Bring it Back(List) Light Up the Night by PG Forte

So, a couple of weeks ago I ran across the following meme:

And it reminded me of the following scene from Light Up the Night (which is going to be FREE for five days starting on Christmas day!). In this scene Heather is arguing with her sire, Marc, about who she is and isn't allowed to date. 

Oh, and in case you aren't familiar with the Children of Night/Beyond the CofN series, everyone mentioned in this post (well, not Lesley Gore, obviously) are vampires. 

This is an age gap story. For reference, Heather was a teenage runaway when she was turned (against her will) just a year or two earlier. Marc is NOT the guy who turned her, but IS her "guardian" now (long story) and super-protective. He was born in 1969--which makes him really young by vampire standards, not so much by Heather's Gen Z standards.  Drew and Elise, OTOH, are both several hundred years old.

“I thought you liked Drew. Aren’t you supposed to be friends, or something?”

“I do like him. And of course, we’re friends. Did you really think I’d have trusted just anyone to look after you? I don’t like being the bad guy. I don’t like making the people I care about unhappy. But he’s just too damn old for you. There’s no getting around that.”

“And how much older than you is Elise?”

“That’s different.”

“No, it really isn’t. It’s a double standard—and that’s not different at all.” She shook her head. “You know it’s funny. People keep talking about how we’re a new type of vampire clan. They say we’re re-writing the rules and making history, and blah, blah, blah. And I’m not seeing it. But I do like the way it sounds. And I think it’s something we could maybe lean into a little harder. And you know where a good place to start would be?  If you let me make my own decisions about who I get involved with. It’s like the song says: you don’t own me.”

Marc frowned. “Wait. Did you just quote Lesley Gore at me?”

“No?” Heather replied. “I don’t even know who that is.”

“She was a singer. She’s dead now, but she was very popular during the sixties. That song was one of her biggest hits.” 

“Oh. Well, then maybe I did. But all I know is the song. And only that one part. I remember it from a movie I saw when I was a kid. I think the song was old then.” She studied him for a moment then asked, “So, you must be reallyold, huh?”

“Oh, thank you very much. Not that old, no.”

“If you say so.”

Marc shot her an amused look. “You know, someday, when you’re my age—which, by the way, is going to come along a whole lot sooner than you apparently think—I’m going to remind you of this conversation and ask you how old you feel then.” He shook his head and added, mockingly, “And you say you’re not a kid.”

“Yeah, because I’m not,” Heather replied. “Just because I’m going to look like a kid forever doesn’t mean you get to treat me like one. We’re not living in the nineteen-hundreds anymore.”

“Don’t you mean the eighteen-hundreds?  Although I wouldn’t know anything about that, since I wasn’t alive back then. You know who you could ask, though—right? That’d be Drew. Because he lived through that entire century, not to mention the previous two. Or maybe even the previous three. I don’t know for sure.”

“Nice try. But no. I said the nineteen-hundreds and that’s what I meant. Didn’t you ever see West Side Story? Or Titanic? Endless Love? The Notebook?”

“Wait—are you talking about movies? I thought we were discussing real life?”

“We are. But all those movies I mentioned were set in the nineteen-hundreds. In fact, I think they were filmed then, too. So, they’re probably reasonably accurate depictions of the idiotic notions you all had back then.”

Light Up the Night

A Children of Night/Ugly Christmas Sweater Story

Her love will light up his night. If they both can survive that long. 

 

Heather is having the worst Christmas ever! Or, at least, the worst Christmas since she was forced to become a vampire. Her sire's distracted, her nest-mates have forgotten her existence, and a bunch of weirdos have taken over her lair. The only bright spot in her life right now is Drew--who didn't even used to like her! She knows he's coming around, but that's not good enough. She wants more. She wants everything. She wants him. And she's not giving up. 

 

Drew Geiger gave up on love a long time ago. Such tender emotions have no place in a vampire's heart. But, somehow, the girl he once described as a "feral kitten" has got her claws in him, and she's not letting go. That would be fine, if only someone didn't want her dead--and if her sire didn't still inconveniently remember that it was Drew who'd once suggested that maybe she'd be better off that way.

​

***This story features characters from the Children of Night series. It takes place between books six and seven in the series and follows Going Back to Find You.***

https://books2read.com/LightNight

Bring It Back(list) post: A Sight to Dream Of by PG Forte

 

It's Fig Season!  And that can only mean that it's time to post the Fig scene from A Sight to Dream Of (which, as it happens, I AM bringing back--this coming Tuesday!). 

Outside in the garden her rooster was crowing. Lucy listened to the chorus of answering calls from the neighboring yards and snuggled deeper into the sheets, enjoying the warmth, the peace, the blissful luxury of sleeping in. The French doors that led from her bedroom out into the garden opened quietly, and then closed again, and she heard the soft, muffled sounds of someone moving through the room. She felt the bed sag as Dan came to sit beside her and then something cool and firm was brushed, lightly, repeatedly, across her lips.

“Wake up,” he whispered in her ear. “I brought you breakfast.”

She looked up into a pair of wicked blue eyes and felt desire stir. “Mmm. That’s sweet of you. What is it?” she asked, drowsily hopeful. She didn’t smell coffee, and there was something in his voice, and in his eyes that made her think food wasn’t all he was interested in giving her.  

“Figs.” Dan’s voice was low and gravelly. He settled himself more comfortably against the pillows. “I’ve been plundering your garden. See?” He held up a handful of the plump, bluish-purple fruit. “Just like the D H Lawrence poem. There was a flower that flowered inward, wombward: now there is a fruit like a ripe womb. C’mon...take a bite.”  

He held one out to her as he took another one, himself. Eating slowly, sensuously, his eyes never leaving hers. She felt a delicious warmth steal over her, but she couldn’t help teasing him just a little. 

“Poetry before breakfast, Dan? I don’t know about this. Are they even ripe?”  

“Hell, yes, they’re ripe.” He cocked his head at her and smiled. “Don’t you think I know a ripe fig when I see one? And just what do you have against poetry all of a sudden, woman?” He popped the last of the fig he was eating into his mouth and leaned closer, whispering against her ear as he recited, “The fig is a very secretive fruit...folded upon itself and secret unutterable...And milky sapped...sap that tastes strange on your fingers.”  His voice sent shivers running through her. 

“These are very ripe,” he continued. “And you know what the poem had to say about that, right?”

Lucy snorted. Oh, yeah. Sure, I do. She hadn’t a clue, and he knew it. She stretched invitingly and smiled. “You’re such a showoff, Cavanaugh. Why don’t you just tell me?”

“Oh, well, since you asked so nicely.” He put the figs down on the nightstand and stretched out beside her. His hand drifted slowly down the front of her nightgown.  “Honey-white figs of the north,” he recited as his fingers grazed across her breasts, she felt her nipples harden.  

