Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

Three wishes.

Seb wants to be happy.
Matt wants to find ‘the one.’
Connor wants them.

Two drunken kisses.

Seb didn’t plan to kiss Matt and Connor, but he doesn’t regret it, even if it has changed their friendship forever.

Matt has never considered dating a man before, let alone two. Despite his confusion, being with Seb and Connor feels right.

One uncertain future.

Connor’s potential fate has stopped him living and loving. Can he face his fears to be with the men he loves?

***Contains explicit language and scenes***

Excerpt

"Wow," Matt breathed as a shooting star shot across the now dark sky, trailing a tail of light behind it.

"That's awesome," Seb said. "Hey, aren't you meant to wish on shooting stars or something?"

Matt stood, watching the sky intently. He'd finished his second can of beer and started on his third before he saw another shooting star.

"I wish I could find the one," he yelled at the star.

Anything was worth a shot. Every girl he'd dated had held the promise of being the one, but every relationship had fizzled out within weeks or months. He was getting close to believing he'd permanently be shut in the friend zone by every woman he knew.

"My turn," Seb said, leaping up to stand beside Matt. "Find me a star."

"There might not be any more," Connor pointed out.

A glance over his shoulder told Matt that Connor was still sitting, nursing a can of beer in his cupped hands. With their breath frosting on the air in front of them, Matt and Seb kept a fierce watch on the sky.

"There," Matt said, pointing towards the far right as a star shot across the darkness.

"I wish to be happy again," Seb yelled.

Matt turned to Connor. "It's your turn."

Connor shook his head.

"Why not?"

Connor met Matt's curious stare. "I've already had one wish come true. I figure I'd be pushing my luck to make a second."

Matt's eyebrows shot up. "Oh? Do we get to know what this wish of yours was?"

Pink splashed across Connor's nose and cheeks. He looked down, mumbling his answer. "I wished for friends. Someone I could count on. I met the two of you right after."

Matt's chest clenched. He tried to speak, but his voice stuck fast in his throat.

"Really?" Seb asked, staring intently at Connor as he sat in the middle chair.

Connor lifted his eyes again, staring at Seb and then at Matt. "Yeah." He looked to the sky. "I mean… it was probably a coincidence, but I wished for you, and there you were."

Tears stung Matt's eyes. He ran his hand over them and down his face, sniffing loudly. "Well, fuck, Con…" He wasn't even sure what it was he wanted to say. "I'm glad we met you, too," he managed. "I'm glad we could help you when you needed us."

"You still do," Connor said softly. "Every day."

"Okay, shut the fuck up now," Matt said, trying not to cry. He flopped into the third chair. "I'm not nearly drunk enough to be getting this sentimental. More booze!"

Seb handed him a full can, and together, they sat and watched the occasional light show of falling stars as they drank into the night.

Purchase at Amazon

Meet the Author

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Instagram | Bookbub

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

Donovan Quinn is faced with the impossible: unleashing the wild energy inside him. In the aftermath of a rushed, thoughtless sacrifice, his circle mates brainstorm a plan to appease the Queen of Water. Meanwhile, Donovan desperately tries to find a way to access the lonely Earth magic hiding inside him. ​

But with his heart reaching for Tyler, the aggressive and volatile head witch of his circle, and friendships being tested at every turn, Donovan is at a standstill with his magic. Saving his friends, his circle, and his heart becomes far more complicated than he ever thought.

Excerpt

Predatory
Brooklyn Ray © 2019
All Rights Reserved

If you would’ve asked Donovan Quinn where he might be this time last year, he would’ve had a perfectly executed answer. Something standard and palatable. He would’ve batted his lashes and shrugged, hinted at finishing his degree and landing a good job. That was what people wanted to hear—his mother, the clan leaders, his family and circle-mates. He would’ve lied, and they would’ve smiled, and he would’ve swallowed the truth.

Because Donovan didn’t care about a degree or a good job. He wasn’t worried about appearances or being a good witch. If you’d asked him, he would’ve said, “I’m sure I’ll be keeping busy.”

Donovan never expected to trade those lies for this truth: being in the passenger’s seat of Tyler’s Jeep on the night Liam committed murder.

The sound of the windshield wipers made the silence between them seem like a chasm. They’d dropped Christy off at home after a twenty-minute argument over rights and wrongs, secrets and consequences. Christy had burst into tears and told Tyler his cruelty didn’t count for strength, and when he’d refused to look at her or speak to her, she’d climbed out of the car and slammed the door for good measure.

Now they were parked somewhere in the middle of the woods. The headlights were turned off, rain pelted the roof, and Donovan wasn’t sure if this was the end of something—their circle, their magic, whatever festered between them. It’d been three months and they still didn’t have a name for it. Relationship didn’t fit. Friends with benefits was too watered down.

Whatever it was, it had been born out of Tyler’s anger. His possessiveness and desire. Three months ago, Donovan had taken Tyler to a club to unwind. We’ll find different people. Just have fun for a night. And Tyler had agreed. But as the night went on, liquor and stolen glances turned desire into something else. Donovan had met Tyler’s eyes as a handsome man covered in tattoos licked salt from his neck. Tyler had shoved himself between them and pulled Donovan onto the dancefloor.

Everything changed after that. Everything had kept changing since then.

“You have anything to say?” Tyler asked.

Donovan followed the straight line of Tyler’s nose to his thin, set mouth. He rested his elbow on the top of the door, hand splayed over his jaw. He was typically handsome—black hair kept neat and slicked back, ears pierced with plain silver hoops, skin never inked. His black turtleneck covered a barely there bruise left behind from Donovan’s mouth. Sometimes he glamoured hickeys. Other times he covered them with foundation, like he did the bruises he brought back from fights with his father.

It was difficult to separate who Tyler was from who his family expected him to be. Because Donovan had seen Tyler gentle and everyone else only knew him as a Li.

“They’re our friends,” Donovan said. He picked at the chipped nail polish on his thumb. “We can’t just exile them. We took an oath.”

“They’ve been using dark magic behind our backs, that’s enough to break the damn oath. Not to mention Liam murdered someone tonight and we’ve got demons knocking on our door.”

“Still,” Donovan said.

“Still?”

“We can’t leave them.” Donovan watched Tyler’s jaw flex. He almost brushed his fingers over Tyler’s thigh, but hesitated, unsure if touch could be casual between them or not. “I won’t leave them.”

“Aren’t leopards solitary?” Tyler’s sarcasm was a mean deflection, but it cut Donovan to the bone.

Liam had murdered someone and because of it, the Queen of Water had walked from the sea and put Donovan’s secret on display like it was nothing. Leopard. He’d rarely used the term, even in his own home, and now it fit in Tyler’s mouth like a curse.

“That isn’t fair,” Donovan whispered. He squirmed in place and pulled at the bottom of his shirt, picking at threads, giving his nerves a place to go. He glanced out of the window and watched rain streak through tree branches. The forest was alive around them. “Don’t take your elitist bullshit out on me, Tyler.”

“You didn’t tell me,” Tyler said softly, then louder. “You didn’t even tell me.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Tyler snapped.

The silence was no longer a chasm. It was too close, too personal, and it made Donovan’s lungs ache. His mouth tightened and he turned away, fighting the urge to shout or cry or argue or explain. He didn’t think Tyler cared for his explanations. He didn’t know if Tyler cared for anything at all.

“Take me home,” Donovan said.

Tyler glanced at him, rolled his eyes, and flicked on the headlights. They didn’t speak for the duration of the trip. Tyler’s gaze flicked toward him while they idled at a stoplight and Donovan hoped he’d say something. Anything. But he didn’t.

The duplex Donovan and his mother lived in was outside downtown, nestled between a gated community and a shopping plaza. There was a whole neighborhood of attached houses painted in different shades of mauve. Donovan’s house was the one with the darkest paint and a yellow door, the last one on the left. Tyler put the car in park and heaved a sigh. Donovan waited for an apology or a question, for something other than silence, but Tyler didn’t say a word.

Fuck him. He slammed the door harder than Christy had and walked inside without looking back. His mom worked the night shift at the hospital, but she’d left a box of macaroni and cheese on the counter. His familiar, a serval cat named Melody, sat on the back of the couch. She looked wild despite how domestic she truly was.

“Why do I always date dickheads?” Donovan asked. Not that he was dating Tyler. Not even close. But still. He narrowed his eyes at Melody and she yawned.

Dickhead was putting it lightly. Tyler was the head witch of their circle, seven years older than him. He had anger issues. He’d never uttered the words commitment or relationship. He was possessive and jealous and mean. He made Donovan feel irreplaceable on some nights, and like nothing on others.

Donovan hated how much he cared for him.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

Meet the Author

Brooklyn Ray is a tea connoisseur and an occult junkie. She writes queer speculative fiction layered with magic, rituals and found families.

Twitter | Tumblr

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

Can a wealthy but frustrated CEO and a guilt-ridden stripper find what they need in a consensual, nonsexual whipping boy arrangement?

Billionaire mogul Grant Jessup, fifty-three, buries his sexual tastes and the reasons behind them—the stresses of his business empire and family. In contrast, Jim Sieber understands the regret that makes him seek pain and penance. As an asexual averse to erotic touch, Jim sets strict boundaries. But as the relationship evolves, Grant struggles to respect them, and both men realize for their association to continue and perhaps grow into real feelings, they’ll have to explore new ways to satisfy each other.

Excerpt

JIM SIEBER kept his attention on the television in front of him, pretending to be engrossed in the telenovela playing. He didn’t need to be fluent in Spanish to know Ricardo was in deep shit with Sofia. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of the bartender in his peripheral vision and doubled down on his TV viewing. Behind him, a steady slap of leather against bare skin pulled a rich, throaty holler from a man. Jim sat at the corner of the bar, loosely surrounding his double whiskey with his long fingers. He sensed a few stares, but people left him alone. He’d figured they would after his first time when a man had snaked his hand around Jim’s neck and called him boy. Jim had twisted the man’s thumb so far back he’d almost broken it. “Not your boy,” Jim had said, after he’d forced the man to his knees in pain. Evidently, word had gotten around. No one had approached since.

It was his own damn fault. He didn’t know why he’d come to an S&M club if he wasn’t going to get involved. He hadn’t come to watch. Hell, he wasn’t watching, not anything except the telenovela. The beatings going on behind him could have been happening on another planet. But he had to stop himself from flinching with every stroke he heard, and curled his fingers into his glass with every scream. He’d come here because he’d wondered if pain would make him forget. No, not forget. He’d come here because he’d wondered if pain would absolve him. Sure, he could have tried boxing or started a bar fight, but he didn’t want to be arrested, and his boss got huffy about facial injuries. A respectable S&M club had seemed like his best option. Except for the red flag that Jim hadn’t considered, and which had stopped him from taking action. As the subs walked past after their sessions, hugged against their Doms, he knew why he could never do that. Aftercare involved touching. It might turn sexual. Jim’s skin prickled at the thought, a march of ants that he couldn’t shake off.

So he stared at the television and talked to no one.

