by Jody Wallace
“Baseball and surfing?”
“No baseball, but we have an arena football team called the Gladiators. As for the Internet, you can check it out with any computer. That’s not very exciting when you have a whole city to explore.”
What else did she want, besides to kiss Jake again and run her fingers through that silky hair? “Oh, I want to see Chip and Dale.”
“The cartoon?” The traffic around them moved. Jake edged the car forward, and the bag around the mirror swayed. The music from the dancing waters faded into a babble of pedestrians and car horns. Humans young and old milled on the sidewalks.
What was a cartoon? She’d overheard the ballet praised by two female researchers. “They’re dancers. The Chip and Dale ballet.”
Jake pinched his lips together. “I see. Those Chip and Dales.”
Love will redeem them…or damn their souls.
The Fallen
© 2008 Gwen Hayes
As Darkfall gains a foothold in the small coastal town of Serendipity Falls, Bridget, a witch and healer, fights a battle on two fronts. Against the chaos bleeding through the fissures of a cracked portal between realms, and against her attraction to a fallen angel with his own agenda. Talon’s dark ways and mysterious magics go against everything she believes in, but he's the only man she's ever loved.
Talon, forever haunted by his fall from grace and his ceaseless desire for the headstrong Bridget, longs for what he can never possess. Though he is no longer her guardian, she tempts him with pleasure he can never touch and emotions he can never reveal.
Caught on opposite sides in a war between good and evil, they struggle against their mutual passion. Then an ancient prophecy points to the one who will break the portal wide open and shift the balance of power: Bridget. She has no choice but to turn to Talon, and the love that will damn their souls—or save the world.
Enjoy the following excerpt for The Fallen:
“I’m not leaving.” Her voice sounded flat and toneless. Defeated. She wished he would go. She regarded the sharp planes of his face. A beautiful face, one that could make a grown woman weep. Perfectly symmetrical features framed by jet-black hair of silk. She knew his skin would be warm and his breath would be sweet. An angel. One so beautiful it was hard to remember that she hated him. And she did hate him.“It isn’t safe.”
He faced her again, and she cursed his features. She would rather look upon his face than the most glorious sunset. He must know the power it yielded over women, over her. It always made his damning words all the more hateful, to come from such an angelic mouth. She blinked away her reverie. “Which is why I stay.”
“Poppet, it is unsafe for you most of all.”
When he loosened his grip, she realized he still hadn’t let go of her arms. All her nerves warred with each other to get to the patch of skin he touched. Why wouldn’t he just leave? “What did you say?”
He smiled. A lazy, sardonic grin that made her want to spit nails. “I see, in your eyes, great promise for passion. Sometimes, I wonder what it would cost a man to see you finally soften and yield in his arms. I’m certain it would be worth the price.”
He was wearing her down—she steeled herself against his charm. “Why is it most unsafe for me, Talon?”
“Even the demons don’t know why they are drawn here. They just know the mystical epicenter is humming and enticing them like flies to honey. Some are gossiping about a prophecy. A Sorceress of Fire cracking the rift open. Some believe that could be you. Word is, you could be in high demand.” He rubbed his hands down her arms. “The Agency can send someone else. You should go into hiding.”
“A prophecy? Please. They’re only accurate predictions about what could happen if the course doesn’t change from its current path. The older the prediction, the less accurate it becomes.”
“Demons are very superstitious. They put a lot of faith behind those forecasts.”
Since when did he care what demons believed? “The demons would be foolish to attempt going after me, and they all know it. I’ll stay and do what needs doing, just as I always do.”
“Woman, your powers do not make you infallible.”
She clenched her fists with purpose, and a loud rumble of thunder shook the house in answer. “Demons are afraid of me, for good reason. I don’t cower and I will not run.” She flexed her fingers and lightning lit the sky, casting purple shadows on the walls. He didn’t flinch at her display, but instead gazed openly at her lips. They tingled under his gaze, and she unthinkingly wet them with her tongue, struck dumb by the flash of desire he didn’t try to hide in his eyes.
The teakettle whistled, breaking their concentration, and thankfully, he dropped her arms. She turned off the stove. “Again, I have to ask. Why the sudden concern?”
“I have such few pleasures in life. You’re my favorite diversion. I’d hate to see you gone.”
She scoffed and poured the water into two mugs. “Talon, your self-indulgence is legendary. I know you find amusement at my expense, but I refuse to believe that it is one of only a few pleasures you seek.”
“Are you offering an alternative pleasure, poppet?” He fingered the end of her hair.
The air was suddenly heavy around them. She met his gaze, even knowing as she did, it would be a mistake. “I have nothing to offer that you would be interested in.”
He smirked as he reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips and gently kissing her knuckles. “You are a beautiful and vibrant woman, Bridget. You offer pleasure of a thousand kinds just by entering a room.”
She closed her eyes, her turn now to nurse the wounds caused by their exchange of words. His compliment only served as a reminder of humiliation. His perseverance to sway her would last only until she wavered. And then he would shame her and laugh at her weakness. Again. Some lessons stung.
