NCP Blog

Abduction by Alexandra O’Hurley

Kaya awoke lying in a bed that wasn’t hers. She jumped up from the sheets, only to find she was also nude. She grabbed the just abandoned sheets and wrapped them around her body as she rose to inspect her surroundings and clear her head.

She dug through her hazy brain trying to find the last thing she remembered. The warriors. They had come to her café and the last thing she recalled was two of the incredibly tall soldiers approaching her and grabbing her arms.

She had been abducted.

Why me? Where the hell am I?

She studied the room around her. She was alone and needed to figure out where she was and how she could get herself home. The room was large, larger than her whole entire house. The ceilings were at least 15 feet high and the space could have been used for a ballroom versus a room to hold her captive. It was breathtakingly beautiful. If this is how they hold captives, what do they sleep in?

The large canopied bed she had been sleeping in was outsized and round, at least 10 feet in diameter, and placed squarely in the center of the room. It was covered in a fabric that felt softer than silk, but seemed as strong as cotton. She had never felt something this soft in her life and the sheets covering her body were like heaven itself. The walls were a soft cream color, also covered in a soft fabric. There were enormous pillows gracing the floor everywhere she looked, all of them large enough to sit and snuggle into. One whole wall was graced with doors similar to French doors, open to a large outdoor area and once she walked outside, she was greeted with an outdoor half-canopied living area with handsome furniture. There were heavy wooden chairs and tables as well as more of the large silken pillows in every shade of the rainbow gracing the floor.

Over the balcony railing, she spied a village of people below, all going about their day. She saw what seemed to be bakers and butchers as well as farmers selling their produce. She noticed women with small children rushing through the market area purchasing this and that for the household. It was like something from another age, an old time marketplace, yet something was not quite right with what she saw. The people looked a little odd. Different. She could not put her finger on it, but there was something about these people that was not quite…human?

Walking back into the bedroom area, she tried to determine if there was a way out of this luxurious jail cell. She opened the many doors in the room, finding what was surely a bathroom, a dressing area off the bathroom, and closet after closet, as well as another door that opened to a completely barren room with no windows or doors. Just as she was about to open her last chance to find escape, the door opened before she could grasp the handle. She jumped in surprise, only to find an extremely tall woman standing in the opening, apparently as surprised to find her so close to the door.

“Pardon me, my lady. I am here to attend to you,” said the meek looking woman standing in front of her. Kaya found it odd she looked so meek when the woman was easily 6 inches taller than she.

“Attend to me?”

“Bathe you, dress you, prepare you for your tutor.”

“My tutor? What is it I am going to be tutored in?”

“Why, your education in the ritual of Daya N’goul, of course.”

“Die a na ghoul?”

“Yes, Daya N’goul…and you will learn soon enough, I am not trained to be your teacher. Come, we must ready you, as your tutor will be here momentarily,” the woman grasped her arm and tugged her towards the bathing area. Kaya pulled her hand from the woman’s grasp. “Wait, I have a lot of questions. To start, what is going on here? Who are you? Why am I held captive and what ‘education’ am I to receive. I am not interested in being brainwashed, so you can tell my ‘teacher’ that I am not interested.”

The woman just smiled dazedly at her. And that infuriated Kaya.

“WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON?? I WANT TO GO HOME, DAMMIT!” Kaya stomped her foot like a spoiled child and screamed into the smiling face.

“Do not worry yourself so. We are not going to brainwash you. We are simply going to teach our culture and our history to you to put you at ease and help you understand Daya N’goul. Your teacher will tell you much more. That is if I can prepare you in time. He is a very impatient man, but he will answer many of your questions,” the woman’s seemingly sincere words, calm demeanor, and smile calmed Kaya a bit, but she was still fearful and confused. “And by the way, my name is Be’in. And my sister and I will be your lady’s maids.”

“As a captive here, I will have lady’s maids? I didn’t have maids at home and I get abducted and get two.” Kaya shook her head in exasperation. “This makes absolutely no sense at all.”

“It will. Soon, everything will make sense. Come, and let me prepare you for your lessons.”

