Excerpt:
“This is a dream,” Ian said and tried to sit up. The svarta moved forward, placed his hand on Ian’s chest, and pushed him down. His palm nearly burned an imprint into Ian’s skin.
“Go away,” Ian said as firmly as he could.
“Why? I feel a strong connection between us. Don’t you feel it?”
“Only because you hexed me.”
“I did no such thing. You sought me out. You drew me here.” The svarta slid his hot hand up to Ian’s neck and traced a finger along his jawline. “Invite me in and know ecstasy.”
Ian shuddered and tried to sit up again. The svarta leaned over him, two hands pressing now against Ian’s shoulders. He ran his hand up and down the arm cuffed to the bed. His incredible eyes held Ian’s like a snake mesmerizing a mouse. He kissed Ian on the lips, gently at first, tongue exploring, probing, before forcing Ian’s lips apart and plunging his tongue deep into Ian’s mouth. Not only did Ian not fight it, but he kissed back, sucking amazing dark energy from the svarta’s rough, wide lips.
It was, after all, only a dream.
About the author: Alexis Duran was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. At the University of Oregon, her fascination with people and relationships led her to major in Sociology, but her main love has always been creative writing. She’s worked in museums, fashion, finance and film production. Her favorite job so far was inventorying the collection in a haunted Victorian Mansion. She’s had several short stories published in the mystery, horror and literary genres and is the author of the Masters and Mages erotic fantasy series. Her fiction has won several awards including the Rupert Hughes Award from the Maui Writers Conference. She lives with one dog and four and half cats. She is currently working on the next Masters and Mages novel and several other erotic novellas.
Excerpt:
Miller forced himself to take a breath, unaware until he did that he’d stopped breathing.
Quit being ridiculous. Wine going to your head already?
But he’d only had the one glass. And he hadn’t even finished that. He wasn’t such a lightweight, when it came to holding his alcohol, and he knew it.
He told himself it was just his imagination. But just to be safe, he began a slow cautious turn, looking around him, without appearing to be searching for anything—or anyone.
And there he was.
Standing a heartbeat away from Miller was one of the sexiest men he’d ever seen in his life. A man every bit as sexy as Raoul Marchand, although not in the same feral way as the werewolf.
This man was light where Raoul was dark. His hair was a honey blonde which stood out by virtue of being obviously natural, in a place where most blondes were either created by the sun or came from a bottle. He stood a little taller than Miller, exuding a presence that went beyond the merely physical, possessed of the bearing and mien of a veritable god.
But it was his eyes that drew Miller in and held him spellbound. Blue and green, like staring into tropical waves, flecked with bits of pure molten gold. And the way he was staring at Miller was sending the most delicious shivers traveling up and down his spine.
The man took a step toward Miller, his hand outstretched. Before Miller quite realized what had happened, he’d placed his own hand inside of the other man’s, and he found himself being drawn onto the dance floor.
Julie Lynn Hayes first began publishing short stories and poetry in the 1990’s, when it was a different ballgame altogether, and Ebooks hadn’t been dreamed of yet. That changed in 2010 with the acceptance of her first romance novel. She’s come a long way since that first book appeared, and is finding the journey a very educational one.
She lives in St. Louis with her daughter Sarah and her cat Ramesses. She often writes of two men finding true love and happiness in one another’s arms, and is a great believer in the happily ever after. She likes to write in different genres, to stretch herself in order to see what is possible. Her great challenge is to be told something can’t be done—she feels compelled to do it.
When she isn’t writing, she enjoys crafts, such as crocheting and cross stitch, needlepoint and knitting, and she loves to cook, spending time watching the Food Network. Her favorite chef is Geoffrey Zakarian. Her family thinks she’s a bit off, but she doesn’t mind. Marching to the beat of one’s own drummer is a good thing, after all. Her published works can be found at Dreamspinner Press, eXtasy Books, Wayward Ink Press, and Amber Quill Press.
Excerpt:
We stood side by side at the sliding door that looked out over a snow-covered campus. It was beautiful, untouched and pure. I was rather glad now that I hadn’t done the head in the stove thing. We talked between swallows, spoons hitting bowls the only noise aside from the heater coming on from time to time. I liked watching the way Preston’s hair fluttered around his face when hot air blew down from the vent directly above us. He handed me his empty bowl, then unlocked and opened the slider.
“Dude, heater’s on,” I pointed out. He crouched down. I inhaled. The air was brittle like a dead leaf and cold with a light scent of snow on pine. It was an odd sensation, the cold blowing in to blend with the warm cascading down from above. It wasn’t unpleasant at all. The patio was blanketed in four to five wet inches. Preston stood up. His head turned slowly. I looked over at him, a sated smile trying to curl the corners of my mouth. He was patting a perfectly formed snowball.
