Roxanne Rhoads's Blog, page 429
July 21, 2014
Guest Blog and Giveaway: The Spirit and The Shadow by Thomas Lavalle and Brandon Swope
The Partnership that Created the Book
I met Brandon nearly 20 years ago in college; where we did what college kids do ... drink, watch the reruns of “the Simpsons”, and drank some more. I joke with him that we weren’t friends in college ... for example, on a recent trip to visit him I kindly pointed out that in his photo albums from college, I’m not in a single picture. His wife, who went to college with us also, laughs and says I’m right, just to turn the screws a little on her husband. Brandon, frustrated with both of us says, “have you seen yourself in college, you should be happy there is no photographic evidence of that part of your life.”
After college, Brandon moved west, I stayed east, and something unexpected happened. I went surfing for the first time, stood on my first wave, and spent the next 14 years in the water as much as I possibly could. Over those years, Brandon and I (with a group of friends) grabbed our boards and trekked the world surfing ... surf trips were a string that tied all the travel and adventure in our twenties.
Our thirties came, and so did marriage and children. Our jobs turned to careers. Free time for reading books, listening to albums, or whatever other things we felt like doing were being lost to our growing list of responsibilities each day. It had hit a breaking point for both of us. So one day out in California (after a surf and over a beer) I said, “I have an idea” ... and that started the book.
A year in, JennaRose (a friend of my wife’s since diapers) was out visiting us on an annual trip she makes to the east coast. She was going on and on about obscure sci-fi shows and books (all stuff I have heard her talk in pain-staking detail since I’ve known her), but this time was different. I asked her, “Have you ever wanted to create something of your own?”
When she expressed her interest in book editing, I said, “I have something to show you...”During this book blog tour, I had an interview question “What is my favorite part about writing?” I didn’t have an answer, because I am not sure I have a favorite part of writing. To me, writing is only one part of the entire creative process. And while many (if not most writers) enjoy the solitude and privacy of writing ... I thrive on the collaboration with my creative partners. Brainstorming ideas, developing story concepts, and maturing characters with Brandon and JennaRose were the most rewarding parts of creating this book.
I did not want to write a book on my own. There was no fun in that - creating a book with people who share a similar vision, enthusiasm, and creative drive was. I guess it’s like being in a band rather than being a solo artist. There is something about feeding off the creative energy of people working together – to actually see each of our ideas grow and become something more than any one of us individually could have conceived.
Something we wanted to achieve in the first book was a full experience in a single sitting. We wanted a fast pace read, that could be read in a single sitting. We have the entire journey planned to the end, but we wanted each installment to be fully self-contained and able to be enjoyed within a couple hours. A reviewer likened it to watching an hour episode of an HBO or Netflix show, and that was really what we set out to do.
The second book in our series is already underway. I am in the middle of my rewrite of the first draft, Brandon is sketching the new characters, and Jenna is waiting impatiently for the first pages to review.
I encourage any writer out there, to explore creative partnerships. Working with people who I trust and enjoy spending time with – where imagination is fostered through a sharing of ideas and thoughts has been incredibly rewarding for me as a writer!
Thank you for reading! Please check out our book: The Spirit and The Shadow, and enter to win the free book giveaway. Also, please share your comments below, and I will be checking in throughout the day to respond to any comments or questions!
The Spirit and The ShadowBook 1Author: Thomas LavalleIllustrator: Brandon SwopeGenre: Paranormal, Suspense, ThrillerPublisher: No Rules Media Publishing, LLC
ISBN: 9780991461004ASIN: B00JBU4IVC
Number of pages: 180Word Count: 11,000
Cover Artist: Brandon Swope
Book Description:
A fast-paced, paranormal suspense thriller from a new creative team that keeps you on the edge of your seat as you are pulled into the chase for a vampire by those who want his secret, others who are out for justice, and one man seeking revenge.
In a world where vampires and humans coexist, Detectives Aiden Lawson and Robert Garrison are after a vampire wanted for murder. This accused vampire is also hunted by the murder victim's brother, an assassin gone rogue from his clandestine agency. What these men will learn, is that this vampire has a secret – a secret that very powerful men and vampire alike will go to great lengths to acquire. The story follows the paths of these individuals as they uncover the truth. THE SPIRIT AND THE SHADOW is a mash-up of conspiracy and paranormal genres with suspense, vengeance, and BLOOD!
Available at iTunes Lulu Amazon Google Play
About the Author:I have been advised against announcing that I am a first-time author – that it is basically asking a reader to take a chance in my book even though I have no track record. I have no history in fiction writing, never won any awards, and never took a literature or writing class (outside of basic 101 level college courses). While not advised, it is the truth, and as honest as this bio is, so is my writing. My name is Thomas Lavalle. I am a first time writer. I also surf, read comics, and I’m a dedicated father and husband. If you’re interested in paranormal suspense - take a chance and check out my book, it’s awesome!
http://www.thespiritandtheshadow.com/
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/20909825-the-spirit-and-the-shadow
http://www.facebook.com/thespiritandtheshadow
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July 20, 2014
Blitz Black Moon by Becca C. Smith and F.M. Sherrill
Review-Corazones Literarios http://corazones-literarios.blogspot.comCBY Book Clubhttp://cbybookclub.blogspot.co.uk/
3 Partners in Shopping, Nana, Mommy, & Sissy, Too! http://3partnersinshopping.blogspot.com
Book Purses & Reviewswww.bookpurses.blogspot.com
Jodie Pierce's Ink Slinger's Blogwww.jodiepierceauthor.blogspot.com/
Emma Weylinhttp://emmaweylin.com/
Sapphyria's Book Reviews http://saphsbookblog.blogspot.com/
Madwoman with a Writing Boxhttp://maravalderran.blogspot.com
Fang-tastic Bookswww.fang-tasticbooks.blogspot.com
Roxanne’s Realmwww.roxannerhoads.com
Lisa’s World of Bookswww.lisasworldofbooks.net
The Creatively Green Write at Home Momwww.creativelygreen.blogspot.com
My Book Addiction http://mybookaddiction.com
Deb Sandershttp://DebSanders.com
My Book Filled Life http://mybookfilledlife.blogspot.com
The Simple Things in Lifehttps://pwrspot.bogspot.com
Dark Side of Romancehttp://www.darksideofromance.com
Annette Gisbyhttp://agisby.blogspot.co.uk/
AmiaBookloverwww.amiabooklover.blogspot.com
July 22 InterviewButterfly-o-Meter Bookshttp://butterfly-o-meter.com/
July 23 SpotlightEmma Weylinhttp://emmaweylin.com/
July 25 Spotlight and reviewCrazy Four Bookshttp://crazyfourbooks.blogspot.com
July 28 InterviewUrban Fantasy Investigationshttp://urbanfantasyinvestigations.blogspot.com/
July 29 InterviewFang-tastic Bookswww.fang-tasticbooks.blogspot.com
July 30 reviewPainted Wordshttp://www.tipsyink.blogspot.com
July 31 SpotlightParanormal Romance Fans for Lifewww.paranormalromancefanforlife.blogspot.com
August 1 InterviewRoxanne’s Realmwww.roxannerhoads.com
August 4 SpotlightCBY Book Clubhttp://cbybookclub.blogspot.co.uk/
August 5 SpotlightShare My Destinyhttp://sharemydestiny.blogspot.com
August 6 SpotlightBooks N Pearls http://booksnpearls.weebly.com/blog
August 7 reviewCabin Goddesshttp://cabingoddess.com
August 8 SpotlightBook Troll's Real Escape http://booktrollsrealescapebookblog.com
August 11 spotlightMy Book Filled Life http://mybookfilledlife.blogspot.com
August 12 SpotlightKristy Centenohttp://booksbycenteno.com
August 13 SpotlightBuried Under Bookshttp://www.buriedunderbooks.com
August 14 InterviewThe Creatively Green Write at Home Momwww.creativelygreen.blogspot.com
August 15 InterviewDarkest Cravingswww.darkestcravings.blogspot.com
August 18 Character InterviewEclipse Reviewshttp://totaleclipsereviews.blogspot.com/
August 19 InterviewPembroke Sinclair. www.pembrokesinclair.blogspot.com
Black MoonThe Black Moon SagaBook 1Becca C. Smith & F.M. SherrillGenre: Paranormal Romance
Publisher: Red Frog PublishingDate of Publication: 07/07/14
ISBN: 9780985027698ASIN:
Number of pages: 283Word Count: 68,000
Cover Artist: Becca C. Smith & F.M. Sherrill
Book Description:
Shea Harper is forced to stay in boring, hot and dry Phoenix, Arizona for college. But once she meets the enigmatic yet positively egocentric Lucian, Shea’s life changes forever.
She finds out that she comes from a long line of descendants called Vessels. In her soul is the key to destroying an ancient prison protecting the world from darkness itself: Lucian’s father.
Up until now, Lucian has captured every descendant except Shea. With her powers awakening, all vampires want to drag her down to the pit. But Lucian is territorial. She’s the first female Vessel… and he’s convinced she belongs to him.
Saucy and tauntingly surprising, Black Moon captures the struggle between burning alive with desire and castrating the heart. This is a love story that will drain you dry.
Available on Amazon
About the Authors:
Becca C. Smith:Becca C. Smith received her Film degree from Full Sail University and has worked in the Film and Television industry for most of her adult life. In 2010 Becca published her first novel, Riser followed by the sequel, Reaper, in 2011, and the finale, Ripper in 2013. In 2012 Becca wrote the children’s novel Alexis Tappendorf and the Search for Beale’s Treasure. She is also the co-author of the teen graphic novel Ghost Whisperer: The Haunted. Most recently Becca released Atlas, the first book in a new urban fantasy series. She currently lives in Los Angeles, CA with her husband, Stephan and their two cats Jack and Duke.
F.M. Sherrill:Aren't author's bios boring? I always wanted to read one that went something like this:
F.M. Sherrill: recent citizen of earth. Plans on ruling the planet once she gets over the common cold. Or, F.M. Sherrill: time traveler. Decided to alter the space-time continuum by writing a novel, thus changing history slightly, which will eventually lead to the rise of a new human species.
But here it is. F.M. Sherrill is a novelist, A.K.A. an avid bullshitter; that's why she lives in L.A.. She's been writing for as long as her ancient mind can remember, devouring tales like an anemic vampire roaming the streets in hot pink heels, always thirsty for more. When she's not writing, she's making steampunk weapons, sewing giant plant-eater Mario plushes, making costumes for some film bloke or cosplayer, and sculpting/casting movie prop replicas while gardening in her urban apartment. Her favorite tools? A soldering iron, a blowtorch, a band saw, a sonic screwdriver, a replicator and an active imagination.
Blog: http://girlswritingcoffee.blogspot.com
Twitter: @therisersaga and @fmsherrill
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Have You Watched Hemlock Grove on Netflix? Check Out the Book It is Based On
I watched the first season of Hemlock Grove on Netflix last year and was transfixed by the dark drama that gives a nod to the horror characters of the past. Vampires, werewolves, even Frankenstein.
It took a whole lot of old myths, threw them against the wall, blended them into something new and modern and created a series that will drag you in.
I have the newest season waiting for me on Netflix.
I also have the book it is based on waiting for me...
Here's an excerpt for your enjoyment.
Nothing Weird About It
Excerpted from Hemlock Grove: A Novel by Brian McGreevy
And remember: the flesh is as sacred as it is profane.
I forgot this.
Whoops.
The green-eyed boy sat alone in the food court and fingered the needle in his pocket. The syringe was empty and unused, he had no use for the syringe. He had use for the needle. The green-eyed boy -- he was called Roman, but what you will have seen first was the eyes -- wore a tailored Milanese blazer, one hand in pocket, and blue jeans. He was pale and lean and as handsome as a hatchet, and in egregious style and snobbery a hopeless contrast from the suburban mall food court where he sat and looked in the middle distance and fidgeted with the needle in his pocket. And then he saw the girl. The blond girl at the Twist in pumps and a mini- skirt, leaning in that skirt as though daring her not to, or some taunting mystic withholding revelation. Also, he saw, alone.
Roman rose and buttoned the top button of his blazer and waited for her to continue on with a cone of strawberry, and when she did he followed. Maintaining a discreet distance, he followed her through the main concourse and stopped outside a women's apparel store as she entered, and he watched through the window as she browsed the lingerie and finished the cone. She looked around and stuffed a mesh chemise down her purse and exited the store. Her tongue darted to collect crumbs from her lips. He continued following her to the parking structure. She got into the elevator, and seeing there were no other passengers, he called Hold please, and jogged to the car. She asked him what level and he told her the top, and this must have been her floor as well because it was the only button she pressed. They rode up and he stood behind her smelling her trampy perfume and thinking of the underthing in her purse and silently tapping the syringe through the fabric.
"You ever close your eyes and try real hard and trick your brain you're actually going down?" said Roman.
The girl didn't answer, and when the door opened she stepped out curtly, like he was some kind of creep when he was just trying to make friendly conversation. But so it goes. The game as it were afoot.
He took out the syringe and palmed it, stepping out of the elevator, and outpacing the clip of her heels he closed the distance between them. She was now aware beyond question of the pursuit though she neither turned back nor made any attempt to run as he came on her and jabbed in an upward thrust, the needle puncturing skirt and panty and the flesh of her ass, and just as quickly he withdrew as she gasped and he continued past her and down the row to his own car.
He repocketed the syringe and entered the front seat, putting it back all the way. He unzipped his jeans, freeing his erection, and laced his hands behind his head. He waited. After a few moments the passenger-side door opened and the girl got in and he closed his eyes as she lowered her head to his lap.
