Summary:
Love Across Time #5
Soulmates across time. Two souls connected by destiny.
In present day, Jake, lonely and cut off from his parents, travels to the Chamberlin Inn in Cody, Wyoming to work on extra credit for his college seminar.
In 1932, Sebby labors at the Chamberlin Inn for pennies a day, wishing with all his heart for a better life.
While taking photographs in the room where Ernest Hemingway once stayed, Jake is flung back in time to the year 1932. There he meets Sebby who is living on the edge, half starving, a victim of the Great Depression. He’s been dodging rent collectors, getting behind on doctor's bills, trying to care for his ailing Pop.
Sebby falls hard for Jake with his movie star smile, but knows something is different about him. Jake wears strange clothes, talks too fast, and doesn’t look like he’s gone hungry a day in his whole life. He’s also the handsomest boy Sebby has ever seen.
Jake is drawn to Sebby’s dark eyes, shy smile, and gentle heart. Sebby is like nobody Jake has ever met. And though the year 1932 scares him to his very core, he needs to decide. Go home? Or stay and weather the Depression with Sebby, whom he has grown to love.
A male/male time travel romance, complete with hurt/comfort, true confessions, a shared bed, first time romance, the angst of separation, and true love across time.
Original Review October 2024:
Once again I've broken my read-in-order rule but that's okay, Love Across Time is a standalone series. So brilliant, such a great blend of humor, drama, paranormal, historical, sci-fi, and of course heart.
I really don't want to spoil anything and there is always something about time-travel that can be so easily spoiled by even the tiniest detail getting out, so this review is going to be shorter than others so as not to dampen others enjoyment .
I couldn't possibly imagine how Jake and Seby would find a HEA in this story or to be more precise, where and when it might occur. I needn't have been anxious because Jackie North pulled it off and brought the reader safely to that happy place, also known as HEA Universe😉. I will say that once again as it was with For the Love of a Ghost(#6 - and again the whole "read out of order" came into play), I expected a certain thing to happen but didn't and I'm kind of glad. Yes, had the author went where I feared it would have been equally entertaining but not going there just added to the adrenaline rush that can only come from the first time read. So it's all good! I know that's a bit ambiguous, some might even say "cop out" but just know it's entertaining to the highest degree.
Three down and three to go but with the next dozen weeks being some of my most hectic, reading, blogging, and holiday-loving time I am predicting unfortunately it probably won't be until 2025 that I get to the remaining entries. Instead of being sad about it I see it as having something to look forward to in the new year already and that's never a bad thing. However you read Jackie North's Love Across Time series, I highly recommend doing so and you won't be disappointed in all the emotionally charged entertaining time before you.
**I gotta send a HUGE THANK YOU to Jackie North for the inclusion of old radio shows(or current radio programs in 1932😉). My parents got me a cassette tape of Fibber McGee & Molly's first hall closet routine episode for my 10th birthday and I completely fell in love with it. When I got in to high school, I started collecting a variety of shows on cassette(and eventually CD), and I've purchased a few digital ones but my love of the format is the sole reason I have a script for SiriusXM so I can listen to the OTR channel in the car. The radio shows are often the pedestal I gauge a good audiobook narration on, if I feel the narrator creates an atmosphere that makes me feel like I'm listening to one of my fave old shows and expecting the sponsor to break in with a commercial than it's a winner. Anywho, I just want to say Thank You, Jackie North for adding that part of the era to the story, it's not something that authors often feature.**
Summary:
Supernatural Selection #1
Does a bear shift in the woods?
Well, partially. That was what got grizzly shifter Ted Farnsworth into trouble. He wasn’t trying to break the Secrecy Pact. He just wants people to see the real him. So he signs up with the mate-matching service Supernatural Selection—which guarantees marriage to a perfect partner. Not only will Ted never be lonely again, but once his new beaver shifter husband arrives, they’ll build Ted’s dream wilderness retreat together. Win-win.
Quentin Bertrand-Harrington, scion of an incubus dynasty, has abstained from sex since nearly killing his last lover. When his family declares it’s time for him to marry, Quentin decides the only way not to murder his partner is to pick someone who’s already dead. Supernatural Selection finds him the ideal vampire, and Quentin signs the marriage agreement sight unseen.
But a mix-up at Supernatural Selection contracts Quentin with Ted. What’s Ted supposed to do with an art historian who knows more about salad forks than screwdrivers? And how can Quentin resist Ted’s mouthwatering life force? Yet as they work together to untangle their inconvenient union, they begin to wonder if their unexpected match might be perfect after all.
The story text of this second edition of Single White Incubus is identical to the first edition.
Summary:
PsyCop #7
Everyone enjoys peace and tranquility, and Victor Bayne is no exception. He goes to great lengths to maintain a harmonious home with his partner, Jacob. Although the cannery is huge, it’s grown difficult to avoid the elephant in the room…the elephant with the letters FPMP scrawled on its hide.
Once Jacob surrendered his PsyCop badge, he infiltrated the Federal Psychic Monitoring Program. In his typical restrained fashion, he hasn’t been sharing much about what he actually does behind its vigilantly guarded doors. And true to form, Vic hasn’t asked. In fact, he would prefer not to think about the FPMP at all, since he’s owed Director Dreyfuss an exorcism since their private flight to PsyTrain.
While Vic has successfully avoided FPMP entanglement for several months, now his debt has finally come due.
Original Review October 2024:
I don't know how I'm doing it but I've managed to space out my reading of PsyCop after the initial few entries about 4 years ago. Don't get me wrong, it has nothing to do with my like or dislike of the series because frankly I FREAKIN' LOVE VIC AND JACOB!!! Covid messed with my reading mojo and this is the first year it is even remotely close to pre-pandemic levels which means my TBR list has grown exponentially in the years between, so "spacing series reads" has become a necessity I'm afraid.
So onto to Spook Squad.
After GhosTV I thought the author might give the pair a little rest from the macabre . . . okay I didn't really expect that but there was a bit of hope on my part they might get to do some downtime partying or vegging(which I think would suit their inner peace better) but alas mayhem called.
I don't want to spoil too much for those like me and are a bit late to the PsyCop party so details will be minimal. Jacob has traded his PsyCop badge for the FPMP(Federal Psychic Monitoring Program) to do some undercover work, if you will, to discover any secrets lurking behind closed doors. Vic tries not to think of the FPMP any more than necessary but the exorcism he owed Director Dreyfuss from their interactions in GhosTV must be paid. When Vic enters the halls of the FPMP he finds more than he expected and it ain't all good(that he expected😉).
Honestly, I think I'll begin to wrap this review up before I spill too much. The most deliciously enticing way I can express the freaky joy this entry brought me is this: I'm a sucker for some good old fashion mayhem of the creepiest kind and the "spook" in Spook Squad only hints at said maniacal mayhem Vic finds behind a simple favor owed exorcism. I know, there's probably something wrong with me but I gotta say it: YUMMILICOUSLY YUMMY!!!
Spook Squad has returning characters, good, bad, and at times a bit indifferent, but each one plays a part, none are page filler. It's some of these returning/recurring cast members that make this series one to be read in order. As much as I would love to continue on it'll probably be after the holidays/early(hopefully) 2025 before I return to Vic and Jacob's world but I look forward to it and the hungry anticipation I'm forcing upon myself will only heighten the enjoyment as it had done with GhosTV and now Spook Squad.
Summary:
Fortune Favors the Fae #5
"You will remain here until you learn what love is."
Trapped in the light court's prison, Doyle will never know the meaning of love. When luck summons him to the human realm to "take care of" Parker, he grasps at the possibility to finally escape.
This isn't the first attempt on Parker's life, but it's the most creative. His ex tried to summon a demon and landed a fae prince instead. Too bad the prince is trapped in a glass cage for eternity. When Doyle drags Parker to prison with him, the death threats don't stop with the location change. Now everyone in the fae realm wants Parker dead, too!
Parker's not into Doyle, or anyone for that matter. The coin must have been unlucky-side-up when it paired them together. Still, Doyle is desperate to honor his promise to take care of Parker. Only true love will free them both from the fae menagerie.
The Fae Menagerie is a male/male high romantasy between an imprisoned fae prince playboy and a demisexual human virgin. This forced-proximity slow burn romance features versatile characters, fated mates, lots of hurt/comfort, snark, spice, and a happily ever after!
The Fae Menagerie is a part of the multi-author series, Fortune Favors the Fae. From spicy to sweet, zany romps to epic adventures, there’s something for everyone in this mystical series. Discover destiny and true love and follow the coin on its fickle journey to the next world and a new magical adventure. Each book can be read as a standalone and in any order.
Gemini Kisses for the Omega by Lacey Daize
Summary:Mountain Springs Omegas #6
Kyle is ready for the next stage in life, but his best friend wants one last night of fun before he leaves.
Kyle's just graduated with a degree in teaching, and is starting off by spending his summer cutting his teeth at a youth camp outside Mountain Springs. But his best friend, Tyler, wants one more night of fun before he leaves. So they head down to the local dance slash sex club. At first Kyle just wanted to enjoy his evening, then he saw him, his alpha.
Evan is starting to feel his age, but his twin brother Ethan seems as young as ever.
