Kryssie Fortune – Page 5 – Romance Lives Forever

Giving
it Up for the Gods

Have you ever thought some gods are
too stupid to live? Not all of them of course. Saturn’s not bad, and his close-lipped
friend, Jase, is a stunner.

Sorry, I should introduce myself.
I’m Lindy Lou Majors, Country and Western singer and siren extraordinaire. You know
us sirens are the sexiest females on the planet, so I won’t bore you with that.
We have a bit of a history with self-seeking gods of course.

First Juno cheated us out of our birthright,
and then Neptune demanded an annual virgin sacrifice.
I mean, some gods like yucky dead stuff and have animals sacrificed in their name.
Artimis, the Goddess of the Hunt, always wanted game killed in her honor. Me, I’d
hear the game birds sing, not have their innards spread out all over the place.

The Greeks offered up pigs to their
Gods. Like to like I suppose, but they didn’t think of it like that. They even poured
water on the pigs head until it bowed, then they claimed it had nodded and agreed
to the sacrifice. Those poor pigs hadn’t a clue what they were in for.

Once someone split piggy’s throat,
his killer spread his entrails–especially his liver–out to see if the Gods accepted
the sacrifice. It gets pretty hot in Greece, so I bet they made a quick decision.
Just imagine the stench of rotting liver, beside people were usually hungry. They
couldn’t wait to dig in to the post sacrifice feast.

Each to their own I suppose, but us
sirens have this problem with Neptune. A few centuries
back, he got hit with a curse, and that wicked sorceress, Circe, saved him. Now
he’s the Greek-god version of the green man. He needs an annual sacrifice to renew
his youth. He doesn’t want meat. He wants virgin blood, and his sacrifice of choice
is a siren.

Neptune’s a kinky old sod He has his
henchmen strip his victims then tether them–legs and arms wide open–across his
altar. I mean a little light bondage can be good, but Neptune
takes things too far.

Each year the sirens draw lots to
see which unfortunate virgin he’ll screw that summer. That’s another reason why
sirens spread themselves around. Anything’s better than letting Neptune screw them. No way am I letting that stinky old man
touch me. I mean, would you?

Now me, I’m the dumb virgin that dreamed
of giving up to her one perfect man. I really wanted to find my soul mate. Then
Neptune abandoned the ballot this year and named
me for his sacrifice. I’m the clock now. I’ve got forty-eight hours to give it up,
or Neptune will take me by force. Suddenly, I’ve
got a great deal of sympathy for all those ancient Greek pigs and game birds.

So what with stupid Greeks killing
innocent animals, and stupid me keeping my legs crossed too long, you’d think we’d
cornered the all the stupid stuff. Only Neptune
wins the really big stupid prize. When he named me, he’s changed the ritual, and
that changes Circes spell. Apparently, if I’m still a virgin on midsummer’s day,
whoever screws me first gets a hit of supernatural powers. Not that it matters,
because I’m going to give it up before then.

About the Book

Not only angels fall.

Convicted of a crime he didn’t commit, the warrior god Janus
plummeted from the heights of Olympus to the depths
of the Underworld. After centuries of pain and torment, he finally clawed his way
free. He’ll never forgive the gods who condemned him, or the sirens for their part
in his downfall.

Each summer, to celebrate the Feast of Neptunealia, Neptune demands a virgin sacrifice. And his sacrifice of choice
is a siren.

Sirens are strong, sassy, and sexy.

Lindy’s siren heritage makes her fierce, lusty, and curious but
she dreams of loving one man forever. She won’t give her heart–or her virginity–to
a short lived mortal she might accidentally break in bed. When Neptune demands her as his sacrifice, she’s determined to
give her virginity to anybody except him.

Janus, or Jase as he calls himself now, rescues Lindy from Neptune’s mermen. He’s the one man she’s eager to bed. The
clock’s ticking. Lindy has forty-eight hours to seduce the siren-hating Jase and
win his heart. That or Neptune will find her and
take her against her will.

Buy This Book

Amazon http://www.amazon.com/ebook/dp/B00K0T1OIS

Author Social Media

Website http://kryssiefortune.wordpress.com/

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Curse of the Fae King

“Just call me Ishmael”

Well… actually, I prefer Kryssie Fortune, but I’m sure you
recognized the opening sentence from Moby Dick. So why am I talking about whales
when I want to tell you about my new book Curse of the Fae King? Because the story
starts in Whitby.

