Drawing Dead

An Urban Fantasy Thriller

The vampire slayer is turning into a vampire? Over her dead body.

Dana McIntyre has been bitten by a master vampire. She's infected with the venom. And after killing hundreds of vampires to keep Las Vegas safe, she'd rather die than turn.

There might be a cure. But the only way to get it is through Nissa Royal, a vampire with close ties to the masters of Las Vegas. Nissa is dangerous -- too dangerous to be allowed to live, much less work alongside.

But if Dana dies, vampires win Vegas. If she doesn't die, she becomes one of the bloodless. The cure's her only chance. In this deadly game of hold 'em, Dana's drawing dead, and whatever happens next, there's no changing her losing hand. Dana only knows one thing: If she's going down, she's taking as many vampires as possible on her way out…


Nobody at the murder scene wanted to see Brianna Dimaria. Nobody got excited when she shuffled over with her bathtub-sized coffee and wooden pentacle charms, and a couple of the cops didn’t even make eye contact.

“I thought you said that the Hunting Club was coming out,” muttered one crime scene tech to another. Brianna prepared not to hear them.

She’d gotten to the Hunting Lodge at six o’clock that morning, right after sunrise, so she’d been the first person to check the answering machine. The cops had requested a consult on a murder. Brianna put the word out and headed in first.

Dammit, people should have been thanking her for how quickly she’d gotten there.

But no, there was all the whispering and glancing around, seeing if Brianna might be followed by one of the Hunting Club’s more famous associates. Chugging the coffee wasn’t waking her enough to deal with this crap.


“Ugh,” she sighed once she’d drained her mug. She swirled the dregs of the black coffee around the bottom. “Anyone got chai, by any chance? Or any other tea?”

“The only thing we’ve got here is ash,” Officer Jeffreys said. “You don’t want that.”

“No. I don’t.” She set her mug on top of a police car, made a mental note to retrieve it later, then wiped her hands off on her tunic. “Okay, what’ve we got here?”

“Vampire. Permanently dead vampire.”

“No kidding,” Brianna said.

The corpses left behind by perma-dead vampires were distinctive from those left behind by humans. Sure, they had all the same parts, but every bit of a vampire was flammable in sunlight. If they found the body before sunlight wreaked havoc on the evidence, it looked like finding a human who had been barbecued. Bones charred as well as the soft tissue, and the skin got crispy fast.

Given a few more minutes in daylight, this vampire would have been indistinguishable as having ever lived, much less as a vampire. But right now, Brianna Dimaria was confident that the pieces crime scene techs had fished out of a Dumpster belonged to one of the bloodless.

“What’s that?” Brianna asked.

Officer Jeffreys lifted a piece of bone in his gloved hand, careful to keep it in the shade of the bar’s rear alleyway. “Judging by the curve, I think…skull?” He swallowed wetly.

Who could blame him for looking queasy? He wasn’t just holding a piece of skull. He was holding a piece of skull with clear characteristics of the person it had once belonged to. Probably a masochist, considering that they had screwed metal horns into their skull.

“Damn,” Brianna muttered.

There was no way that the Hunting Club wouldn’t get blamed for this dead vampire.

She heard the bass rumbling on a car’s stereo before it pulled up to the mouth of the alley. The crime scene had been taped off, but someone pulled the tape aside to allow the lifted pickup truck to roll up to the edge of the scene. The windows were opaque black, in stark contrast to the lime-slashed Pepto Bismol of the body’s paint job. The grill on the front looked like it had been used to literally catch cows, since there was dried blood and tissue caked to the bars. The driver was listening to music by Slipknot—Brianna recognized the frantic rhythm of the drums.

A couple cops had the nerve to start applauding when that pickup appeared.

“Oh, come on,” Brianna groaned.

“You can’t blame them. She’s got a legacy.” Chief Villanueva came up to stand beside Brianna. Charmaine hadn’t been doing fieldwork since her promotion, so if Charmaine was watching, then it meant Mayor Hekekia was watching. And so was the OPA.

“Legacy shmegacy,” Brianna said. “Did you know that I used to be high priestess of the single most prestigious coven in the world before Genesis?”

“You might have mentioned it twenty or thirty times,” Charmaine said with a good-natured smirk.

“That, and I show up to consults on time,” Brianna said.

