The Shape of His Heart by Jane Kindred

The Shape of His Heart

by Jane Kindred

Free image from http://www.sxc.hu/ used according to the Image License Agreement.

It was an extravagance. She insisted she didn’t need a gift. It was the same every year, and every year, he ignored her, presenting her with trinkets, dainties, and posies, which she accepted with grace, chastising him gently. And every year, his gifts were piled with the others from her many admirers and instantly forgotten. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the gesture; she did say repeatedly, after all, that she didn’t need the gifts he insisted on giving. But the queen had many admirers, all of whom ignored her wishes on the matter.

One could hardly blame them. Male or female, human or hiddenfolk, one look upon her countenance and they were consumed by an inescapable obsession. He’d fallen for her himself so long ago he no longer remembered the life he’d once had in the world above. All that mattered was the queen. And all that mattered to the queen was conquest.

He had brought her the spoils of war—foreign princes from exotic lands in the upper realm, incomparable beauties of every hue and height who knelt before her, defeated, for her amusement. He supposed he might once have been one of them. The thought only bothered him a little. Those who resisted her pull amused her most, as they would be the ones who simpered and fawned over her to the point of obsequiousness after their ultimate surrender.

He had given her the daughters of princes, as well. Teary-eyed little things who missed their mothers, and who were easily enchanted by the maternal kindness she showed when she chose to. But she had so many of these tender morsels she couldn’t remember their names.

He’d gifted her with rare blooms from the most distant mountaintops and valleys, stunning and exceptional, for her ladies-in-waiting. She wore down their pride with her own grace and elegance until they went mute, with eyes downcast, grateful for the chance at servitude. She decorated herself with them, arranging them about her throne in fantastic flowing gowns of every color to kneel at her feet and lay their heads against her thighs and drape her arms to offset her own matchless beauty. They changed with her mood, and she had many moods.

But this gift…this one, he was certain would surpass all others. It was a gift no one had given her before. He wrapped it carefully in leaves of gold, tied with glistening gossamer. He allowed the others to go first, patiently biding his time from the back of the hall, where he leaned casually against a crystal pillar watching the queen accept her gifts with the usual graceful boredom. This gift would not bore her. It was a gift she would never expect.

Her tresses of midnight blue trailed down over her ladies-in-waiting, stunning in gowns of scarlet against her own golden sheath, the train of which pooled around them like molten metal. She’d gone with lighter gold for her skin, offsetting it nicely. And her eyes this evening were the color of amber; he could see them from here, glowing like a cat’s. The queen nodded and thanked her admirers with the presentation of each gift, tolerating the emotional ones who wept and kissed her feet, overcome.

The gifts piled up.

At last, the room had emptied. Sycophants and servants glared at him on their way out, knowing he was a favorite, or at least that he thought himself so. She beckoned to him with jewel-bangled hand.

He pushed himself away from the post and came forward, bowing low—but not too low—when he reached the dais. She liked that he had a bit of spirit. He supposed he must not have struggled much against his enslavement, for he wasn’t in the least obsequious.

He straightened and held out the gift.

“Darling, you shouldn’t have,” she said, as always, as she accepted it. “You know I want for nothing.”

“But you do not have one of these.”

She raised a poppy-colored eyebrow. “Have you brought me a pixie? I can’t imagine what other living thing could fit in such a package.” Her graceful hands pulled away the gossamer and layers of gold, revealing the claret-colored box. The thick, leathery fabric of the box was stitched together with sinewy cord in the shape of a heart. He’d made it all himself by hand—the hinge, the clasp, the intricate designs he’d carved into it.

The queen raised her eyes and smiled encouragingly, inquisitive. He’d captured her interest. She ran her fingers over the surface, admiring it, rubbing her thumb along the seams. He held his breath. She opened it.

Nestled inside, the bloody muscle beat steadily.

The queen frowned, lifting it out. “You think I don’t have one of these?”

“My queen, that is not the gift. I merely thought you would appreciate the symbolism of what could the gift could be used to hold. The gift is the box itself.”

She set the heart back in its nest and closed the box once more, examining it. “It is lovely.” She seemed puzzled.

“I made it for you myself, my queen.”

“Made it? Out of what?”

He unbuttoned his coat and unlaced his shirt, holding it open to let her see the jagged pink line of puckered scar tissue.

Her eyes went wide, the amber sparkling like fire. “It’s your heart in the box?”

“No, my queen. My heart is the box. I tenderized it and hollowed it out, and sewed it together with cord made from my veins. The hinge and clasp are the arteries.” He smiled at her incredulous gasp and took her hand from the box to bring her fingers to his mouth. He kissed them reverently. “Your heart will be safe inside it.”

---February 2014

Find out more about Jane Kindred!

