Monday, November 02, 2020

An Excerpt from Master of Desire

I've been very busy writing this summer. First up is Master of Desire, the next book in my Mageverse series, out now.

For half-Sidhe billionaire Conal Donovan, rich people problems include an ex who’s an evil Fairy goddess named Siobhan. When Siobhan sends a team of werewolf terrorists to kidnap and torture him, he’s rescued by Helena Baker, African American, former FBI agent, and wolf-shifter. But Conal’s not out of the woods, because Siobhan has sworn to kill him, his sisters, and all his Sidhe friends. He and Helena decide the only way to protect the innocent is to focus Siobhan’s vicious jealousy on them by pretending to be lovers.

Helena Baker’s best friend is a gun inhabited by a retired death god, so she can handle werewolves. She’s less sure about the handsome white guy with the talking phoenix and the relentless commitment to protecting his sisters. Especially considering that she’s in her Burning Moon -- the werewolf version of heat. Her pheromones make Conal just as interested in her as she is in him. But is their growing love real? And what will happen when the hormones wear off?

Love really shouldn’t be this complicated.

Buy Links: Amazon    Apple   Kobo   Changeling Press  (B&N Link coming soon.)

In this excerpt, Helena fights for her werewolf life as Conal tries to escape from the chair his werewolf kidnappers have chained him to. He's covered in werewolf bites, and suffering from blood loss.


Conal convulsed as the werewolves closed in on his would-be rescuer. His chains rattled. Any full-blooded Sidhe would have made short work of them -- the supposed fairy allergy to cold iron was a myth -- but he just didn’t have that much power. Twisting his wrists, he groped for the link he’d been trying to burn through. Torture made it tough to cast spells.

Blood loss, shock and pain had taken a toll on his abilities, but the sight of the female werewolf going down under her attackers sent a wave of blessed adrenaline through his body. Magic flared between his fingertips, and Conal gritted his teeth, fighting to maintain the shield that protected his skin as the link blazed hot, then finally parted.

Conal wrenched with the last dregs of his strength. Metal rattled as the ends of the chain dropped to the floor. Panting, he struggled to unwrap the loops. Finally the last of them fell away, and he heaved out of the chair. The room spun, but he steadied himself, tried to take a step… and fell on his face. He’d forgotten the chains binding his ankles to the chair legs. The impact jarred his savaged chest and belly, sending black spots dancing in front of his eyes. The darkness closed in…

Liam Neeson yelled in his ear, “Get up, boy, before they kill her!”

“The… fuck?” Blearily, he managed to open his eyes and turn his head toward the sound.

A shotgun lay on the floor about a yard away. “I said, get up!” the voice bellowed, coming from the weapon. Must be using the same speech spell as Essus. It still sounded like the Taken guy. The light finally dawned. That’s not an actor, that’s Maeve’s pet death god. Which meant his werewolf rescuer was Helena Baker.

“Pick me up!” the gun demanded. “The geas only lets me use my power if someone’s touching me.”

Which suggested Maeve didn’t trust the fucker. Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but Conal didn’t care. Even as another blazing wave of pain slashed his shredded belly, he groped for the gun with a shaking hand. Managed to grab Liam’s fat barrel. It felt hot under his fingers. “My ankles are still chained.”

Magic swirled around his legs. “Not anymore.”

His feet fell away from the chair, which now lay toppled across his butt. He kicked it away, gasping as agony ripped through him. “Can you heal me?”

“What part of ‘death god’ don’t you get?”

Dammit. He gathered his strength and forced himself to hands and knees. Teeth gritted, he braced his hand on the fallen chair and managed to stagger upright, dragging the gun with him. Remembered an unpleasant rumor. “Don’t kill me.”

“Fine! Just save Helena!” Was that fear in the god’s voice?

Steadying himself, Conal raised the weapon. Christ, Liam was heavy. One of the kidnappers, red as an Irish Setter, staggered back from the knot of battling werewolves, clutching a sliced throat. Conal fired, bracing himself against the shotgun’s ferocious kick. It almost knocked him on his ass, but the red werewolf’s head exploded.

One down. He shifted his aim to the snarling, writhing dog pile, all claws, curses, and snapping teeth. Helena had black fur, but there were at least two that color…

“Don’t fire,” Liam snarled. “You’ll hit her.”

“Can’t you guide the damn bullet?”

