His Scream Queen

Brooklyn Ann

B Mine, book 3

Book Cover: His Scream Queen
Part of the B Mine series:


When Lucio Argento is dumped by Amteep High’s most popular girl, he plots revenge in a way he's certain will crush her. He convinces Jamie Blair - the target of his ex’s bullying - into doing a makeover that will garner enough votes for her to be Prom Queen. What he doesn't expect is to fall for Jamie, or to become her willing accomplice in uncovering who is behind the spate of deaths of animals in their community.

When their classmates begin to die in the most horrific ways, Lucio and Jamie discover dark supernatural forces are at work, and unless they can conjure a miracle, everyone will die at Prom.



Chapter One

January, 1984

Brittney Shaw allowed Brandon Teller to kiss her as the clock struck midnight. He’d be the perfect candidate to be her king at the prom if only he went to Amteep High instead of Sunnydale Prep. Looking at the glittering throng gathered in the Skeetshue Country Club ballroom, she wondered if she should have asked Daddy to transfer her to Sunnydale. But no, she’d went to public school with the same classmates since kindergarten, and they’d witnessed her transformation from a dull, stringy-haired, middle class girl to the rich, beautiful, popular princess she was today. And before graduation, those peers would see her change from princess to queen.


Brandon snapped her attention back to the present. “My parents are still in Cabo. I can have my driver take us to my place if you want to go somewhere alone where we can… talk.” He trailed his fingertips across her collarbone.

“That’s very tempting,” Brittney purred. “But I have a headache. Maybe next time.”

Brandon’s protests chased her as she left the dance floor and had one of the club employees call her driver and bring her fur from the coat room. The employee brought the luxurious mink coat and even placed it over her shoulders.

The dolt didn’t take the hint, instead following her out onto the shoveled patio and down the slick flagstone steps. Rock salt crushed under the heels of her red leather Oscar de la Renta shoes as Brittney thought of how easily she could silence him forever if she felt like it.

Once she was delivered home to the gorgeous mansion on Lake Skeetshue that her father had purchased only two years ago, Brittany kicked off her shoes and raced up to her room. She only had a few more hours before her parents would return home from the party.

Quickly, she changed out of her puffed-sleeve red chiffon gown and into a ski outfit that was so two years ago. Something that she could easily throw away if it got too messy.

After grabbing the suitcase that she kept hidden in the back of her walk-in closet, Brittany went back out into the winter night. Her boots crunched over the frozen snow. Her nose and cheeks stung from the cold, but it couldn’t be helped.

This was the first day of the new year. A time when she had to give thanks for all she’d received the previous year and ensure the fortunes for this one.

The gardener’s shed was unused for the winter. Which made this ritual easier. In the summer, she had to store her sacrifices elsewhere.

The animal whimpered when she opened the door, but didn’t try to escape. It was too weak for that now. Instead, it allowed itself to be led to the birdbath in the backyard. Brittney set her suitcase on top of the glass-hard ice surface of the marble birdbath and opened it to reveal the tools that had helped her grant her every heart’s desire.

With practiced ease, she withdrew a large dagger and carved a pentagram in the snow around the birdbath. Then she placed red candles at every point and lit them. Opening one of the books she’d stolen from the library three years ago, Brittany chanted the words that summoned her own personal genie.

Scar rose up in front of the birdbath, looking more solid than he had the first time she called him forth from the netherworld. Long, sharply-pointed horns extended from his large head. His eyes glowed yellow, and his massive jaw was filled with sharp teeth.  The animal let out a piteous squeal and tried to flee, but Brittany was used to this part of the ritual.

Still gripping the knife she’d used to carve the pentagram, she slit the creature’s throat.

Steaming blood sprayed through the air, glittering in the moonlight. Just as she’d expected, crimson droplets splattered on her ski-suit, more than a stain removal spray could handle. She’d have to burn the outfit.

Brittney extended her hands and chanted the ritual words, “Oh, Scarlionapskhis, scourge of the soulless, most infernal, please accept this blood sacrifice as a token of my gratitude for the favors you’ve bestowed on me and as a gift in exchange for making me beautiful.”

The demon inclined its head sardonically and fell upon the still twitching body of the sacrifice.

Brittney used to gag when Scar devoured the animals she’d killed, but after so many years, she was so used to the sight and aftermath. Now, she only wiggled her numbing toes in her snow boots, impatient for the ritual to be over with.

When Scar finished dining, he fixed Brittany with yellow glowing eyes. His growling voice sounded like a rabid dog coughing up shards of broken bones. “Do you have a wish you want me to grant?”

“Not tonight.” Brittany did not fall into the trap. She had quickly learned not to get too greedy with the demon. Not only because it would grow angry with her if she demanded too much too soon, but also, because she didn’t want him to make her owe a debt before she was ready to pay it.

Wishes called for careful consideration, cautious wording, meticulous ritual, and a proper sacrifice.

“This night, I gave you this gift and now allow you to return to your realm in peace.” Brittany then said the guttural words that banished the demon before she blew out the candles.

She then lit a sage bundle and trailed the smoke behind her as she kicked snow over the pentagram. After packing her candles and knife away in the suitcase, she hauled the grisly remains of the sacrifice over to the edge of the cliff where the back yard ended and kicked it over the edge, where it sank into the black waters of the lake below.

Back inside, she stripped off the bloody clothes and tossed them in the fireplace. The smell of burning nylon wrinkled her nose. She hoped it dissipated before her parents got home.

After a luxurious soak in a hot bubble bath, Britney changed into a nightgown and settled into her king-size four poster bed.

Her parents’ drunken laughter carried from downstairs.

Mother spoke in a fake, Zsa Zsa Gabor-wannabe voice she’d been affecting lately. “Can you believe that Cora Neery dared to show her face at the gala tonight? I would have thought that she would be persona non grata after the incident at the charity ball last month. Some people have no sense of class.”

Brittney’s father cleared his throat and spoke in a grating, patronizing tone. “The Neerys have more money, and are friends with Mr. Hogadane, Punkin. They’ll always be able to behave as they like. Unlike us, who weren’t allowed among their ranks before my promotion.”

“Well, I still think she’s a tacky hussy,” Mother sniffed. Daddy must have made some sort of expression of disapproval, for Mother’s voice shifted back to normal. “I am of course grateful for the improvement of our circumstances. You’ve worked so hard for our family.”

They have me to thank, Britney thought furiously. If I hadn’t learned the mysteries of the occult and called forth Scar, Dad would still be a junior at Woodward & Paulson instead of being a full partner, and Mom would have been getting her manicured nails dirty working at the jewelry counter at J.C. Penny. We still would have lived in that ugly subdivision on Locust Lane, and the doors of Hogadane’s country club would still be slammed in their faces.

But it wasn’t her parents’ misfortunes and mediocrity that had motivated Brittney to check out that book at the library on casting spells. It was the desire that every fourteen-year-old girl had.

To be pretty.

Brittany still didn’t know if the spells from that first book had actually worked, though just enough things that she wanted happened to make her think it wasn’t coincidence. Her acne had cleared, and her hair did seem a little thicker, and the other girl competing for a spot on the cheerleading squad had indeed suffered a terrible fall and broken her ankle. That was enough to delve further. That first book mentioned the possibility of summoning spirits to do one’s bidding, so Brittany looked up books on that. Most were full of useless ghost stories, but one directed her to exactly what the spell book had promised. Only this book referred to the spirits as demons. Brittany had felt one icy shiver prickle the back of her neck before tossing her hair and deciding that it didn’t matter what they were called, only that they gave her what she wanted.

Months of chants, arcane symbols and a pentagram drawn on her bedroom floor beneath her rug, three dead mice and four dead rabbits later, she brought forth Scarlionapskhis for the first time. All of the demon’s names were impossible to pronounce, that was the first challenge in summoning them.

Brittany called her demon “Scar” for short, but learned quickly that demons did not appreciate nicknames.

The first wish Scar granted was for her dad to have enough money to buy a new wardrobe from the J Crew and Esprit catalogs she and her friends pored over. That wish was granted when one of the partners of Woodward & Paulson Law Firm committed suicide, and her father was made into a full partner.

