Calling the Wild Page 30

  “As long as they wish, until they chose to return to The Wild. Why?”

  “That’s good, because I’m kind of immortal, apparently.”

  “Then we have until the end of days to love one another.”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist, stroking the sensitive place where his flesh changed, smiling when he shivered. “I like that, to love and be loved, until the end of days.”

  Kiron walked through the dark hall, and Moira called the sun, drawing a path of sunlight to the world above. Without fear, they walked into that sunlight and disappeared from the dark hall.

  About the Author

  To learn more about Lila, please visit www.liladubois.com. Send an email to lila.dubois@gmail.com or join her Yahoo! newsletter for contests, deleted scene, articles, and release notifications at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ForbiddenTouch.

  Lila moved to Southern California where she obtained her degree in anthropology and currently resides in Hollywood, which provides an endless supply of exciting evenings and writing ideas. Having spent extensive time in France, Egypt and Turkey Lila speaks five languages, none of them (including English) fluently.

  She has neither husband nor cats but there are some piranhas living in a fish tank behind her couch.

  Look for these titles by Lila Dubois

  Now Available:

  Lights, Camera…Monsters

  My Fair Monster

  She agreed to everything but sex. She hadn’t counted on his monstrous creativity…

  My Fair Monster

  © 2008 Lila Dubois

  Monsters in Hollywood, Book Two.

  Since the day three incredibly hot men in disguise walk into her office and proved Monsters are real, intrepid screenwriter Jane Darby is obsessed with one task: to give the creatures a mythical makeover by writing a revolutionary, blockbuster screenplay. Now if only she can get over her own fear—and get the closed-mouth Michael to talk about his people.

  Michael is fascinated by the demur and docile Jane, whose efforts to hold him at arm’s length hide an untapped sexual passion—a beast within her waiting to be set free. There’s only one way to get under her lovely skin: strike a bargain.

  For one week, she agrees to let him do anything, anything, he wants. But Jane’s got conditions. First, no actual sex. Second, she has to enjoy it.

  Jane’s not really worried. What can happen if he sticks to the bargain? After all, she’s not really turned on by the idea of Michael tying her down. Or bending her over his knee. Or…

  Gulp.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for My Fair Monster:

  “Oh my God you set me up on a blind date. Was there a roofie in that shot?”

  “No, but that’s a good idea for next time.”

  “Lena!”

  “Oh calm down! I’m joking, besides, who needs GHB when there’s a good DJ?”

  “Quit distracting me. What’d you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Fine, then I’m going to go dance with that guy.”

  Lena hesitated long enough for Jane’s friends-with-stupid-plan detector to shoot into red, before Lena said, “Dance with him if you want. I just think you could do better.”

  Jane pulled her friend’s face close until they were nose-to-nose. “I know where you sleep.”

  With that ominously vague threat, Jane left the bar, heading for the dance floor. She stopped on the edge, intending to search for coat guy, but a new song started up. It was rich, with a pulsing back beat. The dancers stopped their wild solo gyrations and came together, the music demanding skin-to-skin contact.

  The tingling was back in her fingers, the music pressing into her skin, demanding her recognition, her service. Jane stepped onto the dance floor, and started to move.

  Lifting her arms above her head, Jane slide one hand along the fabric casing her limb, wishing it were bare so she could feel the contact. She whirled, planting her feet on the downbeat and throwing her head back.

  Something brushed against her back, breaking the rhythm of her dance, but when Jane opened her eyes there was no one close enough to touch her. Like her, the others on the dance floor were lost in the song, touched by music as well crafted as a symphony.

  Jane halfheartedly glanced around for coat guy, but gave up when the next hard beat sounded. She bumped her hip to the side and slid her hands over her own breasts, down her belly, to the bare skin of her thighs. She bent, waiting, poised, for the beat to give her a signal. When the music spoke to her Jane snapped up.

  Her back slapped into something. Someone.

