THE SEVEN YEAR WITCH by Jodi Redford

THE SEVEN YEAR WITCH by Jodi Redford

That Old Black Magic, Book 2

After this much foreplay, something's bound to combust.

As head mistress of Beaumont coven house, Clarissa Miles has perfected two things: keeping her sister witches from accidently turning innocent bystanders into toads, and resisting the sexy overtures of her familiar, werewolf Logan Scott.

But her resolve is vanishing - fast. Seven years ago she sold her soul to save her father, and that contract is coming due. The allure of spending her last days indulging in some dirty, naked loving is too tempting to resist.

Logan has patiently ridden out the past seven years, content to do Clarissa's bidding and ignoring his consuming need to mark her as his. Now that the ban on witch/familiar fraternizing has been lifted, he's off the leash and ready to launch a full-on sensual assault on her defenses. They're destined mates, and he'll do whatever it takes to convince her.

It's delightfully easy to get her in bed. Get at her heart? Not so much. Especially when a deadly predator stakes its claim on her...and Logan faces a battle not only to win her heart, but save her soul.

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Copyright © 2011 Jodi Redford
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication

Chapter One

Nothing sucked more than having your soul on a seven-year layaway plan. No, scratch that. Having the layaway plan on the brink of expiration? That really blew the big one.

Her exhale loaded with extra weariness, Clarissa Miles turned her Miata down the rutted path that was trying to pass itself off as an actual road. There were a million and one more productive things she could be doing than destroying her shocks on the dusty back roads of Georgia, looking for a nonexistent address. But no matter how many times she reminded herself of that little factoid, she kept repeating this pointless mission.

The reason? Her damn fixation with tracking down Seventy-seven West Seventh Street. Locating it had become something worse than an all-consuming obsession in the three months since receiving the letter from Seven that called in the marker on her life.

Almost as if it were an irresistible force drawing her focus, she glanced toward the passenger seat, where a single sheet of paper fluttered against the edge of her purse. Your seven years is almost up. Collection is expected in full. She’d looked at the damn summons countless times, and it still rankled that her soul only warranted two lousy, freaking sentences. Not even a paragraph, for goddess’s sake. Apparently that would have required too much effort and ink.

Thunder rumbled, and she slid her sunglasses down to stare at the azure, cloudless sky just as a fat raindrop plopped onto the polarized lens. “Great.” Pressing the brake, she pulled toward a thicket of snake grass overtaking the shoulder of the road. She reached for the button for the retractable hardtop, and the screen on the GPS suddenly lit up.

“Turn left at the next street, and you will have reached your destination.” Despite the GPS’s perky announcement, Clarissa gaped at the unit like it was possessed—a perfectly logical conclusion, considering the circumstances.

Shaking her head, she returned both hands to the steering wheel and gripped it tight. “I’m probably going to regret this, but…here goes nothing.” Stepping on the gas, she cruised past the bend and veered left at the almost-hidden side street. Her pulse accelerated in tandem with the Miata’s speed at her first glimpse of the imposing Greek Revival mansion tucked behind a massive gothic iron gate.

She’d traveled every square mile of these back roads. No way in hell that building was there before today. There could only be one reasonable explanation for a house instantly materializing overnight.

Seven was back.

Despite knowing this day would come—hell, the letter had given her plenty of warning—cold dread still prickled the nape of her neck. She wasn’t ready to face what waited for her in that mansion. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Self-preservation kicking into high gear, she punched the car into reverse, aiming for the narrow tractor path she’d spied earlier. She glanced in the rearview mirror—on the lookout for the turnaround—and nearly jumped out of her skin when she spotted a silver-haired man dressed in a butler’s uniform blocking the road. Yelping, she slammed on the brakes. The tires squealed in protest, sending up a choking cloud of dust.

Heart threatening to catapult right out of her chest, Clarissa stared at the figure emerging from the billowing dust. Strangely enough, not a speck of dirt clung to his black jacket or pinstriped trousers. He stopped beside her door and clicked the heels of his immaculately polished wingtips together before sweeping her a curt bow. “Ms. Miles?”

It took a moment to find her tongue. “Err…yes?”

“I’m Harrison, Master Seven’s majordomo.” He reached into an interior pocket of his jacket and extracted a manila envelope. “This is for you,” he announced, passing the missive to her.

She frowned down at the correspondence. Terrific. Another letter. Apparently Seven wanted to become some twisted version of a pen pal. If only that were the case. “How did you know I’d be out here?”

A whistling breeze the only response, she lifted her gaze to discover she was alone on the road. Whipping her head around, she looked for any sign of Harrison. From the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of black moving on the mansion’s expansive porch. The shadowy figure disappeared behind the distinctively red front door before she could verify whether or not it was the butler.

Bemused, she returned her attention to the letter clutched in her grip. Swallowing a lump of apprehension, she tore open the envelope and unfolded the paper stashed inside. Tatum’s. Tomorrow at seven p.m. Don’t be late.

A heavy anchor of dread plunged inside her chest. Of all the places for Seven to choose, it would have to be Tatum’s. She hadn’t stepped foot within the establishment in the past seven years, for a multitude of reasons. Top one being that there was too much chance of running into her mother. Crumpling the offensive paper in her fist, she tossed it on the floor and backed the Miata up.

Twenty minutes later, she pulled into the Beaumont coven house’s driveway. A hodgepodge of vehicles blocked the entrance to the garage. Typical. For one tempting moment, she debated punching the gears in reverse and hightailing it into the city. It’d be easy enough to squirrel away in the dusty back room of Charmed Moon, the coven’s metaphysical store, and pretend to be busy logging inventory. But unfortunately Constance was running the shop today. With Con’s strong intuitive skills, she’d instantly know something was up and would dig for details.

Left with no alternative, Clarissa parked behind Jade’s beat-up yellow mustang. Even from where she sat, she could make out a fresh ding near the car’s tailpipe, testimony of yet another fender-bender racked up by the teenager. At this rate, they’d have to take out a damn loan just to afford to pay Jade’s insurance bill every month. Abandoning the Miata, Clarissa took the porch’s steps two at a time. She yanked open the door and collided with the solid wall of muscle that was Logan Scott.

Electrical pulses of energy zinged across her skin, and she shuffled a safe distance away from Logan. Damn it, the last thing she needed to deal with was her body’s annoying reaction to her werewolf familiar. She crossed her arms over her camouflage tank top, portraying an air of chilly indifference that she most definitely didn’t feel as she took in the snug, navy blue T-shirt that molded to Logan’s broad chest. “I didn’t see your truck outside.”

“Probably because I left it back at the dealership, shug. Though it means I’ll have to find someone to drive my truck back to my place later, I couldn’t resist taking my new ride for a spin.”

“New ride?”

Logan’s mouth curled into that boyish grin that always managed to make her tummy do a funny flip. “Finally decided to put my mourning aside and buy a new hog.”

She’d wondered how long it’d take him to replace his prized Harley after one of Antoinette Delacroix’s zombies rode the bike to an early grave back in June. If nothing else, Logan was unbelievably loyal when it came to his hog. Too bad the same couldn’t be said for the countless women who’d warmed his sheets. Her werewolf familiar brought a whole new meaning to the word horndog, and as such, he moved on from a woman pretty much the second she rolled out of his bed.

More than enough reason for her to scold her hormones whenever they decided to sit up and beg for a little werewolf attention. In Logan’s case, that pretty much equated to all the freakin’ time. She might have had a shot in hell of getting over this ridiculous obsession with him if he hadn’t kissed her—twice now, damn him—and verified that the chemistry between them was set somewhere between nuclear and apocalyptic.

Yeah, apocalyptic seemed most likely. Because goddess knows, allowing Logan into her bed would turn her life tilting on its axis. Even more than it already was.

“Got the new Harley warmed up and ready to go whenever you are.”

She blinked at him, her fuzzy brain taking a fraction too long to process beyond the “warmed up and ready to go” part of his declaration. Mentally shaking her head once she realized he wasn’t referring to her constant state of arousal where he was concerned, she stepped around Logan and plunked her purse on the Queen Anne secretary resting in the corner of the entry.

“I don’t have time to take a joyride with you.” She picked up the small stack of mail and rifled through it, giving her mind something to concentrate on other than the steady clomp of Logan’s motorcycle boots on the marbled tile as he approached.

“Come on, shug. It’s been way too long since I’ve gotten you on a bike.” Warm, strong hands settled with lazy assurance on her hips, and the catalog she’d been aimlessly leafing through plummeted from her fingertips. Logan’s spicy, masculine scent wafted around her, making her dizzy. Her lightheadedness intensified when his palms coasted dangerously close to her pelvic bone. He nuzzled the side of her neck. “Plus we both know how you love the vibration of 3000 rpm between your thighs.”

She sucked in her breath at the sexy edginess of his tone. Her cheeks burning hot, she flashed back to the near orgasm she’d almost fallen victim to during their last ride, all thanks to the wicked rumbling of his Harley’s engine. It hadn’t helped at all having her breasts squashed against Logan’s back at the time, either.

“Damn you, did you peek inside my mind while we were riding that day?” Given their witch-familiar link, it was certainly something he could do. Obviously she’d have to be more prudent from now on about safeguarding her X-rated musings.

“Don’t be angry, shug.” The pads of his thumbs swept distracting circles over her hipbones, heading toward the zipper of her jeans. “My nose was filled with the scent of your wet p**sy. Do you have any idea the hell that put me through? I damn near went loco with the need to bury my tongue between your legs and lap up all your sweetness.”

A tremor ran through her, and her cl*t throbbed in reaction. “D-don’t say things like that.”

“Why? It’s true. I told you once before I’m done pussyfootin’ around our relationship.”

“We don’t have a relationship. Not beyond a witch and her familiar, anyway.”

“Not yet. But we will. Now the ban’s been lifted, there’s nothing keeping us from doing dirty, naked things with each other.”

Her pulse kicked into high gear at the wicked promise in his gravelly tone. Times like this, she didn’t know whether to rejoice or wallop each member of the guild with a two-by-four for their decision to lift the decades-old ban that’d forbidden any emotional and physical love between witches and their familiars. Although she’d never truly supported the ban, it’d certainly made it easier to keep her distance. And it’d given her a perfect excuse to tell Logan to keep his hands to himself—something he seemed to require constant reminders of every other second. Particularly lately. “I know it’s hard for your ego to hear this, but we’re not having sex.”

“Yet.”

“Ever.”

“And it’s not ego,” he continued as if he’d conveniently not heard her firm denial. His lips brushed her earlobe. “It’s destiny.”

