#i adore the way that dangerous woman becomes a kitten in his paws

[kassylin]

I’ll kill him (c)

Those babes T_T That is a top romance for me, guys T_T Also there are like three gifs of Xiao Gui’s back. I might have a thing for that back. Yep. The way he looks at her. Good bye T_T

#zhou yiwei #zhou yi wei #the longest day in chang'an #xiao gui #long bo #she is his soft spot #and he is her strong #i adore the way that dangerous woman becomes a kitten in his paws #he came back for her #it's all that matters in this world #t_t

[fuwafuwamedb]

The Plight of Sigurd (Hakuno, Sigurd, Brynhild)

Once upon a time, a warrior with the heart of a dragon lived upon the earth. The heart that pounded away in his chest was strong, stronger than anything he had ever felt or seen or held. It held so very much power and capability, enough that, when the warrior found a wee wisp of a woman, filled with pale features and smelling of wildflowers and rainfall, his dragon heart spluttered away in desire.

He had to have her. He had to woo her.

It became the very breath in his lungs and the very song in his heart. His every word was curled around thoughts of her. His very actions were always, always for her.

Sigurd, the greatest fighter in all the land, the great hero and the slayer of the fierce dragon, was deeply in love.

So too was the woman who returned his gaze.

Her hand slipped into his.

The vows he gave to her were filled with youthful ignorance and mindless depths. A love everlasting, a solitary love, leaving him cold and alone without her at his side; he promised her himself to the very last moment in all of time and space. Until all would cease to exist, that was how long he would let her possess his spirit.

She promised the same and more.

Her hands pressed to him, promising understanding and patience. Such a wise thing to say, since he was a fool. She promised him encouragement and support, things his young mind scoffed at and his older mind cherished like a solitary dying flame in the midst of an ice storm.

They lived as two fools who were young and in love lived.

Gudrun gave him the partner he needed, the time he deserved with his hotheadedness. She tempered him, cooling and folding over the recklessness until he was honed into the most magnificent form of himself. He livened her night skies. He created joy in her unlike anything she had ever experienced. He kept her strategizing, thinking. Where she gave him strength, he gave her knowledge.

Knowledge, but perhaps not wisdom.

For his dragon heart was so large, so capable, that the day his friend came to him for a favor, he could not even consider the ramifications of what would occur. He welcomed the challenge to sleep with the mighty warrior Brynhild. He rushed to Gudrun, leaving his friend and king to wait as he told his sweet love of what he would do.

It was knowledgeable to allow him to tame Brynhild in disguise, to let her fall for the king. It meant that Sigurd would spend more time home. They could begin their family finally. They could look towards having more voices in their quiet home away from the world and all its struggles.

Wisdom was knowing that such a task was dangerous, evermore so for a man whose heart bled for the tiny beasts that Gudrun welcomed into their home. The man was no heartless. He could not give any bit of himself without desiring something back.

He crossed the flames.

His disguised body lay with the great Brynhild, but not for long. She murmured the wrong name to him and Sigurd, thoughtlessly, doffed his disguise. His hands grasped at the woman’s legs, bringing the truth home.

Brynhild saw but a second of the truth, thinking it a trick of the dying light of the ring of fire.

She married herself to the king as Sigurd returned home.

Yet neither lay with their spouse.

Brynhild felt something cold in the touch of the king, luring her to rebuke him. Sigurd felt a need for more, a greed that slowly built up within him with each time that his wife came to him. He vowed himself to his wife again, his heart heavy.

“My husband is the greatest warrior,” Brynhild told Gudrun one day, surveying the laundering that the two of them needed to do. “He crossed the ring of fire to get to me. He is-“

“He is a liar,” Gudrun told her simply. “It was not him, but my husband, Sigurd, that lay with you that night.”

Knowledge, while great and powerful, was nothing compared to wisdom.

For Brynhild went to her husband and spied the warrior near him, knowing Gudrun’s words to be true. Vengeance burned in her. Her weapon came to hand.

And on his way home to his wife, Sigurd felt that blade pierce him. He felt his great heart torn from his body, the sound of his wife’s cries of shock and horror filling the air as he looked up at the woman.

“I cared for you too,” he told her with his dying breath. “I cared for you as I care for Gudrun. I had told your husband that I would not hide the truth from you. I had… wanted… to tell you… Bryn.”

The woman’s scream of outrage rang through the trees. He could see the tears flow, the knowledge of her reckless anger and her rightful actions creating chaos.

Gudrun and Brynhild.

The two loves that his great dragon heart had felt, both adoring of one another; he had lost them both through such troubles.

In another life, he would only wish for one.

For Gudrun’s warmth and Brynhild’s icy love were too powerful together. They drove him to the depths of longing, leaving him to foolish mistakes and a world filled with pain and suffering.

Never again, he begged to the universe.

The universe, in its great wisdom and ever reaching limbs of generations, spat him into the world as a simple man. Perhaps, not too simple, since the memories of it all remained well in his head. He grew, much like any other man grew: books and homework, days of lounging and nights of dreaming. He donned his glasses and sipped his coffee as he stepped forth from simple learning to complex teaching.

The world tree?

Meet the world of knowledge, of sciences and mathematics. He could see the world in a grain of sand, but he could not hold anyone.

The problem from before, with a heart too deep, now felt hollow. He pressed his hand to his chest many times, trying to feel the hole, but his heart beat away. It was not missing, but something was.

That was why, when she had appeared at one of his conferences, a small one in Fuyuki, Japan, he had gone to her.

“Go away.”

“Miss.” Sigurd sat down across from her, happy that the coffee shop was slow today. “Surely an hour of your time won’t-“

The purple haired woman narrowed her gaze on him.

She clicked her tongue.

“I see the faithlessness lingering in you, foul warrior of old. A wife who loves you dearly, yet you play with another. I have no use for a second of you.”

“Hey-“

She flashed her eyes his way. “Leave!”

“I know when I have lost.”

He stood up, but the woman stood as well.

“Yes?”

“I don’t like you.”

She moved closer though, despite her words. She pressed her hand to his cheeks and brought his face closer, promising wordlessly something he had not expected.

“…I don’t like you one bit. That is why I have to do this, for the sake of others. Perhaps maybe you’ll learn, unlike the other I know.”

He opened his eyes, only to feel a shift.

The world tilted on its axis. The room around them revolving. He fell onto all fours, looking up at the woman and growling at her.

Growling?

“A CAT!” One of the coffee shop owners screeched, waving for the others. “SOMEONE GET A BROOM! HOW DID A CAT GET IN HERE!”

The witch of a woman kicked him, sending him flying towards the door. He could see paws now. He could feel his whiskers and feel the flick and swish of his tail. The woman had changed him.

How?

Who had that woman been?

A broom was coming his way. He rushed for the door, running around the feet and running. Further and further away, he went. He ran with all his might, dodging the cars and the wild world of people.

A cat.

He could not have stayed in that coffee place or even near it. The risk was too great.

The woman had been from his hotel. He’d seen her there before. If he could find his way back to that building before the woman checked out or anything.

But even thinking that brought forth chaos. A darkness loomed over his head. A dark room swept him right off the pavement, into a wall a second before steel bars slammed shut behind him. He could only glance back to see a pair of eyes look at him.

“A runaway stray? Shall we go to the pound?”

The…

No!

He yowled. He pawed. Anything and everything that he could do, he did.

The man carried him to the back of a car and whisked him off.

Darkness and the scent of sanitizer met his senses. He could hear dozens of other cats. He could hear dogs howling and barking away. The world around him had become colder than he had ever seen before. What was the Scandinavian winters compared to steel walls and metal bars? Who could ever say that the smell of piss and the feel of threadbare fabrics was ever better than fur blankets and the smell of a good fire in a hearth?

Women were… Cruel.

His luck, albeit strong, was also in faltering.

Whoever had wronged that witch before had ended up leaving the vengeance for him to suffer. Just as his king friend had left vengeance for him to feel from Brynhild. Just as the dragon had left for him to feel by making him covet and yearn so deeply.

The time slipped away.

He saw a light overhead. It drifted across the room.

Time marched forth, indifferent to the plights of mankind. Its limbs reached out further and further, tangling away amongst other limbs and twigs. He watched so many pass through the chamber, always after kittens and old, dying beasts in this room. Their eyes drifted over him. He may as well have been décor.

A few more lights flew by as days passed.

He barely opened his eyes.

He barely did much.

“Miss,” a voice called. “You don’t want that one. He’s on his last legs.”

“Why is he so filthy?”

That voice…

Soft and sweet, it flowed like honey through his mind as he heard it. She spoke so sweetly, setting off some kind of recognition in him. The voice was so familiar. It was so very familiar…

“He doesn’t groom himself. We think it may be psychological.”

“He’s depressed then?”

The voice was closer. He could feel the bars move away from his face. A hand was stroking at him, bringing him to purr without a second thought.

“You don’t seem depressed to me,” the woman murmured, “but then, who really realizes they’re depressed when they feel depressed.”

“Miss-“

“I’ll take him!”

Sigurd felt himself lifted up, pressed against a chest that was softer than anything he’d ever felt. The faint trace of wildflowers and rainfall met his senses. There were fingers stroking at his ears and head, making his purr deepen.

The voices spoke, but he could not focus.

He couldn’t focus until he felt a warm cloth wiping at his eyes. The gunk that had accumulated was done away with. He could open his eyes and see the owner of that voice. He looked up, his gaze drifting over the wee features of the wisp of a woman.

Gudrun.

His Gudrun.

The beautiful and knowledgeable woman and love of his spirit: his everlasting Gudrun.

“Do you mind if I carry him out like this?” his sweet woman asked of the people here.

“Go ahead.”

He could not look away as they stepped out of the darkness. He couldn’t breathe as the sun poured down upon the locks of brown hair and those astounding brown eyes of hers. His Gudrun had found him, rescued him even.

Had the witch sent her here?

Had she helped him to reunite with the one he had been parted from?

“Well,” Gudrun smiled down at him. “I guess this is a good time for names while we wait for the bus, isn’t it? My name is Hakuno Kishinami. And your name… How about Sigurd? I just read about one in a book and he was something else.”

You are my Gudrun. Not Hakuno.

“Listen to you meow,” the woman laughed. “You must be a fan of the name too. Sigurd it is then.”

This time he would remain with her alone. He would make up for their last life. They would do everything that they had been unable to do before.

His Gudrun…

How much his heart lightened at the sight of her, he couldn’t dare think to leave her again.

No, he never would.

The youth of his life had spoken true.

There had never been another as perfect for him as her.

#drabble #drabbles

[scandalsavagefanfic]

When Jason rescues a wounded kitten, little does he know he's carrying Ra's al Ghul along in his coat. Trapped in animal form, Ra's just wants to get home and get revenge on the mage that did this. By the time they reach Gotham, Jason has told his new cat friend any number of secrets, including his omega designation leaving Ra's al Ghul is intrigued with the skilled, affection starved, omega.

It’s a long journey from Metropolis back to Gotham where Jason grew up before he was abducted, but he’s determined to make it, and quickly. It took several years, but he finally escaped and he needs to put as much distance between him and Lex Luthor’s slave empire as possible before the bastard’s goons find him. He’s heard that in the years he’d been gone, Gotham has become a safe haven, a refuge, guarded by mage powerful enough to keep even Luthor at bay.

On his second night in the dangerous forest he hears a loud hissing and screeching. He wants to ignore it, stay curled up in the hollowed out tree where he feels just a little safer than out in the open. But the animal sounds so distressed and he’s worried that if it keeps being so loud, it’ll attract more dangerous predators.

When he gets there he finds an injured black cat, with intelligent bright, green eyes and the most adorable tufts of white fur on either side of his face, just below each ear, and golden fur on its belly.

There’s also a big grey wolf slobbering and snarling at it. Jason only has the kitchen knife he stole before he left and he doesn’t know why he risks his life for a wounded animal but he ends up getting the wolf good enough that it yelps and runs off. 

