**Don’t miss the rest of the Loving a Lancaster series!**

Leo, Book 1
Luna, Book 2
Levi, Book 3
Lance, Book 4

Find them on Amazon!

 

Stacy Eaton is a USA Today Bestselling author and began her writing career in October of 2010. Stacy took early retirement from law enforcement after over fifteen years of service in 2016 due to a second serious concussion. Her last three years on the job were in investigations and crime scene investigation. She now writes full-time.

Stacy resides in southeastern Pennsylvania with her husband, who works in law enforcement. She has a daughter in college and a son who is currently serving in the United States Navy.

Stacy writes a variety of genres, but mostly romance. She enjoys writing real-life stories that people can relate to with real-life problems, emotions, and solutions.

Her favorites: Classic cars, photography, Disney, music, coffee, and her favorite sweatshirt that says, You are dangerously close to getting killed in my next novel.

 

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Ghostly Howls

Ghostly Howls Book 1

Irish folklore meets small town USA

A heartbroken half banshee, a cockle selling soul possessor, and a town haunted by mysteries…if they don’t find the killer, Orla and Molly might die before finding their soulmates.

Orla and Dave’s love has been unrequited for as long as they can remember. Cormac and Molly are used to drawing outside the lines. None of them are prepared for the new ghostly neighbors.

In a town that’s always ostracized them, can Molly and Orla finally use their powers openly in order to save the citizens?

*Contains mature themes, open door sex scenes, and mature language.

*Don’t miss the YA series also by Stephanie Hansen – Altered Helix & Replaced Parts

Stephanie Hansen is a PenCraft and Global Book Award Winning Author as well as an Imadjinn finalist. Her debut novella series, Altered Helix, released in 2020. It hit the #1 New Release, #1 Best Seller, and other top 100 lists on Amazon. It is now being adapted to an animated story for Tales. Her debut novel, Replaced Parts, released in 2021 through Fire & Ice YA and Tantor Audio. It has been in a Forbes article, hit Amazon bestseller lists, and made the Apple young adult coming soon bestsellers list. The second book in the Transformed Nexus series, Omitted Pieces, released in 2022. Her debut spicy paranormal romance, Ghostly Howls, released 2023. Her debut historical magical realism, Armored Hours, released 2024. The Armored Hours sequel, Guarded Time, released 2025 and the Ghostly Howls sequel, Ghostly Returns, released 2026. She is a member of the deaf and hard of hearing community, so she tries to incorporate that into her fiction.

 

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Prologue

Greenthorn Indoctrination Center, Vampire Tribal Lands

Ophelia sat on a hard plastic chair, clenching a mangled pamphlet between her sweaty palms. The silence in the stark, cream and beige waiting room was beyond oppressive. She’d been there since six that morning, and the hour hand on the clock above the frosted glass door had made almost a full circuit.

She riffled her hair. The wait was fucking ridiculous. What the hell was going on back there? All her forms had been completed, every legal requirement satisfied. She’d even taken the intro course to their bullshit religious instruction and been blessed by one of their preoti. This part should’ve gone faster, especially after her more-than-generous donation to the cause.

Fucking bloodsuckers.

God, she just wanted to burst through that stupid door and get this over with. Damn it. No. Breathe. She struggled to bite back her temper. Be contrite, Phe. Try to channel fucking worthiness. She snorted. Like that was hard. She was a hell of a lot farther up the food chain than the rest of the losers that’d shown up to volunteer.

Throughout the day, seats filled with indigents and the dying had slowly emptied to the right and left of her until only herself and two other people were in the room.

One of them was laid out on a hospital gurney. Bags of saline and lord knew what else hung from an IV stand beside him. The other, a woman and presumably the infirm man’s caregiver, slowly flicked through her tablet. By the way she was chewing her lower lip and shifting in her seat, whatever she was reading was juicy.

Ophelia scowled, hooking the long, jagged bangs of her pixie cut behind an ear. What the woman should be doing was reading up on how to properly care for the soon-to-be-corpse’s colostomy. Even across the room, the stench of shit was eye-watering.

What a cunty little campfire scout, all prepared for the wait. Ophelia flicked her nails and picked at the black gel tips, begrudgingly admitting that she’d been too confident she’d be one of the first volunteers called and hadn’t thought about how to pass the time. Normys looking to join the vampiric tribes and subscribe to their fucked-up religion were usually either vagrants, on death’s door, or some special kind of desperate.

Ophelia was a very healthy twenty-nine, a rising star in the litigation world, and fell squarely into the last category.

She was also positive that her soon-to-be-husband would completely lose his shit if he knew she was here, and every second that ticked past increased the probability of him figuring out where she was. Ophelia wiped her sweaty palms against her thighs, all too clearly imagining him bursting through the door, full-on gargoyle.

Her eyes flicked to the clock. These assholes needed to hurry the fuck up.

The bullshit work conference she’d invented wasn’t going to hold up to close scrutiny, but it was the best she could do on short notice. The approval for her to join the tribes had come through almost immediately, and she needed that goddamned virus.

She slowly exhaled and flipped open the mangled pamphlet for the umpteenth time, smoothing it over her bespoke, tailored slacks, glad her phone had died after the first few hours, nixing any temptation to call Deo and come clean about what she was doing.

Fuck around and find out never went over well with him, but that—and his abs—were one of the many reasons she was head over heels for the guy. No one else had ever cared enough to call her on her shit. She chewed a nail, knowing exactly what he would say about all this, but screw him. He wouldn’t understand. How could he? He was a supe and she wasn’t. This needed to happen. She could feel it in her bones. It was the next step.

She couldn’t lose him, couldn’t think about him with someone else after the fact, and her mortality guaranteed that was gonna happen.

Yeah, over her undead body.

Her gaze dropped to the pamphlet. Rereading it was stupid. At this point, she could recite it verbatim.

“Vampirism is a sacred gift.”

Ophelia didn’t quite snort, but damn, that line got her every time. Bit of a stretch there. Though, she had to admit, the tribes had a killer marketing team. She did snort at that, running a hand over her face. God, she’d been here too long, but Vampiric Syndrome wasn’t a gift, sacred or otherwise. It was caused by a virus carried by gravers, a rare species of centipede from the eastern continent that fed on dead bodies.

Gotta love nature, right? Gross, but nothing special. Well, unless they chowed down on someone that hadn’t quite passed into the hereafter. That was unfortunate, and probably unpleasant if said undead were a supe, but if one had the questionable honor of being born a normy like her?

Hello, vampire.

Ophelia put a hand to her churning stomach. She wasn’t particularly looking forward to ingesting one of the fucking things, but if the Victorians could down tapeworms to drop a pound or seventeen, how bad could this be? Granted, tapeworms didn’t have twelve rows of razor-sharp teeth, but…

Fucking A. Who was she trying to kid? It was gonna be horrible.

God, stop being such a pussy. To be with Deo forever, she’d chase the fucking thing with a shot of broken glass if that’s what it took.

Ophelia blew out her cheeks and slumped, her tailbone throbbing from the hard plastic. It was a serious bummer she’d been inoculated for Vampiric Syndrome as a kid. Before the Purge, all you had to do was bang someone already infected to contract VS.

Which was what had kicked off the Purge, the development of the vaccine, was the reason all corpses were now cremated, and a whole host of other shit.

Including the tribes’ need for volunteers to maintain their population.

A shadow moved behind the frosted glass. Ophelia sat up as a brunette vamp with a severe bun and a nurse’s uniform straight out of the 1940s pushed through with a clipboard. A name tag at her breast read “Crake,” and the tatuaj around her eyes radiated to her temples like a spider’s web. The markings looked like a tattoo but weren’t. It was how the virus presented itself and was the basis for their fucked-up caste system.

“Ms. Diamondé?

It was about goddamn time. “Here,” Ophelia said, raising a finger before she stood. She wiped her palms on her slacks and grabbed her purse.

Nurse Crake tongued her cheek, her unnaturally red lips pressed together. She looked Ophelia up and down before checking off something on her clipboard and gesturing for her to follow.

The hallway beyond was as stark as the waiting room had been. White walls, sanitary molding, doors with stainless steel kickplates. All of those had bars dropped across them, moans and thumps coming from within. One of the long fluorescent bulbs flickered above.

“Birthdate?” the nurse asked, her dark eyes on the clipboard.

Something hit one of the doors as they passed, and Ophelia adjusted her purse higher onto her shoulder. “Uh, November third, 2015.”

“And you’re here because…?” The nurse flicked through a bunch of papers, and Ophelia caught a flash of her signature at the bottom of one of the many consent forms she’d signed.

She wet her lips. “Vampirism speaks to me,” she bullshitted, though it wasn’t totally a lie. The part where it extended one’s existence indefinitely was absolutely calling her name. The rest of it could fuck off, but if she had to eat a bug then drink blood to make that happen, so be it.

Nurse Crake glanced at her askance like she knew Ophelia was full of shit. Well, at least she wasn’t stupid. She stopped at a door and pushed it open, gesturing for Ophelia to go in.

The room beyond looked like every other doctor’s office she’d ever been in. Padded, papered table, crappy cream and blue wallpaper, a wheeled, stainless steel table, and a little laminate counter area with a tiny sink and canisters of swabs and cotton balls.

“Remove your clothes and put them and the rest of your belongings in here,” Nurse Crake said, handing over a clear plastic drawstring bag with Ophelia’s name scrawled on it. “There’s a gown on the table, ties in the back. The doctor will be with you shortly.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and Ophelia took a deep breath before beginning to undress. Her hands shook as she unbuttoned her slacks and wriggled out of them. Deo. Think about Deo. A visual of the mountainous, gruff blond man flashed across her mind’s eye. The way his stubble glinted on his square jaw, his intense turquoise eyes…

“It doesn’t matter how much time we have together, Phe. We’ll make the most of what we have, and I’ll love you until the end…”

But it did matter. She flicked a hand across her cheek. The thought of growing old while he stayed eternally young—there wasn’t a fucking chance she was going to subject him to mashing up her food and changing her diapers. And he would, damn him. No. This would take all of that off the table. It was the only way they could be together without her fucking mortality hanging over them like a shroud.