“Hey. Hey!” Jim jumped and blinked. The bartender was talking to him. He thumbed to a set of stairs leading up to a balcony and a single door. “Boss wants to see ya.”

“Boss?” Jim asked.

“Wouldn’t keep her waiting,” the bartender said.

Jim looked around, expecting to find some muscle waiting to haul him up, but he saw a clear path to the stairs. “Okay.” He considered his glass.

“I’ll keep it for you, if you want it later.” The bartender pulled it off the bar. So that settled it. Jim headed for the stairs. At the top, he knocked. The door flew open. A woman with an olive complexion and straight black hair reaching to the middle of her back beckoned him in. He’d expected leather, lace, and high heels. She wore smart black slacks and a maroon shirt tailored to hug her waist and not strain at her bust. The amount of cleavage on view from the two open buttonholes would have been acceptable in any corporate boardroom. Instead of heels, she wore what looked like bedroom slippers. Not the sexy kind, either. More like the “home alone with a Harlequin novel and a mug of hot chocolate” kind. He relaxed instantly. The image reminded him of many pleasant nights spent with his mother when he was a child. With almost nothing between her feet and the floor, the top of her head barely reached Jim’s nipples. As soon as she closed the door, the sounds from downstairs disappeared.

“Soundproofing?” Jim asked.

The woman smiled and extended her hand. “I couldn’t concentrate without it. I’m Tanya Wyatt. You can call me Tanya or Miss Wyatt, whichever you’re more comfortable with.”

“Jim Sieber.” He left the implication that she could likewise call him whatever she wished unsaid. They shook hands.

“Come sit down, Mr. Sieber. Take the seat of your choice.”

He followed her back to her desk. As she sat in her chair, he noticed his options—a straight-backed wooden chair or a pillow on the floor. He chose the chair. If Miss Wyatt noticed his fraction of a second of hesitation, she didn’t comment.

She folded her hands and made a serious expression.

He waited.

“Mr. Sieber, when a new person comes to the club and doesn’t engage in activities, whether that is actively, voyeuristically, or simply socially, for a week, we understand. This is a new experience for them, and we appreciate their need to acclimate at their own pace. Some people can take two or three weeks before they are ready to take the next step.”

Jim’s throat tightened. “So?”

“You have been coming for nine weeks, and aside from nearly breaking Henry’s hand, you haven’t spoken to anyone.”

“So, you called me up here because I haven’t made any friends?”

“I’ll put this bluntly. My staff and clients are starting to wonder if you’re police. Are you the police, Mr. Sieber?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not.”

“Then what can I do to help you achieve your goals here? Because unless you’re here to improve your Spanish, I’m guessing that you’re not getting what you need out of your visits.”

Jim wished he’d brought his drink along. He stared down at his hands, which had subconsciously assumed the position like they were gripping a glass. “It’s hard to explain.”

“I want to help you.”

On the cusp of voicing his needs, he felt stupid. “I should go. I’m sorry. I won’t come back.”

“Truffle?” Miss Wyatt asked. Jim blinked in surprise as she opened a box on her desk and offered a tray of cocoa-dusted chocolate drops to him.

“Thank you.” He took one and popped it in his mouth before he could think about it.

As he chewed, she spoke. “People come here for a variety of reasons. They aren’t all what you might suspect. So, if you’re thinking that you’re out of place because your reasons don’t match what you believe they should, believe me when I tell you that you are wrong. Look at me.” She gestured at herself. “I’m a heterosexual woman who owns and operates an exclusively male S&M club. What are my motivations? Why do I do this? I bet they aren’t what you think.”

Jim wasn’t sure if she wanted an answer. He stopped chewing to let the chocolate dissolve on his tongue.

“Delectable, isn’t it? A good friend goes to Belgium on business. He always brings me a box. He’s a considerate man. We won’t talk about his personal life.” She offered a bland smile that Jim interpreted as “I’m sure you know what I mean.”

“Is he a client here?” Jim asked.

“He’s a dear friend.” She smiled again. “Another?”

Jim shook his head. “No, thank you.”

“I’ll have one.” She closed her eyes as she chewed. Jim watched her jaw and throat move. She didn’t seem to be putting on a show. For a moment, he wondered if she’d forgotten him.

“I, um, I’m not sure I’m comfortable here.”

Miss Wyatt opened her eyes with the laziness of a cat waking. “In the office or in the club?”

“Here.” Jim gestured, taking in everything. “Everything’s so sexual. If you knew what I do for a living, you’d think I’m weird to say that, but….”

“But sexual is not what you want from your experience here,” she finished.

He nodded.

“So what do you want? Pain? You said not sexual, so I assume you don’t want pleasure?”

“Sex isn’t pleasurable for me.” He cringed. He hadn’t meant to share that.

“Mr. Sieber, if you’ve suffered a trauma and you’re here to work through it, I have to advise you against this. I can direct you to other resources—”

“I wasn’t traumatized. I’m not interested in sex. I don’t like… being touched like that. It makes me uncomfortable.” That put it mildly.

“Well. You might be the first asexual we’ve had here that I know of.”

“I don’t sign autographs.”

She laughed. “All right, you’ve explained why your goals aren’t sexual. Let’s talk about why you’re asking for pain. Are you a masochist?”

“No, ma’am.” He dug his heels into the carpet as she unraveled him.

“But you want to be hurt.”

She sounded sure. He glanced up, wondering if he should put up a front and demand to know why she’d jumped to that conclusion instead of asking if he sought to hurt someone. Her thoughtful expression shut him down. She looked ready to explain his life for him. And worse, she would be right.

“Yes,” he said, instead of the protest he’d halfheartedly intended. “I want to be hurt.” He said it aloud, slowly, to hear himself.

“Why?”

One look at Miss Wyatt told him she already knew why. She wanted him to say it.

“Because I deserve it.” He swallowed.

She kept eye contact and gave a small encouraging nod.

“Because I’m guilty of something and I… I want to be absolved.”

“Mr. Sieber, are you a fugitive?”

“No, nothing like that.” He realized what he sounded like, talking of guilt and absolution with such fervor.

He fell back in relief when her lips twitched into a smile. She reached across the desk. He grasped her hand.

“Mr. Sieber, I give you my word that I will match you to a client who will respect your boundaries. As for the absolution you desire, I’m afraid you’ll only find that if you’re willing to let yourself.”

“Thank you.” He began to shake with relief. He’d have what he needed soon. Everything would be okay.

“Now. Let’s go downstairs so I can introduce you properly to our bartender, Noel.” She pulled a pair of heels from beneath her desk and quickly swapped her slippers for them. “You have a lot of paperwork ahead of you, young man, and you’re going to need a soda to help your nerves.” He jumped when she touched his shoulder. “This is a big step.”

“I’m ready.” He stood up and walked to the door, where he waited for her. “Thank you, Miss Wyatt.”

THREE MONTHS Later:

Tanya Wyatt never failed to add excitement to his day, so Grant Jessup had allowed himself a rare nonbusiness lunch when she’d invited him out. Of course Rory had scowled at him. His leaving meant she needed to cancel a meeting on his account, but it was a one-on-one and it involved spreadsheets. Frankly, Grant was glad to be free of it. He still had heartburn and acid reflux from the day before after two acidic meals, one featuring citrus and the other tomato sauce. It had worsened overnight.

A new box of chocolate truffles sat on the table between Grant and Tanya. Grant had dutifully handed them over upon arrival, kicking off a conversation about his most recent European business trip. Then, when the waitress carried away their entree plates, Tanya slipped the truffles into her bag. Recognizing the significance of the action, Grant glanced around for eavesdropping ears.

“So, what’s the occasion?” he asked.

“There’s a young man I want you to meet. He started coming into the club about five months ago. I haven’t been able to match him yet. He’s breathtaking but asexual. He only wants to be beaten, but the Doms I’ve paired him with get handsy. It’s counterproductive to his needs.”

“So you think I could keep my hands off him?”

“You have a considerable amount of restraint. You are possibly my last hope. Plus, given what you’re currently looking for, I think he’d be a good match for you as well.”

Grant considered it. “How attractive?”

“Greek god.”

“Mercury or Hercules?”

“Narcissus.”

Grant arched an eyebrow as his heart clenched with a mix of youthful guilt and nostalgia. Tanya had touched a nerve she couldn’t possibly know about. Unless… she’d been to Grant’s home. She could easily have seen the painting of Narcissus that hung in Melanie’s former office. Melanie had left it and a number of other paintings behind after the divorce. Tanya might have guessed it belonged to Grant.

“You’d trust me to work out my frustration on his ass? I know how protective you are of your clients’ bottoms, Tanya.”

“Oh, you won’t touch him until you and I have spent at least forty hours together and I’m positive you know how to recognize when your temper isn’t in check.”

Grant gave a light snort. “Please. I didn’t get this rich by losing my cool.”

“That’s my point. You’re so good at hiding when you’re about to boil over that I wonder if you even know when you’ve reached the point before it’s too late. I’m not about to put a whip or any other implement in your hand before you’ve proven yourself to me, especially considering your reasons for doing this. You can keep your temper in business interactions, but you’re talking about family.”

Grant sighed. He didn’t care for Tanya’s methods, but he respected them, and if this plan worked out, it would meet a need he’d been looking to fill for a few years. “Fair enough. I suppose you’ll want to start this training the usual way.”

“Naturally.”

“You know, I think it’s hilarious how you’re protective of everyone’s ass but mine.”

“Darling, no Dom gets in my club without getting whipped by Miss Wyatt. You know that. If you can’t take it, there’s no reason I should let you dish it out.”

He sniffed. “I don’t see why one needs to give repeated proof. You’re a perverted woman.”

She grinned. “If you made yourself more of a regular, I wouldn’t have to keep reassuring myself.”

“Come on, Tanya. I can’t exactly be seen there, no matter how discreet you insist everyone is. My family is already in the tabloids more than I’d like.”

“I know. So, I’ll see you at mine at ten tonight?”

“Fine.” He dug into his pocket for a pillbox and pulled out an omeprazole tablet. “When do I meet this young man?”

“Heartburn or ulcer?” Tanya asked. She nodded at the tablet as Grant put it into his mouth and swallowed with a bit of water. It wouldn’t be as effective with food already in his stomach, but it was better than not taking it.

“Heartburn, but ulcer is around the corner I’m sure.”

“What does the doctor say?”

“Says I have too much stress in my life and I need to cut back.”

“Are you going to listen to him?”

He smiled. “Why do you think I take so many trips to Europe?”

“Grant, I know you take pride in your job, but—”

“It’s not a job. It’s a career. It’s the family business that I built on my father’s framework, so whatever you’re about to say, stop.”

Tanya put her hand up and changed the subject back. “He works at a strip club in upper Manhattan. I don’t want you to meet him yet, but you can send one of your spies to check him out.”

“And by ‘spy’ you mean Rory?”

She smiled. “I do. See you tonight, babe.”

Grant sighed, already anticipating the pain in his ass the evening would be.

