Flash fiction really translates to very short, sometimes extremely short stories. There is no hard and fast rule but they can range from 100 to 2000 words. I use flash fiction to try out ideas or even to give myself a break from the actual book I’m working on without having to put it down entirely. Almost like an author’s coffee break. They may become their own stories at some future date.
The Gift (100 words)
Solstice Changes (100 words)
Dragon Born (100 words)
Fire Dragon (750 words)
Night Born (750 words)
The Binding Tree (728 words)
Not a Fairy (748 words)
Frostbite (728 words)
Stasis Dreams (746 words)
Damascus Vision (738 words)
Caught (423 words)
Calling a Ride (661 words)
Breathe (Adult) (749 words)
Season’s Greetings (male/male) (737 words)
Lightning (706 words)
Anna (551 words)
Visitor (745 words)
Hacking Immortality (744 words)
On My Grave (715 words)
Beltane Dance (748 words)
Coyote Run (male/male) (750 words)
Eclipse (750 words)
Right On Time (741 words)
Caress of the Sea Witch (335 words)
Death Whispers (738 words)
Mating Rite (Adult) (749 words)
Patterns (529 words)
Eyes of Jade (739 words)
Mirror, Mirror (621 words)
Life Lines (m/m Adult) (681 words)
Giving Thanks (m/m Adult) (523 words)
Leather, Lace and Leaves (821 words)
Small Town Vet (m/m Adult) (763 words)
Hidden Depths: Secret Graves (m/m) (786 words)
Bittersweet (m/m) (852 words)
No Average Cat (628 words)
Eyes of Jade: Maeb (1146 words)
The Gift
“I have a present for you.” Melanie’s sultry gaze and smug voice made his cock stand up and take notice. “Turn around.”He’d been deployed for over a year now and she’d clearly found her confidence in his absence. He faced away, clenching his hands.
“Now you can look.”
He turned and stared at his beautiful wife, bedecked with soft blue satin ribbon running through the new gold rings in her nipples and down to one just peeking from her bare pussy.
Snarling, he pulled her to the bed and threw her upon it, then followed her in uncontrollable lust.
(c) 2007 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Solstice Changes
“What did you want to talk to me about?” She barely managed to get the words out before her mouth again encompassed her lover’s thick cock.
His fingers, tangled in her long hair, tightened and he moaned. “Tonight is…the solstice.” The words were guttural and she could tell he had to fight to get them out. “Special day…changes….”
She increased her efforts to distract him, tongue tracing the heavy veins on his cock. Suddenly enfolded by a warm, sueded blanket, she finally lifted her head to discover it wasn’t a blanket at all.
He’d tucked his wings around her instead. Wings?
(c) 2007 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Dragon Born
“Almost done. Just the eyes are left.” The tattoo artist’s voice pulled her from the grip of the drug and her own pain. Paralyzed, she could see and feel but not force herself to move.
“Just finish it. My spell will bring it to life and under my control.”
Pain radiated sharply again, joining the throb of the hours of tattooing over most of her body. Suddenly the throb turned to fire. Her fear and pain turned to anger. Freed of the paralysis, she reared back off the table and screamed her rage in the voice of the dragon.
(c) 2007 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Fire Dragon
Mariten could no longer feel her hands. The pain of the tight bonds turned to cold numbness hours ago. Her hysterical fear had likewise turned to icy calm.
Used to the furtive glances and rejection of the townsfolk, she’d not paid much attention to the whispers and avoidance yesterday. She should have known that Hadriad would seek revenge after she’d rejected him, however privately. But even she would not have guessed he would have the priests declare the need for a sacrifice to bring back the warmth and drive away the cold. They required that the sacrifice must be one with red hair, which assured her death. She was the only unmated person with red hair.
The townsfolk filed past, each bearing wood to add to the growing pyre around and under her. Some looked at her in sorrow, most would not look her in the face. The mound of wood grew and the sun moved low in the sky until only the thinnest rim remained above the horizon.
Cold. She was so cold. The thin red robe she’d been clothed in was no protection from the frost. Another twist of her wrists proved her bonds were still tight. The stickiness on her hands must be her own blood. All day she’d attempted to wriggle free and somehow have a hope of escape, but to no avail. The gag in her mouth made speaking impossible – she could not even plead for her life.
She sagged in the grip of the ropes. They’d come for her before dawn, before she could have any chance to defend herself or escape. Stolen from her bed by Hadriad and his group of cronies, she’d feared rape or even slavery.
Never had she considered her life would end in a forbidden practice – as a sacrifice to the Fire Dragon.
“Not so proud now, Mari? You should have accepted my offer.” Hadriad spoke with quiet menace. “You would have lived a much longer life.”
The once fit warrior, now fat with excess and laziness, moved to stand next to her. His small, dark eyes narrowed in obvious satisfaction as he examined her. A sneer curled his lips at her flinch when he tightened the rope about her body yet again, making it even harder to breathe.
She straightened her trembling legs. She’d be damned if she gave him any satisfaction. She might die but she refused to cower before him. Hadriad was the true coward here. She narrowed her eyes attempting to convey her loathing.
Hadriad held his arm to the side to receive the torch handed to him by one of the priests. The fire would have come from the sacred fire of Dregalla, the Dragon Queen, creator of the world.
Fear clenched her belly again. This was the end. A few tears escaped eyes she thought were beyond any more tears.
Hadriad lowered the torch to the pile of wood and lit the pyre, then stepped back and laughed as the fire caught and spread.
The horror of her impending death ate through Mari’s shock. The heat of the fire increased as it surrounded her.
Great Dregalla, save me from the pain. Let me pass quickly if this is my fate.
The flames licked at the hem of her trailing red gown, closing in around her bare feet. It was hot but not painful. Yet.
Hadriad stared at her, almost waiting for her torment to truly begin.
The flames enveloped her and consumed her gown in a flash. Mari looked down and saw her flesh itself was on fire, tendrils of orange and red racing over her skin. But there was nothing there to feed the fire.
Sudden ferocious pain slammed through her and she threw her head back, a silent scream erupting from her throat. Afraid to know, she still forced herself to look back down at her body. If a soul really remembered the last moments of their prior life, she wanted to remember. She wanted to carry that vision with her into the future. If vengeance could not be hers in this lifetime, she would have it in the next.
Blinking her eyes rapidly to clear the smoke, she stared in horror at herself. Her charred and burnt skin dropped away in sheets from the flesh beneath. The fire opal red scales of a dragon. A fire dragon’s skin.
(c) 2007 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Night Born
The long silver hair of the imposing man was caught back at the nape of his neck in a braided tail that reached clear to his knees. Not the hair of any warrior she’d ever seen, it would make too easy a handle for a foe. A black leather coat lay neatly across a nearby stump, a compliment to the black leather pants that molded to his thighs and revealed every flexing muscle as he plied his axe on the wood rounds nearby. Even his loose white shirt was somehow alluring, plastered to his muscled back and arms with sweat that made it nearly transparent. The bright light of Lurrina’s full face showed him as clearly as full sunlight might have.
She should not be here. Only desperation made her enter the mountains to seek out this man. For most of her life she’d heard rumors of Shadorn, one of the few Night Born that lived this close to the Sun Dwellers. He lived alone and did not interact with any others, not that they would seek interaction anyway. All Night Born were treated as if invisible and beneath notice.
But still she’d heard the whispers, the rumors. It was said he waited for someone or something and would never leave until his task was completed. In the meantime, he lived a simple life in the mountains in a small cabin protected from the power of Stralinga, the sun god, by the heavy woods. A few travelers told of his giving unsought but welcome assistance but that he never spoke to them nor took anything from them. He just disappeared back into the woods.
She had to choice but to seek him out now. This may be the last hope she had to make a new life for herself. Her old life was lost to her. She’d tried to ignore the signs when they’d started. The pallor she put down to illness. The changes to her hair and eyes she’d passed off as a passing illness.
All the denial in the world didn’t save her. She had become Night Born, claimed by the moon goddess, Lurrina. Ripped from home and family, outcast and now almost too weak to travel, she’d finally made her way here.
He may not help her, he had no obligation to. Shadorn may even kill her on sight as a misborn, as her own people had threatened to do. No. Not my people. Not anymore.
“Why are you lurking in my woods?” The melodic voice called out the question. He faced her now and she could see his face, the finely sculpted delicacy of his features belied by the firm set to his lips and his scowl.
She flinched but gathered her courage and stepped forward, wary of his reaction. Her traveling leathers were dusty and worn. An old pair of her brother’s that she’d taken when she left.
“Greetings. Are you Shadorn?” Her breath caught as she asked the question. She prayed he was indeed Shadorn but feared it also.
“I am Sha’dorn.”
He stepped toward her. When only a few steps separated them, he stopped and glanced up and down her body, lingering occasionally.
“My name is …. was… Mikera. Can you help me. Please?”
Sha’dorn caught her when her knees buckled and hefted her easily into his arms. Gently and carefully, he set her on the stump he’d just been chopping wood on. “Are you newly changed? Have you fed?”
She could only shake her head. Ever since her eyes and hair had changed, she’d been unable to keep any food down. Nothing but water. Everything else made her sick.
“When did you complete your change? Did your people not even feed you before throwing you out?” He snarled an almost feral sound. “What has the world come to?”
“I don’t understand.” She almost sobbed. “My skin got paler and paler and I couldn’t stand the sunlight. I’d burn when I’d been in the sun all my life. My eyes changed from brown to this pale, strange color. My hair was gold, everyone said it was like silken sunlight. Now it’s white and so long.”
Now openly weeping she looked up into his face. “And my ….”