A Box Full of Faerie by Jody Wallace

A Box Full of Faerie

by Jody Wallace

Chapter One

Wham! Wham! Wham!

A thunderous pounding on the door disrupted Rachele’s daily yoga workout. Startled, she froze in the ‘cat’ segment of her cat-cow sequence for warming up the spine.

Wham! Wham!

She leapt to her feet. The hair on the back of her neck prickled a warning, like some kind of intruder alert. Her brain rapidly assessed threat responses—knives in the kitchen, vase on the table near the door, hand to hand, straight-up hiding.

None of that would help if they had a gun.

“Who is it?” she called, voice cracking.

When there was no response, she crept silently toward the front door of the cottage. Gene sat on the foyer table beside the vase, long, black tail curled around his paws.

Displaying zero alarm after the sudden racket, he swiveled an ear as she approached. Cats often sensed danger before humans, so if he wasn’t anxious, maybe she shouldn’t be either.

“You’d better not break that vase,” she chided him. Gene was her destructo kitty. The blue willow vase was the fourth one to occupy the spot of honor in the foyer. This one, she hoped, was both heavy enough that Gene couldn’t knock it over and that it would make a good weapon.

Because that was the perfect criteria for interior decorating choices.

Gene blinked. The tip of his tail flicked an acknowledgement.

Reassured, Rachele pressed her eye to the peephole. A man in khaki clothing with a clipboard waited on the porch. A cap shaded the top half of his face from view.

Rachele laughed to herself. A delivery person. If khaki guy were a gun-toting villain, he wouldn’t have bothered to knock. She’d never get used to the way people here traipsed onto your porch like they were allowed on your property without an invitation, but that didn’t mean everyone meant you harm.

Not like where she’d grown up—not at all.

Which was exactly why she’d relocated to Shawnaville, North Carolina, in the first place.

Checking her clothing to make sure all the important ladybits were covered, she unchained and unbolted the door and swung it back. Pleasant afternoon sunlight streamed through the opening, warming her exposed arms and face.

“Can I help you?” she asked the man.

“Delivery for 802 Danube Street.” He tapped the clipboard. “Are you Rachele Waters?”

She peered past him to the medium-sized truck parked at the curb. Two other men busied themselves at the rear of the vehicle as if her delivery weren’t a small box or overnight envelope. She didn’t recognize the company name on the side of the truck—Summerland Express.

“I didn’t order anything,” she said automatically, although it was quite possible she had. She hated shopping— wearing clothes and shoes, going outside around all those strangers, in the stores, leaving her cats alone in the house when who knew what mischief they could get up to? The internet was her friend.

The man lifted his chin to look at her. The bored expression on his brown face didn’t flicker as he extended the clipboard and a large ink pen. “If you could just sign at the X?”

“But what is it?” she asked.

“I just drive the truck, ma’am. I don’t know what’s in your parcel.”

Bemused, Rachele accepted the paperwork. She glanced over the tiny print. Everything looked standard. The sender appeared to be an internet retailer she often accessed. Huh. Was it time for more cat food? Craft supplies for her online business? Oh, maybe it was that new yoga mat.

What a nice surprise. She loved presents.

Balancing the clipboard in one hand, she scribbled her name awkwardly with the pen. It was slick and unusually heavy, as if weighted inside. The pen slipped out of her grasp as she was writing the last letter. The sharp clip pricked her finger like a cat’s claw.

“Ouch!” A tiny bit of blood dripped on the signature line. Embarrassed, Rachele snatched her hand behind her back. “Sorry. I got a smudge on your paper.”

For a former...well, for a person whose employment used to involve slinking around and eavesdropping, she was so clumsy sometimes.

The delivery guy shrugged and handed her the customer copy. “As long as we get the signature.”

The two other guys pushed and tugged a large carton out of the back of the truck--a brown box about as tall as they were and almost as wide. They hoisted it between them easily—apparently it wasn’t too heavy—and toted it across her yard. Large arrows on the sides indicated “this end up”.

What in the miaow was that? Not a yoga mat, that was for sure. The box they supported could hold a refrigerator and a half.

“Do you need us to bring it inside, ma’am?” one asked.

“No.” She didn’t know what it was. No way was it coming in her house. “Just leave it there.”

They looked at each other as if she was dim-witted, set the box down near her stepping stone pathway, and returned to the truck.

The guy with the clipboard tipped his cap at her. “Have a nice day, Ms. Waters.”

She waited until the men drove off to fetch a box cutter, slip on her hated shoes, and head out to the yard to inspect her new possession. While she didn’t want it inside until she could figure out what it was, that didn’t mean she wasn’t dying of curiosity.

It wasn’t a fatal flaw...considering she was still alive...so why curb it when so many fascinating things awaited discovery?

