There’s a process I go through each time I start a new story. First of all, I have to find the right music to get me in the proper frame of mind and oh, if only I stopped there, it would be good. But I don’t. I also have to pick the right room fragrance, the right coffee mug, the right desktop photo, the right…well, you probably get the idea by now. Suffice it to say this: I redecorate. And usually I enjoy the process but this time around, I’m having a little trouble working up the proper enthusiasm.

See, I’m writing a pair of Christmas stories and I just can’t seem to get in the holiday mood. Part of it is probably the weather. Last winter was so long and so dreary and cold that I want to enjoy the summer weather rather than shut it out. But the bigger part is that I already spent a good part of last year in Christmas Town while I was working on yet another Christmas story. Honestly, how many months of candy canes, hot chocolate and carols can any one writer consume and still stay sane?

I’m burnt out on the season and, with my luck, right around the time I wrap up these stories, the real holiday season will be upon me and I’ll be grumbling and bah-humbugging my way through December. Luckily, I’m not alone in this. The main character in both stories start out feeling pretty much “over it” as well—until the holiday magic takes effect and transforms everything. Maybe I should hope the same thing happens to me? I think I could work with that.

In the meantime, let me leave you with an excerpt from a story that does not aggravate my symptoms of Christmas Fatigue since the Christmas in question took place over one hundred years ago–and in another country at that!

A blacksmith with a tragic past, a faery princess with an uncertain future and a love that burns like iron.

Excerpt:

That Christmas was the happiest Gavin had known since childhood. He was up early for Christmas Mass, leaving the house shortly before dawn, and leaving a pouting Aislinn in his bed with the promise he’d be back within a few hours time to fix breakfast for her.

While the world lay silent and cold, he made his solitary way into town, his path lit only by the stars that sparkled overhead and the Christmas candles that burned in the front window of every house he passed. And a thought occurred to him, as he walked along the empty lane, that each flame was a sign of hope for the future—and that, perhaps, he could feel an answering flicker, newly kindled in the darkness of his own heart. And he laughed at himself then, for putting on such airs and for the absurdity of his thoughts and his breath puffed out in little white clouds that melted away in the frosty air.

When he got to Saint Ita’s he found a seat in the very last pew, where he’d be sure of being among the first out the door when mass ended. He didn’t take Communion, although he’d made his Confession just the day before and he was sure Father Cullen would remark on that fact the next time he saw him. But too much had happened between then and now and his soul did not feel easy with the thought of it. Although he’d still have sworn to anyone who’d asked him that the woman he’d made love to the day before had been his wife, a small part of him doubted whether the Church—or Mairead herself—would choose to see things in quite the same way.

Not that he regretted his actions of the day before. To the contrary, he felt more at peace with himself that morning than he had in many a year. But his mind was so consumed with thoughts of repeating the act he barely heard a word of the service and hurried off as soon as it was over, before anyone could engage him in conversation, or take notice of his agitation.

Then it was home again, where breakfast and a sulky fae awaited him. Aislinn was wearing her own, repaired green dress and, at Gavin’s request, she once again resumed her impersonation of Mairead. It was obvious she was less than happy about it, however. But Gavin was in a good and generous humor so, once the goose was cooking, he took a few minutes to tease her out of her bad mood. He sat her on his lap, just as if she were his bride in truth, and fed her pieces of orange, tickling her as she tried to eat them until she laughed and then licking at the juice as it ran down her chin, until, finally, her smile was restored. And she rewarded him with several songs while he saw to the rest of the meal.

He did nearly spoil things again, though, before the food was even on the table for he would speak mockingly of the fae and their heathen ways, and question the usefulness of a woman who couldn’t even cook a decent meal for herself, just to watch her eyes smolder. And, also, to remind them both that she was not Mairead. But when at last he bowed his head to make his prayers—over Christmas dinner, at his own table, and with the semblance of his wife seated across from him, once again smiling at him indulgently—he was all but overcome with gratitude. Even knowing it to be an illusion, and a short-lived one at that, he still felt as though he’d been granted a taste of the life he’d once hoped would be his and he felt anew the wonder of the day.

And the prayers he said were humble and heartfelt and Aislinn was among the blessings he counted. For though he was still bemused by the strange course his life had taken, over the past few days, he was not unmindful of the fact that she was the root cause of much of his present contentment.

Iron can be purchased Here

When I write a story, the laws of physics need not apply. If I want a séance to call up ghosts, it does. If a witch casts a spell, it works. And, if my character flicks her fingers at a lamp, it flies. But when’s the last time I’ve seen that happen in real life? Never. Could it happen? Undecided. I’m one of those “I have to see it to believe it” folks, but damn, I’d really like to see it!

So I enjoy hearing about Lilydale, NY, the home of an awful lot of psychics, and about the early Spiritualists and table tipping. When I was researching for my character Casey Summers, I found the Cold War research angle very interesting. The USSR thought it would give them an edge over the enemy. What if the research goes on, but with different players? That makes Casey a hot commodity, with bad memories about her childhood as a lab rat.

A couple cool links:

Psychokinesis: Proving the Power of the Mind/Soul
PK: 20th Century Research
BioPK Experiments With Animals

Here’s a sneak peek from my upcoming release, Telekinetic Kisses, a scene in which Casey can’t quite control her gift:

“What were you thinking about?” Her brow wrinkled with concern.
Parker shook his head and put his finger over her lips. “Nothing.”

