Title:  Waking Oisin

Author: Grace Kilian Delaney

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: February 26, 2018

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 62700

Genre: Contemporary, LGBT, contemporary, bisexual, gay, genderqueer, new adult, cross-dresser, college student, lawyer, age-gap, piercings & tattoos, dirty talk, toys, spanking, D/s dynamics, light kink, family drama, pets

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Synopsis

Oisin Harrison blames his fiancée’s distrust for ruining their relationship. He blames his father for pushing him into law school. But more than all that, he blames himself for letting other people’s expectations stop him from going after his dream. But dressing in drag with his best friend is the one thing Oisin refuses to compromise. As Sin, he meets handsome Trenton Fisher, a man who appreciates Oisin’s cross-dressing. Trent upends his world by doing things to his body no one ever has, making him want more than just one night together. That is, until Oisin discovers his hot hookup works at his father’s law firm and is angling for a promotion. To complicate things, Trent doesn’t seem to recognize Oisin out of drag. Or does he? Will Oisin and Trent’s magnetic attraction grow to something deeper, or will it threaten to jeopardize their careers and futures? Waking Oisin contains characters from Seven Minutes but can be read as a standalone.

Excerpt

Waking Oisin Grace Killian Delaney © 2018 All Rights Reserved Chapter One Oisin Harrison As I walked out of my last class of the day, the wretched feeling grew larger in my stomach, and if it weren’t for the cool January air, I might have puked. I’d failed my first project. My second semester at UNLV’s law school was not going well, and I’d be lucky if I made it through the next four months without getting kicked out. My father had been disappointed with my decision to attend our home state’s college. Being the senior partner and founder of the most prestigious entertainment law firm, with locations in Las Vegas and Los Angeles, he’d had ridiculously high expectations for his youngest son. When he came home from LA on Friday, like he did every weekend, the news of my being on academic probation would be reported to him by one of his many acquaintances (aka babysitters) before I had an opportunity to plead my side, and a butt chewing would ensue. I trudged back to my apartment where I found my best friend, Devon Thomson, in the parking lot getting out of his car. His makeup and short brown hair were flawless, and the stylish wrap coat he wore stopped just above his knees, leaving his calves exposed. The ease with which he expressed his femininity had always impressed me. Devon picked up on my body language immediately. “You don’t look too happy.” “I failed.” My chest tightened. I’d never failed at anything before. I’d survived an undergrad degree in Biological Sciences and graduated summa cum laude, but I had no heart for law. Lately, I had no heart for anything; I was a zombie masquerading among the living. Devon hugged me. “It’s okay, Os. You’ll do better next time—you always do.” That’s why I loved my friend. He was always a hundred and ten percent supportive and affectionate. I missed our nights making love to each other as FWB and hanging out with him like we used to before he met his boyfriend. Whenever he talked about his lover, he glowed with happiness. I’d never seen him so happy, so in love, and it made any nostalgic desires I had seem trivial. He released me and a wicked grin spread across his lips. “I got something that might cheer you up.” “I know that look, and it means trouble.” I laughed, and it seemed like it’d been an eternity since that sound had come from me. “I’m in.” He clapped, his suede gloves dampening the sound. “We got invited to a record release party in Los Angeles next weekend, and I was thinking we could dress up like we used to? It’s been too long since we had some fun together.” My heart swelled. Seemed I wasn’t the only one missing our together time. I should stay and study. Be a good little student. But what Devon offered was too tempting. Screw it. I was going to LA. “Sounds perfect.” “Yay! I’ve got the best outfit for you. You’re gonna look so hot, you’ll be swatting off guys and girls.” “I don’t know about that.” Sometimes I thought being bisexual was a blessing, other times a curse. The curse had happened last semester when my fiancée determined my bisexuality was a cover for being gay and that one day I’d leave her for a man. I protested. She left anyway. “I do,” Devon affirmed, hooking his arm with mine and resting his head on my shoulder as we walked the few steps to my front door “Who are you? Susie Sunshine?” I envied the confidence he had; it drew people to him. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt safe or confident in my own skin. He brought his hands to his face, framing it like a sun’s rays. “Oh, you know me. Just a ray of light wherever I go.” “Will Stone be there?” Mentioning his boyfriend’s name brightened his smile to megawatt proportions. I’d need sunglasses if he kept it up. “Yep. And before you even ask—no, Matty will not be there.” Matty. Stone’s bandmate, who’d brought me to his hotel room, kissed me, and then shoved me away. Last time I saw him, he apologized for leading me on. Alcohol made any hole look good until a hiccup of sobriety hit. Whatever. Matty had been my last attempt at getting laid, and that was so many months ago, I’d reinstated my virginity. I let out a breath. “It won’t matter if he’s there, Dev. We’re good. He’s over it. I’m over it. It’s not like he’s the first person to reject me.” That sounded more pathetic than I’d intended. Time to change the topic. “Do you mind if we stop by Paws for Love before getting dinner? There’s someone I want to check in on.” “Wouldn’t be one of those gorgeous redheaded veterinarians, would it?” Dev raised his perfectly arched eyebrows. “Despite my crush on the twins, no. It’s a female of the four-legged variety—much too hairy. I found a dog, a black lab, with a damaged leg.” Devon brushed my cheek with his gloved fingers. “You’re so sweet, you know that?” The familiar touch set up an ache in my heart, but not because I wanted to be in a relationship with him. Devon and I had been there, done that, and decided we were better off friends. “Being sweet has done nothing for me.” “Ooh, you could get yourself a leather daddy, go all whips and chains. You know, be bad.” Devon tapped a finger against his lips, his gaze shifted upward in thought. “Seriously?” I struggled with the lock to the lemon-yellow front door, fighting back the disturbing image. Devon lightly pushed me out of the way and turned the key twice before it gave. He plopped the key into my hand without acknowledging his triumph over the stubborn lock. “Might loosen you up some.” “Getting laid would loosen me up, never mind getting a leather daddy.” I shouldered the door and went inside. “I think we’ve found a goal for our LA trip.” He rubbed his hands together. I barked a laugh. “My dad always says it’s good to have goals.”

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Meet the Author

Grace Kilian Delaney resides in flammable Southern California where she spends the wee hours of the morning drinking coffee and writing. She identifies as genderfluid and pansexual, though both are recent labels, and a goal of hers is to create stories that include gay, bisexual, and genderfluid characters. When not writing, Grace composes music, pretends she’s an opera singer, plays piano, and practices yoga, though not all at the same time.

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Title:  A Matter of Justice

Series: Hong Kong Nights, Book Three

Author: J.C. Long

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: February 26, 2018

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 80600

Genre: Contemporary, LGBT, criminals, gangs, law enforcement, action, reunited, contemporary, enemies to lovers, kidnapping

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Synopsis

The battle between the Dragons of the Eastern District and their bitter rivals, the Twisted Vipers, is reaching a dangerous point. The Anti-Gang Task Force is hard at work trying to bring down the Vipers. Tensions ratchet when Johnny Hwang guns down a prominent inspector on the task force, and Conroy Wong, Wei Tseng’s second-in-command is a witness. Now, to keep him safe long enough to locate a second witness and put Hwang behind bars, Conroy is forced into close quarters with Allen Hong, a man who once fought side by side with the Dragons until he turned his back on them by joining the police, betraying them. As sparks fly between them once more, the two men must put aside their differences and work together, because the Twisted Vipers aren’t going to let Hwang go down without a fight.

