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Goodreads Book Giveaway


Lilith’s Fall
by Susan Trombley

Giveaway ends September 01, 2017.

See the giveaway details

at Goodreads.

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Free Book! Who could turn that down? But you have to win it to get it, so make sure you use the above link to sign up for the Giveaway, or head on over to Goodreads to enter the giveaway directly. I’m giving away 1 of 5 total available signed copies to each lucky winner, so make sure you enter between now and September 1st, 2017.

Here’s a brief description of Lilith’s Fall:

Ranove might look like a demon, but when his captors put a curvy human female into his cell hoping he’ll kill her for their entertainment, all he wants to do is protect her from their abuse.

Lilith’s ordinary and boring life has suddenly spiraled out of control and now she’s imprisoned with a demon, but it doesn’t take long to discover that Ranove is not the monster she believed him to be. That doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous, and her captors are about to find out just how dangerous he is when they try to take Lilith away from him.

This futuristic alien romance is the beginning of the Shadows of Sanctuary series where a new couple finds happiness in each book.

I’ve been nominated for the Mystery Blogger Award!

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I’ve been nominated for not one, but two ( XD ) awards by the awesome ladies at Dust off Your MacHalo. You should go check them out! They post some thoughtful and entertaining book reviews and hilarious “Freaky Friday” posts that have me looking forward to the end of the week. Seriously, it makes my Friday! Although a word of warning: it’s not for the faint of heart.

An Interview with a Villain

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Sometimes, when creating or developing characters, it’s both helpful and fun to “ask” them questions in an interview style and use the answers to further develop their personality and actions. You can get a good feel for a character in this way, not to mention have a set of answers that will be helpful to reference while writing their story.

So I had the bright idea (no pun intended) to “interview” my favorite villain, Uriale. Since he spent the last three books as the villain, his details were not as well fleshed out as my protagonists, Ranove, Balfor, and Gorzo. I figured a questionnaire was a great way to cement those details in preparation for turning the outline for his story into a fully fleshed novel. After all, Uriale is perhaps one of the most complex characters I’ve ever had to deal with, since he’s going to need to change from being truly reprehensible to being redeemable. I have no illusions about how difficult this will be. I’ve cut some of his content out of the three previous books, but I keep it around to remind me how truly ruthless and arrogant he is.

However, my “interview” didn’t go quite as planned. My characters tend to take on a life of their own, and Uriale was no different in this regard. He was also stubborn, and annoyed at the process, and let me know this in no uncertain terms. I had a difficult time getting information out of him, and in the end, didn’t come even close to completing the questionnaire, but I figured I’d share how far I managed to get.

Morbidon’s Bride: Chapter 15

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Author’s Note: Hurray! I’m back to work and loving it! I missed my keyboard, and it was good to get back to this story. I don’t have a whole lot to add to that, except to say please feel free to comment and critique below. Tell me what you think. Also, just a brief reminder that I am running a Goodreads giveaway of 5 signed paperback copies of Lilith’s Fall starting on August 1 and running to September 1 so if you have a GR account, mark your calendars and be sure to sign up when it starts!

Chapter 15

The god of the dead sat upon his throne of bones, which rested upon a pile of skulls. His cowl was firmly in place, casting most of his inhumanly handsome face into darkness. Behind him, a line of his reapers stood like statues, robed shadows in the gloomy throne room. The only light that seemed capable of penetrating the oppressive darkness emanated from the wraithfire torches and chandelier that hung low from a lofty vaulted ceiling.

Marcos and Febe had been lead to this throne room by the steward, his transparent face pinched tight with disapproval, his eyes glittering with self-righteous malice. He’d left them standing side-by-side facing the throne of the silent god.

Now, Morbidon studied them from within the shadow of his cowl. His long-fingered hands, pale in the wraithfire light, rested on the arms of his throne, which was adorned by yet more skulls—inhuman ones with fangs and huge empty eye sockets. Morbidon’s lack of movement gave no clue to his thoughts, but Febe knew that the steward had already informed the god of his impression of what had happened within the cellar, dismissing her and Marcos’s claims of being attacked by dark souls from the Abyss as impossible.

Since Morbidon had been visiting the Abyss during the attack as part of his routine patrolling, the steward insisted that there was no possible way the god wouldn’t have noticed the escape of any dark souls that were being punished there. He’d also told Febe and Marcos there was no way the souls had the power to enter Morbidon’s palace through the wards placed to deter just such events. The steward believed she and Marcos were telling a convenient lie to explain their situation.

The important thing was what her betrothed believed. At the moment, Febe couldn’t tell, and the longer he allowed the silence to draw out in the tomblike atmosphere of the throne room, the angrier she grew at this unfair treatment of them. First they’d been attacked, and now they were being accused of dishonorable behavior. Neither of them deserved this, and she’d had enough of Morbidon treating them like misbehaving children awaiting their punishment.

After several long moments passed where he did nothing but stare at them, not even the flicker of wraithfire betraying his emotions, she couldn’t keep her irritation behind her tongue any longer. “I’m sick of skulls! And bones!” She curled her lip at the throne and its macabre adornments.

Marcos grasped her arm as she stepped towards the throne, her voice shaking with anger. His whispered warning was still audible in the silence that had changed in quality from oppressive to stunned. “Little Mouse, have a care! This isn’t your mother’s kingdom!”

She shook off his restraining hand and took a few more steps towards Morbidon’s throne as the god looked on without comment, though his fingers tightened on the arms of his throne as she approached. “I’m sick of the darkness and the constant silence. I’m sick of the dust and the cobwebs!” She plucked one of the offending strands off of her tunic arm as she spoke, flinging it aside to glare at the steward watching her from the edge of Morbidon’s dais, his mouth agape. “And I’m sick to death of you and your kingdom!”

Morbidon’s knuckles whitened on the bones of the monstrous skulls. She was now close enough to see the tremor of his cowl, as though tension had pulled him as tight as a bow string vibrating after releasing an arrow. Yet he remained eerily silent in the aftermath of her devastating words. Without seeing his face, she had no idea what he was thinking and no clue if her words had managed to inspire any emotions at all in the god of the dead.

Her anger did not abate in the face of his lack of reaction. In fact, his unresponsiveness only incensed her, her frustration and hurt coalescing into a ball of rage that had to be released as if her sister’s black powder concoction had ignited behind it. “You promised me that I would be safe here! You promised that no one would ever threaten me again! You swore that you would be there to protect me! I was a fool to believe you!” She took another step towards the throne and then another until the toes of her slippers bumped into the base skulls that held up the dais. “I trusted you!” Her voice quivered on those words.

