Samantha MacLeod's Blog, page 9

Hello, 21st Century!

I held out for a long time.

My friends all got one. My mom got one. My Very Proper Sister told me it was awesome. Even my 94-year-old grandmother has one.

That’s right… Everyone had a smartphone but me.

[image error]Am I truly the last?

When my African immigrant students offered to take up a collection for me, I thought it might finally be time to get a freaking smartphone.

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And then my awesome step-mom upgraded to an iPhone 1,000 (or whatever) and sent me her old one.

So, it’s official: I’m now part of the 21st century.

[image error]So… how does this thing work?

Like what you’ve read? Join my newsletter and I’ll send you a free copy of Tam Lin, my sexy modern take on the Scottish folktale.

The Wolf’s Lover: First Chapter

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Chapter One

I dreamt of him again.

My heart raced as I blinked in the claustrophobic pre-dawn gloom of my single-person tent. A long, slow shiver rippled through my body. I pushed my palms against my eyes, trying to convince myself the trembling was just my arms and legs responding to the low temperature. Even in August, the nights in Yellowstone National Park are cold.

I pulled on my fleece and jammed my knit wool hat over my head before unzipping the tent’s door. The first rays of sunlight were just hitting the crowns of the lodgepole pines across the meadow, and the sky beyond the trees shimmered in delicate cerulean. I fumbled out of my tent, stood, and stretched, pressing my knuckles against the small of my back as I gazed across the vast willow and sagebrush expanse of the Lamar Valley.

“Somewhere out there,” I whispered to myself, “are the wolves.”

Yawning, I reached back into the tent for my grizzly bear spray. My bear spray canister was bigger than a beer can, with the same gleaming silver finish. The safety latch glowed in the dark, which was simultaneously reassuring and deeply disturbing. I’m here, the glowing safety latch declared all night long. Just in case a 1,500 pound grizzly bear decides to rip open your tent like a sardine can!

I clipped the bear spray canister to my belt before walking to the tree where I’d hung my food and supplies. The bag was undisturbed, with no tracks in the vicinity.

“Thank God,” I sighed.

My frozen fingers made untying the rope and pulling out my stove a somewhat clumsy affair. A shrill, metallic jangle filled the clearing as I pulled out the instant coffee packets, and I frowned. I hated going into the backcountry with a cell phone, and I could have sworn I’d turned the damn thing off before I buried it at the bottom of the bear-proof supply canister. The phone fell silent for a moment, then started ringing again. With a sigh, I fished it out of its waterproof bag and swiped the screen.

It flashed the name Diana. Weird. I hadn’t talked to Diana in weeks.

“Hello?” I said.

“Good morning, Karen,” Diana’s voice filled the meadow. She sounded disturbingly cheerful. “You’re in the park!”

I blinked. “Uh, yeah, I hiked in yesterday. How did you..? Did I even send you my itinerary?”

Diana made a noncommittal grunt. “There’s a storm coming,” she said. “How were your dreams?”

“Fine,” I lied. Full of running and sex, but that was none of her business. “Did you have some news about the wolves, or something?”

“The moon’s gibbous. Good for dreaming. And the park’s a thin place. Just thought I’d check.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath, ignoring her hippie-dippy blathering. That kind of talk was exactly why the rest of the biologists at Montana State University thought I was wasting my time talking to Diana.

“And you have some news about the wolves?” I asked again.

“The wolves are exactly where they were yesterday,” she said, somehow managing to sound condescending. “It looks like the Leopold pack is about twelve miles west of you, bedded down.”

“Thank you.”

Diana is not a scientist. She lives alone in a log cabin on the eastern side of the park, just outside Cooke City, with an ungodly array of computer equipment and satellite dishes. She spends her time tracking the wolves. All of her time, as far as I can tell, with the possible exception of hunting season. God only knows how she supports herself. She doesn’t seem much like one of the trustafarians who live in Bozeman, running tiny art studios that are open for six hours out of the week while they live off of the dwindling fortunes of some wealthy distant relative, but she must have some secret source of income.

“Oh, and a few of the regular wolf watchers spotted that male,” Diana said, just as I was getting ready to hang up.

“Where?” I grabbed my notebook.

Every wolf in Yellowstone National Park is under surveillance. They’re microchipped, they’re radio tagged, we have their DNA samples on file. We know who their parents are. We know who their grandparents are.

