Wolf Mates Collection by Dakota Cassidy

Wolf Mates (Collection)
by Dakota Cassidy

Cover art: Sahara Kelly
ISBN: 978-1-60521-686-7
Genre(s): Paranormal, Action Adventure/ Suspense, Humor & Satire
Theme(s): Werewolves, Shapeshifters
Series: Wolf Mates
Length: Collection
Page Count: 347

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Blurb

Derrick Adams is not happy. His pack of werewolves isn't like all the others...
Derrick's brother Max found his lifemate in the pound, he has a cousin who's a vegetarian, and Xavier Wolf comes from a pride, instead of a pack. Lassiter Adams isn't exactly what he seems, either. Neither is his parakeet!
Now Derrick has a lifemate of his own -- and she isn't barking. You'll laugh, you'll sigh, and you'll need a fan, because these stories are exceptionally hot!
This collection contains the previously released novellas An American Werewolf in Hoboken, What's New Pussycat?, Moon Over Manhasset, and Ruff & Ready. This collection is also available in print!
Excerpt
Wolf Mates (Collection)
Dakota Cassidy
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2011 Dakota Cassidy
Excerpt from What's New Pussycat?
This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

"Meow."

"Do you see?" Derrick Adams hollered as he held up the cat carrier, thrusting it in his brother Max's face. A black paw, claws unleashed, reached out to swipe at Max's face. Max reached his finger into the carrier's front. "Hey, kitty..." he cooed, making an irritating clicking noise with his tongue.

The paw reached out again, unsheathing its claws once more, and the cat carrier hissed. Max jumped back as the cage rocked in Derrick's hands.

Tell me, foolish one, what makes humans believe that we kitties enjoy a finger shoved in our faces? Bring it here, boy-toy. Lemme show you what pretty teeth I have...

Mortals were so unbelievably stupid, especially male mortals. Even if they were good looking, Martine Brooks thought. She felt the hair on her back lift in irritation as the silly human tried again to soothe her with a finger that might result in a bloody stump if he didn't back off.

He stuck his handsome face in the opening of the cage and purred at her. Martine yawned.

If only you knew how desperately stupid you look. Max, is it?

However, in order to keep from blowing her cover, Martine had to play the game. She'd yet to figure out what she was undercover for, but whatever. She only knew she shouldn't shift and she sensed that, even if she didn't know the reasons why. It did, however, mean something was preventing her. Be it intuition or premonition, she just knew her best bet was to remain in her cat form. At least for now until she could figure out what in all of creation she was doing here. Martine prepared for a good howl, thus indicating that the pretty boys should go away and leave her the hell alone while she waited to be set free and get some wide open space to shift in.

This time she got closer to the cage opening and howled for all she was worth into Max's face. As pitifully as her vocal cords would allow, just like she'd seen other cats do on Animal Planet.

"Maybe you should take her to your place and let her out of the cage, Derrick?" the pretty dark-haired girl said as she winced.

Well, duh. Very astute. A good stretch was just what she needed. She'd suffered as much indignity as one girl could handle in a lifetime.

The man named Derrick shook her cage. "Be quiet, would you! God," he complained, "she could wake the dead. So, Max, what do you intend to do about this?"

Max shook his head and slapped Derrick on the back. "Nothin' I can do, Derrick. Your prophecy is your prophecy. You know Eva's chicken soup."

Yes, it was good for the soul, wasn't it? What prophecy? Martine wondered.

Derrick held up the cage again. She really wished he'd stop rocking the damn thing. A hairball was bound to hurl from her throat at warp speed if he kept this up.

"This -- this -- is my prophecy?" Martine heard Derrick yell, disbelief lacing his tone. "How in all of the animal kingdom can this be my prophecy?"

Max shrugged his shoulders and the pretty dark-haired woman spoke again. "I didn't believe it either, Derrick, but who can say when you'll find love -- or with whom?"

Love? Um, no, no.

What was this, Mutual of Omaha? No love. Martine needed to get the hell out of this damn cage and shift so she could get the frig away from these people and their wing-nut prophecies. She believed in spells and stuff. No prophecies.

"Well, Derrick," Max said. "Guess what? She's all yours. Eva hasn't been wrong so far. Now go away. I have pups to make." The dark-haired woman giggled, rather flirty and stupid if you asked Martine.

But NO ONE was asking the cat.

"My lifemate is not a Goddamn cat!"

Whoa... stop right there, hot stuff. Lifemate? Did these people dig into the catnip or what? She didn't have a lifemate. Martine belonged to a warlock and had for many years now, cursed to spend the rest of her life at his beck and call. Oh, Escobar was just gonna love this. She was Escobar's familiar and he wasn't going to be too pleased about this little turn of events.

"Wolves do not mate with cats!" Derrick roared and shook the cage again for emphasis. Martine's stomach lurched.

Wolves? Like woof-woof? Full moons and carnivores?

That was it. Martine couldn't stop the roll of her stomach. She heaved a long moment and then coughed, opening her mouth wide.

"And now, it's gonna puke," Derrick said sarcastically.

Ick. Martine gagged and finally relieved her throat of the ball lodged in it since this lunatic had stuffed her into this cage.

How's that for ya? A round hairball lay at her feet.

Whew, that was better.

Unattractive, but better.
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Protect and Serve: Don't Need a Hero by Lena Austin

Protect and Serve: Don't Need a Hero
by Lena Austin

Cover art: Bryan Keller
ISBN: 978-1-60521-749-9
Genre(s): Futuristic, Paranormal, Humor & Satire
Theme(s): Shapeshifters, Men and Women in Uniform
Series: Protect and Serve
Length: Novella
Page Count: 61
http://changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1727

Blurb:
When cat shifter Petra (aka Pete) becomes the victim of "friendly fire" during the apprehension of a bank robber, panther shifter cop Apollo Jones feels obligated to make sure she's okay. Pete's positive she doesn't need another hero in her life, and Apollo's out to prove her wrong.

Excerpt:
 Name: Lt. Apollo Jones

Timestamp: 1934

Incident Date: August 17, 2027

Incident time logged as 0837

I finished my boiled eggs and tucked my lunch bag under the seat. It was my turn to drive, and I didn’t want the straps tangling in my feet if I had to get out in a hurry. “Jeff, if you don’t quit eating like that, you’re gonna be in the fat boy program on the force.”

Jeff Petoskey patted his slightly rounded belly and grinned sheepishly. “Ya think, Jonesy? Married life is making me soft.” He polished his new wedding band. He’d just come back from his honeymoon, and his uniform still fit a bit more snugly than usual. I’d given him the usual razzing about married life making him slow and fat that morning already, but he’s a good cop. He’d be back in shape in a day or two.

The Motorola radio squawked. Bank robbery in progress at the Bank and Trust just up the road from where we sat. Jeff and I glanced at each other. Something in my heart and mind said this was going to be ugly. Call it instinct. I didn’t have another word for it, and I still don’t.

Jeff slapped his collar mike. “546, we’re on it.” He threw the remains of his lunch into the bag and burped. “Let’s roll!”

I flipped on the lights and siren and hit the accelerator. Lunch break was over, and the old parking lot we’d been using as a stop was emptier than the dreams of the former owners.

I wove easily in and out of what little traffic still used the city streets. Out there in suburbia, it wasn’t so bad, but the inner city was quite literally turning into an urban jungle full of predators, who were slowly expanding out into the outer limits. Pretty soon, even our relatively quiet precinct would suffer the same fate and become abandoned by the law.

I personally think we should just wall in the inner city and hit it with a bomb. Any of the few remaining good citizens still living there would either have to take warning and flee or suffer the consequences. Either that, or it’s going to take superheroes, and I stopped believing in that kind of bullshit when I stopped reading comic books.

We drove into chaos. The radio went nuts trying to keep up with the calls, but the main points were clear. A lone robber, dressed in medieval armor, of all things, had managed to get out of the bank and was on the move.

A man in a businessman’s jumpsuit flagged us down from the left. He waved frantically toward a fast food joint. “Some sonovabitch in chain mail shot my car! He went that way!”

