🌈🌻🌼📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘🌼🌻🌈: Spartacus by Howard Fast

Summary:

Spartacus, a fictionalization of a slave revolt in ancient Rome in 71 BC, is well known today because of the 1960 movie starring Kirk Douglas and Laurence Olivier. It was originally published in 1951 by Fast himself, after being turned down by every mainstream publisher of the day because of Fast's blacklisting for his Communist Party sympathies. The story of Spartacus, born a slave, trained as a gladiator, who led a slave revolt that was eventually put down by Crassus, was immensely popular, and went on to sell millions of copies. The reprinting of this title in the North Castle series brings back into print a book that many regard as a classic.

PART ONE 

How Caius Crassus journeyed along the highroad from Rome to Capua, in the month of May.

It is recorded that as early as the middle of the month of March, the highroad from the Eternal City, Rome, to the somewhat smaller but hardly less lovely town of Capua, was opened to public travel once again; but this is not to say that traffic upon this road immediately reverted to normal. For that matter, during the past four years no road in the Republic had known the peaceful and prosperous flow of commerce and person which was to be expected of a Roman road. More or less of disturbance had been encountered everywhere, and it would not be incorrect to say that the road between Rome and Capua had become symbolic of this disturbance. It was well said that as the roads go, so does Rome go; if the roads know peace and prosperity, so does the city know it.

The news was posted around the city that any free citizen having business in Capua might travel there to transact it, but for the time being travel for pleasure to that lovely resort was not encouraged. However, as time passed and sweet and gentle springtime settled down over the land of Italy, restrictions were lifted, and once again the fine buildings and splendid scenery of Capua called to the Romans.

In addition to the natural attractions of the Campania countryside, those who enjoyed fine perfume yet balked at inflated prices, found profit as well as pleasure in Capua. There were situated the great perfume factories, unequaled in the whole world; and to Capua were shipped the rare essences and oils from all over the earth, exotic and exquisite scents, Egyptian oil of roses, the essence of the lilies of Sheba, the poppies of Galilee, the oil of ambergris and of the rind of lemon and orange, the leaf of sage and mint, rose-wood and sandal-wood, and so forth and so on almost without end. Perfume at Capua could be purchased at less than half the price asked in Rome, and when one considers the growing popularity of scents in that time, for men as well as for women—and the necessity for them as well—one can understand that a trip to Capua for that, if for no other reason, might well be undertaken.

 

II

The road was opened in March, and two months later, in the middle of May, Caius Crassus and his sister, Helena, and her friend, Claudia Marius, set off to spend a week with relatives in Capua. They left Rome on the morning of a bright, clear and cool day, a perfect day for travel, all of them young and bright-eyed and full of delight in the trip and in the adventures which would certainly befall them. Caius Crassus, a young man of twenty-five, whose dark hair fell in abundant and soft ringlets and whose regular features had given him a reputation for good looks as well as good birth, rode a beautiful white Arabian horse, a birthday present from his father the year before, and the two girls travelled in open litters. Each litter was carried by four slaves who were road-broken and who could do ten miles at a smooth run without resting. They planned to spend five days on the road, putting up each evening at the country villa of a friend or relative, and this way, by easy and pleasant stages, to come to Capua. They knew before they started that the road was tokened with punishment, but they didn’t think it would be enough to disturb them. As a matter of fact, the girls were quite excited by the descriptions they had heard, and as for Caius, he always had a pleasant and somewhat sensuous reaction to such things, and he was also proud of his stomach and of the fact that such sights did not inordinately disturb him.

“After all,” he reasoned with the girls, “it is better to look at a crucifix than to be on one.”

“We shall look straight ahead,” Helena said.

She was better looking than Claudia who was blond but listless, pale skin and pale eyes and an air of fatigue which she nurtured. Her body was full and attractive, but Caius found her rather stupid and wondered what his sister saw in her—a problem he was determined to solve on this trip. He had several times before resolved to seduce his sister’s friend, and always the resolution had broken down before her listless disinterest, a disinterest not specific in terms of himself, but general. She was bored, and Caius was certain that only her boredom prevented her from being utterly boring. His sister was something else. His sister excited him in a fashion that troubled him; she was as tall as he, very similar to him in appearance—better looking if anything, and considered beautiful by men who were not fended away by her purpose and strength. His sister excited him, and he was conscious that in planning this trip to Capua, he hoped for some resolution of this excitement. His sister and Claudia made an odd but satisfying combination, and Caius looked forward to rewarding incidents on the journey.

A few miles outside of Rome, the tokens of punishment began. There was a place where the road crossed a little wasteland of rock and sand, a few acres in extent, and the person in charge of the exhibit had, with an eye for effect, chosen this particular spot for the first crucifix. The cross had been cut out of fresh new wood, pitch-bleeding pine, and since the ground fell away behind it, it stood stark and bare and angular against the morning sky, so huge and impressive—over-large, since it was the first—that one hardly noticed the naked body of the man who hung upon it. It stood slightly askew, as is so often the case with the top-heavy crucifix, and this added to its bizarre, demi-human quality. Caius drew up his horse, and then walked the animal toward the crucifix; and with a little flick of her courtesy quirt, Helena ordered the litter-slaves to follow.

“May we rest, oh mistress, oh mistress?” whispered the pace setter of Helena’s litter, when they came to a halt before the crucifix. He was a Spaniard, and his Latin was broken and wary.

“Of course,” said Helena. She was only twenty-three, but already of strong opinion, as all the women of her family were, and she despised senseless cruelty toward animals, whether slave or beast. Then the litter-bearers gently lowered the carriages, squatting gratefully beside them.

A few yards in front of the crucifix, on a straw chair shaded by a small, patched awning, sat a fat, amiable man of distinction and poverty. His distinction was manifest in each of his several chins and in the dignity of his huge paunch, and his poverty, not unmixed with sloth, was plainly evident by his poor and dirty clothes, his grimy finger nails and his stubble of beard. His amiability was the easily worn mask of the professional politician; and one could see at a glance that for years he had scavenged the Forum and the Senate and the wards as well. Here he was now, the last step before he became a beggar with only a mat in some Roman lodging house; yet his voice rolled out with the robust quackery of a barker at a fair. These were the fortunes of war, as he made plain to them. Some choose the right party with uncanny facility. He had always chosen the wrong one, and it was no use saying that essentially they were both the same. This is where it brought him, but better men fared less well.

“You will forgive me for not rising, my gentle sir and my gentle ladies, but the heart—the heart.” He put his hand on the great paunch in the general area. “I see you are out early, and early you should be out, since that is the time for travel. Capua?”

“Capua,” said Caius.

“Capua indeed—a lovely city, a beautiful city, a fair city, a veritable gem of a city. To visit relatives, no doubt?”

“No doubt,” answered Caius. The girls were smiling. He was amiable; he was a great clown. His dignity slipped away. Better to be a clown for these young people. Caius realized that there was money involved somewhere in these proceedings, but he didn’t mind. For one thing, he had never been denied money sufficient for all his needs or whims, and for another, he desired to impress the girls with his worldliness, and how better than through this worldly fat clown of a man?

