The Love Token by Raven McAllan

General Release Date: 1st February 2022

Word Count:  34,958
Book Length: SHORT NOVEL
Pages: 134

Genres:

EROTIC ROMANCE
HISTORICAL
MEN IN UNIFORM
VALENTINES

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Book Description

 Spies, smugglers, scandals. Stealth, seduction and sex. All they had to do was decide which was theirs to take and what had to be earned. And hope they reached their happily ever after.

Jonathon, Viscount Carville, soldier, spy and would-be lover of Miss Miranda Riston, has accepted a mission to discover who is smuggling contraband into East Yorkshire. Her papa, however, is convinced Jonathon is dead, and wishes her to marry elsewhere. Miranda refuses and is delighted to find Jonathon is very much alive but working undercover on behalf of the British Government.

More is at stake than just a few shillings of tax duty owed.

Among their close friends and acquaintances there is a traitor working against the crown on behalf of Emperor Napoleon. Danger threatens as they seek to discover the identity of their treacherous foe.

Who is an innocent pawn? And who is not all they seem?

It’s a puzzle that must be solved if they are to get the happy ever after they long for.

Excerpt

February 1818

Miranda Riston stared at her parents in horror. Surely they must be mad? Addle-pated and, not to put a finer point on it, ready to be admitted to Bedlam. Otherwise, why on earth would they suggest such a thing?

“Do I understand you correctly?” she said with deliberate care as she did her best not to lose her temper and show herself in a less than rational manner. Even if she was of a mind to scream like a fishwife and throw things. “You think I should become betrothed to Edward Twain? Viscount Carville’s younger brother?” Over my dead body—or yours. “Never in a million years.” Apart from the fact Edward had an understanding with another young lady, he was one of her beloved Jonathon’s siblings.

The least effectual one. The one who moaned and whinged and assumed almost everyone was against him.

She wasn’t against him, but if she were honest, she had little time for his attitude and feeling of entitlement. If he had worked with Jonathon and helped to create a strong and growing family estate, she probably wouldn’t have been so critical, but as far as she could tell, he had not.

Jonathon. Who worked tirelessly for his family and country and was happy not to be recognised for all he achieved. He just, as he’d once said, “got on with what had to be done and did it without a fuss”. “Fussing”, he had added with a grin, “was so much effort for very little reward”. Unless it was over her.

Miranda had laughed.

If only he was there now to say the same things. She put one hand over the necklace she had worn under her gown for the past three years. The tiny blue sapphire in half of a silver four leaf clover. A symbol, he had said, of his love for her. My lover. Even if he never became her husband, he was the one man she’d given herself to gladly, and she would do so again as easily as before.

“You are nigh on the shelf. It is a good alliance,” her papa said in a ‘listen to me, I am your parent’ voice. “He is the heir, and it will cement your future.”

There had to be more to it than that. “He is not the heir,” Miranda said firmly. Why on earth did they think that? Unless they knew something she didn’t. That was not anything to bear thinking about. “Jonathon is the heir as you well know.”

Jonathon.

The only man she would ever love. The one man who she admitted she would go to the ends of the earth for.

The man she had spent one magical night with, learning all about love and sex. How to pleasure and be pleased. How to take his cock in her mouth and lave it until he bucked under her and filled her mouth with hot salty liquid, which she had gladly swallowed. How to gently squeeze his bollocks and help him hold back his climax or come hard and fast.

Discovering how he could lick, lave, nibble and suck her nub, swirl his tongue into her channel and make her shake and scream. Then enter her, move inside her until she swore his cock swelled and reached her soul.

Sadly, to feel him pull out before he filled her with his seed. In order, he’d said, to ensure there was no child of that union. Not yet, not until he returned.

Now she wondered if it would have been better to clamp her legs around him, tighten her inner muscles and ensure he’d climaxed in her. If a child had resulted this situation would never have happened.

Or would it have? In some ways it might have given her parents what they would have seen as more leverage. Lack of legitimacy.

“Miranda?” her papa asked irritably. “Are you listening to me? You need to marry. Edward is a neighbour. It would be a good and useful match.”

“Useful?” Who on earth wanted a useful marriage? “For whom? What about Jonathon? He is, I believe, the heir, unless his mama played his papa false, and I could never see Edwina doing that.” Jonathon’s mama was devoted to her husband.

“Do not be crass,” her papa snapped. “Jonathon is to all intents and purposes dead. No one has heard from him for nigh on three years. His papa says so. Not one sighting, no mentions in dispatches.”

“No body,” Miranda said quietly. If he were dead, I would know it. Feel it. I am sure he is not. And I have heard from him. Cryptic notes, left at their trysting place every so often. No more than ‘I am safe’, or ‘I love you’, but it was enough. She’d left replies. ‘Stay safe’, and ‘I love you’. The only one she’d received that worried her had not been in his hand, nor by him. It had said simply, ‘he is safe’. She had been thankful he was but had wondered who had left it.

“However, that,” she continued, “in this case, is immaterial. Be he alive or dead, I will not marry Edward. We would not suit. Plus, I will not marry for convenience. Only love.”

“Overrated,” her papa retorted. “As for a body, do you know how many were left unknown at Waterloo? Too many to mention.”

Miranda’s mama paled. “Thank you, Henry. How good to know where I stand, and your dismissing of our brave soldiers. I agree with Miranda. She and Edward would not suit.”

“It’s Edward Twain, or I disown her. And you.”

What on earth was going on? Why was her papa so adamant? “Papa, have you lost all our money on ‘change?”

His face reddened, and his anger was palpable. “Indeed, I have not. I want to see you married and settled. You have shown no partiality to anyone, so it is my duty to find you a husband. I have.”

“No,” her mama said forcefully. “You have found her someone you want her to marry, and no more. I told you, Henry, I begged you to reconsider but you did not. I also wonder why?”

“It’s… I think it sensible.”

He didn’t sound too sure.

“Papa, I’m sorry, but I do not agree and I will not agree.” It was rare she defied her papa—she loved him, and he was in general a reasonable man. What maggot had got into his head and given him this irrational idea she couldn’t think. Whatever it was, she disagreed vehemently.

