Elise Hepner's Blog, page 21

Share of Furious Lust

I figured I'd finally give you all a little tidbit of the Work in Progress I've been toiling away on for quite some time. Here is a rough draft snippet of the first few pages of Furious Lust, Book 1 in a BDSM paranormal erotic romance series I'm writing about the Three Furies of the Underworld. Hopefully to be published in the next couple months after the holidays, editing and contracts pending, that is.


Mosthumans would assume being banished from the Underworld would be a blessing. Notso when every step on this earth reminds me of the longevity of human life—shortand sweet. Unlike me. I suppose I should be pleased there's a place for me onEarth at all. Not many demons stripped of their powers make it up above or learnto adapt as well as I have—or perhaps they don't even try.With asmall shudder and an echo the door of my baby blue locker clicked back intoplace. There wasn't much time for philosophizing about my existence. At leastnot when I wanted to get out of the nondescript locker room without beingoffered another double shift, which I wasn't inclined to turn down. Work was awelcome distraction. One I used as an excuse to get away from reality far too often—eventhe mistress had begged me to take a vacation before I converted all our clienteleto my legions of devoted subjects.Businessat the snug, safe, and discrete dungeon was booming. How could I be blamed fortaking advantage? A swift turn of my fingers and the combination lock was set.Now to keep to myself until I exited through the plush, purple hallway out theiron-worked double doors. Only a few more paces before the bustle of strangerson the sidewalk would swallow me up.However,there was more to worry about than my work as a dominatrix at one of New York'spremiere dungeons. Tonight was my five year meeting with the Underworld's highcouncil to assess how my banishment was suiting. Whether or not I've learned mylesson. The council was always keen to gloat on their best banishment work. Theysent me away from my sisters in the Underworld for the slaying of a treasuredhuman. It had been in a moment of blind passion and truthfully, I questionwhether it was my fault at all though I live with my guilt every day. But theUnderworld had solved several problems. They had appeased the gods in MountOlympus who mourned the human and my punishment kept both parties thin alliancein place. Hades retained my sisters to do my dirty work. I'm sure I was barelymissed because a sacrifice must be made for the greater good. It put me in themind to slay them all once I returned to the sweet, fiery depths.Tonightthe slick, twisting humidity of New York's summer heat would have to ease mylonging for home. There was no hope that the council would provide me with anysolace. Yet, there was enough time before the meeting for my pleasure. Thebustle of cab horns and human shouts assaulted me as I walked up from theunderground warehouse onto the sidewalk. I breathed in deep the scent of smog mixedwith the fragrance of slightly old garbage. I made abeeline for the subway station that would take me to the Meatpacking Districttoward the most popular dance halls in the city. Tonight was a night to losemyself in the steady hum and pulse of music. But small spaces with large crowdsnever sat well with me—I prefer large spaces jammed with people. A shudderpassed up my spine as I clamored on the crowded, late night subway car. A senseof uneasiness twisted low in my belly as I snatched a spot of free metalrailing above my head.Unease wastypical for me in the subway—but this was different. All of my muscles werewound tight enough to snap and a sharp, uncomfortable heat pressed beneath thesurface of my skin. A steady prickle along the back of my neck raising myhackles. Someone was watching me.Tonightwas a good night to paranoid, certainly with my meeting looming in the wings.When Iglanced back through the sea of people nothing was out of place. Or as littlethat could be out of place in a New York subway car. But there was much to bedistracted by as my limbs tingled like there wasn't enough air in the wholeworld to sustain me. Perhaps I was becoming worked up over nothing. However, incenturies of living on this earth my instincts were rarely wrong.My handsshook from the unsettling emotion rising up in my throat. Without a doubt, if Iconcentrated hard enough I sensed the weight of their gaze along every inch ofme—but there was menacing undertone to it. Dressed as I was in my usual attirewith tight black leather swathing my curved figure I was used to stares fromstrangers. This held something more than idle attraction or dumbfounded curiosity.If the later was the case they would have stopped staring by now.Though Iwas completely stripped of my powers as a demonness, on nights like this I won'tturn away from intuitive caution. No one has any specific reason to keep mealive. At least none that they've made plain to me—so as far as I know anyonecould hunt me down at any time with one word from the council. How would Idefend myself?This wholesituation set my teeth on edge. Pulses of pain jolted up my jaw as I attemptedto regain control over my fingers fidgeting along the warm steel bar. How couldI be drawn into coming undone? I—who pride myself on the steady speed anddexterous delights my hands can wield along a man—I have been reduced to a wary, thundering-hearted ninny. Before mypunishment, my blazing anger knew no bounds. Now time has taught me caution,patience, and above all, fear.This isnot the first time I've been acquainted with a sense of being followed becauseparanoia comes on more and more of late—with familiar suspicions of beingwatched, hunted. Every instance with the same haunting, terrified symptoms. Abodily impulse born of self-preservation that I won't be able to leave behinduntil I'm out of sight. And perhaps, not even then. Tonight dodging thissensation is worth a try. I won't let this swallow me when my time before mymeeting is fleeting. The dry crackle of the conductor calls out the14th street stop and I hastily exit the car knowing that my actualdestination is several blocks away. At least I won't be so smothered by peoplethat I won't be able to think straight.I've beendodging this imaginary foe for months. It's one of the points I mean to bringup at my meeting tonight because this mental torment can't be the result ofanything else than a concoction of the Underworld. My bare skin pinches tightagainst my frame as if I can't get enough warmth. Even here, swathed in themuggy atmosphere of the underground station in mid-July, there's not enoughheat to warm me. For now I can no longer sense the steady presence beatingagainst my back. But every clack of my high heels against the concrete echoesbetween my ears like a gun shot.A one-timedemoness unsettled by a presence she cannot name. No wonder they blighted mefrom my one, true home. I'm a disgrace to my kind. No matter. I'll confrontthem tonight until I'm assured of their answers. Once I've set my mind, thereis no turning back. And by Beelzebub, I'm determined to have a good nighttonight come ruin or rapture.Though Ido wish the Underworld hadn't stripped me of my powers. Other than pushing theworry from my mind, it would be nice to conjure an aura of terror around me. Atleast my powers of terror would make the next few blocks down W 13thStreet easier, spreading out all the foot traffic as they ran in oppositedirections tearing their hair out. It's little perks of the trade I miss most.Before I can catch myself, my mouth curves into an impish smile that leaves therest of me cold down to my toes.I cannever go back. Or, if Ican redeem myself in some way, those demons higher up have given no indicationof how to go about it. What, it's been—well over eleven centuries since Icommitted my crime? A burden evermore. Tonight, they will ask if I were to do anythingdifferent, would I? They will be disappointed. If given another chance I wouldchange nothing because I'm unsure where exactly to alter time.It's asstupid an inquiry as asking a damned soul if they would choose to go to Heavenor the Underworld. Neither wish matters because we are who we are, nothingfades our true selves and we continue to make the same mistakes again and againand again. My conviction behind this idea is only strengthened by mortal'smistakes.Who arethey if not the perfect indicator of my philosophy?Ah,another night wasted on my deep thoughts. When will I ever learn to skim onlythe surface of things instead of trying to read into every nuance? Not eventime can divest me of the thirst for understanding—even if curiosity was thecatalyst for my banishment. My need to know him—to possess him completely so thatperhaps my life could have some kind of distraction, a certain naive charm. Iwanted more than screams of agony and death, who wouldn't?Sometimes,when I'm not concentrating hard enough to draw the memories away, I can recallthe planes of his tan profile dappled with early morning sunlight. His stormygray eyes concentrating on any possible distant threat to his herd of sheep.The casual way his lean forearm passed across his brow, flicking away his wheatgold bangs. When he smiled it was as if the atmosphere altered because of hissimple pleasure in his life. He truly had the ability to live—and I envied himthat.But why that man? I askmyself the same question every morning when I wake from nightmares of bakingpies, cleaning house, and getting sucked into the mediocrity that is mortalexistence. Was getting to know one human worth this trouble? With a quick rollof my shoulders I dismiss my pointless inquiry knowing that my long, quickstride has delivered me to the dancehall in good time. Not since I exited thesubway have I had any odd tingling's on the back of my neck.But here I'msafe. Waiting to surround myself with the stomping, claustrophobic heat thatreminds me so much of home. A relaxing night out before I reenact the samescene before the council, only five years later. Nothing more than a pantomime sothat they can elongate my sentence on earth. Even a deep breath can't shove myrage down far enough."You'redefinitely in, go on."Thethick-muscled, unremarkable bodyguard waved me through the ropes and I politelynodded in his direction before being swallowed by the crowd. At Echo the crush of patrons begins at theconfining copper-lined hallway leading toward the bar before humans have theprivilege of entering the giant, raw industrial space. Threefloors of debauchery, white noise, and flashy light shows. I never wait at thelong, polished steel bar because I can't imbibe anything from it. That leavesme with my most cherished option—making my way onto the dance floor. A spacetaking up the whole first floor with solid metal beams holding aloft the nextthree floors in intermittent patterns. But the floor is constructed incheckerboard squares of corrugated copper and steel so every step makes patron'sfeel like they're walking on stars bursting with light.It's aweaving process against the hot press of strangers, but I make it to the floorwhere a myriad of people grind to the pounding bass-beat. Sound slithersthrough my body and nestles inside my core to become a part of me. Not athought to be had as I close my eyes. Against the slick heat and oppressivesound I gladly lose myself.This iswhere I go to when I don't want to be found.It's asclose to any kind Underworld I can find along with my personal heaven. Reflectionsof the blinding lights paint the insides of my eyelids. Flashes of red, green,and blue. I lift my arms to the sky in a pantomime of a human giving thanks fora bountiful harvest. My arms and hips snake back and forth to the seductive,energetic pull of my music.My danceis a communion of sorts searching deep inside my heartbroken body to theharsher, primal mechanics that keep me alive. These movements tie me to the momentwith smooth wrist flicks and powerful gyrations. In my mind I own the room.Against the crowd I'm protected from my memories, lost to the sounds. I lick mysalty lips, tasting the air and my freedom.