“Fuck me running!” Jeff called it in that the perp had been spotted heading into the Mickey-D’s on Beach and Kernan. Shit, on a Saturday morning, the place was likely packed with people stocking up on their carbs before heading to the beach.

I just cursed and hit the gas, ran over the curb, knocked down some old sago palms decorating the median between the businesses, and arrived first.

The place was crazy. People burst out of the doors in front of us, screaming and heading for the protection of their own vehicles or anywhere else they could. Most of them made it out of the parking lot at lightning speed.

In the confusion, three more police vehicles arrived, blocking off the exits. The design of the fast food joint’s landscape hemmed in all escapes with a fenced kiddy playground, streetlight poles, and a copse of large, decorative trees. The heat wasn’t so bad, but the trees still provided a barrier, if not shade. The perp was trapped.

Jeff opened his door and used the thing for a shield seconds before I jammed the car into park and did the same. Jeff barked into his collar mike, “Where is he? How hard can it be to find a guy in armor?”

“He’s in the gray Mercedes in the drive though! Window tinting makes it hard to see if he’s got hostages!” Was that Lt. Anders? Someone check his voice recording. Anyway, I thought it was Anders.

“I got a bead on him from the side!” I didn’t catch the names on the speakers. It’ll be recorded.

“I can’t see anyone in the passenger seat, nor in the back! I think they ran with the rest of the customers!”

Gunfire rang out. I’m fairly sure our dashcams and throat mikes caught the sound.

“Shit! He’s firing.” That was Cussler, I’m sure of it. He’s got a mouth like a trucker.

“Shots fired! Shots fired! Officer down!” Darcy. I think. She was Ander’s partner that day. Guess that was when Anders got his bullet.

“I see him!” Jeff fired once, but all he did was hit the windshield. The old glass spider-webbed, making it more difficult to see if anyone at all, even the perp, was in the car.

I shouted to my partner. “If you can see him, he can see you!”

Too late. A red-and-silver arm appeared out the window and fired.

Jeff cried out, and his face was covered in blood. He fell backward, out of sight. Over the sirens and gunfire, I couldn’t hear anything, but I remember I reported into my collar mike anyway. “Officer down! Repeat, officer down. 546!”

To say adrenaline raced through me was an understatement. Time slowed down, and I narrowed my focus. Two officers out of our dwindling force was bad enough. Blue took care of their own. I was pissed beyond belief. Jeff was a fucking newlywed who didn’t deserve to die.

Apparently, my fellow officers felt the same. The Mercedes became a target, then Swiss cheese. The windshield shattered, and the bank robber/cop-killer died in a barrage of hot lead.

One by one, the guns stopped firing.

In the silence that followed, I heard the worst sound in the world, and the one we all dreaded, coming from inside the Mercedes -- a child screaming for her mommy.

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How Not to Date a Vamp by Stephanie Burke

Cover

How Not to Date a Vamp

by Stephanie Burke Cover art: Bryan Keller

ISBN: 978-1-60521-727-7

Genre(s): Paranormal, Humor & Satire

Theme(s): Interracial/MultiCultural, Vampires

Series: How Not To

Length: Novella

http://changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1710

Blurb:

What do you get when your greatest strength lies in not dying easy? If you are lucky and no one confuses you with a pop culture vampire, and if you diet and exercise to keep your weight down, you just might get the girl. But first you have to avoid the hunters on your trail, the cost of replacing your clothing, and get over your phobia about wood.
Only if he overcomes these obstacles will Virgil spend the better part of his afterlife with Barb. If he can survive dating.

Excerpt:

How Not to Date a Vamp
Stephanie Burke
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2011 Stephanie Burke

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.


It was kind of hard to sing "Cotton Club Blues" when your bassist was muttering about murder and threatening to cosh a six-foot woman with facial hair over the head with his instrument.
After two sets, Barb had had enough. It wouldn't have been so bad if the weather hadn't exercised the Baltimore Rule. If you don't like the weather, wait a minute. It'll change. And boy, did it change. It went from a nice, balmy fall day of about seventy to a winter chill of about forty-five degrees.
She wasn't concerned about her street clothing -- they would be safe inside her dressing room -- but now her pale ass was cold, and there was a decided lack of individuals on the street.
So now she was mixed in with the other poor slobs in Fells Point who were trying to make their way home after an evening of drunken debauchery. Only she was not drunk, not debauched, and was freezing her butt off. So she waved her hand again, bellowing and jumping up and down like a jackrabbit, trying her best to catch the attention of a cabbie who wouldn't think she was about to vomit in his car.
What a life.
She was seriously considering starting to hoof it home in her stilettos when a cab actually pulled up in front of her.
"Thank God!" she gasped, opening the door and pasting a smile on her face. She was about to enter when a voice spoke in her ear -- a very deep, very masculine voice. "Nice dress."
Barb turned around, eyes wide as she looked at the man who had paused to give her such a nice compliment. And smiled.
While standing out on the corner, she had gotten catcalls, offers of solicitation, and a lot of strange looks. But no one had complimented her on the fringed and sequined 1940s-style gown she had made herself.
So, naturally, she preened a little and took the time to check the discerning man out.
And then she deflated a little. Sure, he had one of the sexiest voices she had ever heard outside of a studio, but the guy's whole appearance just screamed nerd.
He was wearing a nice enough full-length black velvet coat, however. The soft looking fabric seemed to envelop his short body almost like a cloak. But that was where the ohhh factor ended. He was wearing a pair of thick, black, square glasses, the kind that never looked good on anyone. His shirt was a blinding white and buttoned up so high it looked like he was choking. The man's jeans were a little too baggy for her taste and looked like they'd come out of the bargain rack at Walmart at least five years ago. And, of all things, he was wearing a red and blue-striped tie. There were some kind of work boots on his feet, and his hair was a tangled, brown mass that covered half of his face.
Okay, forget nerd -- he kind of looked like a serial killer.
"Thanks?" she offered, shaking her head and turning back to the safety of her cab.
"You are welcome." He had an accent of some kind, but it was not really interesting enough to even try and place it.
Barb shrugged, the conversation over in her mind, and made to enter the cab -- just in time to have to door slam shut in her face.
"Hey!" she called out, beating on the window while bending over to see who was being so damn rude. "This is my cab!"
A man in a business suit grinned back at her and waved as he leaned forward and gave the cabbie instructions.
Shrugging, the cabbie hit the gas, tearing off down Ann Street and -- rip!
"Oh, my God!" Barb shrieked as her skin was hit with a sudden blast of cold. The man had not only stolen her cab, but it seemed he had stolen her dress as well.
Her dress had to have gotten caught in the door when the gentleman -- and she was using the term loosely -- hopped inside her rightfully hunted conveyance. The result was that the thin concoction of taffeta and fringe ripped completely off her body and took off down the street with her cab! That left her standing on the corner with nothing on but a nearly see-through French-cut camisole, tap pants, and a pair of heels -- damn her need for authenticity -- with her dress forlornly waving like an abandoned flag as the rear lights disappeared into the night.
"Oh, shit!" she gasped, breaking out of her frozen stupor to take the classic debauched maiden pose of one arm wrapped around her breasts, the other trying to cover her groin as she hunched over.
It was not a pretty picture, she thought as she looked around the dark streets, watching clouds of white puff up with every rapid, frightened, and frustrated breath she took. What the hell as she supposed to do now?
Before she could concoct a plan, something warm and soft wrapped around her shoulders, cloaking her whole body.
She blinked and looked over her shoulder to see nerd boy standing there. He had a concerned look on his face as he carefully wrapped his own coat around her nearly naked body.
"Are you okay?" he asked, stepping up to her, and Barb realized that in her heels she could look him right in the eye. That put him at around five feet six inches tall. It was odd to find a man so short, she decided, but at least he was being a gentleman.
"My dress," she stammered, her bottom lip quivering as she tried to blink back tears.
She had just gotten her dress ripped off her body, her new and most favorite dress, and she was standing on a street corner in her underwear. That was worth at least a tear or two.
"I saw," he said as he began to button the million black buttons that seemed to line the front of his coat. It was almost like a gothic version of a priest's coat, she decided as the scent of the thing teased her nostrils.
He smelled like freshly baked pastries.
"My dress..." she tried again as the man stood up, and she caught a good look at his eyes.
They were so green...

