Bewitching Book Tours Magazine

Issue 22 April 2014

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Contents

Wilde Riders Feature 4

Dumah’s Demons Feature 10

The Lost and Broken Realm Feature 24

Suzanne Johnson Feature 28

Syphon’s Song Feature 34

Green Living Tips 37

Renae Mason Feature 38

Monthly Feature: Nightmare Ink 42

Reconquest Feature 56

Lovely, Dark And Deep Feature 62

Rising Shadow Feature 66

Revelation Feature 72

Naughty Nook 74

Stephan Morsk Feature 75

HE Feature 77

Cover Reveal 79

Pinup Files 84

Photography 85

The drive into New Jersey is exhausting. My only sav-ing grace is that most of the traffic is going into the city instead of out of the city like I am. You’ve got to love those bridge and tunnel guys. I wouldn’t date one but I have a little bit of respect for them. The commute into Manhattan turns a nine hour work day into an eleven hour one, if you’re lucky. I can feel my stomach start to knot as I get further away from the city and further away from civilization. Pretty soon I’ll be in the sticks surrounded by woods and farmland. I can almost smell the manure that will no doubt take days to com-pletely rid from my nasal passages. I pray that I don’t run into any animals, especially cows, which are huge, smelly and completely freak me out. The only live ani-mals I ever care to see have to fit comfortably in a handbag, like a Chihuahua or Teacup Poodle, for ex-ample. I have an appointment with a man named Jake Wilde. He asked me to come early, before the place opens at noon, so he could give me his full attention. I try to im-agine what someone named Jake Wilde would look like and all I can come up with is an old gunslinger like Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven. As I pull into Old Town the place looks exactly like I thought it would. The buildings in the town square are old and I image the place hasn’t changed much in the last hundred years or so. Haymakers is just past the town square, down the hill from the deli, next to the gas station. Those were the exact directions I was given, in those words. I take that to mean the town only has one gas station and one deli.

When I pull into the parking lot, there’s only one other vehicle sitting there. It’s an old beat-up Dodge Ram. Nothing like fitting the country bumpkin stereotype like a glove. I have a brief moment of panic and wonder if it’s safe to park my BMW in the dirt lot. Then I remind myself where I am. Who is going to mess with it in the middle of the day? A stray deer from the woods out back? The only thing I probably have to worry about is it getting dusty. I take in a deep breath. I have to be thankful there’s no manure smell yet. The quicker you do this, I remind myself, the quicker you can get back to the lovely as-phalt jungle you call home. I’m hit with a gust of wind as soon as I get out of my car. How is it possible that Old Town is even windier than lower Manhattan? I didn’t think I’d ever find a place windier than Wall Street. Even the Windy City didn’t seem this windy when I had business in Chica-go. When I enter the bar, I try to smooth down my thick hair, which I know is probably a complete mess from the gust. I’m surprised by the homey feel of the place. How could someone like me possibly feel at home in a country bar? Even if I was wearing jeans and cowboy boots, if I even owned jeans and cowboy boots, I wouldn’t fit in at a place like this. I hear someone clear his throat and I turn to see a guy about my age, mid-twenties, standing next to me. I can’t help my surprise when I see he’s wearing khakis and a polo shirt, like he just stepped off of a golf course. He looks as out of place in this country bar as I feel. “Are you Jake Wilde?” I ask.

Excerpt

The guy gives me the faintest hint of a smile but it’s almost as if it pains him to give that much. His deep brown eyes look even more distressed and I can’t help but wonder what’s behind those sad eyes. He rakes his fingers through his thick dark hair. “A little windy out, isn’t it?” My hand automatically goes to my hair and I try to casually flatten it down again. I imagine I must look like I just stepped out of a wind tunnel. “Your hair looks fine,” the guy tries to assure me. But he’s got that hint of a smile on his face again and it makes me wonder if he’s lying just to make me feel better. “I’m Cooper Wilde,” the guy says as he offers a hand. I don’t know why I suddenly feel nervous about shaking it. It’s a business meeting. That’s what peo-ple do. But the way this guy is looking at me gives me the feeling that he might be interested in more than just business. But I’m not, I remind myself. Not only because I’ve all but sworn off men, I’m here to do a job. I’ve been working for H & C Bank for two years and this is my first solo assignment as a lead investigator. If I con-tinue to do well, I’ll be well on my way to becoming a Vice President before I turn thirty. I don’t need a man to throw me off my career trajectory. And definitely not some guy in a country bar in rural New Jersey. I take his hand and give it a quick shake but I can’t bring my-self to look into his smoldering eyes again. “I’m Riley Smith.” “I figured that,” Cooper says. “Why is that?” That hint of a smile has returned to his face again. “We don’t often get women in business suits in the bar.” I’m not sure why I’m suddenly overcome with the urge to get a real smile out of Cooper Wilde. I don’t know even know the guy but it somehow seems im-portant. I get the feeling he hasn’t really smiled in a while and it’s long overdue. Not that I’ve had much occasion for real smiles my-self lately.

“My brother will be here in a minute or two. He’s just printing a few documents from the computer. Pur-chase orders and receipts.” I nod and look around the place. From the outside, I thought it was going to be a dive but the place actu-ally has character. I can tell the wooden bar is old, and it looks hand carved, as do the barstools. There’s a large stage area that looks new. That’s one of the expenses I was charged with investigat-ing. I try to image what the place looks like filled with patrons watching a local band play on a Friday night. “Ms. Smith?” I hear a deeper male voice say. I look up to see another guy approaching. He also looks around my age, mid-twenties, but he looks more like what I’d expect inside a country bar. He’s wearing a white button down shirt with jeans and cowboy boots. His hair is lighter than Cooper’s and his face is rounder, more boyish, but there’s definite-ly a family resemblance between these two guys. They’re both about the same height, around six feet, with athletic builds, like they play sports. “I’m Jake Wilde,” the lighter haired guy says. I try not to laugh as I look at Jake. He’s young, at-tractive and nothing like Clint Eastwood in Unforgiv-en. So much for my speculation about his name. I notice Jake has papers in his hands. “Maybe we should have a seat at one of the tables.” He motions to a table closest to us. “Would you like something to drink?” he asks. Jake has one thing that Cooper doesn’t. An absolutely kill-er smile. It’s the kind of smile that can probably get any girl into bed in a matter of minutes. Well, any girl except me. I no longer fall for guys with smiles like that. It hurts too much the next morning when they say they’ll call you, and give you that smile, and you know they’re lying and you’ll never hear from them again. “I’ll take some water,” I reply. Jake actually winks at me before he turns to head towards the bar. The guy knows how to charm peo-ple I’ll give him credit for that. I notice Cooper now has the papers in his hand. Without saying anything, he sits down and I follow.

“I think this is everything you’ll need as far as the fraud investigation is concerned. We’ve got purchase orders for all of the improvements as well as receipts for the completed work. You’re sitting at one of the new tables right now. And you can see the new stage from here. I’d be happy to take you up to the new roof, if you’d like to see it.” Cooper pushes the stack of papers toward me. I quickly thumb through them. I’ll make a few phone calls when I get back into the city to verify everything and cover my butt. At first glance, though, everything looks clean. It doesn’t seem like a case of fraud, more likely poor bookkeeping. “The loan hasn’t been paid in months,” I say even though that’s not really my department. I’m here only for the fraud investigation. They’ll be dealing with someone else regarding the default on the loan. “I know,” Cooper says, and I can see more darkness over-shadow his already dark eyes. “I’m going to try and fix that.” Jake comes back with three bottles of water. “Bottle okay or would you like a glass?” he asks. “Bottle is fine,” I say. Jake sets the bottles down on the table and takes the seat right next to me. I’m a little taken aback by how much space he commands. And not just because of his size. It’s his energy—his being—that’s so large. “So what did I miss?” Jake asks. Cooper eyes his brother and I can see there’s a little bit of animosity between them. Or at least there is on Cooper’s part. Jake seems kind of oblivious to it. Cooper rubs his temple and says, “I was just telling Miss Smith that we’re willing to cooperate with her in-vestigation in any way we can. I’ve given her all of the documents she’ll need.” “Great,” Jake says. He gives me another one of his charming smiles then looks at me like he’s undressing me with his eyes. I reflexively pull my suit jacket tighter even though I’m revealing nothing. I’m wearing a conservative button-down banker’s suit but I still feel like Jake can see through it somehow. “I’ll look at the papers more closely when I get back to the city. I assume these are copies I can take with me?”

“Of course,” Cooper replies. The guy is all business. It’s in sharp contrast to his brother who seems more like a non-stop-party kind of guy. “Did you decide if you want to see the roof?” Cooper asks. When Jake laughs, Cooper glares at him. “What?” Jake says. “If that’s supposed to be a pick up line, you’ve got a lot of work to do.” “It’s not a pick-up line,” Cooper says through clenched teeth. Still grinning, Jake asks, “You’re really going to show her the roof?” “It’s not necessary,” I state. The last place I want to be is in the middle of these two guys’ drama. There’s ob-viously a lot more going on than just showing me the roof. Jake leans close to me and I catch a whiff of his co-logne. It’s a spicy and masculine. “Why don’t you let me show you the new stage we had built?” I can feel the heat radiating from his muscular body and I’m quickly reminded by my body’s reaction that I haven’t had sex in over six months. I gulp. “That’s not necessary.” I can feel several beads of sweat roll down my fore-head. I’m getting hot, and it’s not because of the tem-perature of the room has changed. It’s Jake’s close-ness to me. I jump from my chair. “I have everything I need.” I feel like waving the papers in front of my face like a fan but I refrain. I just need to get out of the bar and away from Jake. Then I’ll be fine. That’s what I tell myself anyway. Cooper rises from the table and gives me an odd look. I wish I could figure out what it would take to make the guy smile but I can’t stay next to Jake a minute longer. He’s like catnip and I’m the cat. I need to escape and get some fresh air. “Thank you both for your cooperation,” I say. “You’ll let us know if you need anything else?” Cooper asks.

“I will. It was a pleasure meeting you.” I put out my hand for Cooper to shake. This time, when he touches me, I make a point of looking into his eyes. They seem to have gotten even darker and deeper in just the last few minutes and that makes me even more curious about him. Business, I remind myself. You’re here for business and then it’s back to the city. “It was nice meeting you, too,” Cooper says and once again, he only gives me the hint of a smile. When Jake clears his throat, it breaks the moment between me and Cooper. I’m embarrassed that I lost control. I’m supposed to be a professional. I noticed Jake has his hand out and I realize he wants me to shake it. The last thing I want is to do is touch Jake. I don’t want to get caught up in his char-ismatic web like a fly. I give him a ridiculous wave instead and I feel like an idiot when he frowns. “I’d better get going,” I say as I turn and make my way toward the door.

When I look back at the two brothers, they’re both staring at me. I don’t know why that makes me so nervous. I don’t plan on ever seeing either one of them again. When I’m finally outside, I take in a deep breath of what I think will be fresh air and instead, I’m assault-ed by the small of cow manure. Great. Just great. I hop into my car and turn the air conditioning up as high as it will go. I take in another deep breath and try to get the stench of cow dung out of my nasal passages. I can’t believe I’m shaking. I’m not sure if it’s because of Cooper or Jake. Maybe it’s a little of both. But I’m definitely rattled. I just need to get out of Old Town and get back to the city, I tell myself. Then things will get back to normal. As I put the car into reverse and begin to pull out of my parking space, I keep thinking: I just need to get out of here and get back to the city. When I step on the accelerator to go forward, I drive right

into an old Chevy pick-up truck that’s headed straight for

me.

Wilde Riders

Old Town Country Romance

Book One

Savannah Young

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Publisher: Short on Time Books

Date of Publication: February 11, 2014

ISBN: 1495442977

ASIN: B00IDWDWJ8

Number of pages: 186 pages

Word Count: 49,000

Cover Artist: Tony Bryson

Amazon

Book Description:

FOUR WILDE BROTHERS...ONE WILDE COUNTRY BAND

WILDE RIDERS is the first novel in a spicy new contemporary romance series about four sexy brothers,

their small-town bar and their local country band. WILDE RIDERS can be read as a STAND ALONE NOV-

EL or as part of the SERIES.

Cooper Wilde spent his entire adolescence counting the days until he could escape rural northwest New Jer-

sey. Now at 26, he can't believe he's coming back. But his late father's bar, Haymakers, is in financial trouble

and his older brother, Jake, has asked for Cooper's help.

Riley Smith, 25, is fresh out of her Ivy League MBA program and wants to make an impression on her em-

ployer, H & C Bank. Her first solo assignment is a fraud investigation on a business loan they made to Hay-

makers.

Even though Old Town is less than 90 minutes from New York City, Riley feels like she's stepped into an-

other world in this remote, one-bar town. Riley can't wait to do her business and get back to the city as quick-

ly as her sports car will take her...until she meets Cooper Wilde. He's not like the other guys in this rural

town and Riley feels inexplicably attracted to him.

About the Author:

Romance novelist Savannah Young grew up in rural northwest New Jersey in a place very

similar to the fictional Old Town, which is featured in her books. When she's not at her com-

puter creating spicy stories, Savannah is traveling to exotic locales or spending time with her

husband and their bloodhounds.

Blog: http://oldtowncountryromance.tumblr.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/

SavannahYoungAuthor

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/

show/7814077.Savannah_Young

Twitter: https://twitter.com/ShortonTimeBook

Interview with Ami Blackwelder

What inspired you to become an author?

I’ve always written and told stories since I was very young.

Do you have a specific writing style?

My amiblackwelder.blogspot.com books are paranormal and sci-fi and tend to be more fun, flirty, choppy, and

sometimes break the rules.

My rebeccamayromances.blogspot.com books are historical and contemporary are more detailed and more au-

thentic in terms of time periods than many books of historical perspectives.

My miablackthrillers.blogspot.com books are a new line coming September 2014 and focus on thrillers and dys-

topias. The style tends to be more Hunger Games. Simple, but energetic.

How did you come up with the title for your latest book?

I needed Dumah in the title since the story was about her. I called it The Demon Life of Dumah. My editor Ash-

ley Egan who actually helped with the title of Mers as well, helped me chop the The from Mers yeilding it as

MERs. She also suggested chopping Life of this title and offered an alternative of The Demon, Dumah. I played

with shortening the name and came with Dumah’s Demons.

Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?

Yes, that life isn’t black and white and sometimes people’s reasons for doing things are complicated and multi-

layered. Ultimately answers don’t come easy, but we try. This theme is seen in Falling Angels too. We really

chip away the first impressions of characters and dive into who they really are as we see the difficult choices

they all have to face, some —as with Kian and his sister— more heart wrenching then most.

Is the book, characters, or any scenes based on a true life experience, someone you know, or events in

your own life?

All my work is influenced by my life and travel and personal experiences. I would not say one character is one

person for life or one event is one experience, but more of a culmination of things.

Is there a genre(s) that you’d like to write that you haven’t tackled yet?

Dystopia and thrillers which I will do with M. Black http://miablackthrillers.blogspot.com

Of all the characters you’ve ever written, who is your favorite and why?

Wow, I love so many of them. I usually love the one I’m writing about currently most. But ultimately I would

have to say the first would be Rebecca and Eli from The Day the Flowers Died, because they represent very real

people in a very real time —30’s in Munich Germany— that affected a tremendous amount of lives.

http://rebeccamayromances.blogspot.com

If this book is part of a series…what is the next book? Any details you can share?

YES! Dumah’s Demons is after She Speaks to Angels and prior to Falling Angels which will be out in a couple

months. The last book will be Angel Codes. The four are all part of the AngelFire Chronicles, but Dumah’s De-

mons is the only novella.

What book are you reading now?

Allegiant by Veronica Roth.

What books are in your to read pile?

Divergent and Insurgent, LOL. Most Excellent. They get better with each read, unlike most other series’ I’ve

read like Hunger Games or Twilight (Sorry fans).

What books/authors have influenced your life?

I came at writing from a literature perspective and short story perspective, so my early influences were Heming-

way, Steinbeck, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Nathaniel Hawthorne. I loved this kind of story telling. Nowa-

days, my influences range from Veronica Roth and Suzanne Collins to indie authors like Imogen Rose and

Amanda Hocking. So where literature meets frivolity is usually where I find myself.

Can you share a little of your current work with us?

Falling Angels is my current work. I’m just about done. Wow. The characters have gone through so much. We

see Ali develop more fully into herself as well as hardships that weigh emotionally on all the characters in ways

that sometimes rip them apart from themselves and from each other. I have to say Misha’s music really keeps

me in that space —a deathly sad, but yet spiritually uplifting place.

Who designed the cover of your latest book?

I do my covers, but I have to say Falling Angels was actually done by a fellow writer/designer from Kindle-

Boards whose name escapes me now.

Do you have a song or playlist that you think represents this book?

YES! For the AngelFire Chronicles, I listen primarily to Misha Mishenko and her soundtrack is used for all the

book trailers in the series. In fact, Kian plays her music on the piano in Falling Angels as we learn more about

him.

What would your readers be surprised to learn about you?

I’ve traveled extensively. I’ve lived in Asia for over six years and have stayed for summer in Spain and China

and spent time in Tibet and Cambodia. I’ve also been to Vietnam, Malaysia, Thailand, Korea. I built up an Eng-

lish program in Thailand over a six year period. I also have my Montessori Education degree as well as my BA

in English. Currently, I’m focused on my books.

Dumah’s Demons

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or repro-

duced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, includ-

ing photocopying, recording, taping or by any information stor-

age retrieval system without the written permission of the pub-

lisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical

articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of

the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-

book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you

would like to share this e-book with another person, please pur-

chase another copy for each person you share it with. If you're

reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased

for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your

own copy. Thanks for respecting the hard work of these authors.

Copyright © 2014 by Ami Blackwelder

Artwork © 2014 by Eloquent Enrapture

Edited by Katherine Pine

Summary: The story of Dumah, Kian’s sister and how she be-

comes a Dark Angel

Dumah’s Demons: An accompaniment novella to the AngelFire

Chronicles

Add it to your Kindle at Amazon free on April 15, 16, and 17

2014

The Dark Night

“Where are you Kian?” I shouted as sweat from my attacker

slid down his crunched hairy knuckles and over my purpled lips.

He punched me one last time before standing. Salty. I heaved, but

couldn’t get enough breath to feel alive again.

His rusty smell lingered in the air, in my nostrils, on my skin.

Hearing the hard clank of his boots pound away from me rang in

my ears. He would always be a part of me now. He got inside of

me –so deep inside of me that I could never forget his viola-

tion.

“Kian?” I shivered. Even my brother couldn’t rescue me. I lay

alone in the dark, in the alley somewhere in Manhattan, as one

eye which hadn’t swollen watched the gang that attacked me me-

ander off into the distance. They disappeared in seconds as if they

had never come to me –but they had.

Before I fell unconscious I caught a glimpse of Kian twisted

on the alley several yards from me. With his back against the

street, his arms lay over his head entangled as if they had tried to

grab something before he had been hit. His right leg curled up

and over his left. He must have struggled, like me. But he could

never understand what I went through, this moment of blood and

violence would forever divide us.

Blackness.

The Morning Light “Dumah, Dumah.” I heard my name and felt my body shake.

A dream? Had everything been a bad dream? Awakening, I

couldn’t be sure. My arms hugged my knees and my head curved

into my chest, but at the sound of my name I released my grip.

Then the alley came into view with a bakery door to my left and a

brick wall to my right. Kian’s lip had a rip from one end to the

other and his left eye bruised blue. Ice crystals formed on his fin-

gernails. A side effect of his power manifesting in his distraught

state.

“Dumah! Are you okay?” His hazel eyes met with my coal

black pupils. I could barely catch my breath. I grabbed my elbow

as I felt a drip of something cool brush my skin. A blood drop.

“Let me help you.” Kian stretched his palm over my wrist as he

helped me balance to my feet. A sharp sting pierced my ribs and

my thigh felt sore. I wobbled like a drunk man. I wish I had been

drunk, but even alcohol couldn’t erase the last eight hours.

My purpled lips quivered as I stumbled out from behind the

alley to the busy road. Even at seven in the morning this city

could stomp on the best of them. Kian looked so lost, so confused

when he stared at me in front of the Fresh-O bakery shop. I could

see his mind spinning with what-if scenarios.

What if he hadn’t wanted a loaf of pumpernickel at eleven at

night? What if he could have broken free from the man who held

him away from me? What if he could have used his power? What

if he hadn’t been surprised? What if he could have saved me be-

fore the large man raped me? Too many what-ifs, not enough

action.

“Do you want a coffee? I know how you love your carmel

latte. I’ll get you one,” Kian said before he vanished inside of the

bakery. I heard the bell chime when the door opened, then looked

up and caught my reflection in the window.

As Kian fumbled with change in his back pocket, I repulsed at

the image before me. A slash from the tip to the end of my brow

hung over my eye, from the knife blade used. Blood crusted my

chin and ear. Blue and purple bruises puffed on a cheek and under

one eye. My torn clothes had been stained with dirt, blood, and

sweat...the sweat, that rusty, sweaty smell caught my memory

like a hook in a fish and brought it all back to me.

A sliver of moon dangled in the dark sky as everything around

me turned black. Laughter permeated the alley as the local gang

Loco took turns hitting or screwing. Hope for Kian shriveled and

died a bit each moment until there remained no hope for him to

save me at all. He wouldn’t rescue me. No one would be coming.

Only blackness choked me now.

A push jarred me back to the bakery shop, to today, the day

after. Someone bumped me on the sidewalk and when I looked up

I only saw a checkered shirt. Jerk. I wouldn’t become invisible.

I screamed. The cacophony hit the walls of the shop, bounced

down the street and echoed in the alleys. People stared at me

like I had become a monster, but the monster had already been

here and left and they all missed him.

When Kian jerked his head in my direction I realized the

sound came from me. I closed my mouth when Kian handed me

the coffee and never spoke to him again. He didn’t ask if I was

okay then. He didn’t ask me anything. He knew, like I knew.

Nothing would ever be okay again.

I sipped the coffee as Kian dabbed a wet napkin to my chin.

When the paper towelette became saturated with crimson color

he tossed it into the bin next to the shop door and my eyes fo-

cused on a sixteen year old guy in a black leather jacket.

The Meet He approached us in record speed without avoiding my eyes

or veering out of my way. When he reached the bakery door he

smirked, and a wrinkle broke between my brows as a cautious

smile leered across my face. Something confident, yet mysteri-

ous, flowed from his pores like an expensive perfume –

something I wanted to buy to cover up my stink.

Kian kept his heavy gaze on the stranger as he interacted

with me. The stranger placed his hand on the hot cup and then

dipped his pinky into the steaming fluid before licking his smol-

dering finger. In a city of people avoiding me, this dangerous

mess, this man–this stranger–wanted me close.

He leaned into my ear and whispered, “Come with me and

learn why you’re different.” I froze. “...Why you can control the

Earth with your mind, why you have a restless yearning inside

of you.”

My coal colored pupils shot up at him and he smirked, “I

know who you are, what you are, and I’m here to teach you

everything you need to survive. I’ll protect you. You’re too

powerful to ever be a victim in this city of sin.”

The words protect and powerful rang in my ears as if no oth-

er words existed. Nothing mattered more than this power he

spoke of, this power that could keep me safe. He knew what I

could do, how I felt. He must have been something more than

human. Maybe I had been too. I had to find out.

The stranger turned back toward the direction he came and a

red stripe marked the back of his leather jacket. “Come,” he

whispered. His fingers signaled me to follow.

“Where are you going? What did he say?” Kian reacted in

panic as my palm met with the stranger‘s shoulder and I moved

in haste with him down the street.

“You can’t protect me anymore!” My words hit Kian as he

followed in anxious step behind us for several blocks before a

bus shooting down a cross street separated him from us. When I

looked back I noticed we had taken a side street and Kian had

disappeared.

Just like him to vanish on me.

