Trying Something New by Hannah Howell

First let me express the wish that everyone had a great Christmas, Yule, etc., and is looking forward to a fun New Year’s. Also thank you, Yankee Romance Reviewers, for asking me to blog. As a native New Englander and one whose family(maternal side) has been here since the 1630s, it’s kind of nice to blog for Yankees. So, now, about that trying of something new …

I had a few qualms about stepping away from the Highlander stories I’ve been doing for 10 years. I’d done other things in the past – English medievals, US historicals(even one set in the Berkshires), and Westerns – but that stopped ten years ago. I started gently asking my editor if I could try some other place and time a few years ago and he finally agreed. I offered him a synopsis for one tale plus two follow-up story ideas and he decided to put them out as a trilogy.

What I came up with was a family living in late-Georgian England, a family of two branches – the Wherlockes and the Vaughns. This family’s riddled with psychic gifts. Pick a psychic gift and they have it – from seeing ghosts to seeing the future. Naturally I had to come up with a time where they wouldn’t be burned, hanged, pressed to death, or drowned for these gifts. The past treatment of such gifted people is also why they’re a very reclusive family. Their ancestors didn’t fair all that well and superstition continues to make their lives difficult at times.

IF HE’S WICKED(June 2009) was the first and in it Chloe Wherlocke becomes entangled in Lord Julian Kenwood’s life and the danger he’s in because of her dreams. The one that’s out now is IF HE’S SINFUL with Penelope Wherlocke and Lord Ashton Radmoor. Penelope can see and often converse with the dead and that leads her and Ashton into a lot of trouble starting with the ghost she sees when she is kidnapped and taken to a brothel. Lord Ashton tumbles into the midst of it all when he finds her there. Throw in treachery and betrayal and I manage to keep them very busy.

I found that a heroine who could see and hear ghosts opened up lots of possibilities. It was fun even when my characters were not having a good time. The cast of secondary characters include many of her gifted and eccentric relatives. And, yes, I have plans for most of them. Delving into the many variations of psychic gifts and phenomena was great fun and somewhat startling. I soon decided that I’m rather glad that I don’t have a ‘gift’.

I’ve just handed in the third book of the trilogy called IF HE’S WILD and the heroine in that has vivid visions and can have them just by touching something. It’ll be out in June of 2010. Just as with my Highlander series, none of these books have to be read in sequence; the only real connection is the familial one. I’ll return to my Murray clan for the book following that and have plans to alternate between the two series. I hope you will give my Wherlockes a try.

www.hannahhowell.com (Hannah's website)
http://hhowellauthor.blogspot.com (Hannah's blog)
www.myspace.com/author_hannahhowell (Hannah's My Space page)

Hey Everyone, make sure and leave Hannah a comment or question about her story below along with your email addy to have a chance at one of three copies of If He's Wicked. Hannah will pick the winners at the end of the week.

Thanks so much Hannah for the great blog and giveaway. Happy New Year Sweetie!!!



IF HE’S SINFUL
Chapter One

London – fall, 1788
There was something about having a knife held to one’s throat that tended to bring a certain clarity to one’s opinion of one’s life, Penelope decided. She stood very still as the burly, somewhat odiferous, man holding her clumsily adjusted his grip. Suddenly, all of her anger and resentment over being treated as no more than a lowly maid by her step-sister seemed petty, the problem insignificant.

Of course, this could be some form of cosmic retribution for all those times she had wished ill upon her step-sister, she thought as the man hefted her up enough so that her feet were off the ground. One of his two companions bound her ankles in a manner quite similar to the way her wrists had been bound. Her captor began to carry her down a dark ally that smelled about as bad as he did. It had been only a few hours ago that she had watched Clarissa leave for a carriage ride with her soon-to-be fiancé, Lord Radmoor. Peering out of the cracked window in her tiny attic room she had, indisputably, cherished the spiteful wish that Clarissa would stumble and fall into the foul muck near the carriage wheels. Penelope did think that being dragged away by a knife-wielding ruffian and his two hulking companions was a rather harsh penalty for such a childish wish born of jealousy, however. She had, after all, never wished that Clarissa would die, which Penelope very much feared was going to be her fate.

Penelope sighed, ruefully admitting that she was partially at fault for her current predicament. She had stayed too long with her boys. Even little Paul had urged her not to walk home in the dark. It was embarrassing to think that a little boy of five had more common sense than she did.

A soft cry of pain escaped her, muted by the filthy gag in her mouth, when her captor stumbled and the cold, sharp edge of his knife scored her skin. For a brief moment, the fear she had been fighting to control swelled up inside her so strongly she feared she would be ill. The warmth of her own blood seeping into the neckline of her bodice only added to the fear. It took several moments before she could grasp any shred of calm or courage. The realization that her blood was flowing too slowly for her throat to have been cut helped her push aside her burgeoning panic.

“Ye sure we ain’t allowed to have us a taste of this, Jud,” asked the largest and most hirsute of her captor’s assistants.

“Orders is orders,” replied Jud as he steadied his knife against her skin. “A toss with this one will cost ye more’n she be worth.”

“None of us’d be telling and the wench ain’t going to be able to tell, neither.”

“I ain’t letting ye risk it. Wench like this’d be fighting ye and that leaves bruises. They’ll tell the tale and that bitch Mrs. Cratchitt will tell. She would think it a right fine thing if we lost our pay for this night’s work.”

“Aye, that old bawd would be thinking she could gain something from it right enough. Still, it be a sad shame I can’t be having me a taste afore it be sold off to anyone with a coin or two.”

“Get your coin first and then go buy a little if’n ye want it so bad.”

“Won’t be so clean and new, will it?”

“This one won’t be neither if’n that old besom uses her as she uses them others, not by the time ye could afford a toss with her.”

She was being taken to a brothel, Penelope realized. Yet again she had to struggle fiercely against becoming blinded by her own fears. She was still alive, she told herself repeatedly, and it looked as if she would stay that way for a while. Penelope fought to find her strength in that knowledge. It did not good to think too much on the horrors she might be forced to endure before she could escape or be found. She needed to concentrate on one thing and one thing only – getting free.

It was not easy but Penelope forced herself to keep a close eye on the route they traveled. Darkness and all the twists and turns her captors took made it nearly impossible to make note of any and every possible sign to mark the way out of this dangerous warren she was being taken into. She had to force herself to hold fast to the hope that she could even truly escape, and the need to get back to her boys who had no one else to care for them.

She was carried into the kitchen of a house. Two women and a man were there, but they spared her only the briefest of glances before returning all of their attention to their work. It was not encouraging that they seemed so accustomed to such a sight, so unmoved and uninterested.

As her captor carried her up a dark, narrow stairway, Penelope became aware of the voices and music coming from below, from the front of the building which appeared to be as great a warren as the alleys leading to it. When they reached the hallway and started to walk down it, she could hear the murmur of voices coming from behind all the closed doors. Other sounds drifted out from behind those doors but she tried very hard not to think about what might be causing them.

“There it be, Room twenty-two,” muttered Jud. “Open the door, Tom.”

The large, hirsute man opened the door and Jud carried Penelope into the room. She had just enough time to notice how small the room was before Jud tossed her down onto the bed in the middle of the room. It was a surprisingly clean and comfortable bed. Penelope suspected that, despite its seedy location, she had probably been brought to one of the better bordellos, one that catered to gentlemen of refinement and wealth. She knew, however, that that did not mean she could count on any help.

“Get that old bawd in here, Tom,” said Jud. “I wants to be done with this night’s work.” The moment Tom left, Jud scowled down at Penelope. “Don’t suspect you’d be aknowing why that high-and-mighty lady be wanting ye outta the way, would ye?”

Penelope slowly shook her head as a cold suspicion settled in her stomach.

“Don’t make no sense to me. Can’t be jealousy or the like. Can’t be that she thinks you be taking her man or the like, can it. Ye ain’t got her fine looks, ain’t dressed so fine, neither, and ye ain’t got her fine curves. Scrawny, brown mite like ye should be no threat at all to such a fulsome wench. So, why does she want ye gone so bad, eh?”

Scrawny brown mite?, Penelope thought, deeply insulted even as shrugged in reply.