“Nor do I think it sensible. Or rational,” her mama said. “Henry, you may not love me, you may indeed choose to disown me, but I have always loved you and admired your sense of honour. This is not honourable. We always said we wanted Miranda to have what we have. Or,” her mama corrected herself, “what I thought we had. It appears I was wrong.”

Her papa appeared horrified. “My dear, how could you doubt I love you? I have since the moment I set eyes on you.” His anger disappeared as fast as it had arrived. “I spoke in the heat of the moment. Miranda has a fortune. We do not want fortune hunters sniffing about. I worry for her.” He turned to his daughter. “Miranda, I just think that if you did love someone you would be wed by now. I haven’t noticed you show any partiality towards any of the gentlemen you’ve met, so I would be failing in my duty not to suggest someone.”

“As long as that person was around, you would see my partiality,” Miranda said softly. Luckily, it appeared no one heard. She wasn’t prepared to share that information. Not then, maybe not ever, and she had no idea why.

“Papa, you did not suggest. You insisted,” she said instead. “At the risk of being rude to my elder and better, I’m not wed, and I will not marry Edward,” she added firmly. She grinned for a second before the seriousness of the situation hit her once more. “We would not suit at all.”

“Nor will he and the Amble chit,” her papa said. “She’s no future Lady Twain, or an eventual Viscountess Carville. Edward’s papa will not allow it.”

“Henry, come with me, and let us talk about all this,” her mama said as she took her husband’s arm and began to propel him out of the room. “We have to listen to Miranda.” She winked at her daughter. “And let her marshal her thoughts and reasons.”

They left the room.

Miranda let her breath out in one long whoosh. “Of all the stupid, awful, arrogant, idiotic, insane, asinine ideas…”

“I totally agree. Lock the door,” a familiar voice said from outside the open window.

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About the Authors

Raven McAllan

After 30 plus years in Scotland, Raven now lives near the east Yorkshire coast, with her long-suffering husband, who is used to rescuing the dinner, when she gets immersed in her writing, keeping her coffee pot warm and making sure the wine is chilled.

With a new home to decorate and a garden to plan, she’s never short of things to do, but writing is always at the top of her list.

Her other hobbies include walking along the coast and spotting the wildlife, reading, researching, cros stitch and trying not to drop stitches as she endeavours to knit.

Being left-handed, and knitting right-handed, that’s not always easy.

She loves hearing from her readers, either via her website, by email or social media.

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Cross My Heart by Aliyah Burke

General Release Date: 1st February2022

Word Count: 31,567
Book Length: SHORT NOVEL
Pages: 139

Genres:

 CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
MEN IN UNIFORM
MULTICULTURAL
VALENTINES

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Book Description

One night together can lead to forever…

Rash decisions had not really ever been her thing, until one night in a bar with her brothers had Cynzia Cassano irritated enough to kiss the next guy walking through the door. Little does she know that he is going change her life.

Lucas Hoch is out with his best friends when a woman that knocks his world on its axis kisses him. Unable to forget her, he follows and takes the night with her she offers. It will never be enough. She is gone when he wakes and he will scour the earth to find her again.

When their paths do cross once more, as much as he wants to keep her, she is a woman with her own strong mind and life to live. Will there be room in their lives for each other?

Reader advisory: This book contains characters from Casanova in Training and Temporary Home.

Excerpt

“Come on, sweetcheeks. Don’t be like that. This is your lucky night.”

Cyn tucked a curl behind her ear, opening her mouth to inform this man—and that was a term she used loosely—just how wrong he was just as two men, both taller than her, appeared at her side.

The man, Jack, she recalled his name being, eyed them both up and down with challenge. She fought to hide her snort.

“You know,” she remarked as if his life weren’t in danger, “you should probably just walk away now.”

Jack puffed up and sent another scathing look at the two males beside her. “These your men? You one of those broads who enjoys more than one dick at a time?”

“Oh,” she said with a smile, “these aren’t my dates. But you’ll wish they were.”

He snorted. “Who are they then?”

“My brothers.”

The words barely had time to leave her mouth before her two brothers each took one of the obnoxious man’s arms and backed him away from her. Not the slightest bit polite about doing it either. Rolling her eyes, she turned back to the pool game she’d been keeping an eye on and sucked on the straw while watching the woman there set up the man she was playing against.

“How do you do it, Cynzia?”

One shoulder up in a shrug, she waited until the woman sank her latest shot before glancing back to her brothers. They were triplets, the three of them—she was not only the youngest but the only girl—and it tended to make her brothers a bit overprotective.

Michael, the eldest, wrapped his arm around her, and she sank into him. She was also the shortest, not having gotten the height the boys had from their father, Giovanni Cassano. She was closer to their mother’s height.

“What are you doing here, Cyn?” This time the question was posed by the middle brother, Dante. “Why aren’t you home with Mom?”

Pushing her now empty drink at her brother, she turned to be able to see them both. “I’m not in diapers. I’m twenty-three, same as the two of you. I am allowed to go out to bars.”

Michael growled low in his throat. “And get picked up by assholes like the one we just had to chase off? You should be smarter than that.”

That dig hurt and pricked her normally laid-back temper.

“One, I wasn’t getting picked up. He was hitting on me, and I was about to tell him to fuck off when you two walked over.”

“You didn’t tell us where you were going,” Dante snapped.

“Of course I didn’t. I needed to get away from the smothering. You two are far worse than Mom and Dad, and let’s face it, between Dad and our uncles, I didn’t think anyone would be able to be worse. But you two have surpassed them with flying colors.” They both grinned. She scowled. “Not something to be proud of. I came here to get away from everyone.”

“We followed you.” Michael pointed out the obvious.

He had always been so literal. A lot like their mom, Jaydee. Very blunt and took statements as they were given. He didn’t have the time or the care to try to see if there were hidden meanings in the words coming out of someone’s mouth.

Cyn flattened her lips and took several deep breaths. It wasn’t like she didn’t love her brothers. She did, and she would die for them in a heartbeat. However, she also wanted to do things without them. Like find a man and have sex. Lots and lots of it.

“Why did you follow me, Michael?”

