Continuing from THE SIMPLER, Senga Munro’s disappearance prompts
discussion as to -what- she may be. Her herbal notebook has been discovered in
an old man’s medicine bundle from the 1800s, wherein Senga details her
captivity in an underground cave. One morning, she awakes in a Cheyenne camp,
believing she is part of a living history project. Upon her extraordinary
return, she discovers a world altered and transformed by “The
Phenomenon,” an evolutionary leap in consciousness that has reshaped
global values and circumstances.
Through its rich tapestry of characters, historical elements, and
philosophical musings, the series explores the complexities of human
experience, the sacredness of the Earth, and the transformative power of
compassion and understanding. It is a meditation on the struggles and triumphs
that define both individual lives and collective humanity.
About the Author
Renée Carrier and her husband, a retired school superintendent, tend a
small apple orchard, two gardens, and raise garlic and herbs—medicinal
and culinary. Renée is a past recipient of the Frank Neilson Doubleday
Writing Award by the Wyoming Arts Council. She continues to sing and play the
odd musical performance and practice family herbalism, which wends its way
into her writing “like a possessed vine.” She enjoys knitting, walking,
reading, viewing good films, and traveling.
Bred to be the perfect soldiers, Javen and Gara are running from the the
very people they were created to protect.
Javen and Gara were bred to be the perfect soldiers, protecting New Earth from
the scourge from above. As lovers, they were created to resonate in perfect
harmony with each other, their lives the stuff of legends. But they proved to
be evolution’s darlings, developing beyond anything the scientists had ever
dreamed of, their advancement eclipsing that of their creators.
Now their only hope is a planet of their own, where they can live free — free
to construct a new society based on the ideals of justice and honor. But with
dangerous factions at work, a mysterious prophesy, and an old enemy amassing,
this stunning melody may ring out with the perfect notes to save the worthy
and unworthy alike.
Freedom demands an awful price.
Publisher’s Note: Space Opera Duet originally released as two separate
novellas.
“Bonded, let down my braid?” The silver-haired man asked the question politely
as he gracefully dropped to his knees beside his beloved.
Javen looked up at his tora through silver lashes, his purple eyes gleaming in
anticipation as he licked full, pouty lips. His lithe body was covered in an
odd type of silk wrap, the weave plainly visible, but the material soft as
air. Several colorful strands of blue and purple, strands of hair from fallen
comrades, made up a pattern in the cloth. His long, pale fingers rested on his
slim thighs, his poise perfect as he awaited the response.
“Shall I unbind you, my mate?” The question was asked in a low, gravelly
voice, the desire and intent clear. Gara the Red, High Lord Chancellor of this
particular space station far above New Earth Sphere, observed his mate, his
cock swelling, his blood running hot. “Shall I release you to take what
pleasures I can off that pale body of yours?”
Javen seemed to shiver, though his body remained perfectly still. He inhaled
deeply, breathing in the scent of his bonded, trilling a soft, vibrating song
of desire as he felt his own erection grow. “Unbind me, bonded, if you
dare… if you have a need of the pleasures this pale flesh can bring
you.”
Javen tilted his head to the side, shifted his shoulders, and allowed his robe
to slide from one shoulder, exposing a chest decorated with what appeared to
be elaborate, pale purple tattoos.
Javen’s scales were beautiful, strong, soft and iridescent against his pale
skin. They outlined his hairline at his forehead, trailed down along his neck
to the backs of each arm. They overran the backs of his hands, giving him the
look of an exotic jeweled statue. They continued around his chest, across his
lower abdomen, and down his outer thighs.
Naked, he was a thing of grace and style, of beauty that no human being could
dare possess. But… he was not human. He wiggled his talon-tipped toes
in excitement, his eyes burning with desire.
“Oh, I have a need,” Gara chuckled, reaching down and cupping his cock,
running the flat of his hand along its hardness. Javen could almost feel the
heat wafting off his beloved’s body, and thrummed louder.
Gara threw back his head and moaned, his own touch stoking his desires higher
as he observed the signs of need in his usually reserved mate. Javen was one
of the most polite, perfectly poised ryuujin who had ever been created. To see
him react so wildly to his own heat cycle… Magnificent.
Gara ripped his tunic from his body, ruffling his wild mane of red hair and
exposing his broad, scarred chest in the process, tossing the shreds of
material aside.
“Come,” he purred, reaching out with both hands, tangling his fingers in his
mate’s hair. “Come ease my need.”
He gripped the bands of ribbons that liberally twined through his mate’s
braid, a braid he himself had placed in Javen’s hair earlier that morning.
Javen tossed his head back, his trill growing deeper in his throat as he
exposed his neck, his most vulnerable point, to his beloved.
Gara wasted no time in bending over and running his clawed fingers over
Javen’s neck, caressing the soft, firm skin and the raised scales that he so
loved to touch, to lick, to nibble and suck.
Javen nestled into his mate’s palm, his trill softening as Gara’s hands — his
strong, scarred hands — pushed the robe from his body, allowing it to fall
around his waist.
“Do you have any idea how hard you make me?” Gara growled. He moved closer,
closing his eyes and pulling in the spicy scent of his mate’s neck, the heat
of his desire so at odds with his cool skin.
“I can –” Javen reached up, pressing his hands to the heat between his
bonded’s thighs, feeling the rigid column of flesh that throbbed at his
caress. “– feel.” His other hand joined the first, tugging at the tie at the
waist, wanting the material gone that separated him from what he wanted.
He lifted his head again, leaning forward to nuzzle into his bonded’s groin,
bathing the head of his mate’s cock with his cool breath. Throwing back his
head, Gara purred and gripped his beloved’s head, pushing him deeper against
his crotch.
“That is what you want?” Gara demanded.
“Yes,” Javen snarled, his eyes near glowing as he rose up to his full height,
towering over his lover by more than a few inches.
“Then come and take it.”
About the Author
Stephanie is a USA Today Best Selling, multi published, multi award-winning
author, Master Costumer, handicapped, wife and mother of two.
From sex-shifting, shape-shifting dragons to undersea worlds, sexually
confused elemental Fey and homo-erotic mysteries, all the way to
pastel-challenged urban sprites, Stephanie has done it all, and hopes to do
more.
