Anna Butler's Blog, page 32

Dragons and fantasy and Qaida Harte…

I love fantasy. The most exciting words in the language, and certainly written on any map, are “Here be dragons.” It conjures up so much of high adventure and heroes, of strange lands and mysterious peoples, of deeds of great renown, of perilous treasures that seduce and betray, and of love so deep that it braves all danger and leaves no one untouched.

So it’s with great pleasure that I’m posting today to support Qaida Harte’s new release with Dreamspinner, Dragon’s Treasure. The title says it all, doesn’t it? Only, what is the treasure, I wonder? Gold and jewels, a la Smaug? Or love so deep it braves all danger…

 I vote for love, myself. That lovely cover is a clue there!

 

College student Ahndrai has the ill fortune of falling into the grasp of an attractive, sadistic vampire. He encounters Eita, a vampire who lusts for Ahndrai’s sweet blood and tears apart his world. Eita proves that every myth and legend ever written is only too real, and they are far darker than portrayed in any story.

Ahndrai must face a host of monsters that Eita allows to attack and kill him. Each time Ahndrai dies, Eita revives him so he can continue to feed off him. Ahndrai believes that every creature is as cruel and unforgiving as Eita. Then Nakiirn, a dragon prince, rescues Ahndrai. But even after Ahndrai overcomes his fears and falls in love with Nakiirn, they must both contend with Eita’s cruelty again before the vampire succeeds in claiming Ahndrai once more.

 

 

Dreamspinner e-Book

Dreamspinner print version

Amazon

 

Qaida Harte is a new author with Dreamspinner, her first publication releases this December.

Qaida has been writing for most of her life and has always dreamed of being published. Her preferred genres are modern fantasy and erotica. Action and danger are a must in the themes of her projects, as well as that steamy romance to help ease all the heart ache.

She currently resides in the beautiful town of Reno, Nevada with her wonderful husband. Days are spent pounding away on a keyboard with a hot cup of coffee and music blasting. There is an endless amount of characters and dark plots weaving and too little time to get them all done.

Contact Qaida :

Email : qaida.harte@gmail.com

Website : http://www.qaidaharte.com/

Twitter : https://twitter.com/Qaida_Harte

 

Evolution of a study

My study, in fact. D – being the great husband he is – has worked hard on putting together my study at the new house, ever since all the furniture bits were delivered on Tuesday. Today he transferred my PC from the downstairs office (now Mum’s little sitting room) and, with a few sundry details like putting clocks and pictures on the wall, my new study is all ready.

 

The room was under its previous owner:

 

And empty, the morning all our furniture arrived:

 

And by furniture, I mean piles of crap, obviously. Because boxes of small stuff from my old study. At this point, we’d already built the shelving units and I’d unpacked my books – this is really just the crud:

 

The new shelving units in place:

 

And D, (half hidden by a desk leg and therefore the only photo he’d let me post), creating my new desk. Molly, of course, is supervising:

 

Almost there.  At this point, D had to rewire all the light fittings in the ceiling (they decided to fall out, which was most inconvenient). He then wired in my stereo and speakers, and had a brilliant idea for getting the speaker wire from the little table on the left (the one currently bearing a wastepaper basket containing the inevitable crud) to the shelving system on the other side of the room. The thin, flat wire was carefully slipped into the crack between the floorboards, and then gone over with a black magic marker. You’d never know it was there. Sadly, the photos of it are crap, so I can’t show you. Take my word for it.

 

PC installed. All done!

 

 

 

Beautiful, isn’t it? Sadly, though, now there’s no excuse not to crack on with work, is there? Sigh.

 

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Pictures… And Less Than 1000 words

Are you a visualiser or a words person?

I’m not really thinking here about the pure differences between left and right brain thinking – that’s waaaayy too scientific for me. Although, it is true that a person who is primarily a visual thinker can have difficulty in putting their thoughts down into words—Einstein, for example. Did you know he said “The words of the language, as they are written or spoken, do not seem to play any role in my mechanisms of thought. The physical entities which seem to serve as elements in thought are certain signs and more or less clear images which can be voluntarily combined.”  I love it that one of the most intelligent men on the planet had this little wrinkle in the way he thought. And that when he did use words, he used *hard* ones.

