by C. L. Wilson
“Just a warning, I think.” The dark clouds overhead were capable of deadly hail and lightning and even cyclones, but Wynter could sense none of that in the roiling sky.
“Coruscate?”
“I doubt it. If King Verdan wielded this kind of power, we’d have seen it long before now on the battlefield. He’s never been able to summon more than a short-lived heat wave in my presence.”
“Princess?” Weather-gifts were the purview of royal houses, and strong weather-gifts rarely passed outside the direct royal line.
“Possibly.” Wynter almost smiled at the thought. “That would certainly make thing interesting wouldn’t it?”
Valik cast him a flat, emotionless look.
He returned a savage grin and gave a grunt of dark laughter that sounded more like a snow-wolf’s warning growl. The brief, sharp-edged humor faded as quickly as it had come, and Wynter turned his attention back to the storm. Knowing what was coming, Valik and the rest of the Wintercraig men stepped back to give their king room.
“Well, princess,” Wynter murmured, “let’s see what you’re made of.”
He opened the source of his magic and drew power into his body. His vision went hazy white and began to whirl, as if a blizzard blew in the depths if his eyes. Power pushed against the edges of his control, seeking release. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep it caged.
The air around him began to spin, slowly at first and then with increasing speed, capturing the falling rain so that not a single drop touched him. Behind his closed lids, he could see the vortex begin to flash and spark. A crackling sound filled his ears—rain freezing in midair, exploding into brittle, porous ice crystals that showered down upon the ground.
He spread his arms, gauntleted palms facing up. The vortex grew wider still, and faster, until it was a howling wind that drowned out the storm’s raucous fury. He held the vortex for several seconds, feeding it power, nowhere near enough to approach his full, lethal strength, but enough nonetheless to make his capabilities known. Enough to make the weather witch yelp. He threw his arms up over his head, jerked his head back and opened his eyes.
Concentrated power, surrounded by whirling wind and ice, shot skyward in a column of blazing light and plowed into the heart of the storm overhead. Lighting exploded across the sky, sending frightened onlookers rushing for cover. Rain froze in midair and shattered, sending a blizzard of ice crystals raining down upon the city.
He felt the weather mage’s breathless shock, tasted the scent of definite feminine power and outrage on the wind. And, to his pleasure, a hint of fear. Good. The precocious princess has probably never met her match. Until now.
She would learn, as her father had learned, that the Winter King was no spineless pampered weakling to be threatened without a care. She would learn, as her brother would learn if the coward ever dared return to face the man he’d wronged, that the wild, impetuous tempest of summer was no match for the hard, relentless dominion of winter.
The first lesson had been given—and received. He felt the Summerlander witch withdraw from the sky. The wind fell silent and, aided by Wynter’s magic, the raging storm dissipated as quickly as it had formed, towering black storm clouds melting into thick swaths of winter-gray. In the ensuring calm, snow fell in large, soft flakes to blanket the ground below.
Wynter turned to the cowering Summerlea steward. The man’s black eyes held raw fear now, and his bronzed skin had assumed a sickly grayish-green cast. Good. Nothing birthed respect and acquiescence faster than fear.
“You may continue the tour,” the Winter King said.
With visible effort, the steward gathered his composure. He straightened the long, folds of his burgundy wool and velvet robes and ran trembling hands through his perfumed hair, smoothing the shoulder-length black curls back into some semblance of order.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said when he was done, his tone filled with a new, much warier respect. “This way, please.” Sweeping one voluminously-sleeved arm out before him to indicate that Wynter should precede him, the steward resumed the tour of the palace and city defenses.
As they turned the corner, Wynter glanced back up the road behind, to the upper bailey and ancient keep crowing the city mount. Which one, he wondered. Which one of King Verdan’s three lovely, headstrong daughters had thrown down the gauntlet?