“Leave,” she commanded. “I have no use for your games.”
He dropped her hand. “Take heed, please. Let the prophecy rumors die down. Surely your Agency has trouble in every city in America. I’m not asking you to stop saving the world, just do it somewhere else.”
“I’m not leaving. But you are.”
He muttered a curse and stalked away from her, slamming her front door behind him.
She hated him. She hated the way he sauntered in and out of her life. That he possessed not a shred of honor or valiance. That when he left, she would cry for his soul. She hated that she loved him.
And that he was fallen.
A troll’s missing head could cause Markhat to lose his own.
The Mister Trophy
© 2008 Frank Tuttle
All the finder Markhat wanted was a beer at Eddie’s. Instead he gets a case that will bring him face to fang with crazed, blood-craving halfdead, a trio of vengeful Troll warriors, and Mama Hog’s backstreet magic. Plus, the possible resurgence of the Troll War.
All right in his own none-too-quiet neighborhood.
Through the town of Rannit’s narrow alleys and mean streets, Markhat tries to stay one step ahead of disaster. And ignore Mama Hog’s dire warnings that this time, the head that rolls could be his own.
Warning: This book contains well-dressed vampires, extremely polite Trolls, and occasional bursts of humor. Avoid reading it when landing aircraft, welding in the nude or taunting grumpy jackals while wearing pork chop earmuffs.
Enjoy the following excerpt for The Mister Trophy:
Eddie the barkeep stared at the Troll and then at the “Dead Troll Tavern” emblem carved into the bar-top and then back at the Troll. The Troll grinned. Forty-eight finger-long incisors popped out, sharper and shinier than anything Eddie might have hidden behind the bar and dripping with poisonous Troll saliva to boot.Eddie deftly dropped his drying rag on the Dead Troll carving, wiped his grubby hands on his equally grubby apron and donned a shaky tough-guy scowl. “Yeah?” he said to the Troll. “You want something?”
The Troll boomed something back. A second later, Kingdom words rang out in a fla
t male human voice. “I come for the finder Markhat.”
I choked on my beer. The Troll’s neckless head swiveled, owl-fashion, to face me. It gargled more words in Troll, and its translator spell spoke again. “You are the finder named Markhat.”
“Nope,” I said quickly. “Not me. Not Markhat. Never met the gent.”
The Troll glided over, flashing me that mouthful of nightmares smile. “I was told you would deny your name,” it said. “Shameful. I am—” The Troll spoke its name, and the translator gave up, leaving me with the sound of dishwater gurgling down a sink-drain.
“Honored to meet you, Walking Stone,” I said, as the Troll reached my table. “May your shadow fall tall and your soul grow to meet it.” I rose, my knowledge of Troll etiquette nearly exhausted. “I am not he that you seek, though, and anyway I hear he married a centaur and retired to the Fiti Coast. Why don’t you finish my ale and—”
The Troll’s grin split wider. It made a very human gesture for silence, finger at lips, and then it pulled back its greatcloak just far enough to reveal three fist-sized chunks of shiny solid gold on a fat wrought silver chain. Trolls don’t value gold themselves, but they do use it to barter with the other races. Word is that Trolls don’t haggle; they just stack money in big piles until someone says “yes”.
I sat down. Hard. The Troll shoved a rickety chair aside and squatted on the floor across from me.
“I walked fifty sunsets to see you, Finder,” it said. “I wade wide swamps, swim deep rivers, sleep on brother stones.”
“I live three blocks from here,” I replied. “So, I suppose, I walked fifteen minutes and drank two beers and sat on cousin chair.”
The Troll’s translator choked my words slowly out. The bar cleared, except Eddie, whose right eye—the blue one—hovered unsteadily behind a wide crack in the storeroom door.
The Troll barked and gurgled. My hackles rose, though I recognized booming Trollish laughter. “You jest with me, Finder Markhat,” it said. “You are brave. I admire bravery.” It leaned closer, yellow slitted owl-eyes narrowing. “I pay well for bravery.”
I shook my head. “Someone usually does, Walking Stone,” I said. “Just how much bravery are you wanting to buy?”
“You will go to a place I shall name,” said the Troll. “You will contrive to be admitted therein, and you shall determine if a certain object is displayed there. If so, you shall communicate my message to the masters of the place.”
Boots scuffed at the door, but hushed voices warned them off and Eddie lost another customer.
“This isn’t very private, Walking Stone,” I said. “And before I say yes or no, I need names. What place, what masters and what object?”
The Troll leaned close. My hair tried to stand on end. I’d been that close to a Troll only once before, twenty years ago. If a fat Marine sergeant hadn’t put a harpoon through its skull, I’d be laid out with the other war heroes up on the Hill.
“The place is called Haverlock, Finder,” whispered the Troll’s translator. “Its masters bear the same name. The object is a trophy taken during the War. A head, stuffed and mounted. A Walking Stone head.”
I finished my beer. “What’s the message, Walking Stone?”
The Troll grinned again. “You have what is ours,” he said. “Return it. With apologies. At once.
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