Last month Diana called to say she’d spotted a new wolf. I told her this was impossible. A new, adult wolf in Yellowstone would’ve had to migrate down from Canada. In the twenty plus years since wolves were reintroduced to Yellowstone, this has never happened.

“He’s near you,” Diana said. It sounded like she was smiling.

For a heartbeat, I had the disconcerting feeling she was about to say something like, In fact, he’s right behind you. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and I turned around. There was nothing behind me but lodgepole pines.

“I’d say he’s about five miles west of you,” she said. “Moving slowly. Ambling. He’s alone.”

I scribbled in my notebook: 5 miles W, lone. “This is fantastic. What direction was he heading?”

“Toward you,” Diana said, with that same smile in her voice. “I’d say you’ll see him today. If not, then tomorrow.”

“That might be the most unscientific thing you’ve said all morning,” I told her. And then I remembered the gibbous moon comment.

Diana laughed. “I like you,” she said. “You take care.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I like you—”

But the line was already dead. I sighed and slipped my phone into my pocket as I carried my supplies back to the campsite. Once I’d balanced the delicate silver tripod of my MSR stove on a flat slab of granite, I attached the fuel bottle, twisted the knobs, and lit the gasoline. The cool morning air filled with the hiss of the stove. I put a pot of water over the delicate blue flame and filled my titanium mug with instant coffee mix.

And I tried not to think about my dreams.

I always had strange dreams when I was camping, but these had been disturbingly vivid. They were Yellowstone dreams, filled with the rotten egg sulfur smell of the hot springs and the cold chatter of snowmelt over stone. But there had been something odd too, some acrid, burnt smell in the air, something that made me want to run through the pines and sagebrush flats. Something that made me want to run to him.

I hadn’t dreamt of him in years. Not since that horrible winter in my early thirties when I was living with my parents, examining the shattered fragments of my life. He had appeared in my dreams then, tall and handsome, with his wild, dark hair falling down his back in waves. For months he was my constant companion while I slept in my parents’ log cabin, in my childhood bed. At the time, I assumed my subconscious was trying to convince me to stay alive.

But last night I dreamt of him again, for the first time since I’d moved to Montana. In my dream, I had stood in a meadow of tall grass and wildflowers, purple penstemon and indigo lodgepole lupine and delicate shooting-star columbine, surrounded by aspen trees, whose pale green leaves trembled as he approached. My dream lover, his body lean and muscular, his high cheekbones and riot of dark hair exactly as I remembered. He’d smiled at me with his golden eyes. Our bodies came together without words, without thought, his hips pressed against mine, his lips—

I shook my head to stop that train of thought. Even here, by myself in the backwoods of Yellowstone, my cheeks flushed and burned. I hadn’t had dreams that sexy in years. Shit, I hadn’t had sex in years. I assumed that part of myself had just dried up and gone away, atrophied from lack of use, another casualty of the divorce. After all, it had been, what, almost four years? Yes, nearly three years living in Bozeman. One year lost. Equals four.

The stove hissed and sizzled as the pot boiled over. I grabbed the silicone hot pad, pulled the pot of boiling water carefully from my precarious tripod stove, poured water into my instant coffee, and sat back to watch dawn unfold over the valley.

After coffee and a breakfast of instant oatmeal, it was time to deal with the rest of my gear. Our tracking equipment was heavy, so I’d only packed in part of it. My graduate students Colin and Zeke would bring the rest later today, and then we’d really start working.

I inspected the tranquilizer gun and loaded the darts, smiling as I remembered my father cleaning his hunting rifle in the living room. After that, I set up the tiny satellite dish and the receiving antennae, turned everything on to make sure it was still working and turned everything off again to save battery life.

Once I’d run all the equipment checks and recorded everything in my field notebook, it was finally warm enough to pull off my wool hat. I ran my fingers through my hair, listening to the grasshoppers warming up in the buffalo grass as I pulled out my binoculars and glassed the sagebrush across the valley. Nothing moving out there. Yet.

My phone gave a sharp ding. I jumped, jarring the view through the binoculars. A new text from Zeke appeared on the screen.

Boss Lady. Headed 2 Canyon w Colin. Losing cell. ETA 12:30.

Before I could even groan, my phone dinged with another incoming text.

PS. Colin driving – don’t flip UR lid

“You’re in the canyon now?” I yelled at my mute phone. “That’s almost a hundred miles away!”

Damn it all, I told them to be in the park by noon today at the very latest. They’d never make it here by twelve-thirty, even if they drove fifty miles over the speed limit, which I wouldn’t put past Colin and Zeke.