“Why you frettin’ o’er it, Jud?” asked the tall, extremely muscular man by his side.

Jud shrugged. “Curious, Mac. Just curious, is all. This don’t make no sense to me.”

“Don’t need to. Money be good. All that matters.”

“Aye, mayhap. As I said, just curious. Don’t like puzzles.”

“Didn’t know that.”

“Well, it be true. Don’t want to be part of something I don’t understand. Could mean trouble.”

If she was not gagged, Penelope suspected she would be gaping at her captor. He had kidnapped the daughter of a marquis, brought her bound and gagged to a brothel, and was going to leave her to the untender care of a madam, a woman he plainly did not trust or like. Exactly what did the idiot think trouble was? If he was caught, he would be tried, convicted, and hanged in a heartbeat. And that would be merciful compared to what her relatives would do to the fool if they found out. How much more trouble could he be in?

A hoarse gasp escaped her when he removed her gag. “Water,” she whispered, desperate to wash away the foul taste of the rag.

What the man gave her was atankard of weak ale, but Penelope decided it was probably for the best. If there was any water in this place it was undoubtedly dangerous to drink. She tried not to breathe too deeply as he held her upright and helped her to take a drink. Penelope drank the ale as quickly as she could, however, for she wanted the man to move away from her. Anyone as foul smelling as he was surely had a vast horde of creatures sharing his filth that she would just as soon did not come to visit her.

When the tankard was empty he let her fall back down onto the bed and said, “Now, don’t ye go thinking of making no noise, screaming for help or the like. No one here will be heeding it.”

Penelope opened her mouth to give him a tart reply and then frowned. The bed might be clean and comfortable but it was not new. A familiar chill swept over her. Even as she thought it a very poor time for her gift to diplay itself, her mind was briefly filled with violent memories that were not her own.

“Someone died in this bed,” she said, her voice a little unsteady from the effect of those chilling glimpses into the past.

“What the bleeding hell are ye babbling about?” snapped Jud.

“Someone died in this bed and she did not do so peacefully.” Penelope got some small satisfaction from how uneasy her words made her burley captors.

“You be talking nonsense, woman.”

“No. I have a gift, you see.”

“You can see spirits?” asked Mac, glancing nervously around the room.

“Sometimes. When they wish to reveal themselves to me. This time it was just the memories of what happened here,” she lied.

Both men were staring at her with a mixture of fear, curiosity, and suspicion. They thought she was trying to trick them in some way so that they would set her free. Penelope suspected that a part of them probably wondered if she would conjure up a few spirits to help her. Even if she could, she doubted they would be much help or that these men would even see them. They certainly had not noticed the rather gruesome one standing near the bed. It would have sent them fleeing from the room. Despite all she had seen and experienced over the years the sight of the lovely young woman, her white gown soaked in blood, sent a chill down her spine. Penelope wondered why the more gruesome apparitions were almost always the clearest.

The door opened and, before Penelope turned to look, she saw an expression upon the ghost’s face that nearly made her want to flee the room. Fury and utter loathing twisted the spirit’s lovely face until it looked almost demonic. Penelope looked at the ones now entering the room. Tom had returned with a middle-aged woman and two young, scantily clad females. Penelope looked right at the ghost and noticed that all that rage and hate was aimed straight at the middle-aged woman.

Beware.

Penelope almost cursed as the word echoed in her mind. Why did the spirits always whisper such ominous words to her without adding any pertinent information, such as what she should beware of, or whom? It was also a very poor time for this sort of distraction. She was a prisoner trapped in a house of ill-repute and was facing either death or what many euphemistically called a fate worse than death. She had no time to deal with blood-soaked specters whispering dire but unspecified warnings. If nothing else, she needed all her wits and strength to keep the hysteria writhing deep inside her tightly caged.

“This is going to cause you a great deal of trouble,” Penelope told the older woman, not really surprised when everyone ignored her.

“There she be,” said Jud. “Now, give us our money.”

“The lady has your money,” said the older woman.

“It ain’t wise to try and cheat me, Cratchitt. The lady told us you would have it. Now, if the lady ain’t paid you that be your problem, not mine. I did as I was ordered and did it quick and right. Get the wench, bring her here, and then collect my pay from you. Done and done. So, hand it over.”

Cratchitt did so with an ill grace. Penelope watched Jud carefully count his money. The man had obviously taught himself enough to make sure that he was not cheated. After one long, puzzled look at her, he pocketed his money and then frowned at the woman he called Cratchitt.

“She be all yours now,” Jud said, “though I ain’t sure what ye be wanting her for. T’ain’t much to her.”

Penelope was growing very weary of being disparaged by this lice-ridden ruffian. “So speaks the great beau of the walk,” she muttered and met his glare with a faint smile.

“She is clean and fresh,” said Cratchitt, ignoring that byplay and fixing her cold stare on Penelope. “I have many a gent willing to pay a goodly fee for that alone. There be one man waiting especially for this one, but he will not arrive until the morrow. I have other plans for her tonight. Some very rich gentlemen have arrived and are looking for something special. Unique, they said. They have a friend about to step into the parson’s mousetrap and wish to give him a final bachelor treat. She will do nicely for that.”

“But don’t that other feller want her untouched?”

“As far as he will ever know, she will be. Now, get out. Me and the girls need to wrap this little gift.”

The moment Jud and his men were gone, Penelope said, “Do you have any idea of who I am?” She was very proud of the haughty tone she had achieved but it did not impress Mrs. Cratchitt at all.

“Someone who made a rich lady very angry,” replied Cratchitt.

“I am Lady Penelope – “

She never finished for Mrs. Cratchitt grasped her by the jaw in a painfully tight hold, forced her mouth open, and started to pour something from a remarkably fine silver flask down her throat. The two younger women held her head steady s o that Penelope could not turn away or thrash her head. She knew she did not want this drink inside her but was unable to do anything but helplessly swallow as it was forced into her.

While she was still coughing and gagging from that abuse, the women untied her. Penelope struggled as best as she could but the women were strong and alarmingly skilled at undressing someone who did not wish to be undressed. As if she did not have trouble enough to deal with, the ghost was drowning her in feelings of fear, despair, and helpless fury. Penelope knew she was swiftly becoming hysterical but could not grasp one single, thin thread of control. That only added to her terror.
Then, slowly, that suffocating panic began to ease. Despite the fact that the women continued their work, stripping her naked, giving her a quick wash with scented water, and dressing her in a lacey, diaphanous gown that should have shocked her right down to her toes, Penelope felt calmer with every breath she took. The potion they had forced her to drink had been some sort of drug. That was the only rational explanation for why she was now lying there actually smiling as these three harpies prepared her for the sacrifice of her virginity.

“There, all sweets and honey now, ain’t you, dearie,” muttered Cratchitt as she began to let down Penelope’s hair.

“You are such an evil bitch,” Penelope said pleasantly and smiled. One of the younger women giggled and Cratchitt slapped hard. “Bully. When my family discovers what you have done to me, you will pay more dearly than even your tiny, nasty mind could ever comprehend.”

“Hah! It was your own family what sold you to me, you stupid girl.”

“Not that family, you cow. My true parents’ family. In fact, I would not be at all surprised if they are already suspicious, sensing my troubles upon the wind.”

“You are talking utter nonsense.”

Why does everyone say that? Penelope wondered. Enough wit and sense of self-preservation remained in her clouded mind to make her realize that it might not be wise to start talking about all the blood there was on the woman’s hands. Even if the woman did not believe Penelope could know anything for a fact, she suspected Mrs. Cratchitt would permanently silence her simply to be on the safe side of the matter. With the drug holding her captive as well as any chain could, Penelope knew she was in no condition to even try to save herself.

When Cratchitt and her minions were finished, she stood back and looked Penelope over very carefully. “Well, well, well. I begin to understand.”

“Understand what, you bride of Beelzebub?” asked Penelope and could tell by the way the woman clenched and unclenched her hands that Mrs. Cratchitt desperately wanted to beat her.

“Why the fine lady wants you gone. And, you will pay dearly for your insults, my girl. Very soon.” Mrs. Cratchitt collected four bright silk scarves from the large carpetbag she had brought in with her and handed them to the younger women. “Tie her to the bed,” she ordered them.

