🎬🎭⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳🎭🎬: Silent Sin by EJ Russell

Summary:

When tailor Marvin Gottschalk abandoned New York City for the brash boomtown of silent-film-era Hollywood, he never imagined he’d end up on screen as Martin Brentwood, one of the fledgling film industry’s most popular actors. Five years later a cynical Martin despairs of finding anything genuine in a town where truth is defined by studio politics and publicity. Then he meets Robbie Goodman.

Robbie fled Idaho after a run-in with the law. A chance encounter leads him to the film studio where he lands a job as a chauffeur. But one look at Martin and he’s convinced he’s likely to run afoul of those same laws—laws that brand his desires indecent, deviant… sinful.

Martin and Robbie embark on a cautious relationship, cocooned in Hollywood’s clandestine gay fraternity, careful to hide from the studio boss, a rival actor, and press on the lookout for a juicy story. But when a prominent director is murdered, Hollywood becomes the focus of a morality-based witch hunt, and the studio is willing to sacrifice even the greatest careers to avoid additional scandal.

Original Review July Book of the Month 2021:

Silent Sin is brilliant!

I've been looking for a story set in Old Hollywood for about 3 years and when this popped up in a FB group rec request I one-clicked immediately.  2020 screwed with my reading mojo so unfortunately I just got around to reading it and I loved it!  EJ Russell really sets scene of the silent era, incorporating real historical facts and scandals that add just the right level of reality into her fictional story.  Don't worry, Silent Sin isn't a tell-all, Hollywood documentary but it definitely shows the author's respect for the past with the balance of reality and fiction.

As for the characters, watching Robbie's journey from "runaway" country bumpkin to studio chauffer to stand-in to ???(well I don't want to give away all the lad's secrets😉) is an uplifting, heartfelt tale of entertainment.  Seeing Martin's journey of trying to stay true to who he is and who he lets the studio bosses and fans see makes you smile, laugh, and a few times you just want to shake him.  When their paths cross you just know that it's fate but you also know it won't be easy but it will definitely be captivating.  You can't help but want to wrap them both up in Mama Bear Hugs and tell them everything will be okay, of course there are a few times I want to smack them too and scream but that's what makes Silent Sin such a delight.

I have featured some of EJ Russell's books on my blog before but Silent Sin is my first read.  For me it's the perfect introduction to a new author, Sin ticks so many of my boxes: 

historical✅ 

romance✅

Old Hollywood✅

friendships✅

author's respect for the era✅

plenty of heart✅

I have to admit one of my favorite moments comes between Robbie and Martin's manager Sid, the actual activity happens off-page but we learn about it and it put the biggest smile on my face and a loud "YES!" in my internal monologue.  Just another example of how the author has written more than romance and how sucked into the story I became.

Again, Silent Sin is brilliant!

Original Audiobook Review March 2023:

It's been a year-and-a-half since I read Silent Sin and I loved listening to it just as much as I loved the original read.  Greg Boudreaux brings the characters and the era to life in a way that keeps you on the edge of your seat even, if like me, you already read the story and know it.  98% of the audiobooks I listen to are books I've previously read because I tend to zone out occasionally and that is no reflection on the story but because I listen mostly while working on the computer or in the kitchen and before I know it I'm concentrating on the task at hand and not the story, knowing the tale previously allows me not to have to try and find where I "zoned out".

Anywho, back to the narrator.  One of my boxes to tick that make an audiobook go from good to great is the expectation of hearing a sponsor's ad.  Now for those who don't know what I mean, I have been a collector of old radio programs since I was 10 and if you have never heard an ORP from the 30s & 40s they have one sponsor unlike the multi-commercials of television today.  Some shows incorporate the sponsor into the show others take a break for the ad in the middle.  So when I say "expectation of hearing a sponsor's ad" what I'm really looking for is a narration that gets me so involved I feel like I'm listening to an episode of Screen Actor's Playhouse where they often would bring a radio version of a hit movie to the masses.  Greg Boudreaux brings EJ Russell's words to life in such a manner and considering the setting is Old Hollywood I had a higher level of this expectation and he definitely delivered.  I look forward to re-listening for years to come.

RATING:

Chapter One

July 28, 1921 

Robbie slid the last crate of fruit out of Mr. Samson’s truck and only wobbled a little as he handed it off to a grocer’s assistant on the dusty Bakersfield road. He took off his battered straw hat, wiped the sweat off his forehead with the side of his arm, and settled the hat back on his head. Not that it kept out much sun—it was more holes than straw by this time. 

Mr. Samson, the orange grower Robbie had been helping for the last two days, strolled out of the little store, tucking a wallet into his back pocket. Robbie snatched his hat off his head again. 

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Not here.” Samson’s gaze slid away from his. “Don’t have the cash to pay you anything now, but I might have something for you back home at the groves.” He nodded at the truck. “I’ll give you a lift.” 

Robbie’s empty belly sank toward his toes, but he forced a smile. He’d learned in the last six weeks that the promise of a job rarely translated into money in his pocket, even if he actually did the work. A lift with the promise of work at the end of the ride—anything that got him farther from Idaho, really—was more than he could hope for. “Thank you, sir.” He stumbled toward the truck cab. 

“Hold on, you. Not up front.” Samson jerked his thumb toward the truck bed. “Back there. But give us a crank first.” 

Robbie nodded and scuffed through the dirt, where a pebble worked its way through the hole in the bottom of his right boot. He waited for Samson to get behind the wheel and then gave the handle a practiced crank. The engine caught, and the truck belched exhaust. Robbie hurried to the rear before Samson could change his mind about the lift too. 

As he was about to scramble over the tailgate, he spotted half a dozen discarded half-squashed fruits—a lemon and five oranges—almost beneath the wheels. He scrabbled them out of the dust, rolled them into the truck bed, and heaved himself in after them. The jerk when Samson put the truck in gear nearly sent Robbie over backward, but he grabbed on to one of the rough slats that bracketed the bed to save himself, driving a sliver into his thumb.

He crawled forward, herding his contraband in front of him until he could sit with his back to the cab. As the truck jounced along, raising clouds of dust in its wake, Robbie gathered the precious fruit in his lap and hunched over his knees. Fingers trembling, he tore into the skin of the first orange and dropped the peel through the slats. He shoved the first section into his mouth and moaned as the tart juice hit his parched mouth and throat. Squashed or not, this is pure heaven. How wonderful that people can grow something this marvelous, let alone make a living at it. 

His last meal was nothing but a hazy memory, so he ate one fruit after another—even the lemon, so sour it made his eyes water—as the string of discarded peels fell behind, a trail of gold dimmed by dust. 

After he polished off the last orange, he licked his fingers. Then he picked at the sliver in this thumb as he tried to dodge puddles of fermenting juice whenever Mr. Samson took a corner too sharply. The exhaustion of weeks of rough travel, most of it on foot, caught up with him, and he fell into a fitful doze. 

With a bone-rattling thump, the truck pulled to a stop. Robbie blinked, disoriented, and peered around in the glare of the setting sun. Where are we? His heart sank when he took in the sturdy buildings lining both sides of the road. A good-sized town. He tried to keep to open country whenever he could—less chance of getting work, but easier to find a stream for a drink and a wash or a secluded barn where he could catch enough shut-eye to go on the next day. 

Mr. Samson slapped the side of the truck. “End of the line, kid.”

Robbie scrambled to his feet and wiped his hands on his trousers, not that it did much good. His pants were as sticky as the truck bed. 

He hopped down onto the road and caught the tailgate when a wave of dizziness threatened to take him down for the count. “Thanks for the lift. I appreciate it.” 

Mr. Samson tilted his cowboy hat back and scratched his forehead. “No skin off my nose. You were a good worker. But turns out, now I think about it, I don’t need any help on the farm.” He shrugged. “Sorry.” 

“I understand. Thanks anyway.” He wished he hadn’t fallen asleep on the ride. He had no idea where he was. “Does this road lead to Mexico?” 

Mr. Samson hitched his dungarees up under his prosperous paunch. “Whatta you want to go there for? Nothing you can get there that you can’t get here.” 

“Where’s here?” 

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Hollywood.” 

Robbie shaded his eyes with one hand and scanned the storefronts across the road. Hollywood Dry Goods. Hollywood Haberdashers. Hollywood Drug Store. “I guess it is.” 

With a touch of his hat brim, Mr. Samson climbed into his truck. “Give us another crank, will you?” 

Robbie complied and then backed away as the truck rattled off up a side street. 

What the heck can I do in a place like this? Robbie doubted his years of scratching out a living on a potato farm would qualify him for work in some other grower’s orange grove. There weren’t any factories that he could see, and Hollywood Haberdashers wouldn’t hire somebody with only one set of clothes—and those almost too worn to be decent. 

Mexico still seemed like the best bet, but suddenly he couldn’t muster the energy to take the next step or cadge the next lift or scrounge the next dime. 

So he shoved his hands in his empty pockets, forced his back straight, and strode down the sidewalk as though he truly had someplace to go, as though he wasn’t adrift or as castaway as his namesake—Robinson Crusoe Goodman. He shook his head as he followed the route Mr. Samson’s truck had taken, away from the main street and up a slight hill. Ma sure had some odd notions when it came to naming her sons. Eddie had been lucky. At least Pa had put his foot down over Oedipus. 

At the back of Mr. Samson’s orange grove, Robbie found a wooden shack worthy of his old man’s farm and secured with nothing but a two-by-four across its door. He slipped inside and blinked until his eyes adjusted to the gloom after the brightness of the westering sun. The dirt floor was littered with arm-long sections of metal pipe as big around as his head, and a stack of broken crates leaned against the wall like a rummy who’d never heard of the Volstead Act—not the most comfortable flop but better than he had any right to expect. 

He curled up on the floor with his back to the wall, arms wrapped across his belly, and begged sleep to take him before he cried.

*******

“I’m not working with Boyd Brody again, Sid. I can’t.” Martin Brentwood met his own gaze in the mirror over the drink cart in his living room. God, he looked like ten miles of bad road. “He tried to drown me.” 

Sid Howard, Martin’s manager, emerged from the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel. “Come on, Marty. He was just kidding. Giving you the business, same as he does with any actor. You can’t take this personal.” 

“I damn well do take it personally. He’d never try that shit with Fairbanks.” 

“Shite.” 

Martin frowned at Sid. “What?” 

“A baronet’s son from Hertfordshire wouldn’t say ‘shit.’” 

“But I’m not a baronet’s son from Hertfordshire.” Martin sloshed more gin into his glass. “That would be you. Me? I’m only a tailor’s apprentice from Flushing.” 

