Captive Magic by Angela Benedetti

Title: Captive Magic
Author: Angela Benedetti
Purchase at Torquere
Purchase at All Romance eBooks
Cover Artist: BS Clay
Genre: Urban fantasy
Length: 307 pages, 92K words
Formats: epub, mobi, pdf, print

Teleporter Breck Bayes made a deal with a demon to save the life of his little sister Amanda, who was dying of cancer. The demon expects Breck to work off the debt -- as a thief who can get past any walls or locks. If Breck balks, Amanda's cancer will come back, and she'll die. Breck's a good guy, but a few trinkets versus Amanda's life? It's no contest.

Manny hears about Breck's popping around town and uses his own talents to find and confront him. Sentinels are supposed to prevent the magegifted from using their talents to steal, by force if necessary, but then he gets the whole story. Manny understands family, and he decides that his Sentinel persona is going to have to suck it up and deal while he helps Breck get out from under the demon -- even if it means becoming an accomplice to the thieving while they plot Breck's escape. But then the demon notices Manny, whose truesight and seeking would be very useful in its quest to own things that don't properly belong to it, and suddenly it's not only Breck who's in trouble.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


This is the third novel in the Sentinels universe, and it’s time for Manny’s story at last. He’s been left behind to mind the magic in California while the rest of the Sentinels are dealing with the craziness in the Seattle area in the previous book, Emerging Magic. (Good stuff, read it.) Since this world busts out with elves and incubi and elementals, Manny’s reaction to a report of a guy who disappears *poof* is—who is he, why is he doing this, and what does he want? Not how’s he doing it or he couldn’t possibly be doing it.


Turns out Breck is indebted to a being who isn’t from around here, who has talents not normally seen around here, and who wants various artifacts that make no sense to Breck. As long as his sister’s in remission, he’ll steal, and as long as he steals, she’s healthy. It’s a true devil’s bargain.

The story seems to start off a bit slowly, but it’s an introduction to the world if you’re starting here, and a slow burn of Manny and Breck developing interest in each other and context for their skills. Their families variously encourage or discourage them. Real life problems are more important than constant smexing, which is a refreshing change from a lot of mm. These guys can stay on task and they can stay on task together, once they come to trust each other enough to be clear on what’s going on. No insta-anything here, they have to work for each smidgen of trust.

One recurring idea in this universe is that humans aren’t the biggest, baddest magic-wielders around—smarts, negotiation, and guile make for more intriguing reading anyway. While magic isn’t hidden in this world, sometimes a talent doesn’t want to admit what he can do, and sometimes mere talent isn’t enough to solve a problem.

The sister and the niece are especially charming characters, Manny and Breck each have a teen girl to love, cherish, and be exasperated by. The rest of their families felt real enough to invite to dinner. Not all the action takes place in our plane, and the other dimensional setting was strange and unique.

While I think I understand the reason for the pacing, it did feel a little too leisurely at times, but I am really glad to have Manny’s story. Breck could be a wonderful addition to the Sentinel team, and aren’t there more characters who should come back from Seattle for their own books? Cal? Aubrey? 4 marbles.

Guest Blogger Angela Benedetti on Serials

Please welcome Angela Benedetti, who has graciously allowed me to repost her well reasoned discussion of serial fiction, originally on her blog, Angie's Desk. This was timely for me because I have serial fiction in my review queue, some offered well, some offered poorly.

*************

Can we talk about serials for a minute?

I know serialization is supposed to be the hot new way of sucking extra money out of readers. (Oops, was I not supposed to say that out loud?) But you know, most readers can actually do the, like, second grade math required to figure out how much the whole story cost them. If your short novel is coming out in five two-dollar parts, or your normal sized novel is coming out in ten two-dollar parts, a lot of people are going to do the above-mentioned math and figure out that you're ripping them off. 'Cause seriously, ten bucks for a short novel in electronic form is ludicrous. So is twenty bucks for a regular sized e-novel. If this is how you price your "serial," then you (either the writer or the publisher, whoever came up with the scheme in any given case) has absolutely no moral ground to stand on when readers start complaining, in print, on their blogs or on Goodreads or wherever else. Because that? [points up] That's a major rip-off.


Better yet is when the writer/publisher/whoever fails to let readers know up front that a story is, indeed, a serial. When a reader has bought what they think is a short story or a novelette and is reading along only to find that the story cuts off abruptly at the end, leaving them hanging, needing to wait..wait...wait for the next installment, and fork over another chunk of cash to get it? Yeah, you're going to get complaints about that, too. And again, you'll have no grounds whatsoever to whine about those complaints, even when they're made publicly. The reader who posts to their blog or leaves a comment on a vendor site or a social reader's site to complain about your stealth-serial isn't being mean or sabotaging you or whatever. They're making a legitimate complaint about your lack of up-front disclosure that you were selling them a fraction of a story.

Let's look at an example. I don't usually call out specifics when I'm writing about a general trend, but this one's unfortunately perfect.

Monty Gets Arrested is up on Goodreads with four ratings and a 3.0 average. This isn't a lot of ratings, and the average might improve with time. But what's significant here are the comments. One commenter, who left a one-star rating, says, "It's not even half a story." Another, who left two stars, says, "Not bad, just .. way too short. More like a chapter than a book." A third said:

Ok I am not rating this right now cause I'm mad. I didn't realize that this was a short story to be continued.... And not continued soon, but a whole month away. I just read Anitra Lynn McLeod series Seven Brothers for McBride and I had to wait a whole 7 seven days for the next installment. And let me tell you that was a raging 7 days and each Saturday Anitra came through with the story. Now I have to wait a month for the next installment? This was ok but I don't know that I care enough to 'post-it note myself' 30 days out.


Wow, great marketing strategy this turned out to be.

Someone came along and commented to one of the reviews, explaining that Monty is a five-part  series, with parts to be released once a month. I'm assuming this person knows the writer, or works for the publisher, or whatever. Okay, that's good information to have. Why didn't the publisher give it to us? Because this good information should've been given to the readers before they spent their money.

Monty's page on ARe (a popular e-book vendor site specializing in romance) says nothing at all about the book being the first part of a serial. The full title is Monty Gets Arrested (Marshall's Park #1), but that's also how series books are often titled; it looks to a savvy reader like there are going to be more books about Marshall's Park. Which is fine; if you like Monty, you'll probably be interested in  reading more books set in the same place, by the same writer. But nowhere on this page does it say "Serial," or "Story to be continued," or anything similar. The reader (potential customer at this point) is given no hint that they're not buying a complete product, or that they'll have to pay more money to get the rest of the story.

