Tag Archives: dark fantasy

Let There Be Dragons Blitz

 

Let There Be Dragons cover

 

Dark Fantasy

 

Published: October 2020

Publisher: Tell-Tale Publishing

In a post-apocalyptic world, dragons, elves, vampires and demons war for control of Earth. A girl with powerful Gifts is the only hope the world has to destroy Slygon, a demon from the Pit come to rule all.

With the aid of a half-orc, his friends and a fairy, Annabelle tames dragons and rides to fight Slygon on his home territory. On a mission to rescue her sister from Slygon’s power, Annabelle will stop at nothing. When everyone around her is saying it’s time to quit, Annabelle is just getting started.

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Excerpt

 

Chapter Three

Jackal

 

We be getting mighty close the city, Jackal,” Slag said.

I glanced at my green friend sitting astride the Belgium draft mare he’d named Bunny even though she was mean as a snake. Slag was three-quarters orc. Slag’s mother had been a halfling, his father an orc who raped her when she was hunting. Slag had been given to the same wet nurse taking care of me. We were raised together along with Chub, our third companion, another half-orc.

Slag’s frown emphasized the pointed ivory tusks that rose at the corner of his mouth from his bottom jaw to above his upper lip and nearly to his flat nose. At seven feet of solid muscle Slag weighed in at three-hundred pounds, and was two inches taller than me, and twenty-five pounds heavier. When I noticed the sun shining off the top of Slag’s head I grinned. Slag kept his head shaved to show off what he thought were his best features, a broad forehead and small, slightly pointed ears, each pierced with three golden rings.

Aye, the city be close” I said as I glanced around us. “The big lake be over that hill. The walls of New Orleans be about a league to the south of us.”

This be dangerous ground,” Chub said. “It’s getting’ late and I’m terrible hungry. Let’s stop and cook up some of that shoat we bagged this morning.”

I laughed. Chub was always hungry, a huge halfling who besides food, loved me, Slag and no other being in the universe, except perhaps the draft mule he rode. The mule was always hungry too. Chub shared other qualities with his mount, such as strength, tirelessness, and a foul temper. A dangerous combination. But then all of us are dangerous.

I’m good with that,” I said. “You two set up camp. I’m gonna ride up to the top of that hill and get a look see.”

I spurred Thor, a black Friesian with feathered feet and too much mane. The big horse was a gift from my mother, the elf queen, Ashera. It was the only thing besides my light skin, pointed ears, and thick brown hair she’d ever given me. That, and she’d carried me to term and not killed me at birth, which was the custom, because I was the result of an orc rape. Instead of killing me, she sent me to the village of Wildwhisper. She’d never raise a half-orc babe herself. Elves were all racists. They believed in the purity of the elf race and any mixing of blood was considered an abomination. I was glad she’d sent me to Wildwhisper. Life in the village suited me down to the ground. I’d learned to forge and use the weapons I made.

My two warrior friends and I were raised in the same small village outside the elves’ mountain fortress in what used to be Arkansas. It was also near Edenvale, a hidden sanctuary populated with humans who didn’t care to be serfs to the Magics or live within walls. The people of Wildwhisper maintained themselves by hunting in the forest, tanning hides, and forging weapons. They mined ore and coal in the mountains and found old steel and metal in abandoned cities to melt in forges fueled by the coal. Their swords were highly-valued, the metal folded and then sharpened to perfection and modeled after the Japanese blade, the katana. They also forged enormous axes to be used as weapons and smaller ones for cutting down trees. If it could be made of metal, it was forged in Wildwhisper. I always carried a satchel full of weapons to use in trade if we needed food or lodging, and sometimes I sold them for the most common form of money, silver coins.

As I galloped Thor to the top of the hill, reveling in the strength and immense power of the horse beneath me, I surveyed the landscape. Below stretched the big lake and the wall built around the city of New Orleans. The city center was too far to see clearly, just the spire of a great church, and the remains of tall buildings now crumbling ruins. Inside the wall, small farms were green with summer’s bounty.

I squeezed Thor’s sides sending him charging into a valley and up another hill. At the top, I spotted a group of orcs camped in the bottom of the next valley inside a copse of oak saplings. Smoke from their cook fire rose between the leafy boughs. I couldn’t see all of them, but the usual orc raiding party was ten or twelve. Seven were visible, tending to the huge boars they rode. The hogs grunted and snorted from their position tied to trot lines. I was close enough hear the restless animals.