Sid tossed the towel on top of the piano and pried the glass out of Martin’s grip. “No. That would be me. And don’t forget it, even when we’re alone. Even in your own head. It’s easier to remember the lies if you live ’em full-time.” Sid sniffed the contents of the tumbler and made a face. “And don’t drink this shit. You’ll go blind.” 

“I’ll have you know this gin was brewed in Barstow’s finest bathtubs.” Martin shuffled to the davenport and flopped down on the cushions. “But you’re right.” He bared his teeth. “It’s shite.” 

“That’s more like it.” Sid settled in the wingback chair across from Martin. “So. I met with Jacob Schlossberg today.”

“Better you than me,” Martin muttered. “I loathe the bastard, and the feeling is decidedly mutual.” 

“Maybe. But the reasons for the hate are different. You hate him because he’s—” 

“A pontificating blowhard with delusions of grandeur and the morals of a weasel?” 

“Because,” Sid raised his voice over Martin’s, “he’s the one who controls your career.” 

“He’s not the only one. Ira owns half the studio.” 

“Yeah, but Ira’s the talent-facing brother. Jacob’s got his sausage-like finger on the studio’s financial pulse. And when it comes down to it, at Citadel Motion Pictures, money’ll trump talent every time.” 

Martin snorted. “So much for art.” 

“Pictures aren’t art, Marty. They’re business. Big business. And if nobody pays to see your picture, it don’t matter if it’s as arty as the Russian crown-fucking jewels.” 

“Really, Sid,” Martin murmured. “Your language.” 

Sid grinned. “Unlike some, I don’t forget who I’m supposed to be.” Sid folded his hands on his knee, and no matter how much he might be able to ape a working-class stiff from Queens, if anybody in Hollywood paid attention, his hands would give him away. Tailor’s apprentices didn’t have the kind of practiced grace that had been drilled into Sid when he was busy getting kicked out of every prep school in England. 

“As I said, I met with Jacob today.”

“And?” 

Sid’s heavy brows drew together. “He and Ira are split on whether they want to re-up your contract. Ira’s liked you since he brought you in from Inceville and put you in a suit instead of a cowboy hat. He thinks you’re the best bet the studio has to counter Valentino. But Jacob… well….” 

“I know, I know. He hates queers.” 

“Nobody knows for sure that you’re queer, Marty.” Sid’s scowl said, “And keep it that way” louder than words could. “Anyway, Jacob may hate queers personally, but he depends on them too, as long as they’re in their place.” 

Martin’s snort was a low-class sound, but nobody could hear him except Sid, who already knew the truth. Sid had invented Martin’s backstory. Hell, Sid had lived Martin’s backstory and he’d traded it with Martin’s when it became obvious which one of them could make a go of it in pictures. 

“Right. In wardrobe. In the art department. Where the public never sees.” 

“It’s not the invisibility that he cares about. He covets their taste. He knows he’s got none. He’s a stevedore’s son from the Bronx. He craves sophistication, so you’ll keep delivering it, because the only thing Jacob really hates is a threat to his profits. You can be as queer as Dick’s bloody hatband and he wouldn’t care as long as your pictures make money. But they won’t make money if your fans turn away. Remember what happened to Jack Kerrigan.” 

“Kerrigan’s popularity dropped because he made that asinine comment about being too good to go to war, not because he’s queer.”

“Exactly. But with the Hollywood press in their back pocket, the studio didn’t lift a finger to save him. He’d become a liability with all his talk about no woman measuring up to Mother, and his lover tucked cozily away downstairs, masquerading as his secretary. You don’t want to be in that position.” 

Martin pinched his eyes closed. “If it’s not because they suspect I’m in the life, then what is it? The cocaine? Because I told you, I’m never taking that stuff again, no matter how much the studio doctor prescribes.” 

“No. It’s because of your last driver. What was his name? Homer?” 

“Vernon, actually.” 

“Right. Well, they don’t like that you fired him.” 

“I fired him because he was a manipulative son of a bitch who saw driving a studio car as a sure way to stardom, provided he could fuck the right people.” 

“Swive.” 

“What? Are you telling me a baronet’s son wouldn’t say fuck?” 

“Baronets’ sons definitely do, especially when imprisoned at boarding school with dozens of other baronets’ sons. But Martin Brentwood, leading man and one of Hollywood’s finest gentlemen, does not.” 

Martin leaned his head on the cushions. “Jesus, Sid. Don’t you ever get tired of the act?” 

“I’ll keep up with the act as long as it pays the bills. And so will you.” Sid crossed his legs. “I met with Ira too. He needs you back in to do retakes on that pro-Prohibition picture you wrapped last week.”

Martin groaned. “Good lord. Must we pander to the temperance unions and morality clubs even more? Wasn’t it enough that I died horribly in the gutter at the end?” Martin should have gotten a clue about where his career was headed when he was cast as the drunken lout instead of the fellow who heroically takes an axe to the kegs of evil whiskey. 

“It has nothing to do with your performance. There were light flares in some of the scenes, and the cutter can’t fix it.” 

“Very well. I’ll return tomorrow to die again.” 

“Good. They expect you at ten.” 

“Ten.” Martin cracked open an eye. “That’s a civilized hour, but how am I supposed to get there? No chauffeur, remember? The studio still won’t let me drive, and you refuse to learn how. I’d take the streetcar, but—” 

“No. The last time you tried that, you nearly caused a riot.” Sid stood up and collected his briefcase from the ormolu side table. “I’ll contact the studio. They’ll assign you a driver, although you may have to share.” He lifted one perfectly straight eyebrow. “You’re not Valentino, after all. Yet.” 

“Isn’t it grand that I don’t want to be, then?” 

Sid sighed. “Marty, you need to think about your image. The studio’ll only protect you as long as you’re an asset, and you’ll only be an asset if—” 

“If I make Jacob enough money.” 

“If you don’t make their job harder. Having a car at your disposal twenty-four hours a day is more of a temptation than you need right now.”

Martin pushed himself upright with clenched fists. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Lay off the steak and pinochle parties with Bill Taylor and George Hopkins. Stay away from Pershing Square. The only reason Homer—” 

“Vernon,” Martin murmured. 

“—was a real threat was because he suspected what was really going on there. If one of those jokers decides to spill to the press—” 

“They wouldn’t. Nobody who’s in the life would ever give me away. We don’t do that to one other. Not ever.” 

“That’s what everyone says until the first time. If anyone suspects the truth—” 

“Truth? This is Hollywood, Sid. Truth is what the fan rags print, and the studios have all of them in their back pockets, cheek by jowl with their string of crooked cops.” 

“Maybe. But you can’t depend on that lasting forever. Remember Kerrigan.” Sid settled his straw boater on his head. “A studio driver’ll pick you up tomorrow by nine thirty. I’ll take care of it.” 

Martin heaved himself to his feet to walk Sid to the door. “Thanks, Sid.” 

“And next time? If you’re gonna fire your driver, at least make sure you wait until he takes you home.” 

“Yeah, yeah.”

Sid grabbed Martin’s wrist, his dark eyes serious. “I mean it, Marty. Be careful. This may be your last chance at Citadel, but if you pick the wrong man, you may not have another chance at anything.” 

Martin opened his mouth to argue, but Sid walked out before he could gather his thoughts. He stood in the doorway as Sid strode down the sidewalk, the July sun beating down on the dusty boxwood hedges that lined the bungalow court. 

Damn it, he’s right. 

The places where it was safe to be a man who preferred men were few—New York, San Francisco, Hollywood. And even there, security was an illusion. The only thing that shielded them was the total obliviousness of most of the country. Hell, they didn’t even have a word for it. 

In the life. A nice, nondescript phrase that could mean anything. But to the men and women who sought their partners from their own gender, its very blandness was the only thing that stood between them and ruin, scandal, imprisonment… worse. With sodomy laws on the books in every state, the punishment for a conviction could be positively medieval. 

Martin shuddered, and as he wandered back to the drink cart, the streetcar bell clanged on Alvarado. I’ve still got some of my costumes from my vaudeville days. I could take the trolley to Pershing Square. Just for a little while. If he dressed in the rough clothes of a dockworker or the cheap suit of a salesman, nobody would know him for Martin Brentwood, movie star.

He leaned his forehead against the wall, excitement warring with shame in his belly. One last time. Without a driver, nobody would know. 

So much of being a star was in behaving like one. Presenting yourself like a person who would prompt people in middle America to shell out their dough for the privilege of watching you caper around on a screen for an hour or two. Hell, he’d heard United Artists was going to charge a two-dollar admission for Fairbanks’s next picture. 

It was nuts. 

It was nuts, but Sid was right. It paid the bills—his and Sid’s. He owed it to them both not to destroy his career, not to destroy his life. Because the sailors in Pershing Square might be thrillingly rough, but you never knew where they’d been. The last thing he needed was a case of the clap. Sid was right about that too. 

Martin wandered over to his desk. He had a pile of fan mail that needed answering. He probably should do that—he had few enough fans left. He’d best keep the faithful remnants happy. 

With one last sorrowful glance at the gin bottle, he sat down and picked up his fountain pen.

EJ Russell
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.

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👻🎃Random Paranormal Tales of 2025 Part 11🎃👻

Random Paranormal Tales of 2025

Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3  /  Part 4

Part 5  /  Part 6  /  Part 7  /  Part 8

Part 9  /  Part 10  /  Part 11  /  Part 12

The Coachman by VL Locey

Summary:

As you draw your final breath, the coachman waits…

Awakening in a dreary, unknown cabin with no recollection of how he arrived there, Livingstone Wright is about to discover that hell is just a coach ride away.

Mysteriously cursed to serve the dark lord, he is now responsible for ferrying freshly freed souls to the fiery depths. As he struggles to come to terms with being resurrected, given a home in purgatory, and learning a new profession, he discovers that he is not the only servant of a higher being biding their time as death creeps closer.

For if the devil is waiting to lay claim to a soul, then so too must the Almighty be.

It’s during the sometimes long wait for a person to breathe their last and the final judgment be made that Livingstone meets Hamiel, the light to his dark. The rainbow walker is fair-skinned with golden locks and wide amber eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles, a soothing aura, and a highly inquisitive mind. The two soon become unlikely friends and then much more as they set out to unravel how it was that Livingstone came to be in Lucifer’s employ.

The Coachman is an M/M historical paranormal romance with two leading men who could not be more dissimilar, a horse with a need for unearthly speed, a manservant who would rather poke holes in reality than mend them in trousers, a hellacious boss, stolen moments in a nether carriage, and a heavenly happy ending.

Content Warning: This story has references to off-page child and adult death.