I was thinking more about how much writers also need images and visions to help them write. Or, at least, I do.

Before I start writing anything, as I’m researching it—researching steampunk, or sports in Victorian London, or interferomatic dispersion (yup, seriously)—I search for images too. Sometimes I’m looking for people who can stand in for my heroes, for Flynn or Bennet and Ned or Rafe, and whose faces will often be in my mind as I write. Often, too. it’s peripheral images: clothing, spaceships, steampunky coffee machines, weapons…

Bennet (L) and Flynn(R), in case you’re wondering.

That’s where Pinterest comes in. I know I groaned and grumbled at first at the thought of yet another social networking site to suck up my time, but Pinterest has been incredibly useful for inspiration, story-boarding and storing research results. No longer do I have to print out loads of pictures and stick them in a folder. These days it’s there, ready, at the click of a button.

I have a personal board set up for the things that are nothing to do with my writing. But my writing boards are a treasure trove of things relating to the Taking Shield series or The Gilded Scarab. Everything from how a gentleman tied his puttees, to a hand drawn sketch of the layout of the hangars and launch bays for the Gyrfalcon. Each book has a board dedicated to it on my account but, you know, the books will be of limited interest to the average Pinterest user. They might be looking for them, or they may just stumble over them when they’re looking for other things. So the trick is to have lots of boards that are the attractors for Pinterest users yet still related to the books. Pinterest users may find my boards because they’re looking for images of coffee machines or Victorian ladies clothing or steampunk guns, but when they land on my page, there’s the boards of the books, too. You never know. They may take a look at those too.

It can’t stand alone as a way of reaching a new audience, but it can certainly help you both organise your thinking/planning/researching phase and send a few new people your way. I thoroughly recommend it.

Of course, you have to have a will of iron not to spend hours there, looking at the pretties…

You can find my boards at Anna Butler, Pinterest by following the link.

 

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Sharing a Right Guid Willie-waught

I’m beginning to think that the traditional end of year round up is about as welcome as the annual Christmas letter you get from dear Auntie Maude, detailing every cut and stitch of her last gynaecological operation. But it also seems to be de rigueur. There’s no getting out of it.

Besides, I really wouldn’t want to let 2015 go unmarked. But perhaps as a visual aid?

 

Happy new year, everyone. May 2016 bring you all health and happiness.

Happy Holidays, everyone!

Whatever holiday you celebrate at this time of year, I hope it is (was, will be) a very happy one.  And that 2016 brings you health, wealth and happiness.

 

 

“…he did it so well that hardly anybody bothered to photograph snowflakes for almost 100 years”

Wilson Alwyn “Snowflake” Bentley (February 7, 1865 – December 23, 1931) is one of the first known photographers of snowflakes. He perfected a process of catching flakes on black velvet in such a way that their images could be captured before they either melted or sublimated. The broadest collection of Bentley’s photographs is held by the Jericho Historical Society in his home town of Jericho, Vermont.

The Boys of Summer – Sarah Madison

The award-winning M/M romance, The Boys of Summer by Sarah Madison, is re-released by Dreamspinner Press today—just in time for Christmas!

I’m delighted that Dreamspinner is issuing a new edition of Sarah Madison’s The Boys of Summer. This is, I think, my favourite m/m book. The poignancy of the middle section hits like a V2 missile every time I read it. When I first read and reviewed it two years ago now, I said this section: “… will tear your heart apart. As the Battle of Britain is fought out in the skies by those terribly young pilots, those Boys of Summer, this wonderful, emotional relationship plays out against air raids, losses, heartache and the certain knowledge that The Few, those gallant Few who held back Hitler’s Luftwaffe, were like fireflies: a brief burst of life and energy, and snuffed out too soon.”

