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Synopsis When an unstoppable warlord meets an unyielding rebel, their link becomes a new force of nature.Taryn's dream of forging an alliance with a powerful alien race has become a nightmare. She is linked to a ruthless warlord, an alien killing machine who could destroy humanity on a whim.Taryn will go down fighting before she surrenders to the monster invading her mind.But in her struggle to regain control, she finds her tormentor has irreversibly changed her, and she has in turn changed him. The link is turning her into a weapon, drawing strength from the world-slayer who had no regard for another's life—until now.As death and destruction erupt around them, they carve their way out of their old lives with a single common purpose: unite their forces and change the future. Excerpt The elevator slows and stops. It opens onto a broad, dim corridor with sparkling walls arched outward like the curvature of a tunnel. The alien nudges me out, and the shift in gravity shunts me into the air. I flail, but manage to land on my feet, my stomach in my throat. Half a g, at most. I bound across the elastic floor, an awkward smile creeping up my face as my mask relaxes. Soft blue light renders the glittering walls and floor into an uncannily good impression of outer space. The alien walks quietly beside me. I can't read its facial expression, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't enjoy the change of environment. It's tenser than before, its movements brisker. Curves and bends in the spacious corridor pass without comment, until the alien brings one hand down on my shoulder and halts us both. "Prepare," it rumbles, and turns me to face the wall on our right. A new doorway opens, and I'm pushed into a round room, maybe five meters wide. There's a single white chair at the center, reminiscent of a gamer's hub. But I doubt he brought me here to play VR games. "Prepare for what?" The alien grunts, picks me up as if I weigh nothing, and plants me into the chair. "Hey, wait a minute, this—" "Prepare." It presses a heavy hand against me, jabbing the barbs of my mandible pendant into my chest. I clench my jaw as the Dorylinae chitin punctures my skin. The alien rakes its claws along the side of the chair, and I'm immobilized. All I can do is stare into the glowing eyes of my alien captor. Then it rips my mask off. The air reeks of ethanol and molten plastic. My eyes and throat start to burn. Every muscle screams to fight, to run. But I can't move. Panic snakes through me, stirring up old nightmares. I was twelve when the TMC bombed the Dorylinae hives and killed everyone I knew. They weeded out survivors by their informative value, like data chips. I got passed along repeatedly until I landed on a command carrier, where I was recognized as the daughter of xenologist and traitor Gregory Harber, and his equally traitorous wife, Mira. I was suddenly interesting to the Ticks, and with that interest came a long procession of interrogations, brain probes, and drug-sustained virtual torture. The Ticks fucked with my mind so much it took me years—after I escaped and hitched a ride back to Maza—to sort my memories out and fully understand what had happened. Now I'm a prisoner again. But this time it's not a human in control, not someone I learned how to fight. My eyes plead with the alien, but it doesn't even blink. Instead, two metallic tendons detach from the chair rim and snake toward me. The alien steps back to watch. The tendrils latch onto my temples and jab long needles into my skull. Bright pain explodes as I press my tongue between my teeth, and my heart pounds against my ribs. The tendons unlatch with a hiss and withdraw into the chair. The wet feel of the needles lingers, acute and nauseating. The alien runs one hand along the chair's rim again, and I'm free. Blood rushes through my body, and I gasp for air. "You not lose awareness," the alien says in its broken English. A male, I think. I inspect my temples with trembling hands. Two small wet bumps are attached to my skin. They give way to my touch, then contract and throb. I wince as they slither away from my fingers and bury themselves deeper in my skull. My stomach convulses. I barely manage to bend over before I retch. The alien looks down at me. "—But you lose control of body." There's disappointment in his voice. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and swallow repeatedly. The vomit seeps into the floor and disappears. I almost throw up again. The alien reaches for me, but I raise my hands. "No, thanks. I'll walk." Shaking, still thoroughly sick, I follow him into the corridor. The walls seem to billow, as if I'm being passed through the gut of an enormous, indifferent creature. I brush the wall with the tips of my fingers, and the surface ripples like thick black oil. I pull my hand back. "Where are you taking me? And what was that—what did you do to my head?" "Replace," the alien says. I frown and swallow. My eyes and nose sting from the acrid air, throat still burning with acid. Replace... Replaced what with what, and— "Why?" He grunts and smacks his jaws, a trail of slime oozing down to his chest. "Prepare." "For what?" The mirror-sphere soars quietly above us, then stops a bit further up and touches the wall. My upside-down reflection creeps along the sphere's surface again like a gray smear. "The Dominant see you now," the alien says. He leans in and stares at me insistently. "Not speak. Not lose awareness, not lose control of body." "Wait—" "Not resist." Then he shoves me in, and the wall shuts behind me.    

Synopsis After losing his sight in a terrible accident, only to learn that the woman he was planning to marry did not love him enough to accept him, Damien Falconer was devastated. Struggling to cope with his disability, he isolated himself from society, allowing no one to get close to him, but his personal assistant, Jake. Upon learning Jake was soon to leave his employ and return to Scotland, Damien was forced to advertise for his replacement. Among the applicants who answered his ad was Lisa Andrews, a registered nurse from Connecticut. But Damien was adamant that he would not be replacing Jake with a woman. His argument was, he did not feel comfortable with a woman doing the things that Jake did for him, but one whiff of Lisa’s unique scent and Damien found himself fighting a blistering physical attraction the likes of which he’d never known before. Should he hire her or should he ignore what his “other” senses were screaming at him, about this woman. Damien rustled with the question for several days, but in the end, he caved. And so began a hunger for a woman he couldn’t see...could only recognize by her unique scent...yet wanted like he’d never wanted anything before. Excerpt Ms. Andrews walked into the room, and Damien felt the air leave his lungs. He could not see her, but he sensed Jake’s reaction too. He was not certain if he was mirroring Jake’s reaction to the candidate or whether his overactive imagination was playing a trick on him. Whatever the reason, he had a physical reaction to whomever it was that walked into his library. She was polite and calm, and he sensed she had a smile on her face because Jake had an answering smile in his voice when he greeted her. Poor Damien, he couldn’t see a thing, but boy, was he aware of her. He could smell the fragrance she was wearing, and it was doing strange things to his body. There was a hint of jasmine, mixed with a bit of musk, but the overwhelming scent was of violet. He recognized the scent because of the perfusion of violet plants that grew in the garden surrounding his house. It was his favorite flower. He was never tired of sitting on the porch just inhaling its heady fragrance. On Ms. Andrews, the fragrance was positively intoxicating. The mixture of violet with her unique scent was overpowering. Damien was almost in pain from the strength of his physical reaction to her. He was uncomfortable in his seat and kept fidgeting to get a more comfortable position. He did not want either Jake or the young woman to notice his discomfort. He desperately wanted to see the woman who was in his library, but he had to be content with listening to her responses to Jake’s questions. She sounded a bit flustered because she would begin each response with a slight nervous laugh, and Jake would respond in kind. This exchange between the two infuriated Damien, who wanted to participate in the conversation. He interrupted one of Jake’s questions to her with one of his own. “Tell me, Ms. Andrews, how long have you been out of school?” He knew the answer because Jake had briefed him on all the candidates ahead of time, but he wanted to ask her a different question to throw her off. She responded with the same little laugh. “About eight years this month, and I can assure you, I have the experience needed to be your personal assistant.” “We’ll see,” was all he could think of by way of a response. He tried to tune out the sound of her voice and concentrate on Jake’s questions, but that proved to be very difficult because he found himself trying to interpret every nuance in her voice as if his very life depended on his understanding her. He became annoyed with himself and signaled for Jake to end the interview. This time he did not move his head, either once or twice. It was left to Jake to make the decision whether or not to have Ms. Andrews back for a second interview. Jake informed her that he would be getting back in touch with her after he had an opportunity to go over her paperwork and check out her references. Damien had remained quiet during the exchange. But no sooner had Ms. Andrews walked out the front door than he pounced on Jake, firing questions at him in rapid succession until poor Jake had to tell him to slow down. “I take it you would like to have Lisa back for a second interview?” Jake inquired, with a smile in his voice. “I have not decided. I am still trying to make up my mind. Something about her unnerves me. I will give you my decision tomorrow.” With that, he got up and began feeling his way to his bedroom. He needed some privacy, and Jake had better not follow him or offer to assist him right now. Reaching his room after what to him seemed like a very long walk, he sat on the edge of his bed and tried to go over the entire interview. He had difficulty concentrating because he was not able to get Lisa’s voice out of his head. The scent of her seemed to cling to him, which was strange because he’d only shaken hands with her once upon her arrival. He’d purposely not touched her hands when she was leaving at the end of the interview. He was tempted to walk to the sink to wash his hands, but something stopped him. Some masochistic side of him wanted to keep her around as long as he could. He knew if he were to hire Lisa it would cause an upheaval in the way he’d lived his life up till now. But he felt alive, really, truly alive for the first time in a long while, and the feeling was intoxicating, and he wanted more of it. The decision was made. He wanted to experience more of Lisa!! He would instruct Jake to have her back for a second interview, and he would judge for himself if her effect on him were real or imagined. The next day, Lisa arrived on time for her second interview. Damien decided he would remain in the background and allow Jake to conduct the interview while he stayed in the adjoining room. The effect of her scent on him was no less powerful. He became aroused just inhaling her scent. The tone of her voice did not help matters because her voice was deep and sultry. It made one think of silk sheets and warm bodies between those sheets. His imagination was running rampant. His reaction to this young woman was so unusual that he became alarmed. He had given up on ever having those feelings again because, ever since his accident, he had not felt any desire for the opposite sex. He thought it was a psychological effect of losing his sight, and his doctor had agreed. However, Ms. Andrews was making him question his conclusion and reexamine things. This annoyed him because he was happy and content not to have to deal with the emotional hassle involved in trying to engage in a relationship with the opposite sex. He felt inadequate because he depended on his sight during lovemaking, and he would be at an enormous disadvantage without it. He wouldn’t see the reaction on his partner’s face, a preference for most men because men were, by nature, visual creatures. He needed to see and watch what was taking place in his bedroom. This darkness in which he existed had not worked for him before, so he believed his days in the bedroom were at an end. Now he was experiencing this powerful reaction to Ms. Andrews. Not that he was contemplating having an affair with her, but his head said one thing, and his body was clearly thinking another. He instructed Jake to offer Ms. Andrews the position because he wanted to examine this phenomenon further. Also, he planned on using her in a very limited capacity for his personal care; he would try to do the majority of it on his own. Ms. Andrews accepted the job offer, and she agreed to assume the position within three weeks. This way, she would have an opportunity to work with Jake to learn the routine before he left. Jake had promised that he would not leave until he was comfortable that Lisa could handle the job. Damien, on the other hand, had his own set of issues with Ms. Andrews that were not job related.