  Hands covered hers, urging her to retrace the path over her breasts to her belly, then hips. He pulled, forcing her ass back against him.

  Then they moved as one. Rather than a crude thrusting back and forth—a pale imitation of missionary sex—their duel dancing was rhythmic and subtle, hips moving to the beat. Jane freed her hands from beneath his, needing more. Her fingertips brushed a face, and then his hands captured hers, fingers tight around her wrists, pulling her arms up and back, until they were trapped behind his neck. He held both her wrists in one large hand.

  Jane gasped as the position stretched her up, until she danced on her toes. Her breasts lifted, and her partner took full advantage, cupping one breast through her dress. He touched her, fondled her, controlled her.

  Jane shuddered and moaned. She turned to look at him, but her arms acted like blinders. She tired to speak but her mouth was dry.

  “Just dance.”

  She barely heard the words over the music and the rush of blood in her ears. Had she even heard it? Or was the baritone command a figment of her imagination?

  His hand left her breast, which both relieved and disappointed her, until it dropped to her bare thigh and headed north, slipping beneath her short skirt to curl around her hip, fingertips brushing the fabric of her thong.

  His touch made her aware of her own wetness, and in that moment she wanted nothing more than for him, whoever he was, to touch her, right now. She wanted his finger inside her, long and hard and thick, in one powerful thrust.

  The music stopped.

  Sound had not stopped pumping from the speakers, no DJ was that stupid, but the song had changed. This new offering was frenzied, with a screaming singer, and too much techno overlay.

  Jane snapped from her dance-induced lust-haze. She jerked her arms free of his hold and the man’s hot, rough hand slid away from her thong.

  “I knew you loved to…dance.” The voice was low, rich and…familiar.

  Love is the wiliest thief of all

  The Scroll Thief

  © 2009 R. F. Long

  A Tale of Ithian

  Malachy and his sister rely on his talents as a thief to survive the dangerous streets of Klathport, former capital of the once-great kingdom of Ithian. Stealing a few papers should have been a simple job. Instead, it nearly costs their lives and throws them into an improbable alliance with a shape-shifting official, a desert tribeswoman, and a healer of enchanting beauty.

  Cerys is far more than a simple healer—and the roots of her mission go deeper into the past than anyone can know. She needs Malachy’s skills to recover a stolen scroll, one that can be used to rewrite history and, in the wrong hands, release the dark powers of the Demon Realm.

  Her mission was supposed to atone for a dreadful, long-ago act. Instead, it unleashes a chain of events which sees them pursued through city and desert by the fearsome Dune Witch and a killer known only as His Lordship. Romance, tragedy, and adventure blend in a tale of a magical land on the brink of war, and five unlikely allies who, by putting their lives—and their hearts—on the line, have the opportunity to finally set things right.

  But at a terrible cost.

  Warning: Contains scenes of graphic violence and torture, captivating magic and beauty, two dashing heroes, three gutsy heroines, several love stories and a heartbreaking sacrifice.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The Scroll Thief:

  M
alachy wandered on, so lost in thought that he didn’t realise at first what the tug on his cloak meant. Even as his mind caught up with his instincts, he caught only a glimpse of the child disappearing through the stalls, her long hair trailing behind her like a scent.

  Malachy didn’t bother shouting out. He could feel the lightness on his belt where his purse should have been. He gave chase, saw her round a corner, and plunged after her. He collided with a woman and they tumbled down in a tangle of limbs and exclamations.

  Struggling free, he was confronted with a flushed and outraged face and angry copper eyes. The chestnut-haired northerner. The contents of a small pack lay strewn over the cobbles, vials of liquids, packages of dried and fresh herbs, a roll of bandages and, in their midst, his purse.

  Malachy scrambled to his feet, snatched the pouch up and opened it to count the gold pieces. Of the tiny thief, he saw no sign, but that was his least concern now.