“Black figs with scarlet inside, of the south,” His voice sank to the barest of whispers, a tremor ran through her as his hand traveled slowly down her stomach. She swallowed hard to keep from moaning.  

“Ripe figs won’t keep, won’t keep in any clime.” He smiled at her and she caught her breath as his hand slid over her hip, his fingers reaching for the hem of the gown.  Then she felt his hand sliding slowly back up her bare thigh, and he pulled her closer to him.  “So, you see Lucy, it’s important that we eat these...right now.”

He reached behind him to pluck one of the figs from the nightstand, and then turned back to press the ripe fruit against her lips. She let her head fall back and her eyes fall closed as she contemplated the thing with her mouth.  

First the skin. Firm and smooth and rounded, almost like the smooth, firm skin of his shoulder. She felt her breathing quicken. It was, just a little, like opening her mouth on the curve of his shoulder as he thrust himself into her. She explored the shape and the firmness of it with her tongue, her teeth just testing the surface. They pressed harder and the fig gave way beneath their pressure. The flesh inside was sweet, but not cloyingly so.  Fresh and cool.  

She felt him turn the fruit in his fingers, inviting her to explore more of it. She smiled as his hand lightly grazed her cheek. She delved deeper with her tongue, tasting the sweet juiciness of it. Almost as if she were taking his mouth with hers—but wetter even than that.  Like kissing him in the shower. Cool water mingling with the hot wetness of his mouth. Her tongue pressed further into the soft flesh, savoring the feel and the flavor of it. At last, she took the whole fruit with her mouth, eager for all of it, the sweet, juicy succulence of it bursting in her mouth. And when at last her tongue found his fingers, they were sweet with juice, sticky and dripping with it. She licked them slowly, licked them clean of the sticky juice, then let her mouth close around his thumb; sucking at it gently as she opened her eyes and stared into his. Lids heavy with desire, flames flickering in their dark depths.  

His finger slid from her mouth. His hand traveled up across her cheek, behind her ear, through her hair to grasp the back of her head. She lifted her face to him at the same time that he bent his to her; their mouths met and she licked into him, searching with her tongue for more of the taste of him and of the fruit they’d been eating.   

The bible had gotten it all wrong, as usual, she thought, faintly dizzy. What was an apple, anyway? 

This is Lucy and Dan in someone else's story. Can you imagine how they behave in their own story?  

For another teaser, download their pre-quel novella, Such Fleeting Pleasures:

Love wasn't always strawberries and cream for Lucy and Dan Cavanaugh...or was it?

In this Oberon prequel, we travel back in time to see how it all began.

Most of the material in this prequel novella (which is set some eighteen years before the series begins) also appears as flashback scenes in A Taste of Honey.

Download here: https://dl.bookfunnel.com/5xxljdbblb

​ ​ 

A Sight to Dream Of

Sam Sterling is a man with problems. Including a partner who is trying to kill him, and a nosy reporter, who's just turned up dead! It's going to take a miracle to save him. Or, better yet, an angel. ​

Marsha Quinn is used to being called a witch. After all, her abilities as a psychic make a lot of people uncomfortable. But no one has ever called her an angel before!

Falling in love was not a possibility she'd ever envisioned, until Sam the skeptic arrives in Oberon, and teaches her to see past the scars she carries, and the lies he's told her, to the love that lies within their hearts and minds.

Pre-Order now at: https://Books2Read.com/SightDream

Bring It Back(list) ~ A Sight to Dream Of by PG Forte

 A Sight to Dream Of was the second book I ever finished writing. The question uppermost in my mind the entire time I was working on it was, "I did this once, but can I really do it again?" Spoiler alert: I could. 

This title is scheduled for re-release in October. In the meantime, check out book one in the series, Scent of the Roses, which is available for pre-order now.  https://books2read.com/u/4EpR5Y

A Sight To Dream Of
Oberon Book 2.0

Sam Sterling is a man with problems.  Including a partner who is trying to kill him, and a nosy reporter, who's just turned up dead! It's going to take a miracle to save him.  Or, better yet, an angel.

Marsha Quinn is used to being called a witch.  After all, her abilities as a psychic make a lot of people uncomfortable.  But no one has ever called her an angel before!

Falling in love was not a possibility she'd ever envisioned, until Sam the skeptic arrives in Oberon, and teaches her to see past the scars she carries, and the lies he's told her, to the love that lies within their hearts and minds.

Excerpt:  

Her conversation with Nick weighed heavy on Marsha’s mind as she drove out to Hidden Canyon later that afternoon.  The closer she got to Celeste’s cabin the worse she felt.  These trips out here always made her melancholy now.  Celeste’s cabin.  She really couldn’t think of it in any other way.  She had only been there a handful of times in the last few months.  She felt bad about that, but it was just too painful to come any more often than that.  Celeste would understand how it was.  At least, she hoped she would.

The heat wave that had been predicted for days, had finally materialized.  Bright September sunlight poured down into the canyon, filtering through the branches of the tall trees that surrounded the cabin to gild the glade with its warm, golden glow.  The grass of the lawn, and the cedar shake roof blazed with light.  In between the trees to the rear of the clearing, she could see even more light reflected on the rippled surface of the creek, and glancing off the white granite boulders.  Dragonflies danced in the air around her, their wings iridescent flashes of brightness surrounding the brilliant reds, blues and greens of their bodies.

Guilt stung her anew when she saw how overgrown everything had become.  She really should have come out here more often.  She should have sent someone out, if she couldn’t have come herself, to at least cut the grass!  As it was, she’d let Celeste’s gift to her lie empty and neglected.  

Oh, God.  Celeste, I am so sorry.  So very sorry.  

She was so wrapped up in her mournful thoughts, she was almost on top of Sam before she noticed him.  He’d been crouched on the lawn, examining something there.  He got to his feet when he saw her; rising up out of the sun-gilded grass in one swift, graceful motion, his very presence an assault on all her senses.  

She couldn’t remember the last time she had been this attracted to a man.  Had she ever been?  He was wearing black again she noticed, absorbing every detail in a single, greedy glance.  Black chinos, a black and silver belt, and the same silver and turquoise jewelry he’d worn yesterday.  The first two buttons of his collarless shirt were open, and the sleeves were rolled up almost to his elbows.  His hair was loose today, falling in smooth silver waves to lie about his shoulders.  He looked more like a wizard than ever, she thought, except that his eyes had lost a little of the guarded, inscrutable look she had noticed from time to time the day before.  The eagerness that glowed in them today made him even more attractive.

