This is one of the less dorky expressions I've had for my thumbnails. Maybe I should only record when I feel like hammered shit.
Wednesday, July 29, 2026
Egyptian Lovers Teaser #rabtbooktours
Dark Paranormal Romance
Date Published: July 31, 2026
Publisher: Changeling Press
In the desert sands of Egypt, three lovers battle a maniacal curse. Only
their love can save them.
Half vampire, half sphinx, Kahma roams the deserts of Egypt, praying for death -- until his lost love returns, reincarnated as archeologist Emma Bonham. But to fulfill the passion Kahma offers, Emma must part with her life.
Fascinated by the tale of Emma Bonham’s disappearance some eighty years ago, Carson Bonham comes to Egypt to unravel the mystery. But the bloody carnage of Karnak’s history has a way of repeating itself. The struggle to keep Carson alive will be a death defying act for the powerful vampire Sopdet.
Alexis Peters has no intention of returning to Egypt, until a mysterious dream lover promises endless pleasure if she will just return to him. Little does Alexis know she’s bound to her Egyptian savior, the legendary sphinx, Amenhotep…
Publisher's Note: Egyptian Lovers Box Set contains the previously released novellas Kahma, Sopdet, and Ardeth & Amenhotep.
The following excerpt contains material suitable only for readers 18+.
Excerpt from Kahma
Abydos, Egypt
November 1926
Emma Bonham moaned and writhed with Corey Dunham's head between her thighs and his strong hands holding her against his busy mouth. His tongue speared deep into her moist opening, thrusting like a cock and she moaned again, but more for his benefit than from the pleasure she couldn't focus on. Slurping, wet noises filled Emma's small tent as she played along, trying to relax into a good fuck.
She just couldn't.
Emma closed her eyes and sighed blissfully at what she hoped were believable intervals as Corey's tongue fucked her. It was so hard to focus. Her mind had been spinning since they'd finally reached Abydos that evening, the most sacred site in all of Egypt.
Abydos. Emma had spent much of her life longing to see the ancient necropolis and the famous tombs there. Tombs of ancient kings, temples of ancient gods.
Her hips left the ground as Corey's fingers played with her half-swollen clit. Corey did have nice hands and fingers and he knew just what to do with them. He'd been her lover for several months now. They'd met when he'd joined the expedition that her Aunt Elspeth coordinated back in London. Corey had been on a few expeditions to Egypt before, though his experience wasn't vast. He had more than enough experience in bed for Emma, who'd had no experiences before Corey. Emma had been as curious about sex as everything else, perpetual student that she was and Corey more than satisfied her curiosity on a number of carnal acts. She was attracted to him, trusted him.
Emma wasn't in love with Corey by any means. She liked him immensely. Corey was an attentive, considerate lover and Emma enjoyed their lovemaking.
Normally.
"You taste so damn good, Emma." Corey slid a finger into her pussy to replace his darting tongue. "I want you to come for me."
The heavy canvas of the tent rippled as the strong winds whipped around it in the desert beyond. It was just one more thing to break Emma's concentration. She began to wonder if a sandstorm was coming. Emma also wondered if she'd ever see a sandstorm. Emma could play along and fake it but she didn't want to do that to Corey. Sighing, Emma pulled herself up, surprising Corey enough that he pulled his fingers from her sheath. Before she could say anything, a desperate cry ripped open the tranquility of the night.
"Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
The frantic male cry had Corey, who was mostly dressed, on his feet and Emma scrambling to find her discarded robe. Pulling it on as fast as she could, Emma stayed right on Corey's heels as he sped out of the tent. Naked beneath the robe she held tightly to herself and with her hair flying wildly about her, Emma struggled to keep up with him as he raced toward the tent of Alan Burns, the expedition leader and her friend. The rest of their group had already gathered there.
Peering over the shoulder of Alice Henderson, one of the artists in their expedition, Emma spotted the group's writer kneeling over Alan's unmoving body in the sand. Frantically, Daniel Woods pressed his fingers to Alan's throat, searching for signs of life.
"He's dead," Daniel announced, his face stricken.
A bolt of shock and fear shot through Emma. Alan was dead? How could that be? Emma was as fond of the kind older gentleman as her Aunt Elspeth. If not for him, Emma's aunt would never have allowed her to go on the expedition. Her aunt's confidence in Alan Burns and his vast knowledge of Egypt and all its sites had won out in the end. That and the man's solemn promise to her aunt that he'd watch over Emma and keep her safe.
