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Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Tantalizing Tuesday

Welcome Author
Kat Martin

Kat Martin
!!!

Reese's BrideToday we welcome back author Kat Martin into the moonlight. In December, she came promoting Reese's Bride and I had a chance to review that one. Didn't catch it? Click here. She was also here promoting The Christmas Clock, so it's possible that you may have missed Reese's Bride. Did you miss my review of Reese's Bride? Want to check it out? Click here.

The only thing that could keep me from reading Rule's Bride from cover to cover was a Bucks playoff game, and that's what happened last night. While I did manage to read some of Rule's Bride last night, I wasn't able to read as much as I would have liked by now. It wasn't just any home game last night, it was game 4 in a 7 game series and the Milwaukee Bucks managed to win their two home games without their starting center Andrew Bogut (sponsor of Squad 6, which I am a member of, so I was jumping quite a bit last night as they played Seven Nation Army three times and Jump Around once). It was a huge game.

So what does that have to do with Kat Martin and Rule's Bride? Well, it is the reason I couldn't read as much as I wanted. The win was exciting and I was up for a bit partying. Hey, unfortunately I have to sleep in there somewhere, so I crashed big time and slept until almost noon today! Yikes! I'm still tired as a matter of fact, but not so tired that I couldn't read a bit more. I did manage to read some of the book during halftime and it sure wasn't disappointing me, that's for sure. I also felt that it deserved all of my attention, which I didn't have to devote to it last night, but I do today. So, I started reading when I woke up and while having "breakfast," when I remembered that I had to post my interview with Kat Martin today!

Before I get to the interview though, I wanted to delve into the book a bit. Rule is the third brother of the Dewar family, and the youngest. His brother Royal is a Duke and his brother Reese "retired" from his duties in the regiment to become a barley farmer, which Royal uses to make one of the most popular ales in London, Swansdowne Ale. Rule was the youngest and wildest, but also very kind and polite and on a mission his father asked of him before he died - cultivating an allaiance with an American company. That's how Rule came to work for Griffin Manufacturing and how he came to be in his present situation.

As Griffin made it known that he was dying, he made it clear to Rule that his last wishes were for Rule to become his daughter's husband but not consummate the marriage until she was older. Of course the marriage would work for several reasons. Not only would it protect his company from interlopers after he died, but it protected his daughter too, only she didn't quite see it that way, but relented because it was his dying wish. They were married, but our story doesn't begin there because, until she becomes of age, Rule is to manage the London branch of Griffin Manufacturing while she stays in Boston. It is apparent that neither is ready for marriage as it takes quite some time before they meet again.

You'd think the story begins after Violet's father dies, but it doesn't. She stays and learns to take over the American side of the business and falls for a man in the business, Jeffrey. She knows she cannot marry Jeffrey and sets off to London to free herself of a husband she thinks doesn't want her. After all, three years had past and Rule had yet to return to Boston.

She doesn't send word that she is on her way, she just shows up on his doorstep late one night. Surprise is a mild term for his reaction, especially when he discovers her reason for coming to London. As Rule recently decided that it was time he fulfilled his duties to Griffin, Violet decides she wants to end their farce of a marriage. He convinces her to stay 30 days to get to know him and if at the end of that time, things do not work out for them, he'll grant her the annulment she seeks.

He won't let it get that far. She's his wife and he wants it that way. She wants to wed another man, even though she still feels an attraction to Rule. Both are stubborn and usually get their way. Who will cave this time? Will Violet get what she wants? Will she still want it if Rule gives it to her? What part will Jeffrey play in all of this? Will he come to London and create a scandal?

I'm not telling! You have to read the book to find out! Stick around because after the interview, you get a sneak peek into Rule's Bride!

ME: With tax day being April 15th, we've asked all of our authors 15 questions. Speaking of taxes, Kat, are your taxes finished, or do you procrastinate with them? Do you do them yourself or do you have a taxman do them for you?

KAT: My taxes are finished--I’m a pretty timely person. My personal assistant and my tax man do them. They are pretty complicated these days.

ME: As it says, “April showers bring May flowers”. What flowers do you hope to see the first thing in spring?

KAT: We get daffodils first. They should be coming up pretty soon. In the meantime, my favorite flowers are the orchids in my husband’s office. They are gorgeous!

ME: Do you plant your own garden? Why or why not and where is it located?

KAT: My husband plants a very big garden. We get fresh veggies all summer. We have 25 acres here so there is plenty of room.

ME: Do you prefer plants or seeds? Does it matter where you get them, or do you have a favorite place to go? What’s the name of the place and why do you prefer to go there?

KAT: I have a nice green thumb for indoor plants, but wouldn’t know the first thing about planting a seed or a plant.

ME: What will you plant (or have already planted) this year and why?

KAT: Lots of stuff growing in the hothouse. Too early and cold yet to plant out in the garden.

ME: Do you have any plants that are must haves for your garden, ones that it just won’t be complete without?

KAT: I love zucchini. We always have those. This year we are trying for blueberries.

ME: Have you ever considered getting involved with a local community garden? Why or why not?

KAT: I think it’s a good idea but I’m too busy. Have to leave it to my hubby.

ME: For your produce, is the local grocery store just fine, or do you like to hit your local farmer’s market? What is your favorite fruit or vegetable that you do like to get?

KAT: We do hit the local farmers market until our own garden is up and growing.

ME: Now that we've learned a bit more about you, let’s get to your writing. What is your main genre (erotica, erotic romance, romantic suspense, etc.)? What was the draw for you?

KAT: I write Historical Romance and also Romantic Suspense. I like the change between the time-frames, which helps to keep my writing fresh. I have an historical just out (Rule’s Bride) and a romantic suspense trilogy coming out in January, February, March of next year. [Ooooh! I can't wait! Love romantic suspense!]

ME: Besides your main genre we just discussed, what elements do you prefer to use in a story and why those elements over others?

KAT: I believe in a strong plot. It keeps the reader’s interest, keeps them turning the pages. I like a strong driving line, which moves the plot forward.

ME: Do you prefer red roses or black roses? If so, does that show in your writing? If so, how? If roses aren’t your style, what flowers are? Do they influence your writing? If so, how?

KAT: I love roses. Definitely Red. I’m a true romantic, which shows in every book I’ve ever written (about 50).

ME: The jury’s still out on this question, so we’re still asking it! - Who decides what you write about, you or your muse? What kind of influence do you have over your story, or is the muse always the one planting the seeds? How do you cultivate those seeds regardless of who plants them?

KAT: My muse is always planting seeds. I used to be four or five stories/books ahead in my mind. I am down to one or two besides the one I am writing at the time. I think my muse and I collaborate to wind up with what is hopefully and intriguing story.

ME: In your opinion, what author had the most influence on your writing? What about their writing did you find so influential and why?

KAT: A couple of writers had a vary large influence on my work. For Romance, Kathleen E. Woodiwess. She was the very best at writing heart-wrenching romance. Wilbur Smith was spellbinding as a suspense writer and he always threw in a good amount of romance.

ME: While authors can definitely influence us, inspiration can be everywhere for a writer, but specific people, places and events can inspire certain characters, personality traits or things that happen in our stories. In your current story that we’re promoting here today, Rule’s Bride, did any one particular person, place or event inspire you? If so who/what was it (were they), how did it/they inspire you and how is this inspiration reflected in your story?

KAT: I think London itself is always inspirational for Victorian settings. Rule and Violet’s story is set in the 1860’s, a fascinating time. The city itself is exciting, , the history, the lords and ladies. Story ideas seem to spring up out of the sidewalks. The city of London is like a separate character in the story.

ME: Without giving away anything pertinent to the story, tell us about the hero and heroine (s) of your story. What do they look like? How do they meet? What are their personalities – Are they comical cut-ups, are they serious or are they a mix of the two?

KAT: The hero, Rule Dewar is the youngest son of a duke. He is gorgeous, somewhat spoiled and demanding, and used to getting his way. He is a rogue where women are concerned. He has never met a woman his equal until Violet Griffin comes along. She is headstrong and courageous, smart, and not the least bit willing to put up with Rule’s dictates. It’s a fun clash of wills between a pair that is extremely well matched.

ME: The main characters are usually great, but sometimes, secondary and tertiary characters are known to steal the scenes. Who are the secondary/tertiary characters in your story and what do they look like? What’s unique about them? What is their relationship to the hero/heroine? Have any of these gone on to become scene-stealers? If so, who and how did they do it?

KAT: I loved the secondary characters in Rule’s Bride, Caroline Lockhart and Lucas Barclay. They are the best friends of the hero and heroine and I grew to like them so much their small parts in the book began to grow. Both were extremely strong willed and determined. Both had no desire for marriage and yet they couldn’t resist each other. As the main story grew, so did their relationship and it was wonderful to watch (watch? Goes to show you how the characters can just take off on their own).

Excited yet? Well, there's more! Let's take a look between the covers of Rule's Bride:

Rule's BrideBLURB: Unrepentant rake, Rule Dewar, is living the good life in London when a surprising event occurs. The American wife he wed in a marriage of commerce shows up at his town house door. And she isn’t there to consummate the marriage, as Rule is hoping now that he has seen the beauty she has become. Violet is there for an annulment!

EXCERPT: The hour was late when Rule arrived home from his gentleman’s club. To his surprise, his silver-haired butler waited in the entry to greet him, his eyes red from lack of sleep.

“What is it, Hatfield? I told you not to wait up.”

The butler straightened, looking more like his old self again. “You’ve a guest, my lord. Two of them, actually.”

Rule frowned. “A guest? I’m not expecting anyone. Who is it?”

“Your wife, sir.”

Silence fell. “My...my wife is here?” He hadn’t seen her since the day of his arranged marriage three years ago.

Hat nodded, moving strands of the silver hair hanging over his wrinkled forehead. “Yes, my lord. Her ladyship arrived from America late this afternoon with her cousin, a Miss Caroline Lockhart.”

“I see.” Of course he didn’t see at all and all he could think was bloody hell, what am I going to do now?