“Your customer may find that a little suspicious,” said Penelope as she fruitlessly tried to stop the women from binding her limbs to the four posts of the bed.

“You are an innocent, aren’t you.” Mrs. Cratchitt shook her head and laughed. “No, my custo0mer will only see this as a very special delight indeed. Come along, girls. You have work to do and we best get that man up here to enjoy his gift before that potion begins to wear off.”

Penelope stared at the closed door for several moments after everyone had left. Everyone except the ghost, she mused, and finally turned her attention back to the spectre now shimmering at the foot of the bed. The young woman looked so sad, so utterly defeated, that Penelope decided the poor ghost had probably just realized the full limitations of being a spirit. Although the memories locked into the bed had told Penelope how the woman had died, it did not tell her when. However, she began to suspect it had been not all that long ago.

“I would like to help you,” she said, “but I cannot, not right now. You must see that. If I can get free, I swear I will work hard to give you some peace. Who are you?” she asked, although she knew it was often impossible to get proper, sensible answers from a spirit. “I know how you died. The bed still holds those dark memories and I saw it.”

I am Faith and my life was stolen.

The voice was clear and sweet, but weighted with an intense grief, and Penelope was not completely certain if she was hearing it in her head or if the ghost was actually speaking to her. “What is your full name, Faith?”

My name is Faith and I was taken, as you have been. My life was stolen. My love is lost. I was torn from heaven and plunged into hell. Now I lie below.

“Below? Below what? Where?”

Below. I am covered in sin. But, I am not alone.

Penelope cursed when Faith disappeared. She could not help the spirit now but dealing with Faith’s spirit had provided her with a much needed diversion. It had helped her concentrate and fight the power of the drug she had been given. Now she was alone with her thoughts and they were becoming increasingly strange. Worse, all of her protections were slowly crumbling away. If she did not find something to fix her mind on soon she would be wide open to every thought, every feeling, and every spirit lurking within the house. Considering what went on in this house that could easily prove a torture beyond bearing.

She did not know whether to laugh or to cry. She was strapped to abed awaiting some stranger who would use her helpless body to satisfy his manly needs. The potion Mrs. Cratchitt had forced down her throat was rapidly depleting her strength and all her ability to shut out the cacophony of the world, the world of the living as well as that of the dead. Even now she could feel the growing weight of unwelcome emotions, the increasing whispers so few others could hear. The spirits in the house were stirring, sensing the presence of one who could help them touch the world of the living. It was probably not worth worrying about, she decided. Penelope did not know if anything could be worse than what she was already suffering and what was yet to come.

Suddenly the door opened and one of Mrs. Cratchitt’s earlier companions led a man into the room. He was blindfolded and dressed as an ancient Roman. Penelope stared at him in shock as he was led up to her bedside, and then she inwardly groaned. She had no trouble recognizing the man despite the blindfold and the costume. Penelope was not at all pleased to discover that things could quite definitely get worse – a great deal worse.

Finishing Up Book Giveaways of 2009

I have gone through the book giveaways of the last few months and have picked new winners for the books listed below so that they don't get lonely in the warehouse of the publisher. Winners have until 12 P.M on January 3rd to get your shipping info to me or books will be forfeit and stay lonely in their quiet warehouse resting place.

*Say You're One of Them by Uwem Akpan Audiobook - Stacie

The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold Audiobook -

*It Happend One Night by Lisa Dale - cait045

To Desire A Devil by Elizabeth Hoyt -

To Desire A Devil by Elizabeth Hoyt -

To Desire A Devil by Elizabeth Hoyt -

*Queene of Light by Jennifer Armintrout - librarypat

*Scorched by Sharon Ashwood - Cathy M.

*My Unfair Lady by Katherine Kennedy - penney

*My Unfair Lady by Katherine Kennedy -Sue (okibi-insanity)

*My Unfair Lady by Katherine Kennedy -Susan Helen Gottfried

Please send your snail mail info to terraontop57 at yahoo dot com. Congrats to our winners and I hope you enjoy your prizes!

Congrat's To Last Week Winner

*Virginia C. ~ Prima Donna by Megan Chance

Please send your snail mail info to terraontop57 at yahoo dot com. Congrats to our winner and I hope you enjoy your prize!

Prima Donna by Megan Chance

For much of my life I have struggled with a rather annoying little talent. I have a weird sort of photographic memory for … music. I can hear a song or a soundtrack a single time, and it will be playing in my head for weeks. Often, I can’t even remember where I heard it, or what it is, but I’ll be humming it and hearing it play like an endless loop in my mind. I can remember nearly every word of almost any given television show theme song from the 70s, and I can sing songs I haven’t heard for years without missing a single word. I have rarely found this talent especially useful.

Until it came to the idea for my December book, Prima Donna.

I’d always liked “Back on the Chaingang,” by the Pretenders, but I hadn’t thought about the song for some time. Then my husband bought me a CD of the Pretenders’ greatest hits for Christmas, and I looked at the listing of songs, and suddenly there it was, plunging into my head in one beautifully honed crystalline moment, every single word of the song, about two people torn apart by circumstance, who may or may not have been good for each other, and I thought, “What a great story idea.”

That was the inception of Prima Donna.

I knew then that the story would have to be in two parts: the past and the present, and that it would be about a woman on the run from something terrible, something she’d been responsible for. I knew her life forever after would be broken into two parts: before and after. I knew the story would be about how she came to terms with the past. Then I realized that the conflict had to be bigger, that she also had to be in hiding, and that meant she had to be famous in some way. The most famous and beloved women in the 19th Century were opera singers. Which meant that for the plot to work the way I wanted it to, she had to be a prima donna.

The only problem? I knew nothing about opera.

But part of my love for writing historical fiction is because of my love of research, and so I plunged in. Day after day, reading about opera, checking out endless CDs from the library, and tormenting my children by constantly listening to opera in the car, where they are hapless prisoners (a punishment I highly recommend!). Given that talent of mine, I imagine you can guess what happened. I began hearing “Faust” and “Tosca” and “La Traviata” with every waking moment. And the most extraordinary thing happened; the thing I did not expect: I fell in love with it.

For the two years that it’s taken to write this novel and bring it to imminent publication, I’ve put aside my usual fare of alternative music to listen to Verdi and Wagner, Puccini and Bellini and Gounod and Mozart, and it’s not just the music that compels me so; it’s the stories. So melodramatic! So emotionally intense! I guess you could say that opera was made for someone with my sensibilities. Gypsy curses! Disguises! Murders! Tragic love! Betrayal! I mean, what’s not to love?

In a way, Prima Donna became my love letter to opera, my own tale of disguise and betrayal and murder and love, informed every step of the way by the great composers and the librettists who knew a great story when they heard it. Inspired by alternative music and brought to life by opera. What a strange alchemy!

But mostly, I’m thankful that I finally found a better use for that talent of mine than singing “The Beverly Hillbillies Theme” at parties.

Megan be giving away a free copy of Prima Donna to one lucky commentor. Please make sure and leave an email addy also to be entered. Winner will be announced on Sunday.



Behind me, I heard his gurgling, choking breath, the sound of him drowning on his own blood, and then, suddenly, it stopped altogether.

I didn't dare turn to look. I heard footsteps in the hallway outside the door, and in a panic I lifted my hands from the water in the basin, dark red now, more blood than water, and grabbed the towel, pressing it hard against my face to stop the bleeding, despite the pain that brought tears to my eyes. In the armoire there was a dark blue wool among the ballgowns of silk and lace. I had to put the towel aside to put it on, and the blood dripped relentlessly into my eyes. My hands shook so hard it took forever to make the buttons go through the hoops. I shoved my stockingless feet into boots and left them unbuttoned and looked wildly about, trying to think. Money—I would need money—but there was none, only my jewels. I grabbed what was on my dressing table, shoving necklaces and rings and brooches into my pockets, and then I yanked on my cloak, pulling up the hood to to hide my loose and tangled hair, and pressed the towel again to my face and went to the door, nearly tripping over his bare feet—such lovely feet, so well-shaped for a man. The sight of them startled me anew. I forced myself to look away.