Tears stung the back of Emma's eyes. This is horrible.
Alice started to sob quietly in front of Emma while Corey pushed his way past the others and into the tent. Emma watched as Corey joined Daniel in searching the fallen man's body for any clues as to what had killed him. The wind ripped at Emma's robe and hair from where she stood just outside the tent as tears slid down her face. Holding her breath just like the others, she waited.
Corey's features turned hard and he pointed to the older man's ankle.
"What is it?" Emma called out to Corey.
Corey seemed not to hear her at first. He started searching the sand around him, his eyes round and filled with alarm.
"A snake bite." Corey's green eyes met Emma's. "It looks like an asp bite. What an asp is doing out here, I don't know. They usually stick to the shrubs and hillsides. They are not desert dwellers."
"Perhaps it got into Alan's bags in Cairo," Daniel suggested.
Corey nodded. "It's possible."
"Dear God in Heaven." Alice, with her stout little body, took a step back and bumped into Emma. "It could still be here."
All eyes flew to the ground, searching the sand in the dim light provided by the fires that burned inside the circle of their tents.
"Watch your step." Corey's voice took on a more authoritative tone as he met the eyes of each of the remaining members of the group in turn. "Be mindful of this. Check your blankets before you go to sleep and check your clothing before you put it on. Reach into your bags with caution."
Dashing out of the tent and to her side, Corey gently took Emma's arm. "I'll see you to your tent."
With Alan gone, Corey had to take charge now. Emma easily read the tension in the hard set of his face, felt it in the hand that lightly gripped her arm. Corey was older than her, but still young, only in his late twenties. He'd never led an expedition before. He'd told her that he'd never been to Abydos before either. All that considered, he still had more experience in exploring Egypt than anyone else in the group.
Corey gently turned her to face him when they reached her tent. With gentle fingers, he brushed at the tears on her face.
"I am sorry about Alan." Corey pulled her into his arms, holding her against his hard, warm body. "I wish I could stay here with you, but I can't. I, at least, want to know where you are and that you're safe. Emma, be careful and try to get some rest."
Emma was vaguely aware of his hands smoothing her hair, the warm kisses he dropped on her head. She didn't even care that he was holding her in such a familiar way in plain sight of the others. Surely, they had to know Corey was her lover by now.
Yet, so many emotions gripped her heart with a tightly closed fist. She'd just lost a dear friend. If that weren't bad enough, they'd also lost the one person in the expedition who'd been to Abydos before and knew how to get back. How to survive here...
What will become of us now?
Corey pulled back to gaze down into her face, his expression grave. "Go to your tent now, Emma. Try to rest."
Emma nodded, not envying Corey the position in which he now found himself. Now he was responsible for the remaining six expedition members: three artists, a writer, an organizer and Emma.
�"What will we do now?" Emma gently brushed a lock of his brown hair from his creased forehead.
"First we have to take care of Alan," Corey explained. "We'll talk about the rest in the morning."
Brushing her lips with the lightest of kisses, Corey turned and headed back to the dead man's tent. Emma watched him, her heart heavy in her chest.
An image of Alan Burns' gentle smile flashed in her mind. When he smiled he had always reminded her of her father who'd died when she was just a child. He had taken on the role of father figure to Emma as she'd gotten to know him over the years. She was going to miss Alan, and Aunt Elspeth would be devastated when she learned of his death.
Little chance she'd get any rest this night.
A strong wind blew Emma off balance before she could enter her tent, stinging her skin lightly with grains of sand. She stumbled but didn't fall as the air whistled around her body in the strangest way.
Being a native of London, Emma was used to cold winds that chilled a person to their bones and made them shiver for hours. This was something else entirely. This wind was hot and moved across her skin like a lover's hand, touching her. That was the only way to describe it. A warm rush of wind penetrated the thin fabric of her robe and blew between her thighs, causing her own intimate scent to rise up and fill the air around her. Emma gasped at the unexpected way her body responded as the wind moved all about her, the way her clit began to throb. Emma's nipples beaded hard and her skin tingled all over her body.
Then Emma heard a gentle voice on the wind as the air swirled around the sensitive flesh of her throat, blew through her hair. A deep male voice.
