Michelle M. Pillow's Blog, page 72

Vlog: Cover Art

Michelle M. Pillow: Cover Art

Very informal micro chat about my experiences as a published author.

Answering questions about cover art.

Michelle’s YouTube Channel

https://www.youtube.com/user/michellepillow

About Michelle:

Michelle M. Pillow, Author of All Things Romance™, is a multi-published (over 70 published books!) , award-winning author writing in many romance fiction genres including futuristic, paranormal, historical, contemporary, fantasy and dark paranormal. Ever since she can remember, she has had a strange fascination with anything supernatural–ghosts, magical powers, and oh… vampires. What could be more alluring than being immortal, all-powerful, and eternally beautiful? After discovering historical romance novels, it was only natural that the supernatural and love/romance elements should someday meet in her wonderland of a brain. She’s glad they did for their children have been pouring onto the computer screen ever since.

She has been on the Amazon bestseller list multiple times, nominated for the Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Award 2011, the winner of the 2006 RT Reviewers’ Choice Award, nominated for the 2007 RT Award, a Brava Novella Contest Finalist and a PAN member of RWA.

Publishers include everything from Indie to small press to big NY pubs: Random House, Virgin Books, Rouge (Ebury), Pocket Books, The Raven Books, Adams Media, Ellora’s Cave, Samhain, Running Press, Robinson, etc

Michelle is a journalist for Paranormal Underground Magazine. She has a BGS in History/Business with an English Minor, and a Photography degree. In 2009 she and fellow author Mandy M. Roth started their own highly successful self-publishing endeavor named The Raven Books.

Readers can contact her through her author website http://www.MichellePillow.com

For photography, visit http://www.PrettyPoisonPhotography.com

Join her email newsletter at http://www.michellepillow.com/newsletter/?p=subscribe

Visit Author Michelle M. Pillow

http://www.MichellePillow.com

The Raven Books

http://www.TheRavenBooks.com

Vlog: Books into Movies

Michelle M. Pillow: Books into Movies

Very informal micro chat about my experiences as a published author.

Answering the author questions: Are your books going to be made into movies?

Michelle’s YouTube Channel

https://www.youtube.com/user/michellepillow

About Michelle:

Michelle M. Pillow, Author of All Things Romance™, is a multi-published (over 70 published books!) , award-winning author writing in many romance fiction genres including futuristic, paranormal, historical, contemporary, fantasy and dark paranormal. Ever since she can remember, she has had a strange fascination with anything supernatural–ghosts, magical powers, and oh… vampires. What could be more alluring than being immortal, all-powerful, and eternally beautiful? After discovering historical romance novels, it was only natural that the supernatural and love/romance elements should someday meet in her wonderland of a brain. She’s glad they did for their children have been pouring onto the computer screen ever since.

She has been on the Amazon bestseller list multiple times, nominated for the Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Award 2011, the winner of the 2006 RT Reviewers’ Choice Award, nominated for the 2007 RT Award, a Brava Novella Contest Finalist and a PAN member of RWA.

Publishers include everything from Indie to small press to big NY pubs: Random House, Virgin Books, Rouge (Ebury), Pocket Books, The Raven Books, Adams Media, Ellora’s Cave, Samhain, Running Press, Robinson, etc

Michelle is a journalist for Paranormal Underground Magazine. She has a BGS in History/Business with an English Minor, and a Photography degree. In 2009 she and fellow author Mandy M. Roth started their own highly successful self-publishing endeavor named The Raven Books.

Readers can contact her through her author website http://www.MichellePillow.com

For photography, visit http://www.PrettyPoisonPhotography.com

Join her email newsletter at http://www.michellepillow.com/newsletter/?p=subscribe

Visit Author Michelle M. Pillow

http://www.MichellePillow.com

The Raven Books

http://www.TheRavenBooks.com

CONTEST: Ring in the new year with TRS!

Come hang out and play for a chance to win $100 Amazon Gift Certificate and/or an Ebook copy of Dragon Lords: The Barbarian Prince by Michelle M. Pillow!

Details courtesy of TRS:

Where is it going to be held? The event will be held exclusively at the TRS PARTY SITE.

When is it going to be held? From January 2 – 6, 2013. Times? All day!

When will the prizes be given out? The winner of the Amazon gift ecard will be selected at random on January 7, 2013. Other prizes from TRS and its participating authors will be assigned at each donor’s earliest convenience following the end of the event.

Okay so HOW do I enter for the gift card? Our authors will be posting during the event period at the TRS PARTY SITE about their latest books and other entertaining topics. Comment on any of the posts at any time during the event (should be at least acceptable/polite comments because comments in poor taste may result in exclusion from the event), and fill out the gift card entry form that will appear at the party, and you will be entered into the drawing for the Amazon gift ecard.

How do I enter for the other prizes? For other prizes donated by TRS and all participating authors, there will be easy to use giveaway forms at the PARTY SITE.

Vlog: New to My Books?

Michelle M. Pillow: New to My Books?

Very informal micro chat about my experiences as a published author.

Answering the author questions: I’m new to your books, but you have so many, where should I start? What do you recommend?

Michelle’s YouTube Channel

https://www.youtube.com/user/michellepillow

About Michelle:

Michelle M. Pillow, Author of All Things Romance™, is a multi-published (over 70 published books!) , award-winning author writing in many romance fiction genres including futuristic, paranormal, historical, contemporary, fantasy and dark paranormal. Ever since she can remember, she has had a strange fascination with anything supernatural–ghosts, magical powers, and oh… vampires. What could be more alluring than being immortal, all-powerful, and eternally beautiful? After discovering historical romance novels, it was only natural that the supernatural and love/romance elements should someday meet in her wonderland of a brain. She’s glad they did for their children have been pouring onto the computer screen ever since.

She has been on the Amazon bestseller list multiple times, nominated for the Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Award 2011, the winner of the 2006 RT Reviewers’ Choice Award, nominated for the 2007 RT Award, a Brava Novella Contest Finalist and a PAN member of RWA.

Publishers include everything from Indie to small press to big NY pubs: Random House, Virgin Books, Rouge (Ebury), Pocket Books, The Raven Books, Adams Media, Ellora’s Cave, Samhain, Running Press, Robinson, etc

Michelle is a journalist for Paranormal Underground Magazine. She has a BGS in History/Business with an English Minor, and a Photography degree. In 2009 she and fellow author Mandy M. Roth started their own highly successful self-publishing endeavor named The Raven Books.

Readers can contact her through her author website http://www.MichellePillow.com

For photography, visit http://www.PrettyPoisonPhotography.com

Join her email newsletter at http://www.michellepillow.com/newsletter/?p=subscribe

Visit Author Michelle M. Pillow

http://www.MichellePillow.com

The Raven Books

http://www.TheRavenBooks.com

Excerpt Redeemer of Shadows by Michelle M Pillow

Chapter One

London, England

Stormy blue eyes rounded in shock, glancing in all directions. Surely she couldn’t be in the right place. This hidden, modish London nightclub looked nothing like her aunt Georgia’s description of a delectably auspicious café run by a middle-aged couple from Germany.

