Peter W. Dawes's Blog: The Man Behind the Curtain, page 3

The Official Summerpalooza Schedule

If you follow me on social media, you might have been seeing me talk about this thing called Summerpalooza. This past year has opened up the opportunity for me to release two books a year, a first for me, but has also made me keenly aware of the pile of unfinished manuscripts I have sitting around.

The question is… which one to finish first?

In the effort to both answer that question and force my ass into gear, I came up with Summerpalooza, where I dedicate myself to finishing one while you help me decide which one to hop to next. I’ll be posting each installment both on my blog and Wattpad, with the exception of one special story to kick off my new Patreon page. And each weekday highlights a different story.

Here’s what you can expect:

Patreon Monday

Story: Thick As Thieves (Action/Paranormal/Historical Fantasy)

His name was Jackson Phillips… or maybe it was Christopher Ryan. It depended on who you were and what he wanted from you. When vampire art thief Walter Krause came into your life, however, you could be assured two things: He would charm you into trusting him, and then leave with one of your most valuable possessions. Tracing the evolution of his life of crime, this story also reveals what happens when a charming businesswoman named Delilah Aevum becomes not just an accomplice, but a lover as well.

Supporting me on Patreon gives you access to this story. If you’re curious, you can read the first entry for free.

Action Tuesday

Story: The Shadow Fox Chronicles (Action Adventure/Urban Fantasy)

Andy Lane is a regular human and blogger for the Philadelphia Inquirer, covering the philanthropic exploits of Philly’s new, out-and-proud vampire population. When there’s a string of suspicious murders, the media eye focuses on the immortal populace, but the mysterious disappearance of his roommate’s fiancee points to something much more diabolical. Andy goes in search of the truth, while his friend, Scott, races to find Melissa. As their worlds converge, however, the result could impact not just the duo, but shape the course of the entire city.

Wolfen Wednesday

Story: Good Charlotte Walker (Paranormal Romance)

What starts as a one night stand turns into a messy entanglement for art student, Charlotte Walker, when a wolfen prince determines Charlotte was destined to be his mate. The political struggle which surrounds his people will put this to the challenge as enigmatic Corbyn Marchand protects Charlotte against the rivals who want him dead. The conflict which ensues will force them to figure out not just how to work together, but to make it to the end of a whirlwind month alive.

Risqué Thursday

Story: In the Den of Sirens (Paranormal Erotica) NSFW

Set over the course of his first seventy years as a vampire, the story of Michael O’Shane reveals both the immortal experience and the trials and tribulations of heartbreak. Traveling to St. Louis, Missouri in the 1950s, Michael seeks to reconcile the decades of his immortal life, starting a journey of self-exploration under the guidance of fellow vampire, Alphonse Pruitt. The lessons he learns at the hand of the skilled dominant promise to help put the pieces back together, but can Michael allow himself to be broken first before he figures out how to mend?

Flynn Friday

Story: Hand of Fate (Historical Fantasy/Action Adventure)

This story follows Julian, one of the characters from the book Rebirth of the Seer.

Years after his sister, Birgit, is sent to a special boarding school, Julian Reichlin learns the truth about his eccentric sibling. A talented sorceress, Birgit works for a secret organization called the Supernatural Order, and catching up with her also reveals a hidden calling Julian himself has unknowingly carried. When his psychic gifts come to light, he and his sister join forces, but the machinations of a dark magician named Jasper Ashcroft await the duo as they set out on their first mission.

The fun starts on Monday, so keep an eye out for updates as they’re posted.

P.S.: The cover art for The Shadow Fox Chronicles and Good Charlotte Walker are courtesy of Heather Watson, an amazing artist and a very dear friend.

I’ve Released a New Book

It’s funny, but days like today fail to lose their luster with me regardless of how many books I’ve released to this point. Finishing a novel is such a satisfying achievement and makes me feel like it’s Reverse Christmas when I get to unleash it onto the world.

Sort of like… Hey, guys. I wrote a thing and I want to give it to you!

(Now, if only life actually afforded me the luxury of flat-out handing it out.)

Cover Art by Reign Tran

That being said… Shadowcast is now available for purchase! The second book in my historical fantasy series, Deathspell, brings you back into the world of Christian Richardson as he delves deeper into the world of magic, sorcerers, and revenants, pitting him against the Eternal Luminaries again with the lives of his lover, Paolo, and his brother, Jeffrey, hanging in the balance. This is the next phase in both his acceptance of the hand destiny has dealt him and what that destiny has in store for him.