Excerpt

A Matter of Justice J.C. Long © 2018 All Rights Reserved Prologue Inspector Richard Yang was not at all surprised when he received word from Johnny Hwang’s people that Johnny wanted to see him. Actually, he wondered what had taken Hwang so long; he’d made the arrests three days ago, and they’d been all over the news and in newspaper headlines. Hong Kong Police Department Anti-Gang Task Force makes headway with the arrests of three highly influential and well-placed members of the Twisted Viper triad. It was long and wordy, as far as headlines went, but it spared anyone the need to read the damn thing. No one read newspapers nowadays, especially with the Mainland trying to crack down on the press. Yang debated whether or not he should take Hwang up on the offer, finally deciding that it would be amusing to hear, if nothing else. Just after six in the evening he left the apartment he shared with his wife of forty-one years and made his way to the meeting place Hwang had suggested, a ye shi not that far from Aberdeen. The night market was just beginning to see a lot of visitors when Yang arrived, but there was still parking space available near the market’s entrance so he didn’t have to walk that far. It wasn’t that he couldn’t; he was a tough old bastard, even at sixty, and got more than his fair share of exercise as a member of HKPD. He wanted to have a quick getaway available for him in case Hwang decided to pull some shit. He doubted he would, it being a public place and all, but he’d learned in his years on the force to be very careful with criminals, especially the crafty ones. And Johnny Hwang was about as crafty as they came, at least in Hong Kong. Still, the market was a very public place, and if Hwang were to do something, it would cause a lot of complications, so Yang didn’t expect trouble. Hwang’s message said to meet him near a noodle stall called Mrs. Chu’s Noodles. Considering how many food stalls went up in the night markets, Yang thought it would be a problem, but almost as soon as he entered, he saw a sign over a large noodle stall that read “Mrs. Chu’s.” Mrs. Chu’s stall was easily twice the size of the other stalls around hers and had about the same advantage in customers. Behind the stall an older woman with slate-gray hair in a hairnet bustled about, tending to her customers, who were seated along three sides of the square that was her stall. “Mr. Yang.” A young man—thirty-three or -four at the oldest, young by Yang’s standards—in a well-tailored suit approached him, giving him a polite and respectful bow of his head. “If you would come with me, Mr. Hwang is waiting for you.” “Well, at least one thing can be said for your boss,” Yang said as he followed the man to where Hwang sat in the farthest seat along the right side of the square, where he could be partially concealed by the stall itself. “He’s got you puk gai trained to at least pretend to be human beings.” If his words irritated his escort, he didn’t show it. Johnny Hwang was almost finished with a bowl of ramen when Yang joined him, a cloth napkin covering the front of his dress shirt. Slurping a long line into his mouth, Hwang gestured toward the chair next to him. “You’ve got to try the noodles here.” Hwang motioned toward the woman—presumably Mrs. Chu—who immediately moved to dip out a bowl of noodles for him. Yang shook his head to signal to her he didn’t need anything. “I’m not here to sample the fare with you, Hwang. So why don’t you tell me why I’m here—not that I don’t already know.” A vein throbbed in Hwang’s temple at Yang’s words, but he otherwise showed no reaction. “Straight to business, then? Yes, of course—I imagine you’re quite eager to get back home to your lovely wife.” The observation was not made with any particular tone, but Yang recognized it for what it was: Hwang making it clear he had done his homework on Yang. It also reeked of the potential for a threat. The implication that his wife might get brought into this did not have the effect Hwang most likely desired. It just pissed him off. Yang could feel the heavy gaze of the Twisted Viper’s leader as he observed him, looking for some sort of reaction. Making sure to keep his words and expression casual, Yang replied, “Something like that, yeah.” “Well, I guess we’re both busy men, so I will cut right to it, since you insist. Your Anti-Gang Task Force recently arrested three men—” “You’re referring to the three members of your triad that I brought in for possession of illegal weapons and drug trafficking, right? Just so we’re clear.” Hwang’s lips drew back in the slightest sneer. “I do believe you’re purposefully irritating me, Mr. Yang.” “Not at all, Hwang.” Yang left out the respectful prefix, ensuring that it was glaringly noticeable in its absence. “Perhaps you’re simply not used to people calling you on your bullshit. I’m not one of your underlings, so don’t expect me to act like it.” Over his shoulder, Yang could hear the sharp, angry intake of breath from his escort. Hwang, though, just sighed melodramatically. “This would go so much faster if we could just be civil to one another.” “This would go so much faster if you’d just say what you came here to say,” Yang replied. “But since you want to just beat around the bush, let me save you the trouble. If you’re going to ask me to release your men, the answer is hell no.” Hwang finished the last of his noodles, pushing the bowl away from him and giving his stomach a satisfied pat. “Delicious. Mrs. Chu’s noodles are truly the best I’ve ever had in Hong Kong.” He made a motion with his right hand, smooth and simple. Yang’s earlier escort stepped over to Mrs. Chu and paid Hwang’s fee. “And no,” Hwang went on, crossing his legs as he relaxed back, no doubt to ease the tension on his stomach post eating. “I don’t give a fuck about those three—they got caught; they deserve what happens. What I want from you is for you to turn your attention elsewhere. Leave the Twisted Vipers alone. There are plenty of other triads on the island you can take off the streets. It would certainly look better for you to get some victories, wouldn’t it?” “What’s wrong, Hwang? Can’t handle the heat?” “I’m not scared of you or your task force, Yang.” Hwang sneered, straightening. “However, it is becoming a slight inconvenience as far as my business interests are concerned. Naturally I don’t like it when anyone messes with my money. It’s a simple request: take the Twisted Vipers out of your sights for a while, clean up the riffraff wannabes on the edge of the island, or the Dragons. Just stop focusing on me and mine.” Yang couldn’t help it; he laughed, a deep, rumbling belly laugh that moved through his whole body. “I’m curious, Hwang. Did you really think I was going to say yes to the offer?” Hwang’s face had gone cold when Yang began to laugh. “You should think about this seriously, Mr. Yang. You’ll live longer.” “My mother-in-law was Korean. My wife makes kimchi damn near every day. I read somewhere that kimchi is one of the healthiest foods in the world. I like my chances of living longer.” Yang stood, and Hwang did the same. “You have a good night, Hwang. Try not to do anything illegal.”

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Meet the Author

J.C. Long is an American expat living in Japan, though he’s also lived stints in Seoul, South Korea—no, he’s not an army brat; he’s an English teacher. He is also quite passionate about Welsh corgis and is convinced that anyone who does not like them is evil incarnate. His dramatic streak comes from his life-long involvement in theater. After living in several countries aside from the United States J. C. is convinced that love is love, no matter where you are, and is determined to write stories that demonstrate exactly that. J. C. Long’s favorite things in the world are pictures of corgis, writing and Korean food (not in that order…okay, in that order). J. C. spends his time not writing thinking about writing, coming up with new characters, attending Big Bang concerts and wishing he was writing. The best way to get him to write faster is to motivate him with corgi pictures. Yes, that is a veiled hint.

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Title:  Dead Wrong

Series: Thorns and Fangs, Book Four

Author: Gillian St. Kevern

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: February 26, 2018

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 110100

Genre: Paranormal, LGBT, vampires, werewolves, alternate universe, demons, occult, suspense

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Synopsis

Nate’s no supernatural expert, but even he knows a murdered man coming back to life to kill him can only mean one thing—the necromancer is back and out for revenge. Recruited by Department Seven in a desperate attempt to stop Peter before he claims new victims, Nate quickly realizes he’s in way over his head. His powers are failing him, he’s haunted by Peter’s ghost, and he can’t even remember how he stopped Peter the first time—or why he feels that someone very important is missing from his life. Ben is fighting for his afterlife. Trapped in the supernatural version of solitary confinement, he knows freeing himself will destroy New Camden’s fragile peace—but what choice does he have? The longer he spends in his magical prison, the harder it becomes to resist his inner vampire. But if Ben wants to help Nate prevent Peter taking over the city, he has to prove himself to his sire—Saltaire, a thousand-year-old vampire with no qualms about using his immense power to suppress Ben’s free will. As the casualties mount and the city descends into chaos, Ben and Nate must overcome their worst fears and impossible odds—or be written out of existence entirely.