“Don’t even think about it you mother—”
Snow filled my mouth, nose and eyes. Preston shrieked. I sputtered, shaking snow out of my eyes, then dashed after him. He was fast and proved hard to get a hand on. After a few laps around the furniture in my living room, the dipshit ran out into the hall. I didn’t hesitate. I couldn’t. I had ice particles dangling from my eyelashes. Vengeance would be mine. We thundered down the steps, his high-pitched squeals of laughter and my warning growls seeming extra loud in the ghost town of a dorm building. The side exit flew open. I barreled out on his heels. The snow was freezing on my bare soles. Preston hissed a nasty curse when his naked tootsies hit the white stuff. He slowed just enough. I tackled him from behind. He went face first into the fresh fluff, all the air leaving his lungs with a loud “Oof!” when I landed on his back.
I clawed up a nice handful of snow as he frantically tried to free himself. I had him pinned, one arm picking up wet powder, the other holding his face into the drift. Wicked laughter boiled out of me when I shoved that snowball down his back. His scream was piercing. He kicked like a wild man, his arms flailing to the sides. I flopped down on him to ensure the snow was plastered to his back.
“Get off! Oh, fuck me, that is so cold! You asshole!” he shouted.
I stayed where I was, splayed over his back, my hand down the back of his shirt, chuckling steadily. I rolled off a moment later still bubbling with laughter. The sky overhead was filled with snow clouds. You know those huge white ones that blow over, drop some flakes, then continue on to let the sun shine down on the freshly carpeted world? Eyes closed, chest heaving, heart lighter than it had been in months, I spread my arms and legs out, inhaled the unique scents of winter and Preston and enjoyed the tickle of new snowflakes touching my cheeks.
“I hate you.”
I rolled my head in his direction and opened my eyes. “Really?”
His mouth rolled into a perfect pout. He was such a pretty thing, even with snow-frosted bangs.
“No,” he huffed as he dashed at the melting snow on his chin. “I should, though. That was heartless!”
“I’ll warm you back up if you want.” The offer slid out of me before I could stop it. A snowflake landed on the tip of Preston’s pixie-like nose. I so wanted to reach out, touch the perfect flake, dry his nose then pull him down for long, wet kiss. Instead I got to my bare feet, standing now in the shadow of the moisture-laden cloud overhead. “I didn’t mean to say that out here.”
“You can, you know,” he said, extending his hand to me. I looked around the quad, the creeping stink of worry now mucking up what had been a perfect moment. “You can say you want to warm me up, or that I have a cute ass, or anything else you want to say. Go ahead. Say it again.”
I shook my head as I hauled him to his feet. Damn, my feet were cold. I turned from him then walked inside, my head low, my mind filling up with concern over my stupid behavior. What the hell had I been thinking, chasing him outside then rolling around in the snow with him as if we were straight lovers.
About the author:
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, belly laughs, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.) She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, two dogs, two cats, a flock of assorted goofy domestic fowl, and three steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand. She can also be found online on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and GoodReads.
Excerpt:
“So,” Dylan started as he scraped the last of the noodles from his plate. “Remember that conversation we were having about the new AP English teacher?”
“If you pull a piece of paper out of your pocket right now, I will never forgive you.”
Dylan grinned and pulled a tightly folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Saturday after next, if you want, you have a date.”
James was pretty sure teenagers were not supposed to be as hung-up on their father’s love life as Dylan was. “No. No, I do not.”
Dylan pushed over a printout from his school’s faculty webpage. There was a phone number handwritten at the bottom. “Thirty-five, no kids. He likes music.” Dylan had highlighted that line. “You like music, he likes music. He said he’d love to take you to see a band he likes.”
“Goddammit, Dylan! I do not need you setting me up with strangers.”
“He’s not a stranger, he’s the school’s AP English teacher, and I wouldn’t have to if you’d get out of the house once in a while. Seriously, Dad, I’m out of here in less than a year. I don’t want you moping around this place alone. I worry about you turning into a crazy old cat lady.”
About the author:
Ada Maria Soto is a born and raised Californian, Mexican-American/WASP, currently living as an expat in New Zealand. She got her Bachelor’s degree in Theater Directing at the University of Alaska, Fairbanks, which she attended in a fit of stubbornness. She got a Master’s degree in Film and TV Producing from the University of Auckland in New Zealand which she applied to on a manic whim. Nine years later she’s still in Auckland with a partner, kid, and mortgage.
She has dysgraphia and phonological dyslexia which can lead to some interesting typos.
She is a sports fan dedicated to the Oakland A’s, San Jose Sharks, Auckland Blues, USA Eagles, New Zealand All Blacks, New Zealand Black Caps, and the Chennai Super Kings.
Where to find the author:
On an average night, Collars & Cuffs would have maybe forty to fifty members present. Dorian estimated there had to have been upward of three hundred men in the Lab the night before, naked and half-naked, in all shapes and sizes, young and old. The air was rich with the scent of men, raw and sweaty, and the heady mix of testosterone and desire. Dorian had removed all his clothing except his boots and had deposited them in the sack provided, along with his money. The number written on his shoulder got him his drinks—and Crisco—at the bar. Having taken the advice he’d found on the Internet, he’d tucked condoms into his boot. Apparently they ran out on occasions, and Dorian didn’t want to be caught short.