Jason’s a little banged up too. Scratches and bites on his arms, the fabric of his shirt is shredded and there’s gashes in his pants too. He drops to the forest floor and finds the cat watching him, staring intently, until finally it limps over to him and snuggles against his chest, purring.

The rest of the journey passes more quickly with his new little friend tucked safely in his coat where it kneads at his chest. Sometimes it rides on his shoulder and chews on his ear. At night, it curls up in his lap and Jason talks to it like he would a friend. If he’d ever had a friend. His parents died when he was young and he’d been taken by slavers soon after he hit the streets. When they found out what he was, they’d taken him straight to Lex, where he was groomed for a future he wanted no part of. 

Jason notices the cat’s ears twitch in interest and out of paranoid habit, learned from spending most his life in a dangerous place where dangerous people were always listening, Jason looks around to make sure he won’t be overheard. 

“I guess it’s ok to tell you,” he says to the cat, “You won’t say anything, will you, buddy?”

The way he says “buddy’ is almost like he actually considers the cat a friend. He knows it’s pathetic. But there’s no one here to see so he’s going to let himself pretend for minute. He tells the cat he’s an omega; apparently they’re pretty rare anymore, but that’s just what Lex said and he doesn’t trust Lex. He’d overheard the court mage tell Luthor Jason was very close to his first heat, when he’d finally be able to be bred. So Jason had tripled his efforts to escape.

He thinks the cats eyes get a little wider at the revelation but shrugs it off as his imagination. 

They finally make it to Gotham. The cat, who has now left little scratches and teeth marks all over him prompting Jason to affectionately call him ‘little demon’, is all healed up and trots along beside him loyally. 

Jason has no idea what to do now. He’s hungry and he’s sure the little demon is too but he has no money and he really needs to figure out somewhere safe to stay. His heat is still a ways away… a few days? maybe a week… and he may be safe from Lex, but he’s not safe from everyone else.

He feels the little demon’s claws sink into the skin of his ankle, through his pants and he hisses in surprise, eyes snapping down to his companion. 

There’s so much intelligence in that intense green gaze that it makes Jason a little uncomfortable at the memory that the cat had watched him in the woods while he bathed in the river. 

The cat swipes the leg of his pants with a paw, takes a few steps toward a side street, then looks back at Jason.

“You want me to follow you?”

The cat nods and trots off. Jason, a little freaked out, gulps and follows, curiosity winning out. 

They get to a dark but tidy little apothecary and Jason opens the door when the cat looks at him expectantly. 

The cat jumps onto the counter in front of a woman with long brown hair and familiar green eyes.

The woman stares at the cat for a moment, looking a little smug, before she sighs, says some words in a language Jason doesn’t know, and then there’s a flash of golden light, so bright and sudden that he jerks away from it, covering his eyes, and falls to the floor. 

When he can see again, he’s looking up at a tall, lean man, in green and gold robes, black hair, with familiar white streaks at the temples, and keen green eyes that he’d know anywhere.

The man holds out a long-fingered hand but Jason is frozen solid. The man smiles, sharp and dangerous. 

“I’m Ra’s,” he says, “And I think we may have a shared interest in taking vengeance on Luthor. I won’t enslave you like he did, but if you agree, you will be mine in every way that matters.”

#rasjay #Jason Todd #Ra's al Ghul #mage au #cat ra's #some lex/jason hinted #lex is my fave villain #he was bound to show up at some point #PS this is why these things take me so long... #I don't do 'brief'

[writinanon]

Glimpses

Here are small snippets into the life of Deputy Rook, Coy-Wolf and descendant of Fenrir I’ll be adding some of the head canons in a little bit.

 It is a warm summer day when the announcement comes ringing through the halls of Asgård. Ask has taken a Mate. And she is Mortal. And she is not a Wolf. And she is with Child because this was a while ago. Loki can’t exactly say that Odin is timely when it comes to announcements of the Wolf Children. When Loki locates his grandson to inform him he finds that Hati is already gone because Ask’s Mate was due to give birth on this day, also Ask was going by Ash now because modern speech made his name sound stupid. Loki was really going to get Odin back for this.

   The babe is bright and makes her displeasure at no longer being safely within her mother’s belly known with yips and yaps. Loki is stunned by her fur. He had seen many a normal wolf with similar stylings of patches of color and a light underbelly. His son, grandson, and great-grandson did not have these markings they were a solid color. But the little one looked like a ridge of clouds that progressed into inky blackness of a storm before abruptly shifting into a pure snowy white. Her mother’s grey, brown, and crème markings mimicked the patterns on the baby. Her mother is Coyote and that clued Loki in as to why Odin was so late in delivering the news. The Trickster lines had merged here though he could tell she wasn’t actually of natural Trickster Blood.

  “Have you thought of a name for her?” Loki ran a finger down her spine and she gave a small growl of approval.

  “None of the names we picked fit her.” Ash muttered sadly and Hati looked at her fur before smiling, that wolfish smile that meant trouble.

  “Rook is a wonderful name and it is fitting no?” Loki looked down at his first great-great-granddaughter and nodded.

  “Smoke indeed.”

   Hati adored his granddaughter, his only grandchild. Unlike his brother he was much more selective of breeding and mating. She was so tiny. He knew that she would grow, and grow, and grow, and grow but for now she was so tiny, looking more like a flea on her father’s paw than a pup. But his granddaughter was not why he was visiting this day. It was his son’s Mate, Adella that had him visiting. She was dying and he was going to make the final offer.

  “I know why you’re here.” She whispered as they watched Ash play with Rook. “My answer is the same.”

  “You do not wish to see her grow?”

  “Oh, I do. But she needs to be strong.” Hati looked at her. “She will need the reliance of herself alone or else she’ll never stand against them.” He didn’t question her, Adella had always been strange.

  “You’ll be gone in Winter.” She smiled and knelt as her daughter raced toward her.

  “We’ll make it memorable then, won’t we?” She pressed a kiss into the girl’s hair and passed her to Hati when she made grabbing motions.

   Hel understood Adella’s desire not to fight her mortality. The young girl had become quiet with her mother’s passing and was almost constantly in her father’s presence, that though she could protect him from Death. It made the Queen of Helheim smile. She hadn’t said anything but she had a feeling that her father, brother, and nephew were wrong about their little ball of smoke. Many of Sköll’s children showed better defense and it wasn’t until their magic developed as such that they understood. Though the magic had bled out of a few of Sköll’s bloodlines given they weren’t encouraged to wield it. Hel chuckled at her other nephew’s mourning of this. Sköll was a very superficial person. He saw a woman, he liked her, he courted her, he saw another and chased her now that he had caught the one he had previously desired. That didn’t mean he didn’t love all of his offspring. He simply didn’t want to be tied down as Hati and Ash did. He saw having a permanent mate, having a True Pack, as distraction from the Hunt. Only the strongest of his children joined the Hunt, most became Guardians or nothing at all. A yap drew Hel’s mind back to the present as she found herself with paws too big for the little body they were attached to in her lap.

  “Well Pup? What do you think?” She placed a crown of flowers into her hair. Hel had picked up the habit from Freyja, that troublesome Goddess that wouldn’t leave Hel to her gloom and Mansion. Rook considered before panting a smile and licking Hel’s fingers and then nudging them with her snout. “Greedy little thing.” She ran her fingers through her fur and Rook wagged her tail happily.

   Loki snuck his little Rook out into the warm sunshine. He made sure that they were protected from her father’s sight with several large trees. The five-year-old was more than ready to start taking up her mantle of Blood and Magic. She was a Trickster, by blood and half by association.

  “Now pay attention little one. These flowers and plants are some of your greatest weapons and allies.” She nodded with a seriousness that not many children her age held.

  “Grandpa Loki?” She hummed softly as she slowly made small figures of twigs and leaves come alive. “Why did aunt Hel take my mommy?” Loki knew that her mother’s death weighed very heavily on the pair. Ash was heartsick and could not recover while in the Mortal Realm for he could not distance himself from the pain.

  “Hel needed her for the company and to keep her safe.”

  “I could do that.”

  “Oh no little one.” Loki ran a hand through her hair, her little ears twitched but she rubbed closer. “We need you for the Hunt.” Her magic ran into healing and defense. She would be a great Hunter.

   Rook is not often visited by Thor. Thor doesn’t like to appear to be intruding on his adoptive Family on Odin’s behalf. Still he had not gotten a chance to meet the newest member of the Family since her birth and he had given his blessing of protection.

  “Really protection?” Loki sneered at him but Thor tossed the little girl with wolf ears up and down while she squealed happily. “Couldn’t you be more creative O’ Protector of Man?”

  “I think she’ll need someone big and strong when the time comes to scare off the unworthy. They’ll take one look at your ratty red hair or your scrawny muscles and laugh.”

  “Ah! You wound me Brother!” It eased Loki somewhat that Thor was truly acting on his own and not Odin’s Will. Thor could be nosy and not understand that some matters were privet even from Family but his heart was usually in the right place.

   Freyja smiled down at the little girl that was playing with her cats. She was getting much bigger. Hel huffed as another flower crown was placed on her head.

  “Oh, don’t be so upset.” The War Goddess teased. “She’ll be glorious one day. Truly I feel envy of your niece.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s nice to have multiple people assure that yes you are powerful and beautiful. Constantly.”

   At the age of thirteen Rook is old enough to care for herself, provided that she checks in with the sheriff’s department constantly.

  “You have proved not only your strength and prowess in magic,” A dirty look was tossed at her Great-Great-Grandfather at this. “But that you have the drive of the Hunt. Would you serve me upon the coming time instead of Guarding the Family?” Hati asked as they knelt before her Great-Grandfather. She straightened her back and nodded.

  “It would honor me to serve my Patron. I will take the Hunt.” She stares into the bright sapphire eyes of her Patriarch before looking to the eyes of her Ancestor. They are a burning red, deep a smoldering like a cooled fire, still dangerous but the believed threat is diminished. Fenrir lets out a huff and licks her, baptizing her and granting his Blessing. From this point forward, she is Pack Blood. She shifts fully into her human form and lays down between his paws.

  “Here Pup.” Hel places a bone between her teeth and places her head in her lap, having borrowed Freyja’s newest batch of kittens to comfort her. Hati pulls the rib bone of Fenrir that was taken for this purpose and threads the lace into it. They all begin to chant and Rook bites down on the bone. She knows this will take until sunset. She passes out completely despite her best efforts when Hati begins to depict the Hunt, she can take no more.

   Katie is unsure about Rook at first until Rook fully shifts and looks more Coy than Wolf. After that Katie knows that Coy breeds true and there’s nothing to worry about with her friend.

   College is not exactly eye opening in the way that Rook was told it would always be. Thor is shuffling her into her dorm after breaking the nose and jaw of two Wolves.

  “Have those beasts no manners? And the Southerners claim you savage.” He is muttering as he puttered about and tucked her in like when she was a small child. Rook chuckled softly at that. A pair of French Wolves had thought they had an easy mark in her. This just proved to her that she belonged back in Hope. Hope even run by a Wolf Pack, was at least run by proper Wolves.

   Sheriff Whitehorse smiled at her when she walked in to apply. She grinned back. She was glad to be home, glad to finally be able to work for the land that had given her shelter.

#Coywolf Rook #Loosely based on Norse Mythology #Loki can still be Tom Hiddleston but he has to have red hair #Thor is forever Chris Hemsworth now

[edible-crayon]

Here’s my secret santa gift for @falcon-hill! Every world in every way Word Count: 2740 Rating: G Warnings: None Summary: Bucky wasn’t mad. Really, he wasn’t.

Bucky wasn't mad. Really, he wasn't. It wasn't Steve's fault that these mishaps sometimes happened; Steve was, after all, a Creator, and while his primary medium was art, sometimes he just couldn't help it when the picture he painted in his head decided to slither out.

So, Bucky wasn't mad, not at all. He was simply…frustrated.

“A fucking manticore, really, Steve?”

Steve ran a hand through his tousled blond hair, looking adorably flustered. The manticore in question was currently winding itself around his legs like a giant house cat, purring like a motorboat. Despite its size and dangerous nature, so far it had proven to have the temperament of a kitten.

