Join me this Saturday at April Ghouls Day
Saturday, April 11, 11 am - 4 pm
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Flint Farmer's Market
300 E 1st St
Flint, MI 48502
Artists, authors, filmmakers, crafters, musicians, and more!
FREE for all ages at the Flint Farmers Market.
Event by the Flint Horror Collective
https://www.facebook.com/events/1020060861186900
Excerpt:
Three years ago, the small town of Ethel, VA, was rocked to its core when the lighthouse became a beacon for something an-cient and hungry. Every year since then, we’ve cast a protection spell, tying knots in rope while visualizing a protective shield, at the weathered tower a week before Samhain, our voices car-ried away by the salt-tinged wind. This year’s no different.
Cormac’s slender fingers intertwine with mine as we ap-proach Orla and Dave across the grassy shoreline. We’ve man-aged to mostly heal from the toxic tendencies of the past—the jealousy, the competition, the midnight arguments that left scorch marks on the walls. Magical abilities complementing each other have a tendency to do that, like puzzle pieces finally finding their fit.
The mid-October sunlight glints off Cormac’s long, blonde hair, turning each strand into spun gold against the blue sky. We don’t meet here at night anymore, not since the shadows began to move independently of their owners. She gently squeezes my hand in reassurance, slight crow’s feet crinkling around her eyes with a smile that blooms one of my own in return. She tries to continue her broody exterior by wearing a scuffed leather jacket with silver buckles, but her face is too full of light these days to continue the façade.
“It’s about time you two showed up,” Orla says as she wraps me in a hug, her dark curls tickling my cheek. Her automatic soul-possessing ability takes hold straight away, a warm honey-like sensation flooding through my veins. I feel her anxiety—sharp and metallic—and she feels mine. While hers is about the treacherous events three years ago, mine is about the small vel-vet box burning a hole in my pocket, holding a moonstone ring for Cormac.
I know she’ll say yes; I hear Orla’s thoughts echo in my mind like a whisper in an empty room. To assuage her anxiety, I push forward images of Cormac and me from earlier in the morning. We’d stayed in bed, all consumed with passionate kisses and bodies moving in rhythmic dance together; sheets twisted around our ankles, the taste of her still on my lips.
Okay, okay, you’re excused for being late, Orla sends through the connection, her mental voice tinged with amuse-ment. Then it’s gone as Dave, tall and broad-shouldered in his flannel-lined jacket, gently pulls her out of the hug. He com-plements her power as Cormac complements mine, his deep voice carrying over the crash of waves against the shore.
“Did you actually expect them to be on time?” he asks her, his breath visible in the chilly air.
Orla looks at me, her eyes sparkling, and we snicker like schoolgirls sharing a secret.
“Some of us know how to keep a woman in bed,” I goad Dave, watching his cheeks flush crimson.
Before he can respond, Cormac says, “Guys, I think you should come over here,” her voice tight with tension.
She’s rounding the other side of the lighthouse, her boots crunching on the path. I jog over to her, worried she might be in danger, the wind whipping my hair across my face. Once I’m next to her, I’m struck with frozen terror, my breath catching in my throat. As Orla and Dave’s footsteps catch up, I try to count the sleeping bodies sprinkled around the remnants of a bonfire.
Sprawled across the damp autumn ground lies a peculiar as-sembly of slumbering figures—some adorned in woolen cloaks and flowing medieval gowns; others draped in shimmering flapper dresses and tweed vests and flat caps. The incongruous sight sends a chill down my spine, conjuring memories of that haunted night years ago when phantoms in pheasant feathers and tarnished armor materialized from the mist. Could history be repeating itself? I draw Cormac closer, my fingers tightening protectively around her shoulder. A bitter wind sweeps through the clearing, rustling crimson leaves and stirring the strange visitors from their dreams.
“Oh, halloo,” calls a woman with cascading silver-streaked hair that catches the morning light. Deep laugh lines frame her eyes as she rises gracefully to her feet, brushing debris from her embroidered skirts. Her button nose crinkles above heart-shaped lips as she smiles warmly. “I’m Marie. We weren’t expecting anyone so early.”
“You’re days early for Samhain,” Orla informs her, her voice carrying across the clearing.
“Samhain!” exclaims a younger woman with stylish curls and bright eyes. She leaps up, clapping her hands together with enthusiasm, silver bracelets jingling at her wrists. “I’m Florian. I absolutely adore a proper shindig.”
Another woman glides forward, her tweed vest firmly hug-ging her body. She loops her arm possessively around Florian’s slender waist and extends her other hand, adorned with bangles that glint in the early light. “Kiersten,” she offers, her voice me-lodic but guarded.