“Maybe in Germany their idea of delectable includes licking various body parts in public,” Hathor mused wryly, trying to mask her nervousness from the crowd. Again her gaze darted around, but none seemed to pay attention to the lonely spectator in their midst. She wanted to laugh, thinking of her old aunt, the owner of an upper crust English bed-and-breakfast, reclining on one of the very decadent couches lined before the stage. Then, realizing that the liberal Georgia could very well come to such a place, she did giggle. Had her aunt tricked her into getting out of the house?

No, Hathor thought with a firm shake of her head, Georgie wouldn’t have gone to this extreme.

The club looked like an underground dance hall and brothel straight out of the turn of the twentieth century, with a dark and modern twist. Leather g-string panties with gem-studded adornments clasped against the bronzed and glittering skin of the dancers as they sauntered past the curtain to take their place on the narrow stone stage.

The dancers’ dark faces smiled in wicked promise as they glided through the smoke-filled air. Their spike-shaped bras were tipped with steel and gleamed as they thrust their breasts forward with wild abandon. The thump of their high-heeled boots ground out a lusty rhythm, pounding steadily with the beat of the hard music and the aroused shrills of excited spectators.

Hathor huddled in the entryway, refusing to make her way through the scattered tables to the trendy stone and cushion benches. Her blue floral sundress seemed oddly out of place amidst the leather, rubber and furs hugging the teasing peaks of naked flesh. She gripped her purse closely to her chest, drawing no comfort from the conservative handbag as her fingers worked against the beaded pattern of the front. Never had she felt so conscious or so very aware of herself.

You’re in London, she thought, doing her best not to be overwhelmed.

Hathor wasn’t so much shocked as she was uneasy. The dancers attracted her eyes, even as she tried to pull her gaze away. The rhythm of the music pulsed inside of her, mesmerizing her blood with its hard and wicked sound. Her heart began to beat faster to make time. She hadn’t been invited into this place.

The forgotten stone walls, barely visible in the dimmed light, were decayed and leaked in places, like the weeping of teary, old eyes kept awake a century too long. The air was damp and cool, only slightly heated by the small crowd. To her left was a long bar, the newest fixture in the place, made to look as if carved from stone. But, oddly, few seemed to be drinking the warm glasses of liquor the portly bartender tried to dispense. The apathetic man ended up shooting back that which he poured.

Around the curious stage, lounging in the long cushioned seats, near figurines gilded with gold, sat only couples—peculiarly matched. There was a stoic businessman. His arm wrapped possessively around what Hathor could only assume was an English prostitute. A young kid, clearly American by the proud flag displayed on his shirt, crushed his lips to the exposed cleavage of a shockingly older woman. A starkly handsome man, whose dark hair hung about his shoulders to spill forth over his naked chest, naughtily licked the cheek of a balding middle-aged fellow. The balding man’s wedding ring shone bright on his finger. As his head turned, Hathor was afforded a glimpse of his passion-hazed eyes. However, it was something else that caused her to pause. Each couple seemed comprised of one captivatingly beautiful person—those only seen in movies—and one very ordinary and plain.

Eerily, the stage lights dimmed into a bloody red. The smoky air cleared in coiling snake-like patterns as a silent exhaust fan was opened in the roof of the old stone building. The crowd became quiet in respectful anticipation of the awaited performance. Eyes turned to the stage in unison, drawn to the dancers as a possessed group. A look of astonishment washed over their captivated faces as they watched. The thrusting hips of the dancers came together in sexual forthrightness.

Hathor’s eyes widened. Her face froze in stunned bewilderment. She was both fascinated and horrified, and couldn’t turn away. The chorus girls formed a kneeling circle around the platform. Her heart began to pound curiously, cemented in edging fear as she watched white illumination open in the bottom of the stage with a dramatic flash. She could hear the beating in her head, like the drumming of wild horses in flight. A figure moved in the dimming center radiance. The dancers kneeled in worship, leaning back to press their pointed breasts into the shadowed air. A slight moan escaped from the depths of the impassioned crowd, and then another.

Oh no! Hathor thought in growing desperation as she finally managed to look around. I’ve stumbled into an underground sex club. These people must be prostitutes. I don’t understand. I know I got the address right. I checked the map three times before leaving the house. Damned European cities! Why can’t you have streets that lead in a straight line? I shouldn’t be in here. Is prostitution even legal in London?

Hathor grabbed her purse, intent on checking the map once again. Her fingers shook slightly. She glanced around, wondering if she should just leave. No one seemed to be paying her any mind, and the front passageway leading to the entrance held no doorman.

Stepping a bit from the shadows into the light, she moved closer to the bar. The bartender glanced at her before throwing back another shot. His eyes couldn’t meet the crowd. Hathor’s fingers began to dig into her purse, blindly searching for the crumpled map of London’s streets. Finding it, she started to pull it out. Then, as if by a will outside herself, her eyes were drawn to the center stage. Instantly the music changed, its hard beat turning seductively soft. A strange chanting stirred in the back of her mind. The words refused to let her focus. Her body lit as if possessed by fire.

Hathor’s lips parted in a gasp before she held her breath steady and her eyes alert. The lighting dimmed to red to reveal a man who was like no other—strong arms, broad shoulders tapering to a well-formed chest, and then a slender waist.

The pulsing tones of the music fell low and captivating. The tune was from another time, erotically archaic, with the sweetly aching cry of a lonely violin. She could feel the strange thump vibrating though the stone floor. It unfurled enticingly inside her, awakening her with a quickening she never dreamed possible. It was as if a lethargic spell was being woven about her senses. Everything faded and blurred and blended from her sight but the man.

The performer was dressed all in black—snugly fitted slacks and a loose linen shirt cut in a style from the end of the nineteenth century. The old style suited him well, and he wore it with a dynamic ease that said it undoubtedly belonged on him. His dark eyes, encased by the paleness of his skin, glittering a devilish red in the light, pierced through the crowd in dominant pleasure. The defined lines of his diabolically firm mouth lifted up at one side in sensual boredom. As he lowered his chin, his gaze peered through the long tresses of his extremely dark hair. He watched the dancers flip over to push their firm backsides up for his viewing. His languid smile revealed stark white teeth, two of which were pointed into sharpened fangs.

“Vampire,” Hathor whispered in awe as he whipped his arm leisurely through the air. The man on the stage fascinated her. As she watched him, she detected his every movement as if it were part of her soul. His limbs swayed languidly in the ease of the music. She forgot where she was. Shivers racked her spine in shuddering tickles of the flesh.

Her hand fell from her purse, the bag dropping forgotten to hang at her side. Her shoulders stooped as if she couldn’t control her arms. His very presence seemed to cast shadows over everything else, mesmerizing her like a drug. In her head, she knew it was only an act, but the man had an enigmatic power about him.

“Mm, that’s Lord Servaes, the Marquis de Normant. He’s yummy.”

Hathor stiffened at the distinctly British accent that fell close to her ear. Her mind tried to wrap around the words and failed. Carefully, she glanced over her shoulder to see a barely clad woman with stark pink hair that lifted high at the bangs. She wore a cut-off tank that clung to her plentiful breasts. The dusky round tips of her nipples showed large through the flimsy material and pink vinyl hot-pants hugged her hips. Hathor forced her eyes away with a nervous pant. The woman stepped closer, nearing her side. Smiling weakly in confusion, Hathor managed, “Excuse me?”

