KevaD and A Demon Affair

Today I have the very great honor to host my dear friend, KevaD.  Come on out and show him some love while he's talking about his latest release, A Demon Affair!!

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Someone asked why I wrote "A Demon Affair," to which I replied, "Because it was a story I hadn't written." In hindsight I realize that answer may have sounded flippant when I didn’t mean it to be, but it is the truth.

The characters Pilan and Anai surfaced without warning one night when I was working on something else entirely. They instantly intrigued me. Pilan made it clear he wanted to prowl Chicago. I was in no position to disagree, and the story, their beginning, came together quickly.

"A Demon Affair" crossed some boundaries in that the heroes are the villains, and God doesn't share the whole truth with an angel who sacrifices eternity to become that which he is dispatched to destroy. Pilan is potentially one of the most vile, and sexiest, demon-angels to come along. Anai, the assassin, truly wants to kill him. The problem is, the pair of creatures are the only two of their kind and can't keep their hands off each other. While Pilan and Anai attempt to dominate each other in order to have sex, Hell keeps sending greater challenges for the two to overcome.

I kept the story short, more as an introduction to the characters and their dilemma, than as a final, once and for all tale. In other words, if readers like the duo and their unique situation, there is a whole lot more to come. Will Pilan and Anai be able to find mutual ground where in order to survive they don't have to kill each other? I don't know yet. But that's part of the fun, not knowing where the journey will end.

KevaD's web site: http://www.kevad.net/

Buy Link: http://www.rainbowebooks.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4507&osCsid=91kd8mp02m95cskpif6l1duku2

Blurb:

Ages ago, a heavenly Archangel and a hellish Slayer fell in love. The product of their sacrilege now roams the earth, devouring the souls of the living. Possessing all the strengths of good and evil, Pilan has the power to rise against either kingdom and take control. He simply hasn't yet chosen to.

Heaven dispatches Anai, an angel who has sacrificed eternity to kill Pilan. Anai is as powerful, and potentially as evil, as Pilan. As hell repeatedly sends forces to destroy Pilan and Anai, the two angel-demons surrender to sin. To enjoy the vanity of killing each other, they must first keep each other alive. Then there's the whole lust issue…

Excerpt:

Pilan crawled to his feet and glared at his sallow reflection in the mirror. Beyond his dead, black eyes, a razor's edge glinted in the void.

"What has given you the strength to free yourself?" he snarled.

A guttural chuckle rumbled in his throat. Heh, heh, heh.

Pilan narrowed his eyes against that sliver of light. Hatred flamed in his words. "You dare laugh at me?

"I laugh at your ignorant vanity. You have become so enamored with yourself, you really don't know, do you?

He raised a brow. "Know what? What have you done?"

Me? The chuckle burst into a full laugh. I have done nothing but heed the call.

"What call?" Pilan tempered his rage. The wildfire emotion would only make him more vulnerable to the assault. He could not afford to lose control of his mind and body.

Instead of sniffing for souls, you should have been sniffing for enemies. I will leave you alone. For now. The sparkles withdrew into the black depths within. The goodness retreated, and the black cage reformed about it.

What had he missed? No, he couldn't have missed anything. Perfection never erred. He drew in a long, lung-filling breath. One by one, he dissected each scent. Nothing beyond that which belonged to this place.

But urgency tugged at the threads of his mind. The fact he couldn't detect whatever the goodness had discovered was itself the answer - another Lasiqs had been dispatched to destroy him.

Pilan shrugged and sighed. Would Satan never learn Pilan was more powerful than the underworld lord and his mindless assassins? Hell could not claim a human's soul until the human died. Pilan could take a soul when the mood struck him, whenever he was hungry. For the souls of the living provided the nourishment he required, helped him grow in strength and power.

And one day, when he chose to, he would rule this pathetic world of mortals. He simply hadn't chosen to yet.

He opened a drawer of the dresser and pulled out black chinos and tee. Longing for fresh air and the chill of the night, he dressed.

At the back door of the club, he said goodnight to the guard and wandered into the dark, dead end alley. The dank of stagnant rain puddles blanketed him between the brick walls. Yellow light cast a dull glow over the sidewalk and street at the alley's open end. A taxi's tires buzzed over the pavement as the car passed. A rat scurried for refuge under a dumpster adorned in gang graffiti.

