Sensational Six: Action and Adventure in Sci Fi, Fantasy and Paranormal Romance

by Sasha White

  I looked, but could not see; my eyes were unexpectedly wet. I blinked away the moisture and the glare of the clouds, and I saw it.

  The ring was a dark and incongruous green against both the new spring grass and the colorless concrete of the fountain it encircled. I estimated its diameter at about ten feet, the largest I had ever seen.

  “I wonder what causes them. Some kind of fungus, do you think?” She looked at me then, and there was something like pity in her eyes.

  “Faeries, William. Dancing faeries.”

  Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact. I could think of no reply, could not have forced one past the sudden tightening of my throat in any case.

  “It wasn’t there before,” she continued, oblivious to my distress. “I’d have noticed.” True; she might absentmindedly step in front of an oncoming car, but she’d never miss something as fey as a faerie ring. That was part of the reason she’d selected Southern Montana State University as her school of choice; it was known to the better-read students as the Miskatonic of the Rockies, due to a long history of odd happenings. Fey Katie fit right in here.

  She was an expert on all things magical and mysterious, and smacking of long history: Stonehenge, ley lines, even King Arthur and his knights. Though she would argue vehemently that Arthur predated the concept of knighthood. We’d fought about it once, though I’d had no grounds—the only medieval history I knew was the reconstituted version served up by most fantasy games. It had seemed so trivial, really, so irrelevant. But she had been furious at my blithe ignorance, literally quivering in rage, unable even to speak. And I’d kept needling her, jab after petty gloating jab, until I’d noticed the blood dripping from where her nails had stabbed into the soft meat of her palms. I’d had to forcefully pry her fists open, covering us both with crimson stains, Macbeth-like. I’d taken her to the emergency room, and the attending physician had given me a card emblazoned with the name and number of a local psychiatrist, which I’d promptly torn to shreds. Sometimes I regretted that. But Katie and I hadn’t argued since.

  Caught up in the memory, I almost missed her next words, so quiet were they. And when I did hear them, the cold thing began to burrow.

  “I think they came for me.”

  If you’d like to know more about “Auf Widdershins” or other stories in Bridges of Longing, then visit http://www.marsheilarockwell.com/bridges.html

  Season of the Wolf by Jeffrey J. Mariotte

  He was underground, in the dark. The walls were close and the lights had flickered and then gone out, and the air was thick with choking black dust. He had fallen to the ground when the earth shook, carrying with it a noise that seemed to come from everywhere at once, from all around him and deep inside, first a ferocious boom from the mine bump as the support pillars collapsed, then a rumbling that seemed like it would never end, but that stopped abruptly, leaving behind only the patter of rocks falling from walls and ceiling, and the screams of the lost and injured.

  Lost? That was him. When he regained his feet—lucky to be alive, he knew that much; doubtless some of the shafts and rooms had collapsed entirely—he didn’t know which way was which. One direction might lead him out of the mine, to safety and breathable air. The other would take him deeper in, where his chances of being caught in a secondary cave-in or explosion would increase with every foot he traveled. He fought back against the panic that tore at his throat, trying to think, to reason.

  But it was no use. The world was pitch-black; he couldn’t see his hand an inch from his face. The dust gagged him, and he stumbled along, coughing and spitting and vomiting, with no clue where he was going. For all he knew, he could have passed into seams long since closed off by the company but opened again by the tremors.

  Time had passed—he had no way of knowing how much—when he heard another tunnel burst. He couldn’t tell if it was ahead of him, behind, or in a shaft that was parallel or adjoining. His face was slick with dust-caked blood and he was weak, stumbling often, panic ebbing but being replaced by a sense of futility. The shafts could be filling with mud and debris that would drown him before he had a chance to die of hunger. Either way, he would never see sunlight again, never take another breath of clean air.

  Then the man was there, as he always was. His name was Jared Flannery, and he could see Flannery, as if the miner had his own perpetual glow. He was blackened from head to toe, but his ruddy brush of a mustache stood out, and green eyes shone like lanterns. This way, man, he said, though his mouth didn’t move. Come on, this is the way out.

