Burn Her They Said Cherish Wright (The Anomalies of Ampara Deicra, #1) Publication date: June 26th 2026 Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Romance
In a land where Dragons are revered like Gods, a witch and her guards must risk it all.
Witches in Ampara Deicra are required to use their powers of emotional influence to benefit sorcerers. None so much as Tasch—a witch born during the Anomaly, when environmental changes caused her magic to develop unmatched abilities.
Taken by the Emperor to manage his mood, she has served by his side since early childhood. Granted the title of Imperial Grand Witch, she is protected by the strongest sorcerers in each form of magic—all Anomalies, like her—with powers beyond any before or after them.
Until a sorcerer named Varic develops abilities surpassing Tasch’s Lead Guard. A fact which the Emperor denies by hiding Varic within the Imperial Army.
Where Varic is made to grow his strength past the point he can contain it, and requires Tasch’s magic to overcome the grief of his magic causing the worst known catastrophe. They fall in love in their time together—and forge a connection which is highly forbidden.
Over time Tasch’s powers fade, rather than strengthen, while the Emperor’s greed escalates the need for resources among bordering lands, who increase their attacks on the Imperial Palace. Fearing the worst, Emperor Aldritch assigns Varic to oversee Tasch’s detail, placing the two beings who must hide their feelings mere inches from each other.
With the highest stakes they’ve ever encountered, can Tasch’s Guards save her and the citizens, with the help of their bonded Dragons?
For fans of Anathema, Dragonfall, and A Discovery of Witches comes the tale of a burnt-out witch in her thirties who is trying to survive long enough to save the citizens from their power-hungry Emperor, with the help of her Guards and the Dragons they share a bond.
The Crown of Moonlight Martina Boone (The Five Crowns, #1) Publication date: November 11th 2025 Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Romance
She’s the Highlander who saves his life with forbidden magic. He’s the immortal stranger who falls first—one healing touch, one fierce kindness at a time.
A romantic fantasy inspired by Scottish history, where the land itself is magic and chooses a woman as its champion.
Flora Domhnall is the last of her line: a healer, a strategist, her clan’s only defence in a war neither side can win. When she finds a dying immortal warrior in her woods, saving him is a terrible risk. But if he dies on her land, her clan will pay the price.
Her choice binds her fate to his.
Chyr has spent four centuries chained by the oaths carved into his flesh—oaths that read his every thought. Violence and honour are all he knows, and Flora’s brave, impossible mercy breaks him open.
Hunted across the burning Highlands, they can rely only on each other. Their longing grows with every mile they share a saddle, every sacrifice made in silence, and every night they guard each other in the dark.
He’s hopelessly fallen. She’s fighting not to fall.
Then the ancient sovereignty magic of the Cailleach Queens awakens in Flora—and marks her as something the world hasn’t seen in four hundred years.
And Chyr’s oaths may demand he destroy the one person he can’t bear to lose.
For her, he’ll try to break his oaths. Even if it kills him.
From award-winning author Martina Boone, The Crown of Moonlight is a mythic Celtic romantasy perfect for readers who love the haunting historical romance of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander, the soul-deep yearning of Rebecca Ross, and the dark, aching magic of Rachel Gillig’s One Dark Window. The first book in a sweeping series about ancient crowns, impossible oaths, and a love that must survive betrayal, war, and the gods themselves.
My knees shake as I crouch beside the nearest Ever, and a hot flush of magic ripples across my skin. More magic than I’ve ever felt. But that’s not the only shock. Although the ancient tales talk about the beauty of the Everfolk, seeing it in front of me makes my breath catch.
The Ever is handsome in a way that explains the warnings in the ancient stories—the blinding, dangerous sort of beauty that’s said to make humans lose their will and descend into madness. His features are too eerily perfect, his black hair has the gleam of raven’s wings, and the blue eyes that look unseeingly into the sky catch the light like layers of stained glass, revealing more colours the deeper I look.
His sightless stare unnerves me, and I brush my fingers across his lids to close them. The skin is still warm. I flinch from the contact, and my hand grazes a pale-blue crystal set in a ring on his right hand.
A jolt of pure power jars me as I touch it—so hot and bright that it pulls an answering flare from the ember of magic that burns inside me. Snatching my hand away, I wait for the sensation to ebb. But I miss it when it’s gone. My magic misses it, which makes no sense since my magic isn’t Ever magic. Careful not to touch the ring again, I bend closer to examine the crystal set within it. There’s movement inside, gold threads of magic dancing like lightning behind a thin haze of cloud.