This was good news to me. Finding a raiding party before it found you was always good news. Then I spotted the girl. She looked about ten and was tied face down across the back of a hog. One of the orcs dragged her off the massive pig and tossed her to his fellow who laughed and ripped off her clothes.

I felt my animal nature rising. Anger at the terrible treatment of the child, for the girl was no more than that, warred with my inner voice cautioning me to take care. I wanted nothing more than to tear down the hill and fight all of them.

I whirled Thor around on his hind feet and galloped back to camp. It was almost dark. Slag and Chub would appreciate the chance to kill some orcs.

I pulled the big Friesian to a sliding stop at the edge of the camp. Slag grabbed my reins. “I see that light in yer eye.” Slag grinned. “Ye found us a bit of work, didn’t ye?”

Orcs have a girl. We gotta go now. Setting up camp can wait. Mount [JP1] up and let’s ride.”

Slag and Chub leapt on their mounts[JP2] . Chub still had his long bow slung over his shoulder, a quiver full of arrows and his axe in a holster attached to his leather body armor. Slag favored a broad sword, a crossbow with bolts tipped with rattlesnake venom, and a spear. I still had my katana and sheath hooked to the back of my armor. Armed to the teeth, we thundered down the trail, knowing the girl might soon be dead, or worse. A ten-year old was a woman to orcs.

We stopped at the top of the hill overlooking the orc encampment. The sun had set, and a huge moon slowly rose over the trees behind them. The ghostly-blue light illuminated the troop of orcs gathered in a raiding party. We sat still and silent, impatient as we watched the orcs move out. When the orcs crested the far hill and headed toward the city, I dismounted, left Thor ground-tied, and slunk down the hill staying in the cover of shrubs and underbrush. Chub stayed with the horses, but Slag followed.

The fire I’d seen earlier was extinguished, but the orcs obviously planned to return to this camp. Two huge, ugly, green monsters squatted close to the girl. They weren’t touching her, just sitting there watching. Two hogs wandered around behind them, saddled and ready to go, but eating acorns and snuffling in the leaves beneath the trees.

I waved, sending Slag off to the left, while I went right. The hogs scented us and squealed an alarm. The two orcs jumped to their feet. One held a massive hammer, the other a multi-bladed mace, crude but effective. A brace of spears leaned against one of the trees. The hogs came close to inspect me and I shooed them away. One charged, its tusks gleaming blue in the moonlight. I held my katana high over my head in a two-handed grip as I waited for the hog, then I stepped aside and sliced its head off with my razor-sharp blade. The head rolled, foam dripping from its gaping maw as blood gushed from the body. The other hog squealed and ran away.

Alerted, the two orcs raced around in circles searching for us. Slag stepped up behind them and put two poison bolts into the biggest one while I slashed the other diagonally across its body from neck to thigh, opening its belly. Guts and blood poured onto the ground as the stunned orc took a minute to figure out, he was dead, then toppled over.

Smiling, I do love a good fight, I wiped my blade on the grass to clean it. “Get the girl.”

Slag moaned. “Really? Like we ain’t got enough problems?”

If we leave her here, the orcs will find her and their two dead friends and come looking for us after they kill her.”

Happen, they’ll come for us, no matter.”

Not if we catch them first.”

Slag lifted one bushy eyebrow.

We have to go after them. They’re headed for the city.”

When did you become a lover of the Magics?”

It’s not the Magics I care about. The regular folk die too, and they don’t deserve it.”

Slag sighed. “Let’s be off then. Chub’s missing his dinner and that will put him in a right bad mood.”

We found the girl curled into a ball under a rough blanket made of sacking. I pulled the sacking off her face. She was red headed, with pale skin and bright blue eyes. She pounced on me, clawing at my eyes. “Whoa, there filly.” I pulled her off my head. “I ain’t an orc.”

You are!” she screamed. “You might not be green, but you look just like them.”

I know I ain’t pretty, but it’s not kind of you to remind me. I might be half orc, but I always thought I was better looking than orcs.” I held her out in front of me and noticed she was younger than I’d thought, and feistier. “We just killed your captors and we plan to get the rest.” She kicked and scratched at my leather wrist guards, tried to bite me, and shrieked bloody murder.

I can always give you back, if you’d druther.”

She stopped shrieking. “Put me down.”

Are you gonna run?”

Duh.”

Where to?”

Away from you, that’s for certain.”

