Old Books and Faded Dreams transports readers on a nostalgic journey
with the townspeople of Tilden, a quaint community in Madison County,
Nebraska. At the center of the heartwarming story is Maggie Davis, a
middle-aged widow and heiress to a grand Victorian estate. The stately home,
which Maggie shares with her spunky nine-year-old daughter Jenna, also serves
as a bed-and-breakfast to a once regular, but now transitory, clientele. The
kitchen table is the epicenter of lively, often contentious, conversation
where no topics are off-limits. Maggie’s out-spoken, spinster neighbor
delights in keeping everyone on guard with her opinionated, prejudicial
tirades, but she is frequently reined in by an elderly, equally forthright
family member who has recently become a permanent dweller at the manor. Maggie
finds herself struggling with the painful memories of her husband’s tragic
death, as well as the stirrings in her heart associated with a new house
guest. A scandalous scheme to swindle Maggie out of her inherited property
rides on the heels of a sudden, unexpected death, pointing to a member of the
family as suspect. The startling discovery of a sinister family secret locked
away for decades in an old attic trunk threatens to overshadow a highly
esteemed familial image and cherished legacy. Can relationships be salvaged?
Old Books and Faded Dreams is a captivating, small-town tale about friendship,
grief, reconciliation and ultimately, unconditional love.
About the Author
D.L. Norris is a notable author and motivational speaker who has written
numerous short stories and articles on health, emotional wellness, family, and
cultural history. Norris’ novels, The Long Way Home and Where the Heart
Is, capture in colorful, humorous style the actual events and cultural
mindsets surrounding her Scandinavian family and personal life experiences.
Norris’ expressive writing style quickly engages her readers and
encourages them to sit back and enjoy a nostalgic, magical journey. She and
her husband are happily retired in beautiful Hartford, Connecticut.
Three black cats. One grumpy biker. Fate’s about to get witchy. And
wickedly hot.
Elvira – Halloween’s my favorite holiday, until one teeny mishap
with my practice spell. Suddenly I’m homeless, stinking of swamp gas,
and dragging three black cats into a biker compound… Where I meet
Chains. Big, broody, and superstitious as hell, he glares at my “demon
spawn” like they’re plotting his death. But the way he looks at
me? Let’s just say my spell isn’t the only thing that’s
likely to combust. He’s all hard muscle and harder attitude, and I
can’t tell if he wants to banish me… or bend me over the couch
and have his wicked way with me. I would definitely approve of option number
two!
Chains — I don’t fear much after nine years inside, but Ellie is chaos.
She’s a walking disaster. Loud, messy, and makes Halloween look like a
lifestyle, not a holiday. And her damn cats have me spooked. I tell myself
she’s trouble. Too naïve. Too good. Then she kisses me, and
suddenly I’m ready to sell my soul for another taste. My MC brothers
think it’s funny. Screw em. Elvira’s mine. And if anyone touches
her, I’ll burn this place to the ground.
WARNING: Chains contains memories of domestic abuse and manipulation. However,
there is a happy-ever-after ending that will make you feel warm and fuzzy.
EXCERPT
Elvira
I stood in the center of my apartment, surveying the disaster zone that used
to be my living room. The cauldron, which was actually just my favorite stock
pot, lay on its side on the stove. Dark green liquid dripped steadily from the
countertop by the stove onto the cheap linoleum floor. My witches’ brew
experiment had gone spectacularly wrong, again, filling the air with a stench
so foul it made my eyes water. I’d only wanted to create a love potion.
Instead, I’d concocted what smelled like a demonic skunk had mated with
rotting eggs in a garbage fire.
“It’s okay, babies,” I cooed to the three black cats,
who’d retreated to their carriers the moment the pot bubbled over.
“Mommy just had a tiny magical mishap.”
Lucifer hissed from behind his carrier door, his yellow eyes narrowed in
judgment. Binx paced in tight circles, while Salem had his paws pressed
against his nose. Even my familiars couldn’t stand the smell.
“I know, I know. I should have followed the recipe.” I pulled my
tank top over my nose, breathing through the fabric. “But who has time
to find owl feathers and moonwater on a Tuesday night?”
I flung open every window in my apartment, the October air rushing in but
barely making a dent in the stench. The smoke detector, which had been
screaming for ten minutes, finally quieted. Green sludge dripped from the
ceiling above the stove where the potion had splattered during its violent
eruption. My carefully arranged Halloween decorations were now coated in
something that looked like radioactive snot.
“We can fix this,” I muttered to myself, only half convinced.
“Just need some bleach, maybe an exorcism, definitely a new
carpet…”
The pounding on my door made me jump. “Miss Blackheart!” Yeah. He
didn’t sound happy. “Open the door right now!”
“Coming, Mr. Peterson!” I sang out in my cheeriest voice,
frantically attempting to right the fallen cauldron. Green goo sloshed over my
fingers, burning slightly. “Just freshening up!”
I wiped my hands on my black jeans and pulled my long hair back into a heavy
ponytail. Taking a deep breath, I immediately regretted it as the fumes hit my
lungs, I opened the door with my most innocent smile even as my eyes watered.
Mr. Peterson stood there, his face the color of an overripe tomato. The vein
in his forehead throbbed with such intensity I worried it might burst. His
nostrils flared before he clamped a hand over his nose as the wall of stink
hit him.
“What in God’s name –” He choked, stumbling backward.
“The entire building smells like… like…”
“Aromatherapy!” I offered brightly. “It’s a, um, rare
Eastern technique for cleansing negative energy.”
His eyes bulged as he peered past me into the apartment. “Your ceiling
is green! There’s smoke everywhere!”
“That’s part of the process?” My voice lifted higher with
each word, betraying my desperation.
“The Johnsons in 3B are throwing up. Mrs. Wittlesby’s cat fainted.