Evan has just watched another class graduate, and the thought of heading to the dance slash sex club in Mount Sable is starting to feel more and more like something that should be left to younger alphas. It's only a matter of time until he runs into one of his former students there, and that can't happen. But Ethan is so excited, and he can't deny his brother. However he doesn't expect to see his omega there.
But there's more to romance than love at first sight, and when neither is sure of the other's intentions can they really form a lasting bond?
Recipe for Romance
One Alpha
One Omega
A Chance Meeting
An Oblivious Twin
The Push of Fate
Mix well, garnish with peppermint hot chocolate.
Gemini Kisses for the Omega is a 14.5K word , non-shifter, M/M, Mpreg romance, featuring some mischievous twins, a hopeful omega, some knotty fun, and plenty of misunderstandings
Original Review June 2024:
This is another story in Lacey Daize's Mountain Springs Omegas series and what a delightfully fun summer read that won't take long. Yes, it's a short novella but also because it sucks you in and before you know it you're swiping the last page.
As you can expect with alpha Evan being a twin there is bound to be some conflict or miscommunications that tend to follow twins around. You want to shout at Kyle to think about it first before sticking his foot in his mouth but then you remember Evan never mentioned the twin so then you want to shout at Evan for leaving that bit out😉.
Despite a few mix-ups due to lack of knowledge, Gemini Kisses for the Omega is fun and very much rom-comy that will make you chuckle, smile, laugh, and just a pure entertaining short journey.
Random Paranormal Tales of 2024
Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11 / Part 12
Hemingway's Notebook by Jackie North
Chapter One
When Ernest Hemingway checked out of the Chamberlin Inn, Sebby was on duty to take his luggage to the motorcar that was waiting for him. This included carrying a rod and reel case, a rifle case, two leather suitcases, a hefty steamer trunk of lures and gear, and a thickly-packed leather briefcase, all of which were heavy or bulky or both. But that didn't matter, Sebby was happy to help as Mr. Hemingway had been nice to his Pop yesterday and had sat on the back steps with him to talk about Babe Ruth and the Yankees. The day had been sunny, and Pop had taken the opportunity to get some fresh air and, tucked inside his pea coat, had been able to chat with the great man.
Now, of course, the day was howling wind and cold. Pop was safe in the apartment, though it was chilly without enough coal to heat the place. Sebby had been up since six, hauling luggage, washing dishes, gathering dirty laundry, all the while getting yelled at by Mr. Blair, the hotel's cook and manager, who always thought Sebby was too slow.
"You got those bags, boy?" asked the uniformed driver as he waited by the rumbling Studebaker motorcar that was big enough and sturdy enough to carry seven people and everything they could think of to bring with them. The trunk was open and the driver pointed to it. "You're taking your time, eh? Mr. Hemingway doesn't have all day, I'll have you know."
"Leave him be," came a voice from behind Sebby as he struggled with the two suitcases. "The boy is doing what he can. We have time. It'll only take a couple of hours to get to Clark's Fork anyhow."
Placing the suitcases next to the car so the driver could load them into the trunk, Sebby turned to see Mr. Hemingway waiting on the sidewalk. He stood beneath the grey eggshell sky, hands in his pockets, wearing his broad brimmed felt fishing hat, sturdy jacket, and brown woolen trousers. With a scarf around his neck, he looked plenty warm, though his breath fogged out before him in the cold air, speckling his dark mustache with frost.
"That package go out, Sebby?" asked Hemingway, using Sebby's first name, like he did with everybody, making it sound like the two of them had been friends for years. "I'd have taken it myself, but we've got to get a move on."
"Mrs. Chamberlin took it to the post office this morning, Mr. Hemingway," said Sebby. "First thing, right after breakfast."
"She's a good woman," said Hemingway. He eyed Sebby up and down with his dark blue eyes as if measuring him for a fight. "You're good to carry my luggage. Is this all of it?"
"Yes, sir," said Sebby, counting the items in his head. "I double checked the room, and this is all of it, every last piece. And I think the weather should get warmer soon."
"I hope so," said Hemingway, slowly, as if giving the few words his full consideration. "If it gets any colder, those trout'll drop too deep in the pools of the river to catch." After a pause as he puffed a breath and watched the frost form in the air in front of him, he looked at Sebby again. "When did you last eat, son?"
Feeling as though he'd stepped in front of some very unwelcome headlights, Sebby froze. He'd had breakfast, it was true, but it had consisted of a single cup of tea. There was no sugar and no milk. Sebby had made Pop take the last slice of bread, and then said he wasn't hungry. This was a lie, of course, as he was always hungry, only there was nothing he could do about it. The money he'd earned over the last few weeks only went so far, and there was the doctor's bill to pay on top of everything else. While he knew that other twenty-year-olds probably didn't have the weight of the world on their shoulders, there was nothing he could do but struggle on.
"This morning, sir," said Sebby, though it was terribly hard to lie to Mr. Hemingway.
"I told you to call me Ernest," said Hemingway, the irritation plain in his voice, though it was easy to see he meant the words to be a joke. "How many times did I tell you?"
"Several times," said Sebby, smiling, though he was shivering as the wind whipped past him as he stood there in his shirtsleeves. "Yes, Ernest."
"You and your Pop aren't going to last a Wyoming winter." Hemingway lifted his chin as he looked at Sebby.
"Excuse me?" asked Sebby, stopping himself by sheer force of will from rubbing his arms to keep warm. He didn't want Mr. Hemingway to think he was weak at all.
"With that cough your Pop's got, and you without any meat on your bones, you won't last the winter. It's too tough up here for both of you." Settling his hat on his head, Hemingway nodded at the driver, who was practically dancing with impatience to be away. "You ought to get out while you can."
"Yes, we will." Sebby nodded to reinforce the words, but they were a lie too. The whole conversation was settling in his belly like unwanted rocks.
"Here," said Hemingway as he pulled his hand out of his pocket and held out a shiny fifty-cent piece. "Thank you for everything, and tell your Pop I'm sorry for what I said about the Babe."
"I couldn't." Blinking fast, Sebby tried to keep the horror of accepting charity from showing on his face.
"It's a tip, son," said Hemingway. "It's not for nothing. You helped get my package mailed. You carried my luggage. I had a great conversation with your Pop. All in all, you deserve it, so take it."
If Sebby didn't take the money, Mr. Hemingway might get irritated, or there might be an argument. Then Mr. Blair would hear raised voices and come out, and find Sebby at fault for all of it. The coin glinted in Hemingway's hand. Sebby's mouth watered at the food that it could buy. There didn't seem anything else he could do but take it.
"Thank you, Mr.—I mean, Ernest." Sebby clasped the coin in his hand, still warm from Hemingway's touch, and thought, in spite of himself, that there were a million uses for the money, even though fifty cents wouldn't go very far. "I appreciate it."
"That's good, then."
With a tip of his broad-brimmed hat, Hemingway got into the waiting motorcar and waved at Sebby as the driver steered the car into the road. In a chuff of exhaust fumes, the motorcar went up the street, then turned on Sheridan Avenue, headed towards the mountains and the road that would take him north to Clark's Fork to go fishing. He'd invited Pop to go with him, but with Pop's bad cough, it would be impossible for him to be fly fishing in the middle of a swiftly running, icy October river.
Going back inside, Sebby shivered at the relative warmth of the lobby. Down the hall that led to the kitchen, he saw Marie, the youngest maid, carrying a sack of dirty laundry.
She was headed to the stairs that led to the basement, where the laundry was stored out of sight until Sebby could take it to the laundromat, except Mr. Blair, with his large shoulders, was blocking the way. He was dressed in his cook's apron and hat, his black-dyed hair slicked back with Brylcreem, as though he imagined he'd be going to a fancy dress ball later, and he looked down at her with narrowed eyes.
He said something to her in a rough tone. Sebby could hardly hear her response, but her hunched shoulders and blushing cheeks were enough for him to know Mr. Blair was being his rude self. It was one thing for him to order Sebby around, it was another for him to proposition a young lady who only wanted to get on with her work.
Though he wasn't big enough to take Mr. Blair in a fight, Sebby knew he needed to do something about it. Fists clenched, shoulders tight, he strode down the hall like he had someplace to be that required him to not look where he was going.
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Sebby as he bumped, hard, into Mr. Blair's back. "Didn't see you, Mr. Blair. Are you taking that laundry to the cellar for me, Marie? Thank you."
With these words, Marie was released. Going as fast as she could, black skirts and white apron flying, she headed with her bundle to the kitchen where the door to the cellar was. There, her mother, Janina, the assistant cook, was busy at work, and maybe her sister Serena was as well. All of whom would help to protect her, but left that Sebby standing in the hallway with Mr. Blair glowering at him. He couldn't get away fast enough for Mr. Blair grabbed him by the shirt collar.
"What do you think you're doing, you clumsy idiot?" asked Mr. Blair, shaking him. "Why don't you look where you're going?"
"I only meant to—" Sebby stopped, as yet another lie was rising before him, and he was heartily sick of it. "You shouldn't talk to her that way, Mr. Blair, it isn't right."
"What are you saying?"
"She hardly speaks any English at all, but she knows what you're saying to her." Sebby stood his ground, shoulders back, chin thrust out. "You need to have better manners around her, her and her sister Serena both."