“You see me a guide, a story teller, a small purveyor of bits of punishment and justice. Yet does a judge do more? The station is different, yet better to accept a denarius and the shame that goes with it than to beg—”

The girls couldn’t keep their eyes from the dead man who hung from the crucifix. He was directly above them now, and they kept darting glances at his naked, sun-blackened, bird-torn body. The crows swooped around him tentatively. The flies crawled on his skin. As he hung, his body leaning out and away from the cross, he seemed always to be falling, always in motion, a grotesque motion of the dead. His head hung forward, and his long, sandy hair covered what horror might have been in his face.

Caius gave the fat man a coin; the thanks was no more than what was due. The bearers squatted silently, never glancing at the crucifix, eyes on the ground; roadbroken they were, and well trained.

“This one is symbolic, so as to speak,” said the fat man. “Mistress mine, do not regard it as human or horrible. Rome gives and Rome takes, and more or less, the punishment fits the crime. This one stands alone and calls your attention to what will follow. Between here and Capua, do you know how many?”

They knew, but they waited for him to say it. There was a precision about this fat, jovial man who introduced them to what was unspeakable. He was proof that it was not unspeakable but ordinary and natural. He would give them an exact figure. It might not be right, but it would be precise.

“Six thousand, four hundred and seventy-two,” he said.

A few of the litter-bearers stirred. They were not resting, they were rigid. If anyone had regarded them, they would have noticed that. But no one regarded them.

“Six thousand, four hundred and seventy-two,” the fat man repeated. Caius made the right remark. “That much timber,” Caius said. Helena knew it was a fraud, but the fat man nodded appreciatively. Now they were en rapport. The fat man extracted a cane from the folds of his gown and gestured at the crucifix.

“That one—merely a token. A token of a token, so as to speak.”

Claudia giggled nervously.

“Nevertheless of interest and of importance. Set apart with reason. Reason is Rome and Rome is reasonable.” He was fond of maxims.

“Is that Spartacus?” Claudia asked foolishly, but the fat man found patience for her. The way he licked his lips proved that his paternal attitude was not unmixed with emotion, and Caius thought,

“The lecherous old beast.”

“Hardly Spartacus, my dear.”

“His body was never found,” Caius said impatiently.

“Cut to pieces,” the fat man said pompously. “Cut to pieces, my dear child. Tender minds for such dreadful thoughts, but that’s the truth of it—”

Claudia shuddered, but deliciously, and Caius saw a light in her eyes he had never noticed before. “Beware of superficial judgments,” his father had once said to him, and while his father had weightier matters in mind than estimation of women, it held. Claudia had never looked at him as she looked at the fat man now; and he continued,

“—the simple truth of it. And now they say Spartacus never existed. Hah! Do I exist? Do you exist? Are there or are there not six thousand, four hundred and seventy-two corpses hanging from crucifixes between here and Capua along the Appian Way? Are there or are there not? There are indeed. And let-me ask you another question, my young folk—why so many? A token of punishment is a token of punishment. But why six thousand, four hundred and seventy-two?”

“The dogs deserved it,” Helena answered quietly.

“Did they?” The fat man raised a sophisticated brow. He was a man of the world, he made plain to them, and if they were higher in station, they were younger enough in years to be impressed. “Perhaps they did, but why butcher so much meat if one can’t eat it? I’ll tell you. Keeps the price up. Stabilizes things. And most of all, decides some very delicate questions of ownership. There you have the answer in a nutshell. Now this one here—” gesturing with his cane, “—have a good look at him. Fairtrax, the Gaul, most important, most important. A close man to Spartacus, yes, indeed, and I watched him die. Sitting right here, I watched him die. It took four days. Strong as an ox. My, oh my, you would never believe such strength. Never believe it at all. I have my chair here from Sextus, of the Third Ward. You know him? A gentleman—a very great gentleman, and well disposed toward me. You’d be surprised how many people came out to watch, and it was something well worth watching. Not that I could charge them a proper fee—but people give if you give them something in return. Fair measure for fair measure. I took the trouble to inform myself. You’d be surprised what profound ignorance there is here and there about, concerning the wars of Spartacus. Now see here, this young lady, she asks me, is that one Spartacus? A natural question, but wouldn’t it be exceedingly unnatural if it was so. You gentle ones live a sheltered life, very sheltered, otherwise the young lady would have known that Spartacus was cut up so that not hair nor hide of him was ever found. Quite different with this one—he was taken. Cut up a little, true—see here—”

With his cane, he traced a long scar on the side of the body above him.

“Number of scars—and most interesting. Side or front. None in the back. You don’t want to stress such details for the rabble, but I can tell you as a matter of fact—”

The litter-bearers were watching him now and listening, their eyes gleaming out of their long, matted hair.

“—that these were the best soldiers that ever walked on Italian soil. Bears thinking about, something like that. Come back to our friend up here. Took four days for him to die, and it would have taken a good deal longer if they hadn’t opened a vein and bled him a bit. Now you may not know that, but you got to do it when you put them on the cross. Either you bleed them or they swell up like a bloater. And if you bleed them properly, then they dry properly and they can hang up there for maybe a month with no more offense than a little bit of smell. Just like curing a piece of meat, and you want plenty of sunshine to help it along. Now this was a fierce one, all right, defiant, proud—but he lost it. First day, he hung up there and cursed out every decent citizen who came along to watch. Frightful, foul language; you wouldn’t want any ladies around to hear such language. Comes of no breeding, and a slave is a slave, but I bore him no ill will. Here I was and there he was, and now and then I’d say to him, Your misfortune is my fortune, and while yours may not be the most comfortable way to die, mine is by no means the most comfortable way to earn a living. And precious little I’ll earn, you keep up that kind of talk. Didn’t seem to move him much, one way or another, but toward evening of the second day, he closed up. Clammed up, tight as a trap. Do you know what was the last thing he said?”

“What?” whispered Claudia.

“I will return and I will be millions. Just that. Fanciful, isn’t it?

“What did he mean?” Caius wondered. In spite of himself, the fat man had woven a spell over him.

“Now what did he mean, young sir? I have no more idea than you have, and he never spoke again either. I poked him up a little the next day, but he never said a word, just looked at me out of those bloodshot eyes of his, looked at me like he could kill me, but he wasn’t for killing anything else. So you see, my dear,” addressing Claudia again, “he wasn’t Spartacus, but was one of his lieutenants and a hard man. Close to Spartacus, but not so hard. That was a hard one, was Spartacus, hard indeed. You would not like to meet him along this highroad and never will neither, for he’s dead and rotting. Now what else would you like to know?”

“I think we’ve heard enough,” Caius said, regretting the denarius now. “We must be on our way.”

The slave Spartacus survives brutal training as a gladiator and leads a violent revolt against the decadent Roman Republic, as the ambitious Crassus seeks to gain power by crushing the uprising.

