wood of the "Healing of the Deacon Justinian", in which the two saints are depicted in the act of transplanting the leg of a "moor" in replacement of the deacon’s diseased leg. Extremely interesting for the geographic disciplines is instead the San Marco Altarpiece, realised between 1438 and 1440: here, the Christ Child holds a terrestrial globe that modern scholars of ancient cartography have interpreted as a reference to the then known dry lands.

On the right wall of the passageway that connects the cloister of Sant’Antonino with the stairway that leads to the upper floor, the visitor can observe a cycle of four paintings by Jacopo Vignali, realised on the occasion of the plague of 1622-23 and intended for the convent "Spicery" (pharmacy). These paintings portray the themeof the disease and care of the body and spirit. On the opposite wall is the "Miracle of Saint Paul", a seventeenth-century work by Giovanni Bilivert, which presents an interesting curiosity: resting on the nose of one of the secondary figures is, in fact, a pair of eyeglasses, an object already widespread in the 16th century, and usually depicted in works of art as a symbol of knowledge and science.

The tie with science is even stronger, however, on the upper floor of the convent where, in addition to the cell of Cosimo with the fresco of the Adoration of the Magi in which there is a figure holding an armillary sphere, we also find the monumental Library by Michelozzo. The first public library of the Renaissance, it was


born to conserve the books of humanist Niccolò Niccoli which were joined, by order of Cosimo the Elder, by the major texts of Medieval theological, legal and scientific knowledge. In the following centuries, the importance of the library, continually enriched with new volumes, was testified by mathematician and philosopher Gottfried Wilhelm von Leibniz who, in 1689, was able to consult a text of mathematical logic (the Liber calculationum by Richard Swineshead), which he had sought elsewhere in vain. The remains of a wind-rose, carved on a layer of plaster at the height of the library’s seventh western bay, indicate the former location of the collection of scientific books, which is also testified by a sixteenth-century catalogue of the convent’s works.

The San Marco complex is also tied to anShe told herself that on the March afternoon she drove from her home near Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, to the heart of Baltimore. She told herself that as she sat outside the squat, gray headquarters of Baltimore Animal Rescue and Care Shelter (BARCs), in the shadow of M&T Bank Stadium, home of the Baltimore Ravens.

And she told herself that as the door leading out of BARCs opened and a smiling brown-and-white pit bull was lead onto the play area of BARCS.

“I was just afraid. It was hard to go there, because it reminded me of my last dog and I was convinced I would never have that connection again,” said Weikert. “When she came out she was just goofy, she was running around and falling off things and just perfect.


How accurate is the murder rate in Miss Fisher’s Melbourne? By Lizzy McNeill

More or Less, BBC Radio 4 Published duration 24 April 2018

image copyright Every Cloud Productions image caption Australian actress Essie Davis as Phryne Fisher in Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries

One of Australia's most popular TV shows, Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries, is set in 1920s Melbourne against a backdrop of jazz clubs, communist plots, alleyways and fabulous outfits.

Its protagonist, private detective Phryne Fisher, has a knack for finding herself embroiled in murder cases week after week.

Armed with a quick wit and "modern" outlook, Miss Fisher is shown living a glamorous - albeit often perilous - life.

But watching the series, the team behind BBC Radio 4's More or Less became suspicious: surely the murder rate on the show mustMidsomer Murders episode.

So what about Miss Fisher-era Melbourne?

Historian, writer and Melburnian Chris McConville says it was "a pretty dowdy, conservative sort of city" in the late 1920s. Melbourne had been hit by economic depression after the gold-mining boom of the 19th Century.

image copyright Getty Images image caption A view of traffic on Collins St, in central Melbourne, in 1925

Michael Shelford, a historian and creator of Melbourne's True Crime Tours, agrees and points out that the city was under prohibition from 6pm each evening onwards. This increased the sale of sly grog (counterfeit alcohol) but not necessarily violence, he says.

In fact, both historians told us that many of Melbourne's most notorious gangs had been forced out of the city in this period.

However, newspapers of the time were keen to


place within Melbourne and its suburbs, which works out to a rate of about three per month.

Surprisingly, this is very similar to the real murder rate of the time.

The city coroner released yearly or four-yearly morgue reports, which were printed in Melbourne's newspapers during the 1920s.

image copyright Every Cloud Productions image caption Miss Fisher's strong character and wit has won the show many fans

In 1928, the coroner recorded 32 homicides - or 2.6 murders per month. Comparing these figures to the population, the show's murder rate is 36 per million in 1928, whereas in real life the number was 32 per million.

So far, so impressively accurate.

However, when you look at the next two series, Miss Fisher's world becomes more deadly.

In series two and three, which are both setTuesday, July 29, 2008

Anyone who has ever witnessed the northern or southern lights would certainly attest to their beauty, but few would imagine that the mysteries of the aurora are still being uncovered. Last week, scientists announced a fundamental discovery about the physical mechanism that converts a stream of charged particles from the Sun into a stunning display of color and light in the Earth's upper atmosphere. The work represents a significant step forward in efforts to predict such events, which can damage satellites in orbit and disrupt power grids on the ground.

The basic mechanism that drives the aurora has been known for a long time. Our Sun is constantly shedding a "wind" of charged particles, primarily electrons and protons, which slams into the Earth's magnetic field. Since


charged particles in motion create their own magnetism (the underlying concept of an electromagnet), the solar wind spirals towards the Earth's north and south magnetic poles. There, it slams into the upper atmosphere and interacts with the oxygen and nitrogen atoms to produce shimmering curtains of green and red light in the sky.

The researchers used observations of the aurora from detectors on the ground, as well as measurements from a network of five NASA satellites that orbit at different heights within the Earth's magnetic field. By combining the data from these different sources, the scientists determined the detailed series of electro-magnetic events that precede and follow an auroral display. During times of relatively mild solar wind, the Earth's magnetic field works a bit like a capacitor -- accumulatinga subject in need of therapeutic treatment. The bioconjugate concentrates in a targeted cell, tissue or organ site as a result of the organocobalt complex. As an example, a bioconjugate containing a chemotherapeutic is administered to a patient and the bioconjugate concentrates in neoplastic cells where the active chemotherapeutic is released from the bioconjugate by cleavage. Similarly, other pharmaceuticals, drugs, peptides or oligonucleotides are administered to a subject as part of the bioconjugate which is concentrated in the desired cells, tissues or organs. The pharmaceuticals, drugs, peptides or oligonucleotides are released by cleavage. In one embodiment, the cleavage may occur as a result of normal displacement by cellular nucleophiles or enzymatic aciton. In a second embodiment, the cleavage is caused to occur selectively at the release site by


According to political journalist Debbie Schlussel, Hamad is connected to the Marxist-Leninist terrorist group Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine and has financially supported the Islamist terrorist group Hezbollah. In a television interview in 2002 on Fox’s Detroit affiliate, Hamad supported a Palestine Authority TV program that urged children to become suicide bombers, calling the program “patriotic.” (Schlussel points out that the Immigration and Nationalization Service attempted to deport Hamad for two decades because of his extremist connections.)

Salam Al-Marayati, Founder of the Muslim Public Affairs Council (MPAC). According to press reports, Al-Mayarati has long been criticized for his extremist views and statements. In 1999 former House Minority Leader Richard Gephardt (D-MO) withdrew his nomination of Al-Mayarati to the National Commission on Terrorism because of Al-Mayarati’s extremist politics.The entire Texas Tech basketball program made an incredible gesture on Wednesday night.

Ahead of their meeting with the rival Texas Longhorns, Red Raiders lined up in shirts featuring the No. 1 to honor and show respect to Andrew Jones, a Longhorns player who was recently diagnosed with leukemia.

Texas Tech shared a photo of their team wearing the warm-up shirts on social media.

Jones, a sophomore guard, was the Longhorns’ second-leading scorer with 13.5 points per game before suffering a broken wrist on Dec. 11. He was later forced out of action due to an undisclosed illness, which was then he was diagnosed.

“Speaking for our entire team and staff, we love Andrew and will do everything we can to support his family and help him get back to health,” Texas


see this result. Too bad we missed out on the LUUUUUUUUUUUUUKE versus BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO playoff.

Greg Chalmers: After taunting fantasy gamers after winning twice in December of 2011 in Australia, Chalmers put up exactly one top 10 in 2012. For those of you who found value in a player who made 20 of 25 cuts in 2012 and went with him again, he’s already hit the top 10 twice in six events (T10 at Riviera) with Sunday’s T4. He made a run at the leaders before a double at No. 10 and a bogey at No. 13 wiped out his chance to win. The “Snake” though bit back at “The Snake Pit” as he birdied two of the last four coming in to post his best finish since T4 atthe Sony but in his next six starts he made four cuts but his best finish was only T51. Sophomore slump? His T7 today showed he has all the talent to play out here and some guys just prefer certain courses over others. He’ll be back here next year and he will be on my radar.

Shawn Stefani: The man who led after the first two rounds was teeing it up for the ninth time in his career on TOUR. He’s on TOUR because he won twice last year on the Web.com Tour and finished in the top 25 in 10 of the 14 cuts he made. He showed some guts this weekend when he went out in 40 on Saturday and didn’t mail it in; he rallied for


hyper accurate off the tee and is 14th in total putting. Sounds like mini-Luke Donald, right?

Jim Furyk: Get out your permanent marker. Write down in ALL CAPS: I WILL PUT JIM FURYK ON MY 2014 TAMPA BAY CLASSIC TEAM NO MATTER WHAT. He finished T7 this year after losing in a playoff in 2012, T13 in 2011 and WIN in 2010. He loves this place. Love it with him.

Kevin Streelman won on TOUR for the first time in 153 starts as he mastered the Copperhead Course at Innisbrook in Palm Harbor, Fla. He fired 65-67 on the weekend to post 10-under-par 274 to best fellow countryman Boo Weekley by two shots. American Cameron Tringale finished three behind Streelman to secure third by himself.

Streelman was caddying at Whisper Rockjust 10 years ago and now he’s a winner on TOUR. Streelman joined the TOUR in 2008 and has never finished better than 71st on the money list nor has he finished worse than 109th (2012). Heading into this season gamers didn’t have many reasons to look in Streelman’s direction as he posted just three top 10s in 26 events en route to his worst season on TOUR money-wise. The only times we were seeing him on television on the weekends was when the mentoring commercials were running!

