Liv Rancourt's Blog

The Pharaoh's Promise

 

...but bookmark this page, b/c more is coming!

This page is dedicated to the shared-world series, The Pharaoh's Promise. As the books come on-line, you'll be able to find the covers, blurbs, and buy links here. You've got so much to look forward to!!
(I'm putting most of the temp covers in now and will add actual covers and links asap).

There and Back Again: an author's trip to Oz

Good to go at the RARE book signing!
Last month, I had the amazing good fortune to travel to Australia. I participated in the RARE book signing in Melbourne and tacked on a trip to see my sister, who lives on the Gold Coast. 
Most definitely the best of both worlds!
I've been to books signings before - GRL, PNWA, 20Booksto50k - and I've even traveled outside the US to sign books at UK Meet last fall. Flying all the way to Oz, though, broke new ground. I hauled something like 100 pounds of luggage, mostly books, and learned that there are worse sins than renting a cart when you have to hike from the international to the domestic terminals.
It was A LOT, but I managed.
More importantly, I got to meet people, both readers and authors, who love books as much as I do. A few were new acquaintances and some I'd only ever connected with via the internet. (KL Noone, thanks for sharing my table! And Mia, if you're reading this, THANK YOU AGAIN for bringing a copy of The Frogman and the Spy for me to sign!) I came home with some wonderful memories and with a renewed sense of myself as an author.
Here's the thing. It's awfully easy to discount yourself as an author. It's hard to gain visibility, not every reader's gonna love your stuff (and some are incredibly articulate in telling you why), and self doubt shadows just about everything you do.
I'm not whining. I mean, no one sat me down and forced me to publish. I still remember the moment, at about 20 years old, when I realized that the only person who told me I didn't have a good-enough voice to sing in a band was...well, me. (I went on to sing in bands for something like 25 years.) I pushed myself to get out there and sing, and I pushed myself to write a damned book and get it published. Yes, it's hard, but you know what?
Spending four days with a whole bunch of book people did wonders for my enthusiasm.  

Watching horse races on ANZAC Day - and possibly betting a little.
After a fabulous five days in Melbourne, I flew to the Gold Coast, where my sister made me feel like a true celebrity. We crossed off all the important bits: shopping, eating fabulous food (which is the only kind they make in Australia), and exploring the Nerang River and Surfer's Paradise. We also spent an evening at the Australian Outback Spectacular, which you should totally check out if you're ever in the neighborhood.
Really, my only complaint the whole time was the travel time. I swear I made the most complicated arrangements possible, and each way took me somewhere between 27 - 28 hours. Not even joking. Next time I'm springing for a non-stop on Quantas. Because there'll definitely be a next time!
RARE is talking about Brisbane in Spring '25!!!
I got home in time for tulip season!

 

Cover Reveal! The Lighthouse Keeper, a Victorian Gothic M/M Romance

 

I really suck at keeping secrets, so sitting on this cover for weeks (months?) has been SOOO hard. When I first emailed my cover artist, Kanaxa, I'd intended to simply get on her calendar whenever she had space. She was so excited by the premise - "Oh. My. Goodness. A  gothic Lighthouse theme?!  Are you serious?!" - that she started work right away. Which was fantastic, but it meant I had to keep the cover under wraps since last December.
So. Hard.
Now to whet your appetite further, here's the blurb...

Twenty years ago,Martin Gallagher stole the Ferox Cor, and now he’s dead.

Vincent Fairchild,a witch with little power beyond his charm, is tasked with finding thatdangerous magical object. He’s already been pruned from the family tree because“nice” people don’t have magic. If he fails to return with the Ferox Cor, he’lllose his place with the Witches’ Council, leaving him very much alone.

Vincent travels tothe West Point Lighthouse, where he finds things are different than he expectsthem to be. Gallagher didn’t use the Ferox Cor to enrich himself, andGallagher’s son is not a child. In fact, Rafe Gallagher might be the mostpowerful witch Vincent has ever met. Powerful, adult, and incredibly handsome.

Martin will returnon Hallowe’en, when the veil between the worlds is the thinnest, unless Rafeand his mother destroy the Ferox Cor. If they fail, a great evil may beunleashed on the world, but helping them puts Vincent’s future at risk. There'sa way forward, but to find it, he must look to his heart.

CLICK ON THIS DUDE TO PREORDER!The book is currently only listed on Amazon, but will be wideand there'll be a print version available!
Now, for those of you who are here for the bellyaching to learn about my editing process, here goes...
Last month I made a post extolling the glories of editing. (Find it here.) And even though work on The Lighthouse Keeper has involved some pretty heavy lifting, I still think editing is cool.
I just wish I could write a full-length novel that didn't require surgery to make it shine.
I'm working with a new editor on this one, and I really like her. She's not the problem, I am. (LOL) The draft I sent her wasn't bad, but a couple of the issues she identified had me restructuring the story to make it work better. Once I start moving scenes around, I have to look at every other scene to weave things in and make sure it all still makes sense.
So that's where I've been, combing through the thing, paragraph by paragraph. Some bits just take a little tweaking, but some need a complete rewrite, and while I know the whole thing'll be stronger when I'm done, right now...
Gah.
All that said, I love Vincent and Rafe and I want to make sure their story lives up to that awesome cover!

To whet your appetite, here's a bit where Vincent learns somethinginteresting about Rafe... Rafe Gallagher knelt on the ground in a clearing, surrounded by a circle of fir trees and vine maples. Holes had been dug at regular intervals and he held one hand extended several inches about the dirt. He muttered something, words that were unfamiliar but recognizably powerful. At some unseen cue, he produced a trowel from his cloak. He dug up dirt and pine needles and threw them aside. When he'd made a pit that was deep enough to hide the trowel, he stopped, again holding out a hand.While I didn’t know what we were waiting for, his tension had me hold my breath.Whatever he wanted, it was not there. Crawling, he found another spot and began to dig, still muttering. If he noticed me or my light, he gave no sign.The strangeness of his behavior both intrigued and repelled me. Logic suggested that he too searched for the Ferox Cor, and if he – with all his power – couldn’t find it, I didn’t stand much chance.Still, when he threw the trowel to the ground, I cleared my throat. He froze. Something in his stillness frightened me more than his wild digging had done.“Who’s there?” he snarled.I cleared my throat again. “Vincent. Vincent Fairchild.”“Did Mother send you?”“No. I’d hoped to find a way to some sort of civilization.”“You won’t. Not here.” He spoke calmly, as if his hands and nails weren’t black with dirt. “The bluff is too steep to climb, and unless you know one of the natives who called this place Per-co-dus-chule, you’d never find your way.”“Per-co-dus-chule?” I mangled the pronunciation, though Rafe didn’t seem to notice.“This place we guard. Did you think our name was the only one?” He swiped a hand across his face, leaving a streak of dirt and blood.“I guess I never gave it any thought.”His laugh was bitter. “I’m not surprised. Did you know the first man to sail a tall ship into the Sound named the bluff behind us Magnolia, because he mistook the madrona trees for the pretty flowers he’d known in his youth?”A collection of rainwater dripped off my hat as if to punctuate the absurdity of the situation. “I didn’t know that either.”“Hmph.” He found the trowel and tucked it away. “Find my cane.”“Pardon?”“My cane. Where is it?”Now I was thoroughly confused. “There, leaning against that tree.”The witchlight wasn’t sufficient for me to read his expression, but since he didn’t seem to be joking, I retrieved his cane and held it toward him. “Here.”Standing, he reached in my direction, making one unsuccessful swipe before clasping the cane in hand. Without any thanks, he tapped the ground, pausing between taps as if listening for a response. He began to walk in my direction. I was too caught up in his actions to get out of his way. He only stopped when we were chest to chest.“Move, Fairchild.” His tone brooked no argument, yet I held my ground.Sometimes I have very little common sense.He might be strange, and rude, and more than a little frightening - hell, he didn’t even show me respect by meeting my gaze - but Rafe Gallagher intrigued me.“Move, now,” he repeated. From this close he smelled of smoke and burning herbs, though I saw no evidence of fire.Gathering my courage, I looked directly into those amber glasses, and though it might have been a trick of the light, it seemed his eyes were wholly black.I got out of his way, though it may have been closer to a jump than a dignified step. He brushed past without another word. I stood, my witchlight dwindling, until I could no longer hear his footsteps through the brush.Rafe Gallagher was not a boy and he possessed more power than the Witches Council knew. And unless I was very wrong, something almost demonic had stared at me through his eyes.

