Sahara Foley's Blog

 

When the moon rises, desire follows.

Lunar Seductions

A Limited-Edition Collection of Paranormal and FantasyRomance Stories

Including stories by:

Stephanie Morris – USA Today bestselling author

Charmaine Louise Shelton

Nadine D. Price

Danika LaRue

Kiera Rose

Peyton Lawson

Celia Breslin

Ravyn Wilde

Ryan L Reeve

When the moon rises,desire follows.

 

Some lovers are chosen.

Some are destined.

And some are the kind you should run from, but where would be the funin that?

 

Lunar Seductions brings together nine steamy tales of supernaturaldesire, dangerous attraction, and romance that refuses to play by mortal rules.

 

Lose yourself among shifters, monsters, psychics, goddesses, and othercreatures of the night. Meet lovers bound by fate, trapped by circumstance,divided by old grudges, or drawn together despite every reason to stay apart.

 

There are secrets to uncover, enemies to tempt, boundaries to cross,and more than a few teeth and claws waiting in the dark.

 

Give in to temptation.

 

The moon won’t tell.

 

Including stories by:

Stephanie Morris – USA Today bestselling author

Charmaine Louise Shelton

Nadine D. Price

Danika LaRue

Kiera Rose

Peyton Lawson

Celia Breslin

Ravyn Wilde

Ryan L Reeve

 

 

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Diamond Moon Rising

by Celia Breslin

(included in Lunar Seductions anthology)

 

Her wolf wants him. Her human side wants out.

 

After her last shift nearly kills her, human-wolf hybrid Darci has hadenough—it’s time to stop shifting once and for all. Armed with a cryptic notefrom her dead shifter dad, she sets out in search of his mythical hometown inthe wilds of Rogue Valley, Oregon, hoping Dad is right, and the shifters theremight help.

 

As a dominant beta and pack protector, Ross is never taken bysurprise…until a half-wolf half-human pixie with the biggest green eyes he’sever seen lands on his doorstep. It’s rare for strangers to venture into theirworld—rarer still for a fated mate to literally fall into your arms. But shedid, and he recognizes her immediately as his one and only.

 

Darci isn’t sure about the whole mate business. She just wants a normalhuman life, free from shifting. Ross won’t give up on her wolf and tries tohelp her accept her true nature and their mate bond. But the Full Moon is threedays away, threatening Darci with a potentially deadly shift, and certain packmembers would rather kill a human than help one. Darci might not survive longenough to trust Ross with her heart.

 

A thump from outside on his deck,heavier than the staccato taps of the hail, halted him in his foyer. Moreoffbeat thuds sounded near the front door.

Companyin this weather?

Noone would venture up his private road uninvited…

Hestalked to his door and released a bit of power in warning. If they were ashifter, they would likely take the hint. And if they didn’t… Well, he was adominant wolf, a Beta, and one of the alpha’s enforcers.

Theydon’t stand a chance.

Thefeedback froze his fingers on the doorknob.

Female.

Heinhaled. Damn, she smells good.

Human.Wolf.

Wait…both?

Thecopper tang of blood hit his nose. She’s injured.

Heflung open the door and caught his visitor off guard, one small, white fistraised to knock. The woman startled then fell forward. Ross caught her in hisarms then pulled her inside, kicking the door shut with one booted foot.

Thepetite female sagged against him, a shivering bundle of sopping wet woman.Underneath the dampness, her scent drop-kicked his gut.

Freshand sweet, like apples dipped in cinnamon and honey.

Hisbody perked up, taking extreme notice. A growl of possession threatened to tearout of his throat, and an ancient, primal energy stirred to life inside him,accelerating his pulse.

Holyhell, she’s my potential mate.

Thescent of her blood spurred him into action. He lowered her gently to the floor.“Are you okay?”

Hisinstincts urged him to check her for wounds everywhere, but he was a strangerand didn’t want to spook her. But goddamn, he wanted to touch her. Peel off herwet clothes. To see all of her and warm her with his body.

Witha jacket covering her torso, baggy jeans hiding her legs, and a ball cap pulledlow over her face, all he could see so far was her quivering pale chin, fullred lips, and delicate, trembling fingers peeking out from her coat sleeves.

“S-s-sorry,d-dripping all ov-v-ver your f-f-floor,” she said, her teeth chattering.

Hersnow-white fingers curled into fists, her arms trembling with the effort tokeep herself upright. Blood droplets dotted the floor plank near her hip.

Tohell with propriety.“You’re injured. Let me help you.” He pulled up her cap and damn near swallowedhis tongue.

Biggreen eyes blinked up at him from a face so pale it made him think ofmoonlight. Drenched, short black hair lay plastered to her head, the endsframing features reminiscent of the fairies his sister loved to draw.

Etherealbeauty. Want her to be my beauty.

Sheflinched and batted his hand away. “Stop,” she rasped before listing to herside, her body trembling.

Withthe cold or fear?

Hedesperately didn’t want her to be afraid. “Sorry. Please, let me help you. I’mRoss. You’re safe here. I promise.”

 

Celia Breslin lives in San Francisco, California, USA, withher family, including three feisty felines who like to stalk across herkeyboard while she’s hard at work crafting urban fantasy, sci-fi and paranormalromances. When not glued to her laptop, Celia likes to work out, read books (ofcourse!), hang with her family, and binge-watch sci-fi and fantasy TV shows andmovies. Matcha lattes keep her fueled for All The Life Stuff!

 

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High school is hard enough.Try surviving an ancient Egyptian deity.

Goddesses Don’t Care

The Goddesses of Mayhem Book 1

by Kim Baccellia

Genre: YA Fantasy, Mythology  

Getting a date shouldn’t be this hard.

Jordan Lake discovers an ancient bracelet in hergrandmother’s house and uncovers a family mystery that links her favoriteactress, Audrey Hepburn, a romantic movie, and an aunt she never knew. Jordanhopes the bracelet will bring her love. Instead, it brings one nightmare afteranother, unleashing Hathor, the Egyptian love goddess, who decides it’s fun tomess with the McKnight High School social scene. Jordan holds the key tovanquish Hathor, but will she figure out what it is in time to save her school,one of her best friends, and get a date to the Valentine’s Day dance?

 

*Re-Releasing Soon Before Christmas!!*

Award-winning author Kim Baccellia grew up in Sacramento,California, the oldest of seven. She has a business associate degree fromSacramento City College, a BS degree in elementary education from Brigham YoungUniversity, and studied post grad bilingual/bicultural education at CSUF.

She’s been a telemarketer, library helper at the Harold B.Lee library at BYU, assistant manager, sales clerk, tutor, bilingual teacher,and homeschool mother.

Award-winning author. Author of YA paranormal CROSSED OUTand CROSSED FIRE. YA dystopia CANDLE IN THE WIND. Also the author of the urbandiverse fantasy EARRINGS OF IXTUMEA. Short Christmas Magic in the Holidayanalogy MISTLETOE AND MAGIC. Re-releasing YA fantasy series under new titles in2026! Currently working on a historical romance set in Tuscany.

 

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Enter the Goddesses Dont Care – Reveal Giveaway Here

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Three ghosts.

One psychic.

Zero patience for corporategreed.

A hilarious, fast-paced romp through the supernaturalunderbelly of the Isle of Man!

Three Shades CalledHorace

Witchery, Trickery, Love & Serendipity

by Jinx James

Genre: Humorous Paranormal Thriller

 

“delightfullytwisted…offbeat supernatural romp” Amazon Review ★★★★★

“A unique and hilarious story with a lot of twists and awesome revenge.I loved the ending!” Amazon Review ★★★★★

They have the magic, the visions, andthe afterlife on their side. But will it be enough to stop an ROI Reaper of theairwaves from hostilely taking over their dream?

Their “SuperMoon Show” is the viral hit of the year. Too bad the stars are all dead.

Pansy Peonie is apsychic with a problem. Actually, three problems, and they’re all calledHorace. As the host of the world’s craziest paranormal livestream, she spendsher nights herding her team of opinionated ghosts and her days trying to keepher witch mother from accidentally summoning something worse.

But when you’rethe top-rated supernatural show on the internet, you don’t just attractspirits—you attract sharks.

Enter RolloMansell: a ruthless media mogul who doesn’t care about the afterlife unless hecan monetise it. He wants the show. He wants the ghosts. And he’s not aboveusing a little corporate necromancy to get what he wants.

Now, Pansy iscaught in a high-stakes tug-of-war between the living and the dead. To save hershow—and her skin—she’ll have to outmanoeuvre a billionaire, survive a voodooconspiracy, and figure out if Rollo’s assistant, Max, is actually on her side.

Featuring a newcover and a tighter, more suspenseful edit, this revised edition of Three Shades Called Horace willkeep you on the edge of your seat, while laughing uncontrollably.