“Ugh, when am I going to find a grad student who’s not a complete fuck off?” I asked the empty meadow as I shoved the phone back in its waterproof bag. Just for good measure, I kicked the dirt in front of me.

Five miles west of you, Diana said this morning. Moving slowly.

I picked up my daypack, the water bottle, and a bag of granola bars. Then I headed west.

The area to the west of my campsite was tough traveling, full of burned, fallen trees from the fire of ‘88. I walked slowly, picking my way around and over the downed pines and scanning the forest edge for movement. I found it disturbingly hard to focus, despite two cups of instant coffee. I tried to watch the ground for scat or tracks, but my mind kept sliding back to last night’s dreams, to my imaginary lover’s strong body and soft lips.

I balled my fists in frustration. Even if I wasn’t distracted by my stupid dreams, it wasn’t like I could accomplish anything this morning anyway. If I was lucky, I might be able to spot the Leopold pack. Maybe. But I couldn’t tranquilize a wolf by myself, and it was highly doubtful I’d get close enough to make any meaningful observations. I leaned against a fallen tree and tilted my head to the sun, enjoying the quiet. Being in the backcountry always made me feel like a kid again, playing by myself in the woods behind my parents’ house.

The soft murmur of running water teased me, beckoning from somewhere close by. I turned to my phone, expanding the topographical map I’d downloaded. It looked like I had almost reached a tiny tributary of the Lamar River. I grinned. It was just past noon, and there was no way Colin and Zeke would make it to the campsite for another full hour, at least. And, in the direct sunshine, the day was almost hot.

“Well,” I told myself, “if I’m not going to accomplish anything, I might as well take a bath.”

The little creek was cold and clear. I followed its gentle meanderings, twisting in and out of clumps of willows and threading my way around downed logs until I found a clear, pebble-lined pool. Perfect.

Out of nervous habit, I looked around with the binoculars before I took off my shirt.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I told myself as I slipped the binoculars back into their leather pouch. “This is backcountry Yellowstone. You’re seven miles from the nearest road, five miles from the nearest trail. No one is going to see you naked.”

Still, I stepped behind a big willow bush before slipping out of my pants. Once naked, I folded my clothes and stacked them on the grass near my daypack, making sure the gleaming, silver canister of bear spray was within easy reach. The pool was clear and so still I could almost make out my reflection in the shifting surface. I plunged my arms in the stream, disrupting the image.

The water was freezing cold. It may have been snow this morning, melting off the high shoulders of Druid Peak. I pulled my arms out, took a deep breath, and decided I’d better do this quickly if I was going to do it at all. I stepped in up to my thighs, gasping before I crouched low enough to dunk my head under the icy water.

I exploded out of the stream a heartbeat later, falling back onto the grassy banks and laughing. I spread my arms, soaking up the bright August sunlight for a few minutes before grabbing my little plastic vial of biodegradable soap. Nothing in this universe smells quite like Dr. Bronner’s soap, and soon the scent of willows and grass and running water was drown out by an odd combination of peppermint and eucalyptus.

I rubbed the soap through my hair, down my arms, and over the curve of my breasts. My body tingled with peppermint and the memory of the cold water. It made me think of last night and the feel of my dream lover’s lips against my skin. He’d spent a long time kissing the inside of my wrist as his hand moved down the curve of my stomach—

“Stop it,” I muttered, shaking my head. “What is with you today?”

I gave my arms a final scrub of peppermint eucalyptus soap before stepping back into the stream. It felt even colder this time around. Quickly, I rinsed the soap off my arms and chest. Then I crouched down and leaned back. Holding my breath, I dunked my head under the icy water and ran my fingers through my hair, shaking out the soap.

My chest tightened with the sudden, unshakable conviction that I was no longer alone.

A jolt of panic surged through my body, and my eyes snapped open. I saw only dancing sunlight on the underside of the ripples. I stood up cautiously, blinking as cold water ran down my face. My clothes, soap, and bear spray were all still stacked neatly on the bank, just out of reach. Very slowly, I turned toward the opposite bank.

There, standing so close I could have spread my arms and touched him, was the lone wolf.

He stared at me with golden eyes.

* * * * *

Enjoyed the first chapter?

Click here for The Wolf’s Lover on Amazon

Click here for The Wolf’s Lover elsewhere

Or use the coupon code LOKI to take 25% off at my store

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300,000 words of Loki

I’ve been sick all weekend, so not much has been accomplished in the world of Samantha Macleod.