I haven’t changed my mind about this book. It’s both beautiful and wonderful. It deserves all the praise it garners. Do read it.

 

 

 

David McIntyre has been enjoying the heck out of his current assignment: touring the Hawaiian Islands in search of the ideal shooting locations for a series of film company projects. What’s not to like? Stunning scenery, great food, sunny beaches…  and a secret crush on Rick Sutton, the hot, ex-Air Force pilot who is flying him around.

Everything changes when a tropical storm and engine failure force a crash landing on a deserted atoll with a WWII listening post. Rick’s injuries, and a lack of food and water, mean David has to step up to the plate and play hero. While his days are spent fighting for survival, and his nights are filled with worrying about Rick, the two men grow closer. David’s research for his next movie becomes intertwined with his worst fears, and events on the island result in a vivid dream about the Battle of Britain. On waking, David realizes Rick is more than just a pilot to him. The obstacles that prevented a happy ending in 1940 aren’t present today, and David vows that if they survive this stranding, he will tell Rick how he feels.

 

 (rated R for language):

“I don’t think we’ve got much choice.” Sutton’s voice was grim. “We’re lucky to have that much. Hold on, these trees are coming up faster than I’d like.”

Still fighting to keep the nose of the plane up, Sutton guided the recalcitrant aircraft toward the so-called clearing, the ground rising up to meet them far faster than was comfortable. David found himself leaning back in his seat, bracing his hands on the console as the tops of trees scraped the underside of the plane. Branches swiped at the windshield, and David had the sudden impression of being in a car wash scene as written by Stephen King.

“Duck your head!” Sutton barked. “Wrap your arms around your legs!”

“And kiss my ass goodbye?” David shouted, raising his voice over the increasing noise as he obeyed Sutton’s orders.

Incredibly, Sutton laughed. It was an oddly comforting sound. Like everything was somehow going to be all right because Sutton was at the controls.

The moment of humor was gone in a flash. The plane screamed with the sound of tearing metal and the sharp, explosive crack of tree limbs and breaking glass. David kept his head down and his eyes closed, praying to a God he was pretty sure had more important things to do than to keep up with the well-being of one David McIntyre. Despite being strapped in his seat, his head and shoulder thumped painfully against the passenger side door as the plane thrashed wildly. There was a moment of eerie, blessed silence, and for an instant, the assault on the plane seemed as though it had lifted. Eye of the storm, David thought, just before the plane hit the ground.

Someone had left the window open and it was raining on him. How incredibly annoying. He shifted, intent on reaching for the offending window, when a jolt of pain ran through his shoulder and he gasped. When he opened his eyes, nothing made any sense at first. Then he remembered the crash, and realized that his side of the plane was pointing up at the sky. The rain was coming down in a steady stream through the broken windshield. The sound of the rain on the metal hull of the plane was nearly deafening.

He winced at the pain in his neck when he turned to look over at the pilot’s seat. Sutton was slumped to one side in his chair, unmoving. His sunglasses were hanging off one ear.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” David murmured, hastily undoing his seatbelt so he could reach across to Sutton. His skin was cold and damp where David touched it, and adrenaline pounded through David’s veins as though he could jumpstart Sutton’s heart by sending his own pulse beating through his fingertips. “Sutton! Rick!”

David fought to free himself of his seat, twisting for greater access to the other side of the cockpit. When the seatbelt came open, he fell half across Sutton. Sprawled practically in his lap, David could now see the nasty cut on the left side of Sutton’s temple. The pilot’s side of the plane had taken a lot of damage, and David yelped as he encountered a sliver of glass. Bits of the windshield and console were scattered like confetti over Sutton’s jacket. “Sutton!” The lack of response was unnerving. He tossed aside the sunglasses and worked a hand down into Sutton’s collar, feeling frantically for a pulse.

He could have kissed the man when Sutton suddenly groaned.

“Rick, are you all right? Can you understand me?” David began feeling around for additional injuries.

