Release: Silver Spider

   

Title: Silver Spider

Author: Lena Austin

Cover Art: Marteeka Karland

Publisher: Changeling Press

Release Date: June 5, 2026

Genres: Action Adventure, Mystery /Suspense /Intrigue, New Releases, Paranormal, Romance

Themes: 2nd Chance Romance, Age Gap (Older Woman), Dark Romance, Elves /Dragons /Magical Creatures, LGBTQ+ Bisexual /Nonbinary /Transgender, Murder Mystery, Second Edition, Vampires, Voyeurism & Exhibitionism, Wolf Shifters & Werewolves

Book Length: Novel

Page Count: 122

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Synopsis

The secretive Duke of Aberystwyth has invited Madge Majesty to a murder mystery party, but he's the first victim!

Madge is a harpy, mystery writer, and amateur sleuth with a nose for murder. At her side is her faithful chauffeur, Hayden, who is a telekinetic ex-thief -- and a confirmed bachelor.

Now it's up to Madge to solve the whodunit. Her suspects are a motley assortment of inverts and very nervous heterosexuals, all of whom have more than just their sexual foibles to hide. Is it the cross-dressing vampire, the packless werewolf, the voyeuristic doctor, the gargoyle majordomo, or the promiscuous man who seems bent on getting everyone into his bed, including Hayden?

Excerpt

Silver Spider
Second Edition
Lena Austin
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2026 Lena Austin

"Madame?"

Madge Majesty looked up from her study of the papers spread on her lap and across the seat of her beloved 1912 Rolls Royce Silver Ghost Limousine. "Yes, Hayden?"

"Madame, Dunraven Castle is but perhaps half an hour away. You requested a warning." Hayden had lasted years longer than any of her other drivers, so he knew he was liked, but wasn't fool enough to take advantage of that knowledge. Harpies were not creatures to take lightly.

"Hmm. So I did." She gathered up her papers and stuffed them into her leather case. Wearily, she pulled on the gloves she'd laid to the side and put on the ridiculously large hat with an immense array of feathers decorating it. "There. I'm properly adorned." She huffed out an unladylike breath, as much as her corset would allow. "I'd give a great deal to be back in Greece where the fashions were sensible."

Hayden quirked a smile at her. "But not warm, Madame. Wales in winter is considerably chillier." As if to emphasize his point, the wind rattled the Rolls with no respect for the craftsmanship that went into it.

"I'm very sorry I agreed to be the Duke's hostess for this mystery party. Why didn't I refuse and stay in our lovely townhouse in London, where I could enjoy a party or write as I pleased?" Madge rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "Ah, well, what's done is done. We'll make the best of the weekend and be toasting our toes in front of the home fires soon enough."

"I've never been to a mystery party, Madame. How does one throw a party for a mystery?"

"Very simple. It's all in this box." Madge patted the locked strongbox beside her. "There are clue cards and the basic plot for me to follow. This one is perfect for a winter game, called The Santa Clause. Who wouldn't love to murder a solicitor or two now and again?" She shrugged. "I certainly would, upon occasion."

Hayden retreated into silence and returned his attention to maneuvering her precious new car through the few treacherous roads that Wales bothered to have at all. The ex-thief was not fond of anyone who had anything to do with the law. He was officially rehabilitated, but a mere ten years of service as her driver didn't negate a lifetime of running from authority. An extremely careful and quiet man by nature, he was -- in Madge's opinion -- the perfect companion, much better than a twittering peahen of a lady's maid.

The car lurched and slid to one side on a patch of icy mud, throwing Madge against the door. She bore it in stoic silence. Hayden wouldn't understand how much they needed the money provided by this weekend of enforced merriment. Everyone was writing books in this day and age, and she wouldn't say the money she earned was paltry, but it certainly didn't allow for a lavish lifestyle. In fact, if the truth were known, Hayden was the only employee she could afford. Thus, while on their jaunts -- often paid by those who wished for a bit of fame and glamour to rub off on them -- Hayden served as chef, chauffeur, lady's maid, and man of all work.

Since it suited her to be knowledgeable about subjects many men hadn't even the stomach for, Madge pulled out of her case one of the few books where the great Sigmund Freud appeared to change his mind on the subject of anxiety and inhibitions. Madge grinned to herself. She did love humor, especially when humans meant to be serious. "Of course we all have inhibitions, moronic little man."

Her mumble caught Hayden's attention. "Why do you bother with that mumbo-jumbo, Madame? He thinks everything has to do with sexual congress!"