A few minutes later she opened the door and leaned over and spat. Roman's hands unlaced and his arms came down and as they did his hand fell naturally to her lower back, and just as naturally he rubbed. Nothing weird about it, or even a thing you think about, you rub a girl's back because it's there. But at the feel of his touch she recoiled abruptly and straightened. Roman was confused.
"You don't like that?" he said.
"Oh no, baby," she said. "I think it's totally hot."
But she was lying, and lying, he realized, about the first thing, about the needle and sucking his dick, and not what he was asking about, about her hate of the barest human-to-human gesture at the end. He was depressed suddenly and terrifically by the defeated life of this lying whore and he wanted her to be gone now, and to get out of the fucking mall.
"It'll take a hose to get the smell of prole out of my nostrils," he said.
"Poor baby," she said, neither knowing nor making any attempt to care what he meant.
He reached into the blazer and took out the money in cash and handed it to her. It looked wrong and she counted it. It was $500 over the agreed amount. She looked at him.
"You know my name?" he said.
"Yeah," she said. It would have been pointless to say otherwise, everyone knew his name.
He looked at her. "No you don't," he said.
Excerpted from HEMLOCK GROVE: Or, The Wise Wolf by Brian McGreevy, published in March 2012 by FSG Originals, an imprint of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. Copyright © 2012 by Brian McGreevy. All rights reserved.
Author Bio
Brian McGreevy is the author of Hemlock Grove, as well as creator of the Netflix series of the same name. Born in the Pittsburgh area, he dropped out of high school in the ninth grade, citing "creative differences." A former James Michener Fellow at the University of Texas, he is a founding partner of the production company El Jefe.
For more information, please visit http://www.brianmcgreevy.net/ and follow the book on Facebook and Twitter
It took a whole lot of old myths, threw them against the wall, blended them into something new and modern and created a series that will drag you in.
I have the newest season waiting for me on Netflix.
I also have the book it is based on waiting for me...
Here's an excerpt for your enjoyment.
Nothing Weird About It
Excerpted from Hemlock Grove: A Novel by Brian McGreevy
And remember: the flesh is as sacred as it is profane.
I forgot this.
Whoops.
The green-eyed boy sat alone in the food court and fingered the needle in his pocket. The syringe was empty and unused, he had no use for the syringe. He had use for the needle. The green-eyed boy -- he was called Roman, but what you will have seen first was the eyes -- wore a tailored Milanese blazer, one hand in pocket, and blue jeans. He was pale and lean and as handsome as a hatchet, and in egregious style and snobbery a hopeless contrast from the suburban mall food court where he sat and looked in the middle distance and fidgeted with the needle in his pocket. And then he saw the girl. The blond girl at the Twist in pumps and a mini- skirt, leaning in that skirt as though daring her not to, or some taunting mystic withholding revelation. Also, he saw, alone.
Roman rose and buttoned the top button of his blazer and waited for her to continue on with a cone of strawberry, and when she did he followed. Maintaining a discreet distance, he followed her through the main concourse and stopped outside a women's apparel store as she entered, and he watched through the window as she browsed the lingerie and finished the cone. She looked around and stuffed a mesh chemise down her purse and exited the store. Her tongue darted to collect crumbs from her lips. He continued following her to the parking structure. She got into the elevator, and seeing there were no other passengers, he called Hold please, and jogged to the car. She asked him what level and he told her the top, and this must have been her floor as well because it was the only button she pressed. They rode up and he stood behind her smelling her trampy perfume and thinking of the underthing in her purse and silently tapping the syringe through the fabric.
"You ever close your eyes and try real hard and trick your brain you're actually going down?" said Roman.
The girl didn't answer, and when the door opened she stepped out curtly, like he was some kind of creep when he was just trying to make friendly conversation. But so it goes. The game as it were afoot.
He took out the syringe and palmed it, stepping out of the elevator, and outpacing the clip of her heels he closed the distance between them. She was now aware beyond question of the pursuit though she neither turned back nor made any attempt to run as he came on her and jabbed in an upward thrust, the needle puncturing skirt and panty and the flesh of her ass, and just as quickly he withdrew as she gasped and he continued past her and down the row to his own car.
He repocketed the syringe and entered the front seat, putting it back all the way. He unzipped his jeans, freeing his erection, and laced his hands behind his head. He waited. After a few moments the passenger-side door opened and the girl got in and he closed his eyes as she lowered her head to his lap.
A few minutes later she opened the door and leaned over and spat. Roman's hands unlaced and his arms came down and as they did his hand fell naturally to her lower back, and just as naturally he rubbed. Nothing weird about it, or even a thing you think about, you rub a girl's back because it's there. But at the feel of his touch she recoiled abruptly and straightened. Roman was confused.
"You don't like that?" he said.
"Oh no, baby," she said. "I think it's totally hot."
But she was lying, and lying, he realized, about the first thing, about the needle and sucking his dick, and not what he was asking about, about her hate of the barest human-to-human gesture at the end. He was depressed suddenly and terrifically by the defeated life of this lying whore and he wanted her to be gone now, and to get out of the fucking mall.
"It'll take a hose to get the smell of prole out of my nostrils," he said.
"Poor baby," she said, neither knowing nor making any attempt to care what he meant.
He reached into the blazer and took out the money in cash and handed it to her. It looked wrong and she counted it. It was $500 over the agreed amount. She looked at him.
"You know my name?" he said.
"Yeah," she said. It would have been pointless to say otherwise, everyone knew his name.
He looked at her. "No you don't," he said.
Excerpted from HEMLOCK GROVE: Or, The Wise Wolf by Brian McGreevy, published in March 2012 by FSG Originals, an imprint of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. Copyright © 2012 by Brian McGreevy. All rights reserved.
Author Bio
Brian McGreevy is the author of Hemlock Grove, as well as creator of the Netflix series of the same name. Born in the Pittsburgh area, he dropped out of high school in the ninth grade, citing "creative differences." A former James Michener Fellow at the University of Texas, he is a founding partner of the production company El Jefe.
For more information, please visit http://www.brianmcgreevy.net/ and follow the book on Facebook and Twitter
July 19, 2014
Vampires: Guest Blog with Kathy Bryson
I’ve been a huge fan of vampires from the days I first saw them in old black and white movies babysitting as a teenager. This usually comes as a surprise to people who don’t know me well. I admit I come off as a bit of a Pollyanna because I don’t like stories that are just dark and violent. They’re too depressing. I prefer a tale where people win out over their problems and find happiness.
Which actually explains why I like vampire stories. There’s always this element of triumph whether it’s Jonathan Harker defeating Dracula or Louis holding his own against Lestat. And as time progressed and vampires became heroes, I rooted for the vampires as well, first for Team Bill and then Team Eric!
I love the larger-than-life battles where the hero conquers evil and reaffirms the basic humaneness of life. Vampire stories, at their core, are very encouraging. Life continues. Okay, I’m also an incurable romantic. But really, there’s a lot more to a vampire story than just the thrill of getting your neck nibbled by a handsome, mysterious stranger! Though that’s not a bad thing either.
Case in point – my first book, Feeling Lucky, was inspired by Kathy Love’s Fangs, But No Fangs. She wrote about a vampire who’s trying to regain his humanity and, in one hysterically funny scene, gets his butt pinched by an older lady. Talk about getting in touch with your human side! I laughed, but thought, “That’s a little unfair. Older ladies can appreciate a good-looking man too!” And then it occurred to me that while vampires might be sexy, what you really need is a leprechaun because they have money!
So in Feeling Lucky, Megan O’Malley give in to drunken temptation, pinches a cute guy’s ass at her cousin’s wedding, and ends up with an angry leprechaun camped out on her sofa. And no, leprechauns are not little, green men. According to Irish etymology, leprechaun means ‘sons of Lugh’ or the Celtic god of commerce and war. Leprechauns are actually closer to Marines, doing whatever it takes to preserve their gold.
My latest book, Restless Spirits, shares the same background in fairy folklore though it can be read independently. Again, I’m exploring the same question of how to persevere in the middle of despair and darkness. Marilee is literally surrounded by death in a haunted B&B, but life, in all its quirky humor, persists. Ghosts haunt, Elvis doesn’t speak, and love triumphs always!
I’ve thoroughly enjoyed writing about leprechauns on a mission and innkeepers with a take-no-prisoners attitude. They’re just the beginning of the epic battle brewing between the King and Queen of the Fairies. Shakespeare may have brought a long-standing feud to light in 1590-something with A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but it’s heating up in the modern-day Midwest. What? You thought the Queen would just get over that joke about falling in love with a donkey? As a romance novelist, I’ve gotta say there’s not much hope of reconciliation there. Vampires might be the good alternative!
About the Book –
Marilee Harper is desperate to find another job after she accidentally set fire to the home of the richest woman in town. Converting an old hospital into a B&B seems like a golden opportunity. But fixtures turn themselves off and on, and old baseballs fly without help. Stressed and aggravated, Marilee wants nothing more than to redeem herself, even if it means hands off her sympathetic boss!
John Smith has every confidence in the bossy, strong woman he hired. She handled difficult customers at the bank and now she’s handling electricity and plumbing and whatever unseen force keeps throwing baseballs. Who can blame him if he starts to admire the woman in more than strictly professional terms? But when the angry, treacherous King of the Fairies shows up, can Marilee become his champion?
Amazon link for Restless Spirits - http://www.amazon.com/Restless-Spirits-Kathy-Bryson-ebook/dp/B00L2O14EE
Book trailer for Restless Spirits - http://youtu.be/w4tcNgggk1E
Excerpt –
Waiting nervously in the hallway was the last of our college visitors. This lady, if I remembered correctly, worked for the National Transportation Safety Board and had something to do with the grant we didn’t get for the new road. She’d stayed later than the others because she had to coordinate flights out of the county seat back to the capital. She’d also said something about enjoying a vacation, but now, she seemed more bothered than relaxed.
“Are you okay?” I booted up the microcomputer and started compiling her final bill. I probably should have led up to the question more gently, no sense in inviting complaints, but the woman was clearly disturbed. She was dressed in a somber suit that only emphasized her pallor. What makeup she’d managed to apply stood out in stark slashes of color across her face and her hair looked like it was in open rebellion against the clasp she’d used.
“No, no, I’m fine.” She glanced nervously around the hall. “I just need to get to the airport.”
“Well, it’s probably a good idea to get there early all things considered.” I craned my head to see through the parlor windows. “It’s coming down pretty heavily. Is your flight still scheduled?”
“Oh yes, I’ll just . . . I’m sure I can get a room at the airport if I have to.” The woman’s hands shook visibly as she took the credit slip I handed her.
I held out a pen. “Is there a problem with your room? ‘Cause you’re welcome to stay here, you know. We’ve got books and videos, and I think Elvis is making chili for supper.” That actually sounded a little lame, but the woman seemed to appreciate it.
“No, no, thank you, but I need to go.” She handed me back the signed slip with a hesitant smile and bent to pick up her bag. When someone knocked on the door, she jumped nearly a mile.
Thumbs cocked an eyebrow at her as he passed by from the parlor and opened the front door. Still watching the jittery woman, he pushed the door open wide. The porch was empty.“Close the door, Thumbs. You’re letting the rain in.” I sounded more irritated than was probably reasonable, but we’d been cooped up all morning, and I could see water splashing into the hall as I spoke. Then a shadow darted across the door and as I watched, one of the battered balls from the porch rolled across the entry.
The nervous woman made an odd choking sound, somewhere between a squeak and a gasp. “I can’t stay.” She looked at me almost pleadingly. “All the knocking and things moving. The lights and the faucets and everything. I can’t take it.”
“Well, of course not,” I told her. “And you shouldn’t have to. I told you, outside!” And I pointed a fierce finger at the presumptuous baseball.
The ball wavered a moment, rolling back and forth, then, picking up speed, it rolled swiftly inside, darting into the parlor as Thumbs lunged for it. I could hear cries of “What the . . .?” and “Hey!” but my attention was riveted to the front door as dozens of other balls followed the first daring sphere.
The nervous woman’s gasp became a high-pitched whistle and she went a funny shade of pale, white with red splotches across her cheeks. Grabbing her bag, she ran down the hall, directly into the path of a pitch that came winging through the open door at eye level.
Without thinking, I stepped out and snagged the ball before it connected. The woman ducked underneath my outstretched arm and ran screaming out into the rain.
“That’s it! That’s it! That’s it!” I shook the ball I caught in the air, dimly aware of my stinging palm. “If I see one more ball inside this house or airborne without a real person responsible, I am dumping the whole lot of you in the gorge! Now get out and stay out!” I threw the ball back out into the yard and the rain.
There was a moment of complete silence. Even the rain seemed to have frozen still. Then I took a deep breath and turned back around. Everyone in the house stood open-mouthed in either the doorway of the parlor or the dining room, staring at me. I straightened up and automatically pushed my hair back. “Trog, please follow that woman and see that she gets to the airport safely. One of you boys can go with him.”
Robert and Thumbs eyed each other, then me, and both reached for their jackets.
“Or both of you can go.” Clearly I had overdone the scary, in-charge thing. “John, maybe you can help me pick up the balls.”
John swallowed hard, then glanced over his shoulder into the parlor. His face twisted in a wry grimace. “There aren’t any balls in the parlor.”
“What?” I couldn’t believe it. I know what I’d seen. I’d saved that poor woman from getting brained. Sports paraphernalia had invaded us, so there should have been balls all over that beat-up Persian carpet.
“It’s okay.” Taking me by the elbow, John steered me into the dining room. “I saw them, too. I guess you just scared them back.”
“Well, they cannot go around hitting guests. I don’t care it if is raining.”
“Well, that’s no reason to screech, Marilee,” Mom sniffed.
