My Watcher's Eyes

By H. A. O'Connor
Paranormal Vampire Romance, 367 pages
Cover art by Richard Stroud
Blurb:

It’s not normal to feel close to your watcher. No, it’s not normal to have a watcher. So, why is Tess Young comforted by her watcher’s presence? Why do his eyes fill her dreams? More importantly, will he become her greatest protector…or her greatest threat?

Excerpt:

Moments after she’s passed through my mind, my best friend spills from the darkness to my right. The scarlet light finds her chocolate-brown eyes and gleams warmly against them; it casts ruby-tinted highlights on her black, satiny hair and frustratingly-perfect cheekbones. My eyes skim over her plum-colored dress, which flatters her figure like it was custom cut; then they fall back to my own, plain black one. It manages to hide what few curves I have.

A little sigh escapes me. Whenever Anna’s next to me, I might as well be invisible; it’s the way things are and I’m okay with it. Well, I’m used to it.

Anna just has time to hug me and exclaim, “Happy nineteenth, Tess!” before we’re half tackled by another friend, Janie, whose teal-tinted hair has been altered to a strange shade of violet under the club’s red lights. Neither color is sufficiently alarming to compete with Janie’s personality, I decide. She’s got the dainty looks of a pixie and the demeanor of a fire station alarm.

“Tess!” she shrieks into my ear, before squeezing both my shoulders and shaking me back and forth a few times. “You’re nineteen now! We should be dancing!”

My response is to break into a string of rough coughs; Anna’s is to give me a deep frown and Janie a little shove backward. “You’re still sick,” Anna mutters and starts digging around in her purse. “I thought you were getting better.”

I shrug, but thank her when she produces a couple of cough drops and presses them into my hand. Our other friends, Maria and Celia, arrive in the meantime and receive full-contact greetings of their own. By the time Janie’s through with them, Maria is frowning and tossing her dark hair in anger and Celia is nervously twirling a periwinkle-tinged curl around and around and around her finger. Each gives me a birthday hug and, moments later, we’re all dragged onto the dance floor in a Janie-led mob.

I’m fine for a while, thanks to Anna’s cough drops and some ibuprofen I took earlier, but deep down, I know it can’t last. I’m dancing on borrowed time.

My illness revives with a vengeance and my medications toss up white flags of surrender. My chest suddenly feels constricted and raw; my temples throb in time with the beats shuddering through the room. Bowing out of the action, I grab a soda and a seat, hoping the sugar will bolster my immune system, not to mention my wilting strength.

Janie spots me moments later. If I wasn’t sure before, it’s now glaringly obvious my evening’s a doomed one.

Making a phony, deep pout, Janie insists, “You can’t sit down! It’s your birthday and a guy over there—Jason—wants to dance with you!”

With wide eyes, I follow the direction of her outstretched, perfectly-manicured finger. Two guys stand still among the movement; both are turned in our direction. The taller of the two, a blond, is keeping Janie in his sights, but his auburn-haired friend seems to be watching me.

I quickly scan the features of this second one and, returning to his intense, brown-eyed stare, feel my face slip into a frown. “No thanks. I’m sick.”

“Come on,” she shouts, grabbing my arm and pulling me from my seat, “they’re playing your favorite song!”

She’s wrong. It’s her favorite song, but I couldn’t care less: an acute wave of nausea is on the rise, making me stop, mid step, and cover my mouth with both hands. Janie, feeling me hesitate, smiles back blindly and yanks harder.

Realizing it’s easier to submit than struggle against this petite, aqua-haired maniac, I pull myself together and trail along. At some point, I realize we’ve veered off our path. Panic sets in and I search for a familiar face among the crowd, while earth-quaking chills overtake my body.

This is when things take yet another turn for the worse. Janie tows me between a pair of dancing figures when the beat picks up and the guy next to me—clearly a football player in Goth disguise—sends a flailing elbow full force into my chest.