Pilan inhaled the night, his realm. A taste of demon-borne sulfur brought a grim smile to his lips. Out here, where he ruled, not even a Lasiqs could hide his scent from Pilan. He rolled the flavors over his tongue. Orange. He inhaled again, this time focusing on the smells alone, and not their taste. No hint of the acidic sweetness of oranges. Maybe nothing to be concerned with. But a Lasiqs who emitted the sweetness of oranges generally possessed greater battle prowess, courtesy of a soul or two implanted by Satan himself. Not that it ever mattered in the end.

Still, a Lasiqs alone wouldn't have stirred that part of him he'd confined centuries ago. Something else had given his duality the confidence to once again challenge him.

Pilan dug his fingers into the crevices between the bricks of a wall and climbed. The first three stories stretched his muscles, making him feel more alive in the night, but the next two brought cramps to his hands. At the top of the five-story building he walked along the narrow ledge, above the tarpaper roof, sniffing the air for any particle that might disclose what it was that his mirror self knew.

A spark of mixed flavors ignited and vanished.

Pilan froze in his tracks. Vanilla. Leather. The hair on the back of his neck pricked his skin. What the leather meant, he had no clue, but combined with vanilla, the flavor of Heaven's angels, it couldn't bode well. Not even Hell could copy an angel's scent.

This Lasiqs wasn't from Satan's seed.

Heh, heh, heh. My Father has finally found a champion, Pilan.

"Silence. Neither Heaven nor Hell can defeat me." Pilan spread his arms wide and stared at the sliver of moon winking behind drifting gray and black clouds. "Do you hear me?" he screamed to the night. "I am Pilan! Spawn of Heaven and Hell. I bear the power of each. I am waiting. Come to me!"

A wisp of torrid breeze passed Pilan's ears and deposited its message. "I am Anai. I shall kill you soon. Very soon."

Inside Daniel - Treva Harte

I have been so busy proofing my next book and finishing up another – just like a real author is supposed to!—that I’ve almost forgotten this story. But Max and Daniel are difficult to forget. I’d planned to write a sequel to Maxxed Out, the first book in the series, and apparently I left a lot of questions readers wanted to know. That meant it was Daniel’s turn to let the spotlight focus on him.

And Daniel, although he doesn’t like to answer questions or talk much, is reliable. He wouldn’t want to upset people he cares about, so he was willing to let me check into his brain for a little while to write that second story. Sequels are hard for me to write -- each time I write one I’m closer to finishing up a world instead of leaving some loose ends for readers to follow. This sequel wasn’t as difficult as usual because I like these guys and they had a lot of relationship still to explore.

Inside Out 2: Inside Daniel by Treva Harte

http://www.trevaharte.com/
Loose Id LLC
http://www.loose-id.com/Inside-Out-2-Inside-Daniel.aspx

ISBN 978 1 60737 998 0
Novella - m/m contemporary

Blurb

Max wants to move in with Daniel but Daniel is resisting. He knows they love each other and are meant to be together. He’s going to have to get inside Daniel to find out what’s wrong.

Excerpt


“What did you say?”
My hand was on someone else’s hardening cock, and my cock was bumping against the crack of that someone else’s ass. Yeah. My brain hadn’t fully caught up with my body, but my cock was hoping to get lucky. In other words, I was waking up with someone in my bed. I wasn’t actually processing anything but warm body until he spoke. But the confusion in his voice sped up my thoughts.

“Huh?” I said it very distinctly. Good job, Daniel. Soon I’d be able to do an actual word.

“You said something I didn’t understand.”

When the guy you’ve slept with all night says that, it usually triggers alarm bells. Especially when you have no clue what you muttered. I opened my eyes to a sexy young guy who was staring back at me. My sleepy brain cleared slightly. This guy wasn’t a hit and run. Hell no.

Max. Looking at him made me want to keep my eyes open so I could see more. It also made me want that body of his back again, tight against me.

“What’d I say?”

Max sighed and wiggled so his ass wasn’t as temptingly near. Damn it, even when I was wide awake -- which was starting to happen -- I wasn’t the smoothest talker. But this time it looked like I had messed up a chance for a morning quickie. Damn it.

“Not helpful, Daniel. It sounded like bona -- bueno…Matt something. Caress.”

Something about Matt? What the hell? More faint alarm warnings tickled my nerves. Then the light bulb went on.

“Italian? I was speaking in Italian?”

“I guess.”

“Buona mattina, carissimo.” I sucked in my breath.

“What does it mean?”

No way in hell was I going to tell him exactly. It was too embarrassing to admit in English. At least first thing in the morning.

