Heroes and Heartbreakers: Paranormal Content

Deadworld: New Excerpt

J.N. Duncan — Wed, 30 Mar 2011 16:00:00 +0000

She’s as tough as anything haunting Chicago’s streets. But to deal with an inhuman power that won’t stay buried, this FBI agent needs help that comes at an immortal price . . .

Jackie Rutledge has seen her share of supernatural killers. But her latest murder case is what recurring nightmares are made of. Brutally exsanguinated human victims, vanishing-into-the-ether evidence, and a city on the edge of panic mean that she and her psychic partner, Laurel, are going to need more than just backup . . .

So Jackie is fine with any help rugged P.I. Nick Anderson can give—even if that includes the impish ghost and sexy vampire who make up his team. But Nick is hiding secrets of his own. And Jackie’s investigation has plunged them both into a vengeful game reaching back centuries—and up against a malevolent force hungry for more than just victory . . .

An exclusive extended excerpt of Chapters 1-7 of Deadworld (Available April 5, 2011) by J. N. Duncan.

Prologue

A misty rain swirled down into the darkness between the two brick buildings. Flattened against one cold wall, Archie Lane huddled next to a stack of sagging cardboard boxes, peering out of the narrow alley at the sliver of sidewalk illuminated by a nearby streetlight. This was not how he had envisioned running away. There had been no envisioning to speak of really. All he had wanted was to escape the smackdown going on in his parent's living room, where dad had the leg up on the cursing scorecard and mom was on pace to set a new “thrown objects” record. Now, the midnight sounds of Chicago's suburbs were frightening him even more.

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Enclave: New Exclusive Excerpt

Ann Aguirre — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 13:00:00 +0000

Go deeper into the story with an exclusive excerpt from Ann Aguirre’s Enclave:

Hidden

In the same movement, I bounced to my feet and found my weapons. I nudged Fade in the ribs. He snapped alert, started to ask, and I lifted my finger to my lips. Listen. He caught the telltale sound immediately and readied himself for a fight.

Club in hand, I stepped to the edge, braced, and waited. There was no point hiding; they knew we were here. They sniffed, searching for us. I could smell them too, worse than the filthy waste closet. They reeked of rotten meat and diseased flesh. In another instant, they burst into view, maddened with the scent of fresh meat.

They rushed the platform and I met the first one with a crushing blow from my club. The skull caved with a wet crunch, and blood bubbled from the wound. It fell and did not rise. Fade took down another, but two more scrambled up, and we fell back so we had plenty of room to fight. Based on my limited experience, I hated Freak eyes most of all; in them I could see a remnant of something human, something comprehensible, swimming in a sea of hunger and misery and madness. I tried not to look at its eyes as it rushed me.

After a day of running and without sleep, my reflexes had slowed. Instead of a clean dodge, claws raked across my arm. My recovery was off, but I drove it away with a kick solid enough to give me the crunch of bone. I followed with a hard swing. I didn’t have the stamina for finesse. End it fast.

I did.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to sleep,” Fade said. “But we have to move on.”

He was right, of course. The corpses would draw more Freaks. I ripped the bottom of my shirt, used my daggers to cut strips and tied off the wound around my biceps to stop the bleeding. More precise treatment had to wait.

“It doesn’t matter.” I snagged my pack and leaped down from the platform. We had another two days of this to get through. And then it would get worse. “Have you been to Nassau before?”

“Once.” He broke into an easy run.

“What’s it like?” We probably shouldn’t be talking, even in whispers. But my curiosity got the best of me, and words took my mind off the throbbing pain.

Fade shrugged. “Like any settlement. Like yours, but worse.”

That damped my desire to ask further questions. We’d been running awhile when I realized I still wore his watch. Though I couldn’t be sure, I thought we’d been moving for about an hour. My eyes felt grainy and dry; my head ached. It only made sense to run as far as I could before I had to rest. An hour later, I stumbled.

“This has to be far enough,” I said. “I have to sleep.”

We stood in a tunnel that showed little sign of use in recent years. There was no lingering smell from Freak occupation. I hitched myself onto the stone ledge, which was wide enough for me to lie down on, if I curled onto my side. Far from the comfort of the stuffed rag mattress I had at home; that was a cozy nest by comparison, but right then I thought I could sleep anywhere.

“My watch?” He held out a hand.

I took it off, head spinning with weariness. This time, exhaustion would keep my mind from working too hard. “Sorry.”

After wrapping in my blanket, I propped my head on my arm, curled my knees toward my chest, and closed my eyes. I didn’t care if Fade watched me. The dark tide of sleep took me.

I dreamed of the thin-faced brat with his blind white eyes. Unlike in life, his neck twisted at the wrong angle. He staggered toward me, arms outstretched. I trusted you. His pale fingers shone like bones twisting in the air.

They killed you.

You killed me. He was nearly on me now, and I was frozen by the white of his eyes. And now, you can’t kill me again. Can’t kill the dead.

Fade woke me. It felt like only an instant, but it must’ve been longer. He wouldn’t have bothered me unless my time was up. A hard breath shuddered through me as I became aware how cold I was, even beneath the blanket. Fearful sweat made my shirt stick to my back, and when I tried to pack my gear, my hands shook.

“You were whimpering. Want to talk about it?”

I closed my eyes. How embarrassing. I felt like the baby he’d accused me of being, the first time we met. But I didn’t want him to think it was something minor, like a Freak attack or being away from the enclave.

“I dreamed about the brat.”

Fade nodded. “That would do it. You good now?”

“Almost.” I had a little water to steady myself and then I got to my feet. “Another eight hours?”

“That would be best.”

Though I’d believed I was tough, considered myself as strong as any veteran Hunter, I thought that day would kill me. We took only minimal breaks because the Freaks had the scent of my blood. They hunted us through the tunnels, their numbers growing. Movement became a test of will, putting one foot after the other, until I wasn’t thinking about anything at all.

I ran in time to the pounding of my heart. With each step, my weight grew. More than once, I stumbled over broken ground. Fade never paused. I don’t know if that meant he trusted in my strength or that he’d leave me if I dropped. Either way, I wouldn’t test it. I could go as long as he could.

Eventually we stopped; we’d put in our eight hours and we needed rest. Fade found us an empty metal shelter, like the one where we’d found the brat. Unlike his, this one hadn’t been over- turned. It simply sat abandoned on the metal lines.

We took turns using the facilities down the track a ways, and then combining our strength, we managed to pry the doors open and slip inside. They slammed shut at once, lending the illusion of safety. This would help, for sure. Freaks didn’t tend to consider teamwork. If one of them couldn’t open the door, they’d look for other ways in, and it would be noisy.

In addition to chairs, this box had benches bolted to the floor. I scanned the place for possible threats, but other than webs and dust, I saw nothing that could hurt us. My arm throbbed fiercely, the ache biting toward my shoulder, and I flinched as I dropped my bag.

“I need to look at that.” Fade stood beside me, indicating my wound.

Sinking down, I gave a jerky nod. “Go ahead.”

He unwound the makeshift bandages. I craned my neck so I could see too. Four parallel marks scored my shoulder, red, bloody, and puffy. I swore, recognizing the early signs of infection. Let go, this wound could cost my arm and then my life. Back at the enclave, tending it would be no problem. Out here, well, fear shivered through me.

Like he didn’t know the danger, he joked, “And here’s your first battle scar. How about it, new blood?”

“Hurts.”

“I know. I was lucky. I got blooded on my first patrol. Wasn’t quite fast enough and the Freak hit me.” He pulled his shirt up to show me the scar on his ribs.

“Was that with the guy who died?” Awkward way to ask, but I couldn’t think of any other.

Fade shook his head. “I’ve had two partners. The first was ven- erable. I learned so much from her. Eventually, they had to pull her off duty. She died of old age.”

“When?”

“A year ago.”

“And then you got the new blood. Who wasn’t as good as Silk said he was.”

“Pretty much.”

“So you’ve been hunting for two years.” That made him roughly two years older than me, give or take. A lifetime in field experience.

“That sounds about right.”

Well, while he’s in an answering mood . . .

“How long were you on your own?”

“You mean outside a settlement, living like the wild boy?”

I didn’t know what that meant exactly, but I did know we’d had to teach him civilized behavior. “Yeah.”

“About four years, I guess.” Like the rest, I had a hard time believing that, especially now I’d seen what it was like out here. I wanted to learn his secrets to augment my own survival chances.

But he turned away, letting me know the conversation was over. Fade dug into his bag and produced a little tin. Unlike the one that had nearly gotten us in trouble with the Wordkeeper, this one was silver and faded. He pulled the top off and a strong smell hit me; it wasn’t unpleasant, but more . . . medicinal. After daubing some on his fingertips, he smeared it on my wound, and it stung, bad.

“What is it?” That seemed like a safe conversational choice.

“It’s a salve one of the Builders made for me. Great for cleaning wounds. But I have no idea what’s in it.” He smiled at me. “Probably fungus.”

That surprised me. Not that he had something good for cleaning wounds that might be made out of fungus, but that there was a Builder who liked him well enough to do special work. “Who?”

“Girl named Banner.”

I knew who she was. Thimble had talked about her, before my naming. Back when I was still stuck in the brat dorm, while Stone and Thimble had moved on, I used to be jealous of how much she liked her. Banner showed me how to make a leather bag, she’d tell me in the common room. And I’d roll my eyes, because big deal, who wanted to make a stupid bag? I was going to be a Huntress, and I told myself that every night as I trudged back to the brat dorm while Stone and Thimble went to their private spaces.

“Maybe she’d make some for me?” Once the stinging stopped, it felt better. I felt it cleaning and tightening the skin. I’d take clean scars over seeping wounds any day.

“I don’t see why not. I’ll introduce you.” The warmth in his tone said he liked Banner, unlike the rest of us.

I frowned. First Thimble, now Fade. I should meet the girl, if only to find out what was so great about her. And request some of that salve too. I didn’t kid myself this was the last injury I would suffer. Assuming we lived.

I cut another strip from my shirt. His fingers brushed mine when I handed him the cloth, and his touch was gentle when he wrapped my shoulder. Part of my hair had come loose from its cord, and Fade brushed my hair away, keeping it out of the knots he tied. I felt strange, like I should move away right now, but he did it for me. I watched without meaning to, without wanting to, as he put the salve away.

By that point, I felt almost too tired to eat. I went to lie down, but he said, “No way, new blood. Eat. Drink. You have to stay strong, because I’m not carrying you.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” I muttered.

Growling mentally over nearly making such a basic mistake, I got out my provisions. I went about it mechanically. He ate with a little more enthusiasm, but he’d been patrolling longer than I had. No amount of training could substitute for actual experience. I’d get stronger. I had to.

“We should both be able to sleep,” I said. “If they find us, we’ll hear them trying to get in.”

“Agreed. And if we don’t get a full night’s rest, it will cost us down the line.”

In reflex, speed, and stamina, certainly. I didn’t want to think about other costs. “Will another day of running get us there?”

“It should.”

“What will we do then?”

He shrugged. “Impossible to say until we scope things out.”

A moment later, he delved into his bag a second time and produced a silver square. Fade flipped the top of it, rubbed his thumb along the side, and a thin flame shot up. I scrambled back. “What’re you doing?”

“Remembering.”

“What?”

“Before.”

My patience ran thin; I didn’t care to drag his past out of him. “What is it?”

“A lighter.” For the first time, he volunteered information. “It used to be my dad’s. Like the watch.”

I paused amid dragging my blanket out of my bag. “You remember him?”

“Yeah.”

That rocked me. In the enclave, we barely knew who our sires were. Most of them died before we got old enough to recognize their faces, and it wasn’t like it mattered. All Breeders looked after us until we were old enough to take basic brat schooling.

“Fade,” I began.

“That’s not my name.” He sounded angry, but not at me.

“It is now. Maybe somebody gave you a different name before, but you earned this one. That makes it true.” With every fiber of my being I believed that.

A sigh escaped him. “Yeah. I guess. What did you want to ask me?”

“Where are you from, really?”

I figured he’d name one of the distant settlements. Most people thought he’d gotten lost and somehow managed to sur- vive on his own in the tunnels until our patrols found him. I didn’t expect him to say:

“Topside.”

“Fine,” I muttered. “Lie to me. I don’t care.”

Nobody lived up there. Nothing grew. Water fell from the sky and scored everything. We’d all heard the stories from the Wordkeeper. Disgusted, I rolled up in my blanket on a bench that ran parallel to the exterior wall. From this spot, the Freaks wouldn’t be able to see me from the outside. They might smell us all around this car, but they wouldn’t see us, and they weren’t very bright as a general rule. I ignored Fade pointedly until I fell asleep.

This time, oblivion brought no bad dreams. I went where everything was dark and quiet, and I stayed there until I awoke naturally. Fade appeared to be asleep as I pushed the hair from my eyes. It had fallen out of the tail I wore to keep it neat.

His voice stilled me, no more than a thread of sound. “Don’t move.”

“Why?” I breathed.

And then I didn’t need to hear an answer. Movement outside told me all I needed to know. Freaks prowled around outside the car; I couldn’t tell how many from the motions, but they suspected our presence. They smelled us.

I jumped as one slammed against the glass, trying to see into the shadows within. I willed myself smaller. Another thud—a Freak climbed onto the roof. How many? I needed to know the odds if they started pounding until glass splintered everywhere.

Maybe if we’re really still, they’ll go away.

The moments felt endless while they snarled and growled and yelped outside. I resisted the impulse to cover my eyes like a baby brat in hopes the scary things would go away. Instead I listened and tried to gather information. Based on the noise and the movement, there had to be fifteen of them out there. Maybe more.

And we were trapped.

Nassau

“I’ve never seen so many of them together,” I whispered.

I shouldn’t have spoken. Though I’d thought my words were so quiet as to be barely audible, one of the Freaks heard me. It went wild, slamming repeatedly against the glass until it began to splinter.

“Up!” Fade shouted. “They know we’re here. Get your weapons.”

There was no room for the club, much to my dismay, so it would have to be daggers. Thanks to Thimble, they fit my palms perfectly. I rolled to my feet as the glass broke. The Freak pushed its torso into the car and I went for the jugular. Twin slashes opened its neck and its disgusting blood jetted out. Then it hung in the broken window like a grotesque blockade, until other Freaks began to tear at it. A few of them fed; others were obviously trying to remove it to get to us.

“How much trouble are we in?” The one on the roof started to jump, as if its weight could break through the metal.

“Depends on how smart they are.”

“Have you been in a situation like this before?”

Incredibly, he smiled. “I doubt anyone has.”

Why did Silk have to put me with a crazy partner? So many solid, experienced Hunters to choose from and I got Fade. Life wasn’t fair at all.

The stench hit me like a club; the Freaks had torn the one in the window apart. At least half of them entered a feeding frenzy. They knelt and shoved the bloody gobbets of meat into their mouths, their razor-sharp teeth and claws shining red even in the dark.

“As long as they don’t start breaking other windows, we should be fine,” I said.

And then they attacked the other side of the car. Fade vaulted over two rows of seats to position himself, daggers in hands. I had to stay where I was and guard this opening. I didn’t let my- self think what would happen if they spread out farther.

Another Freak threw itself at the opening. I missed the neck this time, but I caught it with a side shot, vital organ territory, as it struggled to clear its legs. Like the other, it hung, wretched and dying, while its kin ripped at it.

Fade was doing fine on his end, employing the same tactics. The dead bodies served as an excellent distraction. While Freaks wouldn’t attack their own kind while they lived, if they were dying, it became a different story. Meat was meat.

Their screams and snarls made the hair of my arms stand on end. We held our ground, guarding the two breach points, until they went to work on another window. Two Freaks pounded repeatedly on the glass until it stressed. While killing another, I watched the growing web of cracks with dismay and then fear.

We were going to be overrun.

Before either of us could get there, one managed to climb inside. Without the barrier, another pushed in behind it. If we stepped away, we’d have them behind us on all sides. Grimly, I dispatched another one, and then whirled to take on the one running at me inside.

It dove at me, jaws snapping, and I drove my dagger in through its eye socket. In a smooth motion, I spun and took the fresh one scrambling in the window. Fade dispatched his with cool efficiency. He was better than any of the Hunters I’d watched with such admiration. Even his moves were unique, so graceful I had to work not to watch him when I should be fighting. I didn’t need the distraction.

And then they broke pattern. Two ran at Fade while his back was turned, dealing with the one at his window. Though it meant abandoning my post, I launched myself over the seats, swinging around a pole for momentum, and planted my feet in a Freak’s chest. I lashed out with a powerful kick, caving in its temple, and then I took its partner with twin slashes of my daggers. In saving him, I’d opened a path, though. More crawled through.

“You should run!” Fade shouted. “We’ll kill you all if we have to.”

The Freaks snarled back, wet, hideous sounds that sounded almost like words trapped behind predator’s teeth. I fought on, back to back with Fade, conscious that my muscles were tiring. Humans had limits. But after we dropped ten of them, and the remainder fed on the fallen, they broke and ran. Apparently, we fought too hard to be worth the effort. That troubled me be- cause it showed a certain mental capacity. They might even have taken his warning to heart.

Fade shared my unease. “They decided to cut their losses.”

“That means they’re not just creatures of impulse and appetite, like we thought.” Panting, I wiped my knives on the rags worn by the dead Freak nearest to me.

Ann Aguirre is a national bestselling author with a degree in English Literature; before she began writing full time, she was a clown, a clerk, a voice actress, and a savior of stray kittens, not necessarily in that order. She writes urban fantasy (the Corine Solomon series), romantic science fiction (the Jax series), apocalyptic paranormal romance (the Ellen Connor books with Carrie Lofty), paranormal romantic suspense (as Ava Gray), and post-apocalyptic dystopian young adult fiction.

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Untamed Highlander: New Excerpt

Donna Grant — Sun, 17 Apr 2011 22:00:00 +0000

The Dark Sword series reins in the magic, passion, and fury of Scotland’s legendary warriors—for whom love is always worth fighting for…

DEVIL IN THE FLESH

Druid-born and magic-blessed, Isla is one of the deadliest she-devils ever to serve the forces of darkness. As an immortal Highland warrior, it’s up to Hayden Campbell to destroy her and her kind. But for Hayden, Isla is more than a sworn enemy. She is temptation…

ANGEL IN HIS ARMS

Taking Isla captive, Hayden hopes to avenge his kinsmen who died by Druid magic. But when he looks into Isla’s eyes, he sees the secrets of her past. When he touches her skin, he feels the passion in her soul. And soon Hayden comes to realize that this beautiful, beguiling woman is not his enemy at all—she is his destiny. And, even as the forces of darkness conspire against them, their love will conquer all…

An exclusive extended excerpt of Chapters 1-3 of Untamed Highlander (Available April 26, 2011) by Donna Grant.

One

Hayden Campbell swore viciously as he turned over yet another frozen body on the rocky slope.

“This one is dead,” Fallon MacLeod yelled from his position farther up the mountain.

“They’re all dead.” Hayden blew out a breath that puffed around him, ignoring the frigid temperatures and steady snowfall. Though he felt the cold it didn’t bother him because he wasn’t quite human.

He was a Warrior, an immortal with an archaic god inside him that gave him powers and immeasurable strength—among other things.

Hayden rubbed the ice from his eyelashes as his gaze wandered over the snow-covered slope and the numerous dead Druids. “We should have returned sooner.”

Fallon, another Warrior, walked toward him with heavy footsteps, his green eyes grave. “Aye, we should have, but my concern was for Quinn. We scarcely got him and Marcail out of this cursed mountain in time as it was.”

“I ken.” Hayden gazed at the hated mound of rock. He had always loved looking at the great mountains, but being locked in Cairn Toul for too many decades and forced to watch the evil that grew there took away the pleasure the mountains had once given him. “Damn Deirdre.”

Deirdre, the one who began it all, was finally dead. She was a Druid, but from a sect who gave their blood and souls to diabhul, the Devil, for the use of black magic. She was, or had been, a drough.

There was another set of Druids, the mie, who used the pure magic born in all Druids to bond with nature and harness the natural power that came to all of them. The mie used their magic to heal and aid those in need, not to destroy as the drough and Deirdre did.

But Hayden and the other Warriors had defeated her. It had cost many lives, however. Too many lives.

Hundreds of Druids had been imprisoned in the mountain for Deirdre to drain their blood and harvest their magic to add to her own. No one knew how old Deirdre was, but if Hayden could believe the rumors, she had lived for nearly a thousand years, going back to the time just after Rome was driven from the land by Warriors.

The Warriors had been made thanks to both the drough and mie in response to the cries of the Celts for help, and Hayden couldn’t fault the Druids. Rome had been slowly suffocating Britain, ending all that made Britain great. And the Celts had been unable to defeat them.

The Druids had done what they could for Britain. They had no idea the primeval gods they called up from Hell would refuse to leave the men they took control of.

The gods were so potent the Druids couldn’t remove them. The only thing the Druids could do was bind the gods inside the men after Rome had been defeated and departed Britain’s shores.

And so the gods moved from generation to generation through the bloodline and into the strongest warriors. Until Deirdre found the MacLeods and unbound their god.

Deirdre’s reign of evil had lasted far longer than Hayden liked to think about. Deirdre might have been powerful, but even a drough could be killed.

Hayden grinned, reliving the moment Deirdre’s neck had been crushed by another Warrior and Hayden had engulfed her in fi re.

“What are you smiling at?” Fallon asked, breaking into Hayden’s thoughts.

Fallon was leader of their group of Warriors. They had banded together to fight Deirdre and the wickedness she spawned. Though they had expected it would take years, Deirdre had changed everything when she took the youngest MacLeod brother, Quinn, captive. That’s when they had taken the fight to Deirdre.

“The fact Deirdre is dead,” Hayden explained. “Everything we’ve been fighting against all these years is over. Gone.”

Fallon smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. “It’s a wonderful feeling, isn’t it? Now all we have to worry about is having the Druids find the spell to bind our gods once more. Then we can live as mortal men.”

Binding the gods was all Fallon, Lucan, and Quinn spoke about. But the MacLeod brothers had wives, so they yearned to have their gods gone from their lives.

Hayden, on the other hand, wasn’t sure he wanted to be mortal again. He was too powerless that way.

“I’m going to look on the other side of the mountain,” Fallon said. “Maybe we’ll find someone alive.”

“I think the ones who could make it out of the mountain did. It was the weather that killed them.”

Fallon blew out a ragged breath and clenched his jaw. “We should look inside the mountain, then. Some might have been too afraid to leave.”

They both turned to the door that stood ajar amid the rock as if waiting for them to enter its wicked domain. All Druids were gifted with a certain power. Deirdre’s had been moving stone. She had instructed the mountain to shift and form so that she had a palace inside it, shielded from the world.

Hidden from all.

Countless Druids had died heinously, and many a Highlander had been brought to her to have his god unbound. If he didn’t house a god, he was killed.

Even now Hayden could smell the stench of death and iniquity that permeated from the mountain, could still feel the helplessness which had weighed heavily on his shoulders while he had been locked in one of the various prisons.

But he had been one of the lucky ones. Hayden had broken free and escaped, determined to fight Deirdre and her bid to rule the world.

“Why would anyone stay inside that place?” Hayden murmured as unease rippled down his spine. He fi sted his hands and forced himself to stand still and not give into the urge to turn away from the malevolent mountain.

Fallon scratched his jaw, his gaze thoughtful. “I doona know, but it’s worth a look. We freed these people, and it’s our responsibility to make sure they return to their homes.”

Hayden considered Fallon’s words. “They may not want our help. We are, after all, Warriors. They might not be able to tell the difference between us and the Warriors who allied themselves to Deirdre.”

“True. But I must look either way. I wasna held longer than a few days in the mountain so it doesn’t hold the memories for me as it does for you.”

Hayden might not want to go into Cairn Toul, but he would. “I’m not afraid.”

Fallon put his hand on Hayden’s shoulder and looked into his eyes. “I would never think that, my friend. I would not torment you, though.” He dropped his arm and smiled. “Besides, I want to return to Larena as quickly as I can. You give a final look over the mountain while I go inside.”

Before Hayden could object Fallon was gone. He used the power his god gave him to “jump” inside the mountain in the blink of an eye. Fallon couldn’t jump somewhere he had never been before, but the use of his power had saved them countless times.

They all had different powers. For Hayden, Ouraneon, the god of massacre which was inside him, gave him the ability to call up and control fire. There were other differences as well. Each god favored a color, so every Warrior transformed to that color when he released his god.

Yet, for all their differences, there was a great deal they had in common, like strength, speed, enhanced senses, as well as deadly claws and sharp fangs. The most disturbing, though, was that their eyes changed to the same color as their god.

It had taken Hayden a long time to get used to that. He hadn’t seen his own eyes, but he could imagine how he looked when the whites of his eyes disappeared and his entire eye turned red.

As much as Hayden had rebelled and fought the god within him, that same god allowed him to defeat Deirdre. With Deirdre dead and his family massacred by a drough sent by Deirdre, there was nothing in this world for Hayden to do.

For so many years he had roamed Scotland, watching the world change around him while he hunted droughs. Deirdre had taunted him that she had sent a drough to kill his family as she tortured him day after day. So he fought against Deirdre while seeking his vengeance on the droughs.

Now there was no place for him in this new world. There was no place for him anywhere.

He continued his wandering of the mountain, looking for anyone who might still be alive, as he thought of what his next move might be. He had stayed in Scotland because of Deirdre and his revenge, but maybe he would travel and see the different countries others spoke about.

Hayden leaned against a boulder and raked his hand through his damp hair. The snowfall had begun to grow more dense, the flakes thicker and heavier, but it didn’t hamper his superior eyesight. They stuck to his eyelashes and covered everything in a blinding white blanket.

Hours went by with Hayden locating nothing but more dead. The fact they were most likely Druids only made the fi ndings more difficult to bear. Druids might have magic, but they were susceptible to the elements as any human was, and thanks to Deirdre’s affinity for killing them, the Druids were becoming more and more scarce.

A shout from Fallon let Hayden know it was time to return to MacLeod Castle. As Hayden began to turn away something caught his eye.

He paused and narrowed his gaze when a gust of wind lifted a lock of long, black hair in the snow. Though Hayden knew the woman was most likely dead, he hurried to her anyway, hopeful he would leave the mountain with at least one alive. He spotted the pool of bright red blood in the snow that gave him hope she was still alive.

“Fallon,” he barked while scraping away the flurries and ice from around the small, much too slim body.

The woman was lying on her stomach, an arm bent with her hand near her face and matted ebony hair obscuring her features. Her fingers were slim as they dug into the snow as if she had tried to crawl away.

Hayden could only imagine the pain she had been put through, the heartache Deirdre had given her. He held his breath as he put a finger beneath her nose and felt a soft stirring of air.

At least they would leave the cursed mountain with one life. He reached for her and paused again. He didn’t want to hurt her, but it had been so long since he had been gentle, he wasn’t sure he knew how. All he knew was battle and death.

Maybe he should allow Fallon care for her. But as soon as the thought went through his mind, Hayden rejected it. He found her, he would see to her. He didn’t know why, he just knew that it was important to him.

Hayden blew out a breath and slowly, firmly placed his hands on the woman’s body before he tenderly turned her over. Her arm fell to the side, lifeless and still. Disquiet settled in his gut like a stone.

He shifted so that he leaned over her, shielding her from the onslaught of snow. Once he had her in his arms, Hayden brushed the hair from her face to see her incredibly long black lashes spiked with frozen snow.

He felt something shift inside him when he saw her face was pale as death, but even beneath the scratches, dried blood, and ice he could see her beauty, her timeless allure.

She had high cheekbones and a small, pert nose. Her brows were as black as the midnight sky and arched over her eyes. Her lips were full, sensual, and her neck long and lean.

But it was her cream-colored skin, so flawless and perfect, that made him reach out and stroke her cheek with the back of his fi nger.

A shock of something primitive and urgent went through his body like a bolt of lightning. He couldn’t take his eyes from her, couldn’t stop touching her.

Her body struggled for breath, struggled for life, proving she was a fighter. Even with the elements taking the breath from her one heartbeat at a time, she didn’t give up.

Something inside him broke at that moment. He hadn’t been able to save his family or the many Druids on Cairn Toul, but he would save this woman, whoever she was.

A feeling of protectiveness wound through him. It had been so long since he’d felt protective of anyone or anything that he almost hadn’t recognized the emotion. Now that he did, however, it grew stronger the longer he held her in his arms.

He would make sure she survived. He would ensure she was protected at all times. It wouldn’t make up for the lives of his family or the Druids, but he had to do it.

Hayden found himself wishing she’d open her eyes so he could see them. He wanted to give his oath to her right then, for her to know he would fight with her. Instead, she lay unconscious in his arms.

His vow would have to wait, but nothing could stop him from pledging himself to her.

“Does she live?” Fallon asked.

Hayden glanced up, startled to find Fallon near when he hadn’t heard him approach. That wasn’t like Hayden, but then again, he had never held such a lovely woman in his arms before, especially one who needed him as she did. “Just. She’s bleeding badly, though I cannot tell where she is wounded.”

“Judging by the blood on your hand, I would say somewhere on her back.”

Hayden looked at the hand holding her and grimaced. He doubted they had much time to save her. For the fi rst time in . . . ages . . . the need to defend, to shield someone consumed him, drove him. “She’s shivering.”

“Then let’s get her out of here,” Fallon said.

Hayden lifted her small frame in his arms. She was light, but through her clothes he could feel the sumptuous curves that proclaimed her a woman. He gave a nod to Fallon and waited. Fallon laid his hand on Hayden’s arm, and in a blink they were standing in the great hall of MacLeod Castle.

“God’s teeth!” someone yelled at their sudden appearance in the castle.

“Sonya!” Fallon bellowed.

The hall swarmed with Warriors, but Hayden only had eyes for the woman. He wanted, nay needed, her to survive, and was surprised to find himself praying—something he hadn’t done since before his family’s murder. He decided then and there he would protect her with his life.

He felt the warm stickiness of her blood as it traveled from his hand down his arm to his elbow to drop on the stone floor. Her breathing was ragged, her body so still he would think her dead if he didn’t see her chest rising and falling, slowly but surely.

“Sonya, hurry!” Hayden shouted. The thought of holding another dead body in his arms made Hayden’s heart quicken with dread.

Death surrounded him, always had, most likely always would. But now, he wanted life for this small woman, whoever she was.

There was a whooshing sound as Broc landed in the great hall, Sonya in his arms. Broc folded his large, sleek indigo wings against him as he set Sonya on her feet and pushed his god down and returned to normal.

Sonya said not a word as she rushed to Hayden. The single, thick braid holding her fiery hair hung down her back with small tendrils curling about her face.

“Put her on the table,” Sonya instructed him.

Hayden didn’t want to relinquish his hold on the woman, but he knew he had no choice if he wanted her to survive. He glanced at her, at her parted lips and ethereal face. “She’s cold.”

“And I’ll get her warm as soon as I heal her,” Sonya told him, her amber eyes meeting his gaze. “Let me heal her, Hayden.”

Quinn took a step toward the table. “Broc—”

“I know,” Broc answered.

Hayden looked between the two Warriors to fi nd their gazes locked on the female in his arms. There was something in their tone, something he should recognize, but he couldn’t focus on anything but the woman.

He forced his attention back to Sonya. “I think the wound is on her back.”

“Then lay her on her stomach,” Sonya said as she pushed up the sleeves of her gown.

“I’ll help,” said Lucan’s wife, Cara.

Hayden glanced down at Cara. They’d had their differences, and in some ways still did since Cara carried drough blood in her veins. She might never have undergone the ritual, but it was enough that Hayden had wanted to see her dead.

It was only out of respect for the MacLeods that Hayden left Cara alone. Still, it rankled him to have her near. Evil bred evil, it was just a matter of time before it took Cara.

The next thing Hayden knew, the other two women of the castle, Marcail and Larena, were also there. All but Larena were Druids. Larena was the only female Warrior, and she had the distinction of being Fallon’s wife.

Matter of fact, the only female who wasn’t mated to a MacLeod was Sonya, and Hayden had seen the way Broc watched the Druid when he thought no one was looking.

“I need her gown cut,” Sonya said.

Hayden didn’t hesitate to allow a red claw to lengthen from his fingertip. He sliced the woman’s gown with one swipe, and when the gown fell open to reveal the female’s back, the entire hall sucked in a breath. Hayden’s gut clenched and his blood turned to ice.

“Holy hell,” Quinn murmured and rubbed a hand over his mouth.

There were no words as Hayden stared at the scars that crisscrossed the slender back of the woman on the table. Whoever this female was, she had suffered greatly and horrifi cally. And often. If he felt protective of her before, it was nothing compared to what arose in him then.

He would find who did this to her, find them and make them suffer as they had made her suffer. Then he would kill them.

However, it was the wound on her shoulder which drew Hayden’s gaze. “What happened to her?”

Sonya leaned close and poked at the bleeding injury. “Looks like a blade of some sort. I need to clean it to be sure what happened, but from what I can see I think the weapon pierced her skin, and then was dragged from her shoulder down her back to her shoulder blade.”

In an instant a bowl of water was placed next to Sonya. She wrung out a cloth and began to clean the woman’s wound. Agonizing moments later, Sonya lifted her head, her lips compressed in a tight line.

“There’s magic involved in this wound. I cannot tell if it caused the wound or only made it fester.”

Lucan and Fallon moved to stand on either side of Quinn, who was at the woman’s feet. Broc had also shifted closer to Sonya. It was then Hayden looked around the hall and noticed every Warrior at MacLeod Castle now ogled the female.

Hayden’s gaze swung to Quinn to find the youngest MacLeod watching him with sharp, pale green eyes. Before he could ask Quinn why he was staring, the woman let out a low moan full of suffering and agony.

Sonya stilled. A heartbeat later she tossed down the cloth and lifted her hands over the woman’s wound, palm down, fingers splayed. Sonya’s eyes closed, and Hayden could feel her magic fill the hall as she began to heal the wound.

Cara and Marcail soon joined their magic with Sonya’s, but nothing they did seemed to assist the healing. The woman let out a scream and tried to jerk from the table.

Hayden held her down, careful not to touch her wound, but the more magic the Druids used, the worse the woman became. Frustration welled up within Hayden while he watched helplessly as the woman suffered.

“What are you doing to her?” he demanded of Sonya.

The Druid’s amber eyes snapped open to glare at him. Sonya reached over and took Cara’s and Marcail’s arms and lowered them. As soon as they did the woman stopped her movements and laid still and quiet.

It was like she had died. Yet Hayden could still see the breath leaving her body, could still see the blood fl ow from the wound.

“Something isn’t right,” Sonya said.

Marcail shook her head, her rows of tiny, sable braids on the crown of her head moving against her cheek. “It was almost as if she fought against our magic.”

“What could possibly do that?” Cara asked. Her mahogany eyes sought out Sonya, but Sonya didn’t answer.

Instead, Sonya moved aside the tangled mass of ebony locks from the woman’s neck. With slow movements, she tugged at the thin leather strap until she found what she was looking for.

Hayden took one look at the Demon’s Kiss dangling from Sonya’s fingers and felt the same betrayal and fury he had on the night of his family’s murder.

Two

“Easy, Hayden,” Quinn said.

Hayden swiveled his head to the MacLeods. An icy feeling of dread consumed him as he looked at the brothers. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew who she was, what she is?”

“Aye,” Quinn answered. “Before you condemn Isla, know that Deirdre kept her sister and niece prisoners in Cairn Toul.”

But all Hayden could think about was the Demon’s Kiss around Isla’s neck. It was but a small silver vial. However, it held the first drops of a Druid’s blood after they completed the ritual of a drough to serve diabhul.

A drough. The very thing Hayden had scoured Scotland to kill.

Druids were born with pure magic, magic which was all that was good and right. But there were some who wanted more magic than a mie had. Those Druids turned against all the good inside them and become droughs.

Hayden glanced down at Isla, the woman he had been willing to vow to protect. Her face was turned toward him with scratches on her cheek and forehead. How could he have ever wanted to shield her?

“She’s drough.” Hayden spat the word as if it was the vilest thing he had ever encountered, and next to Deirdre, it was.

Droughsdeserved only death. Anything so immoral shouldn’t be allowed to walk the earth.

Broc folded his arms across his chest. “You doona know Isla, Hayden.”

“I know all I need to know.”

“Enough!” Fallon bellowed before a full blown argument could ensue. “Sonya, can you use Isla’s Demon’s Kiss to heal her wound? I’d like to speak with her.”

Hayden fisted his hands in an effort not to jerk the vial out of Sonya’s hands and toss it away forever. The blood in the vial could heal a drough of its wounds instantly, or kill a Warrior. There was something about a drough’s blood that was poison to a Warrior.

As if Sonya knew what he was thinking, she clutched the vial in her hand and stared at him. Hayden didn’t want to harm Sonya, so he could only watch as she uncorked the vial and tilted the small silver bottle over Isla’s wound.

Only nothing came out.

“It’s empty.” Sonya lifted her eyes first to Quinn, and then looked at Broc. “There’s nothing left.”

Lucan ran a hand down his face and blew out a harsh breath. “Look at her scars. I say she had cause to use her Demon’s Kiss many times before.”

“There’s not that much in the vials,” Cara said, fi ngering her own Demon’s Kiss around her neck.

Hayden had to remind himself Cara wasn’t a drough, that it was her mother’s necklace she wore. The element which had sent him killing all droughs after his family’s murder raged within him again. There was a drough on the table and another with drough blood around her neck. He could kill them both in a matter of moments.

But if he did he’d lose the first home he’d had since his own. He’d lose the men he called friends, brothers. He lowered his eyes to Isla’s midnight locks and tried to calm the anger raging through him.

“Heal her, Sonya,” Fallon ordered. “Regardless that she served Deirdre and is a drough, I willna allow her to die in my castle.”

Hayden had seen enough. He might have found Isla and brought her to the castle, but he wouldn’t stay and help them to mend her. Once the evil was inside a drough, it was always there.

He started to turn away when Isla stiffened and let out a tortured scream that made even Hayden jerk in response. Her body began to shake on the table and blood poured from her wound.

“What’s happening?” Fallon asked.

Sonya shrugged, a look of confusion and helplessness on her face. “I have no idea.”

“Let me,” Galen said. The dark blond Warrior walked to the head of the table and placed his hand on Isla’s skull. Almost immediately he snatched his hand back with a hiss, his face losing all color.

He paused for just a moment before he fl attened his lips. “Hold her.”

Quinn grabbed Isla’s ankles. “What did you see?”

Galen shook his head and once more placed his hand on Isla’s head.

Broc, Quinn, Fallon, and Lucan all had hold of Isla. Only Hayden refused to touch her. He started to move aside so another Warrior could help when Galen put his other hand on Hayden’s head.

In a blink, Hayden could see images projected in his mind of Isla being beaten and whipped by Deirdre in ways that would have most men begging for their lives. Deirdre was vicious in her torture, her laughter ringing inside Hayden’s mind as she slashed Isla’s back over and over again, leaving Isla soaked in blood.

Isla withstood it all, her body moving with the impact of the hits, her face never showing any emotion, not even when the cuts penetrated muscle to the bone.

Hayden then saw Deirdre with her hand above Isla’s chest and a black cloud rushing over Isla to engulf her. The cloud suffocated Isla, tearing at her soul and making her see people being ripped apart, their terrifi ed screams echoing in Isla’s mind.

The images brought Hayden to his knees only to come level with a pair of the most amazing ice-blue eyes which were staring at him.

“End this,” Isla whispered. “Please, take my head.”

Not knowing if it was real or not, Hayden pushed Galen’s hand from his head, but Isla still gazed at him.

“Please,” she begged hoarsely, her eyes beseeching him. “You must kill me now.”

It was what Hayden should do. She was a drough, and droughs must die. But no matter how she pleaded with her mesmerizing blue eyes, Hayden couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Was it because of what Galen had shown him, or because of the soft pleading in her voice? Whatever it was, Hayden knew he couldn’t be the one to end her life.

Sonya once more tried to heal Isla, and this time Hayden grasped Isla’s arm when she tried to move away. Isla fought them with all her might, but she was weakened from her injury. The mix of worry and dread in Hayden’s stomach only grew the more magic Sonya poured into Isla.

Isla screamed words Hayden didn’t understand, they were so garbled with pain. No matter how they held her, she fought to get away.

Time stretched into eternity and the hall was fl ooded with magic before Isla’s eyes finally closed as she fell back into unconsciousness. Hayden was surprised to fi nd her hand holding onto his arm in a death grip, her broken nails cut into the skin of his forearm.

“Do you still want to kill her?” Galen asked, his tone clipped, angry. “After you saw what was in her mind, do you still think she deserves to die?”

Hayden didn’t bother to answer. He wasn’t sure if he could. His need to protect warred with the feelings that demanded justice for his family’s death. What he was going to do in the end, he hadn’t decided yet.

A glance at Isla’s shoulder showed the wound had mended, but not as it should have. It no longer gaped and oozed blood, but it wasn’t fully healed either.

“Isla fought Sonya’s magic,” Broc said into the silence.

Quinn shook his head. “Why would she do that?”

“She asked me to kill her,” Hayden said, still kneeling so his face was even with Isla’s. He tried to look away, but was held captivated by her haunting beauty. He was more than troubled by her request. Troubled and disturbed because he’d seen the earnestness of her appeal on her eyes. Why would she want to die? “She told me she needed to die, to end it.”

“We heard her,” Fallon said. He sighed and looked to Larena. “Do we have a spare chamber?”

Hayden climbed to his feet. Since Deirdre had destroyed the cottages they had built, everyone was housed in the castle with no room to spare. “Give her mine,” Hayden said before he changed his mind.

He rolled his eyes when everyone just stared at him. “She canna stay on the table, and all the chambers are full.”

Fallon gave a small nod. “See it done.”