But I did put together all my files for The Loki Series box set.

My first ever box set will include The Trickster’s Lover, The Trickster’s Honeymoon, The Wolf’s Lover, The Trickster’s Song, and the bonus sexy short story The Trickster.

Total word count: 310,417.

That’s a lot of Loki.

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The Loki Series box set will come out next month. Stay tuned!

Like what you’ve read? Join my newsletter and I’ll send you a free copy of Tam Lin, my sexy modern take on the Scottish folktale.

The Trickster’s Lover: First Chapter

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Chapter One

“You okay?”

My brother tilted his head toward me. The breeze off the ocean ruffled his hair, which was bleached almost white from years of surfing and working outside.

I don’t know, I thought. Maybe I met a god last month. Or maybe I’m losing my mind.

“Thanks for rescuing me this morning,” I said, avoiding his question.

It was Christmas Day, sunny and a perfect seventy-five degrees in San Diego. We were walking along Coronado Beach, barefoot, my jeans rolled up to my knees. I’d flown in from Chicago last night, and Mom had given me a solid twelve hours of sympathy about breaking up with Doug. But as soon as the presents were opened this morning, she was back to her litany of suggestions about the various ways I could be less of a disappointment to the family.

“Caroline, you could at least wear a little lipstick,” Mom said.

I nodded under the glare of the white aluminum Christmas tree. Mom had given me a Mary Kay makeup kit the size and shape of a cinder block, and I shifted it precariously close to my knees so I could reach my mimosa.

“You’ve just got to get back on that horse,” she continued. “I’m sure there are plenty of very nice boys out there in Chicago. Go have a few dates!”

I nodded again, draining my mimosa in one gulp. I felt like the makeup kit was cutting off circulation in my legs.

“And you know, Caroline,” she said, dropping her voice to a stage whisper, “it wouldn’t hurt to find someone who makes a good living. Because honestly, I don’t know how you expect to support yourself studying Greek gods.”

“Norse, Mom,” I muttered. “I study Norse mythology.”

Mom threw her hands in the air, rolling her eyes.

My brother Geoff came to my rescue then, offering to get the two of us out of Mom’s hair for an hour or so and promising to be back in time to help cook Christmas dinner. And we’d come here, to my favorite place in all of San Diego, the long, golden crescent of Coronado Beach.

He nodded at me, glancing out across the ocean. I followed his gaze, shading my eyes as I looked over the waves. I could just see a freighter on the horizon, dwarfed by the vastness of the sunlit Pacific.

“Some pretty weird shit happened to me this fall,” I said.

“Weirder than normal?”

I snorted a laugh. Weirder than normal, indeed. Weirder than me, the only person in my family with black hair and pale skin? The one who spent her sweet sixteen summer teaching herself to read German while everyone else snuck off to Mexico and had magical first kisses on the beach? The one who decided to move to Chicago and study ancient Viking gods while every other person in my family ran Capello’s Landscaping & Tree Surgery?

“Yeah,” I said. “Weirder than normal.”

My brother nodded. “Weird shit happens to our family,” he said. “You wanna talk about it?”

I looked over the Pacific. Seagulls whirled and dove into the waves, their lonely cries echoing off the beach. Beyond the breakers, the ocean was a pale, translucent blue. Like his eyes, I thought. Just like his eyes. My heart tightened painfully in my chest.

“Not just yet,” I said.

I was in no rush to tell my brother about Loki.

* * * * * * * *

“Looks like the party’s started,” my brother said as he pulled his white Jetta into my parents’ driveway.

I could see Aunt Adrianna’s VW Bug parked on the street, and Uncle Tony and Aunt Michelle were already in the driveway, unloading several huge, covered bowls from the back of their blue Camry.

“Caroline!” Uncle Tony waved as soon as I stepped out of the car.

I walked over, kissing Aunt Michelle on both cheeks and grabbing the last enormous salad bowl from their trunk. I winced as Uncle Tony clapped me on the shoulder.

“You look good,” he said, as we walked inside. “How’s Chicago?”

“It’s great,” I mumbled.

I could hear Aunt Adrianna’s thundering cheer from the front door as the entire family came out of the kitchen to hug and kiss each other. My dad has three sisters, and they all work for him. Their husbands all work for him. My mom, my brother, even my brother’s fiancee Di; they all work for Capello’s Landscaping & Tree Surgery. I imagine the family gets to spend enough time together, but every single time someone comes over to the house, it’s like they’ve all just been reunited after decades of separation.