If I wore false teeth, they would have gone flying. As it is, every available ounce of air evacuates my lungs at the speed of light, leaving me gasping, clutching at my chest in agony.

“Watch it, you big dope!” Anna screams out, suddenly beside me. Her face turns to mine with a look nearly equaling my pain. “Are you okay?”

Midnight Mist

By Ralph E. Horner
Paranormal Romantic Suspense, 387 pages
Cover art by Richard Stroud

Blurb:

An enchanted ring sends Melody ahead one hundred years in time to reunite her with her true love. Jeff is overwhelmed to see her, but discovers that Alice, Melody's mentally disturbed sister, has time-traveled with her. Jeff must locate Alice to regain possession of the ring, and at the same time protect Melody from her sister’s deadly attacks.

Excerpt:

From behind, Jeff held Alice’s face down, grasping her left hand, searching for the ring. It wasn’t on any of the fingers of that hand. She kicked back, slamming him on the shin. As she thrashed, Jeff put his knee on her lower back, trying to keep control over her. Pain coursed through him as Alice sank her teeth into his forearm. Clenching his teeth in misery, he held up her right hand and saw the gold ring on her index finger. She continued to bite hard on his arm, making it feel like her canines were going all the way through to the bone, but he still managed to grab the ring. Sparks exploded off his hand. Like touching a hot frying pan, he instinctively let go.

Several people watched, making no attempt to stop the fight, thinking they were both men.

Blood ran down Jeff’s sleeve to the pavement as Alice finally let his arm go. She grasped her right index finger with her left hand. Jeff knew she was attempting to make an escape by going back in time. He grabbed her left hand, trying to keep her from removing the ring. Sparks exploded, as Jeff made contact with the ring again, but he held on this time, even though it felt as if he were holding a lit match. He watched in horror as Alice slowly slid the ring toward the tip of her finger. As hard as he tried, he could not stop her from slipping it off. He suddenly found himself struggling with her in the grass next to a narrow road. They had gone back to eighteen ninety-three together.

Alice held the ring tightly in her left palm. Jeff tried in vain to force her hand open. He pulled her short-haired wig off and her long black hair fell down onto her shoulders. As Alice tried to turn toward him, he slammed her wrist on the ground several times trying to break her grip. Jeff was stunned by an elbow crashing into his jaw, disorientating him momentarily. Alice twisted toward him and sprayed something from a tube into his eyes. Jeff covered his face and yelled, feeling like his eyes would burn out of their sockets. More of the mist hit the back of his hand. It had to be Mace.

“Hey, leave him alone,” came the sound of a man’s voice.

Now blind and helpless, pain shot through Jeff’s side as Alice kicked him hard in the ribs. Then came another rib-cracking blow to the same area. Jeff moaned and covered his head in fear she’d strike there next.

“I guess we’ll have to stop you,” still another man’s voice. Jeff realized there were two men coming toward them. He could hardly open his eyes and his vision was so bad it was like looking through wax paper. Jeff could see that Alice was running away. Then two men knelt next to him.

“Are you hurt badly, Mister?” one of the men asked. “Your arm’s bleeding.”

“What can we do for you, son?” The other man lowered his head, gazing into Jeff’s face.

“Water!” Jeff thrashed his head and rubbed his eyes. “Hurry! I need water for my eyes.”

“I’ll be right back.” The man took off on a run.

“Try to relax there, Mister.” The man rubbed his shoulder.

Jeff lay on his stomach moaning and shaking his head. His eyes were in too much pain to be concerned about the fact that he was trapped in another time. He was having trouble breathing.

“Here comes Larry now. He’s running with a whole bucket of water. I hope he doesn’t spill it all before he gets here, though.”

Larry set the pail down in the grass next to them. Jeff got up on his knees and bent over it, scooping out water with his hands and splashing his eyes as fast as he could. The water soon became a discolored red from the blood of his wound. He finally dunked his entire face into the water, rubbed his eyes and forced them open. When he took his head out of the bucket, his vision was slightly better, but his eyes burned as if someone had scrubbed them with steel wool. At the World’s Fair, he had used Mace on Alice to get her knife, and now she had used the same weapon on him.

