Wyatt simultaneously squeezed Val’s wrist and brushed a kiss over his lips. When a shudder ran through Val, Wyatt’s arm snaked around Val’s back and he pulled them close together. “You do enjoy being caught, don’t you?” He held his other arm out with the tea glass still in his hand.
“Y-yeah, I—” Val’s words were cut off by another kiss. This one made Val arch his back and press his body firmly against Wyatt’s as his knees weakened. He swallowed hard when Wyatt leaned away, broke their kiss, and let go of him.
“We’ll explore that a bit later, I think,” Wyatt said. He ran the back of his hand over Val’s cheek. “But right now, let’s eat and I’ll fill you in on more details.”
All Val could do was nod and sit at the kitchen table, wondering how he was supposed to concentrate when the only thing his brain wanted to focus on was being caught by this man.
Wyatt retrieved his briefcase, which he’d left sitting near the kitchen door. He sat back down and opened the case, pulled a thick folder out, and set it on the table between them.
“I was wrong when I said the Nottings were in the wrong place at the wrong time and that they were innocent victims,” Wyatt said.
Val nodded. “Carol Notting and Marcus Paulle were half siblings.”
“And remember Janelle saying Charlie was into gambling?”
“Yes,” Val said. “He wasn’t very good at it.”
“That was just an act. The reality was he was very good at it. Or more to the point, very good at cheating when he gambled.” Wyatt began spreading papers out on the table as he spoke. “In a way I’m glad what happened last night happened. It’ll just reinforce what I want to do. Tomorrow I’m going to talk to the manager of the apartment I—”
“If you’re hinting at moving in here, yes. Bring your things and move here,” Val said.
Wyatt laughed. “I have to say I’m happy for the invite. When Charlie grabbed Janelle, I don’t think she was his target. I think you were.”
Run for the Roses is on sale until Dec 31 for only $2.99 for the eBook.
It is available on Kindle Unlimited as well.
Tim Rayborn has a new queer urban fantasy out, sequel to Qwyrk: Lluck. And there's a giveaway!
All Qwyrk wanted was a few winter days of rest of and relaxation in the small town of Knettles in Yorkshire, but of course, it all goes wrong immediately. She wants to spend time and with her young human friend, Jilly, but Jilly and her not-so-imaginary friend blip have just met a remarkable boy named Lluck, who seems to be able to bend events to his favor.
Lluck is on the run from some awful and obnoxious goblins. On top of that, Qwyrk meets a mysterious and beguiling woman, who's also looking for the boy. And in the dark, something wants Lluck for itself, but why?
Tim is giving away an Amazon gift card with this tour:
“I’ll be dead in a few seconds… or worse.”
Still, he kept running, plowing through snowy lanes, stumbling more than once on wet cobblestones blanketed in a thin sheet of slippery ice and powder. His breathing was furious, his heart pounded, and he knew he was running out of time. He sprinted back out to a main street and worked his way through thronging crowds of holiday shoppers, trying to hide in their numbers.
“Blend in, shake them off!” But he knew his pursuers weren’t interested in these people; they were only after him. He ducked into another alleyway, sped for the exit on the other side, and almost crashed into a padlocked gate.
“No!” He slammed the bars with his fists.
They were near; he could smell them, like bad fast food and garbage, with a hint of cheap cologne. But he tried pulling on the lock, and sure enough, it came loose. He laughed and opened the gate. Dashing through, he shut it behind him and relocked it.
“Have fun with that, you knobs!”
He turned around and there they were: grotesque, lumpy goblin creatures with mottled grey skin, bulbous noses, and large, pointy ears. They were mostly bald, except for some wiry black curls under said ears. Their snarling grins revealed bared, off-white crooked teeth. Beady yellow eyes completed the horrific ensemble.
“Well, well, what ‘ave we got ‘ere?” the larger one grumbled.
“Looks like a lost waif in need of some assistance to get to where he’s goin’,” the other replied.
“I’m not going with you, you tossers!” he shouted, defiant. He raised his fists in front of him. They just laughed.
“You gonna take us on in a fist fight, little boy?” the big one mocked. “That oughta be entertaining. Maybe I’ll even let you get in a blow or two in before I mash your pretty face into the pavement!”
“Oh, I won’t fight you, you miserable troll! I’m just getting ready.”
“Ready for what, lambkin?” the smaller one sneered.
“For this!” He threw his open hands forward in one jerking motion, and at once, both fell on their behinds, slid on the ice, and smacked their heads on the stones. They groaned, but didn’t get back up. He stepped over them (well, on them really, just to make a point; he might have even dug his boot heels in a bit) and made his way back to the crowds.
