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Here are a couple of sneak peeks!
The Destroyer by Michael-Scott Earle
The rotten-toothed leader was a little shorter than me, but he pushed his face up, nose-to-nose, so there was no escaping his vile breath. Then he expectorated the same command he had been repeating before. Despite the stench, I smiled to myself when I realized he was probably yelling, “Get on the ground.” I was starting to learn this language. The smile didn't impress the commander. He screamed the command again and wound his right hand back like a whip to deliver a backhanded blow with his leather-clad fist.
That was his last mistake.
My right hand came up and checked the back of his elbow so he couldn't move his arm to strike me. My left hand reached across his body and pulled the dagger from its sheath on his waist. As I drew the weapon, I turned its point inward, cutting past the leather of his armor, the silk cloth underneath, and into his soft belly. The blade was sharp, and it sliced the inside of his stomach open in a long red streak.
The dagger spun sideways as it left my hand in a throw, spinning drops of crimson blood lazily on its fifty-yard journey, before embedding itself into the soldier's neck on the far left. The man choked out a panicked gurgle from the impact of the dagger, and reached up with his left hand toward the hilt coming out of his jugular. I guessed that it would take him a minute to die, but in the meantime he might not be able to aim his crossbow at Paug and his friends.
My left hand returned to the waist of the commander. I took a fistful of belt, armor, and cloth, while the blood from his stomach wound began to gush over my clenched fingers. I lifted with both of my arms and pulled the commander's body off the ground. He somehow seemed lighter than a feather, but would serve my purpose.
I charged the other men with their leader’s body shielding me.
One arbalist to the right took a shot when his commander began to scream in wet horror. The bolt went wide over my head. As I took three more steps, a second weapon twanged, sinking a quarrel into the back of the commander and choking off his cry.
Four more steps and I had made it to the left of the semicircle. A few more bolts whispered past my head as the soldiers tried to kill me without injuring their commander. They should not have bothered trying to spare him. He would die when I finished with them.
The left most soldier tried to draw his sword. His palm had hardly brushed the hilt when I pushed my pointer and middle fingers together and drove them through his eyeball and into his brain. He had a dagger, but to draw and throw the weapon I would have to spin around the body of their commander, temporarily exposing myself to potential crossbow quarrels. These men seemed inept, so I decided to gamble and drew the long dagger out of the dying man's belt before tossing it.
The rotten-toothed leader was a little shorter than me, but he pushed his face up, nose-to-nose, so there was no escaping his vile breath. Then he expectorated the same command he had been repeating before. Despite the stench, I smiled to myself when I realized he was probably yelling, “Get on the ground.” I was starting to learn this language. The smile didn't impress the commander. He screamed the command again and wound his right hand back like a whip to deliver a backhanded blow with his leather-clad fist.
That was his last mistake.
My right hand came up and checked the back of his elbow so he couldn't move his arm to strike me. My left hand reached across his body and pulled the dagger from its sheath on his waist. As I drew the weapon, I turned its point inward, cutting past the leather of his armor, the silk cloth underneath, and into his soft belly. The blade was sharp, and it sliced the inside of his stomach open in a long red streak.
The dagger spun sideways as it left my hand in a throw, spinning drops of crimson blood lazily on its fifty-yard journey, before embedding itself into the soldier's neck on the far left. The man choked out a panicked gurgle from the impact of the dagger, and reached up with his left hand toward the hilt coming out of his jugular. I guessed that it would take him a minute to die, but in the meantime he might not be able to aim his crossbow at Paug and his friends.
My left hand returned to the waist of the commander. I took a fistful of belt, armor, and cloth, while the blood from his stomach wound began to gush over my clenched fingers. I lifted with both of my arms and pulled the commander's body off the ground. He somehow seemed lighter than a feather, but would serve my purpose.
I charged the other men with their leader’s body shielding me.
One arbalist to the right took a shot when his commander began to scream in wet horror. The bolt went wide over my head. As I took three more steps, a second weapon twanged, sinking a quarrel into the back of the commander and choking off his cry.
Four more steps and I had made it to the left of the semicircle. A few more bolts whispered past my head as the soldiers tried to kill me without injuring their commander. They should not have bothered trying to spare him. He would die when I finished with them.
The left most soldier tried to draw his sword. His palm had hardly brushed the hilt when I pushed my pointer and middle fingers together and drove them through his eyeball and into his brain. He had a dagger, but to draw and throw the weapon I would have to spin around the body of their commander, temporarily exposing myself to potential crossbow quarrels. These men seemed inept, so I decided to gamble and drew the long dagger out of the dying man's belt before tossing it.
The Source of Magic: A Fantasy Romance by Cate Rowan
For a moment there was quiet, and peace. Jilian couldn’t hear or move, but she could see Alvarr’s eyes, gray and deep. Then, with a tremendous roar and a jolt through every nerve, the world reappeared.
