S.C. Dane's Blog, page 4
February 17, 2015
Lover in Stone, Installment No. 7
INSTALLMENT NO. 7 #gargoyles #romance
Merrick didn���t look at the woman. He needed to keep his gaze drilled on the ancient trio seated in front of him. The clothing he wore had grown tight enough as it was, he didn���t need it cinching his crotch. Nor did he need to dwell on why he thickened in that region in the first place.
���The Scriptum, it seems, won���t come back in your hands.���
Oh, but damn. Her voice stroked like warm silk across his skin, making his chin tilt to better indulge the caress of her tone. He ground his jaw the second he realized what he was doing.
He was acting like a dog who loved the scratch of his furry ears.
���I���ll bring it back,��� he growled, and instantly regretted the alarm flaring in those blue-black eyes. Merrick took an unpracticed step back. ���What I meant was–���
���Of course you will, Mr. Merrick,��� she assured him, as if she���d never flinched. ���But I���m afraid that���s not the issue.���
Mr. Merrick. Like he wore a business suit and wasn���t part Gargoyle.
���Only she can bring it back. The Scriptum wanted her to touch it. She has to be the one to bring it back.��� Aro���s needling grated on Merrick���s one nerve, and his claws pierced into his fisted palms.
Ignore him. Ignore her. Concentrate on the Triumvirate.
No better advice had ever been given. With a practiced eye, he watched the trio���s every subtle movement. His sharp hearing trained on the slender thrumming of their pulses, on Anton���s heartbeat.
The Vampyre suffered, yet did not speak against his daughter���s participation, or Aro���s assumption.
���If you don���t trust me������ Merrick dangled the bait, his sly gaze holding to the three in front of him.
���It is not a matter of trust, Merrick.��� Anton rose, pushing his knuckles against the highly polished table top. ���It is a matter of my daughter���s safety. She must go in, but she cannot go in alone. We need you, Chimera, to escort her, to keep her safe. That is all we ask.��� He spread his hands, as if defenseless.
Because he was. This daughter meant a lot to the Vampyre. ���And the Scriptum?��� Merrick challenged.
Anton hesitated less than a heartbeat, yet Merrick couldn���t have missed it. He wasn���t just Gargoyle. His blood was an elixir of three formidable creatures, and Merrick knew the Vampyre could smell the subtle potency of the combination.
Even without being the one to escort Anton���s daughter through Hell, the Vampyre would deem it necessary to respect him. It would be perilous to do otherwise.
Resignation softened Anton���s expression. ���I wish I could say it meant nothing. But I, too, have my duty to my kind. We will all benefit from the teachings of the Scriptum, its secrets. We cannot leave it in the hands of those who have stolen it away to Hell.
���My daughter is the one to retrieve it for us,��� he admitted, his breath vacating his lungs on a long exhale. Anton���s silver eyes held Merrick���s, and hid nothing of his fear for his adopted daughter.
Merrick locked his gaze where it was while he chewed on his predicament.
The seconds limped by.
Keep not one, but two, precious items from getting destroyed? A nearly impossible feat given where he and the woman were expected to go.
���It will cost you,��� he finally conceded, as forthright as the Vampyre who stood at the dais.
���Anything, Chimera.��� The deal steeped down to the two players, as if the others in the room evaporated like non-essential vapor.
Well, not all of the others. Merrick never lost the trace of the human woman���s scent, of her watching him. She watched her father, too. He couldn���t have missed a single gesture of hers if he tried.
Anton and the Triumvirate would pay for that, too. Why not. ���When I bring your daughter back with this book, you will owe the Kynd a building in their honor. One engineered with their retirement in mind.���
He couldn���t bring himself to say their deaths. The Kynd didn���t truly die. At first, anyway. They spent centuries encased in stone, perched on eroding ledges. They witnessed ceaselessly, watching the living below them until their bodies crumbled under the incessant ravages of time and weather.
Christ on the cross. Where was the deliverance from that torture? Oh, right. There wasn���t one. The Kynd got the nosebleed seats to the eternal game of life. Perennial passes for every season.
���It will be done, Chimera.��� Anton���s acceptance rained on Merrick���s pity party, but his attention snapped back to the fore, like a pitbull scenting blood.
Just like that? This woman meant an awful lot to the Vampyre, and he cursed that he might fathom why. Merrick risked an appraising glance toward the woman who had cost the Vampyre so much, surreptitiously observed her dark eyes pool with tears, her fingers press to her lips before they formed the words Papa in a dreadful sigh.
Dear God. He wanted to hold her. Not just feel her small body enclosed in his arms, but to rub himself all over with that honey-lavender scent.
By thunder, Anton would pay. The Chimera would not rescind this deal, not when this human woman confounded him, made his body ache to do things it had never done before.
Merrick nodded his agreement, then peeled his attention onto the rest of the Triumvirate. ���You mentioned packs for the journey. We���ll leave before this hour is up.��� He didn���t wait for their reply, but stalked from the stone room that had begun to press on him like a cave.
He hated the underground. But more than that, he hated that he felt as if he���d just bargained for more than what was on the table.
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 8 coming Saturday, February 21, 2015
February 14, 2015
LOVER IN STONE, Installment No. 6
INSTALLMENT No. 6:
Cramming his anger deeper into himself, Merrick freed his curiosity from its coffin. He had to see how this unusual sitch��played out,��so he��ventured deeper into the room.
Was the woman the Vampyre���s lover?
His full Chimera seethed to be let loose from its singular Gargoyle form, and Merrick pushed aside the unfamiliar fluttering of his gut. The female put her arm across the ancient one���s back, and gently caressed her cheek along his shoulder.
No. There was nothing sexual about the woman���s giving of comfort. This was Anton���s human child, the one he and his wife had found and raised as one of their own.
Ignoring his relief, he stifled a derisive grunt. Well, not exactly as one of their own. She was human, not Vampire. She had been raised on milk and solid food, not blood. Quite the sacrifice for a pair of leeches, considering the babe would have made a delicate meal.
A smear of blood on Anton���s pallid cheek had Merrick eyeing the ancient one a little more carefully.
The Vampyre wept.
He���d seen many things in his long life, but never that. Maybe he felt a little sorry for the guy.
Just a little, though. He wasn���t about to go overboard with the sympathy.
���Merrick, you���ve come. We thank you.��� Godrick���s voice chimed like a crystal bell, arresting everyone���s attention, including that of Anton���s daughter. She lifted her gaze to Godrick while she still hugged her father.
Worry flashed in those dark blue eyes.
What fine, dark eyes they are. Nearly black, but with enough blue to make Merrick think of iridescent ink, reflecting the reds and golds from the flames of the wall sconces.
A man could get mired in those liquid pools.
If one were just a man.
Merrick again rolled his shoulders beneath the heavy weight of his leather coat, and returned his attention to Godrick.
���You summoned. I answered.���
Anton gently extricated himself from Angelia���s embrace to take his place upon the dais with the rest of the Triumvirate. The human woman moved to stand closer to Aro and his nearsighted crones.
She settled herself a little off to the side, and Merrick thought her a flowering apple tree in an orchard of shriveled trunks. She wasn���t tall, but she had soft curves that caressed his sharp eyes. Her scent wafted toward him like nectar, squeezing his ball sac with an urgency he���d never known.