Kaya let herself be pulled into the large tub filled with hot sweet smelling water. Be’in’s strong hands bathed her and washed her long auburn hair. Something in the water must have had a calming effect as Kaya nearly fell asleep from the aroma, the warmth of the water, and the kneading hands over her body. Be’in pulled her weak body to stand and urged her out of the tub. Another woman came through the door and the two women dried Kaya’s body thoroughly. “This is my sister J’ Halle. As I said, she will be your other lady’s maid.”

The other woman was much younger than Be’in and quite shy. She gave a timid smile to Kaya and turned her head. Be’in pulled Kaya to a seat in a corner of the bath that she assumed was the dressing area. Kaya turned when prodded by the women to take a seat in front of some sort of vanity. She looked into the mirror and nearly screamed. She was her, yet different. Her hair was much, much longer, her body was thinner and toned, and her freckles were gone. She had always hated those freckles, but without them she looked so strange. So alien.

After the initial shock of seeing herself looking so differently, she settled in to the ministrations of the two women, almost numb from everything that was happening around and to her. They pulled a comb through her thick hair and pulled it back away from her face with a gold-jeweled clip. Tendrils wrapped and curled around her face and her tresses shone with health and curled down her back. They next applied makeup like nothing she had seen, mainly heavy dark liner around her eyes and gold dust all around her face and neck.

Then a beautiful green shear gown was brought into the room and wrapped elegantly about her. It was off one shoulder and twisted in complex turns all around her upper body and let flow past her waist to the floor, with many slits from the waist down due to the oddly collected fabric and all the complex ties. Kaya looked down and noted that the fabric was shear and she could easily see her dusky nipples through the cloth, even with all the twists of the fabric on her body. Soft sandals were put on her feet and tied up her legs to the knee. And then the final touch, jewels were added. She was adorned with a thick golden choker, golden earrings that covered her entire ear like a shell, and a golden head band that resembled a weaving branch of ivy, as well as gold bands placed on both upper arms and wrists.

She looked into the mirror and tears formed in her eyes. Fear, fatigue, the ministrations of these women and the unexpectedness that she would ever look so beautiful all caught up with her at once and she began quietly sobbing.

“Please, please. Don’t cry. You will ruin all our work and you will be late for your first lesson. You must stop….look how beautiful you are. There is no reason to cry.” Be’in had hugged her to her chest and was rubbing her back, actually making her cry more. She refused to show weakness to these people so she stopped herself, plus a small part of her did not want these women to be forced to redo all their hard work. Looking back into the mirror, Be’in fixed a couple of small spots on her face and then beamed at her. “Today, my lady, you look ravishing.”

Kaya smiled and let the woman lead her through the bedroom and out to the living area on the balcony. There was someone waiting for her and as he stood her knees nearly buckled. Before her stood the most gorgeous man she had ever laid eyes on in her entire lifetime. Be’in smiled up at the incredibly tall, incredibly striking man before them. “Kaya, this will be your teacher, Lord Fatel. He will instruct you in Daya N’goul and can answer your many questions. Lord Fatel, let me introduce you to Lady Kaya.”

Thoughts of her captive status completely fled from her mind as she smiled up into his eyes, and then blushed as she remembered her near nakedness. She covered her bosom with her arms, embarrassed to be so on display in front of this gorgeous male. Lord Fatel stepped towards her and grasped her hands in his, pulling her towards him, his pale blue eyes roving over her form and smiling his approval. He huskily spoke, in almost a whisper, apparent desire showing in his eyes and filling his words. ”I have been waiting for our classes to begin with much excitement. Be’in, if you will excuse us,” he said over Kaya’s shoulder to the maid behind her before resting his gaze back on her face, ”And then we can begin for the day.” A shiver ran down Kaya’s back as she recognized the look she witnessed on his face. He looked like a hungry man seated in front of his first meal in days.

Standing so close to the heat of this stunning man, with the desire he felt written over his face, and the fact that she was still reeling from everything that had happened to her thus far, her knees finally gave out and she began to fall, even with her arms held in his grasp. Quickly releasing one of her arms and grabbing her at the waist, the muscular stranger pulled her close to him. She felt his erection against her upper abdomen through the thin material that covered her body and heat rushed into her core. “Why would a stranger…this stranger… cause such a reaction to my body, especially given my captivity?” she thought to herself.