Stephanie is an orator on her favorite subjects of writing and world-building,
a sometime teacher when you feed her enough tea and donuts, an anime nut, a
costumer, and a frequent guest of various sci-fi and writing cons where she
can be found leading panel discussions or researching varied legends and
theories to improve her writing skills.
Stephanie is known for her love of the outrageous, strong female characters,
believable worlds, male characters filled with depth, and multi-cultural
stories that make the reader sit up and take notice.
I took an oath to save lives. Protecting Katy’s more than that — it’s
becoming personal.
Dread — Nothing prepared me for finding a woman and her little girl
stranded on the side of the highway. Katy’s terrified, exhausted, and
hiding from something — or someone. She keeps waiting for me to ask
questions. I don’t need answers to know they need protection. The Hades
Abyss Motorcycle Club takes care of its own. And whether she’s ready to
admit it or not, Katy is already under my protection.
Katy — Running was supposed to keep my daughter safe. Instead, it left us
stranded with a broken SUV and nowhere to go. Then Dread pulled up. He’s
gruff, stubborn, and impossible to push away. Every day I spend behind the
gates of Hades Abyss makes it harder to remember why I should leave. Ellie
finally feels safe, and my heart is starting to believe we might have found a
home.
But the man I escaped isn’t finished with me. If he comes for us, I know
he’ll discover the worst mistake of his life was threatening the woman
Dread has claimed as his own.
The highway stretched ahead like something half-melted, the asphalt rippling
in the midday heat until the horizon disappeared into a silver wash. No shade.
No cover. Just the sun beating down on two lanes of cracked blacktop and the
thin strip of gravel shoulder where my SUV sat crippled, the rear end canted
at a drunken angle, passenger-side tire blown and gone soft against the
stones.
I’d already dragged the spare out from under the cargo hold, heavy and
awkward in my hands, and positioned the jack as best I could. The metal base
wobbled on the uneven gravel, finding purchase in small divots that shifted
whenever I applied pressure. Not stable. Nothing about this was stable.
My fingers kept sliding off the lug wrench. The nuts were torqued down by some
mechanic with gorilla hands and a pneumatic gun, or maybe years of highway
vibration had fused them to the studs. Either way, the wrench handle grew
slicker with every attempt, sweat coating my palms until the metal felt like
it had been oiled. I wiped my hands on my shorts, left dark smears, tried
again. The wrench turned a fraction of an inch before my grip failed. I
adjusted, set my feet wider, and threw my weight into it. My arms shook. Not
the fine tremor of fatigue — a deep, structural quiver that started in my
shoulders and ran down through my elbows to my wrists. Shaking that meant my
body was running out of things to burn.
Ellie sat on the running board in the narrow strip of shade cast by the
SUV’s open door, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around her
shins. Her light brown hair was dark with sweat at the roots, plastered in
damp curls against her neck. She watched me with a small, tight frown that
didn’t belong on a seven-year-old’s face.
“Are we going to be late?” she asked.
“No, sweetie. We’re not in a hurry,” I said.
“Does it hurt your hands?”
“It’s just a little hard to turn, that’s all.”
“How much longer?” she asked.
“Not long. Almost done.”
Each answer came out in a steady voice I didn’t recognize, a measured
calm that lived nowhere near the hollow panic pulling taut inside me. The heat
was warping my vision. The horizon kept tilting — a slow, nauseating roll
through my skull, like the world was trying to tip itself over. I planted my
feet harder. The gravel shifted under my sneakers.
I got the first lug nut loose after three tries, the wrench finally catching
and turning with a metallic shriek that cut through the thick air. The second
came easier. My shirt clung to my back, soaked through at the shoulder blades
and along my spine. The ponytail I’d tied that morning hung heavy
against my neck, the elastic digging a wet groove into my scalp.
The third nut wouldn’t budge. I leaned into the wrench until my body was
at a forty-five-degree angle, heels digging into gravel, and felt something
give — not the nut, but the jack. It shifted sideways with a scrape of metal
on stone, and the SUV dropped half an inch. I jerked back, heart hammering,
and pressed my hand to the hot quarter panel to steady myself. The metal
burned. I left it there. The sharpness helped me focus, at least. Something I
could feel besides the heat and the fear.
Ellie said my name. Just “Mom,” soft and careful — the tone she
used when she was scared but trying not to show it.
“It’s fine,” I told her. “We’re fine. Almost
done.”
I wasn’t almost done. The jack needed resetting. I crouched beside it,
my knees popping, and wrestled the base into a new position, digging shallow
trenches in the gravel with the edge of my palm. The metal was hot enough to
raise a blister. I didn’t check. Sweat ran into my eyes, stinging, and I
wiped it away with the back of my wrist, leaving a streak of grit across my
forehead.
Back to the wrench. I braced one foot against the tire itself for leverage,
wrapped both hands around the handle, and pulled. My shoulders screamed. The
nut turned — a quarter inch, then nothing. I repositioned, pulled again.
Another quarter. The progress was measured in fractions, each one costing more
than the last.
The fourth nut came free suddenly, the wrench spinning loose and nearly
catching me across the shin. I stumbled back, caught myself on the bumper, and
stood there breathing hard. The air felt thick enough to chew. My lungs worked
and nothing changed.
One nut left. The last one.
I set the wrench, lined it up with shaking hands, and threw everything I had
into the turn. My vision grayed at the edges. Not a gentle fade — a hard,
sudden dimming, like someone had turned a dial on the world’s
brightness. The gravel tilted under me. I let go of the wrench and dropped
into a crouch, head down between my knees, hands braced on my patellas.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Ellie said something I couldn’t make out through the blood pounding in
my ears.
“I’m okay,” I said, or tried to say. The words came out
strained and hollow. “One second.”
The gray receded slowly, pulling back from the edges of my sight like water
draining from a tub. I stayed crouched until the gravel stopped moving, then
pushed myself upright using the bumper for support. My legs felt like
they’d been filled with wet sand.
The last nut was still there. The jack wobbled on its uneven perch. The spare
lay in the dirt where I’d dropped it, the tread pattern filling with
fine dust.
Almost done.
I wasn’t almost done.
* * *
The sound reached me before I saw the source — gravel crunching under wide
tires, a slow, deliberate roll that didn’t belong to a highway-speed
vehicle. I turned, wrench still clutched in my right hand, and watched a
weathered gray pickup ease onto the shoulder behind my SUV.