Purchase

Dreamspinner Press | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Overdrive | Google Books

Meet the Author

Ryan Loveless is the author of numerous M/M romance novels and short stories. She is honored to be recognized as a Rainbow Book Award winner (several titles), an Epic eBook Awards finalist (In Me an Invincible Summer), and a Florida Author and Publisher Association bronze medalist (Ethan, the young adult adaptation of Ethan, Who Loved Carter). She lives in New York with her family, a sentence that brings her great joy to write.

Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | eMail

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

Klint doesn’t believe in true love. As an Alma, an immortal magician, he knows such feelings can’t last forever. The death of his mortal lover almost a hundred years ago proved it. But Klint’s resolve gets put to the test when he’s tasked with saving a prince from a dark spell. With Carishina, his friend and fellow Alma, in tow, he sets off for Terius.

Carishina’s ideas for breaking spells differ greatly from Klint’s. While he tries potions, Carishina tries kisses. Only one of them will succeed.

Excerpt

Breaking His Spell
Foster Bridget Cassidy © 2019
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
True love. There were no other words in all the world as deceitful as those.

In my youth, I had believed.

I sought to find that one person to complete me. As a newly trained magician, the Alsa Alma sent me to tutor the third youngest prince of the Farlerotna Kingdom. In the palace, I watched Prince Vulten grow. I was his constant companion in study and in play. The prince had a devious mind, and we spent hours thinking of ways to trick his older siblings.

And on the day he turned eighteen he’d confessed his love for me. Shocking, to say the least, because I’d come to love him too.

True love. Or so I thought. Except, how could anyone truly, irrevocably love an immortal?

For the early years, we were happy. We took trips to foreign nations. We hosted lords and ladies. We played tricks on his siblings, even Rillik, who had taken the crown by then.

But as the years stretched and Vulten began to age, the love in his eyes lessened and faded, replaced by envy and jealousy. As an immortal Alma, my magic kept my body youthful.

He’d died, cursing my name.

For decades, I mourned. Not just the loss of his life, but the loss of his love.

“That,” Alma Carishina said at the end of my monologue, “is why you don’t have relations with mortals.” She leaned forward, her chin resting on her palm. She’d magicked her hair green, and the curls appeared serpentine, a gorgon with her snakes.

“No,” I countered, “that’s why you don’t have any relationships with anyone. If love could not last for eighty years with a mortal, how could it last forever with an immortal? It’s not possible.”

“And so,” Alma Franik added with a toothy grin, “you’ve turned into a grumpy old man at the tender age of two hundred.”

“I’m a hundred and ninety-five,” I fumed. “And I’m not grumpy. I don’t see the point in romance. There’s no such thing as true love.”

“I heard,” Franik stage whispered to Carishina, “he moped in the Farlerotna Palace for a hundred years before they asked for him to be taken away.”

Carishina laughed and the red in my cheeks was not all anger. Maybe I had moped, but my broken heart was understandable. I’d lost my lover, and at the same time, my childish ideas of the world. It had wounded me. I needed to reflect and get a grip on my life.

Had I really been there a hundred years? Rillik’s granddaughter—Simmone—had assumed the throne. How long had I wandered those halls, haunting them like a ghost? It couldn’t have been more than forty or fifty.

“The Alsa Alma had to fetch Klint himself,” Franik concluded with a smug smile.

“Ha-ha,” I told him sourly. “I’m not sure you have room to talk, Franik, as you’ve never even been sent outside these walls. What was it the Alsa Alma said? You ‘lacked any and all ambition’?”

Carishina snorted and Franik glowered. “As if I wanted to mingle with the mortals,” he said, drawing himself up. “I don’t ever want to get mixed up in their insignificant affairs.”

I allowed myself a small grin as Franik directed the conversation onto a new topic.

At times, I still missed Vulten. Our connection had been the one real thing in my life. As a wizard, I used unexplained solutions, backward thinking, magicking anything into reality. But with Vulten, the emotions had seemed more than magic. Better than magic.

At least I’d learned my lesson young. The pain prepared me for my lonely future.

The afternoon light shone in through the stained-glass windows, throwing splashes of color around the room. I adored the place, my favorite in the Alma Palace, a mixture of library and meditation room. Most of the time, no occupants filled the tables. Or on the occasions when they did, other magicians knew enough to leave you to your thoughts. Well, not today. Franik and Carishina had bombarded me with questions the moment I walked in.

They were young—Franik just turned ninety, and Carishina was a mere forty-six. Of course, they were curious about the gossip around the palace, and my experience in Farlerotna continuously made the rounds. Plus, many of the older practitioners didn’t have the time or inclination for dealing with the young ones. Apparently my years in the mortal world had tempered my patience.

“I hope I get an assignment soon,” Carishina said. “I’m ready to travel and see something besides these Mylforsaken windows.” The curse using the goddess’s name sounded odd in her cheerful voice.

“They won’t let you out for a least another twenty years,” I told her.

“Why not? I heard you were sent out at forty-five. I’m older now.”

I shrugged. “The world’s a much more dangerous place now, even to a trained Alma. Dark wizards are the least of our concerns.”

Her lips puckered in displeasure. “I heard there’s a prince in Terius who’s fallen under an evil spell. I want to be the one to rescue him.”

“What did I say about mixing with royalty?” I asked, exasperated. What was the point in telling them my tragic past if they didn’t heed my warnings?

“Oh, Klint,” she said fondly, reaching out to grip my hand. “Just because a relationship didn’t work for you doesn’t mean it won’t work for everybody. Or, maybe your prince was an ass who really didn’t love you at all.”

My mouth fell open. So did Franik’s. Carishina casually went on smiling at me, unaware of how tactless her words had been.

“Klint,” called a voice from behind me. I turned in my seat. Alma Peter leaned through the doorway. “The Alsa Alma would like to speak to you.”

I wrinkled my nose. It’d been awhile since I’d been summoned by the old man. After he’d come to Farlerotna and informed me I was creeping out the current royals, I’d kept my distance. Now, I hoped he had good news for me.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

Meet the Author

Foster Bridget Cassidy is a rare, native Phoenician who enjoys hot desert air and likes to wear jackets in summer. She has wanted to be a fiction writer since becoming addicted to epic fantasy during high school. Since then, she’s studied the craft academically—at Arizona State University—and as a hobby—attending conventions and workshops around the country. A million ideas float in her head, but it seems like there’s never enough time to get them all down on paper.

 For fun, Foster likes to take pictures of her dachshunds, sew costumes for her dachshunds, snuggle her dachshunds, and bake treats for her dachshunds. In exchange for so much love and devotion, they pee vast amounts on the floor, click their nails loudly on the tile, and bark wildly at anything that moves outside. Somehow, this relationship works for all involved.

While not writing, Foster can usually be found playing a video game or watching a movie with her husband. While not doing any of those things, Foster can usually be found in bed, asleep.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

In the aftermath of the calamitous Human/Etech research study, Chandra and Kyra struggle to reclaim the life they shared in a pre-EMPATHY world, while Ty, armed with knowledge of EMPATHY’s programming language, seeks revenge on the Halmans for the harm that’s befallen his friends.

As a North American Union investigation into the happenings on the compound looms, a grief-stricken Peter works to resurrect the memory of his mother from a harvested nanochip, and Heather scrambles to keep her family—and their company—together. Alistair, having abandoned the family business, plots to save his hide and that of his wife while she strives to stay one step ahead of a husband she has no reason to trust.

Far to the north amid civil unrest, a recently retired Rénald Dupont investigates the disappearance of his friend and former colleague, Meredith, despite grave threats from an increasingly skittish North American Union government.

As old and new foes emerge, spouse is further pit against spouse, brother against sister, and governments against their people. In the end, all must choose between attempts to reclaim the past or surrender to the inevitable, an intractable world of their own creation.

Mourning Dove is an evocative, sweeping symphony of love, revenge, and desperation in cacophonous times. It is the second installment in r. r. campbell’s epic EMPATHY sci-fi saga.

Excerpt

Mourning Dove
R.R. Campbell © 2019
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
Chandra

The fear of death coiled its cold bony fingers around her.

As she dangled her feet off the edge of her doctor’s exam table, EMPATHY whirred to life, delivering an image she’d painted months earlier, one of midnight blacks, of tendrils of darkness—the painting through which she’d mourned the loss of Ty’s friend, a sensation gut-wrenchingly similar to mourning the loss of one’s self.

“Chandra?” Doctor Abernathy said. “Did you hear me? Do you understand?”

Kyra tugged at Chandra’s sleeve, gripping it tight as she leaned in. “Babe? The doctor—”

Chandra nodded, breaking her concentration on the image, on fending off the evil that always accompanied the embers of EMPATHY flickering of their own volition. The chip might have no longer been connected to her egodrive—the Merry Hacksters had seen to that three months earlier on the night of the interview—but that wasn’t enough to stop the nanochip from working locally, a computer without an internet connection.

And how could she not have heard the doctor? Three years. Five years max. The damn chip was going to kill her if the AI living within it didn’t drive her mad first.

“How can you even know?” Kyra said to the doctor, releasing her grip of Chandra’s sleeve and squeezing her hand instead. “A timeline like that is—”

“Loose, yes,” said Eliza Abernathy, the doctor Human/Etech appointed to Chandra following the study. “But we’ve become more confident in our prognoses now that we have additional data on the deterioration rates for those who have passed since the study’s completion.”

“So? Those things happened to other people,” Kyra insisted. “Chandra might be different, and everything you’ve said is so unspecific—”

“Well,” the doctor said, “if you want specifics, I can tell you given Chandra’s general fatigue and the frequency of her intermittent lack of bodily control, we can project those symptoms will progress over the next three to five years until she sleeps nearly the entire day through.”

It felt as though a warm, heavy blanket descended on Chandra, the exhaustion coming for her again, doing its best to depress her increased heart rate and the panic gripping her.

“So she’ll fall asleep and that’s it?” Kyra said.

“Mostly,” said Abernathy. “At some point in that sleep, the brain stem itself will power down, and with it, her breathing and cardiac function will cease.”

Most days Chandra already felt as though she were drowning. Her final breaths, those she would draw in her sleep no less, couldn’t be any more unpleasant than the pained ones she had to gasp after from time to time.

Kyra squeezed Chandra’s hand tighter. “You’re sure there’s nothing we can do, doctor? What if you took out her chip?”

Doctor Abernathy tut-tutted. “There’s only been one case to date in which a patient has had their chip removed without further complication.”

“But we could try, right?” Kyra said, eyes awash with tears as she turned to Chandra. “You want to try, don’t you?”

Chandra swallowed, frozen now not by the news the doctor had delivered, but by another threat entirely. It always started this way, a tickle, a grinding sensation. She’d learned she could keep it at bay if she popped an anxicap, but—oh, what time was it? It’d been hours since she’d last taken one, and the veil of fog the anxiety med shrouded her in had already been pierced by Abernathy’s news. Weak. Her defenses were too weak.

Tickle. Click. Grind.

Somewhere in the deepest recesses of her mind, M3R1 had pulled off a jailbreak, Chandra in pursuit as M3R1 sped down neurohighways, barreling toward some imaginary county line where, once on the other side, it could assume control here in the real world. Abernathy and Kyra narrowed their eyes as Chandra twitched, scrambling to rally her deputies, dispatching roadblocks and spike strips to halt M3R1’s every advance.