“Are you feeling any better?” Larry asked.

Through blurred vision, Jeff saw a thin, blond man wearing a straw hat and a handlebar mustache.

Sacrifice at Mystery Hill

By Joan Conning Afman

Paranormal Mystery, 347 pages

Cover art by Trisha FitzGerald

Thomas and Chloe meet at college, and feel an instant attraction to each other, unaware that many centuries ago they  lived and loved each other then. When  Thomas and Chloe are drawn into a faux-Druid cult, which meets at a mini-Stonehenge site off campus, he begins to feel a deep compulsion to protect Chloe from the danger he senses lurking there.  Its leader, Dyfan,  has re-named Chloe “Vala”, which means ‘acceptable sacrifice”, and his intentions slowly become clear.

As the college year progresses, Thomas and Chloe find themselves bound to the Clan by Dyfan’s strange psychic abilities.  Their unlikely help comes from Chloe’s perceptive art professor, Jim Walsh, and  Thomas’ quirky, margarita-making grandmother, Ivy, who seems to know things no one else does.  The hair-raising climax takes place at Mystery Hill…where human sacrifices have happened

Excerpt:

Because he was a ghost, Thomas Thornton, which had been his name in his eighteenth century reincarnation, was able to move right through the rocks, to slide through the small spaces between them with ease, even through the stone ‘speaking tube’ which led to the hollow space under the sacrificial altar. This was his favorite place to rest, snuggled up to the moss and decayed leaves that formed a soft bed. It smelled a little like death, too, musty and old and coppery, like blood, but it was a scent he had grown to love. It was also the place where she had died, so he felt closest to her there.

He had waited for her for centuries. Her death had been hard—and many souls who endured such a primitive and painful death were reluctant to return, but eventually they all did. After all, they had destinies to work out before they could go on to the next stage of existence, and so not coming back was not an option. The Coordinator, one of the Great Beings who tracked the journeys of all the souls, had told Thomas he would let him know when it was time. He, too, had his karma to work out before he could go on to the next level. His destiny was to overcome cowardice of that long ago primitive life when he could have saved her, but hadn’t.

~ * ~

It was the day of the summer solstice. The men of the tribe gathered at the four-foot -tall stone, carved in the shape of a leaning pyramid, to watch the sun rise precisely behind its pointed crest. In silence, they bowed to the god of summer, of crops to come, of the harvest, and walked in single file to where the sacrifice would be offered.

The chief, resplendent in his beaded ritual clothing, rich wolf cloak and feathered headdress, looked around the gathering. “If one man is willing to take her to wife and leave the tribe, she will be spared. Will anyone take her?” His curved sword glittered in the sun as he lifted it above the woman bound to the altar stone.

The chief was his father, whom he dared not offend, and a man and a woman driven from the tribe to survive on their own faced certain death. There was no way out for him, for her and for the child she carried within.

Frozen to the earth, his tongue numb and his heart dead, he had watched as the blade descended. Her scream of agony, blessedly brief, pierced the morning air. The chief carved her heart from her body and held it aloft on the tip of his sword. The tribe prostrated itself as the chief intoned the blessing upon them. Thomas, who was Achak in that incarnation, felt his soul bleed into the dirt.

~ * ~

He stretched, and his long arms and legs passed through the edges of the shield-shaped altar. He didn’t understand why the so-called ’experts’ who had swarmed over this particular collection of rocks for several centuries, trying to figure out who had built it—and for what purpose—had so much trouble believing that this stone had been used for human sacrifice. Wasn’t it obvious, with its curved grooves around the edge, where the blood collected and ran down into the collection pit at the base of the stone? For wine, one of the archaeological experts had concluded, but his theory was quickly discarded when a similar rock was found in nearby Massachusetts that had a carving of a human form stretched out on the altar stone. This conclusion shouldn’t have been so difficult to come by.

