She Shifters Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Foreword

  Introduction

  THE NIGHT CROW

  VERDE

  NINE DAYS AND SEVEN TEARS

  SWEETWATER PASS

  SCORCHED RETRIBUTION

  THWARTING THE SPIRITS

  SHE’S FURRY YIFFY

  TOTEM

  SNEAK

  PURRFECT IN VENEZIA

  THE DRAGON DESCENDING

  ALL THE COLORS OF THE SUN

  THE HANDLER

  BOUND WITH BRONZE

  CATNIP

  BELLING THE CAT

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  FOREWORD

  Kate Douglas

  I’ve always loved fiction. There’s something about those larger-than-life characters that truly appeals to me. When I was little I read animal stories. I took the things I read—from the dogs’, cats’, horses’, and other critters’ points of view—and grew up loving animals. Those stories made it perfectly obvious to me that our four-legged friends think and have their own language in real life, just as they did in the stories I loved. But I never really thought of the stories I read as lessons learned. They were fantasy, and the stories made me feel good.

  As I grew older, my focus turned to science fiction—amazing worlds with unique settings and characters that totally enthralled me. I know that even today my fascination with the space program and the possibilities inherent in paranormal fiction go back to those books I loved, the ones that stretched my imagination and made me wonder if the impossible might really exist. Stories by Robert A. Heinlein, Arthur C. Clarke, and Anne McCaffrey, among so many others, removed the boundaries and limits that society, by virtue of its existence, creates. But lessons? I was entertained, but not actually learning, right? Not forming my opinions based on fantasy, not learning more about who I was, what I wanted, what my future might hold.

  When I first began writing fiction, I had no idea my stories revolved around common themes—not until I started receiving fan mail from readers who wrote to tell me what they had learned from my books, who said that my sensual tales of shapeshifters overcoming whatever life threw at them had left them feeling empowered. Many readers related personal stories of heartbreak and loss and then wrote of their own victories—victories they said came from the lessons of love and acceptance they found in my books.

  They’re learning something? Feeling empowered by my stories? But how? I write erotic paranormal romances. There’s no message there, none intended, right?

  I had no idea how wrong I was, nor did I realize that my own life experience, my own core beliefs—many of those beliefs forged in my earlier reading—were so much a part of my stories. I didn’t set out to write stories with a message, nor did I intend to write anything that could possibly be construed as life lessons, but that’s what stories do. I know that now, because my readers made me see the impact that the fictional stories we read can have on our lives.

  I write of the redeeming power of love and the need for us to love ourselves before we can freely love another. I write of men and women who have suffered, but have gone on to find the strength to believe in themselves, to believe they are truly worthy of love—and to choose partners who are worthy of their love. But most of all, I write about acceptance. That love in and of itself is what matters. Paramount in my stories is the concept that we are all worthy of love, that gender, race, religion, and all the other things society tries to throw in our way as barriers to love are foolish—though I have to admit, they do create wonderful themes around which to build our tales.

  Since I write romances, it’s often sexual attraction that brings my protagonists together, but what keeps them together is stronger. It’s honor and integrity, it’s putting the one you love first and wanting their happiness above all else. It’s accepting that person exactly as they are—not asking them to change to fit an ideal rather than their own reality. I write my stories around these themes because they’re important to me—I had no idea how important they were to my readers.

  Readers’ letters also made me look much more closely at the stories I choose to read as well as the ones I write. I made a most surprising discovery: those same messages of love and acceptance, of honor and integrity, abound in the books on my “keeper shelves.” That led to another question—are my core beliefs something that sprang from within, or were they, at least partially, the result of the books I’ve read over the years? Did I choose those tales of love and acceptance because I agreed with them, or did I read them and learn?

  I believe fantasy—beyond what it teaches us about life—can often provide the direction we need to get our lives on track, to figure out those things about ourselves that we either like or hope to change. It helps us accept who we are and why we are the way we are, and if we are foundering and can’t quite figure out what’s important, they can often point us in the right direction.

  Love and acceptance are popular themes in our culture, in our lives, and in our fantasies. Why fantasy? Because we don’t always automatically find love or experience acceptance in our real-world existence, and yet we continue searching. It’s a visceral drive within us, to know that we love, that we are loved—that we are capable of loving even when the object of our desire isn’t quite what we expected.

  Sometimes the stories we find in fantasy offer solutions for our own reality, a blueprint for accepting not only ourselves but those around us, and most especially, those we love.

  Within the pages of books, through the imaginations of others, we can find answers to questions, examples and lessons for living that translate from the fantasy of the impossible or entirely improbable, to the reality of our own existence, our own personal experience. Life doesn’t come with a guarantee of happily ever after, or even happily for now. What it does come with is the option of choice—the chance to choose our own path.

  But how do we know what to choose, what direction we should take? That’s where fantasy gives us analogous guidelines for real life. Like the parables of old, stories of love and acceptance, of overcoming long odds, of finding love in the least obvious of places with the most unlikely of partners, can be translated into real life lessons.