She turned to glance at Marcos, only to find that he’d followed her, approaching the throne to stand at her side, as if he could possibly protect her from Morbidon’s wrath. Her anger softened for a moment as she looked into his concerned expression, his gaze traveling from her to the god before returning to her, filled with an emotion she’d never seen directed at her before. He had no chance of winning a fight against the immortal reapers and the god of the dead, yet he was still there at her side. “Marcos was there for me. He protected me the way you did not!”

She cast her gaze back to Morbidon, and her anger sparked anew at the shadows that hid his face from her. No matter what pretty words he spoke to her, he was still playing god instead of trying to be a true mate to her. “I would rather be back in my mother’s castle with a thousand assassins at my door than spend another minute here with you, my lord.” His title dripped with her contempt and disgust.

She’d expected him to burst into wraithfire. She’d expected his flesh to peel away to reveal the horror of his bony reaper. She did not expect him to lean forward on his throne and rest his head on his palms in a position of hopelessness and despair that was human enough to weaken her anger and resolve.

The steward rushed towards her, floating faster than she’d ever seen one of the ghosts move. He flapped his hands in her face, shooing her away from the throne and her apparently devastated betrothed. “You’ve done enough here, you wretch! Begone to your quarters! My lord will decide your fate soon enough!”

Febe snarled at the ghost, her anger refreshed by his behavior. She’d always cringed away from rudeness, preferring the comfortable isolation of her laboratory and her mathematics to the inconsistencies of people’s actions. The steward had been kind to her in the beginning, but one misperception later he was treating her like refuse. Marcos was right. This wasn’t her mother’s kingdom, and she was done being the little mouse he kept calling her. “Do not speak to me in such a way, peasant!” She straightened her spine and rolled her shoulders back, lifting her chin until she looked down her nose at the ghost. “I am Princess Febe of Barselor. I have centuries of royal blood running through my veins. I am a master inventor responsible for engines that will change the world.” Her words rang with her conviction, her last statement one of pride at accomplishments she could claim as her own, beyond her birth and breeding. “You are nothing but a servant. I don’t take orders from you.”

Morbidon lifted his head from his hands as the steward staggered back in the face of her wrath. “Princess Febe is correct, Steward. You will never speak to my bride again in such a manner!” His voice was dark and ragged like an ancient funeral shroud.

“B-but My Lord! She and this cretin,” the steward gestured to Marcos, “have dishonored themsel—“

“Enough!” Morbidon’s roar shook the entire throne room, sending falls of dust and debris pattering down from the vaulted ceiling. “Get out of my sight, Steward! Your accusations are not welcome here!”

The steward drifted away from Febe, bowing clumsily as he floated backwards towards the wide double doors. He disappeared long before he reached them.

Silence reigned again in the throne room. Morbidon sat straight and tall now, though his face was still concealed and his hands gripped the arms of the throne so tightly that the bones of his fingers were clearly outlined—outlined, but not exposed. He’d been angry, and a small amount of wraithfire had crossed over his body when he’d yelled at the steward, but he hadn’t lost control, and he seemed to have everything under control now.

But Febe was still angry—at him, and at her situation. Based on his words to his steward, he still considered her his bride. He refused to release her from this bargain despite how unhappy she was. “Did you not hear my words, my lord? I hate it here! Let me return to my home!”

The god sighed, his straight posture slumping as if the breath leaving him had been propping him up. “You’ve experienced a grave injustice that I would seek to correct, if you will allow it, Princess.” He rose to his feet slowly, as if he himself were a corpse rising from the grave. “No dark souls have ever escaped the Abyss, and none can pass into this castle beyond my wards. This means you were a victim of some other trickery perpetrated by someone who can enter and leave through these wards. Someone who meant to frighten you and,” his cowl turned briefly in the direction of Marcos, “drive you into the arms of my servant.” Morbidon’s focus returned to her. “You are correct that I failed you, Princess. Please, allow me to make amends.”

Febe shook her head. “I no longer care about your kingdom and whatever traitors you harbor within it. I want to go home. You cannot possibly think I would marry you now?”

Blue fire skated over his robes and down to his hands. “You gave your word! Would you go back on your own agreement? Do you have no honor, woman?” His voice had lost all semblances of culture and civility. He sounded like a primal male howling and snarling in anger.

Marcos stepped in front of her, his broad body providing a barrier between her and the angry god. “You should allow her to choose. She’s suffered enough because of this bargain.”

“And you think she will choose you, peasant?”

Morbidon’s voice cracked like a whip, but Marcos didn’t flinch in the face of it, nor did he back down when the god’s skin began to peel back beneath growing blue flames on his hands. “So far, she hasn’t been offered a better choice than me.”

Morbidon’s now skeletal hands clenched in front of him. “You dare to insult me? I will kill you a thousand times over, and you will suffer the pain of every death!” He left the dais, his robe sweeping behind him as he strode towards Marcos and Febe, only stopping when he towered over Marcos, close enough to reach out and strangle him with his burning skeletal fingers.

“Do not hurt him!” Febe pushed between the two men, shoving Morbidon in the chest, staggering back into Marcos’s chest when all her strength failed to budge the god of the dead. Suddenly, she screamed as the wraithfire from his body crossed onto her skin from her contact with him, trailing up her arms in a wave of agony.

 

Morbidon’s soulmate writhed on the bed in pain and the fault lay with him. He’d lost his temper as he’d sworn he would not do. He’d foolishly allowed his devastation and heartbreak to fuel his inherent rage, behaving as insanely as his father had once done when deprived of the woman he had loved. Morbidon had become the monster he’d tried his entire life not to be, and he’d hurt the one woman who’d mattered to him more than even his mother and sister.

Now, as his wraithfire threatened to consume her body and soul, he could not heal her. Had this been a normal flame, she wouldn’t have even a slight scar as a memory of it. He could heal any mortal from any normal wound and even bestow unending life upon them, but he could not stop the burning of his own wraithfire. It emanated from the rage within his soul, and consumed him time and time again, but since he was immortal and a divine dragon, he was never destroyed by it. Febe did not have that luxury. She suffered his pain without the benefit of his divinity.

