Archive for October 14th, 2008


Entry #7: Full Moon Mating by Lex Valentine

The clouds parted, allowing the full moon to bathe the earth in its silvery light. Jensen shivered. Halloween was the wrong night to be caught outdoors. Every witch and wizard on the planet would be casting spells. Tendrils of magic could wind themselves around a person and the next thing you knew, you were enchanted or cursed.

Jensen locked her car, turning toward her house. She had almost reached the door when she felt a tug on her arm. She whipped around, her pale blonde hair lifting in the breeze. Her sharp grey eyes searched the yard. It was empty. Yet she had felt the presence of another. Halloween. Full moon. Out in the open alone. She might as well have a target painted on her ass.

“Oh, but that would be a waste of a perfectly fine ass.”

Jensen stiffened. She knew that voice. Heat filled her as the shadows shifted into the shape of a man.

“Bram.” Her heart slammed against her ribs as she spoke the wizard’s name.

One long fingered hand caressed her jaw, his thumb stroking over the wildly beating pulse in her throat. “Aren’t you glad I’m not a vampire? I could have drained you by now,” he murmured silkily.

Jensen shivered. His touch was driving her mad with lust and he knew it.

“It’s a full moon too, which means you’ll not be able to resist me,” Bram smiled, his white teeth flashing in a devastatingly handsome face. “I can’t resist you either, Jensen. You’re Alpha. You were meant for me.”

Bram’s fingers tightened around her arm, and he pulled her down the drive, into the moonlight. “Show me!” he ordered, his dark eyes glittering.

Jensen stared up at him, completely overcome with lust from the heat cycle thrust on her by the full moon. Bram bent and kissed her hard, his teeth scraping her bottom lip, making it bleed. Jensen growled, the pupils of her eyes elongating. Bram’s tongue flicked over her fangs and she shuddered.

He pulled away, his hands ripping her shirt in two. Her pink nipples stiffened in the cold air. “You’re rare. The only white were on the planet and now you’re mine,” he whispered. “Shift for me, Jensen.”

With a piercing howl, Jensen’s body dissolved, her pale skin becoming white fur. She nipped at Bram’s hand, drawing blood, then ran down the drive. He stared after her, eyes alight with lust. She stopped and thrust her nose to the sky, howling mournfully. Then she swished her white tail at him. She might be in a heat cycle because of the full moon, but she was still Alpha. It was her choice who she would mate with. Tonight, it would be Bram.

He stepped toward her and she grinned, fangs gleaming. If he was lucky, he would survive the mating and she would keep his wizard ass. If he didn’t survive, then he had no business rousing a white werewolf on a full mooned Halloween, now did he?


Entry #6: The Death of Jonathan Grant by Grayson Reyes-Cole

A black and white photo, scratched, creased, faded in spots remains as testament to Johnathan Grant’s short life. In it, the little boy stands alone against what looks like a gray sky and black grass. He stares blankly up at the photographer. He could be looking into the camera.

He isn’t.

He wasn’t.

He had dark hair, pale skin, and eyes that appeared clear in the sepia tones of the picture. Maybe they were blue. Maybe green. Assuredly pale near the point of white beneath black lashes. His gaze even now is like a grasping hand…

In the picture, the boy wears a severe black suit and an inquisitive expression. His head lolls just slightly to one side, but he continues to stare, to silently request. He holds something in his hand, but the picture quality will not reveal it not matter how long and how hard it’s studied.

Jonathan Grant, a silent child, was nine years old when the image was captured. On that day, Jonathan Grant was also the victim of one of the most vicious and mysterious murders in the county’s history.

On a sunny but windy day, 54 years ago, twelve children executed Jonathan in art class.

Hair pulled off her face with a tortoiseshell band, broad cheeks, cardigan even in summer, his teacher, a Mrs. Fenton, was gone for no more than twelve minutes. Office Assistant, America Gonsalves, had met Mrs. Fenton in the main hallway and together they entered the classroom finding Jonathan and the other children. America stood stunned and silent while Mrs. Fenton screamed and screamed and screamed.