Obligatory statement that I'm not writing this to rag on the author. I have three of her books on my to-buy shelf on Goodreads, which means at the very least she can write good summary blurbs. Her total average rating on Goodreads is 3.82, which is very good; she can clearly write stories that readers enjoy, and I expect to enjoy a few of them when I get around to it. For that matter, the summary blurb on Monty makes it sound like a fun story. I'm betting the problem here is with a publisher who thought they could make an eventual $9.95 for a 57K word novel (assuming all five parts cost the same and are about the same length) instead of the more usual $4-5.99 a novel that length would bring in if sold as one book, and who apparently hoped no one would notice or complain about their shenanigans.

I'm not going to say that serialization is a bad concept entirely. Rather, I'll say I've never seen it implemented well, in e-book form. Serialization goes back to the days when newsstands were full of magazines carrying fiction (heck, it goes back to the days when there were newsstands) and many of those magazines serialized novels a chapter at a time, or a chunk of chapters at a time. Purchasing the magazine got you a lot more than that issue's serial, though. Even if the serial was the major selling point of the magazine (as magazines with Dickens's work often were, as I understand) the fact is that there was still more to read once you were done with the serial installment. Even if the only effect was psychological, it's the psychological effect of realizing that you just paid money for a fifth or a tenth or a fifteenth of a story that I'm talking about here. A reader who'll pay $2.99 for a 12K-word novelette -- a complete story -- might well balk at paying $2.99 for a 12K-word chunk of a longer novel, when they realize that the whole novel is going to cost them $15, and that they're used to paying $5.99 at most for a single (complete story) e-book of that length. The psychological effect is exactly the problem, and saying it shouldn't be that way doesn't make it vanish.

What it comes down to is that serializing a longer work and selling the parts individually is a sales and marketing strategy. The publisher is trying to make more money selling the parts separately than they'd make selling the work as a whole. Wanting to make money isn't a problem -- everyone who doesn't consider this a hobby wants to make money. The problem is when you're doing it so blatantly that your customer can't help noticing your hand rooting around in their pocket.

Some readers like serials, and are maybe even willing to pay more to get each chunk of story as soon as possible. Okay, that's great; selling serials to people who like them is a good idea. If you're targetting readers who like serials, then let the readers know up front that you're publishing a serial. There's no excuse for letting someone buy what they think is a complete short story or novelette, only to spring the surprise on them at the end that the story is incomplete. Announce in the marketing material -- within the summary blurb would be a good place -- that this is part of a serial, with more parts to come (and previous parts if it's not the first). Give the readers the information they need to make a valid decision whether to hand you money for your product. Some people will decide not to buy, yes. But the alternative is to deal in bad faith, and have people complaining about you in public afterwards. This kind of behavior might make you a few more dollars now, but it'll lose you customers in the long run.

If you're going to sell a serial, act in good faith. Let people know what they're buying before they give you money, and then see how many do. However much money you make when everyone knows what they're buying? That's the measure of whether serials are successful.

Emerging Magic by Angela Benedetti

Title: Emerging Magic
Author: Angela Benedetti
Cover artist: Alessia Brio
Publisher: Torquere Press
Genre: Urban fantasy

Formats Available: Mass Market Paperback, ebook
Series: Sentinels #2
Length: 290 pages
Publisher: Torquere Press
Purchasing Info: Author’s Website, Publisher, Goodreads, Amazon,

Rory’s mother took him to psychiatrists, let them circumscribe his life, let them give him drugs, while knowing all along there was nothing wrong with him. When Rory finds out, he’s angry and confused and just wants to get away for a while. His mother’s betrayal plus another kidnap attempt make a visit to the father he hasn’t seen in ten years seem like a great idea.

When Rory, Paul and Aubrey get to Seattle, though, it’s obviously not going to be just a normal family Christmas. Someone north of San Jose tried to kidnap Rory twice before they left, and it’s too much of a coincidence that Nathan, Rory’s dad, has magic talented friends. While Rory tries to reconnect with his only other family, Paul is trying to figure out whether anyone in Nathan’s group is after Rory. They definitely have secrets, and at least one of them has been playing around with things he doesn’t understand. The local fey are after him, and elves aren’t known for caring too much about collateral damage.
And there’s a master wizard in the area who’s up to something big and would really like to have Rory’s help….

 See the first installment of Rory and Paul’s story in A Hidden Magic: Sentinels Book One.

Guest Review by Cryselle

I’ve been waiting for this book for every minute since I finished A Hidden Magic. The Sentinels universe, as well as Paul and Rory, had way too many possibilities to leave it at one lone novel, and my (im)patience has paid off at last. Magic exists here, though not everyone believes in or perceives it, and humans are considered low on the magical power scale.


Spoiler for book one, sorry, but we left Paul bereft of his magic—the only way he saw to accomplish a greater good. Rory, his new lover and possessor of magic beyond most mages’ dreams, is there for him during this time of adjustment. Paul in turn is a bulwark for Rory as he processes the monumental betrayal that is the reality of his mother’s protective instincts gone berserk. Left defenseless against magical attack and confused why anyone would try, Rory’s had more adventure than he could stand in A Hidden Magic.

Matters don’t stay peaceful for long in Emerging Magic. Having fended off two attempts on another abduction, Rory figures that getting away from his usual haunts is good, getting away from Mama Manipulation is really good, and reconnecting with the father who left during his youth is the best reason to leave town. If at the same time Rory and his magically talented friends can track down the rogue mage calling himself Aziraphale, better yet.

This is very much a sweater to ball of yarn story—tug on one loose end and a row comes loose, followed by a sleeve; another tug, and there goes the neckline. Each small yank reveals another skein of the truth, but until all the major players are gathered together to find out exactly how deep in hot lava they stand, Rory is the center of several plots devised by persons of greater or lesser integrity and good will.

Trusting his own instincts is something Rory is ill-equipped to do, though he’s working hard to develop his own judgments. Paul is wise enough to not step into the judgment vacuum, but cares enough to pick up the pieces should they go smash, and fortunately, Rory has enough strength and enough trust in the trustworthy to keep most of the Pacific Northwest from turning into wasteland.

Several delightful characters from the first book return here, from Azzy the junk-food-junkie pixie to Willowen, an elf of enormous power, boundless curiosity, and caustic words for the terminally stupid. Aubrey, a centuries-old mage, and his apprentice Cal, who is the only one who can curb Aubrey’s stinging teaching methods so that the students actually benefit, have a large supporting role. They bring a mordant humor plus a good look at a loving relationship between the magically unequal.
The story is a lovely mix of new relationship between Paul and Rory, a huge dust-up among the magically gifted and those who wish they were, and mages who think they have a Grand Plan for saving their corner of the world all the while riling beings whom it does not do to annoy. The ending wraps matters justly and ethically, if not always happily, an excellent choice on the part of the author, who understands that fairness doesn’t mean everyone’s pleased.