Paralyzed

Confession time--I haven't written any new words in a while. I've edited my entire backlist until March with Excessica, I've thought about plot points, series, and outlines--but not one single word on a new story. I hate that state. Where I can't write anything to save my life, like my creativity's all dried up and might never come back. This happens maybe twice or three times a year, though I don't always keep track of it because once I'm in it, it's kind of like a foggy depression where I sleep too much and watch a lot of TV to get out of my own head.

I still work, but it's passionless. Plus every new idea I come across to get everything back to normal seems like a colossal effort, until part of me thinks I'll never get the story right. What's the point of writing it when you know its going to come out so flawed you'll hate it and it won't even compare to the thing in your mind that seemed so cool five minutes ago? I never diagnosed these symptoms to burn out, but it's as close as I come to it. And with my schedule this swiftly approaching 2012, I can't really have much wiggle room for hmmming and hawwwing when it comes to my work.

Somehow, I've got to get back to that place where words are like flighty little snowflakes, all magical and different. I know it'll happen eventually, I just never know when. I can never bring my creativity back with one sure fire thing. Tricky doesn't begin to cover it.

In the mean time, I've got a pile of short stories and a new book that's ready to come into the world in the next few months. So it's not like I've been idle. Just different.

Lucy Felthouse Interview of Epicness with Epic Sauce

Today, I have the fabulous Lucy Felthouse on my blog answering some fun questions and talking about her new books. I'm very excited because Lucy will be featured with me in Rachel Kramer Bussel's newest erotica anthology, Best Bondage Erotica 2012, which came out in most stores for e-book and print December 7th. So go pick up a copy!

      Why did you get started writing?
I honestly can't remember. I've been writing from a veryyoung age, then for publication since 2006. I first wrote erotica on a dare andstarted sending work off when I became interested in the genre as a reader,too. Now, each new publication spurs me on to write more. That and thedeadlines, of course!
      What was the first real joy you had when writingprofessionally?
It would have to be my first acceptance, which was for thenow-defunct Scarlet Magazine. I was incredibly excited that someone wanted topublish me and pay for my work! Thankfully, several years down the line,publishers are still accepting my work, but it's still exciting each and everytime.
       What was/is your biggest pitfall?
Discipline. I can be very easily distracted while writing,but I'm getting better. As my writing now makes up a part of my income, I findit easier to stay focused because if I don't write, I'll make less money!
     What did you learn while writing?
All kinds of things. I hope that I've improved in mywriting, and will continue to do so. I've also learned things about sexuallifestyles that I haven't taken part in, but have researched for my work. Inthis line of work it pays to be open minded, which luckily I am. I'm also veryinquisitive so I love to learn new things, anyway.
     What's your favorite sexual position to write?
I don't have one. Writing for me is about the story and thecharacters rather than the mechanics. They just seem to come naturally as Istart getting the words down on the page. I don't plan ahead, and certainlywhen it comes to sex scenes I just let the characters do their thing and seewhat happens.
     What's your favorite genre to read?
I couldn't choose just one. I read erotica and eroticromance the most as that's what I write, but I also love paranormal, chick lit,horror and crime.






If you could be one fairytale character for aday who would it be?

Oh, that's easy. That would be Snow White because she gets to star along the divine ChrisHemsworth in the upcoming film, SnowWhite and the Huntsman. :D
      Who are your author inspirations?
I don't think I really have any. I have tons of authors thatI love to read, but my inspiration comes from being published and havingreaders that (hopefully) enjoy my work.
       Socks or Slippers?Both – it's cold in the UK!
       Handcuffs or fuzzy tickler?Ooh, handcuffs. Mainly because I don't likebeing tickled. I find it annoying, rather than erotic

 
      Where do you see yourself in a year as anauthor?
In a year, I would hope to have a couple of novella-lengthpieces released (up until now my releases have been short stories) and be wellon my way to writing a novel.
     What are your new releases?
The past few months have been really busy in terms ofreleases. October and November saw several releases, a mixture of anthologyappearances and standalone titles:·        A Menu with a Difference
·        Brick Dust & Bedsprings
·        Love Through Time
·        Weekend at Wilderhope Manor
·        Immoral Views
·        Explicit EncountersAnd December sees the release of Crimes of Passion fromXcite Books, and Best Bondage Erotica 2012 from Cleis Press, both of whichfeature stories I wrote.For more info on all these titles, check out this page on mywebsite: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/
    What are you working on now?
I recently completed my longest piece to date, a novella forone of my publishers, so I'm working on edits for that. I'm also working on anovella that I've been promising to another publisher for quite some time, sofingers crossed they accept it!


Will a weekend in a luxuryhotel make Annette's deepest fantasies come true?

When Jed and Annette spend a weekend in a luxury hotel, they'replanning to take full advantage of the hot tub and large bed – preferably witha third party. Annette's never been with another woman before, but she's eagerto experience some Sapphic delight. When the couple meets waitress Tamara atthe restaurant they're lunching at, they agree she's perfect in many ways; butis she on the menu?Excerpt and buy links here: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/a-menu-with-a-difference/



 Lucy is a graduate of the University of Derby, where shestudied Creative Writing. During her first year, she was dared to write anerotic story - so she did. It went down a storm and she's never looked back.Lucy has had stories published by Cleis Press, Noble Romance, Ravenous Romance,Summerhouse Publishing, Sweetmeats Press and Xcite Books. She is also theeditor of Uniform Behaviour and Seducing the Myth. Find out more at http://www.lucyfelthouse.co.uk. Youcan also find her on Facebookand Twitter.

Beer and Cider Equals a Tipsy Writer

About two years ago, DH and I started making beer and alcoholic cider as a hobby that we could do together--though I rarely drink much. It's a lot of fun and whereas he does all the math related tasks of measuring and keeping track of the fermentation times, I handle the small details that slip his mind as well as bottling the actual beer since he has bad arthritis in both hands. It's just another corny example of how we're two sides of coin, even in everyday activity we balance and help each other. Beer making always remind me of how well we work together.