“Buck, I'm so sorry,” Steve babbled, face red and hands flailing. “I just got this idea in my head and I didn't have any materials on me so I started kind of just--sketching in the air with my fingers? And then when I got home it was just <em>here.”</em>

Bucky absolutely did not facepalm. “But a manticore?”

“I had this great idea for a nature scene, and I wanted her to be at the foreground so she's the first thing I started out with!”

“She?”

The manticore licked a rust colored paw, eyeing Bucky with disinterest. Her spine tail twitched back and forth when Steve absently scratched behind her ears. “Her name’s Kahlo,” he mumbled, the tips of his ears pinkening.

Bucky tossed in hands in the air. “Of course you would name a man-eating hybrid beast after a famous painter.” He scrubbed both hands down his face. “Where exactly are we supposed to keep her, Steve? We can’t keep her in the apartment, and I am not scaring away my customers by having her roam around downstairs.”

“The back halls,” Steve blurted out immediately. “She doesn’t need a gateway, so she can traverse realms and through the rifts whenever she likes. She’s not likely to run into anyone but the Nomads, anyway. Plus, Natasha would love her.”

“Christ, you’re right. I hate all of you.” Bucky sighed heavily into his hands, then raised his head with a look of resignation. “Fine. But you’re responsible for feeding her.”

Steve gave him a mock salute. “Aye aye, sir.

What a little shit.

“Look, I have to go open up the storefront, and then I have to prep the gateway. Speaking of Nat, she feels like she’s on her way.” Bucky wasn’t exactly high ranking in the gifted department, but he had a sixth sense that rivaled even the strongest seer. And that was before the whole curse thing.

When they were kids, Bucky had been cursed by a bloodstone from the black cult, Hydra. The stone had embedded itself into his left arm, spilling its poisonous magic into his body. They had managed to negate the bloodstone--it sat embedded in Bucky’s shoulder, cracked and terrifying and beautiful-- but the dark magic has cost Bucky his left arm. Two of their friends, T’Challa and Tony--both Creators themselves, T’Challa of science, Tony of machines and technology--had managed to rebuild what was left with vibranium and gold alloy. They had done a stunning job, and Bucky absolutely loved it.

After the whole incident with Hydra, Bucky had felt an immeasurable amount of guilt for the damage--minor, as Steve would frequently remind him--and within the next few days had volunteered to become the next gatekeeper once he came of age. Gatekeepers surveyed whoever crossed through their realm; there were a nine realms altogether, but an infinite number of timelines and universes. It was a great honor; the only issue was that the gatekeeper was bound to their gateway, and as such wasn’t able to travel far from it. Luckily, Brooklyn’s gateway was located in the depths of Soul Brew, the local coffee and book shop that Bucky managed as well. There wasn’t exactly a shortage of visitors between their friends, family, and the Nomads that traversed the realms, so it was, Bucky had to admit, actually a pretty sweet gig. Not to mentioned that once he became Gatekeeper, Steve has immediately declared himself Bucky’s roommate, (“End of the line, remember? Where you go, I go.”) and the two of them lived comfortably in the upstairs apartment.

“I’ll come with you,” Steve offered, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I have some commissions to work on anyway, the Jamesons want a five panel replication of their wedding day for their twenty-fifth anniversary.”

Bucky grabbed his keys. “All right, let’s drop the princess off in the back, and then we can head downstairs.

* * *

“I hear you have yourself a new pet,” Natasha greeted as she stepped through Brooklyn’s Gateway. “Interesting choice, by the way.”

Bucky groaned, sealing the portal behind her. “How would you even know that? You literally just got here.”

“Thor,” Natasha said matter of factly. “Apparently when Steve sent her off she headed over to Asgard. Thor adores her. Says she’s a fine beast for such a finely matched pair,” she added smugly. Her expression softened a fraction. “You really would do anything for that boy, wouldn’t you?”

“Course I would,” Bucky said evasively, as they weaved through the maze of hallways that led to the shopfront. “He’s my best friend.”

“Who you happen to be madly in love with.” Natasha hummed thoughtfully. “Has it ever occurred to you that he may feel the same way?”

Bucky stiffened. “Not an option. Steve’s only ever been in love with one person and it ain’t me.”

Peggy Carter had been a Nomad of a different time from a different Brooklyn, a sharp-tongued woman stuck in a war between men. She and Steve had hit it off instantly, and he had been utterly heartbroken when she had to return to her own time. Last Bucky checked on her, she had made it to the ripe old age of eighty-seven; partner, two kids, a gaggle of grandbabies. She had lived a long, happy life, but it was obvious she has never forgotten about Steve. She had named her eldest Steven Grant, and Bucky both loved and hated her for it.

“There are different kinds of love,” Natasha admonished, surprisingly gentle. “Of course Steve loved her, was in love with her, and she loved him. He could have left, become a Nomad and followed her.” She slid her eyes towards Bucky. “Now tell me, James, I wonder why it was he chose to stay here?”

“Because he feels like owes it to me.” He spat the words like acid, fists clenching. Of course Steve felt guilty; he still blamed himself for Hydra’s curse, even after all these years. That was one of the main reasons why he took it upon himself to be Bucky’s personal guard dog and babysitter. It was love, yes, but a misguided love, and not the kind Bucky wanted.

Not like how he loved Steve.

There had been a time, ages ago, when he had actually thought he might have a chance. Steve had been bitching and whining about having two left feet, and so Bucky had offered to teach him to dance. Steve had flashed him a thousand watt smile, brighter than the sun, and said “That’s great, Buck! Can’t let Pegs show me up now, can I?”

And that little wisp of hope had snuffed out like a candle.

They finally reached a heavy oak door. Bucky slid his key into the lock and murmured softly, and the door eased itself open in response, revealing the spiral staircase that led down to Soul Brew.

Once they reached ground level, Natasha took off towards the coffee bar, while Bucky glanced around for a different target. The shop was as busy as always, but he was able to spot Steve’s hipster glasses and muscular physique a mile away. Hell, everyone could have been painted grey and Steve still would have stuck out to him like a suit at a pride parade.

He was seated on one of the plush chairs, tongue between his teeth as the outline of a wedding came to life before him. His glasses were slipping down his nose and he has smudges of ink on his cheek, fingertips, and t-shirt. One shirt sleeve was rolled up, showing off a colorful array of tattoos, the knees of his jeans were ripped, and he was wearing mismatching socks. He was an utter disaster.

And still the love of Bucky’s life.

He swallowed hard, tamping down on the swell of emotion that squeezed his chest. It was no use pining for something, <em>someone</em> he would never, could never have. Steve deserved better, certainly better than the life Bucky could provide. A cramped apartment, The Gateway, a cluttered hipster joint that couldn’t decide if it was a book or coffee shop.

Then Steve happened to glance his way and turned on that beautiful smile, as though it was all for him, and it was too much. Quickly, Bucky headed over to the counter, ducking his head on on the pretense of drawing his hair into a messy bun.

It was time to get to work.

* * *

All in all, the day went rather well. Thor came thundering through The Gateway sometime around noon after Natasha had continued on her way, bringing with him a barrel of Asgardian mead and some sort of pheasant for Kahlo. Business was booming and the day’s customers were actually decent. Between the coffee and book sales, profits weren’t looking too bad either.

So of course, it was that evening that things went to hell in a handbasket.

It’s was Bucky’s fault, really; him and his traitorous heart. He had stopped by to drop Steve off a mocha during a commission break and had found him drawing a woman in with brunette hair,, painted red lips the perfect match to her stunning dress.

So of course when Steve turned that big, stupid smile on him, Bucky had shoved his coffee at him and ran. Which led to Worried!Steve, which led to Pissy!Bucky. Which of course ultimately led a shouting match about Bucky carrying too much weight on his shoulders and Steve helicoptering like a mother hen.

Which is how Bucky found himself on Natasha’s sofa, tea in hand and cat spread out across his thighs, Natasha herself sat in the window seat.

“You need to tell him.”

Bucky stared miserably into his tea. “No, I don’t.”

“Pray tell, why not?”

“Because he doesn’t love me, Nat!” Bucky knuckled at his left eye. “He loves Peggy, and whether he ever sees her again or not doesn’t matter, I’m not going to take that away from him.”

Natasha hummed, turning from the window and crossing her legs together when Liho jumped into the crook of them. “And what makes you think he doesn’t feel the same way?” she asked cryptically, tilting her head to one side. “He loved Peggy, yes, but not in the way he loves you.” She poised a finger when Bucky made to interject. “He chose to live here, helping you guard the gateway, when he could have done anything else. It’s not because he feels guilty, James, it’s because he can’t bear to be apart from you. You’re tied to the Brooklyn gateway, and though you can cross through others, your travel range is otherwise pretty limited save for those and The Underground.

The Underground was a seedy, dark netherrealm located beneath the Brooklyn gateway. It extended throughout the other eight realms, and served as a black market of sorts, as well as a place of dark magic. So, naturally, that meant Natasha had a hideout here.

Bucky glared into his tea miserably. “How am I supposed to do this, Nat? What if I lose him?”

Natasha’s green eyes glimmered knowingly as she scratched Liho’s head. “You won’t. Stop worrying, James. Everything will fall into place.”

“So you say.” Bucky took a swig of his tea and promptly gagged. “Christ, how much vodka did you put in this?”

* * *

When Bucky opened Soul Brew the following morning, Steve was noticeably absent. His door has been closed when Bucky returned the night before, as well as that morning; perhaps Steve had spent the night elsewhere? The thought made Bucky’s stomach plummet.

He kept an eye out for broad shoulder and paint-stained blond hair as he worked, there was no sign of Steve, and none of their friends had seen him either. By the end of the day Bucky’s chest felt like it had been stepped on and his stomach filled with lead. Dejected and resigned to another stressful night, Bucky closed up the shop and headed upstairs towards the empty apartment.

It was quiet and dim as he walked through the door. The faerie lights were lit, illuminating Kahlo lounging on the fluffy cushion Steve had wrangled up for her; but as Bucky stepped further into the foyer he realized several inked fireflies were fluttering about the strands as well. The place was just as cluttered as usual, and nothing seemed out of place, but the crisp breeze flowing through from the balcony indicated otherwise.

Buck kicked off his shoes, then padded across the living room, cautiously stepping over the sliding frame and onto the cool concrete. Steve was seated on the ground against the barrier, expression inscrutable. Two figures, unmistakably male--one broad with thick glasses, the other with shaggy hair and a metal arm--danced at his fingertips in a perfect waltz. Bucky watched, mesmerized, before Steve spoke.

“I never did get that dance from you. Figured this was better than nothing.”

Whatever melody the figures waltzed to must have ended, because they broke from position, hands still linked, before embracing one another. Bucky’s throat tightened as it dawned on him; Steve always <em<had</em> been better at expressing himself with his art rather than words. And this?

This was a promise and a love confession, poured from the depths of Steve’s heart into strokes and wisps of ink.

Steve closed his hand and the figures vanished, pulling Bucky from his stupor. He cleared his throat, shuffling his socked feet. “Well,” he announced, with a bravado he certainly didn’t feel, “Let’s go, punk.”

Steve blinked stupidly. “What?”

Bucky swept some stray strands back into his bun. “What do you mean “what”? I owe you a dance.”

Steve flushed, eyes downcast. “Buck, I want you to know I don’t expect anything. I just couldn’t--”

“Shut up, Steve.”

“Buck--”

“I said shut up.” Bucky reached down and tugged Steve to his feet, pulling him in so they were chest to chest. He then slid his arms loosely around Steve’s neck; Steve’s hands fluttered in the air for a moment before coming to settle on Bucky’s waist. “Now since you’re not a bean pole anymore, there’s no music, and we both know you can’t waltz for shit, we’re going to improvise.”

Steve smiled, soft and crooked. “Okay.”

They both swayed to the melody of the wind whistling through the trees, the clatter and bustle of what few people were still out in the city this time at night.

“Why didn’t you say anything, Stevie?” Bucky murmured, tipping forward so that their foreheads touched. “You had to know, pal, there’s never been anyone but you.”