Then he rolled atop of her, keeping some of his weight on his elbows so he wouldn’t crush her, careful not to scrape her with the snap and zipper of his jeans. He lowered his lips to hers. Just a brush, a taste, but the kiss quickly escalated from chaste to consuming. Her fingers wove through his hair, grasped, and pulled him deeper, her mouth opened and their tongues meshed.

And the pillow next to them floated into the air.

“Holy shit.” He saw it out of the corner of his eye, but then Casey’s fingers caressed his jaw and refocused his attention on her. The pillow dropped with a barely perceptible whumpf back to the bed.

Casey smelled sexy, citrusy from her shampoo, exotic from the cream he’d smeared over her body. She’d spread her thighs wide on either side of his jean-clad legs, making it hard to resist grinding his hard-on into her. Her plump bare breasts pressed against his chest. He imagined the sensation of fabric rubbing against her sensitive tits. Suddenly, desperately, he wanted his clothes gone, but her arms and legs held him in a vise grip, and he drowned in her kisses.

Freeing himself slightly, his lips searched her neck, tasted, nipped, sipped. From her neck he licked to the upper curves of her breasts. He cupped her flesh with his hands, giving his mouth easier access to her taut nipples. He flicked his tongue along one areola and her moan reverberated through her chest.

“God,” he murmured, before opening his mouth so his lips could circle the distended flesh. He suckled deeply, her body bucked in ecstasy. Her fingers massaged his scalp as she held him in place.

And a lamp launched from the table straight into the air and did a somersault.

“Don’t stop,” she moaned, lifting her hand from his hair long enough to do something to the lamp, so it could land back on the nightstand.

He chuckled. “Never.” An occasional flying object just added to the moment.

So, tell me what you think of the excerpt, or tell me about your real life experiences with ESP.

~Shara

www.sharalanel.com

I love suspense. Whether it’s in my movies or my books, I love to sit on the edge of my seat and wonder exactly how everything is going to work out for the hero and heroine. How will they defeat the villain and save the day? Because, come on … you totally know it’s going to happen. Still, I love a good roller coaster ride of emotion. It makes me even happier if the author allows me a glimpse into the world of the villain. How do they tick and what motivates them to act the way they do?

But I’ve been noticing a trend in these bad guys. A push to make them darker and more sinister. I recently read a NYT best selling author whose villain was a pedophile complete with an attempted murder, kidnapping and abuse. Now, mind you, the author was veeeeery careful to skirt around the sexual assault. The child actually held the villain off throughout her imprisonment and subsequent rescue, but the boy that escapes in the beginning … not so much.

I didn’t name the author because I want to talk not about a specific novel, but about a trend I’ve noticed. Villains seem to be getting darker and more warped in their thinking. Their crimes grittier, darker, flirting on the edge of the envelope and I’m not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, the writer in me thinks brilliantly done, but the “mommy” reader in me thinks ick.

That doesn’t mean I’m not picking up these stories, it means I’m uncomfortable enjoying them because the crime is so heinous. And I’m curious as to whether I’m alone in this situation. People die in suspense stories. I have no problem with that. But like my movies, I want it to happen off-stage. I don’t want to read about the bloody details. I do draw the line there. Publishers obviously have their limits as well. We know the whole list. But do you as a reader stop when the villain/murder/chaos gets to a certain point or are you enjoying this edgier, more sinister trend?

While you’re thinking about it I thought I’d leave you with an excerpt from my vampire firefighter erotic suspense novella, “Shadows of Fire”, found in the Heart’s Afire-May anthology.

Clouds shrouded the moon as the vampire moved through the abandoned field. Some caring neighbor had probably come in today and no doubt sheltered the wayward animals. Just as well. After tonight, pig’s blood would no longer be needed for that heinous concoction that passed as vampire sustenance. Glenn’s death had solidified that.

Vampires were nocturnal creatures, born of blood, they lived by blood. To hell with modern views to the contrary. Ridding South Kenton of the contemptuous vampires who had weakened themselves had been necessary. Though the professor’s death should have been the end, the realization that one more fire would complete the purification spurred the beast forward.

Under the cloak of darkness the vampire searched Glenn’s house, but found nothing. Obviously, Glenn had hidden whatever he’d found in the professor’s office well. Had there been more time last evening, it would have been a pleasure to coax the information from his bloody lips. But misdirection required precision. The setup left in the barn fire could not have been more perfect. Killing the kid after Glenn resurrected the poor bastard had been an added pleasure. Staking the body to the pentagram was nothing short of pure genius. Already gossip of Glenn’s occult practices had begun to spread. Small towns survived on grist from the rumor mill. The lies had been whispered in the man’s own tavern tonight, for chrissake.

Now, the murderer needed to finish destroying the professor’s work. But the evidence Glenn had stolen from the man’s office—information that would no doubt spur others to follow in his footsteps—needed to be found and destroyed. Time was running out.

Standing on the back steps of the farm house, the monster listened to an owl cry a victory song in the darkness and its prey scream a death wail. It was a haunting sound that called to the vampire heart. “Life taken to give life.” The creed rode on the gentle breeze.

The rain had slowed around midnight and now, nearly an hour later, had finally stopped. It would make the long walk back to the bridge where the car was parked a pleasant stroll. The heavy boots clomped down the stairs and across the driveway. Clouds skittered across the sky and opened. The full moon beamed in all its glory upon the blackened barn, the rays of light stretching to illuminate Glenn’s vehicle. An obvious sign that couldn’t be ignored.

With a gentle push of air, the vampire stood at the cab of the truck. The moon glittered off a metal ring hanging on the shifter. Opening the door, the vampire leaned in to retrieve the key, and found the leather satchel hidden beneath the seat.

Fate had smiled down once again.