The Andersons’ dog is howling like it’s seen a ghost.” He
thrust a piece of paper at me. “This is an eviction notice. You’re
out, Miss Blackheart.”
I took the paper with trembling fingers. “But Mr. Peterson, I’ve
always paid my rent on time, and –”
“I don’t care if you paid your rent in gold bars! You’ve
violated every health code in existence. People are evacuating the damn
building!” The longer he spoke, the louder he got. And he’d been
pretty damned loud to start with.
Behind me, one of my cats let out a mournful yowl. “Those damn black
cats of yours,” he muttered, making the sign of the cross. “I knew
they were bad news.”
I felt my cheeks flush. “Don’t blame my cats for this.
They’re innocent.”
“You have until tonight to get out,” he bellowed, gesturing wildly
at my smoke-stained ceiling. “Eight hours! After that, I’m calling
animal control for those beasts and the hazmat team for… whatever
hellbrew you’ve cooked up in here.”
“But where am I supposed to go?” My voice cracked, the reality of
my situation finally sinking in. “You can’t kick me out with no
notice!”
“Not my problem. And it’s my damn building; I’ll do whatever
the hell I want. Take it to court if you want. Don’t care. But until you
get a court date, I want you out of here!” He stepped back, pulling a
handkerchief over his nose. “I’ve put up with the stink for the
last time. Eight hours, Miss Blackheart. Not a minute more.”
The door slammed in my face. I stood there, clutching the eviction notice,
feeling the edges of panic creeping in. Sure, I could take him to court.
He’d have to call the police to force me to leave and they
wouldn’t make me unless there was a court order. But, honestly, I knew
it was time to move on. I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I’d hoped to
save a little more money before then. But maybe this was a sign.
My hands shook as I turned to face my ruined apartment. The clock on the wall
shaped like a grinning skull showed it was already noon.
“Well, shit,” I whispered to no one in particular.
I sank down onto my potion-spattered couch, the eviction notice crumpling in
my grip. My eyes burned, and not just from the fumes. I really wasn’t
sure where I was going to go. I had a couple thousand dollars in my savings
account, and a hundred in my checking to do me until payday. If I could find a
new place that wasn’t too expensive, I might have enough for a security
deposit and first month’s rent. If I was really lucky. And that was
assuming I could find something in the next eight hours. Right. Not a
snowball’s chance in hell.
I glanced at my phone, scrolling through the pitiful list of contacts until I
came to Carrie’s number and took a deep breath. We weren’t exactly
close friends, but she’d always been kind to me at the coffee shop where
I worked weekends. She seemed like a really nice person. She’d offered
me a place to crash the last time my landlord threatened to kick me out. I
hadn’t taken her up on the offer then since I only knew her from the
coffee shop, but I wasn’t sure I had many options at the moment.
The phone rang three times before she picked up. “Ellie! Hey!” She
sounded excited. To hear from me?
“Hey.” I tried to keep my voice steady, but it wavered.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’m having a bit of an
emergency.”
“Oh no, Ellie! What kind of emergency? Are you all right?” Carrie
sounded distressed. She was such a sweet person I had no doubt she genuinely
was distressed.
“I… um… may have accidentally created a biohazard in my
apartment and gotten evicted?” I laughed, the sound hollow and
desperate. “I need to be out by eight tonight, and I have nowhere to go,
and I have my cats, and –” My voice broke, tears threatening.
There was a muffled commotion in the background. I could hear Carrie talking
and other people responding, but it was like she had her hand over the speaker
or something. I closed my eyes, bracing for rejection.
“Now drop me a pin and we’ll get over there.” Carrie sounded
determined and, I thought, authoritative? Like she was the one giving the
orders and everyone else was doing her bidding. So, I did as she instructed.
“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Relief flooded through me so fast I nearly dropped the phone.
“We?” My voice came out a squeak. I knew Carrie’s man was a
member of a local motorcycle club called Kiss of Death. Which I kind of liked
the sound of, but it was still a motorcycle club. Honestly, though, I kind of
thought the guys I’d met at the coffee shop were much safer than some of
the people living in this building.
“Oh yeah! The girls are gonna get you a room ready while Hannah and I
are bringing Knuckles and Hawk. We’ll get you packed up and out of there
in no time.”
“I don’t want to cause anyone any trouble, Carrie. It’s bad
enough I’m asking you guys for a place to stay.”
“Nonsense! We all want to help!” There was more racket in the
background, then Carrie was back. “We’re bringing boxes and some
big contractor bags. Anything you want to keep that’s soiled or smells
too bad we can put in there and wash later. Be on the lookout for a blue
Bronco.”
About the Author
Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double
life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife
by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in
spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable
heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful
ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are
speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined
with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a
sigh from her readers.
Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband
with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for
preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts
(which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with
Marteeka’s latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her
website. Don’t forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you
with a potpourri of Teeka’s beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph
events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.
The threat to all werewolves draws Amir and Oliver together, even as
their wounds threaten to rip them apart.
Trust is Earned (Medically Necessary 1): Amir is a General Practitioner
for magical creatures, particularly werewolves. When the leader of all
werewolves comes to him with a problem that presents like psychosis, Amir
needs help. Oliver’s nursing a grieving heart and a chip on his
shoulder. Still, when Amir asks for his help, he jumps at the chance. The
submissive wolf is beautiful.
Trust is Fraught (Medically Necessary 2): As the leader of the werewolves
sinks further into insanity, Amir and Oliver fight prejudice and time to
rescue their alpha. As Oliver and Amir are pulled deeper into the dangers of
the psychic world, their love may be the only thing keeping them sane.
Trust is Sacred (Medically Necessary 3): Oliver’s terrible secret is
eating him alive. Amir thinks purging and confession are medically necessary
for spiritual and physical well-being, but Oliver will stop at almost nothing
to hide his scars.
Can either of them learn to trust?