There was only one person he knew who had learned to quench wraithfire, and that was his sister, who’d mastered her own flames. He’d already summoned her, knowing as soon as Febe had come into contact with his burning body that she would need help he couldn’t give her. Yet, Vivacel had not responded to his summons, and their mental link had shrunk to a tiny thread after he’d ejected her from his kingdom. He could barely feel the wisp of her thoughts, and those thoughts told him she was deliberately making him wait, deliberately causing Febe suffering because he’d ignored Vivacel’s warnings and she wanted to punish him.

He held tight to Febe’s hand, trying to pull the fires back into his own body, to no avail. His anger at his sister for allowing Febe to continue suffering did not allow him to calm himself enough to quench his own flames. As long as they burned within him, they would burn within Febe.

Her screams were like swords, piercing and twisting in his gut. He’d been a fool not to release her from her promise. He would rather never touch her or even speak to her again then have her suffer like this.

“Can’t you do something?” The desperate voice was so much a reflection of his own internal thoughts that for a moment he didn’t realize that someone else had spoken.

He turned his attention to Marcos, never releasing Febe’s hand even though her writhing pulled and tugged on his grip. “I told you to leave here!”

The human crossed his thick arms over his chest, leveling a glare at Morbidon. “I’m not leaving her! Not like this!”

The mortal’s tone of possessiveness infuriated Morbidon, which only caused his flames to burn hotter, making Febe moan aloud as her back arched off the bed. “She’s my bride!” Realizing that his anger was killing her faster, he quickly tried to push it back into the deep well within him where he usually kept it, but his flames were free and out of his control now that they had a new host.

“You don’t deserve her! Look at what you’ve done to her! If you had only let her go….”

Never had a human dared to speak to him in such a tone, yet Morbidon couldn’t take issue with what Marcos was saying. He was right on all counts, and he only spoke aloud the very thoughts that haunted Morbidon. But he couldn’t allow Marcos’s words to stand unchallenged. The human wasn’t just censuring him for his treatment of Febe. They were locked in a battle for her heart, and the human was winning. Morbidon wasn’t willing to concede the fight. Not until Febe was healed and he had a chance to make amends.

Then he would lay his heart and soul bare to her and be vulnerable in a way that terrified him, because it meant the possible rejection he’d feared for so long. He now understood that he should have done that from the start. Febe didn’t want to marry a god. She also didn’t need a man. She needed a friend, a person she could trust and turn to when times grew difficult. She needed someone to hold her when she was sad, and comfort her when she was scared. He’d tried to impress her with his magic and his power, but all she’d needed was the one thing he struggled to give. Himself.

Marcos had nothing else to give but himself, and that had been enough for Febe when Morbidon wasn’t.

Morbidon had failed Febe on all counts, proving his sister correct. He wasn’t the right mate for her. But she was the perfect mate for him, and he was determined that she would live so that he could become the mate she needed and deserved. “She will live! I will find a way to clench the flames and heal her body and soul.” His next words were the most difficult he’d ever spoken. “And then I will free her from her promise. I will let her make her own choice.” What he didn’t say aloud to the other man was that he wasn’t going to stop trying to win her. Febe would not be able to leave his kingdom until she was fully healed. The fire was burning parts of her soul away, and only in the Underworld could she regenerate them with his help.

“Why does she still burn then?” Marcos approached the bed, only stopping reluctantly when Morbidon waved him off. “Make it stop!” He pressed his hands together in a prayer gesture. “Please, god of the dead, I beg of you! Save Febe!”

As long as Marcos stood there, Morbidon would never be calm enough to meditate. “I will do as you ask, but only because it is already my will to do so. Though I will give her a choice, don’t think I’ve given up on her, human. Now leave this room. I must have silence and peace to end these flames.”

Marcos looked as if he wanted to object. With one last agonized glance at Febe, he abandoned the healing chamber.

Morbidon sighed, stroking the soft, smooth back of her hand with the fingers of his free hand. He couldn’t wait for Vivacel to change her mind and heal Febe. He couldn’t hold off the worst of the flames for much longer, and there would soon be nothing left of Febe if he didn’t try even harder than he’d already tried.

Never releasing Febe, he sank into the meditative state that would allow him to travel the deepest road—the one within him. The road that led to his rage and all the memories that fueled it.

I’m Back!!!

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I personally like the dark clouds over Miami, but that’s just my thing.

Morbidon’s Bride: Chapter 14

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Author’s Note: Not much to add for this one. It’s vacation time, and this was my last deadline before that, so… I’m just gonna leave it at that. Feel free to make suggestions, comments, or critiques. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 14

Translucent ghosts, glowing with a soft blue light, drifted past Febe and Marcos as they strolled down a massive corridor lined with bones. Skulls stacked upon femurs, stacked upon ribcages, stacked upon stacks of bones rose to a towering ceiling of ribbed vaults—a true palace of the dead. Guttering blue torches were the only light that penetrated the gloom, casting dancing shadows across the grinning faces of the watching skulls.

Febe had asked for Marcos as an escort so she could speak with him candidly about her questions and concerns, but now that she was touring Morbidon’s palace, she was grateful for his company in place of her betrothed’s. She didn’t think she could have successfully hidden her horror and disgust from Morbidon at the design of his home. She suspected such a reaction would only push him further away from her.

Marcos glanced her way as they passed a stack of grinning skulls, yellowed by age and split by a multitude of cracks. “You know, it’s really not that bad here.”

She returned his glance, her eyebrows shooting to her cobweb-dusted hairline.

He smiled at her expression and reached out to pluck a feathery strand of webbing from her mahogany hair. “Sure, the ornamentation needs an update and the maids could do a better job, but it’s peaceful and quiet. Not a bad place for a temporary stay.” His smile faded as he flicked the cobweb off his fingers.

Febe looked around, noting the lack of ghostly residents in this area of the corridor. She paused beneath a pointed archway. “To be honest, I didn’t actually want a tour of the palace.” She hugged herself and rubbed her upper arms even though the chill she felt was more in the primal part of her mind than her body. The temperature was actually quite comfortable. “I needed to speak with you, and this seemed the best way to get you alone.”

Marcos’s expression slipped further into a frown. When he spoke, his voice was low and soft. “Careful, Princess, how you word your requests. Your betrothed has shown more tolerance than I expected, but don’t expect it to last.”