The Journey I didn’t know this stranger from anywhere, but somehow I

felt like I knew him all along, like we had been taken from the

same mysterious mold. Funny. He might have answers to my

questions and I wanted, no needed, to know him.

Watching him with careful eyes, I didn’t want to miss a

thing. He moved so fast. We made it several blocks before I

even blinked... or so I felt. Just being near him I already felt

better, stronger, as if somehow the night prior could have never

happened to girl like me, because she would have never allowed

it. I loved the way I felt near him.

“Who. Are. You?” The words came out suspended. I could

hold them back no longer. I didn’t even realize I had said any-

thing aloud until he answered.

“Dameon.”

Looking at him from the side, he appeared so regal and made

everything seem so possible. A world of possibilities, a world of

power is exactly what I needed.

“What are you?” My eyes shot him up and down examining

him for something hidden deep. A better question would have

been: what am I?

“You will learn soon enough,” He said with a suspicious

grin.

Nothing about turning sixteen felt normal to me. The usual

pubescence most teens underwent the past years had been tam-

pered in me by an urge to fly or run off into the wilderness. I

couldn’t decide which feeling dominated me more. I couldn’t

see why me, a street kid most of my life would care about ei-

ther, but I did.

Then Dameon took me into the backstreet of some dance

club named “The Edge”, where music played most of the day

and night. I couldn’t understand why at first as the street looked

much like every other, dingy and dangerous with a trash can on

each corner, but when he opened a cracking wood door against

the same brick wall as the nightclub and ducked into a stairwell

leading underground I found my answers.

The stairs must have spiraled a block downward, and I wiped

a spiderweb out of my way. “Where are we going?” My eyes

shot around the damp, cold and dark cellar, and when we finally

reached the last step I hopped onto a hard floor. “Dameon?” I

couldn’t see him at first, until he turned my direction and silvery

pupils like a sliver of moon haunted me.

The Mystery “It’s alright, Dumah.”

I froze. “How do you know my name?”

“I know a lot about you. I’ve been watching you.”

“Watching me?” Shivers shot up my arms. Then he took my

hand and said, “come, there is no reason to be afraid. You are

like me, Dumah.”

Like him? I knew I had to be something more than human. I

always felt a strange energy within me, but what I didn’t

know...

He led me further into the underground of The Edge. At first

when we walked I could hear a sound: thump...thump-thump-

thump-thump, but the farther we walked the less the music

pounded until only the sounds of silence remained.

“How am I like you?” Questions raced in my mind, making

me dizzy. “What are you? What am I?”

“It is better if I show you.” He walked under a crack of light

from the ceiling and the shadows formed around him made him

appear bigger than before, but I kept my eyes on his silver dots.

“Look at me, Dumah. Open your eyes and see.”

I blinked and then he became something more. Majestic ra-

ven black feathers protruded from his sides, wings sprouted and

fluffed up and down as his eyes glowed in what seemed like an

endless stream of perfection.

“What...you...how?” I didn’t know quite what to ask as my

senses tried to make sense of the nonsensical.

He flapped once and the wingspan opened from one side of

the cellar room to the other, covering about fifteen feet in total.

The thin layer of light from the ceiling spread over him like a

twinkling star, not all at once. What I thought had been shadows

had been a new form, something I’d never seen before and I trem-

bled.

“I’m like you?”

“Yes, Dumah. You too will soon grow wings and you too pos-

sess a power.”

That word again. Every time he spoke it I felt like I had grown

stronger.

“What kind of power?”

“For each of our kind the power is different. In you the gift

emerges in the ability to move the woodlands with your mind.

This is why you are drawn to the forests.”

“And your power?”

He lifted his hand upright and his palm began to glow red-

orange. A blot of energy shot out of him and hit the ceiling, caus-

ing a spark and then a small fire until the spark dropped to the

floor and died. “I command fire.”

I watched the fire become nothing in a half daze, mesmerized.

“We have other gifts too, Dumah. Your muscles will soon

grow and you will be stronger than when human. You will have

the ability to move faster.”

I could have easily become drunk on the words stronger, fast-

er, wings, gifts...everything I needed to protect myself, to ensure I

would never be attacked again.

Then Dameon ushered me forward, his warm palm on my

shoulder. “Follow me and I will show you the world. Anything

you want will be yours.”

The Guardians We walked farther into the darkness of the cellar beneath the

club. I had almost forgotten we wandered underground until I

heard the music permeating the ceiling again. That inces-

sant thump-thump-thump-thump rung in my ears until Dameon

showed me behind a steel door at what seemed to finally be the

end of an exhaustively long hall.

“Come,” he said as he rolled his finger and I scurried behind

him. Behind the door I saw a large and dimly lit room. White

bricks arranged in a semi-circle comprised the ceiling. A chande-

lier made of dark metal and candles hung from the center of the

room. More candles sat against the far left and far right walls,

while lanterns sat on the hard floor arranged in a straight line on

either side of the chandelier.

My eyes fixed on a strange shadow in one corner of the room

and then, out of the side of my eye, movement in another corner

grabbed my attention. I heard the door squeak shut behind me and

I jumped. Then Dameon took my hand in his palm.

“Everything is fine, Dumah. You are finally home.”

Home? The thought of ever having a place I could run to and

be safe fled from me long ago somewhere after my first beating at

the orphanage and just before I ran away with Kian from our fos-

ter family.

Dameon spread his elegant wings and I felt the air cut in half

and rush over me, a fluttering symphony filled my ears with ease

and, somehow, familiarity. He had become the most beautiful

being I had ever seen.

“You are with family here.” Dameon met with my eyes, his

shiny slivers penetrating my heart. He rolled his finger again,

signaling for the shadows to come into the light of the candles.

As they moved forward, I felt myself take a deep breath. I

barely heard their feet move against the floor, but their shadows

made sure advances. As they approached the light, more and

more of their shape came into view. First, a tall silhouette, and

then strangely feathered creatures with human faces and blue eyes

appeared. The grey-black color of their wings expanded through-

out the room, filling the empty space with a sense of fullness.

Long blonde hair twisted from braids lay over the female’s shoul-

ders and the crimson color of her gown made me feel under-

dressed. Both carried some kind of object. One female and the

other a male. But gender made no difference, because they could

have been twins in their identical physical features.

“Culsu and Culsan guard the doors to the underworld.”

Dameon caressed my neck with his fingers. My vigilant eyes shot

up at the male, Culsan, first noticing his long nose and pale skin,

then a curious glance shot to the female, Culsu. She hissed and

revealed a set of sharp teeth. Dameon brushed his fingers through

the back of my hair and said, “but there is no need to fear them as

they are here only to protect your home from intruders.”

He smiled, but I hesitated to move forward when he walked

toward the other door at the opposite end. I never felt more curi-

ous and more intoxicated with a need for answers, answers to

which I knew he could give, and yet for a moment a memory of

Kian flew into my mind and I found myself sitting on the edge of

his bed in the orphanage singing our song, something we learned

from the nursery:

Lullaby and good night, thy mother's delight,

Bright angels beside my darling abide.

They will guard thee at rest, thou shalt wake on my breast.

They will guard thee at rest, thou shalt wake on my breast.

In the middle of the last line, I felt a tug on my hand and my

mind ripped back to the present.

The Power “I know what you need.” Dameon confidently walked over to

Culsu and grabbed the wooden staff from her hands.” He twirled

the object while he glided back to me as if performing a circus

act. “You need to see what you can do here, what I can teach

you.” He threw the staff into the air so high the wood hit the ceil-

ing before returning to his hands. “Use your mind. Return this

wooden stick to the owner.”

I stared at the solid wood in Dameon’s hands and repeated my

silent mantra: to Culsu, to Culsu. Frustration hit when five

minutes later I still had not moved anything.

“I can’t control this stupid gift at will. Always comes when I

don’t need it.” I ground my teeth and bit my lip so hard blood

drops fell to the floor.

“Concentrate,” Dameon almost demanded and wiped the

blood from my lip with his pinky before licking his finger. “You

must focus with everything. All your powers will come in time.”

I tried again, focusing on Culsu and then on the staff and then

on Culsu until the staff levitated in Dameon’s closed fist and be-

gan to shudder. I closed my eyes and could only see the arrow-

pointed staff in his hands. That single picture became my life.

Shaking up and down in chaotic vibration, the staff finally broke

Dameon’s grip and flew out of his hands and into Culsu’s.

My eyes popped open and I felt a rush of power surge through

me.

“Again.” Dameon glared at Culsan and he tossed Dameon his

staff. When I felt the soft wood hit my palm I knew I would never

be the same. “Fly this to the ceiling. Hit the highest point.”

Dameon’s forefinger pointed at the center of the white bricked

surface when his heavy glance fell over me.

I wanted to please him, but more than that I wanted to be

powerful as he believed I could be and so I focused on the ceil-

ing and then the staff as before, but now in seconds the arrow

shaped wood twisted into the air and flung skyward. The wood

smashed against the white brick shattering in two and shards fell

to the floor.

A crooked grin crossed Dameon’s face and his almond pu-

pils sparkled. He engulfed me within his wings and took me into

his chest. His heartbeat pounded bumb bumb-bumb

bumb, strong like an ox, and his milky perfumed body filled my

senses. I closed my eyes for a moment when stubble from his

chin brushed my cheek and in his arms I finally felt completely

safe. I may not have known what lay behind the next set of

doors, but I knew Dameon wanted or perhaps needed me with

him, with a need perhaps similar to my own.

“Come, come,” he said as if I hadn’t really been approved

for secrets until now and, with his arm around my neck and

hand gripped tight on my shoulder, he ushered me to the door

on the opposite wall. Culsu rushed to the next entrance with a

set of large keys jingling in her fitted hands while her form

floated like a sail on water. Blonde ringlets disappeared behind

me after Dameon squeaked the door open, and when I found

myself on the other side the door slammed shut.

Darkness broke with slices of light from lanterns on the thick

cavern walls. A large oak table with six chairs on either side sat

in the middle of the room. Two candles rested on each end of

the table. Dameon pulled out a chair and gestured for me to sit.

Closer He slid in a chair beside me, his soft breath tickling my chil-

ly skin, unique eyes undressing me. When his large hands met

mine over the table I could have blushed if I had been a sweeter

kind of girl. Long fingers raked through my dark tresses and our

eyes followed each others for several minutes before he spoke.

“You are ready to know who we are, who you are Dumah.”

“Yes, I am.” I bit my lip and a drop of blood from the prior

wound dripped onto the glossy wood table.

“We are those abandoned by everyone, living underneath

because we are not a part of the world. We posses powers be-

yond what any human can fathom and we do not answer to any-

one.”

“Tell me. Say it.” A tinge of demand pervaded my tone.

“See, there are two kinds of us. The Angelfire and the Dark

Angels. The Angelfire believe the world is on their side and do

everything to help the mere mortals. Dark Angels know better.

We understand the humans are dangerous to us, and only want

to take what we have.”

“But how...when did this power come to us?”

“From the beginning of our death. You died that day in the

car with your parents when you were just two. Kian died too.

The powers beyond fated your death to be too soon and so you

and Kian breathed again, but this time as something more.”

“So, Kian is like me?” His name hung on my tongue like an

unusual taste I couldn’t be sure I wanted to try again.

“No.” Dameon declared firm. “He doesn’t understand us,

you, your desires, your needs. He still believes the world is a

place worth saving. You know better. You are better. You are

one of us.”

“You keep saying us, but I’ve only ever seen you and two

others? Are there more?”

“Yes, Dumah, there are many. We stay hidden underground

where we are safest. At night sometimes we emerge.”

“For how long has your kind been down here?”

“For hundreds of years, but I have only been here for for a

short time.”

“What do you mean? You have not always been a Dark An-

gel?”

“I lived in Washington. At one, my mother had a car acci-

dent and died. Much like with what happened to you, but I had

been spared. I lived in foster homes in Washington until sixteen

when I left for New York where I soon met my real father.”

“Your real father?”

“Yes, his name is Azrael. He watched over me in Washing-

ton from a distance. In New York he finally revealed himself to

me when my powers began to manifest. He told me what I was

and brought me here to my home. He rules over our kind in this

city. Many cities have a flock. Every flock has a ruler.”

“So, he left his flock in Washington?”

“They followed him here.”

“Powers come at sixteen? This is why I started feeling mine

some months ago?”

“Yes, and very soon you will feel more. Every day your

powers will grow and the more you use them, the stronger they

become. But...”

I shot him an inquiring eye with a wrinkle in my forehead.

“But what?”

“But you always have to be careful to never reveal what you

are to any human. I told you the human world is dangerous to us

and if they ever find out who we are we lose power.”

“We lose everything?”

“Not everything, but there are rules to our kind.”

“Rules?” My eyes widened.

“Rule one, if we physically harm a human, we lose ‘Gift

Power’.”

“Gift power?”

“Every Dark Angel has a different gift. Your gift is of ma-

nipulating wood.” My curiosity circled to Culsu and Culsan.

“Rule two, if we are intimate with a human, we lose ‘Wing

Power’. I figured he meant his literal wings would diminish.

“Rule three, if we are discovered by a human, we lose ‘Essence

Power’.

“What does that mean?”

“Our essence gives us our overall strength. The more hu-

mans who know of our existence, the less powerful we become.

The less strength we have. The slower we move.”

I flinched in the thought of becoming weaker. “Rule four, if

a leader is discovered by a human, the entire flock loses Es-

sence. Rule five, if a leader is killed, the entire flock loses all

power.”

“This is why you live underground. Why Azrael made this a

home?”

“Yes, and why humans are dangerous to us. If they ever

knew of our existence, not only would we become weaker...they

would hunt us down like animals. They have in the past centu-

ries ago. Azrael has all the stories of our ancestors in the sacred

books.” I wanted to ask him more about the sacred books, but

he continued with the seemingly never ending rule list.

“Rule six, if an Angelfire is dying, he may transpose his

wings to a human, giving his Essence and Gifts. Rule seven, if a

Dark Angel kills humans, forfeiting his Gifts, he will develop

fangs. Rule eight, if a Dark Angel is intimate with humans, for-

feiting his Wings, he will develop fur.”

“Why the separate rules for seven and eight? Why is seven

simply not a part of rule one?”

“How intuitive. Yes, the rules would seem to make more sense

that way; however, the rules divide the difference between an

Angelfire and a Dark Angel. If an Angelfire breaks rule two he

simply looses his gifts, but a Dark Angel acquires another ability.

See, Dumah, we are the stronger of the angel clans.”

I mulled over the rules for a bit. “So, killing a human to regain

Essence would be better, even if we lose our gift?”

Dameon stood and clarified, “Think of your Essence as your

heart, mind and body. The more Essence you have, the stronger

overall you are in a fight. Gift power is like an extra power, you

don’t need it to live and fight. You must have strong Essence to

win however.” His hand slid over my shoulders, “but you haven’t

really lost your gift if you’ve traded them for fangs.” He rubbed

them. “You want to be a part of our family, don’t you Du-

mah?”

I couldn’t say no now even if I wanted to, I had gone in too

deep. But nothing inside of my wanted anything more than what

they offered.

“Yes.”

“Then it is time to meet my father.”

I had never been the family type. Years of orphanage beatings

hardened any sweetness inside of me and six years on the streets

of New York after running away from my latest foster family

shaped me into more of a warrior and survivor than any kind of

girl a man would want to take home to meet the parents, but

Dameon and this underworld gave me some kind of strange op-

portunity at something I had missed.

The Father When the crimson colored door on the left squeaked open

slowly I knew I would be seeing someone or something I had

never seen before, and surely never again. Red eyes lit the dark-

ness behind and around the mysterious shadow. The shape moved

in steady steps away from the door and toward me, each step

more into the light of the candle on the table. At first his wrinkled

hands came into view, and then pale skin, followed by flowing

white hair. When he stood before me his black wings, crested

with grey along the ends, opened up from behind him and flitted

up and down a few times over the table before resting to his

sides.

“I am Azrael.” His voice sounded like a thousand drums beat

against a cement floor.

I stood. “Dumah.”

“My son is very fond of you.” He glanced at me briefly before

spotting Dameon. “Why don’t you show her to our quarters. She

will be more comfortable there.”

When Dameon’s skin glistened I began to understand his dark

angel expressions. Excitement made his eyes sparkle when I tore

the staff from his hands and hit the ceiling. Happiness made him

exuded a certain glow.

Dameon kept his right palm on the nape of my neck as he

guided me forward to the crimson door. Azrael followed closely

behind until the door slammed shut as all doors did in this under-

ground and then he lagged while Dameon walked with me hand

in hand down a corridor made of grey bricks. We passed several

doors on both sides before Dameon opened a door on the right.

Darkness in the hall kept me from seeing farther down, but I felt a

draft of air and imagined the hallway stretched farther than where

we ended.

“My room,” Dameon said proudly and I took a slow step in-

side a space that glowed dimly in gray neon light.

“I will leave you two and see you in the morning,” I heard

Azrael say with approval before he disappeared somewhere down

the hall.

The Room “Please, come sit.” Dameon hurried to a king sized bed with

black velvety covers. I plopped onto the softness of the sheets and

leaned backward, my back hitting the wall behind me for rest. I

looked up and saw a ceiling mirror.

The bright neon of the room contrasted every other space of

darkness I had seen in this underground which allowed me to

notice an array of books on shelves at the other side of his room.

His walls reminded me again of a cavern.

“Books.”

“Yes, feel free.” His open hand waved toward the collection

and I soon found myself caressing each title. “The Great Gatsby”,

“To Kill a Mockingbird”, “1984”, “The Catcher in the Rye”,

“Animal Farm”.

“You have prestigious taste.”

“I had to do something to pass the time in my foster homes

before coming here. I found the stories to be a necessary escape.”

I rested my fingers on his cheek, and then they moved in deli-

cate precision to his chin. He had been like me in more ways than

I realized. This stranger, this man, this Dark Angel suffered aban-

donment as I did, and the careless tossing into one foster home

after another. Like me, he faced hardship and dangers on the

streets of New York until he began to change and then he had to

confront the fear of what that meant to be isolated and different.

I leaned into him and my lips found his.

I never knew what people meant when they said they found

their other half, but now I did. Everything about being with him

made me feel more whole, more finished, more capable. I could-

n’t imagine going back to the life I had before him.

His lips pressed against mine until I felt their wetness and in-

vited his body into my space. My breasts felt his chest rise up on

me and his breath, like a perfume, adorned my skin. Soft stubble

brushed my chin when his lips engulfed my lower lip and then

my cheeks.

Falling onto his bed, we shared most of the night together in

each other’s arms. His fingers raked over bruises and tears on my

body, and I kept turning away from the image in the mirror on his

ceiling. I told him all about the attack, the rapist gang, how Kian

abandoned me, and he kissed each injury left on me. Yet hiding

my face didn’t keep the agony away, the pain I wanted to forget.

He and I had been made of the same stuff, whatever stuff he

wanted to call it, and yet when I looked at myself I didn’t see

anything magical or other worldly. In fact, I didn’t see much of

anything at all.

He held my chin with two fingers and turned my eyes to meet

his. His heart beat thumped against mine. He could see the tor-

tured soul syndrome all over my face.

“You have to accept your power, your superiority to rule.

We’ve been made to do more. Our parents have been taken away

from us. Nowhere offered a real home. Humans never really un-

derstood you...or me, because we are no longer really human at

all.” He caressed my neck with his pinky, “This is your home.

You are one of us now and I’ll never let anyone ever hurt you

again.”

Morning After When I awoke the next day, I found Dameon missing but a

crossbow with wooden arrows lay on the floor next to the bed.

The right side of my lips curled up in smile, and I rushed to pick

up my present. I pulled the bow back and then released, measur-

ing the firmness of grip, and then I placed an arrow onto the

bow string.

Everything looked as if carved by hand and I wondered if

Dameon had done the carving himself. A note sat on the dresser

at the foot of the bed. He said he had to go to school and he’d

return later that night and to help myself to any food in the pan-

try. My eyes ravishingly searched the small room and found

nothing resembling a place for food. A bookcase, dresser, and

bed made the room pretty snug. A blue door sat between the

book cases and soon I found where to shower. Inside the dresser

I pulled out a pair of black jeans and a top and then threw on

one of his beige sweaters. Lucky for me, I had been smaller than

him.

I squeaked the door open and walked into the corridor. A

shadow lurked at the opposite end. “Someone there?”

His drumming voice resounded, “It's me, Azrael.”

“Oh, sorry to bother you, but Dameon headed out for the day

and I don’t know where the pantry is.” I couldn’t complain real-

ly. I had more down here than I ever had up on the streets of

New York. Sometimes I had to wash in the Hudson River, and

other times I had to wash up in a bathroom in the back of some

cafe.

“Oh, that boy always forgets the important details. I’ll show

you around the place.” His hands felt soft considering he ap-

peared to be mid-sixties. I figured that made him about fifty

when Dameon had been born, but I didn’t dare ask about his age

or if his wife lived with him. He had a quiet, complicated coun-

tenance about him which I couldn’t be sure of just yet.

With his hand over mine, he led me back to the crimson

door. He pointed into the hall before opening. “The rooms down

here are for our other guests. I prefer you leave them alone, ex-

cept for Dameon’s room.”

“Of course.” I blushed a bit with the notion that the guy I had

been smooching all night had a father just down the hall. I’d

never had to meet the parents before and it all felt a bit foreign

to me.

Azrael led me past the large table in the center of the room to

a black door on the other side. Upon entering I saw a large pan-

try and sink, counter top and a few knives.

“This is where we do our cooking.”

“So, Dark Angels sleep, eat?” I must have looked dumb-

founded.

“We don’t need as much sleep as humans, but yes we do

both.” Azrael said plainly and then he opened the pantry for me.

“Electricity is difficult to acquire down here so we don’t have a

fridge.” He got to the point quick.

“You mind if I look around?” I stepped toward the pantry

with a growl of my stomach. He gestured with his open hand for

me to move forward, and when I opened the pantry I saw

shelves of canned beans, vegetables, fruits, and soups. I spied a

can opener on the counter top and a bowl near the pantry and

then opened a can of peaches.

“I will be back shortly, I have a few things to do this morn-

ing.” Azrael turned to head back to the other room, his black

tunic swinging with him, “but feel free to take what you need

from the tin near the wall here.” He tapped a square tin on the

counter near the door.

I couldn’t determine if this place felt more regal, mysterious,

or just plain creepy, but I finally felt like I belonged somewhere.

When Azrael disappeared I looked inside the tin. Rolled up

twenty dollar bills. I pushed two into my pocket and then sat to

eat. I had the kitchen to myself and too much time to wonder

what Dameon did all day.

The closest school to this location had been Millennium

High. I’d seen the building a few times when surviving on the

streets, but I never dared to enroll. Enrolling would mean paper-

work and paperwork meant the government would find out I

wandered the streets at night homeless. I’d be thrown back into

the orphanage or a group home. Neither option suited me, but

now I had a reason to go and the morning still felt young.

I traced the steps in reverse that I took with Dameon when

we descended into the underground. The large table room. The

entry room. Culsu and Culsan just watched me leave and used

no words. When I hit the dark, long corridor directly under

where guests danced at The Edge I realized the hall hadn’t been

as dark as I first experienced upon entering. I could see the

walls more clearly. Stone. The chills that rushed up my body

yesterday disappeared. In fact, I felt comfortably warm. Then I

wondered if my new found powers and identity had something

to do with this strange contentment.

Dameon said I’d have more strength, more speed. Perhaps

this surge of angelic energy allowed me to see and feel better

too.

When I took my first steps in the back alley of The Edge I

remembered why I longed to crawl into the cavern Dameon

provided. The raunchy smells reminded me of the large man

who attacked me. His fist slamming against my cheek. His care-

less laughter. I cringed and then took another step forward and

then another until I found myself on the main road. I kept my

mind on Dameon, on the power he taught me I had, the power I

needed.