My niggles: a few issues wrap more smoothly than perhaps they should, and Rory’s sense of self-preservation ought to make him question everyone and everything, though he remains dangerously trusting in some directions. Every time he brushes his hair he has reason to remember how others would use him for their own purposes: an elven lady grew it to his knees for her pleasure, not for his. Naïve perhaps, but Rory gives the readers incentive to talk back to the book, and a facepalm moment or two.

Rory’s personal and magical growth and the machinations around him that provoke it are the primary focus of the tale, although the romantic aspect is indispensable and important. Paul’s role is supportive and contradictory: what he would do as a lover is not what he can or should do as a Sentinel. His and Rory’s physical relationship is mostly fade to black and when not, couched in language more poetic than earthy. It’s a joy to watch them learn each other—their relationship is only weeks old in their timeline and they still have a lot to work out.

This universe is rife with characters who should have stories: Aubrey and Cal are strong supporting characters here but could easily star in their own book, and Manny, left behind in San Diego, needs face time. The Sentinels universe has endless possibilities both romantically and magically. The series currently has two novels available in ebook and trade paperback and several e-shorts; I hope Angela Benedetti is busy plotting the next installment.  4.5 marbles

Birthdays Suck--A Free Read from Angela Benedetti

Angela Benedetti has a story about birthday misadventures to share, even if it's not exactly a faceplant into the cake.

Birthdays Suck

by Angela Benedetti

Every year since he hit eleven, Paul MacAllister had waited for the magic to show up. For the magic to literally show up, because he knew it was out there; he just couldn't see it yet.

Any time, it was due, it had to show up. When he was twelve and thirteen, it was disappointing, but plenty of people got their magic when they were older than that. Eleven had been wishful thinking -- not impossible, but not very likely. Twelve and thirteen were sort of early, kinda.

He'd been focusing his attention on other boys all along too, because if he had magic then he had to be gay. Well, not had to be, but it was like ninety-nine percent, right? Or even more. So he'd ignored the girls in his classes (easy to do when he was a kid) and told himself he was into boys. When he was twelve, he got solid -- as it were -- evidence that he really was into boys, so that got checked off the list. See? He came from a magegifted family, he was gay, he was going to be a mage.


Except fourteen went by, and fifteen, and sixteen....

It was January 7th and Paul was seventeen years old and he still hadn't seen anything magic-blind normals couldn't see. Paul’s life was pretty much over, he knew that. Or, no, it wasn’t over, he just wished it was ‘cause he was doomed to live the rest of it in boring mundanity, with all the cool parts passing him by without his even being aware. No, that wasn’t right either -- he’d be better off if he didn't know the magic was out there. What good was it knowing this excellent world was right there within reach when he couldn't have it or touch it or even see it, ever?

His parents wanted to go out to a movie for his birthday, and his cousin Tom -- who was a year younger than Paul and who'd gotten his magic when he was fourteen, the bastard -- said they should go see Scent of a Woman, since Paul'd probably be into it, right?

Paul had controlled himself, but he had fantasies of pounding Tom into hamburger. Instead he'd just said, "Sure, Chris O'Donnell's hot."

His dad just snorted and they went to see Only the Strong instead, a martial arts movie Paul had only vaguely heard of. Mark Dacascos, the star, was also hot -- even if in a different way than O'Donnell, all lean and martial-arts bad-ass instead of cute blond -- and the movie was pretty good. Or it would've been if he hadn't been sure his life was over. Who could enjoy a movie, even one full of hot guys, when all your plans for your life, all your assumptions about who you were, had just come crashing down?

All right, that was a cliché. But that didn't mean it wasn't true.

Aunt Dora and Uncle Jose said goodnight and went home from the theater after the movie. They took Tom with them, which made Paul even happier than the WordPerfect software they'd given him earlier, and that'd almost made him forget his depressing mundanity for a few minutes. His big sister Holly -- who'd cheerfully steered the birthday dinner at Friday's so everyone else had a good time, while ignoring Paul's mopes -- said goodnight next. Paul's little niece Megan gave him a hug around the thighs and said happy birthday one more time. His other niece, Amanda, was asleep in a sling across Holly's chest, and hadn't learned to say "happy birthday," or even "nighty" yet. At least there was hope for the rugrats.

Holly headed off across the parking lot with her kids, and then it was just Paul and his parents.

They walked to their car, huddled in their jackets against the cold. Even in California, January got pretty chilly at night. While the car warmed up, Paul's mom said, "Aunt Wilma couldn't come to dinner, but she wanted to talk to you. We'll drop you off and you can stay the night at her place." That wasn't unusual -- Paul was close to his great-aunt, and he had clothes and stuff at her place. He really didn't want to see her that night, though.

Aunt Wilma had always come for his birthday and done some magic -- written some words in the air using her magic, while he watched -- and every year he'd hoped that that year he'd be able to see it, be able to read what she wrote for him. That year, though, she hadn't come. There hadn't been any explanation, no one had even mentioned her absence until just then. Paul had figured she'd given up on him, which wasn't a surprise because at seventeen there was no way he was just a late bloomer and he'd given up too, so why shouldn't she?

"I'm kinda tired..." he started to say, but his mother interrupted him. "She's expecting you, Paul. You're not tired, you're just moping. You can put all the feeling sorry for yourself crap on hold for a few hours and visit with your aunt."

Words that would've gotten him grounded till he was thirty hovered at the back of Paul's throat, but he managed to swallow them down. He just looked out the window and fumed.

Of course she didn't understand. She was magic-blind too -- both his parents were -- so they thought it was normal. They probably didn't see anything wrong with him having to just sleepwalk through the world, missing half of what was out there, oblivious to what was going on around him. They did it every day, so they'd figure he could too, and just shut up about being blind and crippled. Just because you could get along and do stuff and have a "normal" life anyway didn't make it suck any less.

So when they dropped him off in front of Aunt Wilma's house, a battered single-story on a half acre just outside of town, next to a garlic field (everything outside of town was next to a garlic field -- Gilroy wouldn't exist without garlic) he just climbed out and walked up to the front door without saying goodnight or anything. He knew it was a dumb, little-kid thing to do, but he was pissed off and didn't care.

He stalked up the cracked concrete path and around to the kitchen door. His fist banged twice out of habit on the frame between the six glass panes, before he opened the door and went in.

Aunt Wilma was sitting at the square wooden table filling the center of the large kitchen. She had a mug of coffee in front of her and a book in one hand. In the center of the table was a plastic case the size of a shoebox, ivory colored with cartoony looking fairies painted on the cover.

"Paul," she said, setting down her book. "Happy birthday, dear."

"No it's not," he muttered. He headed over to the corner of the kitchen where the coffee pot sat, got himself a mug and poured.