Rather than think on that gripping conundrum and gnash his teeth into powder, he diverted his attention to the dynamic duo, the two Ghouls sitting with the head of the Literati.
Each one had devoted his immortal life to knowledge, and the Ghouls��� bodies had withered in their pursuit.
Would this be the woman���s fate?
He surely hoped not. Idiot. He was being an imaginative fool. What did he care? He may have stood in that room looking like a human male, but he wasn���t.
Not even close.
So he could drag his eyes off Anton���s daughter for two seconds and pay attention to the Triumvirate and the mission they���d hired him for.
Yet, his tongue slid across the bottom of his sharp teeth as he thought about what he���d like to do to that woman���s skin, which seemed creamy as, well���cream. A lustful twinge gripped his balls anew.
Christ.
Forcing him to adjust his stance to ease the crush of his stiffening erection in his leather pants. Godrick blabbered on about something. Merrick tilted his head to focus on anything other than the bulge growing behind his buttons.
���You have agreed to descend the Circles of Hell to retrieve the Scriptum?���
���I have,��� he growled, biting down on the Your Excellency part. The Vampyres weren���t his, and they sure as hell weren���t excellent.
���Good. Then you and the human woman Angelia will depart as soon as you collect the supplies we have prepared for you. We expect you to return to the surface within seven days��� time.���
The room bloomed red before his eyes, his strident erection forgotten.
What? The Triumvirate and Literati expected him to tote a living human through Hell? Were they daft?
Such a risky undertaking had only been done three times before, and two had been under God���s protection. Well, Virgil���s more precisely, but Dante���s guide had been acting with permission from the Big Man Himself. The third brainfart had just been one lucky son of a bitch.
And these morons expected him to lug around a human female as he navigated The Circles?
���You���re out of your blood starved minds.���
Two members of the Triumvirate stiffened,��while Anton drew his palm across his eyes, his distress evident. But it was Aro, the scrawny head of the Literati who whined in his ear.
���Our like cannot touch the Scriptum. It will only allow itself to be handled by humans. You will need her, Gargoyle,��� he sneered, his contempt for the Kynd advertising like a red button blaring for Merrick to punch it.
Which gave Merrick just the little push his rage needed to resurface. He flashed his fangs, his sheer size cowering the bloodsucker as he lunged, halting a paper���s thickness from Aro���s stricken face. ���You take that tone again when you say Gargoyle, leech, and you won���t have eyes to read your precious Scriptum.��� His words were barely audible within his guttural threat.
Aro cringed from Merrick���s crushing weight, bending backward on one supporting leg, cutting a fabulous imitation of a caf�� table.
It was all Merrick could do not to twist Aro���s anemic neck in his hands. They itched to do it, too, his claws emerging to better hold the skinny straw in his grasp.
Wresting control from God only knew where, he turned his attention back to the three on the dais, forcing his seething fury back into its cage.
���With all due respect,��� he snarled, not caring that he patronized the ruling Triumvirate. He barely respected the ancient Vampyres. He was as old, if not older than those three who presumed authority over him.
Merrick only answered their call out of concern for his Kynd. Because if the Scriptum held the secrets rumored to be etched upon its pages, then they had as much, if not more right to it as the Literati. He would return it to that order of haggard crones only after his brethren had their chance to study it.
Maybe not even then.
���I can���t drag a human through Hell,��� he argued.
Even if she smells as good as she does. ���It will be dangerous enough without having to keep something–��� Merrick ground his teeth and cleared his throat, his derision clear. ���I mean, someone else alive while I���m doing it.���
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 7 coming Tuesday, February 17, 2015
February 10, 2015
LOVER IN STONE, Installment No. 5
Installment No. 5
#chimera #gargoyle #vampire #romance
Anton stood up and gazed down on his daughter. He watched Angelia straighten her shoulders, saw the moment her determination stole over her.
The sight of it crushed him, and he stepped off the dais to hold her, proper decorum be damned. The moment he opened his arms, she fell into them.
Only this time, it was he who sought comfort from her, his precious daughter.
���I am Literati, Papa, it is my foresworn duty.��� Her voice, singing upon his ears, wrung his heart. She brushed his hair from his collar, and Anton���s breath betrayed him, damming at the knot strangling his throat.
He could not agree to this madness. He would split the Triumvirate with his disapproval. Anton had known this day could come to pass years before when his daughter had informed him of her swearing in to the Literati.
He had nearly killed Aro back then for allowing the abomination, for the lesser Vampire���s cunning. Aro had known his Angelia���s value, that as human she could pass through realms shut off from the Vampire. She was the Literati���s best weapon in their arsenal protecting the ancient canon.
Yet, the truth riding upon Angelia���s soft breath nearly buckled his knees. She wasn���t just Literati. She was his daughter. He loved her as if she were born of his blood. He had given his heart to her the day she had lain cradled upon his forearms.
His Angelia, the angel who had gazed up at him with eyes so blue to be almost black, her human mother���s blood caked to her nubile skin.
���Your mother,��� the knot in his throat released his anguished sigh. Yet, he and Angelia both understood his lament was not for the human woman who had died in childbirth twenty-eight years before.
Anton fretted for the vampire mother, the one who had clutched the soiled babe to her breast as if she herself had labored to bring the creature unto this earth.
Marguerite would be devastated, ruined.
And that would be the final blow to the ancient Vampyre. He could not bear to lose both wife and daughter. The Triumvirate meant little in the face of such yawning loss.
Angelia caressed the silk of his jacket, as if cherishing the line of his muscled back with the pads of her fingers. He had ever been her strength, the fortress who protected her, provided her every need, every want.
He doted upon her, spoiled her. Her mother had been the enforcer, the one to shoulder the guilt of admonishments because he could not do it. Marguerite had been firm, but overly kind, unable to shield her adoration for her human daughter in her blazing, Vampire eyes.
���She will understand the duty to my position, Papa. She will know.���
���She will be crushed,��� he bit out, his fangs clamped tight together.
****
Angelia sucked in a breath, alarmed by her father���s grief. They were not alone. The rest of the Triumvirate awaited Anton���s final decision.
Aro, too, would wait, following the ancient protocol no matter his posturing. Respect for the tradition and power of the reigning Vampyres ran soul deep in their kind, and her father had been chosen centuries ago to rule. Not because the blood coursing through his veins mandated it, but because of the terrible power that very blood wielded.
Anton was a formidable and terrifying Vampyre.
That she should be the one to cut him to his knees frightened her. ���Papa, please. I will be well guarded by the Chimera. He won���t let me get hurt.��� She fervently hoped so, anyway. Yet, she had no more time for reassurances, for in he walked.
Merrick the Chimera, appearing in his Gargoyle form, shoved open the double doors to the gallery as if he entered a room teeming with vipers���and his sworn duty was to decapitate every writhing one of them.
****
Merrick knew what he was walking into, which meant he wanted nothing more than to give himself a swift kick in the ass for allowing the man to slip into Hell in the first place. Without trying, he could recall the face of the one who���d stolen the book. Yet, he couldn���t remember the soul. There hadn���t been one to log into his memory.