“I could never understand you, McIntyre,” Sutton said in a fair approximation of his slow drawl. Even the half-smile was a good imitation of his usual expression. “Who tours the toughest jungles in the South Pacific dressed to play golf?”

“Hah-hah, very funny, keep your day job. Oh, no, wait. Forget that. You’re not so good at the day job either.” Relief made him almost giddy. They were going to be okay. Everything was going to be okay.

Until Sutton tried to move and caught his breath painfully.

“What, what is it?” David tried to reach down around the other side of him, to see what the problem was. He felt something wet, warmer than the rain coming in the windshield, and he pulled back his hand to stare at it in shock.

His hand was covered in blood. The metallic odor of it caught him unaware and almost made him gag.

“Shit,” Sutton said mildly. “I seem to be stuck on something.”

“Stuck?” David knew he was practically shrieking, but what the fuck was he supposed to do, miles from nowhere, with an injured man impaled on God knows what, who might die and leave him here all alone.

 

Preorder and buy from Dreamspinner

 

Sarah Madison is a veterinarian with a big dog, an even bigger horse, too many cats, and a very patient boyfriend. She is a terrible cook, and concedes that her life would be easier if Purina made People Chow. She writes because it is cheaper than therapy.

Sarah Madison was a finalist in the 2013 Rainbow Awards and is the winner of Best M/M Romance in the 2013 PRG Reviewer’s Choice Awards for today’s re-release, The Boys of Summer. The Sixth Sense series was awarded 2nd place for Best M/M Mystery Series in the 2014 PRG’s Reviewer’s Choice Awards.

 Contact links:

Website

Amazon page

Facebook (Author page)

Facebook (Profile page)

Twitter

Dreamspinner Author Page

Goodreads Profile

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The Artist’s Masquerade by Antonia Aquilante

I’m delighted to welcome Antonia Aquilante back to the blog today, with news of her new book with Dreamspinner, The Artist’s Masquerade, which will be released on December 21st.

As the first-born son of the Duke of Tournai and cousin to the prince, Cathal has always tried to fulfill his duty to family and country, including following through with an arranged marriage to Velia, cousin to the emperor of Ardunn. But it’s Velia’s companion, Flavia, who fascinates Cathal. Cathal doesn’t know that Flavia is really Flavian, a man masquerading as a woman to escape Ardunn, a restrictive place in which Flavian’s preference for men is forbidden.

Even when Cathal discovers Flavian’s true gender, he cannot fight his attraction to him. Flavian is intrigued by Cathal, but Cathal is still betrothed to Velia, and Flavian worries Cathal is more taken with his feminine illusion than the man beneath it. While both men battle their longings for each other, spies from Ardunn infiltrate the capital, attempting to uncover Tournai’s weaknesses. They are also searching for Flavian, who possesses a magical Talent that allows him to see the truth of a person just by painting their portrait—a skill invaluable to Ardunn’s emperor.

 

Publisher: Dreamspinner Press

Cover Artist: Anne Cain

Release Date: 21 December 2015

Length: Novel (300 pages)

 

The carriage door opened when they were nearly to the end of the long dock, and a man climbed down, followed immediately by another man, who turned and reached back into the carriage. When he drew back, it was to help a young woman descend from the carriage to stand next to him. Flavian assumed that one of the men was Velia’s betrothed. He had no idea who the girl was. A sister, perhaps?

The first man stepped forward as they approached. He was an older man and regal in his bearing. Flavian studied the man as best he could from his position behind Velia. He was only slightly taller than Velia, and his height made things difficult sometimes. As the man launched into a speech welcoming them, he confirmed Flavian’s suspicions. The man was Umber, duke and father of the man Velia was to marry. Which probably made the other man his son, Cathal, Velia’s betrothed.