I walked to the high school, but sometimes my feet felt like

they glided along the sidewalk. When I got inside, the halls

flooded with kids and any fear I once had on the streets van-

ished. I stopped at the corner where I saw him leaning against

his locker in a black leather jacket and black jeans. The red

stripe on his jacket always gave him away, but he didn’t care.

He liked to be noticed.

Then my attention focused on her. A girl about seventeen

with dark brown hair and sea blue eyes. Her clothing ensemble

reminded me of a poster from The Gap. Casual, but her parents

obviously cared. She smiled at Dameon and her eyes sparkled.

When he returned the smile I felt a tinge of heat burn up my

sides. I wanted to slap the girl-next-door.

The Streets I spun around on the ball of my heel and bolted out the

school's front doors to head for the cafe down the block.

Seemed to be one at every corner in this city and I needed to

fume. My mind, like a vulture, circled around the images of

Dameon and that girl. The way he leaned close into her, his

cocky smile. Oh, he’d hear me roar when he got home. For now

I sipped my latte.

I had more important matters to contend with now. I needed to

find out where the rapist gang hung out in Manhattan. I would

have my revenge and with my bow and arrow and control of the

Earthly powers I knew this vengeance would be sweet.

Stopping in at the local police station, a man behind the desk

asked what I needed.

“I had an incident with the rapist gang… Loco they call them-

selves, and wanted to file a report.”

“What kind of incident?” A quirked brow met with my stark

glare.

“The bad kind.”

“Alright, I’ll send you back. See Officer Samuel Maney.” He

pointed to the door on the left and I knocked. When the officer

opened the door I smelled someone familiar, I couldn’t place it,

but something about him bugged me. An athletic build, trimmed

hair and brown eyes turned to sit at his desk.

“Please, have a seat.”

I quickly sat and examined the room. I needed information.

“I’m told you had an encounter with the local gang.”

“Yes.” I kept my eyes low, my voice soft. I didn’t really want

to talk about what happened.

“You wanted to file a report?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know this attack was the gang Loco?”

“I recognized the tats. A cobra with a sword in its mouth inked

into his wrists.”

I’m sure he sensed my unease with this discussion and stopped

probing after he handed me a paper. “Just fill this out and return

to me.”

“Do you have a pen?”

“Of course.” He placed the pen on his desk and then stood. “I

have to talk to one of my guys. I’ll be right back.”

When I heard his boots exit the room I saw my chance. I dove

behind his computer and typed in the name Loco. Immediately a

page of information popped onto the screen. I skimmed and made

a mental note of any addresses and locations.

I walked back to The Edge with a low head, not because I felt

like a monster as I had after the attack, but because I didn’t want

any distraction to trip the information out of my head. I repeated

what I found on the computer like a mantra.

Incident at Hudson River. Incident at Fresh-O Bakery. Inci-

dent at Hudson River again. Incident at Muvrico Theaters (across

from the Fresh-O bakery). I knew if I wanted to meet my attack-

ers I would have to return to the crime or the Hudson River. I

mulled over that thought as I returned to the underground.

Underground When I heard Dameon’s voice down the hall from his bed-

room hours later, all my attention focused on him.

“Home late, son.”

“Had to keep my eyes on that guy.”

“Don’t do all the work son, that is what your flock is for.”

“I won’t, but he is getting too close. We have to make a move

soon.”

His bedroom door cracked open and I tried to keep cool, my

legs stretched over his bed and my facial expressions easy. After

a smile I asked, “So, how was your day?” I wanted to sound casu-

al, but I’m sure I sounded suspicious.

“Fine, yours?”

The casual and cool approach didn’t get to the point fast

enough...I needed answers.

“Well, I took a stroll to the school this morning.”

“Ah, you did. How’d you like it?”

“Such a joy. Odd thing, when I got to the school I saw you.”

“And you didn’t say hi?” Dameon dropped his school bag to

the floor and his eyes turned to me. When he reached the foot of

the bed I asked.

“And I saw you flirting with that girl, you know the one near

your locker. Who is she?” My lashes batted at twice their normal

speed.

Dameon laughed, his chuckle hitting the bed with him when

he plopped next to me. “Flirting huh? Is that what you call it?”

“Well, wouldn’t you?” I couldn’t be sure if this is how jeal-

ousy felt. I hadn't felt anything like it before, but I’m sure if that

word fit any kind of emotion this one would be it.

He stroked my hair. “Dumah, listen to me. I have to keep that

girl close. She is a curious one and we don’t need any more prob-

lems in our plans.”

“So, you don’t like her?” I pushed his hand away.

“No, but I need to keep my eyes on her.”

My legs rolled toward me and the tension in my forehead

broke to a softness. “Why? And what plans are you talking

about? I thought I was a part of your team, your family. How

come you didn’t tell me anything?”

Dameon stood and wiped the dust from one of his books.

“Remember I told you about the dangers humans bring to our

kind.” I nodded. “Well, this human named Tommy Bachelor fol-

lowed me one day and saw me transform into the Dark Angel. He

knows what I am. He knows we exist and because of him I have

lost some of my Essence, some of my strength. That girl, the one

you saw near my locker, is a lot like Tommy. She always has her

nose in my business. I need to keep watch to stop her from dis-

covering who I am.”

My eyes widened and I couldn’t turn my head from him as his

flipped through the pages of a book, telling me everything. He

captivated me.

“I’m going to have take my Essence back.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“With your help. You are going to come to school with me

and we are going to confront Tommy.”

I clenched my jaw, “I have to take care of something first.”

My mind swirled back to my own pain.

“You mean your attackers.”

“I mean the monsters.”

“You know you’ll lose some of your gift for every human you

kill.”

“I know.” Silence hung for a few seconds before I heard his

voice again.

“I’ll help you, Dumah. I’ll help you find your justice. But then

you promise you will help me take my Essence back?”

“Yes.”

I remember being hungry on the streets of New York and sit-

ting curled up behind a dumpster. An old man with dirty wrinkles

and a paper bag wrapped around him like a shirt handed me a

muffin. I promised him a hot bowl of soup one day. A week later

I stumbled upon a wallet on the sidewalk and spent days hunting

down the old man to keep my promise. Treated to a bowl of

chicken soup he died the next day, but I never forgot him.

“Dumah?” Dameon tapped my shoulder. I drew back to the

present and saw an open book over my lap.

“What is it?”

“This holds all our secrets and powers. For centuries we’ve

been writing them down in this black book. Learn about your

gifts, your strengths and then use your powers Dumah. That is

the only way your power will grow.”

My fingers played with the wooden carvings on the sides of

the book and my eyes caressed the words like a painter's brush

to a canvas. Then I placed the book to my side.

“Later. Now we have somewhere to be.”

The Night The night felt different because I no longer cowered to sur-

vived, I had become one with the night and one with myself. No

more conflict with where I should be or who I was. I knew.

Here. Now. With Dameon.

I would do what I needed to do to survive. I had no alle-

giance to the humans and I owed them nothing. If God had curs-

ed me, I would return the favor.

We raced down the sidewalk past the Fresh-O Bakery.

Dameon knew everything that happened in the city. He didn’t

need the information I found on Samuel’s computer to know

where to find Loco, but I told him anyway. He headed straight

for the Hudson and his loyalty more than made up for Kian’s

abandonment.

Four poorly clad men drank beers and tossed cans into the

river while a fifth larger and dirtier man laughed at the sight of a

cat flicking around a lizard. Along with the cobra-sword tat-

tooed across each of their wrists, the closer I got the more pun-

gent the rusty smell of that night came over me.

Dameon opened his jacket and pulled out my bow and arrow

set as we approached. He handed me the weapon with a wink

and I couldn’t decide if the wink meant “I got your back” or “I

brought this especially for you.”

I had to admit, I couldn’t wait to see how well my arrows

would fly.

After I threw the dark bag on my back, I wrapped the leather

strap over my chest. Before any of the men saw us coming, I

readied one arrow and shot. The whistling pace of the arrow

took seconds until the wooden sharpened point hit his heart. The

target fell to his knees, holding his bleeding chest as his three

friends regained some kind of sense and watched in horror.

The next arrow flew with the force of my mind. From the

bow to the targeted body, I focused on each movement. With all

eyes still on the dying man, the second arrow hit without notice.

When two men squirmed on the grass with an arrow sticking

from their chest, the other two finally spotted us and backed

toward the Hudson. For each step they took backward, we took

at least three forward until we stood face to face.

“What the hell are you doing?” One of the men screamed,

“What do you want?” His voice trembled. I could only smirk. I

jumped onto the man when Dameon’s black wings sprouted.

“What the hell are you!” The other man shouted as a sliver of

moonlight danced over the crest of the wings. Suddenly,

Dameon had the man pinned to the ground and with one quick

jerk Dameon broke his neck.

I felt a surge of anger jolt through my body as my fists

pounded into the rough texture of the man’s chest. I didn’t real-

ize I had been screaming until I looked up and saw the face of

the last man standing. Gray eyes sat on me in recognition as his

large frame turned and his form grew farther from me.

Farther and farther.

I couldn’t let him get away. His face came to memory. He

had been the one who first pinned me to the cold street. That

rusty stench that would never come off of me. My hands

wrapped around the man underneath me, my fingernails dug

into his neck. Maybe he screamed, maybe he fought back, but I

don’t remember. All I could see was that man, that monster get-

ting away from me.

Then, my legs moved faster than they ever had before as

cold night air rushed over my skin, until every inch of space

between me and the monster disappeared, and my legs jumped

around his waist like an acrobat. My hands clawed the man’s

back and my body weight pushed him to the grassy terrain.

I never knew I had such strength.

Then I moved as if in slow motion. The look on his face per-

manently stained my mind. That rusty smell diluted by the wet

of grass. The cobra-sword tattoo colored by the dirt as his wrists

dug into the ground. My legs squeezed over his sides. My hands

clasped the back of his head and pushed his face into the moist

soil.

He struggled left and right to find air, but my grip wouldn’t

give him relief. One single thought occupied my mind, the one

where my life went black. He deserved worse, but his death

would be enough. As his kicking slowed, I felt another strange

surge jolt through my body, but this time of vindication. When

he stilled completely, Dameon stood at my side.

I rose with my hand in his and nothing felt softer. I looked

him in the eye. “I’m ready to take back your Essence now.”

There would be no going back. I always kept my promises.

“The time will come.”

The Broken Somehow weeks flew by after the killing of the Loco gang.

I licked my teeth and rubbed over a set of fangs that had sprout-

ed over night. I kept the sharpened teeth at bay, hidden, by re-

tracting them. Some people say it is difficult to take any life.

Some people argue that ridding the world of bad people is a

favor to us all. I didn’t feel either, because I didn’t have remorse

for what I’d done and I didn’t do this for anyone but me. I only

felt a sense of personal justice. Maybe a sick kind of justice?

Some would definitely agree.

I felt more alive, more strong, and more free. Perhaps the

Dark Angel inside had finally been unleashed.

For weeks I slept with Dameon and awoke to him missing.

He’d run off to Millennium High to keep watch on Tommy

Bachelor and that curious girl Ali Maney. Dameon had a bad

feeling about her, but I sensed Dameon hadn’t given me the full

story, because I still didn’t understand why Dameon with all his

powers bothered to attend high school anyway.

I filled my days with books from his library. The under-

ground remained pretty empty and boring and I wanted to learn

as much as I could about his world. I found the sacred books

with gold embossment and read into the night about the history

of Dark Angels, sometimes neglecting my cuddle time with

Dameon.

Pages filled with war between humankind and our kind.

Many millennia ago our kind mixed with humans, but our off-

spring produced such powerful and destructive beings that the

rest of mankind determined to destroy us and our mixed off-

spring. War ensued until Dark Angels fled into hiding.

I heard a soft knock on Dameon’s door. Dropping the sacred

book, I carefully opened the door and peaked through the crack.

“Yes?”

The drumming voice of Azrael answered, “I wanted to make

sure you were doing fine.” He walked into the room. His black

tunic reminded me of something I’d seen on stage once when I

snuck in to see a play. Soft feet padded across the floor and met

with me.

“I’m fine.” I inched my way to the bed and plopped to the

sheets.

“Good, because I know Dameon has been away a lot and we

didn’t want you to feel lonely.”

I raised the sacred book. “I keep busy.”

“Good, the stories will help you to understand our predica-

ments.”

“They have. I see now why the humans pose such a threat to

us. It’s in their blood from their ancestors to kill us.”

“Yes, though we once tried to live in peace and mix with

them, we did not succeed. Humans could not concede that we had

been born as rightful rulers over them and they feared our pow-

ers. We have been at war since.”

“But what I don’t understand…” My mouth shut as I searched

for the right words. Azrael rolled his shoulders back and stood

beside me, “is why Dameon bothers to mingle with humans now?

Why does he go to school and risk being discovered?”

He sat next to me and placed a hand on my shoulder, just like

Dameon had always done. “Because Dumah, our power lies in

having subjects. As our histories show you when we tried to take

our rightful place and even mix with the humans, they rebelled

against us. So, we must now lead the humans unknowingly to

where they belong.”

My eyes widened and my fingers curled, latching onto the

sheets as he continued. “The more Dark Angels who follow us,

the more humans we can bring into our bidding…the more power

our kind has.”

The word power sat on my mind again like a vibrating sound I

couldn’t shake.

“We are building an army in Manhattan so that our family will

never be weak again.”

“How?”

“By drawing humans into our will,” his breath brushed over

my face, “and by inviting more Dark Angels into our fold, and by

turning many Dark Angels into Were and Fanged beings.”

I remembered Dameon using those words, fangs and fur. “You

mean rules seven and eight.”

He nodded. “Yes, we will create them from Dark Angels in

the city.”

“There are more? Dameon spoke of your flock in Washington,

but I’ve never seen anyone but Culsu, Culsan, you and Dameon.”

“Ah yes, my flock. They are loyal to the death. They keep

vigil in the city most of the time, influencing humans and finding

more Dark Angels. There are many more, hidden in the city,

waiting to be found. Some young and some old, but all of them

needing our home.”

“So, your flock doesn’t come here?”

“They do, but usually you are asleep. They have rooms in the

halls.”

By halls, he must have meant tunnels. The halls underground

felt more like holes dug inside of a cave. Azrael left as softly as

he arrived, his steps barely made a sound. After my shower, I

tiptoed around the hall starting at Dameon’s door. I knew what

came before, a few more doors and then the big room with a table

followed by the kitchen and entrance. What had been further

down the corridor?

I couldn’t see much, even with my improved vision. The un-

derground kept most light from ever finding its way down here. A

few lanterns hung on hooks screwed into the cave walls. The fur-

ther I walked the more doors to unknown rooms appeared. I must

have walked several blocks and the hall kept winding.

Based on what Azrael said, who knew how many Dark Angels

lived here with me. When a gust of air pressed over my body I

felt a chill and stopped frozen in my tracks. I retreated with back-

ward steps as my eyes stayed fixated ahead. Something down

there moved. When it stepped into a crack of light I saw a hide-

ous monster of gray-black fur with enlarged teeth protruding from

its mouth. I jerked around and hurried back to Dameon’s room. I

didn’t want to get in trouble for venturing too far.

When Dameon returned, the wall clock had just struck six.

Late again.

“Where have you been?” I didn’t want to wine or nag, but I

couldn’t help myself.

“School and then I followed Tommy.” He threw his backpack

on the floor. “He knows about us and he is going to tell his

friends and family.”

“Well, while you are galavanting about, I’m cooped up all day

in here.” Chills rushed up my spine when I thought of the mon-

ster lurking in the halls.

He took a few steps toward me and tilted his head. “Then let

us end this tomorrow. I’ll take my Essence and leave Millennium

High and be here with you.”

“Okay.” I always kept my promises.

Millennium High- At school I stayed in the background. No one knew me, and

the more invisible I became the better. Tommy had already fig-

ured out Dameon’s game and we didn’t want him spying me. I

watched at the corner as Dameon fiddled with his locker and

crookedly smiled at that obnoxious girl Ali. Subtle flirtations or

not, Ali drew dangerously close to my territory with an obvious

grin at my boyfriend.

My fangs sprouted and I bit my lip at the sight of her. Turning

my head to the wall, I hid my face while retracting them and dot-

ted the blood on my mouth with my pinky. Dameon played the

whole thing cool as if he’d done this a million times. Maybe he

had? I knew nothing of his life in Washington really.

When I saw the signal, where Dameon scratched his head, I

followed. Dameon latched onto a tall, lanky kid who passed by

and pulled him behind a side door. We climbed the stairs.

“What are you doing?” Tommy looked at Dameon with trem-

bling hands. He glanced at me, “Who are you?”

Dameon didn’t say a word but I felt his mind muddle with

colliding shades of anger. Anger that he had been discovered.

Anger that he lost Essence. Anger that he now had to do this,

because more than anything Dameon hated to lose power and by

killing Tommy he would lose some of his gift as I had. Not all of

the gift, but enough to feel weaker.

As Dameon pushed Tommy up the stairs, his face turned pale

white. I held his arm with a tight grip. When we reached the top

stair Dameon turned to me saying, “Use your gift and tear open

the door.” As I focused my attention on the wood, Dameon’s

hand brightened red. A ball of fire hit around the knob and lock,

weakening the hold. The door shook violently as my mind pushed

and pulled, and Dameon hit his fist through the door near the bolt.

After he pulled the lock off the door, I swung the door open and

we walked onto the roof.

Dameon looked at his watch. “I have one minute. I can’t be

late to class and raise suspicions.”

I dragged a screaming Tommy to the roof. “What the hell are

you,” he repeated from quivering lips. The gravel felt crunchy

and the air cold as the sun hid behind a dark cloud and Tom-

my’s grave expression deepened. Dameon slid his palm over

Tommy’s mouth as Tommy kicked and bit. We dragged him a

few feet more until we stood near the rooftop’s end, then

Dameon’s watch beeped.

“Have to go.” Dameon glided to the door in seconds and

vanished. I stood with Tommy pinned in my arms, alone. He

kicked, and his heel knocked my shin as gravel rustled beneath

us. I owed this to Dameon, to my new family. They took me in

and protected me and made me strong. Nothing would ever hurt

me again. They needed their Essence, their power. I needed it. I

pushed his body over the edge. So easy with my newfound

strength, like blowing a feather in the wind. A quick flash of

Kian came to mind at that moment, only his face, but enough to

make me wonder about him and then I let go. I let go of Kian

and Tommy. He fell and I turned to walk away with only

sounds of screams echoing in my ears.

The Graduation I watched the school react in horror. An announcement. An

ambulance. The police. A familiar face appeared at the scene

and his name tag read Samuel Maney. Then it clicked. The po-

lice officer whose computer I rummaged was related to that

obnoxious girl Ali. That is why his smell was so familiar.

Through the glass window I could see Dameon in his seat in

English class, period one. He sat in the back and that girl sat in

the front. The class gossiped while others sat paralyzed by the

events. Dameon winked at me and then I disappeared.

When I returned to the underground I didn’t want to come

back up to the surface anytime soon. Dameon had been right, I

felt even stronger now. Tommy’s death meant we had more

power. Dameon’s Essence, our Essence, had been returned.

Something else had changed too. I no longer lived alone. The

corridors flooded with cacophonous chat and after passing

through the entrance and into the main room I saw each chair

around the table filled with guests. Some with glorious black

wings, others with fangs like me and still some had fangs much

longer. The far right had two furred creatures who must have

been the Weres. But in that room, among the monsters I didn’t

feel afraid anymore.

“Come, come, sit.” Azrael gestured with his hand to the

empty seat. “We’ve been waiting for you. Dameon will return

earlier today and we will have a celebration, a graduation of

sorts.”

Roast chicken, peas, carrots, mashed potatoes, and cranberry

juice passed around the table. Nothing smelled better. My stom-

ach growled, because I had forgotten to eat breakfast. I filled

my plate and ravished the food.

“A graduation?”

“Yes,” Azrael answered, “for you are now officially our fam-

ily.”

When Dameon returned after school pride beamed on his

face when he looked at me. He cracked his door open and I

rushed into his chest as his solid arms wrapped around me. I

never wanted to let go of him, and now he could finally be all

mine. I no longer had to share him with the high school, with

that girl.

“Father said we’ll be celebrating. Classes have been canceled

in light of recent events.”

“Good.” I backed up against the frame of the bed as Dameon

pulled off his shirt. He played his pinky over my cheek. Raven

eyes held my attentions as he unbuttoned my shirt. Dark chest

hairs tickled my skin. His other hand found the nape of my neck

and I stared at his pink lips before mine locked onto his. Moist

saliva wet my mouth as my leg straddled him. I fell back onto

the bed and Dameon breathed heavily with each kiss over me.

By morning I found myself entangled with his body like two

snakes entwined. I loved being close to him, his milky scent.

Cheering in the hall brought Dameon to his feet. “Time to go.”

I hurriedly dressed myself in jeans and a dark shirt. I left my

bow and arrow at the foot of the bed after all, we had a celebra-

tion to go to, not a battle. Walking with Dameon to the main

room, we met with a group of Dark Angels.

“Where’d the others go?”

“You mean the Were and Fanged?” Dameon clarified.

“Yeah.”

“They can’t come to the top with us, they are too noticea-

ble.”

“But you and I are fanged now too.”

“Not fully. We haven’t killed as many and so our gift is still

alive though weaker, and our fangs are still retractable. You’ve

seen the Fanged with long teeth?” I nodded. “Well, they can’t

retract the fangs and their skin is more pale. The Weres have no

way of hiding the fur.”

“Yeah, one of them freaked me out earlier.”

“When?” Dameon’s brows quirked and he looked concerned.

“He didn’t hurt you?”

“No, nothing like that, but he did give me a scare. My fault, I

shouldn’t have wandered so far anyhow.”

“Yes, the corridors are full of many surprises and if you are

not prepared you might be shocked.”

“Well, I’m not anymore.”

“Good, then we can go to the surface?”

“Sure.” I preferred to stay nestled in bed with Dameon all

day underground, but I’d never been to a graduation before and

I wanted to see how the Dark Angels rocked it.

At the surface a group of us clad in typical jeans, shirts and

jackets followed Dameon. He led us to a local diner where we

sat like normal people and ordered burgers, fries, shakes and

cheesecake. Then we caught a movie.

By evening we found ourselves in a nearby park with bottles

of beer and wine. I swear I saw an angel fly overhead, but then

the vision vanished. Maybe I had been buzzed. I lay on my back

and watched the twinkling stars with Dameon beside me. His

body always felt warm, maybe from the heat of fire within him

or maybe he just had a warmer temperature than me.

A few days passed like this, like peace. Just being with

Dameon, just being.

Demon Born The school returned from recess and Dameon packed his

backpack with his kindle and other necessities. I glared at him

as he packed, unsure of whether his word to be here with me

after taking his Essence meant anything.

“I’ll just be in school Monday. I need to check up on that

girl.”

“Why?”

Dumah’s Demon’s

AngelFire Chronicles

Ami Blackwelder

Genre: YA Paranormal Thriller

Publisher: Eloquent Enraptures Publishing

Date of Publication: March 1st, 2014

ASIN: B00IR60GKS

Number of pages: 40 on kindle

Word Count: 12, 260

Cover Artist: Ami Blackwelder

Book Description:

Dumah ran away from the orphanage with her brother Kian,

but what they found on the streets separated them forever.

“I already told you, she is too curious. She knows too much. I

have to see what I can do.

“When will you be back?” I begged.

He held my lower cheeks in his palm, “After first period. I

need to say hi and make plans for this Saturday.”

“Why do you need to see her Saturday?” Something burned

inside of me.

A cryptic smile crossed him. “To plan her death.”

Dameon disappeared and I stood alone with the words. Words

that fell like a sheet of paper back and forth to the floor. Like a

pendulum, the plan could go either way.

I flipped through the pages of the black books. I wanted to

know more about my gifts and powers. How much gift did I lose?