Morbidon had clearly not been happy at her request for a tour with Marcos. Not only had his expression closed into his emotionless mask, but blue flames had sparked briefly along his robes before he seemed to rein his anger back in. Yet his only response had been to call Marcos over and direct him to escort Febe in a tour of the palace. Then he’d bowed to her with an unreadable look in his silver eyes, turned on his heel, and left her in the courtyard with Marcos standing beside her, studying her with a questioning expression.

Febe sighed, studying the dusty marble beneath her silken slippers. She’d been overwhelmed by Morbidon’s company, and she had questions she didn’t dare ask him. All she’d wanted was some time to speak with another human who could understand her sense of isolation in this dreary place. Yet she feared she’d only made things worse by requesting that time. “I only wanted to talk. I haven’t had the chance to apologize for forcing you into this bargain of mine. I had no one else….” She decided not to finish that statement because it revealed more vulnerability than she was comfortable with. Out of necessity, she’d placed some level of trust in Marcos, even though he’d already been dishonest with her. He was still the only mortal in the Underworld and her only connection to her previous life.

He ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair, refusing to meet her eyes. “You owe me no apology. I allowed you to believe I was working for your sister. I apologize for that. As for me being here, I would have served Morbidon either way and there are worse duties than serving as your companion.” His half-smile didn’t lighten the solemn cast of his expression.

Febe tapped her chin, regarding Marcos thoughtfully. “You know, it’s funny, but I trust you more because you aren’t serving my sister’s will. She tried to kill me. Many times.”

His fists clenched at his sides as he turned his back on her steady regard, looking up at the wall of bones rising to the vaulted ceiling. “I believed it was self-defense. I fooled myself into thinking that she would never have attempted to assassinate you if you hadn’t been trying to kill her first.” His shoulders lifted in a brief, defeated shrug. “Now, I understand that she was as much the instigator of these attempts as the rest of you.”

“Did you… did you love her?” Febe wanted to reach out to Marcos and rest her hand on his slumped shoulder to comfort him, but she had a distinct feeling that her touch would have the opposite effect. Besides, she wasn’t familiar with providing comfort, or receiving it for that matter. Still, his sadness called to her, just as Morbidon’s sadness had. She’d failed at comforting the god. She had no idea why she thought she’d have a better chance at comforting the man.

His heavy sigh was answer enough, but he expounded on it. “I loved the woman I thought she was. It’s my fault for being blind to the truth.”

Febe shook her head though he couldn’t see it. “The truth is that she is as my mother forced her to be with her endless manipulations. Eldora was defending herself against me and Emilia, even as she was attempting to kill us so that she could ascend to the throne. All of us have been subjected to attempts on our lives since we were barely old enough to crawl. I don’t believe that all of those attempts were from each other.”

Marcos spun around to face her, his eyes wide. “Surely you don’t mean your mother would send assassins after her own daughters!”

Febe raised an eyebrow at his surprise. “You must know what my mother is capable of. I was never sure which assassins were from my sisters and which were my mother’s ‘tests.’ All I do know is that my sisters and I may not be blameless, but we are a product of our mother’s plans. Do not blame yourself for loving her. You probably saw her for the woman she could have been if she’d been born to someone else.” Febe wanted to believe that she, too, was also worthy of love, despite the terrible things she’d done. If she convinced Marcos, then perhaps she could convince herself.

His expression shifted, his lips softening into a smile as he leaned closer to her. “You are surprisingly forgiving, Little Mouse.” He lifted a hand as if to remove another cobweb, but instead his fingers brushed her cheek as lightly as any strand of web.

Febe huffed in annoyance and turned on her heel to walk the corridor again, leaving him to follow. “I hate that nickname! I have no idea why you continue to use it.”

He quickly caught up to her, matching her pace by shortening his longer strides. His deep chuckle lightened the cheerless gloom of the corridor, filled with grinning skulls that were far beyond appreciating humor. “Perhaps I use it to get a reaction from you, Princess.”

“I can’t imagine why you’d want that sort of reaction. You’ve done nothing but irritate me when we were having a friendly conversation.” She recalled the feeling of his fingers on her cheek, soft and caressing, his handsome human face so much easier to look at than Morbidon’s intimidating perfection. If Marcos was her betrothed it would be much easier for her to accept him, and perhaps someday even fall in love with him the way her sister had not.

“Trust me, Princess. I did exactly what I should have in that moment. It’s better that you’re irritated with me.” His voice had grown husky, and he kept a greater distance between them than he had before they’d stopped for their talk.

Febe fumed for a moment, before acknowledging that he might be correct in this. The moment between them had become far too intimate to be appropriate. Marcos had sensed it, and responded in a way that broke that intimacy. She should have been the one to do so. She was the one who was betrothed to another. Yet she’d discovered that Marcos made her feel comfortable and more relaxed than she could remember being in the company of another.

Something about him spoke of solid dependability and protectiveness, and it wasn’t just his bulky frame, rippling with muscles that were distracting even beneath his fine woolen uniform—a gift from his new master, she supposed. That master was the man she needed to focus on, the mystery she must solve before he grew tired of her hesitance and demanded her hand immediately. “Can you answer some questions about my…betrothed?” It still felt strange to say that, admitting that she was bound to marry a man and serve as his wife in every way. Not just a man—a god.

Beside her, Marcos nodded, though the act seemed more directed at his internal thoughts than at her question, since he responded with a distracted “hmmm?”

“I would like to know more about how I should speak to Morbidon. I think my questions upset him earlier, and he has withdrawn from me.”

This caught Marcos’s full attention. His eyes were focused on her now, despite the fact that they were still walking forward in what seemed to be an endless maze of corridors with very little to distinguish them from each other. “Did you incite his wraithfire?”

Febe shook her head, shuddering. “You mean the blue flames? No! Nothing like that. For a moment during our outing, it was as if he’d opened a door into a world where he was vulnerable and almost human. I felt…close to him there, but then it was like he slammed that door in my face, and we were back to being strangers.”

“You didn’t anger him, then. You’ve seen what happens when he loses his temper. Even the other reapers fear the reaper of the god of the dead.”

“But why did he shut me out?”

Marcos stopped, grasping her elbow to pull her to a halt beside him. When he spoke, his voice was low and intent. “He revealed his vulnerability to you, which he no doubt regrets. He is accustomed to being known as a powerful god, and I doubt he trusts others any easier than you do. It’s a wonder he showed you that side of himself at all. If you truly want to know him, you cannot push too hard to open those doors. Let him unlock them first.”