And so it was. The duke motioned, and the other man stepped up beside him. The duke introduced him, but Flavian hardly heard any of it. He was too busy looking at Cathal. He was tall. Very tall. Without these stupid heeled shoes, Flavian probably would barely be as tall as the man’s shoulder. Shoulders that were deliciously broad. In fact, Cathal’s whole body seemed well muscled, thick but not bulky. Flavian could only imagine the lines of those muscles hiding under the man’s fine clothing. The thought made him yearn for a sketchbook or, better, a canvas and paints. He could see the lines of those muscles taking shape on the page… but he would never paint them. He couldn’t even let himself think of painting them.

The rest of Lord Cathal was just as nice. His hair was dark and thick and wavy, well ordered at the moment, but Flavian wondered if that was always true. It had the look of hair with a mind of its own. Cathal’s features were chiseled and quite handsome, but set in serious lines. There was an easily identified resemblance to his father, but despite its seriousness, Cathal’s expression seemed to have less rigidity than his father’s. And his eyes….

Flavian nearly jumped to find himself the focus of Lord Cathal’s unusual gold eyes. Flavian had been so engrossed in studying the man that he must have missed introductions making it around to him.

“Lady Flavia.” Cathal’s voice was deep and smooth, and Flavian shivered just hearing it. But the shiver was nothing compared to the heat that flared when Cathal took his hand to bow over it. The heat rushed through his body and left him biting back a gasp. No. Not good. He could not be attracted to him of all men.

“My lord,” Flavian replied, trying to keep his voice quiet so his more masculine tone wouldn’t be too noticeable. His voice was the only thing about him that didn’t lend itself to his disguise. Cathal didn’t seem to notice, but he did keep staring at Flavian, gold eyes never wavering. Flavian couldn’t seem to look away either. He wasn’t sure he was breathing, and he wasn’t sure he cared.

The soft, yet pointed, clearing of a throat broke the inexplicable tension of the moment. Flavian looked away immediately. What had that been? He could not be attracted to Cathal, his friend’s betrothed. No, he wasn’t. Not at all. That strange moment was just because the man was so handsome, and Flavian had been thinking about painting him, but he couldn’t paint Cathal, nor anyone else. It had obviously shaken him that he even wanted to. Yes, that was all it was.

 

Goodreads

Dreamspinner Press ebook

Dreamspinner Press paperback

 

Enter this RAFFLECOPTOR to win one signed paperback copy of The Prince’s Consort, the first book in the Chronicles of Tournai series. (Paperback for US entrants only; if winner is international, they’ll receive an ebook.)

 

Antonia Aquilante has been making up stories for as long as she can remember, ad at the age of twelve, decided she would be a writer when she grew up. After many years and a few career detours, she has returned to that original plan. Her stories have changed over the years, but one thing has remained consistent – they all end in happily ever after.

She has a fondness for travel (and a long list of places she wants to visit and revisit), taking photos, family history, fabulous shoes, baking treats which she shares with friends and family, and of course reading. She usually has at least two books started at once and never goes anywhere without her Kindle. Though she is a convert to ebooks, she still loves paper books the best, and there are a couple thousand of them residing in her home with her.

Born and raised in New Jersey, she is living there again after years in Washington, DC, and North Carolina for school and work. She enjoys being back in the Garden State but admits to being tempted every so often to run away from home and live in Italy.

She is a member of the Romance Writers of America and the New Jersey Romance Writers.

Find Antonia:

Website: www.antoniaaquilante.com

Twitter: www.twitter.com/antoniaquilante

Facebook: www.facebook.com/AntoniaAquilanteAuthor

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14431299.Antonia_Aquilante

Carrying The World, Like Atlas

Sargent, Atlas and the Hesperides, 1925

 

This is another post that I wrote for the recent Heart Scarab promotional tour, and that I thought I’d like to preserve on my own website for, you know, posterity. And please stop rolling your eyes over there in the back row. I have a posterity. My jeans look enormous on it.

Earlier this year, we had another Fifty Shades Twitter furore. Some bright PR person thought #askELJames would be a great marketing ploy. Twitter about imploded.