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Fangs in Frosting by Cynthia Sax

Fangs In Frosting

by Cynthia Sax Cover art: Bryan Keller

ISBN: 978-1-60521-659-1

Genre(s): Paranormal, Humor & Satire

Theme(s): Vampires, BBW

Series: Fangs In

Length: Novella

http://changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1709

Blurb:

Hi! My name is Charlotte, and I own the cupcake shop on the corner -- the sole dessert place open late in our neighborhood. My shop has quite a few regular customers but none are as devoted as Viktor -- Mr. Tall, Dark, and Serious. I give him the special treatment, including extra sprinkles on the cupcakes he buys yet never eats, and offering him private tours of my walk-in pantry.
Viktor is a very kinky guy. I never see him before sundown, and he's a biter. Yep, I did him, in the pantry, amongst the boxes of cupcake wrappers and the bags of chocolate chips. During that encounter, he took a little nip out of luscious Lottie, that would be me, and tonight, he's back for more. He says he has plans for me. I hope they don't include clothes.

Excerpt:

Fangs In Frosting
Cynthia Sax
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2011 Cynthia Sax

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.


01 Charlotte's Journal
Sweet buttercream filling. The man came back. Through my eyelash supershield, I watch Mr. Tall, Dark, and Serious huddle over a white ceramic mug filled with steaming hot coffee, and a dainty china plate sporting two red velvet cupcakes, the white cream cheese frosting topped with extra chocolate sprinkles. He didn't ask for the extra sprinkles. That's a bonus for banging the owner -- that would be me.
Yep, I did him, or he did me. I don't know which, our hasty encounter being an out of control fuck-for-all in the walk-in pantry. After that multiple orgasmic quickie, I figured Viktor had his fill of big, bold, bosomy me, and when he disappeared into the night, he'd never be seen again. That tends to happen with my lovers.
But I was wrong. He's returned for another helping of luscious Lottie. I smile as the last customer wanders out the door, chocolate smeared on his half-baked face. Our midnight crowd consists mainly of toke smokers, but I don't mind because they'll eat even the day old pastries, and then rave about them to their buddies.
Mr. Fucktastic gets my best stuff, and tonight, I'll rock his rather grim world. I smooth down my happy yellow blouse so the cotton pulls tightly across my generous chest, and I sashay to the door, turning the exterior lights off with a dramatic flick of my fingers.
Like clockwork, Peter, my assistant, wanders out of the kitchen. Flour dusts his hair as though he has been baking, and not avoiding the customers he was hired to serve. I can't fire his rather useless patootie because he's the landlady's deadhead son, and I've been paying that dear, kind woman in banana creams for the past two months. Plus he's adorable.
"All cleaned up, Miss Lottie," he announces with a sheepish smile. Since I cleaned the kitchen an hour ago, I don't find its immaculate condition surprising. "Guess I'll be heading out. Are you okay with...?" He inclines his spearmint green Mohawk head toward my favorite customer.
"I'm fine. Go." My response is unnecessary as Rebel Help has already let himself out, and I make sure the door is locked properly after him. I could be surrounded by axe-wielding fiends, and the kid would still leave on time.
"You need protection." Viktor's deep voice rolls over me like vanilla frosting on a warm lemon sponge cake.
"I'm hoping you brought some, sunshine." I give my gloomy lover a saucy fuck-me smile. "I need your help in the kitchen." This is my attempt at subtle seduction.
"I'm not an employee," he grouses, following me into my home away from home. If the city allowed me to, I'd sleep in my kitchen. That's how much I love it here.
"Too bad because there are some great employee perks." I drift my fingertips over the stainless steel table. This bad boy is all mine. Okay, it mostly belongs to the bank, but my name is on the receipt, and that gives me a giddy sense of ownership.
"That had better be exclusive employee perks." Viktor picks me up, literally and figuratively, and places my butt on the cool flat surface. This is no easy feat because I'm my number one cupcake customer, yet he doesn't even break a sweat, his lean body deceivingly strong.
"Are we exclusive now, sweet stuff?" I gaze up into his eyes. They're the color of the richest Devil food's cake, piped with a circle of red, and are set in a pale, angular face. His dark hair waves back from his face and is tied in a ribbon at his nape. I could so design a cupcake around his striking countenance, and call it the Viktor.
"We're exclusive for all eternity." With that ominous declaration, his mouth covers mine, and all thinking of cupcakes stops, because the man tastes of coffee and chocolate and he kisses like a dream. He is the virtuoso of liplockers, the steamiest of seducers, and I melt against him like butter on a hot plate, grasping his jacket lapels.
He's dressed in his biker gang accountant outfit again -- pairing a black leather suit with a gray shirt. The lack of color has to be contributing to his dour mood, so, as a public service to women everywhere, I push his jacket off his broad shoulders.
Proving that all good turns are rewarded, Viktor kisses me thoroughly, stroking into my mouth, his tongue sliding along mine. We neck like two college kids, sucking on each other's faces, lips pressed against lips. He holds me still as he ravages my mouth, my face sandwiched between his two big hands like he thinks I want to get away from him. I don't. I link my fingers behind his neck, and I pull him closer, spreading my legs in welcome, my staid grass green skirt hiking up to my waist.

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Protect and Serve: Legal Beagle by Cynthia Sax

Protect and Serve: Legal Beagle

by Cynthia Sax Cover art: Bryan Keller

ISBN: 978-1-60521-641-6

Genre(s): Paranormal, Humor & Satire

Theme(s): Shapeshifters, Men and Women in Uniform

Series: Protect and Serve

Length: Novella

Page Count: 38

http://changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1648

Blurb:

My name is Officer Wright. I'm genetically enhanced as one of the city's finest, and a normal day for me involves plugging liquid sunshine into rogue vamps, tagging and bagging renegade werewolves, and putting the fear of the badge into all criminals.
But these are not normal days. While my partner takes a leave of absence to bang his bunny, I'm stuck on babysitting duty. Yeah, stop laughing. It would be more humorous except the chick I'm tailing is a hot little beagle-shifting judge, and when she takes the bench, believe me, my whole body comes to order.
Excerpt:
Protect and Serve: Legal Beagle
Cynthia Sax
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2011 Cynthia Sax

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.