EXCERPT
Excerpt from Trust is Earned
He had tended to different members of the Tilthos and Merle werewolf packs
over the years. Being positioned in southern Erie County, located in Upstate
New York, had been the best thing he could do for his medical practice. Once
he’d finally convinced Nicholas Black of the Merle pack in Buffalo, New
York, to work with him as the werewolf equivalent of a midwife, his office was
often full to bursting with pregnant female werewolves.
And it didn’t matter one bit that he spoke Werewelsh, the native
language of most werewolves, with an accent or as only his fourth language.
For Dr. Amir Othman, the prejudice he might have encountered because of his
unusual parentage and his even more unique upbringing was all overshadowed by
one truth. He was good at his job.
That didn’t make him less nervous to meet the alpha above all alphas.
Tilthos Charles, alpha of his own pack and leader of the wolves of North and
South America, was supposedly intimidating. All of which pointed to this
truth: while Amir had healed every magical creature from djinns to kelpies,
and even two dragons, he still worried about doing or saying the wrong thing
in Tilthos Charles’s presence.
What bothered him even more was that he almost qualified as a lone wolf. A
“packless loner,” in werewolf-speak, and that was not a
compliment. He had a technical pack, run by Kreisha Alexander. When that
particular alpha threw his weight around, everyone obeyed. Thankfully, that
pack was in Washington, DC, nearly two hundred miles away. So, unless Alpha
Alexander gave him an edict directly over the phone, as opposed to in an email
or via snail mail, Amir could basically do as he chose.
Except, now the alpha above all alphas was coming to his office and would
surely demand to know why he hadn’t switched his allegiance to a pack up
here in New York. “It doesn’t have to be mine,” the most
powerful werewolf on the planet would say, “but it can’t be you
operating under your own aegis.”
So, when his assistant, Carly, sent him a message that Tilthos Charles was
here, Amir’s pulse picked up. He responded to her message, saying
he’d be in Exam Room Three in under five minutes. Then he did a deep
breathing exercise, using the five senses trick he’d learned as a young
wolf when he first realized he wanted to become a doctor and would be around
blood and anxious magical creatures.
Five things he could see. His fidgety hands. By crossing his eyes, he could
see his nose. His computer screen, which held everything his clinic had on the
alpha above all alphas. Trying to look farther away in an attempt to slow his
racing heart, he looked at the carpet in front of his desk. It was a boring
brown that didn’t hold his attention. Finally, he looked at the door
where he’d hung a poster of a Great Pyrenees, which was the closest
breed to his family’s wolf forms, which were usually white.
Four things he could hear… The thudding of his heart. The rush of blood
in his veins, which meant he was really keyed up still because even though he
was a werewolf with acute hearing, he didn’t usually pay attention to
the sounds of his own or others’ bodies. He struggled hard to refocus
and heard the buzzing of the fluorescent light in the ceiling. He needed one
more thing, so he made his chair creak. Oddly, the sound of something he could
completely control helped him breathe a little easier.
Three things he could touch… The pen in his hand, which he’d been
nervously twirling. He set it down. The feel of the chair under him, with his
suit coat slung over the back. He could also feel his toes in his shoes. He
breathed in more deeply than he’d managed so far and felt still a bit
better.
Two things he could smell… He could no longer smell adrenaline. That
was a good thing. He lifted his hand to his nose and smelled the soap
he’d washed with maybe ten minutes ago.
And one thing he could taste, which was his cold lavender matcha latte.
Glancing at the clock icon on his computer, he saw it had been almost three
minutes. Well, it was now or never. He doubted he’d be calmer if he sat
here longer. So, he stood, straightened his white medical coat, and left the
office. He listened to people talking quietly in the waiting room as he
passed. He smiled at Carly, who mouthed, “Good luck.” Then he
knocked on the door of Exam Room Three.
“Please come in.”
The voice that had responded was lightly accented, and he wondered why no one
had ever told him Tilthos Charles was Hispanic. Then he was in the room, and
he saw there were two people inside. The werewolf was certainly Tilthos
Charles and the psychic vampire… Oh, yes. Tilthos Charles’s mate
was a psychic vampire.
The alpha wolf sat on the exam table and his mate stood at his side. It was
actually the psychic vampire who moved first, holding out his hand. “Dr.
Othman, I’m Luis McLaughlin.”
Amir shook with him and then offered his hand to the burly werewolf. He saw
the wolf’s eyes flicker quickly down to his hand and then away. Then his
hand was taken and Tilthos Charles said, “Please to meet you, Dr.
Othman.”
He sounded it too, but there was something bothering him. Well, and
didn’t that make sense? Folks who were completely healthy rarely came to
the doctor’s office.
“The pleasure is mine,” Amir returned, smiling at both of them.
Then he retreated until he could sit on his stool. He watched Tilthos
Charles’s eyes try to focus on him. “Forgive me, but while I have
some information about your general health, I know very little about your
visual impairment.”
He saw his guess had been right, that the alpha above all alphas indeed had
something wrong with his vision.
“I told you he’d know,” said Luis as his mate brought out a
folded white cane from behind his back.
“Forgive me the test, Dr. Othman,” said Charles, “but
I’ve been seen by too many doctors who miss the obvious until I point it
out to them.” He settled the cane on his leg, keeping one hand on it so
it wouldn’t fall. “We’re here today, not because of my
visual impairment, which has been unchanged since I was born, but because Luis
is convinced there’s something…” He hesitated.
Luis said, “He’s distracted and agitated.”
Amir watched Charles’s nostrils flare and his pupils dilate.
“I’m on edge because Agent Sowerby’s… Shit. I must be
off-balance somehow if I’m about to spill state secrets.” He
smiled ruefully at Amir. “Forgive me. Luis is right. I just can’t
figure out how you’ll help me or if there is any help for the mess
we’re about to be in.”
“May I examine you?”
Charles nodded.