The wardrobe got Brittany a foot in the door with the A crowd at school, but since the queen bees, Heather Price and Susan Meyer were part of the country club set, Brittney’s family had to be as well.

That wish was granted when her grandmother died shortly after visiting, leaving Brittney’s mom a small fortune, and around the same time, her father landed a prestigious client, gaining the Shaws their coveted invitation to Hogadane’s country club. Wayne Hogadane was the richest man in Amteep, maybe even the northwest. He owned the most prestigious country club, two giant lake cruise boats, the Amteep Resort, the Amteep Press, and some said, the entire town. Becoming part of Hogadane’s social sphere guaranteed prestige.

Brittney never returned the library books. She couldn’t stand the idea of someone else gaining the power she had. Besides, she reasoned, if these books fell into the wrong hands, good people could be hurt. Because demons demanded sacrifices. And while Britney only offered up creatures that wouldn’t be missed and people who were bad, like her father’s mistress, someone else might not be so discerning.


Her Haunted Heart

Brooklyn Ann

B Mine, Book 2

Book Cover: Her Haunted Heart
Part of the B Mine series:


When an aspiring artist inherits a haunted house, it will take the help of the cute nerd next door, the crazy recluse down the street, and a cat named DeLorean to drive the evil out.

Tagline: When things go bump in the night…


When Zelda Shaye inherits the infamous Sazerac House, she immediately senses that something’s not right about the ancient mansion. Strange noises interrupt her sleep, the garbage disposal has it out for her father, and things move on their own.

Zelda’s hot neighbor, Tobe Friedkin, confirms her suspicions when he tells her that the house is known by everyone to be haunted and that members of the Sazerac family suffered mysterious deaths until they were wiped out, leaving Zelda left as the last female descendent to inherit the legacy…and the family curse.

Zelda’s parents won’t believe her, so it’s up to her and Tobe, with the help of the crazy cat lady down the street, to lay the unquiet spirit to rest before it’s too late.


Chapter One

Amteep, Idaho, I981

He dreamed about the house again.

Even though the Greek Revival-Victorian-Italianate-hybrid mansion on the corner of Sazerac Street and Bourbon Court was next door to the simpler split-level ranch house Tobe lived in, the Sazerac House always gave him the impression that it was in another world entirely.

The sense of otherworldliness remained whenever he looked at the house, whether awake or dreaming. A forbidding energy emanated from the light blue-gray wood siding and darker blue-gray trim. The tall leaded glass dormer windows gleamed with a sentient light. Long, graceful columns, painted the same dark blue-gray as the trim, propped up a covered porch that spanned the entire front of the house. Three levels high, with slate-shingled mansard rooftops and four chimneys, the house dwarfed every other property on the street.


As he stood on the wide flagstone walkway leading up to the elaborately carved oak front door, Tobe only knew this was a dream because Cecile Sazerac, the matriarch and last member of the doomed family, sat in her dead brother’s rocker outside, watching him through milky, bluish cataracts. Cecile had died of old age two weeks ago. In real life, the house stood empty, locked tight as a fortress.

Cecile lived on in his dreams, beckoning him as surely as the house did.

“That house is cursed,” old Mrs. Waters from around the corner had told Tobe one hot summer day last year after he had mowed her lawn.

As always, the eccentric cat lady had beckoned him to the shade of her gazebo, where a pitcher of ice-cold lemonade and a plate of snickerdoodles waited. The envelope with Tobe’s pay sat on the edge of the Formica table, not to be handed over until he chatted with the old woman for at least ten minutes. At first, he’d been annoyed that she did that to him. After finishing his hired task, he’d wanted to take the promised money and run home to get ready to spend it on books, music, or a night at the movies. Being held hostage by a chattering granny with six cats milling around his ankles had not been his idea of an afternoon well spent.

But he quickly discovered two things that changed his mind: The first was that Edith Waters was painfully lonely. She didn’t have any children and her husband had died ten years ago. No one ever came to visit her, so Tobe was the closest thing she had to a friend, aside from her six cats. Guilt tore at him when he’d come to that realization. If eating her delicious cookies and sitting with her for ten measly minutes gave her such joy, he vowed that the least he could do was try to stay longer.

The second thing he discovered, when he actually started listening to the stories Edith Waters told him, was that the old woman was an interesting person. And she knew things. A lot of things. Like what times Officer Higgins around the block did his nightly patrol through the neighborhood before he returned home to sleep the day away. Useful information when you were a teenage boy sneaking out at night long past curfew, and still useful when you were an adult with other plans. Mrs. Waters also told him that the Hurleys were swingers, the Bawdens were potheads, and that Mr. Arenson had terrible insomnia.

And she knew about The House.

“What do you mean, cursed?” Tobe had asked, trying to conceal his excitement.

Mrs. Waters had scooped Kirk, a brown and gray marbled tabby with a white belly and mismatched socks, onto her lap and scratched him behind his ears. “I mean exactly that. The ground it was built upon was drenched in blood, and people have died since the day the first nail was hammered. The Sazeracs used to be a large and prosperous family. Ten members of the clan lived in that house at one time. The house picked them off one by one. And now Cecile is the last.”

Tobe had listened as Mrs. Waters painted a macabre history of the family who built the place. The Sazeracs, who doubled their fortunes from bootlegging during prohibition, seemed to be doomed to misery. Mysterious deaths claimed some, others disappeared, and at least two went insane, imprisoned in their own minds. Edith claimed that the house had at least four ghosts, and probably more.

His new friend’s stories had doubled his fascination with the Sazerac House. So much that he went to the library and dug up every bit of information on the family and house that he could find. By the time his senior year at Amteep High School had started, Tobe had become an expert on the house next door. And by Christmas break, he’d become obsessed.

The drive to get inside the Sazerac House consumed him. His first few attempts failed. An offer to mow the lawn was declined despite the overgrown grass and tangled garden, and Tobe’s offer at selling candy for a school fundraiser resulted in the elaborate oak front door slamming shut in his face.

But two months ago, Tobe achieved successful entry with honesty. He told the old woman that he’d fallen in love with her house and would love to see the inside, even if it was only the foyer.

Cecile Sazerac squinted at Tobe for a moment before nodding. Her cataracts had gotten so thick that she didn’t seem to recognize him. “Very well, young man. I haven’t had living company since my dear brother shuffled off his mortal coil, so I may as well share a cup of tea with you.”

For a moment, Tobe gaped at her, disbelieving that she would allow him inside and blinking at her odd phrasing. Living company? Did that mean that Edith was right and the house was haunted?

“Shut your mouth before you catch a fly,” Cecile had said drily. “Follow me.”

Tobe passed through the doorway into the shadowed foyer and a shiver darted down the back of his neck. Cobwebs wove through the arms of the wrought-iron coat tree, and the black and burgundy fleur de lis patterned rug beneath his feet was faded and worn. He followed Cecile into a large open room that was illuminated by a brass and crystal chandelier, and full of sheet-covered furniture that resembled Halloween ghosts. Paintings of dour ancestors from the previous century hung on the wall beside a huge stone fireplace.

The dining room was in a similar state of disuse, with sheets on the chairs, cobwebs strewn through another chandelier, and a vast dust-covered table that could seat thirty people. He wished he could peek to see what kind of chairs they were. Chippendales? American Victorians? The big cabbage roses on the late-nineteenth-century wallpaper resembled staring faces.

“Come along.” Cecile’s cane had thumped on the heart pine hardwood floor. “You may join me in the parlor for tea and then you may leave.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tobe hurriedly obeyed, not wanting to risk her changing her mind and having that big butler/handyman muscle him away. Or worse, for her to call the police, as she’d threatened one of the previous times he’d tried to get inside the house.

The parlor was spotless, with gleaming hardwood floors, plush antique rugs, and fancy objets d’art in an elaborately carved hutch. Instead of dour Sazerac ancestors scowling on the walls, paintings of landscapes and nature added to the room’s welcoming comfort. With the afternoon sunlight streaming in the large bay windows, Tobe saw how old and frail Cecile had become. All those years seeing her watering her azaelas every morning had made his subconscious believe that she was ageless.

