Realms of the Raven - Erotic Romance Author Maura Anderson

A migraine about floored me so it’s late again. I keep swearing I’ll get a week ahead so I don’t have to be late, but that obviously hasn’t happened yet.

(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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No Average Cat
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson

Che’tal paced, unable to take more than a few steps in any one direction before hitting the force walls that made up the boundary of her cage. She snarled at the thought of being caged. She was not an animal and certainly not a pet.

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Late again, but here it is! I refuse to actually miss a week and haven’t so far. Just been late a bunch lately.

This is the start of my 2nd story in the Hot Comforts Anthology, to be published by ManLove Romance Press in Fall 2008. The other story I’ll have in that anthology is Giving Thanks.

(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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Bittersweet
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson

Brand tucked the last dark chocolate box into the cardboard delivery box. He tapped the lids of the four delivery boxes down and set them carefully on the long table behind the retail counters. Done at last.

Shirley lifted one pierced eyebrow and crossed her arms. The strict schoolmarm chastising look might have been a bit more effective on someone older and less…colorful. Instead he had to fight the urge to break out into laughter as he walked back to get the clipboard with all the order information for her.

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Late again, but here it is!

Blame Laura Baumbach (again) - she gave me this idea too. But this is part of the first story in a series for ManLove Romance Press. Meet Simon and Mika :)

(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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Hidden Depths: Secret Graves
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson

Damn, he was too keyed up to sleep. Again.

Simon twisted his stiff body, the kinks from three hours of holding position making him feel every day of his thirty-four years. It was a good day, though—the hostages were safe. Mission accomplished.

A small part of him wished the suspect hadn’t committed suicide. That cowardly final act cheated his victims out of the kind of closure that might help heal them but it also meant Simon hadn’t been called on to dispense justice with a single bullet. Justice it was too late to mete out on his own behalf.

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Kitty is all better, thank you for asking everyone. The EDJ was having crises so I’m late (again) but here’s this week’s offering.

Blame Laura Baumbach.

(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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Small Town Vet
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson

“A llama?” Sam slowed his truck then turned off the payment onto the private road. He shook his head at the idea of a llama in Bondsville, Wyoming.

Phil Marting had bought the old Miller place last winter, including the few remaining sheep, but no one heard much from him. He kept to himself and was rarely seen in town. Sam was one of the few that seemed to interact with the retired entrepreneur regularly, being called in to treat one or the other of the man’s menagerie of rescued animals.

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Sorry for the delay - it’s been a heck of a week. Keep your fingers crossed for my kitty to recover.

(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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Leather, Lace and Leaves
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson

There had to be one hell of a joke playing out and Sabine not only didn’t get it, she seemed to be the butt of it.

It was almost too much to take in. The shop’s windows were swathed in what appeared to be a cross between a late Victorian bordello, a funeral parlor and a BDSM club. Heavy burgundy swags, complete with pom-poms dangling every inch, were offset by black lace sheers with studded leather tie-backs. The entire backdrop seemed to come from another universe than the delicate tea cups and saucers arranged on the leather-lined window display shelf.

Leather, Lace and Leaves.

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(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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Giving Thanks
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved

Troy was sprawled face down across Derek’s side of the bed. The chocolate brown sheets were wrapped around his hips, just high enough to ruin Derek’s view of his gorgeous, tight ass. As Derek stood there, Troy mumbled something then turned onto his side. A long arm reached out and drug Derek’s pillow to his chest, only to wrap his arms around it with a muttered “Love you”.

A huge lump filled his throat. He loved Troy so much. Hell, he’d fallen for the black-haired, blue-eyed devil on their second date. Head-over-heels irrevocably in love. How had he let his family’s feelings take precedence over Troy’s for so long?

Deep-rooted anger flared in his chest again. How dare his father demean Troy? Even if he’d thought Troy was just his long-term roommate. Then to just write him off because he didn’t approve of his sexual orientation? What the hell part of “love” did his father not understand? Could his father have just walked away from his mother?

Being “out” to his family was something he’d have to get used to. A small sense of relief was replacing what had been an ever-present fear of discovery. But now he was afraid that he’d lost the rest his family. He had no control over their reactions and whether they could accept the fact he was gay or not. No control over whether his father’s reaction would be echoed by his siblings and mother.

At least he no longer had to pretend. No more hiding. No more trying to remember to not touch Troy with his family around. That was a little piece of freedom he would savor. And no more hurting Troy with his cowardice. Troy had always respected his wishes and hidden their relationship but Derek knew it had seemed like he’d chosen his family over his lover. That would no longer be an issue.