"No, I don't imagine it is," she said. "But it's still the polite thing to say."

Paul scowled at the wall, but said, "Sorry. Thanks. Whatever. Sorry."

"I know you're disappointed, and probably angry. I think I can help a little."

"Can you cast a spell that'll give me magic?" Paul managed to flop down into one of the kitchen chairs without spilling his coffee. He'd been practicing and was pretty proud of having perfected the skill.

Aunt Wilma ignored his incredibly cool maneuver and said, "No one can 'give' you magic, not in the way you're thinking. But I have something for you that I think you'll like." She opened the plastic box, which was full of junky jewelry. She pulled out a short, heavy-looking gold chain, one of the kinds with links that were sort of twisted so they'd lay flat. "This has been in the family for a long time," she said, holding it up. "My great-great-great-grandmother was given it by her father, a master mage. She turned seventeen with no magic."

"Like me. Great," said Paul. "What, does it project a magical field around whoever wears it, signaling to anyone with magesight that you're unclean? Or just pathetic?"

"At your age an occasional episode of bratness is still to be expected. And I have some idea of the depth of your disappointment, so I'll ignore the fact that you're behaving like an egocentric little asshole who's determined to let the whole world know it should feel sorry for him. Here, try this on." She tossed the chain in his direction; it crashed to the wooden tabletop and slid. Paul caught it with one hand just before it hit his lap.

It was heavy, with an old-fashioned clasp that took him a minute and both hands to figure out how to open. He glanced up at Aunt Wilma, but she just sipped her coffee and watched him.

The chain was cold against his throat when he wrapped it around, and not quite too tight, almost like a choker; it took him another ten seconds to figure out how to close the clasp and click it shut.

Glaring yellow light suddenly appeared all across the room. Paul yelped, startled, and jerked backward hard enough to knock his chair over. He hit the floor with an impact that stunned him for a moment, but even when he could move again, he didn't. Not right away.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAUL! was scrawled across the... well, across the air in the room in what had to be slashes of magic light four feet tall. The message Aunt Wilma must've written for him on his birthday every year since he was eleven, the message he'd never been able to see before -- there it was.

"Holy shit."

Paul stared at it for however long, then scrambled to his feet and wrapped himself around his aunt, who'd put her coffee down and was sitting there with her arms open for a hug.

"Thank you," he murmured into her hair.

"You're welcome, dear. I'm sorry you need it, but I'm glad I have it to give you."

He nodded. That was it exactly -- it completely sucked that he needed it, he was still pissed off about that, but at least he wasn't completely cut off from the magic things in the world the way he'd expected to be. It was something, and right then that tiny sliver of something seemed pretty damn huge.

Soon enough he disentangled himself from his aunt, since the joyful shock was wearing off and it was suddenly kind of embarrassing to be all hugging and stuff for more than a second or two. He sat back down and took a long slug of coffee, staring around at the glowing letters that still hovered in the air. He knew they'd fade eventually, or at least he was pretty sure they would, but he felt like he could just look at them for however long they lasted, without ever getting tired of it.

Aunt Wilma got up to refill her coffee. "So," she said while replacing the pot, "how's the rest of life going?"

"Huh?" Paul had to change gears for that. "Umm, the usual stuff. Dad's nagging me to start looking at colleges and all, but I'm not even done with junior year yet. I don't know, I always thought I'd, you know, be a Sentinel." He didn't say "like you" but it was there anyway, hanging in the air between them, just not quite as glowingly obvious as the happy birthday message.

"You know being a Sentinel doesn't pay the bills, right?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, sure. But that's all you need, just something to pay the bills, right? It's not like a major career or anything. You couldn't really deal with a regular job, having to run out to fight elves and stuff at any time, right?"

"That's true enough," she said. "But still, you need to do something, and there aren't many casual jobs that let you take time off whenever you want, but pay enough to live on."

"I know, I thought about that." Paul sat up and leaned forward a little, as if he could will her to take him seriously, because he knew his parents wouldn't and he needed somebody on his side. "I've been kind of writing for a while. You know, stories? I haven't sold any yet, but that just means I need to practice more. If I can get good enough to sell things then I could make a living that way, and that's something you can do any time, so whenever I had to drop everything and run off to save the world or something, I could...."

And right there he ran down, because it hit him that it was all pointless, that he could never be a Sentinel, for real. Seeing magic was great and all, but he couldn't actually defend himself from some elf casting magic at him unless he had magic of his own. And he didn't. So... there, it was all trashed.

He sat back and stared down at the floor. Life was back to sucking.

"Do you still want to be a writer?" asked Aunt Wilma.

"Huh? I mean, it doesn't matter anymore."

"Plenty of people who aren't mages are writers," she pointed out, slowly, like he might need the extra time to understand the words. "If that's what you want to do, there's no reason you shouldn't do it."

Did he? He liked writing -- not all of it, sometimes it kind of sucked when he got stuck on something, but finishing a story was great, and coming up with ideas and characters and all. He even liked sending stuff out, and not getting a rejection slip would be excellent, the first time it happened.

"Or let's put it this way," she said, when he went a few moments without answering. "If we assume you can have a regular day job now, with office hours, is there anything else you'd rather do?"

Paul thought, but nothing came to mind. "No."

"Well, then, there you go. You have a life goal. What should you major in at college to be a writer? What kind of stories do you write?"

"Mostly science fiction, some fantasy. There are magazines that publish only eff-and-ess-eff, and some others that take it occasionally. The library has copies of this annual writer's market guide, and you can find places to send stories. I wish-- I mean, I'm kind of into horror, not really scary stuff, but like...." He trailed off, trying to figure out how to explain it.

"You mean like sexy vampires?"

"Umm. Kinda?" Paul could feel himself blushing and stared down at his coffee mug. "There's really no place to sell that stuff, though."

"They sell pretty well on the romance side," she pointed out. "Romances are a big market, and fantasy and science fiction and vampire-type romances are getting pretty popular."

Of course, he knew Aunt Wilma read romances, but he hadn't thought about writing actual romances. "But there aren't many paying markets that take short stories like that, and I haven't been able to finish a novel yet; I keep getting stuck. And I'm not really writing romances anyway, but kind of like a fantasy, with mages and elves? But not like Tolkien, sort of historical but not just making up something sort of medieval--"

"Have you ever read anything by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro?" she asked, interrupting his rambling. "She's got a historical vampire series that's sort of like what you're talking about."

"Yes! The Saint Germain books? Like that, kinda, but with mages and all instead of vampires."

Paul was sitting up again and bouncing in his chair a little. If Aunt Wilma was a Yarbro fan then she knew exactly what he meant, and it sounded like she wasn't going to laugh at him or tell him it was a stupid idea or anything. Before he could start explaining the ideas he'd had for historical-mage stories, though, the kitchen door suddenly glowed bright green and exploded into a storm of splinters and shattered glass.

