Maggie Shayne's Blog: Maggie's Coffee House Blog, page 2
February 24, 2025
Excerpt: MARK OF THE WITCH
CHAPTER ONE
I stood on the edge of a precipice, the hard ground under my bare feet already warming beneath the rising, scorching sun. The unblinking red-orange eye of an angry god rose slowly over distant desert sands, beyond endless dunes, watching as I paid for the sin of practicing magic without a license.
Just as I had been at every execution before, I was dressed in almost nothing. A white scrap of fabric tied at my hip, covering one leg and leaving the other bare below the knot. Another length of the same stuff was draped around my neck, crossed in front to cover each of my humongous boobs, and then tied behind to keep it there. My hands were tied behind my back. I wore no jewelry. Resentment rose up in me at the notion that Sindar, High Priest of Marduk, had stolen it.
And then I wondered how I knew that. This isn't me. I mean, it feels like it's me, but it can't be me. She's olive-skinned. She's gorgeous. Her boobs are huge. I'm pale and blonde and too thin. No curves here. Not like those, anyway.
And yet it was me. I was there. On that cliff. In that body. No denying it.
There were two other women, dressed pretty much the same way I was, one standing on either side of me. I felt close to them. I loved them.
Three men stood behind us. I felt the one behind me, his hands, warm and trembling, resting softly on my back down low, near my waist, where the skin was bare. My back was screaming with pain I didn't understand, but that man's touch was good. Soothing. I tried to relish it, thinking it was the last time I would feel it or any thing good. Ever.
I wanted to turn my head, to look back at him and see his face, but somehow I couldn’t convince my dream self to do that. It didn't matter, though. I knew what he looked like. In my mind, I saw him clearly: his long black hair, his fine white tunic with a sash of scarlet, the fat gold torque around his corded neck. His arms were banded with steel and coated in fine dark hair. He was strong, and he had ebony eyes.
I didn't need to see him, nor the poor, half-dead man being held captive by soldiers a bit farther away. He'd already been beaten bloody, but he was struggling to break free as they forced him to watch. I'd glimpsed his face as they'd marched us up the cliff, far from our city gates. He barely looked human. His own mother wouldn't have known him.
And Sindar, the High Priest, he was there, too. I knew his face, as well, eyes lined with kohl, lips darkened with the juices of rare desert berries. The rolls of fat at his neck sported layer upon layer of gold. His robes were of the finest fabric, and his was belly so big their golden cords had to be tied above the bulge, making him look like a mother about to give birth. I knew he was there, knew the secret lust in his eyes for what was about to happen to us.
He was twisted, turned on by violence. Or maybe just by the rush of knowing he held the power of life and death in his hands.
I was going to kill him one day.
I tried to look at the other women, because, aside from the touch of those large male hands on my skin, they were the most interesting part of this whole recurring nightmare. They had dark hair and dark eyes, just like I did. But as I looked at them, they changed the way a reflection in still water will change when a stone is dropped in. One briefly became a blue-eyed platinum blonde, the other a fiery redhead, and both were modern women in modern clothes. It was brief, the illusion, and then the High Priest was speaking in some long-dead language, and the hands at my back began trembling harder than before—kneading my waist, I thought—and I closed my eyes in bittersweet anguish.
"Remember, my sisters," said the raven-haired woman who had so briefly been a blonde. "Remember what we must do. We cannot cross over until it is done."
Oddly, the words I heard were spoken in an exotic language I didn't know, yet I understood every word.
I tugged at the ropes that bound my wrists so hard I felt new blood seeping from the welts already cut into my flesh from my struggling. My gaze strayed to the jagged rocks far, far below, and my toes dug into the hard earth as my body instinctively resisted.
But, as always, it was futile—and I knew it. So I relaxed and reminded myself of the plan.
An instant later, my body was plummeting. There were no screams, not one, not from any of us, as we arrowed downward like hawks diving onto their chosen prey. Our own weight propelled us as our feet pedaled uselessly. The only sounds were the soft flapping of our garments and the arid wind rushing past my face, whipping my long black hair above me. I smelled that wind, sucking it in deeply, tasting every flavor it held in my final breath.
I closed my eyes and awaited my fate. Then I heard the others, their voices chanting a familiar verse, and I joined them. My heart raced faster and faster as I waited to feel the impact of the already bloodstained rocks below.
I felt a sudden jarring blow like a powerful electric jolt in every cell of my body, and opened my eyes to see, through the darkness, the ceiling of my tiny Brooklyn apartment. I willed my heart rate to drop back to normal. It was running like a late bicycle messenger on deadline, banging so hard against my rib cage that I thought for a second I might be having a heart attack. I lay very still, afraid to move and make it worse, my eyes wide, blinking at the ceiling.
I'm not in some fucked-up desert wearing an I Dream of Jeannie Halloween costume. I have little boobs. Nice, firm, little boobs. And blond hair.
I moved my hand carefully, as if I was afraid to set off some unseen trap, and lifted a lock of said hair so I could see it for myself by the glow of my plug-in night-light.
Yep. Blond. Perfectly blond. Or amber-gold, as my stylist calls it Crimp curled, only without need of a crimper, and hanging just below my ears, right where it belongs. No long, flowing, ebony tresses in sight.
I took a deep, cleansing breath, inhaling until my lungs wanted to burst, then holding it for a beat or two, before blowing it all out, real slow. And then I did it again. And again. It was a technique I'd learned in the open circles I used to attend, led by my friend Rayne—Lady Rayne, that is—back when I used to believe in magic and shit.
Which I didn't anymore.
When I felt it was safe to move again, I turned my head to look at the clock on the nightstand. Midnight. Again. It was always midnight when I woke from the damned dream–
The Witching Hour. And on the night before Halloween, too.
Shut up. I'm not a witch anymore.
—and I could almost never get back to sleep.
The adrenaline rush of being shoved off a cliff tended to get a person's blood flowing, I supposed. Sitting up in bed, I pushed both hands through my hair. My spiky bangs were side swept and tended to fall into my eyes. I thought it made me look mysterious.
My heart was still hammering. I needed a smoke, but like a jackass, I'd quit again, so there wasn't a cigarette in the entire place. No, wait, maybe— I'd switched out handbags just before my latest attempt to go healthy. I might have missed one.
I swept off the covers and got up too fast, then pressed the heels of my hands to my eyeballs to make the room stop spinning.
Another deep breath. Damn, I needed nicotine.
Okay, steady again. Good. I made my way across the bedroom to the halfway decent-sized closet that had been the apartment's one and only selling point— besides it being only two subway stops or a brisk walk from work— and rummaged around in the darkness within. I stubbed my toe on my antique replica treasure chest and cussed it out for being in the way before I located my most recent handbag, a pretty little leopard print Dolce & Gabbana number that had cost two months' rent.
I had a weakness for shoes and bags, and killer good taste. There were worse things.
Yanking the bag off the shelf by its tiny silver handle, I opened it and had an instant rush of gratification at the whiff of stale tobacco that wafted out. I pawed inside until I felt a crumpled, cellophane-wrapped pack that still held one beautiful, crooked, stale menthol.
One. Just one. My precious.
Lighter? Junk drawer. I dragged a bathrobe off the foot of my bed on the way into the living room-slash-kitchenette, then rounded the Formica counter that separated one from the other. The junk drawer— official holder of anything I didn't know where else to put, size permitting— yielded a yellow Bic.
I smoothed the wrinkles out of the cig and put it between my lips. It felt good there. Lighter in hand, I speed walked to the bedroom window and wrenched it open. Then, sitting on the sill, illuminated by the moonlight I used to dance beneath, one leg dangling outside, the other holding me firmly in, I cupped my hands at the far end of the cigarette, like any smoker does when there's likelihood of an errant breeze.
But before I could flick my Bic, I went very, very still, my eyes glued to my wrists, which, I realized, really hurt. They'd been quietly hurting ever since I'd awakened from that stupid nightmare. The pain had seemed like part of the dream, like the pain all over my body from the impact with those rocks. I'd been waiting for it to fade, like the rest, but clearly it wasn't going to.
Clearly. Because there were angry red welts on my wrists, welts that had been bleeding, and that still bore the twisted pattern of rough-hewn rope.
My jaw dropped… and my one and only cigarette fell from my lips and fluttered down, way down, to the sidewalk below, looking a bit like a girl in white, plummeting from a friggin'' cliff overlooking the desert in Bumfuck, Egypt.
Not Egypt. Babylon.
I turned around so fast I almost fell, looking to see who had just whispered the correction. But that was stupid, because it had come from inside my own head.
***
Father Dominick St. Clair led the way, and Father Tomas, his chosen successor, followed with his heart in his throat. He was nervous, and not ashamed to admit it. It wasn't every day a man was asked to assist in an exorcism.
So far, it had all the markings of a made-for-Hollywood production. Creepy old house sadly in need of a paint job, check. Careworn mother, old beyond her years, dressed in clean but faded clothes, check. Narrow staircase that creaked when you walked on it, check. Big wooden door with unearthly moaning coming from the other side, double check.
Tomas stood there and told himself he was a twenty-nine-year-old man with a first-rate education— Cornell, for crying out loud—and a left brain that ruled him. Practical. Intelligent. That part of him did not believe this could be real.
He suspected that was the part of him Father Dom was trying to stomp out. The doubting side. The doubting Tomas.
The older priest couldn't know it was already too late. Tomas had made his decision. He couldn't keep living something he didn't believe in. He was only waiting for the right time to explain that he couldn't keep living in service to vows that no longer meant to him what they once had.
Dominick paused outside the old wooden door. It had an oval brass knob that had probably been there for two hundred years. "The job I've been grooming you for is coming soon,” Father Dom said.
He was being "groomed" to keep a witch from releasing a demon from its Underworld prison. Great. He'd often wondered if the Church elders knew about Father Dom's obsession with the ancient legend of He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken. All Tomas had wanted was to be an ordinary priest, to help the poor and hungry and misled, to offer faith to the faithless and hope to the hopeless, to pay back the kindness shown to him by the Sisters of St. Brigit and Father Dom himself, who'd raised him from the age of ten after his faithless, hopeless, addicted mother's suicide.
He'd studied. He'd excelled. College, then the seminary. But unlike every other seminarian, he'd been yanked out of school early and personally ordained by Father Dom. He'd been given special dispensation with regard to Tomas, the old man had said, because of the importance of the mission.
"Did you hear me, Tomas?" Dom asked, sounding impatient.
Tomas snapped out of his thoughts and looked the old priest in the eye. Dom's face was like a white raisin, his body stooped. Yet his eyes were sharp and his perception sharper. Sometimes Tomas thought the old man could see right inside his brain, read the thoughts going on there. But then, he should. He probably knew Tomas better than anyone.
"Your faith isn't strong enough yet to do what will be required of you, Tomas," Dom said, and Tomas realized that he'd already said it once while he'd been lost in thought. "Faith ought not need proof to sustain it. But time is short, and you need to know. Demons are real. And powerful. See for yourself."
He opened the door, and Tomas looked inside. The girl in the bed might have been twelve. Maybe less. She was thrashing, arching her back, grunting and moaning. He froze in place as his mind tried to process what he was seeing. And his initial feeling was that he ought to yank out his phone and call 9-1-1.
Dom pushed past him, his black bag already open. He pulled out a crucifix and a bible, small and black and worn, its pages edged in gold. "Get the holy water. Bring it here."
Tomas pushed his doubts aside to be considered later. He took the bag from Father Dom and rummaged inside until he found the vial, pulling it out and uncorking it.
"Use the water and draw an X on her forehead when ever I tell you."
Tomas moved up to the other side of the bed. The girl stank of urine, and it made him want to gag. She was foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, thick white bubbles erupting everywhere.
"Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde..." Dom nodded at him, and Tomas wet his forefinger with holy water and drew an X on the girl's forehead. She was hot to the touch.