“Your wife, sir...she’s waiting for you.”

“Violet is...my wife is waiting for me? She is up at this hour?”

“Yes, sir, in the drawing room.”

His mind was spinning, trying to sort things out. Violet was in London. He was supposed to have retrieved her years ago. Instead, she had been forced to cross the Atlantic on her own. He started walking toward the drawing room, wide awake now, no longer feeling the least effects of the alcohol he had consumed.

As he strode into the room, she sat bolt upright, her eyes bright and blinking, glanced round as if to recall where she was, straightened and shoved to her feet. She was smaller than he remembered was his first impression, petite but shapely. In truth, she was different in every way from the gangly sixteen year old he had married for financial reasons.

Except for her glorious copper hair, the likes of which he had never seen.
He groped for something to say. “Violet. I cannot believe you are here.”

She gave him a chilling smile. “It took a while to reach London. But as you can see, I am here.”

He couldn’t seem to make himself move. “So you are.”

He did move then, closing the distance between them, reaching out to take both of her hands. She wore no gloves, he noticed, and realized that aside from his chase bridal kiss on her cheek, he had never actually touched her without the barrier of some sort of clothing.

“Welcome to London,” he said. “If I had known you were coming, I would have prepared a more proper greeting.”

Violet withdrew her hands from his and looked him over head to foot. For the first time, it occurred to him that his cravat was undone and dangling round his neck. His collar was missing, his shirt unbuttoned and his hair slightly mussed.

Violet, on the other hand, looked...well...
Violet Griffin Dewar was beautiful.

“It must have been quite an evening,” she said, those leaf green eyes he remembered taking in his dishevel.

He flushed like a schoolboy. “Not really. I stopped by to see friends and wound up playing cards at my club.”

“You were gambling? I didn’t realize you were a gambler.”

His embarrassment faded, replaced by a hint of irritation. She had been so malleable before. “I rarely gamble. I was simply passing time.”

“Yes, well, you certainly managed to do that.” She glanced up at the clock, the hands pointing to the lateness of the hour, condemning him.

“I am certain you are tired,” she continued. “I shall leave you to find your bed. I just wanted you to know I was here and to say that there is an important matter I wish to discuss with you in the morning.”

“Yes, of course.” His gaze ran over her. In the yellow glow of the lamp, he saw that in the last three years her features had softened, the sharp angles smoothed into feminine lines and curves. Her cheeks were as pale as cream and heightened by a touch of rose. A full bosom swelled above her tiny waist. Her neck was slender and as graceful as her hands.

A shot of desire slid through him. He had dreaded the day he would be forced to make his marriage real, had put off his duties for as long as he dared.

Now as he looked at Violet’s full pink lips, glimpsed the tops of her creamy breasts, he imagined what it would be like to make this petite woman his wife in truth, and began to see marriage in a whole different light.

“I’ll have Hat rouse one of the chambermaids and send her in to help you undress,” he said, the image making his skin feel hot.

Reality set in. God’s blood, his wife had come to London! He would have to tell his family, try to explain why he had kept his marriage a secret. Rule thought of facing his two brothers and their wives--worse yet, his aunt Agatha, the matriarch of the family--and inwardly he groaned.

On the other hand, as he watched Violet collect her silk skirts and sweep gracefully from the drawing room, it occurred to him that having a woman like that in his bed might just outweigh the many disadvantages of being married.

Sound good? Like historicals but want to check out her romantic suspense novels too? Then check out her website: www.katbooks.com

Monday, April 26, 2010

Mystic Monday


I'm still not certain what to post about.  My mind is sort of distracted by tonight's playoff game...