“Now you’re just being delusional.” Ignoring his husky chuckle, she shoved free from the tempting cage of his arms and pivoted toward the hallway the same instant a gunshot boomed outside. Her shoulders jerked. “Who the hell is shooting out there?”

“Ms. Peach. She’s brushin’ up on her marksman skills.” He said it as if he weren’t the least bit perturbed by the idea of a seventy-five-year-old woman with cataracts handling a loaded weapon.

Good goddess, protect us all. She pushed past him and streaked out the front door and down the steps, heading toward the rear of the coven house, where the gunshot seemed to have originated. The steady crunch of gravel behind her announced that Logan was following her. They rounded the corner of the house, and she spotted Peach taking aim at an improvised target fashioned from an old fertilizer sack that’d been tossed over a sawhorse. She had no idea how the woman managed to haul the bulky contraption on her own. Unless…

She spun and pinned Logan with an accusing glare. “Did you carry that out here for Peach?” Guilt flushed Logan’s cheekbones, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from growling. Pivoting, she shot a spark of energy at the rifle, causing it to jam in mid-fire.

Ms. Peach frowned and checked the safety before glancing over her stooped shoulder. Soon as she spotted Clarissa, the older witch groaned. “Son of a bitch. Shoulda known the grim reaper of fun would show up.” Lifting her free hand to shade her eyes, Ms. Peach squinted in Logan’s direction. “Would ya do the rest of us a favor and give ole broomstick-up-her-butt over there a tumble now and then? Maybe if she got laid once in a blue moon her main goal in life wouldn’t be making ours miserable.”

A low, sexy chuckle rumbled from Logan. Not trusting any response he might have forthcoming, Clarissa cleared her throat. “Would you put that rifle down before you shoot your toe off? Or worse.”

Uttering an irritated grumble, Ms. Peach tossed the gun aside. “Fine. I need to take Floyd for his first training class in an hour anyway. He’s got a lot of work ahead of him if he’s gonna be the ring bearer at Jemma and Griffin’s wedding come Friday.”

Oh, sweet goddess. Ring bearer? “Do Griffin and Jemma know about this little plan of yours?” Clarissa sucked in a deep breath when Peach gave a dismissive shrug. “Well forget it. We both know allowing Floyd within ten yards of a wedding cake is a recipe for disaster. Furthermore, you seem to keep forgetting the dog doesn’t even belong to us. It’s way past time we start putting out flyers to track down his owners.”

Ms. Peach’s wrinkle-lined face scrunched into a stubborn expression. “Don’t you think they woulda tried to claim him long before now?”

Clarissa dug deep for her last reserve of patience. “Not if they have no clue where he might be. Hence us passing around a few flyers.”

“You just don’t like Floyd.” Peach’s lower lip stuck out in a petulant pout. “Admit it. You’re a big meanie who has no heart. I bet you liked to kick puppies when you were a kid. Probably still do.”

Clarissa rolled her eyes. “Yes, Peach, you’ve found me out.” Despite her sarcasm, the crack about her not having a heart stung. She knew damn well what everyone whispered about her behind her back. On more occasions than she could count, she’d overheard her coven sisters jokingly refer to her as the ice mistress. Hell, that nickname was tame compared to some of the others she’d been gifted with.

No one understood that she had no choice but to be tough and hardened. Being mistress of a coven required long hours and massive amounts of discipline. The responsibility resting on her shoulders could be staggering and wearisome at the best of times.

She turned and caught Logan watching her, his usual cockiness absent. The tenderness in his amber eyes threatened to do her in. Not about to give in to the tears prickling at the backs of her eyelids, she began walking toward the house. The faint scritch of Logan’s jeans riding against the metal hardware of his boots let her know she wasn’t alone. Not in the physical sense, anyway. But in just about every other way, she was all on her own. She’d learned a long time ago that it hurt a hell of a lot less if she gave in and accepted the realities of her life.

“Ms. Peach shouldn’t have said that. About you not having a heart. It isn’t true.”

“How do you know?” She snorted. “Maybe I’m the world’s first living heart donor.” Her self-mockery managed to spackle the hairline crack that’d started to weaken her defenses.

“Shug, it’s okay to be upset.”

“I’m not.”

A tiny, frustrated sigh fizzled from Logan. “I still think you need to blow off some steam. Let me take you on that bike ride.”

And be surrounded by him and that vibrator on wheels? Can anyone say torture? “I already told you I can’t.”

“Why? You’ve taken care of the problem with Peach.”

“Yes, but there are a ton of other things I need to take care of.” Not the least of which was figuring out how to handle her upcoming meeting with Seven.

Faster than she could blink, Logan stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “You’re afraid to be alone with me. Admit it.”

She gave a laugh that sounded forced, even to her ears. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve been alone many times.”

“Not so often lately.” His eyes sparkled with challenge. “Not since I kissed you in your office.”

Her face uncomfortably hot, she swallowed. Hard. Damn him, he would have to dredge up memories of the kiss that’d shaken her more than a 6.0 earthquake. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” He brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear, the soft glide of his knuckles along her skin making her shiver. The gold specks in his irises seemed to glow with an inner heat. “Or maybe you’re scared s**tless about the way I make you feel.”

“Honestly, your ego is out of control.”

“Then prove it. Come ride with me.” He twined the wayward, springy lock of her hair that refused to stay in place around his forefinger. “I promise I’ll behave.”

“Please, we both know that’s physically impossible for you.”

A noise that sounded suspiciously like the cluck of a chicken broke from him, making her teeth grind. “Thank you for proving my point.”

His cackle grew louder, and she waggled a finger in warning. “I’m perfectly capable of shutting you up. Permanently, if I so choose. Might want to remember that.”

He grinned. “Ah, shug, you know you’d miss the sound of my sexy voice.”

Damn it, he was right. Not that she’d admit it out loud. “How about we compromise on the bike issue and you give me a rain check for later?”

Cocking his head to the side, he stroked his goatee, apparently mulling it over. “Okay. Tomorrow then. We can go for a quick spin before going out for dinner.”

Of all nights for him to choose…

“Tomorrow isn’t good.” She had no idea how long her meeting with Seven would last, but better to plan on it being most of the evening. Logan’s eyebrows slashed low, and she scraped her teeth across her lip before letting her exhale leak free. “Don’t give me that look. I fully intend to keep my word.” Just not tomorrow.

An angry growl rolled from Logan. “I can’t believe you’re skipping out on our anniversary.”

She gaped at him. “Our—” Oh s**t. She’d totally forgotten about it, their annual dinner to commemorate the day she and Logan signed their witch and familiar contract. No wonder he was so pissed. “I’m sorry. We’ll do it the following night, all right?”

“No, it’s not damn well all right. I turned down Frank Champion’s offer to ride in his yearly poker run so I could stay home and be with you.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“No s**t. But I wanted to. It’s important to me.” A muscle twitched in his clenched jaw. “But obviously I’m the only one here who gives a f**k.”

“Logan…” Hopeless frustration welled inside her when he turned his back on her and stalked off.

Great. She hadn’t even had her meeting with Seven, and already things were headed down the crapper.

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MARKED BY ROWAN by Cutter Phoenix

MARKED BY ROWAN by Cutter Phoenix

Plagued by erotic dreams and frightening images of people in the throes of ecstasy, Justin questions his sexuality and his sanity. When he is menaced by a vagrant, Justin is saved by Rowan, a strange yet attractive man who seems to be able to read his mind and sense his most intimate desires.

However, once Rowan invites him to dinner, Justin's life takes a turn for the bizarre mixed with so much sex and eroticism he can barely cope with it--but oh how he tries!

Troubled by his longing for both men and women, Justin finds himself seduced by Rowan. However, his new and unexpected lover possesses powers which force Justin into a realm where few mortals have traveled and even less have returned.

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NO BITTING ALLOWED by Sandra Sookoo

NO BITTING ALLOWED by Sandra Sookoo

She has hope. He has vulnerability. Both need each other, but reality might keep them apart.

Grace spends her evenings alone, reviewing paranormal books on her blog, wondering what it takes to make a hero and if she'll ever find one. She doesn't believe vampires or paranormal beings are real, and, while she hands out harsh reviews because she can't suspend her disbelief, she meets the one man who will go to great lengths to change her mind.

Brody's a vampire. Turned into a monster by a bad transfusion years before, he's afraid of losing his grasp on humanity when the hunt for blood grows strong. Once he selects Grace to relieve his primal appetites, he's brought up short by his attraction. Her very disbelief makes him want to show her not only what he is but why he's worthy of her love. Now, if only a troublesome branch of the government would stop spying long enough for him to actually date her.

Trouble is, after being hurt from a nasty divorce, Grace is leery of giving anyone her trust, let alone her love, again. Die at his hand or live under his control? Only her heart can decide.

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Chapter One


With her fingers curled over the keyboard, a glass of ten-year-old Burgundy wine resting next to the flat screen monitor, and the faint glow of her computer lighting the room, Grace Hampton was ready to begin. Today, she'd either crush the dreams of authors or encourage them. She glanced at the PDF copy of the book she'd agreed to review, and a shiver ran over her skin—not a shiver of the good variety. This book was truly hideous.

What the hell could she say? She couldn't lie and put the rest of her reviews in jeopardy, but the book was terrible.

"Vampires in Tuxes is the story of a human-male-turned-vampire, who, along with looking to kill as many humans as he can, is hunting for love. I found this book to be . . . . Well, this book is . . . . "

She tapped a fingernail against the spacebar. I can't do this.

"Honestly, this book is as stupid as they come. The author totally dropped the ball when it comes to the plot. I mean, hello, sticking steamy scenes in just for shock value? You can't convince me a) that a woman with half a brain would willingly jump a guy's bones because he's a sexy half-dead bloodsucker, and b) that she'd do it just because he wanted her to. Where's the personal pride?"

Pausing again, Grace stared at the screen and watched the cursor blink. Actually, having sex with a random guy simply for the hell of it sounded like a damned good idea. Well, maybe not a strange man, but someone who would take the edge off. Life in romance novels always seemed so uncomplicated and easy. A woman meets a guy, rejects his paranormal hang-ups, figures out he's actually strong and wonderful, and likes him inspite of his issues. End of story.

Why couldn't she find a great guy like that?

She mentally berated herself. Of course, there were no such things as vampires or werewolves, just like there was no such thing as Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. But, if that were a true statement, why did writers keep writing about them?