The woman chuckled knowingly, licking her lips as her eyes drifted down to peruse Hathor’s covered breasts. With a lustful moan, body gravitated closer to brush up against the ill-fitted intruder. The light lilting of her accent ground softly as she repeated with a nod to the stage, “That vampire you were admiring—that is Servaes. He is the most sought-after lay in London. His performances are very rare indeed. You’re lucky to have gotten in. I had to sleep with Sal—that damned rotter—for a month before he would let me into this fleapit. And between you and me, that is a lot of blowjo—”

“I wasn’t,” Hathor broke in, shocked. With a weakened moan, her voice trailed off. She barely heard the woman next to her, not listening to the crude speech as the music once more invaded her. Her gaze stayed fixedly on Servaes, traveling over him, only to find that she couldn’t keep from staring at his handsome, pale face. His lips parted. Her breath caught.

“Oh, I see,” the woman continued with a smirk, her voice rising to accommodate the music as it grew louder and more fevered. The excited crowd began to groan louder with it. “You’re into the role-playing. Think it will help your chances at being picked, do you?”

“I’m sorry? Picked?” Hathor questioned in confusion. She wished the woman would go away so she could concentrate on the strange fire in her limbs. Through the corner of her eye, she saw the couples growing bolder in their public desires. The mood was contagious, urging her to throw back her head and join their mindless moans. She stood quiet, astonished by such an impulse.

“Picked by Servaes,” the woman sighed in exasperation. “Seriously, are you in the wrong place? Who invited you here?”

“No, I’m not,” Hathor stammered. “I’m meeting someone here.”

“Oh, spicing up the marriage a little,” the woman said.

“I’m not married.” Hathor frowned, not knowing why she explained. “I’m from America, staying with my aunt. She’s the only family I have.”

“Oh, of course you’re not married.” The woman winked, knowingly.

Hathor glanced at her, annoyed by her constant chatter. She turned her head once more to the stage in uncertainty. Gasping in shock as Servaes ran his hands over a new girl brought before him, she felt a potent jealousy run through her blood with the virility of an out-of-control flame. With a flick of his wrist, he unleashed the woman’s bra and the pointed spikes plummeted to the ground.

The woman’s small breasts fell forth freely. She arched her back in offering to Servaes’ lips. He leaned over to gently lick the solid nub before dismissing the girl with a dispassionate flick of his hand. Hathor detected that his face showed no pleasure from the intimate act, and yet she felt her midsection twitch with pleasurable sensations. She didn’t have time to wonder at her wanton feelings as they consumed her.

The gathering growled their approval as two of the other chorus girls began sucking and kissing the bared woman’s breasts at Servaes’ command. Their hands moved in a frenzy of desire as they glided over sweaty flesh in massaging caresses. The adored woman howled in rapturous delight as the others forced her back onto the platform.

“What are they doing?” Hathor questioned in a hurried whisper. She was unable to help her curiosity as the women tied the chosen one down. She knew she should turn and leave, knew that she was a stranger to this place, but she couldn’t draw her eyes away from the vampire.

“Those women are Servaes’ offerings. He chooses someone to be punished or, occasionally, someone to be praised. Sometimes they are both. It appears like this one is going to be punished.” The pink-haired woman grunted. Her exploring fingers strayed to her large breast, circling her nipple into a peak. The women on stage pulled the punished woman’s leather panties from her slender hips. Servaes crossed his arms as he watched in dominating approval. Her tone was a bit bitter as she mumbled, “Servaes has strange tastes. He likes to punish humans for their crimes—as if it matters.”

“Punish?” Hathor inquired, amazed. To be with such a man is punishment?

“You’ll have to watch,” the woman said in mysterious delight. Her eyes danced from Hathor to the stage.

“So what did you mean by picked?” Hathor asked, her face heating with a blush. She finally managed to draw her eyes away from the stage long enough to study the woman at her side. Seeing the woman’s hand cupping a breast beneath her tank, Hathor’s face turned completely red.

“Picked to go on stage with him,” the woman said in a husky murmur. She didn’t notice Hathor’s discomfort. Her words lowered to a whisper. “Sometimes Servaes himself will pick a woman from the crowd, and he’ll take her in front of everyone.”

“A complete stranger?” Hathor questioned, appalled. “Is that safe?”

“Oh yeah,” the woman said with a cryptic laugh. She touched her pink hair lightly. Her hips began to sway to the music in gentle thrusts of excitement. Hathor realized the woman was trying to dance with her. She tried to back away, but her heavy limbs didn’t move. “At least for Servaes it is, though it sometimes angers the one who brought the woman. I have only seen him do it once, but that man can suck—fuck. And his body—oh! I saw him pick this redhead once. Man, she had giant breasts. He made her peak so many times she could barely walk. She had to be carried from the stage by the offerings. It’s enough to keep you awake at night.”

“Well, then no, I am not here to be picked.” Hathor denied her arousal as she lifted her chin. The woman’s eyes traveled over her body with a knowing gleam, as if she could see the passion invoked within. Hathor’s breathing deepened. Her eyes focused on Servaes’ mouth. The fanged tips peeked from his slightly parted lips, causing her heart to race. His arms crossed over his chest to assume a commanding stance as he surveyed the crowd he controlled. “Wait, what do you mean you saw him pick someone before? Didn’t you say this was your first time seeing him on—?”

“Hey, I’m Ginger,” the woman interrupted.

Hathor glanced briefly in her direction. Absently, she muttered, “Hathor.”

Ginger giggled playfully. She took her finger and placed it lightly on Hathor’s shoulder. “Pleased to meet you, Hathor.” Ginger’s wandering hand grew bolder as Hathor didn’t back away. It fell completely against her arm in a chilled caress. Under her breath, the woman mumbled to herself, “You have a nice body. Why would you hide it under this hideous dress?”

Hathor only half paid attention to what the woman said as she tucked a strand of reddish-brown hair back into her bun. She wasn’t sure if she should be excited by the show or shocked. It wasn’t as if they were living in the Middle Ages. Sex was everywhere one turned—posters, billboards, cable television. She was never one to watch porn, yet here she was completely enthralled by the performance and entirely jealous of all the women on stage.

The offerings effortlessly succeeded in stripping the punished one’s clothes from her writhing body. Dozens of tongues lapped at her naked skin—over her ripened nipples, to her neck, to her exposed sex. They shackled her ankles into stirrups, holding her legs open.

“What is her crime?” an excited voice shouted from the watching crowd. Hathor recognized the older woman with her college boy.

The music lowered by degrees until it was a soft thud in the background, once more stirring the desires of those watching. The crowd’s hands grew empowered by the wickedly delectable show, and their lips found temptation in the arms of the others gathered. The bodies mingled together with the beginnings of an orgy. Flesh pressed against heated flesh as they waited for Servaes to speak. Lips parted, revealing more fangs hidden within the crowd. Their combined breaths caught up in a rhythm of sensual pleasure and denial.

Slowly, Servaes moved over the stage, keeping everyone on his own time. A smile curved his luscious mouth, and he looked over the crowd in languid perusal from his deep-set eyes. Hathor shivered as the red light glinted in his devilishly handsome gaze, looking as if it came more from within him than reflected from him. His eyes narrowed with a bright, feverish tint. Arousal, swift and strong, coursed through her veins. Hathor gasped, nearly fainting with the unexpected intensity of it.

