 
# Portals: Volume Seven

### Your Gateway to Science Fiction Romance

## Kate Corcino

## Sharon Lynn Fisher

## L.J. Garland

## Dena Garson

## Shona Husk

## Pippa Jay

## Jolie Mason

## Annie Nicolas

## Christine Pope

## Rosalie Redd

## S.M. Schmitz

## Kat Vancil

### Contents

About this Collection

Copyright

Spark Rising by Kate Corcino

About Spark Rising

Excerpt of Spark Rising

The Ophelia Prophecy by Sharon Lynn Fisher

About The Ophelia Prophecy

Excerpt of The Ophelia Prophecy

MechMan by L.J. Garland

About MechMan

Excerpt of MechMan

Rege's Rescue by Dena Garson

About Rege's Rescue

Except of Rege's Rescue

Lunar Exposure by Shona Husk

About Lunar Exposure

Excerpt of Lunar Exposure

Tethered by Pippa Jay

About Tethered

Excerpt of Tethered

Riding Redemption by Jolie Mason

About Riding Redemption

Excerpt of Riding Redemption

Boarded by Annie Nicholas

About Boarded

Excerpt of Boarded

Blood Will Tell by Christine Pope

About Blood Will Tell

Excerpt of Blood Will Tell

Untouchable Lover by Rosalie Redd

About Untouchable Lover

Excerpt from Untouchable Lover

Resurrected by S.M. Schmitz

About Resurrected

Excerpt from Resurrected

The Marked Ones by Kat Vancil

About The Marked Ones

Excerpt of The Marked Ones: The Complete Trilogy

Need More SFR? Check These Sites!

A Special Thank You

About Science Fiction Romance Brigade

# About this Collection

Welcome! You have arrived at a portal to the galaxy.

Enter, and you'll be introduced by award-winning authors to worlds beyond imagining, with heroes & heroines who dare to take it to the edge and beyond. Count on these adventurers to take their best shot... at their enemies _and_ at romance!

Contains 12 first chapters, with links to purchase any or all of the complete books, should you wish.

All samples in this collection are works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors' imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The samples in this collection are used with the permission of the authors and/or publishers. All rights are reserved to the authors and/or publishers.

"REGE'S RESCUE," Copyright © 2016 Dena Garson. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"MECHMAN," Copyright © L.J. Garland 2016. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"BOARDED," Copyright © Annie Nicholas 2016. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"THE MARKED ONES: The Complete Trilogy, Daemons in the Mist (Trilogy Edition)" Copyright © 2015 by Alicia Kat Vancil. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"TETHERED (An Inc-Su Story)," Copyright © Pippa Jay, 2014. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

UNTOUCHABLE LOVER, Copyright © 2015 Rosalie Redd. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"RESURRECTED," Copyright © S.M. Schmitz, 2015. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"BLOOD WILL TELL," Copyright © CHRISTINE POPE 2012. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"LUNAR EXPOSURE," Copyright © Shona Husk 2013, 2016. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"SPARK RISING," Copyright © KATE CORCINO 2014. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"Riding Redemption," Copyright © JOLIE MASON 2015. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"The Ophelia Prophecy," Copyright © Sharon Lynn Fisher 2014. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

Cover Artwork: © Jennette Marie Powell Heikes. All images licensed and used with permission

ISBN: 978-1-942583-39-4

 Created with Vellum 

# Spark Rising by Kate Corcino
# About Spark Rising

A black market Spark, capable of charging and storing electricity after the apocalyptic loss of fossil fuels, must topple a government conspiracy with the double agent who invaded her home and handed her to the Council. The price of failure? The enslavement of Sparks as the fuel for a new age of industry. Good thing Lena Gracey and Alex Reyes feed on pressure--and the electricity building between them.

# Excerpt of Spark Rising

Chapter One

"Nothing says 'Home, Sweet Home' like an abandoned gas station."

The words came with a muffled snort from one of the two men following Lena. He probably hadn't meant for her to hear them—probably—but the rich, husky tone of his voice carried them to her.

Lena rolled her eyes, her back still to the client and his assistant. "Does my home offend you, Mr. Reyes?" She kept her tone even and pleasant. It took effort. A lot of effort.

"No, no," he answered from behind her. "I'm just trying to understand what would make someone see this place and say, 'Now this...this is the place I want to call home.'" He paused. "Miss Gracey," he added, mimicking her formality.

She could hear his amusement. It was nothing she hadn't heard from other clients before. As far as she was concerned, he could keep trying. She highly doubted he'd get it.

When she'd arrived at the ancient gas station nine years before, she'd been fifteen and full of rage, fear, and pride over making her escape from a life of hiding in the city. The empty building still stood firm against the onslaught of the world. Buckled, collapsed pavement at the far end of the lot showed where the tanks below ground had ignited during the cataclysm two centuries before. The void was filled with sand pushed by the wind—a shifting, fatal trap for the unwary. A tumbleweed bounced across the rubble of the road, smashing against teetering pump fourteen, shedding thorns and seeds as it rolled off again.

The desolation was a reflection of Lena's grief. She'd staked her claim on the station and carved her home out of drifted sand and weeds. She didn't expect those who lived in the comfort of a relo-city—surrounded by people and walls to keep the world at bay—to understand why it mattered to claim a corner of the wild as hers alone. The cities that had grown out of the post-disaster relocation centers were the last hope of those clinging to the old ways. They were willing to give up a lot to live in safety. She knew safety was relative.

Now her client, and the assistant who'd powered the electric vehicle to get him out here, sized her home up as they followed her inside. The visual examination of the home she'd built for herself, the life alone, was typical of every client, every time.

This time the examination, and the judgment it implied, rankled. She spun around, mouth opened to snap at them.

She stopped. Alejandro Reyes had removed his antique sunglasses, and his dark eyes were focused on her. She tried to escape the intensity of them by looking down, but that was a mistake. Instead of a heated gaze, she caught his wide-chested, lean-hipped body as he slid closer to her like one of the big cats of the desert, stalking prey.

_He's not a hunter, Lena. Just another indolent client looking for a black market charge to make his easy life easier._

She cleared her throat, turning to his assistant. The other man, Lucas, was busy inspecting every detail of her home. She doubted Reyes's attention had ever left her back. It certainly didn't leave her face now that she had turned to the other man. She could feel his focus still, the itch of attention that always made her self-conscious. He wasn't interested in the room.

"Where'd you get the light bulbs?"

They were a luxury item, rarely seen outside of Council buildings, but she wasn't fooled. He was studying her, not her fixtures.

She shrugged. "I barter for everything." She considered him for a moment, gauging the risk he presented. He didn't seem threatening, merely interested, and Lena didn't sleep with her clients, no matter how hot they were. She held out her hand. "May I have the item, please?"

Reyes had to snap his fingers at Lucas to get his attention. She'd dismissed the Spark assistant as soon as she'd seen his energy bloom, the faint displacement like a heat shimmer that other Sparks could see. The brightness indicated the inherent power of a Spark and showed up the moment the mental power was accessed. Typically, the bloom would grow as a Spark worked with the Dust to create the electrical energy that was otherwise dead to the world.

The assistant's bloom was unimpressive, probably the reason his boss had to seek out black market charges from people like her. It was also the likely reason for his slack jaw as he noted the energy signature on all of the modifications she and the Dust had made to nearly every item in her home.

Lucas crossed to Reyes and handed him a small, cloth-wrapped package. Reyes held it up, delaying giving it to her.

"Now, I was assured you're a strong Spark. You can get the Dust to make anything work, whether you've seen it before or not," he said.

Like so many others, obviously Reyes thought that the power to create or store energy was due to a Spark's ability to force the Dust to do one's will. They didn't understand the truth of the Dust, any more than any of them understood what it really was. Everyone had a theory—a virus to which Sparks alone were immune, invisible aliens working to keep humanity weak, even that Dust was the final ruse of the old government meant to hide an evolutionary shift. The Tribulationists believed Dust, and the Sparks themselves, were a sign of their god's displeasure.

They were all wrong. The Dust was alive. It wanted to help. She wasn't special because she could force it to do what she wanted; she was special because she knew how to ask. She knew how to listen.

"You're assuming I haven't seen whatever you found." She wiggled her outstretched fingers at him for the item. She hadn't been told what the object was, but her brother's contact had assured her that if she made Reyes happy, she'd earn a regular client.

"I am. Yeah." Barely contained laughter danced behind the words. He settled it onto her palm.

_Why all the mystery, gentlemen?_

Whatever it was, it was illegal as hell. But then, so was she. Females as powerful as she was didn't exist, and the Council scoured what was left of the world to make sure of it. Lena made a noncommittal noise and turned away as she began unwrapping the package.

From his behavior, she could tell he'd brought her an antique object to charge. Most of her business was in batteries and capacitors. City people often ran out of the rations of electrical charges earned through work before they got through the month. The unsympathetic Council of Nine didn't promise the people in its walled cities an easy life, just protection and an opportunity to work hard to earn a taste of electrical luxury.

People scavenged or bought black market copper and aluminum. Once they added some salt water—even lime juice would work in a pinch—they could build a battery. But the things weren't all that strong. What they really needed was a homemade capacitor. And, of course, a Spark willing to break the law to charge it. Enter Lena, and her black market talents. Demand was high.

"Is this a straight charge of a refurbished item, or will you need me to custom fit a capacitor into it and charge that?" Before he could answer, she finished unwrapping the object. A shock of recognition flashed through, and she spun around, arm extended stiffly to thrust the item back at him.

"Danny's rep would have explained the rules to you," she bit out, referring to her brother. "No powder weapons of any kind."

There was risky, and then there was stupid. She didn't do stupid. And Reyes wasn't nearly as beautiful now that she knew he was a dumbass who was perfectly willing to give stupid a try.

"Take it and go."

He grinned as he shook his head. "It's not a powder weapon."

"Do you think I'm an idiot? It's a gun."

"No, it isn't."

She glowered at him. "Take. It. Back."

He sighed and tilted his head. "It's not a gun."

She closed her hand around the weapon and cocked her arm back. He spoke rapidly then, hands up to forestall the throw.

"It's not. It doesn't shoot bullets. It shoots little barbs that are attached by wires. It isn't long-range. And it doesn't even hold bullets. It uses electricity. No powder." He licked his lips. "Look at it. Look at it."

She did, not sure what to look for outside of general shape. Powder weapons were rare and forbidden by the Council. Only the Council's agents, those who policed each of the nine zones, had use of the old weapons. It took a strong Spark to overcome the Dust's effect on powder. While no one knew exactly what Dust was, they did know what it did. Inhibiting combustive reactions was one those things. Agents, the men who'd been sent to the Ward School as boys and gave their youth up to train their native gifts, could get the Dust to fire powder. They were the strongest of the Sparks.

Her lips twisted. _Yeah. Right._ She was the exception. But her father had made it clear any girl strong enough for the Ward School wouldn't go there for training. She'd go and disappear.

She examined the weapon. Guns fired bullets out a hollow barrel. The front of this thing had two flaps, one atop the other, and beneath them, small twin holes with tiny tips perched within. She flicked a fingernail over the top of one.

"If you open the handle, you'll see there aren't any bullets. There's a battery pack," he said. "Electricity. Not combustion."

She turned it over again, found the small latch, and pried apart the handle. Nestled inside was an ancient, corroded battery pack.

"See? I told you. It's not a gun. It's called a Taser." The laughter was back in his voice. It was light, almost a chuckle.

The sound of it could soothe any raised hackles, except for hers.

"Can you make a capacitor that'll fit in there?"

Now that he'd said the name, she recognized the weapon. Electrical current could disrupt a Spark's ability to generate a charge, one current disrupting another. The Council's agents used Tasers to control Sparks who went rogue.

She didn't know how often it happened. From the time a child demonstrated any Spark at all, they were immersed in the Council's propaganda: It was an honor to be a Spark. The gift of control over the Dust meant you were privileged to help support the recovery of the human race. What could be a more worthwhile pursuit for a human life?

Lena could think of a few things, but she was smart enough to live quietly. Those who didn't... Well, those who refused had led the Council to research ways to ensure their cooperation.

_And now I have an opportunity to play with one and figure it out._

She met Reyes's eyes again, risking the intensity of his dark brown gaze. Instead, she found amusement. He raised his brows, a grin curving his lips, as if daring her to try.

_Well, shit._

A dare was a lure she couldn't resist. She responded with an answering smile, easing the tension.

Decision made, she turned away. "The question isn't whether or not I can fit a capacitor, but whether or not it will work anyway. This compartment is in bad shape."

She carried the weapon over to her work area and sat at her stool. She could ignore them now. The work end of being a black market Spark was easy. Trusting people long enough to take their C-notes or barter in exchange for a charge was the hard part. If it didn't give her a vengeful thrill every time she broke the Council's laws by charging an illicit item for a client, she'd never do it. She'd live as a happy hermit deep in her desert instead. Infrequent trips to the city would be reserved for sex and the few items she couldn't make or scavenge for herself.

Lena tucked her hair back behind her ears and leaned over the weapon. Wrapping a soft bit of cotton around the tip of a thin bone pick, she used her gentlest touch to rub away the worst of the bright orange and brown corrosion to assess the damage. She'd have the Dust check the leads when she was done. "Where'd you find this thing anyway? Not in Relo-Azcon, that's for sure."

" _Relo_ -Azcon?" Reyes's challenging tone made her turn her head. He threw a knowing smile at Lucas. "She's one of those."

She turned fully to him. "One of what?"

Reyes smiled lazily. "One of those who uses 'relo' to remind herself what a big, bad place she managed to escape." He wandered closer, his casual tone belied by dark eyes that held her own. Intense Reyes was back with a vengeance. "C'mon. It's Azcon. It's not a relocation center anymore. It's a city. It has been for more than a hundred years. It's a safe place, a good life, for everyone who lives there. You should come back."

Of course, _he_ thought so. He was one of the wealthy who lived in charged comfort.

_What do you know about what life is really like for the people who make your life comfortable, you big jerk?_

Most Sparks didn't live in charged extravagance. They used as little electricity as possible, because they knew someone like them had paid the price for it in pain. Each week, every Spark in every city took their scheduled turn on the grounding platforms or risked overloading their brains and stroking out. The huge open-air stages were built above the cities, for the safety of the unpowered, so the Sparks could discharge the feedback energy that accumulated within their bodies.

It was hard for Lena to believe now, but when she had been very small, she'd thought the groundings on the platform were beautiful. The crash of the lightning discharge was scary, sure, but the constant flashes of light made the days sparkle and chased the dark from the night.

And then she'd gone for her first grounding. She had been four, and had started working with a Spark tutor often enough that she'd built up her own feedback. She clutched her mother's hand, staring at her brother's profile as he climbed up to the platform ahead of her. He was sweating as they climbed the open, winding stairs, despite the chilled winter air on their cheeks. Those in line before them went first, removing clothes, standing shivering on the platform for a moment before being encased in blinding electric light. Their bodies were rigid, corded with agony, and the crash wasn't merely loud up that close. It deafened Lena, froze her in place while the vibrations shook through the platform to her bare feet and up her small body.

When it was over, the Sparks fell, collapsed from the pain to the heated floor of the platform. Council employees scooted forward, lifting them and moving them inside to spend their hour in recovery before heading back to family, job, or school. It was an efficient system, a machine that ran smoothly so long as the cogs were well-oiled by obedient citizens.

She blinked the memory away. "This is a safe place. Nobody but me makes the rules. I like it here just fine."

"Are you sure about that?" His tone dropped as he leaned in and smiled, voice turning low and persuasive. His proximity, coupled with her awareness of their chemistry, set off alarm bells in her head. "I'm a man in a position to be good to the right woman."

Heat flooded her face, but it wasn't embarrassment. It was anger. The man was a head and half taller than her tiny self, so more than six feet tall. He was older, perhaps early thirties, and dark, with olive skin and black hair trimmed close to his head. He moved with a sinuous grace that reminded her of how long it had been since she'd made her way back to find a boy in the city. The whole package was wrapped in a perfectly preserved, black, relic-silk shirt.

Everything about him screamed C-notes and sex. He expected her to believe he was this interested in _her—_ a __ skinny, short, reclusive Spark? Oh, she wouldn't deny the sexual spark between them. As far as the physical? Her dark red hair and blue-green eyes were unusual, but so were the galaxies of dark freckles spinning across her skin. And she was _fragrant_ today. The damn water heater she'd scavenged and dragged across the desert was broken again—it never worked more than a week or two before it burned out every circuit she attached to it.

In spite of her self-conscious anger, she could feel the pull as her body tried to respond to Reyes' lure, heat swirling low and slow in her belly. It pissed her off even more. Plus, a bit of chemistry between strangers didn't explain this level of attention. Whatever he wanted, it wasn't her.

_Please don't be stupid enough that you came out here to prey on me._ It wouldn't go the way they planned.

"I'm not the right woman." She stood, keeping the stool between her and the man in front of her. "And I'm not interested."

She shook her head. It wasn't just figurative alarms going off in her head. She could hear the Dust at the back of her mind, a sibilance, not quite a whisper. The Dust liked to help. Lena let it. Reyes spoke again, a pleasant drone she ignored. She focused on the images the Dust flashed in her mind.

Six intruders made their way across the desert, moving through the blanket of Dust and sand. They encircled her home in pairs. Teams of two? Council agents.

And two more were here inside with her. The Council had found her. Her father hadn't been wrong.

Rage ticked her eyelid. With every step the agents took across the desert, everything she had built went up like so much tinder. Unlike the mid-range Sparks who tried to flee the Council, she could keep them from dragging her back to be a power plant slave. All she had to do was everything her parents had warned her against. She'd have to reveal her true abilities.

She focused on the Dust within their bodies.

_Wake up, little friends. Wake up. I have work for you. Listen...._

Reyes stopped speaking the moment she went still. He exchanged a look with Lucas before looking back at her. It was all the time she needed.

_Lungs and muscles. Lungs and muscles. No breath. No movement._

She could see the shift behind his eyes as he realized he had underestimated her, and then he gasped. His windpipe and lungs constricted then he grabbed at his chest. His muscles locked.

Beside him, Lucas made a wet, wheezing sound as he toppled to the floor, body rigid.

She stepped away from behind the stool and moved sideways across the room.

"Your friends are coming," She had no idea why she spoke. "I'm sorry it hurts, but you should have left me alone. I wasn't bothering anyone." Lena didn't even know if he could hear her.

Reyes's face purpled and veins stood out in his neck and forehead. He shouldn't still be standing.

She hated that she felt guilty. "The Dust will stop once I'm gone. If you make it, don't look for me. I won't hold back next time."

You can buy this book or find our more here.

_S park Rising_ was born from the wonder of staring at photographs of what the night sky above our cities would look like if there were no electricity, a semi-longing session of "what-if?", and the dream I had that night as a result of both. It woke me...or I should say, _she_ woke me. Lena was born that night. And Lena is not a woman who takes being ignored well. *grin* Though she's not always likeable, she has a compelling story and makes sparks fly with the hottest double agent on either side of the apocalypse! I hope you love their story as much as I do!

Kate Corcino writes romantic science fiction and paranormal fantasy because she loves daydreaming about faraway places as much as she loves love. She believes in both science and magic, coffee, Starburst candies, genre fiction, descriptive profanity, and laughing over wine with good friends. She was raised around the world as an Army Brat. Perhaps that enforced flexibility is what led to her belief in the transformative power of screwing up and second chances. Cheers to works-in-progress of the literary and lifelong variety! She lives in her beloved desert in the southwestern US with her husband, children, and a small herd of rescued animals.

You can find her at:

katiecorcino@gmail.com

Website

Facebook

Twitter: @KateCorcino

# The Ophelia Prophecy by Sharon Lynn Fisher

# About The Ophelia Prophecy

**S worn enemies. Dark secrets. One last hope for peace.**

* * *

Asha and Pax—strangers and enemies—find themselves stranded together on the border of the last human city, neither with a memory of how they got there.

Asha is an archivist working to preserve humanity's most valuable resource—information—viewed as the only means of resurrecting their society.

Pax is Manti, his Scarab ship a menacing presence in the skies over Sanctuary, keeping the last dregs of humanity in check.

Neither of them is really what they seem, and what humanity believes about the Manti is a lie.

With their hearts and fates on a collision course, they must unlock each other's secrets and forge a bond of trust before a rekindled conflict pushes their two races into repeating the mistakes of the past.

# Excerpt of The Ophelia Prophecy

ENEMY HANDS

**W ater pooled around Asha's hips**, soaking her thin cotton dress. **** She studied the glimmering surface of the lake, and the rocky hillside looming on the opposite side.

_The reservoir. How did I get here?_

Closing her eyes, she pressed her fingers to her temples. The last thing she remembered was climbing to the roof of the Archive with her father. It was a beautiful fall evening, and they'd planned to picnic and watch the sunset. She'd stepped off the ladder onto the corrugated, whitewashed metal, and then . . .

_Sleep, Ophelia._

She grasped at the words as they breezed across her consciousness. They had the ring of command, yet she had no memory of who had spoken them, or why.

A masculine moan sounded, so close she rolled into a crouch and skittered into the shallow water. The lithe movement of her own body surprised her almost as much as the unexpected voice.

Just beyond the depression she'd left on the beach, a naked form stirred. A stranger. His gaze riveted on her. He sat up straight, fists digging into the sand. No, not sand. His body rested on a bed of some soft, fibrous material.

She remembered the flimsy dress—now wet and clinging to her body—and hugged her bent legs, concealing herself as best she could. Her heart pounded against her thighs.

"Who are you?" they both demanded. So the confusion was mutual.

"You first," he said. A command, not a courtesy.

She hesitated. The man now seemed familiar—something about the eyes. They curved down at the inside corners, making them appear to slant under his dark, arched eyebrows. But she couldn't place him.

He rose to a crouch, eyes moving over her like an extension of his arms, prying at the locked arms that concealed her body from him.

She reached up to release the clip that held her coiled hair to the back of her head, thinking she would cover herself with it. She gasped to discover her heavy tresses were gone.

Tears of confusion welled in her eyes. Fear knotted her stomach.

"What's your name?" the stranger insisted.

"Asha," she whispered, uncertain. There'd been another name a moment ago. A name that had seemed to mean something. Her throat tightened, strangling her words, as she said, "I don't understand."

"What are you doing here?"

She raised her eyes to his face, shrinking from the heat of his gaze. "I don't know."

His eyes bored into hers, probing for the thoughts behind them. He frowned, brow furrowing with doubt. _He doesn't believe me._

"Who are _you_?" she repeated, indignation nudging past the fear that gripped her.

He slid his hands up his shoulders to rub his neck, baring the hard lines of his stomach, revealing pale marks under either side of his rib cage. _Scars_.

"Paxton," he said. One hand moved to the back of his head, and he winced. He probed the sore spot with his fingers.

"Why are you here?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't know."

She glanced again at the fibrous nest. "What's that?"

"Carapace."

She blinked at him, no more enlightened by his answer. Before she could question him further, he rose to his feet, scanning the horizon. Her eyes lingered on the marks below his ribs. She glanced away before her gaze could slip lower.

He stood so long—motionless and studying the edge of the sky—she began to think he'd forgotten her. His composure was troubling. There was a shared mystery here, clearly, but they were not equal participants.

"How can you be so calm?" she asked, voice lifting with anxiety. "Do you know something I don't? Has this kind of thing happened to you before?"

Paxton glanced down at the nest. "Yes."

She waited for him to explain, but the low whine of an approaching ship changed the subject. Panic jolted her as the black beetle hummed into view, dragging its own reflection across the surface of the lake.

She sprang to her feet. "That's an enemy ship!"

The war was over, but the Manti ruled the air, still keeping tabs on the last dregs of humanity. Citizens of Sanctuary were forbidden to wander away from the city—and the reservoir marked the boundary.

"We need to go!" she cried.

Again his eyes skewered her to the spot. "That's my ship."

"Your ship? I don't . . ."

And then suddenly she did. She sidestepped a couple meters down the beach, gaze flitting between ship and enemy.

Overhead, the beetle whirred to rest, cupped wings lifting to allow a controlled vertical landing. With a series of loud clicks it nestled into the sand, hover gear lowering and locking back against the hull. The skin of the vessel was lusterless and black—a secreted resin that looked like rubber. She watched the hull lighten from jet to blond, until it was almost invisible against the sand.

"Pax, you okay?" The feminine voice came from the ship. "I'm okay," called Asha's companion. "Drop the ramp."

"Who's that with you?" the voice asked.

Paxton frowned, glancing at Asha. "I was hoping you could tell me."

Pax could see **** the woman was ready to bolt. He could _feel_ it.

She was a wisp of a girl. Narrow shoulders. Graceful limbs. Cropped brown hair—unruly except where it was tucked behind her ears—and round eyes the color of coffee beans. Despite her fair complexion, sun exposure had stained her arms and shoulders a light copper. His eyes explored the curve and swell of flesh exposed by the threadbare dress. His fingers twitched at his hips.

"Whoever she is," his pilot continued over the com, "I can smell from here she's scared half to death."

"I know, Iris. Drop the ramp."

"Lord of the goddamn _flies_ , Pax, you're not thinking of bringing her on board."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because obviously it's a trap. Your carapace was activated. Something went wrong down here."

"Obviously," he said, rubbing at the knot on the back of his head. He stared at the woman, and she took another step back. "But short of exploding, I'm not sure what she can do to us."

"Well, for starters, _explode_."

He gave a groan of impatience. "Banshee can scan her for internal com or explosive devices. Besides that, she might have the answers I don't, so drop the fucking ramp, Iris, because this is no place to be arguing about this."

The ship's boarding ramp opened with a thunk and lowered to the sand.

He took a step toward Asha and held out his hand. "I'm not going to hurt you."

She stared like he was a snake. Her gaze drifted for the third time to the scars on his abdomen. Something prickly and unpleasant rolled in his stomach.

"Come with me," he ordered.

_Like hell_ , was the reply conveyed by her expression.

_No time for this_. Pax lunged for her.

A moment later he was flat on his back, staring at blue sky, trying to reactivate his diaphragm. _What the fuck?_

He turned his head, watching the woman run along the water's edge.

"Want me to catch her for you, Brother?" Iris taunted over Banshee's com.

Growling in irritation, he jumped up and bolted after her. What Pax lacked in the more exotic of his family's genetic advantages, he made up for in strength. The woman was stronger and faster than she looked, but he caught her in less than a minute. She shrieked as he hoisted her over his shoulder.

"Hurt me and I'll hurt you back," he menaced, curving his arm over her hips.

Her teeth sank into the soft skin just below his ribs.

Pax seized her around the waist and dumped her onto the sand, falling on top of her. Blood smeared her lips—his blood. He caged her between his legs, gripping her wrists in his hands. He wouldn't underestimate her again.

"I warned you."

Pax dropped his face to her neck, breathing deeply. He'd only meant to confirm she wasn't transgenic—modified DNA didn't always manifest in obvious ways—but instead he got a nose full of something else. His Manti senses told him that mating with her now would very likely produce offspring.

His nose grazed her cheek without any conscious impulse of his own. Her chest rose and fell with her panicked breathing, her breasts moving against him, making everything worse. He pressed against the leg she'd raised between them, hardening so fast it hurt.

She gave a horrified cry and writhed against him, waking him from the trance of arousal.

_You're not an animal!_ Pax strained for control. He understood the biology. He knew that pheromones were to blame, and the inherited mutation that enhanced his sensitivity to them. But his understanding did nothing to decrease his drive.

Through no fault of his own—through the fault of humans, in fact—he _was_ an animal. At least part of him was, and sometimes his preternatural urges and abilities flared beyond his control.

He sucked in ragged breaths as he fought his body, fought his instincts. But god, the _smell_ of her . . . He released her wrists and rolled her onto her stomach, ducking his head to inhale the scent at the nape of her slender neck, just below the hairline.

She was human, no question. And that was unfortunate. Because through the red haze of arousal he could feel his body tuning to her in a way that it should not. The shock of this discovery weakened him—for only a moment, but it was a moment too long.

The woman braced her arms and legs against the ground and heaved her body upward. The unanticipated movement toppled him, and she scooted away and scrambled across the sand.

But she made it no farther than the pair of black boots that planted themselves in her path.

Pax followed the line of the new arrival's long and lean body, his eyes meeting hers. Iris frowned.

"Aren't you the one who told me agitation makes a female more likely to chew off the male's head?"

Sighing, he let his head fall back in the sand. "She's human, Iris."

"I wasn't talking about her."

The impulse to run fired impotently. Asha's limbs had frozen with shock.

She suddenly understood the resurrection of archaic terminology like "changeling" and "fae." For those who didn't know, didn't understand, or chose not to believe what these beings really were—next-generation byproducts of unsanctioned but well-funded biohacker projects—it probably seemed the only plausible explanation.

The inhabitants of Sanctuary lived a cloistered life. As an archivist, Asha had seen hundreds of images, but images were easily enhanced. Exaggerated.

But Iris was . . . devastatingly real.

Her exquisite face—small and pointed, dominated by large, pearlescent green eyes—was framed by a rigid, shield-shaped hood as brightly green as summer grass. The hood merged with her shoulders, and what was below, Asha had thought at first to be part of her costume—a set of elongated wings, the same color and texture as the hood. They lifted and settled, adjusting slightly with every movement she made.

As Iris strode toward Paxton, Asha noticed the Manti woman's arms, slender and tapered like any woman's—except for the row of spikes running from elbow to pinky finger.