I’m not going to get into the Fifty Shades issues. It’s a polarising book with a polarising author, and that sort of discussion never ends well. But I was struck by one thing: the huge number of tweets, thousands of them apparently, that basically said, “How do you live with yourself for telling young, impressionable women that an abusive relationship is good, is something to aspire to? How many girls are going to fall for that crap and be abused because of you and your books?”

I do wish I could put in emoticons here. Because seriously? Where’s the jaw-dropping emoticon when you need it? Oh, here it is:

One of the trickier questions I had to ask myself when writing the Taking Shield series was how to deal with sex. The books don’t have a lot of sex scenes, but the few that are there are reasonably explicit. The series isn’t contemporary, but set on a world halfway across the galaxy, thousands of years into an alternate future where Earth is dead and dark. AIDS doesn’t feature in it.

The issue for me was simple: do I have a moral obligation to write the sex scenes as if AIDS did indeed exist, and therefore not write anything that would undermine safe sex messages? Or write it and just sort of skate over the issues? Or ignore it altogether?

In the end, I don’t make mention of it. AIDS, HIV or safe sex are not issues in Shield-world.

I concluded that a novel isn’t a good way of proselytising and, if it doesn’t sound too pretentious, it isn’t my job to write role models but to depict the characters as they unfold themselves to me. Being true to them, if you like.

What’s more, I trust my readers not to need me to tell them, with big flashing warning lights, that books aren’t real. My readers know that Earth is still here, that we don’t have faster-than-life space travel, that we aren’t fighting for our lives against Maess drones. It’s fiction. It’s all made up.

After all, if I’m reading about a drug addict, I’m not going to take him or her as a role model for my own life. I recognise that their lives are within the constraints of the book. So I don’t expect any of you will be thinking “But why aren’t those two space pilots ten thousand years in the future, fishing about for the condoms? Maybe I can be that adventurous too…”

The same way, I’m not going to jump into an abusive relationship because E L James wrote about one. She wrote a novel. Fiction. She wasn’t writing a Life Manual.

Authors don’t have responsibility for the life choices of their readers. They only have responsibility for their own.

And believe me, that’s heavy enough.

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A Divine Christmas

Christmas this year is going to be shortchanged. Not only personally, but because, sadly,  Divine Magazine’s 12 Days Of Christmas Blog Hop has had to be cancelled. Christmas, however, is not!  And I’m going to post my Divine post anyway. So there.

We moved into our new house at the beginning of the month, and I doubt I can even *find*

the Christmas trees right now (we have two – somewhere), not to mention the decorations and what not. I really don’t think I’ll be able to find the what not. I may be able to disentangle it all from the heap of unpacked boxes by the time Christmas Eve comes around, but this first Christmas in our lovely new house is going to be patchy, to say the least.

The thing I’ll be trying hard to find time for will be my favourite Christmassy crafts: making snow lanterns or cinnamon candles, or hanging the windows with a mass of vintage glass baubles. It’ll be a challenge. But rise to the challenges we must. So here are a few of my favourite crafts for you to have fun with this holiday time.

 

 

 

Cinnamon Candles

Tie cinnamon sticks around fat church candles with string or raffia. As you burn the candles, they‘ll make the house smell wonderful. They make pretty good presents, too.

 

 

 

 

Free downloadable sheet music

Sheet music of carols to use in your Christmas crafts. Why not print them and use them as wrapping paper for small gifts?

 

 

 

 

 

Hanging baubles in the window

Hang a collection of vintage baubles in your window, using pretty ribbons. Massing them like this gives a great effect. I hang mine from a tension rod.

 

 

 

 

 

Vintage Chandelier

Even more fun, make a Christmas chandelier. Wrap a circular ring – a florist‘s ring would work – with ribbons and then go mad hanging it with baubles, strings of beads and pearls etc and hang it over your table. Be careful with those candles though!

 

 

 

 

 

For a more natural look…

Hang a collection of pine cones and bundles of cinnamon sticks in your window on ribbons, and frame them with a pine garland.

 

 

 

 

 

Or create snowlights with old jars, pine cones, tealights, a bit of raffia and artificial snow.  So easy!

