Fantasy Worlds emag June issue 2016

MORE FREE SHORT STORIES ARTICLES BOOK FEATURES AUTHOR FEATURES BOOK REVIEWS & MORE! 1

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Musings from Mistral Dawn Book Feature N W Moors Book Feature - Julie Nicholls Book Feature - Barbara Chioffi Dragon Slayer Book Review STORY SERIAL by Jordan Buchanan Book Feature -C D SamudaBook feature - Betrayals of Another Kind Book Feature - Aaron Michael Hall Short Story - Barbara Chioffi New Serial - Micahel Baker Book Feature - Rose Montague Author/book feature - Morgan Smith Dragon Slayer Book Review The Genre Tourist - Article Book Feature - Mistral Dawn Dragon Slayer Book Review Short Story - Mistral Dawn Book Feature - Cheree Triplett Book Covers by our Graphic Designer

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oday I'd like to talk about something I've noticed while researching mythology--there are multiple versions of everything! Not only are there multiple versions, but the versions of a myth that are out there often contradict each other. On the one hand, this phenomenon means that there's lots of fodder for the imagination for those who want to create new stories. However, it also means that no matter which version you pick, someone is going to disagree with it. s a way to illustrate this point, I'll tell you a little about what I found out while doing research for my first book, Taken By The Huntsman. As some of you may know, the story centers around a human woman, Cassie, and the Erlking, Cadeyrn, who is the leader of the Wild Hunt. What you may not know is that while the Erlking is the leader of the Hunt in my books, that's not necessarily always the case in every story about the Wild Hunt.First off, the myth of the Wild Hunt spans a huge amount of

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both time and space. The idea of the Wild Hunt has its roots in many cultures and religions. There are Norse versions of the Wild Hunt, Germanic versions, Celtic version, and even a Greek version where the God Apollo leads the Hunt. Sometimes Odin leads it, other times its Freya or Wodan. Then sometimes it's Herne the Hunter, or King Arthur, or the Devil, or the Fairy King, or a Goblin King known as the Erlkoenig (Erlking). n some versions of the Wild Hunt, a different leader was chosen every time the Hunt rode.

Sometimes the chosen leader was someone who called for vengeance against another. Sometimes the leader was chosen because they were an evildoer who was being punished. And other times the person chosen was just a random passerby who had the ill (or good, depending on the version) luck to be the first person to cross the path of the Hunt on its ride. he Wild Hunt was sometimes a force for good, righting wrongs and delivering justice to those

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who had wronged others. In other versions of the myth, the Hunt was a manifestation of evil, seeking to capture the righteous for nefarious purposes. And sometimes, the Hunt was neither good nor evil, but morally neutral instead. Like a storm, it could be destructive or harmful. Or like the sun that helped the crops to grow, it could be beneficial and helpful. But it wasn't intrinsically anything, and all people could do was wait it out and hope it would pass without hurting anyone and/or get out of its way. ometimes the leader of the Wild Hunt was the Grim Reaper (or the Devil) collecting the souls of the departed. Other times, fairies looking to cause mischief for humans populated the Hunt. In some versions, the Wild Hunt was comprised of demons or damned souls out for revenge against the living. In some cases, people who were caught by the Hunt were killed, in other versions they were made to join the Hunt. Sometimes they were given a choice. And in still other versions, seeing the Hunt

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meant that the person got to make a wish and have it granted. t would be almost impossible to create a story that included all these disparate versions, and everything I've mentioned here only scratches the surface of all the various permutations of the story of the Wild Hunt. Each of the different aspects I've talked about all have variations within them, sometimes with intriguing and unexpected tangents. It makes for a dizzying array of options for anyone who wants to write their own story about the Hunt. o what does all this mean? Well, to me it means that the possibilities are endless! As I said, I've already written one story about the Wild Hunt. But with all these different tales to pull from, maybe I'll write another one someday that's completely different! Having such a wealth of material to pull from makes writing exciting and keeps it interesting. One never knows where their imagination will lead them, but it's certain it won't be boring!

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N W MOORS

THE BLACK SWANS A TALE OF THE ANTRIM CYCLE

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he Black Swans is a 2015 B.R.A.G Medallion Honoree, shortlisted for the 2015 Drunken Druids Book Award, and a 2015 Wishing Shelf Independent Book Awards Finalist.

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aisie MacDonnell is a quiet girl who loves knitting and Celtic music. When a traditional Irish group moves to her small town of Antrim, Maine, she's thrilled. And that the handsome pipe player she met at a fair is one of the band members makes it all the more exciting.

Black Swans, are wanderers, moving from place to place. They have a secret that they must hide, a curse they have been under for many years, placed on them by the Fae at the behest of their step-mother, Aoife.

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aisie has no idea that becoming involved with Conn, the handsome pipe player, will enmesh her in magic, a centuries-old enchantment and pursuit by the Fae.

This book is a modern retelling of the old Irish story "The Children of Lir".

AMAZON BUY LINK IBOOKS BUY LINK NANCY W MOORS IS OUR BOOK REVIEWER FOR DRAGON SLAYER BOOK REVIEWS

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onn McLaren and his siblings that make up the band, The

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FANTAZIA A THE CLUB YOU WON’T WANT TO LEAVE

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lsa is a hard-working, single 35 year old woman who loves to read paranormal books. She hides herself away and lives every moment with her book boyfriends and as long as she has a never-ending supply of them, and wine, she appears to be happy.

At least that what she tells herself.

She’s brash and a control freak, constantly stressed and a bit of a bitch. Once her workday is over she retreats to her apartment and escapes to the fantasy land of her books and avoids relationships, despite secretly yearning to be involved with someone. It’s only after she meets Jasper that she learns she needs therapy. But this is a different kind of therapy - there’s no psychiatrist.

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t Club Fantazia, Elsa comes face to face with her fears and has to get over the inhibitions that hold her prisoner. Club Fantazia isn’t just any club and you can only get in invitation only, but once you’re in, you learn its secrets and will never want to leave. antazia is the first book in this series and you will learn a little of what goes on in this secret club. The owners and the workers are not like anyone else you’ve ever met. his is a mild BDSM, erotic, self-effacing short story.

So what are you waiting for? Put that paranormal book down and get yourself over to Fantazia, the club where you won’t want to leave.

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TRICKERY

IS A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES BY BARBARA CHIOFFITHIS EXCERPT IS FROM

‘PREY’

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ot being able to help myself, I asked, “Who are you?” Pursing her lips and with a malevolent tone, she replied, “My name is Morgana Kunig. I come from a long line of creatures you call vampire, although there is more to our kind than you could ever imagine. Born into a time of turmoil, my family stayed to themselves, venturing out when necessary and in darkness to feed. Humans were so terrified of what they could not understand. They caught and killed many of our kind before we learned to disguise ourselves, hiding away in large metropolises, blending in. Gradually, we were forgotten, relegated to myth and lore, lucky for us. I have lived for six hundred years and in that time have hunted humans for pleasure and when needed, for food. I find the human psyche so easy to control and rewarding to manipulate. You, my dear James, have been especially satisfying and my desire for your blood is growing with every passing moment.”