###
Khamsin leaned against the wall, clutching her chest and breathing hard. For the second time today, she’d felt the hard edge of the Winter King’s power. Icy, fierce, instantly identifiable, it had plowed into her like a fist to the belly, driving the air from her lungs and sending her staggering backwards to slam into the stone wall. Her ears were still ringing, and the lump at the back of her head made her hiss when she ran inspecting fingertips over it.
Summer sun! She’d never known anyone besides herself capable of generating such concentrated fury in the skies.
She pushed off the wall, winced at the stab of pain from the swan’s egg on her skull, and headed down the servants’ hall toward the tower at an uncharacteristically restrained pace. No more confrontations for her today. She would purloin a servant’s gown from the laundry, then sneak into the tower, gather up the dearest of her mother’s possessions, and flee back to the sanctuary of her own room.
For once, she was actually glad her father hadn’t summoned her to join the family. No doubt the Winter King would be dining with them tonight, and after two run-ins with him, she would be happy to spend the rest of her life avoiding a third.
CHARMED by Erica Ridley
Anthropologist Trevor Masterson jerked awake. Night had come. He’d fallen asleep facedown on the folding specimen tray next to his sleeping bag, and now miscellaneous debris clung to his chin like a dirt goatee. But that wasn’t what had woken him.
Someone was entering his tent. Someone he didn’t recognize.
He rubbed the heel of one hand across his cheeks, dislodging assorted dirt and a skeleton tooth. He caught it with one hand and carefully returned it to its plastic baggie. He’d won a stay of execution for his team, but the Costa Rican government still had him on a very short leash. He could remove absolutely nothing from the dig site without official permission.
Brain still foggy, he gave the intruder another look. Still there. Too old to be a student, too blond to be Costa Rican, too pert and leggy to belong anywhere near a dig. She looked like a bespectacled Victoria’s Secret model.
“May I help you?” The words were scratchy against his dry throat. He shoved the small folding tray to one side and tried to make sense of what was happening. No logical explanations sprang to mind. Was there a Costa Rican version of Punk’d?
“Shhh, Angus, niñito,” came the soft reply. She broke free from the mosquito netting and half-fell, half-hopped into the tent. “Duérmete.”
Trevor blinked. “I’m not a niño. Or Angus. Who are you and what are you doing in my tent?”
“I’m a tooth fairy, of course.” The canvas flaps fluttered closed, enshrouding them in darkness. A faint vanilla musk spiced the humid air, masking the more familiar scents of fresh dirt and warm rain. “Go back to sleep or I won’t leave any money under your pillow.”
What the . . . He squinted into the darkness, his heart racing. Where was she now? Where were the armed guards when you needed them? He struggled to his feet, then ducked when his head scraped the top of the tent.
He groped for the fallen Maglite atop the folding tray and flicked on the mega-watt beam. His lungs froze. He stared in disbelief.
Thin black cat-eye glasses framed wide hazel eyes. Chin-length silver-blond hair fluttered above naked shoulders and a barely-there Tinkerbell-style dress that shimmered from breasts to thighs. But even more bizarre was the pair of oversize glitter wings protruding from her back.
He choked back a disbelieving laugh. Either Halloween started in May this close to the equator or something was seriously wrong with this woman.
“Turn off the light!” She lunged at him.
Trevor ducked. Her foot tangled in the open sleeping bag. He caught her as they fell, landing hard on his back with her sprawled on top of him and the beam of the flashlight glowing on the ceiling. The tip of her nose hovered against the side of his.
She stared at him without moving. He stared back, hyperconscious of every warm inch of her body pressing against his. He didn’t mean to suck in his breath and inhale her minty exhale, but once he did, he froze, her breath trapped inside his lungs and his thighs trapped beneath hers.
If he moved even a millimeter, her lips would be close enough to touch his. Matter of fact, their bodies were already perfectly aligned for some hot, sweaty, sleeping bag action.
Unfortunately, not only was Trevor not inclined to hook up with a stranger—there were far too many unknown variables for a man of science to do something so risky—now that his brain was waking up, he could think of even fewer reasons for a stranger to invade his tent. Let alone in costume. Maybe she was an escapee from an insane asylum.