Once on the main street, he looked around and saw the town hall in the distance, with its multitudes packed in to celebrate the holiday festivities.
“All those people milling about; you can lose them there. Then get the hell out of here and head south.”
He paused, took a deep breath, and ran again.
* * *
“I do love a good festive celebration!” Blip announced. Resembling a bipedal frog sporting a handlebar moustache and a proper Victorian-style mutton chop beard, he strolled along the pavement in his Regency riding boots, while swinging an ornate walking stick, every so often accidentally hitting a passerby and eliciting an astonished yelp. A red, woolen scarf wrapped snugly around his short, froggy neck completed the ensemble.
“I love it too! It’s so much grander than the one in Knettles,” Jilly Pleeth said in a hushed voice. She looked down at him, quite grateful that a magical two-foot creature who liked to expound on nineteenth-century philosophy couldn’t be seen or heard by anyone over the age of thirteen, give or take a bit. Of course, there were plenty of children about, a few of whom gasped and stared; but most ignored him, being far more fascinated by the lights of the Leeds Christmas market, the aromas of cinnamon, nutmeg, and chocolate, the sounds of carols and stall hawkers, and the general merriment of the season. It was all rather like one of those displays in a department store window, but larger, louder, and less garish.
“We’ll have to keep an eye on the time, though,” she continued. “I need to meet mum and dad back at the train station in about an hour. They’ll be done with their stupid real estate meeting and keen to get back home before it gets too dark.”
“Come, come, my dear, no need to be so reserved, at least not in this instance! It’s the holidays, and the day of your birth is also upon us—twelve years!—so just this once, it is entirely satisfactory that we kick up our proverbial heels and live a bit. The holiday market is splendidly arrayed in front of us, a fine old tradition that I am glad to see being kept alive. So, throw caution to the wind, and embrace the revelry!”
“Oh, it’s not that,” she whispered. “It’s just, since most people can’t see you, I look like I’m talking to myself, like I’m a bit mad.”
“Hm, well yes, I do suppose that could cause some to think that you are a suitable candidate for admission to Bedlam, but again, this is the time for inversions of the social order in a controlled way, don’t you know? The Feast of Fools! The Boy Bishop! Saturnalian silliness! So I say, let them think that you are singularly odd and be done with it! And other children can see me, so what does it matter?”
“Yeah, but they probably just think you’re one of Father Christmas’s elves, anyway,” she said with an impish grin.
“Do not mention that reprobate in my company!” Blip admonished. “You know very well that the Father Christmas affair is a bone of contention with me!”
“Are you ever going to tell me what happened between you two?” she asked.
“A gentleman does not duel and tell, I’m afraid.”
“You fought a duel with Father Christmas?”
Tim Rayborn is a writer and internationally acclaimed musician. He plays dozens of unusual instruments that many people of have never heard of and often can't pronounce, including medieval instrument reconstructions and folk instruments from Northern Europe, the Balkans, and the Middle East. He has appeared on over forty recordings, and his wanderings and tours have taken him across the US, all over Europe, to Canada and Australia, and to such romantic locations as Marrakech, Istanbul, Renaissance chateaux, medieval churches, and high school gymnasiums.
On the writing side of things, Tim lived in England for nearly seven years and has a PhD from the University of Leeds. He has written books and magazine articles about music, the arts, history, and business. He currently lives amid many books, antique music reproduction devices (that is, CDs), and instruments, and with a demanding cat. He's also rather enthusiastic about good wines, single-malt Scotch, and cooking excellent food.
Author Website: https://www.timrayborn.com
Author Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/TimRaybornMusicandWriting
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Author Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Tim-Rayborn/e/B00DWY5J8E/
Riece was rifling through the bear bag. “Our canteen is here, filled with water. The first aid kit,” he said and pulled it out and dropped it on the ground beside his leg. “Our phones are gone.”
Mason opened the first aid kit and took Riece’s arm. “It was a long shot that they’d leave our stuff alone.” He took alcohol wipes from the kit and tore them open. “They obviously found our camp and probably reasoned we’d go back there for supplies and communications.” Mason wiped the gash on Riece’s arm clean.
Riece sucked in a harsh breath and hissed, then bit down on his lip. Mason ran one hand through his hair and said softly, “Sorry.” He smoothed a Telfa pad over the wound and used some gauze wrapped around Riece’s arm to make sure it stayed there. “That’ll do for now and keep you from attracting a curious bear.” When Riece chuckled Mason looked at him and frowned. “That wasn’t a joke.”