A guy Paul had never seen before was standing there in the wrecked doorway. He looked like he was in his twenties, tall and lean, with blond hair and a nasty grimace. Paul thought he might be kind of hot if he didn't look like he was about to punch somebody. That and the wrecked door.

He looked all around the room in about half a second, then wound up with the wand in his hand and cast something bright and flashing at Aunt Wilma. She squawked in pain and flew backwards out of her chair.

Ignoring Paul, the guy took a long stride into the room, still holding his wand on Paul's aunt. "The artifacts. Give 'em here and I won't kill the kid." His wand swooped over to point at Paul, but he was still watching Aunt Wilma, probably figuring she was the dangerous one.

It was true, she was, but the thought -- true or not -- pissed Paul off royally. Who the hell was this asshole, busting in and hurting old ladies and trying to steal stuff?

Aunt Wilma threw something magical back at the guy, without even a wand. He swore and cast back at her, and she yelped again, still down on the floor with one hand clamped to her side.

Paul dove under the table, then stood up, heaving it at the guy, hard. Mugs and spoons and Aunt Wilma's plastic box crashed to the floor and he felt the table top impact the guy, who swore again and thudded against something, probably the wall.

The table was jerked out of Paul's hands and he dodged back toward the counter. A snarled, "You're gonna get it, you little shit!" made him move faster. Hah, the coffee pot! The base was still turned on, so it'd be plenty hot. Paul grabbed the pot and flung the coffee at the guy, who was winding up with his wand again. The coffee splashed against him; he barely turned away in time to take most of it against the back of his black leather jacket, shouting in surprise and what Paul hoped was at least a little fear.

The miss sucked; Paul'd been hoping to get his face, or at least his T-shirt.

The knife rack was right next to the coffee pot base; he grabbed the first knife his hand hit and jumped back across the room, intending to jab it into the asshole's kidney. But half way there, he suddenly froze, like he'd been caught in liquid glass.

The guy hadn't even cast a spell! Or not that Paul had seen, and he was pretty sure it would've been obvious. Or should've been -- maybe he was just that good? Shit! Paul tried to struggle but nothing would move. He'd made some stupid mistake and now he was caught, and the asshole was going to use him to threaten Aunt Wilma into giving him the stuff he wanted, like Paul was some stupid, helpless hostage, and the guy might end up killing them anyway because Paul hadn't been able to think of something that'd take him out right away--

"Good job, Paul," said Aunt Wilma, and Paul's brain shorted out.

Not really, but that was what it felt like. Then he could move again and he stumbled back into the counter because he'd been sort of off balance when the freeze-whatever hit him. He leaned against the formica edge and glared at the guy in the leather jacket, then at Aunt Wilma -- who was standing there on the far side of the overturned table like she'd just gotten up to answer the phone or something -- then back at the guy.

"Not bad, kid," said the guy. Nice move with the coffee -- you almost got me there." He scowled at Aunt Wilma and said, "You didn't mention having any scalding liquids around."

"I didn't think about it," said Aunt Wilma with a breezy wave of one hand. "It was an excellent move, though. I liked the table maneuver, too, although I'm glad Grandma Penny bought sturdy. One of those cheap modern kitchen tables would be in pieces on the floor. And speaking of in pieces, you owe me a door!" She waved her hand again, this time at the wreckage, and glared at him.

Paul slammed the knife down on the counter and glared at both of them. "So, what, you were just playing around? Give the magic-blind kid one fake chance to think he's a hero, Happy Birthday? Wow, thanks."

The guy snorted and shook his head. "I don't know you, and don't really care if it's your birthday or not. Trust me, I wouldn't volunteer for these bruises, or the chance of first degree burns all over my face even for a friend, much less some stranger."

"It was a test, though," said Aunt Wilma. "And you passed nicely. I thought you probably would, but I had to check. That's the point of tests."

"What was the point of tests? Of this test?" Paul actually had an idea of what the point might've been, but it sounded stupid even in his head and he didn't let himself think of it in words. He turned away so neither of the adults would see ridiculous hope in his face. He spotted a dish towel hanging from the handle of the fridge; he pulled it off and back-handed it at the guy. Up to him to catch it and mop up his leather if he wanted. He stared at the window over the sink, at his own reflection, trying to keep his face straight. Hope was just too pathetic at that point.

"The point was to see whether you have the temperament to be a Sentinel."

She just said it, right out, all short and matter-of-fact. Something like that, it seemed to Paul, should be announced, maybe with some kind of brass fanfare in the background.

"This is Derry, by the way. He just moved into the area and is joining the team, taking Doug's place. Derry, my nephew Paul."

"Hey."

Paul turned back around in time to see Derry gave him a smirk and a wave. He was mopping his jacket off with the towel. He shrugged out of it so he could reach the back. Mmm, nice tight T-shirt, which Paul felt free to notice, since he wasn't trying to burn, stab or otherwise maim the guy anymore.

"Unless you despise one another," Aunt Wilma went on, "Derry will be mentoring you for a while. I thought you'd rather have someone who's not a relative doing it, aside from the fact that I'm not really up to teaching brawling to a seventeen-year-old anymore."

Paul blinked a couple of times, like the world would shift into some more believable configuration if he could just get rid of whatever was obviously messing up his vision. Except it was his ears too, and blinking would help that. Blinking didn't help anyway, because he was still standing in Aunt Wilma's semi-trashed kitchen.

"So, wait, you want me to be a Sentinel? For real? That won't work -- I don't have any magic!"

"That makes it awkward, but not impossible," she said. "And since Christopher has informed me that he's definitely not interested and if I keep nagging him he's going to move across country, change his name and not give me his phone number, it's up to you to carry the flag for the family."

Aunt Wilma's son Christopher had been telling his mother for about as long as Paul'd been alive that he didn't want to be a Sentinel, so Paul wasn't really shocked. Paul thought he was crazy, but it still wasn't surprising.

But--

"What about Tom?" Paul didn't really want to remind her, but felt like he had to. "At least he's got magic."

Derry huffed out a laugh and shook his head. "We pulled this on him when I first got into town. He called me some names and tried to break a dish over my head. I'll give the kid credit for standing his ground and giving it a shot, but he doesn't have that killer instinct. If you're going to fight bad guys, you have to mean it, for real. You can train that into somebody, but I'm not going to do it."

"I told him that if he wanted another chance, he could join the military and serve a hitch," said Aunt Wilma. "Something like the Marines where they emphasize combat and train the right reflexes into you. If he gets through boot camp and a tour somewhere, he'll have all the killer instinct a Sentinel needs."

Paul said, "But that's--" and then stopped, because he'd been about to say something truly stupid.