“This place is incredible,” he announced without preamble.  “I hadn’t even noticed the other day, but...there are flowers in the grass.  Look.”  He held out his hand, and she moved closer, disarmed by his enthusiasm.  

“It’s a violet,” she said after she’d examined the little yellow blossom.  “Kind of unusual, for this time of year, I guess.  But there must be lots of them, they spread pretty aggressively.  They’ll probably take over the whole lawn eventually, if I let them.”

“And this is a bad thing?” he asked, with a disbelieving smile.  “I mean, why wouldn’t you want them to?  They’re so pretty.”  He looked around, in wonder.  “What is it that smells so good?”

“Probably the incense cedars,” she answered, returning his smile.  “Those big trees there and there and over there...” She felt another pang of loss, as she pointed out the trees that Celeste had always referred to as the guardians of the property. 

“What about that one?” he asked, indicating the largest tree in the glade. 

“That’s a Jeffrey Pine.  We don’t really know how it got here.  It normally only grows in the Sierras.  Its bark smells like vanilla.”

He looked around startled.  “A vanilla scented pine tree?” he asked, bemused.  “Can there really be such a thing?”

“See for yourself,” she suggested, enjoying his reaction.  He stood hesitant for a moment then turned and stalked quickly across the lawn.  She followed more slowly, picking her way among the clover and the violets and the delicate patches of phlox, chamomile and thyme that laced the lawn.  She stopped a few feet away, mesmerized by the sight of him.  His face, held only inches from the trunk of the pine tree, was taut with concentration, his eyes were closed, and his hands clutched at the tree as though he would divine all its secrets in that single touch.  He looked like Prospero, attempting the spell that would free Ariel. 

He stood so a long moment, and then his eyes opened and he turned his face to her.  “You’re right.  It does.”   

He left the tree and came to stand directly in front of her.  “Do you know all these plants?” he all but demanded.

“No, not all.  But a lot of them, I do.  My father was always very big on nature walks when my sisters and I were kids.  He loved introducing us to new plants.  And, of course, I was here when Celeste planted most of these, so that helped, too.”  She pointed out the scarlet lobelia, the fireweed, the blue-eyed grass.  “It’s really beautiful in the springtime,” she told him.  “When the redbud and the bitter cherry and the ceonothus are all in bloom.”

“Hell, it’s beautiful right now.  I had no idea there could be so many things flowering in September.  I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you, growing up around here.  I’ve never seen anything like this place.”  

His eyes refocused on her then, his face suddenly as intent as it had been a moment before with the tree, and the look he gave her caused everything inside her to go still.  She held her breath and waited, as though for some sort of judgement.  

“It suits you,” he said at last.  “It really does.  You fit right in with the rest of it, somehow.  Unexpected.  Lovely.  Maybe just a little bit unreal.”    

Marsha felt herself blushing.  She didn’t know how to respond to such an assessment.  She seized on one of his words in an attempt to change the subject.  “But you were expecting me, right?  I thought we’d agreed last night that I’d come out here today?”  

He smiled at that, his eyes gleaming with amusement, and she felt a small glimmer of annoyance.  Damn it, she was the one who was supposed to be able to read minds.  Yet, he seemed to be doing a pretty fair job of reading hers.

“Right,” he answered, and then added unnecessarily.  “Not what I meant, of course.”

Scent of the Roses
Oberon Book 1.0

For years, Scout Patterson has tried to run from the mistakes in her past.  Now, she's coming home--to face the ghosts she's never laid to rest, and the love she thought she'd lost forever.

Reawakening that love would be a dream come true.  Unfortunately, love is not the only emotion that can last forever.

Memories and dreams are the only things that have gotten Nick Greco through the past twenty years.  Memories of the girl he loved and lost, and dreams of what his life would be like, if he could only find her again.   And if he can bring himself to believe that anything she tells him is true.

Can the star-crossed lovers put aside the hurt and distrust they still harbor toward each other?  Or will the evil which already nearly destroyed them once, triumph yet again?

Pre-Order now at:  https://books2read.com/u/4EpR5Y

Twenty Years On...

 “Scout Patterson had been running away from home for twenty years.”

My first book, Scent of the Roses, was first released twenty years ago this month. Not exactly the book-birthday-to-end-all-book-birthdays, but still pretty, stinking cool.

The entire Oberon series has been languishing on my hard drive for the past several years, ever since my publisher and I parted ways (for the second and last time) and I got my rights back to the books. At first, I thought I'd update the books—but SO MUCH HAS CHANGED in the past twenty years. Not only would the task have been hopelessly daunting (not to mention time-consuming) but I just didn’t feel like it would hit the same or land correctly no matter what I did.

I also felt like I was being somewhat disloyal to my small band of fans who had loved the books as-is.

So, I decided to pivot. I'll be re-releasing the series (starting next month) in a new annotated edition. 

I talk about what scenes are my favorite (or—thinking of books 3, 7 and 8—my least favorite), or scenes that I particularly remember writing. I've added some fun facts that (hopefully) readers will enjoy. There will be a playlist. Basically, all my thoughts on what it was like to write this/these book(s).

Scent of the Roses is available for pre-order now. It’s due to release on September 25th. With luck, and barring any more of life's little surprises, A Sight to Dream Of, and Sound of a Voice That is Still will follow in October and November, respectively.

But the entire series is up for preview on my website now (http://www.OberonCalifornia.US) less the very cool covers I’ve made for the three digital omnibuses that will follow.

There will be print books, too, but these books are BIG. So, for the print versions, I'll be creating a separate document for the annotations.

But, in any case, what I really came here to say is that, regardless of whether you’ve read the series previously or not, I hope you’ll take a chance on the Oberon gang when they return.

To quote Sir Paul McCartney, these past twenty years have been a long and winding road—for me, and for Scout. 

Pre-Order your copy of Scent of the Roses at:  https://books2read.com/u/4EpR5Y

Scent of the Roses

Oberon Book 1.0

​

For years, Scout Patterson has tried to run from the mistakes in her past.  Now, she's coming home--to face the ghosts she's never laid to rest, and the love she thought she'd lost forever.  Reawakening that love would be a dream come true.  Unfortunately, love is not the only emotion that can last forever. 

Memories and dreams are the only things that have gotten Nick Greco through the past twenty years.  Memories of the girl he loved and lost, and dreams of what his life would be like, if he could only find her again.   And if he can bring himself to believe that anything she tells him is true.

  Can the star-crossed lovers put aside the hurt and distrust they still harbor toward each other?  Or will the evil which already nearly destroyed them once, triumph yet again?

New Antho Release: Redemption

 

https://books2read.com/b/br1JkE

Redemption

A Fallen Angels Paranormal Romance Collection

Perfection is impossible, even for this collection of angels. ​ 

 Once esteemed immortals find themselves banished from the heavenly realm and condemned to a life on Earth amongst the mortals, unless they find a way back through the veil. 