“You’re our sister.”

His tone told her everything. He found nothing wrong with his behavior.

“I am, yes. And I love you both. But you have to stop following me everywhere. I’m capable of taking care of myself. I want to go out and not see you boys there behind me, scaring away a guy I may want to talk with.”

Dante crossed his arms. Michael ran his gaze over her.

“You want us away because you are looking for sex.”

May the good Lord just let the floor open up and swallow her because she was mortified. Her siblings weren’t quiet, and Michael’s statement had gotten more than a few males’ attention.

She ignored the flush scampering over her face and held up her hands. “Stop it. Right now, both of you. You’re trying to get me to leave, well, fine. I’m leaving.” They both stepped forward, but she shook her head. “No. I’m leaving by myself. I’m going to a different bar and I don’t want to see you until morning. We’ll meet at the hotel for breakfast. We’ll talk, laugh, and I will go with you to the airport to get you on a plane to head back home and let me enjoy my trip.”

“You’ll be without protection,” Dante protested.

“I don’t need it. I grew up in the same house as you did. We have the same parents. The same uncles. All of whom taught us self-defense. Not to mention Aunt Bailey.” She took a deep breath. She wasn’t a schoolgirl who was in danger. She knew how to take care of herself. “I’m leaving now. And I’ll show you I can survive by myself. I’ll even kiss a guy on my way out, and you’ll see, it will be okay.”

Pushing up on her toes, she kissed Michael’s cheek then Dante’s. She walked to the door after putting her empty, which she had taken back from her brother, down on the bar. As she neared the exit, three men walked in that took her breath away. All of them were fit, and she would bet her life they were military. Having grown up in her household, it was easy to pick them out.

It was the man in the middle, though, who made her heart beat all the faster. Darkly tanned skin, short black hair and a body she would love to touch. He turned toward her as he looked around the establishment and his lips quirked up in the left corner of his mouth. Those blue eyes mesmerized her, and she nearly tripped over her own feet.

Standing before him, before she could talk her way out of what she was about to do, she smiled. He replied in kind.

Now or never.

She slid her arm around his neck and once again stood on her toes. This time, instead of the cheek as she’d done with her brothers, she went for his mouth, to touch those bow-shaped lips.

Seconds later his hand palmed the nape of her neck, holding her close in a proprietary motion as his other hand pressed against the small of her back. His tongue dipped inside her mouth and teased hers.

Cyn scrambled to get her senses back enough to pull away. She didn’t want to, even as she did. The din of the bar faded into obscurity, and all she could focus on were this man and the harsh pounding in her chest combined with the way her lungs struggled for air.

Forcing her legs to move, she ducked by the men there and walked out of the bar.

Holy shit.

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About the Author

Aliyah Burke

USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR

Aliyah Burke is an avid reader and is never far from pen and paper (or the computer). She is happily married to a career military man. They are owned by six Borzoi. She spends her days at the day job, writing, and working with her dogs​. She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached here. She can also be found on Facebook or Twitter: @AliyahBurke96. And Pinterest.

If you would like to be kept abreast of what’s going on in the world of Aliyah, you can sign up to her newsletter here.

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Absolute Zero by Desiree Holt

Book 4 in the Galaxy series

General Release Date: 25th January 2022

Word Count: 71,697
Book Length: SUPER NOVEL
Pages: 272

Genres:

CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
THRILLERS AND SUSPENSE

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Book Description

Sex, murder, cover-up…a lethal combination.

Fourteen days until Sierra Hunt’s brother is sentenced to life in prison for a crime he didn’t commit and the cover-up is so outrageous it’s almost unbelievable. Sierra had no way of knowing that the man with whom she had an explosive one-night stand would hold the answer to her desperate need.

Vic ‘Eagle’ Bodine wanted more than the unexpected one night with the woman who rocked his world. He was shocked when she turned out to be Galaxy’s newest client, and that they’d be joined at the hip as they worked to save her brother from an unjust imprisonment.

Galaxy will need to live up to its motto of We are your last resort for this one, the mother of all cover-ups. But Eagle is going to make damned sure that he gets it done…and at the same time convince Sierra that they belong together.

Reader advisory: This book contains scenes of violence, and mentions of off-page murder and murder.

Excerpt

If someone had explained to Sierra Hunt what absolute zero was, she would have told them that it was exactly where she was. At a total standstill. And her pounding head wasn’t helping the situation. She pried her eyes open and looked around. Where was she, anyway? Her hotel room? No, not hers, but one like it. Then whose? She scrunched her forehead trying to remember exactly where she was and how she’d gotten here. Was this a repeat of Jeremy’s situation?

Shit.

Jeremy. Her brother. Then it all came rushing back at her.

The trip. The last chance. Then the disappointment and depression. The depressing phone call to her brother. The man in the lobby.

They had spent a fortune on attorney fees trying to arrange an appeal, but all for nothing. Every attempt after the first one had been denied and now every option that they’d had was exhausted. Every attorney she had consulted—if quick brushoffs could be called consulting—explained they had no additional grounds. The three other attorneys she’d tried previously had all told her they saw nothing to indicate there were grounds for yet another appeal. And the governor’s office would not take her call.

Jeremy was already showing the physical effects of being in prison, and she’d begun to fear for his mental health as well.

Cheryl Andrews, Jeremy’s wonderful girlfriend, somehow continued to believe in him but then she’d became ill with a bad case of the flu and had died in days. Jeremy still had not recovered from the loss.

Sierra had flown here to New Orleans to meet with a high-profile attorney who she’d been told was a champion of difficult cases like this. He was her last chance, the man she was told who could find a loophole. He’d refused to make an appointment, but she figured if she just showed up, he’d at least have to give her fifteen minutes. She’d waited all day in his office, only to have him tell her she should accept the fact her brother was guilty and prepare herself for the fact he would die in prison. She left his office depressed and discouraged. She had one option left, but she couldn’t exercise it until the morning, damn it.

On top of that, for the past few weeks she’d had the uncomfortable feeling someone was watching her. Following her. She’d been doing weird things to see if that was true, but if it was, whoever was on her tail was very good at it.