As if he’d spoken the thought aloud, she snatched up the flashlight, leapt across the tent and pointed the shaky beam in his direction.
He jerked his eyes away from the sudden glare. She was off her rocker. He needed to be able to describe her to the police. He crawled across his sleeping bag to turn on the battery-operated camping lantern by his tray. Light filled the tent, muting the blinding effect of the Maglite.
With a frustrated sigh, she poked at the flashlight until it went dark, then set it back down.
“Who are you, really?” As he rose to his feet, he did a double take at her painted toes. Where the hell were her shoes?
She smiled at him as if her presence shouldn’t be the least bit startling. “I’m Daisy le—I’m a tooth fairy.”
He couldn’t contain his disbelief. Tooth fairy? Please. Not in Costa Rica. At best, parts of Latin America had the sapo dentudo—the toothy toad, a staunch advocate of oral hygiene—but tooth fairies? Not so much. Whatever this chick was up to, he wanted none of it.
“You’ve got the wrong tent, lady. These are students from Michiana University, and this dig is invitation only. You need to leave.”
She shook her head. “I—I can’t. I’m on assignment.”
Well, so was he. One that didn’t involve random people invading his tent. He loomed closer in order to edge her toward the opening.
She scooted backward. Smart girl.
He prowled closer, hunching slightly as the canvas roof slid across his hair.
“I just need to find Angus.” Her lower lip quivered as though pleading with him not to play dumb. “I must give him a boon in exchange for his tooth.”
A boon?
Trevor crossed his arms over his chest. His bare chest. Great. He needed to get her out of here before someone overheard the commotion and misread the situation as a booty call. “None of my students are named Angus. Are you looking for the main pueblo? Follow the lake east and you’ll come to Nuevo Arenal. There’s nothing here but our campsite.”
She glared at him. “I know where I am. I can read a map.”
“Evidently you can’t read caution tape and posted signs. You’re trespassing.” He stabbed a finger toward the tent flaps. He couldn’t risk her jeopardizing his dig or his relationship with the officials. “You need to leave. Now.”
“This will all be over in a minute.” She sank onto all fours and began feeling around inside his sleeping bag, derrière aimed right at him.
This had to be a bad sign. Trevor rubbed his face with his hands. The last thing he wanted was to pick her up and manhandle her out of his tent. On the other hand, he had to get her out of there and off his dig.
“Listen, lady,” he began again, edging closer to his sleeping bag. “I have no idea what you’re doing, but you have to stop. Immediately. If you need a ride, I can take you into town.”
She peered at him over one bare shoulder. Her expression suggested she didn’t mean to inconvenience him, but had no choice. “I can’t. I have to find Angus.”
Trevor sighed. He bent over, wrapped his arms around her waist, and hauled her to her feet.
Those bizarre wings crunched against his chest. Soft tendrils of hair fluttered against his chin.
“I’m Trevor Masterson,” he murmured into her ear. Her breath caught as the rough stubble along his jaw rubbed against the smooth skin on her cheek. He whirled her around until the tips of their noses nearly touched. Her fingers clutched his biceps as her wide hazel eyes stared up into his. “I’m a scientist, and I can’t let you stay here. Authorized persons only.”
“I’m authorized. These are the correct coordinates.” Her breath was soft against his chin. One of her bare toes rubbed across the top of his. “I’ll be on my way as soon as you point me toward the tooth. Can I have—”
“No,” he interrupted through clenched teeth, wishing he’d installed a padlock on his tent. The correct coordinates for what? Getting him kicked out of Costa Rica? She was seeming less and less like a lost tourist. “You’re not taking anything from my dig. What’s the real reason you’re sneaking around? And don’t give me any of that tooth fairy crap.”
She broke eye contact to briefly glance around the tent before locking gazes with him again. “How good are my chances of you handing over that tooth willingly?”
He snorted. “Nobody is walking off with anything.”