This year we're making our usual five gallons of hard apple cider with English mulling spice yeast and a newer creation, an orange porter, which if it comes out right should taste like chocolate oranges. But we won't know whether or not it's good until about two or three months after it's bottled and has had a chance to sit and stew. That's the hardest part about beer, waiting it out. Not knowing what your gonna get until the end and then there's no working against it because it's final product.

Well, unless you let it sit for longer, then the flavor gradually changes and morphs into something else entirely. But you have to give it time. Pay attention to it. It's a race to make sure it doesn't go "sour" since beer takes a truly long time to ever go bad. DH and I found a porter and an apple cider we'd done last year tucked away in our fresh bottles for this season--and they'd been bottled two years ago. DH opened them both and drank them greedily with more than a little excitement saying the porter was better than when we'd originally made it. I took a small sip and it was lighter, instead of tasting like dark chocolate it tasted like milk chocolate and flowed past your tongue like a milder beer. It was different and certainly better.

It reminded me of writing. Sometimes all you have to do it wait it out, come back, and everything's fermented while you were gone so it rolls on your tongue and is just delicious. More than you ever thought it could be while originally writing it. Wonder what my writing will taste like next year?

Cassandra Carr Interview

Today with me on my blog I have Cassandra Carr, erotic author with Siren and Loose ID answering some random and interesting questions that I posed to her for your random reading pleasure. Without further ado, here she is:


Why did you get started writing?People are going to laugh when they hear this…I was writing fan fiction just for fun – just for something to do, really. My mom (who's also a writer – her first book is coming out in Spring 2012 from Soul Mate Publishing – yes, I'm a proud daughter, lol) read one of my stories and told me I should fictionalize it and expand it to single title length. So I did and the rest is history! That story, by the way, has never been published. Maybe it will someday.What was the first real joy you had when writing professionally?I went on a writing retreat in August 2009 and wrote nearly one-third of the first draft of my debut novel, Talk to Me, in about two and a half days. It was awesome to be somewhere other than home, sitting there with my laptop and feeling like a "real writer".What was/is your biggest pitfall?Probably two things – I have a finely-tuned ability to procrastinate, and my toddler is still home most of the time. When you combine those two things I'm probably not as productive as I could be.What did you learn while writing?Oh man, so much! I'd say one of the biggest things is to write "tight" – I don't have much unnecessary prose, scenes to delete – that sort of thing. Makes editing easier. What's your favorite sexual position to write?Position to write? *thinking* I think maybe from behind. For some reason I tend to skew sex scenes to the male POV and their view from behind is very evocative and fun to write. What's your favorite genre to read?I do love erotic romance, but I also get sick of it. I read a lot of contemporary non-erotic romance and historical romance too. According to my little counter on Goodreads I just went over 100 books read for the year!If you could be one fairytale character for a day who would it be?Hmmmm. I think I'd like to be a villain, as long as it wasn't her day to get her comeuppance. As far as which one? That's a toughie – there are so many great villains in fairytales. Maybe the witch from Hansel & Gretel so I could eat candy all day.Who are your author inspirations?I've always liked Maya Banks, and if I would emulate her career that would be great. Socks or Slippers?Depends on the time of year. In the summer, socks if anything at all, in the winter possibly both if it's cold. I do like slippers. They're very cozy.Handcuffs or fuzzy tickler?Handcuffs are hell on your wrists, from what I've read *cough*. I'm not ticklish, but me using a tickler on someone else sounds like great fun.Where do you see yourself in a year as an author?Hopefully with around ten releases and lots and lots and lots of fans. What are your new releases?Oh man, I've got a lot going on! I had a release on November 2nd titled Head Games – it's the first book in the Buffalo Intimidators series. On December 13th Loose Id is releasing a holiday novella titled Caught. In early 2012 Ellora's Cave will release a book of mine with a bull rider hero and also a short story which will help launch their new EC for Men line.What are you working on now?Right now I'm re-writing the second bull rider book, working on an anthology with a couple of friends, and about a million other projects that are totally slipping my mind at the moment.
BIO Cassandra Carr is a multi-published erotic romance writer who lives in Western New York with her husband, Inspiration, and her daughter, Too Cute for Words. When not writing she enjoys watching hockey and hanging out on Twitter. Her debut novel, Talk to Me, was released by Loose Id on March 22, 2011. Head Games, Buffalo Intimidators book 1, released on November 2, 2011 from Siren Bookstrand, Caught will release December 13, 2011 from Loose Id, and Impact is coming in early 2012 from Ellora's Cave. For more information about Cassandra, check out her website at  http://www.booksbycassandracarr.com , "like" her Facebook fan page at http://www.facebook.com/AuthorCassandraCarr  or follow her on Twitter at  http://www.twitter.com/Cassandra_Carr .

BLURB  Leo Laporte and Scott Schaeffer are teammates on the ice and roommates off it who also share women. They've been coming into Kelly Chase's bistro after games for months, and they know they want her. As the attraction grows, the men realize they want more than a one-night stand - they want forever.
Kelly's not so sure. Yes, she wants both men. But a permanent ménage relationship? That's taking giving her heart away to a whole new level, and a chance she's hesitant to take. Then Leo is injured and Scott's on the trading block, and she realizes this may be her only shot at true, everlasting love. There are so many questions swirling around inside Kelly's head. Can she believe in Leo and Scott's love? And will her business and her reputation survive once people find out she's with two men?
BUY LINK

Black Friday, Furious Lust, and Cable Craziness

A little known fact about me--I'm weirdly claustrophobic in large crowds. NYC Times Square can sometimes send me into a full blown panic. I suppose it comes from being small all my life, like really small, but it makes the appeal of Black Friday dip an incredible amount. I love shopping discounts as much as the next person, but do I want to die for a DVD? Nope. Not so much.

I'm really loving these online Black Friday shopping weeks retailers are doing online this year. Maybe they did it last year to, but I've never really cared about it all that much. This year, knowing I can get good deals without the crowds kinda blows my mind and makes me supremely happy. Now, if only I wasn't a working writer waiting on a paycheck and perpetually poor. I solved the crowd problem, but got another one. Oh well, next year I'll be more knowledgeable of the need to save my pennies. Besides, there weren't a whole lot of book deals :( Only good DVD deals. Can we say Season 1 and 2 of Vampire Diaries for twenty-six bucks? Yeah, I wanted that one.

In other, non-shopping, consumer driven news, Furious Lust, my first book in the Underworld series is almost completely edited. After this edit I'll be tacking on a few scenes and then it'll be off to the CP's for reading. One more step closer to my end of the year goals even though December 31st is coming around ruthlessly fast. Can I make it?

Furious Lust is the first paranormal book I've ever written where everything for the story fell into place. I think I've tried three or four paranormal books now and all of them either stalled halfway through or needed too much editing after I was done with them. They were good practice books, but I can tell this series is going to be the real deal for me. There's just something different about it that I can't put my finger on, but it feels good. *fingers crossed*

DH and I are ridding ourselves of cable for the holidays relying completely on Hulu+ and Netflix. A lot of people we know are using this method and it seems to be working out for everyone. Plus, the money saved will really help us with little things around the house. So far we've been testing it out and we both like it. I'm a little impatient about having to wait a little while to see episodes and the fact that some channels don't update reliably annoys me--but, hey, gives me more reasons to read more anyway. Did I mention how huge my TBR pile is right now?

Not So Pure Excerpt Monday Edition

Today I figured I'd give everyone a sneak peak at a little more of my new release, Not So Pure, an erotic romance novel from Ellora's Cave. Here's the blurb in case you missed it:

White runs from her prison of a past and enters into a sexual deal with seven men that alters the course of her life for eternity. Caught between her need to take control of her life, and her desire to make up for a serious lack of good sex, she enters a wonderland of kinky possibilities with men who show her that Prince Charmings come in all shapes and sizes. For White and her men, once upon a time doesn't cut it—three or four times sound just about right.
With each partner—not always one at a time—White beats back her trust issues. But the shadow of her past comes back to haunt them all. Now she must introduce them to her personal battle, hoping they'll fight beside her as their sinful nights turn into hellish days. Happily ever after isn't by the book anymore.