What a difference a year makes! In 2013 his game has really come together as a whole. He’s currently 22nd in the all-around category but that has only translated into one top 10 and one top 25 in seven events including


top 10 twice in six events (T10 at Riviera) with Sunday’s T4. He made a run at the leaders before a double at No. 10 and a bogey at No. 13 wiped out his chance to win. The “Snake” though bit back at “The Snake Pit” as he birdied two of the last four coming in to post his best finish since T4 at the RBC Canadian in 2010.

Justin Leonard: 40-year old J-Lo has now made the cut in seven of eight starts in 2013 yet this is his first top 25 and top 10 (T4). Leonard, who has not won since FESJC in 2008, matches his best result since Reno-Tahoe Open last August. He’s now made eight cuts in nine starts here including now four straight oftwo rounds was teeing it up for the ninth time in his career on TOUR. He’s on TOUR because he won twice last year on the Web.com Tour and finished in the top 25 in 10 of the 14 cuts he made. He showed some guts this weekend when he went out in 40 on Saturday and didn’t mail it in; he rallied for 34 on the back to keep himself in the tournament. Four birdies to three bogeys on Sunday meant his best finish in seven events this season and in his career. I have a feeling he’ll be joining some season-long games and weekly drafts after this week. He’s 14th in ball-striking yet only 144th in strokes-gained putting.

Jordan Spieth: One of the most popular questions this


should have known his name. After finishing fifth in his fourth career start, ALL fantasy golfers HAD to know his name. His first year on the TOUR has seen him now make the cut in five of seven events. Entering this week, his best finish was T39 last week in Puerto Rico. As we saw this week, he’s not super long but he is hyper accurate off the tee and is 14th in total putting. Sounds like mini-Luke Donald, right?

Jim Furyk: Get out your permanent marker. Write down in ALL CAPS: I WILL PUT JIM FURYK ON MY 2014 TAMPA BAY CLASSIC TEAM NO MATTER WHAT. He finished T7 this year after losing in a playoff in 2012, T13 in 2011 and WIN in 2010. He loves thisSkyfall download Parazitii

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Rajesh Khattar ( Hindi: रा जे श खट् टर, born 24 September 1966) is an Indian actor, storywriter/ screenwriter and voice over artist who is fluent in the English, Hindi, Punjabi and Urdu languages. Gamers and Bond aficionados alike will become James Bond, reliving the world- famous spy' s most iconic and intense undercover missions from throughout the entire Bond film franchise – including this year' s highly anticipated new installment, “ Skyfall” available as a free update on November 9,.


Largest haul of extrasolar planets for Japan

The 44 confirmed planets and their approximate size class, orbits and surface temperatures. Credit: John Livingston

Forty-four planets in solar systems beyond our own have been discovered in one go, dwarfing the usual number of confirmations from extrasolar surveys, which is typically a dozen or less. The findings will improve existing models of solar systems, and may help researchers investigate exoplanet atmospheres. Novel techniques developed to validate the find could accelerate the confirmation of more extrasolar planet candidates.

An international team of astronomers pooled data from NASA's Kepler and the ESA's Gaia space telescopes, as well as ground-based telescopes in the U.S. With John Livingston, lead author of the study and a graduate student at the University of Tokyo, the team's combined resources ledconfirmed planets and their approximate size class, orbits and surface temperatures. Credit: John Livingston

The source observations for this study were made by Kepler, which was repurposed after a fault in 2013 that prevented accurate control of the space telescope. "Two out of the four control reaction wheels failed, which meant Kepler couldn't perform its original mission to stare at one specific patch of the sky," explains Professor Motohide Tamura of the University of Tokyo. "This led to its contingent mission, K2—our observations came from campaign 10 of this mission. We're lucky Kepler continues to function as well as it does."

The planets observed by K2 are known as transiting planets because their orbits bring them in front of their host stars, slightly reducing their brightness. However, other astrophysical phenomena


has detected a new eclipsing cataclysmic variable. The newfound object, designated MASTER OT J061451.70–272535.5, is ...

The strange orbits of some objects in the farthest reaches of our solar system, hypothesised by some astronomers to be shaped by an unknown ninth planet, can instead be explained by the combined gravitational force of small ...

Exoplanet surveys have yielded many surprises over the years, and the discovery of "disintegrating" exoplanets was one of them. These are planets that produce asymmetric shapes in the dips of the light curves seen as they ...

An unusual set of celestial circumstances came together over Sunday night and the wee hours of Monday for sky watchers in Europe, Africa and the Americas, where the moon was fully obscured before lighting up again with a ...

The universeImage copyright Getty Images

A British-born former land-speed record-holder has died in a helicopter crash in the US state of New Mexico.

Charles Burnett III, aged 61, was killed alongside a prominent Zimbabwean politician, Roy Bennett, Mr Bennett's wife Heather, and co-pilots Jamie Coleman Dodd and Paul Cobb.

Mr Cobb's daughter Andra, who was Mr Burnett's long-term partner, survived the crash with serious injuries.

Mr Burnett, based in Houston, had set a number of records on land and water.

His most notable achievement came in August 2009, when he was the driver of a British-built vehicle that achieved an average speed of 139.8mph to smash the world record for steam-powered cars.

Before his successful attempt - which took place in California - the record had remained unbroken for 103 years - and Mr Burnett's


car was famously nicknamed the "fastest kettle in the world".

The editor of Guinness World Records, Craig Glenday, said he was "shocked and saddened" to hear of Mr Burnett's death, saying he "played an important role in what was to become a pioneering moment for the British Steam Car team".

"Charles clearly embodied passion," he added.

Image copyright Reuters Image caption Roy Bennett, who has opposed former Zimbabwean leader Robert Mugabe, also died in the crash

Giving details of the fatal helicopter crash, New Mexico police said they had launched a frantic search when Ms Cobb called the emergency number but could not give her location.

They confirmed in a statement that the helicopter's wreckage was found burning on a rancher's property east of the city of Raton.Retired Pennsylvania politician William Spingler was convicted this week of repeatedly groping his 103–year–old mother–in–law while visiting her in a nursing home.

Spingler, 75, a Democratic former commissioner in the Delaware County township of Radnor, had a 30–year career in politics before retiring in 2015.

Staff at the Wayne Nursing Home reported Spingler to police last December after they saw the ex–politician repeatedly grope his centenarian mother–in–law, who has dementia, on at least three occasions. Spingler admitted two of those attacks, but denied a third. Witnesses also say he admitted to forcibly kissing her despite pleas for him to stop.

A jury on Thursday found Spingler guilty of indecent assault on a person with a mental disability, the Daily Mail reported. Sentencing in the case is scheduled for September, and Spingler


was ordered to undergo a psychological evaluation. He also likely will be required to register as a sex offender.

A police report description of the victim published by the Daily Mail stated:

‘(She) is 103 years old and is diagnosed with dementia, unspecified lack of coordination, muscle weakness, anxiety disorder and difficulty walking.

‘(She) is physically and mentally unable to defend herself and is completely dependent upon staff to provide all activities of daily living care 24/7.’

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According to the New York Daily News, Spingler had lived with the victim for eight years before moving her to the nursing home. The victim’s daughter and Spingler’s former wife died in 2007.

At his trial, Spingler said he had made “the biggest mistake of my life.”

“I thought for shock value, you know, I could getnot warming up sufficiently.”
He leaned in and wrapped his coat over her shoulders, his deep voice like an
intimate connection. “Someone needs to take care of you.”She shuddered when his breath tickled
her ear. His warmth and nearness was just as heavenly as what he draped around
her. She could tell he found her refusal more amusing than deterring. Cyrus
closed the coat in front of her, his body heat palpable inside. The collar’s woven broadcloth brushed her
rain-misted cheeks, his pleasant scent on the cloth. The coat was part of an
expensive, well-tailored ditto suit: identical blue fabric with spare gold trim
on the coat, waistcoat, and breeches.“I’ll ruin part of a perfectly good
suit.” But she pulled the coat tighter, greedy for the snug feel.He added more coal to the blaze. The
inferno’s orange light


of everything we owned
bought us a place on some island in North Carolina. Gayle said a friend of hers
from elementary school moved to this place years ago, married a rich guy, and
now lives in the lap of luxury. Evidently, two cakes shy of forty, Gayle
planned to cash in before her stock (otherwise
known as tits) dropped any farther.

The moon shone bright over this
place that was far removed from the green hills of the small West Virginia town
I called home earlier this morning. In this new place, the land was flat, the
trees appeared stunted, and the whistling wind never seemed to stop.

But Brad needed an answer before
he'd let me go, so I told him the only honest answer of the day. “I have no
clue when I’ll be back.”

CassaStormAlex Cavanaugh

I nevershe was killing them.

She sat on a large square boulder, one of many that jutted from the grassy hillside. These mountains were filled with memories for her—clambering on the rocks as a child, sunning on them with a book as a teenager. She’d grieved her first broken heart right here, where the breeze in the tall pines breathed peace. The hilltop was considered sacred by the local natives, and she could see why. But Neva had always thought of it as her own special place. And it was the first place she thought of when she made the most difficult decision of her life.

She stared determinedly at the edge of the cliff, at the path she intended to take. They’ll just think I slipped. That wouldn't be hard


the steep, rocky trail to this isolated spot again, knowing what she was coming here for.

Neva stood on shaky legs, her focus on the cliff’s edge. It was maybe a couple dozen steps if she ran, and she was going to have to run if she wanted to clear the chalky sandstone side of the hill…She blanked out that dreadful image and took a step forward.

Two steps. Three.

Her heart was pounding so hard that she could hear it throbbing in her ears, feel it in her throat. There were tears streaming down her face now, but she took another step. And another. Her knees were jelly and if she didn't hurry, her legs might give way—

Suddenly, that something deep within her stirred again. She heard it call outto her as she took another wobbly step, but she dared not listen, she dared not heed.

Six steps. Seven.

***

He didn't know why his lupine persona had brought him here. Travis Williamson had wanted, no, needed to go for a run, and had simply given his inner wolf its head.

You damn well better know the way back. His alter ego ignored him, too busy enjoying its freedom to respond. Boxy boulders erupted through the steep, grassy hillsides like a giant’s molars, and pine trees punctuated the slopes, their roots clinging to the sharp incline. As he trotted along the ridgeline, he felt himself relax. The air was clear and cool, the pale moon’s light throwing every plant, every rock, and every tree into sharp relief. It was a perfect


thought that. Was she nervous because of the height? The plateau topped a section of hill that was steeper than the rest and jutted like a stone chin over the forested valley. The vantage point would be a photographer’s dream, but as the stranger suddenly took a shaky step in the direction of the edge, his gut said she wasn't there for the view. Her body language spoke of fear and terrible resolve as she took a second step. A third.