Amir went through all the basics, including sending the alpha werewolf out to
give him a urine sample. When the door closed, he turned to Luis. “How
long has he been on edge?” He could smell the wolf’s almost panic.
“About three weeks. “
“Did anything precipitate his anxiety?”
Luis sighed. “I’m not sure what’s really private. I assume
you’re bound by medical confidentiality?”
“I am.” He could see the psychic vampire hesitating. “Please
tell me everything you can. I cannot be effective while only possessing half
the facts.”
“My mate holds the belief that the head of SearchLight is going to
expose all magical creatures.”
Amir’s mouth went dry. “I know Tilthos Charles probably has the
ear of SearchLight. Is he correct?”
“Absolutely not, but I can’t convince him of that.”
“Has he talked to…” He couldn’t remember the name of
the new head of SearchLight, only that Agent Weinberg had stepped down.
“I’ve tried getting Jack Sowerby to talk to him. No dice. Not that
Agent Sowerby wouldn’t, but Charlie didn’t believe him.”
Amir held up his hand. The bathroom door had creaked open. He turned his head
toward the exam room’s entrance for good measure.
Tilthos Charles entered. “Your assistant took my sample.”
Amir said soothingly, “Please, Alpha, sit down.”
He saw his words had the opposite effect to what he’d intended. Instead
of resting on the table again, Tilthos Charles drew himself up. He was taller
than Amir by half a foot and intimidating as hell.
Sitting on his stool, making himself as nonthreatening as possible, Amir put
his hands palms up on his thighs. “I mean you no harm.”
About the Author
Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender
women’s speculative fiction. Seeking a world made of equality, she
created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its
problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host
of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires. And in the
contemporary world she’s named “Sticks & Stones,” Emily
has vowed to create small towns where prejudice is challenged by a passionate
quest for equality. Find her on Facebook at Shapeshifter Central or on her
website.
They betrayed me. They tried to sell my woman. But I’m the man
they couldn’t kill. Now I’m the darkness coming for them.
Dylan — I thought I could handle my uncle’s world. I thought if I kept
my head down and stayed quiet, I could survive with the help of the mysterious
man who’d slipped into my bed like a secret I didn’t want to
question. But one night everything shattered. My uncle Eli handed me off to a
trafficker like I was nothing, and the man I trusted turned out to be the
ghost Eli thought he’d left hanging in the woods — the man who would
kill to keep me safe.
Vendetta — I used to be Tank, proud to wear the Cottonmouth patch, until I
spoke out against the rot our so-called leaders let poison our MC. They hung
me for it. I crawled out of my grave and took a new name. Now I’m back
to burn the criminal empire infecting Oak Grove, and the Cottonmouths that
invited it in, to the ground.
Dylan was never supposed to be part of the plan. Hell, she’s the niece
of the man who betrayed me. But I’ll die before I let him hurt her
again. And when Eli and his men try to finish what they started, they’ll
see I’m not the same man they tried to bury.
Warning: Vendetta is intended for readers 18+ due to explicit adult content,
violence, and bad language. There’s no cliffhanger, no cheating, and a
guaranteed HEA.
EXCERPT
Dylan
Ned’s Sundown Lounge looked rougher in the light of day than it ever did
at night.
Dylan Crizer waited across the street with her keys clenched in her hand,
taking it all in. The building looked old, dressed in faded black brick. The
same flickering neon sign that barely spelled the word “Open” was
still there. She remembered it from passing by that building as a child. The
tinted windows smeared with fingerprints and smoke stains were new. While the
building wasn’t falling apart just yet, it had clearly seen better days.
Maybe better decades.
Yeah, it was as bad as her Uncle Eli had said it was. It blew her mind that he
was now co-owner of the bar that had been there most of her life. Eli Crizer
was a big bad biker, president of the Cottonmouths and all that, but
he’d never been well-off before. How did a biker get that kind of money?
Did he dip into his retirement account? Did he even have one of those?
Not long after she returned to Oak Grove, she found out her uncle had bought
the place with a “business associate.” How did he get a business
associate? The place had always fascinated her, so when she saw the
‘help wanted’ sign in the window, she marched herself in and
applied right away. Not surprisingly, her uncle, who hadn’t made time to
reach out to her so far, called her the same day about her application.
“It’s not the place for you, Dylan,” he said right off the
bat. When she asked why, he countered with, “It’s gonna be full of
drunks, ex-cons, and worse.”
She thought the fact that she’d been a waitress for years would
guarantee her the job. She had bartender experience too, although she
wasn’t the best at making drinks consistently good in a rough
environment. Her uncle didn’t agree. “You’re a Crizer.
You’re better than serving drinks to scummy people.”
But here she was anyway. Not just because she had something to prove. She now
had something to rebuild. Her entire life basically. Maybe she wouldn’t
be starting a new job today; Eli as a co-owner could cut her off. But she had
to try.
Dylan spent five years with a man who couldn’t commit and didn’t
want her to grow. Five years pretending she was happy in a dead-end
relationship in Richmond. When she left him and the city, she made up her mind
that she’d come back to Oak Grove and figure it out from the ground up.
She’d start over. Hell, she was only twenty-five. She had time.
She was starting over right here at Ned’s Sundown Lounge.
Pushing through the front door, Dylan blinked as her eyes adjusted to the low
light inside the bar. The entire place smelled of old leather, cheap whiskey,
and stale beer. It appeared to be well stocked and mostly clean despite all
the scuff marks and the sticky spots along the floor. The tables were roomy
and spaced out well around its central dance floor. A narrow hallway led off
in the direction of the restrooms and the back offices. Ned’s Sundown
Lounge had its own unique charm. If you squinted.
“Good afternoon,” came a voice from behind the bar. A tall, older
woman with a sharp jaw and leopard-print eyeglasses worked at polishing
glasses, watching Dylan with a smile. “You must be Eli’s
niece.”