Humanity referred to its enemy generically as Manti, though genetic experimentation had involved DNA from a variety of species. But Iris _was_ mantis. Darkly alien—darkly other—with a beauty born of nightmares.

According to legend, a single creature like this one had triggered the fall of humanity. And yet at the moment it was the male Asha feared most.

Asha shifted her body slowly, crouching as she considered her next move. Paxton detected the motion, and his gaze cut her direction. She noted the rise and fall of his chest, his still labored breathing. She had no idea why her body was suddenly capable of amazing feats, but she didn't dare run from him again. She wouldn't give him another excuse to grab her.

The Manti woman knelt beside him. "You'd better rethink this, Brother. God knows I hate them, but I don't want to see you . . ."

As Iris hesitated, Pax's gaze slipped from Asha. "Think of your mother," Iris urged him.

His eyes flashed. "Do I ever stop thinking of her? I'm not Father."

"I know." Iris's hand crept up, fingers combing through his short, dark hair. Some of the tension in his face released. "I know you don't want it. But if she's on the ship with us . . . Can you control it?"

His features grayed in the bright sunlight, but he said, "I can control it."

The sister frowned. "I don't like this. Your head is still clouded with mating."

Asha's heart took flight over the sand, wondering why the rest of her didn't follow. She remained frozen, hoping her new talents included blending against the beach like the ship.

Iris rose, wings nestling close against her clothespin form. She held out a hand and pulled Paxton to his feet. The siblings were nearly the same height, and both taller than Asha.

"I need to find out what she knows."

Iris started for the ship, resigned. "What are we going to do with her?"

"I want you to lock her in your quarters."

Iris stopped, turning slowly. "You better be joking."

"Just do it, Iris," he grumbled.

Her frown deepened and she gave a curt nod. "My lord." He rolled his eyes at her servile tone and glanced at Asha.

"Go with Iris," he ordered.

"Don't do this," Asha pleaded, her voice choked with fear. "I don't know anything."

But she did know something. She knew if she got on that ship she'd never see her home again.

You can buy this book or find out more information here.

I came up with the title before anything else. I almost always reverse engineer my stories from titles. So much can be unpacked from a short, mysterious phrase. OPHELIA was also partly inspired by a dream I had about two praying mantises fighting with wooden staffs. I mentioned the dream on Facebook, and someone commented, "That sounds like a great story." And I thought heck yeah. The scientific world building in the story was inspired by a talk I attended on open science, which generated some discussion on biohacking. As I listened to the panel and audience debate pros and cons, I was probably the only one in the room who started to get all tingly about how the whole thing could go horribly wrong. (Writers are twisted that way.)

An RWA RITA Award finalist and a three-time Golden Heart Award finalist, **Sharon Lynn Fisher** writes stories for the geeky at heart—meaty mash-ups of sci-fi, fantasy, suspense, and romance, with no apology for the latter. She lives where it rains nine months of the year, and she has a strange obsession with gingers (down to her freaky orange cat). Visit her website at www.sharonlynnfisher.com.

* * *

Sharon's sci-fi romance novels include:

_Ghost Planet_

_The Ophelia Prophecy_

_Echo 8_

* * *

She also has a collection of erotic fairy tales:

_Before She Wakes: Forbidden Fairy Tales_

* * *

You can find out more here:

Facebook

Twitter

Pinterest

Goodreads

# MechMan by L.J. Garland

# About MechMan

A war against the Darch has raged for years, and humanity is on the verge of extinction. Scientists have created biomechs to supplement as warriors, but it's just a temporary fix on what appears an insurmountable problem. One desperate scientist injects JXS241, a biomech warrior, with what he hopes is the solution for mankind's survival. But the biomech is captured by the enemy.

Raven Nirvanni survives on the fringes of a shattered culture. While on a self-imposed suicide mission to annihilate an enemy destroyer, she encounters the imprisoned biomech. Deciding the fate of humanity far outweighs the destruction of a single ship, she rescues him and decides to ensure he reaches his destination.

With the enemy anticipating their every move, Raven is completely taken aback when she realizes she's falling for JXS241. But can she really love a machine? And if so, can he reciprocate?

# Excerpt of MechMan

**Chapter One**

* * *

The needle slid between the third and fourth vertebrae in his neck. A flash of heat shot through him. More pressure was exerted to penetrate the synthetic cartilage of his neurospine. Accessing his internal response center, he raised the pain threshold, but not so high he couldn't monitor the procedure. Immobile, he waited for it to be finished.

"Done." The doctor stepped back. "JXS241, system check?"

"No change," he said, and reset his pain threshold. "As you said, Dr. Mechins. Just a pinch."

"Good." The doctor made a note on his techpad. "There are three biomechs just outside the lab, waiting to escort you and the information I implanted into your neurospine to the planet Altaiga."

"Give me a ship, doctor. I'll get myself to Altaiga." Taking three biomechs away from the war to act as escort was a waste of resources.

"The information you carry is critical to the war effort." Dr. Mechins tapped the techpad. "You'll take the escort."

JXS241 rose from his chair. The decision was illogical, but sometimes humans determined situations based on feelings rather than sound military strategy. He yanked a black shirt over his head and shrugged into his military-issue jacket.

The science lab shook, equipment toppled, and assorted paraphernalia crashed to the floor. Alarms barked to life, an alert that the base was under attack. Dr. Mechins' reserved manner morphed to terror. His gaze rolled toward the ceiling.

"They've discovered us." He grabbed JXS241's arm, dragged him to the lab door. "You've got to get out of here. Take the other biomechs, commandeer a ship, and get to Altaiga. The fate of humanity may very well depend on you."

JXS241 stepped through the doorway. Three heavily armed escorts awaited him. One shoved a pulse rifle into his hands. He grasped the familiar weapon, glanced at it, and toggled the setting to kill.

"Wait." The doctor clutched his shoulder. "You may notice some changes—"

The lab exploded. Hot twisted metal and glass missiled through the air, spiking everything in its path. A rush of heat shoved Dr. Mechins against JXS241, and they tumbled into the outer hallway.

Hands grabbed the biomech, lifted him to his feet, and propelled him away from the lab. On the floor lay the doctor, ripped metal and shards of glass jutting from his back, blood pooling beneath him.

"Medic required at lab, level seven," the tallest biomech said into his com-band. His gaze shifted from the doctor to JXS241. "In line, soldier. Primary objective is to obtain a ship and fly out."

JXS241 moved behind the other biomechs, and they hastened to the hangar where pilots scrambled to their fighters.

Scattered throughout the bay, sparks of light appeared and stretched into beings. Six-and-a-half to seven-foot men and women materialized. Graced with flaxen hair, and beatific smiles, immense gossamer wings protruded from their backs. With a serene facade, they surveyed the hangar.

The enemy had arrived.

Biomech and human soldiers responded. Yellow pulse fire whizzed through the air. The lithe demons twisted and jumped, dancing clear of injury with frenetic speed. Several laughed, avoiding the hot electrical blasts as if it were a game. The Darch possessed great beauty but enjoyed playing with their food.

In two long strides, a male demon towered over a soldier. Before the man raised his gun, the demon's wings spread, swooped around, and encased him. JXS241 fired on the Darch. A look of bliss on its face, the demon's wings relaxed. The skinless remains of the soldier sank to the floor, a quivering red mass.

The male Darch turned an intense blue gaze on JXS241. He stalked across the floor, his gossamer shroud spread wide. A biomech fired, but having just fed, the demon ignored the direct hit. The Darch smiled, glistening spikes filled an unnaturally wide maw.

Across the bay, a panicked soldier tossed a sonic grenade toward two Darch. Ships flipped like toys tossed from a child's hand, absorbed the brunt of the shockwave, and crushed three additional Darch and several soldiers. Rolling to his knees, JXS located his escort and noted two of them inactive. The third pointed toward the fighter they intended to procure, took three steps, and collided with a female Darch. The huntress gathered him in her wings, her face enraptured with the feeding.

JXS241 sprinted to the ship. The battle would have to be fought without him. His primary directive was reaching Altaiga.

He strapped himself into the pilot's seat, lifted from the bay floor amid a hail of pulse fire, and turned toward the exit. A second sonic grenade exploded, and the resulting wave tilted his ship. He fought the controls, righted the vessel, and escaped into space.

A Darch destroyer met him. Missile-shaped fighters swarmed, and before he could employ evasive tactics, they spotted him. No time to wait for the computer to upload the coordinates for Altaiga. He would jump to the ship's previous destination. He tapped the flat panel, spinning up the hyperdrive.

The light flashed green, and he jabbed the jump button.

An alarm blared, warning that a Darch fighter marked his ship.

The stars around him streaked, and he leapt into hyperspace.

His fingers flew over the computer panel in search of Altaiga's coordinates. No matter his current destination, wherever he landed, the Darch would arrive moments behind him. When he exited hyperspace, he needed to be ready to jump again and throw them off. But before he entered the information, an indicator blipped, announcing his arrival into conventional space.

He found himself in an asteroid field. Tight quartered, he rolled the ship, avoiding a mammoth rock. As he skirted the behemoth, a Darch cruiser came into view. JXS brought weapons up, and the ship's computer beeped. Glancing down, he discovered the capacitor charges depleted. Damn. The fighter had no pulse weapons. The best he could do now was dodge around rocks, but that had its own perils.

He dove between two asteroids and checked the instruments. The console read clear. He hadn't been targeted. Why not? In the past, Darch technology had been able to locate fighters with disconcerting ease—especially at this range.

Daring a closer inspection, he came around. On the first pass, he spotted a gaping hole on the far side of the enemy ship. The Darch cruiser hadn't targeted him because it had been disabled and abandoned.

Any moment, the enemy fighter that marked him would arrive. The Darch expected him to hide in the asteroid field. But would they think him foolhardy enough to board a dead Darch cruiser? He dove for the landing bay and set down behind two large discarded cargo crates.

The computer revealed the Darch vessel had air, though the quality wasn't optimal. Still, to save time and set up for an ambush, he opted for no gear.

Grabbing the pulse rifle, JXS141 departed his fighter, skirted through a half-open doorway, and sprinted down a short hall. Engines rumbling in the hangar signified his location had been detected. His best chance was to circle around and pick them off one by one.

In the semi-darkness, he ducked behind a stack of damaged equipment. He waited. His breath evened. The demons had not found him yet. Maybe they weren't the remarkable trackers he'd been told.

Footsteps sounded down the hallway. A whoosh of wind. Silence.

He gripped the pulse rifle. His little finger tingled, numb against the metal weapon. He loosened his grip, but the lack of feeling persisted. Lifting his hand, he inspected the digit, attempting to recall how he'd injured it.

Pain shot through his hand. He clenched a fist, and his little finger fell to the floor. Startled, he stared at the digit. Was this the change Dr. Mechins warned him about? He shook his head. Now was not the time for body parts to fall off. What had the man injected into him?

The detached finger twitched, bumped against his boot. It curled and twisted. Sprouted six legs. Unfurled a pair of wings, and lifting into the air, flew down the hall.

He crept forward, his gaze following until it disappeared around a corner. Was he falling to pieces and transforming into an army of insects? He crouched behind the equipment and waited for the inevitable.

Instead, a picture invaded his consciousness. A vid of a dark hallway. Another side effect? What he saw made no sense—until the swift patter of Darch feet filled his ears.

JXS241 glanced around the crates. Nothing. But the sound persisted.

The insect. His vision was that of the winged creature. Had to be.

A female demon slipped from the shadows, spotting the arthropod. She took a step toward it. The vid evaded capture. She pursued it, brows drawn low, her mouth a line of determination. An efficient predator, exquisite death in fluid motion.

The insect fled, winging down the hall. Acting as bait, it led the enemy toward JXS.

He raised his rifle. When the female Darch rushed past, he fired three consecutive shots. She fell, rolled. He fired a fourth shot, hitting her in the chest.

The Darch's wings faded, crumbled. Her body convulsed, stiffened then softened with death. One down. But how many more?

The insect flew, turning left, then right. Disoriented, JXS placed his hand against the wall to steady himself. The arthropod located a second Darch. The glorious hulking male tracked the winged creature. Moments later, the Darch lay dead, taken down by JXS's rifle.

Were there more? In his mind, he flew with the insect, rushed down hallways, turning corners at speeds that set his internal balance spinning. When he glanced up, it was too late. A second female Darch towered over him.

Her iridescent wings spread wide. JXS241 raised his pulse rifle, and she smiled. A mouthful of needles glinted in the semi-darkness. Stepping toward him, her blue eyes blazed. Her wings swooped around him, a cocoon of death.

Air squeezed from his lungs. An impossible cold permeated his body, freezing his bio-skin. His plasmatron brain slowed. Stopped.

**Chapter Two**

Raven waited on the surface of a barren moon orbiting a small, inhabited planet. The Darch destroyer lumbered past. Damn, it was huge. The vessel blocked the light from a nearby sun and left the majority of the moon's surface in shadow.

Fifteen minutes ago, close to half the Darch fighters, or spikes, had flown out and jumped away, with no indication where they'd gone or for how long. Ten minutes after that, a second group departed and dropped down to the planet—probably to feed dirtside. Raven shuddered.

She tapped the control panel and doubled-checked that her ship squawked the enemy's approach codes. She held her breath, eased from the moon's rocky terrain, and glided toward the destroyer. One concern hammered her thoughts. Would the ruse work?

She'd paid good money for those codes. When she'd hinted as to why she wanted them, the guy she'd bought them from called her crazy—until she'd slammed the credits on the counter. Greed gleaming in his eyes, he'd snatched them up, more than willing to assist her.

Raven flew her ship toward the destroyer, angled for the landing bay. No cannons tracked her. No alarms sounded from her computer system. She grinned.

A lone woman, attempting to board a Darch ship. Crazy? Maybe. The two crewmembers she'd abandoned would have thought so...if she'd told them. Which she hadn't.

Besides, Raven had been accused of worse things than being a little off-kilter. The demon bastards needed to be taken down a notch, and she was just the woman for the job.

Slipping onto the destroyer unopposed, she berthed her ship behind two enemy cruisers. The longer she remained undetected, the longer she had free run of the Darch vessel. Timing was key to the proper destruction of a destroyer.

Raven secured the blonde wig on her head and tightened the sash on the robes she'd donned. At five-foot-five, there was no way she could fake an adult Darch. But in her current disguise, she might get away with impersonating an adolescent, who tucked their undersized wings beneath clothing.

She eased from her ship, her thin white robe fluttered with every movement. Skittering to the cruisers, she pulled two thin disks of plasmion explosives from a concealed belt pack, flicked the arming microswitches, and attached one to each ship. The detonator lay within the pack, everything courtesy of Marty Kasson, the weapons dealer she'd obtained the Darch approach codes from. If the explosives worked as well as the codes, her goal would be accomplished.

Nerves on edge, Raven scurried down a hallway. With most of the Darch away on missions, only a skeleton crew remained onboard. Regardless, the highly-modified plasma gun tucked into her thigh holster provided an immense sense of security.

She located access tunnels and worked her way down several levels. On exiting, she paused in the corridor and waited for the engine room doors to open. Hiding behind a column, she scanned the organic construction. She'd read theories about the genetic design and growth of ships, but never experienced one firsthand.

Glancing around, ensuring she was alone, she trailed her hand over the light-gray wall, the texture spongy beneath her fingers. Craning her neck, her gaze traveled along the column that climbed one wall and arched down the other side. Glowing, moss-like threads draped along the ceiling.

The hair on her arms prickled. It was like walking through a lung with Black Ash disease. She glanced up and down the hallway, not realizing until now the organic design creeped her out. It was so...alien.

The engine room doors slid open, and a male and female Darch exited. Raven ducked behind the structural column. Her hand hovered near the plasma gun strapped to her leg. She slipped through the doors, planted one explosive near the hyperdrive, three others in strategic locations, and followed another Darch back out into the hallway.

Her heart hammered, and adrenaline coursed through her system. So close now. A few more calculated placements of plasmion explosives and...BOOM! No more destroyer.

Raven searched for the life support and enviro-regeneration area. She traveled up two levels, rounded a corner, and stumbled to a stop. Doors at the far end of the hallway slid open. A disheveled brunette female scurried out, her tear-streaked face frozen in terror. Wild-eyed, she searched for refuge, plunged down the hallway, straight for Raven.

Rounding the corner at full tilt, the woman staggered, and Raven caught her before she hit the floor. The girl slapped and scratched at Raven's face and arms.

"It's okay." Raven gave the woman a shake. "I'm not the enemy."

"Run," the brunette whispered. "They're coming."

Her desperate tone raised goose bumps on Raven's arms. She reached beneath her robes for her back-up weapon to give to the woman, but hesitated. One shot and the Darch would know an unannounced guest roamed freely on their ship.

The brunette glanced down the hall behind her, clutched Raven, pulled her close. "Hide!" She shoved Raven and ran.

Two female Darch raced through the doors at the end of the hallway. Girlish giggles filled the air. Side by side, they were an even match in contest for the brunette.

Raven ducked into the shadows behind a column as they shot past. She grasped her plasma gun and fingered the trigger, itching to shoot both demons in the back. But she forced herself to remain still. Either way the brunette was dead, and Raven had a mission to finish.

She crept from the shadows, darted down the hallway, and through the open doorway. A narrow, canted ceiling with amber lights slowed her pace. It might be the entrance to the regeneration area, but something about it felt...wrong. Muscles tense, ready for anything, she moved forward.

Foreign symbols slashed across the door at the end of the transition area revealed what lay beyond. Too bad she couldn't read Darch. Sure would've been helpful.

The door whooshed open. Raven yanked her gun out and skittered back. No Darch strode through.

"Crap," she whispered on a rushed breath. Her heart banged against her sternum, her body overloaded with the extra adrenaline dump.

Raven moved through the doorway. Nothing impeded her entry. She paused on a narrow catwalk, stared in awe. Her stomach clenched.

"Oh, my God." In the amber light, she craned her neck, looked up, then leaned over the railing and looked down. The area was vast, spanning stories.

Layer upon layer, spiraling upward in the immense cavern, humans stood within individual chambers filled with amber liquid. The Darch had placed a ready food supply in suspended animation. They'd even staggered the chambers in order to pack as many in as possible.

"Bastards." Anger shot through Raven like fire. She wanted to save them, to free them from their golden coffins. But how would she get them all off the ship? There had to be thousands. She shook her head, and heart aching, realized that rescue was impossible.

Raven shoved her plasma gun into its holster and fished out half a dozen plasmion explosives. She might not be able to save their lives, but she sure as hell could save them from a terrifying death. To wakeup and have the Darch hunt them through the corridors of their ship with no chance of escape? Unconscionable.

She ran along the catwalk, pausing just long enough to plant an explosive. Her mind worked overtime, tried to discern an alternate solution. Could she save some of them? Even if she could wake them up, she had no way to arm them. And an unapproved breech of a chamber would surely set off an alarm. Her plasma gun couldn't defend a handful of people against an oncoming squad of pissed off Darch. No, explosives were the best, the most humane answer.

Pressing the final explosive in place, she finished rigging the area. She flicked the arming switch and stepped back. Next stop, the enviro-regeneration area. Plasmion had been set in several crucial areas of the destroyer, but might be ineffectual. Blow the regen? No air and the bastards would die.

Undetected, she slipped from the storage chamber, the door swishing closed behind her. Retracing her steps, Raven scurried down the hallway, turned the corner and the wild-eyed brunette bowled her over. How had she survived so long?

"Oh my God," she gasped. Sweat soaked her skin, left large dark patches down the sides of her gray shirt. "You've got to help me."

The girl rolled over, struggled to her feet. She held a sweaty hand out to Raven.

"Where did you hide?" She glanced down the hallway. "Tell me."

A trill of giggles echoed against the walls. Chills hammered down Raven's spine. She leapt to her feet. "I've got a ship. Landing bay, two stories down."

"You'll take me?" Hope glinted within her wide brown eyes.

"Yes. Now go!" Raven shoved the woman forward. Maybe she could save one. "I'll distract them."

She took three steps and stopped. "What about you?"

"Give me ten." She glanced at the brunette, shrugged. "If I'm not there, leave."

"But—"

"Get the hell out of here." Raven pulled her plasma gun. "Or we'll both get killed."

"Thank you," she said, her voice quivering. The woman ran, disappearing around a corner.

If one human survived this hellhole, she would count the mission a success. Raven whirled in the direction she'd last heard the Darch females. She clutched the gun, ready to take them down. Ready for all hell to break loose.

A swish of wings. Raven froze. The hairs on her arms spiked. An agonizing scream pierced the air.

"Aw, hell no." She sprinted down the hall in the direction of the sound, rounded a corner, and skidded to a stop.

At the far end, one of the Darch females threw her head back, pure bliss on her perfect features. With her pristine wings folded around the brunette, she fed, sucking the skin off her victim.

Raven shook her head. Not one. She couldn't even save _one_.

A wall of iridescent wings fluttered into her left peripheral. Ice spiked her gut. She pivoted and stared up into the most beautiful face she'd ever seen. Waves of golden hair framed a flawless face. Full lips curved into an inviting smile.

Softness brushed against Raven's shoulders. She lifted her gaze higher, mesmerized by the perfection before her. She met the Darch's gaze, looked into the blue depths of hell, and her survival instincts jolted.

"Not this time, bitch." She pulled the gun's trigger. Three consecutive blasts slammed into the female.

The Darch stumbled back, eyes wide with surprise. She shuddered, a grimace distorting her full lips. Her wings detached, drifted to the floor, and crumbled into dust. She collapsed into a heap.

From the far end of the hall came a shrill cry. Witnessing the demise of a sister Darch must have pissed off the second female.

Raven spun, brought up her gun. The female approached with amazing speed, closing the distance between them. "Welcome to my world."

Three white balls of plasma struck the Darch. An evil grin warped her features. She staggered, grabbed the blue circular pendant adorning her gown, and ripped it free. Her wings turned to dust, and she crumpled to the floor.

An intense repetitive wail filled the air. The demon-bitch had set the alarm off. Every Darch on the ship knew Raven was onboard.

She sprinted down the corridor, past the dead female Darch and the bloody, skinless remains of the brunette. She had one final chance to locate the enviro-regeneration area and ensure total destruction of the Darch destroyer. With any luck, she'd find it before she was forced to use the detonator. Either way, the bastards would pay.

Learn how to buy this book.

Though born and raised in the south, L.J. Garland has lived on both the east and west coasts. She adores traveling, the latest adventures added to her Bucket List: Machu Pichu and Australia's Rainforest and Great Barrier Reef.

Married to her best friend for over twenty years, she spends her time home schooling three rambunctious boys, editing in the epub industry, and writing stories that she hopes catches her readers' imaginations as much as the characters and plotlines captivate her. In her spare time (what there is of it LOL), she has a multitude of hobbies, including building archery equipment from scratch and creating stained glass. She has a passion for anything that goes _Boom!_...from fireworks to high-powered combat rifles...it's all good. She and her husband are both rated helicopter pilots and spent their 10th anniversary flying cross-country from east to west coast...an adventure she highly recommends.

L.J. loves hearing from her readers

Her website

Twitter: @LJ_Garland1

Blog

Facebook

# Rege's Rescue by Dena Garson

# About Rege's Rescue

Rege Rovnitov battled his way out of the darkest hell hole in the charted universe to become the best tracker in four galaxies. Fighting injustice, he and his brotherhood have spent their lives with one foot on the shady side of the law. When the daughter of one of his allies is abducted by slavers, he offers his skills to bring her home. On such a dark and dangerous mission, he never expected to find a woman full of goodness and light.

After years in the spotlight as an interstellar songbird, Amethe Madigan only wants to regain a normal life. Her plans are upended when a band of slavers take her captive and drag her to the galactic port known as Sin City. With Rege's help, she narrowly escapes being sold to the highest bidder, or worse, turned over to whoever ordered her kidnapping. As they race across galaxies evading her mysterious abductor's attempts to possess her, she makes the mistake of falling in love with a man whose idea of a normal life is anything but safe.

Rege promised to rescue Amethe but she could be his salvation from a dark and lonely existence. In the end it won't matter who saved whom. Where love is concerned, it's winner takes all.

# Except of Rege's Rescue

Chapter 1

* * *

Rege Rovnitov's instincts went on high alert as soon as his boot crossed the shop's threshold.

Even over the heavy scent of leather, he detected burned ozone. A weapon had been fired. Debris scattered on the floor and countertop said there had been a struggle.

He pulled his own weapon from its holster at his back and edged farther into Tauxir's store. There were no patrons inside and he hadn't seen anyone leaving. This part of the city drew rough clientele, but Tauxir had a solid reputation for being an honest businessman as well as being a man you didn't want to fuck with.

Whoever decided to take something of Tauxir's must have a death wish.

Rege grinned. Maybe this day wouldn't be a waste after all.

Using all of his senses to piece together what had happened he moved deeper into the store.

A roar followed by a crash came from the backroom. He leapt over an overturned stool and cleared the last steps to the doorway in one bound. Yanking the curtain aside, he leveled his gun's laser sight on the first thing that moved.

His entrance was met by one pissed off and bloodied leatherworker. Tauxir held a similar gun and Rege suspected Tauxir's laser was aimed right at his heart.

"You okay?" Rege asked without relaxing his stance.

Tauxir's jaw flexed as if still debating whether or not to fire. "No," he finally ground out between clenched teeth.

Rege glanced around the room to make sure there were no threats. "What happened?"

Tauxir lowered his gun and spit. "Slavers."

Rege also lowered his weapon but didn't holster it. "What did they want with you?"

Pain flashed in Tauxir's eyes. "Amethe."

Son of a bitch. Tauxir's daughter. "They took her?"

He nodded once then pulled a wicked knife from underneath his worktable and pushed it into a sheath.

"How long has she been back?"

"Two nights." Tauxir strapped the knife to his thigh then grabbed two more and slipped those in their respective places.

Rege pushed the button on the communicator wrapped around his ear. "Call Bolan."

Tauxir half limped, half dragged himself toward the stairs. Thinking he might need help getting upstairs, Rege closed in.

Tauxir leaned against the wall and slid a concealed panel aside. He entered a code which activated a small door at their feet below the stairs. Even from where he stood, Rege could see the impressive collection of weapons.

"Yeah," Bolan's terse answer finally came through Rege's earpiece.

"Grab Vordol and Malir and get to Tauxir's. We've got a situation."

"Be there in ten." No complaints, no unnecessary questions. That was the beauty of the brotherhood. Always there for each other no matter what.

"Not your problem," Tauxir said gruffly without looking up from his stash of weapons.

"You're a brother. If you've got a problem, we all have a problem. You know that."

He finally looked up. "I retired from the Brotherhood more than a decade ago. I'm not about to bring my problems to any of your doors. The Brotherhood has enough to deal with."

Rege crossed the room and put one hand on Tauxir's shoulder. "You may not run missions any more but you contribute to the cause as much as any of us."

Tauxir snorted. "What? By passing info?" He pulled a high powered gun from the stash that Rege would have given his right nut to possess.

"Your intel has saved hundreds of lives. And more than one Brother owes you his life or limb because of your armor."

"Doesn't make this your problem." He pulled several clips from a drawer inside the secret space then stood. "I'll bring my daughter home." Even as he said it, he swayed and crumpled to one knee.

Rege reached to help him but Tauxir brushed him off. Knowing how obstinate Tauxir could be he grabbed a handful of Tauxir's shirt and dragged him to a nearby chair.

"We don't have time for stubbornness. Tell me what you know and I'll track them."

Tauxir shook off his grip and tried to stand. "I'm going."

Rege pushed him back into the chair. "I'm the best tracker around and you're in no shape to chase after anyone. Based on the angle of your leg, I'm betting it's broke. Now tell me what you know."

"She's my daughter." Tauxir tried to shove him away and stand but he only succeeded in proving Rege's point.

"Enough! You're being hard headed and wasting precious time. Tell me what you saw."

Tauxir hung his head. "There were three. They took what coins I had in the lockbox and a few pieces of merchandise. They tried to make it look random, but they were looking for her." Anger and frustration burned in his eyes. "They knew Amethe was here." He shook his head. "She fought them. So did I but as soon as they put a laser blade against her throat I was done."

"You did what you had to do." Rege tried to reassure him but knew his words would mean little. "What did they look like?"

"All three of them were big. One thinner than the other two but still packed a solid punch." Tauxir absently rubbed a place on his chin. "One had the mark of the slavers on his neck. The other had one on the top of his hand. Based on the leader's accent I'd say he came from the Omega Tori system." He tried to get up again but Rege pushed him down again.

"Vordol and Malir will be here soon. They'll make sure you're patched up." He gripped Tauxir's shoulder until Tauxir looked him in the eye. "I will find her."

Tauxir nodded once. He didn't say a word but his eyes spoke volumes about the fear and gratitude he must have felt. "Here. Take this." He pushed the weapon he'd pulled from the vault into Rege's hand. "Your new jacket is ready." He pointed to the corner where several garments hung from a peg that jutted out from the wall. "Take it and anything else you need. On the house. Just bring her home to me."

"You have my word."

Rege gathered the few things he needed and made his way out into the nearly deserted street. Word of the slavers being in the area didn't take long to get around. Odds were even if anyone saw Amethe being dragged out of the shop they wouldn't report it. No one wanted to attract the slavers' attention.

First order of business was to find tracks. If he got really lucky he might find them before they skipped off the planet.