Her name was clearly marked on the box, as was her address. Nothing was misspelled. Didn’t seem like a mistake. Hm, was it that new predictive delivery she kept hearing about?

She gave the box an experimental shove. It moved half an inch through the close-cropped grass. Probably too heavy for her to carry by herself, but she had several nice neighbors. Next she shook it.

Something inside, something large, thunked against the cardboard.

Rachele jumped back, box cutter held low. The better to slash with.

When the contents of the box didn’t thunk again, she straightened, smoothed her long, black hair, and casually glanced around to see if anyone had noticed her freak out over a box.

“Mrow!” Shona, her long-haired, grey tabby, minced through the flower bed. Her tail waved like a plume behind her. She was not accompanied by the jaunty jingle of a bell.

Well, turd buckets.

“Where have you left your collar this time, puss?” Rachele knelt and buried her fingers in the cat’s warm fur. Four collars, just this month. She didn’t want to keep the cats locked inside, but roaming the streets could be dangerous for critters. Even these streets. The least Shona could do was leave her collar on.

The cat rolled onto her back, purring. Guests to her home had been certain Shona was a Maine Coon, but she wasn’t. She was as mixed-breed as all of Rachele’s cats.

They were her kitties. Her charges. Her babies. She might be a bit of a crazy cat lady, but what did she care?

It was better than what she had been. Before.

In fact, everything was better than it had been before except Jacques, but he would never be okay again.

Never mind that. Never, ever mind that.

“Let’s see what’s inside.” Giving Shona one last pat, Rachele pushed thoughts of the past aside and felt around the edges of the parcel, looking for seams and tape. If Gene was her destructo kitty and Shona was her gorgeous wanderer, Luiken was her box lover. This box, however, was a touch larger than the shoe and paper boxes he favored.

She stuck the box cutter into the crack along the side of the box and sliced downward. Cardboard and glue parted ways with a long, dry rip that sent shivers up Rachele’s spine. Ack! It was nearly as bad as daggers on a chalkboard. She continued along the bottom, stood, and sliced along the top.

The front of the box eased open like a door. Inside the parcel was something she had definitely not ordered for herself.

A person-high wardrobe with a single door rested inside the box, no Styrofoam cushioning. Well, that didn’t seem like a very sensible packaging technique. The wardrobe was shaped oddly, almost triangular, with a bottom as wide as the box and a top that came to a point. Intricate carvings covered the aged wood—vines, fairies, unicorns, and other mystical creatures. The door, like the wardrobe itself, had three sides.

She took a step back and frowned. Cocking her head to the side, she realized it wasn’t a triangle.

It was an upside down heart.

Graceful swoops at the bottom rested on the ground, giving the wardrobe more stability than one might assume an upside down heart would have. The doorknob was also a heart, iron filigree and very fancy.

It looked expensive. And old. Leaning forward, she gave it an experimental sniff. Beeswax mixed with spice and hints of pine, though the wood itself appeared to be oak. The combination reminded her of something, perhaps something from her past, but she couldn’t recall what.

Whatever it was, it made her sad. Since she had no more room in her life for “sad”, she shrugged it off and continued her inspection.

She ticked the door with a fingernail. Solid. Next she rapped on it. The hollow clunk seemed to verify it was empty.

How lovely. Who’d sent it to her? And why? It wasn’t her birthday, and nobody in her regular life knew when her birthday was. Just the cats, who didn’t really care, but they did enjoy the fact she served them ice cream on her special day.

As for the wardrobe, she could place it in her craft room and fill it with yarn and beads and more yarn. She grabbed the doorknob and pulled it open, eager to see if had shelving inside.

A loud crack, like lightning, resonated across the yard. Bright blue light blasted out of the door. Rachele yelped. Stumbled. Fell on her bottom. Shona hissed and scampered toward the house in a flash of bushy tail.

After a moment, the blue dimmed until there was just a phosphorescent glow around the door edges.

Cautiously, she inched toward the wardrobe and stuck out a toe. She nudged the bottom corner of the door until it swung open on creaky hinges.

A swirling, glimmering portal greeted her stunned gaze.

Hastily she slammed the door. It had no lock but stayed shut.

For now.

Well, dammit! Dammit to Frell and dammit some more. Who had sent her a dog-damned door to Faerie?

After all she’d done to get away from that place.

*

To be continued in the HEART-SHAPED BOX anthology!

---February 2014

Find out more about Jody Wallace!
 

The Silver Prison by Shona Husk

The Silver Prison

By Shona Husk

Free image from http://www.sxc.hu/ used according to the Image License Agreement.