Editing is where it's at!

 

Last night I sent a novella off to my editor. 

Such a simple sentence, but it represents SOOO much work! LOL. I'd promised to get The Novella From Hell to her by the end of the month (of February) and over the weekend it dawned on my that the end of the month was NOW. I was about seven thousand words shy of where I wanted it to be, and the thing needed a solid edit before anyone - let alone an editor - could read it.

When I'm drafting, I'm likely to do thinks like change a side character's gender, decide I want to cut Character X and use their name for Character Y, change the point of view (POV) from first to 3rd (or the reverse - either way is not recommended) or make sundry other major modifications. 

Once I changed a book from m/f to m/m after I couldn't get past the first chapter of the m/f version. (The m/m version is Aqua Follies, which worked out pretty darned well, if I do say so myself.)

Basically, during that first draft, anything is fair game. I throw a bunch of words at a document and see what sticks. Creating the first draft is fun, because I get to see where the story is going to go, but I really love the editing process. Once I can see the bones of the story, then I can make it pretty.

There is a method to my madness. When the first draft is complete, I'll do a re-read, leaving comment bubbles and highlighting the things I need to fix. I'll sometimes leave the last chapter undone, because the process of cleaning things up might show me how the story actually ends. If it's a full novel (or a novella where I have the time lol) I'll make an excel workbook with a page for the story calendar, a page for the outline, and a third page for the punch list.

The calendar is pretty self-explanatory and the punch list is something I create toward the end, to show me what still needs work. For the outline, I track the chapter number, the word count, the POV (if there's more than one), first line, last line, a chapter/scene summary, the plot threads it hits, the romance arc, and any notes. 

Here's a screen shot of my first couple chapters of The Lighthouse Keeper, coming to you sometime this spring.

Sometimes I'll add an additional column for scenes, if there are more than one in a chapter. Word count is important because I think there's a rhythm to chapters, and I want them to all be more-or-less the same. If there's more than one POV, I want to make sure each character has about the same page time. I also like to look at first line and last line, to make sure they're not all the same. 
For example, the outline for my book Lost & Found showed me that the POV character stormed off in anger at the end of at least three chapters, maybe more. It wasn't a good look (lol) so I changed a couple of them.
Creating the outline is slow work, but I learn so much from it that for me it's worth the time. It shows me "scenes" that don't actually accomplish anything and gaps that I need to fill in. My "rules" about chapter length and POV word count are malleable; if I can think of a good reason why Chapter X needs to be twice as long as any other, I'll go with it. I just want it to be a conscious decision. Once I start rewriting, I sometimes add another column with a summary of how the scenes actually end up, or how I think they should end up, especially if I end up doing major surgery.
Because yeah, sometimes surgery is required.
Writers spend a lot of ink (e-ink?) debating whether they're plotters are pantsers, but I think there's almost as big a divide between drafters and editors. My writing partner Irene Preston and I are a good illustration of that divide. Irene sweats over each word, carefully placing them exactly where she wants them to go. I just want to get the words down so I can get to fixing them. She spends a lot of time pondering her characters' motivation before she starts, while I get to know my characters as I go. 

We could not be more opposite, and tbh editing our shared projects can get a little tense.

We've survived six books (and counting), so we're making it work. It's been good for me to learn someone else's process, and I think she's learned from me, too - even if she does want to wring my neck a lot of the time.

At any rate, this weekend required a fairly streamlined approach to getting The Novella From Hell ready for the editor. Saturday I wrote 1100 words, Sunday I wrote 5000 (!!!) words, Monday was a wash because Life, and yesterday I sat down at the computer at 0630 and sent the email to my editor about 5:30 pm. It was a looooong day, but I'm pretty happy with the outcome. 

Until she gets back to me with all the stuff I need to fix.

But hey, it's editing, so I'll have fun!

Happy Valentine's Day!! Flash Fic Special!

 

Flash fic prompts: this city street, a busker, and a key...

So this time last year, the Small but Mighty MM Romance Group page on FB had a flash fiction challenge. The organizer invited group members to post pictures plus three word prompts, and we were all invited to choose one and write a short piece. It was a lot of fun! I liked the shortie I came up with, and even though some of you might have read it already, I wanted to post it over here on the blog. I hope you enjoy it!! And happy Valentine's Day!!

Valentine’s Day in Paris, and the rain matched my mood. The French limited the celebration to lovers – no tacky paper cards for everyone at school or gags for the gang at work – so I got nothing from no one. Yeah, I’d been abandoned in the city of love and the rain-slicked streets made me feel right at home.

I’d staked out a spot under a café’s awning in the Place du Tertre, a hat on the ground at my feet. Wearing my hair in a ponytail let the damp send shivers down my neck. The rain chased away most of the tourists, so the hat was empty, but the artists whose booths lined the square were happy enough to have me serenade them.

Keeping a mandolin in tune while playing outside, with or without the rain, had its challenges. I paused between songs, plucking the pairs of strings to find the offender. Twisted the peg, my gaze on the wet cobbles. Plucked again. Twisted.

A single strum told me I’d restored order. My fingers found the strings, as if they’d made an independent decision regarding what to play next. I took a quick look around. A man leaned against the nearby wrought iron streetlamp. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was sharp, and aimed directly at me.

I played the opening chords of Scarborough Fair, choosing the tune made famous by Simon and Garfunkel, rather than one of the older, less familiar melodies. The man smiled, nodding in time. The lyrics tell the story of a series of impossible tasks that must be performed to win true love, although most people only know the list of herbs that make up the refrain.

I finished the verse that asks for an acre of land and the man on the light pole raised a finger. He was taller than me, and darker, with a ball cap shading his face. Still, the heat of his gaze took the edge of the cool damp air.

He began a new tune, though the melody still fit the chords I played. He sang The Elfin Knight, an even older folk ballad than Scarborough Fair.

Instead of parsley and sage, the refrain repeated blow, blow, blow, wind blow. I adjusted my strum, adding more drone to suite the earlier mode, hoping the wind wouldn't take it as an invitation. For the next verse, I joined him on the melody, guessing which set of lyrics he’d use.

That ol’ degree in music history came in handy every now and then.

With me holding down the tune, the stranger found a counter-melody, weaving his voice around mine in a way that raised the hairs on my back of my neck. Our lyrics weren’t a perfect match, but I’d spent hours rehearsing with ensembles who hadn’t gelled nearly as well as me and some guy on the street.

We finished another verse, and I wanted to test us both. I paused my hands and, with a teasing grin, said, “the Battle of Evermore”. The Led Zeppelin song was showy and popular, and the stranger returned my smile.

I shortened the finger picking introduction to get us to the vocals and jumped into the verse. Four lines in, the vocal line shifted to a higher register, often performed by a second singer. I nodded at him and the stranger came in, his pure tenor both a delight and a challenge.

After Led Zeppelin, I tried Tam Lin, figuring if he knew The Elfin Knight he’d know this. He did and he harmonized, verse after verse, the overtones created by our blend evidence of our perfect tuning.

How is this happening? The twining of our voices felt like a seduction. We’d drawn a small crowd, despite the rain, and God knows me and my ne’er do well ex- had never sounded so good.

Rather than get derailed by the guy who’d left me broke and busking in Paris, I shut my mind down and just played. Greensleeves, as much a classic as Scarborough Fair. Gaudete, because it’s always Christmas somewhere. Sumer is icumen in, a bouncy Medieval round.

“Wait,” the man said after the last cuckoo’s call faded. “Play Belle qui tiens ma vie.”

Beautiful one who holds my life.

Slower than the others, the song he’d suggested was a pavane, a courtly dance. Though only known by history nerds and SCA types, the lyrics were unashamedly romantic.

Your beauty and your grace
And your divine ways
Have melted the ice
Which was freezing my bones
And have filled my heart
With a loving ardour.

While the song might have been a declaration of courtly love, something in the man’s expression gave the words added layers of meaning. His tone was an invitation, and while my dick thought that was a fine idea, the rest of me was gun-shy.

I stopped after the third verse, the heat in the harmony becoming too personal for a public square. I didn’t even know his name, but right then he could have talked me into anything.

“What?” he asked, one brow raised as if he sensed my discomfort and found it amusing.

“Uh…” I gestured at my hat, now holding a few francs and some coins. “I can buy us both a drink.”

His smile broadened. “Another time, perhaps, but thank you for the music.”