"Hmm, yes, well, he does have certain prejudices, doesn't he? I'm not aberrant because I enjoy sex, and I seriously doubt the way your mother changed your nappies has anything to do with your homosexuality. Do be forgiving, dear. He's hopelessly addicted to cocaine, and trapped in a repressed society."

Sadly, everything she said was true. "You'd know more about repressed societies than I, Madame. I'm only a poor human, after all." Hayden gave her one of his infamous Mona Lisa smiles -- a smile that showed no teeth but implied much more than mischief while keeping well into propriety. Bless him, he never stepped a toe out of line publicly, unless called upon to do so.

Madge, on the other hand, had no compunctions about showing her fangs, even when she covered her retractable dagger-like talons with silk gloves. The pointed ears peeking out of dark curls and her Grecian looks marked her as a foreigner in a land notable for its snobbery, but Madge saw no need to bother hiding herself. Well, all right, she hid the wings. Blasted things got in the way if she didn't, but that was for her convenience and not propriety. She was what she was -- an expatriate harpy who told a good story and occasionally found cause to use her bloodthirsty nature to solve a mystery.

The irony was, no one ever thought to accuse her of the murders because harpies weren't known for subtlety when it came to killing. Madge acknowledged the legend with twisted lips, and didn't bother to remind anyone that she was free and no longer the slave of the Furies.

Framed by snow clouds the color of a pigeon's breast, Dunraven Castle hove up from the surrounding hills like a fairytale. Beautifully situated and scrupulously maintained by a trust none of the Duke's wastrel ancestors could touch, it was a welcoming sight in the gathering gloom of dusk. Thanks to the road conditions, if you dared call the deeply rutted mud tracks by the same noble word the Romans used for their craftsmanship, they were hours late. They'd missed tea in their haste to make up time, and now her stomach rumbled audibly. "Have we time for a biscuit, Hayden?"

"Was that your stomach, Madame? Surely I thought we were about to have a storm." Hayden pretended to study the sky very seriously. At the same time, his hand reached back imploringly. "I'd love a bikky, thank you. No doubt I've missed the servant's dinner, and I've no mind to make do with a bit of cold chicken and some bread until morning."

Chuckling wickedly because he knew she always insisted he sit with her at table, forestalling any foolish matchmaking attempts, Madge handed him a large shortbread biscuit from her hamper, and they munched companionably. Finally, the car traversed the bridge atop the dry moat and passed through the portcullis into the courtyard of Dunraven.

"Just do me one small favor, Madame?" Hayden did not move from the seat to open her door.

"So serious! Very well, what is it?" She thought she knew, but made him ask.

"Let's try not to let this weekend become a real murder mystery?" His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, and she imagined under the proper driving gloves of his profession, his knuckles were white. Poor thing, he really had suffered at the last mysterious weekend, and had ended up incarcerated for three days until Madge had proven to everyone's satisfaction that another had committed the deed. For poor Hayden, it had been a truly miserable occasion.

Madge patted his shoulder. "Buck up, Hayden. I'm planning nothing more than a game all weekend. After all, what could happen in the Duke's presence?"

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Someone cursed Lena Austin with "may you have a life so full you'll have many tales to tell your grandchildren." Lena's a "fallen" society wench with a checkered past. She's been a licensed minister, hairdresser, Realtor, radio DJ, exotic dancer, telephone service tech, live-steel medievalist swordswoman, BDSM Mistress, and investment property manager. Not necessarily in that order. She never finished that degree in marine archaeology, but did learn to scuba -- she's got a lifetime of "Research material!" 

Hey, why waste these stories on kids who won't listen anyway? Writing them down is a nice way to spend her retirement. What? You expected an ex-BDSM Mistress to take up crocheting or something?

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Book Blitz: Dune Queen

Dune Queen
Amina Adamou
Publication date: June 6th 2026
Genres: Fantasy, Romance, Young Adult

When Salima Farhan turns eighteen, she thinks she’s finally old enough to escape the absurd teachings of the cult her parents joined ever since she was a kid, but Farik Masood, the founder and leader of the Crescent Compound, has other plans for her: he wants her to join a recruitment program to bring in more cult members.

Salima agrees to join the program in order to eventually escape—but she quickly regrets that decision when she finds out Masood’s ‘program’ is actually a front for something far more sinister. Knocked unconscious before she can run, she wakes up two months later only to be told that she now has the same magic as djinn, mischievous, mythical beings who are normally invisible to the human eye. And as a reward for these powers, she’s expected to use her new abilities to help Masood take over the world.