Dom was still praying. "In nomine Del Pains omnipotentis..."
He kept going. Tomas stopped listening. He found himself pulled into the girl's eyes until they rolled back, and he shot Dom a look. "She needs an ambulance. A hospital."
Dom stopped what he was doing and glared at him. Then he lifted one long arm and pointed his arthritically bumpy forefinger at the door. "Get thee behind me." He didn't say "Satan," but it was in his tone.
Tomas didn't argue. He didn't want any part of this. He left the room, head down, and walked down the stairs and out of the house. His trusty old Volvo wagon was waiting at the curb behind Dom's boat-sized seventy-something Buick. He got in and drove, and he didn't look back.
***
I sat at the Coffee House. That was the name of the place, The Coffee House. Its stylized Formica tables were kidney-shaped and orange, with half-circle bench seats curving around the widest side. Stainless steel "pipes" twisted and curved overhead, lights affixed to them, aimed in random directions. Someone once said it was supposed to be retro, but it felt more like Jetsons Chic to me.
The colors were perfect—today was Halloween, and I was at an orange Formica table waiting to meet with a Wiccan high priestess.
I was feeling awkward as hell as I waited for Rayne Blackwood to arrive. She was one of my best friends, or had been until I'd renounced my witchhood and handed in my pentacle. (Okay, figuratively, not literally. The pent was still in my treasure box, along with all my other witchy stuff.)
I'd started studying the "Craft of the Wise," otherwise known as witchcraft, several years earlier and, being an independent type, I had preferred practicing alone to joining a group. Besides, they still called them "covens," and I just couldn't stop sniggering at the word.
Call me a cynic. Whatever. So I'd been what was known in the Craft as a "solitary practitioner." Even now, when I was no longer a believer, Craft holidays still felt like my holidays. But there was a lot to be said for celebrating the holidays with others. Banging on a djembe drum alone in my apartment just wasn't the same as sitting in a circle with twenty others, all playing as one.
I know it sounds lame, but don't knock it until you've tried it.
Anyway, since the only people who celebrated Wiccan holidays were Wiccan people, I'd wound up seeking them out.
Rayne's coven (snigger) was a very traditional one in a lot of ways, with secret, oathbound rites and all that. Rayne was its leader, a Third Degree High Priestess with a Pagan lineage as long as her arm, and therefore entitled to be addressed as Lady Rayne. But Rayne had never bought into the lofty title thing, either. None of her witches called her "Lady" anything.
Still, she was a big deal, Wicca-wise. And not a small deal mundane-wise, either— a partner in a Manhattan law firm and a class-A beauty. Green eyes, red hair, killer figure.
Almost as soon as I visualized her in my mind's eye, Rayne came in, waved hello and sent me her stunning smile, then stopped at the counter on the way over, not continuing until she had a cup of high-test in her hand. She wore a sassy little designer suit, black tailored jacket with a short skirt, teal shell underneath, and a tiny, tasteful silver chain around her neck, with matching studs in her earlobes. No giant pentacle pendant.
No dangling crystal stars or moons at her earlobes. She was a practical witch. Didn't feel the need to announce her faith on a sandwich board while walking to work.
Don't laugh. Have you been to Salem?
"Trick or treat," she said, as she slid onto the bench. "How have you been, Indy?"
"Good." I lowered my head, feeling awkward as hell.
"Uncomfortable, are you?"
I looked up to see her smiling at me. She reached across the table, short French-manicured nails gleaming as she covered my hand with hers. "No need to be. I know we've barely talked since you left the Craft, but—"
"What do you mean? I leave comments on your blog every few days—"
"I mean talked. Face to face. Not online. It's been eight months since I've even seen you. Do you really think I care what your faith is, sweetie?" She rolled her eyes. "Core Craft tenet, 'to each her own."
"You made that up," I said, but I was smiling, relaxing. She didn't hate me for walking away. For not believing anymore. I was glad. Guilt wasn't an emotion I allowed very often, but faith of any kind had been new to me, and leaving it unheard of. Some witches still practiced shunning of those who walked away. Or so I'd heard.
"I made up the wording, for simplification purposes, but not the notion. If I didn't follow it, there would be war in my own family. Your truth is as sacred as mine, Indira."
"Even if my truth is that there is no truth?" I asked, watching her green eyes.
"Even if." She patted my hand three times. "Now what's going on?"
"I've missed the shit outta you," I told her.
"Yeah, I'm sure that's all it is.’ Sarcasm dripped. She flagged down a passing waitress, who had her arms full and looked harried as hell. "Bring us each a big, fat, gooey glazed donut, would you? But only when you get a minute."
The waitress would undoubtedly have barked at any one else, with a "this isn't my table" or an "I'll get to you as soon as I can” sort of put off. But she smiled at Rayne. Everyone smiled at Rayne. She had the kind of personality that made people love her, no matter what she said or did.
Or maybe it was some of her magic leaking out.
Except I didn't believe in that anymore. I lowered my head and caught sight of Rayne's feet. Three-inch stilettos, black pleather, ankle-covering uppers that zipped, and open toes. "Oh, my God, I love your shoes."
"Thank you. But I assume my shoes are not the reason you texted me. And since I'm on my lunch break, and hence my time is limited, it might be best to skip straight to your problem?'
Nodding rapidly, I pulled my head back into the game. I was way too easily distracted. And this was important. But, damn, I had to remember to find out where Rayne had bought those shoes.
Stay on topic, Indy.
I sat up straighter, focused. "I'm sorry I waited for a problem to force me to call. That's pretty rotten of me. I just felt— ”
"I know. It's okay,”
"And I appreciate you giving up your lunch hour to help me out. And I'm buying, by the way."
"Damn right you are." Rayne winked, and sipped, and the waitress came back with the biggest glazed donuts I'd ever seen.
I took a small bite, followed by a sip of my herbal tea, secretly longing for the caffeine in the cup across the table. Maybe I should give up one vice at a time. Tea and a donut just wasn't the same. Then I swallowed and looked my friend in the eye. "I've been having a recurring dream. Nightmare.”
"Ahh. All right. Well, I'm pretty good at dream interpretation." She shifted in her seat, crossing one gorgeous leg over the other, settling in to listen. "It's not surprising. I mean, you know the veil between the worlds is thin this time of year."
"Yeah, I know." Samhain, the actual holiday on which Halloween was based, was still a week away. Meaning my problem could only get worse.
"Go ahead, tell me about it."
I nodded and tried to believe that it could get better, too. "I don't think it's actually a dream at all."
"No?"
"What, then?"
"I was hoping you could tell me."
Rayne tilted her head, taking that in, her eyes going serious and contemplative. The effect was ruined when she took a giant bite of the huge donut right after her sincere, "Go on."
"Okay. In the dream, or whatever, I'm standing on the edge of a rocky cliff, wearing clothes from some other era, but not many of them. There's a man that I know is a high priest— not a Wiccan one, mind you— speaking some language that I've never heard before. Two other women stand on either side of me, dressed like I am. We're very close. We love each other—"
"Love each other? Is this dream heading for a steamy three-way?"
I stared at her blankly.
"Sorry. Trying to make you smile. I'm not used to seeing you so freaking intense, Indy."
"This is intense. Whatever it is, it's... Just let me finish, okay?"
She made a zipper motion over her lips.
"We have some kind of a plan, but I don't know what it is. I mean, in the dream I do, but I don't remember when I wake up. Our hands are tied behind our backs. Three men stand right behind us. I feel one of them— his hands are on my back, and it kind of turns me on, which is really fucked up, since I think he's about to shove me off the freaking cliff.”
Rayne had resumed eating her donut, but she stopped in mid-bite, her eyes going wider as I went on.
"The next thing I know, we're falling. Hitting the ground. Dying on the bloody rocks at the bottom, except I always jolt awake right before that part."
Rayne lifted her head, met my eyes. I saw rapt interest in hers.
"It's always the same," I said. "We all have black hair, dark eyes, the kind of naturally dark skin that suggests we're Mediterranean or Middle Eastern. I'm pretty sure it's some kind of a ritual sacrifice. And there's always another man, a soldier, being held nearby. He's been badly beaten, and he's being forced to watch."
Rayne blinked. "Any names floating around in your head? Any of the words spoken by the high priest, maybe?"
I nodded hard. "The high priest's name is Sindar. He serves a Sun God, Marduk. I keep getting the feeling I was caught practicing magic and that it was forbidden."
She was nodding. "Any clues in your clothing or the geography?"
"My clothes look like they were lifted from the wardrobe room for Aladdin. From the cliff, we're looking out over a vast desert. I can see the shadowy outline of what I think of as my city in the distance."
"Anything else?" she asked, as if fascinated by the story.
"Why? Is this ringing any bells for you?"
"Just tell me the rest."
It was. I could see that it was. "I woke up referring to the city as Bumfuck, Egypt, and I heard a voice in my head say Babylon."
Her eyes flared a little. "And that's all?"
"No. There's this." I held up my hands, pushed back the draping sleeves of my paisley smock top and revealed the rope burns on my wrists.
"Holy shit." Rayne grabbed my hands, turned them over.
"Yeah, that was my reaction, too."
Her gaze remained riveted on my reddened wrists until I lowered them to my lap and let my sleeves fall back in place.
"So? What do you think?"
Rayne shook her head as if trying to clear it. "Are you absolutely sure you didn't get those marks some other way? Some ordinary way?"
"Kinky sex with a bondage freak, you mean?"
"Indy..."
"There were no marks when I went to bed. They were there when I got up. There's not a rope in my entire apartment. No one broke in, drugged me, bound me, raped me, untied me and left again, unless they managed to get into a locked apartment and lock it again on the way out, chain and all. I'm telling you, this is... it's something else. It's something… not natural."
"Supernatural?'
"Yes. That." Which means I was wrong to stop believing, doesn't it?
Rayne nodded. "All right."
"All right? What do you mean, all right? You look like there's more. Do you know what this is about?"
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. "I'm going to do some research and I'll get in touch, okay?"
She knew something. I could see she did. But she wanted to make sure. Fine. "I can't wait long."
"I wouldn't ask you to. Meanwhile, maybe we should try a protection spell. Would you be willing to let us do that for you?"
By “us” I was sure she meant the full coven. I would have to look all those witches in the eyes knowing that they knew I’d turned my back on their faith. On my faith. On the Goddess.
And yet, I needed something. I needed Rayne's cooperation, if nothing else, and sure as shit I would offend and wound her if I didn't agree. Besides, I'd asked for her help. I couldn't very well refuse it when she of fered, could I?
Was there some little part of me that had missed this kind of hocus-pocus bull, too? Yeah, probably, way down deep.
"When?"
"Tonight," she said. "The sooner the better."
I nodded. I wasn't sure if I felt better for having my insane experience validated, or whether that just made it more frightening. "Where? In the park where you usually hold your open circles?"
"No. No, this needs to be private. There's an occult shop in the Village. They have a tiny back yard.” She dug in her handbag, pulled out a pen and a business card, flipped the card over and wrote on the back. "I'll get the coven together. Not all of them, just the Seconds and Thirds. If this is what I think it is, it's serious stuff.” She slid the card across the table so I could see the address she'd written. "Be there by 10:00 p.m., okay?"
Blinking, feeling a ridiculous burning sensation behind my eyes, I nodded. "Okay. Thank you."
"I'm a high priestess. This is part of my job." She twisted her wrist to look at her watch. "My other job, that is, besides the one I'm late getting back to. But before I do, I need your permission to share what you've told me with one other person. Someone I trust more than anyone else in the world. You can trust him, too. And he might have information we need. All right?"
"Is he a shrink?" I asked, and when she frowned at me, I said, "Yeah, permission granted. Go for it. Just try not to make me sound too warped."