The movement is mesmerising, holding me captive a moment too long after Ari snorts and stomps his foot. By the time the thud and the jingling of his bridle finally register, his muscles are braced as he uses his back to pull harder against the reins that tie him to the tree.
Then a twig snaps somewhere close. Behind me? To the left?
I spin around, searching. But there’s nothing. No one.
Well, I refuse to play this game.
“Who’s there? Come out and show yourself instead of hiding like a coward.”
The Wood falls unnaturally still. Then shadows stir beneath an oak tree to my left.
“I know you’re there,” I say, gripping the dagger tighter.
A voice answers me from the shadows. “Careful, little one. Taunt the things you fear, and you might just prove you were right to be afraid.”
The voice is male—slow and resonant, pitched between a growl and a cat’s deep purr. A predator’s voice, claws barely sheathed.
A shiver of awareness ripples down my spine. I draw on the cool, gritty power of the earth and fuse it with the fire that burns inside me. Needles of magic rake through bone and tissue as I force it outward, pouring it into the dagger. The blade groans, lengthening and thickening until it becomes a perfect replica of my father’s sword and rests cold, heavy, and steadying within my grasp.
An Ever steps forward, his figure cloaked in gloom, footsteps whispering over the frost-crusted moss. He’s larger than the bodies behind me seemed, taller and broader, his features carved in bold strokes beneath gilded hair that’s tied half-up in a warrior’s knot and reveals a widow’s peak. He looks gaunt, worn down, though power and command still radiate from him. He’s every bit as beautiful as the others—and devastatingly male.
He watches me with a faint, treacherous smile. “You can put that illusion away,” he says. “You’re lucky I didn’t mistake it for a threat.”
“The sword is no illusion,” I say, “and the threat is no mistake.”
Author Bio:
Martina Boone is the award-winning author of romantic fiction set in magical places. Her books blend lush writing, strong heroines, wounded heroes, atmospheric landscapes, history, folklore, family secrets, and magic woven through the ordinary world. When she isn’t writing, she can usually be found traveling, reading, studying history and folklore, wrangling wildflower meadows, or playing with Shetland Sheepdogs and tuxedo cats.
I didn’t join the force to play dress-up in designer heels and
pretend to be someone’s girlfriend, but apparently life has a twisted
sense of humor. And mine comes with a six-foot-something ego, a movie-star
smile, and a peculiar knack for getting under my skin.
Marco Dal Santo is everything I don’t trust: cocky, charming, reckless,
and way too comfortable in a world built on smoke and mirrors. I’m
supposed to use him to get close to people who hide crimes behind champagne
and expensive suits. He’s supposed to be a means to an end. Convenient.
Temporary. And fake.
But there’s one small problem. It doesn’t really feel fake because
every time he touches me, every time he pushes past my defenses and makes me
feel something real, I forget that we’re supposed to be pretending.
Somewhere between the staged kisses and very real arguments, the lines get
blurred, and I can’t tell what’s part of the job…and what
isn’t.
We’re caught up in a world where one wrong move can get us killed, yet
I’m starting to realize the most dangerous part of this case isn’t
the criminals we’re chasing.
It’s him.
Because if anyone finds out I’m developing genuine feeling for my fake
boyfriend, I’ll lose my badge, my mentor’s trust, and possibly my
heart in the process.
So yeah…I’m in way over my head.
And the worst part?
I’m not sure I want to be rescued.
Trigger warning: Gun violence, trauma victim and grief.
About the Author
Number cruncher by day, raging romance novelist by night;
Jacqueline’s creative inspiration stems from romance and all its
literary and rom-com depictions. Matters of the heart are what fascinates her,
because ultimately, what makes a life out of – what would ordinarily be a
typical existence – is Love
Makerborn Daymon Ashcord (Maladies of Empire, #1) Publication date: June 15th 2026 Genres: Adult, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy
The God War is over. An empire built on suffering, slavery, and betrayal remains…
In the fractured lands of the Salvian Empire, the Great Houses rule through blood and fear. For years, Alandra Phoenyka has hunted powerful Sonomancers in the empire’s name, paid in empty promises that her stolen daughter would be returned. Each step forward demands another compromise. Another betrayal. Another piece of herself lost.
When those promises turn to treachery, she is forced to take matters into her own hands and risk everything to reclaim her child.
