I’m here as Holly Day today. It’s always a bit weird to visit my own (other pen name) blog, but here we go! 😊 A few days ago, Rufus the Dead was released. It’s a story I wrote for Kiss Your Mate Day, and at first, I planned on writing a shifter story, but…  

It sounds like a story for Kiss Your Mate Day should be about shifters, right? But we have a vampire and a psychic who are mated through a blood bond. Jaki, our psychic, has no idea what it means, and while Rufus does, he doesn’t explain it. At least not until he’s forced to.  

Rufus has claustrophobia and seven years ago, he was staked and put in a coffin. While staked, a vampire is unable to move but fully aware of what’s going on around them. When the coven leader wants someone to form a blood bond with a psychic, everyone but Rufus refuses.  

It’s not that he wants to be mated to a person he’s never met, but it’s a chance to get out of the coffin.  

So we have an arranged mating, a psychic with a traumatic past, and political plots within the vampire court. Below you can read the first chapter, but you’ll have to read a bit more than that until you get to the kissing part 😊 

Rufus the Dead

Rufus will do anything not to remain staked in a coffin, including stealing a psychic and forming a blood bond with him. 
 
Rufus Mabuz was a badass assassin until his coven leader had him staked and stored away in a coffin for seven years. He was still a badass assassin, only he couldn’t move. Then one day, the coven leader makes him an offer — bond with a psychic or stay in the coffin for years to come. 
 
Jaki Sage is kept prisoner together with a group of psychics. He’s a psychic too, but a crappy one. He can’t foresee anything. The only thing he can do is look back in time to see what the weather was like around a certain event. Not useful. But then his friend, who can foresee things, tells him to go with Rufus the Dead. 
 
Rufus isn’t sure why he’s stealing a psychic and forming a blood bond with him, but anything is better than being staked. Jaki might not know much about vampires, but he thinks he’s better off with Rufus than if he hadn’t run away with him. But then the coven leader demands he uses his skills to find someone, or she’ll put Rufus back in the coffin. How will Jaki be able to find anyone when all he can see is weather?

Buy Links:

Gay Paranormal Romance: 50,659 words 

JMS Books :: Amazon :: Books2Read

Chapter 1

Jaki Sage looked at the bare white walls. His heart was thudding uncomfortably in his chest, and he had a bad feeling.

“So, a vampire?” Minerva, his roommate, looked at him from her cot. Her last name was also Sage, but they weren’t related. He didn’t think so, at least. They looked nothing alike, and everyone in this wing of the house of horrors was named Sage.

“It was what the warden said.” He’d taken Jaki aside and informed him there had been a last-minute booking of his services, and the person coming was a vampire. They rarely had vampires here. Jaki had never met one. The reason the warden had told him before it was time to go was to frighten him, but the warden didn’t make idle threats. He didn’t have to. Minerva and Jaki hadn’t named the facility the house of horrors for nothing. There was no point in lying, since many of those living here would be able to pick up on the lies.

“Lucky you. They’re super-hot. All that raw sex appeal, and they’re freakishly strong.” Neither of them cared about sex appeal, so this was her attempt to distract him. She gave him a weak smile, then winced as her already split lip started seeping again. The last customer couldn’t have liked her prediction.

Jaki would most likely look about the same way when he got back. He couldn’t predict the future, which was why people came here. They paid the warden crazy amounts of money to get answers to questions, and Jaki couldn’t give answers.

“Yeah, a good chance of getting killed, right? Displease a vampire.” A knot grew in his belly. The warden didn’t normally invite vampires to the facility. Maybe he was afraid they’d kill his precious seers. Not precious as in something he cherished, but precious as in worth a lot of money. That must be why he gave Jaki to the vampire. He wasn’t worth nearly as much as the others.

She huffed. “They could snap you like a twig, but I don’t think they’d kill the merchandise. Too pricey.” She was quiet for a few seconds. “Is it a private session?”

Sometimes, depending on how wealthy the client was, they could be left alone in a room with the seer. The official reason was that no one other than the client would hear the prediction, but that was only part of it. The other was that the facility was moonlighting as a brothel.

“I don’t know.” Nausea built inside. Private sessions weren’t good. Both because people, for some reason, believed all psychics were women, and because Jaki was neither a psychic nor a woman. It often left the client disappointed, and… yeah… It was better not to worry about it until it happened.

There were a few other men in here. Prophecy and Thanatos had the room next to Minerva’s and his, but he seldom saw them anywhere other than in the canteen. He only ever spoke to Minerva.

She looked at him for a long time before holding out her hand. He hesitated. They never touched, but the poor thing had seen better days. Glancing out into the corridor through the window in the door to make sure no guard was watching them, he stepped closer and gently took her hand in his.

The moment he did, her eyes turned white. Irises and pupils disappeared, and she spoke in a hollow voice. “You must leave with him.”

“What?”

“Rufus the Dead.”

Oh, goodie. “Why?”

“You will die.”

Sweat threatened to break out on his skin. Fuck. He didn’t want to die. He might say he did, but if it’d been true, he’d have ended himself a long time ago. No one spent their entire life locked up in a horrid facility without trying to kill themselves if they truly wanted to die. “I’ll die if I stay?”

Between one blink and the next, her hazel eyes were back in place.