I cleared my throat and tried to clear my head. “It means good morning and where the hell is the coffee?”

“I guess Italian is a true romance language. It sounded prettier the way you said it first.” Max stretched and scratched his balls. “You spoke in Italian a lot more when you were a teenager.”

I didn’t like to remember how awkward I’d been. Back then I was too big, too clumsy, and liable to lapse into my grandparents’ language of choice whenever I felt too big and clumsy.

Rather than talk, I leaned over and bit the tendon of Max’s shoulder. I knew what that did to him. He shuddered and sank back into the bed, facing me, but with his ass lifted up, his knees braced against his chest to give me a better look.

I didn’t even think about what I was doing when I smacked that tempting ass. But Max’s reaction was a sight to behold. His cock stiffened so fast it was a wonder it didn’t get whiplash. Apparently he liked that. A lot. Good to know.

My quickie had been rescued.

Treva Harte

Damon Suede - Hot Head

Today I have a very special guest with a very special background for his new release, Hot Head.  Thank you, Damon for guesting today!

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Thank you so much Jadette for letting me come play in the inspirational sandbox!

I wrote Hot Head on a dare from a dear friend who I was helping with structure questions on her own novel. I’ve been writing for 20 years in film and theatre, but fiction has never been my favorite form; she told me if I didn’t write an M/M I was “a lazy idiot.” I laughed and agreed, but then I needed an idea. I didn’t want to write something porn-y, which is the criticism often leveled at male writers in the genre. I wanted angst, and heightened, compressed emotion. And then I remembered an intense confession I’d heard…

See…starting in the late 90s, my best galpal in the whole universe went through this compulsive, sex-n-drama addiction in which she became obsessed with and only dated a string of gorgeous, tormented firefighters. For seven years or so, she found hysteria very romantic and for that stretch of time she only had eyes for unfaithful troublemakers with eight-packs and cocks like waste baskets. Most of these relationships lasted under a year, operatic tragicomedies with dildos and screaming. Most ended with three a.m. arguments in which she hurled crockery and birthday-gifts out the window at the “cheating lying asshole” she’d just dumped while he begged for forgiveness with crocodile tears in the street below her window. Lots of agita, lots of broken promises, incendiary sex, but (safe to say) completely unhealthy.

For those seven years, I logged untold hours on porches and barstools listening to crazy heroics, sleazy anecdotes, and odd confessions because these hot mooks wanted to impress my friend with how hip and “cool” they were with her gay best friend. They all loved telling stories, and they had stories that defied belief. The FDNY is insane and its members take pride in that. Full stop.

One night in about 2002, she and I were writing in a house upstate. She was editing a novel, I had to finish a screenplay because a play of mine had won an award and sold to film folk. We go away every summer  for intense marathon writing, and on the weekends our men would visit. 

That weekend, my boyfriend was working a case somewhere. Her boyfriend, let’s call him G, had arrived after dinner a little drunk and horny.

While I did the dishes they had loud, hilarious sex upstairs. My friend fell asleep after, and then G clumped downstairs in a pair of sweats because he hadn’t eaten. He fixed a plate and I poured us a couple whiskeys and we went out to the porch so he could smoke. Now, this guy was a career fireman: 30ish, Irish mutt, probably wore a size 52 suit, hands like roast beefs, big open face and doe-eyes on top of this wall of muscle. I remember we were telling gross dating stories, NC-17 stuff about sex we’d had and things that freaked us out. He mentioned to me that I didn’t “seem all that homo” and joked about his “crappy” gaydar but made sure I knew he had no problem with folks doing their thing. He mentions a meathead couple at his gym who gave him pointers and a no-bullshit female podiatrist who he likes; he’s pretty sure all of the above are “homos” but he thinks they’re “so cool.”

At this point I felt tired and thought it high time G go upstairs for hokey-pokey round two, so we could all get some sleep. Before I could say my goodnight, this sweet mook kind of thumped me on the back; his face got serious and he didn’t say anything… but I could tell he wanted to.  

Very quietly, looking at the dark yard, he confessed that he had once loved a man. “Like that,” he said, a guy as straight as he was. I had NO idea what to say but I nodded in support of the idea. (HOT! Was the thought I had actually.) G explained that the man was his best friend and fellow fireman, a legendary golden-boy around the FDNY… a courageous nutjob working at the worst houses, so gorgeous he was date bait for the other crew members, and a habitual cheater who got away with everything because the world loved him.