Slag stepped forward in all his hugeness and laughed. “Jackal be your onliest chance of surviving, missy. I’d stick with him if I was you, for a kinder heart in a bigger ass you’ll never find.”

About The Author

Janet Post


Janet Post is a self-described military brat from Hawaii. She worked as a reporter for years before retiring to write books. Horses and dogs are her passion along with writing adventure and fantasy for young adults. She currently lives in the swamplands of Florida.

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The Soul Collector Blitz

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Dark Fantasy, Supernatural Suspense

Publisher: Story Bound Publishing

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As I lay trapped inside this quiet realm,

My soul adrift, my body earthbound,

A magical book guards my flight,

Will it keep me safe till morning’s light?

 

It begins with darkness. Are they dead, or trapped inside a horrible dream?
No one can hear them, see them. Has the world forgotten them? Are they
invisible? Not to the Soul Collector. They have stepped into her Kingdom,
and she is waiting for them.

The Soul Collector tablet

 

Excerpt

Chapter 1

 

The biggest boxing match of the season landed on a Friday the 13th. But a
little thing like superstition had no effect on the newcomer, Jonathan
Bayfield, and heavyweight champion, Lou Turlock. The fight fans agreed,
stomping their feet while chanting “Fight! Fight! Fight!” inside
the packed, brightly lit arena. Sportscasters got up close and personal,
claiming ringside seats for an in-your-face camera view.

Bayfield locked his gaze on his opponent, his right ear taking in
Coach’s words.

“Go to the body. Don’t overreach. Straight punches. Got
it?” Coach gripped Bayfield’s shoulder. “Hey, eyes on me.
Don’t let him get inside your head.”

Bayfield looked at Coach, giving him a slow nod, then reverted his focus
back to Turlock, transmitting a defiant “this fight is mine”
glare.

Turlock reciprocated, taunting Bayfield with a “we’ll
see” sneer.

The vein in Bayfield’s forehead pulsed, spreading a surge of heat
through his body. A fist to the gut. That would show the arrogant prick he
had something to worry about, rattled through his mind. The ringside bell
shattered Bayfield’s thoughts, bouncing him to his feet. Turlock came
out swinging, and Bayfield pivoted while throwing a right hook, catching the
corner of Turlock’s jaw. Turlock countered, landing a jab to
Bayfield’s chest. The blow forced the air from Bayfield’s lungs,
his body folding in half. But he quickly sprang upright, shaking off the
sting, and fired off several consecutive punches straight into
Turlock’s gut.

Turlock wobbled back and the crowd roared, shouting, “Way to go,
Bayfield!” Bayfield bounced back and forth on his feet, tapping his
gloves to the crowd’s cheers.

Turlock’s own pulse battered against his eardrums. Where was the
respect? He was a champion, and these morons had the nerve to cheer for a
nobody, some kid who’d happened to land himself a good manager.
Adrenaline tipped the scales on the fighter’s rationality. Cognitive
thought ceased. The whites of his eyes blazed as he hurtled his body like a
weapon, slamming his skull against the kid’s.

A crackling of bones ricocheted inside the ring, causing an eerie silence
to fall over the area, before shouts from the crowd came from all sides. The
ref barged in, spewing spit as he held Turlock back. Turlock’s gaze
traveled over the ref’s shoulder, colliding with the kid’s
vacant stare. He knew that look; like no one was home. He’d seen it in
his grandpa’s eyes before he’d taken his last breath. An icy
chill scurried down Turlock’s spine as the kid crumpled to the mat.
Turlock stood still as medics, judges, and more refs flooded the ring,
surrounding the kid’s lifeless body.

“I can’t find a pulse.”

“Start compressions.”

Coach pushed his way through the chaos to Bayfield. “Jonathan, can
you hear me?” Coach’s voice shook. “Stay…” He
blew out a breath. “Stay with me, buddy.”

Bayfield’s eyelids flew open, and with one push, he was on his feet.
A weird and wonderful lightness affected his body, which made no sense,
being as he weighed 200 pounds. Sounds rushed back, bouncing against his
eardrums and forming words—Coach’s words.

“Hold on, Jonathan. The ambulance is on its way.”

Bayfield focused his attention on Coach. “Ambulance?”

“Just hold on. 

Bayfield laughed. “What are you talking about? Coach, I’m
standing right behind you. Turn around.”

Coach made no attempt, his focus centered on something in front of
him.

Bayfield’s tone rose an octave. “Coach, what
gives?”

No answer came, not from Coach, nor from any of the other people hovering
around him.