And he wasn't nearly close enough to stop her.

He wasn't waiting around for his human brain to come up with an idea, however. He was already running flat out with all the speed his kind was capable of. If only he could distract the woman, Travis thought, makeher stop, give him time, goddammit. In this form he couldn't yell at her, but he let loose with a flurry of yips and barks as if he was an excited yearling on a pack hunt.

The woman froze, and her shoulder-length hair whipped around as she scanned the hillside for the source of the lupine sound. It was unlikely she’d see him at this distance—his tawny-gold coat blended with the dry grass, day or night. Yet she did. She stared directly at him, and he was close enough to see her dark eyes widen with terror. Then she ran—

“No,” he yelled as she vaulted from the edge. But all that came from his throat was an agonized howl as he skidded to a stop a scant few feet


But then I looked up at him and grinned—my first smile—and he was
mesmerized, as if a spell had been cast over him. He knew I would be okay. Yet
he vowed then and there to never again let anyone or anything harm me.

My mother was
never seen again. After years of searching, my father arrived at the conclusion
that she must have either committed suicide or met some equally grim fate.

"Ruined." Angelica Winthrop tasted the word on her tongue and found it to be delicious. "Ruined," she whispered once more and allowed a smile to creep to her lips despite her choking bitterness. "Placed on the shelf; rendered unmarriageable for the rest of one's days."

Her smile faded and the stony lump in her throat returned as she looked at the remainsof her favorite book in the fireplace. All that was left were a corner of the cover and a few charred pages that would crumble at a touch. This time her mother had gone too far. She'd come into Angelica's room, snatched the book from her grasp, taken one look at the title, and emitted a strangled gasp of outrage.

"I cannot have you reading such trash," Margaret Winthrop had said when she threw A Vindication of the Rights of Woman by Mary Wollstonecraft into the fireplace.

"How can you call it trash?" Angelica had demanded, fighting back tears. "It's a logical treatise on the subject of our sex being capable of rational thought. As a woman, how can you not be aware of that?"

Margaret snorted indelicately. "The author bore


an illegitimate child then married an anarchist! I'll not have that book in my house." Her face was nearly as red as her curls. "It is bad enough that you are a veritable bluestocking. But if anyone knew you were a radical, your reputation would be blackened beyond redemption, with all hope of an advantageous marriage turned to refuse."

The sight of the book being burned thrust like a rapier through Angelica's heart. Her mother might as well have ripped away her spirit and cast it into the flames.

"Maybe I want my reputation to be ruined, Mother," Angelica had said, unable to hold back her ire... or her elation with the concept, once uttered. "Maybe I don't want to be a broodmare for some inane boor while he spendsscene of the crime and approached her writing desk, stopping for a moment to caress the polished mahogany surface, resisting the urge to open the secret compartment and look upon her other hidden and oppressed rebellion... the pages of her ghost stories.

Ever since she could pick up a quill, Angelica had loved to write. The falsehoods of fiction were much preferable to those of society. Her father encouraged her talent, but her mother, naturally, despised her writing and her father's support of a habit that she deigned "for the lower classes."

"You inherited such common traits from him!" she complained constantly. "I swear I shall always regret marrying a mere mister instead of a title. Perhaps then I would not have had such an unnatural daughter."

A confusing combination of


anger and pity for her mother always struck Angelica at those words. When Margaret married a common banker, the Earl of Pendlebur had been infuriated. He had cut off his daughter's money and promised to withhold the funds until Angelica made a proper marriage.

Now Margaret was determined to arrange the match of the season between her daughter and some indolent lord. Whether she intended the marriage to mend fences with Grandfather or if it was only for the money, Angelica didn't know. Either way, the pressure for a titled husband, a wealthy one if possible, was upon her tenfold more than the average debutante. The concept was sickening. One's merit should be separate from one's parentage.

She lifted her chin melodramatically and quoted, "‘What's in a name? That whichwe call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.'" Shakespeare had a valid point. Of course, that was as far as she could identify with his heroine. After all, Juliet actually wanted to get married.

The concept of marriage and being a proper society matron was anathema to Angelica. She longed for adventures such as Mary Shelley had embarked on when she was Angelica's age. Her imagination spun as she read of the author's journeys across the continent, taking her from Paris to Italy, even to Switzerland. It was in the evocative setting of Lake Geneva, during an exhilarating thunderstorm, that Mary had penned her gothic masterpiece, Frankenstein.

Amidst the company of such masterful writers as Lord Byron, John Polidori, and Percy Shelley, Mary had been completely


free to be herself and write what she wished. Angelica longed for such freedom. She knew her work would thrive if she were away from the stifling sphere of the haut ton, the hypocritical pinnacle of England's nobility and their stringent idea of marriage.

She heaved a sigh and sagged against the wall. Even Mary Shelley had given in to convention when she married Percy. And apparently marriage had suffocated even her bold spirit. After Frankenstein, Mary had quit writing. Wedlock and motherhood seemed to make every woman as miserable as Angelica's mother.

A noise outside interrupted her reverie. Angelica rushed to the window and caught sight of a carriage stopping in front of the mansion across the street behind her house. Her heart leaped in excitement. The duke wasback in London! Now, here was good fodder for her stories. Along with his predecessors, the Duke of Burnrath had always been the biggest mystery in high society. He rarely deigned to mix with the beau monde, only attending White's or the occasional ball before departing once again to places unknown.

Though His Grace was ever an object of speculation, he preyed on Angelica's thoughts only half as often as his home, the true center of her fascination. The imposing Elizabethan manor had belonged to the dukes of Burnrath for more than a hundred years. She believed Burnrath House was haunted. Angelica was unable to count the times she had seen movement or heard noises coming from the place when it was supposed to be vacant. Delicious fantasies whispered


through her mind as to what sorts of ghoulish specters lurked, or perhaps floated, in its dark recesses. Many of her stories were inspired by Burnrath House, but imagination could only carry her so far.

She gazed at the ancient mansion, shivering in her thin shift. The upper floors thrust up from the heavy evening fog, the ornately columned chimneys resembling dark sentinels. Angelica knew if she managed to get inside, she could create a masterpiece of gothic horror to match Mrs. Shelley's. Dedicated research was the source of all great stories, after all. Mentally, she added entry into Burnrath House to her goals.

Angelica caught a glimpse of a dark figure leaving the house and entering the carriage before footsteps on the stairs announced the approach of her motherand her lady's maid. It was a pity she couldn't call on His Grace. Even if it was permissible for an unmarried lady to do so, the duke didn't move in the same circles as her family. Yet another disappointment brought on by stuffy matters of propriety and rank. Her bedroom door opened and she darted from the window to sit primly on the bed.

"I cannot wait to see you in this exquisite creation!" Margaret sang as she carried a ball gown into the room. Liza, Angelica's lady's maid, followed behind with stays and petticoats. "The suitors will be lining up to dance with you." All signs of anger from the argument had vanished as Margaret resumed her role of happy matchmaker.

Angelica sighed. If Mary Wollstonecraft had been


her mother, she would be writing now instead of suffering this ordeal. The stays cut off her breath as Liza jerked the laces with a murmured apology. Angelica held up her arms for the endless layers of petticoats and, finally, the gown. One had to admit that the ensemble was exquisite. The pale blue satin shimmered, appearing to be anywhere between sapphire and the palest cornflower, depending on how the light hit the fabric. The dress was unadorned except for a trimming of darker blue lace at the oval bodice and along the hem.

"Since most debutantes will be wearing paler colors, I believe this will help you stand out, especially with the right coiffure." Margaret's tone forbade argument.

When Liza had finished her hair, Angelica surveyed her reflection inparents' good opinion to retain her position and the roof over her head. If Angelica succeeded in ruining her reputation and Liza knew about the scheme, her poor maid would likely be thrown out into the street without a reference. Liza was an agreeable accomplice to many of Angelica's adventures, but it would be best if Angelica acted alone on this mission.

To evade her maid's suspicion, she charged over to her bed and pulled a black silk garter from beneath her mattress.

Liza sighed again as she watched Angelica hike up her skirts to slip on the scrap of fabric. "Yer still wearin' that bleedin' thing? You never even met that poet."

"Of course I am still wearing it. John Keats has only been dead a week. A creator of


she helped Angelica with her cape and shooed her out the door.

Papa greeted Angelica at the bottom of the stairs. "Could this enchanting creature truly be my little daughter?"

She grinned at her father and dropped into a low curtsy. It was not hard to believe that her mother had once lost her heart to him. Though Jacob Winthrop was forty years old, his ebony hair had not the slightest touch of gray and his gypsy eyes, which he had passed onto Angelica, were framed by only the faintest of wrinkles. Despite the fact that he was untitled, many ladies of the Quality blushed and simpered over him. How was it possible that Mother no longer loved him?

A touch of apprehension caught her at the sight of her father'sbeloved visage. Would her ruination hurt him? She knew her mother would be devastated, and was surprised at the guilt that arose at the thought, despite her anger at Margaret's betrayal. Surely Papa would understand. He'd never been one to care much for the opinions of others.

She lifted her chin and quoted, "‘To hold a pen is to be at war.'"

Jacob beamed. "Voltaire, correct?"

Angelica nodded. Even if Mary Shelley had forgotten that writing was war, she wouldn't. And war meant making sacrifices. She must remember that.

As Papa escorted her outside, she peered at Burnrath House, visible through the naked branches of the hawthorn trees. The forbidding structure seemed to beckon her from the darkness. An intoxicating tremor ran all the way down to her toes. She pulled the


fabric of her cape tighter around her bared shoulders.

"Well, we had best be off before your mother has an attack of the vapors," Papa said with a slight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Angelica sighed and cast the house one last longing look before allowing a footman to assist her into the coach. She had to find a way in there.

Her mother lectured her for the entire ride to the Wentworth ball. No dancing more than twice with the same man, else she'd be ruined. If she forgot herself and drank too much champagne, she'd be ruined. Ruined... ruined. The word grew more tantalizing every time she heard it.

Ruined meant that no man would want to marry her.

Ruined meant that she could abandon this shallow facade ofbelonging with polite society.

Ruined meant her dowry would be her own. Ruined meant she could write as much as she pleased.

Angelica smiled in the dark carriage. She would embark on her quest tonight. Surely the mission couldn't be that difficult.

CLOSE TO THE EDGE

Suzanne Ferrell

Release Date: March 25, 2013

Her ass was by far the finest
he'd ever seen in this town.