BUY THE BOOK

I’m a storyteller. No, really. I’m part of the oral tradition of storytelling, and I’m a traditionalist which means I don’t hold with long rambling sarcastic stories from people with a yen for stand up who just go on and on about their family vacation when they were five and expect everyone in the audience to be as fascinated. I learn folktales, and I tell them, but I don’t dress up and have props and crap like that. I use motions that suggest action (as opposed to suggestive motions) and my face and voice. I’ve trained over a thousand third graders to be storytellers, too. They’re naturals.

I’ve often wondered how much of my folklore background has infused my characterization and conflicts, and how much of my knowledge of how to tell a story to an audience has infused my techniques. There’s a way to slow a story down to make a moment stronger. There’s a time to move along. There’s a time to trick your audience, and a time to make them smile in a knowing way right along with you. And archetypes are a thing of brilliance.

I’m learning a new story this summer for the start of school. It’s a sweet little animal story about friendship and honesty. And I think it’s helping me with my erotic scifi. I love both my jobs!

***
Mima is a librarian with three cats in a tiny cottage in the Finger Lakes of NY. She writes magical sexy stories like the Bonded fantasies. Visit her at mimawithin.com.

It’s hot, sultry, weather guaranteed to make the senses lethargic and the body crave that sweet, sweet, afterglow from an erotic encounter.

Where? You pick the place and the partner…anywhere is good.
How? Let your imagination loose and tell all. Was it illicit? Did you almost get caught? Was it slightly wicked? Were naughty things done your mother warned you about?

Tell us…WAS IT WILD???

Come play flash fiction with the Sunday SEx crew. It’s already hot and the temperature is rising.

Just for a warm up exercise, here’s 100 words (more or less) to get started.
****

From: River’s Edge

Acutely aware of the big man next to her, River Prescott sat uneasily on the slip of ground next to the water. As always, Edge Grayson’s close proximity brought heightened senses and unnerving arousal. As though unaware of her disquiet, he took off his shirt, lay it to the side, and reclined on the blanket apparently intending to stay awhile.

Heat coiled in River’s belly and she had to resist the urge to reach over and touch his naked chest. Dark curls scattered lightly around tan nipples and when he stretched and put his arms behind his head, he displayed the dark tufts of hair that grew from his armpits.

Now it’s your chance. Make us pant…turn us on. We’re pushing the limits on flash fiction today.

Okay, I had a simple question I wanted answered – where did the phrase ‘don’t cry over spilt milk‘ come from. I mean, I‘ve heard people saying this for years and yet no one ever explained exactly why I would want to cry over spilt milk instead of just cleaning it up. If I was a child and mom had yelled at me because I‘d spilt milk, I‘d most likely be crying because I got yelled at, not because I spilt the darn milk.

In the interest of answering my own question I decided to take a few minutes to research the saying online. Oy Vey, talk about a kettle of worms.

I discovered the following:

The phrase originated in America during the Great Depression because the price of milk as a commodity had fallen so low due to its overabundance relative to demand, that dairy farmers were subsidized by the state to destroy their surplus in order to bring prices back up to a profitable level.

Or if you please:

This metaphor for the inability to recover milk once it has been spilled is very old indeed, already appearing as a proverb in James Howell’s Paroimiografia (1659).

Then again:

The origins of this saying are unclear, however, it most likely sprang from fairy lore. It was thought, to attract fairies to a house, or appease the resident sprites, laying out a “shrine” with food for the beings. fairy favorite foods include wine, bread, fruit and honey, but their absolute favorite is cold creamy milk. so whenever milk was spilled, it was considered an offering to the fairies.

But wait: This from a 1910 newspaper ad -

Jan 5, 1910 – DON’T cry over spilled milk— it’s no use. Similarly it’s no use worrying over losses which may have occurred in your dress expenditure last year. Avoid future losses by shopping at PATRICK’S Right through 1910, where values like these are the rule — HOSIERY SPECIALS!

Although:

Almost certainly in England, but it’s hard to say when. The earliest instance with the words ‘cry’ and ’spilt’ in the Oxford English Dictionary is from Swift’s ‘Polite Conversation’, first published in 1738, the quotation being ”Tis folly to cry for spilt milk’. Swift’s work is a humorous work that pokes fun at cliche-ridden talk, and the phrase must therefore have been well established by that time.

Are you confused yet? Did you pick a favorite origin?

I discovered if I type – origins of saying “don’t cry over spilt milk” into a Google search it comes back with about 93,200 results! That’s a lot of milk to spill so I’m quitting while I’m ahead. If I learned one thing from this experience, it’s that the internet is becoming a vast wasteland of interesting facts I no longer have the time to chase down. ~smiles~

So do tell . . . is there a saying you’ve heard and said to yourself – well what the hell does that mean? If you’ve been there, done that, post a comment and share, please.

And don’t forget to join me next time when I go in search of the origins for ‘talk about a kettle of worms’

Michelle Hoppe (www.michellehoppe.com)

I was working on a scene in a book and it was giving me issues. For some reason what I wanted to happen just didn’t seem to be working. I did everything I could to get it to work. Nothing worked. Finally I discussed it with a friend. She asked me to describe what I wanted to happen in the scene.

I did in detail and ended with that it wasn’t working. She calmly said to think outside the box and write it so it can work. Of course I was exasperated since that didn’t help me. Well I put the story aside for a bit. I just picked up the story again and read it. As I did it was as if a light went off. Since the practical wasn’t working I was about to go the impractical way. Thinking outside the box if you will. So now that I am going with the impractical the scene has flowed the way I want. The story is now moving well and I am once again loving it.