“It still was kind of funny,” Riece said.
“Okay. Yeah, it was.” Mason gathered the wipes and packaging and stuffed it all back into the bear bag. Mason gave in to the urge to pull Riece into a tight hug for a moment. He reluctantly let go a few seconds later and took some deep breaths. “They want us out in the open. There are more caves on the other side of the hills and also a road another few miles beyond that. Tyler shortcuts down it a lot when he’s running late on his deliveries.”
Mason nodded. “I think so. If Tyler uses that road, it’s reasonable to think other people do as well.” He pulled two sealed bottles of water from the bear bag. “Looks like they left us a gift.” Mason handed one off to Riece. He cracked open the other and took a drink from it. The canteen was full, but that water he dumped out. When Riece raised his eyebrows, Mason explained, “Let’s not trust that they didn’t put something in here our purifiers won’t take care of.”
“Maybe. These are still sealed, and I’m guessing that was to encourage us to think the canteen wasn’t tampered with,” Mason said. He scooted closer to the entrance and peered out.
Riece moved behind him and gripped his arm, whispering, “See anyone?”
Gone Away is available in paperback, eBook
and through Kindle Unlimited.
This week's snippet is from Strays, a post-apoc, scifi romance!
Marching toward the barracks entrance, Kyle in tow and scrambling to keep up, Daniel ignored the snickers and looks of his fellow militia members. He hit the door with one hand and didn’t look back to see if it was shut properly or not before heading for his Jeep.
Daniel Shanks didn’t do strays. He didn’t!
Except apparently he did.
There are many more snippets in the Rainbow Snippets Facebook group.
Strays is available in eBook and in Kindle Unlimited!
J. Scott Coatsworth has a new queer sci fi collection out: Tangents & Tachyons. And there's a giveaway!
Tangents & Tachyons is Scott's second anthology - six sci fi and sci-fantasy shorts that run the gamut from time travel to hopepunk and retro spec fic:
Eventide: Tanner Black awakes to find himself in his own study, staring out the window at the end of the Universe. But who brought him there, and why?
Chinatown: Deryn lives in an old San Francisco department store with his girlfriend Gracie, and scrapes by with his talent as a dreamcaster for the Chinese overlords. But what if a dream could change the world?
Across the Transom: What if someone or something took over your body on an urgent mission to save your world?
Pareidolia: Simon's not like other college kids. His mind can rearrange random patterns to reveal the images lurking inside. But where did his strange gift come from? And what if there are others like him out there too?
Lamplighter: Fen has a crush on his friend Lewin, who's in a competing guild. But when the world goes dark, only a little illumination can save it. And only Fen, Lewin and their friend Alissa can light the spark. A Liminal Sky short.
Prolepsis: Sean is the closeted twenty-five-year-old editor of an 80's sci-fi 'zine called Prolepsis. When an unabashedly queer story arrives from a mysterious writer, it blows open Sean's closet door, and offers him the chance to change the world - and the future.
Plus two flash fiction stories – The System and The Frog Prince, never before published.
This is the first time all of these stories have all been collected in one place.
Scott is giving away a full set of his previously self-published eBooks to one lucky winner:
I felt a little sick. Okay, a lot sick—like something had wrenched my stomach out of my gut and pulled it halfway to Mars.
Not far from the truth, as it turned out.
I reached for my stomach. My furry belly was a little thicker than I would have liked—too much processed sugar, Peter said. That and the whole no exercise thing.
What did I eat this time? My memories were a bit fuzzy.
I remembered bright lights and a sharp smell. And a keening whine.
I opened my eyes. The light above dimmed of its own accord.
That’s weird. And the smell… kind of antiseptic?
I sat up, and my fingers sank into the soft blue mat beneath me, leaving an impression when I lifted them up which just as quickly disappeared.
I was naked. What the hell?
Alarmed, I looked around as my eyesight cleared.
I was alone in a plain white room. White walls curved into a white floor and ceiling, and only the “bed” had any color—a bright blue pad on a raised pedestal. There were no doors or windows.
I pushed myself up and my head spun. My stomach clenched, and I felt sick.
The room swam around me, darkening, changing.
I’ve been sick. I was certain of that, but the details were vague. I fell back, cushioning my fall with my left hand. “Hello? Peter?”
“Hello, Tanner Black.” The reply was warm, cordial. Feminine, maybe? Hard to tell.