The engine cut. A door opened.
The man who stepped out was large. Not just tall — though he was that, well
over six feet — but built through the shoulders and chest in a way that
suggested strength accumulated over decades rather than sculpted in a gym.
Dark hair, gray at the temples. Plain gray T-shirt, faded jeans, boots that
had seen actual use. And over it all, a black leather vest lined with patches
I couldn’t read from where I stood, except for the largest one across
the back: HADES ABYSS in white letters that caught the sun.
I straightened. My body moved before my brain caught up — one step sideways,
placing myself directly between him and the open door where Ellie sat. The
wrench handle dug into my palm. I didn’t set it down.
He stopped a few yards away. Not advancing. Hands at his sides, visible,
relaxed. His eyes — steel blue, I registered distantly — moved over me in a
single pass that felt nothing like being looked at. Precise. Evaluating.
Missing nothing: flushed face, sweat-soaked shirt, the slight tremor in my
stance I couldn’t hide anymore. Then his gaze shifted to Ellie, the same
evaluation compressed into seconds, gentler around the edges but no less
thorough.
“Shay Thomas,” he said. His voice was calm. Level. No urgency in
it. “Most people call me Dread. I’m a doctor.”
I said nothing. The heat pressed down between us, heavy and silent.
“Both of you need to get out of this heat right now.” He
didn’t phrase it as a question. Didn’t soften it with a please or
cushion it with reassurance. He turned, walked to his passenger door, and
pulled it open. Cold air poured out in a visible wave, carrying the faint
smell of leather and clean air underneath. The vents were already running,
aimed at the seat.
I didn’t move. The wrench was still in my hand, my knuckles white around
it.
He didn’t push. Didn’t repeat himself or step closer or try to
reason with me. He stood beside the open door, one hand resting on the frame,
and waited. The patience in him carried its own force — steady, unhurried,
taking up exactly as much space as he needed and not an inch more.
A bead of sweat traced the line of my spine from nape to tailbone. My vision
pulsed once, gently, the gray creeping back along the periphery. The heat made
the decision. I set the wrench down in the gravel, turned to Ellie, offered my
free hand, and said, “Come on, baby. Just for a minute.”
She slid off the running board and took my hand. Her fingers were small and
hot. I guided her to the truck, one step at a time, my legs functioning on
some last reserve of strength I hadn’t known was there. The cold hit us
in layers — first my face, then my chest, then a full-body shock that made
the sweat on my skin go instantly clammy. Ellie made a small sound, almost a
whimper, and pressed against my side.
Dread closed the door behind us and circled to the driver’s side. He
didn’t get in. Instead, he crouched in the open doorway, bringing
himself to eye level with me where I sat in the passenger seat. Close enough
to reach, far enough to leave space.
He took my wrist without asking, two fingers pressed against the inside pulse
point. His hand was cool and dry. He held for a count I couldn’t follow,
then released and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. The touch
lasted three seconds, maybe four.
“How long have you been out here?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Half hour. Maybe more.”
“When did you last have water?” he asked.
“This morning. In the car.”
“Are you nauseated?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Lightheaded?”
“Yes.”
He nodded once, no change in expression, and turned to Ellie. She had shrunk
back against the seat, knees drawn up, watching his hands with wide eyes. Not
scared, exactly. Cautious, watching him with the wariness of a creature that
hadn’t decided about him yet.
“What’s your name?” he asked her. His voice dropped, not to
the singsong adults use with children, but quieter. More contained.
“Ellie,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“Hi, Ellie. I’m Shay. Does your tummy feel okay?”
She thought about it. Nodded.
“Head hurt?”
Small shake.
“Throat dry?”
Nod.
He reached into the center console and pulled out a bottle of water. Not cold
— room temperature, the sort that had been sitting in a vehicle for a while
— but he twisted off the cap and handed it to her without offering it to me
first. Smart. She took two careful sips, then passed it to me. I drank. The
water tasted like plastic and salvation.
Dread watched us both, his gaze moving between my face and Ellie’s with
the same measured attention. When I lowered the bottle, he took it back,
recapped it, and set it in the cup holder.
“Stay here,” he said. “Both of you. Don’t get out
until I come back.”
He closed the door. Through the windshield, I watched him walk to my SUV,
crouch beside the jack and pick up the lug wrench I’d left lying in the
dirt. He examined it for half a second, then set to work.
Ellie’s hand found mine under the edge of the seat. Her fingers were
cool now, the heat leaching out of them in the blast of AC. I squeezed once,
gently, and didn’t let go.
* * *
I watched him through the windshield. Dread moved with the ease of someone
who’d done something ten thousand times and stopped counting — each
motion flowing into the next without hesitation or wasted effort. He
positioned the jack with two adjustments, tested the base with his boot, and
nodded once to himself. He closed his hand around my lug wrench, the same one
that had nearly broken me, and started in with easy, practiced turns.
The first nut came loose in his hand like it had been waiting for permission.
He set it on the hub cap, and glanced at the other four, already in a neat row
where I’d left them — the only things I’d managed before my grip
gave out. No straining on his end. No throwing his weight into it. Just the
smooth turn of a wrench in capable hands, one clean rotation, and he lifted
the flat tire away as if it weighed nothing.
Ellie pressed against my side, her shoulder tucked under my arm, both of us
slowly cooling off in the blast of AC. The cold had stopped feeling like a
shock and started feeling like a state my body remembered — a baseline it had
forgotten existed. My shirt was still damp, but the fabric had gone from
soaked to merely clammy, and the trembling in my arms had subsided to a faint,
background hum I could almost ignore.
Dread rolled the spare into position, lined up the holes, and lifted. The tire
settled onto the studs with a solid thunk. He replaced the lug nuts by hand
first, tightening each one finger-tight in a star pattern, then reached for
the wrench. Five rotations per nut, same star pattern, each turn measured and
even. No guesswork. No testing. He knew exactly how tight they needed to be.
When the last nut was set, he lowered the jack in a smooth, controlled drop.
The SUV dropped onto its new tire with a creak of suspension. Done. From blown
flat to roadworthy in less time than it had taken me to loosen two nuts.