Ginger felt her shiver and mistook its cause. Leaning closer, she fitted her moistened lips to Hathor’s throat. Hathor stood transfixed by the man on the stage. She felt teeth brush her skin, but it didn’t snap her thoughts back to awareness. At the same time Ginger kissed Hathor’s pale flesh, her hands found the rounded tilt of her confined breast.

“Crime?” Servaes stated in ominous declaration. His word was as soft as a whisper and held the deadly pleasing lilt of an old culture.

Pick me, Hathor breathed, unable to stop the thought as she watched him.

Servaes suddenly stopped moving. His serious eyes turned from the stage to dart over the crowd. The smile melted from his lips, replaced by a snarl of confusion.

“How about we go find a seat?” Ginger offered with hot pants against Hathor’s skin. “Servaes can see you better if you are in the crowd.”

Hathor gasped in shock and pulled away. This wanton attitude was not like her. She didn’t want to sleep with perfect strangers, no matter how handsome they were. The spell she felt cast about her suddenly broke. A cloud lifted from her brain, a haze melted off her limbs, seeming to run onto the floor to puddle around her feet. Shaking her head, she was suddenly very frightened. Her voice cracked, “I—”

With a pull and a gasp, Ginger’s gaze hastened to the stage. Her eyes narrowed to glare in defiance at the man on stage. Her nostrils flared. Then, almost instantly, she lifted up her hands and bowed in remorse. Hathor thought she noticed the glint of extended fangs in the woman’s mouth. Ginger backed away from her. Hathor noticed an inner flash to the woman’s eyes—pooling red with blood for an instant. The woman’s gaze flitted back to the stage and she smiled like a punished child. Yes, Ginger definitely had fangs.

The hairs on the nape of Hathor’s neck lifted as she spun back around. Her heart began to pound faster in dismay. Her breathing deepened. The crowd had gone extremely quiet. Her blood rushed loudly in her ears as she turned to see all eyes on her—the intruder in their midst. Even the offerings stopped in their task to glare at her. In a flash, no longer than a blink, she saw red trails of blood coming from the dancers’ fanged mouths, falling over their throats to disappear into the valley of their breasts. Their victim lay barely moving beneath them. In a daze, Hathor blinked heavily to see the blood was gone.

Servaes arrogantly stood on the stage. His eyes bore into her, the brown depths glowing eerily with an unfamiliar light. Suddenly, a green tint flashed over the captivating orbs. Hathor felt herself caught up in his stare. Her lungs forgot to pull air. It was as if he was inside her, searching through her thoughts, listening to her heart. Somehow he didn’t seem angry at her presence, just confused, as if he probed her for something he couldn’t find. Her body hummed as if on fire. She heard his voice in her head, whispering words she couldn’t understand, in a language she couldn’t know.

He opened his mouth as if to speak. All of a sudden, he seemed aware of where he was. No words came from his curling lips. Hathor backed away slowly from the prying eyes. Those with fangs watched her, the red stage lights reflecting off their eyes.

“He has picked,” someone whispered near Hathor’s shoulder.

Hathor shook her head slowly in denial. Her eyes stayed fixed on the Marquis. Her limbs quaked with dread. She couldn’t go on stage. What was she doing? She should have run from this place as soon as she walked in. Quickly, she backed into the shadows away from his notice. His eyes followed her, as if he could see her in the impossible darkness.

A spell trapped her limbs with a numbing force when Servaes looked at her, making it hard to move. A slight frown came over his features at her rejection of his attention. Then a smirk lined his confident lips as he turned back to the crowd. He ignored her.

“Her crime…” he stated with a wave that encompassed the room, bringing the attention back to him. Instantly, the penetrating eyes of the crowd were drawn away from her, and Hathor felt as if she could once again breathe freely. She watched him point to the offering to be punished as he continued, “is that she denied her partner release after finding her own fulfillment.”

“And her punishment?” a man with yellow underwear poking out of his unbuttoned blue jeans yelled. His hand firmly grasped the exposed breast of his fanged lover. The vampire leaned over to lick his uncovered throat as she firmly grasped his erect penis.

“Her punishment will befit the crime,” Servaes said, his thoughtful tone oddly impersonal. “She shall be brought near pleasure, but denied several times until her body runs hot with moisture and her loins pulse with unfulfilled desire. And then we shall drink from her.”

The gathered onlookers voiced their approval, half in moans and half in cheers. The punished woman wailed as an offering forced her legs further apart. The sounds she made were filled with wanton pleasure. Servaes went to stand over her. Hathor watched from the shadows, mesmerized. Reaching his hand down, the vampire hovered his fingers over the punished one’s exposed sex. The woman tried to grind her hips up into his palm. He backed the pale fingers away from her so they were just beyond her reach.

The bound woman let loose a tortured moan as she was denied his touch. Then, withdrawing his hand back into his masculine chest, he nodded at his women. Instantly, they were on the tied woman, licking and poking at her flesh with their fangs. Their searching fingers touched everywhere but her seeking center as they teased her trembling skin.

Hathor pulled back, terrified by the strong urge in her stomach. The club suddenly smelled of sex as the crowd tore at their clothing in a frenzy of excitement. Her tongue flicked across her teeth as if to find her own set of fangs there. Her teeth were flat, but she bit her tongue. Lightly, she touched her lips, only to draw her fingers away dotted with her own blood.

Servaes had wanted her. Out of the fifty or so people in the crowd, he had picked her. Seeing Ginger watching her intently, Hathor backed towards the narrow passageway leading to the entrance. The woman’s eyes were transfixed on her bloodied finger.

The sound of Hathor’s feet echoed as she ran from the risqué couples beginning to fornicate before the stage. Pursued by the potent smell of sex and blood, her heart pounded and her head swam. She couldn’t make her wooden feet move fast enough.

The bricked alleyway was wet as she finally made it into the night. The moon shone full and bright in the sky, glittering on the moist pavement like millions of sparkling diamonds. Leaning against the cobblestone wall, Hathor took a deep breath. Her blood pulsed in her veins, threatening her body with its silent song of temptation. Beautiful pale skin and handsome, brown, deep-set eyes haunted her. The image burned into her mind, warning her that she was forever changed.

Suddenly screams rang out from the hidden club—the sound of people brought to slaughter. The shrill cries echoed all around her, making her hair feel as if it stood on end. The noise shook her from her stupor. She pressed into the stone wall, too frightened to move.

“Go!”

Hathor heard Servaes’ command as if he shouted it in her ear. With a start, she jolted away from the building, spinning to look behind her. When she saw nothing, she twirled, darting her gaze all around. She realized she was completely alone. The only noise was the beating inside her chest, uncommonly loud. Hesitantly, she leaned to peer down the passageway leading to the decadent club. Seeing a flash of pink hair, Hathor jerked back with a gasp. She mindlessly ran down the narrow alleyway, not knowing how she navigated the dark paths. She didn’t stop until she was safely home.

BUY LINKS

Excerpt from The Mighty Hunter by Michelle M Pillow

Excerpt from The Mighty Hunter by Michelle M. Pillow

Paranormal Romance

Scientist Bridget Dutton has no time for traditional love. Her heart belongs to her work. Even though taking chemical readings of ocean water isn’t her thing, she’s willing to put in her time for her chance at exploring the Abyss. When her boat is attacked from below, Bridget’s dream just might come true sooner than planned.