Senin.
As quickly as the wind had risen it was gone, leaving Emma standing there shaken and lost just outside of her tent. Had she just imagined that? Was her mind playing tricks on her in her grief?
Or had the wind really coveted her body like a lover?
Pulling the thin robe tightly about herself, Emma climbed into her tent and willed her limbs to stop shaking.
About the Author
Isabella Jordan is the alter ego of an otherwise stressed out web designer, programmer, and internet junkie. When she's not trying to perfect her own personal caffeine IV drip, she enjoys spending time with her family, doing volunteer work, and writing. She loves creating new stories of all kinds and chatting with readers and friends.
Isabella would love to hear from her readers!
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress
Strings Book Blitz #rabtbooktours
Contemporary Fiction
Date Published: 11-23-2025
A pandemic is spreading across the globe. A national lockdown looms in the United States. A Southern journalist sees a chance to protect her health and jumpstart her career by escaping north to a Minnesota wilderness. Feisty and wary of entanglement, she piques the interest of a bored Native American rock star on his way home.
Robby Song’s career may be on hold, but Grace
Wheeler is on a mission to build hers. To Robby, she’s an intriguing
challenge. To Grace, he’s a distraction she’s not ready to handle.
But the brutal Northwoods winter is coming. Grace flees back south . . . to
soul-searching isolation and a puzzling middle-of-the-night call.
Excerpt
PART I – THE NORTHWOODS
Chapter 1 –
Airports
Empty. No sounds except
flight announcements and Covid precautions over the PA as Grace trekked alone
through the wide, carpeted corridors, stepped onto the moving walkways, and
passed the shuttered kiosks, shops, and restaurants of the Minneapolis
airport. The few people she saw, behind counters or scurrying past at safe
distances, wore surgical masks, except for one or two who had creative,
last-minute coverings . . . red bandannas or black gaiters. The antiseptic
smell of hand sanitizer hung in the air, penetrating her mask. If she closed
her eyes, she could think she was in a hospital. Her hair probably reeked of
the stuff. Of course, her gate was the last one. She shrugged her old, green
backpack off and sank into a seat against the wall, leaning her head back and
closing her eyes, hoping the flight was still happening. Except for her, the
gate area was deserted. Maybe she could drift off.
But it was no good.
She couldn’t sleep. She was tired, and the adrenaline had worn off, but
she was growing anxious. Maybe she wasn’t as brave or capable as
she’d thought. She sat up, pulled the tablet out of her backpack, and
began rereading her notes from the last interview she’d done, the one
with the middle school English teacher about online classes. She needed to get
it written up and into her editor. She could not lose this job, her only
income. A seat creaked nearby. She looked up. She hadn’t heard him walk
up, but good sign, another passenger. A man was sitting with his head leaned
back against the window, eyes closed, long legs stretched in front of him, a
guitar case leaning against the next seat with a tan jacket thrown over it.
Before long, he sat up, glanced at her over his black mask with tiny gold
stars, rose, and walked to the bank of windows at the end of the concourse. He
stood there, looking out, a tall, thin man all in black, with a long braid.
Quite the silhouette. She looked back at her notes.
“Cozy, huh? A
whole airport and just the two of us.”
She jumped. The voice was
unexpected . . . and hoarse. He was six feet in front of her. She stared up at
him. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”
“Well,
I try to look for the positive.” He paused and cleared his throat but
didn’t turn away. “I’m going in search of coffee. If
you’ll keep an eye on my things, I’ll bring you
some.”
“I’ll watch them.”
He
moved the guitar and jacket to a seat in her row, then straightening, looked
at her. “You want coffee or not? You didn’t actually
say.”
They studied each other then, the way people do when
they’re wearing masks — all eyes. His were dark, almost black,
under barely arched eyebrows. They looked at her steadily . . . with a touch
of amusement? Hers were brown, with the beginning of a worry wrinkle between
her brows. She looked back with a serious expression.
“Sure. Black,
one sugar.” She leaned over to get her wallet and noticed her toenails.
She had meant to cover the chips with a fresh coat of blue polish. Oh,
well.
“I’ll get it.” He walked off.
A red packet
was on the carpet below his jacket. She put her tablet down on the little
table between her and the next seat, walked over, and picked it up.
