Guest Post + Giveaway: Love Travels Forever by Jaye Frances

Thank you, Kelsey, for hosting me today with Love Travels Forever, my new release of favorite short stories and essays. This collection is very personal in nature, reflecting the emotional journeys of those who have touched me with their stories of inspiration and courage. Stories that come straight from the heart . . .

“When Every Saturday Was Father’s Day,” captures a special time in a little girl’s life, when fathers and daughters shared the kind of moments that become treasured memories. Here’s a short excerpt:

I recently enjoyed lunch with an old high school friend—one of those rare individuals I’ve stayed in touch with throughout the thirty-year span of time that separates me from my adolescence. As Ronnie and I reminisced about growing up together in a small town, he asked me if there was one special memory from my youth that stood out from all the others—one that, given the opportunity to relive, I would choose without hesitation.

Instead of feeling overwhelmed with the challenge of selecting a single experience from an overabundance of possibilities, his question stirred a whisper from the past, a memory wrapped in a magical sense of wonder. It took me back to a time before dating and school dances, before peer pressure made friends the preferred companions over parents—a time when I was my daddy’s little girl.

My dad often held two jobs, taking on additional work to keep food on the table and make sure the mortgage was paid. It left him with few opportunities to spend time with me, and yet he still found a way—every Saturday morning.

Getting up early to eat breakfast out with my father had become a Saturday tradition. Waking up at six-thirty was definitely not my idea of the perfect way to start the weekend, but my father would always ask. And knowing how much it meant to him—to spend that hour together—I would go.

We always went to the same place, a popular little restaurant with cracked stucco walls and faded yellow paint. The unpaved parking lot added its own flavor to the culinary experience, generating a dust-cloud with each new arrival and departure.

Outside, the thick, sweet aroma of cooking grease laced the air, and although I was still half-asleep, it was hard to ignore the drifting hints of crispy home fries and fresh hot donuts.

*    *    *   *    *

Here’s a brief synopsis:

In Love Travels Forever, Jaye Frances captures the reader’s heart with an inspiring collection of seventeen stories filled with romance and passion, the hopeful innocence of youth, and a love so strong that it transcends the mortality of life. Here are just a few of the people you’ll meet:

Evan and Frankie, a loving couple traveling through life hand-in-hand, are unaware that the shadow of fate is about to tear them apart. Helpless to change their shortened future together, one of them makes a promise—a promise of devotion and courage, honoring a love that surpasses the boundaries of time.

Mark and Janice, the perfect couple with the perfect life, are on the threshold of finally seeing their dreams come true—until an unexpected circumstance changes their lives forever.

Danny, a young soldier fresh out of boot-camp, is desperate to find a way to travel home and marry his sweetheart before being shipped overseas. Stranded in a train station on a three day pass with no hope in sight, Danny meets Wanda, an incredible woman who vows to find a way to bring Danny and his fiance together.

Nora and Georgia are two eight-year-old best friends who share giggles, dolls, and secrets. But when one of them faces sudden danger, the other responds with an unconditional act of love and forges a lifelong bond between them unaffected by fear or prejudice.

So find a quiet spot, get comfy, and grab a box of Kleenex. You’re about to take an unforgettable journey of the heart, to a place where compassion and hope have no limits, and where love continues to travel forever.

Love Travels Forever is available now
in kindle eBook on Amazon for $1.99

Author Bio:  Jaye Frances is the author of The Kure, a paranormal-occult romance novel, The Possibilities of Amy, a coming-of-age romance novella, The Cruise-All That Glitters, a humorous adult satire about love on the high seas, The Beach, a sci-fi supernatural tale about a man who is given the opportunity to receive his ultimate wish, and Love Travels Forever, a collection of poignant short stories and essays. She is also a featured columnist for the NUSA SUN magazine. Born in the Midwest, Jaye readily admits that her life’s destination has been the result of an open mind and a curiosity about all things irreverent. When she’s not consumed by her writing, Jaye enjoys cooking, traveling to all places tropical and “beachy” and taking pictures—lots of pictures—many of which find their way to her website. Jaye lives on the central gulf coast of Florida, sharing her home with one husband, six computers, four cameras, and several hundred pairs of shoes. For more information, visit Jaye’s website at www.jayefrances.com, or Jaye’s Blog at http://blog.jayefrances.com

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GIVEAWAY

For the giveaway Jaye is offering one (1) kindle eBook version of Love Travels Forever. Just enter by filling out the Rafflecopter form below. Giveaway is International as long as Amazon is available in your area. Ends 11/28.