It had taken him close to a century to track down the damn box. A century of stalking witches and making sure they didn’t trap him too. But now he was close he could almost smell the magic. He dragged his captive forward. She mumbled against the gag he’d shoved into her mouth, and while the rope cut into her wrists, the pain wouldn’t worry her for much longer.

The witch who was supposed to be guarding the box was out at her coven meeting. Her cat hissed at him, but when he hissed back, it skulked away to hide in the shadows. He didn’t need to turn on any lights to see where he was going. The box up was upstairs on the dressing table. Hidden in plain sight.

A stupid move, really, considering he knew what the silver box looked like and had been scrying for it for decades. Previous witches in charge of its safekeeping had kept it wrapped and in boxes, handing it over while masked so he never saw their faces. It was hard to track something when he didn’t have a clue about where it could be. But this witch either didn’t know what was inside or they’d made a box for him and this was a trap.

After stalking the witch in the real world, the astral and online, he was sure it was the former. She was less witch and more wanna-be.

The college girl he’d kidnapped struggled against him. He shoved her up the stairs and down the hallway to the bedroom. He paused in the doorway for a moment.

Perfect. Just as he’d seen in the bowl of blood, the box sat on the dressing table. The box was shielded from simpler scrying methods such as water and crystal balls. Did the witches really think that he wouldn’t stoop to using blood? He’d lost track of the number of people he’d almost killed to find the box.

The silver, heart-shaped box glinted in the moonlight. It was truly a beautiful prison. The woman kicked him in the shins in a futile attempt to get free. He grabbed her hair and growled, revealing his mouth full of fangs. Her angry mumbles became a smothered whimper. No doubt she’d never seen a demon in the flesh.

He ran his knuckles down her cheek and her eyes widened. He’d picked her because she was very pretty. She’d also been very willing to accept his offer of a lift home after a few drinks. He could be a perfect gentleman if he chose or lust incarnate.

When he pulled the knife from his pocket and flipped the blade, all color faded from her skin. She shook her head and her mumbles became more pleading. He couldn’t stand whiny women, but he needed her alive.

“Shut up and pick up the box.” He hoped it wasn’t booby-trapped. He didn’t want to have to find another woman.

The woman complied, her hands shaking. The silver heart box fitted in the palms of her cupped hands. For a moment he hesitated. It had been so long. The witches who’d made this prison had paid with their lives—he’d made sure of it.

“Open the lid.” He knew he wouldn’t be able to open it. It was warded against anything that wasn’t human. The witches who’d set the trap had been far more knowledgeable than the ones currently in charge.

The woman shook as she struggled to get the lid off. He almost considered cutting the rope binding her hands just to speed up the process. Then the silver lid popped off and fell on the floor with a muffled thunk.

Inside was a cloth poppet bound in a nest of spider’s silk. The white cotton cloth heart had been personalized with a piece of golden hair and stained with blood. It pulsed, making the web tremble. A black spider the size of a fingernail crawled from underneath and sat on the fabric.

He smiled. “Hello, lover. I’ve brought you a new body.”

---February 2014

Find out more about Shona Husk!

Heart-Shaped Box of Memories by Nicole Luiken

Heart-Shaped Box of Memories

By Nicole Luiken

Free image from http://www.sxc.hu/ used according to the Image License Agreement.

The first fan mail confused the heck out of Brooke.

Dear Brooke (I know I should probably call you Ms. Harper, but I feel like if we met we’d be friends):

I just wanted to thank you so much for sharing your Perfect Date with me. Valentine’s Day has been a low spot for me in recent years (I’m a widow). I picked your chocolate on a whim and it was so sweet! It brought tears (of joy!) to my eyes and has buoyed my sagging belief in True Love.

Wishing you and Jon many years of happiness,
Trudy Dorrheimer

Brooke wrinkled up her nose. She couldn’t remember ever being in a movie called Perfect Date or even a Valentine’s movie of any sort. Ms. Dorrheimer must have confused her with someone else. She deleted the message.

The next day there were nine more, all in a similar theme, thanking her and congratulating her on finding True Love. The next day there were 600.

Brooke stormed into her agent’s office, waving a handful of print-outs. “Avery, what is this? Did you sell some subsidiary rights I’m not aware of?”

He barely glanced at the papers. “Brooke, darling, perfect timing! I just got a call. Paramount wants to make a romance starring you. The script is still in development, but they’re very excited about it.”

Her jaw dropped open. All thoughts of the weird emails flew from her head. She’d had a few lead roles before—seven years ago, to be truthful—but those had been hard-fought auditions. Apparently, she was more girl-next-door than Steamy Seductress. She’d never been courted before.

“That’s—that’s fabulous. Tell me more.”

“It’s called Perfect Date, and they’re trying to get Jake Gyllenhal as the male lead.”

