Shunned: a reverse harem bully romance (Kings of Miskatonic Prep Book 1)

by Steffanie Holmes

  She stands up and watches her friends double over with laughter, cackling like the witches of Macbeth. She floats outside her body, looking down on herself – this pathetic girl with dog shit all over her face. She runs. She runs from the school, their laughter following her down the road, around the corner, somewhere, anywhere away from them. She doesn’t remember how far she runs or how her mum finds her. She just remembers running.

  This is a true story. It happened to me.

  I have a rare genetic condition called achromatopsia. It renders me completely colour-blind and legally blind. I was also a generally imaginative, weird, and introverted child. I was good at art and making up stories and terrible at sports. I wasn’t like the other kids, so they ostracized me, called me names, deliberately invented games to humiliate me, locked me in cupboards, told me that I was stupid, useless, pointless, that I should just go away, that I should never have been born.

  It took me years to learn to trust people, to let them see the real me. Social situations still make me anxious, and I’ve struggled with low self-esteem and internalising anger.

  In part, this is why I put myself inside Hazel’s head to write this book. But it’s not the main reason.

  I want to tell you a different story.

  During my first year at university, I met this girl in my dorm. We bonded over a mutual love of Stargate SG1 and Terry Pratchett and became fast friends. We moved in together and were flatmates for two years. We had many of the same classes together, we participated in the same clubs and societies, and she inserted herself into my growing circle of friends. She even started dating my BFF.

  In my fourth year, the friendship started to unravel. I was doing postgraduate studies in a different subject to her. I’d moved out of our flat. I was making new friends and developing new interests. I started dating a guy she didn’t like. She felt like she was losing me – this person who was so important to her life and her sense of self.

  She was frightened, I think. And her fear pushed her behaviour to greater extremes. She became obsessive, demanding to know where I was every moment, controlling my life, forbidding me to go out without her. She accused me of lying, of stealing from her. She created elaborate scenarios in her head where I had wronged her and had to make amends. I moved her into my new flat, hoping that some proximity would help her to calm down. Instead, she grew more erratic and obsessive.

  My boyfriend at the time saw all this happening. He watched me become fearful of this person who was supposed to be my friend. He noted me trying to appease her, cancelling plans because they’d upset her, choosing her over my schoolwork, retreating into my shell.

  He knew I was giving into her because of my past, because I was so grateful to have a friend that I didn’t want to lose her. He could see she was taking advantage of my nature to control me.

  One day, my friend and I had a particular horrible fight about something. I was staying at his house, and I was terrified to go back to my flat because she was there.

  My boyfriend couldn’t watch me hurt anymore. He drove me to the flat. He insisted on coming inside with me. Just having him by my side made me feel stronger.

  He marched up to her and he told her that she was going to lose me as a friend if she continued what she was doing. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t call her names. He calmly laid out how she was acting and what it was doing to me. He reiterated how much he cared about me and he wouldn’t stand by and watch me hurt.

  It was the first time in my life I remember someone standing up for me. Listening to him speak to her that day was like hearing him speak to every one of my old bullies.

  Reader, I married him.

  Time and again in my life my husband has stood up for me, stepping in where I wasn’t strong enough. And I’ve done the same for him – I’ve been the lighthouse to his ocean when he needed me most. Now, I don’t need him to fight for me, because he helped me uncover the strength to fight for myself.

  I’m not Hazel, and she isn’t me. She’s way more badass. She says the things that I think of an hour after a confrontation and wished I’d said.

  Hazel doesn’t need no man to help her find her strength. But I hope as the series progresses, you’ll see how Trey, Ayaz, and Quinn can become her lighthouses when she needs them most.

  I know this note is insanely long. Bear with me – I just have a few peeps to thank!

  To the cantankerous drummer husband, for reading this manuscript in record time and giving me so many ideas to make it better. And for being my lighthouse.

  To Kit, Bri, Elaina, Katya, Emma, and Jamie, for all the writerly encouragement and advice. To Meg, for the epically helpful editing job, and to Amenda for the stunning cover. To Sam and Iris, for the daily Facebook shenanigans that help keep me sane while I spend my days stuck at home covered in cats.

  To you, the reader, for going on this journey with me, even though it’s led to some dark places. Warning: if you thought book 1 was tough, book 2 is a whopper. Get it here.

  If you’re enjoying Kings of Miskatonic Prep, and want to read more from me, check out my two other reverse harem series. The Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries is what you’d get if you crossed Agatha Christie with Black Books and added a harem of famous literary men. It’s my most popular series to date, and it’s a lot more light-hearted and fun (despite all the murder). Start book 1, A Dead and Stormy Night. If you turn the page, there’s a short excerpt from book 1.

  The Briarwood Witches series is about a science nerd heroine who inherits an honest-to-goodness English castle, complete with five hot British/Irish tenants, a fas problem, and some magic she can’t control. It’s a little bit dark and angsty and sexy, and complete at 5 books. You can grab the box set here.

  If you want to hang out and talk about all things Shunned, my readers are sharing their theories and discussing the book over in my Facebook group, Books That Bite. Come join the fun.