Grace took an overly large gulp of wine, yet the drink did nothing to calm her stress. She stood and quietly padded over the dark hardwood of her bedroom floor. Once she reached the French doors leading to the green space behind her building, she threw them open. The gentle pattering of a spring shower greeted her ears and brought with it the fresh smell of rain.

God, she loved late April in Indiana. Too bad she'd wasted the evening behind her computer screen. Now, it was too dark to enjoy the temperate air. Running her hands up and down her bare arms, Grace shivered and glanced down at herself. Maybe wearing the sheer turquoise babydoll hadn't been such a great choice for this time of year, but she'd needed something to cheer her up. Sexy lingerie usually did the trick. Especially since she could now wear whatever she wanted to bed without some damned man telling her she didn't have the body for it.

As if being a healthy size-fourteen doomed her to the ranks of the hunchback.

She dropped into the padded leather desk chair with a sigh. Somehow, being thirty and divorced wasn't as exciting as she thought it would be when the big break-up happened three years before.

It was lonely. And disappointing. She thought she'd be married forever—then, reality set in.

Obviously, she didn't miss her ex. He'd dropped her for someone younger, thinner, and prettier. What she did miss was talking to someone at the end of the day in the quietness right before sleeping. The fleeting touch of a masculine hand at dinner. The brushing against a man while maneuvering through the house. The earthy carnality of sex between two willing bodies with the promise of a deep, emotional connection afterward.

That's what she missed, the feeling of being one with another person.

Well, that and the house in their quiet subdivision. Grace snorted, and then downed the rest of her wine. Her bastard ex took that, too, thanks to his ass-wipe of an attorney. He gave her all of two weeks to pack her crap, find an apartment, and get the hell out, which she did in a mere three days, not wanting to remain under the same roof with him any longer than necessary.

And if all three toilets were stopped up with hand towels upon her leaving, well, she considered the resulting plumbing bill an unforgettable parting gift.

Her marriage and divorce were all in the past now. She had moved on and never looked back. However, she had been forced to pick up the part-time gig as a paranormal book reviewer, since her day job writing "how-to" pamphlets for various companies around town wouldn't make her a millionaire in this century.

So far, it'd been easy money, but now her easy acceptance had turned into jaded skepticism. Digital books about vampires, weres, and other supernatural creatures clogged her inbox—not to mention the pile of free paperback books on her bedside table.

Relationships were hard enough without dropping supernatural issues on top of them. Grace snickered. One could even say there was no such thing as a man who would commit, heart and soul, to one woman for the rest of his life. Such a man would have to be supernatural—which was why he didn't exist.

Training her attention on her screen, she typed, "The author apparently has no grasp of characterization or emotional vesting for the reader. I've read the first two books in her series, and the quality has gone down with each installment. I'll add the c) and says he clearly doesn't understand the need for fresh entertainment because this book is the same drivel she's churned out before. She merely changed the names and the setting."

Again, Grace tapped a fingernail against a key. How to end this review? She blew out a frustrated breath, ruffling the auburn bangs which swept across her left eye. "I gladly, and without regret, give this book a 54 out of a possible 100 on my Would I Die for this Hero scale." Clicking on the save button, she stood and stretched out her arms.

Like any of those creatures actually existed.

And what exactly would the authors of those books do if confronted with a real version of the paranormals they wrote about with such sexy abandon and semi-definitive authority? Would they swoon, weak at the knees, or would they throw the alleged heroes out on their aberrant asses and continue to live their own lives?

What would I do? As soon as the thought sneaked out, she thrust it away. She wouldn't do anything because vampires weren't authentic. Life was all too real with no time for indulging in whimsy or imagination. Believing otherwise was pointless, no matter how she might want to dream otherwise.

As she turned, the white lacey panels at her windows fluttered in the breeze. A furtive movement on the patio caught her attention. Shadows shifted, lengthened. The darkness grew deeper while Grace stared. Then, the form of a man stepped from the obscurity. Tall and broad-shouldered . . . she couldn't discern any more than that out of the gloom. Too bad. Weren't all the mysterious ones hot?

Cold fear shot down her spine. Her barefeet felt stuck to the floor as she watched, open mouthed in shock. How long had he been there? What did he want? Frantically, she glanced about her bedroom, wondering what she could use to defend herself. Spying her nephew's Nerf baseball bat propped in a corner, she inched in that direction, careful to keep her gaze on the intruder.

He never moved, only regarded her, unblinking, his stare a mixture of hunger and passion as the rain fell down around him.

Grace wished it weren't so dark or, at the very least, that she hadn't thrown open the doors where any creep could walk by. She couldn't see the man well enough to launch an effective offensive, but she wanted him gone. Lunging for the bat, she grabbed it and fit the handle to her palm. Then, swinging around, she ran toward the man in an attempt to chase him from her bedroom doorway.

"Shoo!" While the command worked on dogs, it didn't budge the intruder. "Get out of here!" She brought the spongy piece of recreational equipment down on her would-be attacker's head. The rain muffled the thuds as she continued to swat at him. "How dare you come in!"

"Enough, woman." The man raised his hands to ward off the attack. "This ends now." He wrenched the bat away from her fingers as if he were accustomed to disarming people all the time. "You have moments left to exercise your own free will. Choose your words wisely."

In spite of the fear that threatened to choke her, Grace eked out a laugh. "Are you kidding me?" She crossed her arms over her chest as her nipples hardened from the cold rain. "What? Next you'll tell me you're some sort of serial killer?"

A light of interest gleamed in his eyes."I suppose, in a way, that's a good enough statement since I am a vampire. That could be an eventuality." He tossed the toy away.

"Really? That's the best you've got?" Another snicker. "Do you know how cliché that is?"

"It's the truth." He stepped into her personal space. "I promise you won't feel more than a momentary discomfort." Low and mysteriously thrilling, his voice sent tremors through her body.

"Neither will you, once my knee finds your family jewels." Retreating, she narrowed her eyes, mostly unaware she'd retreated outside to the patio. "I'm a loud screamer."

"Even better. If you don't want me to feed, I can bed you instead." He pinned her against the brick side of her apartment building. "Either way, one of my appetites will be slaked."

Most of her fear melted at the absurdity of the situation. Her next laugh came out on a wheeze. "Oh, my God, you sound like a poorly written paranormal novel." Shoving at his chest, she paused when she felt nothing but solid muscle beneath her fingertips. "Go on. Get out of here." She poked at his torso much like she'd prod a stray dog. This time, her stomach clenched at the annoyed determination that flared in his dark eyes.

"I'm not leaving until I get what I came for."

"That's too bad, then, because my blood stays with me, and I'm too tired to be seduced tonight. Go away." She ducked under his arm and had almost gained the doorway when he yanked her back with a fist in her hair. Grace cried out, anger surging through her chest. She whirled on her attacker, but he reeled her into an embrace.

He growled low in his throat and pulled her flush against his hard body. "I'm not accustomed to being refused."

An electric jolt shot through her chest from the contact. Wow. Just like a romance novel.

"Everyone meets disappointment sometime." She shoved at his chest. He captured her wrists, pinning them behind her back with one hand. Grace inhaled, stopping herself at the last minute from sighing. He smelled clean, like pine and snow in the winter. Yummy, but, damn it, he was seriously pissing her off with the rough handling.

Or else she'd been alone for too long. Either way, he was about to get kneed.

"Let me go." As she struggled, her breasts rubbed against his dark button-down shirt. Her nipples cried out from the stimulation despite the continuous warning her brain screamed.

She stifled a groan. Great. Turned on by a crazy man who thought he was a vampire. At least kicking him in the groin would be cheaper than therapy. "Hands off, buddy."

"Woman, shut up!" The command rang with frustrated rage.

In that one moment, the remaining fraction of her fear morphed into annoyance. No longer would a man tell her what to do. She made her own life, and she wasn't a doormat for a man's whims. "Make me. I dare you."

Tension crackled around them as he considered her words. Without warning, he crushed his mouth to hers, hard enough that she cut her bottom lip on a fang.

An honest-to-God fang.

Wow. How much did it cost this guy for the altered dental work? Brief insanity took control. Despite her resolve to kick him in the groin, she wilted against him as a rush of lust poured through her veins, tingling through long dormant parts. What could one kiss hurt?

* * * * *

Brody Simon's hunger grew tenfold once that first, thick drop of her blood hit his tongue. She tasted warm and sweet, like cinnamon, but with a kick of cayenne pepper. As a sort of experiment, he suckled on her bottom lip again, pleased to coax out another tiny dot.

Nothing outside of heaven or hell could taste so wildly intoxicating. Sharp stabs of pleasure went straight to his groin, and he pressed his hips harder into her body. Never before had he gotten such an intense hard-on from a simple kiss—and he needed to know why he did now.

Lifting his head, he felt his mouth water, not only for a bigger portion of her lifeblood but also for possession of her body. The greater his hunger for blood, the more intense his sexual urges, but he could only have one because the other—feeding—would kill her. This was how it had always been since he'd been turned into a monster.

It was pointless to fight, and he didn't want to. He'd long ago accepted his new destiny—now, he wanted to devour the curvy, smart-ass woman he held in a loose embrace.

Her breath was as ragged as his. Everytime her heart beat, fluttered, tumbled chaotically through her chest, he felt its cadence. He bent slightly, slid one arm beneath her knees and lifted her in his arms, carrying her through the open French doors. She struggled in his hold, but he tightened his grip.

God, when was the last time he'd slept with a woman who had flesh on her body and didn't feel like a pile of sticks? The kind of female he could really hold onto while driving into her warm core?

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" The woman squirmed in his hold. "Put me down. Right now."

The sound of her voice and its Midwestern nasal twang snapped him out of his thoughts. He rolled his eyes. This woman was way too mouthy. "Gladly." Brody dropped her onto the queen-sized bed, which was covered by a thick comforter. "You represent a challenge, but then it turns me on when the prey runs."

"Sorry. I'm not in the mood to be hunted today." She scrambled across the bed, throwing pillows at him as she moved. "Get out, you crazy."

Yeah, like he was the crazy one. "Listen, I don't know what you might have heard regarding vampires, but I can almost guarantee you it's wrong." He narrowed his eyes and used his arm to deflect the last plush missile she hurled.

In the dim light of the computer monitor on the nearby desk, he watched her pupils enlarge. Her chest heaved with the little gasps of breath she took. "You're insane."

Brody grinned. "This doesn't need to be difficult." He crawled up the bed after her. With a solid yank on one of her ankles, he brought her body close again. Her filmy negligee, already wet and see-through, rode higher on her thighs, revealing a pair of flirty lace underwear. His heart rate quickened, pulsed in time to his aching cock.