 

 

 

HAVE FUN!

 

 

ABOUT DIVINE MAGAZINE

Divine Magazine was created, in their own words, “to provide a place where LGBTQ people and their supporters can meet, socialize, share their ideas, and find out the latest news and entertainment on topics of LGBTQ importance in an atmosphere void of sexual prejudice.”

That’s an aim worthy of support all year round, not just for Christmas. Visit their site and enjoy it.

 

Happy hols, everyone!

 

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J J Lore’s Raider Captured

I’m delighted to welcome J J Lore to the blog today to talk about Raider Captured, her latest release with Dreamspinner. Just look at that cover! The guys on it are gorgeous, but oh! do I want those nifty little spaceships!!

 

Is love possible between sworn enemies when the universe seems determined to tear them apart?

Sagiv, a genetically modified Atavaq fighter, is captured when his master’s raid on a Domidian ship goes wrong. Daran, a young Domidian science officer, claims the warrior for ransom and as a subject for study. As they spend time together in the close confines of the shipboard cabin, both learn more about the other’s culture, and against all odds, a fragile trust begins to form. But the ship is approaching a frontier outpost, where Daran will be expected to ransom Sagiv—even though it means condemning Sagiv to die for the dishonor of his defeat or suffer in the fighting pits. That’s if bounty hunters don’t find them first. Daran’s risen up the ranks through hard work and always following protocol, but he sees something in Sagiv that might be worth breaking the rules for the first time in his life—maybe even something worth sacrificing everything to keep.

 

His cheek was pressed to the soft rug on the floor. The material smelled faintly of perfumed wood, and he wrinkled his nose, unhappy something pleasant was intruding on his misery. To be the leader of the finest Creig raiding party one day and reduced to a worthless prisoner the next was a fate he’d never envisioned for himself. Sadness at his lost fellows settled over him in a cold wave, and he closed his eyes tightly until the sensation passed.

A sudden awareness of warm moisture on his body roused him, and he jerked upright as far as his immobilized arms would allow. Was the Domidian urinating on him? With a growl he sought the source of the sensation and was shocked to silence when he saw the young officer trying to apply a wet cloth to the phase wound on his hip.

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning this up. It might become infected if I don’t.” The pretty boy gave him a measured glance, then concentrated on the rent in his skin. Sagiv took a breath and tried to hitch away but was brought up short by the manacles yet again. The Domidian’s vigorous application of the cleaning cloth hurt, but Sagiv was determined not to react. He might have fallen from his hard-fought stature as a skilled warrior, but at least he wouldn’t flinch like a weakling when someone washed his body.

“It looks as though you endured blade cuts, blunt instrument strikes, and some sort of percussion volley,” the Domidian said in a conversational tone. Sagiv gave him a glare that would have sent one of his minions cowering to the floor. At least it would have worked yesterday, when he still had underlings. Now his brother Creig were dead, wasted in this futile raid made at the whim of an impulsive master or three. His current condition didn’t matter; he was bred and trained to serve and fight, not to think of his fate or wish for any different life. The Domidian, for his part, merely absorbed the scowl with a slight smile. Superior bastard. “I’m going to work on the most severe injuries first. Basic triage. I have several accreditations in first aid and battlefield medical treatment, so don’t worry for your health.”

The young man moved on to the welts that covered his back, and Sagiv endured the ministrations with teeth clenched, both to stop himself from making a pained sound and to prevent the conversation this bare-chinned youth seemed to desire. As the Domidian’s words sank in, he couldn’t help the question that sprang to mind.

“Heal me for the execution?” Sagiv shook his head once. These damned Domidians had such perverse notions. If only he’d been lucky and taken a phase bolt to the forehead yesterday. The young officer stopped touching him, and his skin twitched.

“Execution?”

“Death to pirates, that’s the code in the cold reaches of space.”

The Domidian laughed. Sagiv craned his head to observe him. Even though he was brought low by his defeat and loss of his collar, there was no way he was going to be mocked by a spoiled boy.