Release Date: October 6, 1960

Release Time: 197 minutes

Director: Stanley Kubrick

Cast:

Kirk Douglas as Spartacus

Laurence Olivier as Crassus

Jean Simmons as Varinia

Charles Laughton as Gracchus

Peter Ustinov as Batiatus

John Gavin as Julius Caesar

Nina Foch as Helena Glabrus

John Ireland as Crixus

Herbert Lom as Tigranes Levantus

John Dall as Marcus Publius Glabrus

Charles McGraw as Marcellus

Joanna Barnes as Claudia Marius

Harold J. Stone as David

Woody Strode as Draba

Peter Brocco as Ramon

Paul Lambert as Gannicus

Robert J. Wilke as Guard Captain

Nicholas Dennis as Dionysius

John Hoyt as Caius

Frederic Worlock as Laelius

Tony Curtis as Antoninus

Awards:

33rd Academy Awards - April 17, 1961

Best Supporting Actor - Peter Ustinov - Won

Best Art Direction–Color - Alexander Golitzen, Eric Orbom, Russell A. Gausman and Julia Heron - Won

Best Cinematography–Color - Russell Metty - Won

Best Costume Design–Color - Arlington Valles and Bill Thomas - Won

Best Film Editing - Robert Lawrence - Nominated

Best Music Score of a Dramatic or Comedy Picture - Alex North - Nominated

14th BAFTAs - 1961

Best Film - Stanley Kubrick - Nominated

18th Golden Globes - March 16, 1961

Best Motion Picture–Drama - Won

Best Actor in a Motion Picture–Drama - Laurence Olivier - Nominated

Best Supporting Actor–Motion Picture - Woody Strode - Nominated

Best Supporting Actor–Motion Picture - Peter Ustinov - Nominated

Best Director–Motion Picture - Stanley Kubrick - Nominated

Best Original Score–Motion Picture - Alex North - Nominated

AFIs 100 Years . . . 

100 Thrills (2001) - #62

100 Heroes and Villains (2003) - Spartacus - #22 Hero

100 Cheers (2006) - #44

100 Movies (10th Anniversary Edition) (2007) - #81

AFI's 10 Top 10 (2008) - #5 Epic Film

Notes:

From Wikipedia:

Among the deleted footage was a bath scene in which the Roman patrician and general Crassus attempts to seduce his slave Antoninus, speaking about the analogy of "eating oysters" and "eating snails" to express his opinion that sexual preference is a matter of taste rather than morality. The four-minute scene had been removed following an objection by the National Legion of Decency. When the film was restored (two years after Olivier's death), the original dialogue recording of this scene was missing; it had to be redubbed. Tony Curtis, by then 66, was able to re-record his part, but Crassus' voice was an impersonation of Olivier by Anthony Hopkins.

Howard Fast

Howard Fast (1914–2003) was one of the most prolific American writers of the twentieth century. He was a bestselling author of more than eighty works of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and screenplays. The son of immigrants, Fast grew up in New York City and published his first novel upon finishing high school in 1933. In 1950, his refusal to provide the United States Congress with a list of possible Communist associates earned him a three-month prison sentence. During his incarceration, Fast wrote one of his best-known novels, Spartacus (1951). Throughout his long career, Fast matched his commitment to championing social justice in his writing with a deft, lively storytelling style.

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🎅🎄7th Day of Christmas Author Spotlight🎄🎅: Annabelle Jacobs

Annabelle Jacobs

Annabelle Jacobs lives in the South West of England with three rowdy children, and two cats. An avid reader of fantasy herself for many years, Annabelle now spends her days writing her own stories. They're usually either fantasy or paranormal fiction, because she loves building worlds filled with magical creatures, and creating stories full of action and adventure. Her characters may have a tough time of it—fighting enemies and adversity—but they always find love in the end. 

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Not Just for Christmas
Summary:
Ben has Christmas, cats, and mistletoe on his side…. Jason doesn’t stand a chance

For Ben Slater, moving back to Bristol means being closer to his family, living with his best mate, and volunteering at the local animal shelter. But there’s also Jason, his best mate’s eldest brother. Ben’s had a crush on Jason for as long as he can remember, but the eleven-year age gap has always seemed insurmountable.

Jason Armitage works as a vet at his uncle’s practice. He owns a cute cottage on the outskirts of the city, and a loving dog. The one thing missing is someone to share it all with. His brother’s best friend seems a bad choice, but Jason can’t help taking a second look. Ben’s changed a lot since Jason last saw him; both in appearance and attitude. Gone is the shy young boy, replaced with a confident, twenty-four-year-old man.

In the run up to Christmas, the festive period gives Ben the ideal opportunity to show Jason what he has to offer. But concerns for his brother’s feelings hold Jason back. If they have any chance of making this work, Ben must convince Jason that he’s old enough to know what he wants, and Jason needs to believe that a relationship with his brother’s best friend won’t ruin their friendship.

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Claiming Rys

Summary:

Dark Forest Pack #1

All that time apart and yet the pull between them is as strong as ever…

Rys

Ten years ago Gabriel Mason betrayed me in the worst way. He made me question my instincts because I’d trusted him with a bone-deep certainty, and for that I will never forgive him.

Seeing him again after all this time sparks memories I thought I’d buried so far down they’d never surface. He’s as beautiful as I remember, but I’m older and wiser now, and I refuse to make the same mistakes again.

Gabriel

Rys Calder, wolf shifter and the biggest regret of my life. I loved him, and yet I didn’t share with him the one thing that eventually became our undoing. I broke his trust and I’ve carried that guilt for years. I knew seeing him again would hurt, but no matter how many times I’d imagined it, being on the receiving end of his cold stares and indifference hurt more than I’d anticipated.

Thrown together again with a killer on the loose, will the past continue to haunt them, or can they move past it and claim the future that fate always had in store for them?

Claiming Rys is an MM paranormal romance with second chances, fated mates, pining, angry alphas, and feisty ex-hunters.

Escape

Summary:
Rebellion #1

This isn’t the life Cole dreamt of, but what choice does he have?

With his twenty-third birthday behind him, Cole Moreton now faces the shifter compatibility test which will decide his future. Testing positive means joining a pack and eventually taking the bite. Unfortunately, with enviable skills in self-defence and hand-to-hand combat, the kind of packs interested in him aren’t any he’d want to join.

Logan has been a member of the McKillan pack for most of his life. Pack is family and loyalty is everything, but when the shifter government turns out to be no better than the oppressive humans before them, he questions everything.

Right from their first meeting, Logan knows that a life with the McKillan pack isn’t right for Cole, but with his alpha taking a keen interest in Cole’s skills, Logan’s hands are tied. Mutual attraction builds between them, but acting on it is futile—helping Cole will put their lives at risk and an end to any future they could’ve had.

All Hallows' Eve
Summary:
Will a centuries-old broken heart ruin the promise of new love?

Dominic Ashworth is descended from a long line of witches, although the family practice of witchcraft died out generations ago. Forever connected to a dark history, the house he grew up in remained in the Ashworth family for generations until his estranged father sold it.

On a mission to check out the new owners, Dominic runs into Caleb Jones and gives the gorgeous man his phone number—but getting a date should be the last thing on Dominic’s agenda.

Caleb and his best friend, Zach Briceworth, are oblivious to the heartache and magic tied to the foundations of their new home. When strange things start to happen, the truth emerges and surprises them both, especially as everything revolves around Caleb’s new love interest.