Her euphoria crashed to a halt. “Perfect Date?” That was the name mentioned in the weird emails.
“Avery, stop. Something strange is going on. Do you know anything about this?” She handed him the print-outs.

He rolled his eyes in impatience, skim read one, then stopped and read three more with a more serious expression. “I don’t know what this is. It sounds like someone has infringed on your rights. I will look into this—but Brooke, regardless, the Paramount offer could be your big break.”

Brooke nodded, but worry tainted her earlier happiness.

*

At their next meeting, Avery was missing his normally jovial smile, his mouth set in a thin line. He shoved a heart-shaped box across the table. “It’s being marketed like a box of chocolates, but it’s actually downloadable memories. Yours is Perfect Date Caramel. Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s actionable. It’s not your memory. Everything is seen from the point of view of your date.”

The bottom dropped out of her stomach. “Is there… nudity?”

He shook his head. “It’s just a date. A romantic one,” he added.

“Who?” she asked. Several of the emails had referred to Jon or John. While she knew a number of Johns and two Jonathans, one of whom was a close friend, she’d never dated any of them. How memorable could the date have been if she didn’t even remember the guy?

Avery shrugged. “The memories don’t have names credited to them, not even yours. I’m trying to get names from the company so we can sue, but we’re stalled in legal limbo. Your hair is caramel-tinted and short, the way you wore it in Flesh and Spirit. You need to view the memory, Brooke. Give me a name so we can sue his ass.” He pushed the heart-shaped box across the table at her.

With great reluctance she took it.

*

The memory chocolate gave Brooke severe indigestion.

She remembered that sweet red-and-white polka dot dress. She remembered getting slightly buzzed on wine, but more intoxicated on his attention. She remembered kicking off her white sandals and running hand in hand on the beach, though she had no idea she’d looked so starry-eyed. God help her, she’d thought she was sophisticated back then, but her emotions were written on her face. She’d been so in love with him. But his name wasn’t Jon or John, it was Conrad Whitten. Her co-star back in Flesh in Spirit.

And he’d turned out to be such a jerk. He’d slept with her that night and sneered at her in the morning. She remembered the pity in the cameraman’s eyes when she’d made a fool of herself on set by daring to act as if they were a couple.

After Conrad Whitten, she’d learned to guard her heart. She let friends in, dates not so much.

Her throat swelled with emotion, choking her. How dare he? How dare he stomp on her heart and then make a cheap profit off of it? She started to reach for the phone, then stilled. Conrad Whitten was pulling down millions a movie as an action hero. Why would he sell this?

She watched it a second time and spotted some discrepancies. Like she’d only danced a slow song with Conrad, not a fast one.

And then she remembered: it had been a double date. She’d gone with her friend Kerri, who turned out to not be a very good friend at all, sleeping with Conrad a week later. And Kerri’s date had been—

The phone rang. It was Avery. “Some interesting news. The Perfect Date Caramel has been withdrawn. Apparently the owner of the memory is also suing—though I still don’t have a name. He claims it was stolen from his private collection and that it’s a fantasy. Brooke, I know you’re upset about this, but as long as we have a disclaimer that it never happened, I’m not sure pulling it is the best move for us. This is generating a lot of publicity. If it fades, Paramount may not green light the movie project.”

Brooke wasn’t listening. “I’ll think about it, Avery. Good night.”

*

Brooke rang the doorbell of Jonathan’s condo. How many times had she come here bearing pizza for a movie marathon or script reading fest? How many times had she cried on his shoulder after a bad date? Kerri had turned out to be no friend, but Jonathan had become her best bud. He was sweet and funny and cute in a bookish way.

Jonathan opened the door, his expression wary. “Hi, Brooke. What’s up?” But he was a cameraman, not an actor, and she could see the panic behind his eyes.

She asked him flat out. “Jonathan, are you in love with me?” Her knees were shaking.

He didn’t lie. In fact his shoulders straightened like a burden had been lifted. “Yes. For years. I’m sorry—”

“Shut up.” She went up on tiptoe and kissed him until he stopped talking and kissed her back.

Fade to black.

Dear Trudy,

Thank you so much for your email. I’m glad the memory of our first date gave you joy, and I wanted to let you know that True Love is out there—even if sometimes it takes some of us a while to find it.

Best wishes,
Brooke and Jonathan

The End

---February 2014

Find out more about Nicole Luiken!
Free image from http://www.sxc.hu/ used according to the Image License Agreement.

Unmatched Cupid by RL Naquin

Unmatched Cupid

by R.L. Naquin

Ellen flounced into the office, rosy cheeked and self-satisfied. She hung her wings on the hook beneath her name and rang the bell next to the wipe-off board. The entire freaking office went wild with applause.