“Dylan,” she said, stepping up to the bar. “Here for my
first day.”
At least she hoped she was. If Eli told them she couldn’t work there,
what would she do? She really needed the job and had already told him that.
“I’m Peggy,” the woman said in the way of introduction as
she gave her a once-over and nodded like she approved of what she saw.
“You got the job. Just stay aware and don’t take shit from anyone.
Even the regulars. You’ll be fine.”
Dylan didn’t hesitate. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Come on.” Peggy put the last glass she polished on the bar and
motioned for Dylan to follow her.
Down that narrow hallway and to the left was a line of really old lockers
outside the business offices. All of them had huge padlocks, protecting the
personal items the employees wanted to tuck away. Just one, at the far end,
had a small key stuck in the bottom of its padlock. Peggy pointed to that one.
“There’s only one key,” Peggy warned. “If you lose it,
you’re responsible for getting a new lock, okay?”
Dylan nodded, tucking her purse into the locker and securing it with the
padlock before sliding its tiny silver key into the front pocket of her jeans.
Peggy jerked a thumb in the opposite direction. “The kitchen is that
way. There’s not a lot of menu options to memorize. Burgers, fries,
nachos. I think they have chili a couple of times a week. None of it is that
great.”
Good to know. Pulling the hair tie from her wrist, she pulled her hair up into
a ponytail as she followed the woman back through the bar, taking in every
corner as she went. Dylan was many things but naive wasn’t one of them.
Her Uncle Eli had influence here and he led a shady biker club. And now he was
a co-owner of this place. People didn’t just “run bars”
these days. Bars were often covers for other things. More shady shit.
She’d left a couple of bars after learning they were running drugs out
of them. The second one had a full police raid one night and it took hours for
it to be cleared up so everyone could go home. She never returned because
drugs were dangerous and brought dangerous people. No job was worth putting
herself in the line of fire.
But until she had proof that something wasn’t right here at her
uncle’s bar, she was going to do the damn job. Unfortunately, she needed
the money to get back on her feet.
Smile. Hustle. Listen. It had been her mantra since her first job in a bar.
Peggy looked to be somewhere in her forties. She had a no-nonsense attitude
that had to come in handy in a place as rough as this. “House rules.
Keep the regulars’ drinks full and staff are not allowed to talk
politics. Or religion. People don’t want to think about religion when
they’re drinking and partying, you know? The jukebox plays when it
fucking wants to, so no beating it or kicking it. If Ned’s here and he
sees you do it, he’ll lose his mind.”
“Who’s Ned?” Dylan asked.
“The other co-owner,” Peggy replied. “Try not to piss him
off, even if you are Eli’s family.”
“Understood,” Dylan said.
“Now, if a fight breaks out and there’s usually one each fucking
week,” Peggy explained, “don’t be a hero. Just try and get
clear and wave down one of the bouncers. We usually have at least two of them
scheduled each night. It’s not a bad idea to check the schedule.
It’s on the whiteboard with the lockers. See who’s on duty each
night so you know who you’re looking for.” She jerked her chin in
the direction of the far end of the bar.
Dylan followed her gaze to the two huge guys leaning against the back wall
near the hallway, perfectly still and silent. One of them was built like a
refrigerator with tattoos creeping up both sides of his neck. The other looked
mean even though he wasn’t actively trying to at that moment. He was
leaner with an angular face and a body you could only get from hours each week
in the gym. The gym rats were hit-or-miss as bouncers. Dylan would be willing
to bet money that the fridge was the one to flag down in a fight.
“They don’t talk much, but they move fast, let me tell you. If
some shit goes down, make eye contact, give a nod, and then get out of the
way. Got it?”
“Got it,” Dylan said, scanning the room as Peggy handed her an
apron and a notepad. “Is there a panic button or something? I’ve
worked in other places that had them.”
Peggy snorted. “This ain’t Applebee’s, sweetheart. You see
something coming, you move. Fast.”
It wasn’t the serious lack of formal safety protocols that raised
Dylan’s eyebrows. It was the way Peggy said it, like fights
weren’t just a possibility, they were expected. Like there was a rhythm
to them and they were allowed. She nodded and kept listening, but something
about that rubbed her wrong.
“Most of our business is on the weekends, of course, but the VIPs come
in all during the week,” Peggy went on, already moving back to the bar
to stock napkins in old-fashioned metal boxes. “You’ll know them
when you see them. They don’t tip, but don’t piss them off. Eli
likes to keep them happy.”
Dylan paused, notebook in hand. “VIPs?”
“Locals. Out-of-towners. Some are from his MC. Doesn’t
matter,” Peggy said, without looking up. “You serve what they
order and stay out of their conversations. That’s not me being rude.
That’s me keeping you employed.”
The words hit her like a warning. Something about all of it, the emphasis, the
look in Peggy’s eyes, the way she didn’t offer names made
Dylan’s stomach tighten as she kept listening, wondering what else she
was going to hear. Nodding, she filed it all away and forced a smile.
“Thanks for showing me the ropes,” Dylan said. “I appreciate
it.”
Peggy finally looked at her, a long, assessing stare. Then she shrugged.
“You’ve got the eyes for this place. You watch everything.
That’s good. Just make sure you don’t watch too closely,
yeah?”
Dylan didn’t answer. But she was definitely paying attention.
“One last thing.” Peggy spoke quietly. “You’re one of
the owner’s family members which probably means you’d have to
really fuck up to get fired. But just keep in mind, you’re still
expendable.”
“I’ll do my best to remember that.”
The evening crowd was light, just as Peggy explained it would be. It was
Thursday night, and Ned’s Sundown Lounge always did look better at
night. The dim lighting and the fact that the sun had already set, covered the
bar’s many imperfections better than paint ever could. The jukebox was
working tonight, playing songs that were moody and lazy, and they filled the
space without drawing attention.