He smiled a stunning, sensual smile that stopped her in mid-sentence. A smile that revealed the sharp white tips of fangs. Fangs that matched her own.
(c) 2007 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
The Binding Tree
Kartiera sat apart from the other women petitioning the Binding Tree. Even the sacred ceremony of change they all stood on the brink of wasn’t sufficient to win them over, to overcome their distrust and fear of her differences.
She’d lived here all her life but her white hair and violet eyes set her firmly aside as different and strange. The only time they did more than shun her was when she assisted the village healer, her mother.
Fidgeting with the long plait of hair she held, Kartiera’s stomach churned. What would happen to her today?
What would this happen when she faced the Binding Tree? Would it reject her? Welcome her? Kill her?
With sheer willpower, she held back the nausea that threatened. Instead she focused on the plait of hair. A long white ribbon, carefully fashioned of all the hair trimmed from Kartiera’s head since her birth. Her fingers stroked up and down the satiny length, drawing what comfort she could from it and the love that created it. She gently toyed with the beaded ends and tried not to think of what might happen.
Movement caught her eye and she looked up to see all the villagers lining up around the clearing. The village ruler strode confidently into the clearing, placing himself before the Binding Tree, his back to the applicants. He raised his arms and the villagers began to circle the large clearing, stopping to place their offerings on one of the seven sacred fires.
Kartiera began to smell the smoke of the fires overlaying the ripe scent of her own fear. The chilly night made goose pumps raised on her arms, the thin petitioner’s robe she wore. She rubbed her hands on her arms, garnering her an admonishing glance from Bricha.
The villagers finally arranged themselves on the edge of the circle, facing inwards, and the ruler dropped his arms. In the brief moment before he began to speak. Kartiera glanced at the great tree they all worshipped. The Binding Tree. A huge tree with branches gnarled and twisted, lush leaves and a thick, it appeared not so different than any other tree – until l saw the aura it had begun to exude. A sheathing of purples and blues slowly surrounded it until it was completely enveloped in the moving, alive aura.
Now she was really scared. All the rumors in the world couldn’t compare with the reality before her.
At the ruler’s motion, she and the rest of the girls stood. Kartiera took a deep breath and threw her shoulders back. She was ready.
The first girl walked hesitantly up to the Binding Tree and looped her plait of hair around the trunk, winding it neatly while she chanted the spell they’d all been taught. For just a moment, nothing happened but then the aura flashed for a brief moment and the Binding Tree’s bark seemed to absorb the ribbon of hair and it disappeared into another craggy ring around the tree.
She dropped to her knees and pressed her forehead to the Binding Tree’s roots. She’d been accepted into the Tree’s service.
One by one, the girls each approached the Binding Tree and repeated the ritual. Some were accepted but a few had their ribbon rejected to fall to the ground below it, signifying the Binding Tree’s rejection. They would be given in marriage immediately instead of being honored to serve first.
Finally it was Kartiera’s turn. More confident than she felt, she wrapped her white ribbon of hair around the tree, chanting the spell as she tied it off. Her task completed, she waited in terror for something to happen, anything to happen. Whispers started among the villagers. She broke out in a sweat and gulped. Was she to be ignored totally?
At long last the aura began to grow brighter, even brighter than for any other applicant. A sudden flash startled all who watched and when she could focus, she saw no new ring. Dejected, she looked at the ground, expecting to see her ribbon. Nothing.
A scream sounded from the villagers behind her. “Look up!”
When she looked up she saw a huge flower, the exact color of her hair with a center the violet of her eyes had formed on one of the largest limbs of the Binding Tree. But what did it mean?
(c) 2007 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Not a Fairy
“Let me get this straight. You have, without my permission, without even telling me until now, set me up on a blind date with a fairy?”
By the time she’d spat out the last word, Lucynda’s voice was almost a screech. She winced and glanced around the coffee shop, then spoke more quietly. “What the hell possessed you? You know I don’t date anything that isn’t human. Fully human.”
Unperturbed by her best friend’s protests, Kelly continued to eat her salad. When Lucynda finally had to pause to take a breath, she glanced up. Her lips curled in a secretive smile and she gestured with her fork. “I told you, Valandil is an elf, not a fairy. And he’s a friend of Iulian’s.”
“I don’t care if your vampire boyfriend recommends him, I am not going on a date with a fairy.”
This time Lucynda managed to respond in a low hiss, no doubt disappointing the nearby couple that seemed determined to eavesdrop.
Kelly didn’t reply, merely smiled and went back to her salad while Lucynda ranted away.
“You aren’t listening to me.”
Lucynda shoved her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ears and rubbed her temples. A date was the last thing she needed at the moment, especially one with some strange fairy creature. Hell, she probably couldn’t deal with human man right now.
After pushing her salad plate away, Kelly took her time wiping her lips. Finally, she neatly folded her napkin again and looked up at Lucynda. “Look, you need this. You need a date with someone who can put up with your attitude and not want to kill you in the first half hour. You need a date with someone who just wants to get into your pants, not have some philosophical conversation about art or music.
She chuckled. “Maybe you’ll even get a nice hard fuck out of it.”
Lucynda started to speak but Kelly’s steady gaze made her swallow the protest. She was right. Lucynda had been consorting with her vibrator for so long anything self-heating would be an improvement. A real cock would be a delight. Her pussy clenched at just the thought.
Humans only. I swore that I wouldn’t fuck any more non-humans. Humans only.
“He’s a fairy, Kell. He’s probably two feet tall and dressed in leaves or something. I’d be better off with a few fingers and a really hot story.”
Lucynda unclenched her fingers from the edge of the table, one at a time. Ice tinkled in her water glass as she picked it up with a now shaking hand and took a sip.
“You shouldn’t call him that in person. He’s an elf and quite proud of the fact. And he’s a lot taller than two feet, according to Iulian.”
Kelly looked around and waved an arm, apparently to someone behind Lucynda.
“Call off the date. Make your liquid diet boyfriend call it off. I’m not going. Period.”
The waitress dropped the check off on the table and Kelly snatched it up with one hand and grabbed her purse with the other. The chair rasped as she slid it back from the table and hopped to her feet. “Umm. Your date is right now. Here he comes. “
Shock froze Lucynda with her mouth wide open. “But… Now?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Moving faster than seemed possible in her high-heel boots, Kelly headed for the register.
If Lucynda ran now, she might make her escape, at least before Valandil got to her table. But before she could do more than think about it, he was there.
Almost six feet tall, he clearly was no fairy. At least no fairy she’d ever heard of. Long silver hair trailed down his back in a neat ponytail. The slicked back hair revealed ears that were gracefully arched and pointed but whose lobes were pierced through with heavy silver spirals. Pale skin, almost opalescent, covered an elegant bone structure with high cheekbones and lips quirked in a sarcastic smile.
Irresistably drawn, she looked up into eyes so blue they seemed indigo.
“Lovely human, I am most certainly not a fairy.”
Belying his fairness, his voice was a rich baritone tinged with an accent she couldn’t place. He lifted one of her hands in his own.
Lucynda didn’t resist, enthralled at the mere sight of him.
He pressed her hand firmly to the huge hard bulge tenting the front of his leather pants. “For one thing, I am much better hung.”
(c) 2007 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Frostbite
Whooooomp!
Before he was even fully conscious, Michael was out of bed and flat on the floor. The thick, braided cotton rug cushioned his fall as well as kept his naked body from direct contact with the very cold wooden floor.
Adrenaline raced through his system. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. The long ingrained training kicked in and he had control again. Absolutely still, he listened intently. His own heartbeat. The occasional subtle whoosh of the snow sliding off the steep roof of the cabin or off the nearby snow-encrusted trees. Nothing else.
Every sense alert, he rose silently to his feet and reached for the wax wood staff he’d set in the corner near the headboard.
Hyper-aware of everything around him, Michael slowly and cautiously crept toward the bedroom doorway, ears straining for any sound. A check through the small opening where the door was ajar revealed nothing that seemed amiss.
He slowly drew the door open just far enough for him to slip through. One step at a time, careful to stay centered and aware, he eased into the main living space of Aaron’s cabin. Staff at the ready, he scanned the room.
When he could find nothing wrong, Michael allowed himself to partially relax and stand upright, no longer crouched and prowling for potential prey. He flicked on the light and relaxed even more at the complete lack of any sound or movement that was not his own. Nothing seemed to lurk in the corners.
He set the staff against the wall. “Well, that was a really crappy way to wake up.”
There was no way he was getting back to sleep right away, not with that scare. Maybe some tea and some meditation would help. He’d just put the kettle on the stove to boil when he heard a scratching at the door.
He stopped at the couch to tug on the pair of sweatpants he’d tossed there earlier, after his Tai Chi exercises. Had an animal gotten lost in the snow? The predicted storm had quickly turned from a typical winter snowstorm to one of blizzard proportions.
All he could see through the peephole was the fluffy drifts of snow, illuminated only sparsely with the porch light. The snow was still coming down rapidly, making it impossible to see much beyond the edge of the porch.
About to turn away, he heard the scratching sound again, this time accompanied by a soft moan. Gut instinct made Michael unlock and open the front door, only to have the freezing air nearly take his breath away. Now he could see a large depression in the snow near the base of the porch steps with a packed path leading toward the house, spotted and streaked with some dark substance. He looked down to find not an animal but a woman collapsed face down in front of the door.
In the face of the bitter cold, he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into the cabin’s great room. She slid easily on the polished wood floors and he slammed the door on the blizzard as soon as he had her far enough in the room.
What the hell was a woman doing here? And who had hurt her?