Steve’s eyes slid shut, and a hand came up to cup Bucky’s cheek. “I wasn’t sure,” he admitted. “And you were so hung up on me and Pegs, I didn’t think you’d give us a chance.” He opened his eyes again, exhaling slowly. “I loved Peggy, Buck, but it wasn’t the same. She wasn’t you. I loved you first, and you’d best damn believe you’re going to be the last. In this universe; in this realm, and the next, and all the others beyond that.”

Bucky buried his face in Steve’s neck, preening a little when Steve dropped a kiss to the top of his head. “Same goes for you, pal.”

When he pulled back, Steve’s smile was blinding. “We did promise each other. End of the line, and all that.”

Bucky gently nosed against Steve’s cheek, before pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Shit. What was I thinking.”

Steve flicked his ear, causing him to yelp. “You weren’t. Just like always.” He grinned, raised Bucky’s vibranium arm to plant a kiss on each knuckle. “And now you’re stuck with me.”

Bucky gnawed at his lip, heart bursting.

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

#falcon-hill #stevebuckysecretsanta #sbss

[laurenakramer]

Lazy Leaders

Tears were streaming like waterfalls down the woman’s face.  Her hysterical sobs wracked her body so hard that she shook.  Redness flushed her face until she looked like a spring ripened tomato.

A stunned Jackson Galaxy stared on from a corner of the woman’s bedroom.  What had caused her to go into such hysterics?  One of her cats had become spooked and let out a small “Meow.”

“I hate to see them upset,” she sobbed.

“Whoa!  This has got to go,” said Jackson as he pointed to the woman’s face.  He informed her that she could not fall to pieces every time her cats appeared moody.  She needed to be the pack leader.

In the same episode of “My Cat from Hell,” Jackson met with a family who refused to help care for their two cats.  As a result, their single mom became the soul caregiver.  He also told the worn out mom that she needed to take charge and be the leader.

This woman made every excuse that she could possibly think of for her children.  One daughter had dance lessons after school.  The other daughter was heavily involved in sports.  And the son had worked hard all day at school and needed to rest.  I was ready to throw something at my television.

Due to the carelessness of the children and the mom’s fear of angering them, one of the cats began to bully the other.  The bullying was so bad that the victim cat had to have his litter box placed on the kitchen counter.  Yes, you read that right.  The cat’s litter box was on the same kitchen counter where the family’s food was placed.

Just as in a family dynamic, our furry family members need to understand exactly who the pack leader is.  If this leadership is not established, they will take it upon themselves to fill the role.  Without proper training and guidance, these loving creatures can create havoc of the worst kind.

One of my friends received a Corgi puppy as an anniversary gift from her husband.  She fell completely in love with the ball of fur.  Her Facebook page became flooded with selfies of the inseparable pair.

Just two short weeks later, I received a text asking if I would be interested in keeping the pup.  I could not understand it.  She had seemed so smitten.  What had gone wrong?

Since both my friend and her husband work, the puppy was left home alone for hours on end every day.  When he was finally released from his crate, he would run amuck.  He chewed on the carpet and delighted in peeling wallpaper off of the walls.  Marking became an issue as the playful pooch seemed to think that everything in the house belonged to him.  He also refused to sleep through the night and had begun howling.

I asked my friend what types of training techniques she had been using.  There was a lengthy pause before she admitted that she had not done any.  No wonder the puppy was behaving poorly!  He had no idea what kind of behavior was expected of him.

Unfortunately, my grandmother was the same way.  She owned a Shiz-tsu that she had had since he was a pup.  As grandma aged, she stopped requiring her dog to behave.  She was no longer quick enough to get to the door to let her pooch outside to potty.  Instead, he would simply go wherever he felt like.  I tried showing grandma different options including a doggy door but she just wanted to adore and cherish her furry companion without rules.

I believe that many pet parents feel that they are being cruel if they establish dominance over the animals in their lives.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Showing that you are in charge does not mean that you are using force or being malicious.  You are giving your pets the gift of stability.  They will know exactly where they stand within the family hierarchy and take pride in their role.

The easiest way to set boundaries is through obedience training.  There are four basic commands that all dogs should master.  The commands are:

1.      Sit

2.      Stay

3.      Down/Off

4.      Come/Heel

My in-laws have had huge success in clicker training their Min Pin, Kallee.  They combined positive reinforcement while using the clicker device.  She can do tons of amazing tricks in addition to following the basic commands listed above.

If you live in a multiple pet household, chances are you know exactly who the pack leader is among your furry bunch.  For our family, the leader is Theo, our long-haired Chihuahua.  He automatically took to the role as we began to adopt more precious pets.

Theo, our fearless pack leader!

Watching Theo meet his new siblings was like watching a lion with his pride on National Geographic.  He would immediately walk up to the new dog/cat and begin sniffing.  Theo would then sit a few feet away and stare directly into the dog’s/cat’s eyes.  Amazingly, each dog would lower him/herself to the ground and roll over on his/her back.  The cats would turn their backs and just walk away.

Theo established dominance without any use of force.  He never barred his teeth or tried to bite.  Instead, he exuded confidence that the other animals could literally see.  His status among the pack has never been questioned.  He rules with a soft paw and only lets out a growl if he thinks the other dogs are playing too rough with each other. 

The same is true of our cats.  Miracle is our majestic queen.  We rescued her from the middle of Main Street in our town when she was just two weeks old.  She very quickly became one of the dogs.  Two years later, we adopted Olaf.  Miracle was less then pleased. 

The initial meeting was somewhat tense.  Olaf gave her a sniff…and she hissed in his face.  For the first few days, Miracle did her best to avoid Olaf.  She made sure that she always sat on the highest perch possible.  In doing so, she was showing Olaf that she is the boss.  He soon learned that Miracle wanted her space and he respected her authority.

Sven entered our lives in April of this year.  He was drawn to Olaf immediately.  Being one year old, Sven still has a lot of kitten-like behaviors.  He sauntered up to Olaf and tried to rub up against him.  This was met with a hiss and a smack in the face with a quick paw.  Miracle had a similar reaction.

To the woman on “My Cat from Hell,” this would have been a sign that the three would never get along and more hysterical tears would have ensued.  We knew that all our cats really needed was more time to get adjusted.  In a matter of weeks, Miracle, Sven and Olaf were all drinking out of the same water dish.  Olaf even started licking Sven’s face!

The key to being a good leader is to have patience.  Nothing lasting is ever achieved overnight.  Goals need to be set along with a plan for how to reach them.  The next step is to follow through on the plan every day.  Nothing is worse than initiating training and then immediately stopping for several days.  The dog or cat that is being trained will become totally confused and any learning that has taken place could go right out the window.

Another quality that is essential to leadership is authority.  This means truly taking charge of the situation.  Every action taken must be done with certainty.  Dogs and cats will sense the confidence and soon learn where they stand in the family.

We have found the word “no” to be a very powerful tool.  When one of our cats decides that he/she wants to pick a fight, we sharply say the cat’s name followed by a loud “NO!”  This typically curtails any mischievousness right on the spot.

With our pooches, we found that using a water bottle filled with cool water works like magic.  We NEVER spray the dogs in the face.  Just one quick spritz on the behind is all it takes.  Our dogs have become so used to the bottle that they hardly even need to be sprayed anymore.  Once they see me or my husband shake the bottle, they snap to attention.  Chaos is stopped and order is restored without the use of force or cruelty.

Without established rules and a pack leader, more than just the furniture can get ruined.  A pet’s very life may be in danger.  In a more recent episode of “My Cat from Hell,” one formerly feral kitty almost took the tail off of his new litter box mate!  This cat had severe territorial aggression.  Had his cat guardians not taken steps to rectify the situation, they might have ended up with a very injured (and tailless) cat.

Being a pet parent is not all about snuggles and kisses.  By adopting these amazing creatures, we have vowed to give them the best life imaginable.  This includes setting boundaries and enforcing rules.  Providing leadership is essential to ensuring that our beloved furry family members have an outstanding quality of life where they will be protected and respected.  Step up and be the leader for your pack today!

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[hmhteen]

Read an excerpt of SPARKS OF LIGHT by Janet B. Taylor!

Time travel and romance seem to go hand in hand these days, don’t they? We’re certainly not complaining, because it means we get to read the second book in the Into The Dim duology, SPARKS OF LIGHT! 

In INTO THE DIM, Hope Walton went back in time to the 12th Century to rescue her mother and learned she comes from a line of time-travelers. Now she’s back to rescue something else: an invention made by Nikola Tesla in the 1800′s in New York City! But danger lurks behind every corner, and Hope must decide if saving the past is worth destroying her present.   

You can read the first three chapters of SPARKS OF LIGHT below!

CHAPTER ONE

Decapitation.

       De-Capitate, verb. From the Latin, Decapitatus. To remove the head from the rest of the body.

       It happened in the bedroom. In my bedroom to be specific, though it still seemed bizarre to think of it as mine, this once-sumptuous chamber of velvet and marble and antique furniture so massive and solid it would likely survive the apocalypse. As with a prom queen at the end of a long night of debauchery, only touches of the room’s original glamour remained.

       Not that I had firsthand prom knowledge per se. But one does read about these things.

       After another excruciating day, which had included three muddy hours of‘stabbing practice, my muscles were in full-on noodle mode, and I was already mentally sinking into my comfy, if craterous, feather mattress. So when I pushed open the door, it took me a second to get it. Though I froze before the utter and complete annihilation scattered across the scuffed floorboards, my brain, old reliable, began to catalogue the horror.

       Splayed, crooked limbs. Clothing ripped to shreds. Matted clumps of hair strewn about a slim, fragile neck that was now nothing but a ragged stump.

       I did not see a head.

 My life had become decidedly weird in the last few months. And though it hadn’t been what most folks would call apple-pie normal in the first place, at least there’d been no brain-twisty flights through time and space, no assault, no mutilation or bloodshed.

       That was no longer the case.

       Since arriving at my aunt’s manor in the Scottish Highlands, I’d seen medieval soldiers battle with blood and sword. I’d befriended a legendary queen. I’d been pursued by a vengeful saint. I’d engineered a prison escape and helped bring my mother back from the dead.

       I’d killed a guy.

       Maybe. Probably. The temporal jury was still out on that one. The fact that he’d been a very bad guy didn’t temper the horrible nightmares.

 But this victim had been an innocent. Her destruction a direct result of my own negligence. I took in a breath and stepped inside. As I picked my way through torn lace and body parts, my heart tried to crumble into miniscule, crackling bits.

       No, I thought as I faced off with the murderess herself. No. This I will never forgive. This was assassination. And I forever swear vengeance upon your head.

 With a smirk playing around her mouth, the killer sat down on the floor amid the carnage she had caused and—without the slightest hint of remorse—began to lick her own butt.

       “Oh, that’s real nice.”

       My best friend’s new calico kitten interrupted her bath, one leg raised in that peculiar contortion only cats can perform, and blinked at me with wide, oh-so-innocent eyes.

       “Oh, don’t you dare look at me like that,” I snarled down at the little puff head. “I know you did it.”

       The fur-ball stood on three stubby legs and glared at me for daring to chastise her. The right rear leg dangled, nothing but a nub, though it didn’t slow her even the slightest.

       Mac, Collum and Phoebe’s grandfather had found her outside the barn. Wet, bloodied, one of her legs mangled beyond repair. After returning from the vet, the feline had quickly usurped control of the manor.

       She stretched languidly, back arching as she gave a yippy little yawn. I frowned and reached down to snatch a hunk of blond hair caught in her whiskers.

       “This.” I waved it before her. “Is evidence. See it? Red. Freaking. Handed.”

       With a little hiss, she raised a minute paw and batted at the blond curl. I jerked back just in time to avoid having my finger ripped open by the needle-sharp claws.

       The kitten had evil in her, I was sure of it. She despised anyone with an X-chromosome, though for some reason, she adored the guys. Mac, in particular, was smitten, toting her around, the little whiskered face peeking out from the pocket of his down vest. Her only redeeming feature was how utterly uncomfortable she made Collum, as she continually appeared out of nowhere and yowled at him to pick her up.