Synopsis “This novel is a book in which I was able to express a new divine awareness.  I realized I had experienced a lot in life that had left me strewn and unsettled; the book brought about the resurgence of a strong feeling of cohesion.  In this book I have tried to present some of the elementary principles of human nature that can be outside of perceiving, but not outside of holding dear, I call it “Ugly People.”  For example, the violence of feelings, the slave of passion and the dark tyranny of despair.  My life might not have been full of ease and luxury; but I preferred to glorify my existence, as I lived it, enticed by the wealth of experiences placed in my path.  Watching the world around me, I became interested in Fate.  Stories, of the sudden deaths of the rich and famous awakened even more trains of thought on Destiny.  We strive to travel, what we think are the right paths in life, but, does destiny have to have the final say?  Is  fate everywhere we are, involved in everything we do and not only just the end?  What do you think?  On, that same note, I would answer, “Yes, it does!” And so this book was born.  I could feel my heart glow with excitement and enthusiasm as I wrote this book.  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.”    Excerpt I remember the day we visited Dane's older brother in the hospital. He had his appendix removed. As we walked into his room we had to pass bed one and there lie a man bandaged for burns. I staggered backwards from the sight. All I could really see were his eyes and so much pain in them. Dane and I learned that his wife boiled a huge pot of grits, fed up with his physical abuse, waited until he was asleep. She carefully removed the covers he was sleeping under and threw that pot of steaming hot, sticky grits on him. It was a horrific sight to see! He lay there silent as a tomb, obviously suffering. The image stuck in my head.   A week later, Dane staggered around the house, naked, trying to find the bathroom. Frustrated, trying to avoid cleaning up more piss, I decided to get up and guide him to the toilet. To my horror, he had walked into the baby's room. He bumped into the crib and stood there peeing all over our son. Rage crawled up my spine! It was as if I'd blacked out and became someone else! I don't even remember jumping him from behind. You'd better believe I did. We fell back onto the floor. We wrestled up off the floor and all the way through the house. One of my house shoes knocked loose. He grabbed my arms painfully I squirmed loose. "Stop it, Dani" He kept yelling.   I wanted to hurt him! We battled, until we were bumping up against the front door. My robe had fallen off and I was naked. He tried to open the front door and push me outside. He had done that before, leaving me shivering and pleading to get back in. However, this time he couldn't manage. I had the strength of Wonder Woman. We fell to the floor, again. We were deep into a violent War Dance. HE HAD PEED ON MY BABY! I was in a witch-hunt hysteria! He was going to burn one way or another! I managed to get to my feet. I bent over his body, close to his face and roared and slapped him with a strength that rose up from my toes to the tips of the fingers on that hand. His head wobbled, "Do you remember, the grits? DO YOU! You sleep soundly at night!" I let out a demonic roar!   His eyes were big as saucers. He couldn't believe his ears. He couldn't move. I strutted out of that room, butt naked to bathe my screaming baby. Once we were speaking, again, Dane admitted he was jealous of the baby! I listened quietly, sensibly to his idiotic statements. He admitted that while watching me bathe DeAndre he remembered how I used to treat him that way, comb his hair, comfort and care for him. He said I was a terrible and negligent wife, who gave all of my attention to the baby. I had stopped doing those things for Dane, milestones before our baby was born. Perhaps if he'd given me a kinder and gentler life I would have continued. I looked him straight in the eyes and told him to grow up. He hated it; I saw his face crack! I stood, head held high, and waited for a slap. He just walked away, mumbling, "Bitch." That was fine. I was a mother, something that was too strong, too beautiful for me to listen to his shit.

Synopsis Fast approaching forty, life’s experiences haven’t mellowed Terry Gallagher. He’s become an angry man. Sickened by the mindless violence all around him while trying to come to terms with his own thuggish past, he despairs as his near neighbour, old Mr. Johnson, war hero, is almost beaten to death in his own home while the police fail to bring anyone to justice. He rails at the apathy and neglect of incompetent politicians past and present who use an already deprived community as a dumping ground for social misfits, bad debtors, drug addicts and so called economic migrants. This was your legacy If you had the misfortune to grow up on the notorious Broughton estates, and all that Terry Gallagher had wanted to do was make a difference... From these lawless streets, a rag bag bunch of thirteen year old scallies are shaped into a football team by one disillusioned man and his unwilling buddy. On a forgotten piece of waste ground, with stolen scaffolding for goalposts and a twenty-four hour pitch surveillance protection programme patrolled through the telescopic sight of a .22 air rifle, this team of dead end kids begin their adventure. From an inauspicious start in the local Junior District Football league to potential glory in the prestigious County Cup, for Terry Gallagher and West Broughton Albion, the season unfolds amidst a backdrop of squalor, depravity, manic depression, heroin addiction, Yardies, guns, and death; where a web of bizarre and tragic circumstances transpire to push the emotional and mental state of this reluctant philanthropist to the limit and ultimately tip him over the edge. Excerpt   ‘Duane?’ he called tentatively. ‘Duane?’ he called out again, a little louder, hardly daring to move from the bare, damp hall. He accidentally kicked the busted Yale lock that went scurrying across the floor before smacking itself to a halt up against the skirting. He thought he heard the whimper again and he slowly edged his way towards the sound, into the room that still had the meagre curtains pulled across the window where a small shaft of light penetrated the gloom through a gap at the top where they didn’t quite meet. Then he saw her. He froze stock still in shock. He’d been half expecting to come across something terrible, but the sight that confronted him still managed to stop him in his tracks. He tried to swallow but his saliva glands had stopped working and his sweat had started to dry cold on him. He peered into the half-light and held on to his breath. She was dead; he could see that. He inched his way into the room on feet that were reluctant to move until he could see her face, tipped back at a grotesque angle. One eye had settled up inside her head while the other, from behind a half-closed lid, stared out beyond him. Her head wasn’t the right shape; it was puffed and swollen. Curiously, just one side of her face, the one that was turned away against shoulder and settee, had become a ghastly, grey-blue colour; heavy and deformed, like all fluid had drained and settled there from other parts that were now colourless, waxy. There was vomit from her mouth, dried and congealed in a reservoir between her neck and shoulder. Terry held his sleeve up to his face and tried to breathe sparingly. At some point she had let go of all her bodily functions and the smell was unbearable. He recoiled and tried to stop himself gipping; in the process he knocked something off the coffee table. He stepped back and stooped to pick it up then stopped himself. In the gloom he could see it was a used hypodermic, the brown dregs of its deadly contents still visible inside the plastic cylinder. He edged away even more cautiously than he had entered the room, like he was stepping through a minefield. A noise, a stifled sob told him he wasn’t alone in the room and he turned to see Duane curled up against the wall at the back of the door, head tucked into his knees, rocking back and forth. ‘Duane?’ Terry uttered the name in a whisper that came out of his mouth half choked. He squatted down in front of the boy and was about to say, ‘Are you okay?’ but he managed to stop himself. Idiot. Of course he wasn’t okay. He held his shoulders and tried to lift his head to look into his face, but his body seemed locked into the rock- ing motion, his head remained down. Terry wasn’t about to force him. All the words that came into Terry’s head, any utterances of comfort and sympathy seemed pointless, futile. Words were useless at this moment in time. The kid hadn’t acknowledged his presence. Discovering his mother like that had obviously sent him into deep shock. He rocked; slowly, rhythmically silently, save for the odd whimper or the occasional shuddering sob. Terry eased himself alongside the youngster and carefully, ever so gently placed an arm around his slight shoulders. There they both sat, mute and motionless save for the cold comfort afforded by a soft embrace and the lamentable manifestation of the trauma brought on by shock - back and forth, back and forth. 

Synopsis After Billy Reeves had survived a poverty ridden and violent childhood on a council estate in Newcastle he thought he had it all; a loving family, money and respect but a face from the past with a point to prove and muscles to flex is out to bring  his world crashing down on him. He turns down an offer of a job with Tyneside’s most paranoid  and psychotic gang lord and is faced with bent police, a corrupt judge, an army of bouncers and the knowledge that if he makes one wrong move in this game of cat and mouse his family will end up imprisoned, abused or worse. Billy is going to have to work very hard just to keep everyone he cares about alive and that means the gloves are coming off... Excerpt He's waiting in the alley under the bridge for me; I spotted that big, pretentious Shogun of his by Kwiksave. It's a contradiction of visions that just sums up the coke addled, muddled up prick quite nicely. Vince Merry, he believes himself to be the top man on Tyneside, my nemesis for so many years. He's had my little brother put away for murder and burnt down his business, threatened my ageing mother with violence, killed owld Dave and now he wants me. Well now he gets me, all of me. I'm at the entrance to the alley under the bridge, there's only one streetlight and I'm under it, darkness and shadows all around me, the fine rain is visible against the light and the wind blows sweet wrappers around my feet. I feel in my jacket pocket for the knuckle-duster, its chunky, solid feel is reassuring. Sighing softly I look up into the Newcastle night sky for what could possibly be the last time and wonder how it ever came to this. Over thirty years of keeping my head down and not offending the big boys, playing it safe and paying my dues every time and still, in the end, I have to fight it out with them. The streetlight is slightly comforting, it's got a warm yellow glow to it but it doesn't lift my mood, I would give anything to be cuddling up to Lisa now. Growing up where and how I did I've always known that life's not fair, I constantly expect to have people shit on me, I accept this and probably deep down knew that one day it would come to this. I think I even half knew it would be with this wanker as well. Weary and resigned to my fate I have to start this thing. I hope I finish it. 'Merry,’ I call into the blackness. There's a rustling sound and two figures step forward into the half-light. Big Tony stands to the right of Merry, a tattooed behemoth, all broad shoulders, big neck and massive biceps, Merry himself is brandishing a big blade, again, I expected this. My heart is pounding as the adrenalin rushes through my 9 Andy Rivers body, my legs feel frozen to the floor and my internal system is asking the question fight or flight? Understandably my brain is screaming flight but my heart knows the score and is telling me that I must fight, I've got to put him to bed once and for all. Looking at the knife, I go for the token question. 'Thought it was a straightener?' He smiles at me without humour and replies, 'Grow up Billy, we're not at school any more.' There's nothing more to say, it's time to start the endgame. Putting my duster on my right fist I smile back and step into the alley towards them. 

Synopsis What if evil visited the one place where you feel the most safe? Following the breakup of her marriage, Rachael retreats to the old beachhouse in Jenny's Cove, where she once lived with her grandmother. It is the one place where she had always felt safe and loved. Devasted and lost, Rachael longs for the simplicity of her childhood.  But Jenny’s Cove has changed. From the moment of Rachael’s arrival, a man watches. He has already killed, and mercilessly will do so again. Soon Rachael becomes a target for a vicious predator whose own dark and twisted past forms a deadly bond between them. And sets her on a collision course with a crazed killer.