“I see you are as excited as I to start your lessons,” he looked down at her with mesmerizing blue eyes. “I will never tire of holding you next to me, Princess.” He had the gall to wink at her as he set her down on one of the large floor pillows gracing the floor. “Well, are we ready to begin?”

WyndStones, by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Alinor Tabor watched her lord and master, her husband of ten years as he strutted across the courtyard of their keep and wished a bolt of lightning would stairstep down from the roiling heavens to fry him where he walked. She longed to look down on his smoldering ashes, so she could hawk a goodly wad of phlegm on the mess and curse him as he deserved to be cursed. If ever a man had earned a place in hell it was Reynolds Tabor and with any luck at all, he’d find his way there sooner or later.

“Sooner if I had my druthers,” she mumbled, rubbing the bruises that ran up and down her left arm—bruises that went with the other purple and blue shadows that littered her body.

Every woman at the keep had reason to hate and fear the laird. Not a one from the age of twelve on up had been spared his rutting or his brutal hand. Seven were pregnant with his seed and another two had just delivered bairns. It was neither a safe nor easy place for the females of County Wicklow to live.

“Janey died this morn, Lady Alinor.”

Turning to confront the servant who brought the news, Alinor sighed. It was not unexpected. The child had been little more than a wisp of a thing when Reynolds had forced himself on her a week past, breaking a thin little leg in the process. As undernourished and anemic as the poor thing had been, the lady of the keep was surprised Janey Reid had lasted this long. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise for the fourteen year-old waif. She would join Betta Shaw in the servant’s cemetery.

“Well, see to her burial,” she told the servant and at the man’s respectful nod, Alinor turned toward the kitchen door. She took stock of the staff as she made her way through the hot room.

A broken nose for Jenny Regis.

A black eye for Lila Deal.

A split lip for Maire Dunlop.

A concussion for Lizzie MacLeod.

An arm in a sling for Jessie McFadden.

Three rounded bellies for Nanceen McKenna and Wilma Gilmore.

All compliments of the vicious bastard whose bed Alinor had not shared in over three years but who had placed the marks of his drunken abuse upon her two days before. It was not wise—as well she knew—to argue with her husband. He was not of a mind to be challenged, debated, or told he was ever wrong—especially by a woman. Nor did he forgive or forget and because she had dared question his mistreatment of young Kitty Kirkpatrick, his lady-wife had borne heavy fists and vicious feet for her trouble.

“My lady, will you be breaking your fast this morn?” Ethel McGregor, the chief cook, inquired.

“Nay,” Alinor said listlessly. “I’ve no stomach for it.” At Ethel’s concerned sigh, the lady of the keep stopped long enough to bestow a brittle smile—the only kind of which she seemed capable of late. “I’ll take soup and a thick slice of your sautéed beef between sourdough bread, though, for the noon meal. Have a glass of milk sent with it and an apple, mayhap a bunch of grapes to tied me over until the evening meal.”

“Aye, my lady,” Ethel agreed in a relieved voice.

“And send a basket to Janey’s grandfather. She went on to her reward this day,” Alinor ordered.

Ethel’s shoulders slumped. “The goddess be good to her,” she said then slapped both flour-caked hands over her mouth, her eyes wide.

Every hand stilled in the kitchen. Every eye flew to the lady of the keep. Breaths were held. Hearts skipped a beat.

“I did not hear you say that, Ethel Mae,” Alinor said. “And you had best be grateful he didn’t.”

Ethel nodded silently, trembling violently, for the mistake she’d just made could have cost her life had it been overheard by one of the keep’s menfolk then reported—as surely would have been—to the laird.

“Be more careful,” Alinor cautioned. She looked at each woman and girl there. “Each of you. Be very careful.”

She left the kitchen and slowly, painfully took the servants stairs to the third floor where her personal chambers were located. Reynolds rarely intruded there so she spent as many hours as possible where she neither saw his ugly face nor heard his sarcastic voice. His chambers were on the floor above her so thankfully the thick stone walls and wooden beams kept all but the occasional piercing scream from interfering with her solitude.