Hayden watched as Sonya motioned to Broc, who gently rolled Isla onto her back and lifted her in his arms. Hayden didn’t take pleasure in the fact that he wanted to be the one who carried Isla.

That the need to hit Broc for daring to touch her had Hayden rising to his feet with his hand fisted. It was ridiculous. She was a drough.

“Are you all right?”

Hayden turned to find his closest friend, Logan, beside him. Logan was the one who kept everyone laughing. He was always ready with a jest and a smile. But there was no smile on his face now, only concern reflected in his hazel eyes.

“Aye, my friend,” Hayden lied. He tried to keep from looking at Broc carry ing Isla, but failed. Hayden hated the war going on inside of himself. It should be easy. Isla was drough, and because of that she should die.

Why then couldn’t Hayden bring himself to kill her?

Logan moved to stand in front of him. “What did you see when Galen put his hand on your head?”

The other Warriors moved closer around Hayden. All of them, it seemed, wanted to know the answer. He swallowed and tried to form the words, but couldn’t. Even after everything he had witnessed in his one hundred and eighty years of immortality, what he had seen in Isla’s mind horrifi ed him.

To see that torment done to a man was one thing, but to know it had been done to a woman, a woman who was supposed to be cherished and protected by the men of her family, sickened him.

“Horrors unlike you could possibly imagine,” Galen answered when Hayden couldn’t. “Isla suffered greatly, and repeatedly, at Deirdre’s hand, of that Hayden and I can attest to.”

Lucan leaned on the table and drummed his fi ngers. “Yet she served Deirdre.”

“Did she?” Quinn asked. His brow furrowed and he crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not so sure. There were times I thought she might have been trying to help me in Cairn Toul. The way she spoke sometimes, as if her words held double meaning, as if she had been trying to tell me something.”

There was a snort from the back of the hall. Hayden turned to find one of the twins, Duncan, with his long brown hair, standing against the wall whittling a piece of wood.

“Let’s not forget,” Quinn ignored Duncan and continued. “We all saw Isla’s sister in the blue fl ames, bound and used by Deirdre. Though none of you saw her, there is Isla’s niece who Deirdre used her magic to keep as a child.”

Fallon walked to Larena’s side and put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “I went inside the mountain to look for survivors who might not have left. I found a child. She was dead, the dagger still sticking from her stomach.”

“Though I wish no child death, Deirdre had corrupted her,” Quinn said. “It’s probably better that she is dead.”

Larena licked her lips and glanced at Fallon. “What now? Once Isla is healed, what do we do with her?”

“Keep her as a prisoner as she did all of us,” Duncan said.

Before Duncan could say more, his twin, Ian, put a hand on his shoulder. “It wasn’t Isla who captured us. That was Deirdre, and she’s dead.”

“I won’t allow her to be a prisoner,” Larena said before Duncan could argue with his twin.

Fallon shook his head. “Nay, we willna imprison Isla. We’ll heal her and send her on her way.”

Hayden tried to get the vision of Isla’s hauntingly beautiful ice-blue eyes out of his mind, but he couldn’t. He wanted to see her again, to make sure he hadn’t been mistaken of their color. And her vulnerability.

“What happened at Cairn Toul?” Lucan asked Hayden and Fallon.

Hayden lowered himself on a bench with his back against the table and listened with half an ear as Fallon told the others what occurred during their search of the mountain.

“And then I brought them here,” Fallon fi nished. “The rest you know.”

Quinn blew out a long breath. “I had hoped you wouldn’t find anyone, that all had managed to get away, but I fully expected them to be alive if anyone was still at the mountain.”

“It was too cold,” Hayden said, remembering how the strands of Isla’s ebony hair had been frozen.

While the MacLeod brothers gathered close together and spoke in whispers, Hayden lifted a brow when Galen and Logan sat on either side of him.

Hayden wasn’t the type of man who wanted—or needed—company. If anything, he desired to be alone with his thoughts, particularly those that warred within him now. It was how he had lived for so long, that even being at MacLeod Castle with the other Warriors sometimes got to him and had him leaving the castle.

He never went far, but just being by himself always helped.

“I willna apologize for giving you a glimpse into Isla’s mind,” Galen said after a lull of silence.

Hayden shrugged. “I didn’t ask for an apology.”

Logan cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t see your face when you discovered she was drough. For a moment, I thought you would kill her where she lay.”

Did they think him such a monster? Hayden drew in a tired breath. He supposed he was such a beast. He couldn’t deny the urge to kill her had passed through his mind or that he still considered it. She had asked it of him, after all.

How could he ignore the fact she was drough when it was a drough who had slaughtered his family—every one of them?

“I don’t murder people,” Hayden said. “I give the droughs a fair chance at battle before I kill them.”

Logan leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees. “I wouldna blame you for wanting to kill her. As you said, she’s a drough. And I know why you hate them so.”

He was one of the few who Hayden had confi ded in, one of the few who knew why Hayden’s hatred went so deep. Deirdre had taken something from every Warrior, so Hayden didn’t expect special treatment for the grudge he carried.

Galen rose to his feet. “I don’t know your reasons, Hayden, but I can guess. If you ever want to have a future you must let go of the past.”

Once Galen had walked away, Logan turned his head to Hayden. “Would you be sitting here if Isla wasn’t a drough?”

Hayden raised a brow. “What?”

“It’s a simple enough question. I saw how protective of her you were. I’ll ask again. Would you be sitting here if Isla wasn’t a drough?”

Hayden shook his head, unable to deny the answer.

“I didna think so.” Logan sat up and rubbed his hands on his thighs. “Arran said she was pretty.”

Arran would know, too. He, Ian, and Duncan had been locked in Deirdre’s mountain together with Quinn. The four Warriors had formed a tight bond during those awful weeks in the Pit.

Hayden had just thought his torment was over with Deirdre’s death, but the presence of a drough, even one who might have been forced to serve Deirdre, put his sanity to the test.

Three

Hayden stayed in the corner of his chamber. He’d told himself to stay away, that he didn’t care about Isla, but his curiosity about her had swayed him. And Fallon had requested his presence. Why, Hayden wasn’t so sure.

He watched Isla thrash on the bed, her black hair tangled about her head and face. She burned with fever. Her body was flushed and sweat glistened on her skin, but he had a suspicion that’s not what made her mumble incoherently in her sleep, fear and dread visible on her oval face.

“I don’t understand,” Cara said from beside Lucan, their hands joined together. “Why didn’t our magic heal her? I’ve seen Sonya heal more serious wounds.”

Sonya shifted her thick braid over her shoulder, her gaze on Isla. “She fought our magic. It’s like she doesn’t want to be healed.”

“She did ask Hayden to kill her,” Fallon said.

Marcail sat beside the bed and wiped Isla’s brow once more with a damp cloth. “Regardless, she is in much pain. I can sense the terror within her.”

Hayden saw Quinn start toward his wife, but he wasn’t quick enough. Marcail put her hand on Isla and right before their eyes they saw the stiffness leave Isla’s body in the space of a heartbeat.

“Marcail, damn you,” Quinn said as he knelt and caught his wife against him as she crumpled to the side.

Before Marcail could answer, she leaned over and emptied her stomach in a bucket. When she fi nished and Quinn turned her in his arms, Marcail’s face was ashen and sweat beaded her brow.

Isla had begged for death and fought the healing, but still Marcail had used her magic and pulled the emotions within Isla into her own body. It was Marcail’s gift as a Druid. She could take others’ emotions into herself, though the greater the emotion the more it made Marcail ill.

Quinn held Marcail gently as the effects rushed through her body. “Why?” Quinn asked his wife.

“I could help her. Why wouldn’t I? She didn’t hurt us in Deirdre’s mountain, Quinn. Not once did she ever harm us.”

“How bad is it?”

Marcail visibly swallowed and closed her eyes. “Awful. I’ve never felt anything so ghastly in my life. Not even when I took Duncan’s pain from him. I don’t know how Isla is still alive.”

Hayden saw the slight movement on the bed and elbowed Fallon. “She moves.”

Isla knew it was a dream, but she didn’t care. She was with her sister, Lavena, once more. And in Isla’s arms was the most beautiful little girl alive—Grania, her niece.

The thick woods of her home surrounded Isla in their comfort and beauty. As a Druid she loved nature, and the closer she was to it the stronger her magic became.

The sky was clear and the birds loud as they fl ew from branch to branch while their songs filled the air. The smell of pine and oak, of fern and heather mixed together to bring the familiar smell of the forest to her. Isla could stay in the area forever.

But as always the beautiful day turned black and grim with the arrival of the mercenaries. Grania’s laughter turned into shrieks of panic as she was jerked from Isla’s arms.

Isla fought to get to her niece but the men were too strong, laughing through her struggles. Lavena yelled at Isla to get Grania, but Isla could do nothing against the strong arms that held her.

She managed to get free and tried to reach Grania, but a meaty fist slammed into her face, stopping Isla in her tracks. Then the men separated the three of them. Dread filled Isla. Not for herself but for her sister and Grania.

The dream changed again, turning darker and even more sinister as she was delivered into hell—Deirdre’s lair in the mountain. Thick black smoke surrounded her, the evil palpable as it began to drown her in the vapor.

And then, the dream was gone. For a moment Isla did nothing but lay there, unsure of what had happened. She didn’t know where she was. The anguish of her dreams had vanished. The terror of it all, however, still fi lled her.

Of a sudden, she recalled the solemn black eyes which had stared at her as she begged for death. Obviously the blond man hadn’t carried out her wishes.

Isla tried to swallow and felt her raw throat rebel at the effort. Her body burned with the ravages of a fever and her skin itched from sweating, but at least she was out of the snow and ice.

Between one heartbeat and the next she realized she wasn’t alone. She cracked open her eyes to fi nd herself staring at Fallon and Lucan MacLeod as they stood at the foot of the bed.

Isla threw off the covers and dashed toward the door she spotted to her left. Instant, agonizing pain tore through her, but she had withstood far worse in her years at Cairn Toul and she pushed through the weighty mantle of pain.

She had to get away from them, away from everyone, before it was too late! She had taken only a few steps before a big blond stepped in front of the doorway, effectively blocking her escape.

She skidded to a halt, her body aching with each breath. With frantic hands Isla clawed at the strands of hair that clung to her sweat-covered face so she could better see. Her gaze scanned the chamber to fi nd five men and three women watching her, but her gaze returned to the blond giant.

He stood silently, almost at ease, but she wasn’t fooled. He had the look of a Warrior, battle-hardened and ready for anything. At any moment.

“Let me leave,” she demanded of the chamber at large.

“Isla, you’re injured.”

She blinked and focused her vision on the man who spoke. “Broc?” Could the winged Warrior actually have sided with the MacLeods? Somehow she wasn’t surprised.

“Aye. It’s me.” His voice was soft, as if he were talking to a half-wit. “You need to rest.”

Isla shook her head, and then instantly regretted it as the chamber spun. She stepped back and ran into a wall. Her stomach churned, and she sunk her fingers into the stones to help keep herself standing. Her body was weak, and she didn’t know how long she could stand before what little strength she had was depleted.

“You have to let me go,” she panted. “Now. You have no idea what you’ve done by bringing me here.”

Fallon MacLeod stepped forward, his dark brown hair pulled in a queue at the back of his neck. He looked like the natural leader that he was. “Deirdre is dead, Isla. There is nothing for you to fear anymore.”

Isla couldn’t control the bubble of laughter that welled up inside her. She clamped a hand over her mouth and blinked back the sudden rush of tears. She shook her head and lowered her hand. “She’s not dead.”

“She is,” Lucan said.

Quinn nodded. “Listen to my brothers, Isla, for they’re correct. I saw Deirdre die with my own eyes.”

Isla briefly wondered why Marcail, who was on Quinn’s lap, looked ill, but the need to leave was too great for her to think of anything else. “Deirdre isn’t dead.”

A red-headed female with sharp amber eyes took a step toward Isla. “You have a fever, and your wound festers. Allow your body to recover. You will then see we speak the truth.”

Isla knew it was pointless to argue with them. As much as she didn’t want to say the words, she had to. “Stop it!” she yelled. “I’m not addled. I know Deirdre better than any of you. She isn’t dead, because if she was, I would be as well. We are linked through her black magic.”

The MacLeods shared a look, but it was Broc’s furrowed brow that told her he might understand what she was trying to say. Even the blond giant’s brow puckered at her words.

“Broc, I’m speaking true,” Isla said. He had to trust her so she could leave. “Deirdre isn’t dead. You have to believe me.”

Fallon shook his head. “I doona understand this. We saw Deirdre’s neck snap, and Hayden set her on fi re.”

Isla didn’t know who Hayden was and didn’t care. “Deirdre cannot be killed by a broken neck or being burned.”

“Stay here and heal,” Quinn said again. “If you leave now you’ll die.”

“If only that were true,” Isla murmured, tired to her soul. She saw the hulking blond glance away from her and she took that moment to dart toward him, intent on escaping under his arm.

She wasn’t quick enough, however. As she reached him, his arms wrapped around her like iron manacles and dragged her against his hard chest. Her injury throbbed and her bones felt as if they would crush any moment under the impact of his strength. She looked up into the same black eyes she had seen before.

His face was a mask of anger, but flickering in the dark depths of his eyes, Isla saw a glimmer of emotion, as if he battled within himself over something.

Her hands had come to rest against his chest to push away, but beneath her palms was a solid wall of hard, unyielding muscle which wouldn’t be budged.

For a moment, she had the insane urge to run her hands over his chest, to feel all that sinew moving beneath her fingertips. She lost herself in the black pits of his eyes, wondering what it would feel like to stop fighting him and lay her head on his thick shoulder, to relinquish the need to stay strong and allow him to carry her burdens for a bit.

She had seen striking men before, but there was something about the man holding her that was different, special. It could be the hardness of his black eyes or the way his blond brows slashed over those eyes giving him a harsh, sinister look.

It could be the strong jaw and chin and hollowed cheeks or the way his blond hair fell haphazardly around his face and shoulders, as if he raked his hands through it often.

Whatever it was that held her it urged her not to fi ght him, to give into the new and wondrous sensations his touch caused. Her eyes dropped to his lips. What would it be like to press her mouth against his? She had never kissed a man before, never wanted to.

What was it about this man? How was he connected to the MacLeods? And what was wrong with her? Had her wound affected her thinking and her body?

All too soon she remembered where she was, and why she needed to leave.

“You should have taken my head as I asked,” she told him.

His wide, firm lips compressed into a tight line. She knew she should fight him, but she was held transfi xed by the handsome face staring back at her.

“Nay.” That one word was said with finality, his deep voice laced with an edge.

Though she couldn’t see much of his body, the way he held her effortlessly against him told her all she needed to know about his strength. The fact he was a Warrior was a given.

She also noticed while the others wore tunic and breeches, this Warrior wore a kilt of blue, green, and white with a saffron shirt beneath it that did nothing to hide his chest corded with muscles, muscles her hands itched to caress.

“Please,” she tried again, disturbed to her soul at her reaction to this man. “Let me leave. You’re all in terrible danger if I stay.”

His gaze flickered over her shoulder, and that’s when Isla heard the chant.

“Nay!” she screamed and tried to wrench out of the Warrior’s arms. “Do not make me slumber!”

The last thing she wanted to do was go back to sleep and be tormented by her nightmares once more. There was no chance for her to fight the magic, though, not in her damaged state. She tried to beg the Warrior once more, but the sleeping chant took her before she could.

Hayden looked down at the woman in his arms. Isla’s ice-blue eyes had gone wild when she’d heard Sonya’s chant, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

Now, Isla’s eyes were closed, her head resting back against his arm. He could still hear her soft, velvet voice beseeching him to allow her leave the castle, could still feel the heat of her gaze as she looked over his face.

Had she liked what she saw? He didn’t want to care . . . but he was strangely curious. He’d never had trouble enticing women into his bed before. Yet there had been no emotion on Isla’s face as she looked her fill of him.

“What did you do to her?” Hayden demanded of Sonya.

Sonya lifted a shoulder. “I put her to sleep. She was becoming irate, and she needs to heal.”

“She was giving us information. And you didn’t see the fear in her eyes. She didna want to sleep.”

“Sleep will heal her.”

“I don’t think so,” Marcail said. “If what I took from her happens when she sleeps, it’s no wonder she became so agitated when she heard the chant. She’ll be back in that same distress once again.”

Hayden lifted Isla’s small body in his arms. They had taken her dirty, damaged gown and replaced it with a plain white chemise which was much too thin. Much too revealing. Even now Hayden could make out Isla’s small, pert breasts and her dark nipples. Most of the dirt from Isla’s face, arms, and chest was gone leaving only creamy skin he had glimpsed on Cairn Toul.

Skin he once more longed to caress.

To Hayden’s surprise, he found his body reacting to the soft curves beneath the simple linen. He knew the feel of her breasts pressed against him. He knew the feel of her small hands on his chest. He knew the slender curves that tantalized and teased his body.

And saints help him, he knew the way her lips parted softly, beckoning him to taste her, as she looked at him. He didn’t want to respond to Isla, but it seemed his body was not his own where she was concerned.

Hayden glared at Sonya instead of moving toward the bed. He wanted to know why Isla thought Deirdre was alive, but it would have to wait. And he’d have to wait for another look into her startling ice-blue eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Sonya said. “I thought it would be better if she rested.”

Fallon rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefi nger. “You didn’t know. How long will she sleep?”

“It differs.”

Hayden silently cursed. Isla might be a drough, but he couldn’t forget the fear in her eyes. Whatever it was Marcail took from Isla earlier was enough to frighten the drough so that she clung to him, a stranger, someone who prevented her from leaving.

It took a moment for Hayden to realize Lucan was standing beside him, a dark brow raised in question. Lucan’s sea green eyes watched him carefully.

“What is it?” Hayden inquired.

“I asked if you planned to hold her the entire time she slept or lay her down?”

Hayden blew out a breath and walked to the bed. He glanced at Marcail to find the Druid studying him as he lay Isla down. Hayden pulled the covers over Isla and turned to leave.

“Was she telling the truth?” Fallon asked.

Hayden stopped and turned to face the others. “She’s determined to either leave or have herself killed. All you have to do is look into her eyes to see she believes what she is speaking about Deirdre. Whether it’s the truth or not, I cannot say.”

Fallon nodded.

“I’m inclined to believe her,” Quinn said. “Deirdre showed me Isla’s sister and niece. She used them to keep Isla doing what she wanted.”

Broc leaned a hand against the stone wall and dropped his head back so he looked at the ceiling. “Isla kept to herself except when Deirdre would send for her. Even then, she held all emotion from her face. The fear we saw just now was real.” He lowered his head and looked at Fallon. “And that worries me.”

“We all know how powerful Deirdre had gotten,” Lucan said. “What if Isla is telling the truth? What if Deirdre isn’t dead?”

Marcail moaned and buried her head in Quinn’s neck. “God help us all.”

“Then where is Deirdre?” Fallon asked.

Though Hayden hated to have to ask it, he knew he had to. “Did you find her body in the mountain?”

Fallon shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Holy hell,” Quinn mumbled and held onto Marcail tighter.

Hayden found his gaze on Isla, her pallor matching that of the linens. She would know where Deirdre was.

And Hayden intended to ensure she told them everything.

Dunmore kicked at the log in the hearth, sending sparks flying into the air, before he reclined in his chair. A moment later the log broke in half with a loud crack.

He had retreated to the cottage he kept close to Cairn Toul so he could get to Deirdre easily when she needed him. He still couldn’t believe she was gone. She had given him plenty of coin for his work, but to know that he was doing something for someone as great as she had brought meaning to his life.

Ever since he had found her as a lad of just sixteen summers, he had known Deirdre would do great things. It had never entered his mind that she would be killed. By the MacLeods. She was the greatest drough to ever live. It should never have happened.

“I’m not dead, Dunmore.”

Dunmore sat up in his chair and looked around his cottage as he reached for his sword that lay beside him. He was alone just as he had been a moment before. But the voice had come from inside his head.

“You’re not hearing things. My body was destroyed, as well as most of my wyrran. My magic is regenerating my body even as we speak. I will have a form once more, Dun-more. Until then, there is something I need you to do.”

It never entered Dunmore’s mind that the voice in his head wasn’t Deirdre. He had seen what her magic could do, and he knew she had lived for a thousand years. She was the goddess she claimed to be.

“How can I serve?” he asked.

Deirdre chuckled. “My wyrran are cleaning my mountain. I need you to get to Cairn Toul quickly. I’ve a need for a Druid. The MacLeods will pay for ruining my empire.”

“I will see it done,” Dunmore vowed and leapt to his feet.

Donna Grant has been praised for her “totally addictive” and “unique and sensual” stories. She's the author of more than twenty novels spanning multiple genres of romance—Scottish Medieval, dark fantasy, time travel, paranormal, and erotic. Grant's newest series, Dark Sword, promises to be her most addictive yet. Don't miss this intoxicating series with Druids, primeval gods, and immortal Highlanders that are dark, dangerous, and delicious.

She lives in Texas with her husband, two children, a dog, and three cats where she's weathered five hurricanes in the last three years. To learn more about Donna and her books, please visit her at her website and her blog.

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Burning Skies: New Excerpt

Caris Roane — Thu, 21 Apr 2011 16:30:00 +0000

A vampire warrior in exile, Marcus Amargi resists the call to return to the ranks of the Guardians who fight the death vamp armies. Here on Mortal Earth, Marcus has another battle on his hands—the seductive lure of Havily Morgan. The woman meant for him. Whose blood he craves. The one who comes to him in dreams—and demands his surrender…

A beautiful immortal with extraordinary powers, Havily lives in the realm of Second Earth but, in her fantasies, yearns for her winged lover Marcus. Soon, their bond will be put to the ultimate test. When their bloodthirsty enemies set the night on fire with sky-blazing weapons, Marcus and Havily must unite body and soul, to unleash the full power of their passion—and fight fire with fire…

An exclusive extended excerpt of Chapters 1-3 of Burning Skies (Available April 26, 2011) by Caris Roane.

The undead.
A state of being.
Not of vampires
But of the lost and lonely.
Oh, heart that cries,
Live and
Be satisfied.

—Collected Poems, Beatrice of Fourth

CHAPTER 1

Got a death wish, handsome?

Marcus heard the woman’s voice in his head, but the sound was like gears grinding. He refused to respond.

He hit the gas harder on his Harley, leaned, took the curve in the road with ease, felt the vibration up both arms and smiled.

He wore sunglasses on a sunless Pacific Northwest day. Even in June, the weather could pile up overhead. It did today, so he took the mist and occasional rain in his face and still he smiled.

The retro Harley had arrived a week ago, and he’d finally left his boardrooms long enough to take the hog over to the Olympic Peninsula. He cruised the coastal route, preferring views of the wild ocean waters to the depths of forest, at least today. Sometimes he liked disappearing into the narrow inland roads where the conifers towered overhead and an entire world lived in shadow.

Hey, slow down, gorgeous. You aren’t that immortal.

Go home, he sent, his mind to her mind. The answer is the same . . . no.

Endelle, the Supreme High Administrator of Second Earth, was in his head again as she had been off and on for weeks now. He was tired of the same old, same old—Come back to Second Earth, return to the Warriors of the Blood, take up your sword, serve my sorry ass.

She might not have said serve my sorry ass. Those were his words and like hell he was going to do that.

He’d cut off his left nut first.

Aw, Warrior, don’t be like that.

Yeah, the bitch was back, somehow watching him, somehow reading his mind, somehow talking straight into his head and making another run at his sanity. She was one powerful vampire.

She was also a piece of work. Endelle had served Second Earth as Supreme High Administrator for most of her nine thousand years and she’d lost her subtlety her first day on the job. He loved her and hated her. Right now she was a gnat in his head and he didn’t have the means to swat her away. He sighed. There was no way he’d be getting rid of her until she’d had her say.

Whatever.

He went faster, twisting the accelerator, pushing the bike to its limit, to that place where the wheels almost broke loose and threw him into a deadly spin. Almost.

He used his preternatural senses to gauge the trajectory of each dip and turn in the wet road. He extended his hearing so he could determine what cars or trucks were headed in his direction and just how soon they’d pose a threat. See, he was being safe. Sort of.

Endelle had one thing right: He wasn’t that immortal. No vampire was completely immune to death. If he slammed hard enough into a wall of rock, or got his head cut off in a sword fight, yeah he’d be dead.

So just how much of a death wish was this?

He wore black leather, the only time he did. Leather kept the cold out, the moisture out. As he pushed along the coast, he was on a high. He felt good, a sensation that escaped him most days . . . and nights. For a man with billions, God his life sucked.

“I’ll ask you again,” Endelle said, only this time her breath was in his ear. “You got a death wish or what, Warrior?”

“Endelle, what the fuck?” he shouted into the wind. Her body was now plastered against him from behind. “What are you doing here?” One slip of his control and the bike would slide away from him, do a few flips, send him barreling into oblivion.

“You must be going eighty, ninety miles an hour. What gives?”

He gritted his teeth. Words punched out of his mouth. “Get off my bike.”

“Mm.” She wiggled her hips. “This feels good. And those vibrations . . . straight up my ass. I might just have to get me one of these.”

“What the hell do you want?” he cried.

“You know why I’m here.” She cuddled closer, her arms around his waist.

“I’m not going back,” he cried.

She fingered his hair. Who do you think you’re kidding? she responded, sending the words straight into his head. You’ve been letting your hair grow and we both know what that means. A few more months and you’ll have warrior hair.

The hell I will and get out of my head.He didn’t ease back on the speed.

He felt her sigh as she hugged him hard. “I need a man,” she shouted.

“Not gonna be me,” he shouted back, dipping the bike as the road curved to the left.

“Wasn’t asking, asshole.”

The arms disappeared. The warm press of body as well. Thank God.

The next second, however, she materialized on his handlebars, her knees in his face. He had to lean a little to see the stretch of road in front of him. It was somewhat straight for at least a few hundred yards. Shit.

“Dammit, Endelle! Get off my fucking bike!”

She was dressed in black leather from head to foot except for the small red feathers that trimmed the V of her vest. Come back to us, she sent. We need you, Warrior.

She leaned close and now he really couldn’t see the road, just the depth of her cleavage above a really low-cut leather vest, trimmed with red feathers. Her bare arms were wet from the rain and mist.

Fuck.

He had one of two choices—cliff leading to the ocean or mountain wall.

Yeah, fuck.

He swung to the right and went over the cliff. “You are such a bitch,” he shouted, hitting airspace.

With preternatural speed and a bit of levitation, he folded off his black leather jacket and black T-shirt and, at almost the same time, mounted his wings midair. He turned into the wind and headed . . . down. He had power and he was fast, goddamn fast, but not faster than the gravity that took his bike down a slope of seaside cliff. His Harley bounced off a couple of trees, slid over stone outcroppings, then landed in a huge-ass fucking pile of driftwood about thirty yards from the surf.

He let the obscenities fly.

The gasoline in the tank did a nice pop-and-flare that turned to a pitiful stream of black smoke under the drenching mist and rain.

He trained his wings into the offshore breeze so that he didn’t roll. He hovered above the wreck, his mouth still a tumble of profanity.

“Aw. Too bad.” Endelle now stood on the largest water-stripped log, looking down at the wreck, her arms folded over her leather-feather chest. She didn’t smile as she lifted her gaze to him. She just stared. Damn, her eyes looked ancient. He always forgot that about her. Vampire life gave longevity to muscle, skin, and bone, youth returned and savored, but the eyes never lied.

She smiled. “You ready to stop playing spoiled-little- rich- boy? You ready to do some man’s work again?”

He flipped her off as he drew in his wings, supporting himself in the air with old-fashioned levitation. As soon as the last of the feathers and connecting mesh support disappeared into his back, he folded to his house on Bainbridge Island, straight to the master bedroom. He thumped his way to the bathroom, shoulders hunched, fists so tight that both arms hurt. He stripped, got seven showerheads to steaming, then stepped into his shower.

“Damn, Marcus, how much you been working out? You have the ass of a god.”

He turned to face her, and naturally her gaze fell to his jewels. She shook her head and sighed. “You warriors are so fucking hung and I really do need a man.”

“Get the hell out of my bathroom. Get the hell out of my house and get the hell out of my life.” He turned to face the water, grabbed soap and lathered.

“You don’t have a choice on this one.”

“The hell I don’t. You had one favor. You called it in. I served. We’re done.”

“That was four months ago. I’ve decided I get another one. You do a lot of squat-thrusts? Hey, what’s with the mist? And do you really think I can’t see through that shit?” She snorted. “But if you’re feeling modest, mist away.”

Mist. He should have known better than to try. Mist was designed to confuse the mind, and a powerful mist could confuse the mind of mortals and ascenders alike—just not the leader of Second Earth. Endelle was too damn powerful. Still, it was his bathroom. Privacy would have been nice.

He stopped talking. There was no point. Endelle was as stubborn as the rotation of the earth. But then, so was he. She ought to know that. He wasn’t four millennia for nothing.

“Morgan’s not sleeping very well,” she said.

At that, he stopped moving the soap around his chest. Endelle rarely called Havily by her first name.

Havily Morgan.

Oh. God. Havily. The woman meant for him. The one he craved. The one he fantasized about making love to every goddamn night.

So the fuck what? he sent, the soap moving again.

“She told me about the fennel, vampire.”

“What fennel?”

“She smells you, Warrior. You know what that means.”

“Don’t call me Warrior. I’m a businessman and I’m not going back. Not for you. Not for Havily. Not for anyone. I belong here. I’m happy here.” Sort of. Besides, he’d made one helluva life for himself on Mortal Earth and after seeing the war up close and personal again, he wasn’t having it, not any part of it.

“Morgan drags in to work every morning now. You know anything about that?”

He rinsed off, left the shower, pushed past her and grabbed a towel. He dried his hair first then worked his way down his body. Yeah, he knew something about why Havily might not be sleeping very well. It was his dirty little secret and the hell if he was going to share it with Endelle. What was going on between them was private, a word Endelle respected about as much as she respected his mental shields.

“That’s what I thought,” she murmured. “You’ve been getting into her pants with no one the wiser. You enthralling her or what?”

At that he rose up and glared, straight into her brown eyes. “You think so little of me that you believe I would enthrall her?”

“No. I don’t. I just can’t figure out what’s going on because that little twat of yours has shields I have one helluva time bypassing.”

He glared a little more, then his gaze dropped to the red feathers. They were small, crimson, beautiful. “What are they and where are you getting them?” One of his corporations operated in the fashion industry. Yeah, he was a businessman first.

“A little import shop on Central Two. They come from Mortal Earth. Someone’s raising cardinals in Tucson. Don’t worry. It’s organic. The feathers are collected after the birds are slaughtered.”

“You’re a walking PETA nightmare.”

“You gone vegan on me, or what?”

“No. I still eat steak.”

She looked him up and down. “I know what you mean. Still prefer meat myself.”

He rolled his eyes, swung the towel around his hips, and strolled into his bedroom. Apparently he wasn’t getting rid of the bitch until Labor Day . . . maybe. And here it was only June.

“Spill it, Endelle. I have meetings this eve ning until ten.”

He heard her sigh as he worked his way through his sock drawer. He glanced at her and frowned a little. Sighing wasn’t high on Endelle’s list. He straightened up. “You worried about hurting my feelings?”

“No. It’s just one more fucking thing I can’t control. So here it is. I’ve been getting this feeling lately that something’s going on with Morgan, something big. And . . . I’m worried. I know you’ve been seeing her, somehow, though I haven’t got the how of it figured out yet, but just be careful, would you? And if something out of the ordinary happens, be prepared.”

“You never liked her.”

She jerked her arms at him, her fingers spread cat-like, then shouted, “What the fuck does that have to do with anything? The truth is, I never gave a shit about Havily Morgan one way or the other except that she’s been just one big fucking disappointment from the day she ascended. You wouldn’t know about that because you’ve been here tickling your balls for the last two centuries, but her rite of ascension was a BFD with no payoff. The future streams were all lit up about her, that she needed protection, lots of it, that she would make this huge contribution to the war.

“So of course I gave her Luken as her Guardian of Ascension. I’m rubbing my hands together thinking now we’ve got something, now we’ll see some real shit. Then she ascends and all she’s got are some super-powerful mental shields that make it hard to get into her head. That’s it. Shields. What the fuck good are shields to the war effort?”

He couldn’t help but smile. She probably wasn’t even aware that she was now standing on the arms of the leather club chair near the window.

She looked down at her stilettos. “Shit. I just punched holes in your chair. Ooooh. I feel sooo bad.”

He wagged his head back and forth then moved to the side of his bed. With a pair of socks in one hand and the towel snug around his waist, he sat down. “You’re too impatient,” he said. “You always were. Some powers emerge over time. Look at Kerrick. He can fold now, right? He had all that power but until he completed the breh-hedden with Alison, he couldn’t fold. Now he can. I couldn’t fucking levitate for the first thousand years. Havily’s only a hundred years on Second Earth. Give her time.”

Thoughts of the breh-hedden stopped his mind for a moment. He still couldn’t believe that the breh-hedden had actually touched his life. For centuries this extreme form of ritual mate-bonding between Warriors of the Blood and powerful women was believed to be nothing more than a myth. Then it had hit Warrior Kerrick when his breh, Alison Wells, began her rite of ascension four months ago. Shortly after, Marcus had been struck down as well.

“Listen up, asshole,” Endelle cried, “because you may have just made both my points. First, I don’t think she’s got time because I have this sinking pit of a feeling in my chest about her. Do you hear me?”

He stared at her, the hair on the nape of his neck rising, but he said, “You’re screeching like a bad off-Broadway actress. Why the drama?”

She narrowed her eyes. “And my second point, asshole, is that I think Havily needs you to get her where she needs to go. She’s holding back. Big time. I think she’s more powerful than she knows, but she can’t let go. You could help with that. You’ve got a lot of vampire years under your belt.” She smiled. “By the way, that float-and-mount you did, watching your wings come while you just hung midair, that was some powerful shit.”

Whatever, he sent. He tossed the pair of socks into the air then caught them. He did this again and again.

“Not coming back,” he stated. Maybe if he said it often enough, she’d take the hint. “But . . . I will watch out for Havily.” He couldn’t help that. It was in his nature and, yeah, the breh-hedden had struck hard four months ago when he’d been back on Second Earth to help out for a few days. It had started with catching the scent of honeysuckle and ended with a kiss that almost turned into full-on sex—in less than a minute. Jesus, when he thought of what he’d almost done to Havily that last night and what she’d almost let him do . . . Christ.

None of it mattered, though. Havily lived on Second Earth. He lived on Mortal Earth.

Except at night. She came to him in his dreams—that weren’t dreams—every night.

Endelle sighed. Again. “Whatever, asshole. But if something happens to her because you can’t be bothered, then that shit’s on your head.” She lifted her hand and was gone. Finally.

He sat with the towel around his hips, his socks once more in his hand, his feet flat on the floor.

Endelle was right. Something was going on with Havily, because from the first night that he’d folded back to Mortal Earth, she’d been coming to him while he slept. And as much as he wanted to believe it was just a dream or some kind of weird-ass ascended fantasy, she was real. She was also really naked.

He would wake up with her either balanced on his hips or in the act of impaling herself on his rigid cock. She just wasn’t aware of what she was doing, at least not initially, because she appeared to be caught in a dream.

The trouble was—and his conscience beat the shit out of him for this—he couldn’t seem to bring himself to stop this nightly ritual or whatever the hell it was. Partly because he couldn’t quite make sense of what was happening between them or even where they were . . . exactly. His bed remained the same, but the room faded to a line of very dark shadows all around the edge as though he were someplace other than his house on Bainbridge.

When it had first happened, he really had believed he’d been caught up in some kind of freak-shit preternatural dreamscape so he’d helped himself to the experience, savoring her body. Unfortunately, his enthusiasm as he grabbed her forced her to awaken, and she fled, dematerializing from his arms. So it had been real, but not real, a dream, but not a dream. All he knew was that his skin carried her honeysuckle scent until he showered the next morning. The experience was real, even though he couldn’t explain how it was real.

So help him God, he hadn’t turned her away once, but he should have.

God help him, he should have.

Havily Morgan craved and she despised herself for it.

She sat on the side of her bed, the sheet and comforter drawn back. She wore a soft cream negligee, and boy did she need her sleep. Her mind and body were exhausted from another day of service to Madame Endelle. The woman put the b in bitch as well as the i and the t and whatever.

She leaned forward slightly, releasing a heavy sigh. But it wasn’t Endelle that weighed her heart down now, that spiraled her daytime exhaustion into a dark cavern of despair. No, it was Warrior Marcus and her complete inability even in her dreams to stay away from him.

She stared out the window, which overlooked her small patio and a good portion of Camelback Mountain. The hillside was nothing but a black monolith this late at night, a dark presence of ancient volcanic rock burnished by the desert sun, dotted with prickly pear and scattered oily creosote shrubs. Lizards lived back there. Scorpions. Rabbits. Coyotes.

She’d like to crawl among the rocks and maybe disappear. Maybe then she’d get a good night’s rest.

She turned and put her hand on the sheets, smoothing the wrinkles out of the black silk. She’d purchased the sheets a week after the dreams began because they were the same sheets that were on the bed, the ones in the dreams, the dreams where she encountered Warrior Marcus—every night.

A sigh caught her again. The chances she would find a good night’s sleep in this bed were slim-to-good-luck-with-that.

Ever since she’d met Warrior Marcus, she’d been stuck in an in-between place, neither here nor there. She was Marcus’s lover, but she wasn’t his lover; what happened between them was real but it wasn’t real.

She just didn’t understand what was going on and worse, she didn’t know how to stop what happened between them every night. Worse and worse, it was always the same. She would fall asleep and somehow in her dreams she would strip out of her nightgown, search for him and find him and be with him.

He would by lying in bed on black silk sheets and very much asleep. She would draw the covers back and he would be naked. She always looked at him, a long lingering look down the length of his powerful warrior body as though she couldn’t get enough of the sight of him.

She would engage with him in a very sensual way. She would put her nose to his body and take in his extremely erotic scent, a blend of earthy grasses and licorice, like fennel. Arousal would seep into her until the vein at her neck throbbed. She would then let her fantasy take flight and she would mount him. At some point he would awaken, or perhaps he never was asleep, she just didn’t know. His desire for her took many forms, the answering buck of his hips, the way his arms would skate up and down hers, the way he lunged for her throat with his fangs.

But as she drew close to that sweet place of ecstasy, she would always, always, always wake up to absolute horror at what she was doing. She had come to believe that he was doing this to her, that somehow, being the powerful vampire he was, he was summoning her to his bed and seducing her in her dreams.

For that she despised him almost as much as she despised herself for going to him every night.

What followed was also the same. She would draw away from him and out of the dream-like state in a strange swishing glide that would return her to her bed, on her knees staring at the wall above her headboard. Being returned to her bed made her think the experience had to be real yet she just didn’t know the how of it.

Lately, however, when she would return from being in this dream-fantasy, she would fall on her face and sob her heart out. That the fantasy left her sexually frustrated was half the difficulty. The other half belonged to the cravings that had gripped her heart, her body, her veins for the past four months. She was in a constant state of torment and had been from the moment she had met Warrior Marcus.

Once the tears ceased, however, the real frustration began, because it was Warrior Marcus’s scent that lingered on her body. For hours afterward, as she tossed on her bed, she would smell his rich erotic fennel scent and her body would tremble. Cravings for him came in waves and she couldn’t make them stop. The breh-hedden had her cornered and trapped with nowhere to go but to wait for the dawn and for her next workday to begin all over again.

Would to God that she had never met him.

So she sat on the edge of her bed, exhausted, in need of rest but knowing that the night would play out as all the others and once more she would be deprived of rest.

She closed her eyes. She wrapped her arms around her chest. Surely she could choose differently this night. Surely just once she could avoid seeking him out in her dreams, holding his sex deep inside her, waking up frightened and unfulfilled then falling away from him to return to her bedroom.

She hated this ritual yet she craved and couldn’t seem to stop it.

Something needed to change, but what?

As she finally climbed between the sheets, she vowed that she would alter the future, no matter what it took. There had to be some way to stop the dreaming.

With a commitment made, she closed her eyes and began drifting toward sleep. She mentally sent out the affirmation, I will change this.

She released a heavy sigh.

I will change this.

At last, sleep came.

Tend to Havily’s dreams.

Alison Wells awoke uncertain what had disturbed her sleep. She was alone in bed, her usual state since her warrior, Kerrick, was out battling, and would be through the night, not returning until dawn. She wore one of his black T-shirts and lifted the hem, pulling it up to her nose. She smiled. The shirt smelled like Kerrick, the warm scent of cardamom-and-man combined, the telltale scent being the most remarkable aspect of the breh-hedden. According to Kerrick, she smelled of lavender, while from the first moment she had met him, his spicy cardamom had filled her with the deepest cravings.

She craved even now, but she’d have to wait until dawn to find the relief she needed when Kerrick finally tumbled into bed.

During her ascension four months ago, she’d endured three of the most frightening, challenging days of her life when she’d left Mortal Earth to ascend to Second Earth. The process had been extraordinary; she’d answered her call to ascension by demonstrating power at one of the dimensional Borderlands, she’d battled death vampires to stay alive, she’d fought the fierce and powerful General Leto in an arena battle and won. When the three-day period drew to a close, she underwent a ceremony at Madame Endelle’s palace. Endelle had imbued her with the relative immortality of Second Earth and with the vampire traits of fangs.

But what had awakened her?

Tend to Havily’s dreams.

The familiar voice spoke inside her head, a masculine voice, which belonged to a Sixth Earth ascender known simply as James. From the time of her ascension some four months ago, James had communicated telepathically with her several times. She couldn’t explain why, but she had developed a fondness for the vampire, sensing in his presence great warmth of spirit and certainly a desire to help Madame Endelle and the war effort.