"I'll do as I damn well please with either of them. They're just fucking Polacks, taking good jobs from people who deserve 'em. And as for you—"
Before Sebby could even blink, Mr. Blair hauled back and backhanded him, hard, flinging Sebby against the doorjamb of the communal bathroom. Eyes watering, ears ringing, face on fire, he struggled to stay on his feet and stand up to the man who'd been his constant tormentor almost from the day Sebby and Pop had arrived at the hotel.
"Another word out of you about this and I'll give her twice what I just gave you. Hear?"
Gasping, Sebby couldn't answer. When Mr. Blair raised his hand again, Sebby pushed back against the doorjamb as hard as he could and then ducked low. Which only made Mr. Blair even angrier, but since Mrs. Chamberlin had come out of her office, perhaps to find out what the ruckus was, there was nothing Mr. Blair could do but back down. And nothing Sebby could do but wipe the blood from his chin with the back of his shaking hand and pretend nothing had happened.
"Whatever is the matter?" asked Mrs. Chamberlin, running her fingers down her string of pearls. "Only do keep it down, Mr. Blair, and Sebby, you too. Some of our guests are still waking up and checking out of their rooms. Make some room in the hallway, if you please. Sebby, that laundry will be ready for you to take in another hour or so. Are you set for work?"
Mrs. Chamberlin, the owner of the hotel, meant this in a kindly way, or at least it seemed so. She didn't think he was lollygagging, but, more, wanted to know if he knew what task needed doing next.
"Yes, ma'am," said Sebby. "I'm going to wash the dishes while the girls finish up the rooms, and then I'm going to wipe the tables and sweep and mop the dining hall." Both of these were big, messy tasks. It was better for the hotel, as Mrs. Chamberlin had explained to him, if the girls, who were in public view, looked nice and tidy while they cleaned the rooms.
"Very good," said Mrs. Chamberlin. "Would you tell Janina that if she needs more cabbage, or any onions and such that she needs to give me a list before I head to the post office in half an hour."
"Yes, ma'am," said Sebby, but his heart sank. He'd told Mr. Hemingway specifically that Mrs. Chamberlin had taken his package of letters and whatnot to the post office right after breakfast and here it was almost ten o'clock. Or maybe she'd already gone and come back and was going again? No, that wasn't right. She seemed pretty organized and would only make one trip. Thus what Sebby had told Mr. Hemingway was yet another lie, one more to stack up on top of all the others.
"And Mr. Blair, be sure Barbara counts those keys correctly after checkout. Yesterday she lost track of one, and they are expensive to replace."
"My daughter didn't lose any of the keys," said Mr. Blair, barely able, it seemed, to keep the growl out of his voice. "One of the guests must have taken it."
As Mr. Blair glared at Sebby, he seemed to be saying without words that perhaps Sebby was to blame. But since Sebby only watched the desk sometimes during lunch and maybe after all the guests had checked out for the day, and hadn't at all for the past few days it couldn't have been him. He didn't say anything, though, because that would only start Mr. Blair up again, and give Mrs. Chamberlin more to cluck over as she stroked her pearls.
"If it happens again, I'm afraid I'll have to take it out of her pay."
Mrs. Chamberlin seemed firm about this, but Sebby wondered whether Mr. Blair would be able to sweet-talk her out of it, or maybe threaten her out of it. Or perhaps she would forget, because all in all, Barbara Blair seemed to think she'd been born with a spoon of gold in her mouth, and didn't want anyone to forget it, even though she had to work like everybody else at the hotel.
When Mrs. Chamberlin went back into her office, hopefully to get Mr. Hemingway's mail to take to the post office, Mr. Blair was distracted and Sebby was able to slip down the hall to the kitchen. There, in the warm, steamy room, Janina, the assistant cook to Mr. Blair, was at the counter, slicing potatoes. She was a slight woman with dark hair and eyes, and always wore a sensible black dress and plain white apron that came down to the dress's hem.
When she heard him come in, she turned, and her face was white, her eyes dull. Obviously Marie had told her what had happened, but just as there was nothing Sebby could do, there was nothing she could do, either. Mr. Blair was a bully through and through and any word against him brought down the threat of losing her job, and she knew it.
"I'll take care of these, Janina," said Sebby as he went to the sink, where a pile of pots and pans and dishes and silverware and all the rest of it waited for him. "Then I'll get on the dining room and clean up from breakfast, okay?"
"You watch, yes?" she asked, and while her English was broken it was a damn sight better than Sebby's Polish. "I go to Marie now."
"Sure," said Sebby as he rolled up his shirt sleeves. He was glad to do it, if it meant that Janina could go comfort her daughter. "I'll say you just stepped out for some fresh air."
With a nod, she opened the door to the cellar and disappeared into the black depths.
Sebby got to work, doing his best to shave off the thinnest slivers of soap into a sinkfull of hot water. There wouldn't be many bubbles, but with elbow grease and good can-do attitude he knew the work would go fast. And maybe Janina would loan him a bit of ice for his jaw, which, as he bent over the sink, brought a low-grade pounding up to its fullest degree.
Living over the hotel's garage and working in the hotel was hard, and the pay wasn't much, but it was a job. It was an arrangement that kept them off the streets, and he was glad to get it. It meant that he could take care of Pop.
Just as it began to rain really hard, coming down like shards of ice, he was finishing up with coal deliveries to Mrs. Chamberlin's office, the reception area. His last stop was the kitchen, where he washed his hands at the sink, relishing the hot water and soap. It made him angry to see Janina at the stove, putting in a sheet of sugar cookies in the oven, her mouth curved down, eyes dark and sad.
They were all in a bad spot because Mr. Blair was a bully who said what he liked and did what he wanted, and all the while Mrs. Chamberlin seemed oblivious. None of them, not Janina or her daughters, or Pop and Sebby could do a thing about it without risking losing their jobs. Thus nobody said anything about it, and every day seemed to go on as this one was, with Sebby having a quick wash before going back to the apartment. There, Pop would working hard to cut strips for Mrs. Johnson to make her braided rugs with. He wanted to stay in the kitchen, but he couldn't, as it wasn't his place. And besides, he couldn't leave Pop on his own.
"Yes, Serena?" asked Janina, as Serena came into the kitchen, holding out a small blue notebook.
"This things," she said waving the notebook at her mother. "It is left. The man with the—" She stopped to motion at her own mouth, drawing her fingers down as if she'd suddenly sprouted a growth of hair. "Bushy face and the eyes, blue."
"Which room?" asked Sebby, even though he felt he already knew, as there was only one guest who'd checked out that morning who might have cause to carry a well-used, hand-sized notebook with a denim blue cover on it.
"The 18," said Serena. She gestured with her hand as though to indicate that the notebook had been beneath something else. "Near the bed."
Both Janina and Serena looked at Sebby for the solution to their problem, which was to find a way to return the notebook to Mr. Hemingway, the proper owner.
"I'll take it," he said, holding out his hand. "He's coming back after his fishing trip, though Pop mentioned he might stay at the Irma Hotel."
"Good," said Janina, her gratitude seemingly way out of proportion with the very small good deed.
It was only a second later he realized the issue. If Mr. Blair saw her or one of her daughters with it, he might accuse them of stealing it, possibly with the hope of getting a reward. The worst part of this was not that Sebby was now on the hot seat, but that he could so easily figure out how Mr. Blair would handle himself. Being able to see into the heart of such an evil man made him feel wounded and sore. He longed to be far away from Mr. Blair but it just wasn't possible. Everything, every bit of their survival, was reliant on what they had at the Chamberlin Inn: the small apartment, the meager pay Sebby brought in, and the kindness of a doctor who was allowing them to pay him a little each week.
Hurrying, he went outside and crossed the small alley between the hotel proper and the outbuilding where, upstairs, he and Pop had been living for the past few weeks. The rent was free, on account of Mrs. Chamberlin's charity, but there was no heat, barely any hot water, and only a pot-bellied stove to make tea on and heat their potato peel soup.
As quietly as he could, he snuck up the narrow staircase and let himself into the apartment as though he was a burglar of some kind, closing the door with a silent snick.
Pop was in his armchair, which was as close to the pot-bellied stove in the corner as it could possibly be. Not that it made any difference, as they only had one lump of coal a day and it had to last through the night, all the way to morning. Still, they had the semblance of being near a warm fire, and could make do if they wrapped themselves in blankets and pretended to be of good cheer.
At night, they put the lump of coal in the pot-bellied stove, lit it, and slept on blankets on the floor in front of it. It was a damn sight better than the alternative, which was being homeless and on the streets in such foul weather, but it broke Sebby's heart every time he thought about his Pop and his bad cough and the number of strips he had to cut for a penny apiece, just to help pay the doctor's bills.
As he thought, Pop was asleep, so Sebby straightened the blanket around Pop's shoulders, and put the scissors on the table, the box of cloth and strips on the floor. The more rest Pop got, the faster he would get better. Besides, Sebby had fifty cents so he could buy them a little food. It couldn't be all bad as long as they could eat. As to what Sebby would tell Pop about taking Mr. Hemingway's charity, he would cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, he was headed out to pay the doctor's bill and, with what was left over, buy them a little food to eat.
Single White Incubus by EJ Russell
Chapter One
“Ted? Did you hear the question?”