So the impractically works you just need to find another way that works.

McKenna Jeffries
http://www.mckennajeffries.com/
…. sensual, edgy, unexpected

Blog: http://www.mckennajeffries.com/blog
Chat Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/McKennaJeffriesList
Free Reads Site: http:/ /www.satinnotes.com/

I couldn’t come up with much to blog about today, so I thought I might as well talk about the thrid Roxie’s Protectors book, Leif’s Surrender, that LSB recently contracted. I had fun writing Leif’s story. He’s the type of man, or werewolf, that doesn’t want a mate. He loves women, all women and never wants to be tied down to just one. So of course when he finally finds the one meant for him, he fights it tooth and nail.

I still plan to write the rest of the Protectors’ books, can’t leave them unmated . It wouldn’t be fair.

Just to give you a little taste of Leif’s Surrender, here is an unedited excerpt taken from the first chapter.

Excerpt:

Moving to stand at the end of the express line, Leif looked up to the front of it and groaned. An older lady was paying for her purchase, counting out change one coin at a time. Hopefully the other customers in front of him wouldn’t take so long. The ice cream was damn cold. Already his fingers were starting to feel numb. He was rethinking his not taking a cart, but he wasn’t going to leave the lineup just to get one now.

The line inched forward until he reached the conveyor belt. More than happy to put the ice cream down—which was more than likely already starting to melt—Leif shook out his frozen hands.

He bit back a curse when the cart behind him pushed into the back of his thighs. Leif turned to find a woman who looked to be in her forties staring at him. She quickly apologized. He smiled and had the satisfaction of watching her jaw drop. After telling her it was okay, he turned back around and smiled even more. He was used to the affect he had over mortal women. Standing at six-foot-five, his body well padded with muscle and his werewolf good looks, Leif drew a lot of feminine stares. Not that he complained about it. He loved women, all women. Young, old, he flirted with them all. Most male werewolves longed to find their mates, the one woman their soul would join with, but not Leif. He never wanted to be that tied down.

Finally, at long last, it was his turn. Muttering to himself about pregnant women and their cravings, he took a deep breath when he moved to stand across from the cashier. As if he’d been sucker punched in the gut, Leif froze in place and drew another big breath of air into his lungs. His cock went instantly rock hard and the unthinkable happened—his mating urge kicked into high gear.

Settling his gaze on the cashier, the woman who was to be his mate, Leif took in her mousy brown hair that she wore pulled back in a high pony tail. He couldn’t see what color her eyes were behind her stylish glasses, because she was busy looking down as she rang in his purchases. Her face, he found cute in a plain sort of way. She wasn’t ugly, but she was by no means a raving beauty. And she was not at all what he expected his mate to look like.

She may not be heart stopping beautiful, but she appealed to all of Leif’s senses, in a big way. Her scent stirred his body like no other. He wanted to jump across the counter, rip the glasses off her face, pull her hair loose and devour her lips with his. He wanted to hear her make little moaning noises as he ground his aching cock against her pussy. And his wolf wanted to claim her as his.

Marisa Chenery
www.marisachenery.com

Good morning everyone. I’m so glad to be here this morning to tell you about Simon’s Fate, my story that released yesterday with the always fabulous Liquid Silver Books.

Simon’s Fate is a novel of The Strange Hollow.

Let me tell you about it!

Moira has lived in Strange Hollow for almost a year, unable to touch anyone, lest she should see their future. Moira is a former Fate who chose to leave her job, not liking the competitive, outlandish destinies the Fates were bestowing on humanity. Always nervous, she is accepted but lonely. That is, until she stumbles upon Simon who is hiding in the basement of the Strange Hollow Visitor’s Center. A vampire, Simon is on the run from his brothers, but hampered by his blood phobia, which makes him pass out at either the sight or smell of it–a difficult situation for a vampire to find himself in.
Together, the two will discover that with just a little help from the person you love, anything is possible–especially in Strange Hollow.

I hope if you’re looking for a fun, vampire romance you’ll give it a try.

As always, I cannot express enough how grateful I am to be part of the Liquid Silver community and part of the group of exceptionally talented authors.

Best to all you, Always

Rebecca Royce

Tear, tear – sniff, sniff?  Alright, I’m better now!!

The idea for The Willow came from one idea – a woman brought into the Otherworld, a journey of finding herself, discovering her abilities, becoming lost in danger and, of course, mixed with a delicious romance too.   Never writing a novel in my life, it wasn’t an easy task.  I spent six months writing and re-writing.  But when it was all said and done, a novel was born.

As you can imagine, I’m just a big mess right now!!  Not only so excited but also thrilled that I get to share Nexi’s stories with you.  The Willow, being my first, holds a special place in my heart.  I can only hope that you will enjoy reading her life as much as I have writing it!!

The Willow – The Magical Sword Book One

A past of secrets, a life broken by death?awakens to a world of promise and love, but lurking danger threatens to destroy it all.

In Carson City, Nevada a tragic car accident has claimed the lives of Nexi Jones’ adoptive parents. Now, without them, her reason to live has vanished and she is determined to end her pain.

The problem with that, it’s not heaven she wakes up to, it’s the Otherworld. Nexi must reconcile the truth about her past, and her heritage as part guardian/part witch, while she begins to train to join the Council’s guard. But it’s not the combat training that has her worried, its attempting to keep her cool around the luscious guardian, Kyden that’s her biggest concern.

Before long, Nexi’s skills are put to the test as she begins to fight against the supernatural who have taken a human life. But nothing can prepare her for the journey ahead. Soon, she will find herself lost in a mystery and fighting to keep all she’s gained, as Lazarus, a vampire, threatens to take it all away.