 “Why?” I whispered as I surveyed the destruction. “What did I ever do to you?”

       She’d been delicate, beautiful. Ancient. Much, much older than the eighteenth-century house itself. The beheaded doll that now lay in scattered ruin across my bedroom floor was the only evidence of my true origins. The only reminder of the child I had once been.

       That is, the only tangible reminder. In a way that hurts my brain to think on, just twelve years had passed since someone had plucked her from an icy forest, and kept her safe until he could return her to me.

       Twelve years, give or take a few hundred.

 “Hey, Hope, have you seen Hec .º.º.”

       Phoebe MacPherson skidded to a halt in the doorway. Her hair, previously spiky and the color of blue-raspberry soda, now bore a sleek, chin-length bob, and was dyed what could only be described as shrieking purple. Freckled, barely five feet, and sporting her favorite panda-print jammies, my friend would’ve looked closer to twelve than sixteen if it hadn’t been for her rather abundant chest.

       Phoebe gasped as she took in the shredded, headless body. “Oh-h-h,” she moaned. “No-o-o. No no no! Tell me she didn’t.”

       I shrugged. “She did.” I turned away before my friend could notice my lips trembling. “My fault. I must’ve left the door open.”

       Phoebe knelt, and carefully scooped up the doll’s fragile carcass. Bits of yellow silk floated to the ground. We both looked around for the head. I spotted it first, half-buried beneath a pillow.

       “Got it.” I climbed up the three wooden steps and stretched out full-length across the mattress. As my fingers closed around the round shape, the cat jumped up onto the bed to claim her prize.

       Avoiding her, I sat up and stared at the delicate painted face in my cupped palm. I sniffed. Stupid to get upset about a dumb doll. Still.

       Soft fur rubbed against my elbow. I glanced down as Sister Hectare “Hecty” MacPherson gave a sympathetic meow and nestled against my side.

       “Oh, no.” Feet dangling over the edge of the bed, I glared at her. “I do not accept your apology, you furry little butthead.”

       Hecty nudged me.

       “Don’t you get all purry with me, missy,” I said. “You are a bad, bad kitty.”

       Phoebe climbed the steps and settled in on my other side, holding the carcass’s torso in her lap. I tried to maintain my ire, but when the kitten put her paws on my leg and looked up at me again in that melty, Puss-in-Boots way cats have, I sighed. Conceding defeat, I reached down to scratch the velvety spot just behind her ears.

       She hissed, and tried to rip the head from my hands with her tiny teeth. I snatched it away just in time. Disgusted, the cat hopped down and—tail high—stalked out the door.

       “Doesn’t really match the name, does she?” I said. “Sister Hectare was nice. That thing is a nightmare.”

       “Well, the good sister did have sharp claws, aye?”

       I huffed. “That’s true enough.”

       The stud through Phoebe’s eyebrow glinted as we shared wobbly smiles, both of us thinking of the decrepit little nun who’d used up the last bit of her strength to save our lives. To us, Hectare had died only a few weeks before. Not a thousand years in the past. Her image, and that of the incomparable Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, remained sharp in both our minds.

       Though the history books chronicled many details of Eleanor’s life, Sister Hectare’s story had disappeared into the mists of time.

       “So.” Phoebe sniffed and swiped at her eyes. “Is it broken, then?”

       I examined the doll head in my palm. The carved wooden features were blessedly intact. But the paint was scratched, and there was a bald patch on one side where the kitty had snacked on the brittle golden strands of real hair imbedded in the skull.

       “No.” I said. “I don’t think so.”

       I should have known better than to leave it lying right there on the bed, with full-on feline access.

       But I’d taken to sleeping with the doll. Stupid, I knew. Childish. Still, it was all I had left of that murky “time before.” And .º.º. the only thing I had left of him. Of Bran Cameron. The only physical evidence that we—as a we—had really existed. That what had happened between us was real.

 Every morning when I woke, there were always a few sleepy seconds before it hit me. A hammer blow to the chest.

       Not one word in all this time. Not since he’d gone back. To her. To his mother, Celia Alvarez, the woman who’d trapped my mother in the past, then left us all there to die. And though she’d allowed Bran to return to the Timeslippers, I didn’t want to think what kind of torments she’d inflicted on him for his betrayal.

       “Oy.” Phoebe reached out and took my hand, squeezing hard enough to pull me back from the dark place. “He does love you, you know.”

       “Oh, really?” I jerked away, and rubbed my bloodless fingers. “Then why not one word in all this time, huh? It’s been nearly two months. Two bloody months.”

       I scowled when her pointed nose crinkled and one side of her wide mouth curled up.

       “What?”

       “It’s just funny to hear you say ‘bloody.’” She grinned. “It’s all like .º.º. bluudee.”

       “Shut up.” I jabbed her with an elbow. But a reluctant smile began to tug at my lips.

       We sat in silence for moment. We had no idea what Celia was planning. Where or when she might decide to travel next. The only thing we knew for sure was that she would never give up, not until she found the Nonius Stone, the infamous opal she believed would allow her to better control the entity we knew as ‘the Dim.’

       This we could not allow.

       And the thing that knotted my stomach the most was that I knew Bran. He’d take crazy risks. To protect us. To protect me. And if Celia caught him thwarting her plans, adopted son or not .º.º. I had no doubt what she’d do.

       As if she’d read my mind yet again, Phoebe said, “He’s okay, you know. I mean, it’s Bran. If anyone can talk themselves out of a tough situation, it’s him.”

       I sat up straighter at that. “Well, that’s the truth. He does have a kind of knack for getting out of trouble, huh?”

       When Phoebe beamed that grin at me, the one that lit up an entire room, I couldn’t help but return it.

       “That’s my girl,” she said.

       She gave my leg a pat and launched herself off the bed, clearing the steps in one acrobatic leap. Despite her petite size, my best friend was freakishly strong. I followed, easing down the steps in my own distinctly unathletic manner.

       “Gram can fix her, you know.” Phoebe plucked the doll’s head from my hand and stuck it in the pocket of her jammies. Cradling the battered torso in one hand, she said, “I’ll drop her off in the sewing room, then I’m for bed.” She gave a huge yawn. “It’s late and you could use some beauty sleep yourself. You look like something the dog dragged in.”

       “Thanks a lot,” I said. “But I think I might—”

       “To bed. No excuses,” she ordered, giving me her sternest—no use arguing—face.

       In that moment, she looked and sounded so much like Moira, I raised my hands in submission. “Okay, okay.”

       “Good girl.” At the doorway she turned. “Actually,” she mused,“think I’ll drop off our mangled friend here, then scoot downstairs and see if I can’t entice my Doug away from that damn computer of his. Lad’s been working around the clock, and it’s not good for his condition.”

       “Good luck,” I said. “But you’d better watch out. I swear he and that thing have something going on the side.”

       She gave a lewd wink. “Oh .º.º. I’m not worried. I’ve a few moves I doubt that blasted computer can match.”

       She sashayed out the door, hips swaying. I shook my head, smiling because I knew she was right. Our resident genius might be deep down his computer rabbit hole. But I’d seen Phoebe bring it before, and I had no doubt that in the end .º.º. she’d have him—probably literally—eating out of her hand.

CHAPTER TWO

The girl’s grandfather, gangly and stooped in his scholar’s robes, held tight to her hand as they hurried through the huge, ornate chamber. She was feeling very important indeed as they followed the Lord Chamberlain through room after room, moving past all the handsome lords in their doublets and ruffs. Past ladies in their silks, their hair piled high and strung with pearls as they waited for an audience with the queen. Though she’d been instructed to stare directly ahead, back straight, chin high, she couldn’t help gawping at the ladies’ white-painted faces.

       Her mother claimed painting one’s face was nothing but vanity, and silly besides. Though she wondered sometimes had her mother been a great lady, instead of the wife of a cloth merchant, if she might feel differently.

       As they passed through the last pair of green and white doors, the girl saw her. The orange-haired queen sat behind a small desk, eating orange slices. She felt a little stab of disappointment not to find Her Majesty seated on her great throne, beneath a canopy of state. But her jewel-encrusted gown sparkled prettily in the light that slanted down through the mullioned windows, and the girl thought that was very nice.

       A tall, handsome man in a velvet cape the color of grass leaned against the queen’s chair, speaking quietly to her.

       “That is Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester,” her grandfather told her in a whisper. “A great friend to the queen and to myself.”

       When they entered, the Earl straightened and came around the table to greet them.

       “Good morrow, John,” he said to the girl’s grandfather. “’Tis been some time. I’ve missed our games. No one else beats me at chess quite as soundly as do you.”

       “It has been a while, Your Grace,” her grandfather agreed. “And if I recall correctly, you very nearly won the last time we played.”

       Grinning down at the girl, Robert Dudley doffed his feathered cap and pressed it to his chest. “Oh Glorious Majesty. Queen of my heart.” He turned and gave the queen a theatrical wink. “I do believe this beautiful maiden might have just stolen my love clean away.”

       “Oh, do get out, Robin.” The queen waved him away with a ringed hand. “And don’t come back for two days. I tire of your jokes.” Her voice sounded severe. But the girl saw the queen’s lips quirk, and observed that her gaze never strayed as she watched the Earl sweep into a deep reverence, then saunter out the door.

 They approached the desk. The queen’s face turned terribly stern, though there was a sadness around her eyes as they flicked again toward the closed door.

       The queen swallowed hard, and the girl thought maybe Her Majesty hated wearing the high, frilly collar as much as she herself did. When the girl’s fingers rose to tug at the thing—starched into submission by her mother that very morning—her grandfather whispered to her to stop fidgeting.

 As I lay curled beneath the quilts in a half doze, I knew the scene filling my mind was no dream. It happened like that now. The once-cloaked memories of my strange early childhood bubbled up from the shadowy part of my brain, returning at odd times. When I was distracted, or my brain logy with sleep.

       Unlike the memories of so-called normal people, mine emerged crystal clear. Every detail as sharp and crisp as if it had happened only days earlier. Before I’d come to Scotland, my photographic memory had been yet another thing that singled me out. Made me different. Made me a joke with my father’s family. Add to this that I was the only home-schooled kid in our entire infinatesimal town and it’s not hard to deduce that my social calendar was rarely full.

       And yet, as the memories emerged full-bodied and complete, I felt removed from them. As if I were watching a beloved character from one of my favorite books come to life.

 A few feet from the desk, the girl’s grandfather bent low in a respectful bow. She followed with her best curtsy, proud that she held it without tipping over. Back at home, before her grandfather had hoisted her onto his great horse, her sister had leaned down to hiss into her ear, “Do be careful, sister. You know how clumsy you are. I’d hate for you to fall flat on your face when you meet Her Majesty.”

       One winter day, as the girl wept in her mother’s arms, her mother had explained that it was envy that caused her sister’s occasional cruelty. She resented their grandfather’s special affection for the girl, her mother had said Though he visited their house often, eating at their table and spending long hours teaching all three of them—her brother, sister, and herself—to read and write, he took only the younger girl with him when he went to visit his mother’s home at Mortlake.

       After he informed the girl’s mother he was taking her to meet his great friend, the queen, the girl’s sister had yanked on her braid and would have pinched her had their older brother Willie not warned her away.

       Her small legs trembled as she held the curtsy. When, finally, the queen’s rich, husky voice ordered her grandfather and her to rise, the girl dared a look. The queen’s lips, painted in a red cupid’s bow, stretched as she smiled fondly at the girl’s grandfather. When he returned a slow grin, the girl knew something special existed between them, this magnificent queen and her own ratty old Poppy with his ink-stained fingers and scruffy gray beard. Her chest and cheeks glowed with pride. She wondered, though, why the queen’s own mother hadn’t taught her to use a willow twig to clean her teeth, as they looked very dark against her white face.

       After a moment, her grandfather made the introductions. “Your Majesty,” he said. “This is the child I’ve mentioned to you.”

       Queen Elizabeth Tudor’s painted eyebrows arched into a high, plucked forehead. “Ah,” she said, smile dimming. “Yes. I seem to recall. You did help support a poor orphaned child once long ago, did you not? A girl, I believe? Grown now, with children of her own. How very .º.º. philanthropic you are, John.”