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Magic & Mistletoe

Summary:
Christmas is Harry’s favourite time of the year, but it looks like he’ll be spending it alone. When it comes to the men he fancies, his luck is non-existent. Harry’s nerves always get the better of him—especially when he tries to talk to Andrew, the hot guy downstairs.

Everything changes when Harry meets a mysterious girl in the woods who professes to be a witch. He dismisses her claims, but when odd things start happening to him, he has to reconsider.

Andrew was attracted to Harry from the start, but their awkward encounters put him off. All goes well until Harry opens his mouth—and ruins it with his stupidity and silly comments. When Harry suddenly becomes more relaxed and they have a proper conversation, Andrew realises his first impression was wrong. As the days count down to December 25, they get swept up in the Christmas spirit and their relationship moves faster than either expected.

A little winter magic might have been the push they needed, but Harry worries that when it wears off, he’ll no longer be the man Andrew wants.

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Not Just for Christmas

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Claiming Rys

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Escape

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All Hallows Eve

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Magic & Mistletoe

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👻🎃Random Paranormal Tales of 2022 Part 2🎃👻

The Omega's Krampus Christmas by Lorelei M Hart

Summary:

Never take an elf’s cookie… even if it is for a good cause.

School teacher Alger loved his job, his town, and his volunteer work at the local children’s hospital. That is until he loses it all with one mistake: he gave away the wrong cookie. Now cursed to be a Krampus and scare children into behaving, he is miserable. Beyond miserable. At least there’s an out to his curse: Find unconditional love. If only it were as simple as that.

Widower single father Jordan is not a fan of Christmas, not since his alpha’s accident. Each year Jordan fakes it, slapping on his best Christmas Cheer persona in the hopes of making it special for his son. Each year it gets a little bit easier. Who knows… maybe one year the holidays will be merry and bright.

When an unexpected blizzard comes to town, Alger and Jordan end up trapped together and learn that there really is magic in Christmas snow.

The Omega’s Krampus Christmas is a super sweet with knotty heat MM Mpreg Holiday retelling of the fairy tale Beauty and the Beast featuring an alpha who accidentally pissed off the wrong elf, an omega who sees the heart within, more Christmas cookies than anyone should eat in a lifetime, a magical sleigh ride that leaves more than just Santa’s bag being filled, the cutest cat ever…as in ever, Christmas wish lists a mile long, a Christmas miracle or two, including an adorable baby on the way. If you enjoy true love, fated mates, a little bit of whimsy, and your mpreg with heart, download The Omega’s Krampus Christmas today.

Original January Book of the Month 2022:

I gotta start by just saying: WOW!!! 

Christmas romance with a twist✔️

Fairytale with a twist✔️

It's that "with a twist" that gives The Omega's Krampus Christmas an extra special level of holiday yummyness.  I've always been intrigued by holiday stories that go outside the box by having Krampus involved and Lorelei M Hart really brought the intrigue to the table here.  I should add that not only did I find this story to be my favorite of this holiday season's reading but it is also my first mpreg, first omegaverse, and my first Lorelei M Hart read.  That's a lot of firsts to venture into especially with a holiday story.

Alger, aka Krampus, and single dad Jordan have an instant connection but after decades of a lonely existence, Alger has built a wall around his heart.  Will he let Jordan and his daughter Thea in?  As you can probably guess my answer: you'll have to read this one for yourself to discover if Alger opens up.  I will say that I couldn't help but love every character in the story, each one played a part, nobody was extra, nobody was page filler they all added to the story and to Alger and Jordan's journey.

There is really not much more I can add without being tempted to divulge too much of the story.  I will say that if you aren't fond of mpreg, I still highly recommend this Christmas tale because The Omega's Krampus Christmas is so much more than mpreg.  This is a story about seeing beyond the surface, letting someone in, and opening one's heart which is something we all need to do more of and not just during the holiday season.  Definitely a delightful, heartwarming holiday gem.

RATING:

The Librarian's Ghost by Sean Michael

Summary:

Supernatural Explorers #2

Can love survive the perils of MacGregor house?

The Supernatural Explorers are back and looking for their next big paranormal case. They might’ve found it in a plea from Payne, a mild-mannered librarian who has inherited the family mansion—MacGregor house. Since moving in a few months ago, Payne’s exhausted the list of ghost hunters and experts in his quest for help. The Supers are his last chance.

So why does normally good-natured cameraman Will take an instant dislike to Payne? For that matter, why has he felt irritable and angry since they arrived at the site? It soon becomes clear that the answers they seek will be found in the basement—where nobody has gone since Payne was a little boy. As the haunting grows deadlier, things get sweeter between Will and Payne, but all hell’s about to break loose when they breach the basement door.

Will they be ready?

Originally released by a different publisher.

Azaran by Jacki James

Summary:

The Brotherhood of Ormarr #1

Azaran~

I was born a dragon rider. A member of the Brotherhood of Ormarr, son of Cadmar, and the eldest of four sons. I was raised to defend the innocent and protect the secret of the dragons, but when I was eighteen, my parents were brutally murdered and the training and care of my brothers fell to me. My entire adult life has been spent helping my brothers grow into the strong, brave dragon riders they were born to be. Now that the youngest of my brothers is close to adulthood, the last thing I need is someone else to worry about—someone else to be responsible for. If only the handsome doctor fate had chosen for my mate wasn’t so perfect for me.

Toby~

AlI I ever wanted was to help people, that’s why I became a doctor, but I quickly learned that modern medicine was more about the all-mighty dollar and less about saving lives. It wasn’t long before I was doubting my life choices. A vacation to the ocean was supposed to leave me refreshed and ready to get back to work, but instead, I found myself pulled into a world I never knew existed. A world where dragons are real, men fight like medieval warriors, and my soulmate has his very own bat cave. Azaran thinks the last thing he needs is a mate to worry about. Good thing I don’t need anyone to take care of me. My sexy dragon rider, on the other hand, needs someone to take care of him, and I think I’m just the man to do it.

Azaran is the first book in The Brotherhood of Ormarr series. While each book focuses on a different couple, the overall story arc continues in the next installment. For maximum enjoyment, we suggest reading in order. Azaran is a m/m romance, and is recommended for adults 18 years and older.

Escape by Annabelle Jacobs

Summary:
Rebellion #1

This isn’t the life Cole dreamt of, but what choice does he have?

With his twenty-third birthday behind him, Cole Moreton now faces the shifter compatibility test which will decide his future. Testing positive means joining a pack and eventually taking the bite. Unfortunately, with enviable skills in self-defence and hand-to-hand combat, the kind of packs interested in him aren’t any he’d want to join.

Logan has been a member of the McKillan pack for most of his life. Pack is family and loyalty is everything, but when the shifter government turns out to be no better than the oppressive humans before them, he questions everything.

Right from their first meeting, Logan knows that a life with the McKillan pack isn’t right for Cole, but with his alpha taking a keen interest in Cole’s skills, Logan’s hands are tied. Mutual attraction builds between them, but acting on it is futile—helping Cole will put their lives at risk and an end to any future they could’ve had.

Bite Nite by Clare London

Summary:

Creatures of the Night and Santa’s Christmas duties don’t mix. Every myth and bedtime story tells you so. But on Christmas Eve, when the Elves walked off the job over pension rights, it was time for me—Irwin, the only vampire on Santa’s payroll, despite recent diversity initiatives—and my trusty team to help out.