And without further ado, here's my excerpt:

Okay, so this confirmed it.
 
White couldn't deny what had been staring her in the face since she had turned eleven and had been confined to house arrest—her stepmother was a world-class bitch. These papers proved it. No way was this little legal oversight fair by a court of law. This discovery would have changed everything.
 
Forget the fact that she could overlook negligent homeschooling, the constant drugged-out parties and never a kind word from the woman. That was just life as usual since White's father's death. But when her hands skimmed over his last will and testament—a document hidden away for over a decade—her past all made sense.
 
So much of a normal life had been denied her—not just in the tender love and care department. These papers had been kept hidden. Now her past replayed inside her mind like a cruel mirror displaying what could have formed her life. But there was only now. Stark black and white with no room for gray. It would have been so much easier if her stepmother had kicked her out of the house with nothing on her back rather than setting up bodyguards at every exit point.
 
This wasn't about money—it was about power.
 
If these stacks of pages ever saw the light of day, everything would change. For a brief moment she allowed her gaze to sweep across her father's inner sanctum. She breathed in the scent of old paper and a certain mustiness that reminded her of him. Scattered books from the shelves lined every inch of available surface space as well as the wall-to-wall bookcases. So many stories that had gotten her through another day of this hell.
 
Either she found a way out of this house or her stepmother would find her a more permanent residency—in a pine box six feet underground. A sense of dread worked its way down her spine. She rolled her shoulders and shrugged off an odd sense that she was being watched. Sooner or later she would run out of chances to escape here—her stepmother would see to it. Even if it meant her stepmother had to dirty her hands with murder.
 
Several rapid blinks and she breathed through the eerie chill that seeped from head to toe. Someone would find her soon. That was for certain. Her gaze quickly darted around the office. No one lingered in the warped shadows that she made with the bright beam of her flashlight. Nonetheless, the towering Chippendale furniture was menacing, haunted by her father's dead presence.
 
Luckily, this wasn't a children's movie. No animated tables and chairs were coming to life to attack her anytime soon. Though if her stepmother could have used living furniture as a security measure, she would have in a heartbeat. White shuffled through the paperwork and took three quick snaps with her digital camera. Because that was what late night television reruns had taught her to do with evidence. And this needed to be documented.
 
Every misconception of safety she held onto had been ripped from her in the last twenty-four hours. Though her stepmother claimed the security measures were all for White's protection, there was no safety in this house. She now knew there was more to fear than disobeying long followed rules. Nothing could keep her safe. This was evident by the icy chill that swept across her nicked, stinging, patchy scalp.
 
They'd held her down. Two hulking bodyguards she'd grown up with, towering above her bed while her stepmother had gotten too close with the scissors. In the back of her mind she could see the sharp glint of moonlight off the silver blades as she whimpered and pleaded. Until there was nothing left to hack. Her wrists and upper arms smarted from the bruises as she slid the papers into order again.
 
She'd never been abusively touched before, normally just ignored. Now her pride was gone. Her body was a foreign, uncomfortable shell. But the act was done. She quickly shook her head to get rid of the memory. Another incident to give her courage to leave this place couldn't hurt.
 
All she would leave behind were crazy, late-night conversations with her mother's younger—much younger—partygoers and clientele, which at least gave her an excuse to keep her sanity. They were the root of her knowledge in the world. Through them she'd learned to adapt and keep herself up to date with pop culture, language, and fads. But she wouldn't consider them friends. They wouldn't be missed.
 
Screw ignoring the steady ache against her rib cage. It would always be there and would never go away. Where had her forced ignorance gotten her now? At the end of a noose and ready to jump—if only to be free. She had gone past desperation into a darkness that clouded every minute of every day—and there was no escaping it until she left her past behind.
 
There wasn't a doubt in her mind that she shouldn't be in her father's study. Fuck it. She'd followed the rules for too long. What else could they do? There was barely anything left to take away.
 
A heavy backbeat from a large speaker outside the door shuddered inside her chest. No one would hear her retreat to her tiny bedroom. Maybe no one would catch her tonight either, as they were all preoccupied with the party. But that was always her vain hope. She'd thought of escaping so many times, but the threat of physical muscle always stopped her from setting anything into motion. Now there was no excuse.
 
No, just thinking about her plans would get her into a bind. Karma was a bitch like that. Just going up the stairs—what was the harm in that?
 
Well, unless her stepmother had dipped into her newest shipment of drugs again. Only one way to find out. 

White shuddered and padded out of the office. While she pushed the heavy wooden door back into place, a sudden rush of heat beat against her shoulders. She sensed his stare boring into the back of her skull. She stilled, taking in the towering shadow marring the mahogany door.
 
"That's hardly the place for you to be tonight," He was matter-of-fact—cold.
 
In the end, it would be better to turn around and face his bone-chilling monotone with an ounce of bravery. It was harder now that she knew the truth. With a quick inhale, she spun on her heel to face the man of her nightmares. Huntsman—her stepmother's personal bodyguard and sometimes lover.
 
"Did you need me for something? Shouldn't you be out there taking care of our privileged guests?"
 
When she met his flat, amber gaze, her stomach twisted. Half of his unkempt face was swathed in shadow. The way she liked it. She tensed, unwilling to retreat toward the solid wood at her back. What did she have to lose anymore?
 
Not only would her cowardice give him perverse glee, but she would later replay the scene with sinking shame. She tried to slow down her quick breaths, knowing he would notice. Underneath his wood smoke scent, an undertone of liquor stink assaulted her nose. Why didn't it surprise her that he'd been celebrating with the rest of them?
 
He moved fully into the shadows. An action that should have held menace, but made most of the tension leave her body. Maybe he would go away? If he stayed in the dark she could dismiss him as nothing but an illusion—until he snatched her wrist.
 
She hissed at the contact, but didn't pull back right away. There was no point. She thought his hard fingers would snap her bones, but she fought a whimper that pushed past her tight lips.
"Get. Off. Me."
"I want to help you, princess. It would be better if you treated me nicely. Otherwise I don't think you'll be getting anything from me."
"I don't need anything from you."
 
She refused to yank her arm away—show no fear. His grin made her flinch and she cursed under her breath. What was the worst thing that could happen? She silently counted her uneven breaths. In the past he'd had a lot of opportunities to toy with her mind or shove her against a wall for a little pleasure. But he'd never done anything too horrible. He'd made enough trouble to skip under her stepmother's radar and leave White with a sense of dread.
 
Mostly suggestive notes under her pillow and loud chats with the bodyguards about her curves. But this was the first time he'd flat-out touched her and his grip got his point across fine. He'd leave bruises. But if he moved any closer, she would aim for his balls and she wouldn't stop kicking until he was infertile.
"Did you ever consider that I'm the only one who can get you out of this house undetected?"
Okay, that was valid. But she wouldn't relax for that tidbit—not until he let go.
"What are you getting at?"
 
She briefly let his words stick until she blinked a few times. She glanced beyond his bulky frame down the narrow hallway. No one. If she screamed, the music would muffle it. So—what—this made him a good guy now?
 
The idea of him helping her didn't seem all that feasible. What was in it for him? He couldn't convince her that there was no motive. There was always a motive. Any sense of naiveté had been ripped out of her mind at around the age of twelve. He'd had years to help her—why now? She narrowed her eyes, tilted up her chin and waited for a good answer to her last question.
 
Besides, none of the possible escape routes that had made it to the master list throughout her years in this house had ever included someone's help. Mostly because people couldn't be trusted. Period.
 
"I suppose you know about the documents now. If that's the case, it's quicker for me to get you out of this house so you can play dead than actually going through the motions of killing you. I can split the earnings with the mistress. I'm a greedy, impatient bastard. Make sense?"
"No, that contradicts everything I know about you and yours."
"Well, trust in this, little princess," A sharp point traced down her cheekbone and the knife's steel caught the light. "I could have killed you already and saved us this whole conversation. Have I killed you yet? No. But if you keep up this stupid charade, I will gut you quicker than a dying doe, do you understand me?"
 