Thomas heard the sound of small boys in the distance. He sighed. They would use the sacred altar stone as a picnic table, of course, and their noisy chatter and activity would prevent any sleep he hoped to get, just to pass the time until she returned. Well, they were still a long way away. He would doze until then, and if they were particularly obnoxious, maybe have some fun with them.

The Ghost In The Machine

by Jane Senese
Paranormal Romance, 354 pages
Cover art by Erin Roberts
Blurb:
For two years, widowed photographer Naddy Lewison has lived with her husband's ghost. Now she finds herself drawn to a living man. Marshal Bill Crawford is handsome and cynical, yet beneath his bluff exterior Naddy sees a kind heart, and a loneliness to match her own.

But her jealous husband has no intention of letting her go…

Excerpt:
Nadia Lewison awoke to the warmth of the morning sun on her face. She moaned softly and pressed her face against her pillow. Not yet. When she felt a pair of fingers playfully walk across her bare shoulder, she gave a groan of annoyance.

"Time to get up," a voice purred against her hair.

"Don't want to." Groggily, she reached around behind her and took his hand. "Stay here," she begged, as she pulled his arm snug about her waist.

His warm breath teased at the nape of her neck. "But I have to go."

She felt him slowly disengage his hand from hers. She rolled over to stop him before he could rise. "Walter..." she mumbled, hearing the childish whine in her voice and hating herself for it. After ten years of gentle rebukes, her only excuse was that she would never be a morning person.

He was. He was made for the mornings. The same sunbeams that burned her eyes and set the dust motes dancing seemed to electrify him. The light turned his dark blond hair golden; his skin took on a youthful flush, the fine lines under his blue eyes seemed to melt away. He was handsome in all lights, her Walter, but never so radiant as at dawn.

She was seized by a need to tell him so, an irrational fear that this would be her last chance. But sleep had drugged her tongue, and she was only able to manage a slurred string of sounds she hoped he could decipher as "You're beautiful."

He grinned, wide enough to crinkle his eyes, and flash his crooked right incisor. For some reason she thought back to their early courtship, when he had been so reluctant to smile.
"Sleepyhead." He bent his head to kiss her brow.

She snuggled against him gratefully, closing her eyes against a rain of feather kisses as he tried to coax her out of sleep. Their old morning ritual, from half-forgotten newlywed days.

She felt his touch withdraw. "Don't go..."

"But, Naddy, it's time to wake up."

Coyote's Flute

by JoEllen Conger
Paranormal, 222 pages
Cover art by Richard Stroud
Blurb:
Recently widowed, Barbara Livingston flies to New Mexico to stay with longtime friends for the summer. However, instead of her friends, a sexy, Spanish cowboy meets her at the airport. While awaiting her friends to retrieve her, he takes her home to his working ranch. Trini Montoya tells her about Kokopelli, the shape-shifter in local Navajo legends and folklore. When she hears Coyote's mystical flute music drifting on the wind, she understands there is to be a 'Promise of Change' in her life.

Trini has no idea just how much he wants her until she and his favorite horse suddenly disappear into the devastating heat wave on the New Mexican desert. The search begins to find her.

Excerpt:
Anxiety chewed at her confidence as Barbara Livingston searched the crowded Albuquerque airline terminal, anticipating to locate her longtime friends at any moment. Other deplaning passengers pushed and bumped against her. She stepped aside, feeling her irritation rising.

Her friends should have been with the crush of people waiting at the crowded debarkation gate. But they weren't. In fact, no one had stepped forward to meet her. A quaver of anxiety rippled through her stomach. She suddenly felt like a little girl, lost in a frighteningly strange and unfriendly city. Her heart fluttered, pounding against her ribcage. Barbara pressed a splayed hand across her heart. She had a hard time catching her breath.