She was already on her feet, using a napkin to pick up the remaining half of her donut, hoisting her bag, which, I'd just noticed, matched the shoes—same black pleather, same silver zipper—higher onto her shoulder.
"I've gotta run, Indy. Take care of yourself, okay? And trust me, we'll figure this out."
I tried to smile. "Okay."
And then she was gone, clicking away in her fabulous shoes at high speed. She'd left a half cup of caffeine-laden brew at her seat. Reflexively, I started to reach for it, felt eyes on me, heard a throat clear, and saw a waitress looking at me.
Sighing, I lowered my hand to my own cup of putrid tea. At least I had my donut.
February 19, 2025
Escape! And 5 Free Audiobooks
It has been a difficult month. I won't bother going into all that's gone wrong or who's to blame, as there are plenty of writers doing excellent work on that. (Check out Substack for some of the best independent journalism happening in the US right now.)
I want to talk about how to escape all the awfulness unfolding. Actually, escaping it is kind of the business I'm in. It's what I do for a living. I write stories designed to sweep their readers into worlds where none of the bad stuff is happening. Or at least, only the bad stuff I've woven into the fabric of the tale–and that bad stuff always exists for a reason, always is made right in the end, and always makes sense. Unlike the real world.
In romance fiction, there are unspoken rules. We have unwritten contracts, really, with the readers. That's what makes genre fiction genre fiction, that contract with the reader. You know when you pick up a mystery that there will be a sleuth who will follow clues and face danger to solve the crime.
In the romance genre, you know a lead character you'll like, root for, and identify with, will face and surmount apparently insurmountable obstacles and find their soulmate along the way. Sometimes said soulmate is one of the obstacles!
In romance you know this character, your character, is going to triumph in the end. And if the writer has done their job, you will stand up and cheer when they do.
You can't worry about the state of the world when you are in the seat of a roller coaster, right? A great novel is always a roller coaster ride. They sweep us away so thoroughly that they make it impossible for the outside world to dull the thrill of the ride.
And then we put the book down, feeling a little bit lighter, and maybe a little bit more empowered, having just experienced, vicariously, the triump of our character. Because we become them, you know, while we read their stories. It's really us facing the bad guys and beating them, winning the prize and the undying devotion of a worthy partner. We feel uplifted and empowered as we experience our heroine's triumph.
This was the theme of a great scholarly work, Dangerous Men and Adventurous Women, edited by novelist Jayne Ann Krentz, which I recommend very highly to fans of the genre and to readers in general.
And speaking of stories that will sweep you away...
Here's one now! And it's absolutely FREE.MAGGIE SHAYNE'SOKLAHOMA CHRISTMAS BLUESThe AudiobookNarrated by Traci Odom
Every week, my publisher, Oliver Heber Books, is uploading another chapter of the McIntyre Men series Book 1, Oklahoma Christmas Blues.
Right now Chapters 1-4 are up, and the rest will follow weekly until the entire book has been published.
Here's the link to that playlist. If you hit the SUBSCRIBE button, you'll get notified whenver a new chapter is added.
My book isn't the only one going up for FREE IN FULL on the Oliver Heber Books YouTube Channel!
Also going up in their entirety are:
One Knight's Stand by Tanya Anne Crosby
MacKinnon's Hope by Tanya Anne Crosby
Lady and the Wolf by Elizabeth Rose
Shades of Honor by Wendy Lindstrom
Besides these five which are uploading weekly, chapter by chapter, in full, there are also multiple sample chapters from other popular OHB titles on the Oliver Heber YouTube Channel.
Don't forget to SUBSCRIBE and click the LIKE button after each chapter. It helps our algorithm.
As for me, well, today, I have put on a "Relaxing Classical" music station, and I'm diving back into the creation of Honky Tonk Cowboy in hopes I can sweep myself away, into the story.
See you between the covers!
January 8, 2025
The Year Ahead, 2025
Who knows what the year has in store for us? Anything could happen. But there are a few things I do know, as far as book releases go.
Feb. 4th Legacy of the Witch: eBook only
Feb. 25th Mark of the Witch: eBook & paperback Paperback will include Legacy of the Witch March 11th Daughter of the Spellcaster: eBook & paperback
March 25th Blood of the Sorceress: eBook & paperback
eBook editions are Kindle exclusives
Paperback editions available wherever books are sold
The Portal was published by MIRA Books a decade or so ago. For years they'd been gathering dust until at last, the rights expired, and I was able to rescue these books and bring them home.
These were the stories of three sisters who were slaves in the harem of a Babylonian king. But they committed the unforgiveable crimes of practicing magic, an act reserved for the high priest alone, and of falling in love. Not with the king. Indira fell for a young priest in training, Lilia for the King's first soldier, and Magdalna for his only son.
Their actions then resulted in a curse they've waited lifetimes to remove. As they reunite and begin to remember, other element of that past life return as well, including the men they loved and lost, and the evil that tore them apart.
Amarrah inherits an ancient box from her dying grandmother, and recalls stories about the little slave girl Amarrah, her namesake and ancestor, charged with keeping the witches' box safe until one day, the witches returned to claim it.
The box is taken from her and her quest to get it back leads her to Sergeant Harry Brockman and memories of loving him in another life.
It turns out she's not the only one trying to take the box from him. And the others are willing to hurt anyone who gets in their way.
While Demetrius, the soldier who'd betrayed the king by loving his favorite harem slave, suffers to the point of madness in an underworld prison, Indira Simon, humble flower arranger, starts having memories of being bound and sacrificed to an ancient Babylonian god. And when she wakes up, there are real rope burns on her wrists.
Her sisters, women she's never met in this lifetime, will soon begin remembering their past together too. And the sexy priest who shows up saying he can help her, might be on the wrong side.
Magdalena's prince had been racing home across the desert on the day she'd been executed while carrying his child. Now, today, she is again expecting. But dark forces have plans for her baby, and she might not be strong enough to fight them on her own.
As labor sets in, something evil possesses the people she trusts most and prevents her from leaving town. Magdalena can't even trust her own mother. Dare she trust Ryan, her baby's father, the reincarnation of the prince from her past? Despire her vision of him plunging a golden dagger into her chest?
Lilia has been waiting between the worlds for Demetrius to return to physical form, and when he does, he brings otherworldly powers with him. But he's only partly alive. He can't feel. Can't experience the pleasures of delicious food or mind-blowing sex. His senses are muted because he's still missing a part of his soul.
The part Lilia holds.
To reclaim it, Demetrius will have to give up powers and even his immortality. He'd become an ordinary human again.
The high priest who murdered the sisters long ago has returned as well, and he iintends to sacrifice the witches all over again. Unless Demetrius makes the right choice in time, nothing will be able to stop him.
I've just re-read the full series in prepping them for re-release, and they hold up beautifully. They're real page-turners, and my proofreader raved all the way through each of them, too. (What a great proofreader, leaving such notes on the margins. "I'm in tears!" "I'm hyperventilating!" and so on. I love you, lady.)
Anyway some quick facts about The Portal.
It's a complete series, one novella, three novels, big fat ones previously published by MIRA.
Each book is a complete story of its own, but also part of the larger story made up of the four together.
The order here is the order in which they're designed to be read, Legacy of the Witch first, followed by Mark, Daughter, Blood.
The paperback pre-orders take a lot longer to get operational, as they cannot go live until the final manuscripts is uploaded, due to printers needing the exact spine width. So it's often very close to release day before I get pre-order links listed for the paperbacks.
eBook pre-orders are up and operational now.
The paperbacks will be everywhere. Any bookseller can get them as they'll be distributed through Ingram, the distributor most booksellers already use. Barnes and Noble will have them, as will Amazon, Books-a-Million, and all the booksellers with Bookshop.org.
There's a dedicated page here on the website for The Portal series.
The video will be re-worked and re-released when I find time
Also coming in 2025, the next book in The Texas Brand: Generations, HONKY TONK COWBOY. It's Bubba/Ethan's story. I'm not comfortable giving you a release date just yet, but give me a few more weeks and I'll be close. I'm about a third of the way through the first draft. That's too soon. It's still the first trimester.
We are also expecting a 2025 release date for THE SOLDIER'S SECOND CHANCE, in the McIntyre Men series. This is the second in the subset of books about the Wakeland family, co-written by my daughter Jessica. She does first draft, and I do second, and she's close to finished with this one. We have one more book planned after this one to complete that subset.
After those projects, I don't know. I can't think further ahead until we get these things wrapped up, but six titles feels like a good year's work for me!
Of course I have more Wings in the Night in mind, and I'm mulling how and in what format I can best squeeze that in. I want to do Roland's backstory next, as I did Rhiannon's.
My 2024 titles were HARRISON HYDE AND THE RUNAWAY BRIDE and THE MERMAID MURDER. (Those titles are pictured in the image below.)
Oh yes, I have more Brown and de Luca planned, too. Stay tuned.
October 22, 2024
A Halloween Treat
On Amazon
eBook only
This is Book I of the series of my lifetime, Wings in the Night. There are 24 stories (so far.) The series begin in 1993, and the most recent title, Young Rhiannon in the Temple of Isis, was released in June 2023. The series will continue as long as I do. And maybe longer, as I've applied to become a muse in the afterlife.
October 8, 2024
Release Day
For Harrison Hyde and the Runaway Bride
And just like that, The Texas Brand, my most popular series ever, is BACK.
This family has never been far from my mind or from my heart, probably because it's a big, loud, close-knit family whose members are always up in each other's business, much like my own. And because it's set in a small-town just like mine.
During the intervening years, since you last visited this family, a lot has happened. All the offspring from those first 9 novels, have grown. Let me catch you up.
Daughter of Jessi Brand, Maria's five uncles are as protective of her as they were of her mom, who was both the baby and the only girl of the elder generation. Maria (26) has been raised by a bad-ass, and the apple hasn't fallen far from the tree.
She's followed in her mom's footsteps, has just finished training as a vet and will join her mom in the clinic and gradually take it over. All that's left in her plan is to find a husband, have two kids, and settle into her place in the community. But on her wedding day, everything goes off the rails.
He was the baby on the doorstep that kicked off the entire series. Bubba's real name, you might recall, is Garrett Ethan, after the kind man who had helped his mother when she was pregnant and alone 28 years ago. Later, when she knew trouble had found her, his mother him baby on the doorstep of the best place she'd ever visited, The Texas Brand. Later, her sister Chelsea came looking for her missing nephew and never left. She married Garrett, and they adopted him.
Today, Bubba goes by Ethan Brand, and he's a country singer. He's been playing at small venues and honky tonks around the country and has had one hit song. His visits home are few and far between. But he did come for his cousin Maria's wedding, so he's a major presence in this book, and you'll get to know him again. He grew up as big as his adopted dad Garrett. He's never felt like a real Brand, thought, and doubts he's worthy of the name, knowing his birth father is a criminal serving life for having killed his mother.
The baby girl born to Wes Brand and his wife Taylor is Willow (25,) the newest Deputy at the Quinn County Sheriff's department, where her uncle Garrett is still sheriff, and her uncle Lash, Maria's dad, is chief deputy.
Willow is finding her path. She wants to be good at everything she does, but will never be as comfortable behind her badge as her two uncles, and she fears, never as competent. She's aware of but not truly in touch with her Comanche roots and I think she has a spiritual journey ahead of her.
So far, that's all she's revealed.
Orrin and Drew, whose parents' tale was Long Gone Lonesome Blues
Ben and Penny planned to name their first daughter after Nancy Drew, but the baby squawled every time they said Nancy. Then her father tried, "Drew," and she quieted right down. Drew is 22 as this series begins. She's insatiably curious, and helps her mom run her PI business. She's brilliant at solving minor crimes and finding missing things. Orrin and Drew's dad Ben, owns the gym in town where he teaches martial arts to the kids of local good ol' boys. Few of them take it as seriously as Orrin and Drew, though. They each have black belts in three disciplines.
