Trent

Two wild souls unlock passion and love, until duty and destiny make claims on them both.


Lieutenant Trent Williamson of the Magus Corps wants a promotion. How that can possibly happen in the hick town where he’s been banished, he can’t imagine. Though he ought to be slaying Templars, he’s babysitting.

Of course Wiccan novice Elaine Blackhawk doesn’t know that. She barely knows she’s a witch. Despite the blood of Medicine Women running in her veins, she’s at a loss to explain her bizarre nighttime escapades. On the verge of thinking herself insane, Trent appears. As feral and wild as herself, something in him calls to her.

Their shapeshifting and love-making are a revelation to her, but to him she’s a means to an end. Forced to choose between the only home she’s ever known or protecting her loved ones by leaving, Elaine is caught in a dangerous game that quickly grows deadly.

The love between the main characters was well drawn and the stuff of smiles and sighs and pretty darn hot. I recommend you start with the first book and read all seven of them You will be in for a enjoyable experience. Kindle Reviewer
Great book broody hero, independent woman become a team to fight the bad guys, throw in a couple of magical gifts and voila– Magic.Kindle Reviewer
Wonderful book and enjoyable experience!Kindle Reviewer
A very entertaining read filled with mystery, magic and sex…what more could you ask for?Kindle Reviewer
This is my favorite of all seven stories in the series.Kindle Reviewer

“Freaking horse crap,” Trent Williamson cursed as he stepped out of the pile he’d accidentally wandered into.

His sneakers were ruined, and he’d always loved those vintage Air Jordans of his. What else could he expect? He was banished, sent to the middle of nowhere in Alabama, and exiled from the actual civilization of the Washington D.C. coven.

Ergo, of course he’d step in a giant pile of horse turds. It was as if even the Goddess was out to spite him now.

Beside him, the hand just snickered. The other guy wasn’t overly tall, a few inches shorter than Trent, but he was huge in frame. The dark-haired cowpoke laughing at him must have spent years lifting hay bales. Granted, as a second lieutenant for the Magus Corps, Trent had spent over two decades fighting the Knights Templar and brandishing a broadsword. He wasn’t a weakling. On the other hand, he wasn’t part gorilla either.

“Is something funny?” Trent asked.

The other man shrugged and spit a black wad of chewing tobacco into a copper bucket in the stables.

“Not especially. It’s just you’re city folk through and through. You don’t know nothing about riding.”

“I wanted to try it,” Trent lied. “I’ve heard it can be a great stress relief, and I’ve always liked animals.”

That much was true. Besides his own familiar, a wolf-husky hybrid back in D.C. named Titus, Trent had always been drawn to the creatures of nature. He liked to think that some of that was just a natural affection for them. Hell, even before he’d grown into his warlock abilities, Trent had loved nothing more than hanging out in the streets in Brooklyn and picking up stray dogs and cats to bring home. Since he’d come fully into the Magus Corps and embraced his abilities as a shapeshifter, well, Trent definitely had a wild side.

On days like this when that hayseed in the brown-stained flannel was mocking him, Trent could safely say he felt closer to animals than humans. No contest. Obviously, he just wasn’t a farm guy. Canines and felines, even some birds, those were all fine. Horses and cows and their crap? He’d pass. Except when he was on assignment, and his damn superiors knew that.

The hick shook his head and, reaching into a pocket, shoved another wad of tobacco in his cheek. It popped out like a chipmunk, lessening his menace just a bit.

“Doesn’t look like you’re less stressed, city boy.”

Trent fought back the growl building in his throat. Twenty-five years of shifting forms, especially into his favored shape of the wolf, sometimes put his instincts far too close to the surface. It wouldn’t do to growl at this moron, even if part of him deep down wanted to tear Chuckles’s head off.

“Look, I’m supposed to be getting lessons. I know I’m a beginner, but I’m looking for Elaine Blackhawk. She’s supposed to be the instructor.”

The other man’s easy expression changed, suddenly less amused.

“You lookin’ for Elaine?”

Oh great, some Neanderthal with a crush. Exactly what I need, not.

“Yes, she’s supposed to help me learn to ride.” He sighed and gestured down to his ruined and stinking shoes. “Maybe I can salvage at least part of the day.”

“You just decided, city boy, that you wanted to do all this?”

“Yeah, imagine that Mr. …”

Trent didn’t know Chuckle’s name.

“Floyd, Floyd Lockwood,” the cowpoke interjected.

Trent stepped forward to shake his hand and tried to ignore the slight when the other man refused to take it.

“Or not. So can you just show me to Mrs. Blackhawk?”

A raspy alto voice sounded behind him.

“It’s miss, actually.”

Trent turned and, for a moment was convinced that Elaine Blackhawk had to be a fully initiated witch and that the Magus Corps had misled him. After all, she was surely spelling him. She was tall, with legs that went on for miles and were hugged in all the right ways by the tight denim she wore. Her skin was dark, the color of brushed copper, and large, luminous brown eyes blinked back at him. Her hair was long and pulled back in a high pony tail. The long locks looked so silky that he wanted to run his hands through them right there. They were the color of the bird she was named for, black as a hawk, black as coal.

He gulped and tried to remember English again.

“Mrs…um, Ms. Blackhawk, thank God. Floyd over here? Not exactly helpful.”

She shook her head. “Floyd play nice with the city folk. We need anyone who wants to ride to keep the ranch going.”

“But they make it so easy! You see what he’s wearing.”

She laughed, and it stung to have that throaty alto aligned against him.

“Well jeans will work. We do mostly Western style here and not English. At least for you we’ll start as easy as we can. But the shoes? Have you ever heard of cowboy sneakers?”

He blushed and desperately wanted to reveal everything about who he really was. No, Trent wasn’t the dumb city interloper. He was a badass soldier who had saved witches from certain death at the hands of psychotic knights. But there was supposed to be a time and place for that kind of revelation. Covered in horse shit probably wasn’t it.

“Well if sneakers are good enough for basketball, aren’t they okay?”

“Won’t be if a horse steps on you,” Floyd said, “and breaks every bone in your foot, yankee.”

Elaine laughed again and pointed to the line of stalls. “Floyd, get to scooping out. I’ll help this poor mess over here, okay?”

“Sure, but if he turns out to be too hopeless a case, then you’ll know where to find a real man.”

Trent bunched his hands at his sides, curling his fingers into fists. He wished he could enchant the way others could, maybe a little mind control suggestion. Yeah, that would have worked. Floyd wouldn’t be so suave quacking around like a duck.

As Floyd stalked off, Elaine offered Trent a megawatt smile. Despite everything––being stuck in a cowtown, this close to a demotion, and far from an assignment he wanted––the sight of her beaming made him almost glad that General MacCulloch had sent him here.

Almost.

“So do I still ride in the sneakers?” he asked, gesturing to his stinking and pretty much ruined Air Jordans. “It’s all I have right now.”

Elaine shook her head and her hair scattered across her shoulders like dark ink.

“We have a few sets of boots in the lost and found, come on and we’ll save your foot from certain crushing. Follow me,” she said, beckoning with a slender finger.

With the view he had from behind of the jeans hugging her curves, well, Trent would have followed her anywhere.