Excerpt

Dead Wrong Gillian St. Kevern © 2018 All Rights Reserved Chapter One The afternoon had all the gloom of a funeral. The pavement and the drab external walls of the surrounding buildings extended to the gray sky above. Nate and Aki stood in silence in the alley beside their apartment building and contemplated the dead. Nate, at six feet tall, had to bow his head to look down at them. “You’re sure it’s not, I don’t know, some kind of vampire cat?” He winced. The question sounded even worse out in the open. Aki looked up at Nate, his hazel eyes flat. “You’re kidding me. Have you ever heard of a vampire cat?” Nate made a helpless gesture toward the bodies. “Look at them.” There were two desiccated rats and, nearby, a shriveled up bird. “Animals don’t eat like this.” He turned the nearest rat over, noticing what looked like a puncture wound. He crouched to get a closer look. “Maybe they were sick. Rats are riddled with disease, and pigeons are not any better—don’t touch them!” Aki made a disgusted noise. “Ugh. Keep your gross, infected hands away from me.” Nate set the rat down and turned his head, giving Aki a speculative look. Aki stepped backward. “Touch me and I promise I will dump you.” Nate snorted, turning his attention back to the dead animals. “You can’t dump me. We’re not dating.” “I can friend dump you—and I will.” “I co-signed the lease. You’re stuck with me.” “I’m pretty sure Grant can find me a legal loophole involving pestilence.” Aki stuck his hands in the pockets of his plaid trousers. He drummed one foot against the pavement, the movement making his keychain rattle. “Come on. Let’s go.” Nate stood slowly, still looking down at the animals. “There’s got to be some kind of explanation for this. Maybe we should call Department Seven?” “They’d laugh in your face. This isn’t even a case for animal control.” Aki heaved a theatrically loud sigh. “If you’re that desperate for excitement, ask George to take you hunting. She’d jump at the chance.” Nate frowned at Aki. “I’m not desperate for excitement.” Aki raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you? This is the longest we’ve gone without any supernatural mishaps since you got mixed up with the necromancer, and for the last month, you’ve been glancing over your shoulder, listening to sounds that aren’t there, and watching the news for anything paranormal. If that’s not desperation, I don’t know what is.” Nate shivered. How to explain to Aki that for the last month, he’d had the constant suspicion that there was something there, just on the edge of his awareness? “I’m not desperate.” “Then why are we hanging out in a shadowy alley, acting like revenant bait?” Nate blanched. Revenants were the most basic form of the undead, recently deceased with a taste for blood and no thought beyond acquiring it. Nate had been closer than he wanted to hungry revenants. “Bait implies I want to find one. I don’t.” “Then can we please leave before one finds us—” Something crunched in the shadows beyond the dumpster. Nate’s breath froze in his throat. He didn’t dare turn his head to see what Aki was doing, concentrating all his attention on the shadows. He heard a second crunch, as if something shifted on the stones beyond the dumpster. Nate stepped toward it. “Don’t.” Aki grabbed his arm. “Please, Nate. This is a seriously bad idea.” “Stay here.” Nate disentangled himself. “Get ready to call Department Seven.” “And after that, I’ll call the funeral home.” Aki had his phone in hand. “I’m having them put ‘I told him not to do it’ on your gravestone.” “Quiet.” Nate knew a revenant couldn’t kill him. At least he was pretty sure he was safe. His experience with the necromancer had woken Nate’s own supernatural side. Being part plant could be inconvenient at times, but it did mean that he was impervious to things that were fatal to ordinary humans. But being a card-carrying psychic wouldn’t protect Aki from becoming monster chow. Nate edged his way around the dumpster carefully. If it was a revenant, he’d have to act fast to stop it preying on Aki. Nate rounded the corner. Nothing there? The newspaper was spread out as if someone had been sleeping rough—never a good idea in New Camden, the city with the largest monster population in the world—and it crackled under foot. Was the sound just the wind rustling through its pages? Nate turned to leave and caught a dull glow out of the corner of his eyes. He grinned. “Aki, come and look at this.” “Is it more dead animals? Because I can pass.” Nate crouched down. “Here, kitty. I’m not going to hurt you.” “A cat?” Aki snorted, and Nate heard his footsteps on the stone behind him. “All that over nothing.” Nate clicked his fingers. “Come on.” The cat watched him balefully. She stretched, displaying her claws, before taking a step into the light. She flicked her tail, watching Nate out of her one good eye. Her left eye was milky white, with the lines of an old scar above and below. She was skinny, her fur bare in patches, and her tail was crooked. Part of one ear was missing, looking like a tattered flag on a pirate ship, with her prominent ribs the hull. “Whoa. That’s the ugliest cat I’ve ever seen.” “She can’t help that. Poor thing. Who knows how long she’s been living out here?” Aki smacked Nate’s hand away from the cat. “Stop risking animal diseases! Look at it. Probably crawling with fleas!” “It’s just an old stray cat.” Aki scoffed. “I was wrong. That’s definitely some variety of hell beast.” Nate clicked his fingers, succeeding in drawing the cat closer to him. “You’re so mean. Just because she’s been on the losing end of a few fights…” “More than a few. It’s probably got every disease in the book.” Nate extended his hand, and the cat cautiously sniffed it. “I think she likes me.” Aki leaned against the dumpster to watch. “Haven’t you learned anything from the disaster that was you adopting the last stray?” Nate looked up. “The last stray turned out to be Grant, who we saved from his evil stepdad, getting you a boyfriend in the process.” “We’re not dating,” Aki said immediately. “If you’re so stuck on Grant, ask him out yourself. I don’t want him.” Nate smiled to himself, stretching out his hand to the cat’s tattered ears. She hissed, and before Nate could react, sunk her teeth into his hand. He jerked his hand back. “Ow!” “Ha! Told you!” Nate sat back on his heels, nursing his hand. “Are you grinning?” “It’s called schadenfreude.” Aki nudged Nate with the toe of his sneaker. “And you deserved it.” Nate looked back down, but at his exclamation, the cat had darted back into the shadows. She squeezed into the narrow gap between the dumpsters. All he could see of her was the gleam of her dead eye. “You’re a bad best friend.” Aki just shrugged. “You should have checked the fine print. It’s too late now. You’re stuck with me.” Nate stood, dusting off his hands on his jeans. “Maybe Grant will find me a legal loophole.” Aki elbowed him. “Not allowed. It’s ‘best friends forever.’ Not best friends until Aki hurts my feelings.” Nate draped his arm over Aki’s shoulders. “Since when is BFF legally binding?” “Well it is. So it’s a good thing I plan on keeping you around.” He leaned comfortably against Nate’s side. “That’s your cue to say there’s no one you would rather be stuck with.” Nate paused, guiltily conscious something wasn’t right. There was something—someone—missing. “Nate?” Nate realized he’d stopped walking. Aki was watching him with an expression of concern on his face. “I was only joking.” Nate grinned. He leaned over, tapping Aki on his shoulder. “Got you.” “You!” Aki demonstrated his feelings of friendship by trying to kick him.

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Meet the Author

Gillian St. Kevern is the author of the Deep Magic series, the Thorns and Fangs series, the For the Love of Christmas series, and standalone novels, The Biggest Scoop and The Wing Commander's Curse. Gillian currently lives in her native New Zealand, but spent eleven years in Japan and has visited over twenty different countries. Her writing is a celebration of the weird and wonderful people she encounters on her journeys. She is the co-founder of the New Zealand Rainbow Romance Writers, and a member of RWNZ.   As a chronic traveller, Gillian is more interested in journeys than endings, with characters that grow and change to achieve their happy ending. She's not afraid to let her characters make mistakes or take the story in an unexpected direction. Her stories cross genres, time-periods and continents, taking readers along for an unforgettable ride. Both Deep Magic and The Biggest Scoop were nominated for Best LOR story in the 2015 M/M Romance Groups Member's Choice awards. Deep Magic also received nominations in Best Cover, Best Main Character and Best Paranormal, while The Biggest Scoop was nominated for Best Coming of Age. Thorns and Fangs came third in the 2016 Rainbow Awards Bisexual Paranormal/Historical category. 