Sunday, April 25, 2010

SUPERNATURAL SUNDAY

Please welcome author Nancy Wythe into the moonlight this Supernatural Sunday. Nancy’s newest release is Nostos the Homecoming. To learn more, keep reading!

~~~~~

GRACEN: Speaking of taxes, are you’re taxes finished, or do you procrastinate with them? Do you do them yourself or do you have a taxman do them for you?

NANCY: Hi, and thanks for having me! Taxes? I am the best procrastinator in the world, so I’ve got a kind tax-person who takes care of all that for me.


GRACEN: As it says, “April showers bring May flowers”. What flowers do you hope to see the first thing in spring?

NANCY: My husband’s the one with the green thumb, and he’s already planted fuchsias, irises, freesias and a wonderful citrus plant called citronella that has aromatic leaves. I always put a few leaves in my purse. Good as a breath freshener, too!


GRACEN: Do you plant your own garden? Why or why not and where is it (are they) located? What type(s) will it (they) be and where is it (are they) located on your property?

NANCY: We have jasmines and roses under our bedroom window, mint, parsley and basil outside the kitchen door, along with agapanthus and pithosphorous that blossoms in April and smells like orange and lemon blossoms.


GRACEN: Do you prefer plants or seeds? Does it matter where you get them, or do you have a favorite place to go? What’s the name of the place and why do you prefer there over other places?

NANCY: I like results pretty quick, so I prefer plants that are already beautiful and colorful. I brought back some red hot pokers from Marks and Spencer’s in Ireland for my husband who loooves perennials.


GRACEN: What will you plant (or have already planted) this year and why?

NANCY: He’s got Lily of the Valley and geraniums scattered all over the place plus delphiniums ready to go.


GRACEN: Do you have any plants that are must haves for your garden, ones that it just won’t be complete without?

NANCY: Absolutely. Jasmine flowers- my favorite!


GRACEN: Now, let’s get to your writing, Nancy…What is your main genre (erotica, erotic romance, romantic suspense, etc.)? What was the draw for you?

NANCY: My fave genre is romantic suspense. I love to read and wonder how those two are ever going to get together in the end!


GRACEN: Besides your main genre we just discussed, what elements do you prefer to use in a story and why those elements over others?

NANCY: I think suspense and uncertainty are the essence of romance. Think how boring a book would be if there were never any problems! If it were always ‘yes, dear’ and ‘no, dear’!


GRACEN: Do you prefer red roses or black roses? If so, does that show in your writing? If so, how? If roses aren’t your style, what flowers are? Do they influence your writing? If so, how?

NANCY: Only Sicilian plants influence my style because most of my stories are set on this magnificent island where I live and I can always smell the different fragrances that are omnipresent in my stories. Each fragrance or flower corresponds to a different mood or moment.


GRACEN: The jury’s still out on this question, so we’re still asking it! - Who decides what you write about, you or your muse? What kind of influence do you have over your story, or is the muse always the one planting the seeds? How do you cultivate those seeds regardless of who plants them?

NANCY: My hero/ine dictates the story- They boss me around and tell me what’s happening. I have absolutely no control over what they’re going to do. But I get the last laugh- do they live…or die?


GRACEN: In your opinion, what author had the most influence on your writing? What about their writing did you find so influential and why?

NANCY: I like lots of authors, like Sidney Sheldon, but having a Uni degree in English Literature, I also love the oldies like J.M Synge and his Riders to the Sea, a magnificent play. I love T.S Eliot, David Lodge (not so old!) and James Joyce who’s an absolute genius!


GRACEN: While authors can definitely influence us, inspiration can be everywhere for a writer, but specific people, places and events can inspire certain characters, personality traits or things that happen in our stories. In your current story that we’re promoting here today, NOSTOS- THE HOMECOMING, did any one particular person, place or event inspire you? If so who/what was it (were they), how did it/they inspire you and how is this inspiration reflected in your story?

NANCY: My husband inspired me for the British hero. I made him just a touch more arrogant and bingo- the irresistible hero! Also, in Nostos, I loved the heroine’s sense of disdain for Aidan, but I also enjoyed seeing her fight against her attraction to him. She has strong moral principles and succumbing to her passion and the ‘other’ woman inside her took a lot of courage.


GRACEN: Without giving away anything pertinent to the story, tell us about the hero and heroine (s) of your story. What do they look like? How do they meet (or “did” if this is a second book with these same characters)? What are their personalities – Are they comical cut-ups, are they serious or are they a mix of the two? Please give us a little bit of dialogue from the story that can illustrate this. (Not much, but just a few lines and from a different section than the main excerpt – Thanks!)

NANCY: Sure, I’d love to! Aidan Hartland is a noble Englishman who collects art. He is dashing, tall, handsome and unbearably arrogant. He knows she is destined to be his, and finds her resistance amusing and endearing. Any woman would love to be mocked by him, I think!
My heroine is an FBI agent with the task of unmasking him for his violent murders. Everything inside her tells her to cuff him up and take him in, but the other woman inside her tells her to let go and give in to her instincts which she has always repressed.


GRACEN: The main characters are usually great, but sometimes, secondary and tertiary characters are known to steal the scenes. Who are the secondary/tertiary characters in your story and what do they look like? What’s unique about them? What is their relationship to the hero/heroine? Have any of these gone on to become scene-stealers? If so, who and how did they do it? (Again, please give us a small bit of dialogue to illustrate this – thanks!)

NANCY: The other characters are secondary but I have purposely kept them that way to surprise my readers in my sequel to Nostos. I’m taking notes and waking up in the middle of the night so I can jot down snatches of conversation, expressions, etc. I can’t wait!


GRACEN: Please send us pictures whenever possible of the favorite flowers you’ve planted, favorite fruits/vegetables you’ve grown, or maybe even a pic of your local farmer’s market as well as an image of yourself and your current release (or a couple if it’s part of a series and they are out and about to be had right now). Thanks!

NANCY: Thank You for having me! Here is a picture of myself and my covers so far. I’d love to hear from you! Please write me at nancybaronewythe@yahoo.com !
Happy reading!
Nancy




BLURB:

For over a thousand years, LORD AIDAN HARTLAND OF WESTLAKE and his lover have in turn been eating each other’s hearts in order to regenerate. Now he’s back with his new identity- and the perpetual mission of protecting his woman and mankind from the demon Zendor that has no mate and eats human hearts at random to survive.


FBI agent ROBYN WAINRIGHT, assigned to investigate the strange deaths, is still unaware of her past, and determined to nail Westlake, with his mad tales of demons, paranormal powers and his eternal love for her. But the erotic visions she keeps having are driving her insane…




EXCERPT:

CHAPTER ONE

Present Day. Westlake Manor, Somerset, England.

Special Agent Robyn Wainright ducked under the ticker tape and knelt to the ground to examine the spot where a female corpse had laid stomach down the morning before. Her chest had been ripped open and her heart removed, presumably consumed on the spot just like the Delaware case. A pool of blood had seeped into the well-kept, ancient grounds. Her fingers caught at a small shard of bone staked into the soil.

Scotland Yard Detective Sergeant Stephen Archer stood over her, stomping his feet trying to calm the cold. It was a damp, grey early December morning and the sun had seemed to give up its ascent, hanging mid-sky in a pale semblance of its better days.

“Christ, what an animal,” she muttered under her breath.

“Oh, it was no animal, Agent Wainright. Those teeth marks are human.”

Another similarity. A copycat? She looked up and saw her colleague’s pale face as he stared at her. He quickly averted his eyes.

“You alright, Archer?”

“No, Madam, I knew Sarah Jennings,” he answered, stealing another indecipherable glance at her. “She was Lord Westlake’s companion.”

“The owner of this place, right?”

“Yes. He found the body.”

She leafed through the report. “How come there’s no picture of the victim?”

He studied his frozen feet. “Oh, isn’t there?”

She stood up to sniff the air. She could smell more rain coming. At the top of the hill, wrapped in a blanket of white fog, stood Westlake Manor, a dark, turreted three-storey stone building. In the north behind the building, an ancient forest so deep into the valley she could only distinguish the treetops waving from above the towers. To the east was a cluster of lakes. It was all magnificent, but the place gave her the creeps. She always boasted of having nerves of steel, at least until Richard had left her.

She lifted the collar of her anorak against the cold and turned her head to the faint sound of dogs barking in the distance. Robyn involuntarily stiffened; she was more of a cat person.

“Where is Mr. Hartland-Westlake now?” Robyn asked Archer.

Lord Westlake,” he corrected, nodding towards the horizon.

As they watched, four enormous Great Danes leapt over the hill followed by their master. Tall and erect, he held their leashes with each hand as if driving a chariot. The man looked majestic, his black wavy hair whipping against his forehead, his powerful arms easily keeping the animals at bay as they plodded downhill in their direction.

“He comes from a very old family and very old money, but he made his personal fortune as an antique art critic. He’s a bit odd, though.” Archer whispered.

“Oh?”

“He wasn’t perturbed in the least when he reported her death. They say he has,” he paused, “paranormal powers.”

“I don’t believe in that kind of crap,” she huffed, and then groaned. “What kind?”

“He’s said to be able to read people’s minds.”

Yeah, right! She didn’t believe it one bit.

“…nor was he much help when we questioned him. Some think he did it.”

“If you have evidence why don’t you arrest him?” Robyn asked.

“That’s the thing, without a shred of proof no one dares accuse him. He’s extremely influential, with friends in Parliament and all. But he’s known to roam the countryside at night with his Great Danes. God knows what for.”

Lord Westlake stopped before them, staring at her with puzzled slate grey eyes.

She stared back. Was it the FBI’s presence he didn’t appreciate? Or was he expecting a male agent? Either way it was his problem.

She stared him down, or tried to. An uneasy feeling of familiarity set in on her, so disturbingly strong she was positive she had met him before. But where?

After a moment, a grin split his overwhelmingly handsome and arrogant face.

Great, she thought grimly. Just what I need, another jerk. Look at him; he’s got an ego the size of a cathedral.

“I heard that,” he said without taking his eyes off her and she blinked, thinking for a moment that he was referring to her thoughts. His British accent was crisp and although he pronounced each word clearly, to Robyn it seemed like a different language.

Archer stared back and forth between them, obviously ill at ease, and she knew he hadn’t told her everything.

“Perhaps you should be a bit brighter as to understand that even whispers carry in the breeze. No wonder you people haven’t caught it yet.”

She raised her eyebrows at him, unsure whether his tone was directed to her. Robyn was about to give him a piece of her mind when Archer stiffened. “My apologies, Lord Westlake. This is Special Agent Robyn Wainright from The United States.”

Their eyes met again and she stood her ground under his scrutiny although he made her extremely uncomfortable. He was arrogant and breathtakingly masculine, with dark olive skin. His eyes were magnetic, glimmering. She could see a hint of a five o’clock shadow. Damn, she hated gorgeous men! And this one took the cake. His deep, gravelly voice sent a tingling sensation zapping down her spine. Too bad he was a suspect. She pulled her anorak closer and stared back. He regarded her with an arrogant knowing smile, as if they had just put their clothes back on.

Ah, she was still so beautiful. The past millennium had not marred her youth. Her luxuriant red mane was pulled back into a ponytail, and dark trousers did not hide the hips he knew so well. Her fiery emerald eyes were assessing him in turn through the long lashes he had so often kissed. And now she was hurting for another man who had left her because she couldn’t have children. Mortals knew nothing about true everlasting love. But he would bring her back to him, even if it took him another thousand years.

Buy Link: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/13198


COMING SOON, MY SICILIAN LOVERS SERIES!


Saturday, April 24, 2010

Starlight Saturday

Coming Soon! 

Friday, April 23, 2010

PHANTASM FRIDAY

Wow! It's Friday already, huh? I wish I had something witty prepared for today, but I don't. My life has been turned upside down this week. My father-in-law is terribly sick and they can't figure out what's wrong with him. And if that wasn't enough, my little brother--very little, he turns 18 next month--overdosed and nearly died. He's fine now, out of ICU and they placed him in a Rehab Clinic today. My 8 and 12 year old boys were stunned that the young man they look up to and adore would do something so foolish. That's two of their heroes to disappoint them this year.

I did receive an awesome review of my book, Elfin Blood, this week. Thanks to the reviewer, Violet Harper, for the awesome review and the comment, "I strongly advise readers to carve out several uninterrupted hours before sitting down with Elfin Blood because this story is impossible to put down." For the full review, click on the book title above or here.

So, I'm sorry for having nothing today. But if you want to read something fun and thought-provoking, visit yesterday's blog with Angela Nichelle and the 5 Things you Shouldn't Say to a Romance Writer. That is worth reading!

Now, I really need to figure out a witty topic, write it up and send it off for an upcoming guest blog next week! Nearly impossible since I'm brain-dead!! Grr...

Hope everyone has a great weekend!

~huggles~
Signed,
Emotionally drained and physically exhausted.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

TWILIGHT THURSDAY

5 Things You Shouldn't Say to a Romance Writer

5. "Why don't you write something with more substance like..."

Have you ever been asked this as a romance writer? Well, I have and although I know this family member loves me dearly, they clearly don't understand how wild that question is. As a writer, you fall into the genres that inspire and move you to tell stories. It's that simple.


4. "You must have an amazing sex life!"


It's quite good, thank you, but jeez! Writing romance doesn't mean you're some kind of nympho-manic... well, not usually.


3. "I know those sex scenes are based off your own experiences!"


Maybe . . . maybe not. Romance writing is all about the fantasy encounter, lover, scenario, etc! Most of us aren't writing play by play scenes in our bedrooms because let's face it- real-life sex isn't perfect and magical every single time. Ok, I know there are exceptions to everything. If you're experiencing perfect magical sex every single time with your partner, please email me!


2. "Don't put me in one of your books."


*g* This one usually gets the wheels turning in my head immediately. Ah, yes, I know just what story to pen about you! (You know who you are!) Seriously, I'm just kidding.


1. "Oh, you write those books."


Yes, I do. The one's with the hawt covers of half-naked men and half-dressed females. Romance novels have been around for a long time and even though the market may shift with social trends there will always be readers and writers like me!


~ Angela Nichelle




Never Before Seen Excerpt from Cupid's Arrow:

"There's something I have to tell you, Safina." Kal's eyes seemed to glitter like black diamonds in the darkened room.

Waving her hands, Safina shook her head. "No, no . . . I don't wanna know."

Kallias slowly took off his suit jacket. "It's not what you think."

"I don't know what to think." Her fingers were freezing. "What are you doing?" Safina asked as Kallias began unbuttoning his shirt. Momentarily distracted by smooth chocolate abs, she gasped in complete shock when incredibly huge ivory wings unfurled from behind Kallias's back. The glossy wings stretched to the ceiling, flexing as long as the small room behind him. Goosebumps covered Safina's arms as she stared at Kal. He was easily the most magnificent thing she had ever seen . . . and the scariest.

"I won't hurt you," Kallias said, remaining still.

She sensed he wouldn't hurt her even if she didn't understand anything else. "This is crazy! What are you?" She couldn't take her eyes off him. Her mind was racing with a million different thoughts. He was beautiful and he wasn't human.

"I'm an erote." Kallias took one step toward her, holding up his hands when Safina pressed farther away.

"What does that mean?" Safina asked, transfixed by the striking contrast of the ivory feathers against his mahogany skin. She rested her bottom on the tiny windowsill as Kallias studied her.

"Come with me and I'll explain everything." He took another step toward her and offered his hand.

Safina hesitated. She wanted to reach for him . . . wanted to feel the energy between them that made everything seem okay.

Cupid's Arrow is available with Noble Romance Publishing! Purchase your copy here: https://www.nobleromance.com/BrowseListing.aspx?author=69


Learn more about Angela Nichelle at her website: http://www.angelanichelle.com/ or blog: http://www.angelanichelle.blogspot.com/!

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Wistful Wednesday

What Keeps You Going

As I was sitting here this morning, wondering what to write, this phrase popped into my head. It's a rather simple phrase, just four words long, but it can have more than one meaning. It can be a statement of fact, a list of what actually keeps you going. Or it can be an inquiry. What keeps you going? It's all in the context.

Why did this particular phrase pop into my head? Well, it might be due to the fact that I've been through a lot of stress-inducing incidents lately and I've been wondering this myself. What keeps me going? And when an author starts to wonder about something...chances are, it might end up in a blog post.

So what keeps me going? I think, ultimately, it is my children. I persevere because of them. I live for them. I know I must set a good example for them so that they will learn that, no matter what life throws at them, they will get through it and they will be stronger for it. And somewhere in the back of my mind is the little voice that says, "This would be a good idea for a book." After all, I am a writer!