“What the fuck, Minerva!” She was capable of one prediction a day, as were most seers, which meant she hadn’t made one between the time she’d left the room this morning and now, but she’d gotten beaten half to death. Which meant a guard must’ve done the beating. They wore gloves to prevent unwelcome triggers. Had the client beaten her, it would’ve forced her into a prediction. Granted there was skin contact, of course.

“Did you save your prediction for me?” He was a mix of furious and worried. He never wanted her to get in trouble for him.

“Prophecy told me to.”

Of all the stupid names of the people living here, Prophecy had the stupidest one. Not his fault since they didn’t get to pick their names, but the stupid name combined with him always sucking up to the warden and the others working here made Jaki want to hit him. Stupid fucker.

“You took a beating because of something Prophecy said?”

“Was it worth it?” She grinned, then winced and dabbed at her lip again.

“I don’t know. You tell me!” He hadn’t meant to snap, but damn.

“What did I say?”

“You said I must leave with Rufus the Dead, and that I will die.”

“That you will die if you go, or you’ll die if you stay?”

“You never said.”

“What? It seems like an important question to answer.”

Jaki snorted. “It was short. You said: You must leave with him. I think I replied with something smart, like what?” He gave her a quick smile because damn, he’d been around seers long enough to know not to waste time on stupid questions. “And you said Rufus the Dead. I asked why, and you told me I’ll die.”

“You will die? With emphasis on will?” She frowned.

“Yeah. I tried to get you to answer if I’d die if I stayed, but you woke up before you could answer.”

“Way too short. No wonder the warden is displeased with me if that’s what my predictions are like these days.” She changed position and grimaced. “It can’t be what Prophecy wanted you to hear.”

“Since when do you talk to Prophecy?”

“He offered me his Snack Pack in the canteen, claimed he didn’t like chocolate pudding.”

“Huh, always knew he was insane.” They got dessert once a week and only an idiot would pass it up.

“Yeah, I think he lied to have a reason to talk to me. He looked pale, and there were tiny drops of sweat forming on his upper lip. I believed he was sick, but maybe he was having a vision. He can remember them, you know. He doesn’t need to speak while he’s having them.” Jaki had heard about it, but he did not care.

“He can do it without touching. It’s much harder for him, and touch still triggers a prediction, but he could be alone in his room and still make a prediction. So cool.”

He didn’t like the admiration in her voice. Prophecy was an idiot. Sure, he was good at what he did, good enough for Jaki to hear the whispers despite paying little attention to the others’ skills in this place. Jaki wasn’t measuring up; it was all he needed to know. The others saw visions or did what Minerva did. All he could do was tell people what the weather had been like on specific days. A useless skill, and he was surprised the warden hadn’t gotten rid of him a long time ago. Maybe it was what he was planning to do now, by giving him to a vampire.

The door rattled, and Jaki jumped away from Minerva. Touch wasn’t allowed since most were triggered by it—like Minerva. She had to touch the one she was giving a reading.

One of the big burly guards filled the doorway. “Time to go.” He glared at Jaki.

Jaki sent a pleading glance at Minerva. He didn’t want to go. Nothing good ever happened when he was with a client.

“It’ll be fine.” She nodded at him.

“You said I’ll die.”

“Raw sex appeal.”

“Yeah, Rufus the Dead sounds sexy as hell.”

She laughed but it ebbed into a hiss, and the last thing Jaki saw as he left the room was her clutching her side.

* * * *

Jaki’s steps echoed in the deserted corridor. The beige linoleum floor matched with the white wall gave him the creeps. He’d never seen anything else. Not anything he could remember, at least. He wasn’t born here, so he must’ve seen a real home at some point.

They were moved frequently, a few times a year, but the buildings they were taken to always looked the same. He didn’t know how many different locations they’d been in, but he suspected they were underground since there were no windows anywhere, and his senses were crippled. He’d tried to explain it to Minerva once. It was as if he wasn’t supposed to be buried, he had to be in the weather. Being kept from it clipped his wings.

On moving day, the guards would walk around at night and give them a sedative, and then the next time they woke, they were in a different place. Sometimes the room was a mirror image of the previous one, sometimes not, but he was always placed with Minerva, for which he was glad. If the warden knew how much Minerva meant to him, he’d use her against him. But many psychics couldn’t handle change well, so they seldom split roommates up.

The guard stopped in front of a gray, windowless door. “One hour.”

“What?”

“Private session. One hour.”

Fuck. One hour? Predictions lasted no more than a few seconds, a couple of minutes if the client booked someone good, which Jaki was not. “What should I do for an hour?”

The guard gave him a blank stare. “Whatever he tells you to do.”

He. Great. It was almost always a he, so no surprise there. But the hes coming here almost always expected a young pretty girl to step through the door, and Jaki wasn’t young, he wasn’t pretty, and he wasn’t a girl.

With a deep breath, he pushed open the door.

Inside sat a badly scarred man with long copper hair that hung in matted tresses, and Jaki did his best to suppress a shudder. Raw sex appeal? Minerva must’ve hit her head—or had someone hit her head for her. The man looked like a monster in severe need of a shower and a haircut.

“One hour.” The guard closed the door, and the sound of the lock sliding into place filled the air. Fuck. Jaki’s pulse sped up, and fear urged him to try to claw his way out of the room.

Seconds ticked by as he stared into the guy’s eyes while he stared back.

“You’re the seer?”

“Not really.”

“I paid to see a seer.” His lips looked hard. Maybe it was the scars making them look as if they were trapped in a permanent sneer, but Jaki couldn’t look away.