Both of them were “totally straight,” G said. Hell, they’d tagteamed “broads” together, puked on each other, bailed each other out of jail after bar fights… but at a certain point G had realized that he loved-loved his friend. Affection had grown into attraction, but he never confessed his feelings. Speaking would have jeopardized the friendship, the FDNY, their families, their lives. 

Even worse: one horny drunken night, G and his then-girlfriend had asked his buddy to join them in an ill-advised threeway that wrecked the friendship for a long time. Up close and personal, G had gotten tense and weird and wouldn’t explain why. G broke up with her the next day; the friends fought and then spent a horrible August not hanging out at all… even though they were supposed to go on vacation together down the Jersey Shore. G slowly went out of his mind trying to decide what to do, what to say about what he felt.

And then his best friend was killed at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001.

They had both worked the scene but only G made it out alive. He had been outside when the first tower went. He had no idea what had happened to his buddy, couldn’t find him in the chaos, didn’t even know how to try because they hadn’t spoken in over a month. Command had been wiped out in the collapse and thousands were lost while the world burned down around them. 

That day, without ever knowing the truth, his best friend simply vanished into thin air.

Even now, retelling this, I can see the stricken look on his big baby face … the pain and grief and anger and regret churning inside of him while he sat smoking a cigarette with a shaking hand on a porch at night. I will never forget his stare, creased with a terrible, patient longing he’d carry until he died himself.

I knew. It was so clear to me that he wished he had died on 9/11. That’s what he was saying, what he confessed to me. He vibrated with the desire dig and dig and dig until he’d dug his rut into a grave. I don’t know how else to explain it. At that moment, I knew he was pretending to be alive and taking stupid risks on purpose, I knew how he would die, and (maybe) only I knew why.

In a way, he buried his secret in me. I think G needed so badly to confess the truth to someone sympathetic it had just slipped out. The thing is, he couldn’t tell anyone his secret except some gay writer he barely knew, because his life had no room for that unspoken love, or those unlikely lovers. No one could ever know. When he and my friend did split up she admitted that she felt like she’d using him like a big dildo, a hung fireman with sad eyes and a dead heart, and that they’d openly joked about when she’d get tired of him being a visitor in his own life.

So when my friend dared me and I needed a germ of an idea for an M/M that could support the angst, sexiness, and drama I crave in my books, G’s face on the porch came to me like a handsome ghost. I wished more than anything that I could answer a question he’d never asked and wanted to give a happy ending to two men who could never have found it outside the pages of a romance.

So Hot Head grew out of that night I sat listening on the porch with no way to help a man who’d been punished for loving… if I succeeded at all, it’s because of the pain and truth he shared. Writing the book was a chance to rewrite their lives the way they might have been, unspoken love given time to grow and the happily ever after those men deserved.

Available June 15th from most online retailers including Dreamspinner Press, Amazon, All Romance Ebooks, Rainbow Ebooks,  

BIO & Contact:

Damon Suede grew up out-n-proud deep in the anus of right-wing America, and escaped as soon as it was legal. Though new to M/M, Damon has been writing for print, stage, and screen for two decades. He’s won some awards, but counts his blessings more often: his amazing friends, his demented family, his beautiful husband, his loyal fans, and his silly, stern, seductive Muse who keeps whispering in his ear, year after year. You can get in touch with him at:

§  email: Damon@damonsuede.com

§  DamonSuede.com

§  Goodreads

§  Facebook

§  Fanpage

Dianne Hartsock - Shelton In Love!

            Thank you for having me on your wonderful site today. You asked what had inspired me to write my m/m romance ‘Shelton in Love’. Boredom, to start with! My husband and I had taken a trip to Glacier National Park last summer. Beautifully romantic trip. But the long drive through the Idaho desert would have done me in, if it wasn’t for my sometimes naughty imagination.

            The air conditioner wasn’t able to keep up with the close to 100 degree weather outside. We were in a desert in the middle of nowhere! Not another living soul on the road. Hot, dry, burnt landscape around us. Scrubby brush and stones baking in the sun. Heat waves rippling across the road. Humid, sultry air in the car lulling me towards sleep…

            I’d recently written a short ghost story, The Trials of a Lonely Specter (MuseItUp Publishing, due out this summer) and I began to wonder what my two men had done when they were alive. How had they met? Who would they be in the new story taking shape in my mind? 

