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Surfacing
By Bronwyn Green
“It’s been a year.”
I shielded my eyes with my hand and squinted up at Jake. The last of the evening sun burned like a blinding halo behind his dark head.
“Not quite,” I responded.
He frowned and squatted down on the dock next to where I sat in the small sailboat, the water rocking it like a cradle. “Tabitha…” he began.
Jake was the only person who called me that. To everyone else, I was Tabby. And to my sister, Samara, I’d been Tabby Cat. Was, I corrected myself, tightening my fingers around the edge of the boat. I still was Tabby Cat to her, because there was no proof she was dead. No matter what my parents or Jake or anyone else said, there was a chance that she and her boyfriend, Liam, were still alive. I swallowed hard against the panic rising in my throat.
“You just got here, and it’s getting late.” Jake held out his hand to me. “At least, wait until tomorrow, and I’ll go out with you.”
I glanced away from his hand over the glistening expanse of the blue-green water of Lake Michigan, watching the sun sink lower on the horizon. In the distance, the shapes of both Manitou islands were dark shadows on the surface of the lake, looking more like holes in the water than land. Squinting against the setting sun, I thought I saw a third dark shape out there, but I blinked and it was gone.
Forcing my attention from the water, I reached for Jake’s hand. His fingers closed warmly around mine as he tugged me to a standing position. The wake from a passing speedboat rocked the small craft as he was pulling me onto the dock, and I fell hard
against his chest. His hands settled at my hips to steady me. Looking up, I met his dark gaze, and we jumped apart.
He quickly looked away, and embarrassed heat swept through my body, centering in my face. I knew he’d likely been thinking about the same thing I had been—the last time his hands had been on my hips. We’d drunk ourselves stupid with beer and grief the night the Coast Guard had changed the status of Samara and Liam’s rescue operation to recovery. One thing had led to another in our desperation to feel something other than fear and loss. I’d known it had been a mistake as soon as it was over. And I guess, so did he. We’d never talked about it. We just pretended it had never happened.
Albion’s Circle: The Deepest Cut
By Jessica Jarman
Albion’s Circle: The Deepest Cut – Excerpt #2
This life was no different than the others. She was absolutely beautiful. My Annwyl. Anna, I reminded myself. She was Anna now. I ached to go to her but held myself back. I had to be careful. I wasn’t going to make the same mistakes I’d made before. I wouldn’t lose her. Not again.
“Why are we just sitting here?”
I glanced at Galahad but said nothing. Nothing I said would shut him up anyway. It had only taken one lifetime to learn that about the guy.
“It’s been weeks, Merlin. Weeks. If your goal is to be a stalker, mission accomplished.” He ran a hand through his hair, causing the dark brown locks to stick up all over the place. “I thought the whole point was to bring her home, complete the Circle, defeat evil, live happily ever after. What the fuck are we doing sitting in a dark club watching her… Ah shit, I’m pretty sure she just took something. I’m going out on a limb here, and saying it’s not Tylenol. And…you’re not surprised. Not even a little.” He sighed.
“No,” I responded simply. It didn’t surprise me she would turn to that. It wouldn’t be the first time one of us used a crutch to deal with what we remembered and lived with. Of course, understanding that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. It sure as hell didn’t ease the guilt I felt. It surrounded me, as it always did. I wished I had found her sooner, that I’d been able to shoulder some of the pain Annwyl…Anna experienced.
“Merlin!”
Galahad’s voice penetrated my thoughts, and I turned toward him again.
“What?”
“What are we waiting for?”
“She’s… She might not be ready.”
“Ready for what?” he asked, eyes wide and disbelieving. “How is leaving her to deal with everything on her own helping her, or any of us?”
“She’s always been so fragile,” I murmured, almost to myself. “The fact that we found her this time, before she—” I could hardly swallow around the lump that appeared in my throat, let alone speak.
I’d never gotten to her in time. Every life, every fucking one, I’d been too late. Sometimes, by mere minutes. Her body still warm, as if she were simply sleeping and she’d open her eyes and see me. But that had only been an illusion, a desperate hope. It never happened that way. No, soon, even the hint of life leached out, and I was left with the empty shell, a glaring reminder of how I’d failed her yet again.
“Merlin.” Galahad laid a hand on my knee and leaned close. “You found her this time. The other times… Stop thinking of them. It doesn’t matter now.”
But it did matter, I wanted to scream. Of course it mattered. Because she would remember all of it. Know how I had been unable to save her time after time. The shame and guilt—my constant companions—wouldn’t be erased by kind words, even if they came from a well-meaning friend.
I turned my attention back to her, just in time to see the glass slip from her grasp and crash to the floor. It was clear, even from across the bar, that she was pretty well flying high. The bartender, the one who’d put her in that state in the first place, seemed to be checking to make sure she was okay. So, maybe he wasn’t a complete douchebag. Though, my magic flared, skittered along my body, just under the skin, wanting to knock him on his ass for daring to touch Anna. Then, it nearly exploded as they kissed.
“Throttle back,” Galahad said under his breath, and I realized the glasses on the low table in front of us were shaking, dancing on the shiny surface.
I cursed and reined it in, but fuck, it was hard.
A Choice Fit For A Queen
By Jenny Trout writing as Abigail Barnette
To say that the Rose and Pig was off the beaten path would have been an understatement. There were no streetlights. The street wasn’t even paved. It was barely more than a dirt two-track leading past the low stone fence that surrounded the field. At the end, a two-story wattle-and-daub house stood, chimney smoking. The light spilling from its windows promised warmth and a place to get dry. Though my feet ached and stung with raw blisters from jogging around airports all day, I practically sprinted the last leg of my journey. Mud splattered onto the legs of my jeans, and I didn’t care. All I wanted was to get inside, away from the hellish downpour. I reached the door, prepared to fling it open and launch myself into the warm embrace of a charming Welsh pub.
It was locked.
No. Visions of sleeping in the cold, shivering in the dark, wet, pneumonia-encouraging night put urgency into my arm as I pounded on the door. “Hello! Hey, is anybody inside? Can anyone help—“
A guy opened the door. A hot guy. An annoyed hot guy. One look at him and my heart jolted. I froze in shock, but managed to stutter out, “m-me?”
He was absolutely gorgeous. Flawless dark brown skin stretched over a face that made the words “aesthetically pleasing” an understatement. His cheeks were full, like he’d retained baby fat in the exact right places, and his lush lips spread in a smile that was half “let’s be friends” and half “let’s be friends with benefits” as he looked me over.
Unfortunately, the longer I stared at him, the more his smile faded. He leaned his shoulder against the door and slung a white bar towel over the other to cross his arms over his chest. “Let me guess. American white girl, thinking, ‘What do you mean, they have black people in Wales?’” He held up his hands in mock apology. “Sorry, we’re everywhere. Hope you’re not too disappointed.”
“N-no, I wasn’t—“ Explaining was not going to work if I couldn’t talk like a normal human. I had to glance down and push my wet hair from my face to concentrate and steel myself against his good looks when I raised my head again. When I did, I managed a smile. I hoped I didn’t look goofy. “I was actually thinking, ‘wow, the guys are a lot hotter here than at home.’”
His smile returned slowly. “Yeah, all right. You’re forgiven. Come on inside.”
His accent. Oh god.
Title - Captured