Beyond the door, the hallway was silent. I stepped out, trying to make no noise. There was the elevator, but I didn't dare take it, not looking like this. Instead I took the stairs, the back ones for the servants. My bootheels clattered on the wood; the stairs were narrow and dim and I was shaking so badly now that I wasn't certain I could make it to the bottom. I heard footsteps below me, and I drew into a darkened corner and turned my head away to hide my face. A steward hurried up the first flight and paused when he saw me. "Miss?" he asked, and I motioned roughly for him to go on, muttering something—I hardly knew what—and he hesitated, trying to peer into the dark. He could not have seen anything, and he was in a rush; he didn't delay.

I waited until he had gone by, and then I raced down as if speed alone would keep me from discovery. The kitchen, swirling with movement, was on one side of a narrow hall half obstacled with carts and laundry bags meant for the washroom on the other side. Maids dodged about carrying glasses and linens; there was no way to avoid them. I hesitated and then I moved quickly and with purpose to the back door.

No one stopped me; most simply moved out of my way as if I were part of the dance of their hurry, and then I was outside into the dark alley, past the garbage, running, my unbuttoned boots nearly slipping off with every step. I dodged the streetlamps and kept close to the shadows, where no one could see me clearly, if they saw me at all. The only sound I heard was my own breath, and with it came the echo of his, the images that flashed before my eyes as if they were happening anew: his hands on my hips, holding me helpless ... my scream as he'd cut me ... the knife in my hand, the spurting blood....

I did not realize where I'd been going until I was already there. Until I'd gone blocks and blocks, until my side hurt and my whole face was a throbbing stinging ache. Past the dead-end warrens and the tenement buildings, until I stood in an alley littered with fish bones and trash piles pulsing with rats, potholed with shallow pools of emptied spittoons and chamber pots and the dregs of emptied kegs. The night was warm and the stink stung my nostrils along with the nauseating smell of my own blood.

I was before the propped open back door of a beer-hall. I heard the music from within, a polka orchestra, and the clanking of pans from the kitchen, shouted orders: "Two fish!" "Get the spatzel down!" "Kartoffeles! Hurry now!"

I had not stepped foot in the place for years. But I had nowhere else to go. I eased through the back door into the storage room. The shadows of stacked kegs filled the near darkness. The kitchen was beyond, men rushing about, their movements staccato and strange in the haze of greasy steam. The air was loud with the hiss of frying fish, the clank of plates, the thump of Herr Meyer's wooden leg as he moved efficiently about, shouting instructions.

They were too busy to notice me, and I was in darkness besides. I had played hide and seek among the kegs since I was very small, and now I found my way easily through them to the hallway that opened into the beer hall at one end, to stairs at the other.

The music was louder there, as was the talk. The heavy press of smoke and the smell of sweat and beer made me dizzy. I pressed the towel to my face, and blood seeped from it, dripping down my hand to my wrist. I waited until the hall was clear and dashed out—up the peeling and scarred blue painted stairs, not slowing until they turned and I was out of sight to anyone below. Then I paused, waiting for a shout of discovery. There was none, thank God, but now I began to feel sick and uncertain. The door of the apartment at the top was closed and I did not know who would open it. I did not know what my reception would be.

I knocked. Very quietly at first, and then, when I heard nothing, more loudly. I heard footsteps, rapid and light, and then the door cracked open. I saw a blue eye, dark hair, pale skin, a hand reaching round that was red and chapped from hard work—such a strange contrast on one so pretty.

"Willa," I breathed.

She frowned and glanced behind her. "Gott im himmel. What are you doing here?"

I threw back the hood. "I've had a bit of trouble—“

Her eyes grew round with horror. "Lieber Gott." Her voice was a whisper. "Bitte Gott, rette uns."

In my dismay I pressed the towel harder. I felt again the dripping blood and I saw her gaze dart to it in fear. "Please ... if I could come in.... There was ... an accident—“

"Mama?" The voice came from behind her. A child's voice. A plump face peeked around her skirts, and then those blue eyes too widened in horror and fear. The child shrieked and burst into tears.

"Ssshhh, ssshhh, liebling," Willa said. She bent to take him into her arms, and glared at me. She whispered something to him and closed the door and I heard her steps moving beyond, the muffled sound of her voice, and I was helpless with despair.

Then the door opened again. She stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her, looking at me with a gaze so venomous I stepped back. "Where is he?" she demanded.

The tears welled so in my eyes that they blurred my vision. I could only shake my head.

"How dare you come here! How dare you bring trouble upon this house! Did you even stop to think what would happen to us?"

"I didn't know where else to go—“

"What? You mean your patrons and your four hundred have abandoned you?" The sneer in her voice was painful to hear. "They can bear the police better than we can and you know it. This kind of trouble would ruin us. Papa's old now. This would destroy him."

"Willa, please—“

"You made your choice—did you think you could so easily take it back?"

"Please. I have nowhere else."

"Go to your Mrs. Astor," she said cruelly. She opened the door, stepping back inside. "Now get out of here before someone sees you."

I took a step toward her, reaching into my pocket, pulling out a necklace, pink diamonds. "Please, Willa. I can pay you—“

She recoiled as if I repulsed her. "I don't want your money. You ignore us when you like and now that you're in trouble you bring it here. Look at you! You're covered in blood! I have a child now. I can't help you. None of us can. For God's sake, think of us."

She slammed the door shut. I heard the turn of the key in the lock, and then the muffled cry of a child.

I had no memory beyond that. Not of going downstairs and past the kitchen, not of the alley outside. Suddenly I was in some dark tangle of buildings and corners somewhere, and I had no idea where and no idea of where next to go. I was bleeding and in pain and I needed to hide and to escape, but how to do that now was impossible. How had it never occurred to me before now that I had no friends? That I had nothing? My mind was muddy and confused and I saw things I knew rationally could not be before me. His face. The broken teapot. The knife, still greasy with capon fat....

It was very late now. The performance would be over. They would find him soon. They would come looking for me.

Despite the warmth of the night, my hand was frozen where it clutched the towel to my cheek. I crawled into the corner behind an old barrel and pulled my cloak more closely about me. I shook with cold all the night through. I did not sleep.

Copyright Megan Chance 2009

Devil May Cry by Sherrilyn Kenyon (Terra's Review)

Devil May Cry by Sherrilyn Kenyon is another delicious Dark-Hunter novel that will sizzle your panties off. I'm still licking my fingers on this one.

Sin is our hero and main character in this book and oh what a true sin he is. Tall, dark and handsome doesn't even begin to describe him and add in some sarcastic wit to make a really explosive man.

Our hero once a God was stripped of his powers by the heffer Goddess in her greed to want more powers and to help destroy The Sumerian Gods. Good gosh if there is one character you can really love to hate through this series it would have to be the Bitch Heffer Goddess. Simi wants to eat said Bitch Heffer Goddess but everyone keeps saying no. LOL! Gosh I love Simi.

Now our beloved Sin is the royal Pain in the Ass and the nastiest of the said Dark-Hunters. He lives in Las Vegas why...........because it's the Sin capitol of the World. Now talk about fitting in really good. Yup that's Sin. What a perfect place to do what you want, when you want and where you want without getting in deep doo doo for it.

Our author has given us the best of stories here and I chuckled from beginning to end. Maybe being a bit spiteful and very sarcastic myself is what can truly make me appreciate what Sherrilyn has done here. She has also given our characters so much personality you cannot help but feel like you're tagging along as one of the crowd. I found myself totally amerced in the book to the point that I was feeling, seeing and experiencing what everyone else was. Kudo's for another well done.

Rion by Susan Kearney (5 Copy Giveaway)

Rion
Book Two in the Pendragon Legacy
by Susan Kearney

Mass Market Paperback: 384 pages
Publisher: Forever; 1 edition (December 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0446543322
ISBN-13: 978-0446543323

POWER IN THEIR PASSIONN

Marisa Rourke is a beautiful, fearless telepath who tames dragonshapers on Earth. Rion is a tall, dark, and sexy space explorer whose home planet is a galaxy away. The attraction between them is undeniable, but Rion is hiding a desperate secret that will change Marisa’s life forever.

