Monday, May 30, 2016
Happy Memorial Day! Answering my own question, from Solara’s blog: yes, I think there may be shifters willing to serve their country. In a snippet from my WIP, human Roy and his horse-shifter buddy Dale wait for the cops to show up so they can report a case of vandalism at Roy’s garage. They down a couple beers and Dale tells Roy about his family’s history …
# # #
The sun went down, streetlights snapped on. Roy didn’t bother to switch on the showroom lights. They sat in the growing dark and watched the town’s lack of nightlife through the windows. No one strolled past on the sidewalk. Cars shot by above the speed limit. One of these was a police cruiser. Roy swore at its receding taillights and reached for another beer.
So did Dale. “Tolja,” he said. “You being Mike’s buddy won’t win you any points now that you been outed. Neither will you being Army. Were you Army? I thought I heard that somewhere.”
“Yeah, I was Army. How about you?”
“Not me, but members of the herd, past and present. What?” he said in response to what must have been one helluvan incredulous look on Roy’s face. “We’re Americans too, y’know. We want to do our part. I’ve got three relatives who are New York cops. Two on two feet, one on four. We’ve pulled fire wagons and run mail for the Pony Express. We fought in the Civil War. Cavalry, mostly. The combustion engine pretty much put us out of business there, but not all the way. One’a my great-uncles flew a bomber in World War II.” He raised his beer bottle triumphantly. “You monkeys wouldn’t even have a history if it wasn’t for us horses. We’re the best friends you ever had.”
“I thought that was dogs.”
“Huhn. Let’s see you ride a dog into battle. That reminds me, my great-great-grandpa claimed he’d been at the Little Big Horn with Custer. Saved his ass by switching sides and shapes when he saw how the fight was going. Spent a year as some Sioux warrior’s horse before he cut loose and came home and went human again. We always figured he was making it all up, though.”
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Gill stepped up to the microphone, looked down at his speech, and swallowed. Many of the Peak’s citizens turned out for the festivities in the park. Grills with lit charcoal briquettes in them stood close to many of the picnic tables. Portable ones sat next to the tables and chairs others brought with them. Earlier games pitted adults against children and those in similar age brackets too. A lot of fun and happiness filled the air. Now silence and staring filled it instead.
“My fellow citizens,” he began. “Many gave their lives to keep us safe. I’m not talking shape shifter or supernatural only. Many humans fought on foreign shores to keep others safe too. We continue to do so as a country. Here at home, many take on the task of keeping us safe within our fine country.”
A few murmurs sounded. Several heads nodded. A youngster stood up with a miniature flag waving it back and forth. A few others did the same.
“Some of our fellow Peakites gave their lives so we might enjoy the freedom and safety we have today. To honor them we started collecting funds to build a memorial. Names are coming in. Someone contacted the state about this.”
Heads began shaking. Others yelled out. “No! Not the state here again!”
Gill tapped the microphone. The crowd quieted. “I hear what you’re saying. Our representative, a former Peakite, contacted us too. They’re forming a delegation to oversee the funds we’re getting from the state. A few other supernatural towns and cities are getting money too. Disaster avoided!”
Smiles and nods appeared again.
“So in closing before others who served whether in the military or supporting areas speak, I want to say I’m a proud Peakite! Can you say it with me?”
Gill stepped away from the microphone, raised his arm, and yelled. “I’m a proud Peakite!”
Many in the crowd stood, yelling and chanting with him. Some smile and clapped.
May your Memorial Day be filled with love, fun, safety, and memories. Take a moment to thank those that keep us safe and devote their lives to this!
Thursday, May 26, 2016
For his personal time he came here, to his personal space. These underground quarters predated the ranch house above. Dieter Fledermaus had built these rooms first, before he even started on the above-ground cabin. Call it a den, lair, burrow, rec room, basement, or bunker, all rodent shifters had an inborn need for a private place underground. Even those who normally took to the sky.
Brand had added his own touches—flat screen TV, Internet, softer lighting, sound system, library, more comfortable furniture. The rough-hewn rafters had been left bare and untouched since Grandpa’s day. Sometimes a fellow just needed to roost.
No one ever called it the Batcave. Not to his face, at any rate.
