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“Paranormal Anthology Fans of paranormal romances will be greatly pleased with this collection of four unique novellas from four talented authors. Who knew shape-shifters could be so diverse?” Jane Bowers for Romance Reviews Today
“Shifters presents a fascinating variety of paranormal tales. Horror, gallantry, sacrifice and magic are found within its pages.” Romantic Times Bookclub
“All four novellas are well-written with interesting characters and strong plots. You will find romance, fantasy and suspense all rolled into one book of shape shifters with very different natures.” Scribesworld
“SHIFTERS has a little something to tempt every reader's palate. From time traveling aliens to Faeries and Demons. Medieval knights and Werewolves are all found in this page turning anthology. I for one will be checking to see what other stories these ladies have to offer in the future! I highly recommend reading SHIFTERS.” ParaNormal Romance Reviews
"These stories are so irresistible they’re like bite-sized candies. The first one will leave your mouth watering for more. What a gold mine to find such a talented group of ladies in one binding! The anthology concept is perfect for paranormal lovers on the go. Working gals and guys can treat themselves to one story per night ~ unless you're rendered as spellbound as I was and find yourself unable to put it down. Not your ordinary paranormals, these stories will run through your mind long after you’ve finished reading them." Knowbetter.com Reviews
“Fans of the shapeshifter--whether of the romantic or horror variety--will find a tale to entertain in this wide-ranging collection of fantasy novellas.” Susan Krinard, SECRET OF THE WOLF
“Five Stars! Each story in this collection is unique and wonderful. For adults who miss the joy of the Brother’s Grimm, it is strongly reccommended that you get this book as soon as you can. From futuristic to downright fantasy, there is something to appeal to almost all paranormal lovers. These are not your standard shape shifter stories; they open new worlds to a sub genre that has been threatened with becoming standardized.” Huntress Book Reviews
HONOR BOUND
By
Robin Bayne
The birds had stopped singing, hiding instead in the muggy silence which preceded every great disaster. There were no sounds save for the clap of rifles against thighs and boots trudging through tall July grass, and the occasional grunt of men laboring in the heat. Dek watched, mouth open, as hundreds of human men marched directly toward each other, each struggling to stand proud despite the heavy suits already limp from the sun. Half approached from the east, wearing thick coats in various shades of blue, and the others from the west, into the rising sun, their uniforms an assortment of muted browns and greys. All of them looked determined.
Determined to kill each other.
An explosion ripped through the morning and Dek ducked instinctively, then peered through the tree's limbs to see what had happened. Lucky for him he'd landed in the old oak again, vegetation he'd learned about before his first mission. Its bark bit into his skin as vibrations from the ground shook his perch. Shells burst in the air, leaving hovering clouds of dust.
A row of blue coats had fallen at the far side of the field, at the back of their ranks, and cannon fire ripped again through the hot, humid atmosphere. On the grass below, but away from the fighting, a female screamed. Dek watched as she rose, seemingly intent on getting to the soldiers, but an elderly man held her back.
Now guns fired openly, more men fell, twisting in agony as they dropped, and Dek's gut clenched. What little air there was reeked of smoke and the pungent scent of death. Beneath him, the bystanders watched, a few sobbing. Did humans treat battle like theater? Though their records showed some residents of Washington had come to watch this first battle, he didn't recall reading that women had been present during skirmishes in their history books.
Time passed, or perhaps stood still, wearing on as the men reloaded, staggered, fell, etching ribbons of scarlet on the field. Dek saw no man turn and run, no retreats attempted, no giving in. It almost seemed that the soldiers tried harder with every comrade who fell, as though a friend's death were a personal insult instead of a casualty of war.
Shifting his position, careful not to lose balance, Dek was uncomfortable, physically and emotionally, finding it hard to draw in any air. Alana had warned that the moisture in the air here would cause him to rasp, but that wasn't the only reason he felt ill. His last visit had been so different, watching men plot and strategize in an academic manner. They had raged on for hours about loyalty and honor, duty and righteousness. Dek had admired their dedication. Now, his mind reeled at what he was witnessing; men, so many men of the same land, marching shoulder to shoulder into near certain death.