Caderyn the Hunter, the sexiest–and perhaps craziest–man she’s ever laid eyes on may have rescued her from death, but who’s going to rescue her from him? With a deliciously hot body and all the right moves, the man is a walking seduction that’s too hard to resist. There’s only one problem. Caderyn claims they’re in the Abyss, living on a cursed island along the deep ocean floor. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, he says he’s a merman.

Sparks fly. Desires heat. But can Caderyn convince the logical Bridget there’s room for more than one love in her heart?

Rating: Contains graphic sexual content, adult language, and violence.

EXCERPT

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Lords of the Abyss Book One

THE MIGHTY HUNTER

By

Michelle M Pillow

Chapter One

Bridget Dutton watched the waves lapping along the bow of the ship as it chopped through the water. No matter how many times she went out to sea, she could never stop staring at the beauty of it–the brilliant blue of the water stretching out like a moving field into the horizon. She loved everything about it–the sound, the smell, the feel of being rocked to sleep on the waves. But, there was also the excitement of it, the unknown.

Now, as the bright moonlight shimmered over the glassy surface, the water was exceptionally beautiful to behold. There was nothing around the boat but the sea and the night sky. They were miles away from any coast, surrounded by sparkling blue.

“Your mother must’ve thought she gave birth to a dolphin,” Ned Devenpeck teased, joining her at the rail. He was the head of their expedition. His accent still held traces of his Dutch birth, but after nearly thirty years working off the Florida coast, primarily studying fish ecology, his English was perfect. Dev was an older man, nearing sixty, though he hardly looked it. Years spent out on the waves had kept him fit and he hardly looked a day over thirty-five, except for the short crop of dark gray hair on his head. Like all the scientists, he was dressed for the field in khaki shorts and a fleece sweater. He handed her a cup of coffee. “You never come inside the cabin until it’s time to sleep or work.”

“Thanks, Dev,” Bridget answered, nodding as she lifted the cup. She had known him for some time as a scientist, but she was beginning to think of him as a friend. This was their first expedition together and he had chosen her as his second in command. There had been some light flirting, and she definitely respected his work, but it hadn’t gone anywhere. She was only twenty-six and that was quite an age difference, especially career wise. He was winding down while she was just getting started. “Actually, she accused me of being a pirate in my past life because I always came home with treasures from the ocean.”

“Oh yeah? Where did you grow up?”

“The Oregon coast. Most of the treasures were just sea shells or sand dollars, polished glass, bits of driftwood. But once, I did find this.” Bridget reached into her shirt and pulled out her necklace. It was a flat disc with a hole in the middle inscribed with strange symbols. “No one has been able to tell me what it is or what it means. I’ve basically come to the conclusion that someone was toying with ancient languages and carved it. It’s too new to be an antique.”

Dev laughed softly. “I’ve never seen anything like it. And the Oregon coast? It’s the wrong region for this sort of thing. Though, I suppose with currents… Well, never mind. It’s probably like you said. So, is this the reason you love the ocean so much?”

“I don’t know. It did make me think about it more, about what could be out there buried deep beneath the waves. I can’t seem to help it. I love the sea. It’s the last unknown left to explore on Earth. There are so many things we don’t know about it. For each new species we classify, there are fifty more waiting around the next seamount.”

“What are you doing in Florida, then?” Dev asked. “You should be going with a team to study the Mid-Atlantic Ridge or the effects of the Puerto Rico Trench on tsunamis. Why stay here helping me with boring chemical readings?”

“I tried to get on an expedition to explore shipwrecks, but Thurmond told me I lacked sufficient Deep Ocean and thermocline experience to be on his team. He did say if I filled this position and worked for a full year, he would reconsider my application. Since he’s the boss, here I am.”

“Thurmond’s a politician first and a glory hound second,” Dev said, shaking his head. “We’re scientists. Politics have no place in science. Well, except to fund my pet projects, of course.”

“I agree,” Bridget said, raising her coffee mug. “But, don’t you worry. I signed on this boat for the next year and I won’t complain.”

“I’m not worried,” Dev said, winking. “We throw complainers to the sharks. There’s no one for miles to aid in a rescue. How do you think we got rid of Grant?”

“Who’s Grant?”

“Exactly.” Dev winked again. He pushed up from the rail. “I’m tired. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Bridget laughed. “Good night.”

“Don’t stay up too late, kid. That’s an order.” Dev opened the door and went below deck into the main cabin.

Bridget smiled to herself as she turned back to the water. Hugging her sweater around her arms, she knew she shouldn’t be out too much longer or she would catch cold. The air was particularly chilly at night, as the breeze swept over her from the water.

Just as she was about to turn, Bridget saw movement on the surface. She frowned, squinting to see better. It was probably just a dolphin pod or something swimming past. She leaned over the rail. As the boat moved ahead, she saw that it was actually something floating on the water. She stiffened.

“Man overboard,” she whispered. Where had he come from? Springing into action, she ran to the cabin door and yelled, “Man overboard! Man overboard!”

Someone was playing a guitar and the music came to a sudden halt, punctuated by a rise of voices. Nearly a dozen scientists rushed out from the cabin, some carrying life vests and first aid kits. Dev jumped up to man a searchlight as Bridget pointed at the water. It didn’t take him long before he found the man clinging to driftwood. The big spot light outlined the dark figure. Her stomach was tight with worry. Who was this man and what was he doing floating out in the middle of nowhere?

Bridget grabbed a rope ladder still tied to the rail from earlier when they’d taken surface samples. She threw it over the side. Adrenaline pumped through her veins and she fearlessly climbed over the rail to the ladder. She didn’t stop to think, just did what had to be done.

“Bridget, hold on!” she heard Cassandra scream. “Let us hand you a line so you can tie yourself off.”

“We’re close,” Bridget yelled back. “I can almost reach him!”

The boat slowed. Freezing cold water splashed over her, soaking her sweater. She climbed down. Her feet dipped below the icy surface. Hooking her arm on a rung, she leaned over.

“Almost!” she called, beginning to shiver violently. “Just a foot more. Ease it in. I can almost… reach… him!”

The boat pulled closer. Her heart pounded so loud in her ears that she couldn’t hear anything. The man didn’t move as she called out to him. His fingers gripped the driftwood for dear life. She reached out, touching his shirt sleeve. The man jerked and she gasped in loud surprise at the sudden movement.

“What’s going on?” she heard someone ask. The spot light shifted, shining brightly into her eyes. She closed them, turning her back on the light as she gripped tighter to the man’s sleeve.

“Easy, we’re here to help. You’re safe now,” Bridget soothed. “No one’s going to hurt you. Come on. Come with me. Easy does it. There you go.”

The man started moving, grasping at her as he tried to pull himself out of the water. His heavier weight strained her arm on the rung. Bridget grunted in pain, trying to hold onto the man and the ladder as his weight caused her to strain. Calling up, she said, “I got him, but I need help lifting him up.”

Hands instantly came over the side to help her. Together they managed to get him up over the rail. Bridget stayed on the ladder, looking around. She climbed up a few rungs, getting her lower legs out of the freezing water.

“Are there any others?” she asked, coughing lightly. “Find out if there are any others.”

“Bridget, come up!” Dev yelled. “We’re going to circle around the area.”

Bridget, not seeing anyone in her immediate area, climbed up. Dev grabbed her under her arm and helped support her weight as she came over the top. Someone wrapped her shoulders in a wool blanket. The man she rescued was lying on the deck, covered in a blanket. She fell to her knees beside him. He was shivering, but his eyes were open.