At midnight on Thursday the doors had been locked, and Dorian had simply let himself go. He’d paid a visit to the glory holes, gotten some group action by the graffiti-covered stalls, and had watched any number of guys getting fisted, fucked, pissed on—and it had been glorious. Anything that could happen, did, and Dorian had loved every minute of it.
And now he was ready for more. Bring it on.
Born and raised in the north-west of England, K.C. WELLS always loved writing. Words were important. Full stop. However, when childhood gave way to adulthood, the writing ceased, as life got in the way. K.C. discovered erotic fiction in 2009, when the purchase of a ménage storyline led to the startling discovery that reading about men in love was damn hot. In 2012, arriving at a really low point in life led to the desperate need to do something creative. An even bigger discovery waited in the wings—writing about men in love was even hotter….
K.C. now writes full-time and is loving every minute of her new career. The laptop still has no idea of what hit it… it only knows that it wants a rest, please. And it now has to get used to the idea that where K.C goes, it goes.
And as for those men in love that she writes about? The list of stories just waiting to be written is getting longer… and longer….
K.C. loves to hear from readers.
E-mail: [email protected]
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/KCWellsWorld
Twitter: @K_C_Wells
Website:http://www.kcwellsworld.com
Goodreads Link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25398528.Make_Me_Soar
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Cover Artist: Cover by Paul Richmond, Picture by Terry Cyr
With the final confrontation between the island and mainland Ea factions looming, Taren and Ian sail with Odhrán to investigate a lost colony of merfolk in the Eastern Lands. Upon their arrival, the King of Astenya welcomes them as friends. Odhrán, however, isn’t so quick to trust the descendent of the man who held him prisoner for nearly a decade, especially now that he has someone to cherish and protect—the mysterious winged boy he rescued from the depths. Armed with the knowledge he believes will save the Ea, Taren returns to the mainland. With Ian at his side, Taren convinces Vurin that their people must unite with their island brethren before it’s too late. When Seria and his men attack, Taren must call upon the ancient power of the rune stone to protect his comrades. But using stone’s immeasurable power commands a hefty price—and Ian fears that price is Taren’s life.
Pages or Words: 67,000 words
Excerpt:
DEAFENING CANNON fire rang out from the port side of the ship. Ian braced himself against the stair railing to keep from falling backward as the ship leaned deep and heeled hard to starboard. He heaved himself upward and crested the stairwell to the deck as the ship pitched again, forcing him to grab one of the barrels lashed to the deck to remain upright. Cannon shot landed off the bow, sending water over the forecastle and cascading down the already sodden deck. The acrid smell of gunpowder stung his nostrils and burned his eyes, and the familiar scent caused his adrenaline to skyrocket and set his mind racing.
“Renda! What the hell is happening?”
“She’s fired on us with no warning shot, Captain!” Renda, the ship’s quartermaster, barely looked at him as he struggled to steer the Phantom out of the line of fire.
“What colors does she fly?” Ian shouted as he ran toward the helm and lifted a spyglass to one eye.
“None, Captain! Her crew’s human! Navy ship!” Renda shouted above the cannon fire.
Ian felt it too. There were no Ea aboard the attacking ship. An entirely human crew? Only the Derryth navy sailed brigantines. But if he and the crew of the Phantom were fair game for the king and his navy, why didn’t they fly Derryth’s colors? They’d appeared out of nowhere. Had the mist been so thick that the men on watch had missed her?
Renda ceded the helm before Ian could think much more about it. For now, he needed to focus on their attackers and on gaining the upper hand. It had been more than twenty years since Ian had taken his ship into battle, but his crew was well seasoned. He prayed silently to his goddess that the winds would favor them.
“Derryth?” he asked Renda as he steered to avoid another blast from the enemy’s cannons. “Aligned with the Council? Or is this just a coincidence?” He’d expected to face the island Ea in battle eventually, but never had he expected them to use humans to chase them down.
Renda scowled. “No coincidence. Magic, seeing as the fog cleared just in time for them to attack. They had help tracking us down. A mage, no doubt.”
Humans did not possess magic. When had the island Ea recruited the humans to their cause? The thought made Ian’s blood boil. Humans had nearly wiped out their kind hundreds of years before, looking for the fabled rune stone, a weapon more powerful than the Derryth Kingdom’s largest cannons. Had someone told the humans they were heading to the Gateway Islands to find the reclusive pirate, Odhrán, and recover the very weapon that had nearly been the cause of their destruction?
No. He mustn’t think about that now. He needed his wits about him to keep his ship safe. Then he could think more about the implications. He focused once again on the ship and her crew. The feel of the wood beneath his hands and the stiff wind against his cheek always warmed Ian’s soul, even in the midst of battle. The bright, crisp scent of the salt spray awakened his senses and mind. He’d been born for this command, although he’d paid a stiff price for it. His father before him had been a sailor, although he’d long given up the seafaring life by the time Ian had learned to sail in the Derryth navy. Sailing was in his bones and his blood. The only thing he loved more than sailing on the water was swimming in it.
