Reblogged from Theo Fenraven:

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The second book in the Precog in Peril series is now available for $2.99.

Buy links: Amazon, Smashwords, ARe

Gray Vecello and Cooper Key are back in the exciting sequel to Three of Swords.  Graham’s treasure is only the tip of the iceberg as a thief helps himself to a hidden stash of cash, Jolly Roger makes another appearance, and the guys finally meet others with special abilities when an emergency meeting of the group is called.

Read more… 200 more words

“Ban,” Sebastian whispered. “I’ve followed you for weeks. You’re strong. Musical. Not particularly intelligent and unspoilt by education. Perfect for rendering service unto such as me.”

“Mmmm…” Ban was fading and the sensation was sweet, oh so sweet.

“It’s a great honor. Don’t you want to taste me?” Sebastian held his wrist under Ban’s nose. It smelled oddly fragrant, like ripe raspberries falling off the vine.

“Sleep … first…” Ban rasped, knowing he would never waken.

A small blade flashed in the starlight. A dark line opened on Sebastian’s pale, slender wrist. Something hot and wet touched Ban’s lips. Ban, who’d cut himself countless times and frequently sucked the wounds, expected to taste copper. Instead, he tasted seed—not the same consistency, but the identical taste, hot and salty like a young man’s climax. Fastening his mouth on Sebastian’s wrist, Ban sucked greedily, heat spreading from the roof of his mouth to the crown of his head. His hair stood on end, rising like a spooked tomcat as it crackled at the roots. His sight went in and out, blurring and clearing, blurring and clearing. His heart sped up, lungs demanding he stop sucking every few moments for a deep gulp of air. His skin burned, especially on his hands and face, even as his biceps, hamstrings and calves swelled. His cock was up again, dribbling seed, threatening to spill at any moment. And even as he shot, Ban kept on sucking at Sebastian’s wrist, captivated by visions from his own past. Simon, plump and old before his time … John the Smithy, mouth open, head lolling on his pillow … his little brother Mark dead and bloated in the well, dragged up by villagers eager to draw water again … his mother’s last kiss before her predawn escape…

“I … I … please … take me…” Ban gasped, amazed to find himself swollen and aching again. Not in fifteen summers had he spurted so violently, only to rise again seconds later. Usually Ban was the man astride, spreading his nameless lover’s buttocks and fitting himself inside. But with Sebastian, Ban felt small, weak, insubstantial. It seemed only fitting he fall to his hands and knees, set his teeth and take everything the other man gave him. The pain would be nothing to the pleasure of exposing himself to Sebastian, of offering ass as well as cock.

I am taking you. Sebastian’s voice echoed inside Ban’s skull. Poor, stupid, lazy abomination. Useless, friendless misfit, with a drunk for a father and a whore for a mother. No wonder you preferred buggering Simon. What sweet innocent maid would want you?

Ban didn’t resist the abuse. To the contrary, his eager cock spurted again, entranced by this being—surely a Faerie prince—who magically understood him down to his marrow. Perhaps Ban wasn’t clever, but he was experienced enough to know the truth of Sebastian’s observations. Perhaps the mystery of his attraction to men was solved at last? Why sully helpless females, whom he adored, when he could vent his imperfections on men, forcing his lust on their hard, handsome bodies?

“Am I dying?” Ban asked. He’d never felt more alive in his life.

Yes. Sebastian pushed Ban to the cobblestones, on his back in the short alley. Then Sebastian bestrode him, rubbing his loins against Ban’s crotch.

“But why aren’t you hard?”

Sebastian smiled. Because you satisfy me only with your blood. Your qi. My cock, as you would say, craves only my own kind. And you are far beneath that.

Ban tried to process the notion, but his head ached. His heart thudded wildly; his breath came too fast and his skin ached all over, wet with perspiration. “Can I kiss you there? Pleasure you somehow?”

Sebastian smiled. Oh, my eager one. You will be the perfect servant. His blade flashed again in the starlight, drawing a long dark line down the side of Ban’s once again engorged member. Let me taste my own blood, corrupted by your imperfection…

Sebastian’s mouth closed over the wound on Ban’s cock. For Ban, the transition was like lightning. The world went from starlit to fog-shrouded to black as the grave.