She tied the gown and sat on the table, paper crinkling beneath her. Her pulse raced. He was going to be so angry with her, but he’d get over it…right? He always did. And then they could be together forever. With her credentials, whatever tribe she was assigned to would give her a dispensation to work outside the tribal lands.

The mandatory tithe her position at the firm would provide all but guaranteed that. She’d done the research. Save for two she couldn’t track down, every volunteer since the Purge with a high-paying career had returned to their normy lives. Tithing was how the tribes were funded, and her salary was three times what the majority of them made.

Then why are you sweating so much?

Fuck. She raked a hand through her hair. Did it matter? Introspection was pointless and not her jam to begin with. For better or worse, this was happening.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and a moment later it was pushed open. A thin, dark-haired vamp in a lab coat came into the room with another, younger male and Nurse Crake behind them. She carried a stainless steel tray. A crimson velvet cloth covered whatever was on it. She set it by the padded table, then busied herself by the counter.

The dark-haired vamp flipped through her chart, pursing his lips, and pushed up his glasses. The tatuaj beneath them were the same webbed design as Nurse Crake’s and the other vampire’s. Guess there was a tribe of medics.

“Ms. Diamondé,” the dark-haired vamp said. “I’m Doctor Wong, and this is my intern, Louis. He’ll be observing today, unless you have any objection?”

“Nope.” As long as they made her into a vampire, Ophelia didn’t care if they did it on stage and sold tickets.

“Wonderful.” He smiled, the tips of his pointed incisors gleaming. “I apologize for the wait, but in cases such as yours, we like to give the applicants time to fully consider their commitment to our cause.”

Seriously? That’d been some kind of test? Ophelia bit back a snarky retort, the paper drape crinkling beneath her. “Of course.” She smiled back, hoping it looked more genuine than it was. “Completely understandable. However, I am fully committed.”

The doctor nodded, and Nurse Crake took Ophelia’s arm, swabbing it to install a port for an IV. Ophelia winced at the pinch. The woman might not be particularly pleasant, but she was efficient.

“Well, then everything appears to be in order,” the doctor said, flipping through pages as the nurse sent a burst of frigid saline through the IV. Louis scanned the chart over the doctor’s shoulder, reading along with him and taking notes. “I see you’ve completed the first course of religious instruction as well. Highly commendable. Are we ready to proceed?” he asked Crake. At her nod, his eyes flicked to Ophelia.

She swallowed roughly, her mouth dry. “Please.”

Doctor Wong and Nurse Crake exchanged a glance.

“Then lie back to be secured,” the doctor said, reaching for a box of blue gloves on the counter. “The process doesn’t take very long, and as soon as we’ve finished here, you’ll be transported to the applicable tribe’s sect for recovery. That usually takes two to three days, and your reintroduction will be evaluated based on how well you adapt to reanimation.”

Ophelia nodded, fighting a sudden burst of anxiety. The wedding was in a week, and there wasn’t a chance in hell she was missing it. You can do this, Phe.

She lay back, and Nurse Crake moved to her side, pulling thick leather straps from the sides of the table. She buckled them around Ophelia’s torso and forehead, then pulled out others for her arms and wrists.

“For your safety.” Crake smiled, her grin much more predatory than the good doctor’s and about as legitimate as Ophelia’s had been. The nurse filled a hypodermic, then plinked it.

“Ah, what is your preferred orifice?” the doctor asked.

Ophelia started, her gaze fixed on the needle. “What is that?”

“A lethal injection,” he murmured, pushing up his glasses and still scanning her chart. “Where would you prefer the vessel to make entry? It’s not listed here.”

“I-I thought I had to eat it?” Ophelia stammered.

“Any hole will do,” the nurse murmured with a smirk, setting the needle aside to transition the end of the table flat and secure Ophelia’s legs. A slot opened beneath her rear and Crake yanked up the drape leaving Ophelia’s bare ass to dangle.

Her nether regions clenched. She hadn’t— “Mouth. Mouth is fine.”

The doctor grunted and reverently folded back the crimson cloth. He murmured something and made a solemn gesture before lifting a low jar that’d been nestled on a cushion.

Ophelia’s breath sped at the writhing contents, reconsidering all of her life choices. No. She could do this for Deo. For them, for their future.

The doctor shook the jar, sending the churning mass to the bottom before setting it back on the cushion and opening the lid. Decay laced the air. He picked up a pair of long, silver tweezers and plucked out a flailing insect. Its fanged maw gaped as it struggled, twisting and curling up on itself.

“Injection please.”

Nurse Crake jammed the needle into the IV’s port, and a horrible, searing burn sped up Ophelia’s arm. She whimpered at the rush of heat cresting over her, her heart stuttering. Its fluttering beat a mantra: For Deo, for Deo…for Deo…

The doctor held the irate centipede above her. “Waiting for pupil dilation…and open.”

Her lips refused to cooperate.

The doctor frowned and gripped her jaw—

The centipede fell from his grasp and hit Ophelia’s face with a cold, chitinous slap. She recoiled as it flipped, its tiny legs scrabbling to grip her skin. Its length conformed to the contour of her cheek and then skittered sinuously to her nostril. Her arms jerked against her restraints, her head unable to thrash, and a terrible lethargy stealing over her. Heart slowing, her vision grayed, fingers twitching, mind screaming: get it off, get it off, GET IT OFF!

It wriggled into her nasal cavity, clawing into her sinuses, and a garbled moan slipped from her lips. Blinding agony seared across her vision, and she screamed, sharp teeth feasting inside her skull. Her eyes watered. No, it was too hot for tears, the scent of copper thick, cloying the back of her throat. Her pores wept, her skin coated with a slick, sticky film, and the air redolent with the scent of blood.

Nurse Crake licked her lips.

An unnatural numbness bloomed from the bridge of Ophelia’s nose, radiating from her eye sockets, and the rest of her body seized. Foam flecked her lips, her eyes rolling back into her head. A bright, white light shone down for a moment and was ripped away, along with any sense of peace she’d ever felt. Nothing was left but searing, burning, unrelenting pain.

Emotion dissolved beneath it, thoughts a murky haze, her body unresponsive. She was hollow, her mind a void. Empty.

“Very good. It’s taking well. Note the patient has entered rigor. Her sudden pallor coinciding with the sheen of blood-fever and the emergence of the tatuaj around her eyes, there and there…” the doctor said, pointing with his pen, his voice distant and tinny. A godawful cramp went through her body, and a horrific, spattering stench filled the air. “Bowels voided…” He frowned. “Someone didn’t fast as instructed.”

The urge to laugh burbled up Ophelia’s throat, spittle foaming from her mouth. Agony morphed into a bizarre euphoria, her limbs leaden and the feeling of an immense weight crushing down on her. Her heart, still.

Dead.

A wrenching shudder wracked her body as her heart spasmed, once, twice, then sluggishly began to beat again. She strained against the straps pinning her to the table, her chest heaving with the effort.

“Very good,” the doctor murmured.

The room came back into focus, sounds sharper than they should be. The flow of ink from the doctor’s pen as he wrote. Loose strands of Crake’s hair rubbing against one another. The slow scrape of Louis’s blink.

“What the fuck?” Ophelia gasped, her tongue thick and her eyes darting, colors far more vivid than they had been. Bright, everything was too damned bright.

“Welcome back, Ms. Diamondé. Disorientation is a normal side effect of transitioning,” the doctor said absently, busy making notes. “Rest assured, any increased sensitivities you may be experiencing will lessen over the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours as the virus continues the reanimation process.” He stabbed the pen against the clipboard, finished with whatever he was writing, and set it aside with a wide smile. “Now, let’s see where we’ll be sending you, shall we?”

Crake wheeled over a tray. The doctor snugged his gloves before taking a pair of hemostats from the nurse and dipping a wad of gauze into a yellow solution. He dragged it across Ophelia’s brow, then discarded it almost immediately for another, the tiny pad thick with gore.

Ophelia winced at the rough drag of it across her skin. Jesus Chri—

Agony flared through her skull, and she cried out. The doctor hummed above her and swapped out the gauze again. “You need to put a call in to Vesper,” he murmured.

“Vesper?” the nurse spat out behind him, incredulous. “Are you sure?”

“Mmm” he hummed again, swabbing. “The tatuaj are gifted as the Great One wills, and whom are we to judge which tribe she’s been deemed worthy of?”

“But—” Crake pushed forward, her eyes narrowing above pinched lips. “I’ll alert the court.” She scowled and left the room. Louis raced after her, his face white.

“What—what’s happening?” Ophelia lisped, her tongue fumbling against sharp incisors. A terrible thirst had overcome her, making it hard to think. She licked her parched lips, the acrid taste of her own sweat roiling her stomach. Vesper? She couldn’t remember a tribe called Vesper.

“Your transition may have very well just signed the death warrants of everyone who witnessed it,” the doctor said, snapping off his gloves. “Prince Kremlyn suffers no rivals for his concubine’s attentions.”

What? Ophelia’s mind raced. No. She couldn’t be a—Deo. The wedding. She’d left her engagement ring by the sink. That last fight they’d had. He’d think she abandoned him, that she’d run. “No, no. I-I’m not a concubine, I’m an attorney—”

“You are whatever the tatuaj has decreed,” the doctor said firmly, moving to the door. “Someone will be in to take you to seclusion. Whatever call to vampirism you felt, I very much hope it keeps you warm at the citadel. You won’t be leaving it.”

The door shut behind him with an ominous click, and Ophelia’s breath stuttered. The citadel? No, that was impossible. What had she done, what had she done? Oh, God—

Agony bloomed through her skull at the word, and she whimpered, tears tracking from the corners of her eyes. The awful reality of her actions crashed down around her, and an insatiable thirst gnawed at her hollowed insides.

The names of the women she couldn’t track down—the two who had disappeared—flitted through her mind, along with a very bad feeling that she’d be joining them.

**Don’t miss the other books in the Star-Crossed Chronicles series!**

AK Nevermore enjoys operating heavy machinery, freebases coffee, and gives up sarcasm for Lent every year. A Jane-of-all-trades, she’s a certified chef, restores antiques, and dabbles in beekeeping when she’s not reading voraciously or running down the dream in her beat-up camo Chucks.