The pickup door popped open. Beer cans tumbled out of the driver’s seat, scattering across the cracked cement, and studded platform boots struck a moment later.

Dana McIntyre glared murder at the cops who’d applauded her arrival, and that only seemed to make them all the more excited.

If a McIntyre was on the scene, they considered the case already solved.

There was nothing to get excited about at the sight of Dana. Her pink-tipped hair was styled into spikes, the solid mass of her body was held snug by a leather corset with stone pauldrons, and she wore a leather skirt. She had an open beer can in one hand and let a belch out of the corner of her mouth as she sauntered over.

“Dana, good morning.” Brianna was grinning crazily and speaking through her teeth again. “How nice of you to join us at a crime scene, with police, where you drove in a pickup while drinking beer. Which is so totally legal.”

“O’Doul’s.” Dana crushed the beer can and hurled it over her shoulder. “Like the flavor. Don’t drive drunk.”

Chief Villanueva was not surprised by this display from Dana. “Glad to have you.” She clapped Dana’s hand in both of hers and shook with genuine relief. “We could have used you last night when I had the master of the Paradisos in my office.”

“Good thing I was there,” Brianna muttered.

“I was on patrol.” Dana lifted her gauntleted fists, and magic sputtered from her elbows to her knuckles, which were just as studded as her boots. These particular studs were bloody on the tips. “There was a shifter brawl, so you’ll want to check in with jail intake later. You guys are full up. Brianna, help me strip.”

Brianna sighed. “What’s the magic word?”

Ngou ho,” Dana said in hetânâ, the magic language both of them were fluent in. Ngou ho meant “fuck you.” The words had absolutely no power coming from a mundane like Dana, except that it made Brianna’s blood pressure spike.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” Brianna said. “Try again or else I’ll show your adoring fans pictures of when I helped potty train you. I bet they’d love to hear how you insisted on wearing pull-ups until kindergarten.”

Dana’s eyes narrowed, as if she were evaluating whether or not Brianna was serious.

Brianna was completely serious. She’d been putting up with Dana McIntyre and her stupid family legacy ever since Dana was knee-high to a pig’s eye. When Dana had been a teenager—worst decade ever—awkward childhood photos had been the only threat to control her.

“Help me please,” Dana finally said.

“Happily.” Brianna undid the straps on Dana’s gauntlets, her pauldrons, even her belt. She was left standing with fifty pounds of enchanted gear, which she tossed into the back of Dana’s ugly-ass pickup while Dana herself went to examine the scene.

A crime scene tech handed latex gloves to Dana. She snapped them on and picked up the same piece of skull that Officer Jeffreys had been investigating.

Dana lifted it into the sunlight. It began smoking. She blew the fire off, then peered closely at the remaining bone.

“This vampire was killed by the Paradisos,” Dana said.

“How do you know?” Chief Villanueva asked.

“Because I’ve got fucking eyeballs.” She tossed the skull to Officer Jeffreys, who managed to transfer it to an evidence bin before diving into a corner to barf. “This vampire was starved. No Vegas vampire starves on accident, and no Vegas vampire gets held captive without Paradisos knowing. So the Paradisos did it.”

“Our lab will be able to confirm that the vampire was starving, but we’ll need more than that to pin it on the Paradisos,” Chief Villanueva said.

Brianna shot a sideways look at the chief. Did Charmaine want to pin it on the Paradisos? She’d made it clear that vigilantes and vampires in Las Vegas were on equal footing, and equally fucked if things went wrong.

“Don’t waste your resources.” Dana peeled her gloves off and dropped them into a trash bag held by another tech. “If the vampires are fucking around with a civil war, let ‘em do it. Vamps killing vamps is nobody’s problem.”

“Murdering American citizens is illegal, no matter who does it,” Brianna said.

Dana’s snort wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t meant to be. She reveled in being as disgusting as possible, even while consulting at crime scenes. Maybe especially while consulting at crime scenes. “But the vampires do it anyway, because they’re vampires. They’re killers. They aren’t capable of doing anything else.”

“Help me link this murder to the Paradisos,” Chief Villanueva said.

Dana said, “No.”

She climbed into her pickup. Brianna heard another can of O’Doul’s cracking open before the door slammed shut.