The human had been born without his flame. Made not in God���s image, but lacking. And for this, blood would be shed.
Merrick felt the familiar twinge of sympathy for the Angel below. Again, their God betrayed them, turning His back on the suffering, and leaving a mess to be cleaned up by others.
So Merrick, his mistake at overlooking the soulless thief grating him hard, wasn���t in a rosy mood when he stepped through the threshold to answer his summons from the Triumvirate and the Literati.
He barely suppressed his rage. He could feel the push of his claws against his fingertips, his mane thickening behind his ears. Shrugging his Gargoyle shoulders to deter the emergence of his wings, he adjusted his leather coat, which draped his wide back, and encased the thick muscles of his arms.
For this, too, he let his anger simmer just under his skin. Having to parade in human costume, pretending as if he had been made in His image when he had not. Merrick would never forget the day he and his Kynd had been cast from Heaven, along with the Arch Angel Lucifer.
The Kynd, the Witnesses, had not taken sides when Lucifer had pushed for his power play and lost, when Heaven had spewed Its traitors to damnation.
Yet, still God had relegated them to Middle Ground.
An intentionally ironic punishment underscoring where the Kynd had preferred to stand during the colossal struggle. To them, God and Lucifer had both been right. And they had both been wrong. When the War was over, God condemned the Kynd to Hell, Earth, and the Other realms for all time.
And in more than two thousand years, as Hell���s gatekeeper, Merrick had witnessed a lot.
But he wasn���t prepared for what he walked in on. Never mind that an ancient Vampyre leaned against the far wall, frozen and searing simultaneously with anguish. Merrick���s senses were riveted to the creature consoling the stricken blood sucker.
A human woman.
Consoling a Vampyre. Not just any Vampire, either. One of the Triumvirate: Anton.
Merrick���s spine straightened, his blood ripping through his veins so his skin heated. Maybe he hadn���t seen enough, after all. He sniffed the stuffy air of the gallery to make sure his senses weren���t screwed up.
Because mystery, apparently, came packaged in the twin scents of honey and lavender.
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 6 coming Saturday, February 14, 2015
LOVER IN STONE #gargoyle
Installment No. 5
#chimera #gargoyle #vampire #romance
Anton stood up and gazed down on his daughter. He watched Angelia straighten her shoulders, saw the moment her determination stole over her.
The sight of it crushed him, and he stepped off the dais to hold her, proper decorum be damned. The moment he opened his arms, she fell into them.
Only this time, it was he who sought comfort from her, his precious daughter.
���I am Literati, Papa, it is my foresworn duty.��� Her voice, singing upon his ears, wrung his heart. She brushed his hair from his collar, and Anton���s breath betrayed him, damming at the knot strangling his throat.
He could not agree to this madness. He would split the Triumvirate with his disapproval. Anton had known this day could come to pass years before when his daughter had informed him of her swearing in to the Literati.
He had nearly killed Aro back then for allowing the abomination, for the lesser Vampire���s cunning. Aro had known his Angelia���s value, that as human she could pass through realms shut off from the Vampire. She was the Literati���s best weapon in their arsenal protecting the ancient canon.
Yet, the truth riding upon Angelia���s soft breath nearly buckled his knees. She wasn���t just Literati. She was his daughter. He loved her as if she were born of his blood. He had given his heart to her the day she had lain cradled upon his forearms.
His Angelia, the angel who had gazed up at him with eyes so blue to be almost black, her human mother���s blood caked to her nubile skin.
���Your mother,��� the knot in his throat released his anguished sigh. Yet, he and Angelia both understood his lament was not for the human woman who had died in childbirth twenty-eight years before.
Anton fretted for the vampire mother, the one who had clutched the soiled babe to her breast as if she herself had labored to bring the creature unto this earth.
Marguerite would be devastated, ruined.
And that would be the final blow to the ancient Vampyre. He could not bear to lose both wife and daughter. The Triumvirate meant little in the face of such yawning loss.
Angelia caressed the silk of his jacket, as if cherishing the line of his muscled back with the pads of her fingers. He had ever been her strength, the fortress who protected her, provided her every need, every want.
He doted upon her, spoiled her. Her mother had been the enforcer, the one to shoulder the guilt of admonishments because he could not do it. Marguerite had been firm, but overly kind, unable to shield her adoration for her human daughter in her blazing, Vampire eyes.
���She will understand the duty to my position, Papa. She will know.���
���She will be crushed,��� he bit out, his fangs clamped tight together.
****
Angelia sucked in a breath, alarmed by her father���s grief. They were not alone. The rest of the Triumvirate awaited Anton���s final decision.
Aro, too, would wait, following the ancient protocol no matter his posturing. Respect for the tradition and power of the reigning Vampyres ran soul deep in their kind, and her father had been chosen centuries ago to rule. Not because the blood coursing through his veins mandated it, but because of the terrible power that very blood wielded.
Anton was a formidable and terrifying Vampyre.
That she should be the one to cut him to his knees frightened her. ���Papa, please. I will be well guarded by the Chimera. He won���t let me get hurt.��� She fervently hoped so, anyway. Yet, she had no more time for reassurances, for in he walked.
Merrick the Chimera, appearing in his Gargoyle form, shoved open the double doors to the gallery as if he entered a room teeming with vipers���and his sworn duty was to decapitate every writhing one of them.
****
Merrick knew what he was walking into, which meant he wanted nothing more than to give himself a swift kick in the ass for allowing the man to slip into Hell in the first place. Without trying, he could recall the face of the one who���d stolen the book. Yet, he couldn���t remember the soul. There hadn���t been one to log into his memory.
The human had been born without his flame. Made not in God���s image, but lacking. And for this, blood would be shed.
Merrick felt the familiar twinge of sympathy for the Angel below. Again, their God betrayed them, turning His back on the suffering, and leaving a mess to be cleaned up by others.
So Merrick, his mistake at overlooking the soulless thief grating him hard, wasn���t in a rosy mood when he stepped through the threshold to answer his summons from the Triumvirate and the Literati.
He barely suppressed his rage. He could feel the push of his claws against his fingertips, his mane thickening behind his ears. Shrugging his Gargoyle shoulders to deter the emergence of his wings, he adjusted his leather coat, which draped his wide back, and encased the thick muscles of his arms.
For this, too, he let his anger simmer just under his skin. Having to parade in human costume, pretending as if he had been made in His image when he had not. Merrick would never forget the day he and his Kynd had been cast from Heaven, along with the Arch Angel Lucifer.
The Kynd, the Witnesses, had not taken sides when Lucifer had pushed for his power play and lost, when Heaven had spewed Its traitors to damnation.
Yet, still God had relegated them to Middle Ground.
An intentionally ironic punishment underscoring where the Kynd had preferred to stand during the colossal struggle. To them, God and Lucifer had both been right. And they had both been wrong. When the War was over, God condemned the Kynd to Hell, Earth, and the Other realms for all time.
And in more than two thousand years, as Hell���s gatekeeper, Merrick had witnessed a lot.
But he wasn���t prepared for what he walked in on. Never mind that an ancient Vampyre leaned against the far wall, frozen and searing simultaneously with anguish. Merrick���s senses were riveted to the creature consoling the stricken blood sucker.
A human woman.