“Hello.” My head ached. “Where am I? Who is this?” The walls continued to flow.
“I am Sera. You are in an awakening room. Welcome to the Seeker.”
“Welcome to where?” None of this made any sense. Where’s Peter? He must be looking for me. I tried to get up again and a searing pain clenched my gut.
“Please lie down, Mr. Black. You have not fully recovered yet, and your room is not ready.”
Recovered from what? I wanted to argue, but suddenly resting seemed like an eminently sensible idea. I was tired, and my head hurt.
Maybe just a short nap.
I pulled my feet up and lay down, wishing for my comfy feather pillow.
The foam conformed to my body, hugging me. So comfortable.
That thought faded as sleep took me, and the light went out.
Scott lives with his husband Mark in a yellow bungalow in Sacramento. He was indoctrinated into fantasy and sci fi by his mother at the tender age of nine. He devoured her library, but as he grew up, he wondered where all the people like him were.
He decided that if there weren’t queer characters in his favorite genres, he would remake them to his own ends.
A Rainbow Award winning author, he runs Queer Sci Fi, QueeRomance Ink, and Other Worlds Ink with Mark, sites that celebrate fiction reflecting queer reality, and is a full member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA).
Author Website: https://www.jscottcoatsworth.com
Author Facebook (Personal): https://www.facebook.com/jscottcoatsworth
Author Facebook (Author Page): https://www.twitter.com/jscoatsworth
Author Twitter: https://www.facebook.com/jscoatsworth/
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Author Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8392709.J_Scott_Coatsworth
Author Liminal Fiction (LimFic.com): https://www.limfic.com/mbm-book-author/j-scott-coatsworth/
Author QueeRomance Ink: https://www.queeromanceink.com/mbm-book-author/j-scott-coatsworth/
Author Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/J.-Scott-Coatsworth/e/B011AFO4OQ
RJ Scott is hosting a huge holiday party. There will be games, giveaways, teasers and all sorts of bookish fun. Don't be shy, join us in RJ Scott's Facebook group!
My teaser this week comes from Marked Yours.
“No!” Nick was on his feet the minute Todd stood and stepped away. “You can’t do that alone. You can’t go out there by yourself!”
Smiling softly, Todd rested one hand on Nick’s neck. “Nicky, I’ve been doing this by myself for a long time.”
“Alone? Not with your father?”
“I’m not staying in here while you go out there alone. I can feel them, Todd. They’re wrong; they’re angry.”
Todd barked a short laugh. “No kidding. They’re dead, and they shouldn’t even be here.”
“Don’t make me stay in here. Please. Maybe I can see or feel more than you, and that would help us.” His statement was punctuated with another wave of ghostly hatred. Nick sucked in a breath and grabbed the chair to stop how he’d started swaying without warning. “They hate—” He looked up, meeting Todd’s eyes. “—you.”
“Dandy.” Todd crossed the room and looked out the window, turned his head side to side. “Okay. Here’s the plan. The rocks aren’t that bad. They can’t be too deep—not like if they were buried in a grave somewhere. We start going through the rocks and find anything we can, bodies or things that may have belonged to them. Most folks just die and go away, so there’s a reason they’re still here.” As Todd talked, he pulled a handgun from his duffel and handed it over to Nick. “Shoot at any of them you see. This has scatter pellets that are magnetized and some salt mixed in. They hate that. It drives them back.”
“Do they know why we’re here?”
Marked Yours is available from JMS Books, Amazon and other fine book sellers in eBook and paperback. There is also a boxed eBook set of all six books!
My snippet this week comes from Run for the Roses!
Val watched, fascinated, when Stein’s gun hand was shoved upward as Wyatt appeared in the door. After a brief struggle, Wyatt grabbed Stein’s collar and slammed his head into the side of the trailer. Wyatt disassembled the handgun, scattering the pieces as he came through the door, and stalked across the trailer, muttering under his breath as he stepped over Stein’s unconscious body. He headed straight for Mickey.
Mickey yelled. He was on his feet and holding the pipe again. The swing Mickey took never slowed Wyatt down. He was like a mongoose striking a cobra. Wyatt grabbed the pipe with one hand, yanked Mickey closer, and slammed the heel of his hand into Mickey’s nose. A few more blows, and the pipe dropped to the floor. Mickey staggered back, landing on his rear. When he started pushing up, Wyatt pointed at him and warned, “Stay down.”
Find more snippets in the Rainbow Snippets Facebook group.
Get the eBook for only $2.99 or read in Kindle Unlimited!
