DYAD LOVE by Ann Hinnenkamp

DYAD LOVE by Ann Hinnenkamp

The Dyad Chronicles - Book Three

It is the time of nesting.

An immortal Dyad is dead. The females go into heat as the need to replace their loss overwhelms them. Damien's blood runs molten. The drive to reproduce threatens his sanity. But Damien is far from the Dyad home city. As he stands on the brink of madness, a female, a human, offers herself to him. It is forbidden. He must resist...

Emma watches the immortal she secretly loves fall apart. She knows what Damien needs...a female. She is female. Why shouldn't she save the man she loves? But during their joining, Damien marks Emma as his mate. An action so profoundly un-Dyad the Elders haven't made a rule against it - yet.

With the future of both races at stake, will Damien and Emma find a way to resist the passion burning between them or risk everything in a desperate attempt to stay together?

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An Excerpt From: DYAD LOVE

Copyright © ANN HINNENKAMP, 2011

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

Prologue

New York City, 1:00 a.m.



These humans will be the death of me.

Caleb’s pounding footsteps kept time with the helicopter blades above him. No doubt remained. The humans were herding him, just as they did the poor cattle in their slaughterhouses. They forced him west toward some unknown trap. To test this theory, he pivoted and sprinted north. A moment later, a tranquilizer dart whizzed past his head, missing him by inches. Left with no choice, he turned back west and increased his pace, trying to outdistance his attackers before they could close the circle.

The helicopter gunned its engine and swerved to avoid a chimney. For an instant, the circle of light that had been his constant companion lost him. He took advantage of the momentary respite and changed course, retracing his path over the rooftop. As he put on a burst of speed, he dug deep into his fading power reserve and channeled energy to his weakened body. The muscles in his legs tingled with power as he approached the end of the roof.

Fifty feet of air separated his roof from the next. Caleb silently thanked the Balance that New York was a typical, modern human city, everything packed together with no thought given to nature or future consequences. When they’d run out of room on the ground, forcing out or penning up every animal in their path, humans had done the only thing their small minds could envision. They’d built up.

He reached for the power and as he had done fifty times since the chase began, mentally placed himself on the other side of the gap, willing his physical body to follow. As soon as he cleared the roof, a gust of wind took him and he used it to surf the air current between the buildings. Even this high above the ground, the pollution in the air spoiled what would otherwise be a pleasant experience. He shut down his sense of smell and blocked the worst of it but the corruption still seeped into his pores, further depleting his energy.

A bone in his ankle snapped when he landed, forcing him into a controlled roll. Behind him, light swept the area he would have been in had he not changed course. Humans—so predictable, and yet so ruthless.

Unable to stand, he scuttled on all fours until he found the rooftop access. He forced open the door and threw himself into the stairwell a second before the accursed light flashed over it. The pain in his ankle finally registered and he used the last of his power reserve to knit the bone, sighing with relief as the pain faded.

The change of course had bought him one, maybe two minutes before they found him again. Time enough to form some sort of plan or at least review his options. If only Daniel were with him. Daniel, his human partner for over two hundred years, would have offered his life force to replenish Caleb’s power. He could have drawn just enough of Daniel’s precious essence for the strength he needed to get them both out of this impossible situation.

But the humans had killed Daniel. They’d snuffed out his life force with no more remorse than swatting a mosquito. Daniel, who had stood strong and tall beside Caleb, defending human kind against their worst enemy—themselves. Honorable, intelligent, steadfast Daniel. A man worth a hundred of those who pursued Caleb. His constant companion and friend though the centuries—gone.

Caleb pushed aside thoughts of Daniel and the bone-deep grief he knew would follow. There was no time for grief. The humans had robbed him of even that small comfort. With the net closing around him, he knew what must be done.

The same problem had plagued his race for eons—too many humans. The sheer number of them boggled the mind. They multiplied the same way they built their cities, with no thought given to what their increased numbers would do to the planet. A planet they shared, if unknowingly, with his race, the Dyads.

Loud thumps on the roof above him heralded the hunters’ approach. Caleb used the wall to gain his feet, tested the ankle and frowned at the twinge of pain. Not his best work, but with no reserve left, it would have to do. As he ran down the stairs, he sent his senses out to search the building, hoping for a solution.

One thing was clear, he could not be caught. The prime directive of the Dyad race, what had kept them alive for so long, was absolute secrecy. The men chasing him only suspected the truth. If they got their hands on his body, he would become their lab animal, poked and prodded until all his secrets were theirs. Once knowledge of his race and what they could do became public, the true nightmare would begin.

His people would be hunted down, separated and imprisoned. The humans would fare no better. Wars would break out, nation against nation, to gain control of the Dyad power. It would be the end of them all and they would exterminate every living thing on the planet in their wake.

A dart whizzed past Caleb’s face.

“Here,” an excited voice above him shouted. “He’s in the stairwell.”

Caleb flew down the stairs, the soles of his boots barely skimming the concrete. Men poured into the opening above him, the sound of their footsteps thundering off the cement walls. He sent out his senses to encompass the entire building. Twenty-five floors of apartments sprawled beneath him, reminding Caleb of an organized anthill. In the small rooms people slept, ate, fought, and in a few lucky cases, made love.

Far below, in the basement, he sensed what he needed.

Pain shot through his upper body. He reached up and pulled a dart out of his shoulder. The drug spread quickly, numbing his entire torso before he stopped it. When he tried to reverse the effect, he found an empty void where his power usually lived. In this state, he was no better than the mortals who followed.

In the lobby beneath him, more men flooded in. They separated into three groups, one group to each of the two elevators, and the last headed up the stairs, cutting off his escape. The net was tightening.

Looking up, Caleb realized he’d managed to put some distance between himself and his pursuers. As quietly as possible, he slowed his pace and ducked through a door labeled twelfth floor. As he ran down the hall to the other side of the building, smells assaulted him. Each apartment sent out a flavor of the lives within. Cigarette smoke, garlic, body odor and sweet perfume washed over him as he ran.

At the far end of the hall, Caleb stopped and pulled open the garbage chute. With no other option available, he wiggled his upper body into the small opening and kicked his legs into the air. Gravity took over. He plummeted down twelve stories, his shoes and shoulders banging against the aluminum walls, sending echoes of sound up the chute, announcing his position. He braced for impact and the pain he knew would follow. There was just enough time after he cleared the chute to rotate his body before he hit. Instead of head first, he landed on his left side on a pile of plastic garbage bags that burst beneath him. He heard his collarbone snap but felt no pain. The drug in the dart had been a blessing after all.

As he struggled to stand, only the right side of his body responded. The left leg wouldn’t take his weight. A hiss escaped him when he looked at his left forearm, broken so badly the bone protruded through his shirt sleeve. Still no pain. Was he in shock?

What would the other Dyads say if they could see him now, his body broken and covered in human garbage? Proud Caleb brought low by a pack of primates. Cut off from all help, unable to reach for the Balance to channel power. Even though he knew it was impossible, Caleb centered himself and reached for the Balance. He sent his senses beneath the building, into the earth, searching for the life force of the planet, the foundation of the Dyad civilization, the Holy Balance. But without his brother Connor the Balance eluded him. After all, what was a Dyad but a group of two?

Like all Dyad pairs, he and Connor were one being born in two separate bodies. They could link telepathically, share each other’s thoughts. They also shared physicality. Caleb looked at the bone sticking out of his shirt sleeve and knew that Connor’s arm was broken in the same place. It took both of them together to reach the Balance and channel it into power. Alone, they were incomplete and could only draw power from their human partners. But the power from the humans paled beside the pure energy of the Balance.

For the hundredth time, Caleb cursed himself for separating from Connor. To separate when they knew the humans were hunting them seemed suicidal now, but he had thought it increased their chances of escape. He had counted on their human partners to replenish their power. Never, for one moment, had he thought the humans would kill Daniel. Once again, Caleb had underestimated the human lust for killing.

Caleb hopped to the center of the room and took in his surroundings. A gigantic boiler took up half the room. It reminded him of a metal spider lying on its back, its long legs reaching to the ceiling and going off in every direction, sending life-giving heat to the rooms above. Remarkable, when he thought about it. Humans had gone from huddling around fires to this complicated spider in a relatively short time span.

Pain shot down his arm, and when he looked at it, hope increased his heart rate. As he watched, some unseen power drew the bone in from the hole in his shirt. Once the bone had cleared the hole, Caleb pushed his shirt sleeve up for a better look. Like a puppet manipulated by an invisible puppeteer, the bone wiggled back and forth, adjusting itself until it lined up as if it had never been broken. The ragged tears in his skin started to close. In moments the arm looked good as new.

Caleb smiled. This could mean only one thing. Connor had escaped and reached a group of Dyads. The Dyads were using their collective power to heal Connor and as Connor healed, so did Caleb. He reached up and ran his fingers over his collarbone. Not a trace of the break remained.

Maybe he would live through this night after all.

Inhaling deeply, he focused and sent his mind down the mental channel reserved for his brother. From far away, Caleb sensed a flicker of Connor but was unable to reach him. Too much distance with too much pollution separated them. Human pollution always got in the way.

Caleb felt the moment when the men above him realized where he was. Soon after, both elevators were headed down loaded with rifle-toting soldiers, already anticipating his capture. In the stairwell, another group descended. Outside the building, all exits were covered.

The hope he had felt a moment ago drained away. Caleb had run out of options.

