Get it today–it’s free! (And terribly sexy, too.)
Now free at Amazon.com, you can find it here.
Enjoy and do tell anyone you think might be interested.
Get it today–it’s free! (And terribly sexy, too.)
Now free at Amazon.com, you can find it here.
Enjoy and do tell anyone you think might be interested.
Deep into the forest, the wolves swarmed in large numbers, their passage eerie in its silence. They moved swiftly through the underbrush, past the trees towering overhead until, finally, they came to a large clearing that made an almost perfect open circle in the otherwise dense forest.
Clash had decided it was the best place to accommodate their temporarily swollen ranks. Temporary was certain because it would not be long before the wolves’ own nature would lead them to strife among their leaders.
Here, no trees grew in the circle, nor did the low growing laurel that made the forest nearly impenetrable for those on two legs. Their legends held that it was the Ophanim’s circle. When Galgallin had descended to earth, leaving his kind behind, he had come here, his great wheels turning and sanctifying the ground such that no tree dared diminish the place where he had alighted upon earth.
Clash knew doubt when he thought of the legend. He had known doubt for a very long time for each story of Galgallin, the lost lord of them all. But what he did not doubt was that there was nowhere else suitable to contain all the wolves while they came to their next decision. And, that was a question of what to do with the human strewn across his shoulders.
He lowered her to the ground, and none too gently, thinking to wake her.
They had run for hours and now the first glow of the sun had begun to filter through the clouds of the night sky.
Despite his misgivings, he studied the woman at his feet. She had only struggled for a short time while he had carried her before falling quiet. Clash supposed it was due to simple exhaustion, rather than being freed from certain doom at the hands of the vampires.
She was not tall, but of a slight build. His wolfish eyes followed the curving lines of her flesh, one that began at the nape of her neck, then descended in a long, gentle slope down her back before flaring out to well formed hips. He was struck by the sight of her, the curves of her body that only asked to be held in a male’s hands as he slipped inside her, his cock warmly encased within her while she would move with him, the two of them panting in ecstasy.
His member began to thicken and grow heavy as he took in her nude form. Clash struggled to tear his eyes away, when from just behind him he heard a faint sound.
He whirled, his claws held wide and lips drawn back over bared fangs. The intruder was covered in dark stripes and swirls, a hulking, barbaric figure named Braze and while Clash read no overt threat in his approach, he felt sure that there was one. City wolves…they were not like the children of the forest. They walked among men, pretending to be men.
Clash could not believe that they remained true to themselves, or that they had not forgotten the wolf’s heart beating within their chests.
In truth, he considered them more coyote than wolf. As far as his distrust, it was simply a matter of instinct.
“Pretty girl, isn’t she?” Braze said as he strode forward, fearless.
Clash only nodded while he tried to calm the ruff of hair running down his spine that had bristled with the city wolf’s approach.
“The big question, now, though is what shall we do with her,” Braze continued, pretending not to notice Clash’s resolute silence.
“We?” said Clash, at last, “The wolves of the forest will decide for themselves, Braze. We are not accustomed to this sharing of opinions and looking to the majority for what is right.”
Braze chuckled, never taking his eyes off the woman lying at their feet.
“It’s called democracy. A fair way of figuring out how to handle things in a group of individuals.”
“Ah, I see,” replied Clash, “An idea that stinks of men, to be sure.”
Braze shook his head and said, “Not all men are worth your condescension. Some of their ideas have merit, for that matter. But, more importantly, in today’s world, we must know and understand men and their ways. It is the only way that we will secure a future for wolvenkind.”
Clash bared his fangs at Braze, the words coming from the slinking coyote disgusting him more than men themselves.
“Is this why you choose to walk as a man, even among us?” Clash asked, his voice thick, near to a growl.
Braze replied, “It is not meant as disrespect. My thought is that as a human, I will frighten the woman less…which is why I am here. I would like to propose that I take her with me to the city, to keep her safely hidden from the vampires there where they will have the most difficulty at moving to reclaim her.”