Ted Farnsworth blinked, shifting his gaze from his therapist’s neck to his movie-star handsome face. “I’m sorry, Dr. Kendrick. What was it again?”
Dr. Kendrick was used to Ted getting distracted, since it happened at every visit at least once. Okay, twice. Three times, tops. But he never frowned with censure the way the head of the bear shifter council always did. Or snort with annoyance like Ted’s brother. Or even sigh with impatience like some of his friends. Nope. Dr. Kendrick just calmly repeated himself.
“Why didn’t you come to see me as soon as you got the council’s letter of reprimand?”
“Oh. The letter.” Ted squirmed, the urge to shift prickling along his spine and over his scalp. He gripped his knees, squeezing tight. Shifting here would be bad. Dr. Kendrick’s nice office furniture isn’t rated for grizzlies. “I couldn’t come to town until now. My truck’s in the shop.”
Dr. Kendrick’s eyebrows drew together. “But I installed the emergency communication app on your phone for a reason. You could have called me for transport through Faerie. There’s a threshold in my backyard and another practically on top of your cabin.”
Ted shrugged sheepishly and picked up his cup of Dr. Kendrick’s excellent office coffee. “I know. But I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Arranging an appointment, especially when it’s council-ordered and you could be censured for ignoring it, is a perfectly legitimate use.” He crossed his legs and settled his hands on the arms of his wingback chair. “I want you to promise me that— Is something wrong?” He tugged on the knot of his tie. “You keep staring at my neck.”
“No! Nothing. Nope.” But I’m pretty sure that’s a hickey peeking over your collar, and it’s really distracting. “I guess I’m just not used to the new look.”
“Ah. Is this better?” Between one blink and the next, Dr. Kendrick morphed from young-Hugh-Jackman gorgeous to the comforting face Ted was used to from before Dr. Kendrick had broken his curse: outsized skull, overhanging brow ridges, broad, misshapen nose, the whole nine.
Fae glamourie. It was a thing. Although Dr. Kendrick was the only fae Ted knew who would use it to look uglier instead of more beautiful, just to make somebody else feel better.
“Yeah, thanks.” But that hickey is still winking at me. Ted forced himself to concentrate on Dr. Kendrick’s deep-set eyes.
“If your truck is in the shop, how did you get from the coast to Portland today?”
“Oh, I hitched a ride with Matt.”
“Matt?” Dr. Kendrick frowned, and with his old face, that was PDS—pretty damn scary. “Matt Steinitz? The tabloid photographer?” The shock in his tone was a good indication of how bad an idea he thought this was. Dr. Kendrick’s voice was never anything but well-modulated and soothing.
“That’s him.”
“After the council’s last warning, I thought you’d broken off contact with him.”
“It’s not what you think.” Mostly, anyway. “He lives in Dewton now, down the mountain from my place.” Although he wouldn’t have moved there if it weren’t for Ted’s stupid shifter tricks. “We’re . . . we’re friends.”
“But, Ted . . .” Dr. Kendrick did sigh this time, running his hands through his hair. “Your association with him is exactly why Bruno Killingsworth escalated the most recent incident from a bear shifter matter to one for the combined supe council.” He pointed to the tabloid newspaper lying on the coffee table between them, Matt’s picture of Ted in his partially shifted form on the front page above the fold, with the headline screaming Bigfoot Sighted in Coast Range! “Aside from the fact that you’re endangering the Secrecy Pact, Sasquatch is seriously annoyed at the continued impersonations. They want to file suit against you for identity theft.”
“I’m sorry.” Ted bit his lip and set his half-empty cup on the table, wishing he hadn’t drunk it quite so fast, because his stomach was definitely complaining. Should he confess to Dr. Kendrick that he’d staged another “incident” just two days ago—and that he’d phoned Matt from his motel with an anonymous tip this morning before this appointment?
“The council sent that reprimand because their forbearance is exhausted. They’re threatening to tag you, Ted.”
Ted’s heart plummeted to his shoes. “T-t-tag me? But—” He squeezed his hands tighter, his fingers digging into his knees. If they tagged him, he’d have no privacy at all. He wouldn’t be able to take a piss without the news being fed to the Supernatural Monitoring Agency. And the sphinxes who ran the SMA were really fussy—they never slept and they had zero sense of humor. They were worse than Santa.
“And tagging is only one step from form-locking. Two from—” Dr. Kendrick cleared his throat, his gaze sliding away from Ted’s face. “Two from termination.”
“Termination? You mean . . .” Ted drew his finger across his throat, and Dr. Kendrick nodded.
Nope. Not confessing. Matt might not do anything with the latest photo. And Ted could bail on this morning’s tip, not show up this time, even though he hated to disappoint Matt. He was a good guy—and he got so excited about cryptid sightings.
Besides, they were sort of payment for the ride to town and back—not to mention a goodbye present.
Because even if the council hadn’t come down on Ted’s ass like a ton of manure, after today, he was swearing off Sasquatch impersonations for good.
“You don’t have to worry about me anymore, Doctor, and neither does the council. I’ve got something to show you.” Ted hefted his backpack off the floor. But the strap—frayed by too many trips up and down the mountain in his bear’s teeth—snapped, knocking his cup over and sending a wave of lukewarm coffee over the table, soaking the newspaper and dripping onto Dr. Kendrick’s shoes.
“Shoot!” Ted leaped up, glancing around wildly for something to mop up the spill, but only succeeding in knocking the table with his shins.
Dr. Kendrick waved him back down. “Sit, sit. Please don’t worry about it.” He got up and walked over to open the door. “David? We’ve had a bit of a spill. Could you help, please.”
“Of course,” David, Dr. Kendrick’s assistant and husband, said from the lobby. “Be there in a jiffy.”
Dr. Kendrick waited at the open door until David appeared, carrying a roll of paper towels and a spritz bottle of some kind of cleanser. David paused, glancing from Dr. Kendrick to Ted. He placed a hand on Dr. Kendrick’s neck, leaning in to whisper to him. For an instant, Dr. Kendrick’s beast glamourie flickered off, and his cheeks flushed dark pink.
Weird.
When David took his hand away, he flashed a brilliant grin at Ted—and that distracting pink spot over Dr. Kendrick’s collar was gone. But Ted knew what he’d seen. It was a hickey, and David zapped it. Dr. Kendrick’s husband was an achubydd, a magical healer. Guess that comes in handy when things get a little exciting in the bedroom.
Ted toyed with the broken strap as David mopped up the spill and Dr. Kendrick resumed his seat. Guess I need a new pack. He carried it in his human or bear form, when he schlepped between his cabin and the cave above Dewton where he kept an extra set of clothes. He hadn’t mentioned that to Dr. Kendrick either. When his truck was on the fritz—or sometimes just because he felt like it—he’d shift into bear form to get down the mountain faster, then hike the rest of the way to town after he changed in the cave.
Dr. Kendrick and the supe council probably wouldn’t approve of that, and the bear council definitely wouldn’t approve. Of course, none of them understood why Ted wanted to go to town in the first place. But by now he’d gotten that message loud and clear—he wasn’t exactly your average bear.
After David left with the wastebasket full of soggy newspaper and soiled paper towels, Dr. Kendrick smiled at Ted. “Now, you were saying?”
“Oh. Right.” Ted pawed through his pack and pulled out two folders, one plain manila and one glossy white. “You know the Walton clan property next to mine?”
“Walton? The marten shifters? Didn’t they move up to Canada last year?”
“Yep. They’ve had the place on the market since then.” Ted grinned, flipping open the manila folder, and tapped the grainy photo on the real estate listing inside. “Last month, I bought it.”
Dr. Kendrick’s eyebrows quirked, but he leaned over to study the picture. “This structure doesn’t look very sound. Or complete, for that matter.”
“Oh, it not. It’s pretty much a shell, actually, but I’m gonna fit it out as a wilderness retreat center.”
Dr. Kendrick frowned. “Ted, I don’t like to discourage you, but you’ve had difficulties with follow-through in the past. Do you have a solid plan for the business?”
“Um . . .” Ted dog-eared the corner of the listing, then smoothed it flat again. “Not exactly. But I don’t have to.” He nudged the other folder, the shiny one, toward the doctor. “I’m married.”
Dr. Kendrick blinked, and his face flickered back to beautiful for a second. “Married? Congratulations. I didn’t realize . . .” He leaned back in his chair, his beast persona firmly in place. “Who’s the lucky supe?”
Ted opened the folder and teased out the picture of his new husband. My husband! His heart threatened to prance right out of his chest. “This is him. His name’s Rusty Johnson.”
Dr. Kendrick glanced up sharply. “Rusty Johnson from the Dawson beaver clan in Eugene?”
“You know him too?”
“Of course. All shifters with inactive shifting genes are required to submit to regular quarterly counseling sessions, although Rusty is the most well-adjusted Inactive it’s been my pleasure to treat. But, Ted . . .” Dr. Kendrick laced his fingers together, his expression serious—although it was tough for his beast face to look unserious. “The last time I spoke with Rusty, which admittedly was almost three months ago, he was still expecting to mate with Fletcher Dawson, the clan heir. Your courtship must have been quite sudden. When did you two meet?”
“We . . . ah . . . haven’t actually met. Yet.”
“But you said you were married.”