Westen Township Sheriff, Gage
Justice, pulled his cruiser in behind the brown sedan parked in the alley
between the town’s only bank and Gold’s Foodmart. His deputy Cleetus was right.
Someone was definitely digging around in the trash dumpster.

A satisfied smile of pure
male appreciation split Gage’s lips and a warmth spread over his body as he sat
back and admired the view. This didn’t look to be your typical dumpster diver.
The woman stood tiptoe


on the hood of her car, the top half of her body bent
over and into the container’s edge. The way the perp’s jeans clung and
stretched around her thighs and nice round bottom warmed more than his smile.

Oh, yeah. A man could spend
all day holding those round cheeks in his hands. Wonder if the top half of her
was as nice as the bottom?

He gave himself a mental
shake. The more important question was why was she rifling through the trash?

Without making a sound, he
eased himself out of the cruiser, leaving the door open. Careful not to step on
anything to alert her of his presence, he moved past her car to stand just
below her and off to the side. He looked at her feet.

Awful small, even for a
woman.

The jeans clung toher legs,
which weren’t supermodel thin, but nicely shaped. He resisted the urge to reach
up and squeeze her calves.

“Exactly what do you think
you’re doing?” he asked in his best bad-cop voice.

Startled, she jumped and
lifted her top half out of the bin. For a brief second he caught sight of her
face. It wasn’t the kind that stopped men dead in their tracks, but the curious
brown eyes, the arched dark eyebrows, and the soft lips rounded in an O of
surprise caught his attention.

At that moment her foot
slipped.

In almost slow motion her
balance shifted. Dark hair flying about her, she waved her arms around in big
helicopter circles, papers drifting down like confetti. She twisted to one side
as if she meant to catch herself on the edge of the dumpster, only to slip
again. This


arm and stopped her, turning her to
face the car.

WHERE THERE’S A WILL

Karen Kelley

Sourcebooks,
September 2012

Chapter 1

"Please, Lord, you have to send me a miracle. A man, in
case you want specifics."

Haley Tillman really needed to get laid before she incinerated.
If a man looked cross-eyed at her, the only thing left would be a pile of
smoking ashes.

Just one little bitty miracle. Was that too much to ask?

She was thoughtful for a moment, then decided she'd better
revise her prayer. Once, she'd asked for a stuffed bunny rabbit. The next day
her dad took her to the taxidermist to pick up Fifi, the family dog that had
died two weeks before, or as Haley preferred to call the beast when no one was
around, The Tasmanian Terror. The mongrel was more her mother's pet. Her father
hadhad the miniscule creature stuffed.

There was also a sale on stuffed rabbits. She hated the
glass-eyed zombie rabbit and hid the nasty looking creature in the back of her
closet. There was no escape from Fifi, though. Her mother placed the silent
menace in the living room where everyone could see the dog.

So maybe a prayer revision might be in order. "Not just any
man. I want a really hot, drool-worthy, sexy man." That still wasn't good
enough. "No, he has to be more than a normal man. He has to stand above
mere mortals. No more dweebs, losers, or rejects." She figured it wouldn't
hurt to ask for the best.

And no more crying jags like the one last night just because
she'd been stood up. She threw the cover back and grabbed her black-rimmed
glasses off


the nightstand before heading toward the bathroom.

A miracle would be nice. She snorted. As if a miracle was ever
going to happen. She was pretty sure hot and sexy would never make it to her
front door. Her almost date hadn't been drool-worthy. She supposed Ben wasn't
bad looking, in a GQ, polished sort of way.

Haley sighed. Being stood up was nothing new. Anyone with a
little bit of sense would be used to it by now, but not her. Okay, so maybe she
sort of expected it because she'd cornered him. She did not wear desperation
well.

"Ben could've said no," she mumbled as she walked
inside the bathroom and flipped on the light. Her coworker from the bank owed
her. Haley had worked all week crunching numbers for him.

She casually glanced toward the mirror andsaw an apparition.

Her heart pounded inside her chest. She stumbled back, bumping
into the bathtub. Before she toppled inside, she slapped a hand on the toilet
seat and regained her balance.

As her pulse slowed to a more normal rate, she cautiously
scanned the tiny room. She was the only one there. Her imagination was getting
the best of her. That's all it could be. Over-tired, stressed, of course she
was seeing things. She came to her feet, nerves stretched taut. Her stomach
rumbled.

Please don't be the ghost of Nanny.

She loved Nanny, but her grandmother was gone, and though Haley
had lots of fond memories, she wanted her to stay gone.

She was still trembling when her gaze landed on the mirror. She
jumped, heart pounding again until she realized it was only her reflection that
stared back. Fantastic,


she'd scared herself. This had to be an all-time low.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them
again. Mornings were not good. She should drape black silk over her mirrors
until she at least had her first pot of coffee. Not that she was monstrously
hideous, but she was no beauty queen, either.

She had her father's looks. Her father was tall. Haley was five
feet seven inches. She also had her father's dull, dishwater blonde hair. Her
hair had turned bright orange when she attempted to color it in the eighth
grade. She decided dull blonde was better. Her boobs were too big, too, but
they matched her hips.

All the magazines she read said you had to like at least one
thing about yourself. Her legs were nice and long. When shewasn't tripping
over her feet, she was fairly satisfied with them. Except her life was never
going to change. And miracles? She stopped believing in miracles a long time
ago.

She brushed her teeth, then dragged a comb through her tangled
hair so it didn't look quite so much like a rat's nest. There was a half gallon
of ice cream in the kitchen freezer. It wouldn't be too difficult to eat
herself into sugar oblivion. She could bring new meaning to the phrase death by
chocolate. What would her sister say? Rachael never, absolutely never, let
sugar cross her lips, and she always said Haley was killing herself. Right now,
she didn't really care.

The buzz from her doorbell blasted through the tiny two-bedroom
house that she'd inherited from Nanny, effectively drawing her away from her
dreary thoughts. Bummer. She'd


already started planning her funeral. She
sighed. It was way too early for doorbells.

She grabbed her faded pink terry-cloth robe off the hook on the
door and pulled it on over her green froggy flannel pajamas and left the
bathroom. The doorbell buzzed again.

"Okay, okay," she mumbled.

Once she stood at the front door, she peered through the
peephole her father had installed for safety, as if anyone would ever break
into her house. What would they steal? Her hand-me-down furniture?

She blinked. No one there. Were they hiding?

Hmm, serial killer lurking outside her door? Would that count as
a date? Nope, they didn't have murders in Hattersville. Nothing, absolutely
nothing, ever happened in the small town. She shook her head and opened the
door a crack, making sure the chain was secure.

"Hello?"

A man stepped into her lineof vision. Haley's mouth dropped
open. Good Lord! This had to be the guy who invented tall, dark, and sexy! Her
thighs quivered.

At least six feet one inch of pure testosterone stood on her
porch. He had the dark good looks of a male stripper, only with clothes on. The
stranger removed his black Stetson, slowly dragging his fingers through thick,
coal-black hair. His deep blue eyes held her gaze before sliding down her body
as if he could see more than the sliver revealed from the slightly open door.

Warm tingles spread over her like a Texas wildfire in the middle
of summer. She could barely draw in a breath as her gaze moved past broad
shoulders and a black Western shirt that hugged his scrumptious muscles. Then
her eyes slipped right down to the low-slung jeans


riding his hips, past
muscled thighs, all the way to his scuffed black boots.

Oh, Lord, her every fantasy stood on her front porch!

She forced herself to meet his gaze.

I want him! She felt like a kid in a candy store with lots of
money to spend. Mommy, Mommy, can I have the hot sexy cowboy? Pleeeeeeeeease!

If only it was that easy. No way would she ever have the
opportunity to have sex with someone who looked like him. What was he doing at
her door, anyway? Lost?

"Haley, right?" he asked with a slow drawl that made
her body tremble with need.

How did he know her name? She grasped the door a little harder.
He smiled as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. Her world began to
tilt. She remembered that breathing might noton her grandmother's white rocking chair. Her
rocker had always sat in that same spot on the porch for as long as Haley could
remember. The cowboy lightly set the chair in motion. Back and forth, back and
forth, his thumb lightly caressing the weathered wood.

Wow, her prayer had really been answered? The man upstairs had
given her more than she'd asked for. She reached up to smooth her hair about
the same time reality set in. Had she lost her mind?

"Go away!" She slammed the door shut. Her pulse raced
so fast Haley thought her heart would jump out of her chest. At this rate she
was going to have a heart attack before she turned twenty-seven! Who was he?
Definitely the wrong house. Shoot, the wrong town. No one who looked like him
lived in


Hattersville. Definitely a salesman. As if she needed another vacuum
cleaner. Three were quite enough. Another magazine subscription might have been
nice. One could never have enough magazines.

But wouldn't it have been nice if he was sent in answer to a
prayer? How had he known she'd prayed for a miracle? Not that it mattered since
she'd slammed the door in his face.

Oh, hell!

What was she thinking? Haley smoothed her hands down the sides
of her robe, took a deep breath, and started to open the door. She remembered
at the last minute to remove her glasses and stick them in her pocket. Rachael
had said they made her appear to be more professional. Haley thought the
glasses made her look like Buddy Holly. She wore them out of habit rather than
a need to see. Shepasted a smile on her face and opened the door as much as
the chain would allow.

The cowboy wasn't there.

Had she only imagined him, too? She closed the door enough so
that she could slide off the chain. Her smile was still firmly in place when
she opened the door again. Nothing. Only old Mrs. Monroe watering her lawn
across the street. She looked up and waved as her crotchety husband came around
the corner of the house, getting a face full of water. Mrs. Monroe quickly
dropped the hose.

Haley smiled, then glanced down the street. Her smile dropped.
Not a soul, darn it. Her fantasy lover, possibly an answer to her prayer,
showed up on her porch and what did she do? Slammed the stupid door in his
face.

Maybe she only imagined the guy. Really, who


could actually look
that good? She took a cautious step past the doorway. Maybe Mrs. Monroe saw the
cowboy. But her neighbor had already turned off the water and they were going
inside.

Haley stepped off the wide, covered front porch, her eyes
narrowing as she looked up and down the street. Still nothing.

Chelsea, the former cheerleader, high school football
sweetheart, beauty-queen-turned-slutty-bank-teller stepped out of her house
next door, then gave a surprised jump when she caught sight of Haley. Chelsea's
gaze swept over her.

"You really should take a little more pride in your
appearance." She shrugged. "But then I suppose nothing would help, so
why try?"

Haley's lip curled. Why had her coworker bought the house next
door? To taunt her? Her ploy was working.

