I was absolutely tickled to find this fantastic review for The Cities Below series.  Ashlee Gunn of A_bookobsession pointed out some of my favorite pieces and parts of the series. Truly, I've been smiling all day!

This was the royal storage, and the Guardians would be here any moment. Treasures from all over Europe had been covered, hidden from view, while others lay exposed, collecting layers of dust. A gold, jewel-encrusted urn half the size of a man glinted in the dim light seeping from beneath the door. A golden yellow chaise in Greek styling was half hidden beneath a sheet, the craftsmanship elaborate. Yes, Savard grew nervous when Guardians were scheduled to enter this room, but theft was not his fear, nor was the handling of such priceless artifacts.

He’d have given his life to protect what was beyond the row of five large French curio cabinets in the corner of the attic. Savard slipped into Spirit long enough to move through a curio, and once inside the makeshift seclusion, returned to his true form. Here, easily hidden behind the towering cabinets, was the most priceless treasure in Balinese.

Navarre Casteel, the true lord of Balinese, lay motionless on a small bed, trapped in a deep healing sleep. Not waking, not dying.

Navarre had fallen in the demon attack nearly seven years ago. A demon’s blade had pierced his chest, and from what they could tell, nicked his heart. Navarre had slipped into a healing sleep, his body shutting down to repair from the inside out. After that point, nothing could be done to help him. Their lord would have to heal on his own, or not at all.

Every day since, Savard expected his lord’s death, even planned for the loss. It never happened. Months had passed. Years. Seven years of total stillness.

The padlock outside the door rattled, the heavy hinge laid back against the door. Then the large wooden slide latch was moved, wood scraping wood, until the handle hit the end of its range with a solid thud.

Savard knelt beside the bed and took his lord’s lifeless hand in both of his, ready to weather the brief intrusion, prepared to Spirit Navarre away should it become necessary.

The hinges on the thick door creaked as it opened. The Guardians stepped inside, flipped on the lights. Boots scuffed the uneven floorboards beneath their feet, and long, purposeful strides quickly carried them deeper inside the room.

“There it is,” Dyre said, his young, smooth voice trapped in the low ceiling of the attic. “It doesn’t appear heavy, only awkward.”

“Why are we putting an empty birdcage outside the dining hall?” Cat said, suspicion bleeding through her tone.

The presence of these two was unexpected. As arena Guardians, Titus and Graydon often drew the short straw, being sent on random missions that sometimes involved moving furniture. Not today. Somehow Dyre and Cat had taken their place.

“Don’t ask, just do,” Dyre said.

“Ugh.” She exaggerated the guttural sound. “I hate your motto. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not my motto,” Dyre said, the effort of sliding wooden furniture across the floor temporarily halting his speech. “And you seem to like it just fine when you’re the one barking orders.”

“Fair enough,” she said, relenting.

Savard smiled slightly, shaking his head. In public those two barely spoke a word to each other, and after the parade of Guardian partners Cat had gone through, he never would have thought Dyre would be the one she’d accept. But then, Dyre was one of the few able to bring her unpredictable temper down to at least a simmer.

“Here, take this end,” Dyre directed. “I’ll go down the stairs backward.”

“You think I can’t go backward?” Cat snapped at him, instantly geared up for a fight, offended her partner might find her lacking.

“No,” he said calmly, his tone hinting at simple honesty. “I think you’re short.”

If Cat gave him a response, Savard didn’t hear it. Boots scuffled across the floor, the lights went out and the door closed, the bolt slid home, and the padlock clunked into place. The room was left in silence once again. Savard peeked through a crack between the dressers to make certain they’d left.

Turning Navarre’s hand over, Savard pressed his fingertips to his lord’s exposed inner wrist. As he did with each visit, Savard searched for a pulse, craved confirmation that Navarre still lived. Beneath his fingers, the normally slow, lurching rhythm of Navarre’s pulse seemed to have sped up. Not rapid or racing, but simply stronger. This could be his body’s last surge of energy before death. Savard looked at Navarre’s face, fearing it might be the last time.

Navarre, still deep in a healing sleep, turned his face slightly toward the door. He wasn’t dying. He was waking.

“Oh, God. It’s her.” Jaw slack, Savard sank back onto his heels.

He shoved his hair off his face. How had he not seen this connection? When Cat had first arrived on the night of the attack, he hadn’t known what to do with her. He’d put her in one of Navarre’s extra homes. That home was on the floor beneath this attic, not terribly far from where Navarre lay sleeping.

Most vampires could recognize the beckoning call of their fated mate. Supposedly, though he’d never seen it happen, the presence of your mate could even negate the deadly call of the sun. Her proximity was most likely the only reason Navarre still clung to life. Cat must be his mate. If so, then she was the key to Navarre’s awakening. Ironically, her continued presence in the city was contingent upon Navarre allowing her to stay once he woke.