PROLOGUE

A bird singing in the distance stirred me from my sleep. My eyes fluttered open to a perfect warm summer evening in Carson City, Nevada. The night was so clear, every star in the dark sky was visible. There was forest laid out around me with plush grass resting below. A light breeze wrapped around my body and goose bumps rose across my skin, but suddenly, that peace was interrupted by gripping pain.

Where am I?

When I glanced toward the source of the pain, confusion swept through me—my wrists were slit and bleeding out tremendously. My vision blurred, but I blinked hard, forcing it to remain when, a tickle came from overhead. My gaze slowly glanced up toward it and the moment the weeping willow came into focus, my memory came with it.

Yes, I was badly hurt, but this, I had done to myself. And why that was is really quite simple—I’ve always been a little different. An outsider, never quite fit in anywhere, never felt right in my own skin. But having my adoptive parents Gloria and Frank Jones kept me strong enough to deal with it—strong enough to fight against the sense of alienation. Plus, I’d become an expert at hiding this little secret and blatantly ignoring it. My life had been full of happiness for twenty-four years.

But all of that joy was ripped away by the Carson City Sheriff’s Department. At first, all I heard was, “accident on Interstate 50”. It took another half an hour to come to terms with the rest, “your parents have been killed”.

With those few simple words, my hopes and dreams were shattered. The only two people in the world I loved left me. Deserted me in a place I didn’t belong. Now, there was nothing here for me anymore. No reason to stay. Which is why I was here resting beneath my willow, bleeding out.

The leaves dangled down again, trailed along my body almost in a way to comfort me. Located deep in the Carson City wilderness area, this tree is my home away from home—my own little piece of paradise.

Truthfully, I came here hoping it would save me from my own thoughts. But the moment I arrived, it only seemed to reassure me that the choice I was making was the only one. The life I had now was no life at all.

As a tear fell down my cheek, the pain consuming me began to withdraw and a chill set deep into my bones. My eyes began to droop, and my limbs were numb and heavy.

Someone once told me, when you die you see your entire life flash before your eyes, containing all of your happiest moments. Apparently, they lied. Nothing but ice ran through my blood equaled by the sense of being dreadfully alone.

Just as the pain threatened to raise a scream from my throat, a twig cracked beside me. Startled, I glanced toward it, a man stood, watching intently. Annoyance immediately filled me. A savior is not what I wanted, but when my mouth parted, nothing came out. Dammit!

He started toward me, his walk smooth, but strong. Was I dead? Was this my guardian angel? He looked the part well enough. Heaven isn’t called Heaven for nothing, especially if it’s filled with men like this. He was handsome enough to put George Clooney to shame. Looked a lot like him too—same soft eyes, dark hair, even his shape—strong without being overwhelming. The best part was his clothing, or lack thereof, which only consisted of a sword strapped to his back and a kilt made of armor.

Unexpectedly, a rush of the ickies sneaked up. Apparently, it was wrong that I was ogling him. Guess God had a sense of humor, fill Heaven with gorgeous men, but strictly enforce a hands-off rule. Just my luck!

When he reached me, he leaned down, and put his hand on the top of my head. There was something to his touch—something so familiar. “I have found you, my darling, Nexi,” he said. “Sleep now. You are safe and it’s time for you to come home.”

A wave of peace washed over me and the last thing I saw before the world faded away to darkness was my willow swaying in the wind.

Chapter One

When I awoke next, nothing made sense. A Cathedral or something like it was surrounding me. From wall to wall, it was an endless display of Gothic architecture. Pointed arches, large rose stain-glassed windows, heavily detailed pillars, immaculate stone sculptures, and even a hammer-beam roof to boot.

The hard floor was doing nasty things to my back. Pushing against it, I sat up and came face-to-face with a wolf. “Whoa, weird dream.” I drew in a deep breath, and gave my eyes a hard rub. Then, I lowered my hands.

One second passed, then another, and another.

Then, my brain caught up with me. I wasn’t a dreaming. “What the…” I screamed, scrambling back.

Confusion hit hard.

The wolf wasn’t alone—there were four other people here too. One, in fact, was the man from the woods. “Do you know who I am?” he asked, softly.

This couldn’t be? Did it work? Am I dead?

But wait, I didn’t feel dead. “Where am I?” My stomach tightened as I prepared for the blow. My views always leaned toward the theory when you die, your dead—plain and simple. None of this afterlife nonsense, but now, I began to doubt that theory. And past sins began to swarm my mind, equaled by questions. Does honor the mother and father mean listen to them always? And really, how bad is it if you use the Lord’s name in vain? Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, I’m going straight to hell.

Interrupting my thoughts, the only woman in the room said, “I am Zia, Master of Witches.”

“Master of the who, what?” I stumbled, mainly in shock, but also because this strawberry blonde, blue eyed, bombshell shouldn’t belong in Heaven—no angel should look this sexy.

Instead of answering, she took my hand in hers and grasped it firmly. Seconds later, a bright flash of light forced my eyes closed and when they opened, a room sat before me, but not the room I was just in, a different one. And that wasn’t the shocking part, it was the people in front of me that had me stunned silly.

“Hello,” I called out, but no one responded. “Can you hear me?” But again, I was completely ignored.

Apparently, this was a vision I could see but not interact with. Resigned, I kept quiet and just watched.

“Drake, have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” A woman sat on a wooden bed, cradling a baby in her arms. Her long dirty blonde hair reached the middle of her back, her face made up of strong lines, and her eyes, a soft blue that shined with utter joy.