John drew a chair up beside me and took my hand in his, rubbing it gently. Mr. Jennings very courteously pulled out a chair for Mom as well. Judging from Mom’s pursed lips and puckered eyebrows, she had more that she wanted to say, but I ignored her. Right or not, I wanted John’s reassurance more than anything else and I didn’t care who saw me holding my boss’s hand.
About the Author –
Kathy Bryson knew she wanted to be a writer when she finished reading through her school and local children’s libraries. She spent 20 years honing her writing skills on marketing brochures, websites, and several unfinished manuscripts before going into teaching and finishing a book with all the stuff she enjoys most – from coffee to love to Shakespeare! Kathy lives in Florida where she caters to the whims of two spoiled cats and wonders what possessed her to put in 75 feet of flower beds.
Her first book, Feeling Lucky, won the 2014 National Excellence in Romance Fiction Award for Best First Book.
You can follow her on:
Blog - http://kathybryson.wordpress.com/
Amazon - http://www.amazon.com/Kathy-Bryson/e/B00DHIJ922/
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/kathybryson22
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Which actually explains why I like vampire stories. There’s always this element of triumph whether it’s Jonathan Harker defeating Dracula or Louis holding his own against Lestat. And as time progressed and vampires became heroes, I rooted for the vampires as well, first for Team Bill and then Team Eric!
I love the larger-than-life battles where the hero conquers evil and reaffirms the basic humaneness of life. Vampire stories, at their core, are very encouraging. Life continues. Okay, I’m also an incurable romantic. But really, there’s a lot more to a vampire story than just the thrill of getting your neck nibbled by a handsome, mysterious stranger! Though that’s not a bad thing either.
Case in point – my first book, Feeling Lucky, was inspired by Kathy Love’s Fangs, But No Fangs. She wrote about a vampire who’s trying to regain his humanity and, in one hysterically funny scene, gets his butt pinched by an older lady. Talk about getting in touch with your human side! I laughed, but thought, “That’s a little unfair. Older ladies can appreciate a good-looking man too!” And then it occurred to me that while vampires might be sexy, what you really need is a leprechaun because they have money!
So in Feeling Lucky, Megan O’Malley give in to drunken temptation, pinches a cute guy’s ass at her cousin’s wedding, and ends up with an angry leprechaun camped out on her sofa. And no, leprechauns are not little, green men. According to Irish etymology, leprechaun means ‘sons of Lugh’ or the Celtic god of commerce and war. Leprechauns are actually closer to Marines, doing whatever it takes to preserve their gold.
My latest book, Restless Spirits, shares the same background in fairy folklore though it can be read independently. Again, I’m exploring the same question of how to persevere in the middle of despair and darkness. Marilee is literally surrounded by death in a haunted B&B, but life, in all its quirky humor, persists. Ghosts haunt, Elvis doesn’t speak, and love triumphs always!
I’ve thoroughly enjoyed writing about leprechauns on a mission and innkeepers with a take-no-prisoners attitude. They’re just the beginning of the epic battle brewing between the King and Queen of the Fairies. Shakespeare may have brought a long-standing feud to light in 1590-something with A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but it’s heating up in the modern-day Midwest. What? You thought the Queen would just get over that joke about falling in love with a donkey? As a romance novelist, I’ve gotta say there’s not much hope of reconciliation there. Vampires might be the good alternative!
About the Book – Marilee Harper is desperate to find another job after she accidentally set fire to the home of the richest woman in town. Converting an old hospital into a B&B seems like a golden opportunity. But fixtures turn themselves off and on, and old baseballs fly without help. Stressed and aggravated, Marilee wants nothing more than to redeem herself, even if it means hands off her sympathetic boss!
John Smith has every confidence in the bossy, strong woman he hired. She handled difficult customers at the bank and now she’s handling electricity and plumbing and whatever unseen force keeps throwing baseballs. Who can blame him if he starts to admire the woman in more than strictly professional terms? But when the angry, treacherous King of the Fairies shows up, can Marilee become his champion?
Amazon link for Restless Spirits - http://www.amazon.com/Restless-Spirits-Kathy-Bryson-ebook/dp/B00L2O14EE
Book trailer for Restless Spirits - http://youtu.be/w4tcNgggk1E
Excerpt –
Waiting nervously in the hallway was the last of our college visitors. This lady, if I remembered correctly, worked for the National Transportation Safety Board and had something to do with the grant we didn’t get for the new road. She’d stayed later than the others because she had to coordinate flights out of the county seat back to the capital. She’d also said something about enjoying a vacation, but now, she seemed more bothered than relaxed.
“Are you okay?” I booted up the microcomputer and started compiling her final bill. I probably should have led up to the question more gently, no sense in inviting complaints, but the woman was clearly disturbed. She was dressed in a somber suit that only emphasized her pallor. What makeup she’d managed to apply stood out in stark slashes of color across her face and her hair looked like it was in open rebellion against the clasp she’d used.
“No, no, I’m fine.” She glanced nervously around the hall. “I just need to get to the airport.”
“Well, it’s probably a good idea to get there early all things considered.” I craned my head to see through the parlor windows. “It’s coming down pretty heavily. Is your flight still scheduled?”
“Oh yes, I’ll just . . . I’m sure I can get a room at the airport if I have to.” The woman’s hands shook visibly as she took the credit slip I handed her.
I held out a pen. “Is there a problem with your room? ‘Cause you’re welcome to stay here, you know. We’ve got books and videos, and I think Elvis is making chili for supper.” That actually sounded a little lame, but the woman seemed to appreciate it.
“No, no, thank you, but I need to go.” She handed me back the signed slip with a hesitant smile and bent to pick up her bag. When someone knocked on the door, she jumped nearly a mile.
Thumbs cocked an eyebrow at her as he passed by from the parlor and opened the front door. Still watching the jittery woman, he pushed the door open wide. The porch was empty.“Close the door, Thumbs. You’re letting the rain in.” I sounded more irritated than was probably reasonable, but we’d been cooped up all morning, and I could see water splashing into the hall as I spoke. Then a shadow darted across the door and as I watched, one of the battered balls from the porch rolled across the entry.
The nervous woman made an odd choking sound, somewhere between a squeak and a gasp. “I can’t stay.” She looked at me almost pleadingly. “All the knocking and things moving. The lights and the faucets and everything. I can’t take it.”
“Well, of course not,” I told her. “And you shouldn’t have to. I told you, outside!” And I pointed a fierce finger at the presumptuous baseball.
The ball wavered a moment, rolling back and forth, then, picking up speed, it rolled swiftly inside, darting into the parlor as Thumbs lunged for it. I could hear cries of “What the . . .?” and “Hey!” but my attention was riveted to the front door as dozens of other balls followed the first daring sphere.
The nervous woman’s gasp became a high-pitched whistle and she went a funny shade of pale, white with red splotches across her cheeks. Grabbing her bag, she ran down the hall, directly into the path of a pitch that came winging through the open door at eye level.
Without thinking, I stepped out and snagged the ball before it connected. The woman ducked underneath my outstretched arm and ran screaming out into the rain.
“That’s it! That’s it! That’s it!” I shook the ball I caught in the air, dimly aware of my stinging palm. “If I see one more ball inside this house or airborne without a real person responsible, I am dumping the whole lot of you in the gorge! Now get out and stay out!” I threw the ball back out into the yard and the rain.
There was a moment of complete silence. Even the rain seemed to have frozen still. Then I took a deep breath and turned back around. Everyone in the house stood open-mouthed in either the doorway of the parlor or the dining room, staring at me. I straightened up and automatically pushed my hair back. “Trog, please follow that woman and see that she gets to the airport safely. One of you boys can go with him.”
Robert and Thumbs eyed each other, then me, and both reached for their jackets.
“Or both of you can go.” Clearly I had overdone the scary, in-charge thing. “John, maybe you can help me pick up the balls.”
John swallowed hard, then glanced over his shoulder into the parlor. His face twisted in a wry grimace. “There aren’t any balls in the parlor.”
“What?” I couldn’t believe it. I know what I’d seen. I’d saved that poor woman from getting brained. Sports paraphernalia had invaded us, so there should have been balls all over that beat-up Persian carpet.
“It’s okay.” Taking me by the elbow, John steered me into the dining room. “I saw them, too. I guess you just scared them back.”
“Well, they cannot go around hitting guests. I don’t care it if is raining.”
“Well, that’s no reason to screech, Marilee,” Mom sniffed.
John drew a chair up beside me and took my hand in his, rubbing it gently. Mr. Jennings very courteously pulled out a chair for Mom as well. Judging from Mom’s pursed lips and puckered eyebrows, she had more that she wanted to say, but I ignored her. Right or not, I wanted John’s reassurance more than anything else and I didn’t care who saw me holding my boss’s hand.
About the Author – Kathy Bryson knew she wanted to be a writer when she finished reading through her school and local children’s libraries. She spent 20 years honing her writing skills on marketing brochures, websites, and several unfinished manuscripts before going into teaching and finishing a book with all the stuff she enjoys most – from coffee to love to Shakespeare! Kathy lives in Florida where she caters to the whims of two spoiled cats and wonders what possessed her to put in 75 feet of flower beds.
Her first book, Feeling Lucky, won the 2014 National Excellence in Romance Fiction Award for Best First Book.
You can follow her on:
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July 15, 2014
Guest Blog and Giveaway: Backward Compatible by Sarah Daltry and Pete Clark
Nerd Culture
At no point did either of us imagine that this book would speak to all people who identify as nerds or geeks. It was never intended that way, as that’s just as simplistic as labeling someone those things in derision. However, we did want to embrace the things we love – and we know many others do.
Pete: I don’t label myself as a nerd or geek. I just like the things I like and many of those things are considered nerdy or geeky. As a general rule, labeling is pretty stupid. Isn’t it ironic that I just labeled the label? Anyway. I’ve gotten a great deal of feedback for this book.
A lot of people have said they love the references and that we are connected to nerd culture, which is great. Some people say the characters are fake, posers, stereotypes, etc. Also that there is no mention of Doctor Who. By default, these comments reflect on us as the authors. So I would say it’s difficult for me to be a poser when I don’t know what I am supposed to be posing as. What I wanted to do was write a fun and entertaining book that included the things I love and a number of “Easter eggs” for fans of similar things, because I love finding those myself when I’m reading. I love feeling like, “Ah ha – I get that and I bet other people won’t.” As far as the lack of Doctor Who, I just started watching it six months ago, so I would have actually been a poser had I included it in the book. Since I was not yet watching it. However, having now watched the first six seasons, I’m quite a fan and will be cramming Doctor Who into something with much glee.
Sarah: Personally, that’s what annoys me most when someone says that it’s indicative of all geeks or fake geeks. In my experience, being a nerd was never cool. It was not something you could embrace when I was a kid and in school. I used to have to turn over my papers and tests and pretend I failed if I didn’t want to be harassed by other kids. I was embarrassed that my parents were at every event and that my teachers all liked me. I had no friends.
But I had games and books and movies. I never knew how to be normal or to fit in because I wasn’t welcome and that led me to being a lot like Katie. I couldn’t identify with others, so I was able to embrace what I loved honestly. Now, being nerdy is cool. That’s both good and bad, I guess. It’s nice being able to find more people who love what you do, but it’s also resulted in this kind of hipster, “I was a nerd first” philosophy. That’s dumb. Having been the loser, I don’t know why I would ostracize anyone who likes what I like. Yay. That’s just someone else I can talk to about Firefly.
Pete: I think it’s strange this “I’m cooler than you because I’m nerdier than you” idea that crops up, as it is contrast to, well, history. It also reminds me of a similar situation to my college experience. You were only cool if you could name thirty bands no one else had ever heard of and that’s kind of like the fandom fights. If I can’t speak Dothraki, I’m a loser. This never made sense to me. If you know of something that’s really awesome, and I haven’t heard of it, instead of looking down on me for not knowing about it, how about you tell me about it – and we can enjoy it together?
Sarah: Exactly. Nothing makes me happier than finding out someone has read a book I love that is maybe not popular or has seen a movie or something I watch on repeat. I’m one of those people who feels like I want to spread the love of something, not limit it to only select people. There are so many great lessons in Harry Potter and Doctor Who and Star Wars and Final Fantasy and all these things – why would I feel entitled to keep them locked away from people?
Backward CompatibleSarah Daltry and Pete ClarkGenre: Geek Romance
Book Description:
Not too long ago,in a town that,depending on your current location,is either not super faror actually quite close…
It is a time of chaotic hormones.Two nerdy gentshome for winter breakhave discovered a female gamerat a midnight release.
During the break,the gamer trio managesto reveal the game’s secret boss,a hidden enemywith enough power to destroyanything in its path.
Pursued by other gamerswho want to be the firstto beat this boss,George and Katie race to level up,and, in so doing, restore decencyand sexual activity to their personal galaxy…
Available at Amazon Amazon UK Apple
BN Kobo Smashwords ARe
About the Authors:
Sarah Daltry:
Sarah Daltry writes about the regular people who populate our lives. She's written works in various genres - romance, erotica, fantasy, horror. Genre isn't as important as telling a story about people and how their lives unfold. Sarah tends to focus on YA/NA characters but she's been known to shake it up. Most of her stories are about relationships - romantic, familial, friendly - because love and empathy are the foundation of life. It doesn't matter if the story is set in contemporary NY, historical Britain, or a fantasy world in the future - human beings are most interesting in the ways they interact with others. This is the principle behind all of Sarah's stories.
Sarah has spent most of her life in school, from her BA and MA in English and writing to teaching both at the high school and college level. She also loves studying art history and really anything because learning is fun.
When Sarah isn't writing, she tends to waste a lot of time checking Facebook for pictures of cats, shooting virtual zombies, and simply staring out the window.