Long white hair was plastered to her, red in some places with the blood seeping out of the four long gashes down the her back. Pale, almost bluish skin was very cold to the touch. She needed to be warmed up.
Careful of her wounds, Michael turned her over. Her face was finely sculpted with high cheekbones and a delicate chin. White eyebrows arched over closed eyes with matching thick white lashes. Her lips were a combination of pink and blue, enticing him to warm them with his own.
She reminded him of something, of someone. But damned if he could remember what or who.
He pushed her hair away from her face. Suddenly, her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. Long, sharp silver nails dug into his arm, his own blood oozing out over the needle tips that pierced his skin.
He stared at the talons then looked up at her face again. Deep, glacier blue eyes stared back at him, angular pupils making it clear she was not human. He recognized those eyes - the distinctive eyes of a frost dragon.
(c) 2007 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Stasis Dreams
As if from a great distance, the vague sound of voices intruded on the echoes of her dreams. Sultry, seductive dreams. Terrifying horrible dreams. But she couldn’t see anything at all, only a ceaseless black swathe of darkness.
Only the painful dreams began in darkness.
She tried to pull herself from the grip of the dream, to escape the promise of agony to come. Every bit of willpower she possessed was not enough.
Not again. She couldn’t take the pain, the torment, yet she would be forced to do so. Held immobile by unseen bonds to accept whatever was forced upon her. Yet she couldn’t accept the futility of resistance. No matter what the voices told her, she always fought. There was no honor in surrender.
No. No more. Not again.
Still the voices continued. Two, maybe three separate voices. And somehow different this time. Not as soft, not as harmonious. Not in any language she could decypher. Another voice suddenly spoke so close to her ear that she gave an involuntary twitch.
She moved? Was it some new kind or torment? She momentarily ignored the voices and struggled to think, to remember something besides the seemingly endless sequence of dreams.
There. A battle, some sort of battle. Her small exploration craft had been attacked without provocation and nearly demolished around her. There had been no time to do anything other than set off her distress beacon and lock herself into the claustrophobic stasis pod.
No one had ever been able to tell her what stasis was like. Hell, they’d not even been able to swear to the length of time it would be effective and survivable. It was a last ditch hope, that was all. If stasis resulted in dreams like hers, she’d die before she willingly entered it again.
But where was she now? Had she been rescued? It was almost too much to believe. Too much to hope for.
The voices intruded again. One sounded angry and upset, another used a tone that seemed to be universal to the soother, the peace-maker.
A sudden pressure below her jaw and a line of burning ice ran up her neck. Before she could scream, silence encompassed her mind again.
* * * *
She fought her way to the surface again. It wasn’t a dream, she was sure of it now.
Now she could feel herself breathing and taste the faint odor of life and chemicals underlying the more organic scents. Deodorizers. Recognition allowed her to push the information aside to focus on other things.
So weak. Just licking her lips was exhausting. Her lips were smooth but her tongue felt incredibly rough, almost bristly. Was this something else stasis caused?
She wanted to open her eyes but caution won out. With no idea where she was or what her situation was, secrecy might be her best hope. Hell, it might be her only hope. She listened intently, trying to sense whether anyone was near her.
After a seemingly endless time of hearing nothing more than mechanical hums and ticks, she heard distance voices. A soft woosh accompanied by a change in air pressure. She steeled herself to pretend to be unconscious and unaware. The voices ceased but rhythmic footsteps neared her.
“What is your opinion, Traisa?”
She could understand this one! A deep masculine voice spoke in a tone of voice that brooked no denial. Someone accustomed to command and being obeyed. The words were EuroStan but with a very strange accent.
“I think we should do her a favor and euthanize her.” The brittle iciness of the female voice was made more chilling by the sharp clip to her accent.
The words sank in. Euthanize? What the hell had happened to her? What shape was she in?
The higher voice continued. “Face it, Maylar. The registration on her stasis pod was to the ship of Doctor Sandra Mailings. That ship was found in pieces over 200 cycles ago. Fifteen years was the lethal limit for this kind of stasis and standard humans.”
“Well, she’s still alive, even if we don’t know why. But what the hell happened to her in there?” The man’s voice sounded almost contemplative.
“The med tests all show that if this really is Dr. Mailings, she’s not standard human anymore. She’s become part Caitoyn.”
Sandy’s eyes opened in shock, only to squint almost closed until her pupils adjusted to the bright room. Far too bright.
“She even has Caitoyn eyes.”
(c) 2007 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved.
Damascus Vision
Ryan stifled a moan and closed his eyes for a moment. It seemed like forever before his stomach returned to its accustomed place and ceased desperately seeking to evacuate his body through his nose.
Goddess, he hated it when Niall decided to transport him. A hundred years of it and it still took every bit of willpower he possessed to not puke.
Experimentally, he cracked his eyes open just a little. No sign of nausea. More confident now, he opened his eyes fully and looked around. He’d been lucky this time. He stood atop a small hill, shielded from casual view by a fairly dense group of trees.
Of course, secrecy was everything, even when Ryan was running his cousin’s errands instead of his own. At least it wasn’t the middle of a slimy pond or inside a Port-A-Potty this time. No matter what Niall said, that could not have been an accident.
A few steps took him to the edge of the trees where he could see the buildings below. One good-sized house, few small outbuildings and a large barn sat in a clearing.
He shook his head. Not at all the place he expected to find Niall’s weapon-maker. Ryan’s Tuatha cousin had spoken of the smith’s work in nearly reverent tones and kept driving home the honor bestowed by the summons. After the sixth repetition, Ryan’s eyes practically rolled back in his head. A weapon made on request was honor enough but a weapon made because of a need seen by the smith was nearly unknown. And for a half-human, yet.
Ryan looked around carefully. Nothing more threatening than some songbirds appeared interested in him. Thankful for the leather pants, heavy boots and long black leather duster, he made his way around several clumps of large purple thistles and down the hill toward the house.
The short hair at the nape of his neck stood up and a shudder ran through him at the border to the house’s clearing. Wards. Stronger and more powerful wards than he’d ever felt in his life.
“Oh man.” Maybe there was even more to this smith than Niall knew.
Hearing rhythmic clanging from the barn, he bypassed the house and headed that direction instead. Uncertain of his reception, he stopped at the threshold of the open door. A remarkably slight figure stood at an anvil, tapping steadily with a large hammer. Blows became lighter and lighter until the smith merely tapped delicately, clearly refining what looked like a spear point. Picking it up with a pair of tongs, the smith sighted along one edge, then flipped it over and sighted down the other. He adjusted something on the forge and placed the item back inside the brightly glowing center.
Ryan couldn’t see much of the man’s form but it was not the hugely muscular, strong one he’d expected. Clearly strong and skilled, the smith’s arms were narrow and sleekly chiseled, the sweat on them highlighting the flowing muscles and tendons.
A long, thick braid of red hair hung down the smith’s back. Ryan realized the smith wasn’t wearing a face shield or protective glasses.
“Welcome, Ryan.” A woman. The sacred smith was a woman?
She turned to face the door and pulled off the leather apron she wore to lay it on the nearby workbench. Wowsa. Her delicate bone structure was clearly Tuatha but it was overlaid with muscles beyond those of most. He could just see the delicate points of her ears. But a Tuatha could not stand cold iron. Weren’t her anvils and tools made of iron or steel?
She chuckled, a throaty sound that caressed him like a lover’s touch. “I can see your confusion. You may call me … Ciara. My mother was Tuatha de Danaan but my father is Creidne.”
Ryan took a moment but finally came up with the reference. “One of the smithing gods. But even he didn’t work in iron.”
She nodded and stepped closer. “But he discovered his bastard half-breed was even more talented than he. So he cursed me in a fit of jealousy. I am cursed to provide arms and armor to my mother’s people but all my magic is limited to metal. Even my sight.”
A few steps closer and she stood an arm’s length away. The sunlight fell on her face, revealing the truth of what she said. Eyes of swirled Damascus steel stared back at him.
(c) copyright 2007 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved.
Caught
Martine hung onto the edge of the rocky cliff with every bit of strength she had, fingertips already white with strain. Stupid, so stupid. She’d finally die on one of her crazy missions, just as her family always predicted. She’d been so sure she’d found evidence of a new raptor, a huge bird of prey, that she’d ignored her own safety and taken a chance. The ledge she’d leapt over to had crumbled beneath her, leaving her dangling in midair with no real hope of rescue.
She felt in vain for toe holds or tiny outcroppings, anything to take the weight off her hands and maybe give her a chance to clamber up. Nothing. Her fingers slipped and she fought to regain her grasp, then the bit of rock she clung to pulled from the outcropping and she tumbled in the air.
Unable to breath, panic flooded through her. She was dead. The whole world moved in slow motion as she twisted and turned in the air, flailing her arms and legs in an instinctive effort to somehow catch herself.
It seemed forever. It seemed like a split second. Suddenly what little breath she had was forced from her with jolt that doubled her in half. She wasn’t falling anymore but was soaring upwards instead. She felt something tight about her body and glanced down her body, only to stare in disbelief. Huge talons were clasped around her, sharp tips burrowed into her clothes. Her ears recovered from the whistle of the wind and she could just make out the flap of huge wings.
A moment later whatever was carrying her dropped her onto a rocky mesa and landed lightly next to her. With a shove, she turned onto her back to see the huge hawk she’d been hunting looking at her, head cocked and looking at her with shiny black eyes.
“Oh my God.” It really did exist. She had finally found one of the mystery animals she’d spent years looking for.
She sat up and tugged her backpack off to search for her small camera by feel. A picture. She needed a picture to prove what she’d seen. No one would believe her without some proof.