“We are. All signed and sealed. Here.” Ted took a three-color brochure out of the pocket of the folder. “You know how in our last session, you suggested I look for other ways to meet friends? I took your advice.” He handed the brochure to Dr. Kendrick.
Dr. Kendrick opened it, smoothing it across his knees. “Supernatural Selection?” He glanced up, clearly troubled. “When I suggested you look for other means to meet people, I didn’t mean you should buy your friends.”
“Not a friend. A mate. A husband. I thought you’d understand. You’re happier now that you’re married, right?”
“Yes, of course, but wouldn’t you prefer to meet potential partners in a more . . . organic way?”
“But see, that’s the great thing. The agency is run by a witch’s collective. They know shit. Spells, and . . . and clairvoyance and psychic stuff.”
“You think they could know you better than you know yourself? Enough to match you with a compatible partner?”
“They promise a perfect match.”
“But, Ted . . .” Dr. Kendrick set the brochure on the table. “They’re constrained by their own clientele. They can only connect you with other supes who are on their roster. What if your perfect mate isn’t registered? Don’t you think interacting with the larger shifter community would be a better bet for you?”
Larger shifter community. That was a laugh, although Ted doubted Dr. Kendrick meant it as a joke. There weren’t many shifters larger than a grizzly.
“This is best. It’ll be great, Dr. Kendrick, you’ll see.” He tucked the brochure into the folder and stuffed everything back in his pack. “My perfect match. My lifelong companion. I’ll be happy and stay out of trouble from now on.”
Guaranteed.
Spook Squad by Jordan Castillo Price
CHAPTER 1
I often wonder what I might have done with my life if I’d never become a cop. There was this kid who sat behind me in fifth grade. His name is long gone from my patchy memory, but I do recollect two things about him. One, he annoyed the hell out of me by wiggling his foot against the leg of my chair all day long. And two, he knew exactly what he wanted to be when he grew up: a garbageman. Not in an ironic kind of way, either. Careers in sanitation fascinated him. He drew pictures of garbage trucks like other kids drew rocket ships or unicorns. On trash day, he would set his alarm early so he’d be waiting there in the alley to get a glimpse of his heroes. If you gave him a box, he wouldn’t make something useful out of it like a car or a teleporter. He’d make a dumpster.
When I hear the pneumatic wheeze of a garbage truck’s air brakes, I occasionally think of this kid, whatever his name was. I wonder if he ever did manage to live the dream, or if his parents talked him into being an accountant, or maybe a doctor.
At one point in my prepubescent life, I had aspirations of joining the military. Not because I’m pro war, and certainly not because I’m good at following orders. I suspect my subconscious was grooving on the idea of being dumped into the plastic bag with a few dozen other little green army men and losing myself in a tangle of arms, legs and rifles.
Real life being as disappointing as it often is, my chosen career (or the career that chose me) turned out to be a continual display of territoriality and machismo rather than teamwork. Other than my partner, Bob Zigler, I’ve never really grown comfortable with anyone at the precinct. The feeling is mutual. Sometimes the evidence of exclusion is subtle, like when conversation ebbs as I cross the threshold. Sometimes it’s overt, like finding every last pen gone from my desk when the fully stocked supply room is a hell of a lot closer to everything else, and Zig’s desk is untouched.
It says something about how awkward things were that I preferred being at a crime scene to reporting back to the station and dealing with all the other cops. This aversion to groups probably started early. I grew up in group foster care with a rotating stream of snotty kids—troubled kids, I know now. I’m sure they acted like they did not because they were inherently jerks, but because they’d been starved, beaten, and molested, or at the very least, neglected. Sure, we had toys, but they were nasty second hand toys. Naked dolls. Games with missing parts. Dirty plastic action figures with the paint rubbed off.
One thing I don’t remember attempting to play with is a jigsaw puzzle. I’m sure we must have had them, probably with a good handful of pieces missing from each one. But I couldn’t dredge up any specific memory of putting together puzzles.
Maybe eventually I’d get the hang of it, although probably not tonight. It was already past six—and while I’d been focused on my project, the cannery had grown dim.
“I’m home,” Lisa called from the foyer. My heart did a little relief-flip every time I heard her say that. Even now. All these months after we coaxed her out of the greedy clutches of PsyTrain.
“I’m in here.” My voice was phlegmy from staring so hard I’d forgotten to swallow.
Lisa tracked in melted snow and frowned down at the dining room table. “You’re not done with that thing yet?”
To be fair, it might be my first jigsaw puzzle…as far as I knew. “I didn’t realize there was a time limit.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Lisa tousled my hair and went back to hang up her coat. “Me and Jacob gave up after the first hour. But you’re still at it. Thought you said those guys aren’t your type.”
Judging by the box lid, the puzzle seemed like it should have been fun. It featured male dancers with bare chests, bulging muscles, sparkly bowlers, clingy slacks, bow ties fastened around bare necks, and ginormous baskets. Yeah, not my type. But kitschy and stupid in a way I could appreciate. Figuring out which tab fit into which hole was a welcome distraction from the way I’d spent my day: figuring out which vehicle must be covered in minute traces of a distressed murder victim’s blood.
Cops need a solid chunk of time to unwind when they clock off. I hadn’t been actively searching for something to deaden my brain after work. It just happened to be there. Jacob’s gym pals had presented him with the goofy gift at his private retirement party—the one that guys on the force weren’t privy to—along with a card that read, We’re puzzled that you’re retiring. Don’t go soft on us!
Lots of people were puzzled. Not me, though. I knew exactly which carrot Regional Director Con Dreyfuss had dangled in front of Jacob to get him to join the FPMP, and more importantly, which stick he’d subtly suggested might beat Grandma Marks to death.
I tried and rejected yet another piece. “They’re all skin-toned or black.” Maybe I should have started with something easier, like a bouquet of differently-colored flowers. As it was, I’d been staring at one particular dancer, a guy with a dorky come-hither look on his face, for the better part of an hour. There was a big puzzle-shaped hole in his gut where his six pack should have been. You’d think I could spot a set of washboard abs without much problem. But with masses of spray-tanned skin cut into jigsaw pieces, the body parts eventually started to blend.
Lisa turned on an overhead light and joined me at the dining room table. The puzzle and I had been monopolizing the tabletop for a while now, but none of us actually ate there anyway, since meals happened on the coffee table and TV trays. Usually the big table was home to books and newspapers. Now the books were on the floor and the papers in the recycle bin…and somehow, inadvertently, I’d ended up with a new hobby.
All it took was a critical need to unwind and a major life change in my partner that neither of us had seen coming.
Lisa and I sat together and stared down at the die-cut cardboard pieces, and eventually she found a piece of someone’s thigh and clicked it into place. And then a smoky bit of background. And then an oiled shoulder. All the while, I continued searching for my abs. Then she found three nondistinctive gray background pieces, one after the other. Click, click, click. “Are you using the sí-no?” I finally asked.
She looked up, startled. “No. Why would I…?” She laughed and cuffed me on the arm. “That would take all the fun out of it.”
Right. Fun.
I was trying to finesse a not-quite-right bellybutton into position when the doorbell made us both jump. Since the cannery’s bell was meant to be heard over the drone and clang of heavy equipment, its chime wasn’t exactly what you’d call melodic. You don’t want to be caught holding a hot cup of coffee when it goes off.
I collected my sidearm before I answered, not because I’m a paranoid nutcase, but because I’m a realist. Since I wasn’t expecting anybody, I’d need to be prepared for the possibility that some whacked-out anti-Psych had decided to visit—with a shotgun. But it turned out this time my caution was unnecessary. Yes, my visitor was scary. But at least her gun was holstered.
“Is Jacob here?” Carolyn asked.
“Uh, no. He’s…” I glanced at my watch. Nearly seven. Ideally he’d be home by now, but no big surprise that he wasn’t. “Not yet.”
“I figured. I didn’t see his car out there.”
Oh. Here I thought she’d been looking for him—not looking to avoid him. I stepped aside and let her in.
“So he left some stuff in my car.” Carolyn began dropping things on the catch-all table beside the front door. A leather-bound notebook, some fancy pens, an MP3 player. I considered mentioning that maybe she should stay awhile, since Jacob would be really glad to see her. Unfortunately, I sensed her reply might be phenomenally awkward, given that she can’t whitewash the truth like the rest of us can. She’d probably considered mailing his effects—I know the idea would have crossed my mind—but that would seem too weird. Easiest to engineer the drop-off while Jacob was at work. She seemed eager to rid herself of his things and then bail, but when Lisa drew up beside me to see what was going on, Carolyn paused, cocked her head, and looked Lisa up and down. “Are you just visiting,” Carolyn asked, “or do you still live here?”
“For now,” Lisa began, while in my panic I talked over her and said, “It’s really not a problem. We have plenty of room.” Because I’d been through too damn much to get Lisa back, and I wanted to keep her right where I could see her. I didn’t want Carolyn fucking that up with any inconvenient truth. “All kinds of room.”
Carolyn looked pointedly around the foyer, then said, “Room, but not many walls. That’s not exactly an ideal situation for three adults.”
Now, Lisa and I may not possess the type of talent where we could feed thoughts back and forth without other people being any the wiser. But we can read each others’ body language like a front page headline. Lisa shifted forward slightly. So did I.
As if that wouldn’t just pique Carolyn’s curiosity.