“But how do I convince him to do so?”

Marcos’s eyes gleamed in the blue torchlight. “You have to unlock your own doors for him.”

 

The remainder of the tour continued in silence until they came to the cellars. Marcos stopped, staring down at the stone steps leading into deeper darkness, revealed by the wooden trapdoor he’d pried open. By this time, he’d claimed one of the blue torches and held it in front of him to light their way. “Do you want to continue, Princess?”

Febe wasn’t ready to return to her rooms and be alone with her thoughts. The darkness of the cellar didn’t frighten her when she had Marcos with her. “I would like to see what lies inside a cellar in the Underworld.” Curiosity was perhaps her greatest weakness.

The contents of the cellar proved to be disappointing. Morbidon showed a lack of imagination when it came to his decorating, so more cobwebs and bones filled shelves alongside an occasional rack of dusty bottles. “I didn’t realize my lord was a wine collector.”

Marcos waved the torch near the racks so that the light illuminated the dull gleam of the bottles. “Here in the Underworld, the spirits prefer absinthe. From what I’ve been told by the reapers, the spirits brew these batches from herbs found only here in the Underworld. I recommend against drinking this version of it. I’m not sure your mortal body can handle the level of alcohol contained in these bottles.”

Febe nodded her agreement with his advice. She’d never been a fan of strong drinks anyway, preferring wine to harder liquors. It was a bit of a disappointment to see a lack of it here, but of course, Morbidon could always create some for her if she really wanted it.

They were about to abandon the large underground room when a soft susurration arose from the floor, the sound gaining volume and strength until the menacing nature of it became undeniable.  The light cast by the torches outside the cellar entrance suddenly disappeared as the cellar door slammed shut with a loud crash.

Marcos’s torch flickered as dark shadows seeped from the stone walls like oil, sliding across the floor to surround them in a circle.

A shriek of terror escaped Febe, and she clapped her hands over her mouth as if her silence could conceal her from the horrors taking form around her. Her mind raced with plans for escaping this new danger—danger she should have been safe from in Morbidon’s kingdom. Danger he’d promised her she would never have to face as his bride.

The shadows stretched from ebony pools on the floor, twisting into demonic forms. Each of the half-dozen shadows stood taller than Marcos. Long, spindly arms hung from contorted bodies. The forms appeared to be nothing but macabre shadows, but like the souls in this world, they had substance. One of them smacked away Marcos’s torch so quickly that he didn’t have time to react, cackling in triumph as the only light in the cellar went flying to clatter against the stone wall.

The other five shadows that surrounded them let out horrible cheers as they closed the circle around Febe and Marcos.

Febe gauged the distance to the door, her mind spinning with plans for escape even while her legs felt weak and watery with terror. Between her and where the door should be was a wall of darkness blocked by the shadows that closed her in.

“Who are you?” Marcos demanded of the shadow that had attacked as he caught Febe’s arm and pulled her behind him, though it still put her back to the shadows. He backed away from the ones in front, pushing her towards the fallen torch, which lay a short distance away against the wall.

The shadows whispered, their voices filled with anger and malice. “The Punished… Defiled… Tormented.” Their hissing voices hurt Febe’s ears.

Marcos continued to back Febe towards the wall, turning to block each shadow that lurched forward as if to grab her, his arms held out wide to slap away the long grasping arms of the shadows as they reached in her direction. “You belong in the Abyss!”

“We have been freed.” The whispers were gleeful now.

By this time, Marcos had backed them up within reach of the torch. In a smooth movement, he blocked Febe against the wall with his body, scooping up the torch without turning his back on the shadows.

Their anger hissed out again as he swung the torch at them. The wraithfire glowed brighter in response to the proximity of the shadows, and one of them cried out in pain as a spark of blue fire caught on it and immediately ignited into a small blaze. The screeching shadow danced a jig of agony as it slapped at the flames, which only spread hungrily over its body. It was quickly consumed by the cobalt tongues of flame.

After that spectacular display, Marcos was able to hold the muttering, increasingly angry shadows off with the torch, but they were trapped too far from the trapdoor for them to escape and the wraithfire was growing weaker as the torch began to burn out. The shadows had closed in, herding them deeper into the cellar by lurching forward every time Marcos swung the torch at another shadow. Even worse, what had started as six shadows grew into a dozen as the shadows splintered, replicating themselves by the time Febe and Marcos were pressed up against a rack of absinthe bottles at the far end of the cellar from the trapdoor. The many shadows closed in, leaving almost no room for Marcos to maneuver.

Marcos seemed to be growing tired swinging the torch this way and that to hold off the shadows, which were growing more aggressive. “Who freed you?”

Febe appreciated his tactic, questioning the shadows in the hopes of distracting them and buying them more time to figure out an escape plan. She’d used such tactics in the past herself and found them remarkably effective. Even those who set out to kill can’t resist boasting about themselves.

To her disappointment, the shadows hissed out mocking laughter, offering no other answer.

“What do you want?” Febe screamed, her fists clenched in the fabric of Marcos’s shirt as he swung from one side to the other to keep the shadows from reaching her.

This time, the answers came back in a series of hissing whispers. “To punish the punisher. Torment the tormentor. Defile the defiler. The cruel god will pay with the death of his bride, after she is defiled and tormented and punished as he has done to us….”

Febe wanted to just let the tears come. Morbidon had failed her. He’d promised her safety, but she was in even more danger now than she’d ever been. The only person who stood between her and these horrible shadows was Marcos, courageously holding off the atrocities they promised to bring upon her with nothing but a torch.

Instead of crying, she tore strips off her beautiful tunic, seeking the parts that weren’t adorned by gemstones and metallic embroidery. Marcos spared a glance at her when he heard her rending her garment. “Don’t despair, Little Mouse. I’ll find us a way back to the surface. I’ll never let them hurt you!”

With a couple of strips of fabric in hand, Febe sniffled back tears, trembling now in anger. “I intend to hurt them,” she growled as rage replaced fear.

With her free hand, she pulled a bottle off the rack, grasped the cork in her teeth, and yanked it out. As the sharp reek of strong alcohol bit at her nose, she splashed some of it onto a strip of fabric, then stuffed the strip into the neck of the bottle, using the cork to hold it in place.

Marcos was too busy waving the torch to see what she’d done, but he didn’t hesitate when she held the bottle out and told him to light the strip.