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Title:  The Queen of Ieflaria

Series: Tales of Inthya, Book One

Author: Effie Calvin

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: February 19, 2018

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 65000

Genre: Fantasy, LGBT, fantasy, royalty, dragons, mythical creatures, magic, gods, slow burn

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Synopsis

Princess Esofi of Rhodia and Crown Prince Albion of Ieflaria have been betrothed since they were children but have never met. At age seventeen, Esofi’s journey to Ieflaria is not for the wedding she always expected but instead to offer condolences on the death of her would-be husband. But Ieflaria is desperately in need of help from Rhodia for their dragon problem, so Esofi is offered a new betrothal to Prince Albion’s younger sister, the new Crown Princess Adale. But Adale has no plans of taking the throne, leaving Esofi with more to battle than fire-breathing beasts.

Excerpt

The Queen of Inthya Effie Calvin © 2018 All Rights Reserved Chapter One Esofi The castle at Birsgen had been built from cold gray stone, but the rooms within were warm and bright. Intricate tapestries and carpets in rich shades of crimson, emerald, and sapphire decorated the throne room, and a roaring fire at the far end of the room kept the worst of the chill that dwelled in the ancient stone at bay. Princess Esofi of Rhodia sank into a curtsy, her elaborate skirts rustling softly in the silence. Before her were the velvet thrones of King Dietrich and Queen Saski of Ieflaria. Just behind her were the waiting ladies and battlemages who had accompanied her on the four-month journey to a land that would be her new home. With Esofi’s entire retinue crowded inside, the throne room was not nearly as expansive as it ought to be. To make things even more uncomfortable, many of the residents of the Ieflarian court had gathered for the arrival of the princess, filling the room further. Most of the Ieflarians Esofi had seen so far were dark-haired and fair-skinned with eyes of blue or gray, though in the larger cities she had encountered people who were clearly from far-off lands like Anora and Masim. The women usually wore their hair in braids, with younger girls allowing them to hang free and older women pinning them into coronets or coils. Esofi wished that she could take in their faces and study their reactions to her presence. But she knew she had to trust her ladies to do that for her while she devoted her attention to the regents. “We welcome you to Ieflaria during this sad time,” said King Dietrich. “We regret that your arrival has been under such unfortunate circumstances.” Esofi swallowed. Every Ieflarian they’d encountered since coming into the country had been dressed in gray or black or somber lavender. The queen herself was in a plain gray gown with only the simplest pearl circlet on her head, and the king wore a black velvet jacket over a gray tunic and breeches. Even the guards and servants wore black, instead of the crimson-and-gold livery that her books and tutors had told her to expect. Esofi had worn her simplest dress out of respect, and her ladies had done the same. But Rhodian fashion was dramatically more opulent than the clothing found in Ieflaria, featuring lace accessories, layers of ruffled underskirts, and fabrics sewn with gemstones. Even the most subdued ensemble seemed disrespectfully lavish compared to the simple styles favored by the Ieflarians. “Yes,” said Esofi. “I am deeply sorry.” Three months. Crown Prince Albion, Esofi’s husband-to-be and heir to the throne of Ieflaria, had been dead for three months. Esofi had never met him, but they’d been exchanging letters since they were old enough to write. The loss still felt unreal, as though it were all a terrible joke. “We are no longer able to uphold the contract that was signed fifteen years ago,” said Queen Saski. “You have the right to return home if you choose.” She was wrong. Esofi could no more return home than she could transform into a bird and fly away. “Your Majesties,” Esofi said. “Your lands have suffered greatly from dragon attacks in past years and will only continue to suffer if action is not taken. As the future queen, it was my intention to begin securing Ieflaria’s borders immediately. To this end, I have brought with me a company of the finest battlemages that the University of Rho Dianae has to offer.” She gestured to the back of the room where fifty mages stood in the midnight-blue robes that marked them as fully trained battlemages blessed by Talcia, Goddess of Magic. “But I believe this can still be accomplished, even now. I remain willing to marry your heir…your new heir.” King Dietrich and Queen Saski both looked relieved, as if they had expected Esofi to pick up her skirts and flounce all the way back to Rho Dianae. “For the sake of honoring the spirit of our agreement and protecting our homeland,” said King Dietrich, “we are willing to grant you this.” Even though it had been her proposal, Esofi felt a soft pang in her heart at the words. Albion would have been gentle. Albion would have been kind. She had always considered herself lucky that her betrothed seemed to be noble in manner as well as blood and so near to her own age. Esofi had seen enough violent lords and vicious ladies to know that Iolar had smiled upon her when her parents had arranged her fate. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Esofi. “I think my parents would have little reason to object if the terms of the marriage were otherwise unchanged.” “Then in three days, we will formalize the new agreement.” King Dietrich gestured to a servant who came hurrying to his side. Esofi could not hear what the king said to him, but the servant rushed from the room immediately. Esofi tried to remember who exactly the heir to Ieflaria’s throne was now that Albion was gone. Surely, someone had told her at some point. The winged courier who had brought the news of Albion’s death might have mentioned it. But Esofi’s grief-stricken mind offered no names. Her gaze found the statue of Iolar, Fourth of the Ten, where it loomed behind Their Majesties’ thrones. She offered up a rapid prayer to him. “We have prepared rooms for you,” said Queen Saski. “The servants will lead you to them. If they are not to your liking, you may arrange them however you wish.” Her smile was warm and possibly even genuine. “Thank you,” said Esofi with another curtsy. “The journey has been long. It will be good to rest in a proper bed again.” “You will have plenty of time to recover from your journey,” said Queen Saski. “We cannot begin wedding arrangements until one hundred days of mourning have passed. Tomorrow, you will join me for tea and meet my daughter, the Crown Princess Adale.” “Of course, Your Majesty,” began Esofi. “I…” But the rest of her words died in her throat as her mind caught up with her ears. Princess Adale. She had heard that name before. She was Albion’s younger sister and the only other child of King Dietrich and Queen Saski. Albion had mentioned her in his letters, spinning tales of their adventures and mischief. But…a princess? Like most people, Esofi did not have a strong preference regarding the gender of the one she married. But marrying the same sex was a privilege that royalty was seldom able to indulge in, since the production of heirs usually took priority over all else. Two women could still manage it if one of them could hold a Changed shape long enough, but men had to be content with surrogates. Most of the nobility back home did not care to take such risks with their bloodlines. Perhaps it was different in Ieflaria. Or perhaps Their Majesties were merely desperate. Fortunately, Queen Gaelle of Rhodia had instilled iron willpower in her children, and so Esofi was able to successfully fight back her urge to turn around and look to her ladies for their reactions. She realized the king and queen were still waiting for her to finish her sentence. “I…think that will be lovely,” she completed. Then she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead as delicately as she could manage. “Goodness, how the journey has wearied me.” “Then go, rest,” said Queen Saski. “We will speak again tomorrow.” Dismissed at last, Esofi gave one last curtsy before turning and leading the procession from the room. Once they were out in the halls, Captain Henris approached her. He wore the same midnight robes as the other battlemages, but his were trimmed in silver embroidery. Captain Henris was not a young man any longer but had served Esofi well during the long journey, and she found that she trusted him implicitly. “Your orders, Princess?” he asked. “You may send the mages to the barracks,” Esofi said. “Tell them that I thank them for their service. And find me tomorrow morning, before I meet with Her Majesty.” “Of course, Princess,” he said. With the departure of the mages, the hall became significantly less crowded. Esofi turned her attention to her ladies. There were three of them, and all had come with her by choice. The first was Lady Lexandrie, the second daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Fialia and Esofi’s second cousin, who had been her waiting lady since they were thirteen. She was a tall woman with a cascade of golden hair and a regal demeanor. If Lexandrie had any faults, the foremost one was stubbornness, followed closely by an innate belief that no person in the world had ever worked as hard or suffered as desperately as she had in her eighteen years of life at the marble palace of Rho Dianae. Next was Lady Mireille, daughter of the Baron and Baroness of Aelora. With six older siblings, her prospects in Rhodia had not been high—but her ambitions were. Esofi was still not entirely certain how the young woman had managed to win herself a place on the royal procession, but that didn’t matter now. Mireille’s traveling papers had proclaimed that she was sixteen years old, but her youthful face could have passed for twelve. Mireille’s presence had been welcome on the long journey. She was a bright, cheerful young woman, desperately eager to please and only occasionally prone to simpering. She would rush eagerly to complete any task Esofi set them to, and Lexandrie was always happy to let her work in solitude until the assignment was minutes from being complete. In some small way, Esofi felt that she and Mireille had a sort of kinship between them. While Lexandrie was certain to return to Rhodia someday, Mireille and Esofi never would. There was nothing left for them back there. Ieflaria would become their world now. And last was Lady Lisette of Diativa, who was in actuality not a Lady, nor of Diativa, nor even named Lisette. She was a tiny woman with black eyes and hair the color of moonlight who could go days at a time without uttering a word. Esofi did not know for certain how many blades, lockpicks, and poisons Lisette had on her person, but she felt quite sure that the number was absurdly high. She was an unnerving girl until one became accustomed to her, but Esofi’s mother had insisted upon her presence in the royal carriage. “Such a lovely welcome,” said Lexandrie in a bright and vapid tone. “Didn’t you think so, Princess?” “Yes, of course,” said Esofi in an equally cheerful tone—she knew perfectly well that there could be any number of people listening in, waiting for some word against the co-regents or a sign of weakness. The fact that they spoke in the language of Rhodia was no protection against that. “I will be glad to rest my feet at last, though, and for a cup of tea.” “Princess Esofi,” said a woman, emerging from the throne room behind them. She looked to be around the same age as Queen Saski and wore a lavender gown decorated with pearls. In keeping with the Ieflarian fashion, her long hair was in coiled braids. “I am Countess Amala of Eiben, waiting lady to Queen Saski. Her Majesty has asked me to show you to your new rooms.” “Oh! Of course,” said Esofi, stepping aside so Amala could take the lead.