D’Addario Guitar Strings. She placed it on the worn suede jacket, under
the sleeve but visible, and went back to her notes.
************
“I stopped at a hand sanitizer.”
She nearly dropped
her tablet this time. “You need a bell!”
“Sorry.”
He was in a seat, reaching across his guitar to place her coffee on the little
table. “One of my nicknames growing up was Sneak. But you seem a little
edgy.”
“Maybe.” She noticed his long, slender fingers and wondered if
that was good for playing guitar. Her mother’d always said it helped
with playing the piano. She picked up the cup and went to remove one side of
her mask, but the loop was tangled in her hair. She put the cup back down.
Masks were proving to be a challenge. She’d given up trying to control
her hair long ago, but masks weren’t optional. Her hair was dark red,
dark enough it was hard to see the red unless she was in the sun. The kind of
red hair that’s big and ends up in long twirls unless you comb or brush
it which only makes it a bigger, frizzy mess. She tried to free first one side
of her mask, then the other, finally getting one, then a sip of coffee. She
looked his way. He was watching her. “I hadn’t realized how much I
needed this. Thanks.”
“You have a lot of hair.” He
turned away, removed his mask with one hand, took a sip, and turned his face
toward her, pausing, then going on, “I knew how much I needed it.”
Leaning forward, he put his forearms on his thighs and held the coffee between
his knees. He was not unattractive, in an angular, ascetic kind of way —
prominent cheekbones, straight nose, full lips, and the dark eyes.
He’d
bought her coffee, so she figured she should try to be sociable. “Have
you come a long way?”
“Not today. Just from my apartment. But
I’ve been traveling. Got in late. You?”
“This is my
third airport since five this morning.”
“Sounds like
you’ve come a long way. Got somebody in Duluth?” He sipped.
“I
wish. I have no idea what I’m doing next.”
He raised his
eyebrows and looked over at the clock. “I’d say you have about an
hour and a half to figure something out.” Just then, an agent walked up
to the check-in desk.
“Do you think they’ll take
us, if it’s only us?”
“I don’t know. Probably
depends on whether they need to get a plane to Duluth, for commuters. I guess
we’ll see. I’ve never had this flight cancel.”
“You’ve
done this before?”
He nodded, swallowing a sip of coffee.
“Every four . . . six months or so. I’ve got family all around
Duluth . . . and this time, I’m staying . . . a while. I figure
I’m safer up there than most anywhere.”
“Me,
too.”
The PA system came on. “Good afternoon passengers. This
is the pre-boarding announcement for flight 2514 to Duluth. We are now
inviting those passengers with small children, and any passengers requiring
special assistance, to begin boarding at this time. Please have your boarding
pass and identification ready. Regular boarding will begin in approximately
ten minutes time. Thank you.” The agent looked in their direction and
shrugged. “If you guys are ready, you can board.”
They
gathered their belongings. He noticed the strings and looked over at her, but
she was putting her tablet away. As she passed him, he said, “I’m
Robby.”
She replied, “Oh . . . Grace.”
About the Author
Jan Merritt lives on the coast of South Carolina with strong ties to northern Minnesota where her dad was born. Her early life was filled with rich, but conflicting narratives. On the one hand, her dad regaled her with pioneering stories from Minnesota: Merritt boys tramping through tamarack swamps and the Northwoods, learning from their Ojibwe neighbors; surviving -60° winters; and the saga of her great-grandfather leading them to discover iron ore on the Mesabi Range only to lose that mining fortune to John D. Rockefeller in a New York City courtroom. But on the other hand, Jan’s education in an elite private girls’ school in downtown Charleston, South Carolina, led her into a privileged, old South social set she wasn’t born into, one with a different set of values. These opposing values simmered in Jan’s head.
She grew up
passionate about teaching, both in the classroom and on horses. She married
and had a family. Life was good, but it came to a halt when she discovered by
accident that she had brain cancer. She has survived, but after the surgeries
and treatments, her brain is not the same. She can’t ride or teach
school, but her new brain is busy. It creates conversations. One night toward
the end of Covid, Jan gave up trying to sleep and decided to write down what
the people were saying … maybe if she got the chatter out of her head,
she could sleep. It didn’t work but she hasn’t stopped writing.
Jan has a new passion.