Distraught but determined, Salima must fight for her freedom and for the innocent lives Masood wants to destroy—even if it means marrying the very djinn who has sworn to protect her enemy.

Amazon

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Author Bio:

Amina Adamou is a Nigerien living in Niamey, Niger, where several of her books are based on. As a kid, she wanted to become a manga artist, but after suffering defeat after defeat at the hands of complicated battle scenes, seemingly endless panels of scenery, and an aching hand, she threw in the towel and decided to tell stories in a different way. When not reading or writing, she likes to watch K-dramas and listen to K-pop. You can contact her at AminaAdamouAuthor@gmail.com

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Teaser: Iysh

Fiction

Date Published: 04-17-2025

In 1940, Leo Butlion, a young Jew studying to be a medical doctor in Koblenz, Germany, has his future plans disrupted when Nazi forces destroy his family and their business. His heroic escape and commitment to survive drive him to overcome the greatest test man could ever encounter. Ivy Jacobson, a deformed yet highly talented fashion designer, works in a textile factory in Liege, Belgium that is ransacked by Nazi invaders. She escapes their brutality and meets Leo. Leo explains the Hebrew word IYSH which means "champion" and together they agree to persevere and champion the cause no matter how difficult it becomes. Their heroism and tenacity unfold in dramatic fashion as they are captured, separated and sent to concentration camps where their future survival is unclear. The story develops from WWII until the Yom Kippur War in 1973 which takes place in Israel.

Excerpt

A week later, as roll call is coming to an end, a woman standing close to Ivy begins coughing and heaves clots of blood that splash onto the white frost at her feet. She is so weak she struggles to stay on her feet. She staggers for a moment and then stumbles forward onto the woman in front of her. The weak, sick woman has no strength left, and falls backwards onto Ivy. Ivy instinctively reaches forward to catch her, but is late in getting to her. The weight of the sick woman falls directly onto Ivy’s left arm. As Ivy catches her, she feels the leather strap snap under the woman’s weight. The prosthesis falls to the ground, making a crunching noise as it hits the frost.

Ivy’s first reaction is to camouflage the prosthesis lying on the ground, and she falls onto it, pulling the woman on top of her. “Karen, help me,” is Ivy’s desperate call. Karen notices the whole event, and reacts quickly by falling on top of the two women. A guard pushes his way past the rest of the women, and storms towards them, “Get up! This is no place to lie down!” The rasping command spreads fear into the three women lying on the frost.

They don’t look at the guard and Karen tries to crawl over Ivy and reach for the prosthesis. However, the guard notices the straps sticking out from under the sick woman’s waist. As Karen picks it up, the guard sticks his huge black military boot out and tramples her fingers into the frost. She screams with pain, but does not let go of the thongs, hoping she can hide the prosthesis and the thongs under Ivy and the sick woman. Karen kicks at the guard’s knee high boots, and he doesn’t feel anything. She is trying to distract his attention and allow Ivy to hide the prosthesis.

“What’s this?” The guard kneels down looking at the thongs, and pulls them towards him. He stands up and holds the prosthesis shoulder high. Bewilderment is the first expression he portrays and then a smirk filters over his face. He looks directly at Ivy who lies on the cold frost. She rolls over face down onto the frost

and starts sobbing, knowing that after all she had been through, she has now been found out. Karen crawls towards her on all fours, leans over her, and tries to console her. “Ivy, we must be strong, they won’t hurt us. Be strong, please.” Karen knows she is talking to herself as well, and that the words are futile. This has to be the end for both women.

“Get up!” shouts the guard as he kicks Ivy and Karen. He leaves the sick woman who is unable to move, blood still pouring out of her mouth as she coughs. “I said get up! Are you also deaf, woman!” The statement cuts into Ivy’s heart like a sharp, piecing hot iron.

Karen is the first one on her feet, and she leans over to help Ivy. The guard reacts with a swift thrust of his right arm against Karen’s back that sends her crashing to the ground. “She can get up on her own! Let’s see her do it.” Turning to Ivy, he shouts hysterically at her, “Get up, woman, or must I shoot you now!” Ivy gets to her knees and falls again. Her strength is sapped by fear and anguish. By now, fear and heartache flood both their hearts. For Ivy, it is all over. Surely they will kill me is all she can think of. Oh, why did this have to happen now? She shakes on her feet as she sobs, cradling the left stump in her right hand. Why God, why? The guard grabs Karen by the neck, and pushes her brutally towards the back of the ranks. “We will teach you to betray the Wehrmacht, slut. There is only one way to teach you a lesson, and everyone else!” By now, the guard is so angry at the fact that a woman has concealed her prosthesis from the army, he is prepared to vent this on Karen.