If you lovefast-paced paranormal suspense with sharp wit, mysterious secrets, and un

forgettablecharacters, dive into the newly polished edition of Three Shades Called Horace ]

 

**Celebrate the relaunch and get it FREE until Oct 3rd!!**

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    Over on theever-lovely Isle of Man, it’s turned out to be the most sensational evening.The Three Shades, Horace Flaccus, Horace Walpole and Horace Silver are alreadythere, hovering in the twilight, when PP and Fenella finally arrive on Pansy’smotorbike. They’re late as usual, but The Three Shades don’t seem tomind. After all, they do have all the time in the world, don’t they?

The team isgetting together at dusk, at an ancient place where they like to meet when theweather’s nice. It’s in the middle of the most beautiful circle of prehistoricstanding stones on the island’s southwest. This mystical place is situated on aremote hillside, one side of which looks across to the mountains and the otherdown towards the sea.

Hearing thevroom of a hot, racing motorbike heading up the hill towards them, the threeghosts turn their heads expectantly. Pansy, aka PP, parks behind the largest ofthe enormous stones.

She appearsfirst, walking briskly towards the Three Shades, unbuckling, lifting her helmetoff and shaking out her hair. Behind her, Fenella, her older, White witchpartner, picks her way over the rough ground.

‘We just haveto tell all you Horaces straight away!’ says Pansy, getting excited now.‘Barrett says the ratings for the last show were amazing!’ she gushes, adding,‘he even told us they were “Earth-shattering!” she grins.

‘Er, would itbe possible for you to explain to us what exactly that means, Ma’am?’ asks theever-polite Walpole.

 ‘What itmeans, gentlemen,’ says PP, grinning, ‘is that not only are we already gettinga huge worldwide audience, but it’s growing bigger and bigger with every show!’

‘And after thelast one,’ Fenella butts in excitedly, ‘we’ve had so many people trying to signup that Barrett has been overwhelmed. His computers and the social mediadepartment can’t cope. He’s having to put on more people every day to handleit!’

‘Yes, but, um,what precisely does all of this mean, Ms Pansy?’ asks Flaccus.

‘Look, I’msure we explained it to you before, Horace. Don’t you remember? Theviewers of our Supermoon show all over the world are also a part of theshow, right? They’re active participants with their “Cozmics”, saysPansy.

‘Well, yes, mydear, you certainly did,’ said Flaccus, with that lovely smile of his. ‘But I’mafraid that was the part I could never quite understand,’ confesses the RomanHorace. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he adds, looking seriously embarrassed now.

‘Not to worryat all, Horace,’ says Pansy gently. Flaccus has always been her favourite, eventhough she always enjoys teasing him.

‘Did you knowthat on the next show,’ she says, ‘the Supermoon is going to be theclosest it’s been to the Earth for sixty-nine years! Yes! And thatmeans that if we can add the viewers’ Cozmics together with all of that extraMoon energy,’ she tells them excitedly, making a fingers-crossed sign.

At that point,Pansy pauses, grins, and says, ‘Well, just try to imagine the powerinvolved!’

‘The technicalguys even think we might have enough energy,’ says Fenella, ‘to maybe bring youback in full colour… and all of you at the same time!’

‘All of us incolour…  and at the same time?’says Horace Walpole, getting really excited himself now.

‘Are you sure?’says Horace Silver, ‘In full colour?’

‘Absolutely!’says the by-now almost gushing Fenella! ‘Bye-bye to all that fuzzy black andwhite stuff, eh?’

They can allfeel the excitement rippling the air between them. The psychic, the witch, andthe three Horaces gathered in the magic circle of prehistoric standing stones.

‘It’s called “collectivemental focus”,’ says PP. ‘And that means that if it all works out, youthree guys will materialise as psychic energy through me!’

‘And that’d besooo cool, baby! Right?’ smiles jazzman Horace Silver.

Fenella grinsagain and nods; ‘But, how about this? If we can get enough Cozmics from the globalaudience, all three of you Shades may even seem to fully come back to life fora while!’

This time, allthree of them just stand there, totally gobsmacked!

‘Now, nobodyis certain exactly what will happen,’ says Fel, ‘but whaddya reckon,gentlemen? Let’s give it a go, eh?’ she gushes.

By now, they’reall totally in love with the idea… and it shows.

‘I’m afraid Istill don’t quite understand it,’ Flaccus says to her, almost flapping his togawith excitement, ‘but wouldn’t it be wonderful if it did actually happen?Especially for me after two thousand years in the shade!’

‘Hey, youcould even really “Seize the day!” says Pansy!

 

* * *

“It ischarming to totter into vogue.”

Horace Walpole

1717-1797

 ︎ ︎

**FREEBIE ALERT!!**

To celebrate the relaunch of Three Shades Called Horace,the author is having an exclusive giveaway of the supernatural short story TheHouse on Via Magliocco!

The House on ViaMagliocco

by Jinx James

Genre: Supernatural Dark Fantasy

 

To be beautifulforever. Would you turn down that offer?

 

A mesmerizing one-hour dark fantasy short read.

Silvia is a top fashion model who lives for the spotlight,but the camera’s love is fleeting. When she’s offered a mysterious assignmentat the secluded House on Via Magliocco, it feels like the ultimate canvas forher creativity and passion for dance.

But inspiration quickly twists into a feverish obsession.

As the mansion’s haunting music bleeds from her dreams intoher waking life, Silvia realizes she hasn’t just accepted a job—she has steppedinto a beautiful trap. The house demands a performance, the wealthy ownerdemands perfection, and the price of eternal beauty might just be her soul.

Get this exclusivesupernatural short story delivered directly to your inbox.

 

Get it FREE Here!

Bestselling dark humor fiction author Jinx James was born inthe UK and lives in Australia. He has worked in music and advertising, and hasalways been fascinated by charisma, satire, and what makes people laugh He usedto write comedy sketches for a well-known Australian TV and film star, but thatwas after he was in the music game, as a performer. Later came writing andproducing music for advertising, and for big events like the Sydney Olympics.All that time he was trying his hand at writing fiction, mostly humorous.Eventually it became his new way of living while having fun. He writes undertwo author names. As Jinx James his dark humor draws on his life in showbusiness. As dog lover Kit James, his Mutt to Megastar series features Elliott,a rescue dog who becomes a TV star.

 

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This hero of legend will encounter a challenge he has neverfaced before . . . 

present-day New York City.

Tempus Unbound

Sacred Band Series Book 6

by Janet & Chris Morris

Genre: Dark Epic Fantasy Adventure, Mythology

Is this the Lemuria of antiquity, or of times to come? Onceyou’ve ridden the storm clouds of heaven from the edge of time, anything ispossible. Demonic hordes threaten to destroy the very fabric of time itself.The fate of all humanity rests on the shoulders of Tempus the Black, Favoriteof the Storm God. But even this hero of legend will encounter a challenge hehas never faced before . . . present-day New York City.

 

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Not one of the hundred pillows in Chiara’s bedroomremained on her bed when the god finally had had enough of the woman who ruledhere as Lemuria’s Evening Star. She lay belly down on marble tiles in a slickof oil and wine and surrounded by candles he was quenching, one by one, withhis fingers.

His short sword gleamed from the midst of the mess, hairfrom her body and her head on its blade. He hadn’t done a protracted ritual forthe god in a very long time, and Lemuria’s rites rang as ancient and primal asEnlil’s name.

Their tryst had included moments when fear glazed herround, brown eyes, and moments when he felt certain the god overestimated whatTempus’ human flesh could give and hers could accept.

Still, he’d never killed a woman unintentionally, and althoughshe might hurt when passion fled, now she merely lazed, intoxicated, malleable,sated and unresisting in the middle of the floor.

Once he’d snuffedthe last candle, she reached for a pillow and propped her chin upon it so shecould watch him more easily.

The big bed might have been easier on her, but she andthe god had done things by the book. Still on her belly with the pillow underher jaw, she said, “You’ll really go with Rath and Mano into their horrid worldtomorrow?”

“You tell me.” He was hunting for his leathers among herpillows.

“Stay here. Withme. We could recast the lot. You could be free of your god forever, here. Stay,and you’ll learn of pleasures you never dreamed . . .”

“I’m a fighter, a soldier, a simple mercenary who had thebad luck to fall in with an insatiable god. It’s been so long, I wouldn’t knowhow to do anything else.”

“You could be the first not to succumb to Lemuria’slegerdemain. Don’t cast a lot, and you’re safe here until you do. We havestrife close at hand, should you crave excitement: all the strife of manylands. From here you can help all of humanity — ”

“You must havemistaken me for a politician or a would-be king. I’m not the one to chart anysoul’s course. Not after what I did with mine.”

“What do youwant, then?”

And Faun’s wordscame back to him: “Survival, that’s the thing.”

Don’t miss therest of the Sacred Band Series!

The Sacred Bandof Stepsons series is Homeric and heroic fiction following the exploits of anancient cavalry unit modeled on the Sacred Band of Thebes. Deftly mixinghistory, myth, and fantasy, Morris’ Sacred Band of Stepsons live and die in aworld where gods are real and magic works — sometimes.