Whether he had a job anymore was another matter entirely. Derek pushed that thought away. Plenty of time to worry about that later.

He focused his attention back on the sexy man taking up most of their king-size bed. The man he wanted to touch, to taste, to savor.

Just imagining the smell of Troy’s skin, the taste of his cum, the sounds he made gave Derek a raging hard-on. With a quiet groan, he stripped off his work clothes and freed his aching cock from his suddenly far-too-restrictive boxer-briefs. By sheer force of will he didn’t touch himself. He didn’t want a self-administered hand job, he wanted Troy.

A quick shower got the lingering smells of onion and garlic off his skin. Soaping up his body only made him ache all the more.

Drying himself was worse; it felt like his skin was twice as sensitive as normal. The scrape of his razor across his late-night stubble sent chills down his spine and straight to his cock.

Finally ready, he eased into bed behind Troy and nudged him back over to his own side of the bed. With a moan and mumble he couldn’t understand, his lover released the pillow and rolled onto his back.

Ah, how convenient.

(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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Life Lines
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved

“Do you ever date anymore?” Kyle’s voice sounded much too carefully casual for Alex’s taste.

“I’ll date when I find someone I want to spend time with.” Alex pulled a couple of Corona’s from the fridge, wiping them dry and popping their caps off before taking a long pull from one of them. A deep breath braced him a little, then he turned to set the second bottle on the counter in front of Kyle. Only sheer force of will kept him from blurting out a lot more than he wanted the other man to know, even if there was a hope of Kyle being able to cope with the knowledge.

Bright blue eyes glanced up from below the shaggy ash-blonde bangs, the natural curl making it look like he never combed his hair. Kyle trailed his long fingers up and down the cold beer bottle, caressing the glass like it was a lover’s skin.

Alex stepped behind the counter, hoping to hide before Kyle noticed the hard-on that ridged the front of his jeans. He’d hidden his lust for Kyle for over a year now and he didn’t want to scare the younger man away at this point.

With a heavy sigh, Kyle took a sip of his own beer, then sat it back on the counter and proceeded to pick at the edges of the label. “But you used to date, or at least have play dates. The other boys talked a lot about you.”

Lightning seemed to hit Alex in the chest. He missed having a boy but only wanted one anymore. One that was off limits forever. But what a boy he would be…

Kyle stopped picking at the paper label long enough to tug his shirt cuffs down to the top of his hands. That gesture had become a frequent one over the last few months, so much so that Kyle no longer seemed aware of doing it. The more uncomfortable he was, the more often he seemed to do it.

“I’ve just not been in the mood for play.” Alex chugged the last of his beer, hoping to cool the fire in his balls. The mere thought of Kyle’s tall body in nothing but leather cuffs and boots made his dick hard as a rock. The mental image of his friend writhing under him, reveling in the sensations Alex could lavish upon him, nearly made him come.

But it wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen.

Alex set his half-empty beer bottle down and took his time pulling the hair tie from his ponytail, then smoothing the escaping red strands back from his face and retying it. It bought him the time needed to get his lust back under control.

Kyle took a long swig of his drink, then a deep breath. “I’m glad you’re my friend, Alex.”

He peeled the rest of the label completely off the beer bottle, then stuck it back on upside down. Smoothing it, he opened his mouth as if to say something, only to close it again.

Worry made Alex frown. Had he scared Kyle somehow? It had only been a year since Kyle’s boyfriend had gotten high on drugs and attacked him. Alex searched his memory but he’d been careful, painfully careful, to always keep their relationship that of non-threatening friendship so Kyle could heal.

After another false start, Kyle finally managed to squeak out some words. “Have I ruined your sex life, Alex?”

He couldn’t think for a moment, frozen in place by the blunt question. “What? How the hell could you ruin anything?”

Kyle played with his shirt cuffs again, tugging and straightening them. “You’re a Top but you never date, you never play, you don’t even go out to parties. I know you’re doing it for me, but I don’t want you to have a permanent case of blue balls for my sake.”

Alex gaped at him.

A sad smile curved Kyle’s lips. He lifted the beer to his lips again and his sleeves slipped back. The thick white scars on his wrist made Alex’s heart ache.