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Book Review: Dead Ringer by Allen Wyler

Dead Ringer

By: Allen Wyler

Publisher: Astor + Blue Editions, LLC

Release Date: June 26, 2012

Format: digital

Source: publicist for an honest review

This is the first book I have read by Allen Wyler. It was an interesting story and does make a reader think about how easy it could be for someone to harvest body parts for medical schools for the purpose of teaching.

Neurosurgeon Lucas McRae discovers his best friend Andy Baer’s head is on his demonstration table in Hong Kong. At first Lucas thinks he is imagining it but when he gets home he is unable to locate him. His wife and Andy’s ex-wife could care less about what has happened to Andy; Lucas owes Andy to find out what happened. Also on the case is Detective Wendy Elliot who is already hot on the trail of a corrupt funeral director who might just have something to do with not only Andy’s disappearance but a whole slew of prostitutes. How can a small time funeral home be able to provide the amount of cadavers demanded by these huge corporations?

The reader is aware just who the killer is and this does not take away from the plot but instead adds intensity. Wyler never goes in depth with the medical details making it appealing to novice readers yet a somewhat complex plot line that will attract even the advanced readers of medical thrillers. The characters are relatable to an average person and while I thought that some parts were a bit weak and the flashing back and forth from past to present to explain some relationships was distracting, I did enjoy the overall story.

 

 

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Book Excerpt: Winning the City by Theodore Weesner

It’s Detroit, 1961. Fifteen-year-old Dale Wheeler, the son of an unemployed, alcoholic autoworker, has big dreams of leading his team to the City Basketball Championship. But his dream is shattered when Dale—the co-captain and top point guard—is cut from the team to make way for the son of a big money team sponsor.

His life in a tailspin, Dale finds a helping hand in Miss Furbish, the beautiful homeroom teacher whose well-meaning kindness gradually builds into a potentially dangerous passion. And in his lowest times, Dale gets a final shot at his dream: A hardscrabble team of street-ballers that may have what it takes to win the City Championship.

EXCERPT

PART ONE   

ONE

            This is it.  Today is the day.  The first practice of the year after school in the boy's gym.  Time to show the speed, do the deed, take the lead!  All these weeks and months Dale has been able to think of little else.  Since last spring. 

            Since forever.  Now it’s his turn to be the oldest, the biggest, the best.  Tryouts.  But he’s a returning starter and is sure as hell not trying out.  He'll be leading the way, making them pay!  His excitement is such that for days on end he has been telling himself to be cool.  Time to be cool and not a fool.  For playing it cool is the only tool...if you’re out to win the entire goddamn city.

            Dale Wheeler is fourteen all the same, and whatever energy he may be bringing to his talking-the-talk temperature he doesn’t know how not to dream.  He’s grown an inch and a half since the season ended last year and is growing still.  In this instant he’s pushing up through five-nine.  Sitting at his desk in school he can look at a forearm and see it growing larger, stronger, longer.  Can pump up bicep-pears before the bathroom mirror at home.  One on the left, one on the right!  Pop, pop!  Pow, pow!  Hey, hey, get outta my way...my name is Dale Wheeler and I came to play!  Besides confidence Dale can call up conviction in his mind and heart.  Secret power leading the way, making his day!  Call me cocky and I’ll make your fat ass pay!

            Dale knows he’s good.  There’s no doubt he’s done the work.  Like a saver saving every penny, he’s given himself to little else.  At times it seems it’s all he’s done, all the time, is work-work, practice-practice.  And work some more.  And worked on anyway.  Worked into work.  Sweated into sweat all over again, before taking his shower, doing his homework, dreaming his dream.  For work, as every athlete knows, is the key.  The more you practice the luckier you get. Acquire the moves, absorb the steps...and when the time comes you'll hit the groove no matter some hee-haw in the stands sputtering about luck and the bounce of the ball. 

            Dale has done it, is doing it, will do it.  For an athlete is what he is.  Maybe he’s only fourteen but he knows what he knows and he knows it’s his turn to take them all downtown to win the city!  "Here comes Wheeler," cries the Sportscaster on high.  "He takes the shot! no--he fakes the shot!  He fakes the shot!!  He drives! shoots!  SCORES!  SCORES!! SCORES!!!"