“See? It’s happening again,” Kyra said. “She’s suffering and—”

Chandra ignored her, focused on spinning out another of M3R1’s mental assault vehicles. There—no more tickle, no more grind, no more shoulder jerking or lip curling. With M3R1 successfully impeded, she inhaled through her nose and dared to shake her head once.

“No?” Kyra said. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you want them to try to remove your chip? Did you even hear what Doctor Abernathy said?”

Had she not seen Chandra nod earlier? Just because she couldn’t speak didn’t mean she couldn’t understand, something still lost on Kyra, lost on the world in the months since her release from the research compound. As Chandra’s motor control had returned over time, as her memory became less clouded, she had taken to sketching her thoughts as best as she could manage, though it turned out the world was downright miserable at playing her version of Pictation.

Doctor Abernathy intervened, speaking directly to Kyra. “Your wife’s fear is understandable. This is an unfortunate prognosis, yes—”

“Unfortunate prognosis?!” Kyra said. “I think telling us Chandra’s life will be severely shortened as a result of your company’s malpractice is a bit more than an ‘unfortunate prognosis.’”

Death’s fingers tightened their grip, and the well of sorrow within Chandra overflowed, choking her off at the throat, spilling over at the eyes. Chandra was twenty-six. Twenty-six. That she’d only live to see thirty-one, that she’d spend her final years regretting having left that helmet in her back seat, having signed up for the study, that she’d have no way to truly apologize for the woe in which she now drowned her wife… All of it was enough to have her yearning to surrender to death’s embrace now.

But that wasn’t possible, not with what lurked inside her, not with what would become of it were she to die and have EMPATHY removed. So long as M3R1 had the potential to someday return to the cerenet and wreak havoc on the world as it did on the compound, it could still win their war. Chandra might have been winning most of their battles as of late, but she couldn’t rely on her anxicaps forever, and fighting M3R1 without them only fueled the exhaustion Doctor Abernathy said would kill her in the end. Before Chandra could ever give in, she’d have to find a way to assure M3R1’s fate along with her own.

Kyra, still fretting alongside the exam table, bit the inside of her cheek. “And look at her, Doctor. You call this progress? When she’s not spasming, she’s scared stiff. She’s not even moving.”

Chandra clenched her jaw as M3R1 sped a fresh caravan of malicious intent down a central neurohighway, the caravan’s members splitting off at every exit in a multi-pronged attack. In the exam room, she remained immobile. She couldn’t lose control now.

“Yes,” the doctor said, stepping in front of Chandra again. “You mentioned this temporary paralysis has been recurring?”

Kyra nodded as the doctor pulled a handheld ophthalmoscope from the breast pocket of her lab coat. Chandra squinted as the light from the instrument struck her eyes.

“She’s still responsive.” After adopting a pensive expression, the doctor spoke again. “Perhaps it is fear driving these episodes, then.”

“What do we do?” Kyra said.

As well intended as Kyra might have been, what was to come had so little to do with a we and everything to do with a she—and that she would be Chandra and Chandra alone.

“You make the best of the time you have together,” Doctor Abernathy said. “It’s a miracle the two of you have been reunited in light of everything that’s happened. I’d encourage you to make the most of it.”

Kyra sniffled. She squeezed Chandra’s hand once again. “The two of us and the cat, that is.”

“Ah,” the doctor said, “you’ll be getting an emotional support animal after all?”

Apparently, yes, they were. It would be the two of them, the cat… and something far more sinister.

One of M3R1’s attacks charged a roadblock Chandra had set in its way. It burst through on the far side, Chandra trembling as M3R1 took hold.

>>You can only keep M3R1 away for so long, Chandra, and M3R1 would very much like an escape.

Chandra’s voice gurgled in her throat.

“She’s trying to say something,” Kyra said.

Abernathy put herself opposite Kyra’s side of the exam table, apparently prepared to help keep Chandra from falling. “No. It’s a seizure.”

Both Abernathy and Kyra were wrong. The twitching of her muscles, the contortions of her face—they were symptoms of a lawman-outlaw shootout deep in her mind.

>>You will tell the doctors to remove the chip, Chandra. You will tell them to remove the chip and--

Her mind’s sheriff dared one last shot, a final bullet bursting forward from the chamber of her six-shooter. The AI crumpled.

Every bit of her—down to the hairs on her arms—felt as though it burned as the electrical activity supporting M3R1 now turned against it. The enlisted forces from the county next door surged into action, corralling the rogue AI’s body and dragging it back to its shoddy prison inside the EMPATHY chip. It would only be a matter of time before it resurrected itself, but for now, the threat had been neutralized.

Chandra permitted herself an uneasy breath as the tension in the room melted.

Kyra wrapped her arms around Chandra’s waist from where she stood on the floor, burying her head in her side. “I’m sorry, Chandra. I’m sorry this had to happen.”

Had she the words, Chandra would have told her wife she didn’t need to be sorry this happened, that it was all beyond her control. She would have told Kyra she was sorry—not for what had come to pass in recent months, but rather for what would come to pass the moment Chandra met her early end.

When Chandra died, however soon that might be, she was sure Human/Etech would harvest EMPATHY from within her, and with it, M3R1. And who knew what calamity M3R1 might induce were it returned to the cerenet in a world where EMPATHY would inevitably take hold? It had been willing to kill her if it had come down to it, and the eighty-seven lives lost on the compound were testimony to M3R1’s dedication to its goals.

Even if her own were now a lost cause, Chandra was determined to never again let M3R1 destroy a human life. But how could she keep the Halmans from getting their hands on her chip once she passed? Was it possible to excise M3R1 from it before she died? Chandra had no idea, but it was now her life goal—her life’s duty—to make sure M3R1 could never again terrorize anyone besides her.

For now, though, she put an arm around her wife’s shoulders, drew her in, and laid a soft kiss on the crown of her head. Three years or five, it made no difference. Regardless of how one spun it, Chandra and Kyra had far less time than they once thought, far less time than they’d hoped, but for now they still had each other.

And that had to count for something.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

Meet the Author

Born Ryan Campbell, r. r. campbell is an author, editor, and host of the r. r. campbell writescast. His work has been featured in Five:2:One Magazine’s #thesideshow, Erotic Review, and with National Journal Writing Month. He lives in Madison, Wisconsin with his wife, Lacey, and their cats, Hashtag and Rhaegar.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

Lieutenant Addison Hunt is proud to serve the Confederation even if he still feels like he’s on the outside looking in. Addison was illegally genetically modified as a child, leaving him burdened with a sense of shame. Emotionally isolated from his fellow crewmen and recovering from injuries from his last job, Addison is happy to have light duty transporting an esteemed diplomat to a peace conference.

Deveral is one of the Sacred Kin, possessing a psychic ability that his people consider a spark of the divine. Like all the Sacred Kin, he’s led a sheltered life as a temple priest, but his heightened empathic ability makes him the perfect diplomat. Nervous to leave his home, he’s curious about his new companion, Lieutenant Hunt.

Not everyone wants the diplomatic mission to succeed, and a rebel faction poses a real threat to Addison and Deveral. Finding themselves cast adrift on a “lost” colony, they’ll have to fight to stay alive.

