Winter Solstice Wishes Page 5

  Website: http://www.gayleparness.com

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  Other Series by Gayle Parness

  Rogues Shifter Series: Rebirth, Stalked, Twisted, Blown Away, Caught Between, Torn Apart, Cut Off, & Blood Spelled

  Book 9 coming in 2018

  Rogues Shifter Shorts: Winter Solstice Wishes (Book 7.5 in the Rogues Shifter Series)

  Triad Series: Breaking Out, Falling Out, & Spinning Out

  Rogues Shifter on Audiobook: Performed by Reba Buhr

  Rebirth – Click here for samples of all my audiobooks

  Stalked

  Twisted

  Blown Away

  Caught Between

  Torn Apart – Releasing March, 2018

  Gayle also writes spicy contemporary and paranormal romance as Marie Booth

  Books by Marie Booth:

  The Theta Series: Read the book one excerpt here:

  Playing with Passion

  Yielding to Pleasure

  Crash and Turn – Coming in 2018 A post apocalyptic wolf shifter story

  Dying for a Bite – a funny contemporary vampire ménage. Think Buffy meets Say Yes to the Dress with some Sookie sprinkles on top.

  The Gate Series: Coming in spring, 2018

  A sexy contemporary series set in the beautiful San Francisco Bay area.

  Connect to Marie

  To subscribe to Marie’s newsletter or find out more about her books, you can go here:

  Website: http://www.mariebooth.com

  Facebook: http://facebook.com/marieboothbooks

  Twitter: http://twitter.com/marieboothbooks

  Excerpt from Playing with Passion

  Playing with Passion is a paranormal romance that takes place in New York City in the year 2075. Led by an archdemon known as the Director, supernaturals have come out of the closet and have taken over the running of the city. In the chaos, thetas are born—a species with incredible psychic powers—and enslaved. One young woman has had enough and with the help of two others, begins to plan a revolution.

  Playing with Passion: Theta Series Book One

  By Marie Booth

  http://www.mariebooth.com

  Copyright 2014 Gayle Parness

  CHAPTER ONE: Atlanta, GA. - The year, 2175

  The Director lit his cigar with a snap, the fingertip flame leaping from finger to finger to thumb, lighting all five. They danced and flared before fusing into a larger ball held spinning above his open palm. Ingrid's boss was close enough for the heat to flush her skin and irritate her eyes. A few inches closer and she'd burn.

  "Your production manager complained you have been pulling in too much power during rehearsals. You are draining his reserves." He flicked cigar ash on the floor, inches from her bare feet.

  She held her ground. "Has he? Mack rarely speaks to me about it." The entire troupe agreed that their production manager, Mack Stone, was a man of few intelligent words.

  "You'll follow the rules tonight. It is a packed house." The Director closed his fist to smother the ball of flame without even a wince, his body designed to withstand hellfire. Taking a long pull on his cigar, he held the poison inside his lungs as if he were smoking weed. He knew the smell of cigar smoke made her nauseous, but it was all part of the game they played.

  "Yes, sir." She stared at the floor, hoping he'd accept her submissive stance and short answer and leave her the hell alone. Instead, like a bored child playing with a toy, he puffed a cloud of cigar smoke into her face, expecting her to back away. She held her breath and blinked furiously, but stayed steady. Ingrid wasn't the kind to run, never had been. However, she'd play The Director’s dominant/submissive games for only so long before she lashed out, damn the consequences.

  "Your Mack is too soft – says he doesn't often punish you when you dance over the line." Stepping into her personal space, he circled her, using his monstrous size and the heat of his energy to intimidate. Reaching out, he threaded a clump of her long brunette waves through his wide fingers, tugging her closer.

  Ingrid could do nothing to prevent him from touching her. Like all thetas, she was his property, and he relished reminding her whenever possible.