He found several sets of heavier boot prints that led in and out of the shop. Unfortunately, they became jumbled in the street and quickly ran out. At the corner the prints disappeared altogether. Odds were good they had gotten into some kind of transport unit there.

Using his communicator, he buzzed Solir. "You guys stop for lunch or what?"

"We're coming in from the rear. What's going down?" Solir asked.

"Tauxir was attacked. His daughter was taken. He thinks Slavers were behind the attack."

Solir gave a low whistle. "Damn. I'm not sure who to feel sorry for, his daughter or the Slavers after Tauxir gets his hands on them."

"He's not going anywhere anytime soon. Looked like they broke his leg and knocked him for a loop. He's going to need medic."

Solir relayed the message to Bolan and the others with him. "I assume the shop is clear?"

"It was when I left. You might want to announce yourself when you go in. Tauxir is pissed enough that he's likely to shoot first and ask questions later."

"Got it. You tracking them?"

"Yes, but not having much luck yet. See if you can pull any footage from the corner outside of Tauxir's shop as well as the one farther east. I think they had a transport there."

"I'll pull it as soon as I link in at Tauxir's place."

"Find out if he has a recent picture or vid of Amethe. Meanwhile I'm going to look for Queeler."

Solir snorted. "Good luck with that one. He's hard to understand on a good day."

"No shit but no one knows more about what goes on in this town than him."

"Like I said, good luck. We're going in to get Tauxir. Buzz if you find anything."

"Will do."

"Watch your back, man."

"Always."

Chapter 2

Amethe waited until the door clicked shut before she got up from where she had been huddled in the corner.

She'd put on quite the show. Apparently living and working with stage actors and actresses had been worthwhile after all. Seemed to have fooled her captors into thinking she was just a weepy, fragile ball of fluff. Of course, that had been easy to pull off after waking up in a box the size of a coffin.

Being in such a confined space had sent her into a very real panic. At least she'd managed to get it under control before they'd drugged her again. Since then she turned on the waterworks anytime they came near her. Apparently it was universal that most grown men don't know what to do when a woman cries.

She tiptoed to the door and checked the lock. Unfortunately, they had remembered to engage it.

No matter. She could pick any lock, manual or electronic. She just needed a hair pin and a little time.

Time was the issue. She pulled a pin from her hair, ignored the wayward tendrils that fell onto her neck, and went to work on the door. In less than a minute she heard the satisfying click as the lock mechanism turned over.

She replaced the pin in her hair, dusted off her pants from where she'd been kneeling on the grimy floor and pressed her ear to the cool metal surface. When she didn't hear anything, she slowly turned the handle and pulled the door open enough to peer out.

She couldn't estimate the age of the building since she wasn't certain which space port they'd stopped at. Everything smelled stale but she wasn't sure if it were due to age or the warm, humid air that clung to her skin. Then again, it could be due to the questionable film that coated everything.

Oddly, she found no guards outside her door. She pulled the door open further and poked her head out. All she could see in both directions was a carpeted hallway and a few flickering lights. Unwilling to chance anyone coming back, she slipped through the doorway and quietly pulled the door closed behind her. Since they had come in from the right, she opted to see where the left might take her.

Moving as silent as possible, she listened at a couple of doors but heard nothing but snores and the occasional sound of squeaking bedsprings. At the end of the passage she found a staircase. The door to it had been secured by an electronic lock making it more difficult to access without the proper tools. As she debated whether or not she had time to hack the lock, she heard an unusual swish of air behind her and the clang of metal.

She turned and found a pull down door built into the wall. Curious what it could be, yet seeing no locks, she tugged on the handle and peeked inside. A small bundle of linens went rushing past the opening, startling her. Closer inspection revealed the opening to be part of a metal tube running from one of the floors above to some place below. Must be one of those chutes used to send laundry or trash to the lowest floor.

That meant there was likely a basement or underground floor. Good to know.

Voices from the other end of the hallway interrupted her thoughts. She pressed herself against the wall and listened.

"I thought you said the girl was off limits. Why are you taking her those clothes?" one of the men asked.

"Herizan wants her in tonight's lineup. Some moneybag is supposed to be there and he thinks he might be able to get more for her than what we were getting paid."

"Won't His Majesty be mad if we don't deliver her?" The man sneered the words.

"That's Herizan's problem."

One of them rapped on a door. "Hey. Are you awake in there?" He paused. "You hear me? We're coming in."

Amethe waited until the door knob rattled and she felt certain the men were inside the room then pulled the chute door open and dove inside. As she slid downward she prayed fervently she wouldn't land in a pile of rubbish at the bottom.

When she plowed into a mountain of dirty linens her breath left in a rush. Instinctively she rolled to one side and checked her surroundings. It was a large room with a row of windows along the top. There were six large machines against one wall, three of which were running. Based on the amount of steam that rose from two of them, she guessed they processed the dirty laundry.

Despite the noise, heat and smell she was relieved to be away from her captors. Now she just needed to find a way out of the building. She peeked around the pile and found a startlingly beautiful girl with blue skin and large grey eyes staring at her.

Amethe froze, unsure what to do.

The sound of heavy footsteps running down the stairs at the far end of the room drew both of their attention.

Blood drained from her face. If they found her, they'd drug her for sure. If they did, she'd be at their mercy. She needed to get out of there. Now.

The blue skinned girl motioned for her to get between two piles of fabrics.

With no other viable options at the moment, she complied. When the girl tossed a blanket over her then a basket of warm things, she knew she'd made the right choice to trust her.

A man with a deep voice asked, "Has anyone been down here that you don't know?"

There was no reply, but the same man asked, "Are you sure? A Novo female with light colored hair?"

Still no reply.

"Dammit," the man grumbled. "She had to be somewhere around here. You two look down here then meet me in the front parlor."

Amethe felt someone come and stand next to her. She held her breath, unsure of who it might be. The remaining men shouted to each other from varying places around the room, reporting they found nothing until finally they gave in and stomped up the stairs.

Whoever stood next to her put their hand on her head but otherwise didn't move. After a couple minutes of listening for any sounds other than the machines, the hand tapped her twice then pulled the blanket back.

The blast of cooler air on Amethe's face was a relief. She looked up at her savior. "Thank you," she whispered.

The blue girl tipped her head in acknowledgement and reached down to help her up. She pulled her over to the wall and pointed at the dirt coated window above them. With a glance in the direction of the stairs, the girl made shooing motions and pointed again at the window.

"That's a way out?"

The girl nodded vigorously and repeated the shooing motion.

"Can you come with me?" Amethe asked.

The girl shook her head and pointed to the collar around her neck. A yellow light blinked steadily in the center of the collar indicating her savior was bound to a certain location would not be able to go outside of a certain range.

Amethe scowled at the collar. She'd heard of them being used to control animals and minor criminals but never a free citizen. And she strongly suspected this girl was not being kept here because of a petty crime. "That's not right," she murmured.

If possible, the girl's eyes got bigger. Her shooing motions became more insistent, but still she didn't say anything.

"You understand me but you cannot speak?"

The girl shook her head and she pushed her toward the window.

"I can't leave you here like this," Amethe whispered.

The girl glanced toward the stairs then back at her. Her expression even more panicked. She pointed at the window.

Amethe's gut screamed for her to go, but her conscious hated to leave the girl behind. "I won't forget you and your help." She squeezed the girl's hand. "I'll send someone for you. I promise."

The girl nodded, but her sad eyes said she had no hope of that promise coming true.

Amethe climbed onto the table below the window, released the latch to open the window then pulled herself up and through the opening. Her escape hatch led to an alleyway. On either side of her were large metal canisters. From the smell, she guessed they were for garbage. She looked down at the girl, gave her a thumbs-up signal then pulled the window closed.

She swallowed her guilt over leaving the girl then peeked around the canisters. At each end of the alley a stream of citizens flowed past. By the amount of light she guessed it was midday. With that many citizens out and about it was very likely a market nearby. If she could make it to the market she stood a chance of blending in with the crowd until she could find a place where she could send a message home.

Being without a communicator as well as any coin or credits put her at a severe disadvantage but it didn't mean she had no options. Once more she debated which way to go then opted for the end that looked the busiest.

Before she even made it halfway, a door opened ahead of her and three men stepped out. She immediately recognized one of them, so she turned and started to run in the opposite direction.

"There she is," one of them yelled.

The other end of the alley became blocked by two more beefy looking men.

As she backed away she realized she had nowhere to go. Back into the basement was no option. They'd find her before she could get up the stairs and she wasn't about to endanger the blue girl who'd helped her. There were no ladders leading up the side of either building. Not that the roof would provide much help in her escape. And the odds of her being able to run past either group of captors was small.

Time to go down swinging, as her dad would say.

As they closed in on her, she assessed each group looking for some kind of weakness. But each one was armed or larger than most bodyguards or both.

"You didn't really think you'd get away, now did you, angel?" one of the men sneered. "I'm afraid we have plans for you."

Her heart hammered in her chest as she looked from one group to the other. "I have plans too but none of them involve you or your friends so why don't you guys just pretend you didn't see me and no one has to get hurt."

The men chuckled.

"And I suppose you're going to be the one handing out the ouchies?" the same man asked as he drew closer.

A deep gravelly voice from the end of the alley drew all everyone's attention. "That would be my job."

You can buy Rege's Rescue or find out more here.

I love rock n' roll - in particular hair bands and heavy metal. The inspiration for Rege's Rescue came from Five Finger Death Punch's remake of House of the Rising Sun. While I would never take anything away from The Animals' version of the song, FFDP added something that spoke to me and inspired not only a book, but an entire galaxy in my head.

Watch the Book Trailer Video

Dena Garson is an award winning author of contemporary, paranormal, fantasy, and sci-fi romance. Her sixth book, Mystic's Touch, won the 2015 Passionate Plume for Futuristic/Fantasy/Sci-Fi as well as the 2015 Reader's Choice Award for Science Fiction/Fantasy/Time Travel. Ghostly Persuasion finaled in the 2014 Passionate Plume and the 2014 Reader's Choice Award. Your Wild Heart finaled in the 2016 Passionate Plume for Paranormal Romance.

When she isn't writing you can find her at her jewelry workbench playing with beads. She is also a devoted Whovian and Dallas Cowboys fan.

Website

Blog

Facebook

Facebook Author Page

Twitter

Goodreads

YouTube

Google+

Pinterest

Sign up for her newsletter

# Lunar Exposure by Shona Husk

# About Lunar Exposure

A bounty hunter on a mission and a socialite with a secret—both of them are hunting the same man. Lust and ambition clash, but to save Decadent Moon they will have to trust each other.

# Excerpt of Lunar Exposure

**Chapter One**

"The purpose of your visit, bounty hunter Brax?" The man with the _plex_ screen looked at him as though he was a spore that had fallen off the nearest fungus while the security guard scanned his body looking for concealed weapons. People had breached the tight security here before by smuggling weapons through in their stomachs or butts.

"Pleasure." Why else would anyone come to the most expensive orbital resort that catered to every desire possible? Certainly not because the well-known environmental terrorist Noga Tindel was planning on blowing it up. Nope. He wasn't here to stop that from happening and claim the bounty. Because if he said that, he'd be kicked off and Decadent Moon would be shut down and Noga would slip through his fingers, again.

Then Noga would pick another target just to get the body count and prove he couldn't be stopped. That was the way he worked. Callen knew because he'd been on the cruise liner _Solar Bird_ when it was destroyed, taking thousands with it, including his team.

"Mmm, what kind of pleasure?" The man made notes on the screen as he spoke.

Did it matter? Gambling, drugs, sex, it was all legal here. If you were into tentacles, they had it, preferred to dabble with the _Ferreg_ , who secreted a hallucinogenic when excited, they had it. Cruise liners stopped here to let their well-to-do patrons walk on the wild side. Many had never left their home world before coming to Decadent Moon.

"Sex and a glimpse of Haliday Fisher. I heard she's going to be here looking for a something short and sweet." Callen grinned as if he meant it. Personally, he found gossip about the vacuous socialite more boring that delousing cruiser hulls—a favorite punishment of the Allied Planetary Military—but she was hotter than pulse fire and burned through men just as fast.

"I can't disclose who will be visiting Decadent Moon." The man with the _plex_ scanned Callen's wrist and took note of his chit balance.

If he failed to collect the reward posted for Noga's capture, he was going to owe the chit loaner a kidney and possibly an eye. If he'd been smart, he would've taken a whole bunch of low paying easy collect cases. But he'd heard a rumor and couldn't pass it up. After the Solar Bird incident, Noga was his.

"You may dress." The _plex_ man and the security guard made a few more notes on their screens, no doubt they had already pulled data on him. Of course, there was a ten year chunk that had been sealed while he'd served in the APM, but before that he'd been a cop, and now a bounty hunter. He played on the right side of the law. Most of the time.

If he had to get dirty to get Noga, it would be worth it.

He pulled on his pants and shirt, simple loose fitting civilian garb. He couldn't turn up and play tourist if he was armed and in body hugging Scale. He missed the familiar weight of body armor and weapons. Even dressed, he felt naked. He hadn't been a civilian since he was a child.

Part of him wished he really was here for pleasure. A few days of endless drinking and sex would certainly cool his coils. He forced out a short breath. Once he'd caught Noga, he might come back and treat himself to just that.

Callen slipped his shoes on and repacked his bag. They had opened it up to look for concealed weapons. The thing that irked him the most was that he was a registered bounty hunter. He was allowed to carry weapons of all manner. He'd declared one pulse gun on entrance and he was already being treated as if he was a criminal. There'd be someone who snuck something illegal on, real criminals, who wouldn't declare.

How in _Lekithia's_ bogs was a man as well known as Noga going to enter the Moon?

Although Noga did have big enough balls to try walking through the docking portal, Callen doubted he would. Noga much preferred the soft hand until he pressed the button. No one would know he was there until it was too late. Callen closed his bag and sealed it with his thumb print.

"Am I free to check in and find my room?" That was half a kidney right there.

"Certainly." The _plex_ man indicated to the door. "Of course, I do recommend watching the docking of the Lunar Bird, one never knows who one might see."

Callen smiled grateful for the tip, even though he'd already planned to watch the docking of the Lunar Bird—the sister ship of the wrecked Solar Bird. The Lunar Bird was why Noga was going to be here, taking out both liners was a point he'd want to make. Callen had spent years learning everything about Noga. He wasn't going to fuck this up.

"Thanks. I will." He had to make sure he was seen in the right places and doing the right thing. Security would be watching him closely during his stay on the Moon.

Half a _tric_ later, he was gazing out the window on the viewing deck, watching the docking arms embrace the liner and seal against her doors. His chest seized as a memory assaulted him. He felt the heat on his skin. Fuel and burning acid. He'd made it to an escape pod, just. Then he'd watched the filaments of firemoss float by along with pieces of wreckage. That wreckage was now a floating tomb that no one could touch. Firemoss was deadly to spaceships. It fed on the metal, and once in contact with water, it would explode, spreading and contaminating everything it touched. He blinked. The Lunar Bird was still in one piece. Nothing was on fire.

Not yet, anyway.

With docking complete, he moved with the other onlookers—not many, as most people were here to play, not watch liners dock—to the railing that overlooked the entrance. It had been designed to give the cameras a clear view of arrivals and luggage. Callen was sure there was a camera trained on him, but he resisted the urge to flick a finger at one just to find out.

He watched the arrivals, looking for Noga, but also for Haliday Fisher, since he had to look as though he gave a flying frag.

Sure enough, Haliday stepped out of the docking arm and onto the deck. She smiled as a few people took photos. She was paler in the flesh. Her tri-clustered spots were a soft lilac that matched her short spikey hair, where his spots were dark, almost black. All natural color variations amongst the _Phrial_ and the spots were unique to the individual—although these days people tended to have the markings they didn't like removed, making them an unreliable identifier.

He was willing to bet his other kidney she'd had work done. She smiled, flashing teeth that were whiter than her dress and boots. While she wore all white, her face had been made up in red. The bold sweeps across her eyelids and brows curled near her hairline. On one side of her face, the red traced a cheekbone before coiling under an eye. No doubt tomorrow half the female population of _Lekithia_ would be mimicking the look.

Callen shook his head. She could be worse, at least she didn't spend all her chits on herself. As she cleared security in a whisper of the time it had taken him, he watched her long legs. Her thighs were exposed from the top of her knee high boots to the very short hem of her skirt. Yeah, he wouldn't mind being her next affair; he could handle being used and discarded by _the_ Haliday Fisher.

He'd make a point of meeting her while he was here—because it would help convince security that he was here for a good time and nothing else. He tapped the railing, then turned away. He needed to start looking for signs Noga was on board. A shimmer of cold ran through his blood.

What if he'd already been and Decadent Moon was already on the countdown to destruction? His breath caught for a moment as if he expected the manmade moon to be torn apart beneath his feet, but nothing happened. People spoke in dozens of languages around him; some spoke Allied Abbreviated, a simple language that conveyed the basics so different species could understand each other. There was laughter and what passed for laughter. People were here for fun. Did they realize how fast it could be taken away?

Even if he made a report and got the Moon shut down, it would be too late. With Noga, it was always too late. He swallowed and forced a smile before wandering down the corridor as if it was the best day of his life.

**~~~**

Haliday nodded and smiled as she made her way through security. Of course, they made the briefest of checks and treated her with respect because of who she was. It hadn't always been that way. Even as Elchung Yem's favorite pet, people had pretended not to see her, but then she'd been afraid to ask strangers for help after he'd killed a man who'd tried to free her. Yem had made her share a room with the corpse for sixty _trics_ as punishment. After that, she knew she had to do it on her own.

And she had.

She'd had surgery to change her appearance, took melanin tablets to darken her skin, changed her name—not that Yem had ever used her name—everything. Now she hid in plain sight. If Haliday Fisher, socialite and philanthropist, went missing, everyone would know and everyone would care.

The only place she felt safe was in a crowd. It was harder to be kidnapped in public, harder still if everyone was watching and taking photos. But that didn't stop her from occasionally checking over her shoulder and expecting a bullet or a pulse to her back.

No. Yem wouldn't kill her. If he ever worked out his rare albino _Phrial_ was now Haliday Fisher, he'd recapture her and make her suffer. If she caught him, she'd donate every cent of that bounty to the orphanage that had been so poor they'd accepted his chits in exchange for her freedom. No child should be sold off to a crime boss for their private amusement.

She glanced up and saw a man watching her. Oh, plenty of men watched her, but the _Phrial_ male didn't have the lusty glint in his eye that she was used to. He looked dangerous even as he relaxed against the railing. His stare was too intense as if he was used to watching everything and analyzing it. His smile was too fixed. He was grinning for show. She knew what that was like. Smile for the fans, for the cameras, for everyone except herself.

He looked as though he was here to gamble. A risk taker who didn't mind the cold edge of danger pressing against his skin. If she wasn't here to catch Noga and claim the reward, she'd have totally let him warm her bed for her stay.

But her lifestyle cost chits and the orphanages depended on her donations, so she needed the bounty. Haliday Fisher was a convenient lie.

She checked in and located her room. They'd given her an upgrade so she had a view of the ice planet below. It looked beautiful, the edge shimmering as the sun hit the ice. But the lines that crossed the planet weren't rivers, they were canyons that could swallow ships. It was deadly. Decadent Moon had been built here because no one owned the planet below and no one lived there. It was neutral territory. She placed her fingers on the window and stared out, her gaze drifting from the planet to the sky beyond.

Was Yem still looking for her? Would she ever be able to close her eyes and feel truly safe? Had she ever been safe? She pulled back and took a breath. She was as safe as she was going to be. And everyone would be a whole lot safer without Noga and his special brand of activism. She needed to find him and bring him in without blowing her socialite cover. Seduction and capture was her preferred method.

Haliday changed her outfit—the white mini dress and boots were not appropriate for going to the shows or bars. The deep-red dress with no back and a skirt made up of wispy bits of nothing would be perfect, and as long as she didn't run into a stray breeze she wouldn't be flashing too much. She added a pair of red sandals that had ribbons crisscrossing up her calves. They looked cute, but she could run in them if she had to.

Then she touched up her make up. She liked the look this season, exotic and erotic. It suited her, unlike last season's stripes which had angled from forehead to nose. The stripes had made her look as though she was a _ghabra_ escaped from a zoo.

With a final check of her appearance, she left her room and sauntered down to the theaters. She needed to be seen and she needed to start looking for Noga. There was always a free show running, singing, dancing—all with an edge designed to make the watchers hungry for flesh. Men and women danced on stage dressed up in feathers and sequins, their bodies on display.

She'd had to dance and more for Yem. Her stomach tightened. But these people were here by choice. They were saving up for education or a house or whatever people did if they had normal lives. She'd never had normal. Even now, what people saw and what she was were two different things.

She turned her gaze from the stage of lithe shimmering bodies and scanned the audience, looking for a _Dooraump_ man. Most of Noga's species didn't have the chits to leave their poverty-stricken home planet and those that did rarely went back. Noga blamed the mining company who'd bought the planet for all his people's woes and he was trying to liberate his people. A self-styled savior. While she respected his ideals, his methods were inexcusable. His wasn't the only planet to be sold to a mining company taking advantage of a low tech society. She could think of a handful and she'd only had three years of formal schooling.

If she was Noga, she wouldn't be here watching people enjoy living. He was too angry for that, too bitter, even though his people had made progress in the five hundred years since the sale. In another five hundred years, the _Dooraump_ would probably be doing fine—history told her that. How could a primitive, illiterate society be expected to suddenly jump up to light-speed?

On the other hand, she understood slavery, and the mining giant was paying the _Dooraump_ people a pittance to work in the mine. She never usually struggled with a job, but this time she was. Carefully, she pushed aside the reasons why he did it and looked at what he'd done. Looked at the body count, the chit tally and wreckage left behind. They were things she could despise, they were things she had experienced first-hand. _Lekithia_ had been ravaged by war, millions of children left without parents. The APM had stopped the bloodshed, but her home world still struggled. Despite her job, she hated violence, even if it was a means to an end.

She looked at her hands, her painted nails and the slight webbing between her fingers. The only reason her planet tolerated celebrities was because they brought in foreign investment and their incomes were highly taxed. She never dodged a tax bill or tried to shrink her income. She paid and donated. Even if her chits were a drop in the ocean, she was making a difference—and the scum she rounded up were helping to make that difference. She liked to think of it as the criminals giving back to society.

If she was Noga, where would she go?

Or rather, who would Noga be pretending to be? Her gut said he wasn't here for pleasure. He was all about business. He needed chits as much as she did. It wasn't cheap to blow things up and attack a mining giant on a regular basis. Yet she doubted he'd be in any of the monitored meeting rooms. No, he'd be in a bar.

A particularly brilliant specimen of male _Helvelet_ took the stage, his horns thick and curling down to his cheekbones. His muscles caught the lights and the tiny slip of silk he wore didn't hide the size of how male he was. Her tongue darted over her lip. She'd had a _Helvelet_ once, damn near ripped her in two, but it had felt good—handing the donation to the hospital had felt better and she thought of him every time she went there. She lingered a moment to watch the man move. His body moved in perfect rhythm, pulsing and gyrating. If she'd have been wearing panties, they'd have been wet. As it was, she could feel moisture slicking between her thighs and her nipples peaking against the delicate fabric of her dress.

She didn't need the distraction, no matter how pretty or how well he danced. She was here to hunt. Nothing more. She took a last glance at the _Helvelet_ , now joined on stage by a female. There'd be a lot of trading in flesh after this show, but then that was the idea. With a sigh she left. There was no need for her to linger.

The Moon was well laid out, not to segregate species, but to make it easy to mingle with ones who had compatible body parts, not that anyone minded if one crossed over into something else. Personally, she preferred the mammalian levels. While she knew that _Icavaris_ were brilliant fighter pilots, she couldn't get past the eight legs and exoskeleton. They were too alien and reminded her of bog spiders, however they probably looked at her and thought she reminded them of lunch.

Different species also had slightly different gravity and air requirements, and while the changes wouldn't kill her, they could leave her short of breath or feeling very sluggish. Noga wouldn't be on those floors either. He preferred to mix only with his own species.

She drifted in and out of a few bars, another show, drink in hand as if looking for just the right place to relax and unwind. A place with the right music, the right people, the right atmosphere. If someone stopped her, she smiled and was polite. There'd be some story about how Haliday was taking time off after helping rebuild a school that had been bombed years ago. Sometimes the media made her a darling for helping, other times they slammed her lifestyle. But no one ever turned down her chits and the media never missed a story, as she was worth too much to the rebuilding effort.

In the Aqua Bar, she found something to investigate. A _Dooraump_ man was talking to a man of a species she didn't recognize, his orange skin almost glowed in the blue lighting. She let her gaze slide to the _Dooraump_. Heavy brows and deep set eyes made his species perfectly adapted to the hot, dry conditions of his planet. His eyes were hidden in shadows and she couldn't be sure it was Noga. She knew he'd had work done since his pictures and bounty were posted. She'd need a sample to check against his DNA. DNA could only be faked at great expense and pain.

If it was Noga and she let him slip past, it would only be a matter of time before he blew something else up. Plus, she didn't have the luxury of chasing him all over the galaxy. She had to take bounties in locations that fitted with her Haliday cover. She sipped her mocktail without tasting it. She wasn't afraid of death, but the idea of being discovered and captured chilled her to the core. She knew Yem would pay to get her back.

She'd have to approach the businessmen and act as though she was hitting them up for donations to her charities. Hopefully she'd be able to confirm it was Noga and then move in. Until then, she'd be all smiles and giggles. While she hated playing dumb, it worked and it suited her cause. No one would think someone so flakey could be the Kingfisher, a faceless, unregistered bounty hunter, growing in reputation. She smiled as she took a seat and ordered another drink. One day, she'd go after Yem.

**Chapter Two**

The Aqua Bar was everything Callen had read about in the brochures. The center of the bar was a spherical tank filled with exotic species of sea creatures that had been donated by the _Polpos_ people. The _Polpos_ were water dwellers who rarely left their home world, but they had some of the most advanced communications gear. They had contracts with the APM for all kinds of tech. He still bought _Polpos_ -made tech because he trusted it not to break at a crucial moment.

The tank and the creatures in it were a reminder to everyone here that the _Polpos_ were part of the Alliance, even if they weren't space travelers. It was a very pretty statement.

Decadent Moon was certainly named appropriately. There was no skimping on anything. He'd stuck his head in on one of the shows and seen more glittery flesh than he'd thought possible. He was feeling a bit like an APM newbie at his first space port. He'd been there, been plied with alcohol and sent off with an alien to lose his interspecies virginity.

He took another sip of the drink he was nursing and let himself remember the good times instead of the discharge and stripping of rank that had resulted from the failed Solar Bird op. The _Avarkian_ beer turned sweet and cloying on his tongue.

So far, he'd failed to find Noga or any evidence of the prohibited firemoss, but it would take time to grow and big enough to be picked up by heat scans. He'd checked his intel and it was still good. The word was Noga was undertaking business meetings here, looking for backers to help his fight—just not in any of the formal meeting rooms. Of course, if Noga had arrived and used his own name, he'd have been stopped instantly. Which meant fake name and fake face. Callen knew the bastard was here somewhere. However he wasn't quite ready to hack the Moon's systems or alert security yet.

He checked his _plex_ and watched his firemoss simulation run. He'd made several, but had discounted the rest. This one fitted the time line. Fitted the opening and closing of the dock. Stopping the destruction of the moon was the easy part. Catching Noga was much, much harder. Despite Noga claiming responsibility, no one had ever been able to finger him. He was slippery. Callen shoved his _plex_ back in his pocket and stood. If he had to crawl through every bar to find Noga, he would.

Someone in red caught his eye and he let his gaze linger.

Haliday Fisher looked barely dressed and barely able to stand. It had been a while since he'd been home to _Lekithia_ and the sight of another _Phrial_ gave him an equal shot of homesickness and lust. Who was he kidding? She wouldn't talk to him. He didn't have the required chit balance. She took a seat alone and acted as though she was fiddling with her palm sized _plex_. No doubt she was updating her status and letting all her followers know what she was up to.

_Getting drunk at the Aqua Bar LOL. Wish u were here XX._

His gaze travelled down her exposed spine and took in the pattern of her tri-clustered spots. The dimples at the back of her hips were just visible. His tongue darted over his lip as he imagined kissing there. It had been too long between homeports.

The curve of her cheek was highlighted by the blue lights, her dark eye makeup taking on an exotic look. What would she look like without it? Without the dresses and the makeup and chits, would she be just another face in the crowd? One he wouldn't look at twice? Who cared, she was hot, she was the same species and right now that made things simple. He liked simple.

Because she wasn't watching him, he kept watching her and he realized she was watching someone else. He walked around the curving bench seat to realign his view. Just on the other side of the tank, almost out of view in a dark corner, were an orange-skinned _Ortin_ and a _Dooraump_. His heart gave a solid thump that felt like a punch to the chest. Noga? How had he missed that table? Easy. Decadent Moon had many dark corners to encourage liaisons. However, the men weren't even touching.

Why would Haliday Fisher be watching those men? Chits was the obvious answer.

He let his gaze drift admiringly over the tank, yet kept the men in his peripheral. Two men talking was nothing, but...a tingle ran down his back, lifting the spines that only the male _Phrials_ had. The _Ortin_ s' home world had once been bought, their planet taken for profits, and yet now they were influential and wealthy. They'd turned the situation in their favor and without violence, if history was to be believed. The _Ortin_ man was also a very long way from home. He needed to get a closer look at the _Dooraump_. What were the odds that there were two _Dooraumps_ on the Moon with separate reasons for being here?