And then there are things like this:

This made me cry because he is an absolutely beautiful person and the song just fits him so well.

Well, that's something that keeps me going. What about you?

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Tantalizing Tuesday

The NightMan
T.L. Mitchell

To say this past week has been a "blur" is an understatement. Besides having gone by faster than I even noticed, with my new glasses falling apart and my using my older pairs, even more blurry than that. I used my previous pair which was 3 steps weaker than my new pair, and the transition back has been full of headaches, so I haven't done much reading. Then on Monday, yesterday, I remembered something that the doctor said about one of the other older pairs of glasses I still had sitting around. It was 2 steps stronger than my previous pair, which would make it only 1 step weaker than my new pair, so I put them on. After most of the day, I noticed a reduction in headaches and was finally able to read again - yay! That's kind of what I was doing today. I picked up Dark of kNight by T.L. Mitchell, our guest for today and found myself very absorbed in the story.

While it isn't dialogue driven as is the newest trend in books, it is in a first-person pov and, while I'm not sure I have a clear picture of what the main character looks like yet, I happen to be in her head and pretty-well able to see what she sees. If it isn't picture perfect I can write it off to the notion that maybe she isn't all that observant when it comes to her own surroundings, as not everyone is observant all the time, especially in times of crisis, like what Julie (the main character) finds herself having to deal with when the book begins.

Her father has died and it is a family friend, and his long-time business partner, that tells her. To say he is controlling is an understatement, but he has a soft-spot for his daughter, Casey, and that much is evident.

I really like how this story pulls you along through the main character and really lets you see what she feels as she feels it. If the rest of the book is this way, it should be a fascinatingly good read!

Let's get to the reason you're here, the interview! In honor of April 15th being tax day, we’re asking 15 questions this month.

ME: Speaking of taxes, are you’re taxes finished, or do you procrastinate with them? Do you do them yourself or do you have a taxman do them for you?

TRACEY: My taxes are finished for the year. I do always try to file them on time after I have received all my information. I have always completed my tax returns myself.

ME: As it says, “April showers bring May flowers”. What flowers do you hope to see the first thing in spring?

TRACEY: The flowers I love to see in the spring are Daffodils and Tulips. Growing up, we always had a spring garden filled with a variety of colors of these flowers.

ME: Do you plant your own garden? Why or why not and where is it (are they) located?

TRACEY: Yes, I do plant my own garden. I love gardens and enjoy the work. In the past I have usually planted several small gardens around the house.

ME: Do you prefer plants or seeds? Does it matter where you get them, or do you have a favorite place to go? What’s the name of the place and why do you prefer to go there?

TRACEY: I prefer plants. Seeds take a little too much time and I have never had much success with them. It really doesn’t matter where I buy the plants, it just depends on what I’m looking for at the particular time. Specialty colored roses I usually order from Jackson & Perkins. I look for specific colors and like hybrid roses.

ME: What will you plant (or have already planted) this year and why?

TRACEY: Since I have just moved, I don’t think I will be planting a flower garden this year. Maybe after I am more settled I will start planting.

ME: Do you have any plants that are must haves for your garden, ones that it just won’t be complete without?

TRACEY: For me, the musts are roses, bearded iris, daffodils, bleeding hearts and lilacs.

ME: For your produce, is the local grocery store just fine, or do you like to hit your local farmer’s market? What is your favorite fruit or vegetable that you do like to get?

TRACEY: I seriously have a problem with the local produce at the grocery store. I prefer to buy my produce at a local farmers market or grow it myself. My ideal choice of shopping when I lived in Florida was an Organic Grocery store called Evermann’s. My favorite fruit varies. It depends on what I have a taste for that week. I love pineapple, bananas, mangos and papaya. For vegetables, summer squash is my favorite.

ME: Now that we've learned a bit about you, let's learn a bit about your writing. What is your main genre (erotica, erotic romance, romantic suspense, etc.)? What was the draw for you?

TRACEY: My main genre is paranormal romance.

ME: Besides your main genre we just discussed, what elements do you prefer to use in a story and why those elements over others?

TRACEY: The elements I use in my story are mystery and suspense. Personally, I love to read a story with both. I figure if I can write a story that will keep me interested, I know it will keep the readers interested.

ME: Do you prefer red roses or black roses? If so, does that show in your writing? If so, how? If roses aren’t your style, what flowers are? Do they influence your writing? If so, how?

TRACEY: I prefer red roses. I would say it does show in my writing. Red roses represent love. Actually, in my novel Dark of kNight I mention roses. The rose I speak of is a white rose. It’s name is called peace. In the prologue and a dream scene the heroine, Julie Knight dreams of a rose garden. Her life has changed so drastically …not to give any spoilers out, but she looks for peace. In the dream, she sees this white rose, its scent is so delicate and she recognizes it as Peace. The last statement she makes, “I reached my hand through the fog to collect my prize; my peace.” It is a very strong statement for a young woman who has gone through so much in her life in such a short time.

ME: The jury’s still out on this question, so we’re still asking it! - Who decides what you write about, you or your muse? What kind of influence do you have over your story, or is the muse always the one planting the seeds? How do you cultivate those seeds regardless of who plants them?

TRACEY: I find myself very fortunate to have a publisher who allows me to write the stories I enjoy. My publisher, Wild Horse Press, and I stay in close contact with one another when I’m working on a new project or idea. Sometimes, if a story hits me - I just write it. Prime example, The NightMan. The NightMan was story that burned to be told.

Personally I have heard complaints from readers who are reading cookie-cutter books. The characters of these books maybe different but the story is still the same. Readers want variety and something new and fresh. As a writer, I believe you lose your creative flare when you are told what to write. To make an impression on readers I believe you have to set your heart free as a writer. The vision you create for your readers is important. They want to feel apart of the characters, feel emotion and see a vivid picture of events. I don’t think I could ever write for a publisher who dictated “what” I needed to write. If that were ever the case…I would open my own publishing company. J

ME: In your opinion, what author had the most influence on your writing? What about their writing did you find so influential and why?

TRACEY: OMG, I’m caught between two authors. When I first started writing many years ago, it was Stephen King. I read so many of his books and developed his flare for horror and suspense. Quite a few years ago I was introduced to Karen Marie Moning and her books. Moning’s writing was exactly what I loved. She carried the mystery, suspense and humor in her stories. Along with a wonderful romantic tale.

ME: While authors can definitely influence us, inspiration can be everywhere for a writer, but specific people, places and events can inspire certain characters, personality traits or things that happen in our stories. In your current story that we’re promoting here today, Dark of kNight, did any one particular person, place or event inspire you? If so who/what was it (were they), how did it/they inspire you and how is this inspiration reflected in your story?

TRACEY: The story of Dark of kNight began as a series of dreams, actually nightmares. The dreams were so vivid and clear, some mornings I would wake up with my heart pounding in my chest. I couldn’t understand why I was having these series of dreams. After about the third dream I started writing them down. Before long, I realized this may make a good book. After writing the first draft a friend of mine read over the story and loved it. She encouraged me to keep writing and finish it into a full length novel. Which after the final draft, I ended up with Dark of kNight. The story was truly based on a series of haunting dreams.

ME: Without giving away anything pertinent to the story, tell us about the hero and heroine (s) of your story. What do they look like? How do they meet (or “did” if this is a second book with these same characters)? What are their personalities – Are they comical cut-ups, are they serious or are they a mix of the two? Please give us a little bit of dialogue from the story that can illustrate this. (Not much, but just a few lines and from a different section than the main excerpt – Thanks!)

TRACEY: The heroine and hero of Dark of kNight is Julie Knight and Daniel Maxwell. Julie is tall, slender built( a little on the athletic side), long dark brown hair and light brown eyes. She has olive/tan skin (which is answered in Fall of kNight). Daniel Maxwell, handsome, tall (6’4”), well built- not overly but very smooth, his hazel green eyes complements his black hair. Which he does have somewhat of a dark appearance.

Daniel and Julie have always known one another. Their families were close- even when they were children. Daniel has always loved Julie from the first kiss. He has never wanted anyone else other than Julie. The two went their separate ways - only to be reunited by the death of her father. Years had passed between the two of them, but the love Daniel had for Julie remained. This time he wasn’t going to fail.

OH comical cut ups? Of course! This is one thing I love about writing. There are quite a few between Julie and Daniel. But my favorite is with their friends Jason and Heather. Now, if you could picture a group of wolf shape shifters, young and out for a good time at a very nice restaurant, you would have something like this:

“Several stories crossed the table of Daniel and Jason’s fishing expositions. One of which was the story of the big one getting away. Not to mention how drunk they were one night when they thought they saw the Loch Ness Monster. Daniel said it was the moon moving on the waves of the lake. Jason swore it was Nessie which had tipped the boat and caused him to fall into the lake. We all laughed as Daniel reminded his dear friend he had never seen such a brave heart as his friend pulled his trousers down to moon the so-called monster when he fell backwards over the boat.”

ME: The main characters are usually great, but sometimes, secondary and tertiary characters are known to steal the scenes. Who are the secondary/tertiary characters in your story and what do they look like? What’s unique about them? What is their relationship to the hero/heroine? Have any of these gone on to become scene-stealers? If so, who and how did they do it? (Again, please give us a small bit of dialogue to illustrate this – thanks!)

TRACEY: I have been very pleased with the response to my cast of secondary characters. Like I mentioned above Jason and Heather McLaughlin. Jason is a purebred Irish pup and he has the personality of someone who will make you laugh even when you don’t want to. Heather, is petite just a little over 5’4”, she has a pixie-like hair cut. She is not Irish, but loves her purebred Irish wolf lad Jason. She is not as wild as Jason, but they make for a very cute couple and compliment each other wonderfully.

Jason and Daniel met in Scotland, while Daniel was working on bio-genetic research. They are both scientists and are employed by a company co-owned by Daniel and Julie’s father.
Scene stealers? If you read the book you will notice Heather is a little reserved. So this particular scene was a stealer for her. CAUTION SPOILERS* This scene happens immediately after Julie and Daniel discover the vampires (Richard and Nathaniel). Richard shows a particular interest in Julie, which causes Daniel to become very protective over his wolf girl.

I turned toward Daniel and he looked to me in concern.
“I don’t like that Richard.” He huffed.
“Because he has a thing for me?” I teased.
“I better be the only one that has a thing for you!” He growled. “Besides can a vampire actually have an erect…”
“Daniel!” I shot at him in surprise.
“Well, I was just wondering.” He shot back.
Heather and Jason walked up to us. “Rumor has it, they are huge.” She said as she laughed and darted off changing into her wolf image.
Jason roared loudly with laughter as he followed her changing into his wolf image. There was no way I could contain my laugh when I looked into Daniel’s astonished face. I unzipped his robe and slid it off his shoulders. The shock was still on his face. Smiling I slipped out of my robe. I began to walk away from Daniel.
I turned my head slightly to the side. “Darling, you have nothing to worry about.” I purred as I laughed and burst forth into my wolf image.

ME: Okay, so let's get down to the blurb and excerpt!

Dark of kNightBLURB:
*Julie Knight never really knew how much her life would change after the death of her father.
After returning home to Spring Place, FA, the mysterious animal attacks begin. The small town is in an uproar over the horrific killings.
Julie finds herself in danger when the truth of who she is has been revealed. The last of a thousand year old bloodline of Lycans, Guardians of the mysterious Fort Mountain.
Daniel Maxwell, the handsome, dark, yet mysterious scientist returns home for the funeral. He has changed, but his love for Julie remains the same. She is what he has always wanted. She is what he needs. He would die for her. He would kill for her.
The passions begin to flare and so does the romance between Julie and Daniel. Joining forces with a mysterious group of moon-eyed people, together they must prepare for the ultimate battle- the battle against a deadly pack of werewolves.
Can Julie and Daniel‘s love be strong enough to protect them from their dangerous desires? Or will they be forever lost in the Dark of kNight?*

EXCERPT:*PREFACE

I knew one day I would reach this place in my life; I just didn’t realize it would be so soon. Love, I suppose, has no rules and yields to no boundaries. Never knowing when it will strike.

Never before would I have imagined I could love someone as deeply as I love him. I would fight for him. I would die for him. This is what I believed. This is the Lycan way. Yes, I could say I love this man more than my own life. It was odd that I would fall in love with someone who needed me as much as I needed him.

My world as I knew it stopped when my father died. I was not ready to lose anyone else again. I couldn’t bare the loss of the one who is so dear to my heart. He is my angel and my love. If I were to lose him then my life would end. I knew I would die.

As I stood in the rose garden, one rose stood out among the rest. It was a beautiful pure white rose. Its name was Peace. Never before have I seen such a delicate rose. Its scent was by far more fragrant than its neighboring roses. It was a scent that drew me in like the scent of my lover.

The fog had begun to settle in, moving slowly through the rose garden. I reached my hand through the fog to collect my prize. My peace.*

Monday, April 19, 2010

Mystic Monday

Fire in the Sky

Yes, this may be the name of a movie about alien abduction, but it's also what I slept through on April 14th at 10pm.

Maybe you've heard about it, maybe you haven't, but apparently it's been the talk of the town and possibly even the country. To look at on video is awe inspiring and scary because of the fact that it had to be about 3 feet in diameter to make that picture as it entered the atmosphere.

Astronomers and spectators weren't the only one enjoying this, but so were religious fanatics - at least for what they could get out of it anyway. No, this is not the beginnings of a path death and destruction or hellfire and brimstone. It was just a fact of nature, a fact of science. While most meteors are usually the size of a grain of sand or a pea (yeah, I wasn't too believing of this fact, but it is fact), ones the size encountered in the Milwaukee skyline only hit the earth 10 times a year.

While I wanted to embed the video, the Channel 12 feed wouldn't let me, but I did find one without sound to embed from CNN feed. This one is cool because it offers views from different locales, including Iowa.
If you're interested in hearing the Channel 12 feed and locals' reactions, here's the link: Channel 12 Meteor Story on youtube

Yeah, I slept through the neatest thing in our astronomic history! Murphy's Law biting my ass I can sure tell you that because not long before that, my glasses spontaneously fell apart last Wednesday night. Yeah, I was typing on the computer when all of a sudden, there was this loud, "boing!" and my eyeglass frame came apart at the right temple, causing the right lens to fly to the floor, bounce off the floor and land on my pants leg. The "boing!" and subsequent crash were so loud that my husband thought there was something wrong with the laptop - yeah, it sounded that weird. I couldn't find the screw, hell I was lucky I was able to find the lens as I couldn't really see very well at all. It certainly wasn't something I expected from my brand new $500 pair of progressive bifocals. Grrr!

Okay, so yeah, on the eve of the 14th, my glasses break, and I get overcome with this insane bout exhaustion that causes me to fall asleep at the computer at like 9:30-9:45pm, to which I go to bed and sleep straight through until 6am go to the bathroom and turnaround and go back to bed for another 9 or so hours and I don't wake up until about 3pm that day.  Oh, and I have been sick ever since then, but that's probably just a nasty coincidence compliments of Murphy himself! The whole thing wouldn't have been bad, but I had Dana Davis' interview to post that Thursday, and well, I was really, really, really late at getting to it.

I'm still completely annoyed that I fell asleep through that spectacle. It does give me a great storyline that I might share someday...he he he....

Sunday, April 18, 2010

SUPERNATURAL SUNDAY

Please welcome author, Christine McKay into the moonlight today. Christine is the author of a host of other novels, a handful of which are, Loch Dragon’s Lady, Carnal Magic, The Earth’s Edge, and A Taste of Summer Magic. But those few are only a smidgen of what she’s published, so visit her website and learn more about Christine and her books. Click here to visit her website.

In honor of April 15th being tax day, we’re asking 15 questions of our guest bloggers this month, so we hope you enjoy learning more about the authors and their books. Feel free to ask some questions of your own!