Ghostridden by EJ Russell

Summary:

Ghost Townies #1

When ghostwriter Maz Amani inherits a house from an uncle he’s never heard of, he offers heartfelt thanks to the universe, packs up his car, his cat, and his skepticism about mysterious uncles leaving all their worldly goods to unknown nephews, and high-tails it to a small town halfway to the Oregon coast.

Anything would be better than week after week of couch surfing his way around Portland. Even if the alleged house is a rundown shack ridden with termites, spiders, and—shudder—rats, he’ll deal. Because hey, he owns a house!

And when his legacy turns out to be a pristine Queen Anne beauty with nary a termite, spider, or rat in sight, he’s ready to stand the universe unlimited vodka shots.

Except not so fast.

Because instead, his house is ridden with something a little more on-brand for a place called Ghost…

Never Landing by Sam Burns & WM Fawkes

Summary:

Everett Bailey loves his job. No, really.

Well, he loves the idea of his job. It’s just that the reality of marketing isn’t a creative joy, it’s a soul-crushing corporate rat race. His boss keeps taking credit for his work, and his coworkers couldn’t be less sympathetic if they tried.

When he’s forced to use his vacation days or lose them, he visits the town he grew up in to check in on his grandparents’ old house. Just because he has time off doesn’t mean he has to waste it with cocktails and poolside relaxation. He arrives in Cider Landing, and all he can see is his lost childhood. Even more strange, he keeps seeing his first love, Peter, everywhere he looks.

Before long, though, he realizes that he’s not glimpsing his past, but a second chance to learn to fly . . .

Never Landing is a coming-of-age Peter Pan retelling that grapples with the trials of adult hood and the ache of missed opportunities. It was originally published on our Patreon page.

A Little Blessing by R Cooper

Summary:

Familiar Spirits #4

Yule is the start of the new year, the midwinter festival for the solstice and the days afterward. Traditions are to burn logs and light candles to welcome the return of the sun, to celebrate with food and cheer and family, and to remember connections with the past.

Robin Blessing never felt much need for that last part; he lives in his family’s old farmhouse with the ghosts of his long-dead relatives. Anyway, he has no time for Yule. Alone, overworked, and ill, the holiday and any coven obligations that go with it are the last things on his mind.

So he is not pleased to open his door and find Lucas Greysmith on the other side. Lucas is a legendary figure in Ravenscroft; marked by great magic, part of a powerful family, annoyingly tall and good-looking, and yet always asking after Robin when Robin is fine, thank you very much. Someone as important as Lucas should have better things to worry about than one little witch who won’t use his Sight, and Robin usually wouldn’t hesitate to tell him so.

Instead, Robin faints right at Lucas’ feet.

When Robin wakes up, it’s to find that the Greysmiths have decided that Lucas will stay with Robin for the duration of the Yule season to help him recover, and Robin is in no position to protest. The more rest he gets, the more he realizes that he’s been lonely, that he needs the help, and that there might have been a reason Lucas has been asking after him all these years. If Robin had used his gift, he might have seen what Lucas has been patiently waiting for.

Yule is both an end and a beginning, and for first time in years, Robin looking forward to what the future might bring.

Love and Payne by Charlie Cochet

Summary:

THIRDS: Rebels

Austen Payne, THIRDS Squadron Specialist Agent (SSA) for Destructive Delta and TIN operative, has seen the worst the world has to offer, faced lethal killers, and helped bring down dangerous organizations. But nothing terrifies him more than falling in love. After years of undercover work, Austen is a master at defending himself and protecting his heart… until he meets Osmond Zachary.

THIRDS Defense Agent Osmond Zachary has a huge, doting family, yet something is missing in his life. After meeting grumpy, foul-mouthed, jittery cheetah Therian Austen Payne, Zach knows exactly what that something—or someone—is. Unfortunately Austen seems determined to avoid Zach at all costs.

When Zach foils an assassination attempt, he ends up in the killer’s crosshairs, and Austen is Zach’s best chance at staying alive. Zach hopes the crisis will bring them closer, but Austen has every intention of walking away as soon as the danger is over.

Happily ever after isn’t for guys like Austen, but Zach is determined to show him it can be….

The THIRDS: REBELS series is a spin-off of the THIRDS series. Each THIRDS: REBELS book is standalone, and although reading the THIRDS series can enhance the reader experience, it is not necessary to enjoy the THIRDS: REBELS books.

Original Audiobook Review October 2025:

As it often is I can't think of anything to add to my original review when it comes to the story. I haven't read Love and Payne since 2018 and yet, everything came flooding back as if it was yesterday.  I guess that says more to how brilliant Charlie Cochet's THIRDS universe is than anything I can put into words.  As for the audiobook version? With Mark Westfield bringing Austen and Zach's journey to life you can't help but feel you are right there next to them.  

As I've said in most of my audiobook reviews, I'm a huge collector and fan of the old radio shows of the 30s, 40s, and 50s, over the years that love of the genre has become kind of benchmark for me when listening to books.  Love and Payne is no different.  Even though there is only one narrator, he brings all the characters to life individually that I feel like a whole cast is there and I expect Harlow Wilcox or Don Wilson to break in with a Johnson's Wax or Jell-o ad. Reaching that level for me makes this an all around enjoyable listening experience.

Original Review October 2018:

As a THIRDS SSA for Destructive Delta and TIN operative, Austen Payne has faced the worst of the worst head on but now he's faced with falling for THIRDS Defense Agent Osmond Zachary and he finds himself terrified and fighting it every step of the way.  Osmond "Zach" Zachary fell for Austen long ago but fears the feelings will never be returned but as he's faced with being the one who needs protecting and Austen heads up the protection detail will the two of them finally find a chance at more?  Will Austen's fears of the heart stop their possibilities or will those seeking to end Zach take the choice away from them first?

I fell for Zach the minute Dex got to his cheesy doodles back in THIRDS book 1: Hell & High Water.  He was a huge bear Therian shifter who no one wanted to cross but somehow the whole cheesy doodle introduction just made him absolutely adorable too.  As for Austen, you just knew there was a backstory there that was waiting to be told and I am so glad Charlie Cochet finally let us in on Austen's history.  I won't go into any more of his past other than to say it breaks your heart and even though I didn't think it possible to love him more, the author found a way.  You just want to wrap both of them up to keep them safe but then you realize that they are far more equipped at protection than a thousand layers of bubblewrap you could cuddle them up in.

I won't go into the mystery element of the story too much other than to say: Zach saves the life of someone certain people didn't want saved and in doing so he has a target on his back.  Austen definitely has his hands full with this particular assignment but he gets a glimpse at what true family love should look like and for someone who has "hardened" his heart against love he is uncomfortable at times but those walls are slowly being broken down at the same time.  As for Zach's family well all I can say is they are an intriguing group of characters that will make you laugh and cry, from the youngest nephews to the older parents they all have something to offer.

At first I was missing Dex, Sloane, and the whole Destructive Delta gang but Austen and Zach are a pretty great pair and I loved finally being able to see their journey begin and grow.  Have to admit that as much as I completely fell for Austen and Zach, I loved seeing Sparks in a little different light, dare I say she might have even smiled or let out a laugh?  I won't say why or how that came about but that scene was brilliantly written and made me laugh almost as hard as the whole cheesy doodle scene back in book 1.  I haven't mentioned Austen's pal, Brayden but I really hope we get to see his story down the road because he deserves one.

Love and Payne is a great addition to the whole THIRDS universe.  From beginning to end I was hooked, there is mystery, action, drama, romance, lust, humor, and of course the whole paranormal element as well as plenty of romance.  If you are a fan of the THIRDS series then you already know how special these men and women, Therians and humans, agents and spies, are so you definitely want to read this one and if you have yet to give this whole universe a try then I highly recommend stop reading this review and go start THIRDS, trust me it will be time well spent.

RATING:

The Coachman by VL Locey

Chapter One

CLAWING FROM THE DEPTHS of a deep sleep is often unsettling.

This awakening was worse than most. As I roused from slumber, I tasted anise, old blood, and ash. My eyes refused to open, which was a blessing for my entire body ached like an infected toe, allowing me to lie abed for a bit longer as I tried to recall the previous night. The torment of sunlight could be put off for the moment.

I had no recollection of where I had been or how much I had imbibed but given the stiffness in my limbs combined with the agony and forgetfulness of my mind, I must have drunk a generous amount of whiskey at The Mottled Lichen. What drove me from the comfort of my little room at the stables into Avers Mill and that depressing pub was missing from my recollection. Slowly rolling to my side, I groaned as every joint in my body ground together in unison. Then, I was falling, hitting the ground with a thunderous jolt. The pain was incredible, even if the tumble had been short. Winded by the severe discomfort, I lay on the floor, gasping, the growing heat of a nearby fire striking a chord of terror deep within me.

Agonized or not, my eyes flew open as I scrambled away from the fire like a rock crab. My legs and arms gave out before I could put a foot between myself and the hearth. Heart pounding and head spinning, I sat on the floor, legs akimbo, staring at the tasteful fireplace in loss. This was not my home. My sight flew around the small parlor as the fact that I was nude finally registered. My gods. Had I gotten so drunk that I had gone home with some strange woman—or more damaging to my reputation in Avers Mill—a man?! What would Theo think of my infidelity? It was too painful to consider his reaction should he find out, for he could be a jealous, insecure man at times.

I could not stop staring at the flames dancing behind the ornate fireplace screen. Made of brass and colored glass, the screen was oddly shaped, and a dark gray buzzard working into the artful panes was discomforting. As I sat bare-assed on the dusty wooden floor, my gaze flew around the room. Windows with delicate lace curtains showing a gray light outside, a needlework settee I had tumbled from, a few armchairs, a table with a pitcher and glasses, and a wall filled with books. Two doors on either side of the parlor were closed. In one corner sat a small table with two chairs and a worktable for preparing foodstuff. I noted a round loaf of bread and several carrots on the table. My stomach rumbled, though whether in hunger or pain, I could not tell, for all of me ached.

I inched away from the hearth. Using the settee, I gingerly hoisted myself from the floor, confusion fogging my thoughts. Wherever I was, I needed to find my clothes. Not only was it wholly improper to be stumbling about someone’s parlor nude, but it could also be a damning incident in the eyes of the good folk of Avers Mill. A few townsfolk already had suspicions about the tall groom at the town stable. They whispered about me behind their hands. I knew this to be fact, but since I was generally discreet about my liaisons with the same gender, no scandal had befallen me. There was no acceptance of inverts, tribades, or oddities such as myself, who were equally attracted to both sexes in the year of our Lord 1814. So, even if the locals found me bizarre due to my height and build, they gave me a wide berth most generally. A good thing, for I was a private man at heart and wished only to tend to horses and spend my nights in the arms of the mayor’s son. Illicit our relationship may be, but it was pleasant on the whole. Theo adored me, and I cared for him a good deal. Not that it would lead us anywhere…

That was one of several positives about being in a relationship with one person. This sort of horrific morning—if it were morn given the skies outside were the same tone as an anchor—simply didn’t occur. Had Theo and I quarreled? I ran a hand through my hair, tugging at the thick ebony mass to shake out small bits of burned timber and staring blankly at the charred chips as they floated to my thighs and timid cock. I dusted the flakes from the hair at the root of my prick and then took a few shaky steps toward the door on the western wall, my unease lessening as I put some distance between me and the hearth.