Exhausted, she’d been paying no attention to anything as she made her way through the hotel lobby. Hot tea, she told herself. That was what she needed to soothe her nerves. The drinks wagon was still open in the lobby, and the scent of the various brews tantalized her senses. She chose peach, a flavor that always helped her relax.

Then, as she turned away to head toward the elevators, she bumped smack into a solid wall of masculinity, spilling her hot tea all over the shirt of the man standing in front of her.

“Oh, my god! I am so sorry.”

She looked up…and up. The first thing she noticed was he could model for a photo of warriors. He was tall, lean, muscular, with a shadow of a beard lining his jaw. His eyes were a piercing blue, and the whole image was accented by a stripe of white hair that ran backward from his forehead. For a moment she was frozen in place, mesmerized. Then reality jabbed her. She grabbed napkins from the drinks wagon and tried to blot his shirt dry, but he stayed her hand.

“I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.” But he was pulling the damp material away from his chest and removing the hot liquid from his skin.

His voice was rich and deep and sent shivers along her spine. A sharply defined jawline and angular cheekbones were highlighted by electric blue eyes and thick lashes. His lips, curved into a hint of a smile, looked as if they were usually set in a grim line. She wondered what had created that change.

“No, no, I am so sorry. I—”

Flustered, she made things worse because she was still holding the now half-empty cup of tea and more splashed out of it. When she turned to toss the cup into the trash, her hand bumped the metal edge of the counter. She dropped her purse which then fell open, scattering her things on the floor.

If she could have melted into space, she would have done it. Instead, she crouched down, doing her best to gather items and stuff them back into her purse. And of course, the stranger insisted on helping her.

She grabbed her key card from her purse, and in the process scattered some of the contents again. God. If only the floor would just open up and swallow her.

“You going to your room? Come on, I’ll make sure you get there.”

Go with a strange man up to her room? Was she crazy? Absolutely not!

“No, thanks, I—”

“You’re bleeding.” The stranger took her hand and lifted it. “You must have hit it pretty hard on the counter.”

She glanced down, shocked to see blood welling from a long cut and running down over her fingers. Holy god. What next?

The stranger grabbed more napkins and pressed them against the cut.

“You can’t let something like that go. It needs attention. If you’d rather, I can take you to a walk-in clinic—?”

“No. Please.” That was all she needed. “I just want to get to my room.”

“Do you have bandages? Antiseptic? If not, you could be courting an infection. I can fix it, at least temporarily.”

She was so rattled she didn’t even have the brains to refuse. Instead, she let him lead her across the lobby to the elevators. Inside the car, he punched the button for the tenth floor.

“I’m on nine,” she protested.

“But the first aid’s on the tenth, in my room.”

He was taking her to his room? What if he…?

“Don’t worry.” He grinned at her. “I’m not planning to attack you. That is, unless you want me to. Ah, here we are.”

Still in a daze, she followed him down the hall and into his hotel room. She had to admit he was very efficient in cleaning and bandaging her cut.

“Are you a doctor?”

He shook his head. “Former SEAL. We learn how to field dress wounds. Okay, there you are.” He frowned. “You’re still trembling. What can I get for you?”

“Can you just hold me for a minute? I’ve had the day from hell and this hasn’t helped.”

For a moment he looked as if he were about to refuse. But then, just as she was about to get up, he put his arm around her and pulled her against him.

“We should at least introduce ourselves. I’m…”

She held up her hand. “No names, okay? I… It’s better this way.” She tried a smile. “More mysterious.”

“Okay. Just call me Eagle, then.” His mouth curved into a hint of a very sexy grin. “That was my call sign in the SEALs.”

She figured the streak in his hair had something to do with that.

When she didn’t respond, he shrugged. “Okay. No problem.”

And still he held her.

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About the Author

Desiree Holt

A multi-published, award winning, Amazon and USA Today best-selling author, Desiree Holt has produced more than 200 titles and won many awards. She has received an EPIC E-Book Award, the Holt Medallion and many others including Author After Dark’s Author of the Year. She has been featured on CBS Sunday Morning and in The Village Voice, The Daily Beast, USA Today, The Wall Street Journal, The London Daily Mail. She lives in Florida with her cats who insist they help her write her books, and is addicted to football.

You can follow Desiree on Facebook and Twitter and check out her Blog.

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Demon’s Game by Xenia Melzer

Book 2 in the Demon Mates series

General Release Date: 25th January 2022

Word Count: 58,464
Book Length: NOVEL
Pages: 277

Genres:

ANGELS AND DEMONS
COMEDY AND HUMOUR
CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
GAY
GLBTQI
PARANORMAL

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Book Description

For a demon, finding a mate is a difficult, anxiety-inducing process. Or he might just accidentally bite his gaming buddy during a bout of experimental sex and bam—mate found!

During a book club meeting where The Witcher is discussed in its entirety, meaning books, series and games, Barion again meets Jon, the zombie, who lives in Sammy’s basement, and the two bond over their mutual love of the game.

They begin gaming together, doing videos for Jon’s YouTube channel where he tests games that are to be released to the public. During one of the videos, they are asked what their ideal game would look like, and the idea for Demon Wars is born. Working together on the game brings Barion and Jon closer together and their friendship deepens every day, which worries Jon’s Grann, a zombie like himself and the witch queen of New Orleans. She wants Jon to come back home, while Jon realizes he loves spending time with Barion.

After some friendly—and oh so subtle—prodding from friends and family, Barion and Jon decide to explore the potential of their relationship. They have sex, and Barion bites Jon in the heat of the moment, marking him as his mate. They’re both over the moon, even though they now have to visit Grann in New Orleans because the family and the ancestors want to check Barion out.

They quickly realize that something is wrong there, and it turns out Grann has been challenged by a voodoo priest who practices the blackest of magic. Barion will do his best to save the day, Grann—and his relationship.

Publisher’s Note: This book is best read as book two in the Demon Mates series.

Excerpt

“I still think it would be better if you came home, ma cheré. I don’t like you being so far away.” Grann sounded worried through the phone, and Jon felt bad about that—not bad enough to return home to New Orleans, but bad enough to try to placate her.