~~~~~

GRACEN: Speaking of taxes, are you’re taxes finished, or do you procrastinate with them? Do you do them yourself or do you have a taxman do them for you?

CHRISTINE: I used to do my own taxes but it’s become difficult for me to keep abreast of the new farm tax laws ( I own a farm). I have a CPA do my taxes. While I’m there, she takes care of my writing ones too. (She’s a closet writer so the annual tax appointment is a good time to chat and compare progress).


GRACEN: As it says, “April showers bring May flowers”. What flowers do you hope to see the first thing in spring?

CHRISTINE: I love lilacs. We have over 100 bushes. When the lilacs are blooming, I know spring has finally arrived in northeastern Wisconsin. Pansies, daffodils, and tulips will bloom in the snow. Lilacs – not so much.


GRACEN: Do you plant your own garden? Why or why not and where is it (are they) located? What type(s) will it (they) be and where is it (are they) located on your property?

CHRISTINE: I do garden – poor plants. I have plants tucked all over the place, trying to keep them out of the wind.


GRACEN: Do you prefer plants or seeds? Does it matter where you get them, or do you have a favorite place to go? What’s the name of the place and why do you prefer there over other places?

CHRISTINE: I plant mostly seeds, but some plants. I love Baker Creek Heirloom seeds. A full color catalog with hundreds of rare seeds, everything from prickly yellow cucumbers to blue pumpkins from Australia.


GRACEN: What will you plant (or have already planted) this year and why?

CHRISTINE: The rule of thumb where I live is to not plant until Memorial Day weekend. Anything before that time is subjected to frost or possibly snow. That said, I have my tomato seeds started inside and a few pumpkin and squash varieties that need 90-120 days of growth (questionable up here).

A raspberry patch is on the list to get planted this year as is an asparagus patch. As far as other things, I’m a huge tomato fan – will be planting over 10-20 different tomato varieties. Also have over an acre of pumpkins and various squashes. Peas always get planted and I have minimal success with carrots, but they’re going in the ground whether they want to or not. And of course, there’s herbs all over the place. Chives – you can’t kill chives. Ditto on mint and catnip. I have that growing wild all over the place, thanks to 3 plants I purchased ten years ago. Lavender grows very sullenly here, but it grows. I have myrrh, dill, wormwood, pinks, soapwort, and other sturdy plants.


GRACEN: Do you have any plants that are must haves for your garden, ones that it just won’t be complete without?

CHRISTINE: Tomatoes. The store bought ones have no flavor!


GRACEN: What is your main genre (erotica, erotic romance, romantic suspense, etc.)? What was the draw for you?

CHRISTINE: Fantasy and paranormal romance sometimes with a horror /occult element. I cut my teeth on shelves and shelves of Andre Norton, Patricia McKillip, Anne McCaffrey, Robin McKinley, Terry Brooks, and C.J. Cherryh, but I also love Nora Roberts, Stephen King, and a host of other one-book authors. Hence the marrying of many genres.


GRACEN: Besides your main genre we just discussed, what elements do you prefer to use in a story and why those elements over others?

CHRISTINE: I use a lot of magic and magic practitioners in my stories. I have friends who are practicing witches (or Wiccans – depending on the person’s individual preference) and they seem to get a bad rap 99% of the time. Think of the Disney films and count how many bad witches there are versus good witches (and no, fairies and fairy godmothers don’t count). I have other friends who travel the astral plane, speak to animals (which then talk back to them), and have seen ghosts.

When not entirely set in the fantasy world, I like to think my stories portray these sort of people as they are: normal folks with gifts many of us don’t understand and probably don’t believe in.


GRACEN: Do you prefer red roses or black roses? If so, does that show in your writing? If so, how? If roses aren’t your style, what flowers are? Do they influence your writing? If so, how?