My thoughts were uncontrollable and trying to move was of no use.

Being encased in spider silk would have given the same feeling. Her long, tapered fingers stroked my cheek and I shivered. Her laughter echoed throughout the room as she drew nearer, grasping my chin in her hand, turning my head to the side as she took in my scent, licking my neck with her long tongue.

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N.W. Moors is an author and reader based in Portland, Maine. She reviews for Netgalley, Bookvetter, BooksGoSocial, and other websites as well as her own, The Antrim Cycle http://www.antrimcycle.com/

She has written her own Fantasy series called the Antrim Cycle and her book, The Black Swans, has been chosen as a 2015 IndieBrag Medallion honoree and as a 2015 Wishing Shelf Independent Book Award finalist.

LINK:FANTASY WORLDS EMAG.COM

Atlantis after Midnite

is the first book by Lisa Kulow.

The story is an alternate tale of what happened to Atlantis.

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The land of Atlantis has been struck by a plague and other disasters. A maiden named Yew'll is the one person who is immune to the disease and King Urian orders her to be brought before him so he can learn her secret. His son, Prince Kyrian, falls in love with her beauty and the two begin a romance.

Meanwhile, the king tries to save his people from the destruction coming from the gods. I don't want to give the rest of the story away, but suffice it to say that this is a different twist to the Atlantis myth.

There are a lot of characters and the story alternates from person to person, making it someone confusing at times. The book could benefit from an editor. There are a lot of steamy scenes so be prepared.

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JORDAN BUCHANAN writes erotica with heart and heat.

Her first book, a collection of short stories entitled 4Play, was published in 2014. But she’s branching out in to fantasy, just for us. She’s going to give us a chapter each month to a new story she’s writing. If you like some hot sex with your fantasy, continue reading.

A Cuckoo in Whitecross Castle

Episode 2 – Magick in the Night

Frozen in place, Jairyd tried to determine from which direction the voice had come. “As you command,” he called and focused on locating the source of the anticipated response.

The cuckoo bird is a brood predator. “Show me your hands…slowly.”

The words, rough and raspy, came It lays its eggs in the nest of another from behind him, the speaker disbird, leaving the unsuspecting host concertingly close..

Jairyd raised both hands into the with an intruder to hatch and feed. air, conscious of his knife at his side.

It was his only weapon but useless

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JordanBuchanan

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at a distance in the pitch black.

“Turn your cloak, boy.”

The bugger was only paces behind him! He’d moved quiet as a cat, nary a twig had snapped. Jairyd flipped one fold of his cloak, revealing the fine outer covering of crimson and white.

The man chuckled softly. “And what is a guard of Whitecross doing out here in the Dead Wood all alone?

Strayed a bit from your post, have you?”

“Aye, you could say that.” Without moving his head, he glanced down at his knife and tried to formulate a plan of attack…or at least one of defense.

“I don’t see your sword. Has the king spent the realm’s coffers on wine and must needs be stingy with steel as a result?’

The voice now came from in front of him. He bit back a groan of frustration. “I lost my sword.”

His unseen tormentor laughed again. “You’re destined to be captain of the guard someday, aren’t you?”

“One can always hope.”

Again the laughter, this time with more enthusiasm. “This is the most entertainment I’ve had in some time. I’m fortunate to have stumbled upon such a funny fellow.”

Jairyd forced a chuckle himself and nonchalantly tried to drop one hand, but the voice barked at him.

“Don’t try it, boy! I see the firelight glinting off your blade.”

His hand shot back up above his head. Not only was this man stealthy, he evidently possessed the night vision of an owl.

“Now…with the thumb and forefinger only of your left hand, toss your knife over here on the other side of your campfire.”

The young guard sighed and did as he was bid. No sooner had the knife hit the ground than the tall, stocky figure in a plain woolen cloak stepped from the darkness and snatched it up. Dark eyes regarded him warily, but the older man appeared confident in his control of the situation.

“So,” he squatted down near the fire and looked over the flames at him.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Jairyd.”

“Jairyd what?”

“I don’t have a surname. I’m the son of a smith, not a nobleman.”

“I see. Your father must be proud.”

“Not any more,” he replied, regret and bitterness coloring his tone.

“You must possess decent skills to be appointed to the guard, seeing as how you’re a young sprout. Yet here you are with no sword and cloak turned inside out. You must have done something unbelievably daft…or cowardly.”

“I’m no coward!” Jairyd’s eyes blazed as he leapt to his feet, fists clenched at his sides.

His own knife was instantly pointed at him, and the man motioned for

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him to resume a seated position.

“Alright then, lad. Don’t get your dander up. We’re just getting acquainted is all.”

Jairyd blew out a breath as he lowered himself back to the ground.

“Might I have the pleasure of our name then, as I’ve given you mine?”

“Fair enough. Marten Wardlow, at your service.” He bowed his head slightly. “So, what did you do then?

Fuck the queen?” He grinned, obviously trying to lighten the mood.

Jairyd snorted. “No…the princess.”

Marten guffawed loudly and slapped a large palm on his thigh.

“Well done! I never had much use for princesses myself. What happened, she couldn’t keep her mouth shut any tighter than her legs?”

“The king walked in on us, and I went out the window. No time to grab my sword belt, it was either climb down the castle wall or lose my head.” He could almost smile about it now; it did make a good tale.

“Well, I’m sure fleeing certain death is hungry work.” Marten stood and tossed the knife over to him. “Kick out your fire and come along with me. My wife will find you a bite; she’s uncommon fond of strays.

We’ll figure out what to do with you in the morning.”

Toeing dirt onto the flames, Jairyd nodded. “How’d you know I was here?”

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“I could smell smoke. Living as deep in the Dead Wood as we do, I’m always on alert for fire. Follow me, we’re not that far off my horse path.”

He stumbled along behind his new host, unable to see in the dark as well. “I had no idea anyone lived here. I’ve been told all my life this forest is haunted.”

Marten looked over his shoulder and chuckled. “Aye, and I do my best to make sure people continue to believe it.” **** Lanette lounged on her bed and watched Orren as he stood in front of her large framed looking glass. He pulled a small pouch from a pocket hidden in the voluminous folds of his robe and poured a smidgen of powder from it into the palm of one hand. Muttering unintelligible sounds, he blew the substance at the reflective surface; immediately, it began to shimmer and became wavy like ripples on a lake.

She sat up, fascinated by the images appearing and transforming each one into the next. The small cottages of the village became farmers’ fields then finally a road that led to a forbidding dark forest.

Orren spoke again, more vehemently this time, but the mirror offered up no additional visions. He sighed and turned away as the mirror gradually resumed its normal appearance.

“Did you see what you wanted to see?”

“Up to a point. I was attempting to track the flight of your young lover.

It seems he has taken shelter in the Dead Wood and my magick cannot follow him further.”

“Why not?”

“It’s protected by someone. A spell blocks it, a strong one.” He joined her on the bed, sitting on the edge beside her. “I must go into the village and visit one with greater powers than mine.”