Bayfield skimmed the faces of the crowd, searching for a clue or hint to
enlighten him on what the hell was happening. Why was everyone ignoring
him?

“Step aside, people,” security broadcasted with authority,
herding the crowd back. “Let the paramedics through.”

“Paramedics? Who got hurt?” Bayfield’s gaze darted to
Turlock, where men in dark blue suits surrounded him, escorting him toward
the locker room. Bayfield let his gaze grow distant. He had no memory of the
fight ending, and his boxing gloves were missing. No one acknowledged him.
None of it made sense. He gave his head a good shake. “Gotta be an
explanation for all this.” As his vision cleared, it centered on the
paramedics rolling a lifeless body away on a stretcher—his body!

His brain skidded to a stop—no pause, no rewind, no press play. Just
a complete stop. Was he being punk’d? Was this some kind of sick joke?
His gaze followed the stretcher, catching the tail end of it slipping inside
the ambulance. Coach followed, his hands running through his salt and pepper
hair. The look of sheer terror etched across Coach’s pale face slammed
against Bayfield’s brain. This was no joke. This was real, and that
ambulance was about to take off with his body.

Bayfield launched across the ring, catapulting over the ropes and sailing
inside the ambulance seconds before the doors closed and the siren sang out.
He plopped down next to Coach, his gaze transfixed on his own body lying
across from him. One massive, purplish bruise swallowed up his bloodied
forehead. Bayfield couldn’t explain it—couldn’t understand
it. “I’m sitting here, but also lying there. How is that
possible?” In a momentary shift, his eyes found Coach’s, thirsty
for an answer. None came. The silence sent a chill down Bayfield’s
spine.

A paramedic with tattoos blazing down his arms informed, “Got a
pulse,”—his intense blue eyes narrowed—“but
it’s thready.”

The paramedic behind the wheel, sprouting a six o’clock shadow,
lobbed a reply over his shoulder. “Letting dispatch know we’re
five minutes out.”

Coach gripped his hands, squeezing the blood from his knuckles.
“Getting a pulse, even a weak one, is a good thing,
right?”

The tattooed paramedic waited a good minute before saying, “For now,
yes.”

About the Author

LAURA DALEO is the author of five books. She is best known for her
storytelling of the vampiric persuasion. Her most recent work, The Vampire
Within, is the third book in her Immortal Kiss series. The series is an
interesting twist on the Egyptian pantheon being the original vampires. Her
current project, The Doll, is her first sci fi tale, with a touch of
mystery. She lives in sunny San Diego, California, with her three dogs,
Stuart, Morgan, and Dexter.

 

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Undying Witch Tour

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(A Dysfunctional Family of Witches Prequel)

 Dark Fantasy

 Date Published: October 1, 2019

Publisher: Spellbound Books

 

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The illegitimate granddaughter of Catherine the Great finds a shapeshifting
stone and discovers the magic to be young and live forever. Years later,
Dima’s teenage daughter resents a mother who is 112 years old but shifts
into a woman young enough to be her sister.  Medea loathes a mother who
loves her 17 cats more than she does her daughter. Medea despises a mother
who claims all witchcraft as her magic and treats her daughter like a slave.
In secret, Medea develops her own sorcery.

 

Undying Witch tablet, phone

EXCERPT

UNDYING WITCH

A Dysfunctional Family of Witches

Prequel

By B. Austin

Ninety-eight-year-old Dima clutched the rock, spinning like a young woman. She would die remembering herself dancing in St. Petersburg Square.

She closed her eyes, clenching the volcanic rock, feeling the stone shudder beneath her touch.

She saw herself once more, with lush hair brushing her ankles. On a warm day, she would dance naked in the allies, her hair covering her breasts like Lady Godiva. She would twirl, slapping the men’s faces with her golden locks and driving them wild. “Those were the good days.”

Dima would die singing. She sang out loud the song Those Were the Days composed by Boris Fomin. The song was about remembered youth and romantic ideals.

She was getting dizzy and feared falling. She did not want to die in pain with broken bones.

Dima stopped spinning. What the…? How could thisbe?

Are these my hands, smooth and young with no wrinkles?

Her legs were smooth, shapely, and tall.

Her back was straight and her breasts…ooh-la-la, could she attract the men with these twin firm beauties!

There was no sagging under her arms.

She shoved her hands under her buttocks and squeezed. Her Butt was hard as a rock.

She patted a hand under her chin which was no longer almost touching her chest but was firm.