Morris’accursed cavalry commander, Tempus, first appeared Sacred Band first appearedin the million-selling Thieves’ world shared-universe in 1981. Subsequently,Janet Morris, first alone and subsequently with her husband Chris Morris, takethe Sacred Band into their own series of novels, set in the fourth century BCE.Passionate, gritty, lyrical prose and unforgettable characters make thisseries. Perseid Press Sacred Band novels includes the “Author’s Cut” of theBeyond Sanctuary Trilogy and Tempus, as well as the epic novel The Sacred Band,and The Fish the Fighters and the Song-girl.

 

Find them at Perseid Press

Best sellingauthor Janet Morris began writing in 1976 and published more than 30 novels,many co-authored with her husband Chris Morris or others. Most of her fictionwork was in the fantasy and science fiction genres, although she also wrotehistorical and other novels. Morris either wrote, contributed to, or editedseveral book-length works of non-fiction, as well as papers and articles onnonlethal weapons, developmental military technology and other defense andnational security topics.

 

Christopher CrosbyMorris (born 1946) is an American author of fiction and non-fiction, as well asa lyricist, musical composer, and singer-songwriter. He is married to authorJanet Morris. He is a defense policy and strategy analyst and a principal in M2Technologies, Inc. He writes primarily as Chris Morris, but occasionally usespseudonyms.

 

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In a semi-abandoned haveli deep in Rajasthan, a woman on asocial work project finds herself drawn into an enigmatic bond with a man — andinto the secrets the ancient walls have kept for generations, discovering herown identity along the way.

The Desert Awakening

by Gitanjali Bhagia

Genre: Mystery, Romantic Thriller

In a semi-abandoned haveli deep in Rajasthan, the desertwind still carries whispers of the family that once lived within its crumblingwalls.

When Soma travels from her life in Mumbai back to the landof her ancestors, she isn’t looking for love — she’s looking for herself. Butthe haveli has other plans. Drawn into an enigmatic bond with a man as guardedas the house itself, she finds that every question she asks about him leadsback to a secret the ancient walls have kept for generations. As the linebetween attraction and danger blurs, and the past refuses to stay buried, Somamust decide how far she’s willing to go — through Mumbai’s crowded streets andRajasthan’s sun-baked silence — to uncover a truth that could unraveleverything she thought she knew about her family, and herself.

For readers of The Henna Artist and The Palace of Illusions,THE DESERT AWAKENING is a slow-burn thriller-mystery-romance about identity,inheritance, and the secrets that outlive the people who kept them — written bya debut author whose own grandmother’s stories from Rajasthan inspired thenovel.

 

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from Chapter 1

    The place was picturesque from a distance. Built in the 19th century, the sandstone facade remained untouched allowing it to surrender its grandeur at dusk. Two domed structures at each end of the south side guarded the balconies of the main chambers. The original Indo-Islamic architecture was preserved from the north entrance with its intricate jaal stone gate, arched windows, and floral reliefs flanking the main wooden doors. The two-door access was a towering replica of the original fort-like entryway with a series of symmetrical melon-sized brass knobs accenting the simple wooden frame. Concrete and cement managed to invade the interior of the house after generations of reconstruction. Centrally, a courtyard outlined by a veranda echoed with voices of the past. A step down from the veranda, a garden once flourished intermingling jasmine and rose essence. Now it was diminished to soft desert sand with a few staggered terracotta planters making a feeble attempt to instill life into the semi-abandoned haveli.
Malti sat on the edge of the veranda patiently with her bare cracked feet immersed in the cool sand. She had aged with the house, transforming her role from an ayah to general caretaker, now bearing the burden of holding the immense gate key. The sole resident of a former bustling household, she sat motionless. Adorned with a turmeric-stained crumpled cotton flowing skirt and tattered brown shawl, she waited for his arrival. Without any sign of anticipation, she rested on the mosaic tile of the veranda staring blankly at the wall in front of her. He mentioned that he would return at the end of the monsoon. It had been 2 days since the last rain.
Malti looked away from the paan-stained wall and into her past — 26 years ago. She clearly heard him shouting, “Malti-ma! Malti!” He came running straight through the garden toward the kitchen where she was supervising the other maidservants Meera and Radha in sifting lentils and churning fresh cream for the evening meal. “I got first prize in 2 subjects…math and painting!” Avi pulled the bronze Aladdin lamp trophy with its white marble base out of his overflowing backpack. As a fourth-grade student now, he felt bigger than ever. Malti was expressionless as she looked at his mark sheet. “Hmm. I see that you can still do better.” Malti could only understand the numbers on his sheets as she had barely completed elementary school and could only read in Hindi. All his scores were pristine, but he was just shy of honors in his moral science class — a course that he would question throughout life. Avi was far from phased by her lack of enthusiasm because he knew he would be rewarded in due time with homemade kulfi ice cream swimming in rose syrup. Before she could tell him to change out of his uniform, he raced down the long corridor and slammed the door to his room demanding the attention of his two older cousins.
Malti was jolted by the clanging sound of the wrought iron gate. She knew he had arrived. The iron gates creaked open almost by themselves — welcoming Avi to the ghosts of his past. As much as he tried to ignore the memories of his childhood in the village of Khuri, they kept surfacing and the smell of the damp sand only heightened the queasiness from nostalgia.
Avi had spent the last 14 years in the States building a separate life. He tried to replace the feelings associated with his native land with new strides of the immigrant dream. It was not bitterness or resentment that caused him to suppress his childhood links… but a true longing for a past that could never be reproduced. The buzz of servants and his cousins and uninvited neighbors dropping in for a cup of tea amidst the morning calls of peacocks on the terrace, the vegetable seller repeating his call for the day, cows and water buffalos calling out to their herd… All of this tumultuous hubbub actually brought peace to his inner being. He was infused with a sense of belonging only to be shadowed by the desire to seek a sense of purpose. Avi was the first in his family to venture abroad; he thought this would be the pinnacle of perfection. Lost in the glamour of this illusion, he discovered nothing but the true meaning of loneliness. The urban landscape of his studio apartment in DC was no sanctuary. Residents in his buildings were like drones programmed to hover back and forth from work to home and home to work with absolutely no break in routine. Colleagues at work would perhaps start a shallow conversation, meet up for the happy hour ritual but always leave with the same cold affection. He felt a disconnect from everyone… including his wife, Anna.

Gitanjali Bhagia is a first-generation Indian American. Sheis not just a dedicated ophthalmologist practicing in Northern Virginia but astoryteller woven from the threads of her own diverse heritage. She findsinspiration in the rich tapestry of her ancestry, especially in the legacy ofher beloved grandmother, Vimla Bhagia, whose tales from her family’s home inRajasthan, India, ignited her imagination from a young age.

Born in Pennsylvania and raised in North Carolina, Gitanjali’s cultural rootsbecame the fertile soil from which her passion for writing blossomed. Herfrequent visits to Rajasthan not only connected her to her familial history butalso stirred a deep appreciation for the mystique and allure of the Indiansubcontinent.

With her enchantment of the tales whispered by the sands of Rajasthan,Gitanjali weaves narratives that transport readers to captivating worlds. Herwriting carries the essence of her cross-cultural experiences, inviting readersto explore the intricate nuances of identity, heritage, and the humanconnection.

 

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On the road to music fame,

desire and dreams collide.

Teardown

by William Campbell Powell

Genre: LGBTQ+ Contemporary Fiction

Growing up in a dead-end, Thames Valley town like MardenCombe, Kai knows there’s no escape without a lot of talent, hard work—and luck.

Two weeks before the Clayton Paul Blues Band plans to set out on tour toGermany, their singer quits, and drummer Kai takes matters in hand. Withbandmates Jake and Jamie, they recruit a talented new singer—the enigmaticDominique—as the new face of the band and set out on the road to Berlin in arickety white van.

Dogged by mishaps and under-rehearsed, the band stumbles through their firstshows, zig-zagging between chaos and brilliance. But as the first gig in Berlindraws near, the band begins to gel. They’re clicking with their audience, andeven the stone-hearted Kai starts to crumble under the spell, first of Dom andthen…of Lars.

As the end of the tour approaches, Kai must make hard choices. Dom? But she’skeeping a dark secret. Lars? Not after the acrimony of their last parting. Theband? Or will that dream crumble too?

 

**On Sale for Only .99 cents on Amazon!**

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ChapterOne

Sunday, September 18, 2016

The Band Hut, Marden Combe

The bus stank of commuters. It wasn’t like a night bus, granted, butthe mix of sweat and cheap scent—and the pungency of diesel—was anotherreminder of how much I hated Marden Combe.

A Thames Valley town like every other Thames Valley town, Marden Combehad a posh, blingy bit, where the bankers, footballers, and celebrity chefslived. The rest ran the spectrum from dilapidated through demolished to barelyaffordable modern rabbit hutches. The old town centre was closing down, and thenew shopping centre was gridlock hell.