Well, what was "understanding" anyway? White swallowed and tried to ignore the bitterness in the back of her throat. Her wrist twitched in his grasp. This was becoming a no-brainer pretty damn quick. Either she went with him and hopefully got the hell out of here or he would kill her where she stood—in her footy pajamas, no less. Not exactly a dignified dying outfit.
 
If there was a chance to break free from this prison, she'd take it. Trust be damned. All of his explanations made logical sense. He could have killed her—hell, right now, if he wanted to. But she was still kicking. If luck was on her side, she'd never have to see him again. But she'd stopped wishing on stars a long time ago.
 
"I'm changing before we leave."
He chuckled and she knew she had him when he let go of her wrist.
"Sure. I'll be close behind, though, so no funny business."
 
She pushed past him into the sensory assault of a full-blown house party. Despite the distractions, she kept her gaze trained on the elaborate staircase that led to her small sanctuary. Against her back, Huntsman's close warmth never wavered. She promised she wouldn't look back over her shoulder. They were already going back to her room for her to change and there was no need to encourage him.
 
Especially since she planned to throw the closest thing in her closet onto her body and get the hell out of there. Why would she want to pack anything from a room that held such horrible memories? It would be better to start from scratch. If there was nothing left to define her, then there would be nothing holding her back. Nothing screamed "burden" like the past.
 
"Wait here."
 
She slipped inside her bedroom and threw the deadbolt.
 
The lock was last year's Christmas present. It had taken her two weeks to bribe a bodyguard to go out and buy it. Now, with her whole body trembling, she was pleased with the choice. She changed into an outfit without looking and took a deep breath. When she opened the door, she half expected him to be gone.
 
Nope. Not a chance.
 
He idly leaned against the wall. With a soft grunt of male satisfaction, he ran his large hand over the black stubble on his cheeks. Most women would find him ruggedly handsome. A delicious bad boy in need of some love to tame the savage beast.
 
Until they had a swollen black eye—a sign of his deep affection.
 
Clearly, these women had let their fantasies run away with them. Huntsman was danger—pure and simple. The only deep-seated need she had with her stepmother's right-hand man was the need to make him go "poof" into thin air.
 
She wasn't shocked when he put his bone-crushing hold back on her wrist and started weaving her through the tight, sweaty crowd of house guests. Maybe no one would notice them? A man slipped his steroid-laced arms around her waist from behind and she cringed. Too late. That not so subtle come-on was something she wouldn't ignore—especially on a time constraint. She went to give the stranger a piece of her mind—
Huntsman pulled her away. 

Before she breathed a sigh of relief that they could continue toward the doors, he possessively yanked her tight against his damp, solid chest. The party's surroundings faded as her vision blurred and her chest tightened from the uncomfortable implications. Against her ear, his heartbeat raged as his fingers pinched into her shoulder in a silent warning. What the hell was he doing?
"This one's mine," he growled.
 
This wasn't the time for him to call attention to them. How was Huntsman jumping to her "rescue"—or whatever his male ego wanted to call it—helping matters? It was a confusing delay. They were so close to the doors. Her gaze was fixed over his shoulder on the entryway, which held all the promise of her future choices. And Huntsman pretending they were together definitely wasn't one of her choices.
 
"I'm sorry, Huntsman, I didn't know. It won't happen again. I'll see to it that you're compensated."
 
The man ducked his head as a sign of respect. It was stupid not to fear her stepmother's right-hand man—which is why willingly leaving with him made her officially certifiable. But she had made peace with desperation. Now if only she could keep her body snuggled tight against Huntsman's long enough for the other man to get the picture. His hand never went any lower or any higher than her waist. Beneath her
ear his heart throttled his rib cage and she sneaked a glance up at his snide, fixed expression.
 
How had she gotten to this place? Too close for comfort with a man she loathed—and loathe was a nicer word than others she could have picked for Huntsman. It was hard to ignore the hard-on that pressed up against her stomach and he didn't smell any better up close and personal. God, this better be worth it. Huntsman had mercifully gotten his point across because he continued to move them toward their escape route guarded by two burly bodyguards dressed in all black.
 
Up ahead towered the wide, glass double doors that had been her single fixation since her stepmother wrecked everything in her cozy, cushy little life. Freedom. Even the word was like vapor in her mind. She couldn't quite hold onto its true meaning before it was gone. She blinked back into the conversation and noticed that money changed hands between Huntsman and one of the bodyguards.
 
So that's all it took? With short, stilted breaths, she tried to come to an explanation that wouldn't make her feel like she hadn't tried hard enough. But nothing worked. She should have tried harder. All it took was the word of a powerful drug goddess and a shifty protector and she was homeward gone. If she had only known that twelve years ago.
 
"Have a nice trip."
The bigger of the two bodyguards winked and trained a sleazy smile on her cleavage.
"Let's go, we don't want to be late getting you to the ball."
Huntsman growled low and pulled her through the doors.
 
A whoosh of air made a quick pop in her inner ear and the doors shut at her back. The riotous noise was gone. And she stood on the concrete front step looking out over a world she hadn't seen in over twelve years. It should have been different. Euphoric with a dash of life-changing. Instead, there was only fear, her constant chaperone.
 
This wasn't the end of the story. It couldn't be.
* * * * *They'd been driving through a path in the woods. No destination in sight. She'd thought maybe he'd stop at a faraway town or a bus station. Nothing looked familiar through the dark glass of the truck window and uncomfortable tremors shot up from her lower back along her spine. It wasn't right. Everything was silent until the overworked screech of tires.
 
His help had been too much to hope for, hadn't it? Shit. Now he was going to leave her in the middle of the woods to fend for herself until her stepmother found her in a day or so. Her hands trembled and she scrambled for a plan. He pulled off the road into the grass and pressed hard on the gas.
 
"What the hell are you doing?"
He laughed.
 
Why wasn't he slowing down? Her whole body went numb. He wasn't dropping her off—he wasn't stopping—the glaring yellow headlights framed the shadow of a large oak tree. She launched into action and colorful swear words. He careened toward the tree while he blindly groped to keep her in the truck cab. Each hit was swift as she scrambled for the door handle.
 
She had to get him backed away so he was the only one who would go crunch against a thousand-year-old tree. This had been his plan all along. He would do what her stepmother commanded—kill the girl.
 
Stupid. So damn stupid!
 
Didn't they have a deal? Clearly, it was off now that Huntsman had his foot glued to the gas pedal. They bounced across ingrown roots with the scent of moist earth filling the truck cab. Anger was easier to deal with than terror as she evaded his hands as he frantically grasped for her torso. Hit, hit, claw, dodge. When had his arms gotten so long?
 
Her chest was tight with swallowed screams; she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of her terror. Sick freak probably got off on it. Thank god, she ripped open the door, tumbling out before they hit the tree trunk head-on. She'd never been so happy she hadn't been wearing a seatbelt as she tucked into a duck and roll on the ground.
 
Thick leaves and grass clogged her mouth as she landed, and she scrambled to spit them out and crawl away from the colliding car. A quick glance back and she registered the heavy glint of sharp metal in his hands before the front end of the truck cab made friends with the tree trunk and smoke billowed. Was it her imagination? When he had hit the tree—had he been grinning?
 
"Jesus," she whispered in disbelief.
 
To think she had lived with that threat under her roof for how many years?
 
But then there was no more time for thinking because he lumbered out of the wreck, hand hovering over a gash on his forehead. How he could even move was beyond reason. There was only one way to get out of this—she tamped down the fear tingling through her limbs and ignored the pulsing ache in her chest. A quick look back and she shimmied out of her skirt and threw off her long, baggy shirt, knowing they would get caught in the sharp brambles. There'd been no time for a bra, all she wore was her blue boy short underwear.
 
She ran.
 
A whipping of wind over her bald head made her shiver as she angled her body, sharp and fast, through the trees. When she gasped in air, it tasted clean and sweet and rain drops hit her cheeks as a roll of thunder boomed in her ears.
 