Closing her door—but daring not shoot the bolt for fear Reynolds would take it in his mind to come calling—she went to the fireplace, pushed aside the tapestry hanging beside it and dug her short nails into the borders of a loose stone. Removing the stone, she reached inside the hidey-hole and took out the diary she had been keeping since being brought to Tabor Hill Keep the day after her seventeenth birthday. Replacing the stone, she went to the desk, picked up the inkwell and quill then took the diary with her to the window seat. Setting the inkwell on the window ledge, she slid onto the seat’s thick cushion, drawing her knees up to brace the diary as she wrote.

“Well, today the poor little sweeting left this ugly world behind. I pray she has found a much better garden in which to work than the one she toiled in here at Tabor Hill. Only She knows all the travails Jenny suffered in this life but at last the wee lass is beyond his reach,” she wrote in her secret language no one save she could decipher. Dipping the quill repeatedly into the black ink of the well, she finished the page relating the poor girl’s demise then lifted the book to her lips to blow the ink dry.

The first fat drops of water hit the mullioned panes beside her and Alinor turned her face toward the bleak gray light. Closing the diary, she laid her head on the mound of pillows behind her and stared at the water that began to cascade down the glass. She put a finger to one drop and traced its way down the pane until it disappeared.

“How I wish I were a drop of rain,” she mused aloud. “I could go where I pleased, when I pleased.”

Being allowed beyond the walls of Tabor Hill was something about which Alinor could only dream. She had not stepped one foot beyond the plank bridge that ended at the portcullis since her wretched Joining to Reynolds Tabor. She had not traveled to the first fair, enjoyed the first outing, nor returned to her family home since that terrible day. She was a virtual prisoner in her husband’s domain and could only be thankful he had yet to see the need to apply the shackles that would make her captivity complete.

A commotion in the courtyard drew her attention and she leaned forward, placing her forehead on the cold glass so she could see what was happening below. Her forehead creased for there was a massive coach and four sitting in the turnaround before the massive front steps of the keep. Four beautiful black horses were harnessed to a most impressive black coach with two liveried men in black sitting in the driver’s seat. The sight of the unrelieved color sent a shiver down Alinor’s back.

“Who could it be coming to call upon Lord Tabor?” she asked quietly.

Visitors were rare at the keep. Personages of importance—and whomever it was inside the coach surely possessed vast wealth from the look of the conveyance and horseflesh—never darkened the door. The laird’s lack of manners and reluctance to offer hospitality played a great part in the isolation of Tabor Hill.

Scurrying to her knees for a better look, Alinor dragged her skirts out of the way, laid the diary on the seat and cracked the casement window, pushing it out just enough so she could hear. The cool wash of the cool wind misting her face with droplets of water did not dissuade her from pushing the window open a bit more.

“Oh, my!” she said as she spied her husband standing beside the coach. The monster was getting soaking wet in the downpour but even so, he had his hat in his hand, bobbing his head of sparse gray hair up and down as he conversed with whoever was inside the coach. Peering closely through the rain, Alinor could see the window of the coach was cracked open.

“I will see to it, Your Grace! Ye have my word on it!” she heard her husband agree then the coach’s window was closed and the driver snapped the reins to set the perfectly matched animals into motion.

As the elegant coach arced around the oyster shell drive, the laird of the keep remained where he was until the vehicle had cleared the plank bridge. Slamming his hat atop his head, he strode toward the stables with a heavy tread and drooping shoulders. Whatever task he had been set to accomplish must be important, indeed, if Reynolds intended to ride out in the deluge.

“May your horse pitch you into a fast-moving stream and the devil drags you under,” Alinor said, sticking her tongue out at her husband’s retreating back as though she was still a teenage miss. When he stopped and spun around—no doubt feeling the hatred she flung his way—she scrambled back lest he see her spying on him.

Trembling as she stood just beyond the window seat, for the window was still ajar and she knew he could not help but have seen it so, she twisted her hands together, whimpering at the surety of another beating at the hands of her enraged spouse. The last time he’d caught her spying on him, he had taken a quirt to her bare ass and legs and lashed her ‘til the blood ran down her quivering legs.