He went to the door and shot home the bolt. The sturdy lock would buy him some time. Forcing himself to the calm he needed, he sent a silent farewell off into the night for anyone who might hear it. He had a fleeting moment of fear and panic, but he pushed it away, walked to the center of the room and began the Dyad prayer of ending.

“We stand together before you, my brother and I.

In the sight of all who have journeyed on before us.”

Behind Caleb, someone pounded on the door. He ignored them and continued on.

“We ask to be accepted into your company.

We offer all the knowledge we have acquired.

We offer all the love we have known.

We offer everything we have been and hoped to be.

In the name of the Balance, let us journey on with you.”

With the banging door thundering behind him, Caleb went to the boiler and drew open the metal door. The heat generated by the one-inch gas jets washed over him. He reached over and turned the heat gauge to full. The jets tripled in size and the resulting heat seared his skin. Unfazed, he turned, walked to the center of the room and lined himself up with the boiler door.

One last time he tried to reach his brother, but failed. “Forgive me, Connor.”

His biggest regret was not being with his brother at the end. It was unnatural for a Dyad to die apart. He hoped the priests were right and he would find his brother on the other side.

Caleb threw his hands above his head. Instead of the industrial ceiling above him, he envisioned a spring sky, full of hope and promise. “For the Dyad race. Long may it continue in the Balance.”

With a running start, he headed straight to the boiler and dove in.

Twenty-five miles away, surrounded by Dyads, Caleb’s brother, Connor, threw his head back and screamed in agony. He had only a moment to watch his skin melting before he whispered, “Caleb, no, not apart,” and followed the other half of his Dyad into death.

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QUEEN OF ENVIRONMENTAL CLUB by S.I. Decker

QUEEN OF ENVIRONMENTAL CLUB by S.I. Decker

Rosalee Tatiana is your typical high school junior...medium height, medium intelligence, and moderately popular. Nothing special and not a complete outcast. Just...typical. That's what she thinks anyway.

Rosalee has been striving to stand out, emerge from the masses, and find her day in the sun since her freshman year in high school. In search of this goal, she tried math club, leaving in disgrace on the tails of a bad case of number envy. Then she tried being the manager for the football team, but soon discovered she was averse to sweaty, stinky socks and towels. So, in desperation, she started a fashion club. Amazingly, her Farmer Dan overalls and tube top with rainbow hued high-tops didn't quite catch on. Who knew?

But all of that was behind her now. She had finally found a way to join the cool kids. She'd hit the mother lode of popularity.

She'd joined Environmental Club.

Unfortunately for Rosy, her involvement with EC has brought a new kind of challenge into her life. Rival factions of Earth fairies have taken her under their wing...so to speak...and some of them aren't too keen on her continuing to breathe. And the good ones...the ones who aren't trying to kill her...oh yeah, they just want to make her their Queen.

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Excerpt:

“My baby sister is a veritable sewer.” Cia informed me. “She’s got snot and drool constantly running out of her face and horrible, unmentionable stuff spewing from her other end every five minutes. We’d be doing the world a favor if we could figure out how to address some of that pollution.”

Obviously, Cia hadn’t taken well to the recently acquired knowledge, about fifteen months ago to be exact, that her parents were not only still having sex, but had, apparently through that most disgusting of parental activities, managed to finally spawn the little sister Cia had never wanted and refused to love.

While most girls enjoyed having a younger sibling to mold and protect, Cia had been far too happy with her solo princess role in the Plink castle. And, after fifteen years of sibling free bliss, she’d thought she was home free. But then her parents had apparently had too much to drink one night and decided to perform deviant acts together.

The results had been horrendous.

Now Cia had to grudgingly share her parents’ attention, sexual deviants though they apparently were…I mean, who has sex at the richly fermented age of thirty-eight. It’s just disgusting!

“I don’t think we can get rid of all the babies in the world, though the amount of CO2 they dispense is definitely a factor in the current Ozone layer problem.”

“Maybe we could just put them all in eco-friendly bubbles.”

I grinned at Cia as we reached our cars, sitting side by side at the furthest edge of the school parking lot as always. “Bubble babies? It’s worth some thought I guess.”

Cia opened her car door and threw her overstuffed book bag inside. Tossing her chin length, black bob, she widened her startling green eyes and grinned at me. “I’ll call you tonight and we’ll form our thesis.”

I nodded, thinking that at least our idea would be unique.

Cia honked as she pulled away and I waved. I climbed behind the wheel of my car. Before I turned the key I dug in my purse for my cell phone and turned it on. My parents, being seriously out of sync with the rest of society when it came to such necessities as cell phones, texting, and Internet surfing, made me keep my phone off during class hours under the mistaken belief that it would keep me more focused on my work.

Alas, they’d just forced me to use more prehistoric means of communication. Throwing message balls across the room, saying I had to go to the bathroom so I could find and talk to one of my friends in the library, and writing notes on the bathroom wall in siren red lipstick were effective in the long run, but caused more lost work time in my average day than a simple, “wht r u waring 2nit” would have ever caused.

The human parental unit was not the brightest bulb in the eco-friendly fluorescent light family. But they meant well. And they were good for handing out cash and baking gooey chocolate chip cookies during PMS moments.

I texted my Mom that I was going to stop at Target on the way home and hit send. Dropping my cell phone into the cup holder between the seats, I started my car.

When I looked up again there was someone standing in front of the car. I screamed and grabbed my throat with one hand…you know, your standard heroine in danger mannerism that did nothing to scare off the bad guy or, frankly, return your heart to your chest where it belonged.

It was him. The stupendously cute guy from Environmental Club. He just stood there, grinning at me.

Odd though this behavior was, I couldn’t help being drawn, moth like, to his sparkling smile and happy eyes. I opened my car door and stepped out, returning his smile. “Hi!”

His grin widened, a feat I wouldn’t have thought possible. “Hello.”
“Is there a problem?”

The twelve thousand watt smile dimmed slightly. “Problem?”

I twisted my lips, biting the side of my bottom lip, thinking. Could he really be this oblivious? “Did you need something from me?”

The smile slid completely away. “Need? I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”

Okay, this was getting surreal. “You’re standing there, staring at me. I just thought…you know…maybe you wanted to ask me something.”

He shrugged. “No. I’m just standing here.”

“Oh.” Alrighty then. “Okay.” I gave him a little wave, feeling stupid immediately. “It was nice meeting you.” Uber, uber stupid…I hadn’t met him, I’d just spoken to him, apparently for no reason.

He inclined his head, the smile sparkling from his face again. I started to lower myself back into my car but stopped halfway, pushing back out. I was unwilling to just leave it at my having made a fool of myself in front of a really cute guy. If I was gonna embarrass myself I’d do it up really big by pushing the issue.

He was still standing there staring at me, grinning.

“Why do I feel as if I’m missing a joke somewhere?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and cocked his head. He wore his hair longer than the rest of the guys at school. It was thick and slightly curly. The sun sparked off the dark red strands. His shoulders were wide and his arms long.

His jeans were loose and his white tee-shirt tight. I’d already seen the back end of the black sneakers he wore. His wide, silver-gray eyes sparkled prettily and his lips were full and kissable. His jaw was square and carried the slight shadow of a beard. I figured he was about eighteen.

I licked my lips, wondering if he could see the zit on my nose from where he stood.

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RAKARA: The Bekka Chronicles Book 3 by Steve Shilstone

RAKARA: The Bekka Chronicles: Book 3 by Steve Shilstone

In RAKARA, Book Three of The Bekka Chronicles, on the world of Boad, Bekka and her lifelong best friend Kar accept a challenge to descend through many Realms solving puzzles and riddles until they reach the Realm Beyond Realms, where Kar, with no help from Bekka, must answer one final question correctly before the Waterwheel of Time completes one full revolution. If she fails, they will be trapped in the Realm Beyond Realms indefinitely, perhaps forever.

Their descent begins in the garden beyond O’Tan's Gate, and as they meet and defeat the various challenges, they travel through the Realm of the Limb Ricks, the Realm of the Truth Berry, the Realm of Violet, Lionel, Guy and Slingsby, and the Realm of the Globes where a fleckrunner quizzes them. When they reach the Realm Beyond Realms, they learn from a group of bearded jroons with grey storm eyes that their final task will be to find and face the Waterwheel of Time.

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An Excerpt from: The Bekka Chronicles: Book 3: Rakara
Copyright © 2011 Steve Shilstone

All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.




Rakara shimmered, her eyes yellowing, her hair coppering, and she tumbled a turn to stand before me as my own dear Karro of Thorns. She snatched my chonka, my tambourine, from the shelf and gave it a rattle.

“I’ll reveal the rest of it in the Assembly Bower. Did you tell ‘em about Zinna and me, Bek?” she said.

“I knocked ‘em down with it,” I answered proudly. “They were flattened when I told ‘em Zinna was a jrabe. And even more ever than that, such being so, they collapsed in disbelief that you, jark dweg Karro, were Zinna’s daughter. Such!”

“Good, good. Now I’ll give ‘em another rattle. Watch me, Bek,” said Kar, winking, and she banged my chonka on her knee before tossing it to me. “Go ahead. Announce me.”

Eager to hear the rest of Karro’s adventure on Fan Wa’s Island, I stepped out of the hut and banged out on my chonka the Signal of Attention. CHONKA CHANK! Instantly from the hedge came the proper answering KACHUNKs, followed by rustling and muttering.