The matron, who is standing on the platform, doesn’t care what the guard does to Karen. Then she points to Ivy, who is still on her knees trying to get up, and commands another guard in a callous fashion, “Bring me that heap of misery!” Ivy is terrified. Her body shakes as she tries to walk through the prisoners towards the matron. As she reaches the platform, Ivy stands in front of the matron, her head is down looking at the ground because she is unable to face her executioner.

“So, you have been hiding this from us all this time!” The words slam into Ivy’s heart as she stands shaking, knowing that this is to be her impromptu trial. “How long have you been like this?” Ivy cannot bring herself to reply. Through the tears, she looks up at the matron.

The matron struts to her desk and drops into the chair. She pays no attention to Ivy, who stands in front of her shaking. Ivy has no control over her emotions anymore, and the anxiety and terror that encases her heart causes her to soil herself. She stands in front of the matron still holding her left stump in her right hand.

Ivy’s fate is in the hands of this plump round-faced matron who, during the years at the camp, has never showed mercy to anyone. Surely Ivy’s punishment will be worse than Karen’s. Oh, God, please help me, I am this way because of you, please God, please, begs Ivy under her breath as she stands trembling from fear.

“How long have you been like this?” inquires the matron for the second time. Ivy tries to straighten up, and she wipes the tears from off her checks. Then she reaches down to her torn dress, and uses it to wipe her nose. She croaks out the words, “Since birth.”

“Then how in tarnation did you get into this camp, and hide this from us all the time!” The matron explodes in anger and slams her fist on the desk as she speaks at the top of her voice. “Do you know what they do to deformed people in the Third Reich?” The question thunders in Ivy’s ears. She knows all too well what happens to them, and she realizes that this is the eventual road she will have to go once the matron is finished with her.

It is too much for Ivy, and her knees cave in under the mental pressure, and she leans forward to hold onto the desk as the gravity of the situation swoops over her.

“Do you know that I have no choice but to follow orders and shoot you?” The uncouth matron, who shows no pity on Ivy, mouths the death knell. With the emptiness of a hangman, she speaks them to Ivy, as if to say, you are done for. “Please, Matron, please,” says Ivy as she sobs, desperately pleading for her life to be spared. She can get nothing else out. Her throat dries up, and her mind is swimming as the overpowering fear avalanches its way into her heart. She falls to her knees under the strain and pressure and hangs onto the edge of the desk, breaking out into a heart wrenching sob.

“Adjutant, get in here!” shouts the matron. This must be the final decision for Ivy, as she realizes she will now be dragged out to the courtyard and shot in front of the other prisoners. She tries to stand up and face the last few minutes of her life with at least some dignity.

The adjutant walks briskly to the matron’s desk and stands to attention, waiting his instructions. To her amazement Ivy hears the words, “Get me this woman’s file.” The adjutant pulls at Ivy’s right arm, and looks at her number, does an about face, walks out of the office, and returns a few minutes later with a brown manila file.

The matron reaches for the file and casually flips it open. Her eyes fall on a letter addressed to her from Captain Willem Langford in the Textile factory in Berlin where Ivy has worked. A frown creases her brow as she holds the letter towards the light.

The matron drops the letter on her desk and speaks to Ivy in a condescending manner, “You seemed to be of some use to this Captain Langford, what did you get up to there? I suppose you were more than a designer, or do I read this incorrectly?” Ivy is insulted by the remark, and for the first time she stares at the matron, this time in indignation. “I don’t know what you mean. I did what I was told, and that’s all.” She gathers enough courage to make her next point very

clear, “Contrary to your thinking, Captain Langford is an honorable man, and a fine officer. As for me, I’m your prisoner, and have never been abused by him.”

“Captain Langford, this is Matron Von Eck at Ravensbruck Concentration Camp.”

“Yes, Matron, what can I do for you?” Langford is cordial and to the point. “I want you to think back to when you had a prisoner working for you. Her name was Jacobson, she was…”

The matron can say no more as Langford immediately interrupts her. “Yes, I remember her, Matron. She did the Wehrmacht excellent service, even as a prisoner.” There is a moment of silence before Langford speaks again. “Matron, it was the last day she worked for us. The moment I found out she had one hand, I sent her back to you. This was also the day that General Gruber visited the factory, and gave us orders to start a new production line for the next phase for the war. It was when I was discussing the new designs with her that I found out she was deformed.”