Haliday got up and glided over to the men, her steps a little wobbly.

She spoke to both men, giggling and exposing her inner wrists in an obvious sign of sexual interest. Well, obvious to Callen, anyway. Different species had different signals—it did tend to complicate inter-species hook ups.

Callen stood, and on the pretense of admiring the tank from a different angle, moved around so he could listen.

While most of it was empty flattery and Haliday talking up her charity, some was important. The _Ortin_ was a Merchant Banker looking for investments for his firm. Why were the _Ortin_ s interested in the plight of the _Dooraump_? He watched the conversation in the reflection in the glass, careful to make the appropriate noises as fish swam past and crane his neck as if he could see deeper into the coral sanctuary.

The _Dooraump_ spoke. A few curt words in his own language.

Noga. It had to be. He edged around slowly so Noga's face was in view, just for a few _milli-trics_. He'd had work done. The scar on his forehead was missing, his nose and chin were different, but it was him. No _Dooraump_ would remove the notches from their ear or add extra ones. They were sacred. And Callen had memorized the exact positioning and shape of every notch Noga had. Not DNA, but close enough. He had visual confirmation on the target.

If he'd been almost anywhere else, he would have walked up, put the pulse gun to the back of Noga's head and arrested him. However here he couldn't do that without violating the Moon's neutral policy. He could bring a weapon on board but he couldn't use it. Of course, following Noga and confining him to his quarters until he had either proof that Noga had brought firemoss aboard or the firemoss had grown enough to give out a heat signature was a different matter.

Haliday giggled again and placed her hand on Noga's shoulder, the curve of her ass clearly outlined by her barely there dress. Either she was faking attraction to get to their chits or she was actually turned-on by the two aliens. He sniffed, waiting for the scent of arousal to strike him and lift his spines as well as his cock. Nothing. But then, she could be taking pheromone blockers.

Either way, it was interesting.

Did she prostitute herself for her charity work?

He couldn't deny that she was making a difference to a lot of young lives on _Lekithia_ , but really? He'd been with other species, but there'd always been a mutual attraction—he'd found out later one of them was actually the male of the species, but they'd both gotten off and had fun. How many other species had she tried out for the chits? He watched as she flirted and flashed her wrists again, baring them to the men, who were missing the _fuck me_ signs.

Her signals weren't lost on him. They were having a very unsubtle effect. He was hard, and while his spines remained flat against his skin, it wouldn't take much to make them lift. He really wanted to smell her excitement. He hadn't taken blockers since leaving the APM and he longed to smell the arousal of his own species.

Homesickness kicked him in the gut. Callen drew in a breath through gritted teeth. He wasn't here for sex, even casual sex with a notorious good time girl. He was here for the man currently giving Haliday the brush off.

You can buy this book or find out more here.

Writing sci-fi is fun because I can create different species and worlds. For the Decadent Moon series I made a resort that was full of sexy delights while also acting as neutral ground for meetings. All three stories interlace but also standalone. I hope you have as much fun reading them as I did writing them.

Shona Husk lives in Western Australia at the edge of the Indian Ocean. Blessed with a lively imagination she spent most of her childhood making up stories. As an adult she discovered romance novels and hasn't looked back.

With over forty published stories, ranging from sensual to scorching, she writes contemporary, paranormal, fantasy and sci-fi romance.

You can find out more on her website.

Twitter

Facebook

Newsletter signup

# Tethered by Pippa Jay

# About Tethered

_S he can kill with a kiss. But can assassin Tyree also heal one man's grief, and bring peace to a galaxy threatened by war?_

* * *

For Tyree of the Su, being an assassin isn't simply something she was trained for. It's the sole reason for her existence. A genetically enhanced clone—one of many in Refuge—she's about to learn her secluded lifestyle, and that of all her kind, is under threat by a race capable of neutralizing their special talents to leave them defenseless.

For Zander D'joren, being a diplomat has not only cost him his appearance, but also the love of his life. Scarred, grieving, he must nonetheless continue in his role as co-delegate to the fearsome Tier-vane or risk a conflict that could only end one way.

Now both of them need to keep each other alive and maintain a perilous deception long enough to renegotiate the treaty with the Tier-vane, or throw their people into a war that could wipe out Terrans and Inc-Su alike. But there's more at stake than humanity, whether true or modified. Can the love growing between them save them both? Or merely hasten their destruction?

A science fiction romance novella, previously released by Breathless Press 24th July, 2014.

# Excerpt of Tethered

**Chapter One**

Tyree spun on her heels, her long hair lashing around her as she faced the council. "You want me to be a what?"

Thirteen elderly Inc-Su met her scream of outrage with angry stares. The last syllable echoed around the chamber. If sound could penetrate metaglass, it would have scattered the saurian lowri gliding past the panoramic windows on membranous wings.

Tyree swore G'vorek, one of her former mentors, winked at her, and her irritation eased a fraction at his silent support. Some of the other council members shifted in their hover seats as she cast her gaze over them. Several scowled. Beyond the oval table and the council members, clouds drifted past the window obscuring the slender sky towers of Refuge, a serene background that conflicted with the turmoil suddenly seething in her chest.

"I didn't think the phrase 'co-delegate' would be considered such an offensive term even by you, Tyree," Great Mother M'roc said.

Tyree latched her attention onto the matriarch. Unlike the majority of the Inc-Su, M'roc had a generous, matronly figure and caramel-colored skin. Dark braids tinted with gray framed her broad face. There was a saying among the Inc-Su, twisted from the old Terran phrase—as solid as M'roc. Unbending, reliable, consistent, and strong. Good traits in a leader, but it meant once she'd made a decision, nothing could change her mind. If she'd chosen this role for Tyree...

"I'm an assassin, not a frigging diplomat," Tyree retorted, but the initial fire of her resistance had guttered. Arguing already felt like a lost cause, but she had to make the point.

Several members of the council _tsked_ at her insolence. G'vorek smiled, deepening the vast collection of wrinkles on his thin, seamed face. Like the other ancients, the charcoal black of his skin had faded to gray, giving him a stone-like appearance.

"Your skills are many, and you are perfect for this role," M'roc continued.

"Why?"

"Perhaps you should explain the situation more thoroughly," G'vorek said, his voice like layers of slate sliding over one another.

M'roc clasped her gnarled hands and threw her co-councilor an exasperated glare before looking back at Tyree. "I was about to. The Terrans are once more negotiating their centennial peace treaty with the Tier-vane."

Tyree waved a hand, dismissing the news as unimportant.

"Perhaps you'd be less indifferent if I told you there have been three assassination attempts on the co-delegates? According to tradition, once the delegates on both sides have been chosen, no others may substitute. It would be taken as a sign of deception. An attempt at trickery."

"I didn't know that," Tyree murmured, but she was more interested in the revelation about the assassination attempts. Whoever had committed those attacks couldn't have been Inc-Su. It would never have taken three tries, and all of them failures. If it had—and it would be a first in their history—was that why she was being assigned? Somehow three Inc-Su had failed, and now they were sending her?

"On the third attempt, one of the delegates was killed and the other almost crippled. The Inc-Su have no wish to see another war break out between the Tier-vane and Terrans. Some of us remember the last."

"What difference does that make to the Inc-Su? We're not Terran and we're not Tier-vane. We're neutral."

"No. The Tier-vane see us as just as human as the Terrans, though our paths diverged many centuries ago. Don't forget, either, that we are very few in number, especially compared to the multitudes of humanity. Even if we kept ourselves clear of the conflict, we would likely suffer losses. Besides..."

For the first time, M'roc's voice faltered. Several members shifted in their floating chairs and Tyree took note of the restless ones. All the ancients, those old enough to have seen that last Tier-vane/Terran conflict.

_Interesting._

"Besides, what?" Tyree snapped. What could have persuaded M'roc into this folly?

"We have been offered a generous payment by the Terrans."

Tyree frowned. Odd glances directed at M'roc suggested the statement she'd made wasn't the expected one. Or perhaps they didn't agree such a thing should be shared with a low-level Su.

"What could possibly draw the Inc-Su into a deal like that?"

"They have offered us complete neutrality."

Shock slammed into her. Assassination wasn't legal on all the worlds, but particularly those under human rulership. There were plenty of planets in the Territories where an Inc-Su agent could be imprisoned, even executed, just for performing their assigned task. If a target knew they were marked, they would frequently transport to one of those worlds, but that wouldn't stop an operative. Sometimes they were caught. For the Terrans to offer total neutrality meant there'd be few restrictions on Inc-Su anywhere.

"Even so..." she muttered. "You said delegates can't be changed once the choice is made. How am _I_ supposed to get away with impersonating the corpse? Surely they'll know the difference?"

Again, the council shuffled in their chairs. M'roc seemed hesitant to speak. If they hadn't been shielded, Tyree would've scanned their auras to see what had them all in a fidget.

"Inc-Su operatives are not always assassins, nor do they always remain in Refuge. We find it helpful to have various members scattered throughout the Territories in other roles. Mirsee was such a one."

"An Inc-Su diplomat?" Well, she'd heard it all now.

M'roc carried on as if Tyree's surprise were a minor concern. "That was her position. Her abilities as a Su were...flawed. The cloning process isn't always perfect, and she had an anomaly in her genetic structure that meant she could not use her powers fully. But her ability to read auras made her useful. She was traded to the Terran Government."

"Traded?"

"For certain diplomatic benefits to the Inc-Su."

It sounded like a form of slavery. So Mirsee had been linked to a Terran partner?

"But unless she's from the same cloning as I am..." That was it. That was why she'd been chosen. Mirsee _was_ from her batch, separated from Tyree only by the fault in her genetic makeup. One that could've easily affected Tyree but for chance. "There are others from the same grouping—"

"No longer. Only three male Incu remain. Your kin group was..." M'roc searched for the word, "—unusual, both in conception and behavior. It was an endeavor we have never repeated. For all the benefits it provided, there were too many anomalies."

Ice trickled down Tyree's throat and into her stomach. She'd always known her kin group was different. She'd never known they were an experiment gone wrong. Why say it to her now? To make her even more unsettled than she already was? Maybe they hoped putting her off balance with this revelation would make it easier to bend her to their will. She clenched her fists. _Not bloody likely._

"Is there anything else I should know?" Her voice came out weak.

"You'll be given a full briefing. I take it you are accepting the assignment?"

"Do I honestly have a choice?"

"No."

"Then I accept." She turned her back on the council and left. _As if there's anything I could do to get out of this._ The bitterness of that thought made her faintly nauseated.

In the corridor outside, a call stopped her in her tracks.

"Ty?" G'vorek's chair whispered alongside, and the cushion of anti-grav sent a chill wave around her bare legs that made her shiver. Fresh back from a mission, she wore only her Su-hair shift covering her from neck to mid-thigh, and a cropped lowri-hide jacket zipped tightly around her torso.

"My name's Ty- _ree_ ," she said, emphasizing the missing letters. She carried on walking, and he glided alongside like a bothersome bug that needed swatting. "What is it?"

"You seem upset, fidget."

Despite herself, the old nickname made her smile. Few of the council treated their charges and genetic offspring as children, more like small adults that needed constant chastising. G'vorek had been different.

"Well, I've just been told that one, my brood group was a faulty experiment. Two, Inc-Su operatives can be flawed and are sold off as slaves. And three, I'm now being assigned to some Terran delegate I've never heard of and never seen. It's not what I'd call a good day."

"His name is Zander D'joren."

Tyree stopped dead and looked at the ancient.

"And Mirsee wasn't sold off into slavery. She was given a choice."

"What, the same choice we get on testing? Kill or be killed? Or was her choice the Terran or Dissipation?" Her voice rose, carried up by flames of anger. Tendrils of fear. Emotions she could lock out in combat mode, but that swarmed freely in her current state. She'd been on many worlds, but she'd always come directly back to the Inc-Su Refuge. Now she was being sent away from home for heaven knew how long, to play a role in which she had no experience.

"Tyree." G'vorek glided closer. "M'roc shouldn't have told you about your origins like that. But we are desperate. We are afraid of another war."

"Why, exactly? We could stay out of it."

"The Tier-vane wouldn't allow that. Despite their biological differences, our abilities affect the Tier just as much as humans. During the last war, many Inc-Su were sent in to assassinate the higher members of Tier-vane hierarchy. They retaliated by developing psi weapons that could render us helpless."

"They did?" Tyree tried to imagine that. No longer being able to walk through walls or see auras. Being defenseless and vulnerable. To be psychically blind. She shuddered. "They could kill us?"

G'vorek shook his head. "It was worse than that. The weapon took our powers, and often our minds. And yet underneath that, those affected would be aware of what had happened. What continued to happen. It became a fashion for the elite in the Tier-vane military to have a psi-damaged Inc-Su as a personal...slave, pet, what have you. Some took great delight in posting recordings back to Refuge of what those Inc-Su suffered." He shivered and closed his eyes. "When the war ended, we sent operatives to rescue them, but many simply asked for death rather than return with their minds and auras ravaged. We granted their wishes. Those that did return...often did not last long. We could not heal what had been done to them, body and mind. Dissipation was a blessing."

"The only mercy is a sharp blade, delivered swiftly." Tyree softly quoted the assassin's credo.

"Indeed."

"So the Inc-Su are desperate for the treaty to continue?" Tyree frowned. "But then who were the assassins?"

"We don't know. We feel the only way to protect the surviving delegate is to assign him a sister clone to Mirsee, one who has all her abilities and then some."

"So now I'm a frigging bodyguard as well?" She made an exasperated sound, but G'vorek's revelations had left her chilled.

"Tyree, we need you on this. Not only will the Tier-vane accept you as Mirsee, but D'joren needs your protection. And...she was more than just his co-delegate. They were bonded."

"Bonded?" Tyree swore. "I'm not going to replace his life partner! He can go rig someone else."

"When that someone could be another assassin?" G'vorek tapped the back of her hand, a reprimand he had used when she was a child. "You are not expected to fulfill _all_ of Mirsee's duties. Merely to stand at his side during the negotiations, which he will handle himself, and to watch his back. The last attempt damaged him badly and left him alone, scarred, and afraid. Grieving. And yet he continues, because he knows only _he_ can maintain the peace. He will need your support. That doesn't involve sex. Just your presence."

Uncertainty twisted her stomach, and she mocked her own fears. What could a crippled Terran man do to a Su assassin anyway?

"I won't be Tethered?" Terrans had a method to secure Inc-Su, preventing them from Misting out.

G'vorek laughed. "No. You'll have diplomatic immunity, if nothing else. Besides, how much protection could you be if we allowed them to Tether you? No."

Tyree sighed. She couldn't refuse anyway. "I'll go pack. Then I'll go to the debriefing."

G'vorek nodded. "That's my fidget."

"G'vorek?"

"Yes?"

"What was so odd about my kin group?"

Was that fear warping the wrinkles on his face? At over three centuries old, time had made his expression almost unreadable except to those who knew him well.

"You were not cloned from a single council member."

"Then from where?"

"An Inc-Su pairing."

"What?" Tyree couldn't have been more shocked if he'd said her brood group had spontaneously created itself. "But Inc-Su don't breed. Why would they?"

"Cloning may have been the established method for over six centuries, but once upon a time we were human too." He touched her hand again, and she shuddered. "You might do well to remember that on your assignment." He turned his chair and hovered away.

"Wait!" she called, but he didn't stop. "But who were they? Who were my parents?" _And why didn't anyone ever tell us?_

**Chapter Two**

Tyree crouched amongst the cargo containers, the metal casings chilling her skin even though she never touched them. The air reeked with the throat-burning, eye-watering stench of vented exhaust fumes. She kept her breaths shallow and through her nose, but still it dried out her mouth and left an acrid tang. Held ready for departure in its slingshot cradle, the transport craft had a battered, pock-marked titanium hull stained black and green. Although it had no signs of previous hull breeches or patchwork repairs to its outer skin, the prospect of trusting herself to it sent quivers through her gut.

But this was the best way—the only way—to get to the _Seclusion_ , the fortified space station where D'joren was secured. __ The attacks on the delegates meant there was, or had been, a security leak somewhere. Rather than trust the Terrans to smuggle her aboard, she had elected to do it herself.

Of course, the transport was protected against Inc-Su invasion. Any craft traveling to the _Seclusion_ would be resistant to her kind. She couldn't just Mist and steal aboard, even though she'd been able to get past the high-level, but human, defenses guarding the dock. Getting onto the transport itself would require old-fashioned sneaking.

A heady cocktail of excitement and adrenaline flooded her nerves, but combat mode held her steady. This was a task more suited to her talents, and the pleasure she gained from it felt almost auric. She scanned the containers on the far side of the bay beneath the open cargo doors.

_Look for a casket marked with our symbol._

Before issuing his last instruction, G'vorek had squeezed her shoulder in a fatherly gesture that had worried her more than her mission. Despite the sign of affection, he'd still refused to tell her about her parents, and she'd been afraid to press for more. However brazen she might be in most other ways, one did not question the Fathers and Mothers of the council.

_There._

A double circle—one with an arrow, the other with a cross—caught her sharp gaze. She sidled her way between the containers, and then Misted to slip inside. The metal exterior resisted her passage and chilled her further as she slid through. It had been made Su-proof then deliberately weakened—enough to pass the customary safety scan but not too much to shift through. Even so, her insides felt scraped and bruised when she reformed into her solid self. The casket was barely big enough to hold her rangy body—a padded coffin that enclosed her snuggly. It was warm, with an oxygen feed and a dim light source should she feel the need for it.

Tyree settled herself on her back, fidgeting until she was relatively comfortable. The journey would only take a few hours, but her stomach clenched at the prospect of space travel. Warp drive ships terrified her in a way no human or weapon could. Even the knowledge that this transport would use a gate instead of navigating through warp space didn't console her much. Ships could still get lost going faster than light, never to be seen again.

She slowed her breathing and heartbeat, pushing herself into dormant mode. The trip would pass far quicker in that trance-like state, and should sync her body clock to standard Terran time on the _Seclusion._

Her mind drifted as her body flashed through warp space.

_Mirsee_.

Flawed Su. Terran co-delegate and bondmate to Zander D'joren. All through her debriefing, the hologram had stared at Tyree as it hovered above the data pad, the face a perfect mirror of her own. As she expected it to be. Her long, straight black hair was worn differently, of course, and her expression far more placid than Tyree had felt at that moment, but essentially her double in all respects. Blue-eyed, black-skinned, a narrow face with a pointed chin, high arching eyebrows and a broad, curving forehead. The only fascination now was the knowledge that both she and her deceased twin came from bonded Inc-Su parents rather than a single entity. Could she see either of those unknown parents in their shared face if she stared hard enough? Unlikely. The majority of Inc-Su were similar in form—tall and lanky, with slight variations in coloring—as all those in Refuge were cloned from the thirteen council members. The only thing she could be reasonably sure of was she wasn't one of M'roc's grouping. She'd seen those around before and they were unmistakable with their heavier build, brown eyes, and caramel skin.

Of the remaining twelve, there was little to distinguish between them. The passage of time had wiped all distinctive features and color tones from the faces of G'vorek, Tawn, and Shivis—the three most ancient—leaving them gray and wrinkled. Tyree could potentially be from any dual combination of them, although sallow-skinned, brown-eyed Pexie or white-faced and diminutive Mishkel paired to one of the more common ancestors seemed unlikely.

_Concentrate on the mission..._

She pulled herself away from idle musing. The process of renegotiation took an entire Tier-vane solar year—nine months in Terran time. Within moments of the official ceremony to inaugurate the two human delegates—synchronized to the exact same ceremony among the Tier for their own diplomats—a sniper had taken out three members of the delegates' entourage and injured D'joren before being eliminated. The assassin had been human, of course. No Inc-Su would have failed so dismally, and with unnecessary casualties to boot.

Barely a month later, a bio-weapon had been released into D'joren's household, killing most of the staff. Both delegates had been absent at the time.

_Idiots,_ Tyree sneered inwardly.

That perpetrator had never even been identified, but they wouldn't have been Inc-Su, either. None of her kin were that sloppy. They certainly wouldn't have resorted to a filthy bio-weapon, not with all the risks of cross-contamination it entailed. So who _had_ ordered the attempts?

Human extremists? They were an urban legend, and even if some human group wanted the treaty ended, a war against a superior force was insane. Not that it would necessarily stop someone from trying it.

What about the Tier-vane themselves? Their military had raised a protest over the last negotiation, but the treaty had still gone through, perpetuating another century of peace. If they were so against the treaty, then why all the preparation for renewal?

And now, this final attempt. She'd been shocked to discover it had taken place six months ago. The delegates' ground car had been attacked in transit. Tracker mines had followed the craft and snuck in under the defenses, attaching themselves to the car faster than security could pick them off. Three had exploded in total. Both humans had been severely injured, but because of their status were rushed to a nearby military stronghold rather than a medical center. When it became clear Mirsee was unlikely to survive her injuries, they'd gone into security lockdown and the condition of both delegates kept secret. Mirsee had died, though D'joren hadn't known until days later when he regained consciousness himself. As a diplomat, he had understood the situation, though she couldn't imagine what it had cost him.

The Terran Assembly, in a panic over the whole affair, had supposedly whisked both delegates to the _Seclusion_ and were maintaining the illusion that both were injured, but recovering, as they desperately tried to come up with a solution. That solution was her.

The select few already placed on the _Seclusion_ knew about the planned deception. Tyree would be smuggled aboard, and she and D'joren would spend a few days getting to know each other and perfecting their act. They would reappear in public for the official reinstatement as co-delegates before transportation to the neutral meeting zone between the Territories of the Galactic Commission and the systems of the Tier for a pre-treaty introduction to their Tier-vane associates.

But did they really think she could pull this off? This wasn't anything like the jobs she was used to. While supremely confident of her abilities as an assassin, she seriously doubted her capabilities as an actress.

Then there was D'joren himself. His file listed him as in his fourth decade. Humans didn't live as long as Inc-Su, but that still only put him in his first quarter, while her thirty years made her a relative teenager in comparison. An impressive list of commendations, both as a G-Comm Warden and in the diplomatic corps, dominated his file, with few interests outside his career even being touched upon. But there was no description or picture in his file. That struck an off chord. Sure, he wasn't a target so she couldn't expect his file to be like those she normally received, but why no image?

_First impressions count. Maybe he wants to see how I react?_

No doubt his many skills would include accurately assessing someone on their first meeting. _Unless he's so hideous he thought I might pass on the mission?_

She considered that. Of the fourteen targets she had been assigned, most had been male and not particularly attractive. Not that it bothered her. Both the physical and auric release during sex were a bonus in her profession, and that was all that counted, although she had to admit to taking her time more with those she had found handsome in some way. Her last assignment had been devastatingly gorgeous and extremely skilled, in his fashion, but it still hadn't earned him a reprieve.

_Not that it will make any difference. I am_ not _going to sleep with D'joren._

She'd had the odd lover among the Inc-Su during her quieter periods when the physical need for sex outweighed her natural aversion to her own kind. After all, Inc-Su didn't need to breed. They were deliberately sterile, and immune to any of the possible infections transmitted by exchange of bodily fluids: a necessary defense in her profession. But sex with her own kind was a completely different experience, where auras were shared, not taken.

What had it been like for D'joren with his Su mate? It was possible for a human and Inc-Su to have sex without it killing. She'd never tried it herself, other than to practice and intensify her control of her abilities, and to prolong the experience for herself. What would it be like?

Sudden heat coursed through her veins and pooled in her abdomen, shaking her from dormancy. Mentally, she slapped herself and pushed back under. She wasn't going to take Mirsee's place in his bed, no matter what. She'd agreed to act the part and be his bodyguard, but that was all.

***

Bright light burst across her vision, and a breath of cold air huffed over her skin. She shivered.

"Are you well, lady?" The husky feminine voice sounded nervous. Most humans finding a Su in their delivery would've probably run screaming or died of fright on the spot.

Tyree drew a long, deep breath, shaking off her dormancy. "I think so. And you are?"

"Visaya, lady."

Well, that was to plan. At least she'd made it to the right place and person.

Tyree levered herself out of her padded cocoon. Visaya stood beside it; a tiny woman with golden-tinted skin, dark almond-shaped eyes that slanted, and a snub nose. Her long black hair had been gathered up into ornate braids around her head, as though sculpted from jet.

Tyree tried to wriggle her legs from the padding at the end of her casket, but when that failed she simply Misted them out and floated through the coffin and the trolley it rested upon. The sudden widening of Visaya's eyes and her step back told Tyree she'd made a mistake. Mirsee wouldn't have been able to do that. And few humans who witnessed it lived to tell the tale about that particular ability.

"Sorry," she said to the woman. "Sometimes I forget myself."

"No matter, lady." Visaya inclined her head. "But please do not attempt that in public."

_Ouch._

Chastened, Tyree smoothed down her Su shift. "Well, I guess we should get started. Where's D'joren?"

"The master asked me to attend to you. He hopes to meet you shortly, but felt that we should start with your preparations."

_So he's blown me off on the first meeting?_

Irritation prickled down her back, but that was hardly Visaya's fault. "And these preparations involve?"

"Your hair and clothing. The master felt we should begin as we mean to go on. I will arrange your clothing and your hair for you each day. I am to give you every assistance."

Tyree made a noise of disgust. The prospect was as appealing as eating raw fish guts. As long as she was clean and decently attired, as prescribed by the Rules of Decorum, and her hair didn't get in her way, she was done. She'd never seen the point of the extravagant lengths some people went to, but if it was necessary... "Let's get on with it then."

Tyree gazed at her image with a sensation akin to horror. That wasn't _her._ She'd never looked like this. Like some gloss painted, surgically enhanced Skiv putting herself up for sale.

She touched the elaborate coils of her hair in wonder, watching the alien reflection do the same.

"Is it to your liking, my lady?" Visaya asked, her voice quivering.

"I...I've never worn it up like this." Tyree continued to stare.

"It was how the Lady Mirsee liked it." The woman's voice broke, and she sniffed. Tyree turned to look at her, stunned to see tears flowing down the attendant's face. Was she so offended by Tyree's reaction?

"I didn't mean to be rude." The apology snagged in her throat. It was a first, but in this situation she didn't want to make too many mistakes around these humans.

"No, lady, it is not that. It is very strange to see another in my lady's clothes. Someone so alike, and yet you are not her."

"It freaks you out a bit?" Tyree stared at her reflection again. "Yeah, I can understand that feeling."

Visaya sobbed harder, and discomfort ran down Tyree's spine. What was the woman so upset about? Su never cried, and certainly never mourned anyone. Talented Inc-Su could be cloned again, and there were few emotional attachments in Refuge.

"Do you miss Mirsee?"

Visaya wiped her eyes. "She was a great lady. And we grieve for the master's loss."

_Hmm. The master, huh?_

Tyree straightened. It might be his title, but Zander D'joren was no master of hers. Not even if he Tethered her.

"Then perhaps it's time I met him. I'm sure he'll want to see how I compare."

_And a visual comparison is all he'll be making, or I'll snatch the aura right out of him._

Visaya gestured to the door. "This way, my lady."

You can buy this book or find out more here.

Why she wrote _Tethered_ :

The whole thing started as a conversation on Twitter about under-represented mythology and legendary beings, and how elves, dwarves, witches and the like were getting a relatively unfair share of exposure in speculative fiction. At the time I'd had a vague idea about succubae in space, not realizing they were quite so popular in paranormal and urban fantasy stories as I've since learned. On Christmas Day of all days, muse decided it was time to throw the whole story at me and I had to repeatedly squirrel myself away in the bedroom on the pretext of fetching presents, CDs, wrapping paper etc while frenziedly typing away on my phone to get the thing down before muse got bored. This must be one of the few SFR books in existence where the soundtrack is Christmas choirs and _Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer_. My poor characters...

After spending twelve years working as an Analytical Chemist in a Metals and Minerals laboratory, Pippa Jay is now a stay-at-home mum who writes scifi and the supernatural. Somewhere along the way a touch of romance crept into her work and refused to leave. In between torturing her plethora of characters, she spends the odd free moment playing guitar very badly, punishing herself with freestyle street dance, and studying the Dark Side of the Force. Although happily settled in the historical town of Colchester in the UK with her husband of 23 years and three not-so-little monsters, she continues to roam the rest of the Universe in her head.

Pippa Jay is a dedicated member of the Science Fiction Romance Brigade, blogging at Spacefreighters Lounge, Adventures in Scifi, and Romancing the Genres. Her works include YA and adult stories crossing a multitude of subgenres from scifi to the paranormal, often with romance, and she's one of eight authors included in a science fiction romance anthology— _Tales from the SFR Brigade_. She's also a double SFR Galaxy Award winner, been a finalist in the Heart of Denver RWA Aspen Gold Contest (3rd place), the 2015 EPIC eBook awards, the 2015 RWA LERA Rebecca (2nd place), and the GCC RWA Silken Sands Star Awards (2nd place).

You can find her here:

Website

Blogs:

Adventures in Scifi

Spacefreighters Lounge

Romancing the Genres

SFR Brigade

Twitter

Goodreads

Facebook

Newsletter

# Riding Redemption by Jolie Mason

# About Riding Redemption

The 47th Lancers mercenary unit has been assigned to Havoc Station to protect the rim planets nearby. The enemy is new, and Humankind is at a distinct disadvantage.