Before she located the camera, the bird seemed to shimmer and blur. Martine rubbed her eyes to try to clear them. Then the bird glowed with a bright bluish light for a moment, then disappeared. A tall, muscular man with long black hair and gleaming coppery skin stood in its place. A very naked man.
(c) 2007 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Calling a Ride
The roar of a motorcycle engine cut through the stillness of the early morning quiet. Hidden by the deep fog, she crawled behind the small boulder near the park entrance. Lena clutched the talisman to her lips, fingers and face so cold she could no longer feel them. But she continued to whisper the foreign words her mother had taught her as soon as she was old enough to memorize them. The words that would summon a dragon to aid her.
Her mother knew this day would come. The day when her mother’s family would find them and try to kill them. All in the name of purity, in the name of bloodlines. The memory of her mother’s broken body tore at her but she couldn’t cry now. She refused to waste that desperate sacrifice now. She would grieve later. She would plan her vengeance later.
The deep throb of the motorcycle engine drew closer, now accompanied by the crunch and clatter of tires on the gravel road. What the hell was a biker doing her at this time of day and in this weather? And where was her dragon.
Goddess, please let this work.
The bike was so near now it had to be in the parking lot where her burnt out car sat. The rider cut the engine and the silence seemed stark in comparison. She closed her eyes and chanted the words, putting every bit of energy she had into the call.
“Would you stop, already?” The deep voice spoke from right beside her. Startled, Lena’s eyes shot open and she tried to scramble away from the tall man who stood glowering over her, helmet in hand.
“Who are you? Why did you sneak up on me?” She forced the words out despite her panic. She hadn’t even heard him approach.
He reached a large, hard hand down and effortlessly drug her to her feet by one arm. He was quite a bit taller than her and looked very solid. Lena rejected the instinct to run, there was no way she’d get more than a few feet away.
Muscles clenched in his angular jaw and his almost teal blue eyes narrowed. Without a sigh, he tugged her toward the huge motorcycle he’d parked under the dim parking lot light. “You can call me Shayle and I was sent to answer your summons. My family owes yours and I get to make the debt good.”
Despite her fear, she couldn’t help but admire the thick muscles that flowed under the skintight black leathers he wore. He had dark hair, pulled back from his face and bound with criss-crossed leather ties from the nape of his neck to the top of his glorious ass. The silver tips of the ties bounced against the seat of his pants.
As soon as they reached the bike, he yanked another helmet off the seat clip and shoved it at her. “Here, put this on. We need to get out of here.”
She made no motion to take the helmet. “Umm. My mother swore a dragon would come and transport me away to somewhere safe.”
She motioned at the huge machine, almost ridiculous with the amount of chrome, black leather and studs. “This doesn’t look like a dragon. A hog, maybe.”
A snarl escaped the mysterious Shayle. “It’s not a hog or a dragon. It’s a custom.”
He tried to shove the helmet at her again and she backed up a step. “Can’t you just get a dragon to fly me out of here?”
He seemed shocked for a moment, then his strange eyes seemed to glow and his voice had an undertone of anger that made Lena instinctively flinch. “No one mounts a dragon but his children or his mate. And you are neither, human.”
This time she took the helmet he held out to her, careful to not touch the razor sharp claws that had appeared from the tips of his fingers.
(c) 2007 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Breathe (Adult)
“He’s a stubborn one, Dragoness. Well know for topping from the bottom and willing to risk any pound of flesh, but never his emotions. Never his heart.”
The familiar voice of Gerald’s hostess, Nicole, was only slightly muffled by the supple leather hood laced over Jared’s head. The hood was his own request and the smell of the high quality leather was almost soothing, a sign to his raging libido that it might soon have at least a bit of release.
The thick leather cuffs clasped his hands behind his back, a short chain connecting them to the cuffs around his ankles. His hard cock was fastened in a leather harness but this time Nicole had gotten creative and connected his nipple rings and Prince Albert piercing with chains barely long enough to allow him to sit upright.
He could take it. He could take anything he needed to.
So he sat proudly erect, legs spread and shoulders back, ignoring the tension on his piercings. The hood’s eye covers prevented him from seeing but he didn’t care. Instead he saw the curvy and compact body of Nikita Gordyn, the tiny tornado he’d faced and lost to – again – in court last week.
Unlike his co-workers, he wasn’t afraid of her. But he spent every moment in her presence with a hard on, his blood hot with the thrill of the battle and the respect he had for his opponent. A heady mix, indeed. Especially when he had yet to find a Mistress he couldn’t manipulate or win over.
He heard the door close without a word from this “Dragoness” and wondered if Nicole had scared her off, then he heard the tap of heels on the highly polished wooden floor and the snick of the privacy lock.
The sound of steps approached until he knew she was only a few feet away. Then she circled him. The light breeze she generated seemed to caress his skin, raising goose bumps and hardening his tautly pulled nipples.
Around again. Still she said nothing. Who was this woman Gerald had set him up with?
A few steps and he could feel the warmth of her body next to him. The seductive scent of amber and vanilla teased his nostrils and he breathed it deeply into him. Not the subtle flowery smell of a woman who was unsure of herself.
He had to fight to keep his head facing straight ahead.
She stepped behind him, moving slowly. Suddenly he felt the erotic, spine-tingling sensation of her hot breath caressing the sensitive nape of his neck. The feeling seemed to send an electric jolt down his spine to his cock.
Unpredictably, erratically, Dragoness touched different parts of his ever-more sensitive body with just the head of her breath. When she blew a long breath across the head of his rock-hard cock, he lost control and moaned out loud.
He’d never been this turned on before. And from so little.
As if waiting for that concession, footsteps walked toward where he knew the refreshment bar was. A clink of ice. The sound of water flowing. After a moment or two more, he heard the steps approach again.
She was in front of him. The entire surface of his skin tingled with that knowledge. A gentle hand reached out and removed the chains from his piercings, careful not to touch him more than absolutely necessary, despite his subtle attempts to force her to.
Nothing. No touches, no movement. She can’t have gotten up, could she? What the hell? What kind of Mistress would just walk away. He was popular with the club’s patrons – the Dommes saw his size and aggression as a trophy they could display on a leash if they could just tame him. But he stayed unattached, not content with playing the role.
Was he alone?
Jared shifted slightly, hoping to not betray his concern if Dragoness was still there. For his efforts, an ice-cold hand grasped his cock, nearly causing him to fall over in shock. Out of his control, his hips flexed oh-so-slightly forward as the small, cold fingers stroked his cock from base to tip, then just as abruptly released him.
“Mistress, please.” Jared moaned the plea.
As if that was the signal she waited for, his chin was cupped in a cold hand and another peeled off the eye coverings of his hood. He froze at what he saw.
“Good evening, Jared.” Nikita’s sea green eyes stared back into his own.
(c) 2007 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Season’s Greetings (male/male)
Steve stared at the pictures covering his mother’s refrigerator. This time of year brought out all her love of friends and family and every new picture she received was proudly added to the display. Christmas was his mother’s favorite holiday and his father always tried to make sure it was perfect for her.
He smiled and gave an ironic little snort. The holidays always seemed so bittersweet now. He loved his family and spending time with them, but he missed Alan. Though they’d been partners and lovers for almost five years, neither one of them had really come out to their families. Thus they ended up spending the holidays apart and fending off the hints and occasional attempts at blind dates set up by well-meaning relatives.
He was sick and tired of the charade. This year he swore he was going to tell his parents, come hell or high water. The night after Christmas, after his nieces and nephews had gone to bed. That way no one’s Christmas would be ruined.
Trying not to imagine the possible reactions, Steve pulled open the refrigerator door and snuck a few pieces of his mother’s almond roca from the tin inside.
“Ummmmm.” He groaned in pleasure as he nibbled off little bits until it was gone and he licked the chocolate from his fingertips. Oh hell, that was a mistake. Alan loved to nibble on his fingers and he could picture just how much his sweet-toothed love would have enjoyed the chocolate coated digits.
The house was deserted but he’d seen the note from his father that they were out picking someone up at the airport and then nabbing his sister’s family from the local snowboarding slopes but would be back soon.
Finally he heard the slamming of car doors and excited voices. The front door burst open and his sister’s kids spewed into the entry, shedding snow gear and yelling competitive trash talk at each other in between laughing at their own mistakes. Must have been a good day on the hill.
“Uncle Steve!” His niece caught sight of him first and raced over to throw herself into his lap. The others followed suit until he was covered in four cold, wet kids, all trying to hug and kiss him at once.
“Kids! Get back here and get your wet clothes off!” Tammy’s voice was warm and full of humor.
The kids obediently struggled off him, one of them narrowly missing kneeing him in the balls. Once free, he headed toward the entry, only to be intercepted by his mother. Steve pulled his mother close in a huge hug, his heart in his throat. This year would change everything. Would he ever have a “normal” family gathering again?
“I’m glad you made it. It was starting to snow pretty hard.” His mother’s voice was muffled as her face was still squished against him. A firm shove from her, and he finally let her go.
“You have to come see my favorite photo Christmas card, Stevie. I just got it and it was so special I waited to put it up until I could share it with you.”
“Umm, okay.” He obediently followed her tiny figure back into the kitchen. From the top of the fridge she pulled down an envelope and opened it to pull out one of those long photo cards. But this one looked suspiciously familiar. When she flipped it over, his jaw dropped.
It was the card he and Alan had sent to their friends. The one with them in a very clearly non-platonic embrace in front of their own tree.
Holy shit. Who sent that to her?