The bus lurched and swung left, past a school named for a long-deadparliamentarian. Or possibly a royalist. I ought to know; it had been my oldschool till I’d turned sixteen. But it had all seemed irrelevant to the moreimmediate problem of not getting picked on for being different. There were adozen ways and more to be different, whether it was for being too ugly, toogeeky, too slow on the uptake, too shy, too dark, not dark enough, having afunny accent, or a fundy religion, or being neurodivergent, being too posh,being too poor, liking the wrong music, or football team, or playing oddballsports, or using last year’s tech; not liking girls, not liking boys, notliking either, liking both. Plus others, plus combinations. By more than onemarker, I was weird, and I hadn’t always kept my head down. But there’ddefinitely been no bullying at Sir Long-Dead-Parliamentarian School. OrRoyalist, as the case may be. Oh no.

That didn’t come close to summing up the suffocating, hope-crushing,soul-sucking, shit-brown hole that is Marden Combe. I needed to escape.

If I had a plan, it was that music would save me, as currently embodiedby two pairs of drumsticks in my backpack and the cymbals in their hardcase.I’d found a few other muzos with a similar plan, and I was heading for theweekly escape committee meeting.

*

The bus crawled through the town centre—the closing-down bit, where thelast of the character pubs struggled to keep their doors open with, as always,the pressure on the landlords to boost profits, cut costs, and servesalmonella-free food, or be booted out with a mountain of debt.

I gave it a nostalgic glance as the bus passed the Lord Nelson, boardedup and awaiting planning permission for conversion to flats. Once, the verybricks had rung with rock and oozed the blues. Once. Now, it was just anotherlive music venue, dead and gone forever.

Still clinging on: the Cherry Tree, where we played a one-in-fourSaturday night residency, alternating with rivals the Dave Green Blues Band,the twice ill-named Silent But Deadly, and a guest out-of-town band for thefinal Saturday. That residency was our lifeline, our oxygen, dependent on ourability to bring in the punters and dependent on the other bands too. Rivals wemight be, but every band had to pull its weight.

Last night’s gig had been borderline, thanks to the competition fromfreshers’ week at the uni. Jeff and Simon had shown the strain as they’d sat usdown after the gig to pay us. A dear old couple, they did what they loved forbugger-all profit. Simon, a long-term AIDS survivor, was a respected leader inMarden Combe’s tiny LGBTQIA community. They were never less than friendly to usas a band or to me personally, but yesterday, Simon got as near to reading theriot act as made no difference. Times were tough, and if our audience numbersdidn’t pick up…

We got the message.

The lights changed. The bus lurched into motion, taking us up the hill,towards Marden Combe’s main industrial estate.

*

The bus passed an abandoned car on the grass verge. Last week, a signon the windscreen said Police Aware, but evidently, not so aware that someonecouldn’t set fire to it in the interim. That was my cue to get off. I rang thebell, and the bus pulled to a halt about fifty yards short of a block ofsingle-storey industrial units. It had been built in the 1960s, and thebrickwork left much to be desired. Ditto the ironwork and the paintwork. Don’teven think about asbestos. The third unit along was the one I was looking for.The sign read The Band Hut, and it fit right in with Marden Combe…

I pushed open the door, and all was gloom within. Thick cardboard andfelt covered the windows. I called “Hi” to Wally at the front desk, hunchedover his phone, and the autopilot grunted back. I moved past room 1 (afolk-metal trio), room 2 (empty), and into room 3, signed with gloss whitepaint roughly slapped over its matt black outer door.

Usually, with great rock stars taking interviews in their home studios,there wasn’t an amp in sight unless it was some boutique marque they’d beenpaid to endorse. The studio would be airy, bright, and wood-panelled in glossypine, with walls featuring three or four iconic guitars. Double-insulated patiodoors would lead onto a beautifully manicured lawn, the whole set tastefully inthe Cotswolds.

In Marden Combe, they did things differently. Black felt covered thewalls and ceiling of Studio 3. Underfoot, recycled carpet tiles clung to myshoes, sticky as only years of spilt beer could accomplish. Worn and curlingpatches showed where the bass drum spikes had caught between two tiles andwhere the studio’s cobbled-together frankenamps had been dragged too manytimes. Gaffa tape glinted under fluorescent lights, hasty repairscriss-crossing the floor. Other marks—cigarette burns mostly—clustered roundthe amps; the still-potent reeks of ancient tobacco and stale weed lurked atthe edge of awareness. A tired but eclectic collection of posters hung on thewalls, providing a potted archaeology of Marden Combe’s indigenous music of thelast half decade.

Jake was already set up and sitting on a Band Hut amplifier, cradlinghis beloved Fender Stratocaster. He didn’t look up, but I didn’t expect him to.He hunched over the fretboard, fingers spider-dancing their scales. Half inshadow, he was a little spiderlike himself, all spindly limbs that gangled andwrithed. His hair, too pale for a spider, was cut short and neatly combed.

After a minute, he finished his phrase, and we nodded to each other.Jake wasn’t a great conversationalist, so I didn’t push him out of his comfortzone. It was called ‘letting the music do the talking’. It suited both of us.

It took me about ten minutes to get the studio’s drum kit set up theway I like it, with my own cymbals in place. All the while, Jake happilynoodled on his Strat. Clay breezed in just as I was finishing up.

Clay was the kind of guy you’d want fronting a blues band. Beautiful,with ebon-black skin and close-cropped hair, he had a solid baritone voice witha growl that went up to eleven. Today, he wore jeans and a T-shirt from a KylaBrox show, but on stage, he was sharp-cut suit and moves. Twenty-sixyears old and—speaking entirely in my capacity as detached observer—hot andclassy as fuck.

“Hi, Clay,” I called.

“Hi, Kai. Where’s Jamie?”

“He said he’d be a few minutes late. The boss is making him doovertime.”

Which, given that it was Sunday, was brother Jamie’s standard politefiction for his housemates roping him into cleaning the kitchen. A littleunfair, given that Jamie is possibly the tidiest human being on the planet. IfClay had been thinking, he’d have remembered that.

“That’s a bugger,” said Clay.

“Yeah. Tell me about it.”

But then he just stood there. Like a kid busting for a pee but afraidto ask the teacher.

“D’you need a hand getting stuff out of the car?” I asked.

“No.” He held up the flight case that held his mic and harmonicas. “Howlong do you think he’s going to be?”

“I don’t know. He said a few minutes, but I’ve no idea what that is inreal minutes.”

Clay sat on an amp, then got up and walked over to the soundproof door.He opened it and the second door beyond it. He peered through the gloom. Icould hear the folk-metal band getting into their groove, and good luck tothem, but I was glad there would be a vacant studio between us and theirsawtooth D minors.

No sign of Jamie though.

It was like something was up with Clay. I was almost tempted to ask himif he was okay. But what if he said no? That was why I didn’t ask personalquestions within the band. We played blues together, and we planned escape. Wememorised the names of one another’s significant others so we could be politeif they showed up at a gig. Clay’s significant other, Sirelle was—again, in mycapacity, et cetera, et cetera—hot, but she was also Little Miss Disdain. Jakedid not have a significant other that wasn’t made of wood and didn’t have sixstrings. Jamie had been a sore test of memory up until Louise, but he wascurrently unattached. That was it.

Clay was making me nervous though. So:

“Are you going to set your mic up, Clay? I’ll help you set levels soyou’re all ready to go when Jamie gets here.”

No reason he couldn’t do it himself, but I was also music tech, so Iwas allowed to ask.

“Uh, no.”

Then, he expelled a deep, doom-laden breath, and I knew this day, whichhad started only medium crap, was going to end full-on shitstorm.

“I can’t wait for Jamie,” he decided. “Ah, guys…I’ve got anannouncement to make.”

Jake looked up but carried on playing irritating little shreds.

“Good news?” I asked, more in forlorn hope than expectation.

“Well, yes. Sort of. I’ve got a new job.”

That doesn’t happen a lot in Marden Combe. Let’s not piss on the paradejust yet.

“That’s good. Well done. So, what’s not to like about that?”

“It’s…in London.”

“Good pay, then, I guess. But I don’t fancy your commute.”

“Oh, it’s not Central London. It’s in Acton. But you’re right about thecommute. Apart from that, though, it’s a pretty good job. It’s a real step upin my career.”

It was my turn to take a deep breath. “Okay. So why aren’t you dancingfor joy?”

“Well, it’s a big project, and they need to get started right away. So,I’m starting next week. There’s no flexibility on that date. We’re up againstthe wire.”

“Right. What happens when you go on holiday the week after? Are theyokay with that?”

“That’s just it, Kai. This is a huge project. It’s a fantasticopportunity. I’ll be in right at the ground floor. I need to be there. I’vepromised them I’ll be there.”

Ah. This is goodbye, then. Why can’t you just fucking say it?

“So what happens to the Clayton Paul Blues Band? What happens to thetour? Köln, Aachen, Berlin? All those German punters waiting to see us twoweeks from now?”

Clay wouldn’t meet my eye.

“I can’t pass this up, Kai. It’s a dream opportunity for me.”

“And you can’t wait?”