Drew's older brother Orrin (23) is a quiet, thoughtful, and brooding guy. He hasn't revealed too much about himself to me yet. He helps out at both the gym and at his mom's PI firm, but I feel like neither of those is his thing. He might still be figuring out what his thing is, or maybe he's just not ready to tell me yet.
Orrin and Drew are blue-eyed blonds like their parents.
Trevor (24) is the son of Esmeralda and Elliot. He has the brown eyes and skin of his Mexican mom, and his hair is auburn and curly like his dad's. He also has his dad's sense of humor. He's the guy who can always cheer up anyone who's down.
He tells me he's teaching English as a second language to immigrants in nearby border towns, and I feel there's a really juicy story in there just waiting for me to find it.
Baxter is the son of Jasmine and adopted son of Luke Brand. He was a brilliant little guy who witnessd a murder, and fled with his mom to hide out in a small Texas town. That's where she met and married Luke.. Baxter was raised a Brand from then on. He and Bubba, close in age, are more like brothers than cousins.
Baxter is a biochemist, and he's working on "growing food in the desert." That's what he said when Harrison Hyde asked him what he was working on in Book 1, and that's all I know. He has shaggy blond hair and still wears round wire-rimmed glasses. I feel like he's laid back, easy going, wears loafers, not boots. Those are my clues so far.
I'm planning a book for each and every one of these characters. I think Bubba's–sorry–Ethan's is next. (He gets irritated when people call him Bubba.)
I hope you'll join me on this ride. Even I don't know what's going to happen along the way, but I do plan to keep them coming, one after the next so you don't have to wait as long between books.
Here, for your convenience, are the buy links
THE TEXAS BRAND: GENERATIONSBook 1 Harrison Hyde and the Runaway Bride
September 7, 2024
SNEAK PEEK
by
MAGGIE SHAYNE
COPYRIGHT 2024 MS LEWIS - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
My life’s work is done,” said Harrison Hyde. He was driving his reliable ten-year-old Volvo westward across Texas, on his way to New Mexico. He’d started out in Florida.
He glanced at the oval photo charm that dangled from his mirror. “I don’t know how I can keep my promise, Mom. You said to keep the family together, and I couldn’t even do it for a year. Dad wants to move to that retirement community in Florida where a bunch of your old friends are. It’s a nice place. His asthma’s getting worse all the time. He shouldn’t be alone, but he says they have caregivers there.”
He sighed and looked at the horizon. There was a church steeple way off in the distance, and as he drew nearer, he spotted the other rooftops of a dusty West Texas town.
“Lily passed the NCLEX, got her pin and put in applications at every hospital within driving distance of Ithaca, based on the assumption I’d still be at Cornell. But what do I do about Dad, if he wants to move?”
He was speaking toward the passenger seat, as if his mother were riding with him. He pictured the window rolled down and her long platinum hair blowing in the breeze, and he tried to imagine what she would say.
The words that floated into his mind in his mother’s voice were, “What do you want, Harrison?”
What did he want? Well, that was the question, wasn’t it? And that was why he was driving to the demo site in New Mexico instead of flying out like the rest of the team. To give himself time to think about what he wanted, and what came next. He’d been devoted to his research for seven years. And now it was done. The result was sitting in a padded black box that looked like it ought to hold a large piece of jewelry, in the passenger seat, with his mother’s ghost.
She’d been gone a year. She hadn’t lived to see his life’s work accomplished. And while Harrison believed in science, not ghosts, he found comfort in talking to her and imagining her replies. They’d been so close, he could pull up an accurate approximation to what she might say in any given situation, based on all the years they’d spent together. He often worked through problems that way.
Returning his attention to the road, he saw a brown and yellow trailhead sign beside a green metal highway sign that said, “Quinn: 1 mile.”
“What I want,” he said with a burst of clarity, “is to take a break from driving and stretch my legs. I haven’t moved in too many hours.”
The pull-off was small and surrounded in scrubby brush. A little stream ran through it, which surprised him, as close as he was to the desert.
He got out, closed the door, and stretched his arms way up over his head, arching his back until it cracked. He was wearing light khakis, a blue, short-sleeved, button-down shirt, and a pair of canvas slip-ons. Everything lightweight and easy. Perfect for a short walk.
It felt good to move. The air was warm and dry as he hiked out along the trail. It would be hot later in the day, it being June in Southwest Texas. But it was only ten a.m., and not yet unbearable.
It was weird, not having work to think about or problems to solve. He’d solved them all. Well, he and his team: Carrie, Solomon, and Robert.
The dry air carried the scent of some flower that must be in blossom nearby. He started up the trail, over red-brown dirt and fine red pebbles that hadn’t quite made it to dirt yet. He felt them shifting under the soles of his flimsy canvas shoes. Not exactly hiking shoes. He’d brought hiking shoes, but he hadn’t thought to change, and he was already too far from the car to warrant going back. Besides, the terrain didn’t look too rough. It wound slightly uphill amid squatty trees, and stands of aromatic brush that gave off a scent like pepper and spice. There were boulders every kid ever born would want to climb. He’d climbed boulders just like them as a kid on family camping trips to places like this.
Around the next curve in the trail, he spotted a lean gray jackrabbit. The rabbit froze, motionless except for his twitching nose.
“Yeah, that’s right, buddy. You’re invisible.” To cut the nervous little guy a break, he turned away, looking elsewhere. As soon as he did, the rabbit scampered off, throwing up dirt in his wake. Harrison laughed.
It was nice, not thinking. Just being. He focused on the moment, something he hadn’t done since work on the solar tile had begun. There was nothing left to do but the big demonstration in New Mexico for an audience of potential investors; in private, he’d been referring to the demo as the “Silver City Shark Tank.” That was what it felt like.
He had to be there by noon on Wednesday. By the time it was over, he might be a wealthy man. It was only Saturday. He was going to take his sweet time. He’d never thought about what he would do after the solar tile. But he intended to figure it out on this road trip. He had hours of quiet time, driving across Texas with nothing to do but think.
The steady thud of his footsteps in the dry red substrate were like a drumbeat, and they brought a memory. Horse hooves on similar ground. His mom had found a trail-riding outfit not far from their Ithaca home when he was very young and Lily was just a toddler. From that year on, every autumn when the foliage peaked, they’d take a family trail ride amid the vivid colors of New York State. The clip-clop of hooves would eventually soften, cushioned by a lemon-yellow, pumpkin-orange, and scarlet-red carpet of fallen leaves.
He topped a low rise and stopped walking to take in the view. Off in the distance, the white steeple was closer than he’d seen it from the road. He turned to resume his walk just in time to see a speeding, red-headed missile in tattered white satin right before she hit him.
His breath gusted, and he went over backwards, feet up. His back hit the ground hard, his keys and water bottle flying in opposite directions. The woman who’d crashed into him was down, too. He could see white lace portions of her in his peripheral, but his view was mostly of the sky. It took him a second to get a breath, and that second was filled with the woman not-quite-cussing a blue streak.
“Golddern, mother lovin’ tourists!”
He sat up. She got upright, and he took note of her torn wedding dress, the twigs in her wild red hair, and the anger in her doe-brown eyes. She looked right back at him so intently it made him wonder what he looked like through her eyes. Then she looked away from him, snatched up the duffel bag she’d dropped when they’d collided. She continued looking around the ground, so he did, too. All he saw were her cute bare toes, peeking out from the shredded hem of the gown.
She saw something else, though, because she crouch-lunged, snatched his dropped car keys, then raced back down the trail in the direction of his car.
He blinked as reality hit him. The bedraggled bride was about to steal his car!
“Hey!” He sprinted after her. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing with my keys?”
“Gettin’ away from my family for a few hours,” she shouted. “Keep up, or I’ll leave without you.” Her bare feet pounded over the trail, making him wince in pain on her behalf, but she didn’t even seem to notice. The trail spilled into the parking spot, and the woman threw her duffel into the back of his car and dove behind the wheel.
“No,” he shouted. “Just wait a minute now, come on!” He ran up to the Volvo and grabbed the driver’s door before she could close it.
She shrugged and started the engine. “I’ll drive away with the car and your arm. Don’t think I won’t. I’m not a fan of your gender, right now.”
“Just… fine, I’ll take you wherever you want, but you have to let me drive.”
She looked in the direction of that little town then back up the trail, and he realized she was afraid someone was coming after her. Then she said, “Okay, just, hurry it up.” She gathered the white fabric all the way up around her waist and climbed over the console into the passenger seat. On the way, she picked up the black box— his life’s work— and tossed it into the back while he reached for it, making noises that weren’t quite words.
“Nah-bah-gah—” The box landed safely near his dad’s tackle box, and he lowered his hand and sighed in relief.
“Come on!” she twanged. She turned around, providing a glimpse of lacy underpants before lowering her skirts and sitting in the passenger seat.
He got in, closed the door, reached for his seatbelt—
She reached over and pulled the shift lever into reverse, and the car jerked, startling him so much he let the seatbelt go and grabbed the wheel.
“Go!” she shouted.
“Going!” He went.
Jessi Brand left her front row pew and walked back down the aisle and around a corner toward the dressing room where her only daughter was getting ready to get married. Her heart was torn right down the middle. On the one hand, she wanted Maria Michele to have the perfect wedding day. On the other hand, if she was having second thoughts about marrying Billy Bob Cantrell, that was probably a good thing. Jessi’d never felt he was good enough for her girl, and she’d had a feeling since sunup that Maria had realized it, too.
Her notion was confirmed when she saw her two nieces, who were serving as bridesmaids, outside the dressing room door, wringing their hands and looking worried in their flouncy red dresses and cowboy boots. Her nephew Bubba was standing in front of the door like an unofficial country-church bouncer. Bubba was as big as his dad, Jessi’s big brother Garrett, even though he was adopted. She figured it had to be the food.
“Sorry, Aunt Jess,” Bubba said. “Maria Michele wanted a few minutes alone, and I promised I’d give ’em to her.”
“She needs us and you’re a dick for keepin’ us out here,” Drew said. She was as golden-blond as her parents, Ben and Penny, and only twenty-two.
Willow put a calming hand on her youngest cousin’s shoulder. “It’s probably just pre-weddin’ jitters. If she needs a few minutes alone, we leave her alone.” But when she shifted her dark brown gaze to Jessi’s, it said more. Something was wrong.
Willow would know. She and Maria were more like sisters than cousins. It was good that Willow still lived with her parents Wes and Taylor out at Sky Dancer Ranch. If she ever moved away from Quinn, it would break Maria’s heart.
But she was firmly planted now that she’d been hired as her Uncle Garrett’s newest deputy.
Jessi acknowledged Willow’s dark look with a nod then refocused on Bubba, who was far too tall to be her nephew. “You’re not fixin’ to try and keep me from goin’ in there, are you, Bubba?”
“It’s Ethan,” he replied. “You know I go by Ethan.”
Jessi rolled her eyes. “It might be Ethan to the honky tonk honeys at your shows, rockstar, but when you’re home— no matter how seldom— it’s Bubba. It’s always been Bubba and it’ll always be Bubba. Now get the hell outta my way before I have to move you.” She added a smile to soften her words.
Bubba, all six feet and four inches of him, stepped aside. He even leaned across to open the door for his little aunt. The door swung wide, revealing an empty dressing room. The rear exit stood wide open, a rectangular view of blue Texas sky over a grassy lawn, a scrubby lot, and a stand of woods. There was no sign of the bride.
“Holy smokes, she’s run off!” Drew said, shouldering past her aunt and into the small room.
“Thank God,” Willow whispered, and maybe no one else heard her, but Jessi did.
“Bubba, go get your uncle Lash.” Jessi turned as she said it, but Bubba was already gone.