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Effie is definitely a human being with all her own skin, and not a robot. She writes science fiction and fantasy novels and lives with her cat in the greater Philadelphia area.

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Title:  Aerie

Series: The Chinjoka Saga, Book One

Author: Jon Keys

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: February 19, 2018

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 77900

Genre: Fantasy, NineStar Press, LGBT, shifters, magic, gods, friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, slow burn

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Synopsis

Askari, Dhala, and Gyam grew up as childhood friends during happier days for the Chinjoka, an Iron Age people with the ability to shapeshift, but now they must learn their place among the tribe while dealing with both a devastating plague and war with the Misiq. Ena is a young warrior for the more savage Misiq, a tribe whose cruelty exemplifies their deity—the Angry God. The Misiq, also shifters, have declared a genocidal war against the Chinjoka, blaming them for the disease devastating both tribes. As a result, they are locked in a battle for survival. But when Ena is shown compassion by those he means to harm, he begins to question all he’s ever known. A chance meeting changes their lives, and maybe their tribes, forever.

Excerpt

Aerie Jon Keys © 2018 All Rights Reserved Chapter One Dhala’s world overflowed with desperation as he filled a bowl with crystalline water trickling along the edge of the sky portal for Gyam’s aerie. His attempt to spot Gyam in his flyer form was thwarted by the dense early spring fog that limited the visibility of the surroundings. Even the river running along the cliff was hidden from Dhala’s sharp eyes. Assigned to be the Saat responsible for the last two Athru, Dhala took his worker caste’s responsibility of caring for Gyam and Choro with much weight, especially since Choro was in the final throes of the deadly plague that had devastated the Chinjoka over the last few cycles. As Choro’s health diminished ever more rapidly, Dhala and Gyam had become ever more desperate until, before first light, Gyam had left on the final attempt to gain their friend and mentor more time. A gust sent a spray onto Dhala’s face and moistened the nest of short curls framing it. With the bowl having long ago been filled, he wiped the water from his skin and sighed. “You can’t will him to travel faster, Dhala.” Startled from his dower mood, he grabbed the bowl of fresh water from the trickle and moved to Choro’s side. “I’m so sorry. I was lost in thought.” He dropped a soft piece of trade cloth into the liquid, squeezed it almost dry, and ran it over the man’s face. Choro’s labored breathing echoed through the room, a symptom of how far the disease had progressed. Dhala found some solace knowing they’d had no new cases for a cycle. But sadness overwhelmed him each time he allowed himself to consider Choro losing his battle against the sickness. With a hand withered to little more than talon and sinew, Choro caught his wrist. “Dhala, I’m neither fevered nor in need of cleaning. We both know my time is limited. Gyam set himself on this task hoping to change my fate, but this sun cycle is likely my last.” Dhala scrubbed the tears from his face and scowled at the feeble figure lying before him. With a fierce determination, he grabbed the older man’s hand between his. “Choro, you will live. Gyam will find an osa herd, and the fresh meat will give you the strength to last until we discover a healing.” Dhala glanced out the cave opening to the fog-swathed valley that stretched to the forests surrounding Mother Falls high in the mountains to the north. Nothing of Gyam was visible, but he turned to Choro filled with a stubborn glint. “Soon. He must return soon.” Choro lay back with a rattling breath. “Fledgling, we have not cured what is killing the Chinjoka in all the cycles since it began. Each caste suffered losses. Once I am gone, Gyam is the last Athru. None of the fledglings show signs of the Athru change, and the responsibilities weigh heavily on Gyam.” Dhala dropped his gaze as Choro reminded him of his greatest shame. But there was a gentle touch on his chin, and he lifted his head. He took the elder’s hand in his, and Choro smiled sadly. “It’s no fault of yours that you never left the Saat caste. The Father of the Twins decides who takes to the sky, who are the protectors, and who cares for others. We are all born with the abilities of the Saat, and many become able to shift to the protective plates of the Onija. But the few who are gifted with the faculty to shift into one of the Chinjoka flyers guard us from the sky. We all stop where the Father decrees.” Dhala sighed again but released Choro and moved the bowl aside. The elder was right. Dhala needed to accept his place and the disappointment of never becoming one of the Athru caste as his father always believed he would. He would never develop the stone-hard plate of the Onija, much less the ability to become the taloned and winged protector of the Chinjoka. Dhala’s father held several unique beliefs, including that the earthbound Saat were as important as the soaring Athru. When he was a child, Dhala spent many hours with his friends, climbing the precipice above the village as the Athru flyers glided across the azure sky. He’d loved the time among the heights, regardless of the season, but warm summer mornings were his favorite. By afternoon, the sun would heat the rocks, making them uncomfortable, but during the early mornings, the breeze coming from the warming grasslands northward to the cutleaf forest made it easy to imagine what flight over the last Chinjoka settlement would be like. He glanced again to the outside, thrilled at the rays of sun cutting through the dawn haze and bringing the river far below them into sharper relief. The dry-fit stone wall that formed the flight path for this aerie glowed with the golden light of morning. “He’s fine. Gyam is the strongest Athru I’ve met during my time in the aeries. When the Father takes me, he will need your help.” Choro’s reference to the afterlife made Dhala cringe. He and Gyam had been determined to heal Choro of the plague since his first symptoms. Anyone who’d shown signs of the disease had left on the Long Flight with no exceptions. Dhala lost far too many of his friends, as had most of the Chinjoka. But when Choro showed the difficulty breathing that was the typical first symptom, Dhala fought with ferocious determination to save his friend and advisor. Choro’s downward spiral caused Dhala and Gyam to drift apart. They’d been among the best of friends since they were fledglings, but Choro’s terminal condition left Gyam bitter and unpredictable. The result might be different if their only Athru healer hadn’t been one of the first to die. Others tried to find a cure, including his mother who was a well-versed Saat healer. The failure to determine a cure made people doubt their skills and, in some cases, blame the spread of the disease on the Saat healers. Regardless of the truth, no healer had been successful, and most had stopped their efforts, for fear they might be blamed. “He comes.” Dhala glanced at Choro, who nodded toward the aerie’s sky portal. An instant later, the slow beat of wings came closer. Dhala swept the room with his gaze and found everything to his satisfaction. He moved close as Gyam landed on the rock opening. Dhala couldn’t keep from gasping in awe any time he saw Gyam. Each smooth wing was as long as Dhala’s height. The muscles across his shoulders and down his torso flexed with each swipe of his webbed appendages. Dhala stepped away when Gyam thrust his elongated muzzle toward him and screamed a high piercing call, demanding attention. Dhala wanted to clasp his hands over his ears but knew instead he would do as Gyam demanded. Gyam tensed and released another scream. Dhala dashed forward and grabbed the blood-dripping osa heart from Gyam’s taloned hand. The fresh organ from the small grazer still quivered with the final throes of life. He rushed to Choro’s side, ignoring Gyam’s cry. He knelt beside the older man and offered him the fist-sized heart. Choro preferred the meat of the smaller grazers, and a freshly harvested heart was a special treat. Both Dhala and Gyam hoped it would give him more strength, but Dhala feared it was Choro’s