The regulars were easy to spot, planted on barstools like fixtures, beers in
front of them. Some of them talked to each other in low voices, some were
there on their own. Dylan had just finished clearing one of her tables when
the cool night air blew a newcomer through the front doors.
Dylan glanced up and paused.
The newest patron was tall and built. She didn’t think she’d seen
him before. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. She was just back in
town after having been gone several years.
The man who just walked in didn’t look like a local. Six-four, easy,
with broad shoulders under a worn jean jacket and a dark hoodie that had
definitely seen better days. His long dark hair was pulled back low at the
neck, and a beat-up baseball cap shadowed most of his face. Not that it helped
much. He was fine and pretty hard to miss.
Dark eyes scanned the room once, slow and deliberate. He didn’t come
across as cocky, just aware. Like he was used to being in places where trouble
could find him in a hurry. When his gaze finally landed on her, it lingered
for half a second longer than it needed to. Not creepy or flirty. Maybe
interested.
Dylan straightened and stepped behind the bar, already reaching for a clean
glass. But the new guy didn’t sit at the bar like most of them. No, he
picked out a booth near the back, one that gave him the best line of sight on
both the bar’s exits.
Shit, they really must have fights often here.
Dylan clocked that and noticed how relaxed his movements were. Like someone
trained not to draw attention but fully capable of handling it if he had to.
She walked over with a notepad in hand, smiling when his gaze met hers.
“You look like a bourbon guy,” she said by way of greeting.
“It depends on who’s pouring,” he said, voice deep and
gravel smooth.
About the Author
Jamie Targaet is the author of the Hounds of Hell MC. She’s anxious to
introduce you to this club of gorgeous, dominant men and the lucky women who
surrender to them. The ride is going to get wild at times, not going to lie.
But there’s thrilling action, scorching hot sex scenes, and all the feels.
Jamie writes erotic romance for Changeling Press, a little fanfiction on the
side, and she’s an aspiring horror writer in another life. She enjoys time
with her family (including the fur babies). She likes good horror movies and
shows, emo metal and classic rock, and time spent in other worlds writing and
reading. She loves hearing from readers and is looking forward to hearing from
you.
The Hippocratic Oath dictates, “First, do no harm,” but what if
success demands it?
The calm and compassionate Dr. Joyce Porter is proud to work at McArthur
Fertility Institute, where miracles happen every day. Couples determined to
conceive flock to the clinic, drawn by its unmatched IVF success rate and
glowing reputation.
But behind the clinic’s shining facade lies a disturbing secret. When
another doctor mentions a peculiarity in the facility’s methods, Joyce
investigates. What she discovers is worse than she could have imagined. Now,
she must decide whether to confront the institute’s renowned director
about his unscrupulous deeds or compromise her ethics by turning a blind eye.
She knows staying silent could destroy people’s lives, but speaking out
could destroy hers.
As the line between healing and harm blurs, Joyce must decide how far
she’s willing to go to protect her patients, her integrity, and the
future she still hopes to build.
About the Author
M.J. Kuhar worked in private practice as an OB-GYN for over a decade
before shifting to a career in higher education, first as an assistant
professor, then as a college dean, and finally as a vice president.
Her dedication to helping patients and students left her little time to write,
but the idea for a novel stuck with her. Inspired by deeply moving stories of
couples undergoing IVF, she developed her first novel, In Vitro.
Now retired, M.J. lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and a spicy
cat named Simon. She volunteers at a local elementary school, where she reads
with kindergarteners to foster a love of books. Tai chi, crafting, and wine
tasting are a few of her favorite hobbies.
A ritual decades ago leads Beau to the one person he never expected to
meet: his fated mate.
Detective Beau Kirkland has to work directly with the local vampire house to
find a murderer, but that’s the easy part. The difficult part? His attraction
to Garrett Dawson’s, one of House Saridan’s top hunters.
Garrett Dawson’s methods are brutal but very effective, even for a vampire.
When a mortal detective begins working with House Saridan, Garrett finds
himself unable to ignore the attraction between them.
EXCERPT
Garrett
There were few things I truly loved in this world, and one was currently in my
hand as I took the elevator up to the fifteenth floor of Saridan Tower. No one
else shared my addiction to the most amazingly sweet coffee concoction
currently sending copious amounts of caffeine through my system. I stepped off
the elevator on the top floor and headed down the hall to the usual conference
room. I didn’t get any farther than the doorway, though. I simply froze, body
alternating between hot and cold.
Normally, these meetings were just the three of us lead Venari and Deacon.
Not today, apparently.
Beau Kirkland looked up at me, eyes wide for a moment. No one said a word —
not even Deacon. Somehow, I got my feet to move and sat opposite the omega
cop. It took more effort than I really had this morning to focus on work and
not the stupidly hot human across from me.
I didn’t go for twinks like the others. I liked my men older, more
experienced. Beau fit that requirement with ease. His short brown hair bore a
little bit of gray here and there, and his dark chocolate-colored eyes studied
me whenever I glanced at his face. He was a few inches shorter than my own
six-three, and unlike most omegas, he was a bit muscular due to his job.
Dressed in his dark navy uniform, he presented the most fucking delectable
package on the planet. I cursed silently and tore my gaze from his when all
blood began rushing south.
Deacon cleared his throat and looked at each of us. “I’m sure you all know one
another, but for protocol’s sake, I’d like to introduce Officer Beau Kirkland.
He’s our liaison within the police department. He’s also the one handling this
latest case on their end. Officer Kirkland, these are my head Venari: Nikolai
Hart, Victor Pace, and Garrett Dawson.”
Beau nodded. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
We exchanged the usual pleasantries before Deacon continued. “I’m stepping
back for now,” he said, glancing at me briefly, “but I’m here if needed. To
that end, the table’s yours, Officer Kirkland.”