The truck backed out of the alley. Dana’s tailgate clipped a trashcan and knocked it over, spilling its contents across the pavement. She dragged a bag halfway down the street before it finally tore loose, and then she was gone, leaving wreckage and adoring cops behind her.

Dana McIntyre had been there less than five minutes. Everyone looked star-struck and it seemed like Brianna no longer existed.

“Yep,” Brianna said, glancing at her watch. “Just another Tuesday.”


Preternatural Affairs

Witch Hunt, Silver Bullet, and Hotter Than Helltown

This urban fantasy boxed set contains the first three books of the Preternatural Affairs series: Witch Hunt, Silver Bullet, and Hotter Than Helltown.

My name's Cèsar Hawke. I’m a witch working for a division of the government you’ve never heard about.

The world’s not what everyone thinks it is—unless you think that our world’s a pawn in a game of chess between Heaven and Hell, and riddled with as much magic and wonder as it is with evil.

In that case, the world is exactly what you think.

My place of employment—the Office of Preternatural Affairs—takes a modern approach to an ages-old problem. It used to be that inquisitors would burn demons and the people in league with them. Now we get warrants, perform arrests, put the suspects on trial, and send guilty parties back to the Hell from whence they came with the travel forms filled out in triplicate.

This stuff I do with the OPA, it saves lives on most days.

Most days, I said.

There are scratches on Cèsar Hawke’s arms, a discharged Glock on his coffee table, and a dead woman in his bathtub. Yeah, maybe he brought the waitress home for some fun—he was too drunk to remember it—but he knows for a fact that he didn’t kill her. He’s an agent with the Office of Preternatural Affairs. He doesn’t hurt people. He saves them.

The cops disagree. Now Cèsar is running.

Isobel Stonecrow speaks with the dead. She brings closure to the bereaved and heals broken hearts. But when she talks to the wrong spirit, the OPA puts a bounty on her head.

Tracking down Isobel is the last case assigned to Cèsar before he bolts. If he finds her, he can prove that he didn’t kill that waitress. He can clear his name, get his job back, and bring justice to all those wronged families.

She’s just one witch. He’s bagged a dozen witches before.

How hard can one more be?

Former private investigator Cèsar Hawke has one rule: He doesn’t deal with dead bodies. That’s why he enlisted with the Magical Violations Department in the Office of Preternatural Affairs. He’s happy tracking down witches that commit petty crimes, but he leaves the homicides to other agents.

Except that he’s been assigned to a new team—a team that handles special investigations—and the job has suddenly changed. Now Cèsar has to deal with dead bodies. He also has to deal with necromancers, murderous cults, and demons that can stop a man’s heart with fear.

This isn’t the job he signed up for, but it’s the job he needs to do.

If he survives the first week.

A killer is mutilating bodies in Los Angeles. Agent Cèsar Hawke is on the case, but the murderer is ahead of him—way ahead of him.

Wiping the memories of the dead so that the team’s necrocognitive can’t talk to them? Done. Preventing magical reconstruction of the crime scenes? Oh yeah. And the murders keep getting more brutal while Cèsar struggles to catch up.

The best way to heat up a cold case is to go to Helltown, where Los Angeles’s most powerful evil hides out, but even those demons are afraid of the murderer. Their fear adds one more question to the growing pile of unknowns:

What kind of bad guy is too hot for Helltown?

Caged Wolf

Book Cover: Caged Wolf
Editions:Kindle: $ 2.99 USD
Paperback: $ 9.99 USD
ISBN: 1497389534
Size: 8.00 x 5.00 in
Pages: 198
Audiobook: $ 14.95 USD

The biker gangs passing through Lobo Norte don’t scare Ofelia anymore. All those men are the same: scarred, homeless, and broken…just like Ofelia. They’ve become a blur of forgettable faces watching her strip. She takes off her clothes, takes their money, and wipes them from her memory instantly.

But Trouble is different. A biker with a wolf tattoo and tortured eyes, he sees beyond Ofelia’s tough disguise to a more fragile woman within. She’s drawn to him like she’s never been drawn to a man before–at least, not since she survived hideous torture at the hands of her ex-boyfriend that left her scarred physically and emotionally. She can’t forget Trouble. And she definitely can’t push him away.