“Yes, Tyrianna,” Drake answered, joining her on the bed. “She is stunning. A true treasure.”

“She is special.”

“A little Guardian, a little witch—a perfect beauty.”

Releasing a deep breath, I stared in total disbelief. It was undeniable, she’s my birth mother. The resemblance was uncanny. Our athletic features, high cheekbones, plump lips, even our dirty blonde hair matched right down to the length.  And yes, that baby was me. My freckle sat directly under the corner of my left eye like it always had.

That wasn’t the only kicker, the man from the woods wasn’t just any man, he was my father. They’re my birth parents, and the implication of what I was being shown here was insanity at its best.

Without a chance to fully process, another bright flash blasted me into the next vision.

“By the Gods, I will gut Lazarus for this,” Drake roared, holding Tryianna in his arms.

“Drake,” Zia whispered. “Nexi needs you.”

He lowered Tryianna’s empty body, stood, and took the baby from her arms. “I promise you, Nexi, you will not suffer the fate that has been brought upon your mother.”

“What is it you wish me to do, Drake?” Zia asked.

“Call a meeting with the Council. We cannot delay. It is of grave importance.”

Another bright flash snapped me out of this vision and into the next. The cathedral I’d awoke to was now laid before me, surrounded by all the same people.

“We must send her away,” Drake said. “As much as I hate to lose her, it is the only way.”

“Are you sure this is what you want?” a man wearing the same kilt and sword get up asked. “If Nexi leaves the Otherworld you will never see her again.”

Drake nodded firmly. “She must be kept safe, Talon. Tryianna would ask this much of me. The Otherworld is not safe anymore.”

“We have all felt the potential within this youngling,” a strikingly tall handsome man said. “It would be a waste to send her away. She can only strengthen our home.”

“If she stays here she could die,” Drake deplored.

The room fell silent for a few moments, then Talon finally said, “If this is what you wish, we will not refuse you. I can only hope that you have made the right decision.”

“It may not be the right decision, but it is the only one,” Drake responded then he glanced to Zia. “I would ask that you provide her with protection? If this danger follows her, I need to be able to act if she is threatened.”

“What you ask of me, Drake, is a small task.” A tear fell down her rosy cheek. “I will do whatever I can to help you and Nexi.”

Another flash brought me back to the present, glancing into the face of the man I thought I’d never meet. Now faced with it, I could see the resemblance. We had the same eyes, not only in the almond shape, but in the color too. The same deep green with brown flecks surrounding the iris.

Closing my eyes tight, I gave my arm a pinch. I’m dreaming. This isn’t real. Daringly, I opened them again, but I was still here. Shit!

“You are not dreaming, Nexi.” Drake chuckled, as did the others.

My lips parted, but only air escaped. Closing it again, a second passed before for reality set in. My chin tingled then I busted into tears.

Drake lunged forward, snapping me up into his arms. “Hush now, I have you.”

Surprisingly, nothing about this was awkward. And it felt good—right. After longing for a familiar touch, this was soothing. He was family. I’m not alone.

Disputing any of this was impossible. Those visions showed me the truth of my past and the relief of knowing who and what I was overwhelmed me. To finally have a reason for it all came with such emotion, I could barely breathe.

Nevertheless, just because that part had been explained, didn’t mean the loss of Gloria and Frank was any less painful. Reconciling all this was hard. The pain was so intense before, intense enough that I couldn’t fight against it. I was expecting to be dead, not having to face it head on, plus deal with a whole slew of other craziness.

Drake’s voice broke through my moment of hysteria, “I have longed to hold you like this.”

Backing away from his chest, I met his gaze and said, “I wish I could say the same.” When his expression filled with confusion, I continued, “Growing up—I never once thought of whom my birth parents were and why they had given me up.”

“It should sadden me to hear that, but I am relieved you were treated you so well you did not need to think of such things.”

“They’re gone.”

“Gone?” he repeated.

“They were killed a week ago in a car accident.”

“Ah, I see.” He brushed his hand across my cheek wiping away a tear. “That is why you were in the forest then?”

I nodded, gulping deeply. “I…I.” Great, now I was going to have to explain myself. Just what I wanted to do—explain why I was so pathetic I needed to off myself.

“You do not need to explain yourself,” he interjected. “When I placed you in the Earthworld, I hoped you would be able to adjust, that you would not know any different if the truth was kept from you.” He sighed deeply. “Quite a shame to hear the Jones’ have passed.”

Huh? “You knew them?”

“When Tryianna was killed and the decision was made for you to stay in the Earthworld. I searched out families looking to adopt. We needed to find a family who was small—one with little ties, so you would not be greatly exposed.”

He wasn’t wrong here. Gloria and Frank had no siblings, and their parents had passed when they were in the forties. Any other family was over in England, and they were distant. We never talked to or about them—ever. Our family consisted of just the three of us.

“It kept you hidden well,” he continued. “When we discovered the Jones’, Zia and I both agreed they were the perfect choice. Were we right?”

“Yes, they were so wonderful to me.” They’d been perfect in every way. The word adopted just held no meaning in our home. Gloria said God sent them an angel, but I never saw it that way, I was the lucky one.

They’d never once complained that I didn’t move out. Lame right—a twenty-four year old woman still living with her parents? But without them I couldn’t have survived. They fueled the empty vessel that was my body and kept me whole.

Now, looking back, maybe they knew how much I needed them. Maybe they knew if I left I would’ve fallen apart. Maybe they knew what took place beneath my willow was inevitable.

