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Just released! Holiday magic and mayhem from the Sylver & Steele series...
White Wolf Christmas
Only 99 cents at:
KINDLE, B&N, Smashwords, Apple, Sony, Kobo, and Diesel
A simple rescue mission turns deadly when cross-dressing werewolf Sylver Starr and his cat-shifter mate Hunter Steele teleport to Alaska on Christmas Eve to save a polar bear family from poachers, and get stranded on the ice, with an arctic storm blowing in. No way out, no shelter... no hope. This looks like the end of the line for our heroes. Shapeshifters are tough but not impervious to freezing. Unless a miracle happens, they'll be popsicles soon. Then again, aren't miracles what Christmas is all about?
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EXCERPT:
’Tis the night before Christmas,
And all through the house,
Strains of magical music
Clash with laughter from my spouse.
That would be Hunter Steele, multibillionaire, corporate king, and general pain in the ass. The love of my life and bane of my existence, bless his heart.
He’s also the founder and chief of a covert organization called Earth Guardians, Inc., and I’m one of his secret agents. But we won’t discuss that, because it’s the holidays, damn it, and we’re supposed to be on vacation. I’ve declared a moratorium on all business talk until after New Year’s. So there.
Most of all, Hunter is a cat-shifter.
And I’m a werewolf.
So we’re often at odds, being opposite breeds. Still, I can’t imagine what he finds so amusing right now. Certainly not my Sugar Plum Fairy costume. What else should I be wearing while listening to Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker ballet? I mean, you have to expect this sort of thing when you marry a drag queen. Which I am.
In any case, Hunter has seen me in this glitter-frosted tutu before. I wear it every December 24th. It’s one of my Yuletide rituals. Just like hanging our stockings by the chimney with care, and setting out a snack for Santa Claus. When I was little, growing up poor in rural West Texas, sometimes all I could leave him was a graham cracker, but I’ve made up for that scanty fare since then. This year I’ve set out a big plate of lasagna with a nice Chianti on the side.
I hope Santa likes Italian.
“I hope you won’t be too disappointed when it’s still there in the morning...” Hunter almost chokes on his guffaws.
Unfortunately, he recovers.
“...because I don’t intend to eat all that,” he finishes.
Notice, if you will, how he just shamelessly read my mind (yet rarely allows me access to his, I might add). All shapeshifters are natural telepaths, but Hunter abuses the talent, if you ask me--not that he ever does.
I roll my eyes at him. “You’re not supposed to eat it. It’s for Santa Claus.”
Now I need a treat for the reindeer. Mustn’t forget them!
Wafted along by The Nutcracker’s “Waltz of the Flowers,” on the points of my toe shoes, I dance toward the door to the kitchen to see what I can find. Carrots, perhaps? Shredded wheat? Apple strudel?
A hand on my shoulder halts me in mid pirouette. Hunter’s amber eyes gleam into mine. His lips twitch. He’s trying to suppress his laughter. But not very hard.
“Sylver, I hate to be the one to tell you this,” he says, “but you’re a big boy now, and it’s time you faced the truth. There is no Santa Claus.”
“What?”
Such sacrilege! And on Christmas Eve, too. I gasp in horror.
“He’s a myth,” Hunter persists.
“You better not let Santa hear you say that,” I warn. “Do you want coal in your stocking?”
We go through this every year, actually. Hunter thinks it’s way silly of me to believe in Santa Claus, and I think it’s even sillier of him not to. After all, werewolves have been called a myth, too, but I’m pretty sure I exist. So do vampires, fairies, cat-shifters (hint, hint)... Hell, there’s a whole intricate subculture of magical creatures living hidden among humanity.
“But no fat old men who deliver gifts down chimneys. I’m the one who fills our Christmas stockings, you idiot!”
Really? Damn. I guess that explains what I found in my stocking last year. A red and white striped dildo that plays “Jingle Bells.” I had wondered about that one. We all know, of course, that Santa Claus makes toys--but probably not that kind.
Whatever. I still believe in him. Just because Hunter fills our stockings is no proof that Santa doesn’t fill others, right?
“Wrong,” Hunter answers the thought.
I did mention he’s a pain in the ass, didn’t I?
“I thought you liked me in your ass,” he purrs, leaning in close, suddenly going sexy on me. Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Tantalizing, with a face to die for, and a body to match.
“What do you mean ‘suddenly’?” His eyes narrow to smoky slits. A wicked grin curls his lips. “I’m always sexy.”
Um... He has a point, you know. Hunter, even at his worst, can melt your underwear with a single glance. Nearly naked, he’s a heart attack waiting to happen.
I didn’t mention that part, did I, that he’s wearing nothing but red silk boxer shorts?
Very festive.
He also knows we’ve reached a stalemate in the Santa debate, so he’s trying to change the subject to hot holiday humping...
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