By the time Tony and Michelle finished kissing and hugging everyone, and complimenting Adrianna on her new haircut, and telling my dad what a shame it was the Chargers wouldn’t make the playoffs, and telling Di and Geoff yet again how happy they are about the engagement, the front door swung open for Uncle Donny, Aunt Julia, and their four screaming kids. And the entire process started up again.

Once the greetings finally settled down, my mom called me into the kitchen and put me in charge of drinks while Di finished the besciamella sauce.

She’s not even Italian, I thought, and she can make besciamella. I can’t even manage to cook spaghetti al dente, and I’m a Capello. That’s why my mom told me to hand out the drinks; she wants me as far from the actual cooking as possible.

Di smiled at me as I walked very carefully around the two lemon chiffon cakes she made last night. I smiled back as I inched out of the kitchen.

It’s not that I don’t like Di. I don’t even think it’s possible for anyone to dislike Di – she’s perfect. Perfectly charming, perfectly helpful, perfectly beautiful. If my brother hadn’t proposed to her this summer, I think my mom would have gone out, bought the ring, and done it herself.

That much perfection can be a bit hard to handle. I was happy to wander into the backyard with my one job: taking drink orders.

“Carol!” Uncle Tony clapped me on the back again. “You know what you should be studying?”

I knew what was coming. Uncle Tony is the proudest half-Italian in all of southern California.

“Can I, uh, get you a drink?” I asked.

“The Romans!” Tony thundered. “The greatest civilization the world’s ever known! Now that’d be a hell of a topic to study, right? And it’s your blood!”

“I’d love a glass of white,” said Aunt Michelle, maneuvering herself in front of her husband.

“Have you had any of that deep-dish abomination they call pizza?” Uncle Tony asked, with a wink.

“Uh, no,” I said, “I haven’t gotten out much. Been pretty busy.”

Uncle Donny came over to join us.

“You started cheering for the Bears, then?” he asked me.

“Um, I’m still not much of a basketball fan,” I told him. “Can I get you a drink?”

Donny and Tony seemed to find this hilarious.

“Okay,” I said, “white wine for Michelle.”

Aunt Michelle put her arms around my shoulders as we navigated the crowd back to the kitchen.

“We were so sorry to hear about Doug,” she told me. “I just want you to know it’s his loss. Really. I’m one hundred percent positive there’s a nice, sweet boy out there in Chicago, just waiting for you.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, handing Michelle her wine before pouring myself a glass. A very full glass.

I’d had three glasses of wine when we sat down to Christmas dinner, and by then I was thoroughly enjoying my entire family. I even found it hilarious and charming when the three-year-old twins both took matching bites out of Di’s cakes, and I was surprisingly convinced by Uncle Tony’s rant about how the Greeks get too much credit when it was really the Romans who founded Western civilization. I was even starting to feel nostalgic for the summers I spent working in the office of Capello’s Landscaping by the time the sun set and the aunts, uncles, nieces, and nephews started heading for the door.

It was late Christmas night before the house was quiet again. To apologize to my mom for my shortcomings as a chef, I finished the dishes, sipping coffee to sober up. Now I was sitting in the backyard, enjoying the soft, quiet night.

When I first stepped off the plane from Chicago, I was surprised to realize I could smell the ocean. But I must have become acclimatized, because now I could only smell the night-blooming jasmine, the small, hidden blossoms on the lemon tree, the soft, freshly-mown grass. Shadows shifted and danced across the backyard, radiating from the light pouring out the kitchen window.

My dad’s backyard is his masterpiece. The Capellos have owned a landscaping business since my grandfather’s time, and this yard is his biggest advertisement. He has a lot of parties here, hosting potential clients. And he begins every party with the same story: When I started…

I heard the sliding door opening behind me.

“You know, when I started…” my dad said from behind me.

“This was just a tree and a quarter acre of bare dirt?” I asked, smiling.

“Well, it may have had a rock or two,” he said, sitting next to me and handing me a steaming mug. It smelled like chamomile tea.

“Thanks,” I said.

We sat in silence for a moment, listening to the crickets. I watched the dark leaves of the California ash rustle against the stars. My brother Geoff likes to joke that our California ash belongs to another world, because its leaves swirl and dance, even when the air is still.

“Your mother means well,” my dad said, delicately.

I rolled my eyes, hoping it was too dark for him to notice. “Are you sure I wasn’t adopted?” I asked, hugging my steaming mug.