Clash felt a pang in his guts as he registered Braze’s words. It was foolish, he knew. But the thought of the soft skinned human disappearing into the concrete forest of Braze’s domain stung him more than he wanted to admit.
“Nothing could be less sure,” he replied, the growl more evident in his voice.
Braze’s own lips curled back from his teeth. As a human, it was a terrible grimace that would have been far more at home on a long muzzled, fanged visage.
“You are well named, aren’t you?” Braze said, “Without fail, your first reaction to everything is to take an opposing stance, even when that means you will probably lose what you worked so hard to get.
“If the girl stays here, in the forest, the vampires will have only daylight standing between them and you. When the sun sets and they have had time to gather their numbers, they will come and take her, you stubborn oaf.”
The two had begun to pace in a circle, facing one another. The hub upon which they turned remained quiet, apparently unconscious, while the wolves that had been spread out in the grassy clearing pricked up their ears, noses in the air.
“The woman stays here, Braze. There is no need to hide in that city of yours. We, the wolves of the forest, shall suffice.”
Braze snarled as he said, “You know, I don’t think I like the tone of your voice. In fact, I don’t like it all and I shouldn’t have to remind you that we city wolves were the ones who alerted you to the presence of the woman and the interest she represents for the blood drinkers.
“Without us, you’d all still be running in circles under the trees, without a clue.”
With no warning, Clash flew at the tattooed man, striking him full in the chest. There was a heavy thud at the impact, but without missing a single step, Braze wrapped his thick arms around Clash’s torso and clasped his hands together behind the shifter’s back.
Huge shoulders rippled into stripes of muscle as he held Clash and then began to squeeze. For just a brief moment, one might have believed them the best of friends, one holding the other in a bear hug that lifted him off the ground.
But, in the next instant, Clash bared his fangs and with jaws snapping, lunged at Braze’s neck. A sudden feint by his adversary was all that saved him from having his jugular torn wide.
Braze continued to jerk his head left and right as Clash struggled in his grip. His half wolfish arms were pinned at his sides and he had no means of freeing them. Rather, he continued to snap and bite at Braze as the terrible bear hug began to take its toll.
Veins stood out on the foreheads of both beasts and their brethren closed in on all sides. It was the way of the pack, no challenge went unanswered. Except that there was far more at stake than who would choose the fate of the human for whom they had risked so much.
Savage life, freedom within the forest, or what was deemed more civilized, the domesticated existence of urban wolves.
For whatever the outcome, Claire did not care in the least. She had been playing possum while the two brutes had bandied their words about, posturing like males through time immemorial.
She had listened, taking in their words, thinking that she might reason with them. Or, at worst, bargain her way to freedom even if that meant offering her body up to one or the other…perhaps both, if they so desired.
For the vampire’s fever lay quiescent at the moment, but she could feel it seething just beneath the surface, only waiting for the right moment to come roaring back and turn her into a mindless bitch in heat.
The tattooed man was absolutely enormous. Not in the way of Daniel earlier, who had been a veritable colossus. But rather, true to a man with smooth skin emblazoned in dark markings, shining with muscles that corded as he moved. Not an actual giant, but massive and hard as stone.
The other, semi-wolf man, stood taller still, but was sleeker. More of a stealthy hunter than an overpowering beast that depended upon its strength alone. His red tinged fur shined in the burgeoning daylight while he struggled in the other’s grip.
Claire remembered Daniel’s words as the werewolves carried her away from him and the other vampires…she must fight if she hoped to survive. However, while the two battled and drew attention away from her, Claire seized the opportunity and slowly crawled away. If she could manage to put some distance between her and the fighting wolves, she might stand a chance.
As she eased her way forward, practically crawling upon her belly through the high grasses, Claire saw the edge of the clearing not far away. She gathered her legs under her, readying herself to jump up and run for the cover of the trees when someone stepped directly into her path.
“Going somewhere, are we?” said a young man’s voice and Claire looked up to see him grinning down at her.
He was a wolf, but younger than Clash and Braze, she surmised. He had not yet filled out his frame, appearing gangly and awkward due to his height and long muscles that had not yet taken on the heavy mass of the adult wolf shifters.