Contact Links
Purchase Link
Tuesday, July 28, 2026
A Deadly Inferno Consumes Release Blitz #rabtbooktours
House of Croft, Book 6
Murder Mystery Romance
Date Published: July 28, 2026
A chilling disappearance, a lethal enemy, and a family pushed to the
brink…
When the Duke of Wrengate’s sister vanishes without a trace, suspicion swirls. Did she flee to escape a scandalous secret…or has she been abducted? Whispers lead to a treacherous underworld, where rumors of an illicit auction suggest a far more sinister fate: a woman trapped, drugged, and enslaved. Determined to save her, Adrian Croft and his valet, Murry, plunge into London’s darkest corners.
But Finn O’Leary, the Irishman bent on revenge, remains a threat that presents a difficult choice for Adrian: save Wrengate's sister or protect his family. With the recent birth of his daughter, he and his wife, Samantha, have more to lose than ever before. And as danger closes in, they must fight with everything they have. Not only for justice, but for their very survival.
About the Author
USA TODAY bestselling author Sophie Barnes writes historical romance
novels in which the characters break away from social expectations in their
quest for happiness and love. Having written for Avon, an imprint of Harper
Collins, her books have been published internationally in eight languages.
With a fondness for travel, Sophie has lived in six countries, on three
continents, and speaks English, Danish, French, Spanish, and Romanian with
varying degrees of fluency. Ever the romantic, she married the same man three
times—in three different countries and in three different dresses.
When she’s not busy dreaming up her next swoon worthy romance novel, Sophie enjoys spending time with her family, practicing yoga, baking, gardening, watching romantic comedies and, of course, reading.
Contact Links
Purchase Links
Uprising Teaser #rabtbooktours
Book One of the Fitzjohn Duology
Historical Fiction with Speculative and Romantic Elements
Date Published: 09-01-2026
Publisher: Literary Wanderlust
England, 1381 AD: Blanche Fitzjohn is an outcast in her small coastal
village. Not only is she the illegitimate daughter of John of Gaunt, the man
responsible for her neighbors’ over-taxation, but she possesses strange
abilities: hearing sound from miles away and smelling people’s emotions.
She takes solace in her studies with the local wisewoman and in her friendship with Geoff, a groom at the local manor. Until the day Henry of Lancaster, Blanche’s half-brother, brings her news of an arranged marriage to Sir Thomas Prescott, Constable of the Tower of London. Although she smells cruelty on him, Blanche agrees to marry Thomas in the hopes that her influence may help better the lives of Geoff and all England’s villeins.
But soon, the peasants’ discontent turns to revolt. Though her heart is of the people, Blanche’s nobility makes her an enemy to the rebels. To save herself and Henry from the executioner’s ax, Blanche must use every power at her disposal, even those she once considered a curse.
Chapter Six Excerpt
Something shifts, like summer’s green leaves transforming to autumnal gold. Speaking with Geoff about my marriage hurts like I’d never expected, a deep ache. The moon thrums, and an owl, perched in a nearby tree, shifts as she searches for prey. My temples throb.
“It seemed…” he begins again. “It seemed he didn’t want to marry you, after you…” I glare and cross my arms before lifting my face. He continues: “I thought perhaps you could get out of it because…”
“Because of what?”
“Because, ye’re…”
“What, Geoff, what am I?”
His mouth opens like a fish above water, and he doesn’t bother to shut it. In the tree, the owl flaps her wings and leaps into the air.
“Ye’re…” The tips of Geoff’s fingers flutter. “Well, I don’t know what you are, Dandy. Ye’re just…yerself. And I thought—”
“You thought he wouldn’t want me?”
His face falls. “He’s not like you, Dandy. That’s all. He’s not a good man. I heard him talking, when it was just the men…”
He drops his eyes and his cheekbones redden.
Neither of us seems to know what to say next. After a full minute of silence, he lurches forward and grasps my shoulders, crushing me to his chest. “Blanche, just consider.”
I gasp and have to steady myself. But within seconds, tears come to my eyes, along with a calming release of tension. I grip his forearms, inhale his familiar scent. He’s always smelled of horses, with a hint of bread dough and sugar from the manor kitchens he’s constantly raiding. There’s something different tonight. I sniff. It’s crisp, yet soft. Evergreens in winter, covered with fresh snow.