01 Sadie's Blog
I smell him as soon as he enters the stairwell -- the sharp suffocating smell of malice filling the space. It is one of Poe's vamp goons; it has to be, sent to influence my decision. He'll try to scare me with threats, tempt me with offers of riches and --
And a ball? Does he have a ball? A ball? Does he have one?
Quiet. I hush my excitable inner beagle as I hurry down the stairs, my heels ringing on the cement steps. Poe won't influence me, not even with a room full of bouncing balls.
Ball!
Quiet. I didn't earn my place as a high court judge by taking bribes, bending to intimidation, or listening to the animal I share a body with. I snagged the dangerous black robes because I can sniff out the truth.
I may have sniffed up my last ass this time though. The cracking of knuckles echoes, as loud as gunshots. This goon, unlike the slick talker sent before him, plans to influence with his fists.
I may not be a supermodel, but I do like my face arranged the way it is, thank you very much, so I increase my pace, wishing I had changed into my running shoes. Goons should really schedule appointments days in advance, ensuring that I dress appropriately.
The man is gaining on me, his heavy tread attesting to his size. I glance back, spotting a broad, ugly face peering down at me. He's not the usual tall, thin, anemic-looking vampire. This guy must drain a cheerleading squad every night.
He won't drain this former cheerleader. I burst through the doors to the parking level. Of course, the doughnut-eating toy-cop isn't at his station by the stairwell. The police chief had been right about court security. It is regrettably lax.
Run! I love to run! Run!
I take my inner beagle's advice, and double-time it toward my vehicle -- a sweet little convertible with a shiny chrome bumper that the press calls inappropriate for a judge to drive. I don't care. I risk my life every day, putting the worst criminals in the city behind bars. I'll drive what I like.
The stairwell door slams shut behind the goon. He's not even attempting to be stealthy, and he's cut the distance between us in two. I really have to work out more.
I run, moving between the parked cars. The goon runs behind me, huffing and puffing like a two pack a day smoker. For a smoker, he's fast though, and I know he'll catch me before I reach my car. I have no choice left but to shift as I run -- discarding my clothes and designer tote on the cement parking level floor. My body shrinks in size, my arms elongating, a tail protruding from my ass, my chin stretching into a muzzle.
Play! Let's play! Play!
Dodging the huge vamp becomes a game. He lunges toward me, and I run between his massive legs, nipping him in the privates as I pass. He roars, clutching his man bits, his pale face twisting in rage. I bark, romp around in a circle, and bark some more. This is fun. My human side doesn't allow me out very often.
A delectable aroma fills my finely-tuned snout. Mate! Mate! Mate! I yip with joy, my tongue rolling out of my mouth. I run toward the scent, my little legs working as fast as they can, with my tail wagging. I must find my mate.
The goon chases me. "Come here, you fucking dog," he orders.
I'm a good dog so I obey. As I approach, he places a hand over his groin, as he's scared of me, and he should be. I'm a wild animal, and he doesn't know how I'll react. I release a haunting baying sound.
Done with the dramatics, I pelt at him at top speed, my ears flopping, and at the last minute, I slide under a big maintenance truck. He reaches out to grab me. Whack. His thick skull connects with the metal door.
I bark at him from my position under the vehicle. When his homely face comes into view, I run around him, and bite him on the ass. He roars again, hollering something about not being trained for this, and knowing when to give up.
I turn my head, distracted, the scent of my mate growing stronger. Mate! Mate! Mate! Euphoria floods my body as I run. I spot big boots, my mate's boots. I will chew on them later, marking him so all the other dogs know who he belongs to. Right now, I bark my possession. Mine! I jump into the air.
Big hands scoop me up. "Hey there, puppy." He lifts me so we're face to face, his warm human nose brushing against my cold snout.
I recognize the blue eyes brimming with humor. Not mate. Officer Wright. Bad dog. My human is not pleased with me.
I cower for one long heartbeat, but my enthusiasm can't be dimmed. Friend! Friend! Friend! I lick the officer's handsome face all over, thrilled and excited and thrilled. He tastes of salty human mate.
Mate!
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Final Cut Miami: Voodoo You Love? by Belinda McBride

Final Cut Miami: Voodoo You Love?

by Belinda McBride Cover art: Bryan Keller

ISBN: 978-1-60521-662-1

Genre(s): Paranormal, Action Adventure/ Suspense, Humor & Satire, Urban Fantasy, BDSM

Theme(s): Shapeshifters, Magic

Series: Final Cut Miami

Length: Novella

http://changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1641

Blurb:
Hired by Jedidiah Wormwood Worth to locate a missing lawyer, former model Antonio Silva heads to Miami to begin his career as a PI. Instead of finding Chloe o' Shea, he stumbles upon a ditzy surfer named Coco in the local paranormal bar. To his dismay, this odd woman with dreadlocks proves to be everything he needs, but nothing he wants.
Coco is a Siberian shifter, but she's lost her inner animal. Heck, she just might have lost her mind as well, because one day she was living in a condo and driving a sports car, the next she's camping out in a boathouse, teaching tourists how to kite board. Now, a big, scary shifter in a designer suit is tailing her every move, claiming to be her mate. And every time she turns around, he's trying to paddle her ass!
Antonio would just like to finish his job and get out of town. Coco would like to get a comb through her hair. Unfortunately, true love is something you can't escape, even if it seems all wrong.
Excerpt:
Final Cut Miami: Voodoo You Love?
Belinda McBride
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2011 Belinda McBride

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.


Round wooden tables dotted the room but the space was dominated by a spectacular bar. Shelf upon shelf of bottles rose in majesty behind the hustling bartender. The bar itself was made of gleaming wood and surrounded by tall stools with low backs. Off to the right, a despondent demon sat facing a beer; a giant shifter of some sort watched him suspiciously. No doubt the oversize chrome dome was the resident bouncer.
Various patrons scattered through the bar, some drinking in solitude, others clustered together in small, chatty groups. A woman caught his eye. She was dark skinned and mysterious, and gave off the vibe of a talented human rather than a paranormal. She had an array of cards before her, studying them carefully. She sat in profile to him, her head bowed. For a moment, he thought he knew her.
Laughter spread through the room, distracting him from the human. Off at the end of the bar, a dreadlocked beach bunny spun in circles on her stool, first one direction, and then the other. He narrowed his eyes. If he wasn't mistaken, she had no business being here at all. Her humanity radiated from her tanned skin. Not a whisper of talent shimmered in her aura. She whooped, losing her balance, and the stool teetered precariously.
"Coco, you're gonna fall!" The bartender looked more amused than annoyed. But then it was difficult to be annoyed when a tiny blonde bombshell was happily wasting her afternoon putting on a show for hungry -- and horny -- clientele. More than one avaricious gaze was locked on her curvy body.
She seemed pretty ordinary to Antonio, who regretfully ruled her out of his search. He chose a spot at the bar where he was unlikely to be overheard and dropped a bill on the gleaming wood.
"What'll it be?" The bartender was decent enough to look at: fit, handsome and clueless. Another human. Antonio bit back a smile. The economic crash had resulted in some unusual changes in Miami real estate.
"Rum and cola. And information." He pushed the photograph forward, his PI credentials on top of it. The guy seemed pretty straight up, like he was former law enforcement or something. He wiped his hands and peered at the photo, frowning. He picked up the ID and compared the photo to Antonio, then looked at the photo of the woman.
"She's familiar. What's this, a skip trace?"
"No, missing person. I'm doing the case as a favor to her brother. He lives overseas and hasn't heard from his little sister for a while." It didn't hurt to play the family card. If the guy knew anything, he might hold back if he thought someone meant her harm. Sure enough, the bartender gave Antonio the once over.
"South American?"
"Brazilian by birth, American by citizenship." Antonio smiled blandly. He nodded at the photo. "Look again. Maybe she's been in here?" He briefly wondered what would happen if he cued the bartender off to the fact that his bar was filled with characters from his nightmares. The chaos would be fun, but more in the style of Jedidiah, or even Jasper. Antonio had a bit more class.
"Wheeeee!"
The girl spun and Antonio gazed at her appreciatively. She was tanned and buff, wearing knee-length board shorts, a bikini top, and mismatched flip-flops. She'd probably dropped a little too much acid at some point. She giggled, grabbed her drink, knocking it back in one gulp, then slipped down onto the stool, lying back, her dreads nearly touching the floor.
"Sam! Refill!" She dug into a pocket and waved a crumpled bill in the air. Even from where he sat, Antonio caught the smell of fish and seawater on the filthy paper. It looked like she'd gotten lucky.
"Just a minute, darlin'!" He glanced up at Antonio and winked. "Coco's on soda and lime. I don't think she has a clue she's not wasted!" He pushed the photo back. "You know, she's got a look, but I can't place it. Any distinguishing marks? Tattoos, that sort of thing?"
Antonio opened the file and scanned Jasper's notes. Nothing, not even a scar or pierced ears. He frowned over the basic profile. Under eye color, Jasper had noted, Two. A joke? But then, Jasper himself had one eye that was a whirl of blue and amber. He pulled a pen from his pocket and made a question mark next to the description. They looked perfectly normal in the picture.
"What makes you think she might be around here?" Sam the bartender turned away, busying himself with wiping down the bar. "She's local?"
"Yeah, from Lauderdale, and this is the sort of place she might be drawn to if she's here in Miami."
"A sports bar?" Sam looked skeptical.
"Sports bar! Sports bar!" Sam hunched his shoulders at the loud squawking of a parrot a few feet away. "Shut up, Polly!"
The big bouncer growled.
The parrot began flapping its wings and howling like a dog. Antonio raised a single brow. Maybe the bird knew something.
"Hush!" Sam shouted.
The parrot squawked once again, and the girl slid off the stool, landing on the floor with a crash.
"I'm all right!" She rose to her knees, pushing away the helping hands of the enormous bouncer. "Floor came to meet me little too fast." She pushed back a matted clump of hair, giving the room a beaming smile.
Antonio shivered. She was gorgeous. Not the perfect, polished beauty of Miami and its hordes of models and trophy companions, but a gleaming, beaming ray of sun. Little glass beads studded strands of her hair. Her wide smile displayed straight, white teeth; there was a tiny gap right there in the middle. Her honey-colored skin was bare of make-up, her eyes -- the one he could see was as blue as the ocean. Before he could see the rest of her face, she untangled a crooked pair of sunglasses from her mop of hair and perched them on her straight little nose.
She stood unsteadily, bracing on the back of the stool for balance. Clearly, she was looped out of her brain and Antonio shot a look at Sam, who simply shrugged. She smelled only of sunshine, citrus and herself. There wasn't a tinge of alcohol on her.
Something else then.
"I'm outta here. Later, gaters!" She wiggled her fingers, tripped over her own flip-flop and caught herself on Antonio's arm. She squeezed it, fingers probing his bicep.
"Nice." She looked up at him. "Model?"
"Not anymore," he admitted. Not many people would get that much of an admission from him. Modeling hadn't been the most brilliant part of his history.
"Pretty man. Big. Fae or shifter?"
Oh. Shit. He looked at Sam, who'd returned to his sink and was rinsing glasses. He grinned at Antonio, shook his head and slowly circled a finger at his temple, indicating that little Coco wasn't quite right in the head. Antonio then caught the ominous gaze of the bouncer. He gave nothing away. Antonio swallowed. The big man was bruin -- a bear shifter. Poor Sam had no clue.
"I'm a Siberian," he whispered in her ear. She went perfectly still. Her glasses hid her eyes, so he couldn't see her expression.
"Really?"
He nodded. He stood perfectly still while she looked him over from head to toe.
"Liar." She grinned at him. Even though the smile was forced, the most kissable dimple flirted with him. To his surprise, his cock responded. He looked at those full, plush lips and had the most insane urge to kiss the little human. She was close enough he could feel the heat from her body, and again she swayed toward him, clearly off balance.
He caught her before she staggered, grinning as she looked down at where her belly pressed into his groin.
"Oh my!"
"Oh yes." He grinned. He wondered if the place had a store room, or even a private toilet stall. Normally a dreadlocked surfer chick was far from what attracted him, but right now, attraction was a mild description of what he was feeling. He grinned wickedly, reaching up to slide her glasses off. She took a step back, bumping into a stool. Antonio leaned forward, tilting his head slightly, just a breath away from a kiss.
Her pink tongue darted out, moistening her lips. "Water. Need water."
"Water?"
She nodded. Her hair tumbled over one side of her face and she giggled, a throaty, sexy sound.
"I can do that." He straightened and turned to the bar. "Water for the lady."
Sam leaned a bit to look around him, grinned and reached under the counter, bringing up an icy bottle. "On the house." His blue eyes twinkled and he returned to his chores, chuckling quietly. The file still lay on the bar, so Antonio tucked the photo back into his jacket and fished out a business card, leaving it for Sam. He grabbed the slim file. He'd pretty well memorized all it contained, but still, it wouldn't be a good idea to lose it. Jedidiah -- and the entire paranormal community -- would have his head.
He shrugged and turned, and then froze. She was gone. The front door hadn't been opened and there was no sign of her anywhere. He looked around and spotted a dark corridor. An exit sign glowed at the end of the hall and Antonio tossed the bottle up into the air, deftly catching it as he began his pursuit.
He had a bottle of water for the lady.
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Protect and Serve: Hounding the Beat by Sharon Marie Bidwell