Before they can find redemption they must first learn how to navigate their new life. Will they find a new appreciation for humanity and choose this life over the one they were created for? 

 Grab this limited edition collection now before it disappears beyond the veil. ​ Includes PG Forte's Angels in the Afterlife Story, Christmas Angel.

I originally planned on writing a different angel story for this anthology--Feels Like Heaven, which has been rattling around in my brain FOREVER--but midway through the plotting stage, I  dreamed up a new story that Jake (one of my heroes) describes as such: 

"You’ve heard this story, or one just like it, a hundred times before. Cranky guy dies without learning the true meaning of Christmas, is turned into an angel, and sent back to earth in order to save some other poor schmuck from suffering the same unhappy fate.

Usually it’s billed as a romance, or a dramedy, perfect for a night of family fun. Which is ludicrous. Even Dickens, the man who invented cheesy Christmas stories, knew better than that. His Marley was clearly miserable, as who wouldn’t be in his situation?  Which, as it happens, is also my situation. 

Hi. My name is Jacob. I’m an angel. And this is my story." 

If you've read either of my previous Angels in the Afterlife stories, you'll recognize that this fits right in. But it's also, as Jake says, a cheesy Christmas story.  It's got an estranged couple--one's a financial planner from the city (the city of all cities, actually: NYC) and the other's a country boy Christmas tree farmer. I had the best time writing it, leaning in hard to all the tropes and cliches; and I really hope you'll enjoy reading it. Even if it isn't quite Christmas yet. 

Blurb:

 Being fully transparent is good for a relationship, right? Well, maybe not when it’s literal.

Christmas Angel is a second-chance, holiday romance with a celestial twist. Jake’s been sent back to earth to mend fences with his ex. Or has he? Certainly Tony doesn’t seem to think that's the case.

 Tony might have ninety-nine problems—and then some—between dealing with his meddlesome family AND running the family business (a Christmas tree farm in rural Texas) but he's pretty sure that playing catch-up with his ex-husband isn’t supposed to be one of them. It’s a little hard to imagine what kind of future the two of them could have when only one of them is alive.

Excerpt: 

I find [Tony] in his office, staring moodily at his computer. He has a pair of readers perched on his nose—giving him a nerdy professor look that’s super cute. 

“Nice specs,” I say as I cross the room. “Are those new?”

“Yeah,” Tony murmurs. His cheeks color as he hurries to remove them—a damn shame, if you ask me. Although that blush he’s wearing now is pretty cute as well. 

“What’re you—” he starts to say, stopping when I hold up the thermos and bag. His eyes widen into a look that I would’ve termed pre-orgasmic in other circumstances. “Oh, yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,” he says as he grabs them from my hands. “Gimme.”

I settle into the chair on the other side of his desk and watch as he flips open the thermos and guzzles down at least half of it, then sighs and murmurs a heartfelt, “Thank you, God.”

“You should probably thank your mother, too,” I mention, as he roots around in the bag.

“And thank you, Mom,” Tony murmurs obediently as he pulls out a package wrapped in foil, which turns out to contain two bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits. His reluctance is palpable as he holds them out and asks, “Do you want one?”

I’m almost tempted to mess with him by saying yes. But I behave myself. I shake my head and answer, “Nope. All for you,” then smile as he quickly devours the first sandwich with just a few wolfish bites. Watching him eat is bringing back memories.

I can’t stop staring at his mouth, and at his throat as he swallows, at the blissful expression on his face. “Good?” I ask weakly, feeling envious of the biscuit crumbs that cling to his lips.

Tony nods. He flicks a glance my way then licks his lips clean. “Thanks for bringing ’em over,” he mumbles as he tears into the second biscuit.  

Jesus. That mouth. “Where’d we go wrong?” I wonder. Unfortunately, I wonder it aloud. “Sorry,” I add when Tony’s face puckers like he’d tasted something sour. “I meant me, not we, right?”

“No.” Tony sighs and shakes his head. “No. You were right the first time. I made mistakes, too. I just don’t see the point in discussing it, you know? Where’s the sense in doing a postmortem at this point? It’s not like it’s gonna change anything.” 

“No,” I say, which probably sounds like I agree with him. “It’s not gonna do that.”  But I don’t agree with him. Why not talk about it? Just because we can’t change things doesn’t mean they don’t matter. A little closure would be good, better than what I have now, which is mostly memories and regrets—and a hollow, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that’s warning me that those memories and those regrets are going to follow me into eternity, that they’ll stay with me, and eat at me, and torture me, forever. 

Tony finishes his meal in record time—even for him. Then he tosses his trash into a wastebasket and gets to his feet. “All right, c’mon,” he tells me. “Enough lazing around. Let’s go do some work.”

“Ookay.” What work? I wonder as I follow him back into the hall, and into a storage closet. We pause there only long enough for Tony to shrug into a Carhartt and grab some supplies—gloves, goggles, shears, a pole saw.  

“Shouldn’t you be telling someone where we’re going?” I ask as we exit the building through a back door, hoping he’ll take the hint.

He doesn’t. He shakes his head and says, “I don’t exactly answer to anyone.” Then he motions toward a UTV side by side with attached trailer and adds, “That’s us, by the way.” 

“Just like old times,” I quip as I remember riding around here with Tony in similar vehicles on countless occasions. “So, how about you tell me what’s going on?  Where the heck are we going?”

Tony flashes me a smile as he swings himself into the driver’s seat. It’s not a very good smile. In fact, if I could think of any reason why it should be the case, I’d say he looks faintly nervous. “You said you always liked helping out on the farm,” he reminds me. “Isn’t that what you told me last night?”

“Yeah. So?” 

“So, it’s time to put your money where your mouth is.”

“What money?” I scoff as I round the vehicle. There’s a wreath attached to the UTV’s front grill. As I walk past it, I tap the bells that decorate it, making them jingle softly as I remind him, “Angel, remember?”

“Well, whatever currency you use,” Tony mumbles as his smile slips away and his eyes grow bleak. “I mean, there’s bound to be something, right?”

“I’m sure there is,” I reply, and immediately decide to stop teasing him because he’s right not to smile, not to laugh or be amused. Because it’s not funny. Not at all.

 ***

As Tony navigates us over the utility road, I watch the passing scenery—or pretend to.  It’s such a familiar feeling, riding around like this with Tony, except that, in the past, I’d reach out now and then and touch him. Just casually. Just a hand on his leg or something. 

We’d be sitting relaxed, chatting casually, allowing our arms to brush against each other’s, not how we are now—stiff, silent, and withdrawn, both of us making an effort to keep within our own little bubble. 