Why hadn’t I grown my wings yet? Page ten talked about the gift

of moving wood. I’d seen the page before, but wanted new infor-

mation. After flipping a few pages I read about my strength lev-

els. Evidently, I could move forests in one swoop if I practiced,

but not now, not after killing. My gift diminished to possessing

control over wood the size of my body, nothing bigger.

I feverishly searched the black books, but didn’t find any an-

swers for my final question.

When Dameon returned earlier I sighed in relief. I’d been eat-

ing in the main room at the table. Perhaps everything would be

fine. Maybe she didn’t know anything. Losing Essence to her or

more Gift would not sit easy with him. He already lost Gift when

he killed one of the Loco for me.

“What happened?”

“She’s putting the pieces together and she’ll figure out what

happened soon.” His face twisted in agony. “Her Mom might not

let me come over and I have to protect you, us. I’ll have to show

my face again to make sure she lets me come by Saturday.”

“But this means you’ll leave again?” I stomped my foot, and

my lips twisted.

“Friday. I’ll talk with her Friday. This will give us till Thurs-

day for each other.”

“Why does this girl keep taking you away from me?” I pound-

ed my foot at the rhetorical question. Logically I knew why, but

emotionally I didn’t want to justify the countless times he must

have been late because of her or busy flirting at his locker and in

class because of her, or now gone again because of her.

“She won’t be for much longer…but there is something else I

need to tell you.” His face grew serious and my fingers gripped

around the back of the chair.

“What?”

“Kian…the brother you told me about…is back; he has his

AngelFire powers and wings.” My fingers squeezed the wood,

my mind swirled in disbelief. “He will stop at nothing to protect

that precious little Ali of his.”

The table shook in anger until the wooden furnishing flew up

into the air and hit the ceiling, landing split and upside down be-

tween Dameon and me. If Ali didn’t die Dameon would never

fully be mine. His time would still be divided between me and

that high school. All the images of Dameon and me together,

maybe even raising a family, blackened in my mind…and Kian

was to blame. The pendulum no longer fell in our favor.

The table burst and shards of wood splintered into the cavern’s

walls. Thunder outside cracked and rain poured. A burning sensa-

tion fueled my anger and rose out of me pushing and pushing

until dark wings slowly emerged onto the surface of my back.

THE END

Please read the AngelFire Chronciles: She Speaks to Angels,

Falling Angels, and Angel Codes to find out what happens!

http://amiblackwelder.blogspot.com

Follow the life of Dumah and find out the motivation behind Dameon's advancements for Ali Maney.

This is an accompaniment novella to She Speaks to Angels and Falling Angels, and Angel Codes from the

AngelFire Chronicles

Free for the Kindle April 15, 16, 17 at Amazon

Book Trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rIHbEtwTvLc

About the Author:

Ami Blackwelder is a Paranormal and SciFi author. Her stories range from Tween & YA to Adult. Growing

up in Florida, she graduated UCF and in 1997 received her BA in English and additional teaching credentials.

Then she packed her bags and travelled overseas to teach in Thailand, Nepal, Tibet, China and Korea. She has

always loved writing and wrote poems and short stores since childhood; however, her novels began when she

was in Thailand in her thirties.

Having won the Best Fiction Award from the University of Central Florida (Yes, The Blair Witch Project

University), her short fiction From Joy We Come, Unto

Joy We Return was published in the on campus literary

magazine: Cypress Dome and remains to this day in Uni-

versity libraries around the USA. Later, she achieved the

semi-finals in a Laurel Hemingway contest and published

a few poems in the Thailand’s Expat magazine, and an

article in the Thailand’s People newspaper. Additionally,

she has published poetry in the Korea’s AIM magazine,

the American Poetic Monthly magazine and Twisted

Dreams Magazine.

http://amiblackwelder.blogspot.com

http://amiblackwelder.blogspot.com/p/purchasing-

ebook.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rIHbEtwTvLc

http://Twitter.com/amiblackwelder

https://www.facebook.com/amis.bookpage

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Angel-Fire-

Chronicles/262738260422879

http://www.scribd.com/doc/95769515/AngelFire-

Chronicles-Media-Kit

Excerpt from Chapter 16:

The expansive cave was filled with statues. Gabriel was immediately reminded of the terracotta army

in China, row after row of warriors guarding the tombs of ancient Chinese emperors, but these weren’t warri-

ors. They weren’t distinctly Chinese, either. They were cyclopean; that was the first thing Gabriel noticed. Ra-

ther than two equally distanced eyes, each statue had one large eye right above the nose.

Unlike those Chinese statues, these weren’t uniform, either. Different bodies, faces, attire, genders, and

ages of Cyclops made up the horde of stone figures. Dread began to creep back up Gabriel’s spine as he saw

something they all had in common other than their lack of depth perception: every carved face was locked

eternally in an expression of fear. Stout warriors crouched, hiding their faces. Women with horrified looks

stood guarding their children. Gabriel wondered what foul mind could have sculpted such horrors over and

over again.

“What is this?” Gabriel asked in a hush, frightened voice.

“I don’t know. I’ve never even heard of this place,” Anansi responded. For the first time since Gabriel

had met the manticore, he heard and felt doubt and fear coming from the creature. Zhiyan kept staring at the

ground, impassive, as Finkle Prime led him along.

“Who is here?” said a voice from the darkness. It sounded like a young woman, with a bright, luscious

voice. Something was amiss with it, though Gabriel couldn’t figure out exactly what.

“Who is that?” Gabriel asked Anansi.

“I asked you first, mortal,” The voice said playfully. Gabriel realized what was wrong. The ‘s’ sounds

were extended, like Cobra Commander in G.I. Joe, or like a snake using a human voice. Gabriel couldn’t fig-

ure out where it was coming from. It wasn’t in his head. He’d heard enough telepathy to know the difference,

but this woman’s voice seemed to bounce and echo around the cave and off the statues that filled it.

“Gabriel. My name is Gabriel. Who are you?” He asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Gabriel. So kind of you to visit. No one comes to visit anymore. Zhiyan, he keeps them from me. Now

here he is, marching to his death, how fitting,” She said happily.

“Prime, halt,” Gabriel said. The big clockwork man stopped and Gabriel saw Zhiyan with his head still

bowed, but his eyes were closed tightly and a small smile crept over his face.

“Oh, shit,” Anansi said, suddenly angry. “Zhiyan, if we live through this, I hope the council draws and

quarters your giant ass.”

“What is it?” Gabriel asked nervously.

“Ptolema. Eldest and most vicious of the Gorgon sisters,” Zhiyan finally said, still holding his eyes

closed tightly and smiling wryly.

“Gorgons? Monsters like Medusa?” Gabriel asked, half in disbelief, half in growing panic. His mind

raced. He tried to think of Medusa’s sisters, but the monster didn’t give him time to remember them.

“What do you know of my sister? She was no monster. She was a sweet, innocent girl. Raped and then

villainized. No, she was no monster,” Ptolema said, her voice smooth as silk.

“Don’t look her in the eyes!” Anansi suddenly screamed telepathically. He almost didn’t say it in

time.

“I am the monster,” She said, her voice dripping with venom. Out of the corner of his eye, Gabriel saw

a woman come out of the shadows and into view. One moment later, and he would have looked at her square-

ly. Instead, he looked several feet to the side of her, taking in her form using his peripheral vision. She was

tall as a man, a bit taller than Gabriel from what he could tell, and she wore a ragged red dress that came al-

most to the ground. Rather than legs, Gabriel saw a mass of writhing snakes skimming along the ground. She

tried to dart directly into Gabriel’s view, faster than he expected, but he dropped his eyes fully to the ground.

Her arms gleamed a brilliant, shining gold color, and reflected light from Prime’s shoulder lamps all around

the cave. Gabriel wondered if her hair was made of venomous snakes like the stories told, but he didn’t

chance looking up near her face.

“Why do you look away, Gabriel? Why do you not meet my gaze? Am I not beautiful?” Ptolema

asked, almost pouting.

“No thanks. I’d rather not turn to stone today,” Gabriel said, his voice shaking. He remembered the

stories of Medusa, how she turned men to stone with her gaze, and how Perseus destroyed her with a mirrored

shield.

“There are worse ways to die,” Ptolema said, all the playfulness, seduction, and beauty suddenly gone

from her voice. She was deadly serious. And then she was moving. She was fast, so much faster than Gabriel

could have imagined. He leapt out of her way, but only just in time. He felt the wind move past him and

smelled her, a waft of rotting flesh and dry snakeskin.

Gabriel scrabbled along the cave floor to get away from the horrifying woman. Tiny snake heads

snapped at the air behind his heels. He looked all around for something, anything to fight with, to hide be-

hind, anything.

“Oh, get up, little man. Die on your feet,” Ptolema balked, and then laughed at him, but only briefly.

A massive shadow suddenly came over Gabriel, blocking out the light from Prime’s lamps. Fearful of looking

up, he looked around and saw a massive paw, like one belonging to a lion that was three times larger than it

should have been. A deafening roar filled his ears and Gabriel crawled out from under the creature, seemingly

unnoticed. It was almost a giant lion, except it had two equally huge red feathered wings and the tail of a scor-

pion, its stinger poised to strike some thirty feet up in the air.

The Lost and Broken Realm

Things Forgotten

Book 1

Chris M. Arnone

Genre: Contemporary Fantasy

ISBN: 9780991397907

ISBN: 9781311266194

ASIN: B00HEOMU6M

Number of pages: 325 print

approx 299 ebook

Word Count: 103,000

Cover Artist: Cassandra Whitney

Smashwords, Amazon, Barnes & Noble Book Description:

Gabriel Drake had royally fouled up his life. Before his wife died, he was wealthy, respected, and loved. He

pissed away the small fortune he and his wife built, drove away his friends, alienated his family, and even took

a few precarious steps on the wrong side of the law. He lost his way. The world had forgotten the man he was,

and then a head-on collision between his Jeep and a tree changed everything.

Death would have been easier. Instead, he’s woken up in a strange place where all the lost and forgotten things

and people of our world go to rest. The laws of physics seem to be driven more by magic than logic. Cats fly

and talk into his mind. He’s in a place where real power has been trampled under the foot of a maniacal emper-

or, and Gabriel alone has the power to free these forgotten people from the emperor’s iron grip. Which will

Gabriel save: these lost and broken people, or his own shattered life?

About the Author:

Chris grew up in Independence, MO. He attended college at Truman State University where he pursued his

loves of theater, music, and the written word. Now, he makes his home in Kansas City, MO with his wife

Christy and their four cats.

Aside from writing feverishly, he is an avid supporter of the Kansas City burlesque, performance, and arts

communities. He is an occasional emcee, outspoken supporter of LGBTQ equality, and King of the Nerds. No,

you didn't vote for him; that's why he's king, not president.

Website/blog Twitter Facebook

Goodreads Wattpad Tumblr

DANGER: CURVES AHEAD

Suzanne Johnson

Note: “Danger: Curves Ahead” is an original short-short set in the world of the Sentinels of New Orleans

series, featuring wizard DJ Jaco, her partner (and maybe more) shapeshifting enforcer Alex Warin, loup-

garou enforcer Jake Warin, the undead 19th-century French pirate Jean Lafitte, Cajun merman Rene Dela-

chaise, and a cast of many—few of them actually human.

Alex Warin balked at the soggy parking lot of

Elmwood Center, frowning at the strip mall in front of

him and ignoring a gaggle of elderly, white-haired

women in yoga pants, t-shirts, and bright red hats tot-

tering past to get out of the rain. “This wasn’t part of

the deal.”

The sign on the door in front of us read “Curves for

Women.”

I tried to stifle a grin from deep inside the hood of my

yellow rain slicker. I’m sure the gloat shone through,

however, as I grabbed his wrist and tugged him to-

ward the door. “I won the bet. You broke down and

drank a beer before I even had a whiff of chocolate.

That means I pick the gym.”

Eight solid days of rain had turned our jogging path in

New Orleans’ Audubon Park into a mud-filled trench

worthy of WWE pit wrestling. This was our compro-

mise.

“DJ, I know you put that six-pack of Turbo Dog in my

refrigerator.” Alex’s deep baritone developed a some-

what canine whine. “You play dirty.”

Damn straight. Like that monstrous Hershey bar on

my coffee table had arrived via pixie courier.

I pushed open the Curves door, pulling him behind me

like a six-foot-three toddler with a case of the Terrible

Twos. He shook water out of his hair to annoy me, but

I was having too much fun at the idea of Mr. Macho

doing Zumba with members of the Senior Red Hat

Society of Greater New Orleans.

I’d called ahead to make sure they’d let him in, and

knew for a fact that the group, whose minimum age

was sixty-five, met for rigorous senior-adult butt-

shaking every Tuesday morning.

When we reached the front counter, I released Alex’s

wrist and gave him a warning glare not to bolt. I had

my elven staff, Charlie, inside my rain slicker. Not

that zapping him in a room full of crimson-hatted ma-

trons would be worth all the trouble it would cause.

My Green Congress wizarding skills could handle it

with the memory-erasure charms I had in my bag, but

I hated to be brought up on human-elder-abuse charg-

es with the Elders.

I dragged my unwilling victim to the front desk. “I’m

DJ Jaco—I talked to you earlier about my friend Alex

and I coming in for a workout this morning?”

The perky brunette behind the counter looked past me

at said friend, and I swear she purred. “I’m sure the

ladies won’t mind if he joins them.” She added as an

afterthought, “and you too, of course.”

“Of course.” I glanced over my shoulder at Alex,

who’d straightened his shoulders and assumed his I’m

-hot-sex-on-two-legs-and-I-know-it expression. It in-

volved a slow smile and a sultry gaze from eyes the

color of the uneaten candy bar that had gone from the

coffee table to my purse as soon as I was sure he’d

taken the beer bait.

The man was shameless.

Nikki, as the brunette’s name tag identified her, el-

bowed past me and slid a hand through Alex’s con-

veniently crooked arm. “C’mon, hon. Your friend said

you were shy but we ladies won’t bite.” The purr re-

turned. “Well, not much.”

Alex looked over his shoulder and gave me a smirk I

recognized too well. He had a plan. If it involved

shedding clothes and shifting into his pony-sized dog

form, I didn’t care what elders got abused. He was

getting zapped.

Suddenly, I realized my appetite for exercise had been

replaced by my taste for chocolate. Keeping my rain

slicker on in case I needed quick access to the staff, I

dug the chocolate bar out of my bag and leaned

against the counter.

Alex had been surrounded by at least a half-dozen

women in hats that ranged from ruby-red straw with

fake daisies around the brim to a burgundy felt fedora

with rain-bedraggled feathers sagging in its band.

“Okay, everyone, let’s line up and do some Zumba!”

Nikki took her place at the front of the group, and

they all shuffled into two neat rows, with Alex at the

end. I swear the woman next to him, every bit of five-

foot-two and eighty if she was a day, pinched his ass,

and he laughed.

If I even admired it too long, he’d tell me to stop leer-

ing. Talk about a double standard.

“I think Alex should stand up front with you, Nikki!”

shouted the Pincher. “He’ll inspire us to work hard-

er!”

Ha. He’d never do it. He’d turn Neanderthal on them,

growl a few times, and we could get out of here. I’d

even admit it was a stupid idea.

“Sure thing.” He swaggered to the head of the class

and gave me a long, pointed look before grasping the

bottom of his black t-shirt and pulling it over his

head. “Need to get out of this wet shirt, though.”

Every woman in the room sighed. Except me. I took

an enormous bite of chocolate and chewed like a goat.

At least until the deafening sound of Latin music be-

gan, followed by various degrees of hip swiveling. At

least half the Red Hats were avidly watching one par-

ticular set of hips in black jogging pants.

Not me. I jerked my hood back up, stomped unnoticed

out the door, and sloshed through the parking lot to-

ward Burger King. There was a chocolate shake with

my name on it.

Copyright 2013 Suzanne Johnson. May not be re-

printed or shared without written permission of the

author.

Supernatural New Orleans: A Few Theories

Suzanne Johnson

Long before Anne Rice established New Orleans as a haven for world-weary vampires, my adopted hometown

had been a hotbed of supernatural activity and legend.

When I began writing my Sentinels of New Orleans series, which began with the onslaught of Hurricane Katri-

na, it was a given that NOLA would be my setting. Even without the hurricane, however, it’s hard to go wrong

setting a paranormal story here. I don’t know if there has ever been a study of the most popular setting for para-

normal fiction, but I’d be shocked if New Orleans wasn’t No. 1 in the U.S., perhaps the world.

Why? I came up with four reasons the Crescent City (called this due to the crescent shape of the Mississippi

River as it winds through the metro area) is such a paranormal hub. In no particular order....

1. Age. It’s no Rome or Paris or London, but by U.S. standards, New Orleans is a very old city, founded by

Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne, Sieur de Bienville, in 1718. What’s more unusual, it has retained much of its origi-

nal architecture thanks to a total miscalculation by military leaders during the Civil War. The city was the

largest in the South, a major port that controlled the Mississippi River, and the economic hub of the Confeder-

acy. But the military leaders put most of the defense around the northern perimeter and left the river itself de-

fended only by three small forts. The Union ships sailed right on in and took control of the city early. So un-

like Atlanta and other Southern cities, New Orleans was not burned to the ground. In fact, the city itself saw

no fighting at all.

As a result, the French Quarter is still intact and its crumbling buildings might have been repaired a bazillion

times over the centuries, but they retain the flavor of the original French colony and, later, Spanish outpost.

It’s the most European of American cities, and it’s hard not to walk a deserted side street late at night and not

feel the ghosts of the past around you.

2. Population. As a port city, New Orleans has always been peopled by a large array of nationalities. French

and Spanish colonists were there early, as well as Italians who worked the docks and Irishmen the wharves.

There was also a very large population of free people of color in New Orleans, many of whom arrived from

the French colonies of the West Indies. Most prominent among them were those from what today is Haiti and

the Dominican Republic. They came to New Orleans to start a new life, in one of the only Southern ports

where they were legally allowed to own land and businesses, and brought with them voudou, their version of

the African belief system. New Orleans and “voodoo” became linked, and its mysticism gave rise to many

legends and traditions.

Today, the voodoo shops and museums are mostly tourist traps, but in the parishes outside the city, and some

of the back rooms within it, it’s still practiced.

3. Violence. In the last decade, New Orleans has pretty much reigned as the per-capita murder capital of the

U.S. It’s nothing new, however. In the early 1800s, when the privateer/pirate Jean Lafitte ruled his kingdom

of a thousand ruffians and sailors just south of the city, New Orleans had already established a reputation for

violence. My own theory is that the city’s violence has stemmed from the unholy trinity of population, weath-

er, and poverty.

Lots of nationalities means a lot of clashing ideals and beliefs. Port cities tend to violence, as ships’ crews and

dockworkers let off steam, usually fueled by plenty of alcohol. Where people die violently, spirits linger. New

Orleans’ violent history has contributed to its generally being considered the most haunted city in the U.S.

(And for you Sentinels fans, the ghost of Jean Lafitte himself, no stranger to violence, is believed by many to

haunt the Lafitte Blacksmith Shop Bar on lower Bourbon Street.)

4. Geography. There’s a joie de vivre in South Louisiana unlike any I’ve encountered in my moves to differ-

ent parts of the country, and I attribute it to the fact that there’s a fragility to living there. I mean, if you live in

a bowl-shaped city below sea level, in the direct path of Gulf hurricanes, and protected by a shaky levee sys-

tem, there’s a “party hard because it all might be gone tomorrow” attitude that keeps the city feeling more like

a Caribbean outpost than a captain of American industry. Even before things like levee systems were invent-

ed—and before the advent of air conditioning—half the city’s population could die of mosquito-borne yellow

fever on any given summer. Folk superstitions and urban legends stemming from this “here today-gone to-

morrow” attitude are widespread. Add the surrounding swampland, fog on the river thick enough to drown in,

the abundance of massive live oaks and Spanish moss, and the world’s largest population of alligators, and

you add an extra creep factor where the paranormal thrives.

Have you been to New Orleans? What do you think most evokes the paranormal there? (I haven’t even men-

tioned the above-ground cemeteries!)

1. age

2. violent history/international influence of port

3. weather and geography

4. Haitian influence

5. Live hard/die unexpectedly city that care forgot/

Elysian Fields

Sentinels of New Orleans Series

Book Three

Suzanne Johnson

Genre: Urban Fantasy

Publisher: Tor Books

Date of Publication: August 13, 2013

ISBN: 978-0765333193

ASIN: B00CQY7TOI

Book Description:

The mer feud has been settled, but life in South Louisi-

ana still has more twists and turns than the muddy Mis-

sissippi. New Orleanians are under attack from a copy-

cat killer mimicking the crimes of a 1918 serial mur-

derer known as the Axeman of New Orleans.

Thanks to a tip from the undead pirate Jean Lafitte, DJ

Jaco knows the attacks aren't random--an unknown

necromancer has resurrected the original Axeman of New Orleans, and his ultimate target is a

certain blonde wizard.

Namely, DJ. Fighting off an undead serial killer as troubles pile up around her isn't easy. Jake

Warin's loup-garou nature is spiraling downward, enigmatic neighbor Quince Randolph is act-

ing weirder than ever, the Elders are insisting on lessons in elven magic from the world's most

annoying wizard, and former partner Alex

Warin just turned up on DJ's to-do list. Not to mention big maneuvers are afoot in the halls of

preternatural power.

Suddenly, moving to the Beyond as Jean Lafitte's pirate wench? It could be DJ's best option.

River Road

Sentinels of New Orleans

Book Two

Suzanne Johnson

Genre: Urban Fantasy

Publisher: Tor Books

ISBN: 978-0765327802

ASIN: B00842H5VI

Book Description:

Hurricane Katrina is long gone, but the preternatural

storm rages on in New Orleans. New species from the

Beyond moved into Louisiana after the hurricane de-

stroyed the borders between worlds, and it falls to wiz-

ard sentinel Drusilla Jaco and her partner, Alex Warin,

to keep the preternaturals peaceful and the humans una-

ware. But a war is brewing between two clans of Cajun merpeople in Plaquemines Parish, and

down in the swamp, DJ learns, there’s more stirring than angry mermen and the threat of a

were-gator.

Wizards are dying, and something—or someone—from

the Beyond is poisoning the waters of the mighty Missis-

sippi, threatening the humans who live and work along

the river. DJ and Alex must figure out what unearthly

source is contaminating the water and who—or what—is

killing the wizards. Is it a malcontented merman, the

naughty nymph, or some other critter altogether? After

all, DJ’s undead suitor, the pirate Jean Lafitte, knows his

way around a body or two.

It’s anything but smooth sailing on the bayou as the Sen-

tinels of New Orleans series continues

Royal Street

Sentinels of New Orleans

Book One

Suzanne Johnson

Genre: Urban Fantasy

Publisher: Tor Books

ISBN: 978-0765327796

ASIN: B006OM459U

Book Description:

As the junior wizard sentinel for New Orleans, Drusilla Jaco's job involves a lot more potion-

mixing and pixie-retrieval than sniffing out supernatural bad guys like rogue vampires and le-

thal were-creatures. DJ's boss and mentor, Gerald St. Simon, is the wizard tasked with protect-

ing the city from anyone or anything that might slip over from the preternatural beyond.

Then Hurricane Katrina hammers New Orleans' fragile levees, unleashing more than just dan-

gerous flood waters. While winds howled and Lake Pontchartrain surged, the borders between

the modern city and the Otherworld crumbled. Now the undead and the restless are roaming

the Big Easy, and a serial killer with ties to voodoo is murdering soldiers sent to help the city

recover.

To make it worse, Gerald St. Simon has gone missing, the wizards' Elders have assigned a

grenade-toting assassin as DJ's new partner, and undead pirate Jean Lafitte wants to make her

walk his plank. The search for Gerry and the killer turns personal when DJ learns the hard

way that loyalty requires sacrifice, allies come from the unlikeliest places, and duty mixed

with love creates one bitter roux.