If I were fortunate, I could find a closet or wardrobe that held my clothes. A trip to the outhouse would also be agreeable as my bowels felt oddly tender. As I reached for the knob of the western door, the eastern opened. I spun, hand over my genitals in case a lady entered, and locked gazes with a creature that sent my bare back to the door.

The monstrous thing was as tall as a child of maybe six years, with skin scarlet as an apple, ears long and pointed, eyes as red as Mistress James’ hydrangea, and a snout like that of a pig. It wore clothes of a sort, ragged trousers with stripes, a white shirt with various stains, and bare cloven feet. It was carrying a bundle that it dropped in fright when it saw me. We both screamed in unison, my bellow deep and low and theirs high-pitched enough to make me wince.

I fumbled with the doorknob, now fearing I was in a fever dream and not merely hungover. With a grunt, I opened the door and fell into a bedchamber that had not seen a broom or feather duster in many years. I slammed the door closed on the screeching monster, chest heaving, and ran to the bed. The coverlet was tattered, mouse-chewed on the edges, and smelled of…nothing. Uncaring at the moment, I tore it from the mattress, tied it around my waist, and looked about the room frantically for a weapon.

Finding nothing but a water pitcher with the skeletal remains of some sort of rodent at the base, I dumped the bones onto the table and turned to face the door as something—the shoddily dressed demon dream creature—scratched at the jamb.

“Big human man,” it called through the crack. Oh wonderful, it spoke English. I’d hoped my mental breakdown would not be able to communicate with me, but it seemed I was not so lucky. Not that a man slipping into madness could be lucky in any way. “You needs cover your cockery before he arrives. He does not like cockery.”

“Begone, nightmare!” I shouted, lifting the pitcher over my head, ready to strike.

“He will kick me if you are showing cockery. He likes kicking Delmar.”

“I shall help him kick you straight back to the depths of my rancid brain!” I yelled, moving closer, the covering tangling around my legs. The monstrosity at the door sighed as if put out with me. Did delusions of insanity grow impatient with you?

“No, no, do not kick Delmar. Just take clothes. Cover cockery.” He opened the door, threw in a brown bundle, and then darted off, the scrabble of his long toenails on the hardwood floor making me shiver. I slammed the door closed on my delusion, lowered the pitcher, and picked up the plain brown paper package. The contents were soft, befitting clothing as he’d said, and so I made my way to the bed and sat down to open the wrapped package. The twine fell away to reveal a rather handsome ensemble: black trousers, waistcoat, tailcoat, and a long ebony duster. A white shirt with a slim black tie cravat, drawstring drawers, and knee-length cotton socks were amid the dark clothing. The door opened once more. I watched one large black boot and then another sail into the bedchamber, followed by an ebony top hat.

“For your head and feet. Cover the cockery fast now! Do it before he comes and kicks Delmar!” the beast outside the door screeched.

Should I even converse with the thing or should I ignore it and the clothing? If I had fallen into a bout of scarlet fever—it had been circulating amongst the children of Avers Mills—would speaking to a demon whilst bound in mind horror be seen as a sign of mental instability when, or if, I recovered?

“Who is coming?” I chanced as I stood to dress. If this were a nightmare of biblical proportions, I wished to have my manly parts covered.

“He is coming,” the thing shouted and ran off again.

“That clarifies things well. Thank you, Delmar,” I huffed as I stepped into my drawers. They were fine undergarments. Nothing of great softness like the sort that Theo wore but not made of coarse material either.

“No thanks, big human! Dress fast, thank later,” he said as the sound of splashing water floated into the eerie silence. Once I was dressed, I went to the door, peered around the opening, and saw Delmar mopping the floor with a cloth. He was humming a tune with a familiar yet haunting melody. Seeing the sopping wet floor, I returned to the bed to sit and pull on the quite well-made boots. Shined to perfection, the black leather was supple. And to my surprise, they fit very well. Rising from the bed, it came to me that these clothes all sat on my body comfortably, as if they had been tailored for my stupidly large frame. Grabbing the duster and hat, I strode to the door, now intent on facing down this brain madness with my cockery covered. How grand. I was now speaking like my demented brain imaginings.

Delmar’s eyes flew to me as I stepped into the parlor, hat in hand and coat over my arm.

“You are the biggest human Delmar has witness to eyeballs,” he said as he continued slopping water from a metal bucket onto the floor and pushing it about with a filthy cloth.

“Where are we?” I asked. It was the first query that fell off my lips. Several hundred more swirled about inside my skull.

“In a parlor, dumb big human. No, I am not saying dumb to the coachman!” With that, he darted toward the window, hit it at high speed, and crashed back to the floor, hoofed feet kicking madly as he tried to regain his footing on the wet floor.

I shook my head. This creature, for all its terrible features, was rather pitiful. I took one step closer to help the poor thing when a flash of dark smoke appeared to my right. The flames in the hearth soared higher as a crow appeared amidst the cloud of thick vapors. Delmar began to screech, all cleaning forgotten, as he prostrated himself on the wet floorboards. I took several steps in reverse, unwilling to give credence to the sight I was obviously witnessing, even though I was obviously witnessing it. To my knowledge, crows did not apparate in the middle of a parlor. The cloud swirled about the flapping bird, the stench of rotted flesh and brimstone flowing about it as the blackbird elongated. Wings stretching out into arms, bird-like feet extending into spindly but human legs.

My ass hit the wall beside the kitchen worktable. There was no explanation for anything I had seen since I awoke other than that I had slipped into madness. Corvids did not turn into gangly men with glowing eyes the color of red wine. So, to that end, I was now a lunatic. Soon someone would haul me off to the new asylum in Cornwall Cove.

The man turned his attention to me. His face was long, his nose sharply pointed, and his skin as craggy as the weathered chestnut in the town square. Long, ashy hair hung from his skull and lay on the shoulders of a detailed day suit of darkest chestnut. Where boots like the ones I wore should have covered his calves instead were the feet of a bird. Fear thrummed through me but given that I was no longer sane, my terror was lessening with each oddity witnessed.

“You are awake, good.”

I nodded. He walked toward the shivering servant on the floor, kicked him in the ribs so hard the little imp cried out in pain, and then looked about the parlor. “You were to have this abode cleaned for the coachman. What were you doing instead?”

“I clean! I clean so hard, please no kick me no more!” Delmar wailed, the sound so loud and piercing my head ached.

“More likely you were in the garden attempting to pierce the shroud,” the man said, his voice that of an old man who had smoked too many pipes over his lifetime. Delmar whimpered like a struck dog, his clawed hands hiding his ugly face. I felt bad for the little monster. “Your duty is here, wastrel. Now tidy this hovel.”

The red imp crawled away as fast as he could, whining as he went. When those scarlet eyes found me, they narrowed. “Now, for you, Coachman. We shall walk. I wish for you to meet your steed. Time does not stand still while you relearn how to button your breeches.”

“Where are we?” I asked, again, hoping this illusion would provide a sensible answer.

“We are in the shroud, a place in between the world of the living and the realms of the dead,” he said matter-of-factly, flicking at a black feather stuck to his robe. It fell gently to the floor. I bent to pick it up. The feather felt real enough, the pointed end of the quill sharp, and the vane tight yet soft. My confusion compounded. “You are here now to repay a debt owed to my master.”

“Debt?” I inched away from the wall, curiosity making me bolder.

“Yes, a promise made in exchange for favors granted to your father. All will be explained. Now, if your flesh has re-knitted enough for you to journey to the stable.”

I gaped at him as he turned and walked off, his claws striking the damp wooden planks on the floor. My father? But that made no sense. My father had been a learned man, a doctor, a hero of the war against the British. He and Mother both served in whatever capacity they could to succor the sick and wounded American troops as we drove King George’s army from our lands.

They both perished during an outbreak of smallpox that ravaged the Continental Army to such a degree that General Washington ordered mandatory inoculations for new recruits. Sadly, my parents contracted it and perished as did many others.

I’d been given to Pastor Colfax as a babe and delivered to the only relatives who wished to have another mouth to feed, that being the town stable master and his wife. To say my father, a hero and self-sacrificing man, would pass his only son to Satan is utter nonsense. All of it!

The man in the cape opened the front door and stepped out to be swallowed by the lightless gray that I had seen through the window. I followed. What else could I do as I was now embroiled in my own imaginary figment? Pausing at the threshold, I reached out to swipe my hand through the veil that seemed to be both solid and gaseous. The feel of the shroud was unsettling like a fog of ill omen dampening my hand.

A small whimper by my feet pulled my sight downward. Delmar sat huddled on the step, his knees under his red chin, black lips drawn into a sneer. He sat beside a lamp with a wick that danced inside its glass shrouding.

“Go back inside, finish your duties, lest you find yourself punted into the fire,” I said softly as the shape of the crow man disappeared into the shifting clouds.

“His cockery has rotted off,” the creature muttered, passed me the light, and then rushed back inside. I stepped fully into the undulating haar, the door to the cabin closing behind me. I took a moment to look over the home. It was not as foreboding as I would have thought. Cloaked in a shifting mist, it appeared to be the lone source of the delicate glow of the oil lamp inside. The scent of white birch tickled my nose, unseen in the constantly moving fog but still present. It was a small homestead with only two rooms, but solid. A hand fell to my shoulder, startling me. I jumped and spun. There he stood, staring at me, his feathered brows drawn tight.

“You shall see much of this hutment over your time serving. Now come. The dying need their coach ride.”

“The dying…who are you?” I shook off his hand, my apparent derangement making me suddenly bold. If this man-bird were nothing more than a product of my unsound mind, then what harm could he cause me? None. “I demand to know who you are!”

The tips of his ears sparked. “You have the temerity to speak to me in such a way. I should spill your guts to the ground for such boldness, but the master has chosen you.”

I felt proud of myself. Not that it required great bravery to speak out to a delusion.

“Who is your master? How did I go from a solid-minded man to a slobbering lunatic?”

He sighed dramatically. “I am known to those who matter as Malphus, he who sits at the right hand of the fallen lord, the second-in-command to the prince of darkness, prime council to the Tempter, Idolater of the Accuser.”