“Thank you,” Beau said. He handed each of us several folders. “Eight victims
so far, all completely drained. Eyewitnesses have seen the perp in passing,
but no one can agree on a description.”
“Could be a Lupyn,” Vic said as he flipped through the contents of one of the
folders.
“That was my assumption, but you all know far better than we do if that’s the
case.”
I went through the first folder in front of me. Crime scene photos, pics of
the victims post-mortem, notes, and statements. I scanned over everything and
couldn’t disagree with the shapeshifter idea. It would make sense.
“What do you need from us?” Nik asked Beau. “We’re more than happy to work
with you and your folks.”
I’m not sure I would’ve gone that far, but we did need to get this monster off
the streets. I might not have been particularly nuts about humans, but that
didn’t mean I wished them dead. My methods were saved for my own kind.
Beau passed out papers to us. “These are the last few places he was sighted.
He’s a vampire, so we humans are outgunned here. We can help corner him, but
capture is a different story altogether.”
Nik nodded. “Agreed. Well, we’re here and ready to go hunting.”
I didn’t miss the slight grimace on Beau’s face before he managed to school it
into something more neutral. Apparently, neither did Deacon, but the man just
remained silent.
“Thank you,” Beau said. “Please keep me updated on everything. In the
meantime, I’ll be at the station downtown, trying to narrow our possible
location leads.”
“Thank you for coming to us,” Deacon said. “I guarantee we will be in touch.
These guys are my best hunters, and I have no doubt they’ll find this son of a
bitch.”
Despite the situation, Beau smiled. “Thank you very much.”
The others left the room, though Beau shot me a cryptic look before stepping
out the door. I stayed seated, knowing Deacon had something to say. Sure
enough, as soon as we were alone, he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.
“Is this going to be an issue?”
I could’ve played dumb, but he already knew everything. There wasn’t any
point. “No. I’m fully capable of working with him.”
Deacon raised one eyebrow. “Really? Because pheromones say otherwise.”
I managed to avoid scowling at him. Lupyns were more sensitive to things like
that than Venari. “Unlike Nik, I’m perfectly capable of keeping my dick in my
pants, Deacon.”
He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. He was far older than us, and being
under his scrutiny made even me feel like a scolded kid sometimes. “Don’t let
it get the best of you, Garrett. His job involves danger, and you can’t
protect him from that unless you’re mated and bonded completely.”
“Who said I was –” I snapped my mouth shut at his glare.
“I’m old, not an idiot.” Deacon leaned forward and put his arms on the table.
“Either fight this until the perp is in custody or fucking claim Beau. I can’t
have you out there distracted. Understood?”
“Yes,” I replied, biting back a growl.
“Good. Dismissed.”
I stood abruptly, grabbed the folders and paper, and left the conference room.
I made it halfway down the hall before Nik and Vic both cornered me. Fuck.
“That didn’t go well, did it?” Vic asked.
“No,” I snarled.
I continued walking, and they followed me to the elevator. I stabbed the DOWN
button and had to unclench my fist before I gave into the urge to hit
something. In the door’s reflection, I saw Nik and Vic exchange cautious
glances.
We all stepped into the elevator and took it to the lobby. Without another
word said, it was a given where we’d wind up. Colby’s was the city’s best
diner with the most amazing coffee blends. Maybe the combination of carbs,
sugar, and caffeine would calm me down because just the thought of claiming
Beau sure as fuck wasn’t doing it.
Quite the opposite, actually.
I was hard as a fucking rock.
About the Author
Mychael Black has been writing professionally since 2005. He writes gay
romance and erotica, but also het romance as Carys Seraphine and queer fantasy
as Katherine Cook.
He’s an avid PC gamer with a love for RPGs, a horror fanatic, and a fantasy
nut. He also has a weakness for anything relating to skulls, dogs, and
Spongebob Squarepants.
Mychael lives on the Eastern Shore of the US with his family. He loves to hear
from readers, be it via email or Facebook.
College is rough, but being possessed by a vengeful spirit who wants you to
murder your old boss? That’s next-level.
Freshman year was supposed to be a fresh start. But between his party-animal
roommate, mounting anxiety, and a creepy black vulture that keeps showing up
at the worst possible times, he’s barely keeping it together.
Then the nightmares begin. The voices. The blackouts. And soon, he’s not
sure if the darkness closing in is stress… or something else entirely.
Something old. Something angry. Something that wants revenge and has chosen
him to deliver it.
With his mind slipping, his only hope is a friend who refuses to give up on
him… even when the person she’s fighting to save might already be
gone.
About the Author
Jo Loveday is the award-winning author of gripping psychological
thrillers and chilling horror novels that will keep you up way past your
bedtime with just enough romance to make your heart race for more than one
reason. Her stories delve into the shadowy edges of the human psyche,
exploring morality, madness, and the eerie unknown that lurks beneath the
surface of everyday life.
With a background as a registered nurse, Jo brings both compassion and
clinical insight to her work, offering an authentic and unsettling look into
the human condition. Whether it’s a slow descent into madness, a supernatural
presence worming its way in, or a moral dilemma that haunts the characters
long after the story ends, Jo’s writing grips you by the soul and stays
with you long after you’ve turned the last page.
Born in the frosty tundra of Winnipeg, Canada, Jo eventually escaped the cold
when a job offer in Florida lured her south. Now a dual citizen of Canada and
the U.S., she divides her time between Florida, Georgia, and frequent
pilgrimages to Winnipeg. You can find her lurking online at JoLoveday.com.
Welcome to Moonridge, where the ghosts have come out to play and Death
just checked into the local B&B.
Running a B&B in a town cursed by magical drama wasn’t Mina
Cartwright’s dream job, but it’s home. After all of the werewolf
debacle over the summer, business has flatlined, and she’s barely
holding on financially. Her last hope? A surprise booking from the cast of The
Real Vampire Wives of Obsidian Hills, who are bringing their reality-show
chaos (and impeccable fashion) to Moonridge just in time for the Halloween
festival.