The shadows had focused most of their attention on Marcos and the only threat they perceived, so they were slow to react when the bottle of absinthe crashed to the stone floor at their feet, spreading the wraithfire into a blazing pool that consumed a half dozen of them.

Their shrieking agony echoed in the cellar as Febe stuffed another bottle with fabric and had Marcos ignite it. By now, the remaining shadows were hesitant, backing away and leaving a path where they could escape to the cellar door, but Febe didn’t want them at her back. She tossed the other bottle, and the shadows tried to scatter.

Flaming liquid splashed up onto the fleeing shadows, immediately catching on their substance hungrily, as if the wraithfire were made to devour such creatures. Marcos tried to pull Febe towards the trapdoor but she resisted, ripping another strip of fabric from her tunic just in case there were any shadows that had escaped the flames. She had to make sure to destroy them all. It simply wouldn’t have been safe to leave any behind.

She needn’t have bothered. They were all consumed by the flames that licked the stone walls hungrily, searching for more fuel. It was only when the fires died down, leaving behind nothing but the stone walls and floor and the empty eyes of the skulls on their shelves, that Febe finally allowed Marcos to lead her out of the cellar.

She didn’t make it to the door before her legs collapsed. Marcos set the torch on a shelf, its dying flame hanging off the edge, and scooped Febe up into his arms, catching up the torch again as she laid against his chest, clinging to him with both arms around his neck.

“You are the bravest person I’ve ever met, Little Mouse,” he whispered in her ear as her tears soaked his shirt.

When he reached the door, it was flung open before he could set Febe down and push it aside. Febe looked up from Marcos’s shoulder at the startled faces of the castle steward and several maids— her own maid Macie among them.

The steward’s expression turned from surprise to disapproval, and several of the maids gasped, then turned and rushed away, their voices raised in excitement. Macie just stared at Febe in Marcos’s arms with an expression that suggested she was near tears, her lower lip trembling in her girlish face.

The steward turned the full force of his imposing glare upon Marcos. “This is an outrage! How dare you comport yourself in this manner with the princess? My lord Morbidon will hear of this!”

Vacation Mode

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I had a plan for this Monday’s blog, but my brain checked out early. It just cashed in its chips and ran for the door. So unreliable! Tsk, tsk.

That’s why I abandoned my plans, (don’t worry, I made notes for other Mondays so you will see the blogs I intended) and decided to go with a bit of news and updates.

First off, I just have to say I’m and having an excellent morning. An awesome reader, CLS-LRS, just left me a wonderful 5-star review on Amazon for Balfor’s Salvation which made my day—maybe even my entire week.

Free Alien Romance!

Now that I got your attention,

Too Villainous for Romance?

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Whenever I’m writing romance, I have to be careful not to think too hard about genre expectations. Otherwise, it’s quite possible that I’ll end up taking some of the teeth out of my heroes. The thing is, the genre is stuffed to the gills with heroic heroes, and even the “anti-heroes” are secretly noble and honorable and very apologetic about their flaws. I love romance, and I love those types of heroes, but sometimes, I want a hero who is a little bit less than perfect. A darker “hero” who is unapologetic for who and what he is.

Since I ultimately write the books that I want to read, that’s exactly how some of my “heroes” end up. Not that I don’t make an effort to redeem them throughout their book. After all, growth is what makes a character dynamic and interesting. But I don’t always want my hero to be Mr. Perfect by the epilogue either. I still want him to have a few flaws.

When I wrote Balfor’s Salvation, I struggled with the decision to cut the first chapter out completely, because it introduces my “hero” in a gory, violent scene. He is hardly heroic material at this point, and there’s a good reason for it, but I expected it to turn off a lot of readers in the genre. In fact, the original scene was much worse than what made it into the final draft. At one point, Balfor was almost irredeemable for me, and I was sure he would be irredeemable for many readers. (I’m considering offering the original scene as content for subscribers to a newsletter. Let me know if anyone’s interested.)

I suppose artistic integrity would demand that I leave him as he was, and that changing him to better suit the genre took something away from the overall story.

This was my struggle, and my unresolved question. Should I, or shouldn’t I?

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Encouraging readers to review your book can be a difficult, time-consuming process when you haven’t yet built up a huge platform. At this point in my career, one negative review on a book could be the only one I receive, and that could literally kill my book’s chances. If it’s negative enough, it could kill all of my books. That may seem like a mercenary reason to alter my art, but I don’t want to just keep writing for myself. I want to share my stories with the widest possible audience.

Yet, I left the revised introduction to Balfor in the final draft of Balfor’s Salvation, because even though I changed him somewhat from his original incarnation, I still wanted him to be dark and dangerous, even somewhat villainous. I didn’t want him to be too safe. My heroine, Stacia, is a strong woman and I felt like she was capable of handling someone like Balfor.

Usually, my characters come to me whole-cloth. I imagine them as distinct personalities with well-defined backstories and as many negative as positive attributes. Perhaps Balfor started off a little too dark because he was never supposed to be a romance hero. I wasn’t planning on writing his story, but in the end, he demanded it, and he wouldn’t have anyone else but Stacia. I had other plans for her, but yeah…that wasn’t happening once he made up his mind.

A similar situation happened with Uriale. He was definitely only supposed to be the primary antagonist for my first two books. He was a monster. Is a monster. He’s done terrible things. How could he possibly ever be a hero?

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The truth is that I didn’t want him to be at first, but it turned out that he had more dimensions to his character than the villainous side he revealed in the first two books. I discovered that he could be redeemed in my eyes. Can he be redeemed in the eyes of other readers? I guess I’ll find out. His teeth are already well established as sharp, so at this point, there’s no rewriting scenes to blunt them. Uriale’s Redemption (which I hope will be released next summer), will reveal whether he can use his power for good instead of evil.

In a way, starting with such a villain and being unable to change his past or make him “softer” and therefore more acceptable is a bit of a relief. It means I won’t have to struggle over whether to keep or delete scenes that reveal him in a less than romantic light. In the same moment that I decided to go ahead and keep Balfor’s introduction instead of stripping the worst of his character traits and actions out of the story, I also decided to take the risk with publishing Uriale’s story.