She shuddered and pulled her dressing gown more tightly around her. “Then I must hide in my chambers until you return.”

Taking a golden curl and wrapping it around a finger, he nodded. “I’m afraid so, my dear. I’ll try not to be gone overlong. At least you’ll be able to tell when I’m back.” He leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead before rising to take his leave.

“Please be careful, Orren. You know how I worry when you leave the safety of the castle.”

He tilted his head to the side, a smirk on his lips. “Your concern is touching. I’m sure your sentiment has nothing to do with the fact that if harm befalls me, your life, as you know it, will be over.”

She had no response. If she lied, he’d know it so why make the attempt.

He chuckled at her silence and promised to return before dawn at

the latest.

Lanette rose from the bed and smoothed the soft velvet fabric over her hips. As with all her clothing, it was sewn by the finest seamstress in the realm and fashioned from the most costly fabric obtainable.

Yet, should Orren meet with an untimely end, her gowns would be of no more use to her than rags.

Sounds from the inner courtyard below drifted up to her window and she stepped nearer to look out. Barely visible in the torchlifht, a kitchen girl had slipped out to meet one of the stableboys, and they were kissing, wrapped in each other’s arms. Giggling, they ran off, hand in hand, in the direction of the stable. Lanette smiled at their sweetness.

Stretching out a lock of hair in front of her eyes, she noted it had already begun to darken. The farther Orren went from the castle, the more the enchantment on her would dim.

She wouldn’t revert to her true appearance completely, but the change would not go unnoticed should anyone see her.

She recalled the day he’d revealed her true identify to her, resulting in her feeling a perpetual unease.

Until that moment, she’d had no inkling she wasn’t Lanette, Princess of Whitecross. Her every whim indulged for as far back as her memory could stretch, she had pouted when Orren rebuked her

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for a poor showing at her lessons.

“I don’t need to read, Orren. I’ll simply order people to read to me!”

“And how will you know if they’re telling you truthfully? Suppose you are queen someday and Barden bribes your “reader” to lie when a message arrives from Fair Haven?”

She had scowled as only a ten year old can. “They wouldn’t dare!” But she wasn’t so sure.

He’d pulled her over to the mirror; that was the first time he showed her the power of the spell cast upon her and what happened when it was removed. “Should you not choose to apply yourself as a princess should, child, you will no longer deserve to be one.”

It had frightened her dreadfully; she did not really understand completely the ramifications of what he’d said and done, but his desired end result was achieved.

She studied, she read, she learned her lessons in more ways than one.

When she reached fifteen summers, he repeated the demonstration and explained more fully who and what she was.

“The true princess died, along with the queen, shortly after childbirth. I found you, newly born, in a nearby brothel and convinced your mother to relinquish you to my care. The realm needed an heir and with the king being a useless sot, there was no guarantee he’d sire another even if he were to acquire a new wife.

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As long as I live, Whitecross has a princess and future queen.”

She suspected then, and even more so now, Orren hadn’t divulged the entirety of the story, but she didn’t press. “What became of my mother… and what is my true name?”

“Your mother took the coin I gave her and left the realm; I have no knowledge of where she went. She had not yet given you a name. The only one you’ve ever had is the one given to the dead princess by her dead mother.”

Sinking down onto the windowseat and staring out into the black night, she remembered his words well and they still pierced her heart as keenly as when first heard. That same day, Orren had begun “training” her in the ways a woman could please a man and how a man could, if so inclined, give her pleasure in return. He claimed her body as his instrument, and he played it skillfully with fingers and tongue, wringing cries of release from her for months before finally taking her virginity. Her mind, as well as her body, was taught to obey his will and to deny him nothing.

Except for one thing…the knowledge her displays of lust for him were a means of self-protection only. She lived in fear that if he learned she loathed him, he’d remove the enchantment permanently, and she’d be left to her own dubious devices to make

her way in the world. When he was not in her presence, he held no sway over her mind, body, or desires.

She could not say the same of the guard--Jairyd. He was a strapping young man with curling brown hair and soulful eyes that spoke to a heart she was unaware she possessed until the moment she first saw him. She had not expected to feel for him; after all, Jairyd was intended to be no more than a pawn in Orren’s scheme.

“You must be with child as soon as possible,” he had announced one evening as they lay together.

She fought to hide her anxiety, having learned it was never wise to show her true emotions. He always found a way to use them against her or taunt her for them. “Why? Am I not pleasing to you as I am that you wish to see me swollen and waddling?”

He chuckled at the idea. “Of course not! But a princess pregnant out of wedlock is more easily married off to a lesser nobleman…even to a physician.”

She had stared at him, eyes wide.

“You wish to marry me?” She was stunned; he used her body, yes, but she was under no delusion that he cared for or about her.

“Your father will not live forever. In truth, I fear any number of illnesses may take him from us. With no son, you are heir to the throne.

Considering your lack of, shall we

say experience, you will need a strong and wise man to advise you and rule by your side.”

“I see.” It was all she could manage to say; it was all she believed it was safe to say.

He trailed his fingers across her shoulder and down to her breast.

Cruelly twisting a nipple, he continued. “I have arranged for a new guard to be assigned to your door. You will like him, I’m sure.

He’s a comely lad and close to your age. You’re to seduce him as soon and as often as you have opportunity to do so.”

Orren never knew she’d fallen in love. Instinctively, she knew to keep it to herself. Tears fell on her cheeks as she wondered what had become of Jairyd and prayed he was safe.

She had betrayed him, but what choice did she have? If she’d tried to protect him, Orren would have revealed her as a fraud and she and her love would both have been in dire peril.

Rising from her seat, she opened the wooden chest in the corner and dug under layers of bedding and linens until she found the item she wanted. She tugged out a dark blue woolen dress; it was the plainest she owned and became more so as she pulled the silver threads and decorative beading from it. One of the things Orren had oft repeated to her was “hope for the best outcome but always prepare for the worst.”

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Should she lose her princess façade, she’d need something appropriate to wear as she attempted to escape the castle. She had yet to plan where to go, but at least she’d have a dress to wear.

She’d also need a name. As she yanked on a stubborn thread, she remembered a book Orren had forced her to read, and she’d surprisingly enjoyed it. One of the characters was named Rosalynd which she thought beautiful. “As my mother did not see fit to name me, I’ll name myself if I must.”

She paused for a moment to see if her hair had returned to shades of gold but saw it was the color of mud.

It was safe to work on her gown a little longer. **** At the edge of the village proper, a small stone cottage stood nestled in a coopse of trees. The nearest neighbors had laid eyes upon its inhabitant very few times, but he caused no trouble and no one was bothered by him.

A single candle was burning in the window as Orren hurried up the overgrown path. He rapped on the weathered door and waited impatiently for the old man to respond. A few moments passed before it creaked open to reveal a frail figure in a roughspun robe, his back slightly bent with a wrinkled

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face ancient beyond telling.

“What are you doing here?” he croaked.

“I am in need of your help, Lewthor.”

Orren knew enough to appear humble in his presence.