But he didn’t straighten up and wave us over. Didn’t dust his
hands and head back to the truck. He crouched beside the rear wheel well
instead, one hand braced against the quarter panel, and ran his other palm
along the hub behind the new spare. His fingers traced a flaw I couldn’t
see from inside the cab. He went still. Not the pause of a man thinking — the
complete, motionless freeze of someone who has found exactly what they were
looking for, and it wasn’t good.
He stood, wiped his hands on a rag pulled from his truck bed, and walked back
to the passenger window. I rolled it down. The heat rushed in, a wall of wet
air that made the cold from the vents feel suddenly artificial.
“Wheel bearing’s shot,” he said. No lead-in. No cushion. His
expression hadn’t changed — same level gaze, same measured delivery —
but the words landed like stones. “You’ve got a spare on, but this
vehicle isn’t safe to drive. Another mile, maybe less, and you’ll
lose that wheel entirely.”
I felt my jaw tighten. The muscles along the back of my neck locked.
“How bad?”
“Not a roadside fix. Needs a shop. New bearing, possibly a new hub
assembly depending on how long it’s been failing.” He paused,
giving me time to absorb it, then continued in the same flat tone.
“Driving it risks more than a second flat. At speed, a wheel separation
could roll the vehicle.”
I looked at Ellie. She was watching me, not him, her gaze tracking the minute
shifts in my expression with the hypervigilance of a child who’s learned
to read the weather in her mother’s face. I smoothed my features by
force. Smiled at her — or tried to. My mouth felt stiff with it.
Then I looked back at Dread.
The SUV sat twenty feet away, rear end now level on its spare tire, looking
deceptively whole. Everything we owned was packed inside it. Clothes in trash
bags and suitcases. Ellie’s stuffed animals in a pillowcase. My laptop
and the external drive with five years of tax records and every photo
I’d ever taken of her. The box of granola bars and bottled waters
I’d stockpiled for the drive. The map folded in the glove box with three
possible destinations circled in pen, none of them committed to, because
commitment meant permanence and permanence meant he could find us.
Now the vehicle itself had become the threat. The thing I’d trusted to
carry us away was falling apart underneath us, and the man telling me so stood
at my window with the patience of someone who delivered bad news for a living
and had long since stopped being surprised by how people took it.
My hands went still in my lap. Fingers interlaced, thumbs pressing against
each other. A pose I’d held in hospital waiting rooms and police
stations and the driver’s seat of a different car five years ago,
watching the rearview mirror for headlights that didn’t belong.
Ellie leaned against me. Her body was slight, barely there, but having her
against me quieted some of the panic. She tipped her head back and looked up
at me, her blue-gray eyes clear and untroubled by anything except the question
forming on her lips.
“What happens now?” she asked.
The air conditioning hummed. Dread waited at the window, hands resting on the
frame, his expression giving away nothing. Beyond the glass, the highway
stretched empty in both directions, heat rippling off the blacktop in waves
that made the horizon waver and dissolve.
I didn’t have an answer.
About the Author
Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances.
With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her
readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works
exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a
satisfying note each time.
When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new
plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book.
She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies.
Visit Wylde’s website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and
don’t forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and
other exciting perks.
Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress
When I was fifteen years old, I made a mistake. I trusted the warm smile
of a stranger called Peter Harlow, and accepted a ride home in his car.
It would be the last moment of my life I’d ever feel safe again.
The trauma of what happened that night will never leave me—and it was
only the beginning. For the last nineteen years, I’ve been trapped in a
nightmare of blocked numbers, violated restraining orders, and the compulsion
to scan every face in every crowd, waiting for the day when his will be among
them.
But I’ve also spent the time preparing. My home has become a fortress, with
reinforced doors, perimeter cameras, and a safe room in the cellar. I’ve even
taught my seven-year-old daughter how to call for help. When I finally have to
face Peter Harlow again, I’ll be ready.
Or so I thought.
Because on the night of a furious snowstorm, a terrified stranger arrives at
my gate. Emily is barefoot, bruised, and desperate for help—claiming her
husband just tried to kill her.
To let her in from the storm would mean breaking every rule I’ve made to
protect myself and my daughter—but could I live with myself if I
didn’t?
But what follows is everything I’ve lived in fear of for all these years.
First, the lights go out. Then, the internet dies. Next, the phone line goes
dead—and finally, I find myself trapped inside my own safe room,
watching through a camera feed as the man who stole my life for two decades
walks the halls of my home, playing happy families with my little girl.
I built this fortress to keep him out. Now, it’s the only thing keeping
me from protecting my child.
The Safe Room is a heart-stopping psychological thriller by bestselling author
Sarah A. Denzil, the “mistress of twists.” Essential reading for fans of Alice
Feeney, Freida McFadden, and Caroline Kepnes.
About the Author
Sarah A. Denzil is a million copy bestselling author of psychological
suspense novels. Her books include number one bestseller Silent Child, which
was a Goodreads Choice semi-finalist in 2017. Her books have been published in
several different languages and have appeared on the Wall Street Journal
bestseller list.
Sarah lives in Yorkshire with her husband and cats, enjoying the scenic
countryside and rather unpredictable weather. She loves to write moody,
psychological fiction with plenty of twists and turns.
England, 1816. A nosferatu, a rogue vampire, hunts unchecked through
Sussex. Jeremy Takeshi Colbourne is honor-bound by ancestral duty to find and
destroy such madmen. Foremost among the vampires of England, he must find a
way to ensure the safety of the English citizens and the vampires that live
among them.
Then Jeremy and his blood-host Morgan Holland discover a brutally savaged
girl. With this latest victim of the nosferatu, Jeremy realizes the time has
come to make Morgan aware of the Colbourne responsibilities. But the situation
could not have come at a worse time.
For years, Morgan has served as Jeremy’s blood-host. Though Morgan adheres
faithfully to his Contracted terms, he refuses to surrender to the sexual
seduction that completes each feeding. He yields neither his body nor his
heart, though Jeremy yearns for both.
As the nosferatu’s atrocities grow, Jeremy must ask everything of Morgan to
gain the strength needed to fight the ravening monster. Will Morgan relent and
give up body and heart to help Jeremy defeat their enemy, or will the battle
destroy them both?