“Well, now that you mention it…” He smiled at me in the warm, yellow light coming through the kitchen window. “Of course, I seem to remember that your mother was in labor for -”

“Forty-eight hours!” I said. “And she’ll never let me forget it!”

“And she is proud of you,” he said. “We both are. Hell, I only made it through one year of college, and your mom didn’t go at all. When you graduated from U.C. Davis, well, that might have been the proudest moment of her life.”

Because I had a boyfriend, I thought. Because there was still hope I might lead something vaguely resembling a normal life.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s just – I mean, Mom was prom queen.”

“And you skipped prom to study,” he said, chuckling. “That doesn’t mean you’re adopted.”

I shrugged. My mom sobbed when I missed the prom. She bought me a dress and booked me a makeover, even after I’d told her I wasn’t going. When I got a perfect score on all my AP exams, she sniffed and told me I’d have done just as well even if I had gone to prom.

“And I’m sorry about Doug,” he said. “But to be honest, I always thought you could do better.”

I laughed over my tea. “Dad, I thought you loved Doug!”

My dad smiled at me in the yellow glow of the kitchen light. “Honey,” he said, “I love you.” Then he stood, stretched, and kissed the top of my head. I heard the sliding glass door open and close behind me.

I sat in the garden for a long time after my dad went inside, listening to the small, hidden animals rustle branches in the yard, trying to smell the ocean.

And hoping I wasn’t losing my mind.

* * * * * * * *

Enjoyed the first chapter?

Click here for The Trickster’s Lover on Amazon

Click here for The Trickster’s Lover elsewhere

Like what you’ve read? Join my newsletter and I’ll send you a free copy of Tam Lin, my sexy modern take on the Scottish folktale.

“Forget the popularized version of Loki.”

The wonderful Jo of A British Bookworm’s Blog just made my entire week by posting a lovely review of The Trickster’s Song!

“Do you want to read another Loki book [Samantha] says?  How quickly can I respond with a yes, without it being unseemly, I think,” she writes.

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“Forget the popularized version of Loki,” Jo continues. “I’m happy to read about the misunderstood trickster whose love for his mortal wife runs deep – and whose history (as told by Ms McLeod) is full of sexy time, love and sadness.”

Thank you so much, Jo!

Click here to read the entire review.

Like what you’ve read? Join my newsletter and I’ll send you a free copy of Tam Lin, my sexy modern take on the Scottish folktale.

Cover Reveal: The Trickster

Last week I gave you a sneak peek at The Trickster, a short and sexy prequel to The Trickster’s Lover that opens with Loki running into an irresistible, and totally oblivious, Caroline Capello at a Gaugin retrospective in the Art Institute of Chicago.

(Click here to check out the sneak peek)

And today I’ve got… THE COVER!

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For those of you who are interested in the business side of writing, this is my first time buying a pre-made cover (it came from James at GoOnWrite.com).

I’m still not sure what I’m going to do with this short story. It will be part of The Loki Collection box set coming out in November, and I’ll include it in Legends and Lovers, my erotic short story collection coming out in December. But I’m not sure if I’ll sell it as a stand-alone. (If you have opinions about this, I’m listening!)

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If you just want the Loki… I’ll be sending the story out to my fabulous newsletter list later this month. Make sure you’re signed up!

Like what you’ve read? Join my newsletter and I’ll send you a free copy of Tam Lin, my sexy modern take on the Scottish folktale.

Medusa’s Song

Medusa’s Song

I was cursed with beauty.

 

I wore it around my neck

like a millstone.

 

Before I was even

permitted to speak

They saw my beauty,

and spoke for me.

Re-making me

in their own image.

 

They say

my beauty

pulled him from the waves,

wet and cold.

 

He laughed when I said “no!”

When I ran,

he threw me

to the mud

and buried me

beneath him.

 

It was over

in a matter of minutes.

 

But in my mind

it never ends.

 

In my mind

He is always there,

massive and cruel

drowning me beneath his pain

his casual indifference.

 

When I raised my voice,

They shouted me down.

 

All but one.

 

Goddess of beauty, goddess of love.

She heard my cries.

She knows what it feels like

to be pinned

by wrists and ankles.

To bleed

on the inside.

 

“Make me strong,” I cried.

“Make them flee

before me.”

 

She did.

 

And she smiled as she worked

her magic.

A smile cold as a knife.

 

Now

when they come to rape me

 

I turn them all to stone.