Footsteps glided behind her in a whisper against the forest floor. Not even a rasp of his breath to tell how far away he was in the darkness. Without glancing back, she pushed her body onward despite the constant ache from her lack of physical exercise and she never took her eyes off the ground. If she tripped—it would be over. Instead, she unknowingly cleared a path for him as he pursued her in the pitch black.
 
The jingling of her long earrings added to a headache that flared in her skull from the relentless pounding of her pulse. The earrings' noise would give her position away like a tracking device. Though night swallowed the forest, she wasn't taking chances. Footsteps grew louder in her ears as she became nauseous and dizzy with terror.
 
Without breaking stride, she cast the earrings into the underbrush and shut her mouth so he couldn't hear her small whimpers of pain as fatigue set into her muscles. If she could only get through this and find a place to hide! He would stop his pursuit soon. Maybe consider her lost, which still got him his money. He knew she wouldn't go back to that house.
 
Plus, it must have been awhile since his last hit of drugs. A junkie always needed more junk.
 
Only need to outlast him a little longer.
 
A long thicket grew in the path, illuminated by a quick flash of lightning. She shot under it, crawling on her torn, bloodied knees as she let the blind adrenaline drive her further than she thought possible. There was a small measure of safety here. Everything about him was too big to fit inside the thicket. But that only brought so much comfort—he was still out there.
 
Mud seeped through her shoes, above her wrists and she pawed through the muck, knowing there was no other option but to hide. If he had a weapon, it was stupid to do anything else. But logic didn't stop her from curling her hands into fists until her nails bit into her palms and they burned with an anchoring pain.
 
The earth beneath her nails smelled like raw clay and mildew. Soon there was merciful silence and the rain plunked against the branches. The harsh twigs thwacked all over her body except where blue boy-shorts curved around her hips, offering scant protection. Goose bumps pimpled her body. Illumination came by bolts of lightning that paled in comparison to her small plea for dawn.
 
She self-consciously rubbed the stubble on her head, closing her eyes to keep hot tears from rolling down her cheeks. Every part of her body burned. Though she had made it back into the world, she was as lost and alone as she had ever been trapped in that house. This wasn't the way it was supposed to happen.
Somewhere in the middle of the scratched-out path, she curled up, huddled—waiting.

 Not So Pure is available for purchase through Amazon, ARe, Nook, and Ellora's Cave.

What's Up Next For Me in 2012

My goals for 2012 are as follows:
Finish up two series writing 4 novella's in total for them (The Furies, Fairy tales)Writing 2 stand alone novella'sWriting 4 shorts Writing 3 stand alone novelsThe majority of my work for the next year is all about building my backlist with Ellora's Cave and Excessica. I doubt I'll be able to accomplish all of this in one year...but you never know with all I managed to accomplish this year. There's still two months left! For those two months I want to hand in a short and a novella. The short is 10k right now and the novella is 30k and I'm wrapping it up to edit during the last few weeks of November. Nano is really helping my speed with this because I hit my all time high of word count recently at 6k in one day! That was an epic accomplishment for me since before my high was 4k.

I would like the short to be 16k and the novella to be 35k-40k finished. Lets get to work!

Stephanie Dray's Song of the Nile: History with a Twist

Another day, another favorite author gracing my small space on the internet! Today I have the pleasure of introducing Stephanie Dray on my blog. Her first book, Lily of the Nile , swept me off my feet and I read all through the day and all through the night until I finished it. I forwent going to the bathroom, eating, everything basic to sit and read her first book until it was done--that's how engrossed I became with it. Now I have the pleasure of introducing the second book in her series on Cleopatra Selene, Song of the Nile . Yay!!!! Plus, Hello, have you seen that gorgeous cover art?

Blurb:Sorceress. Seductress. Schemer. Cleopatra's daughter has become the emperor's most unlikely apprentice and the one woman who can destroy his empire…Having survived her perilous childhood as a royal captive of Rome, Selene pledged her loyalty to Augustus and swore she would become his very own Cleopatra. Now the young queen faces an uncertain destiny in a foreign land.

Forced to marry a man of the emperor's choosing, Selene will not allow her new husband to rule in her name. She quickly establishes herself as a capable leader in her own right and as a religious icon. Beginning the hard work of building a new nation, she wins the love of her new subjects and makes herself vital to Rome by bringing forth bountiful harvests.