But sitting across from her in a velvet wingback chair allowed him to see the truth. Ms. Sazerac’s time was running out. Wrinkled skin, thin as tissue paper, revealed blue veins beneath, her hollowed cheeks were framed with bones that looked sharp enough to cut, and her gossamer white hair with pink scalp showing beneath overwhelmed the faint streaks of red.

“I suppose you’ll ask me if I killed Louis.” Cecile’s words disrupted Tobe’s perusal of her features.

Tobe blinked at the abrupt turn in conversation. “No, ma’am.”

He remembered Louis, the catatonic old man who’d sat outside in the rocking chair on the wide covered porch, staring blankly out at the street. Children would sometimes try to taunt him, but quickly gave up when they got no reaction. A maid came out every twenty minutes to wipe the drool from his chin. Tobe had timed the routine once.

Edith had told Tobe that Louis had once been a wild, rebellious man and a notorious drug dealer, but after multiple times being committed to asylums and several shock treatments, he became a vegetable for the last two decades of his life. He’d died in the winter of 1976.

The old woman pulled him back into the present and continued as if Tobe hadn’t objected to the idea of her committing fratricide. “It doesn’t matter one way or another, since I’ll be dead before the lilacs bloom, but I didn’t kill my brother or my niece. The house took one, the demon took the other.”

“The demon?” Tobe echoed. Edith had mentioned a curse, but not a demon.

For a moment, Cecile stared through Tobe, as if trying to find someone inside him. Then she shook her head and made a shooing motion with one wrinkled hand covered in rings. “Go wash your hands. Dolores is about to bring in the tea and cakes. The bathroom is down the corridor, the second door on the right.”

As he’d made his way down the corridor to the bathroom, every bone in Tobe’s body itched with the need to race up one of the curved staircases to explore the bedrooms of the dead Sazeracs whose stories he’d read in the library.

But as his feet began to stray from the path he’d been directed to take, an icy gust of wind rifled through his hair. Goosebumps prickled his flesh. Was he going to see a ghost? A door across from him creaked open. Tobe sucked in a breath.

A woman in a starched uniform stared at him with narrowed eyes and a suspicious stare. She wasn’t as ancient as Cecile, but she was still old. Her white hair was twisted in a tight bun. She must be Dolores. “The bathroom is through that door. Best hurry. The mistress does not like to be kept waiting.”

Tobe nodded and obeyed, taking minimal time to admire the bathtub and the fixtures on the antique sink before hurrying back to the parlor.

The same old woman served Tobe and Cecile with a tray of tea and cookies. With some of the disturbing history he’d read, Tobe didn’t drink from his cup until Cecile had sipped from hers.

The old woman noticed, giving Tobe a wry smile. “The last poisoning to occur in this house was back in 1931. Besides, I wish you no harm, young man. In fact, I am hopeful that you may be useful in the future.”

“You mean to mow your lawn or to help with repairs?” The cornices over most of the bay and dormer windows were crumbling and the roof was in dire need of new shingles.

Cecile cackled, a dry reedy sound. “Oh, things are too far gone here to bother trying to improve. Leave that to the next one to bear this millstone.”

Tobe felt a twinge of sadness to hear her talk about this beautiful house in this way. How much tragedy and suffering had really occurred under this roof? He remained silent, watching the dust motes swirl lazily in the air, hoping Cecile would continue.

He was rewarded after an endless silence. She leaned forward and seized his hands with wrinkled, bejeweled fingers. “The curse must be broken and the demon must be imprisoned in iron.”

Wow. That was not what Tobe expected “The demon?”

“Iron,” Cecile repeated calmly, as if she were asking Tobe to rake the leaves from her yard. “That’s what they told me.”

Tobe’s arms had prickled with goosebumps at her words. “Who are they?”

Cecile shook her head and blinked rapidly, an unnerving sight, with those filmy cataracted eyes darting around blindly. “Dolores,” she cried out in a shrill voice. “Help me to my bed.”

The maid had rushed into the parlor and glared at Tobe as if he’d been responsible for the old woman’s sudden distress. “You had best leave.”

Tobe had never left a place faster.


It was that day Tobe dreamed about. Only this time, he went further.

The wood had creaked below his shoes as he’d ascended the west staircase, the one that led to Belinda Sazerac’s attic room. The one who’d famously gone mad, and been imprisoned for years before throwing herself from the window and falling to her death.

Suddenly, the whole house seemed to spin around him. Tobe clung to the bannister and closed his eyes, overcome with dizziness. When he opened his eyes, he stood before the attic room.

The door swung open before he could reach for the tarnished knob.

A woman in a white lace-trimmed nightgown stood in front of one of the large octagonal bay windows. She swayed back and forth, humming softly. The melody was haunting and somehow familiar.

Tobe held his breath and willed himself not to move. He knew on some primal level that if he saw the woman’s face, he’d lose his mind. Don’t turn around, his mind cried out. Please, for the sake of my sanity, don’t turn around.

The woman turned.

Her face was a corpse’s ruin, cheek and jawbones protruding through paper-thin flaps of desiccated flesh. Insects crawled through the tattered, yellow lace of her nightgown. Her eyes were covered with a rheumy film.

She grinned at Tobe, her brown teeth seeming to be too large for her cavernous face.

“I’ve been waiting for you, young scholar, future kin.” The words emerged in a dry rustle, wind through a tomb. “Help the bearer of the legacy. The demon must be contained.”

She reached for him and—

Tobe jerked awake, drenched in sweat despite the air conditioning blowing from the vent above his bed. He trembled as he rolled out of his queen-size bed and dug his clothes from the pile of clean laundry his mom had set on top of his dresser.

The dream was so intense that Tobe couldn’t stop reliving it, occasionally shivering despite the early June heat. After showering and eating breakfast, he rushed outside, eager to head over to Edith’s house to tell her about the dream. She was the only one who appreciated his obsession with the Sazerac House. His parents thought he needed to see a shrink.

As Tobe’s feet sank into the lush lawn, he froze when two cars parked in the driveway of The House. “Breaking the Law” from the latest Judas Priest album, British Steel, blared from the open windows of the second car, a shiny blue Datsun wagon. The new owners had arrived.

Edith had told Tobe about the family only last week, the day before he graduated high school. He’d been at school, cleaning out his locker, when two men had shown up at the house to look it over. Edith had used her granny-skills to get the story. The Sazerac family hadn’t been wiped out after all. Some distant relatives had been found, but Edith wasn’t told whether the family would be moving into the house. Tobe hoped they did. Especially since one of them clearly liked good music.

His wish had come true. Not caring if he was caught staring, he watched the driver’s side door of the Datsun wagon open and a pair of pale glorious legs step out onto the cobblestone driveway.

Tobe’s jaw dropped when he saw the rest of her. Tall and lean, with dark red hair tumbling over her shoulders, she was the most beautiful girl Tobe had ever seen. Black cutoff shorts hugged her slim hips; threads of denim caressed her shapely thighs. A black AC/DC shirt with the sleeves ripped off revealed slim arms and sculpted shoulders. Her vibrant stance and aura of open energy was the antithesis of the previous owner’s stooped posture and guarded air.

“I think I’m in love,” Tobe breathed.

As Tobe watched her walk to the back of her car and take a cat carrier from the wagon’s cargo area, the house behind her seemed to awaken from its uneasy hibernation.

As if sensing his staring, the beautiful redhead halted and spun on her heel to look at him. When her blue eyes met his, Tobe’s mouth went dry. An electric spark, teeming with stories of the future, jolted between them.

They would do great things together. They would—

Abruptly, she turned her back on him and headed up the walkway to the house. If her reaction to him was any indicator, his hopes of getting inside were crushed.


His Final Girl

Brooklyn Ann

B Mine, book 1

ISBN: 978-1948029889


At summer camp, Wes and Linnea's new-found romance barely has a chance to survive as a masked killer goes on a rampage.