There’s magic between them that neither understands. But maybe if Ofelia and Trouble can find the truth, they can release each other from the chains that bind them to Lobo Norte, to the Fang Brothers biker gang, and to the dark secrets in their pasts…

Publisher: Red Iris Books

Trouble barely fit into my twin bed. He was too lanky. His muscular arms and legs spilled off the sides, dwarfing all my furniture, making my bedroom look like it belonged to a little girl.

Somehow, I managed to pile him up on top of my comforter. He was going to get his stink on all of my belongings. I thought that should probably annoy me, but it didn’t.

He began to stir when I wiped him down with a damp rag, but the struggle toward consciousness was slow. Judging by how thoroughly he had been chewed around the shoulders and back, it looked like he had lost his fight against the wolf the night before. It chilled me how similar his wounds were to mine, though they had been inflicted by completely different tools. I hadn’t been mauled by a wolf. My attacker had been something much worse.


Strangely, Trouble’s wounds—though bloody—looked like they were already halfway healed. The skin was trying to close.

It didn’t surprise me at this point. I didn’t think anything would surprise me ever again.

I took the quiet minutes where he began to rouse to explore the rest of his body: the large wolf tattooed across his chest, the stubble near his navel where he needed to shave his happy trail again, the silvery scars over his ribcage. Those scars were the most interesting. I could only see them if I tilted my head the right way. They were big, too—four long gashes.

I spread my hand over the scar and fitted my fingertips to them. Whatever had delivered that wound had been twice the size of my hand.

My skin brushed his. Trouble’s fist clamped on my wrist.

I sucked in a hard breath, trying to pull back, but his grip was iron. His eyes opened and there was no struggle for consciousness within him now. He was awake. And he looked angry.

If he didn’t want me pawing his scars, then maybe he should have thought twice about falling down on my doorstep. “Let go of me,” I snapped, twisting my hand and jerking my arm toward me. I escaped the circle of his fingers. “You don’t touch me like that. Not ever again. You hear me, Trouble? I’m not a piece of meat for the Fang Brothers to chew on.”

He said, “Cooper.”


“Cooper,” Trouble repeated, and it occurred to me that I had never heard him speak before. His voice was pleasantly gravelly. His accent was American, probably western side of the country, maybe even Californian—where I had come from originally. “My name’s Cooper.”

I tried the name out on my tongue, rolling it between my teeth. “Cooper.”

He gave a low growl, rumbling so softly through his chest that I wasn’t initially sure that it was coming from him. Fire sparked in his golden eyes.

There was something intimate about saying his name. Those simple syllables. I felt like he had just shared a secret with me, something dark and illicit that I wasn’t meant to know.

He lifted his hand toward my shoulder, and I jerked in anticipation of a violent touch. He froze at my reaction. Watched me closely. Waited to see if I would move.

After the previous night’s passion, it felt so strange to hesitate now. I didn’t want to fear him. My whole body ached for him, like I had become lost in the desert for days and he was the oasis on the other side of an impassible canyon. I wanted to throw myself across that distance.

But Pops, my grandpa, hadn’t raised a dumbass. I could be a dumbass sometimes, granted, but that was despite his best efforts. He’d drilled as much sense into me as I could take. And Pops’s girl wasn’t dumb enough to allow herself to get bitten twice.

I scooted back on the bed. Just an inch. I might as well have put a whole prison wall topped with barbed wire between us because Cooper’s expression shuttered and anger furrowed his brow.

Dipping the towel back into my bowl of water, I forced myself to concentrate on the ugly flower pattern rimming my dishes, not the pain in my chest that told me to surrender to all of Cooper’s whims.

“Now, here’s how the rest of the morning is going to play out, Trouble,” I said, carefully choosing not to use his real name. “I’m going to clean you up a bit because you’re making a mess of my house. While I’m doing that, you’re going to tell me exactly what happened last night, starting with the moment you came into my bar and ending with your collapse on my doorstep. And if you think you can skip anything in between, you’ve got another thing coming.”

I washed the blood off of his left shoulder. It was a safe place to touch, relative to his abs and everything below that.

He didn’t start talking.

“Well?” I prompted.

When he remained silent, I dared to glance up, meeting his eyes.

His gaze stabbed through me.

My hand had stopped moving and I wasn’t sure when it had happened. My knuckles were brushing his hip. He was so very warm, radiating heat like the sun-baked earth at mid-afternoon. “What are the Fang Brothers doing here?” I asked, but I didn’t manage a lot of conviction in that question.