EXCERPT
Jeremy cursed at the knock on the oaken door of his study. Morgan had
attempted to corner him several times today. Pure cowardice had driven Jeremy
to take refuge here, a place his loyal Host rarely intruded on, since it held
the Buddhist shrine housing his mother’s mortuary tablet. He glanced at
the portrait standing behind the black stone, wishing for a bit of Keiko
Yamakawa’s legendary strength.
Evading Morgan had taken a toll on Jeremy. The Contracted day for his feeding
had come and gone. Today marked two full weeks since Morgan had wrenched
himself from Jeremy’s grasp, nearly bleeding to death before Jeremy
could administer the requisite clotting agent. The sight of Morgan’s
injuries had seared itself into Jeremy’s mind, rendering him unwilling
to risk another such incident.
It almost made him wish to return to Japan, despite the difficulties involved.
Obtaining the necessary dispensation from the Tokugawa Shogunate had been hard
enough when he left. Lord Matsumae had done what he could, but it had taken
his mother’s personal attendance on Emperor Kōkaku and an appropriate
gift to Tokugawa Ikeharu to get it done. Going back would be far worse,
despite his home’s exemption from the Sakoku Edict. Even so, he was
tempted. If only to avoid what he now faced.
The knock came again, harder than before, followed immediately by the entrance
of Morgan Holland. “Excuse me, Lord Colbourne. While I am always loath
to disturb you in your sanctum, you cannot avoid me forever.”
Exasperation filled Morgan’s voice, underscored by heavy concern.
Jeremy risked a glance at his Host, unwilling to see but drawn nonetheless.
The wounds on Morgan’s neck had healed; his skin flushed a healthy hue.
Unlike usual feedings, the last one had left two ragged scars, visible
reminders of Jeremy’s lack of control. Even now, the remnants of
Morgan’s refusal echoed in his mind, invading his dreams.
“I am not convinced you are well enough to support a feeding,
Holland,” he hedged, though his Host showed no lingering signs of ill
effects. “Your wounds have barely healed.”
Morgan sighed. “I understand your reluctance after the debacle last
time, but you cannot risk your health or your sanity by some idiotic attempt
at endurance. I am prepared to meet my Contracted terms without qualms.”
“So you say. Nonetheless, your refusal made quite an impression.
I’d prefer not to endure that again so soon.”
Morgan’s cheeks heated with angry embarrassment. “Then break
Contract, my lord, and find someone more willing to accommodate all of your
needs. Or go back to Japan.”
The slap of the words felt like a further refusal. Jeremy straightened in his
chair, denying the spike of pain, determined to retain his rationality. Fear
was anathema to the Barons of Colbourne and to the Yamakawa family. Being
afraid to feed on his Contracted Host shamed both houses. He stood, feeling
the weakness of flesh from self-deprivation.
“After twelve years? I’d rather not, thank you. You’re all I
need. Or want.” Jeremy considered the irony of his irrational thoughts
mere moments before. “It is far harder to return than to leave,”
he added. “While my home in Matsumae is exempt from the Sakoku Edict,
only my status as a noble Chi no Kami allowed me to leave in the first place.
I have no wish to reverse the process any time soon.”
Morgan considered for a moment and then gave him the ghost of a smile.
“Then please stop delaying the inevitable. Despite what happened before,
I refuse to watch you kill yourself, however noble your ancestors may have
found the practice. It would render all my efforts worthless.”
“Such things are not reserved for my ancestors,” Jeremy growled.
“If I chose seppuku, who would be my second? You’d still have to
watch me die.”
“At least it would not be this slow death you’re attempting
now.”
Trust Morgan to know him well enough to hit so close to the truth of the
matter. Jeremy allowed silence to reign for a moment and then gave a grudging
chuckle. “No quarter, I see. You win, Holland. Give me two hours, and
I’ll meet you in the sanguis cubiculum.”
Two hours would give Jeremy sufficient time to contact William Carter. After
this long, the sexual urges would be difficult to suppress, but he could not
afford another mistake like the last time.
Morgan nodded to him. “Two hours, then, Lord Colbourne. I will be
ready.”
* * *
At the appointed time, Morgan waited as instructed, nervous despite his
earlier words to Colbourne. He touched the scars on his neck gingerly,
wondering. For all his bravado and calm facade, the thought of facing
Colbourne’s fangs disturbed him. That last bite had driven into his neck
without preparation, the savage sting a hint of what mankind had faced in the
early days of the nosferii. Yet beyond the pain, another sensation had lurked,
one he was reluctant to recall.
Perhaps it was only the remnants of the lust that rose in him every time
Colbourne fed, but the agony of the unprepared bite had seemed to turn into a
hazy pleasure at the end, before he’d passed out. Perhaps the
recollection was only some perverse blending of his memories.
Colbourne entered the sanguis cubiculum through the far door. Morgan caught a
brief glimpse of another person before the closing door blocked his view.
So he arranged for his companion to be available immediately after he is
finished with me.
In spite of the obvious benefits to the situation, the idea irritated Morgan
for some reason. Though he refused to offer up his body for postfeed sex,
he’d always steadfastly ignored Colbourne’s subsequent retreat to
his rooms for several hours. To have that person here, in the antechambers of
the sanguis cubiculum, the mere thought left a burning ache in Morgan’s
gut. This was his domain, his sacred trust, no one else’s.
“Are you ready, Holland?”
The deeply sensuous voice rippled over Morgan’s skin, bringing him to a
half-aroused state before the feeding started. He did his utmost to quash the
reaction, trying vainly to focus on something other than Colbourne’s
mouth.
A hand reached for his chin, gently turning his face away to expose the length
of his neck.
“I’m sorry, Morgan,” Colbourne whispered.
Morgan felt the faintest tremble in his master’s hand. He turned his
head the opposite direction, offering the undamaged side. “Here,
Master,” he urged, “feed from here.”
Colbourne’s tongue touched him gently, tracing a line across his skin
before stopping. “No, I think not,” he said, trailing his fingers
past Morgan’s throat. “I’d rather feed from a different
source today. Your neck is still healing.”
Morgan shivered as his master’s hand roamed down his front, then stroked
along the inside of his thigh.
About the Author
Autumn grew up loving history, mythology, and all things Japanese, not
necessarily in that order. This eclectic love affair has bled over into her
writing, and her stories are always well spiced with the taste of Japan,
strange mythological beasties, or the lords and ladies of the ton. Sometimes
all three, leading to dark desires and forbidden loves.