"I'm sorry about last night. Ben and I happened to be
working late at the bank,and afterward we decided to have a drink. He totally
forgot about his date with you until it was too late. I hope you weren't too
disappointed."

Haley took a step back as Chelsea hurried down the front steps
to her sporty little red Mustang. Chelsea had to know about the date. Then it
hit her. Of course Chelsea knew. That was exactly why she'd coerced Ben into
taking her for a drink. Chelsea loved hurting people. It was a game to her-one
she played very well.

Haley tried to think of something smart to say. "You...
you..." Darn! Why couldn't she think of a good comeback? She probably
would later when she wouldn't need it. "I hope you get a flat tire,"
she finally sputtered. Oh, that was a real winning line. Sheesh!

Chelsea was right, though. Haley's looks


a drink. She would get dressed, then figure out what she would
do for the rest of her boring day.

She trudged into the bedroom and came to a dead stop. She could
feel the color drain from her face. The cowboy casually reclined on her bed
with his back braced against her headboard, his booted feet crossed at the
ankles.

And he was reading her diary. Her very naughty diary. Oh, Lord!
All her fantasies were in that diary. She'd even made up a few she thought
might be interesting. Pages and pages of-sex! Good girls didn't write about
sex. Except Haley did write about sex. All her dreams were kept hidden between
her mattress and box springs. No one was supposed to ever know just how naughty
she could be!

"That's my diary," she choked out.

He glanced up."And very explicit. Do you actually
fantasize about stripping in a club?" His words were lazy, with just a
slight Texas drawl that washed over her like hot fudge dribbled on vanilla ice
cream. When his heated gaze trailed down her body, she melted.

Haley's body temperature jumped from hot to cold to burning up.
He was reading about her private desires. Every fantasy she'd ever heard about,
read about, or even imagined, was on those pages. She wanted to die!

Wait a minute. What was she thinking? A strange man was inside
her home and she was worried he was reading her stupid diary? She threw the can
of soda at him and whirled around. She only had to make it out of the house.

But when she slid into the living room, he was leaning against
the


shake it at him, hoping to put the fear of God
into him, but was held up by the cord. This was not the fierce image she wanted
to portray.

She jerked the cord out of the socket then quickly faced him
again. "The soda can might not have done much damage, but I guarantee this
lamp will."

"You're the one who prayed for a miracle," he pointed
out.

Her eyes narrowed. "Lucky guess, but I'm not buying that
you're an angel."

"Sort of," he reminded her.

"What the hell is ‘sort of' supposed to mean?"

"I'm a nephilim." He took a step toward her.

She raised the lamp, which was getting a little heavy.
"Don't come any closer."

He stopped, but darn it, he didn't look a bit put out that she
had a weapon. He'd changed his angel story, too. "What's anephilim?"
And why the hell was she engaging in conversation with someone who had
obviously escaped from the state hospital?

"My father was an angel, and my mother was a mortal. They
mated and created me, a nephilim. An immortal."

"Yeah, right." Oh, Lord, he was crazier than she
thought. "A cowboy, who's half angel. Nope, I've never seen that,
either." There were plenty of cowboys in Hattersville and they only loved
three things: their horses, their trucks, and drinking. Sexy, yes. Angelic, no.

"I'm here because you asked for a miracle."

"If you'll just leave my house, I promise not to call the
police."

He took a step toward her.

She took a step back.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"Stay where you are," she warned.

But he didn't stop moving toward her. She hated violence,
especially when it involved her. Well, he


couldn't say she didn't warn him.
With all the strength she could muster, and the surge of adrenaline created by
her mounting fear, she threw the heavy lamp at the cowboy.

The lamp went flying right at him. He jerked his hand into the
air, palm up. The lamp stopped midair. The cord dangled, swinging back and
forth.

"How did you do that?" Haley whispered.

"I told you, I'm a nephilim." He snapped his fingers
and the lamp was back on the side table; even the cord was plugged in.

The room began to spin around. Haley reached for something to
steady herself, but only connected with air. She never fainted.

Strong arms suddenly were around her. He picked her up and
carried her to the sofa, setting her down gently as darkness closed in around
her. This was it. Thebest looking man to ever knock on her door was an angel.
She was dead and didn't even know it, and here he was about to take her
to-Heaven?

Pfft. And why not, she'd never sinned. Not one blasted time.
Well, unless she counted all her sexual fantasies, and apparently they didn't
count. Nope, her strict moral upbringing guaranteed her a place in Heaven.

"Are you still with me?" he asked.

Something cool and wet pressed against her face. Her eyes
fluttered open. A washcloth. He was still there. This wasn't one of her dreams.
She whimpered. He pulled her closer to his chest. She breathed in a heady scent
that reminded her of leather and a clean country breeze. Except she didn't feel
comforted because she knew exactly what was happening. "I don't want to be
dead," she sobbed.


What had she died from? Brain tumor? Car accident-well,
probably not a car accident since she was inside her home.

He began to lightly stroke her back. "You're not
dead."

Not dead? That was a relief. His touch was soothing. She could
feel herself begin to relax, until she remembered she still didn't have
answers. "Then why are you here?"

"I told you. I heard you praying for a miracle."

She frowned, only remembering she'd prayed for sex. Or maybe she
was thinking about sex and prayed for a miracle. It made sense because she
thought about sex a lot. She leaned back and looked into his eyes. He had nice
eyes. They were a startling shade of blue. So intense. Her gaze moved over his
face. Delicious. Was he really an answer to her prayer? There was one wayto
find out. "Okay, if you're my miracle, then kiss me."

Without hesitation, his lips lowered to hers, the warmth of his
breath whispering against her cheek right before his tongue scraped across her
lips. She opened her mouth and his tongue slipped inside. A deep, shuddering
sigh swept over her as he explored her mouth, caressing her tongue with his.
She was starting to grow damp when he pulled back.

"Wow, please don't wake me up," she finally said.

"You're not asleep." He grinned, and once again she
was mesmerized by his smile.

This was the best dream she'd ever had! She squeezed his arm.
Her heart skipped a beat.

If it was a dream, then why did he feel so real?

==========

A PLACE CALLED ARMAGEDDON: CONSTANTINOPLE 1453CC Humphreys

– prologus –

6 April 1453

We are coming, Greek.

Climb your highest tower, along


of them
reach its waters, they halt,

turn, settle. Rank on rank on the
ridgeline, numberless as ants. Their

mehter bands sound a last peal of notes, a last volley of
drumbeats.

Then all is silent.

Only for a moment. Drums again, louder if
that were possible,

even more trumpets. Because the Anatolian
division is larger. Can

you believe it? That as many men pass
over the hilltop again and

then just keep coming? They head to the
other sea, south toward

Marmara, warriors from the heartland of
Turkey. The sipahi, knights

mailed from neck to knee, with metal
turban helms, commanding

their mounts with a squeeze of thigh and
a grunt, leaving hands free

to hoist their war lances high, lift
their great curving bows. Eventually

they pass, and then behind them march the
yayas, the peasant soldiers,

armored by the lords they follow, trained
by them, hefting their

spears, their great shields.

When atthese warriors.
Taken as Christian boys,

trained from childhood in arms and in
Allah, praise Him. Devoted to

their corps, their comrades, their
sultan. They march in their ortas, a

its green has turned black with the
years. It looks to you what it is—a

tattered piece of cloth.

It is the banner that was carried before
the Prophet himself, peace

be unto him. You know this, because when
it is driven into the ground,

a moan goes through the army. And then
the second pole is placed

and the moan blends with the chime of a thousand
tiny bells. The

breeze also lifts the horsetails that
dangle from its height.

Nine horsetails. As bef its a sultan’s tug.

Mehmet. Lord of lords of this world. King
of believers and unbelievers.

Emperor of East and West. Sultan of Rum.
He has many titles

more yet he craves only one. He would be
“Fatih.”

The


on the joy again. Who wouldn’t be
optimistic at the sight of the beautiful array of vegetables in the cooler?
The radicchio looked like a bouquet of crumpled purple roses; so convoluted and
crisp, it burst with life. The fennel fronds were soft and feathery. She wanted
to brush them against her skin. Even the more common produce like celery and
carrots seemed firmer, brighter and sharper. Her mother could write the book on
fresh, local, and seasonal, that was for sure. She gathered what she needed and
took it back to her station.

She worked slowly and deliberately, humming a bit as her
knife worked through the vegetables to make the battuto, so much like the
French mirepoix, but finer and with garlic, of course. The battuto reduced celery,
carrot, and onion to their essences and then carriedthem through the dish.
With guilt, she realized she hadn’t made one since her basic skills class at
the Culinary Arts College.

As she chopped, a prickle of anxiety made her heart
stutter in her chest. What if she couldn’t finish her soup in time? What if it
was unremarkable? What if her custard scrambled? Or was pale and wan? Insipid?
For a moment her knife stopped moving and she felt locked in place by the same
kind of pressure that had paralyzed her in New York. Stop it. It’s just food.
No one was expecting anything of her. She could walk out of the kitchen right
now having accomplished more than had been asked of her.

With surprise, she realized she didn’t want to leave. She
wanted to cook. Her heart skipped another beat, but this time it


was because of
excitement. She began to chop again, remembering how much pleasure Sean had
taken in the simple Italian meal last night. She wanted it to be her food that
brought him pleasure. Only her food?

No, not just her food. As soon as she got the custards in
the oven, she would go to the tasting room and ask Gia to pair wines with
tonight’s menu, although she was going to make sure they didn’t drink too much
tonight. Maybe then she could finally get laid. The thought popped into her
head and she froze, then she laughed, surprised she felt no panic.

She distinctly remembered the utter relaxation she had
felt as she fit her body to his right before she fell asleep. Right before you
used him as a bed, you mean. If she hadgotten any closer to him, they would
have become one person.

Exactly. The beast with two backs.

She snorted. Naturally, the first bit of Shakespeare that
came to her would be that one. Her hands had been busy with the knife while she
was thinking, and the battuto was ready. She heated olive oil in the pan to fry
the pancetta. When it was crispy, she removed it and began to sweat the
vegetables. The fragrance of her childhood wrapped itself around her. She
chopped fennel and more garlic, glorying in the beauty of the simple
ingredients.

As she julienned the remaining carrots for the sheer
pleasure of feeling her knife move, she felt an ease she hadn’t enjoyed for
months, maybe years. She felt drunk with the joy of creating something without
worrying about how much it was costing, how


past wrongs. Can Aphrodite prove to him that his life needs a little bit of magic?