I wish I had the courage to just do it, to reach out and brush his cheek, to ask about that smile, to try and cheer him up. But I guess it’s not really courage that’s the problem, is it? It’s the fact that I no longer have the right to do any of that. 

On that long ago Christmas Eve—the night after we’d raced Tim to the lamppost—we’d lain together, Tony and I, in the room he usually shared with Tim, in one of the narrow twin beds with which the room had been furnished, since we were still too uncertain about our changing circumstances to risk pushing the beds together. Our bodies were plastered so tightly together. It was the first time I’d ever felt that close to another person, or so comfortable with touching and being touched, so much at peace.

If you're interested in reading more about the "long ago Christmas Eve" Jake mentions, I have a short freebie that explains it. Read Gingerbread Kisses here: http://rhymeswithforeplay.blogspot.com/2022/12/romance-writers-weekly-flash-fiction.html

Bring It Back(list) ~ Two Ireland-set Books by PG Forte

In honor of St. Patrick's Day, I'm posting two of my Celtic Legends books. It's not really a series, since the books don't have anything to do with each other. They're each set in Ireland at some point during the mid-to-late1800s (for no other reason than that my grandparents were born in Ireland in the late 1800s) and they each (being as they're Fantasy Romances) feature fantasy creatures found in Celtic legends, faeries, demi-gods, selkies, bird shifters. Only two of the four have been written yet, but you can see all the covers on the series page:  https://www.pgforte.com/celtic-legends

IRON
https://books2read.com/u/31lMOW

Nineteenth century Ireland. Blacksmith Gavin O'Malley is a bitter man, with a heart as hard as the iron he forges. He wants his life back--the one that was stolen from him the day his wife died in childbirth, taking their firstborn son with her.

When Aislinn Deirbhile, an immortal, shape-shifting fae, arrives on his doorstep, he knows he's in luck. For Aislinn can give Gavin everything he's been missing: A devoted-seeming wife in the image of his beloved Mairead, and children who are sure to outlive their father. Now, all he has to do is find a way to keep her--without losing his immortal soul in the process.

But Aislinn has an agenda of her own. On the run from a vengeful fae lord who's vowed to either make her his or end her existence, she knows the iron that allows Gavin to take her captive will also keep her pursuers at bay. In order to put herself permanently beyond her enemy's reach, however, Aislinn will need something more. She'll need to win Gavin's heart and convince him to willingly part with a piece of the very soul he's trying to save.

OAK
https://books2read.com/u/bMRraG

Previously published as The Oak King.

Twice each year, Aine Murphy ventures into the woods to hold ceremonies to honor the Oak King and the Holly King, never dreaming these Lords of the Forest could be anything more than myth. When the legends spring to life in front of her, how can she help but fall for the sexy demi-gods she's loved all her life?

From midwinter to midsummer, Fionn O'Dair rules the Greenworld as the Oak King--a role he feels is beyond his abilities, and one that dooms him to a loveless future, forever craving the one man he can never allow himself to have. How can he resist what Aine offers--the sweet devotion that soothes his aching soul, and the slim chance to live a "normal" life as her husband, if only for half a year?

Holly King Kieran Mac Cuilenn never desired a human lover--until now. Seeing Fionn and Aine together fills him with longing for the love he threw away and awakens feelings he thought he'd buried with the last Oak King. Is there enough magic in the solstice to correct the mistakes he made years ago? Or is he doomed to be forever left out in the cold?


Excerpt from Iron:

“Would you like to see it?” she asked, sitting up in bed with her legs crossed beneath her, wanting suddenly to give something back to him, to make him smile again.

The blankets slid to her waist and Gavin quickly averted his eyes. “Eh? See what?”

“The Summerland. You need only lie back and close your eyes and I will sing ye there.”

“Sing me there?” Curious eyes swung back up to her face. “Ye can do that?”

Aislinn shrugged. “Of course. It is just your mind I’d be transporting. Your body would remain here, in peaceful slumber.”

“Aye, no doubt,” Gavin muttered, his gaze turning suspicious. “But for how long will I slumber? That’s the question, is it not?”

“A night,” she answered. “No more than that. I promise ye, you’ll not travel outside of time tonight. When ye wake up tomorrow morning, safe in your own bed, neither you nor the world will be more than a single day older. Will ye not trust me?”

“Might I not come to harm there? For I’ve heard stories.”

“Not tonight,” she said, leaning closer to smile temptingly at him. “If I give you my word, O’Malley, that I’ll not allow you to suffer any harm tonight, will that not suffice?”

“And have ye the power to make such promises, I wonder?” he asked as he studied her expression but finally he nodded and closed his eyes. “Go on then, Fae. Do your worst.”

Aislinn took a moment to gather her power, humming quietly until the air shimmered and rippled around her and time itself began to shift and there she stopped it, mindful of her promise not to take him outside time tonight. But someday I might, she thought, and smiled at the sleeping form before her, someday, indeed, I might.

And then, still smiling, she began to sing...

*

Gavin sighed as Aislinn’s voice settled over him as welcome as a soft, warm blanket on a cold night; and he’d have gladly snuggled into it, if his body did not seem too heavy to move. His mind, on the other hand, felt light as air, rising higher and higher until, at last, it broke free of the bonds that had kept it tethered within him. And then, like a caged bird suddenly set free, it took off, winging its way westward over a bleak, black sea toward a flicker of light on the horizon.

The light grew as he approached until he realized it was not a light at all, but rather the reflection cast by the rising sun upon the tall, white cliffs of an island.

Gulls swept past him, crying out a greeting; and then he was soaring above the island itself. Gentle, rolling hills stretched below him as he flew and the low, throbbing tones of Uilleann pipes rose up from among them, as though calling him home.

Dipping closer to the ground, he spied horses racing each other for the sheer joy of it across vast, verdant pastures. The sweet, mingled perfumes of a thousand flowers filled the air and a light mist kissed his skin as he landed in a sunny glen.

Deer, browsing amid the trees, paused in their foraging, their tails flicking as they scented him, but they showed no fear. He was aware, too, of a thronging crowd of people that seemed to exist just beyond the edges of his sight and who studied him just as curiously as the deer did. But he paid them no mind for there was a sound that tugged at his consciousness, bidding him follow it.

Aislinn...

He found her, at last, seated atop the bent branch of a willow tree that had extended itself over a clear and sparkling stream, paddling her feet in the crystalline water and singing sweetly.

She broke off as he approached and smiled in greeting. Gavin paused on the sandy bank and stared at her. Though the water appeared cool and refreshing and he was suddenly aware of a great thirst, he was loath to partake.