Protect and Serve: Hounding the Beat

by Sharon Maria Bidwell Cover art: Bryan Keller

ISBN: 978-1-60521-640-9

Genre(s): Paranormal, Humor & Satire

Theme(s): Ménage, Bisexual and More, Shapeshifters, Men and Women in Uniform

Series: Protect and Serve

Length: Novella

http://changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1608
Blurb:
Bobby loves his job, but he loves his fellow police officer Chantelle even more. Unfortunately, they work in the same department, and they will need to make some life-altering decisions soon. Some lives have already altered. Take his friend, Sam: a drunken driver has left him with a damaged leg and permanent limp. Sam's rethinking his career and his future for several reasons, one being that he's very much in love with Bobby, and a little in love with Chantelle. If explaining to Sam that they are happy to consider a ménage relationship doesn't complicate things, how is Bobby to tell Sam that he and Chantelle can turn furry at will?
But even if his voice doesn't turn a little "husky" in the attempt, Bobby first has to live long enough to explain. Someone out there has a vendetta, and ideas that may end their future before it's even begun.
Excerpt:
Protect and Serve: Hounding the Beat
Sharon Maria Bidwell
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2011 Sharon Maria Bidwell

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.


"I think I'll leave my helmet just where it is and carry you to the shower."
She pursed her lips and cocked her head, considering. "Fine, we can do that. Then you can do something else for me."
"What's that?"
"You can end this fight with Sam."
Bobby did nothing to suppress a groan. He pulled out of her, instantly aware of a feeling he could only liken to homesickness striking him in the general direction of his dick. It wanted to return to where it had been so nicely nestled and comfortable. "We are not fighting," he said, unsure whether he addressed the Sam issue, or was arguing with his cock. Down boy. No. You can't go back there. Well, you can... in a few minutes, in the shower. Patience.
"Maybe not a fight as such." Chantelle lay there ignoring the hand he held out to her to pull her to her feet. She seemed oblivious to any concerns that she might leave a wet patch on the seat. Great. Even that thought was turning him on. Both of them looked at his dick as it betrayed him. Stop waving at her.
"Bobby, he's miserable."
"He's moody."
"Miserable."
"Moody."
"Well, yes, but more so since I came on the scene." Chantelle toyed with her navel, one finger circling, drawing his gaze down to the action. She lay naked, one leg out, one pulled back, heel on the edge of the sofa, knee swaying side to side. He got little flashes of flushed and distended lips, and had to fight not to fall to his knees to kiss them. If he did that while they were having this conversation, she wouldn't let him worship her. She'd box him around the ears with her knees, and then clamp his head in a vice with her thighs. She gazed up at him, pouting. "You know he loves you."
Bobby took a deep breath. It wasn't the first time she'd told him, but he'd heard it the first time only last week. "I'm sorry. I just don't see it. He's never said anything, given me any such indication."
"As far as he's concerned, you're straight."
Bobby deliberately glowered at her.
"Fine, macho man. You know what I mean." She kicked at one of his legs. "You're policemen. How many gay police do you know who are obvious about it? It's not as if another man would be a big deal for you, but Sam wasn't to know that. He wasn't about to tell you he loved you and lose your friendship, or risk losing your respect. I know you wouldn't have reacted that way, but he didn't. Still doesn't."
He couldn't argue with the scenario she presented to him. Sam had been a good policeman before some drunken bastard had aimed the stolen car he was driving at him, and Sam had ended up with a pronounced limp and a desk job. Analyst. Yeah, right. Just the right job for Sam... not!
Chantelle had taken over Sam's position in the department, and Bobby had fallen instantly and secretly in love with her -- secretly to anyone but Sam who had seen it in his eyes the moment he looked at her. Sam had warned him to tone down his reaction to her before everyone in the station realised. He had done nothing to come between them, when he could have so easily blabbed. If Sam loved him as Chantelle said he did, that's what Bobby called heroic.
Undoubtedly sensing his feelings, Chantelle said, "I know it eats you up. You wouldn't have met me if Sam hadn't been hurt. We both sort of owe him in a way."
Crouching, Bobby met her gaze. "What would you have me do?"
She shrugged. "If it were possible, would you shy from a relationship with Sam?"
"You mean if I'd known, would I have done something about his feelings?"
She hesitated, and then nodded. Bobby gave the idea his attention.
"Maybe. I like Sam well enough."
Chantelle raised an eyebrow.
"Fine. I love the guy. I just hadn't thought of Sam sexually."
"Because he's a man?"
Bobby stared at her. "Because he's human," he said slowly, deliberately. "To be with Sam, I would have had to explain what I am. I'm sure I don't have to explain why." His penis sometimes behaved the way any canine's did, and if he "tied" to Sam while inside him, it would have taken some explaining. He could see it now, having to hold the other man down while he spat and cursed at him, just so he wouldn't injure himself by trying to pull away. That was the best course of events he could have hoped for. He'd hate to see fear in Sam's eyes.
"So you've as much to be afraid of as Sam, maybe more."
"I guess. It was never an issue because --"
"Because you were too blind to see he loved you. Hell, Bobby, I can smell the desire coming from him every time he's near you. Why can't you?"