Langford uses his superior rank on the matron and reacts to her question, “I wrote to you the day I transferred her back to you. How come you are calling me now about this woman?” The question is direct and places the matron on the defensive.

“Something has come up, and she is involved in it. I needed to get clarification from you.” Her answer is evasive and almost works.

Langford again decides to use his rank, and in an unprecedented manner, commands the matron. “I will need her very soon again. In fact I am looking for workers with such talent right now, and instructing you to do nothing with her. I will contact you within the month, and arrange her transfer back to this factory. Is that understood?”

The matron has no choice but to obey the officer who is much higher in rank than her. She also realizes that there is nothing she can do to Ivy. That is her instruction, and she had better take care of Ivy, or she will be held accountable by her superiors if anything happens to her.

The matron replaces the receiver, scowls as she shuffles the papers back into Ivy’s folder, and bellows, “Jacobson, get back in here, now!”

As Ivy walks back into the office expecting to hear her death sentence, to her amazement, Ivy hears the matron growl at her as she struggles to say, “Return to your barrack. Let me be clear on this, if you ever flaunt your deformity to anyone, or on any guard, I will personally take great delight in punishing you. Do you hear me?”

Ivy does not answer her. She turns around and walks out of the office. As she leaves, she looks up at the sky. It is grey and miserable that morning. But, now there is a ray of sunshine peeping through a gap in the clouds. She takes hold of her left arm and says through the tears of relief, “IYSH”.

About the Author

 

 Greg Price is a writer, human resource expert and an ordained minister. He has traveled extensively throughout the world and shares his experiences by translating them into literary characters who inspire and motivate the reader. Greg immigrated to the United States from south Africa and currently lives with his wife in Mississippi.

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https://mybook.to/IYSH

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Book Blitz: A Jewel of a Crime-A Venus Bixby Mystery

A Jewel of a Crime: A Venus Bixby Mystery
Valerie Taylor
(Venus Bixby Mystery, #3)
Publication date: June 2nd 2026
Genres: Adult, Cozy Mystery

Venus Bixby is ready for a fresh start. With green streaks in her hair and “Rock the Shamrock” polish on her nails, she’s sold her dance studio and set her sights on a glamorous second act: traveling the world to recover stolen art. But before she can book her first flight, she stumbles over the new studio owner’s dead body behind a drawn curtain.

In a town like Chatham Crossing, secrets don’t stay buried and gossip travels faster than the morning coffee line. Suddenly Venus is a suspect in a very public investigation. As she scrambles to clear her name, she uncovers a troubling secret from her late husband’s past: he purchased an emerald ring she’s never seen—and now it’s missing.

When a string of burglaries rattles the town, Venus begins to suspect the murder and the stolen emerald are connected. With rumors swirling, neighbors whispering, and her passport dreams slipping, she’ll need sharp instincts—and a dash of Irish luck—to catch the real culprit.

A Jewel of a Crime is a sparkling cozy mystery filled with small-town charm, amateur sleuthing, loyal cats, and twists that keep the pages turning. Includes cookie recipes and a nostalgic oldies playlist.

Goodreads / Amazon

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EXCERPT:

“Where do you think Margo is?”

Rather than barge uninvited into the classroom looking for her, Gabby and I bided our time and hung out in the lobby. I shifted from one foot to the other while Gabby perused the business cards pinned to a brand-new combination whiteboard and corkboard.

“When I come back with that vase, I’ll bring a few business cards to tack up here.”

“Great idea!” I rifled through my purse until I found a couple of cards promoting Oldies & Goodies and Cats & Their Cradle. I affixed them to the cork and smiled. Part of me wondered whether Sam would take them down before anyone ever saw them.

Still no Margo. Did she not hear the bell when we entered a few minutes ago? Maybe not over Ol’ Blue Eyes. I considered writing a message on the whiteboard. I picked through the pens in the Tremont Regency Hotel mug on the desk, but there didn’t appear to be any of those dry-erase markers.

“Where could she be?” Gabby asked.

“Probably in the back. Should we check?”

I gently opened the glass door to the main classroom. A rush of crisp air reminded me how we’d kept the temperature in the low sixties so the students wouldn’t get overheated. The smell of fresh-cut grass suddenly wafted over me. My nose recognized dance floor wax, forcing me to stifle a sneeze.

The same song we heard when we walked into the lobby still played. Must be on a continuous loop. I listened closely. Ah, Frank was singing “Witchcraft.” An appropriate theme for the day.

