Preview of The Goddess Returned: Holy War!

While Conlan pondered the nature of miracles in the driveway beside the impossible Volkswagen, Rich was weaving through the stairwell to his bedroom, clinging to the rail with his left hand, squeezing the pom-poms with his right.

At least they gave him some comfort.

He’d tried to place them on the table by the front door, to leave them so he wouldn’t forget to give them to Sabrina, but being away from them for even a second made his mind scream with agony.

It felt like pinpricks in his brain until he held them again, and so he resolved to never let them go.

He pushed open his bedroom door and collapsed onto the bed, the rustle prying his eyes open again.

Since when did his bed rustle? He had to blink against the brightness of the room, the scarves draped over a vanity near his bed, the bureau cluttered with makeup and discarded underwear, all very feminine and decidedly flirty, the half-open door to his bedroom where he could just make out a box of feminine pads on the sink counter.

He had no siblings, especially not a sister who, by the look of the room, was in the throes of post-pubescent teenage years.

He tried to resolve everything he was seeing and feeling, the car that was his and not his, the room that felt natural and foreign simultaneously, and now the mad itching of his body.

Grumbling, he rolled onto his belly and eased the heels of his sneakers off, hearing them drop to the floor. His socks felt loose on his feet, and he pushed those off, too, until his bare feet rubbed against one another.  They felt small and oddly smooth.  Rich had always been possessed of a hairy body, much like his father, but now his legs were hairless and small by the way they swam inside the large pair of jeans he wore, and these, too, he pushed down until he wore only his shirt and boxers, which felt large on his body, as well.

‘Gotta get up,’ he thought, weak and faint, ‘something wrong for sure.   My legs are too small…’

He sat up, easing his back against the headboard, the pom-poms still in the vice-like grip of his right hand. He saw his bare legs spread before him atop the pale white comforter, the thinness of them despite the muscular thighs, the diminutive state of his feet, the way each toenail was painted in a bright pink.