Claire froze, not daring to move a muscle. The young wolf was in near full human form as he lifted two fingers to his mouth. A shrill whistle sounded, to be quickly followed by two wolves loping to his sides.
They lifted up, their limbs stretching and smoothing into human form. One was dark skinned and scowling, the other blond and fair with a smile that stemmed from true humor and not the irony of the situation before them.
The darker of the two newcomers spoke first, and said, “Rend, you have to take her back. When the leaders finish…and you know they will soon…they’ll come looking for her.”
The other, the one for whom it seemed all a joke, chuckled and said, “Shard’s right. Besides, she’s not that special. In the city, we can get all kinds of human chicks. It’s really no big deal.”
The first wolf, the one the other two had named Rend, replied, “Yeah, but out here in the wild, human bitches don’t happen every day. I might never get another chance.”
Claire could feel her blood boiling as the young wolves spoke. She did not want to be simply an object to their adolescent desires, but she could not deny that the three young men standing above her were making her thighs part of their own volition.
“Now wait,” she said, “You…you’re from the city?”
The comic blond wolf nodded and said, “Yeah. My name’s Flair. I came with Braze and the rest of our pack to help get you from the vampires.”
“Ok,” she said, “Just give me a second to think.”
Claire desperately searched for a means of bargaining her way back to the city with the help of the young, blond wolf. Afterward, she was sure it would be far easier to escape from him than from the huge man called Braze.
“No,” said Rend, “I’ve heard about you humans and how much you love to talk. I’m not interested.
“Shard, grab her arms.”
The dark wolf never stopped scowling but he trapped Claire’s wrists in his hands. He might not have been a fully grown wolf, but his strength was far greater than her own. She pulled desperately away from him, but his hold upon her did not ease.
“Flair, take a leg, already.”
The blond simply shrugged as he latched on to one of Claire’s ankles.
Rend eased himself then between Claire’s thighs and she could feel him trembling as he knelt down to the ground, his own legs brushing against her.
Claire said, “You’ve never done this.”
The wolf did not reply. She watched as his apparent self control appeared to waiver and his human form took on a much more bestial appearance.
“Ho, ho…Rend’s gonna get lucky,” Flair said, “Just hope he doesn’t totally lose it and shift on you. Wolf dicks don’t go down well for you humans.”
She could not guess what he meant. Claire only knew that despite everything, she was burning hot. The young man who seemed to waiver between wolf and human was drawing in close to her pussy and she could feel herself slicken in anticipation.
Claire’s nipples sprung up, hardened, while she arched backward enjoying the sensation of the wolf’s furred legs rubbing against the interior of her thighs.
His face grew longer as he loomed over her body. Claire felt a spark of fear before excitement brushed it away. She tilted her head, trying to get a better look of her ravisher and that was when she saw it….
The entire series will soon be available on the iBookstore.
An erotic, fantasy adventure, this is a romantic tale of magic, emotion, and human motivation that does not turn a blind eye to the frank sexuality of its characters. Within these pages live witches, shapechangers, demons, and immortal beings. Turn the page and let them unveil their dark story in the ambiance of medieval France.
A collection of the first three volumes–
Volume 1, The Path
Melisse dreams of another life, one in which she is no longer the servant to a noble family, one where she can find her own destiny and make her life her own.
On the eve of the arrival of the Marechal de Barristide, an eldritch light in the forest calls out to her, giving her the hope of change to come.
The Marechal, a man marked with a vicious scar, is a man of the law of the realm, charged with investigating a series of horrible crimes to the south. However, he has his own reasons for visiting House Perene. Reasons that drive him to search mercilessly for the truth, no matter the cost.
His search and the fate of Melisse intertwine to form a tapestry of lust, violence, and supernatural implications. All of which resound within a potent and robust story that draws the reader in and does not let go.
Volume 2, The Hunter
The sun rises upon the blood soaked House Perene.
Evil has struck within and without and only the Marechal de Barristide can untangle the threads of fate that wind about him in a web of intrigue and passion.