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All Washed Up by Shannon Marie Blackwell

All Washed Up

by Sharon Maria Bidwell Cover art: Karen Fox

ISBN: 978-1-60521-625-6

Genre(s): Humor & Satire, Guilty Pleasures (Contemporary)

Theme(s): Gay and Lesbian

Length: Novella

http://changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1591

Blurb:

When Peter Blake takes a job working for Walker's Wash-ups, little does he know that the easiest part of his day will be deciding which of his "uniforms" he hates the most. Needing the money to pay off a loan, Peter decides there are worse things in life than wearing a nude male grilling "Hot Sausage" apron, even if he can't exactly remember what at the moment. His life shouldn't be like this. Alas, he didn't foresee corporate redundancy. He didn't foresee a time in his life when he'd have to take such a peculiar job, having to grin and "bare" it, where both pairs of "cheeks" burn equally with embarrassment.

Even more surprising, he didn't expect the sanest person in his growing list of crazy clients would be another man with a bruised heart, who has a lot to answer for, including his future.

Excerpt:
All Washed Up
Sharon Maria Bidwell
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2011 Sharon Maria Bidwell

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

"Is that for me?" The man standing in front of the easel stared pointedly down at a certain area near Peter's groin. Peter stood there wearing the "Hot Sausage" Nude Male Grilling apron, gaping like an idiot. He knew he was gaping, knew he wasn't hiding his shock at all. He just couldn't seem to do anything about it.
Chris? He'd thought that meant Christine. The man standing in front of him had a disarming grin, and twinkling brown eyes. Dancing eyes. Laughing gaze. Middle-aged maybe, although it was hard to age him exactly. Despite the touch of grey in his dark hair, the man appeared strong in the arms and shoulders.
The man put down the paintbrush, and then wiped his fingers on an old cloth. Inspecting his digits, he judged them good enough and stuck out a hand. "Christopher Hunter. Sorry about this, but you're my sister's idea, and I generally do what I can to make her happy." Christopher waved a hand, gesturing at a chair. "Sit, sit. No formalities here."
Peter stood at the side of the table, dithering. He'd done a few chores and helped Christopher make some sandwiches. He hadn't expected the man to set out two plates and to pour two large mugs of tea. The offer of food didn't go unnoticed by his stomach. Even if he felt on edge, he'd had nothing but three slices of semi-burnt bread all day. Still, he didn't feel comfortable about sitting. Christopher apparently worked out his predicament.
"I'm not worried about those sweet cheeks touching the seat. Sit. Tuck in. I'm not eating all this alone, and besides," those dark eyes flicked down and then up, "I doubt you've had time to eat today."
Trying to ignore the mention of his sweet cheeks, Peter said, "I could have had my fill of cream cakes earlier."
"Do tell."
Much to his surprise, Peter did.
"Poor girl. Still, not your place to save her, but maybe not your place to encourage her either?" The lilt of Christopher's voice made it a question.
"Well, I didn't know until I got there, but I don't want to go back." Just as he didn't want to go back to the knife-loving Goth. He thought of telling Christopher about that encounter as well, but then he discovered he didn't have the energy. He also felt a little uncomfortable, as if he were breaking client confidentiality or something. If he talked about others, maybe this Christopher would think he'd talk about him in turn. Not that he was sure he wanted to return here either, but at this rate, Michael would kick him out of the job if he kept refusing work. This Christopher at least seemed sane.
"What are you doing this for, Peter?" Christopher looked at him over the rim of his mug. "I mean, forgive me for saying so but you look like a presentable young man."
"Not what you expected?"
"I didn't know what to expect, but you surely weren't it. What do you do when you're not..." Chris waved a hand in the air. "I take it you do do something else?"
"When I'm given the opportunity to, yes, I'm in I.T." He wanted to take it back the moment he said it.
Christopher's raised eyebrow sent heat into his face. "Fallen on hard times?"
"Something like that."
"You're better than this."
Peter squirmed, but all that did was remind him his bare backside sat on one of this man's dining room chairs. What if he left a pubic hair behind? Ugh. "You can't know that. You don't know me."
"Let's say first impressions are everything. You're neat. Your hairstyle says office worker, and even your nails are manicured." Christopher looked at his paint-stained nails and pulled a face. "I'm not very good at keeping up the well-dressed gay stereotype. Give me jeans any day, even in the workplace if I could get away with it. Never cared how people look. More concerned with what they have up here." Christopher tapped the side of his temple. "So you're temporarily between career opportunities." The man grinned as if to say he was only teasing and meant nothing by it. "No girlfriend?"
"No." Why was he answering this guy's questions? It wasn't part of the job description.
"Boyfriend?"
Peter blushed deeper. He knew he did. He felt ablaze.
"I'm not going to ravish you," Chris said, making the statement sound perfectly reasonable.
"I-I think I've answered enough questions."
"Well, you are a stranger I've let into my house. A decidedly strange stranger, some might say, considering you're the one wearing nothing but an apron."
"No stranger than wanting someone wearing nothing but an apron, surely?"
"Ah..." Christopher took a bite of sandwich, chewed it up, and wiped his hands on a napkin. Peter caught himself staring at the smudges of paint embedded in the man's cuticles. "Fair enough." He looked abashed. "This really wasn't my idea. If it were up to me, I'd tell you to put your clothes on, but there's no knowing if, or when, my sister will pop back, and if she discovers I'm less than enamoured with her present, she'll be upset. Not that you aren't fetching to look at."
"I-I'm not... I mean, I'm not..."
"Gay? Don't worry. Your virtue's safe. I'm just wondering why a handsome thirty-something like you has no girlfriend."
"She left," Peter said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. He'd managed to devour one sandwich, but now it rested heavily in his stomach. "Truth is, I used to live with my mother, and most women don't like that. Crystal --"
"Crystal?" A smile played with Christopher's lips. The expression softened his features.
Nice smile. Nice lips. Nice man.
What? What the fuck was that? I've not... for years. And it was just the one time. Nothing. I was young. Just... experimenting.
Peter dismissed his wayward thoughts as being ridiculous. Was he so starved for affection he'd look for it with the first person who made him feel comfortable regardless of sexuality? Maybe. Would he regret it? He couldn't answer that...

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Assassins in Lace: Scents by Jocelyn Michel

Assassins in Lace: Scents


by Jocelyn Michel

Cover art: Reneé George

ISBN: 978-1-60521-582-2
Genre(s): Paranormal, Humor & Satire
Theme(s): Vampires, Werewolves

Series: Assassins in Lace

Length: Novella

Page Count: 37

http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1578

Blurb:
Vampire Sasha St. Claire runs a fragrance industry by day and stalks werewolves by night. Tripp Stefano, a werewolf notorious for how many vampires he's killed, has been particularly hard to snuff. What Sasha doesn't know is that sexy Tripp actually works as a handyman in her company's maintenance department. And the first step to taking her down is sabotaging every gizmo she owns so she'll open up her penthouse office suite to him.


Excerpt:
Assassins in Lace: Scents


Jocelyn Michel

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2011 Jocelyn Michel



This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.




No one knew my vampire secrets. By day I ruled a billion-dollar fragrance industry, and by night I ruled the streets. This particular Friday, I'd pulled up my luxurious red hair and wore a camel couture business suit with boring brown pumps. Nonetheless, I got a lot of lustful stares from good-looking men I didn't know as I walked into my building, probably because of my height and lush curves. Naturally I enjoyed the attention. The vamp in me loved imagining I could really let loose, sucking and fucking each one of them dry before they knew what bit them.