She has written several books, most notably Bitter Fruits, an urban fantasy in the Eden’s Fall series, and the six-part New Adult contemporary Flowering series. Her most recent release is Primordial Dust, a YA fantasy.
Pete Clark:
Pete Clark likes writing, animals, potato chips, and cheese. Midnight Riders was his first published novel, although he can also proudly say he finally finished Helix Crashing, the fantasy novel he has been working on for over a decade. In addition, he has written Across the Barren Landscape, a collection of linked Western short stories, and Tales from Midnight’s Graveyard, a collection of non-linked horror, science fiction, and fantasy stories. He also writes plays, both dramatic and comedic.
When he is not writing, Pete tends to ignore everyone around him and obsess over sports.
Sarah’s Website: http://sarahdaltry.com
Pete’s Website: http://punchmyselfintheface.wordpress.com
Sarah’s Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/AuthorSarahDaltry
Pete’s Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/PeteClarkAuthor
Sarah’s Twitter: http://twitter.com/SarahDaltry
Pete’s Twitter: http://twitter.com/PeteClarkBooks
July 14, 2014
July 2014 Issue Bewitching Book Tours Magazine
July 2014 Issue Bewitching Book Tours Magazine
If you’re looking for a sizzling summer read you have come to the right place.
This month’s issue includes interviews and excerpts from our featured authors: Sky Purington, Rachel Carrington, Claire Fullerton, Laury Falter, Ann Gimpel, Roxanne Rhoads, Jacqueline Paige, and Ami Blackwelder.
Our regular features include Sophie Avett’s Witches Who Stitch Interview- this month they stitch things up for Rebekah Ganiere’s Adrian from Red the Were Hunter and Wenona Napolitano explains how to be simply green in this month’s La Mamma Verde column.
Ginger Kewl is red hot in this month’s Pin Up Files featuring photography by Steven Jon Horner Photography.
Be sure to visit The Naughty Nook - you’ll find erotic poetry, 20 Ways to Find Your Inner Sex-Goddess, and sizzling hot erotica from Normandie Alleman and Roxanne Rhoads
http://issuu.com/bewitchingbooktours/docs/magazine__25/1
July Issue Bewitching Book Tours Magazine by Roxanne Rhoads
Excerpt: Sandstorm Heart by Liv Olteano
Sandstorm HeartSpace Files RBook 2Liv OlteanoGenre: M/M Space Opera Erotic Romance / Erotica BDSM elements
Length: novella - approx 30k words
Publisher: Dreamspinner PressReleased: September 18th 2013
Book Description:
Ron Vid is a Celian soldier with some personal demons.
Hoping for respite, he deserts his squad and leaves his planet. Working as a mercenary on Asai, planet of sand and wind, he has a reprieve, until the Haffa named Zaoh joins the mercenaries. Celians and Haffas have a history of strife, but when Ron and Zaoh are paired on a mission, their chemistry crackles.
After they fight together for survival, it’s clear Zaoh wants Ron. Zaoh can be a fierce and dominant lover, but Ron’s secrets, and his fear that the Haffa might uncover them, could keep Zaoh from getting his man.
Add it to Your Goodreads Shelf
Purchase at: Dreamspinner Press Amazon BN ARe
Excerpt From Chapter 1:
I got up, happy to finally have a reason to stop pretending to eat. Zaoh shot to his feet to block my way. My lungs squeezed tight as soon as I was face to face with the purple hell of his eyes.
“You weren’t dismissed, Vid. Sit back down.”
I gritted my teeth and turned in Ami’s direction. “We done here? I’ve got to pack my shit if I’m going out.”
“Go ahead, gorgeous. I’ll wait for you in the hangar.”
Stomping to my room, I tried to shake off the memory of those purple black holes. It was a bad thing to think about. Getting away from Asai would be pointless if I carried the mess with me out to space.
A second set of steps thudded behind. Decisive but not rushed, they sounded closer and closer, so I stopped. For some reason I couldn’t turn around.
“Commander Void.”
Blood rushed away from my extremities and into my head all at once. How did he know about that nickname? No way he’d just used it by chance. A cold sheen of sweat covered my palms. “I’m no commander anymore,” I gritted out through clenched teeth.
“Should I call you Deserter Vid, then? More fitting?”
Zaoh’s gravelly voice sounded vaguely amused, almost playful. Maybe Ami had told him. If I knew about him becoming a traitor to the Haffas, maybe he’d found out about me too. Only I had a reason to know about him. A personal reason. Perhaps he had one as well. Perhaps he knew it had been me commanding the troops that caught him and his sister…. My mind said to calm down, to rein in my pulse.
I turned around halfway, still not facing him. “So you’re Traitor Dem, then?”
Tense silence fell between us. It was a cheap shot. He wasn’t really a traitor while I was a deserter. It would have been better to turn around and leave. My feet refused to respond, though. They were glued to the floor. His simple presence messed with my wiring. I gravitated toward him so strongly it was a constant conscious effort to pull away. To what end, I didn’t have the vaguest—about both impulses.
“At least I didn’t leave my troops by choice,” he finally said.
No, he hadn’t. His sister had been killed in interrogation. After that, against all odds and beyond any possible logic, Zaoh Dem had escaped Celian incarceration. The reasonable conclusion was he’d sided with us. So Haffas declared him traitor and condemned him to death as soon as he returned to his base. Of course, the man escaped their captivity as well, maybe helped like he’d been to escape ours. He was resourceful like that. No way to get him under control unless he felt like playing nice. Ami was delighted to tell me and his other mercs that particular personality trait the evening he brought Zaoh in. A whole fucking universe at his disposal, and the bastard had to end up where I was. What were the odds?
I cleared my throat and stuffed my hands into the pockets of my khaki overalls. “Had something to say to me, other than that?” His heavy boots had a considerable distance between them. I imagined him standing there, tall and strong, sort of majestic. I didn’t dare to look at him as I waited for an answer.
He seemed to ponder on it, tapped the tip of his boot a few times. “Despise Haffas so much you won’t even look at me?”
I smiled tightly. “You’ve read me wrong. Buried my war with Haffas a long time ago.”
“Just despise me, then?”
“Not at all.”
He took one step closer, small but significant to my pulse—it skyrocketed. “Then look at me.”
I had to use all my willpower to find his eyes with mine. The brutal force of his gaze struck me worse than I’d expected, but I held strong. “Well? What is it? Wanted to get chummy?”
He snorted. “Don’t overestimate yourself. Just letting you know we’re on this mission together.”
No. That little azure bastard wouldn’t dare.
About the Author:Liv Olteano is a voracious reader, music lover, and coffee addict extraordinaire. And occasional geek. Okay, more than occasional.
She believes stories are the best kind of magic there is. And life would be horrible without magic. Her hobbies include losing herself in the minds and souls of characters, giving up countless nights of sleep to get to know said characters, and trying to introduce them to the world. Sometimes they appreciate her efforts. The process would probably go quicker if they’d bring her a cup of coffee now and then when stopping by. Characters—what can you do, right?
Liv has a penchant for quirky stories and is a reverent lover of diversity. She can be found loitering around the Internet at odd hours and being generally awkward and goofy at all times.
Website | Blog | Newsletter | Twitter | Facebook | Goodreads
June 2 spotlight and reviewWicked Wolves & Dreaming Dragonshttp://wickedwolvesanddreamingdragons.blogspot.com/
June 9 SpotlightThe Creatively Green Write at Home Momwww.creativelygreen.blogspot.com
June 12 SpotlightShare My Destinyhttp://sharemydestiny.blogspot.com
June 16 InterviewAuthor Karen Swarthttp://authorkarenswart.blogspot.com/
June 19 SpotlightButterfly-o-Meter Bookshttp://butterfly-o-meter.com/
June 20 InterviewMythical Bookshttp://www.mythicalbooks.blogspot.ro/
June 24 SpotlightPembroke Sinclair. www.pembrokesinclair.blogspot.com
June 30 Guest blogRoxanne’s Realmwww.roxannerhoads.com
July 2 SpotlightBooklover Sue http://bookloversue.blogspot.com
July 3 Spotlight and reviewWords of Wisdom from The Scarf Princesshttp://wowfromthescarfprincess.blogspot.com
July 4 Guest blogD'eBook Sharing Book Reviews http://debooksharing.wordpress.com/
July 7 Guest post Kay Dee's place http://www.kaydeeroyal.blogspot.com
July 9 SpotlightCBY Book Clubhttp://cbybookclub.blogspot.co.uk/
July 11 ReviewParanormal Romance and Authors That Rockwww.pratr.wordpress.com
July 14 SpotlightFang-tastic Bookswww.fang-tasticbooks.blogspot.com
July 17 Character InterviewEclipse Reviewshttp://totaleclipsereviews.blogspot.com/
July 23 spotlight Zipper Rippershttp://zipperrippers.blogspot.co.uk/
July 30 Top Ten ListDarkest Cravingswww.darkestcravings.blogspot.com
July 31 Interview and reviewSharing Links and Wisdom http://sharinglinksandwisdom.blogspot.com
Guest Blog and Giveaway Wolf’s Bane: Demimonde Book 3 by Ash Krafton
Accidental Swinger: How a Vamp Chick Fell For the WolfmanBy Ash Krafton
I’ve always had a thing for vampires.
Long ago, I knew the allure of these creatures of the night. When I was a kid, it was Dracula. Vampires were for horror stories, but there was still that lure of power and endless possibilities. When Anne Rice gave us Louis and Lestat, I was done for. She did what no one had done for me before: gave me an emotional connection to the characters.
Vampires were becoming more than alluring. They were seductive. Some were downright sexy.
I’ve always been intrigued by new twists in vampire lore—even that weird stuff HBO’s True Blood put out last season. (Truthfully, I would have put up with A LOT of weird stuff for the sake of Eric Northman. Can I get an amen?)
I suppose my hunger for new vamps is what led me to write the Demimonde series. I can get all the vamp action I want, as twisty as I want it—which I happily did when I created my demivampires with mythologic Egyptian origins.
When I wrote Bleeding Hearts, my focus was on the race of demivamps. Actual vampires were soulless and bad. There was no confusion as to whose side I was on.
There were werewolves, too. Werewolves were lawless and yucky. Again, I’m Team DV. I never really got into werewolves—most of the films I’d seen had hairy, grotesque, misshapen drooling mutts. Not sexy. Not seductive. Just—I don’t know, squishy. Even Buffy’s pal Oz was a kid hunched over in bad makeup. Tiny bit lame.
The only werewolf that did anything to keep me interested was Michael Sheen’s character in Underworld. All credit goes to his awesome self for giving lycans a fighting chance in my whole vamp vs. were grudge war.
As I continued the series, Sheen’s lycan character reminded me that werewolves were creatures, too—they had their quirks, their powers, and just as many possibilities as vampires. If I could twist vampires to give me the exact character I wanted, why couldn’t I mess with the laws of were-nature and make the kind of wolves I wanted?
Thus, Toby came along, the Big Bad Wolfboy that becomes Sophie’s next stray. Blood Rush give a little insight to Were nature from a decidedly Toby perspective. While my characters slowly warmed up to the fuzzy guy, I personally wasn’t having any of it. I was straight for the vamp side. Vampire hetero. Were phobic. Whatever you want to call it. I was a die-hard vamp chick. And, as a Were, Toby did squeamish Were things. Hey, that’s the way the ball bounces.
And then…
The third book began to brew. If you haven’t guessed by now, there’s a lot of Were action in this one.
Even as I wrote and edited the first two books, I planned on having a central Were conflict. Every book needs conflict, a struggle, a choice—so a Were character seemed like perfect fodder. It wasn’t until I really got submerged in writing that I realized that the conflict wasn’t coming out black-and-white, good versus evil, the way I’d pictured it.
And it wasn’t until I was near completion that I realized the conflict was so much more complex than that. If we knew definitely what was right and what was wrong, we’d have no trouble making our choices. The conflict became complex because the author was experiencing conflicts of her own.
My feelings towards Weres had changed. How it pains me to write this.
Wolf’s Bane lacked matted fur and werewolf glue. The Were were beautiful creatures who followed their nature, and they were led by a man who wanted them to strive toward civility, not beastial baseness. Sophie was forced to re-evaluate Werekind and to face her prejudice and her fears.
In writing it, I was forced to face my own, as well.
It certainly helps that Dierk is the man he is—the rockstar, the leader, the gentleman suitor. Whatever Sophie came to feel for him during the course of the story, it’s a pretty fair thing to say it’s because I felt the same thing.
Never figured I’d turn out to be a swinger. I’m definitely a one-guy, one-species kind of gal. But if I were a character in the Books of the Demimonde, maybe…just maybe.
Wolf’s BaneDemimondeBook 3Ash KraftonGenre: urban fantasy
Book Description:
Since becoming oracle to the demivampire two years ago, advice columnist Sophie has battled werewolves and survived a vampire attack (or two). However, not only was she powerless to save her lover Marek when he slipped to the brink of evolution, she also witnessed his transformation into a falcon, the symbol of Horus United.
Sophie’s quest to save Marek is further complicated when rock star Dierk Adeluf – who also happens to be the king of the Werekind – invites her backstage after a concert. Just when it seems she will find respite from heartache, Sophie is bitten by a werewolf and Dierk decides she is destined to be his queen.
Sophie is caught between the demivamps she loves and the Were who commands her to love him. Throw in his jealous wanna-be girlfriend—a true bitch if ever there was one—and an ambush by witches, and there you have the big mess that Sophie calls her life. And, hello? Her soul mate is still a bird.
She’s supposed to be the girl with all the answers, but Sophie needs more than a little advice–she needs divine intervention.
Excerpt
The man sitting across from me absolutely hated himself.