“Molly, and this is Cormac,” I reply, mirroring Kiersten’s protective gesture by drawing Cormac against my side, feeling her warmth through her leather jacket.
“Might there be lodgings available in your village?” Marie inquires, her eyes scanning the distant rooftops visible through the thinning trees.
“Not anywhere that could accommodate a gathering of this size,” Dave responds, his weathered hands resting on his leather belt.
A tall woman with anxious eyes approaches Orla hesitantly. A man with sandy blond hair clutches her trembling arm as she nervously smooths out her skirt. Dave and I don’t miss her flinch with his touch, juxtaposing their closeness. It resurfaces memories from when Dave and Orla couldn’t touch. “Hello, I’m Claudia,” she murmurs, “and may I present Alex?” Her delicate fingers twist together nervously while Alex soothingly rubs her goosebump-covered arms.
“Orla and Dave,” Dave announces, nodding curtly. When Alex extends his hand to Orla, Dave intercedes and shakes his hand, so Orla doesn’t have to.
“Um, Orla,” Alex interjects, his deep voice surprisingly gen-tle. “Pardon our intrusion, but might Claudia ask you something rather personal?”
“Of course, what troubles you?” Orla asks, leaning forward with interest.
“Do you perceive others’ thoughts when you make physical contact?” Claudia whispers, her pale cheeks blooming with a rosy flush that spreads to the tips of her ears.
“Perhaps we should escort this assemblage to our home-stead,” Dave interrupts, clearing his throat. “We have several spare rooms. Not sufficient for everyone, but certainly prefera-ble to camping outside.”
“We’d be eternally grateful,” Marie responds, casting a con-cerned sideways glance at Claudia’s distressed expression. “A proper rest would benefit us tremendously after our... unusual journey.”
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Wild Rose Press Amazon BN Indie Bound Walmart
Excerpt:
The cove was calm when Jace arrived. The horrors carried in by the damaged ship were washed away with the tides overnight. The clear waters took Jace’s breath away, as it did every time, and for a moment, he forgot his purpose for coming. Legends told of angry Sea Sprites luring sailors into the water and returning their skulls to empty offering bowls. Their mystic lullabies compelling sailors to leap headfirst off their ships.
It wouldn’t take a magic song to lure Jace. He’d followed the stunning refraction of water and sky without question. Without hesitation. Without regret. The compass needle in his soul never wavered from the water, his true north.
Jace stepped toward the shore, his leather boots sinking into the sand and his gaze unwavering from the water. I’ll stop at the waterline, he reminded his body. His soul pouted at the refrain, and his legs stopped an inch from the foamy wave cresting the sand. As the wave pulled back into the ocean, the distance returned some sense to Jace. He couldn’t walk himself into the middle of the ocean without risking ruining his boots, which his parents worked hard to get him. Nor could he get far enough into the cove with just his legs to satisfy his hunger.
Excerpt
Heartsick, the Lord of the Unseelie slipped from Carterhaugh through the portal oak. He materialized into Elphyne, trembling. There was someone he missed as much as Tam missed his father, and, like Old Thomas, he was never returning—to this realm or the mortal one.
He ambled through the pristine meadows and grasslands of his grandmother’s seelie kingdom and slipped easily into the forest that bordered his own.
Much of the Sìth folk gave him the space his rank was due, especially the ones who had known and feared his grandfather, Finveara. But the unseelie creatures found Alfarinn exhausting. They made a point of glaring with beady eyes and sharp hisses whenever he passed by. He was no Finveara.
It wasn’t until he reached the marshes that Alfarinn noticed something was odd. He stopped abruptly and looked around, hoping the stillness in the damp air was only the result of his sister’s mysterious cats mid-stalk.
His grey Sìth eyes settled on a horse head bobbing in the muddy waters, with a passenger in the form of a slimy snail. This could only be one particular kelpie. The Lord of the Unseelie groaned and approached his nosy subject.
“Your grandfather would have thrown a fireball at me for spying,” Ceol teased.
The silver beast pulled himself up out of the water and shook from snout to tail. It was a miracle that his pet snail did not fly off.
Alfarinn whipped the water from his clothes with a wave of his hand. “You admit to spying?”
“Perhaps a little.”
Ceol’s horse face split into an eerie, sharp-toothed grin as his monstrous body metamorphosized into the figure of a man. The kelpie usually graced the courts in faerie form but there were times that he retreated to the cool marshes to transform into his true nature. It was a face he only showed his kin, his master, and his victims.
“I’m just curious, my lord. Why do you sulk about your holdings? Do you seek mischief? If so, I am eager to be of assistance.”
Alfarinn snickered as the smiling kelpie delicately hid his precious creature in his enchanted pocket. “Are you now? Actually, I could use a little help, Ceol.”