She pivoted in her search, eyes darting to detect someone she recognized. Anyone. She could feel her throat constricting, her heart pumping wildly. It wasn't just the unexpected heat wave that made perspiration trickle down her temples. With instant clarity filling her mind, she realized her anxiety medication was right there in her suitcase, just for such a possible attack of nerves, but she didn't want to rip open her bag in front of God and everybody, just to get to it.

It was her first excursion away from home-alone, since her late husband's passing. She was used to his reassurances when she fretted about unexpected changes. I can do this, she assured herself. After all, I am a mature adult. She drew in a deep breath.

She searched again for her missing friends. Then gulped. Her mouth felt as dry as New Mexico's desert outside.

Did I remember to send them the correct flight information? Do I have the right day? Sheesh, Barbara, come on! You managed to get yourself to the ticket counter. They took your ticket in San Jose, didn't they? Today is the right day.

Could Annah and Gerod have forgotten? She drew in a quick breath to calm her frantic thoughts. Don't panic! There could be good, logical reasons why they've been detained. Possibly they've gotten held up in traffic. Or...had trouble finding a parking place. So keep your cool, Barbara! Just take another deep breath.
Her carry-on seemed to grow heavier, the leather strap cutting into her palm. Her camera bag jabbed her back at every step. You're hyperventilating, Barbara. Get control!-Take another deep breath and hold it.
She rearranged her hold on her luggage as she labored to control her racing heart. The shoulder strap holding her camera equipment: a small Digital camera, and a 35.mm Olympus with a flash attachment and all her lenses, macro, wide angle and telephoto, cut deeply into her shoulder. In the same hand she juggled her weighty, suitcase-sized hard-pack video case. She had never given up the full-sized camcorder for the smaller 8mm. When she had tried one, she hadn't cared for the dizzying-film produced by her wrist action.
Although heavier, the full-sized camera at least sat solidly on her right shoulder and steadied the videography. Resigned, she settled her bags by her feet. Then as she searched the area again, she scrubbed her sweating palms against the knobby texture of her raw silk skirt. She was soaked in sweat; her matching jersey clung to her.

With a shuddering in-breath, she slowly placed her heavy camera bag on top of her laptop and fastened them to the handlebars on top of her wheeled suitcase. She wound the camera cases' straps tightly around the pull handle. Now all she had to worry about were her carry-on bag and camcorder case. She'd heard the sad story about her friends losing their photo equipment when they had been traveling, so she'd become extra vigilant of her surroundings. Someone had nabbed their equipment when they had been distracted and looked away for only a moment. It won't happen to me, she declared emphatically, hoping her declaration would calm her inner trembling.

Even her brother-in-law had lost his briefcase in Japan. He'd set it down between his feet to talk to an airline agent and some deft robber had swiped it. She wanted to make sure that didn't happen to her, here. Her livelihood depended upon her cameras and her laptop. Even backed-up before coming on the trip, she couldn't afford to lose all her research material...reels of video-film and proposed plots she hadn't written yet, and photographs of every place she and Jed had ever traveled. Her heart jerked at the very thought of losing them.

She studied everyone in the terminal. Everyone seemed to be dashing for their intended destination with no one showing any particular interest in her expensive equipment...or her, for that matter.

Her misgivings tumbled crazily in her mind as she scanned the airport's vast expanse one more time. Where could they be? Surely I'll recognize them. They couldn't have changed that much since I last saw them...at Jed's funeral. She scowled, feeling very alone without Jed holding her arm. He had no right to go on without me. He said we'd be together forever. How am I supposed to manage without him?

Soul Control

By C. Elizabeth

Young Adult Paranormal Fantasy, 457 pages

Cover art by Trisha FitzGerald

“Lead us not into temptation, deliver us from evil.”

These words ring true for seventeen-year-old Saydi Gardiner upon discovering her ancestry. But if she has any doubts, further confirmation is forthcoming and it comes in the form of a wickedly gorgeous Nathanael Braxton, when he steals her heart and cuddles into her sole – the last place the boy should be.