In the empire’s mining camps, Bez Windstrider has endured years of torture and brutal experimentation. Broken but unyielding, he clings to one purpose: vengeance. The men who murdered his parents will pay, and their deaths will complete the ritual needed to free his parents’ souls from damnation.
But the deeper his grief cuts, the more he becomes something far more dangerous, for himself and for the empire.
As their paths draw closer, the buried truths of the God War begin to surface. What begins as two personal vendettas threatens to unravel something far greater than either of them can control.
Because empires do not fall quietly.
And the gods that shaped them are not as dead as they seem.
Makerborn is the first book in the Maladies of Empire series, a brutal epic dark fantasy of vengeance, sacrifice, and the cost of love.
For readers of dark, character-driven epic fantasy in the vein of Joe Abercrombie, Mark Lawrence, R.F. Kuang, Evan Winter, and Steven Erikson.
Bez woke in darkness, deep in a pit, having failed his parents yet again. The night air was heavy and damp. The acrid stench of feces had lessened, but his nose still burned with the stink of decay. He felt like he would never wash the smell from his body. What does it matter now?
The moist earth offered scant relief from the Southern Waste’s merciless heat. Sweat slicked his body. His skin felt on fire, reminding him of how the Salvians slowly roasted meat on spits. He pinched his right nostril and blew out a thick wad of phlegm.
How long? How squalling long have they left me down here to rot?
He traced fine grooves in the earthy wall of his cage with long, dirty fingernails. Twenty-seven days he’d scratched before he’d given up counting. Then the real fun began. Weeks of wading in his own shit like a rutting hog once the pit guards had stopped retrieving his privy bucket. Weeks more of starvation when the obvious solution to avoid living in a hog pen penetrated his addled mind: no food, no feces. His only companions were self-pity, nightmares, and maggots gorging on his noxious filth.
And the moans of indentured miners, likely years past their freedom date, and Collared All-Tribe—his people—drifting down in his dirt tomb.
“Water,” cried a pit prisoner.
“Bread, just a heel of bread for Seal’s sake,” whined another.
“It was Tuftson,” someone sniveled. “He made me do it. It was him. Please, let me out.”
“Shut your gobs!” bellowed a voice.
The sounds washed over him, had become part of him, familiar as his gnawing hunger or the ever-present worms wriggling against his hot skin. Even without starlight, his people’s blessed vision allowed him to penetrate the mirk. He watched his sunken stomach rise and fall. Each rib pressed against his skin. Sour spit filled his mouth.
He wasn’t surprised that an army of worms assaulted the sides of his stomach and shoulders while he dozed. The slimy little grubs coated him with a sticky sludge, but he was past caring. Hands trembling, he brushed the vanguard away that had reached his chest. His legs were a lost cause. Scores of grubs covered them so only his toes peeked out.
Bez yawned. Heat-induced spans of intermittent sleep kept him drowsy and muddled. Sometimes his parents sat beside him in the dirt, back from the dead, singing and laughing. Other times, he was in the mountains climbing crags, or swimming in crystalline lakes so clear he could see rocks at the bottom. Moments ago, he was a boy again, running barefoot with his cousins through Uncle Darian’s fields, the tall grass whipping at his legs. Then a cry from a prisoner or the damp air clogging his nose had awakened him, shattering the vision. What was real or imagined blurred. Maybe I’m with my uncle still and the pit is only a nightmare.
Hesitantly, he stretched his hands to either side, fingertips brushing the cool, root-tangled walls. Feet firmly pressed against damp earth. Not a nightmare. He moaned like a wounded animal.
“Guardian spirits above,” he wheezed, not wiping the hot tears streaking down his cheek. “There’s no way out.”
But that was a lie. There was a way. His fingers searched for the gouge in the wall, finding the sharp-edged shard of obsidian he’d hidden there. My final escape.
He pried it free, hand shaking, and pressed the jagged edge against the soft flesh of his right wrist. A bead of blood sprang from the tip.
“I’ll do it this time,” he said to the crude face carved into the wall. A pause. “I know that’s what I said last time. By the All-Spirit, I can’t—” His throat tightened. “I can’t take it anymore.”
“Enjoying your new home, demon-blood?” asked an unwelcome voice from the pit’s metal cage above.
“Dorota,” he rasped, tongue clumsy from disuse. “What a pleasure.”
He hated Yan’s henchwoman, but at that moment, his life in the balance, he clung to her words like a drowning man to driftwood.
