Book Cover: Polar Night
Part of the Polar Point series:
  • Polar Night
ISBN: 978-1523446117
Size: 5.50 x 8.50 in
Pages: 240

The Heart Points North.

Tamsin Norwood just wanted to study the eagles on Kodiak. Now, her life depends on her getting far, far away from the island and the madman who took her captive. Fate conspires, leading her to a magically concealed safe haven in Arctic Alaska.

The denizens of Polar Point are as complicated as they are fierce. From the wise old witch to the playful wolf and the snarky tiger, the secret community both baffles and intrigues Tamsin. But one resident in particular makes her question her very human instincts.

Polar bear shifter Fisher Frost never wanted another sleuth. Not after the tragedy that befell his family. Wild polar bears have it right: it's better to hunt alone. Alone means safe. Alone means steady. Alone means never losing another piece of himself. Fisher's resolve wavers when the dawn of polar night brings his true mate.

During the longest, coldest Alaskan nights, Fisher and Tamsin warm to one another. But can she melt this frozen bear? Will they survive the twists and turns fate has prepared for them?

This full-length novel is intended for mature audiences.

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Chapter 1

Displaced People

The Cessna’s propellers whirred, filling the cramped cabin with a noxious buzz. To Tamsin Norwood, the sound represented freedom.

As the plane took flight, she gripped her seat until her knuckles paled. Rigid, she sat with her fleece hoodie pulled over her unkempt hair and a stolen coat draped like a blanket over her torso. From the side window, she watched as her hometown of Larsen Bay grew small. Soon, even the mass that made up the Kodiak archipelago was out of sight.

Relief flooded her system.

It wasn’t that she was happy to leave her entire life behind. But preserving that life—whatever remained of it—meant she had to get the hell off the island.

If she stayed, she’d die. Landon Poe would see to that.


“Sky feels good.” The pilot’s gritty voice crackled in the headset he’d shoved at her before takeoff. “Not as icy as I’d expect for November.”

Tamsin didn’t reply. When she’d first spotted him on the dock, she’d nearly cried. With his ruffled blond hair and dimpled chin, he’d looked like salvation. He’d been such a dick, though, that she couldn’t find it in herself to make conversation.

She didn’t entirely blame him, of course. Begging for secret passage with only a handful of cash and no ID didn’t exactly make her Client of the Year. He’d taken pity, though, finally seeming to register her genuine distress.

Tamsin would deal with the port authorities. They could arrest her if they needed. At this point, she’d welcome a normal jail cell. Steel bars would be a step up from that makeshift prison back on Kodiak.

Ten minutes into the flight, she relaxed. When they were closer to Anchorage, she’d return to her taut state of red-fucking-alert. Poe would guess she’d taken a plane.

Like most predators, Poe was smart. He prided himself on anticipating his opponent’s every move. He considered every outcome, weighed every risk. He was narcissistic with an otherworldly confidence, but he was also paranoid beyond belief.

In the three months she’d known him, she’d studied him. What else was she supposed to do while he’d kept her handcuffed to rusty machinery in the abandoned cannery?

He’d sniff her out. He was a hunter, after all. Complete with sets of claws and fangs that had made her scream and cry the first time she’d witnessed him change.

No, shift. He’d called it shifting. Because apparently supernatural creatures not only existed, just like all the stories her grandma Tilly used to tell while gutting deer or de-scaling pike, they also boasted their own lexicon featuring words like mate and claim.

Growing up on Kodiak, Tamsin had lived alongside the local bear population for as long as she could remember. For all the bears she’d ever observed from the safety of the red-roofed fishing lodge she’d called home—a home he’d doused with gasoline and lit aflame—she’d never seen any creature as monstrous as Landon Poe, fully shifted.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Because Poe’s human form was almost as terrifying as his towering bear’s. It wasn’t that there was anything especially wrong with how he looked, even with that jagged scar running down his left cheek. But his eyes. There was something about his eyes.

He looked at you as if he were peeling away your skin with his every narrowed gaze. She’d been his prisoner for so long, he’d flayed her to the bone.

She was his, he’d asserted. Repeatedly. Usually while leering at her as if she were a side of buck he intended to devour.

Yes, Poe would sniff her out. In all likelihood, he’d probably be waiting for her when she tottered off the plane in Anchorage. With his resources, he could reach the city far sooner than the bush pilot with his rickety ride.

Tamsin had to be smart. At the first sign of trouble, she could always hop a bus to Fairbanks. She still had university friends in Fairbanks. She wasn’t sure how she’d pay for a ticket, of course. She’d plonked down most of her stolen cash—stolen from the pocket of Poe’s seldom-used coat—to bribe the pilot, but she’d figure out the details when she arrived.

Anything was better than those handcuffs. Than Poe’s flashing yellow eyes. Than the endless loop of Tilly’s anguished screams.