Unable to ignore the voices in her head, and unwilling to become medicated, she writes Science Fiction and Fantasy full time.

She pays the bills editing, wielding a wicked hot pink pen and writing a column on SFF. She also belongs to the Authors Guild, is a chapter treasurer for the RWA, teaches creative writing, and on the rare occasion, sleeps.

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Jenna shrieked and jumped up, toppling her chair and stumbling into someone behind her, who then collided with a waiter carrying a water pitcher, sending all three to the floor in a shower of ice-cold water.

She landed partially on top of the man, his arms around her waist as he bore the brunt of the fall. Another scream lodged in her throat when she saw it resting on her thigh.  

Suddenly, his hand moved, and the spider vanished.

“You’re okay,” murmured a husky voice against her ear. “It’s gone. You’re okay.”

Laughter filtered through a fog of humiliation. She’d freaked out—in a public place and lay on the floor atop a total stranger while Oscar did nothing but watch, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“Something wrong, Jenna?” he crooned.

“I t-t-told you I h-hate spiders.” Her body trembled, and she couldn’t control the quiver in her voice.

The man’s arms tightened slightly.

“Did you?” cooed Oscar. “I must have forgotten.”

***

Donovan couldn’t believe his eyes when he first saw Jenna McCray in person tonight. All prim and proper, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and his crazy heart raced like a runaway train. 

She’d dominated his thoughts from the moment he saw her picture in the paper two weeks ago. Hell, he’d even cut the damn thing out and kept it in his desk. How pathetic was that?

Everything from her regal posture to how she sipped the wine screamed money and class. Coffee-colored hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape, and pearl studs in her ears emphasized the delicate bone structure of her face and the fullness of ruby-colored lips. The basic black dress and single strand of pearls would look simple on most women. On her, it was elegant.

When their gazes locked briefly, the jolt of desire was so potent it shocked him.

The returning look of interest stole his breath.

Every unexplained feeling he’d endured the last two weeks hit like a tidal wave. It took massive effort to walk calmly to his table.  

Oscar’s joining her was an unpleasant shock. The man was dirty as mud. Why on earth would a woman like her associate with him?

Thoughts in turmoil, he decided to skip dinner and leave—until all hell broke loose.

He’d never met anyone with arachnophobia, but judging by her reaction to a fake spider, she suffered an extreme case. As snickers from the other patrons registered, his protective instincts surged.

A shudder rolled through her body, and she sucked in a jerky breath, mumbling something he didn’t catch.

“It’s gone,” he whispered. “You’re okay.”

She made a move to stand, and he maneuvered to assist, one hand remaining on her arm for stability.

“I’m so sorry,” she muttered, avoiding eye contact and swiping at the water on her dress. “I’ll pay to have your clothes cleaned.”

Face flaming, she watched the waiter clean up the mess. “Oh, Alfred,” she asked. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Miss McCray.” He nodded toward Oscar’s retreating figure. “And he’s to blame—not you.”

Donovan lightly squeezed her arm. “Ma’am? Are you okay?”

She managed a shaky “I’m fine,” then swallowed. “Th-thank you. For helping me.”

 Donovan clenched his teeth as his fantasy dreams went up in smoke. She couldn’t even look him in the eye when she mumbled insincere words of gratitude.

“Anytime.”

At his terse response, dark, earnest eyes, filled with confusion and something he couldn’t readily identify, whipped to his. Desire coursed through him, heady as strong whiskey, leaving him off-balance.

She frowned and retrieved a wallet from the bag on the table, pulled out a card and some bills, then passed the money to Alfred. “If this isn’t sufficient for my wine and the pitcher, please let me know.”

He hesitated, then took the money. “It’s fine, Miss McCray.”

A harried woman appeared from Donovan’s left. The manager—they’d met on a previous visit, but he couldn’t recall her name.

“Oh my God, Jenna. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Katie. Embarrassed but unhurt.” She nodded toward Donovan. “This gentleman broke my fall.” She nibbled her lower lip as though unsure of what to do next. Inhaling, she passed him the card. “Thank you, Mr…”

“Donovan.”

“Mr. Donovan. Please—”

“No mister. Just Donovan.”

Lips slightly parted, she hesitated. “Oh. Okay. Donovan. Please send me a bill for the dry cleaning.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Yes. It is.”

Cheeks the brightest red he’d ever seen, her earnest expression softened.

“Please.”

That one word curbed his resentment. He took the card, ignoring the tingle as their fingers brushed.

“Donovan,” said Katie. “Thank you for helping my friend.”

“No problem, ma’am.”

“And dinner’s on me tonight.”

“Actually, I was just leaving.”

She looked around. “Was something wrong with your table?”

He shook his head. “Unexpected change in plans. I was on my way out when—this happened.”

“Then please accept a raincheck for next time.”

He nodded, knowing he would never accept the offer, no matter how kindly extended.

Katie rubbed Jenna’s shoulder. “Guess kicking him to the curb in a public place wasn’t such a good idea after all, huh?”

Donovan barely covered his surprise. So that’s what happened—good for her.

Jenna’s gaze skipped from him to Katie. “No. It wasn’t.”

“I’ve never seen you react that way before.”

She glanced at Donovan. “I—it just surprised me. That’s all.”

He immediately recognized the lie. She wasn’t surprised. She was terrified.

“I told him they bothered me.”

And that’s the understatement of the century.

 “And you’d already told him to back off,” added Katie, “so the creep had a Plan B to get even. I’m just happy you weren’t hurt.”

This time, when she looked at Donavan, her gaze held, and the intensity floored him. A dark chocolate brown enhanced by a golden ring around the edges, they glistened in the restaurant’s ambient lighting.

Or was it unshed tears? 

Texas Winds

by Dana Wayne

Genre: Contemporary Small-Town Romance

Two hearts shattered by betrayal. Once chance to trust again.

 

Jake Holloway discovered his wife’s infidelity as she lay in a coma, carrying a child that may not be his.

Four years later, his heart remains closed to all emotion. Lexie Morgan’s dream of happily-ever-after ended the day she stood alone at the altar. The need to put distance between her and the pain places her in the path of feral hogs and Jake Holloway’s life. Neither is prepared for the intense attraction.

When Lexie meets his four-year-old daughter, Katie, the timid child with downcast eyes steals her heart.

Forced to rely on Jake’s assistance, it’s impossible to ignore the escalating pull.

But the past never dies, and resurrected hurts threaten their fragile bond.

Will the ever-changing Texas winds hold them together or reduce their love to dust?

 

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Ankle and hip throbbed in unison, and a growing headache added to the misery mix.

She took a breath and looked around. The front bumper dug into the far side of the muddy embankment, and the blown-out tire rested in muck halfway up the rim. Dingy water in the ditch swirled around her feet and leached up her mud-coated pant legs. Her disgusted gaze took in the filthy jeans and soaked and blood-coated tee shirt. “Crap,” she muttered. “Brand new shoes.” She swiped a hand across her cheek, leaving a streak of bloody mud in its wake. “Great way to start my first vacation in years.”

She adjusted her grip on the door and blew wet hair away from her mouth. “Alrighty then.” Muttering under her breath, she reached past the dog and plucked the half-full Swear Jar from the floorboard. An irritated swipe at the wet hair clinging to her cheek left more muddy streaks behind. “Time for the big guns.” She placed the jug on the seat near Biscuit and pulled two soggy one-dollar bills and three quarters from her pocket. She took a breath and ceremoniously dropped the quarters through a slot cut into the lid, mumbling after each one. “Damn. Damn. Dammit.” She took a deep breath and crammed the wet bills through the hole. “And son-of-a-bitch.” 

“Don’t reckon that’s gonna help much.”

An f-bomb exploded before she could stop it.

***

Startled by the man’s deep voice, Lexie swore and spun around, tossing the jar over her shoulder as intense pain shot up her leg.  Off-balance, she grabbed the door to keep from falling on her rear as the jug landed with a mushy thump at the stranger’s feet.

The brim of a dark Stetson cast his face in shadow, but there was no disguising his frame. Tall, at least six-two or three, shoulders a mile wide, with long, muscular legs encased in worn jeans. Muddy work boots covered his feet, and well-used leather gloves stuck out of his front pocket. Rain dripping from the brim of his hat left wet trails on his pale blue chambray shirt, and the rolled-up sleeves revealed tanned, muscular forearms.

He hesitated, then picked up the jar, one corner of his mouth curling up as he read the inscription. “I’m guessing that last word is expensive,” he said as he passed her the container before stepping back.

His husky, just-woke-up voice raced through her like fine wine, leaving her momentarily speechless. “It is,” she snapped and took the jug. “Five bucks.”  She glanced past him and noted a grime-coated, black Ford F250 crew cab parked behind him on the shoulder of the road. Holy crap. I never heard a thing. She eyed her bag, mentally calculating how long it would take to reach the pistol inside if needed. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people. I have a gun. And I know how to use it.” 

He made no effort to approach, just stood there, hands on his hips. “Are you hurt?”

She gripped the door tighter when her throbbing ankle threatened to fold again. “No. I’m good.”

“You have blood on your face. And mud.”

His intense gaze traveled up and down her body, causing an involuntary shiver.

“Were you ejected?”

“No. I slipped when I got out.”

He tipped his head toward the back seat. “What about the dog?”

She glanced at Biscuit, who showed no concern over the stranger’s sudden appearance, and noted a little blood on the side of his mouth. How did she miss that before? “Biscuit!” Dismissing the man, she leaned against the car and ran her hands over the dog again, checking more thoroughly for anything broken. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

The dog stoically endured her frantic exam with only a slight whimper when she touched his front paw before moving to his mouth. “Come on, baby, open up.” She slowly pried his jaw open and saw blood on his tongue.

“Looks like he bit it. Probably on impact.”

It took tremendous effort not to react to the unexpected voice behind her left shoulder. “Yeah. Probably. I’ll have him checked out when I get to town.” 

He looked at the luggage piled in the back of the SUV. “Where you headed?” 