I didn’t need to unzip my barriers to make that assessment. The way his shoulders crept up his neck, the curve of his back that left his face parallel to his thighs, the way he avoided looking at me or anyone else—body language said it all. And when he did finally raise his too-heavy head to look at me, his eyes were stony and hollow, too dead to even care what anyone saw in them.
He wore his self-loathing the way I wished I wore Jimmy Choos—right out there for the whole world to see. Difference was, he didn’t care who looked.
I glanced at the demivamp who hovered behind him like a first-year teacher. She toyed with the end of her braid and looked ready to throw herself onto him if need be. Maybe he was a flight risk. Maybe he was a danger to himself.
Maybe he was a danger to me. In that case, the other DV wasn’t necessary. I didn’t worry so much about myself anymore. I’d learned a thing or two about staying alive.
Not to mention, I had an entire courtroom full of DV that perched on the semi-circles of benches, elbow to elbow, each waiting their turn with the Sophia. I knew full well every single one of them would fling themselves between me and whatever peril might arise here.I was well-guarded. Perks of being a national treasure.
I flicked my gaze up to the DV who stood behind my client, dismissing her. Once she took her place in the audience, I sank into my Sophia sight. Finding my center and called up my barriers, peeling away the outermost layer and expanding it until it encompassed us both in an invisible but completely sound-proof bubble.
A nifty little trick I’d learned since Dorcas removed the last remaining obstacles between me and my power. She hadn’t been much of a dresser and had a weird thing for vampires, not to mention acting like the scariest damned thing I’d ever seen, but I had to hand it to her. She’d done me a solid.
When the barrier went up around us, there was a little ear-pop of sensation. He seemed to notice me then. His eyes took up a pale light, gleaming like the teeth he hid behind the disdainful curl of his lips. His power seethed out like the odor of a hot dumpster—the feel of it decayed and ugly and absolutely desperate.
I smiled, grim and hard. This guy might be the farthest gone DV I’d ever met. He was going to be a challenge.
Good.
I decided to start the same way I always did, knowing this one might not end the same way. “What’s your name?”
He stared me down for several moments. “You want my current name or the one that’s waiting for me?”
Obviously, he was referring to the name change that happened when a DV Fell. Vampires never kept their DV names. All part of the whole born-again (dead-again?) persona of a newly-minted vamp.
“You have one name,” I said, my voice like tungsten. “And you’re going to keep it.”
“Like you can stop me.”
I smiled again, glad I had chosen to wear lip gloss because my mouth was so dry, my lips would have split without it. “I can. And I will.”
“Look, lady.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The pale light in his dark eyes looked like an early hard frost on a green lawn. Untimely end of a sweet season. “I know who you are, and I know what you do. Sometimes, you just gotta let nature take its course.”
“This isn’t nature. This is self-punishment.”
He smiled, open-mouthed to show all his teeth. Sharp, elongated, a mouth full of knives. A vamp’s mouth. “And I earned every single minute of it.”
Okay. Tough guy. Proud of the shitty things he’s done. That was part of the thrill of being so close to Falling. Kind of like passing over the event horizon into a black hole, when one part of you accelerates faster than the rest. His soul was a ragged plastic bag caught on a tree branch, waiting for the last big wind to come along.
His heart had already flown loose. In his heart, he was a vampire.
Well, his body was still here, and his soul was still here, and I was still here. He was in for a surprise.
I surveyed his power, using Sophia-sight to visualize it. It was dark, like cooling lava, black and cracked and sullen red showing through the seams. The black crust was his resignation. He’d stopped fighting. Well, maybe he just needed the right sparring partner.
How did you get rid of hard, black cooling lava? Why, you heat it up, of course. Nothing got a man hotter than his temper.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. There were other things, but that wasn’t my brand of therapy.
I pushed through his brittle ugly shell into the lava beneath, then through the lava to his inner core. It was tiny, but it was cool, and green, and still had the essence of who he used to be. His feelings were still packed away inside and I latched onto it, expanded it, examined it. Family. He had kids. A job. He’d been a lawyer, and a good one. He was proud of what he’d done—in the beginning.
Ah. That’s where it started to turn. I sifted along the line of those memories and found the point when he started fighting for the bad guys.
“A dirty lawyer?” I snorted and rolled my eyes. “There’s a shock. Your parents must be so proud.”
He growled and dug his fingers into his thighs. “Shut up.”
“No wonder you turned into this.” I waved my fingers at him as if I were calling out a Coach bag knock-off at a street vendor. “I thought you were going to say you ate babies or something but a corrupt lawyer? That’s sick.”
Rage filled him like a burning warehouse, the fury consuming his power. If it weren’t for my personal shields, I’d have been incinerated. The fire of his anger melted the hard shell of his former apathy and he’d become a miniature sun of murderous intent.
He wanted to end me, wanted nothing more than to get his hands on me.
I beat him to it.
Like the flick of a mental finger, I opened the door in my mind where all the bad stuff went. It was like a vacuum in there and once it was open, it just sucked at his power, the ugly, the hate and the agony he’d surrounded himself with and I pulled.
It hurt. It hurt me, it was like sandpaper on the eyes and it hurt him. He howled as I ripped away all the fury of his self-loathing and hate.
Normally, I did this in steps, gently, kind of a leeching away. Not this guy. I had to over-power him because at this stage, he could just grow it all back. Vampires were infinite wells of hate and evil and this guy was so damned close.
His howl became a roar and he made a lunge for me. I slid a ramrod of my shields at him and held him at a mental arm’s length. He struggled to reach me, his clawed hands inches from my eyes and if he got to me, if he reached me, he’d tear my throat out.
No, he wouldn’t. I was stronger than that. I bit down on my lips and tasted the tang of blood and continued to strip his agony away.
This little man wasn’t big enough to break me. I continued to pull away the damage of his soul, and sent a simultaneous stream of the Sophia into him, a cool mist against the acrid hate. His soul had been dried and withered and it soaked up the Sophia’s healing rain, swelling and anchoring itself once more.
The fight was going out of him. He dropped his hands, fighting to breathe. Part of my brain screamed to stop, this was too much, too fast. But a part of my heart was intent on pushing the limits, almost wishing to break because maybe then—just maybe—I’d break past whatever unknown obstacle had been holding me back. Desperation drove me just as surely as it had driven him.
So I was relentless. I continued the pull and the push and I found myself standing over his slumped body. He’d slid down in his chair, head dropped against the back of the cushion, his eyes darkening into a deep green, like spring grass. And I didn’t stop.
I didn’t stop until he’d fallen to his knees before me, forehead pressed to my feet, crying and repeating words I couldn’t hear because the Sophia was too much in control. My ears didn’t work right when she was filling my head. I kind of got used to it.
When it was all gone, all the damage and the negativity and the self-hate, the Sophia pulled itself back, sealing the drain. Sound returned, and I could hear his labored breathing, his murmured chanting. My insides still felt raw. That would take a day or two to settle down.I was aware the outer barrier was still up and I dispelled it. Another ear-pop and we were both submerged in a cacophony of applause and happy shouting. Several people rushed forward to embrace him, hugs for him, awkward hugs for me. I backed away from the jostling and let his family and friends bear him back to the seats. He beamed at me, incredulous joy and gratitude on his face.
And it didn’t touch me at all.
I only had two thoughts. The first was: I had just gotten inside him, battled his demons, saved his soul, but I never learned his name. Maybe it was better that way. There were so many DV. I couldn’t remember all their names and keep my sanity.
The second was: it hadn’t been enough. He was, by far, the worst I’d encountered and it still wasn’t enough. There had been no revelation, clue, no hint how to fix the one problem I needed to fix.
I’d come no closer to solving Marek’s problem.
A terrible panic tried to grip me but I squashed it down. I swallowed hard and pinched myself and turned to the crowd. The entire group fell silent, hanging on my words.
“Another,” I called. “Please. I need another.”
And I continued to heal, and I continued to need, and I continued to fight the growing fear that in the end, I might save a million DV and still stand to lose the one I truly loved.
Another stepped forward, and after him another, and it was pushing dawn before I realized none of it had given me what I needed to save Marek.
I stared bleakly at the sea of hopeful faces. So many saves, so many solutions, all of it dwarfed in the shadow of my heart’s crushing failure. All my exhaustion, all my despair, all of the raw edges inside me, seething with the scalds of so much negative energy, and all I could think was that I had to do this all again for the next envoy in three days’ time.
Einstein’s Definition of Insanity Sophie, that’s me.
About the Author:Ash Krafton writes from the heart…of the Pennsylvania coal region, that is.
She is the author of the Books of the Demimonde (Pink Narcissus Press).
BLEEDING HEARTS (Demimonde #1) is a six-time RWA finalist and was voted "Reviewer Top Pick" by Gravetells.com. Ash continues the story of Sophie and her Demivampires in her latest release BLOOD RUSH (Demimonde #2). She's hard at work (when she isn't watching Doctor Who) writing the third book, WOLF'S BANE.
Ash Krafton's poetry and short fiction has appeared in several journals, including Niteblade, Bete Noire, Abandoned Towers, and Silver Blade. She's a member of Pennwriters, RWA, and Maryland Writers Association. She lurks near her blog and contributes to the QueryTracker blog.
Ash lives with her family and their German Shepherd dog deep in the Pennsylvania wilds, awaiting the day the TARDIS appears in the driveway (the dog most likely keeps the Doctor away. What a beast.)
Until then, she writes.
Find Ash at:
The Demimonde blog Facebook Twitter Goodreads
June 16 InterviewDiane’s Book Blog http://dianelynchbookreviews.blogspot.com/
June 17 Guest blogButterfly-o-Meter Bookshttp://butterfly-o-meter.com/
June 17 reviewParanormal Romance and Authors That Rockwww.pratr.wordpress.com
June 18 SpotlightD'eBook Sharing Book Reviews http://debooksharing.wordpress.com/
June 19 SpotlightSoaring Eagle Publicitywww.soaringeaglepublicity.com
June 20 Spotlight and reviewCrazy Four Bookshttp://crazyfourbooks.blogspot.com
June 20 SpotlightMelissa Stevenshttp://melissastevens.us
June 23 SpotlightBooks Directhttp://booksdirectonline.blogspot.com.au/
June 24 SpotlightBooklover Sue http://bookloversue.blogspot.com/
June 25 Guest blogParanormal Romance Fans for Lifewww.paranormalromancefanforlife.blogspot.com
June 26 SpotlightShare My Destinyhttp://sharemydestiny.blogspot.com
June 27 Character InterviewCBY Book Clubhttp://cbybookclub.blogspot.co.uk/
June 27 reviewSapphyria's Book Reviews http://saphsbookblog.blogspot.com/
June 30 SpotlightCassandra M's Place http://www.cassandramsplace.com
July 1 Guest blogPreternatura http://www.suzannejohnsonauthor.com
July 2 Guest blogQueen of All She Reads http://queenofallshereads.blogspot.com/
July 3 InterviewPembroke Sinclair. www.pembrokesinclair.blogspot.com
July 4 Spotlight and reviewPenny For Them...http://pennyforthemuk.com/search/label
July 7 Spotlight and reviewThe Bookie Monster http://bookie-monster.com/
July 8 SpotlightThe Creatively Green Write at Home Momwww.creativelygreen.blogspot.com
July 9 Guest blogScience Fiction and Suchhttp://sciencefictionandsuch.com/
July 10 SpotlightLisa’s World of Bookswww.lisasworldofbooks.net
July 11 SpotlightRoxanne’s Realmwww.roxannesrealm.blogspot.com
July 14 Guest blogFang-tastic Bookswww.fang-tasticbooks.blogspot.com
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July 13, 2014
Interview with Weston Kincade
Can you tell readers a little bit about yourself and what inspired to write in this particular genre?
A: I’ve always been interested in the paranormal, everything from ghosts to vampires, zombies, and the different realms and creatures in between. My wife and I enjoy venturing through graveyards, looking at the old tombstones and researching the histories of the people entombed there. My interests may be a bit dark… but so sue me.
What inspired you to write this book?
A: One time while watching a show about psychics, I asked myself, “How do they cope with these things when they first encounter the ability?” From there my imagination took off, both in the abilities and plot. Then one particular scene from the book I would later write came to mind. “What would happen if a teen developing the ability to relive people’s murders walked into a Civil War battlefield where every object is imbued with memories?” After that there was no turning back. I had to write Alex’s story. I drew from my experiences as a teacher and the stories I’ve helped kids work through.
Please tell us about your latest release.
A: The latest release is The Golden Bulls, book 2 in the A Life of Death series. I was a little afraid of how people would respond since it takes place while Alex Drummond is an adult, a homicide detective in fact. He is no longer telling the story of his childhood when he first developed the ability. He’s struggling to track down a serial killer who uses an Anubis mask and is operating closer to home than Alex realizes. However, the response from readers has been quite good. In it, we get to know a few blasts from the past better, including Alex’s son.
Is there a character that you enjoyed writing more than any of the others?
A: I must say that I feel closer to Alex than any other. There’s a bit of me in him, but as I continue writing the series, his son is quickly overshadowing him as my favorite. Jamie’s an overzealous teenager with a sense of humor, an ankh branded into his forehead, and more prolific abilities than his father. What could be better?
Do you have a formula for developing characters? Like do you create a character sketch or list of attributes before you start writing or do you just let the character develop as you write?
A: I normally write the scene with the character’s introduction before I ever start outlining the story. To me, characters are the heart of the book. Without believable characters, you don’t care enough to read on. Once I’ve introduced them, they’re fleshed out enough that I can expand on the details and history a bit more in the character outline. However, that isn’t to say that they don’t change and evolve later.
What is your favorite scene from the book? Could you share a little bit of it, without spoilers of course?