            Nevil came first. Handsome, sexy, witty. Do you know the song ‘Last of the Famous International Playboys’ by Morrissey? That’s my Nevil. 

            And who would be special enough to win his heart? Someone shy and beautiful, unsure yet alluring in his own way. Definitely a temptation. Lovely Shelton.

            Now to get them together. Yum. But I couldn’t just start with them in bed, however much as I’d like to! Should I start with their first meeting, where Shelton falls helplessly for Nevil’s charm? Come on, who wouldn’t!

            Too predictable, though even as I’m writing this, I picture their first encounter in my mind, Shelton meeting Nevil’s burning glance across the room, his bones melting as the gorgeous man seemed interested in him…

But no, I wanted their relationship to be special. So I started later, with Shelton already hopelessly in love, his happily ever after still achingly out of reach. The story is about Shelton’s struggle to win Nevil’s elusive heart and not break his own.

            After I’d finished the story and sent it off to Breathless Press, I couldn’t just leave them like that. What happened to my lovely men afterwards? The sequel, Shelton’s Promise, was just as enjoyable to write, and will be released from Breathless Press on July 8, 2011.

            Thanks for stopping by!

Dianne Hartsock

http://www.breathlesspress.org/Book/291
Amazon: http://amzn.to/m3VJDe

My website: http://diannehartsock.wordpress.com/
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/diannehartsock
Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/diannehartsock

Blurb:

Shelton is falling hard for his best friend and roommate, finding Nevil’s dark good looks and moments of gentleness almost impossible to resist. But Nevil is more interested in affairs of the body than the heart. As Shelton’s desire for the man grows, he wonders if he can change Nevil’s mind. But does he even want to? Nevil might not stay, once he learns Shelton’s secret, and then Shelton’s loneliness would be complete.

Excerpt:

           Shelton chuckled, already stripping out of jacket and shirt as he crossed to the curtained booth. Tera was always in a rush, bursting with more energy than two or three other people combined.

          Stepping into the booth, he quickly changed from jeans into the coffee brown slacks and white dress shirt hanging on the rack. Slipping his arms through the ivory colored vest, he slung the coffee and tan tie around his neck and returned to Tera’s side, tucking in the shirt as he went. 

          Shelton glanced up at a low whistle, feeling the tingle of a blush in his cheeks under Nevil’s appraising eyes.

"You dress up nicely,” Nevil assured him as he stepped closer to bat Shelton’s fumbling hands away from the tie. “Let me do that.”

Shelton concentrated on Nevil’s fingers on his tie, urging his heart to stop racing before Nevil felt it pounding under his fingertips or heard its wild patter. Nevil’s breath brushed his cheek and his spicy cologne sent his senses whirling. 

Why did the man have to be so damned attractive?

             

           Shelton hardly noticed Tera slipping a jacket on his arms until Nevil commented on it, rubbing the silk and wool material between his fingers. “Nice.” 

           Shelton glanced at his sleeve and admired the sharkskin pattern of taupe and tan and black checkers. He shrugged his shoulders, delighted with the fit and comfort of the sport coat. “A new one?” he asked Tera.

        "I’ve had the design finished for months, but couldn’t decide if it should go in my summer or fall catalogue.” 

         Nevil finished with the tie and stepped back, looking Shelton up and down. “Definitely summer, though I’d wear a coat like that all year round. Almost any color of slacks would go with it.”

         “Or socks,” Shelton muttered, a reminder to himself as Nevil ran his fingers through his hair, sending sparks of desire through his body as the man mussed his curls.

         Nevil tilted his head to take in the overall affect. A lazy smile spread on his face while a warm gleam entered his fantastic eyes. “Delicious.” His gaze lingered on Shelton’s shoulders, before sliding down to his hips. 

        The whirl of the camera in Tera’s hand recalled him from the tantalizing thought of Nevil’s hands on him as well as his gaze, and Shelton moved to stand under the soft light she set up to compliment the glow from the setting sun.

         He thought he’d feel awkward with Nevil watching as he posed, but instead found the man’s presence exhilarating. Shelton knew he looked his best and Nevil’s admiring attention bolstering his confidence. Ignoring the stares of a few passersby, he flirted with the camera, losing his inhibition as Tera called encouragements and clicked frame after frame, only calling a halt when the sunlight had gone.

         “These are lovely. They’ll fill out the catalogue nicely,” she commented, tilting the camera to show the men a few of her favorites. 