Bridget tensed. His dark gaze stared up at her and his black hair was matted to his head. The man was wearing an old fashioned linen ruff around his neck, an embroidered, padded epaulette, short stockings and puffed shorts much like what was worn on the old Armada Galleons of the mid-fifteen hundreds. His skin was dark, though it was cast with a sick pallor. When he opened his mouth, a torrent of broken, foreign words passed his lips.

“Do you think he’s from Cuba?” asked Stevens, a tall, lanky scientist who spent more time by a microscope than anyone she had ever known.

“Look at how he’s dressed,” someone whispered. “What’s he doing out here?”

“Do you speak English?” Bridget asked him, when he continued in what sounded like a dialect of Spanish.

“Must go,” he said, trying to sit up. His voice was hoarse and it made it even harder to understand his accent. He was too weak from his ordeal in the water and fell back to the deck. “Monsters. They’re out there. In…”

“Monsters?” Dev asked, kneeling by Bridget. She shrugged, not understanding.

“It came from below,” the man said. “A monster. It came from below. It rammed our ship.”

“Military?” someone suggested.

“Monsters,” the man insisted, desperately grasping at Bridget’s sweater. He pulled her down, shaking violently as his hand gripped into her sweater. “They come from below. They kill everyone. They control the water. They make it move.”

Their ship bumped against something in the water. The man’s eyes got wide and he began to cry, closing his eyes in what looked like prayer. Dev stood and she heard him order, “You, man the spot light and see what’s out there. Everyone look for survivors. This man had to come from somewhere.”

“It’s too late,” the man cried, before rushing into a torrent of broken Spanish. The ship again hit alongside something in the water. Bridget pulled her shirt free from the man’s grip. “Too late. They kill us all.”

“It’s just driftwood!” Dev yelled.

Bridget relaxed. Pointing at Stevens, she said, “Get him below deck and dried off. He’s obviously in shock. See if you can’t get a coherent thought out of him about what happened. Someone should get on the radio and try to find out what’s going on. See if there are any missing ships.”

“I’ve got the radio,” Peterson answered. The bearded man turned to go below deck.

Bridget struggled to her feet, gripping the blanket tight as she worked it snug around her chest for warmth. Her bare legs and wet boots caused her muscles to ache with the extreme cold of the ocean breeze on damp skin. She joined Dev by the railing as he searched the sea. The others had spread out and were searching with spot lights in all directions.

“What do you think happened?” Bridget asked, seeing chucks of wood floating around them.

“Shipwreck of some sort. There’s too much debris in the water for this to just be a man lost at sea. I don’t get it though. There are no reefs in this area to run aground on, unless he had been drifting for some time.”

“But, if he’s been drifting, then we wouldn’t have this concentration of wood,” Bridget said thoughtfully. “A storm maybe? A freak hurricane?”

“No,” Dev denied easily. “The ocean’s been calm. There haven’t been any major storms for weeks. And if there was anything unusual, our satellite uplink would have warned us of it.”

“Do you think he meant sharks, not monsters?” Bridget searched the water. More debris floated by. Her stomach knotted. She couldn’t see any more survivors. “They wouldn’t have attacked a boat, but if there was blood in the water… I don’t know, maybe it’s possible?”

“Yes, possible,” Dev answered. He pointed into the distance. “There. What’s that?” Then glancing over his shoulders, he called, “I need a spot light over here.”

A light skimmed the dark ocean surface. The debris grew thicker, clanking along the boat. Bridget shivered. “It’s been torn up. What in the world could have caused this much damage? There’s nothing out here but water.”

“It’s wood,” Dev said, his tone strained, “All of it wood. And did you see what he was wearing? This doesn’t make sense.”

“Film crew? Maybe the pyrotechnics went awry.” Bridget frowned. So far it was the only idea she had that sounded reasonable given the facts.

“No, they would’ve had back-up ships for everyone.” Dev turned. “Tom, tell Jon to check our bearings. I want to make sure we haven’t drifted off course. Check the sensors and make sure there are no reefs around this area.” Dev visibly swallowed. “Everyone else, keep searching for survivors. With this much wood, the ship was way too big for just one man.”

For a long time everyone was quiet, as they looked through the floating debris, listening past the sound of wood bumping the sides of the fiberglass ship. A blast of the horn sounded over the water, much louder than any yell. They listened to the silence that followed the abrasive sound. Time crept by slowly and no one called out in answer.

“There,” Tom said to her left. Two divers were in full gear, ready to go into the water. “What is that? Do you see it?”

© copyright March 2006, Michelle M. Pillow

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

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Excerpt from Maiden and the Monster by Michelle M Pillow

 

Chapter One

Lakeshire Castle, Wessex, 879 AD

 

“God’s bones, Ulric! Methinks this land of Wessex is making you soft!”

Vladamir of Kessen, the Duke of Lakeshire’s voice was hard due to his exasperation. He knew his tone had a gravelly quality, which reflected a Baltic culture far to the northeast of the Saxon manor of Lakeshire. The heritage gave his softened words a hard bite as the harsh press of his lips gave his features a merciless appearance. Vladamir did it on purpose.

“‘Tis irrational, foolish old man, for you to insist I stand downwind of that rotting pile of animal carcasses for nary an instant more. I don’t know why you thought I’d be interested!”

His accent frightened the people under his rule. In fact, everything about him scared these people. He wanted the Saxons afraid of him. If they were afraid, they would follow his orders and leave him alone. He’d been in Wessex for a year and the plan had worked so far. It wasn’t like he’d been sent to make friends.

Vladamir was the very first Duke of Lakeshire. It was a position he didn’t relish. If he had his say, he’d live out his miserable days alone in a castle far away from everyone and everything. Either that or he’d gladly ride into another war.

Frowning sternly, he narrowed his eyes in annoyance and made no move to leave for his training exercises, though his fingers itched to grip his sword. Instead, he swept the fur lining of his cloak off his shoulder. The breeze lifted the weight of his unfashionably long, straight black hair off his shoulders and he absently watched the strands trailing away from him. He purposely wore the heathenish attire of those who lived in the Danelaw rather than to adapt to the more civilized dress of the nation of Wessex. He did it to irritate the Christian sensibilities of his Saxon neighbors and to drive fear into those men who were made to unwillingly serve under his rule.

Yea, everything about me is different than this accursed land. I’m a man without a country. I hate Wessex and I hate the land of my father. And I hate the peace between them both.

Tense, Vladamir raised his arm, motioning to the guard who stood above him on the dark stone of the bailey wall. A black onyx ring glinted on his finger, shining like a beacon the guard would be able to see. With a deft flick of his wrist, the duke silently commanded the knight to raise the outer gate.

The young, fair-haired Saxon didn’t hesitate to follow his barbaric lord’s order. Like all his subjects, Vladamir knew the guard watched him intensely for any sign of movement, no matter how small. It wasn’t out of respect for him that the man instantly obeyed. It was out of fear. Fear was the reason all the Saxon warriors residing at Lakeshire Castle followed his command. They’d all heard the sinister rumors that followed him from his homeland, and he’d never tried to earn their respect or change their opinion of him.