Renda shouted more commands to the men manning the ropes, then turned back to Ian and scowled. “Their ship is fast. She’s shooting the sun and she has the weather beam.”
Stealing our wind! Ian cursed beneath his breath. With the enemy positioned between them and the wind, the Phantom could do little to maneuver. If he hadn’t been forced to stay within the Council’s reach, tied to the island, he’d have long before found the best clockmaker in Derryth and purchased a sextant. He was tired of others sighting guns upon the Phantom so easily. Their ancient astrolabe might have sufficed twenty years ago, during the civil war that cleaved his people in two, but it was useless against a better-equipped navy. As things stood, Ian could only guess at the angle of the enemy’s guns and what direction he might be able to steer the Phantom to avoid them.
He glanced skyward and was momentarily blinded by the sun’s brilliant reflection in the lookout’s spyglass. He moved his gaze to the mainsail and the seagulls that rode thermals alongside it. It had been a calm day until the enemy appeared. Now the wind raced the heavens. The telltales on the sails fluttered frantically with each powerful gust of the wind, making it difficult for Ian to determine the wind’s direction. He fought the helm in an effort to maintain their course as the sea swelled and the ship bucked. Worse yet, the Phantom was poorly situated in the wind on a close reach that placed the ship at a crucial disadvantage.
The enemy’s guns belched again and cannonballs spun past, spitting fiery tar and narrowly missing the main mast. The flames that licked from the metal nearly set the mainsail afire.
“They’re using pitch!” Renda shouted as the pungent smell of burning pine reached Ian’s nostrils.
Ian heard his father’s words echo in his mind. “There is nothing as deadly as fire at sea.” If one of those cannon blasts hit the Phantom, she’d go up in flames.
Heeling starboard as the Phantom was, her portside guns aimed high above the waterline. Each cannon shot fired was nothing more than wasted ammunition. They were outmanned, outgunned, and out-positioned in the wind. Damn. Ian considered his options quickly, mulling their position relative to the enemy and eyeing the wind in the sails. He had no choice but to bring the ship about and take aim with the starboard cannons. Yet if he turned and lost the wind, they’d end up in irons and stalled in the water.
“Are the starboard gun ports open?” Ian shouted.
Another blast from the enemy ship’s cannons landed within a yard of the Phantom. The ship shook with the impact, and several crewmembers scrambled to better tie down some of the supplies on deck.
“Aye, Captain! Ports open, guns loaded!”
A quick glance around the deck told Ian that his beloved Taren was not there. He reached out first with his innate senses and was relieved to feel Taren’s strong heartbeat as if it beat within his own chest. Their connection had continued to grow stronger over the past few months. Among Ea, a bond like theirs—what their people called soulbound—was rare. Where most Ea could only sense that one of their brethren was near, Ian and Taren could sense each other’s presence in particular. Sometimes Taren’s fear became Ian’s, and although Taren had not spoken of it, Ian guessed his own anger and frustration sometimes became Taren’s.
Ian looked up, searching the mastheads and rigging with his eyes, and found Taren atop the main mast. He worked furiously, tying Turk’s heads in the rigging as fast as he could and adjusting the sails to compensate for the heeling Phantom.
“Trim the sails! Man the starboard cannons and tell the gunners to fire when I come about!” Ian knew it would do little good. If they headed farther into the wind, they’d lose speed and stall. “Tell the gunners to fire when they can!”
“Aye, sir!” Renda barked commands and the boatswains flew into action with whistles and hand signals. When Ian saw that Taren had acknowledged his orders, he brought the Phantom hard about. She bucked the squall and swell as Ian fought the wheel to turn her, and she listed her worst yet, her masts lying but thirty degrees off the water.
Damn.
At midturn, a volley of cannon fire caught the Phantom’s bow, causing her to shudder angrily as wood splintered and flew, mortally wounding one of the crew in the chest. Bright red blood splashed the deck to mingle with salt water and run past the smoldering pitch.
Crian! Renda ran to help the injured sailor. Perhaps he could help the man long enough that he might transform and heal his wounds. But Renda’s slight shake of his head and icy expression told Ian there was nothing to be done. Crian was dead.
Ian’s gut clenched when he thought of Crian’s family. Why was he so surprised that he’d lost a man? Had he really believed this voyage would be anything but risky? He’d naively hoped their mission would be a simple one: find Odhrán, retrieve the rune stone, and return it to Vurin, the leader of Ea’s mainland colony, so he might better protect their people.
He searched the rigging for Taren again and couldn’t find him. He’d felt Taren’s steady presence only moments ago, but he’d been too preoccupied with the battle to keep track of him. At least he could still feel the steady beat of Taren’s heart. He finally spotted Taren aft, now atop the mizzenmast, clinging to guy ropes and swinging wildly with each turn of the helm.