The walls were painted a creamy shade of white. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined one wall and a row of barres ran parallel to the floor. The mirrors reflected framed images on the opposite wall. I turned to examine them up close. I walked along the wall, studying and touching each gently. Definitely Sam and Margo in their younger years.

This egotistical display was so unlike the studio Paul, and then I, owned. Our walls were proudly adorned with photographs of the young dancers who graced our ballroom.

Where are those pictures? Why didn’t they ask if I wanted them? What else did they keep from me?

“Margo?” I called.

Silence.

At the far end of the room, there was a royal purple floor-to-ceiling drape pulled closed across the width of the ballroom. As I walked toward it, I waved toward Gabby. “I’m gonna check back here.”

I noticed a universal restroom to my right. I motioned to Gabby. “You check in there.”

Then I drew back the curtain. “Never mind. Found her!” I cried out.

Author Bio:

Valerie Taylor lives in Connecticut and considers herself a typical "average Jane." She might remind you of the reclusive neighbor who fancies herself a novelist. Unlike many of her peers whom she admires, she does NOT have a degree in literature. But she is the award-winning author of the romantic comedy trilogy: WHAT'S NOT SAID, WHAT'S NOT TRUE, and WHAT'S NOT LOST. The roots of those three novels, as well as the books in the Venus Bixby Mystery series—A WHALE OF A MURDER and SWITCHED AT DEATH and A JEWEL OF A CRIME—most likely took hold during her early years watching Carol Burnett, Jack Benny, Red Skelton, and The Twilight Zone. Her love of oldies music stems from hours listening and dancing to Elvis Presley and The Beatles, and being in the Bobby Darin fan club.

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Release: Phoning Faust

Title: Phoning Faust

Author: Sophie Mutiara Nova

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 06/02/2026

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: F/NB

Length: 208

Genre: Paranormal, Genre/lit, paranormal, urban fantasy, lesbian, demisexual, bisexual, genderfluid, trans, devil, pandemic

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Description

Queer mixed Indonesian college student Dian Faust attempts to call the suicide hotline only to dial the wrong number, her finger slipping and typing in six three times (the mark of the Devil). The mysterious voice on the other end of the line is revealed to be a charming scam caller named Memphis with a penchant for chattiness, trapped in a dingy bus stop bathroom, wanting to learn a concerning amount about the lonely Dian’s life.

But this scam caller is more than just a Mr. Robot hacker wannabe—a sinister presence lurks in the pixels on Dian’s laptop screen in the shadows of her apartment. The Devil themself has come to collect Dian’s soul, and “Memphis” is actually Mephistopheles—Hell’s foremost golden-tongued agent and notorious liar.

In this loose retelling of Goethe’s Faust, will Dian save her soul before time runs out—or will she fall prey to the renowned storytelling deception of the infamous Mephistopheles?

Excerpt

Phoning Faust
Sophie Mutiara Nova © 2026
All Rights Reserved

This is not a cry for help.

This is a scream.

Please, please, please.

I don’t want to die alone.

The suicide hotline is taking too long. Another shining example of the American medical system as I stare, dissociating, at my black-polish-chipped nails surrounding the dimly lit version of my nighttime phone screen. The string of unfamiliar text blinks blankly back at me. Not judging. Not caring. On my empty gold-whorl desk, a laptop. The web browser which has “I WANT TO DIE” in a Google search next to a second tab that screams: “HELP ME.”

I don’t want to.

I don’t want to.

I don’t…alone…

I sigh as the ringtone keeps going, going, going, gone. It’s a little comforting, the faded buzz like a lukewarm high in my brain as I shiver while encased in sweat. It feels cold tonight even as my body runs hot. I’m always cold even in the heat of summer, like the vampire in Nosferatu, shadow tendrils trailing along white walls. I’m also all cried out at this point, empty as the bottom of a Styrofoam cup. Monologuing to my own reflection in the mirror like Gen Z Hamlet (to be or not to be) so at least someone listens.

I stare at the empty cardboard box across from me with a smiley face note on it. My roommate, singular, had long packed up after we got the pandemic alert. All our courses cancelled as the oh-so-lucky graduating class of 2020, sending us off to an uncertain one-week vacation while they rebooted school for Zoom classes.

My roommate, Talia, and I had gotten along decently for the past three years, time flying by in a whirl of late-night fast-food adventures and giggling over TV show reruns. Though she’d taken to more emotional distance as my senioritis turned to ennui turned to something much worse. Something that probably required a clinical diagnosis—but hell if I was going to haul ass to the campus medical ward with COVID on the rise. They had bigger problems than my mental health right now to deal with.