“Karro of Thorns has returned from Fan Wa’s Island!” I shouted. “She has brought a Gwer drollek story to tell! Gather, bendo dreen, in the Assembly Bower! In two short paces of time Karro and Bekka will join you!”

“That’s good, Bek. Give ‘em three paces, then I’ll sweep in. Should I be Dragon? What sort? Or no? Maybe cloud? What do you think?” asked Kar.

“Let’s enter as Silent Bekka and jark dweg Kar. Then when you start your story, change into all sorts of everything you can! That’ll knock ‘em over. There’ll be a clatter of dropped chonkas and a gape of dropped jaws. I can’t wait to see it! You’ll be the first jrabe jroon to shift in the Assembly Bower!” I offered, my cheeks burning with boosted energy.

“The first jrabe jroon,” repeated Kar in a dreamy hush.

We marched across the clearing to the hedge and squeezed through into a deserted corridor of brambles. We heard a hum of babble excitement from far down the tunnel. Kar and I grinned at each the other. The bendo dreen were assembled. I banged my chonka once. CHANKA! The hum babble ceased. We sailed like Blossom Castle Royalty down the turns and twists until we came to the Assembly Bower. Without a pause we sailed in smoothly. I bowed to Kar. I don’t know why. It seemed a proper way to begin.

Then Kar knocked me flat amazed along with all the other gathered bendo dreen. She opened her mouth and roared. She bulged and flexed, expanding to a glorious Dragon covered with writhing black and gold stripes. She snaked a flaming green tongue from between her horrid fangs and shot it over the heads of the bendo dreen to the far wall of the Bower. She stretched her neck in loops, shimmering gold. And there, instead of glorious Dragon, was a green misty cloud with great feathered blue wings. The cloud rained sparkles of silver and gold. It flapped around the Bower, circling low to drop spangles on each bendo dreen. The cloud settled above me, then formed in shimmer to Rakara, upside down jrabe. Her dark green mantle pooled on the thorny ceiling of the Bower.

“I be Rakara, jrabe jroon. Ye knew me as Karro of Thorns, jark dweg. I bring to ye a promise of a true Gwer drollek tale. I pledge on thorns that ye shall be told the most amazing Gwer drollek ever. Better yes than the Well of Shells. Better yes even than the Triplets, Bandy, and the Rainbow Giants. What tale could be better than such? ye ask. A tale to be told on Chronicler Bekka’s return, I answer. A story soon to be collected by Chronicler Silent Bekka and the jrabe jroon Rakara, me. We have been challenged to pass the Four Ramps of the Realms to discover the Realm Beyond Realms! Such and so have we been challenged by Dak, the jroon. Truly! We quest! Following a great success, Bekka will write the Chronicle as Roamer Harpo and Roamer Lace did before her. She will spin it out for ye here in the Assembly Bower. Ye shall be told the most glorious Gwer drollek ever!”

Saying such, she caught me up into her green mantle with her powerful bony lavender hands and whisked us from the room, down the corridor, through the hedge wall, and into the sky.

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THE OBSIDIAN MAN by Jon Wilson

THE OBSIDIAN MAN by Jon Wilson

All his life, Holt has dreamed of leaving his life of drudgery to join the legendary Danann, a mysterious race of rangers and magicians. When trolls threaten his village, he sees his chance in the arrival of Kawika, a handsome ranger sent for protection. But things take a deadly turn when a demon appears, leading an army of horrible creatures. The village goes up in flames, Kawika vanishes, and Holt finds himself wandering lost and alone in the wilderness.

Rescued by the Danann, Holt suffers both physical and psychic scars. However, Kawika’s lover, Keone, hopes to use that connection to track and destroy the demon responsible for the attack.

Unfortunately, the link works both ways -- Keone can track through it, and the demon can use it to invade Holt’s mind. As the pursuit continues, Holt’s sanity begins to slip away. Gradually the realization dawns that instead of helping Keone defeat the demon, he may be leading them both into the demon’s deadly trap.

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EXCERPT:

He skidded to a halt at the foot of the open doors, staring down into the darkness. The angle and the moonlight showed him nothing but one of the ranger's feet, lying motionless, pale, just inches from the bottom of the stair. He began to tremble.

Maybe it was more villagers. Maybe they had come in the interval between his two visits. Maybe they were down there cowering in the darkness, too afraid even to greet a fellow human when he stumbled onto them. Or maybe it was a troll. After fighting the great black creature, even a troll did not seem unconquerable.

How ridiculously arrogant he found himself. How could he, Holt, a thirteen-year-old boy, fight a troll? Trolls had killed Varley and Roef and Baton. A troll had killed his mother. And even staring at Kawika's foot, he knew all of that didn't even begin to matter because there were no other footprints around but his own.

He heard a dull slosh he realized was the hoe falling to the snow. He was stepping into the cellar, descending the stairs, continuing to gaze only at the foot. He had to get Kawika out. He could not leave him there, sitting helplessly in the dark with that awful thing. Crouching on the lowest step, he reached gently toward Kawika's ankle. He realized the ranger must have fallen because he could no longer make out the man’s shape against the shelving. He grasped the ankle, felt another cold wallop against his diaphragm -- so cold. So cold and something else. He tugged the ankle and immediately knew. Even before he saw the tattered flesh and the jagged, splintered bone -- the tattered flesh and the jagged, splintered bone -- white as white in the moonlight -- and nothing more.

The darkness seemed to swell between the shelves. A great rustling sound and the horrible, black face was stretching toward him. "Looking for this?"

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THE RIFT WAR by Michelle L. Levigne

THE RIFT WAR by Michelle L. Levigne

The final installment in the Zygradon Chronicles: Arthurian Fantasy

Emrillian Warhawk has been raised in the modern world, 2,000 years away from the Lygroes, hidden inside a dome of Threads. Now, she must return via the tunnel under the sea, to retrieve Braenlicah, find the lost Zygradon, and awaken Athrar Warhawk from his enchanted sleep to defend Quenlaque, Lygroes, and the world. An enemy and a war have arrived that could destroy all the Threads and magic itself.

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Excerpt:


When they were halfway across the glass-smooth floor, a sound like a sudden, soft gasp came from the two sleepers. The cloth covering their forms shifted slightly, and the sounds of breathing grew stronger, louder, more steady in a few heartbeats. As her eyes grew accustomed to the shifting haze of the light, Emrillian made out more details of the two people lying before her..

A man and a woman. Even with her fading memories of her last view of her parents, Emrillian somehow expected them both to be robed and crowned as king and queen. The man wore plain, faded, dark blue tunic and shirt. The kind of clothes a convalescent would wear, comfortable and warm, and easily laundered. .

He didn't wear a helmet or chain mail or armor. He didn't even hold an empty scabbard, as the tales and ballads popular among the Archaics pictured Athrar Warhawk in his mystical resting place. A quilt with a simple spiral pattern in blue and green covered him partway, as if he had moved in his sleep and dislodged it. Emrillian remembered her mother making that quilt when they lived in the Stronghold. She had promised to teach her daughter to make one just like it, when she was a little older..

Ynfara's deep golden hair was loosely bound in a simple matron's net at the back of her head. No gauzy scarves or jewels. The only jewelry visible were their marriage bands on their wrists, and Athrar's signet ring. They looked like ordinary folk, weary from long labors, in travel clothes. .

Emrillian remembered how pale and emaciated her father had been when they brought him to the tunnel and the Vale of Lanteer, to save his life through enchantment. Now, Athrar almost looked as he did from those short few moons of happy family life. He had color in his cheeks, and his beard and hair didn't look so drained of life and substance. But both her parents still looked tired, nothing at all like the triumphant king and queen, ready to leap from their bier, take up their magical weapons and lead in the defense of their kingdom..

"Grandfather--".

"Hush, my dear. Trust in the Estall. His timing is best.".

She studied her parents as she took the last few steps up to the bier, trying to decide what features she had inherited from whom. She had her father's upturned nose and strong, long-fingered hands. Mrillis had told her many times she had Athrar's grip and dexterity. She had inherited her mother's dainty chin and rounded brow and long, white neck. Any other features, she could not discern. The similarities were enough to comfort her..

Ynfara sighed loudly. The arm stretched across Athrar's chest twitched. She reached up to rub her nose, and snuggled down closer against his shoulder..

Emrillian couldn't help it. Her nerves snapped and she giggled..

"Who's there?" Ynfara whispered, and her eyes flickered open. A frown creased her forehead as she stared up into the pearly lights spinning around her. Those eyes were deep blue. Emrillian thought she could look into them and find the answers to questions only half-formed in her mind..

"Mama?" she whispered, her voice barely more than a squeak. She cleared her throat. "Mama.".

"Who--" She inhaled sharply. "Emmi?" She struggled to sit up. .

Emrillian hurried around the bier to offer her hand..

Ynfara shuddered and stared, wrapping her arms tight around herself. She began to shake her head, then moaned and pressed her fists against her temples..

"Slowly, my dear." Mrillis came to stand beside Emrillian. He rested a hand on Ynfara's head. A flash of green-tinted light made all four in the room flinch..

"Grandfather." Ynfara offered a trembling smile. Then a sob shook her and she stared at Emrillian. "What happened to my baby?".

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FINAL RETRIBUTION by Marion Webb-De Sisto

FINAL RETRIBUTION: Book Three of the Angelic Chronicles by Marion Webb-De Sisto

Life as the powerful ruler of Abbadon is becoming intolerable for Samael. The exiled archangel is lonely, embittered and bored. He has lost Malkura's love and even Seriel, his loyal brother, is gone from his side. Now, only fallen angels, demons and tormented humans are his constant companions. Yet into this hellish existence comes the beautiful and compassionate Angel Manah. Will she deny the increasing love she feels for this condemned soul, or can he persuade her to join him in endless damnation?