  She expelled her held breath in a slow hiss, clutching at the skirt of her dress and forcing her body to remain still. It was anger that held her in place, along with the knowledge The Director was made of blood and bone, organs and muscle. No matter how magically gifted, a creature with a beating heart could always be killed. The fact that none of his powerful enemies had managed to take him out, only made her more determined to be the one who did.

  "Mack has asked for your transfer to another troupe," he added, the stench of his breath repellant.

  "Mack's an incompetent toad. And a liar." She'd spat out the words, affronted that her all-powerful boss would believe anything the troupe's slime ball PM told him. She'd been punished plenty of times, since beating a female was the only way this particular Mack could get it up. She had the bruises to prove it, and the disgusting memories.

  The Director growled his response. "That temper will kill you." He'd stopped directly behind her on the second pass, puffing more smoke into her hair. She gagged on the miasma of scents, the sour musk of demon and the metallic odor of blood combining with the foul cigar. She twitched as his icy palm caressed her neck, her most vulnerable spot. His enormous hand completely encircled her delicate flesh, a collar to mark his ownership. Ingrid couldn't restrain the shivers that caressed her skin, and she clenched her jaw in disgust at her own weakness.

  Every one of her instincts told her to run as far and as fast as she could, but The Director was an ancient predator, his skills born warring on distant galaxies, and he loved the hunt almost as much as the kill.

  Having gotten the reaction he wanted, The Director laughed softly. He took in a breath of her scent, now tinged with fear, despite her efforts to stay calm. "Mmm. I might have to punish you myself." The rumbling vibration of his voice crawled across her skin, traveling all the way to her clenched toes.

  Most troupe Ingrids would already be weeping on the dressing room floor at The Director's feet, pleading for leniency, but she'd had enough meetings of this type to know how far he'd go. The show was due to go up in thirty minutes, and The Director wouldn't risk doing anything that might affect her performance. If audience members asked for a refund, the story would hit the underground news channel. Demand would lessen and ticket prices would plummet, along with his reputation.

  As The Director returned to his original spot by the door, she forced a smile and locked gazes with her enemy, blue on black. "You'll be pleased by what you experience tonight. I won't disappoint the audience or you, sir."

  Tonight she'd give the performance of her life and he'd allow her to live another day or week or month. The game would be played again at their next meeting, and despite the danger, Ingrid had to admit she sometimes enjoyed the rush of adrenalin that came with these sessions.

  It didn't hurt her chances of survival that she was the most popular Ingrid in the country. The Stone Troupe's shows sold out in less than five minutes. The only troupe more prominent was the Hudson River Troupe on Staten Island, and that was because of the popularity of their male ingénue and the incredible abilities of their production manager.

  She'd endure weeks of beatings for a chance to work with that group of powerful thetas.

  The Director must have sensed their time was limited, saying, "We'll speak again after the performance." He left as abruptly as he’d arrived, another nasty cloud of cigar smoke his parting gift.

  Ingrid ran to the window, struggling with the release until she finally got it open. She leaned her forehead on the locked security bars and filled her lungs with Atlanta air to calm her racing heart. If only the asshole could get cancer…

  There was a knock on the door. "Places in twenty."

  Ingrid answered with the traditional response. "Thank you, twenty. Um, Alan... did...?"

  "He left through the backstage door two minutes ago."

  "Thanks." Her relief was monumental, but she couldn't linger by the window for long. After darting through some stretching exercises, bringing her body and mind into focus for the performance, Ingrid dressed in a simple dance costume of tights, tank, and chiffon skirt, touched up her makeup, and joined the other actors in the wings. In the familiar comfort of the theatre, she let go of everything except the story the Stone River Troupe would project on this night for this sold out audience of sorcerers and witches.

  When Alan announced places, the troupe took in a dose of Mack's axis power, opening their psycores and connecting to each individual thread sent out by the hundreds of anonymous minds in the dark beyond the proscenium. Alan Stone’s beautiful music filled the house and the performance began.