I suppose in the end, artistic integrity won out over marketing concerns. Granted, the changes I did make were significant, but I still feel like I remained true to Balfor’s character. As I will remain true to Uriale’s character. His past is even darker than Balfor’s, and he’s had many more years to grow twisted and corrupt. If nothing else, writing his story should be incredibly interesting. The outline certainly is.

I’ve included the first part of Balfor’s Salvation in case you wanted to see the scene I very nearly cut from the book. Let me know what you think. I’d love to get other opinions on this.

Chapter 1

Duke Ranove approached the campsite cautiously, noting the severed heads lined up along the trail. The scent of blood, spilled bowels, and death tainted the air. When he entered the sheltered area, hemmed in and shaded by basalt columns, he saw what he’d hoped not to see.

Prince Balfor crouched beside the sullen embers of an old fire, a severed adurian arm clutched in one clawed hand. Ragged flesh on the dismembered limb showed bite marks. The silver of adurian blood coated him from his horns down to his talons, mixing with his own black blood, also spilled in copious amounts. A coagulating pool lay beneath his feet as swirls of black and silver sluggishly dripped from the loincloth that was his only covering. In the clearing overshadowed by towering basalt, pieces of adurian corpses littered the muddy ground. Standing at the edge of the campsite, Ranove could barely detect the prince’s personal scent beneath the stench of rotting meat and old blood.

Though Balfor had his back to Ranove, his wings were partially extended in threat. The prince had no doubt sensed Ranove’s arrival from the moment he entered the basalt traps.

Ranove ventured a few steps in Balfor’s direction before a baleful growl from the prince froze him in place. He tensed as Balfor suddenly turned and charged him, a snarl twisting his blood-coated face to reveal chunks of flesh caught in his bared teeth. Ranove sidestepped the larger umbrose, sweeping his wings back to lift himself out of Balfor’s path. Balfor rushed past him, spinning a step beyond him to face Ranove, roaring in challenge.

Ranove lowered his head and wings. He’d have preferred not to fight and risk his own death, or worse, the possibility that he might win and Balfor would die. The power granted to Balfor by the Mother would inevitably pass on to Ranove as the next strongest umbrose. That was the last thing he wanted. He need only look at what it had driven Balfor to do just to escape Her influence. The primal was in full control of the prince now.

Balfor growled at Ranove’s submission, circling him. The prince feigned a lunge forward. Ranove didn’t flinch—which would have lowered him to the level of prey in the primal’s estimation—but he kept his head down.

Suddenly, Balfor lowered his head and rammed Ranove, bashing their horns together. Ranove staggered back a step—tasting blood from the force of the blow—but quickly recovered, resetting his footing to hold against Balfor’s onslaught. The bony, hollow thudding of their horns crashing together echoed in the canyon of stone columns. Digging into Balfor’s shoulders with both sets of claws to restrain him, Ranove strained to hold onto the heavier umbrose to minimize the damage caused by his head bashing. Venom dripped from his claw tips as they pierced the prince. His own skin burned from venom as Balfor’s claws sliced across his chest.

They pummeled each other with their wings. It was a primitive fight, but one meant for establishing dominance, not for killing. It had been a long time since Ranove had fought this way. The old way. The primal way.

Balfor was bigger and stronger. Despite that advantage, blood flowed freely from wounds on both umbrose when Ranove dropped to one knee in defeat. Balfor staggered back, lifting a hand to his forehead. He touched the broken flesh beneath one horn and then stared at his palm covered in black blood mixed with silver.

When he looked at Ranove again, the duke finally saw recognition in his eyes. “How long have I been gone?”

 

*****

 

Balfor didn’t like the circumspect expression on Ranove’s face when the duke answered his question. “Two weeks ago you set the slaves loose in the basalt traps armed with weapons. You’ve been hunting them since then.”

Balfor frowned. Memories trickled back from the past two weeks. Ugly memories blurred by the mental veil he kept between himself and his primal. “How many slaves this time?”

Ranove glanced to his right. “Fourteen.”

Balfor followed the direction of his gaze and saw the corpses. Lip curling in disgust at the

sight, Balfor shook his head. “Did I catch them all?”

Ranove nodded.

That was one relief. If the slaves had escaped, they could’ve reported his condition back to Uriale and Anata, jeopardizing Sanctuary’s safety. It would have been Balfor’s fault, and his burden of shame to bear. He was no longer fit to rule, but the Mother had chosen him and would not release him until his death. “How many slaves are left?”

Ranove’s expression told Balfor he wasn’t going to like the answer. “This was the last of them.”

“Father’s Curse!” He clenched his fists and spat on the ground, wanting to rid his mouth of the foul taste of raw meat and blood, but also of failure. “I killed them all, then?” He glared at Ranove. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

Ranove wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Even the Mother could not stop you.”

The revelation shook Balfor. He’d already lost control of his primal four times in the two years since he’d been freed from the adurians. Each time, he’d disconnected from the Mother and enjoyed the blissful silence behind the veil where even She would not go, but the price for that silence was too high. His primal was growing stronger and more difficult to restrain. There might come a time when he became lost to the primal forever.

Now that most of the umbrose males were off fighting the war against the adurians, they needed the slaves to work the fields to offset the loss of their labor. He could not risk allowing the females to leave the safety of the city boundary when their population was still so small. “You didn’t inform me we were running out of slaves.”

Ranove bowed his head, but not before Balfor saw a flash of anger cross his face. “Your Highness, I did pass on that information.”

The duke’s tone bordered on disrespectful. Up until this point, Ranove had always been his staunchest ally; the advisor he trusted the most. It angered him that Ranove would slip up and reveal his disdain. It disturbed him that he might have lost the other male’s respect for his multiple failures to attend to the duties that only the Mother’s Chosen Prince could perform.

A vague recollection surfaced. A warning from Ranove about the slaves. It had irritated him at the time, preoccupied as he’d been by his concubines and heady shadowberry wine. Overindulgence in both had done nothing to silence the voices, but they’d made it easy to ignore his second in command.

Those voices whispered at him now, a susurration that made it difficult to hear the breeze weaving through the basalt canyons. The Mother was disappointed in him. The weight of Her displeasure hung over him like a physical burden. His people were already in dire straits because of his negligence. Any further attempts to escape his responsibilities would bring far harsher punishments from the Mother of Shadows than this current manifestation of Her displeasure. There would be no more escape from Her will. “Give me your report.”