If you haven’t read the first book, Deathspell, then here’s the link to pick it up. If you want a glimpse into Shadowcast, then read ahead for a little teaser. Each of the books are only $2.99 a piece. And if you have plans to attend Wizard World Philly this year, look for the Crimson Melodies table in Artist Alley, because we’ll be there with copies of both.

Now, onto the teaser…

***

“Let’s find your friend so we can be off,” Paolo said, fetching his candle.

I nodded and paused to light the wick of mine. Another unsettling burst of nerves afflicted me, however, this time with more potency than I could ignore. Paolo whispered my name but I held up a hand to stop him. “Do you hear the guards?” he asked anyway.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said. The air chilled and the pulses of natural energy the world produced ebbed closer to me, bringing an uneasy feeling with them. My tongue tasted like metal and the smell of blood wafted into my nose, assaulting my senses. I heard the sound of somebody scream and when Paolo raced to make up the distance between us, I could tell he had heard it as well.

“What was that?”

Reflexively, I wanted to say I didn’t know, because my normal senses told me little other than the fact that somebody was in danger. I knew better, though, and the response stuck in my throat without being birthed past my lips. When the ability to hold back the shocks rippling into me became difficult, I finally swung the door open to them, allowing them to consume me. The effect they had on me was staggering.

It felt as though my breath had been stolen. Gripping onto the wall to prevent myself from toppling to my knees, I lost sight of the floor and saw imagery instead, a barrage of savagery which afflicted even my jaded mind. Several guards had been stabbed by a host of red-cloaked individuals and the ones not brave enough to face their attackers ran for the servants’ house to warn them. I shuddered and whether or not I produced any sound, I felt a gasp rise like bile in my throat. As quickly as I witnessed the slaughter of so many men, I found myself staring at a rug once more, the montage of images ceasing altogether.

My arms shook, but my hand continued clutching onto the wall. As I struggled to interpret what I had witnessed, the vague notion that the message had been sent from Lucie preceded the realization of what that meant. She had witnessed this with her own eyes, which could only mean one thing.

“They’re here,” I said.

Paolo walked with me to the window and helped me shove the drapes out of the way. Figures moving in the shadows caused me to shudder as I thought of their blades and teeth tearing apart the defenseless people outside. We jumped when banging from the front doors echoed up to the second floor and as I gathered myself together again, I realized if there had been a time for playing coy with my talents, that moment had passed. “We’ve been ambushed,” I added in explanation, knowing I needed to say little else. Paolo would know what I meant. He would understand.

These were the men who had been responsible for my death, bearing the sigil of a flame within a circle embroidered onto their cloaks. The Luminaries had caught up with us at last.

And we would not be leaving without a fight.

Oh Hey, I’ve Released a New Book

It’s funny, but days like today fail to lose their luster with me regardless of how many books I’ve released to this point. Finishing a novel is such a satisfying achievement and makes me feel like it’s Reverse Christmas when I get to unleash it onto the world.

Sort of like… Hey, guys. I wrote a thing and I want to give it to you!

(Now, if only life actually afforded me the luxury of flat-out handing it out.)

Cover Art by Reign Tran

That being said… Shadowcast is now available for purchase! The second book in my historical fantasy series, Deathspell, brings you back into the world of Christian Richardson as he delves deeper into the world of magic, sorcerers, and revenants, pitting him against the Eternal Luminaries again with the lives of his lover, Paolo, and his brother, Jeffrey, hanging in the balance. This is the next phase in both his acceptance of the hand destiny has dealt him and what that destiny has in store for him.

If you haven’t read the first book, Deathspell, then here’s the link to pick it up. If you want a glimpse into Shadowcast, then read ahead for a little teaser. Each of the books are only $2.99 a piece. And if you have plans to attend Wizard World Philly this year, look for the Crimson Melodies table in Artist Alley, because we’ll be there with copies of both.

Now, onto the teaser…

***

“Let’s find your friend so we can be off,” Paolo said, fetching his candle.

I nodded and paused to light the wick of mine. Another unsettling burst of nerves afflicted me, however, this time with more potency than I could ignore. Paolo whispered my name but I held up a hand to stop him. “Do you hear the guards?” he asked anyway.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said. The air chilled and the pulses of natural energy the world produced ebbed closer to me, bringing an uneasy feeling with them. My tongue tasted like metal and the smell of blood wafted into my nose, assaulting my senses. I heard the sound of somebody scream and when Paolo raced to make up the distance between us, I could tell he had heard it as well.

“What was that?”