“This is where they find the new guys,” Cooper said.

My eyebrows climbed my forehead. “The new guys? You mean, the new…” I stuttered over the word. I felt stupid even thinking it. “Werewolves.”

He nodded slowly, like it pained him.

“Are you new at this?” I asked. Another nod. That little gesture chipped away at my resolve and let the maternal warmth come creeping back. Silly to want to protect such a big guy. Probably outright stupid. “Did you know you were going to change last night?”

He leaned forward slightly so that I could wash around his shoulder blade. He didn’t even flinch when I touched his healing wounds. “Yes, but I smelled you, and I couldn’t stay away.”

“Smelled me?”

“You were calling for me with your body.”

Heat flushed my cheeks. Was it possible that he could smell my body when I danced? That I had somehow put some kind of sexy pheromones out into the universe, and that he had responded?

Somehow, I wasn’t surprised by the idea, or even all that weirded out by it. If I were to be honest with myself, I had been calling to him. Not just my body, but my mind and heart.

I’d been calling to him since the first moment I saw him. Maybe I had always been calling for him, even before we met.

The Devil, number fifteen, flashed through my mind again. The grinning satyr, the naked lovers.

I didn’t know what to think about that line of conversation, so I didn’t think about it. I wiped across his chest. Up his neck. Behind his jaw. There was blood caked under his ear but I didn’t see a wound.

He kept staring at me like that as I cleaned him, as if I were saying something immensely interesting, even though we sat in silence together. He didn’t move as I sponged a path from his clavicle down to his abs again. He wasn’t bloody there, but he didn’t protest at my touch, either.

Something about the stubble down there was kinda cute. One little flaw to humanize an otherwise flawless body.

“Why are you smiling?” he asked.

“You don’t seem like a shaving guy,” I said, squeezing the towel out in the bowl. The water was rusty brown.

He shrugged one shoulder. Even that small gesture seemed to take a lot of effort. “It’s one way to…” He struggled to find a word, searching my face as if I might have all the answers. “It’s how I keep control.”

My fist clenched on the rag. “Because you grow fur on full moons.” I ran the cloth over his chest again, watching the water course down his pectorals and become redirected by the natural channels in his abs. I thought about tracing that path with my tongue.

How quickly I was willing to forget the terror of his fangs against my tender inner thigh.

“Tell me how it happened,” I said. “Tell me how you became a werewolf.”

Guess I wasn’t real surprised that he remained silent, but I was disappointed.

The pain in his eyes was palpable. The darkness.

I traced my fingertip around the edge of the scars again, careful not to touch them. “It looks like it must have hurt.”

He flinched. “It did.”

I was done cleaning him. I’d washed every inch that I could touch without crossing my newly discovered boundaries. If I went any farther south than his navel, I wasn’t going to be able to control myself anymore—I could already feel that insane, intense need that had driven me the night before clawing at my gut.

Setting the bowl aside, I dried my hands on my pajama pants. They were patterned with Christmas penguins. Yeah, I wear them year ‘round, even when it’s hot. The penguins are cute. “Is Big Papa your…uh… I don’t know the word. Leader?”

“Alpha,” he said. “Sorta, yeah. It’s hard to explain.”

I guess I didn’t really care anyway. “He was the wolf.”

Cooper nodded.

That meant that Big Papa might have saved me. I didn’t like the thought that Cooper would have hurt me, nor did I like the idea that I might be indebted to the one-eyed leader of his biker gang, but it seemed like I at least owed the man a drink.

“I think maybe next time you know you’re going to change, you stay out of my bar,” I said, keeping my eyes lowered. “I can’t do anything about you and your gang being in Lobo Norte. We need your business. But I don’t need your business on those kinds of nights, so you keep your distance.”

“Then don’t dance,” Cooper said.

I clenched my hands into fists. I’d known that it would come to this—that he was going to be pissed I’d danced for Mad Dog. “Nobody tells me what to do. If you’re going to get all jealous of me, then you need to stay away from my bar every night, because that’s how I make my living. And you can just deal with that.”

“Just not on the moons,” he said.

“Yes, on the moons. On any fucking night I want.”