Consoling a Vampyre. Not just any Vampire, either. One of the Triumvirate: Anton.
Merrick���s spine straightened, his blood ripping through his veins so his skin heated. Maybe he hadn���t seen enough, after all. He sniffed the stuffy air of the gallery to make sure his senses weren���t screwed up.
Because mystery, apparently, came packaged in the twin scents of honey and lavender.
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 6 coming Saturday, February 14, 2015
February 7, 2015
Lover in Stone, Installment No. 4
Installment No. 4
#gargoyles #shifter #romance #MFRWauthorscdane
Oh, man, this is so not good. Angelia stepped into the room, yet no one acknowledged her presence. Not a good sign at all considering the occupants of the room were hypersensitive Vampires. They continued arguing as if she wasn���t there at all.
Aro, her boss, paced. His violet eyes snapping, his fangs barely sheathed.
Upon the dais abutting the far wall of the gallery sat two of the Vampyres of the Triumvirate, Godrick and Kristov, who watched him march, bemused expressions clapped onto their faces.
The third Vampyre of the Triumvirate, her dear father Anton, remained on Aro���s level, leaning against the wall, his blonde head resting on his arm. The lesser Vampire ignored Anton, preferring to address the Vampyres on the raised platform instead.
���She is a sworn member to the Literati, do not forget,��� Aro fumed, barely veiling his threat to the ancient members of the Triumvirate. He shook with his insubordination, yet couldn���t seem to help himself. ���She has pledged her oath,��� he seethed, his fangs lengthening.
���She is merely human!��� Anton raged, slicing across the room with his claws unsheathed. The Vampyre veered from his assault at the last second, swirling back to his original post along the wall, his control tamped. ���She will never survive this mission,��� Anton hissed, his demeanor deflating as if his body wasn���t like iron.
Angelia barely tracked her father���s averted assault on her boss it happened so fast.
���She is my daughter,��� he groaned, not caring to shield the torment of his dilemma from the others in the room. Or from Angelia, whose heart strangled in her breast to see him so defeated.
To heck with tradition and protocol. Angelia clapped her jaw shut and went straight to her father to comfort him.
She couldn���t not. He was extremely upset. She could see it in his silver eyes, the centuries weighing heavy in them when usually they sparkled bright.
The sight of them turned her blood to freezing slush.
This meeting was about her and her blunder with the Scriptum. They were convening to decide an appropriate punishment. So, what mission were they talking about?
Anton���s fingers curled around her hand, and for an instant, Angelia didn���t know if she felt trapped or comforted. But she held her ground. Whatever retribution was due her, she���d face it. Even if she was glad her stomach was empty so she wouldn���t vomit. Much.
Puking wasn���t exactly a hallmark of bravery, so she took the tight smile her father gave her, and let him lead her to a wooden chair situated a little off-center of the room.
To sit? Oh, heck, no. She wanted to bolt.
But that would make her a coward, and she already had a long list of inadequacies chalked up against her. Angelia took the seat her father offered.
Then watched him trudge to the dais like a man heading for the gallows. She gulped past the knot gripping her throat.
Okay, she could do this. She had signed on with the Literati knowing full well what was expected of her. Of course, her father had been beyond livid when she���d done it. He���d threatened to kill Aro as soon as he���d found out she���d daubed her blood to the contract. He���d accused the Vampire of treachery and deceit. Even went so far as to say the only reason Aro would want his daughter was because she was human.
A lovely revelation that stung like a mother. Yet, she���d refused to cry over it. So what if that was the only reason Aro and the Literati wanted her. For once in her life, being human had some merit. And Anton���s fears that she���d be traipsing all over the world, going into places where only her kind could go? Remained unfounded.
Angelia hadn���t left her desk for ten years. No Indiana Jones adventures for her. Nope. Since her debacle with the Recovery Team, she got the drudgery, the research where the only excitement came from getting off her stool to stretch her back.
The Scriptum had been the first and only thing she���d ever been assigned to because she was human, and that was because Aro and the other Literati couldn���t pry their greedy little fingers under its cover.
And I���ve bumbled my one chance to prove my worth.
Her shame and guilt overrode her fear like a three hundred pound jockey.
���Aro, sit.��� Godrick commanded quietly. But then, his authority wasn���t to be breached, so he didn���t have to raise his voice. The chairman of the Literati plunked his butt at the long table, his alabaster fingers drumming on his briefcase.
Angelia cringed inwardly. Inside that briefcase would be her contract, with her stamp of blood on it.
���Angelia Delacroix.��� This time the voice that spoke carried a soft undertone, and it did wonders to soothe her. Which would be the intention, of course. Kristov had always been kind to her.
���Yes?��� She sat up straighter, facing the Triumvirate. Her poor father had paled beyond pale, throwing wide the door to her fear so it crept back in subtle as an elephant.
���We are sorry for having kept you in the dark while we weighed our decision.���
Angelia decided to study her boots rather than watch Anton suffer. If she was going to face her punishment with any dignity, she couldn���t look at him. Not if she wanted to keep her backbone, spindly as it was.
Because he was her Papa. She���d cave like the weak little girl she was, and he would happily bundle her up in his arms to comfort the both of them.
She knew that. Anton adored her.
Even after his son had been born, Angelia still resided in the same cherished place of his heart.
���Is there anything you can tell us about the disappearance of the Scriptum, Miss Delacroix?���
Huh? Angelia dragged her gaze off her shit-kickers to gawp up at the Triumvirate. The disappearance of the Scriptum?
���She doesn���t know a blasted thing,��� Aro griped from behind her.
Angelia turned to her boss, still too stupefied to play catch up.
���She was completely unconscious. And we did a mind sweep.��� Aro swept his hand out, indicating the two Literati Ghouls who sat like well-preserved, sagacious corpses at the long table with him. ���She knows nothing of the theft.���
���The theft?��� Angelia���s jaw finally worked just enough for her to say something, but it fell back open as she stared at her boss. This meeting wasn���t about her punishment? She felt the one-two punch of relief and panic. ���The Scriptum has been stolen?���
She didn���t need a verbal answer. Anton���s distress hadn���t been about the punishment she was going to receive, it was about this mission. And���ding, ding, ding���her brain finally grasped what was taking place.
She was being assigned to retrieve the Scriptum. Hence, the mission Anton had referred to. Angelia swung around to look at her father, her worry for him beaming out of her eyes now that her cowardly butt was no longer on the line.
���Miss Delacroix, it is our understanding you are the only one capable of retrieving this artifact. Is this so?���
Angelia turned her attention to Kristov. The only one? ���Yeah, I guess. I mean, I���m the only one who can read it.���
Which didn���t exactly mean she was the only one who could retrieve it. Did it? Excitement revved in her belly, tingling her skin.
Was this finally it? Was this her chance to prove her worth, to show everyone she wasn���t entirely useless and clumsy? She���d waited a decade for her Indiana Jones crusade, and now it seemed as if it was finally going to happen.
She bowed her head so no one would see the flush of anticipation coloring her cheeks.
���You will not be expected to endure this treacherous journey alone, Miss Delacroix, if you should accept the terms of your contract.���
Blah, blah, blah���treacherous journey?
Okay. She needed to get focused here. Indiana Jones and his stunts were fictional���she was about to embark on the real deal.