The old man sighed heavily and stepped back to admit him. “What is it this time?”

Once the door closed behind them and there was no longer any danger of being seen by curious eyes, Lewthor straightened his spine and squared his shoulders, his piercing black eyes studying Orren with contempt. “Did you not learn anything under my tutelage?

You constantly return to me for assistance.” He snorted in derision.

Orren bowed his head respectfully.

“I have tried my best, Lewthor, but there are other forces at play, I fear.”

Lewthor walked over to a sturdy wooden table, his soft slippers whispering on the stone, and placed his gnarled hands on its surface.

“What were you attempting, and obviously failing, to do?”

“Track a young guard fleeing the castle. I can follow his path all the way to the Dead Wood but no farther.”

The old man snorted again and began mixing and grinding a powder with his mortar and pestle.

Once it was blended and ground to his satisfaction, he poured it out in a ring on the table and clapped his hands sharply three times. With a

whoosh, the powder ignited into a cylindrical wall of flame, burning steadily without ebbing.

“What is the young man’s name?”

Lewthor demanded.

“Jairyd.”

Orren watched as the same images he’d conjured earlier appeared in the orange flames. However, this time they did not stop at the edge of the Dead Wood as they had for him. The unseen eye continued moving deep into the forest until it stopped on a small farm. The final vision was of a horse barn; Orren stared at it until it faded away.

“At least now I know where he’s gone. Thank you, Lewthor. But why couldn’t my will penetrate the Dead Wood?”

The wizard stroked his silky white beard and smiled knowingly. “You know as well as I do that there is another possessing the same powers as you. It would seem he has something to protect from you, Orren.”

The physician’s head fell back as he gave a hearty laugh. “I should have known! So that’s his hidey-hole.

Marten, my brother, I’ve found you at last.”

To be continued …

You can read the first part of this fabulous story in our May Issue of

Fantasy Worlds Emag

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KISSED BY THE ALIEN PRINCE BY C D SAMUDA A SPACE FANTASY ROMANCE When Areilla and and her captain land on strange planet after their shuttle's failure, things get dicey. Not only do they not know where in the universe they are, they are attacked by strange creatures.

In comes the handsome alien to save the day. There is only one problem, they understand nothing he says, including a warning to leave immediately.

While trying to fix their shuttle the captain is captured by the creatures. The alien promises to save him, however, there is a catch.

Star Crossed love is a quirky, romantic, space fantasy story with creatures unknown, in a place unknown to humans. There are sacrifices to be made for survival...or is it a sacrifice when you are getting what your heart desires?

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BETRAYALS OF ANOTHER KIND

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o one pays attention to the sidekicks, the apprentices, the stable boys, the second class characters, and they're tired of it. Now the ones considered the heroes will become the victims of betrayal; whether deliberate or accidental, it makes no difference.

See the products of these betrayals in stories by: Joann M. Shevock, R. Judas Brown, Angel Blackwood, Melissa Robitille, Daniel Eastman, Layne Calry, Gary Lee Webb, Sydnie Beaupre, Adele

IN OUR JULY ISSUE, WE’LL BRING YOU A FABULOUS SNEAK PEEK FROM THIS BOOK

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Pre-Order your copy of

Piercing the Darkness on Amazon!

Piercing the Darkness is the third novel in The Rise of Nazil trilogy.

Pentanimir has taken his place as Zaxson to establish peace in Faélondul. None could have known the Sycophant of Sanctium would be awakened and with her, the darkness of the Doh’Mahn Vwazi T’reyUhm. Piercing the Darkness is the final chapter in this Adult Epic Fantasy trilogy. The complexity builds, as does the cast brought forth in defense of the lands and the Benoists.

The mystery, intrigue, and manipulation reach unheard of levels as the plot mounts to its inevitable end.

demands your full concentration. When all the secrets are revealed, you’ll be left speechless and begging for more.”

Faélondul Awaits!

Reserve your copy now at myBook.to/Piercing_the_Darkness LINK For more information regarding Aaron-Michael Hall, The Rise of Nazil Trilogy or the upcoming The Shifter Trilogy, please visit his website at

http://www.theriseofnazil.com

*Due

to some graphic scenes and adult situations, this novel is intended for mature readers only*

The Rise of Nazil – Book I Seed of Scorn – Book II Piercing the Darkness – Book III

“Aaron-Michael Hall doesn’t disappoint with the shocking twists and turns he’s delivered so eloquently throughout this series. He masterfully weaves a story with such intricacy it 24

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dancing eyes and her plump red lips, smiling as one particular tale brought her to gales of laughter.

Not able to help himself, he reached over to stroke her cheek, causing her to pause, take his hand, and hold it close. Her ever present scent, one of lilies and spice, surrounded them. Looking into each other’s eyes, they silently acknowledged their desire and leaned forward, their lips meeting in a kiss. ver the hill appeared several men, obviously upset, as shown by their demeanor, their horses covered with sweat as were they. Leaning forward, they approached with purpose, nodding to Talon with a silent apology for disturbing his afternoon’s pleasure.

My Lord, you must come quickly.

There’s been a disturbance and your presence is needed.” alon rose, immediately alert and focused. “What has happened?”

Your cousin, Rebon, is in town with his men, and at this moment, is with your father.” alon’s face grew dark and angry, and grabbing his sword which never left his side, he turned to Merla, taking her hand, “My love, I must go. I cannot leave father alone with Rebon for too long. Jaid and Moka will gather everything and escort you home. I will come to you later.” erla nodded, realizing that Talon’s position as village Guardian was needed immediately.

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and cool, one of those autumn afternoons that one is blessed with after a long, hot summer. They had been on a picnic, the fare spread on a blanket brought from home, the wine poured in goblets, and A Short Story the conversation light and carefree. alon, at 6’6”, was the epitome by of manhood. With a physique that would give the gods pause, long, dark hair tied with a leather and unusual amber eyes, he he darkness was cord, commanded all he saw. Confident, overwhelming. Cursed by a but not overly so, calm in battle, jealous cousin, Talon lay immobile, and blessed a rare intelligence, frozen except for his senses, which Talon foundwith pursued with were acute. Remaining lucid, each abandonmenthimself women in the vibration from the volcano he lay village, but he by only had eyes for beneath, each sound, had driven one. him to an all-consuming rage. erla, his raven-haired, emembering his beloved beauty, was was always foremost in his regalingblue-eyed with tales of her mind…his beautiful and charming childhood.him He watched her Merla. The last day had been sunny

THE GUARDIAN

Barbara Chioffi

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alon had taken over Guardianship from Dragar, his father, who was well into his dotage. Now, spending his time reading and offering advice, Dragar, having lost his physical prowess, used his remarkable skills to aid his son in leading and protecting their loyal subjects. One of the few villages in the region to be successful, Dinara was a true jewel.

Many envied the camaraderie and success found there, and as Talon sped homeward, he hoped his cousin was only passing through, but knowing Rebon as he did, he had his doubts. pproaching the hill above the village, Talon’s first sight took his breath… smoke rising from his father’s house, villagers running in the streets, and the sounds of fear.