And after all, dangerous passions should lead to uninhibited love.
Turtle Lake is a gripping tale of revenge, survival, and the intricate
interplay between human nature and the natural world. The story follows Jim
Peters, the comptroller at Ramsey Motors, who uncovers a corrupt scheme by the
company and its insurer, U.S. Underwriters, to defraud employees of their
retirement and insurance benefits before moving operations overseas.
Infuriated, he devises an elaborate extortion plan to expose their corruption
and protect the employees through a spectacular plot that ends up achieving
national headlines. To accomplish his plan, Peters uses simple, everyday
methods and lessons learned from alpha predators in the natural world.
About the Author
Bob Milne has been hailed throughout his 60-year career as one of the
best ragtime/boogie-woogie piano players of all time. A solo concert
performer, he traveled all over the world playing for dignitaries and
celebrities as well as small town audiences. He was given the title of
National Treasure by the Library of Congress and deemed an Ambassador of Music
by the U.S. Department of State.
Bob’s extraordinary musical abilities were the subject of numerous brain
studies, which have inspired a popular RadioLab podcast.
Little did they know that Bob was also a talented writer.
For years he wrote articles about his saloon-playing days for music
publications. Many of these stories were compiled into a book called The
Journeyman Piano Player: Adventures in Gracious Dining. Bob has written reams
of poetry, some of which became lyrics to songs that he composed. The longest
piece of poetry he ever wrote was the lyric book for The Legend of Sleepy
Hollow, a grand opera he composed and orchestrated.
Mr. Milne has been fascinated by nature his entire life. At a young age he
realized that instincts are present in all species of birds, mammals
(including humans), and literally every living thing in nature. He has used
this information countless times over his lifetime to predict what the human
species will do in future situations.
Bob is now retired from the long piano tours and is enjoying his woodland
home. Today he spends his time studying nature in the woods. Signed copies of
his book may be purchased through his website.
What if they’re not just friends? It could be murder!
After Julian’s sister sets him up with a charming Frenchman, Rahul
thinks he may be getting over Julian, especially since Julian is back with his
ex, Michael. Their band is finally taking off and the future seems bright.
Then Julian hints he may return Rahul’s feelings. But what might happen
if they become more than friends?
WARNING: Violence, Drinking/Substance use, Mentions of murder, Trauma/PTSD.
EXCERPT
Julian’s flat was a disaster, but Mel couldn’t be sure if it was
on account of Julian tearing the place apart in a fit of pique or if it was
always like this. Based on what his room had been like when she and her big
brother had lived at home, she didn’t really doubt this was just the way
he lived.
Mel hadn’t been here since the day Julian had moved in three years ago.
She saw enough of her brother at the place where they worked, the place where
they drank, and the place where they performed. She hardly needed to come
round his place to get even more time with the manic muppet.
Julian even did devastation manic. He was pacing around the living room,
pulling at his hair, talking a mile a minute. Mel could hardly keep up with
what he was saying, if he was saying anything at all and not just babbling
incoherently.
“… just a jazzy giraffe freak clomping around my life with his
big stupid hooves and not even looking for oncoming traffic or
anything… wouldn’t even slow down at a zebra crossing, even if
there was kids in it, or like countryside sheep or whatever… just plow
right through ‘em — WHAM — ‘sorry, missus, was this your
daughter sheep? Too bad, I’m after Julian, can’t slow down or
I’ll lose him!’ Honestly, it’s like he
isn’t…”
Mel grabbed a handful of Julian’s fake leather jacket as he came past
and yanked him down onto the sofa beside her. He looked startled and
disorientated, like a somnambulist being unceremoniously awoken. He blinked at
Mel as though only just now noticing her.
“You’ll give yourself an aneurysm going on like that,” Mel
said coolly, lighting up a cigarette.
Her words were the scissors that cut the strings of Julian’s loosely
gathered sanity. He crumpled in on himself, burying his face in his hands. For
one horrified moment, Mel thought he might be crying. But he just groaned, a
long pitiful noise like that of a wounded animal.
“It’s all gone tits up, hasn’t it?” he mumbled into
his palms.
It had in fact, in Mel’s opinion, gone tits up. Julian’s best
friend, Rahul — the “jazzy giraffe freak” — had told
Julian’s creepy blond boyfriend, Michael, that Rahul and Julian had
slept together. Michael had ended things with Julian. Julian had clobbered
Rahul (a very un-Julian-like thing to do). Rahul then confessed his undying
love for Julian and Julian had… run off. Cowardly little prick.
Rahul wasn’t just Julian’s best friend, he was also the most
musically talented member of their band — a band Mel played bass in, mind.
Without him, the band would dissolve into nothing and Julian would be left
rudderless. He lived for their shite band. Hell, he lived for Rahul. The two
of them needed each other like foxes needed bins. This melodramatic
love-triangle nonsense was going to make all of their lives positively
implode. Well, maybe not Mel’s life. She owned a record shop and
she’d be fine. And maybe not Kwambe’s life either. He was too cool
to be affected by anything. But definitely Julian and Rahul’s lives, and
Mel had sworn, years ago when her and Julian’s mum had started drinking,
that she would look out for her empty-headed brother and keep him safe.
She’d been fixing his life ever since. She’d be damned if she
wasn’t going to fix it this time.
“It ain’t so bad,” Mel told Julian. She nudged him until he
peeked out between the fingers he held over his eyes. She extended a cigarette
to him. He took it and let her light it for him. It was the most affectionate
gesture she’d offered him in quite some time. “One of you could be
dead. That’d really be something to cry about.”
He threw her a withering glare with his red-rimmed eyes.
“So, you shagging that Michael bloke, then?”
Julian choked slightly on the smoke in his throat. He’d never told her,
in so many words, that he was dating Michael. Michael had just shown up one
day, hanging around Julian, while Julian stared at him with the eyes of a boy
looking at a bloody Christmas tree. Julian had also never told her he was a
bit bent either, but Mel had worked that out on her own, too.