Computer nerd, Wes Carpenter, dreads having to spend ten days at summer camp with the rest of his in-coming high school senior class. But when he meets strong-willed and confident farm girl, Linnea Langenkamp, everything about being away at camp improves immediately. When a malicious prank awakens an ancient evil, turning their summer romance into a bloodbath, Wes and Linnea pray they make it home alive while fighting for the survival of their classmates. With Wes’s ingenuity and Linnea’s knowledge of the forest, together they may be able to stop the killer, save the camp, and maybe even find their happily ever after on the way.



Amteep, Idaho, 1978


Wes Carpenter wiped his brow as he turned the page of the latest issue of 80 Micro Magazine. Only twelve more lines of code and he’d be able to play Scarf Man, a game that was supposed to be an imitation of Pac Man. It was monotonous, typing in hundreds, sometimes thousands of characters into his computer, but some games could not be found on cassette at RadioShack. At least this method had helped him learn the computer’s language.


Wes had gotten the TRS80 computer for Christmas last year, but hadn’t really gotten the hang of it until he’d fallen ill with a monster case of bronchitis, which morphed into pneumonia, then to mono. As a result, he’d spent nearly six months at home. The never-ending sickness had wreaked havoc on his asthma and cost him a school year, but there had also been a silver lining. Huddled in bed with issues of Byte and 80 Micro his father had gotten for him, and in the hours where he had the strength to get up, Wes used his time to gain knowledge and mastery of the computer.

His breath tightened as he typed the final line of code. If Wes missed one character, the game wouldn’t run. Reaching for his inhaler, he waited for the computer to process the code. Once he took a deep puff of acrid, chemical-flavored moisture, the pressure on his lungs loosened, and he was able to breathe again. Still, he remained tense through the endless waiting for the computer to process the commands. Five minutes later, the screen flickered and music began to play as the title and copyright date appeared on the black and white monitor.

“Yes!” Wes pumped both fists in the air.

As his fingers reached for the arrow keys to move Pac— er— Scarf Man, his mother opened his bedroom door.

“Wesley.” Mom’s voice was brusque as she strode into the room. She was probably going to complain that his computer was giving her radio static again. Sometimes his computer did that. But her radio was portable. His computer was not. If she took her radio outside, or even into the kitchen, she wouldn’t have trouble.

“I have some news for you.”

Relief washed over him that she wasn’t going to bug him about his computer again. “I’m a little busy, Mom. Can’t it wait?”

“No, it can’t. You’ve been locked in here with that silly, bleeping thing for months. You can take a moment to talk with me.” Laurie Carpenter was normally an easygoing, cheerful mom, but now Wes heard the rare thread of steel in her voice.

Leaving the Player One screen flashing, Wes turned down the volume on the monitor. “Okay. What’s the news?”

“You’re going to summer camp.” Mom beamed like the wheel-spinning woman on The Price is Right.

“What?” Wes rubbed his eyes, wondering if this was some kind of joke. “I’m too old for that stuff.” His nineteenth birthday was last week.

“It’s tradition up here for the senior class to go to camp and get to know each other before school starts,” Mom explained, ignoring Wes’s protest. “I think it sounds lovely. Especially since you haven’t gotten to know anyone since we moved to Amteep.”

Wes thought it sounded like a stupid tradition. “Spending ten days with my classmates before school starts will feel like going back to school early.” He wanted to spend those last two weeks earning money at his job at the movie theater, and at home with his computer.

“Spending the rest of the summer cooped up inside is bad for you.” Mom wagged her perfectly manicured finger at him. “Furthermore, you could stand to make new friends.”

“I’m older than all of them.” And even if Wes hadn’t been nineteen, it’s not like he’d be well-received. Not with his glasses, asthma, and gangly form. Not with his interest in computers and complete illiteracy in all things sports. He may as well have had “nerd” tattooed on his forehead. On top of all that, he’d moved to this small town in North Idaho from San Diego and was a “city boy” according to the jerks who’d jeered at him in the theater parking lot the other day.

“Only by a year.” Laurie bent to pick his clothes up from the floor. “And probably some less than that.” Suddenly, she frowned. “Are you worried about dating?”

“Mom,” he groaned. “I’m worried about college. I’m worried about how I can convince Dad’s boss to give me a chance at Micron when I graduate. I’m worried about how to then turn that job into a career writing programs that will make me enough money to buy one of those nice beach houses back in San Diego.” At the dismay in his mother’s eyes from mentioning moving away, he switched to a teasing note. “I’m worried about there not being enough of those cookies I smelled you baking left after Janey got to them.”

A smile tilted the corner of Mom’s mouth. “Wesley, I’m being serious. I know the move was rough for you.”

It was. Even worse was he couldn’t object too much because his dad had gotten an amazing promotion at Micron, moving to their new second headquarters in Amteep. All predication pointed to this town booming in the next decade, becoming a stronghold in the growing tech industry. But Wes missed his home in San Diego the moment they’d left. He missed the few friends he’d had, the much bigger RadioShack, the record store, and the multitudes of rock concerts and clubs he would have been able to access to see live bands if he’d been there for his nineteenth birthday. Instead, he had spent his birthday at a bar with his father, playing an awkward game of pool and trying to pretend that the pitcher of beer Dad had ordered had been Wes’s first. He didn’t think Dad had been fooled.

Greg Carpenter was a brilliant man, with a PhD in electronic engineering. For many years, Wes wanted to be exactly like his dad when he grew up. But now that Wes was almost there, he knew he was nowhere near going down his father’s path. And yet, that didn’t bother him so much. Wes’s own path loomed ahead, frightening and exciting all at once. Who he would become, he didn’t quite know. He’d likely leave home after graduation.

Sometimes it was scary to think that if it weren’t for getting sick last year, he might have been on his own already. Those missed months had cost him most of his senior year of high school. Now he’d have to do it all over again. And, apparently, attend summer camp.

“Wes?” Mom interrupted his musings. “There’s a list of things you’ll need to pack for camp, and of course we’ll have to go to the pharmacy and get you an extra inhaler.”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I’m not going to some silly camp. That’s kid’s stuff.”

“Yes, you are.” Mom remained implacable, and somehow smug, like she had an ace up her sleeve. “I already mailed the check.”

Wes bit his lip. “Then you can ask for a refund.”

Mom’s spine straightened and she put her hands on her hips. “Your father and I are taking your little sister to Disneyland, so no one will be home.”

For a moment he was tempted to demand why he wasn’t going to Disneyland too, but he couldn’t. If camp was kid’s stuff, then what was Mickey Mouse? He leaned forward and rose from his seat. “I’m an adult. I can fend for myself.”

Mom’s lips curved in a triumphant smile before she delivered the killing blow. “Not without food, you can’t. I haven’t shopped for groceries all week, instead using up what we have.”

Shit. Wes had been curious about the interesting casseroles and smorgasbord platters she’d been serving lately, but hadn’t noticed that she hadn’t gone to the grocery store in a while. Mom had him there. Wes loved to eat. His parents marveled at where he put it all, since he remained scrawny. And he could put away a lot. More than he could afford with his part-time wages at the movie theater.

It looked like he would be going to camp after all. Holding up his hands in surrender, Wes forced a smile. “Fine. You win. At least I’ll have time to read. Where is this place, anyway?”

“On the other side of Lake Skeetshue. Remember? Where we had that lovely cruise.” She pulled a brochure out of her back pocket. “It’s called Camp Natli— I can’t pronounce it. Another Indian name, I guess.” She handed him the brochure, displaying overly joyous teens paddling canoes on a sparkling lake with a beach and fake totem poles in the background.

Wes squinted at the name of the place. Camp Natliskeliguten. “I can’t pronounce it either. I think it sounds more German.”

“They call it ‘Camp Natty’ for short.” Now that she’d won, Mom had returned to her usual cheerful self. “And aside from the lake activities in the picture, you can learn archery, canoeing, and they’ll even have guided nature walks so you can learn about the forest. By the time you get back, you’ll know more about our new home than the rest of the family.”