***

“Do you like them?”

Ban found himself standing up, balanced on half-numb feet. Was he wearing shoes? He looked down.

Yes. His feet were encased in shoes—boots, to be exact, polished and new. He could feel the soles of his feet, his heels, but not his toes. It was almost as if they were missing, except for the faint tingle in each great toe.

“Like what?” Ban croaked.

“Your new clothes. My tailor labored day and night to make them ready for you, based only on my description. They might be a touch snug in the shoulders and loose in the waist, but those flaws shall be swiftly mended.”

Ban stared at the man in the mirror. He looked very like Ban, with only a few errors to alert the very wise. Wasn’t that the way of Faeries, even Faery princes? Didn’t they always make their illusions too sumptuous, too perfect for mere mortals to ultimately believe?

“Am I dead?”

“Oh, yes.” Sebastian’s whisper was conspiratorial; his lips brushed Ban’s earlobe. “Don’t you remember?”

Ban studied his reflection. His hair was a bit too long and altogether too black. The silver at his temples was gone. His brown eyes were overly dark, only a few lighter flecks inside the darkness to recall their former color. The lines at the corners of his eyes were rather shallow now, as were his forehead creases. The ache in his left elbow, constant after a pub brawl two winters back, had disappeared. Had Ban closed his eyes and guessed based on how he felt, he would have assumed himself twenty or so. Twenty … and very much alive.

“My heart yet beats,” Ban told Sebastian, hand over the left side of his chest.

“Of course. You died. My blood resurrected you. Shall I give you a lesson in theology?” Sebastian, more handsome than ever in candlelight, gave Ban a winsome smile—no Church window or statue had better depicted such masculine beauty. “Jesu, called Christ, resurrects mortal Man after death through the miracle of His Body and Blood. I, Sebastian, resurrected you, Hob Smith, by the miracle of my own body and blood. How else can you explain your unearthly beauty? The potency of your loins?”

It was true. Ban needed no carnal temptation to tell him he was young again, steeped in lust and filled with restless energy. The gray threads in his hair had disappeared; even his heartbeat was unnaturally slow, strong, capable of powering his body with one-fourth its former effort.

“You are … Satan,” Ban whispered, overcome by the word as he uttered it aloud. In Cowslip, even the priest had called Lucifer only “the Evildoer.”

“Indeed.” Sebastian smiled. “Beautiful, am I not? A bringer of life and light in the truest sense?”

“Oh, yes, master, yes.” Instinctively, Ban dropped to his knees. He would have done anything Sebastian asked, sucking his cock or kissing his feet, anything to please the creature who had gifted him with such vitality.

“My dear one.” One of Sebastian’s pale, long-fingered hands buried itself in Ban’s hair. “You understand this will never be yours.” His other hand undid his trousers, revealing the long, flaccid organ within. “You are unworthy.”

Ban heard himself moan. “Please. Please let me worship you. My lips … my fingers … what else can I offer?”

Sebastian laughed. “I’ve killed you. Brought you back. Dressed you and given you a home, though you’re too lustful and confused to know it. Now I’ll take you a dozen ways—none of them requiring my cock—and you’ll repay me from this day unto the end of days.”

***

“Nicholas.” Ban stared into the bed at the other man. “Was I dead? Truly? Or did my master lie to me? And if he lied … why?”

It was a little past noon. Ban was still seated beside Nicholas’s bed, waiting for a sign that the man might actually awaken. Outside, the day was sunny and perfect, not a cloud to mar the hard blue sky. Which meant Ban was trapped within Grantley for the next few hours. And Sebastian, sick as he was, had surely marked Ban’s absence.

“You need to wake up.” Ban used a handkerchief to dab at the man’s brow. “Hear those footsteps on the stairs? No doubt that housekeeper of yours has brought the Very Reverend Mr. Prentiss to pray over you. If that threat doesn’t make an atheist and a man of science recoil, nothing w—”

“I do apologize for arriving so very late.” Throwing open the bedroom door, Dr. Flowers crashed in like a rhinoceros, Mrs. Parker hard on his heels. The doctor’s hair was disheveled, his spectacles were perched askew on the end of his nose, and he appeared to have slept in his clothes. “I was across the river in Louden, seeking a new housekeeper. I’ve lost another, I fear, and with no notice. But the moment word reached me of Mr. Robinson’s illness I—”

Dr. Flowers drew up short, staring at Ban. “God in heaven. Mr. Ulwin. Unless I am very much mistaken – it’s you.”