Alana had said it was honor, a strange, ancient human sense of duty, especially noted in earlier Americans. What else had she said? Yes, red-blooded brother against brother. There was no doubt in Dek's mind that human blood ran red.
Another scream tore through the battle noise, and Dek glanced down at the gathered observers, to see a tiny woman with a baby clutched to her shoulder trying to get to the field. Again, the older man acted as guardian and held her back, wrapping his arms around her and keeping her close. So she wouldn't see? Whom had she lost out there in the clash of men and fire?
The fighting sounds lessened, and Dek heard the squall of her baby from below. The woman paced, soothing child, cooing, stroking its fuzzy head. As she moved, Dek saw her face clearly before she turned away, and he felt a small shock, as if he knew her. Her features were delicate, and pale, her hair pulled back in a tight clump that tugged her eyes squinty. Although her lips were full, they were stretched downward in grief, and her face was blotchy from crying. And yet she still seemed familiar.
Dek sighed. If only he could go to her, comfort her, offer to take her to a place far and away from here, light years from the waste and stupidity of war. Show her his world.
Men shouted orders, and the remaining soldiers moved in different directions, their talk buzzing over the sobs of the women, who now rolled their blanket, moving slowly, as if in a time warp. The groups dispersed, and Dek wondered if anyone stayed behind to tend to the dead.
He turned a dial on his wrist band and waited, his gaze still on the blonde woman, who paced with her crying baby. If he could stay and help her, he would. He'd risk being seen, he'd endure the wet air now saturated with the metallic smell of blood, miss reporting on his assignment, if he could spend time with the fair creature and soothe her. The urge was strong, and he couldn't explain it to himself, or to his crew. They'd want to know why he'd stayed on.
But it wasn't to be.
Dek touched his dial and it glowed in response. He peered through the branches to take one last look at her, where she'd paused just beneath him as her child quieted. It was time to go.
She looked up.
He froze.
Her mouth formed an 'O,' but she didn't break the line of sight. Didn't break the lock of their gazes.
He wasn't supposed to be seen yet. Dek's pulse raced, adrenaline pumping through him, a new feeling in this human form-- he felt as if it flowed through his veins and into his gut. But he simply stared at her, and thought how beautiful she was. Familiar. Touchable.
And then he was gone.
THE TOWER
By
Jennifer Dunne
(General Bayard has taken possession of Kittern Castle, and led a party into the nearby forest to inspect an old tower, followed by a hunt, despite the locals' protests)
Bayard led his half of the soldiers further down the forest trail. He hoped to surprise another deer, but did not care if they found nothing. His thoughts kept him occupied, puzzling the mysteries of Kittern and its people.
He rounded a curve in the trail and saw a deer standing in the middle of trail, upwind and facing away from him, some twenty yards distant. Drawing his bow, he took careful aim. A circling hawk voiced a hunting cry, startling the deer into motion, and Bayard's shot went wide.
"Foul timing," he muttered, and retrieved his arrow.
Soon enough, they encountered another deer, and again, the hawk's cry startled it into motion before Bayard's arrow could strike. The forest seemed empty of deer after that, and Bayard decided that they may as well turn for home.
"It grows late. Let us return."
They turned and followed the path back toward the tower. He did not expect to find any more deer, but the presence of a hawk indicated there should be small game nearby. He scanned the trees carefully as they rode past, looking for signs of roosting birds. Soon, his vigilance was rewarded with a flock of pigeons.
The birds took wing, and he tracked their flight, aiming for the more difficult shot into the air. Still, with an entire flock whirling overhead, his chances were good of hitting something.
Then the hawk swooped out of the sky, diving through the center of the flock. The birds scattered in all directions.