She glanced up and discovered walnut-colored eyes watching Biscuit, his square jaw visibly tense. His face was rugged and somber, bronzed by wind and sun and covered with dark stubble. No laugh lines around full lips, and unspoken pain was alive in dark, fathomless eyes. In a heartbeat, his expression changed, switching to closed-off and distant as he took two steps back, hands stuffed in his front pockets.

Multi-awarding winning author Dana Wayne is a sixth-generation Texan and still resides in the Piney Woods. She routinely speaks at book clubs, writers’ groups and other organizations and is a frequent guest on numerous writing blogs. A die-hard romantic, her stories are filled with strong women, second chances, and happily ever after.

“I’m all about the romance, so my tales are heartwarming, have a splash of suspense and humor. While they are a little steamy, I believe romance is more about emotion than sex, and the journey is more important than the destination.

“I retired in late 2013 and published my first book in 2016. I was over the moon when it was awarded first place in a contest through the Texas Association of Authors, and I never looked back. My books have been nominated for and/or received various awards and numerous five-star reviews. To have my work validated in such a manner is very gratifying and humbling.”

Affiliations include Texas Association of Authors, Writers League of Texas, East Texas Writers Guild, Northeast Texas Writers Organization, and East Texas Writers Association.

 

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Burn was admiring Jackson, the newest family member, when a wide-eyed Rissa burst out of the kitchen and sprinted into his arms.

“Hey, beautiful.” He was glad he hadn’t demanded to hold his nephew because now he had an armful of a warm, welcoming woman.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Rissa said breathlessly.

He was gratified that she’d missed him. “I was only gone an hour, but that’s a nice welcome.”

She pulled back, but not away. “Sorry … I …”

He cupped her cheek to catch her gaze. “Did you have a problem while I was gone?”

“No, but I need this,” she said, winding her arms around his neck and leaning on her toes to kiss him.

That was an invitation that he wasn’t going to turn down. He pulled her closer and slid his hand into the hair at her nape to slant his mouth more firmly over hers.

“Let’s keep this PG. The baby is watching,” said Clare, smirking at him from where she stood with Jackson on her shoulder.

Burn chuckled and gently tucked Rissa against his side. “Give us a break, Clare bear. We’ve been apart all afternoon.”

“More like an hour, Bernie Cruz,” Clare said, pointing a long finger at him. Then she shifted her gaze to Rissa. “Don’t let him bully you.”

Rissa straightened. “Burn wouldn’t do that. He’s kind, and I’m here because I want to be.”

He liked that his little Texan was ready to come to his defense. “Easy, Tiger. My sister-in-law is an attorney and has strong opinions regarding male testosterone.”

Clare arched a dark brow, “As long as everything is consensual and safe, I have no problem with it.”

Burn chuckled. Their little PDA had probably already given Clare plenty of ammunition for the next family dinner lecture, but damned if he cared. “Rissa, this is my sister-in-law, Clare, and my nephew, Jackson. Clare, this beautiful woman is my girlfriend, Rissa Parker,” He grinned at Rissa when he said girlfriend, wondering how she would react.

She didn’t pull away or even look annoyed. Okay then.

Leah Miles writes romance and paranormal fiction from her small-town in South Georgia, where she lives with her husband and cocker spaniel while running an insurance agency and Airbnb business.

After a dozen years in news production at CNN, Leah Miles now manages an insurance agency and an Airbnb business in rural Georgia, while writing romantic suspense and paranormal romance featuring take-charge heroes and fierce heroines.

 

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Joseph Gulesserian is a seasoned entrepreneur, brand strategist, and former business management professor who taught corporate finance, statistics and marketing at the post graduate level. With over 30 years of real-world experience he has launched companies, created consumer brands from scratch, and helped others grow theirs by uniquely blending street-smart strategy, business school training and hands on know-how.

He is also the author of the bold and prophetic The Practical MBA on Economics—a no-nonsense, eye-opening look at how the global economy really works, why fiat money is eroding your wealth, what you can do about it, while providing a looking glass into the future.

Known for blending humor, wit, irreverence, and actionable insight, Joe writes for entrepreneurs, career-minded professionals, and anyone ready to thrive in a world of seismic disruption.

He believes business is not just for boardrooms—it’s a survival skill. The Guerrilla Guide for Entrepreneurs is his call to arms.

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The Occult Series Book 2

The Queen of the Underworld is the second novel in the award-winning The Occult Series by Lauren Louise Hazel.

Following the fall of The Occult and its Head, Prue receives visions of The Queen of the Underworld—a powerful Demon who was once overthrown by her allies and exiled from her homeland—rising in its place.

Prue sees that the Queen is connected to Prue’s best friend, Lily. This leads Prue and her half-brother, Everett, on their mission across worlds to destroy the Queen and save their friend. But nothing is what it seems.

The Queen is ready and waiting for them—and she will stop at nothing to secure her future and wipe out anyone who opposes her.

 

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Lauren Louise Hazel is a Cyber Security Manager by day and writes YA fantasy by night. She has one annoying brother and younger sister. As she was growing up, the only item her dad would buy her without demanding her pocket money was books. He’s hoping the writing is successful so he can get a Ferrari!

Some of Lauren’s favourite books and influences include the classics – like Lord of the Rings and The Hunger Games – and anything by Haruki Murakami and GRR Martin.

 

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Land of Two Moons will be a limited edition leather hardcover signed and numbered, a special edition case laminate hardcover, an eBook, and a paperback with printed edges. A rigid slip case is available for the hardcovers. 

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Prologue

     Pattin didn’t know what they were fighting for. All he knew was that when their commander yelled the order he was to let loose his arrows toward another trench opposite theirs somewhere in the Red Sands desert. Rumor was they were fighting over mines, dukes, power, and money. Nothing he’d ever be privy to. It didn’t matter. He was here because he’d been conscripted.

He’d been in this trench for nine days straight. Hot, drenched in sweat, sick to his stomach, and with little to eat or drink. Tired of swatting flies and stepping over the bodies of his comrades, he was ready to leave. No one wanted to be here, especially not the lads from Bidsworth, and especially not on the front lines.

He spat the dust out of his mouth and bit another piece of jerky.

“When is she going to come for us?” he asked his friend.

“Tonight, they said. Maybe,” Ivan whispered.

“What do you mean, maybe? She promised.”

“She can only take five at a time.”

“Bloody Marks, she’s been here every night for a week. What’s she going to do, get everyone but us? The more people who leave, the less chance of survival for those who stay. I’m too young to die in this rat hole.”

Ivan shrugged—a hint that he wasn’t happy about the situation either.

“We could try and make a run for it on our own,” Pattin whispered, his lips barely moving, glancing around the desolate countryside.

Over the sand, the heat waves danced, crafting a mirage of water, a deceptive illusion that only a fool would pursue. Bait for the enemy. Pattin licked his lips, wishing for a drink of cool water from the springs in Bidsworth, his homeland, a wealthy duchy whose stone structures mirrored the color of the red earth. Here in the wasteland, iron ore poisoned the vegetation, and there was nothing but dust as far as the horizon. The soldiers hated this place, and rumors of desertion were burning the ears of the agents at base. The officers were watching the troops like hawks.

“Fool. We’d have bolts in our backs, dead. Is that what you want? If I’m going to desert, I’m doing it with Kezia.” Ivan wiped the sweat from his brow; his face caked with red earth. Even his eyelashes were laden with dirt.

“What makes her so special that she can get us out with no one noticing?”

Ivan snickered and glared at him. “She’s the duke’s daughter, remember? Plus, she’s smart, crafty, and wicked.”

“Duke sabotages his own army through his daughter!” Pattin mumbled.

“Stop complaining or she’ll never come and get you.”

Pattin wiped his brow, his mouth fixed in a frown. She might not come for him at all. It’s everyone else’s luck to be saved by a duchess.

“Heads up!” The dreaded warning arrived just as a flurry of bolts blotted out the sun.

Pattin covered his head with his shield. Ivan lifted his own targe to cover his body while the plummeting projectiles thundered on it.

“Move!” came the command.

Like a terrified beetle, Pattin crouched on the ground and joined the others, locking his shield with Ivan’s as the company crawled through the trench, hands and knees bleeding, while avoiding the corpses of friends who didn’t survive. Away from the onslaught they moved, abandoning their supplies. Someone would be sent back for them when the sun settled on the horizon and the two moons rose.

Soon everyone here would have to leave the trenches and charge at the enemy. That was a standard maneuver, and it was just a matter of time. Hand to hand combat would kill him, Pattin was certain. With practiced ease, he could loose an arrow, always striking the mark. But his end would come by the cold steel of a sword. He hoped it would be tomorrow. He wasn’t ready to die today.

Maybe Kezia would draw his name and come for him tonight. Maybe he would live through this bloody war, after all.

D.L. Gardner is an award-winning author, artist, filmmaker, and screenwriter with over 28 published works to her credit. Writing and painting are her passions and fantasy her forte. When she’s not pounding keys on the computer, she’s canning salsa, picking apples, listening to the voices of critters in the woods, or watching flowers grow. She loves visiting far-off lands through books by both reading and writing.

 

Her genres include all fantasy, historical, and mystery.

 

Get to know D.L. through her websites and blogs or send her a message her on Kickstarter.

 

Currently a FINALIST (2025 March) in the Cannes World Wide Film Festival for her screen adaption of her book An Unconventional Mr. Peadlebody.

 

Other awards include Wishing Shelf book Award 2023 for audio, B.R.A.G. Award 2022 for the Cho Nisi series, Book Excellence Award 2019 and 2015 for Ian’s Realm and Cassandra’s Castle. Best Screenplay adaptation from her book Dylan at the Paris Screenplay Awards, Mile Hill International Screenplay Awards, L.A. Edge Awards, European Cinematography Awards, and Moondance Film Festival. Best Screenplay Award for adaptation from her book An Unconventional Mr. Peadlebody at Veers Film Festival, Best Screenplay Award for adaptation of Ian’s Realm at the Twin Falls Sandwiches Film Festival and many more.

  

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The Broken Crown Saga Book Two

The peace was always a lie. They just didn’t know whose.