About the Author:

On Aug. 28, 2005, Suzanne Johnson loaded two dogs, a cat, a friend, and her mom into a car

and fled New Orleans in the hours before Hurricane Katrina made landfall.

Four years later, she began weaving her experiences and love for her city into the Sentinels of

New Orleans urban fantasy series, beginning with Royal Street (2012), continuing with River

Road (2012), and now with Elysian Fields (August 2013).

She grew up in rural Alabama, halfway between the Bear Bryant Museum and Elvis’ birth-

place, and lived in New Orleans for fifteen years—which means she has a highly refined

sense of the absurd and an ingrained love of SEC football and fried gator on a stick.

As Susannah Sandlin, she writes the best-selling Penton Vampire Legacy paranormal romance

series and the recent standalone, Storm Force.

Website and Blog Twitter Facebook Facebook Fan Page Goodreads

Excerpt:

Bronte faced the senator. “I’m here to ask for your help.”

“Help with what, Bronte?” The gruff, hoarse words came from behind her, accompanied by a flood of

vibes.

She wouldn’t have recognized his voice except for that energy pouring into her. She wrenched around

in her seat to see the lion prowl out of the shadows.

His gaze targeted her like she was prey that might escape. “Tell us how we can help you. And then

you can explain why you ran away from me.”

Her mind recorded him like a pencil scratching away at paper to save his image—his dark hair clipped

short, eyebrows that formed stark lines with a skeptical bent near their ends. A crease pulled between his

brows that hadn’t been there before. His rugged face had weathered storms his brother had avoided. Those

storms had chiseled away any softness.

She closed her eyes, stopping the mental sketching—a necessity to save her sanity. She turned her

whole body back toward the senator and only opened her eyes when she knew Vincent wasn’t in her line of

sight.

“Vin!” Happy surprise colored every note of the senator’s voice. “How long have you been standing

back there? Your energy is so subdued I didn’t even sense you until now.”

“I didn’t either.” Edmund’s voice was equally surprised. “Miss Casteel, your beauty has distracted

us.”

Bronte fought to keep her calm mask intact. Her heart boomed like the senator’s voice and threatened

to shake that mask right off her face. She couldn’t let that happen. Diplomatic words and composure were her

only weapons in this battle, a quick escape her only viable strategy. She stood, one move closer to getting to

the door. At her cue, all the men stood as well.

The closer Vincent came, the more his energy reached out to her. It touched her, filled her in places

she’d forgotten were empty. Dangerous memories spilled back. If she knew how, she’d dump his vibrations

out of her hidden vessel, turn it over, and sit on it like a metal bucket until it sank into the dirt with the force

of her weight. She’d seal her hollow spaces shut and keep him out forever. To do otherwise would only invite

death to creep close.

Vincent strode toward her.

She held her ground and looked him in the eye. “I do not need your help. I am simply the messenger.

Here on behalf of the Casteels.” She cleared her throat to try again and turned to the senator. “Senator Rallis,

my family requests your assistance.”

The senator’s wise gaze locked on Vincent, his expression thoughtful and full of silent words Bronte

lacked the power to hear. Curiosity lit the dark depths of his gaze as they landed back on her.

Vincent leaned toward her. “And they sent you as their messenger?” His voice was soft, a caress

against her skin. “The most vulnerable and weakest of them all, to fight their battles.”

“I am not weak.” She risked a quick glance at him. “I have plenty of strength to fight whatever battles

I need to.” She bit her tongue to stop her aggressive tone. Arguing would not help her cause.

“Vincent, you are making our guest uncomfortable.” The senator’s tone went quiet. Deadly. The boom

was much safer, she realized.

“No, I’m not. At least not with my vibes, Granddad.” Vincent’s reply was matter-of-fact. He held all the

power between them, and he was going to use it. Running for the door would not help her now.

“My mage vibes do not make her uncomfortable.”

Her hold on her tongue wasn’t tight enough to stop her gasp. She’d messed up. Goddess, but she’d

messed up. She closed her eyes for a moment at the realization. Instead of drinking Vincent in, she should have

faked a reaction to his power, imitated the jittery anxiousness Nons felt around a mage who wasn’t suppressing

his energy. Maybe that would have saved her.

“Vincent. She’s a Non. Of course you’re making her uncomfortable.” The senator’s reprimand was de-

ceptively soft.

Bronte stared at Vincent as desperation swirled inside her. “Please. Don’t.”

“She’s not a Non.” Vincent’s words shattered her hope of escape.

Syphon’s Song

Mayflower Mages

Book One

Anise Rae

Genre: Paranormal Romance

Publisher: Lyrical Press/Kensington

Date of Publication: March 3, 2014

ISBN: 978-1-61650-211-9

ASIN: B00IPQWVYE

Number of pages: 359

Word Count: 98,000

Cover Artist: Renee Rocco

Available at Amazon

Book Description:

Legends say a syphon can drain a mage dry. He’ll brave the danger. Will she?

Someone’s playing pranks. The body of the late Casteel patriarch has been stolen and gifted to the family’s ene-

my, the powerful Rallises. As far as Bronte Casteel is concerned, they can keep it. She hasn’t spoken to her fam-

ily in thirteen years, not since they exiled her from society for her lack of mage power. But she’s a syphon mage,

able drain another mage’s power. Syphons’ destinies are always the same: death by fiery stake. She hides her

secret by living among the Nons--powerless humans and the lowest class in the Republic. When her family or-

ders her to go plead for the body’s return, she comes face to face with the one man who knows her secret.

Colonel Vincent Rallis isn’t letting his syphon get away this time. Not when she’s under suspicion of body-

napping and aiding anti-mage terrorists. He’ll prove her innocence whether she wants him to or not, and then

convince her they belong together...forever.

Vincent’s help comes with a steep price: Bronte must reveal her power. The inevitable ensuing witch-hunt and

trial would be bad enough, but even a tough girl might buckle if her prosecutors are her own parents.

CONTENT WARNING: Hot, steamy nights with the colonel’s magic touch

A Lyrical Press Paranormal Romance

About the Author:

Anise Rae grew up among the cornfields and soybeans of Ohio, dreaming of being a ballerina,

an astronaut, and a romance writer. Thanks to her soul deep love of chocolate and a lack of

natural grace, her ballerina dreams floated away as high as the moon, equidistant with the as-

tronaut aspiration. She stuck with writing.

Now transplanted to the south, Anise lives in the sub-

urbs of Atlanta with her kids and a dog gifted with the

power of finding dirty socks.

Syphon’s Song, a 2012 Maggie Award of Excellence

finalist, is the first book in the Mayflower Mages se-

ries.

https://www.facebook.com/AniseRaeauthor

www.aniserae.com

www.twitter.com/aniserae

www.pinterest.com/aniserae

Author photo by www.surianiphoto.com

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Or shop locally

“Your eyes are so lovely; please don’t hide them from me. Don’t be afraid. I would never hurt you.”

His sincerity must have been contagious because the words slipped through my lips without permission.

“I know you’d never hurt me intentionally. It’s the unintentional consequences I fear.”

He brought his other hand up to cup my other cheek and, with my face firmly held he said, “Linden, I’m

not fool enough to think that the gods don’t intentionally f**k with us.”

His use of that word was unexpected. Always a gentleman, but always something more carnal beneath

the surface too. The inconsistency seemed natural.

“But if that ever happens, I will spend forever trying to atone. Don’t turn away from me.” He stared at me

for a moment and when his face started to move toward mine, I thought for sure he would kiss my lips, but in-

stead he placed a lingering kiss to my forehead and pulled me into a hug. If he felt anything for me other than

friendship, that was his moment to prove it. I had my answer. I gave a forced smile and pulled away.

“Please, play,” he said while trailing his hand over my back.

Facing the piano, with my fingers lingering above the keys, I tried not to allow disappointment to lace my

words. “How did you know about the song?” My racing heart slowed as I realized the kiss wouldn’t happen.

His response was casual. “I have very keen hearing and you start to hum it every time you walk away

from me to return home. Where is the song from?”

Strange. Maybe I was louder than I thought.

“I don’t know where I learned it. I think I made it up, but it’s hard to know for sure.”

“It’s beautiful, please...” He motioned to the piano.

He stood and I pressed one key to test to see if it was in tune. Pitch-perfect, of course. I should have ex-

pected no less. I stretched to measure the distance to the pedals. After my assessment, I began to play. As I

pressed the keys, I tried to forget he was even in the room, but that became impossible as he provided subtle

hints as to how I should adjust my posture. He pushed back on my shoulders and lifted my elbows with a light

touch. The adjustment made a difference, and in time my composition transitioned to something more graceful.

He placed his hands on my shoulders as he stood behind me and whispered, “Now relax, the music is in

control. Give in to it. Let it take you, command you, while you find freedom in its control.”

His finger made small massaging circles on my neck and shoulders, and the more he touched me, the

more at ease I became. I played better than I ever had.

He ran his hands up and down my forearms, coaxing the notes from my fingers as he whispered in my

ear, “That’s it. You are much more relaxed. Music is energy, Linden. With energy, you must first make yourself

an attractive conduit. Energy does not like resistance. The less resistant you are, the more it can take hold, be-

come stronger—make you stronger. Allow it to embody you, become one with you, and embrace its possession.”

His breath teased as his words sent waves of electricity through me.

I added improvisational parts to the song I had never imagined. I played sequences far beyond my skill

level without effort. As I neared the end of the song, the magical feeling broke down, and with it went my new-

found ability. It was as if I took a drug to make me a better musician and it had begun to wear off, but I knew it

wasn’t a drug. It was Cyril.

As the last notes breathed their final whisper to the air, I heard him say, “Well done! I bet you even sur-

prised yourself.”

“How did you do that?”

“I didn’t do anything. I simply taught you to sit up and concentrate. Other than that, it was all you. Mu-

sic can’t possess the unwilling.”

I shot him a suspicious glare. “All right...your turn.” I went to get up.

“No, please stay. Let me see...I’ll play something you know. How about Beethoven’s Sonata quasi una

fantasia? You may know it as the Moonlight Sonata.”

I nodded. He could have played Chopsticks and I would have been happy.

He began with the solemn phrasing of the piece. Every languid note held so much emotion. My fingers

mindlessly stroked the side of his leg in the slow melodic tempo of the first movement. The mournful timbre

accented the sadness I felt knowing that every minute I stayed with him, it was going to be much harder to ac-

cept I could never have him.

I had only heard the first movement of the piece but as the somber melody transitioned into a more ener-

getic strain, I knew it would be an experience I would never forget.

His enthusiastic gestures, the bounce of his hair as he pounded out the rapid notes, all added to the look

of determination on his face. The notes were saturated in passion, and violence defined him. I watched him with

intense concentration and wondered if he brought that same passion to his kisses, his bed, and his love. It would

be a miracle if one person could harness him.

When he played the last note, his breathing was heavy and a thin film of perspiration coated the skin of

his brow and neck. He looked down at the floor and then slowly into my eyes. That instant, the connection

formed again. He reached up and brushed the hair from my face and I did the same to him, draping his thick,

dark, sweat-moistened locks behind his ear.

“That was magnificent. I’ve never...”

His hand reached up to cup my face. His thumb caressed my lower lip as I spoke.

“Heard...or seen...anything like you. I mean that.”

He smiled and continued to outline my lip.

“Linden...” he said with a breathy whisper, “there are so many things I want to show you, teach you. I

want you to make me a promise.”

I answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

“The way you are looking at me right now... Please, always look at me this way. Stare into my eyes and

see me for who I am and know that there is nothing more than this. When the world calls things into question,

you need not question me because I will always be here for you. The comfort I find in your eyes is new and

frightening.”

I found it difficult to believe anything frightened this man. He cupped my cheek and with tenderness that

mirrored his words, he caressed my face and trailed his hand to rest on my chest just below my neck. I wrapped

my hand around his wrist, holding him to me.

He leaned in, pinning our arms between us, and breathed, “Promise me.”

I closed my eyes, reveling in his closeness, his scent, his heat. “OK.”

“Good.”

He inhaled. “I will make you a promise in return. I cannot bring you into my world as I would like, so I

will not ask you to indulge me further. I should let you go, but I’m sorry, I am far too selfish to break all ties. I

do promise to always be your friend, your mentor.”

Deep down, hopeful he might love me and see me as a woman, I opened my eyes and managed a smile

filled with sadness and disappointment.

Protégé was the title bestowed upon me, not girlfriend, lover, or wife. I looked away from him to try to

pull back the tears that escaped my eyes.

“Already breaking your promise?”

I looked up and he brushed my tears away with his thumb.

“I’m not immune, Linden. I feel it too. I just need to be stronger than this, for you.” He pulled me into

his embrace.

His arms were tight around me. He smiled but something sad lingered behind it. “It’s getting late. I

should get you home.”

Symphony of Light and Winter

Symphony of Light

Book One

Renea Mason

Genre: Paranormal Erotic Romance

ISBN: 978-1-940223-10-0

Release Date: 06/21/2013

Word Count: 88,375

Page Count: 389

Blurb

One woman. Seven men. All bound by one man’s un-

dying devotion.

Fundraiser Linden Hill has a knack for reading people.

She always knows which conversations will put a pro-

spect at ease, which drink will loosen a patron’s lips—

or his wallet, and how cleavage will make a donor

sweeten the deal. She’s even foreseen her dateless weekends four hundred and sixty-four times

in a row.

But ten years after watching life drain from her former mentor’s and first love’s eyes, her skills

for divining the predictable are lost. When Cyril returns, he’s still gorgeous, but this time he’s

beyond human, far less dead, and pissed. His lack of memory drives him to desperate acts, and

his turbulent re-acquaintance with Linden pulls her into his war with a creature hell-bent on his

destruction. His group of six supernatural men share a tantalizing secret, but despite the hunger,

it’s love that leads her to sacrifice everything to save him…

Amazon BN ARe Kobo

Etopia Press Bookstrand

About the Author:

Renea Mason writes steamy romances to help even out the estrogen to testosterone imbalance caused by living

in a house full of men.

When she isn’t putting pen to paper crafting sensual stories filled with supernatural lovers, she spends time with

her beyond-supportive husband, two wonderful sons and three loving but needy cats.

Her debut novel, Symphony of Light and Winter, finished second for Best New Paranormal Series of 2013 in

Paranormal Cravings’ Battle of the Books and received a third place award for Best New Paranormal Romance

of 2013 in The Paranormal Romance Guild’s Reviewers Choice Awards.

Renea is a member of Romance Writers of America, The Paranormal Romance Guild and The Fantasy, Futuris-

tic and Paranormal subchapter of the Romance Writers of America.

She is also a founding member of Coffee Talk Writers and the Coffee Talk website–a site designed to support

established writers and foster new talent.

http://www.ReneaMason.com

http://www.Facebook.com/ReneaMasonAuthor

http://www.Facebook.com/

symphonyoflightandwinter

http://www.Pinterest.com/ReneaMason

http://www.goodreads.com/ReneaMason

http://reneamason.tumblr.com/

https://twitter.com/ReneaMason1

http://www.amazon.com/ReneaMason/e/

B00DIMOX2S/

Stitch Witch Creations from Sophie Avette's Sinister Stiches Series

Guest-starring Marcella Burnard’s Isa from Nightmare Ink My characters are either naked or dressed to kill. Given they’re all monsters stalking the city of New Gotham’s twisted, cracked, and cobbled streets, the criminal wardrobe is part of the job de-scription. Rockabilly princesses, corpse brides, leather queens…my city is full of them. Where do they get their menacing threads? There is a boutique hiding out between the fractured, narrow store-fronts lining the foggy docks. The shingles are ribbed and black. Washed, peeling paint and displays offer views into wicked leather and lace studded glam. The mannequins are ghoulish beauties stitched together from whatever was left from the last fool to cross one of the sinister witches. Push open its shabby, frosted front door. Tiny white flakes of paint will pepper the wind like spec-tral dust. The minute you set heel onto waxy polished oak floors and step into the candelabra fire-light you know… This is where the magic happens.

Welcome to Sinister Stitches “…apparel for a wicked fairy tale.”

A spicy trinity of black magic sisters breathe star-dusted dreams to life with their gothic apparel boutique. They are schooled in the old ways of “fabric-bending” by the Needlewitches of old. With this knowledge, they’ve created an entire line of clothing that all share the same basic design ele-ment: one-size fits all. Each garment will magically tailor itself to its wearer once worn. There might be some “twirling” required, but a vampire’s steady hand should turn every wardrobe change into a stolen moment. Care to take a peek at what the Sinister Stitches has to offer? Check out some of the questionnaire Marcella Burnard’s Isa from Nightmare Ink was asked to fill out after she wandered into Sinister Stitches.

THE WITCHES WHO STITCH QUESTIONNAIRE

Please provide the witches with your name: Isa Romanchzyk Please provide the witches with the following: Hair Color: Black Hair Length: [ ] Short and Sassy, [ ] Medium and Modern, [X] Lush and Long Eye Color: Dark brown/black Skin Tone: [ ] Ghoulish, [ ] Snow White, [X] Cina-baby, [ ] Mochalicious, [ ] Dark Chocolate, [ ] Other:__________ Please provide the witches with your measurements and body-type. a.) Height: 5’7” b.) Body Type: [ ] Skeletal, [x] Lean and Tender, [ ] Lean and Tough, [ ] Ripe and Edible Do you have any extra extremities? Place an “X” to all that apply. [ ] Horns or [ ] Halo [ ] 20 ft. of Hair or More [ ] Gills and Fins or [ ] Hooves [ ] Wings (Span: ) [ ] Tail (How many: ) How many heads do you have? NOT funny. One. Physically. I don’t care what *he* says. I’m still in the driver’s seat. Do you have arms and legs? If so, how many? Yes, of course, but I don’t…*glances down at full body tattoo of winged demon* uhm. Usual number. For the moment. How dead are you? [X] Living, [ ] Undead, [X] Astral Form – extra-planar travel as pertains to the working of magic. Can’t be helped. What are you? (Species/Breed) No one really knows, right? I mean, genetically, we’re told we’re still human. Ish. But the fact that I draw things that come true … suggests more. And this guy? *Gestures to the gleaming emerald eye of her tattoo* He’s complicated. What is the occasion? (Ideas include: Wedding, Funeral, Sabbath, etc. Oh, and seduction is a valid occasion. The more details, the better.)

Apparently, I’m to be used as a ‘key’ to open a door between worlds. I gather this will end in my demise, thus it’s likely to also be a family reunion of sorts. Unless you can do something that would turn away a silver knife blade? Or at worst, something my funeral director can wash the bloodstains from? What’s the occasion setting? (Beach, haunted castle, grand ball, etc.) The rusty, cold hold of a fishing boat/Astral (Otherworld, Dreamtime – whatever you’d like to call it.) Will you be running for your life at some point in the evening?(Helps with shoe selection.) No. I’d like to think so, but no. Chains are likely to figure into the restraint plan. My nemesis seems to have a limited imagination on that front. Will you be set on fire? Better yet, will you be setting other people on fire? How I wish I could set certain people afire. I can guarantee, however, that bolts of magic, includ-ing the odd curse, will be flung with malicious intent. Will you be grave-robbing? (Dirt is a dressmaker’s tedium.) No! Desecrate sacred ground?? Is that what you think of me? Is your neck a dinner plate? If the demon sewn to my skin is to be free, he must rip out my throat and take over my body. Life for life. So when we say ‘dinner plate’, think in terms of ‘last supper’. Do you hope to be naked at some point in the evening? (All right, dirty birds. Such questions are actually intended toward the weres and shifters in regards to their transformations.) Not on purpose. Describe your last brush with Death in two sentences. (Helps us plan for the unexpected.) Tortured and starved for six weeks, which is when the Living Tattoo was forced upon me with the intent of stealing my magic and my life. Spider Woman forbade my death. Do you need a secret compartment for weapons, wands, tampons, etc.? No. I have more than enough secrets, thanks. What are your three favorite colors? Black, black, dark gray. What? I grew up in a conservative household. My piercing artist tries to get me to wear other colors. I just don’t see the point.

What two colors rattle your kettle? Light blue, white Please pick a style that you feel embodies you the best. If none apply, feel free to surprise us by providing your own brilliant description in the “other” slot. [ ] Rockabilly Starlet: This is for the spoonfuls of sugar. The good-natured and naughty girl next door types. Candy is the business and fairy tales are ultimate. More often than not, her head is in the clouds and her nose in the book. Our dreamers. [ ] Leather Queen: This is for the warrior princesses. The type of girls who give boys a run for their money and wear tight jeans just watch the little vampires come undone. Hands for fighting and these heels for ass-kickings. Our protectors. [ ] Medieval Mistress: This is for the no-nonsense girls. The ones who know better because they’re ten steps ahead. They’re schemers—they might be shy, or they might not be. More importantly, they’re selective. Our wisdom. [ ] Gothic Dame: This for the mysteries. The ones no one can quite make heads or tails out off. She’s a mixture, a melting pot of sugar and sinister. She might be Rockabilly Starlet one day, or a Medieval Mistress other days. Our sisters. [X] Other: Hard working, barely getting by tattoo artist and extra-planar traveler. Brought up in the Navajo Nation by a trio of elders who taught me healing, chant, and trance work. Other cultures say ‘shaman’. Special consultant to the Seattle Police Department’s Acts of Magic Unit. Who is your favorite fairy tale villain? No favorites. Monsters are real. I’ve known too many of them. Sometimes, I think I may be one. If you could be any fairy tale princess, who would it be? Is there a fairy tale princess of normal? I’d like that. To have people not be afraid of me or the magic. If only for a few minutes. Now, tell us the twit you hate most. So many choices… the one who kidnapped and tattooed me – Daniel. No. The monster tattooed on Daniel. No! My cousin Charlie. Oh yeah. He’s the one. All right. I admit it. If I could desecrate his grave? We’d be designing a very different dress. Anything else you’d like to add… I mentioned the demon tattooed to my hide. He’s sharing my living space – my psyche, my body, fighting me for control. You’d think I’d hate him. I don’t. He’s only looking for freedom. And maybe revenge. Thing is, if I lose control and he wins, people will die. A lot of people. Is it possible to design some kind of warning system into the clothing? While I’m me and throwing sparks of amber magic, the clothes stay one color? But if his midnight dark magic takes over – I don’t know – can the clothes turn into a flashing DANGER sign?

After many barrels of chocolate, a dash of magic, and furious sewing… Sinister Stitches’ Gothic Dame,

Madame Mari presents Isa’s Completed Dress “Rebel Angel”

Spanish Jasmine, spectral dust and Bayou willow leaves circle the slender figure shrouded in the midst. Twin viceroy swallow-tail wings stretch high over her back and the sweeping ever-green evening frock spun from clover and cannabis pales in comparison to the sheer utter majesty of true court: Welcome to Sinister Stitches, shugah. I’m Madame Mari. This is my little shop of sissorhands. Now then, let’s get with the stitchin’. First, the outfit begins very simple. We’ve spun you a simple tight form-fitting asylum blouse. It’s woven from black sheep wool found right here in New Gotham and outfitted with a coating of specter dust. It should be stain resistant and offer a great deal of protection against things like...well, just about anything really. If it’s moving the speed of a bullet (or faster) it’ll pass right through body without leav-ing a scratch on your...or the threads.