Spurring his steed faster, his inward being rose to the fore, ready for whatever lay ahead. Amber eyes glowing, Talon drew his horse to a stop, leaped off its back, and ran into the house. What greeted him was horrific. His father had been hung from a ceiling beam by his hands, his body bearing marks only one possessed could have made. Running to Dragar, Talon released his hands, sinking to the floor with his body in his arms. till breathing, his father’s eyes opened slowly, his voice, filled with agony, was ragged. “Son, do not grieve for me. My time is over and yours is only beginning. Find Rebon. He will stop at nothing

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to accomplish his goal… to rule Dinara and the surrounding villages. Take this amulet and use it as I’ve taught you. Rebon must not succeed.” ragar’s head drooped, and he grasped his son’s chemise. Talon gingerly removed the amulet from his father’s chest, wishing to cause as little pain as possible. Hearing the words from his charred lips, passing the power to him, Talon cradled the frail body in his arms as Dragar took his last breath. e laid the body of the late Supreme Guardian on the pallet beneath him. Placing the amulet on his own chest, Talon gasped as it adhered to his skin, becoming a part of his body.

Shaking away the pain and hoping the amulet would grace him with the same wisdom and strength as its last host, he grasped his sword, and with on final look at his father, left to confront his cousin. ebon looked up from his conquest to see Talon striding toward him. He smiled sardonically as his cousin approached. “Well, well. Look who we have here. My dear cousin, come to avenge his father’s death.” s Talon approached, Rebon moved aside, giving him full view of what he had been shielding.

Talon froze. Merla lay exposed, her body ravished and her throat cut.

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Forgetting his rage momentarily, he dropped to his knees, his breath halting. Taking his cloak, he covered her, then rising to his full height, he faced his cousin.

Rebon laughed wickedly. “She was a delight, cousin. I have to give her credit. She fought as a true warrior, one I would have loved by my side.

But no, she chose you, Talon, the magnificent, son of Dragar, the Supreme Guardian. Well, today is mine. I have taken your father, your bride-to-be, and now I will take you.” ebon signaled his men and Talon found himself tangled in a web of rope. Twisting this way and that, he called on his ancestry to assist him, but unable to grasp the amulet on his chest, he was overpowered. Held by the rope and Rebon’s men, he could do nothing but glower at them, growling in futile anger. ebon drew close to Talon, touched the amulet, and uttered the last words Talon would ever hear. “Talon, you shall be cursed to lie beneath the Great Mountain, your powers taken away, immobilized, but aware of your surroundings… every sound, every rumbling of the source of our power. I, son of Dagarth, brother to the Supreme Guardian, take my rightful place as ruler over Dinara.” alon felt a sharp wind, his body borne aloft, his very essence

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torn apart, his last vision, one of his beloved Merla, with Rebon standing over her in triumph. alon’s eyes blazed golden with unbridled rage, as countless times before, he replayed the events in his mind. If only he hadn’t lost focus, but seeing Merla had taken away all sense. The men that had come for him must have taken Merla to Rebon. But why?

They were his friends and loyal beyond measure. Coming to the only conclusion he could accept, he realized that their families must have been threatened, and going first to his father had given Rebon time to commit his treachery. ow long had he lain here?

Time ceased to have meaning, only the regret and rage were his companions, the amulet in his chest, silent, his armor covered with dust, leaves strewn over him, and his sword held in his hands.

What had Rebon done with his thriving Dinara? Had he at least buried his father and Merla? difference in the atmosphere puzzled him. A soft wind with the smell of lilies and spice took his rage. His eyes widened at the sight of Merla leaning over him, her raven hair surrounding her like a halo. Stroking his cheek, her hand moved to the armor encasing his body. Taking the outward plate, she moved aside the clasp to touch the amulet within. Talon immediately

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felt a warmth he hadn’t experienced for countless days and nights. As feeling returned to his body, he rose, clutching his sword, as Merla took on human form, empowered by the amulet on his chest.

Our Great Mountain is displeased with Rebon and his tyranny. I have returned to aid you, my love. Our people need you.” alon took her in his arms, learning through his power that Rebon had enslaved his people, taken their bounty for his own, leaving them to the whim of his army. The once proud Dinara had been reduced to nothing more than a dirty village, filled with broken, hopeless inhabitants. ooking into Merla’s blue eyes, Talon said a silent, thankful prayer to the Great Mountain.

Are you with me?” nowing what was to come, Merla smiled, relishing in Talon’s touch, absent for so long.

Her own power, coming from the amulet, grew as they stood together.

Only the true mate of a Supreme Guardian was granted such a gift.

Both closed their eyes as their bodies morphed into spectacles of old, resplendent with amber eyes, wings, scales, horns, and talons that befit their ancestors, and as the Great Mountain opened, they took to the skies to deliver justice.

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TRUST IN ME - A NEW SERIES BY MICHAEL BAKER The soldier screamed as I approached his broken body. Our dead surrounded us, destroyed by the Caul. We were the only survivors.

“Please, Mortarc, help me” he blubbered, eyes bright with fever.

Help him? Pointless. He had a very nice sword though. I reached for my dagger. His face was white as milk.

“Your screaming will bring more of them, my friend,” I whispered.

The lie was so easy. “It is time to die.” His eyes widened.

“Curse you, traitor. The commander should never have paid for you!” Blood bubbled from his lips. I smiled down at him.

“Fool. I sell my services. I don’t give them away.” My blade danced

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across his throat. I threw his body from me and wiped my hands free of his blood. I didn’t even know his name. I looked at the grisly scene.

Our patrol stood no chance; the witches of Caul just wiped us out.

It meant nothing to me. There was plenty to loot from the dead bodies; valuable gear, coin too. If only I could find a way out. Our guide lay dead with the rest. The battle scene was ringed with trees; their boles the bars of a prison cell.

Heavy footsteps in the undergrowth.

I clenched my fist, feeling the rush of power flowing into my fingers.

“Who is there?” I called. “Show yourself!” For a moment, no reply but the wind. Then a whisper, fluent in my tongue.

“I mean you no harm, Man of Mer.” I saw her then. Another Caul. She was taller than me; humanoid with scaly wings, much like the dragons of the Legion. She wasn’t like the witches who attacked us with their spells of fire. The air was rank with burning flesh. Those demons sported no wings. She watched me reproachfully with red eyes. There was some beauty in them. In her arms she cradled a bouquet, their blooms vibrant and sparkling before my eyes. I recognised them.

Fireleaves. Rare, where I come from.

“Since when did Caul have wings?” I kept the flames alight in my hand. I wasn’t going to let this one get the slip on me. Her voice burst into my head again, so strongly it took even me aback.

“It has been the form of my family for some generations now. We are unlike those savages who attacked you humans. We warred with the cave dwellers of the Dracoslayers near Beruno. They had some rather lovely wings.”

So they cannibalised other beings. No wonder the Valians kept their distance from the forests of Luster. It was a shame my kind didn’t share their wisdom.