Synopsis Rose Haldane is confident about her identity. She pulls the same face as her grandfather when she has to do something she doesn’t want to do, she knows her DNA is the same as his. Except it isn’t: because Rose is adopted and doesn’t know it. 'Ignoring Gravity' connects two pairs of sisters separated by a generation of secrets. Finding her mother’s lost diaries, Rose begins to understand why she has always seemed the outsider in her family, why she feels so different from her sister Lily. Then just when she thinks there can’t be any more secrets… Excerpt Rose Haldane is confident about her identity. She pulls the same face as her grandfather when she has to do something she doesn’t want to do, she knows her DNA is the same as his. Except it isn’t: because Rose is adopted and doesn’t know it. Ignoring Gravity connects two pairs of sisters separated by a generation of secrets. Finding her mother’s lost diaries, Rose begins to understand why she has always seemed the outsider in her family, why she feels so different from her sister Lily. Then just when she thinks there can’t be any more secrets… In this scene, Rose meets with social worker Mrs Greenaway, to receive the official records of her adoption in 1968.         ‘…I know I’m older than average for making this sort of discovery. I don’t blame myself for whatever it was that made my birth parents give me away, they had their reasons. I just want to understand. I’m not seeking to blame them for inadequacies in my own life.’ She glanced out of the window. The view was a red brick wall, the glass speckled with raindrops. She could feel Mrs Greenaway’s eyes focussed on her left ear. ‘I have had a fantasy since I was a child that I had a friend, a friend who was fun to play with, a friend who understood me.’ She swallowed. ‘Since I found out I was adopted, I’ve wondered if she might be my lost sister, if she was some residual memory from when I was a baby, that I have a real elder sister.’ Wanda’s face swam into focus. ‘But the sister you grew up with, err…’ Mrs Greenaway looked down at the file again. ‘Lily.’ ‘Yes, Lily. She is still your sister. You grew up together, you share a common history. No one can take that away from you.’ Rose looked Mrs Greenaway straight in the eye. ‘No, they can’t. But I’m tired of wondering. I want to know if I have a lost sister or not, so can we just get on with it?’ ‘Sometimes the birth mother may be dead or…’ ‘Or a criminal, or worse. Yes, I know. I have thought about these things.’ And I’m trying to be positive, Rose reprimanded herself. My mother could be a businesswoman, an actress, an opera singer, an author. A journalist, like me. Mrs Greenaway straightened her shoulders as if she had made a decision. Rose leant forwards. Is this it? ‘You have a legal right to the following information.’ Mrs Greenaway’s voice sounded as if she were quoting from an official handbook. ‘Here is Form CA5.’ She pushed a sheet of paper across the desk towards Rose, text side down. ‘It gives you the information on your original birth certificate: your name at birth, the names of your birth parents, and the district of your birth. I’ll give you a moment to read it.’ And she left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her like a doctor leaving a grieving relative. Rose looked at the paper for a moment, savouring what was to come, triumphant that she had come so far so fast. Her own name was in the top right-hand corner of the form: Adoptive Forename and Surname: Rose Haldane. Forenames at Birth: Alanna Jane.   Rose stopped reading. Alanna, it was beautiful, it sounded Gaelic. ‘Alanna,’ she tried to say it aloud, but all that came out was a whisper. ‘Alanna.’ Did she feel like an Alanna? No, she was Rose. The name was difficult to say, alien to her tongue. She tried again. ‘Alanna.’ Her voice was louder this time, and her tongue clicked flat against the roof of her mouth on the first syllable. Alanna. Not Alberta or Alison or Alice. The baby in the photo was Alanna. My real mother called me Alanna. There it was, a connection to that sad, lonely woman who had known she would never see her baby again but still named her. And such a beautiful name. Alanna was an unknown quantity except, Rose realised, she wasn’t, she had seen Alanna’s face already in the creased photo hidden in the purse. For a moment, Rose wanted to tear up Form CA5, tear up Alanna’s name and go back to being just Rose. But her eyes were drawn like gravity to the page again. Birth Mother (if known)…    

Synopsis When unimaginable calamities strike, Mercy Carver, a poor London woman, wonders what she has done to deserve such immeasurable suffering. It is only when she faces imminent death in the snow and ice-encrusted Virginia wilderness that she finally understands the power of destiny. After escaping from sadistic criminals, she crosses an ocean and falls in love with Jacob Stone, a plantation owner determined to fight Abraham Lincoln and his government. Mercy is passionate. She loves and hates in equal measure. Can love and hatred give her the strength she needs now to reach a Northern state and free a runaway slave, wanted for murders she committed, in order to save him? America and her people are strangled in an uncompromising political stalemate. Southern states have seceded from the Union, and a civil war is imminent. Will Jacob find Mercy before he is embroiled in a war which could see them separated forever? Can Mercy’s determination to exact revenge on the criminal who imprisoned her be realised before she is forced to make a choice between her love for a slave owner and her ambition to assist fugitive slaves? Mercy Carver: her journey is just beginning. Excerpt Mercy, dazed, bewildered, and terrified, stood in a bedraggled line with the other girls. She was afraid to move a muscle, even though her aching limbs demanded that she do so in order to free herself of painful cramps. She was terrified of being noticed or of allowing a sound to leave her mouth. Cold air was not responsible for making her teeth chatter. No, they clicked together in a song of fear. She was exhausted, sick, and trying her utmost to stand on unsteady feet. Her wrists and ankles were raw and covered in dried blood in places because of her determined efforts to free herself from the ropes that had bound her. Her face was stinging, swollen, and bruised as though she’d been punched. Her mouth was still half open due to the painful hours she’d spent gagged, and her lips were swollen to twice their normal size with several doses of chloroform. Horrific images floated through her mind, but she was not having a nightmare. She was not dreaming this. This was a conscious experience that she could neither comprehend nor associate anything with. The chloroform was still lingering in her system, but she attempted to focus her thoughts on exactly what had happened to her. She had offered to help a man who was worried about his wife. The man in question was now standing alongside another man right here in this stable. She couldn’t believe stupidity and trust had led her to this. It was an unimaginable horror. Getting tied up was not an experience she had any recollection of at all. She had woken up on the floor with back-breaking pain. Only then had she discovered her tethered body. She remembered sporadic drinks of water because of the painful procedure involved. The smelly rag that gagged her mouth had been pulled off her face and then replaced, stinging her skin. The drops of liquid poured on it had sent her into an abyss of darkness, without dreams each time. Her tongue was numb. Her mouth was so dry that it was difficult to swallow her saliva. She had no clue as to her whereabouts. Was she far from home or was home close by? No, she determined, home was not nearby. London was not that big, and they had been on the road for a long time. She had to conclude, therefore, that they were nowhere near the city or its suburbs. Her hungry belly was rumbling, yet the thought of putting food into her mouth made her want to wretch again. Her new gown, drenched in pee and dried vomit, was a degrading and shameful sight. The dress was torn on the left side, from her underarm right down to her waist. She was desperate to take it off and wash. Pride and vanity had been but a fleeting experience for her. That day in the dressmaker’s shop and her experience in a beautiful tea room in front of St Paul’s had been the first time she’d ever thought of herself as more than a girl from a poor London borough. Her own vanity had brought her to this! This was the end of innocence and sweet dreams. How could she ever feel pure after what she’d seen and felt? She felt like an animal, no better than that. She felt like one of those black slaves she’d heard about. She was being treated like livestock at market. What would her family be thinking right now? It was the first time the thought had occurred to her. Would they be out looking for her? She just knew they would be, but she also assumed they would look no farther than the dressmaker’s and Mrs McCallum’s house – certainly no farther than the confines of the borough of Southwark. It wouldn’t enter their minds to cross the river to look for her, for that had been forbidden to her, and she’d always been obedient. Girls were sobbing now. She looked to her left and then to her right. One girl was crying so loudly that Mercy thought she might get shot for it.   Just then, a girl keeled over and hit the ground with a thud. Mercy thought she might fall too – she wished she could hold on to something or someone. She would not cry again if she could help it. She thought about Grandpa Carver. He would belt her if he were here to see her crying like a sissy.

Synopsis Sandy Lovett's confused mother and chaotic life are having an effect on her waistline. She knows she needs to change her life but doesn't know how until she buys a risqué dress which sets in motion a sequence of life-changing events. After years as a mother, carer and full-time employee, Sandy quits her job and places her mother in a care home, and life seems on the up. But disaster is never far away for the hapless Sandy as her mother’s obsessions continue to wreak havoc and her husband’s business begins to fail. Short of cash and needing a flexible job, Sandy joins a sex-chat service. At The Beaver Club Sandy discovers a talent for selling telephone sex - a skill she later regrets when she meets unscrupulous local politician and prospective MP, Trewin Thackeray. The Changing Room is a comedy-drama for all those whose glass is half-full. Preferably with gin and a big fat cherry. Excerpt “Did I tell you I used to play cards during the war?” says Mum. “Yes, you did,” I say, trying to disguise the weariness in my voice. “We played for hours in the shelter. I learnt poker, bridge, crib and rummy. They called me The Whizz Card Kid. When I got evacuated I lived with Mr and Mrs Swanson. They had a big house near Bletchley Park.” Mum leans forward conspiratorially and taps the side of her nose. “Mr Swanson did something top secret.” “Really?” I say, trying my best to sound interested, even though I’ve heard this story numerous times. I stir my crème de menthe with my orange Matchmaker and suck it luxuriously to alleviate the boredom. “Yes. He was a code breaker. Only we didn’t know back then. It was all very hush-hush.” Mum picks up another card, studies her hand intensely, and puts down the three of spades. This seems odd as she’s only recently put down the two of spades. “Hmm, curious,” I say, smoking my Matchmaker like Sherlock Holmes. I take another puff of my Matchmaker and rue the fact that Dr Watson is not here to assist me – or indeed anyone with some new conversation. Evenings can be very, very long with Mum. “Of course, even though Mr Swanson was a code breaker, he couldn’t beat me at cards,” says Mum. “Not even when I drank some of their home brew cider and got tipsy.” “Well, I’m not surprised you beat him,” I say. “You’ve always had an excellent memory.” And don’t I know it, I groan inwardly. I could repeat all of Mum’s stories in my sleep. In fact, I could repeat all of Mum’s stories in my sleep, whilst inebriated. “I was the best in the class at tables,” boasts Mum, interrupting my train of thought. “Ask me any and I’ll know the answer!” Mum’s eyes light up with excitement at the thought of a maths challenge. I decide to go with the flow. “What’s seven times seven?” “Forty nine!” “Six times eight?” “Forty eight!” “Nine times seven?” “Sixty three!” “What’s nine times three, multiplied by two, minus thirteen?” “Forty one!” exclaims Mum, striking the table. Mum beams with satisfaction, I smile spontaneously and she resumes examining her cards with added enthusiasm. It’s good to see her happy. If only the Alzheimer’s wasn’t so frustrating. Day in, day out, it’s the same old stories and maths challenges. It wears me down. And now there’s the confusion between fantasy and reality. My mobile rings. “Oh cripes, I forgot to ring Dave,” I say, jumping up and retrieving my phone. Dave has left a text for me: Where r u? Dinner burnt. Kids in bed. I am horny. XXX. I text back: At Mum’s. Long story. Will ring later. Have to stay over so no sex tonight. Sorry. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. “Well, it would be a long way to go just for sex,” says Mum. I realise I’ve read my message aloud. It’s an embarrassing habit that I really need to stop. “It’s not that far home,” I say, defensively. “Why Peter had to move to Melbourne, I’ll never know.” Oh God. Now Mum thinks I’m Lucy, Peter’s wife. “I mean, why would anyone want to go to Australia? They haven’t had a decent cricketer since Donald Bradman.” “Well, there’s been Shane Warne.” “Shane who?” “Shane Warne. He was an excellent cricketer. He dated Liz Hurley for a while.” “Liz who?” “Liz Hurley. The actress who also used to go out with Hugh Grant - the actor who was in Four Weddings and a Funeral. You’ve seen it lots of times.” “Four weddings and a funeral? Now that does ring a bell.” I make a satisfied smile that Mum that has remembered something post 1990 that isn’t about Countdown or Carol Vorderman. “Yes, I remember now,” says Mum. “Four weddings and a funeral - that was the year Aunt Lil and Aunt Elsa both got married, my best friend’s stepmother eloped to Singapore and Vera, who lived at the bottom of the street, ran off with the deputy bank manager. Oh yes, and the vicar died during Christmas service. It was 1959, if I remember correctly.” My mouth falls open. An orange Matchmaker falls out. “I was talking about the film, Four Weddings and a Funeral.” “We have a film of them?” says Mum, a huge smile spreading across her face. “Why don’t we get out the projector? I remember Aunt Lil and Aunt Elsa looked like twins, even though they weren’t.” Oh God. Not the projector, anything but the projector. “It’s late,” I reply, hastily. “Maybe we could do that tomorrow?” “I shall look forward to that,” says Mum, spreading out her cards for me to see. “I win.” “Well done,” I say, grateful the game is over and we can go to bed. “Let’s see your cards.” Mum leans forward to examine them. Reluctantly, I spread them on the table. Mum looks at them, readjusts her glasses and takes a second look. “I can’t make head or tail of those. Not even a pair after all this time! I shall have to teach you. You can’t let the family down not being able to play cards properly. Now Sandy, she can play cards ever so well. She almost beat me once.” “Really?” I say, delighted at the inadvertent mention of me in an almost flattering light. “Yes, but I was having a bad day. The cat had died.” I tuck Mum up in bed and she rolls over on to her side. I’m too tired to make up the spare bed so I strip down to my underwear and take one of Mum’s old flannelette nighties from the top drawer of her dresser. I pull it over my head, lift up the bedding and slip underneath the sheets next to Mum and switch off the bedside light. I’m worn out after the long day and a bit woozy from the drink so I start to doze off in the warmth. “Thank you for staying tonight,” Mum says through the dark. “That’s okay,” I mumble. “That’s what daughters are for.” “You’re a good girl, Sandy. A good girl.” A tear runs down my cheek and drips onto the pillow.    