Gillian the Candy Witch, and my beloved eldest, was in charge of your skirt. The mini-tutu petticoat skirt is fashioned from sable silk spun from black butterfly cocoons and brimstone crepe imported from The Veil. The fabric is light, soft, and slight-ly crinkled to give you that extra effortless sweet and sour sil-houette. Expect two volume adding tiers with ruffled mesh frills at the hems. As far as your query about a “danger sign,” all you need for that is an accessory, dear. Astrid, my daughter, got in touch with her friend, Elsa the Troll, from Bits and Pieces. Together, they scoured the goblin mar-kets in search of just the thing. Pay special close attention to the beaded necklace, dear. While you’re in control, they will appear as mundane Neverland black pearls. In the event all...well, demon should break loose, they will glow white. That way everyone’s kettle is rattled and there’s a chance to save the day in time for tea. We’ve paired the outfit with a pair of merfolk net stockings and my dear pup, Brenda, threw in your knee-high, patent leather hooker boots from Hellish Heels. Ac-cording to her, one shouldn't stalk around hell on earth in anything else. Here, take your dress box. No, no, it’s on the house, dear. You’ve made an old girl laugh and that’s worth the world to me. Come back and see us for tea, sometime. I’m sure, Brenda, would so love to share a snarky giggle or two. IMPORTANT BULLETINS from THE PIXIES: Fancy a tour of New Gotham?Check out New Gotham’s Survival Guide! It might save your life! (Link:http://sophieavett.weebly.com/new-gotham-bonus-content.html) For more information about Sophie Avett’s New Gotham nov-els and Sinister Stitches series and recent release, ‘Twas the Darkest Night, please check out her website: http://www.sophieavett.weebly.com For more information about Marcella Burnard and Isa’s ad-ventures in Nightmare Ink, please check out her website: http://www.marcellaburnard.com/books.html Image Credit(s): chaoss

Twas the Darkest Night A New Gotham Novel A Sinister Stiches Spin-off Sophie Avett

Genre: Erotic Gothic Paranormal Romance Publisher: Skeleton Key Publishing Date of Publication: March 15, 2014 Number of pages: est. 355 pages Word Count: est. 160, 000 Cover Artist: Elaina, For the Muse Designs Book Description: Remember the story about the troll who lived under the bridge—yes, well, that twit didn't have to pay rent. Owner and operator of Bits and Pieces, and resident expert on charms and glamours, Elsa Karr is a witch with a sour frown and a list of things to do as long as Thor’s hammer. Top of the list is sav-ing her father's shop from ruin. If she isn't trying to claw her way out of debt, she's arguing with her cat, Fenris, or shoveling carts of cake into her gob. She's not interested in romance or the vampire who rents the flat above her shop. All she wants is a little peace and chocolate--fine, all right! All right! The vampire is kind of screw all cute. (Curse him.) The disgraced son and heir of the Wingates House vampire clan and a mad-man to boot, Mar-shall Ansley spends most of his time working and dodging his mother's phone calls. Marshall is beyond family. He's beyond everyone, actually. Don’t be daft, he especially doesn't do…Christmas. But behold, the plague brings an original flavor of annoyance this year when his boss tasks him with acquiring the account of a recluse fey and her upcoming Gothic clothing boutique, Sinister Stitches. That is the ONLY reason he's bothering with his shrewish landlord. No, that's it. No…really. Fine, if you insist, the witch might be a tad bit...all right, she's adorable. (Damn her.) Scrooge meets Scrooge. Dominant meets Dominant. Tempers…spark. In each other, they may unfold a tale that only comes to pass on the darkest of nights. About the Author: Sophie Avett is kind of a nerd. Like not even one of the cute, hip ones everyone brags about now-adays. More like the socially awkward hippie who eats way too much bread and dreams about be-ing a dragon from behind towers of mythology books. Um...yeah. Picture old, tattered paperbacks and comic books--mostly Batman and Wonder Woman--dwarfing a tiny desk, with just barely enough room for the troll who writes there and the 70 pound hell-hound that insists of laying it's wet nose on top of her bare foot. Granted not the most exciting existence, but she tries to make up for it by writing romances popu-lated with her own peculiar ilk of paranormal beasties. Trolls, wyverns, the obscure Nordic brown-ie--she likes to keep things interesting. And bloody. (And mostly naked--but, we'll keep that bit be-tween us.) Sophie Avett loves to hear from her readers. (Hi, mom.) So if there's something on your mind, feel free to leave a message after the scream.

http://sophieavett.weebly.com/about.html (Mom, seriously…you can just call me.) Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/SophieAvett Post-Its, the Blog: http://sophieavett.weebly.com/post-its-the-blog.html Brimstone Pub, the Blog: http://thebrimstonepub.com/ Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7779293.Sophie_Avett

Hello, Marcella. Can you tell readers a little bit about yourself and what inspired to write in this particular genre? I’m a geek. Nerd. Dork. However you want to phrase that. I love to read – usually scifi, fantasy, paranormal, urban fantasy – anything with a twist away from day to day reali-ty. I got into that reading habit as a kid when my day to day reality wasn’t all that kind and had little to recommend it from an entertainment standpoint. I always wanted to believe in magic, anyway. Possible personality defect. When Nightmare Ink popped into my head, I didn’t know what it was. I just obediently wrote it down. Now, I do love Urban Fantasy, but I didn’t set out to write one. It just sort of happened while I was too busy getting the story down. What is it about the paranormal, in particular vampires, that fascinates you so much? Heh. I was going to say that Murmur isn’t a vampire – but in a way – he IS. In order for him to live, he has to take the heroine’s life. It was that exchange; she has his life in her hands, he has hers (not to mention her sanity) in his hands. Neither one of them is particularly gentle about it. It made for some lovely conflict. What inspired you to write this book? I have a scrap of paper with a pair of sentences written on it (the lines came from a dream) “You are a work of art. Don’t make me de-stroy you.” That simmered away in the back of my head, I think, until the characters presented themselves and a couple of scenes. The rest of the book grew out of that. Please tell us about your latest release.

Nightmare Ink is the latest release – available April 15, 2014 (Look! Something to do with that tax refund you’ve already spent!) It’s an Urban Fantasy from Intermix, thus it is available in e-format only. Do you have a special formula for creating characters' names? Do you try to match a name with a certain meaning to attributes of the character or do you search for names popular in certain time periods or regions? Names are a pretty major part of a character for me, so the names have to be right – appropriate to the character before I can progress. I’ve certainly looked for names with specific meanings just to see if something strikes my fancy, but most of the time, I end up looking for sounds. Some characters need names that start with a vowel, others need something harder. Eventually, something whispers a name to me and it’s the right one. I try not to examine that process too closely. Was one of your characters more challenging to write than another? Murmur was difficult. He comes into the world not trusting anyone or anything. Turns out that’s tough on an author. He didn’t trust me, either. Trying to get motiva-tions and reasoning out of him made me want to slam my head repeatedly in a door. Is there a character that you enjoyed writing more than any of the others? Augustus, the heroine’s tripod red heeler. It’s because he’s based on a real dog, Ri-ley, who lived across from me for a couple of years. HUGE personality, way too smart for anyone’s good, and a completely loveable goof. He moved to Norway. I miss him. And his people. Do you have a formula for developing characters? Like do you create a char-acter sketch or list of attributes before you start writing or do you just let the character develop as you write? I’m a character driven writer – this means I have to know a lot about my main char-acters before I can start a story. I work my way through a set of templates from Break Into Fiction a book and workshop by Mary Buckham and Dianna Love. It gets pretty intense if I dig in far enough. It gives me a clear sense of my character arcs. From there, I can write scenes that challenge the hero and heroine. What is your favorite scene from the book? Could you share a little bit of it, without spoilers of course?

There’s a rescue scene in the latter half of the book that I like very much…but saying anything more than that risks spoilers. I can say the scene is set in one of my favorite places – the Japanese garden at the Washington Park Arboretum. http://www.seattle.gov/parks/parkspaces/japanesegarden.htm Did you find anything really interesting while researching this or another book? For this book, I got to learn way too much about tattooing. It is not an art for the squeamish. It’s pretty hard to freak me out, but even I had to look away when watch-ing someone injecting permanent tattoo dye into a guy’s eyeball to give him blue ‘stars’ in the white of his eye. O_o What is the most interesting thing you have physically done for book related re-search purposes? Caving in Belize – the cave was a Mayan sacrificial site and we were only allowed into the top two levels of the cavern where agricultural sacrifices were made. In lower lev-els of the cave, there were human remains. Only archeologists were allowed into the lower levels, which was just fine with me. I did not want to walk the same, potentially bloody path as the sacrificial victims whose bones rest down there in the dark. Can you tell readers a little bit about the world building in the book/series? How does this world differ from our normal world? Magic works, in Isa’s world. Specifically, someone’s found a way to make tattoos live. If you get Live Ink, you live in symbiosis with your tattoo. The Ink shares your body and your psyche. You heal fast and your life is lengthened. The tattoo also augments some aspect. In Nightmare Ink you see tattoos change people – someone with a fiery temper has that mitigated by the cooling influence of the tattoo he ends up with. With the book being part of a series, are there any character or story arcs, that readers jumping in somewhere other than the first book, need to be aware of? Can these books be read as stand alones? I really want books in any series I write to stand alone. That said, the first book (Nightmare Ink) plays a huge part in understanding where Murmur comes from and how he relates to Isa (the heroine) and the other characters. It will be much easier on a reader to get the books in order. Fortunately, Intermix labeled Nightmare Ink as book 1 in The Living Ink Series. Do any of your characters have similar characteristics of yourself in them and what are they? Always – since I’m the only head and body I can use for reference for feeling and ex-perience. :D That said – Isa has an issue with feeling inadequate. It’s one of the is-

sues I deal with. Other than that, though, she’s really dissimilar. She’s patient. I’m – not. She’s far more fatalistic than I am. She more Zen, maybe. She doesn’t seem to have my neuroses or my food issues. Sigh. Maybe I’m writing my characters as a bit of wish fulfillment. Do you ever suffer from writer’s block? How do you deal with it? Arg. Yes. I handle it with journaling. For me, writer’s block tends to be emotional trash piling up inside. Writing several pages by hand both morning and night clears all of that so I can hear the story again. So far, it’s been really effective. Exercise helps, too. Do you have any weird writing quirks or rituals? Must. Have. Tea. If there’s no tea, there are no words. I ride my bicycle to a local tea shop every morning where I work for several hours each day. They bring me tea and treats while I rack up word count. Do you write in different genres? Yes. I also write science fiction romance Do you find it difficult to write in multiple genres? Not so far. The voice for each is pretty distinct. SFR tends to be more action-oriented for me – a little thriller-y, if I’m doing my job. Urban Fantasy is richer. More detailed and a bit more psychological. When did you consider yourself a writer? That part hasn’t ever been a problem. I’ve been writing to entertain myself since forev-er. But thinking I might really be an author? I still struggle with that one. Remember what I said about inadequacy issues? Yeah. Here they are. What are your guilty pleasures in life? Watching The Walking Dead. It’s silly. We don’t have a TV because we live on a sail-boat. But we got hooked on the show. Every Sunday, my husband and I go hang with friends, potluck supper, and watch the show. I also play World of Warcraft. Still. With these same friends. Other than writing, what are some of your interests, hobbies or passions in life? Sailing, reading, feline rescue, reading tarot (for real and for true).

What was the last amazing book you read? The Hallowed One by Laura Bickle Where is your favorite place to read? Do you have a cozy corner or special read-ing spot? There’s a spot in the cockpit that I love but I usually have to fight a cat for it. It’s prime feline real estate and I usually lose. What can readers expect next from you? The sequel to Nightmare Ink. The title hasn’t been solidified yet – but that book is out in November. Where can readers find you on the web? http://www.marcellaburnard.com/ Author page on FB: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Marcella-Burnard/312302197270?ref=hl (low-ish traffic as I only post book news here)

Alternatively, if you want cat photos, stupid jokes and geekdom just search on Marcel-la Burnard and friend me if you want.

Twitter: @marcellaburnard

Would you like to leave readers with a little teaser or excerpt from the book?

“Hey, pretty lady. You look lonely,” a smooth, musical voice said as Isa strode toward her shop door.

She glanced at the striking young man reclining against the back of the bus shelter that stood in front of the kitchen wares store two doors down. In the glare of the street-

lights, the young man, dressed in skintight dark Levi’s, a shirt that outlined every de-fined muscle, and a beat-up leather jacket, raked Isa with a hungry glance.

Had to be one of Patty’s “projects” if he was working her territory.

“A couple of Ria’s gang tagged that shelter this morning,” Isa said, trusting he’d been on the streets long enough to know which gang claimed this part of Ballard Avenue. “Smear it and they’ll tag you.”

He jerked upright, swearing.

She smiled and reached for the door of Nightmare Ink.

“Aw, chica,” he said. “You don’t want to go in there. The owner, she’s a bruja. A witch. People say she’s got a secret room down in the basement. You go in there and part of you dies.”

Nightmare Ink Marcella Burnard ISBN: 91101630228 Book Description: With the needle of a tattoo gun, Isa Romanchzyk has the power to create and destroy. In her shop Nightmare Ink, Isa helps those in need by binding the powers embedded in their Live Ink—the magical tattoos that can enhance the life of the wearer, or end it. But binding tattoos has earned Isa the contempt of her fellow artists—including her former lover Daniel.

When a friend comes to the shop with a tattoo on the verge of killing him, Isa can’t turn him away. For the first time in years, she works Live Ink into someone’s skin—something she swore she’d never do again. But breaking her vow soon becomes the least of her problems. Isa is horrified to discover her friend’s body in the shop, but the real nightmare begins when she’s abducted and inked against her will. Now, as she seeks retribution from the man who betrayed her, Isa must figure out how to bind her Living Tattoo before it consumes her completely... About the Author: Marcella Burnard graduated from Cornish College of the Arts with a degree in acting. She writes science fiction romance for Berkley Sensation. Her first book, Enemy Within won the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice award for Best Futuris-tic of 2010. The second book in the series, Enemy Games, released on May 3, 2011. An erotica novella, Enemy Mine, set in the same world as the novels was released as an e-special edition by Berkley was released in April 2012. Emissary, a sword and sorcery short story released in the two volume Thunder on the Battlefield Anthology in the second half of 2013. http://www.marcellaburnard.com/ https://www.facebook.com/pages/Marcella-Burnard/ https://twitter.com/marcellaburnard

Chapter I

Charles Amato stared at the enclosed area.

His three years of Navy SEAL training and ops

could hardly prepare him for what he was witness-

ing.

Charles closed his eyes and shook his head.

When he opened them, the impossible scene had not

changed. He fought his instincts to run away. He

had to take responsibility and do something.

Clutching his gun, he did not take it out.

The threat wasn't immediate, and he did not want to

appear hostile to the alien life forms fenced inside

the motor pool storing military vehicles.

The alien nearest him was a large, stocky

light-blue skinned creature whose spiky head looked

oddly small in comparison to its tall, wide frame,

which was over three meters in height. Its long

tongue darted in and out from its sharp teeth. Four

short and stocky legs supported the alien’s hairless

body. Its four spindly arms, each with six thin fin-

gers, shot out in all directions.

The alien looked like it was jumping rope as

it bobbed its head and shifted its weight to each of

its four feet. It gazed at Charles, but did not move

toward him.

The second alien had a tall, angular body

with a dark brown face and wide, oval eyes that

looked almost human. Its pupils were the size of a

quarter. Wiry tendrils just below its nose had the

appearance of a long mustache except that the ten-

drils shifted and moved like appendages. Short,

matted hair covered its head. Its mouth was located

just above its neck. Two sets of short, mosquito-

like wings from its back flapped continuously, cre-

ating a buzzing sound.

The second alien stood on an open-air vehi-

cle that resembled a train, except that it hovered in

the air and was not supported by tracks. A trail of

smoke emanated from the rear of the vehicle. The

alien’s upper torso stuck out, and it drove in a circle,

not paying any attention to Amato.

Charles slowly stepped backward, hardly

believing what he was seeing. Perhaps this was a

hologram created by a computer wiz on a SEAL

team, but these creatures occupied physical space

and had mass.

Mentally retracing his tracks, he had re-

turned from the base’s infirmary after receiving

treatment on his sprained ankle. He had injured it

on a jump during HALO training when he had been

trying a maneuver while falling through the air.

After getting his ankle evaluated and re-

wrapped, his mind had been locked in on rest and

relaxation during the upcoming weekend until he

had encountered this situation. First, he had heard a

buzzing sound. Then, he had spotted the vehicle

moving, before getting a full view of the two aliens.

Other than the sprained ankle, Charles felt

fine. He was not sick, hallucinating or delirious.

He considered his options. If they were hos-

tile, he did not want to attract their attention. Alt-

hough he was armed, he had no idea of their capa-

bilities and did not want to find out.

He looked around, but could not see anyone

nearby. He felt alone and isolated, wishing there

was an officer to advise him.

The two aliens continued to ignore him.

How the hell did they get here? Not just to the plan-

et Earth, but within the Navy SEAL base on Coro-

nado Island. They did not have a ship adequate for

transport from a location thousands or millions of

miles away. What did they want? They were not

wearing any suits, which meant they were capable of

breathing the Earth’s air. They probably came from

an environment similar to this one. What did it all

mean? Were these two a precursor of what was to

come or had they arrived here accidentally?

The light blue alien chirped something incom-

prehensible. The second more human-looking alien

did not reply. It tilted its head back and forth in a

swaying motion. He wanted to call out and announce

his presence, but the words stuck in his throat.

Charles had to do something. He was not a

helpless civilian. He was a member of the most elite

naval special warfare unit on the planet. It was time

for him to get past his fear and act.

The second alien drove its hover-train towards

the edge of the fence. The alien shook violently and

screeched as its tendrils grabbed the fence.

The light blue alien began to jump up and

down on its four legs and shrieked in unison with the

other alien.

“What the hell?” Charles shook his head. He

had to get help.

***

Navy SEAL Ensign Peter Estabrook sat be-

hind his desk listening to the sob story of First Class

SEAL trainee Pappalardo.

He had no time for this nonsense. Not every-

body was cut out to be in the SEALs. Peter had dis-

covered that firsthand when more than three quarters

of his training class dropped out. They only wanted

the very best, and not everybody could cut it. He had

known many good men who did not make it through

training, but to whine and complain on your way out

like Pappalardo was pathetic. According to Pappalar-

do, it was everybody else’s fault but his own.

“The instructors aren’t giving me a fair shake,

sir,” Pappalardo said. “I mean I could do this stuff.

They just aren’t being fair.”

Peter tried to hold back his anger. He felt like

grabbing the kid by his throat. If Pappalardo couldn’t

make it through this stage of the training, there was

no way he would make it through Hell Week, where

many strong men folded under the pressure.

“I can assure you that none of the trainers

have treated you unfairly,” Peter said. “We only ac-

cept the best and don't make apologies for our high

standards. I am sure that there are other careers with-

in the US Navy that would be more suitable for you.”

“Hey, I can be a SEAL, sir,” insisted Pappa-

lardo. “I’m better than a lot of these other guys.

They ain’t got nothin’ on me.”

Peter gritted his teeth. “You have some kind

of nerve, Pappalardo. You come into my office mak-

ing all kinds of demands. I was trying to let you off

easy, but you want to push it. Do you have any idea

of what it means to be a SEAL? Do you?”

Pappalardo stammered but did not reply.

“Let me tell you, son, I have served as a Navy

SEAL in two wars and more combat missions than I

can remember. It means sitting in a lake for hours

hoping you don’t get discovered, waiting to ambush

your enemy. It means diving off of a plane four miles

up in the air and trying to land on a moving target. It

means going into enemy territory in the middle of a

firefight and rescuing a POW. Do you have any idea

what it would be to have an Al Qaeda officer interro-

gate you? You make me sick. Do the right thing and

drop out, because I can assure you that things will get

worse, and you'll experience hell unlike anything

you've ever known. I'll start the paperwork to get you

transferred. Go pack your bags.”

Pappalardo started to argue, but Peter ushered

him out of his office. He shut the door and returned

to his desk.

Thinking of Pappalardo made his stomach

turn. Being treated like dirt was the norm in the Navy

SEAL program. That had been going on since JFK

had first commissioned the teams. It was necessary

because battlefield conditions were worse than train-

ing conditions. In his day, nobody complained to the

officers unless they lost a limb.

A knock on the door caused Peter to groan. If

that was Pappalardo again, he was going to strangle

the kid.

"Come in."

First Class Torpedoman Charles Amato stood

at the door. His face was flushed and he was perspir-

ing heavily. He shook as he spoke. “Sir, I have a sit-

uation that requires your immediate attention.”

Peter sighed. “What’s the problem?”

“Sir, I need you to come with me immediate-

ly.” Amato’s voice wavered.

Peter's face tightened. “Gain control of your-

self. What's the problem?”

“Sir, I can't even begin to describe what I wit-

nessed by the vehicle storage area. Please follow

me.”

“This better be good,” Peter said.

“Sir, this is a matter of national security.”

Peter put on a light jacket and walked out of

the building. His senses were immediately alerted to a

change in the air as they walked through the base. It

was nothing tangible. It felt like the onset of a major

storm, except that the skies were cloudless and it was a

perfectly sunny day. The base looked like any ordi-

nary college campuses, save for the drab buildings and

lack of color.

Amato breathed heavily as they walked. He

had known Charles Amato for three years and had al-

ways found the kid to be mentally and emotionally

stable. He had seen Amato perform quite admirably in

training when they went to Nova Scotia in the depths

of the Canadian winter.

An eerie buzzing noise grew louder. “What’s

that?”

Amato had a tremor in his voice. “You’ll see.”

They turned around the bend and approached

the motor pool. When he first saw them, Peter was too

stunned to speak. It took him a minute to finally say,

“What the hell is this?”

“Sir, I have no idea. My guess is that they are

alien life forms.”

Alien life forms. The words hung in the air as

if frozen by liquid nitrogen. Of course they’re alien

life forms, dummy, Peter felt like saying. Do they

look like they came from the San Diego Zoo? “This is

insane,” Peter muttered. The air around him seemed

to tighten.

“I agree, sir.” Amato approached the fence and

looked closely at the alien on top of the vehicle.

“They don’t seem to be trying to communicate with

us?”

Peter stood next to Amato as the two aliens

chirped. The large, squatty alien with the eight limbs

had a shrill, high-pitched voice, while the alien with

the tendrils that resembled a mustache spoke in a flat,

monotone voice.

“Maybe they don’t know how to communicate

with us,” Peter replied in a low voice. “Perhaps

they’re as confused about the situation as we are.”

The large, light blue alien jumped up and down

on its many legs. The earth shook underneath it. It

tilted its spiky head and issued a loud cry as its tongue

swirled in the air. It then looked at the alien in the ve-

hicle, who appeared to be nodding.

After observing for some time, Peter asked,

“Amato, have you tried to initiate contact with the al-

ien subjects?”

Amato shook his head. “I didn’t know what to

do, sir, so I observed their actions, much like we are

doing now. Instead of trying to initiate communica-

tion, I went to find you. Should I have tried to talk to

them?”

Peter shook his head. “What you did was fi-

ne.” Peter stepped forward. “I am Ensign Peter Es-

tabrook of the United States Navy. You have landed

in Coronado, California at a US naval facility. We

would like to help you in any way possible, but we

need to know your intentions.”

Still inside of his vehicle, the smaller alien ap-

proached the fence. He spoke something incompre-

hensible as his mustache flailed wildly.

“I guess we don’t speak the same language,”

Peter said.

“So what do you think they want?”

Peter's face tightened. “How should I know?

I'm as lost as you are.” He continued to watch in lurid

fascination. “You know what I've been wondering

since I got here?”

“What's that, sir?”

“Why are these two alien creatures staying

within the fence? It should not be difficult to leave,

especially for the one in the vehicle.”

Amato frowned. “I don’t know, sir. Perhaps

they feel the barrier is more impenetrable than it actu-

ally is.”

“If I landed on a foreign planet and found my-

self in a cage or an enclosed area, I would try to find a

way out. Thus far, these two haven’t shown any incli-

nation to escape.

“Well, we can’t stand here all day waiting for

something to happen. This is going to be big, Amato.

Real big.”

Peter took out his cell phone and called Lieu-

tenant Mitch Grace. He had more confidence in Mitch

than any man alive, but what would Mitch do when he

saw these aliens?

***

Mitch Grace worked the grill in his kitchen like

a seasoned professional, whipping up hash browns,

sausage and eggs on his cast-iron skillet. Normally he

would not cook such an elaborate breakfast, but this

morning he was not dining alone.

