The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance

by Trisha Telep

  I bit my lip on a gasp and closed my eyes, giving myself up to the dizzying sensation of his hands, his fingers, his mouth waking sharp points of heat along my throat. The water warmed around us until the caress of the tides felt as overpowering as David’s touch - a thousand individual whispers over my skin, shredding my focus into a gauzy mist of sheer pleasure.

  I wrapped myself around him, guiding him into the core of me, and he cradled me in his arms - weightless in this beautiful and silent moment, as if we had left all bounds of earth behind. The lovemaking was slow, thorough, sweetly tense. His skin tasted of the sea, of life, of all the beauty in the world. I let myself drift with him, helpless on the currents, feeling the waves of pleasure crest even as the other waves, the ones fuelled by wind and water, pounded over us.

  David wanted me in water. I wanted him forever.

  There, off the beach, in one stolen afternoon, we both got our wish.

  The Wager

  A Lords of Avalon story

  Sherrilyn Kenyon writing as Kinley MacGregor

  It’d been a long, cold . . . Millennium.

  Thomas paused as he penned those words. Surely it wasn’t that long. Was it? Frowning, he looked at the calendar on his PDA that Merlin had brought to him from what future man would call the twenty-first century and gave a low whistle.

  It hadn’t been quite that long, even though he lived in a land where time had no real meaning. It only felt like it, and therefore he left the word on the paper. It sounded better than saying just a few centuries — and that was what writing was all about, he’d learned. The truth was important, but not so much as keeping his audience entertained. News bored people, but stories . . .

  That was where the money was. At least for people other than him. There was no money here, nor much of anything else.

  But he was digressing. Millennium or not, it had been way too long since he’d last been free.

  He who bargains with the devil pays with eternity, his dear old mangled mother had been fond of saying. Too bad he hadn’t been better at listening - but then that was the problem with “conversation”. So many times even when you paused for a breath you weren’t really listening to the other person so much as planning your next speech. Of course, he’d been a cocky youth.

  What did some old crone know about anything anyway? he used to think. He was Thomas Malory. Sir Thomas Malory -couldn’t forget the Sir part. That was all-important.

  In his day that Sir had meant that he was a man with standing. A man with prospects.

  A man with no friggin’ clue (Thom really liked the vernacular Percival had taught him from other centuries. There was just such colour to some of the later phraseology . . . but now to return to what he’d been thinking).

  Life had begun easy enough for him. He’d been born into a well-to-do family. A nice family . . . “Nice” incidentally was a four-lettered word. Look it up, it really was. It meant, “to be agreeable. Pleasant. Courteous.”

  Boring.

  Like any good youth worth his salt, he’d run as far away from nice as he could. Nice was for the weak (another four-lettered word). It was for a doddering fool (see how everything vile led back to four letters [even vile was four letters]).

  And Thomas was anything but a fool. Or so he’d thought.

  Until the day he’d met her (please insert footnote here that in French, la douleur i.e. pain, is feminine). There was a reason for that. Women, not money, were the root of all evil (it was a trick of their gender that “woman” was five and not four letters, but then “girl” was four letters too. This was done to throw us poor men off so that we wouldn’t realize just how corrupt and detrimental they were).

  But back to the point of our story. Women were the root of all evil. No doubt. Or at the very least the fall of every good man.

  And Thom should know. He’d been doing quite well for himself until that fateful day when she had shown herself to him. Like a vision of heaven, she’d been crossing the street wearing a gown of blue. Or maybe it was green. Hell, after all these centuries it could have been brown. The colour hadn’t mattered at the time because in truth he’d been picturing her naked in his mind.

  And he’d learned one very important lesson. Never picture a woman naked when she was capable of reading your mind. At least not unless you were seriously into masochism.

  Thom wasn’t. Then again, given his current predicament, perhaps he was.

  Only a true masochist would dart across the street to meet and fall in love with Merlin.