       The girl’s grandfather went very, very still as the queen picked up a tiny golden spoon and began to tap the end of a boiled egg. It cracked, and she peeled the shell off in one long coil.

       “But.” She reached out to pinch some salt from the engraved silver salt cellar, sprinkling the egg before stabbing the spoon into the tender white flesh.

       A dripping bit of yolk made its way to the queen’s painted lips. And when she looked back at the girl’s grandfather, her black eyes had gone cold.

       “In truth,” Queen Elizabeth said. “This child is your granddaughter. Her mother a bastard, a by-blow from your younger days. A fact which you did not deign to share with me.”

       The girl’s back stiffened at that, though her grandfather’s hand squeezed hers in warning.

       How dare you, thought the little girl, her small body almost vibrating as she seethed with outrage. How dare you call my mother a bastard!

       Even at four and one half years, the girl knew what that meant. A scurrilous lie, she thought, crossing her arms over her thin chest as she waited for her grandfather’s no doubt furious rebuttal.

       She waited and waited. And when her grandfather only stared down at his feet, the girl’s heart sank. She determined then to demand the truth from her grandfather the moment they set out from Windsor Castle.

       “Did you think I would not hear, John?” The queen stood, anger cracking the smooth white paint. “Nothing happens in my kingdom that I do not learn of it!”

       Queen Elizabeth threw the spoon hard against the nearby window. It clattered to the ground. A trail of yellow slime dripped down the glass. Silence reined for a long moment. The girl watched sunlight glint off diamonds and emeralds as the queen paced back and forth, a ringed hand pressed to her flat abdomen. The girl may’ve been young but everyone in the kingdom whispered of it. How the great Virgin Queen would not choose a husband. How she had no child, no heir, to call her own. How she was beginning to age.

       Her grandfather spoke softly. “Your Gracious Majesty,” he began. “When I was young, I made many mistakes.” His grip on the girl’s hand loosened, though he did not let go as he looked the queen in the eye. “My only regret in this matter is that I did not share this with you. But the deed itself I cannot regret. Not for one moment. Not when this child is the outcome. She is like me. She holds my gift of memory. And I believe with the right training, she could one day be very useful to you and to England.”

       Finally, seeming to come to some decision, Queen Elizabeth gave a short, sharp nod. Her grandfather’s shoulders relaxed as he let go of the young girl’s hand. The girl held tight to the poppet he’d bought for her in the market only that morning, squeezing her as the queen’s sharp black eyes roved over her face.

       Opening pursed lips, the Virgin Queen, Gloriana, Queen of all England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales, began to scream.

 Wait, that’s not right. I thought. What had happened next was that the queen had taken her grandfather aside to speak privately while the girl .º.º. while I .º.º. looked out the window at the garden. Then—

       My eyes popped open as the scream came again, faint and lingering, followed by a high-pitched wail. A glance at the digital clock on my bedside table told me it was 11:43 pm, meaning I’d been in bed a total of twenty-seven minutes.

       I threw off the covers and stumbled down the wooden steps. Dashing across the room, I threw open the door.

       Illuminated only by antique wall sconces, converted in the last century from their original gas, the darkly paneled hallway seemed to stretch out to nightmarish lengths. My bare feet slid on the faded carpet runner as I skidded to a halt before the last door on the left.

       From inside came two distinct cries.

       I wasn’t the only one who’d heard. Moira MacPherson, plump cheeks flushed from sleep, appeared seconds later, and I allowed myself an inward sigh of relief that I wouldn’t have to face this alone. In her fluffy bathrobe and pink sponge curlers, Moira nodded at me solemnly.

       Down the hall, Mac, Moira’s balding husband, was wrapping a flannel robe around his gangly form.

       “Happening again, is it?” Yawning, Mac scrubbed at small blue eyes, identical to his granddaughter Phoebe’s. “I thought Greta had prescribed something to help our Sarah rest?”

         In the last month, Dr. Greta Lund, Aunt Lucinda’s Danish doctor friend, had spent hours with my mom, helping her learn to cope with the aftereffects of her traumatic ordeal. Afterward, Greta and Lucinda often spent time together, sharing a cup of tea or a glass of wine.

       That the good doctor also knew all the family secrets came as something of a surprise.

       “Thick as thieves, those two were,” Moira had told Phoebe and me one evening after Aunt Lucinda had escorted Greta through the back door to her car. “Greta spent all her holidays and summers here, her own family being a bit of a mess, you see? When she chose medicine over staying on with the Viators, it nearly broke Lu.”

       Taken aback, Phoebe and I looked at each other. The idea of anything “breaking” my imposing aunt was beyond both of our imaginations.

       The hell? Phoebe mouthed.

       I shrugged. But as Moira ambled off to clear the dinner table, Phoebe and I scrambled to the kitchen window to watch Lucinda and the pretty, gentle-voiced Dr. Lund. They were standing very close together. And when Greta laid a hand on Lucinda’s cheek, my aunt smiled down at her with such devastating emotion, I could only gawp.

       “Whoa,” Phoebe whispered, eyes going round as marbles as she turned to look at me.

       “Yeah,” I agreed. “Whoa.”

       Phoebe beamed. “But that’s brilliant! I always felt sorry for Lu, you know? No matter how strong she is or how she claims to be ‘married to the Viators,’ she has to be lonely. And especially now, with the illness and all. Gram claims the blood transfusions are helping. But I heard Greta tell her that without a sample of the disease, there’s no real way to cure it.”

       I turned away from the window, giving the two women their privacy. Whatever was killing my aunt’s red blood cells was a complete mystery to her doctors. Of course, what they did not know—could never know—was that the disease rampaging through my aunt’s bone marrow had been acquired during a trip to thirteenth-century Romania.

 From behind my mother’s closed door, the baby mewled.

       “Mom won’t take the sedatives, ’cause of the nursing,” I told Mac.

       “I offered to wean the babe to the bottle,” Moira put in. “But Sarah wouldn’t have it.”

       As Mac started down the hall, Moira waved him back.

       “No need, mo ghràdh,” she said quietly. “Get to yer bed. Hope and I can handle this. It won’t be the first time, aye?”

       Mac paused, then stifled a yawn as he nodded. “A’right then. But call if you have need of some warm milk. Or a tot of whiskey. I can fetch either.”

       As the door to their bedroom closed, Moira turned back to me. “Scotsmen,” she tsked. “Always thinking life’s ills can be cured with a bit o’ whiskey.”

       Moira and I faced the door together. For the moment all was silent.

       Maybe they went back to sleep.

       The staccato tinkle of shattering glass sounded through the thick wood. Moira gave a cry and grabbed the crystal knob. It turned, but the door wouldn’t open. Cursing in Gaelic under her breath, Moira reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a skeleton key.

       “Learned my lesson last time,” she told me as she twisted the brass key in the lock.

       Though every lamp was lit, so that the room blazed with light, I didn’t see my mom. The wicker bassinet in the corner was empty, but the room was filled with the sound of my two-month-old sister’s squalls.

       The bedroom smelled of baby powder and furniture polish, underlaid with a metallic tinge. Light from the small chandelier glinted off shards of glass that lay strewn across the wooden floor and braided rug. On the bedside table, strands of purple heather tangled in a puddle of water where a crystal vase had stood earlier that evening.

       While Moira dashed to the bed and rifled through the rumpled quilts, hoping to find the baby there, my gaze flicked around the room. In the shadowed space beneath the four-poster bed, I thought I saw something shift.

       “Mom?”

       Moira, back at my side, pointed a shaking finger. “Hope,” she murmured. But I’d already seen it. A small scarlet stream that flowed from beneath the bed.

       I dropped to my hands and knees. “Mom,” I choked out. “It’s me, Hope. Mom, are you hurt? Is Ellie okay? There’s blood, Mom. Why is there blood? Please come out, you’re scaring me.”

       “Hope?” My mother’s voice sounded scratchy and hoarse, as if she’d been shrieking for hours. “Is it really you? She .º.º. she didn’t take you?”

       “Wh-what?” Stifling the sob that was trying to wrench itself from my throat, I croaked, “No one took me, Mom. I’m right here. Just .º.º. come out, okay?”

       Moira eased down, knees cracking as she knelt.

       “Sarah,” she called softly. “It’s me, darling girl. It’s your Moira. Hope’s fine. Come on out, now. We’re sore worried about you. And the babe.”

       For a time, my sister’s wails quieted and all we could hear was my mother’s uneven breathing. I glanced down as something warm touched my fingertips. The blood had reached the spot where my hand pressed against the floor. It began to pool up around my fingers. Shuddering, I jerked away.

       “Mom! “My voice cracked. “Mama. Plea—”

       “Sarah Elizabeth Carlyle!” A stern voice cut me off. “Stop this nonsense and come out of there this instant!”

       My arms wobbled, and I nearly wilted in relief as my Aunt Lucinda marched across the room, towering over me.

       “L-Lu?”

       “Of course it’s me, Sarah,” my aunt snapped. “Now come out from under that bed. Your child is in distress.”

       With a sharp gesture, my aunt waved me back as my mom began to shuffle out from beneath the bed, her left arm squeezing my red, flailing sister tight against her side.

       Over the last few weeks, my mother’s strawberry blond hair had developed a large streak of white. Marie Antoinette syndrome, Dr. Lund had explained. A condition that occurs when a terrible shock causes the hair follicles to stop producing pigment. Aunt Lucinda, eight years my mother’s senior, had always looked much older than Mom.

       But now, seeing her ragged face beneath the unforgiving lights, I realized my mother had aged a decade in the last year.

 Dr. Sarah Carlyle, had been one of the world’s most sought-after and respected historians. An author of bestselling biographies, once a year my mom had crisscrossed the world on her sold-out lecture tours. Later, of course, I learned the true reason a renowned critic once wrote, “Dr. Carlyle’s descriptions are so clever and so damn realistic, one would swear she had been there to witness the events for herself.”

       My mother was clever, no doubt. But she’d also put her trust in the wrong person, and it had almost killed her.

       For eight long months, she had been trapped in the twelfth century. Tricked, then abandoned in medieval England by a woman who’d once been her very best friend. Celia Alvarez had sold her out, and the abuse my mother had endured at the hands of the brutal man she was forced to marry was unimaginable. Alone and heavily pregnant, by the time Collum, Phoebe, and I arrived in that distant era to save her, my strong, brilliant mother had been so badly broken, I’d barely recognized her.

 Lucinda helped Mom to her feet, gently pried my squalling sister from her arms, and handed the squirming bundle off to Moira.

       My heart twisted itself into a hard, pulsing knot when I saw blood smeared across the tiny ducks on Ellie’s Onesie. Moira laid my sister on the bed and gave her a quick, practiced once-over.

       “The babe isn’t hurt,” Moira whispered. “Only scared and likely hungry.”

       Lucinda’s broad shoulders sagged just a bit as she gave Moira a brisk nod. Mom flung her arms around her sister’s neck, clinging as she trembled and muttered to herself.

       When I saw the large shard of crystal jutting from my mother’s clenched fist, all the breath left me in a whoosh. Blood poured down her wrist to stain the back of Lucinda’s peach bathrobe as my mother held on.

       “Aunt Lucinda.” My voice vibrated. “Her hand—”

       “I’m aware,” she said, without moving. “Moira? The child?”

       “I’ll take her downstairs,” Moira said. “If you’ve got this?”

       “She’s coming for us,” my mother whispered in a voice that felt like spiders marching down my spine. “Celia’s coming. She swore it, Lu. She came to me and said she’d take us all back there if it was the last thing she ever did. I had to protect my daughters.”

       A silence fell, as if the name had poisoned the very air around us.

       The back of Lucinda’s neck flushed. Cheek pressed against my mom’s lank, sweaty hair, she said quietly, “Moira, please fetch the first aid kit before you go. Hope and I will tend to Sarah.”

       As Moira bustled out, Lucinda slowly eased my mother’s arms from around her neck.