Hey, I said Lisa and I were in synch. Not that we were adept at steering a conversation. Carolyn strode past us like we’d just told her there were warm brownies in the living room that needed eating. Lisa and I turned away from each other. I shrugged. She sighed.
“How long have you…?” Carolyn’s voice seemed overloud against the hardwood and brick. “Whose idea was this?”
We followed her into the main room and shot guilty glances at the big blue dome-shaped tent in the corner. Yes, it’s not something you see every day. But if it worked for the three of us, who was Carolyn to make us feel like a bunch of weirdos?
I’m not even sure who’d suggested the tent. Just that after Lisa spent a few weeks on our couch, there’d been an edge to the “I should probably find my own place” discussion that sounded pretty serious to me. And Jacob’s tent was going to waste rolled up in the basement.
And if you have a room big enough to hold a living room set, a dining room set, and an entertainment center with space left over for a four-person tent…why shouldn’t you pitch it? “It’s just a privacy thing,” I said. “Not a fashion statement.”
Carolyn glanced up at the loft, where we’d be able to see down over a room divider with ease, and then looked me over to see if I was being truthful. Apparently she was satisfied; she didn’t challenge me on it. But she did subject Lisa to additional scrutiny. “Are you running from something, is that what this is? Or did something happen in California that nobody’s talking about? Because the three of you troop out there, and when you get back, suddenly you’re playing living room adventurer and my partner hands in his—” she broke off and turned away with her hand clasped against her mouth, and I realized with a sudden and awkward certainty that I was about to see hard-assed Carolyn Brinkman cry.
“I’m not running,” Lisa said. Unlike me, she wasn’t moved to awkwardness the minute anyone teared up. But exactly like me, she’d seen way too much weird shit at PsyTrain to sleep without a nightlight…and she didn’t like to discuss the big, fat, ectoplasmic mess any more than I did. “And I’m not bothering anyone either. If Victor don’t want me here, he’ll say so.”
“I do want you here.”
“So don’t be judging me.” Lisa punctuated her statement with a ghetto-tastic side-to-side head move that made me realize I was seriously outclassed in this discussion.
“Is that what you think this is about?” Carolyn snapped back. “I’m not judging you—I’m worried. You lost your PsyCop badge, you skipped out on PsyTrain, and you’re sleeping in a tent in your ex-partner’s living room. Does that sound healthy to you?”
“I’m no quitter,” Lisa said—and she was even bringing out the big ammo now, the no-finger, which she proceeded to wag in Carolyn’s face, bangle bracelets jingling. “Don’t you ever call me a quitter.”
“I’m not—”
“I got suspended helping you people. And PsyTrain is none of your business.”
Although Carolyn was about as white bread as a person can be, Lisa’s “talk to the hand” posture didn’t daunt her. In fact, instead of backing off, she took an even closer look. “How many carats are those diamonds?” she said.
Since Carolyn doesn’t do her shopping at SaverPlus like Lisa and I do, she doesn’t realize that the best one can hope for at the second floor jewelry counter is rhinestones and crystal. Lisa’s idea of adornment is big plastic sunglasses and a little diary-type key she wears around her neck. She buys her bling from spinner racks, not glass cases. Even so, she backed off from Carolyn, startled—and she took her hand and its bangle bracelets with her. But instead of educating Carolyn on the ways of the budget conscious shopper, she said, “What does it matter to you?”
“Four carats? Five?”
Carats? Right. I was fully aware that Lisa had answered the question with a question to dodge Carolyn’s built-in polygraph—but before I could ponder why she would suddenly feel defensive about wearing costume jewelry when everyone knew it was fake, the front door banged open.
Jacob. Great timing.
“Carolyn?” He dashed into the living room as if he was in danger of missing her—as if he didn’t stand between her and the only escape route. “I just left you another message.”
Carolyn turned and looked at him coolly, though an unshed tear still glittered in her eye. “I know.”
His shoulders sagged, though so imperceptibly I was probably the only one who’d noticed. His impeccable suit, his carefully honed physique, even his ramrod posture, everything about Jacob was rigid, controlled perfection. A man of steel…but not inside. I’ve never wanted to be an empath—too damn confusing—but at that moment I could have really used the insight, ’cos it was a real struggle to figure out how emotions had tanked so fast. Here Lisa and I were contentedly fitting pieces of half-naked cardboard men together, and before I knew it, the atmosphere was soupy with anger, frustration, resentment and hurt. The stupid part was, we were all on the same damn side.
“Look,” Jacob told Carolyn. “What I’ve been trying to get you to hear is, there’s no reason we can’t keep working together.”
“Other than the fact that you retired.”
“Come on, think about it. You’d help a lot more people if you would—”
“No, Jacob. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t help more people, I’d help a different kind of people. If I followed you to the Federal Psychic Monitoring Program, I’d be looking out for Psychs—and it would be a hell of a lot more dangerous than what I’m doing now.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. The majority of my perps are single guys, acting alone. Once we find them, once they’re charged and arraigned, they’re not my problem anymore. You’re dealing with big, organized groups. They’ve got money behind them, they’ve got widespread religious support, and worse than that, they’ve got their fears that one day all the NPs will wake up in a slave state where they do nothing but bow down and serve their evil psychic overlords.”
I don’t know how she got that sentence out in a single breath, and I think she didn’t either. She stopped and blinked, and then the thought occurred to me that Carolyn didn’t really have much of a knack for hyperbole, thanks to her talent keeping tabs on her truthfulness. And then I realized she wasn’t exaggerating.
That’s how Carolyn actually thought the Non-Psychs saw us. And it scared the crap out of her.
“My daughters aren’t even in high school yet. They need their mom.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “I can’t work with you. Not at the FPMP.”
“If there is a threat out there, don’t you want the best Psychs in the world on your team? Besides, you’re overestimating your opponent. They’re not nearly as organized as all that. Tell her, Vic.”
How was I supposed to make Carolyn feel better when I’d just answered my door with a Glock in my hand? “Uh, I don’t know. Safety in numbers?” It was the best I could do, at least to Carolyn’s face.
“More like a bigger target,” she said.
This was so not the way I’d hoped Jacob’s reunion with Carolyn would play out. I said, “Listen, it’s late. We’re all tired. I can order us some pizzas and maybe once we eat, we’ll all be thinking straight.”
“Actually,” Jacob said, “I need to put in a couple of hours at the firing range. Night training. You want to come with? I can make a call, see if there’s room—”
“I’ve just put in a ten-hour day,” Carolyn snapped. “Now I’m going home. To my family.”
Jacob looked to Lisa and me to see if either of us would tag along. I could definitely use the practice, especially at night. The Fifth Precinct requires one firearms session a year. That’s right: one. Since I’m not an overachiever, initially I didn’t put in any extra time on my own. Not until I failed my first recertification—and you only need to hit seventy percent of the targets to pass that thing.
I should have jumped at the chance…but I didn’t want the FPMP to think I was easy.
Jacob looked to Lisa. She said, “Actually, I already have plans.” She gave a sheepish shrug. “Sorry.”
Carolyn didn’t call her out on these purported “plans,” so they must have existed. The awkwardness between the four of us was thick enough to cut with a spork, but at least Lisa was no longer going Jerry Springer Baby Momma on Carolyn, and Jacob wasn’t tooting the Federal Psychic Monitoring Program’s horn. I gave the ropy muscles at the back of my neck a couple of squeezes, said, “Well, I guess I’ll go see if Crash wants pizza,” and turned to retrieve my phone from my overcoat.
“Vic,” Jacob said. I tensed, because I really thought I’d successfully weaseled my way out of that awkward conversation without resorting to an untruth, but I didn’t bolt when he reached toward me. I was prepared for a caress, or maybe a hug, some sort of attempt to entice me to stay and keep trying to convince the girls we were all still one big, happy family. But instead he just plucked something off the back of my shirt and handed it to me.
It was a puzzle piece with a tacky smear of jelly on the back of it. I turned it photo-side up. Fake tan flesh-tone—and it looked suspiciously like a set of washboard abs.
The Fae Menagerie by Edie Montreux
Chapter One
DOYLE
A tug on my consciousness called to me through time and space. I was being summoned. I had no choice but to follow.
Thankfully, viewing hours were over, so they wouldn't punish me for leaving when they inevitably pulled me back. I hoped.
Not that it mattered, either way. I was being summoned!
I hadn't visited the human realm since … I couldn't remember. The time before my stint in the menagerie was a strange fever dream to me now.
Humans had forgotten our songs, fairy rings, and ways ages ago, even before their industrial revolution. I'd assumed they'd forgotten my name, as well. My mother had cried over tomes hidden in musty cellars and shored up our sacred places with stone walls, never to see the light of day.
I'd been too caught up in my own worries at the time to fret over a few walls, but now, it seemed incredibly important to continue the old ways, including summoning. If I ever broke free of my prison, I would reclaim our ritual places and restore the mystique around our names.
Still, someone knew my name, my full name! It had been eons. I couldn't even remember all of it. I'd been going by Doyle so long it had stuck.
The call from the human realm echoed in my ears and pulled me toward it. "Gart'heen Tuathan Dashalik Mehalinae Doy'al'ini de Anthousai. I summon you."
Ah, yes. That was it. That gobbledygook was my name. I rushed toward the voice.
I'd expected a forgotten fairy ring in the middle of a forest far outside habitation, or maybe a rehabilitated circle in a city park. Instead, the call pulled me inside a structure made of iron and brick, more claustrophobic than the menagerie glass. I'd expected it to be protected by fae wards. Instead, the ring was encased in objects foreign and harmful to the fae. My only entrance was through the circle itself, up through the ground.
Needless to say, I was filthy when I finally clawed my way through to the human realm, and mad as a pixie in a wasp fight.
Pixies and wasps? Mortal enemies. Wasps won the war in the human realm, while pixies conquered the fae realm and banished the remaining wasps. The fae realm was better for it, by far.
This was no time for history lessons. I needed my wits about me.
The place to which I was summoned stank of mildew and decay. The circle of mushrooms in this dank place lived off carcasses. Offerings, I realized, because there was no way the mushrooms grew here on their own in a perfect fae-summoning formation. Weirder still, an altar with a beast made of mirrors stood before me. I brushed some of the dirt off my myriad reflections before turning to take in the scene.
I smelled … humans. One, to be exact. I sniffed in his direction. No hint of fae blood. How had he activated the circle?
I glanced down, hoping to find something good for my offering. To summon a fae to do his bidding, this human would need to provide a boon. I hoped for an item that would give me a bit of freedom before my menagerie warden, Aidan, dragged me back to finish my sentence. Aidan could call me to my cell in this same way, using my name to imprison me once more.
I found nothing within the confines of the spell circle, not even a freshly dead carcass. Why had my prison cell allowed me to answer the call for nothing? This was cruel and unusual punishment. While the humans despised such treatment, the fae relished it. Somewhere, Aidan was laughing at my poor luck.
"Who summons me?" I asked. "What is your name?"
My summoner was a tall man with reddish-brown hair and gangly limbs. He wasn't ugly, per se, but he looked overdone, as though he tried too hard. Too much product in his hair. Too much shine to his face. Too many creases in the front placket of his pants.
Gods, how I missed wearing pants. I was still in my menagerie robe, a garment made from burlap with an opening in the back for my wings. It stung where it rubbed against my skin, and I hated it. I was going to hate it more than usual for the rest of this week. Freshly washed this morning, it was now covered with gross stains I had to suffer until the next washday.
Wait. I couldn't lie, not even to myself, and my body violently recognized my inability to change clothes as a lie. My stomach churned and head ached until I faced reality.
I was no longer enclosed in my glass prison. I could access my magic inside this barrier within the human realm. I wasn't powerful enough to break the spell holding me within the circle, and the ceiling wasn't high enough for me to fly above it, but I could make my accommodations a little friendlier.
I snapped my fingers, and the dirt disappeared. I snapped again and replaced my prison garb with a pair of buttery denim jeans fit for a fae prince and a t-shirt I'd loved the last time I'd visited. The band name was some royalty or other. The image of a phoenix hovering over a crab, two lions and two fae princesses gazing lovingly at a crown always made me feel seen in a human world that often ignored us. My hat was off to the artist, whoever they were. The soft shirt caressed my now hidden wings, and I sighed with contentment.
"Name?" I asked again.
"Bret, Sir."
"Sir is not a last name." I hoped. It had been so long since I'd been free to travel to the human realm. Things might have changed. I couldn't infer the passage of time from the man's ill-fitting off-the-rack suit. "And you usually have middle names. More than one."
"Only one, Sir. Bret Simon Lloyd."
"Three first names, if I'm not mistaken."
He frowned at me. "I suppose?"
"What do you want, Bret Simon Lloyd?"
"Demon, I summon you to take care of my ex."
"Demon?" Not this again. Somehow, my name had become synonymous with shenanigans, which suited me fine. Across generations, those shenanigans had been misinterpreted as unacceptable behavior, and then demonic possession. You draw a few symbols and terrorize a few Christians, and suddenly, you're the bad guy in their demon-summoning books: the guy with the pointy ears, sharp claws, and wings.
Sure, I knew how demons should take care of people, but I needed someone for a highly specific purpose. I couldn't escape my enclosure by myself. The last however-many years had taught me that. My mother and the warden had given me a specific task, and who knew when I'd have another chance to take someone home with me to experiment.
"This ex is human?" I asked. Hey, you never know when someone's been fucking around and can't bring himself to end things. He'd summoned me, apparently a demon, without a sacrifice, er, offering, of any kind.
"Yes, he's human." Poor Bret seemed offended by the question. He must not have been familiar with the concept of dating outside his species.
"Good," I said. "Bring him here. I'll take care of him for you."
"What? No. I can't be here when you … you want this coin, don't you?"
He flipped it between his fingers, a gold coin with … no. It was impossible. A raven. A dragon. A raven. A dragon. Over and over, he flipped the coin between his fingers.
The fae luck coin had been missing far longer than I'd been imprisoned. This must have been a human replica, a fake, except nothing but the real coin could have brought me here.
I needed that coin. It was my ticket out of the menagerie.
"What is his name?" I asked Bret.
"Whose?"
The man was as dense as the stone floor I'd crawled through to get here. "Your ex."
"Why?"
"You just witnessed the power of using someone's name. You brought me here." Gods, I needed this fool to trust me, or this would go badly. Thankfully, he ignored, or misunderstood, my frustration.
"Right. It's Parker Moynahan."
"Middle name."
Bret tapped his index finger on his bottom lip. "Um. It's something ridiculously Irish." He grinned. "I remember! Killian, like the beer."
"Irish Catholic?"
Bret's nose wrinkled, and he nodded. "Whole family's full of 'em. Think they're better than everyone else."
"Confirmed?"
"Who confirms someone's Catholic anyway?" he asked. "Does God come down and give them a seal of approval, like underwear inspectors?"
For a moment, I thought Bret had a sense of humor, but he still wore the same dead-serious look of confusion. Humans rarely scared me, but I didn't want to spend more time than necessary with this one.
I couldn't leave without Parker, and I needed his full name. I'd start with Patrick and work my way through the lesser-known saints. "Parker Killian Patrick Moynahan, we summon you to this circle."
"We?" Bret looked flustered. "Leave me out of this … I shouldn't be here. What if he really shows?"
With a pop of displaced air, Parker Killian Patrick Moynahan stood beside Bret.
Now, I had another dilemma. I couldn't pull him into the circle with me. He had to come willingly. I also couldn't reach through the circle to grab the coin. I had to play this right, or I would lose the chance forever.
I did not want to miss out on this. Maybe I'd been alone in my menagerie cell too long, but Parker was the breath of fresh air I needed. Everything about him captivated me. His dark hair was spiked on top and dyed blue at the tips. If I wasn't mistaken, it would almost match my hair color when I wasn't masking it with a glamour. He wore a bespoke suit that sparkled like the midnight sky and black Oxfords polished to perfection. He carried himself with the ease and grace of someone with the human equivalent of power, which meant money. Lots and lots of money.
He took one glance at me and then turned the full force of his dark blue gaze on his ex. "What the fuck, Bret?"
"I didn't do it!" Bret pointed at me with a long, shaking finger. "He did."
Parker returned his gaze to me, looking me up and down. He turned back to Bret. "I told you I don't have time for lunch with you. I have work to do! The big pitch is in an hour, remember? I don't know how you got me here, but you'd better take me back to my office right now!"
"I'm afraid we can't do that yet." I pointed to the coin in Bret's hand. "I'll have you back in your office, good as new, but first, I need you, Parker Killian Patrick Moynahan, to toss me the coin Bret Simon Lloyd forgot to pay me."
Yes, compulsion spells are highly illegal and might be partly to blame for my stay at the menagerie. Except it didn't work, not on Parker, anyway. He took one look at me and shook his head with an arrogant sneer. "Why would I do that?"
"Bret summoned me to take care of you."
Bret curled around his hand, where light seeped between his fingers, radiating my desire. I wanted that coin. Needed it. From the way it glowed, it wanted to be with me, too. Whoever said the fae luck coin wasn't sentient lied.
It worked to my advantage. The coin burned brightly. Bret dropped it and stared at his unburned hand in shock. Then he turned and puked on Parker's shiny shoes.
"You asshole!" Parker kicked the coin in his haste to get away from Bret, inadvertently knocking it into the circle with me. I bent over and touched my index finger to the raven symbol. I shivered as a bond flowed over me, holding me to my word. Then, everything happened all at once.
Bret shoved Parker toward me and ran into the darkness. Parker tripped and fell. I reached out to catch him, and we both tumbled through the circle as a portal opened beneath us. The coin sank through the void at a faster rate than we did and soon disappeared.
Gemini Kisses for the Omega by Lacey Daize
Chapter 1 - Kyle
“Hey Ty, have you seen my hoodie?”
“I threw it away,” Tyler shouted from his room.
I marched down the hall and stood in his doorway, glaring at him. “Why would you throw away my favorite hoodie?”
“Because that cheating asshole gave it to you, and it reeked of him, and you need a new start.”
“I can wash out the alpha stench! It was comfy!”
“And every time you put it on the past few months you got the sniffles. You only stopped crying over the damn thing when it got too hot to wear it.”
“That’s still no reason to toss it!”