James had become her occasional guide as she moved through her new duties on Second Earth. Originally, Alison thought Endelle was to contact James, but he had made it clear that for now Alison was to be the go-between, the one he used to offer what limited help he could to Endelle’s faction.

She closed her eyes and concentrated. What’s up, James? she sent.

Haven’t got much time, he responded. You need to keep tabs on Havily, stick close for the next few days and encourage her in her dreams, which are not dreams, and do what you can to give her a push in Warrior Marcus’s direction. Do you understand?

Sort of, she sent. Now, why couldn’t James speak in less cryptic sentences? Dreams that aren’t really dreams?

She heard a soft masculine chuckle inside her head. Now, what would the fun be in that, he sent, which also meant he had read her thoughts.

Alison was so new to the world of dimensions, yet so heavily burdened with responsibility, that she couldn’t quite find the same humor in the situation. James, I wish I could laugh about this as you do, but do you have any idea how badly the war is going for Madame Endelle? How close Commander Greaves is to world domination?

A long pause followed. Yes, he murmured. I do, which is why I’m here.

You’re from Sixth Earth and have all this power,she sent, so why don’t you just fold your ass to our world and take care of business?

She heard James sigh before he sent, My dear, you don’t know how tempting that would be, but it simply isn’t allowed, it isn’t the way life is meant to unfold. If higher powers solved the problems, then mortals and ascenders alike would just sleep away their existence. We’re meant to strive, to grow strong, to overcome. It is the way of the world, immortal and mortal alike.

Must you give me a reasonable answer?

He chuckled again, a soft breeze-like sound that made her feel homesick for something she didn’t understand. She had been living on Second Earth for such a short time, but these four months had been the happiest, most fulfilling of her life.

He sent, Just tend to Havily’s dreams.

Dreams that aren’t really dreams?

Precisely. Then he was gone.

Avoidance springs a trap. —Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth

CHAPTER 2

Havily awoke screaming because in this dream, that wasn’t a dream, the sky was on fire all around her. She sat in her nightgown on the hard desert ground, except that she wasn’t in the desert. Blackness rimmed where she sat, though the sky above was lit up with giant grotesque flames in strange shades of pink mixed with blue and green, like something at a spectacle. And Warrior Luken flailed in the air, his wings on fire. On fire!

“Luken!” she screamed.

She rose to her feet and turned in a circle. She recognized the Superstitions, one of the entry points to Mortal Earth, one of the places the Warriors of the Blood battled death vampires.

Her heart pounded in her chest. She didn’t understand what was happening. Was she really seeing Luken? His cries ripped through the air.

Once more she screamed. “Luken!” She reached her hands toward him. She tried to move in his direction but couldn’t. The space that enclosed her, while protecting her from the flames, also prevented her from reaching the warrior.

His back arched and suddenly he fell twenty feet to earth. She heard the terrible thud, saw him roll and writhe in the dirt.

She had to do something, but she wasn’t effective in this strange nowhere space. So she closed her eyes, relaxed her body, and swished out of the desert- that-wasn’t-a-desert. She opened her eyes. She now stood beside her bed.

She grabbed her iPhone from her nightstand and with shaking fingers called Central. Jeannie would know what to do. Jeannie had worked at Central Command on Second Earth for decades, as long as Havily had ascended, which meant probably longer. The woman served the Warriors of the Blood, routing calls from their leader, Thorne, keeping all the lines of communication open warrior-to-warrior. If anyone could help in this situation, Jeannie could.

“Central. How can I help?”

“Jeannie,” she cried. “This is Havily. I’ve just had some kind of . . . vision. I think Luken’s at the Superstitions and he’s been burned. His wings have been burned. There was some kind of fire in the sky. Can you get someone out there? Maybe I’m wrong, but . . . can you get someone out there?”

“I’ll get Thorne on the com. Stay close.” How calm she sounded—but then Jeannie had no doubt seen and heard it all.

Havily kept her iPhone pressed to her ear. Her chest grew damp and she brushed the annoying sensation away only to realize tears were falling onto her breasts.

She knew, she knew, Warrior Luken had been hurt, maybe killed. The minutes passed and more tears fell.

At last, Jeannie came back on the line. “Sorry it took so long, Havily. Thorne folded to Luken and it was exactly as you described but he couldn’t get back to me until just now. When he arrived on the scene, a squad of death vampires showed up. He took care of them, of course, but Luken . . . oh, God . . . Luken’s in bad shape. Thorne wants to know how you knew.”

Havily shook her head as though Jeannie could see her. “I don’t know. It was some kind of dream or vision or something but I watched him fall from the sky.”

“Thorne will want to patch in, so, hold on a little longer. Okay?”

“Of course.”

Havily choked on a sob. At least Thorne was with him. He was the leader of the warriors. He was also very powerful; if anyone could get Luken through this, it was Thorne.

Jesus . . . Luken. Havily had a fondness for all of the Warriors of the Blood, but Luken had been her own personal Guardian of Ascension. He’d been assigned to protect her when she entered her rite of ascension all those decades ago. He was good and kind and had a huge heart to match his huge warrior body. Havily knew he had a thing for her, and though she maintained a platonic relationship with him, she was fully aware of Luken’s affection, even his love, for her.

Thorne’s gravel voice hit her ear. “So you had a vision?”

“Yes. Something like that. I’m . . . I’m not really sure. I think I’d just fallen asleep.”

“Hold on.”

Havily waited a little more, then Jeannie came back on. “Thorne wants you to come to the Superstitions because he knows you mean a lot to Luken, but he said only to come if you think you can handle it. It’s pretty bad out there. Horace is on the way, too, but he said Luken could really use your support. I can do the fold from here. Just let me know if you think you’re up to it.”

“Give me a sec,” she said. She set her phone down. Of course she would go. The Warriors of the Blood battled death vampires every night on behalf of all of Second Society. The least she could do was support one of the brothers when he was down.

She folded her nightgown off and with a second preternatural thought, folded a pair of jeans and a yellow T-shirt on. She didn’t bother with her long, layered red hair as she brought socks and Nikes onto her feet. She grabbed her phone and cried, “Fold me.”

“That’s my girl,” Jeannie said.

The journey between was a short ride, only a second, maybe two, a dark trip through nether-space then a touching-down of feet on solid earth.

When she materialized, she found Thorne kneeling beside Luken. Thorne was all business as he said, “Jeannie’s going to do a cleanup. Close your eyes.”

Havily obeyed, and a blinding flash of light tore over her eyelids. She opened her eyes. The horrible battle debris, all those parts of dead vampires, blood, and feathers, had disappeared, thank you, God. What wasn’t gone, however, was the stench in the air of burned feathers and the harsh chemical smell of the fire.

Thorne bent over Luken’s massive shape and spoke quietly to him, his deep rough voice a profound reassurance in the still night air. Luken lay on his side, shaking, his eyes open but his expression not exactly present. His wings . . . were gone. His skin was burned badly on his legs, thighs, arms, and back. His long thick warrior hair, hanging from the tight cadroen, lay over his shoulder untouched, which seemed like some kind of miracle.

Havily dropped down beside Thorne and swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. She was not going to lose it, not when the mightiest of the warriors lay shaking and burned. He tilted his head and his gaze skated to hers, his eyes rolling. “Havily,” he whispered.

She glanced at Luken’s hand. She checked to make sure the skin wasn’t burned before she drew his fingers into her palm, holding him oh- so-gently. “I’m here. We’ll get you through this, Luken.”

“Good,” he whispered then coughed. “I . . . I thought I heard you call my name.” He coughed some more.

“I did call your name.”

His eyes closed and his body quieted, his fingers now limp.

Havily gripped his hand hard, but there was no answering response. She glanced at Thorne as tears stung her eyes. “Is he dead?”

Thorne put a hand on Luken’s chest. He folded away the leather weapons harness. “No. His heart beats. But . . . shit. Of all the warriors, he had the most beautiful wings. They were the color of his eyes.”

“I know.” Luken’s wings were as massive as his muscular body was large. He had the broadest wingspan of all the warriors, and the color was an exquisite powder blue. Was it possible his wings were gone forever? Havily had never seen this kind of damage before.

A vibration behind Havily had Thorne spinning and leaping to his feet, a sword in his hand where one hadn’t been before. Thorne was the consummate warrior, heavily muscled, all man, ready to go.

The arrival, fortunately, was just Horace. The healer took one look at Luken and drew in a sharp breath. He pulled a slim phone from his pocket and barked a brisk string of words, essentially commanding a squad of healers to the Superstitions. “Don’t argue with me” came as a last gunshot into the receiver. A pause. “Then get them here as fast as you can.” He thumbed his phone and slid it into the loose white pants he wore, his expression grim. He met Thorne’s gaze. “My team will be here in ten minutes.”

The next moment he was behind Luken, both hands over his wing-locks, fingers spread, eyes closed. The glow that emanated from his hands forced Havily to blink then look away. She had seen Horace at work before, but never had a glow been as bright as this one, which meant the injuries, even from a healer’s perspective, were serious.

She shielded her eyes then glanced down at Luken. His whole body relaxed visibly, as though Horace imparted a sedative with the healing.

“We’ll have an ambulance here in about twenty minutes,” Thorne said.

Havily wished Central could have just folded Luken straight to the hospital on Second Earth, but injuries fared badly during dematerialization and the resulting increased pain would have been a form of torture. For that reason, Endelle had set up emergency facilities near each of the Borderlands on Mortal Earth. They were rarely used, since most healing could be done by Horace and his team on-site. But at times like these, the clinics were critical.

Horace nodded. “Good. We’ll be able to work better in a hospital environment.” He was a lean man, with wavy brown hair to his shoulders. He wore a loose V-neck pullover shirt of white cotton with navy embroidery that followed the neckline. He reminded Havily of the hippies on Mortal Earth during the 1960s.

Thorne rose to his feet and moved away from Luken a couple of yards. He called Central and spoke to Jeannie. Not long afterward, the rest of the warriors started showing up. A few minutes later the six men, including Thorne, stood in a half circle next to her. Except for Warrior Medichi, they all wore black leather kilts, black weapons harnesses that allowed for wing-mounts, black gladiator-style sandals with shin guards, and silver-studded wrist guards also in black leather. They were a powerful brotherhood, all spattered in blood from fighting, all bearing swords in hand. Santiago flipped his jewel-encrusted dagger in his free hand.

Warrior Medichi never mounted his wings and wore his version of battle gear: black cargoes, black tee, steel-toed boots. He did, however, wear the same weapons harness, the silver hilt of a dagger protruding from the central angled slot.

As a group they stared down at Luken, but no one said a word, five warrior souls exhausted from the recent months of accelerated battling. Commander Greaves had been importing an increasing number of death vampires from all over the world to fight the Warriors of the Blood on a nightly basis, a strategy that had culminated here tonight with the use of some kind of incendiary bomb that had burned Luken while he was in flight.

Santiago slid his dagger into his weapons harness, a slot just lower than his heart. He drew close and put his hand on her shoulder. “Thanks, Hav. Madre de dios, his beautiful wings.” He withdrew his hand and vanished.

The men couldn’t be gone from the various Borderlands for long. The death vamps arrived in waves, and any that slid unchecked down the Trough, that nether-space between dimensions, would claim victims on Mortal Earth tonight.

Kerrick came forward and also put his hand on her shoulder. She looked into his green eyes. “We’ll take care of him,” she said. She still held Luken’s hand.

He nodded as he dematerialized.

Jean-Pierre came next. “Merci, soeurette.” The term was affectionate and meant “little sister.” His eyes were wet as he followed Kerrick’s lead and was simply gone.

Zacharius approached next. He bent low and kissed her on the cheek. He stroked the back of Luken’s hand with a finger; then he, too, folded away.

Medichi knelt beside her, and she felt the strength and comfort of his powerful arm as he squeezed her shoulder. “We will never forget that you were here for him when we couldn’t be.” A movement of air, a little breeze at her back, told her he was gone.

For some reason, as she gazed at Luken, the fact that he lay with his head near the base of a tall stand of ocotillo, that he didn’t even have a scrap of cloth to separate his fine blond warrior hair from the dirt, made the tears come and they just wouldn’t stop.

A few minutes more and the healers began to arrive so that there were five in all, each with hands poised above Luken’s skin.

After what felt like hours instead of a dozen more minutes, the ambulance pounded across the open desert terrain. Only then did she release her hold on Luken’s hand. But because Horace insisted that her touch was as vital as any of their healing efforts, she rode in the ambulance all the way to the emergency clinic, her fingers once more wrapped around Luken’s.

She only let him go when the burn specialists arrived and he was hooked up to an IV.

She was reminded, yet again, that even the most powerful of vampires could die.

Marcus woke up with a headache. He opened his eyes and glanced at the low dresser across from his bed. The sleek chrome clock pulsed the hour in bold annoying red numbers—one in the morning.

He sat up, straight up.

Something was wrong. He could feel it. But what?

He pushed his hair back with both hands and breathed hard through his nose. He stared out the expansive picture window that made up the northern wall of his master bedroom and met a dark night sky dotted with stars.

Most of Bainbridge Island was hidden beneath a wilderness of trees, but he’d built his house at the water’s edge for the view of Seattle across Puget Sound.

He took a deep breath. Why did his head hurt?

Again, something was wrong.

He drew his knees up, the black silk sheet forming a dip between his legs. He circled his forearms around his knees and clasped his hands together. His thoughts turned in exactly the direction that troubled him.

Havily.

Endelle’s warnings poured through his head.

Havily hadn’t come to him tonight, and she always came to him. In all these months, she hadn’t missed one night, so, yeah, something was wrong. But just how worried should he be? The hell if he knew.

He slid from bed and crossed to the bathroom. His vampire-warrior body always seemed to run a little hot so he never wore pajamas, which made late June and the start of summer almost time to crank up the air-conditioning. Few homes in this part of the world had forced air, but then few residents of Mortal Earth were vampires.

Relieving himself took the length of two or three serious yawns. He had a mountain of work tomorrow and he needed his sleep, dammit.

He washed his hands in the dark, or the semi-dark as it was for him. His ascended vision could see quite well. He dried his hands then stood up straight and let his gaze rove the lean muscled lines of his body. He worked out with weights every day, and sparred at least twice a week, sword in hand, with his second-in-command, Farrell Ennis. Ennis was also an ascender who had chosen exile on Mortal Earth. They were practically blood brothers.

His gaze fell to his heavy cock, partially stiff from sleep and from thoughts of Havily. Even a quick image of her flashing through his mind brought desire streaking the entire length. He flicked the tip in punishment since he couldn’t get Havily off his mind. But the sharp jolt made him hiss. These days it took so little to make him come. One or two thoughts about the redheaded ascender, a few tugs, and he was gone. So, shit.

His gaze ran upward to his hair. Endelle was right. He’d been letting his hair grow. Because he’d had a corporate cut for at least the last century, he’d forgotten that his hair curled at the tips. Would Havily like his hair longer?

Then he chastised himself for wondering anything so useless.

He left the bathroom and moved to the windows. He pushed open the far-right pane and heard the soft lap of the sound’s water hitting the sandy beach below. A rush of cool damp air followed.

So why hadn’t Havily come to him?

He turned back and looked at his bed, a nice big bed to accommodate his warrior body. Funny thing was, he never brought any of his dates here. He had never wanted to. Now, every other minute, he pictured Havily right there, on her back, on his bed, her body writhing. His cock responded all over again. He glanced in the direction of his groin. “Down, boy. She’s not here. Won’t be here. Get used to it.”

His thoughts traveled back and hooked on the last time he’d truly been with Havily, four months ago, at Endelle’s palace. He’d been so consumed by her, by her honeysuckle scent, that he’d kissed her.

But that wasn’t all that had happened. The craving he’d been feeling for her swamped him, caught him in a heavy undertow, and pulled him down. He’d been 100 percent out of his mind with his need to be with her, to take her sexually, to partake of her blood, to get inside her head in deep mind-engagement. He’d pushed her into an adjoining room of the palace and pinned her against the wall. She in turn had been equally as lost and had been an oh-so-willing, whimpering, moaning participant. There had been no doubt in his mind that had they not been interrupted, he would have taken her then and there and she would have been with him all the way.

But Luken, thank God, had stopped him. He’d peeled him off Havily, beaten the shit out of him, and essentially knocked some sense into his head.

Marcus had never been so out of control as that last night on Second Earth. Afterward, he’d apologized to the Warriors of the Blood then folded back to Mortal Earth, back here to his home on Bainbridge. He’d considered apologizing to Havily as well, but he hadn’t trusted himself to be anywhere near her.

Now he stood by an open window, in the early hours of the morning, knowing that something had happened to her tonight and wondering what the hell to do about it. His protective urges rose, a line of restless stallions, ready to gallop but nowhere to go.

He thought about calling her; then his rational mind stepped up to the gate and shut him down but good. He had nothing to offer Havily, and to be calling her and asking if she was all right would suggest that he had some kind of intention of getting involved in her life and he sure as hell wasn’t going to do that.

Havily lived on Second Earth, one whole dimension away. Most of his nineteen corporations had dealings with Second Earth but he never went there himself, not for business, not for any reason. He had plenty of support staff, self-exiled vampires who made regular dimensional trips to Second Earth, all by legal permit, to conduct and foster his various businesses.

No, he had no real reason to call Havily, not now, not ever.

There was, however, someone he could call who could give him information—and she would definitely be up this time of night.

He crossed the room to his nightstand. Picking up his interdimensional iPhone, he thumbed the screen.

“This is Jeannie. How can I help?”

“Hey, Jeannie.” Would she recognize his voice?

“Warrior Marcus,” she shrieked, then toned it down immediately. “That is, good eve ning, Warrior Marcus, how can I help?”

Marcus laughed. He’d known Jeannie a very long time, long before his departure from Second Earth two hundred years ago. She worked at Central Command, manning the communications night after night between Thorne and all the Warriors of the Blood. She’d been a good friend to him through the centuries; she was one reason he’d hated to leave. “I need to know if Havily Morgan is all right.”

A pause followed as well as a sigh. “You know I’m not allowed to discuss warrior business. Even if my channels are secure, your phone isn’t.”

“I’m not asking about the warriors. I just need to know if Havily was involved in any of the activities this evening?”

“Yes.” But she volunteered no other information.

Marcus put a hand to his chest. Shit, he was struggling to breathe. “Was she . . . injured?”

“No, not at all. I can promise you that. She is perfectly well.” A pause, then more stridently, “But I really can’t say anything more.”

“I understand.” He released a sigh. “Thank you, Jeannie. You’ve helped a lot.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ll say good night.”

“Marcus?”

“Yeah?”

“You were always my favorite.”

“Back atcha.”

“Coming back anytime soon?”

In the dark and in the comfort of his bedroom on Bainbridge Island, he smiled. “Don’t think so.”

“Too fucking bad, Warrior. Thorne’s calling. Gotta go.”

He thumbed his iPhone and set it back on the table.

Good. Havily was all right but Jeannie’s unspoken words indicated there had been some problem tonight in which Havily had been involved.

He climbed back into bed, stretched out, then laced his hands behind his head. What was he supposed to do with the conundrum that had become Havily Morgan?

Tonight? Nothing.

Tomorrow he’d head back to his office building, the one he owned in downtown Seattle. Business was a perfect distraction from a situation he needed to ignore anyway.

He worked hard keeping his empire in line. Lately he’d been dealing with a couple of strikes on different continents and some serious competition from a Chinese firm looking to move in on his Mortal Earth European operations.

Tomorrow he had two board meetings. One corporation exported PCs to Second Earth; the other was a highly specialized company designed to serve the horticulture industry. So yeah, he needed his rest.

He yawned, closed his eyes.

Okay. There was just way too much here he couldn’t control.

Whatever.

Endelle, Supreme High Administrator of Second Earth, reclined on her chaise longue. She wore a soft purple linen gown for comfort since she would be on duty all through the night, just as her Warriors of the Blood were on duty, however different their assigned tasks.

Instead of battling with a sword, Endelle hunted her prey in the midst of the darkening, that piece of nether-space she inhabited during her meditations. While in a state of meditation, she was able to split-self, to become two separate corporeal forms—one that reclined on the chaise, the other that slipped into the nether-space of the darkening, free to move around and act within that space in a second physical body.

What her second split-self couldn’t do was leave the darkening, except to return to, and rejoin, her first corporeal self—all very third-dimensional preternatural shit that no one else on Second Earth, not even Greaves himself, could do.

So here she was, her primary self reclining in meditation and her second self, her split-self, chasing that bastard, Darian Greaves, from one end of the planet to the other, at least while in the darkening.

She had one job to perform during her nightly vigils—to keep Greaves from increasing the size of his army of death vampires here in Phoenix.

In the past decade he’d taken to shipping death vamps from all over the world to the metropolitan area in an ongoing effort to destroy the Warriors of the Blood, to wear them down so that they made mistakes and got themselves killed. It was a clever, subtle strategy that did not in any way alert the authorities to his machinations.

COPASS was the committee that governed the process of ascension to Second Earth and which had also established several critical rules for how each faction could conduct its war efforts. Basically, she and Greaves weren’t allowed to engage in open warfare for the simple reason that they were each too powerful. Engagement had atomic implications, and both she and the Commander had agreed not to do battle personally.

But Greaves could ship death vampires to Phoenix Two and Endelle could chase his sorry ass through the darkening and stop him.

At least, thank God, Greaves wasn’t omnipotent. Yes, she could thank the Creator for small favors.

As she moved in her split-self, she drew close, so close to her prey. Silver tendrils appeared, small beacons of light that belonged exclusively to Greaves. His light trails never ceased to surprise her because evil ought to be represented by red flames and black smoke, not silver streams of light, for Christ’s sake.

His voice came to her next, full of persuasive resonance, as he addressed his minions. “A place, my brother ascenders, has been prepared for you, of great honor for your service to my cause. In return, being stationed in Metro Phoenix will provide all the opportunity you need to sate your appetites, since the Sonoran Desert has five access points to Mortal Earth.”

An interpreter spoke rapidly in a language she didn’t know, but something that sounded like East Indian. This last statement mentioning five access points, once flushed through the interpreter, was met with a round of lifted fists and war cries. Funny how Greaves failed to note that the access points were guarded by Warriors of the Blood.

A moment more and she skidded into Greaves’s arena, thinning the line between real-space and nether-space, so that she could see her prey. He was absurdly attractive, with his bald head and muscular warrior build. He had large, round dark eyes and carried himself like a cultured gentleman. He wore what he always wore, a fine-pressed wool suit. He preferred Hugo Boss. He was a fucking hypocrite and she loathed him.

Given his level of power, no doubt he would see her as fully formed. She didn’t know. She’d never bothered nor cared to ask him. The others, in their limited abilities, would only be able to perceive her as an apparition, a ghost.

Greaves stood before three squads of death vampires, three, and yeah, they had dark skin, growing lighter because of dying blood, and so beautiful, each one with glittering black eyes. She’d arrived just in time.

She cleared her throat and everyone turned in her direction. Of course they knew who she was. Every government institution in the capital city of each Territory had either a statue of her or an enormous oil painting in her likeness. And yes, she could be found on Second’s version of the Internet.

However, since the time that Greaves had begun his serious campaign fifteen years ago, when he had persuaded the first of her Territorial High Administrators to align with him, these Territories had been provided with new statues of the Commander, new portraits, new posters, new coming order buttons, coffee mugs, and mouse pads, the bastard. She didn’t even have mouse pads. What became of those edifices and paintings made in her image, she really didn’t want to know.

She cast a locked-down shield around the twelve night-feeders. She had control of them now. Greaves, thank you God, could not bust through these shields.

But for just a moment, as her gaze swept over the pretty- boys, she was struck again by their extraordinary beauty. What fucking irony that something so deadly would be so beautiful—but then that was the point, that a mortal would meet a death vampire and not comprehend the danger. The dark eyes, the porcelain, almost bluish skin, the features worthy of worship, all served to enthrall the mortal victim. A pair of fangs would strike, seeking one thing—the empowering effects that came only from dying blood.

“You’re early tonight,” he said. “How delightful.” But he didn’t wait to converse; he merely lifted an arm and vanished, on to his next appointment. Where he intended to go, however, was not something she could trace. It might take her three hours to discover, or three minutes. Hunting Greaves in the darkening was one long exercise in sheer luck combined with hours of mind-numbing effort.

Whatever.

The death vampires blinked. The interpreter wet himself and disappeared. The death vamps lifted arms to dematerialize but she had them pinned. She would keep the shield in place until the local Indian Militia Warriors arrived to finish off this group of bloodsucking bastards.

She called Central. “Hey, Jeannie. I’m transmitting the coordinates of twelve more assholes.”

“You go, girl,” Jeannie said. Endelle’s phone had GPS but even though she could call from nether-space, for whatever reason, she couldn’t get the GPS unit on the phone to transmit. So she sent the coordinates via telepathy, which Jeannie had no trouble receiving. At the same time, she heard tapping on the computer. A moment later Jeannie said, “That would be Mumbai. I’ll alert the local Chief Militia Officer that there are twelve to dispose of.”

“He’ll be celebrating for days on this one.”

“No shit.”

Endelle laughed. She actually liked Jeannie, but then she’d known her a goddamn long time. “Later.”

“Good hunting, Madame Supreme High Administrator.”

Endelle touched the phone then replaced it in the pocket of her meditation gown.

She was ready to continue on, to keep searching the world over for the silver tendrils of light, for the whisper of breathing that meant she was closing in on Greaves’s ass, but at that moment Thorne cut in. He was her second-in-command and shared a telepathic link with her, the only vampire on Second Earth to do so.

Come home now, his gravel voice rippled through her head.

She cursed the disruption. Once begun, she didn’t like to be distracted from her darkening duties. However, Thorne never intruded unless there was some kind of fucking crisis at home. So, yeah . . . shit.

She pulled away from India and began the long slide through the darkening all the way back to her meditation chamber. Once she arrived, she relaxed her mind, letting it pull down deep until all she saw was a well of darkness. Step by step she moved out of nether-space and back into her primary self. She took deep breaths.

After a minute, she opened her eyes. Despite the desperate nature of Thorne’s call, she smiled. For just this moment, during this small speck of time she had to herself, she looked up at the ceiling of her private retreat deep within her palace on the side of the McDowell Mountains. She was safe here. Even when Greaves and his death vampires had attacked four months ago, they had been unable to penetrate the layers of shields that kept her in complete safety in her womb-like meditation space.

Two dozen four-inch candles, all in white, sat at precise intervals on matching shelves all around the room. The shelves were set four feet above the floor and lit the small rotunda in a warm glow. Burgundy velvet drapes hung at intervals between the shelves, ceiling-to-floor, for no other purpose than to soften and color her space.

The meditations that kept her moving at light speed through nether- space always left her logy for a minute or two afterward, her mind too loose to function at top level. But Thorne needed her and she needed to get her ass moving.

She slid her legs over the side of the chaise longue. She leaned forward and took deep breaths. Dammit, she was too dizzy to move. She’d have to wait a few minutes. She had a lot of power, but even she had limits.

Thorne stood in Luken’s treatment room at the emergency clinic shaking his head back and forth. Havily was next to him but neither of them spoke, which was a good thing. As the leader of the Warriors of the Blood, the man in charge, the man who was supposed to have all the answers, he was shocked and having trouble concentrating. He’d been Endelle’s second-in-command for too many centuries to count. To say he was feeling it was to say red was red. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept two hours straight and right now he wanted his Ketel One neat and to- thefucking- rim.

Jesus H. Christ.

What a big fucking nightmare. Incendiary bombs? At the Superstition Borderland? On Mortal Earth?

How was he supposed to deal with that? And he really didn’t want to think about what would have happened if Havily hadn’t called Central to warn him about Luken, which begged another big fucking mysterious question.

“I just don’t understand, Hav,” he said. “How did you know he’d been hurt?”

Luken was suspended in the air, facedown, in a contraption that looked like it had come from a circus. There was rhyme to the reason, however. The healers surrounded his back and were working on his wing-locks. Christ, what a mess.

Havily pressed her fingers to her lips, and her lovely light green eyes flooded with tears. She stared at the hospital bed across the room. “I guess I had some kind of vision.” Her voice trembled, new leaves shaking in a breeze. “I somehow found myself sitting in the desert looking up at him. I saw flames in the dark night sky and his wings on fire.” She rasped a breath. “Oh, God.”

Thorne put his arm around her and pulled her hard against him. She looked so vulnerable in her yellow T-shirt and rumpled red hair. Her jeans were dirty from having sat on the ground beside Luken. She was young by Second Earth standards, only a hundred years old. She certainly wasn’t used to seeing the violence he and his brother warriors saw every night of their fucking lives. He felt her relax against him and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

She had a right to be upset. Luken was the largest of the Warriors of the Blood, wearing muscle like a breeding bull. If Luken could get hurt, then they all could. The symbolism sliced deep.

Jesus. An incendiary bomb on Second Earth.

And Luken’s wings were gone. In addition, there was a lingering smell of burned feathers in the air.

Thank the Creator he was still unconscious as Horace and his team worked over every part of his skin. He looked better but it would be a few days before he recovered. The real question surfaced—would his wings renew or would scar tissue form over the apertures and make it impossible for him to fly again?

Such accidents were known to happen, especially among the flight-performance artists who worked the spectacle circuits. Disability insurance for these entities, which made liberal use of extensive and exotic fireworks displays, was exorbitant, like medical malpractice insurance on Mortal Earth.

Thorne shuddered, and Havily looked up at him. “Are you okay, Warrior Thorne? This has to be hard on you as well.”

He nodded, but damn his throat was tight. Havily shifted slightly and slipped her arm around his waist. In the past few months, ever since Warrior Marcus had blasted through their warrior world for his three days of service, Havily had drawn closer to all the Warriors of the Blood. She’d always been a favorite, but the events surrounding Alison Wells’s ascension, in which Havily had served as the woman’s Liaison Officer, had brought the ascender closer to them all. Lately, she’d been performing a wonderful kindness for them. At dawn, at the end of the warriors’ shifts, she’d meet with them at the Cave, the warriors’ private rec room.

She brought hot Starbucks and a couple of dozen maple scones and buttermilk doughnuts, which got devoured within minutes. But it was her presence that eased them all, her earnest expressions, her desire to help, and the knowledge that for the past several months she had made some really useful changes at Endelle’s administrative headquarters. Her enthusiasm and her service helped all of them, dammit. And tonight she’d just saved Luken’s life.

Yeah, his eyes burned and then some.

“Will he be all right?” she asked. She had a lovely voice, light, melodic, except when she got particularly adamant on a point. Then the tone evened out to something approaching strident—a necessary effect since she worked every day within twenty yards of Endelle.

“Of course he’ll be all right,” Thorne said, wondering if she could gauge the lack of truth in his voice.

“What about his wings?” she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

She was silent for a moment. “I wish Endelle would get here. She has healing abilities. Maybe she can help. Are you sure she’s on her way?”

“She’s coming.” He’d contacted her through their shared telepathic link, interrupting her meditations. He knew it would take her a few minutes to shake off the effects of doing her split-self moves through nether-space. The truth was he couldn’t have kept her away. She played her tough-bitch role really well, but he knew her heart, he knew how much she loved her men.

The air shimmered. Thorne slid away from Havily as gently as he could while at the same time drawing his sword into his hand, but thank fuck it was only Endelle. Speak of the devil. She wore a purple gown, something like a Grecian robe, which he knew she wore when she did her darkening work.

“Holy shit,” Endelle cried, her loud voice drawing the attention of all five healers in her direction. “Why the fuck does this room smell like someone’s been lighting chickens on fire?”

Havily burst into tears and moved to the window.

Thorne just stared at Her Supremeness. For being the ruler of all of Second Earth, the damn woman was as tactful as death vampires at a prayer meeting. “The enemy used some kind of firebomb, Endelle. Apparently, the sky all around Luken exploded. His wings were burned well into his back and he fell to earth . . . hard.”

Endelle whistled. “Well, shit, that’s gotta hurt.”

Understatement of the century,he sent, but aloud he said, “He passed out on-site.”

“Thank fuck for that. Is he on opiates?”

“Yes. Even Horace thought it was a good thing, and you know how he hates drugs of any kind.”

“So what is she doing here?” She jerked her chin in Havily’s direction, disapproval in her tone.

Thorne knew of Endelle’s disappointment in Havily, so he smiled a little as he said, “She saved Luken’s life. Now what do you say?”

“I say I find that fucking hard to believe.”

He rolled his eyes and told her the story even though he still didn’t understand how Havily had known what was going on. Her explanation of having had some kind of vision just didn’t fit into his current understanding of the usual ascender’s preternatural powers.

Endelle grimaced. “Morgan, get over here.”

Havily wiped her face before she turned around. To her credit, she stiffened her back and straightened her shoulders before rejoining them.

In her usual take-no-prisoners manner, Her Supremeness said, “What Thorne has told me doesn’t make a lot of sense and I want some answers. You say you had some kind of vision and saw Luken fall from the sky?”

“Yes. I watched him. I can’t exactly explain how it happened. But I woke up and the next thing I knew I was sitting in the desert, on the ground, and I could tell from the geography that I was at the Superstitions. I saw the sky on fire, then Luken—” She put her fingers once more to her lips, and her gaze skated back to the bed. The rest of the story came out almost in a whisper.

“Well, it sounds like you have some kind of link with Luken, maybe left over from his guardianship when you ascended.” She shook her head back and forth, scowling in disapproval. “These visions of yours? They ever happened before?”

Thorne watched color invade Havily’s creamy white cheeks, but she didn’t answer the question.

Endelle scowled all over again and glared at her. “Why the fuck did you just tighten your shields, Morgan? You hiding something from me?”

“It’s . . . it’s a little personal, but yes, I’ve had these visions before.”

“Anything I can use against the Commander?”

Havily shook her head. “No.”

“That’s what I thought. Well, if you happen to get any useful visions anytime in the next ten millennia, you’ll let me know, right?” Her sarcastic tone fried the air between the women.

“Of course,” Havily responded evenly. Thorne was fucking proud of her tonight. It took balls to stand up to Endelle or at the very least not to crumple into a faint.

“Then if the pair of you will excuse me, I’ve got a bastard to chase around the world.” She gritted her teeth. “And tomorrow I’m going to have to take this firebomb attack before COPASS, or at least request a hearing. An incendiary weapon works both ways. They start burning us, we’ll start setting all those glossy black wings on fire. Whatever. Havily, I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”

“Yes, Madame Endelle.”

But Thorne waylaid her with a hand on her arm. He jerked his head toward Luken. “Can you do anything for him?”

Endelle glanced in the direction of the bed then sighed. “My healing powers don’t exceed Horace here. What can be done for him, Horace will do.” With that, she lifted her arm and was gone.

“God, I hate her sometimes,” he muttered.

Havily drew close once more, but a small chuckle left her lips. “You lie.”

Thorne laughed. “Yeah, I guess I do. I’d give my life for her, but you’d think she could try a little harder sometimes. And she sure has it in for you.”

“She’s just really frustrated right now.” Havily slipped her arm around Thorne’s and gave him a squeeze. “Alison tries to make headway with Endelle but even she loses it now and then, which is amazing because I swear Alison is a saint. Do you know what she said last week?”

Thorne looked down into light green eyes that actually showed some humor. Havily was a beautiful woman, and some of that beauty pierced his heart. He was so grateful for her presence among his warriors. “Tell me,” he said.

“She called Endelle a mule, an ‘ornery, ill-tempered, incorrigible mule!’ I smiled for days.”

Thorne chuckled. “Kerrick found himself one helluva mate.”

“And that door swings both ways.”

“I’ll say an amen, Havily Morgan.” His heart swelled. Yeah, she’d become a bright spot in their dark days and nights.

What the soul craves, the dream reveals.

—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth

CHAPTER 3

At two in the morning Havily got a fold through the dimension back to Mortal Earth. Bless Jeannie. What would any of them do without her and the rest of the support staff at Central? Havily had some power; she could fold anywhere on Second Earth. But she still couldn’t fold between dimensions.

She was now back at her condo at the base of Camelback Mountain. She stripped off her socks and Nikes, jeans and T-shirt, bra and thong. She slid the cream-colored nightgown over her head, adjusted the lace straps, then climbed into bed. She fell face-first onto the pillows and groaned. Yep, exhausted.

Thorne would remain at the clinic through the night, standing guard, just in case any death vampires got the clever idea to attack Luken when he was out cold. Come morning, he would contact the Chief Militia Warrior for Metro Phoenix Two and have a detail assigned to the room, but not an ordinary detail. With death vamps around, at least a score would be needed to keep watch. Death vampires were considerably more powerful than the average Militia Warrior. To bring down a death vampire, a minimum of four Militia Warriors were required.

Havily rolled onto her back, took the edge of the top sheet in her fingers, and rubbed back and forth, the motion soothing. She stared at the multitude of paper butterflies she had hanging from the ceiling, all decorated with colored ink and glitter, each one a miniature work of art. Each butterfly was different in design and suspended so that when she looked up she could see the wingspans. From every angle they were beautiful.

She often counted them when she couldn’t sleep.

She had stayed at the clinic until the medical staff had entered the room to turn the massive warrior onto his back. The sight of the rest of Luken’s burned flesh brought on a serious gag reflex, which she had only barely controlled. When she started weeping again, Thorne ordered her to go home. She protested, of course, but he added very gently that he would appreciate it if she would still come to the Cave at seven to bring the warriors their usual coffee and doughnuts.

It was the least she could do when the Warriors of the Blood were all that stood between Endelle and her administration and a monster bent on taking over two worlds. Darian Greaves had been positioning himself for decades to do just that, building an army comprising both death vampires and regular Militia Warriors, seducing High Administrators around the globe into his camp, and generally winning an overall public relations war.

Havily loved Second Earth with a passion that went beyond comprehension—but then part of ascending to a new dimension involved a great deal of yearning and longing, the call of a new world, of a new experience, of a new everything.

She touched her incisors and felt her vampire fangs throb in response. She even loved being a vampire, having the ability to take blood, to give potions, as weird as it was. Except that it wasn’t weird once the ascension process was complete. Then being a vampire just felt right.

Her thoughts turned to her long-deceased fiancé, her beloved Eric. She had shared blood with him, and the act had been one of the finest experiences of her life. But she rarely allowed herself to think of him, because she was still sad, even after fifteen years. He had been a decorated Militia Warrior and had died battling death vampires. Once more the tears began to flow.

She folded a tissue into her hand and wiped her face. A rough sigh tumbled out of her exhausted body. She never stayed up this late. Working for Endelle during the day was an incredible challenge and she needed to be on her toes, all ten of them, to keep up with Her Supremeness and to not let the spiteful, ill-tempered scorpion-woman ruin her day.

Her gaze drifted from butterfly to butterfly. Her eyelids grew heavy. Maybe given the level of her fatigue she wouldn’t be drawn into the bizarre sexual fantasy-dream she usually experienced. Surely just this once she would be spared the horror of waking up while engaged in full-on sex with Warrior Marcus.

Whatever. She was too tired to fuss anymore.

She heaved one last sigh. As her head rolled on the pillow, sleep claimed her.

Marcus drifted from deep sleep into a half-waking state because he felt her again, the weight of her on his hips, her knees pressed into the mattress on each side of him, her body moving against his profound arousal. He wasn’t buried in her, not yet, but oh . . . my . . . God.

Then he awoke the rest of the way. Havily was here and she was safe and she was with him.

He resisted the urge to grab her arms and make certain she was whole and unharmed. Despite Jeannie’s earlier reassurances, he was worried for her safety. However, any brusque movement on his part would awaken her from what he knew was still a dream state. And if nothing else, his four months’ experience had taught him that the moment she awakened, she’d recoil from him in horror and slip away.

That he didn’t have the power to stop her from disappearing when she woke up still fried him.

So for the last four months he had experimented, testing her limits to see what he could do, or not do as was the case, to see how long he could keep her in a half-dreaming state so that she stayed with him.

He glanced around his bedroom, which was not quite his bedroom, but a dream-like place that included his bed, okay, a bed, and felt like his home on Bainbridge Island, but wasn’t, even though he could hear wind rattling the windows. He was in his bedroom . . . but not . . . so where the hell was he?—which was the same question he’d been asking himself since this whole madness began.

The room was dark, especially around the perimeter, as though fading to a blackness that had no end. The symbolism wasn’t lost on him—the only way he could have what he most wanted, what he craved, was in some kind of dream state.

Weird.

Whatever.

As she moved against his cock, he suppressed a moan. No loud noises. Her eyes as usual were closed, and he knew she wasn’t awake, yet not quite asleep, or not very deeply.

He still didn’t get what was happening. For one thing, Havily detested him because he’d quit the Warriors of the Blood two hundred years ago. She saw him as a deserter.

Yet despite her dislike of him, she came every night to his bedroom that was not his bedroom, in this peculiar aberration of power and dreaming. He had never heard of anyone on Second Earth possessing this kind of ability, yet here Havily was moaning in that sweet melodic voice of hers as her honeysuckle scent infused the air of his somewhere bedroom.

Marcus, she whispered over his mind, her hips undulating, the sweet wetness of her flesh stroking his cock.

Havily, he responded, his telepathic voice low and dark. Yeah, he’d learned a lot in all these weeks—no jarring movements, no sharp commands, no fangs in her neck when oh, God, he ached to taste her blood.

If he did any of these things, she would awaken. Then she’d take one horrified look at him, no matter the level of her passion, and drift away from him like a dream he couldn’t recapture no matter how hard he tried.

Once she left, he would experience a sliding sensation, a blink of unconsciousness like he was folding or being folded. He would reappear in his bed painfully aroused and in need of release. He sure as hell had taken a lot of cold showers over what had been a very long spring and had the appearance of turning into an equally long summer.