  Thom paused in his writing. “Now, good reader, before you think me odd. Let me explain. You see Merlin in ancient Britain wasn’t a name. It was a title and the one who bore that title could be either male or female. And my Merlin was a beautiful blonde angel who just happens to be a little less than forgiving. How do I know? See first paragraph where I talk about being imprisoned for a millennium . . . give or take a few centuries which still doesn’t sound quite as impressive as millennium.”

  Thom felt a little better after uttering that speech. Though not much. How could any man feel better while stuck in a hole?

  For it was true. Hell had no fury greater than a woman’s wrath.

  “That’s what having a beer with your buddies will get you.”

  Well, in his case it was more like a keg of ale. But that would be jumping ahead of the story.

  Sighing at himself, Thom dipped his quill in ink and returned to his vellum sheet. It was true, he had other means of writing things down, but since it all began with a quill and vellum, he wanted this diatribe to be captured the same way. After all, this was his version of the story. Or more simply, this was the truth of the matter. While others only speculated, he knew the truth.

  And no, the truth would not set him free. Only Merlin could do that and well, that was an entirely different story from this one.

  This story began with a poor besotted man seeing his Aphrodite across the street. She had paused in her walk and was looking about as if she’d lost something.

  Me, he’d thought. You have lost me and I am right here.

  With no thought except to hear the sound of his beloved’s voice before she started on her way again, he’d headed towards her only to nearly die under the hooves of a horse as he stepped out in front of a carter. Thom not-so-deftly dodged the carter and landed extremely unceremoniously in a trough.

  Drenched, but still besotted by Cupid’s whim, Thom attempted to wring himself dry before he again headed towards her . . . this time a bit more cautious of traffic.

  He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t dry the damn stench of the reeking water off his clothes. All he could do was watch his Calypso as she waited (he told himself) for him to claim her.

  As he drew near her, a million clever thoughts and introductions popped eagerly into his mind. He was going to sweep her off her feet with witty repartee. She would be bedazzled by his nimble, elegant tongue (in more ways than one if everything went according to plan).

  And then she had looked at him. Those brilliant blue ... or maybe they were green . . . eyes had pierced him with curiosity.

  Thom had drawn a deep breath, opened his mouth to speak, to woo her with his charm, when all of a sudden his cleverness abandoned him.

  Nothing. His mind was blank. Worthless. Aggravating.

  “Greetings.” Even he cringed as that simple, stupid word had tumbled out of his lips.

  “Greetings, good sir.”

  Her voice had been clear and soft. Like the song of an angel. She’d stood there for a moment, looking expectantly at him while his heart pounded, his forehead beaded with sweat.

  Speak, Thom, speak.

  “Nice day, eh?”

  “Very nice.”

  Aye, he was a fool. One who no longer bore any trace of his shrivelled manhood. Wanting to save whatever dignity he possessed (which at this point was in the negative digits), Thom nodded. “I just thought I’d point it out to you, fair maiden. Good day.”

 
Cringing even more, he’d started away from her only to pause as he caught sight of something strange.

  Now, being a rational human being, he’d thought it an unusually large bird. Let’s face it, in fifteenth-century England, everyone spoke of dragons, but no one had really thought to ever see one.

  And yet there it was in the sky. Like a giant . . . dragon. Which it was. Large and black with big red bulbous eyes and gleaming scales, it had circled above them, blocking out the sun.

  Thomas, being a coward, had wanted to run, but being a lusty man, he quickly saw an opportunity to woo his fair lady with dashing actions instead of a feeble tongue. After all, what woman wouldn’t swoon over a dragonslayer?

  That had been the idea.

  At least until the dragon kicked his ass. With one swipe of a talon, the dragon had batted him into the building. Thom had fallen to the street and every part of his body had throbbed and ached.

  It was awful. Or so he’d thought until the woman had placed her hand on his forehead. One minute he’d been lying on the street reeking of trough water, and in the next he’d found himself lying on a large, gilded bed.