  “What in the names of all the Gods do you think you’re doing?” the woman dropped to her hands and knees, heedless of the dirt, gathering the little bottles together tenderly and slipping them back into specially designed compartments in her bag. “First that blur of a child races by, nearly knocking my feet from under me, and then you come along to complete the job!”

  “She stole my purse!”

  “And gold is more important to you than life and limb, I suppose. I should have expected as much in this godless southern cesspit. Oh Lady Liath,” she said, a little of her anger punctured with disappointment. One of the packets had burst open and the dried leaves it held disintegrated in the damp street even as she tried to save them. “I can’t replace these, not here, not for any price. At least none of the bottles broke. But I’ll have to clean and boil all my instruments, everything…” Her voice cracked with a sob.

  Unexpected shame rushed to fill Malachy’s gut. The unaccustomed feeling seemed to be harassing him today. He sank to his knees to help the northerner gather up her things. She snatched each one he offered her, discarding only those items beyond redemption. Each she reluctantly laid aside elicited another sob or word of dismay. Finally, Malachy took her trembling hands and helped her to her feet, surprised by the curious sensation of her touch. Her skin felt even softer than Halia’s, and his sister spent a small fortune on fragrant oils and creams. Her nails were short, but immaculately kept. He had no doubt that, but for the recent scramble in the dirt of Klathport, she scrubbed them clean several times each day. And from her skin, he could smell lemons.

  She pulled away from him and he noticed her youth for the first time, a girl barely out of her teens. She didn’t look old enough to be outside the family home without an escort. He glanced around for an irate brother or a cousin, but he saw no one. They were alone in the laneway leading to Liath’s temple, a largely neglected place dedicated to the earlier incarnation of the Goddess so revered by the northern realm.

  “Thank you,” she said guardedly. Neither of them made to leave. The moment stretched into awkwardness.

  “Are you all right?” Malachy asked. “I didn’t hurt you?”

  She gave a sharp laugh, shot with a degree of cynicism belied by her appearance. “The least of my worries. But at least you stopped to find out.”

  A smile drew at his lips. “You haven’t been in Klathport very long, have you?”

  “Just a few days. I’m…I’m meant to meet some friends.”

  “Well, your friends shouldn’t let you out by yourself around here. The Lady alone knows what could have happened to you.”

  He expected a smile, but instead, she eyed him suspiciously. “You swear by Lady Liath?” Hope kindled in the depths of her gaze.

  “Liath?” He glanced inadvertently at the temple door topped with the crescent of the Goddess. “Were you in there?”

  “I found it empty. No temple should be empty in the middle of the day. There should be a priestess, attendants…”

  He shrugged. Religion didn’t really bother him. “Maybe you can find what you’re looking for towards the Selima Oasis or…”

  She shook her head, her expression distracted, and clutched the bag close to her chest. Suddenly, she looked afraid. “But they’re meant to be here,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

  Malachy didn’t know why he did it. Some vestige of decency that life in this city hadn’t beaten out of him perhaps? Or maybe she just reminded him of Elly and the look of fear in her face when he’d tried to help her. With Trask in prison, what had become of poor Elly now? He wished her safe somewhere, and not lost to the streets once more.

  He held out his hand to the northern girl, keeping his body language open and honest. His very stance asked her to trust him.

  “Why don’t I take you back to where you’re staying? You’ll be safer there.”

  “No, thank you. I’ve-I’ve got to go to Aleron’s Mount.”

  “That’s on the other side of the city. It will take you hours to walk it but it’ll be for nothing. The temple there will be the same as this one.”

  “I have to try. Thank you for your help…”

  “You’re welcome.” Belatedly he remembered his own manners. “I never asked your name.”

  “Cerys of Longleith. Thank you for your help.” As he made to leave, her voice followed after him. “I never asked your name either.”

  “Malachy Grey,” he called back with a grin. He didn’t glance over his shoulder until he reached the end of the other side of the square. Cerys stood at the end of the laneway, staring after him, a small and very out-of-place figure seen through the riot of the Cheapside market.