He buries his nose in my hair. “You could refuse,” he says, voice a gentle rumble against my face, “and stay with yer mother. She’d be angry, yes, but she wouldn’t throw you out. They can’t drag you to the church. For a marriage to be real, you must consent.”
Consent. The word ripples through me. It makes me see that I want more, from Maman, from my father, but most of all from Geoff. I need something I can’t identify, something I can’t express.
“If I marry Thomas…” My muffled voice breaks. “It will make the duke happy. He’ll…” I tense, regretting my words.
“He’ll what?”
I can’t answer, can’t tell him that by marrying Sir Thomas, I hope to earn my father’s love. To replace…something.
The moon moves behind a cloud and the trees shift, branches releasing a shower of rain. Geoff drops one hand to the small of my back and lifts the other to my cheek. His palms are warm, and I slide my own to clench his upper arms. When my fingertips brush hardened muscles, I almost snatch my hands back. Before tonight, I still thought of Geoff as a child, the lanky villein who could ride any horse, no matter how fierce. Now…my mouth goes dry, but I can’t resist running my hands up the length of his arms, letting them rest on his shoulders. The skin beneath his tunic is damp with sweat.
Corded muscles tense and stretch beneath my fingers, sending little jolts through me. He stoops, chin brushing my temple.
I touch the notch of his throat with my fingertips. He freezes. Tiny curls of dark hair peek above his collar, tickling my fingers. He lets his face linger on mine, and I feel him inhale.
A pleasant warmth spreads through my belly, then down. Something’s happening, something I don’t understand. I should run, should leave. But I don’t. Another breeze drifts through the tree branches, and he pulls me closer, pressing me to him.
I feel him, all of him, from feet to chin, in a way I never have. A tingling, heavy warmth settles on me, and I feel Geoff’s own need pressing against my belly.
It should make me uncomfortable, but I find myself pressing back, wanting more. Wanting it all.
I’m not well-versed in what happens between a woman and a man—that’s one area of my education Maman neglected—but I’m not completely ignorant. I know Geoff and I stand on a cliff, gazing into a deep ravine. One more step, and we’ll both be lost.
I’m still touching his throat, suspended in our odd dance beneath the shuddering tree branches, when he bends further. I close my eyes and focus on the sensation of his stubbly chin against my face. He exhales, and a shiver runs down my spine.
“Dandy…” he murmurs.
The owl swoops to snatch a mouse from the forest floor in sharp talons. Her screech is like a battle horn, ricocheting with painful deliberation in my skull, joined by the mouse’s squeal. My eyelids snap open and I step out of his embrace.
About the Author
J.E. Rizzo is a life-long history fanatic and writer of historical fiction, and her work can be found in Vanity Fair, The Boston Globe, The Guardian, The Tudor Times, Tudor Life Magazine, Scary Mommy, and Ultrarunning Magazine. Rizzo won Manuscript Academy’s Agent Choice Award in 2024, and her article Past and Precedence: Abortion Law in the Middle Ages and Its Use to Overturn Roe v. Wade won History Inquiry’s Medieval History Writing Challenge.
By day, Rizzo works in Human Resources—a field offering more than ample opportunity to observe the follies and fancies of humankind. Before her career in HR, Rizzo worked as an opera singer, a professional baker, and a dog walker. These days, when not writing she can be found running ultramarathons through the forests and mountains of New England, knitting, reading, sewing, baking, or performing any number of (what some might call) old-lady hobbies. She also keeps busing caring for her two children and forty-seven houseplants, making her husband carry heavy things and cook her gourmet meals, and rehabilitating her rescue dog and semi-feral ginger cat.
Contact Links
Monday, July 27, 2026
Empathic Equation Teaser #rabtbooktours
LGBTQ+ Shifter Romance
Date Published: July 31, 2026
Publisher: Changeling Press
Nootaikok is losing himself to his empathy. Can Amaruq call him back to love and to bed?
There’s a terrible loneliness in being surrounded by a million minds, none of which care a whit about you. With his empathic skills expanding rapidly, Nootaikok is struggling to hold onto his sanity. Only joining with Amaruq in bed play is sustaining him.
Both of them know bed play won’t save them forever. As the weight of Nootaikok’s psychic disability pushes down on him, he and Amaruq start fighting both each other and the world.
Can their love hold them together or will Nootaikok’s deception crush them?