Just deliver a few parcels, Santa asked me. Just help out on your local patch. Just for one night. Armed with my reluctance to face all that human sentimentality, and accompanied by a wise-cracking werewolf and an unruly fairy with a taste for vodka, I did my best. Honest.

But we were heading for disaster until I came face-to-face with cute babysitter Benny. It’s Santa’s Number One Rule—no fraternising with the clients. But Benny somehow managed to upset my appetite, inflame my libido, and restore my faith in the Christmas spirit, with one cheeky smile and a tasty body piercing. It’s Christmas, and the show must go on!

Random Paranormal Tales of 2022

Part 1  /  Part 3  /  Part 4  /  Part 5

Part 6  /  Part 7  /  Part 8  /  Part 9

Part 10  /  Part 11  /  Part 12

The Omega's Krampus Christmas by Lorelai M Hart

Prologue 

Alger 

Once Upon a Time 

Teaching school paid next to nothing, but I had cheap lodgings and some of the families made me meals from time to time, which helped keep body and soul together. Some did not consider teaching a man’s job, one that could support a family, but at least for the time being, my pleasure in helping to form young minds superseded any other factors. 

Especially at the holiday season. On the last day of school before the Christmas vacation break, we suspended regular classes to bring all the classes together in the decorated auditorium for a holiday recital and festivities before sending the children to their frolics until the New Year. 

This year, our class would be singing a selection of Christmas carols and I, dressed in the red suit of Saint Nick popularized by Clement Moore’s ’Twas the Night Before Christmas or A Visit from Saint Nicholas would appropriately read that story to close the event. As I prepared for my reading, a little sadness tugged at my heart. It was easy to pretend I had enough time with these children during class terms, but on holidays, when they were with their real families, the loneliness seeped in. Maybe I should have aspired to another career. 

Sitting in the armchair placed at the front of the stage, with my students seated on the floor around me, my heart warmed. Sometimes the poverty many of them lived in daunted their spirits, but now smiles of pride at their performance lifted the corners of their lips. They’d indeed done well, and Santa Claus might have taken notice from his North Pole residence. I cleared my throat, bemused at my suspension of logic. Christmastime always made me sentimental, reminded me of my parents and brother, grandparents, all those who’d already departed this realm. They would celebrate the birth of the Christ Child with the angels in heaven, while I sat in my rented room eating whatever someone thought to bring me from their holiday table. 

Even my landlady, who often included me in her holidays, would be away. I’d put her on the train myself, this morning, laden with presents and baked goods she’d prepared. I didn’t resent her good fortune this year. Her married daughter had remembered she had a mother for the first time since my arrival and invited her for the festive season. Mrs. Dougherty’s excitement had been contagious, buoying my spirits as I waved until the train disappeared down the tracks. 

Such a good soul, she deserved happiness. A tug on my trousers reminded me of where I was, and I began the poem. I recited more than read the beloved verses, putting as much heart into them as possible. My gift to the children whose faces I gazed into every school day, who learned their letters and numbers at my tutelage. 

I taught the youngest of them, tasked with giving them a love of learning as much as any specific knowledge. If they had that love, they would do well going forward. 

Finishing the reading, I closed the large book on my lap and chuckled as I thought Saint Nicholas might have before going up the chimney after laying out the gifts for the children of the house in the story. 

Silence for a moment had me worried I’d not done justice to the tale, but then appreciative applause reassured me. The book was one my mother read the same story to me from, precious in its faded covers and holding just as much magic now as then. After I finished, the headmaster stood from his seat at the back of the stage and made a short speech. The same speech, word for word, as last year and the year before. But it suited the occasion and sent everyone off with a smile and a wave. 

A few other teachers and I supervised some of the older boys putting the auditorium to rights before closing the school for two weeks. When we were done, and all the handmade decorations removed, it looked so dull. But clean and ready for the events of a new term. 

As we were leaving, I spotted a bit of litter near the stage, so I bid the others goodbye, said I would lock the doors as I went, and crossed the room to pick it up. Alone, I looked around again. Just an hour or so ago, it had been filled with singing and laughter and bright colors both in the decorations and the students’ and their families’ holiday best attire. 

Now, there was just me, in my brown jacket and trousers, not one sprig of greenery or red ribbon in sight. And since we’d turned down the furnace, the warm air in the room was being replaced by a distinct chill. 

Time to go home. 

I was about to leave the building when I saw a small boy sitting on a chair by the door, kicking his feet and staring at the floor. Little Timothy from my class. All by himself. I approached him and took the seat beside his. 

“Timothy, did your fathers leave without you?” All the families were invited to the holiday recital, filling the auditorium with their appreciation for their children’s performances. 

“No, Mr. Bobell.” His legs slowed their kicking but did not stop. Nor did he look up from his focus on the black-and-white tiles. 

Oh. “They were unable to attend today, then.” He looked so sad. 

“They never come. Like they didn’t come on Meet the Teacher night. Or our spelling bee or...or anything. Sir.” 

I didn’t always get to speak to every parent when they came. Some were shy or just never made it to the front of the room for one reason or another. But from the children’s reports, nearly all their parents or guardians attended when we invited them. Making the invitations was always a fun and popular activity for our art class the week before, and I had some very talented artists in my room this year. Timothy was one of the best. “Sometimes parents are very busy with their responsibilities and cannot take time to enjoy themselves. It’s a shame. But we must try to understand.”

He did lift his eyes to mine at that point, and they held all the pain and disappointment no child should have to experience. 

“I have to lock up now, Timothy. Can you see yourself home?” Some did, and some others had a parent or older sibling to walk them. 

“Yes, sir. I always go home alone.” 

Alone. I had a feeling he often arrived into an empty house. His worn shoes and everyday clothes had stood in stark contrast to most of the other children’s holiday outfits, but poor didn’t mean abused or neglected, and not all had new clothes. But his sad loneliness said it all. How had I not realized just how bad things were? Maybe because we were not allowed to interfere with students’ outside of school, and parents had absolute authority there. Knowing they had it rough made it even harder to do my job and treat all the children equally. 

Still. 

Timothy stood and started for the door, but on a whim, I stopped him with a question. “Timothy, what is your wish this Christmas?” If it was within my power to grant it for him, I would, even if it meant I skipped a meal or two. 

“A cookie,” he replied. “Like my grandma used to make before she died.” 

My heart squeezed so hard, I gasped for a moment before recovering my breath. My mind worked furiously. Where had I seen cookies? A big cookie on a plate! “Timothy, do not leave. I will be right back.” 

I dashed down the hall to Mr. Samberg’s class where, on his desk, sat a plate with a large, perfect, dark-brown molasses cookie. A single delight that might bring a smile to a young man’s face. Mr. Samberg was gone already, and by the time we returned from our holiday, it would be gone anyway, food for a stray mouse. 

Timothy was still there when I returned, and I gave him the cookie, thrilled to see the sadness retreat from his expression while he studied the marvel in his hands. “This is all for me? This whole cookie?” 