last meal. More of Choro’s presence in this world disappeared with each breath. But he wouldn’t give up hope. Dhala arranged Choro’s bedding to make him as comfortable as possible while he enjoyed the treat. Choro sank his teeth into the morsel with clear relish as blood coated his fingers. Dhala couldn’t help but smile at the elder attacking the tidbit with the same enjoyment as a fledgling with a sweet treat. A short time later, Choro finished and glanced around him. Dhala squeezed out the cloth he’d been using earlier and handed it to Choro, who took it with a grin and wiped himself clean. Once he’d finished, he lay back on the bed, closed his eyes, and sighed. His voice rolled across the room. “Delicious, Gyam. That was the best osa I’ve eaten in many seasons.” Dhala glanced over his shoulder to find Gyam in the midst of his change from his Athru form. The webbing was absorbing into wings, which were disappearing into Gyam’s muscular body, and interlocking scales were becoming supple skin as Gyam left the form marking him as Athru. Dhala relished the beautiful body being revealed to him. When front paws and talons became work-roughened hands, Gyam made his final shift to leave his Athru form and stood nude behind him. Dhala tried not to stare but lost his struggle. Usually, Gyam covered himself, but today, he held his loincloth in one hand while watching Choro. His stout, muscular body demanded Dhala’s attention until he realized how inappropriate he was being, especially given Gyam’s current state. Dhala was painfully aware of the attraction he’d had for Gyam since they’d both grown beyond fledglings, but he would keep his role as Saat for Gyam and Choro during his time of sorrow for them all. He wrenched his gaze to the ailing man and got a smile and quick wink. Caught staring at Gyam, Dhala dropped his attention to the floor. A slight rustling served as warning when Gyam walked past him, making the last tie on his loincloth before kneeling at the side of Choro’s pallet. “Elder, how are you feeling? Did the osa help?” Gyam asked. Choro smiled and tapped Gyam’s cheek. Gyam grinned, and Dhala caught a glimpse of his friend from cycles past. He leaned in to give Choro a kiss on each cheek, but Choro’s gaze included both of them. “It was warm and delicious, exactly what I needed. We must be honest. In spite of all your work, there is no cure. I am not long for this flight. My wings are tattered and bones are brittle. I will soon be with my mate. Both of you must accept this.” Hot tears rolled down Dhala’s cheeks as he listened. He knew the truth of Choro’s assessment. His body was failing. Dhala’s gut twisted with grief, and a sob leaked from his lips. Gyam turned on Dhala and snarled. His face elongated and his canine teeth grew as his emotions overtook his body. But before anything happened, Choro spoke. “That’s enough, Gyam. You two stretched my life further than any of the others who have fallen victim to this illness. For that, I thank you. But the time is here.” Gyam motioned at Dhala as he spoke. “He’s given up. He’s letting you die.” Choro glared and sat up. Dhala scrambled to change his bedding to make it easier, but Choro waved him away. The movement threw Choro into a coughing spell that left him gasping for air. “Please, Elder. Don’t strain yourself. I will do as you wish,” Gyam said. Choro again motioned them off, but not before Dhala saw the flecks of blood on his lips. He lacked none of the weight of his role as elder Athru when he turned to Gyam. “You will be the last Athru. You need your friends. You have been together with Dhala since you both ran free of clothing during the warm moons. You’ve protected and guarded each other through your time together. Now you have let this come between you, and it must stop. Dhala is your friend even though he is Saat. You have grown up together and must regain your ability to work together. Athru, Saat, or Onija, you are all Chinjoka. This disease has almost destroyed our people. So many have died, and only one village remains. You must rebuild the people. You cannot succeed without all three castes who make up the Chinjoka.” Choro lapsed into another coughing fit. This one left him flat on his bed, sweating and gasping for air. He covered his eyes with an arm and tried to breathe. A morning breeze curled around them, bringing a mix of scents of the Chinjoka Basin, from the verdant growth of the shortgrass plains in the south to the crisp scent of the great cutleaf trees nourished by the Pilea River. The single wisp of air reminded Dhala of everything at stake for the Chinjoka nation. Dhala moved closer, pushing an immobile Gyam aside. He checked Choro’s pulse and found a weak thread. He ran his hands down the older man’s neck, but halfway along his path, Choro grabbed his wrists with the strength of a failing butterfly. The silent command left no doubt. He met Dhala’s gaze and nodded. “Soon. But not now.” His gaze moved to encompass both of them. “You look like the gods are testing you. Both of you should rest, but I know neither of you will listen. I plan to sleep and won’t argue with either of you any further.” With that, Choro sank into his bed and closed his eyes. Dhala waited but worried. He moved when Choro parted his lips. “If you check my heartbeat, Dhala, I will hurt you in ways to prevent any enjoyment with a mate for the rest of your life.” Dhala drew away and turned at a snort from Gyam. His dark eyes twinkled as he looked at both Choro and Dhala. “He’s not making idle threats. Even as he is now. Come. We can build up the fire and plan the evening meal. I asked a group of Onija caste hunters to bring the osa carcass. We must be ready for its arrival.” They had created a bed of glowing coals when a voice came from the passageway carved into the interior of the cliff as a way to reach the upper caves. “I could use a little help here! Gyam picked the biggest Twins-blessed osa in the entire basin.” Dhala recognized the voice as another of their friends. Askari was of the Onija caste and one of the most successful hunters among the Chinjoka, but as a warrior, he was unequaled in the village. The plates he formed as Onija were as strong as iron but as mobile as Dhala’s soft skin. Dhala should have known it would be him who retrieved Gyam’s kill. That the three of them had been inseparable since they began to walk made it even more certain that Askari would be the one who would retrieve Gyam’s take. Even though the Father had spread his gifts through the castes as they went through puberty, bodies changing in line with their castes, their friendships had remained. They rushed to the path and found Askari balanced precariously while gripping the carcass he’d thrown across one shoulder. Dhala moved down the first few steps, grabbed the carcass by the stag’s straight-spiraling horns, heaved it upward, and settled it onto his shoulder. Once the body was securely in place, he carried it into the aerie. Askari followed a few steps behind him, and as they reentered, he spared a glance toward Choro’s sleeping form before turning to the other men. Dhala stripped to his breechcloth and used his long knife to cut openings in the hind legs’ tendons so he could hang the osa from the tripod kept for that purpose. With practiced knife work, he peeled the hide from one side while Gyam worked on the other. With a soft crackle, he pulled the skin loose around the neck and glanced toward Askari. The plates from his Onija shift were still prominently displayed over his torso and brow. While scales proved invaluable in protecting one from the Onija caste during battle or hunting, they limited Askari’s finger mobility. The limitation made tasks requiring fine dexterity more difficult. Askari maintained his distance from the work being done, but Dhala knew his friend too well to allow him to avoid the dirty work of butchering the carcass. “Askari, wake up and shift back from your Onija form. You can help.” He gestured his knife toward Gyam. “We want osa for dinner. The rest needs to be spread on a drying rack.” Askari closed his eyes and skewed his face in an expression Dhala recognized as he shifted from his warrior form. Once Askari began, it took little time before his skin was as smooth, flexible—and vulnerable—as Dhala’s. He flexed his fingers a few times before pulling his side knife. Askari’s skill with a blade was evident by the speed the meat was prepared. With the three of them working together, butchering