Cries of struggle buffeted her ears. She twisted toward them and Alvarr set her down, but kept her corralled in his arms, her back to his chest.
They stood in a round room of mortared stone and blazing torches, and they weren’t alone. Two men and a woman in sapphire-blue cloaks battled soldiers in black tunics slashed with red belts. Three soldiers attacked each person in blue. The blues fought awkwardly, as if unused to combat.
Jilian jerked back, knocking her spine against Alvarr’s solid form. Where am I?
The heat of his broad chest seeped through her nightgown. He leaned down to be heard above the clamor, his lips brushing her ear. “Please, send me your kyrra!”
Kyrra? Her brain scrambled for a meaning.
His left hand gripped her ribcage and he reached for her right hand.
“What are you DOING?” No, this is only a bad dream. And I’ll end it. Just as she was preparing to ram her elbow into Alvarr’s ribs and wake up in her study, a soldier hurtled toward them swinging a wooden quarterstaff.
She recoiled, slamming against Alvarr.
“Takerran!” Alvarr shouted. Green fire streaked from his raised palm to his opponent’s chest. The soldier sank in a heap and his staff clattered to the ground.
The world thinned and condensed into the soldier’s murderous sneer, frozen at the moment of the fire’s impact. The glare in his eyes iced her gut.
A dream! Wake up!
But his cruel gaze was too real—as were the frantic shouts, the acrid burn of torch-lit air, and the strong hand on her hip.
A familiar ring of light encircled their feet, and from it Alvarr yanked up a crackling wall of jade fire. It surrounded them and he twisted to his right, hauling her with him. “Rokad, look out!” he yelled to one of the cloaked men.
Jilian shoved against Alvarr’s grip, unable to budge even one powerful finger. She saw the dark-haired Rokad vault to the side, panic flooding his face. A glinting spear whistled through the air but caught only the edge of his cloak. He spun and lobbed a green fireball at his attacker, who crumpled to the ground. But he didn’t escape the second soldier, or the rope in the enemy’s hands that cut off his breath.
“Rokad!” Alvarr started toward him, dragging Jilian with him once more. The wall of fire flickered erratically.
“No, the FireRing—keep her safe!” Rokad gasped, clawing at the rope around his throat.
Jilian flinched as the butt of a sword crashed into Rokad’s temple.
Alvarr grabbed her hands. “The kyrra—hurry, send me your power!”
WHAT power? A scream pounded on her tongue, but the consequences it might bring clamped her teeth.
Within moments, the soldiers knocked out the three figures in cloaks and the sapphire mantles pooled on the stone floor. A brawny man with a red circular badge stepped forward, pulling a clear cylinder from a pouch at his waist.
A scarlet glow flared within the cylinder and the officer aimed it at Rokad. Rokad’s body paled. Even the sapphire of his cloak faded to a dull slate gray. Alvarr’s furious breath rushed across Jilian’s cheek.
Through the wall of fire, she stared in horror at Rokad’s ashen face.
Awakened by Laxmi Hariharan
Chapter 1
I should be dead and headed for my funeral pyre. Except in a final desperate attempt to slow down my fall, I put out my hand, grasp the concrete edge of the platform and scream as my fingernails tear.
There's a low rumbling, growing louder.
The noise heightens, building, and then, it whooshes towards me.
The 8:05 a.m. local train to Churchgate station blares its horn, coming straight at me.
My heart slams with panic, mind gone white with fear and I can't think. Can't. Breathe. I've got to get the fuck out of here.
Stuck between the platform and the tracks, I look up into the man's face. Eyes gleaming, he's caught in the throes of arousal.
I'm afraid, so very afraid, and when he leans down, stretching out a hand, I shrink away towards an end that is more preferable. I look the other way and see the stream of white sparks spewing out of an open electric wire dangling on the other side of the tracks. Get out of here. Get out. Now.
"Help!" I scream.
Not one of the rush-hour Bombay commuters hears me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Look at me. Help me, somebody. I am here. Here. I scream again.
My voice, torn out of me, scatters over the crowd who have eyes only for the incoming train.
No one sees me.
None except him.
He's there, standing on the platform, staring at me.
He's waiting.
Waiting for me to ask him, to beg him to rescue me. I don’t have a choice. I have to ask him for help. Ask him. Do it. DO IT.
I fling out my arm and, bending towards me, he clutches my wrist. It’s him—the same guy who fondled my thigh earlier and threw me off the platform—he claws my other palm off the platform, jerks me up, high, almost at eye level with him. I hang there suspended, swaying.
Heat from the oncoming train rushes at me. It's on me, almost at me. I shriek with terror. My mind’s babbling, thoughts tripping over each other; the blood thunders in my ears. It's over. All over. A trembling grips me. I shut my eyes tight.
"Don't go too far, little girl," Ma's voice taunts. "You don't know what demons are out there."
Then, I'm flying through the dust. He throws me free of the track, out of the path of the train and towards the open electricity wire.