* * * *

I don’t think this one needs any explanation.

Sculpture is Medusa by the Argentine-Italian artist based in Buenos Aires  Luciano Garbati.

The Trickster: Sneak Peek at a Loki Prequel

The Trickster

I never loved Gauguin.

True, we had some wild, absinthe-fueled nights together in Paris, but I was never overly impressed with him, either in his bed or in his studio. Toulouse-Lautrec was far more interesting, for all his aristocratic self-involvement. He also had a delicious man-servant; Claude d’Arcis, if I remember correctly. Such a shame he wasted so much paint on women and neglected the suburb architecture of Claude’s backside.

I turn toward the wall to hide my smile. After all this time, I’m becoming quite the dirty old man. To distract myself from my own deviant memories, I read the Art Institute of Chicago’s brief summary of Gauguin’s life. It’s not all lies, or at least it isn’t entirely lies. But it does make dear old Paul sound rather boring.

I shrug and enter the exhibit anyway.

History will turn all our stories into lies. Just look what they say about me.

The flashy retrospective exhibition disregards chronology. A wise choice, I believe. It opens with Gauguin’s most iconic images, the tropical, topless women with their mysterious smiles and provocative eyes. There’s even a scent in the air, something subtle and delicious that makes me think of new life, and the heat of springtime. The scent of fucking.

The insistent heat of arousal rises inside me with surprising intensity. Provocative, indeed.

With a shiver, I change my illusion, giving myself white hair, a hunched back, and wrinkled hands. If I’m going to be a dirty old man, I might as well look the part.

The second room of the exhibit is less impressive. There’s a passage about Gauguin’s unhappy sham of a marriage and his failures as a businessman. The Institute has included his first staggering attempts at artistic glory. I stop at Portrait of a Little Boy. There’s that scent again, and it’s even stronger this time. How in the Nine Realms did the Art Institute manage that? Suddenly I’m thinking of springtime and sweat, of a naked woman gasping in pleasure beneath me—

“Not his best work,” a soft voice mutters.

I turn toward the voice. There’s a woman standing next to me. Her long, dark hair is piled carelessly in a sloppy bun, and her baggy jeans and maroon sweatshirt do nothing to compliment her lean, athletic body. That provocative, intoxicating scent pours off her in waves. Springtime. Heat. Lust.

She catches my eye, and her face tints a delicate shade of pink. I suddenly want to know if her cheeks flush like that when she comes. If she screams her pleasure through those soft lips. Her dark eyes widen, and she stammers an apology.

I smile and open my mouth before remembering I’m wearing the illusion of a lecherous old man. Instead of speaking, I clear my throat and nod. She backs away, her cheeks darkening. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from following her.

But I do turn to watch her leave the room. Damn. So she’s why I’ve been so… distractible. It’s been years since I’ve visited a city on Midgard, and I hadn’t remembered any of the mortals being this tempting. Clearly, I’d remembered incorrectly.

I shift illusions as I leave the room, following her scent. I flicker through several appearances, making myself invisible so no one will notice my rapid changes. In the end I settle on myself; at least, the way I used to look. The way I’d like to look. I frown as I glance around the exhibit at the enormous canvases of naked, painted women with wide, brown eyes. I’d better fit in if I’m not to scare her. I shorten my hair and give myself a casual suit.

By the time I’m finished, I’ve lost her again. I follow her scent through the Art Institute, finally finding her outside in the sculpture garden. She’s sitting on a bench, eating an apple. Reading a paperback. I hesitate in the doorway, watching. Her bun has come loose; several strands of dark hair rest against the long curve of her pale neck. She reaches for them absentmindedly, tucking them behind her ear as she turns the page of her book. I bite my lip and narrow my eyes, overwhelmed by the desire to run my lips along that neck. To taste that skin.

What is this? Why her, why now, after all this time? Perhaps I’ve abstained too long; perhaps I didn’t realize how much I’d held inside, pent up. How unlike me to be surprised. By anything.

I like surprises.

* * * *

Surprise!

Yes, that’s Caroline Capello at the Chicago Art Institute, with her nose in a book, completely oblivious to the Norse god lusting after her. And Gaugin, for the record, was a French post-impressionist whose naked lady paintings you’ve probably encountered at some point in your life. (Here’s the piece featured above)

Yes, after promising Janine Ashbless I’d write something without Loki for once in my life…. I wrote the first scene between Loki and Caroline from Loki’s perspective.

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I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do with this one. It will probably end up in The Loki Series box set I’m releasing in November.