Except for me. Oh, I gave a polite clap, sure. But I didn’t bother to offer even a fake smile, and had she deigned to look my way, she’d have seen the poison darts I was pretending to shoot at her out of my eyeballs.

Because Ellen was obnoxiously petite, the boss-lady had set up a stepstool for her. I watched barely five feet of bubbling cuteness climb the step to draw another tick mark beneath her name on the board. She flashed a grin over her shoulder at the rest of the room, then added two more ticks.

The room erupted again. She smoothed her little pink-and-white cardigan, then hopped down.

I stared at my computer screen in despair. I wasn’t cut out for this. Every match I tried to make blew up in my face. I was the worst matchmaker in the Cupid department. And if I didn’t make a match soon, I’d be demoted and transferred to somewhere far worse.

Honestly, I wouldn’t have taken the job if I’d had any other choice. There were only two ways into the Mount Olympus Employment Agency: you could be sponsored and brought in by a blood-related god—like Ellen had—or you could have unknown god blood somewhere in your heritage and hit rock bottom.

That was how I got there. Apparently, I was related to some minor god, and when I found myself homeless, unemployed and alone—boom. Some bum I’d never met before grabbed me and dragged me into an abandoned building. Except the building was different inside—huge, clean, and filled with people. Not sure which was more terrifying, abduction by a bum or the magic office, complete with gorgon receptionist.

I suppose I could have run, but I didn’t have much choice. I had nowhere else to go. I didn’t get to choose my new profession, either. They made me a cupid. And I sucked mightily at it.

I pushed my sweaty bangs away from my eyes and focused on the screen. It was no use. I’d been trying to fill the grid for so long, I’d lost track of where I’d started. Better to start from scratch. Tapping the reset button, I watched the sixteen portraits of lonely men and women shuffle like cards and spread themselves to the edges of my screen. The grid in the middle emptied its rows and columns for me to refill.

The Fates department had determined through whatever weird methods they used down there that several of these people were meant for each other. They did not, however, say which ones. Those of us working in the Cupid department were left with these gaping Sudoku grids that we had to sort through and attempt to place the right couples together in the right squares.

I squinted at the profiles beneath the photos. Derrick of the smoldering eyes was a dentist. I dragged his picture to the upper-left square. Felicia, a redhead with a lovely smile, was a veterinarian. I dropped her next to him. Hey, she obviously had good dental hygiene, a fact I was certain would appeal to Derrick. To her right, based entirely on her job as a veterinarian, I placed Stan, a blonde surfer with a golden retriever. But the grid line between the two blinked red.

No good. I took a closer look. Okay. So, Stan was gay. I tried placing him underneath Derrick's picture. The screen remained steady.

“Interesting.” I tapped the screen with a chewed fingernail. “Dr. Derrick goes either way, don’t you, buddy?”

Except that I could see absolutely nothing compatible between Stan and Derrick other than the fact that they both enjoyed the company of men. I sighed and dragged Stan to the bottom left corner of the grid for holding.

The Fates department probably thought this entire process was hilarious.

Stephanie, a stockbroker, was originally from a small town in Alabama—a much more likely match for Derrick, who came from a different small town in Alabama. I placed her picture where Stan’s had been, directly beneath Derrick.

The key now was finding another match that might fit beneath the veterinarian and to the right of the stockbroker.

This was always the part that hung me up. Whenever I made it this far, I panicked. How could two different men be possible matches for the same two women?

I scanned the other twelve faces staring at me from the screen. Ah. Dave. Long hair tied in a ponytail. Charming grin. No job. Dave was an artist who made beaded jewelry and sold it to tourists on the boardwalk for cash, then couch surfed for a place to sleep.

Dave was a project. Two successful woman. One handsome freeloader. I dropped Dave’s photo next to Stephanie and beneath Felicia.

I groaned. Putting Dave in a middle spot instead of on an edge meant I would have to find four women who were potential love matches for him. I really didn’t want to give this lowlife that many shots at love. Where was the justice in that? Smoldering-eyed Derrick with an education, a career, and an open mind only got two possible mates.

Maybe it was the right answer, but I wasn’t going to be responsible for it. I hit reset. If I started over with someone else in the corner—Deadbeat Dave, for instance—I’d get a better idea of where everyone was supposed to go.

Gods, I sucked at this.

Two hours later I had a reasonable grid setup that I thought was, if not right, at least partially right. The next step would be fieldwork. As much as I hated setting the grid, donning the Cupid wings and running around town invisible to meddle in people’s lives was worse.

I was worse.

On one assignment, I’d helpfully tipped over a man’s coffee on a woman because I had the vague idea that this was what in the movies they called a “meet-cute.” Her hand was badly scalded, which meant she was unable to make the flute audition for the Miami Symphony Orchestra. She lost her dream job, then sued the pants off of the guy who’d spilled his coffee on her. He lost his construction business and moved back to his parents’ house in Missouri.