���You will be escorted through Hell by Merrick the Chimera, the Guardian to Hell���s Archway. Is that acceptable to you?���
Angelia didn���t know whether to collapse into her chair from fright or shriek like a teenager at a rock concert.
A Chimera.
Taking her straight to Hell. The real Hell. Not the figurative one.
The information rendered her dumb. She didn���t know how to respond. Her emotions hovered, immobilized by the colliding of two climactic moments in her drear life.
It was a few moments before her situation finally melted over her, and she sucked in a fortifying breath.
Okay. Right. She could do this. She had been waiting ten years for such a chance, and had always known that the places she could pass where Aro and the rest of the Literati wouldn���t be pleasant.
Hell as a destination had traipsed across her imagination more than once.
But a Chimera to guide her? She���d be safer than a glass of holy water at a Literati Convention.
But wait. Kristov had asked her something. She glanced up, not hiding her confusion, or her embarrassment.
���I���m sorry. Could you repeat the question?���
���We asked whether your escort would be acceptable to you,��� Godrick repeated, his patience a trifle thin. She couldn���t blame him. As much as he respected Anton, he had always wondered how the Vampyre could be so smitten with a dull-witted human.
���Ah, yes. Yes, it���s acceptable to me. I mean, yes. He is acceptable.���
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 5 coming Tuesday, February 10, 2015.
February 3, 2015
Lover in Stone, Installment No. 3
Installment No. 3
#gargoyle #shifter #MFRWauthorscdane #romance
Like a gift, the Scriptum lay open upon the table above the unconscious woman. A single lamp spilled warm, buttery light on both, leaving the rest of the narrow room in shadow.
Where the intruder lurked a few moments longer, waiting. Watching, despite the fact most of his attention was on the book. Which looked like any other relic he���d stolen during his base life.
Old. Valuable not because it was made of anything precious, but because its worth lay in what he was going to get out of it.
Power. Unlike anything he���d ever experienced.
In exchange for this book���if he could get it into the right hands.
But the man understood greed as a supreme motivator, and he would deliver the Scriptum into the right hands.
Come hell or high water.
The soulless man let his lips twist into a smile he felt nowhere within himself; an odd reflex to something sublime he couldn���t emotionally fathom.
Yes. Hell would come, if he handled this right, but not the high water.
He nudged the unconscious woman���s wrist with the toe of his soft, leather moccasin.
She was not beautiful.
Plain.
Definitely not Vampire, or Fae.
Which explained why it was she he was stealing this book from in the first place.
The man suspected enough about the Scriptum to know that few would most likely be able to touch it, let alone decipher its mystery.
But this brown paper bag of a female?
Indecent.
If he didn���t have this matter of stealing the book pressing upon him, the power coming to him in lieu of cash payment, he would do her justice.
The man uncurled his fingers from the bowie blade riding his hip.
He would not cut her as he so desired to do. Yet, how remarkable she would be if only he could slide his sharp knife from one cheek bone to the other. Give her a puppet smile that would permanently grace her unexceptional face.
Only the anticipation of the payment awaiting him stayed his hand, and he stepped off from his inborn urge to carve beauty where it was lacking. He turned his attentions to the relic, to the object that, should he succeed at delivering it into the guts of Hell, would gift him an eternity of joyful sculpting.
He bothered not with wondering why the woman had been studying blank pages. That wasn���t where his interest lay. The soulless man stepped over the woman to reach her work table, and closed his gloved hands over the Scriptum.
He was surprised by its heft.
For such a small, unassuming object, it seemed as though it was weighted with the things not written upon its blank pages.
The man yanked and lifted the tome, then slid it into a silk bag, which he then placed inside his backpack.
As he stepped back over the unconscious woman, his hand once again drifted to his hip, to his bowie knife.
Just one quick sweep of his blade.
And yet.
He would not. He could not.
During his lifetime, he had gambled only so far, had never taken unnecessary risks. Besides, he had far too much to gain if he won this game. His hand reluctantly slid from the cool steel of his blade.
With a stealthy tweak of the doorknob, the man slid into the dimly lit hallway, skulked along the rows upon rows of dusty manuscripts, and made his way to one of the many dark recesses of the vaulted library where his ropes hung as quiet and unnoticed as jungle snakes.
With practiced ease, the soulless man pulled himself upward toward the vent at the height of the thirty foot wall, and disappeared into it as silently as he had emerged, like a spider born from one of the hundreds of billowing webs stretching like banners across the ceiling.
Bound for Hell, with the Scriptum riding safe upon his back.
*****
Sometimes it���s a blessing to remain unconscious. At least, to Angelia���s way of thinking anyway. Once she���d come to after having fainted like a wuss, she���d had to endure Aro���s wrath. Which came in the form of silence. Not a good sign at all. He had picked her off the floor with a grip shying just short of breaking her arm, and had her escorted to a ���room��� at the Triumvirate���s holdings.
For her safety.
Bah!
She knew exactly why Aro had sent her here. She was to await her punishment for ruining the Scriptum. She sat on a stool in the middle of a ten foot square cell, thinking the only thing missing from this interrogation scene was the bare bulb overhead.
Running her palms up and down her arms did nothing for her shivering as she remembered her last botched job. The details of which dug their sharp nails into her fragile ego.
She���d been in a similar predicament before, when she���d first joined the Literati.
Well, okay, it was similar only in the sense she���d effed that job up, too.
The Recovery Team wasn���t even out the door before Angelia inadvertently bungled the protection magic painstakingly conjured by the Mage to keep them safe. To this day, she didn���t know how she���d done it. But she could remember the faces glaring at her. Each one was covered in soot, like the spell had blown up, turning the faces of her teammates into cartoon characters.
Which was kind of funny. Except no one laughed with her.
Aro had yanked her off the team faster than she could say whoops.
And figuratively chained her to a desk for the next ten years.
Until the Scriptum had been unearthed, and remained stubbornly shut for six months, even for the Demon Decipherer.
Angelia had again proven how inept she was when she���d gone into the room to ask Aro and the Decipherer a question. Somehow, she���d managed to trip on the flat stone floor and brush her fingers along the Scriptum���s sealed cover as she���d thrown her hand out to catch herself.
Aro and the Demon Decipherer had watched in helpless horror as the great tome teetered precariously upon its binding.
The Vampire had a flaming curse on his lips when the impenetrable Scriptum split wide open to finally reveal its secrets.
Well, not quite.
The text on the immaculate vellum promptly disappeared the moment Aro ordered Angelia���s clumsy ass out of the room. Which was the only reason she had been assigned to translate it.
Because the writing didn���t remain for any eyes but hers.
And now those pristine pages were forever marred with a blotch of her pathetic human blood.
Angelia���s insecurities assailed her as she sat on the stool in the cell. As if their weight was too much to bear, she turned in on herself, curling her body around the growing hole of humiliation, the shame that had taken up permanent residence in her gut years ago.
God, Aro was going to fry her for this.
The clank of the heavy steel door had her hopping to her feet, like she was going to kick butt. Or run. A more likely outcome given the current strength of her spine.