CHRISTINE: Actually if we’re talking roses – yellow are my favorite. They’re cheery without going overboard. If I received red roses for no reason at all, I’d be thinking “Okay – what did you do that I don’t know about?” But yellow roses – they’ve always been a pick-me-up flower.

I think herbs and cooking influence my style more than, say, flowers, though don’t get me wrong – I’m a girl – I like flowers.


GRACEN: The jury’s still out on this question, so we’re still asking it! - Who decides what you write about, you or your muse? What kind of influence do you have over your story, or is the muse always the one planting the seeds? How do you cultivate those seeds regardless of who plants them?

CHRISTINE: My muse inspires me, but I ultimately decide when and what to write. I have a problem with reining in my characters, however. They like to take over the story and run amok.

If I run into a plotline snag or what not, I’ll sleep on it. Generally, by morning, I have my answer.

I’m an avid reader. Nonfiction. Fiction. The backs of cereal boxes. Tons of magazines. I clip pictures from Smithsonian and National Geographic. They’re inspiring.


GRACEN: In your opinion, what author had the most influence on your writing? What about their writing did you find so influential and why?

CHRISTINE: This is a tough one and would really depend on where I was at mentally in certain stages of my life. Initially, my gut reaction would be to say C.J. Cherryh. But there were times when Nora Roberts, Andre Norton, Anne McCaffrey, and Robin McKinley were must reads. And I went through my Bertrice Small stage as well.

I think C.J. Cherryh appeals to my technical nature. I do have a computer background and am quite good at tinkering with them. Her writing also has a rhythm that reminds of me the old stories…and by old, I’m talking Beowolf.


GRACEN: While authors can definitely influence us, inspiration can be everywhere for a writer, but specific people, places and events can inspire certain characters, personality traits or things that happen in our stories. In your current story that we’re promoting here today, The Genesis Clock, did any one particular person, place or event inspire you? If so who/what was it (were they), how did it/they inspire you and how is this inspiration reflected in your story?

CHRISTINE: I love the History and Discovery channels. I watched a program some years back on Naj Tunich and became fascinated by its mysteries and drawings. I read a lot of books on the subject and that started me thinking…just how much do we know about our ancestors?

The characters in this book do a lot of traveling, gun-toting, and even horseback riding. As a former endurance rider (25-100 mile cross-country races on horseback), I used my experience in that area to write the riding scene. I also spent a fair part of my childhood in a indoor rifle range. What can I say? Some kids play hockey or basketball in winter. I participated in a Junior Rifle program.

For details on places I hadn’t physically been too, I relied on my aunt who is a world-wide traveler.


GRACEN: Without giving away anything pertinent to the story, tell us about the hero and heroine (s) of your story. What do they look like? How do they meet (or “did” if this is a second book with these same characters)? What are their personalities – Are they comical cut-ups, are they serious or are they a mix of the two? Please give us a little bit of dialogue from the story that can illustrate this. (Not much, but just a few lines and from a different section than the main excerpt – Thanks!)

CHRISTINE: You’re going to laugh, but I pictured my hero as Hugh Jackman, in his shaggy version from the movie, Van Helsing. This makes for an easy excuse: “No honey, I have to have this huge photo of Hugh in my office – it’s inspiration.” And so Aaron Sparta was born.

For my heroine, I snipped a photo from a magazine of a very sharp-eyed, pony-tailed blonde-haired blue-eyed girl-next-door type woman. This became Evelyn “Evie” Wright. I like using nicknames. It seems to help define a character. You’ll always get folks who aren’t “Missy” or “Mel” but always “Melissa”. That tells you something about them.

Evie’s a bit sarcastic and free-wheeling, continent-jumping into dangerous countries and situations as if she has a death-wish, and personally, I think she sort of does. She’s been running her entire life, from the shattered memories of her mother’s death, from her father and his expectations and craziness, from becoming special to anyone. She basically has an attachment anxiety.

Unbeknownst to her, Aaron has known her her entire life. Now he’s been ordered by his superiors to kill her.


She rolled her eyes and experimentally tugged on the handcuff. Despite the crappiness of the car, the handle was firmly attached to the frame. “You have nothing better to do than watch me?”

“Actually I have five other things I need to be doing. But you happen to top my list. Congratulations.”

The number wasn’t lost on her. Her eyes narrowed. “Who hired you? Why are they looking for the clock’s stones?”

“You aren’t in the position to be asking questions.”

Glancing into his rearview mirror, he turned onto a side street and parked behind a seedy motel. Actually, according to its sign, it was an “ote”—both the “M” and the “l” were missing. Pieces of the M still dangled from the advertising board. Once the siding had been painted a mint green. Now the only parts of it still totally green were bathed in the perpetual shadow from the surrounding buildings. Moss thrived on shingle and fiberboard.

“You think Edensteen’s going to let you walk away with me in broad daylight?” Especially after she’d shown Spencer the garnet.

He grinned, his straight white teeth lighting up his face. “I just did.”

She swore at him in five different languages.

“Music to my ears, baby. It just makes you more valuable.”


GRACEN: The main characters are usually great, but sometimes, secondary and tertiary characters are known to steal the scenes. Who are the secondary/tertiary characters in your story and what do they look like? What’s unique about them? What is their relationship to the hero/heroine? Have any of these gone on to become scene-stealers? If so, who and how did they do it? (Again, please give us a small bit of dialogue to illustrate this – thanks!)

CHRISTINE: I try to make my secondary characters well-rounded, but not so much that they become scene stealers.

Evie’s father serves as a ghostly secondary character. Every action, right down to his death, has shaped Evie’s actions. So even though you don’t physically see him strutting around, his presence is felt throughout the story.

And then there’s Spencer. Spencer is Evie’s casual lover and their employer’s watchdog. Picture a well-dressed, well-spoken, cultured and British (of course!) techno-geek. Glasses are mandatory. As I’ve mentioned, Aaron Sparta is our hero, so there is some natural animosity between these two men.

“Close your eyes,” she repeated.

“I beg you, at least let me book the flight first.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I have a surprise for you.”

His fingers toyed with a loose lock of hair. Tucking it behind her ear, he grazed her cheek with his knuckles. “Temptress.”

“I promise it’ll be worth your while.”

His lips twitched and he closed his eyes. “Very well then.”

She slipped off his lap, glancing to make sure he still had his eyes closed. He did. Pulling her purse out from under the bed, she removed the garnet. It lay like a frozen puddle of blood in her hand. Shivering at the mental analogy, she walked back to Spencer and sat on his lap. “Let’s see those hands.”

He obediently held them out. She laid the jewel in his cupped palms. “What’s this?” he murmured. He opened his eyes. “Dear God in Heaven.” He bobbled the stone.

She caught it before it hit the floor. “And you want to be a curator?”

“You can’t just drop that in my hand and expect me to do nothing.” He adjusted his glasses and took the stone from her. “Is this it?” He held it up, examining the indentations in the base of the stone.

“The Ark’s Beacon,” she confirmed. Plucking it from his hands, she held it up to the desk’s reading light. A shaft of pure red shot across the room, illuminating the bed. “Mood lighting.”

“My lord,” he murmured. “You may be comfortable with the stuff of legend, but I’ve never seen its like.” He touched it with a fingertip but didn’t attempt to take it away from her. “How did you get it? Where did you get it?”

“My father sent it to me,” she said smoothly, hopping off his lap. “I bet Edensteen’s going to shit bricks when he sees it.”

“Definitely worth soiling one’s trousers over,” Spencer agreed.

There was a knock at the hotel door. Spencer glanced at Evie’s attire. “I’ll get it,” he offered.

She stepped toward the bed, dropped the stone into her purse and started to slip into her pants.

The door slammed open before it was completely unlatched, the chain ripping from the doorframe. Spencer struck the wall. Aaron Sparta walked in, pointed a pistol at Evie and said, “You, out.”

“How many of those frickin’ things do you have?” she complained, not at all cowed. If he wanted to kill her he would have done it last night when she was alone, not in front of a potential witness. Slipping into her shoes, she hesitated. Leave her purse in the hotel room and risk Spencer rummaging through it and finding her father’s notes? Or take it along and hope she could escape before Aaron did the same thing? Who was the lesser of two evils? She grabbed her purse.

Distrustful wench. Quakoralina laughed.

Evie ignored her.

The gun’s barrel swung toward Spencer. “Don’t try it,” Aaron cautioned. Spencer held a shoe in one hand. “Get a move on,” Aaron growled to her.

She hurried to Aaron’s side, stepping over Spencer.

“Where are you taking her? Who are you?” Spencer pulled himself to his feet. “I can write you a check of any amount you need. Money’s over there.” He nodded toward the computer.

“Your money’s worthless to me,” Aaron said. Grabbing her by the arm, he yanked her out the door.

Wincing under Aaron’s tight grip, she said, “Spencer, my .22’s in the bathroom under the towels.”

Spencer nodded and lunged for the bathroom door. She jerked in Aaron’s grasp, throwing off his aim. His shot rang as silently as a BB gun, a pop that could easily be mistaken for a cork blowing off a champagne bottle.

Damn it, couldn’t she keep a partner alive for even a day?



BLURB:

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Time marches ever forward, unmindful of the humanity it condemns to death, looking only to the future. What if someone had the power to not only stop time, but reverse it?

Those who built the legendary Tower of Babel found a way. But the hand of God crushed the tower before the Genesis Clock’s power could be harnessed. Its pieces were scattered across the world, guarded by creatures and societies long since forgotten or shrouded in myth.

Evie’s father spent his life searching for the clock’s parts. Now it’s left to Evie to distinguish between fact and fiction, friend and foe, and to determine if her father’s quest is worth her life. She can’t lose her soul—that she already bartered away when she assumed the role of priestess to the sex-starved Star Goddess—but if she’s not careful, she could lose her heart to the man sent to kill her…

Because not everyone wants to see the clock resurrected.