But Havily was here now, in his nowhere bed, and he had another shot at taking their nightly ritual to a more productive level. He was nothing if not a problem solver and he hadn’t been idle in pondering their current conundrum, as in how to keep her with him long enough to consummate the relationship. She obviously desired him, which meant that each time she left without experiencing release, she must have been as frustrated as he was.

Tonight, though, he had a plan, something he hadn’t tried before. Maybe tonight everything would change.

He drew a slow deep breath. He slid an arm around her waist very gently to support her. A soft moan followed.

Her breasts, and God they were beautiful, were almost at eye level, the weight of them heavy in front since she leaned forward. She had large deep-rose areolas, which were as familiar to him now as the hand he used to cup those breasts. He curved his hand around her right breast and withheld a groan but Havily mewled. He drew his hand the length of her breast and lightly rubbed the nipple. Her sweet voice mewled again.

He wanted to suckle but the times he’d tried, the sensation had been too powerful for her and she’d shied away, awakening fully and disappearing beneath his touch. But he wanted her breast in his mouth. He wanted to suck hard until she was screaming.

First, though, he had to figure this out, how to do this, to connect physically without waking her, how to give her pleasure without having her fade from his arms.

God how he wanted that, as though his life depended upon making her happy. The drive he felt toward her burned in his chest and had been burning since he’d first met her.

He put both hands on her waist, holding her. He throbbed now, hard as granite. He lifted her and very slowly impaled her on his cock. This, miraculously, she would allow. She even arched in his hands and flung her head back, crying out. It always surprised him that she didn’t awaken, one more sign that she needed this as much as he did.

Come for me, he whispered again within her mind, her sweet honeysuckle scent strafing his nostrils and piercing his brain.

I can’t. Her voice was a whimper in his head. Yeah, she was frustrated as well.

If only he could get her under him, he could use his magic and work her into a frenzy. But he’d tried that maneuver more than once, and each time she’d awakened.

His gaze fell to her throat. His breathing quickened as a growl rattled around in his chest and his fangs emerged. Saliva flooded his mouth. He wanted her beneath him, writhing. He wanted his fangs sunk into her vein and drawing her nectar into his mouth, down his throat. Havily, he whispered again. God, how he wanted her. Could she feel the depth of his longing?

She rose up and down his column now, her body clenching and unclenching. But as she drew closer to orgasm, he knew what would happen. She would come to consciousness, frightened, bewildered, embarrassed, then in the space of a second disappear, a specter caught in a breeze.

How to keep her here? He thought he might have a clue and tried it now. Stay with me, he murmured within the depths of her mind. If he spoke aloud, she’d disappear. But he could converse telepathically and keep her with him. Stay with me this time. Let me give you satisfaction.

I want to, she sent, whimpering all over again.

Let me take care of you.

Yes.

Then sleep, Havily, more deeply now. Sleep.

Her body responded and grew slack, her hips now quiet on his.

Hello. This was new.

Shit, maybe this time it would work. His heart hammered a few ecstatic beats. He took over and worked his hips up and down, sliding his cock in and out of her willing body. Her moans increased, but only within his mind. This was good. This was very good. He worked her slowly and slid his hand down her buttocks. God, she felt so good. Her buttocks were so smooth, firm, so squeezable. Her honeysuckle scent poured out of her. He couldn’t be imagining that. He smelled her.

Sleep, Havily, he whispered again over her mind.

She stretched out on top of him, her breasts against his chest, and damn did that feel good. He surrounded her with his arms. His heart was now a jackhammer in his chest. He was close to victory. He could feel it. This time. Hell, this time, it might just work.

He kept the rhythm slow and steady. He closed his eyes as well. He put his lips to her forehead and kissed her. She arched her neck. He dipped low and found her mouth. Sleep, he whispered again as he kissed her. But he wasn’t demanding. He just drifted his lips over hers as the moans inside his head came in little gasps now.

He felt her grow very tight. His heart raced a little more. He increased the speed steadily, thrusting in and out. Damn she was tight. Oh, yeah, this was good. Very good. Damn good.

Sleep, he sent once again, his lips still plucking gently at hers.

He wouldn’t be able to hold back much longer. He increased the pace. Yes, she whispered through his mind.

She broke the contact with his mouth.

Yes, from her mind again. She repeated the word over and over. Yes, yes, yes.

Her body pulled on him. The small of his back tightened, his thighs trembled, oh, shit, he was coming. But at the same time, she opened her mouth wide and cried out over and over. He erupted in a long brilliant ejaculation that caused his head to roll back. He kept pumping into her body until he jettisoned every drop, his hands squeezing her waist, keeping her planted on top of him.

Then he looked at her. Her eyes were closed and she was smiling. Her hips worked him oh-so-gently, as though she was savoring the feel of him. She cooed, a soft pretty warble, exactly the sound he had expected her to make. She gave a little gasp, sighed, then sank back down on his chest.

He held her for a long time. He cradled her in his arms, and stunned tears broke over his eyes. A man could get used to this, holding a woman in his arms in the middle of the night, so deeply content because he’d given her satisfaction.

God. His woman.

Wake for me now, he sent. He released the tight hold he had on her, his hands gliding down her arms. He craned his neck to look at her face.

Her eyes opened slowly. She blinked at him. “Marcus?” she murmured. “That was . . . so good . . . but . . . what is this . . . where am I . . . where did you take me?” She looked around, and the innocence and confusion on her face tore at his heart and his conscience. He became painfully aware that what he had just done to her, which was similar to enthralling a woman, might not be viewed by her in a positive light.

Then her eyes opened all the way, a wide stare of light green eyes that locked onto his as she came fully awake. “You seem so real.” She blinked again.

In that instant she was here, now, with him, and he wanted to keep her with him, hold her, wherever the hell they were together. Dammit, he wanted her to stay.

He slid his arms around her once more. “Stay with me,” he cried, his panic rising. “Don’t go. We should talk about this. Please, Havily—” But he was losing her, he could feel it in the stiffening of her muscles and in the horror that replaced her look of satisfaction, her contentment, her fulfillment.

You bastard! she shouted within his mind.

He froze. He was always shocked by how much she despised him. And there was nothing he could do, nothing he could say. She would leave him.

“Fine,” he retorted. “Run away like you always do. But I don’t think you’ll soon forget how I just made you feel.” He released her and folded his hands behind his head. She was still connected to him, still one with his body. Her disgust with him had pissed him off, scraped his nerves raw once more, and frankly he wasn’t going to make the disengagement easy, not when she came to him at night, not when she teased him by sliding against his cock every damn night. This time, she could do the work.

She shifted her hips and he bucked hard to let her feel the connection once more, that his cock was buried deep inside her, that she had come to him for this purpose. She brought him to this place every goddamn night. Well, fuck her for looking at him as though he lived on the underbelly of a slug.

She gasped then lifted and glided off him. “I hate you for doing this to me,” she cried. She covered her breasts with her arm, rose up, then faded away toward the dark edges of the room. Because she left, his departure from this nowhere place occurred at the same time. Once again, he felt that strange rush-and-glide as pitch darkness surrounded him.

He blinked, straining to see, but one more blink and he was lying on his bed in exactly the same position, with his hands folded behind his head. He was on top of the sheet now and as before completely naked.

For a moment he thought about folding to Second Earth and hunting her down. He knew where she lived, her little condo at the foot of Camelback Mountain. He wanted to get in her face and gloat. He wanted her to know that whatever game this was, for all her distaste of him personally, she wanted him, she pursued him, and he’d pleasured her.

Hah.

Well, at least in that he found a measure of contentment in their little war. At least in that he could smile at the ceiling, settling his shoulders deeper into the mattress. He’d done the very thing he’d been trying to do for four months now, since Alison’s ascension, since his return to his life on Mortal Earth—he’d brought his woman to a screaming climax.

His smile broadened, at least for a time, then it dimmed. Who was he kidding? This would never be enough, these encounters that had no more substance than if he’d awakened in the middle of a wet dream.

Still, he’d kept her with him until the end this time, and he would take satisfaction from that. Sort of.

He’d come inside her, which made him wonder. He looked down at his partially thickened cock still weeping his fluids. He blinked. He felt over his abdomen and chest, but there was nothing of his come present on his body. He felt only a thin sheen of sweat.

If this had been a wet dream, he would have been covered in his seed.

So where was the unmistakable evidence that he’d just had one helluva fine orgasm?

He was pretty sure he knew and once more he smiled at the ceiling. If he was right about all of this, Havily Morgan had one big-ass shock coming to her.

Good.

Havily knew the encounter was just a dream, like all the others she’d experienced, endured, over the past weeks. Of course it was just a dream, except that in this dream she’d actually had an orgasm. And somewhere in the course of the dream, she’d stripped off her nightgown . . . as usual.

She lay in bed, staring at her ceiling, at the collection of glittery butterflies. The air conditioner came on, and the large flock moved as though in flight.

She smiled. She didn’t know exactly what this was she had been doing at night, but she could feel the ease of hormones that drifted through her veins now, those beautiful hormones that gave her such a light peaceful feeling.

She had to admit one thing—her fantasies rocked! She could even laugh at herself now. She had given Marcus such form, such shape that when she’d awakened from the fantasy-dream, for a moment she’d actually believed he was real.

Her smile faded. She believed he was real in the same way she had believed the fiery attack on Luken had been real . . . because the attack had been real.

She shuddered and squeezed her eyes shut. Of course the attack on Luken had been real. She’d made a phone call, and Thorne had confirmed the tragedy.

But this thing with Warrior Marcus was not real, never had been real, couldn’t be real. Oh, God, it really couldn’t.

She took several deep breaths and calmed the feelings of panic that constricted her chest. Of course it wasn’t real. But . . . and here she closed her eyes . . . in the dream-fantasy, Marcus had smelled so wonderful.

She touched her fingers to her lips. She smelled all his delicious fennel scent and smiled. In her fantasy he had kissed her—and what had he kept saying to her? Sleep. So she had, and then she’d orgasmed. He was such a big, powerful man and his hips had pistoned hard. And his cock, like a baseball bat.

Desire swept over her once more and her hips rocked as she let all the incredible sensations sweep over her, which in turn caused her back to arch off the mattress. That’s when she felt the oozing between her legs.

She had just finished her period. What the hell?

She sat up carefully and flipped on the light. She grabbed a handful of tissues and pressed between her legs. She looked down at the tissues certain she’d see blood. However, what came out of her wasn’t red.

What came out of her smelled richly of . . . oh, God . . . fennel.

This was a man’s essence, his seed.

Marcus?

No.

Impossible!

So what was this? What had happened? She hadn’t been with a man. She’d just had a sexy dream, a hot sexy dream, that’s all.

Really.

Her heart rate increased. Had she been drugged? Enthralled? Raped?

Was someone in her house?

She glanced around at the shadows. She reached out with her senses but she knew her home was safe. No one else was present.

She stared down between her thighs, at the white tissues below her peachy-red pubic hair. Once more that deep, musky fennel scent, like grasses in summer, spiraled up to her.

There could be only one answer. Somehow Warrior Marcus had gotten to her. He’d found a way to penetrate her dreams then penetrate her.

Marcus.

That bastard. What had he done to her? How had he done this to her?

Antony Medichi, out of Italy in the late Roman era, sat next to Havily on the ratty brown leather couch. The hour was early, not yet seven, and given Luken’s accident and her role in the near-tragedy, she couldn’t have gotten much sleep.

There was a haunted look about her lovely light green eyes this morning.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked. The night’s fighting, thank God, was over and as usual the brothers were together at the Cave, one last bonding before heading to bed for the day.

Havily sat next to him, a venti iced coffee held between her hands. “Of course I’m okay. I mean I could use a little sleep, but all that matters is that Luken is doing so well.” She stared down at her cup and twirled the straw.

“That’s all that matters.”

Thorne had just given a report on how well Luken was recovering; a team of healers was with him and would remain working on him until Horace was satisfied. The warrior had even awakened for a few minutes and conversed with Thorne. He wasn’t in too much pain. Horace had seen to that. As for Luken’s wings, it was a wait-and-see.

Still, Havily wasn’t used to seeing that kind of horror, and he couldn’t help being concerned about her. She’d become important to the Warriors of the Blood, sort of a mascot, a beloved mascot.

He held a café mocha in one hand and a buttermilk doughnut in the other. He took a sip, then a bite. He loved that she sat next to him. He’d forgotten how soothing the presence of a woman could be, especially in the off-hours like this, after a night of battling when a warrior’s nerves were still standing up straight and screaming, his body bruised and hurting. Havily was like sliding into a warm bath, an ease, a comfort. He treasured her.

She was dressed to kill this morning as well, which always helped. She wore a short skirt in light blue that showed off her bare tanned legs. She had on elegant heeled sandals with sapphire-like gems on the front straps. Her blouse was cream silk, and around her neck hung a large piece of jewelry on a chain that sparkled in black and gold with small light blue crystals. The blouse had a perfect V-cut, and because she was leaning forward on the couch, her arms on her knees, she showed a nice line of cleavage. Dynamite.

But her hair was her finest feature. It floated all around her shoulders, a cloud of red, and a beautiful red at that, dark, lustrous. A man could sink his hands into that kind of hair. Her skin was very creamy. She was beautiful.

On her Liaison Officer salary Havily could have afforded a much larger home than her modest condo. Instead, he suspected she spent most of her money on clothes—or at least she looked like she did. She liked the labels. Her Gucci sunglasses hung over the edge of her Marc Jacobs bag, and he had talked with her enough over the years to know that she preferred Ralph Lauren to other designers. Endelle might still dress up in her animal skins, but Havily now set a tone in the admin offices that had all the women fussing with makeup and hair and clothes.

Yeah, the office was improved, and maybe that was something about her he’d never really understood until now. Wherever she went, the environment improved. That may not have been a preternatural power, but it was a certain kind of magic at headquarters.

Even here at the Cave, her magic had been spreading. She’d recently seen to the repair of the TV for them and now it ran on CNN, set up to be activated by a motion detector. As soon as anyone entered the room, the news flared up, not too loud, just a steady background drone full of Mortal Earth info. That, too, had a strange soothing quality.

Okay. He was half in love with her but then they all were.

Lately however, whenever he was around her, he’d started feeling an ache in the center of his chest, a longing he didn’t quite get. He wasn’t foolish enough to think she could ever have feelings for him, not after the breh-hedden in the form of Warrior Marcus had hunted her down in March and shot her full of intense lust for the bastard.

No, he’d lived too long on earth, either dimension, to think there could ever be anything between himself and Havily Morgan. But for the strangest moment he wished he could take her home, make love to her, then fall asleep curled up around her body.

With such a vivid thought, his body reacted and the coffee slid from his hand. With vampire speed he caught it before it hit the floor, splashed, and made a mess.

“Careful,” she murmured.

“Long night,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. He kept his gaze away from her.

He felt her hand on his shoulder. She rubbed back and forth, a real comfort, and it was all he could do to keep from either flinching or grabbing both of her arms and hauling her against his chest. Shit. He wondered if this was the way Luken felt around her.

Luken of course had been on his mind, on all the brothers’ minds. Havily’s, too, no doubt. She had a connection to Luken. He’d been her guardian during her ascension but he’d also had the worst crush on her since.

Medichi still didn’t quite get, though, how Havily had found Luken in a vision. She had related as best she could what had happened to her, that she had somehow seen the sky on fire and Luken fall to the earth.

Warning bells had gone off at her description of having a vision. The whole thing smacked not of a Second Earth power but of a third-dimension ability—and if that was the case, she could be in trouble. If, after a century as a vampire, she was now developing new powers, powers that would finally explain why the Seers a hundred years ago had insisted she needed a warrior guardian during her three-day rite of ascension, then she could be in danger all over again. Third abilities were rare on Second Earth, and Greaves would not want anyone with that level of power aligned with Madame Endelle, simple as that.

A tremor went through him when he thought of her alone in her small condo. To his knowledge the place had a mediocre security system. Also, he didn’t think she had the ability to make mist, and she certainly had no skills with a sword or even a modest ability to defend herself.

He felt uneasy. He’d have to think about her situation. Maybe there was something he could do.

“Hey,” he said softly. “I plan on visiting Luken this morning. Want to come with?”

Havily nodded. “What time?”

Medichi shrugged. “Later. About eleven I think. Given what he’s been through, he’ll need to sleep for a few hours.”

“I would really like that.”

“Then I’ll see you at the clinic at eleven.”

“Perfect.”

Yes, she was.

Caris Roane has authored over fifty published Regency romance novels and novellas under the name Valerie King. In 2005, the Romantic Times honored her with a Career Achievement award for her Regency work. Burning Skies is her second paranormal romance.

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Retribution: Prologue

Sherrilyn Kenyon — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 17:30:00 +0000

Get an exclusive sneak peek of Sherrilyn Kenyon’s Retribution (Available August 2, 2011) with an excerpt of the Prologue. Then, enter for a chance to win a copy of Retribution signed by the author!

Harm no human…

A hired gunslinger, William Jessup Brady lived his life with one foot in the grave. He believed that every life had a price. Until the day when he finally found a reason to live. In one single act of brutal betrayal, he lost everything, including his life. Brought back by a Greek goddess to be one of her Dark-Hunters, he gave his immortal soul for vengeance and swore he’d spend eternity protecting the humans he’d once considered prey.

Orphaned as a toddler, Abigail Yager was taken in by a family of vampires and raised on one belief—Dark-Hunters are the evil who prey on both their people and mankind, and they must all be destroyed. While protecting her adoptive race, she has spent her life eliminating the Dark-Hunters and training for the day when she meeting the man who killed her family: Jess Brady.

A gun in the hand is worth two in the holster...

Jess has been charged with finding and terminating the creature who’s assassinating Dark-Hunters. The last thing he expects to find is a human face behind the killings, but when that face bears a striking resemblance to the one who murdered him centuries ago, he knows something evil is going on. He also knows he’s not the one who killed her parents. But Abigail refuses to believe the truth and is determined to see him dead once and for all.

Brought together by an angry god and chased by ancient enemies out to kill them both, they must find a way to overcome their mutual hatred or watch as one of the darkest of powers rises and kills both the races they’ve sworn to protect.

[Sign in or register to read an excerpt of Sherrilyn Kenyon’s Retribution…]

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Vampires Dead Ahead: New Excerpt

Cheyenne McCray — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 17:00:00 +0000

With zero tolerance for bloodsuckers, Nyx and the Trackers have made the streets safer for warm-blooded New Yorkers. Unfortunately, they didn’t drive a stake through the problem nationwide. Vampire attacks are on the rise. Proctors are dropping like flies. And Volod—New York’s ousted Master Vampire—is trying to make a comeback…

Nyx is worried—about her city, her job, and her neck. But mostly she’s concerned about her former lover, Rodán, a Proctor who’s gone missing. Scarier still, Volod is capturing and “turning” paranorms to help him paint the town red. Which sucks. Because some of these new vampires are Nyx’s old friends. But hey—if she can stake them here, she’ll stake them anywhere…

Get a sneak peek of Cheyenne McCray’s Vampires Dead Ahead (available November 29, 2011) with an excerpt of the prologue and Chapters 1-2.

Prologue

It was a night made for danger. A night made for passion.

A night made just for her.

The sports coupe hugged the street as Monique took the steep San Francisco hill a little too fast. She loved to drive the silver Mercedes-Benz SLS AMG. It was impossible to beat human technology despite the norms’ lack of magic.

Among the Light Elves, Monique was a being of great magic, but she still enjoyed human innovations. Why simply use the transference when she could enjoy the power of her vehicle, the sleek elegance of it.

Tonight she needed an outlet, and flying through nighttime traffic in this fashion was one of her favorite ways to relax. What she had planned next was an even more exciting way to let herself go.

It was a chilly January night, a trying night, and the Vampire tragedy she had come upon in the Haight-Ashbury district had topped it off quite unpleasantly. The Soothsayers still had the crime scene frozen until the Paranorm Task Force cleaned up any paranormal aspects of the crime and wiped out the memories of any human witnesses.

What a great asset to have when trying to keep the general population from freaking out at some of the bizarre sights they saw when paranorms were inhabiting the city with them. Humans would never understand. How could they?

Monique had barely made it back to her home in time to change into a short, strapless little red dress with a matching jacket that had a mandarin collar. She added decadently high red heels. At her throat and on her ears, wrists, and fingers were glittering diamonds and rubies mined, fashioned, and warded in the belowground realm of the Dark Elves, in Otherworld.

Males of every race of beings loved her exotic looks. She’d let her long dark curls float free around her face, hiding the delicate points of her ears.

Light Elves were generally apathetic when it came to norms and paranorms alike. She and Rodán, however, were among the rare few who believed that their people had a duty to protect those who could not protect themselves. And that included all paranorms as well as norms.

The majority of U.S. Proctors left most of the dirty work to the Night Trackers. Monique preferred hands-on leadership. That practice and the power of her magic were two reasons she made such a good Proctor and why she was chosen to lead all Peacekeepers in San Francisco. It is also why she had the respect of the Trackers who worked under her.

Her cell phone purred through the speakers in her car. She glanced at the navigation screen as the caller identification came up. She recognized the number as Rodriguez’s.

“Answer,” she said out loud, and when she heard the soft click she said to her lead Tracker, “Hi, Michael.”

“The cleanup on Haight is finished.” Rodriguez’s voice was deep and smooth, like warm caramel, one of her favorite human treats. If she weren’t Rodriguez’s Proctor, she’d have had the Shifter male in her bed already.

Monique pushed a handful of curls over her shoulder. “Anything else to report?”

She heard the shrug in Rodriguez’s voice. “The usual. Harley and Jonathan had to rein in a few rogue Werewolves.” Monique glanced up at the full moon as he spoke. “Lee ended up with two of the beasts on her hands.”

Monique swung the car around a corner and reached the St. Francis Hotel in Union Square. “Great job tonight, every one of you.”

Rodriguez gave a low laugh. “That’s what you always say, Mo.”

“Because I have the best Trackers a Proctor could hope for.” Monique smiled, but it faded as she narrowed her brows in concentration. “Let everyone know we’re meeting tomorrow night before you head out to track.”

“You’ve got it,” he said. “Sweet dreams, Mo.”

“I’d wish the same for you,” she said, “but I have a feeling you have other things in mind.” Like she did. “Have fun.”

As Rodriguez ended the call, Monique turned the car into the parking garage of the St. Francis and pulled up to the curb just outside the rear entrance. She opened the sports car’s doors and slipped out her long legs while allowing the attendant to assist her in stepping into the cold.

Being Elvin she was naturally protected from changes in temperature and from the generally cool environment of San Francisco. She barely noticed the chill night air as it brushed her skin.

She tipped the man before he valet-parked her car, then gave a slight inclination of her head to the doorman as he held the glass door open for her.

A brief feeling of guilt made her hesitate when she reached the opulent hotel lobby. How could she have such a fetish, to be with a Vampire?

Not a real Vampire, of course. She would never choose to be with an actual Vampire, with any being so inherently evil as those creatures.

But the feeling it gave her to role-play . . . the feeling of danger and the forbidden. Like a human with a drug addiction, she needed this. Wanted this.

Monique inhaled, raised her chin, and headed toward the bank of elevators. Nothing wrong with fantasies that didn’t cross the line. She only enjoyed human men dressed up like Vampires.

The males the agency set her up with regularly were so realistic, down to their scent of dirt and age. It had to be a special cologne designed to make the whole experience that much more intense and satisfying. Whatever it was, it added to the incredible intoxication she felt from these connections.

Before she pressed the button for the elevator, she drew a heavy cream-colored envelope out of her clutch. Inside the envelope was a keycard as well as a piece of stationery inscribed with a room number. She didn’t really need to, but she checked the paper again.

Every one of these nights she indulged in something different. Sometimes the evening started at a hotel bar or maybe a coffee shop. At a seemingly chance meeting, she would be approached and engaged in conversation. She loved the natural, realistic cat-and-mouse game that ultimately ended in a luxurious hotel room with her satisfying her lust.

Tonight was different. She was to go directly to a room. Would there be instructions? Perhaps a “bellman” dropping by for assistance.

The last time she’d been in the St. Francis was some time ago, and she was pleased to find that to night’s room was in the original section of the hotel. She loved the decor reminiscent of the hotel’s beginnings.

Who would it be? She gave a little shiver as she thought of the male who had played Vampire to her last night. It was never the same male who she was set up with, though. Too bad, because last night had been amazing, as she had told the agency. It was so realistic down to the moment when he’d bitten her. She’d felt like she’d been taken by a true Vampire.

Naughty Mo, she chided herself.

Elves were elegant, always moving with the fluid grace inherent to their race. Her heels didn’t make a whisper of a sound as she stepped out of the elevator and walked toward the suite that had been arranged for her. When she reached the door, she smiled then slipped the keycard into its slot, heard the click, and pushed open the door.

The room was dark save for candle flames flickering from every surface. The suite had the heady, sweet smell of roses. Candlelight reflected off at least a dozen vases filled with roses of every color imaginable.

She wasn’t Drow, of course—the Dark Elves who lived belowground—so her vision wasn’t as acute in the darkness as theirs was. Still, she had little problem taking in everything in the room with a glance.

Including the man standing in the shadows to her right. A man dressed in a dark suit, his long black hair flowing over his shoulders but drawn away from his face so that she saw the hard angles and planes of his pale features.

Her breath caught when her gaze met his, and she was immediately lost in the depth of his glittering black eyes. It was the same man she’d been with last night. That never happened because she always insisted on variety. She didn’t know this male’s name and he didn’t know hers. It was the way she preferred it.

“I cannot say that I am not pleased it’s you,” she said as she set her red satin clutch on the velvet cushion of a chair near the door. “I enjoyed last night very much.”

The thrill of her first encounter with him caused a tingling low in her belly. The night had started out in an exclusive club, with him approaching her as a stranger might. It had ended beyond her expectations at the St. Regis Hotel.

The man smiled, and fangs flashed in the candlelight. So realistic.

“I am pleased as well.” He moved toward her as he spoke then took her hands in his when he reached her. He dipped his head and kissed her cheek. “It is most welcome to be in your company once again.”

He even sounded formal, as if he were as old as his scent. If he was a true Vampire, he might have been a Master.

The male held her at arm’s length and studied her face, lingering at her brown eyes. A little shiver ran through her as he slowly looked down, pausing at her throat before continuing. He trailed his gaze over her firm breasts, the taper at her waist, and down the length of her bare legs to her feet, which were still clad in the high heels. Last night he had wanted her to leave on the stiletto shoes she’d worn.

What would he want to night? She knew what she wanted.

When his eyes met hers again, she swallowed. His gaze immediately dropped to her throat again. She could almost feel his fangs sliding into the vein that pulsed there now, throbbing for his attention.

“I’m going to take you someplace you will love.” His voice was husky as he moved toward her, so close his chest brushed hers.

She tilted her head. “We’re not staying here?”

“I have something special planned for you.” He bent and scraped his fangs down the column of her throat before letting them rest at the vein that pulsed, begging for him. His voice was deep, mesmerizing. “Dare to go with me?”

Monique let out a soft moan. Her thoughts clouded with desire. “Yes.” Her own voice sounded husky. “I’m ready.”

Monique peered at the house through the window of the male’s black BMW. He had pulled into the driveway of an incredible Queen Anne Victorian home in Pacific Heights, one of the oldest and most affluent parts of San Francisco.

It wasn’t possible that an escort could afford such a fabulous place, even to rent. The male must have inherited it, or perhaps borrowed it for the night.

The darkened house had an almost eerie feel to it as he walked her to the front door. He unlocked it then put his hand beneath her jacket at the small of her back and guided her over the threshold.

It was as dark inside the house as out, and she had to blink a few times before her eyes fully adjusted. The door closed behind them with a thunk that caused her heart to jump.

“Come.” He took her hand and she let him lead her within the dark house, through an elegant room of Queen Anne furnishings. They continued past a staircase, into a modern-looking kitchen, and up to a door beside a glass-fronted pantry.

Monique’s heart beat a little faster as he opened the door and gestured for her to walk ahead of him. Through the door she saw a pair of wooden railings and steps leading down to an even deeper darkness. A basement or a cellar perhaps.

She hesitated. The combination of anxiety and anticipation thrilled her like nothing else. It was all part of the high that drew her in again and again.

Monique met the male’s black eyes, which almost seemed to glow. No, that was her imagination. Yet they seemed amazingly bright in such dark surroundings.

She tried to step back but found he had a firm grip on her wrist, which startled her. “Release me.” The last two words sounded deep, throaty as she put magic behind them. Magic meant to command, to be obeyed.

Instead of releasing her as he should have, though, his lips curved into a sensual smile that reminded her of last night and how good he’d made her feel. So incredibly fabulous. The power she’d put into her voice faded with her words as he brought her to him.

It was lust for this male. Lust that made all her defenses lie down like newborn pups that didn’t have the strength to protect themselves.

The male’s gaze was almost hypnotic as he moved closer to her and took her hands in his. He lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers. His mouth was cool, firm, masculine. Monique closed her eyes, and her lips parted to accept his kiss. She breathed in the scent of earth. It was stronger now, and she wondered if it came from the cellar or was entirely him.

“You will love this.” His breath was cool on her cheek as he moved his mouth to her ear. “I promise you.”

Monique felt a sense of fuzziness that she’d never experienced before as she walked through the doorway with the male. She didn’t waver on her heels as they walked down the steep staircase together into the dark. Her steps were firm, deliberate, yet silent.

When they reached the bottom she blinked and narrowed her eyes, trying to make out shapes in what was an enormous basement. She frowned. It looked like rows and rows of coffins. A few steps away one of the coffins was open. It was white with pink satin lining.

“You have coffins.” Amazing how the agency had taken this to another level, she thought. She played the game. “Why do you have coffins? What is this? It’s beyond freaky.”

The male’s fangs gleamed white in her vision as he grasped a handful of her curls in his fist. She gasped as he brought her hard up against him and yanked her head back by her hair.

“What self-respecting Vampire wouldn’t have coffins in his basement?” he said with a devious smile.

He moved so fast Monique never had a chance to think about what was happening. She gave a cry as he sank his fangs into the artery in her neck.

Her mind spun. She wanted to fight but she couldn’t. She felt frozen, unable to move. Instead of the sensual, sexual feeling she’d experienced last night with this lover, she felt light-headed. As if she was truly being drained of her blood.

As if this was real.

Monique went limp in his arms. He continued to suck from her, drawing her lifeforce from her through the fluid that gave all beings life.

She tried to summon her magic to protect herself, but it was a vague attempt. As if she was poking at the male with a stick and hitting stone instead of a flesh-and-blood being.

The room seemed to spin as he raised his head and smiled. Blood coated his fangs. Real blood. Her blood.

“What . . .” The words came out as a forced whisper “. . . did you do to me?”

“My lovely Monique.” The male spoke her name as if it were a beautiful treasure.

Confusion piled on top of confusion. “My name . . . how do you know?”

“I know much about you, Monique,” he murmured as he nuzzled her hair and breathed in her scent.

Her skin felt cold and her mind numb, as if she were trapped in a fall of snow, her body heat evaporating with every minute that passed.

“I do what I must for the survival of my people.” The male kissed the skin along her jaw. “You have now been bitten twice. With the second bite, you become one of us.”

Realization came to her but it was far too late. “You are a real Vampire,” she said slowly, her tongue feeling almost too thick to speak.

“And when you wake, so shall you be.” He raised his head and smiled. He still supported her limp body with one arm. He ran his fingers down her neck with his free hand.

The place he’d bitten her tingled and burned. “A powerful Elvin Vampire, like no being ever known before.”

“Elvin Vampire.” The desire to giggle rose up inside her but she was too weak. “There is no such thing.”

“In ten days there will be.” The male scooped her up in his arms.

Her head lolled to the side as he cradled her to his chest. He carried her the short distance to the white coffin with the pale pink satin lining.

She thought she caught the scent of a human—but that was absurd. Why would a human be with her and her Vampire lover?

Dimly she was aware that he was setting her down inside the coffin. When she lay on the plumped satin, her head resting on a small pillow, she stared up at him. “Who are you?”

Triumph mixed with malice flashed across his striking features as he crouched beside her. He gripped the lid of the coffin. “My name is Volod,” he said right before he slammed the lid shut.

Volod. The name was familiar to Monique’s fuzzy mind. But then it didn’t matter anymore as she passed into oblivion.

Chapter 1

“Another Tracker is missing.” Rodán set his wineglass on the white tablecloth of our table for two in the exclusive paranorm hot spot Some Other Place. “Kennedy appears to be gone.”

The hum and buzz of the restaurant and bar filled the pause as I digested Rodán’s statement. Another Tracker?

A busboy stopped by our table and cleared our dinner dishes after asking if we were finished. I waited until he was gone before I responded to Rodán.

“Kennedy, from Seattle?” I frowned as I spoke. “Any idea what happened to him?”

Rodán slowly shook his head. “The Proctor Directorate’s investigation teams have found nothing.”

“That makes how many?” I asked.

“One Proctor along with eight Trackers.” Rodán’s handsome Elvin features remained amazingly impassive, his crystal-green eyes betraying no emotion as he spoke.

“What does the GG have to say about it?” I asked.

Rodán looked thoughtful. “The Great Guardian has other matters that concern her at this time.”

“More important than the disappearance of paranorms who are important to the safety of this world?” The GG drove me crazy in the ways she chose to “help.”

“It is not for us to decide where her attention is best suited, Nyx.” Rodán was gentle yet firm in his statement.

“I’m having a hard time believing what’s happening.” I shook my head, and my cobalt-blue hair tickled shoulders bared by my strapless Versace minidress. “There’s something very wrong going on.” A brilliant understatement.

Rodán gave a deep nod. “Exceptionally so,” he said, making me wonder for a moment if he meant my understatement.

I shuddered at my next thought. “Unless Zombies are back.”

“We are well and rid of Zombies, Nyx.” Just hearing Rodán say “Zombies” made me shudder again. It had only been a few months since we’d faced the threat, but it seemed like it had been days ago.

“Desmond thinks we’re rid of them permanently.” The silk of my dress slid across my thighs in a soft caress as I crossed my legs at my knees. My light amethyst skin contrasted with the black material of my dress. “I do have faith in him.”

“As do I.” Rodán took another sip of his Chardonnay and I watched the play of muscles in his arm, beneath his golden skin. “Which is why I planned to speak of Desmond with you.”

I cocked my head. “What about him did you want to discuss with me?”

“The Great Guardian and I have spoken.” Rodán leaned forward, his forearms resting on the tablecloth. “I intend to offer the Sorcerer a position as a Night Tracker.”

Surprise made me blink. First of all, Rodán never told me about his choices for Night Tracker candidates. Second . . . Desmond?

“Desmond has qualities that would benefit our team,” I said. “He isn’t the sword-and-dagger type, though.”

A slight smile curved Rodán’s lips. “Indeed he is not. He has other talents that would serve him well.”

I smiled, too. “I am not being negative, Rodán. The thought just caught me off guard. I actually think Desmond would make a terrific addition. Providing you can convince him to join the Trackers.”

“That may be a challenge.” Rodán gave a nod of acknowledg ment, his long white-blond hair shimmering beneath the low lights with the movement and revealing the points of his ears. “Desmond has been a loner, but after seeing what he and the Trackers did together to strike down his enemy, Amory, I know the difference he can make with us.”

“Ah.” I sipped my Chardonnay. “I wondered why you were telling me about a candidate. You never have before.”

“That will potentially change, Nyx.” Rodán’s expression grew more serious. “I want you to take a larger leadership role.”

I stilled and set my wineglass down. “More than being in charge of special teams?”

“Yes.” Rodán studied me. “You have proven yourself to be an effective leader. You are respected by others, and you have a charisma about you which is not learned. You were born with it,” he said. “You will still primarily track but you would be involved in more strategy development, training processes, and team assignments.”

Surprise kept me from speaking as he continued.

“I am not considering you full-time in another position by any means,” Rodán said as he continued to study me. “However, having more responsibility in the overoperations will make better use of your skills.”

When I finally found my ability to speak, I said, “I had no idea you thought of me this way.”

Rodán’s gaze was focused, intent, as if he was evaluating even my response. “As a Night Tracker you have already provided balanced leadership, and your judgment is sound.”

“I am thinking of one behavior, however, that must change,” he added. “This has nothing to do with my feelings for you outside of being your Proctor.”

“Okay.” My words were slow and deliberate. After what had happened during the Zombie op, I was wary of what he might say. “What in your opinion do I need to work on in relation to the soundness of my judgment?”

“The only caution I have, you have heard before,” Rodán said. “You are an exceptional Tracker. However, at times you have had no regard for your own personal safety. You need to think through what is best overall, before you jump into certain situations.”

"For example,” he continued, “too often you have charged forward without waiting for backup. It has almost cost you your life on more than one occasion. An effective leader needs to remain alive or he or she cannot be effective. Do you agree?”

I wanted in some way to fire back that I’d done what I’d had to. As a Drow princess, I was raised around warriors. I had trained as a warrior myself. Dark Elves don’t sit back and watch, they act. But I knew Rodán was right.

With an inward sigh, I brought my fingers to the collar I’d worn to favor my father. When I considered the last operations, I had to admit Rodán was right. I’d put myself into some pretty bad situations, including getting injected by a deadly virus. Dark Elves are aggressive fighters, but they still lay battle plans and work as a team.

My restraint, to a point, during the last case may have had more to do with my team than me. They had been adamant that I not charge in on my own without them like I had during previous ops. They’d been right, and I’d known it.

“Yes,” I said, “that’s fair. It’s not easy for me, though. It’s my nature to give it everything I have, despite the dangers, but I understand what you’re saying.”

“Consider what I have to say.” Rodán wore a serious expression. “I believe you above all those others you track with have the skills necessary to lead the entire team. Under my guidance, of course. I don’t have all the details worked out, but I wanted you to know what I was thinking for your future.”

Wow. I took a deep breath. “It means a lot that you have so much confidence in me and my abilities.”

“You have earned it.” Rodán steepled his hands on the tabletop. “Time and time again on operations you have been assigned to you have proven to be an exceptional leader. I only have the one concern.”

“I think I understand.” I clasped my hands in my lap. “But I’m not management material. You know me—I can’t sit back and watch.”

“I would never expect you to do so.” Rodán smiled again.

“That is not the Nyx Ciar I know.” I felt perplexed at his words, but he continued. “I am only asking for a little restraint on your behalf.”

“Can I think about it?” I brushed my palm over my belly, absently smoothing the silk of my dress. “I need a chance to let this digest. Not only that, but I do have my PI agency to consider. I’m not sure adding extra responsibility as a Tracker will help me in my day job as a PI.”

“Of course.” Rodán raised his glass and sipped his wine. I watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed, observed his fluid grace as he set his wineglass on the table.

“It is my intention to groom Colin to take a leadership role,” he said. “I would like him to start leading a special ops team.”

Warmth spread through me at the sound of Colin’s name. Yet that warmth was followed by the feeling of confusion that had plagued me ever since my and Adam’s breakup and Colin’s insistent pursuit of me.

Now was not the time to think of either of the two males. Detective Adam Boyd was no longer in my life, and Colin, a Dragon paranorm, wanted me to take things a step farther with him.

It was times like this—being comfortable with my Drow appearance in this paranorm restaurant, and not worrying about how I looked at night—that made me realize it could never have worked with Adam. I couldn’t look like I did right this moment and be out with him. However, I didn’t have those same reservations with Colin, as far as dating another paranorm went.

Still, at this moment there were more pressing things to consider than my love life.

“Is Desmond the only new Tracker whom you and the GG are considering?” I asked.

“I believe Tristan would make an excellent Night Tracker also,” he said. “The Guardian agrees.”

“My brother?” I thought about him as a Tracker candidate. Tristan had been locked in a stone for twenty-two years, but to him it had been as if no time had passed. He’d returned not recognizing me—I was no longer the five-year-old kid sister I’d been when he disappeared. He was now in Otherworld visiting with our parents.

“I hope he can be convinced,” I finally said. “Though he was an artist before he was taken, never a warrior, I think he could be a tremendous Tracker.”

“Tristan has always been a warrior,” Rodán said. “A warrior with an artist’s skills. It is time to use all of his abilities. As a Tracker he could add much to the team with some training.

”We’ll let him out in the field with you for a couple of days to give him an idea of what a Tracker’s night is like,“ Rodán said. ”Then we’ll send him to the training program in Chicago. Once he’s fully trained, we’ll team him up with an experienced Tracker in New York City.“

”Rodán!“ The pair of voices exclaiming his name came from a pair of blond Nymphs who stopped at our table. They looked like excited, giggly airheads as they bounced up and down on their toes. I recognized them—they were backup singers for Festival, a new paranorm rock band that I’d seen for the first time last weekend.

”Trixie.“ Rodán nodded to Nymph One. ”Bubbles,“ he said to Nymph Two.

Trixie and Bubbles. I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. It may not have been the first time I’d heard their stage names but it still got me. By the looks of the pair of airheads, I wondered if those were stage names, or their real ones.

I settled back in my chair to watch. This should be good.

”We haven’t seen you for a while.“ A small pout was on Trixie’s lips. ”Bubbles and I were just saying how much—“ The Nymph glanced at me then back at Rodán. ”—we have missed you.“

I didn’t think that was exactly the sentiment she’d wanted to express.

Then Bubbles said, ”After we perform at the Pit next, are you going to invite us back to your chambers?“

Uh-huh. That statement confirmed what I’d been thinking.

I toyed with the stem of my crystal wineglass as Rodán gave them a smile that was entirely sensual. Rodán couldn’t help it. He could simply have been trying to be polite, but no matter. His expression would still have the power to set a female on fire.

”I will talk with you beautiful ladies at another time.“ Rodán said it in a way that was appealing rather than off-putting. ”At this moment I am enjoying Nyx’s company.“

”Can’t wait,“ Trixie said with a giant exclamation point in her voice. ”We’ll see you soon.“

Bubbles nodded with enthusiasm, her blond curls bouncing. ”We’ll be ready.“

I bet they would.