But it's the magic of Isis flowing through her veins that makes her indispensable to the emperor. Against a backdrop of imperial politics and religious persecution, Cleopatra's daughter beguiles her way to the very precipice of power. She has never forgotten her birthright, but will the price of her mother's throne be more than she's willing to pay?
Excerpt: SeleneRomeAutumn 25 b.c.
My wedding day dawned rosy as the blush on a maiden's cheek. Like the sun peeking between pink clouds to warm the sprawling city of terra-cotta roofs below, I must also shine for Rome today. As morning broke, I surveyed the middling monuments that blanketed Rome's seven hills. I gazed to the Tiber River beyond, diamonds of dawn sparkling on its surface, and tried to see this day with my mother's eyes.
She was Cleopatra, Pharaoh of Egypt, a woman of limitless aspiration. And I was her only daughter. She'd wanted a royal marriage for me. She may have even hoped my wedding would be celebrated here in Rome. But could she have conceived that this wedding would come to me through her bitterest enemy? In her wildest dreams, could she have imagined that the man who drove her to suicide—the same man who captured her children and dragged us behind his Triumphator's chariot—would now make me a queen?
Yes, I thought. She could have imagined it. Perhaps she had even planned it.
Worn around my neck, a jade frog amulet dangled from a golden chain. It was a gift from my mother, inscribed with the words I am the Resurrection. On my finger, I wore her notorious amethyst ring, with which she was said to have ensorcelled my father, Mark Antony. It was now my betrothal ring, and I hoped it would steady me, for I was a tempest inside.
At just fourteen years old, I had neither my mother's audacity nor the brazen courage that allowed her to so famously smuggle herself past enemy soldiers to be rolled out at the feet of Julius Caesar. I had heka—magic—but had inherited none of my mother's deeper knowledge of how to use it. I didn't have her wardrobe, her gilded barges, nor the wealth of mighty Egypt. Not yet. But the Romans often said I had her charm and wits  and the day she died, she gave me the spirit of her Egyptian soul.
Today I would need it.
It was early yet in the emperor's household; only the servants were awake, bustling about the columned courtyard, trimming shrubbery and hanging oil lamps in preparation for the wedding festivities. They were too busy—or too wary of my reputation as a sorceress—to acknowledge my presence beneath an overripe fig tree, where my slave girl and I made my devotions to Isis. My Egyptian goddess was forbidden within the sacred walls of Rome, but no one stopped us from lighting candles and using a feather to trace the holy symbol, the ankh, into the soft earth. The Temples of Isis might be shuttered here in Rome, her altars destroyed and her voice silent, but my goddess dwelt in me and I vowed that she would speak again.
Once we'd offered our prayers, my slave girl and I strolled the gardens with a basket because it was the Roman custom for a bride to pick the flowers for her own wedding wreath. The summer had been ablaze, so hot that flowers lingered out of season. I had my choice in a veritable meadow. Stooping down, I plucked two budding roses to remind me of my dead brothers, Caesarion and Antyllus, both killed in the flower of their youth. I chose a flamboyant red poppy for my dead father, the Roman triumvir, who'd been known as much for his excesses as his military talent. Finally, for my mother, a purple iris because purple was the most royal color, and my mother had been the most royal woman in the world. The sight of a blazing golden flower, the most glorious in the garden, reminded me of my beloved twin. But Helios was only missing, not dead, and I refused to tempt fate by plucking that flower from its vine. Helios promised me that we'd never live to see this day; he swore he'd never let me be married off to one of the emperor's cronies, but the day had come and Helios was gone.
A startled murmur of slaves made me turn and see a shadow pass between two pillars. It was the emperor. Augustus. The first time I ever saw him, he was a dark conquering god, a crimson-faced swirl of purple cloak and laurel leaf, ready to mount his golden chariot and bear me away as his chained prisoner. Today he wore only a broad-brimmed hat and a humble homespun tunic cut short enough to expose his knobby knees. But the smile he wore with it wasn't humble. This morning—the morning of the day he'd give me away in marriage—Augustus looked supremely smug.
He was without his usual retinue of barbers, secretaries, and guards. Even so, the slaves, including my Chryssa, all dropped to their knees and genuflected. He stepped over their prone bodies as if he were one of the Eastern rulers he derided for tyranny, for he was the master here. He owned everything in this garden: the Greek statuary, the marble benches, the colorful flowers, and the slaves. For four years now, I'd been his royal hostage and he believed he owned me too.
One day soon, I meant to prove him wrong.
"Good morning, Caesar," I said, sweeping dark hair from my eyes.
Understand that the emperor wasn't an imposing man. His power was all in the snare of his ruthless winter gray eyes which now darkened with suspicion, as if he'd caught me trying to slip past his praetorians with their crested helmets and crimson capes. "What mischief are you up to, Cleopatra Selene?"
After all the opportunities I'd declined to run away from him, it was strange that he'd suspect me of it now. I wondered what accounted for his latest paranoia. "I'm only gathering flowers for my wedding wreath."
I showed him my basket, and seemingly satisfied, he glanced over his shoulder through the open doors to where he received clients and other morning visitors. The tabulinum was now empty except for the clutter of scrolls, brass oil lamps, and busts of his ancestors, the Julii, each painted to create the most lifelike rendition. "Walk with me," the emperor said, and I did, for no one refused him. "This morning I granted an audience to an ambassador from Judea, Selene. King Herod sends a last-minute wedding proposal. He wishes to take you as his junior wife."
The mere mention of Herod's name made my steps falter. The Judean king had been my mother's rival and had long urged the Romans to exterminate my whole family. The news that he wished to make me, the last daughter of the pharaohs, a part of his harem, actually forced a gasp from my lungs. The proposal would have been more insulting if it were anything other than a pretext to kill me. Herod had already murdered his most beloved wife to make an end to her Hasmonean dynasty. He wouldn't lose a moment's sleep over my death. "Caesar, you cannot mean to give me to Herod. You swore to make me Queen of Mauretania!"
Augustus smiled. I think it pleased him to see me lose my footing, to see my confidence waver. "Trust in Caesar, Selene. You're already promised to another and in such an important matter as your marriage, I wouldn't cater to the whim of a Jew—even if he's already proved his loyalty, and you haven't. Yet."
I breathed, realizing that he'd told me this only to frighten me. To remind me of his largesse. To make me gasp with fear and then relief. Though Augustus was more than twenty years my senior, no wicked boy plucking wings off insects loved cruel games as much as he did. He stopped beside a small sphinx he'd pilfered from Egypt to adorn his garden. "Be grateful, Selene. By the end of this evening, you'll be the wife of a newly made king, and the wealthiest woman in the empire. Not even your mother could have asked for more."
Of course, she did ask for more. Offering her crown and scepter to him in surrender, she'd asked that her children be allowed to rule Egypt after her. Then she took her own life. My mother's suicide had been convenient for him in every way, and I'm certain that his advisers all breathed easier when she breathed her last, but Augustus had been shocked by her death. Shaken by it. Octavian always wants most what he cannot have, she'd said, as if she'd known that it would ignite an obsession in him. He'd wanted her alive. He'd wanted her as a trophy. He'd settled upon me instead. "Half of Rome will be here for your wedding, Selene. Let my enemies bear witness to how kindly I treat Antony's daughter. Your father's partisans may whisper that I'm the descendant of slaves, but let them see how the grandson of a rope maker now gives away a royal princess in marriage."
There it was. The cavernous insecurity at the center of his character that drove his every action. It didn't matter that he'd vanquished all his rivals. Not his ever-expanding imperial compound with its marble and showy gardens, not the mountains of gold in his coffers, nor the might of his legions would ever conquer his fear that somewhere, someone was laughing at him. "Are you sure it shouldn't be a simpler wedding, Caesar? More in keeping with austere Roman values?" I asked, because I feared Roman crowds and knew from bitter experience that they could be dangerous.
He tilted his head, his eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. "I mean for your wedding to be a spectacle and you're too ambitious to want it any other way. Today will make plain to Isis worshippers who foment dissent in Rome and rebellion in Egypt that they dare not oppose me, for I have a Cleopatra of my very own. Remember our bargain. Marry the man I choose for you and do as I command. Glorify me and I'll show mercy to your surviving brothers, your countrymen, and to those who worship your loathsome foreign goddess. Be my Cleopatra and one day your mother's Egypt may be yours."
By late afternoon, the slaves had stripped my room bare. The golden incense burners, the red and green tapestries, the painted oil lamps, and even the kithara harp I played to amuse the emperor—almost everything that had ever lent color or comfort to my room here—all packed into trunks and satchels. Turning my eyes to my dressing table, I thought of the loose brick beneath it, the one Helios used to pull out of the wall so that we could whisper to one another when the Romans slept. We'd never do that again, I realized. Even if the emperor's hounds hunted down my runaway twin brother and hauled him back to the Palatine, I wouldn't be here . . .
With a sharp knock at my door, the emperor's sister marched to my side to attend me. It was a mother's duty to dress her daughter for marriage and Lady Octavia was the closest thing to a mother that I had left in this world. She'd been my father's wife when he embarked upon his grand love affair with my mother. But after my parents were sealed in their tombs, Octavia had collected all my father's children. Though she was a rigid woman, I'd come to love her. Even so, it felt like betrayal to let her take my mother's place on this day. We were awkward together as we hadn't been in years. "Well," she said, both hands on her fleshy hips. "Let's get you ready, Selene."
She used a special comb to divide my hair into the six segments of the tutulus, the traditional hairstyle worn by Roman brides. "What a vicious little comb," I hissed, wincing as she tugged mercilessly. "Why is it shaped like a spear?"
"It's to drive out ill fortune," she said, cheerfully. "It's also to remind us of the Sabine women, the first Roman wives, forced to wed at the tip of a spear!"
"That hardly seems like something to be remembered with pride," I muttered.
Octavia only tilted my chin with a sentimental sigh. "Oh, Selene, you're going to be a lovely bride. Your father was always given to emotion, you know, and I think if he saw you, it would bring a tear to his eye." In spite of the many wrongs he'd done her, Octavia never spoke against my father, for which I was grateful. "I think you have Antony's best qualities."
This puzzled me because my father had been a big jolly man with a raucous laugh whereas I was slender and decidedly sober. "I can't imagine how I'm like my father."
"He inspired people and so do you," she said. "My daughters imitate you. Your royal poise, the way you hold your posture, and your piety. Because you work so hard at your lessons, the little ones study more. It's your gift, Selene. You lead everyone around you to aspire to something greater. Even me."
I stammered, because it was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me. "E-even you?"
As the emperor's sister, Octavia had always held influence. Now that her son Marcellus had married the emperor's daughter, Lady Octavia was the most powerful woman in Rome. Wearing her distinctively severe hairstyle with its knot over her brow like a crown, she lifted her chin. "As the emperor's heir, my son is still young, untested. Marcellus will need guidance more than ever and I think I can help him. He and Julia need to win over the people so I'm going to find a way to fund a beautiful new theater as a gift to the city."
"They're fortunate to have an ally in you," I said, knowing how this would irritate the emperor's ambitious wife, Livia. Octavia had supplanted her role as First Woman in Rome. Truly, it was a new day.
Octavia seemed to feel it too. "You've made a good match, Selene! And your story sounds so romantic. Two scions of African royalty. Two orphans saved by the emperor and adopted into his family, only to become stewards over a new land. Why, if I were your age, I might even envy you this marriage. Your groom is such a handsome young man."
"I'm familiar with his virtues," I said, for Juba was no stranger to me. The deposed Numidian princeling was a scholar. Such a prodigy, in fact, that he'd been my tutor. Once I'd even counted him a friend. Now he was just the husband the emperor had chosen for me and the first step I must take on my path back to Egypt.
"You're a lucky girl," Octavia chattered on. "He's going to be a splendid, civilized king. Rex Literatissimus, they call him. And such a fine specimen of a man—no woman in Rome can avoid following him with her eyes. But remember that he is a man. No sweet boy like my Marcellus." Given the clumsy way her hands worked in my hair, and her unusually breezy banter, I realized that she was working up to something. "Selene, do you know what Juba will expect from you in the bridal bed?"
My cheeks burned. Everyone imagined my mother as a seductress with great knowledge of the sensual arts, but I'd been young when she died; she'd never shared any of that particular wisdom with me. "I—I think I can guess."
Octavia now looked sour, as if she were about to face a torment of the spirit. "This is what will happen. When you're alone in the bridal chamber, Juba will call you wife and draw you into his arms. But you mustn't go willingly or he'll think you're a lupa." A she-wolf, she said, but she meant whore. "You must shy away and struggle just enough to please him but not enough to make him angry. Then submit to him as your husband and your king."
Helios is my king. The thought came to me so suddenly and unbidden that I feared that I'd said it aloud. My twin was the rightful King of Egypt and dearer to me than I could dare admit. Some said that it was for his sake that the city of Thebes had rebelled. I'd bargained for my twin's life, so I'd have to submit to the emperor's wishes and to Juba too. I'd just have to remind myself every day how fortunate I was not to be married off to old King Herod of Judea.
When my little gray cat leapt onto the dressing table, upsetting a tray of hairpins and ribbons, Octavia cried, "Wretched creature! I won't be sorry to see that beast leave with you. I can't see why cats are sacred in Egypt. They're nothing but mischief." Bast took no notice of this insult, purring and burrowing into my arms while Octavia scowled. "Oh dear. I'm making a mess of your hair. My fingers aren't as nimble as they used to be. I'll let your ornatrix fix it."
My slave girl fixed my hairstyle, and then we dallied until dusk, trying to decide between two pairs of sandals, one of which was prettier but pinched my toes. At last, Chryssa helped me into my wedding garments. The white muslin tunica and accompanying girdle. The floral wreath and the orange flame-colored veil. This was the garb of a modest Roman bride, but in spite of all the years I'd lived amongst my father's people, it still looked foreign to me. When I glanced into the polished silver mirror, I groaned in dismay. Octavia had bound my hair in such a way that it smothered everything unique about me. The white muslin left me looking pale, hiding what beauty I possessed, and I was all but suffocated by the saffron veil. "It's horrible."
"No," Chryssa said, softly. "You're a beautiful bride."
But this was something people said to brides, whether or not it was true. I pulled the veil away. "I need . . . something else."
Chryssa's eyes widened. "It's almost time for the wedding. Half the city is at the gates."
This did nothing to calm me. Roman weddings were supposed to be small and modest affairs, simple contracts that required only a few witnesses. Mine would be different. The guests would be looking to see if I was just a Roman girl, the daughter of Mark Antony, or if I was Cleopatra's daughter, a sorceress whose blood made flowers grow, whose hands left crocodiles docile in her wake. As the foremost worshipper of Isis in Rome, stories about me had passed from temple to temple, tavern to tavern, and the slaves and the lower classes whispered that I might bring them a Golden Age. I'd emboldened them. Perhaps I'd inspired them. So maybe I need not fear the crowds; I wasn't a prisoner anymore.
Be my Cleopatra, the emperor said, and one day your mother's Egypt may be yours.Augustus was a grand actor in a pageant of his own creation and the only way to remain in his favor was to play my role. He wanted spectacle? Well, I would give him one. With deep resolution, I unwound the braids that Octavia had so painstakingly fastened, brushing out my dark hair so that it curled and cascaded, loose and free over my shoulders. "I won't be a Roman bride," I said. "My mother was Pharaoh and I'll let no one forget it."
Chryssa's mouth formed a circle of surprise when I threw open my wardrobe chest, giving no care to the fact that the slaves had carefully packed it for the journey. I rifled through it until I found a beautiful diaphanous gown that Helios had given me. Octavia had tried to make it modest with stitches and brooches. Now I refashioned it. Removing the pins, I wrapped the gown under my arms and tied it between my breasts in the knot of Isis, the tiet, a loop with trailing sides that was a variant of the ankh. My wide-eyed slave girl watched me as if I'd gone mad. "You're going to give insult. You'll anger the emperor!"
"I know him better than you do." Since I was a little child, I'd learned to play all the emperor's games; this was just one more. Be my Cleopatra, the emperor had said, and I was young and foolish enough to believe I knew what that meant. "Don't stand there gaping, Chryssa. Help me!"
Reluctantly, she went to my dressing table, searching for the proper cosmetic pots, as I told her what to do. My mother had been a Hellenistic queen, and when she dressed for the civilized Greek-speaking world, she dressed accordingly. But she'd also been Pharaoh of Egypt. It was that reminder of Egypt I wanted now, so I urged Chryssa to draw on my eyelids with black kohl, the dark lines of the wedjat—the eye of Horus. Then she used the greens and blues and reds of Egypt to color my face. When she was done, I held up the mirror and peered at myself with the green eyes of a jungle cat, exotic and wild. "You need more jewelry," Chryssa suggested, finally warming to the idea. "Something sparkling to go with your little jade frog and betrothal ring."
I knew just the thing. Carefully wrapped in the bloodstained dress I'd worn as a prisoner, was a golden snake armlet with gemstone eyes that my mother left for me when she'd foreseen her own death. I retrieved it from under my mattress, where I'd kept the bundle hidden for years, and slipped the armlet up until it hugged my bicep, its history merging with my skin. The effect was dazzling and scandalous. "You look like your mother's portraits," Chryssa breathed.
But I saw in myself someone entirely new.
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Powell's  Bio
Stephanie graduated from Smith, a small women's college in Massachusetts where–to the consternation of her devoted professors–she was unable to master Latin. However, her focus on Middle Eastern Studies gave her a deeper understanding of the consequences of Egypt's ancient clash with Rome, both in terms of the still-extant tensions between East and West as well as the worldwide decline of female-oriented religion.
Before she wrote novels, Stephanie was a lawyer, a game designer, and a teacher. Now she uses the transformative power of magic realism to illuminate the stories of women in history and inspire the young women of today. She remains fascinated by all things Roman or Egyptian and has–to the consternation of her devoted husband–collected a house full of cats and ancient artifacts.