EXCERPT:

Chapter One

The sun relentlessly flogged the back of Evie’s neck. Reprieve from the roasting temperatures, tennis racket-sized creepy-crawlies and bacteria-breeding moisture was a rare luxury and in this part of South America, usually ill-gotten. She ignored the unpleasantness the best she could, though she’d kill for a Popsicle about now. A minor exaggeration but not far off the mark. The bit of hide she held in her hands might lead her to enough treasure she could afford to treat all the villagers to Popsicles. Then again, it just might get her killed. Either offered her amnesty.

Only a handful of people, mostly forgotten old men with too much unoccupied time on their hands, could read the variation of Vartanian script written on the hide. Even less could write it. Thanks to her father, she could do both.

Hide didn’t survive thousands of years in this climate. The aforementioned niceties often contributed to its demise. More likely someone had viewed the original script on a chunk of stone and copied the symbols to the hide to facilitate traveling. Rock made a poor traveling companion, particularly when hacking a path through the brush.

Why would anyone bother to copy it if they couldn’t read it? Unless they intended to find someone who could. The writing explained how to safely navigate the perils of Nantuk’s tomb. The Vartans revered Nantuk, priestess to the star goddess Quakoralina, though archeologists quarreled on whether it was out of fear of her mistress or for her supposed supernatural skills. Rumors of gold and jewels, including the goddess’s headdress, had sent more than one unwary treasure hunter on a meandering goose chase ending in an undesirable death.

If she had been her father—god forbid that particular nightmare ever came to pass—she would already be rushing to commandeer the village’s sole Jeep. She had learned from his actions exactly what not to do. Caution and careful planning led to results. Results garnered sponsors. Without results and sponsors you were just another crackpot spouting off tales of treasure in the hopes a bored and clueless millionaire wanted to live vicariously through your adventures. In her case, she also had to sort through the true financiers and the wannabe fuck buddies.

Feet shifted, beating an impatient rhythm on the hard-packed path.

Raising her head, she wiped sweat out of her eyes with the back of her hand. “Tell me again. Where’d you find this?”

Evie stood a full head taller than her bronze-skinned companion. She’d taken to wearing a huipil, the natives’ version of a blouse, heavy with elaborate embroidery, but shucking her cargo pants in favor of their long skirts wasn’t going to happen. Nor was she willing to risk snake or insect bites to run around barefoot. No matter what she did, be it speak their language—which she did fluently—or adopt their dress, she wouldn’t blend in. With the usual fair skin that accompanied the blonde-haired and blue-eyed, she stood out like a gringo tourist on market day.

Tolto knew how to write his own name and not much else. But he had the heart of a true buccaneer. Without him she would have stumbled into a few of those unmentionable deaths others before her had. Without her he wouldn’t be wearing commercially made thick-soled leather boots and packing a Glock 25 pistol. Oh, he’d still be armed, just not in style.

Add a dash of sex and it would have been the perfect arrangement. Only Tolto’s tastes didn’t run to gangly fair-skinned women who wore pants and wielded guns and knives just as well as a man. Pity. She rather liked Tolto.

“Pedro picked it off a body west of the stelae we uncovered last season.”

So not all Houltan villagers were squeamish of dead men’s ghosts. She tucked the knowledge away. “Did he say how the man died? Was he local?”

Tolto shook his head, straight black hair swinging around his face. “Not local. Too dark-skinned. Others say the man died of fright. No apparent wound on the body though the lizards had gleaned the tender parts.” He grinned, a wide white smile. Tender parts included eyeballs, nose, fingers and toes.

The stelae, tall narrow sandstone pillars carved by the Mayan, didn’t bear Vartanian marks.

“What does it say?” Tolto asked.

“It’s a description of a tomb.”

“Does it lead to treasure?”

“Perhaps. Death, more likely.”

The news earned her another wide grin. Leave it to Tolto to ignore her warning. “I knew it!” He wanted to purchase a bit of property at the edge of town and establish a respectable business. Many Houltan women inspected a man’s dwelling before even agreeing to a date.

“Don’t get all starry-eyed. It’s Nantuk’s tomb. We’ve been through this already. It’s too risky.” She was fairly certain they knew where the tomb was. The fact that it was carved into Wiskingsly Gorge was deterrent enough for most. The mound of skeletons stacked at its entrance usually stopped the rest that rappelled down.

“But you have directions now.”

“What if they fudged a symbol?”

“I trust you.”

She carefully rolled the hide up and secured it with the agave string it came with. Tucking it in her pack, she snagged her walking stick and headed toward the village. She needed a drink and some time to think.

Tolto, familiar with this side of her, followed in silence.

“Did Pedro find any identification on the person?”

“None.”

“You report him to the authorities?” Without identification and fingerprints the dead man became just another picture in a file thick with unidentified corpses. Unless he had wealthy relatives seeking him, he wasn’t worth the paper the photo would be printed on. At least not to the authorities.

Tolto shrugged. “I did not ask.”

“How much did you pay for the hide?”

Tolto gave her a sly glance. That long straight nose and those finely chiseled bones could have served as a template for pictures painted on ancient Mayan ruins.

“Tolto?”

“Pedro owed me a favor.”

She rolled her eyes. Everyone owed Tolto favors. Had the man been born in the States, he’d have been a successful bookie or salesman or infomercial rep.

Last season’s excavation site was a good day’s ride from the village. That was assuming the roads were open. An overly wet season paired with already rutted roads mired anything on wheels. Traveling by horse would take an extra couple days. She could already feel the calluses on her ass protesting.

“Would Pedro take us to the body?”

Tolto crossed himself. “Why would you want that?”

“To see if he missed anything.”

“The bones will likely be picked clean.”

It was her turn to shrug.

“You have no respect for the dead,” Tolto muttered. “I will send word to Pedro.”

“Thank you.”

“When do we leave?”

“When we know Pedro will guide us to the dead man.” She caught sight of her hut and quickened her pace. She needed to add another layer of sunscreen to the one she’d already sweated off.

“If we are heading to the gorge, it is out of our way.”

She paused. “There’s only a handful of people who know how to read Vartanian.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “My father, myself, some crusty British scholar my father works for and a couple of monks somewhere in France, I think. They weren’t a brilliant race. The bulk of what they wrote that we’ve found fills less than a notepad, and there’s around six hundred symbols in their alphabet.”

Frankly, she didn’t know why her father bothered with it. The Mayans and Incas amassed hordes more wealth than the Vartans. While all the early civilizations had their own deity rites upon which life often revolved, the Vartans were the ones who were obsessed with them. Hunting and farming took a backseat to religion and in a region like this that was tantamount to signing one’s own death warrant. She shrugged. That was why their civilization—no more than an eccentric extended family of the Toltecs really—died out in less than two hundred years. A blip on the South American radar…or it would have been if the Mayans hadn’t taken over some of their sacred sites.

Tolto was staring at her expectantly.

“I want to know who has an interest in the Vartans and why.”

“I will do my best.”

“Thanks.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “You always do.”

“I have a vested interest.” He headed off to his own hut.

If there was another treasure hunter haunting her sites, she wanted to know about it. She was meticulous, not omnipotent. If one of her former excavations had yielded the hide’s symbols, she needed to know how she missed it.

Gods above, sometimes she wondered how she’d ended up here, sponsorless, funding digs off the finds from previous ones. A hand-to-mouth existence at best. Gambling, that’s all it was. Most times she didn’t mind. When she stumbled over a better-financed dig—the men who actually had use of their own Jeep, rather than the local village’s cobbled-together deathtrap—the green-eyed monster set in. She had guns and the local villagers’ support. They, oftentimes, had soldiers, also with guns and the government’s consent. The lack of sponsors gnawed at her. It wasn’t as if she had a lack of buyers. On the contrary, she maintained a list rivaling Heidi Fleiss’ black book in its breadth of clients. It was just that her reputation now scared away more public funding of her work. She would starve before she prostituted herself in exchange for a sponsor.

She sighed, surveying her life’s work. Photos were tacked up on the bamboo walls, more as art than any sort of record. Her reed bed was rolled up in one corner, the remnants of her breakfast fire still smoldering in the fire ring’s center. Tree stumps and a car’s hood served as her desk.

She could be working on tenure at Setonville University. A steady paycheck, hours probably only half as long as the ones she kept here, no chance of getting bitten by poisonous snakes. Probably a real desk too. Bet at the university she’d own more pens than guns. Pulling off her shoulder holster, she hung it on a peg on the wall.

Lunch was waiting for her on two legs, pecking and scratching at the bit of corn she left it this morning. She pulled a knife out of the sheath strapped to her thigh.

Just another day at the office.

* * * * *

What was that crazy woman up to now? Lowering his binoculars, Aaron Sparta rubbed his chin. Evelyn Wright’s motives were as much an enigma as any woman’s. But most American women didn’t earn multiple Master’s degrees at record pace only to vanish into the Honduran bush stocked with no more than the clothes she was wearing and enough firepower to give the local police pause.

She had an artist’s eye, an archeologist’s careful hand, the reckless courage of a child and the heady aspirations of a drug runner sampling his own supply. She had uncovered more sites in the last five years than most archeologists tackled in their lifetime. And why not? She didn’t seem burdened by any sort of social conscience. She photographed, took what could be most easily sold on the market and moved on. What she was looking for, gods only knew.

It was why he’d been sent to watch her…again.

Not a single villager could be bribed to raid her hut. Either they respected or feared her too much. He wondered which it was. He thought he’d steered her away from Nantuk’s tomb years ago. So why was she hanging from a completely inappropriate harness over Wiskingsly Gorge?

Shouldering his coil of rope, he headed down the slope. Careful surveying of the site had yielded another possible opening to the tomb. He couldn’t remember how many people had attempted to break into it over the years. No amount of funding or high-tech equipment kept them from dying. What made Evie think she could cheat not only Death but the rumored curse the Vartans left to guard their most cherished possession?

He ground his teeth. Why couldn’t the Sentinels have sent someone else? He had no such death wish.

Enki help him, he’d been half in love with her since the day she’d scaled old Château Gaillard armed with nothing but a bundle of tied-together bedsheets and a busted compass. Nearly broken her neck too. Not that it was the first time—nor, judging from her current precarious perch, anywhere close to the last—that she’d tempted death.

