TEASER TUESDAY: Antler and Bone by Siondalin O’Craig #PNR #Fantasy


(Celtic Magic 5): Mabon –Autumnal Equinox


Paranormal / Fantasy / Women’s Fiction

Date Published: 09/15/2023

Publisher: Changeling Press LLC

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Maine artist Libby McNulty’s dreams are haunted by the terrifying Wild Hunt
of Celtic legend. As if that isn’t bad enough, the landlord threatens her
and her friends with eviction in order to turn their apartments into more
profitable condos.

Tom O’Sylvan is a reclusive combat vet who serves as the building manager.
When Libby discovers Tom is also the Huntsman, legendary leader of the Wild
Hunt, myth and ordinary life begin to collide. Can the two of them face
their demons to save each other from danger?



Copyright ©2023 Siondalin O’Craig


Libby McNulty reached a paint-spattered hand toward the chipped mug on the
counter, not turning her gaze from the six-foot-tall canvas standing on a
low easel. Her brush remained poised in the air. A drop of chartreuse paint
clung to its tip, quivering as if envious of the heavy raindrops splattering
the studio windows.

The image of the woman in the center of the canvas looked a lot like Libby,
or rather what Libby would have looked like if she were a goddess of the
hunt in medieval Ireland. The painted huntress wore a green velvet gown
instead of threadbare Lee jeans rolled up around her calves, and her auburn
ringlets bounced free under the canopy of autumn beech leaves, rather than
tucked haphazardly under a bandanna. In her left hand, the woman on the
canvas held a bow, while her right clenched an arrow rather than a
paintbrush. Their luminous chestnut eyes were exactly the same though;
alert, intent, seeing something beyond the edge of the picture.

Libby took a sip of her tea and grimaced. It had gone cold, and the milk
was sour. Its taste spread across her tongue and pulled her mind back inside
the white-washed wooden walls of her studio. She shivered.

The air was cold and damp, colder than it ought to be in September. Soon it
would be Mabon, the autumnal equinox, when the equal length of day and night
brought balance before the long winter slide, through the pumpkins and
trick-or-treating of Samhain, into the darkness of Yule on the longest night
of the year. Usually, the Mabon season meant sunny T-shirt days and warm
sweater nights, but the persistent rain this year had Libby shivering in her
plaid flannel shirt.

She set the mug back down on top of a folded letter pocked with tea stains.
The letter was signed by Dave Wolf, Vice President and Senior Partner of
James Carbill Real Property LLC. In other words, her landlord. It said
something about selling the building.

Despite the fact that she had a five-year lease with a renewal clause, the
letter made Libby uneasy. That lease had so much fine print, so many pages
she hadn’t read. Her anxiousness to sign something that said
she’d have a home and a place for her art for five years had her
putting blinders on, made her impatient.

She ran a chipped fingernail over the thick paper. It was signed in real
blue-black ink from an expensive fountain pen. Libby knew ink and pigments
better than leases; she made most of her own from bits of trees, flowers,
mushrooms, and stones that she gathered from the forest and rocky shore
surrounding this little town of Lisna, Maine. She was able to make ink and
paints from the plants and barks and stuff she found walking through the
woods — materials that were free to anyone who could read the land. Yet
that blessing was so easily used for evil rather than beauty. She pondered
how many people’s lives around the world had been changed, even
eliminated, by the stroke of ink on paper, wielded for power rather than

But I have my lease, Libby reminded herself again. They can’t kick me
out, at least not for another five years.
Over the drum of rain, Libby could
hear the creaking floorboards that rested overtop of her studio’s tin
ceiling, footsteps of her little band of apartment neighbors. Straight
overhead was the apartment of dear little KatieMor. Next to that, retired
lobsterman Jim Johnson lived with Mario Perkins. Jim with his cane and Mario
with his walker both relied on the Limerick Block elevator as the only way
they could stay living out their end days in their own hometown. Donna
Constantine, the librarian. The Halls, who had a business training
nonprofits how to organize. And Tom O’Sylvan — Tomayo — the building
manager. Libby often heard his distinctive footsteps heading down the stairs
and out the door late in the evening, his big black Irish wolfhound padding
by his side.