            Even in his sleep at night Dale dreams of winning the city.  Moments and moves from outdoor pickup games under the lights (amazing things happen in outdoor pickup games) blend in his dreams into games indoors rocking with all the students and teachers he has ever known or passed in the hallways of Walt Whitman Junior High.  Waking from a dream with his mind full of rainbows he reminds himself not to go off the deep end.  To settle down. 

            Don't be a fool, play it cool!  Playing it cool is the only tool!

            Everything is a game.  Life, Dale knows, is a game all the way and everything that happens depends on how you play.  It’s something else he knows he knows.  He has no notion of himself as a thinker, or as a smart ass ninth-grader either, but he knows what he knows and he knows that everything is a game.  That playing it cool is the only tool...when you’re out to rule. 

            (Okay, maybe he is a smart ass, but whoever won the city who wasn’t?)

TWO

Coming in late from working second shift at Chevy Plant Ten--a weaving silhouette filling his bedroom doorway--Dale's father invites his sleepy-time son into the kitchen for a Coney Island dog.  Could anyone in the world more appreciate the taste of a Coney Island dog in the middle of the night than an ever-voracious fourteen-year-old playmaker, ball handler, first string guard?   

            As on every other night, Dale practiced at the park until the lights went out…before shooting a few in the dark.  Dribbling home, into and out of illumination under corner streetlights, driving one telephone pole after another, pulling it back at the last minute (all but the dream), he showers with the landlady's hose, reviews his school notebook at the kitchen table, and hits the sack dreaming his dream...into which swamp there appears the purveyor of tender words and unconditional love in his life.  "Hey sleepy time pal...come have a Coney Island dog with your old dad."

            Daylight is in Dale's eyes and it’s time to rise and shine...despite a spur picking at his mind.  Clomping into the bathroom to wash and brush, he detects "I Fall to Pieces" circling his father's phonograph in the living room and sinks within, as always, to the old cry of loss haunting their handful of rooms at an off-beat hour.  The message is familiar: His father is up yet and loaded, is emotional and sentimental, drunk and dangerous.  With no one else upon whom to visit his sad memory of Dale's runaway mother visiting his pickled brain, his father is waiting for him to appear.  In Dale's adolescent mind another lyric begins circling the breaking day: 'You get loaded...and I fall to pieces.'

#  #  #

He has no choice but to make his way into the kitchen that offers the only exit from their attic apartment...down the backside of the landlord's house to driveway, sidewalk, refreshing air.  He enters without making a sound.  His father stands there.  Head hanging, he’s leaning to the wall, his chin on his chest.  How long has he been on his feet?  His neck looks rubbery as his head lolls to one side, a grin comes on like a dim light as he says: "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

            Dale opens the refrigerator, explores possibilities, ignores his father as he does at times like these.  Life with an alcoholic.  Life with Patsy Cline's heartbreak lining the air they breathe: 'You want me to forget...pretend we've never met.'

            "You're the guy stood me up!" his father tells him.  "Thas who you are!  Bring home a treat for the only person in the world plays tunes on my weary old heart...get left standing at the counter."  'You walk by...and I fall to pieces...'

            Dale remembers then and says: "I fell asleep!  That’s what I did!"

            "Musta been dreaming about something a hell of a lot better looking than a Coney Island dog," his father tells him.

            "Basketball," Dale confesses, deciding all at once to share his high hopes with his father.  "I was dreaming about basketball, winning the City…which is what we're gonna do!"

            "Basketball?" his father asks.  "You say basketball?  Did I hear you say basketball?  Is that what I heard you say?"

            "It's my big year at school!" Dale tells him.

            "First time I knew anything would keep you from your favorite middle-of-the-night snack.  Surprised it wasn't something better looking than a fat old basketball."

            "I'm the biggest at school this year!" Dale tells him.  "I've been working like a demon while everybody else has done practically nothing.  Been working all summer, all fall.  Gonna lead the way, make em pay!"  Dale did not add how proud he hoped to make his father, or how his dream included saving his father's life, too, to a modest degree.  Turning things around.  Leading them to the promised land.

            'You tell me to find...someone else to love.

             Someone who'll love me, too...the way you used to do.'

            Continuing to grin, his father squints.  "Son...gotta tell ya.  Hope you dream other things, too.  Don't wanna put all your eggs in one basket."