Wes did not share her enthusiasm. A lot of that stuff would be hell on his asthma. Also, the idea of wandering around in the woods spooked him a little. As his little sister had proudly announced, there were some scary wild animals in the forests surrounding Amteep. Bears, wolves, mountain lions, and bobcats. And although Wes had swum in the ocean plenty of times, he couldn’t say he enjoyed it. Knowing his luck, he’d tip over a canoe and fall into the cold water, lose his glasses, and maybe get covered in leeches.

Mom continued, ignoring his grimace. “And there will be dances and socials with the girls. Maybe you’ll meet someone special.”

“Maybe,” he muttered, hoping to deter another worried speculation about his lack of interest in girls. Well, it wasn’t a total lack, more that most girls lacked interest in him. Dad had even pulled him aside for a “man to man” talk a little over a year ago.

“You’re not one of those men who are… ah…” Dad had scratched the back of his neck, his ears beet red. “Interested in other men, are you?”

Wes had laughed, though there was a bit of unease. One of his close friends was a homosexual. Would Wes’s father hate him if he swung that way? “Of course not. I like girls. I’m just waiting to meet the right one. Someday I want what you and Mom have.” And that was the utter truth. Except Wes didn’t have high hopes of that ever happening. Something was missing inside him and he didn’t think he’d be ready, much less worthy of love unless he found it.

His mother snapped him back to the present. “Turn off that beeping contraption and come with me. There’s a huge list of things we’ll need to pack for you.”

Wes sighed and pushed his chair in under his desk, giving his computer and new game one last mournful glance. Then his stomach growled. “Are there any cookies left?”

There were. Wes ate four as he sat across from his mother, scowling at the endless list of items he’d need for ten days of camp, half of which he didn’t have. Bug spray, a poncho, a pocket knife, a hatchet, and a flint kit for making fires.

As they checked off the list of things they did have—flashlight, changes of clothes, et cetera—Wes found himself spacing off, half-listening to the PBS program Janey was watching in the living room.

“…after the third mysterious accident, which left four miners dead and seven wounded, the Sundown mine closed for good. In 1948, the land was purchased by…”

Mom heard the TV as well. Her mouth twisted with disgust. “Janey, why don’t you change the channel? Honestly, I don’t understand why you like to learn about such morbid topics.”

Janey’s voice held its usual indomitable cadence. “I just do.”

Mom raised her eyes to the heavens and sighed. “What did I do to be punished with such stubborn children?”

Wes laughed. “We got it from you.”

By the time Mom was placated by Wes’s cooperation with the prep for camp, Dad had come home for dinner. The crock pot beef stew melted in Wes’s mouth. He’d miss this cooking when he was at the camp. His melancholy increased when he returned to his computer only to discover that Scarf Man sucked. If the computer had a joystick, it might be playable, but with the arrow keys? The control was crap. After struggling with the game for two hours, he gave up and put on a Deep Purple cassette.

Lying in bed with his headphones on, Wes realized that next week he wouldn’t be able to do this either. More than ever, he wanted one of those Sony Walkmans that had come out last month. Too bad the things cost a hundred and fifty bucks. Even then, the one that had been available at Amteep’s RadioShack had sold out the day it was released, and future units were on backorder.

At least I have my boom box, Wes thought before he dozed off.


Wes ran through the woods, breath tight and heart pounding as an unseen figure chased him. The grip on his lungs tightened further until his breath came in pitiful gasps and wheezes. Someone grabbed his hand, urging him along. He summoned up the will to keep running, though the underbrush threatened to trip him. Thunder rumbled, despite flashes of clear moonlight penetrating the gaps between the pine boughs. A blessing and curse, because though Wes and his unseen friend could see where they were going, that meant that he could see them too.

But who was he?

They stopped running so abruptly that their shoes sent gravel skittering in all directions. Lightning flashed again to reveal a gaping maw before them. A black abyss threating to swallow them whole. But to go back meant death as well.

“We have to,” his friend whispered.

He couldn’t reply. He couldn’t breathe. Together, they plunged forward and—


Wes woke drenched in sweat and heaving, his chest constricted by an invisible boa. Scrabbling for his inhaler, he knocked his water glass from his nightstand. The shattering sound made him cringe as he took a big puff from his inhaler. This was the worst asthma attack he’d had in months.

Sucking in air until his lungs cleared, he lay there shivering.

Reviews:Publisher's Weekly on Publisher's Weekly wrote:

Ann (the Brides of Prophecy series) playfully combines romance tropes with the campy horror beats of ’80s slasher movies in the fun first novel in her B Mine series. Farm girl Linnea Langenkamp and computer nerd Wes Carpenter meet at summer camp before their senior year of high school sometime in the 1980s. Their instant mutual attraction develops into love with very few stumbling blocks, save for the cartoonish jocks and cheerleaders who bully them (“The Neanderthal grinned. ‘I like punching nerds.’ ”). Then a storm strikes, cutting the power and knocking out the bridge that connects the campsite to the mainland. When one of the campers turns up dead, Wes and Linnea discover that the camp abuts an abandoned mine with a tragic history. With a masked killer on the loose and bodies piling up, Wes and Linnea attempt to keep their peers alive, aided by their Native American camp counselor, who has little to do beyond offer sage wisdom to the white teens. Despite the danger, the couple still find time for tender sex scenes that will gratify romance readers, but the emotional moments are hampered by two-dimensional characterization. Still, this quick, genre-bending story will please New Adult romance fans. (Apr.)

Teaser Graphic

Forbidden Song

Brooklyn Ann

Hearts of Metal Book 5

ISBN: 978-1983818530

Womanizing rock star, Cliff Tracey represents everything that has been forbidden to Christine Mayne, which only makes him a greater temptation, especially since she discovers he’s so much more than he pretends to be.


After having one of the worst experiences a young teenager could endure at the hands of cruel musicians, Christine Mayne's rock star brother Quinn tried to lock her away from the world. She had to fight to live her life, go to college, get her master's and enter her PhD program. Now, she's determined to complete her research on group dynamics by touring with Bleeding Vengeance, even it means deceiving her brother and lying to the band's fabulous lead singer, Cliff Tracey.

Cliff Tracey hates being manipulated, lied to and deceived. He'd know, having gone through a string of exes who had done just that. When he thinks he's found a kindred spirit, and a beautiful babe to boot, imagine his surprise - and disappointment - when he learns she played him so she can tour with his band to complete her PhD. When he finds out why, he knows he's in double trouble because Quinn Mayne will kill anyone who touches his sister, and Cliff Tracey has all sorts of plans for Christine Mayne that involves more than either of them ever expected.


Cliff fought not to glance back at the closed partition door as Klement talked to the roadies about the show’s sound and lights. Christine was being quiet as a mouse, but it was only a matter of time before the others discovered her. A twinge of worry gnawed at his gut. He hoped Klement wouldn’t be too pissed about his stowaway.


His jaw clenched at the childish sentiment. Fuck Klement if he was. The guy was too controlling with how the band worked as it was. Klement wasn’t his father and had no say on his social life. If Klement could have his chick on the bus, Cliff should be able to have one too. Okay, so far Christine didn’t seem interested in being “his chick,” but he hoped that after a time he could persuade her to change her mind. She was like a gift dropped in his lap: beautiful, smart, sympathetic to the trials he had to face in his work. And most of all, she was a challenge, since she wasn’t in his lap.

Not yet.

Of course, maybe that’s where he’d fucked up with Kat. He’d just assumed she’d tumble into his bed like the last ones. Cliff had enjoyed the chase with his first few girlfriends, but as his fame grew, all prospect of pursuit faded. Women lined up to be with him on any terms.

Well, Christine had terms; that was clear. He just needed to find out what they were.

He had a feeling he would enjoy meeting them.

Roderick started to head towards the back of the bus. Shit. They’d only gone about twelve miles. He’d hoped to hold off the big reveal until at least thirty, or until they were out of cell service.

“Hey, Rod,” Cliff said, frantic to distract him. “What did you think of Deity’s set?”