Mechpilots Dahlia and Jackson know the last thing they need in a war is the complication of each other. They've been ordered to work it out, find a way to fight alongside each other or else. While the enemy gets closer, so do Dahlia and Jackson.

They'll need each other to fight what's coming. .

Warning: Sci fi romance ahead. Boy meets girl, boy loses girl, and boy gets girl back with robot wars. Don't say you weren't warned.

# Excerpt of Riding Redemption

1

Dahlia cracked the hatch on her mech, barely even hearing the noises and chaos in the hangar bay. She wanted to kill him, to rip his helmet off and ring his cocky neck. She wanted to arm her weapons and hunt his ass down right there in the station. She ripped her own helmet off instead and dumped it on the deck of the mech cockpit with a loud thunk. Lifting herself out with both arms, she crab-walked onto the ladder of her bay and jumped to the floor halfway, in a hurry to find Jackson and beat some sense into him.

She'd never seen anything like this from Jackson before, at least not this dangerous, and she'd damned well better never see it again.

His job in a battle was suppressive fire and recon scans. That's it. He drove the ATgyro and it wasn't a mech in the sense hers was. It was a mechanized, weaponized artillery vehicle designed for short bursts of speed and to carry the heavy scan equipment that gave their mercenary unit the edge. His scans could take in the entire battlefield, sighting the enemy for miles and miles. It was made with that function in mind, able to fly over any terrain and blow big holes in everything from far away. That's it.

The AT was always the last thing loaded on the Redemption and the first thing off, so she'd bet he was already in the gear up preparing to wash off the battle sweat.

She headed that way, her furious gait telling everyone to steer clear. As it was early morning hours station time, the offices were deserted. She rushed past the reception area to the back where the showers were located.

Men's showers were on the right. She pushed the door with one hand and busted through it, marching straight up to Jackson who was out of his jumpsuit and standing there at a locker in nothing but his skivvies. She was so angry she didn't even look at his ass in the tight briefs.

"What in the hell did you think you were doing?" She demanded. He tensed, and then turned around slowly. She noticed he had some sense of self-preservation and didn't smirk at her at least. "I had it!"

"You're welcome." He answered quietly.

She stood toe to toe with him by this time. She could hear a few of the other pilots shuffling either to the showers or to the door. No one wanted to be here for this one, apparently.

"When I need you to play hero, I'll let you know. That wasn't even remotely intelligent. Suppressive fire. Do you know the concept? Not drive your AT off a cliff or straight at a 100 ton heavy mech with an incendiary cannon. Suppressive fire. There was no reason whatsoever to risk the Gyro."

"D," he said even softer than before.

"Every damn time you go out now, I'm thinking this will be the last time. One of these days, you're bound to kill yourself. That's the law of averages. No one can behave so consistently like an ass and keep walking away."

"You were pinned. I attempted to be the distraction that's all. I've done it a hundred times."

"I was pinned in terrain your AT couldn't handle. Clearly! Have you seen your mech?"

"Don't tell me my job. I know tactics, and I know a hopeless situation when I see one." Okay, now, he was mad. Suited her just fine, because she wanted to strangle him. "That was a heavy mech. You were outgunned."

"That's why I learned evasive maneuvers. It's what they're for.

D, stop acting like a child."

"Acting like a child? Acting like a child? Are you trying to die? Seriously. Because after this afternoon's stunt and right here, right now, I'm thinking you must have death wish."

He leaned down into her face and turned on his trademark mocking charm. "Baby, tell me you care. Say it once with a straight face."

She snapped. Something inside just popped. She slapped his face. He always knew her button, knew just how to provoke a reaction by insinuating something about their past relationship. All he had to do was drop a baby in her ear to really hurt her.

"I'm taking this to Hopper. You're out of control."

He rubbed his now blooming red cheek. "I'm out of control?"

"Yeah, you are, and I'm gone."

"What's that mean?" he asked, suddenly paying more attention.

"I'm gonna ask to roll back. We were wrong. This," she waved between them. "This won't work. I can't work with you."

"You're gonna take a hit on your contract? Why? Why would you?"

She got back in his face. "Why would you take an AT after a Rolins 75 heavy mech?" He swallowed hard. She watched his Adam's apple bob.

"I couldn't stand there and watch you die," he whispered.

"Well, then. Maybe you just answered your own question." With one last look at his dumbfounded expression, she turned on a heel and left the same way she came, marching straight across the hall and into the opposite gear up room. There weren't many women who chose this job, but the ones who did were usually pretty no frills kind of women, therefore, this room was exactly the same as the other. Tiled community showers, lockers on most of the walls and a big bank of sinks and mirrors were the utilitarian fixtures in the room.

She started stripping down in front of her locker. Tomorrow, she would do just what she'd said. It was time to talk to Hopper.

Morning came early in a mech unit on alert. Dahlia sipped a coffee obtained on the way in from a vending unit. She strolled through the hangar without her usual brisk pace. This was going to sting, and she couldn't pretend otherwise.

It was time to put a full stop to this relationship. She and Jackson weren't together anymore, but they were still tearing each other apart. It needed an end.

She kept going till she reached the offices again. They weren't deserted this time. Clerks walked around the small space in the merc units standard, non-pretentious black. She found Moli, Hopper's assistant at her desk outside his office.

The girl's hair twisted around in crazy intricate wraps all around her head. She was amazingly competent for her age. "I need to see Hopper. Is he here?"

Moli nodded sending her twists flying. "I've been told to send you right in."

She paused. Word had already gotten back. Sighing, she straightened her back and walked in as Moli hit a key and opened the door.

You can buy this book or find out more here.

Riding, as I affectionately call it, just sort of happened. I finished my Home in the Stars series and had this idea of the next trip I wanted to take. However, I had to close some gaps before I could do that. A friend suggested I try a short series of novellas, and so this happened.

I'd been wanting to write mechs for a while. This gave me the perfect setting to do that. Dahlia was created first, and Jackson was born after, as a foil to her ruthless focus on the battlefield and her unwillingness to commit to love. I believe that these two may always be my favorite romance, no matter what I write.

Jolie Mason grew up on the Mississippi river in a town the size of a postage stamp, moved away, and came back again to live in New Madrid, MO as so many do. She lives in a haunted house with three kids, two insane cats, and one neurotic dog. She has published her Home in the Stars series on Kindle and other formats, and followed with her 47th Lancers in the same universe. Her current focus is in the genre of Science fiction romance and space opera because of her enduring need for a second season of Firefly.

For more updates, look for Jolie on Twitter and Facebook.

# Boarded by Annie Nicholas

# About Boarded

Assigned as an interpreter to a mysterious alien race, Liaison Sadie Beckit crosses multiple star systems to the remote Cyngi home world on an old space freighter. Knowledge is essential when dealing with aliens. A misspoken word or a careless gesture could lead to wars so liaisons are necessary to keep the peace, but Sadie is kept in the dark about her new employer. This mysterious species has chosen to withhold most of their culture and language information. All she's told is to accompany Ambassdor Nual back to Central Station. Sounds easy enough, but the lawless void of space holds many dangers.

# Excerpt of Boarded

Glitch, Sadie's data processing POD, descended from the ceiling and floated in front of her. Various glyphs appeared then disappeared on its smooth, liquid silver surface, much like a mirrored bubble.

Knots tied-up her stomach. She quickly wrapped towels around her wet hair and body before stepping out of the shower. Glitch communicated the space station had caught it hacking their computer system.

"Frik." She paced the small room assigned to her on the freighter. The POD stored a majority of her memory and ran Sadie's more complex programs when her attention was too divided, like trying to break through the Cyngi firewall into their database.

"You never get snagged." She spun to face Glitch. If they'd been detected at any other space station, she'd just get a slap on the wrist for the intrusion. Her status as a Liaison gave her protection since she worked with government officials as a translator and a cultural attaché. She could get away with small injunctions, especially to bend certain laws that applied to her clientele.

With so many different aliens involved in the Central Worlds government, the Liaison's office was developed to smooth over any confusion between races and to avoid misunderstandings. Every dignitary received a Liaison, so when an ambassador for the Cyngi had requested an audience with the political Assembly at Center Station—the main hub of trade and politics—she jumped at the opportunity and volunteered for the job.

The Cyngi guarded their privacy to the point that not even the Liaison office had information on their culture. She had made a polite enquiry before leaving Central Station and they sent her minimal information. A few language files she could use to barely ask for the rest room let alone conduct trade agreements, a child's version of their history, and basic cultural faux pas anyone flying in space knew.

Sadie was running into this situation blind, but she had Glitch. Who would have guessed the Cyngi would catch her best safe guard against ignorance? Rubbing her temples didn't help her growing headache. She didn't even know how they would react to her and Glitch's transgression. "Friiiiiik." She bent in half, letting the swear vibrate in her chest. After everything she and Glitch had been through over the last few years she'd hoped this assignment would be almost a cake walk.

Wrong.

A bang echoed from the cargo bay below her as the crew unloaded the ship of goods onto the space station. They orbited the Cyngi home world on the outer reaches of the galaxy. If legal action was taken for hacking their computer, it would be ages before the Liaison office rallied to her defense.

"Liaison, the ambassador is at the airlock requesting permission to board the ship." The captain's voice broke through her panic. He and his family crewed the freighter. They were Denobola, a bipedal, cat-like race. She'd never describe them as such within their hearing range though.

"She's early." Sadie dropped the wet towels into the laundry reciprocal. She sounded collected and calm, but her heart drummed in her chest.

"I can stall if you need more time, Liaison."

"I'd appreciate that. If she seems impatient, just let her in. I'm on my way." She yanked open the drawer under the cot and grabbed a clean red jumper. Running her fingers under the mattress, she fingered her contraband cargo. Her Ragnar blades still lay where she'd hid them. Weapons weren't allowed in Cyngi space, but Sadie didn't go anywhere unarmed.

Most of the freighter comprised of cargo and little living space, so the room they would share consisted of two fold-up bunks, a bathroom, and a wall-bench. No passenger liners came to this remote part of the galaxy so both she and the ambassador needed to make do with the sparse dull surroundings.

"The Cyngi do not upset easily. He'll wait." The captain cut the connection.

Great, even the captain knew more of this race than she. The Denobola had kept their lips shut tight on the subject whenever she attempted to obtain any information. They worried about losing their trade with the station—She stopped dressing, only a leg in the one-piece suit. "He?"

More symbols flashed in rapid succession over Glitch's surface. She didn't need to read them. It had a link to her internal processor so communicated directly with her brain, but certain nuances were lost. She did a similar thing by talking out loud to Glitch. They worked better this way.

"I refuse to review their file again. It's flawed. According to the information provided, the ambassador is supposed to be female." She pulled her jumper on, over thin underwear and camisole, and zipped it up. Why did they switch ambassadors? Why didn't someone send her a message? She ran her fingers through her tight black curls to knock loose any beads of water and forced a deep, slow breath. Why had she volunteered for this assignment? She slipped on her heavy boots. The answer was easy. The unknown. The adventure.

People who lived in space were of a different breed. No one at the Liaison office questioned her motives. Some had fought her for the opportunity. If she did her job well, this race might offer her a permanent contract. The Holy Grail of all Liaisons.

She activated the room's door and it disappeared into the wall. Outside, the bare narrow hallway led to an elevator. Pipes and tubes ran along the ceiling in dull grey shades and she needed to duck to pass. The ship crew was much shorter than her five foot eight inches. A steep metallic emergency stairwell, which she'd hate to have to climb, led to the bowels of the ship. No one used it unless the ship lost power.

Glitch floated above her head. "Let's go meet our new employer. Maybe he can keep us out of prison." She made the statement as light and humorous as possible for Glitch's sake but wiped her sweaty palms on her jump suit. No point in both of them worrying. Some PODs were just machines, but the ones connected to a host developed into something more. She couldn't put it in words, but Glitch was very much part of her.

A bell announced the lift's arrival on her floor. The doors slid open and a set of pale green eyes met hers. She restrained the gut reaction to jump back. Thousands of years of instincts bred into human DNA cried out predator. Ten years as a Liaison taught her to repress those impulses.

Kaille, one of the captain's wives, gave her a concerned look. "Are you ready, Liaison?"

Shaped like a human but with the features and nature of a panther, Kaille's slim, lithe body moved with a beast-of-prey's grace as she stepped out of the elevator. Large, soft lower paws glided over the floor without making a noise when she circled her. The golden fur of her pelt shone as if groomed for hours, and a small black nose glistened on the tip of her short, narrow muzzle. Vertically slit eyes peered with intelligence while they assessed her from head to toe.

"Sadie has given you permission to address her by name." Cine, another of the captain's wives, followed Kaille out of the elevator.

Her fur shimmered too, but her coat was a paler shade of gold, which complimented her dark blue eyes.

"You shouldn't meet the ambassador dressed like that."

Both sister-wives wore purple and navy blue silk sarongs, which clung to their hips. She'd never seen them in anything but work attire.

No Denobola wore shirts; both sexes displayed their fine-furred muscular chest. Though the females were narrower of shoulder, they were beautiful.

"I doubt he'll care what I'm wearing." Sadie tugged at the loosed jump suit that hung from her frame. One size fits all was a lie.

"That's not so," The tips of Kaille's ears flattened. "They appreciate beautiful things and he will be flattered if you made an effort. We mean no offense, but we have dealt with the Cyngi for many decades. Please accept our advice."

"No offense taken. They did not send me much data on their culture or customs. Any suggestions would be appreciated, but I wish someone had mentioned this earlier. He's waiting in the airlock."

"At least apply some of your war paint. It gives you more color and draws attention to your pretty copper eyes." Cine almost skipped while she led them back into Sadie's room.

Her 'war paint' was the make-up she'd packed and the most expensive items she owned since they came all the way from Earth. A little piece of home. The wives were intrigued when she'd worn some on her arrival to their ship.

Sadie applied some of her 'war paint' as the sister-wives observed from the wall-bench. They ignored Glitch, who hovered by them. Some green eye shadow and a heavy swipe of black mascara helped accentuate the almond shape of her eyes. She turned around for their inspection and smiled, careful not to expose her teeth. The time she'd made that mistake, she was a new recruit and it almost cost her life since they interpreted it as a threat.

Kaille crossed the small space and took the application brush from her hand. "You should add some gold on your face." She made a few more strokes, then physically turned Sadie to look in the mirror. "See? It highlights your dark skin tones."

For someone who could never wear the 'war-paints' on her fur, the suggestion was sound. It did look better.

Finding the right color for her dark shade of skin could be a challenge. She wasn't a pretty chocolate shade; she was a spent-your-life-on-the-Serengeti-plains deep color. With the right lighting, blue highlights would appear.

Kaille applied a few more swipes along her cheekbones, which helped to soften their sharp prominence.

"She's ready, Maol." Sadie watched as Cine shut off the intercom to the captain. "We'll go greet the ambassador now." The delicate Denobola female activated the door and stepped into the corridor followed by the taller Kaille.

Sadie followed them through the dull gray hallways of the ship. The lack of color bothered her. Never one to need luxury, it surprised her. "Do you know who this ambassador is?" The need to ask grated on her nerves. "My files state it's supposed to be a female Cyngi, but the captain said it's a male waiting to board."

"No, they all look the same to us." Kaille flicked her ears and pressed the button to call the elevator.

The Denobola were the only race allowed into this system. The treaty they held granted them sole shipping rights for the Cyngi. Yet even they never went on the space station, let alone the planet.

They took the lift down to the airlock. This meeting must be important for the crew, maybe as trade relations, for them to deem it necessary to inspect her.

The freighter brought back memories. As a child she'd played among cargo bins and fallen in love with space travel. Her father worked as a miner in the Sol System asteroid belt. One summer he convinced her mother to try and live on the space station Earth maintained in the area. They traveled there via a freighter. The maze of corridors and cargo bins were a perfect playground for an eleven-year-old girl with an active imagination. Her mother had cracked under the isolation of space travel and limited living space though. Within two months, they were on a ship back to Earth. She saw her father every three months for a few weeks afterward, and every time he visited she begged him to take her with him.

The opportunity to become a Liaison fulfilled her every dream. Nothing could make her happier. She got to travel the universe, learn new languages, and meet aliens of all sorts. The Cyngi topped her bucket list. They'd stayed aloof from all other races.

Until now.

The lift stopped and she exited to find Captain Maol's family, including the children, gathered around the ship's main entrance. At the front stood the captain, his two adult sons, and his dominant wife, Len, who still wore her pilot's jumpsuit.

Sadie made a small half bow in their direction, a sign of respect for the bridge crew. This wasn't always required except at official meetings. The captain activated the airlock cycle, so the ambassador could enter from the space station dock.

While they waited, Glitch sent her images of the security programs it had encountered while trying to get her more intel on the Cyngi. It wanted to show her the complexity of the system. The data streamed via the computer chip implanted in her brain.

This integration made her capable of being a Liaison. Languages and cultures could be downloaded to her within seconds, if a file was available. As an unaltered human, it would have been impossible for her to study them all.

Advanced software, and that's only the firewall. She mentally stroked the program. Most of which, she couldn't even understand. No wonder they'd been caught. The urge to meld with its artistry and to learn the language brought tears to her eyes. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she resisted the temptation.

This race was light years ahead of Central World programming. She'd never seen anything like it. Glitch could have been fried. For a race living on a back world planet, the Cyngi were very advanced. She didn't think Glitch escaped. They let it go. This might mean they weren't in as much trouble as she'd thought.

The thick metal door hissed as it opened with a loud clank before the Cyngi dignitary stepped in. He bowed to the Denobola in the same manner she had. His skin was a brighter shade of blue than she'd expected, similar to Earth's sky on a clear summer day. A small hat of feathers of the same color sat on his bald head. Each overlapped the other in a tight configuration, so it looked as if a cap surrounded the top of his head like a bathing cap.

She bowed back with the ship family.

"Nual, it's a surprise to see you. We expected Xau." Captain Maol spoke galactic patwa with a heavy accent. "Welcome aboard the Traveler."

"Most happy to be welcomed. Xau is with child, and since we have no knowledge of how space travel would affect the baby's development, she chose to remain home." He turned his solemn blue eyes her way and stepped forward to offer his hand. "I am Nual."

She stared at his hand, deciding her next move. Should she grab his forearm like a Zair warrior, kiss it like a Kenish maid, or entwine her fingers in his like a Morian noble?

He withdrew a little. "Is it not customary among humans to shake hands when introducing themselves?"

She blinked and felt like an ass. "Yes, it is. I apologize for the misunderstanding." His hand engulfed hers as they shook. "I am Sadie Beckit, your Liaison."

You can buy Boarded __ or find out more here.

Note to readers:

Most of you know me as a paranormal romance writer, but my first love was science fiction. I hope my passion for reading this genre bleeds into my story. I love the idea of love that can transcend species, cultures, and space.

Annie Nicholas writes paranormal romance with a twist. She has courted vampires, hunted with shifters, and slain a dragon's ego all with the might of her pen. Riding the wind of her imagination, she travels beyond the restraints of reality and shares them with anyone wanting to read her stories. Mother, daughter, and wife are some of the other hats she wears while hiking through the hills and dales of her adopted state of Vermont.

Annie writes for Samhain Publishing, Carina Press, and Lyrical Press.

You can find out more on her website.

# Blood Will Tell by Christine Pope

# About Blood Will Tell

_W elcome to Iradia, where the Gaian Consortium looks the other way if enough money changes hands, and the best way to ensure a long life is to secure passage off-world...._

When Miala Fels' father is murdered by a vicious crime lord, she decides the best way to get her revenge is to hack the accounts of the man responsible and bleed his hoard of ill-gotten loot dry. Her plans go awry when Mast is killed by a rival, and she ends up nursing one of his men, the notorious mercenary Eryk Thorn, back to health. Her only thought is to have Thorn help her get off-world in exchange for half of Mast's treasure. The last thing she expects is to lose her heart to him...or to have the consequences of that love change her life forever. _(The Gaian Consortium Series, Volume 1)_

# Excerpt of Blood Will Tell

CHAPTER 1

They had been gone far too long, that much she knew. Although there were no chronos in the compound's kitchens, Miala had trained herself to make a rough estimate of the passage of time without any visual aids. She knew that at least four, and possibly closer to five, hours had to have passed since Arlen Mast and his various lackeys and hangers-on had enthusiastically sallied forth _en masse_ to watch the baiting and eventual deaths of his latest batch of prisoners. "Cheaper to kill 'em than to feed 'em!" he'd guffawed, and everyone had laughed at his wit, or at least pretended to.

Except Miala. Unlike the others, she had no stomach for that sort of thing. The compound had emptied down to the lowliest kitchen drudge — except for her. She had a knack for hiding in shadows, making herself easily overlooked, and so no one gone in search of her when she vanished into one of the larders as everyone else was hastening out the rear entrance of the building and into their various sand-skimmers and all-terrain transports. At the time she had only thanked God that she would have a few hours of uninterrupted time to resume her careful hacking into Mast's security system.

That fat bastard would probably have had a long-overdue heart attack if he knew how far she had already gotten, but she was careful to cover her tracks. Anyhow, she knew the basics of the system well enough; it was her father who had programmed it, after all, and he had trained Miala in the tricks of his trade. Good thing that Mast hadn't bothered to investigate Lestan Fels closely enough to discover that Iradia's best hacker had a daughter, let alone one who rivaled her father in her ways with a security system. No, Mast had thought himself very clever to hire Fels and then have him killed once the security system was in place. He hadn't thought that there was anyone on this miserable rock who would even notice the hacker's death, let alone bother to avenge it.

She'd come here two months earlier, already aware of what had probably happened to her father, and she'd been careful to come disguised. Mast's lechery was legendary, and Miala, after carefully regarding her reflection before setting out, had come to the dispassionate conclusion that she was just pretty enough to attract attention if she didn't do something to alter her appearance. Nothing drastic, of course, but it was amazing what deliberately dirty hair pulled back in a severe knot, a few carefully applied blemishes, and exaggerated shadows under one's eyes could do to make a person look absolutely unappealing. Even so, she'd been on the receiving end of a few nastily significant glances from Barris Jax, Mast's self-styled majordomo and right-hand man. She counted herself lucky that it hadn't gone any further than that — and perhaps his unhealthy interest was what had led him to hire her in the first place.

But now — she settled back on her heels and sighed. She'd made good progress during the past few hours and felt confident that, given a little more time, she would finally be able to hack the codes that protected Mast's vaults and gain access to the treasures she knew he hoarded there. Of course she would never be able to bring her father back, but at least she could steal his murderer blind and finally get herself away from this godforsaken planet once and for all. And while her main goal was to gain access to Mast's off-world accounts, she'd be a fool not to take as much cash from his vaults as she could. The amount she could carry would certainly not be enough for him to ever notice.

The silence around her was disturbing. She knew the compound as well as anyone, but it was an unsettling place even when fully occupied and somehow much worse when it was apparently deserted, as it seemed now. What possibly could have happened? There had been whispers that one of the other crime bosses had been planning to make a move on Mast, but treachery among the bosses was as expected on Iradia as its frequent sandstorms, and Mast had laughed off the rumors, claiming there was no one in the region who could possibly get the drop on him.

Still....

Miala pushed her chair away from the computer console in the security office. Like the rest of the compound, the room had been hewn out of the native Iradian sandstone, but the banks of machines were an incongruous note in the otherwise primitive surroundings. It was cool in here, though, air conditioners working overtime to ensure that the precious computers didn't overheat. Perhaps it was the temperature of the room that made her shiver.

Or perhaps it was something else. She suddenly felt she couldn't stand the silence a moment longer. The air seemed laden with ghosts; she wondered how many hapless prisoners had met a violent death in the building, and she shivered again, harder this time.

Anything would be better than sitting here and wondering until she slowly drove herself mad. She remembered how her father used to tease her for her endless questions. _Why are there three moons, Dad? Why do trees only grow in an oasis? Why doesn't it ever rain?_

Anything of course, but the questions she really wanted to ask. _Why don't I have a mother like everyone else? Why did she hate me so much that she left?_ But even at five Miala had known better than to ask some questions....

Shaking her head as if to rid herself of these unpleasant recollections, Miala made a sudden decision. She knew where the compound's sand skimmers were kept, and of course she would have no difficulty getting through the security system that sheltered them. Surely Mast's people had left one or two behind. If something really had gone wrong, wasn't it her responsibility to discover what had happened? She hadn't allowed herself to make any friends during her tenure at Mast's compound, but at the same time she didn't think she could leave people she had worked with to die out in the desert. Assuming that the worst had happened, of course. It was entirely possible that Mast had decided to be particularly creative with his executions this time, and they were just taking longer than usual. Somehow, though, she guessed that was a false hope.

The parking garages were located at the rear of the compound, not far from the small landing pad kept for the private use of certain guests who didn't wish to fly into Aldis Nova. Two sand skimmers had been left behind, both of them looking the worse for wear. Looks were deceiving, as she knew all too well; Mast's mechanics kept the vehicles well-tuned. On one wall of the garage was a gun locker, and she keyed in the code — stolen during one of her hacking sessions — and lifted out a heavy pulse rifle and a pair of smaller pistols. It was getting close to dusk, and although she knew from watching the sweeps made by the automated security systems that no hostiles seemed to be within a ten-kilometer range of the compound, she didn't want to be out any later than necessary. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together knew better than to wander the open deserts of Iradia after dark.

She selected the skimmer closest to the garage entrance, more for ease than because it looked better than the other one. Since it was an older model, it had a chip-matching system rather than a biometric starter, but the chips had been stored in the locker along with the guns, so it was easy enough to get the thing started and maneuver it out of the garage.

Even now, this close to dusk, the heat was intense, enervating. Miala knew she would never get used to it, even if she lived to be a hundred and died on this rock. But she had brought a few flasks of water with her, knowing that even without direct sun she could die of dehydration within a few hours if she wasn't careful. She took a few sips, then set the flask down on the passenger seat. The next stage of the journey was going to require both hands.

Mast's preferred spot for his executions was located roughly southeast of the compound, near a canyon that allowed him to pitch prisoners into the abyss when he tired of other amusements. Even going as quickly as the terrain allowed, it was a good hour's ride. Miala cast a nervous glance over her shoulder at the setting sun and prayed that she could make it to the canyon before the last bit of light disappeared. As good as Mast's security team might be, they couldn't drive away all of the planet's natural predators, and she didn't care to become yet another statistic. No one would come looking for _her_ if she disappeared.

The smell of burning greeted her long before she reached the Malverdine Cliffs. Acrid, heavy, the scent of smoke hung in the hot desert air like the memory of a bad dream, impossible to ignore. Miala slowed the skimmer's headlong flight as she came onto the site of the disaster.

There was nothing left, except some scattered wreckage and a few unpleasant dark blotches on the sand. Whoever had hit Mast's party had obviously done so hard and fast. Black smoke still swirled heavily in the dead, hot air.

She brought the vehicle to a stop, then reached for one of her pistols. Just because she hadn't seen any movement didn't mean that predators couldn't be lurking nearby.

After making sure the safety on the pistol was off, she climbed out of the skimmer and moved toward the cliff's edge, stepping carefully between the pieces of shrapnel and other, less distinguishable bits of wreckage. The cloying smell of burning flesh rose to her nostrils, and she forced herself not to gag, making herself breathe through her mouth despite the painful dryness at the back of her throat.

There was nothing here, nothing to salvage, no one to save. It was stupid for her to have come; all she had done was risk her own safety when she could have holed up in the compound and worked at the security system until it yielded its remaining secrets. Obviously, no one would have come back to disturb her.

With a sigh, she turned and took a step back toward the skimmer. It was only then that she heard a faint moan from somewhere behind her.

Whirling, she held the gun out before her, one trembling finger hovering over the trigger button. "Identify yourself!" she called into the gathering dusk, hoping her voice sounded more confident than she felt.

No reply except another faint groan, this one fainter than the last. Whoever or whatever it was, they didn't sound very threatening. However, she knew better than to lower the pistol as she retraced her steps toward the precipice, taking care to maintain a respectful distance from the cliff's edge. The whispered horror stories she'd heard from the other kitchen drudges — "you drop so far there isn't even a thud when you hit the bottom!" — were enough to convince her that she needed to give the jagged gash in the ground a wide berth.

As she inched closer, she finally saw the man who lay face down in the sand. From this angle he looked dead, his body armor scored and even smoking in a few places, the dark cloth he usually wore wrapped around his face and head torn away, lying like a ragged scarf against the ruddy sand. Even in the dimming light Miala glimpsed blood gleaming in his short-cropped hair, black against black. But then she saw one of his hands move slightly, a futile clenching gesture that seemed as if he was trying to gain a purchase so he might pull himself farther away from edge of the cliff.

Although she'd never seen his face, she recognized him at once. Eryk Thorn, the notorious mercenary Mast hired for the times when he needed people quietly disappeared instead of dropped off a cliff. Just one of the myriad scum the crime boss had infesting his compound. For one moment she was tempted to leave Thorn there to die — after all, the man made his living from human misery — but almost as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she knew she could not abandon him to the desert, no matter who he was or what he had done. Anyone who had the strength of will to survive an attack that had killed everyone around him deserved a second chance.

She squatted down in the sand next to him. "Thorn?" she asked softly. "Can you understand me?"

The smallest movement of his hand was his only reply.

Still, it was better than nothing. "I've come from the compound," she went on, thinking that perhaps her words would give him something to hold on to besides the pain. "I have a sand skimmer. I'll bring it closer so I can take you back."