“I’m happy here, Grann, I swear. Sammy is a fantastic landlord and friend, and I have my book club.”

“I know. I’ve seen it.” There was a pregnant pause that Jon knew better than to disturb. “The pictures I’m getting now are all blurred, though, and the zanset yo are restless. They don’t know what to make of the situation.”

Jon suppressed a sigh. It was the same problem as always—or the same two problems. The first one he could address easily enough, even if his words didn’t have a lot of impact on either Grann or the ancestors. Come to think of it, that was the case with everything he did since he’d moved from New Orleans to Beaconville some five years before. And he was getting distracted.

“I already told you that Dre is super nice and also Sammy’s mate. He would never harm me.”

“Wi, wi, I know. I can see the threads of his love for his mate and everybody and everything his mate holds dear. It’s the only thing I can see clearly.”

“I told you… I asked Dre and he’s not doing it on purpose.”

“He doesn’t have to.” Grann’s voice had taken on a dark quality, a tone she usually reserved for everything occult she thought Jon wasn’t ready for or strong enough to hear. “He’s chaos personified. It’s his natural state. I wonder how your witch friends cope with it.”

Jon thought of Maribel and Mavis, the two witches in their book club. “I think Mavis once mentioned it to Dre shortly after he and Sammy had become mates. He said to give the magic some time, and they haven’t complained since.”

“I see.” Grann was mulling this over, shortly side-tracked by the magical possibilities Jon would never understand. Like a heat-seeking missile, though, she returned her attention to the matter at hand. “You really don’t want to come back home? Just yesterday I saw the obituary for a Silvery Sugar Fox. I could wake him for you, and I would, to make you happy.”

Jon rolled his eyes. He knew Grann meant well—the whole family, alive and dead, did—but Jon had finally drawn the line when Grann and the others had started mentioning obituaries like they were the last rave in dating sites. Funnily enough, they hadn’t batted an eye when he’d told them he was gay, after having lived with them for more than ten years, long enough for them to become his new family, one he dearly loved, even if they annoyed the ever-loving hell out of him sometimes. Coming out to them back in 1932 had been terrifying, but he hadn’t been able to keep lying to them and himself any longer.

It had taken them fifteen more years to decide he should start looking for a husband, and they had managed to be relatively subtle about it—casually mentioning deaths of eligible men over breakfast and, in the case of the ancestors, sending him dreams of newly deceased men—until the Internet had taken on steam in the nineties. Subtlety had died like a roach under the heel of a vicious housewife then.

First, they had tried to set him up with the living, presumably to get him into the swing of things, whatever that was supposed to mean. Jon just couldn’t do it. He had gotten used to not being alive, had arranged himself with the prospect of seeing eternity if he so desired. He was also comfortable with his enhanced abilities that didn’t make him cool and smooth like a were-creature or a vampire but were enough to distinguish him from humans, thus making it impossible for him to go out with one of them.

What he couldn’t stand—not to this day—was feeling the warmth of another being while he himself was always cold. It was a brutal reminder how he shouldn’t be there anymore, even though Grann had assured him that Papa Legba always had a plan for whatever he did. If said plan included having Jon living celibate, it had worked. His sex drive had apparently not woken with him. He still could appreciate masculine beauty, and he even knew what he would want in a man, if he would want a man. It was a strange state of being, caught between wanting intimacy and not being able to pursue it, made even worse by his family’s meddling. For some time, he had thought he might be asexual, but while he was still alive, his sex drive had been a prominent part of his life and he didn’t think his sexual orientation had changed with death.

After he had finally gotten it into his family’s thick skulls that a living man wasn’t what he was looking for, not even for the sake of sowing his wild oats, they had swung back to their initial MO and the thing with the obituaries had taken on new momentum.

Jon had dealt with it as best as he could, aka ignoring his family by keeping himself busy with staying on top of every new computer development and diving deep into the world of video games, making himself a part of their evolvement from Pong to Space Invaders to Pac-Man. From there it went on with SimCity, Final Fantasy and Castlevania in the second half of the eighties. By the time real-time strategy games like Dune II or Warcraft: Orcs and Humans started their triumphal march in the nineties, Jon was already a veteran in the scene and a sought-after game tester and advisor for all the huge companies. Strictly speaking, he was several veterans, because being a zombie meant he would be around long enough for people to notice, so he took some precautions until he realized that nobody in the gaming business gave a damn about suspicious longevity, because people simply assumed the person behind the alias, in his case PLM—Papa Legba’s Miracle—changed while the alias stayed on. He’d been PLM ever since, abandoning his other virtual personalities. He was proud to say his name was linked to quite a few legends in the world of gaming, and his fame was paying off nicely. It also helped him to bury the confusing feelings he was having regarding his life under an avalanche of pretend worlds where reality was simply a nuisance.

But no matter how deeply he immersed himself in the world of virtual reality, no matter how much money he gave Grann and the family to prove to them what a successful and fulfilled undead life he was leading, they wouldn’t stop poking their noses into his business, namely his nonexistent love life.

One day, Jon had had enough. He’d hung a map of the US on a wall, taken a dart and thrown it. He’d never heard of Beaconville before, but that had been where he’d be living from then on. After much complaining and endless discussions about how the Midwest was too far away from New Orleans and that the snow would kill him, not to mention what he did to his poor family, leaving them behind, Grann finally caved and gave her blessing. Because she was the undisputed matriarch, nobody dared contradict her, and some of his younger cousins even helped him move his stuff to the only hotel in the small town, ‘M&M’s B&B’. Meeting Mavis and Maribel had been a stroke of luck, the witches immediately knowing what he was. They’d introduced him to Sammy, who was open and friendly without being nosy and who happened to have an empty basement he didn’t know what to do with. It was perfect, and until the incident where he’d forgotten to eat some brain and his body had reminded him loudly how important that was everything had been fine. Luckily for him, Sammy didn’t spook easily and had managed to distract him with some leftover apple pie while he’d made a dash for the butcher to buy Jon a whole pig brain.