Rodán gave a slight inclination of his head. ”Have a good evening, ladies.“

The bubbling airheads slipped into the crowd in the bar but I could still hear their giggles. I wanted to roll my eyes but I smiled at Rodán instead. ”Your adoring public.“

Rodán leaned back, holding his wineglass. He looked at me for a long time without saying anything.

I tilted my head. ”Are you all right?“

”You know that for you I would give up everything,“ he said quietly.

My cheeks burned a little at the intimacy in his expression and in his words. ”We both know you couldn’t, Rodán.“ I continued even though he looked like he wanted to say something. ”It’s how you’re wired. You’re a sexual, sensual being and I get that,“ I said. ”You would never be happy with one person.“

”With you . . .“ He looked thoughtful as he paused. ”With you everything was different. You make me want to be with you alone.“

I was surprised. I had never heard Rodán say this before in quite this way.

”Then why weren’t you?“ I said, more out of curiosity than anything else. ”You continued to see others while you and I slept together. If I made you feel different then why didn’t you stop inviting others to your bed?“

During the time I was with him, I’d never considered Rodán enjoying sexual pleasures with others as abnormal. He’d invited me to join in on the experiences, but I’d always refused. It wasn’t my thing.

”One female would never satisfy you. Oh, maybe for a time, but I refer to a lifetime,“ I went on before he could respond. ”I could never share the man I decide to be with. It just wouldn’t happen.“

His green eyes were dark with something I couldn’t identify. ”For you I would give it all up.“

Warmth filled me as I studied the beautiful male sitting across the table. Rodán was truly like no other. Not a soul on this Earth Otherworld—or any Otherworld for that matter—could fully compare to my Proctor, former lover, and friend who was dear to me in more ways than I could count. What I felt for Rodán was different than my feelings for any other man.

”You know that I love you,“ I said quietly. ”But I’ve always known that you have desires, you have lust for others. And I realized, in the end, I couldn’t change that. I simply am thankful for our deep friendship now.“

Rodán opened his mouth to speak but I pushed back my chair and got to my feet.

As he stood, his slight smile and a slow shake of his head indicated his understanding.

”I’m late getting to work and my boss is real hardcase,“ I said as I gave him a teasing look.

”Your employer told you to take the night off,“ Rodán said with an equally teasing expression. ”Perhaps you should listen to him.“

”I don’t think listening is one of my strengths.“ I moved toward Rodán and tilted my head to kiss his cheek. ”I’ll consider your offer on the leadership position,“ I said as I drew away. ”Not the girlfriend spot.“

Rodán took my hands and kissed my cheek in return. ”You would be the one, Nyx.“

At the same moment, three females came toward us from the direction of the bar. They were dressed in next-to-nothing.

When they reached us, two of them took one of Rodán’s arms and the third said to me, ”You must learn to share.“

Rodán met my gaze and I raised my hands, amusement rising in me. ”See? Have fun.“

He smiled at me then at the females who had swooped down to take him away. ”One moment, please,“ he said to them. ”I will join you shortly.“

”You’d better,“ one of the females said with a coy look on her delicate features. ”Or we’ll hunt you down.“

With another smile, Rodán gave a nod to the threesome, and they headed back to the bar.

He took my hands in his. His grip was firm, comfortable. ”Good night, sweet one.“ He brushed his lips across my cheek, and I kissed him again before I stepped back.

I turned and headed out of the restaurant and into the night. My Corvette was parked in the underground lot, and the parking garage’s dim lights shone off the sleek black car. Some Other Place wasn’t far from my apartment which was at 104th and Central Park West. It was early yet, so I’d have enough time to change into my tracking gear and head on out.

The late-April night was clear and cool. As much as I enjoy the change in seasons, I’d been so ready for spring and was glad to see it.

When I reached my building, I parked, walked past my PI office on the ground level, and headed upstairs to my apartment.

Through Mrs. Taylor’s apartment door I heard her television blaring the latest reality TV show and I smelled cigarette smoke. Terror, her Chihuahua, yipped three times as I walked by.

Kali, my blue Persian, hated Terror. I thought the rat-like dog had been lucky that Kali hadn’t gotten hold of him.

I reached my floor and came to an abrupt stop.

Adam.

He’d been standing with his shoulder hitched up against the wall, but when he saw me he straightened.

So many feelings rushed over me as I met his warm brown eyes. Pain, desire, confusion, and love. Mostly love.

Adam’s sable-brown hair was ruffled as if he had just combed his fingers through it, adorable and sexy. His hands were stuffed into his bomber jacket, the brown leather well worn. At six-two he had me beat by about six inches in height. He had a lean, muscular build.

”Hi, Nyx.“ He looked nervous. ”Can we talk?“

”This is so unexpected, but sure.“ I swallowed. ”Come on in.“

My spine tingled as he stood behind me and I used a little bit of my air elemental magic to unlock my door. I opened the door and walked inside then held it open for him.

The love I felt for Adam and the pain over our breakup never ceased to make me feel weak, and not at all like the strong female and powerful warrior that I am.

I tossed my black clutch onto my white sofa and faced Adam. It was hard to keep my voice steady. ”What do you need to talk with me about?“

Adam hesitated. ”I met someone. I just thought you should know.“

I felt light-headed, as if my head was separating from my body. I mentally drew it back and straightened my shoulders. Adam had met someone already?

”You were right when you broke up with me in December,“ I said. ”It wouldn’t have worked between us. You’re a norm, I’m a paranorm, and our worlds would never meet.“

Adam looked at the floor and then at me. He smelled so good. Of leather and his masculine scent that I had loved so much. ”I never expected to meet someone else,“ he said. ”Not after you, but I have.

“I know how you and I both feel about each other and always will. But we know why it ended.” He lowered his voice “I just wanted you to hear it from me, Nyx.”

“I’m happy for you,” I said and then was surprised that I meant it as much as I did. “I want you to be happy.”

“I am.” He cleared his throat. “I think you would like Keri.”

Hearing the female’s name made my stomach twist. Maybe I wasn’t as totally over Adam as I’d thought I was. Or maybe it was just hard imagining another female with him at all.

I studied his brown eyes, looking for signs of doubt. There were none. “You love her, so I’m sure I would like her.”

Adam held my gaze then started out the door. He paused and kissed the top of my head. “A part of me will always love you,” he said quietly.

“I feel the same way.” I looked down at him again. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll still be around.” He gave me his adorable smile that showed off his dimple. “See you, Nyx.”

I nodded then closed the door behind him.

For a moment I leaned with my back against the door and closed my eyes.

Adam had found someone else. It was truly over. It was final. This was real. Adam was gone from my life, no matter what he said about seeing me around. Something told me I wouldn’t be seeing him at all.

Mentally setting aside everything that had happened tonight, I went to my closet. I pulled on black leather pants over red silky panties and a black leather top. The outfit was both durable and perfect for fighting when I tracked—and, well, beneath it all I just had to have something frilly even when I was tracking.

Maybe a battle was what I needed to get my head on straight. I strapped my weapons belt on and headed out, determined to find a good fight.

Chapter 2

“Reese?”

Reese frowned into the darkness. The feminine voice that had just spoken his name when he answered the phone was familiar but he couldn’t place it. He mentally blocked out the sound of traffic from the Santa Monica Freeway that edged his downtown LA territory as he concentrated on the phone call.

“You’ve got him right here.” Reese squared his feet on the asphalt of the parking lot. He closed his eyes and sent his energy through the phone, his Shifter senses searching for whoever owned that voice. “Who’s this?”

Before he could identify the female with his senses, she said in a hushed, frantic whisper. “It’s Monique.”

Reese opened his eyes and straightened. His skin tingled like it always did before something bad was going to go down.

He was beyond surprised. Monique, the San Francisco Proctor, had been missing for weeks. She was a friend, someone he liked, trusted, and admired. If he hadn’t been so slammed with the volume of activity in his territory, and if they’d had enough Night Trackers to cover it, he would have gone to San Francisco to join the search for her. In a heartbeat. Unfortunately LA was short of Trackers, as were the neighboring cities.

“Mo? Are you okay?” Reese held the phone tight to his ear. “Where are you?”

“I need your help.” Monique’s voice trembled, something he’d never have thought of from the Elvin Proctor. “Something horrible is happening and I need someone I can trust. I know I can trust you. Are you alone now?”

“No one else is around right now and of course you can trust me.” Reese kept in the shadows as headlights flashed in his direction. “Where are you?” he asked again.

Her voice lowered, and he had to concentrate to hear her. “I’m near the entrance to Griffith Park on Crystal Springs Drive. Come now and signal me twice when you’re there.”

“You’ve got it.” Reese began preparing himself for the shift, thinking of one of his favorite animal forms. “I can tell Curtis to meet—”

“No. Don’t bring the Werewolf.” Monique said the words so sharply that it made him pause. “I need you to come alone—you’ll understand why when we meet. I can’t have anyone know we have spoken. I’m in danger. I need someone I can completely trust to help and I know you can.”

Alone. A bell rang in his mind. A warning bell.

“All right.” Reese raised his left arm and glanced at his watch. Nearly midnight. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Thank you.” Monique sounded genuinely relieved, and he wondered if he had just overreacted. “Hurry. Please.”

“Be right there.” He snapped his phone shut and started to slip it into the holster on his weapons belt.

Instead he opened the phone again and dialed the number for one of the Trackers who covered the more-than-four-thousand-acre park. Katy answered on the third ring.

“Are you at home right now?” Reese asked.

“Yep,” Katy answered. “What’s up?”

“I need you on backup right away, just around the corner from your place,” Reese said to the Witch. He explained the call he’d just gotten from Monique and added, “Stick to the shadows and don’t let her know you’re there.”

“Gotcha.” The Witch’s soft voice belied the power she wielded in the spoken word. “I’ll leave right now. I’ll be waiting and watching.”

“Thanks, Katy.” Reese flipped the phone closed and shoved it into the holster.

Reese visualized an eagle, picturing its beauty, its strength, everything about it down to the last feather on its body.

A rush of sensation washed over his skin, like ice water, followed by warmth that reached every nerve ending in his body. One moment he stood in the parking lot and the next he took to the sky, shooting up until he was high above the city. A sense of exhilaration filled him as he rode the wind until he was over the main entrance to Griffith Park.

Reese circled above but didn’t see Monique, or any other being for that matter. He let out two piercing cries to let Mo—as well as Katy—know he was there. He doubted he’d see Katy, who likely would have cloaked herself in a Witch’s glamour. Being Elvin, Monique would be virtually impossible to spot, too. But if anyone else was around, he should hopefully see them.

Monique stepped from the shadows and looked up. Reese soared downward, straight for her. He landed in human form at a jog about twenty feet from where she stopped. With a quick sweep of his gaze and an outreach of his senses, he slowed and walked to the Elvin Proctor.

Reese hadn’t thought it possible for one of the Light Elves to look so concerned that she appeared almost frightened. The Elves were known for their stoic beauty, even during the worst of times.

Monique was lovely in jeans and a red blouse, her dark curls wild around her delicate, exotic face. Her completely feminine features belied the amazing skills she had as a Tracker and a Proctor. With her Elvin strength and intelligence, she was as tough mentally as she was physically.

She looked pale yet radiant in what little lighting there was at the park entrance. It was so good to see her, and he felt a flood of relief that she was alive.

“Where have you been, Monique?” he said, “The paranorm world is on its ass about all the missing Trackers—and you, a Proctor. It’s all anyone’s talking about.”

“Reese,” she said as she moved toward him. “Thank you for coming so quickly.” She went on before he could say anything. “There’s so much no one knows. I’ve been working undercover to find the other Trackers. It had to be kept secret.”

Reese cocked his head as she neared him.

“It all had to look plausible to those who have taken the missing Trackers,” she said.

“Rumors and speculation abound on who is responsible for this,” Reese said.

Monique nodded. “I have something important to talk with you about. I need you to be a part of this operation.”

Reese raised an eyebrow but let Monique continue.

“No one can know,” Monique said. “You must turn up missing like all of the others.”

“I’ll consider it once I hear more from you,” Reese said. “Who or what do you think is responsible?”

Monique lowered her voice, even though they were alone. “You’re right in part. But this isn’t the place to get into details.”

Reese gave a nod as he studied Monique. Something stirred within him. Like the feeling of setting out on the hunt. He was going to be in on the action from the inside.

“I have a place where I’m staying near Anaheim.” Monique gestured in the direction of the city. “I want you to come with me now and meet with our small undercover team,” she added. “I want to make certain, though. You have told no one, correct?”

Reese hesitated.

“Reese, I have to know, have you told anyone?” Monique repeated.

“I’m sorry.” Reese felt a tinge of embarrassment that sent heat creeping up his neck. “You turn up missing and I get a call from out of the blue with you asking to meet me alone. It didn’t seem right with all of the Trackers missing to not ask for a backup. It’s what you would have told me as a Proctor.”

“Reese, who knows?” Monique sounded a little panicked. “Who have you told? Is there someone else here?”

“Katy, the Witch,” Reese said. “She’s watching right now.”

Monique straightened, seeming to compose herself. “Call her in.”

Reese said in a normal tone of voice, “Katy, it’s all good. No danger.”

No answer.

“Katy? Are you there?” Reese turned to look around him.

“Reese, Vampires are here!” Katy’s voice resonated throughout the park. “I can smell and sense them.”

The magic in the Witch’s voice was powerful enough that Reese felt it to the soles of his feet.

“What’s going on, Mo?” His voice came out in a growl.

Monique took a step forward. “Reese—”

He stepped back.

Something was wrong. Bad wrong.

“Reese!” Katy cried out as he stared at Monique. He took his gaze off the Proctor long enough to look over his shoulder.

He gave a cry of rage as he saw Katy lying on the ground, lifeless, blood trickling down her neck, a Vampire crouched over her.

His heart beat faster. Adrenaline pumped through his veins.

The shift came over him fast and sudden, and he roared as he became seven hundred pounds of tiger flesh—muscles, sinew, jagged teeth, and three-inch fangs.

Reese sprang onto the Vampire and slammed him onto the ground. He tore into the Vamp, ripping out his throat and shaking him like a rag before flinging him aside.

His roar reverberated through the park as he stood over Katy’s body. He turned his head to look back at Monique and growled deep in his throat.

A redheaded female Vampire walked from the trees, glaring at Monique. “I don’t know why he keeps you around. Look what you’ve done.”

Monique scowled. “Shut up, Elizabeth.” The redheaded Vamp stilled, anger burning in her eyes like green fire. “We prepared for this,” Monique added.

Reese narrowed his eyes and growled again. What could they possibly do to him? Another growl rose up in him as he saw Vampires surrounding him, holding tranquilizer guns. He would have laughed if he were in human form. Norms’ animal tranqs did not work on Shifters.

But he shouted out as the Vampires started shooting him with darts, the needles stinging as they buried themselves in his huge body.

Before he could tear into the Vampires, the world started to spin around him. Darkness turned into light turned into darkness in his mind. Something different was in those tranquilizer darts.

Reese felt himself falling out of the shift . . . his body returning to his human form.

The moment he became human, Monique grabbed him in an embrace, startling him.

Fangs and a flash in her eyes told him all he needed to know. Monique was one of them.

It happened too fast.

“So happy you came,” she said, right before she sank her fangs into the vein at the side of his neck.

Confusion followed by survival instinct sped through Reese. He struggled, but almost immediately felt like all of his strength was being drained from his body. He went slack and was shocked to realize that Monique was strong enough to hold his weight.

Monique was some kind of Elvin Vampire. No . . . No. The thought didn’t truly compute in his mind.

She stilled. Reese’s mind swam. He’d never felt so weak in his life. The Elvin Vampire slid her fangs out of his neck and licked the spot she had just pierced.

The strangeness of it all made everything feel surreal. Monique let go of him. He dropped to his knees and fell forward. He managed to land on his palms so that he was supporting himself on all fours.

Reese shook his head, trying to knock the fuzziness from his brain. Katy screamed. The sound cleared his mind. He was aware of more than one being around them. Several beings.

“We know what your weakness is, Shifter. You have no choice but to join us,” came a smooth, deep male voice. “We had a special tranquilizer made that was formerly known only to Shifters.”

Reese’s mind swam.

“In twenty-four hours I shall be the one to bite you and turn you. And then you shall be in my control. Yes, you will actually want to obey me. Hard to believe, isn’t it? But true.”

Reese barely was able to move away from Katy before he collapsed. Vaguely he heard voices. The voices turned into a murmur, and he faded away.

Two for the price of one.

Volod smiled as he looked down at the Shifter, who’d transformed from an enormous tiger to his significantly smaller human form. He was still a big male, probably two hundred pounds, all muscle.

The Witch was a bonus. Seth was the only paranorm from his super-team who hadn’t succumbed to the Witch’s voice. A Shadow Shifter, Seth had transformed into shadow before the voice could affect him. He shifted back into human form beside her, just in time to take her down without her having a chance to say another word. Thereby freeing everyone else from her thrall.

“Excellent.” Volod gave a nod of approval to the recently made paranorm Vamps circling him. The Shifter Tracker, Reese, and the Witch Tracker, Katy, made up a total of eleven for his “dream team.” One Proctor, ten Trackers.

As soon as Reese and Katy were fully turned, Volod would have them trained with the others.

And then the conclave. Volod would reveal his team and his plan when the group of head Master Vampires in the United States gathered for their quarterly meeting.

With the conclave’s backing, Volod intended to take back his New York territory—

And exact revenge on those who had destroyed his world. Revenge against those who had murdered his brother, Danut.

The Drow bitch and the mightier-than-thou Elvin Proctor wouldn’t be so smug when he was finished with them.

They would be his and serve his every command.

It was a far more satisfying thought than simply killing Nyx Ciar and Rodán. Far more satisfying.

(Before you go, click here to enter for a chance to win a copy of the book!)

CheyenneMcCray writes the Night Tracker novels and the Armed and Dangerous series, among others. She grew up on a ranch in southeastern Arizona. She has been writing ever since she can remember, back to her kindergarten days when she penned her first poem. She always knew one day she would write novels—she wanted to create worlds that readers would get lost in, just as she had always gotten lost in her favorite books. “Growing up I read, read, and read,” she says, “and grew up to write, write, write.” She has three sons and two dogs. A true Arizona native, she loves the desert and all of the sunshine and beautiful sunsets that go along with it.

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The Guardian Bonus Scene

Team H & H — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 05:01:00 +0000

“Blowing out a frustrated breath, Seth...”

Click to access the bonus scene now!

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Home: A Downside Ghosts Story

Stacia Kane — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 15:00:00 +0000

HeroesandHeartbreakers.com is proud to present
Stacia Kane’s Home: A Downside Ghosts Story,
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Endurance

Ann Aguirre — Wed, 29 Feb 2012 14:00:00 +0000

When rebellion destroys the underground world in which Thimble and Stone have grown up, they take Stone’s son and try to escape the chaos. Along the way, they must evade the Freaks, beings who feed on human flesh. Leaving behind the roles of Builder and Breeder which they were assigned at birth, they wander the underground tunnels, looking for safety yet afraid to go “topside” where legend has it that the light and water will burn their skin from their bones.

Their journey takes them upward to an unimagined world of tinned food, comfortable furniture, and books. Away from their regimented society for the first time, and still facing imminent danger, Thimble and Stone acknowledge the forbidden attraction which both have denied for years.

Look for the ENDURANCE e-book, out soon!

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Temptation Rising: New Excerpt

A. C. Arthur — Wed, 14 Mar 2012 17:00:00 +0000

Washington, D.C., police officer Kalina Harper still dreams about that night, two years ago, when a huge cat-like creature saved her from a crazed attacker. Although she kept the truth to herself, Kalina can never forget the ferocious strength of the beast’s fangs and claws—or the raw animal hunger in its eyes. Until she meets Roman Reynolds…

Muscular, magnetic, and all man, Roman is a high-powered attorney with a predatory smile and seductive charm. He is also a criminal suspect with suspicious connections to the Amazon jungle. But when Kalina discovers that Roman is linked to a secret race of shapeshifting jaguars—who hunt down maneaters—she is forced to put her trust in a man who unleashes her wildest fantasies and fears. A fierce creature of the night whose nature is to protect his female at any cost…

Get a sneak peek of Temptation Rising by A. C. Arthur (available March 27, 2012) with an excerpt of the Prologue and Chapters 1-2.

Prologue

He could smell her.

The scent was alluring, seductive, and mixed with something else. Fear.

It was the fear that pushed him forward. The knowledge that something was wrong. Quiet steps led him into the towering darkness between two buildings. The air was damp and thick from a day full of summer thunderstorms. The ground was slick with wetness, riddled with small puddles as he moved through the eerie blackness.

She tried to scream.

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Leigh Bardugo

Leigh Bardugo — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 16:04:01 +0000

Leigh Bardugo was born in Jerusalem, grew up in Los Angeles, and graduated from Yale University. She indulges her fondness for glamour, ghouls, and costuming in her other life as makeup artist L.B. Benson. She lives in Hollywood and can occasionally be heard singing with her band, Captain Automatic.Her debut novel, Shadow & Bone, is the first book in the Grisha Trilogy and will be published by Holt Children’s/Macmillan in June 2012. She is represented by Joanna Stampfel-Volpe of Nancy Coffey Literary.

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PNR Month Test Page

Christopher Morgan — Mon, 06 Aug 2012 19:35:19 +0000

This is some filler text. The following will be repeated for a while. This will presumably be written to introduce the days writer as well as possible prize. Not sure if the hint will go in this section or right before the raffelcopter sweepstakes at the end.

[And boom goes the story...]

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The Trouble with Fate: New Excerpt

Leigh Evans — Mon, 03 Dec 2012 17:00:00 +0000

My name is Hedi Peacock and I have a secret. I’m not human, and I have the pointy Fae ears and Were inner-bitch to prove it. As fairy tales go, my childhood was damn near perfect, all fur and magic until a werewolf killed my father and the Fae executed my mother. I’ve never forgiven either side. Especially Robson Trowbridge. He was a part-time werewolf, a full-time bastard, and the first and only boy I ever loved. That is, until he became the prime suspect in my father’s death…

Today I’m a half-breed barista working at a fancy coffee house, living with my loopy Aunt Lou and a temperamental amulet named Merry, and wondering where in the world I’m going in life. A pretty normal existence, considering. But when a pack of Weres decides to kidnap my aunt and force me to steal another amulet, the only one who can help me is the last person I ever thought I’d turn to: Robson Trowbridge. And he’s as annoyingly beautiful as I remember. That’s the trouble with fate: Sometimes it barks. Other times it bites. And the rest of the time it just breaks your heart. Again…

Get a sneak peek at Leigh Evans's The Trouble with Fate (available December 24, 2012) with an exclusive excerpt of Chapters 1-2.

Chapter 1

What do the tree huggers call it? Karma?

No, wait a minute; that’s not right. “Karma” is just a word for what goes around comes around, isn’t it? And on the surface, Robson Trowbridge’s only crime was to have been the hot guy in school who was totally oblivious to the bottom dwellers of his world.

Like me, Hedi Peacock, formerly Helen Stronghold, and still, unfortunately, a bottom dweller.

“Karma” isn’t the word I was looking for. Should someone’s life turn to crap just because he’s handsome? Even I’m not that bitter. But still, I wish someone would even it out, make it so that everyone had the same luck and chances. If I created the world, you could bet there would be a set of natural laws, and one of them would be the Law of You Can’t Stay Hot Forever. It would be stamped on the forehead of every high school heartthrob in ink visible only to bottom dwellers, just as an incentive to survive the ordeal of high school. According to my law, hot guys would age very badly. At thirty, they’d be thumbing through the yellow pages searching for a hair renewal salon.

I shifted on the back of my heels, and strained to peek over the counter. Ten years out of high school and Trowbridge still had hair. In fact, more than when he’d been the to-die-for son of the Alpha of Creemore. Back then, he’d owned a Jeep and had dibs on a crown. He’d have been considered cute even without the killer smile.

“What are you doing down there?” asked my manager, Mark.

“I thought I dropped something, but I can’t find it.” I stood and reached for the silver milk container beside my espresso machine. It had been a dumb instinct, dropping to my knees behind the counter. Most things are better faced when you’re upright.

“You’re slowing down again.” Mark slapped another cup on the order shelf. “Now, you have four orders to fill.” He lowered his voice. “Hurry. Up.”

I nodded, teeth clenched, and let out a jet of steam to make him back up. He was going to fire me.

I may have broken a cookie here and there. Everyone knows that broken cookies can’t be sold. Everyone knows that the person who notices the broken cookie gets to eat the cookie. These are facts. If people stayed with proven facts, work environments would be easier. Groundless accusations just stir things up, like the whole “Who hid the turkey breast sandwich behind the milk?” controversy. Did they think I did it? Well, prove it. Maybe I did do it, and maybe if you were an anal retentive asshole who counted cookies and sandwiches, you might feel those were two good reasons to fi re your barista. Maybe.

But I was a goddess behind the machine. Normally, my fingers flew over the knobs, steam didn’t bother me, and no one, I repeat, no one, made foam like I did. I was a good barista, who could usually keep up with a stream of empty cups appearing by her left elbow. I even found it comforting, that monotony of press the button, steam the milk, empty the shot glass, pass the cup. But lately the familiar routine wasn’t automatic. Twice today, I’d come out of one of my aunt Lou’s transmitted thought pictures—something of a trance—with steamed milk running over the lip of the silver container and my heart jackrabbiting in my chest.

People were giving me plenty of space this afternoon, which was good. Space is a nice buffer when you work a shift with the idiot tag team of Mark and blonde-from- a-box Jennifer. They kept batting back and forth answers to the really important question of “If you could save only one thing from a fire, what would it be?”

Come on, guys. It’s not that hard. There’s only one answer. Yourself, dimwit. When fire is chewing through everything you’ve ever cared about, and there is no one left to rescue beyond yourself, the decision is simple: forget your charm bracelet and find the door. I’d point that out, but that would mean getting cozy with a human, and I don’t do cozy with the humans, which is providential, because as it happens, none of them have ever offered to extend the relationship beyond work hours. They keep their distance. Which is good, and bad, and maybe a little sad.

I can’t say I blame them. If I had to share a shift with me, I might be leery of getting in too close. Even full- blooded Fae need sleep, and my lack of quality time spent with a pillow was starting to show. But as long as I had a choice between an acid stomach or dream-plagued sleep? Pass the espresso.

At least when I was mostly awake, I could fight the sickening tentacles of Lou’s wandering mind reaching for mine. And if I failed, I could say to myself, Okay, take a deep breath, you’re all right, you’re just seeing her dreams through her eyes, but you’re still Hedi. You’re just stuck in your mad aunt’s head for a bit, witnessing how truly fucked up her brain is.

But when I was asleep? Different. Scary different.

And now I had Weres in my Starbucks; my stomach gave a disapproving gurgle.

When Trowbridge had opened the coffee shop door—the second Were to enter in ten minutes—I’d dropped to my knees, stricken with the fear that I’d slipped into a hallucination of my own, and had done so without experiencing the usual shit-here-I-go slide that happens before Lou pulls me into one of hers. Then, just as quickly as it had swamped me, my fear eased. I don’t detect scents when I’m dreaming and my nose had picked up an aroma over the brewed coffee that was Trowbridge’s alone. Ten years ago, when I’d been a lovesick twelve-year-old, I hadn’t been able to put my finger on that unique thing in his personal scent signature that my hormones interpreted as “Yum, Robson Trowbridge.”

Even now, older and a hell of a lot more bitter, I couldn’t find a word for it. It was just a truth, as tiresome and hard to deny as the notion that chocolate bypasses your stomach and goes straight to your hips. Trowbridge smelled different than the other Creemore Weres. He always had.

He was still pretty, if a bit unkempt. His jaw hadn’t seen a razor in a good week. And his hair was different. Now it was long, dark rumpled curls that brushed his shoulders. The type of curls that say, “I just got out of bed after a night of really hot sex.” Curls that don’t need a brush, just some sated female to finger-comb them.

Annoying. A girl couldn’t look at Robson Trowbridge without thinking about sex, even if she had reason to hate him. To keep myself sharp on that point, I checked out his neck, and sure enough, he had a gold chain hanging from it. He’d hidden the rest of the amulet under his shirt, but I knew it was there. Fae gold calls to my kind. I could feel its siren song, even from where I stood, half hidden behind the coffee machine.

Old history, and yet not.

“Double decaf, tall, no-foam latte.” I placed the coffee on the bar and scowled at the man who reached out for it before I finished centering it on the tray. There’s protocol, even at a Starbucks. You don’t reach for it, you wait for it. I snatched my fingers back before his could brush mine. All this pent-up fear was making me cranky.

It had snuck up on me, this yearning for Trowbridge, around puberty. I’d taken one glance at his Were abs, and gone from kid to preteen so fast that Mum had gotten whiplash. Worse, it had clung to me, that desire. Even though I try not to think of him, I still call up his face for every dark- haired hero found in one of those romance novels I boost from Bob, the blind bookseller.

Yes, I steal books from a blind bookseller.

How screwed up is that? Imagining Trowbridge as Lord Worthington, complete with the spotless Hessians?

I really wanted to rub my eyes. Behind my glasses’ magicked lenses, my eyes were sparking so badly it felt like a squad of Boy Scouts were competing to see who could start a fi re with a flint and steel. But if you have a disguise, you wear it, even if it’s inconvenient, even if part of you wants to do a pirouette on top of the bar and sing, “Hah, I didn’t die after all, you scum-sucking dog.”

As I reached for a new gallon of skim milk, Trowbridge moved from the doorway toward a white-haired Were who’d come in a few minutes earlier. Geezer-Were had looked as benign as an old Were could, but I’d been keeping tabs on him anyhow, ready to bolt if he looked at me sideways. By my rulebook, Gramps shouldn’t have been there in the fi rst place, not if he was a regular Were, doing regular things. Why? Because, basically, the stench of coffee is akin to the best doggone wolf repellent available. It won’t stop the motivated, but will deter the average Were.

Which is why, when the old Were had entered the café, nose high, and snared the last free table, my stomach had tensed, and I’d shrunk a little lower behind my brewing machine, not knowing what to expect. But since then, he’d just sat there, slouching in his comfortable country clothes, one hand playing with a stir stick someone had left behind. My ill ease had flattened, because part of me figured I could outrun a fossil like him, any day, any time. But now my fight-or-flight instinct was tapping me on the shoulder, telling me to stay sharp. What would two Weres be doing in a coffee shop? Had the Weres of Creemore finally come looking for me?

Trowbridge took a quick glance around the room before pulling out a chair opposite Geezer-Were. I held my breath as his gaze skipped me and drifted over to a shapely brunette, waiting to place her order. So much for the “aha” moment. He didn’t point a finger at me and exclaim, “Lo, there be the long-lost daughter of Benjamin Stronghold!” I wiped the counter while the steam did the foam thing, considering the implications of that. My features hadn’t changed that much. I mean, if you searched hard enough, it wasn’t a big stretch to spot the similarities between a kid named Helen and a girl named Hedi. Did the Creemore pack actually think I was dead? Unbelievable. After the flames and smoke had petered out, hadn’t anyone pawed through the rubble searching for our remains? Two kids, plus two parents brought the body count to four, not two. Fools. No one scratched their head and said, “Hey, we’re missing two corpses”?

Unless the fire reduced everything to ash? Could it do that? Bones and teeth too?

I’d never made their wanted list.It was a near sickening thought when one took in all the effort Lou and I expended hiding our tracks . . . oh hell . . . I could have gone to school . . . Without taking my eyes off Trowbridge and company, I pointed my finger and sent out a mental stream to the steam knob. It eased a fraction to the left.

His wedding band winked at me as he tucked a hank of hair behind his ear.

“Didn’t stop the cheating dog from checking out the brunette, did it?” I muttered to my chest. In response, my amulet, Merry, twitched in her sleep, still hidden under my shirt where I wore her. Sometimes she roused to see what was up, sometimes she didn’t—she’d simply twitch or flinch, sort of her version of a pillow over the head. In the end it didn’t really matter, because I’d give her a blow-by-blow later. Unless Merry was feeding, she hung around my neck on a chain, making her a convenient audience for one of my monologues. The rest of the time I let her nap inside the cup of my lace bra.

Trowbridge sat a little straighter. Well, he was a Were; he’d probably heard me. But recognize me? That appeared to be another thing. I wasn’t twelve anymore, and besides, I was supposed be dead, burned up in the fi re.

“Peacock,” said Mark. “Speed it up.”

I spooned off a little foam and put the next order on the bar.

“That’s nonfat?” asked the woman.

“Yup,” I said with my toothy barista smile. When she turned away, I began to clean the nozzle with the damp rag. Trowbridge hadn’t moved much since he’d done the visual and slapped a “later” label on the brunette, but from my side of the bar, I could smell his growing unease over the coffee, warm milk, and humans.

That’s right, something’s wrong, I telegraphed. What is it?

His head tilted to the side as if he were searching for a clue. His nostrils flared.

Good luck on that. Faes don’t have a scent. He wasn’t following the script. He was supposed to haul me out from behind the bar, and stalk out of the coffee shop, with me a helpless, fainting burden in his arms. I’d be wearing kitten heels, one of which would drop off. My small fists would beat on his chest, and he’d look down at me and realize that his life was over unless he claimed me as his own.

Of course for that scenario to work, I’d have to be weak, blond, and at least fourteen pounds lighter. And he’d be Lord Worthington, not some no-account Were. I’m round and short. I don’t wear kitten heels. I’d like to, but they aren’t on the approved shoe list for Starbucks.

See, there you go, another lie. I’d never wear kitten heels.

My hair is brown. When it’s freshly washed and the sun catches it just so, someone who’s read one too many bodice rippers might use the word “chestnut” to describe it. That’s a stretch. Most days it could be best described as mousy brown. I haven’t worked out what to do with it, so I usually wear it pulled back in a ponytail—one of those slacker ponytails that conveniently hide the ears.

And I’m not in the least bit beautiful, which just goes to show what a contrary bitch genetics is. My mum was beautiful, otherworldly beautiful, with golden hair that swung in graceful waves to her hips. But then again, she was born a Fae—what most humans call a fairy. She didn’t have wings, and she didn’t go around in a belted tunic. She did have the ears though. Mine have a slight point to them, courtesy of her. Sometimes I find my fingers stroking their sharp, curved peaks. It soothes me.

What’s on the other side of my gene pool?

Werewolf. From my moon-called father, I got a full upper lip, a temper, and my own personal inner Were. I have that bitch on permanent lockdown, buried so deep that she represents little more than a salivation problem when I walk past the deli. I do not turn furry when the full moon rises in the night sky. My eyes don’t glow red with rage, my teeth don’t elongate, and I can hear only a little better than humans.

Get over the myths. They’re never accurate.

Trowbridge got up, and jerked his head toward the exit. Geezer-Were stood to follow. Trowbridge held the door open for him, his right hand spread wide on the glass door. It had three fingers; a thumb, a pointer, and an f-u. The pinkie was missing, leaving a rounded nub close to his palm. The ring finger had been severed after the first knuckle. Who’d hurt him?

“Did you get that?” hissed Mark.

“What?”

“The next order. Grande, two pump vanilla, nonfat, extra hot, latte. You’re falling behind again, Hedi,” he said, from the safety of the cash register.

The door swung closed behind Trowbridge. I bore down on the next orders with a ferocity that made all the other little baristas stay well clear as I came to terms with the thought that all my hiding had been for nothing. They really did think I had died in the fire. Walk away, Trowbridge, I thought. Take your chewed-up hand with you.

Fourteen minutes later, my beautiful silver coffee maker started to shimmer. I squeezed hard on the steamer’s shiny silver handle, and concentrated on my fingers curled around it. Small hands, the knuckles four white sharp stones under soft skin. I could feel the pull, the sick slip of melting into Lou’s thought-pictures.

A big fat red apple flashed through my brain.

“Easy, Lou,” I said under my breath as I slid a bold one to a short guy. Fae tears, my aunt was lost today. This was the third time.

Concentrate. My hand. This handle, shiny, and silver bright. Concentrate on the sounds in the background. Someone was jiggling his keys. Use that as an anchor, cling to the sound, stay in the here. There was a sickening flutter of images as she overwhelmed my resistance. A red apple, something flying through the air, a face angry and distorted.

“Stay in the here, stay in the here,” I whispered. I tried to focus on the feel of my hand on the handle, the distinctive reek of coffee, and the murmur of human voices in the background. Lou’s telegraphed images started to get thin to transparent. For an instant I could see the lineup of cups on top of my machine.

Another flash, another push, and suddenly, she’d started to tow me helplessly back into the current of her thought-pictures. The same freakin’ red apple. A gravel path. A tree line, dark and somehow horrifying. The inside of Bob’s bookstore, with midday light streaming weakly through the open space of glass. A natural pool. The water dark, but the trees so green, and the light so bright. A dark uniform, bulky and foreign. Lou’s hand, her ornate ring too loose on her finger.

The “here” was gone.

“Ow,” I squeaked as sharp pain broke through my haze and shattered Lou’s thought-pictures. I was back, staring at my hand on the knob again, with the smell of coffee pungent in my nostrils. Saved by Merry, once again. When all else fails, a well-timed pinch works just dandy.

Lou had never pulled me so quickly into the broken puzzle of her deteriorating brain, except when I was asleep. When I was inside her head that deep, I couldn’t spit out the fear that lay heavy on my tongue.

“Hedi,” my manager said carefully. “You’re off the line.”

The next customer had stopped jiggling his keys. I bit my lip at his carefully neutral face, and turned with a sense of inevitability. Mark was standing halfway between the cash register and my machine.

“Work the cash register for the rest of your shift.” He didn’t have the balls to come any closer. Jennifer was behind him, her brows pulled together. One day she’ll be Botoxing the crap out of that vertical line.

Humans all around me.

“You know what, Mark?” I pulled the apron over my head and tossed it. It caught the milk container, ghosted over it, and slid to the wet ground. “I’m not feeling well. I think I need to punch out early.” I pulled my backpack out from the cabinet storing the vanilla bottles.

“Wait a minute. I haven’t given you permission to leave.” He lifted a hand as if to catch my arm. “I’d like to look through your bag before you go.”

“Kiss my ass, Mark.” I shouldered past him, shrugging on my backpack.

“You walk out that door and you’re fired. You’ve broken your last machine, and stolen your last sandwich,” Mark snapped.

I searched for a good retort, couldn’t come up with one, and threaded my way through the tables. I kept my head high even when I heard Mark claim I was the worst barista ever. A patent lie. My foam was the best ever. Period.

“She’s on drugs,” Mark said in a low voice to Jennifer.

“Crack,” she said.

I paused, one shoulder holding the door open. The cool wind slid past me but it did nothing for my temper. I took my time, eyeing targets, before settling on the coffee machines. Affixed to the top of each machine was a plastic bowl. Inside the bowls were the coffee beans, waiting to be fed into the grinder. Two machines, two bowls each holding two pounds. Four pounds total.

Mark stood with one possessive hand on my favorite machine, his eyes all puffy as he narrowed them into a squint. That’s what made it so easy. They never saw it coming.

I felt my lip curl.

I cocked my fingers backward, smiled, and with a flick sent my magic streaking through the air. Invisible to humans, its progress left a bright fluorescent-green trail to my Fae eyes. It hit the first bowl and stuck. I parted my fingers into a V. The stream separated into two trails. The second trail streaked toward the next bowl. “Weave,” I said, tracing an O with my fingers.

“Grow.” I fed a little more energy down the invisible cord.

I did four rotations with my hand until the rope of magic was swollen and hot and then I snipped the line.

I put one foot out of the door, and waited.

You know how you’re not supposed to hold a lit fire-cracker in your hand? So what do you think happens when you tell magic to grow and send it to a place it can’t expand? Uh- huh. Kaboom.

The lines around the base of each bowl swelled, until the contained magic looked like a sausage hooked too long on the meat grinder. The bowls began to creak with the pressure around their bases. The plastic lids began to shiver.

Jennifer backed up.

Abruptly, the lids shot up, hitting the ceiling-mounted water pipes with enough force to make them shatter. And then the fireworks.

Sweet to my soul was the Vesuvius of magically powered coffee beans spewing in one long sweet eruption of caffeinated hail to the ceiling. The stunned silence of the café was punctuated by Mark’s strangled, inarticulate, “Ack, ack, ack,” and the rat-tat-tat of the beans hitting the water pipes.

I waited for the last bean to fall. It clinked on the ground and then rolled until it hit the back heel of a suit.

Silence.

“Huh,” I said. “That was strange.” I smiled again, baring all my teeth, and let the door close behind me.

Merry, being Merry, was pissed. I hadn’t taken six long jubilant steps out of the café before she struck in a fury of searing heat that just about took a strip off the tender skin of my left breast.

“Shit, Merry-mine, not now,” I said, speeding up toward the corner of the building. “Cool down. Please, just cool down.”

She was so red that the front of my white blouse glowed as if I’d tucked a flare into my bra. I hunched my shoulder protectively, shielding my chest from the customer who was staring at us through the front window, his mug of coffee suspended halfway to his mouth.

I rounded the corner of the building at a good clip. The dusk had already deepened into urban night, the sort of leached-out gray that passes for a night sky in the city. Immediately on breaking the corner, I bent over at my waist, pulled my blouse away from my skin so that I could jerk Merry out by her chain. I let her dangle from it, red, gold, and glowing.

Merry hung from a long length of Fae-wrought gold necklace that my mother had placed around my neck the night she died. You’d need a magnifying glass to see it, but Merry was more than just a smudge in a piece of amber. She was an Asrai. I knew that at least, even if I didn’t know precisely what an Asrai was. I knew that she once had form: two legs, two arms, long hair. She belonged to the Fae world, but Lou had trapped her inside the amulet long before I was born. A horrible fate, I agree, but she wasn’t completely powerless.