"Dangerous?" Aunt Wilma gave him a sharp glare. "Of course it's dangerous. So is fighting trolls and elves and power-crazed mages. If you're afraid of getting hurt, say so now and that'll be the end of it."

"No! No, I'm not. I know being a Sentinel is dangerous, I'm not stupid. I was just about to say something dumb. It was just, like a reflex. I want to! I always have." He took a step toward Derry and held out a hand. "Umm, sorry for throwing coffee at you. No hard feelings, right?"

Derry laughed and gripped his hand, then clapped him on the shoulder. "'Course not. You did real well, we already said so."

"That's settled, then," said Aunt Wilma. "Paul, you figure out how much free time you have -- school, homework and sleep are your own, otherwise Derry owns you through at least the end of summer. I'll talk to your parents and we'll make sure everything's organized."

Derry poked Paul in the arm and said, "I suggest you work hard between now and the end of school, put on as much strength and endurance as you can, 'cause once summer vacation starts and you're mine all day, you're going to wish you'd joined the Marines instead."

Paul scowled at him, but he couldn't hold it. A huge smile broke through and he said, "Excellent. Thanks!" There was still one thing, though. He looked back and forth between them and said, "But I still don't have magic. I mean, it's great to be able to see what's coming, but a pot of coffee won't protect me from a crazy mage or an elf who's out of coffee-tossing range."

Derry raised an eyebrow at Aunt Wilma, who sort of smirked at him, then said to Paul, "Let's clean up this mess you made. Make sure you find every bit of jewelry that was in the box, then I'll show you what we've got for you."

Paul got it in about half a second. The gold chain had been in the box with... with a bunch of junk that wasn't actually junk.

Holy shit, he thought. There was loads of stuff in that box!

He dropped to his knees and started scrambling around on the floor picking up pendants and bracelets and rings and pins, while Derry set the table back on its legs and Aunt Wilma mopped coffee off the floor. Chains and charms and earrings and stick pins and buttons and necklaces -- there were dozens, maybe hundreds of them. If they were all magic, then....

...Then he'd be loaded for magical bear.

It was starting, and it was real. Paul was going to be a Sentinel.
*******************************************************

Paul is a main character in two of Angela's Sentinel universe novels: A Hidden Magic and Emerging Magic. If you want some excellent urban fantasy, these two books are for you! (My review for Emerging Magic will be up this weekend! Loved it!)

 Rory's mother took him to psychiatrists, let them circumscribe his life, let them give him drugs, while knowing all along there was nothing wrong with him. When Rory finds out, he's angry and confused and just wants to get away for a while. His mother's betrayal plus another kidnap attempt make a visit to the father he hasn't seen in ten years seem like a great idea.

When Rory, Paul and Aubrey get to Seattle, though, it's obviously not going to be just a normal family Christmas. Someone north of San Jose tried to kidnap Rory twice before they left, and to Paul, it's too much of a coincidence that Nathan, Rory's dad, has magic talented friends. While Rory tries to reconnect with his only other family, Paul is trying to figure out whether anyone in Nathan's group is after Rory. They definitely have secrets, and at least one of them has been playing around with things he doesn't understand; the local fey are after him, and elves aren't known for caring too much about collateral damage.

And there's a master wizard in the area who's up to something big and would really like to have Rory's help....
  
Available at Torquere, Amazon, and All Romance eBooks.

A Thousand Word Thursday Story from Angela Benedetti

Custody

Branden had just sat down on a stump in his yard to catch his breath after a good hour of log splitting when he heard a whirr of wings. It might have been a hummingbird, or a really huge bee, but he had a feeling it wasn't. Sure enough, a moment later a tiny green dragon lighted on his knee.

"Flicker! Not again!" He sighed and stroked the little dragon's snout with one fingertip. Flicker took to the air again and zipped around his head three times, then took off into a nearby elm tree to chase a crow through the nearly-bare branches. The larger bird cawed his anger for a few minutes, but ended up flapping away. Flicker chased him out of the cleared yard and into the wood, beyond Branden's sight, then zipped back again alone, fluting his pleasure over dominating Branden's small stretch of land.

Branden watched him swoop here and there about the yard, investigating the low stone house and the autumn-churned vegetable garden, and re-establishing his benevolent domination over the chickens, which ignored him as was their habit.

Then Flicker zipped back to to Branden's knee and made a tweetling noise that sounded like a question. Branden shook his head and felt his pleasure in watching the dragonling fade. "I really shouldn't, baby. If I keep feeding you, you'll keep coming, and that's not... not good."

The next tootle sounded more like a demand, and the little dragon punctuated it with an angry orange flame the length of Branden's thumbnail.


"Ho, all right!" Branden had to laugh at the offended indignation Flicker radiated. He was too small to really hurt anything larger than a hound -- or an over-proud crow -- but he always seemed to get his own way just the same.

And of course, Branden just happened to have a handful of smalt, the tiny dried fish Flicker loved, tucked into his belt. It was a habit left over from when he and the little dragon had dwelled together, and he hadn't broken the habit because... well, because Flicker kept coming back to him.

He pulled out the small packet of oilcloth and unrolled it, then picked up one of the little fish and tossed it into the air. Flicker zipped after it, caught it, and landed on top of Branden's head to crunch it down.

"Your hair is going to smell like fish for a week."

The scolding voice was both familiar and expected. It also made Branden's head duck and his heart clench, although he was able to keep himself from visibly wincing, which was an improvement. Little by little, right? Maybe some day he wouldn't react at all when he heard Tol's voice.

"I know," he said, "but he fusses if I try to shoo him off, and it makes even more of a mess." Tol knew that too; it was just something to say that gave Branden something to say back.

He heard Tol huff out a sigh, then his footsteps approaching through the dry grass. "You know if you keep feeding him, he's going to keep coming back."

"Yes, I do know," Branden answered, "but he gets so upset if I say no, I can't hold out."

"You should just keep him."

"We tried that, remember? He shows up at your place anyway, just like he shows up at mine now."

"Maybe if you just never came for him...?"

"We tried that too." Branden was doing his best to keep the impatience out of his voice, but Tol was just going over everything they'd thought of, everything they'd tried, everything that hadn't worked. It was always the same -- he was so logical, so methodical, and it was all so useless. "You're the one who sent me a note saying to come get him that last time, that he was getting hysterical. And then when I did finally show up, he buzzed me like an angry bluejay."

"I know!" Tol lowered his voice and repeated, "I know. I'm sorry. I just don't know what to do." He came closer and settled down on the sand-colored grass, crossing his feet and then lowering himself into a sit, as neat and graceful as anyone Branden had ever seen. Branden loved to watch him move, just walking down a path, or carrying in firewood, or shaping clay with his slender hands glistening.