EXCERPT
He couldn’t just hear the couple arguing in the hotel room next to the one where he lay with his mate. For Nootaikok, their anger, petty as it might seem to some, was real for them. He wasn’t quite sure what they had disagreed on. He wasn’t a telepath. However, as the hour crept on from nine to ten, their bickering increased in intensity even as their volume dropped. He read violence in the woman half of the pair’s building rage. Whoever said females were always the victims had their facts wrong.
He got silently out of bed, checking to make sure Amaruq had stayed asleep. His lover, exhausted from the psychic deluge he’d experienced over the last half dozen hours, probably wouldn’t wake if he was quiet.
Scooping up his tracker badge, which would show as police or hotel security or whatever he needed at the moment to humans, he dressed in cast-off clothing that he’d worn to SearchLight that day. Not bothering with shoes, he padded silently from the room.
The ebb and flow of their argument was cresting when he pounded on the door.
He felt their startlement and felt the relief from the male half of the pair.
She was the one who opened the door, though. “What?” she snapped.
He took in the belt clenched in her fist and the stench of alcohol on her breath. He held up his badge. “Security, ma’am,” he said. “Report was of some disturbing noises coming from this room.”
She snarled soundlessly at him, furious as a caged werewolf. “Go ‘way.”
“I can’t, ma’am.” He darted a glance over her shoulder as the man, who looked none too sober himself, drunk-walked a little closer to them. “Sir, are you hurt?”
“What’d you think I’d do? Drug him?” the woman demanded baldly.
Nootaikok felt the spike in her anxiety and met her gaze. “What did you give him?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Prove it.”
He wished he’d brought his cell phone. “I intend to.” He marched into the room, shouldering her aside almost gently. Her drunken state made her maybe more compliant than she would have normally been. Keeping an eye on the two of them, he called down to the main desk and made his report. That done, he ordered the two of them to stand out in the hallway until help could arrive.
She swung at him with the buckle end of the belt.
He caught it, the sting of the metal making him hiss. He jerked the makeshift weapon out of her hand and caught her, preventing her from falling when she staggered into him rather than let go willingly.
By the time security had arrived, he’d gotten them both to lean against the walls on either side of the corridor. The man was slumping there and the woman was glaring at him, her face alternating between fear and fury.
After they had been escorted away, he snuck back to bed. It was going to be difficult to sleep, even though the couple was gone. His empathy was fully awake now, and he could sense probably half the occupants of the hotel.
Amaruq rolled over, his eyes slitting open. “Still awake?” he mumbled.
“I’m all right,” Nootaikok lied.
His little white fib, meant only to send his lover back to sleep, backfired as Amaruq frowned at him.
“Don’t you know better than to lie to a werewolf?”
“Sorry,” Nootaikok said, meaning it. “I just…”
“Do you need me to massage your shoulders again?”
“Maybe you could just rub my back for a minute or two?” Amaruq’s touch usually helped him rest. It wasn’t magic but Amaruq’s gentleness came through in everything he did. It was difficult to dwell on all the emotions he couldn’t fix or completely understand while his mate caressed him.
That being said, what he felt still tried to invade his mind. He shoved it away over and over again until Amaruq’s fingers, digging deep, released his tension and he slept.
* * *
When Amaruq woke fully, it was morning and the clock on the nightstand told him it was a little after seven. He couldn’t believe he’d slept so long, not with Mark and Luke in peril. Still, as the guilt rose up to choke him, he forced himself to take a breath. He was managing it, he told himself, and even if he wasn’t, there was nothing to be gained from drowning in negativity.
Besides, he’d come back to the waking world with a sense of urgency and a hunch that something was about to change. He didn’t know what that meant exactly, but it definitely came from his precognitive sense, and he refused to ignore that part of himself any longer.
He rolled over to face Nootaikok, startled to find his lover huddled under the blankets. Narwhal shifters, at least from what Nootaikok had told him, were warm blooded and tended to struggle with getting overheated. His mate looked as though he was freezing. Or trying to hide.
Amaruq settled on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He wanted to reach out to Mark and get a better sense of the dragon’s location. He thought, I’ll ask him why it’s me he decided to reach out to once he and Luke are safe. For now… He dropped his shields.
Nootaikok seized his arm. “Don’t,” he mumbled.