“They won’t wait. I aced that interview, but there’s a bunch ofguys almost as good, ready to start tomorrow. White guys.”

“That shouldn’t matter. There are laws…”

“Shit, Kai. Don’t tell me you don’t know how discriminationworks. The manager liked me, stuck his neck out to make the offer. But if Istart pissing them about, making conditions… It wouldn’t be discrimination,no sir. But it would be ‘we need someone who can startimmediately’—that’s what they’d say.”

I nodded. I did know. White male privilege, Kai. “And the band?Your band. Us. The Clayton Paul Blues Band that goes on tour in two weeks?”

“I don’t know.” It was a scream of desperation, and it made Jake stopshredding. Something had gotten through to him.

“I don’t know,” Clay repeated, quieter. “It’s just a tour. It’s not thefucking Beatles going to Hamburg to find their destiny.”

“No, it’s not. In the great scheme of history, it’s just a piece offun.”

“Well, then. You’ll get over it.”

Eyeroll. Do you know how crass that comes across, Clay? And adeep breath.

“With the greatest of respect, Clay, fuck you. I do not plan to ‘getover it’. I said it’s just a piece of fun, but that’s why it matters. MardenCombe is a shithole of the first water. Nothing happens here. Nothing good hasever come out of here. If we stay here all our lives, dying will be the bestthing that ever happens to us.

“So yes, it’s a piece of fun. And no, it’s way more than that. It’s thehope of escape. It’s the dream in our waking lives that makes all the crapworth enduring—the crummy job or the even crummier no-job.”

A father who was too distant. A step-mom who was too close. But Ididn’t say it. Nobody else’s business.

Clay shook his head. “I can’t be responsible for the crap in yourlives, Kai.” It was a whisper.

Jake turned back to his guitar and started adjusting his pedal board.He wasn’t going to get involved if he could help it.

“Okay,” Clay continued, “you’d better cancel it—”

“Your band. Your tour. Haven’t you got the balls to cancel ityourself?”

“I thought…you could find a stand-in for the tour. If you wanted itthat much.”

“A stand-in? And keep the band going afterwards, Clay? Is that what youwant? This band as your bolthole, waiting for you to return when the new jobsettles down?”

I let that sink in, then asked him, “Can you commit to that?”

“Shit! I don’t know.”

“Don’t know? Or don’t want to tell us?”

“Put it on hold. We can put the band on hold, can’t we?”

“How long for?” I asked him.

“I don’t fucking know! I’ll be flying over to the US quite a bit. Andthere’s a bunch of guys in Japan I’ll need to work with. Six months, maybe?”

And then it hit me. I knew why Clay couldn’t meet my eye.

“The Cherry Tree. You must have known about this last night, and youdidn’t say a fucking word. We’re already in the Last Chance Saloon. This isBoot-fucking-Hill.”

I’d struck true. His mouth hung open, and the longer it stayed thatway, the more certain I was.

“Y-yes, Kai. I had the offer, but I didn’t know if I was going to takeit. Honest, guys. But I thought it over, slept on it, and knew I had to take mychance.”

Well, it might be true, but my money was on Clay being toochicken to stuff the band in front of Simon. It had been too long a pause,while he crafted a damage-limitation lie.

“This’ll cost us our Saturday slot,” I said. “You know that, don’t you?Simon knows we won’t find a new singer in time.”

“One of you could—”

“Simon’s already got a plan to fill our slot, else he wouldn’t havegiven us ‘the talk’ last night. He’s a lovely guy, but he’s a businessman too.”

“He wouldn’t do that to you, Kai. You’re one of his golden…kids.”

Well, it was true, about being a ‘golden kid’ at least. Simon had takenme under his wing when I first got the notion I might become Kai. But thatdidn’t change a thing because Simon taught self-reliance and owning theconsequences even while he was still putting the pieces back together, withhimself as the prime example.

“You know better than that,” I said. “He owes the band nothing. He owesme nothing. And neither of us would have it any other way.”

But I did owe Simon. Maybe what I owed him was enough notice to giveanother band a clear shot at the residency.

Which was all very noble but not the issue at hand. Time to wrapthis shit up, Kai.

“You said six months,” I began.

Six months. Six months without a band. I felt the dread rise up like awave, ready to pull me under. The Clayton Paul Blues Band was my life.

Had been my life.

Six months though. Six months was more than enough time to build a newband. If I could pull the rest of the guys through.

Jake was in shock, biting his lip. His eyes darted about the room, tome, to Clay, back to the fretboard, where spider fingers shaped chaotic chords.

“No good. Jake, you don’t want to be six months without a band, doyou?”

Jake put on his best rabbit-in-headlights gurn.

Bad move, Kai. This isn’t ‘pulling the guys through’.

But maybe I hadn’t screwed up. Maybe Clay sensed that the worst wasover.

“No, you’re right,” he said. “It’s not fair to ask you to wait. It’sbeen a blast with you guys, but all good things come to an end.”

He held out his hand. “Kai? No hard feelings? Maybe play togethersomeday when all this is done?”

I shrugged. But…why burn bridges? If I’d had the chance, wouldn’t Ihave done the same?

“Maybe.” I shook his hand. “Good luck with your escape from Alcatraz,Thames Valley. And don’t cancel the tour. I want to think about that.”

He shook hands with Jake too. There was an awkward silence. Jake wentback to his guitar and began dabbing harmonics.

“Look, guys,” Clay said. “I’d like to stay and say goodbye to Jamie,but I guess you’ll want to talk over what’s next, and you won’t want me aroundfor that. I’ve paid the Band Hut man, so the room’s yours till ten o’clockanyway. Least I could do. Okay?”

The Band Hut man. Clay, his name’s Wally. He’s been the set-up guyfor two fucking years here, and you can’t be arsed to remember his name.

Clay’s harmonicas and microphone were still in his flight case,unopened. He picked the case up, squared his shoulders, and left the Band Hut,leaving us to pick up the shards of a blues band.

Fuck.

*

Jamie wasn’t best pleased when he arrived a few minutes later.

“No Clay? I thought I saw him driving past as I got off the bus. Whathappened?”

Jake let me do the explaining. When I’d finished, Jamie’s comment wasbrief.

“Stupid bugger.”

Huh? I expected more support from my brother than that. Jamie saw myworried frown.

“Easy, Kai. I didn’t mean you. You were right to force the issue. Hewants us to give him a free pass back into the band if it all goes tits-up. Nodice. Shame about the tour—”

“Yeah. Shame Clay’s going to miss it.”

Jamie started to say something, but I rode right over him.

“I’ve been thinking about it, guys. We’ve put a lot of work intorehearsing for this tour, and I don’t want it to go to waste. It’s a vital partof the Plan.”

The Plan, which was to practise like crazy and hone the set with atour—yes, like the Beatles, but in less time. We had Deller Studio A booked inOxford for our return, ready to record a sizzling demo to impress the A&Rmen in London. Get a record deal. Spend the rest of our lives playing music andcounting money. And spend it somewhere that was not Marden Combe.

Meanwhile, Jamie was being practical. “But we’ve got no singer, no van,and no driver…”

“Hey, we can fix that stuff. Advertise for a singer. Find one who candrive a van. Hire a van.”

“That takes time, Kai.”

“We’ve got two weeks. One of us could sing.”

“Not like Clay.”

Jake perked up. Shit! The slumbering giant awakes…

“Yeah. What Kai said. One of us could sing.”

But not you, Jake. Please, not you. Behind Jake, Jamie rolled his eyes. One thing weagreed on.

“There’ll be a lot of admin too,” said Jamie.

“I guess that’s mostly me, then,” I replied. “You guys have got dayjobs.”

Jamie nodded. “Jake—anything else on your mind?”

“Yeah. Can we play now, bossman?”

“Yeah. I think we need to.”

I fussed around with the drum kit a bit for the sake of something todo. Jamie plugged his bass into the studio’s amp and twiddled a few knobs untilit sounded okay.

No microphone. Clay had taken his away with him. So I begged Wally, thefront desk guy, to find us a decent mic.

And, of course, with budget rehearsal studios, nothing’s free;everything’s an extra. Wally played hardman with me. He took the tack that,yes, Clay had paid, but that didn’t include unlimited mics. He pointed to theprice list on the wall.

“Ten quid, Wally? You cannot be serious. Show me something that’s worththat much.”

So, he reached into a drawer and pulled out an offering. “It’s a Shure.Top-line mic.”

I shook my head. “It’s a fucking museum piece. Look—the windshield’sdented. Somebody’s dropped this, hard. And the lead’s missing a grub screw. Youcan’t charge ten quid for this shit.”

He opened his mouth to reply.

I wagged a finger at him. “Here’s five quid and a five-star review foryour customer service. Promise. Okay?”

“Done.”

I set up the mic—it crackled, and I wondered whether I’d sold my reviewtoo cheap. We argued about who’d go first, and Jake won.

Live, we always set up a special mic for Jake to do backing vocals. Imixed it up, prominent in the stage monitors, but it didn’t go anywhere nearthe main bus. We endured it so the audience didn’t have to.