            Dale nods, indicates that he knows, is cool, isn't a fool...know all about eggs and baskets.  Doesn't he?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Theodore Weesner, born in Flint, Michigan, is aptly described as a “Writers’ Writer” by the larger literary community.  His short works have been published in the New Yorker, Esquire, Saturday Evening Post, Atlantic Monthly and Best American Short Stories.  His novels, including The True Detective, Winning the City and Harbor Light, have been published to great critical acclaim in the New York Times, The Washington Post, Harper’s, The Boston Globe, USA Today, The Chicago Tribune, Boston Magazine and The Los Angeles Times to name a few.

Weesner is currently writing his memoir, two new novels, and an adaptation of his widely praised novel—retitled Winning the City Redux—also to be published by Astor + Blue Editions.  He lives and works in Portsmouth, NH.

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Email Subscriber Giveaway: November

Thanks for all your entries from last month! Here is November's post. If you want a book off my Books for Sale/Trade list, please enter below! Winner will be chosen December 1. Thank you all for supporting my blog and good luck!

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31 Days of Halloween Giveaway: Bad Things and Thunder Road by Tamara Thorne

On the 29th day of Halloween, Kensington has a giveaway just for you! Today you have a chance at winning a gifted e-copy of Bad Things and Thunder Road by Tamara Thorne. To enter just fill out the Rafflecopter form below! Open internationally but limited to sites that permit ebook gifting.

The house has been in his family for generations.

But it really belongs to them…

The Piper clan emigrated from Scotland and founded the town of Santo Verde, California. The Gothic Victorian estate built there has housed the family for generations, and has also become home to an ancient evil forever linked to the Piper name…

As a boy, Rick Piper discovered he had “the sight.” It was supposed to be a family myth, but Rick could see the greenjacks—the tiny mischievous demons who taunted him throughout his childhood—and who stole the soul of his twin brother Robin one Halloween night. Now a widower with two children of his own, Rick has returned home to build a new life. He wants to believe the greenjacks don't exist, that they were a figment of his own childish fears and the vicious torment he suffered at the hands of his brother. But he can still see and hear them, and they haven't forgotten that Rick escaped them so long ago. And this time, they don't just want Rick. This time they want his.

The California desert town of Madelyn boasts all sorts of attractions for visitors. Join the audience at the El Dorado Ranch for a Wild West show. Take a ride through the haunted mine at Madland Amusement Park. Scan the horizon for UFOs. Find religion with the Prophet's Apostles -- and be prepared for the coming apocalypse.

Because the apocalypse has arrived in Madelyn. People are disappearing. Strange shapes and lights dart across the night sky. And a young man embraces a violent destiny -- inspired by a serial killer whose reign of terror was buried years ago.

But each of these events is merely setting the stage in preparation for the final confrontation. A horror of catastrophic proportions is slouching toward Madelyn in the form of four horsemen -- and they're picking up speed . . . 
 

(Blurbs via author's website) 

 

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31 Days of Halloween Guest Post: Ghost Stories and Pretty Dresses by Shirin Dubbin

Just want to give a BIG thank you to Shirin for guest posting today! I have known her since I began blogging and she is always full of interesting stories and surprises..:D

GHOST STORIES AND PRETTY DRESSES

In an apropos observance of Halloween, and for the entire month of October, I’ve started telling ghost stories.

In public.
In front of audiences.
In a Victorian era dress.

Yep. And it’s fun. American history is filled with enough murder, betrayal, and scandal to rival a Shonda Rhimes show. Neither Grey’s Anatomy nor Scandal can outdo the likes of a congressman killing the son of Francis Scott Key in front of witnesses, and only steps away from the White House. Or how about the grandson of John Quincy Adams who murdered his wife, made it look like a suicide, and went out partying afterward? See, toldja. No wonder it’s so much fun telling the tales of these restless spirits.

Adding to my glee is the fact I get to dress up. I adore my bright red Victorian frock and its black lace ruffles. I’ve even gone so far as to hide a white handkerchief up one of my sleeves. I whip it out in dramatic moments and watch my audience’s eyes light up. I love fashion as much as I love storytelling. My stint as a weaver of ghostly tales suits me perfectly. See what I did there? Suits. Heh.

Another of my strongest suits (somebody stop me) is my new short story in the Bloody Fabulous anthology, which releases at the end of the month from Prime Books. Here’s the rundown:

Lace.