This final book of the Fantasy trilogy explores the ultimate retribution of the archangel, who fell from grace and became the Devil. Is he, like Seriel, restored to his former glory or ruined for all of eternity?

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Excerpt:

Samael’s hand moved up to her hair and removed the comb. As her long tresses draped around her shoulders, he informed, “I have no desire to further discuss the Source. Instead, let me show you how pleased I am to have you back here with me.” He tilted her chin, brought his face close to hers and thought-whispered, “Do you know how to kiss, Angel Manah?”

Now, pure panic took hold of Manah. Angels had told her about the different ways in which humans expressed affection, and she had seen Toa and Belu kiss. Therefore, she knew it was an intimate action. The seraph squirmed away from the archangel, pushing against his arms and wings, trying desperately to get off his lap. “Let me go, Lord Samael! I know how humans kiss and I do not want you to do that to me.”

He kept a tight hold on her with one hand while he cradled her head with the other. As his face drew close, Samael declared, “But I wish to kiss you, my little angel.” He slightly tilted his head and his lips touched hers. At first she could barely feel any contact, and then suddenly there was probing pressure. Manah wanted to fight against this unfamiliar intimacy, but as it continued she became a part of it. She pressed her mouth against his and was consumed by waves of unleashed emotion. Her lips parted, as did his, and she felt his tongue exploring the contours of her mouth. The angel’s consciousness screamed at her to stop, but she had never before felt so blissful. Manah was trapped by the closeness they were sharing.

The ardent kiss continued on until the archangel finally lifted his mouth from hers and, looking steadily into her eyes, he remarked, “That was even more pleasurable than I could have imagined. I believe I have awakened a passion within you, little angel. We are well-suited to be companions.”

Suddenly, a full realization of what had just happened filled Manah’s thoughts. She had revealed her inner desire for this evil archangel. He now knew she felt drawn to him and it could prove disastrous. She must try to convince him that what she had offered was not genuine, but was instead a result of some form of sorcery by him. Manah almost thought-screamed, “Let me go! You have beguiled me with your archangelic magic. I cannot imagine anything more repulsive than kissing such an evil being. You must have cast an enchantment upon me.”

The first archangel appeared shocked. He opened his wings and released his hold on her. As she jumped up, he declared, “I have practiced no sorcery on you. My kiss was a true reflection of my feelings for you and I thought you were responding in kind. I did not know you think of me as repulsive. On both occasions, when you have visited me, I have attempted to show how much I care about you. I know I have perpetrated much wickedness, but my interest in you is real and has no hidden motivation.”

Samael’s thought-words seemed honest and she wanted to apologize for her harshness. Yet she feared he would wish to hold her, again, if she did. Manah snatched her comb from his open lap, pulled back her long tresses and secured them with the hair adornment. She sat back down on the chair and replied, “I cannot accept what you have stated as truth. You are devious and deceitful so why should I believe you? If you try, again, to behave so intimately with me, I shall immediately end this visit, my lord.”

Apparently having recovered from her surprising outburst, the archangel suggested, “Perhaps you were unaware of your feelings toward me before I kissed you? As I stated, I was not captivating you with any form of magic, therefore, your passionate response must have been sincere. Yet if you wish to deny it, I can understand your reasoning. I am an outcast who should be shunned. Surely that is what the Source told you?”

“No, my lord, our parent referred to you as being precious. I am certain it holds great love for you.”
“Nevertheless, it has exiled me to this vile domain.” He twisted the emerald ring round and round on his index finger, obviously deep in thought. Eventually, he brought his attention back to Manah and asked, “How shall we keep you occupied while you are here, little angel?”

“I do not know, Lord Samael. I certainly have no desire to explore Abbadon and, if you consider it to be vile, why do you remain here? You could enter Lord Michael’s level and become redeemed.”

“Is that what you would have me do, little Manah? For you I might just contemplate a return to the inner levels. Would you give yourself to me if I undertake such a venture?”

Was he jesting with her? He was a powerful archangel and she was just an angel. For once, she had no reply to give to him.

“You have no stinging retort for me, my little angel? Well, let my question remain in your thoughts.”

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DEGRANON by Duane Simolke

DEGRANON: A SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURE

Duane Simolke's gay-themed novel involves a family trapped between two oppressive worlds.
On the planet Valchondria, no illness exists, gay marriage is legal, and everyone is a person of color. However, a group called "the Maintainers" carefully monitors everyone's speech, actions, and weight; the Maintainers also force so-called "colorsighted" people to hide their ability to see in color.

The brilliant scientist Taldra loves her twin gay sons and thinks of them as the hope for Valchondria's future, but one of them becomes entangled in the cult of Degranon, while the other becomes stranded on the other side of a doorway through time. Can they find their way home and help Taldra save their world?

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Excerpt:

The planet Valchondria seems advanced and remarkably humane in many ways. But the government regulates people's weight, reproduction, theology, actions, and speech; the government also forbids travel and contact beyond Valchondria's atmosphere. A charismatic leader called "Gazer" leads the cult of Degranon; he promises change, but at a violent and oppressive cost. In between these two dystopias (failed Utopias), we find Taldra and Hachen, striving to make a better world for their twin sons. Obviously, the book raises many social issues, but it often does so in humorous or exciting ways. This scene obviously pokes fun at the ridiculous Earth tradition known as "homophobia," but it still has some scary overtones. (The Valchondrians use "same-gendered" in place of the words “gay” or “homosexual.”)


Her gray eyes sparkled like no eyes Hachen had ever seen. Actually, she had broken the law by secretly telling him that her eyes were light brown, but, unlike his gifted spouse, he couldn’t see in color. He couldn’t even see the redness of her skin, though he knew from history class that most people on Valchondria have red, brown, or black skin, and some of the people who had once lived there had yellow or white skin. To him, everyone simply looked white or black.


During history classes, before the Maintainers expunged certain anti-glory facts from the school curriculum, Hachen had learned about how white-skinned people and yellow-skinned people faded from existence. After the Supreme Science Council realized that those two races contracted certain illnesses that no one else contracted, they worked with the Maintainers to pass a constitutional amendment, banning any two members of those races from marrying. The measure supposedly protected Valchondria’s families and stability. Within three generations, both races ceased to exist; only the red, black, and brown races remained obvious, or some mixture of the three.


That time in Valchondria’s history brought outcries of shame, and the government vowed to never again use the law to promote bigotry. But then, little more than a hundred years later, the SSC found that obesity caused many illnesses, adding to increased national healthcare costs. So another constitutional amendment passed, this one allowing the Maintainers to fine people for not keeping a healthy height-to-weight ratio.


And after the virus came, the Maintainers and the SSC passed yet another constitutional amendment that promoted discrimination. That one made the ridiculous assertion that discussing colorsightedness posed a heavy hazard threat to traditional values, and that claiming to be colorsighted was nothing more than a plea for so-called “special rights.” It amazed Hachen that a civilized culture could keep taking away people’s civil rights. It also hurt him, because the woman he loved was the target of that bigotry.


And the new forms of bigotry kept emerging. Next came legally permitted language, initially called “socially recommended rhetoric,” creeping slowly into schools and the media and then into the law. And then Maintainer cameras came. And freedom left. All in the names of preserving traditional Valchondrian values. All suffocating Valchondrian creativity, thought, and progress.


Hachen clasped the slender hand that reached toward the tiny person in the infant pod that was attached to the bed.


“I’ll get him,” said Hachen. He gently lifted the pale infant, who was wrapped in a white cloth as soft and warm as his skin.


“I was hoping to be able to say ‘them.’” She accepted the crying child into her arms, and he grew quiet as she rocked him back and forth.


“We had to work quickly. It’s bad enough we’re violating the codes. We can’t jeopardize Geln’s career as well as our own.”


“I know, Hachen. I just wanted a chance to see them both. I can’t believe I passed out during the birth.”


“I think those mind relaxants had something to do with it. I’m just glad no other healers came in. No one knows except for you, me, and Geln.”


“Wouldn’t the gossip masters love this story? ‘Leading scientists discover a rift in time and transport illegal twin into the past. Check your collector for details.’” She rubbed the tiny infant’s red face, and he seemed to smile. “Is this Argen, or Telius?”


“Argen,” said Hachen, sitting down on the edge of the bed. They had agreed on given names for the twins long before Taldra even started showing. “They’re identical. I performed a genetic scan; they’re both healthy and of potentially high intellect. Telius will need that to survive in his primitive environment.”


“But you said the village is peaceful. Hachen, where are we sending our baby?”


“Someplace where he at least has a chance.” Hachen had never seen her look so vulnerable before, like anyone could crush her with a touch. Before, she always projected herself as brave and outspoken, sometimes even reckless, but he could tell becoming a mother would change her. Somehow, she seemed less courageous but more protective. He tried to think of words to reassure her. “The village is peaceful. I just meant that he won’t have all the luxuries and protections we have. He’ll be like…well, like a colonist.”


The look of worry gave way to one of wonder. “I like that analogy.” She smiled at the baby who slept in her arms. “Maybe one day, we’ll all be on one colony together, the four of us.”