The kelpie pranced about, waving his arms wildly.
Alfarinn raised a hand in warning. “This will require more stealth than anything, Ceol. I will not have you mauling anyone for this task.”
The kelpie deflated and gave a resentful pout. “But I haven’t mauled anyone in ages!” he whined.
Alfarinn did his best to hide his shiver. Kelpies were forbidden from attacking other fae, but the souls of mortals were fair game. Tam fit into both categories, much to the kelpie population’s displeasure.
“What if I told you that this mischief would be wrought on a certain earthly knight? Would you be willing to play my game to be rid of him?”
The kelpie reverted back to his horse form and danced fluidly around his master. “Pretty Tam’s flesh is tantalizing, and his soul would be delicious. If you want to be rid of him, let me have him. I'll not tell a Sìth it was you.”
Alfarinn scowled, channeling his grandfather’s energy. The kelpie recoiled.
“No, Ceol. The queen would fly into a rage the likes of which we've never seen.”
The creature’s eye fixed on the Sìth lord, gleaming maliciously. “Are you afraid of her, Lord of the Unseelie?” It was a declaration more than a question, a search for weakness in the chain of command.
Alfarinn squinted and folded his arms over his chest, pulling himself up to full height. “Afraid! No. I am her grandson,” he reminded with a smug smile. “She loves kin above all else. You, on the other hand, council member or not, would do well to keep in her good graces.”
Ceol swallowed and quickly changed back into his less-intimidating configuration. “Noted.”
He looked about the marsh for a moment, perhaps weighing his choices, and fondled the poor snail in his pocket. After some moments avoiding his exasperated master, the kelpie turned and nodded his acceptance.
“So, what exactly must I do to annoy the tasty mortal boy?”
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As a Le Cordon Bleu-trained chef, cooking, for me, has
always been tied to the rhythm of the seasons. Just as stories change with mood
and weather, so does the food I return to again and again. I am drawn to
recipes that reflect the time of year and use ingredients at their peak.
One of my favorite warm-weather dishes is tomato pie. Few people know this recipe, and its great
taste always surprises them. The key to a good tomato pie is
patience. Tomatoes hold a lot of water, and if you do not take the time to cook
them down into a thick paste, the crust will suffer, resulting in the dreaded
soggy bottom! Once the tomatoes are reduced properly, the dish comes together
beautifully with sharp cheddar and a seasoned mayonnaise.
As the seasons shift, so do the recipes I crave. In
the fall, I love making pumpkin pie soup. It is hearty, comforting, and deeply
flavorful, the kind of dish that makes the kitchen smell like warmth itself.
Winter calls for French onion soup, slow-cooked and deeply caramelized, a
reminder that good food rewards time and attention. In the spring, I turn to a
spring salad mix, a reset after heavier meals.
What I love most about cooking is not perfection, but
sharing techniques, learning from others, and trading recipes that reflect
culture, memory, and place. Some of the best lessons I have learned in the
kitchen came from conversations, not classrooms.
Whether it is a tomato pie shared in summer, a pot of
soup simmering through winter, or a spring salad, food has a way of connecting
us. Recipes carry stories, and when we pass them along, we keep those stories
alive.
Seasonal Recipes
Summer Tomato Pie
Fall Pumpkin Pie Soup
Winter French Onion Soup
Spring Salad
Ingredients
Instructions
Watch the Book Trailer
Excerpt:
Maggie and Andrew approached the bar and were relieved they had arrived twenty minutes early. That is, until an attendant approached Maggie and said, “Good evening, Miss McCullough. If you would follow me, I will lead you to your private cabana. Your guest has already arrived and is waiting for you.” Maggie held up her finger and said, “I’ll be right with you.” “Certainly, take all the time you need.” The man moved to the end of the bar and waited discreetly. Maggie grabbed Andrew’s elbow and dragged him to the opposite corner of the bar. She was a little frazzled. “I am not going into a closed tent without you being able to watch me, especially since I have no idea who I’m supposed to be interviewing.” “Tell the waiter you are claustrophobic, and you need one of the side flaps on the cabana removed. That way I can keep an eye on you during the interview.” “Perfect.” Maggie summoned the waiter and explained what she needed. He seemed irritated but, without a word, walked to the cabana and unzipped the side flap, revealing an attractive man of medium build with a head of thick auburn hair lit with natural highlights of red and blond. Hair color to die for, Maggie thought. She squeezed Andrew’s elbow and whispered, “Here goes nothing.”