  Ingrid arched her back in a sensuous display as she was lifted smoothly above Gene’s head. Her partner held her steady with only one hand, the muscles in his bare arm, shoulders and back tensing under the strain. She'd grown fearless over the months they'd worked the routine together, the strong and steady thrum of his axis power and the clarity of his psycore energy adding to her confidence. He wouldn't drop her, even after the fourth lift in as many minutes. Gene Stone was a perfectionist, a male always focused on his work. She trusted him, something that didn't come easily to a female with her troubled background.

  Ingrid stretched her arms out to the sides as Gene turned smoothly
beneath her, the amber and pink stage lights warming her skin. One day she’d truly fly away, she mused. She’d break the chains forged through pain, threats, and forced isolation and escape her slavery. Under The Director, thetas lived in fear, but Ingrid was learning to leave fear behind, to move forward—to hope. Soon she'd teach the others what she'd learned, and then, who knew? Perhaps they'd all fly.

  As they'd practiced dozens of times, she twisted in Gene's grip, flipping from his grasp, and landing with only the whisper of chiffon across bare skin. Long fingers stroked her back, her chest, her arms as the music swelled around them and their bodies swayed in harmony. Each movement, sound, scent, and touch created by the troupe was a sensory feast projected into the audience's minds, now opened wide and vulnerable in anticipation.

  Ingrid’s axis was fed by a constant stream of Mack’s energy. Her psycore sang in response, allowing her to project the most realistic of characters. The audience sighed and moaned, some calling out, "Ingrid" as they experienced the ultimate in pleasure.

  But as her partner lifted her for the second time, a wrenching pain ripped across her abdomen. "Gene."

  "We're fine," he answered, but they weren't. His supporting arm had wobbled, then steadied. "It's Mack," he croaked out.

  Ingrid heard soft chanting coming from stage left. "Put me down. Something's wrong."

  A high-pitched screech stabbed her eardrums like shards of shattered glass, the pain excruciating. She covered her ears as Gene's arm lost its strength, collapsing and bringing her along. As they fell, her partner pulled her against his body, their gazes reflecting the other's fear and puzzlement. She felt the jarring shudder as his knees hit the stage hard, then her feet. A moment later, they were on the floor.

  Ingrid opened an eye, conscious of lying on top of something, but afraid to move. She reached out with her hand, not surprised to find she was splayed across her partner. He'd cushioned her fall.

  "Gene, you okay?"

  No response.

  An unnatural breeze stirred up resin and dust, driving her to cough and cover her nose and mouth. Gene's chest rose and fell beside her, but there was still no reaction when she nudged him. The music had stopped, leaving the theatre bathed in an eerie silence. Why wasn't the audience up and shouting for their money back? Witches were particularly whiny.

  Even though her ears no longer hurt, the sharp pain in her gut was one she recognized. Mack, the little shit, had pulled his axis power even before the high-pitched noise had broken their focus, causing all of the actors to suddenly weaken. A production manager was trained to withdraw his power at a slow and steady pace, not pull it out like a rotten tooth. Typical asshole move. He must have seen something was off, and panicked.

  But what had caused that sound? She managed to lift her head and look around. The rest of her troupe was still on the ground, breathing, but unconscious. Did anyone call a medical team? She glanced toward her production manager's position by the stage right exit. Empty. Where the hell was Mack? It was his job to step up and deal with this kind of situation.

  She huffed in exasperation; her anger holding back the panic that made her heart beat rabbit fast. Since she was the only one awake, it was left to her to make the call. At least her ear had stopped throbbing.

  Before she could act, Ingrid was yanked roughly to her feet, lifted by a male in sorcerer's robes. She was slung over his shoulder like a child and held there with an arm around her knees. Another sorcerer stood to his right, Taser in hand and pointed at the ground.

  They reeked of magic. Holy hells—the chanting.