Ban stood up. With the window uncurtained behind him, he could feel the sun’s warmth, uncomfortable but far from unbearable. At least as long as thick leaded glass remained between him and the unadulterated rays.

“Forgive my unkempt appearance, Dr. Flowers.” Ban had also slept in his clothes, though he required no looking glass to know he looked near-perfect compared to the older man. “I wish we could have met under more pleasant circumstances. I lingered here all night, hoping Mr. Robinson would wake. Thus far he has shown no sign.”

Dr. Flowers continued to stare at Ban. Finally he said, “How fortunate for you, to go a full night and half-day without application of a razor.”

Ban fought back a smile. As ever, Sebastian’s predictions, whether borne of instinct or some more prosaic form of intelligence, proved prescient. One of the Learned had taken up residence in Maidenstone. They had their own mysterious ways of knowing where to station themselves. Ban didn’t understand how the Learned fathomed such things, not any more than he understood why the Old Ones – even a relatively young Old One like Sebastian – never seemed surprised.

“If you mean I appear as fresh as a beardless boy, I will take that as a compliment,” Ban said. “In fact, I am two-and-thirty.” And another three hundred and seven if it please you, doctor. Moreover, my beard still grows. I must shave at least four times a year.

“Dr. Flowers!” Mrs. Parker looked close to slapping him across the face, bursting into tears, or both. “Mr. Ulwin has been so good as to stay by Mr. Robinson’s side, but such pretty talk is of no consequence now. See to him, I beg of you!”

Dr. Flowers didn’t seem to hear her. “I find it stuffy in here. Mr. Ulwin, would you be so kind as to open the window?”

“I should prefer not. Mr. Robinson suffers chills as well as bouts of fever.”

They studied one another, Dr. Flowers transfixed, Ban refusing to say more. Mrs. Parker made a little sound of infuriated distress and Dr. Flowers grunted, suddenly aware of her.

“Now, now. Tears never solved anything. Take this,” he ordered the housekeeper, passing over his black leather bag. “Well, Mr. Ulwin, go on, I’m listening. I’m positively famished for illumination. What perfectly believable, utterly natural misfortune befell Mr. Robinson?”

Ban ignored the sarcasm. Either the physician was mad – many residents of Maidenstone Village whispered as much – or else as one of the Learned, he believed he had nothing to fear. Which was true, at least for the moment.

“Last night, I chanced upon Mr. Robinson in the orchard. He’d gone seeking a Grantley servant named Martha. When I found him, his right leg was swollen. He could not walk, not even with his cane, so I helped him back to the house. Mr. Robinson believed he’d tripped over a root. Yet he sickened not long after our arrival, rendering my own departure impossible. Vomited blood all over his bed …”

“Those sheets gave me such a turn,” Mrs. Parker interjected, wiping her eyes. “The idea my poor master brought up all that blood…”

“I should like to examine those sheets,” Dr. Flowers said.

“The servants were already beside themselves. The sight of bloody sheets would have been too much, so I gathered up the bedclothes and threw them on the bonfire, just before dawn,” Ban said. “I also ordered the staff not to gossip about Mr. Robinson’s condition, on pain of horsewhipping. The village is superstitious enough without hysteria over what seems a certain case of snake bite. Why else would my friend give the appearance of a poisoned man – chills, tremors and copious sweats?”

“Why, indeed.” Dr. Flowers raised his eyebrows. “We have adders in these parts, but they bring almost instant death. As for other serpents, I am uncertain—” He stopped, refocusing on Ban with fresh consternation. “Did you call Nicholas your friend?”

Ban blinked. Now, as in his human youth, only the wealthy and educated could afford to be so forcefully rude. “Though our acquaintance is but brief, yes, I consider the man a friend.”

It was an extravagant lie, of course, but the truth was almost literally unspeakable, even for one such as Ban. He would sooner tell this wary Learned man and this plain-faced Christian woman that he was a blood-drinker, a minion of Satan come to carry them all to Hell, than confess he’d desired Nicholas and seduced him in his bed.