He’d poured himself a drink and had the glass at his lips when someone rapped briskly on the door. He sighed and set the glass back on the desk. “Come in.”
The door swung inward and Jerboa stuck his graying head in. “Just checking in.”
“I’m fine, Jer, thanks.” He waited. Jerboa remained stubbornly in the doorway. “I don’t need anything. Including a babysitter.”
“Beg to differ, boss. There’s been rumblings in town. Hancock’s in one of his moods again. Better safe than sorry.”
“Hancock isn’t fool enough to make a direct attack. I’ll check with my attorney and find out if he’s been up to anything. That will be all, Jer,” he added pointedly.
Jerboa had gone silent, intent. Brand swung his feet off the desk. “You hear something?” Jerboa said, his voice hushed.
His keen ears had already caught the noises in the house above, whispery scratches that didn’t belong. Like claws on the hardwood flooring. Jerboa gestured at him to stay put. “Shut the door. I’ll look—”
He disappeared from the doorway. Brand shot to his feet even before he heard the loud crash in the hallway. He lunged for the door.
Before he even reached it a wolf leaped inside. Or maybe not a wolf. Its body was too narrow and stringy, its muzzle long and pointed, its ears large. Coywolf, Brand thought. The men had mentioned a coyote nosing around the trash heap. Going so far as to rear up and peer through the windows. He revised his initial assessment. Shifter.
The beast cocked its head to regard him shrewdly. Deducing the jig was up, the coywolf shifted. A lanky, narrow-chested man with brownish-blond hair and a cocky grin stood before him. Brand waited for the coywolf to make his move.
“I’ll bet you’re wondering what’s up,” the shifter said. “We could have just emailed, I suppose, but this is so much more fun. Damien Hancock says hi.” He charged Brand.
If he was expecting a shift from his target, he was doomed to disappointment. Brand preferred the unexpected. When the shifter came at him he simply sidestepped, grabbed the man’s arm and flipped him into the desk. The crash was spectacular. Similar noises from the hall, and a decidedly feminine yelp of dismay, told him Jerboa was holding his own. But against how many?
The coywolf rolled off the desk and landed on four feet. He whirled toward his target—and found only a pile of clothing. Automatically he looked to the rafters, scanning for a small, flitting shape.
Exactly as Brand had predicted. The biggest advantage to having a shape with wings was everyone expected an aerial attack. With the coywolf focused on the ceiling, Brand crept from beneath the pile of his clothing and scuttled across the floor. In seconds he reached the wolf. His fur provided all the holds a bat could want.
Just because Brand wasn’t a vampire bat didn’t mean a lack of sharp, dangerous teeth. He battened onto the coywolf’s throat and burrowed through the fur.
# # #
Even as he turned toward the sound behind him, Jerboa was grabbed and yanked off his feet by—well, goddamn. By a woman. A petite bit of muscle with hair like a desert sunset and a sharp, vixeny face. She crouched over him in an attack pose. “Stay down,” she ordered. “It’s your boss Hancock’s after.”
“Can’t do that, little lady,” he drawled, and kicked her in the stomach. She went down, hard. Clearly she wasn’t expecting resistance from the old guy. He got to his feet before she did, and aimed a kick at her head. She dodged it, but just barely.
The little lady sure had pretty eyes. Right now they were huge as the Panhandle, with recognition growing in them, quickly followed by panic. His ego flared up briefly. Dammit, it felt good to be remembered.
# # #
“Now then,” Brand said. He had the coywolf pinned to the floor. The fur around his throat was tinged with blood. Brand had bitten just deeply enough to prove his point. Unlike his distant vampiric relations, blood gave him stomach cramps. No need for the coywolf to know that, however. “How about you tell me what’s going on here.” He tightened his grip on the coywolf’s ruff. “It will be easier if you shift.”
His captive did so. He wasn’t smirking any more. “You’re dead,” he gasped out. “Hancock wants you dead. You don’t stand a—”
A woman came flying through the open door. She hit the wall, slid to the floor and didn’t get up. Jerboa strolled in and hauled her upright by her hair. “Looks like it’s just the two of ‘em, boss. You’re lucky you didn’t get this one. Filly’s got a punch.”