  She’s fallen in love with a shapeshifter, but his or her shape is worlds apart from our heroine’s. Will she have to change to suit her lover’s needs, or be strong enough to stand firm and say, “Love me as I am”? She’s found love but it’s not the partner her family would choose, not the proper consort in this fantasy world—does she give in to outside demands, or follow her own path, find the inner strength she needs to choose love?

  Our protagonist’s fictional choices translate into life lessons in reality for the reader. Stories filled with emotion and passion, with adventure and danger and convoluted relationships are still rife with empowering messages. Messages that resonate with readers, that offer subtle guidelines and life lessons they can translate into real life experience. The choices that give our protagonists their happily ever after can help us build a foundation for our own decisions, our choices and the way we deal with our most intimate relationships in the real world. They can be a guideline, a template, a warning—even the story that ends badly can be a lesson, if only in caution, in making smart choices.

  We are the sum total of all our experiences. We learn from our families, our friends, from school and work and life in general, but never forget the lessons we take from the reading we do for pleasure. Fantasy can be a powerful instrument in real life choices, teaching, even as it entertains. I remember, in a conversation one time, trying to explain my core beliefs of the human sexual condition, and I realized later it’s a philosophy I’ve come to almost entirely through m
y reading. It’s simple, really, when you think about it, but love is love, no matter the gender, the race, or any label you choose. The rest is friction.

  So, I invite you to sit back, maybe pour a glass of wine, get comfortable, and open the pages ahead. You’ll find tales of love, of acceptance, of challenges met and fears overcome. And maybe you’ll take away a lesson or two. It might be fantasy, but believe me, it matters.

  INTRODUCTION: THE SHAPES OF DESIRE

  The concept of shapeshifters—beings both human and animal—ignites our imaginations with visions of primal passions and insatiable hungers. Most commonly seen as dark, masculine demons, I felt shapeshifters were in need of a metaphysical overhaul—a new feminine/Sapphic blending of physical power and inescapable desires.

  So, I sent out a call for submissions and asked writers to re-imagine common myths. Traditional lycanthropes and feline familiars were welcome—if told with a fresh twist. However, I wanted new, inventive tales celebrating feminine power, lust, and erotic love.

  Above all, as always, I wanted a surprise.

  Writers took my suggestions to heart. Rather than an in-box filled with werewolf stories that my friend Kate Douglas already does so well, I read stories filled with cats, snakes, mice, cobras, seals… So much variety of species, and from such a rich mixture of mythologies, that choosing among them was painfully hard.

  In the end, I chose the stories that touched my emotions. Those that painted a lushly erotic picture and made me smile or cry. I’m a pretty jaded reader. If a story can affect me, I figure others will appreciate it, too.

  Usually, the idea of shapeshifting creatures is meant to elicit shivers of horror. But imagine the possibilities if the animal lurking under the skin of a woman is searching for love. Even a demon with fangs and fur can long for a tender caress. Imagine again, a human who discovers her most erotic fantasies embodied in a wild, untamable lover.

  Inside She Shifters, you’ll discover how it feels to be embraced inside the warm, feathered wings of a phoenix, explore faded memories of a past life to find your one true love, race through a rain forest morphing from tiger to kingfisher, and watch your lover surrender her seal’s pelt to walk hand in hand with you along a cold and lonely shore.

  Love comes running, slithering, flying—in all shapes of desire.

  Delilah Devlin

  THE NIGHT CROW

  Paisley Smith

  “Even the ravens of the Tower sat silent and immovable on the battlements and gazed eerily at the strange scene. A Queen about to die!”

  —George John Younghusband

  You are now free to move about the cabin.”

  I retrieved my MP3 player from my purse, plugged in the earbuds and leaned my seat back, trying to get comfortable for the long flight ahead. Overnight from Atlanta to London. I’d lost my fucking mind.

  I exhaled the breath I’d been holding since takeoff. Now that the monstrous jet had climbed and leveled to cruising height, some of my tension melted away. Already, the sleep aid I’d taken just before boarding started to take effect.

  Part of me didn’t want to sleep. Ever. Not after the dreams I’d been having. Although I’d always been interested in psychic phenomena and past lives, these dreams had rattled me to the core.

  They’d compelled me to buy a plane ticket and travel to London, where perhaps I could sort out what was happening to me.

  My eyelids grew increasingly heavy, and my breathing deepened. All over the jet, passengers switched off their lights and settled in for the flight. I blinked, fighting the urge to doze. My gaze drifted to the couple beside me, obviously honeymooning and glowing with new love. Surely it would be safe to relax here, in the midst of all these people.

  I snuggled against the tiny pillow the attendant had given me earlier. Yes. I could sleep here—even knowing my dark lover would come from that long-ago time to haunt my dreams again.

  “Touch me,” my lover pleaded, her voice but a broken whisper as she took my hand to guide it under her nightrail to the soft thatch of curls between her thighs.