“And now, my friend,” Ban said theatrically, putting his mouth close to Nicholas’s ear but speaking purely for Dr. Flowers’s benefit, “I shall leave you to this good man’s care. I mean to tour Grantley farm. Make certain the decorations are packed away and any leftover food is carried down to the village for those in need.”

“Thank you, sir, and please see that the bonfire’s ashes are well and truly covered,” Mrs. Parker said. “Last year the boys were lazy and a girl’s skirt caught fire. Her leg still bears the scars.”

“The bonfire shall be my first stop.” Ban gave the woman his most charming bow. She was one he would never have to enthrall again – now he’d won her support the old-fashioned way.

“You are going – out?  Out there?” Dr. Flowers asked, jerking his head toward the window. For the first time he looked less than certain.

“I was awake all night, a quite unwholesome and unnatural state. If I remain in this darkened room much longer, I will doze all day. Let me get the sun on my face,” Ban restrained himself from laughing at Dr. Flowers’s wide eyes, “and in an hour or so, I shall return refreshed to check on our patient.”

***

Naturally, Ban did not leave Grantley. He did not even sidle close to the windows until the sun disappeared behind the tree line. But he talked to most of the outdoor servants, calling them into the great hall to ask about their needs while Nicholas was ill. Most were susceptible to enthrallment, so Ban – fighting fatigue in earnest now – put into their minds the notion they’d spoken to him out in the sunshine. Then, yawning and wishing he dared take blood in such close quarters, he’d wandered through the house, testing doors and knocking on walls whenever he could do so unobserved. The previous night he’d explored for more than an hour, searching for a passage or a room within a room. Twice he’d found familiar signs carved into the rafters, so unobtrusive virtually no mortal would ever notice them. Yes, the house had been built by the Old Ones, or a faithful servant of the Old Ones, like himself. But beyond those symbols, Ban found no indication Grantley contained anything other than well-worn furniture, indifferent art and a mountain of dusty books.

He watched with some amusement as Dr. Flowers stalked through the stable yard, interrogating every servant who passed, his scowl deepening with each answer. All would go to their graves swearing Ban toured the farm in the heat of the day, twice calling for a cup of water to slake his thirst. Mixed with the lie was a very popular truth – instead of sending the uneaten food down into the village, to be parceled out by the Church for those families found deserving, Ban had declared a second feast. Thus the Grantley staff’s workday had ended quite early, culminating in an unexpected supper that included cold meats, fruit and even a measure of ale.

I shan’t have to horsewhip anyone, I daresay, Ban thought with an unexpected surge of satisfaction. These mortals love an apple and a scratch behind the ears as much as my Carmilla.

After moonrise, when most of the household had gone to bed, Ban urged Mrs. Parker to try and sleep.

“I shall lie abed if you insist, sir, but I won’t sleep. You will send for me, won’t you, if he … if he …” She stopped, unable to say more.

“Of course.” Ban forced a smile, fighting not to let his frustration show. Sebastian’s coterie of servants was entirely like Ban; in his usual sphere there were no mortals to shepherd, coddle and prop up. Though Ban mixed frequently with the living, he’d always done so on his own terms, for diversion, sport or sustenance. This plague of questions, fears, and weeping – endless female weeping – threatened to make him run mad.

After Mrs. Parker retired, Ban sat down beside Nicholas’s bed and sighed, running both hands through his hair. The man was infuriating. He did not die, yet would not live. His fever remained constant; none of Dr. Flowers’s pitiful tricks, including a draught he brewed himself, had made the slightest difference. Dr. Flowers had promised to return first thing in the morning with some novel preparation, a powder they could force down Nicholas’s throat with a bit of water.

“That ludicrous old fool will be back, you know, to stuff eye of newt or some other such nonsense down your gullet,” Ban heard himself warn Nicholas. He always knew he was exhausted – exhausted or half-mad from one of Sebastian’s punishments – when he began to speak aloud, unbidden. “You need to wake up. Take your staff in hand. Comfort your housekeeper. Tell your stable boys to come in out of the rain, as they’re too stupid to do so on their own. Wake up. Wake up, Nicholas.” Impulsively he took the other man’s hand, enfolding it in both of his. “Wake up.”