Ignoring his silence, his mother carefully made a prominent place for it on the appliance door and turned back to him. “I love you, Steve. Without reservation. I’m so glad you found someone you love to spend your life with. But I wish you would have told me yourself instead of forcing me to give poor Alan the third degree and put him on the spot by telling him I’d guessed you were gay years ago. Just understand you don’t have to pretend with us anymore, ever.”
His eyes stung with tears. Tears of relief, gratitude and love. He still couldn’t force a single word out.
Then warm arms wrapped around his waist from behind and Alan’s beautiful bass voice whispered in his ear. “Season’s Greetings, my love.”
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Lightning
She will die young and without knowing true love. As the storm embraces her, the kiss of lightning will be her death, yet she will be endlessly drawn to her killer.
“Look Mom, I need to concentrate on driving. I’ll call you when the storm has passed to let you know I’m okay.” Even her mother wouldn’t argue with that excuse.
“Okay, Joann. Please be careful. Stay away from the storm. I can’t bear to lose you now.” A hint of tears was obvious in her mother’s voice. Jo knew the pain of her father’s death still hadn’t eased for either of them, even in the three years since he lost his battle with cancer. Her mother was terrified of losing her only child as well.
She hung up the phone and found herself stopping at another light. Only five miles to her house. She certainly should be able to make it in time – she hoped.
The obscure prophecy of her Romani grandmother hung over her head since she was born. All through Jo’s life her mother sought to prevent the curse – for it was really more curse than prophecy – from coming true. Any hint of a thunder storm and her mother would demand that she lock herself in the large guest bathroom, the only room in her childhood home that had no windows.
Jo hated that room. It always made her feel as if she were being suffocated. She tried to avoid it as long as possible, often having to be forced into it by her mother as the storms were breaking.
But the older she got, the more she absorbed her mother’s fears. She didn’t want to die.
Jo pulled up into a line of cars waiting at a stop sign. While she waited for her turn, she found herself watching the storm clouds writhe and twist in the sky. The horizon seemed alive with movement.
A glance in the rearview mirror at the sky behind her instead revealed her own face. Her curly brown hair always reacted badly to humidity and was now a bit frizzy, despite the expensive hair care products she lavished on it. Her face was so pale that the light makeup she had on didn’t disguise its pallor and her hazel eyes appeared huge. She looked frantic. She felt frantic.
When she’d realized the storm was coming in a lot earlier than predicted, she’d told her co-workers that she was suddenly feeling ill and had to leave the meeting early. She could tell by the knowing smirks they exchanged that they were condescendingly amused by their only female programmer’s fear of storms.
But they were wrong. Jo wasn’t afraid of storms. She was drawn to them in an almost irresistible attraction. The only thing that kept her inside in her safe room was the damned prophecy. An avowed disbeliever, she was still afraid that it might be true and had no desire to die.
Finally through the long line at the stop sign, Jo turned down the main road into the area her isolated house was located just as raindrops began to fall. She felt vaguely sick as the rain grew heavier and the hair on the back of her neck stood up.
At last she pulled into her own driveway. If she could just get into the house before the power was released. Before the lighting or thunder started. “Home. I’m home.”
She shut off the car and readied her keys, locating the one to her front door. A deep breath and she grabbed her purse and opened the car door, ready to race for the house.
As she slammed the car door shut, she felt it the raw power and presence of the storm surround her. Her heart pounded in her chest and she tried to force herself toward the house but instead stood frozen in awe, unable to move.
The sharp smell of ozone finally broke her free of her paralysis and she ran across her lawn toward the house. But before she could reach the door, she was lifted and thrown backwards through the air.
A small part of her realized she could no longer feel her heart beat before the blackness enveloped her.
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Anna
Still. Dark. Silent.
Slowly the nothingness began to recede.
She floated in a chilly sea of mist, surrounded by shades of grey, her movements slow and sleepy. Peaceful and calm, her body embraced by the fog even as her mind began to wake.
Anna.
She contemplated the name as she drifted. It felt right, it felt natural. Surely that was her own name. It had to be.
My name is Anna.
The acknowledgement seemed to open a floodgate – memories assaulted her. An invasion of visions, sounds, even tastes and smells overwhelmed her. Her mind writhed from the onslaught, helpless in the grip of the experiences it relived.
Noooooooooooooooooo.
Her silent scream faded off as she descended again into the misty silence, unable to process the bombardment.
* * * * *
Anna McInnes. She was Anna McInnes.
This time she knew who she was and the memories were still present but she no longer felt as if they were attacking her. She could picture her own face and body. She remembered her parents and that they were both dead, gone for many years.
Where am I? What happened?
She remembered leaving her house to go to her friend, Jo’s. She’d climbed into her car and started it, then began the short drive. But she didn’t remember arriving. What did that mean? Where was she now?
She couldn’t see anything. Anna tried to touch her face to make sure her eyes were open but her body didn’t seem to respond to her demands. Only silence and drifting sensations met her efforts.
Determined, she pushed her fears aside and willed herself to move, to control her body.
Nothing.
I have to move. I have to know I’m okay.
She focused every bit of her will on moving just her fingers. Just one finger. Surely she could do that. Finally, as if a tightly stretched barrier burst, she felt her right hand move at the same time a wave of excruciating pain swept over her, throwing her back into her grey silence.
* * * * *
“What the hell are you doing?”
Anna’s eyes shot open at the shouted words. She was laying on a damp, cold surface that was so hard it felt like she was laying on a rock. Her head swimming, she tried to push herself upright only to realize she was so weak she could barely manage it.
“Well, Miss, what are you doing here? Do you have no respect?” The voice was closer now. “Are you on drugs?”
Anna managed to rise to her knees on the flat surface. She wrapped her arms around herself, cold and shivering now. Looking down, she realized she was wearing a dress she didn’t recognize. A thin flowery fabric in a style she never wore. Where the hell had that come from?
It seemed like she couldn’t focus her eyes. Everything seemed to waver and shimmer. It was so bad she would swear she could see through her own body, impossible as that was. But the stone slab she was on seemed solid enough.
Lifting her head, she saw a stone wall in front of her with words engraved on it. Reading them, she almost fell over again when she realized what the words meant.
Anna Marie McInnes – Beloved Sister and Friend.
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Visitor
Something was not right.
Sata paused with the alarm code only half-entered, distracted by the odd tingle that traced up her spine. A familiar sensation but not one she’d felt since she’d chosen enter a voluntary exile in the land of the humans. Her land now.
The louder tones of the alarm’s final ten second warning pulled her back from her memories in time to key in her code and deactivate it. She really didn’t need a false alarm fine or an audience for her confrontation with whatever was waiting for her.
Stalling for time, Sata went into her workroom and set her purse in its accustomed place under the bench. Stripping off her red leather duster, she hung it on the hook behind the door. Hyper-aware of the sensation of magic nearby, she tried to quell her churning stomach but didn’t quite succeed. After drying her damp hands on her jeans, she couldn’t stall any longer and went to see just what, or who, had appeared in her store.
The front room was lit only by the low lighting in the display cases and dark shadows filled the corners of the room. A quick flick of the light switch and the overhead lights flickered to life but Sata could still see nothing out of place. The distinctive feeling of Sidhe magic was even stronger now, but it was mixed with another magic. A darker one.
Worst of all, she knew should recognize this particular feeling, should recognize the mix even though she’d not felt it in many years.
“Hello, Satadara.”
She jumped and spun in place, nearly falling into the side of one of her display cases. Catching herself in time, she stared in silent amazement at the figure that emerged from the doorway to the office.
Valeris.
A very different Valeris from the one she remembered. He’d filled in to match his height and was much more muscular. His piercing teal eyes shone from his unique mocha skin. The beautiful chocolate brown hair that had once draped across her was pulled tightly back from his face, making his features seem sharp and his gracefully pointed ears seem longer than ever.
Lips curved in a lopsided smile, Valeris stepped closer, giving her a chance to see admire his flexing muscles in the black leather pants and vest he wore. Not exactly the clothing of choice in the Court and a bit of a cross between biker and leatherman, but it seemed suited to Valeris’ personality.
For once she felt self conscious that she dressed so casually, her jeans and tank top were comfortable but not exactly enticing.
“Umm. Why are you here, Valeris? You know it’s forbidden to have any contact with me.” She was proud of her ability to keep her voice steady. “And how did you find me? The Queen herself masked my magic and hid me.”
Valeris grinned and stepped closer still. “Ah, but the Seelie Queen cast me from her court. Apparently mixed breeds are no longer welcome in her presence.”
That was odd. The Queen always seemed to be taken with Valeris’ bad-boy attitude and irreverent behavior. That fondness had even resulted in her own exile.
For a brief moment Sata felt her resentment flare but she quickly pushed it away. “What do you want, Valeris. If it’s a pity party, you’ve missed that event by a good decade.” She stepped back a little, only to find herself up against another case.
Anger flared briefly in the depths of his eyes, then he smiled again and looked up and down her body. “You haven’t changed all that much since I last saw you. You’re still luscious enough to eat.”
The fire of lust flared through her body at his words, nipples tightening and pussy clenching. Dammit. He should have no power over her anymore. “Why would I want a half-breed like you?”
“At least my parents stayed within a single species. Seelie and Unseelie are not so different. But I won’t let you pick a fight.” He held out his hand, a ring in his dark palm. The ring she’d made for him of her own hair. “You are old enough now and I have come to claim you as my own.”
She felt the magic flare a split-second before a thick rope of Valeris’ mixed magic settled about her wrists, binding them before her even as it jerked her forward and against his very hard, very aroused body.