       “Hope, a clean cloth, if you please.” Though she aimed to speak in her normal, stolid manner I could hear my aunt’s voice quiver as I snatched a cloth diaper from a nearby laundered stack. Holding on to my mom’s other side, I helped Lucinda ease her down into the wooden rocker next to the bed.

       “Sarah.” Lucinda knelt before the chair. “Remember what Greta told you. They are only nightmares. Dreams. Nothing more. You know we have eyes on Celia. She cannot hurt any of us.”

       I flinched, knowing full well who was keeping an eye on Celia. Who supposedly reported her dealings to my aunt, commander general of the Viators. I shoved away thoughts of Bran, refusing to dwell on how much danger he was in, or what would happen if Celia ever found out he was spying for us.

       As Lucinda gently opened my mother’s fist, I swallowed hard at the damage. Only one person was to blame for this.

       One day I would make her pay.

       Tutting, Lucinda carefully withdrew the vicious shard. I took it from her outstretched fingers, then dropped it into the nearby metal waste bin with a heavy plink as my aunt pressed the cloth into the jagged wound.

       “Oh, Sarah,” she said under her breath. “What have you done?”

       My aunt snatched up a thick, folded sheaf of papers from the floor beside the bed and passed them to me. “Take this away, please.”

       Nodding, I turned my back to them and unfolded the pages.

       The stark, black words at the top read: DIVORCE DECREE: Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.

       I closed my eyes as rage flared inside me.

       I shouldn’t have been surprised. When Dad had arrived weeks earlier, responding to my aunt’s urgent summons, he hadn’t taken the news well. Not only was his wife back from the dead .º.º. he also had a newborn daughter. A scientist, my adoptive father refused to accept the truth, even after my aunt, Mac, and I had explained everything. That his wife had been trapped in the past. That she’d been tricked by an evil woman. That—after being told for years it was impossible—the baby she bore was his.

       He’d begged me to go with him. As if I would ever think of leaving my mom alone.

       “This is my home now,” I told him, realizing the truth of the words even as they left my lips.

         Later, of course, we learned that he and Stella had become engaged on their vacation. That while we were fighting for our lives in the brutal medieval world, my father had been kneeling on a beach in Mexico, proposing to a nice librarian.

       I’d hated him for it at first. His cowardice. His disloyalty. But Mom convinced me that in the long run, it was best for everyone. My dad’s world was algae and test tubes. Fourth of July parades and iced tea on front porch swings. She’d said she’d known that about him, and had thought it was the life she wanted too. It was why she’d never told him the truth about who she really was. About who I am, and where I came from. For years, she’d tried to stuff herself—and me—into a world that was always going to be too small for people like us.

 Apparently, he’d made his decision. And it was just one more thing to pile on. One more punch to the gut, along with everything else Mom had suffered. Well, maybe I couldn’t protect her from this, but I sure as hell would protect her from Celia Alvarez.

       I crumpled the pages in my fist as I turned back around.

       “Mom?” I said, my voice fierce and low as she raised her bloodshot eyes to mine. “I—I love you, Mom.”

 CHAPTER THREE

“Blade!”

       By the time I managed to snatch my dagger from its hidden sheath in my boot and bring it up, it was far too late. My attacker’s sword whipped down, so close I felt the breeze on my cheek and heard the weapon slice the air next to my ear. A few dark curls floated to the muddy ground and disappeared into the muck.

       Heart slamming, I tried to dance away. But the tight waist of the practice gown had long ago stolen what little breath I had. The full skirts tripped me up, and I went down hard. In seconds the cold, boggy ground seeped through the thick layers of wool and muslin.

       I scuttled back on my butt, boot heels making divots in the mud.

       “Stop. Can’t brea—” The sword tip nudged my throat. Cold, sharp, stinging.

       Ignoring the raindrops that pattered my cheeks and eyelashes, I glowered up at the grin spreading across my opponent’s broad, freckled face.

       “Better.” Collum MacPherson sheathed the short gladiator sword that had once belonged to his father. “You drew quick enough that time.” He offered me a hand up. All pride gone, I took it.

       “But you paused,” Collum went on. “And you can’t hesitate, Hope. Not for an instant. Not when you’re under attack.”

       “But,” I said, my voice just south of a whine. “I could’ve cut you.”

       Collum’s blond eyebrows quirked puppy-like over his eyes, though he was kind enough to hide the smile. “Unlikely.”

       That was true enough, though it irked me to no end that he had to look so damn smug about it. Despite weeks of endless training, I was still clunky and awkward with any and every type of weapon. Besides, I’d never seen anyone faster with a sword than Collum MacPherson.

       Well .º.º. that part wasn’t exactly true. But before the image of a dark-haired figure whipping two curved blades like they were extensions of his own body, could fully form, I pushed it away.

       “What?” Collum’s hazel eyes narrowed on me.

       “Nothing. Just cold.” I shivered for effect.

       “Cold?” he queried. “In July?”

       “It’s a Scottish Highland July. What is it, like sixty-eight, seventy degrees? It’s ninety-eight in Arkansas right now. In the shade. Plus,” I added, gesturing to the mud that was congealing on the back of my skirts. “Ick.”

       “Ick?” Collum closed his eyes and pinched the creased skin between his sandy brows. “So what you’re saying is that when you get into trouble on a mission, you’ll simply .º.º. what? Call a time-out?” His voice went high-pitched in the worst American accent I’d ever heard. “‘Excuse me! Hello, all you murderers. Could you stop swinging at me for a moment, please? I’ve a muddy bum.’”

       “Well, I—”

       “No.” He picked up my blade and handed it to me, hilt first. “Again. And again and again. And never mind the ‘ick.’”

       In the two months since my abrupt return from the past, Collum had been relentless. Two hours. Every day. Tired or exhausted. Rain or .º.º. well, less rain, I was dragged outdoors to defend myself—in costume, no less—against an opponent of his choosing.

       With Phoebe, a much more patient and gentle teacher, I learned how to use my opponent’s larger size against them. Only for me, that happened about one out of every hundred times, and usually because my feet got accidentally tangled with theirs.

       Phoebe had trained almost since she’d left the womb, in an insane regimen of a variety of martial arts. With a body weight of a hundred pounds dripping wet, my petite “bestie” could put down any attacker. Usually in less than five moves. Watching her send Collum crashing to the mud was one of the joys of my life.

       I wasn’t any better at knife throwing, Phoebe’s other exquisitely honed skill. As Mac often said, “My granddaughter can peel the wings off a fly at thirty paces, she can.”

       After days, weeks, two months of kicks and punches, knife chunks and bow twangs. After countless nicks from steel objects—mostly self-inflicted. After hours in Moira’s Epsom salt baths, trying to soak the feeling back into my numb muscles, you’d think I’d have become at least somewhat less pathetic.

       You would be wrong.

       “Argh! I can’t do this!”

       I threw the light practice sword away in disgust. It twirled through the air, hit the mud point first, and stuck there.

       “Hey!” I called to Collum as I watched the part that wasn’t sunk in the mud sway back and forth. “Kinda stuck the landing, didn’t I? I mean sure, it was an accident and all. But you gotta admit, that wasn’t too bad, was—”

       From twenty yards away, Collum rushed me. Like his woad-painted ancestors before him, he raised his sword and shrieked an ancient battle cry as his large feet pounded across the stable yard.

       It happened without conscious thought. A translucent film, tinged neon green, overlaid my vision. Multiple arcs drew themselves from every angle, tracing out possible escape routes and countermeasures. Instantaneously, my mind filtered through every lesson, every bit of training, calculating each possible outcome of this scenario.

       As two hundred pounds of bellowing Celtic warrior descended on me, my mind discarded one idea after another after another until .º.º.

       I stepped aside and stuck out my foot.

       Collum’s speed was such that he couldn’t veer off in time. His trajectory took him straight into my path, where he tumbled over my outstretched leg and splatted, face first, into the mud.

       “Ow!” I hopped on one foot, trying to rub the already bruising flesh where the toe of his boot had cracked against my ankle.

       He rose slowly while hunks of slimy earth slid down to glop back onto the ground. Collum MacPherson swiped at his eyes, flinging mud from his fingers as he glared at me for a long moment. All I could see of his face were two clear hazel eyes amid the brown gunk.

       “Um.” I grimaced. “Sorry?”

       White flashed amidst the rich ocheras he grinned. Grinned and began to laugh.

       And then I was laughing too because well, it was all so utterly, utterly ridiculous. All of it.

       “You .º.º.” I wheezed. “Covered in.º.º.º. And holy crap, we .º.º. freaking time travelers.” I bent, breathless as I let it all go in a long, soundless spasm that I was sure would burst every blood vessel in my brain. “How .º.º. st-stupid is that?”

       “Aye.” Collum hiccupped. “And damn my eyes if you don’t look like a wee barbarian yerself with your hair all stuck to one side of your head!”

       We laughed. We laughed until we couldn’t laugh anymore. Until tears tracked through the mud on our faces and the sun peeked through the clouds to infiltrate the raindrops.

       “They say when the sun shines through the rain it’s the devil’s beating his wife,” Collum said as we headed toward the house.

       “Well, that is so not cool.” I climbed the steps to the screened porch. “Mrs. Satan should file a restraining order against that ass-hat.”

       He snorted and reached out to pluck something from my hair. Turning his palm over, I saw it was a solid clump of stable yard mud or .º.º. what I sincerely hoped was mud. Above us, the mountaintop had disappeared behind a cloak of white mist. The air around us had turned an odd peachy plum, as if each droplet emitted its own tiny rainbow.

       Collum sighed. “Oh, but I do love this time of day,” he said. “When the day rests her bones beneath night’s soft cloak.”

       “Why, Collum MacPherson,” I said. “Were you just being poetic? Hang on, I need a pencil and paper. Someone has to notate this auspicious occasion.”

       Collum’s always windburned cheeks went neon as he bumped me with his shoulder. And despite the mud and the rain and the sore muscles .º.º. as we both smiled, I felt something peaceful and comforting settle around me, a warm blanket to chase away the chill.

       “Might be that a shower is in order.” He gave the dark clump a dubious look.

       “Right back atcha,” I threw over my shoulder as we headed inside. “’Cause you look like a golem.”

       We were still laughing as we headed upstairs.

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[laurenakramer]

Lazy Leaders

Tears were streaming like waterfalls down the woman’s face.  Her hysterical sobs wracked her body so hard that she shook.  Redness flushed her face until she looked like a spring ripened tomato.

A stunned Jackson Galaxy stared on from a corner of the woman’s bedroom.  What had caused her to go into such hysterics?  One of her cats had become spooked and let out a small “Meow.”

“I hate to see them upset,” she sobbed.

“Whoa!  This has got to go,” said Jackson as he pointed to the woman’s face.  He informed her that she could not fall to pieces every time her cats appeared moody.  She needed to be the pack leader.

In the same episode of “My Cat from Hell,” Jackson met with a family who refused to help care for their two cats.  As a result, their single mom became the soul caregiver.  He also told the worn out mom that she needed to take charge and be the leader.

This woman made every excuse that she could possibly think of for her children.  One daughter had dance lessons after school.  The other daughter was heavily involved in sports.  And the son had worked hard all day at school and needed to rest.  I was ready to throw something at my television.

Due to the carelessness of the children and the mom’s fear of angering them, one of the cats began to bully the other.  The bullying was so bad that the victim cat had to have his litter box placed on the kitchen counter.  Yes, you read that right.  The cat’s litter box was on the same kitchen counter where the family’s food was placed.

Just as in a family dynamic, our furry family members need to understand exactly who the pack leader is.  If this leadership is not established, they will take it upon themselves to fill the role.  Without proper training and guidance, these loving creatures can create havoc of the worst kind.

One of my friends received a Corgi puppy as an anniversary gift from her husband.  She fell completely in love with the ball of fur.  Her Facebook page became flooded with selfies of the inseparable pair.

Just two short weeks later, I received a text asking if I would be interested in keeping the pup.  I could not understand it.  She had seemed so smitten.  What had gone wrong?