“Merry Christmas, Timothy.” I held the door open, turned off the lights, and followed him outside. “Be a good boy, and I’ll see you after New Year’s.” I locked the door and by the time I turned to leave, the little boy was nowhere in sight. I wished I had so much more to give to this child and to the others who might have less-than happy Christmases for different reasons this year. 

Like me, many had lost relatives in the Spanish Flu epidemic a few years before, others had folks who were out of work or had debt that made it impossible to buy things for a festive meal or gifts. 

Saddened by the thoughts that not all the children I taught would have what all children should have for Christmas, I trudged away from the school building. 

“Hey, you. I have a bone to pick with you, Mr. Teacher.” 

That couldn’t be...but it was. An elf.

The Librarian's Ghost by Sean Michael

Chapter One
FOR ALL the Wexford House was two stories with a warren of a basement, there wasn’t a lot of square footage. The Supernatural Explorers had examined the place thoroughly over the last three weekends, and Will Gregson felt like he knew each of the rooms inside and out. There was nothing new to find here.

It was definitely a creepy place. Old and abandoned with most of its original furniture after the owner’s family—four daughters, three sons, two of their wives, four grandchildren, and his wife—were all wiped out by influenza. That the old man hadn’t also died was a miracle. Or a curse, depending on which story you read. Rumor had it that his mistress had been a witch, and when he abandoned her, she protected him from the sickness that ravaged his family so that he would live the rest of his days alone and mourning. It was a nasty story, but one that persisted through the years.

The house was said to be haunted by Wexford’s family, which was why they were here. Sure, they were hoping to concentrate on “gay ghosts,” but there were only so many haunted places, so they were doing what they could when they could. Surely those types of cases would come, and when they’d made a proper reputation for themselves, they’d be called in from far and wide to check out gay hauntings. In the meantime, ghosts were ghosts, and they were happy to investigate, especially if the place was in the vicinity.

So far, the only thing they’d found at the Wexford House was disintegrating furniture and the bodies of various animals that had made their way into the place. Most of them had been dead for long enough that they didn’t smell anymore. Hell, plenty weren’t even identifiable. Though the one raccoon in the master bedroom had been fresh. Pretty damn gross. And while Will might have been morbidly fascinated with something like that as a boy, it wasn’t something he enjoyed now that he was a grown man.

The dust was playing havoc with his sinuses too. They’d disturbed a lot of it during their explorations. That they weren’t the first ones to do so had been apparent as well, and there were plenty of places where the dust was less thick in variously shaped spots—little circles and squares on the mantel and tables, spots where one might have expected to find various knickknacks. No doubt the place had been ransacked. Which sucked because when thieves stole pieces of history and the Supers—as they called themselves for short—couldn’t find any ghosts, they could have maybe found some interesting museum pieces. It appeared the Wexford place had neither ghosts nor artifacts, so they were doing one last run-through to make sure they hadn’t missed anything.

A low creaking noise sounded from upstairs, followed by tapping on glass. Will shivered. He knew it was the wind in the trees and the branches hitting the house—it was especially creepy when they tapped at the windows—but that didn’t make it much better.

“Let’s take one last sweep upstairs where that sound is coming from,” Jason suggested.

“Yeah, the master bedroom was the only place where I got any sort of hit.” Blaine led the way, moving slowly to try to mitigate how noisy the stairs were.

Personally, Will didn’t think there were any ghosts to scare off with creaking stairs, but it didn’t hurt to be as stealthy as possible. He avoided the big squeak on step three but managed to forget about the sixth stair until he was on it and it moaned beneath his weight. All four of his companions whipped around to stare at him, and he gave them an apologetic smile. He hadn’t done it on purpose. Blaine was clearly biting the inside of his cheek while Flynn and Jason chuckled nearly soundlessly. He grinned back and put his finger in front of his lips. “Shh.”

That set them all off, and they abandoned not making any noise in favor of their laughter and getting up the stairs quicker.

“Okay.” Blaine turned to face him once they’d made the upstairs landing, and Will focused the camera on his friend’s face. “We’re in the Wexler House for the last time. We’re hoping to communicate with what we think might be an entity in the master bedroom. Wexler’s wife and most of the children supposedly died in the very bed that continues to dominate the room. We have our EMF readers at the ready, along with the infrared filter on the second camera. If there’s anything to find, we’re going to do exactly that. Find it. Document it. Deal with it if possible.” Blaine turned back to peer into the master suite. “Will, why don’t you and Darnell go in and do a scan of the room? Then Jason, Flynn, and I will follow.”

Will nodded, keeping his voice off the audio, which would make it easier in postproduction. (Look at them, having postproduction now!) Despite the last few houses having been disappointing from a ghost perspective, the Supers were doing well. He focused on what the camera was seeing and stepped into the doorway. He did a long pan and scan from the door all the way around and back to it. He didn’t see anything that looked like anything but shadows on the floor and back wall, but he was filming straightforward shots. Jason or Darnell could be picking something up on the more sensitive equipment.

Blaine and Flynn came in last and spread out across the room, Flynn going toward the window where the tapping was coming from while Blaine headed for the bed where the deaths had purportedly occurred. Blaine had his head tilted in what Will thought of as his listening stance. He waited, following Blaine with camera, holding his breath as if the sound of his breathing would disturb Blaine at work.

They all waited, hushed and still, as Blaine slowly moved around the bed. Even the tapping at the window had ceased, an eerie silence settling around them. The tension built, and Blaine froze, leaning in to look at something, though Will wasn’t sure what. He certainly wasn’t seeing anything.

All of a sudden came a terrible groaning, making them all jump.

Flynn laughed, the sound a touch strained. “That’s the wind in that big willow.” The branches began tapping at the window again, stronger than ever the breeze picked up outside.

Blaine sighed and nodded. “Yeah, it’s nothing but the wind as far as I can tell.”

“The instruments are pretty damn quiet too,” Jason noted. “Do we need to go back to the basement one last time, or should we call it a night?”

“The ground is really uneven down there.” Will had almost twisted his ankle on the dirt floor, and Blaine had actually fallen when he’d tripped over an unexpected rise between rooms.

“I don’t feel anything at all, not even that small hint of something I felt the first time.” Blaine shrugged. “Not proof of a lack of ghosts, of course, but this is our seventh day out here, and we’ve had nothing on any of the equipment either.”

The sound of a stomach growling punctuated Blaine’s words, and they all laughed.

“When the scariest thing in the room is Flynn’s stomach, the best thing we can do is pack up and go get pizza.” Jason made his pronouncement and headed back downstairs, the rest of them trooping along after him.

Will kept filming until they’d not only left the house but were back at the van. Once there, he did one last panoramic shot of the property before turning off the camera and packing it up.


PAYNE MACGREGOR watched his pot of soup, waiting for it to begin simmering. He didn’t want it to boil over. Hell, he didn’t want to turn his back on it in case the thing went flying across the room and sprayed everything with hot soup either. It was tomato too, which would be hell to clean up.

Truthfully, he was at his wit’s end. At first he’d thought he was being absentminded, forgetful. Then he’d begun to wonder if he was losing his mind. None of the workers seemed to notice anything wrong. But he put that down to their being transient. They weren’t there day after day like he was and were hardly likely to notice books and dishes being moved. Things flying across the room seemed to be reserved for him too. And that was harder to put down to his imagination. It wasn’t like things were simply falling off shelves or tables; they were getting some distance.