Queen Eloise of Ardanthia has done everything right. She negotiated the alliance with Caladorn, married the prince, held her court together through blight and borderland attacks and the whispered threat of an ancient secret order. Now, with villages vanishing overnight — crops blackened, livestock dead, people simply gone — she does what any good ruler would do. She sends her best.

Sir Cedric Blackthorn, the precise and principled knight-investigator. Captain Elira, a soldier who has survived too much to flinch at anything. Tomas, a scholar more at home with footnotes than fistfights. Ryn, a street thief from the Saltspire docks whose instincts are worth more than anyone’s education. And Auralias — the Court Mage, brilliant and unsettling in equal measure — who brings knowledge of old magic that none of the others possess, and who may be the only thing standing between Ardanthia and the League of the Moon.

Together, they are hunting the League before the League can finish what it started.

What they find will change everything they think they know — about the attacks, the conspiracy, and the true scale of what is being assembled in the dark. There are artifacts, older than any living kingdom, whose power was thought lost to history. There are secrets buried so deep that uncovering them will cost more than anyone is prepared to pay. And there is a question, growing louder with every mile: who, exactly, is the enemy?

Twilight’s Dominion is a story about loyalty tested to breaking, courts where every smile hides a calculation, and the particular horror of realising that the enemy has been in the room all along. It is about a queen learning that the peace she built was built for her — and a company of mismatched, battle-worn companions who keep fighting even after the ground gives way beneath them.

Set across mountain fortresses carved from living rock, fog-wrapped port cities, a besieged royal palace, and the treacherous corridors of two kingdoms in collision, this is epic fantasy for readers who like their politics sharp, their magic consequential, and their betrayals earned.

Perfect for readers who love:

*The political intrigue of A Song of Ice and Fire

*The ensemble loyalty of The Lies of Locke Lamora

*The world-building depth of Robin Hobb

*Characters who are competent, scarred, and worth caring about

“There’s no certainty in what’s ahead. But I’d rather die among friends than watch the world go to monsters.”

The Broken Crown Saga:
Book One: The King’s Fall
Book Two: Twilight’s Dominion
Book Three: Echoes of Kings – coming soon

 

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Sir Cedric Blackthorn has been sent by Queen Eloise to investigate a string of attacks on eastern villages — crops blackened overnight, animals dead, people vanished without trace. He has assembled a team: Captain Elira, the scholar Tomas, the street-sharp Ryn, and the Court Mage Auralias. They are holed up at a battered inn in the village of Riverbrook, pooling what they have learned. Ryn has found a symbol at the attack sites that she recognises from her past. The Court Mage would prefer she hadn’t.

~800 words

 

A serving girl arrived with a tray — three mugs of thin beer, a hunk of bread already sliced, a battered tin bowl of what might once have been rabbit stew. She set them down with the briskness of a woman determined not to get involved.

Cedric waited until she retreated, then signalled the others to lean in. “What did you find?”

Elira was first. “Nobody trusts the Queen, or the Watch, but they’re more afraid of the thing in the sky.”

Tomas nodded, tapping his notebook. “A few remember blue light, but most didn’t look up. What they all describe is the shadow.”

Cedric cut a piece of bread, chewing while he thought. “Is someone calling it, or guiding it?”

Ryn cleared her throat, the movement dramatic. “I’ve been thinking about the sigil. The one we found at the granary.” She looked around, daring anyone to interrupt. “In Marinth, there were stories about a League, never heard it called anything but that. Supposedly, they could move information, gold, even bodies, without ever being caught. I thought it was just a trade guild myth.”

Tomas looked up, interest lighting his face. “Could the League be the League of the Moon?”

Auralias made a dismissive noise. “You’re giving too much weight to old wives’ tales, Ryn. The League is a legend designed to explain incompetence in the city guard. There’s no evidence it was ever real.”

“Then why’s the sigil match?” Ryn shot back. “And why are you so keen on ignoring it?”

Auralias’s expression remained bland, but Cedric noticed a pulse beating at the mage’s temple. “Symbols recur, Investigator. That’s what makes them useful. Even a street child should know that.”

Cedric intervened, keeping his tone calm. “Auralias, what do you really know about the League of the Moon?”

The Mage’s lips pressed together. “More than you, and less than I’d like. If it ever existed, it would have been in the days before the Crown outlawed private orders. All records are destroyed, and the only witnesses are centuries dead.”

Tomas leaned forward. “Except the sigil is real. And the glyphs at Oakvale match. Ryn sketched them, I checked.” He fished in his coat, produced a stained scrap of paper, and set it on the table. “See? The same looping curve, the half-moon mark. Whoever is doing this wants us to know.”

“Or wants to make sure only certain people understand,” Ryn added.

Elira interjected, “It doesn’t matter if they’re real or not. If someone’s using their symbols to orchestrate attacks, we treat it like a live threat. We set watches and keep everyone out of sight. Tomas, you map the attacks; Cedric, you cross-check with any suspected League activity. I’ll lock down the inn, keep the townsfolk from panicking.”

Cedric raised an eyebrow at his subordinate, though he appreciated her directness. He looked around the table. “Agreed?”

“Never thought I’d see the day I’d be guarding a village from a bedtime story,” Ryn said, flashing a grin.

Auralias turned away, eyes on the fire. “Just remember: stories are dangerous when people start believing them.”

The meal finished in silence, each companion lost in their own thoughts. The villagers cast sidelong glances, their conversations stilled whenever the group moved or spoke too loudly. Ryn broke the tension by stealing a second bowl of stew, then made a game of picking out which villagers might have been spies or informants in another life.

Elira stationed herself by the door, hand always resting on the hilt of her sword, eyes never quite still. Tomas worked by lantern, scribbling diagrams and lists and odd runes that might, in another context, have been poetry. Cedric alternated between reviewing his notes and watching Auralias, who stared into the flames with a focus so intense Cedric wondered if he saw something there that no one else could.

Cedric pulled Ryn aside as the others made ready for bed. “You’re sure about the sigil?”

“You don’t forget a symbol that comes with that many warnings,” she said, fierce and certain.

He smiled, in spite of everything. “We’ll follow it through, then. Watch yourself around Auralias.”

“Always do.”

They rejoined the others. Tomas and Elira had staked out bunks at the back wall, with good sight lines on both windows and the main door. Cedric took a spot on the floor while Ryn slid onto the bench nearest the exit, hands folded behind her head.

The last thing Cedric saw before drifting into a restless half-sleep was Auralias, standing at the window, face a mask of moonlight and calculation. The mage’s hands were clasped at his back, but every so often, they moved in slow, deliberate patterns, tracing out invisible glyphs that lingered, for just a moment, in the shadows along the wall.

*

Captain Elira waited until the inn’s common room had emptied of all but the snoring and the truly sleepless. She stoked the hearth to life, then pulled on her oilskin and stepped outside for a final circuit of the perimeter. The mist had thickened, rolling up from the river in ragged layers that clung to the ground and distorted every light and sound. Above, no moon showed; even the stars were erased.

She made her round efficiently, checking each window, every door latch and bolt. The cold was deeper now, sinking past flesh and into the bone. At the back of the inn, in the wedge of shadow between outbuildings, she paused and listened. The silence was not empty, but heavy, filled with expectation, like the moment before a duel.

It was then she saw the watcher.

A figure at the side of the orchard, a good thirty yards off, where the line of trees met the remains of a split-rail fence. A hooded cloak, pale in the mist, motionless except for the faintest stirring as the fog eddied around it. Elira’s hand went to her sword; she let her eyes adjust, waited for the trick to reveal itself, but the silhouette remained.

I am a new author writing under the pen name Orlan Drake, my real name is Chris Hills Farrow.  I’ve worked as a freelance writer for magazines in the past but have always wanted to write fiction, and after having more free time during the lockdowns, I have made some progress. I enjoy fantasy because it opens my mind to other worlds or ways of life that do not exist in real life, or have ever existed.

 

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Exposed to a handful of soul dust, Aaliyah re-awakens and sets off to free Gabriel from his prison within the Dry Woods. Outside, she is again confronted by a gryphon but with no not-to-bright knight to defend her. Good thing the gryphon only wants companionship. The flight of a wandering heartsick gryphon is not a direct route to anywhere and after watching a raunch of unicorns, Liyah tumbles into a magical river far from her desired destination. Between encounters with dwarves who remember her forgotten promise and fairies who sell favors for power, she must master the primal magics of patterning and untether the pleasures she once bound to fidelity.  For Liyah has learned that Gabriel, the man who anchors her, is not only trapped in the Dry Woods but also bound by primal locks that will age him to death if opened incorrectly. 

Every bit of new magics comes with a cost: soul-dust addiction, bargains that entangle desire and duty, and adversaries who want her power for themselves. With time collapsing and a witch’s spell hovering like an axe, Liyah must decide whether the route to rescue is the same path she promised never to tread—pleasure given away to reclaim what matters most. The question is simple and brutal: how much will she sacrifice to save him?

** NEW RELEASE! **

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Liyah blinked and found herself back in her body in the castle’s kitchen. Edwin gazed at her, concerned. “What happened? Are you all right?”

Indeed. She looked down to where the bag of red dust should have been cupped in her hand. The bag, along with its siblings on the table, had disappeared. For a moment, Liyah mourned. She wanted to return.

Edwin must have read her expression. “I removed it. It’s addictive. Soul dust. If I’d known something so powerful was left hanging around in the kitchens, I would have checked and removed it earlier. Perhaps magical royalty is less concerned with lower magics. Are you alright?” He’d rounded the table and stood beside her, rubbing her back.

She wasn’t, but she didn’t want him focused on her. She needed him to return to the dragon. “Lower magics?”

He sighed. “I forget you do not remember certain things. Most things, it seems, related to magics. In my kingdom, Paradimia, we are not generally born magics users, but we do have access to lower magics—magics not of people, but of things, like the soul dust. Low-level magics—from something inanimate, like the dust—may be used by anyone, whether they are magical themselves or not.”