The lantern in my hand felt heavier. “Malphus.”

That name I knew well. Pastor Colfax had mentioned the foot soldiers of the dark angel in many of his blistering Sunday sermons. For he believed that all of God’s children should be armed with the knowledge of Satan’s minions so they could fight any who tempted them. Bile raced up to my mouth, making me swallow loudly so as not to regorge my last meal…whatever that may have been. He smiled. The grin was something that would be forever burned into my fevered mind, for it was so purely evil.

“So, now you speak with respect.” He was pleased with my fright. “Follow me. He bids me to teach you what you need to know. Come. The stable is this way.”

He melted into the gloom. I glanced back at the cottage as the name of the demon knolled over and over inside my head. Yes, I was most certainly insane. Fumbling, my boots clacking on the flagstone path leading from the whirlsome fog into the shroud, I stepped off the stones onto softer ground. The mist obscured my surroundings. I walked forward with care as I could not see my boots nor the hard-packed soil under them. With the haze lingering on my lips, I licked them and grimaced. The moisture I’d gathered on my tongue was unpleasant indeed, tasting melancholy and bitter. The murk seemed to intensify as the whirls thickened, dark clouds spun around me madly, and misty fingerlings of fog reached out for me. When the smog skimmed my cheeks, it felt icy cold. The cold floated across my hand as I held the lantern higher. Each touch seemed to bring a whisper with it, a haunting undervoice, a breath-seeking aid.

I began to turn in circles, the lantern light slowly becoming engulfed in the cloud of murmurs. The lantern trembled as the pleas for help began to grow more insistent. Their calls for my assistance became a cacophony inside my head, the sound becoming so intense that tears welled in my eyes as I swung the lantern in a manic circle to drive back the whispers. The light did nothing. The cloud of noise thickened like gravy given too much flour. Madness, it seemed, made a man scream out into the void. I’d heard tales of raving lunatics begging for surcease from the voices inside their heads. Now, Livingstone Wright was among the blathering lunatics.

“Coachman, direct them back,” Malphus said from somewhere ahead of me. I could see nothing but the touches of my imaginings grasping at my face, and cold, misty fingers probing into my ears, nose, and open mouth. “Direct them back!” he shouted, his gravelly voice cutting through the sheer panic I was feeling.

“ Leave me be! ” I screamed, whipping the lantern to and fro as if trying to fend off a bat. The mist drew back slightly, heaving away from me as if struck. I bellowed again, and again, and again until my throat was hoarse. The clouds dispersed with speed, their pleas going with them. I dropped to one knee, my heart thundering in my chest, the lantern coming to rest by my knee as I fought to regain my breath.

“That is your first lesson,” Malphus said as he neared. I could see his clawed feet before me. I swallowed loudly, but there was no spittle to ease my throat. “The spirits here are drawn to you, for they know you can ferry them to their final destination. They do not realize that they are here of their own faults. All they know is that this realm feels unfinished to them. You must control them lest they overwhelm you. With practice, you shall gain the power to simply will them away, but for now, command them to leave when they congregate. Now rise. We have much to cover yet.”

I lowered my head, closed my eyes, and ran my free hand over the sooty ground. It felt as real as the spirits that plagued me a moment ago.

“Where are we?” I asked yet again. “A sick and tormented place inside my head, I know, but insanity is not this real.” I picked up some soil and let it drift through my quaking hand.

“Surely, you can stand and continue on. Did I not mention time was of the essence, Coachman?”

I got to my boots and stared at the demon before me. We were of the same height. With wet cheeks and a sickness of the brain, I suddenly discovered I was beyond fear.

“I will not step onward unless my questions are answered. Your master may suckle upon my stones for eternity if that is the punishment for my brazen manner.”

Malphus folded his arms across his lean chest. In a more sane time of my life, I would know that even though I stood well over six and a half feet tall and possessed enough strength to lift two large bags of horse feed with ease, my chances of besting a demon from Hell was small. Of course, were I not a raving madman I’d not be having a meeting with an archdemon.

Is it possible when one truly went mad, reason fled with a person’s logic?

Well, obviously so, Livingstone.

“Finally, you show some backbone. You will need it. Walk with me to the stable as I directed moments ago, and I will fill in the blank spaces that your death has carved into your mind.”

My death?

Ghostridden by EJ Russell

Chapter One

“Holy crap, Gil. I never expected this.”

Gilgamesh, predictably, didn’t answer, not even a meow or the weird yodeling yowl he’d been favoring me with for most of the three-hour-plus drive from Portland. Maybe he was just happy the car had stopped moving. For that matter, so was I. But seriously?

“There’s got to be some mistake.”

I wrestled the cranky door of my rattletrap Civic open and clambered out onto the street to gawk. When the probate lawyer with the awesome double-barreled name of Taryn Pasternak-McHale had called to tell me I’d inherited a house from my Uncle Oren, my first response had been, “Uncle who?”

I’d had no idea I even had an Uncle Oren, and technically, I still didn’t, him being dead and all. But even when he was alive, the relationship had been distant at best: He was apparently my mother’s second cousin once removed, and I defy anybody who’s not a total genealogy geek to figure that one out. But Taryn-with-the-great-name had assured me that I was right there in the will.

“We’ve had a terrible time finding you,” she’d said, her voice over the phone line noticeably irritable. “It took us two months. We had to hire a private detective.”

I winced. “Sorry.” Yeah, couch surfing didn’t exactly give you a fixed address to use for mail forwarding, and I’d scaled back my online presence after I’d gotten trolled multiple times thanks to my vindictive ex. Speaking of whom… “Did you try leaving a message with Greg Findler? He’s still at my last permanent address.”

“Several times.” She cleared her throat. “He, ah, told us you were dead.”

“What?”

“To be fair, he amended the statement to say you were dead to him, but he was less than helpful.”

“I can believe that,” I muttered. “So how did you find me?”

“You were listed as the ‘with’ author on Dale Usher’s memoir. We tracked you through his publisher.”

“Ah.” Most of the time, ghostwriting didn’t get you a by-line or even a mention in the acknowledgements. Dale, a retired detective with a strong commitment to justice and fair play, had been an exception. In fact, he’d insisted on giving me credit, both on the cover and in his comments. “Good to know.”

Taryn rattled off a bunch of details. To be honest, I didn’t hear half of what she said because my head was still reeling from the double shock that I’d had a relative I hadn’t known about, and that he’d left me a freaking house, for Pete’s sake.

Okay, triple shock: that Greg was still pissed enough at me for refusing to ghostwrite his book that he wasn’t satisfied with trashing my professional rep online, but was refusing to pass on messages, even though I checked with him daily via text.

His response was always, “No messages, no mail, screw you.”

“The house is a bit remote,” Taryn warned. “In a small town between Eugene and Florence.”

Considering all my Portland bridges had been torched very merrily by Greg, I’d said, “Sounds perfect,” arranged for her to message the key and directions to me at the nearest UPS store, and hit the road immediately to the not-so-musical accompaniment of Gil’s very vocal disapprobation.

With nothing else to distract me on the drive—my phone died outside Eugene and the Civic’s radio hadn’t worked since 2013—I’d tried to imagine what kind of house my uncle had left me. I’d run the gamut from a two-room shack to a 50s ranch to a mossy log cabin with a crooked smoke pipe to a creepy Victorian that would give the Bates Motel a run for its money. I’d never come close to this.

My incomplete degrees in English lit, creative writing, and business didn’t qualify me as an architectural expert, but I knew Queen Anne when I saw it because I’d researched it for a ghostwriting gig for a historical romance author.

Uncle Oren’s house—my house—was a classic example, including the steep, asymmetrical roof, the cross gables, the polygonal tower at one side of the full-width front porch, and all the decorative goodies on shingles and woodwork and trim and just everywhere.

As for being dilapidated, creepy, or even in need of a new coat of paint? Nope, nope, and nope. It was absolutely pristine. Even the round stained glass window in the third floor gable gleamed in the April sunlight.

My embarrassing schoolkid squeal was masked by the usual screech of metal as I closed the Civic’s door. With my wide, manic grin, I probably resembled a deranged clown, but I couldn’t help it.

Besides, there was nobody to see. My house—my house!—was flanked at a considerable distance by two others, one a yellow rambling two-story farmhouse style, and the other a brown and green craftsman bungalow. We were the only houses on the quiet, one-block street; a park populated by enormous trees and surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence lay opposite.

I practically skipped around the car to grapple Gil’s carrier out of the passenger seat. “Come on, buddy. Let’s see what our new home is like.”

As anxious as I was to see if the inside matched the outside, I didn’t rush to the front door—I was too busy rubbernecking. I’d have thought that since Taryn hadn’t been able to reach me for two months—yeah, thanks for that, Greg—that the landscaping would have gotten a little ragged at least, but my front yard was as manicured as both my neighbors’. A huge maple stood halfway between the street and the house, its branches canopying a curved flagstone walk lined with nodding purple pansies. The path was bordered by smooth swaths of green lawn without a single invading dandelion in sight.

Maybe the neighbors had banded together to keep it looking nice so their own places didn’t lose curb appeal? Or maybe the upkeep had been included in Uncle Oren’s bequest, one of the details I’d missed as I’d tried not to pass out from shock over owning a freaking house.

I mounted the porch steps and set Gil’s carrier down on the wide, whitewashed planks of its deck. “It has a porch swing, Gil!” I may have squealed again, but can you blame me? An actual porch swing! I couldn’t believe my impossibly good luck.

I dug the key out of my rear jeans pocket. It had poked me in the butt all the way from Portland, but I endured the discomfort because it reminded me I was heading to my house.

I gazed fondly at its funky keychain: the Scooby Gang, complete with psychedelic van. I counted it a point in Taryn’s favor, if she was leaning in to the town’s name: Ghost.

Yep, I was moving to Ghost, Oregon, and given my profession, the irony was not lost on me, especially since I hadn’t had a paying gig since Greg started his online flame campaign.

The dark wooden front door was rounded on the top, with a leaded half-moon light at eye level. I didn’t peek through, though, any more than I peered through the windows that fronted the porch, because I wanted my first step across the threshold to rival the final reveal in all those house-flipping DIY shows.

That I may watch. Or binge. A lot. Hey, it’s for research.

I poised the key over the lock. “Here goes, Gil.” But when I tried to insert it into the keyhole? No dice. I couldn’t even get the tip inside.

Okay, now this was more like my luck, not to mention my love life. I owned a house, but I couldn’t get inside. I narrowed my eyes at the gleaming brass lock collar. “Not very welcoming, house. We need to have a little chat.”