Sionnach Wintergreen has a new MM Western paranormal thriller out: Carillon's Curse. And there's a giveaway!
In 1888 Austin, Texas, a shy medium with clubfoot is visited by the grisly spirits of murdered children and enlists the help of a rugged Texas Ranger to pursue their killer. As the two men hunt the murderer, they find themselves not only in the grip of a taboo love that could—at best—send them to prison, but also in danger of becoming the killer’s next prey.
In the twenty three years of his life, Thomas Carillon has known nothing but unrequited love. People don’t notice him; they only notice his clubfoot. He has given himself up to a solitary existence with only the companionship of his cat and the ghosts who visit him. When a rare child ghost, her massive injuries evident, asks Thomas for help, the only law man that will listen is a hard-bitten Texas Ranger who reawaken’s Thomas’s secret desires. The two grow closer as they chase the killer, but can they hold onto their fragile, budding love in such hard times?
Hadrian Burton thinks Thomas looks like an angel, except for whatever horror he’s hiding in that strange boot. Temporarily leaving life on the range and his complicated past to track down a killer with Thomas, Hadrian finds himself doing something he vowed never to do again—falling in love. Their “congress,” as Thomas calls it, is more intense than he has ever experienced. After a lifetime of virginity, the clubfooted man is going wild, and he doesn’t balk at Hadrian’s unconventional appetites. But Hadrian fears he will only hurt Thomas in the end. And yet, he has never fallen so hard for another man. How can he keep both his and Thomas’s hearts from being broken? And how can he bring the elusive Child Slayer to justice with only the help of a medium and ghosts?
Sionnach Wintergreen is giving away a $20 Amazon gift card with this reveal:
Friday, January 27
Thomas Carillon set down his teacup as he watched his cat, Gracie, lift up from his lap in a black and white ruffle of fur, her ghost puff. She had sensed a presence. He sighed. Ghosts never respected his privacy. He enjoyed helping them, but sometimes they demanded attention—usually when he wanted to be alone in his drawing room. “Is it more Confederates? I’m so tired of goddamned Confederates. It’s always ‘what did I die for’ and telling them, ‘not a damn thing’ doesn’t send them off to the Great Beyond.”
Thomas smoothed Gracie’s rumpled coat. It was thick and wispy at the same time, too short to call long and too long to call short. Consequently, the only time it laid flat was when Thomas sleeked it back with his hand, and then it only stayed down for a few seconds. This excited burst of hair, of course, was different. Gracie’s ghost puff. He was the medium, true enough, but Gracie always saw ghosts first, and it was this distinctive puff of hair and body that announced every spectral visitor to Carillon House.
“Show yourself, spirit. I sense your presence and will endeavor to listen to your tale.” He left out that Gracie was truly the one who sensed the specter’s presence. Gracie, for all her intuitiveness, couldn’t speak to ghosts. That was his talent.
This spirit didn’t have the distrust or sudden coyness displayed by most of the ghosts who called on him. This one appeared right beside the arm of his wingback chair. She flickered, wan and bloodless. His breath caught in his throat, and his chest tightened. Seeing a spirit rarely triggered one of his asthma attacks anymore, but the ones who had suffered terrible injuries still affected him.
“You are Mister Carillon” asked the girl. He didn’t usually see child ghosts. Something about them, perhaps their innocence, allowed them to cross over without all of the problems that burdened adults and kept them bond to the realm of the living.
She looked about five years old with duckling blonde hair done up in curls atop her head and crowned with a large red bow. Dirt and blood-stained white lace gloves were the only article of clothing she wore. She held her bowels in her arms as if cradling a large bouquet.
“Yes. Yes, I’m Mr. Carillon. Please, call me Thomas.” He tried to right himself. Whatever had happened to this child, he knew she meant him no harm. People were scared of ghosts, but the most fearful beings wore flesh and skin flushed with blood. “What is your name, my child?”
“Rebecca. The pretty painted ladies told me to come here.”
The whores. All of the whores liked him. They knew he wasn’t like the men who plagued them in life. Homosexuals spent as little time as possible with naked females—and they certainly didn’t pay to do so. He had helped some cross over and entertained with the others. A number of them didn’t want to cross over, content to haunt men and make them impotent or help him impress rich old women at séances.
“Rebecca. That’s a lovely name.” He could have used a sip of tea, but Rebecca’s condition made his stomach shiver. “What brings you to seek me out?”
“I like your cat.”
“Do you? Thank you. Yes, she is a rather nice cat.”