Reflexively, I wanted to say I didn’t know, because my normal senses told me little other than the fact that somebody was in danger. I knew better, though, and the response stuck in my throat without being birthed past my lips. When the ability to hold back the shocks rippling into me became difficult, I finally swung the door open to them, allowing them to consume me. The effect they had on me was staggering.

It felt as though my breath had been stolen. Gripping onto the wall to prevent myself from toppling to my knees, I lost sight of the floor and saw imagery instead, a barrage of savagery which afflicted even my jaded mind. Several guards had been stabbed by a host of red-cloaked individuals and the ones not brave enough to face their attackers ran for the servants’ house to warn them. I shuddered and whether or not I produced any sound, I felt a gasp rise like bile in my throat. As quickly as I witnessed the slaughter of so many men, I found myself staring at a rug once more, the montage of images ceasing altogether.

My arms shook, but my hand continued clutching onto the wall. As I struggled to interpret what I had witnessed, the vague notion that the message had been sent from Lucie preceded the realization of what that meant. She had witnessed this with her own eyes, which could only mean one thing.

“They’re here,” I said.

Paolo walked with me to the window and helped me shove the drapes out of the way. Figures moving in the shadows caused me to shudder as I thought of their blades and teeth tearing apart the defenseless people outside. We jumped when banging from the front doors echoed up to the second floor and as I gathered myself together again, I realized if there had been a time for playing coy with my talents, that moment had passed. “We’ve been ambushed,” I added in explanation, knowing I needed to say little else. Paolo would know what I meant. He would understand.

These were the men who had been responsible for my death, bearing the sigil of a flame within a circle embroidered onto their cloaks. The Luminaries had caught up with us at last.

And we would not be leaving without a fight.

Can’t Get Away From Those Monday Blues

Greetings and salutations, friends!

It’s been a little while (though not as long as usual) since I’ve dipped my pen into the well for blogging, so I thought I would come out of hibernation. With Shadowcast finished (and available for pre-order), my time isn’t dangling as much from the noose of book deadlines… at least for a little while.

Soon, it will be Summerpalooza. And after that, things get serious with Undone By Blood, the fifth installment in my Vampire Flynn Series. In the meantime, I’m enjoying the brief respite leading up to Wizard World Philadelphia, where I’ll be selling books and drinking coffee live and in person.

Sexy, no?

But down to business. It’s Monday, so here’s your writing prompt for the week. Or foreseeable future until Prompt Monday happens again. Because it’s my goal to keep you on your toes, and I think I do a pretty good job of that.

Your Writing Prompt:

Today started as a typical day for your character… until they logged into social media and discovered they were a trending topic. What comes as even more of a surprise is why.

According to social media, they’ve died. And, even more bizarre, they’ve died in an unusual manner. What do they do in response?

Good luck with that. As always, if you tackle the prompt (or your own take on it), post what you came up with in the comments or link to wherever you might have posted it.

Now… back to my coffee.

The “Man” Behind the Curtain

There’s a lot to be said about a pseudonym.

Every time I’m at a book signing or a convention, I get asked by people why I chose to use the name Peter Dawes. It’s obvious from meeting me that I am not Peter, although that sentiment’s changed a little recently. (More on that later.) In lieu of that, there’s three stories I usually tell, after delivering the cheeky assertion that I look remarkably like a Peter Dawes.

Story One: Selling books under a female name is difficult in my genre. My main series is an action adventure, dark fantasy cross between The Dresden Files and Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles, and back when I first started, it was tough to get traction as the really real me.

Story Two: The Vampire Flynn books are told from the perspective of Peter Dawes, an emergency room doctor turned cold-blooded killer. They’re essentially his autobiography, so when it came time to choose a pen name, I figured he’d like to be the author of his own stories. Anyone who knows me can tell you how self-aware Peter is in my head. It’s not a far stretch to call him his own writer.

Story Three: Sparing a long and complicated story, I had something awful happen to me eight years ago that taught me to put some distance between the “real” me and my artistic work. It’s safer for me this way.

Now, all of these stories are true, so telling someone one or more of them isn’t fabricating an excuse. That being said, something began to happen which took me aback the first time somebody did it. Rather than get the normal fare of confused looks and nods of understanding, I had somebody ask me, with all the sincere earnestness he could muster…

“Do you… want me to call you Peter?”

It wasn’t even at an LGBT-themed convention. At an anime convention in Philly, he issued the question as a (he told me later) cisgender, straight man who had struggled with the concept of tolerance and finally came to a reckoning through a gay friend of his. It opened his eyes to the struggles of many in the LGBT community. And this man, ebbing compassion, wanted to show me deference. He might have been looking at a (albeit tomboyish) woman, but he wanted to respect me.