I crouched down to peer into the keyhole. Something was definitely jammed inside. It was stuffed full of something that looked like—

“You there! You on the porch! Back away. Now.”

Never Landing by Sam Burns & WM Fawkes

1

Everett

I loved my job.

At least, that was what I kept saying to myself as I sat through the tenth meeting of the week.

What was quickly becoming my last-straw meeting.

Unlike most of them, it wasn’t one of those “this could have been an email” meetings. No, it was the big one. The one where we talked about all the work I’d done on the Crosslife account over the last two months. Eighty-hour weeks, every night and weekend consumed by research and art and writing. Crosslife was a trillion-dollar life insurance conglomerate, and I’d come up with their entire new ad campaign. The slogan, the storyboard, the art, it was all mine. All out of my brain, without a single bit of input or help from anyone else.

It was unheard of in the company. It was supposed to be a writer and an artist, every time. A team of creatives, working in concert. But my boss had told me he didn’t have anyone else to help. That he had faith in me. He believed in me, and when I finished and secured the Crosslife account, imagine the bonus. The credit. The money Crosslife would be giving the company.

And yet, somehow I was entirely unsurprised as I sat next to him while he smiled at the CEO of Crosslife, nodding. “Thank you so much. It really is some of the best work I’ve done in years. I don’t usually get down in the trenches anymore, but for you guys, of course. And I guess Everett here just couldn’t handle the stress of coming up with something new. You know these young guys, always biting off more than they can chew.”

The CEO didn’t even glance my way. A woman to his right was looking at me, sad-eyed and knowing. Part of me wanted to see it as pity and lash out, but I recognized the look. It was empathy. Understanding. She’d been there. Probably thanks to the asshole next to her, who was eating up my boss’s ass-kissing and nodding along like it was simply his due.

I glanced across the table to my boss’s right, to Tom Smith, one of our most experienced writers, who’d agreed to sit in on the meeting despite not having even glanced at my work before the presentation. He’d told me a dozen times since I’d started that I needed to learn to play politics. I could hear his ancient, gravelly voice in my head in that moment, low and bored and so very tired of my dramatics. “Being in advertising is more about playing the game right than doing the job right, Everett. You need to learn finesse. Give the boss what he wants, and you’ll get what you want back.”

But that wasn’t how it had gone. I’d worked the eighty-hour weeks. I’d done the job alone when I was supposed to have help. I’d done it faster and better and more and . . . now I was getting nothing. No credit. Not even a glance from my boss. Fickle betrayal, thy name was James Warren.

Yeah, fine, Warren’s name was on the building and mine wasn’t. But that didn’t mean he ought to steal my credit. It meant he should be happy he’d hired someone who got the job done. Right?

Finally, after what felt like hours of meeting and being entirely ignored except when someone had to ask me a question because they were talking about my goddamned work while pretending Warren had done it, the CEO of Crosslife stood up and shook Warren’s hand, then Tom’s, while telling them he looked forward to seeing them with the completed campaign plans in January. Then, ignoring me, he turned and walked out.

The woman who’d spent the meeting sitting next to him gave me a nod as she stood. “Good work, Mr. . . .”

And fuck me, that was when I realized Warren hadn’t even introduced me. “Everett Bailey, ma’am. And thank you.”

She glanced down at my computer, then back up at me, and I couldn’t help but feel like she was trying to communicate something to me. The computer was in front of me, of course. It was my personal laptop—the company hadn’t even bought it for me, but required me to provide my own, since “you artists are always so picky.” It was the only computer on the table and had been connected to the overhead to project the plans to show the CEO.

That was probably how she’d known that the work was mine.

Fuck knew why her CEO couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to a little thing like that.

I slid the computer closer to me, and she nodded sharply, like she thought I’d understood her. Did she think I should hold the files hostage until Warren gave me credit? I was pretty sure that my employment paperwork said anything I produced on company time was company property. It wasn’t like I could go behind Warren’s back and sell it to them.

On the other hand, she didn’t even shake their hands. Just turned and marched out on her terrifying looking four-inch stiletto heels. In the hallway, she started talking to the CEO, who suddenly seemed more animated than he had during the entire meeting, waving his arms and smiling at her and looking . . . hell, almost fatherly. Wish I’d met that guy and not the one who’d ignored me.

Maybe it was just me. Everyone ignored me. Overlooked me. Stole my work and took credit for it. If I was the one who kept getting stepped on, didn’t that mean I had to be complicit in some way?

“Well then,” Warren said, sounding self-satisfied, leaning back and clasping his hands over his middle. “I guess lunch is cancelled. You’ve got a lot of work to do if you’re going to have final print ads ready for Crosslife by January.”

When I continued to just sit there for a moment, he turned and motioned at me, waving both his hands in a scat motion, like he was telling a dog to get off his couch. “Off you go, back to work.”

I unplugged my computer from the projector and left the meeting room in a daze.

That was it. He’d taken credit for the last two months of my life, now get back to work. Spend the next month working on something he’d already taken credit for.

I went back to my desk and sat there, unseeing, at my closed laptop for . . . well, I didn’t know how long.

Tom passed by, stopped, gave a deep sigh, and turned back to me. “Don’t make this a big drama, Everett. You did fine, now get back to it and finish the job. That’s what you make the big bucks for.”

Big bucks?

How the fuck much did he think Warren paid me? It wasn’t “big bucks,” that was for sure. It was enough to pay my rent and eat, but that was about it. If I hadn’t worked full time through college, my parents graciously paying the five thousand dollars a semester I still couldn’t afford while working full time, I’d have had student loans I couldn’t pay for on top of that.

Suddenly, I felt an icy wind flow over me. Grabbing my computer and holding it against my chest like it was the only thing I had in the world, I went to Warren’s corner office. The door was open and he was alone, so I walked in.

He glanced up from his computer at me, then back. In the reflection on the enormous windows behind him, I could see that the only thing open on his computer was a game of solitaire. What was this, the nineties? Did he not know if he was going to sit around playing computer games during work hours, there were way better ones these days? Zombies to kill and hot vampires to romance and not crappy 2D card games that hadn’t been updated since freaking nineteen-ninety-two.

But no. Warren was of the generation that used the term “new-fangled” and thought computers alone were silly and frivolous.

“Well?” he asked. “I’m busy here.”

To my credit, I didn’t laugh. Busy playing the most pointless card game known to man. It wasn’t even a game of skill or talent. You could beat it or you couldn’t, depending on the random way the cards were dealt.

I couldn’t worry about that, though. There was a reason I’d come to his office. “My bonus. The bonus you promised me if I secured the Crosslife account.”

His smile in return was predatory. “Now Everett. It wouldn’t look good if I gave you a bonus after telling Crosslife I made the ads, would it?”

“Crosslife doesn’t check your books. And you didn’t make the ads. I did. I’ve been working on this account for two months, and I did literally all the work.” When his expression didn’t change, I pointed out, “And now you’re asking me to do more work on it. Without giving me the bonus you promised me.”

“Well you haven’t finished the job yet, have you?”

His smile didn’t flag, and we both knew the truth. He was never going to give me a bonus. Worse, he knew that I knew, and he didn’t care.

At some point, when I kept letting everyone step on me, did I start to deserve it? Had I earned that?

I turned and walked away, clinging to my laptop like it was a lifeline as I went.

Next thing I knew, I was standing in front of my apartment door. I’d somehow left the office, walked the half-mile to my apartment, and gone up three flights of stairs without even noticing. Shrugging, I pulled out my keys and unlocked the door, going in to collapse on the couch.

It was true. If I kept letting everyone walk all over me, I was asking them to do it more. Maybe I still didn’t deserve it—maybe no one deserved it—but as long as I continued to allow it, it was going to keep happening.

I sat up, opening my laptop and logging into my email. Beatrice from HR had sent me an email the day before warning me that due to a new company policy, if I didn’t take my three weeks of vacation before January, it was going to be gone. Vacation wasn’t going to roll over anymore, so I’d start the new year with none, and nothing to show for all that accrued vacation time.

I’d ignored it at the time. I’d been busy, working on the Crosslife account. I’d had enormous dreams of dollar signs. Tom said when he’d secured a big mutual fund company account in the nineties, he’d gotten a five-figure bonus. I’d imagined what I could do with a five-figure bonus, and no vacation could be worth more than that.

But there was no bonus, and there never would be.

But legally, there was vacation. Three weeks of it. And with just under four weeks left in the year, which included some pretty major holidays, I had just about enough to get me to January.

So I opened an email to Beatrice, sending her a long, flowery professional email thanking her for pointing out my oversight, and informing her that I’d be taking all the vacation I’d accrued, starting with a half day today, and that I’d see the folks at Warren Advertising after New Year’s.

It was less than ten minutes before a clearly shocked Beatrice sent me a response, saying she was happy to be of help and hoped I had a lovely vacation and had plans with my family.

No reason to tell her that my parents were probably somewhere in Switzerland, living what they were calling their “SKI”—spending kid’s inheritance—life, spending every last dime they’d accrued in their lives, and I hadn’t seen them since the day I’d graduated college. Not that they were bad parents or I begrudged them their happy retirement, but we didn’t really talk much.

The only other family I’d ever had and known personally, my mother’s mother, was gone.

But what she’d left me? I still had that. An old three-story colonial house in the small town of Cider Landing, four hours’ drive from the city.

My phone rang: Mr. Warren.

“Bailey,” I answered by rote.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Bailey?” My boss growled down the line.

I smiled, a half-mad, feral kind of smile, but I knew he couldn’t see it, so I shook myself and answered. “Beatrice from HR said I need to use my vacation or lose it. So I’m using it. I’m sure you’re not calling to try to illegally coerce me into not using my job benefits, Mr. Warren.”

There was silence on the line for a moment, then a deep sigh. “I’ll postpone the Crosslife meeting as long as I can, but you’d better be back in the office the second your vacation is done, and I expect utter perfection this time.”

Of course. He was expecting me to work while on vacation. The jackass.

I didn’t answer, just hung up.

A moment later, Tom called. This time I was already speaking when I accepted the call, “I’m not playing this political bullshit, Tom. I wanted to do my job and get paid for it, and apparently that’s not an option. He told me I’m not getting a bonus for the Crosslife account. You want the account? Have it.”

Without waiting for him to respond, I hung up. Then I turned my phone off. I wasn’t required to answer my phone. I was on vacation.

I threw casual clothes into a duffel bag, then thinking about three entire weeks away from my apartment, filled another as well. One bag in my left hand and another slung over my shoulder, I paused on my way to the door, and looked at where my computer was still sitting on the couch.