Nineteen-year-old Nathanael’s unrelenting good looks aren’t the only thing that make him dangerous – and he knows it! However, his caring half-human self struggles with a loyalty – a loyalty that binds him to the hunt for the soul that will give his family the power they seek. There’s only one problem: When he finds her, Nathanael falls in love with his prey – Saydi.

Excerpt:

The house could have been featured in a magazine and was easily something for the town to brag on. A staircase rose in front of me that led to a landing which went both ways at the top. On my left, old dark wood pocket doors opened to a room full of kids. On my right, the same kind of doors opened to another room, also full of kids, but was also filled with floor to ceiling bookcases. A hallway lay off to the side of the stairs that led to the back of the house. It was in perfect order—not one box, carton or piece of newspaper anywhere.

My attention was drawn to the bookshelf room, and in hopes of finding my friends, I snaked through the people, working my way to the back. Not one friend was to be found and instead of fighting the crowd again, I used the door in the back of that room. It, in turn, stopped me in my tracks. It wasn’t the hallway as I had anticipated; it was another room, not quite as big as the other one, but much more beautiful—to me, anyway.

The earthy scent of leather coated my senses. Shelves upon shelves were filled with leather-bound books of all colors and shapes.

“Wow!” slipped from my mouth as I walked closer to a glass cabinet that displayed some old scroll-like papers written in a different language. Then my gaze moved on to the other bookshelves that lined each and every wall, all had to be at least sixteen feet tall, some displaying special treasures.

With each book spine I could reach came an overwhelming desire to touch and read them. Some were written in different languages and some sounded incredibly interesting—especially one. In simple type, the spine read: The Two Thousandth Year War of the Spirit Light. Even though it was obvious the room was supposed to be off limits, I couldn’t help myself and gently pulled it from its resting place, touching the cover. I knew from research that the oil in people’s hands could deteriorate the pages in an old book, and so, being even more nosey, I pulled my sleeve over my fingers and opened it. The writing was English and each letter swirled with curlicues, like old English script. There was no dedication to an author, nor a date of publication. Only the title graced the first page. A few pages later came the first chapter: “The Discovery.”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

I jumped; the booked slipped from my fingers and landed on the floor with a light thud. “I’m sorry!” For a second I hesitated, wondering if I should make a break for it and just leave the book there—but my conscience wouldn’t let me. My hand shook as I picked it off the floor and prayed that upon inspection, there wouldn’t be any rips, tears or bends.

Nathanael stepped further into the room, holding a drink. “That’s father’s favorite book,” he said, tipping his glass slightly my way.

Great! “I’m sorry,” I repeated, pushing the book back into its rightful spot. I moved quickly toward the door, not looking at him when I passed.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” he asked.

“I should go home...I’m sorry. Truly...I usually know better. Bye!”

The front door couldn’t be in my sight quickly enough. Forgetting about my friends, I burst through the people on the porch and ran down the sidewalk. Stupid! Stupid! When I reached the front gate, that’s when it hit me...how stifling the house felt, almost like being cloaked in a blanket!

The Second Time Around

By Sr. Christine Kresho

Cozy Mystery/Paranormal 274 pages

Cover art by Pat Evans

Blurb:

When God appears again on earth, this time as a daughter, she is killed because her message of love threatens those who cling to power. The search for her killer reveals scandals and cover-ups, but this time, the second time God walked among us, a powerful institution will change forever.

Excerpt:

With Tom and Maria beside her, and just before she opened the door to leave, Mary turned and scanned the room for Connie. She caught sight of her at a far table picking up her purse. Mary walked over to her. “Connie, would you walk with us?” The eagerness Mary detected in Connie’s eyes suggested she was looking forward to a front-page story.

“Absolutely, Mary. Do you think the protestors are waiting outside?”

“I do.”