“Please, Lady!” she whispered to the only deity she knew might be listening. “Please don’t let him beat me again!”

A bolt of lightning sizzled through the bleak gray heavens and the crack was loud enough to make Alinor shriek. She covered her ears and ran to her bed, flinging herself upon the satin coverlet as the rumble of thunder that followed shook the windows in their frames. She drew her slender body into a fetal position, burying her face into the softness of the pillow. Shuddering, terrified that at any moment her husband would throw open the door and snatch her up by her long red hair, she laid there barely breathing lest she miss the sound of his plodding steps on the stairs. The moment she heard the loud thumps, she began to whimper.

The door was thrown open—banging against the wall as the laird of the keep strode into the room.

“Spying, were ye, ye worthless cunt?” he snarled. “What did I tell ye about that?”

Alinor heard the tink of metal and knew he was unbuckling his belt. She prayed that meant he would use it on her and not that it signaled he was releasing the monster he kept penned in his britches. The moment his hand closed cruelly on her ankle, and he jerked her half-off the bed—flinging her skirt over her back—she went as cold as stone.

“I’ll teach ye to disrespect me, ye ugly hag!”

As she always did, Alinor went somewhere else in her mind as his fingers snagged in her bloomers to rip them from her hips. She grunted as he wedged his loathsome body between her thighs but barely batted an eye as he rammed his filthy, disgusting flesh into her dry sheath. She had learned long ago to distance herself from his rutting. With her hands buried in the coverlet, she endured the painful process and when he was through with her, removed his heavy, rain-soaked body from hers, she stayed where she was until he was at the door.

“I’ll be gone from the keep for nigh on a week,” he snapped as he readjusted his clothing. “On the prince’s business. My brother, Nigel, will be here in my stead.”

Alinor cringed at the news for if there was any man she hated more than her husband, it was his younger brother Nigel who used her, as though she was his own.

“Be good to him, ye useless bitch,” Reynolds said and laughed, knowing full well what would happen when Nigel arrived.

Waiting until she heard his boot heels thumping on the stairs, she rolled over, dragged herself into the bed and lay there with his slick seed running between her legs.

“Merciful goddess, help me,” she whispered. “Please, help me. I cannot do this on my own.”

Another brilliant flash of lightning pulsed at the window, lightning skirled, thunder punctuated the violent burst then the room turned dark as night around Alinor—the light leaching away as though being sucked from her chamber.

Sitting up, her heart thudding painfully in her chest, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and snapped her head around. There was nothing but darkness in the room. No light came from the door Reynolds had left standing open. It was as though all luminescence had fled the world.

“Mo Regina?” she asked quietly for there was but one deity who had the power to turn day into night in an instant.

A soft, sweet-smelling breeze drifted through the room. The scent of lavender hung in the air.

“Mo Regina?” Alinor whispered again, her green eyes wide.

A tiny spark of light blossomed in the heart of the dark hearth then flittered across the room like a firefly. Prism-like colors flashed across the ceiling in small diamond shapes, spun lazily along the crown molding then coalesced into a good-sized ball of slowly spinning light. The revolutions came to a halt. The ball began to elongate until it was a shaft of soft light over six feet in height.

Mesmerized by the display, Alinor could not tear her gaze from the multi-colored light shaft that hovered just above the carpet. As it began to expand outwards, she drew in a breath and held it for it was fashioning a being with broad shoulders and narrow hips, long legs and powerful arms that lifted away from its body to extend toward her.

“Alinor…”

Her name came from the center of what was now a head forming on the torso of the beam of light. It was softly spoken with a deep timbre that made the hair on her arms stir.

Slowly, the luminosity began to fade until she could see color in the column of light—long black hair woven into a thick braid that hung down a brawny chest; amber eyes that glowed with an inner fire that held her captive in its gaze; a black silk shirt and black leather pants.

“Alinor,” he whispered again, one hand held out to her. “Come to me, dearling.”