Still no wiser?

Let me explain. Whitby was once
one of Britain’s
biggest whaling towns. Now, thanks to its Dracula connections, it’s the Goth Capital
of the World. This quaint Yorkshire town, has a
rich history replete with Celtic princesses, dark-age church synods, Viking slavers,
and…wait for it…whalers. Meena–named after the heroine in Bram Stoker’s book
–wants to show you around.

Meena’s Whitby
Tour

Hi. I didn’t
want to love Whitby,
but when the Witch Council banished me from the otherworld, I found my spiritual
home. It’s got Goth links, and a quayside Dracula Experience, but most of all it’s
got the abbey. That’s where I first met my Leo, but back then he was all arrogance
and pride–a warrior to the core. He thought all he had to do was crook his finger
in my direction and I’d let him into my panties. He really didn’t like it when I
told him no. Okay, it was hard, since with his smooth voice, bullwhip, and rapier
he’s the sexiest thing ever.

Church Steps

Leo even thought I’d tried to poach
his newly hatched war dragon. I didn’t, of course, but the poor thing was lost and
hungry so I fed him my cheese sandwich. Is it my fault they bond with whoever feeds
them first?

Leo should have taken better care
of him in the first place. He hated the name I chose for our dragon too, but he
wanted something menacing like Dreadnought or Valiant, but my name stuck. What is
it? Not telling. You’ll have read Kryssie’s book to find out. Meanwhile, here’s
a photograph of the abbey. It’s always peaceful–and windy–up there.

After Leo left me–freaking left me
when I wanted him so badly–in the grounds, I’d no option but head off back to my
mother’s herb farm. Have you seen the Church Stairs? There’s 199 of them, but going
down’s okay. Going up’s a chore. Back in the olden days pallbearers had a specially
created resting place half way up. The locals didn’t want anyone having a heart
attack before the funeral. I know it’s flippant, but one corpse at a time please.
Leo–King Leonidas of the Fae to you–just glowered at me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have
said that.

Ship in harbor

Anyway, the Goth shop where I used
to work is on the other bank of the river, right across the Edwardian swing bridge.
It only opens at high tide but it brings the town to a standstill. The tourists
love it. Us locals, not so much.

I dropped in at the Goth shop recently,
and they’ve still got that yappy Yorkshire terrier. I once thought that bad tempered
dog might be my familiar, but I’m really glad he’s not. So, who is? Again I’m not
telling. Leo says that’s classified information, but anyone who sees me at work
has a whopping great clue.

Apparently Maggie, the Goth shop’s
owner, has forgiven me for telling that witch wannabe that working sky clad out
on the moors was just plain dumb. How was I to know her and her giggly friends were
more exhibitionists than witches? Although, what with being naked and all–they
were more likely to get goosebumps than work magic. Those Yorkshire
moors are cold.

Maggie even offered me my old job
back, but I’ve got a new role now, and Leo makes sure I get enough rest between
working. Well, he insists we go to bed early, but that’s not the same thing at all…if
you get my drift.

That’s all my special places, but
since Kryssie started with whales, I’ll finish with

Castle ruins

whalebones.

So strong is Whitby’s
whaling tradition that the Inuit Indians gifted Whitby with a mammoth set of whalebones. One hundred
years later, in 1963 they sent a new set, along with the then Miss Alaska who ceremonially presented
them to the town. Gosh, I’ve not even started on Captain Cook, but I thought you
might like to see this scaled down version of his ship, the Endeavour.

Right, got to dash. The Elf Overlord’s
expected at the Fae court anytime soon, but he’s not in my good books right now.
Elves treat their women dreadfully, as I found out first hand. What with their lies,
deceits, and their turn-you-into-a-nymphomaniac sex potion. Later, I’ve got something
special…and very private…planned with Leo. I’m not saying what, but it involves
Lipstick.

See you later.

****

Whalebone arch

Curse of the Fae King has history, a seemingly impossible romance,
misogynistic elves, and a newly hatched dragon who is up for any mischief. Throw
in the worst carnivorous plant infestation you can imagine, a witch, a vampire–and
of course, the Fae king–and Meena’s about to learn so many secrets she can barely
keep up. And did I mention scorching hot sex? That makes it in there too.