Leather.

Open collars over exquisite collarbones.

A single red drop on paper-white cuffs.


From the brocade extravagance of the Unseelie courts to the ubiquitous leather of supernatural detectives to the old-fashioned good taste of wealthy vampires—we are as familiar with fantasy protagonists’ attire as we are with their paranormal deed. Tales of tormented designers and well-dressed vampires strut into the spotlight in this anthology of fantasy tales focusing on the world of fashion and its intersection with the uncanny. 

Oh, wait. The digital edition is available now. Hurry. Go take a read and tell me what you think. My story, The Truth or Something Beautiful, ensnarls two rival fashion houses in a supernatural blood feud. It’s dark, twisty, and quite sexy. Kind of like me when I’m telling ghost stories.

Both are well worth the price or your soul…um, I mean admission.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Shirin Dubbin is a closet wallflower with an addiction to laughter whose alter ego is the orange, ass-kicking geek. Besides being a voracious reader and lover of storytelling, she hosts D.C.'s Fantastic Forum, a show celebrating comics, sci-fi and fantasy. When not working in graphic design she's lost in writing: screenplays, novels, graphic novels and stage plays—all of which she adores, but her favorite genre to write is Urban Fantasy with romantic edge. Shirin's first novella, "Keeper of the Way," debuted in 2009 and she was overjoyed (and more than a little surprised) with the great response to the "modern Fae trapped in Washington, D.C., tale." Culturally, she's half American, half British and very southern; right down to the accent and love of grits—they're great with shrimp...try it! Government reports show a residence in D.C., but Shirin spends most of her time on the astral plane and is certain she's seen you there. 

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31 Days of Halloween Giveaway: How to Lose a Demon in 10 Days by Saranna DeWylde

On the 15th day of Halloween, Kensington has a giveaway just for you! Today you have a chance at winning a copy of How to Lose a Demon in 10 Days by Saranna DeWylde. To enter just fill out the Rafflecopter form below! Open to US/CA only.

Got Demon?

Grace does. She’s got more demon than she can saddle. In fact, she’s got a sinfully sexy Crown Prince of Hell named Caspian. She’s also got ten days to get rid of him or Bad Things shall ensue. See, her Russian mobster ex-boyfriend didn’t take kindly to her smutty Mephistophelean contract. It’s not that she’s conspiring with fiends; that was his idea. It’s that she’s conspiring against him with outrageous devilry that runs the gamut from embarrassing to a dead hooker turned dominatrix demon gunning for his soul.

One should never trust demons, let alone shag them. They don’t have hearts. Yet Grace is buying hers some slightly tarnished armor and hoping that once he’s been shoveled into it, kicking and screaming, he’ll find it’s just his size. This damsel in distress needs a dark knight for a Happily Ever After.

Chapter One

Technicalities

Caspian was technically a Crown Prince of Hell. Technically. And technically, he was royally fucked. Or was about to be, if he could manage it.

How did he get himself into these things? He felt the pull, and there was no use in fighting it. The Big Boss had seen to that. Fighting would just make this harder.

Caspian gave a dramatic sigh and followed the call up into the mortal world. Which he hated. Not the mortal world per se, but the bitch work. He materialized in the middle of what was obviously a woman’s bedroom. There was enough purple to choke a unicorn. He quickly realized he was trapped within a chalklike circle drawn with finely ground bone.

Correction, not ground up. It was old. It smelled like rot. It had turned to dust on its own. What was this happy- crappy, another weekend warrior? How come he always got the freaks? No one sensible ever tried to summon a demon. Perhaps that should have been a consideration when he’d been frolicking down the primrose path that led to his current career.

She wasn’t bad to look at, aside from the sneer, which was a bit scary. He was willing to overlook it because the rest of her real estate thrilled him. On the other hoof, as some of his co-workers would say, she didn’t look at all impressed at his entrance, and Caspian was a showman.

“WHY HAST THOU SUMMONED ME?” he began in a large, thunderous voice that rattled the windows and made books and knickknacks fall off the shelves in a most pleasing way. Pleasing to him, anyway.

“I hope you know you’re cleaning that up.” The voluptuous woman put her fist on her hip and tossed long dark hair over her shoulder.

“WHAT?” Caspian would have clapped a hand over his mouth had she not been staring at him so intently with those large chocolate eyes. Who was she to tell him that he was going to do anything of the sort?