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Hacking Immortality
Death wasn’t easy, but couldn’t it be a little cheaper? Hettie Andrews stared at the deposit figure shown on the bank statement she’d hacked into. That’s a whole lot of zeros.
After a moment’s delay, her fingers flew over the keyboard as she looked for anything else within the last several months that might indicate Viktor Ginda was responsible for more than just the attempted hit a week ago.
The self-styled Ukrainian playboy led a life far beyond the income he earned as an occasional bodyguard. His love of gold, diamonds and platinum blondes is what had drawn Hettie’s attention in the first place. She sneered at the number of times Mr. Ginda paid for the company of his silicon-enhanced dates.
It figures, the guy’s dick probably rotted off before he hopped to the US. All swagger and talk and nothing to back it up. Hettie saved a copy of the data, then closed her connection to the online banking site. He doesn’t even have the brains to think of a decent password.
Still nothing she could easily tie to any of the other execution-style murders, let alone the attack that took Sean from her just six months ago. The attack that changed her life forever and ended his.
Her back popped at the movement after hours of inactivity when she impatiently shoved free of the desk and stood. Pacing the dimly lit room, dodging the few pieces of chrome and steel furniture, she tried to make sense of the pieces of information she had.
She wrapped her arms around herself, still not used to how cold she felt even in the thick sweatshirt, pants and fuzzy socks. It was quiet this late at night. Most of her close neighbors had gone to bed long ago and even the teenager down the block’s attempts at playing drums with zero sense of rhythm had ceased a few hours ago. She always did her best work at night – it just became more necessity than choice six months ago.
More lonely as well.
She fought the huge lump in her throat at the memory of all the late nights spent with Sean, hacking into networks, trying to solve crimes and remove threats. How much she missed the mornings she woke in his strong arms, secure in her love and her ignorance of the fact they had a price on their heads already haunted her daily.
No tears. She’d spent weeks crying until she didn’t think she could cry another tear. Now was the time for duty and bringing killers to justice.
So why were these other hackers being killed? They weren’t much of a threat, really. Just loud-mouthed script-kiddies who had little real talent. They had to have stumbled on something or someone but damned if she could figure out what. Weeks of digging through their files and posts failed to show a clear link. She was missing something either incredibly subtle or painfully obvious. At this rate, her handler would pull her off the case, despite her personal vow to find her fiancé’s killers. There were other cases that needed her skills.
“But where did Sean’s code come from?” Her voice broke the silence.
The snippet had all the hallmarks of Sean’s style but she’d never seen it before she’d found it while trailing several of the dead hacker’s activities. It had to be new or it wouldn’t have used the technique it did.
Maybe it was time to pay a visit to Mr. Ginda in person? He’ll probably pee his pants to see me again.” Her lips curled in a vindictive grin at the thought of appearing to Viktor like a ghost from the grave.
She suddenly realized she was hungry. Very hungry. No wonder she couldn’t focus very well. Thankfully the all night Chinese place just down the block was happy to deliver to her. In fact the delivery boys vied over who would bring her order – she tipped exceptionally well and they always left well rewarded.
She phoned to order her usual — wonton soup and fried rice. Nothing too stinky – she couldn’t stand anything too stinky these days. While she waited for her delivery, she tapped a manicured nail against a pearly white fang and smiled, imagining just what Viktor Ginda’s reaction would be when the victim of his last hit showed up in his bedroom – definitely walking and talking, and no more dead than she was before he shot her multiple times.
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
On My Grave
Gary stood, still as a statue, in the cover of the overgrown blackberry brambles. The full moon dominated the sky and lit up the abandoned cemetery, so bright it could almost have been daytime. The once pristine and tidy graveyard was in ruins. The few headstones had been toppled or broken and the wooden markers had long since rotted away.
A small part of him mourned those now lost to history and memory, even their final resting places receding into the shadows. Another part of him envied them.
He noted idly that it was a cold night. The cycle of the seasons was continuing, as it had all his very long life. Unstoppable and relentless, the years crept by. Soon the snow would come and blanket the cemetery in the semblance of pristine purity, hiding the carnage that lay beneath.
Where was he? The young man was usually here by now. At first it had taken the man sitting on Gary’s unmarked grave to wake him. The man would sit, sheltered by the drooping limbs of the weeping elm Gary’s sister had planted, and daydream.
He couldn’t know Gary’s grave was there, let alone know what Gary was and that the ties of his kind to their mortal grave meant they could sense anyone and anything that touched it. For most of his kind it meant a tie to their relatives while they still lived and visited, along with the occasional caretaker tending the plot.
But no one had visited Gary’s grave even before the cemetery went to ruin. Only the occasional animal had sent the shiver of awareness down his spine and forced him to remember that he, too, was once human.
Then the stranger had begun to spend time here. At first annoyed by the strong reaction his body had to the intrusion, he’d tried to ignore it. Before long, the lure of the emotions that flowed off the young man in waves seduced Gary into acceptance, then longing.
Who was this visitor? Why did he go from sorrow to happiness to lust to despair?
The crack of twigs underfoot alerted Gary to his visitor’s approach. As the steps moved closer, Gary was careful to make sure he was tucked out of sight. He wanted to see the man, not be seen.
A figure, slender for all it was bundled up in a wool coat, pushed through the clinging brambles to the huge old tree. He slipped between the drooping limbs and almost tossed himself onto the ground near the trunk.
A shudder ran through Gary, so strong it raised goosebumps on his skin, something he’d not experienced in nearly a century. I wonder if that’s because I’m so close to my grave again?
Gary pushed aside the idle question in the face of the barrage of emotions that flowed off the young man. Loneliness, longing, a touch of sorrow—they were all entwined in a confusing morass. But so very human.
A quick tug and the man’s hat was off, revealing his dark blonde curls. Gary’s fingers twitched with the desire to run his fingers through that riot of hair. Instead he crept closer, eager to see the face of the man he’d come to anticipate and even long for.
The full moon’s light, combined with Gary’s inhuman eyesight, gave him a clear view of what turned out to be a face that was striking more than it was handsome. An aquiline nose and square jaw offset the softness of his plump, pink lips. Icy blue eyes, so pale they seemed unnatural, were framed by lush lashes—lashes that sparkled with tears.
The nearly forgotten heat of desire shot through Gary’s body. Desire he’d not felt in far too long. He wanted to dry the stranger’s tears, kiss those lips until they were red and swollen, ease his tongue between them into the warmth and wetness of the other man’s mouth. His mouth almost watered at the imagined taste of the other man.
He wanted to explore the other man’s body—with his hands, his lips, his tongue, his cock. What would he look like under that coat? What would his cock feel like?
Operating on pure instinct, Gary stepped forward, praying to a forgotten God that this fascinating man wouldn’t run.
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Beltane Dance
After slipping her sandals on, Shannon threw a light coat over her thin, flowing dress and let herself out into her parent’s backyard. Nervous energy flowed through her, making her shiver a little in anticipation, despite the warmth of the May evening.
Shannon shut the door behind her, harder than she’d intended, and winced at the slam. It was a good thing she was alone tonight. Not that she wasn’t alone most nights, too. The reminder sparked a familiar sense of loneliness she forcibly pushed away.
It was Beltane. A night of new beginnings, sensuality and fertility. A night for wishes to come true. It wasn’t a time for regrets or self-doubt. It was a time to finally think of herself and her own happiness.
A beautiful moon hung huge in the sky overhead, almost full and so bright it made her path easy to follow. The light breeze was just enough to cause her skirt to caress her bare legs and remind her that she wasn’t wearing anything under the dress. The unaccustomed sexiness made her pussy clench. Soon she’d dance naked around her small fire—a dance in the moonlight to draw love her.
At least if I make a fool of myself, there’s only me to see it.
Stepping carefully, she made her way to the small ring of bushes her mother had planted around the hill. Well, more of a mound. She stopped for a moment at the edge of the hill, and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm her nerves.
She braced herself and took off her coat, neatly folding it and placing it on the thick grass. Her sandals joined it and she walked barefoot in the cool grass to the small fire she’d laid in the iron fire ring. Sacred woods, carefully selected and saved all year, were seasoned and waiting to be lit. She pulled a fireplace lighter from her skirt pocket and set the rolled paper tinder on fire.
For a few moments she just watched the paper burn and the wood begin to flicker with tiny tongues of yellow and red. After a few minutes, the fire was beginning to burn well.
It’s time. Now or never, Shannon.
She reached up and pulled the band off her hair, unbraiding the brown strands to flow loose down her back. Fingers slowly unbuttoned her dress, focusing her will on opening herself for love. Finally ready, she pulled the dress off her shoulders in a single motion and let it fall to the ground before kicking it off and away from the fire.
She shivered, nipples hardening from the air that was suddenly not nearly as warm as she’d thought when she still had clothes on. Time to move.
“Beltane Fires, light the way
Love to me, come to stay”
She chanted her wish, walking slowly around the fire. Shannon’s steps and her words found a common rhythm and she soon began to sway and turn as she chanted.
“Beltane Fires, light the way…”
The beat of a drum seemed to accompany her, then lead her. The heartbeat of her dance, the drum thumped almost in time to her heartbeat. Thumpa, thump, thump – the drum drove her on, sped her dance, and drew her into a trance of movement and sound.
“Love to me, come to stay”
Her trance deepened as she chanted faster and faster. Her walk turned to a spinning, graceful dance.
Thumpa, thumpa, thump, thump.
Moving so quickly around the fire, she could no longer spare the breath or attention to chant. Instead she held onto her focus and let her body move as the drum demanded. As the dance demanded.
Finally, she could no longer dance and collapsed to her knees in the grass, facing the now roaring fire. The sound of drumbeats faded away and she panted, struggling to catch her breath.