Her chuckles echoed in the earthy tomb. “Liar. Play it friendly as you like, slit-eyes, but we both know what you are.” She crouched, damp hair plastered to her face, mouth hooked in a grin that never reached her eyes. “I saw the demon in you when we caught you on that ridge. Thought you were clever, didn’t you? Thought the aqueduct workers wouldn’t notice you and your two friends? What is the count? Your third?”
It was his fourth failed attempt to escape the Makersmetal mining camp, but he didn’t bother correcting the murdering bitch. I failed them just like my parents. Tala dead. Marcel beaten or worse. Anelia missing. And Bez… well, he would die in darkness, dooming his parents’ souls to wander the Shadowlands forever, never to reunite with their ancestors. He choked down a sob, not wanting to give her any satisfaction seeing him broken.
Author Bio:
Daymon Ashcord writes dark fantasy shaped by suffering, resilience, and the brutal edges of love pushed too far.
Born in Gdańsk, Poland, and raised in New York, he grew up on science fiction, fantasy, and the stories that linger long after the final page. After studying accounting and public policy, he left a conventional path to travel the world and create a documentary, turning storytelling into something essential.
His debut novel, Makerborn (2026), reflects years of persistence, personal setbacks, and a fascination with the darker truths people endure to survive.
He lives in North Carolina, hiking mountains by day and writing by night. He is considering adopting a dog, a cat, or both, and suspects they would judge him harshly.
Rory Ó Conchúir has always known that she was destined for war. Her deadly gifts, the unwanted inheritance of her ancestor, the Mórrígan, can only be wielded as a weapon of destruction and doom. For years, she would not allow herself to be used as such, instead choosing to live far across the sea, refusing to regret what she has left behind in order to do so…until the fateful day that she learns of the price she has paid for her peace.
Niall Ó Flannagáin, the young king of Connacht, was never meant for war — that has always been his half-sister, Rory’s, role. But now he finds himself threatened with a foreign invasion and the ruination of the realm, without her aid. In desperation, he turns to a powerful enemy as an ally, his only hope to unite the provinces against the foreign armies gathering even now to destroy the land he has sworn to protect.
Locke MacMurchada, the son of the most hated traitor in all of Éire, owes a debt that he knows he can never pay. But when the opportunity to propose a political marriage with the murderous Rory Ó Conchúir arises, he seizes the chance to protect what is left of both his people, as well as the legacy which his father ripped to shreds…so long as she doesn’t kill him first.
When the fateful day of doom at last arrives, the fates of all three royals – the cursed princess, the young king, and the traitor prince – become inextricably woven together, forcing them to face new threats and old enemies, hoping to forge a stronger Éire from the ashes of the old.
Content Warnings:
Frequent depictions of war & battle scenes
Graphic descriptions of torture & death
Loss of a family member
Discussions of grief & self-hatred
On-page death of major character
Christy Healy has been a book nerd ever since she was a little girl hiding under the covers with a flashlight and a dog-eared copy of Anne of Green Gables. She started writing soon after, and the obsession only grew. Now Christy weaves stories of her own into the myths and tales of the Celtic, Indo-European, and Greco-Roman worlds that she has loved for so long. When not lost in her fantasy worlds, she lives in North Carolina with her children, her dog, and her husband.
In 1940, Leo Butlion, a young Jew studying to be a medical doctor in
Koblenz, Germany, has his future plans disrupted when Nazi forces destroy his
family and their business. His heroic escape and commitment to survive drive
him to overcome the greatest test man could ever encounter. Ivy Jacobson, a
deformed yet highly talented fashion designer, works in a textile factory in
Liege, Belgium that is ransacked by Nazi invaders. She escapes their brutality
and meets Leo. Leo explains the Hebrew word IYSH which means “champion” and
together they agree to persevere and champion the cause no matter how
difficult it becomes. Their heroism and tenacity unfold in dramatic fashion as
they are captured, separated and sent to concentration camps where their
future survival is unclear. The story develops from WWII until the Yom Kippur
War in 1973 which takes place in Israel.
About the Author
Greg Price is a writer, human resource expert and an ordained minister. He has
traveled extensively throughout the world and shares his experiences by
translating them into literary characters who inspire and motivate the reader.
Greg immigrated to the United States from south Africa and currently lives
with his wife in Mississippi.