Plans quickly took form now that Savard at long last had a clear solution. If Navarre’s condition was going to change, it would happen tonight. He would make it happen tonight.

While this new development should bring elation, Savard’s skin crawled with a morbid anticipation. Something unstoppable was happening in the world around him, a life-altering force headed his way. He’d felt this same unease the night he’d become lord, an awareness that he balanced at the top of a mountain and would soon fall. He just didn’t know in which direction.

Jen Colly is the rare case of an author who rebelled against reading assignments throughout her school years. Now she prefers reading books in a series, which has led her to writing her first paranormal romance series: The Cities Below. She will write about anything that catches her fancy, though truth be told, her weaknesses are pirates and vampires.

Standing, he summoned her with a hand.
“Come. Get out of the pool.”
Her mouth dropped. “I’m not getting out of here with you standing there. I’m…I’m naked.”
“Of which I’m well aware.” His voice dropped low and deep. “Come out.”
“No!”
“Then I’ll come in after you.”
He took one step. She splashed backward.
“All right!” She huffed. “Turn around.”
He shook his head, unable to keep a smile from his face. “Not on your life. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“You expect me to—”
“Yes. I do. Now, come out.”
She snapped her mouth shut. Flustered, her pale cheeks flushed pink. Marius was thankful for his vampire eyesight to see the pretty blush crawl up her neck. What he wouldn’t do to chase that path with his mouth.
Arabelle’s expression shifted, her brow smoothing, eyes narrowing, lips parting. She slowed her breathing and uncrossed her arms, standing with poise from the water, revealing the sensual gifts nature had given her. Marius swallowed hard, but his mouth had gone dry. Thirsty. He was so thirsty.
She moved unhurriedly through the water into the shallows, emerging like a goddess who knew her power. Marius actually stepped backward as she stood on the ledge in front of him—completely bare and utterly beautiful.
“I’m here now, Your Highness. What will you do with me?”

Juliette is a multi-published author of paranormal and urban fantasy
romance. She calls lush, moss-laden Louisiana home where she lives with her
husband, four kids, and black lab named Kona. From the moment she read JANE
EYRE as a teenager, she fell in love with the Gothic romance–brooding
characters, mysterious settings, persevering heroines, and dark, sexy
heroes. Even then, she not only longed to read more books set in Gothic
worlds, she wanted to create her own.

Cleopatra was utterly trapped. She longed to close her eyes and block him out, but fear of the unknown kept them wide open. The man had no weapon, couldn’t possibly mean to harm her. Except, would he really need a weapon? She couldn’t fight him, wouldn’t even know where to begin.

He studied her closely, and when his head tilted slightly, she noticed every bit of his focus fixated on her neck. Not a murderer. He wanted to mark her, to bite her neck, leave the wound to heal and forever bind her to him. This was why daughters of the aristocracy were kept under a tight watch. The mark, unbreakable and indisputable, would give this man access to her family’s wealth and prestige, and bind her to him until death.

He reached for her, head descending to her neck. Cleopatra quickly covered his target with both hands. Tears gathered in her eyes, sorrow distorted her voice. “I don’t want this. Please, don’t hurt me.”

The man rocked back as if she’d smacked him, and for the first time since he’d appeared, he looked at her face. His eyes met hers and didn’t look away as he brought his hand to her cheek and brushed away a tear. He saw her, truly saw her, and the adoration in his eyes sent a completely different shimmy down her spine.

In one step, he crowded her, pressing his cheek against hers. “Could never hurt you. My angel,” his captivating voice crooned, so close to her ear. He drew in a deep breath, his face buried in her hair. Then he whispered, “My Cleo.”

She gasped. The shortened version of her name on his lips sounded strangely intimate, as though he’d known her for years. The warmth rolling off his body kept her intensely aware of his close proximity, and she held her breath, waiting for his next move to prove his intent. He didn’t bite her, didn’t hurt her, and the sincere affection in his gentle touch left her so very confused. Any other man would have bitten her, taken advantage of the opportunity laid before him. But this man? His intent to bite her had been unmistakable, and he’d stopped because he…cared for her? She didn’t understand.

His hand slipped from her face, dropped to his side, and he staggered back, moving as if through a dream. He still watched her, but he swayed, that intense focus suddenly gone. The man crumpled to the floor with a heavy thud.

Dragging in a long, shaky breath, she blinked away tears she’d been staring through. A few more deep breaths, and she allowed herself to really look at him. He lay on his side, knees slightly curled, motionless. Something was wrong with him. People didn’t just fall over.