He filled his lungs as he tried to make up his mind about how to play this. Should he be pliant and accommodating, or should he try to get the beating over with as soon as possible? If he provoked him into hitting him, he could go back to his room, and he and Minerva could nurse their injuries together. “Dude, you paid for an hour. Which means you paid for a whore.”

The man blinked at him, then sharp teeth made an appearance. “I paid for a meal.”

Crap.

“A meal?” Jaki did his best to ignore the way his voice cracked. Vampire. Had he forgotten the guy was a vampire? Must have. Provoking a vampire couldn’t be smart in any scenario.

“I paid for a prediction and a feeding.” The scars made him look sinister, perhaps more so than he’d intended. Jaki wouldn’t bet on it, though.

How bad could being bitten be? Pretty bad. “Will it hurt?”

“Yes.” His eyes were cold. Not great, but better than if they’d been filled with lust. Jaki didn’t want people touching him. He’d never been vampire snack before, but it could hardly be worse than being a vampire whore, right? And it didn’t look like Mr. No-Sex-Appeal-Whatsoever was looking for a fuck. Small blessings.

“Okay, you want to ask your question first or do the munching first?”

The man’s eyes widened a fraction. “You said you weren’t a seer.”

Jaki held up his hands. “Atmokinesis. I can’t speak a prophecy. I can’t predict the future.”

The man didn’t move, didn’t breathe, which was unnerving. “Atmo… what does it mean?”

Yup, it was a crappy skill or real atmokinesis would’ve been cool, but Jaki couldn’t control the weather. “What’s your name?” If someone was going to eat him, he’d like to know the name.

“Rufus.”

“Rufus the Dead.”

If he believed the man had been still before, it was nothing compared to what he was now, and Jaki’s heart blocked his throat. Damn his stupid mouth.

“How did you know?” Something deadly crept into Rufus’ eyes, and Jaki fought the urge to fling himself at the door. It was locked, so it would be of no use.

“I didn’t.”

“Few know that name. How did you?” He took a step forward, and Jaki took one back.

“I didn’t. Minerva, my roommate, said I was to go with Rufus the Dead. She’s a seer for real.”

Fangs peeked out from underneath Rufus’ upper lip, and despite telling himself to look away, Jaki couldn’t.

“Then I want her.”

“Yeah… She’s out of commission.” Since she’d used her prediction on him.

“I don’t care. I want her.”

Jaki gestured at the door. “You have to take it up with the warden.”

“And he’ll give me someone else?”

Rufus looked at him as if it was something he should be able to predict. It was, but not thanks to psychic powers. “My guess is nope.” He popped the p.

“Your guess?”

“Look, I do atmokinesis. I can’t tell you what the warden will do.” Though he could bet an arm Rufus was stuck with him for the night—or the hour at least.

“I paid for blood and prophecies, not… atmo-shit.” The snarl was impressive, and Jaki nodded in an attempt to placate him.

“Okay, ask the warden.”

Rufus narrowed his eyes. “But the answer will be no.”

“Yeah. He’ll say no.”

“You know or you’re guessing?”

“He never lets anyone exchange the psychic they’re with. If he agreed to swap out the merchandise if someone was displeased, then he wouldn’t make any money off me, would he?” Jaki tried for a smile, which Rufus ignored.

Instead, he walked over to the door and banged on it. Jaki took in the long, black overcoat and black Doc Martens boots and almost snorted. It didn’t help that he was massive and wore a white ruffle shirt underneath the unbuttoned coat with a hole over his heart which was soiled by what looked like dried blood. Fuck, had he been staked or was he coming directly from a dress-up party?

The guard opened the door a couple of seconds later, which meant he had to have been standing right outside, listening to them. Pervert.

In the mood for a snack? A few days ago, The Snaccident was released. It’s a short story I wrote to celebrate National Snack Day.  

Every day should be National Snack Day, don’t you think?   

The Snaccident is a short story about Timothy, who is a sensitive empath who struggles to keep his shields up. To protect himself, he’s isolated himself as best he can, but now his brother is getting married, and he has to attend.   

As if a wedding wasn’t bad enough, right as he’s about to leave, his brother asks him to pick up Rush, his brother’s best friend. Five hours and seventeen minutes is way too long to spend in a car with Rush.  

Part of Timothy might have wished things were different, but he’d put his heart on the line once when he was younger, and Rush had turned him down. They are now enemies, though Rush doesn’t appear to have gotten the memo.  

As I wrote above, this is just a short story, but I’m very much in love with both Rush and Timothy. It has snacks and a one-sided enemies-to-lovers thing going on. The other side simply wants to be lovers 😅 

The Snaccident

Snack! Timothy needs a snack! Though he fears there aren’t enough snacks in the world to keep the walls around his heart intact this time around. 
 
As a highly sensitive empath, Timothy Rose is in constant need of food. He has a hard time keeping his mental shields up, and snacks help. A little. He spends most of his days avoiding people since he easily overloads. The only person he’s ever wanted to be close to is Rush Evans, his brother’s best friend. But years ago, Rush turned him down despite hooking up with everything with a pulse, so now Timothy refuses to go anywhere near him. 
 
When Timothy’s brother begs him to give Rush a ride to his wedding, Timothy says no. Initially. He should’ve stuck to his guns because nothing ever goes as planned when Rush is nearby, and simply because Timothy can sense Rush wanting him this time around, and the two of them have a bit of an accident and end up in a small room with only one bed, doesn’t mean he should throw caution to the wind. Right? 