The locals called her Gees de Dood, Death’s Ghost. Fitting enough. She played in its shadow her entire life.

He raked the hair out of his eyes. Evie Wright was forbidden fruit, daughter of a deserter. Why couldn’t she find a nice desk job in the States and stay the hell out of his life?

Eyes raised, he offered up a silent prayer.

* * * * *

Dangling two hundred feet over Wiskingsly Gorge put her life’s work into perspective. She, Evie Wright, was certifiably crazy. Above, Tolto played out more rope. Maybe she shouldn’t have picked an assistant who believed so wholeheartedly in her. Maybe she should have dismissed the idea as soon as the dead man’s body disappeared. But as Tolto had pointed out, many things vanished into the jungle’s leafy maw. Just as many people recklessly plunged over cliffs.

The writing appeared authentic, though her knowledge of the language wasn’t as intimate as her father’s. She had swallowed pride and a whole heap of bitterness and placed a very expensive international call to her father only to reach his answering machine. She’d hung up without leaving a message. He probably wouldn’t have helped her anyway.

A review of the stelae site hadn’t turned up any clues either. Her private marks on the site were undisturbed. If anyone had tried to excavate there, she’d have known.

Tolto was most likely right. She was neurotically distrustful.

She banged her hip into a dagger-shaped rock and cursed, a stream of English sprinkled with more inventive words she’d learned along her travels. A skeleton half-draped over the cliff entrance’s edge beckoned to her, its arm waving in the breeze.

Come on in, it teased. Jewels the size of eggs and enough gold to plate your coffin await.
So did death and an ancient curse. She could wait.

The sun had to set before she entered the tomb. That’s where so many had failed. Entering unfamiliar ground at dusk went against every rule she’d established. Then again, it was a cave. Odds were it was going to be dark regardless of the outside conditions. Tolto wasn’t exactly in a safe position either. The jungle’s bigger predators preferred night’s mantle. Navigating the tomb of a possessed priestess or hunkering on the edge of a cliff in the dark? She didn’t know which death she preferred.

Her fingers scrabbled to find handholds in the shale cliff face while the wind plucked at her rope, her clothes and anything else it could get its breathy fingers on. She was going to be motion sick before she touched down. A thorny vine snagged her pants leg. She shook it free. If everything she unearthed was as difficult to reach, she might have retired already.

Nah. Who was she kidding?

The sun vanished behind the lip of the gorge, dyeing stone, river and brush shades of burnished gold in one last spurt of energy. She turned her face toward its rays, feeling its warmth on her flushed cheeks and chapped lips.

This time tomorrow she might be kicked back in her hut enjoying a bottle of bubbly with Tolto and maybe even some meat she didn’t have to cook and clean herself first. Her mouth watered. She’d kill for a good beef steak. Funny how everything circled back to killing.

Dusk settled on the gorge. Balancing on the cliff wall parallel to the tomb entrance, she glanced at her watch. Showtime. Tolto’s face was just a blur above her. She swung into the entrance, landing on her back and skidding like a hockey puck down the center of the shaft. It angled downward and, rather than slowing, she increased speed. Elbows, shoulders and tailbone struck stone. She grunted.

She was thankful for the darkness. It blurred the glimpses of bones, skulls and ghoulish drawings.

When she stopped moving she carefully unzipped her pack, secured to her chest in anticipation of her fall. Her headlamp came first, followed by her pair of Glock 26s, a fuzz lighter than Tolto’s model with a sizable clip capacity. She slid them into holsters at each hip. Flicking on her headlamp, she glanced around. It appeared the cave was shallower than she’d anticipated. She’d slid into the back wall.

In the yellow light, the cave’s interior sparkled like millions of unblinking eyes. Crystals nestled in carved grooves, jammed helter-skelter on walls and ceiling. She recognized several constellation patterns. A skull, whittled spike jutting through its forehead, glared down at her like a macabre planet.

She carefully sat up, transferring her pack to her back. Her gloved fingers ran lightly over the sidewall, feeling the crystals wiggle in their niches. A handful of crystals lay at the foot of the wall just inches from a decapitated skeleton and its outstretched bony hand.
Note to self: Leave crystals alone. She didn’t even pick up the loose ones, tempting though they were.

Inching forward, she ran her hands along the back wall. Grooved depressions marked a series of handholds and footholds. A crevice separated the wall from the floor, barely wide enough for her body. She reached into her pack, pulled out a chemical flare and cracked it open. Holding it at the edge, she shined it down the hole. There was nothing but blackness. She dropped the flare. It fell, struck something gold-colored and spun madly, like a firecracker vomiting sparks. Another strike. Another gleam of gold. The flare hit the bottom. The blank glare of hundreds of empty eye sockets stared back at her.

She swallowed a small scream. She preferred the living to the dead. Bullets deterred the living. Skulls served as surrogate home to all sorts of creepy crawlies. Sometimes she could be such a girl.

Her walkie-talkie hissed, a string of sputtering words with an edge of panic to them. Unhooking it from her belt, she brought it to her lips. “I made it. The tomb slopes downward. I’m going to keep going.”

Garbled crackling echoed her words.

Damn radio. They could put a man on the moon but they couldn’t get a radio signal to penetrate rock? She resisted the urge to smash it. Expensive equipment was hard to replace and while nothing would satisfy her more than beating its squeaky speaker in with a rock, she’d regret it later. She hooked it on her belt.

Taking off her pack, she slung it at her waist. The crevice wasn’t wide enough to accept the added bulk. She’d have to put up with it banging her hip. Nerves jangling like it was her first time, she descended into the tomb.

* * * * *

Aaron felt like a glob of ground meat being squeezed into a sausage casing. The access passages to the tomb were built to accommodate midget bodies. He wasn’t a big man but in order to wiggle through the stone passageway he had to bend body parts like a contortionist. Shoulders rolled forward, his elbows dug into his stomach while wrists and hands supported his weight.

The constricting stone walls abruptly vanished. He dropped onto a rock ledge, hearing the mad whirl of rubble as it tumbled over some as-yet-unseen precipice. Unhooking a flare from his belt, he cracked it open and held it up.

He was on a narrow line of rock, along one edge of a sunken chamber. The glint of gold reflected back his fluorescent light. One misstep and he’d have fallen directly into the chamber. No more than a foot wide, the ledge he stood on must have supported the artists that carved the elaborate relief on the rock behind him.

No sign of Evie Wright.

He wondered if she’d made it through the upper chamber. The thought of her skewered and dying alone in the dark made his stomach twist. He shook his head, clearing the vision. It wasn’t his job to rescue her from every little disaster anymore. She chose this adventure.

Lowering the flare to his chest, he carefully turned around. More pebbles tumbled to their death. Gods and demons, he wished he had a camera. A full night sky was etched on the rock face, complete with constellations, planets, shooting stars and comets. Shortly, the explosives strapped to his body would damn the art to the netherworld.

Seemed like such a waste. Then again, how many people had already damned themselves trying to reach it? Or guard it? Or even earlier, build the foundations to house it? The Sentinels should have blown the god-touched trap to bits years ago. Sentiment shifted as the years passed and their numbers dwindled. What was acceptable now would have been unthinkable centuries ago. Better to rid the world of the menace before it took another life.

Before Evie Wright died here.

He set his first charge and inched along the ledge. He didn’t see another entryway other than his yet. Pulling out another flare, he cracked it open and flung it across the chamber. It spun, a flaming pinwheel, and landed on the ledge opposite him. No gaping maw there. He didn’t want to waste all his light but in order to know where to best place the charges he needed to get a better visual of the chamber than the crumbling sketch he’d seen on the surface.

His last flare tumbled into the center of the chamber, landing on a gilded divan. The fine fabrics covering it had long ago rotted away but its foundation remained. Its high back mimicked the moon’s crescent shape, the arms sinuous ripples set in a mosaic of precious stone. Beside it, on its own throne, rested Quakoralina’s headdress. Ropes of gold threaded with diamonds spilled over one edge of the band. A star carved from diamond and meant to rest in the center of the wearer’s forehead overshadowed a thin disk of gold.

Three steps down the dais lay the equally gilded sarcophagus of Nantuk, an island of gold surrounded by a pool of black water. He wondered what sort of nasties were camouflaged beneath the pool’s smooth surface.

The formal entryway arched beyond that. If Evie successfully navigated the passages above—and he had no reason to think she wouldn’t, given her skill at evading death—she’d enter beneath that carved arch. He needed to blow it shut before she got that far.

Inching along the ledge, he set another charge. If all went as planned the wall would collapse into the chamber, burying tomb, headdress and treasure beneath an insurmountable pile of rubble. Just in case it didn’t, he’d packed extra explosives. It never hurt to be prepared.

The swirl of stone stars changed here, forming words. He held his light a bit higher. Share your body. Share my soul. Accept my magic. Forfeit your soul.

“Nice touch, ‘Lina,” he said out loud. By the time someone entering the tomb found the warning it’d be too late. But the goddess hadn’t broken the rules. A warning needed to be set in stone. And here it was. Fifty feet above the main floor. It might as well be worlds away from the headdress.

The darkness swallowed his words. He couldn’t shake the otherworldly feeling of being watched. Quakoralina was a powerful deity in her own right. The Vartans had worshipped her above all others. The Star Goddess. Keeper of the Heavens. Mistress of the Moon. A dozen other titles scrolled through his head, ending with the less pleasing ones. The unexpected death of her priestess had trapped her in the human realm. She’d been waiting ever since.

The darkness pressed around him. She didn’t want to be denied life again. A woman searcher was coming. Finally.

Not if he had a say in the matter.

The rock crumbled beneath his foot. Lurching forward, he dropped his flare, hands scrabbling against the rock. His fingernails dug into an elaborate stone swirl. His other foot tried to find purchase but the rock was littered with rubble. It was like skating on marbles. His fingernails broke. He plummeted fifty feet to the chamber floor below.

Silent laughter filled the chamber.