Gripping the railing, which had swiftly become her personal anchor, she pointed her foot and gingerly nudged his arm. When he didn’t move, she put more force behind the kick. Cleopatra jumped as his hand fell away from his ribs, thumping onto the floor. Blood coated his fingers.

He was bleeding? She’d missed the injury completely. The saturated, glistening spot had been hidden under his hand and camouflaged by his black button-up shirt. He’d been so close and she hadn’t… She glanced down at herself. Blood streaked across her pale blue gown, more evidence of his severe injury.

The elevator doors slid open. Oh God, if someone were to see them together in this state, what would they think? What would happen to her, or to him? Her heart hammered, panic flooding through her as she peeked out into the main corridor of Sterling.

The white, gold-trimmed corridor stretched on, empty. The elevator doors slid shut, and there it would stay, unless called. She might not have much time. Peering down at the unconscious man, she tried to fit the puzzle pieces together.

She’d mistaken his intent. He’d needed sustenance badly, and now he bled out, dying at her feet. Because of who she was, he refused to harm her, to take from her. How did he have the willpower to block his instincts from taking over, to stop from feeding?

Whoever he was, she had to save him. She dropped to her knees and pushed away any lingering fear under her newfound resolve. Tugging his shirt from his dark jeans, she searched for the injury. In the midst of his blood-slicked skin, the wound gaped open between his ribs. It looked like he’d been slashed, the nasty gash a result of being on the wrong end of a knife. Just a guess. She had no experience with this sort of villainy.

Her hand flew to her mouth. The murderer running loose in Galbraith used a knife. Could this man be yet another victim?

“Can you hear me? What happened to you? Who did this?” She awkwardly patted his whiskered cheek. His eyes fluttered open, then shut again.

“Balinese is safe.” His voice trembled, his words slurred without support from his shallow breath. “Paris. Demons.”

Cleopatra’s fingers fumbled as she pulled away his shirt collar. Several teeth-like gouges in his shredded skin oozed blood near his collarbone. Demons. They’d almost made a meal of him, and he was a bloody mess, but the real danger came from that knife wound. It looked deep, and if he’d been damaged internally and lost too much blood, he might not survive.

He needed blood now. She bit her wrist and pressed it against his mouth. His lips didn’t part, and his body refused to respond. A rivulet of blood slid down his cheek. He’d die if she didn’t fight for him.

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Buck tried not to drool. “Perfect.” He loved making new friends, especially of the female variety. So long as they didn’t complain about his modus operandus: all fun, zero ties. Repeats happened if the girl abided the rules. And if he didn’t get too attached. Such foolishness led to all manner of drama and heartache. He’d had enough of both. His life had become about survival, and he’d taught himself not to let anyone get close. Not to make himself vulnerable to pain. To live alone and like it.
Klaus set two mugs in front of them and deftly removed a bill from the stack Buck had left on the bar.
Something made him glance up at the television. Maybe Kenny had implanted a subliminal suggestion during their conversation. Damn if the name at the bottom of the screen didn’t read Melanie Michaels. A man spoke into a microphone, then stepped closer to hold it near her.
“No way. That’s her?” He waved at the bartender. “Turn up the volume, will you please, Klaus?”
The camera zoomed in on her face. Features delicate but strong, beautiful but serious. God, that mouth—lips full and wide, and the way they moved as she spoke, he could hardly tear away his gaze. Her large eyes, dark and luminous in the way that had always struck him to the bone. Just like Poppy. She’d turned out to be anything but sweet. More like poisonous, the opium behind the flowery facade an instant addiction that took him years to overcome. He still carried the scars from her acid nectar. Anything and anyone reminding him of his former lover ranked the lowest of low on his shit list.
Melanie Michaels just claimed that spot.
And now he’d have to deal with her every day for almost a week. “Oh man, it’s going to be a grueling six days.” Five, technically. Tomorrow’s meet-and-greet was strictly a formality, though the preliminaries helped him size up his guests so he could better prepare.
Klaus glanced from Buck to the screen and back again. “She’s taking your tour? You lucky bastard.”
Lucky? No. Bastard? Yes, according to some. “Oh yeah. Skol.” He raised his mug and gulped. And gulped.
The blonde assessed him. “You’re a wilderness guide? For which company?”
He tried to sound proud and manly as he said, “Arctic Adventures.”
“I’ve heard about them.” An arch of her brows, and her demeanor turned glacier-cold.
He could only imagine what, exactly, she’d heard. Kenny insisted they stretch their expenses as far as possible. Translation: second-rate accommodations. And hey, it wasn’t his fault if the sled dogs took a dislike to certain clients. They should know better than to leave unpackaged foods unprotected and stow their backpacks away from the team. The dogs had few enough trees upon which to relieve themselves, and he didn’t blame them one bit.
Klaus shot the blonde a dubious, don’t-make-trouble look.
“What? They’ll be famous.” She hid a laugh behind her hand. “No Boundaries will make you a star in America.”
“America.” Ah, hell. Why hadn’t it occurred to him? His family would see him, the friends he’d left behind. And Poppy. Shit. Short of them traveling to Sweden, there’d been no way for any of them to bust him on the lie he’d told. Now they’d know he didn’t work for the prestigious National Geographic tours, but a crap company based in Kiruna. In his last email, he’d boasted of almost having saved enough money to build a log resort better than the world-famous Wilderness Lodge. Fat chance, on his salary.
Me, a star? More like an outcast. Buck heaved a sigh. “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.” For drinking or anything else.
He grabbed the cash from the bar, left a generous tip, and nodded goodbye to Klaus. He strode to the exit, ignoring the blonde’s taunting calls to come back. The laughter in her lilting tone churned his gut.
Whether he returned to the job at all depended on how badly Melanie Michaels and crew shamed him on video. He’d spend the next six days avoiding the camera, and afterward, crawl into some isolated igloo a dismal failure. He might stay there until global warming melted away the polar ice cap.