Synopsis They take his sister, attack his family and mean to kill him with extreme prejudice … What’s a guy to do? BIZZ is a greedy collusion of organised crime, banking, government, business, politicians and corrupted spooks. They’re making lot’s of money. They aim to stay invisible, and no one gets in their way. When investigative journalist, Eilidh Duncan, uncovers BIZZ … it’s only a matter of time When BIZZ finds Eilidh … uhh-ohh! When big brother, Sam Duncan, wonders why she’s offline … OMG! Sam goes to London and joins some dots … KABOOM! Excerpt Nearby, the executioner waited, patient and ready. He couldn’t kill the soldier in the pisser, not with publicity one of the goals. Tension-fuelled humour rippled in his gut.   In a lavatory stall, air cut by a sharp scent of bleach, the target pulled out a Browning Hi Power. He jacked a round into the chamber and eased the safety-catch off.  He stepped from the cubicle, ready. Empty space. He made a quizzical face at the mirror, eased the gun back into his holster and headed for the door. The urinals hissed to chase him away. No evidence, no clues, only inkling. Probably nothing, but he trusted his inner voice.   Across the way, the assassin appeared to scratch his back, touching the grip of a concealed pistol. He didn’t care about the impact of his action on bystanders. Nightmares and trauma lay beyond his concern and taking someone out in public made for an exciting mission. He visualised the kill: up behind the victim; barrel close to the bump at the base of the skull; the shot; the drop of the body; the coup de grâce; and a swift exit.  Imagining the escape, and excited camaraderie with the driver, gave the killer a fantastic rush. Tension became tense elation as the final trigger-pull neared. Another notch on the gun. He looked forward to the pub, in a few hours. A quiet meeting of recognition with the commander. Glowing eyes and handshakes. The powerful affirmation, adulation and whispered congratulations. Knowing glances and nods. He dissociated murder from the rest of his life; without doubt, a loving family man.   The target reappeared, walking among the shoppers. His wide-shouldered, lean frame, dressed casually in jeans, a country shirt, tweed jacket and Chelsea boots blended in. Easy movement suggested strength and lithe athleticism. Curling dark brown hair blew about, ruffled by fingers of breeze. The sun brightened the world for a few seconds, only to hide once more behind surging clouds.   O’Reilly left a shop window and followed walking briskly behind his quarry. Twenty metres, fifteen, ten ... The adrenaline flowed, yet his breathing stayed measured and movements precise. A car door slammed. Bus brakes squealed and hissed. Neither diverted his focus as he closed behind his victim.  He raised his pistol. The sun came out. His toe stubbed on an uneven pavement slab deflecting his aim and affecting his balance. Worse, his silhouette betrayed him as it strode abreast of the mark.  At an instinctive, professional level the prey understood the silhouette’s hand movement. The target faced the inevitable. Honed instincts and training meant reaction, no thought required. He wheeled clockwise, flowing into a balanced crouch. His forearms crossed, left hand dragging the jacket away from his body, right drawing the gun. Pure reflex. The assassin grunted, recovering from the stumble. The brief disruption of his killing move meant nothing, but for his shadow walking beside an alert, responsive victim. The end-game began.   The target completed his turn, gun raised, and, less than a metre away fired twice into his attacker’s chest. He flinched at a near-simultaneous report from the falling assassin’s weapon as the round passed his shoulder, on a downwards trajectory. The bullet punched into the thigh of a nearby shopper. Her leg jerked away from the strike like a slapped face. Twisting from the impact, she let out a sharp scream and collapsed, like a rag doll, on to her shopping bags. Her chin crunched on the slabbed surface. Blood sprayed from her injury.  The would-be killer crumpled backwards in a slow motion of shock, and flopped on  concrete hardness. The back of his head cracked like a pool ball as it hit a paving slab. The woman moaned, a deep guttural sound. Silence reigned for a moment as a collective in-breath froze the world. Screams exploded from a multitude of lungs in wordless howls of terror. People recoiled and rushed from the event in a human starburst of panic, faces distorted by fear.    The hardened street warrior of moments ago gurgled and mouthed words in splutters of gore. He tried to lift his gun. The target stood on his wrist, disarmed him and tucked the weapon into his left armpit. Nearby, the wounded woman, white with shock, made a final breathless moan and lost consciousness.  Vigilant next to the assassin, the survivor completed a three-sixty observation, high and low. He saw the get-away car drive off, a yellow Ford Escort.  He gazed into his prospective killer’s eyes and shook his head. The man spoke. His intended victim, crouched and watchful, listened to a liquid voice, wet with blood. ‘Did it for the Cause … you Brit bastard … nearly had you.’ Thick tones of Belfast. The target continued his surveillance, watchful and cool. In the distance, sirens wailed and came closer.  He turned to the people tending the woman. ‘How is she?’  A man kneeling beside her spoke, his pale calm masking distress. ‘She needs an ambulance and fast. It’s an arterial wound. I’ve slowed the bleedin’. She’s well gone with shock.’ Someone approached. The Brit bastard’s Browning came up.

Synopsis These are linked stories, in the spirit of Ray Bradbury's Dandelion Wine. They are about a sixteen-year old girl, Kedzie Greer, who was raised in a utopian community and leaves home to make her way in a dystopian society. The year is 2199; the place, the Reunited States.In these stories, technology coexists with a haunted world. There are witches and robots, ghosts and e-beasts, a mystical lake and a human warehouse. Excerpt In the end, it was the town gates that got to Kedzie. The gates were symbols of the caged feeling that was driving her crazy, and the fact that they had stood for hundreds of years was particularly maddening. Except for the summer tourists who came to gawk at what they called its quaintness, no one new ever showed up in Stillwater. Everybody who was already there knew everybody else who was already there. She could not walk past those heavy ironwork gates without wanting to shake them and cry out. The vigilbots that manned the gates were polite and amiable. They said hello and wished you Godspeed. Although in 2199 vigilbots could be legally programmed to kill, the worst the Stillwater bots could do was surround people and deliver mild, persistent electric shocks. This, too, exasperated Kedzie. Why bother having a defense if it did not actually defend you? Kedzie had ridden her bicycle over every street in Stillwater. She had been inside most of the houses. She had been to every community celebration: Christmas, Yule, Thanksgiving, Halloween, the first day of spring, summer, fall, winter. She had been to every picnic, done every volunteer job. Every step she took, she had taken before. All the shopkeepers said, “Hi, Kedzie,” when she entered. Kind Mr. Glimm always gave her a piece of candy, not caring to notice that she was an adult of sixteen. In the Reunited States in 2199, sixteen-year-olds were economically accountable for themselves. They had no legal right to be supported by anyone. Kedzie was so well-loved that it never occurred to her that one of the consequences of turning sixteen was that her parents could force her out. All she knew was that if she wanted to leave, her parents had no legal power to make her stay. Kedzie’s parents, Julia Margoles and Adele Freyer, practiced white witchcraft. As faithfully as any believers of old, they celebrated the Sabbats, they prayed to the God and Goddess. They did no harm to any creature on Earth. Kedzie had heard them say many times that they lived in harmony with “the great round”—the turning earth and the tenets of their faith. It was fortunate that they never pressured Kedzie to adopt their beliefs, because she did not believe in anything they said or did. The idea of devoting her life to benign witchcraft—home, community, nature, and smiling—made her itch and toss restlessly in bed. She did not see what was so great about those elaborate stories her parents called spells: Now walk into the forest. In a clearing, you will see a golden well with a bucket suspended from a rope. Lower the bucket into the well. All her parents’ incantations sounded like that. “We live in a false bubble,” she said to her parents. “Stillwater is unreal.” Her mother Julia said that Stillwater was the real world. “Outside is the place of unreality,” she said. “It is not easy to live as we do,” her mother Adele said. “We have to choose to do right every day of our lives, and it can be very, very tiresome. We do not always feel like it.” She smiled as she said those words, but Kedzie did not smile back. Her mother was being irrelevant again. She strayed from the point every time she wanted to avoid facing something head-on. The habit had never irritated Kedzie more. “How can you live so small?” Kedzie answered back. “We are what the tourists say we are, exotic animals in a zoo. We even live in a cage.” Adele had cried at those words. Julia flashed Kedzie an angry look. “You know nothing about evil, and in that way, we have failed you,” she said. “You are naïve.” “If I am naïve, it is because you won’t tell me things. You don’t let me explore life outside these gates.” “You have a fine life here in Stillwater,” Adele said.   Kedzie looked out the living room window, feeling like a prisoner peering out of a cell. The window was large and had diamond-shaped panes. As a small child she thought those diamonds made their house look like an enchanted cottage. Now the mullion shadows on the living room wall reminded her of bars. They blocked the light.  