“Why should I trust you? Your people slaughtered my kind just now.” I drew my sword, the legacy of my grandfather. Five feet of recurved steel glinted in the air, the traces of

blood winking. Beneath the auburn mane her cold eyes regarded me closely. She murmured something in a tongue I recognised but could not follow. The bodies of the fallen that lay about me began to shake. I understood at once.

I saw you. You never cared for these lives at all, did you? But you’re no normal human, that I can see. As to why you should trust me, I give you my word. And surrounded by the Caul, far away from home, my word is all you have.

Her eyes closed as she continued to sing. Slowly, the bodies rose before me. It surprised me less than you would expect. I’m a mercenary sorcerer, raised by the Ignister Syndot. I’ve seen stranger things.

“I see it is true. You Cauls are indeed able to raise the dead. What next, feed on them?” She smiled shyly. The bouquet in her arms vanished. The corpses shuffled into a ragged line and headed off beneath the trees. It only occurred to me then how cold it was.

They have their uses, but it’s pointless telling you human what we do. Now, are you going to come with me or not? I’ll take you to our borders, but I must order you to leave our domain and not return.

I may be headstrong, but I’m no fool. She seemed genuine. I had to take the chance. Besides. If she tries anything, I’ll kill her too.

Three of the witches I had slain lay

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broken at my feet. I wasn’t one of began to twist, the trees distorting, the milk-sops who died here. I was dissolving... The world was thrown far more. I nodded and stepped into darkness. Instantly, I felt a forwards. powerful jerk around my midriff, “I choose to trust you.” the pressure on my body growing She smiled and walked over to tighter and tighter, a rushing noise me, her bare feet treading lightly in my head so loud I clamped my over the blood and gore. She held hands around my ears. a pale hand to me. I hesitated, then As suddenly as it had begun, it moved to join her. What choice did was over. I landed hard, my knees I have? It was either go with her, or hitting rough ground. I tasted bile stay lost in this hellhole. I’m a god at the burning sensation. amongst men, but lost in the Luster “We are beyond my lands. You’re grounds on my own, even I would free.” struggle.

I open my eyes and look around, “You going to fly me out of here?” the surroundings coming into I asked, nodding at her dragon focus. The rolling hills sloped away wings. before me. In the far distance stood “No, human. I’m a young. I the White Mountain, and the Phial cannot use them yet. My family of Zerdmir, the great fortress of the decreed that only those of age can Orc-king. To the left, I could make use what they scavenged to avoid out another mountain. I knew what conflict. We Caul are a squabbling it was; the city of Beruno, the capital race, but a human like you can of my people. I really was far from surely understand that. And if the home. The Caul let go of my hand, Caul detect your presence, they’ll and I felt a lightness in my stomach. take you. I have other powers.” Her I was free. I had survived again, hand closed strong and cool about and with a mountain loot to boot. my wrist. I doubt I could let have But I needed more. The witch was freed myself even if I wanted to. speaking to me again. Her telepathy “Some of the savages are dead I see.” was really starting to annoy me.

Her eyes were cruel now.

“I will leave you, human. I’d “They tried to kill me,” I said. advise you never return here.

“Of course I repaid them in kind.” Farewell.” I looked into her large, I reached behind me to where I endearing eyes for a moment. They carried my blade. If she attacks… were truly captivating. They did But she made no move to attack. nothing to sway me.

Instead she brought her free hand “I don’t think so,” I said. With one to her lips. Everything around us hand, I grabbed my sword, the

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other gathering flames. She didn’t recognise it in time, her face peaceful in farewell until it twisted in recognition, but it was too late.

She managed to duck my spell, moving quickly to intercept, but not the blade. I chuckled as I saw the steel bite through her slender neck, black glutinous blood spurting everywhere. Some hit my face. The warmth of it felt good. I licked some of it off my lips, the metallic taste alive on my tongue. She collapsed on the ground in silence.

“You were wrong to think me weak, animal,” I said coldly to her fallen corpse. She was splayed before me, the wings glittering in death. I reached for my trusty machete. They would certainly make a fine prize.

YOU CAN CATCH UP WITH MICHAEL ON:

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DEMON WITHIN BY JULIE NICHOLLS

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Norma Jean's School of Witchery Book One:

Jewel

by Rose Montague “This a friend of yours, Wyatt?” his Mom shouted, looking like she was about to lose it.

“Yes, Mom,” he said, but he didn't sound too happy about it.

Nothing I could do, things were about to get worse.

I reached the house and went around the side of it, still flying, with the truck bouncing up and down and hit the edge of the woods, turning the lights off at the same time as I jerked the truck left, right, and left again, weaving between the trees I knew were there only from my gift. It was pitch-black dark in the woods. The only lights came from the dashboard.

Limbs were slapping against the truck on both sides and the sound of small bushes we were running over scraped against the bottom of the truck. A loud snap and a crack appeared in the front window on the passenger side.

“Trust me, Wyatt,” I shouted above the noise and his Mom's now also sobbing, pleading demands for me to stop.

“Her eyes are closed,” screamed his Mom. “We're going to die!”

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Teaser

A presidential election. A witch with a target on her back and a magical arrow. A shadowy government agency made up of witches with unusual abilities.

A game called Witch Pong. The Mighty Thor?

See how it all comes together in a school you will never forget.

Excerpt

“Dispel the dark, bring the fire, light this candle, I so desire,” I said, this time doing as she had instructed, visualizing an air bubble at the bottom of the lake and letting just a little magic seep inside before sending it shooting to the surface emerging just as I finished the spell and pointing the index finger of my hand right at the tip of the candle.

The entire candle burst into flames this time, shooting several feet in the air. I took a step back instinctively noticing that it was not just the candle on fire but the metal table as well, both the top of the table and the legs were covered in flames. Thick black smoke from the melting paint was starting to mix with the flames and I heard a loud thump and a couple of screams.”

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A Spell in the Country by Morgan Smith It was a room chosen for its magnificence, as long and formal as a throne room. Halfway down, there was a fireplace with a small fire going in the grate, and beyond that a table with two chairs. My eyes were drawn instantly to the man seated there.

He was, quite simply, the most

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beautiful man I'd ever seen. He was all those things the bards sing about: golden, young, with broad shoulders and deep blue eyes, the whole poetic rigmarole. My instinct was almost instantly hostile. There was something so calculatedly unfair about his immaculately dressed appearance, in comparison to my own filthy state, that I mentally girded myself against it.

I barely noticed the other man in the room, as he turned from the side table and brought a cup of wine to Prince Tirais. The guard shoved at my back, and I moved slowly, unwillingly, down to face this notquite-final ordeal.

"Sit down," said the Prince coldly, indicating a low bench just a few feet in front of me.

"Thank you," I said politely. He gave me a slightly exasperated look.

"Name?"

"Keridwen, sir."

"And you've been in Lord Uln's service how long?'

"Four months, almost exactly."

"Rank?"

"Troop captain."

There was a pause, while he looked me over.

"How old are you?' he asked. He sounded careful, wary, as if he expected a lie.

"Eighteen, come the Festival of the Merydd."

The prince's expression was derisory.