“So much for your backup,” Brand said. “Now tell me what Hancock thinks to gain by sending two clearly untrained fighters to attack me in my own home.”
But the woman picked that moment to shift. Her wolf form had reddish fur, a sharp snout, dark legs and a thick brush of a tail that was tipped with white. She snapped at Jerboa, who dropped her. At the same instant the coywolf-man suddenly bucked and shifted and shot out from underneath Brand. Both raced out the door at top speed. Jerboa followed, yelling for the hands.
He returned some minutes later. “Got out through the kitchen,” he reported. “The boys’ll run ‘em down. Loco. But then, it’s ol’ Damien we’re talking about.” He brushed reddish hairs off his sleeve. “Looks like we’re at war with the Hancocks.”
Brand rubbed his own set of hairs between his fingers. Tawny hairs, that hadn’t come off a full-blood wolf. “I wonder.”
# # #
“Never,” Castor panted. He kept his eyes on the sky, alert for swooping, sharp-fanged forms. “Never again. Let the killers do the fighting. Nothing but spying for me from now on.”
“Relax,” Pollux said. “We lost them.” But she also stared at the sky. A leaf fluttered between her and the stars, and she flinched. “I hate bats. And kangaroo rats. And rodents in general. I’m with you. Intel-gathering all the way.”
“You didn’t recognize Fleddy’s pal? That was Jerboa Calhoun. Retired MMA fighter, world-class kickboxer. I’m lucky he didn’t take my head off. What the hell’s he doing working for Fledermaus?”
“Health benefits?” Cas fingered his throat. Thank Lupa the bleeding had stopped. “I better not need a rabies shot. You watch MMA?”
“Hey. Sweaty men in tights beating up on each other. What’s not to like?”
“Dunno. I’ve always been into roller derby. Let’s get back and report. As of now, I’m out of the assassination biz.”
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
Ok, I promised a full chapter and here it is. It is very NWS (not work safe) so be careful where you are when you read it. There's no actual sex, just very explicit remembrances from Jarod's point of view. If you don't want to read spicy bits, it's ok to skip it. The story will still make sense over all, but you will miss a bit of insight into Jarod's introduction to, ahem, intimacy. He was a warrior monk before becoming Morgan's pet, after all!
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Last warning: NWS at all!
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Last warning: NWS at all!
Dust motes danced in a beam of pure sunlight, adding texture to quiet of the main hall. There was nothing else interesting to watch, being mid-morning and therefore between meals. Lady Megan was puttering around in her healer’s garden and not interested in company. Instead, he was relegated to lying in a sleepy heap at Lord Morgan’s feet as his lordship read dispatches. The heavy trestle table at the top of the hall made a good work desk, and also an acceptable hinging place. The big cat who was Jarod Black flicked his tail, sending the dust swirling again.
If anyone had told him a week ago that he’d enjoy being a cat, he’d have laughed in their face before gutting them for the insult. Being a giant, terrifying cat was awesome. In the four days since his transformation, he’d spent every day as a cat and every night as a man. He’d also discovered what a travesty his life had been. Sold to the order of Nicodemus so young he barely remembered his life as a street orphan, he’d been raised to be a warrior monk with no choice in the matter. Monks didn’t eat rich food, sleep in fine rooms, or wear fine linen clothes. Ok, so he never actually wore the clothes provided for him, but he did try them on during the fittings. Linen was much nicer than rough spun horse hair. That wasn’t the biggest difference, though.
Warrior monks don’t have sex. Oh, they masturbated in private. Had fantasies and such. They never sought fulfillment of those fantasies or sought out another’s hand on their cocks.
Oh, the joy of another’s hand upon his cock! The raw, dirty pleasure of a mouth upon it! The taste of a lover’s sweat and the moans of pleasure as he licked it off their nipples! Tasting his lady’s nipples while his lord rode her and stroked him off was his favorite late night adventure so far. Lord Morgan seemed to like bringing him right to the brink and then stopping his release at the last moment with a sharp tug on the ring in the head of his cock. It was surprisingly erotic and exciting. He never knew if he was going to be allowed to finish or forced to maintain his erection! Lady Megan was subtler in her torture. She’d slowly work on him until he was half mad with need before bringing him to completion with pure feminine aggression.