With her forehead propped against the window, Tamsin let her eyes fall shut. She had forty minutes before she needed to be ready to move. To find the first badge-and-gun to cross her line of sight. To tell them she was Tamsin Norwood, researcher with the Fish and Wildlife Service, grieving granddaughter of Tilly Chernoff, and she was alive.

For the first time in months, Tamsin drifted knowing Poe wasn’t there to watch her sleep.


A mile to the east, a modest herd of caribou thundered across the frozen beach. Fisher Frost sat perfectly still. Even as thick swirls of snow choked the crisp air, he could scent his prey. The surrounding flurry of white combined with the dim light of dawn ensured he would remain cloaked.

Growling, he waited. Polar bears were founts of patience.

Fisher was the first to admit his human tolerance was far less than his bear’s. He’d nearly slashed Hunter’s head off. Again. The goddamn wolf never knew when to keep his maw shut.

Life in Polar Point grated Fisher’s nerves. More often than not, he entertained the idea of setting off on his own again. He’d never wanted to be a part of this community. He certainly never wanted another sleuth. But Jo had been convincing.

Not for the first time, Fisher found himself wondering if the old witch had cast a spell on him. He couldn’t explain his continued presence otherwise.

Well, he could. But he didn’t like to think about the year leading up to his entry into Johanna Ashfield’s enchanted community for misfit shifters. Enchanted in so far as it appeared on no maps, boasted boundary spells for concealment, and generally served as an out-of-the-way camp meant to keep self-destructing supernaturals from implosion.

Fisher had certainly been ready to implode two years ago.

Jo did her best. And despite her petite frame, she somehow managed to keep a group of unruly, too-fucked-up-for-their-own-good male shifters under a modicum of control.

They were all wayward. From Fisher with his broken bear to Hunter with his wily wolf. Jaeger was as aloof as his tiger, but he was a powder keg with whiskers and a swishy tail. And then there was Alaric.

Even Jo had secrets.

Arctic Alaska was the ideal hideaway from the rest of the world. Its snow was so white, it almost fooled you into thinking you could be as clean and untouched, too. But Fisher knew he’d never clean his hands—or paws—of his sleuth’s blood.

The witch maintained they all needed each other. Fisher still thought that was bullshit.

Wild polar bears had the right idea: it’s better to hunt alone. Alone, there was no one snarking or snapping at your every move. No one complaining you’re a brooding mess. No one yapping like a scorned puppy.

Polar Point wasn’t perfect, but Jo had yanked Fisher from his breaking point just when he’d needed it the most. If he’d kept going down his former path, he’d have garnered more stains on his translucent fur. That trajectory also led to an inevitable finality. Fisher would have ended up with a bullet in his brain, whether by his own hand or someone else’s.

It wasn’t becoming of an alpha polar bear—even a former alpha like Fisher—to admit that an itty bitty witch with white hair had saved his life, but Jo had saved his. He wasn’t sure it was a life worth saving, but she’d saved it, anyway.

Out of respect for her and the tenuous community she was trying to build in Polar Point, he’d retreat for a while. He’d cool his nerves. Calm his temper. Soothe the rage that bubbled beneath his human skin and bruin fur.

The caribou were close. Their dark shapes moved through the flurry, emerging like ghosts from the haze of white. Fisher rumbled. With his head lowered and his ears folded against his head, he stalked forward, his icy gaze fixed on a target.

The bull screamed in alarm, but it was already too late. Crimson stained the snow.

Fisher could retreat. He could cool down. But he’d never deny that it still felt damn good to sink his animal’s teeth into something.

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Book Cover: End of Summer
Part of the Ever Afters series:
ISBN: 978-1530592944
Size: 5.50 x 8.50 in
Pages: 316

The Afters Brothers are Cursed.

Grizzly shifter Braxton Afters is a creature of chaos. He wrestles with his beast every waking day. Even brawls at the local bar can't sate its ire. Add on the strain of a decade-long curse, and you have one angry, aimless bear. As his final summer draws to an end, Braxton doubts he’ll ever find a mate who could put up with both him and his inner monster.

Grace Florrie knows monsters. She’s painted them often enough thanks to her animal’s unorthodox gifts. Grace never thought of her visions as a blessing, though. Their horror taught her to keep a tight grip on herself. Control, after all, is the only way she maintains her sanity.

When Braxton rescues Grace from the sinister schemes of a wicked witch, he has no idea that Grace might just rescue him in return. With the equinox looming over Ever Afters Farm and Orchards, chaos and control collide. Can Braxton and Grace find a balance even as the mystery surrounding the Afters sleuth unfurls around them?

This full-length novel is intended for mature audiences.

Amazon Paperback



Chapter 1

Damascus, Maryland

Summer Solstice, 2015

A pair of chubby pigeons waddled across the sun-lit grass. Their soft coos calmed Grace Florrie’s frazzled nerves.


Even perching on her favorite bench in Damascus Park didn’t help when the visions came.