Taren had left their cabin at dawn to work on the sails with the intention of increasing the ship’s speed. He loved to toil on the rigging, and Ian knew how his spirits soared with the feel of the wind on his face. Taren’s acrobatics never ceased to amaze Ian, but they nonetheless left him cold with fear. Taren was nothing short of a long-tailed monkey in the rigging.
“Taren! Taren!”
Ian’s shouts went unheeded—Taren couldn’t hear him over the chaos of the battle. Ian only hoped Taren had guessed what his next maneuver might be, and had good purchase on the ropes to keep him from falling.
The navy ship tacked in tandem with the Phantom and now aimed its sights at her stern. Ian couldn’t risk a blow to the most vulnerable part of the ship and had no choice but to adjust course again to avoid a hit. He spun the wheel the hardest yet to starboard.
Hold on, Taren!
The ship protested the quick maneuver, her teak wood groaning and creaking under the strain as she stalled in irons. In his quick decision to turn hard, he’d been reckless. They were headed directly into the wind now and were dead in the water.
Ian looked up and found Taren as he kicked out like lightning and baffled the aft sail to back the ship. An eerie silence descended, and they waited to see if the Phantom would catch her wind speed. Not a whisper of wind touched the sail. Taren reached for the rigging and swung out hard, kicking angrily at the sail once again. The sail billowed once, twice, and Ian’s breath stuttered, his warning shout lodged in his throat. He knew precisely what the aft sail would do. With a whoosh and an earsplitting snap, she filled and the Phantom regained her air once again, leaping to top speed.
Ian watched in admiration as Taren swung down on the ropes just in time to avoid the snap of the sail. He landed gracefully on the deck a dozen feet away.
“Ian!” Taren shouted as he ran over to the wheel. Another shot from their attackers landed close to the Phantom, causing Taren to grab a hold of one of the nearby rails.
“Excellent work,” Ian said as he adjusted the ship’s heading. “Now if we can only make some headway—”
“Why don’t you send a few men down?” Taren panted hard, clearly winded. Ian sensed his excitement and his fear. No. Sensing wasn’t quite right. Ian felt Taren’s emotions as if they were his own.
“Down?”
“Send them down with axes. Crowbars. Something. Anything. Have them transform and attack from below.”
Ian frowned. “It won’t work.”
“Why not?” Taren demanded. “If we could—”
Taren’s words were cut short by a volley that landed even closer to the ship. Ian fought to maintain his course. “It doesn’t work that way,” he shouted over the din of the waves crashing over the bow. “It’s far more—”
But Taren was already halfway toward the bow before Ian could finish. “No! Taren! You don’t understand! You can’t just—” Ian had no one to blame but himself for Taren’s lack of knowledge of Ea battle tactics. He glanced around, hoping to find someone to take the wheel. He needed to stop Taren before he did something dangerous, but before he could call out to Barra, the Phantom’s guns fired and missed. The navy ship returned fire, and a loud crack sounded from overhead as the shot hit the mizzenmast and the aft sail caught fire. The mast shattered, sending beam and splinter out at light speed. The sound of the mast breaking into smithereens was the last thing Ian remembered before his world grayed, then faded to black.
TAREN TRANSFORMED as he entered the warm tropical water with a splash. He’d grabbed an ax as he’d run, ignoring Ian’s shouts. He didn’t need Ian to lecture him about the danger of attacking the brigantine from below. But if this worked…. He’d barely caught his breath when he had to dive deep to avoid a deadly blow to the head from the enemy ship’s keel as she passed over him. Pumping his powerful tail, he swam after the Phantom’s challenger. He knew Ian would be angry with him for taking such a risk—he could almost feel that anger burn hot within his own heart. He’d face Ian’s wrath later. Had the Ea become so complacent in their human forms that they’d forgotten what they were?
The enemy brigantine was sleek and faster than the Phantom. They’d been nearing the Gateways, the chain of islands just west of Ea’nu, looking for Odhrán, the pirate rumored to possess the rune stone, when they’d been set upon. Taren surmised the brigantine’s captain knew the Phantom would be in the vicinity, and had waited in the mist until she could gain the weather beam over them. Strange. Stranger yet, he’d sensed that the ship held humans when it passed over him. Why would humans pursue them? Had they learned of the existence of merfolk, or did they believe them to be pirates?
No. It’s more than that. This all felt so familiar, as if he’d dreamed it. Expected it. Sensed something he hadn’t understood until just now.
Several more cannon blasts narrowly missed the Phantom and landed in the water nearby, bringing Taren back to himself. He fought the rising swells and powerful current as the wind picked up speed, echoing his own growing apprehension and worry for Ian and the Phantom’s crew. He dove, pumping and flexing the powerful flukes of his tail to propel him toward the enemy ship.
He reached her rudder a minute later. As fast as she was, he fought to keep up with her as he swung the ax at the place where the pintles and gudgeons met to hold the rudder in place. He’d expected resistance when the axe struck the metal of the hinges. He didn’t expect the force that threw him backward and knocked the ax from his hand.
Magic? Vurin had taught him to sense it, but he’d been too distracted by his work on the sails to feel it before. But how would a human ship use magic? What a fool he’d been to assume Ian and the other Ea wouldn’t have sensed it as well.