Dima ran out of the House of the Tragic Poet with the volcanic rock, no make that shape-shifting rock, clutched in her hand. The ruins were especially eerie because the site closed at five o-clock. All the tourists were gone.

 

About the Author

B. Austin grew up in the Land of Enchantment, New Mexico. She was told true
tales of witches by her superstitious family. Before writing full time, she
toiled in tech as a software engineer. She currently lives in Florida. She,
also, writes under the name of Belinda Austin.

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The Wingless Angel Tour

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Dark Fantasy
Date Published: 2/22/20
Publisher: Acorn Publishing
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The Wingless Angel
Ex-Army Medic, Silton, has had a rough go of late. Soon after being discharged from the military his wife suffered a tragic accident, then slipped into a coma and died. Now alone, drinking fills his days, and restless sleep plagues his nights.
He feels that God is finished with him, that he has no purpose in life, so he ends it all.
He falls. Naked and confused, he falls.
Silton awakens on a taught expanse of warm Skin Land. Acrid air stings his lungs, tiny hairs jut up like grass under his feet, and the pale blue eye of Heaven stares down on him.
In the distance he hears a scream, and as he bounds towards it, finds a fetid swamp of others who have fallen, sinking into the soupy flesh. Quick to his training Silton pulls a woman out of the mess, only to find her legs ravaged with breaks. Using his medical skills and the flesh around him, he binds her injuries, easing her pain.
Far off in the distance, on their huge moving home called the Sled, a group of demons set off on a journey out into the Skin Land to harvest those lucky enough to survive the fall. Those like Silton.
Silton drags his newfound friend to a distant shelter of bone as they share the reflections of life that have brought them here. With each step the mystery of this place unfolds revealing its true beauty, and its terrifying reality.
As the demons draw near, and the pale blue eye of Heaven watches above, it becomes clear that God is not finished with Silton. God has a new purpose for him, a purpose for him in Hell.
“Sin follows the sinner, it does not lead them.”
The Wingless Angel tablet

EXCERPT

It is important to note that part of the Devil’s plan in Hell is to malform, or as a function of Hell’s design, force you to malform your body. This has been fully and completely orchestrated by the Devil. It is widely known that man has an enduring and sometimes obsessive attachment to his body. In order to successfully survive in Hell, you must endeavor to release yourself from this constraint, as it will only hinder your progress. Understand that you are dead, fully and completely. Although you will feel pain, just as you have felt it in life, the idea of self-preservation from the standpoint of your physical visage is irrelevant. Those who can release themselves from the attachment of their physical selves and embody these principles are amongst the most successful survivors in Hell.

—From “Hell: A Survival Guide”

By Delta-Delius

Montly sat perfectly still on the soft waiting room couch. Supple onyx skin stuffed with semi-hardened fat, the couch almost engulfed her. The cushions, cool and

refreshing, were comfortable against her rough, chapped thighs.

“Would you like something to drink?” asked the receptionist.

“Of course,” Montly said without thinking. Her mind was elsewhere—paging through her studies, her practice questions, and the stories she’d rehearsed in preparation for the interview.

The receptionist got up from her white, bone-on-bone carved desk while Montly watched in silence. She wore the most exquisite, sinew-netted blouse, so translucent her breasts could be seen through it. Her legs, wrapped tightly in a black-skinned skirt, looked smooth and unlabored. But her shoes fascinated Montly the most. She had never seen their equal: high, thin stilettos, pristine polished white bone on their sides, with heels of pure, whole teeth. As the receptionist walked to get Montly the water she’d offered, the teeth ground on the bone tile so loudly, she thought the floor was cracking.

Montly felt a tinge of jealousy. She wore the only garments she had: an off-white, skin overcoat with a pair of loose fitting, high-water pants held up by a braided-vein belt. Her shoes, a pair of simple, skin-folded moccasins, were old and tattered. Montly wasn’t even wearing a blouse. She felt the overcoat was enough, and besides, she didn’t have any breasts to speak of. She’d removed them long ago, far too useless for the weight they burdened her with.

The receptionist returned with a small cup made of thinly pressed keratin.

“I just want you to know,” the receptionist whispered. “Us girls here on The Sled, we’re pulling for you.”