Zane Harrison stared at the
woman on the other end of the scimitar and tried to remember exactly how he’d
come to have a sword pointed at his chest.

“Holy smokes!” The woman sucked in a
breath, clamped a hand over her mouth, and dropped the sword.

Right on top of him.

The pommel conked him on the head and the
blade spun around, almost taking off his nose.

Zane leapt to his feet and grabbed the
sword in one movement, the hours spent in football training drills thankfully
having real-world application, although he’d never imagined that would be to
defend his life during a trip back to his ancestral home in the middle of
nowhere.

Then he got a good look at the woman. A
moreif he was aware of his abilities. “So you say you
moved here permanently from the city? You can do that just with your programs?”

A casual shrug rippled across his
broad shoulders. “The royalties for using the software are quite generous.”

“It must be nice to live a life of
leisure and enjoy the nature around you.” She hit a watery patch of sand where
her foot sank deep, making her wobble and bump up against him. The moment her
skin met his, the buzz of his power radiated throughout her, awakening desire
along her sex, which quivered in reaction.

Totally not a human life force.
Caught off guard, his energy was clearly discernible and much more powerful
than what she had expected.

He stopped walking and shifted away,
but kept a gentle hand on her arm to stabilize her.


From that point of
connection, warmth and energy continued to travel between the two of them,
making it impossible to deny the Hunter blood in him.

“What are you?” she asked, looking
into his eyes. It was clear as she met his gaze that he understood her question
had nothing to do with his home or employment or anything else two normal
people would discuss on a first date. That lack of confusion confirmed she was
not off in her observations.

“What’s more important to you: What
I am or who I am?” he replied, his grip tightening on her arm for a
moment before he relaxed it and instead brushed his hand from wrist to elbow in
a simple caress. But beneath the physical touch came one of energy. Strong and
demanding, it created a glimmer of aqua whereverhis fingers touched her and
traveled straight to her Hunter center.

The motion sent a shiver of
anticipation through her and created searing desire deep within. She imagined
his touch along other parts of her body and how their energies could meld,
bringing even greater satisfaction. Dangerous thoughts considering how little
she knew about him. Plus there was the fact that it was painfully obvious that
he was not only aware that he possessed such power, but also seemed to know
that she did as well.

She should have been more worried,
since so far she had not been able to determine if he was Hunter or Hybrid. And
if he was a Hunter, she had no clue if he was one of the Dark Ones or a Light
Hunter, which was equally troubling. But there was one sure thing


on which she
could rely: If he was a Shadow something bad would have happened long before
now.

As he took hold of her hand, the
sizzle of power continued. She glanced down to where their hands were joined
and the glow intensified. Tendrils of silver and blue twined around the spot
and she waited, fearing that if he was a Shadow he’d sink his ravenous
filaments deep into her aura and try to drain her of her life force.

But he didn't.

If anything, his power seemed to be
similar to hers, complementing it—arousing physical passion and bringing
immense curiosity about him.

“So who are you?” she
wondered, following his lead for the moment, allowing her fascination with him
to overrule common sense.

One side of his lips quirked up with
the first hint of that sexy smile and boyish dimple. The moonlightcast a
silvery glint to his gaze, which gleamed with intent as he said, “I’m a man who
desperately wants to kiss the beautiful woman beside him.”

This time it was his words that
dispatched a wave of heat over her. Man-woman heat that she didn’t want to deny
because more than almost anything, she wanted to have normal in her life.

“What’s stopping you?” she said with
an inviting arch of her brow.

He bent his head and she raised on
tiptoe to eliminate the couple of inches that separated them. His lips were
warm as they covered hers, hesitant at first, but from the moment skin met
skin, desire grew until Victoria wanted more.

She laid her hand on his shoulder
and leaned into him, opened her mouth to taste him and savor the shape of his
lips with hers.


from her.

“Okay then. That’s settled.” He dumped the shredded
check into the trashcan, then sidled close enough to peer over her shoulder.
“Are those crêpes?”

Chlorine and essence du Todd tickled her nose and
the little fine hairs on the back of her neck started doing the “Todd Lambada”
dance, which had the added benefit of heating her from the inside out so her
tears sizzled out of existence.

“Yep. One of my specialties.” She turned around and,
smart boy, he scooted out of her way. Trying to regain whatever composure she
had left, she spooned some of the fruit into the center, rolled the crêpe and
drizzled more of the strawberry/orange juice over it. She handed him the plate
and he took a seat.

“How about whipped cream with this?” he asked.

Whipped cream. She stifled a groan as shesake. Could she have some time for them
to calm down before he had ’em up and dancing?

“Thanks,” she mumbled, shoveling the rest of her crêpe
in. She was out of there as soon as she finished one last bit of juice. Pseudo-cookbook,
here I come.

Searing WindBattle for America SeriesKathleen and Michael GearBlurb: Black Shell is an exile, banished by his people for his cowardice in battle. To his fearsome patron spirit, Horned Serpent, however, he is imbued with the courage and keenness to stop theKristianoonslaught. He and his beautiful wife Pearl Hand have fought them from the Florida Peninsula through the very heart of native America. A trader by profession, Black Shell now dedicates his soul to destroying the invaders, with their impenetrable armor, their swift, enormouscabayos, and their flashing,


razor-sharp swords.

Black Shell and Pearl Hand have seen the shackled, naked, starving slaves, heard the broken promises—and learned de Soto’s plans. While the battle of Mabila cost many Kristianos life and limb, the marauder does not retreat. Now he heads for Chicaza and the people from which Black Shell was once exiled.

Wounded and pursued by memories and visions, Black Shell is obsessed with setting the perfect trap. To do so, he must use the Chicaza and their stockpiles of food and supplies. And he must gamble everything on his people’s pride, traditions, and failings. As winter sets in, new dangers abound for the pair—that of a family’s shame, a woman’s anger, and a betrayal that may force Black Shell to forfeit his last chance to save their worldGuu’s prescription
diet pills. Nicky yawned once more, then screwed off the cap and looked at the
contents. There were about twenty. He
won’t miss one more. Just one more. He tapped the plastic container with
his forefinger and one fell into his hand. He popped it in his mouth, then ran
water and drank from the faucet.

Nicky
experimented with social drugs in high school, but they had never been a part
of his everyday life. He stopped altogether when he began college. But lately
he felt exhausted. Overwhelmed. He needed a lift. He recently began taking
these pills. One here. One there. That’s all. Then he started taking one a day.
Guu would receive diet pills from three different doctors and had yet to notice
someone was skimming from his three vials, each with a ninety day supply.

Nicky
was


confident he could control his usage, regardless of the pressure of
planning assassinations and the lack of sleep that accompanied being a leader
of a small group of global revolutionary zealots.

Nicky
drove home, took a shower, and put on clean clothes. He felt refreshed. In a
good mood. It’s a great day wreck some havoc on the world. At least in theory.
Mina will help expedite the process. As
he headed into the kitchen, he knew he needed to talk with the talented
bio-chemist before doing anything else.

He
made a turkey and Swiss sandwich on seven grain bread. Two slices of
organically grown tomatoes, a piece of lettuce, and a thick layer of sprouts
topped off the contents. He needed to eat now, or he would lose his appetite
due to the diet pill. He took in a largebite, then text messaged Mina.

R
U @ clas?

Im
in lab

We
need 2 tlk

Can
it wait?

Not
with r plnz tonite

K
– cum ovr Im here til 3

Nicky
swiped a bottled water from the refrigerator and the rest of his sandwich,
walked to his car, and drove to M.I.T.
He pulled into the parking structure at ten after one. Plenty of time to
talk to Mina before she leaves. Research in organic chemistry took place in the
Dreyfus Chemistry Building, which boasted the highest level of equipment in its
field developed by man. He entered and strolled to the lab where Mina worked on
her school projects.

Walking
down the corridor, Nicky reflected on how he could, until recently, enter many
of M.I.T.’s research facilities as a guest. Everyone knew him, since he was
Professor Fischer’s son. He had always reveled in the respect people gave him,
feeling


like a celebrity as people addressed him, shook his hand, patted him on
the back, and invited him to parties.

That
was until the arrest of his father. Now people stared without greeting him, or
looked the other way when he entered a room. He was more a freak than a
celebrity. He hated this. His violent anger raged. He shoved the shame and fury
down into a dark recess of his psyche and put on a happy face as he approached
the lab door. I’ll have my day. Then they’ll treat me with the dignity and
respect I so deserve. One way or another.

Mina
saw him enter and waved him over. Nicky smiled, nodded to Mina, also to her lab
partners, and then felt his stomach drop as he watched the rest of her group
walk away ashe approached the table.

His
rage swelled as he walked down a row of work stations. Pioneering the way for a
global scientific oligarchy is a noble effort, he thought. Few have the ability
to scheme and follow through. Still, he realized, he needed an accelerant in
addition to using wormholes to introduce change. And he’d recently developed a
need to extract revenge on mankind in general for a lifetime of rejection. All
the more motivation to encourage Mina to move forward with her virus.

Nicky
was glad to see Mina. She always smiled. He appreciated she was predictable, in
contrast to Staci, who he sometimes perceived as a human minefield, ready to
explode without warning as he attempted to navigate her emotional battlefield.

Lately,
he found himself more and more attracted to Mina's encouraging words
that she seemed to have waiting


for him, pleasantly surprising him when he
approached her. And she was beautiful. At five feet three inches, she was
slightly shorter than Staci. She had a curvy figure, not honed from relentless
hours of workouts, but simple and sexy just the same. Her hair was black, and she wore it straight and just off her
shoulders.

Nicky
liked that Mina was generally quiet and led a simple and modest lifestyle. Born
and raised in Chicago, she came to M.I.T. with her high school sweetheart,
Christopher Thompson. Nicky originally did not let his feelings for Mina be
known—Christopher was a big guy and very much protective of his girlfriend. His
father played professional football as a linebacker with the Washington
Redskins. His mother was a Rhodes Scholar from Northwestern. Christopher seemed
to inherit the best genes from both sides.

Nicky
had beenthe way she
held her body, the provocative angle that gave the impression that she was
curled into him, while in reality she was holding him back. Pushing him away.

Even as her mouth opened to his
questing tongue.

He slid one finger along her
jaw, down the sweet softness of her throat.
And took pleasure in the shudder she couldn’t hold back.

Needing more, needing
desperately to push her for more, he took the kiss deeper. His mouth slid along hers, coaxing and
tempting. After a brief hesitation, her
lips softened, her tongue tangled.