She nodded slowly. With a sudden twist of her shoulders, she slipped from his grasp, turned, and parted the flaps of the tent. She slipped through the brown canvas without a backward glance.
He followed right behind her in order to make sure she didn’t invade any of the other tents. Except—
She was gone.
DISTANT THUNDER by Elissa Wilds
Somewhere in the Smoky Mountains
The disk-shaped object hovered over dense woods and mountainous terrain, cloaked in the veil of night. It drifted side to side, the visitor at its helm searching, seeking.
Then, a thump, thump, thump, like a heartbeat beneath the soil. The inhabitants of the craft felt the aberration, an energetic vibration which made their bodies pulse in response.
The craft halted and rotated slightly. A thread of energy, faint, but unmistakable, snaked through the earth, lightning quick.
The same exact thought reverberated in the visitors’ minds. There. East. Then, South. Farther South. The commander at the helm of the ship smiled and punched coordinates into the glowing grid in front of him.
They were close. So close now.
The object picked up speed and raced toward the source.
###
Shambhala, GA, Present Day
It was Friday night, the witching hour, midnight on a full moon. The perfect time to conjure a love spell. Raye Pierson’s chest tightened with nervous excitement and more than a hint of fear.
She frowned. No good. One must not perform magic in fear. At least, that’s what her witchcraft books said. She bit her lip. Some fresh air would no doubt help ground her.
She crossed to the window near her bed and caught her reflection in the glass. Thick, cherry red hair, large, almond-shaped eyes, and a bow-shaped mouth stared back at her, transparent as a ghost. It was not the face of a woman who would necessarily need to perform a love spell, she decided, allowing herself a rare moment of self-appreciation.
No, if a man was all she wanted, a man she could certainly have. The problem was finding the right man.
Raye lifted her bedroom window and shivered as the cool breeze drifted over her skin and mingled with the shadows dancing in the corners of the room. That same breeze twisted through the magnolia and maple trees that peppered her yard. Two trees swayed toward each other, their limbs brushing, twining, like dancing lovers.
From her second story bedroom, she had an excellent view of the tiny town she called home. She watched the last of the lights in the shops on Main Street go out. That would be Holly closing up the town’s one and only diner.
The rest of t
he businesses, which included four New Age gift shops, a rock and gem dealer, a tiny general store, and a bookstore, closed at nine p.m. The church would be empty by now, the last table-tipping séance over hours ago.
Lights flickered and bobbed behind the church, indicating the end of a ghost tour. The attendees had reached their final destination (which Raye found rather amusing in a macabre sort of way) at the graveyard. She wondered if the resident ghost, Edward, would make an appearance. The tourists would certainly think they’d gotten their money’s worth then! Edward was a fickle fellow and one never knew when he’d show himself. Or what mood he’d be in.
The majority of the residents of Shambhala would be asleep by now, the psychics and mediums that lived and worked there tucked away in their tiny wood-frame houses, exhausted from entertaining the tourists and doing their part to keep the town alive.
About the only place that would have any activity at this time of night would be the Lamplight Inn, the small ten-room bed and breakfast with the tiny bar that boasted Shambhala’s only nightlife.
The wind tickled the chimes that hung from Raye’s front porch directly beneath her bedroom. The chimes emitted a delicate and whimsical tune. The melody seemed to underscore the end of her brief reprieve.
Raye sighed. No more stalling. Back to the task at hand.
She closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath, and envisioned herself smiling and happy, held tight in the arms of her perfect mate. Whoever he may be. By the time she opened her eyes, a quiet calm had settled over her.
At thirty-two years old, she was finally ready for love.
She’d spent the past fifteen years concentrating on everything but her love life. She’d put herself through college and had established herself as one of the most respected teachers at Willow Grove Academy. And she had raised an intelligent, witty (if a bit precocious) daughter.
For months, she’d experienced a stirring of loneliness no amount of adoring students or parenting could erase. It was time to do something about it.