“I follow a different code. The Domidian code.” The young man moved closer and pressed his fingers around the edge of the throbbing injury on Sagiv’s head.

Sagiv refused to flinch and instead decided to scoff. “Oh, yes, the code whereby you decide everything you do is correct and expect every other race you encounter to bow down before your magnificence.”

The Domidian’s full lips tightened and a spark lit up his eyes. “We cannot be other than what we are.”

“Arrogant whelp.” Sagiv’s stomach dropped when the young man smiled broadly. What was he doing engaging in conversation with the enemy? He was behaving as if they were at a rim world tavern sharing a flagon, far from the concerns of Domid and Atavaq politics. “Why are you treating me?”

He wanted to bite back the words, especially when he saw the intent expression of the other man.

“It is my duty to care for you. I have taken you as hostage proxy, and any ransom paid for your return will be mine.”

“Then you will be sorely disappointed.” Knowing that this boy would be deprived of even a small sum was the only achievement he could muster at this point. A Creig was worth nothing without the recommendation of a pleased master, without victories to bolster his reputation. The Domidian shrugged and pulled out a small case. He flicked it open, and Sagiv couldn’t help but look inside, sure he was going to see implements of torture. Instead, there were bandages and creams. The Domidian was going to help him. Pulling together the last shards of his dignity and rage, Sagiv decided to remain silent. No need to treat the youngster as if they were equals.

“You have a lot of bruising and contusions. Did all of these wounds occur in the altercation yesterday?”

Sagiv stared at the red carpet. Altercation. What a fine word for a muddled mess that had cost him so much. No, the majority of his injuries had been administered by his former masters as they’d assaulted him in the brig after their humiliating capture. No need to reveal that, or anything, to the Domidian. The young man waited a polite interval, then continued to speak as if there was a normal conversation to be had, all while he administered first aid.

“My name is Daran, of the Eridia clan. If you tell me your name, I’ll be able to initiate contact with your people and set up an exchange.” Daran waited for a response, but Sagiv pressed his lips together. He didn’t have a people, only assignments. Creig fighters existed on a different plane than civilian Atavaq, housed in exclusive barracks and given the finest in weapons, nutrition, and training. He jumped at the sensation of a warm ointment being carefully applied to the edges of one of the throbbing welts on his back. The wounds felt ugly, but he hadn’t been able to inspect them. Exactly what he deserved.

“I’m in service as a science specialist. I’m hoping you can teach me more about your kind. I’m very curious about you.”

Teach his enemy about Creig ways? Betray Atavaq? He’d die first. As the Domidian continued his treatment, Sagiv’s stomach boiled with regret and frustration. He slanted his eye toward the officer to detect what he was about and saw the other man frowning. Daran of the Eridia glanced up and hurriedly put a smile on his face.

“Your wounds, though painful I’m sure, are going to heal well now that you are under care. I was merely thinking about something else.”

The urge to ask what was strong. Sagiv wasn’t sure if he was interested in gaining more information about the enemy or genuinely intrigued by his unusual captor. The other man was treating his wounds and speaking to him as if they were partners. Equals. As if Sagiv wasn’t merely a tool to be repaired and sent back into service.

 

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J.J. Lore has been interested in the dashing men who roam outer space since she was transfixed by Han Solo piloting the Millennium Falcon a long time ago in a theatre far, far away. Sadly, there is no way for her to join in the fun of intergalactic adventures unless she writes them, so that’s what she does whenever she isn’t taking care of the business of life. If you can’t find her typing madly on her sluggish keyboard, she’s probably poking around in a thrift store searching for the perfect pair of worn jeans or a vintage kachina bolo tie. These days she puts her anthropology degree to work when she whips up dishes from many different cultures, most of which benefit from a liberal dose of sriracha or a smear of green curry paste. Her favorite reading topics are costume history, epidemiology, and permaculture, all of which she’d like to work into a story if she’s suddenly overcome with a brilliant idea someday.

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