Buy links: 

Paranormal Gay Romance: 14,754 words 

JMS Books :: Amazon :: Books2Read 

Chapter 1

Timothy Rose stared at his half-packed suitcase while clutching the phone. “No.”

“Come on, Tim. He’s my best friend, and it’s only for a few hours.”

The best friend was Rush Evans, who was a giant pain in the ass and a manwhore. “No.”

“Tim! He’s my best man; I need him here.”

“Then he shouldn’t have gotten his car blown up.” Timothy had no idea if his car had blown up, but it sounded like a Rush thing to do.

“You heard, huh?”

No, he hadn’t, and he hoped his sigh told Nico he didn’t want any details. Rush was pathetic. He was thirty-seven but lived as if he was seventeen. Getting your car blown up wasn’t something responsible adults did.

“Tim.”

He hated when Nico spoke in the tone he did now. It meant Timothy would give in any second, and he didn’t want to.

“Please.”

“No.”

Nico sighed. “Come on, Tim. You’re the only one left in town. Everyone else left days ago.”

“Rush is still here.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem! Idiot was gonna do a job—” Timothy bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t know what kind of job. It was best not knowing what kind of jobs Nico and Rush were doing. “—but it went wrong, and he had to hide, and then they found him, and… Now he doesn’t have a car. I need you to pick him up. Please Tim. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Make it up to me?” There was nothing Nico could do to make it up to him. He lived a quiet, safe life far away from Nico and Rush’s adventures.

“Yes, anything. Please. You’re my favorite brother, and he’s my best friend. I want you both here on my wedding day.”

“I’m your only brother.”

“My favorite.”

Timothy huffed. “I can’t. He’ll be in my space, and I’m already freaking out about being around so many people at the wedding.” He reached for a green grape from a bowl he’d placed on the bedside table when he’d started packing. Snacks helped his control.

Being hypersensitive was exhausting.

Only psychic families lived in Foolshope. It was how it had always been, and Timothy having moved into Ulledo didn’t change where he came from. It was only a twenty-five-minute drive, but it created some distance from his family and their friends. Timothy didn’t do friends. Friends encroached on his space.

This ratty apartment was his safe haven. No one ever came here, and he could create an illusion of being happy and content. Here no one cared if he was hypersensitive—since no one was here but him. He didn’t need to be covered in fabric from head to toe since he didn’t risk accidentally touching anyone.

Without thinking, he reached for a pair of black satin gloves, pinched the phone in place with his shoulder, and put them on. There. Safer.

“It’ll be fine. Only friends and family here.”

“And Olivia’s friends and family.” Timothy liked Olivia. She and Nico had been together for five years now, and while he still did a lot of stupid stuff, she had a calming effect on him. And Nico loved her. Anyone who’d ever watched him when Olivia was around could tell. Some days Timothy dreamed about having someone look at him the way Nico looked at Olivia.

“Yeah, but they’re cool. No one will touch you.”

Timothy ate another grape. He needed more snacks. His defensive walls held better if he was snacked up. His body worked hard to keep the mental shield intact, and as soon as he ran low on energy, he took in people’s emotions. If they were too close or too many nearby, he did anyway, but snacks and fabric helped him hold on to his self.

Most empaths could take someone’s hand, lower their shields, and get a read. Timothy, if not constantly working on keeping his shields up, would get a read simply by being in the same room as someone, and if he touched them, it was as if he didn’t exist anymore. He got swept up in their emotions, and he hated it. He hated the lack of control, hated how hard he had to work simply to be able to walk down the street, and he hated how everyone looked at him as if he was a kid who had yet to master his powers. He worked harder on control than any of them had ever done, and it wasn’t his fault he was this way.

“Please. Pick Rush up and get your asses over here. I need you. Both of you.”

Timothy winced. “Nico—”

“He won’t touch you, Tim. You know he won’t. He, if anyone, understands.”

An outraged snarl escaped him before he could stop it. Timothy was well aware Rush wouldn’t touch him. He’d had a major crush on him growing up. All through his teenage years, he’d dreamed of touching Rush, kissing Rush, making love to Rush. But Rush always had someone. It never lasted more than a night or two, but he fucked anything that breathed—young, old, guy or girl, it didn’t matter. If they had a pulse, Rush would stick his dick into them.

Then one day when he’d been in his early twenties, Nico had talked him into coming to a party, and Rush had been there. Alone. After a couple of drinks, something Timothy seldom allowed himself since it shattered his control, he’d offered himself to Rush. Had wanted him so badly, his entire body had been a throbbing mess.

Rush had snorted and walked away, and fifteen minutes later he’d been fucking a girl who’d been in Timothy’s French class in the kitchen corner where everyone who wanted could see them.

Timothy had left.

“As someone without powers, he understands not fitting in.”

Timothy jumped at Nico’s voice, shame burning hot on his cheeks as he came away from the memory. “What?”

“Rush, he understands struggling with your skills.”

Timothy laughed a hollow laugh. “No, Nico, he doesn’t understand shit. He doesn’t have any powers. He doesn’t understand being overwhelmed by them.”

Nico growled. “Perhaps not, but he understands being different and not fitting in. How do you think it is being a norm in a psychic community? Do you think people have been treating him kindly? His parents?”