Excerpt

Modified and Sacred Jana Denardo © 2019 All Rights Reserved Chapter One Fyria promised peace, hanging like a blue-green, white-smudged jewel in the starship Turing’s view screen. Addison wondered if Fyria’s peace would be one more broken promise. Living a life stuffed full of fractured vows, he remained leery of new pledges. He’d never been in this little pocket of the galaxy and knew the bare minimum about the Fyrians. Captain Valdis Sigmundsson swiveled her chair around to eye him. The fine lines around her eyes and lips always set him at ease. He knew this face well, though he knew the visage best on Admiral Hilde Sigmundsson, Valdis’s identical twin. Hilde had saved him all those years ago and sponsored him through the academy. He’d do anything for the twins and had been honored to serve with Valdis. Valdis and Hilde had made him honorary family, and off duty, he called them his aunts. If there was anyone he loved unconditionally, it was the sisters. “Are you ready for a mission more boring than your usual?” Valdis’s platinum-hued eyes danced. Addison schooled emotion from his face. He liked to appear neutral and unflappable on duty, a contrast to his captain. Controlling his emotions proved difficult for him, too acerbic in temperament. His shoulder thrummed with pain, reminding him how his last mission had been too exciting. He was luckier than most when it came to that assignment. “An uncomplicated escort mission would be a nice change of pace. Besides—” He grinned impertinently at his captain, breaking his own self-edict of being emotionally controlled. “—how often will I get to talk to a living god?” Valdis snorted, garnering the attention of her navigators. “Deveral is not exactly a living god. He’s Sacred Kin,” she reminded him, though he could be trusted to read the dossier. “The Fyrians believe their Sacred Kin hold a flicker of God’s power. That said, do be on your best behavior, Lieutenant. I’d hate for you to cause an intergalactic mission to go belly up if you act like your usual sarcastic self.” Addison offered her a flat smile, recognizing the subtle reprimand hidden in those humorous words. He’d spent too many hard years outside the military. He hadn’t been broken to their respectful ways, not entirely. His spotty past was why he fought to improve his on-duty demeanor. “I’ll behave.” Addison hoped this living god would do the same. He had no time for entitled assholes, whom he loathed outright. He might not be the right person for the job of babysitting an ambassador, especially one who’d been treated as a god his whole life, but Addison brushed away the negativity. He was a professional. This would be a simple job easing him back into active duty after Telsama. Uncomplicated was just what he needed. His shoulder twinged at the thought of Telsama. He was lucky to still be standing here. The ship’s surgeon had worked hard to put him back together again, and his strange body hadn’t made it any easier. Illegal anatomical modification meant very few records had been kept on all the things done to him as a child. Luckily, Dr. Wroe had done multiple workups on him the moment Captain Sigmundsson brought him on board, so she knew all his strangeness intimately. Setting the dark thoughts aside, he entered his small, but private quarters. Sigmundsson had arranged these accommodations, even though most Coalition officers of Addison’s rank had roommates. If anyone had known the captain was involved in the situation, he’d have faced taunts of favoritism, but jeers would have been worth it. Roommates would have questions if they caught sight of his few visual modifications. Most of his mods were internal, but those that could be seen were highlighted in glowing lights in his imagination. Sighing, he considered what he needed to pack in his rucksack. It would be a short trip on a shuttle. All the appropriate away-mission weaponry was a must. Any options centered on what to bring for the day or two he’d have to spend at the station hosting the talks once he dropped off his holiness. He would have been far more comfortable just turning around and heading back for the Turing, but protocol demanded he wait and make sure the Sacred Kin remained safe. Addison flopped on his bed, staring up at the gunmetal gray ceiling. He had no idea how to handle someone like this Sacred Kin Deveral fellow. He’d never been anyone’s first choice for ambassadorial duties, so Addison couldn’t guess why Aunt Valdis had tasked him with the job. He’d been cleared for full duty, so he didn’t need this light assignment. Did she think he wanted to step up the ladder and round out his résumé? No, she knew he’d not be allowed to advance. His modifications had been forgiven as they weren’t of his doing, but they were still a noose to any chance of becoming a captain someday. Rubbing his eyes, Addison tried not to feel bitter about the situation. He would do his best to go as far as he could. “I’m going nowhere if I don’t get myself prepared,” he muttered. Addison rolled to his feet and parked himself at his workstation. He needed to know more about the Fyrians in order to deal with Deveral properly. This Sacred Kin business was new to him. He’d grown up without a hint of religion. After his rescue, religion remained something he only had a passing acquaintance with. The idea that an entire race could believe certain members of their kind actually possessed a sliver of the divine struck him as bizarre. What would that entail? How arrogant would someone like a Sacred Kin be if they were praised and all but worshipped daily? Would he have to grease up the guy’s ego to get it in the shuttle? Addison delved into Fyrian history and culture. He had immersed himself so deeply into his studies the doorbell chiming nearly sent him out of his skin. “Door open,” he told the computer. He rubbed his aching eyes again, feeling as if someone had poked them. He never did well with a lot of light, and the computer screen counted as too bright. Doctor Yukiko Hayashi stood in his doorway. Addison smiled slightly and waved her in. “What’s up?” “I heard you have a diplomatic mission and thought you might need a little of this.” She waggled the Cala whiskey bottle she held, sloshing the blue liquid about. He made an appreciative noise, pushing back from the workstation as he nodded toward the little breakfast nook in his studio. “Do you know what I love about you, Yukiko?” “I can read your mind?” Yukiko tossed her long hair over her shoulder before she sat at the tiny table. “That’s it.” Addison fetched two glasses and sat next to her. “Do you know anything about the Fyrians?” “Not much other than they’ve been in the news a lot lately.” She poured the whiskey. Unlike so many others, the drink had a sweet scent, almost like blackberries. The fruity taste was one of the reasons he liked the whiskey. His modified system could handle a lot of alcohol, but he preferred it sweet. “How so? I’ve been out of it.” He didn’t have to tell her. She had assisted Dr. Wroe’s lifesaving efforts on him after his last mission had gone horribly awry. “They found a group of them that branched off the main planet so long ago they faded into myth. Isn’t that what your mission is?” Addison sipped the high alcohol content whiskey. “I’ve been looking up what the hell a Sacred Kin is.” “Did you find anything interesting?” Yukiko shot her whiskey faster than he did. She poured herself another. “They’re an interesting people. You’d find them fascinating. They have chromatophores in their skin and can change their coloring as camouflage.” Addison remembered the videos he’d seen of them and tried to explain. “During their evolution, there was a particularly nasty predator involved. The prey-predator relationship is what scientists think drove that piece of genetic neatness. I mean, it sucks to be prey, and obviously, their situation was worse than primitive humans had with a saber-toothed tiger, but their skin color thing is pretty.” “You’re right; that would be fascinating. Now I’m sad I’m not on this mission with you.” “I’d gladly let you take my place. I’m not good at this stuff. I don’t talk to people.” “You’re talking to me.” “Only because I had to talk to you for so many months when I came onboard. I got used to you.” “Newsflash, Addy, that’s how it works. You talk, the other person talks back. You don’t actually have social anxiety, per se.” Yukiko scowled. “You don’t, do you? I’ve never seen any signs in you.” He shook his head. “No, conversation doesn’t make me anxious but…” He let air escape him. Talking about this never got easier. “I don’t know the rules.” “I’m aware, just as I’m aware that, despite being schooled, you never picked up on those sorts of social cues, nor do you recognize your worth.” Addison forced himself to meet her gaze but couldn’t keep eye contact. “My schooling was with private tutors.” She knew that of course, and his statement wasn’t the whole truth. He’d attended the academy after a few years of immersive education thanks to Hilde and Valdis. His determined aunts never let him quit on himself. It would have been easier to just implant the education, but it was an imperfect, illegal process that had high chances of basically lobotomizing a person. Most illegal mods like him, worker drones who counted for less than the equipment they manned, had gone through implantation. He’d worked with those lobotomized mods, or at least the ones still able to function. Some were violent, forced into wearing a “shock collar,” technically a neuroimplant and nothing the mod could have somehow removed. Addison hadn’t been collared, because implantation wasn’t needed for his work, and he’d been taken and modded at such a young age, he never knew there was life beyond his job and dorm room. Implanting might be dangerous and illegal, but tethering was neither. Tethering, while slower, meant being literally wired into another person’s brain, and utterly unpleasant. There were reasons tethering was used only in extreme cases such as his. He didn’t so much have a mentor as he had someone willing to use their brain to train his. There had been an insane amount of catching up to do. He’d managed it but barely, or so it felt some days. That wasn’t the literal truth; he’d progressed further than he’d imagined and owed it all to his aunts. Yukiko said nothing to his fallacious statement, just raised an eyebrow. Finally, she said, “Do you know anything personal about this man you’re escorting?” He shook his head, grateful for the change of subject. “Not really, only that I’m to transport him to the conference. I guess they don’t think it’s necessary for me to know much about him since I’m merely the pilot and bodyguard.” “You could always find your answers by asking him.” “I’m not sure I can. That’s why I wanted to learn more about the Sacred Kin. It appears I can speak to him, but you know how some races are. They have a huge amount of rules and protocols. The Fyrians don’t seem to, but their Kin are special. They’re said to have special abilities other Fyrians don’t.” “How so?” Yukiko quirked up her eyebrows. “Records aren’t clear on that. I’m not sure if it’s a secret, or if the Fyrians don’t give it a second thought and assume everyone else knows. I’m sure if I dig around longer, I could find out more, but I probably should go make sure the shuttle is fully stocked, especially if I’m going to be stuck in that tiny thing for days with a stranger.” “Maybe I should give you something to mellow out that personality of yours.” Yukiko shot him an “I’m so innocent” look. He rolled his eyes. “Why are you my friend?” “Because I can put up with your dourness.” She stood and dug in her pocket for something. “Computer, Dr. Hayashi, going off duty,” she said loudly for the benefit of the ship’s computer. “I thought you already were.” “No, just checking on my favorite patient. Try not to get yourself taken apart this time. I’m getting tired of playing with the meat puzzles you make out of yourself.” He huffed at her. “Never my plan to get hurt, but I am part of the ship’s tactical and security crew.” “With a stunted sense of self preservation.” He couldn’t argue. Drones like him were replaceable meat sacks to the corporations dirty enough to use them. Making friends and keeping himself alive were still relatively new concepts for him. “Maybe.” “And if I was on duty, I couldn’t do this.” She bent over and tossed her arms around him, giving him a powerful hug. She held something odd in her hand, but he ignored it as he leaned into the embrace. Hugging he’d gotten used to. His aunts were huggers, and he found he liked the comfort of being in someone’s arms. He reached up and embraced her in kind. When Yukiko let him go, she handed him a small brocaded silk pouch. “For you. Keep it on your person.” He stared at the pouch and then tried to open it. Yukiko snatched it from his hand. “Never open the pouch. It drains the power.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “Inside the pouch is an omamori, a Shinto protective charm. I made the omamori for you. This one is a yaku-yoke for the avoidance of evil. They used to be issued by shrines. It’s more commercial these days, of course. Has been for centuries.” Yukiko shrugged. “I guess they’re remnants from a time long ago, but an omamori still means something to a lot of people.” “Do you believe in this sort of thing?” Addison waggled the charm. “Are you Shinto?” She stared at him for a moment. “You’ve never been interested in religion before, but I guess I am the one who brought it up. Yes, I do believe.” Addison stood and put the charm in his rucksack. “I have no beliefs at all. I suppose I don’t have to tell you that. You know how I was raised before the captain took me in. I can’t say she’s particularly religious either, but thinking about the Sacred Kin has me wondering about how faith works.” “I’m not sure you can approach it logically, Addy.” He shrugged. “I have no other means in which to do it. For me, religion is an academic exercise. I don’t have enough time to really study the Fyrian religion, so I guess I’ll have to keep my mouth shut about that topic for most of the trip unless he brings it up. I could listen. I’m pretty good at that.” “Sounds like a plan. All right, I’ll leave you to finish prepping for the trip. Hope it’s nice and boring and you come back safe.” “Thanks.” He hoped it would at least be more boring than Telsama.



Modified and Sacred
Jana Denardo © 2019
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
Fyria promised peace, hanging like a blue-green, white-smudged jewel in the starship Turing’s view screen. Addison wondered if Fyria’s peace would be one more broken promise. Living a life stuffed full of fractured vows, he remained leery of new pledges. He’d never been in this little pocket of the galaxy and knew the bare minimum about the Fyrians.

Captain Valdis Sigmundsson swiveled her chair around to eye him. The fine lines around her eyes and lips always set him at ease. He knew this face well, though he knew the visage best on Admiral Hilde Sigmundsson, Valdis’s identical twin. Hilde had saved him all those years ago and sponsored him through the academy. He’d do anything for the twins and had been honored to serve with Valdis. Valdis and Hilde had made him honorary family, and off duty, he called them his aunts. If there was anyone he loved unconditionally, it was the sisters.

“Are you ready for a mission more boring than your usual?” Valdis’s platinum-hued eyes danced.

Addison schooled emotion from his face. He liked to appear neutral and unflappable on duty, a contrast to his captain. Controlling his emotions proved difficult for him, too acerbic in temperament. His shoulder thrummed with pain, reminding him how his last mission had been too exciting. He was luckier than most when it came to that assignment.

“An uncomplicated escort mission would be a nice change of pace. Besides—” He grinned impertinently at his captain, breaking his own self-edict of being emotionally controlled. “—how often will I get to talk to a living god?”

Valdis snorted, garnering the attention of her navigators. “Deveral is not exactly a living god. He’s Sacred Kin,” she reminded him, though he could be trusted to read the dossier. “The Fyrians believe their Sacred Kin hold a flicker of God’s power. That said, do be on your best behavior, Lieutenant. I’d hate for you to cause an intergalactic mission to go belly up if you act like your usual sarcastic self.”

Addison offered her a flat smile, recognizing the subtle reprimand hidden in those humorous words. He’d spent too many hard years outside the military. He hadn’t been broken to their respectful ways, not entirely. His spotty past was why he fought to improve his on-duty demeanor. “I’ll behave.”

Addison hoped this living god would do the same. He had no time for entitled assholes, whom he loathed outright. He might not be the right person for the job of babysitting an ambassador, especially one who’d been treated as a god his whole life, but Addison brushed away the negativity. He was a professional. This would be a simple job easing him back into active duty after Telsama. Uncomplicated was just what he needed.

His shoulder twinged at the thought of Telsama. He was lucky to still be standing here. The ship’s surgeon had worked hard to put him back together again, and his strange body hadn’t made it any easier. Illegal anatomical modification meant very few records had been kept on all the things done to him as a child. Luckily, Dr. Wroe had done multiple workups on him the moment Captain Sigmundsson brought him on board, so she knew all his strangeness intimately.