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Ari slipped her keys into the large, beige purse hanging on her shoulder. She released an exasperated exhale. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
The hell she didn’t. She should have realized her limitations and let someone else climb the ladder for what she needed.
“If it makes you feel any better, you’re doing me a favor.” Brooke laid her backpack on the yellow couch. “I have an important paper to work on for my history class. My roommate doesn’t understand the definition of quiet, and I hate studying late at the campus library on weekends. Besides that, Celine would kill me if I didn’t take care of you.” The twenty-two-year-old, college junior smiled as she flipped her brown hair. “I’m staying.”
“So am I.” Dalir stood in front of Ari.
Her jaw tightened as she gave him a withering stare. “In that case, you’re welcome to stay, Brooke. I’ll make up the guest bedroom.”
“No need. Just tell me where to find a pillow and blanket. I can crash out on the couch. Not that I’ll be getting much sleep. I have a lot to do.” Brooke straightened the hem of her white T-shirt over the waist of her skinny jeans. She shooed Ari toward the hallway.
“I’ll work on dinner while you get cleaned up.”
“I didn’t make it to the store this week. Just order pizza. The menu is on the side of the fridge.” Ari stalked away. The mid-thigh length of her dress and her high heels emphasized Ari’s toned legs. Her hips swayed with every step.
Awareness flared. Dalir tamped it down. He needed to know what was going on. She had to stop blowing him off.
He phased down the hall and blocked her path into the bedroom. “It won’t work. I know you can hear and see me, Little One. Talk to me.”
Ari maneuvered past him. The chain shoulder strap on her purse jangled when she dropped it on top of the natural wood dresser. She slammed the door. “One. You do not boss me around. Two. I got stuffed into a space the size of a soda can because I talked to you, so as far as I’m concerned, we’re done communicating. And three,” she advanced on him, “call me Little One again and you’ll regret it.”
Difficult. Mouthy. She was definitely friends with Lauren and Celine.
“I’m not leaving, Little One, until I get answers.”
She socked him in the stomach.
Caught off guard, Dalir hissed out a short breath. “You think you can take me?”
She glared up at him. “Say it again and find out.” One good junk punch and you’ll drop to your knees.
Her thought stung like a phantom slap to the cheek. He backed her up against the edge of the dresser.
The mirror shook. Perfume bottles rattled.
He planted his palms on either side of her. “I don’t think so.”
She lifted her chin. Too bad he’s such a jerk. Her thoughts grew louder in his mind. Look at all those muscles. I’m going with figment of my imagination over ghost. I hit my head. That makes better sense. Doesn’t it? Is it weird for me to be attracted to a figment of my imagination? Wait. What am I doing fighting with him in the first place? He’s my fantasy. I should be stripping him naked and getting my hands on all that goodness.
What should I call him? Yummy should definitely be his middle name.
He caught a view of her conjured up image of him, shirtless, and her yanking down is zipper. Lust snaked through him. “Be careful what you wish for.”
She snickered. “You wish you knew what I wanted.”

Nina Crespo lives in Florida where she indulges in her favorite passions—the beach, kickboxing, a good glass of wine, and dancing. Her lifelong addiction to romance began in her teens while on a “borrowing spree” in her older sister’s bedroom where she discovered her first romance novel. Curiosity about people and places, including what’s beyond the stars, fuels her
writer’s imagination. Indulge in her sensual contemporary stories and steamy paranormal tales to feed your own addiction for love, romance, and happily ever after.