“I came to you once,” Drake said, brushing the hair away from my face.

“You did?”

“When the threat of danger in the Otherworld was gone, I came to get you and bring you home.” He smiled softly. “You were so young then, only around ten, and I saw you planting flowers with Gloria in the back garden. I stayed that day for hours and watched you.”

“But you never came up to the house?”

“No, you are right, I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“You looked so happy. The smile I saw on your face that day showed me that I made the right decision for you. You were safe, in a world without danger, and loved deeply.” He cupped my cheek and I leaned against it. “I could not separate you from her. No matter how much I wanted you to myself.”

Christ, he looked tormented. And the sight of it unsettled me. I held no anger toward him. How could I? The visions made it clear enough—he only wanted to keep me safe. Besides, I wouldn’t have changed a moment of my life spent with Gloria and Frank. And in order for me to move past all this, he couldn’t continue to carry that guilt and sadness in his eyes. It would be a constant reminder. “You know one thing about Gloria,” I sniffed loudly, collecting myself. “One thing she would be saying to us right now.”

”What would she say?” Drake asked, curiously.

“She’d say what the hell are you two doing here when you have a life to live? She’d be right ripping mad that we were mulling over things we couldn’t change, and that the only one worrying about the past is us. She lived a life filled with great memories, that time means nothing, and she had everything she ever wanted. She’d say that if we didn’t shape up and pull ourselves together, she’d pull out the wooden spoon.”

Now, it seemed comical. Why had I been so afraid of that damn spoon? She never laid a hand on me, but just the sound of the drawer opening had me shaking in my boots and apologizing quickly.

“Wise woman.” He laughed. “Best we listen to her then.”

Rubbing my hands along my face, I sent the rest of the sadness away to store in that part of myself that I’d never go back to. A place I knew all too well. One thing Gloria taught me was to take life as it came. Could I change this situation, no. So, why mull over it. Better just step up and find out what I landed myself into. “So, what happened to my mother exactly?”

“Tryianna was a powerful witch, and because of that, she was killed by a vampire, Lazarus who was raging war against the Otherworld.”

“And you sent me away because of that?”

He nodded. “It was safer for you not to be here, and not discover your powers. Tryianna would have wanted you to be safe.”

This came with a whole mess of emotions. I was glad for the time spent with Gloria and Frank, but to know my birth mother, a little longing did filter through. I stuffed it away. “So, he’s been caught, right?”

“No,” he responded through gritted teeth. “He has long been in hiding. As I told you earlier, the threat from him has been gone for many years, and we haven’t heard or seen him since that night.”

The pain running across his face was heartbreaking. More than just an ache over her death, it was not having a resolution for it all—a means to end his pain. Undeniably, the wound was still very raw. So, I said the only thing that came to mind, “I am sorry you lost her.”

“My darling,” his voice was soft and full of despair, “I am sorrier that you will not have the chance to know her.”

Questions about my mother swirled in my mind. How did they meet? What was she like? But seeing the utter torment running through him at the mention her, as if I’d ask more. So, a change in conversation was in order. “Let me get this straight, I’m a…” I couldn’t even think the words let alone say it.

“Witch and Guardian,” he said concisely.

“And you’re telling me I’m going to have magical abilities?” This was just all types of ridiculous.

“Indeed you will. We will not know the level of witch magic you hold until it comes in, and I am afraid I cannot tell you when that will be. However, your Guardian powers are not so difficult to discover.”

Before I could ask what the hell any of that meant, Zia said, “The Council welcomes you to the Otherworld, Nexi.”

Startled, I chuckled at the absurdity that I had totally forgotten we weren’t alone. Then, I repeated. “The Council?”

She nodded toward the others. “We are the governing body of the Otherworld.”

As if to prove that thought, the wolf began to vibrate. Then, he wasn’t a wolf anymore. He was a man.

My hand flew to my mouth. “Holy shit!” I said beneath it.

Zia adamantly ignored my shock and continued, “Brax, Master of Weres.”

I’d consider him a softy with his sweet soft features and long dark hair. That is, if the two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle on his body didn’t put him into the category of scary as hell.

“Talon, Master of Guardians,” she said next.

He stepped forward and bowed his head. When his gaze rose to mine, it’s a surprise I wasn’t blushing. His short brown hair, bright green eyes, and hard jaw only added to the rest of his handsome features. He wore gear similar to Drake’s—just a little more extravagant, which sat deliciously against one rock hard bod. Pretty obvious, Guardians were warriors of some sort, but warriors against what was the question?

“Zade, Master of Vampires,” she finished.

He was the tall guy from the vision, and he indeed towered over me, but that was the least of my concerns. His black sinful eyes couldn’t pull a fast one on me. He was a vampire.

I began to tremble. My breath coming out in short gasps as fear instantly consumed me.

“You have nothing to fear from me, child,” Zade said, reassuringly.

Yeah right, trust a vampire—sounds like a brilliant idea. One had killed my mother, for flippin’ sakes.

“Not to worry, Sweetie.” Zia interjected as she took my hand. “Here this will help.”

The moment her hand closed around mine, a surge similar to an electric current tore through me. “Bah,” I gasped, snapping my hand away. “What the hell was that?”

“I used my magic to release the block I had put on you to hide your Guardian power. You will feel more settled now.”

“Right, used your magic.” I rolled my eyes. “What is the Leaky Cauldron around here somewhere?” When scared shitless make jokes—Frank’s number one rule.

“Wish it was.” Zia laughed. “Those Harry Potter movies are fabulous.”