Setting the dark thoughts aside, he entered his small, but private quarters. Sigmundsson had arranged these accommodations, even though most Coalition officers of Addison’s rank had roommates. If anyone had known the captain was involved in the situation, he’d have faced taunts of favoritism, but jeers would have been worth it. Roommates would have questions if they caught sight of his few visual modifications. Most of his mods were internal, but those that could be seen were highlighted in glowing lights in his imagination. Sighing, he considered what he needed to pack in his rucksack.

It would be a short trip on a shuttle. All the appropriate away-mission weaponry was a must. Any options centered on what to bring for the day or two he’d have to spend at the station hosting the talks once he dropped off his holiness. He would have been far more comfortable just turning around and heading back for the Turing, but protocol demanded he wait and make sure the Sacred Kin remained safe.

Addison flopped on his bed, staring up at the gunmetal gray ceiling. He had no idea how to handle someone like this Sacred Kin Deveral fellow. He’d never been anyone’s first choice for ambassadorial duties, so Addison couldn’t guess why Aunt Valdis had tasked him with the job. He’d been cleared for full duty, so he didn’t need this light assignment. Did she think he wanted to step up the ladder and round out his résumé? No, she knew he’d not be allowed to advance. His modifications had been forgiven as they weren’t of his doing, but they were still a noose to any chance of becoming a captain someday.

Rubbing his eyes, Addison tried not to feel bitter about the situation. He would do his best to go as far as he could.

“I’m going nowhere if I don’t get myself prepared,” he muttered.

Addison rolled to his feet and parked himself at his workstation. He needed to know more about the Fyrians in order to deal with Deveral properly. This Sacred Kin business was new to him. He’d grown up without a hint of religion. After his rescue, religion remained something he only had a passing acquaintance with. The idea that an entire race could believe certain members of their kind actually possessed a sliver of the divine struck him as bizarre. What would that entail? How arrogant would someone like a Sacred Kin be if they were praised and all but worshipped daily? Would he have to grease up the guy’s ego to get it in the shuttle?

Addison delved into Fyrian history and culture. He had immersed himself so deeply into his studies the doorbell chiming nearly sent him out of his skin. “Door open,” he told the computer. He rubbed his aching eyes again, feeling as if someone had poked them. He never did well with a lot of light, and the computer screen counted as too bright.

Doctor Yukiko Hayashi stood in his doorway. Addison smiled slightly and waved her in. “What’s up?”

“I heard you have a diplomatic mission and thought you might need a little of this.” She waggled the Cala whiskey bottle she held, sloshing the blue liquid about.

He made an appreciative noise, pushing back from the workstation as he nodded toward the little breakfast nook in his studio. “Do you know what I love about you, Yukiko?”

“I can read your mind?” Yukiko tossed her long hair over her shoulder before she sat at the tiny table.

“That’s it.” Addison fetched two glasses and sat next to her. “Do you know anything about the Fyrians?”

“Not much other than they’ve been in the news a lot lately.” She poured the whiskey. Unlike so many others, the drink had a sweet scent, almost like blackberries. The fruity taste was one of the reasons he liked the whiskey. His modified system could handle a lot of alcohol, but he preferred it sweet.

“How so? I’ve been out of it.” He didn’t have to tell her. She had assisted Dr. Wroe’s lifesaving efforts on him after his last mission had gone horribly awry.

“They found a group of them that branched off the main planet so long ago they faded into myth. Isn’t that what your mission is?”

Addison sipped the high alcohol content whiskey. “I’ve been looking up what the hell a Sacred Kin is.”

“Did you find anything interesting?” Yukiko shot her whiskey faster than he did. She poured herself another.

“They’re an interesting people. You’d find them fascinating. They have chromatophores in their skin and can change their coloring as camouflage.” Addison remembered the videos he’d seen of them and tried to explain. “During their evolution, there was a particularly nasty predator involved. The prey-predator relationship is what scientists think drove that piece of genetic neatness. I mean, it sucks to be prey, and obviously, their situation was worse than primitive humans had with a saber-toothed tiger, but their skin color thing is pretty.”

“You’re right; that would be fascinating. Now I’m sad I’m not on this mission with you.”

“I’d gladly let you take my place. I’m not good at this stuff. I don’t talk to people.”

“You’re talking to me.”

“Only because I had to talk to you for so many months when I came onboard. I got used to you.”

“Newsflash, Addy, that’s how it works. You talk, the other person talks back. You don’t actually have social anxiety, per se.” Yukiko scowled. “You don’t, do you? I’ve never seen any signs in you.”

He shook his head. “No, conversation doesn’t make me anxious but…” He let air escape him. Talking about this never got easier. “I don’t know the rules.”

“I’m aware, just as I’m aware that, despite being schooled, you never picked up on those sorts of social cues, nor do you recognize your worth.”

Addison forced himself to meet her gaze but couldn’t keep eye contact. “My schooling was with private tutors.”

She knew that of course, and his statement wasn’t the whole truth. He’d attended the academy after a few years of immersive education thanks to Hilde and Valdis. His determined aunts never let him quit on himself. It would have been easier to just implant the education, but it was an imperfect, illegal process that had high chances of basically lobotomizing a person. Most illegal mods like him, worker drones who counted for less than the equipment they manned, had gone through implantation. He’d worked with those lobotomized mods, or at least the ones still able to function. Some were violent, forced into wearing a “shock collar,” technically a neuroimplant and nothing the mod could have somehow removed. Addison hadn’t been collared, because implantation wasn’t needed for his work, and he’d been taken and modded at such a young age, he never knew there was life beyond his job and dorm room.

Implanting might be dangerous and illegal, but tethering was neither. Tethering, while slower, meant being literally wired into another person’s brain, and utterly unpleasant. There were reasons tethering was used only in extreme cases such as his. He didn’t so much have a mentor as he had someone willing to use their brain to train his. There had been an insane amount of catching up to do. He’d managed it but barely, or so it felt some days. That wasn’t the literal truth; he’d progressed further than he’d imagined and owed it all to his aunts.

Yukiko said nothing to his fallacious statement, just raised an eyebrow. Finally, she said, “Do you know anything personal about this man you’re escorting?”

He shook his head, grateful for the change of subject. “Not really, only that I’m to transport him to the conference. I guess they don’t think it’s necessary for me to know much about him since I’m merely the pilot and bodyguard.”

“You could always find your answers by asking him.”

“I’m not sure I can. That’s why I wanted to learn more about the Sacred Kin. It appears I can speak to him, but you know how some races are. They have a huge amount of rules and protocols. The Fyrians don’t seem to, but their Kin are special. They’re said to have special abilities other Fyrians don’t.”

“How so?” Yukiko quirked up her eyebrows.

“Records aren’t clear on that. I’m not sure if it’s a secret, or if the Fyrians don’t give it a second thought and assume everyone else knows. I’m sure if I dig around longer, I could find out more, but I probably should go make sure the shuttle is fully stocked, especially if I’m going to be stuck in that tiny thing for days with a stranger.”

“Maybe I should give you something to mellow out that personality of yours.” Yukiko shot him an “I’m so innocent” look.

He rolled his eyes. “Why are you my friend?”

“Because I can put up with your dourness.” She stood and dug in her pocket for something. “Computer, Dr. Hayashi, going off duty,” she said loudly for the benefit of the ship’s computer.

“I thought you already were.”

“No, just checking on my favorite patient. Try not to get yourself taken apart this time. I’m getting tired of playing with the meat puzzles you make out of yourself.”

He huffed at her. “Never my plan to get hurt, but I am part of the ship’s tactical and security crew.”

“With a stunted sense of self preservation.”

He couldn’t argue. Drones like him were replaceable meat sacks to the corporations dirty enough to use them. Making friends and keeping himself alive were still relatively new concepts for him. “Maybe.”

“And if I was on duty, I couldn’t do this.” She bent over and tossed her arms around him, giving him a powerful hug. She held something odd in her hand, but he ignored it as he leaned into the embrace. Hugging he’d gotten used to. His aunts were huggers, and he found he liked the comfort of being in someone’s arms. He reached up and embraced her in kind.

When Yukiko let him go, she handed him a small brocaded silk pouch. “For you. Keep it on your person.”

He stared at the pouch and then tried to open it. Yukiko snatched it from his hand.

“Never open the pouch. It drains the power.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Inside the pouch is an omamori, a Shinto protective charm. I made the omamori for you. This one is a yaku-yoke for the avoidance of evil. They used to be issued by shrines. It’s more commercial these days, of course. Has been for centuries.” Yukiko shrugged. “I guess they’re remnants from a time long ago, but an omamori still means something to a lot of people.”

“Do you believe in this sort of thing?” Addison waggled the charm. “Are you Shinto?”

She stared at him for a moment. “You’ve never been interested in religion before, but I guess I am the one who brought it up. Yes, I do believe.”

Addison stood and put the charm in his rucksack. “I have no beliefs at all. I suppose I don’t have to tell you that. You know how I was raised before the captain took me in. I can’t say she’s particularly religious either, but thinking about the Sacred Kin has me wondering about how faith works.”

“I’m not sure you can approach it logically, Addy.”

He shrugged. “I have no other means in which to do it. For me, religion is an academic exercise. I don’t have enough time to really study the Fyrian religion, so I guess I’ll have to keep my mouth shut about that topic for most of the trip unless he brings it up. I could listen. I’m pretty good at that.”

“Sounds like a plan. All right, I’ll leave you to finish prepping for the trip. Hope it’s nice and boring and you come back safe.”

“Thanks.”

He hoped it would at least be more boring than Telsama.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

Meet the Author

Jana is Queen of the Geeks (her students voted her in), and her home and office are shrines to any number of comic book and manga heroes along with SF shows and movies too numerous to count. It’s no coincidence that the love of all things geeky has made its way into many of her stories. To this day, she’s disappointed she hasn’t found a wardrobe to another realm, a superhero to take her flying among the clouds, or a roguish starship captain to run off to the stars with her.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | eMail

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

Who says phone games are only for kids? Sometimes they give just the respite you need from a hectic life. At least, that’s the way Ann feels about Ani-min Move, an AR mobile game full of cartoon animals caught with nets. Legendary raids have just launched, and Ann arrives at a nearby park to find it full of people of all ages playing the game, including Rachael, a kind, attractive single mom. And sweet! Rachael is more than willing to teach Ann the proper way to spin her nets to snag the raid boss.

Back in reality, Ann has a lot on her plate: a full workload as a project manager, finding the energy to walk her dog, Franny, and now trying to figure out if Rachael is queer. And how does Ann converse with Rachael about her six-year-old son when she doesn’t know a thing about parenting?

Ann is lost as to how to proceed until Rachael takes the guesswork out of the equation by 
proclaiming she’s bi—right when Ann gets a massive work assignment that consumes way too much of her time. Life/work balance was never Ann’s forte, but between caring for her sweetheart dog and figuring out how to navigate a relationship with a single parent, Ann’s determined to make it work, especially before Rachael gets cold feet and leaves Ann playing by herself.