Suddenly Shannon saw movement from the edge of her vision and looked up to see a man setting a large drum aside. He was as naked as she, tall and pale with the whitest blonde hair she’d ever seen. And incredibly sexy. As she stared, he walked toward her and smiled.
“You summoned me and I played for you.” His face was a gorgeous as his body, brilliant blue eyes shining out from a face so pretty it seemed unnatural. He tucked his long hair behind one ear and Shannon realized his ear was not the shape of a human ear.
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Coyote Run
Damn he hurt.
What the hell had happened? He remembered going for a night ride on his big palomino gelding, Nikki, feeling unusually restless and lonely. Just riding randomly around, he’d come across something he’d only heard legends of – a Coyote Run.
There must have been a dozen coyotes, weaving in and around the shrubs, playing and dancing in the moonlight. The full moon illuminated their antics and he just watched in awe from atop his horse, hoping they wouldn’t mind his presence.
Sudden, searing pain exploded across his back and darkness rushed through him.
Mitch slowly opened his eyes. Lethargic and cold, he saw the outlines of the familiar furniture of his own bedroom in the darkness. Was it a dream? He reached for the light beside the bed, then hissed at the sharp pain that jolted through his back at the slight movement. Nope – not a dream. But what the hell had happened?
He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, willing the pain to recede. He felt the bed next to him shifted a little and a soft whine made him open his eyes to see the long snout of a dog come to rest on the bed next to his face. Warm golden eyes looked steadily into his own with what seemed to be un-doglike intelligence.
He didn’t even own a dog.
The crunch of gravel, accompanied by the sound of a motor, told Mitch someone had pulled up outside the small cabin. He braced himself to try to sit up, only to have the dog snarl at his movement.
“Someone’s here. Back off, dog.”
When he lifted himself up on his elbow, Mitch realized two things. He wasn’t going to be able to stand up and that was no dog. With those ears, that had to be a coyote. His awe was quickly overwhelmed by fiery pain and he collapsed back onto the bed and into darkness.
* * * * *
Warm. He felt surprisingly warm and comfortable but there was something important he had to remember. Something just outside his awareness.
Mitch couldn’t remember being this tired in a long time, yet he’d obviously been asleep for a while if the dryness of his mouth was anything to judge by. It felt like a herd of army boots had marched through but he wasn’t sure it was worth the effort to get up for some water.
With a sigh, he opened his eyes to discover it had to be midday, judging by the amount of light coming in the cabin’s main windows and bleeding into the sleeping loft. Enough light to see the coyote curled up in the bed next to him, taking up over half the mattress. The light snuffling of the sleeping animal hadn’t even penetrated his consciousness until now but he’d obviously been curled up against the coyote’s warm fur.
Mitch realized he was naked and his soft swearing woke his bedmate who cocked his head, at least he assumed it was a him because it was a really big coyote, in return. “Umm. Hi, boy.”
Mitch turned onto his back and almost swore again at the pain radiating from his shoulder and upper back. He waited a second, then tentatively wiggled. He’d been hurt somehow but it felt as if there were bandages or something on his back. Maybe he’d been in an accident?
The coyote rose to his feet and hopped off the bed to stand beside it, looking at Mitch with a steady gaze.
“Did you get help for me? Who are you?” Mitch chuckled at himself. “I must be loopy, here I am talking to a coyote who can’t possibly answer me.”
The coyote snuffle, as if laughing as well, then Mitch’s attention was caught by the shimmer that surrounded the gorgeous animal. Almost instantly, the large coyote was replaced by the form of a man—a naked, slender man with hair the color of the coyote’s fur and golden brown eyes. And an impressive erection that no self-respecting man could fail to notice.
“My name is Jamie. And my family helped get you home after the hunters shot you.”
With an eerie grace, Jamie propped one knee on the edge of the bed and bent to capture Mitch’s lips in a kiss that made the rest of the universe disappear. As Jamie slipped back under the covers with Mitch, he released his lips just long enough to change Mitch’s life forever.
“I am your mate.”
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Eclipse
“Oh come on, Nettle. A total eclipse only happens every few years. Come outside with me.”
Scott shook his head at the small blue-eyed wolf. “You know, wolves are supposed to love the moon and you seem to hate it. You have to be the least wolf-like wolf I’ve ever encountered.”
He chuckled. He was doing it again, talking to Nettle like she could really understand him. Her unknown owners had extensively trained her and she understood quite a few commands, but she wasn’t up to a conversation.
Nettle gave her thick, almost white-blonde fur a thorough shake, her collar jingling. Cocking her head at him for a moment, she laid down on thick bed near the door with almost dainty movements.
Just what was her story? She’d been rescued by a bystander after being hit by a truck. She been brought to Scott and his wildlife sanctuary when they realized she wasn’t a dog but a full-blooded wolf, if an unusual one.
But she’d been someone’s pet. With her complete lack of any fear of humans and her familiarity with commands and routines, she would never be a candidate for release.
She’d lived with Scott ever since he’d brought her home the first night to care for her broken leg and ribs. Sleeping at the sanctuary’s clinic was a sure recipe for a migraine and no sleep and she was his only patient at the moment. He’d not expected her to worm her way into his heart so quickly.
“Okay, I’m going out there though. I want to lay back and just watch the show. You can stay in here if you insist.” He chuckled. “But I’m sure I can protect you from the big, bad moon.”
Her long-suffering sigh ended on a whine.
“You’re such a diva. I should have named you Princess instead of Nettle. Although a princess would be nicer to visiting dignitaries. Growling at my date was not the way to make friends.”
As if she understood him, Nettle lifted her head and bared her teeth in a wolf-smile.
Not that he’d liked Donna, anyway. The minute she’d admitted to liking white carpet and outdoor only pets, he’d written her off. God, he was sick of dating shallow women.
He forced the thought away. He wasn’t lonely anymore with Nettle around. He’d avoided pets before because he didn’t want to leave a dog or cat alone all the time and couldn’t really take them to the sanctuary with him. But Nettle refused to be left behind and just a few weeks after he’d first brought her home, she was family. Hell, she even slept on his bed with him.
He glanced at the clock. “The eclipse is starting. I’ll leave the door open for you.”
He stepped past her and slid the door open, ignoring her grumbled protests. The wooden deck boards were cool under his bare feet and the air even chillier. Collapsing into the strategically positioned chaise, he was happy to curl up under the thick blanket he’d left out there earlier.
He was even happier to see Nettle nose open the door and follow him. So silent she seemed a product of his imagination, she slunk slowly toward him. Scott obediently lifted the blanket and moved to one side and the beautiful wolf hopped up to cuddle next to him and let him drape the blanket over them both.
He looked up to see just the tiniest bite taken out of the moon. It was starting. He’d loved eclipses all his life. As short as it was, it seemed so magical and it just wasn’t something pictures adequately conveyed.
Nettle whimpered and squirmed and he reached over to pet her. “Does your leg hurt, hon? There’s not a lot of room up here but you insisted.”
He alternated between stroking her fur and toying with the tag on the collar she’d been wearing when found; a strange disk inscribed with a wolf paw print in the middle of a pentagram, hanging from an exotic woven steel chain. She had fits when he tried to take it off, so it remained.
The night’s tranquility only broken by the occasional whimper and restless movement of his wolf, he watched the eclipse progress. “Almost full, Nettle.”
The chaise suddenly heaved, tossing him off onto the deck. He leapt to his feet only to stare in shock at the blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman sitting on his chaise, only partially covered by the blanket and wearing Nettle’s medallion.
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Right on Time
All my instincts told me I needed to figure out just what this code did – quickly.
I’ve never understood how my magic works, let alone been able to explain it to anyone else. Instead of cauldrons and grimoires, I worked with computers, software and programming manuals. I can’t create a love spell to save my life, but I can craft the perfect matchmaking application. A source of continual embarrassment to my very traditional mother, I was the family techno-sheep.
With the USB fob plugged into my specially crafted hub, I sat down at my secure system. As soon as the fob powered up, I could feel the intent of the code like a dark, malevolent fog washing through my nervous system.
Deep breaths helped trigger my long-ingrained training and I sank into a slight trance. Eyes closed, I visualized my shields like a bubble of reflective metal, then deliberately thinned them until they seemed like a layer of shiny mylar. The heavy shields normally protected me from the plethora of electronics in daily life but I couldn’t work with them up.
In and out. In and out. With each breath I traced my magic along the code paths, sinking gradually deeper as I explored it. I avoided the couple of traps I felt, easing around them so I didn’t set off whatever payload they would trigger. They weren’t the most sophisticated traps, signaling that the person who wrote this code wasn’t a highly skilled developer. It felt more like the cobbled together code of a script-kiddie but I’d never seen this nasty a code from them. It wasn’t their style.
Still without a clear idea of what the code did other than receive commands to spider the network and send details back out. It wasn’t complete and I couldn’t tell much more from this snippet than I had from the prior two I’d examined.
There had to be some connection between them.
Thickening my shields again, I kept my eyes shut. I didn’t know how long I’d been immersed in the code but I was so tired I could feel my own hands shake. Damn, I needed some food and some sleep soon or I wouldn’t be worth anything.
A commotion broke out in the break room down the hall and the loud, excited voices caught my attention. I’d call it parental instinct if I had any children – maybe zoo keeper instinct in my case. Something was going on that might need intervention.
Annoyingly shaky, I steadied myself with a hand on my desk for a moment before I dried my sweaty hands on my jeans, tugged my leather halter top down and went to see what the hell was going on now.