My computer, with every bit of work I’d done for Crosslife on it, and not backed up on a company server or in the cloud, because Warren didn’t approve of clouds of information he couldn’t see and control. A grin on my face that probably would have gotten me shoved in a straitjacket and padded cell in some places, I snatched the thing up and stuffed it into one of my bags.

If James Warren wanted Crosslife ads, he could make new ones himself.

Fuck that guy.

I was on my way to my grandmother’s old house in Cider Landing, and no one could stop me. No one was there to step on me, and I was fucking done being stepped on.

A Little Blessing by R Cooper

Robin ran his fingertips over the bare strands on the loom without seeing a single thread. He didn’t have much of the dull, simple pattern left to finish, but he’d caught a glimpse of stormy blues, and a different, more interesting pattern had started in his mind’s eye. The design he was meant to be weaving slipped away in favor of complexity and color, so much color it almost took his breath away; black and grays, yes, but also tempestuous blues, so many of them. Storm clouds of color, but a pillowcase soft enough to use, fine and comfortable and giving. His hands itched with the life in it but touched nothing except the loom and the as yet unused portion of the warp, and then, sadly, the pattern he’d completed so far.

His steadiest customers now were boutique hotels and expensive cabins that catered to the sort of people to go “glamping,” and those people did not seem to enjoy color. Large, uncomfortable pillows and throws in shades of eggshell, ecru, and stone were what were ordered, more often than not, and without much concern for texture.

Robin blinked, but the colors of a midnight cloudburst lingered before his eyes. He’d noticed the unused skeins earlier, found them under piles of other colors in a basket that he’d had no reason to be digging into, and put them on the table although they had no place there. Now they’d pulled him from his work.

He turned his head to frown dizzily at skeins that did not belong on his worktable, colors he was not going to acknowledge because they were not the “rustic, natural” vibes his customer wanted. Robin was tired, obviously, or he wouldn’t have let the skeins call to him from the basket he had probably buried them in months ago. He didn’t even know why he’d dyed them those colors…. If he had. The last few years had been taxing, and it was just as likely that Flora or John had set up that dye batch, or that Phillip had ordered it from one of the small producers in the state for a project that one of the others had been working on, or intending to work on. Robin could not remember the last time he had dyed anything for his own needs, in fact, but maybe that was the late hour.

If it was late.

He looked up toward the windows that lined the rooms converted into the family workroom, pausing in stunned confusion to see the curtains drawn. He’d apparently been working by artificial light only. Even the fire in the fireplace had gone out. The Blessing-Redferne farmhouse had a fireplace in every room, a system that worked better for heating than the furnace and vents installed in the 1960s.

He shivered reflexively to see the dark, long-cold hearth.

Thunder rumbled distantly, likely miles away. It might have rattled the windows of the Storr farm, the nearest neighbor.

Robin shivered again although he wasn’t cold. If it was raining, he’d have to make sure the heat was on in the appropriate rooms, or the fires going. He’d closed the vents in the unused rooms, or meant to, earlier in the fall.

He couldn’t seem to recall doing it, though. Maybe he should check. He probably needed a break anyway. He’d get a snack, check the heat situation, then finish. Working by artificial light alone wasn’t great, but he wanted this done. Then he’d lie down for a while, rest before he made another silly mistake like forgetting to open the curtains.

Robin straightened up, his back popping in a way that would have made Marise cluck over him in concern.

“You’re only a baby, Blessing, too young for that,” Robin said for her, although he would be thirty in the spring.

He shook his head to clear it of clouds and flexed his hands and wrists.

Thunder rolled again, closer and louder.

Robin glared muzzily at the skeins of yarn he did not need and would not use tonight, then, decidedly picked them up and crossed over to the crisscrossing shelves along the long wall. The shelves, made up of old crates and diamond bins from the local wineries, used to be stacked with skeins for the projects the others had going. There was more than enough room for a pesky batch of yarn that was doing its best to get on his nerves.

The floor creaked under his footsteps, the sound softening when he passed over one of the many rugs around or beneath various empty work tables and benches. When the house had first been built, the workroom had been intended as a small sitting room, and then perhaps a library and a parlor. The wide doors between each room had been permanently opened decades ago, however, and all of the furniture had long since been replaced with sewing machines, both treadle and electric, spinning wheels, or various looms.

There was an antique wheel near the fire, on a thick Hutsul wool rug; the rug a gift to his grandmother from a like-minded craft person, years ago. The other wall held racks, some still displaying the yarns that Robin’s older relatives had left there and never picked up again.

He should look it all over, see what condition it all was in.

He shuffled back to his worktable instead, slipping on the exposed hardwood floor and holding onto the tabletop until the wash of black faded from his vision.

“Okay,” Robin said out loud. “I will take a break.” The words cracked, barely making it passed his dry lips. He reached for a mug that wasn’t there; he’d brought no coffee or tea with him in here, either. “Forgetful tonight,” he chided himself, rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his baggy knitted cardigan.

The clouds remained when he was done, blue-black like coming rain.

Robin ducked at another rumble of thunder, not sure he didn’t hear the patter of water against the walls. He left the unfinished pillowcase and shuffled over to the fireplace. The fire was good and out, must have been for hours.

New logs sat there beside it on the wide stones. Robin had managed that much this morning, gathering wood from his dwindling woodpile. He lifted one oddly heavy log onto the grate, then reached for the matches. Some witches did not need matches. Robin, despite his illustrious, or at least infamous, ancestry, did.

The matchbox was empty.

He gave up and tossed the box onto his worktable before grabbing his phone and leaving the room. The audiobook that had been playing while he worked had ended, perhaps because his phone had died.

Robin slipped a few times on the floor in front of the staircase, even with the rugs to catch him. He must have spilled something earlier. Maybe that’s where his tea had gone and he’d never replaced it. He didn’t stop to deal with the clouds again, nor the hovering dark shape in front of the office doorway.

Inside the office, a small room off the living room and to the side of the front door to the house, he plugged his phone in to charge, then would have sat down for a while among all the stickers and shipping boxes with the Blessing-Redferne logo on them because he hadn’t sat down in hours and his legs were shaky, except the hovering shape continued to hover, so he made his way back down the hall.

The door to the living room was open, giving him a glimpse of overflowing baskets of unfinished projects, the TV and bookshelves, the beat-up armchair and ottoman beneath a reading lamp, and the couch with its back to yet another fireplace. The couch had a pillow on one armrest and a collection of crocheted blankets at the other end where Robin had kicked them off that morning, too hot upon waking.

The shape hovered near that door too.

Love and Payne by Charlie Cochet

Chapter One
“THIS IS not gonna be pleasant, but you’ve all worn the uniform long enough to know what we do rarely is.”

Team Leader Colin Zachary faced the row of THIRDS Defense agents from Alpha Sleuth, which Osmond Zachary was a member of. It was tough having six older brothers who worked for the THIRDS, all as Defense agents. It was tougher when one of them was your Team Leader. Colin was a no-nonsense kind of guy who could scare the shit out of someone just by looking at them. Bear Therians were frightening in size and were often written off as brainless, muscle-bound thugs. Like the rest of his brothers, Colin might be a brick wall of a guy, with a head hard enough to match, but he was quick, sharp, and smart. He was taller than Zach’s seven foot four and had twenty pounds on Zach’s three hundred and ten pounds. Everyone respected the Zachary brothers, and Zach was proud to work alongside them, even if they did like to bust his balls whatever chance they got. Thankfully Finley, Boyd, Bram, Alastair, and Edan, weren’t on Alpha Sleuth.

“I know Mr. Barlow and Mr. Kerner aren’t the most popular guys right now.”

Yeah, no shit. Zach refrained from scoffing, unlike some of his teammates. That was an understatement if he ever heard one. Prosecutor Aaron Barlow couldn’t seem to keep himself out of the headlines these days, and not because he was running for senator in the upcoming election, but for his controversial comments regarding harsher laws and regulations for Therians. The man could spout that he wasn’t anti-Therian as much as he wanted—after all, some of his best friends were Therians—but the second he opened his mouth, the disdain was clear as day. He spoke of stronger laws to protect citizens, but what he meant was stronger laws to protect Humans from Therians, because Therians weren’t real citizens. They were a mistake Humans were forced to tolerate.

Barlow’s counsel, Bill Kerner, wasn’t as vocal, but his anti-Therian stance was just as known. The man was ex-JAG, and rumor had it Kerner was quietly pushed out of the US Army JAG Corps when his personal beliefs bled into the courtroom and could no longer be ignored. The two men had become a powerful force, driven by hate and a common goal, causing an even greater divide between Humans and Therians—not to mention giving anti-Therian groups everywhere the excuse they’d been looking for to escalate the violence against Therians.

Several of Zach’s fellow agents exchanged glances. They were most likely thinking along the same lines as he was. Barlow and Kerner despised Therians, had no trouble publicly expressing how little they thought of the THIRDS, yet neither had any qualms about sending THIRDS agents out into the line of fire to protect them. Apparently, Therians were good enough to take a bullet for them, just not good enough to be equals.

“I know. I know.” Colin held a gloved hand up and sighed. “But it’s our job. We swore an oath to preserve life, no matter the species and no matter how much of an asshole someone is. We’re going to go out there and do our jobs. Mr. Barlow and Mr. Kerner will be exiting the building via the front of THIRDS HQ.”

Next to Colin, his Human partner, Duke, shook his head and sneered. “Are you fucking kidding me? I thought Lieutenant Mendoza and Sergeant Volkov talked them out of that dumbass decision.”

The vein on the side of Colin’s head pulsed, and Zach could tell his big brother was probably popping brain cells trying not to lose his shit. Colin never lost his shit. When he spoke, he was calm and in control.

“Mr. Barlow has chosen to ignore our counsel and that of Unit Beta’s THIRDS officers, stating he refuses to be intimidated. We’ll be going out as the first line of defense, with Beta Sloth and Epsilon Ursid providing backup. A car will be waiting for Mr. Barlow, his daughter, his assistant, and Mr. Kerner outside the gate, and a perimeter has been set up by Unit Alpha to keep the protestors away. We advised Mr. Barlow against having his daughter with him for this visit, but he informed us he and his daughter have a private jet waiting to fly them to DC, so they’ll be heading straight for the airport from here. The crowd continues to grow as word of Mr. Barlow and Mr. Kerner’s presence spreads, so remain vigilant. They’re due to finish their tour of Unit Alpha in twenty minutes. If Lieutenant Sparks hasn’t skewered them with one of her five-inch heels.”

If only they were so lucky.

“Okay, Alpha Sleuth. Grab your shields and let’s move out.”