The Ice Queen’s Shoes R.S. Kellogg (Breadcove Bay) Publication date: August 7th 2021 Genres: Adult, Fantasy
When missing your train could change everything…
Freshly graduated from Borealis University and reeling from a failed apprenticeship, Della only wants to get home. But a minor injury changes her route in magical ways and opens unexpected possibilities.
If you love atmospheric fantasy, subtle magic, and stories where a single moment can change a life, discover The Ice Queen’s Shoes today.
The Ice Queen’s Shoes is a FREE prequel story setting up the novel the Sea Queen’s Key, which will be releasing on Kickstarter soon. Follow the campaign at the link below to be notified when it goes live!
“It is my holiday,” the man sitting across from Della on the train said. “A short one. Two days. So, I suppose it’s going a little bit differently than how I’d envisioned.”
Della watched him carefully. Who had a holiday that lasted only two days? And, for that matter, what kind of a person had a holiday now? Her university had reached the end of its term, but most of the city wouldn’t go on holiday for another three weeks, and then the whole city basically would take a month off.
The old man must have read something in her questioning expression. “I’ve been working on a project,” he said. He looked a bit stressed as he said it, but there was also something a bit impish about him—Della liked him despite her natural distrust of strangers. He seemed avuncular, and she could tell by the unique worn smooth brown cloth of his clothing that he was one of the North Men, rarely sighted in the city of Breadcove Bay.
She was a little flattered by the focus of his attention.
It was going to take some time to get to where she was going, so she may as well spend the time in interesting conversation.
“Tell me about your project,” she said.
He grinned. It was all the encouragement he needed.
“Me and my men have been tracking something across the northern plains,” he said, with the flair of a natural storyteller. “And a week ago, it just got a little bit more interesting. But three days ago, the trail went cold, fast. So, me and the men, we decided a break was in order. We’d each take a two-day vacation, and start at it fresh again.”
“If you’re tracking something,” Della interjected, “Wouldn’t taking a break mean you’d risk the trail going cold?”
The man shook his head.
He looked smug, Della thought. Smug with the air of a man who has supreme confidence in his craft.
“It’s not a beast I’m tracking,” he said. “Not that kind of a being at all. The way tracking of this nature goes, first the trail goes cold, then, we take a break, and if we’re lucky, as we soften our approach to it, the perfect information will naturally show up.”
Curiosity piqued, Della tilted her head. “Naturally show up when you are nowhere near the trail of your prey? I ask you, what on earth are you tracking?”
She’d heard, of course, the legends: that North Men tracked animals, found lost humans, located lost camps and lost objects, and sometimes . . . rumor had it . . . tracked supernatural beings.
She wondered whether she’d happened upon a North Man in the middle of a fairy tale, feeling a bit like an explorer who has stumbled into a strange new environment, where the people might do something completely unexpected at any moment.
Staring at him as though she were watching a polar bear in the governor’s private animal enclosure, where she had been a guest at the winter party one year, she waited as he seemed to debate within himself whether to share with her any part of his tracking tale—and if so, how much.
“I’m tracking a lady,” he finally said, and Della roared with laughter.
The man jolted, clearly knocked off kilter by Della’s hearty response.
She didn’t have a delicate laugh. It was more like the way a man would laugh when he had bested everyone at a game of cards. And it would come out of nowhere.
She cocked an eyebrow at him, folding her arms. She didn’t care a twig how people responded to her laugh. They could take her or leave her.
Just as she could take or leave anyone who came across her path.
And at the moment, this was a person who was entertaining her.
“You’re tracking a woman?” she asked him. “Did she wander out into the north and get lost? Or are you trying to find a romance?”
She snorted and shook her head.
He looked wounded but still doggedly eager to pursue the conversation.
“I’m tracking a Sky Woman,” he said, and Della leaned forward intently, her smile instantly gone.
A Sky Woman.
That would be more akin to a goddess.
“Why are you tracking a Sky Woman?” she asked him.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s complicated,” he said. “But it’s part of the job of my family, and my men, to keep the balance between the Sky people of the north and the boundaries of the city. We have to make sure that neither side encroaches on the side of the other.”
She sighed. “That sounds like a big project.”
He nodded.
“How do you even begin to do something like that?” Della asked.
Author Bio:
R.S. Kellogg writes the Everyday Goddess Stories, the Mermaid Magic Tales, and fiction in the story realms of Breadcove Bay and Agratica, among other places.