She did not question the command or the otherworldly nature of her unknown visitor. His face was the most handsome of any man she had ever seen and the gentle smile hovering on his lips put her at ease.

“Aye, milord,” she said as she moved from the bed.

Her eyes fused with his, she took the hand he offered—felt the warmth of his flesh—and was pulled into the safety of his strong arms. She closed her eyes as he cupped the back of her head to hold her to his chest.

“I heard you, my lady,” he said and placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

“Protect me?” she pleaded.

“With all that I am,” he answered. “You and yours for eternity. You were chosen for me.”

She looked up into his chiseled features, the gleaming golden eyes.

“Who are you?”

“Who would you have me to be?” he asked.

Alinor put a hand to his chest and felt giddy from the feel of hard, solid muscle beneath her palm. She thought of all the wistful dreams she’d had of a gallant rescuer coming to take her from Reynolds Tabor.

“My savior,” she said without hesitation. “My friend. My lover.”

“Your lover I will be,” he said. He crooked his index finger beneath her chin then lowered his head to touch his lips to hers. The kiss was soft, sweet, and fleeting before he raised his head. “There is but one small matter.”

“Anything,” she swore.

He brought her wrist to his mouth and nipped at the flesh, drawing blood. Alinor winced, looking down at the crimson stain on her flesh.

“You must swear yourself and yours to me for all time,” he said. “I must have your seal in blood and when it is done, you will never again know the troubles of your past. I will right your wrongs. I will attend to your enemies. I will set your world to rights but you must join the Sisterhood, as all your serving women must. You must learn the ways of the Sisterhood and you must never deny me what is mine.”

Alinor would have done anything to be free of her husband and those of his kin. She nodded eagerly, swearing to do whatever it took although she had no notion what the Sisterhood was.

“I am yours,” she said, then shook her head. “We are yours. Tell me what we must do to remain so.”

From the depths of the room a thick leather bound book appeared, floating toward them as though carried by unseen hands.

“Sign your names in your own blood,” he instructed and when she did, he bit his own wrist, dipped a finger in the blood then scrawled his name in the Book. She looked down. His name was emblazoned in his own blood—Chrystian Brell—for just a moment before the Book dissolved.

“What are you?” she asked. “Did the Triune goddess send you?”

He smiled and the gleam of his white teeth looked predatory.

“Nay, my lady, She did not. Another did. I have been indentured to the womenfolk of your family for as long as there is time in the megaverse. I was created just for you and yours and you will have the first use of me.”

He backed her toward the bed—the evidence of a thick, hard erection pressing against her belly. Scooping her up in his arms, he laid her down and in the blink of an eye her clothes disappeared and his, as well, simply vanished. As he stretched out his muscled body atop her, nudged her thighs apart with his knees, Alinor wrapped her arms around him.

“Love me, Chrysty,” she whispered against his ear.

“Always,” he replied, sliding his cock deep inside her aching channel. “The Nightwind will always be here for you and yours. I ask but one thing of you.”

“Name it,” she said breathlessly.

“Give me power to do as I see fit in your behalf. Make sure your women never deny me and mine.”

Alinor hesitated only a moment then agreed.

The Nightwind smiled for she had unknowingly unleashed him on her world.

Guarding Miranda, by Amanda H. Holt

Brian Logan had just finished developing the last batch of photographs when the cell phone on his belt began to ring. Alone in the dark room, the black haired man quickly hung the last of the photos up to dry, and then answered the insistent ring of the little phone, a tiny device that seemed even smaller as it was swallowed in the grip of his large hand. With fingers larger than those of most men, he held the phone with firm, but gentle attention.

“Hello?” he answered. There would be no mistaking his Australian accent, even in so short a word.

“Good morning, Brian, my Aussie friend. How are you?”

Brian recognized the voice immediately. It was the voice of his best paying and most persistent client, a voice he had come to know very well, as owner and operator of Logan Security and Investigations.

Russ Gundy had insisted on dealing directly with ‘the man in charge’. Brian Logan certainly was that man. Everything about him suggested raw masculine power and authority, from his solid six-foot-four frame to the two hundred and thirty pounds of muscle that went with it. If there was any doubt left in an observer’s mind as to who was in charge at Logan Security and Investigations, one need only look into his eyes, eyes with irises the color of dark steel, and an innate hardness that suggested he was a man used to getting his own way.