After that, he’d gotten another call from Grann, telling him in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t take better care of himself, she would personally drag him back to New Orleans and Mavis and Maribel had explained to him that he needed to get out at least once a month for his ‘mental hygiene’, as they called it. Jon was well versed in understanding subtext, the message being he would be playing with way less than a full deck of cards if he didn’t start forming some bonds outside his virtual realities.

Sammy had just started his book club, which seemed as good a reason as any to come up for air from his beloved basement. By now, Jon wouldn’t miss the regular meetings with his friends and he even left the basement once a week to chat with Sammy or Milo in the bookstore. When Dre was there, they would read mangas together on one of the couches Sammy had renovated, while they drank hot chocolate or Frappuccino’s.

Jon thought he was making great progress regarding his social life, while Grann thought it was time for him to come back home, which was the other bone they regularly discussed heatedly.

“It’s Silver Fox or Sugar Daddy, Grann. And I want to get to know the man I’m hooking up with, which is difficult when he’s already dead.”

“Now you’re just being stubborn.” Grann chuckled. “Fine… I’ll leave you to your games. Perhaps I’ll wake him for myself. His picture does look good, and I could do with some action, pa kwe?”

“Grann! I don’t need to hear that!”

“It’s only natural, cherie. And just because you refuse to live—”

“I’ve heard enough. Do what you must, but leave me out of it. And don’t tell me about it.”

Now Grann was laughing out loud. “I love you, cherie. Take good care of yourself.”

“I love you, too, Grann—and I will.”

She hung up on him, leaving Jon wondering what she was cooking up in her brain to let him off the hook so quickly. Usually her rantings about him coming home lasted a lot longer. He shrugged, knowing he would find out sooner than he would like and determined to enjoy the time until the boot dropped on his head. He had a book club meeting about The Witcher to attend.

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About the Author

Xenia Melzer

Xenia Melzer was born and raised in a small village in the South of Bavaria. As one of nature’s true chocoholics, she’s always in search of the perfect chocolate experience. So far, she’s had about a dozen truly remarkable ones. Despite having been in close proximity to the mountains all her life, she has never understood why so many people think snow sports are fun. There are neither chocolate nor horses involved and it’s cold by definition, so where’s the sense? She does not like beer either and has never been to the Oktoberfest – no quality chocolate there.

Even though her mind is preoccupied with various stories most of the time, Xenia has managed to get through school and university with surprisingly good grades. Right after school she met her one true love who showed her that reality is capable of producing some truly amazing love stories itself.

While she was having her two children, she started writing down the most persistent stories in her head as a way of relieving mommy-related stress symptoms. As it turned out, the stress-relief has now become a source of the same, albeit a positive one.

When she’s not writing, she translates the stories of other authors into German, enjoys riding and running, spending time with her kids, and dancing with her husband. If you want to contact her, please visit either her website, or write her an email.

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The Nile Priestess by Catherine Curzon & Eleanor Harkstead

General Release Date: 18th January 2022

Word Count: 61,298
Book Length: NOVEL
Pages: 237

Genres:

HISTORICAL
MYSTERY
PARANORMAL
ROMANCE
VAMPIRES

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Book Description

Amid the shifting sands of Egypt, is an ancient evil stronger than even the most timeless bonds?
In the heat of 1920’s Cairo, Raf and Cecily are looking forward to making their honeymoon one to remember. Instead, they find themselves caught between a British nobleman on a mission to loot Egypt’s ancient tombs and a mysterious local woman who will do whatever it takes to protect the land she loves.

When a foreboding pyramid rises from the sands and the scent of decay fills the air, Raf and Cecily find themselves caught in a terrifying race against time to vanquish a murderous mummy and put right the wrongs of the past. But is evil stronger than even the most timeless bonds?

Excerpt

Cecily leaned over the ship’s railing, shielding her eyes from the hot Mediterranean sun with her hand. They’d travelled across Europe to get here, and now they were almost at their destination, a place Cecily had only ever dreamed of before.

“And tomorrow we’ll see Egypt, just there on the horizon!” she excitedly said to Raf, her husband.

If only I could wish and wish and it’d appear there right away.

“And tomorrow night, we’ll be snuggled in bed in the Rosetta of the Nile, counting the stars above Cairo.” Raf beamed. He put his arm around Cecily’s waist and said, “It’s the perfect honeymoon, Sissy.”

“It feels like a dream, Raf, like it’s not quite real!” Cecily pictured pyramids and deserts, a world away from their home in Yorkshire or the places in Europe they had journeyed through. “We’ll go everywhere by camel, of course, and eat nothing but dates.”

“Just like we do in Yorkshire,” he told her with a grin. Then he pecked a kiss to Cecily’s cheek and asked, “Happy, Mrs de Chastelaine?”

“Oh, so happy I might go pop!” Cecily said excitedly. Then with affection, she added, “But then, I have been ever since I first met you, Raf.”

Not so long ago Cecily would never have dreamed that she’d be married to a man—or dhampir, really—like Raf de Chastelaine, let alone be honeymooning in Egypt, but here she was. Her life had taken an unexpected turn and as she stood here beneath the sun, the botanical scent of Raf’s homemade sun lotion mingling with the heat and sea salt, she’d never been happier.

A breeze rippled the brim of her sunhat, and Cecily turned to see another passenger lean against the railings a few feet away. Miss Mansour was a very glamorous Egyptian lady, who they’d sat with at the captain’s table the night before, along with Miss Mansour’s party of archaeologists. Cecily had been over the moon to sit at such an important table on her first long sea journey, and with a party who were travelling to Egypt to uncover its wonders, too.

But Miss Mansour seemed preoccupied and hadn’t noticed them. Instead, she stared off towards the horizon.

Cecily’s sixth sense, her ability to pick up on others’ emotions, began to twitch.

She’s homesick, Cecily thought, although she realised that was obvious.

“Raf,” Cecily whispered, “let’s say good afternoon.”

Raf glanced towards the woman, then gave a nod. “Yeah, let’s say how do,” he decided.

Cecily moved along the salt-covered railing. “Good afternoon, Miss Mansour!” She smiled. “You must be very glad to be so close to home again.”