“That sounds nice. To the side, the genetic scan also showed that they’re both same-gendered.” Hachen used the term with pride, and Taldra smiled with the same pride. At least no one ever came up with the crumbled idea of discriminating against people who identified romantically and emotionally with members of their own gender. No culture could ever be that rusted, he told himself, but then thought again of how utterly ridiculous he saw all other forms of bigotry; none of it made sense. Discrimination and prejudice never made any sense at all to Hachen.

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OLD GOOSEBERRY'S DILEMMA by Patricia Perry

OLD GOOSEBERRY'S DILEMMA - A new comedy from fantasy author Patricia Perry

The Devil strikes a bargain with God to keep two misfit brothers out of Hell; unfortunately the arduous task is more than even the Prince of Darkness can handle.

Unwilling to allow two rowdy brothers and their crazy acquaintances into Hell where he fears they may take over, the Devil strikes a bargain with God - keep the brothers out of trouble for three days and He'll consider letting them into Heaven.

The Prince of Darkness quickly realizes that trying to protect the raucous Dean Brothers is an arduous task as the brothers unwittingly lead Lucifer into their world where bar fights, free money and casual relationships are the norm.

Assigned by God to keep an eye on the goings-on, the Archangel Michael cannot help but be amused at Old Gooseberry's dogged determination to keep the Dean's out of his realm.

Autographed copies are available on Patricia Perry's Website.

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Excerpt:

The Meeting

God and Lucifer had a serious discussion concerning Harry and Rex Dean, when the Devil no longer thought the brothers were special and asked God to put them on His list. You could well imagine Old Gooseberry stroking his cleanly shaven chin while smirking at some of the brothers' mean but not evil antics. Lucifer thought he had a couple of good prospects and kept an eye out for them, waiting for the brothers to cross over the line but they didn't-well, not really anyway. You see the Deans got involved in some shady stuff but they wouldn't participate in any serious crimes. Harry was impishly irresistible, street smart but had little in the way of book learning under his belt. Deep down inside he wanted to get an education but was too lazy and preoccupied to bother. Rex, on the other hand, was as smooth as a bottle of aged whiskey and always looked out for anything that was free for the taking.

God felt sorry for them and wanted to keep them out of the salivating jaws of Hell. The more chances He gave the brothers, however, the more charmed they felt as they crept closer to the precipice. Lucifer would rub his hands together with delight as the little bits of rock and dirt, dislodged by the brothers' toes, began to fall into that great chasm. The accidents, run-ins with the law and a host of other bad turn of events somehow morphed into good luck for the brothers. Harry and Rex rode the tide of good fortune like surfers catching those perfect waves.

Anyway, back to the meeting between God and Lucifer. It took place in a dilapidated warehouse along the New Bedford waterfront where birds flew unobstructed through broken windows. Gangly weeds poked up through a parking lot composed of little islands of asphalt floating on a sea of gray sand. A rusting chain link fence surrounded most of the abandoned property, which was littered with old tires, heaps of corroding scrap and other junk. Most of the debris had long ago lost its identity and had reverted to indistinguishable blobs. Derelict trucks, their company logos faded by the elements, slouched on deteriorated tires, their broken headlights pointing at the vacant buildings in front of them. The only creatures peering back at the crumbling hulks were rats, cockroaches and pigeons, none of which could insert a key and send some life through their long unused engines. A place once flourishing with the activity encompassing the unloading of fishing boats was now a haven for vermin.

God brought Michael with him, the Archangel picking up the hem of his frock to keep it from getting dirty as they walked over to the building. Lucifer tap-danced around the broken bits of glass, barrels of old oil and dead animals.

They entered the structure from opposite ends, meeting in the middle of the storehouse like a pair of gunslinger waiting for a scheduled shoot-out. Pigeons flew overhead dropping poop upon the dried out wooden planks while rodents scurried into the dark corners. God and Lucifer stopped several paces away from each other, the latter folding his skinny arms across his chest while the former calmly waited for the Devil to speak. The Archangel Michael, his sun streaked shoulder length hair framing his tanned and chiseled face, crossed his brawny arms over his torso. The rivals studied each other for several long moments before Lucifer broke the silence.

"Whatever possessed you to create pigeons?" Lucifer dodged a dropping. "The vermin I can understand...but those things?"

"I had better plans for them but was distracted just prior to imparting any intelligence into them."

"You should have made up your mind: dirty or stupid- not both," muttered the Devil as an errant feather fell into the mini inferno upon his head. It immediately turned to ash.

"What do you want, Lucifer?" asked the Lord adjusting his white robes. Michael shifted his weight to his right leg then cocked his head and raised a brow at Satan.

"You can have the Deans." Cheeky bastard, thought the Devil as he scowled at the angel.

"Why would I want them?"

"I'm going to be very busy in the not too distant future with some unexpected arrivals, leaving me very little time to deal with them."

"I saw the list, Lucifer."

The Devil took a deep breath, the piercing glint in the Lord's eyes freezing him for a split second. Lucifer had greedily helped himself to generous portions of the Deans before finding out they gave him indigestion. He wanted to slip this plate of half-eaten food back onto the banquet table without anyone being the wiser. Satan narrowed his eyes as the Lord waited for him to reply.

Lucifer cleared his throat. "If you saw the files then you know I will be unable to accommodate them."

"My roster is also full," replied the Lord.

"I'll give you ten souls of your choosing."

"Sorry."

"One hundred?"

"I don't think so."

"Paper, rocks and scissors?"

"No."

"I have a quarter."

"No."

"It really does have a head and a tail on it!"

"I think not."

"C'mon, G!"

Old Gooseberry closed his eyes and sighed. He squatted on his hindquarters, his wiry frame still except for his forked tail, which flicked back and forth like that of an annoyed cat. Harry and Rex had been so promising. Like every human, they had knapsacks full of sins but not the big ones-ones that would firmly plant them in Hell. As of right now, they were up for grabs with a slight edge to head south: Lucifer needed a trump card but all he had left were jokers.

"Why are you willing to give me the Deans?" inquired God.

Satan used charm, promises and lies to ensnare the unwilling: the Deans, whether they realized it or not, utilized those same methods. Street smarts outfoxed book smarts, for Harry, anyway. That and a healthy dose of providence allowed the brothers to move comfortably on in life despite the occasional hiccup they encountered along the way.

Harry had stolen a few things over his life and beaten up on more than one fool who thought himself more macho. Rex had a unique ability to make people like him, even without resorting to beating the crap out of them.

Lucifer had heard the whispers in Hell, undertones that some of his tormented souls would welcome the Deans to break the monotony of their eternal suffering. The Prince of Darkness, even with all of his powers, would meet his match if Harry and Rex went to Hell. Satan owned the souls of a multitude of wicked people but none with the easy charisma of the brothers. Old Gooseberry glanced over at Michael, his vertical pupils no wider than a strand of hair. The Angels' buff form seemed to dwarf even the massive wings hanging casually from his back as he stared with open amusement at the gaunt devil with the puny leathery wings.

Mine are bigger.

Up yours.

You wish.

Two rats began to fight in a dark corner; their squeals of pain elicited a contented smile on Satan's face. Michael frowned with disgust at the unseen confrontation. It was the one bright moment so far during the meeting and gave Lucifer an idea. Contrary to everything he stood for, Old Gooseberry decided that if he could somehow keep the Dean brothers out of trouble then God would be obligated to accept him into Heaven. As nauseating as dabbling in good was at least he wouldn't have to contend with the Dean brothers in his house. He mulled over this daunting assignment for a few more moments then glanced over at the waiting pair.

"I'll get back to you." Lucifer rose to his feet and walked out of the warehouse.

God and Michael watched him leave.

"What do you think he is up to, Boss?"

"I don't know but you had better keep a sharp watch over Harry and Rex."

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THE MUSIC SEED by Scott Benjamin

THE MUSIC SEED by Scott Benjamin

A young, remarkably musically talented, 14 year old girl dying of cancer, her father, a special government agent, a strange visitor from another planet simply calling himself the Music Man and the four powerful beings who accompany him converge on Earth to thwart a pending attack in our future.

But can they do it in time?
Who can be trusted?
Will the young girl realize her destiny in time before she dies?
What will happen to Earth if she fails?
Why is all this related to only music?
What did a fifth airplane on 9/11 have to do with the young girl?
The Music Man has been sent here to Earth by four special beings. But why was he sent here and what does he know?
How can a 14-year-old girl save our planet?
What role does music play in this whole wild scenario?
What does the Music Man really know about planet Earth?

The Music Man and the powerful beings have deduced that planet Earth, on its current path of technology, has not even a faint chance of surviving the coming of the Mentones in the year 2683. The Mentones are an extremely advanced race of strange beings with an effective, yet sick way of harvesting planets to continue their species.

But the Music Man’s once simple mission becomes extremely complicated. The government blames the Music Man for misfortunes around the planet. The Mentones discover the Earth seed and set out to destroy it. Another powerful being, hidden eons ago, sides with the evil race of Mentones, as the Earth seed lies dying in a hospital. A genius inventor, a radical doctor and a NASA video surveillance specialist all become part of the now complex countdown.

So with the Music Man conducting a new evolution of music, a new technology using sound covering all aspects of the development and advancement of the human race, a chance to survive we may have. We just have to listen to the new music. We just have to listen to him. And we just have a little over 677 years to become prepared for the inevitable.

The only hitch is that in order to succeed, we must take the right path now.

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Excerpt:

Captain Blankenship lay unconscious as he was now passed out from loss of blood. The small red pool of blood broadened as the plane made its last turns. The hijackers said nothing. In fact, at this point no one said anything.