Since both my friend and her husband work, the puppy was left home alone for hours on end every day.  When he was finally released from his crate, he would run amuck.  He chewed on the carpet and delighted in peeling wallpaper off of the walls.  Marking became an issue as the playful pooch seemed to think that everything in the house belonged to him.  He also refused to sleep through the night and had begun howling.

I asked my friend what types of training techniques she had been using.  There was a lengthy pause before she admitted that she had not done any.  No wonder the puppy was behaving poorly!  He had no idea what kind of behavior was expected of him.

Unfortunately, my grandmother was the same way.  She owned a Shiz-tsu that she had had since he was a pup.  As grandma aged, she stopped requiring her dog to behave.  She was no longer quick enough to get to the door to let her pooch outside to potty.  Instead, he would simply go wherever he felt like.  I tried showing grandma different options including a doggy door but she just wanted to adore and cherish her furry companion without rules.

I believe that many pet parents feel that they are being cruel if they establish dominance over the animals in their lives.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Showing that you are in charge does not mean that you are using force or being malicious.  You are giving your pets the gift of stability.  They will know exactly where they stand within the family hierarchy and take pride in their role.

The easiest way to set boundaries is through obedience training.  There are four basic commands that all dogs should master.  The commands are:

1.      Sit

2.      Stay

3.      Down/Off

4.      Come/Heel

My in-laws have had huge success in clicker training their Min Pin, Kallee.  They combined positive reinforcement while using the clicker device.  She can do tons of amazing tricks in addition to following the basic commands listed above.

If you live in a multiple pet household, chances are you know exactly who the pack leader is among your furry bunch.  For our family, the leader is Theo, our long-haired Chihuahua.  He automatically took to the role as we began to adopt more precious pets.

Theo, our fearless pack leader!

Watching Theo meet his new siblings was like watching a lion with his pride on National Geographic.  He would immediately walk up to the new dog/cat and begin sniffing.  Theo would then sit a few feet away and stare directly into the dog’s/cat’s eyes.  Amazingly, each dog would lower him/herself to the ground and roll over on his/her back.  The cats would turn their backs and just walk away.

Theo established dominance without any use of force.  He never barred his teeth or tried to bite.  Instead, he exuded confidence that the other animals could literally see.  His status among the pack has never been questioned.  He rules with a soft paw and only lets out a growl if he thinks the other dogs are playing too rough with each other. 

The same is true of our cats.  Miracle is our majestic queen.  We rescued her from the middle of Main Street in our town when she was just two weeks old.  She very quickly became one of the dogs.  Two years later, we adopted Olaf.  Miracle was less then pleased. 

The initial meeting was somewhat tense.  Olaf gave her a sniff…and she hissed in his face.  For the first few days, Miracle did her best to avoid Olaf.  She made sure that she always sat on the highest perch possible.  In doing so, she was showing Olaf that she is the boss.  He soon learned that Miracle wanted her space and he respected her authority.

Sven entered our lives in April of this year.  He was drawn to Olaf immediately.  Being one year old, Sven still has a lot of kitten-like behaviors.  He sauntered up to Olaf and tried to rub up against him.  This was met with a hiss and a smack in the face with a quick paw.  Miracle had a similar reaction.

To the woman on “My Cat from Hell,” this would have been a sign that the three would never get along and more hysterical tears would have ensued.  We knew that all our cats really needed was more time to get adjusted.  In a matter of weeks, Miracle, Sven and Olaf were all drinking out of the same water dish.  Olaf even started licking Sven’s face!

The key to being a good leader is to have patience.  Nothing lasting is ever achieved overnight.  Goals need to be set along with a plan for how to reach them.  The next step is to follow through on the plan every day.  Nothing is worse than initiating training and then immediately stopping for several days.  The dog or cat that is being trained will become totally confused and any learning that has taken place could go right out the window.

Another quality that is essential to leadership is authority.  This means truly taking charge of the situation.  Every action taken must be done with certainty.  Dogs and cats will sense the confidence and soon learn where they stand in the family.

We have found the word “no” to be a very powerful tool.  When one of our cats decides that he/she wants to pick a fight, we sharply say the cat’s name followed by a loud “NO!”  This typically curtails any mischievousness right on the spot.

With our pooches, we found that using a water bottle filled with cool water works like magic.  We NEVER spray the dogs in the face.  Just one quick spritz on the behind is all it takes.  Our dogs have become so used to the bottle that they hardly even need to be sprayed anymore.  Once they see me or my husband shake the bottle, they snap to attention.  Chaos is stopped and order is restored without the use of force or cruelty.

Without established rules and a pack leader, more than just the furniture can get ruined.  A pet’s very life may be in danger.  In a more recent episode of “My Cat from Hell,” one formerly feral kitty almost took the tail off of his new litter box mate!  This cat had severe territorial aggression.  Had his cat guardians not taken steps to rectify the situation, they might have ended up with a very injured (and tailless) cat.

Being a pet parent is not all about snuggles and kisses.  By adopting these amazing creatures, we have vowed to give them the best life imaginable.  This includes setting boundaries and enforcing rules.  Providing leadership is essential to ensuring that our beloved furry family members have an outstanding quality of life where they will be protected and respected.  Step up and be the leader for your pack today!

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from Lazy Leaders

#Lazy Leaders

[laurenakramer]

Lazy Leaders

Tears were streaming like waterfalls down the woman’s face.  Her hysterical sobs wracked her body so hard that she shook.  Redness flushed her face until she looked like a spring ripened tomato.

A stunned Jackson Galaxy stared on from a corner of the woman’s bedroom.  What had caused her to go into such hysterics?  One of her cats had become spooked and let out a small “Meow.”

“I hate to see them upset,” she sobbed.

“Whoa!  This has got to go,” said Jackson as he pointed to the woman’s face.  He informed her that she could not fall to pieces every time her cats appeared moody.  She needed to be the pack leader.

In the same episode of “My Cat from Hell,” Jackson met with a family who refused to help care for their two cats.  As a result, their single mom became the soul caregiver.  He also told the worn out mom that she needed to take charge and be the leader.

This woman made every excuse that she could possibly think of for her children.  One daughter had dance lessons after school.  The other daughter was heavily involved in sports.  And the son had worked hard all day at school and needed to rest.  I was ready to throw something at my television.

Due to the carelessness of the children and the mom’s fear of angering them, one of the cats began to bully the other.  The bullying was so bad that the victim cat had to have his litter box placed on the kitchen counter.  Yes, you read that right.  The cat’s litter box was on the same kitchen counter where the family’s food was placed.

Just as in a family dynamic, our furry family members need to understand exactly who the pack leader is.  If this leadership is not established, they will take it upon themselves to fill the role.  Without proper training and guidance, these loving creatures can create havoc of the worst kind.

One of my friends received a Corgi puppy as an anniversary gift from her husband.  She fell completely in love with the ball of fur.  Her Facebook page became flooded with selfies of the inseparable pair.

Just two short weeks later, I received a text asking if I would be interested in keeping the pup.  I could not understand it.  She had seemed so smitten.  What had gone wrong?

Since both my friend and her husband work, the puppy was left home alone for hours on end every day.  When he was finally released from his crate, he would run amuck.  He chewed on the carpet and delighted in peeling wallpaper off of the walls.  Marking became an issue as the playful pooch seemed to think that everything in the house belonged to him.  He also refused to sleep through the night and had begun howling.

I asked my friend what types of training techniques she had been using.  There was a lengthy pause before she admitted that she had not done any.  No wonder the puppy was behaving poorly!  He had no idea what kind of behavior was expected of him.

Unfortunately, my grandmother was the same way.  She owned a Shiz–tsu that she had had since he was a pup.  As grandma aged, she stopped requiring her dog to behave.  She was no longer quick enough to get to the door to let her pooch outside to potty.  Instead, he would simply go wherever he felt like.  I tried showing grandma different options including a doggy door but she just wanted to adore and cherish her furry companion without rules.

I believe that many pet parents feel that they are being cruel if they establish dominance over the animals in their lives.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Showing that you are in charge does not mean that you are using force or being malicious.  You are giving your pets the gift of stability.  They will know exactly where they stand within the family hierarchy and take pride in their role.

The easiest way to set boundaries is through obedience training.  There are four basic commands that all dogs should master.  The commands are:

  Sit

Stay

Down/Off

Come/Heel

  My in-laws have had huge success in clicker training their Min Pin, Kallee.  They combined positive reinforcement while using the clicker device.  She can do tons of amazing tricks in addition to following the basic commands listed above.

If you live in a multiple pet household, chances are you know exactly who the pack leader is among your furry bunch.  For our family, the leader is Theo, our long-haired Chihuahua.  He automatically took to the role as we began to adopt more precious pets.

  Theo, our fearless pack leader!

Watching Theo meet his new siblings was like watching a lion with his pride on National Geographic.  He would immediately walk up to the new dog/cat and begin sniffing.  Theo would then sit a few feet away and stare directly into the dog’s/cat’s eyes.  Amazingly, each dog would lower him/herself to the ground and roll over on his/her back.  The cats would turn their backs and just walk away.

Theo established dominance without any use of force.  He never barred his teeth or tried to bite.  Instead, he exuded confidence that the other animals could literally see.  His status among the pack has never been questioned.  He rules with a soft paw and only lets out a growl if he thinks the other dogs are playing too rough with each other.

The same is true of our cats.  Miracle is our majestic queen.  We rescued her from the middle of Main Street in our town when she was just two weeks old.  She very quickly became one of the dogs.  Two years later, we adopted Olaf.  Miracle was less then pleased.

The initial meeting was somewhat tense.  Olaf gave her a sniff…and she hissed in his face.  For the first few days, Miracle did her best to avoid Olaf.  She made sure that she always sat on the highest perch possible.  In doing so, she was showing Olaf that she is the boss.  He soon learned that Miracle wanted her space and he respected her authority.

Sven entered our lives in April of this year.  He was drawn to Olaf immediately.  Being one year old, Sven still has a lot of kitten-like behaviors.  He sauntered up to Olaf and tried to rub up against him.  This was met with a hiss and a smack in the face with a quick paw.  Miracle had a similar reaction.

To the woman on “My Cat from Hell,” this would have been a sign that the three would never get along and more hysterical tears would have ensued.  We knew that all our cats really needed was more time to get adjusted.  In a matter of weeks, Miracle, Sven and Olaf were all drinking out of the same water dish.  Olaf even started licking Sven’s face!

The key to being a good leader is to have patience.  Nothing lasting is ever achieved overnight.  Goals need to be set along with a plan for how to reach them.  The next step is to follow through on the plan every day.  Nothing is worse than initiating training and then immediately stopping for several days.  The dog or cat that is being trained will become totally confused and any learning that has taken place could go right out the window.

Another quality that is essential to leadership is authority.  This means truly taking charge of the situation.  Every action taken must be done with certainty.  Dogs and cats will sense the confidence and soon learn where they stand in the family.

We have found the word “no” to be a very powerful tool.  When one of our cats decides that he/she wants to pick a fight, we sharply say the cat’s name followed by a loud “NO!”  This typically curtails any mischievousness right on the spot.

With our pooches, we found that using a water bottle filled with cool water works like magic.  We NEVER spray the dogs in the face.  Just one quick spritz on the behind is all it takes.  Our dogs have become so used to the bottle that they hardly even need to be sprayed anymore.  Once they see me or my husband shake the bottle, they snap to attention.  Chaos is stopped and order is restored without the use of force or cruelty.

Without established rules and a pack leader, more than just the furniture can get ruined.  A pet’s very life may be in danger.  In a more recent episode of “My Cat from Hell,” one formerly feral kitty almost took the tail off of his new litter box mate!  This cat had severe territorial aggression.  Had his cat guardians not taken steps to rectify the situation, they might have ended up with a very injured (and tailless) cat.

Being a pet parent is not all about snuggles and kisses.  By adopting these amazing creatures, we have vowed to give them the best life imaginable.  This includes setting boundaries and enforcing rules.  Providing leadership is essential to ensuring that our beloved furry family members have an outstanding quality of life where they will be protected and respected.  Step up and be the leader for your pack today!

from Lazy Leaders

#Lazy Leaders