Fae gold is not to be confused with mortal gold. Fae gold snickers at titanium’s relative weakness. It isn’t some dumb inanimate thing that just sits there, forever frozen in the shape that the artist had hammered it into. It’s alive. It can remold itself. It could, powered by the wrong Asrai’s spite, literally twine itself around your neck and choke you.

That bore remembering when you were talking to an Asrai-powered amulet.

And as much as Merry sometimes pissed me off—say, like when she tried to burn a layer of skin off me—she and Lou were it. One crazy-ass Fae named Lou, and one amber-colored stone, mounted in a swirl of baroque gold, named Merry. That was my world.

“You can cool down right now,” I said, flattening my shirt so that she could hang in the cool night air. I lowered my voice to a soothing tone. “My hand barely hurts. It’s not red, well, not red like my freakin’ boob is. You know, you’ve got to control your temper.” One of Merry’s unique attributes was the ability to heal my payback pain.

The red light turned a fraction purple.

“Okay, maybe I’m not the one to be talking about holding on to my temper. Trowbridge was in the shop tonight, Merry.

And I quit, and so yeah, I may have used some magic. Just a little bit. I was feeling stressed.” I rubbed the soot off my finger against the rough grain of my khaki pants. “Look,” I said, pulling my finger up so that she could see it. “It’s barely red. I don’t need healing. It hardly hurts.” I was lying like hell, my finger was throbbing like someone had slammed it with a car door, but I held it up straight so that she could see.

“You don’t need to heal me, and you don’t need to have a hissy fit.”

She knew as well as I that payback pain would get worse before it got better. Her color cooled to a stubborn claret. I don’t know what claret is, but that’s what the bored heroes in my Regencies always drank, and I always figured it was red wine. And sometimes when I was feeling mellow, a furious Merry reminded me of a glass of something vintage, held up to the golden dancing flames of a lit fire.

I kept walking, passing the last car parked in the lot, so engrossed, and still, admittedly, somewhat high with adrenaline, that I didn’t even notice the red van idling against the metal fence until I was too close to avoid it. The vehicle smelled of hamburgers, Febreze, and car wash. The sweet bubble-gum smell of the latter twigged a scent recall. I looked, and saw Robson Trowbridge in the driver’s seat talking to Geezer-Were. Eyes averted, I walked past the rear of the van, Merry tight in my fi st.

Geezer-Were opened the window.

Were scent, fragrant as the woods that I was heading to, reached out to me. Silence as I passed. I don’t know who would screw around with a pause, but this one struck me as pregnant. I held my breath, kept my gait casual, and wondered how fast I could run. As fast as a full-blood Were? I skipped over the barrier between this parking lot and the next, and made it onto the gas station’s patched asphalt. I didn’t change my speed until I had made it around the repair shop, then I broke into a light trot.

Lou’s next flood of pictures came with no warning. An aisle in the bookstore. A path with trees, leaves whipping out in the wind. A dark uniform. Something glinting gold. An arm with a sword, raised high. Then bushes, and ground. Lou’s hand reaching for a rock. Booted feet passing the vegetation.

As abruptly as they came, they were gone. No visions, no pictures, no fear. I was back in the “here.” I took another lungful of air.

The entry to the ravine was another half block ahead. I tightened the straps on my backpack and picked up the tempo. Lou would be waiting for me at home. So would my bed, and my dreams. I found my feet slowing. I was early anyhow. If I came home too early, she’d ask why. I walked twelve feet along the ravine path thinking about that before I stepped off the trail to find a tree for Merry.

If anyone passed, it looked like I was just leaning against the tree, thinking up poetry, and really that’s what I was doing. The tree-leaning bit; not the poetry.

I don’t have to do much to feed Merry—there’s no can-opening, or big bags to lug—so I have plenty of time to think. Once I find a tree and plop her on a limb, all I have to do is stand guard as she chows down. True, I have to be particular about the type of tree. It has to be green, preferably wild. She prefers hardwoods. Pines and spruces make her turn an unattractive yellow-brown. In a pinch, flowers at a grocery store will do, but they really fall into the fast food category. She doesn’t get much juice from them. Not enough to last more than a few days, anyhow. Don’t ask me to explain the mechanics. She doesn’t watch me when I’m soaping up in the shower, and I don’t observe her too closely as she sucks down some tree essence. It gives me a chance to think, that half hour while she’s eating. Some of my best thoughts happen then. Some of my worst too.

I’d cried for three hours the day Robson Trowbridge married Candace Temple. I might have gone longer, but my twin Lexi bartered two of his X-Men comics for one hour of silence. So I stopped, but felt tragic and misunderstood, even as I turned the pages and ate a brownie. But then of course, I’d been twelve, and I’d thought marriages were eternal honeymoons. Since then, I’ve seen enough human unions to know that’s just another myth. Sort of sucks for Weres though. When they say “I do,” they’re saying it for life. If one mate dies, the other follows. Sometimes right away, sometimes it takes a few grieving months. I didn’t need to be told that. I’d listened to my dad’s heart stop, and then my mum’s. That’s the deal; the sour side of having a true mate.

“How am I going to keep Lou’s dreams out of my head now, Merry?” I used the rough tree bark to scratch a spot between my shoulder blades, as I worried the problem. Without a job, I had no distraction from Lou. “I wish I knew how to keep her out.”

The constant dribble of Lou’s thought pictures and dreams was wearing me thin. I couldn’t sleep without being overwhelmed by them, and the problem had grown intolerable since she’d taken to napping during the day. Thought-pictures I could handle. But when her nighttime dreams became my daytime terrors? I can’t explain how equally repugnant and fascinating I found it. Prior to this, I’d needed no defense against Lou’s fragmenting mind. We’d been two separate beings with a whole bunch of white space between us. We didn’t even exchange thought-pictures like I used to with Mum and Lexi.

Handy things, thought-pictures. You can get a lot across with two well- selected ones. For example, imagine a picture of one twin batting the other over the head with something hard. See? Bet you have an immediate opinion about that. If you don’t like your sibling, you may think, “Hah, good.” But if you’re one of those humans with delicate sensibilities—you know, one of those manual-reading mums who believe in naughty corners—well, your first thought might be, “That’s terrible.”

Now here’s where the skill comes in. It’s all about the next image. Pair the picture of Helen hitting Lexi with her shoe, followed immediately by an image of Helen’s mother frowning fiercely. Neat, huh? You have an opinion and a lesson delivered in two quick images.

Merry signaled that she was finished with the tree by rolling off the branch. “You done already?” She pointed to another tree; one with different-shaped leaves. “You know, you’re getting as fussy as a cat.” I picked my way through the knee-high vegetation and reached up to place her on the lowest limb.

I could live with Lou’s thought-pictures, but increasingly, the images were melting into dream fragments and that just scared the shit out of me. The first act was considered nonthreatening; it was common practice among the Fae to share a static mental snapshot or two with their blood relatives. But sharing dreams? Those are dangerous things, aren’t they? Your unconscious is at the controls, and he’s that bad relative that gets drunk at the wedding, and tells all the family secrets.

Anyhow, for most Fae-born, the issue was moot. They simply weren’t born with the ability to send or receive another’s dreams.

Most of them.

The first non-Hedi dream I ever experienced was Lexi’s. For want of a better word, I was dream-napped. My conscious self was caught and dragged into my twin’s unconscious mind, as if it were something sticky on the aural plane that got tangled in the trawling hooks of his dream. That’s what it feels like. Nothing at all like a thought-picture’s discreet knock. A slip, a slide backward, and then, that feeling, that awful, dreadful wrongness, as if you’d taken off your skin, and squirmed into another’s. Once in, there was no out. You were forced to stay in it until the dream ended—an unwilling spectator to what they saw, an unwilling receptor for what they felt.

Merry tugged her chain to get my attention. I opened my palm and as my fingers closed over her, I felt soothing warmth seep into my skin. “Let’s go home, Merry.”

I started walking again, following the trail through the woods, but my mind was still on the first time I heard mention of Threall.

The morning after my first dream-walk, I told Mum that Lexi had slid his dream into my head. Absolute horror twisted her features. “Threall.” She grabbed my hand, yanking me out of the kitchen faster than you could say, “Lexi stole the last macaroon.” Next thing I knew, I was sitting on the edge of my parents’ bed watching her shut the door softly behind us. She rested her ear against it for a moment and then turned to ask me questions in that low, tense un-Mum-like voice, and when I was done answering, she was silent for a long time.

She sat down. Without looking, she pointed to the coins on their dresser. A penny lifted from its surface and floated gracefully to me. I reached for it.

“No, Helen, listen and watch.” She waited until my hands were back in my lap, and then said slowly, “You know that there are two different realms. The world to which you were born.” She made the penny jiggle. “And another, in which the Fae live, called—”

“Merenwyn.”

A quarter flew across the air, and hovered above the penny. “Yes, Merenwyn.” She made it spin so its bright silver surface caught the early morning light. Her eyes softened as she watched it. “I wish you could see it.”

“Why can’t you take us there?” I tucked my hair behind my ear. “You used a portal to come here, why can’t we open one and go there?”

“I made an oath that I would never cross a portal again. It’s an oath I cannot break.” She touched my hair. “Even if I could return home, I couldn’t bring you with me. The mages keyed the gates to open only for those with Fae blood.”

“I have Fae blood.” I fingered the bedspread.

“But you also have Were.” She gave me a slight smile. “The gates would sense that and might not let you pass. I don’t want you to ever try it, okay? Promise me?” When I didn’t respond, her voice got sharper. “Helen, using one is not like walking through a doorway. Even for a full- blooded Fae, it’s disorienting and dangerous.”

“I could do it.”

“Could you? When the gate is open, you see right to the other world, like you’re looking through a round window. It tricks your mind. You expect to cross a flat plateau, but instead your body is pulled upward at a great speed. It’s terrifying the first time, even if you’ve been told to expect it. If you lose focus of where you need to go, you can be pulled into the wind, and killed. They train your mind for weeks before you’re allowed to even think of stepping into a portal.”

“Who trains you?” I asked, my mind already wandering.

“There’s something more important for us to talk about.” She turned her head, and levitated all the coins sitting on the dresser into the air, squinting at them until she spotted the flat washer that Dad had put in his pocket and never returned to the jar in the garage.

“There is a third realm called Threall. It lies between this world and Merenwyn.” The flat disk floated across the room. It slipped into the empty place between the Merenwyn quarter and the earthly penny. I studied the stacked coins floating in space.

“Threall looks like a washer stuck between a penny and quarter?”

The coins dropped to the bedspread. “No, Helen. It does not look like that.”

“Then what does it look like?”

She sighed, but didn’t squeeze the bridge of her nose like she usually did after some of my questions. Instead, she picked up the quarter and the penny. “It’s said to be a land of mists and bad things. They say a part of every Fae lives in Threall, the dreaming portion of us.” She pressed her hand to her heart. “It should be sacred, not a place anyone can visit.”

I gazed dubiously at the dull piece of metal lying on the quilt. “How do you know Threall exists if no one has ever seen it?”

“There are some who can travel there.”

I gave her the “aha” look. “So there’s a portal.”

“No, Helen. There is no portal. Only mystwalkers can travel to Threall.”

“How?”

“With their mind. Once trained, a mystwalker can create a second body in the world of mists, and walk on two feet, just as she does in Merenwyn.”

“Cool,” I said.

“No. Not cool. Mystwalkers search for people’s souls in Threall, Helen, and once they find them, they can do great harm.”

“Huh.” There were a few Weres I felt like harming.

“Don’t look like that.” Her fingers gripped mine. “There’s a reason I’m telling you this. Look at me.” Her eyes were so fierce. “Do you know how they find mystwalkers? They search for children born with the gift of walking into others’ dreams. Those children are brought to the King’s Court. Their gifts are tested. If they don’t have enough raw talent, they’re killed, and if they’re not killed, they become wards of the court. The King’s Court is not a place for any child. Those children, the ones who make it to adulthood, they become . . .”

“What?”

“Mad and soulless. The royal family trains them to walk in the mists, and do things there that Faes consider soul destroying.”

“Like what?”

“They steal others’ gifts. They plant seeds of madness in their enemies’ heads.”

“How?”

“Helen, it’s not a talent I want you to develop. It’s not a good thing.” Her grip turned crushing. “It’s a terrible crime to steal someone’s talent. Mystwalkers are shunned by all except their trainers. The lucky ones die young before they are driven mad, or worse, disappear.”

“Where do they disappear to?” My voice sounded small.

“Their souls stay in Threall. It gets harder and harder for them to come back, and one day they never do. Their body dies in Merenwyn, and the mystwalker is never heard from again. They say they float on the winds of Threall, crying for their home.”

I bent my head to study the washer lying innocently on the chenille spread.

She lifted my face with mum-loving hands. “Don’t walk in others’ dreams. If you feel yourself being pulled into one, resist. Never travel to Threall. Ever. Never admit to anyone that you know anything about dream-walking. Anyone, do you understand? Don’t tell your brother, don’t tell your friends, don’t tell your father. But most important, never mention it to a Fae. Do you understand? Helen, it’s very important. Mystwalkers always come to a bad end. Threall is a bad place. It can hurt you.”

She got down on one knee, gazed deeply into my eyes, and repeated the last sentence, but slowly, as if each word were an individual sentence, turning the comment into a four-word paragraph heavy with meaning. Dream-walking was bad. Threall was bad.

But it was like having something stuck between your teeth, and never being able to get it out. I didn’t want to get her all upset, so I didn’t point out that I had no friends other than Lexi, and that I was unlikely to ever meet another Fae. Instead, I rationalized that two out of three was good enough, and as soon as Mum and Dad fell asleep that night, I trotted over to Lexi’s room, shook him awake, and asked if he ever dream- walked.

No horror on his face. He said, “Shut up.” Then he rolled over.

Clearly, he never felt the terrible suck of his waking mind being pulled into someone’s dreaming one. For once, I knew something Lexi didn’t. And right there I decided it was one secret I wasn’t going to whisper into his eager ears.

We already shared so much, a lot of it unwillingly. Does anyone really want to fight for elbow space in a womb? Be perpetually twelve minutes behind? Yeah, sure, there were probably advantages to being second—there were baby pictures of a pointy-headed Lexi—but the downside is that you start out not being first. And it seemed my legs were never long enough to catch up. For our first ten years of life, my brother plowed a trail ahead, leaving me to follow in his wake. Predictably, he was the first to walk. First to talk (and yap, yap, yap, did he ever talk). First one to dare to wander off the property and explore where he wasn’t supposed to explore. First one to be brought home by the Alpha after that adventure, looking muddy and wet, and more pissed than a cocker spaniel who’s been denied a treat.

Fae Stars, I miss him. It’s not something a singleton can understand; the depth of grief a twin feels over the loss of their sibling. Except maybe if I explain it to you this way: once I stood on three legs. Now I wobble on two.

But the future wasn’t something I thought much about back then. Like every other self- absorbed twelve-year old, I took it for granted that my brother would always be there; part best friend, part worst enemy. Mine to love and abuse. And so, I got mulish about the following. I got selfish about the sharing. And maybe Lexi did too. Maybe his heedless race through our short shared life was an effort to distance himself from me—the bobbing cork that followed the currents left behind him.

But still, even after Mum’s talk, I kept poking at the idea of Threall. I wanted to see it, just once. The best way, I reasoned, would be to visualize “up.” It’s how I manipulate my magic. Think the word, and let her rip. And besides, I strongly doubted that you needed to create another body up in Threall. Why couldn’t you just take your own up there, and bypass the whole “lost my body” problem?

So I sat there, cross-legged on my bed, and thought “up.” After a bit, I tried a different thought. “Lift.” Then I strong- armed it. I kept thinking “up” until sweat broke out on my brow and I felt queasy, and then suddenly, I felt a tearing inside me, so strong, it was as if a giant had my head in one hand and my toes in the other and was determined to stretch me like a piece of taffy.

At the onset of the pain, my concentration splintered, and took with it that horrible rending sensation. I curled up in a ball on my bed, held my stomach, and decided right there that I’d never try again. In fact, I added a codicil to my pledge: if dream-walking had anything to do with Threall, I’d resist being pulled into any vision. I’d turn away. I’d stay awake.

Scary stuff, Threall.

I exited the nature trail and turned down our street.

Funny how life works out. Pledges aren’t so much broken as worn down. I’d gone from thought-picture deprived to dream overloaded. And even though the circles under my eyes were starting to look like purple bruises, I still wouldn’t speak to Lou about it.

How could I tell her I was an untrained mystwalker?

And there was more. Stuff I didn’t like to admit. There was something in the pull of my crazy aunt’s unconscious that I liked. For all my horror, for all my fatigue, there was a part of me that craved being dragged into her dreams. Something in me enjoyed thumbing through her thoughts and memories. Sometimes—so rarely—I saw Merenwyn. Sometimes I saw my mother again. And sometimes I saw things that frightened me.

But it’s like a Fae version of Pandora’s box, right? You have the box, you’re not supposed to open it, and then somehow it’s open, and whooee, the stuff you find in there.

Fascinating, scary stuff.

Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be easier to be bat-shit crazy like my aunt.

Chapter 2

Raymond Street was a place that tried hard years ago to be more than it was—and failed. Some fifty years back, a few knuckleheads thought they could make another shopping district in our town. Considering that Deerfield is a small dot on the map between the cities of Toronto and Hamilton, they were being overly optimistic. They pulled down old houses to replace them with the square flat boxes favored by the sixties developers. The consequence of their planning were four blocks of flat gray brick storefronts leading depressingly toward the lake.

Now it was the street that sold dirty videos.

Home was the top apartment over a used bookstore called Twice Read Books, owned and operated by a guy whose vision had slowly eroded until he had to hold the books up to the light and squint through a magnifying glass to read the sales sticker. Bob came from money, which was good, considering how his life had run. He owned the building, so he never had to worry about paying rent for his money-losing business, while the rents that he collected for the two apartments over his store were enough to keep him in the black.

The entrance to our apartment was an anonymous brown door in the back parking lot. I started up the stairs feeling the bite of my backpack’s strap. It wasn’t all that heavy. I carried a change purse, two tins of maple syrup—the Fae-born’s preferred food group—plus a silver travel mug, four books that had come into my hands during my tenure at the café, and a hoodie liberated from the coffee shop’s lost and found. That and guilt made it feel heavier though. There was rent to pay, and syrup to buy when this lot was gone, and not a hell of a lot left in the kitty. I should have stolen something worth pawning.

The door to the apartment was unlocked. Again. Any thief could walk in and help themselves to our stuff. I thought about that as I eased the door shut, and tiptoed down the corridor past Lou’s dark bedroom.

Safe in my own room, I toed off my shoes and tossed my glasses on the bed. Then I stood for a bit, rubbing my elbow.

How do you find someone to mind a batty Fae princess? Can you imagine that ad? Wanted: Someone who can endure being called a pestilent mortal, will work for almost nothing, is nimble enough to dodge projectiles, and finds it easy to rationalize every weird thing she sees happening in our apartment.

My fingers started stroking the peaked tip of my ear.

And then it occurred to me—I hadn’t made it to my bedroom undetected in months.

Oh crap.

I pressed my ear against the back door to Bob’s store. Okay, if I was a full Were, I wouldn’t have to do that. I’d be able to detect the discreet blip of a mouse’s fart right through the bricks. Hell, I’d hear a bird drop a feather as it winged its way over the parking lot.

I think.

There is, technically, a lot I don’t know about Weres, even though I lived among them for the first twelve years of my life. When they’re not tracking a flea with their sharp teeth, they prefer to live like humans—they have mortgages and jobs, pay their car payments and taxes—but underneath that, they’re different. And exactly how much so is something they don’t share with someone who wasn’t 99 percent Were.

Secretive lot, the bunch of them. I know from experience that their ears could pick up just about anything. You could keep your face absolutely blank, so they couldn’t read your expression, but the bastards could hear your heart speed up, and know that their insult scored a hit. It’s why Lexi and I mostly traded thought-pictures during school hours at the private school in Creemore where the pack’s young were taught human stuff. Our moon-charmed classmates couldn’t read our minds, and considering what I thought about most of them, that was probably a good thing.

Bob wasn’t doing much talking on the other side of the door. His son, loathsome Lyle, was though. Annoying stuff, like how to start the eviction process.

I pushed open the door and stood there, quietly taking in the damage left by Hurricane Lou. Not too bad at fi rst glance. A lot of books strewn around. One of the fl imsier book turnstiles was tilted, but that could be fixed by jamming a book under its front legs.

Bob turned when Lyle said, “You!”

He was old, Bob. I don’t know how old, but he was really ancient. Maybe sixty. Usually you didn’t notice his age because he wears Coke-bottle glasses that overwhelm his features. But now his face was naked, and his eyes were normal sized and tired. Where the glasses habitually sat on the bridge of his nose was a dent, and around that, a painful-looking scrape.

“Did she break your glasses?”

“No.” He had another red scrape on his cheekbone. “But they’re not comfortable to wear right now.”

“We’re going to sue,” Lyle snapped. He might have gone on, but Bob lifted a staying hand, so Lyle ceased, lips clamped tight, his eyes narrowed on me like a thwarted cat. I’m pretty sure Bob still owned the deed for loathsome Lyle’s house.

“Most of this came from tripping over my own books.”

“Because she shoved him after she called him a troll,” threw in Lyle.

“I’ll do the talking, Lyle.” He patted the air behind him for his stool. “She came in the back way, and she was already angry. Babbling something about the evil ones and another word. Something to do with mourning.”

Merenwyn. Not angry then, I thought. Frightened.

“I told her you’d be home soon. She started to leave and then she saw the book on the counter, you know, the new one on display by the cash register. The one with—”

“Fairies on the front of it,” I said.

Bob offered me a faint smile. “She said it was an abomination.”

“And?”

“She started taking books off the shelf and throwing them at me. I went to call for Lyle, but—”

“She pushed him,” Lyle said. “We’re going to file charges.”

“Lyle . . . let me tell it my way.” Bob finally found the chair and sat down on it. “My glasses had fallen off and I couldn’t find them. I couldn’t see well enough to dial his number.”

“So you called 911. And they sent the police.” I swallowed, imagining it all in my head.

“Before they even got here, she was out on the street. She got hold of that rolling display I put out every morning, and she was emptying it, throwing the books at passing cars, screaming insults at people. Plague carriers?”

“Mortals. Pestilent mortals,” I said.

Bob nodded as he stacked a book on top of two others. His fingers felt for the edges, and set them in a perfect tower. “The whole street backed up. Two cop cars came.”

“Did they touch her?”

“Yes. Then it turned really ugly.” His lips flattened. “She started screaming ‘It burns, it burns.’ ”

Skin-to-skin contact would have raised blisters wherever their mortal hands touched. It hurts worse than holding a curling iron to your neck and counting to five.

“The woman is out of her mind, Hedi.” Bob’s face was concerned and bruised. “You know that, don’t you? She can’t be left alone anymore.”

“Where’d they take her?”

“To the hospital in an ambulance. There were burns on her wrists. I sent Lyle up to check your apartment but he couldn’t find anything left on, or signs that she’d scalded herself with the kettle. We don’t know how she hurt herself.”

Lyle in our home. It didn’t bear thinking about. I pushed my glasses up my nose. A hospital. I could break her out of a hospital.

“Hey,” said Lyle as I turned to go.

“If you total up the damage, I’ll pay for it.” Another lie. Maybe Karma was snoozing and wouldn’t notice.

There is always someone who has control over the button. It’s never wise to piss that person off.

In this case, it was a fat forty-something woman seated behind the reception desk at Beacon Memorial. I made the mistake of going straight for the doors to the treatment rooms, which messed up protocol in all sorts of ways, and ignored her importance as the guardian of the open- sesame button.

She made me wait. And wait. People went in, people came out. Two weary policemen escorted an agitated man cuffed to a gurney into the treatment rooms. For a moment, as the doors swung open, I thought about slipping in via their wake but she was watching me, so I sat, and waited and tried to look like every other person waiting in the waiting room. Bored. Inside I was contemplating flattening the receptionist with her own computer screen. I was fretting over metal handcuffs, and I was thinking about ties. Not the ties that handcuff you to a gurney, but the ties that handcuff you to a past, present, and future.

Finally, after forty minutes, she pressed the button and let me in.

“My aunt was brought in,” I said to a nurse in the hall.

“And she is?”

“Louise Rogers.”

“Ah.” I was handed down the line like an explosive package, until her case nurse escorted me to a curtained cubicle. A note had been taped to the curtain: Gloves only.

The curtains rattled as she pulled them open. They’d taken Lou’s clothes and put her into a blue hospital gown. The white sheet was pulled up to her waist. The hospital gown gaped at the neck. Her eyes were half open, half closed, exposing unfocused dead gray pupils. Up and down her left arm were burns, some livid red and some liquid filled. Someone had tied her wrists to the sides of the bed with white gauze. A needle had been inserted in one blue vein. A drip bag hung from a metal stand.

“What’s in the bag?”

“She’s dehydrated, so we’ve got her on fluids. She was given a sedative as well. It affected her more than we anticipated.” She checked the fluid level and reached for Lou’s chart. “Is there any immediate family we can call?”

“I am her family.”

“She’s your guardian?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “No, I’m hers.”

“How old are you?” she asked, frowning down at me.

Whatis it? Is it because I’m short? Or because my face is baby-shaped? I’m going to be carded until I’m forty. I added a year. “Twenty-three.”

She didn’t look like she believed me, but she didn’t ask for the fake driver’s license I’d been forced to spend two hundred bucks on—it’s impossible to get a job or even a bus pass in Deerfield without some sort of ID—which was too bad, because the new card was a beauty and I hadn’t had a chance to air it yet. There was another piece of gauze taped to the inside of Lou’s elbow. I tilted my head toward it inquiringly.

“We had to take some blood tests. We’re waiting on the results. The sedative really knocked her out. Is she on any medication?”

“No.” Except for the slow rise of her chest, Lou looked dead.

“We’re concerned about her burns. Do you know how she got them?”

“I was at work.”

“Hmm.” The nurse made a note on her chart. “There are some older burns too. Maybe she got them a couple of weeks ago? Do you know anything about them?”

They just looked older. She got all her wounds at the same time, a couple of hours ago when the cop tried to subdue her. The touch from a mortal male burns a female Fae—the result of some Mage spell that kicks in at birth—all because some ninny on the Royal Court started worrying that humans might foul their gene pool. The truth was, she didn’t heal very well anymore. The mechanism was still inside her, trying to heal her, but it was weak and fitful like her moods. It had healed some, already, but was slowing down on others, making it seem like she had a long history of being burned. Try explaining that to a human. Try explaining anything about my life to a human.

The Fae don’t fade out in a logical fashion, as if someone had a checklist and a panel of switches. Do they all fade like that? I don’t know. I’ve never seen one do it before Lou. And as far as I knew, Lou was the last Fae on this side of the portal to Merenwyn.

She hadn’t been able to Call to the Seven in months. That was her talent—calling metals. In Merenwyn she was known as the Collector. She was able to call to precious metal with her voice and hands, and it would melt and roll right to her, to collect in a puddle by her feet. She could do that with all the seven: gold, copper, silver, lead, tin, mercury, and—this is where her talent came in real value for Merenwyn’s royal family—iron. Gold was valuable, silver was pretty, but iron was deadly. Enough of it could render a strong ruler as weak as a drooling infant.

She told me she was one of only two living Fae who had the talent. I could never understand why they let her stay on this side of the portal, after my parents died, if her skills were so prized. Before they closed the portals that night, they must have sounded some sort of retreat before they slammed the doors. Humans blamed the horrific sound of the barricades coming down on a minor earthquake, but they were wrong. That loud earth- trembling boom was the sound of gates closing simultaneously, forever ensuring that this world and the other would never touch again.

Lou’s hands were curled like claws on the white sheet. The skin on them was thin, but her nails still grew long and diamond-hard. “Where is her ring?” I asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

My voice was sharp. “She wears a small green ring on her baby finger. It’s missing.”

“Oh, that thing,” the nurse said. “She scratched one of our nurses during admissions with it. We locked it away for safekeeping.”

“I want it returned right now.”

“Fine. The receptionist has the key. When she comes back from break, I’ll get it from her.” Her tone was cool. “In the meantime, maybe we can get your information. And later, someone from social services will need to talk with you.” She pulled the curtains wide and bustled out.

There was one blue plastic chair, jammed under the shelf with the box of gloves. I pulled it out and sat down. And then I leaned back to pull the curtains closed again. My last remaining relative was tied to a bed in a human hospital. I didn’t have the right to feel sorry for myself. Not one bit.

As I worked at the knot on her restraint, I studied Lou. She was too thin, too yellow. I was losing her. I’d been losing her for the last half year. A year ago Lou could have passed for a thirty-five-year-old. Now, her scalp played peekaboo with what was left of her long hair. If you stared hard at her, hard enough to ignore the slack skin, you’d realize that her features were still handsome. But the fading was relentless. The fat had melted away from her face as fast as her muscles withered, leaving crepe skin and jowls. Without that padding to soften her edges, her nose appeared sharper and predatory, her mouth a thin, pale gash.

She wasn’t an old lady. She was just a Fae on the wrong side of the portal, without a key to get back. There wasn’t enough magic and maple syrup to keep her here.

Would I wither like her one day? I have my own measure of Fae blood, but it’s diluted—poisoned, Lou once said—by the Were blood running in my veins. Sometimes I find myself thinking too long about whether I’ll fade like Lou, or live long like a Were.

The nurse jerked the curtains wide. “Do you have her health card?”

I stepped outside the cubicle, pulled the curtains all the way until one edge met the other snugly, and then followed the nurse.

After some creative form-filling, I took a slow stroll through the hallways. The nurse still had me in her sights, so the best thing to do was to map out our escape. As far as I could tell, there were only two ways to get in; through the swinging doors at reception and through the back hall that lead to the imaging department. At first glance, the back hall seemed like the best way of moving her out of the hospital, but there was a long corridor leading to it, and leaning against the wall were the two cops, their belts bristling with things that could do serious harm. Talking to them was a couple of paramedics.

The cops’ eyes flicked to me as I passed. There was a door ahead for the women’s washroom, and I took it. I closed the door and locked it.

“Merry?” I pressed my hand to my chest. “I need to talk.” Fae Stars. The washroom smelled even worse than the hallways. I pulled my white blouse away from my chest, looked down and tried again. “Merry?” Nestled between my breasts, Merry remained stiff and unyielding.

“Stop sulking.”

Merry didn’t stir, unwind, or even change color. That was the measure of her hatred for Lou. She was in her usual place, the inside curve of my left breast, tucked warm between the lace of my bra and my skin, pretending to be asleep. Somewhere during that anxious jog to the hospital, she’d reverted back to her original design. Golden strands of elegantly entwined ivy formed a protective basketwork around the cloudy amber of her stone. “Gone baroque, huh?” I gave her a disgusted prod. “You know, sometimes I feel like taking you off my neck, and leaving you hanging in a rack of costume jewelery at Zellers. All I wanted you to do was listen while I worked out a plan.”

No response. No pulse of heat, no change in color. When she wanted, my Asrai could look as dumb as a rock.

I emerged from the washroom, pausing on the threshold to fastidiously dry my hands. The tally had swollen to two cops and three paramedics. All of them looked like they worked out.

The nurse stopped me on the way back to Lou’s bedside. “Here’s her ring.”

I tore open the envelope and shook into my palm the only piece of jewelry I’d ever seen Lou wear. As befitting a ring designed to go on a woman’s baby finger, the design was simple. A narrow strip of gold had been fashioned into a serpentine cradle for one dull, irregularly shaped green stone. Uncut and unpolished, the gem was unlovely, except for one little perk. With the emerald on her finger, Lou could lie— breathtakingly huge whoppers—and do so without a flicker of her eyelash to betray her deception. Which was a bonus as Lou was pure Fae, and was born handicapped by their natural inability to tell an untruth, something that could have posed a huge problem to us, considering that we lived a life on the margins of the criminal world.

Possibly we might have limped along without her needing it. Faes can’t lie, but they can do wonders with misdirection. Still, I was grateful for the fact that somehow, somewhere, Lou had charmed a mage out of his ring. It made life easier. When I wasn’t around to lie for her, she could do so on her own, providing she rubbed the gem before she spoke. Once, for payment to the ring’s dark magic. The second time, to seal the lie. Sort of like a compound fib tax.

I slipped the ring over her knuckle and sat down beside her with a sigh.

I hate thinking. I hate that whole, contemplate your life, find your inner self, hug your tree, kiss your neighbor mind trap that comes from watching too much daytime TV. I’d rather be entertained. Give me a book. Show me a movie. Be a human. That’s comedy enough. Don’t ask me to sit and think. Don’t ask me to come up with a plan.

Step one. Wake up Lou. From my backpack, I pulled out the maple syrup I’d bought on the way to work. I smeared some on my finger and put it to her lips. Her mouth softened, and the tip of her tongue reached out for it. Her thin lips opened wider. After the second mouthful, she shut her eyes against the artificial light. I was so damn grateful, I forgot myself and put my hand to her face.

There was no warning, no slow slip into her head: I was just suddenly in there, experiencing one of her memories. The colors hit me first. All of them were supersaturated, as if gray didn’t belong in the palette. I couldn’t have pulled my hand off her face for the life of me, for she was in Merenwyn, and she rarely allowed herself to think of home.

Lou is outdoors, looking at a man standing with his back turned to us. It’s a nice, well-developed back in a gray T-shirt that has gone through the spin cycle enough times to get thin and tight on the shoulders. There’s a painting of Champlain in the same pose, staring at the river that he probably thought was going to be called Champlain, but ended up being called the St. Lawrence. Change the boots for sneakers, and it’s essentially the same guy. This guy’s tawny hair is shorter, but he has one foot propped on a stony outcrop. Like the French explorer, his hand rests on his thigh, while the other sits on his hip. Even without seeing his face, you know this man understands his own attraction. It’s something in the pose, something in the arrogance of that straight back.

Predator.

Beyond him, impossibly green trees grow upside down into a fluffy bank of clouds above a layer of brilliant blue. A breeze picks up a lock of his hair. A fish jumps in the pool, its scales glittering in the sun. Suddenly, it all made sense: the upside-down trees, the reversal of clouds and sky. The smooth surface of the natural pond is catching the reflection of the surrounding trees and sky.

Don’t let him despoil that pool,I think. But in Lou’s thoughts, the breeze plays with his hair like a lover, while the clouds slide across the brilliant sky.

“Don’t touch me,” Lou said peevishly, as her dream abruptly disappeared from my vision. My chair screeched as I bolted backward. For a second I gaped at her, horrified at my thoughts. She could have dragged me to Threall and back again, and I wouldn’t have tried to fight her. Fae Stars, I’d been so Fae-struck by Merenwyn, my only worry had been whether the dream would end. I breathed carefully, willing my racing heart to settle. It had been running in my head, like the chorus to a ballad. Stay, stay in the dream. Damn, Mum was right: those dreams were dangerous.

“More,” she demanded, without opening her eyes. Carefully, I stood to dribble another mouthful of syrup into her. She swallowed and then rolled her head to look at me. “There are a lot of mortals here,” she said.

“I know.” She focused on me, her fingers plucking at her bed coverlet, her forehead creased. “I want to go home.”

Pretty great, right? Click here to enter for a chance to win a copy of the book!

To learn more or to pre-order a copy of The Trouble with Fate by Leigh Evans:

Leigh Evans lives in Southern Ontario with her husband and a short, fat, black dog. She’s raised two kids, mothered three dogs, and herded a few cats. Other than that, her life has been fairly boring.

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Best of 2012 Romance Novel Shopping List, Day 2

Team H & H — Fri, 14 Dec 2012 19:41:33 +0000

The Shopping List for Day 2 of the Best of 2012 Romance Novel Recommendations.

Day Two:

Seraphina by Rachel Hartman
Tarnished by Karina Cooper
Heartburn by Nora Ephron
Fifty Shades of Grey by E. L. James
The Fault in Our Stars by John Green
The Way of Shadows by Brent Weeks
Bayou Moon by Ilona Andrews
The Palace Job by Patrick Weekes

Day One:

A Lady Awakened by Cecilia Grant
Feed by Mira Grant
Can't Buy Me Love by Molly O'Keefe
Midnight Riot by Ben Aaronovitch
The Chaos by Nalo Hopkinson
Every Day by David Levithan
A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin, the first in A Song of Fire and Ice series.
The Governess Affair by Courtney Milan
Desperate Duchesses by Eloisa James
Nice Girls Don't Have Fangs by Molly Harper
Dragon Bound by Thea Harrison
Darkness Dawns by Dianne Duvall

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Deadly Sting: Exclusive Excerpt

Jennifer Estep — Thu, 07 Mar 2013 17:00:00 +0000

Red is definitely my color. Good thing, because in my line of work, I end up wearing it a lot.

Most people shy away from blood, but for an assassin like me— Gin Blanco, aka the Spider—it’s just part of the job. Still, it would be nice to get a night off, especially when I’m attending the biggest gala event of the summer at Briartop, Ashland’s fanciest art museum. But it’s just not meant to be. For this exhibition of my late nemesis’s priceless possessions is not only the place to be seen, but the place to be robbed and taken hostage at gunpoint as well. No sooner did I get my champagne than a bunch of the unluckiest thieves ever burst into the museum and started looting the place.

Unlucky why? Because I brought along a couple of knives in addition to my killer dress. Add these to my Ice and Stone magic, and nothing makes me happier than showing the bad guys why red really is my color.

Get a sneak peek of Jennifer Estep's Deadly Sting (available March 26, 2013) with an excerpt of a selected scene.

I leaned forward, until my nose was almost pressed against the glass, and studied every single millimeter of the runes. The pendants weren’t polished to a high gloss like everything else on view was. Rather, the chains they hung on were blackened, and what looked like streaks of soot and bits of ash clung to the surface of the Silverstone runes, as though they’d once been in a fire and had never been properly cleaned.

They’d been in fire, all right—Mab’s murderous elemental blaze.

[Please log in or register to read the full excerpt...]

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Strap On! Carrying a Guitar Ensures More Dates

Megan Frampton — Wed, 08 May 2013 12:23:34 +0000

Another day, another scientific study that confirms what many of us already knew: “carrying a guitar increases [a man's] chance of getting a date by 31%.”

But reversing the gender doesn't have the same results; “But this technique only works if you're a man, women are not seen any more or less attractive if they carry a musical instrument.”

Who are your favorite musician heroes?

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Exclusive Cover Reveal: Paula Millhouse’s Dragonstone!

Team H & H — Tue, 07 May 2013 19:39:35 +0000

Today we're pleased to reveal the cover for Paula Millhouse's “Dragonstone,” a short story (a “Lunchbox Romance”) featuring elves, princesses, and of course, dragons.

Here's the blurb:

Elf prince Kort Elias travels to medieval Earth in search of a stolen royal dragon egg and discovers a lost elven treasure and the missing princess assigned to guard it. In order to save their future realm, Kort and Mia must blend their auras and wield a spell of carnal magic to release the Dragonstone…and set in motion a prophecy of happiness for themselves and their dragons.

Dragonstone will be available this coming weekend at your favorite e-tailers.

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Love Don’t Live Here Anymore: Top Films with No HEA and Why We Love (or Hate) Them

Jennifer Proffitt — Tue, 07 May 2013 16:00:00 +0000

This post contains spoilers about the endings of Seeking a Friend for the End of the World, 500 Days of Summer, The Notebook, and Love Story. Read with caution, and a box of tissues!

Reading romance, we all kind of expect there to be a Happily Ever After. But in movies, just because something is romantic doesn’t always mean it will end happily. Recently I saw 2012's Seeking a Friend for the End of the World. With a title like that, it would end only in one way: not happily.

For those of you who haven’t seen the film [SPOILERS AHEAD], it features Steve Carell and Kiera Knightley who face a world at the edge of destruction. An asteroid is hurtling towards Earth and all attempts to blow it up or change its path are futile and it is going to impact within a few days. Carell tries to reunite with his lost love and Knightley, after learning she won’t be able to go home to her family in England, decides to join him on his final road trip to love. Of course, the pair falls in love (a couple I would have never put together, but hey, it’s the end of the world and somehow it works…) and faces the end of the world together and happily in one another’s arms.

[Get the tissues ready, folks...]

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Wolf Out!: What to Do While Waiting for Lost Girl’s Dyson to Return

Jackie Lester — Tue, 07 May 2013 13:30:00 +0000

Lost Girl’s Dyson has had his fair share of ups and downs over the duration of the last three seasons. Now, with his love for Bo returned and Lauren seemingly out of the way, it looks like our favorite wolf is headed for an upswing. Sadly, we all know that things are never that simple, leaving Dyson’s future as anything but certain, especially when it comes to Bo.

Though hints have been made about Dyson’s age and events he’s lived through, we still don’t know much about his particular brand of Fae. Does he have a pack? It hasn’t really looked that way, but viewers definitely need more information before drawing this conclusion. What we do know is that he can growl with the best of them and posture in an alpha way about his relationships and their potential longevity.

It is also with some confidence that I can say there are as many fans of the Bo/Dyson combination as there are of the Doccubus union (especially around these parts). So, if you’re firmly planted on Team Wolf Man, rather than spending your time whittling wooden poppets to ensure the emancipation of Bo’s heart from Lauren’s medically certified grasp, here are some suggestions to help pass the time.

What to Read

Patricia Briggs’s Mercy Thompson series. Mercy herself can transform into a coyote, but it is the wolves around her, particularly Adam, that demand the attention here. It seems that Mercy can find her way into all sorts of trouble, but with a werewolf and its pack being so close at hand, help is never far behind.

[Moar werewolves, if you please...]

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Heavy Stubble and Beards! Who’s Your Favorite Bearded Hero?