But as my mind cleared of thought, it was apparent that something had changed within me. I took a few deeps breaths trying to understand it. Then, the realization hit. My reason for living, my purpose had suddenly been answered. For the first time in my life, I felt at home.

And that wasn’t all it fixed. Zade wasn’t so scary. In fact, why had he been so scary? After a moment of contemplation, I came up blank. “This is…wow…I.” Yup, that was me stumbling all over the place.

“This has been a long day for you,” Zia said. “I think it’s best for you to get some rest. Everything will be easier to process after that.”

Yeah right!

“Zia is right, come Nexi,” Drake said, raising his hand toward the door.

The moment we exited, I gasped a deep surprised breath at the room before me. Essentially a long rectangular room made up of pure white stone walls that seeped into a ribbed vault. On the left sat a large wooden door with wrought iron handles. To the right were four tremendously large windows with intricate stone carvings decorating the sides.

“This is the Council’s Foyer,” Zia said. “Quite remarkable isn’t it?”

“Very.” Hand me a goblet of ale, call me wench, and I’d fit right in. “What’s that room called?” I asked, nodding behind me.

“The Council’s Hall.”

“Wow.” I laughed. “Someone busted a vein coming up with those names.”

She grinned. “It is what it is.”

We passed through an arched doorway and the word Guardian was etched into the stone wall. Before I could voice my question, Zia said, “The Otherworld is home to many of us. We each have a part of the castle that is ours. This is the Guardian’s House. Since you will be training among the Guardians, it is only right for you to stay with them.”

“Training to do what?”

“Baby steps.” She smiled softly, patting my shoulder. “Let’s get you settled first.”

As we went through another doorway, a giggle escaped me. What was this a medieval hotel? The hall was lined with thick wooden doors on the left and pointed arched windows on the right. Each door we passed had a name written in pretty gold calligraphy on it. Keir, Drake, Nexi.

Wait, rewind!

I skidded to a halt. “Why is my name on this door?”

“Because this is now your home.” Zia answered, opening the door.

Don’t know what I expected, but it definitely wasn’t this. Matching beige sofas were huddled around a stone fireplace that reached from the top of the ceiling to the bottom of the floor and in between them was a thick dark oak table with a vase full of yellow tulips on top.

The kitchen was just off to the side—a rustic oak island matched the large cabinets with brass decorative handles, and a thick pine country table rested in the corner.

On the other side of the living room sat the bedroom, which fit the country charm perfectly. Centered against the back wall was a huge white iron king size bed with a frilly white duvet on top. Two aged wooden tables sat on either side of the bed, which held pretty, decorative lamps, and to the left was a walk in closet that happened to be stocked full of clothes. Beside it, was the bathroom.

“Is this to your taste?” Drake asked. “Your mother liked this look. I thought…”

“It’s perfect.” And it was—the country motif was just my thing.

His body softened from the tense one it had been in and a grin rose to his face. “I’m sure you need a moment. Join us when you are ready.”

After they left, I made my way to the bathroom. When I entered, I grinned myself. A huge—perfect for two bodies huge—claw foot bathtub sat against the wall with a toilet and pedestal sink off to the side. An antique bookcase rested beneath an oval mirror, filled with washcloths, thick white towels, and bath products.

This room, I was sure to enjoy. Baths and me got along real well.

Meeting the sink, a complete and total meltdown threatened to rise. I was sure as shit entitled as far as I was concerned. The question weighed heavily for a moment, but I eventually gave up. It wouldn’t get me anywhere. I’d still be here and have to deal with this. So, I quickly washed up and went back out to join them.

As I drew closer, Zia was preparing some toasted sandwiches with a spinach salad. I was beyond delighted. Who knew what they ate here? Very relieved, it wasn’t something with a heartbeat.

“I hope you are hungry,” Zia asked as I sat.

“Starving,” I responded, grabbing the sandwich and took a bite. After I swallowed I asked, “Out of curiosity, what happened after I disappeared from Carson City? I mean, did anyone notice?”

“The police were contacted by a neighbor who hadn’t seen you in awhile,” Drake responded.

Probably Mrs. Taylor, the wife of my former employer, Dr. Taylor. Days answering phones and filing documents was a cushy job. I could never complain. And the Taylors’ are wonderful souls. At the funeral, they told me to take off as much time as I needed, and my job would be waiting for me when I was ready to return. But they also fed me and let me shower at their house. Going back to the home I shared with Gloria and Frank wasn’t an option, and it was a need they understood. Completely kind and sweet people they are, and nothing felt good about having them worried sick right now.

“The search for you continues,” Drake continued. “But it will likely end soon, and they will declare you a missing person.”

After trying to imagine my face on the back of a milk carton, awkwardness began to sink in as silence filled the air. I hadn’t expected to meet my birth father, and wasn’t prepared for it. I had no idea what to say. 

Bless Zia for stepping in. “Tell us a little about yourself, Nexi.”

And that was the beginning of an hour conversation as we learned every little detail of each other’s lives. Amazing to see how much I was like him—his voice, gestures, even in his smile.

When the conversation had run its course, Drake stood. “It is time for us to be off, you need your rest.”

I held back a laugh. As if that was going to happen—sleep was pretty much written off until I got a better grasp of this insane situation. Of course, as I followed them to the door, I didn’t voice the thought.

Just as Zia stepped out, she took my hand and smiled. “Sleep well.”

Suddenly, a wave of relaxation washed over me, my eyes drooped heavy with sleep, my body felt a thousand pounds and as the door closed, Zia’s laugh came loud.

Quickly, I made my way to the bedroom, threw on pajamas and climbed into bed. I was dead to the world before I even hit the pillow.