Taren heard another explosion right before it reverberated through the sea, and he watched beneath the water as the Phantom’s keel turned sharply and she suddenly lost speed. Even with her crew’s skill, without the wind, the Phantom would have no chance of outrunning the enemy. Would Ian surrender to the humans? Could he? If the humans knew what they were….
Of course they know! They’re using magic. He needed to get back to the ship. Help them fight the humans. On the ropes, he could do something. Here in the water, he was helpless.
He broke the surface of the water and glided easily over a swell using his tail to keep his head above the waves. He couldn’t remain above the surface long. His Ea lungs protested the air, created as they were to breathe oxygen through water. But he needed to see the plight of the Phantom for himself.
He watched as half a dozen men climbed the brigantine’s masts. They were readying to raft alongside the Phantom and board her. In a minute, perhaps two, they’d swing from the masts and land on the Phantom’s deck. Taren’s heart grew cold with fear, and the air whipped around him as he prayed the wind would change direction. If the Phantom could gain even a modicum of speed, her crew might outmaneuver the humans.
The reverberation of multiple volleys of cannon fire radiated through the water and sent fear through Taren. The first missed its mark, but the second shattered the mizzenmast. Pain seared Taren’s heart and he knew Ian had been hit. Panic shot up his spine as he felt Ian lose consciousness. No! Goddess, no! Please, you can’t take him! Not when I’ve just found him again!
Taren prayed once more that the winds would shift. If the Phantom could gain some speed, he had faith their ship could outmaneuver the humans even with the damage to the mizzen—Barra, their navigator, knew these waters well, knew the reefs well enough to navigate between them, whereas the humans might not. If he isn’t too badly hurt.
The surface of the water rippled, although this time it was not on account of the battling ships. The wind. Had the goddess heard his prayer? He closed his eyes and imagined the goddess’s hand coaxing the wind to shift to favor Ian and his crew. He felt the wind stroke his cheeks, felt its fingers stir the water. Imagined the Phantom’s sails filling and the feel of the helm as it pulled against the rudder.
Taren felt the zing of magic caress his skin—a familiar sensation he tried to place—but his attention was drawn upward by the sound of an explosion. He looked up in time to see something dark speed toward him: another volley of cannon fire. He flexed his tail and swam down. The cannonball missed him by inches. As he sank beneath the water with a heavy heart, a flash of movement filled his peripheral vision, the outline of a tail. Before he could turn to get a better look, something hit him hard in the back of the head.
He valiantly fought the urge to surrender to the darkness, but his eyes fluttered closed.
Rest now, a voice in his mind commanded, and he knew no more.
IAN LAY flat on his back, looking up at the mizzenmast—what was left of it. The mast itself was cleaved in two, the upper topsail was missing, and the lower hung from the ropes over the mizzen sail. With the help of a strong arm, he pulled himself up to a sitting position.
“Damn him! I should chain him to the ship.”
Renda frowned at him with concern. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” Ian growled as he ignored the pounding in his head and the warmth of the blood that trickled from his scalp. “It’s Taren I’m worried about.”
“You’re not all right.”
“And what would you have me do about it?” Ian stood, swayed, then steadied himself on Renda’s shoulder.
“At least let me stop the bleeding.”
Ian ignored Renda and stumbled back to the wheel. He’d expected to see Barra there, since he’d been shouting commands to the other men while Ian steered, but instead saw Keral, one of the other hands. At least he’d the sense to take over the helm while Renda fussed over Ian like a mother hen. The ship bucked and shuddered as Keral turned sharply to avoid another cannon blast. Ian gritted his teeth and grabbed Renda’s arm, thankful that he was nearby.
They were out of options. Even with the mizzen sails intact, they’d been outpaced by the smaller ship. With the mizzenmast destroyed, they would be far slower and the Phantom would be more difficult to steer. Ian was just about to tell Keral to give the order for all but his officers to abandon ship when a gust of air brushed his cheek. For a split second, he sensed something familiar about the wind, as if it had stirred a memory buried deep in his soul. Then the feeling fled and he realized the wind had shifted to the northeast. A moment later, he felt the Phantom’s remaining sails catch the wind. The ship began to pick up speed, moving away from the enemy ship, which had slowed so its crew might board.
“Hard to starboard,” Ian ordered. “Now!”
Keral spun the wheel and the ship heeled dangerously close to the waves. “Fire!” Ian shouted to the men manning the guns.
The pain in Ian’s head, which had until then been just a dull ache, lanced with reverberations from the cannon blast. At nearly the same time, he felt another pain at the back of his head
Taren!
Ian dropped to his knees and clutched his head as his heart beat so hard against his ribs that it hurt. Goddess! Taren!
“Let me help you.” There was none of the usual chiding in Renda’s voice as he gently pulled Ian’s hand from his left temple. Ian felt the warmth of Renda’s healing against his skull. With the touch, Ian’s pain abated.