I admit, it took me a moment to figure out how to respond to that, like someone gave a damn enough to want to know something personal and I felt inclined to be honest with them. Unfortunately, I wasn’t ready to yet. So I chuckled and said, “No, Jules is fine,” and continued my discussion with him. Maybe it’s being hard on myself to say I was lying, because Jules is the preferred version of my birth name, but I said no to dismiss any sort of deference to myself.

Here’s the more honest story, though.

Story Four: I used to self-publish under my birth name, back in the olden days of ebooks. While it made it easier to connect with my audience – hell, I still have friends from those days – it also exposed me to scrutiny at a time and place where I wasn’t ready to be scrutinized. Long story short, something bad happened before something remarkable followed.

I decided to let Peter be the author of his own books. And the internet being as anonymous as it is, I played it up a lot. Peter the vampire would tell you all about his work and it’s been fun to use Peter to explore a lot more about myself while making me more comfortable with who I was. It also shielded me from being dismissed for writing in what used to be considered more of a “male” genre. Women will read books irrespective of the author name. Guys, on the other hand, didn’t always trust girls to write male protagonists.

Peter’s really his own person. He’s no Mary Sue or anything like that. (Hell, I think Robin might be more self-insertion than Peter is sometimes, though Peter and I are a lot more similar, personality-wise.) And I like using his name for the books because we get to have these witty conversations, reader-to-author. But no, you don’t have to call me Peter, although I don’t mind if you do. I’m Jules.

And if you want to know what it means to be Jules, I’m a lot more open now toward discussing that. We love our labels, and I could share a bunch with you, but the long story short is that those of us who use pseudonyms have a myriad of reasons for doing so. That being said, I challenged myself this year to get a few official author photos taken, in some effort to bridge the gap between the author you know online and the person you meet elsewhere. Every now and then I feel more comfortable sharing the “man behind the curtain” with the rest of the world, but I’ve felt more viscerally honest lately.

So, this is me…

Sometimes, I wish I could find that man again and tell him his heart was in the right place, though I’d consider myself more genderfluid than transgendered. I don’t mind my birth-assigned gender all that much some days, even if I’ve never been overly “feminine” girl, but some days, I want to don a suit and tie and sink a little more being masculine. Maybe one of these days I might change my mind about that, but I’ve given myself the luxury of being a work-in-progress. I tried to “out” myself a while back, to tell the people who knew me only as Peter who Jules was, but then I mourned the loss of presenting as the male, vampire author, because it’s been liberating. So, I’m straddling the line here.

Not sure what that says about me, but hell… I might as well embrace it.

One of my good friends, an amazing professional photographer named Cassandra Panek, captured that for me in the pictures I’ll be using as my author photos. I can’t recommend her work enough. And in case anyone might be afraid Peter himself is going anywhere, don’t worry…

After a decade of being stuck with him, I don’t think anything is going to get rid of him.

Him, or Flynn for that matter.

It’s nice to share a recent photo again after all this time, even if it’s scary. Thank you, everyone, for how supportive you have always been, and hello to everyone who might have wanted to put a face more to the name.

Until next time,

Summerpalooza in Prelude

I’m never sure how most authors like to handle their production years, because it never seems to be an exact science. Some writers only produce a book a year, some two, and then it seems like a few of you brave souls produce 4,555,988 books in one year, leaving me to weep over the fact that I need to eat and sleep and occasionally remember I have kids.

Wait a minute. I think I still have… No, wait… there they are.

Anyway, I found a resting pulse a year or so ago which enabled me to write two books over the course of a year. It’s a little ambitious when you have such a chaotic home life, but at some point, you embrace the insanity enough to roll with it. Which is to say, this is the point where I need to throw another log onto the fire and see if I can burn the house down.

This is where Summerpalooza comes into play.

Summerpalooza (which is harder to type than it looks) is where I pull out four of my unfinished manuscripts and offer them up for your general consumption. Each of them are in the rough, first draft stage of completion, but seem to keep getting pushed back whenever I consider finishing them. Which is to say, I never know which of them to finally crack down and complete first.

So, here’s a preview.

One of these manuscripts is my normal urban/dark fantasy fare, set in the Flynn universe. The other three take the romantic undertones I often like to play with and thrust them more to the forefront. One is a paranormal romance. The other two are LGBT-themed erotica. Obviously, voting on them doesn’t demand you read them all if you’re not into explicit subject matter. But if you are… Hey, you’re in luck.