Chocolate eyes? Where the hell had that come from? Did he care what her eyes looked like? No. Not in any meaningful sense, anyway. He wouldn’t remember them in a hundred years and describe them like foodstuffs he could get lost in or whatever.

“I know you don’t have to bellow like that. It’s not cute. I am not impressed.”

What did she mean, she wasn’t impressed? Of course, she was impressed. He was Caspian, Crown Prince of Hell and demon extraordinaire. He was Infernal Royalty. While Caspian couldn’t imagine the Big Boss being rendered somehow impotent and unable to perform his cosmic duties, on the off chance he was, it would be Caspian’s turn to pull the strings. No matter what the other twelve Crown Princes had to say about it.

“Look, lady. You summoned me. You take what you get.”

She damn well better take what she got and like it. He used his demon sight to look at himself. No broccoli in the teeth; they were all straight, white, and perfect. There was the hard jaw, broad shoulders, wicked tongue—check, check, and check.

“Why, pray tell, did I have to get stuck with the metro sexual demon concerned with making an entrance? You should be on Broadway. Do you sing?”

Apparently, the question was serious. She was looking at him expectantly. Not only that, but she’d insulted his manhood. Demonhood. Whatever. She’d challenged his prowess.

Caspian looked at himself again. Metrosexual? He didn’t think Regency GQ was metrosexual. He rather liked cravats, velvet coats, and breeches. Especially the breeches because they showed off his considerable package and his ass. All the girlies liked it, thought he was going to spout poetry and fling a sword about and . . . oh.

“Well, do you? I need to know.”

“Why?” he grunted.

Wow. That was intelligent. Way to make her understand that she was in the presence of Caspian, a Crown Prince of Hell, his power second only to that of the Devil himself. Way to make her quake. If it wouldn’t totally shoot his- credibility to shit, he would have palmed his forehead.

“I can’t have you bippity-bopping along behind me, now can I?” She sneered again, her cute little mouth curling in a very un-cute way.

Bippity-bopping?

His gaze lingered on her lips. They were making them better these days, human women. For a while, when summoning demons had last been all the rage, the women had been very skinny and worn ugly clothes. The ’70s hadn’t been a pleasant time for Caspian. Lots of offers for sex, though. He had actually inspired many of those gothics where the heroine gets it on with the Big Boss. Of course, he wasn’t the Big Boss, so that had gone over like an airborne pisser. See, the Big Boss was a showman, too. He didn’t really care to be upstaged.

This summoner really would be prettier if she smiled. He opened his mouth to tell her so.

“Oh, for the love of Hell. Not you, too.”

“Not me, what?” Again, he had yet to put her in her place, to make her quail before the might of—

“‘You’d be prettier if you smiled,’” she mimicked in a nasal little voice. “I can see the look on your face.”

“Well, you would be. I’m not gonna lie.”

“Why not? You’re a demon.”

He sighed. “Because lying is bad for business and it’s boring. Can we just get on with this? What do you want? Riches? Power? The ability to eat anything you like and not gain a pound...?”

She looked down at herself for a moment and snorted. “I like my figure fine, thanks. What I want—”

Caspian cut her off. “Really? Because you know most women are unhappy with themselves, regardless of size. It’s nice to see a woman with real hips and”—he paused to look her up and down again—“very nice breasts who—”

“Excuse me?” she practically growled. “Can I send you back and get another? Because this is not working.”

“No. And I’m offended.” He pulled at his sleeve for a moment. “I really don’t want to have to drag out the fire and the tail and the—”

“Fine! Let’s get on with it. Vengeance. I want ven geance.”

Caspian snorted. Hell, she was a woman scorned, which meant she didn’t need him. “Lady, I don’t know if someone forgot to tell you, but you’re a woman. You don’t need a demon to help you with vengeance. Most chicks do just fine on their own.”

“You don’t understand who he is. I definitely need help.”

“Let me give you some advice,” Caspian began. He could feel himself about to get into trouble again. He really shouldn’t be spouting off at the suck hole, offering free suggestions. He should get something from her.

She sighed loudly, as if anything he might say would be superfluous. It annoyed him far more than made sense.

“Sleep with all of his friends,” Caspian suggested. “They hate that.”

“Uh, he’d kill them . . . ?” She let it hang like a question, almost with a Valley Girl inflection, as if he were the stupidest of all creatures.