His way is branded into the very ground before him, but the Marechal must turn his course in order to seek aid from a dreaded soul. Beings from a realm other than earth shall seek his alliance while his quarry, the servant woman, Melisse, has disappeared, leaving only ash and dust behind her. But before taking up her trail once more, the Marechal must submit to another’s infernal desires and pay far more than he bargained for.
Here continues The Marechal Chronicles, an erotic tale of desire and merciless destruction as the players assemble themselves to pirouette in an intricate clockwork of unflinching sexuality and supernatural forces.
Volume 3, The Prey
The paths of the Marechal de Barristide and Melisse, runaway servant accused of a grisly murder, narrow to convergence in a seamy quarter of Licharre, a city bordering the Ardoise mountains to the south.
Lust and desire burn all that lies between them as demons rear their ugly heads, twisting their destinies together while powers beyond those of mankind exact their vile desires.
Blood will run before it is over and doom shall fall where it will in this continuing story of supernatural passion and erotic romance.
An excerpt for your reading pleasure:
His horse picked her way carefully through the snaking roots of the willow trees that surrounded them. The Marechal hated swamp country, always dark under the canopy of thick leaves, secrets hiding under the surface, all of it lurking and dangerous.
He had ridden hard to the north, pushing his horse as far as he dared. He knew that the trail the servant girl had left behind would fall cold very quickly, but there was no choice. If he expected to find the footfalls of someone who had disappeared into thin air, he must appeal to powers beyond his own reckoning.
There, enshrouded in mist with long trails of moss hanging from its eaves, was the house. It tilted crazily to one side, threatening to upend itself into the murky water of the swamp. Except that it had always been that way, from what the Marechal could remember of it. He thought, instead, that it was a caprice of the proprietor, a sort of sign to those who wandered upon the place by chance and not by purpose. Pass on, it said, or risk your doom.
He would have very much liked to pass on by the house. Instead, he dismounted and tied his horse well. She was a sturdy, brave animal, but even the most courageous horse could be startled off to find itself mired and drowning in the fog. The swamp alone remained a dangerous place for man and beast alike.
The front door of the crazily leaning house creaked open as he approached. The sound was like mice squealing, caught in some horrid trap.
But no, it is I, the mouse which walks willingly into the trap, he thought as he stepped inside.
The door creaked closed behind him.
A smell of rot and years upon years of layered dust hung in the air. The Marechal stood still listening, waiting to hear the faintest sound of a floorboard under someone’s heel.
Instead, he felt the fine hairs at the back of his neck tickle as a cool draught of air stirred behind him.
He whirled around, drawing his sword and taking a full step back in a single, fluid motion. Poised, ready to lunge and strike a killing blow, he saw her. Her black robes were in tatters and a moth eaten veil covered her head entirely. Where her left arm should have been, there was only a empty sleeve dangling. In her right hand, her yellowed nails curled round the head of a twisted tree root upon which she leaned heavily.
He could not see more in the dim light, and for that, he was glad.
“So, the Marechal de Barristide…I believe that is the name you use now,” she croaked.
“The Marechal has come to pay a visit…how nice.” She pushed past him with a crooked gait, knocking his drawn blade aside as if it were a child’s toy. The Marechal grimaced at the odor of old woman’s sweat and grime as he sheathed his weapon.
“Yes, witch. The Marechal de Barristide and I have not come to bandy words about with you in the guise of pleasantries. Etiquette has no place in this your abode of shadow and ill intention.”
“Guard your tongue, Marechal,” she said, twisting his title bitterly in her mouth. “The Alchemist would have never used such a tone with me. You’d do well to take a page from his book…boy.”
“The Alchemist?” he stuttered. “What do you know of him? What can you tell me?”
“What can I tell you?” she said, turning about to peer directly at him. Slowly, she reached up and lifted a corner of her veil. The Marechal flinched at the wizened face from which a single yellow eye, shot through in swollen, red blood vessels, stared out at him. The other half of her face remained mostly hidden, but he thought he saw that half of her visage was missing, as if torn away, the remaining flesh puckered and raw.
“You’ve been addled…I see,” she muttered before letting her veil fall back down.