 

Candidate Number One: Is the story of Andy Lane, a junior reporter and blogger for the Philadelphia Inquirer. Set in a period of time after the vampires of Flynn’s world have gone public, when there’s a string of suspicious murders in the City of Brotherly Love, the media eye focuses on the immortal populace. As Andy’s best friend, Scott Reilly, becomes embroiled in a corporate law suit with shady undertones, however, the true villains might not be the ones with pointed teeth.

Candidate Number Two: Focuses on Charlotte Walker, an art student who gets ripped from her life and caught up with a wolfen prince named Corbyn Marchand. What starts as a one night stand turns into a messy entanglement when Corbyn determines Charlotte was destined to be his mate. The political struggle which surrounds the wolfen people will put this to the challenge as Corbyn’s rivals pursue them, forcing them to figure out not just how to work together, but to make it to the end of a whirlwind month intact.

Candidate Number Three: Stars Michael (Robin) O’Shane, the unwitting accomplice to many of Peter’s escapades in the Vampire Flynn Series. Set over the course of his first seventy years as a vampire, the story which unfolds is as much of the immortal experience as it is the trials and tribulations of heartbreak. Traveling to St. Louis, Missouri in the 1950s, Michael seeks to reconcile the decades of his immortal life, starting a journey of self-exploration at the hands of fellow vampire and dominant, Alphonse Pruitt.

Candidate Number Four: Is an alternative reality which features my eponymous character, Peter; the main character of the Deathspell books, Christian Richardson; and the yet-to-be-introduced Victor Mason. Working as a human doctor in Philadelphia, Peter’s life is forever changed complicated when Christian shows up in his emergency room one day. The escapades which follow introduce him to a successful lawyer named Victor, and the shady underworld which employs his former patient.

Voting for which story I complete this November will start toward the end of the summer.

What do you do until then?

Sit back and enjoy. I’ll start posting the stories up on my Wattpad page soon. If you join my mailing list, you’ll stay in the loop, as well as have the chance to win a copy of whatever I finish, once it’s been published.

Until then, shine on, you crazy diamonds, and feel free to share any of your preliminary thoughts in the comments section below.

You Got Anymore of Those… Prompts?

So, this is about two days later than I had planned on posting it, but the good news is that it comes on the heels of great news. Shadowcast (which is the second book in my Deathspell series) is almost ready for its final edits. In the days to come, I’ll be dropping the cover image and some pre-order links for you lovely people, but for now…

Here’s Your Weekly Writing Prompt!

Because I’m a firm believer in the power of practice, I figured the prompt this week should be less about the scene itself and more about pushing the boundaries. Nothing forces you to think outside of the box more than breaking out of your comfort zone and quite frankly, I’ve always had good luck with plain ol’ freewriting sessions.

So, here’s your challenge:

Turn on whatever you use to listen to music and set a playlist on shuffle (if applicable). Whatever song starts playing, write the first thing that comes to your mind and keep writing until the end of the song. When the new song starts, begin a new scene/story.

You can repeat this for however many songs you want, but the idea is to force your mind to hop into a new situation and improvise. Don’t worry about it being clean, or even coherent. The idea is to conjure those images inside your noggin. If you give this a go, let me know how it turned out. Share it in the comments, link to your blog in the comments, or just leave me a message telling me how you felt about the experience.

And in case you want to glimpse into a time long, long ago when I first attempted this exercise, you can laugh with me over here on deviantART.

Good luck, you evil masterminds, you.

 

A New, New, New Beginning

Anybody who knows me well also knows how terrible I am at maintaining something like a blog. Like any other author, I get bogged down in the quagmire of being interesting every time I open up WordPress and decide to say hello. So, in the spirit of fuck-all, I’ve made a determination:

Stop trying to be interesting and focus more on just being me.

In that light, allow me to welcome you back to my crazy little part of the universe. I’ve spent the past year percolating on a ton of different ideas, and while some of them haven’t panned out the way I might have liked, others have started to take shape and brought us here. In the following months, I’ll be disclosing the oddball antics of yours truly, but I’ll be asking for you guys to share yours in return.

And the first way I plan on that is with…

Monday Prompts

Let’s all face it, Monday sucks. Monday sucks even when you’re a self-employed penmonkey. In fact, it’s the day I’m usually sitting at my desk waiting for my manuscript to do tricks while I stare blearily at it. As of yet, it won’t even play fetch.

So, let’s make the most of it.