A Jewel of a Crime: A Venus Bixby Mystery Valerie Taylor (Venus Bixby Mystery, #3) Publication date: June 2nd 2026 Genres: Adult, Cozy Mystery
Venus Bixby is ready for a fresh start. With green streaks in her hair and “Rock the Shamrock” polish on her nails, she’s sold her dance studio and set her sights on a glamorous second act: traveling the world to recover stolen art. But before she can book her first flight, she stumbles over the new studio owner’s dead body behind a drawn curtain.
In a town like Chatham Crossing, secrets don’t stay buried and gossip travels faster than the morning coffee line. Suddenly Venus is a suspect in a very public investigation. As she scrambles to clear her name, she uncovers a troubling secret from her late husband’s past: he purchased an emerald ring she’s never seen—and now it’s missing.
When a string of burglaries rattles the town, Venus begins to suspect the murder and the stolen emerald are connected. With rumors swirling, neighbors whispering, and her passport dreams slipping, she’ll need sharp instincts—and a dash of Irish luck—to catch the real culprit.
A Jewel of a Crime is a sparkling cozy mystery filled with small-town charm, amateur sleuthing, loyal cats, and twists that keep the pages turning. Includes cookie recipes and a nostalgic oldies playlist.
Rather than barge uninvited into the classroom looking for her, Gabby and I bided our time and hung out in the lobby. I shifted from one foot to the other while Gabby perused the business cards pinned to a brand-new combination whiteboard and corkboard.
“When I come back with that vase, I’ll bring a few business cards to tack up here.”
“Great idea!” I rifled through my purse until I found a couple of cards promoting Oldies & Goodies and Cats & Their Cradle. I affixed them to the cork and smiled. Part of me wondered whether Sam would take them down before anyone ever saw them.
Still no Margo. Did she not hear the bell when we entered a few minutes ago? Maybe not over Ol’ Blue Eyes. I considered writing a message on the whiteboard. I picked through the pens in the Tremont Regency Hotel mug on the desk, but there didn’t appear to be any of those dry-erase markers.
“Where could she be?” Gabby asked.
“Probably in the back. Should we check?”
I gently opened the glass door to the main classroom. A rush of crisp air reminded me how we’d kept the temperature in the low sixties so the students wouldn’t get overheated. The smell of fresh-cut grass suddenly wafted over me. My nose recognized dance floor wax, forcing me to stifle a sneeze.
The same song we heard when we walked into the lobby still played. Must be on a continuous loop. I listened closely. Ah, Frank was singing “Witchcraft.” An appropriate theme for the day.
The walls were painted a creamy shade of white. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined one wall and a row of barres ran parallel to the floor. The mirrors reflected framed images on the opposite wall. I turned to examine them up close. I walked along the wall, studying and touching each gently. Definitely Sam and Margo in their younger years.
This egotistical display was so unlike the studio Paul, and then I, owned. Our walls were proudly adorned with photographs of the young dancers who graced our ballroom.
Where are those pictures? Why didn’t they ask if I wanted them? What else did they keep from me?
“Margo?” I called.
Silence.
At the far end of the room, there was a royal purple floor-to-ceiling drape pulled closed across the width of the ballroom. As I walked toward it, I waved toward Gabby. “I’m gonna check back here.”
I noticed a universal restroom to my right. I motioned to Gabby. “You check in there.”
Then I drew back the curtain. “Never mind. Found her!” I cried out.
Author Bio:
Valerie Taylor lives in Connecticut and considers herself a typical “average Jane.” She might remind you of the reclusive neighbor who fancies herself a novelist. Unlike many of her peers whom she admires, she does NOT have a degree in literature. But she is the award-winning author of the romantic comedy trilogy: WHAT’S NOT SAID, WHAT’S NOT TRUE, and WHAT’S NOT LOST. The roots of those three novels, as well as the books in the Venus Bixby Mystery series—A WHALE OF A MURDER and SWITCHED AT DEATH and A JEWEL OF A CRIME—most likely took hold during her early years watching Carol Burnett, Jack Benny, Red Skelton, and The Twilight Zone. Her love of oldies music stems from hours listening and dancing to Elvis Presley and The Beatles, and being in the Bobby Darin fan club.
A Hundred Black Sunrises: A Friday the 13th Story Tamela Miles Publication date: March 13th 2026 Genres: Adult, Horror, Paranormal, Romance, Suspense
A hundred different ways to break your heart, a hundred different ways to take your last breath. Sienna and Finn are exploring their strange attraction to each other until strange becomes something sinister. The clock is ticking as they fight to unravel the mystery of what draws them together on fateful Friday, the 13th.