“What I can tell you is that he was successful, Marechal,” she said. “More than this, though, requires payment.”
She limped away from him with dragging footsteps. The Marechal had no choice but to follow.
The room they entered was one of tales meant to frighten children, tales meant to quell the worst behaved. There were rickety shelves lining the walls and upon those shelves, dust ridden bottles and jars, many of which had had their lids eaten through with rust, their contents slumped in drying sludge.
The Marechal dropped his gaze from them and their hideous reserves. In some, he was sure to have seen the corpses of the unborn and that alone was enough to force his gaze aside.
“But I doubt that you came with the intention to pay for more than one boon, Marechal,” she said.
“No,” he replied. “It is already too much. If my memories remain jumbled, I knew where to find you and that you could accord me an answer to my needs.”
“And that there be a price?” she asked.
“Yes, of that, too, I know,” he said, wishing once again that he had never come to her door.
“Of the Alchemist, you have not sought me out. No, but you do seek yet another…yes?”
“You see truly, witch. I must find a woman implicated in the murder of a nobleman and who may be able to shed some light upon other deaths of a nefarious sort.”
The bent, old woman turned to search among her affairs, small bottles and vials clinking as her single twisted hand sorted through them.
“A mere woman? The famed Marechal de Barristide needs my aid for so little?” she said, the amused sarcasm not at all veiled in her voice.
He replied, “A woman whose trail, from one step to the next, vanishes without a trace. There is some power at work and that it is at the heart of other dark deeds, I am nearly certain.”
“That is why I have come,” he finished.
She turned back to him, a tiny, dark blue bottle in her hand. She held it out to him and said simply, “My price, Marechal.”
He took it from her gingerly, taking care not to touch her yellowed skin and grateful in that whatever the bottle contained there was mercifully little of it. He did not hesitate and unstoppered it quickly before upending the contents into his mouth. He swallowed forcefully, all the while holding his breath, expecting the worst.
Instead, the thick solution seemed to pool in the back of his throat, at once sweet and cold. He took a breath and in that moment the liquid lifted up in a vapor that filled his lungs full. It was as though he had had a breath of frigid mountain air, or of winter distilled.
The old woman chuckled and said, “Good…good. And now, I would like to introduce you to my daughter. You see, we have so few visitors, she would be disappointed if she could not spend some time with such a handsome man. Such a young man….”
The Marechal had no words with which to respond. His tongue was frozen in place as were his limbs. He found that he could not move even his smallest finger as the old woman hobbled from the room.
The light grew dimmer until he could no longer see the shelves across from him. He saw only that he was alone in the faint glow of a circle and that it now appeared as if the walls had receded with dark nothingness taking their place. Even the faint sounds of the swamp outside the witch’s house were gone. The constant drip of water, or the raucous cry of some distant bird, all of it had dwindled to a muffled silence.
The Marechal had begun to wonder if the drink had somehow stoppered his ears when he heard a female voice, low and silky, speak from the surrounding shadows.
“Oh, you lovely man,” he heard her say, then saw her emerge from the darkness and into the pool of light surrounding him. First came one long bare leg, the flesh of a marble purity that would have taken his breath away if he had not already been spelled still.
The rest of her followed.
She was dressed in gauzy, transparent black, a sort of robe such as noblewomen wear, except that the hemline was ragged, running in deep zigs and zags that showed the Marechal tantalizing glimpses of firm white skin before being hidden away again as she moved with a delicious languor around him.
Her hair was long, black, and shone like the finest silk, as if she had magicked the glint of fine silver into her color. Her lips were luscious and full, of a red deep and profound. The color reminded the Marechal of heart’s blood running down the length of his sword, the final beats of his opponent’s life felt down to the pommel.
She was carnal, she was feline, dark and light, she was contrast in motion.
Despite his compromised circumstances, the Marechal felt himself respond, his member growing heavy and warm, lengthening as he felt his pulse descend into his crotch.
“What an interesting scar, Marechal,” she said. Her finger lingered at his jaw, tracing down to come round to his shirt front where she lightly flicked the buttons.
She leaned in close, letting her lips brush against his ear, and asked breathily, “Do you want me…Marechal?”