Every Monday, I’m going to post a writing prompt up for anyone who’s looking for some creative fodder. What you do with it is entirely up to you. Post it in the comments section. Use it to update your blog and post the link to it here. Have it tattooed over that ink you got in college when you were pretty sure you’d love french fries for the rest of your adult life. The  possibilities are endless.

So for this Monday, your prompt is…

A figure from an entirely different era is sucked into the present day. Describe what situation they find themselves in and how they react toward seeing some piece of modern technology.

Have fun!

The Long Road Home

The fourth book of the Vampire Flynn Series, Divided By Night, is scheduled for release on December 29, 2015. In it, we see the world as it is ten years after Fate of the Seer, but the road to our story contains many different people with many tales in their own right.

This one has been brought to you from the journal of Michael “Robin” O’Shane.

Divided By Night is available for pre-order through Amazon.com and a special, limited edition collection of Books One – Three is available as an omnibus.

This is a special sneak peak into Book Four.

From the Journal of Michael O’Shane

January 17, 1989

It seems I often spend my life reliving thoughts and memories between the clacking noises of a train, something that occurs to me as I peer across Europe and watch the landscape slip past me like grains of sand. My disposition has been significantly heavier in recent days. Until now, I have wondered at the trajectory my eternal life has been hurtled toward, being alone again for the first time in decades. I sit. I read and I flip through dusty tomes attempting to unlock languages that have long since perished. I have languished in a world without much color to it, and I am only now realizing this.

When I rose yesterday, I did so in Bucharest, surrounded by immortals in mourning that have been transitioning leadership from one coven master to another. I have done my best to aid their endeavor with the limited experience I have serving under Sabrina, knowing that once, it was my goal to become the head of our house. They have expressed their gratitude by giving me my books and my solitude, but something has been missing. Something I could not have placed a finger on yesterday except to note the listlessness in my spirit.

Last evening, however, I received a phone call that changed everything. And today, I am headed home to Ireland, to see the man I love.

I doubt I’ll say that to his face, coward that it makes me. I have been so well trained at biting back emotion and repressing heartfelt sentiment, both as an act of self-preservation and to protect others from the viscous wrath of my now-dead maker. Even to write those words feels strangely detached. Gone and perished, Mary ‘Sabrina’ Ravensdale. Never to walk this mortal coil again. She cost me Ilya and Timothy. Demetrius.

Flynn, in some regards.

But before that, she claimed Patrick from me and I had been a fool to allow her.

A part of my soul fears letting go of my guard. Surrendering to the impulse to lose myself in another after so many disappointments. I wish I could recapture the man who first emerged from immortality with nothing but hope for the future, but I have lived enough of a life that gas lamps have become streetlights and carriages have become cars. That young vampire I once was saw the world as a story yet to be written, but a century has left me jaded. Not ready to give up on life altogether, but cautious of its lures and snares. I want to see my old friend and say I am sorry. Sorry for going back to Sabrina. Sorry for each and every time he and I have lain together and I have lapsed into old stories rather than considering future plans.

I want to hope, but truth be told, I am tired and afraid.

My oldest and dearest friend, who was wronged by Sabrina before she had even sired me, has been a constant in my immortal existence, to the point that his absence blotted out some of the color in my life. My adventures with Peter gave me purpose for a time and for a time, I could embrace the antics of a world in which I do not belong. Perhaps that has been the problem as of late. I sank back into what was familiar and until the phone rang, I failed to see why life has felt so hollow. Without listing his name, I have missed Patrick, and now I am on my way to him again. And now, I am utterly petrified.

We share a past, but there is a future. We have weathered scars, but surely those can mend. We have been through hell, but I still love him and I pray that he can see past my indiscretions to care about me again. I hope when I see him tomorrow evening, I still see the light he has for me in his eyes, a beacon that has been present throughout most of my vampire years.

And perhaps one day, I can trust my lot in life enough to show him the light in mine.

An áit is áil le do chroí, leanfaidh do chosa.

Michael

Guest Post – We, King Henry VIII by S. Joy P.

As you all know, I’ve dipped my toe into the water of Historical Fantasy with the start of the Deathspell Series. Because of this, I’ve been able to talk to other authors who have their own, supernatural spin on the past, and get a feel for how they approach the genre. If you follow Peter’s blog on the Vampire Flynn website, you’ve already been introduced to the very talented S. Joy P., but if not, it brings me great pleasure to introduce you to Silvie. She’s visiting today to talk about her new book, We, King Henry VIII.