He bowed from the waist, as anachronistic as the songs we’d been singing. His smile held mischief, but his eyes were full of promise.

And me? I was cock blocked in the extreme.

The rain picked up, chasing away the crowd. I packed up my mandolin and pocketed the cash. I wasn’t in the mood for a solo visit to a café, so I found a market and treated myself to a baguette, cheese, and a bottle of wine. All the while, my nerves thrummed with leftover excitement.

Since my ex- had left, I’d had to downsize. Rather than a decent two bedroom flat, I had a small studio, the kind that rented by the week. The place had once been a fancy home, but it had been carved up long enough ago that each apartment came with an antique metal key.

A key that was no longer in my pocket.

Damn it.

Standing in the mildewy hallway, I set my parcels on the floor and patted myself down. Nope, the key wasn’t in any of my jacket pockets, and it hadn’t magically traveled to my pants. What the fucking hell had I done with it?

“Hello Damon. Looking for something?”

The question startled me so bad I hopped. “What?”

The guy from the Place stood a few feet away, dangling my key between his thumb and his index finger. “If I had to guess, I’d say this is what you're after.”

Questions tumbled out of my mouth on a single breath. “How’d you know my name and where’d you get that and who are you and what the fuck is going on?”

His grin widened. “I’m Leo Dubois, Bard of the Danaan sidhe, and I borrowed your key so I’d have a reason to see you again.” He closed the distance between us. “And as to what’s going on, I hope we do more of this.”

Leaning forward, he brushed a kiss over my lips. Up close, he smelled like fresh air and clean pine forest, and, acting on instinct, I grabbed his jacket and hauled him in.

Our second kiss was longer and deeper and hotter than anything in recent memory. The blend in our voices was nothing compared to the way our spirits melded together. When we finally eased apart, I stood with my forehead resting against his chin.

“You still didn’t tell me how you knew my name.” I should have been embarrassed by how breathless I sounded, but Leo’s answering laugh wrapped me in reassurance.

“Invite me in, and we’ll talk. I feel we have much to discuss.”

I blinked, suddenly aware that we were two men kissing in a semi-public place. Not the smartest thing ever, so I fitted the key into the lock.

I had questions and hopefully he’d have answers, but either way, my dick was first in line for satisfaction. This Valentine’s Day had taken a mighty unexpected turn, and, almost vibrating with excitement, I invited him in.

 

 

 

 

 

Try something new, she said... (On finding ways to promote my books)

 An early TikTok video. There's plenty of room for improvement. 😊

For the last couple years, I've been a member of the Book Boss Author Community run by Angela James. It's been a great experience, both for networking with other authors and for expanding my own knowledge base. This fall, I took Angela's Book Boss Strategy Intensive, a 4-month course in business planning for authors. That experience, more than anything else, has helped me shift my mindset. Writing is not my hobby. I'm running a small business and books and their related content are my product.
Those words are at once freeing and loaded with responsibility. I still tend to throw things at the wall and see if they stick, but I'm (hopefully) more intentional about it. 
At the end of the Strategy Intensive, we all created a business plan. Angela gave us individual feedback on our plans, and her advice to me was to try new things. I'd basically built a marketing plan that was based on what worked for Soulmates, the first book in my Soulmates series, even though the 2nd and 3rd books in the series hadn't done as well.
Sometimes it takes an outside perspective to point out what should be easy for me to see. 
So, determined to Try New Things, in early January I joined a Bookfunnel promo and dropped the price of Soulmates to free for a 5-day period. The book has been out for 2 years and it's the first time I've done a free promotion, and OMG did it go well. I had about 2000 downloads over the 5 days, with almost 30 new reviews so far - and those reviews are like gold. I also had sales and KU downloads for the next two books, along with a handful of new reviews for each. 
I can't run a free promo all that often, but I was very pleased with the experience. January's going to be my best month since Redeemed's release in April.
Bolstered by that experience, and in a fit of "throw it against the wall and see if it sticks", I dove into TikTok. Angela made a how-to video for the Author Community that demystified the process, so I made a couple of short videos and la voila, I have a TikTok account. (You can find it here.)
While it's been fun so far, and making the videos exercises a different part of my creative brain than writing does, I'm just now realizing how much I don't know. I did join an Author TikTokers FB page and dug up a video on TikTok from the 20Booksto50K conference I went to in November, so I have resources for learning. I'm also beginning to appreciate the time commitment involved in creating new content every day. The little buggers are short, but it takes time to put them together.
Still, my oldest kid called me yesterday morning and told me that he and his friends love my TikTok account. His friends think it's cool that his 60-year-old mother is living her best life, and you know what? Encouragement like that motivates me to push on. 
Blogging is also an attempt to try something new, and I'm pretty happy with how that's going, too. Thank you all for reading along, and drop a comment if you have questions or want to share promo ideas. We can all learn from each other!

So you want to write a book....

So many books....so little time...

A friend of mine messaged me the other day, asking if we could get together for a glass of wine. She wanted to ask me about writing a novel, specifically, what she needed to do to write a book. Prior to that text, I had no idea she had an interest in writing, so before we got together,  I did some brainstorming.
What do I say to someone who wants to write a book?
I didn't want to insult her by coming in too basic, and I didn't want to scare her off with a whole bunch of info she might not be able to use. Instead, I tried to split the difference.
I told her to read.
Pick any author, and I can guarantee they were readers before they were writers. Reading others' work inspires us to write and teaches us how. A good book expands our ideas for what is possible and motivates us to do more with our own writing. 
When I studied voice, my teacher told me to listen to excellent singers. Whether Ella Fitzgerald, Debra Harry, or Whitney Houston, I listened hard and tried to copy what they did. I'd store these little tricks of phrasing or interpretation in my own toolbox, ready for when I was working on a new song. 
I do the same thing when I'm reading.
See, no author operates in a vacuum. Whether it's one of the classics, a new bestseller, or the project I'm beta reading for an author friend, reading consciously will help me learn. And you know, it's also okay to copy a little, as long as there's no plagiarism involved. 
Since I didn't have much sense for where my friend was in her writing journey, I suggested she make an effort to read in the genre she wanted to write, and to study how other authors put their books together. I also recommended On Writing by Stephen King, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamotte, and Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg. All three books touch on both craft and inspiration, and they were all important to my growth as a writer.
I haven't had the chance to reconnect with her, but I've got some ideas for her next steps. Because really, the key for how to write a novel is to, you know, write. Make writing a part of your life, whether you're journaling or brainstorming or sitting down to Chapter One.
Some would probably tell my friend she must write every day. Others are more relaxed, but to me, the most important part isn't frequency or schedule. The important thing is that when you sit down to write, you write, whether or not the muse has chosen to grace you with her presence.
If you wait for your muse, your book may never get finished.
That's actually another thing I learned from singing. For almost ten years, I was the cantor for my church's Saturday evening Mass. For almost ten years, every Saturday I stood up in front of the congregation and led them in the Psalm, Ordinary, and hymns. I generally did a solo at Communion - whether I felt like singing or not.
It was great training for an author.
This barely scratches the surface of how to write a book. The thing is, writing is a journey, and the information you need will be available when you need it. All you need to get started, though is to read. And to write.
Best,Liv
PS... it can be helpful to start small. A six thousand word short story is a lot easier to wrestle into shape than a 80,000 word novel. 
PPS...here are a few other resources I found helpful...Save the Cat by Blake Snyder (great book on story structure)Goal, Motivation, and Conflict by Debra Dixon (granular look at how scenes and stories work)Lawson's Writing Academy  (excellent classes, especially Margie's)Janice Hardy's Fiction University (blog posts that address just about any craft question you can think of.Damn Fine Story by Chuck Wendig (if you like your writing craft with F-bombs)*** All links are from Amazon b/c I'm lazy. They're not affiliate links, so I don't earn anything if you  click.

My sweet Ed the dog, may he RIPGoogle defines blogging as...

My sweet Ed the dog, may he RIP

Google defines blogging as "add new material to or regularly update a blog." I used to blog, both here on blogspot and on the Spellbound Scribes. Then the Scribes went on hiatus and life got in the way. Blogging was one of the things I let slide.

To say I've been inconsistent with this blog is fairly hilarious - one post every other year makes you invisible, not inconsistent. I'm feeling the itch, though, so one of my New Years Resolutions is to blog more regularly. I manage once a month on the Scribes, but now I want to double that. 