“That’s not how it works. The geas won’t let me hit anything but what you aim at. Can you use a sword?”

His lips peeled off bloody, sticky teeth. “Hell, yes.”

Magic lit his senses, burning his hands as the shotgun became a two-handed great sword that was even heavier.

“Demon winds, you’re weak.” Liam sounded thoroughly disgusted.

“Just spent an hour being tortured,” Conal snapped back, angry shame storming through him. Fucking Siobhan.

“Fine! Here.” Magic burned his hands with cold fire. A heartbeat later, energy roared through his veins, blasting his spent body with a berserker’s strength. “It won’t last, so get to work.”

Yes!” Conal swung the big blade up and charged, glorying in the surge of power, hungry for revenge. He wished he’d had Darkbane when these fuckers gated in, but the magical weapon had been in his bedroom. It might as well have been in New York.

He spun, building momentum, and chopped the sword into the nearest furry back with a triumphant bellow. The wolf screamed and twisted, one clawed hand darting toward Conal’s face. He ducked the swipe, simultaneously twisting the blade and jerking it free. The wolf yelped, high with anguish, and light blazed around him. When the glow vanished, he’d transformed into a timber wolf the size of a pony.

He’d also healed. The wolf whirled to race away, but Conal spun the sword and decapitated him. “Who’s a pussy now, Fido fucker?”

Another pair of yellow eyes flashed in his direction, and that wolf charged. Conal pivoted smoothly aside, swinging the sword two-handed, Derek Jeter going for a homer. The monster tried to dodge, but the blade sank into furry ribs. Howling, Conal levered the weapon up through the werewolf’s torso with all his berserker’s strength. The wolf clawed his forearms, raking furrows Conal barely felt as he twisted the blade free. The monster crumpled in a dying heap.

“Got the heart,” Liam told him. “Good work.”

Conal glanced down at his bloody arms, at his savaged stomach, and the analytical part of his brain wondered how the god was keeping him on his feet.  Then he decided he didn’t give a damn. Helena had done something permanent to one of her last three attackers. The fucker was down on the ground, writhing, beginning to glow. About to transform and heal again. Oh, hell, no.

Conal headed for Helena and her final two foes, swinging Liam at the downed wolf as he passed. Bone crunched, blood flew and the magical glow vanished with the monster’s death.

“You have a nasty streak,” the god observed. “I approve.”

“Five years with Siobhan makes you mean.” He freed the blade with an easy twist of his wrist. Blood pattered on the floor. Fido’s? Eh, could be mine.

One of Helena’s attackers sensed him coming and leaped away. Conal’s sword stroke missed, but a whisker swirled through the air, neatly severed. Liam was sharp. I do love a good blade. Conal coiled, his hands flexing on the sword hilt. The nearest wolf turned to snarl, lips peeled back from fangs the length of daggers.

Conal felt… odd, despite the singing power, almost floating. Blood loss.

“Demon winds, you’re dying on your feet,” Liam said. “Hell with it, let’s shoot him.” In the next instant the sword was a shotgun again. Even as the wolf leaped for him, Conal found the trigger and fired.

The blast as the wolf’s torso exploded knocked Conal off his feet. He lay stunned, vaguely embarrassed.

“You’re done,” Liam told him. “Throw me to Helena.”

But if I do that, I’m going to die, Conal thought muzzily. Oh, fuck it. He managed to sit up even as the world spun. “Helena!” And he threw the shotgun.

She caught Liam out of the air, whirled, and fired, all one smooth motion. As if from a distance, Conal heard the blast as the last wolf’s head exploded.

The world rolled sideways and went out.

* * *

Helena panted, every nerve in her body ablaze with pain. She hadn’t dared shift during the fight, since there were too fucking many of them. And she’d paid the price. She felt like hamburger after a trip through a meat grinder. Probably looked it, too.

Drawing on her magic, she transformed. Human again, she bent, panting as she braced Liam’s shotgun butt on the floor like a cane. God, that’s better. But not by much. The shift had returned her clothing and healed her injuries, but it had done fuck all for the exhaustion of using so much magic on Mortal Earth.

Lifting her head, she looked around for Conal. He lay ten feet away, covered in even more blood than when she’d dived over the balcony rail. Crap. She lifted Liam and hurried toward him. The closer she got, the worse he looked. “Is he still alive?”