proceeded with well-practiced efficiency. As often as the three of them had hunted together, they should be skilled at sharing the work. Dhala checked on Choro and saw his chest rising and falling. Signs of life, even if his breathing was shallow, gave Dhala hope. He had the urge to evaluate further but considered Choro’s earlier threat. He found the others cleaning the osa blood from their hands. Askari held out the bowl of water he’d filled earlier. “Here, use what’s left, and I’ll get more.” Dhala nodded and let Askari pour the cool liquid over his hands. He rubbed them together to loosen the drying bits from his skin. Once that was done, Askari splashed more water onto Dhala’s hands. After a few repetitions, Dhala was clean, and the pottery bowl was empty. He dried himself on his tunic and nodded to Askari. “Thank you. We appreciate your help.” Gyam glanced up and one brow lifted. But a moment later, he returned to the task he was trying to complete. His knife flashed in the light as he sliced the loin free from the backbone, cut the meat into thick slices, and threaded them onto fire-hardened skewers before hanging them over crimson coals. The meat was soon sizzling and filled the aerie with delicious aromas. They tended the meat, constantly turning it to get a perfect sear on all sides. But while they did, Dhala kept a continual watch on Choro. All three friends worked to carve what remained into thin strips and hang them from the drying rack Dhala put in the small fire’s draft. The sun approached its peak when they finished. The skewered loin had cooked to perfection. Askari had always claimed a talent for cooking. He’d often said if Gyam had no choice but to eat his own cooking, he would learn how to do a decent job with its preparation. The smells of food had Dhala’s stomach growling, but he checked on Choro first to see if he might be interested in eating. He walked over and squatted beside Choro’s bed. When he leaned forward to shake him awake, Choro’s eyes fluttered open. “I’m still here, Dhala. The aroma of cooking osa was enough to keep me. It smells delicious. I haven’t eaten a meal from Askari in too many moons.” “You will enjoy his cooking many more—” Dhala’s throat tightened, and he could not complete what he and Choro both knew was a lie. The older man patted his hand and smiled sadly. “I relish sharing this meal with you. Bring me a piece of that delicious meat, fledgling. Invite the others to join us. I think we’ll have the best meal we’ve had in seasons.” He studied Dhala and continued. “Be certain to put out an offering of the osa to the gods, especially the Father. Their favor is needed by all of us.” Dhala rushed away, glad to be focused on anything other than Choro’s rapid decline. The others turned to him as he approached. He glanced at them as he brought his emotions under control. “Choro says the meat smells delicious and would like for us to share the meal with him,” Dhala said. Askari leaned closer and whispered, “How is he?” Dhala motioned toward the sleeping area. “He asked me to assure the offerings from the successful hunt. I will take care of their placement on the fire. Go. Sit with Choro and enjoy sharing our meal with him.” Dhala drew his blade and carefully sliced thick pieces from the osa’s mineral-rich liver. After adding more wood to the fire, he dropped the raw meat into the searing hot coals. As the scent of the roasting delicacy filled the aerie, Dhala began a simple chant of thanks every Chinjoka was taught before their first blooding. As the last of the flesh turned dark, a breeze blew across the fire, hiding it in the smoke. Once Dhala’s sight returned, no trace of the meat remained. He hesitated but then joined the others with a shake of his head. The three young men gathered the food they had prepared and sat on the floor surrounding their elder. Dhala brought small drinking bowls, one for each of them, filled with clear water Askari had brought from the river while they cooked. The mood was somber; everyone had seen the disease progress too many times. Choro only nibbled at his meat before setting it to one side. He lowered himself into the bedding and stared toward the open sky as they finished the rest of the meal. “There are so few of us left. I don’t know how the Chinjoka can survive. Our gods have deserted us and the sickness destroyed the tribe until we are tempting targets to our enemies,” Choro whispered. The others fell silent as they explored their own dark memories. Blood-laced saliva and the gradual failure of the victims’ ability to breathe were the symptoms burned into the memory of any Chinjoka. The number of people Dhala had eased onto their Long Flight left him numb. Even at his young age, he remembered when the plague began. Hysteria made a bad situation worse. Early, when so many were dying, terror ruled people’s actions. Saat healers suggested any possible cure or at least a way to stop its spread. Its progression was slow but always fatal. It didn’t seem to spread through contact. In many cases, some members of a family would not develop symptoms, while their fathers, mothers, brothers, or sisters perished. The Athru healer who might have been able to develop a cure died in the first wave of fatalities. Saat healers could do nothing, but ignorance and malice caused them to be blamed for the disease. The first season was devastating for the Chinjoka, physically and emotionally. One village had thrown a Saat healer from the burial heights in a confused effort to gain attention from the Father. Choro, and the other Athru caste who lived then, championed the Saat healers. But people still feared the illness that was wiping out entire villages, and the healers’ fear of retribution led them to stop aiding, not only those afflicted with the plague but other diseases normally not considered serious. This caused more deaths, this time from lack of rudimentary healing. The last of the plague victims received the best possible care. But even with the finest healing, like Choro was given, the ending was too predictable. And too tragic. The small group finished their meal, and Dhala cleared the remains, dropping them into the cooking fire. The other two sat near Choro to fulfill any request. Dhala studied them, trying to think of anything to make Choro more comfortable. But he’d done all he could. To give Dhala something to occupy his thoughts, he began the work of tanning the osa hide. First, he brought a frame from the storage room. He cut a thin strip from the outer edge of the skin and made small slits along the edge. With care, he laced the pelt to the frame, stretching it into place. “You have a skill to appreciate, Dhala. Don’t forget others take note of your labor,” Choro said. Dhala faltered at his task. Tears flowed again as he met the gaze of the elder. He broke contact to refocus on his task even though emotions overwhelmed him. One thing he had learned early in life, emotional and fragile Chinjoka suffered short and miserable lives. He nurtured the strength to continue even when overwhelmed with impending loss. This was no different as he focused on scraping the hide clean, fingerwidth by fingerwidth. But his walls broke and loneliness poured into Dhala. Too overwhelmed to continue, he let his hands drop to his side as he wept. No one chastised him for his lack of control, even though it was certain everyone heard. His strength waned as his sorrow leaked out as salty tears. A light touch shocked Dhala, and he turned to find Gyam standing beside him. He stiffened, expecting a reprimand. But no rebuke came. Gyam instead knelt beside him and hugged him. Dhala returned his embrace. During that moment, his friend since birth returned, and the formal Athru of recent seasons vanished. “He will be fine. I think the fresh meat brought him new energy. He will recover. Don’t grieve for him.” Dhala schooled his expression before meeting Gyam’s gaze. Unable to lie, he spoke a different truth. “I believe Choro is one of the strongest Chinjoka I’ve ever met. If anyone can conquer the disease killing us, it will be him.” Gyam patted his shoulder and flashed a smile at Dhala. “Exactly. Now, one of us will sit with him so we are close if he needs anything. Otherwise, we will continue our day.” “Of course, Gyam.” Dhala tried to add more, but his knowledge of the Saat healing was too limited to enable him to sense the state of Choro’s rapidly deteriorating health. He nodded and turned to his work.