He hadn’t been allowed to stick it in anything but one of their mouths so far. He had a feeling that might be better than being stoked or sucked. He’d have to wait for that experience, though. He suspected his lady only allowed their lord to fuck her when they were both playing with him. She had yet to let him pleasure her one-on-one, though his lord had given him permission to do so as long has he didn’t actually fuck her. He could understand that. Lord Morgan was every bit the jealous aristocrat he appeared to be and he, Jerod, was there to be enjoyed, not competed with.
That didn’t mean his lord didn’t fuck him one-on-one. Jarod hadn’t expected to enjoy having a cock in his ass, but he was quickly learning to love it. He only got fucked like that when the lady wasn’t present. He also only got restrained in private. Every morning since his change, he’d been instructed to bathe himself while his lord watched. Once he was done, he was bound spread eagle from eye bolts set in the floor and walls, had his groin shaved bare, and then had a cock shoved up his ass. Then, as he hung panting from need, his lord would bathe in front of him. Once his lord was clean and dressed, he would release one of Jarod’s hands so that he could finish himself while his lord watched. Then, still naked, he would do sword drills while his lord ate his breakfast. Twice, Lady Megan had joined them. Both times, his weapons training had ended with her mouth on his cock, wringing a second orgasm from him. All that before he was allowed to eat his own breakfast.
Another thing he hadn’t yet been allowed to do was to suck his lord’s cock. Lady Megan seemed to enjoy doing it as much as Lord Morgan seemed to enjoy having it done. But like fucking, sucking seemed to be off limits for him. Early days yet. It had only been three days since he lost his virginity. No need to rush into every aspect of intimacy. He chuffed. Who ever heard of a man losing his virginity at his age!
The door to the hall opened, interrupting his pleasant thoughts. Good thing the sniveling little seneschal chose that moment to intrude. He had been getting rather aroused, which seemed to force him back into his man shape. One more thing he wasn’t allowed was to relieve his own need without permission, which would not be given in a public place. Lord Morgan had made him spend the whole of his first day sitting at his feet with a raging hard-on. He’d learned his lesson. Don’t get excited in public unless he wanted his engorged cock on display for everyone to ogle.
And they did. Ogle him, that is. Every time he stepped out of his lord's chambers, eyes were upon him, mostly out of curiosity at first, then in lust. More than one lustful look and became a covert grope. He didn’t like having those stranger’s hands on him. He did kind of like having their eyes on him, though. Watching their eyes as they imagined fondling his body in ways only his lord and lady were allowed to made it extremely difficult to obey the rule of not masturbating in public. That’s why he had been instructed to only show them his tiger. No one lusted after him in that form. They only feared him, which was also good. It made his job of keeping his master safe easier.
Saturday, May 21, 2016
Trina looked over the group of men standing close to her. Two male wolves, three coyotes, and one snow leopard made up the group. None of them particularly drew her attraction or thoughts. Yet, dancing with one or two of them might get conversation flowing. After all, chaperoning a high school dance didn’t require more than keeping the kids out of dark corners. Making small talk with the other parents present and enjoying the music. Miss Elly and Vernon were out on the dance floor cutting their path across the gym. More fifties music blared out of the speakers. Even Gill and Chloe tried their hand at some of the intricate dance steps the music teacher had shown everyone before the music started.
She wiped her hands down her heavily starched poodle skirt. Missy Elly’s kindness included loaning her clothes in theme with the music. Her teased and sprayed hair bounced each time she nodded her head in time with the music. A few feet away one of the teachers named Mick stood wearing a black leather biker’s jacket, tight ass-incasing jeans, and a dark red t-shirt with the outline of wolf on it. His slicked back hair refused to adhere to the gel. Two lone curls close to the top of his forehead gave him an air of mystique. An edge that caused her breath to catch and set off warmth the reached deep into her. Sex for the sake of physical release stymied her. Her chemistry required more. An attraction and mutual interest revved her hormones. If she wanted to get off—she snickered at her use of male thoughts and terms---her battery-operated boyfriend worked fine thank you. No need for making small talk and acting nice when all she wanted and needed was a hard fast orgasm. One that rocked her to sleep or into a blissed out state that lasted more than someone poking her saying ‘my turn now.’