“It was pretty cool,” the drummer said, eyebrows knitting at the abrupt question. “I liked the new song, though I haven’t made my mind up on the percussion.”

Kat elbowed him. “Oh, it was great and you know it. And so romantic of him to write a song based on one of Shana’s books.”

“I suppose.” Rod snickered. “I still can’t believe he ended up with a lady who writes bodice rippers.”

“They are not bodice rippers!” Kat shouted, poking Rod in the chest as the roadies laughed. Cliff took a step back. He’d learned really fast that you did not flip Kat shit for her choice of reading material. She may be tiny, but she was fierce.

Kat continued her tirade. “They are historically accurate stories that have a happily-ever-after and depict strong women who get what they want and men who encourage their empowerment. Dante’s smart enough to see that.”

Klement chuckled. “All right, you two. Break it up.”

Kat sighed. “Fine. But he really should read a romance novel before knocking them. In fact, I have one in the back that he’d—”

Cliff intervened. “Give it up, Kat. Rod doesn’t read books period.”

“I do too. I just don’t read fiction,” Rod retorted, rubbing his wrist. “Anyway, my hand is killing me. I wanna grab my compression sleeve.”

Cliff stepped in front of the door. “Why don’t we smoke a bowl first?”

“Yeah,” chimed in Steve, the light tech.

Rod paused. “Do you have any this time, or are you intending on begging from Klem’s stash again?”

“I have my own,” Cliff said, trying not to sound defensive, knowing Christine could hear. He didn’t want her to think he was a mooch. “And I don’t beg off of him. He’s just generous.”

“I have my own too,” said Greg, the sound engineer. “Got some sticky chronic from the weed store. God, I love Washington.”

Cliff gave Rod a pointed look and silently blessed the roadie.

They all settled on the bench seats and around the little kitchen table, but as Cliff loaded a bowl, taking as much time as possible, he forgot a vital fact: Kat didn’t smoke weed.

He froze with the lighter in his hand as she got up from the bench seat and headed to the partition door. “Kat, wait.”

She stopped and turned with a quizzical look. “What? I’m just grabbing my laptop.”

“I…um…” He scrambled for a distraction to keep her up front, but nothing came.

She shook her head and opened the door. Then gasped.

Cliff flinched.

“What are you doing back here?” Kat demanded.

“Cliff said I could tag along.” Christine’s voice was shaky and defensive. “You know, for my research paper.”

Klement bolted up from his seat looking furious. He met Kat in the doorway and glared in Christine’s direction. “God damn it, Chrissy!”

Chrissy? Cliff frowned. Did Klement know her already?

Klement rounded on Cliff, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Quinn is going to fucking kill you.” He closed his eyes and brushed his hand over his face as if the world were ending. “He’s going to kill all of us.”

Cliff blinked, confused. He’d only had two beers and no hit off the pipe yet. “What does Quinn have to do with Christine being on the road with us?”

Klement’s words came like a punch in the stomach. “She’s his baby sister.”


Metal and Mistletoe

Brooklyn Ann

Hearts of Metal, Book 4

ISBN: 978-1541155169

Fighting the darkness of their pasts, talented heavy metal musicians Curtis Scrimm and Dezra Hopkins seek holiday solitude but find each other.


Curtis Scrimm and Dezra Hopkins have lived both the highs and the lows of life—literally. They’ve both known the joy of performing to hordes of screaming fans and the horror of betraying all that they love and admire. They’ve both just gotten out of rehab.

But things are always darkest before the dawn, and with this Christmas comes redemption. It arrives in an unlikely place, in the solitary and deadly beauty of Yellowstone Park. It comes in the form of desperation and unquenchable desire, though things are never so black and white. The spark is a good bass line, the hottest lick from an electric guitar, and a primalistic roar like a furious lioness, and it will ignite an inferno of inspiration that both had been seeking. But that flame needs to be fanned. Curt and Dezra can nurture it with each other. Then they’ll need to find enough trust to make it burn forever.

Conjuring Destiny

Brooklyn Ann

Brides of Prophecy, Book 3

ISBN: 978-0692552698


There’s more than a prophecy holding them together …
Famous rock star, Xochitl Leonine, has dreamt of a world with two moons where a black cloaked man beckons her. One Halloween night, she meets the mysterious stranger of her dreams… literally... and their shared dance becomes a rendezvous in a place of endless night.

Zareth Amotken has no idea how important Xochitl’s heavy metal band is to her. As an immortal sorcerer, he doesn’t care. He has one goal: to find the prophesied savior of his world. Her voice holds the power to bring back his world’s vanished sun.

Xochitl’s compassion urges her to help in any way she can. Yet learning the mysteries of her past causes conflict with her future in music. Her destiny in his world and her obligations to her band pull her in opposite directions. How can she long for one while the other is so dire?

As Zareth introduces her to his people and teaches her to control her powers, she aches for his enchanting kiss. Zareth tries to resist, for their passion will unleash serious consequences, both political and magical.

As the time to fulfill her destiny draws closer, she must choose between her heart, her duty, and her friends. The wrong choice could ruin everything.



Zareth Amotken, high sorcerer of Aisthanesthai, wove through the crowd of jabbering mortals, his lip curled in scorn at their lack of magic. With such tepid fare, his hydra would starve if he remained too long in this desolate world. He could already feel his power dwindling. Disdain faded to unease at that prospect. Zareth quashed the debilitating emotion. He would secure Xochitl and be back in his own world tonight.

The mortals stepped warily to the side as he passed, either intimidated by his height or because they sensed that he was other. He wore a hooded cloak to conceal his luminescent hair, even though unnatural colored tresses swarmed his vision, he likely didn’t need to worry about anything except for his hands, which he kept in his pockets.


Delgarias had been right. Locating Xochitl Leonine had been simple.

“She shines like a beacon,” the Keeper of the Prophecy had told him. “And she’ll smell like a banquet to your hydra. Even if she didn’t, she’d be easy to find.”

“Why is that?”

“She’s the lead singer of a world famous heavy metal band. They call themselves Rage of Angels.”

Zareth had gaped at the faelin sorcerer in disbelief. “She’s a troubadour? The bastard daughter of Mephistopheles and the princess of Medicia, the one who will save our world, is naught but a minstrel?”

“Think about it, Zareth. What else would she be given the words of the Prophecy?”

“‘With her triumphant roar...’” His eyes widened at the implication. “You can’t be serious.”

“Has the prophecy ever lied?”

Now, here he stood, in a raucous earth realm tavern on the Spirit Feast—what the people here called Halloween—to at last lay eyes on the woman he’d been dream-summoning for the last four years.

As he wove through the costumed masses, he detected several non-human presences. One could be Xochitl, though it was doubtful as the stage remained empty. Strengthening his shields, Zareth surveyed the crowd. His breath caught when he glimpsed two dark-haired men. They were Mephistopheles’s fallen monsters.

Two millennia ago, the would-be god had created some metaphysical mutation, which morphed humans into blood drinking monsters with unnatural strength. They’d acted as his foot soldiers until they’d displeased him, forever banished to Earth, punished to live in a world free of magic.

Zareth couldn’t think of a worse punishment.

Eyeing the creatures, who the people here called vampires,he wondered if they had a connection with Xochitl. After all, she was Mephistopheles’s daughter. Zareth prayed they were only here for the music. He had no wish to interact with those abominations. The lights dimmed and all went still as a vampire appeared on the stage. His fangs gleamed in the stage lights. The humans grinned in admiration, assuming the teeth were part of his costume.

“Welcome to the annual Mortuary Halloween bash!” the vampire shouted.“As many of you know, tonight’s honored guests got their start in my club. Some of you even saw them doing covers of Megadeth, Iron Maiden, and my personal favorite, Metal Church.”

The creature owned this establishment. Zareth ground his teeth in disgust.

“Despite landing a major record deal and recording two platinum albums, they’ve never forgotten us. Every Halloween, they perform a concert and all the proceeds go to a charitable cause. This year your cover charge and drinks will help homeless veterans.” The vampire spread his arms wide. “Without further ado, I present to you, Rage of Angels!”