Laughing, Aislinn jumped down from the branch to stand before him. “’Tis quite all right, you know. The water will do naught tonight but quench your thirst. Although, on another occasion it might, indeed, do more. But did ye not believe me when I promised to protect thee here? What is it that’s made ye so suspicious, O’Malley? What have the fae ever done to thee?”

“I doona know,” he answered with a shrug, trying not to notice the sweet smell of sunlight on her skin and in her hair. She was dressed in a simple, diaphanous gown of shimmering white without so much as a single ornament, but even with her feet bare and her hair undone she looked more elegant, somehow, than any woman he had ever seen.

No wonder her fool of a sister was so worried, he thought, for sure and she has the look of one who should be queen.

“But how is it you’re here?” he asked. “For I thought you were banned from the place.”

“Aye,” she answered, casting a sad glance at the landscape that surrounded them. “From the Summerland itself, I am still in exile. But no one can remove me from my memories of it. This is but a shadow of the place. I could have sent ye there alone, had I wished to. But without accompanying ye, I could not have guaranteed your safety. Nor could I have transported ye into the past without breaking my promise not to take ye out of time. But I thought this would do to show ye what it’s like and why I’m so loath to give it up. Do you not find it beautiful?”

He nodded. “I do. But what of the other place? Will you be showing me that as well, that I might compare the two?”

“Nay,” she replied with a shake of her head. “Perhaps another time. I’d not wish to trouble your sleep with such a thing. You’d not thank me for it if I did. Now, come,” she said, smiling once more as she took hold of his arm. “Let me show you something of my home.”

Creative Procrastination

When it comes to writing, I like to keep busy. There's a reason I always have several projects on deck...a baseball term that I'm possibly misusing (I thought it was pitchers it's not. It's batters--who knew?). Still, every time I finish one project, there's a shifting of gears as I pivot to slip into the next story. There's the slow slog through the outline, the endless questions (why would this character do what I need her to do for the sake of the story? What's her history? Her biggest fear? How do I make any of this make sense?). Right now, I'm going through that process with several stories at once (don't ask--it's not something I generally recommend). Anyway...sometimes I need a break from all the thinking. So, THIS WEEK, I've once again turned toward one of my favorite time wasters, creating covers. 

I LOVE making covers. And it's not NOT working on my writing, so it doesn't feel like wasting time, which is something I struggle with, at times, with other activities--even supposedly healthy ones.   

This week, since I'm really kind of caught up on covers for most of the future books I can imagine writing for the foreseeable future, I've been working on collections. And, because I'm trying to finish three new stories this year (actually in the next three months--gulp) in the Atlas Beach/Games We Play series, and already have covers for the individual stories, I decided to work on collecting those stories into collections.

The first one is already done and out there, but it got a little upgrade. The other two...well, I was holding out for two more trilogies, but then I decided that wasn't going to work out theme-wise. So...I've got a duology that I'll be releasing very soon (since the individual stories are already out there) and a quadrology. 

I'm pretty happy with the results. Now, if you'll excuse me, there are questions that need answering...

A quirky, family-owned resort on the Jersey Shore is the setting for this erotic, lightly paranormal series. Cousins Brenda, Luke and Gwyn are determined to turn their failing hotel business around. They have no time for love. They're in no mood for games. But it's not going to matter. Not when they're up against a handful of ghosts, a mischievous boggart, a family curse, and destinies written in stone.

​

The Games We Play trilogy. Three books that prove that holiday fun doesn't begin or end in December!

Available now!  https://books2read.com/u/4ENoKg

The Atlas Beach  Chamber of Commerce’s innovative mentoring program—partnering successful  business owners with some of the newer start-ups--had just what Food Truck Owner Carly Meyers and baker Stephanie Sands needed to get their businesses off the ground: The Delectable DiLuca Brothers. 

Available now! https://books2read.com/u/3GVqJP

The Coffee House Collection: four short stories set in and around Atlas Beach's most popular coffee house. Stop by for a quick bite, a small cup, a sweet treat...

Coming soon!https://www.pgforte.com/copy-of-games-we-play

A Whole New World...

A funny thing happened on the way to tying up a loose thread. Initially, when I wrote and released Light Up the Night as a shorter story than originally planned (in order to fit the length requirements of the anthology it was scheduled to appear in), I figured I'd go back and add a few scenes in alternate POVs, expand a little on what was already there, and be done with it.

Not so fast, said my muse. These couple of scenes and alternate POVs are not so much a subplot as a whole separate story. A story in which your vampires must confront a werewolf pack. How is that going to fit in with the sweet friends-to-lovers, age gap vampire Christmas story you've got going on?

Well, she was right. Muses generally are, after all. So I looked around, noticed that someone was putting together a shifter-themed newsletter builder.  Perfect, I thought. I'll write a second short story--vampires vs werewolves--and release it in that.

So, I signed up. I thought up a title for the new story, created a cover for it, and wrote down a quick outline, and...a somewhat ridiculous amount of time later. Weeks, at least. Probably more like months. It occurred to me that, fabulous as this story is, and happy though I am to be giving my h/h an HEA...this is a book about vampires who have some dealings with werewolves. And the anthology I've signed myself up for is allllll about the shifters. 

So. Back to the drawing board.

Ya know what...my muse had the nerve to say, at that point, peeking out from wherever she'd been sneakily hiding. Vampires and werewolves practically beg for the Romeo and Juliet treatment--different ending, of course. Why don't you have one of your vampires fall in love with one of the werewolves. 

Now, I'm getting annoyed because this is supposed to be a short story. If I add a whole new subplot to it, I'm right back where I started, with a long ass book. Also: A, all of the vampires that were slated to be in the story are already spoken for and B, how does this love story end? Does the werewolf leave home to be with their insta-love vampire? Does my vampire leave the nest and move in with a werewolf pack? At Christmas time???

It was at about this point that DepositPhoto ran one of their sales. And, armed with fresh credits I  went on a cover search (for an entirely different story, of course) and...I found my story. And it's nothing like I  thought it would be...well, it does have sort of a Romeo and Juliet vibe. Not the happy kind, either. It's got a Cinderella vibe, too, but that's beside the point. It involves an entirely new vampire, and it takes place at least several weeks before the original story does, so that these characters get to come in and play a brief part in that story, too. 

And, of course, now I have a whole new series to write and a whole new shifter world to play in. 

Here's the blurb. And a version of the cover--it's the start of a whole new series, it needs a new look. Font choices are still in the "well, I kind of like that. I think," stage. 

The Sierra Nevada foothills have been vampire Josiah Lodge’s hunting grounds for nearly two centuries. Alone since a lover’s betrayal cost him his nest, the former trapper-turned-wild-crafter has given up on ever again finding love or acceptance. If he didn’t have to eat, he’d never venture out of his woods again. But needs must.