Drowning was all Gabriel could
think. He was drowning in her. That thought terrified him. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled back. And watched her blue eyes blink the passion
away in one sweep of those thick lashes.

In an instant, she went from hot
to cold. From passionate to
calculating.

God, what


a woman.==============================

DUBAI WIVESBy Zvesdana RashkovichThe uniformed Indian driver
opened the door of the gold colored Bentley and waited respectfully. His young,
handsome face strained with effort as he repeatedly tucked his oiled hair back
into place under the snappy gold-rimmed cap. The polished gold epaulets on his
jacket shone brilliantly in the morning sun. He did not need to lift his big
brown eyes to look at the woman walking towards him but he could smell her
familiar, exciting perfume. He did not need to see her face to know she was
beautiful. He kept his eyes lowered, yet was intensely aware of everything.

“Good morning Raj,” Jewel
said in mellifluous, slightly accented English. Her voice sent a slight shiver
through his body. He had been driving her around this city for two months and
since the first day;he knew he was in love with her.

“Good morning Madam,” he
said, frantically swallowing the lump caught in his throat. He felt as though
he could not breathe, his heart starting to jump around in his chest rapidly.
He had read somewhere that these were the symptoms of a looming anxiety attack.
Quickly and with great deference, he closed the door after she climbed into the
car and then sprinted around to the driver’s seat. The car was already
cool and pleasingly perfumed with her favorite scent…magnolia. Soft music was
playing. Of course, the music had to be her choice, the crooning of that
American, Lionel Richie.

He detested Lionel Richie.
Some lively IndianBhangramusic would suit him much more
thank you very much.

He turned his attention to
the smooth feel of the new car, as the Bentley pulled out of


the winding, palm
tree lined driveway soundlessly, and Raj steered it onto Jumeirah Beach Road,
heading to the club. It was going to be another hot and humid day, with a
familiar shroud of grey haze hanging over the city.

“Raj, I’m not going to the
club today,” she said gently form the back. Raj nodded quickly, startled from
his reverie by her soft voice.

“I will be visiting a friend
of mine, she lives on the Palm. Could you please drive there and I will give
you directions as you go.” Already busy talking on her phone she had sunk back
into the comfortable leather seat of the car. Raj adjusted the rearview mirror,
but kept his eyes on the road and his ears on the conversation in the back. It
seemed she was talking to the housekeeper. Hesettled in for a long drive,
drifting back to the last few months in his life.

Almost every morning, except
for Friday, which was his day off, he would take the Madam to the exclusive
Ladies Club for her exercise routine, then to the spa, where she indulged in a
multitude of puzzling beauty treatments. The forgotten brochures and leaflets
discarded on the back seat assuaged his curiosity about her activities. He had
flipped through them, while he waited, unbearably bored, as she went about her
busy life.

These brief, forbidden
forays into the glossy pages of her fancy magazines opened a door for him into
her perfect world. Flawless faces and bodies, breathtaking hotels, white
beaches, page after page of sinfully expensive clothes…cars…food.

Frequently he would
drop her off at one of the lavish, glittery shopping malls where she went
shopping with


her rich friends. Sometimes she would ask him to follow her, and
carry her purchases.

“Raj, could you get those?”
she would ask softly, politely, gesturing towards the bulging, shiny shopping
bags. She would never look at him directly, appearing composed. He was alarmed
that she was aware of his stolen glances.

He would carry the bags
self-importantly, walking with the proud gait of a peacock, conscious of the
other shoppers’ eyes following her as she moved around the mall. Everybody paid
attention when Madam walked by, because of her beauty and because of that
unmistakable aura of affluence surrounding her.

Those shopping trips were his
favorite times, when he could study her stealthily from behind as she swayed
gracefully in her high-heeled pumps, the silk blackAbayatrailing behind her. The garment was
dramatically beautiful in its simplicity. Made out of supple, sensuousthem.

Raj’s favorite was the one
with the tiger print design on the back, so as he followed the Madam,
struggling with the dozen or so shopping bags in his hands, he could slyly
stare at the tiger and the black eyes which gleamed back at him, mocking him in
his agony of hopeless and wretchedly impossible love. His Madam had designed
herAbayaspersonally, and had him drive her to
her Indian tailor in Bur Dubai, who would then sew the garments meticulously.
“The best tailor in Dubai,” she had said proudly once, in a rare deviation from
her usually reserved character.

“Sir’s grandmother used to
have herAbayatailored at this same place, it is a
tradition.” Amnah, the Ethiopian housekeeper was an affable elderly lady, and
always had some special treat for him, left over from dinner parties. Gladly,
she inducted Raj into


the ways of the rich locals, and of his employers.

On one such trip to the
tailor, he had observed a group of local women in the shops’ waiting area,
arguing feverishly, in rapid Arabic, incapable of making a decision about their
designs. He sat on a plastic chair, in the shadows, watching them with
interest. “Salome,see
this one!” a short young woman produced a long piece of lace, waving it for all
to see. The group inspected it, their thick brows burrowed, sounds oftsk,tskescaping their glossy, petulant lips
in disapproval.

Finally, their choice
made, Raj watched as they picked out the most extraordinary ornaments with
which to decorate the precious garments; bags of mad looking feathers,
faux fur, rock chic leather, meters of exquisite lace, shining gold and silver
thread, handfuls of genuine sparkling Swarovski crystals; mother of
pearl…bunches of vividlyembroidered satin flowers. The list was only as
limited, it seemed, as their imagination and resourcefulness.

He had eavesdropped on their
urgent phone calls from a hysterical relative, assuming they were regarding the
latestAbayadrama. “Esh akhti…what happened
sister…did the tailor delay yourAbayaagain?” came the concerned
questions, then the attempts to calm the fretful cousin, sister, friend. His
presence did not seem to perturb them, and he remained anonymous, never
venturing into the inner sanctum, the changing and measuring areas, which were
off limits to males. Sometimes Raj went outside, even though it was unbearably
humid, in order to escape the incessant chattering and to have a cigarette.
What was new, he grumbled irritably, it was always hot, humid, and hazy in
Dubai. It was October, and he had been here all of August and September,
therefore, only experiencing the cruel weather


the assaulting heat in his new country
had shocked Raj more than anything else. However, he made ten times more money
here as a driver, than he would in India, and his living conditions were better
than back home. Something had to give, he thought to himself philosophically
after he arrived at Dubai airport.

As soon as he stepped off
the plane, he had felt indignantly violated by the fifty-degree heat. It had
knocked the air out of him at first but then he inhaled, in shock, blinking.

Madame was talking to him
again; guiltily he lowered the music, pretending he did not hear. He cut off
Lionel Richie in the middle off “Hallo, is it me you’re looking for?”
perversely thrilled by this act. She was telling him to pull over into the date
tree lined driveway of apalatial villa. He admired the neighborhood of custom
designed houses, the fact that the sea bordered them on three sides.

“Yes, stop here,” she seemed
eager to get out. It was a long drive and she had to be anxious to get on with
her day.Raj stood
respectfully, keeping his eyes lowered while holding the door open for her.

However, this seeming
politeness was just a Machiavellian ploy, because as he looked down he could
watch out of the corner of his eyes. He could see her high, strappy stilettos
as she stepped out of the car and wrapped the blackAbayamodestly around her body. A slim white
ankle showed…then a dark henna design, small squiggly flowers intricately
painted on the smooth skin, glossy black nail polish making it all the more
provocative. He tried not to stare as she hurried


either side of her head, he leaned closer.

“This is crazy,” she breathed, twisting her hands together at her waist. But she didn’t pull away. Instead, she lifted her chin.

That’s all the encouragement he needed.

Holding her gaze captive, he brushed his lips over her soft, sweetly moist mouth. He slid his tongue along her lower lip, then gently nibbled at the cushioned flesh.

Passion throbbed, urging him to take it deeper, to go faster. But he resisted.

For the first time in forever, Caleb felt like he’d come home. Even as the sexual heat zinged through his body like lightening, he relaxed. Need pounded through him, making him achingly hard. But he was at peace.

It was that confusion more than any desire to stop that had him pulling back. He stared,waiting for Pandora to open her eyes. In them he saw confusion, desire and a hint of fear.

The same as he was feeling.

Tall, Dark and Cowboy – Excerpt

Joanne Kennedy

Pausing at the top of the steps, Lacey glanced back at the crumbling brick buildings lining the street. Ancient glass shop windows reflected wavering funhouse renditions of their neighbors across the street, so only the signs jutting out over Grady’s pitted sidewalk offered clues to their contents. Pookie’s Candles and More, read a fading oval. Dollar Mart, said a cracked white plastic sign in bold red letters.The only place that looked reasonably prosperous was the Quick Lube next door and the café across the street.

She took one last look at the Mustang to make sure the windows were cracked open


outside was rapidly replaced with a liquid heat that spread through her like a wild blaze and she knew—with absolute certainty—how the denizens of Alaska stayed warm.

As his mouth played over hers, she dimly registered the fact that her hands were hanging by her sides, so she lifted them to settle at his waist. His hips were solid, thick with muscle as her fingertips sought purchase under the fabric of his coat.

Glorious need filled her. It beat within her and matched the want she felt emanating from the solid planes of his body. Although some dim recess of her brain warned her this likely wasn’t the brightest idea she’d had in a long time, she couldn’t quite muster up the will to push him away.

In fact . ..

Sloan’s grip tightened on his waist, pulling him closer as she tilted her head to allow him greater access to her mouth. He explored her with his tongue, their mingled breaths and sighs warming up the frigid night air.

TEXAS TWILIGHT

John Jake McCutcheon, the fourth brother of the McCutcheon family, and the hero of TEXAS TWILIGHT, only garnered two mentions in MONTANA DAWN. That’s because he was away at medical school, the first of the family to earn a scholarly degree of any kind. The McCutcheons are Montana cattle ranchers who have carved a dynasty out of the wildness of the land. John has been hired by a small Texas town where his extended family lives. It’s his first time meeting his cousins, Dustin and Chaim. But when Dustin


takes a shine to Lily, the woman John had traveled with to Rio Wells (and with whom he fought of a band of outlaws that attack the coach), sparks really start to fly.

For all you hunky-cowboy lovers, here’s an excerpt—

Texas Badlands, 1886

The stagecoach lurched. John Jake McCutcheon opened his eyes and saw the young woman next to him grasp the leather loop that hung from the coach’s ceiling to keep from being tossed around. She tipped precariously to the right, then left, bumping forcefully into his shoulder. With an apologetic glance she moved away, then dabbed at her brow with a folded handkerchief. She looked at her elderly aunt.