(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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Mirror, Mirror
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved

She blinked her eyes, reaching up to rub the grittiness of sleep from them. Finally able to see clearly, she stared into the old oval mirror, trying to force away the swirls of magic that flowed through the glass like tendrils of fog twirling in eddies and wakes. The unseen currents of power made visible.

Oh so slowly, shapes began to form in the chaos. Areas of darkness and light separated into vague forms.

She trailed her fingers along the gilded edge of the mirror’s frame and willed the image to appear. What secrets would the mirror show her this time? What faces would she see?

Color seeped into the miasma, first pale and pastel but then enriching and darkening until she realized she was looking at the back of a woman’s head with dark, curly chestnut hair pulled into an elaborate braid and entwined with sprigs of violets and baby’s breath. The mirror cleared until she could see the woman bend over, almost disappearing from view before she sat back up, shoulders hunched in a semblance of defeat. Suddenly, the woman threw what appeared to be a fancy white shoe toward the far wall.

She nearly flinched back herself with a hiss of shock. What the hell was going on? She’d never seen anything like this in the mirror before. “What’s happening?” The question was purely rhetorical, she’d long ago given up hope of any real answer. Staring as if transfixed, she smoothed her hair back from her face.

The woman in the image threw her shoulders back and stood. Now it was clear she was wearing a slender, simple white dress. She reached her arms awkwardly behind her back and fumbled for the tiny zipper. A few fumbles and she managed to get enough of a grip on it to pull it down, revealing lacy, delicate underthings.

But instead of treating what must be a wedding dress with the loving care she expected, the brown-haired woman let it drop down her body and stepped back a little before giving it what looked like a vicious kick. Just a flutter of what looked to be expensive material could be seen at the edge of the mirror before the woman turned and threw herself down onto a seat—facing the mirror at last.

The face was similar to her own – the same green eyes and slightly hooked nose—maybe she was another relative of some sort. The mirror tended to show blood relatives. The other woman’s full lips were pursed and made her look tense and unhappy and her lashes were clumped with tears, the remains of mascara staining her eyelids.

The other woman pushed her hair back with no regard for the flowers or careful pinning of her curls, dislodging some of the violets and baby’s breath. A tear traced down her cheek as she stared at her left hand, rotating the large star sapphire ring on her ring finger. Finally the sad woman worked the ring off her hand and tossed it onto the vanity, out of the mirror’s view.

“Oh, what happened?” She couldn’t stop her question. Sympathy flooded through her. “Been there, done that. You’ll be better off without him if he betrayed you!” So what if the woman in the mirror couldn’t actually hear her.

The other woman looked up and seemed to meet her eyes directly. As if they had a connection. What was going on?

The woman in the mirror looked puzzled, then shrugged and reached her hand out, flipping the mirror over to face the wall. Its focus gone, the mirror clouded over with fog again, until the surface was an even grey and she was trapped within it again, sightless and alone.

(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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Eyes of Jade
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved

Gearóid’s eyes flew open as his body convulsed, sucking in a panicked breath. The blue sky directly above him seemed painfully bright in contrast to the dense border of tree branches at the edge of his vision. He panted, disoriented and strangely out of breath. Where was he? What was going on?

He sat up abruptly and nearly fell back again when dizziness made his head swim. Heart racing with the possibility of danger, Gearóid struggled to gain control of his body. Eyes closed again, he took a few more deep breaths of air that was strangely devoid of the copper scent of the blood spilled during the battle before his dizziness subsided. The only sounds he heard were chirping birds and a few deep-voiced frogs.

He cracked his eyes open again, slowly. Thankfully the world seemed much more stable than just a few moments ago. He looked around in amazement. The clearing, surrounded by thick, old trees, had a lush layer of fallen leaves and needles on the ground. Ferns grew in abundance, mixed with other plants he didn’t recognize. Despite the light breeze that intermittently brushed over his skin, the air felt heavy with the smells of damp earth and musty, decomposing vegetation.
His bare skin.

On his feet in a leap, he was only more puzzled. His body seemed somehow heavier, alien, almost as if it were not his body at all. The difference made him unsteady for a moment, a rare occurrence since he’d begun his warrior training.

A glance down proved he was indeed naked and, though the body he saw was similar to his in shape and size, it was not what it should be. Metallic copper glimmered where his pale Sidhe skin had once been. His nipples were a dark bronze color and what little body hair he’d had was now gone as if it never existed.