Fingering the triskele medallion she wore around her neck, Libby stepped
back and took another look at the painting. Behind the Libby-as-Huntress
stood a cloaked and hooded figure, its face obscured. They stood at the
edge-line between a harvested field and a late-autumn beech forest. The
Libby-Huntress looked off-canvas, toward where, in the real forest just
north of town that it was painted to resemble, a mysterious standing stone
jutted out of the ground in a mossy clearing. The stone — a foot taller
than Libby, and covered with a patchwork of pale green and orange lichens —
had become a grounding point for Libby in her many hours of wandering
through the woods, gathering fiddleheads, ramps, and nettles to eat, along
with oak galls and dyer’s polypore mushrooms to make ink and

That man whose face lay hidden below the dark hood haunted Libby’s
restless dreams. She could feel him now, pulling her out of her studio
again, out past the brick walls of the Limerick Block, beyond the small
bounds of the village of Lisna, back into the painting, back into the

The bright green drop of paint let go and landed with an audible plop on
one of Libby’s black canvas sneakers. Libby looked down.

I just need a good long walk, she thought. If only this rain would let up.
A few hours in the forest would set her back to rights, let her get some
sleep, some real sleep, a night without fractured bits of nightmare shocking
her awake. Visions of the stone, the hooded man, a hunt, and all-consuming


About the Author

Siondalin O’Craig writes romance with the slow burn of a peat fire on an
autumn night deep in the woodland hills. Sip a glass of Irish whiskey, turn
the page, and let the magic overtake you. Siondalin lives in the mountains
of New England where she walks under the trees celebrating the wheel of the
year, grows a luscious garden full of magical herbs, and plays a wicked
Irish fiddle. Follow her on Facebook and email her at
siondalinocraig@gmail.com to sign up for her newsletter.


Author’s Facebook

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TEASER: Taken by the Gorgon by Megan Slayer #ParanormalWomensFiction

Taken, Book 4


Paranormal Women’s Fiction

Date Published: August 11, 2023


Trudi wasn’t looking for a romantic partner when she stumbled on Nick
in the park, but the sweet man sure seems out of place in Eerie. He also
seems drawn to her. He might be the death of her, but he could also be her
soulmate if she’s willing to open her heart.

There’s just the tiny matter of her deathly stare.

Nick knows the moment he meets Trudi that he’s met his match. The
beautiful gorgon haunts his dreams and he can’t get enough of her
kiss. When she agrees to help him research his past and unravel his family
tree, he knows he can’t let her go.

As long as she doesn’t kill him…




“This has got to be the place.” Nick stopped at the edge of the
town. Eerie, Ohio. He stared at the sign and everything within him screamed
to get the hell out of there. He wasn’t much of a paranormal. He was
supposed to be the grandson of a gorgon, but honestly, he wasn’t even
sure. He’d come to Eerie in search of answers. His life didn’t
feel like his own and his family didn’t seem to want him around. Like
he wasn’t one of them. His father kept dropping hints that he needed
to find out where he’d come from, and now it was time to do

Shit. No one wanted a man who might or might not be a gorgon around. He
wasn’t seen as a trickster. He was the most serious person he knew. He
sucked at jokes, sucked at relaxing and was a disaster with relationships.
He didn’t know how to give over control.

He looked up at the sign again.



The best little town around.


Best little town. Ha! Maybe the place to find anything that didn’t
make sense. According to legend, the town was home to every paranormal
creature known to exist. Probably had a few the humans didn’t know
about, either.

If he was going to learn about his family and figure out who he was, then
he had to cross over. Had to go to the town hall and look up the records.
He’d have to face his past. He was the bastard son of a pair of
humans, so he’d been told. To be honest, the people he referred to as
his parents were actually his adoptive parents. The real ones were still a
bit of mystery to him.

His mother might or might not have been a human. His father was equally an
enigma. He might have been a gorgon, but he might not have been if Dino
wasn’t his true father. If Nick wanted to unravel the mess, he’d
have to go to Eerie.

He had no choice.

He forced himself forward because he needed those answers.

He drove into town and a shiver ran the length of his spine. He’d
heard stories about Eerie. If one didn’t have a drop of paranormal
blood, then one wasn’t going to get into town. He’d made it, so
he must’ve had something within him that allowed him passage. Was he
really a gorgon? Hell if he knew.