“Barely,” Liam growled. “I’m calling Maeve.”

“What about the geas?”

“Siobhan’s cretins are dead, so the spell isn’t in effect.” Thoughtfully, he added, “Conal acquitted himself rather well. Vicious fighter. I’d figured he’d be a pampered little halfer.”

“Racist.” Helena dropped to her knees beside the Changeling. What she could see of his face was paper pale beneath the blood. The werewolves had mauled him like a dog pack. He had bites and raking claw wounds to his chest, belly, face, legs and arms. “How in the hell was he fighting?”

“Berserker spell. Too bad I can’t do that on you.”

“If you could, I wouldn’t be magic resistant, and you’d have killed me by now. Did you call Maeve? He’s covered in blood.”

“I did, and not all of it’s his.”

Conal’s lids lifted and he looked up at her feverishly. They stared at each other for a long, spinning moment. God, his eyes… The violet irises pulled you in, made you want to watch all those shifting shades of blue and purple.

“I’m Helena Baker. Maeve sent me.”

“I know.” A lunatic grin broke across his face. There was blood on his teeth. “Marry me,” he gasped. Then his eyes rolled up, and he passed out.

She blinked down at him, nonplussed.

“Well,” Liam drawled. “He does have good taste, though as proposals do go, that one could have used some work.”

She felt the fireworks burst of an opening dimensional gate. “Conal!” Maeve cried, striding across the room, Essus clinging to one shoulder.

The phoenix eagle’s wings beat in agitation. His feathers were glowing, dangerously close to bursting into flame. “Maeve, he’s dying…”

“Not for long.” Maeve dropped to one knee and extended a hand over the Changeling’s bloody chest. Magic poured from her long fingers.

Helena’s nose stung with the scent of ozone as the Mother of Fairies set to work healing each of the Changeling’s wounds, her swirling power making his entire body glow. “Do you think he’s been infected?” Any human bitten that many times would shortly turn furry. Merlin’s Curse was catching.

Maeve shook her head, bells and charms tinkling in her hair. “No, he has enough Sidhe blood to block the spell.”

“Oh, good.” It would suck for the poor bastard to survive all this, only to die from the Bite. Twenty percent of Direkind didn’t survive their first transformation -- their magic escaped their control and incinerated them. Not that the first shift was a party even for the lucky eighty percent. Helena grimaced, remembering her own.

By the time the Mother sat back on her heels with a sigh of satisfaction, Conal was healed and whole. Even the blood was gone, leaving no sign whatsoever of the horrific torture he’d suffered, beyond those gore-splattered jeans. He was otherwise naked, elegant chiseled torso bare, with long legs, ridiculously broad shoulders and powerful arms -- the kind of body designed for combat and seduction.

He stirred with a groan of relief as his lids fluttered and lifted. His face was as ridiculously beautiful as his body. Thick dark brows drew attention to those arresting violet eyes and the kind of sculpted, aggressively masculine features you usually saw only on busts of Roman generals. Long dark hair spilled around his head, revealing ears that swept into elegant points. Changelings so obviously Sidhe usually employed some magical tatt to keep a human disguise going even while they were asleep or unconscious. Probably that sigil on his left pectoral, judging by the magic it radiated. Being a werewolf, Helena saw him as he was. It was a damn nice view…

Her libido picked that moment to wake up and start rumbling, nipples tightening, heat gathering in her pussy. Oh, shut up. He’s not going to be interested in me. He’s seen my inner Big Bad Wolf.

Healed or not, it took Conal a minute to start tracking. He blinked up at them in confusion, before he sucked in a gasp and jolted into a sitting position, looking wildly around.

“All is well,” Maeve told him, catching a bare shoulder to gently urge him back down before he could leap away. “Those who hurt you are dead, thanks to my wolf.”

“Actually, he got some of them himself,” Helena said. She’d seen him swinging that great sword like Arthur in a snit. “Good job with Liam, by the way.”

When she’d first glimpsed him with the shotgun, her first thought was Oh, shit. Helena was the only one who could handle Liam without risking a self-inflicted bullet. Apparently, the death god had behaved himself -- for once.

Unlike the werewolves. Grimacing, Helena glanced around at the chaos and blood splatter that reminded her too much of her own crime scene. Her stomach lurched, and she quickly returned her attention to Conal.