Reblogged from Sweet Little Thang:

Sweet Little Thang is celebrating Dia De Los Muertos….check out this cake for a customer!

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Reblogged from sethsnap:

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I was looking for a picture from a past vacation when I stumbled upon my photos from a visit to Canterbury in the United Kingdom.  Back in 2005, a group of us (Todd, Ryan (Todd’s brother) and Kim(Ryan’s wife)) took a trip on a sunny summer afternoon to Canterbury in England.

It was a glorious day.  The sun was perfect to capture some of the old city’s landmarks. 

Read more… 165 more words

Reblogged from Theo Fenraven:

What is the title of your book?

SOULLESS

Where did the idea come from for the book?

I can’t say, precisely, except that I’ve always wanted to do a vampire story.

What genre does your book fall under?

M/M Paranormal Romance

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie?

I am going to refrain from answering that one.

What is a one sentence synopsis of your book?

Well, here’s the tagline I am thinking of attaching to the promos:
A man of science … a creature of darkness … a love predestined. LOL. Something like that.

Will your book be self published or represented by an agency?

Self-published.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

It’s still going, but I project it may be finished by the end of November, or thereabouts.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I hate to make comparisons. I will say this — it’s nothing like my books Something Different or Protection. I wonder if readers will be able to tell it was written by the same author. Plus, those stories were about 32,000 words each. I believe this full-length novel will approach 90,000 words.

Who or What inspired you to write this book?

My friend Rosemary O’Malley, who knows all about gothic situations and creatures of darkness.

What else about your book might interest the reader?

SOULLESS, set in Surrey, England (1798) is a story about who we are, verses who we think we are. As the book opens, Nicholas Robinson believes his life is essentially over. Grievously injured trying to save a friend, he is left crippled and embittered. He doesn’t believe in Fate or God, and he certainly doesn’t believe he survived an accident that should have killed him because Fate–or God–isn’t done with him yet. Something truly evil is coming to his quaint little English village, and no one but Nicholas can stop it.

In the meantime,  we’re also introduced to Bancroft Ulwin. Ban, who became a vampire in the late Middle Ages, believes himself soulless and utterly beyond redemption. He doesn’t fight any of his natural urges, either for human blood, lifeforce (qi) or handsome young men. Although captivated by Nicholas, Ban assumes he’ll merely keep Nicholas for a pet until he tires of him. But Ban, too, is a hero in the making, brought to Maidenstone by Fate to save humans, not slaughter them.

If anyone cares to follow SOULLESS, I’m serializing it on this very blog. The installments begin here and the next one is due tomorrow night. Thanks for reading and please do check with AJ Rose, Arshad Ahsanuddin, Jack Wallen and Theo Fenraven on November 4th to learn more about the Next Big Thing.

Reblogged from Speak Its Name:

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Newly discharged from the Marines after World War II, Scotty Bowers arrived in Hollywood in 1946. Young, charismatic, and strikingly handsome, he quickly caught the eye of many of the town’s stars and starlets. He began sleeping with some himself, and connecting others with his coterie of young, attractive, and sexually free-spirited friends. His own lovers included Edith Piaf, Spencer Tracy, Vivien Leigh, Cary Grant and the Duke of Windsor, and he arranged tricks or otherwise crossed paths with Tennessee Williams, Charles Laughton, Katharine Hepburn, Rita Hayworth, Errol Flynn, Gloria Swanson, Noël Coward, Mae West, William Holden, James Dean, Rock Hudson and J.

Read more… 1,126 more words

Reblogged from David Gaughran:

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Chronic under-funding of school libraries has led to the tragic spectacle of empty shelves, leaving children with nothing to read; but a new initiative called Fill The Shelves hopes to change all that.

This story starts in a Pennsylvania K-8 school called Pittsburgh Manchester, where the librarian – Sheila May-Stein – decided to do something about the empty shelves in her own school (pictured left – that was the…

Read more… 930 more words

Reblogged from Vampire Maman:

  A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.

~ Oscar Wilde

September 16 is the birthday of Oscar Wilde. In honor of Oscar…read, write a poem, be witty, be sharp, dress well, kiss someone, live with passion, laugh, love and do something wild.

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