She’d thought this land was without magics, but it seemed there were magics within, just not many magics of living beings. She nodded. “So it is not likely low-level magics would be hanging around in a kitchen. I understand.” She felt around on her body. “I don’t seem to be injured, so perhaps it is time I started my journey.”

“Do you not wish for my company?”

She needed him elsewhere. “It isn’t that I don’t want you with me. My parents need your assistance. Bethela will need another story for the spell needed to put my parents back to sleep. And I am going to the Dry Woods to free Gabriel. You see? We are fated to part ways now.”

It was a pity his expression grew suspicious, for she had relayed the truth. His voice broke as he spoke. “Is it what I did with the gargoyles? Is that why you no longer wish for my assistance?”

She had only briefly thought of the gargoyles since she died. It must have weighed on him. “It is not the gargoyles, although I know you to be the true knight you are from what I witnessed. And I know you to have love in your heart, even when you sometimes speak to me without consideration. No. Here I ask you to be the guardian I know you to be.”

“But why is it important that your parents go back to sleep? Surely they can be of greater assistance awake. They will eventually remember who you are.”

Liyah reached out and squeezed his arm. “I already know who I am, Edwin. That is thanks to you. I am Aaliyah, and I am kind and courageous and determined. I know those things about myself because of you.”

Edwin sighed and leaned back against the table. His golden locks fell against his handsome face. “So now I need to help your parents go back to sleep.”

“Yes. If anyone remembers who I am, a spell will find and kill me. Like the spell that protected the castle.”

He frowned. “Yes. That was very dangerous.”

“And my father says this spell is far worse than the one that chased us about Haven. So, you see, it is imperative that they go back to sleep. I do not wish to separate, but I must free Gabriel. When I left him, he was afire again.”

The Princess Annals: Kingdom of Haven

The Princess Annals Book 1

In this fantasy world of the erotic, Aaliyah must journey to find her lost identity. Aaliyah awakens in an empty castle with no memory and only an enchanted clock to send her on her quest. Seduce by one not-to-bright knight, Aaliyah finds herself hunted by an unseen force yet imbued with powerful magic. She must coerce horny pixies, swap sex stories with a dragon, and rely on that same not-too-bright knight to seduce the gargoyle king and his coven in order to secure the incantation that will reveal who she is. And her unknown enemy is catching up to her fast.

Aaliyah’s journey sends her to Gabriel imprisoned in a magical wood. She grows to love Gabriel and discovers that the only thing which can release him now is love, absolute. But how can she love completely if she doesn’t know who she is?

Beware gentle reader; thread carefully through this erotic romp as a woman awakened to her innate powers risks all to discover her true self before an unseen enemy annihilates her.

This is the first Aaliyah story in the series.

 

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Victor Pierce is a seasoned writer with a focus on erotic fiction. He enjoys classic mythology and horror novels. His first series, The Princess Annals, draws together his love for mythology and the erotic. He resides in College Park with his partner and her anxiety-ridden black cat and overly-social gray cat. You may reach him at victor.pierce@bookofvenus.com or at or at https://www.bookofvenus.com/connect-with-us/

 

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Where are you, baby? You know I hate waiting,” says Evelleyne, her breath briefly fogging the reflected outline of her bare shoulder on her phone’s screen.”

“I just got out of the shower. Give me about fifteen minutes, and I’ll be there,” said James.

“You could have waited on the shower, baby. You’ll be hot and sweaty as soon as I let you in the door.”

“Is that so? Well, let me hurry up then. Sounds like I’m going to have my work cut out for me tonight.”

“You have no idea.”

“Let me finish here. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Okay, baby. Be careful. No speeding tickets this time.”

“I can’t make any promises. You know I can’t wait to get to you, girl.”

“I know, baby, but I’m not going anywhere, so there’s no need to rush. Just know your girl is waiting on you—with nothing on.”

“See, that’s what makes me break the law getting to your house.”

Evelleyne laughs. “You’re so cute when you’re possessive.”

“Yeah, and I’m the luckiest man alive to have you in my life. I’m gone; see you in a few.”

“Okay, baby.”

Evelleyne sits on the window ledge, gazing out into the night. The moon is high, and its white light glistens on her voluptuous, tanned body. Her heart beats faster, and she can barely catch her breath as she tightens the grip on her cell phone.

James is rushing down the steps, ready to see his beloved. He hears a soft, shaky voice as he’s about to hit the “end call” button on his cell phone.

“I love you, James,” says Evelleyne.

“I’ll see you soon,” he shyly responds.

Evelleyne gazed at the night sky, and a tear rolled down her cheek. She knows James loves her, but he won’t say it—he’s proved that. Still, she wants to hear it from his lips.

James hopped in his Chrysler 300. Though excited to see Evelleyne, he’s nervous before starting the car. His mind drifted through the chapters of his life, a journey marked by unexpected turns and profound transformations.

He thought back to the days when he rose through the ranks, becoming an underboss for the Northside Ryders. The choices, alliances forged, and conflicts navigated shaped him into a formidable figure in the city’s underworld.

Meeting Evelleyne was a turning point. Her strength, resilience, and unwavering spirit drew him in. Love blossomed amidst the chaos, a beacon of light in the shadows of their tumultuous world. Together, they dared to dream of a different future.

Alicia Rice is a multi-genre author, leadership development strategist, and speaker whose work explores power, choice, resilience, and the human condition. She is the author of several compelling titles, including Historian of the Wasteland, a gripping dystopian series that challenges readers to examine what survives when systems collapse — and what should.

By day, Alicia serves as a Learning & Development leader, designing leadership programs that empower emerging and senior leaders to lead with courage, justice, and accountability. By night, she writes stories that explore generational trauma, moral conflict, and the quiet strength of those history often overlooks. Her work is deeply influenced by her grandmother’s encouragement, who nurtured her love of storytelling from a young age and instilled in her the belief that her voice mattered.

When she’s not writing or mentoring, Alicia is either gaming or building platforms that connect authors, leaders, and lifelong learners through purpose-driven dialogue

 

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Darcy

I flopped back on the guest room bed, my body sinking into the familiar mattress as I held my phone above my face. After pacing the house for another half hour, I’d retreated to the guest room, needing to talk to someone who would understand the jumble of emotions churning inside me. I tapped Rachel’s contact and waited as the video call connected, the spinning circle making me impatient. When her face finally filled my screen, her red curls wild around her head and her green eyes bright with excitement, I felt the first genuine smile since arriving spread across my face.

“Well, well, well,” Rachel drawled, her image shifting as she adjusted her position. “Look who’s back in the land of baseball and heartbreak.”

“Don’t start,” I warned, but couldn’t help smiling. “I just got here.”

“And? How does it feel to be back in Carter Blake territory?” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

I rolled my eyes. “I’m here to see my brother, not some player who probably doesn’t even remember my name.”

“Sure, honey. And I’m just casually following the Falcons’ Instagram for their baseball stats.” Rachel’s laugh was so loud I had to lower the volume on my phone. “Come on, Darce. This is me you’re talking to. I was there for the whole saga two years ago, remember?”

I sighed, turning to my side and propping the phone against a pillow. “How could I forget? You were the one who held my hand through a pint of ice cream every night for a week.”

“Three weeks,” Rachel corrected. “And it was two pints on the really bad nights.”

“Fine, whatever.” I picked at a loose thread on the quilt. “But that’s ancient history. I’m just here because Dominic’s having a rough time, and Mom thinks I can help.”

Rachel’s expression softened. “How is the big brother? Still throwing fire on the mound?”

“I haven’t seen him yet. He’s at practice.” I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “Won’t be home for a few hours.”

“And how are you really feeling about being back?” Rachel’s voice shifted to the gentle tone she used when she was being serious. “Honestly?”

I hesitated, considering whether to deflect with humor, but this was Rachel. She’d see right through it.

“Honestly? I feel like I’m seventeen again, anxious and out of place. Which is ridiculous because I’m a grown woman with a successful career. But being here…” I gestured vaguely at the room around me, though I knew she could only see my face. “It’s like stepping back in time.”

“To before or after Carter Blake?” she asked carefully.

I flinched at the name. “Both, I guess. This room still has my old bulletin board, for crying out loud. And the living room is basically a shrine to baseball.”

“Including pictures of a certain shortstop, I assume?”

“One,” I admitted. “With Dominic. They look… happy.”

Rachel clicked her tongue. “Teammates on the field, rivals in love.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I protested, though we both knew it kind of was. “Dom never saw it that way, at least.”

“Because he never knew the full story, did he?” Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Wait, hold on. I want to show you something.” Her face disappeared from the screen, and I heard rustling in the background.

“What are you doing?”

“Research,” she called from off-camera. Her face reappeared, now with a smug expression. “I thought you might need a reminder of exactly what kind of man Carter Blake is.”

She held up her iPad, showing me a tabloid website. I squinted at the screen, then felt my stomach drop as I recognized Carter’s face. He was leaving a club, his arm around a gorgeous blonde who was looking up at him adoringly.

“That’s from last month.” Rachel swiped to another photo. Carter at a charity event with a brunette in a red dress. Swipe. Carter on a beach with a different woman. Swipe. Carter and yet another woman getting coffee. “And these are just from this year. The man’s been busy.”

“I get it, Rachel,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “He dates a lot of women. That’s not exactly breaking news.”

“Not dating, honey. These are all different women. One-night stands, from what the gossip sites say.” She set the iPad down, her face filling my screen again. “I just want to make sure you remember who you’re dealing with. Carter Blake, baseball star and Bridger City’s most notorious player—in every sense of the word.”

I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the twist of something unpleasant in my chest. Jealousy? Disappointment? I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to examine it too closely.

“I know exactly who he is,” I said quietly. “And it doesn’t matter anyway. I doubt we’ll even see each other.”

Rachel snorted. “Your brother is his teammate and best friend. You’re staying at your brother’s house. The math isn’t that complicated, Darcy.”

“Fine, we might run into each other. But it’s been two years. He’s obviously moved on.” I gestured toward where the iPad had been. “Many times, apparently. And so have I.”

“Have you, though?” Rachel’s voice was gentle. “Because Chicago Ryan didn’t exactly work out, and neither did Denver Mike or that weird yoga instructor whose name I can never remember.”