That trick wasn’t going to work in the studio though. We had to befair; we had to let him try. Jake gave it his all.

“‘Serves You Right to Suffer’, guys,” he said, grinning and bizarrelyaware of the irony of his audition choice. “John Lee Hooker.”

Indeed, a prophetic choice. Jamie and I set up a slow blues pattern,and Jake dived in on guitar, catching the groove. He took the guitar down tonothing and growled the opening lyric. Then he searched for a pitch, found anote he liked and hung on to it, while Jamie struggled on bass to find the keyhe’d chosen. Then Jake played a riff in the original key, clashing horriblywith Jamie’s bass. Jake glared at Jamie, who reverted to the original key.

Jake choked the guitar back again. His voice found another note heliked. This time, Jamie stuck to the original key and earned another black lookfrom Jake. It went on like that a long time, back and forth between randomkeys, and whatever Jamie did was wrong. After a couple of verses, Jamielaunched into an unmistakable this-IS-the-end-of-the-song fretboard run beforeJake had a chance to start a new verse.

Jake turned to me. I guessed Jamie was in all kinds of bad books forpissing about with the bass line.

“How was that?” he asked, puppy-dog eager to start his new singingcareer.

“That was…astonishing, Jake.”

It was all I could think of to say. It was even true. Technically‘astonishing’ could mean bad as well as good. But as I saw a puppy-dog joy fillhis eyes, I knew I’d said the wrong thing. The unvarnished truth would hurt himdeeply.

Jamie saved me. “What happened to the guitar, Jake? I don’t think Icaught much guitar.”

“That? No. I guess it was a bit sparse.”

“We do need your guitar. Very much.”

“I’m not sure I could do both. I could learn.”

I jumped in. “Let’s make it our plan B.” By which I meant our plan Z.“Your guitar is too important to our sound. Jamie? Did you want to try?”

Jamie liked to bounce about on stage, so I couldn’t see how that wasgoing to work, live. Despite that, he wanted to try out, so we ran through acouple of numbers. He wasn’t bad—we already knew his pitch and timbre were goodenough for backing vocals—but he wasn’t happy.

“You don’t have to tell me, guys. That was shit. I can’t syncopateagainst the bass line. I can’t put any feeling behind it. Not the way Claycould. Your turn, Kai.”

So I pulled the mic stand around to the side of the kit, set it up soit didn’t get in the way of the hi-hat, and we gave it a go. I picked ‘I Comefrom the Blues’, which was one of Clay’s compositions. It had fallen out of theset sometime in the last six months, but I loved Clay’s soft, jazzybutterscotch vocals on it. If it had been up to me, it would still be in theset, but Clay had said he wanted to move on.

Where did I come from? I come from the blues.

Where am I going? I’m going to lose.

Where is my future? I’m sure I have none.

Where is my hope? My hope is all gone.

I’ve always sung along—off-mic and under my breath—so I didn’t have anytrouble fitting the words in the right places. And I’ve got decent pitch andrhythm. So I think I did all right.

Now, Jamie wouldn’t meet my eye.

“What?” I demanded. “What was wrong with that?”

He mumbled something.

“I can’t hear you, bro. What did he say, Jake?”

Jake looked away. He didn’t want to get involved in any squall betweenme and my brother. Besides, he’d used up all his words for the day.

“I’m not sure how to put this, Kai. You’ve got a good voice. It’s,well…not very, well, rock’n’roll. No…grit. Too pure. Sorry.”

“I see.”

“Look, we’ll ask around our friends. Social media. There’s got to besomething online.”

I didn’t say anything. I was thinking lots though. About how I’ddiscovered that this was something I really wanted to do. And could do. Allthat bullshit about ‘too pure’—no, my voice was good. Damn you, Jamie. I willsing. In this band, if possible. If not…

The rest of the practice was conducted with icy politeness. We mostlyplayed instrumentals. Jamie sang the few bits where we absolutely needed thevocal cues. I sat behind the kit pretending to be okay.

It was crap.

 

William lives in a small Buckinghamshire village in England.By night he writes speculative, historical, crime and other fiction. His latestnovel – TEARDOWN – is published by NineStar Press and is widely available ineBook and paperback formats. Previously, his debut novel, EXPIRATION DAY, waspublished by Tor Teen in 2014 and won the 2015 Hal Clement Award for betterthan half-decent science in a YA novel – the citation actually says“Excellence in Children’s Science Fiction Literature”. His shortfiction has also appeared in DreamForge, Metastellar, Abyss & Apex andother excellent ‘zines. By day he writes software and in the twilight he singstenor, plays guitar and writes songs.

 

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Two weeks before her wedding, Aurora Larrimore slapped her wedding planner, punched her florist, stole the florist’s van, and drove off.

Is Aurora missing, or is she just gone? Those are two different types of investigations.

Why Aurora Ran

by Nora Kingsley

Genre: Mystery

Two weeks before her wedding, Aurora Larrimore slapped herwedding planner, punched her florist, stole the florist’s van, and drove off.

Her family calls her unstable. Melissa “Pissy Lou” Jenkins isn’tconvinced. A blunt, brilliant skip tracer for the family’s law firm, Pissy Lounotices what everyone else misses, and her Tourette’s has a habit of announcingexactly what she thinks of the people she questions. She is sent to find Aurorain time to save the wedding, and she starts with the question nobody elseasked: is Aurora missing, or is she just gone? Those are two different types ofinvestigations.

Her interviews turn up stories about a controlling mother, a fiancé whoseanswers don’t fit, and a carefully polished lie the whole family seems to beprotecting. Before Pissy Lou can find the runaway bride, she has to answer thequestion at the heart of the case. Everyone involved in the wedding has atheory about Aurora, but Pissy Lou is the only one asking why she ran.

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Chapter4

Vendorsand a Client

 

Pissy Lou was at her desk by eight the next morning. Shepoured her yellow-orange mug full of iced coffee and opened her notebook to afresh page. The Larrimore file was open in front of her. She had a list ofcalls to make before she drove out to Devereaux Heights, where Richard andCeleste Larrimore lived. She had verified information on the people she hadintended to talk to the day before.

First on her list was the caterer,a woman named Darlene Puckett who ran the Fork & Flourish out of acommercial kitchen on the east side of town. Ms. Puckett answered on the secondring.

After introductions, Pissy Lou gotdown to work. “What did you do when Celeste Larrimore called to change the menufor the wedding?

“I told Aurora everything,” Puckettsaid. She had the tone of a woman who was waiting to talk about this situation.“As soon as I realized what her mother was doing, I called Aurora directly. Idid not care whose toes I stepped on. It is her wedding.” She paused. “Thatwoman, Celeste Larrimore, called me four times in two weeks. She wanted to swapout the entire menu. Aurora and Hayes had tasted everything; they’d signed offon a menu, and we had a contract. The menu was set. Then here comes Celeste wantinganother tier on the cake, to swap out the wedding topper, and then she wantedchicken marsala and salmon added to the menu. She said Aurora was ‘tooinformal’ in her choices, like it was a character flaw.” Another pause, adeliberate one. “I have dealt with a lot of difficult mothers of the bride.That woman is in an extra-obnoxious category by herself.”

Pissy Lou thanked her and moved on.

The printer, a slow-talking man whoidentified himself only as “Bill, from Printed to Perfection,” confirmed theinvitation situation, Aurora and Hayes had selected a plain card with anelegant texture, letterpress printing, a classic Garamond font, and wordingthat named them both first and their parents second. Celeste had called andinstructed him to change the wording so that it read: “Mr. and Mrs. RichardLarrimore request the honor of your presence at the marriage of their daughter…” which was not what Aurora had ordered, and not what was on the signedproof. Celeste provided her credit card, so he did a second run with the newwording. He then emailed the new proof to Aurora. She called back and soundedangry. She told him to throw those out, and hoped he still had the originalinvitations. He did. She also made him promise to call her again if Celestetried to change them again.

“This happens more often thanyou might think,” Bill said in his deadpan way. “Parents argue aboutwording. Grandparents argue about wording. I once had a bride’s aunt threatento sue over cardstock. That is why I never throw invitations away until afterthe wedding. Somebody is always upset about something.”

“Was this unusual?” sheasked.

“As I said, no, happens allthe time. But this was a bit new, Aurora wanted me to call her personally ifher mother contacted me again. I mean the woman got caught the first time. Whywould she try it again?”

Pissy Lou’s call to BarbyAnneKnowles, the events coordinator at the wedding venue, was more involved. Auroraand Hayes had booked The Carrington, an estate property outside of town with abridal ceremony and reception space, gardens, and a catering kitchen. Celestehad called The Carrington and, citing unspecified “concerns,” canceled thebooking, then booked a different property, Magnolia Hall, which had a moreformal aesthetic. Pissy Lou suspected this site had a greater prestige amongthe circles Celeste traveled in. Aurora had called The Carrington, discoveredthe cancellation, and re-booked it immediately.