Rush’s parents were idiots, but it did not make Rush understand the struggles Timothy faced. “Being born without powers in a psychic family isn’t the same as being hypersensitive. He can live an ordinary life should he want to.” Though that ship had most likely sailed considering how many jobs he and Nico had done through the years.

Nico pulled in a deep breath. “I’m not saying it’s the same thing. I only meant he understands not being normal.”

“Changes nothing.” Timothy reached for another grape.

“Just go get him, he’s waiting!”

“Fine! But if he fucks up the trip, it’s gonna cost you.”

Silence stretched, then Nico spoke in a low voice. “Thank you, bro. I love you, both of you, and I want you here.”

Timothy rubbed his forehead, hating how his eyes started to burn. “We’ll be there.”

* * * *

Timothy’s heart was thudding in his ears when he stopped the car by the sidewalk outside Rush’s house in Foolshope. The square, white, one-story house was way cuter than anything Timothy had ever lived in and at odds with his image of Rush.

Several people were moving around on the street, so Timothy stayed in the car. He was already on edge and didn’t want to risk having to talk to anyone. Rush knew he was coming. Sooner or later, he’d peek out a window and see him there.

While he waited, he reached into the glove compartment for a bag of cashews. He’d packed as many snacks as he could in there, different kinds, to help him live through the trip.

When the passenger door was yanked open, he almost screamed. He hadn’t seen Rush coming.

“You want me to drive?” Rush peeked into the car but made no move to climb in.

“No.”

Rush grimaced. “Maybe it’s better if I drive. If something—”

“I’m going now. Are you coming or not?” He turned the key in the ignition, and Rush slipped into the passenger seat while giving Timothy a narrow-eyed look.

Rush turned around in the seat and tossed a ratty backpack into the backseat. Timothy was biting his tongue not to talk, but… “Don’t you have a suit?”

“Of course I do.”

Timothy curled his fingers tighter around the steering wheel, making the satin stretch over his knuckles, and glanced at the cashews. His skin was tingling as if Rush’s emotions were dancing on it. “In the backpack?”

Leaning back on the seat, Rush gave him his trademark flirty grin which had Timothy’s gut tying itself in knots. Idiot.

“No, not in the backpack, Timmy.”

Timothy ignored the shiver traveling his spine and focused on the road. The last time someone other than Rush had called him Timmy, he’d been eight or something. He hated being called Timmy. It made him sound like a kid, and he wasn’t a kid. Rush was only three years older than he was.

“You’re a fucking idiot, did you know?”

“You keep reminding me.” The gravelly drawl didn’t help the situation in the least, and Timothy swallowed a growl. Five hours and seventeen minutes was all he had to survive, according to Google. He could do this. For Nico, he could do this.

“Did you check out the castle?”

Timothy shook his head, but of course, he’d checked out the castle. Olivia wanted a fancy wedding, and they’d booked a castle in the countryside. It was beautiful, and Timothy had studied the floor plan to know where he could slink off to when he needed a break… or have a complete breakdown. Had to plan for those.

“If I ever get married, I’m also renting a castle. So cool.”

Timothy stared at him, slowly lifting the foot off the gas pedal, though he wasn’t aware of doing so until the car behind him honked. He shook himself and got them moving again. “Married? It means monogamy.”

Rush scowled. “I know.”

“Though I guess it depends. If you write your vows, you can perhaps add: And I promise not to cheat more than once or twice a week. Maybe they’ll be okay with that.”

“I’m perfectly capable of being in a monogamous relationship.”

Timothy snorted. “Yeah, right.” A laugh bubbled out of him. “Mr. Manwhore who fucks everything with a pulse will settle down one day. Ha!”

Rush’s gaze burned trails on his face, and Timothy reached for a cashew. He hated getting salt and grease on his satin gloves, but he needed to keep the snacking up or this trip would turn into more of a disaster.

“You don’t believe me?”

“No, Rush, I don’t believe you. I think you’re a serial cheater, a walking STD, and one day soon, when you lose your good looks and bad boy charms, you’ll find yourself in a cold, lonely bed.”

“So, simply because I’m not a virgin like you, I can’t love someone?”

Timothy gave him a quick glance before turning out on the highway, taking them away from Foolshope. It got a little easier to breathe as the roofs of the houses disappeared, but it would be a short respite since half the town would be at the castle.

“I’m thirty-four. You don’t seriously believe I’m a virgin, do you?” He’d sounded serious, but Rush was never serious. He was always making fun of people, and right now, Timothy was his only option. “And love? No, I don’t think you’re capable of love. Or I think you love Nico, but it’s a friendship kind of love.”

“Who have you been with?”

A black car was coming up fast behind them, making Timothy frown. “What?”

“Who have you slept with?”

He chanced a quick glance at Rush, who looked furious, but quickly focused on the rearview mirror again. “What the fuck are they doing?”

The black car was getting closer and closer, and Timothy tightened his hold on the steering wheel again.

“Who, Timmy?”

“The car—”

Rush turned around and looked out the window. “Shit! Go faster.”

Today, I have my Holly hat on. Beware of Psychics was released yesterday 🥳 It’s a box set of previously published stories where one of the main characters has some psychic ability. 

The stories included are How to Hook a Vampire, Batshit Bassel, and The Bear Claw. They’re all available on their own, and you can find them in most shops, whereas Beware of Psychics will only be available on Amazon.  

You can read it for free if you’re in KU. 