​When Coldpelt (Cole) Moonwalker’s true shifter nature asserted itself, he was judged an abomination and cast out of his pack. Without a territory to call his own, he’s constantly on the move, constantly in danger—which is how he ends up passed out and injured on Josh’s front porch. While Cole dreams of someday finding a place where he can belong, he knows that place can never be with the scarred and surly vampire who undoubtedly has the blood of Cole’s people on his hands.

​Will the attraction they feel for one another allow these natural enemies to overcome their sense of mutual distrust? Is enemies with benefits even a thing? Find out when the FREE anthology Shifter Fever debuts April 1st.

Bring It Back(list) ~ Now Comes the Night by PG Forte

Now Comes The Night 

Children of Night 3.0

You can choose your lover...if only you could choose your family. 

 Twins Julie and Marc Fischer have always been taught one fact: You can't choose your family. After six months of living in San Francisco, the challenges each face are an intricate web of complications neither was prepared for. 

 Marc is torn between staying with Conrad and Damian or embracing his destiny -- and the feral vampires that come with it. Julie is torn between the man she loves, and the life she is supposed to live.

Buy Links:https://books2read.com/u/mYGMBM

My new vampire Christmas story, Light Up the Night, released this week. In it, Heather references a Christmas party that she'd hosted the year before--the party during which Marc's house was established. Here's an excerpt of that party:

“You’re back!” Heather ran to greet him as soon as he pushed the door open. “Where were you? I was starting to get worried.”

“I had an errand to run,” Marc answered, eyeing the cut-glass cup in her hand with more than a little curiosity. “What’s that you’re drinking?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realized how stupid they must sound. It was blood, obviously. What else would it be? But why from a glass? “Where is everybody?” Certainly it was late enough in the evening for at least a few humans to have shown up. “What have you done with them?”

“Relax, dude,” Nighthawk said, as he joined them. He carried two more cups, one of which he handed to Marc. “It’s Christmas Eve. All the good little humans are likely safe at home, tucked in their beds and waiting for Santa, same as every year. But this one,” He nodded at Heather. “still wanted to party. So me and some of the guys went out and robbed a blood bank and knocked over a coupla thrift stores. I hope you don’t mind.”

Marc glared. “You did what?”

“Come and see,” Heather urged. She grabbed hold of his hand and pulled him deeper into the warehouse. “They even got trees!”

“I’m just kidding about the robbery thing,” Nighthawk confided as he fell into step beside Marc. “We did hit the hospital up for a few small withdrawals, but we covered our tracks and our asses and no one got hurt, ‘kay?”

Marc barely heard him, his attention caught by the small forest of pine trees that had sprung up in the center of the warehouse, all of them decorated with an odd mix of ornaments that shimmered and glowed in the low light filtering in from the windows set high on the warehouse’s outer walls. The couches had been drawn up close together, to form a circle within the ring of trees and, in the middle of that circle, stood a folding table topped with stacks of cups and a large, matching punch bowl filled with blood. “Where did all this come from?”

“Thrift stores, like I said,” Nighthawk answered. “But it’s all legit. They were selling most of the stuff off cheap ‘cause of the holiday. And we didn’t steal nuthin’ but the blood. Not even the trees. Those were all leftovers that had been thrown out.”

“Oh,” Marc said faintly. “Okay. Well, it looks great. Good job everyone.” He gazed at all the expectant faces turned his way and mentally kicked himself for his lousy timing. Christmas Eve. Damn it, he’d completely forgotten what day it was. He felt like the Grinch now, dropping in just in time to steal the Whos’ Christmas. Perfect.

“What’s wrong, Marc?” Heather asked frowning up at him. “You’re frowning. Don’t you like it?”

“She wanted a party,” Nighthawk repeated. “You said I should give her what she wanted, so that’s what I did.”

“It’s not that.” Marc sighed, wishing he’d waited until after the long, holiday weekend was over to confront Conrad. He emptied his glass in one long gulp. How could he tell them now? Wouldn’t it be better to just pretend nothing was wrong, let them enjoy their party, wait for a better time to tell them? But wasn’t that exactly what Conrad and Damian had done to him, what they were all still doing to Julie? Didn’t they all deserve to know the truth? “I’m not upset about what you’ve done here. I went to see Conrad tonight.” He blurted the words out before he could change his mind.

“Ah, crap.” Nighthawk looked away. “What happened? What’d he say? Nothing good, I’m guessing.”

“He said Audrey lied to you. He said there’s no way that he, or anyone else, could ever claim you as their own. No one would believe him if he did, he said, and it wouldn’t change anything anyway. It wouldn’t make you part of his House. I’m sorry.”

Heather scowled. “Why’re we talking about that bitch for anyway? Of course she lied. Only an idiot would have taken her word for anything in the first place.”

“I guess we all know who you’re calling an idiot, right?” Nighthawk glared at her.

Heather ignored him. “And why would you think we need to be part of someone else’s House? We have our own House, don’t we? Right here?”

Marc had no answer. Technically, he supposed Heather was part of Conrad’s family now, just as he was. In theory, that meant he should be able to take her home with him. It was all the others who were screwed, left out in the cold, doomed. And there was not a damn thing he could do to change that.

Nighthawk met Marc’s gaze for a brief moment, then glanced away. His expression was grim. “All right, so, how bad is it? How long did he give us? When do we have to be out of here?”

“You don’t have to go anywhere,” Marc told him. “You can stay here as long as you want. He gave me his word.”

“Right. ‘Cause everyone always keeps their word where we’re concerned. ‘Scuse me for bein’ a li’l skeptical ‘bout that. I guess the question I should be asking then is how soon are you leaving?”

Marc ducked his head. He hadn’t been expecting it to come to this—not yet, anyway. “I don’t know. I haven’t really…whenever I guess.” He thought he’d have more time. He didn’t think they’d be this quick to turn their backs on him. He glanced at the ring of pinched and anxious faces, wanting to ask if Nighthawk spoke for all of them, if there was no one at all here who wanted him to stay, but what good would that do? Before Marc had come along, Nighthawk had been the closest thing they’d had to a leader. He’d brought them together, kept them together, tried his best to keep them safe. What good would it do to undermine his authority now?

Disgust twisted Nighthawk’s features. “Yeah, that figures.” Turning away, he hopped over the back of one of the couches and sat with his back to Marc. A couple of the youngest of the ferals pressed close to Nighthawk. He threw his arms around their shoulders and hugged them tight. The rest of the troupe continued to shoot worried glances at each other or in Marc’s direction, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet their eyes.

“You’re not leaving us are you?” Heather pressed close to Marc and gazed up at him piteously.