Angrily, he jerked his arm, letting his irritation show. Vladamir knew what he was, knew what he looked like, and it was his intent to appear monstrous in both mannerisms and appearance. His linen undertunic was dyed to the pitchest of blacks. Although the material was of obviously rich quality, it lacked the perfected embellishments that frivolous nobles prided themselves on.

The sleeves of his tunic hung over his wrists and settled over the backs of his hands in long rolls. The undertunic fell loosely over his tightly fitted black braes, the long slit down the side showing a hint of his thighs. He fastened the material of the braes into place with laces that joined at the side and wore a plain, thick leather belt over them. From this belt hung an imposingly sharp knife and a modest leather pouch, which contained small pieces of flint for starting a fire and an iron key that fit a door the servants didn’t even know existed.

“Clear it away at once. Methinks you have interrupted my morning training for naught more than fetid garbage!” The duke ordered Ulric, only to growl in anger when the gate didn’t rise fast enough to suit his impatience. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword in warning. The action wasn’t missed. Another knight disappeared off the wall, obviously going to hurry the man lifting the gate. Vladamir relished his ill humor, wallowing in it. “Argh!”

He sighed as the gate finally squeaked on its iron hinges, making the slow trip up. Gripping his sword, his scowl deepened. Instead of watching the gate, he stared at the hilt. The monstrous broadsword at his waist was in a leather scabbard, hanging from a leather shoulder baldric. The strap crossed over his chest so he could easily draw the weapon at the slightest provocation.

Still irritated, he glanced back to Ulric as the man tried to get a good view of the rotting animals through the gate’s crosshatching. The servant turned to the duke, eyeing the nobleman’s attire. Vladamir glanced down at his clothes, again thinking of how different he was from the Saxon men.

Over his tunic he wore a woven cloth belt of black and silver. It wrapped about his waist and knotted on the front right. He left the unadorned ends to drape freely about his thighs. The undertunic’s oval neckline was laced high and tight against his thick neck, hiding the entirety of his chest from view. It was only on the rarest of political occasions that Vladamir was obligated to don an overtunic. He didn’t feel the need of such formalities in his life when it came to dress. But, on those rare occasions, the overtunic was also black with very little silver embroidery.

The only relief to the investigating eye that Vladamir allowed was the lighter colored rocc, his fur cloak that was constructed of the skinned hide of several gray wolves. He would’ve dyed the fur black as well, if not for the ample waste of time and resources the project would consume. He wore the fur side inward for warmth as was customary among his fellow pagans.

“By all that is hallowed!” Vladamir growled, not caring who heard his cry. Many of the servants milling about the yard skidded to a stop at the sound. A small smile of devious pleasure automatically curled the sides of his mouth. It took a few seconds, but soon the servants were hurrying away in relief when they realized they weren’t the cause of his present anger.

It was a well-known and accepted fact to the people of Lakeshire Castle that Vladamir had converted to Christianity solely to please King Alfred of Wessex in accordance with the Treaty of Wedmore. The duke did nothing to dissuade their beliefs or make them think that he was sincere in his conversion. Let them believe he was a devilish monster sent by King Guthrum to torment them.

In truth, Vladamir didn’t much care for the Christian God, nor had he cared for the many gods of his ancestors. He lost faith when his wife died six years before. As he thought of it, it was quite possible he’d lost his faith before then.

Lowering his chin to glower down from his towering height, he curled his nose in disgust as another gust of wind assaulted him. The air carried a stench so severe that, even with his war-hardened training, Vladamir couldn’t ignore the putrid smell. His expression turned quickly into a snarl. For all his rough appearance, Vladamir was a clean person, having been influenced by the peculiar bathing rituals of his father’s people, the Vikings. He even insisted his household followed suit and bathed at least twice a sennight. It was a completely pagan routine little heard of in the dwellings of the Saxons. He’d received some protest over the decree, but it was necessary to keep such smells as these rotted animals out of his home.

His forehead wrinkled in irritation and tried unsuccessfully to determine what exactly emitted the foul odor. “What is it, Ulric? It smells of decaying flesh. Who would dare to lay carcasses afore my gate to rot?”

“Mayhap, ‘tis a sacrifice in honor of the castle,” Ulric offered with a grave shake of his head. The manservant’s expression said he highly doubted it.

Ulric had traveled with the duke to Wessex the year before. A short man with a balding head, he had a pleasing face hidden under his trim beard. His jaunty nature was a direct contrast to that of his dark, forbidding lord—just as his rounded frame was opposite Vladamir’s sinewy one. He wasn’t only the duke’s seneschal but was also the closest thing Vladamir could call friend.

“Nay, ‘tis not the season for sacrifice,” Vladamir answered as he looked up to the changing sky. It was early morning, yet the sky darkened to purple. He pulled the broadsword from his waist in one smooth motion and flexed the muscles of his sword arm in distraction, scuffing the tip across the dirt in a lazy stroke. Smirking, he said, “Besides, the prelate has forbidden such practices. ‘Tis too barbaric a custom according to the church.”

He sighed, fisting his hands as he pressed his lips tightly together. Upon closer examination, he discovered that the rotting bundle was actually an oddly shaped mound of pelts. Resting his fingers firmly upon his hips, he was mindful of the tip of the broadsword that still rested on the ground.

The stronghold’s gate stopped above him, but he didn’t bother to move. The gate was constructed of thick English oak and bound together with iron strips. The pointed ends at the bottom of the gate were wood reinforced with iron, causing them to act like metal teeth if lowered too quickly. Eyeing the spikes, he morbidly thought of how effectively they could sever a man in two.

Ulric rushed forward to the pile as soon as the spikes were out of his way. The seneschal’s wider frame lumbered with the effort it took him to kneel and he grunted under the strain. Swiping the sleeve of his brown tunic across his forehead, Ulric placed his arm before his nose as he leaned closer to the pelts.

Impatient, Vladamir watched Ulric pick through the skins. He followed silently behind, refusing to sheath his sword. The seneschal sat straight up in surprise.

“M’lord, it would appear to be a maiden amongst these pelts. Methinks I see the entrails of a rabbit in her hair,” Ulric yelled through the sleeve of his tunic.

The servant again wiped his sleeve across his brow before returning it to his nose. His small brown eyes shone with concern. With a grumble of disdain, Ulric lifted entrails from the maiden’s hair and flung them aside, only to gingerly remove a rabbit carcass the same way to reveal the bloodied lines of her swollen face. It was impossible to see whether she breathed.

In the distance, the sounds of fighting men and clashing swords filled the air as the knights competed in mock battle. A flock of wild birds flew high above to seek shelter from the changing sky. Their song softly drifted downward. None of the sounds pleased the duke as his eyes stayed trained on Ulric.

“A maiden? Out here? And scented with festering carcasses?” Vladamir searched the forest that surrounded his castle. The hum of insects was quite clear on the morning air, and he noticed that the red bristled pigs grazing just beyond his walls were undisturbed. Nor could he detect movement within the barren limbs of the trees. Finally satisfied that the girl was alone, he turned his attention back to Ulric. He refused to show any interest in the maiden.

“Wake her and send her on her way.” He kept his voice passionless and made no effort to help the woman. “If she is dead, burn her, for I won’t tolerate that wretched smell in my bailey.”

“Should we not try to find out who she is first? Mayhap there are those who search fer her even now. Would you deny her kinsmen a proper burial?” Ulric protested quietly.