“Phoenix Phil,” I supplied with a grimace. “And thanks for the relationship roll call. Really boosting my confidence here.”

“My point is,” Rachel continued, ignoring my sarcasm, “you haven’t exactly settled down since leaving Bridger City. And I can’t help but wonder if a certain blue-eyed shortstop has anything to do with that.”

I sat up, suddenly needing to be in a less vulnerable position for this conversation. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve dated perfectly nice guys. It just didn’t work out.”

“Because none of them were Carter,” Rachel said matter-of-factly.

“Because none of them were right for me,” I corrected. “Carter wasn’t right for me either, or have you forgotten how that ended?”

Rachel’s face softened. “I haven’t forgotten. I was just there with the ice cream, remember? But it’s been two years, and you still get that look in your eyes when his name comes up.”

“What look?”

“Like someone just punched you in the gut but you’re trying to act like it didn’t hurt.”

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A cold playboy in need of a fiancee.

A sweet photographer in need of a job.

A proposal that would last a lifetime.

Eric Jansen was aware of his reputation. As a stoic widower with a mysterious past, work was his only solace…until his investors threaten to end the deal. With a new luxury hotel and housing development for underprivileged families on the line in scenic Rio de Janeiro, the beautiful new photographer, Jayla Mitchelson, is perfect for the job. She may also be the perfect woman to claim his heart.

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    Jayla stared at him, stunned. “Did you just say fiancée? As in…engaged?” The word echoed in her mind, making her frown as if she hadn’t heard it right. “I thought you needed a date.” 

Eric slipped a hand into his pocket. “It’s a bit more complicated than that. Our potential investor values traditional family structures. He believes an engagement would, let’s say, enhance our credibility.”

Jayla’s shock turned into something sharper. Oh, so her photography skills didn’t matter? Was she just supposed to play dress-up and pretend to be in love with Mr. Perfect? “You can’t be serious.”

Eric watched her pace. “It would help me greatly.”

“For your little charade?” Jayla’s voice grew louder. “Is that why you hired me? To be nothing more than your arm candy?”

Eric closed his eyes a moment before he shook his head. “No, Jayla, it’s not like that.”

She stopped pacing, arms crossed. “Then why bring me down here? Why go through this phony interview process, checking out my site and bringing me–” She gasped. “Is that why you took me to breakfast? The sightseeing? Was that part of softening me up?”

“Jayla—”

She glanced back at the huge building. “If I say no, are you going to, what, chop me up and hide me in the building?” She began rummaging through her camera bag. “Look, buddy. I got Mace, and I will not hesitate to use it. I don’t care how many yachts you own.”

Eric froze mid-step toward her, then covered his mouth. His shoulders started shaking, and before Jayla could react, he doubled over, laughing uncontrollably.

“What—” Jayla’s indignation mixed with confusion. “What is so funny?”

He couldn’t even answer, leaning against a nearby lamppost for support as he laughed.

Jayla watched him, arms crossed, trying to maintain her anger. 

But as Eric continued laughing with his eyes sparkling with tears, something shifted inside her. This wasn’t the composed CEO showing off his engaging smile. This was just Eric. Just a man finding genuine humor in her conspiracy theory.

“Oh, Jayla.” He finally managed to stop laughing, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry, but that was not the reaction I was expecting.”

She raised her hands, still stunned. “Well, what exactly were you expecting, Eric? You bring me out here, make this grand gesture, and then—”

“It sounds insane, I know,” he interrupted. “But hear me out. This deal is critical to my company. And I need someone who isn’t part of the usual circle, someone who won’t leak it to the press or get too involved. Someone I can trust to keep their distance while we manage these investors.” He watched her for a moment. “And when it’s done, we go our separate ways. But in the meantime,” his tone shifted slightly, “since we’ll be working together for the next few months, why not…”

He let the sentence linger.

“I’ll pay you twenty-five thousand dollars per workday. Seem reasonable?”

Her mouth fell open. Had she heard him right? Twenty-five thousand per day?

“Eric, I—”

“Think about it,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “Don’t answer yet. Sleep on it. I know it’s a lot to process, but honestly, Jayla, it would mean a great deal to me… to us both. We wouldn’t have to see each other outside of a set plan, anyway. The meetings, the photo opportunities, that’s it. Your time is your own.”

Jayla nodded slowly. She didn’t even want to think of what Donna would say if she mentioned this. It sounded crazy. And the crazier fact was… she started considering it.

“I’ll think about it.”

Author of clean, cozy reads about love and romance, Rachel Matthews is a wife, daughter, crocheter, artist, and dreamer all rolled into one. She’s dreamed of writing ever since she was little and now enjoys penning them for readers all around the world. Part mermaid and part stuffed animal wrangler, she currently lives in San Diego where she is fighting an addiction to the beach while enjoying free time with her own romantic hero husband.

 

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Wonderland has fallen. And something older than kings has taken its place.

Alice returns to consciousness in a ruined palace, her body broken, her mind fractured, her sister enslaved by a queen who wears a crown of thorns and a smile of knives. The Looking Glass is shattered. The Hatter has turned. The White Queen is dead.

But beyond the bloody thrones and broken teacups lies something even stranger—an echo of a play that should never be performed, whispered by a masked god in yellow.

To save what little remains, Alice must navigate a sea of madness, hunt down a missing monarch, and confront the truth behind her own unraveling story.

Some fairy tales end in fire. Others in silence.

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The Red Queen played the long game. She murdered the White Queen and spared Alice, Ava, Hatter, and Lady Cheshire the purge that followed; even Tinker was allowed to live just long enough to complete his devices for the journey. Holding Ava and the Cheshire girls hostage, even releasing the giants, was all part of a plan the Red Queen had mapped out in her mind well in advance. She wanted the Azure Queen dead and the Red King back. Now all her pieces were in play on the chessboard.

Like every game, chess had rules.

Alice never played by the rules.

She would make her own rules.

She would beat the Red Queen at her own game.

Alice doing Alice things.

Jack Finn is a horror author and active Horror Writers Association member living in the wilds of the Pacific Northwest with his wife and two fiendishly clever dogs. He is a lifelong believer that the Tooth Fairy proves you can trade body parts for cold, hard cash.

His books by the include, The Wolves of Kalinin werewolf duology: Prey Upon the Lambs (Anuci Press 2025) and The Desolation of Hunters (Anuci Press 2025); the horror collection They Come When You Sleep (Velox Books 2025), a re-envisioning of the Dracula mythos in the standalone novel The Seven Deaths of Prince Vlad (Anuci Press 2024), and the folk horror collection, Legend of the Deer Woman (Crow Street Press, 2023).

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S. J. Barratt is a self-published, professionally edited children’s author whose eco-themed stories celebrate the connection between people and the natural world. Rooted in an English countryside upbringing and shaped by a career in agriculture, she blends a gardener’s curiosity with a storyteller’s warmth to her writing. Now based in Lyon, France, Suzanne creates tales that inspire middle-grade readers to swap screen time for green time—and rediscover the wonders waiting just outside their door.

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A former BBC broadcaster and journalist, Gill Mills brings over 20 years of experience in entertainment to her narration. Known for her warm, resonant voice, she began her voice career while DJing on BBC Radio 1 and has since voiced numerous TV and audio productions. She now runs a content company specialising in podcast and film production from her studio in East London.

 

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My parents and my sister were preparing for a trip to Boston. My mother was to receive an award at an event. I was not to attend, so I was staying with my grandparents in Northern Michigan. On a hot and sticky Monday night, a tornado struck and severely damaged our home at 1:30 a.m.

My sister does not wear her hearing aids to bed which made her very difficult to awaken. Precious seconds were wasted and, as a result, my mother and sister barely avoided harm. They just made it to the basement stairway as the tornado struck. Where they had been standing literally one second prior was destroyed. One second could have meant the difference between life and death. One second. It was overwhelming for me. I felt helpless. My whole family could have been killed and I wasn’t there to help, and when I thought about it, I couldn’t have done anything anyway.

Candace Gish is a connector, mentor, and the visionary founder of the Divas That Care network and global podcast. Dedicated to helping women realize their full potential, Candace uses her platform to amplify inspiring stories and facilitate life-changing connections. She has expanded this impact through the Young Divas initiative, empowering the next generation of female leaders to lead with purpose and confidence.

A tireless advocate for collaborative mentorship, Candace believes that when women of all ages converge, they create an unstoppable ripple effect of change. Her mission is deeply personal, fueled by the daily inspiration of her husband and her four daughters.

 

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Dystopia. Biology shapes reality. The further adventures of the most beautiful courtesan in the galaxies of tomorrow.

She had the power to create planets. The sixty carved bones of the Yris-tera foretold her ancient fate. Her heritage of power took her beyond time and space and stole from her the one man she loved.

Enslaved on the planet Silistra tomorrow’s most beautiful courtesan unleashes the powers of the gods.

What readers are saying:

“Pure excellence…. A heroic quest of the highest calibre.” – Goodreads

“This is a book which makes one’s blood sing and one’s mind ponder. I loved the first in the series and enjoyed this as much, perhaps more. The ending leaves the reader desperate to know what happens to Estri next – courtesan, slave, warrior, lover, rebel. What is next for our heroine?” – Goodreads

“Call it what you like: science fiction, space opera, sword and planet or erotic fantasy . . . The Golden Sword is all these things, and so much more. A highly intelligent and sensual novel filled with ideas and revelations, this is a gripping story that explores human sexuality and the role it plays in politics. Although the memorable characters are bisexual, toss away all your preconceived notions, for there is a humanity, a strength of will and determination, a realism and depth of emotion to these characters that will have you thinking twice about all you know and all you think you know. This is a book for mature and discerning readers who like some meat on the bones of the books they read. Janet Morris led the way for all the science fiction authors, both male and female, who came after. “ – Joe Bonadonna, Goodreads

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I wondered what it meant, to be a “ten,” as the crellkeep chose a spot apparently like any other upon one chain and fastened me to it by means of heavy metal anklets that were spaced along its length.

“I put you next to Aje. You will sleep through the nights,” he informed me, as if I should be grateful for some thoughtful service. Seeing me safely bound, the two jiasks turned and left the chamber.