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Jon Keys’ earliest memories revolve around books; with the first ones he can recall reading himself being “The Warlord of Mars” and anything with Tarzan. (The local library wasn’t particularly up to date.) But as puberty set in, he started sneaking his mother’s romance magazines and added the world of romance and erotica to his mix of science fiction, fantasy, Native American, westerns and comic books. A voracious reader for almost half a century, Jon has only recently begun creating his own flights of fiction for the entertainment of others. Born in the Southwest and now living in the Midwest, Jon has worked as a ranch hand, teacher, computer tech, roughneck, designer, retail clerk, welder, artist, and, yes, pool boy; with interests ranging from kayaking and hunting to painting and cooking, he draws from a wide range of life experiences to create written works that draw the reader in and wrap them in a good story.

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Title:  Conjoined at the Soul

Series: Seasons at Chadham High, Book Two

Author: Huston Piner

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: February 12, 2018

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 74200

Genre: Historical (1970s) YA, LGBT, historical/late 1970s, YA, humorous, high school, coming of age, coming out, bullying, homophobia, hate crime, bigotry, family drama

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Synopsis

A SunFire Imprint Book Randy Clark has just looked in the mirror and figured out he’s gay. So now, all he needs is a boyfriend, and finding one should be easy enough, right? The trouble is Randy has a knack for being attracted to the wrong kind of guy, like the one who hasn’t spoken to him since he told him he had pretty eyes. Then there’s that locker-room jock who’s always putting him down. And new student Kerry Sawyer would be perfect—except for that girlfriend he left behind. Obviously, when it comes to finding a boyfriend, Randy’s got a lot to learn. So for dating tips, he turns to friends Jeremy Smith and Annie Brock. But although Annie's more than willing to help him find the right guy, between his own bad luck and her less than helpful advice (date a girl?), things are getting out of control fast. And while Randy struggles with bullies, bigotry, and his own self-doubts, he quickly finds that searching for love can be pitted with embarrassing misunderstandings, humiliating encounters, and hilarious missteps. All in all, Randy’s sophomore year is shaping up to be one to remember—if he can just live through it.

Excerpt

Conjoined at the Soul Huston Piner © 2018 All Rights Reserved Chapter One: Of Mirrors and Locker Rooms Today is a day of historic importance. See, I woke up this morning and discovered I’m gay. I was brushing my teeth, and when I spit out and looked in the mirror, a pointy-nosed, sixteen-year-old with unruly blond hair stared back at me and said, “You, young man, are gay.” I know I know I know, it’s not quite that simple. I didn’t just go to bed last night as the straight Randy Clark only to have the gay pixie come and sprinkle fairy dust all over me in my sleep. The truth is, it’s something I’ve kind of seen coming for a couple of years now. It’s like a process: one day you start adding up all the times you’ve caught yourself looking at guys or couldn’t stop thinking about a particular boy, and it just hits you—you’re gay. It’s a lot to take in. Luckily, I have the ride to school to think about it. When the bus stops, I check the time, and it’s running late…again. Three minutes late. I hate being late. My best friend, Blake, stumbles on board like a zombie. His head’s drooping, and his shoulders are slumped forward. Yup, it was obviously another late night for Blake Rogers. I flash him my most saccharine smile and say “Good morning” with my most sarcastic cheeriness. “Mumm-ning, Randy.” He yawns and is already dozing before his butt even hits the seat next to me. And with that, it’s guaranteed to be a quiet, peaceful ride the rest of the way. It’s funny, but now that I’ve admitted I’m gay, I’m more at peace with myself than I’ve ever been in my whole life. It feels natural. But it’s kind of scary too. I mean, being gay isn’t exactly the kind of thing you can just announce to the world. Some people would instantly hate you and tell you so, while others would express their opinion with a few well-chosen punches—and I get more than my share of those already. It’s enough to make a guy a little nervous. And then there’s the problem—the real problem. Something’s missing in my life—something important, something very important. See, a straight guy can look forward to the possibility of getting married, but what about me? Is there someone out there waiting for me? I mean, sure, friends are important in life, but they’re not enough. What I need is a boyfriend, my own special someone to turn me on and send me into sexual orbit. That’s what it’s all about, right? Blake starts snoring. I elbow him in the side and shake my head. He grumbles, but at least he stops snoring. The guy sitting across the aisle from us snickers. Blake may be my best friend, but he won’t be the first person I tell I’m gay. It’s not that he’d stop being my friend or anything, it’s just that it’s more urgent for me to find someone I can go to for advice about guys first. Blake likes girls way too much to be of any help on that issue. For that job, I know exactly who I need: Annie Brock and Jeremy Smith. They’re in my art class. If there are any two people on earth who will be able to help me find a boyfriend, it’s Annie and Jeremy. I’ve finally made it to fifth period after surviving a typically boring morning, and whatever it was they served for lunch. (They called it spaghetti, but I swear it was wiggling.) Art. It’s my favorite class, and unlike some of my others, I’m very good at it. I’ve got artistic flair. Our teacher, Mrs. Pilt, is the stereotypical art teacher. She wears smocks of various patterns and colors, and they’re always stained with smears of paint. The art room reeks of pottery clay, glue, and God knows what else. The walls are lined with shelves and paintings, and there are weird mobiles hanging like Picasso spiders from the ceiling. It’s always noisy, and the radio constantly blasts out the Bee Gees, Dire Straits, and The B-52’s, with a little Chic thrown in for good measure. There are a number of rectangular tables here and there with up to six people at each. Annie, Jeremy, and I sit at the table closest to Mrs. Pilt’s desk. We’re her favorite students. The great thing about art class is, as long as you stay on task, Mrs. Pilt lets you chat with the people around you. At our table, Annie does most of the talking. I get in a few words every now and then, and Jeremy rarely speaks at all. We’re starting a new project, and for the moment, even Annie’s quiet while we all consider the charcoal and paper before us. If I’m going to tell them I’m gay and enlist their help, now is my best chance. I’d better act fast. I open my mouth, but suddenly a lump forms in my throat. I take a deep breath and try again, but my stomach flutters. What’s wrong with me? Why am I so nervous all of a sudden? Maybe if I ease into the subject? I clear my throat. “Did you see Andy Gibb on TV this weekend? He’s good-looking.” I manage to say it without stammering. Annie pulls at a lock of wiry black hair and grunts out one of her peculiar snickers. “Honey, good-looking doesn’t even begin to describe Andy Gibb.” Annie’s laugh is kind of a cross between a giggle and the sound some people make when they’re blowing their noses. Like Annie herself, it’s unique. She’s outspoken and outlandish, and she doesn’t care who knows it. And she’s definitely got more than her quota of artistic flair. It extends right down to the clothes she wears. For example, today she has on a tangerine and lime-colored disco party dress with three-inch-high clogs. “Yeah, I really like Andy Gibb,” I say. Without looking up, Jeremy says, “He’s okay. What other singers do you like, Randy?” One of the nice things about Jeremy is he’s not only quiet, he gets along with everybody—except for that low-rumble, love-hate thing he and Annie have going on. It’s okay though, because in the three years I’ve known them, they always sit together, and they look out for each other, despite constantly bickering. “Well, on the male side, I guess I’d have to say Rod Stewart. That Georgie song was just so moving.” “The one about the gay guy?” Jeremy mumbles, and Annie starts to snicker. “Yeah, I’m gay.” So much for easing into the subject. Annie freezes in mid-snort. Jeremy looks up without raising his head. “Of course you’re gay, sugar,” Annie says with a chuckle. “But you don’t have to say it so loud.” I quickly look around, my cheeks burning, but none of the other students are paying us any attention. Annie’s smile softens. “Now, don’t be embarrassed. I just mean I’ve had my suspicions about you for a while. You dress too well, and you’re always combing your hair. And you even like the Village People.” “So what? Lots of people like the Village People. What’s that got to do with anything?” Annie stares at me. “Randy, you do know they’re all gay, don’t you? I mean, you do know what “Y.M.C.A.” is all about?” “It’s about working out at the Y.M.C.A., of course.” “It’s about hanging out with all the boys. You get it now?” Jeremy slowly shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

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Meet the Author

Huston Piner always wanted to be a writer but realized from an early age that learning to read would have to take precedence. A voracious reader, he loves nothing more than a well-told story, a glass of red, and music playing in the background. His writings focus on ordinary gay teenagers and young adults struggling with their orientation in the face of cultural prejudice and the evolving influence of LGBTQA+ rights on society. He and his partner live in a house ruled by three domineering cats in the mid-Atlantic region.

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