I knew how it looked. Damned

stupid is how it looked. I could have been Bronwyn the Brave herself come back to life, and no sane commander would put me in charge of a troop. Not at seventeen.

With four months of command behind me, I wouldn't have put a seventeen year old in sole charge of digging a ditch. I'd learned that much at least.

"Can you tell us why, at so tender an age, without experience or long loyalty, you merited such an - er honour?" he said finally. He seemed to be struggling with some inner emotion. I suspected amusement.

"Because anyone older would have wondered what the hell was going on a lot sooner than I did...Your Grace."

The honorific, coming out as the afterthought it was, sounded perilously close to an insult. The man beside him tensed.

I said, to fill in the silence, "Actually, I'm not totally inexperienced.

Compared to most of them, I’m a veteran. I’ve had some training, anyway."

"All right," said Tirais. "Let's have it from the beginning. No, no" this to his companion, "I want to know.

Maybe she can shed some light on whatever is going on here. Goddess knows she's the first one who isn't groveling on the floor begging for mercy - we may as well find out what we can."

Telling one's life story while waiting

to be sent to the gallows is not a course I would recommend to anyone. I would have kept to the recent past, if I could have, but I knew that was hopeless. The moment I mentioned the letter my father had written to Baron Gallerrain, my parentage was out in the open. Not surprisingly, it pleased them not at all. Hanging even minor gentry's daughters is not pleasant, especially when their father's honour is practically a legend. They took the news stoically.

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N.W. Moors is an author and reader based in Portland, Maine. She reviews for Netgalley, Bookvetter, BooksGoSocial, and other websites as well as her own, The Antrim Cycle http://www.antrimcycle.com/ She has written her own Fantasy series called the Antrim Cycle and her book, The Black Swans, has been chosen as a 2015 IndieBrag Medallion honoree and as a 2015 Wishing Shelf Independent Book Award finalist.

LINK:FANTASY WORLDS EMAG.COM

Forest of Demons is the first book in the Sleeping God series

by Debbie Cassidy.

The author says the book was inspired by her father's love of Hindu mythology and I found the story very interesting. Priya is a young woman, living with her parents and a little old by the standards of her village to be unmarried. The reason she is unmarried is because she is in love with her

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friend who is engaged to her other friend. Demons live in the forest all around the village and occasionally, one of the inhabitants is killed by them. This is what happens to Priya's friend who is engaged to marry the man Priya loves.

Meanwhile, the blacksmith Ravi looks out for Priya also and wants to marry her. The story is entertaining and the characters introduced are interesting, each with their own secrets that are discovered as the book proceeds.

Then the book suddenly switches to another culture and lead character, Aryan, a warrior in a militarized city. Again, the myths told and the customs of the new city are interesting though for most of this part of the story, I didn't understand the connection with the first part of the book. Eventually, the stories mesh and some of the background is made clear.

Forest of Demons is good story-telling. I would have liked something up front that hinted at the divergent stories; it was disconcerting to suddenly switch. I also am a person who is not fond of cliffhangers, though I deal with them better if I know upfront. While the paperback apparently indicates this is Book 1, I couldn't tell from the ebook edition until I reached the end and saw the author's note about Book 2. However, this is my own personal quirk and it probably won't bother most people.

I will read the next book because the story is good and the culture and mythology engrossing.

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and afternoon teas. ut Steampunk also shares links and roots with very early film-making and – most glaringly unnoticed in almost every definition or critique – with the crazy, nerdy world of table-top role-playing games that proliferated in the forty-year wake of Dungeons and Dragons. It is the geeky crowd of gamers who first tied fantasy adventure to a Lovecraftian sensibility, and created a brand new world of impossible technologies and strange acts of derring-do. t’s no surprise, then, that it has become one of the hot subgenres of speculative fiction. It’s the ultimate reboot: Steampunk offers the chance to redraw, in our imaginations, a world where climate change could be avoided, where the bold might venture unfettered by present realities, where we dress somewhere between beauty and utility, and where anything might once again be possible. here are some very troubling aspects to this, though. t’s not my nature to be a Debbie Downer here, but for both writers and readers, this is a genre that can easily be one that whitewashes a colonial past, that valorizes tropes like the Great White Hunter, or Kipling’s White Man’s Burden. It can re-normalize some pretty unpleasant aspects of our past and values, and that is Not A Good

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The Genre Tourist Goes Steampunkin’…

spirit of adventure, discovery and innovation. teampunk has, at its very heart, the world of Jules Verne as its inspiration, with a healthy dollop of T. A. Edison “inventor mythology” thrown in, which is why so much of the early stuff was based so firmly in Victorian England, and why that time and place still serves as the anchor for the genre. (This might have be influenced, too, by the utter panache and swagger inherent in the clothes. Cosplay loves Steampunk, and one never has to wonder why.)

Steampunk shares links, spiritually, with many other “alternate reality” subsets of speculative fiction, but its blend of crazy tech and fancy dress has taken off in recent years to assume its own unique place in the fantasy realm. t its best, it can be a glorious kaleidoscope of foreign countries, hot-air balloons, fantastic engines belching clouds of vapour, all married to the Olde Worlde courtesy of calling cards

S The first thing I did for this article was to pull up all the expert definitions of Steampunk.

And what I discovered was that most of the world doesn’t really get it.

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hey, and the fans and writers, for the most part, don’t really understand what it is based on, or its roots, and certainly the most common definitions ignore the problematic core of Steampunk.

That can make this genre a tricky one to navigate today. teampunk is partly based on the idea that if we’d stuck with steam power, the world would be a very different place. It’s about gears and gizmos, about clockworks technology and the magic inside the machines, but it is also – perhaps most importantly - about the

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Thing. n fact, while some critics have argued that the mass racism of the Victorian era means that people of colour have no place in the genre, the fact is that – shock of shocks – non-white people did, in fact, exist in the world prior to the 1960s. The world has never been wholly the preserve of white men – every day, we unearth forgotten and suppressed achievements by people whose appearance doesn’t fit the Western idea of “normal”.

And Steampunk acknowledges this, at least somewhat, by peopling itself with endless armies of feisty women as doctors, archaeologists, vampire hunters, scientists, and inventors, raising them to an incredibly high and valued place within the structure. ou could not possibly “do” steampunk without incorporating strong, adventurous women. o why is it, then, that the idea of Asian, black or Amerindian characters are seen as “ahistorical” and impossible in a genre that seeks to upend and subvert the conventional view of the Victorian world in every other possible way, and further, is so decidedly a world of fantasy?

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he Genre Tourist wants to know.

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Taking another sip from the cup, she rolled the liquid around in her mouth. It was strong, but not as sharp as the synthol her clients bought for her in clubs like Abracadabra. There was a smoothness, a richness, to the tart flavor. She savored it as she swallowed the

Have you ever had a terrible secret you didn’t want anyone to know? Petri does and it may get her killed. Life is hard on Upworld, especially for the residents of Under City, and it’s even harder for those who don’t fit in. Petri has alway been different and now those differences may cost her life. Her one hope is to leave the only home she’s ever known while evading the mob that’s calling for her blood. But Petri has never been outside of her sector of Under City, never mind off the planet. And the laws of Upworld forbid people like her from leaving. Will Petri overcome the odds and make good her escape? Maybe... with a little help from her friends.