Zareth felt her before she emerged. Once again, Delgarias had been correct in his assertions. Xochitl’s radiant presence and effervescent power washed over him like a force that made his knuckles tighten.

He cursed her inwardly. Foolish creature. Hadn’t her mother taught her to shield properly?

His hydra, a non-corporeal demon that gave him immortality, roiled with hunger for her essence.

The audience erupted into a cacophony as Rage of Angels came into view. His breath caught at his first sight of the savior of his world. Delicate and ethereal as any luminite, her fine-boned features and pearlescent skin made the humans around her seem coarse by comparison.

Her black and purple waist-length hair gleamed under the stage lights. Unbidden, his gaze swept across her firm, lush breasts and exquisitely curved hips, drinking in the sight of her like a man starved.

Lust, hot and immediate, surged through him in a relentless wave. Zareth clenched his fists and took a deep breath. That wasn’t what he was here for. She was an imperative means to a crucial end. Still, the intensity of his unexpected desire caught him off guard. He’d been too busy with his studies to crave female companionship often.

He shook his head. Maybe it had been too long since he’d shared pleasure with a woman?

So captivated with her beauty, he hadn’t taken notice of her costume. The full-skirted black taffeta dress at first resembled a ball gown, but the lace veil on her head clarified its true purpose. Many of his people also wore such veils for the same occasion.

It was a wedding gown. The realization gave him a twinge of unease. Could her garb be an omen?

The foreboding dissolved into fury when she hugged the vampire. Zareth’s fists clenched in effort not to charge forward and tear her from the monster’s embrace.

A red haze obscured his vision even after the vampire left the stage and Xochitl addressed her audience. Outrage kept him from hearing her words. What did she think she was doing, consorting with their sort? Protective rage coursed through him, making his shadow spell waver.

His hydra roared in protest. No! She is mine!

A memory froze him. He’d uttered those words in a dream-summoning mere years ago. Something had intruded upon Xochitl’s dream. Had it been a vampire?

Every fiber of his being longed to incinerate every blood drinker in sight. Only the dangers of revealing himself stayed his hand.

The other vampires congregated at the base of the stage, scanning the crowd with narrowed, watchful eyes. They’d positioned guards.

Have they sensed me?

Zareth held his breath, poised to fight if necessary. So they meant to protect Xochitl and the others. A slight measure of his hostility waned, though his distrust remained. Then music filled the air and banished all thoughts of the loathsome creatures.

Heavy metal was an explosion on the senses. The wailing guitars, throbbing bass, staccato drums, and the vocalist’s enraged screams evoked a primal life force within its listeners.

A force that had them thrashing and jumping with exhilaration... a force that woke his hydra. It spread its invisible form outward, opened its mouths, and fed. Zareth closed his eyes in pleasure,rejuvenated from his exhausting effort of coming through the portal to this world.

Zareth had heard electric guitars before, but never had he heard the instruments distorted and played in such a blistering style. Leaning forward in fascination, he tried to decide whether or not he liked this music. Either way, it had power.

An impossibly fast drum beat pounded through his consciousness. Whipping his attention to the source of the sound, Zareth studied the striking dark skinned girl playing the drums. This one held a glimmer of magic. Humans of that ilk were rare on Earth, descending from the time when mages, faelin and luminites dwelled here until they were persecuted by non-magical humans. However, he was unsurprised that Xochitl and this woman had become friends. They must have sensed their kinship, as Zareth could.

Guitars joined the rhythm and he shifted his scrutiny to the other minstrels. The bass player also held power... and so did the guitarist. They all did.

“How in the realms?” he whispered, staring in shock.

For two of them to meet was probable, but four?

His speculation broke off as Xochitl’s voice permeated his consciousness. Rich and operatic, punctuated by bone chilling screams of rage, it was more than pleasing to his ears. Her voice was thick with power which imbued its listeners with pure, unadulterated emotion.

Zareth closed his eyes and pictured the people of Aisthanesthai hearing this voice, their passions renewed, their magic rejuvenated enough to bring forth the dawn of their salvation.


Bite At First Sight

Brooklyn Ann

Scandals With Bite: Book 3

ISBN: 076-0789239502

When Rafael Villar, Lord Vampire of London, stumbles upon a woman in the cemetery, he believes he’s found a vampire hunter—not the beautiful, intelligent stranger she proves to be.

Cassandra Burton is enthralled by the scarred, disfigured vampire who took her prisoner. The aspiring physician was robbing graves to pursue her studies—and he might turn out to be her greatest subject yet. So they form a bargain: one kiss for every experiment. As their passion grows and Rafe begins to heal, only one question remains: can Cassandra see the man beyond the monster?


28 September 1823

St. Pancras Cemetery, London

“If one desires a task accomplished correctly, one must do it herself.” Cassandra Burton, Dowager Countess of Rosslyn, repeated the litany as she pulled the rickety little wagon through the moonlit aisle of tombstones.

She shivered under her velvet cloak. Her fingers had long since gone numb with the effort of navigating the dratted conveyance over uneven ground and across slippery, damp grass. Shovels and pry bars clanked across the wagon’s worn pine boards. The winch rattled on its frame.

Something flickered across the corner of her vision.


Cassandra jumped. She stopped and rubbed her gloved hands together for warmth, surveying the graveyard. The area was still and silent as…well, a tomb. Yet the chill in her spine refused to abate. A scornful frown turned her lips at such irrational behavior. Ghosts were an illogical figment of uneducated imaginations, and no one could possibly have business out here at this hour…except herself.

“Worthless curs,” Cassandra whispered in as haughty a tone as she could manage.

If only the men to whom she’d offered a more-than-generous sum to perform this troublesome task had done their duty, rather than disappearing. She shook her head. If not for their unreasonable negligence, she would now be comfortably ensconced in her laboratory unraveling the secrets of the human body…not out in this cold, dreary place, jumping at shadows.

Surveying the newest graves, she read the dates to decide which would be the best specimen. The mysterious disappearance of her hired hands nagged at her. Could a murderer be on the loose? She shook her head and pulled the folds of her cloak tighter. No, by now the authorities would have found their bodies and the news would be sensationalized in The Times.

They were cowards, but she was not. To prove her lack of fear, Cassandra halted her wagon and fetched out a shovel. Her hands trembled nervously as she grasped the wooden handle.

Removing the dead from their graves was illegal. If a constable caught her, she’d be sent directly to Fleet Prison. A fresh surge of trepidation curled in her belly.

Exhuming a corpse was quite a different matter from having one ready on her operating table. As objective as she tried to be, the prospect of removing the body from its carefully arranged resting place by winching it out of the ground and loading it onto her cart was undeniably gruesome. However, gruesome or not, Cassandra needed a specimen to continue her work. And she would acquire it, no matter how much her nerves protested.

Despite being barred from official education as a physician because of her sex, Cassandra was determined to learn the skills required to become a doctor. That included studying human anatomy, and for that, she required cadavers.

Returning to the graves, she made her selection. Alfred Lumley, born September first, 1801; died September twenty-sixth, 1823. Two days ago Alfred had been a living twenty-two-year-old man, three years younger than herself. Whether or not he’d been healthy, she would soon determine. A pang of sorrow struck her heart. His soul is in heaven, she reminded herself. A mere shell remains. A shell that will help me to aid the living.

She raised the shovel, ready to plunge it into the soft soil. “I am not afraid. I am not.”

“You should be.” A sinister, accented voice pierced her consciousness.


One Bite Per Night

Brooklyn Ann

Scandals With Bite: Book 2

ISBN: 076-0789239496

He wanted her off his hands... Now he'll do anything to hold on to her ...Forever.

Vincent Tremayne, the reclusive "Devil Earl," has been manipulated into taking rambunctious Lydia Price as his ward. As Lord Vampire of Cornwall, Vincent has better things to do than bring out an unruly debutante.
American-born Lydia Price doesn't care for the stuffy strictures of the ton, and is unimpressed with her foppish suitors. She dreams of studying with the talented but scandalous British portrait painter, Sir Thomas Lawrence. But just when it seems her dreams will come true, Lydia is plunged into Vincent's dark world and finds herself caught between the life she's known and a future she never could have imagined.