Russ wasn’t the most demanding client that Brian had ever had, but the bloke certainly liked to be updated on a day-to-day basis. It wasn’t Brian’s style, to give status reports first thing in the morning, every morning, but what the customer wanted, the customer got.

And Gundy paid him very well for his services. Very well indeed.

“Good, Mr. Gundy,” he began, as he pictured the red headed man on the other end of the phone. “And you?”

“Good as I can be, given the circumstances. You left a message on my voice mail,” replied the older, wealthier man. Now that Brian had some concrete evidence for his client, he hoped that the morning phone calls would cease. Unlike the other mornings, it was this morning that he had been the one to call Russ. “You said you had good news, evidence?”

Brian looked at the photos that hung, drying, on the line. As his gaze fell on the blond haired man pictured in many of the frames, his stormy gray eyes narrowed with cool speculation.

“Well, I’m not sure that you would take it as good news.”

“Well, out with it. What did you find out?”

“Richard Alba is definitely in the business of trafficking drugs,” said Brian, looking at one of the pictures he had taken with the help of a telescopic lens. The image of Richard bent over a table, drawing a line of cocaine through a straw to his nose, testing the product he was about to purchase. “No doubt about it.”

“I knew it.” Russ sounded pleased. “And you really have concrete proof?”

“Photos taken by telescopic lens and a recording taken by directional microphone.” Brian was proud of his work, the long months of research that had culminated into the surveillance of the drug deal. His own pride in a job well done thickened his Australian accent, and deepened his baritone voice. “An entire drug deal caught on film and tape. These last three months of work, non-stop, have finally paid off for you, Mr. Gundy.”

“Excellent!” The older man sounded ecstatic. “And what of my niece, Miranda?”

Brian’s dark gray eyes glanced at the picture that was his favorite of the batch. Miranda was, in short, a photogenic beauty. The camera loved her, as did the film ….

The young woman pictured there, he knew, was twenty-six and drop dead gorgeous by his own tastes, what with her sexy, full lipped grin, high cheekbones, and long, silky black hair. Her eyes were perhaps her most notable feature, though the photo was in black and white, and shades of gray, he knew her eyes well. Set in a face of the purest ivory, as large as they were luminous, her eyes were the dark green of pine needles, and were gazing up at him from the photo with curious intelligence.

Brian knew that she had spotted him taking the picture. She had been looking directly into the lens, there was no way she couldn’t have seen him. She had not seen fit to alarm Richard as to his presence, so that had to account for something. If she was involved, she would have been wary of a strange man taking her picture.

Rather than seem alarmed, she had smiled for the camera, smiled at him, and as a result, her beauty had been caught on film, frozen in time.

A lovely smile, hers….

The Cobochan Ring, by Heide Katros

Lady Adelaide de Bastogne was beyond tears, beyond hope. She was entombed alive in a chamber so small she was forced to kneel. It was pitch dark and very frightening. And she felt cold, so very cold. Nothing and no one would save her. The acrid odor of damp mortar burned her delicate nostrils. Breathing became more labored with each passing moment. She did not want to die the slow death of asphyxiation.

Resting her forehead against the opposite wall, her elegant fingers searched for the hidden clasp of the ruby cabochon she always wore on her left hand. With a soft click the domed stone snapped open. Adelaide did not hesitate, though her hand trembled when she brought the ring to her lips. She licked the sticky sweet poison from the ring’s hollow, cursing the man who had doomed her to death, a bishop no less, a man who should know better than to believe in the superstition that his home would be protected from evil if he entombed a living creature within its walls. As the poison coursed its way through her veins her life flashed before her eyes.

“Oh God, forgive me, Frederic, I meant no harm,” she whispered on a sob, remembering her husband’s warning not to leave the keep before he went on a hunt. “‘Twas just the folly of a woman in her last days before her confinement that made me stubborn. The flowers in the meadow seemed so pretty.”