“Taren,” he moaned when he came back to himself. He reached out with his mind and felt the beat of Taren’s heart. Slower than before, but steady. Knocked out, perhaps, by the last volley?
“You felt his pain?” Renda asked, clearly surprised.
Ian nodded. “He’s alive. But he’s unconscious. Injured. I must find—” “A hit, sir!” one of the men shouted over the howling wind.
With Renda’s help, Ian got back to his feet. He saw it now—the smoking wound in the enemy ship’s stern. She floundered, her rudder damaged and no longer able to control her course. Even if she used her sails to steer, the Phantom would be long gone. Ian murmured a prayer of thanksgiving to the goddess. Now, if he could find Taren, he’d rest easy.
Today I’m interviewing Shira Anthony author of Running with the Wind, the final installment in the Mermen of Ea Series from Dreamspinner Press. Hi Shira, thank you for agreeing to this interview. Tell us a little about yourself, your background, and your current book.
Thanks so much for hosting me! I’m so excited about the release of the last Mermen of Ea book. For those who may not already know, I’m a former opera singer (you can hear a live recording of me singing here, if you’re interested) turned lawyer and author. I work as public sector attorney doing child advocacy, and not only do I work full-time, when I’m not working I pretty much spend every waking hour writing.
Into the Wind is the final installment in the Mermen of Ea Series. The series is high fantasy with pirates and mermen shifters in the tradition of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Romance and adventure on the high seas with magic, eternal love, and the future of an entire civilization at stake.
How do you develop your plots and characters?
When I write fantasy like the Mermen of Ea Series, I usually start with the plot. I like to focus in on one or two characters in my books and “grow” them from point A to point B by the end of the story. In the case of the mermen books, it was the opposite. I started out writing a pirate captor/captive story, but a few chapters in, my main character announced that he wasn’t human! After I listened to him, the entire plot suddenly became clear.
Who doesn’t love a good hero? Tell us about your protagonist. Was there a real life inspiration behind them?
I’m often inspired by real people when I write my stories, but my characters tend to be a mixture of several people. Taren, the protagonist in the Mermen of Ea books, is the kind of person who has grown up without much love, and grown up believing his parents sold him into slavery. Over the course of the three books, Taren must come into his own and become the leader he was meant to be. It’s a difficult road for him, and he does it with the help of his soul mate, Ian, and friends who believe in him. My favorite kind of hero!
What real-life inspirations do you use when world building?
If you think about it, worlds all have things in common. The five senses, for example. If it’s an earthlike world, which the Ea universe is, then it has water and land and people who share things in common us. So when I created the Ea world, I thought about all these things. I’d constantly ask myself, “What does this smell like? Sound like?” Or “How would someone react to this?” Add to that the myths and stories that you need to create a history of the people in the new universe, and you pretty much have your basic worldbuilding.
Once you have the basics, then you write your story. As you move along, you realize you need to build up certain parts of the world to support the story. You also layer sounds, smells, visuals, etc. on top of the basic story. All of these things create a three-dimensional universe your readers can step into.
Lastly, and possibly most importantly, you have to reveal the world to your readers in a way that they can digest it. In the Ea universe, I do this through Taren, who grew up human and must learn about his world himself. The reader then learns through him. It’s a great device that’s been used in a lot of fantasy writing, most recently in the Harry Potter stories.
Did you learn anything from this book and what was it?
I learned a lot writing the entire series. I learned about pacing a three-story arc, about writing fantasy, and about letting some of the plot points work themselves out. I learned that sometimes you need to trust your instincts and allow your characters to lead you in your writing. It’s fine to map out a plotline, but sometimes it’s good to take detours along the way.
It’s your last meal on earth. What do you choose?
Shellfish! Lobster, crab, scallops, and shrimp. Steamed with butter and lemons. Simple and delicious. Chocolate mousse for dessert! Okay, so now I’m hungry….
About the author:
In her last incarnation, Shira was a professional opera singer, performing roles in such operas as “Tosca,” “i Pagliacci,” and “La Traviata,” among others. She’s given up TV for evenings spent with her laptop, and she never goes anywhere without a pile of unread M/M romance on her Kindle.
Shira is married with two children and two insane dogs, and when she’s not writing she is usually in a courtroom trying to make the world safer for children. When she’s not working, she can be found aboard a 36’ catamaran at the Carolina coast with her favorite sexy captain at the wheel.
Where to find the author:
Excerpt:
Clouds rolled in, white and puffy in the winter blue sky, but there was no moisture in the air, or in the sand beneath Annie’s bare feet.
“Rain?” Annie asked hopefully, and Grandma shook her head and looked sad.
Annie knew why. Without the potatoes and beans from the garden, without the lupins and sunflower seeds, all they’d have to live on would be gruel. There’d been no rain for months, even though the days were short and the nights cold, and it was nearly time for the summer to come back.
“Gruel will make us sick,” Annie said. “Will the government make rain?”
Grandma swore, something vicious and rude, under her breath. Annie was made sure to remember the word, because it was a new word and Annie collected those words.
