Planet Bob--full text available for purchase
Bullets punctured the bulkhead to Bob’s right, and almost immediately the holes began to suck.
Nah, he thought, chambering the next set of rounds. This whole thing began to suck ages ago. Gun loaded, he watched the holes slowly heal over. Extruded carapace darkened to violet black. On a human ship, those holes would have been fatal. Overseer ships were damned good at keeping their occupants alive. It’s why their mind-wiped slaves were allowed to run around with full-caliber projectile weapons. Which were currently pointed at Captain Robert “Bob” Harris and his team.
Damn it, he thought, as another salvo cut through his cover. Everything on these damn boats was dark. The hallway behind him was dim as hell’s outhouse; the hallway in front of him pulsed with just enough orange and blue light for the pale heads of slaves to stand out like beacons. And they could most definitely see him. He braced himself, ducked around the cover and fired. His bullet
Gray Fox--full text available for purchase
Casey Winter could deal with blood thirsty fairies. It was her ex-husband she had issues with.
“I think it’s time that we should talk,” Jackson Winter drawled, and Casey clutched the phone tighter. A bizarre combination of butterflies and acid gnawed at her gut. This just wasn’t fair. Not after the week she’d just had. A mermaid tried to kill her, a crazy, overpowered Faerie huntress blackmailed her into chasing a man-eating Phooka, and just last night she’d stopped a Boggart from turning the Lexington Museum into God’s Own Slaughterhouse. She hadn’t even gotten to sleep since that last one.
The universe owed her a break after a week like that.
How the hell, she thought, as she slid down to the cold kitchen floor, did my ex husband even get this number?
“I’m going to say you agree,” Jack drawled. She could hear his smile, could almost see his shiny, laminated teeth.
She rolled her eyes. Jack had been born and raised
Blue Ghosts (full text available for purchase)
Part One: Raziel
Dinner with an Elf. You don’t do that every day. Casey Winter straightened the skirt on her very best dress, which was about six hundred dollars too cheap for her surroundings, and tried not to worry about what her dinner date would wear. Corpus Christi, Texas, wasn’t exactly a cultural hub, but it did have several nice restaurants. Marco Creed, the elf in question, had invited her to the nicest.
The Republic of Texas. By God, was it ritzy. Dark wood and burgundy trim glowed under expensive lighting. Cut crystal glasses full of aged scotch sat at elbows. Lush greenery curled around brass fixtures. Wait staff moved with the collective grace of cranes, and with the sharp eyes of hawks spying rodents in the grass. Empty glasses were filled, plates were whisked away the moment knife and fork hit four o’clock. Complicated telepathy kept questions to a minimum. Here’s a salad, a soda, the entrée, your scotch. Plate clink, silverware
Starlight without atmosphere was cold. It stole more life than it lended. Beams from New Houston’s sun lanced through the USS Marel Sanders’s front ports and tinted the interior graveyard gray. The fire bled out of Adrienne Parker’s auburn hair. Her trembling hands now resembled a corpse’s.
“Brace!” a voice screamed from the cockpit. Adrienne grabbed the arms of her crash couch. The Marel was a claustrophobic shoebox for supplies and personnel, and all fifty meters of it shook as enemy weapons fire grazed their rear. Electric bolts blasted through cockpit and tiny hold, playing over stacks of yellow medical boxes. The lights flickered. Adry’s heart sank. Only Overseer weapons burned out electrical systems while they made holes in things. It took all her willpower not to leap up and check her cargo, those precious yellow boxes stacked six deep around her.
Beneath the lids sat four thousand glass vials in black foam nests. The enzym