Mary took a deep breath and grasped the door knob. She yanked open the door to a lot filled only with empty cars. She glanced at Connie’s disappointed face and said, “I guess we were both wrong.”

“Would you mind if I follow you home?”

“Do you think?”

“I’m never wrong twice in one day!”

Tom leaned over to Guadalupe and asked her to go home with Jim and Angie. “But, Dad, I want to go with you and Mom. You know how much I want to be a reporter when I grow up. I want to tell her what Sammi meant to me, too.”

“I’m sure you will have an opportunity to do that, but not today. I’ll tell you everything, I promise.” He kissed her on the cheek.

During the fifteen minute ride to Mary’s home, Tom and Maria allowed Mary the silence she seemed to need. As Tom made the turn to her street, he reached over to grab Mary’s cold hand. “We’ll do this together,” he said, keeping his eyes on the protestors who had formed a line blocking any attempt to enter her home.

“I know, Tom. Thank you,” she said patting his hand.

“Looks like Connie was right,” Maria acknowledged.

“But I didn’t expect TV cameras, too,” Mary said.

Tom parked the car and checked his rear view mirror to see Connie was right behind him. They exited together and Mary headed straight for the local Channel Six reporter and her cameraman. Connie quickened her steps to get close to Mary.

“I want you to announce the names of these people,” Mary said, pointing toward the five protestors and their signs. “And I want you to state that they are part of a conspiracy that murdered my daughter.”

Burned Into Time

By Mary M. Ricksen

Paranormal Time-Travel Romance 274 pages

Cover art by Richard Stroud

Blurb:

A horrific car accident, a Celtic ring and destiny, send a young woman on a journey to the past. In a desperate search for her lost sister, she follows the instructions left her in a bank vault from a hundred years ago.

Little did she know the ring would save her life and change it in ways she could never imagine. Does she have the strength to live through her nightmare and find her destiny?

Can she face her sister now that things have changed so drastically? Only time will tell…

Excerpt:

Consciousness returned one blurry image at a time. When she wiped her eyes, she saw blood on her hands. King’s whimpering cry and raspy tongue on her face brought it all back. She tried to focus both her eyes and her brain; then it hit her. The car, an accident, she was alive. She’d seen a strange vision, but…

“Blythe!” she shrieked, her voice hoarse already, the pungent smell of burning wires harsh to her senses. Fire! Acrid smoke rapidly filled the car, choking her as it scorched her throat. Frantic, she waved it away, barely able to see.

In abject panic, Lacy looked toward Blythe and gasped. Raw terror overcame her when she saw the extent of her cousin’s injuries. Blythe had hit the dashboard and windshield with her head so hard she cracked it. Tuffs of her hair embedded in the glass around a deeply impacted area. Unconscious, blood streamed from her nose and ears, while it trickled from the corner of her mouth. The entire front of her shirt bloomed crimson. Blythe lay at an odd angle, her body a bit askew, head tilted at an unnatural angle. A shattered thigh bone protruded through the shredded fabric of what had been her slacks. Blythe’s lower limbs were unrecognizable.

Lacy turned to the back seat. Flames engulfed the rear of the car, rapidly heading forward toward the three of them. In the front seat, King huddled as close to her as possible, howling and barking.

“Quiet, King!” she shouted. His loud barks gave way to pathetic whines. “Blythe, wake up, Blythe! We’ll burn to death.” Blythe didn’t respond. Lacy struggled to open her crumpled door to no avail. “Blythe.” She reached past King and touched her to rouse her. A small shot of relief flew through Lacy as Blythe’s eyes fluttered open.

“Lacy, I can’t move. I’m so tired.” Blythe could barely speak.

“No!” Lacy begged her to listen. “We’ll get out, get help, you’ll be all right.” Frantically she tried to move Blythe, to reach past her to her door—if she could only open her door. Flames reached their seats, and Lacy’s hair began to burn. Hysterical, she smacked at her head to stop it.

“I’m tired,” Blythe rasped, “Wanna sleep, so tired…”