“Do as I command!” Vladamir insisted in a low growl. Even as he did so, he saw the knights that manned the wall look over the girl with curious stares. He heard their whispering as it drifted down, though he couldn’t make out their hasty words. He didn’t need to. The woman was more than likely a Saxon wench and they would wish to know whom, for none in the manor were missing. If she was dead, there was nothing he could do for her. He didn’t need this headache. His life was stressed enough.

Through his irritation, Vladamir saw hesitation on the older man’s face and quieted his tone to a logical murmur. “Is she dead?”

“I know not, m’lord.” Ulric leaned to touch the girl and then turned back to his lordship. “She is not responding.”

Vladamir tried to control his exasperation and repeated his original command, intentionally raising his voice to quiet the knights on the wall. His harsh accent made his words all the more lethal as he ground out, “Then she is dead. Burn her. I won’t have her corpse carrying disease to the manor.”

Ulric looked to him, searching the duke’s face for a sign of compassion. Vladamir didn’t give him one, refusing to be stirred to pity. It was easier to be feared than loved. It was easier to be dead inside than to feel.

Sighing heavily, the servant crouched over the girl. The duke stepped to the side, getting a better look at her. She was young and it was clear she’d been beaten. Her clothes were torn and her hair was matted with dirt and possibly blood.

Ulric yelled over his shoulder, loud enough to make sure the watching knights also heard his reply, “Nay, methinks she takes breath. She is not dead, merely insensible.”

The duke frowned, knowing the servant hoped he wouldn’t dare to leave a Saxon girl for dead, especially with so many soldiers to bear witness. If it had been a decade earlier, Vladamir would’ve carried the injured maiden into the castle to care for her. He’d have tended to her wounds, oversaw the physicians, stayed by her side until she was better. But the time was now and the duke would never allow himself to care like that again. Life had taught him some hard lessons.

Rubbing his brow, he then ran his fingers through the long locks of his tangled hair to brush it from his eyes. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and didn’t answer the servant. Scowling, he willed the maiden to disappear. He didn’t want her in his home.

“Would you like me to leave her afore yer gate to rot? Or would you like to bring her in?” Ulric stood up and boldly matched his lord’s stare, his thick jowls quivering in irritation.

Vladamir didn’t like his servant’s impudent tone and the man’s sarcasm didn’t go unobserved. He gritted his teeth as he asked with a sullen glimmer of hope, “Is she near death?”

“I know not.” The servant once again turned from his overlord back to the pitiful girl. Thunder stuck in the horizon, beating its violent rhythm across the purple sky. The man pulled another carcass from her and tossed it aside.

“Check her.” Vladamir purposefully sounded bored as he sheathed his sword. Anger was the easiest of all emotions and he clung to it. His gut tightened and he raised his eyes briefly to the heavens as a droplet of rain fell across his nose. “Be quick, Ulric.”

Ulric felt the girl’s pulse. “She has a good chance to recover if we move her indoors now.”

Suspecting that the man might be lying, the duke paced in a frustrated circle, his hands fitted firmly at his waist. He rolled his neck until it cracked, debating the fate of the girl.

Those who moved about the bailey made their way toward shelter. A small page ran close to Vladamir, a pack of mongrel dogs quick on his heels. The boy laughed as a particularly ugly gray dog tripped him about the legs and sent him sprawling to the ground at the duke’s feet. The page’s face became wrought with fear as he looked up from the ground. The duke growled at him and the boy scurried away from him as the rain fell harder, hammering the ground with its loud music.

“It would appear she has been badly beaten,” Ulric said. “Methinks it would be wise to move her inside, out of the rain, lest she is not like to live through the night. I can have a chamber readied for her abovestairs if you wish.”

No matter how badly he wanted to give the order to leave her outside, Vladamir couldn’t do it. He silently cursed himself for a fool and gave a self-depreciating laugh.

So much for being a complete monster.

“Yea,” Vladamir conceded reluctantly. He stopped his pacing and turned to go, intent on leaving Ulric to tend to the woman.

“M’lord, wait.” Ulric’s urgent voice stopped him.

“Yea?” Vladamir gripped the hilt of his sword.

“M’lord, it would seem the maiden is a lady.”

 

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Michelle M. Pillow, Author of All Things Romance™, is a multi-published (over 70 published books!) , award-winning author writing in many romance fiction genres including futuristic, paranormal, historical, contemporary, fantasy and dark paranormal. Ever since she can remember, she has had a strange fascination with anything supernatural–ghosts, magical powers, and oh… vampires. What could be more alluring than being immortal, all-powerful, and eternally beautiful? After discovering historical romance novels, it was only natural that the supernatural and love/romance elements should someday meet in her wonderland of a brain. She’s glad they did for their children have been pouring onto the computer screen ever since.

She has been on the Amazon bestseller list multiple times, nominated for the Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Award 2011, the winner of the 2006 RT Reviewers’ Choice Award, nominated for the 2007 RT Award, a Brava Novella Contest Finalist and a PAN member of RWA.

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Divinity Warriors 1: Lilith Enraptured

Alternate Reality Romance
Divinity Warriors 1: Lilith Enraptured
Coverart by Natalie Winters

Sorin of Firewall lives in a land forever at war. In fact, the Starian men are so busy fighting, their marriage ceremony has been reduced to a “will of the gods” event where they simply pick a woman out of a lineup and claim her as a wife. With women becoming scarce, it’s necessary to trade the offworld Divinity Corporation for brides. Duty-bound to attend the ceremony, he has no intention of picking a bride, let alone one from another dimension. That is, until he sees Lilith, the bewitching woman sent by the gods to reward—or punish?—him.

Lilith, a data analyst for Divinity, is betrayed by the Corporation and wakes up in a primitive, uncharted dimension filled with warriors who only know war and duty. But her initial fears of becoming a sex slave to a big beefy knight become all too real when a warrior of god-like proportions claims she’s his new woman. As Lilith discovers, there are worse fates than being the focus of Sorin’s skillful and earthy seduction.

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About Michelle:

Michelle M. Pillow, Author of All Things Romance™, is a multi-published (over 70 published books!) , award-winning author writing in many romance fiction genres including futuristic, paranormal, historical, contemporary, fantasy and dark paranormal. Ever since she can remember, she has had a strange fascination with anything supernatural–ghosts, magical powers, and oh… vampires. What could be more alluring than being immortal, all-powerful, and eternally beautiful? After discovering historical romance novels, it was only natural that the supernatural and love/romance elements should someday meet in her wonderland of a brain. She’s glad they did for their children have been pouring onto the computer screen ever since.

She has been on the Amazon bestseller list multiple times, nominated for the Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Award 2011, the winner of the 2006 RT Reviewers’ Choice Award, nominated for the 2007 RT Award, a Brava Novella Contest Finalist and a PAN member of RWA.

Publishers include everything from Indie to small press to big NY pubs: Random House, Virgin Books, Rouge (Ebury), Pocket Books, The Raven Books, Adams Media, Ellora’s Cave, Samhain, Running Press, Robinson, etc

Michelle is a journalist for Paranormal Underground Magazine. She has a BGS in History/Business with an English Minor, and a Photography degree. In 2009 she and fellow author Mandy M. Roth started their own highly successful self-publishing endeavor named The Raven Books.

Readers can contact her through her author website http://www.MichellePillow.com

For photography, visit http://www.PrettyPoisonPhotography.com

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