  I’m so happy you enjoyed this story! I’d love it if you wanted to leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads. It will help other readers to find their next read.

  Thank you, thank you! I love you heaps! Until next time.

  Steff

  Want more reverse harem from Steffanie Holmes

  “Sizzling hot, sexy characters, and a plot filled with magic, mayhem, excitement, suspense, and fairies. Fantastic.” - Laure Eccleston

  “I love all the guys and this book is hot!” - Gilda Rodriguez

  “Maeve is feisty and no damsel in distress. I want more!” - Stephanie

  Dear Fae,

  Don't even THINK about attacking my castle.

  This science geek witch and her four magic-wielding men are about to get medieval on your ass.

  I’m Maeve Crawford. For years I’ve had my future mathematically calculated down to the last detail; Leave my podunk Arizona town, graduate MIT, get into the space program, be the first woman on Mars, get a cat (not necessarily in this order).

  Then fairies killed my parents and shot the whole plan to hell.

  I've inherited a real, honest-to-goodness English castle – complete with turrets, ramparts, and four gorgeous male tenants, who I'm totally not in love with.

  Not at all.

  It would be crazy to fall for four guys at once, even though they're totally gorgeous and amazing and wonderful and kind.

  But not as crazy as finding out I'm a witch. A week ago, I didn’t even believe magic existed, and now I’m up to my ears in spells and prophetic dreams and messages from the dead.

  When we're together – and I'm talking in the Biblical sense – the five of us wield a powerful magic that can banish the fae forever. They intend to stop us by killing us all.

  I can't science my way out of this mess.

  Forget NASA, it’s going to take all my smarts just to survive Briarwood Castle.

  The Castle of Earth and Embers is the first in a brand new steamy reverse harem romance by USA Today bestselling author, Steffanie Holmes. This full-length book glitters with
love, heartache, hope, grief, dark magic, fairy trickery, steamy scenes, British slang, meat pies, second chances, and the healing powers of a good cup of tea. Read on only if you believe one just isn’t enough.

  START READING NOW

  Agatha Christie meet Black Books

  What do you get when you cross a cursed bookshop, three hot fictional men, and a punk rock heroine nursing a broken heart?

  After being fired from her fashion internship in New York City, Mina Wilde decides it’s time to reevaluate her life. She returns to the quaint English village where she grew up to take a job at the local bookshop, hoping that being surrounded by great literature will help her heal from a devastating blow.

  But Mina soon discovers her life is stranger than fiction – a mysterious curse on the bookshop brings fictional characters to life in lust-worthy bodies. Mina finds herself babysitting Poe’s raven, making hot dogs for Heathcliff, and getting IT help from James Moriarty, all while trying not to fall for the three broken men who should only exist within her imagination.

  When Mina’s ex-best friend shows up dead with a knife in her back, she’s the chief suspect. She’ll have to solve the murder if she wants to clear her name. Will her fictional boyfriends be able to keep her out of prison?

  The Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries are what you get when all your book boyfriends come to life. Join a brooding antihero, a master criminal, a cheeky raven, and a heroine with a big heart (and an even bigger book collection) in this brand new steamy reverse harem paranormal mystery series by USA Today bestselling author Steffanie Holmes.

  READ NOW

  Excerpt: A Dead and Stormy Night

  Chapter one

  Wanted: Assistant/shelf stacker/general dogsbody to work in secondhand bookshop. Must be fluent in classical literature, detest electronic books and all who indulge them, and have experience answering inane customer questions for eight hours straight. Cannot be allergic to dust or cats – if I had to choose between you and the cat, you will lose. Hard work, terrible pay. Apply within at Nevermore Bookshop.

  Yikes. I closed the Argleton community app and shoved my phone into my pocket. The person who wrote that ad really doesn’t want to hire an assistant.

  Unfortunately, he or she hadn’t counted on me, Wilhelmina Wilde, recently-failed fashion designer, owner of two wonky eyes, and pathetic excuse for a human. I was landing this assistant job, whether Grumpy-Cat-Obsessed-Underpaying-Ad-Writer wanted me or not.

  I had no options left.

  I peered up at the towering Victorian brick facade of Nevermore Bookshop – number 221 Butcher Street, Argleton, in Barsetshire – with a mixture of nostalgia and dread. I’d spent most of my childhood in a darkened corner of this shop, and now if I played my cards right I’d get to see it from the other side of the counter. It was the one shining beacon in my dark world of shite.

  I don’t remember it looking so… foreboding.

  Apart from the faded Nevermore Bookshop written in gothic type over the entrance, the facade bore no clue that I stood in front of one of the largest secondhand bookshops in England. A ramshackle Georgian house facade with Victorian additions rose four stories from the street, looking more like a creepy orphanage from a gothic novel than a repository of fine literature. Trees bent their bare branches across the darkened windows and wisteria crept over grimy brickwork, shrouding the building in a thick skin of foliage. Cobwebs entwined in the lattice and draped over the windowsills. There didn’t appear to be a single light on inside.