Not a meet-cute.

In the seven months I’d been in the Cupid department, I’d made three successful matches. Two of them were during training, so I’d had help. I was on very thin ice.

I glanced up at my assigned wings hanging on a hook next to Ellen’s. Her cutesy giggles drifted across the office and over the wall of my cubicle. Ellen was cut out for this. Ellen had an instinct. Ellen was freaking adorable.

As I rose to make my reluctant way to grab my wings off their hook, I backed my chair into something solid. When I turned, I found the mail guy pushing his cart right behind me.

“Oh, sorry, Rudy. I didn’t realize you were there.”

He grinned. “My fault, Dory.” He reached into his bag. “Got a package for you.”

Rudy handed me a red velvet box, no bigger than a grapefruit and shaped like a heart.

I frowned. “Who’s it from?”

Rudy shrugged. “No idea. I just make the deliveries.” He skipped away, every few steps lifting off the floor with the aid of his winged sandals.

I dropped back into my chair and stared at the box. It was beautiful in its simplicity—the dark red almost a burgundy. The point on the bottom was rounded, giving the heart a more friendly feeling, like a bubble or a twelve-year-old girl’s dots above her letters.

The velvet was smooth and luxurious against my fingertips as I lifted the lid. I had no idea what to expect.

Candy. Jewelry. Someone else’s present delivered to me by mistake. Even a dead mouse. Any of those things could have been in the box and barely fazed me. What was really in there shocked the hell out of me.

At first, I thought the box was empty. A light flashed from its inky depths, and I dropped the damn thing on my desk. Lavender smoke puffed out, laced with sparkles and the smell of roses.

The smoke cleared and a moving image of the boss-lady smiled up at me. “Please see me in my office, Miss Anderson. And bring your wings with you.” The face dissolved.

Boss-lady hadn’t been to the Miami branch in months. I shivered. This was probably a very bad thing. I’d once heard of a woman in the Muse department who couldn’t complete her artist quota. They’d demoted her to Hades and made her a poop scooper for the three-headed dog, Cerberus.

I moved to the wall and unhooked my wings. They seemed so light in my hands for being so large. If I slipped them on, I’d be invisible once I left the building. I shook my head. There was nowhere to hide. They’d find me eventually.

And maybe scooping dog poop the size of a bowling ball would turn out to be my calling. Cupid sure wasn’t it.

I knocked on the office door and waited for the sensual voice of my boss to invite me in. The door opened on its own.

When you’re in the presence of a goddess, it’s difficult to figure out where to look. This particular goddess was an even bigger problem.

Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty, adorned the pink, frilly office like a centerpiece at a wedding reception. She was breathtaking, smelled like a botanical garden after a spring rain, and sounded like a purring kitten. She was also practically naked by current cultural standards. The frothy bit of fabric she had draped over her hid nothing.

“How wonderful to see you, Miss Anderson. Please. Set your wings on the table next to you and have a seat.”

I did what I was told, swallowing a lump in my throat and keeping my gaze on her pink marble desk. Disappointing a goddess—especially this goddess—was the most embarrassing and shameful thing I’d ever done. It was worse than the time I’d tucked the back of my skirt into my pantyhose on a dinner date with a chiropractor named Chip. The maître d’ stopped me, but not before I’d marched clear across Andre’s waving my baggy white granny panties at everyone in the dining room.

Yet this was worse.

Aphrodite stared at me until I met the gaze of her lavender eyes. She cleared her throat, and it sounded like a choir of harmonizing lilies. “As you know, Dory, your success rate has been…unfortunate.”

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” In comparison, my voice was a hoarse, unlovely whisper.

“Oh, now. It’s not a tragedy. No one’s going to chain you to a rock and let a vulture eat your liver over and over.” She laughed and it sounded like adorable white mice ringing miniature golden bells in their tiny paws.

She clapped her hands and the door opened again. I twisted in my chair for a better view. In strode a tallish man with brown hair and large brown eyes behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose and cleared his throat.

“Dory, I’d like you to meet Ben.”

He nodded at me and smiled. “Hi, Dory.”

I didn’t say anything. My jaw felt frozen shut.

Aphrodite rose and handed a file with my name on it to Ben. “Ben will be taking you to your new assignment.” I vaguely heard her speaking behind me, but nothing she said seemed to matter. Something about Hercules being my new supervisor and cleaning Augean stables or something.

I lifted my hand to acknowledge her. “Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”

Ben’s eyes sparkled like a disco ball at a skating rink. He smiled and brushed my bangs from my face. “Shall we go?”