Miss Mansour removed her sunglasses and smiled back, but there was something sad in her expression. “Oh, of course, if one has a happy home, then one is glad to return. I am thinking of all the work I must do when we arrive. Lord Bath has such great plans for his dig. I think we might uncover many wonderful things.”

“It must be terribly exciting!” Cecily said. “All those treasures that haven’t seen the light of day for years and years and years, and you brush away the sand, and there in your hand there’s a little golden Anubis!”

“Lord Carnarvon hasn’t put him off?” Raf asked. “If you believe the papers, pyramid-diving is a bad business. I don’t know… I feel like perhaps English lords should leave Egyptian treasures in Egypt.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Miss Mansour’s face. She maybe didn’t hear that sentiment often enough. But Raf’s Romanian accent no doubt told her that he had no patience with the meddling of the English. “It is strange to me to think of my ancestors lying in museums across the world. I cannot think it was what they expected when they died—that one day their remains would travel the world, to be stared at.”

“I heard that Lord Bath reckons he’s found a tomb that nobody believed existed at all,” Raf replied. “But legends sometimes turn out to be true, don’t they?”

And Raf would know all about that, wouldn’t he? Not many advertisements for family businesses that spanned the generations read, ‘Ghosts need laying? Rates negotiable on application.’ Raf didn’t work alone anymore though—Cecily was part of the family business, too.

But what fates had Raf’s ancestors faced? His father might be human, but his late mother certainly hadn’t been. After all, it wasn’t many newlyweds who spent Christmas at a castle perched atop a precipice on the edge of the Carpathian Mountains. Cecily would never have guessed that vampires could be such generous and attentive hosts.

“The tomb of Menkare II,” Miss Mansour replied, with a note of distaste. “He is sure that he has discovered it, even though the sands covered it from human sight longer ago than you can imagine. A pharaoh who has almost been entirely forgotten, but the legend of his missing tomb has persisted down the centuries. And now Lord Bath thinks he’s found it.”

Cecily shivered with delight at the thought. “Do you think we might come along to the dig and have a look? We won’t touch anything. We’ll be on our best behaviour. Won’t we, Raf?”

“I don’t want to touch anything that’s been inside a forgotten tomb.” Raf chuckled. “I’ve got an allergy to curses. I’d love to have a nose at the site, though…history’s a bit of a hobby of mine. Along with gardening. And tinkering. I love tinkering.”

Miss Mansour chuckled. Then she looked Raf and Cecily slowly up and down, as if she was assessing them. Cecily did her best to smile under her scrutiny. It felt as if Miss Mansour wasn’t just looking at them, but into them. Although Cecily told herself she couldn’t be. Then Miss Mansour nodded.

“Yes, why don’t you come along? I believe I can trust you.” Miss Mansour pointed to the jumble of necklaces and amulets around Raf’s neck. “You’re wearing a scarab, I see. And the Eye of Horus.”

Raf nodded. “It’s not my first time in Egypt,” he admitted, almost bashfully. “And I like to pack on the protection. Whether it’s from the sun, or…whatever else is floating about.”

“You are very sensible to do so,” Miss Mansour said. “Lord Bath scoffs at such ideas, of course. And I am told sometimes that I am too superstitious, but you never can be too careful. Especially not when you’re robbing graves, even ancient ones.” She paused for a moment, before adding, almost to herself, “Especially ancient ones.”

“We’re very careful about such things,” Cecily said, knowing she couldn’t go into detail with someone they’d not long met. “We always treat the dead with respect.”

“They’re people too,” Raf pointed out, straight-faced. “Just like us.”

“Oh, they are…” Miss Mansour glanced away for a moment, towards the southern horizon. Cecily sensed her homesickness again, a feeling of loss and loneliness. Then Miss Mansour turned back to face them. “You see, I knew I could trust you. There are not many people on this earth who share that sentiment, Mr de Chastelaine.”

Raf smiled gently and admitted, “It’s just something life’s taught us.” And he glanced towards Cecily, his eyes filled with love.

“Miss Mansour!” It was Lord Bath’s braying voice, and it was coming closer from inside the ship. “I say, Miss Mansour, where are you hiding?”

Miss Mansour sighed. “I apologise. I must speak to Lord Bath.” She raised her voice and replied, “I am out here on the deck, Lord Bath, taking the sea air.”

“Dreaming of the old homeland, eh!” Lord Bath stepped out onto the deck. He put his hands on his hips and drew in a deep breath of sea air. “Good Lord, it’s hotter than ever today!”

He was dressed in a linen suit, as most of the European men on the ship were. But Lord Bath’s looked particularly expensive, cut to fit just right. His square jaw jutted out as he took the air, as though he was the master of all he surveyed. And the truth was, men like him were.

Not women like Cecily or Miss Mansour, not men like Raf. But wealthy English aristocrats in Jermyn Street linen suits ruled the world.

“This is not hot!” Miss Mansour chuckled. “You have the sea breeze here. But out in the desert, it doesn’t matter how hot it gets, you hope the wind won’t start up or a sandstorm might follow. But I will be glad to see my home again, yes. Are you not pleased to see yours when you return to England?”

“One has several, and one is always happy to see them. But the tomb of Menkare II is my life’s work. I’ll happily take a long-lost legendary treasure horde over even the nicest family pile in Bath.” Bath guffawed. He lifted his Panama hat to Raf and Cecily. “Good afternoon, Mr and Mrs de Chastelaine. Egypt awaits, what!”

“Oh, it does!” Cecily replied. “You must be so excited about the dig. I know I am, and I’m not even digging anything. But then I’ve never been to Egypt before, and you’re all experts on it. Miss Mansour especially.”

Miss Mansour smiled wistfully. “Egypt and her myths and legends have been my life’s work.”

But it wouldn’t be Miss Mansour’s name connected with the find. Rather, the name of a man born in a country far away, in a land without a single desert to its name.

“I must confess this was a last throw of the dice,” Bath admitted. “Seven failed digs over the years. But our Miss Mansour isn’t only a dashed pretty face. She’s got a very clever little brain in that head of hers!”

Little brain? Cecily had once been married to a man who spoke like that about women. She bristled on Miss Mansour’s behalf.