Jessi lowered her head and walked back into the main part of the church, where the whole clan and half the town had gathered, dressed to the nines for the first wedding of the Brand clan’s youngest generation. Everyone looked worried, and they leaned into each other, talking in loud whispers, wondering what the heck had happened.
Jessi walked up the aisle, her strides strong and deliberate, and met the right Reverend Wayland Wheeler’s bespectacled eyes with a little head shake to tell him it was off. Then she took the groom by one arm, and leaning close enough to smell the cigarette smoke and cologne blend of him, spoke near his ear. “I’m real sorry, Billy Bob. Jessi’s gone, and we don’t know where. I think we have to call this off.”
He pulled back a little to stare into her eyes. His were blue and bloodshot from the bachelor party. She wouldn’t know, since none of the Brand men had been invited. Then again, it seemed Billy Bob had been drinking more than he ought to for at least a month. Maybe he’d been having second thoughts, too.
His eyes showed shock first, and just when she started to feel pity for the guy, it turned to anger. Then he pushed past her, almost knocking her down. Would have, except that Lash had appeared beside her without a sound, and caught her shoulders before she could fall.
Billy Bob stormed down the aisle and out the church’s front doors. After making sure she was okay, her husband strode after him. Lash elbowed Garrett on the way by, and then he and her big brother left the church right behind Billy Bob.
As the red double doors swung closed behind them, Jessi stepped up beside the minister, facing the crowd, and cleared her throat. “There’s not gon’ be a weddin’ today, folks. I’m real sorry.”
Then she headed for the exit herself, but kept getting waylaid by one person after another, either saying they were sorry or asking if there was a way to help. Quinn was that kind of a town. They filled the pews, and there would be twice as many at the reception. Or would’ve been. Lord, what would they do with all the food?
Still, she had no time to worry about that, nor to chitchat. She gave short answers, that flash of anger in Billy Bob’s face just before he’d taken off giving her rocket fuel. She got to the doors, threw them open, and ran outside just as Billy Bob’s pickup roared away, leaving rubber on the road.
Jessi ran over to join her whipcord-lean husband, Lash, and bear-sized big brother Garrett. “He’d best not get anywhere near Maria Michele when he’s that teed off,” she said.
From behind her, Willow said, “I think we’d better get to her first, to make sure.”
Jessi turned to see six out of seven of the youngest generation of Brands standing together. Wes and Taylor’s daughter Willow was three quarters Comanche, and looked it. Beside her, blond, blue-eyed Drew and her older brother Orrin stood close together, looking like younger versions of their parents, Ben and Penny. Elliot and Esmeralda’s son Trevor had his father’s wiry build and his Mexican mother’s brown skin and ebony eyes. His dark-brown hair had hints of his dad’s auburn. Second cousin Baxter, the oldest of them all at thirty, with his shaggy golden hair and black-framed glasses, stood alone until Bubba came up beside him and clapped his shoulder. They were all looking down the road in the direction taken by the angry groom.
An old blue import with New York plates passed, heading the same way as Billy Bob’s truck.
Then the six youngsters— as the elder Brands called them— piled into Bubba’s oversized pickup, some of them in the bed, and they headed off in the same direction, windows down. Willow shouted out the passenger side, “Don’t worry, Aunt Jess. We’ll find her!” And from the back, Trevor gave a whoop.
“Well, shoot. This isn’t gonna go well, is it?” Jessi asked as the rest of her family gathered around.
“If he lays one finger on my girl—” Lash began. His five brothers-in-law made growly comments of agreement.
“I think the youngsters are takin’ this one,” Jessi said. “Dang, things sure do change.”
Lash put his arm around her shoulders. “And yet, they stay the same,” he said.
Maria Michele said, “You’re drivin’ me right past the church where I was s’posed to marry Billy Bob freakin’ Cantrell!” They rounded a curve in the road, and she saw her whole family gathered outside in the churchyard. “Jeeze-Louise!” She ducked way down low in the seat. “You had to go this way?”
He slowed down even more. “Sorry. Should I turn around?”
“Just go! Stomp it!”
He did not stomp it. He did speed up a little, though.
“You said you didn’t care which way I went,” he reminded her in what she thought was a calm tone for a guy who’d been sort of car-jacked by a tattered bride in smeared makeup. “You said just keep going whichever way I was going.”
“I didn’t mean this way!” She crouched lower.
“But there were only two ways.”
“Are we past them yet?”
He adjusted the rearview mirror with his long fingers. An artist’s hands, she thought, or a musician’s. He hadn’t answered, so she looked up at his face. He was still looking into the mirror, and his sky-blue eyes were worried.
“What?” she asked.
“I think they’re coming after us,” he said.
“What?” She rose up out of her seat. Her cousin Bubba’s pickup was behind them and gaining. “Go faster!”
The little blue car picked up speed, and the driver’s hand landed on top of her head and nudged her gently. “Maybe stay down,” he suggested. Then he asked, “What should I do? Should I just pull over?”
“No, don’t pull over! Can’t you outrun them?”
“Their engine is three times the size of mine.” He took a deep, noisy breath, then said, “There’s no way they could know you’re in this car. I have New York plates; they’d never imagine you in here with me. It doesn’t make sense.” He let off the gas a little more, which made her want to slam her foot over his on the pedal. “Maybe they’re after that guy,” he said, pointing ahead.
“What guy?” She popped her head up again, face-front this time.
“That guy.” He nodded toward a black pickup ahead of them.
“Shoot, that’s Billy Bob!” She ducked again.
“The jilted groom?” The driver looked down at her with his eyebrows bent into worried S-shapes. He had nice eyebrows, she noticed. Full and dark. His sable hair was close-cropped and curlier than her own, which was saying a lot.
“Yeah,” she said. “Might say we’re in between a rock and a hard place. And the hard place has a temper way worse than I ever knew.”
He looked at her quickly, a flash of temper she hadn’t expected in his eyes. “Did he hit you?”
“If he’d hit me, he wouldn’t be capable of drivin’,” she said.
He smiled at her when she said that. Hoo-boy. He was handsome, for a yank. He let off the gas a little more. She didn’t gripe about it this time.
“Is that why you left him at the altar?” He asked the question softly, like he was tiptoeing over a minefield.
She met his eyes. Hemsworth blue was what they were, she decided. “You really want to know why I left?”
“I do,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “You just said ‘I do’ to a gal in a weddin’ gown.”
He looked alarmed. Then he glanced into the rearview and looked even more alarmed. “They’re coming on fast.”
“Tell you what,” Maria said. “You get me out of this spot I’m in without havin’ to deal with either pickup full of rednecks, and I’ll tell you why I left Billy Bob at the altar and buy you the best taco in Texas. Deal?”
He glanced at her, at the rearview, and then he kind of winced and crouched lower in the seat, like he was ducking, and he let off the gas even more.
Bubba’s big pickup truck grew louder, then sped by them, passing the little Volvo like it was standing still.
For Maria Michele, the world shifted into ultra-slow motion as the jacked up, bright-red F-250 rolled by. She was still crouched low in the seat but looking up. And that truck was up high with a clear line of sight down. The truck’s passenger-side window was open, and long jet-black hair she’d braided a hundred times was whipping in the wind. And then that head turned, and Willow looked right down at her, and her eyes widened.
Maria pressed a finger to her lips and tried to make her eyes urgent. Willow looked from Maria to the driver, and crooked one eyebrow, and then the world shifted back to its normal speed, and the truck blasted by.
“I thought they were going to run us off the road,” the driver said. He sounded relieved.
“They wouldn’t do that. Although, they might do it to Billy Bob, if he got outta line at the church once he realized I was gone.”
He looked her way again. “You have to tell me about that temper now. A deal’s a deal.”
Then he tipped his head to one side. “And maybe you could throw in your name.”
She looked at him in surprise then shook her head. “We did kinda skip that part. I’m Maria Michele Brand Monroe-almost-Cantrell. But you can call me Maria.”
“My mother’s middle name was Maria,” he said, glancing at the photo hanging from the mirror. She looked at it, too. Beautiful woman, brilliant smile, platinum hair, and those same blue, blue eyes. There was a flash of hurt in the son’s set, but he blinked it away and said, “Harrison Hyde.”
“Nice to meet you, Harry.”
“Harrison.”
“That’s what I said. Now, Billy Bob’s most likely headin’ for my favorite spot, so he’ll stay on the main road for another few miles, then take a right onto Bluebonnet Lane.”
“Your favorite spot’s on Bluebonnet Lane?”
“Pretty, right? My house is right on top. Well, it was gonna be my house. It’s everything you could want in a house, really. We were gonna buy it right after the weddin’. Wasn’t time before. I just finished vet school in May.”
“You’re a veterinarian?”
“Like my mamma before me,” she said. “If we take the next left, we can hopscotch dirt roads all the way to the highway and be in Mad Bull’s Bend eatin’ Manny’s tacos before Billy Bob and my cousins finish checkin’ all my usual haunts.”
“Heading west? Because I need to be going west.”
“Yes, we’ll be headin’ west.” She plucked at her white skirts. “I’m gon’ change clothes. Don’t look at me.”
“I won’t.” He tipped the rearview mirror upward.
Maria climbed between the seats into the back and unzipped her duffel bag. She’d packed it for a honeymoon at a resort in Silver City, New Mexico that Billy Bob had chosen because there was a rodeo nearby that he wanted to see.
She dug out a pair of jeans, and pulled them on underneath her tattered gown. Such a shame about the dress. It had been pretty, sweetheart neckline, nipped in at the waist, with a skirt that puffed out thanks to crinoline slips. The tiny buttons up the back were false, with a delicate zipper tucked cleverly underneath. She tried to unzip it herself and darn near pulled her shoulder out of the socket.
She looked up front at Harry again. He was rigid, staring straight ahead. A gentleman, huh? Well, she’d lucked out then, hadn’t she? “I need your hand back here. Don’t look. Just reach back.”
“I have no idea what to expect right now,” he said, but reached his arm back, hand open.
She noticed his hands again. They were attractive to her. She’d never been attracted to a fella’s hands before.
“I can’t get my zipper. I’m gon’ push my back up against your hand. You can feel around enough to find the zipper and not one bit more, you hear?”
“I hear.”
“Okay.” She angled her back toward him, while he drove with one hand. She tried to aim the zipper, which she’d lowered partway, toward his hand, but her aim was off, and his palm pressed flat to her back, just above the low-slung zipper.
His hand was warm, and it rested against her bare skin for a heartbeat longer than it ought to, but before she could smack him, he moved it, sliding it lower. Oh, Lord, that was worse. It sent a tingle all the way down her spine. The naughty kind.
“Sorry,” he said, even though he hadn’t done anything. His nimble fingers found the zipper and got hold of it. He tried to pull. She reached behind her to hold the fabric together, to give him something to pull against, and the zipper slid down easy as apple pie. His knuckles brushed over the small of her back, all the way down to the crease of her butt, and then he gasped and pulled his hand away like he’d been bee-stung. The car veered. He righted it.
“Sorry,” he said again. “Is that… good?”
“Real good,” she said. Maybe teasing him just a little bit. “Thanks.” Then she pulled the dress over her head. Quickly, she put on her top, a baby-blue tank with a shelf bra built in. Then she added a thin flannel button down, brown plaid. Finally, she put on some socks and her favorite boots, and climbed into the front seat.
“He punched a stripper,” she said without preamble.
Harry looked at her so suddenly and so sharply that he jerked the wheel with the motion. She put her hand over his to straighten it back out. He blinked, and refocused on the road. “Take this left, right here?” he asked.
“Yeah.” So, he turned the car, and she clarified. “Billy Bob had a bachelor party last night, to which none of my relatives were invited.”
“That doesn’t seem very friendly.”