Still, the park was quiet, and she was thankful for that. The peace wouldn’t linger for long, of course. Not once the flock of out-of-school children descended upon the green.

Movement drew her gaze to the left. Jack Aimes shuffled along the sidewalk, leaning his weight on a scuffed walking cane.

He took a seat beside Grace and turned, regarding her with a shrewd frown.

“Go on,” he said, waving his cane. “Get.”


Grace took flight. Landing a few feet away, she watched as the old man pulled a Ziplock bag from his pants pocket. He reached inside, retrieved a fistful of bird seed, and tossed the mix of millet and corn kernels toward the greedy pigeons.

She croaked her indignation. Ravens were unpopular; this was nothing new. She didn’t want his dusty bird seed, but come on. She was better than a damn pigeon.

Once more, Grace took flight. She beat the air with her wings, venting her irritation.

She’d spent her adult life grappling with her broken bird. She could fly just fine; it was the other aspects of her nature that had never worked. If she had a flock, she might manage better. Birds were intensely social creatures, after all. But no one wants to be around the girl who can glean the dark deeds that cloud your past. No one wants their indiscretions exposed or their heartbreaks laid bare.

Genuine intimacy was difficult enough to attain on its own. Intimacy via uncontrollable revelations on the part of your busted bird’s flawed magic? No one wants that.

Not humans. Not shifters. Not even an unkindness of ravens.

Perhaps that’s why the reputation of ravens as portents of doom still ruffled Grace’s feathers, even after a lifetime as an avian shifter. Most days, she’d give just about anything to experience a normal vision. To see the future rather than the past.

At least something could be done about the future. The past remained etched in stone, unchanging in its horror.

Her latest vision was proof of that.

She’d experienced bloody dreams often enough that the sight of pooled, sticky scarlet was expected. The worst part, however, was the pain. The despair. The hopelessness.

The vision had been a landslide of all of those turbulent emotions and more. If she’d sat down to paint the event, she’d have used up all her red and black oils.

Anguish had rolled forth in waves, quadrupling with every fresh angle of the scene. She’d witnessed the same young man four times.

Four times, she’d watched him struggle. Four times, she’d heard him scream through an amalgam of grief and agony. Four times, she’d watched him fall dead to the ground.

He’d seemed so familiar, but Grace was certain she’d never met him before. She was good with faces. She painted everyone she’d ever caught a flash of, right down to young Jack Aimes with his buzzcut and M60.

The denizens of Damascus knew old Jack as the kindly owner of the diner on Main Street, but Grace knew him by the colors of his past. She knew him by the deep greens of a Vietnam jungle and military fatigues; by the stormy gray of the overhanging skyline on the darkest day of his life; by the deep crimson of the unarmed teenaged boys he’d gunned down and wept over while rain washed away the evidence of his sins.

No, Grace had never met the young man before, but playing witness to his multiple deaths had been enough to knock her out for two solid days. Post-vision hangovers were worse than any tequila-fueled bender. They stuck around longer, too.

Flying, at least, soothed her pounding headache and calmed her tousled nerves. Dawn lit the sky with vibrant pinks that swirled into hazy purples. The pastels tapered into a blue that promised a beautiful start to the summer.

But even the warm breeze wasn’t strong enough to tear her thoughts from the apparent Lazarus of her vision.

Grace darted through the air, navigating a current. She dipped her head, earthbound. Inches above a stony path leading out of the park, she pulled up, her talons grazing the ground. As always, the thrill of a near crash made her beat her wings with renewed fury.

Rising high above the tree tops, Grace flew home. She spared a few extra moments to simply soar on a gust that ferried her over rooftops. Those moments were precious. Those moments meant she could keep the headache at bay for just a little longer.

Landing in her small backyard, Grace adjusted her wings. Folding them to her body, she hopped up the stone steps to her back door and nudged her beak to the cat flap. Grace’s self-loathing didn’t extend deep enough for her to own an actual cat, but the flap was useful in that it eliminated the need for backyard naked time. The nosy widows neighboring either side of Grace’s one-story Cape Cod would just love an eyeful of her bare ass. She’d fuel the Nightingale Lane gossip circle for weeks.

A foot into her kitchen, Grace paused atop the checkerboard tile floor.

Something was wrong. She didn’t feel the usual tingle-and-pressure that preceded a vision, but certainty flooded her hollow bones.

There was someone in her house.

Turning to the cat flap, she knocked her beak forward, readying herself to fly once she was outside. The flap did not open outward. Through the clear plastic door, she registered a dark shape.

A hand.

Someone was holding the flap shut on the other side.

Claws clicked on the tiles behind her. Fear bristled her feathers. Slowly, she turned.

A towering timber wolf bared its jagged teeth and snarled. Its feral yellow gaze blazed a hole into her middle, freezing her to the spot. The beast pounced, snapping its jaws over her right wing.

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