slumbered and could pretend he was still at home. Not that he disliked England, with its sun in fits and starts and cold winters. Its climate was rather ideal for him. If it was overcast enough, he could actually venture outdoors during the day for short periods, providing he wore gloves and the brim of his hat shaded his face. It was risky, though. If the sun happened to peep from behind the clouds unexpectedly, he could expect to receive a nasty burn. He’d learned all this through trial and error, during his two-hundred-year life, and had caused himself damage and pain more times than he could remember. But he liked the daylight too much not to risk it. Liked to remember what it was like to be human.
A week after coming face to face with the golden-haired boy, Johann was still thinking about him. He resolved not to go back to the university, because sooner or later he would attract attention hanging around there.
Spring arrived, daffodils and snowdrops peeping through the winter-hard ground, and Johann rationed his daylight sojourns as the sun put in several appearances. He liked spring—the way everything winter seemed to have killed was slowly reborn, new and stronger than before. The baby birds, the lambs in the fields, and the smell of rain on the revitalized earth.
Johann felt reborn himself. He had a focus for his thoughts and his attention and wished it were not so. It was dangerous to let admiration grow, to let finer feelings take over his hard, abandoned emotions. He had to remember who he was. A creature that no longer had the luxury of feeling, who must remain alert to suspicion in the town and cover his tracks. Becoming soft-hearted would get him killed. Although there were plenty of times when that would have appealed to him. It had been a long and lonely life, and Johann had wished an end to it more times than he could count.
One grey, rainy day, Johann left his house sheltered by his broad umbrella, and walked down to the river. He sat on a bench and watched a little girl and her mother feeding the ducks and swans, while keeping an eye on the clouds for signs of shifting. There were hansom cabs to be hired on the road not far away, which should guarantee him a swift exit before he burst into flames.
Some geese arrived, raucous and taking control of the rations, chasing the other birds greedily away. Johann closed up his umbrella because the rain had tapered off to mere drips, and relaxed back against his bench. He felt peaceful today, even if he was still haunted by the image of the golden-haired boy. He was hungry, a sullen ache that muttered at him, but it was nothing which couldn’t wait until nightfall. He was used to the hunger; it was part of him.
A group of students made their way along the riverbank, chattering animatedly. Johann froze in place as one golden head stood out among a sea of dark hair. He bowed his head so his hat would obscure his face, irrationally convinced the boy would recognize him even though he was sure he had not been seen that night in the bushes. His blood seemed to pound in his veins and drum in his ears. Impossible. This was ridiculous. He couldn’t hide like this, not when he needed to set his eyes on this beautiful creature again. He needed it more than he had ever needed anything, apart from blood.
He lifted his head. The students stopped level with the child and her mother. A couple of them pushed each other playfully towards the water. The golden-haired boy took a shiny, red apple from his satchel and polished it on his blazer. Johann saw a flash of pearly teeth as he bit into the flesh with a crunch which reverberated in the vampire’s sensitive ears. He said something to one of the other students as he chewed, and then nodded at the reply without smiling.
The group continued on their way, coming close to Johann. Did he dare make eye contact? Oh God, he had to. He felt as if his life depended on it. He kept his head up, his eyes fixed on the boy, and waited for the student to notice he was being looked at.
The boy noticed. His gaze drifted to Johann, idly swept over him, then came back, fixed rigidly, staring. The hand, which had been about to bring the apple back to his mouth, remained hovering in the air. He blushed, the rosy glow beautiful on his snowy skin. Johann didn’t look away. His throat felt tight and closed. His fingertips tingled. These feelings of attraction were so unfamiliar to him they distressed him rather than excited him. He didn’t like the way his stomach seemed to lurch as if he would commit that very human act of vomiting, or the way his hands became clammy when he didn’t normally perspire.
He hadn’t been wrong about the boy. He was as beautiful as Johann remembered from his two glimpses in the university quad. The jewel-like eyes glowed from the flushed skin. His features were delicate and measured, the cheekbones sculpted, the nose small and upturned. His mouth, while small, was full-lipped, but pale, almost without colour. He was of good height, but not as tall as some of his friends—perhaps about five-feet-eleven, and his body was lean and well-proportioned.
One of the other students nudged him. The golden-haired boy looked away. His dark-haired friend laughed, but sent a cold glance in Johann’s direction.
The students passed by him and were gone. Johann let his gaze follow the golden-haired boy. “Look back,” he said, under his breath. “Please look back.”
Johann could hypnotize some humans, but he didn’t believe his magic could work at such a distance, nor had he set out to deliberately bewitch the boy. Nonetheless, the object of his affection turned around and looked at Johann once more, the expression on his face intent and unreadable.
Johann was possessed. He thought he saw the golden-haired boy everywhere he went. He dreamed of him while lying in his coffin during sunlit days. He smarted with remembrance as he thought of others loved and lost, and unrequited desire, and he vowed he would never approach the boy and make himself known.
Spring marched into full bloom, and Johann was relegated to the coffin during daylight hours. Perversely, he thirsted for the sun. He remembered its warm caress on his human skin, and swimming in Austrian lakes during endless summers. For the first time in an age, his skin ached for another’s touch. His vampire skin prickled and burned as though the sun had possession of it. He imagined the press of another body beside him in the coffin, and it almost made him weep. There was only this. There would only ever be this.
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?
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.”
Casey McQuiston is the New York Times bestselling author of Red, White & Royal Blue, as well as a pie enthusiast. She writes books about smart people with bad manners falling in love. Born and raised in southern Louisiana, she now lives in New York City with her poodle mix and personal assistant, Pepper.
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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Scarlet Blackwell's jam is m/m enemies-to-lovers romance. Her stories are usually small town contemporary but she has been known to throw the odd historical or paranormal into the mix and a hot cop fairly often.
She likes unusual settings and atypical, flawed heroes. Her stories are dark and gritty and her themes are not for the faint-hearted, but a HEA is always assured.
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.
(Not necessarily in that order.)
She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.
Jordan 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.
Casey McQuiston
Charlie Cochet
EMAIL: charlie@charliecochet.com
Scarlet Blackwell
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Red, White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston
Love for the Reaper by Charlie Cochet
The Golden Haired Boy by Scarlet Blackwell
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