“What’s her name?”
He was thankful most children crossed over. He wasn’t accustomed to dealing with them. He hadn’t understood them even when he was one. At twenty-three, he should have been starting his own family, but he didn’t call on women. He knew they wouldn’t have wanted to marry him even if he had courted one. The two his mother had tried to collect for him had practically run away. “Her name is Gracie.”
Rebecca giggled, holding twists of guts as easily as she might lift a skirt. “That’s a funny name for a cat!”
“She’s a funny cat. Tell me, dear, what happened to you?”
She sobered. “He hurt me. He hurt my private places, then he cut me with his knife.”
A burst of anger flared bright and hot in Thomas’s face.
Rebecca cringed. “Please, don’t be angry, Mister.”
His grief at her condition and her fear fanned the flames of his asthma. He fought for a breath. A small wheeze escaped him. “I’m not angry at you. Not even a trifle. Tell me, Rebecca, tell me who he is.”
“His knife was the biggest knife I’ve ever seen. It was much bigger than his.... He hurt me.”
Raw fury tightened his chest more than asthma. He fought to keep his voice even, not wishing to frighten the child. A Bowie knife—that could have belonged to nearly half the men in Austin. He needed more information. “Did you know him?”
She shook her head negatively, curls bouncing. “I was playing with Sarah and Rose outside Rose’s house. Her house is next door, but Sarah lives on another street. He came up and wanted to tell us a Bible story. I didn’t like it. It was about Lot. He said I needed to come with him because my mother said so, but we didn’t go see my mother. We went to some place where cows are, and he did things to me. And chickens. There were chickens there, too. The black spotty kind. I like those.”
Thomas went ahead and helped himself to his tea. He drained his cup despite its coolness, and set it back down. “I’ll go see the Marshal,” he said gently. Maybe, if he was truly fortunate, the police would discover her corpse so her poor mother could bury her. “That was a terrible man, but no one is going to hurt you anymore, Rebecca. What happened to you in life didn’t happen to your spirit body. Think about how you usually looked.”
As she thought, her ghostly flesh righted itself, and she became well and whole, although she was still a specter, pale and flickering like a candle flame. She wore a pretty, lacy frock and was a lovely little girl. Thomas smiled at her. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”
He was about to try to send her to the Great Beyond, when she chirped, “What about the boy?”
“The boy in the barn. The man brought him there after he hurt me. Before he cut me. He hurt the boy, too. The boy was a tiddy baby, but I didn’t call him one. He wouldn’t stop crying. I don’t want the man to cut him, though.”
Thomas tapped his shoulder. Gracie, who had been quiet in his lap, leapt on his shoulder and balanced as he grabbed his cane from against the chair and stood. Even with the special boot, the clubfoot was a menace. It kept his bed empty and his heart forever yearning.
“What are you doing?” asked Rebecca.
We’re going to see the police.” He reached into his vest and pulled out his pocket watch. He opened it and showed it to Rebecca. “You can ride in here, and I’ll let you out when we talk to the Marshal.”
She tilted her head to the side. “It’s a special watch?”
He smiled. “It was my great grandfather’s. It’s very special to me. I don’t know why it works the way it does, but I can carry two spirits in it if they are so inclined.”
“And Gracie’s going, too?”
“Gracie goes everywhere I go. Always.” He actually went precious few places, preferring the quiet seclusion of his home.
Gracie blinked at the girl with a slow bat of her black lashes. A cat kiss. A blessing.
Rebecca’s face broke out in a huge grin. “Then I’ll go, too.” She turned to a white mist and disappeared into the watch. Thomas put it in his pocket and shuffled toward the foyer. Despite his confidence when speaking with the girl, a chill licked down his spine. He hoped they could find the boy before he became a specter as well.
I’m Sionnach (pronounced SHUHN ukh) and I’m a trans male author (he/him) of romance and fantasy. Most of my books are gay romances because they’re so much fun to write. Opposites attract is my favorite trope with hurt/comfort right behind it. Few things are as fun to me as bringing men to life and pushing them into each other’s arms. I love happily ever afters and believe true love is absolutely real.
Before I started writing full time, I volunteered as a grant writer for animal rescue nonprofits. I love animals, and they inevitably find their way into my stories. I share my life with my husband and seven spoiled cats. I’m also the emotional support human to a husky.
Author Website: https://www.SionnachWintergreen.com
Author Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/everwintergreen/
Author Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/everwintergreen
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Author Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Sionnach-Wintergreen/e/B01FOU8PS4
Welcome to My World