Pooka in My Pantry: A quirky, intriguing urban fantasy novel

Pooka in My Pantry: A quirky, intriguing urban fantasy novel

by R. L. Naquin

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Overview

A Monster Haven Story, book two

Zoey Donovan—empath, wedding planner, go-to girl for monsters with personal problems—has been marked twice for pickup by Death. On both occasions, Riley the smoking-hot reaper has refused to follow through. For his breach of protocol, Riley is now on probation. For her refusal to die on schedule, Zoey's right to live is challenged. She will have to undergo a life-or-death trial, but she won't know when or where it will happen…

Staying alive might not be so difficult if the Leprechaun Mafia hadn't strolled into town. Now every business owner with the slightest connection to the supernatural community is being threatened with the most appalling bad luck if they don't pay up. Mirrors are smashed, bodies are dropping, and Zoey's still got clients waiting for fabric samples.

With a little luck, she might be able to save everyone and still have time for a second attempt at a decent first date with her favorite reaper.Find out how it began in Monster in My Closet, available now!

89,000 words

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781426895241
Publisher: Carina Press
Publication date: 03/25/2013
Series: Monster Haven (Zoey Donovan) Series , #2
Sold by: HARLEQUIN
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 384
Sales rank: 346,809
File size: 783 KB

About the Author

Rachel writes stories that drop average people into magical situations filled with heart and quirky humor.

She believes in pixie dust, the power of love, good cheese, lucky socks and putting things off until the last minute. Her home is Disneyland, despite her current location in Kansas. Rachel has one husband, two grown kids and a crazy-catlady starter kit.

Come hang out: Twitter: @RLNaquin Facebook: /RLNaquin www.rlnaquin.com

Read an Excerpt

You help one monster in need, and everybody hears about it.

The recent appearance of various monsters and mythical creatures in my life took some adjustment. But no amount of flexibility prepared me to assist in the live birth of a sea serpent in my own backyard. That's a lot to ask of anybody.

My swimming pool looked like a major crime scene, and I was pretty sure bits of mucus mixed with dried blood flecked my hair. I'd probably have to take out a personal loan to cover the water bill once I took a three-hour shower, then drained and refilled the pool.

When the sea serpent appeared in my pool a month before, I had no clue what to do about it. Fortunately, Maurice, my resident closet monster, was quick on his feet. While I stood slack-jawed at the kitchen window, he ran to get Molly to be our translator. Fluent in all sorts of crazy creature languages ranging from house pets to gargoyles, Molly, the brownie, lived in a mushroom house in my backyard with her kids.

As it happened, she was unable to decipher a word of sea-serpentese.

Fortunately, a pygmy dragon with a nasty cold had recently spent his convalescence in my garage. Molly spoke dragonish, and Bruce, the dragon, spoke serpentese. Problem solved.

Except it took over three weeks to find Bruce, leaving us with no idea why a listless, snorting sea serpent had moved into my swimming pool. Communicating in pantomime with a creature that had no hands was futile, absurd and probably hilarious to watch.

When Bruce (via Molly) explained the situation, I did my best not to panic. The sea serpent was pregnant, but she could tell something was wrong. Naturally, she came ashore to my house for help, since everyone in the supernatural community seemed to think I had the answer to every problem.

I had no experience delivering healthy babies of any species. All I had to go on were basic anatomy and zoology classes in college, and a wealth of medical procedural shows on television. And yet, something inside me clicked when Frannie went into labor and the baby stopped moving. I jumped into the water without a thought for my spangled, dry-clean-only shirt, or for the discomfort of wet jeans and high tops. In hindsight, I should've at least kicked off my shoes.

I'm not sure how to describe the supreme ick factor of having both arms shoved up to the elbow inside a sea serpent's body. The baby was turned wrong, kind of folded in half and pointed to emerge center-first, rather than in a straight line with its head or tail facing the exit.

"Don't push, Frannie," I said. "I have to unfold the baby or it'll stay stuck."

Molly made a series of grunting snorts, which Bruce translated into a series of clicks and yowls. I felt the serpent relax around my squashed arms and wrestled the slippery baby into a better position. Another contraction hit and I stopped, waiting until I had more room to work.

The mournful cry from Frannie needed no translation.

When the contraction was over, I made another grab with one hand to hold the baby steady and pulled the head with the other. I'm not a dainty woman, but I'm not big enough to palm a basketball, either. That's what it felt like I was trying to do in there, only the basketball in question had eyes I needed to avoid poking, and it was covered in what felt like tapioca pudding.

I got a good grip on a dorsal fin at what I hoped was the back of its neck as the next contraction hit.

"Push!"

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