"It doesn't need to be because I refuse to give in." She flailed an arm, and her palm connected soundly with his cheek. "I don't know your name—"

"Would you like to?"

"What?" Confusion shadowed her round face. "No! I don't sleep with men the minute I see them, let alone conduct puncture-related activities without proper medical guidance. Get out." She attempted to twist for the phone on the nightstand.

He held her down. The minx had nerve. Heat built in his still stinging cheek. Most of the time, when he got to this point in the feeding process, the women had either passed out from terror or fought him off with so much adrenaline-born energy that he let them go. Not worth the effort. This one seemed to teeter on a fine line between fighting and giving into curiosity as evidenced by passion of the kiss.

"My name's Brody Simon."

Silence.

"And this would be where you'd return the favor and tell me yours. After all, you're the one who insisted on manners."

"Fine." She visibly swallowed while fear warred with interest in her eyes. "Grace Hampton."

"That's a pretty name." Females nowadays sounded like a parade of strippers: Brandi, Candi, Tawni, et cetera. He placed a knee between her legs and widened his grin when she emitted a noise that was a blend of a moan and a surprised gasp. "What's your story, I wonder? I can sense your fear but it's muddled by the beginning stages of . . .arousal."

Leaning close, he dragged his fangs over the creamy ivory skin of her neck, enough to tease but not to break the tissue. "I've been a vampire for the last five years." Unable to resist, he drew his tongue over the spot where her pulse fluttered. "Relax, cherub, you'll enjoy this more if you're not so tense."

"Cherub?" More struggling ensued. "Is that a crack about my weight? Do I look like a roly-poly, winged, and naked angel baby to you?"

"No, but you're almost naked. Does that count?" His lips twitched from amusement as he captured her wrists and pinned them to the bed. "I like curvy women, so, if you don't mind, I'd like to wrap this up and make my way home before dawn."

"Of course. Wouldn't want you to burn to a crisp in the evil sun." She struggled against his fingers. "If you are a vampire, which I still don't buy, why did you think I'd be a good blood donor? I'm not a big needle fan."

Her question surprised him. He'd never had anyone question his identity before. "Why is it so difficult to believe in what I am?"

"Oh, did I hurt your pretend feelings?" She glared. "Seems to me you're hiding your true self behind a fantasy persona. Why is that?"

"I'm not hiding. Because I refuse to hide, the government considers me dangerous." Damn. Why did he feel compelled to share anything with her?

"See, you are crazy. Why should the government care that you have a healthy imagination?"

"The government doesn't tolerate the paranormal . . . differences . . . in the city's subculture." Annoyance bubbled through his chest, spiking his hunger. "Doesn't matter anyway."

She laughed in his face. "If you're such a bad-ass vampire, bite me, because you're definitely not invited to party in my southern hemisphere, if you know what I mean."

"Only too clear." He removed his knee as she clamped hers closed.

Never, in all his years of being a fanged predator, had he been so amused with a woman he was about to feast from. Experience told him he couldn't let anyone sidetrack him. No personal relationships meant no one could get hurt, which ensured he'd spend the remainder of his half-life alone.

"I'm waiting, fang boy."

Brody shook his head. No more thinking. Assuage the hunger, and move on. As he gazed down at her, he frowned. Eyes screwed tight, her head turned to the side, exposing her neck, she represented what essentially amounted to silver-platter dining. He released his hold on her wrists in favor of ripping open her flimsy nightgown. The full mounds of her breasts beckoned. He couldn't resist fitting the hot flesh to his palms and stifled a groan when her nipples hardened from his attention.

A tiny moan escaped her, but she didn't look at him or do anything except lie there. Grace was now as lifeless as a sack of rice. He smirked. Now, who was the cliché?

Damn it. The thrill had gone from the conquest, as much from her actions as her mocking words. He refused to take awoman, in bed or by his bite, who wouldn't enjoy it—instinct told him Grace most likely would be a feisty bed partner when she was a willing participant,and she might just make a great feeder. He glanced at her unmoving form. Not only was her passivity a blow to his pride, but there was no challenge in seducing a woman who had all the enthusiasm of a bean bag chair. He might as well jack off in the privacy of his own home.

Even that option didn't appeal at the moment.

Annoyed, and hugely disappointed, Brody slid his fingers into her long hair that appeared the color of rust in the gloom. Forcing her head forward, he smiled as she opened her eyes. "I'm giving you a reprieve." The problem with being a vampire was constantly chasing down prey for life-giving sustenance became tedious after awhile. Whatever happened to acceptance and taking a woman to dinner just for the conversation?

"What, without sex to sweeten the deal, you can't bring yourself to drink my blood?" Grace's heavy sigh warmed his cheek. "Story of my life, I guess. I'm not good enough for human males, so why would an alleged paranormal be any different?" She beat her fists against his chest. "Let me up."

"I thought you'd be a bit more grateful I'm letting you get away." He removed his body from hers, but not without running his hands slowly along every one of her curves. The shiver that covered her skin with goose bumps told him she wasn't as immune to him as she pretended. His cock twitched. Maybe there was a chance—

"Get the hell out of my room right this instant, or I'll do something you'll regret." She scrambled from the bed, standing near a nightstand with the tattered remains of her nightwear hanging from her shoulders. "Now!"

Maybe not.

"What is your problem? I spared your life and your virtue." He slid to his feet and raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. "You don't know how unprecedented this is."

"My virtue? Did we fall through a time portal to Victorian England?" Her glare strengthened. "And my problem?" She grabbed a few paperback books. "One minute you're all over me like you haven't had sex for months. While I can understand the motivation, seeing as how I haven't had sex for . . . years. I honestly got a thrill from the thought. Stupid me. Then you pull away the minute you see what my body really looks like, telling me you're granting me a pardon? Are you some sort of supernatural governor?"

Brody snorted. "I don't have time for this high-maintenance crap."

"What did you just say?"

The atmosphere in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "I meant—" Holy hell. He'd never had to work so hard to just talk to a female before, not even when he was fully human.

"Get. Out."

He ducked as she chucked a paperback novel across the bed. Another one flew in its wake. Brody dodged, but his victory was short-lived when a third clocked him on the forehead. "Get a grip, woman. I'm leaving." Despite what he was, he still retained his grip on humanity, and he desperately wanted to keep it that way.

"Good." The book in her fingers buckled as she squeezed it. "If I get a grip on you, I'm hauling your breaking-and-entering self to the nearest police station and telling them you tried to murder me."

And don't forget attempted seduction. He wondered why she left out that violation. It didn't matter. Slowly rounding the corner of the bed, he held her gaze. His eyes tingled as he let her see them unveiled. He hated to do it and hadn't used his enthrallment power for months, but Grace was a difficult case.

He needed to think.

Sleep. You want to sleep . . . and forget about me.

Her brows drew together with her frown. "What are you doing to me?" Confusion wavered through the whisper. She swayed and dropped the book.

Brody caught her as she fainted into deep slumber. Pressing a gentle kiss to her temple, he laid her on the bed, and then ran a fingertip along the sweep of her cheek. She stirred and murmured something unintelligible but didn't awaken.

And she wouldn't until late that morning. Such was the drugging effect of his power. Too bad she'd think the events of the night were merely a dream—one she'd forget as time marched on.

The thought chilled his heart as he quickly exited the bedroom, pulling the French doors closed behind him. For the first time in his life, he wanted to be understood and accepted by a woman for what he was. He was tired of the fear, the hunger for blood, the one-night stands.

He wanted normalcy—or at least as much normalcy as he could get in his condition—and the one woman who'd kept his shaft hard the entire time he'd interacted with her thought he was a mockery, a figment of her imagination.

Life sucked. In more ways than one. Above all, he wanted her to believe.

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WILD GHOST CHASE by Ericka Scott

WILD GHOST CHASE by Ericka Scott

Two reality-show ghost-busting teams versus one haunted house.

The first team to successfully exorcise the spirits wins the renewal of their television contract. It sounds like a pretty straight-forward competition, but something or someone at Harrington House has another agenda.

Over the course of a weekend, the two teams with their respective technical advisers, a supposedly impartial network executive, and the beautiful owner of Harrington House find it isn’t just the ghosts who are running amok.

A killer is on the loose and if they don’t work together, they could all become permanent residents.

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Excerpt:


It was just a house.

From the outside, the residence looked like any of the other recently built tract homes in the development. The only difference was the bright blue trim. Inside, tasteful furnishings decorated the rooms and attractive artwork hung on the walls. Everything smelled new, the chemical scents of the rug and paint vied in the air. By appearance, the house was typical; however, something set this house apart from the others on the block. Their job was to find out what.

Malcolm McFee felt as if he’d been waiting for this moment all his life. In reality, it had only been two long years of standing in Ben Yamamoto’s shadow on the set of Happily Ever Afterlife. Oh, Malcolm had his fair share of fame, people knew his face, greeted him by name in the grocery store. But, and this was a big one, if he proved capable of running an entire investigation by himself, he wouldn’t just be consulting for the show anymore. Ben had promised him a regular spot, which would give him what he’d always wanted, legitimacy and recognition as a true medium.

Upstairs, a baby wailed.

Malcolm’s gaze shot over to the home owner, Fiona Sinclair. Pretty and petite with a bulging midsection, she had to be at least eight months pregnant. He raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question aimed at no one in particular. He hadn’t been told details of the haunting. His twin sister, Monica, the co-hostess of Happily Ever Afterlife, had done the intake form and all of the preliminary research. Her carefully schooled expression told him nothing.

He glanced over at Fiona again. Her baby hadn’t been born yet. Was there an older child in the home? He studied her face and demeanor. She wore a frightened expression, however, her body language spoke not of fear, but of watchfulness. He didn’t sense the energy force of a spirit, yet something about her raised his suspicion. From her posture, he deduced she was watching and waiting for something. Not unexpected, as subjects experiencing a haunting often wore anticipation like a second skin.

Monica offered a chair to Fiona. “Would you like to sit down?”

“No. I want you to make it stop,” Fiona whispered. “I mean, that’s what you do. You make ghosts go into the light or something, right?”

Unwilling to give her any assurances before he knew the true circumstances of the case, Malcolm didn’t answer Fiona’s question, but instead, hazarded a guess. “Did the phenomenon start when you got pregnant?” In many cases, hearing a baby crying started the minute the pregnancy was discovered and continued to feed off maternal doubts and worries until the baby was born.

“No, all the odd occurrences began about a month ago,” Fiona replied. To Malcolm’s dismay, she looked straight up into the lens and smiled.