Tamela Miles is a school psychologist with an Ed.S and PPS credential and a graduate of California State University San Bernardino and California State University Dominguez Hills. She is also a former flight attendant. She grew up in Altadena, California in that tumultuous time known as the 1980s. She now resides with her family in the Inland Empire, CA. She’s a horror/paranormal romance writer mainly because it feels so good having her characters do bad things and, later, pondering what makes them so bad and why they can never seem to change their wicked ways.
Themes: Alien Encounters, Capture Fantasy, Dark Romance, LGBTQ+ Bisexual /Nonbinary /Transgender, Multicultural & Interracial, Multiple Partners, Second Edition, Shapeshifters
Series: Tales of the Quiet Kitty (#5)
Book Length: Box Set
Page Count: 278
Synopsis
These futuristic sci-fi tales are anything but quiet.
Board the Quiet Kitty Waveship and travel with Brant Sel, a Sh’Bahkyr Tygyr and his crew: Bevel-leveB, a Medusoid Jenari with a sentient cock, and Willa, a Sprite from the wounded planet Sparkle.
Brought together by fate, these three have common goals — to rescue and gather their lost peoples so they can take down the corrupt, brutal Corporation, run by the most evil beings in the three Galaxies… Humans.
The door opened and the sensor controlled walkway winked out beneath her weighted feet. Almost sorry to reach her destination — she so rarely had a chance to see daylight — Willa plodded heavily into the interview room, her small ankles locked into a pair of slaver’s cuffs. Head down, neck bowed, she flicked her eyes about in quick, furtive forays, taking in the room’s sparse furnishings: a six foot long cushioned slab and a straight-backed, armless chair. Noting the absence of tweezers, whips, electronic probes and other sadistic devices with a thankful sigh and a renewed sense of hope, she dared to sneak a quick glance at the room’s other occupant, determined to somehow influence him to take her with him. A harsh, swift breath lifted her full breasts and set her covering plumes to fluttering.
Before her stood a grey-skinned bi-pedal Being lounging at ease, his long slender hands resting on the upper horizontal bar of a tall-backed chair. He faced her, his nude body — tall, slim and muscular — displaying a total lack of self-consciousness. A thick mop of unruly platinum hair waved in the brush of an unseen — and unfelt — breeze, falling over his forehead to obscure his sightless silver eyes. His mouth hung open, allowing a nineteen-centimeter tongue, coated with cilia, to protrude slightly.
She identified the Being as a Jenari. A member of a race powerful enough to stand up to the Corporation, his kind usually did not travel in Corporate Space. Jenari rarely mingled with other races, remaining a mystery rarely seen among the Corporation’s citizenry. Because of this much speculation abounded regarding their peculiar genetic makeup.
She had heard enough about the genetically blind, Medusoid race to know the Jenari’s tongues served as their true “eyes.” With their tongues, they “tasted” the air, able to sense their environment more accurately than could most sighted persons.
Currently, the naked alien appeared nonchalant and relaxed. His posture broadcast his sense of control, his power over her in this private chamber, obviously unaware how easily that privacy — his privacy — had been breached. The so-called secure interrogation cubicle was anything but, her master having ordered it wired for video and sound, rendering it accessible and easily monitored by him.
The Jenari cocked his head toward her now, giving the impression of eyeing her askance, locating her so accurately, she almost doubted his sightlessness.
“Sso… you are Willa. Your masster tellss me he hass had you trained ass a SSexengineer… capable of keeping a Dinyar-classs Wavesship and a medium number of crew in tip-top orgassmic condition.”
The male’s sibilant words slid from his lips. He framed his sentences oddly, their cadence broken and rendered choppy by the repeated extrusion of his tongue. The cilia laden appendage darted out between every several words, sipping the air in her direction.
“You look much too fragile for ssuch sstrenuous work. A female of your delicassy sshould be cossseted and cared for… your cunt well conditioned with frequent usse… your ssweet cream churned with a long thick sspoon…”
Willa felt the Jenari’s thick voice, his dulcet tones, flowing over her, calming her jangling nerves. Her pussy, long denied any easing, dewed in response to the pictures his words painted. A strong compulsion beat at her, making her want nothing so much as to loll at his feet in adoration.