“I was surprised at how calm Aurorawas. If my mother had pulled that on me, I would have been swearing somethingawful,” BarbyAnne said. “Then she asked that no further changes be acceptedfrom anyone other than herself, and that such changes had to be in writing. Icould tell she had thought this out before she called. I have never had anotherbride who had to ask me to do th Her last vendor call was to Beaufort Bridal,the shop where Aurora’s gown had come from. The owner, Serafina Beaufort, ranthe store her grandmother had opened and had been dressing Nunenberg brides forover forty years. She remembered the gown without having to look anything up.

“Aurora picked an ivory,sleeveless couture gown, clean lines, no fuss. It had a slightly uneven hem,and ended just above her ankles so she could move easily. It suited herperfectly, and she knew it the minute she had it on. You can always tell,”Serafina said. “And she had an eye, that girl. She chose all fourbridesmaids’ dresses here too — peacock blue, midcalf, with three-quartersleeves of ivory illusion lace, and little flowers embroidered into the lace inthe same blue, so they seemed to bloom right on the skin. Each one was cut alittle differently, but you could see at a glance they belonged together. Thosewomen came to their fittings laughing, and every single one asked me if shecould wear hers again afterward. In this business, that is the highestcompliment there is.”

“And the bride’s gown?”

“Then the alterationsstarted.” Serafina Beaufort paused before continuing. “Her mother ordered thechanges directly, four separate times, and mostly between fittings, so Auroranever saw them coming. Lace sleeves. A higher neckline. Lace layered over thebodice. She addeda train and veil. Mrs. Larrimore was paying for the work, somy hands were tied, but every fitting, that poor girl came in and found less ofher own dress waiting for her. At the last one she said something about usturning it into a lacy burka. One of my fitters laughed. I did not.”

“Four rounds ofalterations,” Pissy Lou said. “Is that normal?”

“Honey, in forty years I havetaken gowns in, let gowns out, and re-beaded an entire bodice overnight for abride who changed her mind. I have never un-designed a dress four times for awoman who was not the one wearing it.” She paused. “I heard Auroratook the gown with her when she left. Good. She should burn it. I’ve unpicked alot of mistakes in forty years, but that gown’s got four rounds of her mothersewn in too deep for any seam ripper. Fire’s just the last alteration, and it’sthe only one her mother can’t reverse.”

“So, you think Aurora intendsto burn the dress?” Pissy Lou asked.

“Honey, if that were my dress,I’d pour a can of gasoline on it and strike a match,” Serafina saidwithout hesitation.

 

Nora Kingsley lives on Cape Cod in Massachusetts, where thelandscape, the weather, and the Atlantic provide a constantly changing backdropfor an active imagination. Why Aurora Ran is Nora Kingsley’s debut and thefirst in the Lou Jenkins mystery series.

A lifelong reader, Nora is happiest wandering throughhistorical fiction, mysteries, science fiction, and fantasy, especially booksthat offer a compelling world, an intriguing puzzle, or characters worthfollowing well past bedtime. Her interests extend beyond the page to music,movies, cooking, and art, and she has always been drawn to the many differentways people create and tell stories.

She shares her life with the people and animals she loves,an unreasonable number of interests, and the firm conviction that there isalways room for another book.

 

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Love made himdangerous.

Devotion will make him unstoppable.

Dark Night of theSoul

War of the Brotherhood Book 1

by Michelle Miles

Genre: Dark Paranormal Romance

Love made himdangerous. Devotion will make him unstoppable.

For centuries, Kincade survived by control.

Forged by the Brotherhood, he learned to bury his humanity, suppress hisinstincts, and become exactly what they needed him to be—a weapon. Darkness wassafer than feeling. Obedience was survival.

Then she changed everything.

When the woman he loves is taken, restraint shatters. The careful balance he’sfought to maintain slips—and the Brotherhood sees their opening. They want themonster he used to be. The weapon they never quite lost.

To save her, he may have to become exactly that.

As ancient secrets rise and factions fracture, the line between protector anddestroyer begins to blur. Every step closer to her pulls him deeper into thewar he tried to escape—and toward the darkness he swore would never rule himagain.

Because this time, love isn’t his weakness. It’s his point of no return.

Dark Night of the Soul is a darkparanormal romance set within the War of the Brotherhood—a high-stakes spin-off arc in the DreamWalker universe. You do not need to read the previous Dream Walker books toenjoy DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL. This spinoff is designed to stand on its own.

 

Perfect for readers who love:

* Dark, emotionally intense paranormal romance

* Immortal antiheroes and devotion-driven stakes

* Secret orders, hidden wars, and found family

* Love that becomes defiance

 

Content Note: This book contains dark themes and intensescenes, including violence, injury and blood, torture / forced restraint,psychological trauma, and situations involving coercion / control. It alsoincludes threats to a loved one. Reader discretion is advised.

 

“Dark Night of the Soul by Michelle Miles iseverything dark paranormal romance should be—intense, emotional, and completelyconsuming. I devoured it.”

— Michelle M. Pillow, NYT Bestselling Author

 

Available in eBook, paperback, and audio! 

 

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MICHELLE MILES believes in fairy tales, true love, and alittle bit of magic in every story. She writes fantasy, paranormal, and youngadult books packed with adventure, action, and swoon-worthy romance—becausewhat’s a story without a bit of danger and a whole lot of heart? From angelsand demons to dragons, elves, and time travelers, her books are filled withepic quests, fierce heroines, and the kind of heroes worth falling for.

When she’s not crafting new adventures, she brings storiesto life as a narrator and hosts Miles Beyond the Page, a podcast where shechats with authors about their writing journeys. A Texas girl through andthrough, she loves getting lost in a good book, binge-watching movies, hikingthe trails, and sipping a glass of wine. Come hang out with her on Facebook,Instagram, Pinterest, and more!

 

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Cursed as children.

Empowered as adults.

Now, they’ve been summoned to stop a force older than thegods themselves.

Stone Hearts

Olympian Awakenings Trilogy Book 1

by CB Samet

Genre: Greek Mythology Urban Fantasy Romance

Madison was cursed todestroy with a glance—until a prophecy calls her to fight beside the one manwho sees through her walls… and into her heart.

Cursed to turn the living to stone, Madison has spent herlife avoiding others—until a prophecy drags her to Greece to join a team ofstrangers to help stop an ancient evil. Among them, she meets Rex, abattle-scarred archaeologist with the power to heal and secrets of his own.

Together, they must survive deadly skirmishes, outwitmythical creatures, and recover the Armor of Achilles from the heart ofDaedalus’ labyrinth.

The deeper they go, the more the maze twists not just thepath, but their minds.

Failure isn’t an option. Succeeding might cost themeverything.

Magic. Monsters. Alove forged in fire. The battle is only beginning.

 

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Winds of Destiny

Olympian Awakenings Book 2

When a titan’s powersurges, mortals pay the price—and the Olympians must answer the call.

Layla, Tyler, and the other Olympians are thrust on aperilous quest across the Mediterranean and into the sunken heart of Atlantisto reclaim Poseidon’s trident. Their sea voyage is fraught with danger withdeadly monsters and diabolical magic at every turn. Only by learning totrust—and love—each other can they hope to survive.

Layla’s storm powers are tied to her heart, and to masterthem, she must first confront the emotions she’s spent years guarding. Tyler, ashapeshifter whose might can rival the fiercest beasts, may be the key to hercontrol—but breaking through the walls around her heart won’t be easy. Theirpast mistakes still linger, and some wounds run too deep for even the strongestpowers to heal.

Adventure, danger, and passion collide in this electrifyingcontinuation of the Olympian Awakens series.

Grab Book 2 and continue the thrilling ride!

 

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Flame and Shadow

Olympian Awakenings Book 3

A titan is rising.
And this time, the world may notsurvive.

Fire-wielder Zoey has spent her life afraid of her ownpower. Ancient soldier Alexios has spent centuries believing he was nothingmore than a weapon. Together, they’ve survived monsters, gods, and impossiblequests—but nothing prepares them for Kronos’s final move.

As fractures tear open between worlds, monsters pour intothe mortal realm and the boundary between life and death begins to collapse.When a desperate sacrifice strands Zoey in the Underworld itself, ancientwarrior Alexios must defy gods, fate, and death to bring her home—before sheloses her memories… and herself.

The final battle will demand everything from all sixchampions who have fought side by side: fire and storm, stone and steel,courage, sacrifice, and unbreakable trust.

Because defeating a Titan will take more than power.

It will take a family forged in battle—and two souls willingto burn for each other and the world they refuse to lose.

The explosiveconclusion to the Olympian Awakenings trilogy delivers epic Greek mythology,found family, and a sweeping romantic finale where love and legend collide.

 

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Stormborn & Flameforged

Olympian Awakenings Prequel

When fire meets storm, destiny ignites.

Zoey has always felt the burn of something more beneath herskin—an untamed fire that refuses to be extinguished. After years of hiding herpower, she’s finally found belonging and a chance to be normal… as a stuntdouble on a Hollywood set.