That's right. You can look forward to twice a month blog posts on liv-rancourt.blogspot.com!

Did you know that when you google a word's definition, you also get a little graphic showing how often a word has been used? (Handy for historical romance authors, ya know?) I don't know why it amuses me, but "blogging" shows a flat line until about 1995.
You might be wondering what I've got to blog about. I expect it'll be similar to my posts on the Spellbound Scribes; a mix of writing craft, what I'm up to, and stuff that pisses me off. I'll also post flash-fiction pieces, along the lines of The Hunt, my December post. I could also see doing a serialized story, depending on how things go. I'll start with two posts a month and see where I find my groove.
All of this has me wondering whether you make New Years Resolutions.
I've made a couple besides blogging. I've committed to limiting my game time on my phone to an hour a day (hard!) and eating more vegetables (harder!). It might not seem like much, but when I make resolutions, I try to keep a few basic rules in mind.Goals should be specific, measurable, and within your control.
Twice a month blogging fits into that fairly well, as does limiting game time on my phone. (What an effing time-suck Two Dots can be! Don't download it!!) Eating more vegetables is a little nebulous, though if I give it some thought, it won't be hard to figure out how to articulate that goal in a way that fits the rules.
I will eat 1.5 - 2 cups of fruit and 2 - 3 cups of vegetables a day, every day, in order to lose the weight I gained over the holidays.
See? That wasn't hard at all. 
In general, setting goals is easier than keeping them, but keeping them is easier if you make them as specific as possible. "I'm going to change my life," might feel good in the sparkle of New Years Eve champagne, but "I'm going to do 30 minutes a day on the spin bike" is a lot more concrete. 
It's important to keep in mind that your goal should be something that is within your control. An author might say "this year I'm going to sign with an agent", but it's up the an agent to offer a contract - or not. 
What's within an author's control? Research, queries, and persistence.
"I'm going to research agents in January, come up with a list of names in February, send out queries in March, and rinse-and-repeat until I'm offered a contract."
Also, an author can hone their craft and make sure their books is the best it can be. 
Which isn't to discourage anyone from making big goals. Something like, "I'll wear my high school jeans to my 20th class reunion" might feel grandiose, but break it into smaller steps that define the scope of the goal and articulate what it'll take to get there. Then use the success that comes from accomplishing small steps to motivate the next and the next after that.
Dream big, but keep your feet on the ground!
This all reminds me of the song, "In My Mind" by Amanda Palmer. I'm not all that familiar with Ms Palmer's music, but the lyrics for this one are so accurate and so honest that I can't help but love it. Check out the link if you're curious, and btw leave me a comment with your favorite NY Resolution. I'd love to hear from you!

 

(It's time for my annual-adjacent dusting off of my blo...

 

 

(It's time for my annual-adjacent dusting off of my blog to share something for the holidays. The Hunt was inspired by a prompt from a post on the Small but Mighty MM Romance Group on Facebook. I hope you'll have as much fun with it as I did. It's a vampire's Christmas!! Hope you all have a wonderful holiday, however you choose to celebrate.)

The Hunt

I’ve been celebrating Christmas since the time when wekilled a wren and burned a log for twelve days; since the child born that nightwas called Mithras; and since the Wild Hunt rode.

The Hunt still has a role to play, but in this world whereelectric lights turn night into day and telegraphs transmit words around theglobe as fast as thought, the ghosts of the past have been reduced to mereshadows.

I, too, am a ghost from the past, albeit a more corporealspecter. So long as I taste human blood and avoid the sun, I will carry on. Why?Because I can and because someone must. As long as one soul remembers the oldways, they will live on.

I’d settled on the Cornish coast, where blustery windscaress the moors and the sea crashes into jagged rock. My home had once been aknight’s stronghold. Its battlements appealed to me, a fearsome face to guardthe comforts within.

And this is a most comfortable space. My companions – they’dbeen with me so long they were more than hired help – have seen to everydetail. Terese brought the role of housekeeper to unimagined heights, while Dom’sability to make magic out of wood and nails had served me more than well.

But, as these things go, Dom had passed on. I sent hisgrieving widow to their daughter’s house for a time. That left me alone,rattling around this pile of stone, albeit one with electric lights and runningwater and a library fit for a king. I’d tried to send Duke with her, the houndwho’d followed Dom like a four-legged shadow, but she’d insisted the dog staywith me.

I could manage on my own for a few days, well, me and Duke together,and when it came time for Dom to join the Hunt, I would be here to wish himwell.

I rose at sunset and, after a cursory bath, I settled in mystudy. I had invested many hours transcribing notes left by the alchemist Marythe Hebrew from their original Arabic into something modern scholars could comprehend.It bothered me no end to allow knowledge to fade into obscurity, and tasks likethis gave me something with which to fill the endless hours of the night.

My study had a single electric lamp and a pair of oil sconceson the wall behind my desk. A bookcase held only such resources as would be requiredfor this project, and Duke lay curled on the woolen rug nearby. Pens and a vialof ink sat at my right hand, and a sheath of good quality paper at my left. Thedocument I worked from was an ancient parchment, obtained through channels I’d spentyears cultivating. I did not begrudge the ink stains on my fingers, nor the knotgrowing between my shoulders. The work was all the more satisfying for beingdifficult. On this night of all nights, it gave meaning to my very existence.

Duke and I noticed the change at the same time. A whiff ofsomething new, some note of freshness mingled with the metallic scent of ink. Ilifted my head even as the dog lifted his, and I let go of the phrase I’d beenparsing, allowing my mind to drift. There. A noise. The dog shuffled tohis feet.

“What is it?”

Duke glanced at me over his shoulder, a quick reassurancebefore he went off to explore. He’d never treat me with the affection he gaveDom and Terese, but we’d reached an accord. For a dog of few words, his bigbrown eyes could be eloquent.

His nails clicked on the mahogany floor and I returned myattention to the parchment. He’d alert me to anything amiss.

Untangling the next phrase absorbed me completely. A sharp wooffrom Duke, however, made me jump to my feet, sending a spray of ink from mypen. Without taking the time to blot the ink, I followed the dog.

My study was on the ground floor, a small room off the greathall. The enormous room was lit by electric bulbs concealed in ornate sconces.I stood in the center of the floor, puzzled by a steady thump echoing off the dramaticallyhigh ceiling.

Thumping? What on earth?

I followed the noise, curiosity overriding everything else.I wasn’t afraid; it would take more than an odd noise to trigger fear in suchas me.

Following the sound to the rear of the room, I duckedthrough the small servant’s door. The thumping continued, and I moved acrossthe flagstones, as silent as a shadow.

I found the source of the sound in the kitchen. A young manknelt midst the shelves of crockery and the cold cast-iron stove. Duke sat infront of him, accepting pats and scratches, his tail beating a steady rhythm onthe floor.

For a moment I did nothing except to draw a curtain ofshadow around myself. The young man was maybe five and twenty years, and he hadthe look of one who’d been sleeping rough. His clothing was worn and dirty, thecap on his head doing a poor job of hiding a riot of curls. His spirit, though,sent an aura of clear light around him. And the warm, earthy, scent of hisblood made my mouth water.

While I didn’t celebrate the holiday in the modern sense, itoccurred to me that I’d rarely been given such a lovely gift.

At my age, I had little need to feed. Dom and Terese betweenthem had more than satisfied me, but we’d lost Dom and Terese was sure tofollow him soon. Perhaps it was time to expand our household once more.

No, I was getting ahead of myself. I knew nothing of this youngsoul, except for the angelic curve of his cheek and the kiss of gold in the scruffon his unshaven face. The affection with which he handled Duke made it clearthey’d met before. Who was he, this soiled cherubim?

Who was he, and why was he in my kitchen?

Releasing the shadows, I cleared my throat. The man froze,though Duke’s tail kept up its steady cadence.

“Who’s there?” His voice was richer and deeper than I expected,as intriguing as the rest of him.

I stepped forward, allowing myself to be seen. “I am.” ShouldI introduce myself? Perhaps, but Lord Randolph Paget, Marquess of Reading feltlike such a mouthful. “You can call me Rand.”

The man rose to his feet. Duke bumped his leg and he reacheddown, resting his hand on the dog’s head. “I didn’t know anyone would be here.Tessa said…”

“Hmm?”

He blinked, shaking his head. I could easily trap him with mygaze, but I hadn’t made the attempt. Interesting.