“Oh.” Well. Yeah, killing could definitely put a damper on that sort of plan, especially if one had a conscience. Which this chick seemed to have. Caspian supposed she hadn’t actually killed anybody for the bone dust, which was why it smelled old. He wasn’t sure if she was just enterprising enough to acquire what she needed in the simplest way or if she was against staining her soul with murder. He hadn’t pinned that down yet, but he was definitely interested in finding out. Which was bad. He shouldn’t care one way or the other.

“Well?” she demanded.

“Well, what, gorgeous?” He found his gaze zeroed in on those magnificent breasts. And they were magnificent. Creamy scoops of mouth-watering—

“Are you going to help me or not?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Caspian waved her off. He could stare at that rack for hours, imagining it in a push-up bra, in a corset, or just running wild and free, as he could tell those breasts so obviously yearned to do. Really, that was what he wanted for them. It was wrong to capture something so beautiful, unless it was using his mouth, which—

“But?”

“But what?” Caspian said, still pondering the pleasures of that milky flesh. If she would just shut up.

“Demon! Hello? Up here.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “They can’t talk.”

“I know. That’s part of the appeal.”

“Can we just get to the part where we make the deal?”

“Just a second,” he grumbled. He wanted to ogle the chest some more before he dealt with the head. Why did something so delicious have to be sour in the mouth?

“I’m not making one of those open-ended deals,” she growled. “I want to know the price up front. And I want it in writing.”

“By the Sulfuric Rod, you are a difficult little baggage, aren’t you?” He hated when they wanted things in writing. He sighed. “Yes, fine.”

“Signed in blood. I won’t settle for anything less.”

“No. You wouldn’t.” He rolled his eyes.

“You still haven’t told me the price. Don’t we need to haggle?”

“There will be no haggling, witch.”

“I’m n— a witch.” It was a pointless denial. She couldn’t even get the not out of her mouth.

“Aren’t you?”

“Mother of Christ!”

She was screaming at him now. Not that anyone would blame her. He was being difficult. But what could you expect from a demon? Really.

Caspian cringed. “Heed your tongue, witch!”

“Don’t call me . . .” She trailed off, then sighed. “I really don’t like you.”

“That hurts. I like you.” He eyed her lasciviously. “I like you very much.”

“I’m sure. Your price, demon. Now.”

“Well, usually it’s virgin’s blood. But I’m thinking you don’t have any of that.” He looked her up and down lasciviously again. “Do you?”

“A gentleman wouldn’t ask.”

“But I am no gentleman. I’m a demon.” Why did he feel the constant need to remind himself—and her—of the fact?

“This is so much more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Is it really? If you were angry enough to summon a demon, a Crown Prince of Hell, no less, it should be worth plenty of trouble. Because that’s what you are going to get.”

She smirked. “Oh? So you’re a Crown Prince? How did you get stuck with this gig, then, answering summonses in the middle of the night? Isn’t that like busting a detective down to traffic?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “No. More like vice president down to jizz mopper.”

“Thank you for the visual.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So polite,” she volleyed.

“I try.”

“So, barring the virgin blood? What’s your price?”

Tenacious, wasn’t she? Caspian sighed, a very loud and bothered noise. Snide or not, he really wanted to get between this mortal’s thighs. How badly did she want vengeance? And also . . . how badly did her state of non- virginity concern him? It was something he had to consider.

See, there were rules to the game. Demons went around deflowering virgins not because they liked their purity. Oh, no. It was more because virgins wouldn’t ripen with fruit grown from the seed of demons. However, a more experienced Daughter of Eve? Well, her experience decided how fast and how easily she would ripen. One couldn’t go around banging the corrupted willy-nilly or else hordes of imps would destroy the world. And, contrary to popular belief, the Big Boss was happy with the status quo.

It was an ugly mess, denying demons their nature. See, angels on both sides of the Eternal War still found the daughters of Men to be beautiful. Hell, the Book even talked about it. So, how badly did he want this chit? It had been a long time.

A very, very, very long time.

His decision had been made for him the moment he was summoned, really. She was hot. Hotter than the Diablo peppers the Big Boss kept in a jar on his dining room table. Caspian had to corrupt her for all mortal men. It would be a good day’s work. He’d forgotten that it was dangerous to conspire against women, who are at their core capable of much stranger plots than any simple demon. Even a Crown Prince of Hell.
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