Synopsis Lady Chrissie Wellsby and her two country friends research dozens of rogues before selecting the notorious Viscount Hawkesbury, owner of London’s most exclusive and expensive brothel, to educate them in erotic seduction. The ladies abandon respectability and coerce Justin Tremayne into letting them visit The Pleasure House and to teaching them the sensual tricks mistresses and prostitutes use to entertain men.  Though Justin believes three naive ladies will see the debauched romps in his themed rooms, cover their eyes and ears, and run back to their sheltered lives, he underestimates the desperation of abandoned women who imagine a wider knowledge of sex will keep the men in their lives at home, in their own beds. But despite watching several of their friends, men and women, perform raunchy acts at his brothel, the ladies insist on participating in the last of Justin’s infamous Sultan’s galas, held in numerous silk tents and outdoor bathing areas on his estate.  Justin concedes to Chrissie’s demands only to gain information about his long-lost mother and sisters, but the world-weary viscount falls head over heels in love with his emotionally bruised pupil. He yearns for a wife, children, and an uncomplicated wife, but can he convinced Chrissie to take a chance and marry again? Because Justin never wants to leave her bed. Excerpt ”Remove that hideous gown!” Justin Tremayne, known in amusement-    seeking society as Handsome Hawkesbury or the Virile Viscount, struggled to    hide his rising frustration. “I need to examine your body. All of it.”                                          ***    He smiled a little. “I’d still like to see a little more of you. I can’t    even see the color of your hair.” He pointed toward her groin. “Top or    bottom. Here, let me unbutton you,” he said, his fingers set to work on    her top button, brushing the soft skin of her nape as he did so.    She flinched and held tight to the gaping neck of her dress with    clenched fists. “Please. Listen to me. I’m not seeking employment.”    “Ah, then you’re simply a bitch in heat like all the others.    Wanting a lusty tale to recount to your upper- class friends over tea and    cake. Perhaps compare notes on Viscount Hawkesbury’s infamous    prowess.”    Her quick series of breaths hissed and sizzled like water spitting    on hot coals. He heard the girls tut-tutting nearby, but taunting, teasing,    and arousing the lioness who’d dared brave his den so late at night had    proved too delicious a temptation to resist. Only one more jest at her    expense and then he’d summon the butler and a couple of strong    footmen, and bid her farewell.    He turned, slowly and deliberately, and spoke to his two friends.    “Gentlemen, which of you is capable of keeping your prick upright    long enough to provide such a lusty lady with the thrill she so clearly    came to my house seeking?”    Justin knew that in their heightened state of inebriation, neither    Bart nor Thomas would be capable of servicing any girl tonight. And    the Virile Viscount had given up such jaunts. The only business he    involved himself in now was the palace and even then he kept a very    low profile. By next month, he’d no longer own that either. His    pleasuring days were finished. Investing in the rapidly expanding    railway tracks and steam engines was far more profitable, and    respectable, for a man who hoped to bring his mother and sisters home    to live with him.   then collapsed back into his armchair. Leaning his head back on the headrest,    he laughed. “My love, if you’ve better to show me than them, do as I’ve    asked. Undress!”    She muttered something that sounded like, “Rude swine.”   They all needed to take their places in society, which was why Justin never    usually entertained this sort of female at his house. Too many watching    neighbors and too many wagging tongues in this respectable neighborhood.    Had he now passed the point of no return? Had the indecent acts he’d    committed, all to either survive or earn his some of the ready, tainted his    thinking to this extent? It terrified him that his morals were as lost as those    idiots who assumed a title and riches gave a man leeway to be rude, arrogant,    and even to inflict pain on those they considered inferior. He’d picked out this    woman and had intended on using her as an example, encouraging her to pass along his message to the long line of societal whores who would continue to plague him.  He wanted to stand in the street and scream and yell, “The Virile Viscount is finished!” Behavior such as his here showed the arrogance he’d always deplored. Rude attacks on a woman were despicable, and it was especially ill-bred of him to tease and taunt what he now suspected was a well-bred lady.  But he’d underestimated the woman’s pluck, or perhaps her determination to make herself heard. “Be warned, my lord, I shall return. Tomorrow. Early. Very early. And if you refuse to speak with me, I’ll haunt your house until you are prepared to listen to me.” Her ferocious expression made him burst out laughing again.  Bart wiggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner and held out his hand to encourage the woman to take a seat on the thigh of the woman he still held. “I like her, Justin. Can I have her?” “Feel free, Bart. If you dare! Though I suspect Thomas is correct. I’ve come to the unwilling, and unfortunate, conclusion that she’s not here to audition for the Harem.” “Certainly not.” Her tone was icy. “I’m offering you an exchange. Your skill in tutoring my friends in return for information.” “Regrettably, my services are no longer for hire.”  She inhaled so sharply he swore her ribs vibrated. Then she made her announcement. “If I leave this room, I’ll take with me what may be your last chance to see your mother. Alive, at any rate.”  

Synopsis When people call her a control freak, Peri Milano takes it as a compliment. As the preferred go-to special assistant to Philadelphia’s rich and almost famous, having everything under control is part of her job description.  With the organizational skills of a data processing program, the discretion of the CIA, and the creativity of an Ikea research and design engineer, Peri fulfills whatever whim her customers fancy and finds methods for their madness.   Never has she received a request she couldn’t complete nor a problem she couldn’t solve.  So when she finds the dead body of one of her clients and lands smack in the middle of a murder investigation, Peri simply adds a few more items on her to-do list. It's nothing she can’t handle.   But when another client receives a blackmail letter, her son’s type-1 diabetes nearly kills him and her mother ends up in jail (again), Peri starts to doubt whether anything is truly ever under control. She can’t help but wonder just who will be the next to Show Up Dead. Excerpt “Just stop saying things like that for a little while,” I said to my mother. “It’s too much for me to handle right now.” I sighed and turned to Mr. Wooley’s daughter. “Jacqueline, why did you kill your father?” “I DIDN’T KILL HIM!” She jumped up, knocking over her chair. “Why do people keep saying that?” She clenched her hands in front of her mouth. “Peri! You’re supposed to be taking care of me for the rest of my life! You can’t just accuse me of murder whenever you want!” “I’m not supposed to be taking care of you. I’m only responsible . . . Ugh! That doesn’t matter right now.” I dumped my tea in the sink and hit the coffeepot’s on button. “Let’s get back to square one. Jacqueline, why were you poisoning your father?” I picked up her chair. Jacqueline pulled herself together and returned to her chair. “Do you know what it’s like knowing your father is going to become your mother?” she asked. “You know, Archie and I experimented with that once,” Ma said. “Who is Archie?” Jacqueline asked, somehow making herself heard over me shrieking. “Jesus! Ma!” “Archie is my husband,” Ma continued. “We started our parenting adventure by deliberately reversing our roles so Peri wouldn’t grow up with the stereotypes of what a woman is supposed to be like, or a man. We wanted her to decide that for herself. It was very amusing. Except, we kept forgetting to follow through. Eventually, we got confused as to who was supposed to do what, so we decided to just let Peri teach us how to be parents.” “That explains so much,” Mel cheered me with her teacup. I nodded in return. If I had ever believed tears were useful, I may have allowed myself to cry. “Well, Ma, that’s not quite what Jacqueline means.” I sniffed. The coffee aroma calmed me. “What she’s talking about is that Mr. Wooley was planning on becoming, medically and completely, Miss Wooley.” “I see.” Ma sipped her tea. She poked a Sfogliatelle pastry as if she worried it might attack. “Arch and I never tried that, though I can see how Mr. Wooley would be so inclined. The man had a gift for color coordination.” I blinked at her. “So anyway, Jacqueline . . .” I eventually encouraged. “So anyway, I thought I’d make him a little sick. Just a little. Just enough so his doctor might postpone the change.” “How were you poisoning him?” Mel asked. “Well, I tried to use rhubarb leaves. That happened in a movie I auditioned for. Who knew that in real life rhubarb leaves are bitter? He couldn’t eat enough of the pie I’d made him for it to have an effect.” “Right,” Ma said. “Then I tried to convince him to eat lightly steamed lima beans.” “Lima beans are poisonous?” Mel asked. “You betcha,” my mother piped in. “That’s why you have to cook them for hours with the lid off.” “She’s right,” Jacqueline nodded. I think she nodded anyway. While I was staring at my mom, I saw an up-and-down movement out of the corner of my eye that I assumed was Jacqueline’s head, nodding. “They have a high level of cyanide in them that gets cooked out.” “I’m surprised you could even find them raw,” Ma said. “I had to have them imported from Peru.” “That makes sense,” said Ma. “I may want to get your contact there.” “No. No she doesn’t,” I interrupted. “Go on, Jacqueline.” “Well, I accidentally cooked out all the cyanide. So I had to go back to the drawing board. Actually, back to the Internet. That’s when I stumbled upon the red china.” “Aha! It’s radioactive,” Mel chimed in. “Yes. I thought I’d let some blue cheese soak in the radiation every day until it damaged his kidneys just enough that the doctor would be too concerned to let him undergo the hormonal part of the change.” “And you were giving him that recently?” I asked. “Yes.” “How did he die?” Ma asked. “Do we know the cause of death?” “The police said poisoning. Not radioactive poisoning, though” Jacqueline said. “That’s all they would tell me.” “Interesting,” Ma said. She picked at the flaky crust of the Sfogliatelle, letting the crumbs fall to the plate. “Well, did Peri tell you I’m dead set on getting to the bottom of this case?” “No.” Jacqueline shook her head. “I am. Ha!” She tilted her head back in laughter. “I said dead set without even meaning to. Whew! I’m so funny.” She ripped open the Sfogliatelle. “So don’t you worry none, little Miss Jacquelini, I’m on the case. Honey Potts will save the day!” “Honey Potts?” Jacqueline asked me. I could only nod.    