  Weeds choked the two flower pots flanking the door, which had once been glazed a bright blue but were since stained in brown and white streaks from overzealous birds. A pigeon cooed ominously from the gutter above the door, threatening me with an unwelcome deposit. Twin dormer windows in the attic glared over the narrow cobbled street like evil eyes, and a narrow balcony of black wrought iron on the second story the teeth. A hexagonal turret jutted from the south-western corner, where it might once have caught sun before Butcher Street had built up around it.

  When I used to hang out as a kid, the first two floors were given over to the shop – a rabbit warren of narrow corridors and pokey rooms, every wall and table covered in books. The previous owner – a kindly blind old man named Mr. Simson – lived on the remaining two floors, but for all I knew, the new owner used that space as an opium den or a meat smoker.

  At least the flaccid British sun peeked through the grey clouds, which meant I could make out these finer details of the facade. The buildings on either side of it were cloaked in the creeping black shadow that now followed me everywhere. I squinted at the chalkboard sign on the street, hoping for some clue as to the new owner’s personality, but all it had on it were some wonky lines that looked like chickens’ feet.

  This place is even more drab than I remember. It could use a little TLC.

  That makes two of us. I squinted at my reflection in the darkened shop window, but I could barely make out the basic shape of my body. At least I knew I looked fierce when I left the house, in my Vivienne Westwood pleated skirt (scored on eBay for twenty-five quid), vintage ruffled shirt, men’s cravat from a weird goth shop at Camden market, and my old school blazer with an enamel pin on the collar that read, ‘Jane Austen is my Homegirl.’ Combined with my favorite Docs and a pair of thick-framed glasses, I’d nailed the ‘boss-bitch librarian’ look.

  That is, if you ignored the fact that I pushed my nose up against the glass to see my reflection, and twisted my head in order to see all the details of my outfit because of the creeping darkness in the corners of my eyes.

  Please, Isis and Astarte and any other goddess listening, let me get this job. I can’t deal with any more rejection.

  I smoothed my hair, sucked in a breath, pushed open the creaking shop door, and stepped back in time.

  As the shop bell tinkled and the smell of musty paper filled my nostrils, I became nine years old again – the weird outcast kid whose mother was banned from school events after swindling the chair of the PTA with a Forex trading mastermind program that was really just a CD-rom of my mother comparing currency trading to doing the laundry. (It was his own fault for getting swindled. Who even uses CDs anymore?)

  As soon as the school bell rang I’d sprint into town, duck through this same door and escape into another world. I’d curl up in the cracking leather armchair in the World History room with a huge stack of books and read until my mother finished her shift and came to collect me. Books become my friends – characters like Jane Eyre and Dorian Grey the perfect substitutes for the kids who were horrible to me. When I was older and the guys at school sneered at me and fawned over my best friend, I fell into books again – this time to fall in love with the bad boys, the intelligent boys, the boys filled with anger and lust and pain. Dark horses and anti heroes like Heathcliff and Sherlock Holmes, and melancholy authors like Edgar Allan Poe spoke directly to my soul.

  Mr. Simson barely said a word to me, but he never seemed to mind the fact that I read every book in the shop but couldn’t afford to buy any. Sometimes he’d even let me riffle through the boxes of rejects before he sent them away for recycling. People would come into the store and try to sell Mr. Simson stacks of airport books – James Patterson and John Grisham paperbacks that no one buys secondhand. When he refused their generous bounty, they’d creep back at night and shove the volumes one by one through the mail slot, so Mr. Simson always had stacks of them lying around. I would smuggle the books home to our housing estate – If Mum caught me reading she’d lecture about how men didn’t like smart girls and we’d have a big row – and read them under the covers at night or hidden in my textbooks during class.

  It was in Nevermore Bookshop where I first discovered punk music. I found a box of battered 1970 zines in the Popular Music section, and I lost myself in faded photographs of bored teenagers with bleached mohawks. None of them fit in, and they didn’t give a shit. I was in love.

  Teenage Mina threw herself into punk music and fashion, bought a se
cond-hand sewing machine, and started cutting up all her clothes. Fashion became a way to express myself, and opened up a world that was bigger and brighter and more fun than the council estate and my shitty school and lack of tits and the tiny village of Argleton.

  When you don’t have any friends and have an entire bookshop for research, you get a lot of schoolwork done. At the end of my last year at secondary school, I was offered four scholarships to prestigious universities. But there was only one thing I wanted – to become a punk-rock fashion designer. The next Vivienne Westwood, thank you very much. So when I was awarded a place at New York’s infamous Fashion Institute, I packed up my Docs and sewing machine and left Argleton behind me for good.

  Or so I thought.

  For four glorious years I lived in New York City, working my arse off, living it up with my best friend Ashley, and learning everything there was to learn about the fashion industry. Last year I finished my degree and Ashley and I landed the same year-long internship with Marcus Ribald, our favorite designer of all time after Vivienne.

  Then I noticed a faint blur in the corner of my eye and I fell down the stairs three days in a row. I would reach for my coffee cup and knock it over, or sign my name on a document and miss the line completely. I thought it was nothing – I walked through life constantly hungover and running on coffee and discounted day-old hot dogs, which I assumed explained the pounding headaches that stabbed me day and night. But I kept pushing, kept working, kept drinking. I was living the dream. Nothing could stop me.