Branden tossed another smalt for Flicker, who zipped up to snatch it out of the air, then zipped back to the top of Branden's head. Branden heard him crunching, and could feel the grip of claws in his hair and the patter of tiny fish bits.

"I always loved how tolerant you are," said Tol. There was a note of longing in his voice. "I've never been able to just ignore things like that. Like fish scales in my hair -- it's disgusting and I don't know how you stand it. But it makes Flicker happy so you just... I don't know, don't care or ignore it or whatever it is you do that lets you stand to have a dragon eating fish on your head without your skin crawling."

"He likes it, and it doesn't bother me. I can comb out the bits after, and the oil makes my hair shiny." Branden threw Tol a grin, but he had to put some effort into it.

Branden had always been the tolerant one in their relationship. He never had to make much of an effort; when someone important to him -- or some thing, like Flicker -- was happy, that made Branden happy too, and he'd never been one to fuss over little things. That was Tol's job, fussing and straightening and insisting that everything be just so. It came in handy, truly, because some things really were best done just so, and for a while, the two of them had complemented one another to a fair note, mostly by Branden giving in and doing things the way Tol wanted them.

But there were so many little fusses and fribbles that didn't make any sense to Branden, more than he could remember without making a production out of it. Who cared whether the new milk was in a bowl or a pitcher, so long as it was in the cold cellar? Why did it matter that his dirty shirts were on the floor in the corner when they wanted washing anyway? They weren't in the way, so why fuss?

"Maybe... maybe one of us could move," Tol suggested, his voice slow and hesitant. "Maybe if Flicker didn't know where to find whoever he wasn't living with, if there was more than half a league between us, he'd learn to be content?"

"Were you thinking of moving, then?" Branden asked. He had to admit it might work, but he wasn't keen on uprooting himself and moving out of the range of a determined dragonling.

"I... perhaps." Tol watched Flicker chase away a bumblebee, then come zipping back for another fish. "Lady Cadridge is still nagging me to accept that year's patronage she's been offering for an oak's age. If I accepted, she'd be pleased if I moved nearer to her. I could probably get her to include a cottage right on the estate if I asked sweetly."

A tiny fin fluttered down past Branden's nose. He blew it off his upper lip, unable to look at Tol.

"It's a fine opportunity," he allowed, still staring off into the trees. "I've always granted that. Her Ladyship is a bit difficult at times, but your work would come to the attention of other nobles and wealthy folk. You'd be set up fine even if you left her after your year."

"I know. I mean, yes, it would be very good for my reputation. It would open many doors."

Tol didn't sound terribly enthusiastic for someone who was talking about a bright future with many expensive commissions.

"If that's what you want to do, then you should do it," said Branden. "It's your life. I'd be happy to have Flicker if you can't keep him."

Tol groaned and fell backwards, flat into the grass. "I don't know! Or rather, I do know -- I don't want to be beholden to Lady Cadridge for even a month, much less a whole year. But we can't keep... doing this. We need to stay away from one another and Flicker won't let us and it's driving me to melancholy. I can't do this anymore!" He crossed his arms over his eyes, as though he were blocking out the world.

Even lying on the dried, dusty grass, Tol was beautiful. Branden knew Lady Cadridge wanted to have him under her patronage not only for the fine pottery he made, but also as a jewel in her court. Having Tol move onto her estate would please her very much, Branden knew. And if Tol didn't agree to move, she'd be summoning him as often as she could, sending her carriage for him, providing fine clothes and shoes and whatever all else he might need to grace her salons, defeating every protest.

She'd be a generous patron, Branden knew that. And he still resented her for it, because all she saw was Tol's flawless skin and graceful movements, his fine cheekbones and broad shoulders, his huge brown eyes and the perfect tiny corkscrew curls of his hair. It was all surface, all about being able to look at a beautiful thing and say "Mine," and have her noble friends envy her the possession.

Branden had loved Tol since they were both gawky teenagers, back when Tol was skinny and awkward and tripping over his own suddenly-grown feet. Branden loved how Tol could find beauty in so many things, and create it with his hands. He loved Tol's precision, his determination that everything be exactly perfect, and his ability to make it so if determination could achieve it.

But that same yearning for everything to be just right had pried them apart. Branden couldn't be like that, couldn't live like that, couldn't change himself into that -- not even for Tol.

"I don't know what to do. I don't want you to go, but I don't know how to make you want to stay." Why not say it? Branden thought. He's going to leave, going to move out into the world, to a more beautiful place where everyone is raised to do things just so. Tol's a natural; he should have been born there. He's just going where he belongs.

Tol made a distinctly un-beautiful noise and rolled over, his face still buried in his crossed arms. He had dust and grass stems and a couple of crawly bugs stuck to the back of his jerkin and britches; it was the messiest Branden had ever seen him since... well, ever.

Flicker zipped down and picked off first one bug, then the other, gulping them down and then tootling triumph as though he'd just killed a pair of wyverns by himself.

"I don't want to know what he's doing, do I?" asked Tol's muffled voice.

"No, you don't. They're gone now, though."

Branden watched a full-body shudder pass through Tol from his head to his ankles.

Tol rolled over and sat up, all in one smooth move. He looked up at Branden and said, "So you don't want me to go?"

"No."

"But what difference would it make? Aside from perhaps solving our problem with Flicker? We're not together anymore, so why does it matter where I live?"

"We do see each other, though. I can't... we couldn't seem to, to live together. But I still like seeing you." Branden looked away and shrugged. "I like knowing you're about, and knowing that I'll pass you on the road, or see you in the village. And I like that Flicker brings us together every few days."

"That's why you keep feeding him."

"No, I feed him because he gets upset if I don't, and I can't stand to see him upset."

"You can't stand to see anyone upset. You're the most accommodating person I've ever met."

"I can't stand to see people I care about upset. It's not just everyone."

"Branden...." The helpless tone made Branden look at him again.

"Branden, we can't do this. It doesn't work. We tried, remember? Even more than we've tried with Flicker, and it doesn't work."

"But we haven't tried not living together," said Branden. Then he stopped and thought about what had just come out of his mouth.

"We've been 'not' living together for the last four months," protested Tol.

"No, I mean, we haven't tried being together, but living apart." It sounded crazed, but not. Branden started to feel hopeful for the first time in, well, nearly a year, which was about the length of time he'd started tip-toeing around Tol at home.

"What, pretending we're courting again? We did that already and we couldn't wait to be together always."

"But we didn't know. I mean, we didn't know it wouldn't work." Branden slid off the stump and onto his knees in front of Tol. He reached out and laid a hand lightly on Tol's brown wrist. "I love you. I still do. I can't not -- I've tried that too and it didn't work either. I can't seem to make you happy if we're living together, so what if we just didn't live together? You could stay in your place and have it exactly as you like it, and I could stay in mine and be my own self in it, and we could get together whenever we liked.