  He headed home, his meeting with Cerys soon dismissed. He had almost reached his front door when he noticed something amiss. The door stood ajar, but he had locked it. He pushed it and it swung open awkwardly. Inside, the wooden frame hung splintered and ragged. The bolt had been ripped from the wall where someone had burst their way through.

  His shopping slipped from his suddenly numb hands. Someone had broken into his house? Stumbling over the fruit and vegetables, he pulled the knife from his boot. He didn’t normally use a knife. In his experience, knives made you a target. And swords were worse. But in this case…

  The blade glinted in the shafts of light coming through the still drawn curtains. Halia hadn’t been awake when he’d left so he hadn’t bothered…

  Halia!

  Malachy pushed his back to the wall, listening for any sounds, anything at all. When nothing greeted him, he crept forward on cat’s feet. The parlour had been turned over thoroughly, a professional-looking job, designed to search, destroy and intimidate all in one go. And in the kitchen…

  A figure sprawled on the floor, but he only recognised his sister by the ragged remains of her clothes. They had taken their time about beating her, as professional a job as that in the parlour. But then they had found their creativity. The carving knife jutted obscenely from her shoulder, just above the swell of her right breast. It pinned her to the floor like meat on a skewer. Remarkably little blood splattered around her.

  Halia gave a small, sharp gasp for breath, and her entire body convulsed. But her face looked so pale he thought he had imagined the movement. She gasped again, a choked and desperate sound, and he saw why.

  Whoever had attacked her had ripped off her anklet and shoved it into her mouth.

  Malachy gave a strangled cry as he dropped to his knees beside his sister. Her eyes flickered towards him through the slits of her swollen eyelids. He pulled the bells from her lips, wincing as they rang. Halia took another piercing breath.

  “Who did this?” Malachy whispered. But she couldn’t find enough air to answer. The little she could capture kept her alive. He touched her face gingerly and she sobbed with the pain. The rage balled up inside him punched its way out. “Who did this?” he screamed.

  A footfall behind him sent him spinning around, crouched protectively over his sister, his knife swinging before him like a scythe.

  Cerys clutched her bag i
n front of her. “Oh, sweet Liath,” she said as she took in the scene. The name of her foreign Goddess echoed hollowly around the still room.

  “Who did this?” he asked her, knowing she had no more answers than he did, but unable to form any other words. He sucked in a breath and tasted bile in the back of his throat.

  Carefully, she reached out to put her bag down, kneeling before him so as not to alarm. She kept her eyes locked on his the whole time.

  “Malachy.” Her voice sounded calm and measured now, her gaze unswerving. “Malachy Grey, I can help her, but you have to put the knife down.”

  He hesitated. Without the knife he would be helpless. Without the knife he couldn’t get whoever had done this. He gripped it tighter, his pulse thundering inside his head.

  “Now, Malachy, before it’s too late.”

  Halia struggled to breathe, and he glanced down to see her eyes dimming, growing distant as if no longer looking at the ceiling but beyond it.

  Malachy flinched, lowered the knife and stepped back. “Please.” His voice grated along his throat. “Please save her.”

  Sometimes a rose is more than a rose.

  Midnight Rose

  © 2008 D. McEntire

  The Watchers, Book 2

  The countdown is on for Louisville, Kentucky’s fireworks show and the Watchers are in place. Rogue vampires, being the ultimate party crashers they are, are expected to join the revelry.

  Rosa Bella, standing-room-only singer at the Black Panther Lounge, has her own chaos to manage. As a vampire who manages to blend in with society, she doesn’t need any more complications. But a gorgeous one has just turned her life upside down—Vane, a Watcher assigned to hunt down and eliminate Rogues prowling the downtown streets.

  Vane, dubbed “Latin Lover” by his fellow Watchers, fills his nights with his favorite letter of the alphabet, “F”—females and food. But nothing fills his empty heart like Rosa’s soft, sexy body. Still, a Watcher’s life has no room for attachments, even one who can defend herself with a pair of red stilettos.