Without further ado, I’ll let her take it from here…

 

Henry VIII of England seeks his way home in a new fictional autobiography

Book Blurb: Henry VIII is dying alone. On his deathbed, he relives a lifetime of passion and glory, defeat and triumph. And yet, the only victory that matters to him now seems to stay out of his reach. How could he once again embrace and kiss his true love when he and his Adhamh live in worlds apart?

So far it sounds quite innocuous, so why the tag line on the cover speaks about extreme controversy? It’s because Henry is far too often portrayed as a tyrant, and most people nowadays see him as a monster who ruined the lives of six wives. A Bluebeard of the history. Yet, it’s not what his subjects thought of him during his lifetime. Henry was a most beloved monarch, a king in whom the English took true pride. And that’s the portrayal you’ll find in We, King Henry VIII. Here, Henry is the hero. The novel invariably sides with him from the start to the end. It is his tale, told in his own words.

But before I hand over to him, let me share the first moments that led to the birth of We, King Henry VIII:

One night in December 2013 I stayed up late as many a time before. But unlike around other midnights, I didn’t write. Savoring a glass of wine, I thought about Henry VIII.

It didn’t surprise me much. His Majesty and I have had more than a twenty-year-long history together, with periods of waxing and waning interest from both sides.

Yet, this time it wasn’t a fleeting encounter in the halls of eternity. I was captivated by him, but also greatly disturbed by his image ingrained in the popular culture. I had just finished watching a documentary about him, and couldn’t get a bitter aftertaste out of my mouth. How could the historians reduce a great man to a large, festering mound of lard, poke and examine him from head to toe regardless his feelings, and worse still, how could they present only findings that supported the common, simplistic view on who Henry was? I did not like him to be portrayed as a hulk who was not in control of his eating habits, or as a vessel of illnesses and infirmities of all kinds.

Even less I enjoyed reading over and over again that he was a tyrant who only pursued his shallow interests, and in the process ruined lives of six wives.

That image was not Henry as I knew him, and it bothered me more and more. For me, Henry was and is the king who healed England after the War of Roses and who truly united the whole land. He was the one who greatly elevated the image of England in the eyes of the contemporary monarchs. His court was the center of learning and culture. He broke with the corrupt Papacy, and, let’s face it, he was the one who kept wars out of England (with the exception of a short Scottish invasion which was fast crushed). His people loved him, and for all the good reasons. In fact, they loved him so much that not even the Excommunication broke his neck. It shows clearly how great loyalty he enjoyed. A tyrant or a monster never commands such feelings, such undiluted fealty.

I thought it would serve us well to remember that better, and to show him much more respect than he is getting these days.

“You shall write my story, dearest,” a tired tenor voice interrupted my silent seething.

I glanced up from my glass, already knowing whom I would see.

I would love to say I was bedazzled by a man exuding an aura of masculinity, pulsing energy, and power. But the man who carefully sank in the armchair I keep by my writing desk for my benefactors was old and jaded. Yet, clad in red velvet and ermine, he still looked royalty. Just as an abandoned shrine is still a shrine, an old king is still a king. It’s enough for me to just narrow my eyes to see him in all his young glory (as you will see him while reading We, King Henry VIII Part 1). That night I had no time for that though. A stifled groan leaked out of his tightly clamped lips, forcing me to promptly offer a footstool to ease his discomfort. I was determined to make him feel better, and I could do my gazing later.

His stiff body posture relaxed a little only when I poured him a glass of wine too. He took it from my hand as a wordless invitation to stay and tell me more. We understood each other perfectly.

“You shall write my story,” he repeated after taking a draught of his drink.

“Why me, Your Majesty?”

“For you see me as I am, and yet you always recognize the virtuous prince in me. It matters not to you whether I am young or old.”

“Thank you.”

“You see through my masks and mistakes. You know who I am inside.”

“I do see your soul, yes. But I don’t write scholarly biographies, and I would do you disservice if I tried.”

“Nay, write about the man whom you know, not about the King.”

“Your Majesty, you are both.”

“Aye, but now I would I were just me.”

“I know. But there is another obstacle. I don’t write about love a man feels for a woman either. How would we handle the fact that you had six wives?”

“You shall write my story, including all of my wives.”

Let’s just say that Henry is as stubborn today as he was more than half a millennium ago.

That night we let the topic go. I’m not his subject, so he couldn’t order me to write for him. Nor did he try to. But we talked for hours about his world and above all – about him. Long story short: hours turned into days and Henry stayed. Since then he has made a remarkable recovery, so now I’m blessed with the company of a young king who exudes an aura of masculinity, pulsing energy, and power just as he did in his life.