This time there was no answering movement, and Miala could only hope he had heard and understood. As quickly as she could, she threaded her way through the wreckage back to the skimmer and then maneuvered it as close as possible to the wounded man. Once she had clambered back out again, she looked at Thorn and swore softly. He would be no help to her in his current condition. How she was supposed to maneuver his approximately ninety kilos of dead weight into the skimmer was beyond her. She'd seen nothing in the immediate vicinity that would help her lift him up off the ground, and she was afraid to leave him to go look for something in the wreckage farther away.

In the end, she accomplished the task through brute strength and sheer force of will. She was young and healthy enough, and the last few months had hardened her muscles to the point that she found in herself the power to do what was necessary. Somehow she managed to half-lift, half-drag him to her vehicle and then push/pull him into the passenger seat. These operations did nothing to improve his condition — halfway through her maneuvering he finally fainted, for which she was grateful. She hated to think of even Eryk Thorn suffering the kind of pain her awkward handling must have caused.

Finally, she was able to take the driver's seat and then push the accelerator to maximum, retracing her path back toward the compound. At some point during the time she'd been dragging Thorn into the skimmer, the sun had dropped even further, and now was only a bloody smear on the far horizon.

Speed was the only thing that could save them now, and she used it brutally, jouncing the skimmer with reckless determination over landscapes not meant for that sort of travel. She had thought Thorn still completely dead to the world, but after one particularly harsh drop-off, she felt his hand tighten on her leg. Startled, she looked down for a second to see him shake his head slightly.

"Don't do that again," he whispered before passing out once more.

"No problem," she muttered, but she did ease off the accelerator just a bit. He was right — it wouldn't help if she upended the skimmer in a ravine or particularly deep sand dune, or pulled the treads off their gears by hitting a rock outcropping at the wrong angle.

After what seemed like an eternity but was actually less than an hour, she saw the walls of Mast's compound appear on the horizon, glimmering faintly in the purple-hued hour after sunset. The security perimeter was still in place — she could detect the faint bluish haze between each of the markers — but she had a remote with her that would deactivate it long enough to allow them inside. What she was going to do with Thorn after they reached the relative safety of the garage, she wasn't sure.

Whether it was just luck or the aura that still surrounded the compound even though its owner was now dead, they managed to slip inside the perimeter unremarked and unmolested. Miala pulled the skimmer into the garage, then leaned over to make sure that Thorn was still just unconscious and not actually dead. Yes, there was still a pulse in his throat, but it was thready and weak. She needed to get him into a med unit as quickly as possible.

Mast did have a fairly well-stocked med center in the compound, for whatever reason. Possibly to keep his victims alive between rounds of torture, or possibly because he had some valuable slaves and other hangers-on who were of more use to him alive than dead. Most likely, though, it was because he feared his own mortality but knew better than to avail himself of the official medical facilities in Aldis Nova. Although she had never been there, Miala knew where the med unit was located; she had made it her business to learn as much as she could about the compound and its inhabitants.

Again she spoke to Thorn, not knowing whether he could even hear her. "I'll be back soon. I have to get a stretcher for you." Thank God the med unit was equipped with a powered stretcher. She knew there was no way she could have dragged Thorn all the way from the parking garage to the med unit.

As it was, the trip nearly finished him. Just the act of dragging him out of the skimmer and onto the stretcher caused him to cough up a great gout of dark blood, staining what remained of his jacket, as well as half of the shapeless tunic she wore. After that his swarthy skin took on a strange, grayish pallor, and the black shadows beneath his eyes seemed to spread. All Miala could do was guide the stretcher along as quickly as possible, keeping one hand resting on his as she did so. Somehow she thought it was important that he know at some level someone was still with him, even if he had retreated so far into unconsciousness that it seemed almost like death.

Mast had spent a chunk of change on a mech for the med unit, probably because a mech could be trusted to keep its mouth shut. Its hum seemed to become steadily more disapproving as it moved its sensors over Thorn's motionless body, almost as if it thought she was somehow responsible for his current condition. After a moment, though, it began hooking him up to various life-support devices, even as it started to cut away his shredded clothing and the few bits of armor that still clung to it.

Embarrassed, Miala looked away, but not before she could see the extent of the lacerations that covered his torso, angry burns and something that looked like raw, red marks left by pulverized sand or bits of metal. She shuddered, then went to a cabinet off to one side of the bed on which Thorn now lay. Her back was beginning to throb, and she hoped she could find some sort of painkiller to keep the ache from getting any worse.

Sure enough, there was a row of analgesics and narcotics in the first cabinet she opened. She selected something low-level enough that it wouldn't make her drowsy but at least would take the edge off the pain. She had a feeling this was going to be a very long night.

Behind her, the mech methodically worked away at Thorn, wrapping his body in some sort of healing pads until he was practically cocooned in them, with only his face visible. He had a few cuts and bruises across his forehead and on his chin, but that seemed to be the least damaged part of him; Miala supposed the fabric wrappings he normally wore had protected him somewhat before they were torn away.

"Will he live?" she asked finally, as the mech stepped away from the bed and began disposing of the bloodied pieces of clothing it had cut away from Thorn's body.

If a mech could shrug, Miala thought it might have. Instead it said only, "A chance. Not much. He is strong. That helps."

_Yes, it does_ , she thought. She supposed he would have to be, to survive for so long and so well in a profession as ruthless as his.

"The night will tell," the mech added cryptically.

For a moment she could only look at it, uncomprehending. _Of course_ , she thought. _If Thorn lives through the night, he might survive after all_.

"I want to stay with him," she said at length. "Stay here, of course, but you can shut down for now. I'll call you if I need you."

The mechanoid nodded its assent, then resumed its normal station in a far corner of the room, powering down against further need. The light in its eyes dimmed, and its head slumped forward.

Miala waved a hand to bring down the light level in the room; it was too harsh, too bright. She didn't know how Thorn could rest in that sort of light. Once it was a softer, more reasonable level, she went to one side of the room and rolled the chair she found there next to the bed. Then she took one of Thorn's hands in both of hers, but lightly, so the pressure of her fingers wouldn't do any more damage to the wounded flesh underneath.

"I'm here," she said again, wondering as she did so whether it made any difference. Really, why should she care if this man lived or died? She didn't know him. She was nothing to him. But irrational tears rose up in her throat and choked her as she thought of her father, dying alone and unregarded in this place, surrounded by strangers who had laughed and jeered at him. No one should have to die that way. Not even Eryk Thorn.

Was it her imagination, or did she feel a momentary pressure on her fingers from the hand she thought had lain so still beneath hers?

"I won't let you die," she whispered fiercely, and there it was again, a flutter so infinitesimal it could have merely been an involuntary reflex, just overtaxed nerves twitching beneath the flayed skin. But she refused to believe that.

_The night will tell_ , she thought.

But what the next day would bring, she didn't dare think. All she could do now was sit here in the soft semidarkness and pray that the shadows in Mast's compound wouldn't claim yet another uneasy ghost.

You can buy this book or find out more here.

I've always been a huge fan of space opera and wanted to write a book that had equal parts of adventure and romance, along with a believable far-future version of Earth (Gaia) and some twisty politics. Throw in a bad-boy hero who turns out to be not so bad after all (maybe!) and a heroine who's a lot tougher than she seems, and it's time for intergalactic sparks to fly!

A native of Southern California, Christine Pope has been writing stories ever since she could hold a pencil. She is the author of the bestselling Witches of Cleopatra Hill, Djinn Wars, and Tales of the Latter Kingdoms series, along with many others. The Land of Enchantment cast its spell on her while she was researching her Djinn Wars series, and she now makes her home in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Pinterest

# Untouchable Lover by Rosalie Redd

# About Untouchable Lover

**A devastating war...**

Across the globe, shape-shifting Lemurian warriors battle against a deadly enemy in the dark of night. The prize—Earth's most precious resource—water, and the fate of humankind. To unite the soldiers, Lemurian gods send the diverse species to the underground Keep to join forces with their brethren and contend against their adversary.

* * *

**A n illicit allure...**

While searching for his missing healer, King Noeh didn't expect to find an unusual, green-eyed female chained to the wall in an abandoned asylum deep in the woods, evidence of her torment in the branding iron at her feet. Captivated, he rescues the petite female and brings her to his underground home. Despite the requirement to select a queen of his species by the next new moon or lose his crown, a forbidden attraction blooms.

* * *

**A tormented soul...**

Haunted by the memory of her dead mate and child, Melissa can't escape her past or her future. On the run from her controlling master, she didn't intend to get captured by the enemy, or be rescued by a brooding, handsome king. When she succumbs to her need for a male's blood and drinks from the honorable king, she can't ignore the compelling desire he ignites in her soul.

# Excerpt from Untouchable Lover

**Prologue**

* * *

**_L emuria - a planet in the Orion constellation_**

**_Several thousand years ago..._**

* * *

Unease rippled over Alora's skin, as much from her nerves as the cool wind on her arms. Her home planet, Lemuria, was dying. Without water and other precious resources, Lemuria and all her inhabitants would perish within the next few decades. As a colonizer, Alora and those like her needed to find a solution—new planets, ones with the needed supplies. The new world she'd found would help, but she had to know the outcome of her actions. She needed to see into the future.

The damp smell of decaying foliage wafted through the opening in the Rolmdew tree, her home on Lemuria. She stood beside the _visus bacin_ and concentrated on the calm water, but the image wouldn't appear. A headache pounded at her temple. _Relax. Let the picture come on its own._ She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing. _In. Out. In. Out._ Her heartbeat slowed. Her muscles loosened. Slowly, she opened her eyes and stared into the water in the visus bacin.

The liquid rippled against the bowl's edges, faster and faster. The bubbling water echoed off the walls until the sound drowned her, captivated her in its intensity. The water stilled. An image appeared. A moonlit meadow surrounded by evergreen trees. Earth, her newly discovered planet. A whiff of pine and dew filtered into the room. She relaxed, letting the vision consume her.

Movement in the darkness caught her attention. A Gossum hid within the lower branches of a pine tree at the edge of the meadow. Its tongue snaked between serrated teeth, the creature sampling the air, as if searching for prey. She wanted to reach through the vision. Crush the creature's skull in her hands. She hated the hairless brutes. As she looked closer, other Gossum crouched in nearby trees. Dread coiled in her stomach, making the hair on her arms stand on end. The foul creatures appeared to be waiting, watching. For what, she wished she knew.

The scene shifted. A tunnel appeared, carved from an ancient lava flow. Sunstones lined the passage's massive walls. A red-headed female, her abdomen slightly distended from pregnancy, fled down the hallway. She glanced over her shoulder, as if someone or something pursued her. A babe's distressed cry echoed off the walls. The vision faded.

Alora's body shook. She stepped away from the visus bacin and lowered herself into a chair. Placing her head in her hands, she took in a long breath. She didn't fully understand what she'd seen, but the powerful image was a bad omen. As with any future vision, it was uncertain. A series of choices dictated the future, and a different decision could alter the outcome.

She glanced out the window. The sun hung low in the sky. _It's this late already?_ She slipped her feet into her worn sandals and headed for the door, eager to get to the council meeting to stake her claim for Earth.

Alora entered the council chamber through an opening in the Etila tree's bark. The large room cut within the trunk creaked and groaned as the giant sentinel swayed in the breeze. Today, clear air filtered in through the openings, no trace of the haze caused by the devastating fires that had wracked their world.

Seated in sculpted wooden chairs, the Council of Nine chatted among themselves. Radnor, the council leader, sat in the middle of the long table that graced the center of the chamber. His short-cropped hair contrasted with the long ends of his black mustache. He twirled the thick strands between his fingers. The council members carried on with their conversations, seemingly oblivious to Alora's arrival.

_That won't do._ According to all her awards, she was the best Colonizer on the planet. She deserved the council's respect. She strode toward the middle of the room, her chin held high. "Good afternoon, council members."

Radnor pursed his lips. "Alora, glad to see you could make it."

A dozen Colonizers, standing in small groups, quieted as everyone turned their attention to her. The Council of Nine only discussed Colonization issues once a month. She was lucky to obtain the last open spot on the agenda. That she was late wouldn't help her cause to secure Earth as a free planet. She stood tall, refusing to take the council leader's bait.

"Councilor Radnor, I have a new proposal for a free world." Alora kept her voice steady, despite the rush of blood pounding through her ears.

Radnor raised an eyebrow. "Come forth. Tell the council about your discovery."

Alora scanned the faces of the others in the room, aware she had their full attention. She stiffened. A male stood close by, dressed in a gray tunic that hung from his broad shoulders. His brown hair cascaded over the back of his neck. Zedron, the male she'd almost bonded to. She should've known he'd be here. Pain radiated into her cheek from her clenched teeth.

She focused on the council members. The Council of Nine contained three members from each faction: free, slave, and neutral. They were Lemurian, just like all the other beings on the planet, but these males and females were granted special authority from The Three Creators, passed down from generation to generation. Their job was to uphold the laws throughout the population and to ensure the Colonizers followed the rules when new planets were discovered.

Alora inhaled a deep breath and pulled a small carton from her satchel. The box opened with a creak. Tratee flies dashed into the air. They circled above the crowd until a form took shape, that of a blue planet with white caps on either end. She peered at the group. "Behold, Earth."

Council member Tomra gasped. "Beautiful. What does this planet offer?"

"The blue you see is what we covet most—water." Alora held her tongue, waiting for a response.

Excited murmurs from everyone filled the room. Alora's lungs expanded at her good fortune.

Radnor raised two fingers in the air. The crowd quieted.

"Are there natives on this planet?" he asked.

"My visus bacin displayed a semi-advanced race—humans, a species not unlike ours in bearing and appearance. We can barter knowledge and technology for water." Unable to contain her eager grin, she approached Radnor. "I stake my claim for Earth as a free planet and request a vote."

"Wait."

Zedron's harsh tone startled her. She tensed and faced the male she'd rejected. He strode to the front of the council chamber, his muscles bulging beneath his tunic. Red and orange swirled across the fabric, evidence of his anger.

"As a member of the slave faction, I put forth a challenge for this planet. I, too, discovered Earth within the past week." His eyes narrowed, and he tightened his lips.

Alora didn't believe him. "Prove it. Where is this planet located?"

"At the far end of the twelfth quadrant in a galaxy with a single sun." He winked at her.

_He's goading me._ The twinkle in his eye reminded her of how much she used to enjoy his playful banter. She'd almost picked him as her mate. That would've been the worst mistake of her life, for he would've made her miserable. That she'd once fallen under Zedron's false charm and considered bonding to him made her breath catch. She opened the box for the flies to return, closing Earth's image.

"You're doing this to spite me." When she'd refused his bonding offer, he hadn't walked away with grace and honor as she'd expected. Instead, he'd vowed revenge against her and her chosen mate, Veromé.

"This isn't about you, Alora." He dragged out her name, his words full of venom. "The humans won't give up their resources. They need to be enslaved."

His willingness to fight for Earth was an indication of his bitterness. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of yet another planet enslaved. She hated slavery and had vowed to protect as many planets as possible.

"The planet should be free. I ask for an immediate vote." Alora spoke fast, hoping the council would grant her request but knowing it wouldn't happen.

"A challenge has been issued. Proper protocol dictates there will be no vote. You will battle to claim the world. Select your weapons." Radnor stood slowly, his body ravaged from old age.

A small table attached to the wall expanded in length and breadth. A character board shimmered over the grain, showcasing different species of warriors.

"Females first." Zedron extended his hand and gave a brief bow.

Alora curled her lip at him then turned to study the board. Three dozen characters stared back at her, each with different strengths and skills created solely for the purpose of the game. As part of the rules, she couldn't select more than six.

"I select Stiyaha for strength, Panthera for speed, Jixies for resourcefulness, Camelioscapes for stealth, Aves for cunning, and Ursus for tenacity." Her heart picked up speed.

Radnor nodded. "Good choice." He glanced at Zedron. "And you?"

Zedron didn't even look at the board. Instead, he stared right at her. As much as she wanted to glance away, she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.

"Gossum for resilience, speed, and fortitude. Arachs for cunning and durability. I have no need for others." He waved a hand in the air in a dismissive gesture.

Radnor nodded. "I'm sure you haven't forgotten the rules, but I will remind you. As long as the war continues, free will is the primary law. You may offer guidance, but you cannot interfere with your warriors. Your visus bacin __ won't work on each other. You may only see what the contestants do on both sides of the war." The council leader glanced between her and Zedron.

"Contestants may contact humans for trade as long as the natives do not discover the Lemurian's true identity. Humans can become warriors in the game, but they must be transformed into a competitor. Once changed, humans may not return to their former lives."

Radnor's gaze bore into Alora. She swallowed but refused to look away.

"The council will assess sanctions should you violate the rules. The winner of the war will decide whether Earth becomes a free planet or is enslaved. Time is relevant. This war must be resolved within one Lemurian year, or the council will select a winner based on your performance. How much time does that equate to on Earth?"

"An Earth year, the time it takes for the planet to go around its sun, is but a moment or two in our world. One Lemurian year would be twenty-thousand years in their cycle." Alora inhaled a breath and held it. She needed to control her building anger before she did something she would regret.

"Questions?" Radnor asked.

"None, my lord." Alora pushed the words out through gritted teeth.

"Nor I." Zedron inclined his head to the council leader.

"Very well, the war is on," Radnor said.

Alora glanced at Zedron. His gaze wandered down her body and back to her eyes. Heat crept up her neck and to her face. The burning desire to punch him made her fingers clench into a fist. She hated him for dragging her into this war. He'd cheat. Her body shook, but a new determination solidified in her soul. She'd do everything in her power to secure a victory, even if it meant breaking the rules.

* * *

**Chapter One**

* * *

**_S omewhere in the Pacific Northwest Mountains_**

**_Present Day_**

* * *

Stale air and mildew assailed Melissa's nose. She tried to swallow, but the thick smell coated her throat. Lifting her head, she opened her eyes. Light blinded her, sending a sharp jolt of pain through her skull. _Where am I?_

She stood erect, her backside pressed against a solid, cold surface. Dampness coated her skin. A thin line of drool spilled from her mouth and onto her chin. She raised her hand to wipe the wetness away, only to discover chains bound her wrists. The iron manacles rattled, echoing off the cement walls. A drop of fear weaseled its way into her mind. She inhaled, and a wave of dizziness passed over her.

The pungent smell of rubbing alcohol filtered into the cell, the telltale sign of Gossum. Melissa's throat constricted, and she gagged. She'd never get used to that stench, not as long as she lived. She winced. That might not be for much longer.

Memories of the Gossum attack raised her pulse and made her shiver. She didn't want to think about why this had happened, why she'd left the safety of her Pride, but she couldn't stop herself. Her heart clenched, and she choked back a sob.

She'd left Denver in search of another Pride, one where maybe, just maybe, she'd be accepted for who she was and not ridiculed for being different. As the only Dren in recent memory to conceive and birth a child, the rest of the Pride either hated her from petty jealousy or wanted to own her. She'd traveled as far as Portland, Oregon, before her need to feed drove her to seek a human male.

Luring a man out of a grocery store late at night, she couldn't bring herself to drink from him. He would've found the sensation pleasurable, and she wouldn't have taken enough blood to kill him, but the human frailty reflected in his eyes, and his likeness to William, her dead mate, had squashed any desire of feeding. She'd fled the scene as far as her feet would take her.

Her enemy found her as she'd stumbled into the warehouse district. Weak from her unwillingness to feed, she wasn't able to maintain her shield. They'd caught her between the old brick buildings. She shuddered at the recollection.

Denver seemed so far away. A ball of regret grew in her stomach. If she'd stayed, she'd be Demir's concubine by now. As ruler of the Pride, he'd wanted her to come to him on her own. When she hadn't, he'd become so enraged she'd feared for her life. What would become of her now? Despair lodged itself in her chest, festering, building until a layer of sweat coated her body.

"Don't fear. They can smell it," a masculine voice said. "They'll be back soon enough."

Across the room, a tall male stood shackled to the wall. Not only did he have arm and leg chains, but cuffs surrounded his neck and torso as well. One arm had a design etched into his skin that ended with four dark lines down the back of his hand. Intelligence shone from one pale blue eye. The other one was darkened with bruising and swollen shut. He looked like he'd seen more than his share of pain and heartache. Although his short brown hair didn't have any grey, the lines in his face indicated he wasn't young. Neither Gossum nor human, he was a species she'd never met.

"Who are you—and where are we?" she asked.

"I'm Gaetan. We're in the Gossum's care, so to speak." His voice was rough, strained.

"Why capture us? Why not just kill us?" The bastard Gossum killed her mate and young son the year before. Her mind fought the horrific images and memories, anything to stop her from going insane with grief. She bit the side of her mouth to stifle a wail of sorrow. Still, a soft whimper escaped.

"That is the question of the hour," he said.

Cuts and bruises marred his arms and legs. When he breathed, his breaths were shallow as if he were in great pain. His left leg was smaller than his right and misshapen, forcing him to lean to the left. They had tortured him. When would they come back to finish the job?

Footsteps approached from the hallway. She tensed, and her pulse pounded in tune with each step.

A Gossum's massive body filled the entrance to her cell. The light from the corridor illuminated him from behind, and his face was a mask of shadows. He snickered. The low sound chilled her arms.

The large male stepped into the chamber, and his features became visible in the dim light. His grim face accentuated his bulbous nose. The brim of his cap covered the back of his neck.

From prior experience with Gossum, she knew he wore the hat to hide his bald head and the beginning of the hard scales that ran down his back. Although once human, he no longer required his eyelids to protect his hard, lizard-like, black eyes. They reflected the light with an eerie shine.

"Ah, good, you're awake. Are you ready to chat?" His menacing voice rasped with venom.

Melissa clamped her lips tight. The steady drip of water nearby echoed against the bare walls. Her damp hair hung in her eyes, the bitterly cold strands clung to her cheeks and arms.

His face turned red at her silence, but he remained calm. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. His yellow and black high-tops stood out like a beacon. He could still pass as human, given the right clothing to cover his hairless body and neck scales.

"Ignoring me won't help your cause," he said.

"Don't give in to his demands." Gaetan pulled against his chains.

Their jailer sauntered over to Gaetan. "Still with us, I see." He touched Gaetan's face, raking a claw over his cheek.

Gaetan snarled, and his good eye glowed with specks of gold.

"Oh, yeah, we're making progress." The vile creature chuckled. He turned toward Melissa, and a chilling smile revealed his serrated teeth, the ones he hid from the humans.

She shivered at the sight. Her life couldn't end this way, at the hands of her enemy. Memories of Seth and William raced through her mind, and a knot of determination formed in her stomach. She would fight for them, to honor their memory.

She yanked on her chains but only succeeded in opening cuts on her wrists. Blood trickled over her arm and dripped onto the concrete floor. She wanted to scream her rage at the Gossum, but she held her anger in check, barely.

Like a black cloud, their captor's presence filled the room. Even in his nonchalance his gaze pierced her, held her in place, while a cool bead of sweat rolled down the back of her neck. She feared him, but she wouldn't give her tormentor the satisfaction of seeing her weakness.

"Tell me your name, my dear." His soft and encouraging voice belied his evil intent.

She refused to speak, and instead, raised her chin.

"C'mon now, how is telling me your name going to hurt?" The corner of his mouth pulled into a smile. He returned to Gaetan and pointed, a claw extending like a crooked tree branch from his bony finger near the prisoner's good eye. "I like the sound of his howl. Would you like to hear it?"

Heat flushed through her body. Hatred burned in her gut for what they'd done to Gaetan. She wouldn't be the cause of more pain.

"Melissa," she spat. "My name is Melissa."

"Ah, much better. My name is Ram. Now we are acquainted." Ram placed his index finger next to his mouth and looked at the ceiling. "So, Melissa, about that shield of yours. I could do so much with it."

Melissa flinched at the mention of her gift. She tried to power her energy, but there wasn't even a spark. She held Ram's gaze and struggled to control her shaking knees.

"It's too bad I need you alive to get your blood. Lemurians disintegrate so quickly once dead that I can't get it fast enough." Ram tsked. "So, I'll give you a chance to cooperate."

"I won't give my shield to you." Melissa curled her hands into fists. He wanted her magical power, but no way would she give her special skill to the enemy.

Ram's smile turned into a grimace, and his easygoing demeanor evaporated. He became rigid, his muscles bunching in his arms and legs. His elongated tongue whipped in and out of his mouth, the dangerous spur at the tip coming close to her face.

She recoiled, and her head struck the hard cement wall. Stars swam in her vision, but she refused to succumb to the darkness. Dread snaked its way into her heart.

"As you wish." Ram snapped his fingers.

One of his brood entered the room carrying a cast iron bucket. The top of a branding iron extended over the lip. A towel wrapped around the end protected the handle from the heat within the kettle. The smell of smoldering coal joined with the odors of sweat and fear.

Melissa's pulse quickened. She swallowed, but nothing went down. Her throat was too parched.

Ram grabbed the branding iron.

Adrenaline rushed through her body. "Wh-what is that for?"

"It's your incentive."

"No, don't, not her. Take me." Gaetan's voice, weak and rough, carried across the room.

Melissa glanced at him. They'd just met, but his willingness to protect her spoke volumes about his character.

Ram snapped to attention. "Oh, I intend to get what I need from you, Stiyaha. That abnormal strength of yours will be mine, just not yet. I will take her gift first."

Ram turned his focus back to Melissa. "I want your shield, and I want it now."

He closed the distance, the branding iron's heat radiating in the space between them. Her legs shook, making the shackles at her ankles clank together like an eerie wind chime. Her fear ratcheted up another level, sending a shiver of terror over her shoulders. She hated him all the more.

"Are you willing to bargain? Or are you going to be stubborn?" Ram leaned in, and his breath reeked of liquor. "I know you're Lemurian, but you're not Stiyaha. You must not be from around here. Tell me what you are," he purred, as he drew the back of a finger down the side of her face.

She flinched at his touch, but she wouldn't let him intimidate her. Making eye contact with her enemy, she held her ground.

"If you lead me to others like you, I'll let you walk away, unscathed," he said.

She bared her fangs. "I would never sell out my kind. I will fight you every step of the way."

"Well, now, that's what I thought you'd say." His eyes gleamed with delight, and his mouth curved into a grin. "Let's play, shall we?"

**Chapter Two**

A bead of sweat trickled down Noeh's face. He pushed his way through the wet ferns and moss-covered underbrush, careful not to step on any twigs that would give away his location. A breeze blew through the large fir trees, and the branches whispered in the night air. He looked up at the giant sentinels. _Where are you, Gaetan?_

The Keep's _Haelen,_ their eldest healer, hadn't returned last night from collecting medicinal herbs. Unable to go after his best friend during the day when the sun's rays would kill him in minutes, he wondered what had become of his ally. The painful wait left Noeh on edge. Gaetan missing meant he'd been captured by the Gossum or was dead. A kernel of dread formed in Noeh's stomach, and he balled his hand into a fist.

His warriors hid behind the tall trees. Dressed in dark pants, rugged vests, and leather boots, the Stiyaha blended into the shadows. Protective bands covered their forearms to deflect the sting of a Gossum's tongue. Short swords gripped by steady hands flashed in the moonlight, ready for battle. The search party moved through the forest, eager to find any trace of their comrade.

" _Craya!_ " Saar, Noeh's Commander of Arms, held Gaetan's cane—or what was left of it. The broken wood dangled from his grasp, and he handed it to Noeh.

Noeh clasped Gaetan's walking stick. His arm shook from his need for vengeance, and he crushed the wood in his palm. Gaetan suffered from an injury sustained as a child and couldn't walk well without his cane. To find his staff here, now, wasn't a good sign.

Noeh's inner beast roared and pushed against his ironclad control. He hungered to rip out the throat of every Gossum he could find, tear them to shreds, and watch as their bodies liquefied at his feet. Unwilling to let the beast within roam free, he called on the self-control he'd honed over the centuries and held his emotions in check.

Saar moved closer and lowered his voice. "Do you think he's still alive?"

"He has to be," Noeh said. "Keep looking."

They followed a path through the trees until they came to a small clearing. At the end of the meadow stood an old derelict building—the asylum. Noeh inhaled. The bitter tang of astringent raced down the back of his throat. Gossum. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, and his muscles tensed under his tunic.

The old structure had an aura of evil left over from its days as a human mental institution. Built in the backcountry of the Pacific Northwest to keep the insane far away from civilization, the condemned building was an ideal hiding place. Although he knew the building was here, he'd avoided the edifice and anything to do with humans.

"They're in there." Saar crouched against a giant fir tree.

"Agreed. Gossum stench is hard to miss." Noeh studied the abandoned building and searched for movement in the smashed-out windows and broken doors. He took a deep breath and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. The weapon vibrated at his touch. He stroked the handle in anticipation.

"I'll scout the perimeter. See where they get in." In the filtered moonlight, Saar's scowl accentuated the scar that marred his cheek and upper lip. The mark was a badge of honor, one he used to intimidate the enemy.

Noeh nodded to his military leader. "We await your assessment."

Saar disappeared into the night.

Noeh's sensitive ears picked up the slightest sounds, even the normally silent flutter of an owl's wings in a nearby fir tree. A mouse quivered under the azalea bush at his feet. His left ear itched inside. He rubbed at the nub protecting his inner ear, sating the irritation for the moment.