Synopsis Kick back and enjoy this mini-anthology of spine-tingling short stories from Diane Wing, author of "Thorne Manor And Other Bizarre Tales" and "Coven: Scrolls of the Four Winds."   Another Walk in the Park: A familiar walking path leads to a disturbing encounter in an unexpected realm.   Dark Hollow Road: A grieving sister searches for her brother on a road notorious for missing persons.   The Restaurant: An adventurous foodie couple are consumed by a life-changing meal when they explore the peculiar cuisine at a mysterious new restaurant.   Wrong Directions: Jealousy prompts a technological genius to conjure a diabolical solution to deal with unfaithful husbands. Excerpt It was just another walk in the park. A gentle summer breeze blowing, rustling the dense leaves on the trees. The occasional chipmunk suddenly bounding across my path and disappearing on the other side. Butterflies flew alongside, guiding my journey. I followed the same path I had countless times before, knowing what was around the next bend, changes only made by the seasons. The big old oak ahead was mostly dead; yet refused to go quietly. Its twisted trunk, bulging bark, and thick, broken branches gave it an angry, evil countenance and dual personality when viewed from the other side, where its skin was smoother and new branches sprouted from the top of the broken trunk. There was a large opening at the base that I could fit inside easily to experience the spooky tree from its core, yet never did. It seemed an invasion to enter through this spirit portal. Out of respect, I looked in, but maintained our separateness. Teenaged black walnut trees danced in a circle to mark the boundary of a large grove, a sacred space that seemed to have an energy all its own. The grass grew thick, awaiting park employee intervention to trim it back. Just to the left, a four-foot high, rough-hewn headstone proclaimed that this was the site of the Winterton Mansion, circa 1785. There seemed to be an energetic residue left from the mansion, accompanied by a sense of foreboding. I had walked up to the stone many times, yet felt an invisible barrier that prevented me from moving past it and into the walnut grove. A friend of mine was with me on one of my woodland walks and as we stood before the headstone, she commented that the house does not like attention drawn to it and prefers that visitors disregard its presence. The story goes that the house burned down and that the area is haunted. Some park visitors have smelled smoke and heard screams. My visits had, up to this point, been uneventful, having established good rapport with the trees and nature spirits in the area. Yet there was always an underlying sense of an alternate dimension, of layers waiting to be discovered, and of the distant past wanting to be remembered, waiting to be explored. While usually approaching with great respect and reverence, this time felt different. It was as though the barrier was thinner, and the area was no longer off-limits. My feet were on the dirt path, but the grove beckoned me to visit, to experience, to cross into another time, another place. All six senses were on alert, prickling from past encounters with the area, teetering between honoring its solitude and an intense curiosity drawing me closer. Something tickled my ankle, and I realized I was standing in the overgrown grass halfway between the path and the headstone. The headstone glared at me in silence, daring me to come forward, to break the seal and the unspoken agreement we had to remain apart. I For Review Only - Do not distribute 2 Diane Wing telepathically assured this sacred space that I meant no harm and asked if I was being invited in. The answer flitted through my mind. I was to proceed at my own risk. Nothing would prevent me from being drawn into another world, if I chose to move forward. My choice, my responsibility. I became intensely aware of the sounds of creatures and leaves and wind. A butterfly came close to my face and fluttered off, as though reminding me that transformation was inevitable, warning me that once I took the next step, there was no turning back and nothing would be the same again. Could I pass up the chance to explore an otherworldly realm? With all of my fantastical literary journeys, was I willing to engage in the unknown for real? Another step and the familiar background music of nature died, replaced by a sinister hush, as though the world, as I knew it, no longer existed. Now I was in the kingdom of yesteryear, a time forgotten and supposedly put to rest. Yet there was no rest for this grove, this tragic site that held within it the pain of those who perished in the fire. Wondering if I could turn back and reenter my own world, I surprised myself and committed to this journey by taking another step forward. I found myself in a field surrounded by shrubs. The ancient oak and black walnut trees did not exist, for I was in a time before their planting. It was dusk, and fireflies were beginning to twinkle. Something shimmered a short distance away. The air felt dense as I cautiously approached the apparition. It began to solidify, first with an outline, and then filling itself in, as though an invisible child sat filling in the lines of a coloring book. What emerged was a massive farmhouse, painted a muted taupe color with deeper brown-gray trim. Ornamental posts held up the wraparound front porch. Rocking chairs sat waiting to accommodate the home’s inhabitants

Synopsis Based on a true story. Ted and Florrie were childhood sweethearts who in 1936, married in the church on top of the Hill where they both lived, unaware of the dark rumblings from Europe, which in a few short years were to change their lives forever.  Ted is called up and joins an elite Airborne glider force tasked with capturing and holding the Pegasus and Horsa bridges in enemy-held Normandy vital to the success of the D-Day invasion. Their mission is a complete success but this is only the awful beginning. From there he continues to fight at the bloody Rhine Crossing, across Germany until finally meeting the Russian Army on the Baltic coast. Casualties are terrible.  In 1946 Ted is demobbed and returns to Florrie and his young family unscathed. But only physically so, for Florrie doesn't recognise the man who returns and soon the experience of constant death and the horror of battle takes its destructive toll on him. Both he and Florrie struggle to understand and come to terms with the problem in the buttoned-up society of the 1940s and 50s. To make matters worse, Florrie's mental health begins to deteriorate. How will Ted deal with this? With the same heightened sense of duty and loyalty that won the war, or will that same stubbornness turn on him and destroy him?  The story also looks at the lives of ordinary people in post-war England, at their values and culture, from the greyness of the fifties with the horse-drawn baker's van and the black footprints of the coal-man, to a country slowly emerging from the devastation of war and is a must read for fans of historical fiction.  Pegasus to Paradise is an ode to both the extraordinary efforts of ordinary men and women during the Second World War, and a moving portrait of duty, survival, humour and the power of love in post-war Britain. Excerpt Ted clicked through the metal gate and opened the front door. He would be glad to put all this shopping down. His forehead felt clammy and he rubbed a dull ache away in his chest. ‘Florrie. You there?’ There was no answer. Probably asleep. Better have a look. The landing was quite dim and he didn’t see it at first. The blood red smear on the white bathroom door and the mark of two fingers. ‘What the hell?’ The words gasped. Now he could see the dark drops on the landing carpet leading to the bedroom. His heart froze and he leant for a second against the wall. There was no sound. ‘Oh no Florrie.’ He pushed the bedroom door open, slowly, and stepped inside. Florrie was lying on her back on the bed, both arms outstretched. Her hands and arms and clothes were soaked red. A smudge of colour around her nose. A streak slashed across her throat. Her eyes closed. Behind her, the wall was smeared and splattered crimson. Ted recoiled as the violent scene screamed into his senses. ‘Jesus Christ.’ And hot tears flooded into his eyes. Then he realised. Something about the smell. This wasn’t blood. He knew what blood smelled like, lots of blood. And the colour...? He moved beside Florrie and placed his fingers on her neck. The pulse beat strongly. Beside her on the bed lay a tube of paint, cap missing and a worm of colour squeezed out. There were others on the bedside table and a large bowl of thin red water. Some had spilled onto the floor leaving a dark puddle. Beside the bowl, a shiny saucepan contained a red solution. Much had run down its side. The pillows, sheets and furniture were spattered with hundreds of spots and splashes. He stood back in horror. She had put the paint on the wall with her hands and fingers – scratching, sliding, smearing a mass of tormented writhing shapes, her painting pad too small to contain her anguish. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck.   Later that night...   Ted stood beside the bed. Below him Florrie curled like a child, black and grey curls resting on the new white pillow. The drug began to seep into her brain, forbidding her nightmares for now. He fell into a bedroom chair and covered his face, trying to rub the horror from his head. Stretching out his hands he could see teeth marks and a smear of blood on one finger. It throbbed painfully. I deserve that don’t I? Don’t I? How could I do that? Christ this can’t be happening. Tears dared fill his eyes. Jesus what am I going to do? How long...? He shouted silently at the night. The night turned its head away. Shame sucked away at his strength and he sat, trembling, surrounded by the debris of himself. A dull pain crossed into his chest. He kept the bedside light on and continued staring upwards, through the ceiling and beyond. Now his brain throbbed like an ugly abscess, threatening to burst and spray and splatter his desperate thoughts across the bedroom walls, like a crime scene. Oh God. Just like Florrie. Desperately spattering her blood red anguish. Within him some thoughts leaped and flopped and squirmed like dying fish, others raced ragged and jostled screaming at each other, contradicting, punishing, churning pain...Jesus what’s happening to me? Why can’t I think straight? His soul wept and he fell asleep. He awoke suddenly, in a panic, face and neck wet and slimy. Twisting he failed to see Florrie immediately. Yes, thank God. There she is, cocooned in blanket and sheet, still sleeping. He looked at the alarm clock. Six minutes had passed. He looked at her again. Her breathing was so shallow that for a moment he thought she had died. Maybe that would be better? Oh for Christ’s sake Ted. He had had a bad dream – yet another. He’d found Florrie climbing up inside a chimney, just her bare legs showing, smeared with soot. He had tried to grab a foot, but she had wriggled free and disappeared from sight into the black, suffocating void leaving him in helpless terror. He sat on the edge of the bed and wiped his face with a hand, then wiped his hand on his pyjama trousers. What had she been trying to tell him? Was she aware of what was happening to her but was too frightened; too confused to say? Was he helpless to save her? Was she slipping away into...? He realised he probably had had vague warnings, snatches of dreams that crept quietly into his waking thoughts and left sooty traces; words and behaviour that itched on the periphery of his awareness. Like comments made by a boring guest at a party that lodge but don’t register until later. He quietly left the bedroom and went to wash his face. Acid rose from his stomach and threatened his throat. He swallowed uncomfortably and reached for the tablets he always carried these days. Bloody indigestion.    