“How kind of you to say so,” Miss Mansour replied, acknowledging his backhanded compliment with a nod. “I have worked very hard—studied very hard—to acquire the knowledge I now have of my country’s ancient past.”

“And we’re all terribly grateful,” Bath assured her. “Miss Mansour was able to interpret the last clues to the location of the tomb. When the treasures of Menkare II are exhibited in London, I’m sure this young lady’s beauty will dazzle almost as much as the pharaoh’s gold.”

Young lady’s beauty?

Cecily bristled anew. She could sense that Miss Mansour didn’t appreciate the way Lord Bath spoke about her either, but she didn’t say anything.

“And everyone will want to talk to her to find out how she worked out the last clues,” Cecily said.

Miss Mansour gave Cecily a smile, as if telling her that she appreciated her support. “I would be more than happy to.”

Lord Bath met that with a bark of uproarious laughter. He clapped his hands together and exclaimed, “Quite so, Mrs de Chastelaine, quite so!” He wiped his eyes on a pristine white handkerchief. “And when one dines at the Ritz, one lauds the waitress for the chef’s splendid work, eh?”

“But without Miss Mansour, you wouldn’t have found the tomb,” Raf pointed out, frowning. “Isn’t that right?”

“And without my money to hire her, Miss Mansour wouldn’t have been part of the party at all.” Lord Bath’s smile had become rather tight. Cecily could tell that he didn’t take kindly to such ideas. “And she certainly wouldn’t have had access to the tablets and very rare papyri that held the secrets of Menkare II’s tomb. Believe me when I say that such treasures are highly prized and priced accordingly. Far beyond the reach of the Miss Mansours of the world.”

Miss Mansour raised an eyebrow before putting her sunglasses back on. A chill breeze rose from the sea. “That is because the tablets and papyri I needed to study are held in a private collection in England.”

“Guilty as charged.” Bath chuckled. “And I may yet have one surprise left up my sleeve, madam. A little showmanship, if you will.”

“Is that so?” Miss Mansour sounded like someone who was not easily surprised. She tapped her fingers against the ship’s railing, her rings clanging on the metal. “I shall look forward to it.”

“Well, you’ll excuse me. I must dress for dinner.” Bath gave a polite nod of farewell. “Miss Mansour, might I escort you to your state—cabin?”

No stateroom for the hired help then, no matter how valuable their knowledge.

“No, thank you, Lord Bath. I believe I can just about remember the way there. Good evening.” And with that, Miss Mansour inclined her head, then turned and glided away along the deck.

Cecily glanced at Lord Bath, wondering if he had taken offence. But how else could Miss Mansour have reacted without any further dents to her dignity?

“She’s homesick,” Cecily told Lord Bath by way of explanation.

“Ah, England’s green and pleasant land. We all miss her, of course,” Bath replied, apparently untroubled by her departure. And somehow unaware that perhaps Miss Mansour, his Egyptian associate, might not consider England home, no matter how green or pleasant.

“Egypt,” Raf said bluntly.

“Yes, she misses Egypt,” Cecily prompted Lord Bath. “I think maybe she’s glad not to be in England.”

“Well, I certainly won’t be asking her to come back to England if she prefers to remain in Egypt,” the Earl of Bath replied with a magnanimous smile. “I shan’t be requiring her expertise once the tomb is open. Miss Mansour can go wherever she might wish.”

Raf frowned and asked, “You won’t give her the credit for her work, then?” He added innocently, “I thought you said you couldn’t have done it without her.”

“She’s terribly clever,” Cecily added. “Just think of the number of languages she understands, modern and ancient ones. And she knows a terribly vast amount of things about the ancient world as well!”

“And dashed pretty too,” the Earl of Bath replied. “Well, I shall take my leave. Good afternoon to you both!”

“We must go and dress for dinner. Good afternoon,” Cecily responded, the words sticking in her throat. The earl gave another nod and retreated back towards the ship.

“Cheerio,” Raf called, but Cecily knew that his bonhomie was an effort. He didn’t like Lord Bath any more than she did. If the nobleman realised, of course, he didn’t care. Instead he disappeared into the ship, whistling a cheery tune as he went.

Cecily waited until he had gone, then she whispered to Raf, “What a dreadful man, robbing Miss Mansour of her discovery. I really don’t like him at all, Raf. But then, maybe I’ve known one too many men like him in my life.”

Raf nodded. He put his arm around Cecily’s shoulders and whispered, “Not my sort of bloke either. Do you want to head in and get ready to eat?” Raf kissed her cheek. “Do I have to wear shoes to dinner?”

“Oh, yes, let’s go back to the cabin.” Cecily chuckled. “Shoes? Well, if you don’t wear shoes, we might not be invited to the captain’s table tonight. But if the delightful Lord Bath’s sitting there again, maybe that’s a good thing.”

“I’ll put shoes on,” Raf assured her. Then he added with a wink, “But I’ll slip them off when I’m sitting down,”

Raf really didn’t like shoes. He was happiest barefoot, wandering through the garden at home. Cecily smiled at him. “I’d expect nothing less, darling! Right, let’s get ready for dinner.”

Arm in arm, they strolled along the deck towards their cabin.

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About the Authors

Eleanor Harkstead

Eleanor Harkstead likes to dash about in nineteenth-century costume, in bonnet or cravat as the mood takes her. She can occasionally be found wandering old graveyards. Eleanor is very fond of chocolate, wine, tweed waistcoats and nice pens. Her large collection of vintage hats would rival Hedda Hopper’s.

Originally from the south-east of England, Eleanor now lives somewhere in the Midlands with a large ginger cat who resembles a Viking.

You can follow Eleanor on Facebook and Twitter

Catherine Curzon

Catherine Curzon is a royal historian who writes on all matters of 18th century. Her work has been featured on many platforms and Catherine has also spoken at various venues including the Royal Pavilion, Brighton, and Dr Johnson’s House.

Catherine holds a Master’s degree in Film and when not dodging the furies of the guillotine, writes fiction set deep in the underbelly of Georgian London.

She lives in Yorkshire atop a ludicrously steep hill.

You can follow Catherine on Facebook and Twitter and take a look at her Website.

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