  And he followed Flannery, willingly, only once in a while fearing that Flannery was some sort of mine sprite, a Tommyknocker or other creature here to lead him into certain destruction. Flannery seemed to know the way; he was confident, at least, and he kept up a running patter as they moved through the shaft. This is the way, won’t be far now, this way to the surface, boss.

  He didn’t know why he should trust Flannery, but he did. And they did seem to be going up, mostly, and the air did seem to be clearing a little. He was still scared, terrified, but he started to allow himself to believe that there might be a way out, that escape was possible, if not likely.

  And then Flannery stopped, and there was a door behind him, and he put his hand on the door handle. This is the way, boss, Flannery said, this is it, right through here.

  But as he drew closer to the door, something behind it made a noise. Another bump, he feared, another collapse, but no, it wasn’t that. It was on the other side of that door, and it was a growling, deep and resonant and fierce. Not just growling, but snapping and slavering, and he knew that if Flannery opened that door, they would charge, all teeth and claws and ripping, tearing, and as Flannery pulled down on the handle and the door started to gap open and light, blinding light with shadows moving in it started to leak through he said “No Flannery don’t open it don’t let them in I won’t I’ll do—”

  Alex woke up thrashing, sheets and blankets wrapped tightly around him, binding him. Sweat covered him like ice water, and he was shivering, his teeth clacking together.

  The dream was always the same, and yet it wasn’t. It varied in its details; sometimes Flannery took him to a great shaft from which he could see light, at a distance that seemed like a miles-long, impossible climb. Twice, he had taken him to a place where light fell on a signpost, and the sign read “Silver Gap.” Sometimes Flannery led him around in circles and then abandoned him, though always with a promise to fetch help and come back.

  The dreams, though—and no one else knew it, surely not Peter and Ellen—the dreams were why they had come. He had been looking for some sort of redemption. The idea of a documentary had been itching at him, and he had seen that sign: Silver Gap. He looked it up and found out about Silver Gap, Colorado, and learned about the bark beetles, and the fairly direct link between their spread and the blister rust infection that was killing whitebark pines all over the western states, and his plans had crystallized almost at once.

  Now, he was here. And instead of going away, the dream was back, worse than ever. Before, at the end of the dream, scary as it was, there had been some hope. But this one, tonight, had offered none. There was only one way out, Flannery seemed to be saying. Through that door. And when he opened that door . . .

  Alex shivered again, got out of bed, flicked on the overhead light. There were no bedside lights, no bedside tables. He sat on the edge of the bed in the bare room, wrapped the blanket around himself, and waited for the dawn.

  If you’d like to know more about Season of the Wolf, then visit http://www.jeffmariotte.com/books.htm.

  Marsheila (Marcy) Rockwell and Jeffrey J. Mariotte

  Marsheila (Marcy) Rockwell and Jeffrey J. Mariotte have written more than 60 novels between them, some of the most recent of which are The Shard Axe series and a trilogy based on Neil Gaiman's Lady Justice comic books (Rockwell, dark and urban fantasy) and Empty Rooms and Season of the Wolf (Mariotte, urban and supernatural thrillers). They’ve also written dozen
s of short stories, some of which are collected in Nine Frights (Mariotte) and Tales of Sand & Sorcery and Bridges of Longing (Rockwell), and miscellaneous other things, including Rhysling Award-nominated poetry (Rockwell) and Bram Stoker Award-nominated comic books (Mariotte). This is their first published collaboration, which originally appeared in the Neverland’s Library anthology (Ragnarok Publications). You can find more complete bibliographies and news about upcoming projects, both collaborative and solo, at marsheilarockwell.com and jeffmariotte.com.

  Find about more about Jeff and Marcy

  Website: marsheilarockwell.com and jeffmariotte.com.