Even as Malcolm opened his mouth to speak, he noticed Ramon take his finger off the record button. Man, for an old geezer, he was quick on the uptake. He’d anticipated her interaction with the camera, known the footage would have to be edited out, and had stopped the recording instinctively. Although Ramon seldom spoke during any of the investigations and most people didn’t even notice him, he was an important part of the team. He documented eyewitness interviews and the walk-through of haunted areas and was also responsible for shooting still photos of each room, and setting up and taking down the sound equipment they used to document EVP, electronic voice phenomena.

Fighting a feeling of frustration, Malcolm tried to be ¬pleasant and failed. “Please don’t speak to the camera.”

When Fiona’s smile faltered, he added, “If you do, don’t worry. We’ll edit that section out for the show.”

“Oh, okay.” Fiona twisted her hands in her lap.

“So, this started one month ago.” Monica shot an irritated glance over at Malcolm. The smile she bestowed on Fiona was a sympathetic one. “Have you made any structural changes to the house?”

“No, but that’s when we decorated the baby’s room.”

“Is the furniture new or antique?” Monica asked. Her dark brown hair fell into her face and she pushed it back with an impatient movement before scribbling notes onto a yellow legal pad.

“Everything’s new.” Fiona craned her neck to see what Monica was writing in her notebook.

Good luck. Monica’s script, combined with the use of a modified version of shorthand, defied interpretation by even the most efficient secretary. He should know; they’d gone through four harried women since the show debuted two years ago. Now, as they prepared to start filming for the third season, Monica had been told she’d have to type up her own transcripts or risk the wrath of the network owner, Mr. Patterson. Malcolm wasn’t sure if the threat would induce her to write more legibly or not.

“So you correlate the phenomena with decorating the nursery?” Monica asked.

“Yes.” The words were affirmative, but Malcolm sensed Fiona was lying. Why?

Malcolm endeavored to read the atmosphere of the house. Perhaps something traumatic had occurred and the negative energy imprinted the events. Like a recording, the activity would play over and over again. The entities involved in a residual haunting activity were unaware of their actions, and did not react to the environment. Much like tire tracks on a dirt road, the imprints faded with time. He inhaled the clean scent of sawdust. Then, he got a whiff of fresh paint along with the assertion that something tragic had happened during the construction of the house.

He screwed up his face in concentration. Deaths sometimes occurred on job sites, but none of those potential occurrences explained the crying baby. Speaking of babies…

Malcolm found himself staring at Fiona. His psychic abilities were limited to interactions with the dead, although he occasionally got intuitive flashes. In his experience, spirits congregated around pregnant women. Mothers or other women who had been important in the expectant woman’s life gathered to support and celebrate the birth. There was no trace of any spiritual energy clinging to Fiona. Interesting…

“I’m going to start walking around and see what I can pick up,” Monica said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Good idea.” While he watched, Monica laid aside her pen and opened her capacious black shoulder bag. The first piece of equipment she extracted was an EMF meter. A popular ghost hunting tool used to detect unexplained electromagnetic fields often indicative of the presence of ghosts and spirits. With the meter in her hand, his sister began walking around the foyer. As she approached the staircase, he heard her gasp.

Surprised his usually unemotional sister would be taken aback by anything, Malcolm shot a glance at Monica as she studied the readout. She paced the perimeter of the room, approaching the same spot from different aspects as a dubious expression marred her pretty face. “I’m getting a huge EMF spike here at the bottom of the stairs. Malcolm, do you detect any spirits? Perhaps someone who might have had an accident or fallen here.”

He didn’t, but the absence of any visual confirmation didn’t mean no spirit lurked out of sight. The dead were often shy and only seen as flitting shadows. He’d not detected anyone so far, but refused to draw any conclusions from that. While Ramon snapped several photos of the area with a digital camera, Malcolm approached the staircase. If there had been a death here, the photos might pick up orbs, a vortex apparition, or some other anomaly indicative of a ghost or spirit.

The hair on his neck and arms stood on end. Feelings of dread washed over him. Such a strong physical reaction typically indicated a spirit’s presence.

Fiona’s gaze shot from Malcolm to Monica and then back. She scrambled to her feet, hand over her heart and chest heaving. “Did someone die at the bottom of the stairs?”

Malcolm hoped she wouldn’t run screaming out of the front door. He’d only had that happen once or twice before.

“Oh, I don’t think anyone died,” Monica said.

What?

Monica had a fixed smile on her face. She’d picked up on something he had missed. Dismay and disappointment vied inside him, and he tamped down a surge of anger. Damn it all. Why now? Why when he had so much riding on this. All he needed was one legitimate haunting to use for substantive proof of his abilities.

“May I examine the closet?” Monica asked.

“Why?” Fiona’s voice sounded sharp with suspicion. “There’s nothing in there but coats and some old equipment.”

“Equipment?” Before Fiona could protest further, Monica strode to the door and jerked it open.

Malcolm followed his sister and peered in over her shoulder.

Surprise, surprise. Inside sat an electrostatic generator. Malcolm wasn’t sure what use it performed on a construction site. Typically used in classrooms to demonstrate the effects of static electricity—cold chills, hair standing on end, and even the feeling of being touched—the machine had often been used by fake spiritualists to imitate a spirit’s presence.

“The contractor must have left that awful machine behind,” Fiona informed him. “My husband called the company yesterday. They said they would pick it up sometime today or tomorrow.”

“Did you know the generator was operating?” Malcolm inquired.

“No. Do you think the ghost switched it on?” Fiona’s eyes widened.

What poor acting. Malcolm coughed to avoid the derisive words threatening to spill out.

“This accounts for the EMF spike.” Malcolm reached around his sister and turned off the switch. “What sort of reading do you get now, Monica?”

“Nothing, only baseline.”

Shit, the haunting was a hoax. Yet, perhaps the crying child upstairs had nothing to do with this machine.

Visibly shaking and moaning about hating this house and its ghosts, Fiona sank back into the chair. Her brown eyes welled up, and a single tear flowed down her cheek, leaving a trail of mascara through her makeup.

Faker. Other men might be swayed by crying women, but he had a twin sister who’d only just recently graduated from her drama queen phase. It would take a lot more than a few crocodile tears to influence him.

Together, he and the team moved through the rest of the downstairs rooms. Monica waved her damn EMF meter around but detected no further abnormal readings.

They mounted the stairs. Three bedrooms and two bathrooms occupied the second story. The master suite was the first room at the top of the stairs. A bed, two dressers, and a large walk-in closet comprised the furnishing. A Jacuzzi tub dominated the attached bathroom. Malcolm, unable to surrender hope of this being a legitimate haunting, theorized if the fixtures had been recycled from another home, perhaps the haunting had been transferred to a new location. He ran his finger over the tap and was rewarded with the scene of a candlelit bubble-filled bath. He’d been right; the fittings weren’t new. However, what he’d sensed was an imprint. Shit. His hopes dimmed.

As one, the team moved on to the guest bedroom, furnished as a home gym. Malcolm took a deep breath. No scent of sweat lingered in the air, and the polished metal of the weights wasn’t marred by a single fingerprint. Why would someone have exercise equipment installed for show? Or, as he suspected, did no one actually live here?

He sighed and followed Monica down the hall. As soon as they approached the last room on the left, things began to happen. The baby’s cries, which had been silent for a full ten minutes or so while they’d been in the other rooms, started up with renewed vigor.

Closing his eyes, Malcolm reached out to try to connect with the distraught infant. For a room festively decorated with balloons and stuffed animals, the atmosphere felt detached. Try as he might, he detected no child’s spirit. His heart sank as he drew his final conclusion. Despite the desperate wails, no ghost child haunted this house.

Monica led the way into the room. As she crossed the threshold, the infant’s crying shut off like a switch. Monica shot him a look, one that signified she knew the ‘haunting’ was a hoax.

With a sigh of regret, he joined Monica in her search for the source of the child’s cries. While she examined the windowsills, he ran his hands along the trim of the door. Within a few seconds, his sensitive fingertips located the small light sensor buried in the wood.

He waved to attract Monica’s attention and then moved on to find the source of the sound. An unobtrusive baby monitor sat on the dresser, but even for these hoaxers, that seemed too obvious.

His sister, Monica, was more thorough in her investigation. She, too, might have suspected it would be the easy solution, but she examined the equipment anyway. While he watched, she picked up the monitor, switched it on and off, and even popped the batteries out of the back.

A shadow flitted along the wall. Startled, Malcolm spun around. Ramon stood in the doorway, recording their every move.

While Monica was occupied taking the baby monitor apart, Malcolm studied the rest of the room. It appeared to be ready for the baby’s arrival. Teddy bears decorated the diaper pail, bed, and mobile. A row of stuffed bruins sat at attention on the top of the dresser and an enormous Teddy sat in the glider rocking chair. A tinkling sound interrupted the silence. The mobile over the crib began to whirl of its own accord, playing a tinny ¬rendition of a popular lullaby. Hell, he even caught a whiff of the scent of baby powder in the room. Whoever had set this hoax up had covered all the bases.

Too bad no tortured soul lingered here, no baby in distress. However, proving the haunting was faked wouldn’t be easy. In the past, once the controlling wires were found, they could be followed back to their origin to debunk a ghostly presence. With the enormous popularity of wireless equipment, determining real ghosts from electronic ones had become more challenging. He spotted the speaker by chance. Cuddled in amongst all the assorted teddy bears was a brilliant green frog. He picked it up and hefted it, realizing the stuffed animal was too heavy to be filled with nothing but cotton batting or small plastic beads. His fingers found a heavy square item about the size of a cigarette pack buried in the animal’s fat midsection. No dissection would be needed to convince him that he held a small but powerful wireless speaker.

He smiled and waved the frog at Monica and then at Ramon. “Perhaps we’ll hear something if we go down the hall a bit. Are you picking up any other readings?”

Monica had replaced her trusty EMF meter with another popular piece of ghost-hunting equipment. This one was used to pick up radio transmissions. With long graceful movements, she swept the probe around the room searching for listening devices. Malcolm wasn’t surprised when she paused to examine the base of the lamp. The fixture emitted radio waves.

With a sense of regret, Malcolm left the room to stand in the hallway. Monica replaced her equipment back into her bag, and slung it over her shoulder before giving him a brisk nod. As soon as they were both a few feet from the doorway, the crying started up again. Malcolm led the way downstairs, and Ramon followed them at a trot.

Fiona met them at the bottom of the stairs. “So, can you get rid of the ghost?”