Megan Frampton — Tue, 07 May 2013 12:13:29 +0000

An article in ScienceDirect confirms what some of you have been saying all along—that women find men with heavy stubble most attractive, but judge bearded men as most likely to make good parents. Here's the salient quote:

Women judged faces with heavy stubble as most attractive and heavy beards, light stubble and clean-shaven faces as similarly less attractive...Masculinity ratings increased linearly as facial hair increased. [B]eardedness affects judgments of male socio-sexual attributes and suggest that an intermediate level of beardedness is most attractive while full-bearded men may be perceived as better fathers who could protect and invest in offspring.

There are many examples of heavy-stubbled heroes, but not as many of bearded heroes—do you have any favorite bearded heroes? Do you agree with this study?

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Game of Thrones Season 3, Episode 6 Recap: The Midseason Lull

Regina Thorne — Mon, 06 May 2013 17:03:11 +0000

Game of Thrones Season 3 is here! Need to catch up? Don't miss Regina Thorne's Season 2 refresher or her recap of episode 3.01, episode 3.02, episode 3.03, episode 3.04, and episode 3.05. And now, onto last night's episode 3.06, “The Climb."

*****SPOILERS*****

“We’re just soldiers in their armies and there’s plenty more to carry on if we go down. It’s you and me that matters to me and you.” In the game of thrones, there are kings and queens, lords and priests and generals, and at the very bottom of the ladder, there are the pawns whose only hope of survival is that they matter to someone else. Unless you have someone to give you a hand when you slip, you’re doomed to fall.

We open with Sam and Gilly, who’ve taken a moment during their headlong flight from Craster’s Keep to have a fireside chat. Sam shows Gilly the dragonglass knife he uncovered at the Fist of the First Men last season, and then sings a song about the Seven Gods to lull Gilly’s baby to sleep. This scene is super cute and sweet, even without marshmallows to toast over their campfire, but I keep waiting for a White Walker to pop up out of the woods and behead someone. Game of Thrones: where even a lullaby can be scary.

[Security and happiness are overrated...]

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True Blood Season 6 Official Full-Length Trailer and Things Just Got Real!

Jennifer Proffitt — Mon, 06 May 2013 15:50:00 +0000

They may be covered in blood, but the men are still hot (and in the case of Bill, a little bit crazy) in the Season 6 True Blood trailer.

When we last left Bon Temps, Bill had just gone crazy and been killed/possessed/reincarnated by Lillith and everyone was screaming and running for their lives as they tried to escape the compound. While the world seems to be caving in on everyone as Louisiana declares war on vampires, and the vamps face off against each other, there still seems to be time for some lovin'. What couples are you looking forward to seeing in Season 6—we have Tara/Pam, Alcide/Rikki, Eric/Sookie, and will we see more of Jessica/Jason?

What are you looking forward to in Season 6? Don't miss the premiere on June 16!

See all of our True Blood coverage on our feature page—including trailers, recaps, and news!

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What is Your Most Anticipated Book for 2013?

Megan Frampton — Mon, 06 May 2013 12:47:02 +0000

Even though your To Be Read pile is taller than the Empire State Building, you're looking forward to a book that hasn't been released yet—so what is it?

What's your most anticipated book for the second half of 2013?

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First Look: Jocelynn Drake’s Dead Man’s Deal (May 7, 2013)

Tori Benson — Sun, 05 May 2013 15:00:00 +0000

Jocelynn Drake
Dead Man’s Deal
Harper Voyager / $11.98 print / $9.78 digital / May 7, 2013

In a gritty urban fantasy world where elves, faeries, trolls, werewolves, and vampires swim free in a sea of humanity, sometimes you need an edge. Looking for a little love? Need some luck? Desperate for revenge? Gage can give you what you need. The most talented tattoo artist in town, he knows the right symbol and the right mix of ingredients and ink to achieve your heart's desire. One tattoo is all it takes. But remember, everything has its price.
The wizards know Gage is using forbidden magic, and they intend to punish him for his transgressions. Too bad if innocent humans and monsters—entire cities—get in the way. They will quell a nascent magical uprising and Gage will be the sacrifice they need. First, though, they have to find him.

Dead Man’s Deal is the second installment in a new urban fantasy series by bestselling author Jocelyn Drake and continues to engage. Similar to Jim Butcher’s Dresden series, the Asylum Tales centers around Gage Powell, a warlock whose personal life choices has left him persona non grata in the wizarding world.

[Hopefully that will change soon?...]

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Wish You Were Here: News and Gossip from RT Booklover’s Convention

Team H & H — Thu, 02 May 2013 18:17:31 +0000

With Lora Leigh and Sylvia Day update, look below for more details!

Team H&H's Heather Waters (@redline_) is over in Kansas City, Missouri at the Romantic Times Booklover's Convention. The rest of the team is holding down the fort so we thought we'd share some news, gossip, and fun events from #RT13 for the rest of you who are to!:

E.L. James made a surprise appearance in a New Adult Panel. All would have gone smoothly and no one would have likely known she was there until a panelist started to criticize the 50 Shades series. James then stood up to defend her books before dissolving back into the woodwork. Twitter had a lot of reactions but find out more from the Kansas City local news outlet about the incident.
Heather listened to an Erotica panel with Sylvia Day, Maya Banks, Jaci Burton, Tiffany Reisz, and Lauren Dane. The consensus: write alpha heroes, not asshole heroes, it's all about the motivation. Misguided, maybe, but alpha heroes have good intentions.
Tiffany Reisz's squick word is “cream.” Is it yours too?
Reisz feels her Dominatrix Nora is like Nancy Drew, with one tiny difference: She solves sex problems!
Ever wonder what it'd be like to be all tied up? Well audience members are at least getting a little look into it as different kinds of rope are being passed out at the All Tied Up panel so you have an idea of what it feels like. We can put it down to research, right? Ouch!
Maya Banks loves tortured or weaker heroines that grow stronger over course of book, and loves reversing tropes (like Beauty and Beast).
Avon Editor Erika Tsang brought Editor Trading Cards along with her Avon books!
All 52 Georgette Heyer books are now in print!
Jessica Shirvington's Embrace is in development for a show on the CW.
Jill Shalvis starts with a couple that is wrong for each other and then goes from there. Do you see that in her romances?
Are you a fan of Downton Abbey? Well fear not, more Edwardian romance is in the works! Also, be on the lookout for Elizabethan and medieval romance. What time period do you want to see in historical romance?
Lora Leigh hinted that some secrets will be revealed in upcoming Breeds books and don't forget to check out a Breeds story in the upcoming anthology Enthralled (available July 2, 2013).
Sylvia Day allegedly confirmed that there will be FIVE books in the Crossfire series. See our full article for more detail!

We'll try to keep you up to date on the news, gossip and other fun events. What else have you heard from RT13? What authors do you want to hear about?

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Poll: May the Fourth be with You...What Star Wars Character is Your Ideal Hero?

Team H & H — Sat, 04 May 2013 17:30:00 +0000

Star Wars has defined a generation and it keeps doing it as new generations are introduced to Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, and the evil Darth Vader. While Darth was pretty scarred underneath all that armor, we have to try and remember him as a Anakin Skywalker played by Hayden Christensen—although some true Star Wars fans would rather forget. May the Fourth gives fans a chance to watch the movies, wear their costumes, squee over the romance, and so much more!

In Star Wars, even the anti-hero can be your favorite, so what character would be your ideal hero...or anti-hero?

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Iron Man 3 Meets...Downton Abbey?!!

Heather Waters (redline_) — Sat, 04 May 2013 06:46:26 +0000

We know Downton Abbey is all over pop culture these days. How I Met Your Mother recently paid homage to the show when Marshall, Lily, and Ted found themselves addicted to a very similar period drama called Woodworthy Manor. And in an episode of The Mindy Project a few weeks back (“Santa Fe”), Mindy's ex Josh got a quick update from a high-profile pal/client (the Green Bay Packers's Clay Matthews) on the Crawley drama he'd missed while he was TV-less in rehab. Then there was the time the show was a hot topic with Gossip Girl's upper east siders (or at least with Serena's mom Lily)... The list goes on, really.

So yes, Downton is all over the place lately. But did anyone see that Iron Man 3 connection coming?

******MAJOR IRON MAN 3 SPOILERS AHEAD*****

[Who knew Tony could be so sensitive?...]

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Friday Beefcake: A Man for Cinco de Mayo

Team H & H — Fri, 03 May 2013 20:30:00 +0000

Yum, these men are muy caliente! In honor of the Mexican holiday Cinco de Mayo we're offering up five sexy men of Mexico. Up top we have William Levy, a telenovela star (and might we say we love him on screen and off and...out of clothing!), Eugenio Siller, Gael Garcia Bernal, Alfonso Herrera, and a very yummy Eduardo Veraste (we would give anything to move...or be...that baby lion!).

So this weekend go have a shot of tequila and celebrate these macho men of Mexico! Enjoy!

[+4 more pics that make us hotter than a summer in Cancun!...]

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Halfway to the Bed: Whose Story Might be Next in Jeaniene Frost’s Night Huntress World?

Jennifer Myers — Fri, 03 May 2013 18:30:00 +0000

Jeaniene Frost's Halfway to the Grave was my first introduction to Cat and Bones and their world, and not only were they the first paranormal romance couple I'd met, they remain my favorite.

There are six Night Huntress novels focusing solely on Cat and Bones. But surrounding them are many complex, hot, fascinating, infuriating and hysterical secondary characters. Many of these secondary characters have gone on to have their own books:

Bones’ best friend, Spade, was featured in First Drop of Crimson. He was paired up with Cat’s best friend Denise.
Mencheres, Bones’ grandsire, was the second book in the Night Huntress world. Eternal Kiss of Darkness had Mencheres finding love with Kira.
Vlad Tepesh is currently the star in his own trilogy, The Night Prince series. He remains quite the antihero, but is paired with a great heroine in Leila.

So who does that leave us with? Which character should get his or her own story?

[Let's consider some options...]

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Iron Man 3: Or, Appreciating Pepperony

Rachel Hyland — Fri, 03 May 2013 17:00:00 +0000

Be careful, this post mostly discusses Tony and Pepper's relationship in Iron Man 3, however it IS a review of the movie. While it is not intended to contain spoilers, if you have not seen the movie yet you may not want to read this review before seeing it.

SOME SPOILERS AHEAD! Read with caution!

No one ever said being a superhero’s girlfriend was easy.

Even Lois Lane, laboring under the mystifying delusion that her alien crush and her identical-except-for-corrective-lenses, never-seen-in-the-same-room colleague were actually separate people, must have realized that dating Superman would be a tougher gig than dating regular ol’ Clark Kent. The constant cries for help always interrupting dinner, the supervillains with their axes (and, indeed, death rays) to grind, the secrecy, the power disparity, the thinking he’s dead on a regular basis, the always coming in second to the Greater Good. Ugh.

But in Iron Man 3, Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow) has even more to deal with. Not only is her man traumatized following the harrowing events in New York (see: The Avengers), but he’s also, well, Tony Stark (Robert Downey, Jr.), former playboy of the Western World and unapologetically arrogant erratic genius. That would be difficult to deal with even without the fact that he just played a significant role in saving the planet from space aliens eager to destroy us all.

[Being with Genius, Billionaire, Playboy, Philanthropists Ain't Easy...]

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What Movie Do You Wish Were a Book?

Megan Frampton — Fri, 03 May 2013 12:07:57 +0000

We've discussed books being made into films many times at H&H—what books should be made into movies, what books were better than the films (and occasionally vice versa), and which actors we'd like to see portraying our favorite characters.

But one topic we haven't asked—what movie do you wish you could read as a book?

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Fantastic Voyage: Discovering New Authors

Jennifer Porter — Thu, 02 May 2013 20:30:00 +0000

No matter how many books you own or the size of your to be read pile, most of you continue to look for new books to read. Before online publishing and retail, chances are you browsed bookstore shelves at least once a month, if not more, to find your next great read. If you found an author you liked, maybe you did research on the author’s backlist or read excerpts in the back of books in order to supplement your to be bought list. Next, maybe you went to the author’s website to find out even more and to learn of future books.

But the book discovery process has been complicated by the changing landscape of the book market. The reduction of brick and mortar stores, shrinking inventories, advent of digital-first publishers, explosion in the sales of ebooks, dominance by online etailers, and the rise of self-publishing have all radically impacted the way that we discover new titles.

[How do you find new books?...]

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It’s Not Me, It’s You: Breaking Up with a Series

Tori Benson — Thu, 02 May 2013 18:30:00 +0000

I love a good series, and it's hard to give up on a pair of characters or a world when I've cared about it so much. When I find out an author is going to expand their story into a series, I jump right on the bandwagon and wish list everything. If I love your stories, there is the potential for me to become a fan for life. I’ll follow you through the good and bad times. I’ll defend your story choices. But I have strong expectations when I read series. I am committing to you for the long haul and I expect the same commitment from you. You don’t have to propose marriage, but I expect monogamy. I want book 26 to be just as interesting and exciting as the first in the series.

If you start to falter in our relationship, I suddenly find myself looking at other authors. While there may be fifty ways to leave your lover, there are only five reasons that will make me hand you back your class ring and tell you to hit the road...we are over.

1. Lack of focus

As I stated above, I have expectations in a series and when they aren’t met, I get angry and flounce away. Most series have a long-running arc. That's the appeal. Though there may be minor conflicts that are resolved at the end of each book, the end game needs to stay strong throughout the series. There can be only one. When the series begins to overflow with multiple characters, 3-4 additional arcs, and a few spin-offs, then this relationship has become too complicated and it’s time to leave.

[What else can cause series relationship problems?...]

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If You Like...

Megan Frampton — Thu, 02 May 2013 12:23:35 +0000

You've read the entire backlist, you've stalked the author's website for news of future releases, and you might even have set up a Google alert.

But you don't have any new material to read. That's one of the reasons we're doing “If You Like...” posts, to help out readers desperate for more books that have that element of a particular author?

What author would you most like to find authors similar to? We'll gather your suggestions and see if we can assign future “If You Like...” posts for her!

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I Always Shall Be Your Friend: The Kirk/Spock Ship is Back!

Christopher Morgan — Wed, 01 May 2013 15:37:00 +0000

Any fan of Sci-Fi or just a fan of Star Trek knows about them. And we've all been shipping them even before Shipping was a thing. Kirk and Spock have stolen our hearts again and again, not to mention how they ripped them out in THAT scene in Star Trek II. Well, it 's nice to see the return of the dynamic between Kirk and his ONLY science officer in the above clip. I mean the Enterprise's Science officer, that's what we were arguing about here wasn't it?

Are you excited for this new Star Trek II? Do you think Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto have the same kind of chemistry as Spock and Kirk Prime? And what do you think will be the fate of the perky blond that literally places herself between the two?

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Your Most Reread Book?

Megan Frampton — Wed, 01 May 2013 12:20:00 +0000

Even the most determined 'do not re-read' reader has a book they've read at least twice. Maybe it was because you loved it so much, because you forgot what happened in it, or because you found yourself stuck somewhere with only a previously read book to read.

So—what book have you re-read the most?

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First Look: Nancy Ohlin’s Thorn Abbey (May 7, 2013)

Victoria Janssen — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 20:30:00 +0000

Nancy Ohlin
Thorn Abbey
Simon Pulse / May 7, 2013 / $16.99 print, $9.99 digital

Becca was the perfect girlfriend: smart, gorgeous, and loved by everyone at New England’s premier boarding school, Thorn Abbey. But Becca’s dead. And her boyfriend, Max, can’t get over his loss.
Then Tess transfers to Thorn Abbey. She’s shy, insecure, and ordinary—everything that Becca wasn’t. And despite her roommate’s warnings, she falls for brooding Max.
Now Max finally has a reason to move on. Except it won’t be easy. Because Becca may be gone, but she’s not quite ready to let him go.

Nancy Ohlin’s Thorn Abbey revisits Daphne Du Maurier’s romantic classic, Rebecca. Mysterious Max, his dead girlfriend Becca, and the first-person narrator, Tess, reenact a teen version of the Gothic triangle, with Tess’s boarding school roommate serving in the housekeeper role.

[You had me at Rebecca...]

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Brash, Sassy, and Totes Awesome: What to Do While Waiting for Lost Girl’s Kenzi to Return

Jackie Lester — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 18:30:00 +0000

It’s been at least a week now without Lost Girl. We’ve all had the great discussions going on Kiersten’s play-by-play and my earlier mini-recap. But the big question is: What now? What can we possibly do with our time until our beloved show returns? Well, here are a few recommendations that might tide you over until October:

By the end of Season 3, Kenzi had a tool (the Staff of Righteousness) in her possession that would have given her Fae powers, but she gave it up. She discovered that the rash she acquired from battling the Norn would have allowed her the Fae power of glamor, but she didn’t realize she had it nor how to manipulate the power at the time. Finally, she was given the opportunity to become Fae by a mysterious Druid, and this is where Bo’s trusty sidekick and the fate of her humanity were left in cliff-hanger fashion.

Fae or not, it’s Kenzi’s signature style in clothing, her pop culture-infused snark, and her ability to quote Ludacris like she’s reading a William Carlos Williams poem that keeps Bo and the gang grounded. Her humor reminds us that while Lost Girl can lean towards heavier (though mostly unreal) topics, it’s all in the name of fun, and ultimately balances moments that would come across more saccharine in nature otherwise.

[What would Kenzi do?...]

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Sleeping with the Entity: Exclusive Excerpt

Cat Devon — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 16:30:00 +0000

Meet Daniella Delaney. She’s all ready to open her shop, Heavenly Cupcakes, in one of Chicago’s sleepier districts. But she’s having a hard time convincing the local business association—namely Nick St. George—that she’s a good addition to the neighborhood. Daniella hopes that her famous red velvet cupcakes will be enough to melt any man’s heart. But Nick is no ordinary man.He’s got fangs.

As leader of the Vamptown clan, Nick has no intention of letting Daniella breathe new life into his old haunts. But something about her leaves Nick hungry…for more. He can’t control her mind like other humans, a trait that makes Daniella irresistible. Could it be that, for the first time in centuries, Nick has met his match? Love is always a force to be reckoned with. But can this vampire have his cake and eat it too?

Get a sneak peek of Cat Devon's Sleeping with the Entity (available June 4, 2013) with an exclusive excerpt of Chapters 1 & 2.

Chapter 1

“All the good men are taken,” Daniella Delaney said. “The rest are vampires.”

As soon as she spoke the words into her iPhone, the hairs at the back of her neck prickled and a shiver slid down her spine. They really had the air-conditioning cranked up in this Chicago bar and grill. The place was almost as cold as her pink fridge back home. Sure, it was a warm Indian summer October day outside, but come on.

[Log in or register to read the full excerpt of Sleeping with the Entity...]

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The Apocalypse Has Been Canceled: Pacific Rim Trailer!

Megan Frampton — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 21:05:00 +0000

“Today we are cancelling the Apocalypse!” Here's the brand-new trailer for Pacific Rim, directed by Guillermo del Toro and coming out July 12.

Here's the official synopsis:

When legions of monstrous creatures, known as Kaiju, started rising from the sea, a war began that would take millions of lives and consume humanity’s resources for years on end. To combat the giant Kaiju, a special type of weapon was devised: massive robots, called Jaegers, which are controlled simultaneously by two pilots whose minds are locked in a neural bridge. But even the Jaegers are proving nearly defenseless in the face of the relentless Kaiju. On the verge of defeat, the forces defending mankind have no choice but to turn to two unlikely heroes—a washed up former pilot (Charlie Hunnam) and an untested trainee (Rinko Kikuchi)—who are teamed to drive a legendary but seemingly obsolete Jaeger from the past. Together, they stand as mankind’s last hope against the mounting apocalypse.

But once we heard Idris Elba and Charlie Hunnam were starring, it didn't matter what it was about (even though it sounds fantastic). Are you in for the dual gorgeousosity of Idris and Hunnam?

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Just Say Yes?: The Makings of Book Crack

Chelsea Mueller — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 14:00:00 +0000

The reading community—like any legion of fans—likes to to create its own terms. You’ll find romance readers mentioning PNR (paranormal romance), H/H (hero/heroine, not to be confused with H&H for Heroes and Heartbreakers), HEA (happily ever after) and the like. Usually these are initialized shortenings of popular phrases.

Those bits of jargon are easy to parse out or have a friend explain. Then we come to “book crack.” We’re guilty at Heroes & Heartbreakers of calling out J.R. Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood series of being cracktastic, but what does that mean?

At their base, all novels considered book crack are addictive. To be labeled with the drug-related moniker, a book must be un-put-downable. Length is no issue with these books. Nine hundred pages? Sleep is not needed the night after the release of the latest title in a cracktastic series.

[Sleep? What's that?...]

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Loveliest “I Love You” Scenes?

Megan Frampton — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 12:15:00 +0000

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.—Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen
”I’ve always seen you, angel. From the moment you found me, I’ve seen nothing but you.—Bared to You, Sylvia Day
“For thousands of nights I dreamed of making love to you. No man on earth has ever hated sunrise as I do.—Again the Magic, Lisa Kleypas

Romance novels, of course, have their ”I love you“ scenes, but they aren't all equal; some moments are so lovely, so precious, they make your chest tighten and you utter some sort of soft sound as your brain processes just how amazing the words are.

Which ”I love you" scene makes your breath catch the most?

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Trope of the Month: Boss-Assistant

Heather Waters (redline_) — Sun, 28 Apr 2013 14:00:00 +0000

Academically put, tropes are “common or overused theme[s] or device[s]," which makes them sound like cliches, which makes them seem like a bad thing.

But they’re totally not! Romance novel fans all have their favorite—not to mention least favorite—tropes, from friends to lovers, chick in pants, secret baby, marriage of convenience, opposites attract, May-December, boss-assistant...the list goes on.

Each month, we’ll be picking a romance novel trope and ask you to offer recommendations falling under the trope rubric (again with the academic talk!).

In boss-employee (boss-assistant, boss-housekeeper, boss-governess, etc.) romances, heroes and heroines risk breaking alllll the workplace rules to be with the one they love—and boy can that forbidden aspect make for some delicious tension. Here are a few such stories that come to my mind:

Sarah's Child by Linda Howard
Nothing Personal by Jaci Burton
Dream's End by Diana Palmer
The Blind-Date Proposal by Jessica Hart
Only His by Susan Mallery
A Deal with the Devil by Liz Carlyle
Married by Morning by Lisa Kleypas
Anything He Wants by Sara Fawkes

Any others come to mind? In the above novels, the heroes are the bosses—have any recommendations where the heroine is the boss? What about male/male or female/female romances that feature this trope?

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Back to Basics: What is Erotic Romance?

Lime Cello — Sat, 27 Apr 2013 19:30:00 +0000

What is an erotic romance?

Every time I think we've got this topic covered, I find out I'm wrong. People don't know. And I mean even people who are putting themselves out as personal assistants and public relations “experts” in the romance community.

What do I mean? I'll mention liking erotic romance, but not erotica. Someone who has been reading romances for twenty years and is well established in the romance community might say “Oh, I love erotica!” To which I respond, “Not for me, thanks. I need the HEA.” Almost always, the immediate following is “Oh. Me too.”

Excuse me?

Erotica doesn't require a happily ever after. It just doesn't. (And I'm not even going to try to discuss between erotica and porn…) But erotica is all about sex between characters. Emotions do not necessarily equal a relationship. Romance, on the other hand, is about the relational journey to a happily ever after love between the characters. (Notice at this point I'm not even saying “between the hero and heroine”?)

[There is a difference...]

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Poll: What Adaptation Will Make for the Best TV/Movie?

Team H & H — Sat, 27 Apr 2013 15:00:00 +0000

Last week we asked what summer movie you were most excited about but this week it seems to be all about movie adaptations. Earlier this week, we saw the first photo from the Divergent film set and found out that Kristin Cashore's Graceling series had been optioned for film. This got us to thinking, while some books are our favorites on the page, they may not translate well into screen adaptations.

Let us know in this week's poll which TV show or movie you think has the greatest cinematic potential and why! Did we (and Hollywood!) miss a great opportunity to adapt a book to a TV show or movie? Let us know in the comments!

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True Blood Gossip: Major Character to be Killed Off?

Jennifer Proffitt — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 17:00:00 +0000

While we were having some renewed hope for Season 6 of True Blood we've been dealt a potentially fatal blow—as has one of the major characters of the show!

A rumor has been going around today that a major True Blood character will be killed off in Season 6. Last we saw, Billith was about to go on a killing spree so the death blow may be dealt in that very first episode—or not... In an Entertainment Weekly article Joe Mangienello who plays Alcide, teased that there will be new faces added to the show, but don't count on anyone being safe:

“We're getting to the point in the season now where people are starting to die. The table reads are starting to get smaller, and I'm sure they will continue to do that.”

Other rumors have circulated that Eric, played by Alexander Skarsgard, will meet the true death. Would this be a deal breaker for you? If nothing else, we're ready to get the tissues out for Season 6!

What do you think of this gossip? Is there anyone you'd be “okay with” dying? Would you stop watching the show if they killed off a character?

Check out all our other True Blood coverage before the premiere of Season 6 June 16.

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Of Triton: Exclusive Excerpt

Anna Banks — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 16:00:00 +0000

Emma has just learned that her mother is a long-lost Poseidon princess, and now struggles with an identity crisis: As a Half-Breed, she’s a freak in the human world and an abomination in the Syrena realm. Syrena law states all Half-Breeds should be put to death.

As if that’s not bad enough, her mother’s reappearance in the Syrena world turns the two kingdoms—Poseidon and Triton—against one another. Which leaves Emma with a decision to make: Should she comply with Galen’s request to keep herself safe and just hope for the best? Or should she risk it all and reveal herself—and her Gift—to save a people she’s never known?

Get a sneak peek of Anna Banks's Of Triton (available May 28, 2013) with an excerpt of a selected scene.

It’s one of those moments where life seems to pause, and the universe opens its mouth and vomits comprehension on you. It’s not knowledge, not cold hard facts that you can talk about in casual conversation, like we did in the motel room, surrounded by Galen and Rayna and Toraf. People who I’d already accepted could sprout a fin. Sure we’d talked about Mom being one of those people, too. But until now, until this, I guess I didn’t really believe it.

[Log in or register to read the full excerpt of Of Triton...]

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Cut to the Chase: Piercings in Romance Novels

Natasha Carty — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 13:30:00 +0000

Back in the late 1980s, when we talked about piercings, we just meant your ears—remember that? Never mind how bent out of shape people got when men started getting their ears pierced! Nowadays, it’s commonplace to see a business man with a tattoo and an earring while working a finely tailored suit.

Did you know that there are five different types of female genital piercings and ten male genital piercings? Thankfully, we usually only hear about the hood/clit with females and the Prince Albert with men because some of those piercings are pretty ouch to think about. Certain piercings are said to heighten the sexual experience; no comment out of Tori and me on that. Please be warned, when googling some of these piercings, no amount of eye bleach will help you unsee some of the horrors you will find. Trust us, we kept getting distracted.

PA: The Prince Albert piercing enters the urethra through the underside of the base of the glans (either side of the fraenum) and exits out of the penis via the urethral opening.

Healing time: 2 - 12 weeks

Books that feature the PA:

Dangerous Games by Lora Leigh
My Fair Captain by J.L. Langley
Leave Me Breathless by Cherrie Lynn

[What's your favorite piercing in books?...]

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Look Out, Katniss: Kristin Cashore’s Graceling Trilogy Optioned for Film

Heather Waters (redline_) — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 20:41:48 +0000

Kristin Cashore's YA fantasy Graceling trilogy—Graceling, Fire, and last year's Bitterblue—have been optioned for film, according to Variety. The rights have been purchased by the same companies behind the first Vampire Academy series film, Blood Sisters, which is currently slated for a 2014 release.

Graceling and its companion novels are set in a world where individuals with special powers—called Graces—are set apart from their fellow citizens with mismatched eyes, and each book revolves around a different heroine (Katsa, Fire, and Bitterblue, respectively). In book 1, Graceling, the strong and skilled assassin Katsa meets her match in another Graced fighter, a prince named Po, and together they help to rescue a young princess (Po's cousin, Bitterblue) and her kingdom from its dangerous ruler.

Have you read the Graceling trilogy? Looking forward to seeing it brought to life on the big screen? Who would you like to see cast as Katsa and Po?

***

And on a related note, for those caught up on the series...

BOOK SPOILERS

Am I the only who NEEDS a Bitterblue/Giddon book at some point?! Sequel, sequel!

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What Will be Bred Next?: Lora Leigh’s Breeds Series

Miss_D — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 13:45:00 +0000

Fans of Lora Leigh's The Breeds series (like me) are often reading one book's main love story, but seeing clues about a possible future mating love story. Having read all but the most recent Breed stories, I am eagerly awaiting getting to read about certain characters who have captured my interest, but haven't gotten their own books yet. Of special note are the stories of two doctors who have been in a majority of the books, Dr. Nikki Armani and Dr. Ely Morrey.

Nikki is human, a no-nonsense African-American doctor who is featured predominantly in the Wolf and Coyote breed books. There are a few scenes in a couple of series books that makes me suspect she may get her own love story with Brimstone, a Coyote Breed and younger brother to Coyote Alpha, Del-Ray Delgado. The latter's own love story is told in Coyote's Mate, one of my favorite books in the series. I'm especially hopeful in seeing a full-length novel for Nikki, not a novella in an anthology, because it will be the first time Lora Leigh has featured a African-American female lead. She's featured women of color as lead heroines before, but never an African-American woman as a mate for one of her Breed males. As a woman of color, I always appreciate seeing diversity in romance books. Plus, Brim is one of my favorite secondary male characters in this series, thanks to his memorable supporting turn in Coyote's Mate and I'm anticipating him finding his mate as much as I am in reading Nikki's story. It's a double-jackpot for me should two of my favorite secondary characters find love with one another.

[Could it happen?...]

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Love for Sale: How Many Books do You Buy in a Month?

Megan Frampton — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 12:11:00 +0000

Just a few months ago, it was a rarity to find a sale-priced e-book; now, self-published authors are using low price points to find their audience, while publishers are lowering prices on certain of their authors to goose sales for a forthcoming release, or raise awareness, or some other marketing goal.

You probably bought a lot fewer books back then, too; so how many books do you estimate you buy in a month now? Do you keep track? Do you not want to know?

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First Photo from the Divergent Set!

Jennifer Proffitt — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 17:30:00 +0000

The first set photo from the Divergent movie was revealed today by Entertainment Weekly. The movie is based on a dystopian Young Adult series by Veronica Roth in which society is split into five factions based on ideal human characteristics—selflessness, bravery, peacefulness, intelligence, and honesty. In this scene, Shailene Woodley, who plays the lead character Beatrice “Tris” Prior, has knives thrown at her head by Four after she takes the place of a fellow initiate into the Dauntless (bravery) faction.

Visit Entertainment Weekly for the full image and an interview with Shailene Woodley.

Last month, Theo James of Downton Abbey was cast as Four, a leader of the Dauntless faction and the mentor-turned-love of Tris.

Divergent is scheduled for release on March 21, 2014.

Check out our other coverage of Veronica Roth and get caught up on the series before the movie's out!

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Have You Ever Tried Your Hand at Writing a Romance Novel?

Megan Frampton — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 12:27:00 +0000

We love them, we devour them daily, we obsess over them—but have you ever tried to write a romance novel?

It's not so different, after all, than trying your hand at acting or singing (maybe only in your shower) after getting inspired by one of your favorite artists.

So if you never have, why not? If you have, did you finish? If not, what made you stop?

Did you ever try your hand at writing a romance novel?

(This trailer is from Paperback Hero, a Hugh Jackman movie where he's a romance novelist).

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Urbanized: New Entrants to Urban Fantasy from Bishop, Robson, and Daniels

Jennifer Myers — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 20:00:00 +0000

Urban Fantasy is a tricky genre; many series begin with a book that offers hope it will be the start to something wonderful. In order to achieve that promise, the characters have to be strong and full of depth. Readers need to be able to explore the intricacies of the characters and the world they live in. The series cannot be shallow or superficial, otherwise after only a few books we will be left with nowhere to go. Thankfully, there are a few books that have been published recently that seem to have all the elements for keeper urban fantasy series:

Written in Red (The Others #1) by Anne Bishop

...[E]nter a world inhabited by the Others, unearthly entities—vampires and shape-shifters among them—who rule the Earth and whose prey are humans.

Anne Bishop is well known for her Black Jewels, Ephemera, and Tir Alainn series, but this is the first book of hers that I've read. And as of right now, it's my top book for 2103. Written in Red is unapologetic in its brutal and graphic content, unforgiving characters and bloody plot. This book has everything I look for in a new UF series and I fully expect to be a devout follower of the series for many years to come.

[What other series are off to a good start?...]

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Lost Girl Season 3, Episode 13 Recap: Wandering in the Faederdome

Kiersten Hallie Krum — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 15:26:49 +0000

The last episode of Lost Girl Season 3 is upon us (sob!), but there's still lots of Lost Girl and urban fantasy/paranormal romance goodness ahead at H&H. In the meantime, be sure to check out all of our Lost Girl recaps, from Season 1 and Season 2 to all the most recent happenings in Season 3.

Editor's Note: A shorter recap of Jackie Lester's thoughts on the episode was posted last week and can be found HERE with all its glorious discussion in the comments. And now, on to Kiersten's play-by-play of the Season 3 Lost Girl finale, 3.13, “Those Who Wander.”

I’d like to preface this recap by saying that I loved the season three finale of Lost Girl. LOVED it. It was fast-paced, featured everybody in the cast, focused on mythology (finally!), and had a sharp, sassy script. I want to get that out in front because I nit-picked the hell out of it as it was also filled with inconsistencies and fairly hemorrhaged plot holes…which is why we drink!

We open exactly where we left off with Bo beating the crap out of Blackwater Type #1. “Every kick from your boot,” he mumbles, “is bliss.” “Speaking of kinky,” Bo says breathlessly, “I’m gonna need your chi.” She blue chi sucks the shit out of him and lunges for where Tamsin lies on the ground unconscious and bleeding out. Blackwater Type #1 gets the typical goofy smile on his face and falls back onto the ground. Bo pours red chi into the Valkyrie, but instead of charging her up, the chi floats away from Tamsin’s mouth and back into Blackwater Type #1. Increasingly desperate, Bo sobs, “Why isn’t this working?” She hurries back over to Blackwater Type #1 who mutters that it’s probably his fault. With her bloody hands, Bo grabs him by the lapels. “You tell me where you’re keeping the wolf,” she demands, but even with the returned chi, the dude is done and passes out. Bo’s arms are still extended and she kind of gestures of course you did. If Tamsin’s situation weren’t so dire, this would be a little funny.

[You know it's a season finale when stakes are already this high...]

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The First Thor: The Dark World Trailer is Here!

Megan Frampton — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 14:04:17 +0000

SQUEE! Just a few days after the first poster was released, Marvel has gifted us the first trailer from Thor: The Dark World, with delicious teases of a) a love triangle b) an ultimate sacrifice c) Thor's awesomely huge hammer (!) and d) Loki and Thor's literal bromance!

Thor: The Dark World is out in theaters November 8, 2013.

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What’s the Shortest Time to Fall in Love?

Megan Frampton — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 12:10:00 +0000

Many romance novels have built-in deadlines: A Week to be Wicked, Just One Night, One Week Girlfriend, One Week as Lovers, etc.

During these books, the hero and heroine have a quick, intense connection, ending (usually) with an “I love you.”

But in real life, love doesn't come that quickly.

What's the shortest time—in real life—you think someone could fall in love?

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A New Sneak Peek at Sherrilyn Kenyon’s Styxx!

Team H & H — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 20:02:45 +0000

Minutes ago on her Facebook page, Sherrilyn Kenyon unveiled a new sneak peek at Styxx, offering a look at a moment from Acheron's point of view in Night Embrace paired side-by-side with a brand-new look at the same moment from Styxx's point of view in the next Dark-Hunter book, Styxx (out September 3, 2013). If you've ever wondered what each twin was up to at a particular time, now's your chance!

From Styxx:

Styxx sat alone in the Cafe Pontalba at a table near one of the large doors that opened into the street where tourists thronged in the midst of pre Mardi Gras celebration. The waitress had just taken away his plate and card.
Drinking his beer, he stared at the foreign people who made no sense to him. They were all very odd...
Like you're not?
True. He was so out of place here, he couldn't stand it. And he hated tampering with people's lives. At first, he hadn't minded his assignments. It reminded him of being at war. Get close to the Dark-Hunters who worked with his brother, and report back to Dionysus and Camulus. Play with their heads and confuse them a little to give the gods time to plan.
But what had stunned him was how much love and respect the Dark-Hunters bore his brother. ...

Read the rest at Sherrilyn Kenyon's Facebook page.

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Heart of Iron: Exclusive Excerpt

Bec McMaster — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 18:00:00 +0000

Dangerous. Unpredictable. That's how people know the hulking Will Carver. And those who don't like pretty words just call him The Beat. No matter how hard Will works to suppress his werewulfen side, certain things drive him beyond all control. And saucy Miss Lena Todd tops the list.

Lena makes the perfect spy against the ruling Echelon blue bloods. No one suspects that under the appearance of flirtatious debutante lies a heart of iron. Not even the ruthless Will Carver, the one man she can't wrap around her finger and the one man whose kiss she can never forget. He's supposed to be protecting her, but he might just be her biggest threat yet...

Get a sneak peek of Bec McMaster's Heart of Iron (available May 7, 2013) with an exclusive excerpt of a selected scene.

“Tell me,” Lena murmured. “How does a debutante demonstrate her availability as a potential thrall?”

“Ain’t the foggiest," Will replied.

Dragging her skirts behind her, Lena stood and crossed to the cherry bowl, adding an extra little swish to her stride. Picking up the gilded bowl, she settled back beside him, her emerald skirts brushing his thighs. It was finer than what she usually wore for day dress, but he would never know that.

[Log in or register to read the full excerpt of Heart of Iron...]

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A “Scrumptious” Peek at Ilona Andrews’s Magic Rises

Team H & H — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 17:32:51 +0000

Ilona Andrews's Kate Daniels novel Magic Rises won't be released until July 30, but Andrews's website offers a tiny peek entitled “Scrumptious":

I stood on the deck of the Rush , smelling the salty, ocean- saturated air, and watched our supplies being loaded. The sailors on the ship at the next pier watched also. They had a crane. We had Eduardo Ortego, who picked up five-hundred-pound containers and casually tossed them onto the deck, where Mahon and Curran caught them and lowered them into the cargo hold.
The human sailors were looking a little sick. I was glad Eduardo was coming with us. Mahon had chosen the massive werebuffalo as his backup and nobody objected.
A woman came down the pier, heading for the ship. She walked with an easy, lazy grace that spoke of strength and perfect balance, despite the dangerously tall heels of her black leather boots. Shapeshifter walk. Always a dead giveaway.

Read the rest at Ilona Andrews's website!

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Game of Thrones Season 3, Episode 4 Recap: Free Your Slaves (and the Rest Will Follow)

Regina Thorne — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 14:25:56 +0000

Game of Thrones Season 3 is here! Need to catch up? Don't miss Regina Thorne's Season 2 refresher or her recap of episode 3.01, episode 3.02, and episode 3.03. And now, onto last night's episode 3.04, “And Now His Watch is Ended."

*****SPOILERS*****

Last night’s Game of Thrones taught us that revenge is a dish best served in a box with its mouth sewn shut, that roses are boring unless they're named Margaery or Olenna, and that dragons are not slaves.

We open with the aftermath of Jaime Lannister’s maiming by Roose Bolton’s man, Locke. Jaime rides with his rotting hand on a rope around his neck, as Locke’s men taunt him about his manhood and Cersei. Jaime falls off his horse into a puddle of viscous mud, struggles to his knees and begs for a drink of water; Locke offers Jaime a flask that he gulps down greedily before Locke tells him that he just drank horse piss. Brienne of Tarth looks on, horrified at Locke’s wanton cruelty, as Jaime vomits up what he just drank.

[Never thought I'd say it, but poor Jaime!...]

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What is Your #GoodThings?

Megan Frampton — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 12:23:00 +0000

Last week was a tough one. Many people on Twitter started tweeting #goodthings in an effort to express the positive.

Hopefully this week will be better. So let's start now—what was the best thing that happened to you over the weekend? What are you looking forward to this week? What is your #goodthings?

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Poll: What Summer Movie are You Most Excited to See?

Team H & H — Sat, 20 Apr 2013 20:00:00 +0000

Summer movie season is almost upon us! Iron Man 3 will debut in the U.S. on May 3, just a couple weeks away, and with that the summer blockbuster season will have launched. And between IM3, Man of Steel, Star Trek: Into Darkness, The Wolverine, Much Ado About Nothing, and more, we here at Heroes and Heartbreakers have a feeling it's going to be an amazing few months at the theater.

Which film are you most eager to see this summer?

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Dark Days: New Excerpt

Caitlin Kittredge — Sat, 20 Apr 2013 16:00:00 +0000

Jack Winter and his girlfriend Pete Caldecott have encountered a lot of strange creatures in the Black—primordial demons, hungry ghosts, witch hunters, and the Prince of Hell himself, Belial. When Belial asks Jack for one last favor to help him keep his throne, Jack may have finally met his match because Belial's rival is something that no one—human or demon—has ever seen before…
There’s a revolution brewing in Hell, and Jack might be the only one who can stop Belial’s rival from ripping a hole between the Black and the mortal world—a catastrophe that could be worse than Armageddon. But to win, Jack will have to do the one thing he swore he never would: become a servant to the Morrigan, and risk losing everything he knows and loves…including Pete.

Get a sneak peek of Caitlin Kittredge's Dark Days (available April 30, 2013) with an excerpt from Chapters 1 & 2.