“Tante Harriet? Are you all right?” she asked in a soft German accent. She opened the fan she held andthat had hired John, and he felt a small kinship with her.

John chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. He’d tried not to notice something like that, but it had been difficult, if not impossible. The girl had practically been snuggled to his side for several days.

Without warning, the driver called out sharply to the horses and the coach picked up speed. The two guards riding on top of the stage scuffled around and one shouted something unintelligible. John glanced out the window.

A shot rang out. One second later, one of the guards fell from the top of the stage, past the window, landing with a thunk as the stage rolled on. Lily gasped and threw her arms protectively around her aunt. Abigail screamed and then fainted, flopping over onto


Cyrus’s shoulder.

The Avenger

Jo Robertson

Excerpt

Fourteen-year-old Livvie Morse didn't believe in true love. All that stuff she'd read about in fairy tales when she was a kid was dumb, she thought.

The prince didn't rescue the princess, waking her up from apretenddeath with a magical kiss. Or climb up the strong strands of her braided hair – oh yeah, that made sense, hair likerope– to whisk her from the tower prison. Or fit a glass slipper on her tiny foot to prove she's the only girl in the kingdom for him.

Anyway, wouldn't that shoe break all the hell to pieces with the first step the princess took?

Stupid. Dumb. Nonsense.

No, Livvie didn't believe in the true love of fairy tales. What she knew all about was the real-life monsters that lurked inthe dark crannies of her nightmares and the dim hallway outside her bedroom. The ones that came out when her mother wasn't around. That crept down the hall and tapped on her door when they knew she was alone.

But that spring night proved her wrong about fairy tales and true love.

Livvie's mother worked the graveyard shift at Mercy General Hospital in east Oakland while her stepfather Roger Strong watched Letterman and guzzled his eleventy-millionth bottle of beer. When her mother left at ten-thirty, Livvie locked herself in her bedroom, a kitchen chair pushed beneath the doorknob for good measure.

The chair wouldn't keep Roger out if he really wanted to break down the door, but maybe he'd be drunk enough to give up if the knob didn't budge with


his first sneaky twist. The trick had worked before.

Livvie frowned and pressed her ear to the door.

Silence, except for the muffled drone of the television and the faint percussion of the radiator.

Stripping down to her panties, she rummaged through her dresser until she found a faded blue pullover and the oversized tee shirt that had belonged to her long-gone father. She pulled a sweatshirt on top of the two shirts and stepped into jeans and bulky sweats. She felt like a friggin' snowman, but the layers of clothing made her feel safe. Roger would have to rip off a lot of stuff if he wanted to get at her.

She giggled nervously, then clapped her hand over her mouth as panic rose like birds' wings in the cavern ofher chest. Grabbing a pair of scissors from her nightstand drawer, she switched off the light and crawled under the covers. She sat with her back propped against the scarred headboard, the scissors hidden beneath the blanket and the covers pulled up around her neck.

She thought about the poem they'd studied today in Mrs. Wright's tenth-grade English class. Dylan Thomas. Livvie sure as hell wasn't going to go gentle into any old damn, dark night. Rage, rage. Rage against the monster called Roger. She smiled grimly and slunk deeper into the bedcovers.

Hours later the soft rattling of the doorknob woke her with a start. Adrenaline pumped through her body like a jolt of electricity, and right behind it, cold slippery fear. She jerked up and peered through the


room, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.

After long moments, her heart roaring in her ears, she tossed back the bedcovers, padded on bare feet across the room, and pressed her ear to the door. She willed the noise in her head to stop and drew in a deep breath, holding it as she strained to hear the sound again.

Nothing.

She waited endlessly, hot and sweaty inside the layers of clothing, the scissors glued to her hand.

Finally she heard shallow, ragged breathing through the thin particle board. Roger! The damn son of a bitch hovered inches from where she stood, slithering outside her door like the snake he was. The tremor started in her hand and traveled up her arm, downward to her knees until her wholebody shook like an earthquake.

She listened to the raspy breathing for a long minute, her helplessness something sour at the back of her throat. Did Roger mean business this time? Had he decided tonight was the night his step-daughter needed the "lesson" he always threatened to give her?

She clamped down on her lip and ran her tongue over the coppery taste of blood. Suddenly she felt foolish, a child playing at being a kung fu girl-warrior. Even if she could get a stab in before he overpowered her, she'd only make him madder. She pictured the red puckering of his face and imagined those paws of his cuffing her head. "Smack you up-side the head," he'd bluster in his menacing tone.

What was she thinking? Roger was a burly


six-two and outweighed her by more than a hundred and fifty pounds. Did she really imagine she could outmaneuver him? He'd squish her like a bug.

In that instant Livvie made her decision. She retrieved her gym shoes from the closet, tucked the scissors in the waistband of her sweats, and raced to the window. She turned back toward the bedroom door as she heard a series of rat-a-tat-tat knocks and a gravelly voice whispering her name.

"O—liv—ee—uh, O—liv—ee—uh," he taunted her.

Panicked, she clamored awkwardly over the sill and out the window. Slid down the sloped roof. Scraped her butt on the old shingles and landed with a thwack on the damp leaves below. She ran as fast as she could, arms pumping, legs like pistons, gym shoes slapping thewet cement.

Instinct taking over, she raced toward her best friend, the only person who knew her awful secret. The only one she could trust. By the time she reached the corner, her body dripped with cold sweat and she'd lost the scissors.

She rounded left on Granville for another five blocks. Right on Amhearst until she reached the shabby yellow and white house at the end of the street. It abutted a neighboring house on one side and a chain-link fence on the other that separated the Holt property from the abandoned glass factory.

Thunder ravaged her chest and fire burned her legs as she ground to a halt. She hunkered beneath the drooped branches of a low-hanging willow beside the familiar wraparound porch. She glanced over her shoulder. Roger


might leap out of the darkness at any moment, drag her back home, and ... her mind shut down.

Livvie wasn't sure what would happen next, but she knew it would be the worst kind of punishment.

One eye on the street behind her, she gathered pebbles and tossed them against Jackie's window until a dim light showed through the blinds. She saw his shaggy head poke out the window, and a minute later the front door opened. She flew into his arms while he held her until the shakes stopped.

"Shh, shh, Squirt. You're okay now," he crooned.

Safe, she thought, finally safe. In Jackie Holt's twin bed, she sank into a fitful sleep, curled up against his strong, young body. Safe, for now, but she knew she'd have to goback.

She woke up with her backside pressed against the hard length of muscled body and a band of iron draped protectively over her chest, a hand curved round her cheek. She sighed and wiggled into the firm strength at her back.

"Livvie, wake up," Jackie whispered at her temple, tickling her ear with his warm breath. "You have to go before your mom finds out you're missing."

"No," she murmured, drugged with sleep and snug in the safe, narrow confines of the bed. "Can't go home yet."

Jackie turned her over and brushed the unruly mass of dark hair from her face. "Come on, Squirt, you can't stay much longer. I'll walk you back and make sure Roger's dead drunk." He grinned and showed strong, white teeth in a dark face.


"And if he's not, I'll help him along with a little knock to the head."

She stared up at his suddenly beloved face and felt the seismic shift in her small world. Why hadn't she realized before how beautiful he was? Her face flushed and her heart began an unfamiliar staccato in her chest. She saw the answering emotion in Jackie's eyes and felt a sudden hard thrust against her thigh.

This is what the princess in the fairy tale felt when the prince rescued her, she thought.

Driven by budding confidence and pure instinct, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth down on hers. His soft, warm lips opened to hers as a fierce jolt jarred her whole body like fire and ice and floods anddesert all jumbled together and centered in her lower body. She kissed his lips and face and neck in a fever accompanied by incoherent words she didn't even understand.

And finally, when she pressed against him and urged him so sweetly, Jackie gave in. He was the one person who could understand her convoluted logic. If she was going to lose her virginity anyway, she didn't want Roger with his grabby hands and stinking breath to be the one.

She wanted her best friend to be the first because maybe – just maybe – she was beginning to believe in that fairy tale after all.

The Sidhe Princess

By Loucinda McGary

EXCERPT

This hadn’t been Moira’s first stay in the sanitarium. No, that had happened over three years ago, the spring before she’d turned


thirteen, and that time had been far worse. The visions or hallucinations or whatever they were had never happened to her before. At least not with such intensity, and telling the truth was never going to set her free of the horrid place.

September 2011

NO PROPER LADY by Isabel CooperSimon drew a breath through his teeth and then took the right-hand path. One was as good as another just now, and he suddenly felt that he should be moving. It wasn’t just the darkening sky; the very air seemed thicker than it should be.When he first saw movement to his left, Simon told himself that it was a bird or perhaps a squirrel. There were enough of them in the forest. Then, as he caught a glimpse of somethinggray and low to the ground, he tried to make himself think of badgers or perhaps a stray dog. No matter that his fingers were already moving in the beginnings of a warding spell. That was just nerves. This was his family’s land. There was nothing dangerous on it.Then Aladdin bolted.Simon flattened himself against the horse’s neck just as a tree branch snapped and fell through the air above him, scraping his back and sending down a shower of leaves and small twigs. He swore and yanked hard on the reins, but Aladdin ran on. Simon saw no trace of gray in the undergrowth now, no movement other than theirs, but the bloody horse seemed not to care.Simon darted a glance behind himself just to be sure. The


forest there looked empty too, but when he snapped his head back to the front, he saw a fallen tree looming ahead. He closed his eyes and hung on.The landing was hard enough to bruise, but Simon sent up a quick prayer of thanksgiving just for being alive and still on the gelding’s back. When he opened his eyes again, he saw a clearing ahead—and a ring of stones inside it. Time and neglect had covered most of the stones with vines and grass, but their shapes were unmistakable. They were square-cut dark stones, each only a little shorter than a man.The ground at the center of the ring was glowing.At first, the light was a blue dot, only about the size of his fist, but then itblazed like a newly lit gas lamp. Rings of the same glowing blue energy spread out from it, rippling across the mossy ground and out to the stones.Some kind of energy was building here. Simon wasn’t sure he wanted to be present when it peaked, and he knew he didn’t want to be on the back of a panicking horse. He kicked free of his stirrups, tightened his fists in Aladdin’s mane, and yanked backward with all his strength.He was expecting to be thrown, which let him tuck his head and take most of the impact on his shoulder, but it still hurt spectacularly when he landed. Aladdin, damn his hide, bolted onward across the clearing and into the forest beyond.The ground hummed with power. As Simon got