Then he’d overheard arguments between some workers over items taken out of toolboxes and hidden. No one claimed ownership of these “practical jokes,” making him think they weren’t practical jokes at all but the work of the same… well, ghost—he was embarrassed to admit the assumption even to himself—plaguing him.

He took the soup off the stove the moment steam began rising from it and poured it into a bowl as his toast popped. Unfortunately, all but a corner of it was almost black. He was not one for toast that well done, so he put it in the garbage and took his bowl to the library to eat by the fireplace with his favorite books.

He had to wonder if he was simply being paranoid for believing that the burned toast was the responsibility of his ghost. On the other hand, the toast he’d had yesterday had turned out perfectly, and he was the only who could have changed the setting. Which he hadn’t done.

One of the books went flying across the room, and he pretended he didn’t see it, concentrating on his soup instead. He would do some work once he’d eaten, put in enough hours that when he did close his eyes, he’d fall asleep right away and wouldn’t dream. At least he could hope that was how the evening played out, but it didn’t mean that was what would happen. He pushed aside the niggling thought that he might have to do something about the strange things going on in the house at some point. Certainly if it got worse than the current annoyances. If not, well, he would deal with it.

As soon as he’d finished his soup, he set the bowl on his side table, right in the middle of it so it couldn’t accidently fall to the floor. Then he grabbed his laptop and booted it up. In no time he was hunched over it, safely lost in his research.

Azaran by Jacki James

Malachite flew up next to me and we prepared to fight. Zale swooped down and Itsaso took Dr. Gibbs and his tube in his claws, and they cut to the left and headed for shore.

“What the hell are they doing here?” Malachite asked.

“I have no idea, but I’m getting pretty freaking tired of them knowing where we are all the blasted time.”

“This is the third time this month,” he said. “There’s no way that’s a coincidence.”

“Nope, not a chance. I think Zale’s far enough away. You ready?”

“Yep, let’s go.” We took off up into the sky and farther out to sea, away from where Zale had taken the doctor. I looked back to make sure they all followed us, and they did. So the doctor didn't seem to be the target. That meant either one of us was or The Order of Amsel were fucking with us. We led them on a merry chase through the clouds. I noticed a small island ahead, and the timing was perfect because I’d had enough.

“Time to get answers,” I told Malachite and sent a message to Sindri to land on the beach.

We climbed off our dragons and watched as the four wraiths soared above as if they couldn’t decide if they wanted to land or not.

“If they’re smart, they'll keep going,” Malachite said.

“Yeah, but nobody ever accused The Order of being smart,” I said as I watched them descend. Wraiths were nasty looking creatures. They were dragons, but they weren’t. Their magick had been corrupted and turned dark. I had always thought they most closely resembled demons, all black and surrounded by smoke. The men landed on the beach and hopped off their wraiths, assuming a fighting stance. I shook my head and sighed. Malachite and I shared a look and prepared to fight.

“I’ll take the two on the left,” Malachite said. “And then if you need help, I’ll take one of yours.”

I laughed because he probably would. Where most people messed up when challenging Malachite was they assumed his size was his biggest advantage. They would be wrong. He was fast, and he was precise.

“Guys. I’m not really in the mood to do this today. How about if you just tell me what I want to know, and we skip the part where we kick your sorry asses?” I said.

“Kick our asses?” one of the men asked in disbelief. “There are four of us and only two of you.”

“Yeah.” I shook my head and sighed. “You should’ve brought more guys.”

Escape by Annabelle Jacobs

PROLOGUE 

“Fuck, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Michael McKillan stood in the doorway to his brother’s room, staring at the open window and a pile of discarded clothes on the floor, the silver band of his tracker amongst them. 

The police officer next to him sighed and waved his hand around the room. “I’m sorry, Michael. We’re gonna have to go after him.” 

A low growl threatened to build in his chest, but he swallowed it down, refusing to give them a reason to detain him too. Perceived threats to a human were punishable by shifter prison. Even though this particular human was one of his best friends, the others with him weren’t. 

“I know.” Fucking idiot. Sam knew damn well he needed permission to go on a run, needed to inform the proper authorities so security was in place to protect the fucking public. Michael scoffed. “He’s sixteen and stupid, that’s all. He wouldn’t hurt a soul.” 

“I know that.” 

“Do they?” Michael gestured to the other officers milling about his mother’s house. A few of them looking far too eager to hunt down his little brother. 

“I’ll make sure they do.”

THEY FOUND SAM in the park less than two miles away, running in and out the trees with two of his friends. “It was a hot night,” they’d said. “We just wanted to run.” 

Michael understood far too well. Being denied their most basic instinct made him feel caged, shackled. But the law was the law, even if it was ridiculously unfair and inhumane. 

Despite protests from some of the other officers, those who caught Sam used excessive force to take him down. 

Because shifters healed. 

They shot him multiple times, bound him in chains of silver and iron that burnt his skin and sapped his strength, knowing full well that in the morning, all evidence of their ill-treatment would be gone. 

Shifters were dangerous monsters according to the nightly news. It was only fair that they were tagged like animals and that the police were afforded the right to use excessive force when apprehending them. 

Michael and his friends, along with shifters across the country, put up with it because there was no other choice. But watching the broken body of his little brother dumped into the back of a police car sparked a rage in him he struggled to quell. 

Didn’t want to. 

Walking over to his best friend, he pulled him to one side and leant to whisper in his ear. “This needs to stop.” 

“It does.” 

“And we’re gonna stop it.”

Ten years later the Shifter Alliance Party were in power. The oppressed became the oppressors, embodying the very thing they fought to overthrow.

Bite Nite by Clare London

I WASN’T meant to be caught.

I mean, it’s Santa’s #1 Rule for Gift-Delivery Operatives. No visibility with the clients. Ever. Get in the house, deliver the gifts, eat the cookies—or carrots, whatever’s there, get over yourself and any of your food fads—and get out as fast as possible.

This was a detached, double-fronted house in an affluent, peaceful street. Large garden, large drive, and equivalently large car parked in front. Stylish and smart and reeking of new money. We’d visited plenty of these places tonight on Stacy Street, and the blatant privilege thing was starting to irritate my skin, like I imagined microdermal piercings would do if my unique physical status didn’t rule them out. Pity: I’d always liked the look of body jewelry.

I slid through the wall into the house in my usual fashion, shaking off that prickly nausea I got from dry wall insulation, and arrived with my sack of goodies in just the right place beside the Christmas tree. It was obvious there was a small kid in the house because the tree was, one, better anchored than most people’s, two, artificial so no pine needles would fall on the furniture and get eaten by mistake, and three, with decorations placed high enough to be out of the reach of small hands. The thought of a kid’s innocent delight at the season should have warmed me from the inside out, right? Instead, I thought I might vomit from an excess of sentimentality.

“Irwin?” came a harsh whisper from behind me, at the window. “You eating all the cookies, you greedy bastard?”

I winced. That was another of the rules: no cursing or abusive behavior while on the client’s premises. Guess at least one of my team needed refresher training. Or would Wulf start arguing semantics, that he wasn’t actually on the premises until I let him in? I bit back a snappy reply and unlatched the patio window.