“You know Tessa? The housekeeper? I’ve helped her with a fewthings since her husband passed on, and she said…”

Again his voice drifted off, making me stifle a smile.Terese had indeed intended to give me a gift. My heart warmed at the thought. “What’syour name?”

Some of the color faded from his face. “Jones. William Jones.I go by Bill.”

“Well, William, it’s lovely to make your acquaintance. May Iask after your intention in coming here?”

He rubbed a palm over his mouth. “Nothing like what you’rethinking. I just”—he nodded in the direction of the stove—“thought I’d start abit of a fire.” He lifted a bag I hadn’t yet noticed. “Would you like some rabbitstew?”

His spirit was too clear, too pure to be harboring illintent. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to partake.” I allowed my gaze to wanderdown his body. His boots were as worn and dirty as the rest of him, though hispantalons did a lovely job of showing off his thick thighs.

He didn’t flinch. If anything, his breathing quickened. OhTerese, you’ve given me a gift indeed.

“But please, make yourself at home. I have plenty of spaceand would be grateful of the company.”

“Oh, I couldn’t…” He backed up a step, clutching his bag.

I fought the urge to command him. A gift must be freelygiven. “You couldn’t let me show you to one of our guest rooms, where you couldtake a proper bath and perhaps borrow a change of clothes?”

He shook his head. “No. Thank you, but I’m not fit for yourhospitality.”

“Where have you been sleeping?”

He dropped his gaze, this time ignoring Duke’s request for affection.“Your barn. The horses keep it warm enough.”

The urge to compel him grew stronger. Still, I resisted. “Whereare you from? Surely you haven’t been living in my barn for long.”

“Look, I appreciate your…”

I allowed the pause to go on a heartbeat too long. “If youcan’t tell me what it is you appreciate, I think you should stay until youfigure it out. Besides, the wild hunt rides tonight. Stay with me.”

“They say I killed a man.” He met my gaze with a suddenfrankness, as if inviting my rejection.

“Did you?”

His jaw tightened, the muscles in his angelic cheeksworking. “I’m not sure.”

I crossed the distance between us faster than he couldpossibly have seen. The touch of my finger on his chin made his eyes go wideenough to show the whites. “You did not. I’m sure of that, although it wouldn’tmatter either way.” I ran my thumb over his lower lip, boldly, rudely, and wasgratified when his nostrils flared. “I’ve killed many men, although none recently.”

His intoxicating mix of desire and fear threatened mycontrol. I stepped back, keeping my posture relaxed, amiable. “Now, leave the rabbithere and let me show you to your room.”

Wordlessly, he set the bag on the nearest counter. Dukewhined, scratching the cupboard beneath it. I laughed, and after a moment, sodid William.

“I’ll just put this higher,” he said, moving the bag to ashelf at eye level.

My smile may well have shown a hint of fang. “This way,please.”

I gave him the room closest to mine. Silly, really. I couldhave given him any room, knowing full well I had every intention of bringinghim to my own bed before the night was through. I’d never taken a lover whilethe Wild Hunt rode. The idea filled me with more excitement than I’d felt in years.

Hell, I hadn’t taken a lover of any kind in years. I had nopreference; men and women pleased me equally. Dom and Terese had taken care ofall my needs, at least until time slowed them to the point of disinterest. Dom becametoo frail, and while I still loved Terese’s body, softened as it was by timeand age, laying with me caused her more discomfort than pleasure.  

This man, though, this William Jones who was called Bill? He’dgive me what I craved.

I showed him the bathroom, standing silently behind the doorwhile water splashed into the tub. He’d set the lock with a soft click. Ismiled and closed my eyes, allowing my mind to fill in what I could not see. Withoutthose rags, his shoulders would be broad, his chest firm. A scattering of goldenhair would make a trail from his chest to the darker curls around his manhood. Wouldhe be cut, or would his prick still have its soft hood of skin? My mouthwatered.

I should go back to the study while he bathed. I’d left theink uncapped, the page I’d been writing now spoiled. But I couldn’t bringmyself to leave.

With endless nights to fill, I could always start over onthe translation.

Using my power over the shadows, I obscured the door fromhis gaze and slipped inside the bathroom. He sighed, as if that tub full ofwarm water had taken him to heaven. Snatching up his trousers and shirt, I leftone of Dom’s older suits as a replacement. The old-fashioned garments were well-madeand would fit his broad frame. My excitement grew stronger.

A splash and a gurgle told me he’d risen from the water andwas draining the tub. I guessed that his sharp intake of breath meant he’d seenDom’s suit. Water splashed in the sink, and a very soft scrape hinted that hewas shaving. Oh, to be able to watch!

He caught me in a swoon, still standing in front of the doorwhen he flung it open. “The boots don’t fit.” He held them out to me, hisexpression unreadable.

They were a fine pair of kid boots with buttons up the side.Dom had rarely worn them, as he preferred sturdier fare. “Too small? Wait, I’llfind another pair.”

This time I brought him an older pair, one Dom preferred fordressier occasions. The black leather uppers laced up. Wordlessly I handed themto William. His expression still carefully blank, he thanked me and went intohis room.

Whereupon I stood where he left me, inhaling his warm, soapyscent. He might have tried to brush his hair back from his face, but his curls hadalready begun to escape. They framed his face in a soft golden halo.

When he didn’t reappear immediately, I ducked into my own room.I’d dressed for a night in the study, so with quick and practiced movements, Ichanged my collar and tied a fresh cravat. Instead of my plain waistcoat, I puton blue silk shot with silver threads. I tossed my ordinary jacket aside andput on one of fine wool. Regarding myself in the mirror, I gave a satisfiednod.

I would do.

I was still fastening my cufflinks on my way out the door.They were gold and pearl, and I almost dropped one when I found William waitingin the hall.

“Let me,” he said, gently clasping a hand around my wrist.Neither of us spoke while he slipped the peg through the holes in my cuff andscrewed the back into place.

“The other?” He took my hand, but that cufflink was alreadyin place. Still, I intertwined my fingers with his for the briefest moment.

“Sadly,” my voice was surprisingly gruff, “Terese isn’t hereto prepare your rabbit stew.”

He gestured toward himself. “I probably should have dressedthe rabbit before I dressed myself.”

We shared a smile. “I wonder if she left something in theice box.”

“I shouldn’t make myself any more beholden to you than I amalready.”

I gave a fairly inelegant snort. “Come with me.” Taking himby the elbow, I led him down the carpeted hall to the grand staircase that ledto the great room. We’d come up straight from the kitchen, so he hadn’t seen myhome at its best.

With a snap of my fingers, the enormous fireplace came tolife. A single log had been burning slowly for the last several days, so ittook just a little nudge to bring it to a flame. A pair of overstuffed chairswere positioned close to the hearth, a table set between them. Duke already laycurled on the rug, the tip of his tail wagging at our approach.

After encouraging William to sit, I left him only longenough to commandeer a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses. As I’d guessed,Terese had left a pot pie in the icebox, so I added that to my tray. He’d haveto eat it cold, because setting it on the hearth to warm would tax Duke’s senseof obedience.

Returning, I set my prizes on the table between us. Now theseduction would truly begin, though from the guarded expression in William’seyes, it would not be easy. He played with one of the buttons on his waistcoat,a small hint that his mind might be in turmoil.

“Why are you doing all this, Rand?”

His question was more open, more honest, and more obviousthan I’d expected. I could only reply in kind. “Because I want to.”

“But…” He frowned at the fire. “It makes no sense. Tessatold me she meant to spend the holiday with her daughter’s family and that I coulduse the kitchen if I wanted. I had no idea she’d leave you here alone.”

Interesting. He knew of my existence. “I’m capable of takingcare of myself.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean to imply—”

My laughter cut him off. “And she’s left the icebox wellstocked. I shall not starve.” Not with such a beautiful man within my reach. “Nowhere.” I poured us each a glass of wine. “Let us drink a toast.”

I raised my glass and after a moment’s hesitation, so didhe. “To the peace of this night and our hopes for the new year.”

Our glasses clinked together and we both took a sip. Duke woofed,shifting his position, and the fire sent up a spray of sparks.

“Tell me more about yourself, William Jones. How did youcome to be sleeping in my barn?” I could have asked him to recite the alphabet.Anything to hear that beautiful voice again.

He stared darkly into his wineglass. “I’m from around Devoran.”He gave it the Cornish pronunciation, Deveryon. “I wasn’t much for mining. I’drather read than dig, honestly.”