Startled, Amaruq jumped and tried for something passing calmness. He knew he didn’t succeed because when Nootaikok opened his eyes, they were bright with anxiety. “What’s wrong?” Amaruq asked.
“Too many…” Nootaikok visibly stiffened and seemed to pull himself together. “I don’t want you reaching out to whoever’s sending you visions without medical assistance nearby.”
Amaruq nodded, his head moving on the pillow as he turned his face toward his lover. Nootaikok was still bundled up. Frowning, Amaruq said, “That’s a good point. I’ll wait until we’re at SearchLight. Now, what’s really wrong?”
About the Author
Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender women’s speculative fiction. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires. And in the contemporary world she’s named “Sticks & Stones,” Emily has vowed to create small towns where prejudice is challenged by a passionate quest for equality. Find her on Facebook at Shapeshifter Central or on her website.
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress
The False Paradigms of Today and the Timeless Truth of Tomorrow Book Blitz #rabtbooktours
Essays on Meaning
Philosophy/Spirituality
Date Published: 10-01-2025
Publisher: Sketpika Press
Something’s missing in the world today, and maybe it’s been
gone for centuries. The problem: most of us don’t have authentic beliefs
or a clear path in life.
What do we believe? Whatever they told us to believe.
What do we do? Whatever other people are doing.
How many lies have we welcomed into our lives without having seriously analyzed them?
It’s the reason many of us feel empty inside—there’s nothing there but convenient mistruths, and at some level, we all know it. We then orient our lives based on these false beliefs, wasting our precious limited time among the living striving for goals that leave us ultimately unsatisfied.
The False Paradigms of Today and The Timeless Truth of Tomorrow by John Bliss takes a steak knife to these common delusions with 13 irreverent essays that rip and tear at the foundations of our collective worldview. Little is held sacred to Bliss.
The essays in Part 1: Your Understanding of Reality is More Fabricated
Than You Think dispel our delusions one at a time, including:
- our mistaken belief in progress,
- our misplaced confidence in our own rational prowess,
- our loss of personal identity from group identification,
- our misplaced faith in science as a true representation of the world, and
- our morality: what it is and where exactly it comes from.
After carving away these restrictive untruths, Part 2: An Exploration of Truth Across Historical, Mystical, and Philosophical Dimensions introduces a deeper understanding of humanity based on history, mysticism, psychology and philosophy. Some of the topics in Part 2 include:
- how our religions became second-rate pathways to God,
- our reliance on logic and how it warps our decision-making,
- how idealism can lead to mass murder and tyranny,
- the overriding importance of history, where we’ve been, where we are going and why,
- our immaterial connection to all people living and dead—Jung’s collective unconscious, Emerson’s Over-Soul, and Varro’s Soul of the World, and finally
- the bedrock assumption that we all got wrong. Switch this out, and everything changes.
The essays are filled with stories from history, including meetings of
the apostles Paul and Peter with the Emperor Nero and Simon Magus the
magician, the mystical transformation of Emmanuel Swedenborg, the nineteenth
century German intellectual revolution, the establishment of three French
religions worshipping not God but Reason and Humanity, the abdication of the
World Teacher, and the genocide of the Tibetan culture.
The book is ideal for seekers of deeper meaning, arm-chair philosophers
and historians, and those disillusioned with the emptiness of contemporary
thought. Discover why your view of reality may be distorted—and how by
changing the one assumption on which your entire world-view is based,
everything shifts.
About the Author
John Bliss is a writer and thinker fixated on unraveling the mystery of
our lives. He is at heart a skeptic, as very few authorities have provided
answers that are believable. He distrusts groups of all kinds, as they are no
smarter than individuals, who don't know half as much as they think they do.
He even distrusts himself, as no human can understand reality.
Some of his major accomplishments include being kicked out of the National Honor Society and the CEO Round Table. He graduated with a bachelor's in History, and a masters degree in mechanical engineering. He founded and grew an engineering company and sold it after 25 years. And of course, he completed his book, The False Paradigms of Today and the Timeless Truth of Tomorrow, after 13 years of research, writing, and rewriting.
To this day, he continues to ask the big questions: Who are we? What’s truly important? How should we live our lives? On most days he thinks he has them figured out.
When he is not writing, he cuts wood and digs ditches. Bliss remains at large somewhere in the mountains of California.
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