Or maybe I’ll send it out to my lovely newsletter subscribers to thank them all for being a part of my strange and disturbingly Loki-centric world.

Stay tuned!

Like what you’ve read? Join my newsletter and I’ll send you a free copy of Tam Lin, my sexy modern take on the Scottish folktale.

Monday Problems

There I was, sitting down in my kitchen on a rainy Monday morning to work on the last book in the Fenris series, when I hear a scratching noise from inside the wall.

A mouse, perhaps?

Gross. I attempted to ignore it.

More scratching. A freaking squirrel?!? I briefly considered burning the house down.

Then: Scratching and this teeny, tiny “mew?”

I freaked out, grabbed a flashlight, and started pounding on the wall like a madwoman. I finally found a literal hole in the wall in the laundry room where kitty has clearly pulled out a grate.

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(Note: we live in a 200 year old farmhouse, and it’s full of mysterious holes in the walls.)

After a lot of calling, cajoling, threatening, and wondering how the hell we’re going to tear down the wall to retrieve a cat, our kitty saunters out of the hole, stretches, and lies down on the floor like it’s no big deal.

Me: “Cat. WTF?”

Cat: “Mondays, man. Mondays.”

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Happy Monday, my virtual friends!

Like what you’ve read? Join my newsletter and I’ll send you a free copy of Tam Lin, my sexy modern take on the Scottish folktale.

Why Self Publish?

Here’s my 100% imaginary version of what would have happened if I took my latest novel, The Trickster’s Song, to a big time publisher.

The Scene: Big Time Publisher’s office. Polished desk. Thick carpet. Smells like money. Publisher reclines in an enormous leather chain. I sit nervously in front of the desk, my manuscript held tightly against my chest.

Publisher: So, I hear you write erotica. And you’ve got, what, a cute little novella?

Me: Actually, it’s almost 100,000 words.

Publisher: Oh. But it’s a romance?

Me: *laughs nervously*

Publisher: So, an erotic romance between…what?

Me: Well, there’s a woman and a god. They’re already married. Then, the whole story shifts to the past, and you get to meet another woman. Then she marries someone else, and that’s where the erotica really gets exciting.

A look of “what the fuck?” begins to cross Publisher’s face.

Publisher: So, it’s a romance between a god, a woman in the present, a woman in the past, and someone else’s husband?

Me: Not really. It’s more of a meditation on living through loss and grief, and the way our past experiences shape our present realities.

Publisher: I see.

Publisher leans forward and begins to smash the big, red button under the desk.

Me: Did I mention it’s inspired by Norse mythology?

Publisher: Release the hounds!

[image error]Run, Samantha, run!!!

I took a lot of risks with The Trickster’s Song.

It’s not just the goat scene. It’s the plot, the tragedy, the many, many erotic scenes, the twisted plot lines, the story-within-a-story structure — I could go on and on.

If I’d written this story twenty years ago, at 18, I’d be proud as hell. But the manuscript would have sat on my desk for years, beneath a growing pile of rejection letters. Because it’s just weird.

Happily, I’m not 18, and the publishing world no longer has a gatekeeper. It’s anarchy, folks.

Which means I could go ahead and release my strange, sexy Loki novel into the world, thanks to Amazon and all the other online ebook retailers.

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This novel represents hundreds of hours of work – writing, editing, trying to get the story as right as possible. I wanted to share it with the world, even though I spent a solid month biting my nails and worrying how the world was going to react.

How Did the World React?

I got this review this morning:

“I did not want to stop reading this story and have read it three times since it was released.” (Amazon, 5 star)

Trickster’s Song has only been out one week. It’s 300 pages long. Some lovely, amazing person out there has been reading over 100 pages of Loki smut a day, for a week.

You, Kindle Customer, are a rock star.

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And then there’s this one:

“From start to finish, through laughter, lust, love and tears, this was another amazing story from one of my favorite auto 1-click authors, and another addition to my favorites list for the year. 5+ stars” (Goodreads, 5 star)

*sniff, sniff*

Excuse me while I wipe away my tears of joy.

Hearing from readers like this makes me so glad I put in the effort to finish this thing, to edit and polish it, and to tell the story as honestly as I could. Thank you doesn’t even suffice. Feedback like this is what keeps me publishing on my own, not shelving my books that don’t fit the traditional mold.

In other words, if it weren’t for readers like you, I wouldn’t be writing.

Or at least, I wouldn’t be sharing that writing.