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JeffreyJMariotte

  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Marsheila-Marcy-Rockwell/245826808787783

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/MarcyRockwell

  https://twitter.com/JeffMariotte

  Newsletter Sign-up: rockwell.mariotte.news@gmail.com

  Glimmer

  by Vivi Anna

  Genre: Romantic Urban Fantasy

  Length: 123 pages

  Sensuality: 3 flames

  Abandoned at the age of ten, to be raised by her father, Nina Decker has never forgiven her fae mother for that or for cursing her human father with fae-sickness. When her mother reappears with startling revelations about an upcoming war with the fae, Nina puts her trust in sexy as hell werewolf Severin Saint Morgan to help her safe her father and the world.

  Chapter 1

  The doors from the ambulance bay burst open and two EMTs rolled in a stretcher, a woman badly bleeding lay strapped to the gurney.

  I was there waiting for them, immediately checking vitals. “What have we got?”

  “Werewolf attack,” one of the EMTs announced, “She was found near the water wall in Stanley Park.”

  I gaped at him. “Are you sure it was a werewolf attack”

  We rolled the patient down the corridor toward the trauma rooms. Only one was available as we’d just received two criticals from a motor vehicle accident.

  Other nurses and doctors brushed past us, shouting out orders to each other. Patients in wheelchairs and gurneys lined the walls waiting for their turn at treatment. The night was a busy one. Must’ve been a full moon or something.

  “Gut ripped open. Claw marks on both arms and legs. Don’t know of anything else that could do that.”

  I didn’t either, at least not in the city. But I hated that since the werewolves came out of the closet, so to speak, a couple of years ago, there had been a tendency to point a finger any time someone was apparently attacked by an animal. Working as a RN for the past six years in the downtown Vancouver hospital emergency, I’d seen a lot of awful and strange stuff. This was the first werewolf attack I’d encountered. If it truly was one.

  We wheeled her into the only empty trauma room.

  “On three,” I said, as we rolled her up to the bed to transfer her over from their gurney. “One, two, three.” The team picked her up and set her onto the table.

  Once I had control, the two EMTs left, taking their stretcher probably to head off to another call.

  They had already inserted an IV in her arm so I changed the fluid bag and hooked her up to the monitors. Her blood pressure was low, and her heart rate erratic. By the looks of her wounds, and the blood soaking through the gauze holding her stomach together, she was in really bad shape.

  I checked her arms and saw long jagged rivets in her flesh. The marks did indeed look like claw marks. Her legs looked the same. I peeled back the blood-soaked gauze a bit to see how bad the primary wound was. I saw a mass of red and purple and smelled the putrid stench of open bowels, her intestines had been shredded. Oh damn. My gut churned over in response. I slapped two more abdominal gauze pads on her belly, adding more pressure.

  “Hey, can I get a hand in here?” I yelled. The doc was on her way, but she needed to hurry her ass up.

  Another nurse, Heather, burst through the door, rushing to help. She came up to the side of the bed and helped me press on the bleeding wound.

  The doctor rolled in, her face stoic, her manner all business. She snapped on some latex gloves and approached the gurney. The patient was lucky tonight was Dr. Diana Cole’s night on rotation. She was the best trauma specialist on staff.

  “Nina, tell me something,” she said as she prepared to peek under the bloody dressing.

  “BP is dropping. Eighty over fifty. Heart rate is erratic. Blood ox level is ninety and on its way down.”

  Diana peeled back the bandages.

  For the first time in six years of working emergency, I wanted to puke. The woman’s gut had been torn open, not cut like with a knife; I’d seen that plenty, but ripped and torn every which way with something jagged. Looking at the extent of the injury, I knew she didn’t have a chance.

  I looked up into Diana’s face and saw the same grim look in her eyes.

  “We need bags of O neg, stat. Let’s get some blood back into her.”

  Heather and I stuck IVs in her other hand and in her feet to get in the blood, but it was too late. Diana attempted to stitch up her insides, but her blood pressure dropped hard. We were losing her. The machines beeped like crazy, Diana worked on the woman’s heart but her efforts weren’t enough. The woman flatlined with a long drawn out beep which never failed to make my throat tighten with emotion. We got out the paddles and zapped her several times, but she never even regained consciousness, thank goodness.