The only thing he knew about gorgons was what he read in books, scrolls and
on the Internet. The information freaked him out. Turning people to stone?
Who wanted to do that? But it made sense as to why he couldn’t seem to
keep a relationship. His girlfriends claimed he was hard to love. He
hadn’t really turned anyone to stone, though.

Supposedly, he might even be immortal. But if that was the case, he
didn’t buy it. If he was a gorgon, then why didn’t he have
snakes for hair? No, he had unruly curls that spent more time out of control
than in. He didn’t have scaly skin, either. He had freckles, but those
couldn’t count. His skin wasn’t golden, either. He did have a
mark on his back — he’d been told the mark looked like a pair of
wings – but he didn’t have an abnormally long tongue, like the
statues did.

According to the rumors, his mother was possibly Stheno, a monster and the
most dangerous of the gorgons, but if she was the fabled gorgon, was his
father a gorgon, too? Dino was, but none of the stories made sense.

If he’d had any idea, then he’d feel better about himself,
instead of being a walking disaster. One rumor claimed his parentage might
have even been from someone in the underworld. He did have a mark on his
chest that resembled a shield, but he had no idea what the shield might
represent. Some claimed he had sea creature within him. His grandfather
might have been a basilisk.

Anything was possible. He drove through town and felt oddly at home. Like
he’d always belonged here. Maybe he did.

He parked in a spot in the center of town, where the road ringed the park.
Children played on the equipment and caregivers sat on the benches. Unlike
the rest of the world, here he saw faeries, trolls, giants, witches and even
a couple elves.

What a remarkable place. No one had to hide what they were. No insults were
hurled. No laughing and pointing.

“I could belong here. I could.” Nick left the car and wandered
around the park, drinking in the images and view. He’d never seen such
lush plants and bright flowers. The laughter of children rang out in the
air, calming him. Where had Eerie been all his life?

He’d been stuck in the human world when he could’ve been
somewhere more welcoming.

“Excuse me? Can you tell me where the café is?” A woman
slid her gaze over him as she stepped into his path. “Aren’t you

He stopped short and stared at her. “I’m sorry.

“Where is the café?” She grinned. “You’re
quite handsome. Got a girlfriend?”

“Aren’t you forward?” He cleared his throat. “I
don’t know where the café is. I’m new to

“Are you?” Her eyes lit up. “Well, maybe we can
investigate town together. We’re both new.”

“Uh…” He didn’t like this. He hated confrontation
and being pushed. Then again, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be with this
woman. He didn’t even know her name.

“There you are.” Another woman rushed up to him. Snakes curled
on her head like a messy permanent, and she wore dark glasses. The slight
green of her skin caught the light and shimmered. The tight tank top barely
contained her curves. “Honey, I told you to stay close. But you never
listen. Excuse us.”

Stay close? Huh? The women were so pushy in this town.

The snake woman threaded her arms around his biceps. “We should go.
See you around, Lucy.”

“Sorry.” He allowed the new woman to drag him away. “Who
are you?”

“Me?” She tugged him to the other end of the park, away from
the playground. “I’m saving your ass.”


About the Author

Megan Slayer, aka Wendi Zwaduk, is a multi-published, award-winning author
of more than one-hundred short stories and novels. She’s been writing
since 2008 and published since 2009. Her stories range from the contemporary
and paranormal to LGBTQ and white hot themes. No matter what the length, her
works are always hot, but with a lot of heart. She enjoys giving her
characters a second chance at love, no matter what the form. She’s
been nominated at the LRC for Best Author, Best Contemporary, Best
Ménage, Best BDSM and Best Anthology. Her books have made it to the
bestseller lists on various e-tailer sites.

When she’s not writing, Megan spends time with her husband and son as
well as three dogs and three cats. She enjoys art, music and racing, but
football is her sport of choice. She’s an active member of the Friends
of the Keystone-LaGrange Public library.


Megan on social media…





Publisher on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram: @changelingpress


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NEW RELEASE: Will (If It Feels Good) by Alice Gaines #PNR #WomensFiction

Will (If it Feels Good 3)

A Paranormal Women’s Fiction Novella

Sarah collects and sells antiques, and she lives in a fantasy world of her own creation. When she’s transported to another universe, she meets the man of her dreams, but he wants to teach her how to find pleasure in her “real” life.