Mick looked up from the table, counted the number of couples on the dance floor, and smiled. At least four of his students were out there trying the steps he showed them earlier. Many were standing in segregated groups of boys and girls. Their parents were doing much the same. When had kids lost the art of mingling and mixing with the opposite sex? This was Talbot’s Peak. Sex and what it entailed wasn’t shunned or stuffed in the closet. No, every kid new the basics by age eight. After all short gestations could manifest themselves quite easily. Ah, making sure his students understood the birds and bees aspect of life wasn’t his teaching area. Music and art took more than a few hour-long sessions per week to understand and enjoy. Good thing Gill and the town council got the need for after school activities like these.
He glanced over his shoulder back to where the redhead stood. Her petiteness intrigued him. She also ignited a protectiveness he was sure she didn’t require. After all, she was part wolf and coyote, two animals that could take care of themselves. Still making her acquaintance and enjoying a few dances didn’t entail getting involved. Friendship added to life. Why not add a new friend to his group? A female one too. Mick tossed his empty cup in the trash receptacle near him and turned. The next song was a slow hold your partner close one. Easy to dance too and long enough to learn a few things about each other. Yes, a good choice. He started toward Trina.
Mick walked across the floor, keeping Trina in his sight. She ducked her head, looking away. He’d watched her peruse all the males present. The teens that danced past her, she smiled at and shook her head no. The older ones made conversation and moved off to find their mates or spouses. The few women who stopped to talk, pointed to males at various points throughout the gymnasium. He reached Trina as the opening strains of the melody began.
“May I have this dance, please?” he asked, holding out his hand. He kept his gaze on her face. The costumes hid much of their physique. Not that it mattered. Many here used scent and their other senses along with their animal sixth sense to pick out their chase. There were no victims here. Matting happened when all parties agreed. Dancing didn’t resemble the sweaty pleasure enhance bed rumpling stints most of the youth here tried to do. No, dancing was for conversation, getting to know each other, and asking for another dance. Even time to nibble finger foods and sip the sickening sweet punch the cafeteria provided. He’d heard whispers Louie from Rattigan’s was due at midnight; something about road kill stew and other more delightful cuisine.
Mick smiled. Trina turned toward him. Her hands lay one on top of the other, resting on her fanny pouch. Most of the women carried purses or clutch bags. Not this one. Dare he ask what she carried in it? Too personal a question too soon? He wet his lips ready to change topics when Trina spoke.
“Thank you. I’d love to dance.” Trina stepped closer to him. “Been a while since I slow danced.”
Mick chuckled. “Easy to remember. Like riding a bike. Of course, unless you like to lead.”
“Oh, I’m not supposed to?” Trina grinned, raising her arms. “Maybe you better show me how this is done. You know I might need a bit of private tutorial here rather than out there.” She point to the open dance floor.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Okay, one tutorial coming up. Then we make our way across the gym and back. This is the slow long songs portion of the evening.”
Trina nodded her understanding and moved closer until he could easily see her in the darker portion where they stood. He took a hold of her wrist, instructing her as he did. “You hand goes on my shoulder. A light touch is fine.”
He reached for her other hand; Trina held it out to him. “This one goes with this one?” She touched his palm with two of her fingers. Heat burst off her deep into him and jaggedly made its way up his arm. Mick swallowed hard and nodded. Did she realize what affect she had on him?
Trina pressed her lips together. Letting out a startled gasp might send him moving away. Heat like this hadn’t happened since her late husband. The one man---human not shapeshifter---who understood her and ignited a sexual chemistry that kept its volcanic explosions going until illness claimed him. Too bad, he turned out sterile. A child or two by him to remind her of the passion and love they shared would’ve eased the pain and sorrow. She blinked pushing the five year old past memories back to where they belonged, deep in the memories of another time in her life. She’d come here to start over and it appeared she’d chosen a good place to do so.
Mick slid his hand along Trina’s waist. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder. He moved closer to her until they were approximately three feet apart. She smiled, shaking her head.
“What’s funny?” Mick asked, looking down. He placed his foot between Trina’s. His size ten and half shoe stuck out between her smaller ones.
“Us. This reminds me of the dancing lessons I took in junior high school. Most of the guys could shake their bootie and move around the dance floor like their pants were on fire.” Trina glanced down.