A: My favorite scene from book 1 is still the one that started it all, Alex and Paige taking a trip to the Civil War battlefield museum for a research paper. When someone like Alex can relive people’s vicious murders at just a touch, there are so many ways to take the story that I had difficulty keeping the scene from becoming all-encompassing. However, it’s still a pivotal point in the story.
The scenes I enjoyed writing the most in book 2 are when Alex winds up going back thousands of years to Ancient Egypt to help a few archeologists at George Washington University. The things you endure during a murder investigation…
Can these books be read as stand alones?
A: In reviews, readers have expressed the same things I feel when it comes to this question. While the A Life of Death series can be read as standalones and enjoyed perfectly, really the entire experience will be more entertaining starting with book 1 and so on.
Do you have any weird writing quirks or rituals?
A: Well… I enjoy writing naked while barking at the ghosts screaming into my head, if you can call that weird—just kidding.
No, I don’t really have any writing quirks. I can normally keep the personalities jumping around in my head confined there… mostly. However, I have a basic process or ritual. I normally listen to a little soft rock on Pandora while writing. Thisis the station I put together. It’s pretty eclectic, but works great for me. After writing the initial character introduction chapters, I start planning out the story and outlining it. Then I go back to the initial chapters and continue writing, bolding the sections in the outline as I finish them in the manuscript itself.
Do you write in different genres?
A: Yes. I write the stories that choose me… if I can. There are still a few running around in my head that I haven’t quite caught, but once I get them figured out, they’ll go down on paper too. I can’t confine myself to one specific genre, although most of my stories have supernatural aspects. Whether that’s vampires, ghosts, different planes, or creatures from the abyss of my own mind, the elements in my stories normally test the boundaries of “known” science.
Other than writing, what are some of your interests, hobbies or passions in life?
A: Well, I love teaching middle and high school. Helping and entertaining the kids simultaneously can be a struggle sometimes, but it’s well worth it when you see what they do with their lives. That same interest extends to my editing company, WAKE Editing, where I help authors fine tune both their manuscripts and their writing in general.
In my spare time, I enjoy movies, video games (I’m trying out the new Cities of Tomorrow expansion to SimCity currently), roleplaying games like D&D and Pathfinder, and fishing. There’s not much that can beat a good day out on the water with friends, rods in hand and a large fish on the hook.
What was the last amazing book you read?
A: I recently did a book signing at Duckon, a convention in Wheeling, Illinois that caters to most subjects. I had the pleasure of meeting John Everson, Brian Pinkerton, and quite a few more great authors. After hearing Brian read an excerpt from his witty zombie novel, How I Started the Apocalypse in a panel, I was hooked. I read it in two sittings. It was quick, funny, and entertaining. I highly recommend it.
Where is your favorite place to read? Do you have a cozy corner or special reading spot?
A: I enjoy reading in a comfy chair in my living room, my feet propped up on the ottoman and a cup of coffee near at hand on the end table.
What can readers expect next from you?
A: I’m currently working on Book 3 in the A Life of Death collection and hope to have it published through Books of the Dead Press later this year. I also have a few more projects in the works, including a YA fantasy story that started with a Shakespearian reference to Queen Mab, a short story I should be shopping around to publishers shortly, and a post-apocalyptic roleplaying game I’m co-writing based on the D20 system.
A: I’m pretty easy to find. Here are the easiest ways to find out about upcoming books or get in touch with me directly:
Author Page - http://kincadefiction.blogspot.com
Twitter - @WestonKincade
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/WAKincade
Editing Site – http://www.wakeediting.com
Would you like to leave readers with a little teaser or excerpt from the book?
A: Sure. Since I’ve mentioned it a couple times, why don’t I include the scene where Alex and Paige head over to the Civil War battlefield museum. Enjoy this snippet from Alex’s tale!A Life of Death, Book 1 Excerpt:
I turned and confronted the Tinen Valley Museum as though it were an odd stranger from my past. The last time I’d been here was in better times. I stared at the building straddling the hilltop and ran my sweaty hands along my jeans. It was the only thing for miles, outside of monuments and ancient cannons that had seen better days. As I discovered renewed sweat on my hands, it felt like I had something in common with the war remnants. The dirt and perspiration just wouldn’t stay away. The rest of the land around us was rolling hills. It was a comfort to feel Paige’s hand again slip into mine, intertwining our fingers. She didn’t comment about my palms. With a deep breath, I nodded toward the building and the glass wall surrounding the second floor that overlooked the battlefield. It was one of the few characteristics not limited by the antique design.“Shall we?”Paige stood tensed, but whether it was due to the mystery of what lay beyond the museum doors or in anticipation of spending the day with me, I’ll never know. “Yes,” she mumbled, but added with more gusto, “It should be fun.”She matched my step as we meandered up the sidewalk and past the corroded green plaques. I remembered the story they told. They detailed the events leading up to the conflict in the order they occurred. As we stepped up to the building, Paige guided me off the path and up to a large plaque adorning the cedar sided wall. It outlined the outcome of the battle and how it benefited the Union army. But at what cost? I’d experienced violent deaths first hand over the last week and could only imagine what it must have been like fighting and dying in the war. 2,500 men died where we were standing, or so it said. As I read on, a tingling spread up my foot and into my leg. I dug the ball of my foot into the ground to rid it of the pinpricks. The odd feeling persisted. I stomped my heel and the feeling dissipated, but returned a moment later. I repeated the motion and got the same result. Paige peered up at me with a quizzical look and a peculiar slant to her eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”“Nothing, foot’s just asleep.”When she finished reading, we turned and entered the building. The annoying sensation faded away. In the entryway stood a large, rifled cannon, the earliest of its kind. It stood out from the others with its original paint and markings. It had fared far better than those outside, which were subjected to the elements each day and night. The spokes of its wheels were anchored to the floor with large chains, as though someone might consider loading it into an oversized pickup truck. I chuckled as the image of a lone man attempting to steal the cannon came to mind. The weight alone would deter any normal person from the idea. I was in awe at the might of something so large and formidable. I’d seen it before, but at that time I thought only a giant could control such a thing. To a four-foot-tall child, it was monstrous. “Wow,” Paige gasped, “It must be a replica to be in such good shape. It says it’s a Galena Blakely, one of the few ever purchased by the Confederacy.”I nodded in silent agreement as my eyes scanned every inch of it. The long, chilled barrel was pitted and chipped, as though the museum staff had attempted to make it look more realistic. The large gun felt familiar. It was something from a past long lost to me. Although we’d only met once, it felt like it knew me. I set my hand atop its great barrel and all thoughts of Paige and my unwelcome home left. The dense metal reminded me of what life was like, once upon a time. I caressed the barrel like a cowboy would his steed. The antique aroma wafted up from the cold metal. Oh no, I thought as I was jolted from the museum. It’s happening again.
* * *
Morning fog filtered the sunlight streaming into my eyes, and I became aware of new sights and sounds. The air echoed as a barrage of large mosquitoes buzzed by. Ash and burning sulfur permeated the air. Looking down from the hilltop where Paige had clasped my hand moments before, a horde of men rushed up at me. They were clad in the somber gray uniforms of the Confederacy. As the sulfuric fog drifted across the rolling hilltops, other soldiers became visible atop an opposing knoll. A battery of cannons was at their fingertips, and they fired on my position. A dissonance of booming shots ricocheted across the sky, but the fog masked our location. The strategic thought was odd, something I shouldn’t have known. The hard metal of the great cannon lay beneath my hand, but it was no longer cold. In fact, its heat weaved through my thick glove as it blazed to life. It rocked back on its haunches and roared like thunder. I was nearly bowled over, ducking in time as it sprang to life. My ears rattled as the fuse sputtered and died, its mission accomplished. I dipped the long-handled sponge into the putrid bucket at my feet, waiting for the others to manhandle the weapon back into place and worm out the barrel. When they finished, I hefted the sponge-rammer up to the muzzle and stuffed the dripping end down the barrel of the gun. I swept large flakes and black powder out of the steaming opening as the cannoniers readied the gunpowder and a twelve-pounder. Stepping back, I tapped my foot while the first man inserted the powder. I spun the long-handled rammer like a staff and stuffed the powder into the chamber with the other end. Carl dropped the large shell down the gun’s gullet, and I rammed it home. I worked without thought, doing as I’d been trained. As I finished, I noticed my cuffs. They were like the uniformed soldiers’ around me, Union blue. At least I know what side I’m on. We dropped out of sight, and the corporal cleared the vent and lit the fuse. Carl yelled, “Play ‘em some chin music, Jack! Give ‘em hell.” “Old scratch is waitin’ for ‘em,” I shouted back with gusto, unsure of the meaning of my words. However, I got the gist.“Hell yeah, Able! That’s right,” hooted Corporal Jack as he stepped back from the cannon.The adrenaline coursing through Able’s body was contagious. The words felt right amidst the hail of bullets and gun smoke encircling the group. The boast had been all I could muster through the acrid fog. I wiped away the sweat on my brow with a blackened sleeve and put it to my lips to filter the ash from the air. It wasn’t much better.Bullets whizzed by as the Blakely roared, answering the cannons on the opposing hill. I ducked down beside its large wheel as it leapt back another foot, digging deep troughs into the mossy battlefield. It stopped once its claws found purchase. Peering through the large spokes, I watched as the gun’s mouth belched huge clouds of smoke. It collected over the summit, adding to an already dismal field. The cannonball soared through the clouds and fell amongst the roving group of Confederates below. It scattered a large cluster of men where it struck, bouncing through the ranks and flipping end over end, up the opposing slope. It left a bloody trail of bodies in its wake, dismembering everyone in its path. As the clouds gathered, they blocked the hillside from view. I could see little beyond my outstretched hand and the men around me. Time slowed to a crawl. How can these men stand tall, in full view of the oncoming army, without fear? They looked like a monument to the men of this land and what they fought for. The image etched itself into my mind. They were all perched in position, watching the devastation their weapon wrought on the defenseless men below. The cannon’s discharge spared only one man as it leapt over his head. The infantryman paused, expecting each second to be his last as his gaze followed the unpredictable shell in an arc over and past him. He turned in place, the shock and disbelief evident even at a distance as his comrades were torn to ribbons. The three of us grabbed the cannon’s frame and hoisted it back into place. We repeated the reloading process and ducked back in wait. I tried to still my hands as the fuse burnt down, but my nervousness could not be quelled. I scanned the long barrel, but was unable to read the words that had been stamped into it. Something had adorned it earlier in its life, a maker’s mark, but it must have been lost over the years. The Blakely spoke again, and I cheered the cannon on, leaping from my position to fulfill my duty. The others beat me to it, so I grabbed the wheel in my hands. Fighting the sweat and ash covering my gloves, I used every muscle to force the wheel back into its rut. Carl had the other in his hands and was doing the same. The effort of his exertions streamed down his face. Rivers of sweat waged their own war with his ash-coated cheeks. Once the cannon was level, I snatched my rammer from the ground and rose up, but a heavy weight slammed into my shoulder. I looked down in shock as my jacket was sullied. Pain flared in my shoulder, and a dark splotch spread from a small tear in the fabric. I gazed at the wound in silence, unable to give my emotions voice. Another projectile doubled me over and stole my breath. A stream of blood leaked onto the ground. I turned to the edge of the summit and watched as the first line of gray-coated infantry rose to meet us. Having weathered the storm and rushed over the hill, they had evidently sighted our position and charged. One paused atop the ridge and took aim. His rifle was leveled on my bent form when a surprising thought occurred to me. Is that Higgins? The familiarity of this soldier’s childhood friend flashed before my eyes––memories of them playing in the yard and at school.Before my train of thought could continue, the rifle hammer flashed. The bullet sent me flying into the mud, behind my comrades and the Blakely. My neck and chest erupted in invisible flames as my friends fought to maintain our position. Wheezing for breath, my eyes settled on someone lying next to me. He hadn’t shaved in a fortnight, and his coat lay open to the elements, its edge fluttering in the damp morning breeze. The emblem of my battalion was stitched across his shoulder, two crossed cannons on a yellow background. He didn’t speak or move, but I knew his name: Todd. He had gone down earlier that morning. His sightless gaze was hollow, and his eyes had lost their luster, along with his hearty sense of humor. Just last night we huddled around the campfire telling stories of our families and sharing the new supply of brandy. Able’s memories streamed through my mind, enlightening me on his life. Now, Todd lay inert with grim determination cemented on his face, as though he would wear his boots into the afterlife. Other men fell around us in a haze of gray. Jack fought off the few remaining Confederates that made it over the hill while Carl and the rest of the dwindling gun crew pushed against the butt of the cannon, attempting to force it into place for one last shot at the charging soldiers. The lull in the oncoming forces was their final chance.Summoning the remainder of my strength, I hoisted myself from the muddy ground. Pain coursed through my body with the motion, but I was determined not to fall while there was an ounce of strength left in me. With a grunt, I stumbled over to the Blakely and helped shove it into the rut. It settled in place. Davy grasped the lever as Jack shouted orders. The cannon’s muzzle lowered to face the next wave of gray. I lifted my rammer from the ground and cleared the bore with my off hand, the only one willing to cooperate. Two more men shoved grapeshot down its throat and any metal they could scrounge from the bucket. Death breathed down our necks, and Jack pulled the firing pin. A dreadful whistle picked up overhead like a steam locomotive bearing down. There was a resounding crash as the Blakely fired an instant before the enemy’s iron sphere smashed into it. The carriage disintegrated under the force of the impact. The artillery and its mangled limber leapt at me in a jumbled mess of wood and iron. The shattered wheel spokes and carriage axle forced me to the ground. After a staggered breath, I let out a strangled scream as the cannon toppled, pinning me beneath. Under the weight of the great gun, I fought a losing battle for air. “Medic!” I tried to shout, but I felt like a trout gasping under a fisherman’s foot. I tried to force the heap of metal off me, but to no avail. As my pain and muffled gasps dwindled to nothing, the sounds of chaos were replaced with silence.