Malcolm tossed her the frog. “You’ll be hearing from the network,” he stated dispassionately.

“What? What do you mean?” Fiona’s eyes were wide with pretend astonishment.

Refusing to answer, Malcolm helped Ramon pack up all of his equipment while Fiona wrung her hands and demanded to know what they’d discovered.

As they gathered at the front door to leave, Monica faced Fiona. “We investigate ghosts, and by that I don’t mean the electronic, Disneyland versions. So if you ever encounter a real haunting, don’t hesitate to contact someone else. Have a good day.”

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BLOWING IT OFF by Lexxie Couper

BLOWING IT OFF by Lexxie Couper

Stimulated, Book One

A fire has destroyed the studio of glassblower Phoebe Masters. And she knows what that means - a visit from the arson investigators. The two men who reduced her heart to cinders. Men she’d hoped never to see again.

One wild weekend with Phoebe overwhelmed Will Bradley and Damon Hunt. Like wankers, they blew it off, burning any chance for a future with the talented beauty. The investigation gets them back in her life, but now they have to prove the three of them were meant to be together. Their strategy?

A body-blazing inferno none of them will ever be able to extinguish

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By reading any further, you are stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are under the age of 18, it is necessary to exit this site.

An Excerpt From: BLOWING IT OFF

Copyright © LEXXIE COUPER, 2011

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

“Head’s up, Tiny, we’ve got a job.”

William Bradley spun on his desk stool to glare at the tall man crossing the room toward him. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me Tiny?”

Damon laughed, dropping into the low, beat-up couch sitting in the middle of their cramped office. “Well, seeing as it’s been eight years now since I first met you, I’m guessin’…” he affected a pensive expression, crossing his ankles on the cluttered coffee table and lacing his fingers behind his head, “a lot. Besides, you’re a short-arse. What else am I going to call you?”

Will shook his head and rolled his eyes, giving his partner an exasperated look. “I’m two inches shorter than you.”

Damon held out a hand. “There you go. Short-arse.”

“You’re six foot three!”

Damon grinned. “My point exactly.”

Will threw a tennis ball at him. “Yeah, yeah, Stretch. Tell me about the job.”

“You’re going to love this. It’s in Morpeth.”

Every muscle in Will’s body tensed. He drew in a slow breath, leaning forward on his stool. “Morpeth?”

Damon gave him a single nod, his brown gaze steady.

Will pulled in another breath. Morpeth. The village pretending to be a town north of Newcastle was populated by entrenched, born-in-the-blood locals and artisans inspired by the timeless beauty of the place. Not the kind of place an arson investigator usually found himself. But then, he’d felt an almost palpable urge to jump in his car and drive north more than once since a particular artisan took up residence.

Damn, his heart shouldn’t be thumping as hard as it was.

He narrowed his eyes, refusing to acknowledge how dry his mouth had become. “What’s the job?”

If possible, his partner’s eyes grew mischievous and intense. “Investigating a suspicious fire that destroyed an art studio.”

Will’s heart thumped harder. “What kind of art studio.”

Damon’s lips curled. “A glassblower’s art studio.”

“I take it by the smile on your face the artist wasn’t in the studio when it went up?”

Damon shook his head. “Not according to the report from one Captain Keith Kilgour of the Morpeth Bush Fire Brigade. The owner of the studio was, to quote Captain Kilgour, ‘extremely agitated and reluctant to notify the Newcastle Arson Investigation team’, end quote. Reading between the lines, I suspect Kilgour wonders if the artist is pulling an insurance job.”

The wind left Will’s lungs in a gush. He slumped back on his stool, dragging his hands through his hair. Fuck. He’d spent the last six months doing everything to convince himself what he and Damon had shared with a certain glass artist now living in Morpeth was nothing more than a weekend fling. He’d tried his hardest but now, here he was—palms sweaty just thinking about the possibility of seeing her again, of more than seeing her, when he should be thinking of nothing else but a fire scene.

Easier said than done when Phoebe Masters was involved. Bloody frustrating pain-in-the-arse woman. Knowing her, the moment they walked into her studio she’d walk out the other door.

But what if she’s happy to see you? It’s been six months since she left. Six months to forget how monumentally you and Damon fucked-up the last time all of you were together. What if she’s calmed down? Changed her mind?

Damon cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’re thinking one of two things, Tiny, and both are going to send you crazy.”

Will’s own eyebrows rose up his forehead, his gut churning. “What are they exactly, Stretch?”

Damon returned his feet to the floor and leaned forward on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “One, the second we cross the threshold of Phoebe’s studio, she’s going to throw herself at us and beg us to pick up where we last left off—in bed together, fucking each other senseless.”

It wasn’t just Will’s stomach that reacted to Damon’s first scenario—his balls and dick tightened, the image his friend painted affecting him with the subtle blow of a sledgehammer.

“Or two,” Damon went on, his stare locked hard on Will’s face. “She’s going to tell us to fuck off.”

The sledgehammer slammed into Will’s gut again. Damn Damon and his keen insight into the human mind. Made for a bloody brilliant arson investigator, a great boss; made for a bloody annoying best mate.

The man studying him hadn’t started out his best friend but somewhere over the last eight years of working together, that’s exactly what he’d become. Which meant Damon knew just about everything going on in Will’s life, and was involved in just about everything going on in his life as well. Sometimes Will had to wonder if that was a good thing. He bit back a curse. “And how did you arrive at those options, boss?”

Damon gave him a wry grin. “’Cause I thought the same fucking things the second I read Phoebe’s name on the report.”

The confession jerked a humored snort from Will. “So much for being the detached wankers Phoebe accused us of being the day she left.”

Damon laughed. “No, she accused you of being a detached wanker. She called me a flippant, indifferent arsehole.”

Will scrubbed at his face with his hands. “She’s not going to be happy to see us, is she?”

Damon laughed again. “After the way we behaved? Not at all.”

“So what do we do?”

Damon flashed him a broad grin. “Hope to fucking God we can change her mind.”

“Tricky.”

“You better believe it.”

“She told us what we did together was never going to happen again.”

“True.”

“That after the pair of us blew it off as a simple been-there-done-that fuck-fest instead of acknowledging what it really was, the pair of us could kiss her arse goodbye.”

“You’re right.”

“Plan?”

Damon laughed a third time, the sound far more deprecating than any Will had heard from his friend before. “Be our charming, lovable selves?”

Will rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that’s going to work.”

“It worked the last time.”

“Until she accused us of being indifferent arseholes and detached wankers the night before she moved to a whole other town.”

Taking my heart with her.

A heavy pressure squeezed Will’s chest at the thought. That’s exactly what had happened. None of them—neither he, nor Damon nor Phoebe—had anticipated a night out for drinks to celebrate Phoebe’s new, dedicated studio in Morpeth would turn into a weekend in bed together. But it had. Three years of knowing each other, of relaxed flirting, friendly banter and good-humored mocking over other boyfriends or girlfriends had unexpectedly and surprisingly led them to a situation so unbe-fucking-lievable, the shock had sent them all for a spin.

A bloody big spin. Because Will knew after two mind-blowing days and two equally mind-blowing nights of watching his mate fuck Phoebe, of fucking her while his mate watched, of all three of them fucking each other at the same time, that two days and two nights wasn’t enough. He’d had no idea what Phoebe expected after the weekend ended, but he knew what he wanted—more. And he knew Damon wanted more as well. Not just sex, but…more.

It had scared the shit out of Will, big time. The knowledge that he was prepared to commit to a relationship society deemed unacceptable with his two best friends left him reeling. And even though Damon hadn’t admitted it at first, it had scared the shit out of him as well. So they’d acted like it was nothing, like it was just a bonk to say adios. By the time he’d seen the truth in Phoebe’s eyes, the proof that she wanted more than just a goodbye fuck, that her silence was wounded embarrassment, it was too late. They’d brushed off something incredible and swept Phoebe’s heart away with it. Dickheads.

“We were chicken-shit cowards the last time.”

For a second time, Damon’s unexpected confession made Will snort. “Ain’t that the truth.”

“So this time, we’re not. We don’t pretend otherwise. We don’t pretend the whole thing is just a same-old, same-old.”

“And how are we going to do that? Considering she doesn’t want jack-shit to do with us?”

Damon flashed a grin—the same grin Will had seen him use more than once when on the scent of an arson, the grin that said I have you in my sights, buddy, and you are going down. “We hit her with both barrels and let her know without doubt what we want…

“Her. Forever.”

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STRONG ARMS OF THE LAW by Cerise DeLand

STRONG ARMS OF THE LAW by Cerise DeLand

Rex Martinez is one tough Texas Ranger who has always gotten his man.

No woman has ever resisted him either. But the saucy little number he guards now under witness protection makes him nuts. Hard. And eager to put her in her place…which is, of course, in his arms. And his bed.

Crime writer Skye Chamberlain chafes under Rex’s rigid rules. He’s too macho, too yummy to stay cooped up with and remain celibate.

So when she calls his bluff and demands they embrace their relationship now instead of later, he can’t resist her appeal. But his need to keep her hot and happy makes him drop his guard and trouble finds them.

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By reading any further, you are stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are under the age of 18, it is necessary to exit this site.

An Excerpt From: STRONG ARMS OF THE LAW

Copyright © CERISE DELAND, 2011

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

Chapter One



Skye Chamberlain crawled out her bedroom window of the tiny house outside Alpine, Texas, before sunrise on a sweltering August morning, biting back a shout that she was finally escaping the strong arms of the law.

Who knew she had it in her?

Crime writer. Bookworm. Former ER nurse. Turned fugitive.

She grinned. Even—she thought as she stretched her dangling toes to reach for the ground—if it meant she’d be in hot water with her captor. I’m going swimming, Ranger Martinez, before you’re up and learn I’m gone.

She felt the cool earth beneath the soles of her feet and stifled a sigh of relief. There was only so long she could stand this blazing August heat. “And the scalding gaze of Rex Martinez,” she murmured to herself as she tucked her boobs back inside her cotton bra, hiked up her flimsy panties and flung her towel over her shoulder.

She headed for the pool behind the barn, picking her way along the pebbles and brush barefoot. She needed to do five laps, maybe more to get relief from the tension of wanting to jump the bones of the tall, dark Texas Ranger who had been her bodyguard for more than two months.

He was an ogre, a tyrant, refusing to let her go anywhere except prowl that teensy-weensy house like a caged animal. But she had to get away, do something physical, if only for a few minutes. She would melt like ice cream if she spent one more day enthralled by his gruff cowboy charm. Denying we’re headed for bed.