Review Drawing: Write and post an honest review of any of my books on either Amazon.com, B&N, or Goodreads between now and December 1st 2011, and you will be eligible to win your choice of either a 1st generation Nook e-reader or a $75 gift certificate to B&N or Amazon.com, just in time for the holiday season.

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Sewing My Way Up To The Top

So, I've been in a weird state for the past couple of months where I've decided I need to pick up a hobby outside of writing, reading, and TV. Mostly because my mind is becoming too cluttered and obsessed with my job that I don't know how to take time for myself....even while watching TV I'm thinking about plots, endings, promo, etc. My solution to this madness is to try and take up sewing. DH recently got a sewing machine for his chain mailing efforts for the Renn Faire and I got a few books on small DIY projects with the sewing machine.

I'm a little nervous about it mainly because every time I pick up a crafty project I can't quite get my brain to shut off right and I abandon it pretty quickly. This has happened with crochet, knitting, painting, drawing, you name it. I can't seem to engage the part of my brain that works with writing. Sewing in the efforts to make my own clothes--since I'm so small it's hard to find anything that fits me without a massive amount of tailoring--seems to be my best bet right now since we all ready purchased the machine. Only crumby part is I'm awful at cutting and at math, so DH will help me with that until I get better.

Tonight we're going to attempt to make mail holders in a bright orange, fall patterned fabric. If they work out I'll take pictures and post them. Wish me luck on my crafting crusade! I have two full books to work my way through before I can purchase the recycled fabric/make your own dress book that I want. Got to learn how to sew before I can get that crafty!