Her ladies-in-waiting had tried to persuade her to stay within the walls of the keep. Oh God, what had happened to the two young women who’d accompanied her? And why had she been singled out? She would never know. But if she lived, she would never forget the horrible sight of the half dozen riders bearing down on them. There had been no shout of warning, just the steady clop of horses’ hooves. And by the time the women became aware of the approaching menace it was too late.

The long treacherous ride to the bishop’s castle, the shock of realizing that she was doomed to die had hastened the birth of the babe she and Frederic had waited for with longing. Oh, how she had prayed that her child would be born before the stonemason put the last stones of her tomb into place.

She’d bit the tender inside of her lip to keep from crying out as the babe slid from her womb. She’d cut its cord with her eating dagger. Time had been of the essence. And as yet another stone had been put into place Adelaide made the sign of the cross over her daughter. Tears coursed down her pale cheeks as she placed a tender kiss on the downy head of the tiny girl she would not see grow into a woman. Her heart heavy, she’d removed the silk shawl from her head and wrapped the infant into it.

Then, as her life’s blood flowed unchecked from her body, she handed the newborn up to the stonemason. “Please, sir, please take my babe to her father. Tell him that Lady Adelaide sent you. I beg you by all that is holy. My husband will reward you richly.” She went on to give the man explicit directions to Castle Landend.

While she spoke, the mason had looked furtively behind him. “My lady, upon my oath, I shall endeavor to take your babe to her sire, but I must hurry before the guards return.”

She saw the pity in his eyes, and though her heart broke with the knowledge that there was no hope for her, she took comfort in knowing that he would keep his promise.

The mason tucked the tiny babe into his jerkin along with Lady Adelaide’s wedding band; a token she said would lend credence to his claim, when he brought the babe to Frederic.

Keeping his voice low, the mason leaned forward. “Lady Adelaide, it pains me, but I will have to finish what I was ordered to start. I have to close the chamber or we will both be found out.”

Adelaide nodded numbly. Her own folly had brought her to this gruesome end. Pain seared through her body. A contraction to expel the afterbirth. It would never come to pass. She would be dead shortly, but her sweet babe would live. A tiny, grateful smile lifted the corners of her soft mouth.

Adelaide hugged her long blue mantel closer to her body and rested her forehead against the rough stonewall. She shivered uncontrollably. As a last lone tear squeezed from her tightly closed lids, her body convulsed with a final shudder and she collapsed in a pitiful heap.

SOJOURN WITH A STRANGER
By K. Celeste Bryan
Reviewed by Ann B. Keller, multi-published author
A tragic accident at sea leaves beautiful Raine Brinsley an orphan. Alone, apparently penniless, without the cost of passage to return home, she accepts employment in the household of Derek Stafford, the wealthy owner of the ship partly responsible for her parents’ deaths. Derek is attracted by Raine’s magnificent emerald eyes, fiery red hair and delectable body from the moment she sets foot on his property. In her, he sees an opportunity not only to hasten her return to her Scottish grandfather in Maine, but also the chance to provide him with an all important male heir. They come to an arrangement, thus setting into motion a devilish plot of treachery, deceit and death.

Lyman Stafford, Derek’s brother, did away with Derek’s first wife before she could produce a young heir who might interfere with his inheritance. Reassured by Lucinda’s demise, Lyman is horrified to learn of Derek’s agreement to sire a male heir upon a mere servant.

As her grandfather races to bring Raine home, she falls gravely ill. However, Raine is not alone. The ghostly apparition of Lucinda, Derek’s first wife, appears again and again throughout the novel, finally rising up against Lyman Stafford himself, the man responsible for her own death.

This is a wonderful paranormal romance, which quickly picked up speed as the story progressed. The spiritual undercurrents in the novel were interwoven into the plot with the skill of a great Scottish author. Will Lucinda find her revenge? Will the young lovers be reunited in triumph and love? Ah, but what kind of Scot would I be if I told ye the end afore ye gazed upon the first page?

We Scots are rather in tune with the paranormal anyway. It’s in our natures! I enjoyed reading Sojourn, Kat. I was hooked the moment I saw the cover, but you got me by the second page.

Well done!

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And from Judy Cox, a reader