Hell. She hurried along. Any exercise would be better than another twenty-four hours cooped up with the Texas lawman who played cards like Godzilla, talked like smart-ass Indiana Jones and took charge like Pancho Villa.

“Your birdie, buddy, has flown the nest.”

* * * * *

“Coffee’s ready,” Rex Martinez spoke to the closed bedroom door of the cabin. “Come on out. I made it like you want it. Weak.”

He smirked. Skye Chamberlain didn’t act like she wanted anything watered down. Not her prospects for survival once she testified against the Gonzaga Familia. Not her hope for a life free of reporters harassing her for interviews about the Texas drug gangs in cahoots with a local mayor. So why she liked her coffee less than rocket-ready stumped him.

“Rise and shine, Chamberlain,” he called when he heard no sounds. Usually she would throw a shoe at the door or grumble at him to leave her be. Early riser, the buxom blonde booty-licious novelist from Chicago, Skye Chamberlain, was not. “We didn’t stay up that late watching that movie.”

Nada.

All right, then. You asked for it.

Rex Martinez thrust open the bedroom door, zeroed in on the rumpled sheets, the empty bed, the curtains fluttering at the wide open window and heard footsteps crunching on gravel.

He cursed.

She was gone? Again?

Shit! He had never met such an infuriating woman!

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PIRATES by Nobilis Reed

PIRATES by Nobilis Reed
The Orgone Chronicles continues...

After their adventures in SCOUTS [Book One of The Orgone Chronicles, and 2011 EPIC eBook Award Finalist] - Challers and Valka are safe, protected aboard the Pirate city-ship known as "Port." The scars of their ordeal among the Scouts remain, however.

Valka is stuck with a hyper-fertile Ovor body, and the only way for them to raise enough money to change her back, is for them to join the Worthies-reality-TV celebrities who are always on camera. In an environment where loyalty is dismissed and betrayal is rewarded, their love suffers its greatest test yet.

Meanwhile, on Stakroya Station, their classmate Renedy wrestles with a budding sexuality that does not fit the station's rigid mold. An intimate night with the man who has been chosen for her does not go well at all. Instead she finds herself attracted to another woman; a relationship the Station can never condone.

Through it all, the sinister eyes of the Scouts see all. Freedom, for all involved, must be won again and again.

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Chapter One



Challers, Port



VALKA PANTED, her body hot with fever and soaked with sweat, while I knelt at her feet. According to what I had been able to learn, the proper vessel in which to receive an Ovor egg as it was laid was a shallow ceramic bowl. There was a stack of them next to me, enough for the seven eggs Valka was expecting. I was as ready as I could be.

Only, it wasn’t going well. Over the past week, Valka had developed a fever, and when she started feeling contractions, she sent a panicked call to my cubicle.

I had crossed the hall to her pod without even bothering to put on clothes. I couldn’t believe how bad she looked. Didn’t the doctors care what was happening? They were supposed to be taking care of her, vack them all! And now the eggs were coming.

“Portcon! We need medical attention here!” I screamed.

The floating holographic head that represented the interface to Port’s main computer system said simply, “Medical assistance is en route, Ward Challers Dizen. Estimate four minutes until arrival.”

Valka gave another grunt, pushing words past her teeth. “Too late.”

I saw a dark mass pushing out of her body, squeezing through. I held my hands up and took it in my hands as Valka’s muscles expelled it.

The thing smelled terrible. None of the recordings I had found mentioned that. I swallowed to keep the bile where it belonged and set the egg in a bowl with a white cloth over it. The next one wouldn’t be long.

“Medical team has arrived,” said Portcon. “Opening pod access.”

The door opened, revealing a middle-aged woman wearing a greenish coverall. “Come on out, make room for us.”

“She’s having her eggs now!” I shouted. “Someone has to stay with her!”

“They’ll be fine,” said the medic. “Come on out.”

I hustled to the door, and watched as the medic took my place. Another one squeezed in alongside Valka’s reclining chair. The second one took out an injector and put it to the inside of her elbow. Valka’s breathing immediately became less ragged, and she relaxed back down onto the chair. I could hear a wet squelch as another egg was born. My stomach took another tumble.

The smell only got worse. I knew something was wrong when the medics frowned and shook their heads.

“What?” I cried. “What’s wrong?”

“Ward, you’ll need to either keep quiet or go back to your pod.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay. Okay.”

The medics worked in near silence, occasionally exchanging a word or two of medical jargon that I couldn’t understand. Finally, they piled all of the eggs into one bowl and began packing up their gear. Valka was still and quiet, her only movement was the slight rise and fall of her blanket as she breathed.

“Is she going to be all right?”

“She’ll recover. Nasty infection she got there.”

“And the eggs?” I didn’t want to care about those eggs. They were a legacy of the Scouts and the forced breeding program they had imposed on Valka. But Valka cared about them. No matter how it had happened that she was bearing them, they were hers, and she had been looking forward to this day ever since we had arrived at Port. She cared about them, so I did too.

“Dead,” said one of the medics. “That’s what gave her the infection.”

“Dead? But how?”

“You two are the new kids—ex-Scouts, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You get in any fights while you were escaping?”

“Yeah. There was some fighting when we left.”

“Use the jump drive?”

“A few times.”

“Hyperwarp and jump drives aren’t the cleanest forms of propulsion. No good for developing eggs. That’s probably what did it.”

I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to be glad that Valka wouldn’t be burdened with seven eggs to tend, but I knew that learning what had happened would devastate her. Finally, I just asked, “How long will she be asleep?”

“The drug will keep her out for four hours or so. After that, she’ll sleep naturally. You should probably get some too. Do you need a tranquilizer?”

“No, I’ll be okay.” I stumbled across the hall, through my door, and collapsed onto my chair. With the adrenaline of the evening starting to burn off, I was bone-tired. “Portcon?”

“Yes, Ward Challers Dizen?”

“Wake me up if Valka Parl wakes up, please.”

“I will do that, Ward Challers Dizen.”

I pulled the thin sheet over my body and tried to let the blackness of sleep wash over me. One thought kept intruding, however. How would I tell Valka? What would she say? I tried to comfort myself with the knowledge that whatever happened, I would be there for her. It didn’t feel like enough.

Nothing was going right. We had all expected something to change when we reached Port. We had expected there to be a tremendous outrage that innocent human lives were being used as power sources for the new weapon system being used by the Scouts, the one we were calling “egg missiles.”

Robert had tried to get the word out, convince people that something had to be done, but it seemed like everyone was convinced that it either didn’t matter, that the Scouts were despicable for a dozen other things anyway, or that we were lying to try to stir up trouble. Robert said it was a credibility problem; he had been away for too long, and nobody remembered him. The rest of us were complete unknowns.





VALKA’S RECOVERY took a long time. By the end of the second day, she was alert and awake again, though not really strong enough to come out of her pod. She was well looked after, with medical monitors installed in her pod and daily checkups by human medical staff. I looked in on her often, but when she was resting, I went back to my pod.

My interest in history, which I had gained during my studies at the Academy, became a need during those days of waiting. It was the only way I could distract myself. There were many, many things the Scouts had never told us, things the Pirates knew and were more than willing to share. I spent hours scanning the archives, sorting through events I had never even heard of in school, and it was better than fretting about things I couldn’t control.

One thing that particularly caught my attention was the true origin of the Scouts. During the Great Diaspora, after the discovery of orgone and faster-than-light travel, mankind’s government fragmented into a thousand individual colonies. Nobody had the strength to hold all of the colonies in one entity. There was a constant, low-level conflict throughout this era.

According to my studies at the Academy, the Scout Service appeared at this time as a force that sought to quell the constant fighting with diplomacy and trade. The records I found here, however, told a different story. One group, known as the Incorporates, started conquering systems one after another. They had mastered a technology for direct interface between brain and computer that allowed them much greater control over their warships. Not only that, they were able to command absolute loyalty from those they conquered by means of this interface. Whole populations were reduced to blissful, mindless slavery.

Once the rest of the galaxy learned what the Incorporates were doing, the reaction was immediate. The horror of it shocked them into action. Resources were marshaled, technologies were shared, and great warfleets were dispatched to erase the Incorporates from the galaxy. It was in this conflict that the Scouts, Fleet, and Merchants were founded.

When the war was over, the leaders of the three services decided to remain in power. They said it was to preserve galactic peace, but of course, it also preserved the “emergency powers” they’d been given in the war.

After fifteen days, Valka had gained strength to wake me with a kiss on the lips. I smiled. “Good morning. Feeling better?”

“Yeah.” Her face was bright, but there was an edge of darkness to it.

“I guess you know what happened to the eggs,” I said.

“I asked Portcon.”

“I would have told you, you know.”

“I know, but…I guess I didn’t see the need to involve you. I’m sorry. I should have let you tell me.”

I sat up and put my arms around her. “It’s okay. I’m sorry.”

When I let go, Valka’s features had taken a hard edge. “Seven more crimes the Scouts are responsible for,” she said.

“I have a feeling they’re not going to worry.” I sat up and hung my feet off the side of the chair to make room for her. “Portcon? Breakfast, please. The usual?”

“Oatmeal with fruit is available, Ward Challers Dizen.”

Valka hopped up on the chair and snuggled up next to me. She caught my eye as I stared down at her. “What?” she asked.

“I guess I’m not used to seeing you without that belly. It seems strange.”

She smoothed her coverall over her stomach, frowning. “I’m still kind of overweight. All this sitting around isn’t good for me. I got more exercise back on Stakroya Station. I also ate less.”

I leaned down and kissed her. “You know that doesn’t matter to me.” It was the truth. It was Valka that I loved, not her body. The Scouts had transformed her into an Ovor, a four-breasted race designed to produce large quantities of eggs, but that didn’t matter to me.

“It matters to me. I feel like a lump.”

“Portcon says that the nutritional content of the food is calibrated to keep you healthy.”

“Yeah, well, that may be true, but these pods are orgone collectors, right? They probably want to keep us a little fat, because more mass means more basal orgone.”

“I guess.”

“You guess? Look what they do to Merchants. Challers, you can’t trust these people. Everyone is looking out for their own interests.”

I looked down at my own body. I had to admit that the muscles I had gotten during my training with the Scouts were not as defined as they had been. “They’ve got a gym up on the Boulevard. We could go together.”

“Yeah, have you seen what it costs? I know I have a lot of credits with the Port, but I can’t spend it like that. I’m just going to have to be more careful about what I eat. Ooh! It’s almost ten. Put your screen on. I want to see the Morning Summary.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s a program they put on every morning to show you everything interesting that happened overnight.”