“What is your name?” the crellkeep asked.

I almost told him, but caught myself. It took me a moment to remember the crell name Chayin had given me.

“Miheja,” I said finally.

“Meh-he-ya,” the crellkeep corrected me gently. “The Eastmost Star’s Daughter. Suits you. So you have the dharener entranced, do you? A ten, indeed. Crell life is no burden to one so highly numbered.” He stood up, rubbing his back, “I go to get Aje. You will like him. They all do,” he said and patted my naked shoulder. Moments later I was alone in the deserted ever-dusk of the crellpits. A single torch burned at the chamber’s entry, throwing life into the feature- less rock walls.

I crawled the length of my tether, and by lying stretched out could just get my fingers upon the central ring. I tested its strength, as had countless crells before me. There was no weakness in it. I had expected none. I then examined each link of my chains with my fingers, to see if perhaps somewhere there was one unsoldered among them. There was no error among the 387 links that bound me firmly to the central ring. Its twin was sunk where the cold stone floor met the wall behind me. Perhaps there was a weakness in that area, but I had not enough tether to explore it. I lay down upon my left side and curled my knees against my chest. I could not think. I merely lay there.

High Couch of Silistra

The Silistra Quartet Book 1

Biology shapes reality…

One woman’s mythic search for self-realization in a distant tomorrow…

Her sensuality was at the core of her world, her quest beyond the civilized stars.

Aristocrat. Outcast. Picara. Slave. Ruler.

“Engrossing characters in a marvelous adventure.” – Charles N. Brown, Locus Magazine

“The amazing and erotic adventures of the most beautiful courtesan in tomorrow’s universe” – Frederik Pohl

“The best single example of prostitution used in fantasy is Janet Morris’ Silistra series… Estri’s character is most like that of Ishtar who describes herself as “‘a prostitute compassionate am I'” because she “symbolizes the creative submission to the demands of instinct, to the chaos of nature …the free woman, as opposed to the domesticated woman”. Linking Estri with these lunar and water symbols is not difficult because of the moon’s eternal virginity (the strength of integrity) links with her changeability (the prostitute’s switching of lovers). […]

Morris strengthens the moon imagery by having Estri as a well-keepress because wells, fountains, and the moon as the orb which controls water have long been associated with fertility, […] In a sense, she is like the moon because she is apparently eternal, never waxing or waning except in her pursuit of the quest; she is the prototypical wanderer like the moon and Ishtar. She is the eternal night symbol of the moon in opposition to the Day-Keepers […]

 At her majority (her three hundredth birthday), she is given a silver-cubed hologram letter from her mother, containing a videotape of her conception by the savage bronzed barbarian god from another world. […] If Estri’s mother then acts as a bawd, willing her lineage as Well-Keepress to her daughter, then Estri’s great-grandmother Astria as foundress of the Well becomes a further mother-bawd figure when she offers her prophetic advice in her letter: “Guard Astria for you may lose it, and more. Beware of one who is not as he seems. Stray not in the port city of Baniev …look well about you, for your father’s daughter’s brother seeks you”. Having no brother that she knows of does not stay Estri from undertaking the heroic quest of finding her father.”

 – Anne K. Kaler, The Picara: From Hera to Fantasy Heroine

 

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I am Estri Hadrath diet Estrazi, former Well-Keepress of Astria on the planet Silistra. I have begun three times to tell this story, and three times I have been interrupted. This, then, the fourth attempt, will surely prove successful.

Perhaps you have heard of Silistra, the planet that was catalyst to the sexual revolution in the year twenty-two thousand, seven hundred and four Bipedal Federate Standard Time, or of the Silistran serums that lengthen life and restore vitality in virtually any bipedal life form, or perhaps you have at some time contracted the services of a Silistran telepath, or a precognitive, or a deep reader. It is possible that you have in your own home the scintillating, indestructible web-cloth woven by our domestic arachnids, or have seen holograms of our golachits, those intelligent builder-beetles who exude from their mouths a translucent, superhard substance called gol and create from this gol, under the guidance of the chit-guards, the formidable and resplendent structures in which we live and work.

And perhaps you have seen no web-cloth, no gol, never been ill, and are not interested in sex. If so, you may never have heard of Silistra.

I carry Silistra in my mind’s eye, here under this alien sun. In my mind alone can I look out the east window of my beloved exercise hall in Well Astria and see the sun’s rising burst upon the jewel-like towers and keeps of the Inner Well and a thousand rainbows arc and dance in the greening sky.

Best selling author Janet Morris began writing in 1976 and published more than 30 novels, many co-authored with her husband Chris Morris or others. She contributed short fiction to the shared universe fantasy series Thieves World, in which she created the Sacred Band of Stepsons, a mythical unit of ancient fighters modeled on the Sacred Band of Thebes. She created, orchestrated, and edited the Bangsian fantasy series Heroes in Hell, writing stories for the series as well as co-writing the related novel, The Little Helliad, with Chris Morris. She wrote the bestselling Silistra Quartet in the 1970s, including High Couch of Silistra, The Golden Sword, Wind from the Abyss, and The Carnelian Throne. This quartet had more than four million copies in Bantam print alone, and was translated into German, French, Italian, Russian and other languages. In the 1980s, Baen Books released a second edition of this landmark series. The third edition is the Author’s Cut edition, newly revised by the author for Perseid Press. Most of her fiction work has been in the fantasy and science fiction genres, although she has also written historical and other novels. Morris has written, contributed to, or edited several book-length works of non-fiction, as well as papers and articles on nonlethal weapons, developmental military technology and other defense and national security topics.

Janet said: ‘People often ask what book to read first. I recommend “I, the Sun” if you like ancient history; “The Sacred Band,” a novel, if you like heroic fantasy; “Lawyers in Hell” if you like historical fantasy set in hell; “Outpassage” if you like hard science fiction; “High Couch of Silistra” if you like far-future dystopian or philosophical novels. I am most enthusiastic about the definitive Perseid Press Author’s Cut editions, which I revised and expanded.’

  

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Sheriff Ben Kodiak stared outside of his office window and longed to frolic among the great pines and the thick underbrush or wade in the mountain streams and run through fields of wildflowers. 

He sighed and pulled himself back to his paperwork. No one ever said it would be easy to be the law keeper between werebears and humans. Luckily for him it never really got too out of hand… a drunk werebear once in a while or a love triangle between bears and humans that should never have started in the first place. But those were stories for another time.

Most of the humans that lived up in the Pinecrest Mountains had no idea there was a population of werebears living among them…or that there were several clans of them. And as long as Ben was on the job they never would. Most of the werebears were mistaken for Sasquatch sightings and he got more than a few reports, even some fuzzy photos, of a bear in mid-transformation, ducking into the thick forest trees. That was fine with Ben. He even had a hand in letting those reports flourish… it took the attention off the real tribes that roamed the forest. 

As the unofficial peacekeeper between humans and werebears and between each of the bear clans, Ben had his hands, or paws quite full. He was a werebear himself, from one of the oldest tribes on the mountains. The Village of Briar River was the home of his people and where his office was located, on the outskirts between town lines. Most human inhabitants thought of the werebear villages or towns as Native American reservations and that was fine with him. That way they would normally just visit or pass through instead of trying to buy property in Briar River or Bramble Point, and instead made their homes in the human town of Coldbrook further down the mountains.  

Still, the Pinecrest Mountains were a very popular hiking and camping destination for everyone, outsiders included, and it was tough work keeping everything balanced. Luckily the forest rangers worked closely with Ben and had become close friends. He just saw one of them ride by in a Jeep through his window on their way to the trailheads. That’s what Ben wished he was doing, heading for a hike in the many trails, but duty called. 

There had been a small fight, a slight altercation really, in the werebear bar in Briar River’s town center last night. A human stranger had a little too much and picked a fight with one of the local werebears. Luckily for the stranger, Buck Halberd kept his cool and didn’t put him through a wall. Still, the drunken human stumbled out of the bar and fled down the road just before closing time. 

Ben needed to head over to the bar and get a statement and description. If the human was still in the area he could be in some trouble or causing some trouble. Either way, those were two scenarios Ben would rather not see play out. Time to get his ass into gear.

 

Bear With Me

Law of the Wild Book 2

The romance and adventure continue in Book 2 of J. Ashburn’s Law of the Wild Series.

 

Winter in the Forest Mountains.

Sheriff Ben Kodiak and his new love, Garrett, hunker down to enjoy a long, enchanting winter nestled in the warmth of each other until their bliss is once again interrupted by mysterious new murders.

Ben’s people, his werebear tribe, sleep in hibernation except for Lily, the new shaman. Visions and dreams wake and haunt her: danger, killings–something monstrous is coming and the only person she can turn to is Ben.

After the events of the previous spring, Ben thought things would return to normal in the quiet forest towns of the mountaintops. He was wrong. He will need all of his shifter powers and resourcefulness to brace for what’s coming, for not only does it threaten the love of his life, his people and his town but the entire world.

 

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J. Ashburn is your source for exciting, sensual gay paranormal fiction featuring unique stories, magical characters and wild settings. Werewolves, witches, polymorphs, psychic warriors, phantoms, creatures of the night and more dominate the worlds of J. Ashburn. Follow the paths of romance and the supernatural entwined with hearts and minds of men who love men.

You won’t want to miss a single moment of the secret lives of handsome, smoldering characters and the writer who weaves their tales. Pull back the veil and gaze upon the men of J. Ashburn!

 

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Tamela Miles is a California State University San Bernardino graduate student with a Bachelor of Science degree in Child Development and a former flight attendant. She grew up in Altadena, California in that tumultuous time known as the 1980s. She now resides with her family in the Inland Empire, CA. She’s a horror/paranormal romance writer mainly because it feels so good having her characters do bad things and, later, pondering what makes them so bad and why they can never seem to change their wicked ways.

She enjoys emails from people who like her work. In fact, she loves emails. She can be contacted at tamelamiles@yahoo.com or her Facebook page, Tamela Miles Books. She also welcomes reader reviews and enjoys the feedback from people who love to read as much as she does.

 

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