“No. But he has his own friends, and it was his big night, so I figured, let him do it his way. He barely knows my cousins, anyway. But he drank too much, which he’s been doing a lot lately, and he got all handsy with the stripper his boys hired for him. When she objected, he laid her out.”
“Holy…” He kept sending her quick looks. “How did you find out?”
“I knew her in college. When she got the gig, she recognized Billy Bob’s name and texted me to ask if I was okay with her dancing at his stag party. I mean, I knew that’s how she was working her way through school, no judgement here. A gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do, you know?”
“I do.” He closed his eyes. “Shoot, I did it again.”
“You did. Anyway, I knew she didn’t go in for extra-curricular stuff, so I told her to go for it and let me know if he didn’t tip her enough. Well, then, this mornin' while I’m fixin’ to marry that son of a sidewinder, I get another text from her.” She located the text with the photo on her phone and showed him. She knew the image by heart. Her friend Serena with a black eye that covered half her face was burned into Maria’s mind. The video that she’d sent with it was considerably worse. But Harry didn’t need to see that.
Harry looked away from the road at the phone. “My God.” He glanced her way again and said, “I’m really sorry.”
“I’m not,” she said. “That’s the weird part. Soon as I ran out the back door of that church, I felt like a hen freed from the coop. Kinda like I’d just woke up from a long-ass dream.”
“A long-ass dream,” he repeated.
“Yeah. Next right.”
He made the turn. The little blue car threw a cloud of dust behind it on the dirt road. Things got quiet until she said, “You have to tell me your story now. Why were you walkin’ around in the middle of nowhere? You have luggage in the back. You on some kind of road trip?”
“Yeah. I’m heading for Silver City, New Mexico.”
Well, that was a coincidence, she thought. Her honeymoon was supposed to be in Silver City. She and Billy Bob were going to see the Wild West Rodeo that was in town every June. Yippy ki yay, she thought. She looked Harry up and down. Khaki pants, no belt. A shirt with buttons, not snaps. Canvas shoes, not boots. And there wasn’t a hat in sight. “You don’t look like a rodeo cowboy to me.”
Harry’s smile came out like a beam of sunlight. “I’m not any kind of a cowboy. I’m a scientist. I’m going to Silver City to demonstrate my project to a bunch of potential investors.”
“Oh. Like a Silver City Shark Tank,” she said. He looked at her in surprise, and she shrugged. “Sorry. Go on. What did you invent?”
“It’s uh— in that box you tossed out of your seat, earlier.”
She frowned, spotting the box in the back, just lying there loose. She reached back, leaning up over the seat to do so, and brought it up front. “Jeeze, I didn’t hurt it, did I?”
“It’s pretty well-cushioned in there.”
“Can I look?”
“Sure.”
She opened the box, and he said, “It’s a solar tile. It can process as much energy as a four-by-four-foot panel.”
She looked at him, then back at the inch-square glass object nestled in foam inside the box. Its frame and backing were bright yellow, its glass center black. She said, “Wait. What?”
“It’s a—”
“I heard you. I understand, I just— I mean, that’s pretty huge, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
"I don’t know much about renewables,” she said. “But I do know solar doesn’t have a very efficient space-to-power ratio.” She didn’t miss the quick flash of surprise in his eyes. “It’s a hot topic down here. Oil country, you know.”
“Ah. Well, yeah. You’re right. It’s been a major issue. A ten-acre lot full of solar panels can only power about a hundred homes with today’s technology.”
“Right.”
“So, it’s controversial down here? Solar power?”
“A fifty-acre solar farm in our county was sabotaged a few weeks ago,” she said.
“Really?”
She nodded. “Explosives. A fire. And two weeks before that, a wind farm, about thirty miles north, same thing.”
“That’s awful.”
“My dad and uncle will get to the bottom of it,” she said. “Uncle Garrett’s the sheriff, and Dad’s his chief deputy. Willow’s even a deputy now. My cousin.”
“That’s a lot of family in law enforcement.”
“It’s a blessin’ and a curse,” she said. “Sounds to me like there’s a far better thing to replace that solar farm with, though, or soon will be.” She replaced the box’s lid. “I’m gonna put this somewhere safe.” She looked around the back of the car.
“You can tuck it into my dad’s old tackle box, for luck,” Harry suggested.
She climbed back and opened the tackle box, admired a few of the lures, then tucked the black box into the bottom. “Fits like a glove.” She closed it up and returned to her spot in the front. “That’s pretty amazing, Harry. I didn’t know I’d carjacked a genius.”
“I don’t deserve all the credit,” he said. She thought it was cute that he blushed. “I worked with three other scientists at Cornell.”
“They goin’ to the Shark Tank, too?”
“Yeah. They’re flying out. I’m meeting them there. I had to travel to Florida with my father, to look at a retirement community he’s considering. And I thought driving out would give me some time to… well, it doesn’t matter.” He glanced her way quickly then turned on the radio.
She reached up and snapped it off again. “You drove because you wanted a long, solitary journey.”
He looked at her sideways. “Yeah.”
“Sorry I ruined it,” she said.
“That’s okay. I can just drop you off in the next town and resume my—”
“Drop me off? You’re gonna drop me off? What am I, a stray dog? You’re just fixin’ to dump me someplace to fend for myself in my torn-up weddin’ dress on my destroyed weddin’ day?”
“I— you changed clothes.”
“I don’t want to be dropped off. I want to go to Silver City.”
“To the demo site?”
“No, not to the demo site. To my honeymoon destination, the Silver Springs Resort and Spa. I have the tickets right in my bag. I’m not fixin’ to let ’em go to waste. And you’re headin’ right there anyway! Now quit gawkin’ at me. You’re fixin’ to miss the turn.”
He looked at the road again and made the turn in time.
“We hit the highway in five miles,” she said. “Then, tacos, as promised. I’m starved.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” She reached up and turned the radio back on. An old country song was playing, and she nodded. “At least you have good taste in music.”
“That’s the only station I’ve been able to pull in for the past forty miles.”
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June 24, 2024
How to Sleep, When You Can't Sleep
Powerful, drug-free methods that work for me every time
A lot of my readers are having trouble with sleep. It's not surprising for a couple or reasons. One reason is that most of my readers are the same age as me, and we seem to sleep less as we age. I think we require less sleep as we age but I don't know of any science to back that up. It's just how it feels to me. I'd love to see a clinical study done.
The other reason, of course, is the state of the world. I won't go into detail on that, because this post is supposed to help you sleep. But the state of things causes worry, and worry prevents sleep. To me, things just feel harder than they did before Covid.
Anyway, I've figured out how to go to sleep at bedtime instead of lying awake with my mind racing for hours on end. And the same methods also work for going back to sleep when you wake up to pee at three a.m. So, I thought I'd share my best methods. They all work.
Maharishi Maresh Yogi taught this one to The Beatles. Lying in bed at bedtime, repeat to yourself, "Every day, in every way, I am getting better and better." Repeat it 20 times.
There's only been one time I got to twenty still awake. I started over and only made it to 5. I find that as my mind drifts, I forget to keep repeating, and thoughts come in, but I quickly realize it, and just go back to where I left off.
The bonus of this is a little bit of natural magic. (which I teach over at The Bliss Blog.) The state between sleep and wakefulness, that twilight state, is also in between the worlds. It's a place where thoughts linger just before becoming things. It's a place where launched desires can have near instant manifestation. It's a powerful state and difficult to achieve while retaining enough awareness to do anything about it. If we are saying and thinking, "I'm getting better in every way" as we pass through that state into sleep, we are launching some powerful natural magic.
Because of that understanding, I often use this method with more specific goals. And being a writer, I eliminate the unnecessary filter word, "getting," which just weakens the impact of the sentence. I might even say several versions of the affirmation (or spell) in the same night.
Every day, in every way, I am healthier and healthier.
Every day, in every way, I am a better storyteller.
Every day, in every way, abundance flows freely.
Every day, in every way, I live more love and joy.
Every day, in every way, I am kindness personified.
Lying in bed, you will tighten, hold, then completely release each body part in something like the following order. Feet. Calves. Thighs. All three at once. Hands. Arms. Shoulders. All three at once. Buttocks. Pelvis. Hips. All three at once. Lower back. Middle back. Upper back. All three at once. Abdomen. Middle Tummy. Chest. All three at once. Neck. Face. Head. All three at once. Entire body. Hold longer than the rest. Relax.
At each point when you relax the body part, relax it again, and then relax it even more, and then still more. It's amazing how much we're still clenching without even knowing it. So relax, then relax more, then relax more, until you really feel you've released whatever part you are clenching. Do this even further after the final, full-body clench.
This method has never failed for me, and I'm usually asleep before I finish.
As a rule, we don't want to develop the habit of falling asleep during meditation. But I think we are smart, capable beings who can do two different things. We should all spend 15 minutes each day in silent meditation, preferably first thing in the morning. This practice will improve physical health and sleep all on its own, even if you don't do another thing. It reduces blood pressure and lowers the risk for multiple conditions and diseases. It puts you in tune with your intuition and then some.
For sleeplessness, I recommend repeating a 15-minute meditation right before sleep, in bed, as a relaxation method. Like in the daily meditaiton, quiet the mind, focus on white noise, and count the breaths; three slow beats in, five slow beats out. When thoughts come, and they will, notice but do not grab hold of them. Just let them float by, and return your attention to the white noise, and the counting of your breaths.
You have to use common sense, here. Don't choose nature documentaries that feature graphic animal violence, or science documentaries predicting our doom. Planet Earth or Secrets of the Octopus or The Universe, that type of thing. There's one astronomy show with this soft-voiced British man narrating and I swear his voice is a lullaby.
I fall asleep within fifteen minutes of one of these programs, even though I always stir enough to turn off the TV before I sink entirely into sleep.
What's really happening in every single method above is pretty much the same. Our brains can only focus on one thing at a time. They cannot spin worried mind-chatter while simultaneously counting, or while simultaneously repeating a phrase. Mind chatter shuts off when we are focused on something of interest, like a TV show. The key is distraction.
The yoga method is a distraction, too, but it has the added bonus of thoroughly relaxing the body at the same time it distracts the brain.
I think of my inner chatterbox brain as a toddler. I have to get the toddler to sleep before I can rest myself. This analogy works for me because I raised five daughters, and I spent many a night trying to get them to sleep so I could rest myself. The key is to get them to lie still long enough, and shut off their little brains long enough, to let sleep slide in like a shadowy ninja. Hence the magic of the bedtime story. (Although many nights, I'd nod off while reading three or four times before the child did.)
It's exactly the same way with our brain. It just wants to second guess everything we've done, worry about everything in the future, rehash everything in the past, and thoroughly discuss every random thought it can get hold of.
All we have to do to distract our brains from mind chatter and worry, is give them something else to focus on. They cannot do both at once.
I know it's hard to maintain the focus at first, because brain is a two-year-old whining, "I wanna stay up!" and "I want another drinka water." The thoughts keep coming back in, but that's okay. That's supposed to happen. Just gently shift back to the chosen distraction, over and over, until she falls asleep. And then you will, too.
The more often you do this, the easier it will become.
Share you own methods, or let me know how my suggestions worked for you in comments!
June 7, 2024
Twilight Phantasies
Chapter 1
Dear readers,
I thought it was high time I put a lengthy excerpt from Twilight Phantasies here. It was my first publishable novel, though it was the second one release by just four weeks. That had more to do with scheduling than anything meaningful. I was my fifth novel overall, but the first few were what we in the biz used to call "practice books." The ones writers cut their teeth on, as they're learning the craft. These practice books are never meant to be seen by readers. Today, though, writers are skipping this step, becasue they can hit "publish" all by themselves. It's a huge mistake to publish too soon, or without a professional editor.