Another photo taken on that sunny, windy day: Compact, intense, the twelve stand in a circle around Jonathan’s body.

Every child-little boys and little girls in dingy, ill-fitting smocks-are bathed in blood gone black in the photo. Cheeks smeared. Hands soaked. Every child bears serious, dutiful gazes.

All hold art instruments: sculpting trowels, carving knives, precision cutting blades. Long after the photo, each of the 63 punctures and cuts on Jonathan’s body were matched to at least one of the twelve blades.

This next image is difficult. A photograph of Jonathan Grant.

Same black suit. Same wide, clear, disconcerting eyes. Except this image was captured from above his still form. A shoulder sticks out of one jacket sleeve awkwardly. Beneath, his shirt is ripped to shreds and deep lacerations cover his frail chest and arms, even one punctured his cheek in a long, swollen, black gash. The boy’s eyes are open and staring, it seems, with colorless content. His forehead is smudged with some sort of charcoal symbol. One open palm reveals another such symbol.

The children all admitted to their parts in killing Jonathan Grant. The police, psychologists, and parents asked why they did it during separate questioning sessions. Each child told the same story:


“Jonathan Grant was the devil. The angel told us there is only one way to kill the devil. Then he taught us how to do it. We learned it by heart and we used it. We did good. We killed the devil. It took all twelve of us. The angel told us it would. The angel told us how to do it.”


An angel? Yes, an angel. When they were asked to describe the angel, they all-separately-gave only a name.

Not one child blinked. Not one child breathed. When parents and psychologists and policemen sat on the edge of their seats nearly tipping forward but holding steady so as not to startle their fragile children, each one stated with calm reverence: Jonathan Grant.


What’s next on the menu?

Heather/Jambrea Gideon/Kensana Brighid/Cindy

Kensana: Well Gideon, I’ve finally finished with the edit for Whispers in the Wind. So now we’re in wait mode.

Gideon: Alas dear Kensa, we are not in wait mode. I spoke with Hope today and she was wondering when she and Eric could continue with their case.

Kensana: Oh Gideon I almost forgot. The edits have taken up all of my time. I barely had enough time to get your story done last week. Since I do have to wait until my editor finishes with Whispers we can get busy with Eric and Hope again. That is…if you’re up to it.

Gideon: If I’m up to it. I’m always up my dear authoress. [smiles a devilish grin]

Kensana: Brea, Heather, Cindy and Brig, how are you gals doing?

Heather:  I have two stories and six people all talking to Jambrea at once.  *giggle*

Jambrea:   Yes she does and I think I’m going crazy!  lol  One stories has a wife who lost her husband in the war, but he isn’t as gone as she thinks he is.  He is sticking around because he loves her so much that he just wants to see her happy.  Then his friend enters the picture.  Tell them about the other one Heather.

Heather:  Oh I would love too because this one is just so yummy.  Two bi sexual men decide they want a baby to complete their life, but find out it isn’t just a baby they want, but the baby’s mama too!  It is going to be steamy!

Jambrea:  Now I just need to sit down and see who talks the loudest!  How about you Brig and Cindy?

Brighid: I’m taking it easy on my authoress.  I only have three books I’d like her to work on.

Cindy: Like her to work on? You keep waking me up to write new scenes. And I never know it’ll be for The Wedding Feast, Boundaries, or Desire.

Brighid: Well, at least it’s only one at a time.

Cindy: True, but it’s not easy switching from horror to menage to mythology.

Brighid: Oh come on it’s good exercise.

Cindy: Riiiight. And I’m sure that’s how you mean it.

Brighid: Jacks, of course I do. wink


In the Author Spotlight at PM Yahoo

23 Apr 09 - Nyki Blatchley

Looking for our Authors?

Come over and chat with authors Kensana Darnell, Cindy Jacks, and Jambrea J Jones at Amethyst Winters playgroundmystique
October 2008
« Sep   Nov »

Blog Stats

  • 17,397 hits