Ivy’s position afforded her a bird’s-eye view of the most popular path to the Metro Silver Line. It was frequented by visitors to Washington, D.C. as well as commuters from the bedroom community of Reston.
People with shiny objects begging to be reclaimed.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” A familiar voice drifted upward.
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When you’re five, your imaginary friend means the world to you. When you’re thirty-five, you wondered why they were trying to kill your spouse.
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The Whirlpool of Destiny. The ancient scrolls promised that I, Prince Quenton, would find freedom in its magical depths. Instead, as soon as I touched the water’s surface, I emerged through a flash of green light in a room smaller than a servant’s bedchamber.
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“Perfect weather, Benji,” drawled Mac.
The forest was cold, it was damp, and it was getting dark. “How so?” I said.
“Snow on its way. That’ll cover the grave.”
Mac, carrying the head end of the shrouded corpse, peered into the gathering gloom…
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Arthur, King of the Britons, lay dying in Merlin’s arms.
The boat creaked around them, its gentle movements a stark contrast to the hellish Camlann battlefield. Arthur’s torso bled profusely, staining his tunic through the hasty bandages Merlin had applied. Mordred’s blade pierced too deep. Even with all his power, Merlin could only
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What’s a vampire to do when he falls head-over-heels for a girl from a garlic farm?
Brace himself to attend a home-cooked Italian dinner at her family’s, of course.
“We’ve got five minutes. Are you sure you want to go through with this, Vlad?” Sarah’s fingers tap the steering wheel in time with the car’s left blinker.
I’d always been an oddity with my ivory skin, ebony hair, and blood-red lips, but when my father chose a vampyyri—a female descant of the vampires—as his second wife, my appearance became a curse. I wasn’t of the bloodsuckers, but to the outsiders who only knew them through scary tales, I looked like it.
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Emirate of Transjordan
November 1941
The Underground Cathedral was cool and damp, a relief after the long drive through the desert. Julien Arnault wiped sweat from his brown curls with a dirty sleeve. He held a flickering torch in his left hand
I’ve always been a people person. But back on July 4, 1976, I became a “We the people” person. The entire country, but especially Philadelphia, had been filled with Bicentennial fever for months, and it reached its peak that day.
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I sucked in air as the trail wound uphill, sweat pouring down my face and sticking my ponytail to my neck. To my profound irritation, my fae companion did not appear to be suffering nearly as much, even though he hid his wings in
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Tom cradled the ruined camcorder in his hands. His research had suggested this secluded corner of North Cascades National Park would be the ideal location to capture footage of a real-life sasquatch. But now his dreams of finding one had been crushed to dust. Just like
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Moira’s breath fogged the viewing window, her wide eyes staring unblinking, as though in the split second they closed, Isla would disappear once again.
She’d been searching for her sister for months, ever since the night she failed to return to their pod. A missing selkie typically
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