I have written more than 100 stories since this once. As I read it today I find it quite overwritten, with a lot of purple prose. Purple is my favorite color. (Or maybe red.) If read aloud, the emotion would be the absolute height of angst in every line. My description of this book's mood is Uhhhhn sound you make with fists clasped and teeth bared when your feelings are too much for mere words to convey. Yeah. It's dialed up to a ten pretty much the whole time.
And I love it. I'm a better writer now. But this one is my precious.
You can read the whole thing free in KU or for a few bucks in eBook at Amazon. Paperbacks are available at Amazon, too.
I hope the excerpt will convince you that resistance is futile.
In the dream she was running. From something, toward something. Someone. She plunged through dense forest woven with vines and brambles that clawed at her legs, snared her, pulled her back. Swirls of smoky mist writhed, serpentlike, around her calves. She couldn’t even see where her feet touched the ground. All the while she kept calling for him, but, as always, when she woke she couldn’t remember his name.
Jet hair stuck to her face, glued there by tears and perspiration. Her lungs swelled like those of a marathon runner after a race. She dragged in breath after ragged breath. Her heart felt ready to explode. Her head spun in ever-tightening circles and she had to close her eyes tightly against the horrible dizziness. She sat up quickly, pushing the damp hair from her forehead, and glanced at the clock beside the bed and then at the fading light beyond the window.
She needn’t have done so. The dream assaulted her at the same time each day, just one part of her increasingly irregular sleep patterns. Nighttime insomnia, daytime lethargy and vivid nightmares that were always the same had become a predictable part of her existence. She’d made a habit of rushing to her room for a nap the second she got home from work, knowing it would be the only sleep she was likely to get. She’d sleep like the dead until just before dusk, only to be wakened by that frightening, lingering dream.
The effects slowly faded, and Tamara got to her feet, pulled on her satin robe and padded to the adjoining bathroom, leaving tracks in the deep, silvery pile of the carpet. She twisted the knob on the oversize tub and sprinkled a handful of bath oil beads into the rising water. As the stream of water bubbled and spurted she heard an urgent knock, and she went to the door.
Daniel’s silver brows bunched together over pale blue, concern-filled eyes. “Tam? Are you all right?”
She closed her eyes slowly and sighed. She must have cried out again. It was bad enough to be certain her own sanity was slipping steadily out of her grasp, but to worry the man who’d been like a father to her for the past twenty years was too much. “Of course, I’m fine. Why?”
“I...thought I heard you call.” His eyes narrowed to study her face. She hoped the circles beneath her eyes didn’t show. “Are you sure you’re—”
“Fine. I’m fine. I stubbed my toe on the bedpost, that’s all.”
Still he looked doubtful. “You look tired.”
“I was about to take a nice hot bath and then I’m down for the night.” She smiled to ease his worry, but it turned to a frown when she noted the coat over his arm. “You’re going out? Daniel, it’s been snowing all day. The roads—”
“I’m not driving, Tam. Curtis is coming to pick me up.”
She felt her spine stiffen. Her breath escaped her in a rush. “You’re going to spy on that man again, aren’t you? Honestly, Daniel, this obsession you have—”
“Spying! It’s surveillance. And don’t call it obsession, Tamara. It’s pure scientific study. You should understand that.”
Her brows rose. “It’s folklore, that’s what it is. And if you keep dogging the poor man’s every step he’s going to end up dragging you into court. Daniel, you’ve followed him for months. You have yet to come up with a shred of evidence that he’s—”
“Daniel.” Curt’s voice cut her off, and in a moment he’d hurried up the stairs to join Daniel outside her bedroom door. “Are you ready?”
“And you!” Tamara rushed on as if he’d been privy to the entire conversation. “I can’t believe you’re encouraging this witch-hunt. For God’s sake, the three of us spend every day in a high-tech, brass-and-glass-filled office building in White Plains. We’re living in the nineties, guys. Byram, Connecticut, not fifteenth-century Transylvania!”
Curt stared at her for a moment. Then he tilted his head to one side and opened his arms. She sighed and allowed his embrace. “Still not sleeping nights?” His voice came smoothly, softly.
She shook her head against the damp fabric of his coat.
“I’m worried about leaving her alone,” Daniel said, as if she were not there.
“I have experiments to finish in the basement lab,” Curt offered. “I could hang around here, if you want to do the surveillance alone.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” she snapped.
Daniel ignored her. “I think that’s a good idea,” he said. He leaned over to plant a dry peck on her cheek. “I’ll be back around dawn.”
She pulled from Curt’s arms and shook her head in frustration.
“Daniel and I know what we’re doing, Tam,” Curt told her, his tone placating. “We’ve been in this business a lot longer than you have. DPI has reams on Marquand. It’s not legend.”
“I want to see the files.” She sniffed and met his gaze.
His lips tightened at the corners. “Your security clearance isn’t high enough.”
It was the answer she’d expected, the same one she got every time she asked to see the data that the Division of Paranormal Investigations had on the alleged vampire, Marquand. She lowered her head and turned from him.
His hand on her shoulder stopped her. “Tamara, don’t be angry. It’s for your own—’’
“I know. For my own good. My tub is going to run over.’’ She stepped away from him and closed the door.
Curtis would sequester himself in the basement lab and not give her a second thought, she was sure of it. He didn’t worry about her the way Daniel did. He did seem to feel he had the right to boss her around more than usual lately.
She shrugged, vowing not to worry anymore about Curt’s proprietary attitude toward her. She stopped the water in the bathtub and stared down into it for long moments. No hot bath was going to help her sleep. She’d tried everything from warm milk to double doses of a prescription sleep aid she’d pressured her doctor into giving her. Nothing worked. Why go through the motions?
With a frustrated sigh she padded to the French doors. On a whim, she flung them open and stepped out onto the balcony. A purple-black sky, lightening to silvery blue in the west, dropped snowflakes in chaotic choreography. The sun had set fully while she’d been arguing with her insane guardian and his stubborn cohort. She stared, entranced by the simple grace of the dancing snow. All at once she felt she had to be a part of it. Why waste all this nervous energy lying in bed, staring up at the underside of the white canopy?
Especially when she knew sleep wouldn’t come for hours. Maybe she could exhaust herself into oblivion. How long had it been since she’d been able to put aside her gnawing worry and enjoy some simple pleasure?
She hurried back inside, eager now that the decision was made. She yanked on tight black leggings and a bulky knit sweater, two pairs of socks and furry pink earmuffs. She grabbed her coat and her skates from the closet, dropped them into her duffel bag, shoved her purse in beside them and opened her bedroom door.
For a moment she just listened. The hollow dinosaur of a house was silent. She tiptoed through the hall and down the stairs. She paused at the front door just long enough to stuff her feet into her boots, and then she slipped silently through it.
Crisp air stung her cheeks and her breath made little steam clouds in the falling snow. Twenty minutes of walking and snow-dance watching brought her to the outskirts of Byram. Childish delight warmed her when her destination came into view.
The rink sparkled from its nest amid the town park’s shrubbery and carefully pruned elms. Meandering, snow-dusted sidewalks, wrought-iron benches with redwood slatted seats, and trash cans painted a festive green made a wreath around the ice. Tamara hastened to the nearest bench to change into her skates.
When he woke, Eric felt as if his head were stuffed with wet cotton. He’d swung his legs to the floor, landing with unusual clumsiness. He hadn’t needed a window to sense the pale blush that still hung in the western sky. It hadn’t been the coming of night that had awakened him. Hadn’t been that for weeks. Always, her cries echoed in his head until he could no longer rest. Fear and confusion were palpable in her wrenching pleas. He felt her need like a barbed hook, snagged through his heart and pulling him.
Yet he hesitated. Some preternatural instinct warned him not to act hastily. No sense of imminent danger laced her nightly summons. No physical weakness or life-threatening accident seemed to be the cause. What, then?
That she was able to summon him at all was incredible. No human could summon a vampire. That anything other than mortal danger could rouse him from his deathlike slumber astounded him. He longed to go to her, to ask the questions that burned in his mind. Yet he hesitated.
Long ago he’d left this place, vowing to stay clear of the girl for her own sake. He’d hoped the incredible psychic link between them would fade with time and distance. Apparently, it had not.
He relaxed for an hour in the comfort of his lair. With the final setting of the sun came the familiar rush of energy. His senses sharpened to the deadly keenness of a freshly whetted blade. His body tingled with a million needles of sensation.
He dressed, then released the multitude of locks on the heavy door. He moved in silence through the pitch-black hall and pushed against a heavy slab of stone at the end. It swung inward easily, without a creak of protest, and he stepped through the opening into what appeared to be an ordinary basement. The door, from this side, looked like a well-stocked wine rack. He pushed it gently closed again and mounted the stairway that led to the main house.
He had to see her. He’d known it for some time, and avoided the knowledge. Her pull was too strong to resist. When her sweet, tormented voice came to him in the velvet folds of his rest, he felt her anguish. He had to know what troubled her so. He moved into the parlor, to the tall window, and parted the drape.
The DPI van sat across from the front gate, as it had every night for two months now. Another reason he needed to exercise caution. The division had begun with a group of pious imbeciles, intent on the destruction of any and everything they did not understand, over a century ago. Rumor had it they were now under the auspices of the CIA, making them a threat not to be taken lightly. They occupied an entire office building in White Plains, according to Eric’s information. It was said they had operatives in place all over the United States, and even in Europe. The one outside seemed to have made Eric his personal obsession. As if the front gate were the only way out, he parked there at dark every night and remained until dawn. He was as bothersome to Eric as a noisy fly.
He shrugged into a dark-colored overcoat and left through the French doors off the living room, facing opposite the front gate. He crossed the back lawn, stretching from the
house to the sheer, rocky cliff above Long Island Sound. He went to the tall iron fence that completely surrounded his property, and vaulted it without much effort. He moved through the trees, gaining the road several yards behind the intense man who thought he was watching so well.
He walked only a short distance before he stopped, cleared his mind, closed his eyes, and opened himself to the cacophony of sensations that were usually denied access. He winced inwardly at the bombardment. Voices of every tone, inflection and decibel level echoed in his mind. Emotions from terrible fear to delirious joy swept through him. Physical sensations, both pleasure and pain, twisted within him, and he braced himself against the mental assault. He couldn’t target an individual’s mind any other way, unless that person was deliberately sending him a message—the way she’d been doing.
Gradually he gained mastery over the barrage. He sifted it, searching for her voice, her thoughts. In moments he felt her, and he turned in the direction he knew her to be.
He nearly choked when he drew near the ice rink and caught sight of her. She twirled in the center of the rink, bathed in moonglow, her face turned up as if in supplication—as if she were in love with the night. She stopped, extended her arms with the grace of a ballerina and skated slowly, then faster, carving a figure eight into the ice. She turned then, glided backward over the ice, then turned again, crossing skate over skate, slowing her pace gradually.
Eric felt an odd burning in his throat as he watched her. It had been twenty years since he’d left the innocent, raven-haired child’s hospital bed after saving her life. How vividly he recalled that night—the way she’d opened her eyes and clutched his hand. She’d called him by name, and asked him not to go. Called him by name, even though she’d never seen him before that night! It was then he’d realized the strength of the bond between them, and made the decision to leave.
Did she remember? Would she recognize him, if she saw him again? Of course, he had no intention of allowing that.
He only wanted to look at her, to scan her mind and learn what caused her nightly anguish.
She skated to a bench near the edge of the ice, pulled off the earmuffs she wore and tossed them down. She shook her head and her hair flew wildly, like a black satin cloak of curls. She shrugged off the jacket and dropped it on the bench. She seemed unconcerned that it slid over the side to land in the snow. She drew a breath, turned and skated off.
Eric opened his mind and locked in on hers, honed his every sense to her. It took only seconds, and once again he marveled at the strength of the mental link between them. He heard her thoughts as clearly as she did.
What he heard was music—the music she imagined as she swooped and swirled around the ice. It faded slightly, and she spoke inwardly to herself. Axel, Tam, old girl A little more speed...now!