I nodded. My heart thudded in my chest, and my stomach danced the Macarena.

We walked through the office, and behind me I heard Aphrodite’s voice again. “Well, done, Ellen. Ben was a perfect choice.”

“What do you say we try to get you a better assignment?” Ben took my hand. “Do you believe in Fate?”

I smiled up at him, and the warmth of his gaze spread over me like a soft fur. “They’re two floors down, right?”

Behind us, someone rang the matchmaker bell, long and loud, and the office went wild.

--February 2014

Find out more about RL Naquin! http://www.rlnaquin.com/

Win-A-Book Wednesday with PG Forte!

PG FORTE

PG Forte inhabits a world only slightly less strange than the ones she creates. Filled with serendipity, coincidence, love at first sight and dreams come true. It also bears a sometimes uncanny resemblance to Berkeley, California.

She wrote her first serialized story when she was still in her teens. The sexy, ongoing adventure tales were very popular at the all girls, Catholic High School she attended, where they helped to liven up otherwise dull classes—even if her teachers didn’t quite see it that way.

Originally a Jersey girl, PG now resides with her family on the extreme left coast where she writes in a number of genres, including paranormal, steampunk, futuristic and erotic contemporary. 

Home is where the heart bleeds.

Children of Night, Book 3

Growing up, vampire-born twins Julie and Marc Fischer were taught one simple fact of life: you can choose your food, but not your family. Six months after moving to San Francisco, though, the new challenges and choices each are facing are a Gordian knot of complicated.

Marc must decide whether to stay with Conrad and Damian, the only family he’s ever known, or embrace his destiny and the unexpected family—the ferals—that comes along with it. Meanwhile, Julie is forced to deal with the unpleasant realization that the man she loves isn’t necessarily the man who’s best for her.

For Conrad and Damian, the holiday season is stirring up bittersweet memories, and neither can keep from revisiting past passion and pain.

Faced with new mysteries to solve, new alliances to forge, new secrets to keep, and old relationships to rebuild, it’s no wonder the Fischer-Quintano vampires long for the good old days—when food was food and family was all that mattered. 

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Product Warnings

If you’ve previously suffered from Disco Fever, this book could precipitate a relapse. Extreme care is recommended for anyone with a pronounced weakness for mistletoe, fang play, pretty young men of either species or extremely dangerous alpha-male vampire single dads. May contain trace amounts of polyester. 

RT Book Reviews gave Now Comes the Night 4 stars

"Damian and Conrad truly have an original and unconventional love story that will entertain as well as romance you. Their fledgling parenting attempts are charming and totally endearing, and their occasionally tumultuous love affair will keep readers wondering what is around each new corner."

Now Comes the Night is the third book in the Children of Night series, but this book (and the one following it, Ashes of the Day) are where we finally get a glimpse of what "growing up Vampire" meant for twins Marc and Julie Fischer. It was a lot of fun to write!

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Weird Science

I loved the television show Fringe, a series about…how to sum it up? It’s about a scientist who invents crazy stuff, realizes the error of his ways, removes part of his brain and then after discovering that he’s broken both his universe and a parallel universe, attempts to put everything back together again. 

It’s great because it explores that point where science and the supernatural meet which has always been a particular fascination of mine. It's the same sort of thing that attracted me to the X Files. Whenever a link to a weird science story crosses my path, I have to click on it. A few years ago, I clicked on a link to a freaky science story about behavior altering parasites, and the idea that there are parasites out there that can take over their host's nervous system captured my imagination.

Behavior altering parasites trigger a bio-chemical reaction inside their host that changes the host’s behavior in some way that’s beneficial to the reproduction of the parasite. You can read more about that here or here. There are wasps who force their host spiders to create special webs for them to hang their cocoons. Barnacles that force crabs to play nursemaid to their eggs. A hairworm that forces its grasshopper host to commit suicide. It's cool and kind of gross and very, very interesting.

And, of course, I thought...what if something similar could happen to humans? That idea helped to inspire my new book, REAPER'S TOUCH, specifically the idea of the Reapers themselves. The parasites in REAPER'S TOUCH turn perfectly normal human beings into violently aggressive, cannibalistic and practically immortal creatures whose main desire in life is to infect other humans by biting them. Set those monsters loose in 19th century America and you have Wild West meets Bio-Plague Apocalypse.

Have you ever been fascinated by a weird science story that’s stuck with you?

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Eleri Stone was born and raised in New Jersey. She graduated from the University of Iowa, married her college sweetheart, and settled in the Midwest where she still lives with her husband and their three children. A lifelong fan of fantasy, she started reading romance as an adult and was instantly captivated by the strong female protagonists and character-driven storylines. All of her stories have some element of speculative fiction and they all end with a happy-ever-after.

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