The F-18s were quickly narrowing the gap, racing closer to their target.

“Andrews Air Force Base, this is Nighthawk Flight 4, is suspect traffic approximately forty miles northwest of Dulles, southeast bound?”

Andrews Air Force Base answered, “Affirmative.”

“Nighthawk 4, descending to one thousand feet, heading 320 to intercept.”

The F-18’s screamed on with deafening roar.

“Andrews, this is Nighthawk 4—we have suspect traffic at ten o’clock and thirty-five miles. We are closing in quickly.”

“Roger, Nighthawk 4.”

***

Gail Damson and Bill Cramer helplessly looked at each other, and then they looked away. Bill was a mess at this point. He knew he was going to die.

My fear of flying, he sadly thought, and this is now my reward.

Gail tried to comfort him with words and a forced smile, but the hijackers threatened her once again. She closed up.

Several passengers began sobbing quietly, and the plane was flying way too low. The aircraft made its final banking right turn and was now well below seven hundred fifty feet, heading directly towards its planned target, Bethesda Naval Hospital. The plane, now bouncing about heavily, was flying barely above the shorter buildings and taller trees as it raced across the hopeless setting. It would hit the mark in less than sixty seconds. There was nothing anyone could do now but pray. Bill Cramer was praying, too. Even if they were going to crash, he wished that it would end soon. The strenuous emotions were much too overwhelming for him. He prayed for his family.

The hijackers insanely held tight the controls of the doomed plane, forcing it towards the hospital. Their eyes were fixated outward, yet looking at nothing. They prayed over and over, thanking their God for the events now in their sight. The weapon’s speed was nearly five hundred fifty miles per hour. The hospital was only two miles away at present, in clear view. There was now only twelve seconds until impact. But no one knew that, except for the hijackers, though co-pilot Stewart Farmer knew something. He could feel the plane descending for quite a while now. The altimeter alarms were going off. He also thought the end was near, as he could hear the hijackers repeat what appeared to be a prayer in their native language over and over. Passenger Bill Cramer had closed his eyes, and his mind had frozen long ago. He was far beyond being afraid. His brain was now basically shut down. He was ungraciously left with only a stuck picture of his family etched into his wasted, tormented mind. Flight attendant Gail Damson had also given up. She looked like a discarded, lifeless doll left on a barren floor. But no one expected what was to happen next. And it would happen very quickly.

The seconds ticked away.

The seed will be protected.

The huge black creature, stepping inside the streaking aircraft from its own created dimension, materialized out of nowhere toward the front of the plane by the cockpit. Its large head, perched on its massive frame, brushed against and partially through the short cabin ceiling of the condemned aircraft as it stood ready to confront its target. The bizarre black creature knew exactly what it had to do and had little time to do it. It had to find the cause of this particular problem instantly and handle that, something it knew very well how to do; circumstances the creature had absolutely no tolerance for. The timeless Being, armed with innumerable capabilities created eons ago, assessed the current situation. Particle-beam technology, dark-matter infusion, propagation of antimatter into targets, and advanced electromagnetic pulse weapons were even long ago ancient history for this particular Being.

But today that would be all it really required.

The large dark Being, sensing a strange aberration of unacceptable vibrations coming from only four humans, turned its large head quickly to one side and then the other and experienced the source: the two hijackers in the rear cabin of the plane and the two in the cockpit. An immediate decision was made to remedy the problem. Though no one would see it, the enormous creature instantly created and expelled from its essence a highly concentrated, pulsating low frequency beam. Delivered via a carrier wave a hundred times lower than the human ear can hear, it left the strange creature at the speed of sound. The quivering shock wave fiercely locked onto the two hijackers in the back of the plane like a lion’s jaw and incapacitated them. Instantly near death, they instinctively tried to move one last time but couldn’t. The concentrated beam continued to hold them, frozen in complete agony, making them drop their cheap weapons. The beam created by the creature produces the same effect on a human body as if thousands of volts produced by an electric chair had just grabbed the victim, arching their body upright and forward in excruciating pain, thus leaving the target wasted.

Two seconds had now passed.

The Being then turned toward the cockpit and hit the two other targeted hijackers flying the plane with another beam of concentrated frequency waves, also rendering them useless. The nearly demised hijackers now found themselves slumped frozen over the controls of the large aircraft with the terrible beam holding them fast—like a stun gun, but a hundred times worse. Their unmoving eyes gathered their last visions before they left.

The targets have now been incapacitated, the strange creature thought. Yet they have no apparent use anywhere, it fatefully decided for them.

Then, pausing for a brief moment, seeming to make another rational decision, the Being raised its large right hand, which ejected a blinding flash of controlled violet light hitting only the four hijackers simultaneously. These new beams of light, carrying trillions of years of extremely advanced antimatter particle-beam technology, dislodged and dissipated all spinning atomic and subatomic particles in the hijackers’ bodies. The four hijackers never saw what hit them. Suddenly and instantly vaporized, they no longer existed. No one would ever see them again.

Five seconds had now passed.

The plane was now flying at only a hundred feet and would hit its target in fewer than six seconds. The creature then moved back away from the cockpit. It paused and looked around the interior of the plane and its occupants for a second, as if sizing it up. Then it calmly lifted its large hand once again, creating a brilliant flash of green and blue light that now engulfed the entire plane. These final rays of light held a technological secret the best Earth scientists would spend many thousands of years trying to duplicate. The bright flash of light caused the doomed airplane to vanish for a split second. Caught, then released from the temporary quarters of the Being’s own dimension, the Boeing 757 jet, with all of its passengers intact, reappeared eighty-five miles away from where it was a second ago and was now sitting safely on a military runway.

“This is Nighthawk 4, lost radar on possible traffic. It must be down! But Andrews, we don’t see any signs of an aircraft going down!”

“Roger, Nighthawk 4,” Andrews replied. “We have lost radar on suspect traffic. We confirm it must have gone down! Wait! We have a hit on Trans 394! What the hell! We have a hit at Quantico! That’s impossible! What the hell is going on here? It couldn’t have…”

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THE RETURN OF INNOCENCE by Duane Simolke

THE RETURN OF INNOCENCE: A FANTASY ADVENTURE

Duane Simolke blends humor and romance with exciting fantasy action.

Visit Theln, a planet of magic, dragons, nobility, and heroes. Sasha Varov was born into a noble home in the Thelni kingdom of Jaan, but Sasha's father dared to oppose the king's sorcerer, Wuhrlock. Sasha and her family became exiles on a desolate island. At sixteen, Sasha left her island home to buy seeds in Jaan. She stumbled into a series of misadventures that ended with the death of Wuhrlock and made Sasha a legend, known as "Innocence." Never mind that the legend barely resembled the truth, or that Sasha caught Wuhrlock in an unguarded moment.

When Sasha returned for more seeds, the people of Jaan expected her to defeat a much more ruthless and powerful sorcerer. Duane Simolke wrote the short story "The Return of Innocence" in 1983. With contributions by Toni Davis, he later developed it into a novel.

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Excerpt:



The relentless wind whipped the sails as the shroud of darkness that sometimes entombed them began to return. Darkness had descended and slowly disappeared in the same fashion, and at the same time, on each of their previous three days at sea, always around noon. As she gazed at the warship anchored beside theirs, Sasha absently toyed with one of the long, meticulously plaited braids of deep chestnut-colored hair that usually flowed down her back. She often pulled a braid over her shoulder when lost in thought.


Her attention became riveted on the massive claw marks on the ship’s hull. Deep gouges ran at some points from stem to stern, indicating that the ship and her undoubtedly unlucky crew had come across a dragon or sea serpent. By the looks of the nearly shredded topsail and hole-riddled mainsail, the crew barely survived; the tales they shared quickly spread unease among the men who rode with Sasha toward the kingdom of Jaan.


Usually, she didn’t pay much attention to the random vessels that came and went during her journey away from the islands. However, her curiosity rose after she heard some of the sailors talking about it with hushed voices in the galley during breakfast. Now she idly fingered the ornate dirk that was belted at her side along with the scarred broadsword that her father presented to her after she managed to best one of Jaan’s better, younger apprentice swordsmen in a practice session at her father’s small, makeshift soldiers-at-arms school.


Dressed in stout brown leather breeches, cropped black leather traveling boots, a tight-fitting cloth vest, and a short traveling cloak to ward off the sudden, chill sea breezes, Sasha decided she looked rather boyish this morning. Normally, she would prefer the free-flowing clothing she wore on her family’s homestead. However, this mode of dress allowed her more freedom for defending herself, if needed.


Her eyes narrowed as she surveyed the ailing vessel more carefully, and as the sky grew darker. Thoughts of what awaited her in Jaan flitted through her mind. Only yesterday, she had reached seventeen, but she had already experienced more adventure than most noble-born women could ever hope to see. Not that she had wanted any more high drama or swashbuckling mayhem. Truthfully, she really just wanted the peace and contentment that her family once knew in Jaan, the kingdom of her birth. Sasha sighed as a pang of loneliness and not a little bit of resentment at her circumstances stabbed at her insides. She shook her head, as if to dispel the cobwebs of longing that clung to her mind, and her braids fell back into place.