  Diana looked at her watch. “I’m calling it at eleven twenty p.m.”

  Heather wrote it down on the patient’s chart.

  I turned and pressed the off button on the machine, then looked back to Diana.

  She nodded to me, then peeling off her gloves, she left the trauma room.

  I nodded to the other nurses. “Clean her up.” Then stripping off my own gloves, I followed the doctor.

  I wanted to catch up with her and get her take on the wounds, but before I could, I was ambushed by two police officers. Unfortunately, I knew them both. Officers Coates and Stettler of the Supernatural Event Monitoring Agency—SEMA. Or as I liked to call them Tweedle Dum and Tweedle if-you-grab-my-ass-one-more-time-I’m-going-to-snap-your-wrist.

  The agency had been formed by the Canadian government in response to the werewolves declaring themselves and coming out into the open. But from what I’d seen of them, they were all just a bunch of prejudiced bastards, just waiting to shoot a silver bullet into someone thick and hairy.

  “We heard there’s a werewolf attack vic in there,” Officer Coates said.

  “Can we talk to her?” Stettler asked.

  “She’s dead so, no, I don’t think so.”

  Stettler cursed. “We were hoping for an eye witness. Catch one of these bastards red handed or red clawed.” He made a claw shape with his fingers and swiped them at me.

  If he had come any closer to my face, I would’ve grabbed his hand and twisted it off.

  “What about all those coyote attacks I’ve been hearing about? Maybe it was a coyote.”

  “I knew it was just a matter of time before one of them did something like this. They should all be locked up in a zoo if you ask me,” Coates said.

  He conveniently ignored my comment. “Well, thank the Lord, no one is asking you, asshole.” I brushed past him.

  “What’s up your ass, Decker?” Stettler smirked.

  I didn’t dignify that with an answer and continued to make my way down the corridor away from the trauma room and from ignorant jerks. But I didn’t get far before I heard Coates remark.

  “Maybe she’s got the hots for that head wolf guy, Saint Morgan. Even my sister thinks he’s good looking.”

  “That’s just sick. Like bestiality.”

  I pushed through the door to the nurse’s staff room and blocked out the rest of their conversation. I found my locker and leaned my forehead against the cool metal breathing deep

  I didn’t normally let these things get to me, but I’d been feeling on edge for a while. E
ver since werewolves came out, stood up and declared themselves real and here to stay, to be exact. I knew it was just the beginning.

  Most people had no real clue what was out there lurking in the shadows. Lurking inside people. If any of them truly knew what lay in wait inside of me, they’d run the other way. Or turn around and shoot me between the eyes. Except I didn’t think silver would work on me.

  I had a secret. The kind of secret that ruined lives. I would never reveal it because I’d seen how prejudiced people were. How ignorant and cruel they could be. And I valued my job. I liked helping people, and I knew I could lose it all.

  I was, shall we say, a reluctant member of the supernatural community. Half human and half fae, I was just the type of creature that people like Officer Coates and Officer Stettler, and thousands of others in this city, loved to hate, and I wasn’t about to come out of the closet any time soon. I liked my job and my life too much to destroy them with an act of conscience.

  The door to the room opened and I straightened as Diana came in. The heels of her rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the linoleum floor as she approached me.

  “Something you want to talk about?”

  We weren’t friends exactly but we had a sort of symbiotic sympathetic relationship. We were there to lean on, if needed.

  I shook my head and opened my locker, to grab a bottle of Advil as if that had been the reason I came in here in the first place. I opened the top, shook out three and popped them into my mouth dry swallowing them down. The pills weren’t actually Advil but herbs. I didn’t use normal medicines. My metabolism was different and I reacted strangely to human-made medications.

  “You looked like you were about to puke back there. You haven’t been a rookie for years.

  “Caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

  “And the fact that those two imbeciles are imbeciles caught you off guard too?” She lifted one dark bushy eyebrow.

  “No. I just hate hearing all that crap.”