I rode up to my top-floor suite on my private elevator and strode down the hall, eyeing with pleasure the original artwork on the walls and the Persian rug under my feet, both of which screamed success. Heidi, my pretty young secretary, greeted me with a prompt, "Good morning, Ms St. Clair," and handed me a cup of steaming Red, a synthetic blood drink that wasn't as good as the real thing but did the trick. Taking it, I wordlessly stepped into my tasteful office and shut the door behind me. I'd say more to her later when we discussed my schedule for the next eight hours. First, I had to check in with my sister assassins.



Sitting at my enormous mahogany desk, I pushed a button. A panel to my left slid open to reveal a hidden compartment. Another button raised a ruby-red laptop into my workspace. The mechanism made a grinding noise both times. I made a mental note to tell Heidi.



It took a couple of minutes for the laptop to boot up, so I drank the fake blood and scanned the headlines of the city newspaper waiting for me on the desk. I saw the usual stuff: murders, muggings, political snafus. Delving deeper, I read the latest Hollywood gossip, my guilty pleasure. Star-struck me drooled over photos of my favorite hotties traversing the red carpet. Oh, how I'd have loved a taste -- as in literally -- of Alexander Skarsgård. He was so my kind of guy, even if he wasn't a real vampire.



With a sigh of longing I returned to my computer, one of several I owned, but the only one dedicated to all things assassin. I logged in and read last night's additions to a list of dead dogs dating back to the beginning of the current vamp-werewolf skirmish, the latest activity in a centuries-old war. I skipped my entry, of course, which left one, two... seven more. We'd only offed eight werewolf assassins total? Bummer. Our kills kept dropping in number, and no one knew why.



The Assassins in Lace, as we called ourselves, consisted of nine deadly women, all vampires. There used to be ten in our particular group, but one of our sisters-in-arms, Karma, had recently gone missing. I regretted that we'd sent her after Slayer, a notorious werewolf assassin who'd killed dozens of our kind. I strongly suspected he'd nailed her for good, not an easy feat. And we'd been so sure she'd get her wolf, as usual.



I read the names of the deceased, frowning when I realized that Tripp Stefano, a.k.a. Stalker, was still not on it. Triniti, the only one of us who knew what he looked like, had sworn she'd get him, but the man was as slippery as a snake in addition to being one of the most dangerous murderers on the planet. In fact, his kills matched those of Slayer, who'd once snuffed three of us in one night. I simply couldn't understand how they did it. No creature on earth had the strength, smarts, or skills of a vamp. Add to that our allure, and each of us became a murder machine capable of doing some serious werewolf damage.



Just as I moved my cursor to the box that would shut everything down, the screen went blank. I messed with the keys to no avail. Great. Just great. Then I couldn't lower it into the desk to hide it from the world. With a sigh, I closed the thing so the screen wouldn't be visible if it lit up again. I reached for the intercom. "Heidi? I need you."



Heidi Lawrence, assistant by day and assassin-in-training by night, hustled into my office seconds later. I mentally approved of her pale blue shirt and navy skirt, both of which complemented her sky-blue eyes and flaxen hair. "Something's wrong with this," I told her, pointing.



"I'll have maintenance check it."



"Only the sliding panel. No one touches the laptop. Ever."



"I remember."



"How's my schedule today?"



"You have a meeting with the head of research in thirty minutes. He has a new male scent for you to try."



"Excellent. And after that?"



"Lunch with the head of the art department."



Damn. Vampire Tim Spaulding had been trying to screw me since I hired him. He practically panted when we got together, a real turnoff. I so preferred to stalk my prey. That being said, I loved his work, which had put St. Clair Fragrances on the fragrance map.



"A two o'clock with the head of the marketing department."



Samson Kinney, another dud. Fantastic at what he did, but really just a vamp with fangs he couldn't control, begging for sexual crumbs I had no intention of dropping.



"A three o'clock with your sister."



Who probably needed another loan. Solange ran through my money the way I ran through the drink that gave me the control I needed to make it through a day packed with tasty humans. I never slip up, so werewolves, who are our sworn enemies, had no clue how lethal I could be. Neither did the general public.



"And dinner at eight with Mick O'Laughton."



At last. I'd been verbally sparring with the president of Class Act for the past six months, trying to place our designer scents in his exclusive clothing stores. Success finally loomed on the horizon, and that made me very, very happy.



After Heidi went back to her desk, I attempted to power up the sleek black laptop I used for my day-to-day business. It stayed on my desk at all times. I wanted to check my spreadsheets again so I'd have the details of all my scents memorized for that evening's meeting. But the laptop wouldn't respond. Frowning, I followed the cord down the hole in the desk, under the middle drawer and across the room. I found it still plugged in.



Hm. On my hands and knees, I reached up to turn on the lamp belonging to the other cord plugged into that outlet. It didn't work, either. With a huff of impatience, I got up and called Heidi on the intercom. "Add checking an electrical outlet to the list of maintenance to-dos, will you?"



"Yes, Ms St. Clair."



Smoothing my straight skirt, I sat again and scooted the black laptop to one side, squaring it neatly with the corner of the desk. I so loved everything in its proper place, which made the hang-up with the red computer very annoying. To distract myself from that minutia, I decided I'd read through the list of calls I'd received in response to my ad about the third floor vacancy. I owned the building and devoted most of the floors to St. Clair Fragrances, though I rented out five to other firms.



Unfortunately, that quickly bored me, so I picked up the remote to open the doors of my entertainment center. Though I pressed the usual button, nothing happened. Fuming, I changed the batteries and tried again. Nothing. I practically stomped my way over to it and yanked open the doors. Since I still held the remote, I turned on the plasma TV and got all the way back to my desk before I realized it hadn't come on. "Heidi! Add the entertainment center and the TV to that stupid list."



"Yes, ma'am."



At a loss, I walked to the vertical blinds covering the windows and flipped the open switch so I could check out the traffic situation far below and catch some rays. Contrary to popular belief, vampires did not melt in the sun and even enjoyed it... if they could get their curtains open, which I apparently could not. These just sat there. I couldn't even maneuver them manually. What the hell? Were all my gizmos in revolt?



"Heidi!"


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The Godrabbit by Cynthia Sax

The Godrabbit


by Cynthia Sax

Cover art: Bryan Keller

ISBN: 978-1-60521-566-2
Genre(s): Paranormal, Humor & Satire

Theme(s): Shapeshifters

Length: Novella


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Blurb:
I am known by many names. My beloved mother called me Flopsy Lapin. Lady Grace Satin jokes that I am the wickedest rabbit in all of the world. Her father, Lord Satan, dares to label me a mobster street rabbit. You, my friend, may call me the Godrabbit.

Lady Grace is the only female I lust after. My bloodstained hands are unworthy of holding her, so when a high-class hooker with Lady Grace's face, voice, scent, and everything else, wanders into my casino, I make her an offer she can't refuse. This leads to a night I will never forget.

Note: The Godrabbit is a prequel to Protect And Serve: Badge Bunny.

Excerpt:
The Godrabbit


Cynthia Sax

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2011 Cynthia Sax

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.


01 Grace's Blog

Males are perverse creatures. Over the past two years, I've sent Flopsy Lapin an embarrassing array of kiss-me signals, and I've been completely ignored. When I finally lose my mind and visit his casino, decked out in an outfit that would make a stripper blush, he's so eager to fuck me, he's willing to pay through his twitching nose for the privilege.

On a regular day, Lady Grace Satin wouldn't use a crude word like fuck, but I'm not feeling like myself tonight. I have a bad case of the sluts, which is why Flopsy's henchman assumes I'm a hooker. The battle-ax of a nurse examining me for God knows what kind of diseases knows better. For some bizarre reason, she keeps that knowledge to herself.

So I stand on the threshold to Flopsy's study, ironically the room where we first met, and wonder what in the blue blazes I'm doing. I'm not a hooker. I'm a virgin, and I don't know how to please a sophisticated mobster like Flopsy.