“What choice do I have? I can’t very well stay where I’m not wanted, can I?” Not that he had any idea where he could go. Conrad hadn’t exactly thrown him out, but he’d been angry. A lot more angry than Marc had expected him to be. And, despite what he’d said about the mansion being Marc’s home he’d made it pretty damn clear he didn’t really want Marc there right now.

Perhaps Damian could change his mind, but Marc had burned that bridge pretty good as well. Maybe he could try Drew and see if he could be persuaded to let Marc crash on the couch in his office at the bar. Or would his friend be too fearful, too reluctant to incur Conrad’s wrath?

“Now you’re just being stoopid.” Heather frowned at him. “Of course you’re wanted. What are you talking about?”

Marc shook his head. “That’s not how it looks from where I’m standing.”

Heather bared her teeth in an angry little snarl. “Nighthawk! Get your ugly butt back over here!”

“No!” Nighthawk answered from the couch, still refusing to turn around. “Leave me alone, woman.”

Heather took hold of Marc’s hand and pulled him toward the couch. Marc followed along reluctantly, ditching his cup on an empty table along the way. Nothing about this scene was sparking his appetite in the slightest.

Heather continued to drag him around the couch until they stood right in front of where Nighthawk was seated. “Tell Marc you don’t want him to go,” she ordered the feral.

“No.” Nighthawk glared at her—and continued to ignore Marc. The two youngsters who had snuggled up next to Nighthawk also kept their eyes averted.

Marc sighed. “See? What’d I tell you?”

Heather rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t mean he wants you to go, Marc. He’s just being dumb. And you don’t want to go either, right? You want to stay here, don’t you? With us?”

“Of course I want to stay. But…how can I? I failed, sweetheart, and you’re the only one who doesn’t seem to realize that yet. I was trying to get a second chance for everyone. I wanted to make sure all the ferals were safe. But you—they—need a leader for that, someone who can protect you all. That’s why I went to Conrad. I thought, if he would agree to adopt everyone…”

“But Marc, we don’t need someone else to do that for us,” Heather insisted. “We have you. Everything’s so much better since you’ve taken charge. I can’t believe you don’t see that.” From the corner of his eye, Marc saw several of the others nodding in agreement.

“She’s right, you know.” Nighthawk glanced up briefly and then away again. “Not that I didn’t try but… I dunno. Seems like the harder I tried, the worse I fucked things up.”

Heather snorted. “That’s ‘cause you’re a moron.”

“Nice,” Nighthawk muttered beneath his breath. “Thanks.”

“Cut him some slack,” Marc told Heather, still trying to readjust his thinking. Could he stay after all? Did they really want him to? “He did his best, right? I guess that’s all any of us can do.”

“What I don’t get is… Why’re you even here?” Nighthawk asked, seemingly of his shoes, since he still refused to meet Marc’s gaze. “I get that you had your fun slumming with us, but why d’you want to waste any more time hanging around?”

Marc glanced around, surprised to see the same expression on just about everyone’s face: anxious, hopeful. “Who said it’s a waste of time? And where else would I be?”

Nighthawk frowned. “You have a home, don’t you? A family? And it’s Christmas-fucking-Eve. Even if you don’t do holidays—and I know, most vampires don’t—I still don’t understand why you aren’t there with them. That’s where you belong, right? I mean, if I had a home, I’d sure as hell wanna be there tonight.”

The answer was so obvious Marc was surprised he hadn’t figured it out weeks earlier. “This is my family now, and right here is all the home I’m looking for. Trust me, I fit in a lot better here, with you all, than I do anywhere else.” It was strange, coming face to face with that realization, but it was true all the same. He felt stronger somehow, calmer and infinitely more comfortable here on misfit island than he had even earlier this evening with Conrad and Damian.

“Yeah?” A suspicious warmth colored Nighthawk’s cheeks. But if he was pleased—and Marc was pretty sure he was—he did his best to hide it behind a snarky attitude. “Well, shit, if that’s the case, you’re even more fucked up than I thought you were.”

“You still want him here though, don’t you?” Heather demanded.

Nighthawk smirked. “What are you crazy? ‘Course I do. I’m not that big an idiot.”

Heather shrugged. “If you say so.”

“I never did think we needed anyone else you know,” Nighthawk said, finally addressing Marc directly. “It’s just…you kept talking about passing us off to someone else, maybe getting Quintano to take us on—and no lie, that’d be awesome, no one’d dare mess with us then. But I figured what it really meant was you didn’t want to get stuck dealing with us on your own. I mean, I don’t know how these things are supposed to work out, how houses and sires and stuff are decided or founded or whatever—especially when it comes to our kind—but you’ve been more of a sire to us than most of us have had in years. Of course we want you to stay. And if you’d be willing to take us on, I for one would be proud to say I belonged to your House.”

His own house? Could he really have that? For the life of him, Marc could not find the words to respond. He’d never even considered the possibility, although… He had to admit the idea held a lot of appeal. He couldn’t imagine what Conrad would have to say about it when he found out, and he was absolutely certain it was nothing like what Damian had in mind when he’d begged Marc to keep up appearances. For once, however, Marc didn’t care. This felt right. And if he was really as different as everyone said he was, maybe this kind of thing made sense for him.

“See?” Heather beamed at him, obviously pleased with herself. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now where’d you put your cup? We need to have a toast.”

“What are we supposed to be toasting to?” Nighthawk asked, climbing warily to his feet. The look he shot in Marc’s direction was laced with trepidation, reminding Marc he’d yet to give him an answer.

“To us, of course,” he answered, finally finding his voice.

“To all of us,” Heather added. “To our family.”

“Exactly.” Marc met Nighthawk’s eyes and smiled. “Let’s do this.” A fresh cup of blood was pressed into his hand. Marc raised it high. “To us. Our family. Our house.” My house.

“All right, then.” Nighthawk lifted his own cup in a return salute. “It’s about fucking time. Fischer House. Long may it stand.”

Light Up The Night 

A Children of Night/Ugly Christmas Sweater Story

Her love will light up his night. If they can both survive that long. 

Heather is having the worst Christmas ever! Or, at least, the worst Christmas since she was forced to become a vampire. Her sire's distracted, her nestmates have forgotten her, weirdos have taken over the lair. The only bright spot in her life right now is Drew--who didn't even used to like her! She knows he's fond of her now, but 'fond of' is not enough for her. She wants more. She wants everything. She wants him. And she's not giving up. 

Drew Geiger gave up on love a long time ago. Such tender emotions have no place in a vampire's heart. But, somehow, the girl he once described as a "feral kitten" has got her claws in him, and she's not letting go. That would be fine, if only someone didn't want her dead--and if her sire didn't recall that it was Drew who once suggested that maybe she'd be better off that way.

Buy Links: https://books2read.com/u/m0En1l