He caught his breath when she leapt from the ice to spin one and a half times. She landed almost perfectly, with one leg extended behind her, then wobbled and went down hard.
Eric almost rushed out to her. Some nearly unheard instinct whispered a warning and he stopped himself. Slowly he realized she was laughing, and the sound was like crystal water bubbling over stones.
She stood, rubbed her backside and skated away as his gaze followed her. She looped around the far end of the rink. That’s when Eric spotted the van, parked in the darkness just across the street.
Daniel St. Claire!
He quickly corrected himself. It couldn’t be St. Claire. He’d have heard the man’s arrival. He would have had to arrive after Eric himself. He looked more closely at the white van, noticing minute differences—that scratch along the side, the tires. It wasn’t St. Claire’s vehicle, but it was DPI. Someone was watching—not him, but Tamara.
He would have moved nearer, pierced the dark interior with his eyes and identified the watcher, but his foot caught on something and he glanced down. A bag. Her bag.
He looked toward Tamara again. She was completely engrossed in her skating. Apparently the one watching her was, as well. Eric bent, snatched up the bag and melted into the shadows. Besides her boots the only thing inside was a small handbag. Supple kid leather beneath his fingers. He took it out.
An invasion of her privacy, yes. He knew it. If the same people were watching her as were watching him, though, he had to know why. If St. Claire had somehow learned of his connection to the girl, this could be some elaborate trap. He removed each item from the bag, methodically examining each one before replacing it. Inside the small billfold he found a plastic DPI keycard with Tamara’s name emblazoned so boldly across the front that it hurt his eyes.
“No,” he whispered. His gaze moved back to her as he mindlessly dropped the card into the bag, the bag into the duffel, and tossed the lot back toward the place where he’d found it. His heart convulsed as he watched her. So beautiful, so delicate, with diamond-like droplets glistening as if they’d been magically woven into that mane of hair while she twirled beneath the full moon.
Could she be his Judas? A betrayer in the guise of an angel?
He attuned his mind to hers with every ounce of power he possessed, but the only sensations he found there were joy and exuberance. All he heard was the music, playing ever more loudly in her mind. Overture to The Impresario. She skated in perfect rhythm with the urgent piece, until the music stopped all at once.
She skidded to a halt and stood poised on the ice, her head cocked slightly, as if she’d heard a sound she couldn’t identify. She turned very slowly, making a full circle as her gaze swept the rink. She stopped moving when she faced him, though he knew she couldn’t possibly see him there, dressed in black, swathed in shadow. Still, she frowned and skated toward him.
My God, could the connection between them be so strong that she actually sensed his presence? Had she felt him probing her mind?
He turned and would have left but for the quickened strokes of her blades over the ice, and the scrape as she skidded to a stop so close to him he felt the spray of ice fragments her skates threw at his legs. He felt the heat emanating from her exertion-warmed body.
She’d seen him now. Her gaze burned a path over his back and for the life of him he couldn’t walk away from her. Foolish it might have been, but Eric turned and faced her.
She stared for a long moment, her expression puzzled. Her cheeks glowed with warmth and life. The tip of her nose was red. Small white puffs escaped her parted lips and lower, a pulse throbbed at her throat. Even when he forced his gaze away from the tiny beat, he felt it pound through him the way Beethoven must have felt the physical impact of his music. He found himself unable to look away from her eyes. They held his captive, as if she possessed the same power of command he did. He felt lost in huge, bottomless orbs, so black they appeared to have no pupils.
My God, he thought. She already looks like one of us.
She frowned, and shook her head as if trying to shake the snowflakes from her hair. “I’m sorry. I thought you were...’’
The explanation died on her lips, but Eric knew. She thought he was someone she knew, someone she was close to. He was.
“Someone else,” he finished for her. “Happens all the time. I have one of those faces.” He scanned her mind, seeking signs of recognition on her part. There was no memory there, only a powerful longing—a craving she hadn’t yet identified. “Good Night.” He nodded once and forced himself to turn from her.
Even as he took the first step he heard her unspoken plea as if she’d shouted it. Please, don't go!
He faced her again, unable to do otherwise. His practical mind kept reminding him of the DPI card in her bag. His heart wanted her cradled in his arms. She’d truly grown into a beauty. A glimpse of her would be enough to take away the breath of any man. The glint of unshed tears in her eyes shocked him.
“I’m sure I know you,” she said. Her voice trembled when she spoke. “Tell me who you are.”
Her need tore at him, and he sensed no lie or evil intent. Yet if she worked for DPI she could only mean him harm. He sensed the attention of the man in the van. He must wonder why she lingered here.
“You must be mistaken.” It tore at his soul to utter the lie. “I’m certain we’ve never met.”
Again he turned, but this time she came toward him, one hand reaching out to him. She stumbled, and only Eric’s preternatural speed enabled him to whirl in time. He caught her as she plunged forward. His arms encircled her slender frame and he pulled her to his chest.
He couldn’t make himself let go. He held her to him and she didn’t resist. Her face lay upon his chest, above his silent heart. Her scent enslaved him. When her arms came to his shoulders, as if to steady herself, only to slide around his neck, he felt he’d die a thousand deaths before he’d let her go.
She lifted her head, tipped it back and gazed into his eyes. “I do know you, don’t I?”
April 24, 2024
Coffee Talk
I've found a free moment to pop in, only to realize I haven't posted a blog in three weeks! Humble apologies. And here I thought I was Taylor Swifting my life. Not quite, it turns out.
There have been at least two newsletters during that time, though, so if you aren't getting enough of me, subscribe at the bottom of the page. So you know, my goal is a newsletter every other Tuesday and a post here on the Tuesdays in between. I was trying to do both every week, but alas, I've reached the limit of what's humanly possible while maintaining my sanity.
So this is just a woman-to-woman catch up chat. We don't do that like we used to, do we? Just get together and talk about life. So anyway, here's where I am.
I'm doing well in classes and the semester is almost over, and it was too much. I took on too much. I'm not quitting, but 16 credits with a huge family, 3 businesses, a book to write, and 3 blogs while also helping coach people into the best health of their lives (informally for now) turns out to be a little much. I'm managing it, but I'm almost out of gas. Spring is springing. It was only in the 40s today but they're calling for 80º Monday. I'm going to want to be outside. I am planning a huge garden. Where is that going to fit in?
But I love the classes, and I feel smarter every day. I didn't get to go to college. I had babies in my teens. It has been a nagging regret in my life. So I'm doing it now, and I am loving it. I just find myself missing the other parts of my life.
So my adjustment is to take 12 credits instead of 16 credits this fall – one less class. It's still considered full time, but I think it will be a lot more manageable. However it only takes one class to suck away my time. I am breezing through sociology and intro to healthcare and composition. (Get this: it's been so long since high school, that I have to take comp 1 and comp 2 if I want a degree in nutrition! You've gotta love irony!) Nutrition class is harder, but not a lot harder. It's biology that's taking the majority of my time. That stuff is hard for me! I'm pulling an A right now, but I am working my tail off for it, and I think the final is likely to bring that down a bit.
Like I said, I'm nearly finished with the semester. I think it ends May 22nd, but I should be finished at least a week sooner. I'm always working ahead.
My plan for the summer is to write my brains out, complete Harrison Hyde and the Runaway Bride, and get it ready for you all to read. This story is going to be laugh out loud funny, but also deep and touching. Lots of emotion. Lots of everything you love about the Brands. All that family warmth and loyalty. Badass women and the men who adore them. These two characters, Maria Brand and Harry Hyde are helping each other grow into their best selves. I'm in love with this book, and it's so fun being immersed in the world of The Texas Brand again.
Then I will decide what's next. Another Brown and de Luca? Another Fatal book? Another Wings in the Night? I never finished the follow up to Fiona, though I have about half a novel somewhere I started a whle back. So many stories. So little time. I need to live at least another century to write them all and do all the other wonderful things I want to do with this life!
Okay, here's the next thing, totally new topic: I'm feeling less and less comfortable coloring my hair.
It isn't that I'm worried about the chemicals. I get Madison Reed color, which is supposed to be very safe. I wait longer and longer between treatments just to see how it looks without. It goes white right in front of my ears, and all along my hairline, underneath. Those fine hairs there, you know what I mean. I actually think the white looks looks kind of cool where it does come in. But the parts that aren't white yet are mousy gray brown and that's no fun.
Then there are my eyebrows. If I don't tint them every few weeks or shade them in with makeup, they basically disappear. I'm just not ready for that look yet. When I was young I hated how thick and bushy my eyebrows were. Now I wish I had them back!
And yet, I feel like I'm rapidly approaching that point we all reach where too much color can start to look silly and fake. Besides, I like everything as natural as possible. So how am I still coloring my hair and brows? It doesn't fit with the rest of my lifestyle.
Am I ready to give it up and just go mousy gray-brown with a few pretty white places? Nope. I don't feel like I'm there yet. I'm conflicted, but I'm not there yet. This is kind of how I felt about eating meat for several years before I gave it up, so I imagine this is my process for large scale change. I need a few years to adjust to the idea.
I have a box of color sitting in the bathroom baiting me. Maybe I'll foil my white patches and color the rest, and see how that feels. Or maybe I'll just keep coloring it until it all starts coming in white or silver, and the mousty gray-brown is all gone, if it ever reaches that point, and then let it go natural. I think that idea feels best to me right now.
Thanks for letting me talk that out. My husband's a lot younger than I am, and sometimes I think I let that influence my approach to some things. He's the least shallow man I've ever met, and would love me even if I had no hair at all. But you know, I have an ego. He's finally getting some gray himeself. That's going to help. Maybe he'll eventually grow a long, snowy Santa beard like his grandpa had, and I'll feel like the dimepiece for a while.
Oh, hey, did you see the new look we're giving Wings in the Night?
The first six (but really 9) are done. Let me explain. We're adding each novella as bonus content with a novel. That's going to mess up the series numbering for a little while, because we can only give each volume one number. So the novellas will no longer be numbered, but they will be in the proper order. It just might be confusing until we get them all done. Due to expense we're doing three at a time. Sales have already picked up.
You can help me out by sharing one of these images on your social.
Thanks! If you want to link directly to book 1, (it's a Kindle exclusive in eBook) here's the link:
https://www.amazon.com/Twilight-Phant...
I've unlinked that so you can copy and paste, if you like. I'm not linking the images either to make them easier for you to copy.
If I learned anything from Taylor Swift this month, it's that fans are a powerful, unstoppable, irresistable force. And I know Wings fans are a particularly passionate group.
Anyway, that's everything on my mind at the moment. Everything not political, at least, and I try to keep my passionate politics out of here. If you want a to hear my unfettered views on that, follow me on Threads! I'm @MaggieShayne there like most places.
Talk to you online! (I'm mainly on Facebook and Threads.)
March 13, 2024
On Sale at last!
And already a bestseller!
The Mermaid Murder dropped yesterday, and things are looking sweet. It has already hit several bestseller lists at Amazon including some I rarely crack, like Crime Thrillers and Psychological Thrillers, which I found, well, thrilling! It was a bestseller at BN yesterday and today, and is even ranking at Kobo. These are all very good things.
There's a juicy excerpt HERE if you want to read the opening chapter before you buy.
And all the buy links are right HERE
And the full series page with all 9 titles from both series (The Brown and de Luca Novels & Brown and de Luca Return) is HERE
Get 'em while they're hot!
And thank you to the advance reviewers who gave this book such a lovely birthday, and a special thanks to the pre-orderers! Your enthusiasm set the book up for success and it's deeply appreciated. Thanks to everyone who bought it on Day 1 and sent it climbing up the charts, and thanks in advance to those who buy it today and help to keep that momentum going!
I hope you enjoy the story!
Maggie
Maggie's Coffee House Blog
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