She looked up from her musings at the sound of the light, rolling gait that marks a man who has spent most of his life at sea. She smiled slyly as the young captain approached her and bowed. He was fairly good looking, with light tan-colored skin and almond-shaped, brown eyes that looked rather worldly for his apparent age. He smiled back at her, briefly revealing a perfect set of almost impossibly white teeth. His face was thankfully bereft of the coarse, bristly hair that attached to the faces of the other sailors like an affliction.


Now he’d be an interesting candidate for a spouse, if I were looking for one, thought Sasha, though she’d never heard of a Westerner marrying an Easterner. But she then told herself it must violate one of the cosmic laws, like the one that magic users can’t occupy the same territory as each other, or the one that no one should ever eat meat in a horse’s presence. She asked herself, Who could keep up with all those rules, and what bothersome idiot made them all up in the first place?


“Falon Shin, Captain Ferik,” she said, greeting him in the local Kael dialect. She knew very little Old Thelni, but people of all dialects knew the basic greetings and courtesies from the ancient tongue. Though they all shared the same written version of Thelni, their dialects often made it difficult for them to understand each other. Still, starting with Old Thelni, in a person’s dialect, showed respect for that person’s heritage, and a noble-born like Sasha paid attention to such matters. “Are you feeling as restless as everyone else?” She gestured about herself in reference to the swift yet silent motion of people going about their tasks around her.


Captain Ferik raised an eyebrow in silent observation. “Perhaps it would be better if you were below decks,” he said. “It’s getting too dark to see, and we don’t know what attacked that ship.” His eyes scanned the horizon and the ship sailing away from them.


Sasha chuckled lightly. “Are you worried about me? How touching! However, there’s nothing out here but them.” She pointed to the battle-scarred ship that disappeared into the approaching darkness.


“There’s more than wind at work here,” the captain remarked. “One eclipse is a bad omen, but four within a month can only mean one thing…sorcery.”

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SCREWING THE SUPERHERO by Rebecca Royce

SCREWING THE SUPERHERO by Rebecca Royce
Book one in the Sexy Superheroes Series

Wendy Warner is a bit of an oddball. Raised in an orphanage, she has found solace and friendship by watching the television show, Space Adventures, and participating in fan clubs related to the show. Every month, on the second and third Friday, Wendy comes to work dressed in a costume from the show that she wears to charity events. This has earned her the disdain of many of her coworkers but not from her boss, the president of the company, Draco Powers, who rather likes the way the uniform hugs all her curves in the just the right places.

Draco Powers is a real-life Superhero who told the world that, yes, Superheroes do exist, but, no, we won't work for free or without health insurance. Some people refer to him with derision as the "Capitalist Superman." Draco is being hunted by an organization called the Organization, whose motives are unclear and yet still cause death and destruction wherever they go.
The Organization has decided that Draco's biggest weakness is the way he cares about his employees and has picked Wendy out as their next target. To save her, Draco will have to come to terms with his real feelings for Wendy and why it is that he has so long resisted complicated relationships. But he's running out of time . . . .

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Excerpt:
Draco Powers sat, feeling incredibly uncomfortable, in his client's too-small-for-him flowery fabric lounge chair as he turned down her offer of tea for the third time. What gave with the tea? He didn't drink the stuff. Why push it on him? The whole living room, from ceiling to floor and everything in between, looked like a floral shop had thrown up.


The ceiling boasted badly stenciled roses. Daisies exploded on the carpet, and a different flower print covered each of the couches. Even his client, who looked to be around fifty years of age with graying brown hair and unremarkably dull grey eyes, wore lilacs on her housedress. If he spent too much time in this room, he was going to get hay fever.


Forcing himself to pay attention, he listened to the smooth rhythm of Wendy's voice as she asked the requisite questions of the woman who wanted to hire him. He knew, having worked with and counted on Wendy for years, she had done some version of this questioning over the phone when the case was first sent upstairs after the online request for services had been filtered and approved. It was unusual to have Wendy so thoroughly ask the questions again.

She'd expressed her concern that something felt askew with this woman's story, so he was inclined to let his little Handler have at the flower-wearing lady until Wendy was satisfied with the answers.


Little Handler? Where had his thought come from?


"Tell me again why you aren't using the police to investigate this issue, Mrs. Marckham?"


"I tried the police. For the first six months after Lael was taken, I waited and waited for the police to recover my son. Now, I'm pursuing other means."


Clearly, or they wouldn't be there. Draco looked at his watch. They'd shown up half-an-hour early so Wendy could do this, and then, assuming she let him take the job, he could find the child and still get home on time to go on his date.


"I guess I'm confused, Mrs. Marckham. Why do you think the Superhero route is your only option?"


Color rose in the woman's cheeks. Draco wanted to sink into the chair as her gaze met his and he realized what was bothering Wendy. Their potential client fancied herself in love with him. It wasn't the first time he'd run into this problem. All Superheroes did on a regular basis. But when this woman met his gaze, and her dull eyes lit up like stars, she made the 'crazy alarm' go off in his head.


Especially when she said, "The Superheroes can do anything."


Something about this woman was off . . . .


He would still find her son. Not the teenager's fault his mama was a whack job.


Wendy started to speak and he interrupted. "That's unfortunately not true, ma'am. If we could do anything then I wouldn't have a career. We would have long ago eliminated poverty, destruction, illness, and violence from the world." Making eye contact with Wendy, he nodded to let her know that while he was fully aware of what she sensed from their client, he intended to take the job anyway. The great thing about Wendy Warner was she understood unspoken signals. She nodded back.


He might even be able to use Mrs. Markham's Superhero infatuation to his advantage. "Why don't you tell me who you think has your son?"


"It's obvious."


"Not to me, I'm afraid."


He gritted his teeth. Years ago, when he and Ace had opened Powers, Inc., he'd been naïve in thinking he should feel a tremendous amount of satisfaction helping people. Now, all they did was annoy him. If the identity of her son's kidnapper had been obvious, would he have asked her the damned question?


"Aliens took him, of course." The older woman took a sip of her tea.


He closed his mouth, opting not to speak. This turn of events was almost too delicious to be real. He sat back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. This was why he had a Handler. So Wendy could speak at this moment and he could pretend he was a statue and stop communicating all together.


Wendy straightened in her chair. He could see she'd bit down for a second on her bottom lip. His super sight revealed two minute teeth marks left on the lower part of her lip. His cock stirred to attention, as it always did when Wendy was concerned. He wouldn't act on it. No, he'd resisted her appeal for years. Nothing had to change now.


"Why do you think aliens took your son, ma'am?" Wendy's Upstate New York accent slipped out. She was usually so careful not to show it but when she got really bothered, it flew out of her like they were sitting in Buffalo or Rochester instead of Allentown, Pennsylvania. At least he thought they were in Allentown. He flew all day, every day. Sometimes, he had a hard time remembering where he was . . . .


"Who else would take him?"


Wendy sighed. "Any number of people, I would imagine. Did your son have any enemies?"


"Enemies?" Sylvia Markham laughed. "No, of course not. Everyone loves Lael. Except for the Aliens, of course."


Wendy shot him a pleading look. He wanted to smile at her exasperation. She didn't really expect him to speak, did she? He paid her to handle types of situations.


She turned back to their Alien-obsessed client. "Let's all pretend it was not aliens who took Lael. Let's come up with some other ideas."


Maybe he should let Wendy off the hook and just drop Sylvia Markham. If she really thought aliens had Lael then she needed to find herself some alien hunters, if such people existed. And they might. Superheroes existed. Maybe alien hunters did too.


"I would think, Ms. Warner, considering your attire, you, of all people wouldn't object to the well documented facts stating aliens walk among us."


Wendy went very still. He had to give her credit; she could get control of her emotions faster than anyone he'd ever known.


"While I am obviously a staunch fan of Space Adventures, ma'am, with a great love for the ideals expressed on the show and the culture of charity and responsibility, I do not, as a rule, feel there are aliens walking around on our planet right now as we speak." She set down her cup.


"Then why are you wearing that ridiculous costume?"


Wendy clenched her hands at her side. "When I leave work today, I am doing work with my fan group at the local soup kitchen near my home. As a rule, we wear uniforms so people recognize us. A lot of locals in my area are not comfortable with strangers they don't know and will refuse help out of speculation of their motives. But, if they see us coming in our regalia, then they know we're safe. Since we had your appointment today, so late in the day, I will have to ask Mr. Powers to drop me directly at the soup kitchen, as he has done before, and I won't have any time to change."


She'd never explained her reasons for wearing the uniform before. Of course, most people just stared and whispered. She might never have had the chance to come right out and explain it. Something odd panged in his chest and he rubbed over the uncomfortable feeling, wondering what it could be. He'd never cared why she wore it. Wendy was everything he could have asked for in a Handler and then some.


Not to mention she looked hot in the outfit, and anyone who couldn't see that was blind.


Her brown hair fell just past her chin, and displayed next to the red of the Space Adventures' uniform, it looked almost golden. The high collar of the costume accentuated her long, pale neck and slightly pointed features. Her stubborn chin matched the nature of its owner. It said to the world, I'm not a push over and I don't care what you think. Her nose was small and turned up a little at the end, in a way his mother would have referred to as 'pixie-like', and spoke of a Nordic heritage in her background. It wasn't hard to picture her ancestors as Vikings. Wendy would have stood on the mast of the ship, giving orders and being revered as a goddess.


The rest of her face was heart shaped, but her brilliant brown eyes held his attention. With them, she'd held his gaze when he'd interviewed her for the position four years earlier. Only twenty-two years old then, she'd been working for one of the Associates for three months. It had been gutsy for her to think she could get a job with him so soon after signing on with the company. Yet, here she was, his most valued asset.