  “Where am I?”

  “Shh,” his angel had said. “You have been poisoned by the dragon. Lie still and give my touch time to heal you or you will surely die.”

  (Note to self. I should have started moving about, thrashing wildly.)

  Not wanting to die (because I was stupid), Thom had done as she asked. He had lain there, looking up into her perfectly sculpted features. She was beauty and grace.

  “Have you a name, my lady?”

  “Merlin.”

  That had been the last name he would have ever attributed to a woman so comely. “Merlin?”

  “Aye. Now be still.”

  For the first time in all of his life, Thom had obeyed. He’d closed his eyes and inhaled the fresh, sweet scent of lilac that clung to the bed he lay in. He wondered if this was Merlin’s bed and then he wondered of other things that men and women could do in a bed . . . especially together.

  “Stop that.”

  He opened his eyes at the reprimand from his Aphrodite. “Stop what?”

  “Those thoughts,” she’d said sharply. “I hear every one of them and they disturb me.”

  “Disturb you how?”

  “I am the Penmerlin and I must remain chaste. Thoughts such as those do not belong in my head.”

  “They’re not in your head, my lady, they’re in mine and if they offend you, perhaps you should keep to yourself.”

  She’d gifted him with a dazzling smile. “You are a bold one, Thorn. Perhaps I should have let the mandrake take you.”

  “Mandrake?” As in the root?

  “The dragon,” she’d explained. “His kind have the ability to take either the form of man or dragon, hence their name.”

  Well, that certainly explained that, however other matters had been rather vague in his mind. “But he wasn’t after me. He was after you. Why?”

  “Because I was on the trail of a very special Merlin and the mandrake sensed me. That is why I so seldom venture to the world of man. When one possesses as much magic as I do, it is too easy for other magical beasts to find you.”

  That made sense to him. “You are enemies.”

  She nodded. “He works for Morgan le Fey.”

  Thom’d had the audacity to laugh at that. “The sister of King Arthur.”

  Merlin hadn’t joined in his laughter. “Aye, the very same.”

  The serious look on her face and the tone of her voice had instantly sobered him. “You’re not jesting.”

  “Nay. The tales of Arthur are real, but they are not quite what the minstrels tell. Arthur’s world was vast and his battles are still being waged, not only in this time, but in future ones as well.”

  In that moment, Thom wasn’t sure what enraptured him most. The stunning creature he longed to bed or the idea that Camelot really had existed.

  Over the course of the next few days while he healed from his attack, Thom had stayed in the fabled isle of Avalon and listened to Merlin’s stories of Arthur and his knights.

  But more than that, he’d seen them. At least those who still lived. There for a week, he’d walked amongst the legends and shaken the hands of fables. He’d learned that Merlin was only one of her kind. Others like her had been sent out into the world of man to be hidden from Morgan who wanted to use those Merlins, and the sacred objects they protected, for evil.

  It was a frightening battle they waged. One that held no regard for time or beings. And in the end, the very fate of the world rested in the hands of the victor.

  “I wish to be one of you,” Thom had finally confessed to Merlin on the evening of his eighth day. “I want to help save the world.”

  Her eyes had turned dull. “That isn’t your destiny, Thom. You must return to the world of man and be as you were.”

  She made that sound simple enough, but he wasn’t the same man who had come to Avalon. His time here had changed him. “How can I ever be as I was now that I know the truth?”

  She’d stepped away from him. “You will be as you were, Thom ... I promise.”

  And then everything had gone blurry. His eyesight had failed until he found himself encased in darkness.

  Thom awakened the next morning to find himself back in England, in his own house . . . his own bed.

  He’d tried desperately to return to Avalon, only to have everyone tell him that’d he’d dreamed it all.

  “You’ve been here the whole time,” his housekeeper had sworn.

  But he hadn’t believed it. How could he? This wasn’t some illness that had befallen him. It wasn’t.