Talia returned home to parents who are worried about her, relatives who rely on her college knowledge to make the world a better place. Time and visas and the pandemic are all extra unkind to her as an international student, even if she is from Canada. We’d bonded fast over both being Southeast Asian—I was part Indonesian, and she was Filipina, and we’d often joke over the word selamat meaning “hello” in Indonesian but “thank you” in Tagalog. Switching dinner responsibilities and struggling through half-remembered family recipes when we were homesick. I always begged her to bring extra hopia from her trips visiting aunties, and whenever I fried kerupuk I’d find a few missing after I got home. It was a symbiotic relationship.

But I miss Talia—the void she left behind—as I stare at her smiley-face note, the spare coffee maker she left even if I don’t have any of those special tinfoil cups to put in it. I barely have enough energy to eat microwave oatmeal and mi goreng lately.

Which leads to me here, stuck in lockdown, surrounded by crappy dorm room furniture and microwave, nonperishable meals. A vacant room where Talia used to be. I’d insisted on staying out the rest of my lease even if campus was nonoperational. My parents are maybe an eight-hour drive from here, but I told them I wanted to quarantine a bit before going home to see them. My mom’s immunocompromised, and I don’t want to risk giving her anything. Plus, home has always been a bit tense since I was outed a while ago as queer when my aunt saw me in the college pamphlets during Pride Week—Pride flags smeared across my grinning cheeks in vibrant, technicolor paint. I’d rather let that conversation go to voicemail, metaphorically and in what remained of my reality.

I reframe my time alone here as a martyr’s sacrifice, a saintly retreat, like all those macabre stories I learned from Sunday school. Like Joan of Arc burning in her armor, cursing out the enemies of Satan and giving up her life for all of France. Or maybe she was crazy like I’m crazy. Maybe I’m just as bad as her, continuing a cycle of women who thought they had to die rather than live and be “too much.”

The number you have dialed is not responding, please hang up and try—

I hang up.

I don’t want to try again.

I stare at the bottle of aspirin. Our generation’s version of ambrosia or perhaps snake oil, a cure-all that could vanquish your average colds, flus, fevers, and everything but the mysterious virus devastating America. The plague is upon us and all I have are crumpled masks from our school health office in the corner and vitamin C packets—like that will keep me safe. Global warming is getting worse, world events are shitty, but I’m alive. A lot of people don’t have that luxury.

God, I’m a shithead.

I don’t deserve to…to…

I stare at my open laptop screen. The morbid searches. I don’t deserve to do this. People in the world are really suffering. Afraid and huddled together for warmth against a cruel, unforgiving backdrop of hellish global torment. I don’t deserve to cry about this. Cry about what? Being lonely? Being “big sad”?

Why do I feel so empty inside?

I shake my head as though that’ll clear it, brushing away the flyaway bangs at the corners of my newly pierced eyebrows. I’d DIYed a haircut I’d grabbed off social media, wanting to look more rocker chick but instead, just looking like a little kid with craft scissors. That was okay. It would grow out soon. My mom’s hair always grew out thicker. My dad was bald. He said I had good hair—shame I kept dyeing it and chopping it and dyeing it again in my quest to find myself in queer person’s second puberty. Change helped me feel better…

…for a little while at least.

I take in a deep breath. Suck it up, bitch. And I type in the number of the emergency hotline again. But my fingers type too fast, vision a bit hazy, and I accidentally press too many 6s. Three of them, in fact. My blood runs cold.

My mom would call it the devil’s number.

Not knowing what possesses me, I press enter. The number rings…

…and rings…

And finally, someone picks up. A few breaths into the receiver and I’m blushing already, unsure how to handle speaking to another person. I haven’t seen anyone since Talia left in a flurry of quick tears and hasty care packages. “H-hello?” I stammer.

“Hello.” The voice that purrs back is silky, soft. Full of sensuality like the sex kittens in all those movies from the 1960s, lounging on a lace canopy bed as big bad Mr. Super Spy comes back from one of his missions. Dressed in nothing but a diaphanous nightgown. But there’s something else to her voice, a vocal fry undertone, like a punk rock babe singing about crimson and clover. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

Jesus. It seems I have accidentally called an escort. My thumb hovers over the End Call button as I stare, my cheeks fully on fire now at the traitorous phone. “S-sorry. It seems I’ve called the wrong number.”

“Or the right one, baby. We could go at this all night.” Then, an ungodly hacking sound, like a black cat with its hackles raised in an arch, coughing up a hairball. “Sonuvabitch, sorry. That voice is really hard to keep up.”