One of my newer developers, Jade, was hopping up and down in front of a machine I’d never seen before.
“What the hell are you doing, Jade?”
She shot a guilty look at me and seemed about to answer. But when the machine made a clicking sound, she immediately turned back to it, almost quivering with excitement. I’d apparently been forgotten.
“Jade, did someone give you lemonheads again? Last time you ate two pounds in only a couple of days and you couldn’t focus enough to stay human for more than ten minutes at a time. We had to peel you off the ceiling, then you slept for the next three days.”
My office manager leaned against the doorway next to me. “I took care of that.”
Another click and Jade got even more frantic. By now a crowd had gathered to watch her crazed movements, accompanied now by high pitched chittering.
“What did you do? Why is she going nuts?”
“It’s an automatic feeder. It dispenses one lemon drop every two hours. No more, no less.” She chuckled and pointed at Jade. “It’s about to give her a treat.”
Just as I thought my young developer would fly apart if she vibrated any faster, a bright light flashed and a cute sable ferret was hopping around on the floor below the dispenser, still tangled in Jade’s clothing. Wiggling free, the ferret war-danced as the dispenser clicked again, then a chime rang out and a large, wrapped candy popped out.
Jade the ferret managed to catch it in mid-air, then sank her teeth into the wrapper and drug it after her, heading backwards out of the break room and toward her office.
I tried not to laugh. Really.
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Caress of the Sea Witch
She stared at him from the safety of the ocean’s rhythmic waves. Breathing deeply and raggedly, he lay above the tide’s marks on the peaceful beach. Bronzed skin glowed in the sunlight and the white, sun-warmed sand stuck to his damp, muscular body as if dusted on.
Every day for the last month, he had dove into the ocean before dawn and swam until the sun was high. His hard, defined muscles worked for hours, swimming through the waves almost as if born to the sea. Almost as graceful as she was. Exhausted, he would drag himself from the water to collapse on the beach until his taller friend finally came to collect him, to coax him to his feet and force him to walk away from the water.
Who was this dark-haired man?
He came into her watery domain as if compelled, yet she never sang for him, never drew him in. Instead he entranced her until she found herself waiting near the shore for him every day, ever afraid that each day would be the one that he would appear, would not come to her.
Today she finally gave in to her fascination and touched him with her magic. Slick as the water he swam in, she caressed his warm, laboring muscles. Learned the texture of the hair on his head as well the coarser hair on his body. Her magic swirled over his chiseled abdomen and slicked over his growing erection.
Too soon, he swam to shore and stumbled away. But she could no longer take the chance he would stop his visits. She needed to know this human, a need she’d never before felt in all her long life. A need that consumed her.
She floated toward the shore, closed her eyes and gathered her magic to her, casting the spell she’d only used once before. Power swirled around her, encased her, then receded. The sensations of having legs and a human body were so strange she collapsed to her knees.
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Death Whispers
Kate wrenched open the bottom drawer of the ancient dirty-beige filing cabinet and tossed her purse in before shutting it. As usual, it refused to close completely until she gave it a solid kick.
“Ah the glamorous career of journalism.”
A heavy sigh and she reminded herself she was still just the intern. Pretty much the lowest of the low on the food chain at the Seattle Sentinel. Only three weeks to go on her three month internship and it was back to school to finish her degree, but with some experience at a newspaper on her resume.
Of course this job had been a learning experience in an area she’d never expected nor wanted. Maintaining obituaries and fetching coffee had never hinted that Kate would find herself embroiled in a situation that both terrified and fascinated her.
Her stomach churned as she pulled the wobbly desk chair out from under the dented metal desk. A vain attempt to brush the little bits of shed foam off the seat and she took a deep breath before sitting in the chair. Careful to not tip it over, she tugged herself up to the desk and the many-times-handed-down PC.
Her hands shook slightly. Kate gave herself a mental shake; she still had a job to do, weird coincidences or not. Weird visions or not. At least she could do the people in her visions a favor and make sure their obituaries were well crafted and complete. Their last hurrah would be a caring one.
At first it was just a feeling. An urge to work on the obituary for a person not on her list. Once she’d completed the assigned list, she’d given in to the urge and updated the obit for Shelley Siren. Kate had filed it away and managed to put it out of her mind until, two days later, Shelley had died suddenly in a traffic accident.
No one questioned the fact her obit was so up to date, they’d merely run it as quickly as possible on the paper’s website and been happy to have beaten most others.
But it hadn’t stopped there. Three days later, the same situation had repeated itself with a reclusive ex-athlete. Then another. And another.
By the third week of her internship, Kate knew she’d had to go along with whatever name came to mind and stopped resisting or pushing away the thoughts. Instead she tried to open herself, to see if anything made itself known.
But last week things had changed again. Instead of just a name, she actually saw something when she’d closed her eyes to concentrate. Along with the name of a famous musician, she saw just a flash of a metal and plastic.
A day later the body of rock star Darryl Davenport had been found, dead of an overdose with a syringe on the floor next to him.
Kate’s previous resigned acceptance became gut-wrenching fear. Since that day she’d tried to push away any intuition, any thoughts of a name. She couldn’t do this. Somehow it was more than her fatalistic nature could take, to see something along with the name.
You can’t ignore it forever. You only have a little while left before you’re back in school.
Not that she actually knew if leaving the paper would mean her strange intuition would stop as well. She could only hope. There was no way she could live with this long term.
Come on Kate, get it over with.
She’d chosen to come in really early, before the other intern that shared the office cum broom closet with her would be in. Maybe she could find a way to warn the person about to die?
“Yah, and have them think you’re a crazed stalker.” She muttered to herself, even as she realized she was stalling. Maybe she wouldn’t see anything, think of anyone. It didn’t always happen.
Kate laid her cold hands flat on the desk and took another deep breath. Then another. Slowly breathe in, slowly breathe out. At last she felt relatively calm and shut her eyes, mentally ‘listening’ for anything.
For a moment, nothing happened. Maybe it was an empty day. Just as a sense of relief began to sink it, she clearly saw a shiny chrome automatic pistol swing around and point toward her. Then she heard a name as the gun steadied and panic set in.
Katherine Ann Succaro
Her name.
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Mating Rite (Adult)
Aislynn knelt before the low stone altar, the surface smooth and polished from generations of use. Her ritual tools were laid out upon it, familiar and ready for her use. The rising full moon glinted off the steel and bone of her athame. The hematite eyes of the raven head hilt seemed alive in the night.
She looked beyond the altar and saw the circle of standing stones around her. The familiarity of their regal presence helped calm the butterflies flitting through her stomach.
A cool breeze flowed over her in waves and teased her bare skin with its chill caress. Her nipples hardened to stiff nubs at the kiss of the night’s breath. Her long hair hung loose and the wind gently ruffled its length and the raven feathers woven into it.
Aislynn waited eagerly. Her circle already cast, she bowed her head and focused on the energy of the Goddess rising within her. It gathered in her abdomen then pulsed through her body until all of her seemed to throb in rhythm to the Goddess’ own heart.
The heat built within her and even her clit now throbbed in anticipation of Cian’s attentions and the ritual’s climax.
Her heart leapt at the sound of feet crunching on the gravel pathway around the standing stones. The sound moved around the perimeter of the circle until she heard it directly behind her. She lifted her head and smiled.
“Beloved, I have come.” Cian’s smoky bass sent jangles of electricity up her spine.
She gracefully rose to her feet, her athame held lightly in her hand. “How have you come?”
“In perfect love and perfect trust.” His response was clear and sure. Just the sound of his rich, deep voice with its sexy accent made her grow damp with need.
Aislynn turned and stepped toward the muscular figure at the entrance to the standing stones, awash in the moonlight and shadows. Her hair caressed her back and ass, the raven feathers a sharper note within the silky curtain. Her arousal grew more urgent by the moment until she felt her own cream run down her thighs.
She took a few steps closer still, admiring her mate. She could just see the faint tracery of the myriad of scars on his heavily muscled body. The band across his bicep came into focus as the vibrant pattern of intricately knotted thistles.
His long dark hair hung loose about his wide shoulders and small stag antlers jutted from his forehead, held in place by a gleaming metal band. He smiled and his rugged, strong face softened with a glint of humor.
His eyes appeared to glow with lust and need, an impressive erection jutting before him. This evidence of his need and desire for her made her breath catch in her throat. I do that to him. He wants me the same way I want him.
He chuckled slightly.
She realized she had been gaping at his cock and raised her athame to cut a passage through her circle’s energy to allow him entry.
He stepped through the passageway and she closed the circle again behind him.
He reached out and grabbed her waist in his huge hands. His impatience showed in the way he quickly pulled her body up against his own.
His cock bumped up against her belly and seemed to sear her with it’s heat. The drops of pre-cum dripping from the tip let it slide across her skin until it was nestled between their bodies.
Cian groaned and moved his hips to rub his cock against her again. He moaned again and his eyes closed briefly.
Aislynn reached up with her left arm and drew his head down to meet his lips with her own. Her hunger and passion made her aggressive. She captured his lips with her own and challenged him to yield and allow her in.
Her tongue darted along the seam of his lips until they opened and she could tease his tongue with her own. She slowly withdrew her own tongue, tempting and coaxing him to follow her.
He ran his tongue along the sensitive inner skin of her lips and caught her whimper in his mouth. He eased back gradually until he was only feathering small kisses on her lips and face.
“The ritual, ciat. We must complete the Mating Rite before I can have you.” Cian’s voice was almost a growl. “Goddess but I want to throw you on the ground right now.”
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Patterns
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.
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Eyes of Jade
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.
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved
Mirror, Mirror
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 ba