He'd do anything to keep her.


Dressed in the uniform, the shirt pulled at her thin waist, showing her lush curves. Her breasts were more than a handful. They were maybe two or three handfuls, and he had big hands. Tailored to fit snugly, the pants showed off a rear end made for grabbing. More than once, he'd been tempted to reach out and squeeze.


Of course, he hadn't. He didn't date—or screw around with—Handlers. That was how you got into trouble. That's why Ace no longer showed his face in the office. He'd broken his Handler's heart. Of course, the woman should have known better. His brother had a reputation for using them and then losing them. Now, however, Ace's Handler was distraught and the man couldn't come near the office without her screaming and crying. The situation was incredibly awkward.


Relegated to working from home, Ace received no help from his Handler. You couldn't fire a woman you'd just dumped. Doing so meant a lawsuit, or a payoff, and horrible publicity. His brother wanted him to switch Handlers with him. Draco rubbed his chin as he thought about the suggestion for a second. His answer wasn't going to change. No way, no how was Ace taking Wendy from him.


"Well." Sylvia Markham was still discussing Wendy's attire. "It seems ridiculous to me."


He stood and the room fell silent. Even Wendy, who could usually read him well, looked at him questioningly.


"What Ms. Warner wears to work is nobody's business except hers and mine. I'll ask you to comment on it no further." He stretched his arms over his head and felt the fabric on his black Egyptian cotton turtleneck tear. Wearing clothes was an occupational hazard for him. At least once a week, he had to replace what he wore in the middle of the day after he'd made some simple movement and ripped another seam.


"Now, let's go and see the young man's room. I think it's best if you stay here, ma'am, while Ms. Warner and I check it out. Think about the aliens. Specifically, we're going to need a description of the creatures. How many heads, limbs, etcetera."


Without another word, he walked to the back of the house. They could both follow him—or not—but it was time to get this show on the road. He was bored. They'd been here too long, and he hadn't had enough action for the day to warrant sitting still.


The morning's job had resolved nicely without him having to exert himself. As soon as he'd walked into the room, the husband had decided to stop hiding the wife's inheritance and give over the bank information she needed.
The troublesome man had restrained himself but Draco still wanted to kick his ass. What kind of man abandoned his family and ran away with their money?


Draco could have laughed at the thought if it wasn't so familiar. He didn't have to look far for an answer; his father had been the kind of man to take off. In fact, if Draco went back through all his traceable relatives, men abandoning their families formed a long history. Maybe it was in the genes. The same biological, evolutionary circumstances making them Superheroes made them bad parents.


This was exactly why he would never have children.


Opening the door to Lael's room only added to his thoughts. If his mother's living room was a bad tribute to all things floral, then Lael's room was a shrine to fake Superheroes. Superman, Batman, the Green Lantern . . . .


He knew their fictitious stories, had read the comic books as a boy. They'd represented everything he'd hoped to be as a small child, and everything he'd resented as a teenager.


Life didn't work like fiction. No one was going to let him spend days working as a mild-mannered reporter, as he rushed around occasionally saving the world from mad men. It was an all or nothing deal, and, whether his critics liked it or not, Superheroes had to live under the same constraints as everyone else. The only way to do anything worthwhile with his so-called gifts was to charge money for them.


And fuck anyone who didn't like it.


But back to the matter at hand. Lael Markham and his apparent—based on the cartoon posters covering his walls—obsession with Superheroes.


"Wendy?" He called over his shoulder, knowing she would answer. She always did. Some day she might not. Some day she might get a different job, and, when she left, the office would be a cold, uninviting place he wouldn't look forward to going to anymore. Today, however, she was still his to call when he needed her.


"Yes, sir?" Wendy arrived in the room faster than he thought she would. She must have run.


"Thought you might like to see this." He indicated the pictures on the wall. "And don't call me sir." It really ate at him when she said 'sir'. He was six years older than she was. Hardly old enough to warrant such an address. It made him feel like he was approaching his dotage.


"Wow, he's a real fan of comics, isn't he?"


She smiled sheepishly and he wanted to smile back, which was exactly why he didn't.


"This kid's fifteen, right?"


She looked at the notes she'd taken from her computer. By now, he knew her routine, any facts she learned, she recorded. Wendy took type-A personality to a whole new level. Nodding, she looked up. "Yes, fifteen last September."


"Seems a bit old for a casual obsession with the comic book heroes." Something was buzzing his intuition. The reason he'd managed to live as long as he had without being killed was he'd learned long ago to not doubt his feelings.


"Could be he doesn't have many friends and clearly his family is, I don't know, off." Wendy sighed.


He narrowed his eyes, watching her wander the room, touching the posters on the walls with her fingertips. She seemed to have a strong visceral sense, touching where others might not bother. Whether she knew it or not, Wendy seemed to have a real need to feel things with all of her senses.


Another reason he was certain she was a tigress in bed . . . .


Nope. Inwardly, he shook his head. Not going there.


"Sometimes you turn to things because they are easy to lose yourself in when you don't have anything else. Things others might not understand or appreciate when they're not lacking what you are."


Was a need to lose herself what had drawn her to Space Adventures? He knew it was the perfect opportunity to ask, to delve a little deeper into what made Wendy tick. Only he wasn't going to. Not now, not ever. Once he opened that door, the one where they had more than a casual understanding of each other outside of work, he'd never be able to close it.


She'd hound him constantly with personal questions—as all women did—and he'd never have any peace. Eventually, he'd have to let her go if only to reset his equilibrium, and Wendy was far too important a member of his team to lose. Inwardly, he paled at the thought of having to train a new Handler.


"There is something, however, bothering me about this whole thing."


"Which part? The bit about the aliens or the floral explosion in the living room?"


"Ha."


Wendy blessed him with one of her rare laughs. He had long ago decided she didn't think he was funny, didn't get his jokes, or had no sense of humor. Recently, he'd started believing it was a combination of all three.


"The living room is a bit . . . much." Color shaded her cheeks from the laughter.


Draco had to admit, he found the additional blush stimulating. Turning away, he adjusted his pants, hoping she didn't see the reaction her brief merriment had caused. Pretending to look at the picture of Batman, he spoke to her with his back turned.


"Go on, what in particular bothers you about this missing teenager?"


"How are they paying for it?"


Raising his eyebrows, he turned to face her. His intuition dinged in his head, almost like a bell going off at the beginning of a horse race. "Continue."


"This house, while we might not like the decorations, is perfectly fine in a perfectly acceptable, compact, blue-collar kind of a way."


"And your point is what?" He already suspected he knew what she was going to say.


"Our clients, meaning specifically the ones who get sent up to you, aren't this type. Maybe they go to one of the other associates. When I worked for Colt, we would get sent to places like this. But you . . . ."


He grinned, amused by how clearly uncomfortable Wendy was. Her unease with the topic showed all over her pixie face. She bit down on her lower lip, as she looked everywhere but at him.


"So what you're saying is only the very rich avail themselves of Draco Powers?"


"Sir, our last job was in a penthouse apartment in New York City."


He shrugged. "The best always costs the most."


He wasn't surprised she was so off put at having to bring this issue to his attention. He read the newspaper; he knew what they said about him and the others who worked at his company. Ever since it had become public that people with superpowers really existed, everyone had been waiting for Superman to fly into the area and altruistically defeat Lex Luther.


He'd tried for a while. When he'd almost had to declare bankruptcy because he'd been so busy secretly helping everyone on the planet he couldn't get to work on time, and his brother had been evicted from his apartment because he couldn't pay rent, Draco had decided it was past time for his talents to help him pay the bills. People did it all the time. They were good at something and they made a business out of it.


So why was he constantly being criticized? Shaking his head, knowing he wasn't going to solve these problems today, and not caring for the direction his thoughts were going, he turned his attention back to the matter at hand.


"Clearly she can afford me or the credit department would have turned her down or insisted she see someone else."


Wendy flipped open her phone. After a moment, she spoke into the receiver. "Yes, it's Wendy. Uh-huh, I'm there right now." She paused. "I need you to pull up the financials on this woman. Yes, I know it's highly irregular but Draco wants it. Uh-huh."


Technically, he hadn't said he wanted it but he wasn't going to argue with her, not when she handled everything with the efficiency of a well-timed machine.


He walked to Lael's desk, looking around at the knick-knacks littering the top. The boy hadn't used the piece of furniture for studying, not with the amount of clutter on top of the display. It appeared he spent all his time reading comic books. Other than his reading material, the only picture of Lael resided in a folder Wendy had handed him before they arrived, and beside Lael stood an unknown older gentleman Draco couldn't identify. Lael's dead father, perhaps.


"Since when did we start taking donations from unknown charities? Yes, I'll hold, Denise."


Turning to Draco, her eyebrows furrowed, she rubbed her nose. "This is being paid for by a charitable organization. I guess Finance ran a check and the money's legit, meaning it's in the account and they didn't investigate further. She's going into the file to see if they have any other info, but no one felt the urge to look deeper since the money was in the account."


"An unknown charity?"


Hairs stood on the back of his neck as a scent wafted through his nostrils. The odor—the faintest trace of gunpowder—was undetectable by anyone but him. Focusing, he let his super sight direct him to the source. There it was; in the basement, a homemade, badly crafted, but still very live bomb.


Shit, he had all of three seconds before the bomb, which had been set to kill them, exploded the home into a million unidentifiable pieces.
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