Ranove looked around them again as if he wasn’t comfortable surrounded by the grisly evidence of Balfor’s loss of control. Balfor wondered when his duke had grown so soft. Probably the human female making him weak. He allowed Lilith’s presence in Sanctuary because Ranove wanted her. Acceding to his wish gave Balfor leverage, but that didn’t mean he liked having a human among them. For too long, the star-people had been the servants of his enemies. They could not be trusted.

“Your legion commanders have reported successes in their campaigns. Aduria is neutralized and the Summer Palace has been completely destroyed.”

Ranove’s optimism didn’t spread to Balfor. “Uriale and Anata are not fighting. That doesn’t make sense.”

“Uriale is little more than Anata’s puppet now, and her madness has infected him. She weakens him instead of augmenting the Father’s power within him. I saw this for a fact when I was their captive.” Ranove’s tone didn’t change as he spoke of his captivity, nor did his expression, but fine tension vibrated the duke’s muscles, and his wings twitched with his words. Like Balfor, Ranove had suffered in adurian hands. In fact, the adurian princess had taken an obsessive personal interest in breaking Ranove, which had made his unexplained transfer to the human facility he’d escaped from a reprieve. Balfor had not been so lucky and had remained in the hands of Uriale and Anata, subject to their torture. The bright ones had no mercy for the umbrose. The feeling was entirely mutual, and someday Balfor would repay them for every wound they’d inflicted upon himself and his people.

Balfor crossed his arms over his bloodstained chest. “I have also witnessed Uriale’s waning power. He must be trying to reject their bond.” He grimaced at the thought of being bonded to a twisted sadist like Anata. He almost pitied his mortal enemy, because Uriale couldn’t break what was forged by the Father of Light, any more than Balfor could deny the will of the Mother of Shadows. No matter what Uriale tried, he’d be tied to Anata forever. “But that’s not enough of an explanation for their failure to defend their own people. Anata is arrogant enough to try and fight me despite my connection to the Mother’s Heart, even with Uriale’s greater experience cautioning against it. Yet they’ve issued no challenge and aren’t fighting alongside their own legions.” He turned and paced the width of the campsite. “They’re up to something. Searching for some way to overcome the advantage the Mother’s Heart gives me.”

“Our scouts are out there. I’ve already told them to look for signs of Uriale and Anata.”

“Good. I need to know what they’re planning.”

“I will report to you immediately if I hear something.” Ranove spread and folded his wings as he spoke again, his words coming slower in a hesitant tone uncommon to the normally decisive umbrose. “About the crops ….”

Balfor suppressed his sigh. “You have a solution.”

“I have a suggestion.”

He already suspected what Ranove prepared to say. “I’m not going to like it.”

Ranove bowed his head. “The humans want to open up trade with Sanctuary. Their domes were damaged during the rebellion and most of their resources have gone towards rep—”

Balfor lifted a hand to silence Ranove. “I don’t care about the humans’ problems.”

“They have the laborers to work our fields in trade for our resources to rebuild their city.”

“And you’ve already worked out a deal with them, I suppose.”

“Not without your permission.” Ranove’s voice sounded smoother, reassuring. “Their primary materials provider, Dornan Industries, has made several inquiries in that direction. They wish to send a representative to personally meet with you.”

“Dornan? I’ve heard that name before.” He’d more than heard it. It had been a refrain in his mind for two years now. Even though memories were sketchy at best lately, that one stuck out.

“That is the second name—the family name— of the soldier wounded during your extraction from the adurian tower. She is my concubine’s closest friend.”

Balfor had been told her name by the human rebels after his rescue from the royal tower in Aduria. It had been mentioned in an aside, a tally of casualties in the hopes of impressing a debt upon him. He’d felt no obligation to them—indeed, he still looked upon most of them with disdain—but he’d caught the name and remembered it. Just as he remembered her.

 

An appealing feminine scent beneath the reek of blood, a soft moan of agony he scarcely heard because of the sharp retort of human weapons. A slight weight rested against his shoulder. Slender fingers gripped his forearm as pain coursed through the body beside him. He moved his arm, and the fingers fell away. Immediately regretting their absence, he quested for them with his own hand, hardly moving because of the crippling pain from his many wounds. Then they were in his grasp. A victory! He held them tight, engulfing them in his much larger fist as pain wracked them both. She needed him, and that gave him purpose, and the will to fight.

 

“I remember the female.” Balfor’s voice was a mere whisper as the memory faded, but the feeling of her fragile hand in his, and the memory of her scent that clung to him—even after she’d been taken from him—remained clear in his thoughts. Plagued with problems upon his return to Sanctuary, he’d never hoped to see the human again and had made no effort to even find out more about her than what the humans called her. Private Dornan. He’d learned that the first word had been a military rank and not her name. Since humans had multiple names for some reason, he didn’t even know her familiar name, because Dornan was her family’s name, passed down from her sire.

Until the humans had listed her as one of their wounded, he’d wondered if he’d only dreamed her. Surely the star-people had never produced one so compelling that she reached him even though his agonized stupor.

Ranove’s brows lifted nearly to the horns rising out of his forehead. Regarding Balfor with shifting wings, he opened his mouth to speak, but after a moment, closed it on silence.

Balfor ignored Ranove’s discomfiture. She smelled of moonfloss blossoms in bloom with just a hint of some unknown musk that was hers alone. With all the blossoms in the last two years’ harvests, I haven’t been able to recapture that elusive scent. “I will consider a trade agreement with this Dornan Industries, but only if they send my choice of representative. Prepare a message that I will meet with this female named Dornan in one week’s time.” He wanted to know her familiar name. “What is the name she is called by?”

“Stacia.”

Balfor repeated the syllables. “Stacia.” For once, the many voices in his head remained silent, not even correcting his pronunciation of the human word as they’d so often done when they’d taught him the language humans called DC Common. He reveled in the moment of silence.  He was almost able to smile at Ranove because of his relief. “Bring this Stacia to me in one week’s time, and I will consider her proposal.” He turned his back on Ranove, facing the grisly campsite without really seeing it.

Ranove’s wings rustled as he bowed to Balfor’s back. “I will send the word, Your Highness.”

Morbidon’s Bride: Chapters 12 and 13

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Author’s Note: I didn’t get Monday’s blog out this week, which disappoints me, but I’ll be back in form next Monday. I did, however, finish two chapters of Morbidon’s Bride in time to publish them today, so that’s something. The manuscript is at 45,000 words so far, and still somewhat following my outline.