Crouched behind large boulders and trees, Noeh's well-hidden soldiers stood battle ready. _Five hundred forty-two._ The small number was all that remained of his kind, the Stiyaha, a great warrior race of Lemurians. A lump formed in his throat. How many more could they lose before they perished?

He silently swore against the gods responsible for this war. They played their games with his beloved race, using his kind for their own selfish desires—to bring Earth's water back to Lemuria. Several millennia of war and devastation had torn them apart, leaving legacies and legends of their great past. He clenched his jaw and focused his rage on the upcoming battle.

Revenge against the Gossum was his constant mantra. They'd taken his parents from him when he was a mid-youth, forcing him to become a child king. As leader of his kind, he'd done everything expected of him. Everything except take a queen. There was no point, not anymore.

Over five hundred years ago, the Gossum created a virus that had wiped out well over half of the Stiyaha population and left the remaining females barren. Luckily for the humans, they weren't affected. Now, every dead Gossum was a small retribution for the lives lost during the great scourge, including his parents. Even though he longed for the type of relationship his parents once shared, he wouldn't lash himself to a female when he couldn't commit his heart. His chest ached, the familiar pain as strong as ever.

Noeh ran his hand through his hair. _Hold on, Gaetan. We'll get you out of this._

Gaetan had always been there for him. His friend supported him during the good times before the great scourge and also through the never-ending battles with the Gossum. He'd mentored Noeh when he was young. Gaetan's constant litany and tutelage was forever engrained in his mind. Most of all, Gaetan had helped him through the tough years after the death of his parents. Noeh wouldn't leave his friend to die by Gossum hands.

The full moon lit up the ground, casting grotesque shadows from the building onto the courtyard and the old fountain that graced its dilapidated entrance.

The marking above his right eye pulsed. He touched the raised skin, which pounded with each beat of his heart. The third line down, the one for justice, burned from his desire for retribution. The one for truth and the one for honor were quiet, at least for the moment. He traced the link from his forehead around his eye to his cheek. Years ago, the spiral markings for compassion and faith had been dark and full. The faint whorls were evidence of his slow downfall. He wasn't surprised anymore at his own indifference.

Saar returned to Noeh's side without a sound.

"Nine Gossum on the main floor. The best entry point—the opposite side of the building, next to the gravel road."

Noeh grasped Saar's arm. "Good work. Let's rescue Gaetan."

You can buy _Untouchable Lover_ or find out more here.

Why I wrote the book:

I love the mystery of ancient societies—when civilizations existed before written history. There are ruins all over Earth that have similarities in structure and construction, yet are thousands of miles apart. Who built these structures? How did these people live? What happened to them? I've often wondered what life in these ancient civilizations was like. I thought, what if I wrote a love story about a couple that came from one of these ancient societies?

With that idea in mind, I decided to do a bit of research. There are many legends about the great civilization of Atlantis and its destruction, but along the way, I heard about an even older civilization called Lemuria. I found a few books on the subject and dived in. The myths and legends surrounding Lemuria indicated a great civilization thrived in the island chains of the Pacific Ocean, disappearing about ten thousand years ago from rising sea levels and a great flood.

Fascinated with this ancient society, I wanted to create a story that provided an alternate reality for the Lemurians, showcasing their struggle to survive against an age-old enemy, yet finding love along the way. What if the Lemurians were actually a race of shape-shifters from another planet, here to protect Earth and it's most precious resource—water? If the Lemurians lived in the Pacific Islands, and were forced to scatter throughout the world due to the destruction of their homeland, maybe they are still hidden among us and continue to battle for Earth? From that, _The Worlds of Lemuria: Earth Colony_ was created with _Untouchable Lover_ the first book in the series.

After finishing a rewarding career in finance and accounting, it was time for Rosalie Redd to put away the spreadsheets and take out the word processor. She writes Paranormal/Fantasy/Science Fiction Romance inspired by classics from the science fiction, fantasy, and horror genres layered with a good, hot dose of romance.

She lives in Oregon, where rain is just another excuse to keep writing. When not at her computer, you can find her at Jazzercise, waterfall collecting in the Pacific Northwest, or relaxing with her husband and their pesky cat, Snookums.

You can find out more about Rosalie here:

Social media links:

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Goodreads

Pinterest

# Resurrected by S.M. Schmitz

# About Resurrected

**D ietrich thought death was final. But he was wrong.**

When Dietrich buried his fiancée, Lottie, he descended into his own personal Hell – until he runs into her in a café in Houston two years later. Except this couldn't be her. Not after two years. She speaks the same, shares the same memories, yet something is different.

Determined to unravel this mystery, Dietrich finds she has been resurrected by a mysterious force. But for Lottie, something went wrong, and her existence threatens to undermine the lucrative business that made her resurrection possible. As Dietrich becomes locked in a deadly struggle with those who want to destroy her, he will discover just how much he's willing to sacrifice for the woman he once loved.

_Resurrected_ is the first book in the _Resurrected_ series, and begins the incredible journey of a group of friends who are struggling to survive against those who want them dead to protect their secrets.

# Excerpt from Resurrected

PROLOGUE

It should have been raining the day I died. At least, that's what I always thought. Rain would have given me some better explanation for what happened. It would have given me something tangible to hate, even if it is completely pointless to try to fight the rain. But it hadn't been raining that day. It had been sunny. Clear. Beautiful, even. It wasn't too hot yet, as Houston often was, but it was only April and a rare spring cold front had moved drier air into the city so even the humidity was bearable.

I found myself repeatedly distracted by that impossibly blue sky and kept looking out the window of my office, thinking Lottie would inevitably make some comparison of it to my eyes later, which just made me want to go home so I could see her, even at the risk of listening to her eye analogies. I am almost positive she only did shit like that because she knew I suffered from a complete lack of romanticism and I never knew how to respond, even after all these years.

I couldn't focus on work anyway, so I tossed my iPad onto my desk and tried to think of some equally nonsensical analogy for hazel eyes, which was a lot harder because not many things in nature that people want to be compared to are light brown with green flecks scattered throughout. Somehow, I didn't think she would want to hear that her eyes sparkled like damp Spanish moss.

I had just crossed through my Spanish moss idea when my boss, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and wire framed glasses that magnified his dark eyes, which most definitely reminded me of the gray-brown mud of South Texas, quietly opened my door and stepped into my office, shutting the door just as quietly behind him. I knew that expression on his face. Gaunt, serious. Grave. I had seen that look before. Someone was dead.

I immediately started going through a mental checklist of who was in the field. I stood up and waited for him to tell me who it was.

"Daniel?"

I motioned toward a chair because he hadn't moved since walking through my door. Daniel glanced at the chair but didn't budge. He just stood by the closed door, staring somewhere between the empty chair and me.

Eric, my best friend – ok, my only friend – was in the building. I knew he was safe. But the longer Daniel stood there without speaking, the more I wanted to leap across my desk and beat the words out of him. What the hell did he think he was doing anyway? I tried speaking again, in case I snapped and really did beat the shit out of him.

"Daniel, I'm not your fucking therapist. Talk or get out."

He finally looked up at me. And that's when I saw the tears he had been trying to keep from falling trapped behind those thick lashes and pooling around those muddy brown eyes.

"Dietrich," he choked on my name.

God.

What could have happened to make my asshole of a boss _cry_ in front of me – the same guy who once told me with a smug smirk that the job he was sending me out on was probably going to get me killed but I was German, so he didn't mind taking the risk? I didn't bother pointing out that I had moved to the U.S. when I was fourteen and was an American citizen because he already knew that. Just like he knew I was one of the best damn agents on his team and he resented me for that because I hadn't been _born_ here and spoke with an accent he didn't like.

He cleared his throat and wiped sloppily at his eyes.

"Dietrich," he started again, this time speaking so softly I had to sit down. Nobody ever delivered news that wouldn't completely destroy you in that tone of voice. "Your cell phone. Why don't you have it on?"

I shook my head. I couldn't even make sense of his question.

"I'm sure it is. It's..." I glanced around my office and remembered tossing it in my gym bag that morning. "Oh. It's probably in my locker."

My stomach was ice. There was a pounding in my temples that made my head feel like a bomb was about to detonate in there. I couldn't breathe. My cell phone. My personal cell phone. There was only one person this could be about now. Not just one person. _The_ person. The only person. The only person this man, once a pathetic abandoned, loveless child, had ever loved.

My world. My life.

"Lottie."

It was a question. At least I meant it as a question. I don't know how it came out. I couldn't hear my own voice anymore. I was dying. It had started then, even though I didn't know it at the time. He was talking. What was he saying? He was speaking words, English words, words I should understand, but none of them made any sense.

My office suddenly seemed both terrifyingly small and overwhelmingly enormous at the same time, both boundless and constrictive, and the names for everything around me vanished. _How can I just get him to shut up, just get him to stop saying these words? Can I even walk? How do I walk? And what is he saying? Listen, Dietrich. It's English. You speak English. Listen_.

"...the car... red light... Jamie... driving... so fast... on Kirby... Dietrich?... listening?... Lottie... dead..."

Lottie.

My world. My life.

That pounding. It wouldn't stop. I slowly opened my eyes and realized it wasn't in my head anymore. Someone was knocking on my door. I knew that knock. Not many people ever knocked on my door, so of course I knew it was Eric. I wanted to ignore him but how could I? He had gone to the hospital morgue with me to identify her body. He had gone to the funeral home with me to pick out a casket. He had talked for me when I had no voice as the funeral home director asked about open caskets and rosaries – what the fuck did that even mean?

Lottie was Catholic but I had never thought to ask my twenty-five-year-old fiancée if she would ever want people to pray the rosary at her funeral, and why did people even _do_ that? – and if we wanted a mass. Her mother was there, as numb and useless as I was, and so Eric had taken charge.

I don't even know what kind of funeral my best friend arranged for my dead girlfriend. It didn't matter. I saw her body in the hospital. Lifeless. Cold and broken with deep purple splotches under the paper white skin. I guess, then, that's when I knew I had actually died. Her chest didn't move, didn't allow her lungs to fill with air – so how could I breathe? Her heart didn't beat, didn't push blood through her bruised and shattered body. Whatever heart of my own I had discovered the day I met her vanished when her heart stopped beating. My body moved, reacted. But I was dead.

Eric was still knocking. He knew I was inside. I had to be. We were burying my fiancée today.

I pushed the blankets off of me and sat up slowly. My head was pounding viciously. Apparently, several days of not sleeping will create one hell of a hangover. The clock told me it was almost 8:00 a.m. Her funeral was at 1:00. And Eric kept rapping at my door. I was pretty sure he would knock the damn thing down soon if I didn't open it.

"Goddamn, it, Eric, I'm coming. Stop making so much fucking noise."

I glanced through the peephole, more habit than concern, because honestly, ISIS could have been outside my door at that moment and I wouldn't have cared. He was holding two garment bags. Our suits. I had a sudden vision of a very different day – the day we were _supposed_ to have – of Eric standing outside my door with those two garment bags, one for me, and one for him as the best man at my wedding.

I pulled the door open and let him in without saying anything. Without Lottie, I didn't know how not to be an asshole again.

"Did you get any sleep?" he asked.

I glanced over at him, his usually carefully styled short brown hair was messy, unbrushed. He hadn't shaved and he had dark circles under his eyes. He looked like shit. God, I probably _did_ look half-dead.

I sighed. I was too tired to be a smartass about it.

"A little."

"It's raining, it may not stop..."

He had wanted to say something else but whatever it was, he stumbled, pressed his lips together and tossed the bags on my couch.

Now the fucking rain comes.

"Oh."

What else could I say? Half the time, I couldn't even remember to speak in English anymore. I sat down on the end of the couch that wasn't covered in freshly pressed suits and rubbed my eyes and forehead. God, my head hurt... but it was a welcome pain. This physical pain I understood. It was a distraction from the complete hollowness that had swallowed me for the past three days.

I had tried to stay with her as much as I could. The visitation, the rosary – which I still didn't understand but her relatives from Louisiana had all come with beaded necklaces in hand, chanting repetitive prayers and I waited for something revelatory to happen, some sort of spiritual awakening, but mostly I just watched with the same detached sense of curiosity I always had when Lottie talked about her Catholic upbringing.

And then, as people started filing out, wanting to shake my hand, or God forbid, hug me, as they made their way back to their hotel rooms or homes, her mom, Eric and I had moved back up front, alone with her at last. We sat in silence, except for the aching, strangling cries of a heartbroken mother and Eric's mysterious occasional sighs and crossing himself. I had known Eric almost as long as I had known Lottie and never knew he was Catholic, too.

I wasn't going to leave her, but around 4:00 a.m., Lottie's mother finally asked us if we could give her a few hours with her daughter alone. And how could we say no? Before leaving, I leaned over her, kissed her forehead – so cold and smooth, like marble – and gently touched the ring on her left hand: that hand, delicate with a few perfectly placed freckles that formed a Bermuda triangle across the back.

Three freckles, that's it. Nothing else inside that triangle, like any spot that had tried to emerge from the sun's daily assault on her pale white skin just vanished inside those three. Her right hand sported scattered freckles, light and hardly visible unless she spent too much time in the sun, but they had covered all of her visible skin with so much makeup, I couldn't see those tiny freckles I knew were there.

I knew every spot, every mark, every freckle and scar on her body. With an eidetic memory, I would have remembered anyway, but this was _her_ body. I didn't just remember, I _knew_ her scent, her voice, the way her skin felt under my fingers, the way her body reacted and moved closer to me when I touched her. I knew the way she tasted, exactly how she felt when I was inside of her, the way she moved against me. No other woman would ever take her place. I also knew that the day I met her. Eight years later, looking down at this small body, her thin frame, wavy brown hair draped over her shoulders and falling loosely over her chest – I was even more certain now that no woman _could_ take her place.

Eric had sat down in the armchair next to the sofa and rested his head in his hands. I doubt he had slept at all.

"I called Cathy for you." Cathy was Lottie's mother.

Shit.

Never even had the chance to be a real son-in-law, and I was still a terrible one.

"She wants us to go to the hotel and bring her clothes and makeup to the funeral home. She won't leave," Eric said.

I nodded. My head protested vociferously. "We should go then."

Getting dressed for the love of your life's funeral is probably as close as anyone can get to having an out of body experience. I had to pick out a dress shirt and a tie, but I don't remember doing either of those things. As I slipped my feet into my newly polished black dress shoes, I caught a quick reflection of myself in the mirror. My stomach lurched from a memory of Lottie teasing me about being a poster-child for good "Aryan" breeding. Somebody had brushed my light blonde hair. I had shaved? Those dark under-eye circles didn't seem quite as bad as I had imagined but against my pale, north German complexion, they looked like perfect purple semicircles.

I was dressed. Somehow, thirty minutes had passed and I was standing in our – in my – bedroom, getting ready to bury the only part of my life that had ever made it worth living.

Eric was waiting in the living room. He had shaved and combed his hair but still looked like shit. I probably still did, too. After all, doesn't having one's heart torn apart kind of mean your days of not looking like shit are over? I felt like I should say something. Some kind of thank you. Some, hey, not only do I literally trust you with my life – which is really saying something, because most of our colleagues are a bunch of incompetent jackasses – but you are obviously a hell of a lot more capable than I am of doing... the kind of stuff best friends should do but we both know I'd fail miserably at? I don't think Hallmark makes a card for that.

"Eric," God, I am the most asocial asshole on the planet.

But Eric knew me well enough to know that, and he knew I would have no fucking clue what to say to him.

"I loved her, too, Dietrich. She was my friend. And you were different around her. Hardly anyone at work ever got to see that, except maybe Daniel. They joke about you being a cold, indifferent... well, you know... but they never got to see the way you were when you and Lottie were together. How... normal you really are."

"Was."

I didn't mean to say it so quickly. I may not like people in general, but I know how to read between the lines; he was trying to tell me he was worried he was going to lose his best friend, too. And after all he had done for me, I didn't have the decency not to shatter that hope until after this goddamn day was over.

The rain had finally stopped by the time we were gathered at the cemetery. I watched in detached numbness as the priest said a few more prayers, handed a small silver crucifix to Cathy, and tried to offer words of comfort... something about Heaven, maybe. Probably. I mean, he's a priest and it was a funeral. I'm sure he mentioned Heaven somewhere in there.

Words just floated past me. My eyes were fixed on the cerulean casket in front of me. Eric later told me he had picked that one out because she would have chosen it for the color – it was the color of my eyes. At the time, it was just blue. A smooth, blue rectangle with silver bars running along the sides for the pallbearers.

She was in there. As soon as we left, they would lower her into the ground and cover her with dirt. I had the crazy idea that if I just stayed under the avocado green canopy, I could keep her out of the ground forever. I could stay with her forever.

Suddenly, I felt Eric gently pulling on my arm. He was standing. We were alone, except for the priest and the cemetery crew, waiting a respectful distance away from us, but waiting for us to leave so they could finish their jobs and go home. Probably to their own wives or fiancées or girlfriends. Maybe their kids, too. Lottie had always wanted kids. She made sure I knew that before the first time we slept together... just in case. We were seventeen.

I looked up at Eric, bewildered. The sun was much lower in the sky than I expected it to be. How much time had passed? How long had they been waiting for me?

The priest moved into the seat beside me. Fuck. He was going to try to save my Hell-bound, atheistic soul and I was finally going to lose it. I was pretty sure Eric wouldn't approve of me killing a priest, considering I'd just learned he was Catholic and all.

"Dietrich," the priest's voice was soft but not in the same, I'm-about-to-fuck-up-your-world kind of way that Daniel's soft tone of voice was.

He knew my name. I couldn't recall his – I hadn't paid attention to most of the service. I'm sure it started with Father.

"You're both so young. I honestly can't even imagine the pain of this kind of loss. I have the names of some grief counselors if you'd ever like to talk to someone."

It took me a minute to understand he wasn't talking religion to me. I saw him for the first time – took in his short, round body and equally round face, his receding hairline and eyes so dark they were almost black. But what was that behind those dark eyes? Compassion? Sadness? Kindness?

Great. Now I was going to have to give up mocking priests.

I shook my head.

"Thank you. We'll go."

I stood and reached out to touch her casket one last time; the sun had warmed it so that it felt more like an incubator rather than a tomb. I couldn't stay with her forever. It was time for me to go.

I glanced up, where the rain clouds had mostly drifted eastward and the brilliant blue Texas sky broke through the gray. The rain was moving on to Louisiana. And my afterlife had just begun.

Chapter 1

_Two years later_

Have you ever had a dream that seemed so real that when you woke up, you weren't quite sure what was reality and what was imagined anymore? Because I often dreamed of her still. Cooking dinner. God, she was such a good cook. Folding laundry while we streamed _The Big Bang Theory._ She thought it was funny. I thought she was adorable when she laughed. Making love then talking in whispers in bed, which was completely ridiculous since no one else lived with us but it never seemed right to speak louder while laying naked in bed. Her falling asleep on my shoulder, as she so often did, and as I stroked her hair, thinking _this_ is more a Heaven than any place Man had dreamed up.

Sometimes, I still woke up expecting her to be in bed with me, and when I reached over for her and felt nothing but empty sheets, I expected to hear the steady drip, drip, drip of the coffee maker or the muffled voices of the television coming through the bedroom wall. Perhaps she had just gotten up to watch TV, like she did sometimes when she couldn't sleep.

So I would lay in the blackness of that empty room and listen. I would listen until my ears started ringing from the complete silence surrounding me and I finally gave in and admitted that this was, in fact, not a dream. This was my afterlife. And I was alone.

Our apartment hadn't changed much. I couldn't bring myself to get rid of any of her things. Right after the funeral, I had let her mother come through here to find the vestiges of her childhood. Boxes of awards and certificates and graduation gowns went back to Louisiana; a few yearbooks, and some of Lottie's favorite movies. But mostly, there was nothing in my apartment that could give Cathy Theriot her daughter back, and she had left Houston begging me to still come for Easter. I had promised her I would. Cathy had lost her husband a few years before and Lottie was an only child. If she wanted me to drive to Alexandria for every single holiday, I would.

But about a year after Lottie died, Cathy remarried, and our phone calls became fewer and farther between. I was just the man who was still in love with her daughter's ghost. She kept telling me I would eventually move on, too. I knew that I never would.

Eric never tried to convince me of that; he never told me to consider dating again, or that one day, it would hurt less, or I wouldn't still smell her everywhere in this apartment. He usually just brought beer and pizza or Thai takeout and watched baseball or football with me. If he was feeling really sorry for me, I might be able to talk him into watching a soccer match.

And so, for two years, I had kept everything as it was. Her clothes still hung on her side of the closet; her shoes still lined the floor; her books were everywhere around me; her music was still on my iPod. I wouldn't delete her from my life.

She had so many things I had no use for. I couldn't cook – I didn't even know what a wok was for and why it was any different than a skillet, or why we had three different kinds of olive oil in our pantry. I knew it would turn rancid, but I didn't throw it out either. Lottie had just bought a new bottle of extra virgin olive oil. She'd never even opened it.

Eric had tried to get me to see a therapist, but I refused. I didn't have good memories of them. Part of me realized there was a huge difference between the things we are forced to do as a child and the things we choose to do as an adult, but I still wouldn't go. What was the point? I was dead. This was my Hell. I was supposed to be suffering anyway.

Eric was here now, flipping through the channels, looking for the super regional playoff game. He had brought a six-pack of Shiner Bock and had just ordered a pizza. I was in a particularly bad mood today because I'd had one of those dreams last night. Such a simple dream: we were standing in the kitchen as she spread thick layers of cream cheese on toasted bagels. It was morning, we had just gotten up, and she looked so goddamned sexy in her boxer cut shorts and my old LSU t-shirt that I couldn't help myself: I pushed the bagels away from her and took the table knife out of her hand, and she gave me that look that told me "I know what you're up to but I'm going to let you get away with it."

I put my hand on the small of her back and pulled her close to me, as close as I could, and still, I wanted her closer. Her mouth tasted like coffee, and I don't know why, but that turned me on even more. Probably because I always associated coffee with Lottie. I lifted her onto the table. This was a memory. I often dreamed of her with memories. I knew what was coming next; I wanted to relive it. I wanted to relive it over and over, but I had awakened, surrounded by that interminable silence.

I was not in the mood to watch baseball. I wanted to crawl back into bed and hope to dream of Lottie again. To finish that particular dream. But it was 1:00 in the afternoon, and Eric didn't let me stay in bed all day anymore. So I did the next best thing. I sulked. It didn't take long for Eric to figure out what I was doing.

"Dietrich, I'm not leaving just because you're being an asshole."

"I'm not being an asshole."

Of course I was.

"Of course you are."

"Why do you like hanging out with an asshole then?"

"Because you're an entertaining asshole. And you have a nice TV."

I didn't mention his TV was bigger. He wasn't here for either of those reasons.

"It should be. You picked it out."

Eric smiled. "I have good taste."

"Not in friends."

"Shut the fuck up."

I watched as the LSU batter hit a line drive to right field. A runner on third made it home. I was the LSU fan; Eric was only watching because the game was on. I should have been excited that my alma mater had just tied the game, but thinking of LSU only made me think of Lottie.

"Let's go out to her grave," I said suddenly. I had finally gotten Eric's attention. He turned the television off.

"Now? The pizza hasn't even gotten here yet."

"I need to go today."

Eric just sighed and pulled up the app on his phone to cancel our order. He never argued with me on this.

We stopped at the flower shop on the way to the cemetery so I could buy her fresh flowers; I came out here once a week to replace them. Eric had made me promise not to come more often unless he was with me.

We parked along the path closest to her grave and started walking. It was early June, hot and humid already, and we were sweating by the time we reached her. As usual, Eric kissed her headstone, murmured something to her about her fiancé being an asshole today, then walked away to leave us alone.

The flower arrangement was full of orchids and tuberose. I had been here only a few days ago, so the last arrangement I'd brought her was still in good shape. I picked the wilting petals out of it and brushed the few stray pieces of grass that had stuck to her headstone away. I never talked to her out loud like Eric did. It seemed silly. She was dead.

Unlike Eric, I didn't believe in a Heaven. But she was here, and I often just wanted to be near her. I sat with her for a very long time before Eric made his way back to me and told me we needed to go. Just like he never argued with me about coming, I never argued with him about leaving. I brushed the grass and dirt from my pants and followed him back to his car.

You would think sitting at the graveside of my dead fiancée would have put me in a worse mood, but as we drove back toward my apartment, I actually felt better. Some of it was just being with Eric. He had that effect on me, even when I was being an asshole.

We had skipped lunch and we were hungry, so we stopped at a sports bar so we could catch the end of the game. The waitress was trying to flirt with me. I was trying to ignore her. And there was no way Eric was not going to tease me about it.

As soon as she walked out of earshot, Eric leaned across the table, and asked me, "Dietrich, does your dick still work?"

I rolled my eyes.

"She's kinda hot," he continued.

He was just fucking with me. He knew there was no one except Lottie.

"I just care if our food is hot. And fast." Goddamn it, I had set myself up. I sighed before he could even say it.

"She seems hot _and_ fast. You should get her number."

"What for? Do you think she delivers? _Food_ , Eric."

Eric was smiling now. "Oh, I'll bet she does. Get her number for me then."

"I'm no expert, but I don't think it works that way."

Eric wasn't deterred, probably because he wasn't serious. I had never known Eric to spend a night alone if he didn't want to.

"In my next life, I'm coming back with a European accent."

"Hey, this particular accent only became cool again in like the last twenty years. Be careful what you wish for." I had no idea if that were true or not. But it seemed like it should be. "Besides, you speak better Russian than I do. Just fake an accent."

Eric's smiled broadened. "I have. And it works all the time."

By the time we had finished eating, LSU had won the game and Eric had given me seven sure-fire ways to pick up women, all of which he knew I would never use, but because it had distracted me from obsessing about Lottie, he had persisted in telling me anyway. The thing is, Eric wasn't a bad guy at all; he talked like it, but I knew he usually only went home with a woman if she obviously just wanted sex or if he actually really liked her. But we worked in a testosterone-driven field; he had picked up the language over the years anyway.

As the waitress dropped off our checks, I noticed she had written her phone number on mine. I pushed it across the table so Eric could see.

"Huh," he said as he slipped his credit card into the sleeve of the cardholder and picked up my check to look at it more carefully. "You should write her a note; tell her you're really flattered but you have a girlfriend so she doesn't get her feelings hurt."

And _that_ was the kind of guy Eric really was. I wrote the note.

That night, I lay awake in bed for a long time. I hated nighttime the most. The apartment was too quiet, too empty. The bed never felt right without her in it. I was usually the one who fell asleep pressed against her, burying my face in those long brown waves of hair, keeping an arm around her both protectively and for my own security.

We had shocked her parents when we moved in together so young. We had only recently turned eighteen. Lottie had just graduated from high school, and I had just graduated from LSU, and we were so sure of our love, of our future together, that we risked her parents' fury and told them what we were planning on doing.

I had always liked Lottie's parents, and I was certain they would never speak to me again. But a few days later, her father called me – and asked me when we were planning on moving so he could borrow his friend's truck. Lottie had the kind of parents I thought were only made up for movies and books.

We didn't have much then. I wouldn't even meet Eric for another two months, but we had moved into a small one-bedroom apartment in Tiger Town near LSU. Her parents gave us some of their old furniture so that we weren't eating on the floor.

In the beginning, we lived like any other kids. We ate a lot of macaroni and cheese, and we didn't have cable. Lottie's parents paid for our internet service because she needed it for school.

I had been accepted into graduate programs in physics all over the country, but I wasn't going to leave Lottie. I still didn't have a Plan B, so I started working at a cell store, and that's how I met Eric. He came in one day for a new one, complaining he had dropped his and it was irretrievably cracked, broken, dead. I told him I could probably fix it and he didn't believe me. I couldn't blame him.

To him, I was just an eighteen-year-old kid, and although he doesn't always act like it, Eric's a genius, too. He figured if he couldn't fix it, there was no way in hell I could. An hour later, I handed him his repaired phone, and Eric decided to look into this kid who was good with electronics and had just graduated from university summa cum laude.

There had been times in the nine years since that summer I had wished I had thought more about my decision to join him, had thought through what this job would entail and what I would be sacrificing. But at the time, it was a lot of money, a lot of adventure, a lot of power to dangle in front of a kid who had never had any of those things. And I liked Eric. So I agreed. I signed on. My citizenship application was sped up. I was soon able to buy Lottie everything she needed and we never ate macaroni and cheese again. At the time, I had only told Lottie that I would never lie to her, so I begged her not to ask me too much about this new job I was training for. Lottie never doubted me; she never asked me any questions at all.

We had eight years together. Eight perfect years. And maybe I should have felt grateful that I had gotten to experience that kind of love and devotion and happiness when so many people don't, but I didn't feel grateful for having this afterlife that had consumed me: this Hell that had become my prison. Without Lottie, there was no escape. I would go on through what felt like an eternity without her, knowing how beautiful life _should_ be and knowing mine would never come close again.

As I lay there in that dark room waiting for sleep to take me, I found myself doing something I often did now: talking to a God I didn't believe in. If He existed, then I hated Him. I hated Him for allowing all of the horrors I had seen in this world, hell, some of which I had participated in and maybe that just made me hate Him even more; I hated Him for my mother; but I hated Him mostly for Lottie, for letting me find a love that healed a broken child and had given me the promise of a future I wanted for the first time then ripping her away from me. And as I drifted off to sleep, I thought, " _The least you can do now is let me dream of her."_

You can buy this book or find out more here.