“You don’t get it,” he said with sudden heat. “I don’t care if you dance for Mad Dog. I don’t even care if you dance for Papa. You dance whenever you want for anyone you want, except on the moons, because that’s how you stay safe. And when you dance, you remember that you’re still mine.”

Those were the most words I had heard him string together so far. And it had been to declare me his property.

I liked the sound of that. I liked it a lot.

Too much, actually.

“I barely know you,” I whispered.

His fingers dug into my wrist and turned it, exposing the tender flesh on the underside of my forearm. Still watching my eyes, still so very careful, he lifted my palm to his lips. His breath was hot on my hand. His stubble grazed that delicate flesh as he drew a line from my pulse point to the inside of my elbow.

Cooper paused at the junction between forearm and bicep. He pressed a warm kiss there. His nose brushed my shoulder as he pulled me just a little closer, leaning forward to place a second kiss on the side of my neck.

“Mine,” Cooper said. “I knew it the moment I smelled you.” His hand cupped my head. A whimper escaped my throat. “And you do smell…amazing.”

Fighting against the urge to climb on top of him made my whole body tremble. I wanted to melt together. Make our bodies one piece. “What does it mean?” I asked, barely able to breathe.

He drew back. Trouble looked…troubled. “I don’t know. I’ve never felt like this. But I’ve never been a werewolf before, either.”

“It scares me,” I said. It just slipped out. I hadn’t meant to be honest.

“Good,” he said. “What is this?”

His hand brushed over my shoulder, and I realized that he was looking at my scars. I pulled away from him.

“Nothing,” I said.

He had to have known I was deflecting the question, but he didn’t bother arguing with me. Cooper stood. He kissed the top of my head—a strangely tender gesture. And before I could think of how the hell I was supposed to react to that, he left.



Book Cover: Omega
Part of the War of the Alphas series:
Editions:Kindle: $ 3.99 USD
Pages: 350
Paperback: $ 12.99 USD
ISBN: 1508704376
Size: 8.00 x 5.00 in
Pages: 346

Ten years ago, Deirdre Tombs died. When she was reborn the next day, Deirdre had become a shapeshifter who can’t shift shapes. Nobody knows what animal she’s supposed to be. She’s definitely not a werewolf. The Alpha, Rylie Gresham, can’t force her to transform like other members of her pack.

Now Deirdre is considered an Omega, the weakest shapeshifter in the pack—a vulnerable position when Everton Stark demands tribute from Rylie. He wants to be the dominant Alpha. The only Alpha. And he plans to make her pack submit whether they want to or not. Stark can make every shapeshifter obey him by force of will alone.

Every shapeshifter except Deirdre.

The shifter who can’t shift is the only hope for Rylie to win the war against Stark. It will take everything Deirdre has to survive undercover in his den. But can an Omega’s will be stronger than that of a charismatic, deadly Alpha like Everton Stark?

The Descent Series

Death's Hand, The Darkest Gate, and Dark Union

Book Cover: The Descent Series
She was destined to be a weapon. Elise Kavanagh is good at one thing: killing demons, angels, and gods. For years, she was the death that supernatural creatures feared. More myth than woman, she walked the Earth as the embodiment of vengeance.
But Elise doesn't want anything to do with destiny. She wants time off to spend with her only friend and former investigative partner, James Faulkner - a powerful witch, the only person she trusts - and try to be a normal person, whatever that means.

Destiny hasn't forgotten her.
It's not easy to retire when you were born to be a killing machine. Old enemies still hold bitter grudges against Elise. The demon overlord of her new home isn't happy to have the Godslayer hiding out in her territory. And there are still gods that need to be killed...
This is a collection of the first three titles in The Descent Series, which are gritty urban fantasy books about an exorcist, a witch, and their battles against the forces of Heaven and Hell. (Approx. 200,000 words total.)

Books included:
1. Death's Hand
2. The Darkest Gate
3. Dark Union

Seasons of the Moon

Six Moon Summer, All Hallows' Moon, Long Night Moon, and Gray Moon Rising

When Rylie went to summer camp, she didn't expect to get bitten by a werewolf and turn into a monster. She also didn't expect to fall in love--especially not with a werewolf hunter.

This boxed set contains the complete Seasons of the Moon series, including: Six Moon Summer, All Hallows' Moon, Long Night Moon, and Gray Moon Rising.

Publisher: Red Iris Books