Andrew didn’t want her interviewee to be alerted to his presence, so keeping a respectable but short distance from Maggie, he nonchalantly whispered, “You’ll do great.” Maggie followed the attendant to the cabana where the man was sitting. He stood as she approached and held her chair out for her. She thanked him and sat. Turning toward the waiter, the stranger authoritatively commanded, “Bring the 1869 Chateau Lafite.” “Very good, sir. Will there be anything else?” “No,” he said dismissively. The waiter left. The man sitting across from Maggie said, “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lucifer, but you can call me Luc.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Maggie extended her hand. The man sitting across from her looked at it with disgust. She slowly withdrew her hand and placed it in her lap. A palpable energy radiated from him and made her skin crawl. Maggie quickly drew a protection spell in her notebook and was relieved when the unsettling sensation abated. Luc addressed Maggie. “There are a few ground rules that will need to be established before we commence.” Maggie said, “Absolutely. Please, continue.” “First, don’t speak unless spoken to. Secondly, there is a lot of information to cover and I will tell you what is important and what isn’t. Lastly, don’t be irritating. Keep your questions relevant and we will get along swimmingly.” What a dick, Maggie thought, but bit her tongue since she was positive such a comment would undoubtedly irritate him. “Duly noted.” “You may proceed and ask your first question.” Maggie jumped right in and asked, “What story do you want to set straight?” Luc chuckled. “I am not the figure humans have made me out to be and I would like to tell my side of the story.”
Excerpt:
My parents are dead. I can be free if I go with him. Even if it means being bound to him until death. Alma will be safe. She is brave, selfless, and I know she will take care of the kingdom. This was a chance for me to get away from here. I won’t give him the satisfaction of kissing me. I will learn who that shadow man was and why he killed my parents.
A sacred bond that can only be enacted by using blood magic. That confirmed the suspicion that magic had come back to the realm and our goddess will be reborn again. There was a lot I didn’t know about this oath, but what I knew was that once I agree to it, I won’t be able to lie to him, kill him, or betray our original vow. That was the full extent of my knowledge of this oath, but he didn’t know that.
“Blood oath,” I spat.
“This will hurt, which is why I preferred the kiss.” He held out his right hand and then ran his blade across his palm, then across my right. I didn’t wince, and I saw the flicker of amusement on his face. I have withstood far worse pain in much more sensitive places on my body.
“Intriguing,” he said.
“Chloe, you don’t have to do this,” Alma pleaded, reaching for my left hand.
“It’ll be all right,” I told her. I am not a ruler or leader. Mother burned any chance of that out of me the day she made the first cut. But Alma, she is. That is why my next order can be said so easily.
“Once we leave, you will assume the throne. Cancel the ball and inform the other kingdoms that the entire royal family is dead because of an unforeseen accident. This man will let me make an official document having you take the throne because of my death. This is an order and not a request.” Snagging my left arm, she turned me toward her.
“Don’t do this,” Alma begged. I jerked my arm from her grip, handed her the dagger, and then turned back toward the man.
“Get on with it.”
“As you wish.” We joined our cut palms, blood mixing, and then he pulled me into him.
One hand gripped my waist, and I felt the hardness of his body against me.
“Do we have to be this close?” I asked. Completely ignoring me, he began the oath, and my mouth filled with the flavor of magic as our joined palms burned.
“Under the rights of the Blood Oath, I swear we will leave your people unharmed if you come with me willingly and without complication. If you break this oath, your people will pay with their lives. Do you swear by it?”
Our gaze didn’t falter. “Under the rights of the Blood Oath, I swear to come with you willingly and without complications, and you will leave my people unharmed. If you break this oath, you and your people will pay with their lives.” It came out a lot easier than I thought it would.
“Sheathe your swords,” he ordered his men, our eyes still locked onto each other.
“Lower your weapons,” I ordered. “Leave these quarters and don’t follow us. Don’t come after me, if any of you disobey me, you will be executed.”
“Chloe.” Alma sounded defeated, and it broke my heart.
“Draw up a parchment willing the kingdom over to her and then stamp it with the royal seal,” I ordered the man.
“You heard her.” The entire time, our bloodied hands, bodies, and eyes never faltered from their positions. I knew he was trying to intimidate me into submission, but I have been through worse with Mother. Alma and the guards left the chambers. The man stepped back from me, our embrace broken, but not our eye contact. One of his men brought over the parchment. He examined the message, and then went over to my stationary and sealed it with the royal crest that belonged to me.
“Bring that to the one called Alma. We need to get going.” He then approached me. “You are a very brave woman.” He snapped his fingers and one of his men brought over some rope.
“Is that necessary? I just swore to you I wouldn’t escape.”
“I don’t want you getting any wicked ideas about stabbing me, Princess.”
C.
M. Hano is a Fantasy Romance Author who aspires to write strong female driven,
hot and magical adventures, and being a good mother. She lives in Louisiana
with her husband and three beautiful children.
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