The same Vampire who had escorted her here came into the cell. ���They are ready for you, Miss Delacroix.��� He bowed his blonde head as if he felt bad about her situation, offering his arm like an usher at a formal wedding.
Angelia took it, even if it was just to hold onto something to keep her hands from shaking. She felt hard muscle under the shirt sleeve, and shut her eyes as she sucked up a little comfort from the solidity of it.
���Where are we going?��� She peered up at a strong, tight jaw.
Her escort kept his eyes straight ahead. ���The Triumvirate wishes to see you.���
The Triumvirate?
Holy Moses, she was in bigger trouble than she thought. Was Aro demanding they give permission for him to release her from the contract?
Her father would be flipping cartwheels while he sang Yes! So, Aro would get at least one vote in the affirmative. Angelia gripped a little tighter to the young Vampire leading her down the stone paneled corridor, her stomach churning as her feet turned to slippery clay.
She would be stripped of her duties. Severed from the one thing making her feel a little special in this world of super beings. Cold, familiar fingers of inadequacy clamped around her guts, just as her escort halted in front of a thick wooden door. He leaned forward to open it, revealing the stone gallery where the Triumvirate conducted their interviews.
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 4 coming Saturday, February 7, 2015.
January 31, 2015
Lover in Stone, Installment No.2
Installment No. 2
#gargoyle #shifter #authorscdane
Merrick craned his neck to get a better look at the path beneath him, and felt the pull of his thick shoulder muscles run the length of his spine. The screech of stone assaulted his ears as his claws scored the wall. His talons, formidable weapons that they were, bit perfectly into the holes already etched into the granite���from his centuries of crouching exactly where he was now���perched on the Archway to Hell.
Condemned to killing its trespassers.
Thank you, God, you lousy son of a bitch.
Rage swelled inside him like the flooding waters behind a crumbling levee. Another soul, burdened with guilt, plodded beneath him. Resigned to its fate in Hell, where the doomed bastard would remain. Because Merrick knew no souls discovered redemption. Instead, they forever perpetuated their crimes, twisting ceaselessly within their self-designed tortures.
Like a twitching whip, Merrick���s rope-like tail slashed his fury as he tracked the sinner���s route.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
Dante might have mistranslated the words carved into the Archway���s keystone, but he hadn���t mistaken the circular levels.
Not the misery. Nor the horror.
Merrick knew every shitty bit of it���he���d been forced to witness every doomed soul since the creation of this infernal cauldron. And he���d had enough. His guts were swimming in the filth of the madness, the terror. His skin grew thick, rough as stone���the telltale sign of what he and his Kynd were fated to become.
Grotesques.
Condemned by God to this unholy patch of sunshine, he was inevitably turning to stone, just as thousands of his brethren already had. And he couldn���t stand it, had to circle on his paws to relieve the twitching of his skin, the compulsion of his muscles to act. To do something to alleviate his furious despair.
The archangel Lucifer had been right: God was a heartless bastard who turned his back to the cruelty He Himself created. Was it no wonder the souls consigned to Hell were so full of hopeless misery?
Just like the one entering Hell beneath him.
Shrieking assailed Merrick���s ears, and he roared his anguish while his heart weighed heavy as the rock it was fast becoming.
*****
The pose didn���t suit her. Although far be it from Angelia to notice she formed the perfect imitation of a long-legged grasshopper. Not with her attention riveted to the skin-bound book spread open in front of her.
She felt like a member of the bomb squad holding the wire snips. Kept her breath locked in her lungs. And not because the pages of the book were fragile, either. Given its age, the darn thing had defied the ravages of time.
What worried her, and kept her from breathing, was the aura of magic surrounding the thing.
The relic sitting in front of her was volatile as a real bomb. All it would take would be one wrong move, one offensive stumble from her, and the book could do anything.
So, she couldn���t screw up.
As it was, the only reason she sat in the same room with it was because she was the only being it allowed to read its pages.
Like the Scriptum had an inkling of its own.
And that made it one scary so and so.
Because, let���s face it, she wasn���t anyone special. Not in this world of Fae, Vampire, Demon, and Ghoul.
And Grotesques.
How could she forget to add the Gargoyles and Chimeras to her list of supernatural wonders. When she was younger, she used to fantasize about the Grotesques, spending countless nights conjuring histories for them, fabricating stories of derring-do for her Gargoyle heroes.
Which was fine when you were a little kid. Playing make-believe was as normal as snot hanging out of your nose. Even as a teenager, she could be excused when she���d gripped tight to her fascination, practically wallpapering her bedroom with pictures of Chimeras.
She���d never outgrown her fascination.
Which made her a loser on all counts. A human living in a realm populated by creatures with innate talents that left her wanting.
And feeling pathetically inadequate.
Ugh. Yeah. She���d polish that nugget of loveliness later. Right then, she was preoccupied with sliding her silver reading blade along the pages she was translating. She had come to the running end of an unfinished sentence about her favorite subject: Gargoyles and Chimera.
So to her, the Scriptum read like a New York Times best-selling novel: a real page turner. Hastening to devour more, she flicked the blade to roll the page. Only to slice her finger on the vellum���even though she���d been using her knife.
���Ooh, crap!��� She jabbed her bleeding finger into her mouth, her eyes dancing like frantic maids to find something, anything, to dab the blood off the ancient page.
���Oh, God, oh God, how could I be so stupid?��� Mortified, she jumped to her feet, tipping her stool so it clattered to the floor behind her.
The droplet of her blood spread in a widening circle into the page. Like an atomic cloud.
And just as flipping devastating.
She���d marred the ancient Scriptum. With her stupid, human ineptitude she���d scarred a relic which had remained in near pristine condition for centuries.
Faltering back, she couldn���t peel her helpless stare from her blunder.
Oh, man. She would have to confess it.
Fear snatched her breath. Droplets of sweat stung her armpits, prickled the small of her back. Aro, her Vampire boss would be���catatonic with rage.
See? Pathetic. Aro would never lay a fang on her. Not when her father was Vampyre, one of the ruling Triumvirate.
Okay, so he wasn���t her real father. But she���d been raised since infancy as Anton���s own, and it was no secret to the Vampire realm. Inept human she might be, but Angelia moved within her father���s world freely.
No Vampire in their right mind dared touch her.
Including Aro.
Right. Taking a deep breath to calm her panic, she bent to put her stool back onto its three feet. Then bolted upright, her hand clutched to her heart like a clich��d heroine wrapped tight in her corset and long skirts.
Singing expanded inside her head.
���Holy rum raisin ice cream.��� The Scriptum hummed. The voices stuck to her pulse, pulling and twisting along her veins as they sang. They magnified inside the amphitheater of her skull, to the point she thought the bone would fissure and sound would blast forth like footlights���to illuminate the ceiling over her head.
Her knees buckled, as if she knelt in supplication to the concerto. Tears tumbled down her cheeks. Trembling, she reached forth, as though Jesus himself stood in glowing magnificence in front of her, and she wanted nothing more than to touch his modest robes.
The voices flew ever higher, and Angelia���s heart strained to devour every truth, every glorious exultation���until the pounding lump of muscle stuttered, fluttered, and fibrillated.
As her vision tunneled, the Scriptum shrunk into a tiny pinprick before disappearing, just like scenes in old movies ended.