With a rush of hot breath and prickly fur, Wulf burst into the room and skidded to a halt beside me. On all fours, of course, with his sack clutched in his teeth. He’d leaped the fence and approached through the back garden. I could only hope he’d kept his claws sheathed: they wreaked havoc with clients’ lawns.

“I don’t eat cookies,” I said to him. “As you very well know. The food is for you, and the milk or juice for Zilith.”

“Any sherry?” The mention of her name—and the promise of booze—had brought in the third person on my team. There was a swish of air as her butterfly-sized wings fluttered past, followed by a trail of glittery pink light from her miniscule toes. It never ceased to amaze me how she could also carry a sack a hundred times her personal size.

“Drinking on the job must be moderated,” I quoted from Santa’s handbook. Did I love being Mr. Human Resources, or what? Or maybe that should have been Mr. Inhuman Resources…. “You’ve had three sherries and a whiskey already from this street. Luckily, there’s only milk left out here.”

Zilith’s disappointed sniff expressed her opinion of the word “lucky”. 

“Artificial tree. Huh. It’s a modern disease.” Wulf had finished the plate of cookies already—an expensive, organic brand, I noticed—and was prowling around the tree. 

“Don’t you dare!” I snapped at him. 

“What?” His body was long, lean and lupine, but the eyes were all mischievous bad boy. 

“Piss up that tree,” I hissed. “I’ve seen you do it before, remember?”

“That other household wouldn’t have noticed.” Wulf yawned, his bright, white canines reflecting the twinkling tree lights. “Didn’t look like they’d cleared anything away from the previous Christmas. And did you see what their own dog left on top of the TV remote control? A delightful nugget of steaming—” 

“Enough!” This was only the beginning of a long, long night, and I was already losing patience with the pair of them. 

And then the guy walked into the room. We all stopped dead, him included. He looked to be in his early twenties, blond and blue-eyed. Mussed hair, barefoot, and dressed in loose jeans and a thin T-shirt that showed off some modest muscle definition and a couple of really tight, luscious nipples. One had the shape of a tiny metal bar threaded through it. 

My mouth went dry. 

“Bollocks,” Wulf growled, his hackles rising. 

“Hush. Maybe he won’t see us.” Zilith’s best baby-girl voice tinkled in my ear. 

The guy looked from her to me, to Wulf. And then back to me, probably because I was the one nearest his own height. The bowl of popcorn in his hands dropped to the floor with a crash. 

“Pass on that, princess,” Wulf growled to Zilith. 

The guy swallowed really, really hard and took a step backward. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his jeans. 

“He has a gun!” Zilith squeaked. 

“Please don’t call the police,” I said quickly. 

“Or post a photo on Facebook,” Wulf muttered at my side.

The guy’s mouth opened—a very cute, full mouth it was, too—and then closed again. Words obviously failed him. But he slowly removed his hand from his pocket and, presumably, his phone. 

“Consider this just a bad dream,” I said. I was searching my mind for the instructions on Stacy Street. Had I missed the number of children at number 36? This guy was surely too young to be the dad of a toddler and an eight-year-old, but too old to be… another child? I tried the mind-meld thing. I did a couple of courses in Enhanced Hypnotism last summer while I was… you know… indisposed indoors. “You’ve had a few drinks too many. Things have been very stressful at work.”

Lorelei M Hart

Lorelei M. Hart is the cowriting team of USA Today Bestselling Authors Kate Richards and Ever Coming. Friends for years, the duo decided to come together and write one of their favorite guilty pleasures: Mpreg. There is something that just does it for them about smexy men who love each other enough to start a family together in a world where they can do it the old-fashioned way ;).

Sean Michael

Best-selling author Sean Michael is a maple leaf–loving Canadian who spends hours hiding out in used book stores. With far more ideas than time, Sean keeps several documents open at all times. From romance to fantasy, paranormal and sci-fi, Sean is limited only by the need for sleep—and the periodic Beaver Tail.

 Sean fantasizes about one day retiring on a secluded island populated entirely by horseshoe crabs after inventing a brain-to-computer dictation system. Until then, Sean will continue to write the old-fashioned way.

Sean’s available for interviews, by the way. He can always be talked into, well, talking about himself. Just drop him an email.

Jacki James

Jacki James has been saying she was going to write a book since she was sixteen and wrote fanfiction (before fanfiction had a name) about her favorite Rockstar. She is a believer in love of all kinds but MM romance is her favorite by far. She has a romantic heart and a dirty mind and likes to write stories that let both shine.

When she isn’t writing she is either creating beautiful pieces of glass art or reading. She is an animal lover and dreams of having a small hobby farm where she can raise goats, chickens, and organic veggies. In the meantime, she lives in town with her two cats, awesome husband, and two college-aged kids.

Annabelle Jacobs

Annabelle Jacobs lives in the South West of England with three rowdy children, and two cats. An avid reader of fantasy herself for many years, Annabelle now spends her days writing her own stories. They're usually either fantasy or paranormal fiction, because she loves building worlds filled with magical creatures, and creating stories full of action and adventure. Her characters may have a tough time of it—fighting enemies and adversity—but they always find love in the end. 

Clare London

Clare London took her pen name from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with her other day job as an accountant.

She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with award-winning novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic, and sexy characters.

Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter-three stage and plenty of other projects in mind… she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home.

Clare loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her on all her social media.

Lorelei M Hart

FACEBOOK  /  WEBSITE  /  BOOKBUB

NEWSLETTER  /  INSTAGRAM

FB FRIEND  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS

EMAIL: Lorelei@mpregwithhart.com 

Sean Michael

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WEBSITE  /  BLOG  /  NEWSLETTER

GOOGLE PLAY  /  KOBO  /  FB GROUP

CARINA  /  AUDIBLE  /  B&N  /  BOOKBUB

INSTAGRAM  /  CHANGELING PRESS

iTUNES  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS

EMAIL: seanmichaelwrites@gmail.com 

Jacki James

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INSTAGRAM  /  PINTEREST

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EMAIL: jackijames@jackijames.com 

Annabelle Jacobs

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WEBSITE  /  NEWSLETTER  /  iTUNES

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PINTEREST  /  TIKTOK  /  GOOGLE PLAY

BOOKBUB  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS

EMAIL: ajacobsfiction@gmail.com 

Clare London

FACEBOOK  /  TWITTER  /  FB FRIEND

WEBSITE  /  NEWSLETTER  /  FB GROUP

KOBO  /  GOOGLE PLAY  /  SMASHWORDS

DREAMSPINNER  /  JMS BOOKS

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iTUNES  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS

EMAIL: clarelondon11@yahoo.co.uk

The Omega's Krampus Christmas by Lorelei M Hart

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The Librarian's Ghost by Sean Michael

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Azaran by Jacki James

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK

WEBSITE  /  GOODREADS TBR

Escape by Annabelle Jacobs

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WEBSITE  /  GOODREADS TBR

Bite Nite by Clare London

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B&N  /  SMASHWORDS  /  WEBSITE

KOBO  /  iTUNES  /  GOODREADS TBR