He was looking around at the carnage with a shell-shocked expression. Probably having a horrific flashback of his own.

Impulsively, she laid a hand on his shoulder. Conal jerked, staring at her before he visibly forced himself to relax and give her a smile. “Sorry. I’m a little jumpy.”

She smiled back, making it as kind as she could. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve had a hell of a day.” But at least you’re not going to turn furry.

Being a monster was nobody’s idea of fun.


I hope you'll check it out!

Buy Links: Amazon    Apple   Kobo   Changeling Press  (B&N Link coming soon.)

Thursday, March 19, 2020

An excerpt of Master of Honor

They've got a second chance. But can love - and trust - rise again from the ashes of honor?
Blurb – A month ago, Cheryl Parker thought she was an ordinary woman – a nurse, a mother, a woman whose lover had walked out. Now she’s gained incredible power thanks to an alien spirit who has made her immortal.
She looks twenty again. And her ex is back.
It’s not unusual to discover an old lover kept secrets. Ulf’s secret is that he’s an immortal vampire Knight of the Round Table.
The good news is, he still loves Cheryl. The bad news is, he thinks the creature inhabiting her is a potential threat to humanity.
The worst news is, there is a threat – and it could well kill them all.
Ulf wants nothing more than to be with Cheryl again. The problem is her magic resembles that of a dragon who tried to set a small town ablaze. And she knows more about the creature than she’s saying.
Even as passion rekindles between them, Cheryl and Ulf must overcome years of lies and mistrust. Otherwise they’re doomed -- and so is everyone else.
Because the creature stalking them is something worse than a dragon. Much, much worse.

Master of Honor will be released April 3 at the retail price of $4.99. It will be released at the Changeling website in all formats  March 27 at the reduced price at $4.24.

Pre-order Links:

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Charleston, SC, 1981
Ulf couldn’t get that last image of Grigori Kuznetsov out of his head. Bloody. Broken. Dead.
Two KGB agents had hurled the young engineer out a tenth-story window after a brutal beating. Payback for smuggling blueprints for a Soviet fighter jet to the CIA. Since Ulf had been the one to convince Grigori to pass the information to the Americans, he felt responsible -- especially given that he’d been comatose in the Daysleep when the KGB kicked in the engineer’s door. Yeah, he’d hunted down those responsible and exacted his revenge, but it was a little Goddamn late at that point. 
I’m getting sick of watching innocents pay the price for my heroics. He grimaced, hearing the bitter self-pity in the thought. No wonder Arthur had told him to take a month off. You need a break, Ulf. You’re so burned out, you’re one long ash.”
So here he was. Charleston. The lovely South Carolina town had always called to him, with its art, architecture and beautiful beaches. Maybe it could help him rediscover his commitment to humanity’s survival. Though some humans really need killing. With extreme prejudice and suitably agonized screams.
Brooding, Ulf turned down King Street, though he had no interest in quaint shops or art galleries. Hunger gnawed at him, making the roots of his fangs sting. A block ahead, he spotted a red neon sign. Scarlett’s. Probably a bar. Just the thing -- he needed to get laid. Or failing that, a good fight would blunt the edge of his frustration…
“Dixon, you’re drunk.” It was the tone that caught Ulf’s attention. Tense, alarmed, tightly controlled. “You need to leave now.”
“Now, don’t be like that. If you’re nice to me, I’ll be nice to you.” The reply sounded alcohol-slurred and nasty.
Eyes narrowing, Ulf glanced around, homing in on the source of the voices. They were so muffled, a mortal wouldn’t have heard anything at all.
“I’m going to call the cops if you don’t get out.”
“Baby, all I want is a little kiss…”
A scuffle, a soft, outraged cry, ugly laughter.
“Get off me!”
There. The shop across the street. Granger’s Books. A plate glass window displayed a poster of a shirtless man with long blond hair walking out of the ocean. Between the poster and the shelves beyond it, Ulf couldn’t see who was doing what inside. He crossed the street at a jog, ignoring the squeal of brakes and the blare of a horn. Jerking the bookstore door open, he stalked inside.
“Dixon, you prick, I said no!”
Ulf’s upper jaw ached. He clamped his mouth shut, knowing his fangs had emerged in his rage. He paced through the shop, spotting a man’s dark head over a set of bookshelves in the back. The drunk seemed to be wrestling with someone too short to show above the shelves. Ulf stormed down the aisle and rounded the bookshelf.
Just as the woman tore herself out of the beefy young man’s arms, snatched up the carpet sweeper lying on the floor, and drove its business end into her attacker’s crotch. The guy bent double with a howl, grabbing himself, and she slammed the sweeper into his jaw.
With a muffled grunt, he toppled to hit the carpeted floor with a thud. The bastard sprawled there on his back, unmoving, eyes rolled back.
Ulf stopped, nonplussed, staring down at Dixon. The prick was barely out of his teens, with the broad, beefy musculature of a college football player and short-cropped brown hair. He wore a pink knit shirt with a tiny alligator on it, a pair of hunter green chinos, and brown leather Docksiders.
Eighties fashion could be eye-watering.
“When I say no, I mean no, asshole!” the girl snapped, glaring. Her victim didn’t stir, beyond the blood rolling from a cut on his swelling lower lip.
“Would you like me to take out the trash for you?” Ulf asked, suddenly finding himself in a much better mood.
Her head snapped up. She stared warily at him a moment, hazel eyes narrow, sensual mouth in a tight line. “No, but if you’ll hang around to keep an eye on this jerk while I call the cops, I’d appreciate it.” She curled a lip at her would-be attacker. “I’m filing charges. I hope they kick him out of school.”
Ulf grinned. “Good for you.”
“He thinks he’s entitled to anything he wants because he can throw a ball. Sorry, dickhead, no.” She wheeled and stalked toward the checkout counter, grabbed the big black rotary phone sitting there, and dragged it closer.
Ulf walked over, leaned a hip on the counter and watched her dial. When the dispatcher came on, she told him what had happened in a few clipped, crisp sentences, then gave the store’s address.
Damn, she was pretty. She wore her dark hair quite short on the sides, but long enough on top to curl down over big hazel eyes. Her face was delicately boned, with an angular jaw and a long, narrow nose. That soft mouth looked so deliciously full and pink, he instantly wanted a taste.
Her loose black T-shirt tucked into tight jeans, cinched by a wide, chunky belt. The jeans’ rolled cuffs displayed high-top black sneakers. Dozens of bracelets clicked on her narrow wrists, some leather, others metal.
Hanging up the phone, she caught him staring. Her return gaze was justifiably wary, given that he towered over her. “Thanks for charging to the rescue.” Her voice was low and pleasantly sexy.
“You’re welcome, though you obviously didn’t need saving. I’m impressed.” Ulf nodded at the bruiser, who groaned, stirring. “He must outweigh you by seventy pounds.”
“Yeah, but he’s also drunk and stupid.”
Dixon stirred and opened his eyes. “Heeeyyyy,” he slurred. “Hey, wha’ happen’d?”
“He’s a football player for some college, which he evidently thinks should impress me. Told me what position, but I wasn’t paying attention.” She extended a hand to Ulf. “Cheryl Parker.”
“My head hurts,” Dixon moaned.
“Good.” Ulf returned the shake, suppressing the urge to kiss her hand instead. Mortals didn’t do that anymore. Her palm felt small and warm in his. “Paul Rogers,” he said, giving the name on his false identification for this trip.
“Ooow! My balls! What did you do to my balls?”
“You had it coming,” Ulf told him, releasing her regretfully without looking away from those entrancing hazel eyes. “And you’re lucky she got to you first.”
“Somebody call the amb’lance. I think I got a concussion. And my balls are swelling.”
Ulf’s gaze fell on a paperback lying open face-down on the counter. Diverted, he lifted his brows. “The Return of the King?”
“I love Tolkien. I was just thinking before I was so rudely interrupted…” She aimed a pretty sneer at Dixon. “that Samwise is the real hero of the book.”
Ulf had read The Lord of the Rings trilogy back in the 1950s, but he remembered it vividly. “Well, he did keep Frodo in one piece.” Since Ulf had the same kind of relationship with Arthur Pendragon, he’d always approved of Sam.
“Exactly!” Cheryl met his eyes and smiled. The bright joy of it pierced his cynical depression like a shaft of sunlight.
That was when Sir Baldulf, vampire Knight of the Round Table, started falling for the mortal girl who didn’t need saving.
“Hey. Hey? Anybody got a bag of frozen peas?” 

I hope you've enjoyed this! I hope you'll take a look.
Angela Knight