“Thank you.” A slight wave of anxiety released itself as Montly took the cup. She drank

About the Author

 

Fabrice Wilfong has been writing fiction since he was 15 years old. His works have consistently leaned towards the dark side of human experience, where he uses characters and philosophy to challenge our shared interpretations of life.  
For most of his professional career Fabrice has been in the Healthcare Industry where he’s learned to love human anatomy and the systems of the body. He feels the body remains a frontier that we are all forced to explore with little understanding of how things will unfold.
His works consistently push the reader to a deeper knowledge of themselves both mentally and physically, while daring into the fantastical and bizarre.     
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RAVENOUS INNOCENCE by Myra Danvers – Release Blitz

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Series: The Last Tritan Book 1
Genre: Adult Fantasy, Dark Fantasy, Science Fiction, Fantasy
Publication Date: February 1, 2019
His people took everything from me, and Goddess be damned if I won’t take it back.
�I�ll be good to you,� he purred and swept his thumb over my pendant, caressing. His ki surged into my mind, hammering at me with a soothing promise, abusing the link he�d left behind with a kiss. �You�ll never want for anything��
Asher promises to teach me the forbidden while my city�my home�burns at his back. Because of him, Tritan falls, and the Caledonian forces take the best of my people for their own sick uses.
To fight, those of us who remain must flee. Regroup, or submit.
But he�s coming, hunting me, and Asher won�t stop until I wear his mark. Until my goddess-given power is his to command.
He�s tasted my lips and fed me nothing but lies, but his betrayal has given me strength even he didn�t expect.
His people took everything from me, and Goddess be damned if I won�t take it back.

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Excerpt

A low groan rumbled in his throat, and he swallowed, catching my wrist in a much larger hand. For a long moment, he simply stared down at me, but when my tongue darted out to wet lips dried by searing winds of ki and living shadows, something in him snapped. I felt it happen. Even before he pressed his lips to mine, I felt it.
Warm and soft, his kiss spoke of the forbidden. The impossible. Making my core clench with unnatural speed and fervor as ki whirled between us. Sending blood surging in delicate tissue. All around us. Invisible to the hoards of sightless mundane going about their business a scant few feet away, where only their shades could see us. The scrape of a day-old beard dragged a splintered groan from my chest, and, hands slipping down my back, he seized the taut globes of my bottom. Spreading me.
Pulling me closer.
Would that he could drag me inside his skin, where I could drink him dry and soothe this blessed, painful ache.
His teeth traced my lower lip, filling my lungs with breath and heated ki, pressing a thick bulge against my belly.
I gasped, drinking him in, demanding more. Gorging until my every cell was filled to bursting. Drawing on him as heavily as I drew upon his lips. Needing it. More. There would never be enough.
A puff of breath warmed my cheek when he twisted, breaking away from my lips with a curse, his fingers bunching the fabric of my shift. Inching it indecently high. But he drew back, setting his forehead against mine. Petting my hair back with calloused hands. Obsidian eyes concealed behind scrunched eyelids, labored breath leaving my skin damp. �God, the taste of you, girl.� He released my bottom and cupped the back of my neck, forcing me to still. �What are you?�
�I�m�� my voice cracked, and I cleared my throat, blinking as the world settled around us. Dazed, I squinted up at the man, admiring the rugged, handsome features so different to my own. Alien. Bronzed skin, muscular frame, dark hair and darker eyes�everything I wasn�t.
A Caledonian.
Kissing a Caledonian Elite in public? Had I lost my damned mind? My father would�
Nothing.
My father wasn�t here. And I hadn�t had enough. Not now. Not ever.
I buried my fist in his hair, pulling him back. Driven by instinct I didn�t recognize as my own. By a needy itch below the skin, the likes of which I�d never felt before. Before him…

About Myra Danvers

Raised by her awesome parents in Canada’s snowy north, Myra learned perseverance from an early age. She learned to speak in third person, via extensive reading as a child, because… well… Northern Canada gets a LOT of snow. And when one isn’t snowboarding, building quinzees, or waking up to teddy bears frozen to the floor, one tends to read about places that are warm–even if being cold is preferable to being hot, every-damn-time.
All that reading gave Myra the gypsy bug. So, after college, (where she majored in professional gypsying) she moved to a ski resort in British Colombia to be a ski bum and chase the winter, because the cold was in her bones and it never bothered her anyway. (Points because Elsa of Frozen is her spirit animal?)
But then life caught up with her, as it does, and now she’s stuffed full of enough life experience to write until transcendence (where she will be first in line to get a sweet android body and travel the universe until the end of time). So that’s what she does, when she’s not listening to the voices or taking apart the electronics just to see their insides.
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