The only thing the stories have in common is the psychic part. How to Hook a Vampire is about a man who can tell if the answer to a yes/no question is true or not. Batshit Bassel is about a man who thinks all you need is soup and someone who listens when you talk. And The Bear Claw is about a man who can put emotions into baked goods.  

Below you can read the first chapter from Batshit Bassel. 

Beware of Psychis

Having a psychic ability should make life easier, but it isn’t always the case.

In this box set, you’ll meet three men with amazing abilities that could’ve made their lives great, but instead of making things easier, they cause trouble. Either they have to hide what they can do, or they can’t control it. But maybe there is happiness to be found even for an out-of-luck psychic?

Contains the stories:

How to Hook a Vampire: A vampire on guard. A psychic on the run. A cabin with one bed. Jameson trusted the wrong person and hides in his uncle’s fishing cabin. Harland comes back after having fed only to find his home inhabited, and no one is happier than him that he didn’t snack on the sleeping man when it turns out he’s his boss’ nephew. But how long before danger finds them in the cabin?

The Bear Claw: In a world where everyone is either dominant or submissive, Shiro doesn’t have many choices. As a sub, any dom coming to his bakery can give him orders. Pitch wants a mate, but he won’t settle for anything but a true mate. As an alpha shifter, he can have his pick, but his true mate is hiding in the kitchen of a bakery and refuses to see him. How many cups of coffee will it take to lure him out?

Batshit Bassel: Some people perform miracles, others serve soup. Bassel is a psychic with no control over his powers. He’ll never work wonders, but he can serve soup. Thor lost his sister and became the guardian of his nephew, but his life doesn’t have room for a cub. Bassel aches for the little boy cloaked in grief and the growling bear he lives with, but will soup be enough to ease their sorrows?

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Gay Paranormal Romance: 378 pages

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Excerpt:

(From Batshit Bassel)

Chapter 1

Bassel Uxium handed over soup in a Styrofoam bowl to the woman in front of him and smiled as a sense of satisfaction filled him—hers. He rode the emotion for the short second it lingered in his chest. Often the emotions washing over him were negative, so he cherished the good ones.

His parents had sinned, and he was the product. Malfunctioning. Weird. Batshit.

He’d stopped being angry a long time ago. Anger didn’t serve him, and he was here, was he not? He had his soup stand, and he’d found the perfect spot where he would make the most impact, and where people treated him fairly.

Here many unhappy humans passed by, but Bassel could, and would, give them a warm bowl of love. Soup was therapeutic, and people might not know it, but it helped balance them. It gave them a hot meal, nutrition, and liquid. Doing what he did, he could sneak soup into people’s lives and help ease their suffering without them knowing he was defective.

Witches and psychics paired up with shifters. There was a connection, a mate bond or whatever. According to the tales, you knew the instant you met someone you could pair up with, and the bond would be there for the rest of your lives when you did.

Bassel didn’t think there was anyone for him since he wasn’t like other witches or psychics. His mother was a precog, and his father an empath. They never should have touched each other, much less produced offspring, and his mother should have known. It was her skill, after all, knowing.

The result? Sometimes Bassel experienced things about to happen. Sometimes he lived in people’s emotions, but it was never under his control. He couldn’t look at a person or touch a person and tap into their emotions. If it happened, it happened. Like with the woman now walking down the street. She was cold and hungry, and she’d purchased a bowl of hearty chicken soup. Satisfaction made sense.

Sometimes it was his mother’s precog genes shining through. He could look at a person and see what would happen to them or he could get a feeling. That was when it got tricky. He didn’t know if the feeling was current or future, and if it belonged in the future, there was no guarantee it would happen. Things changed all the time.

Worst of all was when it affected his other senses. He’d smell something about to come later but was unable to sort out if it was the present or future or feel the rain on his skin on a sunny day and not knowing if it meant rain was coming soon or a day from now.

Every day was like walking through a minefield of sensory triggers he couldn’t sort, and sometimes he was unsure of which timeline he was living on, but he’d learn to cope. For the most part.

“Batshit Bassel.”

Bassel struggled to hold on to his pleasant mood as the hyena laughed at him before heading toward Come Inside. He didn’t know if he was a hyena, but he laughed like one every time he was near Bassel.

It was the one downside to this spot. Once Bassel had accepted his fate of never being bonded to a shifter, never being accepted by a witch, and never finding a home with a psychic, he’d set out to make the world a better place. And this sidewalk, right here by the old brick buildings remaining from the industrial era, was where he connected with most lost souls.

A witch or psychic bonded to a shifter was a force to be reckoned with. They could achieve great things, borrowing power from each other. Shifters were strong and agile, fierce and protective. Psychics could see the future and help prevent crimes and catastrophes, predict the economy, and make smart business decisions.

Bassel could serve soup.

He didn’t turn his nose up at it. There were people doing big, amazing things, and there were people who affected the world in a more subtle way. His mission was a subdued approach, a gentle push in the direction of a better day and hopefully a better life—for his customers.

There were many lost souls, scarred souls, lonely souls who needed a bowl of soup. He’d never perform miracles, but he could give people something warm to eat and listen to their problems. He loved doing it. It was fulfilling knowing he’d touched a person’s spirit and made them feel better. He wouldn’t complain if it hadn’t been for the hyena, who most likely wasn’t a hyena.

Though he could be.

Come Inside was a nightclub run by shifters. One night a week they had a drag queen show, and there were small rainbow-colored unicorn sculptures in the windows, so he believed it was a friendly place. For others. Shifters would never welcome him inside since he was faulty, but real witches and psychics, humans, and shifters were accepted as they were.