* * *
I blinked my eyes in the canned light of the museum and reality settled into place. The cannon’s cold barrel lay beneath my hand. I stared at the old gun in disbelief. Its restored condition was not at all what I’d seen. Having outgrown its usefulness, it stood as a testament to what Able had died for. I circled the large weapon and ran my hands along its pitted skin as though it were a long lost friend. Its wheel had been fixed, but still stood out from the one on the opposing side. The older wheel was dark and stained.“Wow, this was really used!” commented Paige.“I know,” I whispered, replaying Able’s death in my mind. I was transfixed by the sight. Tearing my gaze from the gleaming Blakely, I strode over to Paige and looked at the passage printed under the heading: The Last Stand of the Cherished Blakely. Printed at the bottom, under transparent plastic, were the names of the final cannoniers to man the great gun. Private Able Thomas was among them. Private Carl Asburger was the only one to live through the battle, or so the summary said. I slid my thumb over the familiar names and a tear slid down my face. “The Union soldiers recovered the gun and used it on the Confederates.” Paige caught sight of me and asked, “What is it? What happened?” I shook my head and turned away from the catalog of dead men I had come to know so briefly, yet so well. The list in my head was growing and I couldn’t bear to look Paige in the eye. I knew she would see through the crack in my armor. What I was feeling was more painful than the drunk’s awkward beatings could ever inflict. Seeing a host of pictures lining the walls opposite us, I stepped over and perused the black and white photos. I cast my eyes well above the plaques describing the pictures. I already knew too many of them, too well. What I’d seen could fill a book. It would be more than enough to fulfill Mr. Broaderick’s expectations. I scanned the pictures lining the wall and felt a tender hand slip into mine. Her concern was comforting. “See anything good?” “Nah, nothing much.”We meandered along the wall and into the museum. We passed the clear plastic donation box and continued into the dimly lit room. The walls were carpeted to match the floor and track lighting crisscrossed above us, spotlighting artifacts of interest. Others walked through the large room, inspecting each picture, weapon, uniform, and machine with a few muttered words. It was as though we had walked into a shrine. The need to pay homage to those that died began to rise within me. The museum was like a resting place for lost souls, too many to count. The air around us was thick. Goosebumps rose on my skin and with the remnants of the death I’d experienced fresh in my mind, the pull of the enshrined objects drew me forth. I stepped up to a Confederate uniform like those worn by the infantrymen assaulting the hill. I was careful not to get too close and Paige followed suit, her hand clenched in mine. Unlike those in my dream, this uniform was clean and frayed from age. The cuffs were unraveling, but the collar was yellow with wear. The hat lounged on its stand, sinking in upon itself. Its color had hardly faded over the years. Moving on, we stepped over to a row of small cannons. Each had rusted over time and a few suffered from corrosion. The tag advertised them as 12 pound Napoleons found on the battlefield.I stuffed my free hand into my pocket, and we drifted by. The rest of the museum was packed full of artifacts, weapons, and pictures of men who fought in the war. Toward the end of the room, we came across a large Plexiglas box. In it were hundreds of spent musket bullets and rifle shells. The bullets were clean, but deformed from when they had crumpled on impact. The label said, Souvenirs, Please take one. I looked nervously at Paige.“I doubt they’re real,” she answered with a shrug.I knew better, but a morbid curiosity tugged at me. Glancing back at the transparent box, I lifted my hand and poked through the spent shells. One odd bullet caught my eye. Impact had bent it into a horseshoe. I wondered what stories it held and slid two wary fingers over it. A touch was all it took for the smell to find me like a nostalgic dream.
* * *
I slid into another uncontrollable dream that resembled hell more than anything I knew from real life. Leaves rustled in the trees overhead, but I didn’t stop to listen. I rushed out of the forest, bayonet extended. A line of Union soldiers appeared a few yards away, kneeling with muskets leveled. Another line of men stood behind them, reloading. The uniformed boy ahead stumbled onto them first. Even the soot covering his face couldn’t hide his youthful shock. “FIRE!” cried a voice from behind the infantry. The troops vanished in a gray fog as muskets answered the corporal’s shout. Two projectiles thumped into me while my comrades pushed forward. My hip exploded and spots dotted my vision. I stumbled, fell to my knees, then slumped to the ground with the butt of my musket propped in the muddy field. I tried to pull myself up, but a heavy boot slammed into my back, then another, and another. My fellow soldiers pushed forward, trying to overwhelm the Union line. It was too much. With the added weight, my face slammed into the tilled earth and the musket fell from my hand. “Good bye, my darlin’… Alice. Take care of William.” The words drifted through my clotted beard and disappeared in a roar of shouts and gunfire.
* * *
Blessed darkness soon drifted in, muting the battle around me. But instead of returning home to Paige and the museum, I was cast into a second dream and the thoughts of another man.
* * *
Out of sight from the earlier skirmish, I looked out upon a defensive line of Confederate soldiers. My blade stood perched in the air as charging cavalry sped toward us. I swept the blade down, shouting, “Fire!”The world erupted in a cacophony of musket blasts and acrid smoke. Through the roiling waves of currents, I watched horses and riders tumble to the ground, plowing the field with their bodies, yet more emerged through the clouds. “Reload!” I commanded. Their counterparts stood up over the spent line and unloaded their rounds into the approaching cavalry. At ten yards, their aim was perfect and more riders were cast to the ground. But momentum carried the horses on, closing the distance to our line.“Fix bayonets!” The words echoed off my lips, but I knew it was too late. The charge plunged horses and riders into my line of infantry and trampled the men under hoof. One in three had fixed his bayonet and thrust it at the Confederates with thoughts of survival and death gleaming in their eyes. The blades lunged for rider or horse, whichever was closest. Cavalry swords swept down from above, dismembering and decapitating my men with vigor. I watched the gruesome massacre, speechless and incapable of saving their lives. The death riders pushed through to the second rank, which leapt at the cavalry with blood on their hands. They overwhelmed the riders and pulled them to the ground, only to become pincushions themselves. Preoccupied by the sight, a second wave of cavalry had fallen on us unseen. They picked off the remaining soldiers in the first rank and broke the second line. The group of mounted soldiers pushed through the ranks and destroyed any chance of survival. I laid waste to the first man with my pistol, but others bore down on me. My sword jumped to meet the approaching horseman, and steel rang as our weapons met, but momentum carried him past. I ducked the next flailing sword, spun, and grabbed him from behind. My grip threw him to the ground. Without thought, I plunged my sword tip through his shoulder blades. His body tensed, then settled to the ground. I pulled the blade free and spun to face my next opponent, but was too late. His horse leapt over a huddled mass of men, and his blade grazed my shoulder, slicing through golden tassels like a knife through butter. He continued toward other targets and left me behind. Too close… too close. I huddled low, knees bent at the sight of two more raging cavalrymen. They approached in tandem. I fought the urge to flee and instead gripped my sword in two sweaty hands. I focused on the cold steel perched high at my side like a baseball bat and clutched it tighter, as though it were the only thing holding me there. The riders charged. I forced down the growing turmoil in the pit of my stomach and waited for them to come when a thunderous blow rang through my knee. It bent to the side. I ignored the pain and waited for the oncoming men. A second blow struck my lower back. On instinct, I sprung erect as the shot found its way deeper. The action was my last. The cavalry flew down on me. One sword swept past, gouging my back as the other crisscrossed and severed neck from shoulders. Unable to feel the subtlest of sensations, I watched as the world spun and settled on its side. The chaos of battle swept by. Pounding hoof beats jostled me on the ground, and dust flew into my eyes, but I could no more wipe it away than heft a mountain. Through this immovable sight, I watched my headless body slump to the ground a few feet away. My final minutes were consumed with the massacre of my squad. I knew the cost of my delayed orders, and the shame of it condemned me. Eventually, the glassy shadow of the reaper’s touch stilled my eyes.
* * *
My God! Will this ever stop? My thoughts echoed through the silence. It was becoming harder to distinguish who I was. My own short life was a distant memory to the scenes I was reliving. Other deaths passed by, too fleeting to remember, but their echoes remained. Failed romances and snippets of loved ones appeared unbidden and a longing infused my soul for what would never come again. Women whispered my name… his name… into my ears, and the lips that spoke flickered, altering with each woman until they finally settled on one.
* * *
“Stanley, I love you,” whispered the alluring beauty seated next to me on the park bench. The dusk light peeked over the remaining tree line, illuminating her golden curls in a faint halo. Her deep brown eyes were pools, beckoning me forward. I leaned in and kissed her tender lips, cradling her narrow chin between thumb and forefinger. While my stare lingered in her loving gaze, her pools ran over. Her cheeks drooped, following the stream of tears. Her olive skin mixed with the salty water like mottled paint, its colors swirling until her face became distorted and imperceptible. Other images flashed before me, but disappeared in the same indistinct fashion.Silvy, I’m sorry I won’t make it home. I had to do it, though. Take care of John and see that he learns to fish proper, like I would’ve shown him. He’s a strapping young lad, and I’m sure he’ll become the man we hoped. I’ll always love you. The thoughts slowed as my mind succumbed to death’s numbing touch, freezing each membrane in passing seconds.
* * *
Differentiating between the soldiers’ lives and my own became almost impossible, but a firm squeeze of my hand brought me home. Darkness enveloped me and left Stanley’s thoughts to drone into oblivion. I opened my eyes and watched my hand fall from the plastic box. Spent bullets scattered across the floor as I plummeted to the ground. The impact knocked me out, and all I saw was black. Vague wisps brushed against my skin and the slightest of touches caressed my back, as though trying to push me up. Ghostly voices carried as though on nonexistent winds. Men, women, and children whispered in a multitude of voices.“It’s not your time,” they murmured, “No, not your time,” “There is much to do,” “Carry on, don’t give up.” Then, a familiar Corporal’s voice added, “Ain’t your time. Ol’ Scratch ain’t ready for ya yet, boyo. Get up on them feet.” The voices disappeared as quickly as they’d come and were replaced by Paige’s concerned questions. A security guard knelt next to her, their hands pressed against my back. When my eyes fluttered to life, they sat me up on the floor.
To read more about Alex’s efforts to both survive and help those long dead find justice, both books are currently on sale for .99 cents.
A Life of Death can be found on:
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The Golden Bulls, Book 2 in the collection, can be found here:
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Happy reading!
July 11, 2014
Guest Blog and Giveaway: The Loving Husband Trilogy by Meredith Allard
What is a vampire?
On the surface, it’s an unnecessary question since, with Twilight and True Blood all the rage, everyone seems to have a keen sense of the undead. Yet that’s one question writers of vampire stories must contend with, and it’s one question I had never considered.
I had never thought much about vampires. I was never into the paranormal genre, the main reason being I’m not a fan of horror. I’m not a fan of violence, real or pretend, and since vampires have traditionally represented violence, I didn’t care to know them. I won’t go into the story about how one of my students gave me Twilightto read here. Suffice it to say, I liked what I read enough to begin seeking out other vampire stories. I eventually found my way to Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and Anne Rice’s Interview With the Vampire, and Charlaine Harris’s Southern Vampiresseries. The more vampire books I read the more I realized that there was no one way to describe a vampire. The question of ‘What is a vampire?’ is answered differently according to what authors want or need from their preternatural characters. What a grand revelation as I embarked on my own vampire stories.
I had a decision to make. Would I go the more traditional route and keep my vamplings asleep during the day, unable to go out in the sun, or would I take the more modern route of sunbeams and sparkles? In the beginning, I had no idea. I hopped on the computer (God bless the Internet) and searched vampire folklore to see how the undead have been traditionally defined. I was fascinated by what I found. Turns out that vampire legends have abounded for as long as there have been people to tell them, long before vampire stories were ever published. Who knew? There are vampire legends from all over the world, and while there are cultural differences, there were more than a few commonalities, and this is what I focused on—the commonalities.
So what is a vampire to me? How did I craft James’s vampire nature?
I tended to stay along more traditional lines in the Loving Husband Trilogy. One similarity between almost all vampire legends is that they’re nocturnal creatures. James is as well, sleeping during the day and living at night. He drinks blood. Now, how he choses to drink blood differs from other vampires, but let’s say that he does drink human blood. Their human bodies die as they are transformed (by the bite of another vampire) into a preternatural, immortal being. Again, pretty traditional. As to garlic and silver, well, I don’t know what to say about that. It’s true that traditionally (especially in the Slavic cultures) those are considered supreme weapons against the undead, but it seems to me that if you can live forever a little plant bulb or metal won’t harm you much. But that’s just me.
Part of the fun of writing in the paranormal genre is the ability to create your fantasy creatures however you want. If you want your vampire sitting on the sofa in broad daylight eating pizza (as Aidan does in the BBC series Being Human), then do it. There is no right way to create a vampire. As long as authors believe that the world they’re describing is true, then readers will follow. What is a vampire? The fun part is, as authors we get to decide for ourselves.
The Loving Husband TrilogyBox Set- All Three BooksMeredith AllardGenre: paranormal romance
Publisher: Copperfield PressDate of Publication: 6/10/14
Number of pages: 782Word Count: 265,000
Cover Artist: LFD Designs
Book Description:
Meredith Allard’s beloved best selling paranormal/historical Loving Husband Trilogy is now available together for the first time, with bonus material about the series. The collection includes the full texts of Her Dear & Loving Husband, Her Loving Husband’s Curse, and Her Loving Husband’s Return, plus a Q&A with Meredith Allard, series inspirations, and discussion questions. The Loving Husband Trilogy Box Set will please the most devoted James and Sarah Wentworth fans as well as fans new to the series.