Chapter 1

Everything tastes like ashes. The air above London is black no matter the time of day, smoke billowing from the burning districts south of the Thames. Sirens scream, echoing from building to building. People scream as hungry things chase them through the street, now the graveyard of cars long abandoned.

Not all people are victims. Some roam the darker, narrower parts of the city in packs, falling on man and creature alike.

[Log in or register to read the full excerpt of Dark Days...]

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Thor: The Dark World Poster Reveal

Megan Frampton — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 17:54:01 +0000

Just released is a poster for Thor: The Dark World, in which Thor presumably gets to put the hammer down on anyone who gets in his way. The movie will be released in November of this year.

Here's the blurb:

Thor battles an ancient race of Dark Elves led by the vengeful Malekith who threatens to plunge the universe back into darkness after the events of The Avengers.

Like in the first film, joining Chris Hemsworth as Thor will be Natalie Portman, Stellan Skarsgard, Kat Dennings, Anthony Hopkins, Tom Hiddleston, and Ray Stevenson. Christopher Eccleston will play Malekith.

For more Marvel goodness, check out our roundup of Captain America 2 news, Avengers review, Avengers Beefcake, and Black Widow/Hawkeye speculation.

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20 Reasons We Can’t Wait for True Blood Season 6

Chelsea Mueller — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 16:30:00 +0000

We recap True Blood episodes each season here at Heroes & Heartbreakers. It’s the perfect fit for us. It’s based on great novels. There are alpha males everywhere. The sex is worth talking about, even if it’s just for “Did you see that?” comments. And every one of us who watches that show has a hero to root for (and some fans of the books are chanting Quinn’s name right now).

However, we can admit the show goes off the rails. There’s plenty of WTFery. So, if you’re not sure about watching Season 6, which will premiere on HBO in June, allow us to give you 20 solid reasons to watch True Blood.

1. Alexander Skarsgard

(Image credit: Tobias Lundkvist / credit info via Askarsgard.com)

ASkars is the Swedish model and actor who smolders on screen as Eric Northman. We dedicated a whole post to scenes in which you see this man naked, because hot damn. He likes being naked in real life, too, and his character brags about his hours-and-hours of sexual prowess. Plus, he fits our romance hero need for the ultra tall.

2. Alexander Skarsgard’s Booty

For serious, folks. Do you want to miss your chance at seeing more of that ass?

[+ 12 more reasons, in case you're not already convinced...]

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Who Can It Be Now?: Anticipating Nalini Singh’s Heart of Obsidian

Tori Benson — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 13:30:00 +0000

As we get closer to the release of Heart of Obsidian, Nalini Singh’s much anticipated release in her Psy-Changling series, the internet has been rife with speculation as to the identity of the hero, the heroine—and whether this book will tell us once and for all who the Ghost is.

Nalini Singh was quoted in an interview following Kiss of Snow’s release, saying that there will be 2-4 more books that will end this particular story arc, and that Heart of Obsidian is the first book in this new arc. Previous tidbits lead many fans to believe that the Ghost’s story will be the last book. If you follow this particular trail of clues, Heart of Obsidian cannot be the Ghost’s book. But is is Kaleb’s? And if it is, then does that mean he’s not the Ghost or will Singh pull a fast one and led us astray? Who knows, but this passage from Kiss of Snow makes you wonder:

“That left him with the Obsidian archive. Created by the Netmind, the neosentience that was the guardian and librarian of the Net, the Obsidian archive was a backup in case the PsyNet ever suffered a catastrophic failure. The Ghost had named it Obsidian because the complexity of data within it made it all but a wall of black. On a rare few individuals had ever realized the Obsidian archive existed.”

In Bonds of Justice, we learn that Kaleb has been searching forhis quarry for 6 years and 4 months. He carries a star charm. Father Perez scolds Judd in Caressed by Ice for not calling him by his given name, even though they “have been working together for close to six years.”

[What does it all mean?...]

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A Batch of Cumberbunnies: An Explanation of Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sex Appeal

Jennifer Proffitt — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 18:00:00 +0000

Although you’ve likely heard of Benedict Cumberbatch, you likely hadn’t until a few years ago when he blew up on the scene in Sherlock, BBC’s modernization of Sherlock Holmes. As many someones have recently told me: he’s not really all that attractive, and even a little weird looking.

I heartily...agree. He is a little weird looking, but in the best way possible. I don’t think he would be as approachable as he is if he wasn’t slightly weird looking. He also wouldn’t have gotten the roles he’s gotten if he were classically handsome. He’s a damn good actor, and in this case the whole is greater than the sum of his parts. I could also make the point that many female models make their careers being “ugly-pretty,” and plenty of actors make their careers on being just plain ugly, forget the pretty. But what makes Cumberbunnies so rabid about his sex appeal?

[The voice, the talent...take your pick!]

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First Look: Bee Ridgway’s The River of No Return (April 23, 2013)

Victoria Janssen — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 16:30:00 +0000

Bee Ridgway
The River of No Return
Dutton / April 23, 2013 / $27.95 print, $14.99 digital

“You are now a member of the Guild. There is no return.”
Two hundred years after he was about to die on a Napoleonic battlefield, Lord Nicholas Falcott wakes up in a hospital bed in twenty-first century London. The Guild, a secretive organization that controls time travel, helps him make a new life in the modern world.
But Nick yearns for home and for one beautiful woman in particular, now lost to history.
Back in 1815, that very woman, Julia Percy, finds herself the guardian of a family secret inherited from her enigmatic grandfather... how to manipulate time. But there are those who seek to possess Julia’s power and she begins to realize she is in the gravest peril.
The Guild’s rules are made to be broken, and Nick discovers how to travel back to the nineteenth century and his ancestral home. Fate and the fraying fabric of time draw Nick and Julia together once again . . . soon enough, they are caught up in an adventure that puts the future of the world into their hands.

Bee Ridgway’s The River of No Return is an unusual book: part romance, part historical, and part science fiction. I enjoyed two things about it in particular: first, the ways in which Ridgway critically interrogated how we write about the past in genre fiction; and second, the story’s unpredictability—for much of the novel, I was genuinely unsure what direction it would go next, which meant I kept turning pages. These two things go together.

[Like peanut butter and jelly?!...]

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April 2013 Bloggers’s Recommendations: Wedding Nights, Family Reunions, and Hot British Vamps

Team H & H — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 18:00:00 +0000

Each month, we ask our bloggers to share the best thing they’ve read (or things, plural, if our bloggers declare a tie ’cause they just can’t choose). It doesn’t have to be a new book, as evidenced below; just something that made the month sparkle a bit more.

Without further ado, here’s the installment for April 2013 (and if you’ve missed any, be sure to check out past recs via the related posts section at the bottom of the post):

Leigh Davis

I have a ying and yang approach to reading. While sometimes I do find books that make me laugh, and tug on my heartstrings, it can be rare. So I alternate between the two. Reminiscent of an I Love Lucy episode, with it hilarious farcical comedy, Wedding Night by Sophie Kinsella, is full of merriment and amusement. Of course there are true gems of living interspersed too, like believing in yourself, and the truism that one person can make a difference. Still when I think back over my reading for April, I remember my delight in reading a truly funny book. (Read Leigh's First Look post on Wedding Night.)

Emily Giffin succeeded in writing the perfect blend of bittersweet, mixed with hope and renewal in her paperback release of Where We Belong. She doesn’t sugarcoat the awkwardness, and discomfort after the heroine, Marian Caldwell opens the door one night to find the eighteen-year-old daughter she gave up for adoption waiting there. Deep in uncharted waters both Marian and her daughter attempt to forge new relationships and define old ones. The characters and the scenarios stayed with me long after I closed the book.

[The rest of the best...]

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Lost Girl Season 3, Episode 13 Mini Recap: Wandering in Search of a Rescue?

Jackie Lester — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 15:05:31 +0000

Kiersten Krum will be offering her analysis on this episode of Lost Girl next week, but meanwhile, we thought we'd get the ball rolling on the latest in Bo's Merry Adventures by offering a first look at episode 3.13, “Those Who Wander,” which aired on Sunday night on Showcase in Canada.

NOTE: The Lost Girl Season 3 finale has NOT YET AIRED IN THE UNITED STATES. The finale, “Those Who Wander,” will air in the U.S. next Monday at 10 p.m. EDT on SyFy. This is a recap of the episode as seen on Showcase in Canada. Do NOT read this recap unless you have seen the episode or are willing to be TOTALLY SPOILED.

*****SPOILERS*****

We left off last week with Trick being stuffed into a trunk and a bittersweet moment coming from Aoife’s return and the realization that she’s been damaged in some unknown way. Here we open this week with Bo throwing punches at a human guard. She’s still trying to heal Tamsin, who’d been shot by the human. Bo tries the whole chi stealing thing, but it fails, at first looking like the chi has been swept away in a breeze, but it turns out it's returned to the previous owner. Strangely enough, the guard has been enjoying the beating and tells Bo this. Looks like he might’ve been a test subject for Taft as well as part of his security team.

Bo, frustrated and frantic, says to him, “You tell me where you’re keeping the wolf.” But apparently the beating was so effective that the guard either passes out or dies right in front of her. Oops! Then she tries to rouse Tamsin by shaking her and threatening her with death, which has little chance of succeeding in its nonsensical methodology and doesn’t. Her last-ditch effort is to send an appeal to Dyson through the air for his help in rescuing...himself? The cheese-o-meter hits the red line with that one.

[C'mon, Dyson, surely you can do it all?...]

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Speculatin’ and Shapeshiftin’: Where’s the Romance in Ilona Andrews’s Magic Rises?

Kate Rothwell — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 13:30:00 +0000

Magic Rises, the sixth book in Ilona Andrews's Kate Daniels series, is out in July. Here’s a description:

Mercenary Kate Daniels and her mate, Curran, the Beast Lord, are struggling to solve a heartbreaking crisis. Unable to control their beasts, many of the Pack’s shapeshifting children fail to survive to adulthood. While there is a medicine that can help, the secret to its making is closely guarded by the European packs, and there’s little available in Atlanta.
Kate can’t bear to watch innocents suffer, but the solution she and Curran have found threatens to be even more painful. The European shapeshifters who once outmaneuvered the Beast Lord have asked him to arbitrate a dispute—and they’ll pay him in medicine. With the young people’s survival and the Pack’s future at stake, Kate and Curran know they must accept the offer—but they have little doubt that they’re heading straight into a trap…

From that description, it sounds like we’re talking about Kate acting as an ambassador of peace. Um, no. In the past, her idea of arbitration usually meant she’d pull out her sword, Slayer, and snarl at her adversary until the fight started and she kicked ass. If she acts, it won’t be as a diplomat out front of the crowd. As the authors say: “Kate likes her sword a little too much and has a hard time controlling her mouth. The magic in her blood makes her a target, and she spent most of her life hiding in plain sight.”

[What's next for the Kate Daniels series?...]

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Lost Girl Season 3 Finale Discussion Post (MAJOR SPOILERS)

Team H & H — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 17:54:29 +0000

The Season 3 finale of Lost Girl, “Those Who Wander,” aired last night on Showcase in Canada. For those lucky enough to watch...what did you think?!

Note: This post will be FULL of MAJOR SPOILERS. Do NOT read if you have not yet seen the episode.

Heroes and Heartbreakers will feature Jackie Lester's mini recap tomorrow and Kiersten Hallie Krum's detailed play-by-play of the episode next week after “Those Who Wander” has aired in the U.S. on SyFy.

Haven't watched yet but dying to speculate? Stop by the Season 3 Finale Speculation Post and be sure to weigh in on the full play-by-play of episode 12.

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Game of Thrones Season 3, Episode 3 Recap: Give This Episode a Hand!

Regina Thorne — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 16:48:05 +0000

Finally, Game of Thrones Season 3 is here! Need to catch up first? Don't miss Regina Thorne's Season 2 refresher or her recap of episode 3.01 and episode 3.02. And now, onto last night's episode 3.03, “Walk of Punishment.”

*****SPOILERS*****

In the world of Westeros, punishment rains down on everyone; the real divide isn’t between guilt or innocence, it’s between power and powerlessness. Those with power are free to indulge their most malignant instincts while the powerless are enslaved to the merciless whims of others. “There’s a beast in ever man,” Jorah Mormont says. “And it stirs when you put a sword in his hand” and open violence is the most basic (if crudest) form of power in this world.

For a show that claims to eschew themes, this episode was permeated with questions of power, guilt, and innocence. What happens when you lose the power of your family name, the power of your skill at swordsmanship or your strength? What happens if you never had that power in the first place? We could argue that Theon and Jaime were justly punished for their crimes, but then we have to ask what Brienne, Craster’s daughter Gilly, and the nameless slaves of Astapor ever did to deserve the same punishment handed out to guilty men like Jaime and Theon.

[Life's a bitch...]

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Team Gale is Catching Fire in the First Trailer

Christopher Morgan — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 15:23:48 +0000

Team H&H is a bit divided when it comes to the Team Gale and Team Peeta debate. That being said, the first teaser trailer for The Hunger Games: Catching Fire debuted last night during the MTV Movie awards and it looks like it is deviating a bit from the book, perhaps to the benefit of Team Gale? (Heather here: Don't leave out mention of the Katniss/Gale kiss, Chris!) It looks like we are going to see a bit more of the formation of the Quarter Quell and the machinations of Snow and his lackeys, which I'm OK with. It also looks like Prim is putting on her big-girl pants. What do you think? Do the changes look worth it to you?

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Vampires...In Space! Why Such a Rare Breed?

Heather Massey — Sun, 14 Apr 2013 15:30:00 +0000

Seemingly ages ago, author and Star Trek guru Jacqueline Lichtenberg wrote about alien vampires in her books Those of My Blood (1988) and Dreamspy (1989). Given their mix of science fiction, fantasy, and romance, the stories are among the forerunners of paranormal romance.

Fast forward to 2012: Nina Croft’s Break Out (Entangled Publishing) hits the virtual shelves. Break Out features a supernatural-based vampire hero in a futuristic setting. It’s a lighthearted action-adventure space opera romp about a space pirate vampire who joins forces with the heroine to rescue her brother from the maximum security prison of a powerful corporation.

As a vampire living in the far future, Rico has emotional baggage, but he’s not highly angst-driven. Given his history, he’s a Friend of Old Earth, so there are quite a few Old Earth references. At one point he plays poker with actual cards—no holographic card deck for him!

In terms of mythology and the cultural mindset toward vampires, Rico is still a mythical being in that world. He’s a known space pirate, but people like Skylar, the heroine, have only heard whispers about his true nature. On the other hand, his crew knows exactly what he is. He bares his fangs a time or two and has glowing eyes. The fact that he seems only mildly concerned about hiding his true nature raises the question about how humans from a technologically advanced culture would react to an ancient vampire in their midst. Would they even fear him?

[That's a good question...]

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Poll: How Would You Spend a Day with your Favorite Hero?

Team H & H — Sat, 13 Apr 2013 19:30:00 +0000

The first thought popping into your heads is to lock him in a bedroom and throw away the key (and that's certainly an option!), but we love our heroes for more than their bodies and brawn. Let us know in the comments why you love your favorite hero and tell us in this week's poll what your perfect day would be!

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Friday Beefcake: Ryan Lochte

Team H & H — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 21:00:00 +0000

Ryan Lochte, the Olympian rival and teammate of Michael Phelps, is seen as kind of a player but in his new show on E! What Would Ryan Lochte Do? we see a few different sides of him—okay, yes the player side, but also the devoted mama's boy, hardcore athlete, and playful friend. Here's a picture from a Men's Health photoshoot to remind you what he looks like (like you needed the reminder!) and to celebrate his new show.

Will you tune into to see what Ryan Lochte will do when it airs April 21 or will you take a pass? Enjoy!

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The Boys are Back in Town: An Introduction to Male/Male Romance

Brie Clementine — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 18:30:00 +0000

The reasons why so many enjoy male/male romance are diverse, and it's not possible for one person to presume to know or understand them all. The obvious reason is that, because we’re talking about love stories with happy endings, those who enjoy mainstream romance will enjoy m/m romance as well (although if this were universally true, female/female romance would be just as popular).

Some readers enjoy exploring the power and gender dynamics at play in a relationship between two men, and to some, m/m romance is simply another way to read about different people falling in love and join them in their journey. But regardless of the reasons why we read them, the truth is that these novels have become really popular and are a welcome addition to the genre.

So, where to start?

M/m romance is relatively new, at least when compared to the romance genre, yet the amount of authors and books can be overwhelming for someone trying to dip their toes in it for the first time. This is why today I’m going to list a series of recommendations that should appeal to different readers.

[There's a subgenre for everyone...]

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Romantic Fantasy from Elliott, McCaffrey, Wells, and More!

Victoria Janssen — Thu, 11 Apr 2013 20:00:00 +0000

I came to romance as an adult reader, and realized that what attracted me were things I had always sought out in my other genre reading, whether fantasy, science fiction, or mystery: interesting characters who had problems they could solve with the help of others. In romance, the main romantic couple are generally the interesting characters, and they help each other to solve the problem, whether it be a search for meaning in life, a need for safety, or escape from being rich and rakish. In fantasy, there may be a couple of main characters, or there may be a larger group with more complex interrelationships.

The books and authors described here should provide a starting place for romance readers who’ve wanted to try fantasy on for size; if we’re lucky, those who are fantasy readers already might find something new they’d like to read.

[Prepare to add to your TBR pile!]

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Bitten’s Three Male Leads Cast: Will It Repeat Lost Girl’s Success?

Team H & H — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 18:53:36 +0000

More actors have been cast in Bitten, the new Canadian show based on Kelley Armstrong's Women of the Otherworld series (which begins with the book titled Bitten). Joining werewolf Elena (played by Smallville alumna Laura Vandervoort) are the three main men in her life: Greg Bryk will play Pack Alpha Jeremy Danvers, Greyston Holt has been cast as Clayton Danvers, and Paul Greene is Philip McAdams.

Here's the premise for the show, which will feature the only female werewolf:

A foster child, Elena (Vandervoort) had always craved a “normal” life and thought she finally found it with her boyfriend Clayton Danvers (Holt). But the secret life he kept from her ended up changing her forever. With one small bite, Elena was forced to survive life with the Pack as a werewolf. Still craving the normal life she lost, Elena finds refuge in Toronto working as a photographer and dating a new man. Hiding her werewolf existence from her ad-exec boyfriend Philip McAdams (Greene), Elena is pulled back into her former life when bodies turn up in the backwoods of Stonehaven, the rural mansion that has served as a werewolf sanctuary for generations. Caught between two worlds and two loves, Elena returns to Stonehaven out of duty, turning to Clay’s foster-father and leader of the Pack Jeremy Danvers (Bryk) for support. But once back in the fold, Elena realizes that when push comes to shove, like any true alpha female, she’ll stop at nothing to defend her family.

Just a quick rundown of the show makes it sound as though it will appeal to Lost Girl fans—it's got a strong female lead kicking ass (and taking names), a whole new supernatural world for the heroine to learn about, enemies trying to take her and her world apart, and some intriguing and difficult romantic entanglements. Bitten will debut in early 2014.

In the meantime, be sure to check out Rachel Hyland's take on the Women of the Otherworld book series. What other series would you like to see come to life?

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Now win This!: The Fall-in-Love-with-Young-Adult Sweepstakes

Team H & H — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 16:00:00 +0000

Click here to log in or register to enter for a chance to win a SEVEN-BOOK young adult prize pack!*

Everyone here at Heroes and Heartbreakers enjoys romance no matter the genre, and today we are spreadig that love around. We have a prize pack containing books from SEVEN different authors, including: Valkyrie Rising by Ingrid Paulson, A Midsummer's Nightmare by Kody Keplinger, Nobody But Us by Kristin Halbrook, Sanctum by Sarah Fine, Personal Demons by Lisa Desrochers, Shadow and Bone by Leigh Bardugo, and The Nightmare Affair by Mindee Arnett, as well as a special booklet from an upcoming author event containing each author's autograph and exclusive excerpts and scenes!

[About the books...]

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Lost Girl Season 3, Episode 12 Recap: Succubus on the Run

Kiersten Hallie Krum — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 14:53:18 +0000

Thank fae—Lost Girl Season 3 is here! Be sure to check out all of our recaps, from Season 1 and Season 2 to the most recent episode of Season 3 aired in the U.S. on the SyFy Channel.

Spoiler Policy: Please remember that there is a strong NO SPOILERS policy for any and all comments. We are ONLY DISCUSSING episodes of Lost Girl that have already aired in both Canada and the U.S. (the U.S. is currently a day behind Canada's schedule). Be kind and respectful by not ruining it for those who have yet to watch the newest Season 3 episode. Thanks!

Editor's Note: A shorter recap of Jackie Lester's thoughts on the episode was posted yesterday and can be found HERE. And now, on to Kiersten's play-by-play of Lost Girl 3.12, “Hail, Hale.”

Bo bursts into Doctor Lauren’s empty flat, Dyson behind her, and admits that she’s probably just overreacting. She flips on the switch Doctor Lauren so recently turned off and shouts up the stairs. “(Doctor) Lauren! If you’re here and you’re just ignoring me, I’m sorry for breaking in!” Dyson shoots her a look and saunters deeper into the flat only to pause at the end of Doctor Lauren’s desk. When she gets no answer, Bo seeks reassurance from Dyson. “See, it’s weird, right?” she says, crossing to him. “She hasn’t come by. She hasn’t answered any of my calls…” She just broke up with you and you expect her to come over for a visit or want to chat? Okey doke.

Bo’s voice tapers off as Dyson lifts up Doctor Lauren’s discarded mobile and silently holds it out to Bo. Processing, Bo steps closer as Dyson scrolls through the doc’s call history. “Why would anyone leave their phone behind?” Bo asks. “Ever?” Dyson gently suggests that maybe Doctor Lauren just forgot it. “Don’t do that, Dyson,” Bo immediately objects. “I am not crazy.” “Bo, I know you’re not crazy,” Dyson firmly states. After the kitsune debacle, he’s not about to make the mistake of doubting her again. That doesn’t mean he’s her pet sleuth either. “But I’m in the middle of the most important case of my life! Not to mention today is Hale’s inauguration—I don’t have time to play Relationship Detective.” HA! Oh, I would TOTALLY watch that show, at least for the one episode where he tried (and failed) to mitigate a relationship having already proven to be oh so successful as a high school guidance counselor.

[Detective Love's on the case...]

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Lost Girl Season 3 Finale Speculation Post (Spoilers!)

Team H & H — Tue, 09 Apr 2013 21:09:02 +0000

The Season 3 finale of Lost Girl, “Those Who Wander,” is set to air in the U.S. on SyFy on Monday, April 22 (and in Canada on Showcase this Sunday—lucky Canadians!), but in the meantime there are promos to inspect and dissect, including this one up at SyFy.com...

...so let's discuss!

Note: Please keep in mind that since this is a SPECULATION thread, it could contain SPOILERS. Read at your own risk.

That said, please continue to be kind and courteous—any spoilers beyond what's in the trailer above should be very clearly marked (or, preferably, whited out) so that people may stay spoiler-free if they choose. This post is intended for speculation rather than out-and-out spoiler discussion.

[Shall we kick things off with a couple promotional pics?!...]

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Crazy in Love: Speculating about the Perfect Match for Kresley Cole’s Nïx

Jennifer Proffitt — Tue, 09 Apr 2013 19:00:00 +0000

In an interview about Lothaire in 2011, Kresley Cole said she has at least 10 more books plotted out in her head for her Immortals After Dark series, not even including (one would hope) her spin-off series, The Dacians. One of the recurring characters in the series is Nucking Futs Nïx the Ever-Knowing, Proto-Valkyrie and Seer without Equal. In layman’s terms, that means she really old and really crazy. It’s her craziness that makes her a much-loved character in the series. She’s like your really old, really meddling great-aunt—except she has the body of a super model and the strength of sumo wrestler.

Cole has hinted on her site that while Nïx will get a book, it will be a long time coming as it will be one of the last if not the last book. While Nïx’s day may be long awaited, that leaves plenty of time for us to think about who she will end up with. As with all of her characters, every super-Alpha male needs a strong female to be his foil. This heroine may not seem like an Alpha female at first glance, but sooner or later she’s chopping off people’s heads and fulfilling prophecies.

In the case of Nïx, she is already an Alpha female—she may even be as crazy as Lothaire was prior to meeting his Bride. That means she’s going to need someone strong but gentle who can temper her particular brand of crazy. We know little to nothing about Nïx’s life before her relatively recent insanity took hold outside of the brief glimpses of memory we saw in Lothaire.

[What's ahead for Nix?...]

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Broken, Dirty, and Tempted: Megan Hart’s Incredible Prose

Tori Benson — Tue, 09 Apr 2013 16:30:00 +0000

When talking about erotic romance authors, Megan Hart is a name that comes to mind immediately. But she's not just an erotic author; she's written mainstream fiction as well. The consistency from this prolific author is that no matter the genre, she creates characters and stories that can—and have—break hearts and cause sleepless nights.

What is her appeal? For me, it’s the dichotomy of her characters. She wields her pen like a scalpel, methodically dissecting the heart of her characters in soul-searching, emotionally fragile stories that focus on more than just a mainstream relationship. Strong characterization and smooth, forceful writing epitomize her style. Hart forces us—and her characters—to examine personal motivations as well as the motivations of others. She sets us up in front of a metaphorical mirror and encourages—no, demands—that, while we may lie to others, we never lie to ourselves.

Each individual’s story haunts their actions and foreshadows their words as we are given an intimate tour through their relationship and a first-hand look at the highs and lows that can occur when we try to love one another for the wrong reasons. Some readers are turned off by the brutal honesty with which Hart chooses to view her characters and their decisions. Some readers feel cheated because Hart never promises a happy ending. In fact, her stories often end at a pivotal point, giving nothing more than a possibility. But isn’t that what life really is? Nothing more than possibilities? She can’t promise us all is well because relationships are always changing. They are constantly evolving, growing, and maturing. Sometimes the couple will grow together and sometimes the growth occurs once they part.

[It is what it is...]

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Lost Girl Season 3, Episode 12 Mini Recap: New Alliances

Jackie Lester — Tue, 09 Apr 2013 14:42:23 +0000

Kiersten Krum will be offering her analysis on this episode of Lost Girl tomorrow, but meanwhile, we thought we'd get the ball rolling on the latest in Bo's Merry Adventures by offering a first look at last night's episode 3.12, “Hail, Hale”:

*****SPOILERS*****

We start this week off with Bo busting into Lauren’s place with Dyson right behind her. She calls out to Lauren, immediately apologizing for the B&E, but gets no response. They’re looking for clues to the Doc’s whereabouts, and boom! Before my clock hits the one-minute mark Bo confirms to Dyson that it is in fact not just 'a break'. Also, in an effort at scene and word conservation, Dyson addresses that he’s working on his biggest case, like, ever, and it’s inauguration day. Talk about cramming it all in quickly!

Meanwhile, over at the Dal...or is it? Trick is happy as could be, claiming his being hard on Hale, his protegé, has guided him in a great new direction for the Light. Kenzi scoffs at Trick, and questions Hale’s, uh, attitude. Trick warns Kenzi not to offer that opinion too freely around the Fae guests. She is a lowly human, after all. The Morrigan walks in, dissing the decor and saying she was invited to the shindig by Hale. Kenzi mouths off, despite the warning she got only a moment ago. I can’t see that boding well for her. Plus, Hale didn’t seem to like her comment much either.

[Caution may not be such a bad thing, Kenzi...]

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Spring Marches into E-Books: Newly Digitized Titles for Your E-Reader

Laurie Gold — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 18:00:00 +0000

As the number of those of us reading digitally continues to grow, more and more backlist titles are becoming available in e-book form. Grand Central, for instance, recently began to digitally publish 25 of Sandra Brown’s backlist titles. Slow Heat in Heaven, a much loved romance first published in 1988, was published as an e-book at the end of February, along with four other titles from her backlist. Four of her suspense/romantic suspense backlist books go on sale in April: Where There’s Smoke, Standoff, French Silk, and Charade, with four more on sale in June, and four more in August. In December, nine of her romance backlist titles will be reissued as e-books, including her very first book, Love’s Encore (originally published under the name Rachel Ryan in 1981). I’m not a particular fan of Brown—I thought Slow Heat in Heaven incredibly overwrought—but according to Publishers Weekly, Grand Central is pricing these reissues well, from $1.99 to $4.99.

In digital terms, Diana Gabaldon is also having a big month in April. Random House has bundled together her three Lord John books—Lord John and the Private Matter, Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade, and The Scottish Prisoner—and Lord John and the Hand of Devils, her Lord John anthology. The cover image shown for this compilation at Amazon indicates it’s on sale for 20% off, but it doesn’t look like a particular bargain. Random House has set the price as $31.99, but it may actually sell for less once it’s actually on sale on April 8th.

[What else is new to digital?...]

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Game of Thrones Season 3, Episode 2 Recap: Out of the Frying Pan...

Regina Thorne — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 16:22:04 +0000

Finally, Game of Thrones Season 3 is here! Need to catch up first? Don't miss Regina Thorne's Season 2 refresher or her recap of last week's episode 3.01. And now, onto last night's episode 3.02, “Dark Wings, Dark Words.”

*****SPOILERS*****

The Season 3 premiere of Game of Thrones brought us up to speed with a lot of our favorites, but some characters were conspicuously absent last week. Never fear! Arya, Jaime, Brienne, Bran et al. returned to us in fine style last night, along with the fearsome and awesome Lady Olenna Tyrell, Westeros’s answer to the Dowager Countess of Grantham.

Let’s begin in King’s Landing because that’s where the action is (if by action, we mean fashion and awesome old ladies, and I do!) Speaking of fashion, Joffrey tries on new clothes in a blatant attempt to impress the fashion-forward Margaery Tyrell. None of them suit him, and Joffrey insists that everything is wrong. Cersei tries to figure out Joffrey’s feelings for Margaery given his behavior at her dinner party in the last episode, and finally flat out tells Joff that Margaery is a schemer who’s plotting against him. Joffrey tells her that “intelligent women do what they’re told” and I wish Cersei would haul off and slap him again. Alas! I think the only person with the chutzpah to do that now is probably Tywin.

[And now that's on my wish list...]

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Author Lauren Willig on Romantic Timing

Lauren Willig — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 13:45:00 +0000

Today, we're pleased to welcome author Lauren Willig to Heroes and Heartbreakers. Lauren's book, The Ashford Affair, takes place during two different time periods and two different couples—with one shared secret. Today, we've asked her to talk about timing in romance, something that is crucial to getting to that Happy Ever After. Thanks, Lauren!

You know how they say in real estate that it’s all location, location, location? In romance, it never does to underestimate the importance of timing, timing, timing.

Timing works in mysterious ways. I have a good friend who is convinced that the only reason she managed to get together with her fiancé is because they started dating two weeks before she left the country for a year’s stint abroad. Twice shy, most of her relationships tended to end after a month or so. By the time she got back to the States, after twelve months of Skype and emails, she was already deeply committed, without being quite sure how it had happened.

We all have these stories: the chance meeting, the timing that shouldn’t have worked, but did. But what happens when the right people meet at the wrong time?

[Timing is everything...]

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I Don’t Need a Hero: The Kick-Ass Heroines of Gaming

Christopher Morgan — Sat, 06 Apr 2013 18:00:00 +0000

Recently, game writer Ann Lemay wrote about how creating engaging female characters really shouldn't be an issue in regards to video games. (Her argument was covered pretty well by Jezebel.) As someone who does play video games, and has done so since Mario first saved Peach, I'd like to tell the gaming industry to get over themselves and their male-centric universe already.

One of the men behind the upcoming game, Remember Me, which stars a female protagonist, put it best. When asked about his heroine having a romantic interest in the game, and whether by having that heroine kiss a man he would be alienating his players, he answered with something along the lines of “if your sexuality is challenged by a character in a story you probably have bigger problems.”

I'd argue that games have been messing with our heads and playing with our concepts of gender and trope for a while now, whether or not us guy gamers would like to acknowledge that. So I've taken it upon myself to bring together a list of relatively recent and/or famous characters that any gamer should be familiar with and showing how those characters completly subvert the standard tropes. If you are a gamer, chime in, and if not and you know one, don't be scared of them. Often the stories behind these games are just as good as a favorite book. That being said, let's talk heroines.

[Let the games begin and all that…]

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Poll: Who Do You Visualize When You’re Reading Romance?

Team H & H — Sat, 06 Apr 2013 14:00:00 +0000

Recently around the hallowed halls of Heroes and Heartbreakers HQ, we've been talking about inspiration for romance novel heroes. In a recent Morning Coffee, we talked about Real-Life People as Romance Characters, and it was revealed that many authors use real actors and actresses as inspiration for their characters. Some reveal this on their websites or Twitter and some even have whole boards devoted to actors that inspired them on Pinterest.

When you're reading a romance novel, do you visualize anyone in particular, or do you just stick to how the author describes them? Do you ever visualize someone from your personal life—maybe a husband/boyfriend, your office crush, or even the mailman?

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Friday Beefcake: Kit Harington

Team H & H — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 20:30:00 +0000

On Sunday, we saw the return of Game of Thrones. As in season's past, we've loved the Jon Snow and we're looking forward to his part growing this season—we just hope he makes it until the end. Fans of the show know that no one is safe if someone has an axe, a sword, an arrow or even molten gold.

We've pretty much seen Jon Snow exclusively in fur, fur, and more fur, but hopefully this picture reminds you of all the yumminess underneath. Enjoy!

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Imperfectly Yours: The Perfection of Heroines

Leigh Davis — Thu, 04 Apr 2013 17:30:00 +0000

Perfect romance heroines—you've got to love them, right? Or maybe you don’t. For many decades I had a preference for the perfect heroine. Gorgeous—check. Kind, caring, generous, compassionate—check. Intelligent, clever, witty plus assertive, but forgiving—check again. And of course it is a given that she loves animals. Having all these attributes seemed like the guaranteed recipe for success and happiness. This was my heroine prototype and influenced my buying criteria, at least in romance books, for years.

Then some favorite authors starting shaking things up a bit. Perhaps it was because the audience’s preference was changing or if the authors just got tired of writing the same thing. Nora Roberts in her romance trilogies tended to write about three types of women, and one was always the gorgeous one. But what happens if the gorgeous one, like Margo from Daring to Dream, has affairs with married men—not because she was madly in love but because of a bit of materialism and self-centeredness? Susan Elizabeth Phillips unsettled me with Sugar Beth Carey in Ain’t She Sweet. Wow, Sugar Beth could have written the book on mean girls. No spoilers, but I can’t imagine going back to school if I had experienced the bathroom scene. Again, this book left me ambivalent and confused. Where were my perfect heroines? But over time, the imperfect heroine got me hooked.

Venturing into other genres and looking for different types of heroines got me out of my perfect rut. There were some that didn't work; for example, quiet, shy and plain characters are not interesting if the conflict is solely about their looks and low self-esteem. Some chick-lit books like Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic series and books similar to Bridget Jones's Diary hit a little too close to home.

[What type of heroine most intrigues you?...]

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Cover Alert: Gena Showalter’s Black and Blue!

Team H & H — Thu, 04 Apr 2013 16:21:46 +0000

Gena Showalter has just revealed the cover for her next release, Black and Blue, on her Facebook page. Isn't it a striking cover?

HE IS EVERY WOMAN’S FANTASY...
Corbin Blue is a man of many talents. One of the most powerful otherworlders ever born, he is wealthy, a professional football star, and a legend in the bedroom. But only a select few know he is also a black ops agent...and there is no better killer. When he and his crew are attacked and separated, he’s forced to turn to his boss’s daughter for help―a woman with even more secrets than Blue.

Read about Corbin's heroine at Gena Showalter's Facebook page...

Black and Blue will be out in October 2013.

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Return to Sender: Why Return E-Books?

Megan Frampton — Thu, 04 Apr 2013 12:20:00 +0000

A petition posted at Change.org is requesting that e-retailer giant Amazon change its ebook return policy since it seems some readers are purchasing ebooks and returning them within seven days, which is Amazon's grace period for returns. The petition points out that seven days is more than enough time to read a book and then return it, similar to when you purchase a fancy dress for an event and you return it to the store the next day after wearing it.

Of course there are legitimate reasons for returning an ebook—so if you have returned one, why did you?

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The Things They Read for Love: Recommended Reading for the Characters in Game of Thrones

Regina Thorne — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 20:30:00 +0000

Our reading matter says a lot about who we are, which is why recommending books to friends is such a nervewracking process. What if my friends hate my favorite characters or think I'm a weirdo for loving something in the first place? None of these worries apply to fictional characters, though, so here's what happened when our favorite characters from Westeros were let loose in a bookstore, and told to choose one book to pass the time between betrayals, beheadings and sexposition.

Cersei Lannister picked Madonna of the Seven Hills and Light on Lucrezia, Jean Plaidy’s duo of novels about Lucrezia Borgia. For obvious reasons, Cersei identifies heavily with Lucrezia!

Jaime Lannister was initially tempted by Kristin Hannah’s The Things We Do for Love, but settled on Evelyn Waugh’s Sword of Honour trilogy, featuring Guy Crouchback, an idealist who discovers that war is hell. Based on Waugh’s own experiences during World War II, there are also hilarious moments in the books as well as great poignancy.

[These choices sound fitting so far...]

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Lost Girl Season 3, Episode 11 Recap: Succubus and the Witches of Faewick

Kiersten Hallie Krum — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 16:17:56 +0000

Thank fae—Lost Girl Season 3 is here! Be sure to check out all of our recaps, from Season 1 and Season 2 to the most recent episode of Season 3 aired in the U.S. on the SyFy Channel.

Editor's Note: A shorter recap of Jackie Lester's thoughts on the episode was posted yesterday and can be found HERE. And now, on to Kiersten's play-by-play of Lost Girl 3.11, “Adventures in Fae-bysitting.”

At Hilton Hovel (drink!), Bo and Kenzi sit on the couch watching a slasher movie and bitching about the TSTL heroine. “Aaaannnddd cue the blonde in the baby doll dress walking into the woods…ah-lone!” Kenzi mocks. She settles back against Bo’s shoulder. “Human sashimi anyone?” Bo notes that she could rescue said blonde so easily. “Yes, yes, you can chi-suck yourself to victory,” Kenzi deadpans as she chomps down on popcorn. “You are a superstar. You really can do anything.” Anything except fix her relationship, Bo snarks and Kenzi agrees. “You suck at coupledom.” Truer words may never have been spoken on this show. Bo, however, takes mild affront. “I think what you meant was, ‘no worries, BoBo, you’re just on a break’?” Kenzi is right there with additional mockery as she replies, “Totes what I meant. Love conquers all. Soul mates for life. Carpe Lauren.” Let’s not go too far there, Kenz.

Bo fights back with more than a little sneer as she asks when the last time was that Kenzi had a date. “Dating’s so not a thing anymore,” Kenzi pffts. “It’s all about group hangs.” Actually, that would probably work better for Bo.

[Isn't that the truth...]

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Exclusive Cover Reveal: Donna Grant’s Midnight’s Promise!

Team H & H — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 13:30:28 +0000

H&H is delighted to reveal the cover for Donna Grant's upcoming release in her Dark Warriors series, Midnight's Promise. We're hoping the promise is that the tattooed guy on the cover promised to remove his undershirt! Here's the blurb:

HEART OF STONE
For centuries, Malcolm has struggled against the forces of darkness—and bears the scars to prove it. Hardened by a lifetime of fighting, he is more warrior than man, incapable of feeling love or compassion. But one stormy night, he pulls a beautiful woman from a car wreck—and experiences a rush of fiery emotion that could melt even the hardest of hearts.
TOUCH OF MAGIC
Since childhood, Evangeline Walker has felt the magic growing inside her. Descended from Druids, she is the perfect vessel for ancient magic—and evil. Evie knows she should trust no one, not even Malcolm, whose strong touch and tender kiss she craves. But after she makes a devil’s bargain to save her half-brother, this fearsome warrior may be the only man who can protect her—with his heart, his body, and his soul…

Midnight's Promise will be available on October 29, 2013.

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Avengers (News) Assemble!: News from the Marvel Cinematic Universe’s Phase 2

Christopher Morgan — Tue, 02 Apr 2013 21:15:00 +0000

I suppose that you could say that we here at Heroes and Heartbreakers are…fans of the Avengers and the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Whether it's the attraction between a pair of spies (Black Widow/Hawkeye, a.k.a. Clint/Natasha), or how comic book heroes make the perfect romance hero (or was that the other way around?) we are totally on board with the next slate of Avengers movies, which will be known as the Marvel Cinematic Universe's Phase 2. So to say that we are thrilled about this flurry of news that's hit the Internet recently about a certain spangly-suited captain is a bit of an understatement. Here's what we know:

Robert Redford (You read that right: ROBERT. REDFORD.) has reportedly been cast as a new high-ranking official in super-secret spy organization, SHIELD, for the upcoming Captain America: Winter Soldier. The rumor is that he will be playing a mysterious man named Pierce, possibly a replacement for Samuel L. Jackson's Nick Fury as head of the organization. We here can only speculate that it might be a result of the…disrespect… Fury was showing the mysterious Council at the close of The Avengers. (via Spinoff Online)
Concept art from Winter Soldier was also released today showing Golden Boy Steve Rogers fighting a certain cybernetically armed enemy. Without spoiling it for non-comic readers, this conflict should prove to be very interesting for the Soldier Out of Time. (via The Mary Sue )
And finally, it's comforting to know that the Captain America sequel is officially filming as of today in Los Angeles. (via On Location Vacation)

That's all that we have for now. I know I'm excited about the upcoming Captain sequel—more so than Iron Man 3 or The Wolverine, but then I have a bit of a soft spot for Steve. What about you, are you looking forward to more Chris Evans as Captain America time? Robert Downey Jr. as Tony Stark? The Chris Hemsworth and Tom Hiddleston Thor/Loki connection?

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