Synopsis A humorous, animal detective story for 7-12 year-olds. When Mr Woodland Mouse mysteriously disappears, Constable Mole is quick to enlist the help of Leon Chameleon, Private Investigator, whose expertise enabled the Pigeon Valley Police to solve the case of the missing canary eggs. After organising a search, Leon realises that there is only one creature in the valley who can spring the captured mouse from his prison. But just when he thinks Mr Woodland Mouse is safely on his way home, the plan goes horribly wrong..." All the animal details of food, habits, and lifestyle are true to nature (apart from Constable Mole’s sunglasses!) and the animals solve the crimes using their own natural abilities.  Children will absorb much knowledge of the small creatures of Africa without being aware of it.  A section of interesting facts has been added to this second detective story in the Leon Chameleon PI series. It provides valuable and little-known information on chameleons, moles and other creatures featured in the story. Excerpt “LEON, Leon!” cried Constable Mole, clambering out of his burrow and hurriedly dusting the soil from his fur. “Are you there, Leon?” Mole’s urgent, squeaking voice startled Leon Chameleon, who was dreaming, with half-closed eyes, of all the detective cases he would one day solve. The branch he was perched on swayed slightly in the gentle breeze, and the warm sun filtering through the leaves made him feel quite sleepy. “Leon!” demanded Mole. “Drat,” thought Leon, as Constable Mole’s frantic voice became even more urgent. “What can the little chap want in such a hurry?” Leon’s eyes at the end of their cone-shaped turrets  swivelled down in search of Constable Mole, whose reddish-brown body was almost invisible against the brown of the earth. At last he spotted Mole’s anxious figure. “Leon!” squeaked Mole in annoyance, stamping his feet. “All right, all right. I’m coming,” said Leon, sighing at Mole’s impatience. Slowly Leon unfurled his tail from the twig, around which he’d secured it for extra support in case he fell asleep and toppled off. He began his ponderous climb down through the branches of the Pigeonwood Tree, which was his headquarters where he waited for clients who needed his help. On reaching the lowest branch he yelled a warning: “Watch out, Mole!” “Oh no,” muttered Mole when he heard Leon drawing in great puffs of air. He knew from past experience that it wasn’t safe under trees when Leon was about to launch himself from a branch. He scurried down his hole out of harm’s way. Leon puffed and puffed, sucking air into the tiny airways of his lungs which were spread throughout his body. When he’d blown himself up like a miniature balloon, he bellowed, “Look out below,” and with a mighty push of his strong back legs leapt from the branch. But even when he was filled with air, Leon’s descent was still quite rapid. Mole remained in the safety of his hole until he felt the ground shudder as Leon’s plummeting body landed with a plop amongst the dried leaves. Mole was always amazed that Leon never hurt himself when he jumped from trees. But Leon’s trick of blowing up his body cushioned his fall and he simply bounced when he hit the ground. “Now, what’s the problem?” Leon asked after he’d recovered from the fall and returned to his normal size. “There’s been a kidnapping in the Valley,” said Mole, his voice even squeakier in his anxiety to reveal the news. “Mr Woodland Mouse has been taken.” “Taken? Taken by whom?” demanded Leon. “A young boy. I don’t know all the details. It was Mrs Dusky Flycatcher who saw it happen. Do hurry, Leon, she’s waiting at Lieutenant Crow’s headquarters.” Leon thought for a moment. “I think it will be better if I meet you there,” he told Mole. “It will be quicker if you go underground.” Mole’s fumbling way of travelling above ground tended to slow things down. “Good idea,” said Mole, plunging into his burrow and nearly colliding with Molerat who was on his way out. “Oh, do get out of my way,” said Constable Mole impatiently. “I’m on official police business.” Molerat was offended by Constable Mole’s brusque manner. “Just because we sometimes share the same digs, there’s no need to be rude,” he said crossly. Molerat was a member of the Pigeon Valley Neighbourhood Watch and liked to assist with police investigations. But in his over-eagerness he tended to make a mess of things. As a result, no one wanted his help. He watched sulkily as Constable Mole disappeared down the burrow. Meanwhile, Leon hurried to the tall Natal Fig Tree where Lieutenant Crow had her headquarters. Leon could move quite fast along the ground, but when the tangles of canary creeper threatened to slow him down he took to the trees, quickly scurrying through the branches. He arrived to find Sergeant Loerie at the Missing Persons Branch, taking down notes in his usual bossy way. “What time was it when the kidnap occurred?” he demanded of Mrs Dusky Flycatcher. She was a quiet, smallish grey-brown bird who kept to herself and wasn’t very often seen. “Tsip-tsip-tsirrrrt. Let me see,” she said, nervously flicking her wings. “It was when I flew down onto the forest floor to catch a termite. The sun was at its highest, so it must have been around midday.”   Leon waited impatiently while Sergeant Loerie tapped down this information onto a leaf. Later he would file it in the hollow trunk of the tree where he kept all the details of the crimes committed in Pigeon Valley.

Synopsis Richmond, California. World War II. A cross burning takes innocent lives and unsettles the town. After Japan attacks Pearl Harbor, American Italians start to disappear, a rapist promises to revisit his victims, and someone viciously beats shipyard workers – to death. His failure to solve these seemingly unrelated events haunts homicide detective Oliver Wright, even after he reenlists in the Marines and finds himself fighting in the Pacific.  Oliver returns to Richmond near the end of the war, injured and afraid his career is over. But when an Italian Prisoner of War is murdered the night the Port Chicago Mutiny verdicts are announced, and black soldiers are suspected of the crime, the Army asks Oliver to find out the truth. He joins forces with an Italian POW captain and with a black MP embittered by a segregated military. During their investigation, these unlikely allies expose layers of deceit and violence that stretch back to World War I, and uncover a common thread that connects the earlier crimes.  In the Shadow of Lies reveals the darkness and turmoil of the Bay Area during World War II, while celebrating the spirit of the everyday people who made up the home front. Its intriguing characters will resonate with the reader long after its deftly intertwined mysteries are solved. Excerpt San Francisco Bay, 1944 “Stop, or I’ll shoot!” A soldier raised his pistol and searched the water for Luca. “Stop!” The Italian POW broke the surface ten feet away from the ferry. The soldier fired at the bobbing head, then aimed again. A cane struck his arm. “Stand down, soldier!” Lt. Oliver Wright stumbled against him, then righted himself with the cane. “Can’t you see what’s happening?” “Oh, I get it.” The guard smiled and lowered the gun. “Why waste the ammo? That dago won’t last ten minutes out there.” Something flew past their heads once, then again. An MP threw a third life preserver into the bay. Harley trembled at the rail and barked sharply at Oliver. The dog flew into the air and over the side as soon as Oliver’s hand began the signal to go. The MP saluted. “My people don’t much take after Johnny Weissmuller, but we do have a talent for throwing. Corporal Nate Hermit, sir.” Their hasty introductions were subsumed in shouts and cries. “Man overboard! Come about, come about!” The ferry shuddered as the engines slammed into reverse. Above the vessel’s groans, a woman shrieked. Soldiers and POWs rushed to her side. Another group of POWs spotted a motorized skiff lashed to the rail and raced toward it. Nate took off after them, reaching the boat as it swung out and back against the side of the ferry, the POWs straining to lower it and the weight of two of their compatriots. Oliver watched Nate launch himself into the skiff, knock down one of the POWs, and almost wrench the lines free. “Sorry. If I don’t come with you, that cracker with the pistol will sink you before you can help that little girl—and your captain.” He righted himself and looked toward the water. Oliver heard him mutter, “Then again, he would just as happily sink me, too.” The POWs looked for a moment as if they were going to pitch the MP out of the skiff, then shrugged and focused on the men on deck, who gestured and shouted, directing the boat to the swimmer.   Luca hit the water hard. It didn’t yield to his body as the soft, warm water of his home did. He surfaced, gasping from the impact and the shock of the cold. His trousers weighed him down. He swam, lifted one arm after the other, kicked, pulled, and pushed himself toward the place he thought the child might be. He had gone into the water almost immediately after she had fallen; he must be close to her. But he did not know these waters and could only hope the current would not take her away from him faster than he could follow. The frigid water numbed his skin; he dove, forcing open his stinging eyes. The sun lit a path that glowed just under the chop. He surfaced and lined up on the spot where he thought she had gone in and dove again. Eccola—there was her red coat, billowing like a scarlet jellyfish, trapped air suspending it below the surface of the water. He pushed and kicked himself toward the form, his body growing heavier and heavier. He didn’t think about what he would do when he reached the red coat, but he wasn’t giving up before he got there. He grabbed the coat and pushed for the surface, broke through the water, and pulled the cold air into his lungs. He rested on his back, holding the child on his chest. Something bumped him from behind. As the word shark formed in his brain, he saw a white flash to his left. He spun and saw not an underbelly, but a life preserver bobbing and dipping. He reached toward it, slapped it, but it slid out from under his numb hand. He didn’t have the strength to chase it around the bay. And then it came back to him gripped by the shepherd, just head and rudder-like tail above the water as it struggled toward him. The dog nudged the ring tight against Luca, who held the limp girl in the crook of his arm. He tipped the ring on an edge toward him and tried to flip it over the girl. It slipped away, and the dog pushed it back. Again. And again. And then it happened. Luca wedged her inside the canvas circle as best he could. She was safe now, as safe as he could make her until help came. But she was cold, too, and so tiny. He tried to think how long they had been in the bay, even as he began to drift to sun-warmed waters. The waves of the bay of his home rocked him gently, and he listened to the sounds of the fishermen returning to shore.    

Synopsis When Jamie Keller's father is killed in Iraq by a roadside bomb, her mother decides to combat the financial and emotional stress by moving the family from Hamilton, Ohio to the rural town of Promise, Oregon. Fourteen-year-old Jamie narrates the tale of the journey, intermingling descriptions of family dynamics with her own personal philosophy of life. The victims of Jamie's scrutiny include: older sister Jenny, who listens to praise music and wears a WWJD bracelet; younger brother Jake, contained and brainy, with know-it-all tendencies; and little sister Jana, lover of animals and sometimes the comic relief. In Reno, Nevada, the mystery begins when Jamie's mother fails to pick the kids up at the mall as had been previously arranged. After waiting for hours in the blazing heat, brother Jake finally goes in search of his mom only to return with an amazing story. He has located the car, and everything in it is intact (including the family's pet cats), but Mrs. Keller is nowhere to be found. Intensive searching proves futile. Their mother has vanished! Nervous about becoming wards of the state of Nevada, and fearful of being put in separate foster homes, the Keller kids decide to avoid authority, choosing instead to take the gamble, and continue on to Promise, Oregon. On the way into town, a giant JESUS banner is the first sign that Promise is in a bible belt. Jenny is thrilled, Jamie, not so. Upon arriving at the ranch, the Kellers are met with further disappointment when they discover that the 'ranch' is nothing more than an old trailer, situated off the grid. Jake is in his element, with the challenge of solar panels, batteries and generators, but the girls are far from enchanted. War, religion, world peace, inner peace, dealing with financial stress and self sufficiency are some of the key topics in this often humorous story story. Off the Grid is a contemporary novelette directed at a young teen audience but enjoyed by all ages. Excerpt By the time we got to Reno the whole idea of having anything to do with my family completely lost its charm. I hated these people! Even Jana was whining, and Jake’s ability to stay so distant and calm was rattling my cage, too. Speaking of cages, I hadn’t mentioned how the cats were faring in all of this. I hadn’t mentioned how they pooped in Nebraska, forcing us to drive with the windows down, in over one-hundred degree heat. We suffered for over an hour, without air conditioning, until we could get to the rest stop and clean the cage. Poor Isaiah and Schwartz, they were panting, and so miserable. We were seriously concerned for them.     And then, there was Jenny. For being such a Christian, it amazed me how blatantly materialistic she was. Her mall withdrawal was just plain annoying, and she wouldn’t let it go; begging Mom to stop at every mall we saw along the way, and then sulking till the next, when it would start all over again. I imagined she had to be holding out some of her own funds if she wanted to get to the mall so badly. However, Jenny had certain leverage here, because her birthday was three days after we got the news about Dad. It was a shame she’d had such a sad fifteenth birthday, but she was milking it for all it was worth. Lucky for her, Jana had left all her underwear (in the form of clean laundry) on Cousin Robin’s bed, back in Hamilton, and was putting in her own pleas for replacements.    Mom relented, deciding to drop us off at The Great Mall of Reno while she ran to the bank for the last dregs of our savings. As I have mentioned, the gas prices were killing us. We were so broke we’d given up fast food and were eating fresh fruit and peanut butter sandwiches. Yuck! Chocolate chip cookies were the only thing that made any of it bearable. I hated fruit and peanut butter.    So, the plan was for Mom to drop us off at the mall and return in a half-hour, while we ran in to buy Jana’s underwear. This was rather embarrassing, especially for Jake, who tried to talk Mom into letting him stay with her.    “I vant to be alone,” she said mysteriously, and insisted we “all go!”    I suspected Mom was planning on sneaking a cigarette, because she sometimes smoked when she was stressed. I, myself, enjoyed a smoke, every now and then, so it was no skin off my teeth, but Jana and Jenny would get really freaked out when Mom smoked, claiming she was gonna die, which was so stupid because, yes, she was going to die, just like the rest of us.    “Stay together!” Were her last words, as we got out of the car.    The minute we stepped into the mall, I announced I had to pee but would meet back with everybody in the girl’s department. I tore like hell down the escalator and into a candy store, where I bought more lemon drops (maybe to share later) and a healthy stash of chocolate mint balls, which I planned on keeping for myself. I stuffed the whole works in my backpack and found my way to the Penney’s girl department, just as Jana’s Day of the Week underwear was being paid for.    Jenny eyed me suspiciously, but said not a word    “Let’s get out of here,” Jake urged.And so we did, taking our time to stop and smell the cinnamon buns. I broke down and bought two, to split between us, while Jenny rushed into The Limited, coming out, all smiles, in under six minutes, with her purchase. She was an impressive shopper.    We were still five minutes early by the time we’d made it back outside. The benches in front of the mall were thigh-burning hot and I longed for a cold beverage after the first minute of waiting. After ten minutes I began to get plain antsy. Even my candy stash wasn’t enough to distract from the miserable heat, plus it made my chocolate melt, making for sticky hands.    “Hurry up, Mom!” I said to no one in particular.    We waited. . .    Where the hell is that woman? Where the hell, where the hell? It was a little sea-chantey-like ditty I sang, but no one paid heed. Jenny was busy admiring her purchase, checking inside the Limited bag as if her new shirt might try to escape. Jake was engrossed in the science section of some old newspaper he’d found on the bench, and. dear Jana, was so proud and pleased with her new underwear. Unlike Jenny, she let them out of the bag for all to admire.    We waited. . . 