  "Put me down!" Ingrid wiggled wildly, almost kicking her abductor in the groin. Surprised, the sorcerer lowered her to the ground and stepped away, a shocked expression on his face. Her knees wobbled, but Ingrid stubbornly managed to steady herself.

  She would not show weakness.

  The males looked amused. "You should be unconscious like the others." The taller sorcerer, the one who'd picked her up, pointed at her passed-out friends.

  "What did—you do to my—my troupe?" She was panting, rubbing her belly where the pain was greatest. Being tossed over this guy's bony shoulder sure hadn't helped.

  "They'll wake up soon. It was a simple spell."

  "We're taking you," said the other male with a smirky grin. He grabbed her arm and yanked her closer.

  "Get your grubby hands off me." When she pushed against his chest, he chuckled and tightened his grip. "Taking me where?"

  "It's an exchange. Nothing personal." His gaze roamed over her body. She tried to wiggle away, but his grip was already tight enough to leave a bruise. Plus, he seemed to be turned on by her struggles. She knew the type.

  Ingrid analyzed her energy reserves, a skill she'd learned at the age of six. Even though Mack had pulled his, she had a good supply of her own axis energy, a lot more than most acting thetas. Her battery was on the low side, but at least she was not without weapons.

  "Why do you want me?" Maybe she could talk them out of whatever they had planned.

  "A demon’s purchasing you for his harem." He stroked his free hand along her arm. It stank of blood, affording her a good idea of the type of magic they were involved in. His hand continued over her hip and down to her ass. "You're even hotter up close." She slapped his hand away, but he didn't release his hold on her arm.

  "Cool off, Roman, we have to get her out of here and back to the demon, fast."

  “Can’t we have her first? I’ll share with you.”

  "The Director's going to cook you over a spit and feed you to his dogs, Roman, piece by piece. The troupe is his property."

  And wasn't that something she loved to tell people? Where was the giant jerk when a girl needed him? He’d been in her dressing room only half an hour ago.

  She glanced in Gene's direction, noticing blood on the floor near his head for the first time.

  "The Director is a minion of our master," the tall one stated with confidence. "Our new master will give us the power to take over this measly city, then..."

  "You believed that? The Director's an archdemon, asshole. No demon is higher on the food chain. You're even dumber than you look." Ingrid slammed her heel down on Roman's instep, kicking him in the knee a second later. As he howled in pain, she ran to Gene. Blood had pooled under his head near his ear. He must have hit the floor hard when he fell.

  "He's hurt! Gene, wake up, honey." Ripping off a section of her dance skirt, she wadded it up and pressed it against his head. Truly panicking, she glanced around to see if anyone else was awake. Alan, still looking dazed, had crawled over to the nearest troupe member, Staci, quietly trying to wake her without attracting the attention of the two sorcerers.

  "Alan, call an ambulance. Gene's hurt." Alan had a level head and would get the others to safety. She'd deal with the sorcerers.

  "You're coming now." Touchy-feely Roman grabbed her around the waist, covering her mouth with his stinky hand. He started to drag her toward the back stage door, limping only slightly. She should have kicked him harder. "Don't force us to use magic, bitch. We'll make you pay."

  The threat was a weak one since they were most likely low on energy. She bit down hard on his palm, drawing blood. Roman snarled and let her go. "Get the fuck away from me!" she shouted, backing toward Alan and Staci.

  "Your boyfriend will be dead in a few minutes." The other creep was hunched over Gene. "He must've hit his head when he fell."

  The words were a knife to her gut. Gene had been holding her and couldn't use his hands to protect his own body. "No. You're lying." His chest had been moving, hadn't it? Shit. She couldn't think straight. There had to be something she could do to fix this. Why wasn't the audience storming the stage?

  She glanced up, her hands flying to her face in shock. The two sorcerers had spelled a brick wall, which stretched across the stage, the width of the proscenium. She was on her own.

  "Hurry up, Roman." The tall male seemed nervous.