DANGER IN THEIR TOUCH

Marisa’s gift is the only way Rion can communicate with his people, enslaved by a powerful enemy. He knows that kidnapping her is wrong, but saving his planet is worth sparking the fiery clairvoyant’s fury. Yet hotter—and more explosive—is the psychic bond growing between Marisa and Rion. Could their passion be the key to freeing Rion’s people? Only if he and Marisa can discover how to channel their desire . . . before a vicious enemy destroys them all.

I've got 5 copies to give away, many thanks to Anna at Hatchette for the books!!

So This Is What You Have To Do To Get An Entry!
1. Leave a Comment +1
2. Follow Me +1 already a follower +2
3. Post this contest on your blog (can be on your sidebar or a post) +3

PLEASE put your email in your comments or no entry (no exceptions).
This is for the USA and Canada only please and no Po Boxes (publishers rule)!
Winners will be announced on January 1st 2010!

Knight of Pleasure by Margaret Mallory (5 Copy Giveaway)

KNIGHT OF PLEASURE
2nd Book in All the King’s Men Series
by Margaret Mallory

ISBN-10: 0446553387
ISBN-13: 978-0-446-55338-4
Publisher: Grand Central
Release date: December 2009


THE GREATEST PASSION

Lady Isobel Hume is an expert swordswoman who knows how to choose her battles. When the king asks her to wed a French nobleman to form a political alliance, she agrees. But that's before the devilishly charming Sir Stephen Carleton captures her heart-and tempts her to betray her betrothed, her king, and her country.

IS WORTH THE GREATEST PERIL

Sir Stephen Carleton enjoys his many female admirers-until he dedicates himself to winning the lovely Isobel. When a threat against the king leads Isobel into mortal danger, Stephen must prove that he is more than a knight of pleasure ... and that love can conquer all.


I've got 5 copies to give away, many thanks to Anna at Hatchette for the books!!

So This Is What You Have To Do To Get An Entry!
1. Leave a Comment +1
2. Follow Me +1 already a follower +2
3. Post this contest on your blog (can be on your sidebar or a post) +3

PLEASE put your email in your comments or no entry (no exceptions).
This is for the USA and Canada only please and no Po Boxes (publishers rule)!
Winners will be announced on January 1st 2010!

Congrat's To Last Week's Winners

~ Scorched by Sharon Ashwood

*Bamabelle ~ Christmas Anthology & Souvenir by Terri Brisbin

~ Queene of Light by Jennifer Armintrout

Please send your snail mail info to terraontop57 at yahoo dot com. Congrats to our winner and I hope you enjoy your prizes!

The Tortured Hero Guarantee by Sharon Ashwood

No one gets much snail mail these days, so I was pleasantly surprised to find a distinguished cream envelope, complete with embossed crest, amidst the bills and junk mail. I was less excited about the content. When I slit the envelope and unfolded the heavy, expensive paper, this is what I read:

Dear Sharon Ashwood,

It has come our attention that you are in violation of Sec. 45, sSec. 12, para. 1(d) of the agreement between the International Union of Fictional Characters (Paranormal Romance Division) and the Fellowship of Twisted Authors, Inc.

In particular, we find you in breach of the Brooding Hero Articles. The agreement clearly lays out the requirements as follows:

1. Hero will furrow brow once every third page, increasing frequency per the Standard Frown Guidelines

2. Hero will begin the book with a minimum 4.5 on the General Regurgitative Unresolved Negative Trauma (GRUNT) Scale

3. Hero will increase GRUNT scale scores using the Mean-Over-Agony Norm (MOAN) calculation to a reading of 7.5 or better.

4. Pursuant to items two and three above, hero will experience frequent thoughts of unworthiness alternating with overcompensatory alpha male behaviour, resulting in yodelling, chest-beating, and the reckless operation of high-powered motor vehicles.

You have deviated from this process. Your demon hero, Conall Macmillan, persists in joking throughout the novel. Such levity, while not entirely negating the four-step Brooding Hero requirements, severely disrupts the dark tone expected of doomed souls. We are putting you on notice. The fellowship stands behind their Tortured Hero Guarantee. This remorseless fun must stop at once!

With sincerest admonitions,
President and Board, International Union of Fictional Characters

Now, what’s an author to do? My hero is a card-carrying alpha, tortured, doomed, thrown into a prison for supernatural castaways and is doing his best to save everyone from certain death—not to mention all the other nasty things that happen to him. And that’s not good enough? So he drops the odd one-liner. What’s wrong with that? Yes, we all like the tall, dark and tortured type--but I also like a guy who makes me laugh.

Before I respond to the International Union of Fictional Characters, I put it to you, the readers. Can a hero brood and be funny at the same time? How much humour is allowed before an author breaks the Tortured Hero Guarantee—and does it matter?

Leave Sharon a response to her question along with your email addy as one lucky person will be chosen to receive a copy of SCORCHED, along with some bookmarks.





Scorched
Back in the Castle five friggin' minutes and I'm in the middle of an ass-kicking. Mac wiped a sudden sweat from his face. Same old Club Dread.

Mac circled his opponent, who mirrored his low, watchful crouch. Bran was a huge, bare-armed hulk covered with spiraling blue tattoos. He stank like old leather shut up in an attic trunk for far too long. A black braid swung past the man's hips as he moved, a dark slash against the scarlet and gold silk of his tunic.

Guardsman Bran was one scary, ugly mother.

Shadows ate at the ceiling and surrounding passageways, giving the illusion there was no reality beyond the circle of their combat. The solitary sound in the corridor was the shuffling of their feet on the stone floor. Torchlight played along Bran's short sword, reminding Mac the guardsman was armed and he wasn't.

Sharp objects mattered, but Mac's pulse roared in his head, drowning out fear with every heartbeat. He felt drunk, high, complete, even relieved. He was ready to pound this grunt and love every minute of it. Kill or die. The shredded remainder of his demon side had finally slipped its leash.

Mac lunged. Bran was quick, blocking him, slashing at Mac's ribs—but Mac was supernaturally fast, dancing aside before the blade could land.

They sprang apart, circling again.

"Nice to see you, too," Mac said with a taunting grin. Without warning, he changed direction, but Bran followed the sudden shift with the poise of a gymnast. Mac licked his lips, his mouth dry from breathing hard. "Interesting tatts. Still working the Bronze Age look?"

"Be silent." Bran curled his lip, his white teeth and pale skin making him look more like a vampire than a guardsman. "I found you, fugitive. No one escapes twice."

"C'mon, saying that's just tempting fate."

They closed again, grappling and snarling. Bran swept Mac's feet from under him, but they both fell, Mac on top. Mac's vision turned white, then red with bloodlust and rage. With his knee on Bran's throat, Mac smashed the guardsman's sword hand into the stone floor, pounding until Bran's fingers let go of the hilt.

Bran surged, tossing Mac off. Rolling to his back, Mac brought his feet up just in time to catch Bran in the chest with a satisfying thump. The guardsman stumbled, air whooshing from his lungs. Mac flipped to his feet, running two steps to sink a hard, knuckle-bruising shot to Bran's midriff. The man was solid as granite, but no match. Bran doubled over. Mac grabbed the sword and brought the hilt down with a smack, catching the guardsman behind his left ear. Bran dropped like a stone in a face-flat sprawl at Mac's feet.

The thump of his fall, like so much dirty laundry, echoed in the cavernous dark. Mac bent, feeling for a pulse. The guardsman was still alive but would be out for a good long time.

As he rose, Mac felt the surge of his own blood, the tingle and rush of human life in every limb. Behind it pulsed the demon, gleeful—lustful—at the prospect of even more violence. Hunger. The weight of the sword was a suggestion, the hilt hard and perfect in his greedy palm. There were so many ways to kill. A quick blade in the spine. The slow agony of a gut wound.

Gritting his teeth, Mac backed away. I'm still too much a cop to kill a man when he's down. Even this one. He clutched at that thought, holding it like a talisman that would preserve his slipping humanity.

But in the Castle, every moment was fight or die. Here, he needed his demon side to survive. Staying human would be a losing battle. I have to get out of here, or lose my soul again.

A flicker at the edge of his vision made him look up, reflexes poised.