Last thought? Darkness. Angelia cashed out like an empty register, her body folding to the flagstone floor.
~S.C. Dane
~Next Installment (no. 3) coming: Tuesday, February 3, 2015.
Lover in Stone
Installment No. 2
#gargoyle #shifter #authorscdane
Merrick craned his neck to get a better look at the path beneath him, and felt the pull of his thick shoulder muscles run the length of his spine. The screech of stone assaulted his ears as his claws scored the wall. His talons, formidable weapons that they were, bit perfectly into the holes already etched into the granite���from his centuries of crouching exactly where he was now���perched on the Archway to Hell.
Condemned to killing its trespassers.
Thank you, God, you lousy son of a bitch.
Rage swelled inside him like the flooding waters behind a crumbling levee. Another soul, burdened with guilt, plodded beneath him. Resigned to its fate in Hell, where the doomed bastard would remain. Because Merrick knew no souls discovered redemption. Instead, they forever perpetuated their crimes, twisting ceaselessly within their self-designed tortures.
Like a twitching whip, Merrick���s rope-like tail slashed his fury as he tracked the sinner���s route.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
Dante might have mistranslated the words carved into the Archway���s keystone, but he hadn���t mistaken the circular levels.
Not the misery. Nor the horror.
Merrick knew every shitty bit of it���he���d been forced to witness every doomed soul since the creation of this infernal cauldron. And he���d had enough. His guts were swimming in the filth of the madness, the terror. His skin grew thick, rough as stone���the telltale sign of what he and his Kynd were fated to become.
Grotesques.
Condemned by God to this unholy patch of sunshine, he was inevitably turning to stone, just as thousands of his brethren already had. And he couldn���t stand it, had to circle on his paws to relieve the twitching of his skin, the compulsion of his muscles to act. To do something to alleviate his furious despair.
The archangel Lucifer had been right: God was a heartless bastard who turned his back to the cruelty He Himself created. Was it no wonder the souls consigned to Hell were so full of hopeless misery?
Just like the one entering Hell beneath him.
Shrieking assailed Merrick���s ears, and he roared his anguish while his heart weighed heavy as the rock it was fast becoming.
*****
The pose didn���t suit her. Although far be it from Angelia to notice she formed the perfect imitation of a long-legged grasshopper. Not with her attention riveted to the skin-bound book spread open in front of her.
She felt like a member of the bomb squad holding the wire snips. Kept her breath locked in her lungs. And not because the pages of the book were fragile, either. Given its age, the darn thing had defied the ravages of time.
What worried her, and kept her from breathing, was the aura of magic surrounding the thing.
The relic sitting in front of her was volatile as a real bomb. All it would take would be one wrong move, one offensive stumble from her, and the book could do anything.
So, she couldn���t screw up.
As it was, the only reason she sat in the same room with it was because she was the only being it allowed to read its pages.
Like the Scriptum had an inkling of its own.
And that made it one scary so and so.
Because, let���s face it, she wasn���t anyone special. Not in this world of Fae, Vampire, Demon, and Ghoul.
And Grotesques.
How could she forget to add the Gargoyles and Chimeras to her list of supernatural wonders. When she was younger, she used to fantasize about the Grotesques, spending countless nights conjuring histories for them, fabricating stories of derring-do for her Gargoyle heroes.
Which was fine when you were a little kid. Playing make-believe was as normal as snot hanging out of your nose. Even as a teenager, she could be excused when she���d gripped tight to her fascination, practically wallpapering her bedroom with pictures of Chimeras.
She���d never outgrown her fascination.
Which made her a loser on all counts. A human living in a realm populated by creatures with innate talents that left her wanting.
And feeling pathetically inadequate.
Ugh. Yeah. She���d polish that nugget of loveliness later. Right then, she was preoccupied with sliding her silver reading blade along the pages she was translating. She had come to the running end of an unfinished sentence about her favorite subject: Gargoyles and Chimera.
So to her, the Scriptum read like a New York Times best-selling novel: a real page turner. Hastening to devour more, she flicked the blade to roll the page. Only to slice her finger on the vellum���even though she���d been using her knife.
���Ooh, crap!��� She jabbed her bleeding finger into her mouth, her eyes dancing like frantic maids to find something, anything, to dab the blood off the ancient page.
���Oh, God, oh God, how could I be so stupid?��� Mortified, she jumped to her feet, tipping her stool so it clattered to the floor behind her.
The droplet of her blood spread in a widening circle into the page. Like an atomic cloud.
And just as flipping devastating.
She���d marred the ancient Scriptum. With her stupid, human ineptitude she���d scarred a relic which had remained in near pristine condition for centuries.
Faltering back, she couldn���t peel her helpless stare from her blunder.
Oh, man. She would have to confess it.
Fear snatched her breath. Droplets of sweat stung her armpits, prickled the small of her back. Aro, her Vampire boss would be���catatonic with rage.
See? Pathetic. Aro would never lay a fang on her. Not when her father was Vampyre, one of the ruling Triumvirate.
Okay, so he wasn���t her real father. But she���d been raised since infancy as Anton���s own, and it was no secret to the Vampire realm. Inept human she might be, but Angelia moved within her father���s world freely.
No Vampire in their right mind dared touch her.
Including Aro.
Right. Taking a deep breath to calm her panic, she bent to put her stool back onto its three feet. Then bolted upright, her hand clutched to her heart like a clich��d heroine wrapped tight in her corset and long skirts.
Singing expanded inside her head.
���Holy rum raisin ice cream.��� The Scriptum hummed. The voices stuck to her pulse, pulling and twisting along her veins as they sang. They magnified inside the amphitheater of her skull, to the point she thought the bone would fissure and sound would blast forth like footlights���to illuminate the ceiling over her head.
Her knees buckled, as if she knelt in supplication to the concerto. Tears tumbled down her cheeks. Trembling, she reached forth, as though Jesus himself stood in glowing magnificence in front of her, and she wanted nothing more than to touch his modest robes.
The voices flew ever higher, and Angelia���s heart strained to devour every truth, every glorious exultation���until the pounding lump of muscle stuttered, fluttered, and fibrillated.
As her vision tunneled, the Scriptum shrunk into a tiny pinprick before disappearing, just like scenes in old movies ended.
Last thought? Darkness. Angelia cashed out like an empty register, her body folding to the flagstone floor.
~S.C. Dane
~Next Installment (no. 3) coming: Tuesday, February 3, 2015.
January 28, 2015
Gargoyles or Sexy Guys? Lover in Stone, Installment No. 1
Hey, Folks!
It’s been awhile since I finished “Wolf Love” and you’re probably wondering where the heck the new story is. Chew your fingernails no more! Here it is:
“Lover in Stone.” A paranormal romance dripping with��spicy love scenes and a spicier man. Or, Chimera, in this case. What the eff is a Chimera? He’s a triple threat kind of beastie–three yummy��creatures in one.
In this story, our Chimera is Merrick, who’s��Gargoyle, Lion, and Angel. Don’t be put off by the Gargoyle portion. This is a paranormal romance. Men are hot, hot, hot. Forget what you know of ugly gargoyles. Mine are hunks of granite with a capital G.