He felt his throat unlock with a hitch. He swallowed, then said, “What I do or do not want seems to be irrelevant at the moment. I believe that is the game we are playing, no?”
“Oh, this is no game, Marechal,” she replied. “I am deadly serious. My intentions for you have nothing of goodness in them.
“My love for visitors is in their suffering which can be so poignant, so exquisite…so charming.”
She stepped away from him and he saw that she carried a cavalier’s quirt in her hand. In a long, drawn out motion, she drew her hand back and then swung at him, lashing his chest with what he believed was her fullest strength.
There was a crack and he felt the venomous sting of the lash leap through him. He clenched his jaws around the sound threatening to escape, sweat springing to his brow.
He fought against it, but he could feel that his erection had become enormous, straining against his trousers.
“Do you want me?” she asked again, her voice low as she reached out to toy with the tear in his shirt that the quirt had left behind. Her finger came away red and she licked his blood from it, smiling.
“That taste. It is amazing, Marechal. You really are of a special vintage, aren’t you?
“You must make women weak in the knees and loose in the hips with the slightest glance. They take in your muscled shoulders, that broad chest hiding inside your immaculate white shirt. You come to them with thighs of oak and iron and lower yourself down upon them, letting them feel the weight of a real man, a man in his prime, rich, cultured, as you mesmerize them with your gray gaze and long lashes.
“Why I should imagine they are ready to come with just a smile from you, Marechal. Your beautiful smile as yet unstained by time or by wine.”
The Marechal said nothing, the lash on his chest pulsing with each beat of his heart. He could feel small runnels of blood leaking down across his abdomen. And, still, he felt that he had become enormously, preposterously aroused.
She walked behind him and with no warning, she struck him again, two vicious cracks echoing in the air. His back felt as though he had just been gored by a bull, the pain so intense that he gasped with the suddenness of it.
He knew she was goading him, but that knowledge did not stop his anger from blossoming into red rage.
With his most mighty effort, he summoned his strength, willing his arms to move. In that moment, as the blood coursed down his back, he wanted this woman’s neck in his hands, wanted to see fear in her eyes as he held her life between forefinger and thumb.
He roared like a wild beast, but his arms only twitched loosely, the geas of the spell holding him. He smiled inside, though. A twitch meant that he could weaken the spell’s hold, he could work against it, and in time, break free.
“And, you are a fighter, as well, my dear,” she said, amused. Something in her tone troubled him.
“But you shall not have the time you require, Marechal.”
With a jerk, he felt his trousers undone and then she was pushing at his back. His body obeyed her touch as he was forced to bend over. She slapped the quirt against the inside of his thighs and to his horror, he spread his legs wide.
“Oh, so much better. If only you could see the look on your face,” she said as she circled around him, trailing her fingertips upon his back.
Coming to a stop behind him, the Marechal felt the quirt touch lightly at his anus. He tried desperately to tighten, to find some means of stopping what she was about to do, but he was powerless.
There was pressure and then there was pain at the unfamiliar sensation. He felt suddenly very full, deep cramps racking him while he heard her laughing.
“Don’t you like that, dear?” she asked as she walked around to his front. He could still feel the quirt where she left it, pushing at his insides.
She pushed lightly at his shoulders, forcing him back up to a standing position and then she took his penis into her hand, pulling and pushing, as the quirt behind him dangled and swung with her movements.
The Marechal groaned. The melange of pain and pleasure. It was not new for him, not after all this time, but to be held powerless in the face of it, a plaything for the whims of another was altogether different and worse than unsettling.
“Calm yourself, Marechal. I can see my toy twitching back there,” she chuckled. Then she dropped to her knees before him and enveloped his cock with her lips. The heat of her mouth was intense and she pressed her tongue tightly against him as she worked up and down his shaft.
He wanted to refuse her, to break her hold upon him. Instead, the sensations that he felt overwhelmed him. He could feel the quirt rocking inside, pushing against him with a steady rhythm in time with the motions of the woman as she took him deep into her mouth with full, zealous strokes…..
Coming Soon to the iBookstore!