Mac glimpsed a face, all wide eyes and pointed chin. It was a woman, barely more than a girl, with a thick fall of midnight hair long past her waist. Every line of her thin body looked startled.

All was silent but for the sound of Bran's faint, slow breathing. The woman just stared, her mouth pulled down at the corners.

The Close of a Whirlwind Year! By Terri Brisbin

Do you like to travel? Do you travel? For business? Pleasure? Both? Because of my writing job and my real-life jobs, I do a fair amount of traveling each year. Okay, I do a lot of traveling each year and it seems to be on the increase. Now, some people don’t like to travel—some avoid it like the proverbial plague. But, not me. I love to travel.

In my real-life job – dental hygienist/dental licensing examiner—I’ve visited New York City (and lots of places in NY state, Ohio, Pennsylvania and New Jersey) and Washington DC. These are usually busy visits, with long days spent at dental and dental hygiene schools, but I do manage to get some sightseeing in during my time there. Especially in NYC – I mean how could I not make sure to visit with my editor(s), agent and see a Broadway show? My favorite so far has to be WICKED! I’m hoping to get to ROCK OF AGES on my next trip there – I tend to go to musicals rather than dramas...(If anyone has any suggestions for shows for me to see, please post a comment!!)

In my writing job (aka romance author LOL!) and because I’m on a Board of Directors, I get to even more places. Last spring I spent a few days in San Diego for a meeting and got the chance to go whale-watching in the Pacific Ocean while there! Actually there was a stray whale in San Diego harbor so I didn’t have to go far to see one....LOL! I spent 10 days in Washington DC during the summer for a conference and enjoyed the incredibly spring-like weather to get outside. And for a recent meeting, I visited Nashville. Although I’m not a big country music fan, I did make sure to get to a Grand Ole Opry show – something always entertaining to attend. I was lucky enough to see headliners Carrie Underwood, Martina McBride and Vince Gill, all names I recognized in spite of my lack of following country music. Oh, and impressive (for so many reasons) newcomer Jake Owen.....mmmmmmmm!

BUT, the best traveling of all was the trip I took to do some research for some upcoming books I’m working on – I spent just over three weeks in Scotland. It was my dream trip – I’ve been there three times before, but always in a group tour or on a limited basis, and always dreaming of a trip long enough so that I could just ‘be’ there some days. So, last spring, I tried out Edinburgh on my own for 6 days and loved it. Once I got my writing deadlines scheduled for 2009, I began planning out my trip – staying in five places for 3-4 days each, driving myself (OHMIGOSH!) and getting out to the places I needed to see and hear and feel for my upcoming stories. And every curve of the very-curving roads there brought another extraordinary sight...so much inspiration for me! Not to mention the dozens of castles and museums and islands I visited for researching the history of the area.

Now least you all worry or wonder about my poor hubby, left home alone, while I galavant all around the country and the world....he was in his glory at home with complete dominance over the big-screen TV and the remote control! LOL! Since he does not share my love of history he actually asked me not to take him to Scotland, content to avoid old castles and old museums and one-track roads with driving on the wrong side. So I did as he asked!

BUT – my final trip of the year was with him – a celebration of our 32 years of married life... he may not like visiting historical places (Our only trip together to London was a disaster that nearly ended in bloodshed.....his not mine!) but he loves to CRUISE! So, his consolation prize which I suffered through for his sake (NOT!) was a lovely cruise to the Caribbean. We spent time on beaches that looked like this....and I got to read 3 books in a week. I let him believe the trip was for him, but it was really for me, too!

And now, I’m home for the Holidays....watching the days get shorter and trying to remember where I put the good strings of Christmas lights last year so I wouldn’t have to hunt for them this year.... It’s funny, this is the one time of year that I actually enjoy staying home....baking, cooking, planning holiday time with my family and friends. My son just asked about my traditional Christmas morning breakfast (but this time he’s old enough to bring his girlfriend along – OH MY!); he wanted to make sure it was still happening.

So, how about you? Are you a traveler or a homebody? Any favorite place you’ve visited or would like to visit? Any shows in NYC you can recommend to me for my February trip? I’ll give one person who posts a comment an autographed copy of my Christmas anthology (a new copy of the UK/Australian release) along with a souvenir from one of my trips this year.

Terri is celebrating not only the Holidays but also the recent release of her first Kensington Brava release, A STORM OF PASSION. The first in a trilogy, this story is set in medieval Scotland when the Vikings ruled the islands and when magic still glimmered in the Highlands. Visit her website for more info about signings and events, contests and news! www.terribrisbin.com



Day 1 - intro and excerpt:

In the first of a breathtaking trilogy set against the stark beauty of medieval Scotland, one man discovers a surprising past, a remarkable gift--and a terrible destiny. . . . In the opening pages of A STORM OF PASSION, readers will discover Moira’s reasons for hating Connor, the Seer, and understand the vengeance she seeks. . . .

Prologue

The damp fog crept off the sea, moving onto the land and over the hills of Quinag like tendrils of sticky sea grass. It seemed alive even as it covered the dead of her village. The smoke from fires set by their enemies choked her and burned her eyes as she searched for someone, anyone, still alive in the destruction. Struggling through the hazy gloaming, Moira slipped in the mud and fell once again.

She pushed her hair out of her face and rubbed her eyes. Shoved into a hidey hole by her mother at the first sound of the attack, she’d stayed as long as she could, resisting the urge to fight back, to stand with her father and brothers, to protect her mother and her sister. Now, they lay dead, their life’s blood draining out onto the ground in the center of their village. Unable to help them in life, she knew she must help them find peace now.

It took hours but she worked into the night to find and drag the bodies of her sister and mother nearer to the burned remains of their cottage. She worked on and on, sometimes giving in and crying out her grief, especially when she looked on the battered and bruised face of her sister. Then only her mother was left to bury.

When Moira reached under her mother’s arms to pull her into the hastily-dug grave, her mother’s hand twitched, scaring her and sending Moira scurrying back. Taking a breath, she crept forward and touched her mother’s cheek, hoping against hope and sense that she was still alive.

“Mam?” she whispered. “Mam?”

Moira knew that her mother could never survive the wounds she’d received. Then, a rasping, labored breath, drawn in and sputtered out of her, spewed more blood on the ground. Moira tried to lift her, but the hours of digging had left her with little strength now.

“Get away,” her mother said, choking with each word. “They will return. . . “

Tears flowed down her cheeks as she watched her mother struggle for a breath and lose that battle. She did not ken how long she sat there, holding her mam in her arms, but the growing light of dawn creeping over the mountains to the east told her too long. She would be vulnerable in the light of day, a lone girl amidst so much death with no one to protect her. Gently, she laid her mother down and offered a short prayer for her soul, their souls, and then she ran.

Their enemy did return as her mam had warned and she was able to avoid them only by squeezing under a decaying tree and hiding in the morass of roots and grass at its base. Moira listened to their words and the only bit of it she could hear and understand was that they’d been sent by someone called The Seer. The soldiers spent hours in the ruins of her village and then they left.

With hunger and thirst driving her, she waited for the sounds of their leaving to cease completely before creeping from her hiding spot. Stumbling through the forest, she stopped to drink from a stream and pluck some berries. So confused, so tired and so heartbroken, Moira could not think of where to go or what to do. Looking around, she knew she must find shelter for the sun was sliding down the sky towards the sea.

Gathering what berries she could stuff into the pocket of her skirt, she found the path that led away from the sea and towards the mountains. If she could follow the path through the mountains, she could find the village where her mother’s sister lived. Surely she would take her in.

The final shock met her as the path rose to enter the first mountain pass and she nearly buckled under the pain of it. If she had kept her eyes on the rocky trail, she might have missed it, but it was at that very moment when she looked up.

Her father dangled at the end of a rope, his body twisting in the winds. Moira’s stomach clenched and heaved, forcing her to her knees. His eyes were gone and his body showed signs of torture at the hands of his enemies. She crawled on, not daring to look back.

When she reached a place where she could not see him clearly, she stood and, from someplace within, some strength she knew not of, a burning desire for vengeance rose. Clenching her hands, she offered not only a prayer for the soul of her father, but also one for courage and resolve.