Blessed silence.
I've always been obsessed by the future. Is it because I don't have one?
Captured by the Cyborg by Cara Bristol
“If I stay here, he’ll attack. My presence endangers you and your employees.”
He regarded her with an assessing gaze. “You and he share one thing in common. You’re a computer sensate, too, aren’t you?”
Her jaw dropped.
“That’s how you fixed Baby,” he said.
She swallowed. “Yes. My gift is…um…quite advanced. It was the only reason I could stay a step ahead of him, but with his moderate ability and political connections, he’s been able to find me.”
Dale slapped his knees. “Here’s what’s going to happen. First, to put your mind at rest, let me assure you that Alonio is no threat to me. I’m a cyborg. Keeping people safe is what I do. He might succeed in drawing a little blood, but I’ll wipe up the mess with his ass. Second, while I doubt he can gain access to Deceptio, as a precaution, I’ll amp up security.”
“About that…” She had to tell him how she’d changed the entry protocol. He wouldn’t like that she’d gone behind his back. “I need to tell you…”
He held up his hand. “Let me finish. Third, you are not going anywhere. You’re staying right here where I can protect you.”
The autocratic edict set her teeth on edge. “You can’t keep me here!” She hadn’t fought so hard for her freedom and safety only to be dictated to by another man, however well intentioned. She was nobody’s captive!
“Yes, I can.”
Let him try! “As you’ve realized,” she said, “I’m a master sensate. A computer system doesn’t exist that I can’t infiltrate. I can hijack one of your spaceships and be gone before you realize there was a breach. Your entry and exit protocols, for instance—”
He leaned in until his breath caressed her ear, and he whispered, “Did your orientation tour happen to include a visit to the brig?”
He was threatening to lock her up? She jerked away and rounded on him. “What are you saying?”
“Moonbeam’s isolation can cause people to go a little crazy. We haven’t had anyone snap yet, but the possibility exists. You could be the first ward of the Deceptio jail.”
“I can access computer-controlled doors, too!” She crossed her arms.
He laughed. “You and half the employees on Deceptio—which is why they’re not computer controlled.” From his pocket he pulled out a metal ring and dangled some odd-shaped jagged objects. “Good old-fashioned locks and keys. The best antiques money can buy.”
She leaped off the bench. “You’d imprison me?”
Releasing Rage by Cynthia Sax
She stepped into the firewall square. The door behind her closed and she authorized the interior door to open.
A buzz swept over her. No, not simply over her. Into her. She gasped, her inhalation of air drawing more of this unknown presence inside her.
It was too much, almost suffocating. Joan swayed, lightheaded. “Do not faint. Do not faint,” she repeated to herself, closing her eyes.
The rolling under her feet gradually stopped. She opened her eyes and wished she hadn’t. Crimson spray covered everywhere she looked. Gore was splattered into the farthest corners, hanging from the ceiling. Cleaner bots scrubbed the walls and floor.
This was why she felt dizzy, she reasoned. She smelled and sensed this butchery.
C899321, the being she had been told was responsible, stood in his uploading dock, a cable inserted into his nape, his towering form naked, covered with blood, his long black hair dripping with it.
He turned his head, locked his gaze with hers and she sucked in her breath. There were worlds of agony, of rage, in those bright blue eyes. This was no rational, logic-driven cyborg. This was a man, an animal, crazed by bloodlust and pain.
“They thought to pacify me with the use of a human female?” he thundered, his deep gravelly voice clawing across her skin, awakening parts in her she didn’t realize slept. “I’d kill you before I allowed you to touch me.”
This insult didn’t hurt her the way he’d intended. Joan knew she wasn’t the slim tiny female males desired. She was solidly built, good breeding stock, as her mother had once said.
She discarded his words and focused on the torment in his tones. He hurt. Horrifically. Her fingers twitched, the urge to reach out to him, to comfort him, tremendous. Judging by the flex of his powerful biceps and thigh muscles, by the anger radiating from him, he wouldn’t appreciate that response.
He also wouldn’t listen to any command she issued. A reprimand, verbal or physical, would add to his hostility. Some being had already tried to restrain him and failed. The reportedly unbreakable wrist and ankle cuffs attached to the frame of the uploading dock had been shattered, rendered useless.
Joan discarded four solar cycles’ worth of theory on how to handle malfunctioning cyborgs, realizing now that the academy experts knew nothing.
Her late father, however, had taught her how to deal with wild beasts.
“I would never touch you without your permission.” She lowered her gaze, showing submission, recognizing C899321 as the dominant male he was. He’d seek to harm any aggressor, to protect himself and his territory. If she wasn’t female, she suspected she’d already be dead.
“I also would never hurt you.” Joan stuffed a couple of cleaning cloths into her pockets and dropped to her knees, into a puddle of red. The moisture soaked through her flight suit. “I’m here to serve you, to clean you.”
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