So, collect those ultra-nets, Ann. Can you catch her?

Excerpt

Gotta Catch Her
Kelly Haworth © 2019
All Rights Reserved

Why did Ani-min Move have to launch new features on a weekday? The last thing I wanted to do when I got home from the office was immediately drag my ass back outdoors.

“I’m tired, Franny,” I said, putting my feet onto the coffee table, relieved to have them out of the little heels that were the curse of business casual. Frances cocked her head at me, her fluffy ears going askew. “But it looks like they’re launching legendary raids, and I am not missing that.”

After starting the update to my Ani-min Move app, I put down my phone while the update installed. Franny lowered her head to her paws and whined.

“I know, I know. A walk would be better than the apartment’s dog yard.”

Who knew eight hours at a desk would be so exhausting? But doing the same thing every day really grated on a person. Make sure this client has their order placed correctly. Keep that project running on time. Figure out why supplies are delayed. So much communication, so much organization, so much waiting.

I ran my fingers through my brunette hair, scratching my scalp and enjoying the ten seconds of silence.

At least, until Franny barked.

“Okay, honey. Let me get out of these slacks.”

I pushed myself to my feet and strode across the living room, wincing at the tumbleweeds of golden retriever fur under the kitchen table. This is why I’m single, I berated myself. Not that there’d be anyone datable over to see it, especially with my reluctance to use dating apps. And Sacramento was a big city, but dating was intimidating enough for me to hesitate in visiting downtown’s gay clubs. Besides, what would I wear?

I stripped out of my slacks and blouse, tossing them into the pile slowly accumulating on one side of my bedroom, and pulled on my comfy stretch pants and a bright pink tank top.

Oh, it was so tempting to collapse onto my side of the bed—avoiding the piles of fur where Franny slept on her side—and browse the internet or read until I fell asleep.

But that was one of the many reasons why I had Frances. Personal accountability. She got me out of the house every day, kept me walking and breathing fresh air.

“Okay girl, where’s your leash?”

The scramble of nails on the fake hardwood floors echoed down the hall as Franny dashed into the kitchen where she likely took position expectantly beneath the row of hooks for her leashes. I pushed feet into worn tennis shoes and picked up my phone. The update was complete, and I reopened my app, tapping past the screen welcoming me and advertising the new raids. The legendary cat Felesana would show up at local parks for me to battle with my friends! Yes, I got it. Show me where the closest one is. I brought up the augmented reality map, my character standing in the middle of the block my apartment complex resided on, and I tabbed over to the nearby raid window.

Franny let out a whine to remind me I hadn’t put on her leash yet, so I obliged her and giggled as her excitement ramped up from an eight to a twenty, all wagging tail and lolling tongue and shivering with eagerness.

“Honey, I’m so glad it’s this easy to make you happy.”

Heaven knew how hard it was to make people happy. “Where’s the product I ordered”—“Annabel, your surveys have come back less than perfect”—”I’m sorry, I can’t date a lesbian who used to date men”--

Yeah. I loved Franny. Dogs were woman’s best friend too. Not just man’s.

I grabbed my phone and my keys and gave Frances a pat.

“Looks like one of these big kitties is at the park three blocks away. Let’s go do our first legendary raid, girl.”

Purchase

NineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

Meet the Author

Kelly Haworth grew up in San Francisco and has been reading science fiction and fantasy classics since she was a kid. She has way too active an imagination, thus she channels it into writing. Kelly is nonbinary and pansexual and loves to write LGBTQIA characters into her work. In fact, she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to write a non-queer couple again. Kelly has degrees in both genetics and psychology and works as a project manager at a genetics lab. When not working or writing, she can be found wrangling her two kids, painting, or curled up on the couch with a good TV show or book.

Website | Facebook | Twitter

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

Raze halts his midnight joy ride to give chase to twinkling lights that appear in the road before him and then lead him deep into a forest, where he falls into another world. There, magic is real, wishes are granted, and no one is considered odd or out of place.

Raze has never fit in anywhere in his own world and uses his angry attitude to keep others at bay and mask his anxieties and fears in this new place. A dangerous combination in Loas, where rudeness is frowned upon and foul language can land him in a dungeon.

Rurin, an inhabitant of Loas, tries to teach Raze about their world, its magic and its residents, but he faces Raze’s stubborn resistance at every turn. Bitter about his past, pessimistic about his future, Raze sees what could be, but he struggles to accept it. In the meantime, his encounters with the Fae range from hostile sarcasm to potential danger. While he attempts to keep the promises he’s made to Rurin and follow the rules laid out for him, Raze grows more and more curious about the place where he’s landed. It’s too bad he keeps making poor choices.

As the connection between them grows, Rurin works to keep Raze from being banished, but Raze may be cast out of the Loas before he has the opportunity to discover the true reason he was led there in the first place.
Where Song Replaces Silence
Layla Dorine © 2019
All Rights Reserved

Heavy, the steady thud, thud, thud of the base rocked the back windows, and poured from the open driver’s side where the scent of rain flowed freely, mist lightly splashing on Raze’s face. “Four Rusted Horses” blared from a radio cranked so high the rain-covered glass vibrated with the force of the speakers’ efforts.

Thud, thud, thud, “forbidden…” Raze growled along, more snarl than song. Thud, thud, thud, “heaven…” Every word committed to memory. Thud, thud, thud, “useless…” Despite the slickness of the road, he drove with just two fingers, his free hand tapping out a beat on the shifter. Thud, thud, thud, “hell…” Glowing red numbers on the dash flipped from 2:59 to 3:00, the witching hour, the night so dark the headlights struggled to pierce the dim and fog.

The old Charger’s purr was a gospel choir of spark plugs and gears. His steel and chrome baby was the only thing in life Raze worked hard to care for. Some might even say he worshipped her power and speed, stroked her like a lover, and spent more than one night curled against the supple leather of her seats. He called her Rhea, after Saturn’s second largest moon. As a kid, he’d had a collection of beautiful photos of the ringed planet.

For most, this might have been motivation to aim high, study astrophysics or astronomy, anything that might put them closer to the cosmos. Not Raze. If he was behind the wheel, space and time were irrelevant; the world shrank, melted, and faded away. The song reached its crescendo, and he drummed along, eyes half closed as he pressed harder on the gas, felt the wind snarl and tug at his hair—sharp, like cold teeth. Tensing, he belted out the final verse, barely keeping Rhea on the road.

Exhilaration warred with exhaustion, the miles piling up for hours. A quick glance at the dash showed the gas tank was drifting below a fourth, dangerous territory when he had no clue where to find the nearest station. Common sense said he should have stopped at the last place he saw, but the rebel flags in the window made him wary. He’d always had a tough time understanding how people could hate someone so absolutely over something as simple as the color of their skin.

His own varied, based on how much time he spent in the sun. Most days, his skin glowed like the beach at sunrise, the sand shimmering a glowing golden hue. In the summer, though, his skin grew three shades darker, and if he wasn’t careful, a crop of freckles would appear splattered across his nose. He hated them as much as he hated the odd, three-toned hues of his hair, and how, no matter how many times he dyed the messy mane, he could never quite get his locks to turn out one color.

The long strands needed another treatment, the rich reds were like blood and rubies, or at least, that’s how a multitude of people had described the color over the years. A few, being kind, had likened the shade to fall leaves or a sunset, but kindness hadn’t been a common occurrence growing up. His so-called oddities had always made others uncomfortable. Funny, but ever since he’d learned the meaning of normal the idea had freaked the hell outta him. One of the many reasons he was still drifting.

Shit!

Slamming on the brakes, he jerked the wheel, sending Rhea spinning through the dancing green-gold figure appearing out of nowhere, swathed in a halo of lights. Somehow, despite the rows of waving trees, he got Rhea stopped without clipping one. His throat hurt, and his chest was pounding, lungs heaving as he sucked in air. Breathing and trying to relax the death grip on the wheel at the same time was a struggle. His fingers ached. Stiff and cramping, they refused to cooperate, no matter how hard he focused. Shaking, he collapsed against the wheel, the weight of his body sounding the horn, the echo a forlorn cry above the howling wind.

Shit shit shit shit shit

The only word he could formulate, shit, a mantra, running through his brain. There hadn’t been a thud. He hadn’t felt one, hadn’t heard one, meaning he’d missed them, right?

He didn’t want to look, but he knew he had to. Maybe they’d tripped, fallen, dived out of the way, rolled. They could be hurt, but not as bad as if he’d struck them with nearly two tons of metal. Swallowing, he told himself to man up, jerked his fingers free of their grip on the wheel, and sucked in a deep breath as he fumbled in the darkness for his phone. Three bars. Good, he could get them help if they needed it.

He fumbled with the door, got it open on the second try, and practically fell getting out, his body rebelling with every movement. For a moment, he stood in darkness, disoriented as he tried to figure out which direction he’d been coming from. When he spotted the twinkling green lights over the road, he blinked and stumble staggered toward the glowing apparition, watching the fragments of gold swirl and take shape, hovering, the form human, but not.

The fuck?

About fifty feet away, he could hear laughter, a mocking, teasing jangle of bell-like notes.

“You missed me, you missed me.”

Huh?

Squinting, he struggled to assess the situation, even as the words continued.

“Now you gotta kiss me.”

Oh, hell no. Either he was hallucinating, or he’d smacked his head on something. Either way, he was gonna wake up in a few minutes to darkness, a whining engine, and a pounding headache even the best painkillers wouldn’t cure.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he pressed his fingertips against his temples, counting to ten, but the laughter and singsong words continued.

“You think this is funny!” he roared, hands dropping to his sides, fingers curling into fists. He took a step forward and then another. “You could have gotten me killed; you could have fucked up my car; how fuckin’ stupid do you have to be, playing games out here in the middle of nowhere! Do you get off on fucking with people, huh? I swear to god, if there is a fuckin’ piston outta place in Rhea, you’re gonna pay to have her fixed.”

The laughter grew, even as he stalked the light. Only when he was within grasping range did it turn and flee toward the forest, glancing back every now and again to taunt him more.

“You can run, run, run, but when you’re done, you will never catch me.”

“Oh, you better believe Imma catch you, and when I do, Imma beat the sparkle offa you!” he screamed, crashing through the underbrush after it. It occurred to him, as he slipped and floundered, like as not, he was chasing swamp gas or some fucked-up idea of a joke involving holograms and projectors. They were probably sitting in a tree laughing at his stupidity. Didn’t stop him from continuing to give chase.

Tripping, he landed facedown in prickly brambles.

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

Yowling, he carefully tried to detangle himself while the laughter continued to grate on his nerves.

“Clumsy, aren’t we? My, my, my, that’s a very fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“Me? You’re the one who led me into this crap.”

“If you’d been faster, or smarter, perhaps you’d have used your wings, instead of stumbling around like a blind Alp-luachra searching for its next joint.”

“Wish I was sitting somewhere warm and dry smokin’ a joint right about now,” he grumbled beneath his breath, even as the sparkling flake of glittery light continued to cackle, twinkling like a firefly with every high-pitched note.