He stood from his bed, walked over, and rested his hands on my shoulders. “I’ll buy you a new hoodie, ok. But you need a clean break, which means tossing any fond memory of that alphahole to the curb. You’ve just graduated, and you’re headed off to a new job. It’s time to find a new alpha too.”
I crossed my arms. “I’m done with alphas for now. They’re nothing but cheating knotheads.”
He grinned at me. “Good. Now how about we take that attitude away from your packing and hit the club tonight.”
I slapped my forehead with my palm. “Being done with alphas doesn’t mean I want to go grind against them all night.”
Tyler laughed. “Come on. The movers will be here Monday for your stuff. This is our last chance to have fun before you move out.”
“I’m only moving to Mountain Springs. It’s not like I’m moving across the country. It’s just over an hour away, so we can still meet up a ton.”
“Not the same as down the hall,” Tyler replied, crossing his arms. “Besides, nothing like a cutie like you leaving a bunch of alphas with blue balls to get revenge.”
I sighed. Tyler had been my best friend since we were kids, and I knew his moods as well as my own. I could argue as much as I wanted, but eventually he’d drag me to the club.
“I’m not driving,” I replied. “We’re going to get a ride, and I’ll text when I want to leave before you. That way you can decide if you’re done or if you want to get another ride on your own.”
Tyler held up one fist in victory. “That’s more like it. I hope you haven’t packed your skinny jeans yet. They’re the best wrapper to show off the goods, sure to make all the alphas around you drool.”
“I don’t want them to drool. I want to go, get a few drinks, maybe dance with you if you’re not trying to get a dick shoved up your ass, then come home and finish packing.”
“Hey, you could do with a dick up your ass too. It’s been since the asshole since you got laid, and an omega’s got needs. No harm in a bit of anonymous fun.”
“Uh-huh…” I deadpanned. “Ever hear of babies? They can be a side effect of the whole dick in ass thing yanno.”
“Come on. Pack a rubber in your wallet and make him wear it. You’re far enough from your heat it should be enough. Besides, I thought you wanted babies.”
“Not with some rando from a club.”
“Try it, I bet you’ll like it.”
“Not happening,” I stated. “I’ve gone to that club with you for years and have never gone upstairs. I’m not going to start tonight.”
Tyler sighed. “It’s not as weird as you seem to think, and way better than getting dicked down in some back alley.”
“Yeah, I don’t do that either.”
Tyler huffed his long bangs from his forehead. “And that’s why you let the alphahole stay with you for so long. You’re too stuck in the ‘relationship’ mindset. You need to sometimes treat sex as just sex and not something that only couples do.”
“Yeah, not happening. But you enjoy getting all that instead.”
“Oh I will,” he said with a wink. “Come on, let’s go find you something sexy to wear.”
“Only cause it’ll shut you up.”
“That’s the spirit,” he laughed. “One last blast before my bestie moves out.”
“I’m still mad at you for throwing out my hoodie you know.”
“I know, but I still don’t regret it. You need to forget about him, and this is the best way to make a clean break.”
“Yeah, yeah. Jerk.”
“Just wait. You’ll thank me later when you meet a fantastic alpha who’s not turned off by the reek of the trash who hurt you.”
The club was packed, but I wasn’t surprised. It was the start of summer and everybody was looking for a release.
“Name?” asked the bouncer. “
Kyle Donahue,” I replied, used to the routine ever since Tyler had brought me to the club the first time.
The bouncer nodded and I swiped my license when he motioned to the machine. A moment later my name appeared on his screen.
“Looks like all your waivers are in order. Any changes?”
“I’m moving soon.”
He looked up. “Keeping the same phone number?”
I nodded.
“That’s good enough if we need to contact you” the bouncer said. “Go on in.”
I took a step past and turned, waiting for Tyler, who was right behind me.
He grinned and rubbed his hands together as he walked in. “Ok. Let’s get some drinks and find a place to sit.”
“I’ll handle the table and you get the drinks?” I proposed.
“Sounds good,” he replied. “The normal for you?”
“Yeah.”
“Ok, I’ll find you in a few.”
I looked around and spied an empty table off to one side. Tyler would want something closer to the dance floor, but he’d have to deal. He’d dragged me to the club, and I wanted to not be in the middle of everything.
I slipped onto the bench with a sigh of relief. It wasn’t uncommon for a table to be taken before I could get there, so to get one on the first try was a success.
Table acquired, I glanced over at the bar to see Tyler surrounded by alphas. As usual, he was flirting big-time, leaning towards one while making sure the others got a good view of his ass.
He’d definitely have taken a knot by the time we were ready to leave, which meant that I’d be alone for a decent chunk of the night.
I sighed. I should have known better. I had packing to do.
Then again, Tyler had a point. Even though I was only moving an hour away, I was moving. We’d never had more than a few minutes between us since we were children and he lived in the house across the street. We’d moved to Mount Sable together to attend college, and had shared first a dorm room, then an apartment.
When he presented as an omega first, we’d even hoped that I would be an alpha so that we’d always be together. That was how tight we were.
I really couldn’t begrudge him one last night out, though I wish he’d get our drinks and get back to the table rather than leaving me alone.
I started scanning the club. The ratio of alphas to omegas was pretty equal, so I hoped that I wouldn’t be hounded by horny knotheads while Tyler danced.
My eyes had just drifted back to the bar when my breath caught in my throat.
He was stunning, a gem shining from the garbage of the alphas surrounding him. Dark hair, and only lightly muscled. My cock twitched and I felt slick start near my entrance.
Then he turned, and our eyes met.
I couldn’t look away. I wanted—needed—that alpha. Everything inside me demanded that I let him take me somewhere private and fuck a baby into me before putting his mark on my neck.
A group of people passed between us, breaking the gaze, and it was like all the air suddenly slammed back into me.
I kept my eyes on the spot, but by the time the crowd had thinned my alpha had disappeared.
“Hey.”
I jumped to see Tyler standing next to the table.
“You ok?” he asked.
I swallowed, not wanting to admit that I’d wanted to be fucked by an alpha whom I’d only gotten a brief look at. “Yeah.”
Jackie North has been writing stories since grade school and her dream was to someday leave her corporate day job behind and travel the world. She also wanted to put her English degree to good use and write romance novels, because for years she's had a never-ending movie of made-up love stories in her head that simply wouldn't leave her alone.
Luckily, she discovered m/m romance and decided that men falling in love with other men was exactly what she wanted to write about. In this dazzling new world, she turned her grocery-store romance ideas around and is now putting them to paper as fast as her fingers can type. She creates characters who are a bit flawed and broken, who find themselves on the edge of society, and maybe a few who are a little bit lost, but who all deserve a happily ever after. (And she makes sure they get it!)
She likes long walks on the beach, the smell of lavender and rainstorms, and enjoys sleeping in on snowy mornings. She is especially fond of pizza and beer and, when time allows, long road trips with soda fountain drinks and rock and roll music. In her heart, there is peace to be found everywhere, but since in the real world this isn't always true, Jackie writes for love.
Multi-Rainbow Award winner E.J. Russell—grace, mother of three, recovering actor—holds a BA and an MFA in theater, so naturally she’s spent the last three decades as a financial manager, database designer, and business intelligence consultant (as one does). She’s recently abandoned data wrangling, however, and spends her days wrestling words.
E.J. is married to Curmudgeonly Husband, a man who cares even less about sports than she does. Luckily, CH loves to cook, or all three of their children (Lovely Daughter and Darling Sons A and B) would have survived on nothing but Cheerios, beef jerky, and satsuma mandarins (the extent of E.J.’s culinary skill set).
E.J. lives in rural Oregon, enjoys visits from her wonderful adult children, and indulges in good books, red wine, and the occasional hyperbole.
Jordan Castillo PriceAuthor and artist Jordan Castillo Price writes paranormal sci-fi thrillers colored by her time in the Midwest, from inner city Chicago, to various cities across southern Wisconsin. She’s recently settled in a 1910 Cape Cod near Lake Michigan with tons of character and a plethora of bizarre spiders. Her influences include Ouija boards, Return of the Living Dead, “light as a feather, stiff as a board,” girls with tattoos and boys in eyeliner.
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. And her quirky, sweet, magical series The ABCs of Spellcraft is sure to make you smile.
Hi! I'm Edie Montreux (I also write m/m mpreg romance as Edie Monte). I'm nonbinary (she/they), demisexual, and an ally for all aspects of the LGBTQIA+ rainbow. I love my husband, Queen, dogs, and video games. I write LGBTQ-fiction full time, unless I'm walking my dogs or protecting imaginary worlds from fantasy creatures.
Lacey DaizeLacey lives in New Mexico with her four critters. She’s a Jill-of-all-trades by day, but loves writing in her spare time. She dabbles in a variety of pairings, but jumped feet-first into the deep end of omegaverse the first time she read it. She loves the play on social expectations and the different ways to express romance.
Jackie North
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / AUDIBLE
EMAIL: jackienorthauthor@gmail.com
EJ Russell
AUDIOBOOKS / AUDIBLE / CHIRP
Jordan Castillo Price
Hemingway's Notebook by Jackie North
Single White Incubus by EJ Russell
Spook Squad by Jordan Castillo Price
The Fae Menagerie by Edie Montreux
Gemini Kisses for the Omega by Lacey Daize