  It was real (another four-letter word that often led men to disaster).

  Eventually Thom had convinced himself that they were right and he’d dreamed it all. The land of Merlins had only existed in his mind. Where else could it have been?

  And so he’d returned to his old ways. He’d gambled, he’d fought, he’d wenched, and most of all he’d drunk and drunk and drunk.

  Until that night.

  It was a night (another noun that was five letters in English and four in French. There were times when the French were greatly astute). Thom had wandered off to his favourite tavern that was filled with many of his less than proper friends. As the night passed, and they’d fallen deep into their cups, Geoffrey or maybe it’d been Henry or Richard had begun to place a wager.

  He who told the best tale would win a purse of coin (note the four letters here).

  No one knew how much coin was in the purse because they were all too drunk to care. Instead they had begun with their stories before a small group of wenches who were their judges. Thorn, too drunk to notice that a man had drawn near their table, had fondled his wench while the others went on before him.

  “That’s all well and nice,” he’d said as Richard finished up some retelling of one of Chaucer’s tales (the man was far from original). “But I, Thomas Malory . . . Sir Thomas Malory can beat you all.”

  “Of course you can, Thorn,” Geoffrey had said with a laugh and a belch. “You always think you can.”

  “No, no, there is no think . . .I’m too drunk for that. This is all about doing.” He’d held his cup out to be refilled before he’d started the story. At first he’d meant to tell the story of a farming mishap his father had told him of, but before he could think better of it (drinking usually had this effect), out had come the whole matter of the King Arthur that Merlin had told him about.

  Or at least some of it. Being Thom, who liked to embellish all truth, he’d taken some liberties. He’d changed a few things, but basically he’d kept to the story. After all, what harm could come of it? He’d dreamed it all anyway, and it was an interesting tale.

  And the next thing he’d known, he’d won that wager and taken home a purse which later proved to only contain two rocks and some lint. A paltry prize indeed.

  Then, before he’d even known what had happened, pe
ople had starting coming up to him and speaking of a book he’d written. Thom, not being a fool to let such fame bypass him, had played along at first. Until he’d seen the book himself. There it was, in all its beautiful glory. His name.

  No man had ever destroyed his life more quickly than Thom did the instant that book became commonly available.

  One instant he’d been in his own bed and the next he’d been in a small, tiny, infinitesimal cell with an angry blonde angel glaring at him.

  “Do I know you?” he’d asked her.

  She’d glared at him. Out of nowhere, the book had appeared. “How could you do this?”

  Now at this time, self-preservation had caused Thom to ask the one question that had been getting men into trouble for centuries. “Do what?”

  And just like countless men before him (and after him, is this not true, men?) he learned too late that he should have remained completely silent.

  “You have unleashed our secret, Thomas. Doom to you for it, because with this book you have exposed us to those who want us dead.”

  Suddenly, his dream returned to him and he remembered every bit of it. Most of all, he remembered that it wasn’t a dream.

  The Lords of Avalon were all real... just as Morgan was. And as Merlin led the remnants of the Knights of the Round Table, Morgan led her Cercle du Damne Two halves fighting for the world.

  But that left Thom with just one question “If you had all that magic, Merlin, why didn’t you know about the book that would be written if you returned me to the world?”

  With those words uttered, he’d learned that there truly was a worse question to ask a woman than A) her age, B) her weight, and C) do what?

  “Please note that here I rot and here I stay until Merlin cools down.”

  Thom looked down at the PDA and sighed. Time might not have any real meaning in Avalon, but it meant a whole hell of a lot to him.

  In Sheep’s Clothing

  Meljean Brook

  Five years ago, Emma Cooper would have thought a blown tyre in the middle of a blizzard was bad. But bad was the small, spiked metal ball her fingers found embedded in the rubber — and worse was the truck, its headlights on bright, pulling off the two-lane highway and onto the shoulder twenty yards behind her Jeep.