_R esurrected _was sparked by this idea I had of what it would be like to wake up in someone else's body, both _me_ but _not_ me at the same time. That's what happens to Lottie; after she is killed in a car accident, she is resurrected by an alien life force, but her resurrection wasn't supposed to occur, and the consequences for her second chance at life could be deadly.

_Resurrected_ is the ultimate second chance romance. I mean, Lottie _died,_ but despite the tragic beginning to this novel, it quickly becomes one of discovery, falling in love – again – and a fight for survival. One reviewer summed up _Resurrected_ perfectly: it's like _The Bourne Legacy_ meets _Close Encounters._ I still love that description as that's exactly what I had hoped to achieve.

S.M. Schmitz has an M.A. in modern European history and is a former world history instructor. Her novels are infused with the same humorous sarcasm that she employed frequently in the classroom. As a native of Louisiana, she sets many of her scenes here, and like Dietrich in _Resurrected_ , she is also convinced Louisiana has been cursed with mosquitoes much like Biblical Egypt with its locusts.

* * *

Website

Facebook

Twitter: @sharyn_schmitz

Mailing List (sign up and receive a free copy of S.M. Schmitz's post-apocalyptic novella, _The Scavengers_ ):

# The Marked Ones by Kat Vancil

# About The Marked Ones

The Marked Ones

The Complete Trilogy Digital Boxed Set

* * *

**D angerous secrets, super-tech, and a daemon princess?**

**Just what exactly is going on in San Francisco?!**

* * *

For the last three years, geeky high school senior Patrick Connolly has harbored a not-so-secret desire for the attention of his beautiful and seemingly unattainable classmate Nualla. So when his dream girl's eyes finally turn his way, the last thing he's expecting is to find out she's not even human. Or that her royal daemon family, tech-genius best friend, and secret world will be coming along for the ride. This one mistake could be the chance of a lifetime...or the thing that gets him killed.

They say to be careful what you wish for...they weren't kidding.

# Excerpt of The Marked Ones: The Complete Trilogy

**Daemons in the Mist**

**The Marked Ones Trilogy**

**• Book One •**

PATRICK

* * *

_S ure, why not. What have we got to lose?_ is probably the understatement of the year as far as last words go. So why, in the name of all reason, did I say yes? I'm still not one-hundred percent sure, but maybe it was because Nualla was beyond tempting, and I was dying to know her secrets. Or that I was angry with my parents for never being there, and I wanted someone to love me. Or that I was really, _really_ drunk. But it was probably because, when fate gives you the one thing you have always wanted, you grab hold of it and never let go.

And even though I'm bleeding out on the floor, and my vision has become blurry, I can't bring myself to regret my choice, because for one shining moment, I had everything. And so as I breathe what might possibly be my last breath, my answer still is, and always will be...

Yes.

**I Am So Getting Expelled for This**

_Monday, January 9th_

* * *

PATRICK

* * *

I'm telling you man—never gonna happen," Connor said with a snort as he folded his arms and leaned against the locker next to mine. His hair was a surprisingly well-kept spray of dreads pulled neatly into a ponytail. Which meant his mom had probably gotten on his case again and threatened to cut it off if he didn't keep it neat. And knowing Connor, that would probably last for all of a few weeks before it started getting into disarray again.

"Yeah, I know," I sighed as I popped my locker open. After nearly four years here, I really didn't have to look too hard to spin the dial to the correct combination.

The thing was, I knew it was impossible—me and her—because I would never, in any universe, end up with someone like Nualla Galathea. Because Nualla was...well she didn't look like she should have existed in the real world. Not with wave after wave of jet black, spiraling curls spilling past her hips, and a shock of lapis blue that set off the unusual color of her eyes in a way that was beyond distracting. Really, every time I saw her it felt like someone had dug deep into my mind and crafted her from my dreams. And everything from her heart-shaped face to her dancer's body that filled out her Bayside Academy uniform in all the right ways, said _unattainable_. Even her car—an electric blue Aston Martin Vanquish—said _dude, I am so far out of your league, it isn't even funny_.

And so the reasonable thing would have been to just suck it up, get myself an _actual_ girlfriend, and pretend that I had never, for even a moment, dreamt of a universe where she and I might have been a thing. But the sad truth was that I had never been able to do it. To walk away from that tiny sliver of possibility. Which meant this was probably going to end in a social disaster of epic proportions. Because hope was such a fragile, dangerous thing to hold on to. _Especially_ when you were in a private school filled with the children of diplomats, movie stars, and CEOs.

" _Hellooo_ , Earth to Patrick," Connor called out as he waved a hand in front of my face. And that's when I realized I was staring. At her. _Again_.

As I snapped back to reality, I completely missed my locker and instead, slammed my hand into the one next to mine. Nearly managing to drop my book bag on my foot.

"You _really_ need to stop staring at the Galathea girl, it's bad for your health," Connor stated with an amused smirk.

"Yeah, I _know_ ," I agreed regretfully as I shook out my stinging hand. I didn't want to admit that my infatuation with Nualla was getting out of control. But I also couldn't pretend I hadn't gotten a big ass bruise from walking smack into a garbage can the Thursday before winter holiday break either.

Connor tapped out an impatient rhythm on his tablet case before he finally let out a heavy sigh. "We need to get to class; you coming?"

"You go ahead, I'll catch up," I replied, as I tossed my messenger bag into my locker. The first week of the school year our Chem II teacher, Mr. Lucas, had demanded we not bring our bags to Chemistry. Apparently so no one would accidentally trip over them. He had said something to the effect of, "This is chemistry, not physics. We don't need to see what happens when someone falls on their face."

"Well, hurry up. I heard a rumor that Mr. Lucas is switching up our seats again," Connor said before he strode off toward our Chem II class. Mr. Lucas liked to periodically switch our seats and lab partners around so no one got too comfy—or lazy. Today was apparently one of _those_ days.

"'Kay," I called back, but he probably hadn't heard me, considering that in a few seconds flat he was already halfway down the hall. But then again, he was a 6'4" black kid, and most of that was legs.

I went back to watching Nualla, whose every movement was like a graceful dance. For nearly four years she had acted like I was invisible. And if it wasn't for the company of my friends, I might even have thought I was a ghost. But not today. Today she had turned when I had called out to her. She had turned...but that was it, and a moment later she was gone again, walking away from me down the hall.

I closed my locker with a heavy sigh. I really couldn't stand around staring anymore, and I would see her in Mr. Lucas' class anyways. So, tablet in hand, I started walking toward class. My eyes fixed on Nualla under the pretense that I was looking at the hallway beyond her. But after only a few steps someone bumped into me as they hurried past. A sudden piercing headache flashed across my eyes, bringing with it a series of blurry, fragmented images, and a strange panic that squeezed my chest like a vice.

I stumbled and dropped my tablet on the white rubber tip of my black All Stars, causing it to skid across the floor. As I bent down to pick it up, I rubbed my temple. Things like this actually happened to me more than I wanted to admit. Though, not enough that I had ever bothered to mention it to my parents. Not that I saw them enough to really mention it in the _first_ place.

I stood back up slowly, the world swaying out of kilter, and tried to blink things back into focus. But it seemed to be a lost cause, because everything stayed firmly in the realm of dreamlike blurriness. The hall, and lockers, and remaining students around me seeming much farther away than they should have been.

I blinked a few more times until the world righted itself again into a nauseating clarity, and that's when I finally saw him a short distance in front of me in the nearly vacant hall. Marching purposefully toward Nualla like an angry storm cloud. Michael Tammore. Which probably meant that _he_ was the one who had bumped into me.

_Figures._

But I really shouldn't have been surprised. Because to say Michael Tammore was a dick would have been a huge understatement. I had absolutely no idea what his parents did for a living, but whatever it was, he somehow felt it gave him the right to treat others like crap. For the most part I avoided him, because one of these days he was going to do something I wouldn't be able to walk away from, and I really, _really_ didn't want to get expelled. Because Bayside pretty much had a zero tolerance policy when it came to violence, and I didn't think they'd let me slide if I told them decking Michael was a public service.

And I would have just gone to class and taken some Advil for my increasingly painful headache if it hadn't been for what I saw next.

Apparently today was going to be _that_ day.

"I am _so_ going to get expelled for this," I said to myself as I marched forward.

* * *

**The Perils of a High School White Knight**

_M onday, January 9th_

* * *

NUALLA

* * *

Just one more semester. One more semester of pretending I was normal, and then I would be free. One more semester of wearing this mask, and then I could let it go. One more semester of pretending I was like _them_ —that I was human.

I had spent the last few years with the secret held close to my heart. A secret that allowed us to pass unnoticed through the human world. The secret of what we _truly_ were.

Daemons.

Once, we had been real to them. But in the past millennia, they had carved us so deep into their myths—their fears—that they had distorted us into something that no longer seemed possible.

And so we continued to hide amongst them, flowing through the cracks in their world like water. Filling in the spaces their eyes passed over as they searched for the familiar, the comforting...the safe.

And on the surface we might have looked like them, if no one looked too hard. But one day this perfect mask of lies and natural ability was going to crack, and the truth was going to come spilling out in a way no one would be able to ever hide away again. Because you could only hold your breath for so long before you drowned.

I sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and gave myself the same pep talk I gave myself every morning.

_You can do this. You're a Galathea, and you're not going to be the one who lets them all down_ , I whispered to myself within my head. And some days this one small thing was all that kept me from screaming the truth to anyone who would listen. Because when the first Grand Council had decided to hide our existence, back when myths were the stuff of truth instead of fairy tales, I doubted they had ever considered the perils of high school. Where just one misplaced step would blow this whole damn charade to shiny bits.

I placed my book bag into my locker slowly, willing my hand to stop shaking. And then I sensed it, a strange yet familiar electricity to the air. I knew what was coming. I always knew with Michael. As good as he was with his illusionary abilities, I could always feel the impact to the air as he prepared to release it.

_Oh for frak's sake. Gods, no, not today._

Michael grabbed my arm. "You're going with me to the Winter Ball."

"No, I assure you, I'm _not_ ," I replied firmly as I jerked away from him. Folding my arms, and glaring at him with contempt.

"Then who are you going with?"

Well _frak._ I hadn't _actually_ asked anyone yet.

I looked out past Michael at the nearly vacant hall. The students that were still there were shuffling to their lockers or dashing off to class completely unaware of us. Then again, Michael was using his influence to make them _not_ notice us.

"I don't have to tell you," I said, moving my hands to my hips to appear more solid. Even in these boots, Michael was a good five inches taller than me, so I needed all the help I could get.

"I can make you," he said, lifting my chin with his finger so I was forced to look into his eyes.

I pushed him away with all my strength, and tried to step past him. "You wouldn't _dare_."

Michael's illusionary abilities weren't nearly as potent as his persuasion abilities. And trust me, I had learned _that_ one the hard way.

In one swift motion, Michael reached out, and slammed me against the locker. "Enough of your games, Nualla! We both know you are not going to choose a human mate, so why do you keep picking them and not—"

"And not _you_ , you mean?" I asked with a derisive snort. "Because I would rather have _anyone's_ company than yours. Or hadn't you figured that out yet?"

Michael stood there silently, looking just the slightest bit stunned, but he didn't remove his hold on my shoulders. And the truth was, I could say all the snide things I wanted, but I couldn't get away. He was much stronger than me. He knew it. _I_ knew it.

As we stood there like that, the bell rang, and the last remaining students fled the halls. I closed my eyes and made a desperate, silent plea for help even though I knew it was hopeless.

And then something weird happened.

I heard the faintest clatter—nearly inaudible to the human ear—and then an unfamiliar voice demanded, "Get your hands off of her— _now_."

My eyes shot open, and both Michael and I turned in the same moment to stare. In the hall stood a guy I had never seen before. He was solidly built, but definitely not a bodybuilder by any stretch of the imagination. And even though he looked younger than he probably was, there was something in the set of his jaw, and the confidence of his stance, that radiated danger.

"Who the hell are _you_?" Michael asked, in a voice that nearly betrayed just how surprised he was. Which was exactly what _I_ was thinking. I had attended Bayside Academy all four years, and didn't remember ever seeing this guy before. And that was saying a lot, considering the school was pretty damn small.

"It doesn't matter who I am, that's no way to treat a girl. _Especially_ one who's not your girlfriend," the guy replied, glaring at Michael. The black tangle of hair framing his face making his black-brown eyes seem more dangerous. And I could feel Michael's hold on my shoulders tighten as he looked the guy over.

This guy had found Michael's one fatal flaw—his pride. It was common knowledge that Michael got whatever he wanted. However, only a few people knew that Michael coveted one thing more than anything else on earth. The one thing he couldn't seem to possess. Me. But somehow this guy had figured that out, and had thrown it in Michael's face. The guy was either supremely lucky, or had a death wish.

"I said: Let. Her. _Go_ ," the mysterious guy demanded, taking a step closer.

"What are you, a white knight or something?" Michael asked with disdain as his hands slipped from my shoulders.

The guy crossed his arms. "When worthless punks like you make me. So yeah, I guess today, I am."

Michael glared at him with a look more deadly than I had ever seen him use. His hands balling up into fists at his sides. And I just gaped at the stranger. He might as well have just poked an enraged tiger with a sharp stick. This was about to get ugly.

" _Excuse me_?" Michael said in a low, deadly voice, shaking with barely contained anger. I was sure Michael had probably never been insulted like that in his entire life, and the shock had already begun to wear off.

"You heard me," the stranger said, standing up a little taller.

He was about an inch or two shorter than Michael, but was built far more solidly—though I doubted this would help him much if they started throwing punches. And so I squeezed my eyes shut, and waited for the sound of fist meeting face.

* * *

**Oh Fate, Don't Fail Me Now**

_M onday, January 9th_

* * *

PATRICK

* * *

Michael started to swing his fist toward me then stopped just as suddenly, looking at something over my shoulder.

_It has to be a dirty trick. He's watching for me to look away and then he's going to strike._

But when he just continued to stare, I finally turned. And that's when I saw who was coming down the hall. Mr. Savenrue, my first period Trig teacher.

_Well fuck. I really_ am _going to get expelled today_ , I groaned inwardly.

When he was only a few feet from us Mr. Savenrue finally looked up from the tablet in his hands.

"Mr. Tammore, Miss Galathea, what are you doing in the hall? Class started nearly five minutes ago," Mr. Savenrue asked as he looked between the two of them. Then he looked over at me, a look of confusion briefly crossing his face. "Are you new here? I can't seem to remember your name."

"Patrick, Patrick Connolly. I'm in your first period class, sir," I answered, equally confused. I had never missed a single day of his class. I mean sure, Trig was my least favorite class, but I liked Mr. Savenrue, it was halfway through the semester and he hadn't called on me once. It wasn't his fault really that Trig was just about the least interesting thing in the world.

Mr. Savenrue looked at me for a long moment before he stammered uneasily, "Yes—yes, of course you are." And with one more uncertain look at me he broadened his focus to the other two. "Like I asked before, what are the _three_ of you doing in the hall?"

"I was _asking_ Mr. Tammore to stop harassing Miss Galathea," I answered as as I scowled at Michael.

Mr. Savenrue fixed Michael with a fiery gaze that could have melted ice before he turned his attention to Nualla. "Is this true, Miss Galathea?"

Without missing a beat she answered, "Yes, Mr. Savenrue. Michael was trying to coerce me into going to the Winter Ball with him. I tried to explain I was already going with someone else, but he just wouldn't listen."

"No one asked you yet; you're lying!" Michael growled as he narrowed his eyes at her.

And that's when I kinda lost it. Because the only way I was going to allow him to continue bullying her was over my dead body.

" _I_ asked her," I blurted out as I glared at Michael. " _And_ she said yes."

Mr. Savenrue put his head in his hand and said with an exasperated huff, "Mr. Tammore, if a girl doesn't want to go with you to a dance, that's her right. You can't always get what you want, you know."

"I usually do," Michael mumbled under his breath.

"What was that, Mr. Tammore?" Mr. Savenrue asked, raising an eyebrow at Michael.

"Nothing, Mr. Savenrue," Michael answered, looking sideways at nothing in particular.

Mr. Savenrue didn't look the slightest bit convinced. " _Hmm_. Well, Mr. Tammore, why don't you accompany me to the dean's office."

At that Michael swallowed hard, and I saw fear flash in front of his eyes for probably the first time ever.

As Mr. Savenrue turned back toward me, I dropped the smirk from my face as quickly as humanly possible. He reached into his bag, and pulled out two late passes, holding them out to me and Nualla with a strained smile. "Mr. Connolly, Miss Galathea, why don't you head to class."

I just stood there holding that late pass as I watched Michael and Mr. Savenrue walk away, because really, it was one of those what-the-fuck-just-happened? moments.

" _S_ o...I'm going with you to the Winter Ball?" Nualla asked as they reached the stairs.

I froze as my heart sputtered to a painful halt. _Oh, fuck me! Did I really just do that? Like for reals?_

I turned slowly as I swallowed hard. And sure enough, she was looking at me expectantly with those beautiful eyes of hers. Periwinkle blue with flecks of silver in them like captured moonlight.

" _Yeah_...about that..." I said as I ran my hand back through my hair nervously. "You were just bluffing, right? 'Cause if you already asked someone else, you don't have to go with me. I just said that to piss off Michael," I babbled like a total idiot.

_Just shut up already. You're only making this worse, you spaz!_

"No, you're right, I _was_ bluffing. I hadn't actually asked anyone yet," Nualla admitted as she looked away from me, and smoothed the sides of her uniform. Like all the girls at Bayside Academy she wore the standard black V-neck knit sweater over a collared white button-down shirt and black pleated skirt, but on her it looked anything but standard.

_God she's so beautiful._

"But I'll go with you—if you ask me that is," Nualla continued as she finally looked back up into my eyes. And she just continued to stare at me, her mouth parted ever so slightly in a way that suddenly filled me with the overwhelming urge to lean down and kiss her.

However, for the first time today, I managed to actually do the _smart_ thing, and looked away from her.

_Don't fuck this up. You will hate yourself forever if you fuck this up now._

"Nualla, would you go with me to the Winter Ball?" I managed to squeeze past the panicked tightening of my throat as I finally looked back up into her eyes.

Nualla paused for a heartbeat that felt more like a lifetime. "I would love to."

And I just stared at her in disbelief, my mouth hanging open. I had basically been running on an adrenalin-fueled autopilot since I saw the two of them arguing in the hall. However, as she stared up at me expectantly, I was now forced to process the fact that I had just asked Nualla Galathea— _the_ Nualla Galathea—to the Winter Ball. Which meant there was no way in _hell_ she had actually just said yes... _right_?

As the panicked beating of my heart threatened to knock me senseless I blurted out, "You're serious?"

"Were you serious about asking me?" she asked uncertainly.

"Well yes, of course, but—"

"Then yes, I'm serious, I'll go with you to the dance," she answered as if it was no big deal. Like I was just asking to borrow a pencil or something.

"Um...okay," I said unsteadily as I ran my hand back through my hair again.

"We should probably get to class," Nualla suggested as she started to turn, an amused smile starting to spread its way across her lips.

"Oh yeah, you're probably right," I agreed quickly as I followed along behind her.

_Fuck, what am I supposed to do now?_

I followed Nualla down the hall toward the Chem classroom, waiting to suddenly wake up and find out this was all just a dream. Or to be struck by lightning, because the universe had realized it had made a horrible mistake. Or _both_.

As we stepped through the classroom door, Mr. Lucas turned to us with an exasperated expression, sucking in breath for a burst of lecture. But before he could get even a single word out we held up our passes.

He let the air out with a sigh and turned back to what he had been doing. "Thank you for gracing us with your presence. Since you both missed out on today's _earlier_ activity, you are now lab partners," he informed us with a huff before he resumed his lecture about today's class work.

As I passed Connor, he arched his eyebrows as if to say, _dude, what the fuck?_ And I could only shrug, because really, that's exactly what _I_ was trying to figure out.

* * *

NUALLA

* * *

It was around the end of Mr. Lucas' lecture when I realized that because of Michael's stupid stunt I had left my tablet in my locker. And because I had already been so hugely late to class there was no way in _hell_ he was ever going to let me go get it now.

I put my head in my hands and rubbed my temples. This day was already starting to suck, and it wasn't even close to being lunch yet.

_Sometimes universe, you really know how to kick a girl when she's down._

I heard a light clattering, and when I opened my eyes again, a tablet was sitting on the table in front of me.

"You can borrow mine if you like," someone offered from the seat next to me. I looked up into Patrick's eyes and was lost in the dark beauty of them as he continued, "You forgot to grab yours because of Michael."

"Yeah, I did, didn't I," I agreed breathlessly.

His eyes were deep, almond-shaped pools of nearly black-brown, hinting at a possible heritage. And there was a strange, unique quality to him that made him seem gentle and immediately trustworthy. Which I had to admit made my heart beat uncomfortably fast in my chest. But it was his broad, square-jawed face framed by a tangle of black hair that flared out with a slight curl at his ears that made it beat faster still.

When I just continued to stare at him for way too long, a deep blush spread across his cheeks and he quickly looked toward the smart board at the front of the classroom. And for a while I tried to pay attention to the day's assignment too. But about halfway through the period I finally couldn't restrain myself any longer, and my eyes drifted back to Patrick.

There was something about him...something I couldn't quite put my finger on. But the more I looked at him, the more I wondered why I hadn't noticed him before. How could I have possibly missed a gorgeous boy like this wandering the halls for four straight years? Even if he was terribly shy, I wasn't _that_ blind, was I? Maybe he was a new transfer or something.

_Better to find out now, one way or the other._

I rested my jaw in my hand and released a bit of my own influence. "So...how long have you been a student at Bayside Academy?" I asked him in my most inviting voice.

Patrick looked up at me in startled confusion. "Four years—why?"

* * *

**Here Goes Nothing**

_M onday, January 9th_

* * *

PATRICK

* * *

When I got home, I finally gave myself permission to freak out. In fact, I spent a good hour staring at my ceiling in shock. Flung out on my bed like I was trying to make a snow angel.

I had actually gotten up the courage to ask Nualla Galathea out, and even more shocking she had actually said _yes_. But the problem was, I had spent so long wishing that this would happen, I hadn't given much thought to what I would do if it actually _did_. Which meant if there was a higher power out there, they were probably laughing their ass off at me right now.

The whole thing was so fucking surreal that I was beginning to wonder if I had hallucinated the whole thing. What if some part of my brain had just snapped? I mean, I _had_ been feeling really ill as I walked toward them in the hall. What if I was actually in a hospital somewhere right now in a coma?

_Okay, you're being crazy. Just calm the fuck down and take a breath._

But even if it _was_ all real, there were so many ways this could go wrong it wasn't even funny. It wasn't as if I had dated a whole lot of girls and would know what I was supposed to do. Knowing my luck, I was probably going to manage to fuck things up in the first five minutes of our date.

I tried to calm myself again. _Just play it cool, Patrick. It's not like you're dating her or anything. You're just going to one dance._

But what if we _were_ dating now? What if she was sitting at home right now waiting for me to change my iTribe status? Or worse, what if this was all just a big prank and my classmates were on there right now making fun of my stupidity?

The sick fear of uncertainty and self-doubt began to twist my stomach into knots. For better or worse, I had to know one way or the other.

With a shaking hand, I reached over and picked up my phone.

_Here goes nothing._

I looked down at my page, swallowing hard. And was a little surprised to find there was already a friend request from Nualla waiting for me.

* * *

**_Hey stranger, thought I'd better add you as a friend on here. Hope you don't mind._**

**_— Nualla_**

* * *

I don't think I had ever clicked a confirm button so fast in my life. But then I just sat there staring at the screen, trying to figure out just what exactly I was supposed to do next.

Hours later I finally decided to just roll with the punches. I mean, what was the worst that could happen...right?

You can buy the trilogy or find out more here.

I was working as a production artist in San Francisco (where the story is set) at a children's toy company in the fall of 2010. It was a foggy morning as I road the Muni through the city listening to Katy Perry, The Airborn Toxic Event, and Mumford & Sons on my iPod while I was half asleep. The fog blanketing the city making it seem like anything could be out there, like anything was possible.

I had caught a blip of a documentary on TV the previous week that had featured cave paintings and some of the human figures had had what looked like horns. And I began to imagine: what if there were other sentient beings on our planet from the beginning, forced to hide themselves amongst us. But how would they do it? That question had bothered me for days. And it suddenly hit me there on that bus. Something I had read awhile back about how we take for granted that what we see is what is there, when in reality we're only seeing the light reflected back to us by the objects we're looking at. Which means that if something could control the way the visible spectrum interacts with their form and reflect back an altered visual description of themselves, they could make something very unhuman appare human.

And in that moment, that music, that documentary, the fog—everything that was in my head just collided into an unexpected maelstrom. I think the people on the bus must have thought I was crazy as I started frantically digging through my bag for a pen and something to write on. And I totally missed my stop. But I got the ideas down, and two short months later that 100,000 word book headed to its first round of edits.

Kat Vancil grew up in the heart of Silicon Valley, California where she amused herself by telling stories to anyone around her—her family, her friends, random strangers...cats. Eventually she started writing those stories down instead of hanging out in fake Ikea living rooms and telling them to her friends.

A valiant crusader for diversity, Kat blends geek culture, emerging science, and fantastical creatures to craft her unexpected coming-of-age tales of daemon royalty, super-tech, and shifter deities. Kat still lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, two very crazy studio cats, and eight overfull bookcases. And when not running amuck in the imaginary worlds within her head, she can usually be found frolicking in general geekiness.

You can find more about Kat here:

Website

Twitter

Facebook

Google+

Pinterest

Instagram

Tumblr

Now that the fun is over (for this volume), we hope you enjoyed these samples! If you're craving more adventure, you'll be happy to know there will be more Portals volumes to come! To keep updated on Portal releases and the latest in science fiction romance releases, sign up for our newsletter!

# Need More SFR? Check These Sites!

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this volume of Portals, a group venture encompassing excerpts from our science fiction stories which are all available for purchase right now.

The concept behind Project Portals was a way of not only show-casing members stories but also a way to demonstrate the amazing sub-genres and variety of the stories that come under the heading of science fiction romance.

From space opera to post-apocalyptic to soft sci fi romance to hard sci fi romance to action adventure to bio-genetics to military to dystopian to space colonization to alien invasion and many more, the exciting genre of science fiction romance covers it all. And because there are so many sub-genres, you don't have to be a science or tech enthusiast to discover a love of science fiction romance.

Explore the other Portals Volumes here:

One Two Three Four Five Six

For lovers of this genre and for those who'd like to explore further, we've compiled details about where to find your new favorite reads and authors.

Visit these virtual stops in the SFR Galaxy of great reads:

SFR Brigade (comprised of over 800 authors of SFR!) Facebook Fan Page | Blog | Newsletter

Veronica Scott's USA Today HEA, weekly new releases in SF&F Romance post, and Amazing Stories Columns Archive

Did you know there is a quarterly magazine devoted to science fiction romance? The Sci-Fi Romance Quarterly is FREE to download.

You can chat on Facebook with your favorite authors on the Science Fiction Romance Facebook Group or in Portals Project.

Or chat with authors and other readers on Goodreads.

No list would be complete without mentioning the awesome:

SFR Station

_Your source for great science fiction romance_

SFR Station on Facebook

The SFR Station is a safe-port for lovers of science fiction romance books. It is a community of authors, bloggers, readers, fans, and publishing professionals dedicated to the genre of science fiction romance. All of the books listed on this site are published by independent authors, small-press or imprint publishers. They have been vetted for quality. Most books are under $5, some are free, and all are great reads! You will find books of all heat levels, from sweet to smoking hot. All love is equal at The Station, and they proudly support authors of LGBTQ, Menage and atypical romance. New books are added weekly. Be sure to join the mailing list for updates on events and giveaways!

And finally, don't forget to visit the authors' websites for more in-depth information about their series and stories.

All the best from the group venture, Project Portals.

# A Special Thank You

The Authors of the Portal Project would like to thank...

Fiona Jayde for steering our multi-author ship to our amazing covers. She is wise and wonderful.

...and...

The Blurb Queen, aka Cathryn Cade, for generously donating the summarizing blurb for this collection. It is not an easy job to write a blurb for one book, let alone summarize ten books into one blurb.

And all of us who have benefited from SFRB would like to note that none of this would have happened had not Laurie A. Green started the Science Fiction Romance Brigade six years ago, and provided a space for 800+ SFR lovers to band together and scheme, er, plan to take over the universe.

# About Science Fiction Romance Brigade

After the smashing success of the December 2009 SFR Holiday Blitz, a multi-blog Science Fiction Romance book giveaway organized by Heather Massey of The Galaxy Express blog, the idea of creating a dedicated SFR community was hatched.

* * *

On March 25th, 2010, the SFR Brigade was launched by Science Fiction Romance writer Laurie A. Green, and a charter group of fellow writers and authors including Sharon Lynn Fisher, Heather Massey, Donna S. Frelick, DL Jackson, Barbara Elsborg, and Arlene Webb. In just over four weeks, the membership exploded to nearly 100 members.

* * *

With a roster of 800+ members, it represents the collective voice of Science Fiction Romance authors, writers, bloggers, professionals and enthusiasts with a joint quest of promoting their favorite genre–Science Fiction Romance.

You can find the Brigade on Facebook and...

  *     @sfrbrigade

www.sfrcontests.blogspot.com/