She would find the ones responsible for this and she would make them pay. It might take her years, it might mean more suffering on her part, but she would make someone sorry for the day they chose her family as their target. This man, The Seer, would pay with his life.

Her fingers dug into her palms, mixing her blood with that of her slain mother and sister. Holding her hands up to the sky, she spoke the words of a blood oath to the souls of her family and to any god listening.

“I will not cease until every drop of my enemy’s blood is spilled or until I give my own in the trying. On their blood, I swear this.”

Congrat's To Last Week's Winners

~ My Unfair Lady by Kathryne Kennedy

~ My Unfair Lady by Kathryne Kennedy

~ My Unfair Lady by Kathryne Kennedy

*throuthehaze ~ Winners choice of Book 1, 2 or 3 by Michele Sinclair

*Mitzi H. ~ Winners choice of Book 1, 2 or 3 by Michele Sinclair

*Ali ~ Winners choice of Book 1, 2 or 3 by Michele Sinclair

Please send your snail mail info to terraontop57 at yahoo dot com. Congrats to our winner and I hope you enjoy your prizes!

Lightworld/Darkworld Series by Jennifer Armintrout

I’m terrible at self-promotion. I always feel like I’m lying to someone when I’m trying to sell them my books. My first four books were a pretty grisly vampire series, Blood Ties, and vampires are kind of an acquired taste. It was hard to tell people, “You’ll love my book!” because I didn’t know them or what they liked to read. And I’m way too honest about my skill as a writer; I know that I’m not the one author who can please everyone. That’s Dan Brown.

So, in the spirit of that honesty, I’m going to assume that you’re one of the readers who read, but didn’t like, my first book, and try to tell you how these are different. Here are five reasons that the Lightworld/Darkworld series is different from, but not necessarily superior to, Blood Ties. That way, you can make your own, informed opinion, without me doling out promises I might not be able to deliver on.

Less crying per chapter than Blood Ties. The biggest complaint people had about Blood Ties was that there was a lot of crying. That was because the characters in the books were former humans, with human emotions. There are hardly any humans in Lightworld/Darkworld, so the crying has been greatly reduced.

Now with 70% more fighting. Whereas Blood Ties was a tense vampire thriller with long, emotional scenes, Lightworld/Darkworld keeps the violent and disturbing imagery coming, in lots of awesome combinations. Have you ever wanted to see a fallen angel rip some elves apart with his bare hands? Well, this is the book for you.

Gena Showalter says you’ll like it. Check out those cover quotes. You’re not calling Gena a liar, are you?

This one has a sea horse on it! I’m not entirely sure why there’s a sea horse on the second book. Someone told me that the sea horse is an Etruscan symbol for a journey by sea, which would fit better with the third book. I think the art department just likes sea horses. Still, it’s a nice looking sea horse, and there isn’t one on any of the Blood Ties books.

If you read it real fast, before the holidays, and you don’t like it, you can give it away as a present. Really, it’s a win/win with this one. Blood Ties almost always dropped in June, so your loved ones would know that something was up if you tried to tied it up in a pretty bow. But the Lightworld/Darkworld series has only been out since October.

So, what could you possibly be waiting for, at this point? The series begins with Queene of Light, which begins the story of Ayla, a half-human, half-faery assassin toiling under the thumb of an ethically gray queen. The second book, Child of Darkness, follows Ayla’s daughter, Cerridwen, as she struggles to make sense of her place in the Underground. In the conclusion, Veil of Shadows, Cerridwen must lead the fae to a new and better future, without knowing exactly how. If you love fantasy and romance, this is definitely going to be right up your alley. And if you’re still undecided, I’m giving away one free copy of Queene of Light to a lucky commenter to try.



Queene of Light
An Excerpt

In the Darkworld, the filth made it difficult to fly. Faery wings were far too gossamer and fragile to withstand the moisture that dripped from the murky blackness overhead or the clinging grime that coated everything, even sentient things, that dared cross over the Darkworld border.

Ayla knelt in the mire, searching the mucky concrete ground for signs of her quarry. She'd had no problem tracking the Werewolf this far. The foolish creature did not even realize it was being followed, and her wings, not delicately made but leathery flaps of nearly Human skin, thick boned and heavy against her back, had given her the speed to keep up with him as he rampaged through the depths of the Dark-world. But they had made her too conspicuous. As she tracked the Wolf, something tracked her.

She heard it, lurking behind her. Whatever followed had wings, feathered, if she guessed correctly from the rustling that echoed through the tunnel like tiny thunder. Perhaps it thought she wouldn't hear it. Or couldn't.

The chill that raced up her spine had little to do with the gusts of cold air that blew through the tunnels. She knew the beast that followed her. She'd heard it spoken of in hushed tones in the Assassins' Guild training rooms. It was a Death Angel.

The stories were too numerous to sort fact from fiction. Some claimed an Angel had the powers of the Vanished Gods. Some dismissed them as no more powerful than a Faery or Elf. And some insisted that to look upon one was death to any creature, mortal or Fae. Once, not long after Ayla had begun her formal Guild training, an Assassin was lost. His body was recovered, impaled upon his own sword, wings ripped from his back. She'd seen him, though Garret, her mentor, had tried to shield her. The marks on the Faery's ashen flesh indicated he had not been cut, but torn, as if by large, clawed hands. The killing blow had come as a mercy.

Whatever the Death Angels were, they did not look kindly upon other immortal creatures.
The blood pounded in her veins as she forced herself to focus on resuming the trail of her Wolf. Pursued or not, she had an assignment to carry out. Until the Death Angel struck, she would ignore his presence.

Closing her eyes, Ayla called up the training she'd received. She reached out with her sightless senses. She could not smell the Wolf, not above the stench of the sewer. She could not hear it. The irritated buzz of her antennae, an involuntary reaction to the tension vibrating through her body, coupled with the rustling of the Death Angel's wings in the shadows behind her, drowned out all other noise. She reached her hands out, feeling blindly across the pocked concrete of the tunnel wall. Deep gouges scored the surface, filled with fading rage. Her fingers brushed the residual energy and her mind lit up with a flare of red. The Wolf had passed this way.

Rising to her feet slowly, she traced the walls with her hands. Here was a splash of blood, blossoming with a neon-bright flare of pain behind her closed eyelids. Innocent, simple blood. There would be a body.

In a crouch, she moved through the tunnel, her arms low to the ground, trailing through the congealed filth there. Something dripped farther down the tunnel. It was audible, like a drop falling from a spigot to a full bucket. There was water ahead.

Dirty water, no doubt contaminated by waste from the Human world above, and the Wolf's victim would be there, as well; the despair and fear of its last moments tainted the air.

She followed the trail of blood and pain, the water rising to her knees, then to her waist. Something brushed her bare skin below the leather of her vest, and her eyes flew open. Floating beside her, split neck to groin, the empty skin of a rat. The Wolf had come this way to feed.

Summoning energy from her chest, she directed it into a ball in her palm. The orb flared bright, and she tossed it above her head to illuminate the space. To her left, another tunnel led deeper into the Darkworld. Another opened ahead of her. In the yolk of the three tunnels, hundreds of eviscerated rats bobbed in the stinking tide.

Rats. My life is forfeit for the sake of rats.

Wading through the sewage, she made her way to a low ledge. Another body waited there. The Werewolf, already twisted and stiff in death, caught between his Wolf and Human states. The grinning rictus of his Human mouth below his half-transformed snout gave testimony to the poison that had killed him before she could, and would have killed the rats if he'd not gotten to them first.

It was said among the Assassins of the Lightworld that Death Angels wait in the shadows for the souls of mortal creatures. The one that had followed the Wolf's trail behind her would not be pleased to find her there when he came to claim his prize.

She spun to face the Death Angel, caught sight of it in her rapidly fading light. Paper-white skin stretched over a hard, muscular body that could have been Human but for the claws at its hands and feet. It hung upside down, somehow gripping the smooth ceiling of the tunnel, its eyes sightless black mirrors that reflected her terrified face. It hissed, spreading its wings, and sprang for her.

Gulping as much of the fetid air as her lungs could hold, Ayla dove into the water. The echo of the creature's body disturbing the surface rippled around her, urging her to swim faster, but her wings twisted in the currents, slowing her and sending shocks of pain through her bones. She propelled herself upward and broke into the air gasping.

