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As Stephanie Draven, I write dark paranormal romances. But my alter ego writes a lot of stuff, including this disturbing tale that was just published in Dark Valentine Magazine. And it starts out like this:

THE THRESHING FLOOR

There is a goddess in my bathtub. She eyes me as I heave into the toilet bowl, but makes no move to help me. While I retch, she just stares at me in all her splendorous glory, soaking in a bath filled with floating dates and flower petals. She’s holding a sheaf of wheat in one hand, and she smiles like some benevolent mother, which makes me angry. I’ve heard that drunks hallucinate mice and pink elephants—not fertility goddesses. But I’m not drunk.

I’m pregnant.

Rising silently from the tub in a cloak of Tyrian purple, her face half in shadow, hair gleaming like moonlight, the goddess drapes a garland around my neck. Maybe she has confused me with one of her kind. I used to feel like a goddess—I sure fucked him like one. I still remember the worshipful way his fingers met the lace band of my thigh-high stockings. It always made him groan. Then I’d whisper sexy things in his ear to make him twitch. Once, I tied his arms to the headboard and rode him until he called out my name like a prayer…

Then he dumped me for the virgin in his philosophy class. She’s his goddess now.

And this stranger in the bathroom is mine.

“Do you see her?” I ask, as the goddess floats through our kitchenette, leaving fruit on the countertop. Pomegranates, apples, figs…

“Who?” My roommate eyes me warily. She picks up one of the apples, and bites into it. “You mean Annie? I see her in church, sure, but that doesn’t mean that we’re friends. Frankly, I don’t know what he sees in her.”

But I’m not talking about Annie. I’m talking about my divine apparition and her sheaf of wheat. But my roommate said, “You need to get over him. He’s not worth it. Besides, once you go off to Oxford, you’ll never see him again.”

I’m not going to Oxford, and I’m not going to get over him. I’m pregnant and now everything has changed for me. But my roommate doesn’t know that. Only the goddess knows, and I don’t even know her name.

#

I have confessions to make, facts to weigh, plans to reconsider, and decisions to reach, but curled up on the futon with my laptop on my knees, I am researching fertility goddesses. Native American Mother Corn. The Aztec Xochiquetzal. Celtic Epona. Greek Demeter. Roman Ops. Phrygian Cybele. Egyptian Isis. Indian Shiva. The list is endless. Some fat, some thin, some fierce, some kind, but all revered. And each one seems to hold some mystery behind her smile. So which one is mine?

#

I ask him to meet me on the library’s fifth floor, in the stacks. He knows the place. It’s where it all happened the first time. Late-night studying for a class project amidst the musty scent of archaic books lent a sacredness to what had been only a flirtation. I decide that if he is really in love with Annie, he won’t come. He’ll tell me to say whatever I have to say on the phone. But he shows up at the appointed time, his body humming with sexual tension.

I can tell that he wants me the moment he sees me, and yet he says, “This is a bad idea…” That doesn’t mean he won’t do it. It just means that he’s convinced himself it’s a sin. And I’m the temptation. The one with the apple, luring him away from God’s grace. When we first kissed here in this room, he said that I wasn’t like any other girl he’d ever known, and when his lips found mine it felt like some kind of salvation. Today though, he looks like one of the damned.

He comes close to me. I smell his cologne, see his pulse beat just below the open collar of his shirt where the little cross he wears swings back and forth like a pendulum at his throat. He thinks I’ve asked him here for an illicit encounter. Something dark and furtive that he can feel guilty about until the next time. He’d always insisted that he hadn’t meant to cheat on her. As if I was the interloper. The siren seductress. As if I had somehow come between two innocent people in love, when the truth was, he’d belonged to me first. He’d loved me first. I’m his mistress of the night, and he’s waiting for me to seduce him. Instead, I tell him that I’m pregnant. He is silent. He walks away. Slams his hand into a row of books that avalanche onto the floor. “How the fuck?”

We used protection. It didn’t happen in the back of a car, and it wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment hook-up in my dorm room. He’d taken the time to rent a motel room and put on a condom. Somehow, I’m knocked up anyway. Like it’s fated. Like his body made all the promises to me that he couldn’t bring himself to speak aloud. Like it was some part of the design of the universe that there should always be a connection between his skin and mine. Or maybe I’m just that fucking fertile, like my secret goddess and her fucking sheaf of wheat. Maybe she thought I called upon her to bless me with a child, like all those women in ancient days.

But I hadn’t ever uttered that prayer, had I?

He’s pacing now. “This is bullshit. Why can’t you accept that I’m with Annie now? Do I have to tell you that I don’t love you anymore? Is that what it’s going to take?”

It’s bracing, like ice water to the face. I don’t want to cry. When I cry, he shuts down. Like the time he confessed everything we’d ever done together to his priest, like it was a sin. I need him to talk to me like he used to, when I used to listen to him practice the guitar and saw talent there when no one else did. When I helped him with his homework and laughed at his stupid animated television shows as if they weren’t infantile crap. “I’m pregnant. I don’t know what else to say.”

“I don’t believe you.”

I think he means that he is shocked. But then I realize he means it. He doesn’t believe me. And then I am the one who is shocked.

He’s been inside of me. He’s put his hands where no one has ever touched me before or since. He’s heard me scream, the rawness of my orgasms leaving me vulnerable in his arms. He knows me. He’s learned my secrets in hushed whispers against the pillows and tasted my tears. How is it possible that he doesn’t believe me?

When he storms out, I start putting the books back on the shelf. The biggest one has a red, leather- bound cover with gold lettering, and it has fallen open to an engra ved dra wing of the goddess. I recognize her immediately. The crescent moon, the sheaves of wheat, the fruit and cornucopias. Her face is somehow placid, grief-stricken, and triumphant all at once. She is named Tanit, and I only wonder why, of all the ancient goddesses in these books, the mis- tress of the Carthaginians should come to me.

Some say her name means She Who Weeps. Others say it is the name of a monstrous sea serpent. The scholars debate her nature. How can a benevolent mother goddess demand human sacrifice?

I slam the book shut when I see the little urns of ash at her feet.

==== The Rest of the Story Can Be Read Here ===

My first novella in Harlequin’s MYTHICA series was MIDNIGHT MEDUSA, a short and dark romance touching on the war in Bosnia–a war that I remember from my youth, but which young people today probably know nothing about.

Justice is a long time in coming, but it’s still coming and in honor of my heroine, Renata, I thought I’d post this bit of good news: Bosnian Serbs convicted of Srebrenica genocide | Law | The Guardian.

Okay, Jeannie Lin is an up and coming star. And she liked my novella. I am tickled! She said:

This short story was a fresh and creative integration of Greek mythology with very current themes. The story doesn’t shy away from the pain of war and its psychological effects, nor does it gloss it over with airy romance. Instead, Stephanie Draven handles the deep issues of healing, fighting fear, and finding love after tragic loss. .. I loved this take on how the Greek gods might have evolved to walk among us today.

Thanks Jeannie!

Available now at Amazon!.
Emily Fenwick, former NYPD, is now reluctant defender of 1890 New York. Unfortunately for Emily, who hates “the creepy stuff,” she ignored her inner voice, went to a carnival in Central Park, and entered a Victorian tent in hopes a psychic would have some encouraging news about her woefully boring love life. The guarantee she receives of meeting a tall, dark, and handsome stranger comes with a huge catch–he lives in an alternate dimension of the past.

Jack Pettigrew leads a quirky band of lost souls in a battle to save New York circa 1890. Nightmares have come alive and threaten to terrorize a fragile era. Jack leads the “punks,” who have been sucked back in time through a vortex. Each has a fleeting memory of their own death–or near death–and must determine for themselves why they have been chosen for this mission. Is Steamside their Purgatory? Could an Egyptian obelisk in Central Park be the cause of the time rift, or is Emily herself to blame for the goblins, zombies, and other nightmarish scenes plaguing them?

If the Punks want to return to 2010, they must ensure there’s going to be an 1891. If they conclude they’re really ghosts, then it might be time to party like it’s 1999.

Dear Reader, Please note that while this book has some adult content, it is not ultra steamy romance. If you prefer hardcore gadget laden steampunk–look away. While this book has some steampunk elements, it is primarily a fantasy romance. Best wishes!