“Portcon, please display ‘Morning Summary.’”

Portcon’s face disappeared, replaced with a rotating logo and a dramatic voice. “Welcome to Morning Summary for day 842 of cruise fifty-six.” The logo was replaced by a long list of names, grouped in fours and fives under titles like David’s Destroyers and Madden’s Marauders. “Please choose the Worthies for your report,” the voice continued.

“What is this?” I asked.

Valka snuggled close, holding my arm. “I discovered it last week. Those people we saw patrolling the Boulevard? They call them Worthies. They have cameras following them around all the time, and folks can watch what happens. Pick David’s Destroyers.”

I reached out to the hologram and waved my finger at that section. The screen cleared, and an image formed of a man in a baggy white shirt and black pants lounging in a comfortable, armless chair. He swirled a drink in one hand and smiled at a short-haired woman who had just walked into the scene. She was similarly attired, though neither wore the weapons we had seen Worthies wear up on the Boulevard.

A disembodied voice accompanied the scene. “The romance between Krinna and David has continued since she signed up for his crew. It’s a good thing he convinced her to join up, since with only two members, his crew would have been delisted this morning. As it stands, he still has only ten days remaining to get back to four members and keep his crew going long term.”

David took her hand and pulled her down for a passionate kiss, which she returned with enthusiasm. She reached behind him and pulled out the knot that held David’s shirt together, and unfolded the two triangular flaps to expose a hairless, muscular chest.

“Are they going to have sex right there where everyone can see?”

“Uh-huh.” Valka squirmed closer and put an arm around my waist. “He’s been romancing her all week.”

We watched Krinna run her hands over David’s chest, and the camera zoomed in to show the effect her caress was having on his nipples. When it zoomed out again, she was shrugging out of her shirt, revealing a back almost as well-muscled as his chest. Soft music began playing in the background, a light tune that heightened the affectionate tone of the scene.

“You like this guy,” I said.

“Hmm?”

“I mean, you like watching him.”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, his crew is about to be officially disbanded, and he’s completely not concerned. In control. You don’t see that kind of confidence all the time.”

The point of view shifted again, this time coming down from above—a perfect angle to catch David taking one of Krinna’s small breasts into his mouth and the look of pleasure that came over her face as she arched her back.

I started off watching David, trying to figure out what it was that Valka saw, but Krinna soon had my full attention. I had never seen a woman who looked like that before. Even my mentor in the Scouts, Shirley, wasn’t as muscular as this woman. I was attracted and repulsed at the same time. Something inside me said it wasn’t right for a woman to look so masculine, but then I remembered the hermaphroditic Chevalier newgens I had met at Scout Headquarters. I pushed that thought aside.

As Krinna reached down into David’s pants, Valka slid her hand past my waistband and squeezed my swelling cock. “I’ve been thinking about you all week,” she said.

If watching David got her this worked up, I wasn’t going to complain. “Why didn’t you come over?” I moved my hand from her shoulder down under her arm to cup one breast through her shirt.

“I didn’t want to come over until I was ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“You know.” She pulled her shirt up over her head and threw it aside. “This.” Her four Ovor breasts were full and round, tipped with thick, dark brown nipples. She did have a bit of extra weight on her, but I barely noticed. By the time both of us were fully naked, the couple on the holoscreen were naked too, rubbing their bodies together as they kissed.

Valka leaned back on the chair, letting her legs fall to either side. “I want you to pleasure me while I watch.”

I smiled and climbed up onto the chair, between her legs. Her pussy lips, which had been kept hairless while we were at Scout Headquarters, were covered with fur. I ran my fingers through it. “I don’t know if I still know how,” I said with a smile.

“Mmm, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

While I explored with my fingers, I heard the sounds of Krinna and David’s encounter over my shoulder. Judging from his encouragements and her muffled responses, she had something important in her mouth. I took it as my cue to get my own mouth involved.

I pulled her pussy lips apart. It had been too long since we had been this close. Valka’s advanced pregnancy had made a lot of sexual activities difficult or tiring, and I was elated to be able to do this for her again. I licked slowly, playing with her inner lips, flicking them lightly with my tongue. As I gradually moved up towards her clit, I felt tension building in her thighs.

“Vack, Challers,” she said between deep breaths, “I missed this.”

I chuckled. “So did I.” I hadn’t performed this act on Valka too many times, but I knew how to pay attention to her reactions and adjust. With a light touch, I placed my lips around her clit, drawing only just enough suction to be felt. She made a soft, contented noise and touched my head, not pushing down or pulling back. She was simply acknowledging that I was there.

I sucked harder, flicking my tongue at the tiny bud of flesh between my lips. “Ooh, too much,” she gasped, and I backed off, licking along the sides of her clit.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. That’s much…mmm…much better.”

I slipped one arm under her body and drew my hand up to stroke the lower part of her cunt. A brief flash crossed my mind of a black, sickly egg. I pulled back to look. Except for the hair, it hadn’t changed all that much since I had seen her last, making it easy to dispel the image from my mind.

The sound of David and Krinna’s sexual encounter changed. I looked over my shoulder to see Krinna straddling him, flexing her thighs as she rose and fell, impaled on his cock. I wanted to fuck Valka too, but I could wait until she’d had an orgasm. I went back to my task with the goal firmly in mind.

Slipping my fingers inside her, I searched for the firm knot of flesh on the upper wall of her channel. It was there, where I had found it once before. I hoped the result would be as spectacular as the first time. With quick little strokes, I rubbed the spot with my fingers while I licked the hood of her clit in the same rhythm. I imagined a kind of circuit between my hand and my mouth, with Valka’s body strung between. When my tongue started to get a little sore, I switched to using my nose for a few seconds while I gave it a rest, and went back. When my fingers cramped, I switched hands.

She did not disappoint me. Her thighs clenched around my shoulders as I worked, and growling cries escaped her throat. I could feel her pussy tensing around my fingers and even smell the musky change in her scent.

And then I noticed that the top of my head was wet. I pulled back and looked around.

Milk dribbled down from all four of Valka’s breasts, and droplets were scattered all over her stomach. She looked down at me, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry,” she said, when she’d gotten her air back.

I laughed. “Don’t be. I think it’s great. It’s like you’re ejaculating too.”

“I guess I am.” She took the lower pair in her hands and squeezed. Streams of milk sprayed out. “They got sore after the eggs came and this made them feel better. Ever since then, I’ve been milking myself. Port said that most women who get sick during pregnancy never even start lactating, but Ovors might be different. The information wasn’t complete.”

I climbed up her body, licking the droplets up as I went. “I could have helped, you know.” The milk was sweet and warm, with just a hint of salt from her sweaty skin.

“I know. I guess I didn’t want you to see me that way.”

“I want to be with you no matter what, Valka. I don’t mind seeing you weak or sick. I want to take care of you.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. I think I like the idea of you taking care of me.”

I sucked on the hard nub of her nipple and got a tiny squirt of milk. “Does that feel good?”

“Mmm, yes.”

“Good. I like doing it.” I sucked some more, and gradually felt the tightness in her skin recede. I switched to the other.

“Mmm, that’s much better,” she said.

I went from breast to breast, gently draining her of the offending fluid. My hard cock bumped her thigh, and when I finished, I shifted position to enter her.

“Oh, Challers.” She put a hand on my chest. “Please don’t.”

“Why not?”

“An Ovor is always fertile. I don’t want to go through that again.” Her eyes pleaded with me. “Please.”

I hung over her. If I pressed the issue, I could probably convince her to let me fuck her, but we had both been through too much for me to even consider it. I sat back on my heels, my cock jutting up from between my thighs.

“Here. Let me do this instead. Lie down.” She climbed off of the seat so I could take her place, and then she climbed back on, straddling my knees. She transferred some of the copious lubrication from her pussy onto my cock before wrapping her lower pair of breasts around it with her hands. “How does that feel?”

“Mmm, that’s not bad. It’s not as good as being inside you, but it’ll do.”

Above her head, David and Krinna were cuddling on their chair. She sat on his lap, sitting crosswise with his arm supporting her shoulders. Their soft demeanor contrasted with the hard edges of their bodies. They both seemed too tough for such contemplation, but there they were.

I returned my attention back to Valka. Her upper breasts bobbed hypnotically as she moved. I brought my hands up to them, stroking their soft skin as she continued pleasuring me. “They’ve gotten bigger, haven’t they?”

“A bit.”

I watched my cock disappearing between her breasts. “Seems like a lot more…mmm…than a bit to me.”

She looked down. “I guess.”

I gasped as the first jet erupted from my cock, arching over my stomach to land on my chest. It was so soon it caught me somewhat by surprise. My stomach and Valka’s breasts were splattered with semen.

“Feel better?” she asked.

I laughed. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Valka got a washcloth from the hygiene station and cleaned herself off. “You really like me this way?”

“Yes. Of course, I do. Why do you ask?”

“I want to save up to get enough to use a gentank.” She climbed up onto the chair and sat cross-legged, facing me, and handed me the towel.

“How much does it cost?”

“The price seems to fluctuate for some reason, but it’s usually something like a hundred thousand.”

I whistled. “Where are you going to get that kind of money?”

“Well, you know you don’t have to stay in your pod all day. That pays your basic life support, but if you want to accumulate credits, you have to do more than that. I’ve been looking around and there are a few jobs I could do.”

“How much would you get?” I finished wiping myself off and tossed the cloth into the recycling hatch.

“Well, there’s a job as a data wrangler that would pay twenty-five an hour. If I work ten-hour days, then I could have enough to use the gentank in about two hundred days, given what we’re starting with.”

“Could you do it from your pod?”

“No, this would be at a data center a few decks down.”

“So you’d have to pay life support while you were away. Valka, that’s not two hundred days. That’s a lot more. It might take years.”

Valka groaned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I do! I don’t like this body. I don’t want to have any more eggs!”

“Maybe there’s a drug or something that will stop that.”

“There is. It costs ten credits a day.”

“That’s not too bad.”

“I don’t like draining our savings like this. I’m not making any income, and it costs life support any time we visit.”

I looked up at the screen where David was walking along the Boulevard with Krinna and another Worthy whose name I had missed.

“How much do Worthies make?”

“I don’t know.”

“Portcon,” I called. “How much do Worthies earn?”

“A Worthy earns shares of all the crisis and transcendent orgone that is generated while being observed by Wards.”

“And how much is that?”

“It varies widely, but most Worthies earn between two thousand and five thousand credits in a day.”

I turned to Valka. “That’s it, then. We need to become Worthies.”

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