"We could even trade sleeping back and forth, so long as we didn't try to, to... I don't know, make each other's homes our own. You never, well hardly ever tried to fuss around when you visited me before, remember? And I always -- all right, mostly remembered to leave your things exactly how you left them, because they were yours, not ours. It's different in someone else's home. So if we each have our own home, it'd feel different when we vist, and we wouldn't fuss each other so much." He paused, then asked, "Could we try? Please?"

Tol stared at him for a handful of heartbeats, then beamed one of his sunrise smiles. "You're brilliant. Have I ever told you I love how you always see the simple answer?"

"You might have mentioned that a time or two," said Branden, smiling back. "It took me a while to see this one, though."

"I'll wager Flicker saw it. He's been waiting for his brainless people to catch on." Tol held out a hand and Flicker settled onto it. He got finger-rubs from both his people, and gave a happy tweetle.

"So we'll try?"

"We'll try. I'm here, and it's nearly supper time, so I might as well stay the night, yes?"

"Yes. I even have some clean linen I can lend you in the morning."

"I'd appreciate that," murmured Tol. He got up onto his own knees and leaned into Branden. "You always took care of me beautifully, when you weren't driving me crazy."

"You were always easy to take care of, except when you were going crazy."

"But we're going to fix that, yes?"

"Yes," said Branden, and he leaned forward for a kiss.

This was how things were supposed to be, neat and precise, everything in its place, which meant Tol in his arms, and in his bed. Or himself in Tol's bed, either one.

Perfect.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thanks, Angela, for this wonderful story, it's wonderful. Really--wow. And this same author has a really wonderful novel that I read (before I started reviewing but would have given a 5 marble review to) and just loved.

Fey incursions into the mortal world have been on the rise, and Paul MacAllister's trying to figure out what the king of the local Elven enclave Under the Hill is up to and how to stop it. Rory Ellison was caught up in one of those attacks and nearly killed by a gang of goblins. He doesn't believe they were real, though, and is resisting anything Paul might say to the contrary.

Normally Paul would be willing to let Rory go his own way, at least until he's taken care of more immediate business. But Rory has a particularly rare gift, one the Elven king needs to have under his control in order to carry out his plan. Keeping Rory away from the fey who will use him, to death if necessary, means protecting him night and day, whether Rory agrees or not.

Find A Hidden Magic and several other stories in this universe here at Torquere.

Angela said she's working on a sequel, which is great news! First dibs, line forms to my left. :D  And for anyone who's going to be in New Orleans for GayRomLit, say hi to Angela there, she gets to hang with Eden Winters and PD Singer and a bunch more authors and readers who are going to have a wonderful time.

Reach Out and Touch by Angela Benedetti

Cal's been working on an elaborate spell to open a portal between universes and, after weeks of work and calculations to draft out the diagram and get all the symbols right and acquire all the right powders and pigments, he's eager to actually try it. Master Aubrey wants him to wait, but Cal has a day off today, and he doesn't see why the fact that it's Halloween should make any difference. He takes advantage of Aubrey's absence to go ahead on his own. After all, this is only practice, opening a portal to an empty, pocket universe. Even if something goes wrong, how bad could it be?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Famous last words.

OMG, there's usually a reason why Aubrey wants Cal to do certain things, or not do them, or wait to do them, even if he doesn't explain. And Cal will last a lot longer if he pays attention.

Opening the portal on Halloween was one of those things, but does Cal listen? No he does not! After a substantial amount of technical spellcasting Cal opens a gate to some otherwhere -- and he can't quite get himself back. And then he's got to convince a worried Aubrey that he's there at all.

This does lead to one of the more unusual sex scenes I've ever encountered -- it's cute and effective, though hotter for them than the reader.

Cal spends a lot of this story alone, first getting into mischief and then working out the scope of his difficulties. When Aubrey does come on the scene, the depth of affection comes out, as he establishes what's happened. The balance of power in a master/student relationship shows here, so does the love of partners.

This was a fun little bite of the Hidden Magic universe, but not a full meal in itself; read it after the novel and the other shorts. And definitely read those -- this is a great series.

Buy here.

Hell is in the Details by Angela Benedetti

Benioth, the Demon of Laziness, is behind on his memos and has just found out he needs to corrupt a soul by midnight to make quota. Luckily the Demon of Sodomy doesn't mind sharing the fun, and Benioth runs into Andy, who's still innocent but eager to have someone fix that for him. It sounds like a perfect situation, but somehow things never go right for poor Benioth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I always suspected that corporate America got some of it's less attractive features from the Infernal regions -- Angela Benedetti makes that point very strongly, with memos and quotas, job reviews and last minute hustles to get it all right. Benioth needs to scurry -- corrupting someone beyond redemption using sloth takes a while and he -- really! -- doesn't have all night.

Now, in order for this all to work, you have to reserve judgment on one notion that had me going uhhhhhhhh but you know what? Hell really is in the details.

This was fun, and it gave the devil his don't.


Buy here.

Unfinished Business by Angela Benedetti

After a morning of saving the world, apprentice mage Cal Toscani heads down and works a full day in his busy restaurant, because foiling the bad guy doesn't pay the bills. After midnight, bruised and aching from the aforementioned foiling, and exhausted from a long day of work, Cal goes home hoping for a hot bath, a nice massage and some sex, not necessarily in that order. His lover and master, Aubrey Fletcher, unfortunately remembers that he'd given Cal a lesson that morning before everything got exciting, and he's determined that Cal's going to finish that lesson before anything else happens -- yes, right now. Cal finds himself naked in bed, trying to figure out how to remove Aubrey's spell, while a naked Aubrey does his best to be distracting. Cal's pretty sure he's going to explode long before he figures the damn thing out!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was fun -- the author expanded on a little scene in a larger work (A Hidden Magic). Cal, the apprentice, gets a really funny, sexy lesson on paying attention under duress, and Aubrey, magical adept and Cal's master, provides plenty of hot, hot duress. If every lesson was that much fun, Cal will be an adept in no time at all!

I'd read A Hidden Magic a few months back, so I remembered the set-up for the whole asses-ears business, and that was my only quibble with this story. The beginning feels like a scene that was removed from the book for flow, and it doesn't really capture the purpose of the ears or why they even existed -- as a stand alone story they come sort of out of the blue. As a read with, it just follows right on. Following Cal around the restaurant at the beginning establishes that he's got a life outside magic, but it doesn't set up the rest of the story as well as it could. Asses ears --> creme brulee --> asses ears might have worked better than creme brulee --> asses ears.

All the same, the sex was hot, the relationship between master and apprentice was both loving and responsible, and the ending sweet.



Buy it here.