The flutter of fear that makes me want to upchuck flattens when I spot my big, bad bunny shifter. Flopsy is slumped in a brown leather armchair, staring into the unlit fireplace. What he sees there, I have no idea, but the normally cocky, confident Godrabbit appears weary and defeated. Optimism inflates my flat chest because even my inept sexual fumblings can't make him feel any worse than he looks right now.

"Come here." His voice is deep and rich like the cognac he has cradled in one hand. I swing my hips as I walk, imitating the movements of the scantily clad cocktail waitresses he employs. They're not hookers, but as I don't know any hookers, they'll have to do for role models.

"Kneel." Flopsy spreads his legs. He's impeccably dressed, as usual, in a dark three-piece suit. That phrase "crime doesn't pay" is a load of hooey. It does pay -- very, very well. I kneel between his legs and look up at him, awaiting further instructions. If he coaches me all the way, I may have a chance at pulling this off.

His brown eyes glint, and his nose twitches as he examines me. I freeze, worry twisting my insides. Does he recognize me? That would so bite the big carrot. He'd give me that tired you're-too-good-for-me speech, pat me on my head like I'm five years old, and send me home in one of his big, black limousines. I would then expire of sexual frustration, and my gravestone would read, "Here lies a rabbit who didn't get any."

"Black hair, blue eyes, pale skin." Flopsy reaches out as though to touch my face, only to, at the last second, drop his hand. "Mon Dieu, you look like her." I perk up. I look like someone else. They say that everyone has a twin somewhere in the world but as an only child, I've never seen any bunny shifter remotely resembling me. "Tonight, your name is Grace, understand?"

Wait a cottontail minute! Grace is my name.

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Protect and Serve: Savage Wolf by Silvia Violet

Protect and Serve: Savage Wolf


by Silvia Violet

Cover art: Bryan Keller

ISBN: 978-1-60521-610-2
Genre(s): Paranormal, Humor & Satire, BDSM
Theme(s): Werewolves, Shapeshifters, Men and Women in Uniform
Series: Protect and Serve
Length: Novella

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Blurb:
I'm Wolf, Officer Aidan "Wolf" Savage. I'm a werewolf. But unlike most of my kind these days, I'm one of the good guys even if I do scare the hell out of most people the first time they meet me. When a white-tailed deer shifter comes leaping into my life, she makes my body hotter than an erupting volcano. She's on the run, and she doesn't want my help. But I'm not about to let her get herself killed, and I'll use any means necessary to keep her safe.



Excerpt:
Protect and Serve: Savage Wolf


Silvia Violet

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2011 Silvia Violet

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.





01 Wolf's Blog

I'm Wolf, Officer Aidan "Wolf" Savage. I'm a werewolf. But unlike most of my kind these days, I'm one of the good guys even if I do scare the hell out of most people the first time they meet me.



I'm a damned good cop. If I'm tracking a criminal, he doesn't stand a chance of getting away. I love the chase, the takedown, the chance to be scary-as-hell, but there's one thing I hate about this job: stakeouts.



That's what tonight is all about, sitting in a hot, muggy car, eating doughnuts and watching the woods for signs of life. Man what I wouldn't give for a beer right now. And a warm house and a warm woman. OK, that train of thought isn't doing a damn thing for me. Because my partner and I are stuck right here, until we see something, or the sun comes up.



Jacobson, my partner, crushes his paper coffee cup and tosses it in the bag that serves as a trashcan. "I so don't want to do this shit tonight."



I don't think his comment deserves a response so I take a sip of my own coffee, which is damn near empty too.



Jacobson stares hard at the fence outside his window. "Do you actually think we're going to see anything? Anyone could have dumped those bodies by the park. Why would they come back now?"



We're parked along the outer perimeter of City Park. In its heyday it was a place for city residents to relax, have a picnic, get some exercise, and remember what trees actually looked like. When the economy went south, the city stopped maintaining it. Now it's an overgrown eyesore used primarily by the homeless, drug addicts, and kids looking for a thrill.



The department is constantly getting complaints about the vermin that thrive in the undergrowth, both animal and human. But recently, the volume of calls about trouble in the park has increased, and two teenagers were found dead at the park's northern gates last night. They'd been shot, execution style.



I take another sip of coffee before responding to Jacob's questions. "We've had too many complaints and none from the usual suspects. Something's up."



"Gang initiation?" Jacobson suggests.



I shake my head. "I don't think so."



His eyes narrow. "You smell something, don't you?"



I nod. Under the smells of sex, beer, and greasy food, there's an odd chemical odor. I can't place it, but I'm certain it doesn't belong in the park. It hadn't been there a few months ago when I'd pulled the short straw and been sent to run off a bunch of kids who'd come out here to party.



Before I can describe the smell to Jacob, I hear distant footsteps pounding the pavement. "Someone's running this way. Someone fast."



Jacob nods. I doubt he can hear a thing, but he's learned to trust my non-human ears without question. A few seconds later, a woman comes into view. She's wearing a sundress and a pair of high-heeled sandals so I doubt she's running for her health. Not that any sane woman would be in this part of town at night.



She has straight, reddish brown hair that swings past her waist. Her heavy round breasts are barely contained by her dress. Long shapely legs reach out for the ground, making my cock sit up and say hello. Her strides are so long she's practically leaping.



She's moving faster than any human should be in shoes like that. The wolf inside begs me to chase her for the sheer thrill of apprehending such a hot piece of flesh. But my cop instincts tell me this woman is our key to what's actually going on in the park.



Jacobson reaches for the door handle, but I lay a hand on his arm, stopping him. "Not yet."



"She's not out for an evening jog, Wolf. Someone's chasing her."



"Exactly. And we need to know who and why."



Jacobson frowned. "While letting her get killed in the process?"



I know my partner's right to protest, but my instincts tell me to take the risk.



The whine of a motorcycle engine grows louder. The woman runs past us and reaches the entrance to the park at the end of the block. The motorcycle driver guns his engine. He's only a block away. I watch as he pulls out a gun.



"Now?" Jacob asks.



"Now."



We exit the car and scale the fence, dropping down into the park, making our way through the thick undergrowth until we see the path. The motorcycle turns into the park and blows past us.



The woman darts into the woods up ahead. As she disappears, I swear I see the upraised white tail of a deer.



The driver fires a shot into the woods. Jacobson raises his gun and aims for the bike's tires. He misses. My heart pounds. If my instincts were wrong, if this woman died because I hesitated, I'll never forgive myself.



Suddenly an enormous stag leaps out of the woods directly in the motorcycle's path. The driver swerves. The bike falls on its left side, crushing the driver under it, as it skids to a stop.



My werewolf speed brings me to the carnage ahead of Jacobson, I touch the driver's neck, checking for a pulse. Nothing. He's dead.



I turn toward Jacobson and shake my head. The deer lies several feet ahead, his legs twitching. I ready my gun to put him out of his misery, but I stop cold when his scent hits my nostrils.



Jacobson reaches for his weapon. "Shouldn't we --"



I hold up my hand signaling him to stop. "He's a shifter." I start to tear off my uniform, preparing to shift. Now I know why I'd seen a white tail disappear into the woods. The long legs, the hair the color of a deer's fur, the superhuman speed. Our runner's no more human than I am. I turn to Jacobson. "Call this in and get us some backup. I'm going after the woman."



"Wait," he calls, but I'm already in my lupine form. I breathe in the scents of the night, damp leaves, warm earth, a few rodents. Then I catch her scent, deer mixed with the delicious musk of sweaty human female. My wolf salivates, eager for a chase.



I keep my nose low to the ground until the scent grows stronger. My ears prick. I can hear her breathing. I'm close. So close. She's hiding, but I know I'll flush her out. I wait for several long seconds.



She bursts from a tangle of bushes twenty feet or so ahead. And the chase is on. I tear after her, my wolf rejoicing in the freedom to run, to chase, to catch. But while my wolf is hungry for deer meat, my human side is hungry for this female in a whole different way.



I'm closing in. Her scent surrounds me. Sweat and fear and... whoa... sex. Bambie is as turned on by the chase as I am. Maybe this interrogation is going to be a whole lot more fun than I'd imagined.

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