         Nevil whistled at one in particular, where Shelton had glanced at the camera through lowered lids, a secret smile playing on his lips. The overhead light brought out the highlights in his chestnut hair and lightened his hazel eyes, complimenting the warm colors of his ensemble for an overall attractiveness. 

         “You’ll need to stockpile this coat, Tera.” Nevil observed, his eyes never leaving Shelton’s. “Every man who sees that picture is going to want one for his own.” His gaze was intense and Shelton colored at the innuendo.

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If you love this book,be sure and check out this one too!

Amber Green's New Release, Khyber Run

Khyber Run is out! 

Zarak shed that Warrior Code crap long ago. Oscar personifies it. Hunting a murderer in a land scarred by endless warfare, two men fight for justice, honor, and who gets top.

Chapter 1

I woke muddled, thinking the ship's engines sounded wrong. Red light glared on my eyelids. Breathing meant gagging on the seagull-shit taste of a hangover. And that sound was not my ship's engines. More like a sardine can's engines or…a plane?

Opening my eyes took effort. A plane. From the rear of the fuselage, I faced up an aisle between rows of knees hugging sea bags. Not sea bags: MOLLE-packs. Red lights in strips overhead barely illuminated a couple hundred hunched forms in desert camo, a row of males in body armor along each bulkhead, facing inward, and two rows of females jammed into back-to-back seats in the center. Male or female, each of them clutched one of those carbines the sponges called an assault rifle.

Why am I in a plane packed with camo-assed bullet-sponges?

The plane's deck angled down sharply. Screams rang in my ears, going dull. My ears cleared, painfully, and the shrieks sharpened.

Crashing. That's what we're doing.

The deck roller-coastered up, then yawed faster than physics should allow. Whiplash.. I saw stars. The stench of vomit wrung my empty guts.

A dive and another yaw brought more screams ringing off the bulkhead, prayer in Spanish close by, retching farther away.

How did I stay in my seat, with gravity halving and doubling and snatching me starboard to port? When the plane steadied long enough to let me look down, I saw bands of dull silver duct tape strapping my thighs to my seat, and another red-streaked silver band over my belt.

Something hung on my lower face. I had some kind of mask. No. Somebody had duct-taped a puke bag to my face. It sagged obscenely against my chin, like a giant used condom.

Pulling it off hurt. The stench blasted from it.

Where do I put this? I looked around, blinking, trying to make sense. The screamers in the middle seats were mostly army. The hundred or so men squatting in the seats lining the bulkhead were marines. Some laughed at the women. Others hunkered down, as if waiting for shrapnel to find them. A few threw curious glances at me, the only squid in sight.

A cluster of pops rapped at the bulkhead, like popcorn in my mother's big pot. One of the sponges grinned at me. "Small arms fire. Welcome to Bagram."

Bagram? A map of the giant air base flashed in my eyes, then a dim memory of riding my father's shoulder, hiding my face in his turban while a trio of Shuravi -- Soviets -- stomped an ominously silent laborer. Couldn't be…

"He means hold on," added another sponge.

I dropped the puke bag to grab my seat. The plane tilted, again nose-diving but this time braking hard. Instead of falling to the deck, the bag shot forward, splatting against a female's ear.

"I'm hit! Aaah!"

"God! Brains! Oh, God!"

"Aaaaaaaaaaaah!"

The plane swerved and jinked, each jerk redoubling the shrieks.. The smell of fear, sharp and sour, fought with the smell of vomit.

One of the marines chuckled, despite the sweat beading on his face, and pitched his voice low enough to hear under the shrieks. "You know you're going to have to police that up, Squidward."

"No-go, sir. The doc's our volunteer."

Volunteer? WTF? I twisted to see who'd called me a volunteer, but his rifle caught my attention first. A bolt-action rifle. A sniper's weapon.

Behind the rifle, teeth flashed in a grin. He didn't seem to exist, except as a rifle, a hint of helmet, and a grin. Then the grin vanished.

The deck flipped overhead. The unsecured marines bounced, sending bellows among the screams. I hung from my seat, still taped in place.

The deck flipped again, then slammed up at us. A marine fell across my lap. I caught his weapon before it could bean him. The cool metal slapped into my hand, rousing memories like an old lover's name.

I looked at the sniper, still crouched behind his rifle, immobile and near-invisible. Who the fuck are you? 

See another excerpt here:  http://www.loose-id.com/Khyber-Run.aspx

Visit www.shapeshiftersinlust.com tonight!

Amber Green