"That is the last time!" Staring into the sky, Bayard kept his eye on the wheeling hawk, and loosed his shaft at it. It screamed in pain, and dove toward the ground, far away from him. Its cry seemed to echo on the still air, until it was abruptly cut off.
A cloud chose that moment to pass across the sun, chilling the trail in shadow. He heard muttering behind him, as some of the soldiers whispered prayers of protection. Bayard kicked his horse into a trot and thundered up the path, anxious to get out of this accursed wood before twilight fell.
They reached the place where their party had split up, the trail now marked with spatters of blood. Soon after, the tower they had investigated earlier hove into sight.
"Hold, General!" the soldier riding point cried.
Bayard curbed his horse and scanned the clearing. There, a bit of light blue fabric caught his eye. Issuing quick orders for a defensive formation, he drew his sword and rode into the clearing.
A beautiful noblewoman lay sprawled on the ground, blood pooling beneath her and soaking the fine silk of her bodice and sleeve. Bayard knelt beside her and placed his fingers against her throat.
"She lives," he said. "Two of you, check the tower, and make sure it is still empty. The rest of you, search for signs of whoever attacked this lady or any companions she might have had with her."
The two soldiers he had dispatched to inspect the tower quickly returned. "It is safe, my lord."
Bayard lifted the woman into his arms. She weighed less than a suit of armor. Carrying her into the tower and up the stairs, he entered the bedroom and lay her on the bed. His knife made quick work of the woman's gown, cutting away the blood soaked fabric to reveal her wound, a deep puncture clear through her shoulder.
"The gown is already ruined. It won't matter if I cut it further."
She did not respond to his muttered explanation, and offered no resistance when he slashed long strips of fabric from the hem of her skirt. The first he soaked in water from his water skin. Gently, he used the damp cloth to wipe the dried blood away from her wound. It was clean, with no bits of fabric or soil that he could see which might cause it to putrefy.
Folding two other strips into pads and pressing them on either side of the wound, he wound a final strip around them and around her shoulder, pinning her arm to her side and holding the cloth pads in place. It was important to immobilize her arm so it could heal correctly, as a crippled arm might prevent her from finding a husband, if she did not have one already.
When he had done what he could for the woman, he pulled one of the chairs over to the bedside and began his vigil. She had much to explain when she awoke. Who was she? Why was she alone? Who had attacked her and left her to bleed to death?
His thoughts chased each other around his head to no end as the room gradually darkened. One of the soldiers brought a lantern for him, and set it upon the table.
"Will we be staying the night, my lord?"
"No," the woman said, opening eyes as blue as her gown. "You shall not stay."
DEMON KILLER
By
Myra Nour
Rounding a tree, she came face to face with a scene from hell and what must be an escaped beast from its bowels. A huge, hulking creature stood over the mangled and torn remains of several villagers. Its skin was dark green, knotted with strange configurations of flesh on its skin, as if its muscles fought for dominance and pushed upward into the flesh from beneath. A weepy wetness made the skin shiny and oily. It reeked of slaughtering pens where the leavings had rotted for a day in the hot air.
The thing screeched in agony, plunged to its knees with a crash and lifted its tortured eyes to hers with a pitiful expression, if it were possible with such a beast. A quiver of responding pity flashed through her, and horrified at her reaction, Azra took a step backward. The monster thrust his arms forward and cried out.
"No!" She shouted silently, then screamed "no" aloud. "It can't be," she screamed at the thing. How could it cry out "mommy" in an inhuman voice, yet still have a twinge of her son's tone, and cause such a surge of motherly instinct within her breast.
Sure she'd truly slipped into hell itself, Azra took back the step forfeited, then another. The large misshapen head was level with hers as it kneeled and she had a clear, earth-shaking view of its eyes. Red demon eyes! Rage, fear, sadness and anguish all mingled together in their depths.
"Bretuck?" She whispered.
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