Now, I’ll shut up, so you can get reading. Installments will come twice a week: Tuesdays and Saturdays. Yeah, I know today is Wednesday, but I was anxious to��reveal “Lover in Stone.”
Here’s your blurb and the Prologue.
Enjoy!
To the world they are the Grotesques���hideous chimeras and gargoyles of stone. But before they are locked in their granite prisons, they are Kynd������magnificent beings condemned to prowl the nightmares of every realm.
Their tortures will doom them to stone.
The love of a Chosen One could save them.
For more than two thousand years, Merrick has borne the misery of being the guardian to Hell���s Archway. He has witnessed millions of condemned souls, slaughtered thousands of trespassers, and his enraged despair is pushing him to the brink of becoming what the world expects his Kynd to be.
Go to Hell. A mission the Triumvirate instructs Angelia Delacroix to undertake, and she doesn���t blink twice. Not when she feels it���s her destiny to retrieve the Scriptum, an ancient text stolen from the Literati and absconded with to the bowels of that infernal cauldron.
As the pair quest for the Scriptum, will Merrick surrender his battered heart to the beautiful Angelia? Or will he succumb to his rage, dooming himself to his stone fate for all eternity, and his Chosen One to the innermost Circle of Hell?
Lover in Stone
Prologue
���������������������� ���So it is written?���
���������������������� ���It is, my Lord.���
���������������������� ���And sent forth?���
���������������������� ���To Earth, as you instructed. But?���
���������������������� ���Speak freely, Alielle.���
���������������������� ���If the Scriptum is not found in time?���
���������������������� ���Ah, your fears are well grounded, old friend, but let us have Faith.���
���������������������� ���But if it is found not by whom you have intended?���
���������������������� ���You play devil���s advocate.���
���������������������� ���I do.���
���������������������� ���Then I have a worthy companion in you, Alielle. All will not be lost.�� There is still hope, even then.���
���������������������� ���Yet, if the Chosen One and the scriptum are not united?�����
���Then its secrets will remain locked.���
���������������������� ���But Your Kynd, my Lord.���
���������������������� ���Ah, yes. My beloved Witnesses, angel. There lies the conundrum of Free Will, even for them. They will suffer until they decode their own Truth.���
���I fear for them. Even if they��free themselves��and choose sides, they may not find Love. For all their discretion, my Lord, they are a fierce lot.���
���������������������� ���So they are. But have faith in Love, Alielle. It has power even you cannot imagine.���
���������������������� ���And you trust the Kynd will gain knowledge of it? That they will discover Love, along with their Chosen One? That seems improbable, with all due respect.���
���������������������� ���It will take a Miracle.���
���������������������� ���I hope you are joking.���
���������������������� ���Faith, Alielle. Take courage in our Kynd and their ferocity. For still they are Witnesses, and see much.���
���������������������� ���I hope you are right.���
���������������������� ���I love them, too, angel. Let us pray they learn��firsthand what it means to love, to understand the elemental joy of sacrifice.���
���������������������� ���Sometimes, I think Lucifer is right. You can be cruel.���
���������������������� ���Not cruel, little one. You shall see.���
���������������������� ���As it is written?���
���������������������� ���You are a wise angel, Alielle. Bless Our Kynd. Yes, as it is written.���
~S.C. Dane
Next Installment coming Saturday, January 31, 2015.
Gargoyles or Sexy Guys?
Hey, Folks!
It’s been awhile since I finished “Wolf Love” and you’re probably wondering where the heck the new story is. Chew your fingernails no more! Here it is:
“Lover in Stone.” A paranormal romance dripping with��spicy love scenes and a spicier man. Or, Chimera, in this case. What the eff is a Chimera? He’s a triple threat kind of beastie–three yummy��creatures in one.
In this story, our Chimera is Merrick, who’s��Gargoyle, Lion, and Angel. Don’t be put off by the Gargoyle portion. This is a paranormal romance. Men are hot, hot, hot. Forget what you know of ugly gargoyles. Mine are hunks of granite with a capital G.
Now, I’ll shut up, so you can get reading. Installments will come twice a week: Tuesdays and Saturdays. Yeah, I know today is Wednesday, but I was anxious to��reveal “Lover in Stone.”
Here’s your blurb and the Prologue.
Enjoy!
To the world they are the Grotesques���hideous chimeras and gargoyles of stone. But before they are locked in their granite prisons, they are Kynd������magnificent beings condemned to prowl the nightmares of every realm.
Their tortures will doom them to stone.
The love of a Chosen One could save them.
For more than two thousand years, Merrick has borne the misery of being the guardian to Hell���s Archway. He has witnessed millions of condemned souls, slaughtered thousands of trespassers, and his enraged despair is pushing him to the brink of becoming what the world expects his Kynd to be.
Go to Hell. A mission the Triumvirate instructs Angelia Delacroix to undertake, and she doesn���t blink twice. Not when she feels it���s her destiny to retrieve the Scriptum, an ancient text stolen from the Literati and absconded with to the bowels of that infernal cauldron.
As the pair quest for the Scriptum, will Merrick surrender his battered heart to the beautiful Angelia? Or will he succumb to his rage, dooming himself to his stone fate for all eternity, and his Chosen One to the innermost Circle of Hell?
Lover in Stone
Prologue
���������������������� ���So it is written?���
���������������������� ���It is, my Lord.���
���������������������� ���And sent forth?���
���������������������� ���To Earth, as you instructed. But?���
���������������������� ���Speak freely, Alielle.���
���������������������� ���If the Scriptum is not found in time?���
���������������������� ���Ah, your fears are well grounded, old friend, but let us have Faith.���
���������������������� ���But if it is found not by whom you have intended?���
���������������������� ���You play devil���s advocate.���
���������������������� ���I do.���
���������������������� ���Then I have a worthy companion in you, Alielle. All will not be lost.�� There is still hope, even then.���
���������������������� ���Yet, if the Chosen One and the scriptum are not united?�����
���Then its secrets will remain locked.���
���������������������� ���But Your Kynd, my Lord.���
���������������������� ���Ah, yes. My beloved Witnesses, angel. There lies the conundrum of Free Will, even for them. They will suffer until they decode their own Truth.���
���I fear for them. Even if they��free themselves��and choose sides, they may not find Love. For all their discretion, my Lord, they are a fierce lot.���
���������������������� ���So they are. But have faith in Love, Alielle. It has power even you cannot imagine.���
���������������������� ���And you trust the Kynd will gain knowledge of it? That they will discover Love, along with their Chosen One? That seems improbable, with all due respect.���
���������������������� ���It will take a Miracle.���
���������������������� ���I hope you are joking.���
���������������������� ���Faith, Alielle. Take courage in our Kynd and their ferocity. For still they are Witnesses, and see much.���
���������������������� ���I hope you are right.���
���������������������� ���I love them, too, angel. Let us pray they learn��firsthand what it means to love, to understand the elemental joy of sacrifice.���
���������������������� ���Sometimes, I think Lucifer is right. You can be cruel.���
���������������������� ���Not cruel, little one. You shall see.���
���������������������� ���As it is written?���
���������������������� ���You are a wise angel, Alielle. Bless Our Kynd. Yes, as it is written.���
~S.C. Dane
Next Installment coming Saturday, January 31, 2015.