They stood, studying the empty clouds over their heads while the chickens fought over the scraps, and even in the middle of winter the sun still hurt Annie’s bare arms.
“What did you use to do to make rain?” Annie asked Grandma. “Before?” Grandma knew things that everyone else had forgotten, and she didn’t go to church. “Is there magic?”
Annie had to whisper that, because Mum was a Believer, and she’d shout or pray or something if she thought Annie knew about magic.
The rainwater tank leaned against the back wall of the house. Grandma shuffled over and whacked it with her cane. The metal drum rang loudly.
Jack Bridges is a writer and academic who lives in Perth, Western Australia, and works at a small university teaching students the basics of research methodology. He sometimes hides in a shack in the forest and makes complex plans for surviving environmental apocalypses.
Rory isn’t expecting much more than clowns and elephant poop when he agrees to take his niece and nephew to the circus, but he finds himself entranced by the trapeze performers. Returning to the circus another night, he meets Lev and Tanner after the show and finds himself just as interested in the men themselves. They take him back to their hotel room for a night of steamy sex. After the circus leaves, Rory can’t stop thinking about the duo, though they never call him. He enrolls in a trapeze class as a distraction, and is astonished to find out who’s teaching the course.
Pages or Words: 13,500 words
Excerpt:
The spotlight followed him across the tent, other lights coming up in succession as he swung past them, creating a corridor of light for him to perform in.
At the height of his swing, on the opposite side of the tent from where he had begun, a spotlight appeared on another platform. Another man stood there. He was wearing magenta and teal as well, but his pattern was the opposite of his partner’s. He leapt off, holding his trapeze, then flipped himself so he was hanging upside down.
I looked back at the first man, and I almost cried out when he leapt. He didn’t even have a trapeze to stop his fall, but the second man had swung out to him. They met at the perfect moment, both their arms outstretched until they met, and then they were swinging together, safe.
T. Strange is an author of M/M romance, published with Torquere Press. She writes both BDSM and vanilla, so there’s something for everyone! Her first novel, My Zombie Boyfriend, was published in 2015. When not reading or writing, T. enjoys playing with her many pets, gardening, and watching videos of Duo XY.
Excerpt from First Day of School, a And Manny Makes Seven short by Sean Michael
Lizzie stared at Hutch with huge, tear-filled eyes. “Please. Please, Hut. Don’t make me go away. I’ll be the best cooker ever. I promise.”
God, she was breaking his heart. Hutch managed to find a warm smile for her, though, as he crouched to give her a hug. “You’ll be home by three thirty. And I bet you find you like school. There’s so many fun things to do.” He’d known it would be hard to send the twins off to school every day, leaving the house empty until afternoon, but he hadn’t expected it to be this hard.
She shook her head, the tears beginning to fall. Felicia was desperate to be big, to go to school like Darla, but this one had been opposed to the whole idea and finding out she wasn’t in the same Kindergarten class as her twin hadn’t helped. The school claimed they split twins up to let them develop their own individuality.
Well, Hutch knew damn well his girls were plenty individual, each with their own unique personality despite being together since birth.
“When you get home you can help me make supper,” he promised. “That won’t change just because you’re going to school.”
“Please? You can tell Addie-Lou it’s okay. I know you can,” she insisted.
“No, little. He can’t.” Adam shook his head. “School is important.”
“Is not!” She stamped her little foot, glaring at Adam. “I want to stay with Hut!”
“Okay, Lizzie, that’s enough.” Hutch gave her his most firm voice. “School is important and you’re going to make friends and find really fun things to do. Addie-Lou and I will be here when you get home.”
He wanted so badly to tell her she could stay home, but he knew she needed to do this. It was his job to make sure she didn’t need him and Adam anymore and this was how it started. Even if it was the hardest thing ever.
Excerpt:
Craig couldn’t help but chuckle, as the day’s events unfolded.
He’d had his eye on Brent for some time—weeks, in fact. Six feet tall with light brown hair in a neat cropped style, muscles that advertised his time at the gym, and gorgeous blue eyes. What was there not to notice? The guy scowled a lot, though, and moved with a jerky, decisive style. Brent was a guy used to giving orders, and he wasn’t happy about it.
Craig had known Brent would love taking orders. Yet, it had to be from somebody with the power and the balls to back it up. Happily, fifteen years as a Marine had given him that power.
As he cleaned up around the drinking fountain and the snack area, Craig grinned, recalling the feel of Brent’s mouth on his cock, the way the guy had challenged him, and then ended up begging for release. Brent’s little tagalong had been watching, too. Younger guy, blond and lean, probably more into running than lifting weights. Obviously a submissive, and pining after someone who might not give a fuck about him. But cute. Very cute.
Sales Links: Torquere Books
About the author:
J.T. Hall has a bachelor degree in Creative Writing and a Master in Education. She has long been active in the LGBT and local leather community and does charity work including AIDS education and suicide prevention. Currently, J.T. works as a technical writer in the healthcare industry and lives with her partner and teenaged daughter in sunny Arizona.