The scent wafted through the small apartment.

Wearing her powder blue bathrobe, Deborah kissed

him lightly on the back of his neck. Her long brown

hair was still damp from taking a shower. “What did I

do to deserve you, Mr. Grace?” She peeked over his

shoulder. “You’re too good to me.”

“That’s Lieutenant Grace to you. I’d like to

refute your statement, but as the forefather of our

great nation once said, I cannot tell a lie.” He turned

and gave her a kiss.

“Smells great.”

“I’m using a special recipe I learned when I

was out in Guam, lots of exotic spices. In a few

minutes this bountiful feast will be all yours. Well

yours and mine.” Mitch lowered the flame on the

burner and began setting the table. “In that case,

you’ll get nothing. This was a test and you failed

miserably.”

“What are you going to do, take a stripe away

from me?”

“I just might,” Mitch replied. “I know people

in the Navy.”

“Fortunately the rest of the Navy doesn’t take

the SEALs seriously. We think you’re a bunch of

yahoos.”

They sat down to eat on the cozy wooden

kitchen table. Mitch savored every bite, much better

than anything he had eaten in Afghanistan. It felt

strange being home after completing his second tour

of duty. He had arrived in San Diego last night.

Deborah had picked him up at the airport. They

spent so much time away from each other, it was

hardly ideal for a successful relationship. Deborah, a

naval intelligence officer, had recently spent time in

the Persian Gulf. Besides being his significant other,

her high level of clearance in the navy allowed her to

be privy to his missions.

Their time apart had been torture. In the mid-

dle of the war zone, no matter how tough things got,

thinking of Deborah always pulled him through.

Upon his return, all Mitch wanted was a good

meal and a good bottle of wine. He and Deborah had

gone out to eat at one of their favorite restaurants in

Little Italy. It felt so good to be back home, certainly

better than wearing heavy gear in sweltering heat.

As they were doing dishes, he said, “Maybe

we should do it. You know, tie the knot, make it of-

ficial. I wouldn’t make you change your name if you

didn’t want to.”

Deborah put down the wet dishrag. “We’ve

been down this road before. What kind of marriage

can we have if each of us is going to be in Timbuktu

for God knows how long? You know I love you. I

absolutely do, but being in a relationship with you is

trying. There are nights when I can’t sleep because

I’m worried sick that some terrorist is going to ignite

a bomb and kill you.”

Deborah had been married and divorced once.

Her ex-husband was a car salesman who had not

been able to handle her being away so often, finding

solace with another woman. She had explained to

Mitch that she had been young and naïve, thinking

her ex-husband would love her enough to stick with

her even when her schedule got difficult. To her

credit, she made the divorce quick and painless, and

moved on with her life.

“If that happened would you be any less

heartbroken if we weren't married?”

“No.” Deborah closed her eyes. “But my

idea of getting married would mean to raise a family

and have a house with a white picket fence. When I

made my career choice, I knew that would be diffi-

cult. I’ve already tried once unsuccessfully. If we’re

going to be married, I don’t want to be away from

you for so long.”

“Then I’ll quit.”

“I don’t want you to quit. You’re the best of

the best. It would be selfish for me to let you quit

just so that I could have you at home. What you do

is more valuable than anything you could do in the

private sector or in another branch of the military.”

“And all this time I thought you hated us

SEALs. What did you say the first time we met? All

we do is smash and bash everything in front of us?”

Deborah smiled. “But you do it so well.”

“Maybe I don’t have to quit. I just finished

my second tour. They won't send me back again un-

less I petition for a third tour, not to mention the war

efforts are winding down. I could become a full-time

instructor. If now isn’t a good time to get married,

then when is?”

Deborah shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Mitch sensed he had struck a nerve. “You

have to concede that the timing is good.”

“You know the statistics. Most SEAL mar-

riages don’t last more than a few years.”

“We’ll make it work. I love you.”

“Yeah, but who knows what the future will

bring?” Deborah asked.

Mitch gestured wildly with his hands. “We’ll

deal with the future later. Let’s deal with the here

and now. So, are we going to do this?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? I just argued a great case, counse-

lor, and all you could give me is a maybe.”

Deborah asked questions about the logistics

of a wedding, and Mitch had an answer for each of

her concerns.

“So is this a proposal?”

Mitch pulled out a one carat diamond ring from his pants pocket. Just then his phone rang. Only im-

portant calls came in on this cell phone.

Mitch felt torn between love and duty. He searched Deborah’s eyes.

“Answer it,” she said after the second ring.

He answered. For nearly a minute he did not say anything. “Okay…Can you tell me what it is? It’s

happening right now…I’ll be there.” Mitch frowned and turned to Deborah. “This isn’t happening the way I

planned it.”

She chuckled. “Does it ever? So what’s the emergency?”

Mitch shrugged. “I don’t know. It was Peter Estabrook. He said that it was an extreme emergency in-

volving national security. Whatever's going on has to be huge. Estabrook sounded…scared.”

“Huh. That’s not reassuring.”

Deborah’s cell phone rang, and she answered. After thirty seconds she hung up. “Well, it looks like

whatever this emergency is, I’m involved too.”

“Let’s go to the base. I’ll drive.” He put the diamond ring back in his pocket. It would have to wait.

After putting on their uniforms, Mitch and Deborah hardly spoke on the drive to the naval base. Es-

tabrook had not given much detail on the phone, which meant the situation was grave.

He put on a news station. The governor of California was giving a speech on his plan to fix Califor-

nia’s economy.

As they pulled into the base, he asked Deborah, “Are you ready for this?”

“I certainly hope so.”

Reconquest: Mother Earth

Carl Alves

Genre: Science Fiction

Publisher: Montag Press

Date of Publication: March 26, 2014

ISBN: 978-1-940233-02-4

ASIN: B00IKYE5WM

Number of pages: 304

Word Count: 75,000

Cover Artist: Jeremy Rathbone

Amazon BN

Book Description:

SEAL Mitch Grace was among the first humans to see the aliens when they landed at the na-

val base where he was stationed, but like the rest of humanity, he was powerless to stop

them.

Five years later, Mitch awakens from his coma under the care of an alien physician to find

that aliens control the planet. Starting alone, as a one man army, he rallies the surviving hu-

mans to build a resistance movement to take the planet back from the alien conquerors. After

his capture by the aliens, Mitch is forced into intergalactic slavery to become a gladiator,

fighting as the sole representative of the human species. Against all odds and far from home,

he lays the plans for the reconquest of his homeland.

Reconquest: Mother Earth is the thrilling combination of Red Dawn, Independence Day, and

Gladiator.

About the Author:

Carl went to Boston University majoring in Biomedical Engineering. Carl graduated with a

BS degree, and has since worked in the pharmaceutical and medical devices industries. He

later graduated from Lehigh University with an MBA degree. His debut novel Two For

Eternity was released in 2011 by Weaving Dreams Publishing. His novel Blood Street was

released in 2012 by True Grit Publishing. His novel Reconquest: Mother Earth is scheduled

to be released in 2014 by Montag Press. His short fiction has appeared in various publica-

tions such as Blood Reign Lit, Alien Skin, and Dark Eclipse. He is a member of the Horror

Writers Association and has attended the Penn Writers Conference.

You can visit his website at www.carlalves.com

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https://twitter.com/authorcarlalves

A French Pirate, a Sunken Treasure and the Knights Templar

Susannah Sandlin

It’s funny where ideas for books or series originate—for me, it’s usually a progression of thoughts that gradual-

ly coalesce rather than a single bolt from the heavens. So when I begin thinking about how the idea behind

Lovely, Dark, and Deep came to be, I was able to trace it back to early 18th-century pirate Jean Lafitte, who

plied the waters of the Gulf of Mexico and ruled an empire of a thousand piratical types south of New Orleans

in the early 1800s.

The oh-so-delicious Captain Lafitte is a major character in my urban fantasy series written as Suzanne Johnson,

so when I heard last summer about the discovery of the remains of three early shipwrecks in the Gulf of Mexi-

co, I started thinking about what might happen to my undead Jean Lafitte should one of his lost pirate ships be

discovered today. (The short answer: he’d want it back, tout de suite.)

Next came research into shipwrecks found off the Americas and what might have been aboard them, which

started off as a hunt for Lafitte’s lost ships.

That, in turn, introduced me to the “Death Coast” of the North Atlantic, and I set my pirate aside (sorry, Jean)

and got immersed in the coast of Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, where hundreds of ships since the fifteenth century

have met their death and only a fraction have been discovered and salvaged. Pirate ships, Norse explorers,

French settlers, British warships, World War II supply ships—all met their deaths on the rocky coastline, carry-

ing everything from gold to household goods to—maybe, just maybe—some of the missing lost treasure of the

Knights Templar.

Nothing stirs a writer’s imagination like Knights Templar and lost treasure, right?

Next, my journey took me to study the Templars, much of whose treasure has, indeed, never been found, and to

study what was involved in diving off the coast of Capt Breton, specifically around Scatarie Island.

Finally, I began looking at other lost historical treasures, and the idea for The Collectors series, and the first

book, Lovely, Dark, and Deep, was born.

The Collectors is a group of international billionaires, the C7—ruthless, amoral, powerful—who have a secret

game: they compete to see who can be first to collect some of the world’s most valuable treasures. In Lovely,

Dark, and Deep, a C7 member with ties to the White House stumbles upon a legend that makes him believe the

long-lost Ruby Cross of the Knights Templar went down in a seventeenth-century shipwreck off the coast of

Cape Breton. He puts the screws to the ancestor of the man who lost it and a washed up, on-the-skids deep-

water diver, and gives them thirty days to find and procure it for him—or the people they love will die. For the

C7 member it’s a game. For Gillian, a biologist, and Shane, the diver, it’s a break-neck race to save the peo-

ple they love and find a way to turn the tables on their tormenters. And, yeah, there’s some love amid the

danger—of course!

As for Captain Jean Lafitte and his own lost pirate ship? That story’s coming within the year, so stay tuned!

Lovely, Dark, and Deep

The Collectors, Book 1

Susannah Sandlin

Genre: Romantic Thriller

Heat level: moderate; language; violence

Publisher: Montlake Romance

ASIN: B00H27TJ6U

Number of pages: 320

Word Count: 95,000

Get it at Amazon

Book Description:

From award-winning author Susannah Sandlin comes a heart-

pounding romantic thriller that pits a quick-witted scientist

and a scarred ex–combat diver against a ruthless billionaire treasure hunter with ties to the

White House.

When biologist Gillian Campbell makes an offhand comment about a family curse during a

TV interview, she has no idea what her words will set in motion. Within days, Gillian finds

herself at the mercy of a member of the C7, a secretive international group of power brokers

with a dangerous game: competing to find the world’s most elusive treasures, no matter the

cost, in money or in lives.

To save her family, Gillian teams up with Shane Burke, a former elite diver who’s lost his

way, navigating the brutal “death coast” of the North Atlantic to find what the collector seeks:

the legendary Ruby Cross of the Knights Templars, stolen by Gillian’s ancestor and lost at sea

four hundred years ago.

Release Info- LOVELY, DARK, AND DEEP is being released in eight multi-chapter weekly episodes through Feb. 18. The cur-

rent price for the entire eight-episode novel is $1.99 through Feb. 18 and will increase to $3.99 for Kindle afterward. The print

and audio editions will be released on May 13, 2014, and will be available at venues other than Amazon.

Excerpt:

He wasn’t sure what woke him, but the first thing Shane Burke saw when he cracked open his eyelids was the

bottle of Jack Daniel’s, tipped over and resting on its side. He could’ve sworn he finished it off last night but

there was at least an inch of rich amber liquid still resting inside.

Good. Now he didn’t have to wonder what he’d have for breakfast.

The second thing he saw was a great pair of legs. Well, technically, a great pair of ankles above a pair of

leather sandals, and then the legs.

Obviously, he was starting his Saturday morning with hallucinations.

Only one good solution for that. He dangled an arm off the side of his bed and almost had his fingers

wrapped around the neck of the bottle when one of the leather sandals kicked his buddy Jack Daniel’s under the

bed, clipping his hand in the process.

“Ow.” Hallucinations didn’t take his booze and kick him in the knuckles.

Ignoring the throbbing in his hand and the stabs of hangover agony behind his eyeballs, Shane rolled

onto his back and squinted at the rest of his non-hallucination.

Shoulder-length hair that fell in a sheen of dark chestnut brown, fair skin, fierce brown eyes, red lips

compressed in a tight line, black skirt and white blouse, big briefcase-style purse. Had he picked her up at

Harley’s last night? If so, he had to cut back on the sauce.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I forgot your name.” Pity, ’cause she was a hot little number, way classier than

the regulars at Harley’s. It’s not like he got laid so often that he could afford to forget it when he did.

“We haven’t met.” She propped her hands on her hips and muttered something that sounded like, “And

you’re supposed to help me?”

Help her with what? Wait, maybe she was a charter. Had he chartered The Evangeline out to a tour

group or fishing party today? Surely he’d remember if there was money coming in.

Color him officially confused. He struggled to a seated position and gave her another look. “What am I

supposed to help you with?”

She crossed her arms and raked a ball-shriveling gaze the length of his body. “I came here to offer you a

job, but I don’t think you’re up to it.”

He tugged the sheet up in self-defense. “I’m not at my best. Ever consider making an appointment? Not

dropping in at the crack of dawn?” He had no idea what time it was but it couldn’t be that late.

“It’s past noon. And I didn’t figure, given your financial situation, that you’d be so picky about what

time of day someone offered you money.” She shook her head. “Never mind. This was a mistake.”

She banged her head on the low doorway out of the master cabin, which served her right, the sanctimo-

nious shrew.

About the Author:

Susannah Sandlin writes paranormal romance and romantic thrillers from Auburn, Alabama, on

top of a career in educational publishing that has thus far spanned five states and six universi-

ties—including both Alabama and Auburn, which makes her bilingual. She grew up in Winfield,

Alabama, but was also a longtime resident of New Orleans, so she has a highly refined sense of

the absurd and an ingrained love of SEC football, cheap Mardi Gras trinkets, and fried gator on

a stick.

She’s the author of the award-winning Penton Legacy paranormal romance series, a spinoff

novel, Storm Force, a standalone novelette, Chenoire, and a new romantic thriller series, The

Collectors, beginning this month with Lovely, Dark, and Deep. Writing as Suzanne Johnson, she

also is the author of the Sentinels of New Orleans urban fantasy series. Her Penton novel, Ome-

ga, is currently nominated for a 2013 Reviewer’s Choice Award in Paranormal Romance from

RT Book Reviews magazine.

CHAPTER 1

Rachel

I wake in a colorless room, both the tile floor and the

walls are white, the glaring lack of color is made no-

ticeable by the sunshine streaming through the bars of

a small window above my bed. Why am I in

a room with bars? An IV pole is pushed

against the bed frame and a tube tethers me

to the bag via a catheter imbedded in my left hand. Af-

ter peeling off the tape,

I gently draw the foreign object from my body. I hate

needles. My eyes shut, and I attempt to remember the

last place I was. Nothing. I draw a blank. Why can't

I remember? My scalp is tender; I ache all over. Was I

in a wreck? My entire body feels beaten. Not debilitat-

ing pain, but like the day after a hard workout.

I catch a deep breath and try to stand. After a few tries,

I succeed on shaky legs and head for the chart dangling

at the foot of the bed. Patient name: Rachel Ryan. Age:

24. Caucasian female. No living relatives. No other

information is available to help fill in the blanks.

I flip through the many reports stapled together but

can’t make sense of the medical jargon.

I replace the chart with a sigh. The short

walk to the door isn’t far, but takes a lot out of

me. Locked. I pull on the door a few times, but it still

won’t budge.

“Hey! Somebody open the door!” I bang on the door

with the flat of my hand but

nobody comes. I feel on the verge of an anxiety attack.

Okay, don't panic. The IV I pulled out must have con-

tained a sedative because I can barely keep my eyes

open. Back on the bed I lay down and fall asleep.

A gentle touch rouses me. There is a woman, tall with

fair hair and faded blue eyes. I think she’s a nurse. I

allow her to inspect my hand where I pulled the IV out.

It’s amazing how we trust people in uniform. Inmates

wear uniforms. A person walks into your room dressed

in an orange jumpsuit with Department of Corrections

on the back, you don’t get friendly. A woman in scrubs

walks in and I’m all ready to do anything she asks. She

picks up the abandoned IV catheter.

“We inserted that for a purpose,” she scolds. I meekly

duck my head as she shames me.

“I’m Rachel. Can you tell me how I got here?”

The nurse looks at me bewildered. She grabs my chart

and looks at the last page. Rolling her eyes and scoff-

ing she mutters, “Again? How many times are they go-

ing to start over?” She puts the files back and looks at

me. “I’m Janice and I’ll be your nurse today.”

“What do you mean start over?”

She waves a dismissive hand my way. “You’ll have to

talk to the Doctor. Lucky you, we’re headed to him

right now.”

Janice opens my door and an orderly brings in a wheel

chair. We pass dozens of numbered doors identical to

mine, each has a short inset window. When we reach

an office door, she leaves me sitting outside next to an

overstuffed leather sofa.

A gaunt man with large horn rimmed glasses steps out

and greets me enthusiastically, "Hi Ra-

chel! How’re you feeling today?"

He seems genuine, I’ve no cause to be rude. His oily

red hair is unkempt and in need of a trim. Harvey Mor-

ris, M.D. is stitched on his rumpled lab coat.

"Fine, I suppose. Sore, my head's throbbing. I

can't remember anything,” I admit.

His pleased look dissolves. He takes off

his glasses to polish them on his sleeve and responds,

"Hmm…that must

be bothersome." The words sound guilty.

Is he joking? Having no memory is a bit

more than bothersome.

“The nurse mentioned something about starting over?

She said I should talk to you about it.”

He averts his eyes. “I really couldn’t say. I’ll speak to

her about it.”

This is getting weirder by the second. What are they

hiding from me?

My eyes dart nervously around

"Could you tell me where I am?"

"You're at the Richland Institute,” Morris offers. "The

Richland Institute is

a research and education center created to encourage s

elect individuals to cultivate their latent potential

and further the evolu-

tion of the human race." The speech sounds scripted.

Evolution? Like monkeys and Darwin?

Exasperated, I ask, "What can I do to serve evolu-

tion?"

"We all perform our part,” he answers cryptically.

That’s a bullshit answer. Gonna need more info than

that.

"Why does my part necessitate bars on

my windows and a bolted door?” Hostility creeps into

my voice. Clutching the arms on the wheelchair,

I try not to lash out at him. God grant me the

strength not to yell.

Dr. Morris apprehensively shifts from one foot to the

other worrying his hands together behind his back.

"Miss Ryan you don’t need to get agitated. Today is

very busy. We must hasten, or we'll be late."

Screw that! I’m not going anywhere with him.

“I want to go home. Who do I need to talk to so I can

leave?” I ask.

“I don’t think that would be wise. You would be leav-

ing against medical advice,” he tells me.

“I don’t care! I want out of here now! Give me the

papers and I’ll sign them.” I yell at him.

He frowns. “After the test we have scheduled for to-

day, I’ll speak to Mr. Richland on your behalf.”

I want to get up and walk out but I can’t. My legs are

weak. What did they do to me? The test he spoke of,

what if it does something worse to me? My fingers

nervously pull at the gown over my thighs.

He turns me around and heads to the elevator. We get

out on the sixth floor and stop outside

a steel door. A bank vault?

Guards stand sentry on either side carrying big ass

guns.

Those guns look like they pack a serious punch. Note

to self, don’t get shot.

Doctor Morris flashes a security badge and a

guard punches in a string of numbers on a con-

sole. The keypad chirps and the door opens. With

an ominous moan, it hefts its own weight swinging

outward. Inside is a tiled chamber similar to the ones

in my room, but these are rusty brown instead of a

snowy white. Dr. Morris helps me out of the wheel-

chair and stepping over the large mouth of the door.

He leaves me. I jump as the behemoth door seals with

a bang, I hear gears pushing locks into place. The mo-

tion was a reflex and on my shaky legs almost brought

me to my knees. I put a hand against the wall to

steady myself.

Crouched in the corner is a man. He has

an average build, tawny skin and a mane of dark

dark hair. If I had to guess, I would say he’s South

American.

It startles me when he looks at me and cries, "No,

not again!"

He begins to rock back and forth twisting on his hair.

What the hell is wrong with him? Why is he freaking

out? Is he afraid of me?

Too many questions, I want answers.

“Sir, do you know me?” I ask.

I take a few steps towards him, which sends him into

a panic. He looks ready to climb the walls to escape.

Oo-kay. Never mind. I can take a hint. He doesn’t

want me anywhere near him.

I retreat to the opposite side of the room. Putting my

back to the wall, I slide down to sit. Drains are

in the floor. Overhead are sprin-

klers. A window takes up a good portion of one wall;

from the ceiling to about waist high. Men dressed in

expensive suits assemble on the opposite side.

Are they here to watch me shower? Perverts.

A voice shatters my thoughts. I look back

at the voyeurs. The speaker is an elderly man, with

grayish hair cropped fashionably close to his head. A

charming smile plays across his lips,

his voice is smooth but it makes my skin crawl.

"Rachel meet Alonzo”, he points to the man trembling

in the corner. “Dr. Mor-

ris informs me you misplaced your memory again.

My name is Stuart Richland. You haven’t been in this

part of the facility before. We call this the testing

tank. Here is where we analyze the truth of the phrase

‘survival of the fittest’. Does brawn beat brains? Is the

lion truly mightier than the lamb? We want to test sur-

vival abilities. It is unfortunate that only one of you

will live, but many have died in the pursuit of scientific

discovery. You should consider it an honor."

I struggle to

my feet and cast myself at the viewing window. "Are y

ou nuts?! Get me out of here! You can’t do this to

me, it’s illegal. It has to be!"

No one is disturbed by my pleas. The men talk

amongst themselves ignoring me. Mr. Rich-

land crosses his arms over his chest.

"The test will begin in five minutes.

I advise you to collect yourself."

What’s going on? I’m about to

be executed and this man wants me to gain my compo-

sure! What the hell have I gotten myself into? I glance

over at Alonzo. He’s praying.

What were we supposed to do? Beat one another to de

ath? There is no way I can beat a grown

man to death all by myself. I’m 5’7’’ and

could stand to lose a little weight, but there is no way

I’m going to win a fist fight against a man. Banging on

the glass I beg for my life.

"Let me out! What am I supposed to do? He’s go-

ing to kill me! Please don’t let me die!"

Tapping the side of his head with

his index finger Richland replies,

"Everything you need is in here.''

Smug son of a bitch. Shit. Can

I kill someone, even to save my life? My gaze drifts

back to my rival. Alonzo is bent over on

his hands and knees weeping. He sobs over and over in a strange language.

I rub my eyes. Alonzo is blurry. My eyes must be play-

ing tricks on me. A large form is suspended over

him. No, the form is part of him. Like

an aura wavering out of sync. I blink sever-

al times to clear the phantom from

my vision. Doesn't help. Alonzo gapes at me with fear-

ful eyes, but the shape that rises out of him is eager.

My mind tries to reconcile the insanity going on

around me.

A computerized voice announces "Testing commenc-

es now."

Alonzo wails. He contorts his body backwards in

an unnatural position that has him arching off the floor.

His hands grab the shirt covering his chest as he forci-

bly rips it from his body. Fingernails rake down

his ribs to his stomach taking bands of skin with them.

They tear off

like wet paper towels. Bones move under muscle.

His nose and mouth elongate and reshape into a muz-

zle. Rolling over to his belly, Alonzo’s eyes reach

mine. The pupils have changed to a burning yellow.

Sharp teeth split his lips. Black fur sprouts out from

between the mauled tissue.

I think I’m gonna puke.

In a blur Alonzo springs into motion.