In a moment, the creature had her, his claws twisting in her loosened braid. He jerked her head back, growling a warning in a harsh, guttural language. He disentangled his claws from her hair and gripped her shoulder in one massive fist, his other hand raised to strike.
The moment his palm fell on her bare shoulder, she saw the change come over him. Red tentacles of energy climbed like ivy over his fingers, gaining his wrist, twining around his thick, muscled forearm. His hand spasmed and flexed on her arm but he was unable to let go, tied to her by the insidious red veins.

That was another rumor she'd heard about Death Angels. Though they craved mortal souls, the touch of a creature with mortal blood was bitter poison.

With a gasp of disbelief and satisfaction, she raised her eyes to the face of the Death Angel. His eyes, occluded with blood, fixed on her as the veins crept up his neck, covering his face.

"I am half Human," she said with a cruel laugh of relief. Whether the creature understood her or not, she did not care. He opened his mouth and screamed, his voice twisting from a fierce, spectral cry to a Human wail of pain and horror. Ayla's heart thundered in her chest and she closed her eyes, dragging air into her painfully constricted lungs. In her mind she saw the tree of her life force, its roots anchoring her feet, its branches reaching into her arms and head. Great, round sparks of energy raced to the Angel's touch, where her life force pulsed angry red. The pace of the moving energy quickened with her heartbeat, growing impossibly rapid, building and swelling within her until she could no longer withstand the assault.

She wrenched her shoulder free and staggered back, slipping to her knees in the water, sputtering as the foulness invaded her mouth.

The Death Angel stood as if frozen in place, twisting in agony. The stark red faded into his pre-ternaturally white skin. His bloody, empty eyes washed with white, then a dot of color pierced their center. Mortal eyes, mortal color. A mortal body. Ayla clambered to her feet and stared in shock, the rush of her blood and energy still filling her ears. All at once it stopped, and the Death Angel collapsed, disappearing below the water.

In the still of the tunnel, Ayla listened for any other presence. Only the gentle lapping of the water against the curved walls of the tunnel could be heard, no fearsome rustling of wings. Would another Death Angel come for him, now that he was to die a mortal death?

He burst up through the water with a pitiable cry, arms flailing. Ayla screamed, jumping immediately to an attack stance, twin blades drawn. She relaxed when the now-mortal creature dragged himself from the water with shaking arms to collapse on the ledge. His chest heaved with each jerky breath of his newborn lungs, and his limbs trembled with exhaustion. He was no immediate threat.

Curiosity overcame Ayla's training, which dictated she should kill the Darkling where he lay. How many Assassins had the chance to survey their prey this closely? How many had the chance to destroy a Death Angel? Her weapons still at the ready, still poised to carry her into legend with the kill, she moved closer.

The Angel lay on his back, his ebony feathered wings folded beneath him. His hair, impossibly long, lay matted and wet on the cement, dipping into the water. The fierce muscle structure that had made him so strong remained, but his body twitched, sapped of strength.

It seemed wrong, cowardly to kill him in such a state.

An Assassin knows no honor. An Assassin knows no pity. AnAssassin is no judge to bestow mercy, but the executioner of those who have already been sentenced, those Darklings who shun the truth of Light. The geis, seared into her brain through hours of endless repetition, burned her anew, and she lifted her knives to deliver the killing blow. His eyes slid open, flickered over her hands and the weapons she held.

With a deep breath and a whispered prayer, Ayla closed her eyes. "Badb, Macha, Nemain, guide my hand that you might collect your trophy sooner than later."

He made no noise as her daggers fell. If he had, perhaps she would have been able to finish the job. But when she opened her eyes, saw the flashing blades poised to pierce his throat and sever his spine, saw his face impassive…

Her hands opened and the knives clattered to the ledge. She did not retrieve them. Let him have something to defend himself from the creatures that would come for him, the ones who would not kill him as quickly as she would have, if she had been mindful of the geis. She had never broke...

My Unfair Lady by Kathryne Kennedy

Top Ten Reasons Why My Hero is Irresistible

Reason Number Ten:
Byron, the Duke of Monchester, my hero in My Unfair Lady, shares the same name of one of the most romantic English poets from the late eighteenth to early nineteenth century, who wrote She Walks in Beauty and Don Juan. Byron has some similar qualities to the English poet: He’s handsome, has had numerous love affairs, and is infamous for being a little bit ‘bad’. But unlike the poet, my Byron meets his soul mate, and is redeemed from a life that might have become dissolute.

Number Nine:
He was taught how to fight by his Chinese gardener. The discipline of Kung fu has made his hands lethal weapons…and yet he can still manage to touch a woman with gentle persuasion.

Number Eight:
Despite the fact that my heroine can take care of herself, Byron is constantly putting himself between her and danger. His bravery and perseverance can only be admired, especially when my heroine, Summer Wine Lee, keeps managing to get them into one scrape after another.

Number Seven:
Byron is like chocolate. Melt-in-your-mouth smooth and creamy, with a dark undertone of rich sweetness that makes you crave even more.

Number Six:
He has a thick head of golden blond hair, piercing blue eyes, a mouth so perfect it will remind you of a statue of Apollo, and above that masterpiece a nose that seems slightly crooked, saving him from being extraordinarily handsome to just boyishly so. Of little-bit-less than average height, my heroine never gets a crick in her neck when she kisses him.

Number Five:
He’s a man of contradictions. He appears bored, arrogant and completely jaded. And yet he helps Summer rescue baby foxes, allows her tiny dog to scuff up his boots with her pointy little teeth, and tolerates a monkey’s hug of affection.

Number Four:
It’s hard to resist a man in a cravat, a white lawn shirt…and only a button flap to separate my heroine from heaven.

Number Three:
He loves Summer because of her faults, not in spite of them. My heroine has hired him to turn her into a lady, and he desperately tries. But for a man bored of London society, her mannerisms are completely intoxicating. A visit to Paris to purchase Summer a new wardrobe turns into a chaotic involvement with her knife, the fitter, and silk drapes. A trip to the races turns into a match of wits involving Prince Albert. A jaunt in the country results in a bullet to his shoulder (not that this was the first time he’d been shot since he met Summer). Despite it all, or because of it all, Byron is having the best time of his life.

Number Two:
He has a wicked sense of humor. See Number Eight, Five, and Three above. He will desperately need it.

And the Number One reason why my hero is irresistible is:
Byron knows how to pleasure a woman in bed, because really, after all is said and done…

So all humor aside, what makes a hero irresistible to you? I’ll be checking in all day to comment on your responses, and I’d be very interested to know.

Thank you, Yankee Romance Reviewers, for having me here today!

All My Best,
Kathryne
My Unfair Lady by Kathryne Kennedy—in stores December 2009!

He created the perfect woman…
The impoverished Duke of Monchester despises the rich Americans who flock to London, seeking to buy their way into the ranks of the British peerage. So when railroad heiress Summer Wine Lee offers him a king’s ransom if he’ll teach her to become a proper lady, he’s prepared to rebuff her. But when he meets the petite beauty with the knife in her boot, it’s not her fortune he finds impossible to resist…

For the arms of another man
Frontier-bred Summer Wine Lee has no interest in winning over London society—it’s the New York bluebloods and her future mother-in-law she’s determined to impress. She knows the cost of smoothing her rough-and-tumble frontier edges will be high. But she never imagined it might cost her heart…
About the Author
Kathryne Kennedy is the author of the Relics of Merlin series, acclaimed for her world-building and best known for her historical paranormal romances. She has also written a fantasy romance and this Victorian historical romance. She has also published nearly a dozen short stories in the SFF/Romance genre, receiving Honorable Mention twice in the “Writers of the Future” contest. She has traveled a great deal and has lived in Guam, Okinawa, and several states in the U.S. She is a business owner and currently lives in Arizona with her husband and two sons. For more information, please visit http://www.kathrynekennedy.com/

Make sure and leave a comment or question for Kathryne along with your email addy as Sourcebooks is giving away 3 copies of My Unfair Lady: 3 winners will be chosen at the end of the week. US and Canada Only Please!!