Longing hit hard, sadly, his own. What would it be like to belong somewhere? To be welcomed with open arms? Missed if you didn’t show? Bassel had no idea.

He pulled in a deep breath and stirred his soups. He always made two different kinds—one with meat and one vegetarian. Today’s options were chicken soup and Moroccan Harira.

Soups spoke to him. Nothing said love like a hot bowl of soup.

Lost in his head, he first didn’t notice the boy nearing him with slow steps. He’d seen him before. Grief clung to him like a wafting cloak, and it broke Bassel’s heart. The boy couldn’t be more than eight years old, if that.

“Hello.” Bassel spoke in a slow, soothing voice as if speaking to a wounded animal. He was. The boy was a shifter and while grief didn’t bleed as a cut would, it was a wound in the soul.

The boy nodded before glancing at Come Inside’s door. Bassel turned to look too but couldn’t see anyone watching them.

“Would you like some soup?”

The boy startled and looked a little afraid, as if Bassel had tried to lure him away with candy.

“I… eh… don’t have any money.”

Bassel shrugged. “Of course not. You’re a child.”

The boy glared at him, and Bassel turned the words over in his head. Were they insulting?

“When you have a job, you can pay me back. Now, do you want chicken soup or chickpea soup?”

The boy scrunched his nose at the mention of chickpeas. “Chicken.”

With a smile, Bassel filled a bowl. “I’m thinking about adding a hotplate or maybe one of those pans to have over an open fire. I could make skillet flatbread to go with the soup. I think people would appreciate it, and if I went with the open fire option, it would help warm people in the winter.” Spring was around the corner, but he was still frozen to the bone every day when he came home, no matter how many layers of clothes he put on. “Or maybe there are portable pizza ovens. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

The boy stared at him as if he was insane—he was.

“Come sit.” He grabbed the folding chair he had standing next to the food cart with one hand while balancing the bowl of chicken soup in the other.

Hesitating for a moment, the boy then slowly neared the chair.

As he sat, Bassel handed him the Styrofoam bowl and a spoon. “Did you have a good day at school?” Bassel assumed he went to school.

The boy nodded and looked away as an ache spread in Bassel’s chest—the boy’s. He had no idea what had triggered the crushing wave of grief washing over him, but something had.

“Oh, sweetheart. Eat your soup. Everything gets better with soup.” He was quiet for a few seconds before asking, “What’s your name?”

“Dag Espen.”

“Oh, you’re a bear?” Espen meant bear, right?

Dag nodded and blew on a spoonful of soup before putting it into his mouth. Warmth spread in Bassel’s soul—all his own. He loved feeding people.

Dag didn’t speak but ate another spoonful and then another.

“What did you get for lunch at school today?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t go to the cafeteria.”

Bassel waited for his emphatic skill to give him any clues on how to proceed with the conversation, but of course, he didn’t get any insight into Dag’s emotions. Never when he wanted them or needed guidance. “Because you brought your own lunch?”

Dag avoided eye contact and ate another spoonful.

Dammit. This was a poor neighborhood. It was one of the reasons Bassel had chosen it as his place. Here he could make a difference. And while he needed people to pay for their soup or he’d go bankrupt in a week flat, he gave away several bowls every day. It was the right thing to do.

“How far away is your school?”

Dag pointed at one of the large industrial buildings with his spoon. “It’s two blocks over.”

Ah, Bassel knew the one. “Is your lunch break long enough for you to get here and make it back in time for your next lesson?”

Dag looked at him for a long moment. There was longing in his eyes, and Bassel bit his tongue not to offer to bring soup to his school. Lunch was when he sold the most soup. If he left the food cart in the middle of the day, he’d lose customers.

“I can make it here, but I have no money.”

Bassel smiled. He didn’t know who Dag’s parents were, and he wouldn’t go searching. If they couldn’t afford to give him money to go to the school cafeteria, and they couldn’t afford to pack him lunch, then Bassel would make sure he got a bowl of soup. Who knew? It might be the only cooked meal the boy got all day.

“Great! Which is your favorite kind of soup?”

Wide eyes met his, then they filled with tears struggling not to trickle over. “Mom used to make tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches.”

“Oh…” Bassel noted the used to but didn’t want to ask what the past tense meant. “Then we’re back to the bread problem. We should find a solution. I like the open fire idea, but do you think the surrounding businesses would object?” He twirled his finger around, indicating the buildings around them. They were mostly offices, but there was the bar and one woo-woo shop. Woo-woo shop wasn’t the accepted term, but Bassel had gone there to introduce himself, certain he’d be sneered at by a witch or psychic, but it was a plump, gray-haired human woman running it. He’d been pleasantly surprised even though it meant the crystals and protective spells she sold were fake.

* * * *

The next day, Thor Espen growled as he walked through the empty bar. It was still early, and his staff hadn’t arrived yet. Normally, he slept this time of day, but since Karla had died a couple of months ago, he now had to get up and make sure the cub got to school.

Kids weren’t anything he’d ever wanted. They did not fit his lifestyle, but he couldn’t allow his nephew to disappear into foster care. He’d promised Karla to take care of him. The problem was, Thor knew nothing about children. He set the alarm every morning to wake Dag and made sure he ate breakfast before he went to school. Then he hardly saw the boy all day. By the time he got back from school, the bar had opened, and while there weren’t many customers until the after-work crowd, everyone was busy with preparations.