Will Loudon is Sarah’s pleasure trainer. He’s also an honest-to-God English earl — the exact sort of man Sarah reads about in her forbidden books. He does such a good job of teaching her to find real pleasure, neither of them wants her to go home.

Available At:

Amazon (Kindle)
Apple Books
Barnes & Noble
Kobo Books


All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2023 Alice Gaines

The dust in the old attic made Sarah Meadows sneeze, but she wouldn’t have been happier anywhere else in the world.

“You sure you want to look through this ancient stuff?” Mr. Gamble, the owner of the house, asked from where he stood on a ladder behind her, his head poking out of the entrance to the attic.

“You said your wife saved everything,” Sarah answered as she scanned an assortment of old trunks, boxes, and antique furniture someone had found the strength to haul up the ladder.

“Never could get her to throw away anything,” he answered. “As soon as you’ve found everything you can use, I’m going to clean it all out.”

“I’m very grateful to be the first dealer you’ve had up here,” she said. “I’ll pay you a fair price for anything I find.”

“Guess that’s all it amounts to… a little bit of money.” He sighed. “Anything’s helpful these days. I’ll leave you to it.”

Which he did. Left her all alone in the relics of his wife’s life. Poor man. She’d probably find something she could sell in her shop. Then, she’d refer Mr. Gamble to a few businesses that could help him empty his attic in preparation for selling the house. This couldn’t be a joyful enterprise for him. It might be for her.

Dressed in grungy clothing for a dirty job, she got to work. The first box held a bunch of record albums. Vinyl was making a comeback these days. She pulled one of the discs out of its protective sleeve and did her best to scan it for defects in the dim light. Looked pretty good.

The next box had pots and pans. Nothing much there. She hauled herself to her feet and approached what looked like a lady’s dressing table. The wood was dinged, but it could be restored. Polished, it could make a lovely piece for a period boudoir.

One drawer held a hand mirror. Again, wood. Potentially salable. She glanced into it and almost dropped it. It wasn’t a mirror, after all, but the framed picture of a man’s face.

Okay, that shouldn’t have startled her. Maybe the lady who’d owned the piece kept her lover’s face framed in her dressing table. It sure didn’t look like Mr. Gamble, though. In fact, his wicked smile and scandalously long-ish hair fit more with a wealthy rake of another century. Maybe the piece was older than she’d thought.

“Don’t be frightened,” a man’s voice said from somewhere in the attic. A voice with a very distinct English accent.Her heart started beating like crazy. “Who’s there? Mr. Gamble?”

That sure hadn’t sounded like Mr. Gamble. Neither did the laughter that followed her question. Even without having heard the actual voice of a wealthy rake, she recognized it as such.

She’d read about such voices in her favorite novels. She’d never expected to hear one. She put her hand over her heart and did her best to keep breathing.

“That wasn’t a picture,” the voice said. “It was my reflection.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” she said with as much authority as she could muster. “Who are you, and where are you?”

“Over here,” came the answer. But there was still no indication of the direction it came from. Rather, it seemed to be everywhere.Crap. She wasn’t staying up here with some stranger who could be deranged for all she knew. Who hid out in attics? Instead, she got up and walked slowly toward the ladder. She’d tell Mr. Gamble he had a prowler, and once the police had evicted said prowler, she’d return.

“Don’t go, Sarah.”He knew her name. How? She stopped in her tracks but didn’t turn around.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” the voice said. “I’m here to fulfill your dreams.”

What did a formless voice know about her dreams? She hadn’t shared them with anyone because they sounded ridiculous, even to her own ears. To live in a former time that seemed to glitter so much on the pages of novels and in the movies. Back then, most common folk, like her, had led difficult lives with no real education and folk remedies their only health care. But the gowns and the balls. The architecture and art. The manners. Today seemed so coarse compared to that.

“Come find me, Sarah.”

Oh, that accent, like butter on a scone to be covered with jam and clotted cream. Wise or not, she was going to find him, so she might as well set about it. But where?

About the Author

USA Today best-selling author Alice Gaines has published several sensuous and erotic works. She prefers stories that stretch the imagination, highlighting the power of love and sex. Alice has a Ph.D. in psychology from U. C. Berkeley and lives in Oakland, California, where she sings in her church choir.