Mick snorted. “Seems that started the phase of trying to teach us etiquette and some form of courting.”
Trina’s laughter warmed his cheek. He winked and moved tighter to her. “Now shall we practice those steps and moves our parents spent money on?”
Trina arched her neck, looking up into Mick’s eyes. They reminded her of the blue sky over the lake during summer. The time of year, she could laugh and run free all over the campgrounds her parents owned. Summer camp allowed her and her siblings time to let their animal counterpart out. No harried admonishments either about hiding or keeping her furry side under tight control.
She licked her lips and nodded. “Sure. I can waltz; do a mean two-step, the occasional foxtrot, and a slow sultry dance that permits conversation. You have a preference?”
“Slow dance and conversation. Sultry is a little much for the kids.” Nick winked, stepping back wards as the music began.
“Yes, we chaperones need to keep an eye on the youngsters.” She chuckled moving in sync with Mick as he guided her out across the dance floor toward the middle of the gym.
“Ten questions each? A little getting acquainted info?” Mick swirled her in a circle creating more space between them.
“Okay. You pulling away?” Trina looked down and back up meeting Mick’s gaze.
“No, just allowing some room so we can talk easier. “ Mick grinned. “First question. Favorite color.”
“Mauve. Same for you.”
“Turquoise. Reminds me of the ocean.” Nick nodded. Vernon and Miss Ellie danced by them.
“Nice song choice, Mick.” Vernon twirled Miss Ellie, pulled her back into his arms and titled her back over one arm. “Allows a little swing and sway.”
Before Mick could answer, Vernon and Miss Ellie danced away. Mick glanced back at her. He stopped and started swaying back and forth in place. “Vernon’s right.”
Trina burst out laughing. “What about the other songs?”
“Fifties music and a few early sixties tunes. The rest are ones the kids requested. I don’t know if there’s much to dance to in their choices.” Mick started moving them around the dance floor again. “Why mauve?”
“The color of my grandma’s kitchen. She loved to cook and bake. That was the one place all ten grandkids could gather and all have grandma at once.” Trina shook her head as Mick opened his mouth again. “You’ve asked two questions. My turn.”
Mick nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Where’d you grow up?” Trina closed some of the space between them as another song started.
“All over. My dad joined the military right out of high school. He wanted to see how the other half lived. Human half.” Mick paused near the bleachers as the music picked up beat. “Continue dancing?”
“Please. Makes our conversation less conspicuous.” Trina glanced over her shoulder. “Second question. Why turquoise?”
“San Diego, California. The one place we stayed more than two years. Mom decided that moving wasn’t a good idea with changing schools constantly.”
“A place you call home?” Trina started nodding her head in time to the music. “Almost a latin rhythm to it.”
“Yes. Maybe we can two-step our way across the gym. And that was your third question.” Mick picked up pace and changed steps to match the beat of the music.
“So answer it. Then your turn.”
“It’s a place where I found me. My parents bought a house and Mom put down roots. All five of us graduated from high school and college there.” Mick leaned closer to her. “My third question is why Talbot’s Peak?’”
She’d kept so much of her past hidden. The pain and hurt dulled after a while. Could she talk about leaving home and knowing she couldn’t go back? The unofficial ‘get out’ her father ordered when he found out she wasn’t his daughter stung for a long time. Many didn’t take her mixed heritage well. Would Mick?
Trina swallowed hard. She inhaled, counted to three, and slowly exhaled. Her palpitating heart slowed some. No one asked her why about anything she’d done up to now. Even Phil’s wife took what she said at face value and checked her references on prior nanny positions. They offered a place to stay and a bond with a group that accepted her. Let her be her and embraced what she brought to the table, a person who gave from her heart and took what she needed, a roof over her head and acceptance. Maybe that made more sense than trying to explain it all. Acceptance meant comfort, approval, and belonging. That topped her needs list. A place where her mixed heritage didn’t end up another label to wear or a taunt that got repeated over and over. She turned and faced Mick. She wet her lips and spoke. “Why Talbot’s Peak?”
“Because here everyone knows your name, doesn’t care where you’ve been or come from unless it pertains to your work, and they care about me as a living being. “ She paused, ready to say more.