He was right that first night. I have written his story for him. But I was right too. It isn’t a scholarly biography and it isn’t a heterosexual romance. It’s a tale of intense love between two men.

And here is an excerpt for you:

***

He yipped a quiet greeting but did not come to me. Not yet. I knew what had to take place first under the pale light of the moon, and watched him as he bounced across the glade toward the log that we had dragged here four days before. Faster and faster he raced until his silhouette seemed to glide above the grass without ever touching it. The murmurs of the brook drowned out any rustle that his paws might have invoked otherwise, and so he resembled a ghost pursuing an innocent soul. Many might fear him, not so I.

He sprang into the final mighty leap, so full of vigor and life that my belly tightened in need. A part of me was right there, by his side, in the moment of the glorious pain of his transformation. And a part of me just stared at the act in awe.

He landed. Naked as always. And as always I smothered my desire. Merciful shadows of the night made it easier for me. Or… harder. For now I could actually see him in all his beauty. Aye, his mere silhouette. But my longing painted the details where my eyes could not recognize them. And I did not have to hold my gaze locked with his, or averted in a doomed effort not to intrude on his privacy. In the darkness I could blush without fear that he would notice the all-revealing redness.

Why was I never able to repress this reaction to his naked body? It was a sin to want him, and yet, no matter how hard I tried to mold my feelings for him into the pure brotherly affection, I yearned for him all the same, and the pained amorousness consumed both my flesh and my mind. He knew it not, and it had to stay so.

Steeling myself for the inevitable lash of need, I strode over to him. To hand him his clothes and thus end the moments of my greatest pleasure and the greatest torments.

“I must wash first, My King.” His voice in the shadows smiled at my impatience, and the next moment he headed toward the brook.

I followed. He honored, loved, and served me. But it was me who followed him. Always. And I suspected that it would stay so until the end of my days.

Thinking that he would just wash the blood off his face, hands, and chest, I almost stepped in the stream. For he did not stop on its bank. He just walked on, and I was catching my balance in the last possible heartbeat that remained between staying dry and landing in the water.

When my gaze found him again, a half-stifled groan escaped from my mouth. The night clearly made it all more difficult. Or Adhamh did. For he lay in the middle of the shallow brook, letting the ripples touch him just everywhere, and the nefarious light of the moon did not leave me in doubts as to where exactly the water caressed his skin.

I wanted to be water.

But I could not.

And the hopelessness of my desires spilled out of me. “She shall never retreat to a nunnery,” I all but wailed. It was not the true reason of my tension, but how could I possibly tell him the truth?

“She is on the verge of that decision,” he said, his voice joining the bewitching lullaby sung to him by the stream. “Her piety and her pain war with her pride and tenacity. Have patience, Henry.”

“I cannot bear this!” I blurted. And my gaze never left the tantalizing curves of his body. Moonlight tenderly caressed his broad chest, the alluring firmness of his slightly recessed belly, the hard and yet so elegant muscles of his thighs. And the dark nest of pubic hair in his crotch. It revealed his manhood to me, and I suddenly could not even swallow. Only stare I could… and did.

“What is it that you cannot abide?” he asked, lacing his hands behind his head.

“The waiting,” I groaned, clenching my fists to somehow hold myself back from plunging into the stream and plundering the temptation laid before me. “The irony of a wedlock that is not a wedlock at all. The lack of pleasure.”

“Fidelity is not a virtue required of great Kings.” He sat up. “Take any woman you like, discreetly.”

“I cannot just take any woman!”

“Why?” he asked, washing his face.

“Adultery is a sin.” What else could I possibly say? That I could see the droplets of water kissing his cheeks, chin, lips… In my mind I saw them and needed to take their place.

“You shall say more of your prayers,” he predicted, launching back to his feet. “You are but a mortal man, and have your needs like any other.”

Riveted on the spot, I gaped at him as he came close and closer to me. The reflection of the moonlight in the water and the light raining on him from above… I did not need much imagination to spur my want into a painful engorgement. “I am the King,” I grunted.

“Indeed,” he agreed. “And you also are a man. Which of them cannot bear the lack of pleasure?” he asked, reaching for his shirt.

“Both,” I admitted, handing him the saving piece of cloth that would soon cover his nakedness. “But I desire love, Adhamh. And I do not love any woman,” I said more than I had wanted. More than I should have. The soft sigh coming out of his nose told me so before my own mind did.

***

If you love Henry VIII and enjoy more than a light touch of supernatural fantasy in your fiction, avail yourself of this book. For through his memories, you can now witness the power of a bond that changed him, and through his deeds the all of England, forever.

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