  I did not need coaxing. Love surged as I sought her delicate folds in the darkness. Her breathing hitched and her thighs parted for my touch. Already slick with her juices, my fingers slid easily over the swollen pearl, and then into the wet velvet of her sheath. Her hands drew me closer under the covers and I realized I could not get close enough to her. The need to fuse with her body, nay, her soul, rose hard within me.

  Light from the fire flickered, casting her face in a glimmer of shadows, but I did not miss her impassioned expression. Sweet lavender emanated from her luxurious, inky locks. With her lips parted and her wealth of black lashes resting against her cheeks, I found her incredibly beautiful. Bewitchingly so.

  I ached to kiss her, and I craned my neck until my lips brushed hers. Her eyes flew open, and we stared at each other for several steep seconds until she lifted her chin, fusing her mouth with mine.

  Wild desire raged inside me. Still kissing her, I compelled her onto her back and I moved over her, parting her knees with mine, opening her treasures to my touch. My tongue slipped between her lips, and she accepted it, grasping my head in her hands, spearing her fingers into my hair to hold me captive.

  She did not have to hold me. My heart was already her willing prisoner. As much as I wanted to please her, I wanted to protect her, to secret her away from this place and hide her from the world. From court. From him.

  I thrust my fingers in and out of her, intent on feeling her come undone at my touch. My shoulder dropped and I explored deeper, finding and stroking the swollen pad secreted in her channel. Mewling cries spilled into my mouth. Her fingers clutched harder. Her body trembled beneath mine. Hot wetness gushed around my probing digit, and then her body went rigid. I muffled her cries with my kisses to keep from alerting the others, but she would not be silenced.

  She tore her mouth from mine and a long, low moan escaped before I clamped my free hand over her lips, stifling the sound. “Quiet, my lady,” I whispered, even as I peppered her cheek and neck with kisses.

  Tremors shook her slender body in rippling waves. I eased my hand from her cunny and brought it up to cup one of her breasts, delighting in the diamond-hard nipple pressing into my palm.

  How had this happened? How had I fallen in love with a woman?

  An unattainable woman.

  Her eyes opened, and she gazed up at me. “Would that I found such pleasure in my husband’s bed as I find with you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

  Fear seized me. “Silence. You speak of treason.”

  “Speak it. Commit it. My darling, Fortune, I cannot deny my heart.”

  I held her black gaze, my own heart overflowing with conflicting emotions—love and terror. Innately, I knew danger loomed. Whispers traveled far at court. Already he looked to replace her.

  “Kiss me,” she murmured, drawing me to her. “Kiss me, sweet Fortune.”

  I exhaled. “My love,” I muttered before my lips closed on hers once more, knowing what I must do.

  Kill him.

  My eyes snapped open. My heart hammered. No longer was I in a shadowy bedchamber. The honeymooning couple snoozed beside me. A flight attendant eased down the narrow aisle. The monotonous roar of the big engines vibrated through me, ripping me from my dream lover’s arms and seating me firmly in the present. I blew out a breath, trying to will my pulse to return to normal.

  Again, I had dreamed of a raven-haired, black-eyed beauty. In the dream, I knew her well. I loved her. I blinked, trying to recall the location, knowing only it was in a castle bedroom. A fire burned low in the hearth. I closed my eyes, grasping at elusive details. Thick, richly embroidered velvet curtains draped from a canopy overhead. The bed linens were fashioned of the finest linen, and the pillowslips were emblazoned in gold thread with an initial I couldn’t quite remember.

  I only guessed the location was England from my lover’s accent. Her strange manner of speaking hailed from centuries past. It w
as almost as if she were calling to me from another time and place.

  But why?

  And who was the man I would kill for this woman? The memory and strength of my conviction sent a shudder racing down my spine.

  I shifted in my seat, once more chiding myself for coming on this fool’s errand. What did I hope to find in London?

  I’d maxed out my credit card to purchase plane fare and a hotel—all because of a series of recurring dreams. Anyone who knew me would think I’d lost my mind.

  Hell, I thought I’d lost my mind.

  But a dark thought lurked. What if I found my dream lover in England? What then? How could I explain the drive that compelled me to travel across an ocean to find her?

  I snorted. This was silly. There was no real woman. I knew better. At the very least, I hoped to make some sense of these crazy dreams that plagued me.

  I hoped to make them stop so I could return to my normal, lonely existence working in the Tennessee State Museum, restoring old clothes and flags. Trying to keep from focusing on the dream, I mentally went back over the last items I’d restored. A trunk had been donated by one of the oldest families in Nashville. Some of the items inside had traveled over with the first settlers from England. At first glance, I’d guessed some of the fabrics to be nearly five centuries old.

  My expertise lay in fabrics and clothing dating from the mid-nineteenth century. I knew little about anything as ancient as some of the items in the trunk, but I hadn’t been able to resist the cardinal sin of touching one of the ermine-trimmed pieces with my bare fingers.

  Cold realization washed through me. That was the night my dreams began. Had touching that fur triggered something in me? I’d never been one to have supernatural experiences, but I had to admit, the idea of past lives fascinated me.