Julian fidgeted with the cigarette butt in his fingers. It was odd to see
him… if not embarrassed, then apprehensive. He usually did things like
he couldn’t give a shit what others thought, though Mel knew that was a
load of horse shite. He acted like he didn’t care, but no one cared more
what other people thought than Julian Collier. He’d been caring since
they were kids, only he’d gotten better at pretending. The thing is,
when you want people to think you’re really cool, you have to get them
to think you don’t care what they think. Julian was also obsessed with
people thinking he was a little daft. That much was lucky, because, as far as
Mel was concerned, he was a little daft.
He nervously pushed his fringe off his forehead only for it to flop back down
at an uneven angle. “Yeah. Or, well, I was.”
“He chucked you ‘cause you and Rahul shagged?”
“That sounds like we did it yesterday,” Julian whinged. “It
was ages and ages ago. Back at uni. And we were both drunk as you like. It
didn’t even count, if you ask me.” Despite himself, he was going
quite red around the ears and getting splotchy red patches high on his cheeks.
“I’d forgotten all about it. I can’t even believe Rahul
remembered. And that he told Michael. Imagine that!”
It was all coming together now. She remembered the trip Julian had taken up
North to visit Rahul, only to come back one day early, all jumpy and not
wanting to talk about it. Afterward, he’d not seen Rahul for years.
Then, when Rahul came back, they were all distant and weird around each other.
They’d had a drunken fumble together, of course. For one of them it was
just an awkward night that had compromised a friendship. For the other…
“He also told you that he loves you,” Mel reminded him around her
cigarette butt.
Julian folded his arms and hunched his shoulders in that way he did when he
was stopping himself from covering his ears like he would’ve as a little
kid. “Whatever. He’s confused. I dunno. He can’t love me.
That’s just mental. He’s my best mate — he was my best mate. He
just thinks he’s in love with me ‘cause he loves me, you know,
like friends or whatever. And anyway, that’s the other reason Michael
dumped me, you know? He could see Rahul’s all obsessed with me and he
didn’t want to get himself in the middle of whatever it is we’ve
got going on. He didn’t want to end up like Aisling did. Having rows all
the time ‘cause Rahul’s put himself between us.”
Hearing the name of Julian’s ex-girlfriend gave Mel pause. “Were
you shagging him when you were still with Aisling?”
Julian dropped his cigarette. He retrieved it before it could burn a hole in
the carpet next to the constellation of cigarette burns already there.
“No. ‘Course not,” he said defensively in the way he did
when he was lying. “I’d never cheat on her, would I?”
“I don’t know,” Mel said. “Would you?”
“I mean — all right, so I’d started seeing him a bit when we were
still together,” Julian immediately capitulated. Mel beamed. So she
could still wheedle the truth out of her brother after all. “But we
didn’t sleep together or anything. It wasn’t cheating. Not
really.” He was imploring as if Mel were the barrister presiding over
his case. She was only a curious third party with no stake in the game. So she
merely shrugged.
He ran an unhappy hand through his hair, which by now was standing up at all
sorts of odd angles. “What am I gonna do?”
“What you’ve gotta do is get your shit together. Both of you. I
got a business to run, you know? What am I supposed to do? Sack one of you and
hire somebody neither of you ballbags have fucked? And we got a band, or have
you forgotten that as well?”
“I thought you hated the band.”
“I do, but I’ve started counting on that extra gig dosh.” It
felt good to pay for her grass with money that didn’t come directly from
her dead nan’s business. “And you love the damned thing. Are you
gonna find yourself a replacement keyboardist slash guitarist who shares your
same crazy vision of a dystopian soundscape? Think it’s easy to find one
of them? You gonna put an ad out in The Sun?”
“Why don’t you ask Rahul?” Julian cried. “He’s
the one who’s gone and cocked everything up! It’s his fault for
having feelings — or thinking he’s got feelings. If he weren’t
obsessed with me, he’d have never sabotaged my relationship. If he were
following somebody else around like a bleeding puppy, then maybe me and
Michael would still be together.”
“That’s it,” Mel said, snapping her fingers in the air.
“What is?” Julian asked dubiously.
“We need to set Rahul up with somebody. Get him to fall in love with
somebody else. That way Michael won’t have anything to worry about and
the two of you can make up. Then you and Rahul can get back to being mates,
and Bob’s your uncle — everything back to normal.”
Julian’s dubiosity had not dissipated. “You reckon? I
dunno.” He made a face somewhere between a sneer and a wince that made
it look like he was about to sneeze. “He’s been building his
feelings up for me for years, said so himself. I don’t think we can come
in with some, erm…”
“Bloke. He is gay, you know.”
“Right — some bloke — and think he’ll be all gone on him in two
shakes and forget all about me. He thinks he loves me, you know? That’s
massive, that is. When someone’s got gangrene, you don’t come in
with a plaster and think that’s gonna make it all better.”
“Trust me. I know what I’m doing. You leave it all up to me.
I’ll sort it. I always do.” And even though she was wearing her
best smug expression, he still had the gall to look less than convinced.
About the Author
As a queer, nonbinary, person of color, Nicky Silber has made it their mission
to bring diversity into all of their creative outlets. Born in New York,
raised in Mexico, they studied fine art in San Francisco and have worked in
the video game industry since 2012. They currently live in the wilds of North
Carolina with their young son and too many pets. Their only two goals in life
are to continue to tell queer love stories and, to a lesser extent, finally
knit their own sweater.
Historical Fiction with Speculative and Romantic Elements
Date Published: 09-01-2026
Publisher: Literary Wanderlust
England, 1381 AD: Blanche Fitzjohn is an outcast in her small coastal
village. Not only is she the illegitimate daughter of John of Gaunt, the man
responsible for her neighbors’ over-taxation, but she possesses strange
abilities: hearing sound from miles away and smelling people’s emotions.
She takes solace in her studies with the local wisewoman and in her friendship
with Geoff, a groom at the local manor. Until the day Henry of Lancaster,
Blanche’s half-brother, brings her news of an arranged marriage to Sir
Thomas Prescott, Constable of the Tower of London. Although she smells cruelty
on him, Blanche agrees to marry Thomas in the hopes that her influence may
help better the lives of Geoff and all England’s villeins.
But soon, the peasants’ discontent turns to revolt. Though her heart is
of the people, Blanche’s nobility makes her an enemy to the rebels. To
save herself and Henry from the executioner’s ax, Blanche must use every
power at her disposal, even those she once considered a curse.