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Queer Midwest emo turned Scream-Queen-Lover (in real life and onscreen) Sophie Mutiara Nova/Whittemore is a half-Indonesian, SLE-diagnosed Writer-Director. They are the Writing Fellow of the ACEX TV Initiative and Finalist of the Emmy’s TV Academy Foundation Directing Program. Their TV series have been selected at the PAGE International Screenwriting Awards, ScreenCraft and more. They’ve screened in festivals internationally and across the US and won the Los Angeles Asian Film Awards. Their monster book CATCH LILI TOO was spotlighted by GCLS (known for honoring Allison Bechdel). Originally from Chicago, Sophie’s now based in Los Angeles ( Dartmouth College BFA & MFA Film Directing CalArts). When not writing or rocking out, they perform Indonesian traditional dance with Burat Wangi.

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Book Tour: Our Toxic Traits

 

Some secrets are better left buried.

Others are waiting to pull you under.

Our Toxic Traits

by Rebecca Christo

Genre: Dark Romantic Suspense Thriller

Some secrets are better left buried. Others are waiting to pull you under.

Jill Davis is just trying to survive the hustle of New York City. As a private dog walker for the elite residents of an Upper East Side high-rise, she’s used to navigating the eccentricities of her wealthy clients. From the icy and demanding Briar Whitney, to the mysterious and unnervingly attractive Christopher Bennett. Jill prides herself on blending into the background; but in a city where everyone is watching, staying invisible is becoming a dangerous game.

While a serial killer that the media has dubbed the “Socialite Strangler” stalks the shadows of Central Park, Jill’s carefully curated life begins to unravel. A series of unexplained “glitches” in her daily routine, and a questioning detective suggest that the danger isn’t just in the park, but in the building where she works.

When a high-stakes Halloween party turns a theatrical hoax into a gruesome reality, Jill is thrust into the centre of a nightmare. Caught in a web of obsession and lethal deception, she must decide who to trust.

In a world where everyone is connected, there is nowhere left to hide. Can Jill break free before her own toxic traits and those around her, become her undoing?

 

Amazon * B&N * Bookbub * Goodreads

Avid dog lover and Author Rebecca Christo was born in Toronto, Ontario, where she developed an early love of both reading and writing. Of particular interest to her was creating a story with emotionally mature content that was still entertaining enough to be read for fun on a relaxing vacation. She hopes she’s succeeded with her very first published novel: Mirrored Wounds.

When she’s not travelling with her husband, Darcy Christo, Rebecca enjoys spending time with him, her children Ali, Brittany and Maxwell, and her puppies (Lucy and Winston) in Wasaga Beach, Ontario where she currently lives.

  

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Cover Reveal: Always Meant For You

✨It’s cover reveal day for ALWAYS MEANT FOR YOU by @kristenvailbooks releasing July 30th!

 

#PreOrderHere

https://a.co/d/0fq8iQ6F  

 

Why you will love this book…

💜best friend's brother

🏈forbidden romance

💜college romance

🏈football romance

💜obsessed MMC

🏈playboy tamed by love

💜shy girl x flirt

🏈cat daddy MMC

💜forced proximity

🏈tattooed MMC

💜FMC with tragic past

 

Cash Hartnell: Football star. World-class flirt. And my best friend’s brother.

 

Some girls might like the attention that comes with being the new face at Shafer University. Me? I prefer to fade into the background. I’m only here to handle my aunt’s estate and close the book on a long, painful chapter of my life.

 

I wasn't even thinking about men until Cash and I locked eyes across a crowded bar. I didn't care about football until I saw the way his tattooed body fills out a jersey. I never understood the meaning of 'temptation' until his strictly off-limits lips whispered into my ear.

 

His only flaws? Being my best friend's brother—and chasing me despite her strict warning.

Like when he offers to help renovate the house I just inherited, and I find myself working alongside his cut biceps in a big, empty house all winter long.

 

See, the thing about Cash?

He always wins.

 

Even if it means breaking the rules, passing secret notes in class, and crashing my date with another man just to make sure the world knows who I belong to.

 

And after one forbidden kiss? I'm ready to break some rules of my own.

 

Always Meant For You is an interconnected standalone romance and can be enjoyed even if you haven't read the other books in the Shafer U series!

 

✨INFLUENCERS: Sign up here to promote this awesome release: https://bit.ly/AMFYSIGNUP

 

#coverreveal #kristenvail #footballromance @theauthor.agency