He pulled out a chair from one of the tables and sat, cradling his head in his hands. He was so tired. Yawning, he allowed his elbows to slide over the table before folding his arms and resting his cheek on top of them. He couldn’t go on like this. Two months without proper sleep made him prickly, and yesterday he’d dropped a bottle while working the bar. It could happen to anyone, but Thor hadn’t dropped a bottle in a decade or two. Sleep deprivation made him uncoordinated.

He needed a nanny. Did people still have nannies?

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d promised Karla to take care of Dag, to raise him as if he was his own. Thor was the only family he had since the no-good witch Karla had bound herself to went and got himself blown up in some huge magical experiment. Part of him was glad it had happened when Dag only was a few months old. No kid should lose both their parents before they turned eight, so it was good he didn’t remember his father. Or would it have been better for him to have the memory?

Thor didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. These were the cards they’d been dealt. It was unfair, and Thor wanted to object. He wanted to file a complaint to the universe or whoever it was deciding who lived and who died, but no one was willing to listen. Bears didn’t get sick, and yet Karla had faded away right in front of him.

He closed his eyes, trying to fight the memories wanting to surface of her in a hospital bed. Who had taken care of the boy while she’d been in the hospital? Thor should ask someone. His breaths grew deeper and his muscles slowly unclenched. Maybe whoever it was could look after him again.

“Boss!”

Thor flew to his feet, his hands changing to bear paws as he swiped the air. Ed, his chef, stood at a good distance. “Oh, hi.”

“The kid is chatting to Batshit Bassel.” Ed scrunched his face as if he’d smelled rotten fish.

“Who?” Thor tried to clear his head. Fuck, he’d fallen asleep. The kid—as in Dag?—was talking to who? Did it matter who he talked to?

“The soup freak outside.”

Thor willed his paws back to human hands before rubbing his face. “Who?”

“The guy outside, the one with the food cart.” Ed widened his eyes while making a face, telling Thor he’d better get his brain cells to wake up because this was important.

“Is he a pedophile?”

“No! Or I don’t know, maybe.” Ed shrugged but didn’t look satisfied with Thor’s reaction.

“If he isn’t a threat to Dag, why can’t he talk to him?”

Ed huffed. “You’re his dad now. You need to be a role model. You can’t let him make friends with freaks.”

Thor took a moment to breathe. Maybe he wasn’t awake enough yet to understand the conversation. He didn’t know the soup guy, had never spoken to him, and didn’t know what he looked like. Average height, on the slim side, but he couldn’t say what color his hair was and he wouldn’t have recognized him if he’d met him on the street.

He arrived there around ten in the morning and left around three, from what he’d heard from the staff. He’d been in to introduce himself when he’d first started selling his soups several months ago, but Thor had been in the office at the time so it had been Ed, Adam, and Jenny who’d talked to him, and he’d never gone out there to chat to him.

“And he’s a freak?” Thor didn’t like the term. As the owner of a queer club, he’d been called many things, and most often for no other reason than bigotry.

Ed shook his head. “He’s an abomination.”

Thor straightened his back. Abomination? He’d been called that too, and few things infuriated him more. “Is he?”

“He’s not right! His mom had him with one of her own. He’s inbred.” Distaste colored the words, and a responding revulsion wrapped around Thor. But it couldn’t be true. If a woman got pregnant with a family member, surely she’d have the fetus removed? Nausea climbed his throat, and he forced his brain to stop painting pictures. If it was true, it wasn’t the soup guy’s fault, and forbidding Dag to speak to him because of sins his parents had committed didn’t sit right with him.

“Is he… disabled?” What were the signs of inbreeding?

Shrugging, Ed walked farther into the room. “He isn’t right.”

“Isn’t right how? If he can run a business, it can’t be too bad.” Maybe a food cart didn’t demand the same brain capacity as running a bar, but there was still a lot to be done, invoices, bookkeeping, and so on.

“He isn’t right.” Ed didn’t change his words, he only spoke louder, which made Thor frown. Seconds went by, then Ed huffed again. There was a lot more huffing and shrugging than Ed normally indulged in.

“He has no skill. His mom was a precog and his dad was an empath. It isn’t right. Now he’s here, selling soup on our doorstep, and he’s as useless as a human.”

Not inbred, but two psychics reproducing. Ed was correct. It wasn’t right, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as Thor had envisioned. You couldn’t bond with the same breed as yourself, and having offspring was extremely unusual, both because it most often didn’t take and because no one wanted a child with someone they weren’t bonded to.

“He didn’t inherit any skill?” So he was like a human. They didn’t shun humans. Many of their patrons were human. Jenny was human. He wouldn’t sleep with one, but he didn’t dislike them on sight.

“He’s creepy as fuck. Go out there and talk to him. You’ll feel the wrongness from a mile away.”

“Creepy?” Would Dag talk to him if he were creepy? “What time is it?” Shouldn’t Dag be in school? He hadn’t slept for that long, had he?

“Noon. I have the dentist at three, so I thought I’d come in early and prepare and then come back after the appointment.”

Thor nodded. As Ed spoke, he remembered him saying something about it. Shit, he’d never forgotten his staff’s changed work hours a couple of months ago. “What’s Dag doing home at noon?”

Fear gripped his heart. Had something happened to him? With a growl, he stomped toward the door.