About the Author
J.E. Rizzo is a life-long history fanatic and writer of historical fiction,
and her work can be found in Vanity Fair, The Boston Globe, The Guardian, The
Tudor Times, Tudor Life Magazine, Scary Mommy, and Ultrarunning Magazine.
Rizzo won Manuscript Academy’s Agent Choice Award in 2024, and her
article Past and Precedence: Abortion Law in the Middle Ages and Its Use to
Overturn Roe v. Wade won History Inquiry’s Medieval History Writing
Challenge.
By day, Rizzo works in Human Resources—a field offering more than ample
opportunity to observe the follies and fancies of humankind. Before her career
in HR, Rizzo worked as an opera singer, a professional baker, and a dog
walker. These days, when not writing she can be found running ultramarathons
through the forests and mountains of New England, knitting, reading, sewing,
baking, or performing any number of (what some might call) old-lady hobbies.
She also keeps busing caring for her two children and forty-seven houseplants,
making her husband carry heavy things and cook her gourmet meals, and
rehabilitating her rescue dog and semi-feral ginger cat.
Superstorms flatten cities. Coastlines collapse. Climate change is no longer
theoretical—it is lethal. When a near-apocalyptic storm nearly kills
their family, teenage siblings Jimmy and Lizzie Marshall urge their brilliant
but reluctant father, nanoscientist Greg Marshall, to deploy a technology
before he’s brave enough to release it.
WhiteGrass—a self-replicating nanotechnology capable of removing carbon
from the atmosphere is the parent technology. It saves golf courses and ski
resorts and the towns they serve. Icarus could reverse climate change on a
global scale. It could also reshape global power forever.
To protect the technology, Greg and his wife Ginny, an elite AI expert,
reprogram the world’s most advanced humanoid android, Valada. Designed
as property—an object without rights—Valada begins to evolve,
developing emotional awareness, moral judgment, and something disturbingly
close to humanity.
As governments unravel and climate disasters accelerate, a covert alliance of
oligarchs, corporations, and political power brokers moves to seize
WhiteGrass/Icarus for themselves. Led by the President of the United States,
the syndicate will stop at nothing—surveillance, blackmail,
assassination—to control the technology that could save the world or
enslave it.
They deploy their own deadly android.
Now the Marshalls are trapped in a global sci-fi political conspiracy, hunted
by forces with unlimited resources, as skyscrapers fall, cities burn, and
artificial intelligence begins to ask questions no human is prepared to
answer.
“We call it ‘Climate Change,’” Lizzie interrupted,
“because it’s not just the heat.”
“It’s everything—the rains, the droughts, the storms, the
sea level… even the acidification.” It could change everything.
At its core, WhiteGrass is a gripping near-future climate change thriller about family survival, technological power, and the terrifying moment when
artificial intelligence stops serving humanity—and starts judging it.
Blending nanotechnology science fiction, AI humanoid emotional evolution, and hard-science realism, WhiteGrass delivers relentless pacing, cinematic stakes,
and deeply human emotion. It is a story about parents willing to risk
everything to protect their children—and a world forced to confront
whether it deserves saving at all.
Perfect for fans of near-future disaster thrillers, technothrillers with
political intrigue, and science fiction where artificial intelligence becomes
human, WhiteGrass is a powerful warning—and an unforgettable ride.
Richard H. Smith, MSc., is a futurist, technologist, and climate policy expert
whose career has placed him at the intersection of nanotechnology, artificial
intelligence, healthcare innovation, and climate change foresight for more
than three decades. Drawing on real-world experience working alongside
scientists, engineers, Fortune 50 companies, and Ohgovernment agencies, Smith
writes hard science fiction grounded in plausible futures, where technology
collides with political power, ethics, and human survival.
Smith’s professional background spans leadership roles in nanotechnology
R&D, AI-based medical diagnostics, strategic technology forecasting, and
science policy, including serving as research director at a major university
medical center and founding multiple technology ventures. He has advised U.S.
and international governments on emerging technologies and was formally
trained on climate change science by Al Gore, giving him a rare combination of
technical depth and policy insight.
Raised in Virginia, Smith built his career while raising a family—an
experience that deeply informs the emotional core of his fiction. Today, he
lives in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, a coastal community already facing the
realities of sea-level rise. He teaches courses on climate change and coastal
vulnerability, witnessing firsthand how future scenarios are rapidly becoming
present-day realities.
WhiteGrass is Smith’s first full-length novel and the culmination of a
lifetime spent studying how advanced technologies shape—and
endanger—civilization. The novel explores nanotechnology, climate
collapse, political conspiracy, and artificial intelligence becoming human,
all through the lens of family survival in a destabilized near-future world. A
prequel, The Iliad Virus, is available now, with the sequel Icarus Rising currently in development.
Smith writes with one driving purpose: to expose uncomfortable truths about
climate change, technological power, and political control—while telling
a story compelling enough to feel like a blockbuster movie unfolding on the
page.
Their relationship is fake. Their chemistry is not.
Chicago social worker, Maggie O’Hara, arrives at the Minneapolis airport
where she awaits the arrival of her family to pick her up and take her home
with them for Thanksgiving. She’s nervous, due to the surprise she has
for them in her arms—her newly adopted baby girl from Korea. With little
thought, Maggie grabs a stranger getting off the same airplane, and asks him
to portray himself, temporarily, as her fiancé. She knows that her
old-fashioned family will disapprove of the adoption because she’s not
married. What Maggie doesn’t count on is falling in love with Dr. Nick
Capra, who does more than a passable job of posing as her fiancé that
day, and over the holiday week.
From the moment Maggie snags Nick, a confirmed bachelor, his gut tells him his
single days are over and that she’s the woman for him. While posing as
her fiancé he tells her he wants to be a permanent part of her life.
While Maggie has fallen in love with Nick, she has a secret that could ruin
their chances of being together, though she refuses to divulge the secret to
him—until the choice is taken out of her hands.
About the Author
Nancy Schumacher is the owner-publisher of Melange Books, LLC, writing under
the pseudonyms, Nancy Pirri and Natasha Perry. Being a publisher doesn’t
allow much time for the creative process of writing and publishing her own
works, but every once in a while it happens.
She is an associate member of Romance Writers of America (RWA). She is also
one of the founders of the RWA chapter, Northern Lights Writers (NLW), in
Minnesota.