I all but rubbed my hands with glee. “You must see mylibrary, then.”

“Could I?” He glanced at me, those dark eyes brightening.

“Of course. After our wine.”

He took a good deep swallow while I stifled my grin.

“My Da managed to scrape together the pennies for me to jointhe priesthood. I liked it well enough, until…” Whatever he’d been about to saywas lost in his moody gaze.

“Until?”

He gave me a tight smile. “Let’s just say I’m not cut out tobe a priest.”

“I’ve never had much use for religion.”

“Oh, it has its place.” He swirled the wine in his glass. “Thisis good, by the way. Thank you.”

I refreshed our glasses. “You’re very welcome.”

We sat in silence for several moments, each busy with ourown thoughts. I wondered if the man he might have killed had something to dowith why he left the seminary. Though curious, I didn’t pry. That would be astory for another time.

At my insistence, he cut into the pot pie and served himselfa healthy slice. “You won’t have any?” he asked.

I simply smiled. “Not now.” Later. Later I would feed,and it was all I could do to keep from drooling.

He was so lovely.

We talked of many things. He’d made a brief sojourn to the Continent,traveling as far as Rome. I’d wandered the same roads, though many years ago. He’dvisited churches and libraries. I’d visited gaming hells and brothels. Still,we found common ground, and by the end of his meal, his cheeks were flushed andhe’d shown off a lovely sweet smile.

When he was finished eating, I piled everything on theserving tray and poured us each another glass of wine. “Come,” I said. “We’lltake this back to the kitchen and then I’ll show you the library.”

With Duke following behind us, we traversed a short halllined with windows. They gave us a view of the formal garden, now frosted whitewith snow. Similar windows lined one wall in the library, so we’d be able towatch the Hunt as they rode past.

He paused in front of the last window before we reached thelibrary door. “Magical.” He murmured the word, and I had to agree.

“Just wait.” I breathed the words, leaning close enough tofeel his shiver. “Come.”

I deliberately left the electric lights off. Candlelightwould show the room off to its best advantage. Picking up the heavy candlestickTerese left for me, I lit it with a flick of my fingers. I slowly circled theroom, lighting candles as I went, gratified by William’s gasp of surprise.

“This is…amazing.” He stood in the center of the room,turning to follow my progress. Bookshelves lined the walls. Some were setperpendicular, to fit more shelves in. A large, upholstered chair took upvaluable floor space near the windows and I’d begrudgingly allowed a desk totake up more.

This wasn’t a place for work as much as a place to revel inthe collected knowledge of so many, many minds. “I’m something of a collector.”

William took a tentative step toward the closest shelf, handlifted as if he couldn’t help but try and touch.

“Go ahead,” I said softly, the hairs on the back of my neckrising. The Hunt was near.

William lifted a folio, allowing it to drop open. “A MidsomerNight’s Dream.”

“There are a number of plays on that shelf.”

He ran a fingertip along the page, and I brought the candlecloser.

“This is amazing.” His grin invited me closer still.

I put a hand on his back, resisting the temptation to strokethe curve of his arse.

He stepped away, but only long enough to set one folio down andpick up another. “I could stay here all night.”

The thud of horses’ hooves drew my gaze to the window. “Come.”I took his arm and drew him away from the bookshelf. “They’re here.”

The wind blew wildly, scooping up flurries of snow and sprayingthem across the landscape. Duke took up a position at my side, lips bared in asilent growl. Anyone blind to the magic of the night would see nothing morethan wind and snow.

I saw riders, fierce and furious, surrounding their queen.She rode a white horse and her page carried a blank banner the color of snow.

William’s sharp intake of breath distracted me. “What do yousee?” I asked.

“Riders.” His deep voice sent a shiver up my spine. “Is thisit, then. Are we dying?”

Chuckling, I put an arm around him and drew him closer. “Notus. Watch.”

A ghostly figure appeared at the edge of the garden. “Dom.” Arider slipped away from the pack and rode toward him. The rider paused long enoughfor my friend to climb aboard and disappeared into the mass.

My friend was gone. Duke whined, a final goodbye.

 “I’ve always believedthat the devil dogs came for your soul,” William said.

“They do.” I tightened my hold on him, grateful for his warmthand his quiet curiosity. “But only of those who are already dead. Besides, apriest mustn’t put much stake in the old tales.”

His slow turn gave me time to put both my arms around him. Herested his hands on my shoulders. “What sort of creature are you? Tessa said…”

“What?”

“She warned me that you had unconventional habits.”

I grinned, showing both fangs. “You might say.”

He tilted his head, more curious than anything else.

“You can see the hunt and you’re not afraid of me. You’dmake a very poor priest indeed.”

“I suppose.”

I traced one of his errant curls. “You are welcome here foras long as you choose to stay. My habits are…irregular, but I don’t think youwill find them a hardship.”

If he had any doubt as to my meaning, the jab of my prickagainst his thigh had to make it plain.

His smile dampened, and for a moment I worried that I’dmisread his preferences. Before I could ease myself away, he pulled me closer,as if he’d sensed my intention.

“There may be some who are still looking for me. I wouldnever intentionally bring danger to anyone as kind as you.”

“Oh, William.” I rutted against him. “There’s a reason Ilive in a castle. These battlements have withstood far greater threats. Now”—I flickeda finger overhead and a cluster of mistletoe appeared—“I believe it’s time we beginour celebration.”

He glanced at the bundle of leaves with its small whiteberries. Returning his attention to me, his eyelids had grown heavy with lust. “Iagree.”

Our lips met in a sweet kiss that soon grew wild, infused withthe energy of the night, the old ways. It took little to persuade William toreturn to the rug in front of the fire, although Duke did protest our choice.

There, we honored the darkness on this darkest of nights.Honored, and celebrated, and rejoiced, until dawn brought us a new day.

The End 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(It's time for my annual-adjacent dusting off of my bl...

 

 

(It's time for my annual-adjacent dusting off of my blog to share something for the holidays. The Hunt was inspired by a prompt from a post on the Small but Mighty MM Romance Group on Facebook. I hope you'll have as much fun with it as I did. It's a vampire's Christmas!! Hope you all have a wonderful holiday, however you choose to celebrate.)

The Hunt

I’ve been celebrating Christmas since the time when we killed a wren and burned a log for twelve days; since the child born that night was called Mithras; and since the Wild Hunt rode.

The Hunt still has a role to play, but in this world where electric lights turn night into day and telegraphs transmit words around the globe as fast as thought, the ghosts of the past have been reduced to mere shadows.

I, too, am a ghost from the past, albeit a more corporeal specter. So long as I taste human blood and avoid the sun, I will carry on. Why? Because I can and because someone must. As long as one soul remembers the old ways, they will live on.

I’d settled on the Cornish coast, where blustery winds caress the moors and the sea crashes into jagged rock. My home had once been a knight’s stronghold. Its battlements appealed to me, a fearsome face to guard the comforts within.

And this is a most comfortable space. My companions – they’d been with me so long they were more than hired help – have seen to every detail. Terese brought the role of housekeeper to unimagined heights, while Dom’s ability to make magic out of wood and nails had served me more than well.

But, as these things go, Dom had passed on. I sent his grieving widow to their daughter’s house for a time. That left me alone, rattling around this pile of stone, albeit one with electric lights and running water and a library fit for a king. I’d tried to send Duke with her, the hound who’d followed Dom like a four-legged shadow, but she’d insisted the dog stay with me.

I could manage on my own for a few days, well, me and Duke together, and when it came time for Dom to join the Hunt, I would be here to wish him well.

I rose at sunset and, after a cursory bath, I settled in my study. I had invested many hours transcribing notes left by the alchemist Mary the Hebrew from their original Arabic into something modern scholars could comprehend. It bothered me no end to allow knowledge to fade into obscurity, and tasks like this gave me something with which to fill the endless hours of the night.

My study had a single electric lamp and a pair of oil sconces on the wall behind my desk. A bookcase held only such resources as would be required for this project, and Duke lay curled on the woolen rug nearby. Pens and a vial of ink sat at my right hand, and a sheath of good quality paper at my left. The document I worked from was an ancient parchment, obtained through channels I’d spent years cultivating. I did not begrudge the ink stains on my fingers, nor the knot growing between my shoulders. The work was all the more satisfying for being difficult. On this night of all nights, it gave meaning to my very existence.