Zach grabbed his shield and turned to fist-bump his Human partner, Sawyer, before they fell into formation behind Colin and Duke. They made their way through the armory and up to street level. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as they neared the exit. He could hear the noise of the crowd through his helmet before the doors even opened. Rolling his shoulders, he lifted his shield and readied himself as his team exited THIRDS HQ and headed for the gate. Across the street, a mob of protestors—both Human and Therian—chanted and shouted against Barlow and what he stood for. Agents from Unit Alpha, also in full tactical gear, stood among the crowd, while Unit Alpha’s Recon agents maintained the peace.

“Ten minutes,” Colin said, his voice coming through Zach’s earpiece.

Human security in black suits were scattered up and down the sidewalk, in the street, and around Barlow’s car. News vans were parked along the opposite side of the street, cameras and newspeople reporting on the event, with more than one reporter pushing their way through the crowds to get to Unit Alpha’s Defense agents, most likely hoping to get a sound bite from Therian agents. Good luck with that.

Barlow and his entourage exited the THIRDS, and instead of heading straight for his car, he stopped halfway there and turned to wave at the crowd, as if they’d been chanting his name instead of cursing it.

Zach gritted his teeth. What the hell was the guy doing? Like he was purposely trying to antagonize the crowd. The more he waved and smiled, the angrier the protestors became. Something tugged at Zach’s fist, and he turned his head with a frown, but no one was there. Another tug had him dropping his gaze, his eyes going wide at the tiny Human girl gazing up at him with big brown eyes and a big smile, her small hand gripping his gloved fist. She couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. Zach uncurled his fist on instinct, and she took hold of his hand. She was chatting away at him, but he couldn’t hear her through the noise of the crowd and his helmet. Glancing up, he spotted her father talking to his counsel, unaware that his daughter had wandered away from his side.

A tug to his hand had Zach turning his attention back to the little girl. She held her brown teddy bear up to him, and with a smile, Zach knelt in front of her. He pushed up his visor so he could hear her better.

“Hi,” she said with a smile. “I’m Maisy.”

“I’m Zach. It’s nice to meet you, Maisy. Why aren’t you with your daddy?”

Maisy looked at her dad and shrugged. “He’s always busy.” She turned her big brown eyes back to him. “You’re very tall. Are you a bear Therian?”

Zach nodded. He pulled down the collar of his tactical vest so she could see his classification tattoo on the left side of his neck.

“I wanted to show you my teddy. He’s just like you,” she said proudly, presenting him with her stuffed toy.

“Oh?” Zach gently took the bear from her. “Is it because he’s a very handsome bear?” he teased.

Maisy giggled and shook her head, her curly pigtails swishing with the energetic movement. “No.”

Zach let out a mock gasp. “Are you saying I’m not a handsome bear?” Maisy’s laughter made him smile wide. She was adorable.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Maisy replied with another giggle. “I meant you protect me, just like Teddy. Daddy says all Therians are dangerous and scary, but you’re not scary. You’re a good bear, like Teddy.”

Zach blinked at Maisy, her words causing a lump to form in his throat. He swallowed past the emotions bubbling up inside him at her sweet innocence. How long would Maisy—with a parent so full of hate—continue to believe he was a good bear? “Thank you.”

“Maisy,” Barlow hissed angrily. “You get away from him right now!”

“But, Daddy, Zach is my friend.” Maisy lifted her little chin in defiance as she held on to Zach’s hand.

Barlow’s stunned expression would have been comical if it hadn’t been followed by the fiery loathing in his eyes when he moved his gaze to Zach. The man marched over, and Zach slowly stood, aware of Maisy inching closer to his side rather than going to her father.

Barlow thrust a finger up toward Zach’s face as Zach towered over him. “How dare you touch my daughter. I’m going to have your badge for this—” He dropped his gaze to Zach’s name tape. “—Agent Zachary.”

“Is there a problem, Mr. Barlow?” Colin asked somberly, appearing before them. Barlow gave a visible start before quickly composing himself.

“Yes, there is.” He looked at Colin’s name tape before letting out a snort of disgust. “Not that you’ll do anything about it, since he’s clearly related to you. When I’m elected, that’s the first thing I’m going to push to have changed at the THIRDS. This organization is a disgrace, allowing family members to work together. God only knows the level of corruption.”

Colin narrowed his eyes at Barlow. “May I ask what infraction you believe Agent Zach has committed?”

“He put his hands on my daughter.”

Zach forced himself to remain quiet. Anything he said would only escalate matters. Barlow had formed his opinion of Zach far before Maisy decided they were friends.

Colin took note of Maisy’s small hand wrapped around Zach’s, her teddy held close to her as she all but hid behind Zach’s leg. When Colin lifted his gaze to Barlow, his eyes grew hard, and there was no question what he thought of Barlow. Colin had always been an expert at making his thoughts known with just a look. “I would be more than happy to accompany you inside, where we can discuss your grievance with Lieutenant Sparks.”

Barlow clenched his jaw, his muscles visibly tightening. Unit Beta might have their own THIRDS officers, but Unit Alpha’s Lieutenant Sparks ranked above them all, and her connections to both Humans and Therians in positions of power was enough to make any politician think twice, especially when they were throwing around dangerous accusations that had no merit.

“Are you trying to intimidate me?” Barlow growled at Colin.

Colin shook his head. “Absolutely not, Mr. Barlow. You believe one of my agents acted inappropriately, and I’m taking that accusation very seriously. The matter will be investigated fully, and fortunately”—he motioned toward the many news cameras pointing in their direction—“we should have plenty of video footage of the incident. Shall I send agents to collect the evidence? I’m certain the news stations will be more than happy to cooperate. I’ll need to take an official statement from you and your daughter. Shall we go inside?”

A tall, lanky man in an expensive business suit approached, then leaned over and whispered in Barlow’s ear. Whatever he said had Barlow turning red, and when he spoke, it was through gritted teeth.

“That won’t be necessary.” Barlow plastered a smile on his face and turned to Zach. He held out his hand. “I apologize for misunderstanding the situation. My daughter is very important to me, and I can be a little overprotective. Thank you for your dedication and service, Agent Zach.”

Zach gently removed his hand from Maisy’s and shook Barlow’s hand, amused at his attempt at a forceful grip. All Zach had to do was squeeze and Barlow would be on his knees. Of course, he didn’t. Instead he nodded in acceptance of Barlow’s apology. Barlow leaned in to whisper at him. “Come near my daughter again, and I will bury you.” Patting Zach’s arm, he held his hand out to Maisy.

“Come along, Maisy. Time to go.”

“I don’t want to,” Maisy protested. “I want to stay with Zach.”

Barlow’s nostrils flared. “Maisy Lou-Anne Barlow, you come with me this instant.”

Maisy shook her head and dug her heels in. The entire exchange was being broadcasted on national television, and Zach felt for Barlow, who was growing more red-faced by the moment.

Zach knelt in front of Maisy and smiled warmly. “You should go with your daddy. How about if I walk you to the car?”

Maisy let out a heavy sigh, her shoulders falling dramatically. “Okay,” she mumbled. She looked up at her father expectantly, and Barlow let out a sigh much like his daughter’s as he removed his gloves from his black trench coat and began pulling them on.

“Fine.” He spun on his heels and started for the car, grumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

Zach chuckled at Maisy’s adorable pout, and as he stood screams filled the air, followed by gunshots and the revving of an engine. Zach’s blood turned to ice when an armored vehicle jumped the sidewalk. Where the hell had it come from?

Barlow’s security grabbed their employer and shoved him into his limo, ignoring his cries for his little girl. If they planned to come back for her, they wouldn’t make it in time. Zach swept Maisy up in his arm and cradled her to his chest as he broke into a run, his ballistic shield protecting them from any stray bullets as THIRDS agents opened fire on the vehicle. Colin’s alarmed voice came through Zach’s earpiece.

“Zach, look out!”

A second vehicle rounded the corner ahead of him and jumped the curb. It lurched forward, and Zach quickly scanned the area around him—two vehicles headed in his direction, one from each side, parked cars blocked him on his right, and the THIRDS HQ fence towered to his left. He was boxed in. Maisy’s screams had him bolting again, and he spun toward the limo. The door flew open, and Barlow punched one of his security guys in the face when the man attempted to stop him from opening the door farther.

“Maisy!” Tears streamed down Barlow’s distraught face as he scrambled away from his security to reach his daughter.

Zach made a run for him, but he wouldn’t make it in time. If he could get Maisy to her father, the armored limo would offer them ballistic protection. Zach dropped his shield to the ground, curved side up. “Barlow! Incoming!”

Barlow nodded, and Zach quickly laid Maisy on the shield and strapped her in. “Hold on real tight, okay.” She nodded frantically, and Zach thrust his shield forward. It skidded across the sidewalk, and as soon as Barlow had Maisy in his arms, Zach turned, his brother’s panicked cry in his ears.

“Oz!”

Zach heard the skidding tires, saw the smoke, and braced himself as best he could before the armored truck slammed into him. His feet left the ground along with the rest of his body. He soared through the air and fell. Then everything went black.

VL Locey

V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.

(Not necessarily in that order.)

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

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

EJ Russell
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.

Sam Burns
Sam lives in the Midwest with husband and cat, which is even less exciting than it sounds, so she's not sure why you're still reading this.

She specializes in LGBTQIA+ fiction, usually with a romantic element. There's sometimes intrigue and violence, usually a little sex, and almost always some swearing in her work. Her writing is light and happy, though, so if you're looking for a dark gritty reality, you've come to the wrong author.

WM Fawkes
W.M. Fawkes is an author of LGBTQ+ urban fantasy and paranormal romance. With coauthor Sam Burns, she writes feisty Greek gods, men, and monsters in the Lords of the Underworld series. She lives with her partner in a house owned by three halloween-hued felines that dabble regularly in shadow walking.

R Cooper

R. Cooper is a somewhat absentminded, often distracted, writer of queer romance, probably most known for the Being(s) in Love series and the occasional story about witches or firefighters in love. Also known as, "Ah, yes, the one who writes the dragons."

R. thought about gender for a while and settled on she/her/they, but don’t call her a woman because it feels oogie. She likes Moonstruck maybe too much, hates fascists, does her best not to be a jerk, hides from most humans, and lives with her screamy cat in her semi-haunted rented house somewhere between the Northern California Redwoods and wine country.

For more info, writing updates, and the occasional free story, visit website.

Charlie Cochet
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.

Join Charlie's newsletter and stay up to date with Charlie's latest releases, receive exclusive content, giveaways, and more!

VL Locey

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R Cooper

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Charlie Cochet

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Mark Westfield(Narrator)

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The Coachman by VL Locey

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Ghostridden by EJ Russell

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Never Landing by Sam Burns & WM Fawkes

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A Little Blessing by R Cooper

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Love and Payne by Charlie Cochet

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