Book One: Her Dear & Loving Husband
James Wentworth has a secret. He lives quietly in Salem, Massachusetts, making few ties with anyone. One night his private world is turned upside down when he meets Sarah Alexander, a dead ringer for his wife, Elizabeth. Though it has been years since Elizabeth's death, James cannot move on.
Sarah also has a secret. She is haunted by nightmares about the Salem Witch Trials, and every night she is awakened by visions of hangings, being arrested, and dying in jail. Despite the obstacles of their secrets, James and Sarah fall in love. As James comes to terms with his feelings for Sarah, he must dodge accusations from a reporter desperate to prove that James is not who, or what, he seems to be. Soon James and Sarah piece their stories together and discover a mystery that may bind them in ways they never imagined. Do vampires and witches live in Salem? Will James make the ultimate sacrifice to protect Sarah and prevent a new hunt from bringing hysteria to Salem again?
Book Two: Her Loving Husband’s Curse
How far will you go to protect the one you love?
Finally, after many long and lonely years, vampire James Wentworth's life is falling into place. Together with his wife, Sarah, the only woman he has ever loved, he has found the meaning behind her nightmares about the Salem Witch Trials, and now they are rebuilding the life they began together so long ago.
But the past is never far behind for the Wentworths. While Sarah is haunted by new visions, now about the baby she carried over three hundred years before, James is confronted with painful memories from his time with the Cherokee on the Trail of Tears. Through it all, the persistent reporter Kenneth Hempel reappears, still determined to prove that the undead walk the earth. If Hempel succeeds in his quest, James and Sarah will suffer. Will the curse of the vampire prevent James and Sarah from living their happily ever after?
Book Three: Her Loving Husband’s Return
What would you do to return to the only one you have ever loved?
Vampire James Wentworth’s secret is no longer a secret, and now he and his beloved wife, Sarah, have been separated. While suffering his own internment, James is reminded of his time with Japanese-Americans in the Manzanar Relocation Camp during World War II, and he cannot allow the past to repeat itself. With the help of his friends—Chandresh, Jocelyn, Timothy, even the irreverent Geoffrey—James learns what it means to return, and he is determined to return to his Sarah no matter the challenges—or the consequences. In the end, it may be up to Olivia, the most powerful of witches, to grant James’s most fervent wish. Will James and Sarah be reunited once and for all despite the madness surrounding them?Excerpt from Book OnePROLOGUEI am looking lovingly into the eyes of a man, though I cannot see his face because it is featureless, like a blank slate. We are standing in front of a wooden house with narrow clapboards, and there are diamond-paned casement windows and a steep pitched roof with two gables pointing at the laughing, hidden moon. I am certain I hear someone singing sweet nothings to us from the sky. From the light of the few jewel stars I can see the halo of his hair, like the halo of an angel, and even if I cannot see his eyes I know they look at me, into me. I stand on my toes, he is much taller than me, and I point up my face and he kisses me. As the warmth of his lips melts into mine, making me weak from the inside out, I feel my knees give from the thrilling lightness his touch brings. I know the face I cannot see is beautiful, like the lips I feel. His hands press me into him, clutching me closer, closer, unwilling to let me go. I grip him with equal strength, wishing he would carry me inside, yet I cannot bring myself to break our embrace.“I shall never leave you ever,” he whispers in my ear. I promise him the same.I do not know how I have been so fortunate to have this man in my life, but here he is, before me, wanting me. I am overcome with the joy of him.
CHAPTER 1Sarah Alexander didn’t know what was waiting for her in Salem, Massachusetts. She had moved there to escape the smog and the smugness of Los Angeles, craving the dulcet tones of a small town, seeking a less complicated life. Her first hint of the supernatural world came the day she moved into her rented brick house near the historic part of town, close to the museums about the witch trial days, not far from the easy, wind-blown bay. As the heavy-set men hauled her furniture inside, her landlady leaned close and told her to beware.“If you hear sounds in the night it’s ghosts,” the landlady whispered, glancing around to be sure no one, human or shadow, could hear. “The spirits of the innocent victims of the witch hunts still haunt us. I can feel them stirring now. God rest them.”Sarah didn’t know what to say. She had never been warned about ghosts before. The landlady peered at her, squinting to see her better.“You’re a pretty girl,” the old woman said. “Such dark curls you have.” She still spoke as if she were telling a secret, and Sarah had to strain to hear. “You’re from California?”“I moved there after I got married,” Sarah said.“Where’s your husband?”“I’m divorced now.”“And your family is here?”“In Boston. I wanted to live close to my family, but I didn’t want to move back to the city. I’ve always wanted to visit Salem, so I thought I’d live here awhile.”The landlady nodded. “Boston,” she said. “Some victims of the witch trials were jailed in Boston.”The landlady was so bent and weak looking, her fragile face lined like tree rings, that Sarah thought the old woman had experienced the hysteria in Salem during the seventeenth century. But that was silly, Sarah reminded herself. The Salem Witch Trials happened over three hundred years ago. There was no one alive now who had experienced that terror first hand. Sarah wanted to tell the landlady how she believed she had an ancestor who died as a victim of the witch hunts, but she didn’t say anything then.“Yes, they’re here,” the landlady said, staring with time-faded eyes at the air above their heads, as if she saw something no one else could see. “Beware, Sarah. The ghosts are here. And they always come out at night.”The landlady shook as if she were cold, though it was early autumn and summer humidity still flushed the air. When Sarah put her arm around the old woman to comfort her, she felt her skin spark like static. She rubbed her hands together, feeling the numbness even after the old woman pulled away.“It’s all right,” Sarah said. “I won’t be frightened by paranormal beings. I don’t believe in ghosts.”The landlady laughed. “Salem may cure you of that.”For a moment Sarah wondered if she made a mistake moving there, but she decided she wouldn’t let a superstitious old woman scare her away. She thought about her new job in the library at Salem State College—Humanities I liaison, go-to person for English studies, well worth the move across the country. She saw the tree-lined, old-fashioned neighborhood and the comforting sky. She heard the lull of bird songs and the distant whisper of the sea kissing the shore. She felt a rising tranquility, like the tide of the ocean waves at noon, wash over her. It was a contentment she had never known before, not in Boston, never in Los Angeles. She was fascinated by Salem, looking forward to knowing it better, certain she was exactly where she needed to be, whatever may come.Sarah’s first days in the library were hectic since it was the start of an autumn term. She spent her shifts on the main floor, an open, industrial-style space of bright lights, overhead beams, and windows that let in white from the sun and green from the trees abundant everywhere on campus. Across from the librarians’s desk, a combined circulation and reference area, was a lounge of comfortable chairs in soothing grays and blues where some students socialized using their inside voices while others stalked like eagle-eyed hunters, searching the stacks or the databases.By Wednesday afternoon, as she saw the short-tempered rain clouds march across the Salem sky, Sarah thought she would have to buy a car soon. After driving and dodging in nail-biting Los Angeles traffic for ten years, she liked the freedom of walking the quiet roads from home to work, watching in wonder as the leaves turned from summer green to an autumn fade of red, rust, and gold. But she had been living in the sunshine on the west coast for ten years, and she had forgotten about the sudden anger of New England thunderstorms. They could appear just like that, a crack of noise overhead, then a gray flannel blanket covered the sky as fast as you could blink your eyes, water splashing all around, wetting you when you did not want to be wet, and she was caught unprepared. She held out her hand and shook her head when she felt the drops splash her palm. Jennifer Mandel’s voice sang out behind her.“Need a lift?”“Please.”Sarah wiped her palm on her skirt, grateful once again for Jennifer’s assistance. Jennifer had been the head librarian at the college for five years, and she had taken Sarah under her wing, showing her where everything was, introducing her to the rest of the staff, answering her questions. There was something almost odd about Jennifer’s intuition—she always seemed to know when Sarah needed her, like a clairvoyant magic trick. They sprinted to the parking lot, trying to avoid the sudden splats of rain soaking their thin blouses through, and they clambered into Jennifer’s white Toyota, laughing like schoolgirls jumping in puddles. Jennifer drove the curve around Loring Avenue to Lafayette Street, the main road to and from the college.“Where were you before you came here?” Jennifer asked. “You’re obviously not used to the rain.”“I worked at UCLA.”“A small town like Salem must seem dreary after living in the big city.”Sarah looked at Jennifer, saw the compassion in her eyes, the understanding smile, so she said just enough to make herself understood. “I’m recently divorced.”Jennifer held up her hand. “You don’t need to explain. I have two ex-husbands myself.”They drove quietly, letting the sound of the car’s accelerator and the rain tapping the windshield fill the space. As Sarah watched the small-town scene drift past, she thought it might not be so bad to drive in Salem. Everything back east, the roads, the shops, the homes, was built on an old-time scale, narrower and smaller than they were out west. But here people slowed when you wanted to merge into their lane and they stopped at stop signs, so different from L.A. where they’d run you over sooner than let you pass.“Why don’t you come over tomorrow night?” Jennifer asked. “We’re having a get-together at my mother’s shop.” She leaned closer to Sarah and whispered though they were alone in the car. “I should probably tell you, and I’ll understand if you think this is too weird, but my mother and I are witches.”Sarah studied Jennifer, her hazel eyes, her long auburn hair, her friendly smile. “You don’t look like a witch,” she said.“You mean the kind with black hair and a nose wart? The kind that fly around on broomsticks? Not that kind of witch.”“You mean you’re Wiccan?”“Yes, I practice the Wiccan religion, among other things. I’m the high priestess of my coven. I’m also licensed to perform weddings here in Massachusetts, in case you ever need someone to preside over a wedding for you.”Sarah laughed. “I just got divorced. I won’t be getting married again any time soon.” She paused to watch the drizzle slip and slide on the windows. “I’m surprised there really are witches in Salem.”“Ironic, isn’t it? The city known for hanging witches is now a haven for mystics.” Jennifer shook her head, her expression tight. “Is this too much information? I don’t usually tell someone a few days after I’ve met her that I’m Wiccan, but you have a positive energy. You don’t seem like someone who’s going to assume I’m a Satanist who loves human sacrifices.”“I don’t mind. I’m just surprised. I’ve never known a witch before.”“There are all sorts of interesting people you could meet around here.” Jennifer nudged Sarah with her elbow. “So will you come tomorrow night?”“I don’t know, Jennifer.”“You don’t need to participate in the rituals. Come make some friends. I think you’ll like the other witches in my coven. They’re good people.”A Wiccan ceremony did sound odd, Sarah thought, but she had always been fascinated by different religions and cultures. Librarians had to keep learning—a healthy curiosity was a job necessity. And it would be nice to know some people in Salem, even if they were witches.As they continued down Lafayette Street, Sarah saw the sign for Pioneer Village and she added it to her mental to-do list. “I haven’t had a chance to see much of this part of town since I’ve been here,” she said.“How about a quick tour then?”“What about the rain?”Jennifer turned right down Derby Street. “I’ve lived here my whole life. A little water doesn’t bother me.”Jennifer drove down one tree-lined street, then down another street, and another until Sarah didn’t know where she was. Though Witch City was small, Sarah was still learning her way around. She tried to gauge her surroundings and saw the tall, white lines of the Peabody-Essex Museum, then further down was the Hawthorne Hotel. Past that was the brick, colonial-looking Salem Maritime National Historic Site. As she watched the history flip past, like a stack of photographs from time gone by, she noticed a house she thought she knew though she was sure she hadn’t been down that way before. The one that caught her attention had wooden clapboards, diamond-paned casement windows, and two gables on the roof. It was old, though it didn’t seem to be a museum as the other old buildings were.“What is that house?” she asked. “It looks familiar.”“James Wentworth lives there.”“Do you know him?”Jennifer’s answer was stilted, as if she considered each word, weighed it, measured it, decided yes or no about it, before she let it drop from her lips. “He teaches at the college. He—his family—has owned this house for generations. It’s over three hundred years old, one of the oldest standing homes in Salem.”Jennifer slowed the car so they could get a better look as she drove past. “Does it still look familiar?” she asked.“Yes. Even that crooked oak tree in front seems right. I can picture the man I dream about standing in front there kissing me.”“What dreams?” Jennifer gripped the steering wheel more tightly and her eyes brightened. “My mother’s friend Martha is great at dream interpretation. She’s done a world of good for me.” She winked at Sarah. “And you dream about a man? Is he a good looking man?”Sarah pulled her arms around her chest, wishing she could take back her casual reference, afraid she had already said too much.“Do you have a lot of dreams?”“Yes,” Sarah said. But that was all she could manage. When Jennifer had waited long enough and Sarah had to offer something more, all she could say was, “It’s not a big deal. I just thought I knew the house from somewhere.”“A lot of houses around here look the same,” Jennifer said.Sarah looked at the houses, the tall, Federal-style ones, the Victorian ones, the brick ones, the modern-looking ones. Suddenly, as they drove around the green of Salem Common, the rain cleared, the sun brightened, and the clouds flittered away across the bay.“That must be it,” she said.She lowered the car window so she could smell the wet air. Though she missed the rain when she lived in Los Angeles, at that moment she was glad to see the serene blue reflection of the northeastern sky again.
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
About the Author:Meredith Allard is the author of the best-selling novels The Loving Husband Trilogy, Victory Garden, Woman of Stones, and My Brother’s Battle (Copperfield Press). She received her B.A. and M.A. degrees in English from California State University, Northridge. She has taught writing to students aged ten to sixty, and she has taught creative writing and writing historical fiction seminars at Learning Tree University, UNLV, and the Las Vegas Writers Conference. She lives in Las Vegas, Nevada.
Website: www.meredithallard.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authormeredithallard
Twitter: www.twitter.com/copperfield101
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4866638.Meredith_Allard
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