“Good evening, Lydia,” Deveril called as he crested the hill. “How is the painting?”

A shiver ran down her body. He only said her name when they were alone… as if they shared an intimate secret. Lydia set down her palette and brush and pulled the folds of her cloak tighter. “It is going as well as it could be, with so few hours to capture the dusk. What is your Christian name?” she blurted as she removed the canvas from the easel. “I’ve known you for a week and I feel I am at a disadvantage.”

“It is Vincent,” he replied in an odd tone. “I didn’t realize you were unaware.”

“Vincent.” She tasted the word. Now she knew what name to invoke in her dreams. “That is quite a name for a devil. Do you truly steal milk from cows at night and change into a sea monster during the full moon, devouring hapless fishermen along the way?”


Deveril stiffened and his eyes turned glacial. “Emma has been carrying tales, I see.” Rage deepened his voice to a feral growl. “How dare she try to frighten you after I gave her shelter and employment when your grandmother sacked her? By God, I shall—”

“It was not Emma, my lord. It was her sister who said these things.” Her face burned with guilt as she confessed her indiscretion. “I was in the passage, eavesdropping… Emma then assured her sister that you are not a monster.” Although she believes you aresomewhat cracked.

Then, his words struck her. He’d employed Emma after Lady Morley dismissed her. Lydia’s heart warmed at his kind gesture.

Vincent continued to glower. “Perhaps I shall have to find a new scullery maid.”

Lydia shook her head. “I do not think so, for you would only encounter the same problem with the next one. I understand the rumors are wide-spread.” She attempted to make light of it as she packed away her painting supplies. “You should be flattered to be such a part of local lore. Perhaps one day ‘The Devil Earl’ will be as popular as ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’”

“I do not believe I’ve heard that one before.” The hostility left his countenance and he leaned against the great oak tree. “Would you tell it to me?”

“Of course.” Relief washed over her. She had not caused Emma or Beth to lose their employment.

Taking a deep breath, she recited the tale. Lydia took extra care to insert appropriate drama when the giant arrived. “Fee, Fie, Foe, Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman.” She stomped toward Vincent. “Be he live or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make my bread!”

When she finished, Vincent applauded. “Now I must add storytelling to your list of accomplishments. We should return to the castle and meet the dressmakers.”

“Not yet, my lord.” Lydia stopped him, unwilling to relinquish the evening’s beauty and his company. “Now you must tell me a story.”

He sighed and nodded. “Very well.” Vincent stepped away from the tree and began. “A young girl was told to bring a basket of food and herbs to her grandmother, who was ill.”

Lydia had heard this tale, yet the way Vincent told it with his melodious voice and sinister narrative had her listening with anticipation. She watched entranced as he adopted the persona of the wolf, stalking around the tree like a sleek predator.

As Vincent neared the end of the story, he stepped closer to her. “‘What big eyes you have,’ said the girl. ‘The better to see you with,’ the wolf replied.”

Lydia sucked in a breath as he circled her, eyes glittering with savage hunger. She could almost believe he was the wolf. Her knees trembled as he continued.

“‘What big teeth you have,’ the girl said next. To which the wolf answered, ‘the better to eat you with.’” Vincent snarled and seized her shoulders.

Heat flared low in her body at his touch. Lydia shivered as she looked up at him. A trick of the moonlight made his teeth appear sharp and deadly. A gasp tore from her throat as he lunged forward. For a moment it seemed he was going to bite her.

She wanted him to.

Instead his lips caressed her neck as he whispered, “Then the wolf swallowed her whole.”

Liquid tremors wracked her form. She reached up to cling to his shoulders, to beg for more. Vincent stepped back, leaving her to grasp at the air.

Shielding her embarrassment at her reaction, she managed a small giggle. He’d only been telling a story, after all. “In the version my mother told me, the girl got away.”

“Yes, that would be best.” His voice sounded rough. “She should get away.”

Reviews:Donna C on Lit Bites wrote:

While my taste for sexy times in books is growing, the more traditional bodice rippers have really never done it for me. I like historical fiction and I like sex but that particular time period just isn’t my forte. Worlds of the ancients, yes. Regency era propriety? No. I’m not big on the traditional romance coming out of that time either, like Austen or the Bronte sisters so really, no surprise. It’s all a yawnfest for me, despite the sex.
Until Laura found a hidden gem on NetGalley that I was in no position to deny. Regency-era bodice ripper. WITH VAMPIRES. Yes. Immediately, yes. Because vampires make ANYTHING better. The sexytimes escalate, the bodices get even more ripped. NOTHING BAD COULD COME OF THIS. I knew it in my heart of hearts.
Now this is my first Regency-era bodice ripper. I have nothing to compare it to. But I know my writings and I know my plots and I know what works for me and what doesn’t so lets go from there, shall we?
The second the book started I was reading it with an accent in my head that kind of sounded like Shelby Foote, well to-do person from the upper echelons of the south that have a more cultured drawl about them. That was the tone of the book for me. And it fit oh so well. The over the top level of propriety and gasp and SCANDAL was just ungodly amusing to me as I sat there reading it, squealing in delight at the moments of SHAME and FLUTTER and QUIVERING THIGHS. Clutch the pearls, ladies. It’s wonderful.
It was very much over the top in terms of writing style but it fit. The story was over the top, the situation was over the top, the gasping and lack of propriety was over the top but you know what? I couldn’t get over the top enough. The sexual tension between Lydia and Vincent was extravagant and I just wanted to scream DO IT ALREADY. I’m imagining this is indicative of writing within the confines of this era because that tension was drawn OUT until no one involved, including this reader, could take it anymore. FINALLY it happened and oh steamy thigh quivering it was phenomenal.
Although I have to say when I think of things springing out I think of maybe a Jack in the Box or snakes in a can. Not an erection. When those start springing out I start thinking boi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-ing and then the mood is momentarily ruined. There were a couple of other instances were body parts were getting a little too technically described and it kind of ebbed the hotness of the situation but certainly not enough for me to stop reading. Never that.
I was engrossed in the scandal of the familially spurned Lydia, rejected pariah of the Morley family getting shunted on this Devil Earl and becoming a pawn in a competitive game of marriage. I was hooked by Vincent’s rather emo-Louis plight of being a vampire and the night world he lived in with Angelica and Ian, two rather incredibly awesome vampires that I need to read more about in book one of this series immediately. I wanted more sneakiness from some of the characters that would otherwise prove to be as straight-laced as they come. Oh the surprises!
I do wish there was a bit more focus on the vampire actions, though. That seems to be very much skirted over and left to the imagination. I don’t necessarily mind in this instance because I was so incredibly entertained otherwise but I usually like to see more vampireness where vampires are concerned. Although Vincent’s vampire powers were used quite often when he needed them.
I have found a new love in ONE BITE PER NIGHT and Brooklyn Ann’s work. I can’t wait to get my greedy little hands on more of it.
4 1/2

Publisher's Weekly on Publisher's Weekly wrote:

Lydia Price, the American-born daughter of the disowned Earl of Morely, is shipped off to her English relatives when her father dies in 1822. Unfortunately, the dowager countess has never forgiven Lydia’s father for marrying a commoner, and wants nothing to do with her. Vincent Tremayne, the Earl of Deveril, is none too happy when an old marker gets called in and he becomes Lydia’s guardian.

Originally intending to quickly find her a good match to get her off his hands and spite her mean-spirited grandmother, Vincent soon finds he would rather keep Lydia for himself. She’s clearly attracted to him, too, but how would she feel if she knew he was actually the Lord Vampire of Cornwall?

Following her promising debut (Bite Me, Your Grace), Ann hits her stride with solid writing, a tasty dash of originality, and realistic relationships that zing with sexual energy. A strong sense of fun mixed with a little feminism keeps things lively and light, while the well-developed story keeps eyes on the page.

Brooklyn Ann