Strange, how clear his words are, given that he speaks using that crowded appendage… Oh, Drasarka — not so strange when he is attempting to mind-thrall me!
“Sparkle!”
With a negating shake of her head and an inward surge of disgust at the endless power-games of males, she threw up her mind blocks, easily winning free of the subliminal influence. Angered beyond thinking, she verbally blasted the alien, incensed he would try such a trick on her. “Your mind speak will not work on me, Jenari.”
She tossed her head, meeting his renewed mental challenge with a sneer. “I am a Sprite. I cannot be compelled by your voice, nor can your honeyed words thrall me.”
The alien’s wide mouth spread in a practised movement that aped a smile. “You are a fressh ssassy baggage! I can ssee why your masster ssayss you invite beatingss, sslave!” His lips closed in a thin line, concealing his tongue.
She cringed, damning her mouth and her loss of self-control. By Sparkle! When would she learn to keep her comments to herself? What would she do if her unruly anger lost her this chance of escape?
It had taken too long to convince her master she truly wished to serve his plans by spying for him. She had spent the long, grueling years learning about ship propulsion units, drive flux capacitors and other diverse technical entities for just such a chance as this: escape. During that time, she’d swallowed her gorge and taken the physical abuse and so-called sexual cruelties Lord Avron had doled out, never letting on how his milder tortures ignited her carnal hungers. She’d only slipped up once, but that lapse had proven costly.
Avron had somehow learned she needed his release — any partner’s release — inside her, needed the life-giving fluid of come washing the walls of her sex in order to flourish and grow a healthy set of pinions and fronds. Since that time, he’d kept her at the minimum edge of physical and psionic sexual starvation, taking pleasure in gauging what lengths she would go to, the degradations she would endure in order to receive a few drops of come.
Years of maneuvering, of posturing and subterfuge had paid off. Lately, unrest and political furor had escalated within the Corporation. Due to financial setbacks and personal miscalculations, Lord Avron had lost respect among his peers. The other Corporation Lords, like canker-phish — more deadly than the great blalor-sharks of Trofu that devoured their own young — hovered about, sniffing around his weakness, waiting for his failure. Her master had been forced to regroup, jettisoning some of his plans for advancement just to maintain his present lofty position among the powerful despots.
Unwilling to go outside his private power base to obtain help and whatever information he sought, it had been easy to convince him of her willingness to win the position as Sexengineer aboard the Quiet Kitty Waveship and garner information from its crew to transmit back to him. Why he had become obsessed with this vessel, she neither knew nor cared. All that concerned her lately was finding her scattered people. Sparkle called for her and its other children, its summons an imperative she could not ignore. Time was fast running out for her. If she messed this interview up, she knew Avron would kill her.
Belly roiling with resentment, she averted her face to hide her grimace and abased herself before the alien — probably her last chance at freedom. “I offer apologies to you, Gentle-Being. I beg you to take no offence.”
“Be at easse, Ssprite. I tesst all who sseek to sserve aboard my vesssel. No one sso eassily controlled iss welcomed aboard my Quiet Kitty. Let uss begin anew…”
One long arm extended palm up, in the manner of greeting peculiar to her slavers, the alien stepped from behind the chair, unerringly approaching Willa. “I am Bevel, masster of the Quiet Kitty Waveship.”
She choked, eyes riveted in desperate immediate hunger to his newly revealed sex. Obviously, her information loop had seriously failed to include some pertinent data…
Standing before her, hands extended, awaiting her acknowledgement of his greeting, the alien was an impressive sight. Or rather, the impressive sight was his more than ten inch penis swaying lazily between his grey muscular thighs. A darker grey than the rest of his skin, the Medusoid cock undulated back and forth, its serpent-like moves hypnotic, compelling, drawing her fascinated gaze.
A funny thing happened on the way to the grave… In 2006, Cammy was diagnosed with Pulmonary Sarcoidosis and given two weeks to live. She promptly discharged herself AMA — Against Medical Advice — since, as she stubbornly informed her doctors, she could die at home far more comfortably than at the hospital. But then… she got an idea for a new story. Then another, and another…
Fifteen years and dozens of fantastic tales later, Cammy passed quietly in her sleep, at home, as was her wish. We miss her. Her work lives on, and we hold her in our hearts. Cammy decided many years ago that upon her passing, she wished to donate her royalties to The Quiet Kitty fund, which helps authors with emergency medical expenses. We do, to keep her in our hearts and minds.
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