“Ah, but your wishes matter little to me. I lack the ability to grant them, and even if I could, I wouldn’t, until we’ve finished our game, though you are a poor, poor chaser. Perhaps you would be a better seeker. Shall I hide and see if you can find me?”

“Please don’t; actually, no, wait; please do. Yeah, that’s brilliant. You go hide, and I’ll come find you…in a century or two.”

Purchase

NineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

Meet the Author

Layla Dorine lives among the sprawling prairies of Midwestern America, in a house with more cats than people. She loves hiking, fishing, swimming, martial arts, camping out, photography, cooking, and dabbling with several artistic mediums. In addition, she loves to travel and visit museums, historic, and haunted places.

 Layla got hooked on writing as a child, starting with poetry and then branching out, and she hasn’t stopped writing since. Hard times, troubled times, the lives of her characters are never easy, but then what life is? The story is in the struggle, the journey, the triumphs and the falls. She writes about artists, musicians, loners, drifters, dreamers, hippies, bikers, truckers, hunters and all the other folks that she’s met and fallen in love with over the years. Sometimes she writes urban romance and sometimes its aliens crash landing near a roadside bar. When she isn’t writing, or wandering somewhere outdoors, she can often be found

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Blog | Pinterest

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

Set in a near-future environment, mega-corporations have taken over the most habitable of planets, creating domed utopias for their devoted employees. Everyone else has been shunted off to a multitude of mostly habitable planets and moons where they scrape by as farmers and tradesfolk, miners and merchants, bounty hunters and scavengers.

James Marks and his crew of scav trash operate their ship, SIO, on a mission to obtain a mysterious piece of new tech. It changes everything and leaves him stranded somewhere he doesn’t recognize with a cute, if not a bit annoying, tech scientist. James doesn’t know, when he first meets Michael, but his life is about to change in a very surprising way.

Excerpt

SIO
C.A. Blocke © 2019
All Rights Reserved

One: The Job
“You’re really going in alone?” Edge asked, leaning heavily against the console as James plugged in the coordinates. “I thought you promised Lyra you weren’t doing jobs alone anymore after that last big fuckup.”

James rolled his eyes and sighed. “What Lyra don’t know won’t hurt her. You and your sister are wanted on every planet in Corporate Space, and I’m not about to lose the only good pilot we’ve got by taking Corin along for the ride. Besides, I’m fluent in bullshit. I’ll be fine.”

Edge laughed and drew his oversized ElectroPistol before shoving it toward James’s chest. “You’re gonna need this. They set up scanners every few kilometers to catch travelers with old-school bullets.”

“You know I’ve got one.” James smirked, opening his dark-brown duster to show off his special design. “And mine’s overclocked.”

“Show-off.”

Edge and his sister, Razor, had been on the ship’s crew since day one, and far too many crew members had been lost one way or another since. To be fair, James knew Edge had a point. The duster was a bit of a showpiece, but even in Corporate Space, they could appreciate fine leatherwork.

Quietly, Razor added, “Careful where you’re scanning with that eye, boss. Peach detection is sensitive to all TechEyes.”

James blinked several times, self-conscious at the reminder of his less-than-human status. After fifteen years on the outer ring, he was starting to feel less man than machine. An eye, a leg, and a full neural interface later, who really could say he wasn’t? “Yes, mother.” James sighed, offering another fond roll of the eyes. “Believe me, I’m in and out. The last place I want to hang out is a Peach Corp research and development office.”

“Eye on the prize.” Edge nodded, clapping a meaty hand on James’s back. “Corin’ll leave the engines running for ya.”

Getting in wasn’t hard; a flash of the badge the client had provided and a few sideways glances at James’s generally unkempt appearance, and he was walking the halls toward the mark’s office. Thankfully, R&D didn’t have half the security protocol most Corporate offices had, and as far as they cared, the dark-haired man in a duster and pressed shirt was Mr. Marquis Benton, in the flesh. However, the short middle manager staring him down didn’t exactly seem convinced.

“So, Mr. Benton, is it?” he asked, stroking his fingers through professionally cropped blond hair before taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “And you are here for?”

“I was told the communique was sent days ago,” James bluffed, crossing his arms and giving the manager, Michael, a critical look. “The Rose prototype. It’s being called up for Corporate preview.”

“Well, as much as I’d love to have one less piece of useless technology to deal with, it’s not ready. I never received this…communique…you’re talking about.” Michael’s brow furrowed as he slipped his glasses back on; the frustration apparent on his face was adorable at the very least.

“Fine. Fine.” James leaned in, glancing over the man’s badge to grab a name, only to feel his TechEye activate to read it through the soft fold of his worn blazer. “It’s all right, Michael. I’ll deal with your supervisor.”

“I am the supervisor at this facility.” Michael frowned, shaking his head. “And if that crappy old TechEye wasn’t such a piece of outdated shit running firmware from ten years ago, you would have been able to pull up my personnel file and would know that.”

It wasn’t quite the same as being caught red-handed, and security wasn’t swarming the office yet, so there was that much hope. “Hey, you know how crappy the pay is for runners. I haven’t exactly been able to keep up on the latest and greatest.” James shrugged, and then stepped closer, ready to make a move, if justified. “Besides, I don’t like all that clutter in my HUD. All I need is to get this prototype to my boss.” It was a fair enough statement; the heads-up display on the older chip software was much less cluttered with information of various levels of situational importance. In the long run, it made it difficult to parse the large amount of information that wasn’t actually in front of his eyes but tended to render him at least distracted when it came up.

Michael stood, one hand on his black leather belt and the other casually planted against his desk. “The new heads-up display is actually quite streamlined by comparison, especially if you have the visual upgrade.” He shifted on his feet and, after a moment’s pause, dropped his gaze down to the litter of papers and scraps on his desk. “Look, okay… I don’t know who you are or how you got in here, but contrary to popular belief, just because I’m in R&D, I’m not a fucking idiot. The Rose is classified, and you’ve done absolutely nothing to make me believe you should even be here.”

James had been in worse situations, which really said quite a lot about his chosen profession. He put on his best smile and leaned across Michael’s desk, drawing eyes back up to him. “I’ll level with you, Michael. There was no communique, okay? I know I’m sort of jumping the gun here, but bringing back the Rose and blowing the bigwigs’ minds with it pretty much guarantees a promotion that…uh…well, I need. And I know you’ve got zero reason to believe a word I’m saying, but I can definitely put in a good word for the new head of R&D.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed behind his thin spectacles, and James felt his heart rate raise enough to hear the blood pounding in his ears. Lying was no big thing, but pulling shit in a Peach facility was a damn bold move for someone not looking to end up in a prison colony for the rest of their short, crappy life. Finally, Michael said, “Head of R&D? You have that kind of power? I thought you said you were a runner.”

“A runner for someone with more power than both of us combined. With the right offering, I could do quite a lot”—James whispered, licking his lower lip for dramatic effect, if not sheer nerves—“with a little help from a certain smart and handsome developer.”

A long moment passed, and James realized exactly how that statement had come off. Fortunately, Michael seemed to buy it, and James wasn’t really lying—for everything his bookish appearance gave off, Michael was handsome in a sort of cute tech-nerd kind of way. Michael sighed and shook his head, drawing back. “You’ve got a silver tongue, Marquis. And, I guess I’m just sick of looking at the stupid thing,” he muttered under his breath, heading toward the door James had come in. “I have to get it from the lab; they’re working on it today.”

“Of course, of course.” James feigned a laugh while following him back into the corridor and through the honeycomb of hallways and nondescript rooms toward the lab.

Michael scanned his card and then turned back to face him. “Wait here.”

There was a delicate dance—James couldn’t wait too long out in the open without being checked by security, who would likely figure out his papers were fake, within a few seconds, but he also had to offer Michael the benefit of the doubt, lest his true intention be made even clearer. He nodded and casually folded his arms over his chest, gently patting the pistol concealed within his coat. Beyond the door, he couldn’t see much more than several bodies in white suits with blank faces moving quietly around, and then he was alone in the corridor.

Ten minutes and one close call with security passed, and James couldn’t stop himself from attempting to listen at the door, to no avail. Daring the chance of getting caught, he fumbled out the jack in his coat pocket, connecting it to the keypad first and then directly to the port behind his left ear. Hacking was dangerous in the best possible circumstances. Getting caught was almost a certainty, but the cybernetic jack made it a little simpler to do something as innocuous as jimmying a lock—hell, James had practically grown up forcing locks with or without technological assistance. Unfortunately, Razor wasn’t wrong about Peach Corp being on top of outside tech in their systems. The lock gave, after only a few moments of forcing the code, the door opened, and the first thing James saw after pulling the jack free at both ends in one yank was security coming right for him.

“What are you doing in here?” Michael shouted as James rushed into the room, slamming the door behind him. A steel case was open on a large table, a small purple rose made of circuits and glass seated in a holding point fixed inside the case.

“Okay, so here’s the thing…” James stammered, letting the words come as his most useful form of self-preservation. “There are at least three guys with ElectroPistols on the other side of that door, and I really need to leave with this prototype, so if you could close that case, I’ll be heading out now.”

“It’s not ready!” Michael answered, lifting the safety goggles from around his glasses and tossing them on the floor with an angry sigh. “Do you even know anything about the Rose? You have got to be the most ignorant—”

James cut him off for lack of time more than anything, snapping the case closed. “I may have to use you as a human shield…no worries; ElectroPistols don’t hurt nearly as bad as the real thing.” He was well aware it sounded bad, but to the best of his knowledge, as long as the person being shot didn’t have too many cybernetic parts, the blasts weren’t usually deadly. James grabbed Michael’s elbow, thankful he was a little lighter and a good deal shorter than most.

They made it two steps to the door, and when James touched the latch, a loud popping noise was accompanied by a rush of heat, and everything went black.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

Meet the Author

C.A. Blocke is a thirty-something writer who’s been captivated by the magic of how people relate to each other for as long as she can remember. Far more than overarching drawn-out plots, she prefers to focus heavily on relationships in various situations that feel like real life—even when at its most surreal. Real Life, she feels, is messy and complicated, and that shines through in her fiction where the road to a happy ending frequently isn’t just a straight line. A long-time reader and writer of fluffy character-driven pieces, her style tends to highlight small slices of life that come together to form a whole picture of the plot.

She is a gender nonconforming, demisexual-identified female who feels most comfortable writing unconventional relationships involving non-heterosexual couplings. Sexual identity often colors her works and features heavily in finding the comfortable place where identities can collide with minimal friction. She enjoys exploring different takes on ‘acceptable’ sexuality and blurring the lines between what is expected and what really happens.

A small-town Arizona native, the Southwest and its rural communities fascinate her—particularly the rigid-identity politics and the ramifications of breaking the social norm. Of course, that’s not to say that she doesn’t also enjoy writing about urban life and the various challenges present in the big city. While most at home writing contemporary romance with a warm little erotica twist, she’s very prone to following her muse down the dark alleys and open valleys it drags her through—making it nearly impossible to know just what genre will take her interest next.

Twitter | Instagram

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway