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A Saylor's Tale
Mark of the Felinar
Felinar's Choice
A Stone's Throw
A Far Cry
Heart of Stone
Leave No Stone Unturned
Very Merry Un-Birthday

© Copyright Michelle O'Leary
All rights reserved. No part of these stories may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
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A Saylor's Tale, from the collaboration, The Insomniac Tales by Chaucer's Women
Etta is stuck between her frugal husband and an amorous Sun Priest, but when her sister comes up with a plan to teach them both a lesson, she can't resist.


There was a grand house built on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a wide blue sea and lit by a blue sun. They had names, the cliff, the endless sea, and the pulsing blue star, but it’s not their names that are important. There was a balcony on the house overhanging the cliff. Sitting on it were two women whose names do matter to this story. They were Marietta and Gabriel, both dark haired and dark eyed. They sat quietly, staring out over the moving waters and drinking tea, content in each other’s company.

Marietta was the first to break the silence. “So he tells me I have to pay him back.”

With a snort, Gabriel sent her a look full of amused contempt and responded, “I’m your sister, Etta, not a damned mind reader. Who, what, and why?”

“My darling husband, Sam. I bought this set of hovertrays—”

“Nice, by the way,” Gabriel interrupted, running musing fingers along the ornate edge of the tea tray hovering between them.

“Thanks, I got a good deal. Anyway, I used funds from one of our accounts, but he says he was saving that up and is insisting that I replace it.”

“Are you kidding? Sun and stars, Etta, your husband might be a sweet man, but he’s also the cheapest one I’ve ever met. I mean, look at this place! The two of you can afford a set of trays.”

“I know!” Marietta exclaimed in the same tone of disgust. “I love the man, but sometimes he drives me crazy. But that’s not the worst of it—he’s so careful not to spend a drec more on the two of us than he has to, but his buddy comes over and his accounts are suddenly wide open. Barrin’s borrowed so much from us by now that he could build his own Sun Temple. But his own wife has to pay him back.”

Gabriel curled her lip to match the snarl on Etta’s face and said, “That’s so wrong in so many ways… Who’s Barrin? Have I met him?”

“Hell no. The man’s a menace—I wouldn’t put any woman in the same room with him on purpose.”

A gleam of interest lit Gabriel’s eyes. “Really? Why’s that?”

Marietta shifted in her seat and avoided Gabriel’s gaze, staring out over the sea. “He’s a sun priest.”

Gabriel leaned forward with a sharp-edged grin curling her lips. “No kidding? What temple?”

“Blue, of course,” Marietta grumbled with a flick of one finger at the pulsing sun and then shot her sister a warning glare. “Don’t get any ideas. He’s just a friend.”

“What a waste,” Gabriel purred, still grinning. “You know Blue Sun clerics are legendary bed partners. You sure you haven’t tried him?”

“I’m in a monogamous marriage, Gabby. That was decided a long time ago,and I haven’t changed my mind yet, despite Barrin’s worst efforts.” Marietta’s back straightened, and her mouth compressed with prim disapproval.

Gabriel chuckled, her dark eyes twinkling. “So he’s been after you, has he? Poor Etta, pursued by a sun priest offering to pleasure—”

“Every nook and cranny,” Marietta interrupted dryly, and Gabriel tipped her head back with a throaty laugh.

“Ah, sister, how were you able to deny yourself? Isn’t he attractive?”

“Are you kidding? I don’t think the Blue Temple accepts anything less than perfection. Think sun-blue eyes, red hair, body like a coral diver’s, and a smile that would melt an ice nebula.” With a disgruntled frown, Marietta set her tea cup down with a sharp click on the tray.

“And we’re unhappy about that, I see,” Gabriel teased with a playful grin.

“Just because he’s attractive doesn’t mean I want him or will have him. He doesn’t understand that—he won’t take no for an answer, no matter how often I’ve said it. He won’t listen when I tell him that the bond I have with my husband is a sacred trust. Sam and I decided long ago that we were enough for one another and promised to be true to each other. I won’t betray that promise with anyone, not even with an amorous sun priest.”

“Hm,” Gabriel mused, a thoughtful frown on her face. “And what does Sam say about this pursuit?”

“He ignores it, pretends it doesn’t exist,” Marietta sighed and shook her head. “To be honest, it’s possible that he’s completely oblivious. Barrin has been discreet, and when I try to talk to Sam about it, he throws it off like it’s a joke.”

“Men,” Gabriel scoffed, rolling her eyes.

“Tell me about it,” Marietta grumbled in response, staring moodily out at the water.

There was a short silence before Gabriel spoke again in an arrested tone that grabbed her sister’s attention. “Say…how much were the trays?”

Marietta stared at the vivid expression on Gabriel’s face with wary curiosity. “A thousand. Why?”

Gabriel blinked, her face settling into a light frown. “Really? That’s a bit steep…”

“For a set of eight, not four.”

“Oh, that is a good deal,” her sister said with an approving nod.

“Why?” Marietta asked again.

“Well, I just had a really interesting idea.” Gabriel smiled wickedly. “You’ve got a husband who is either really trusting or extremely thick-headed, not to mention a financial hypocrite, and a sun priest who is not only disrespectful, but almost a thief, if he’s borrowed as much as you say he has. I think these two gentlemen could use a wake up call, wouldn’t you say?”

Marietta’s lips tugged upwards in a growing smile as she asked, “What’s the idea?”

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Mark of the Felinar, paranormal romance.
Cyric loses his heart and finds his life's calling in Raelin, daughter of the Felinar.


Cyric saw her a moment too late. Colin had blocked his last advance and was sweeping his staff around in a pretty spin that would have all his young, hard-muscled momentum behind it–just at the level of her fragile neck. The moment stood out in sharp clarity–the dawning horror on Colin’s face as he realized what he was about to do, the whistle of the quarterstaff as it swung around on its inevitable path, the young woman running into the blow with her dress hiked up to her knees and her black hair streaming across her face as she looked behind her, oblivious to the danger.

There was no time to think. The instant Cyric saw her, his body reacted without direction from his brain. He dropped his own staff and stepped into Colin’s blow, taking the hit on his upper arm with a grunt of pain as she barreled into him. They went down together, but he managed to cushion her fall with his own large frame. Stunned, they lay tangled together while the dust from the training grounds puffed up around them.

Then time seemed to catch up with him, along with fear and pain and anger. His arm was numb below the shoulder where he’d taken the staff, but not broken, which meant Colin had managed to pull the blow somewhat. His ribs ached from her weight landing on them, and she’d somehow driven her knee exactly where it would do the most damage on the way down. But she was in one piece, nothing broken and nothing bruised.

And all because the foolish girl couldn’t watch where she was going.

“By the Seat!” he cursed as he rolled with her and then yanked her to her feet with one hand around her slender arm–one hand, because the other hung deadened and useless by his side. “Are you daft, girl? This is a training ground, not a–”

He choked on his own words and fell silent as she tipped back her head and met his eyes. Oh beautiful, was his last coherent thought before the numbness in his arm seeped up and into his brain, rendering the rest of him as useless as his hand. And she was beautiful, even with the dust that dulled the shine of her hair and smudged her smooth, pale skin. Her long tresses were the ink of midnight and framed a face that was an intriguing mix of fragility and strength, with prominent cheekbones, a straight nose, pointy chin, and full lips.

But it was her eyes that drove silence and wonder into him–large and slanted, framed by a sweep of black lashes, the color was an arresting mix of green and yellow, with the pupil a dark slash down the middle of the iris. Cat eyes. The Felinar’s eyes. The leader of their people, his ruler, and the one he was training to protect.

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 Felinar's Choice, sequel to Mark of the Felinar
Raelin must prove to her people that she is their true leader. But will she be able to resist the primitive pull of her animal self? If she cannot, she will die – at the hands of her most trusted protector and First Arrow, Cyric.


The Hunt. The heat of fear. The scent of blood. The taste of hunger.

She prowled after her prey, heart pounding out a primitive rhythm of night-lust and blood-thirst. Swift and unstoppable, she slipped through the shadows after the pale, clumsy creature fleeing before her. It could never hope to escape, but she let it run, savoring the anticipation of the kill.

It shot a terrified glance her way and shrieked, its graceless pink feet stumbling in fear. She felt a faint contempt before gathering herself for the pounce–blind to the night and her dark form, the foolish thing hardly knew why it feared. But it would. Thrilling at the powerful bunching of her muscles, she launched herself through the shadows. Striking the fleeing form with brutal force, her roar of triumph drowned its despairing cry as her claws sank deeply into its tender flesh. She clamped her jaws on its neck as they fell, a fog of fierce elation clouding her vision as hot, thick blood flooded her mouth.

But it twisted as it fell, and she had to release and roll away to keep from being trapped beneath it. No matter–her bite had been fatal and it would not rise. Growling her pleasure at the fiery taste in her mouth, she padded over to her kill, only to feel a sudden unease as it turned towards her in its death throes. Clutching the fatal slash in its throat, it looked at her, and horror drove cold spikes through her soul.

It wore her face.

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 A Stone's Throw, first in a series of shorts based on my novel, The Huntress.
Baynard Stone realizes that being Mea’s hunting partner will require a painful sacrifice.


“There’s something you haven’t considered.”

Stone leaned back in the pilot’s chair and reached his arms over his head in a joint-popping stretch, ignoring the android. A giant yawn took him by surprise, the hinges of his jaw creaking with the gusty inhalation. Rubbing his face vigorously, he slumped in the seat and closed his aching eyes. He thought about putting his goggles back on to rest his burning eyeballs, but the damned ‘droid would just use it as an excuse to torment him some more. Not that he needed an excuse.

Stone listened to the silence in the control room, clenching his jaw against the sure knowledge that Warren was staring at him. Waiting. The asshole probably had a smirk on his face, too. But in the short time that they’d known each other, Stone had learned that Warren was nothing if not persistent, especially with his games.

With an explosive sigh, he cracked an eye. Yup, definitely a smirk. Plus, patronizing humor twinkled in his brown, surprisingly human eyes. Shit.

“All right, what?” Stone growled, in a tone guaranteed to make the average person nervous.

But Warren wasn’t average. The smirk widened to a teasing grin, though he had enough sense not to call Stone on his aggression. “You’ve talked with Mike about making your Hunter status official, right?”

Stone narrowed his eyes in irritation. “Yeah, what of it?”

“And you mean to partner Mea as a hunter?”

“Spit it out, ‘droid, before I take your head off and put it on backwards.”

Warren chuckled, as if the threat had been a jest. “I just don’t think you’ve thought it all the way through, is all. What happens when you get old and she doesn’t?”

Stone frowned at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The metal alloy. The genetic enhancement. Mea’s got decades ahead of her as an active hunter.” Warren sobered, his eyes studying Stone with a hint of compassion. “When you’re shriveled up and useless to the Corp, she’ll still be in her prime. Are you going to let that happen?”

A weight settled on Stone’s chest, and he clenched his jaw in reaction. Losing Mea, even to the relentless demands of time, was not an option.

When Stone didn’t answer, Warren smiled and stood, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “That’s what I figured. Good luck, big guy. You’re gonna need it.”

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 A Far Cry, second in a series of shorts based on my novel, The Huntress.
Mea discovers that Regan is more like her than she'd care to admit, and motherhood is as much terror as joy.


“What the hell is wrong with you?” her mother’s voice rang out, echoing around the training room like a warning of impending disaster.

Regan jumped guiltily, shoving the rifle into her father’s hands and backing away from it and him. When Mom had that storm on her brow and green fire in her eyes, it was best to get out of the way as quick as possible. She felt a twinge of guilt for abandoning Dad, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t handle himself.

At the moment, it looked like he’d decided to play dumb. Slinging the rifle against his shoulder, he turned without haste to face Mea and asked, “What?” in a calm rumble.

Regan winced. Wrong ploy.

“Goddamn it, Bay, you know what!” Mea thundered, stalking towards them like a wave of dark fury. “She’s a child! Guns and knives have no place in the hands of children. What the hell do I have to do to get that through your thick head?” She stopped in front of him and poked a stiff finger into his chest. “I have told you time and again that she is not allowed to handle weapons! If I find you training her one more time–”

“You smell good,” her father murmured, curling a finger around a strand of Mea’s dark hair and bringing it to his nose. “New soap?”

Ah, distraction, Regan thought. A better ploy. “You look really pretty today, Mom,” she added in a casual tone.

All that seemed to do was divide Mea’s anger between them both.

“Oh, stop it, you two!” she snarled, snatching the gun from Stone’s hand, as she glared from one to the other. “You know I’ve forbidden this kind of thing! I swear, if you don’t stop going behind my back, I’ll lock this training room down. Do I make myself clear?”

Regan pressed her lips together and dropped her chin, torn between conflicting needs. She desperately wanted Mea’s approval, love and support. Her mother’s anger bit at her like a lash, and though her mind knew it wouldn’t last, it still made her heart and stomach clench with old fears of abandonment. But the intricate blue patterns on the backs of her hands gleamed in the light, refusing to let her give up.

Lifting her head, she caught her mother’s eye and said, “Mom, I need to be a hunter.”

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 Heart of Stone, third in a series of shorts based on my novel, The Huntress.
Mea and Stone struggle with the concepts of commitment and compromise in their relationship.


“Wait for it,” her father murmured in her ear, his bulk a warm presence at her back. His arms steadied her as they perched on the wide branch, her rifle tucked against her shoulder. Rain slipped into her eyes and she blinked frantically, keeping the cat in her sights.

It was at the edge of the clearing, crouching in a wild abundance of green foliage. She knew it was there by the shifting of leaves and the occasional exposure of striped fur, but she didn’t have a clear shot. A Nacrid cat, a huge beast known to be one of the best predators in the galaxy.

But not the best, Regan thought as she chanced a quick glance at the other end of the clearing. Her mother was even less visible than the cat, a shadow among shadows in the rain drenched jungle.

“It knows,” she whispered to her father, counting on the endless patter of raindrops to cover her voice.

“Just wait,” he responded.

Regan reminded herself to breathe, listening to the throb of her heart and the susurration of rain and wind, as she watched the cat through her sights. It was a beautiful animal, striped black over grey, pure power in its sleek limbs and clear cunning in its grey eyes. She was glad she’d insisted on a tranq gun instead of a true rifle. Killing such a perfect creature of Nature would be a crime.

Movement caught her eye, and she glanced up with a gasp as her mother stepped out into the clearing—making herself vulnerable.

Her father growled, but Regan didn’t need the reminder—she was already focusing her attention on the cat again. The appearance of her mother had galvanized the beast. It slunk forward, ears flat against its head as it came to the last of its green cover.

Regan took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, relaxing her grip on the rifle and clearing her mind of everything but the target, as she’d been taught. It would attack now, she knew. She just hadn’t realized how fast it would be.

One second it was crouched in the green; the next it had burst from cover in a blur of grey and black, streaking towards her mother. A little zip of panic raced down her spine, but she squashed it, reacting with quick calm to shift her rifle ahead of the creature, leading the target a bit. As it bunched its muscles for a final spring at her mother, she squeezed the trigger.

The rifle fired, but nothing seemed to happen. Regan watched in horror as the cat continued its spring, white claws and teeth flashing in the gloom and its roar shaking the jungle.

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 Leave No Stone Unturned, fourth in a series of shorts based on my novel, The Huntress.
Curiosity gets the better of Regan as she tries to uncover the secrets of Stone's past.


Was today the day? Regan wondered as she studied Stone out of the corner of her eye. Was now the right time? They were alone in the training room, sitting casually on the floor as they disassembled and cleaned weapons, before putting them back together. It was a lesson, but like all Stone’s lessons, there was very little lecture involved. He liked to teach by example, by hands on practice. Soon she would be able to recognize the smallest part of any weapon in their arsenal, know exactly what made them work, and assemble them in her sleep.

There was a companionable silence between them as they worked, broken only by his occasional rumble of approval when she would show him her results. It was hard to tell for certain, but she was pretty sure he was in a good mood, relaxed and mellow. At least, she hoped so. If there was ever a right time, it looked like this was it.

Still, she delayed a little longer, watching his big hands as he went about his business, his movements steady and sure. Hers were less steady, nervousness showing in the faint tremor of her thin fingers. He was bound to notice soon.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to keep her voice nonchalant as she announced, “So I started my cycle a few days ago.”

His eyes didn’t leave the parts in front of him and his hands didn’t hesitate, as he asked in his usual deep rumble, “Cycle of what?”

“My female cycle, Dad. You know, when I bleed–”

His hands fumbled, the weapon dropping to the floor with a clatter, as he turned his head and stared at her. “Christ Jesus! Did I need to know that?”

“Well, Dad, I just–”

His voice was sharp as he interrupted, “Does your mother know about this? You okay?” His brows drew together in a worried frown as he felt her forehead and mumbled, “Should get Ema to look at you…”

She wanted to laugh, but held onto it by a thread as she pulled his hand away from her forehead. “Dad, get a grip! I’m not sick. Mom knows all about it; we talked about this a while back.”

His frown didn’t ease as he studied her. “You sure you’re okay? You look a little off color.”

She did giggle then; she couldn’t help it. “Dad, I’m fine! If I thought you’d frazz out this bad, I wouldn’t have told you.”

“Well, why the hell did you tell me?” he grumbled, shooting her a dark look as he went back to his work.

The reminder killed any further humor in her. Annoying him had been the last thing she’d wanted, but she couldn’t stop now–opportunities like this didn’t come along every day. She’d have to keep going and hope for the best.

In a careful voice, she murmured, “Because families share things with each other, even things that might be a little hard to talk about.”

His eyes came back to hers, edged with alarm. “You don’t wanna talk about it…do you?”

“No, that’s okay, Dad,” she reassured him with a grin, giving him a pat on his arm. “I just wanted to let you know what was going on.”

“Good,” he muttered with a gust that could have been a sigh of relief, as he returned his attention to the parts in front of him. “Wouldn’t be much help anyway.”

Taking another deep breath, she held it for a second before taking the plunge. “But since I shared something personal with you, maybe you could share with me.”

He snorted. “Like hell. I don’t have cycles. End of story on those parts.”

Regan snickered. “I don’t mean that. I was thinking about something else.”

“So spit it, kid,” he rumbled without looking at her, his hands back to their smooth, sure routine.

She spit it. “Why’d you kill all those people?”

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 Very Merry Un-Birthday, fifth in a series of shorts based on my novel, The Huntress.
Regan’s campaign to solidify her family hasn’t ended with her parents, much to the chagrin of the other members of the Starfire.


“Because I said so,” Regan declared, folding her thin arms across her chest and glaring at Warren. The light from the tutoring viewscreen cast brightness and shadow across her narrow face in a way that lent ominous weight to her stare.

Warren did his best not to grin, knowing he’d catch hell for it, and tried to decide which parent she was emulating this time. The killer look in her eye was pure Stone, but that steely tone was Mea at her most unassailable. “It’s not gonna work, squirt. She’ll freak.”

“She’s part of the family. I already got the decorations and a gift. I am baking a cake. We’re having a party, freak or no freak.”

“Nobody’s supposed to know her creation date.”

“I’ll tell her you told me.”

He snickered and ruffled her spiky dark hair. “Oh, that’s cold, short stuff. Do you know what she’ll do to me? You guys get to leave on hunts, but I have to stay on the Starfire with her.”

She swatted his hand away with an impatient narrowing of her big, dark eyes. “Fine, so I tell her I hacked it out of her files. Ema freaks, I get in trouble, and Mom and Dad ground me for a hunt or two. We are still having a birthday party for her!”

“Whatever you say, squirt,” he said with a smirk, watching the roll of her eyes and the toss of her head with absorbed amazement. As an android, he had perfect recall—the memory files he had of Mea’s metamorphosis from child to adult were intact and crystal clear. Regan was different in many ways, but the similarities were uncanny. The girl had never seen her adopted mother perform these teenage antics, and yet, she mirrored them perfectly.

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