In disbelief, he ran a hand over his abdomen. He could feel his fingers sliding over his skin but his belly and chest were smoother than he remembered and the scars left from the many battles he’d survived were gone as if they’d never been. Even his hand was smooth, the calluses from years of weapons practice had disappeared.

Battle? The memories flooded back in a rush. The horror of seeing Ailin fall. The vain attempt to save his best friend. Then the pain of the Milesian lance piercing through his back and emerging from his chest. He remembered dropping slowly to the ground, the sounds of battle and clashing weapons dimming as his spirit faded from the world.

Maybe this was merely a dream, a momentary awareness in the Cauldron of Rebirth? Even a foreshadowing of a possible future? He’d never heard of such a thing but he was a warrior, not a priest.

Gearóid turned, examining every part of the clearing he found himself in. No danger was apparent but it nothing was at all familiar to him. The trees, the bushes, even the small animal he glimpsed were nothing he’d seen before. It certainly wasn’t the battleground he’d died on.

The chilly breeze kicked up again and a dark shadow appeared at the edge of his vision. He jerked away and spun unsteadily, only to find he’d been startled by his own hair. Now a shiny onyx black instead of its previous pale blonde, it was still so long as to brush his ass when unbound – as it now was. His one vanity, as Ailin was always quick to point out.

His hands flew to his face and traced the features there. The scar down one cheek from his brash challenge to one of his trainers was gone. Like his body, the skin of his face seemed a bit smoother but his features were familiar at least. His ears were still gracefully pointed but the left one was now pierced through the lobe with what felt to be a metal ring. Something dangled from it but he couldn’t tell what, only that it felt long and tapered.

The sudden sound of wings beating directly overhead gave him scant warning before a large raven landed gracefully on a thick tree stump before him. The ebon bird stared steadily at him for a moment, head cocked slightly to one side. Just as he began to worry about the intelligence he saw behind the bird’s black eyes, it shimmered and grew until another form emerged.

(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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Patterns
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved

The lightning struck and flowed over her skin in intricate patterns of blue and white, leaving behind the smell of singed flesh and the marks of its passing. Pain struck, a fierce, sudden agony that stole her breath. The fire of torment crawled back up her body and she found the breath to scream only when the inferno consumed her.

Sandra’s eyes snapped open as she jerked bolt upright. Heart thundering in her chest, she glanced around the darkened room. Her own bedroom. Her own bed.

What the hell was going on? She’d not had this many nightmares since she was a teenager and now it kept being the same damned dream. Why was that? It wasn’t from any movie or book she remembered. She didn’t feel stressed or upset. If anything, her life was terrific – a challenging new job with a new home in the beautiful Pacific Northwest. She’d worked for years to get to this point, dammit.

Sandra fingers ached and she forced herself to release her death grip on the satiny cotton sheets. Hands shaking slightly, she rubbed her face and gritty eyes. Now she was awake—too damned awake for the middle of the night.

It seemed to take a monumental effort to climb out of bed and grab her robe off the back of the bedroom door. Snuggled in the warm, soft fabric, she wrapped her arms around herself, shivering slightly despite the unseasonable warmth of the rainy night. “Feels more like Florida than Oregon.”

She laughed. Now she was talking to herself. Maybe there was more of her eccentric grandmother in her than she’d admit to.

Sandra flinched when a sudden flash of lightning lit the room like full daylight. The rain picked up, sounding like a monsoon outside the little a-frame house, pounding on the roof and windows unceasingly. Kaboom! The thunder rattled the entire house.

At least it seemed several miles away, if the old wives’ tale her grandmother had taught her was correct. One mile per second of delay, wasn’t it? That lighting had to be at least five miles away.

Another bright flash and her eyes ached from the sudden light, afterimages glowing before her. Focusing on counting the seconds, she counted only four seconds this time.

Sandra reached a hand up to rub away the lingering effects of the bright lightning and caught sight of her hand.

What the hell was on her hand?

Swirls and lines, interspersed with symbols of some sort, covered the palm of her right hand in a shimmering, opalescent blue. They slowly faded away as her eyes re-adjusted to the light spilling dimly from the open door of her bedroom.

It had to be her imagination. She looked closely and couldn’t see anything on her skin. “Man, I’m so tired I’m hallucinating.” She forced out a quiet chuckle but her stomach clenched in fear anyway.

Staring at her hand, Sandra waited for another bolt of lightning to strike. She was just too tried, nothing was there.

The sky lit up and she stared at her arm. Holy shit. Not just her hand but her entire arm was covered in the glowing, intricate patterns.