His fist catches the right side of my jaw.

The force takes me off my feet and drives me back-

wards into the wall. Tiles come free from the impact. A

copper tang fills my mouth. Blood. I spit and watch the

crimson stain spread across the floor.

I know what discolored the tile.

Old blood, lots of it, soaked into the ceramic and grout.

Slumped over against the wall I observe Alonzo in awe

as he melts away and the phantom emana-

tion takes over. I want to look away, but I can’t. I’m

looking at a werewolf. I scream, I can’t stop the sound.

Alonzo was medium in both size and stature, but the

werewolf is tremendous. Somehow I manage to scram-

ble out of the way before he can descend

upon me again. I stand and stare at

him. The wolf is enjoying himself. He has been let out

of his cage and now he intends to have a little fun.

Alonzo has assumed his place as the aura. He’s quiet.

The wolf will shield him.

What am I supposed to do? How am I expected to win?

I must control my fear and find some ad-

vantage over the creature before me. I attempt to sepa-

rate the man and beast. If I can see him

as vulnerable I’ll fear him less. After all, furry or not, it

is still Alonzo.

Remember the man so scared of you he cried, Rachel.

Shuddering he drops to one knee. Alonzo and the wolf

are stretching apart. The beast is

breaking off in one direction, Alonzo the opposite. It

looks painful for them, but at the moment

I don't much care.

Hurts huh? Good. Payback is a bitch named Rachel.

I put my hands out in front of me and imagine I’m

rending seams. Howls and screeches

fill the air. Flesh, muscle, and bone crack and tear. The

two beings fall away from each other. I pulled

Alonzo’s wolf half into corporeal being. I can’t explain

how, it shouldn’t be possible.

Blood is spattered along the walls and coats the floor.

My hair is matted to my face with tears and blood.

I can’t help but find some satisfaction in watching my

aggressor come undone. The wolf dies immediately.

It needed Alonzo more than Alonzo needed it. A para-

site. The weakening man lay at my feet. I’m surprised

at the gratitude in

his eyes. How many times did he kill his challenger?

How many lives has he been required to take to assure

his own survival? By my hand, his wretched exist-

ence is done, and he’s grateful.

Icy water cascades over me. Numb,

I observe the blood fade to pink and escape down

the drain. Violent shivers shake my body. I think I

may be in shock.

The vault door reopens, and two men in haz-

mat suits come in with a body bag.

They put Alonzo’s body inside. His two bodies,

as he’s now two separate forms. Togeth-

er they drag the heavy burden from the room. Another

person in hazmat gear advances towards me. Janice.

I back away. In

her hands, she holds a scrub brush and soap. After

harshly removing my hospital gown Janice scrubs me

with soap and the brush. She looks disgusted.

I’m disgusted, too. Considering where she’s em-

ployed, I want to ask her who the real monster is. You

can’t scour blood off of people while bodies are carted

away and maintain your humanity. I glower at her un-

til she averts her eyes. Heartless bitch.

Buck naked in front of an audience is not my idea of

fun. God, this is so embarrassing. A clump of Alonzo

washes off me. Bile rises in my throat. Janice jumps

back as I vomit. When I stop heaving, I take stock of

my body and find more pieces of Alonzo. Flesh and

hair. What the fuck! I’ve got werewolf in my hair! Get

it off, get it off! I wrench the scrub brush out of

Janice’s hand and scour my body. When I am fin-

ished, my skin has angry red marks from where I

rubbed it raw. I’ll never feel clean again.

Once I’m freshly dressed in

a new hospital gown they take me to a board room,

lined with expensive paintings. An elongated glass

table is in the center of the room ringed by oversized

black leather chairs. Richland convenes at the head of

the table. As my chair is wheeled inside, the men from

the viewing room, the Armani squad as I nicknamed

them, stand up and clap. I’m speechless. I

just committed murder.

Richland gets up last and says, “Well done Rachel!

Quite the performance today.”

I can’t restrain my outrage, “Screw you, asshole!”

The gentleman on Richland’s right frowns at me.

“Apologize to Mr. Richland,” he barks out angrily.

Hysterical laughter bubbles up out of me. This whole

thing is absurd. Surely, I will wake up any moment.

Dr. Morris looks at me concerned. My laughter turns

to tears. Overwhelming defeat settles in.

“It’s alright, Mr. Gates.” He smiles at me indulgently,

“She’s over excited. Since you’re still suffer-

ing memory loss, I’ll give you a swift education. Mr.

Lopez was a werewolf. There are countless like him.

At this time, we’re uncertain how many species of

preternatural beings ex-

ist. Vampires, werewolves, exotic cats, even dragons

have been witnessed. Creatures you be-

lieved only lived in your nightmares are living among

us. They lurk in plain sight. We chose you

to help us bring down the demons. The doctors injecte

d you with a virus to augment your natural psychic

gift. On scans, your brain shows improvements, but

until today you had yet to manifest anything trans

mundane. We call what you achieved today Arcana.

With science and psychic sensitives

like yourself, we have created a way to fight all that’s

corrupt with the world.”

His lecture gives me a headache.

I rub at the cutting pain behind my eyes and weari-

ly and ask, “Ripping men apart with my mind,

is that the extent of what I can expect from Arcana?” I

must have lost it. I’m talking like this is normal.

Richland has no answers to give. Dr. Morris

is more forthcoming. “I’m

not certain if we've seen all you can do. By na-

ture, the virus is always mutating. You may never

reach full potential, or you could've already topped ou

t.”

They turned me into a monster.

Tears are rolling down my face, but I don’t

make a sound. Dr. Morris looks away, and

I refuse to make eye contact with anyone else.

I hate that they made me cry. Please, let me wake up.

“Perhaps Miss Ryan should rest now,” Dr. Mor-

ris interjects softly.

I don’t want to rest because I am already asleep. This

isn’t real.

An orderly takes charge of the wheelchair.

Down the hallway to my room we pass the same

doors as before, but this time I see people looking out

from the windows. Every face conveys a story.

Fear and anxiety for their future. Curiosity of me. De-

feat. How long do

you live like this before you accept it?

In my room, which is really a cell, a tray is resting on

my bed with a ham sandwich, bottled water, and a

shiny red apple. My stomach growls with hunger. Can

you be hungry in a dream? Who am I kidding, this is

no dream. It’s a waking nightmare.

At least I’ll get some food in my stomach before I

sleep. The food is tasteless, but I devour every bite. Once my stomach is full, and I set the tray down on the

floor, and crawl under the covers. In sleep, I pray I can forget again. In my dreams, I hope I’ll be free. If this is

the real world, my dreams have to be better. Futile thoughts. If I can sleep at all, I’ll replay all the horror I’ve

been a party to.

Rising Shadows

World in Shadows

Book One

Bridget Blackwood

Genre: Paranormal Romance

Date of Publication: February 1, 2014

ISBN: 1494891751

ASIN: B00I6U2ARW

Number of pages: 107

Word Count: 32,404

Cover Artist: The Killion Group

Amazon Nook

ITunes Kobo

Book Description:

Rachel Ryan wakes up with no knowledge of where she is or how she got there. Thrown into a

world she thought only existed in myths, she finds more questions than answers.

Shape shifters, faeries, and vampires hide in plain sight among humans. There’s a war quietly

brewing in the shadows. Rachel stands between mankind and those creatures that live in the

darkness.

Enhanced with power she doesn’t understand, she’ll tip the scales, but who is the real enemy?

\

About the Author:

Bridget Blackwood is a hopeless romantic and a fan

of happily ever after. She grew up in East Texas

where she met and married her high school sweet-

heart. Together they moved to Southern Illinois, it's

been home for over a decade now. Bridget began

telling stories at an early age, she writes in self-

defense because the characters in her head are loud

and bossy. A social butterfly by nature, Bridget

loves to talk and laugh. When she isn't writing she

enjoys watching horror movies, playing video

games, and not cooking.

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/bridget.blackwood.9

Twitter https://twitter.com/author_bridget

Blog http://bridgetblackwood.wordpress.com/

Website http://bridgetblackwoodauth.wix.com/book

Pinterest http://www.pinterest.com/bridgetblackwoo/

Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7735464.Bridget_Blackwood

Booklikes http://bridgetblackwood9.booklikes.com/

Her fingers drifted to her neck to calculate her pulse. It kicked up some, not out of fear, though.

The man looked over his shoulder, and their eyes caught. Her fingers still on her throat caught the

jump in her heartbeat.

“Are you coming, darling?” His voice, warm with promise, carried a hint of laughter.

Nora found herself smiling. How strange. She almost never smiled at men, because it could be considered an

invitation. Odd that she’d ended up in a relationship with Ogden. Then again, “relationship” might be a mis-

leading term. She ran errands for him while using their association as a shield to keep other men away. Their

physical relationship was almost non-existent. Ogden was not a hand-holder or casual kisser. He never

pushed her for sex, which made him the ideal pretend boyfriend. The peculiar affiliation kept her safe from

the wild emotional swings other women experienced when involved with men. She also believed it erected a

barrier around her that other men dared not try to pass. Her interaction with various men had proved that

wasn’t always the case.

The man regarded her with patient and amused eyes. “Are you holding your head on? Was it about to

tumble off your swan-like neck?”

He thought he was a funny one. “I was taking my pulse. It’s when you—”

“I know what taking a pulse is. That’s one of the reasons I need you here—to help with the sickness.”

He held her arm and helped her over a fallen log.

Illness she understood. “How can I help?” She considered his hand on her elbow. She had never been

one to take assistance, even as a child. As the oldest, she felt the need to do everything on her own. She was a

trailblazer of sorts. No one told her she had to, unless you counted her inner voice. No reason she couldn’t

have scampered across the log on her own, but she appreciated the gesture.

“What’s your name? You keep calling me by my mine, but never mentioned yours.”

“My sainted grandmother would have my head if she saw my poor manners.” Holding on to her

hand, he led her to two fallen logs bordering the fire. “Your chaise, my lady.”

He sat on the other log and used a long-handled spoon to stir the pot suspended over the fire. “I am

Clayton McFane. I supposed I expected you to recognize me since we have loved each other for several life-

times. The first few were a little rocky, but once we got the sense of one another as soul mates, we came to-

gether quite well.” A grin brightened his face as his eyes flickered up, demonstrating he was recalling times

gone by.

Make that, times he thought had gone by. Nora wasn’t all that sure she believed they’d known each

other for lifetimes. Still, she’d witnessed both her sister and grandfather transported through time, as easily

as if only going to the next city for shopping. Her nana swore she and Grandpa Buell were soul mates. There

was also something reassuring about Clayton.

Placing her hands on the log, she leaned back and stretched her legs toward the fire. Her cartoon pa-

jama pants looked wildly out of place in the woodland setting. You’d think she would have picked out some-

thing more appropriate to wear in her dream.

Clayton ladled the fragrant stew into a bowl.

“ Clayton,” she started, earning a smile for using his name. “How come you know me and where I was?”

“ Oh, that.” He straightened and walked toward her, carrying the bowl. “Granny McFane claims I have a

touch of the fey about me. That’s why I often know things that are going to happen.”

Revelation

Pagan Eyes

Book Two

Rayna Noire

Genre: Paranormal YA

Book Description:

Nora’s impending college graduation is a triumph over the

dark incident in her past that changed her life and stopped

her best friend’s. Balancing school, work and her demented

admirer at the diner is tough. All she has is six more

months, but it similar to walking a tightrope blindfolded.

Life-like dreams pull her into the 19th century world of

Clayton. A man who declares he’s her soul mate. Even

though, she’s decided against romance, the young witch

finds herself drawn to the Irish healer, even hearing his

voice in her head.

This would make most people question their sanity. Nora needs to find out if Clayton is real and

if she’s crossing over into another world in her sleep. If she is, will she end up stuck in the past?

Can magick bring them together?

Smashwords

Rayna Noire is an author and a historian. The desire to uncover the truth behind the original fear

of witches led her to the surprising discovery that people believed in magick in some form up to

150 years ago. A world that believed the impossible could happen and often did must have been

amazing. With this in mind, Ms. Noire taps into this dimension, shapes it into stories about a Pa-

gan family who really isn’t that different from most people. They do go on

the occasional time travel adventures and magick happens.

Twitter www.twitter.com/raynanoire

Website www.raynanoire.weebly.com

Facebook www.facebook.com/AuthorRaynaNoire

Spotlight on Stephan Morsk

Thank you so much for allowing me to discuss my work and explain a bit about who I am and what my writing is

all about. I’m Stephan Morsk and my novella “HE: A Sexual Odyssey” is the topic of this guest blog. My favorite author

is Norman Mailer and I suppose I have little in common with him although one reviewer, Feathered Quill said, “When it

comes to this novella readers may be reminded of the risk-taker, Norman Mailer...” What attracted me to his writing was

the intensity of each sentence, his cognitive style and the supple beauty of his diction. I can only dream of approaching

that.

I’ve labeled my novella a ‘mysteroticom’, (my own term) meaning simply a mystery with strong comic and erotic

features. But I eschew these labels which do more to segregate pejoratively than clarify. Writing is writing and should be

judged on its own merits. In “HE” the protagonist, a law student in his thirties has sex with multiple women during the

course of his ‘odyssey’. Does this make it erotica? In his book “American Dream” Mailer’s protagonist throws his wife

off a balcony then goes downstairs and has anal sex with the maid. Yet his book was never labeled erotica. Is Roth’s

“Portnoy’s Complaint” erotica? It wasn’t branded such in its time. I have a copy of Updike’s “Villages” with thirty nudes

on the cover. Yet no one would characterize him as an erotic author. I may be digressing a bit, but these issues indemnify

themselves when I see certain works identified as ‘erotica’.

“HE” is about human relationships in all their grotesque absurdities and the arbitrariness of grisly karma. The

protagonist, a uniquely introverted soul, is reaching out to the female gender in hopes of some kind of salvation from the

cobweb of his isolation. Each tentative grope is met with a Rubic’s cube of enigma, and solipsistic danger instead of the

Hallmark card ‘amor’. The setting is Manhattan. His first paramour, Misha, is the nanny of his ex-boss’ kid. She notic-

es him ogling her and even once sniffing her shirt which she left in the foyer of the ex-boss’ wife. She sends him a letter

of contempt yet containing one of her pubic hairs and rubbed with her pheromones which he takes as some kind of quixot-

ic endorsement. Indeed, they end up in a sado-masochistic relationship consisting of her texting the time when she’ll

be in a restaurant with her real boyfriend. At some point in the dinner he sneaks into the bathroom (unbeknownst to

the boyfriend) and gratifies her sadistic wishes (toe sucking, foot licking, butt kissing desires). He’s overpowered by

her beauty which carries a horse dose of humiliation with it. Indeed, much of my writing has been about women’s

powerful effect on men, often articulated in the gluteus maximus. “HE” rarely turns down her inviting texts. Yet, the

theme of karmic absurdity ranks high in my digressive ramblings.

“HE” encounters Eve in a coffee shop, noting her breasts as ‘freaks of nature’ for their gravity defying buoy-

ancy. When she leaves a briefcase under her table and departs he counts his lucky stars as his opening to meet her.

Of course he’s unable to board the bus she gets on due to lack of change and he has to reconnect via her cell phone

which he finds in the briefcase along with pictures of nude bodies (some her) cut into arbitrary parts. His attempt to

relate to her is fraught with surreal obstacles not the least of which is a gun toting thug named Brunner who beats him

up over it. Every step of the way his pseudopodia get whacked like a curious gofer sticking its neck out of its dirt

hole. His only blessing is his penis which is large enough to please even a mercurial ex-Russian lesbian whore who

will identify herself only as Tinkerbell. Even the boss’ ex-wife has designs on his organ, coupled with an utter disin-

terest in him personally.

By now you’ve ‘teased out’ the theme of relationships emblazoned with tornadic dangers, the prison of

“HE”’s submission to powerful feminine eros and massive doses of karmic adversity. All of these themes interest me

in the context of an obstinate black humor.

I’m a mental health professional who has been writing daily for about fifteen years. What I love about writ-

ing is the control one has over it, along with the struggle to keep it both entertaining and relevant. If I’m enjoying

what I write I believe the reader will do so as well. Contrarily, if I’m not enjoying tapping the keys your eyes will

quickly darken. I enjoyed writing “HE: A Sexual Odyssey” and have no doubt you’ll enjoy its libidinous misadven-

tures. Give it a try in softcover or e formats and let me know. You can follow me on my website at morsklitmonth-

ly.com. I’m also on Facebook, Twitter and a few other places I don’t even know how to access most of the time.

Excerpt:

Dear #######'

DO NOT BE ALARMED. I would never give away your cloying secrets. But don't kid yourself; I know

who you are.

You see, I've seen you staring at me in the foyer when I come to take charge of Sisco on Saturday morn-

ings. Your hazel eyeballs have given you away. Don't think I don't get IT. I've noticed how your eyes hover

over me, darting around my body like a laser. Picked up on your malingering stare. (I caught you eyeing my

butt one day when I left the bathroom door open to tease my hair. Mirrors do reflect in case you didn't know.)

When you do acknowledge me (if you do at all), your retinas hover around my chest instead of making eye con-

tact. OMG! Do you think I'm that much of a dumb blonde? Really...

So in deference to the fact that you will never, ever have me, I am sending you these tokens of esteem-

lessness. (1) Since you would no doubt like to run your gruff fingers through my saintly pubic hairs (not to

mention your liar's tongue), I have sent you one (enclosed). And (2) since you'd love to use your sizable nose to

sniff me in luscious places I have rubbed certain of my pheromones on special spots (UR, LL) so that you may

inhale (which is as much as you can ever hope for) (just the thought of you turns my tummy icky) the essence of

my sensuality. Enjoy...

Yours truly,

Misha T, the babe

P.S. I'm even hotter than your pathetic, perverted little mind could ever imagine.

Trust me.

Turning the envelope upside down, something fell out. Hesitant to exhale, lest it vanish, he pulled a small mag-

nifying glass from his desk drawer and examined the specimen. There it was, a curly

fury of blackness culled from the mine of her smoky mound.

HE: A Sexual Odyssey

Stephan Morsk

ASIN: B00E3GZPTI

ISBN: 0-7414-8224-X

Genre: erotica

Book Description:

In HE the unnamed protagonist, a law student, is involved with a series of women who ei-

ther loathe him, try to poison him, save his life or exploit him sexually. The first is the nanny

of his ex boss’ kid. She sends him a hateful letter, enclosing a pubic hair and rubbed with

pheromones. After observing a woman in a coffee shop whose breasts are ‘freaks of nature’

she leaves a briefcase and departs. He’s unsuccessful in returning it to her, but this karmic

event exposes him to a bevy of dangerous and seductive paramours.

Available at Buy Books on the Web and at Amazon

Book Trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qiZA1Ps10F8

About the Author:

Stephan Morsk is a mental health professional who writes daily. He won a 7th and an 8th

place in the Writer’s Digest competition 2001 out of a field of 19,000 writers. He has pub-

lished a short story and won honorable mentions in other years. His web site

morsklitmonthly.com offers a new short story each month. He is interested in novellas and

recently submitted “Parrot Moon” to the Paris Literary Prize. He’s finished several other

short books, part of a four part series including “HE”, “Trashy Novel-A Love Story”, “She”

and “I”. He lives in rural Minnesota with his family. Favorite novelist, Normal Mailer. He

enjoys exercise and is a reasonable amateur magician.

http://morsklitmonthly.blogspot.com/

http://www.morsklitmonthly.com/

http://www.amazon.com/Stephan-Morsk/e/B00C41SIM0/

Coming May 2014

Paranormal Pleasures II

By Roxanne Rhoads

Award winning author Roxanne Rhoads brings you ten

more tales of supernatural seduction featuring demonic

desires, wanton witches, voluptuous vampires, and ghosts

with grave needs…

Four brand new, never published short stories have been

combined with six previously published, freshly edited ta-

les to give you a collection of hot paranormal erotica you

can really sink your fangs into.

Scent of a Vampire

Aidan has searched several human lifetimes for his perfect

mate. Now that he’s found her, he refuses to let go. He

must make Gabrielle see they were destined to be together.

Immortal Flame

An off duty fire fighter encounters a sexy vampire in what he thought was an abandoned house.

The flames that ignite will leave them both scorched…and aching for more.

An Unexpected Evening

Samuel is a centuries-old vampire who prefers to be a recluse. He is always afraid of losing

control and becoming the monster he once was. Falling in love with a young witch has pushed

his boundaries and pulled him out of his comfort zone.

Katerina always encourages Samuel to be more open, to let loose, and to really "live" instead

of only existing in the shadows.

One night, he finally grants her wish . . . in ways she never imagined.

Underneath the Fangs

Samuel is being framed for murder. Katerina knows he is not guilty but she has to convince

Samuel that he is not a monster and that he is worthy of her love.

Cemetery Seduction

Abby, a half witch, half vampire whose powers go awry in a club, has to run, afraid that the

Others, who are policing all human/magick interaction, might put her in jail. She ends up in a

cemetery, jumps behind a bush and lands right on top of a very sexy ghost hunter.

No Place I'd Rather Be

Sonora is torn between a human and a vampire. How can she choose between the man who

makes her feel safe and the vampire that makes her blood race? Sonora prays to the Goddess

for guidance while harboring secret desires that her broody vampire, Brom, and her brawny hu-

man, Avery, can get past their jealousy and be willing to do more than just share the witch in

the middle.

Can the Goddess grant Sonora's wish, or will she be stuck making an impossible choice?

Blood, Lust and Shadows

Vampire/succubus hybrid Allana is on the prowl looking for a bloody snack and a sexy energy

boost. While strutting her stuff in a dark parking lot she encounters a yummy Latino who

makes a lovely meal. She also encounters something else that puts her senses into overdrive.

Complete Circle

Lissette is a vampire who has lived with her succubus girlfriend, Cassandra, for a long time.

She swore off relationships with men after being viciously raped by the vampire hunters who

killed the love of her life and left her for dead.

Lissette and Cassandra only use men to get what they need, blood for Lissette and sexual ener-

gy for Cassandra. They are completely satisfied with their lives- until a mysterious stranger

comes along.

For the first time in centuries Lissette wants a man. Why is she so drawn to him? What is he?

Much more than a mere mortal, Gabriel has been searching for Lissette and Cassandra for a

very long time. They have what he needs, what no one else can give him.

But will they be willing to share?

A Package Deal

Chloe needs to get out of the city- fast. So she buys an old farmhouse out in the middle of no-

where- with one stipulation. The caretaker gets to stay. She readily agrees thinking it’s an old

man that won’t give her any trouble.

Ash is definitely not what she expected.

My Demon Valentine

Elita wants to give her demon boyfriend a Valentine’s Day to remember. Connor was built for

giving pleasure but Elita wants to turn the tables on that.

This time the pleasure will be all his.

About the Author:

Story strumpet, tome loving tart, eccentric night

owl...these words describe book publicist and erot-

ic romance author Roxanne Rhoads.

When not fulfilling one the many roles being a

wife and mother of three require, Roxanne's world

revolves around words...reading them, writing

them, editing them, and talking about them. In ad-

dition to writing her own stories she loves to read,

promote and review what others write.

Roxanne is the owner of Bewitching Book Tours

and operates Fang-tastic Books, a book blog dedi-

cated to paranormal and urban fantasy books.

When not reading, writing, or promoting Roxanne

loves to hang out with her family, craft, garden and

search for unique vintage finds.

Visit her online

Author blog www.roxannesrealm.blogspot.com

Book Blog www.fang-tasticbooks.blogspot.com

Bewitching Book Tours www.bewitchingbooktours.blogspot.com

Facebook

www.facebook.com/RoxanneRhoads

http://www.facebook.com/BewitchingBooktours

http://www.facebook.com/RoxanneRhoadsAuthor

http://www.facebook.com/FangtasticBooks

Twitter @RoxanneRhoads

Roxanne can also be found on Linked In, Goodreads and Google+