Duke and I noticed the change at the same time. A whiff of something new, some note of freshness mingled with the metallic scent of ink. I lifted my head even as the dog lifted his, and I let go of the phrase I’d been parsing, allowing my mind to drift. There. A noise. The dog shuffled to his feet.

“What is it?”

Duke glanced at me over his shoulder, a quick reassurance before he went off to explore. He’d never treat me with the affection he gave Dom and Terese, but we’d reached an accord. For a dog of few words, his big brown eyes could be eloquent.

His nails clicked on the mahogany floor and I returned my attention to the parchment. He’d alert me to anything amiss.

Untangling the next phrase absorbed me completely. A sharp woof from Duke, however, made me jump to my feet, sending a spray of ink from my pen. Without taking the time to blot the ink, I followed the dog.

My study was on the ground floor, a small room off the great hall. The enormous room was lit by electric bulbs concealed in ornate sconces. I stood in the center of the floor, puzzled by a steady thump echoing off the dramatically high ceiling.

Thumping? What on earth?

I followed the noise, curiosity overriding everything else. I wasn’t afraid; it would take more than an odd noise to trigger fear in such as me.

Following the sound to the rear of the room, I ducked through the small servant’s door. The thumping continued, and I moved across the flagstones, as silent as a shadow.

I found the source of the sound in the kitchen. A young man knelt midst the shelves of crockery and the cold cast-iron stove. Duke sat in front of him, accepting pats and scratches, his tail beating a steady rhythm on the floor.

For a moment I did nothing except to draw a curtain of shadow around myself. The young man was maybe five and twenty years, and he had the look of one who’d been sleeping rough. His clothing was worn and dirty, the cap on his head doing a poor job of hiding a riot of curls. His spirit, though, sent an aura of clear light around him. And the warm, earthy, scent of his blood made my mouth water.

While I didn’t celebrate the holiday in the modern sense, it occurred to me that I’d rarely been given such a lovely gift.

At my age, I had little need to feed. Dom and Terese between them had more than satisfied me, but we’d lost Dom and Terese was sure to follow him soon. Perhaps it was time to expand our household once more.

No, I was getting ahead of myself. I knew nothing of this young soul, except for the angelic curve of his cheek and the kiss of gold in the scruff on his unshaven face. The affection with which he handled Duke made it clear they’d met before. Who was he, this soiled cherubim?

Who was he, and why was he in my kitchen?

Releasing the shadows, I cleared my throat. The man froze, though Duke’s tail kept up its steady cadence.

“Who’s there?” His voice was richer and deeper than I expected, as intriguing as the rest of him.

I stepped forward, allowing myself to be seen. “I am.” Should I introduce myself? Perhaps, but Lord Randolph Paget, Marquess of Reading felt like such a mouthful. “You can call me Rand.”

The man rose to his feet. Duke bumped his leg and he reached down, resting his hand on the dog’s head. “I didn’t know anyone would be here. Tessa said…”

“Hmm?”

He blinked, shaking his head. I could easily trap him with my gaze, but I hadn’t made the attempt. Interesting.

“You know Tessa? The housekeeper? I’ve helped her with a few things since her husband passed on, and she said…”

Again his voice drifted off, making me stifle a smile. Terese had indeed intended to give me a gift. My heart warmed at the thought. “What’s your name?”

Some of the color faded from his face. “Jones. William Jones. I go by Bill.”

“Well, William, it’s lovely to make your acquaintance. May I ask after your intention in coming here?”

He rubbed a palm over his mouth. “Nothing like what you’re thinking. I just”—he nodded in the direction of the stove—“thought I’d start a bit of a fire.” He lifted a bag I hadn’t yet noticed. “Would you like some rabbit stew?”

His spirit was too clear, too pure to be harboring ill intent. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to partake.” I allowed my gaze to wander down his body. His boots were as worn and dirty as the rest of him, though his pantalons did a lovely job of showing off his thick thighs.

He didn’t flinch. If anything, his breathing quickened. Oh Terese, you’ve given me a gift indeed.

“But please, make yourself at home. I have plenty of space and would be grateful of the company.”

“Oh, I couldn’t…” He backed up a step, clutching his bag.

I fought the urge to command him. A gift must be freely given. “You couldn’t let me show you to one of our guest rooms, where you could take a proper bath and perhaps borrow a change of clothes?”

He shook his head. “No. Thank you, but I’m not fit for your hospitality.”

“Where have you been sleeping?”

He dropped his gaze, this time ignoring Duke’s request for affection. “Your barn. The horses keep it warm enough.”

The urge to compel him grew stronger. Still, I resisted. “Where are you from? Surely you haven’t been living in my barn for long.”

“Look, I appreciate your…”

I allowed the pause to go on a heartbeat too long. “If you can’t tell me what it is you appreciate, I think you should stay until you figure it out. Besides, the wild hunt rides tonight. Stay with me.”

“They say I killed a man.” He met my gaze with a sudden frankness, as if inviting my rejection.

“Did you?”

His jaw tightened, the muscles in his angelic cheeks working. “I’m not sure.”

I crossed the distance between us faster than he could possibly have seen. The touch of my finger on his chin made his eyes go wide enough to show the whites. “You did not. I’m sure of that, although it wouldn’t matter either way.” I ran my thumb over his lower lip, boldly, rudely, and was gratified when his nostrils flared. “I’ve killed many men, although none recently.”

His intoxicating mix of desire and fear threatened my control. I stepped back, keeping my posture relaxed, amiable. “Now, leave the rabbit here and let me show you to your room.”

Wordlessly, he set the bag on the nearest counter. Duke whined, scratching the cupboard beneath it. I laughed, and after a moment, so did William.

“I’ll just put this higher,” he said, moving the bag to a shelf at eye level.

My smile may well have shown a hint of fang. “This way, please.”

I gave him the room closest to mine. Silly, really. I could have given him any room, knowing full well I had every intention of bringing him to my own bed before the night was through. I’d never taken a lover while the Wild Hunt rode. The idea filled me with more excitement than I’d felt in years.

Hell, I hadn’t taken a lover of any kind in years. I had no preference; men and women pleased me equally. Dom and Terese had taken care of all my needs, at least until time slowed them to the point of disinterest. Dom became too frail, and while I still loved Terese’s body, softened as it was by time and age, laying with me caused her more discomfort than pleasure.  

This man, though, this William Jones who was called Bill? He’d give me what I craved.

I showed him the bathroom, standing silently behind the door while water splashed into the tub. He’d set the lock with a soft click. I smiled and closed my eyes, allowing my mind to fill in what I could not see. Without those rags, his shoulders would be broad, his chest firm. A scattering of golden hair would make a trail from his chest to the darker curls around his manhood. Would he be cut, or would his prick still have its soft hood of skin? My mouth watered.

I should go back to the study while he bathed. I’d left the ink uncapped, the page I’d been writing now spoiled. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave.

With endless nights to fill, I could always start over on the translation.

Using my power over the shadows, I obscured the door from his gaze and slipped inside the bathroom. He sighed, as if that tub full of warm water had taken him to heaven. Snatching up his trousers and shirt, I left one of Dom’s older suits as a replacement. The old-fashioned garments were well-made and would fit his broad frame. My excitement grew stronger.

A splash and a gurgle told me he’d risen from the water and was draining the tub. I guessed that his sharp intake of breath meant he’d seen Dom’s suit. Water splashed in the sink, and a very soft scrape hinted that he was shaving. Oh, to be able to watch!

He caught me in a swoon, still standing in front of the door when he flung it open. “The boots don’t fit.” He held them out to me, his expression unreadable.

They were a fine pair of kid boots with buttons up the side. Dom had rarely worn them, as he preferred sturdier fare. “Too small? Wait, I’ll find another pair.”

This time I brought him an older pair, one Dom preferred for dressier occasions. The black leather uppers laced up. Wordlessly I handed them to William. His expression still carefully blank, he thanked me and went into his room.

Whereupon I stood where he left me, inhaling his warm, soapy scent. He might have tried to brush his hair back from his face, but his curls had already begun to escape. They framed his face in a soft golden halo.

When he didn’t reappear immediately, I ducked into my own room. I’d dressed for a night in the study, so with quick and practiced movements, I changed my collar and tied a fresh cravat. Instead of my plain waistcoat, I put on blue silk shot with silver threads. I tossed my ordinary jacket aside and put on one of fine wool. Regarding myself in the mirror, I gave a satisfied nod.

I would do.