Petri found Rodney in the next room, which turned out to be the kitchen.

The cabinets and appliances were metal, but the vast expanse of the countertop was comprised of more stone. Swallowing the quip that first came to her mind, Petri entered the room and joined Rodney at the counter.

He had a real glass bottle in his hand and was pouring something into a

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glass cup. When he handed the cup to her, Petri tasted the contents. It was strong, but she didn't know what it was. Looking at the bottle, she struggled to read the label. Wine!

Actual bottled wine. Not synthol from a food dispenser, which was a luxury in itself, but real, honest-togod wine. Some of her clients had told her about it, but she had never thought to taste it.

mouthful. It was almost certain she'd never get to taste such luxury again.

Looking up, Petri met Rodney's unusual eyes and smiled. "It's good!"

He grinned back, but she saw something sly behind his eyes that worried her.

"I'm glad you like it.

You know, Petri, I was quite surprised when you called me."

Putting her empty cup on the counter, Petri slinked up to Rodney and wrapped her arms around his neck. Undulating her hips against him, she husked, "Oh, I just can't get enough of you, baby.

I needed to see you."

Placing his own glass on the counter, Rodney wrapped his arms around Petri and cupped her ass. He smirked down at her.

"I find that rather unlikely, so I made a couple of calls."

"Calls?" repeated Petri, a knot of worry starting to grow in her gut.

Shifting Petri to one side, Rodney held her against his body with one arm. He used the other hand to pick up

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his wine glass and take another sip.

Holding the glass up to the light, he studied the liquid absently.

"Hmm…Yes, and I found out a few interesting things." Suddenly, he turned back to Petri and his gaze locked with hers. A slow, sadistic smile spread across his face as his arm tightened around her.

"Arcanum? Really? How interesting."

Petri's heart sank as she tried to straighten up and pull away, but her limbs wouldn't cooperate.

Panicking, she tried to wrench herself away from Rodney, but all she accomplished was a body-wide spasm. His condescending chuckle washed over her as she tried to ask him what was going on. How had he managed to drug her? He drank the wine too. But the words wouldn't form and her eyes slid out of focus.

The last thing she heard before she drowned in darkness was, "It was in the glass, dear. Don't worry, Petri.

I'll take good care of my dolly."

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N.W. Moors is an author and reader based in Portland, Maine. She reviews for Netgalley, Bookvetter, BooksGoSocial, and other websites as well as her own, The Antrim Cycle http://www.antrimcycle.com/ She has written her own Fantasy series called the Antrim Cycle and her book, The Black Swans, has been chosen as a 2015 IndieBrag Medallion honoree and as a 2015 Wishing Shelf Independent Book Award finalist.

LINK:FANTASY WORLDS EMAG.COM

ALORA THE WANDER JEWEL

BY TAMIE DEAREN Alora is a fifteen-year old girl living in Montana with her Uncle Charles.

She has two good friends, Beth and Wesley and is a fairly high-school student until she starts having visions of a boy with green eyes. Kaevin lives in a different world, but he is having visions of Alora also. That's when Alora finds out that she has the power of traveling to his land and bringing him to her own.

I don't want to give too much away. Alora and Kaevin, with the help of their friends, must fight to stop a war between the Clans in Kaevin's land

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that was instigated by her father, a sorcerer and leader in one of the Clans. Alora's power to transport things is key to winning the war.

Alora and Kaevin are destined soul-mates. This is definitely YA fantasy and I am always a little wary of teenage 'mean-for-eachother' romances, but this is a sweet story that will appeal to teenagers and older.

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even more so. Soon after I filed my last log entry, I discovered that the doors on this planet are all defective. No matter how hard I stare at them, the doors refuse to open.

communication. I was reduced to using body language and position to get my point across, but she did not seem capable of grasping what I was telling her. However, I cannot help but wonder if her lack of comhen I the hominid-servant prehension was at least somewhat who was issued to me showed feigned. me to my new quarters, I naturally assumed that the door would open he end result of the encounter when I wished to exit. I was wrong was that I remained locked in in that assumption. The door re- one room of my new quarters for an fused to open and I was forced to entire planetary rotation cycle. It's yell for assistance. A horribly un- true that my hominid-servant did dignified position for me to be put ensure that I had water and sanitary into, but I endured. But then the facilities, but that does not make it hominid-servant had the nerve to any less unacceptable. Fortunatebe annoyed! As if she was the one ly, I was released from what had, in who had received poor service! effect, become my prison at the beginning of the current planetary rohe scale of my quarters is not tation cycle, so I will now be able to at all appropriate to one of my begin recording my observations. I stature. Considering how clever will report said observations in my the hominids are in some respects next entry. at building things, it surprises me that they did not anticipate the dify report on the canids will ficulty this scale issue would cause. be included in that entry. So As if that was not enough of an ob- far, I have been unimpressed with stacle, the doors in the quarters my them, but I want more time to colhominid-servant prepared for me lect data before making a formal reall seem to be operated through port. Though, to be fair, nothing on the manipulation of a round lever. this planet has impressed me much Wholly unsuitable for the conve- thus far. If it weren't for the fact that nient use of any DPCIL agent. there are several potentially intelligent species here, I would say that attempted to explain the problem further research was a waste of time. to my hominid-servant, but she does not seem to have been propo be continued.... erly briefed on normal modes of

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THOTH’S JOURNAL I A NEW STORY BY MISTRAL DAWN Department for the Preservation and Confirmation of Intelligent Life (DPCIL)

Agent Thoth Personal Log 48

Day One: arrived at my new station on the third planet from the star colloquially known as Sol without incident, which surprised me. As a new agent, for many cycles now, my more experienced colleagues have regaled me with tales of horror about the tribulations inherent in dealing with the hominids. Fortunately, my arrival was uneventful and my new quarters seem satisfactory, even if the scale of them is a bit odd. My initial impression is that this posting will prove less of a trial than I had expected, but it's too early to know for certain. I will continue this report once I have gathered more data.

Day Two: t has become apparent that my initial impressions were erroneous. The hominids are indeed difficult to deal with, and the canids

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CHOOSING SIDES

REVIEW

AN INTERPLANETARY SAGA BY CHEREE TRIPLETT

SYNOPSYS Richard Derek, escaped U.A.A. prototype and pilot had spent most of his life alone, until a transport job required that his one-man operation become two. When the temporary partner he’d taken on became more to him than he’d bargained for, Derek found himself with something he never thought he'd have – someone to love and something to lose.

For the most part things run smoothly, but when a job dumps...

unexpected cargo in their laps Derek must choose between what is right and what is safe. Having little to no time to decide, Derek must come to terms with what being a prototype means, and make not only the right choice for everyone, but a choice he can live with as well.

In this steamy, action packed, sci-fi adventure you’ll take the journey with Derek and his crew as they transform themselves from being just a group of individuals to a team and eventually, to family.

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