Synopsis Known for hunting the supernatural, no mortal man realizes Lord Cedric is one of Sorceress Morrighan’s abominations. After competing in a tournament, he is wed to a Lady of the Court, Angeline. Cedric’s senses begin to overwhelm him and he struggles to decipher his feelings; Are they a creation of his incubine bloodline or truly heartfelt emotions for the girl who has lost it all to him? He finds himself forced to choose between falling in love or continuing his suicidal quest to kill his creator. Epic battles against all manners of beasts and demons fill this story with memorable antagonists such as Morrighan and her two sisters; Romasanta the Father of Werewolves; Succubus Queen Lillith and many more. Find yourself engulfed in lores and history long forgotten from the 12th Century and beyond. Excerpt Angeline’s face mottled. Raised on a farm, she couldn’t help but scoff at the fact his lordship was rather bold for someone of his rank. In all her years at the Castle, not even a peasant had dared to spit in front of a Lady of the Court, let alone relieve himself. It was exasperating keeping her back to him. He was right behind her doing his business while she was trying to gather wood. Dropping what little she had in a pile, she decided it would have to wait. He was in the way and was in no mood to go too far from the camp. She watched as the horses started fussing and fidgeting at their hitching tree. Her eyes caught a strange movement from the tree. Once more, the bare tree shuddered and one horse screamed, pulling its reins tight as it backed away. “There it is.” Cedric finished and turned around to walk back to the horses. “Stay back.” “What is going on?” Swallowing her nervousness, she watched the dead tree quiver again and more screams came from the horses. “What is happening?” “Dinner.” Scoffing, he stopped halfway; the horses were frantic and trying to tug free, biting at their reins. Despite the distance, Angeline could see the whites of the eyes of the horses that were now pawing at the tree. They were desperate and frightened beyond anything she had ever seen. One horse managed to break free and sped off down the trail, leaving its companion screaming and bucking. The other horse was fighting to free itself, but all it produced were raw spots from its harness that dripped blood down its cheek. The bright red lines glistened in the sunlight as the struggle continued. A rumbling was coming from the ground as the dead tree started to grow taller as if a weed pulled up by an unseen hand. The horse was bucking and squealing, foam dripping from its mouth, eyes wild with fear. In horror, Angeline watched as the ground exploded, the horse pulled high in the air. The dead tree was the horn on the nose of a Sand Orm. It was a massive serpent with scales running down into the ground that imitated the look of an earthworm. Smooth and the color of the soil, she marveled over its size as she caught glimpses of a treelike fin that ran the beast’s length. Once more, the ground trembled under her feet. The mammoth Orm snatched the horse dangling from its nose-horn into its mouth. Its gapping jaws were large enough to hold three horses with room for the riders. She slid to her knees in awe as she watched the massive creature eat. Its jaws muffling the horse’s scream quickly, despite the lack of any teeth besides the hard boulder-lined lips. Her ears met with a mixture of crackling and popping, unsure of when she was hearing the bones of the horse or simply the stony collision of the monster’s jaws. Lord Cedric was unmoved. The Orm turned its enormous head to face Cedric, a low groaning rippled from it as it did so. Trees and bushes shifted and moved just behind it and down the trail. The entire forest snaked back and forth like waves on the ocean connected to this monster that towered over them like a small mountain. There had been talks of whole forests changing and moving, but seeing an Orm so close explained everything. Its back fin was the forest and with a shudder, it could shift and change acres of what could be mistaken as legitimate trees and underbrush. “Whoa!” Cedric spat. “You’re much bigger than I thought.” Snorting dust clouds from its nostrils, it moaned louder in response. It sounded like boulders falling and sent vibrations through the ground, shaking the air in Cedric’s lungs. The plant-like fin rattled and the remaining birds fled from their homes misplaced on a demon’s back. Two glowing eyes opened to peer down at who dare stand against such power. With another shake of its woodland appendage, the Orm came crashing down towards Cedric. An explosion of soil and rocks flew up and past the tallest of trees. The roaring of the ground muted Angeline’s screaming. The rolling cloud of dirt blocked out the sun and overwhelmed all her senses. As she coughed on a lungful of wet soil, rocks fell from the darkened sky. Crawling across the shaking ground, she desperately sought one of the sleeping bags or any cloth to help her breathe. Wheezing harder, she ripped her skirt, covering her mouth and nose. Her eyes stung from the debris. She could barely see her own hands in the darkness, let alone tell if the Orm was closer or further away. The ground shook violently again, the sun a distant memory in all the chaos and hell that swallowed her now. She scrambled backwards, but a hand pushed against the middle of her back and she froze. “Stop moving.” Cedric’s whispering lips caressed her ear; chills ran down her spine and through her limbs. “It can’t see you, but it can feel anything move on the ground. Even when the blasted thing is moving around, it can pick out a grasshopper among all of this.”

Synopsis When Beth's eccentric boss at the government research lab asks her to try out his latest duplicating machine, she'd be crazy to do any such thing. She's not cleared for this, insured or authorized; it's late Friday evening and she wants to go home. But Beth is fatally unassertive. She agrees, and unknown to her another Beth is created. The replica overhears MI5 chief, Sir Peter Ellis, discussing her future - or rather, lack of it. Terrified, she goes on the run. Penniless, friendless and homeless, she has to find the inner strength and aggression to survive on icy London streets. Spec op Nick Cavanagh likes to win. Though Beth thinks he's outside her apartment to protect her, in fact he's hunting her double. As the replica proves difficult to catch and the stakes get higher, he has to decide whose side he is on. Excerpt Beth had stacked the dishes and was wiping surfaces when Nick returned with Ollie’s tray. He moved to the sink and turned the tap on, then got the Fairy Liquid from the cupboard under the sink. “It’s okay, I can do that…” Nick disregarded her and carried on. “You wipe, I don’t know where things go.” The washing up didn’t take long. As they did it, they made desultory conversation like old friends. When the last saucepan was clean, Nick ran the water away, put the inevitable lone teaspoon he had missed on the draining board, wrung out the dishcloth, laid it over the tap and dried his hands. Beth picked up the teaspoon, wiped it, and put it in the drawer. She leaned back against the counter and smiled at him, fingering a red-gold tendril of hair which twisted in a perfect spiral, shining like metal. Funny, Sandra’s hair was red, too, a dyed dark red that was heavy and dead compared to Beth’s. “Thanks.” “No problem.” He reached out, pulled the curl gently and let it go. It straightened, and sprang back when released. She stared at her feet, then as if compelled, raised her gaze to his. Nick gave her the look that usually worked; women liked his eyes, dark, warm, not altogether trustworthy, and he knew it. In the room next door the phone rang. Beth didn’t move to answer it; her eyes stayed on his; he noticed the irises were darker round their rims, and as she blushed they became bluer. The moment lengthened, till the phone finally stopped ringing. Nick stepped through that invisible barrier which separates strangers and keeps them apart, and laid his cheek on hers. Giving her plenty of time to recoil or remonstrate, should she want to, he leaned against her, turned his head and kissed her soft lips. Three heartbeats, then her arms circled his waist, pulling him closer. She’s thinking of the boyfriend, how he cheated on her…if this isn’t a window of opportunity, I don’t know what is. After some time, mid-kiss, Beth smiled. It is not possible to kiss satisfactorily while smiling. Nick drew back and raised his eyebrows. She said, “How can I put this…is that a gun in your pocket?” Nick laughed. “I don’t carry a gun.” He kissed her again. “It’s a taser.” “Goodness…” His voice went lower. “Though I am quite pleased to see you.” His hand slid under her jumper, discovering a silky layer beneath. The counter she leaned on got in the way; it was probably digging into her back, too. “There’s a lot to be said for doing this horizontally, on a soft surface.” He kissed her as persuasively as he could. “Pocket springs, a duvet…pillows… Just a thought…” If she said no he’d go and sit with Ollie in the van like he was supposed to. The cold would take his mind off it. But he’d rather stay here and break a few rules with Beth, and besides, Nick liked to win. Beth’s unspoken response was encouraging, even while she murmured, “But should you be doing this at all?” “No. Let’s go to bed.” Beth kept him waiting a few minutes for an answer, but when it came, it was the one he wanted. She moved towards the bedroom. “Poor Ollie, out there in the cold. I feel a bit bad about him.” “I’m not asking him up.” Nick pulled his sweater over his head and began to unbutton his shirt as he followed her. “Threesomes are overrated. Two many elbows gathered in one place.”