I was still fastening my cufflinks on my way out the door. They were gold and pearl, and I almost dropped one when I found William waiting in the hall.

“Let me,” he said, gently clasping a hand around my wrist. Neither of us spoke while he slipped the peg through the holes in my cuff and screwed the back into place.

“The other?” He took my hand, but that cufflink was already in place. Still, I intertwined my fingers with his for the briefest moment.

“Sadly,” my voice was surprisingly gruff, “Terese isn’t here to prepare your rabbit stew.”

He gestured toward himself. “I probably should have dressed the rabbit before I dressed myself.”

We shared a smile. “I wonder if she left something in the ice box.”

“I shouldn’t make myself any more beholden to you than I am already.”

I gave a fairly inelegant snort. “Come with me.” Taking him by the elbow, I led him down the carpeted hall to the grand staircase that led to the great room. We’d come up straight from the kitchen, so he hadn’t seen my home at its best.

With a snap of my fingers, the enormous fireplace came to life. A single log had been burning slowly for the last several days, so it took just a little nudge to bring it to a flame. A pair of overstuffed chairs were positioned close to the hearth, a table set between them. Duke already lay curled on the rug, the tip of his tail wagging at our approach.

After encouraging William to sit, I left him only long enough to commandeer a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses. As I’d guessed, Terese had left a pot pie in the icebox, so I added that to my tray. He’d have to eat it cold, because setting it on the hearth to warm would tax Duke’s sense of obedience.

Returning, I set my prizes on the table between us. Now the seduction would truly begin, though from the guarded expression in William’s eyes, it would not be easy. He played with one of the buttons on his waistcoat, a small hint that his mind might be in turmoil.

“Why are you doing all this, Rand?”

His question was more open, more honest, and more obvious than I’d expected. I could only reply in kind. “Because I want to.”

“But…” He frowned at the fire. “It makes no sense. Tessa told me she meant to spend the holiday with her daughter’s family and that I could use the kitchen if I wanted. I had no idea she’d leave you here alone.”

Interesting. He knew of my existence. “I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean to imply—”

My laughter cut him off. “And she’s left the icebox well stocked. I shall not starve.” Not with such a beautiful man within my reach. “Now here.” I poured us each a glass of wine. “Let us drink a toast.”

I raised my glass and after a moment’s hesitation, so did he. “To the peace of this night and our hopes for the new year.”

Our glasses clinked together and we both took a sip. Duke woofed, shifting his position, and the fire sent up a spray of sparks.

“Tell me more about yourself, William Jones. How did you come to be sleeping in my barn?” I could have asked him to recite the alphabet. Anything to hear that beautiful voice again.

He stared darkly into his wineglass. “I’m from around Devoran.” He gave it the Cornish pronunciation, Deveryon. “I wasn’t much for mining. I’d rather read than dig, honestly.”

I all but rubbed my hands with glee. “You must see my library, then.”

“Could I?” He glanced at me, those dark eyes brightening.

“Of course. After our wine.”

He took a good deep swallow while I stifled my grin.

“My Da managed to scrape together the pennies for me to join the priesthood. I liked it well enough, until…” Whatever he’d been about to say was lost in his moody gaze.

“Until?”

He gave me a tight smile. “Let’s just say I’m not cut out to be a priest.”

“I’ve never had much use for religion.”

“Oh, it has its place.” He swirled the wine in his glass. “This is good, by the way. Thank you.”

I refreshed our glasses. “You’re very welcome.”

We sat in silence for several moments, each busy with our own thoughts. I wondered if the man he might have killed had something to do with why he left the seminary. Though curious, I didn’t pry. That would be a story for another time.

At my insistence, he cut into the pot pie and served himself a healthy slice. “You won’t have any?” he asked.

I simply smiled. “Not now.” Later. Later I would feed, and it was all I could do to keep from drooling.

He was so lovely.

We talked of many things. He’d made a brief sojourn to the Continent, traveling as far as Rome. I’d wandered the same roads, though many years ago. He’d visited churches and libraries. I’d visited gaming hells and brothels. Still, we found common ground, and by the end of his meal, his cheeks were flushed and he’d shown off a lovely sweet smile.

When he was finished eating, I piled everything on the serving tray and poured us each another glass of wine. “Come,” I said. “We’ll take this back to the kitchen and then I’ll show you the library.”

With Duke following behind us, we traversed a short hall lined with windows. They gave us a view of the formal garden, now frosted white with snow. Similar windows lined one wall in the library, so we’d be able to watch the Hunt as they rode past.

He paused in front of the last window before we reached the library door. “Magical.” He murmured the word, and I had to agree.

“Just wait.” I breathed the words, leaning close enough to feel his shiver. “Come.”

I deliberately left the electric lights off. Candlelight would show the room off to its best advantage. Picking up the heavy candlestick Terese left for me, I lit it with a flick of my fingers. I slowly circled the room, lighting candles as I went, gratified by William’s gasp of surprise.

“This is…amazing.” He stood in the center of the room, turning to follow my progress. Bookshelves lined the walls. Some were set perpendicular, to fit more shelves in. A large, upholstered chair took up valuable floor space near the windows and I’d begrudgingly allowed a desk to take up more.

This wasn’t a place for work as much as a place to revel in the collected knowledge of so many, many minds. “I’m something of a collector.”

William took a tentative step toward the closest shelf, hand lifted as if he couldn’t help but try and touch.

“Go ahead,” I said softly, the hairs on the back of my neck rising. The Hunt was near.

William lifted a folio, allowing it to drop open. “A Midsomer Night’s Dream.”

“There are a number of plays on that shelf.”

He ran a fingertip along the page, and I brought the candle closer.

“This is amazing.” His grin invited me closer still.

I put a hand on his back, resisting the temptation to stroke the curve of his arse.

He stepped away, but only long enough to set one folio down and pick up another. “I could stay here all night.”

The thud of horses’ hooves drew my gaze to the window. “Come.” I took his arm and drew him away from the bookshelf. “They’re here.”

The wind blew wildly, scooping up flurries of snow and spraying them across the landscape. Duke took up a position at my side, lips bared in a silent growl. Anyone blind to the magic of the night would see nothing more than wind and snow.

I saw riders, fierce and furious, surrounding their queen. She rode a white horse and her page carried a blank banner the color of snow.

William’s sharp intake of breath distracted me. “What do you see?” I asked.

“Riders.” His deep voice sent a shiver up my spine. “Is this it, then. Are we dying?”

Chuckling, I put an arm around him and drew him closer. “Not us. Watch.”

A ghostly figure appeared at the edge of the garden. “Dom.” A rider slipped away from the pack and rode toward him. The rider paused long enough for my friend to climb aboard and disappeared into the mass.

My friend was gone. Duke whined, a final goodbye.

 “I’ve always believed that the devil dogs came for your soul,” William said.

“They do.” I tightened my hold on him, grateful for his warmth and his quiet curiosity. “But only of those who are already dead. Besides, a priest mustn’t put much stake in the old tales.”

His slow turn gave me time to put both my arms around him. He rested his hands on my shoulders. “What sort of creature are you? Tessa said…”

“What?”

“She warned me that you had unconventional habits.”

I grinned, showing both fangs. “You might say.”

He tilted his head, more curious than anything else.

“You can see the hunt and you’re not afraid of me. You’d make a very poor priest indeed.”

“I suppose.”

I traced one of his errant curls. “You are welcome here for as long as you choose to stay. My habits are…irregular, but I don’t think you will find them a hardship.”

If he had any doubt as to my meaning, the jab of my prick against his thigh had to make it plain.

His smile dampened, and for a moment I worried that I’d misread his preferences. Before I could ease myself away, he pulled me closer, as if he’d sensed my intention.

“There may be some who are still looking for me. I would never intentionally bring danger to anyone as kind as you.”

“Oh, William.” I rutted against him. “There’s a reason I live in a castle. These battlements have withstood far greater threats. Now”—I flicked a finger overhead and a cluster of mistletoe appeared—“I believe it’s time we begin our celebration.”

He glanced at the bundle of leaves with its small white berries. Returning his attention to me, his eyelids had grown heavy with lust. “I agree.”

Our lips met in a sweet kiss that soon grew wild, infused with the energy of the night, the old ways. It took little to persuade William to return to the rug in front of the fire, although Duke did protest our choice.

There, we honored the darkness on this darkest of nights. Honored, and celebrated, and rejoiced, until dawn brought us a new day.

The End