“I understand,” Mick said, smiling at her. “Finding a place where you fit in can make or break you.”
Trina shrugged trying to ignore the tears threatening to run down her cheeks. A lot of the places
she’d been to scoffed at her. Treated her like a second-class thing. She didn’t ask why she threatened people. She packed up and moved on like her family had for many years until her parents bought the farm close to the Wyoming Montana border. Find her place on her own counted. After all, she wasn’t a young inexperienced woman. She’d hit her thirtieth birthday last year.
Mick reached up, knuckled a tear off Trina’s cheek. He could see trust wasn’t easy for her. Gaining hers would take time and effort. The soothsayer predicted his mate, his heart mate, would affect him like no other. Holding Trina as they danced set off a warmth and a desire he hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe she was the one. Was he ready to take another chance at love? He and his heart hadn’t fared well the last time.
Happy Weekend Gang!
Sorry I missed a few weeks. Edits and rewrites took more time than expected. Weather bouncing all over hit the Spice Homestead and laid DP, me and Gal Pal low for a bit. Mage and his family got a few sniffles too. We're back on our feet and ready to enjoy warmer weather.
First chapter of Trina and Mick's story is done. Pris finally got them to agree tell us more of their love story. I hope to bring you chapter two next week. We'll have to see what Mick and Trina reveal next. No one ever said the path of love and joy was a smooth one.
Until next week, keep positive, a song in your heart, and joy pouring forth!
Friday, May 20, 2016
Sadly for me, Alpha hubs couldn't stay home and try out my Friday Fondle, so I figured, lets find a photo for you folks and myself, of course.
May your Friday be filled with fondles...
Thursday, May 19, 2016
... there won't be a blog this week either. Things have been hectic the past couple of weeks. Between tight deadlines on the freelance job (the one that pays the bills) and personal issues, time keeps getting away from me. It's always my personal writing that gets shoved to the back of the bus. I'm going to play catchup this weekend and try to get back on a regular schedule next week. Right after I mow the lawn. Any were-goats or were-sheep out there willing to gnaw on my north forty? Just watch out for the rabbit pellets.
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
Last chunk of Chapter three. Enjoy!
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“Knights of Order of Nicodemus Mounted Brigade don’t leave the order except through death.” Meg shivered, more from the coldness of her thoughts than from the chill in the air. She moved toward the fire, anyway. They’re more like warrior monks than actual soldiers. The Order can be bought off as a whole, but not the integrity of any individual member. How can he be one of their knights and a thief?”
“Because he was excommunicated.” She looked at Morgan, confused.
“How does one survive being excommunicated from a religious order dedicated to holy desecration of self?”
Morgan shrugged. “No one knows for sure. It’s speculated that because Nicodemus was a stickler for following the law to the letter, the Order would have allowed him to be heard before passing judgement. What he did to end up in that position is anyone’s guess.” Morgan sat down in his chair and invited her to sit in the smaller one across from him, an offer she took. “What is known for certain is that he first showed up not far from where the Western Gate of Hell is supposed to be on this plane and began selling his services as a mercenary. It wasn’t obvious at first that he was a Nicodemian.”
“It was probably the scars and tattoos that gave his origins away, wasn’t it?” Meg cut in.
Morgan nodded. “The Order of Nicodemus is well known for their rights of desecration of the mortal body in order to cleanse the immortal soul.”
“That many be what people are told, but those markings on his body are true necromantic magic. The tattoos were made by chiselling runes into his skin and then rubbing powdered dye into the open wounds. It’s an excruciating process meant to offer payment in pain and suffering for the gifts bestowed upon the bearer of the pain.”
“All magic has a price,” Morgan said.
“The price for death magic is unbearable suffering.” Meg shivered again. “Those who practice it usually use the suffering of others to fuel their spells. It’s usually fatal. And I doubt it was Jarod Black who received the benefits of the spells his death payed for.”
Both of them looked over at the huge cat still hiding in the shadows by the door. The cat was looking back at them, a false drowsy look upon his face. “You’re saying the rituals had to have killed him?” Morgan asked incredulously.
Meg nodded. “And the magic brought him back to life. He’s able to walk freely in the shadows between life and death now. Your new pet probably cannot be killed through normal methods.”