Layla is the picture of grace and fame, a star with a globalfollowing. But behind the camera, she’s hiding a dangerous secret: she cancontrol the weather.

When a monstrous creature straight from myth attacks duringfilming, Zoey and Layla are forced to reveal their powers—and discover they’renot alone. Chosen by ancient forces, bound by a forgotten legacy, the two womenmust join forces to face a truth that will shatter everything they thought theyknew.

Because the world is on the brink of chaos.
And this is only the beginning.

 

Get It FREE HERE!

Christina is a four-time award winning author in thriller,romantic suspense, and fantasy. She is a mother of two energetic boys. Sheis a lover of suspense, adventure, and happy endings. She writes action andadventure in fantasy, thrillers, and romantic suspense genres. Her novels haveempowered women overcoming powerful obstacles and the strong men who supportthem.

Favorite quote, ‘She needed a hero. So she becameone.’ –Robin Reed

 

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She was looking for a fresh start,

but some families hidedark truths behind closed doors.

The Au Pair’sDeception

by C.J. Covino

Genre: Psychological Domestic Suspense, Crime Thriller

Claire Sinclair knows what it means to survive.

After a childhood shaped by trauma, she’s built a liferooted in stability—a thriving career, a home filled with love, and a devotedhusband everyone envies.

But when Bella arrives as an au pair, the carefullyconstructed world Claire depends on begins to unravel.

At first, it’s subtle. A shift in tone. A look held toolong. A moment that feels wrong—but not wrong enough.

Until it is.

As Grant’s behavior escalates, Claire begins to questionherself—her instincts, her memories, the quiet unease she can’t quite explain.For the sake of her daughter, she holds on…even as something inside her startsto fracture.

But Bella sees what Claire can’t. She recognizes the signs.The patterns. The danger.

Because she’s lived it before.

As the tension inside the house builds toward somethingneither woman can ignore, the line between endurance and survival begins toblur—and the choice Claire makes next could cost her everything.

A layeredpsychological thriller told through dual perspectives, The Au Pair’sDeception explores what happens when two women—both shaped by theirpasts—are forced to confront the same danger from different sides. Combiningescalating suspense with emotional depth, it’s a character-driven story ofsurvival, resilience, and the cost of breaking free.

Trigger Warning: Thisbook contains depictions of domestic abuse and violence which may be triggeringto some readers. Please read with caution.

 

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Clairestepped through the front door of her colonial home, greeted by the scent oftomato sauce drifting from the kitchen. The comfort was exactly what she neededafter the heavy therapy session with Evelyn.  

“Clarkis here,” Grant called from the living room, his voice cheerful.   

Clairefroze for a moment, her stomach churning at the mention of his name. Somethingabout her husband’s friend had always set her instincts on edge.  

Sherecalled Evelyn’s words about instincts. She shouldn’t ignore them.   

“Great,”she muttered under her breath.   

Forcinga smile, she made her way through the foyer to the living room, where she foundGrant and Clark lounging on the couch. Their laughter rang out like a hauntingmelody, heightening her discomfort. Clark leaned back, his casual confidenceradiating, his gestures animated. The way he threw his head back and guffawedmade her nauseated.   

“Hey,Claire!” Grant said. “You’re just in time. Clark was telling me about this wildtrip he took last year.”   

Clarkflashed her a disarming smile. “A little ski adventure in Canada—nothing likeungroomed black-diamond runs for an adrenaline rush, right?” He gazed at Clairewith a menacing, glassy gleam.   

“Sounds…interesting,” she replied, forcing the words out as tightness gathered in herchest. Her focus shifted to Grant, hoping for a flicker of recognition that shewas unhappy to have Clark there, but he was leaning back with an amused smileon his lips.  

“Bellamade an Argentine dish, by the way,” Grant added, his tone light andcarefree.   

“I’mstarving.” Clark leered, his gaze lingering on her longer than necessary,making her blood run cold. “I bet it’s delicious. I’ve heard Bella has a knackfor cooking.”   

“Yes,she does,” Claire said, trying to mask her annoyance. It was already taking allher willpower to keep from asking why he’d come over.    

 

 

Clarkseemed too comfortable, too at home in spaces that were intimate for her. Hermind raced with memories of their wedding day and of Grant’s possessivedemeanor when Clark had made a joke that struck too close to home.   

“Iwas just telling Grant how lucky he is to have a woman who spends her dayssaving lives,” Clark continued, leaning forward as if drawing her into his web.“It must be tough to manage everything, but you do it so well.”   

Claireclenched her jaw. “It’s part of the job.”  

“Ofcourse,” Clark replied, his tone dripping with insincerity. “But you know, it’simportant to take time for yourself, too. I bet you could use a break.” 

“I’mfine.” Her voice was sharper than she’d meant. She could feel them both staringat her, their expressions curious.

Shewanted nothing more than to retreat from the room. Instead, she plastered on asmile and changed the subject. “Where are Bella and Olivia?”

“Don’tyou remember, dear?” Grant’s voice held a hint of irritation. “Olivia’s havingdinner at Rose’s house with Maya. Bella dropped her off.”

“Yes,of course. Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m going to change fordinner.”  

“Don’tbe gone too long, Claire,” Grant warned, his features tightening withdisapproval.   

Shewalked away, unable to shake the feeling that Clark was a dark presence in herhome.  

Onceupstairs, she collapsed onto her bed. Her head was pounding. She squeezed hereyes shut, trying to quell the pain. She hadn’t had a migraine in severalmonths, but the signs were unmistakable—sensitivity to light and sound, an auraof flashing lights. Her body prickled with pins and needles.   

Shestruggled to sit up, pulled open the drawer in her nightstand, and retrieved abottle of medication. It would make her sleepy, but the alternative wasdizziness, chills, and vomiting, which were worse.   

Shufflingto the bathroom, she filled a cup with water and swallowed the pill. She caughta glimpse of herself in the mirror. Deep, dark circles framed her eyes. Herskin was pale, her lips tinged blue. She dragged herself back to bed, her kneesweak. If she could rest for even a few minutes, maybe she’d make it throughdinner.   

Sheawoke to Grant shaking her. He spoke through clenched teeth, keeping his voicelow. “I told you not to be gone too long. You’ve been up here for over an hour.Everyone’s waiting. Bella’s ready to serve dinner. Not only is this rude toClark, but it’s also disrespectful to me.”  

Despitethe medication’s sedating effect, his words made her face flush with anger.

“Ihad a migraine. I had to take medicine. I didn’t have a choice. You knowhow bad these headaches can be.”   

Hesneered. “How convenient. You just happen to get a migraine when we havecompany. And the pills—you know they make you so sleepy you can’t function. Didyou take them so you’d have an excuse not to come down?”   

“No.”She tried to raise her head, but fatigue left her drained and foggy. “Iwouldn’t do that, Grant.”    

Hegrabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her to a standing position, and shookher. “You will get dressed, and you will come down. Now.”   

“Ican’t. I’m sorry.”   

Hisreaction was sudden. Yet time stretched thin, almost translucent. Her bodytensed before her mind could process what was happening. Then came the crack ofhis palm against her cheek, echoing in the bedroom, followed by his coldcommand: “Snap out of this, Claire.” Heat radiated across her face from thepoint of impact.   

Shestaggered back, pressing a hand to her cheek. They faced each other in frozensilence, tethered by a single thread of recognition that the line had beencrossed. Tears blurred her vision. Her mind rejected the harsh reality,insisting that the burning imprint of his fingers wasn’t real.   

Hereleased her and stomped across the room to retrieve jeans and a blouse fromthe closet, then threw them onto the bed.  

“Getdressed,” he ordered.   

Shemoved through a haze of disbelief, her motions mechanical, while he stoodwatching with his arms crossed.   

“Nowgo wash your face.” He followed her into the bathroom and turned the faucet tocold water. “Do it.”   

Shebent forward, cupping her hands beneath the water and splashing her face. Shecaught a glimpse of her reflection. A red handprint was stamped on one cheek.“I can’t go down like this. Everyone will notice.”   

Hereached for her foundation. “Put this on.”  

Sheapplied a thick layer, softening the mark, but the early signs of a bruise werestill evident.   

Hetook her hand, leading her down the stairs. “Smile,” he ordered under hisbreath.   

Whetherit was the numbing effect of the medicine, the shock of the violence, or purefear, she managed to force a smile. That moment—his hand, her cheek, thesting—had left an indelible mark, shattering her life around her.

 

 

By day, C.J. Covino is an online fitness coach helpingpeople live healthier lives. By night, she channels her devious side intowriting psychological suspense, starting with her debut novel, The Au Pair’sDeception: When Love Turns to Lies. She resides in sunny Albuquerque with herhusband of 40 years, three grown kids who safely flew the coop, and a literalzoo consisting of three dogs, a parrot, and a cat. She is powered almostentirely by coffee, a passion for travel, and the thrill of a good plot twist.Learn more at cjcovino.com and follow her writing journey on TikTok@cjcovinoauthor.

 

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