But the real trouble begins when Dex Grimm, a mysterious, breathtakingly aloof
man with a cane and a suspiciously deathly aura, checks into Room Ten. He says
he’s a writer. Mina suspects he’s hiding something … like
the fact that he might actually be the Grim Reaper.
As ghostly activity spikes, magical boundaries fray, and her guests (living
and otherwise) cause mounting mayhem, Mina finds herself caught between a
brewing supernatural crisis and a man known primarily as Death who somehow
makes her feel more alive than she has in years.
Add in a reality TV crew, rampaging ghosts, and the underlying danger of an
ancient evil reawakening in Moonridge, and Mina’s fall season is about
to be to die for.
About the Author
Avery Arujo is the pen name of a socially anxious, awkward, and proudly
introverted author of the paranormal mystery/romance series Welcome to
Moonridge. Avery lives in the northern U.S., where the scenery is beautiful,
the weather perfect, and the food divine. When not writing, you’ll find
Avery watching a horror movie or trashy reality TV or reading under a blanket
with a cup of coffee, and the world’s sweetest dog trying to prove that
they are more interesting than any old book.
For more information about the Welcome to Moonridge series, or to sign up for
the newsletter, visit welcometomoonridge.com.
Bite-sized horror stories are brought to you by twenty-five authors. From
creepy crawlies to the seemingly normal pets. From hideous monsters lurking in
the dark to charismatic people showing their true colors.
Each tale is precisely 100 words and leaves a long-lasting chilling
effect. Some will make you question the security of the world around you, and
what’s more terrifying than that?
Featuring drabbles by the following authors: Bernardo Villela, K.J.
Watson, David J. Vowell, Joshua Ginsberg, A.L. Smith, Petina Strohmer, Zari
Hunt, Paul Burgess, Diana Parrilla, Angel Zapata, Vanessa Bane, Marc Sorondo,
Jacek Wilkos, Arvee Fantilagan, Jodie Francis, Alex Azar, Andreas Flögel,
Jade Kalb, Andrew Buckner, Ken Whitson, Jãnis Bogužs, Andrea Tillmanns,
C.L. Hart, S.F.J. Painter, Monica Wenzel, Dragan Ivanović, and J.E. Feldman.
Excerpt
One Moonlit Night
Copyright 2025 by C. L. Hart
As fourteen-year-old Nevil Teodoro climbed down the trellis near his bedroom
window, a blood-curdling scream pierced the darkness, startling him so badly
that he nearly fell. Juan Soto, the head groundskeeper, ran up from the
gardens, his clothes covered in mud and his face pale as the moon.
“What’s goin’ on, Ese?” Nevil asked as he finished his
descent. “You look like you seen a ghost!”
“Get back in the house, Chico, and call Mama Cecilia.”
“You trippin’, Juan Solo? You want me to call una bruja vieja and
not la policia?”
“Ain’t no policia can stop a moon vampire!”
About the Author
C. L. Hart is an editor who writes or a writer who edits. She primarily pens
dark fantasy (often Lovecraftian) and sweet romance. She resides in a tiny
town on the Northeastern Colorado plains with her adult son, her cat daughter,
and her cat grandson. When not editing, writing, or rehabilitating eldritch
horrors, she enjoys coloring, crafts, and cooking things that she hopes will
be palatable to someone besides the eldritch horrors.
In celebration of Talk Like a Pirate Day on September 19th – We
present Hook & Jill, Book One of the The Hook & Jill Saga
An ageless fable grows up…
Wendy Darling learns. What appears to be good may prove otherwise, and what
seems to be evil…is irresistible. In this startling new vision of a
cultural classic, Wendy intends to live happily ever after with Peter Pan. But
Time, like this tale, behaves in a most unsettling way.
As Wendy mothers the Lost Boys in Neverland, they thrive on adventure. She
struggles to keep her boys safe from the Island’s many hazards, but she
finds a more subtle threat encroaching from an unexpected quarter.…The
children are growing up, and only Peter knows the punishment.
Yet in the inky edges of the Island, the tales Wendy tells to the Lost Boys
come true. Captain Hook is real, and even the Wonderful Boy can’t defend
his Wendy against this menace. Hook is a master manipulator, devising
vengeance for his maiming. Insidious and seductive, Hook has his reasons for
tempting Wendy to grow up. Revenge is only the first.
Deepening the characters so artfully sketched by J.M. Barrie, Hook & Jill
reveals the dark side of innocence at which Barrie hinted in the figure of
Peter Pan. It brings alive a daring Wendy who asks questions and seeks truth;
it delves into the man, Hook, the iconic villain. Striding from fairy-tale and
thrusting into reality, Captain Hook becomes a frightening force indeed.
About the Author
Andrea Jones is the author of the Hook & Jill Saga, an award-winning
series of Neverland novels for adult readers.
Jones graduated from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, where she
studied Oral Interpretation of Literature, with a Literature Minor. In her
career in television production, she worked for CBS and PBS affiliates, and
corporate studios, also performing as on-camera and voice-over talent.
Jones is an editor of the Reginetta Press Classics Restoration program, which
seeks to preserve the integrity of beloved old manuscripts before they are
lost to time. The first project in the program is Peter and Wendy: The
Restored Text. In tribute to J.M. Barrie, Jones corrected alterations made by
modern publishers, returning Barrie’s timeless tale to its exact 1911
first edition text. This book is the basis of the Hook & Jill Saga, and
Jones remains true to J.M. Barrie’s vision of his Neverland and its
inhabitants.
Andrea Jones is known around the world as Capitana Red-Hand of the web-based
pirate brotherhood, Under the Black Flag. She is also a member of the pirate
re-enaction troupe, the Brethren of the Great Lakes. Her home port is near
Chicago.
