Hot Diggity ~ I'm a Bestseller!

Well, this doesn't mean too much, just as most "bestselling author!" claims don't mean diddly once you start getting to the bottom of them, but I've never before had this minor distinction. It appears that for an undoubtedly fleeting while, Bastards and Pretty Boys has been Liquid Silver's bestselling title at ARe (that's All Romance eBooks). LSB doesn't have hundreds and hundreds of books there -- somewhere between 130 and 140, I'd guess -- but at least one of mine temporarily made it to the top of the pile.

You can check on this claim if you want, but it's kind of a pain in the butt. You have to do a "publisher" search by entering Liquid Silver in the box, then, once you get to their listings, click on the "bestselling" tab. But frickin' do it FAST, because I'll probably be bumped from the spot within a day . . . or even hours.

I'm really, really grateful to the readers who gave me this birthday present. Really grateful.



But -- YO! -- what's with this shit? Somebody stole Hosea Booker and put him in a different time and a different place and . . . and . . . saddled him with a woman! No, that's not going to work.

Inching Closer

Not quite the final version, but damned good enough to show off.

And so we come full circle, back to thoroughly human Pablo Creed

and the Utopian Metroplex of Regenerie.

The first time around, Win saved him.

Now Pablo returns the favor . . .

and extends it to countless others.

(The final book of the Utopia-X series,

coming January 5, 2010 from Loose Id.)

Channeling Testimonials

To Be Where You Are -- you know, the sequel to InDescent -- is coming out next Monday (clicking the post title will take you to a blurb and two excerpts). In preparation for its release, I considered sending out ARCs to some of my favorite authors and certain industry outlets. The good folks at Liquid Silver Books don't have time to fool with that kind of stuff, so I thought I'd take it upon myself to politely solicit some high-profile opinions. First, though, I asked Castanet what she thought of this plan. Her response: "Are you out of your fucking mind? Like they're gonna piss away their time on one of your books? You got exactly ZERO connections, hotshot."

Okay, I huffed a little. But I finally, grudginglyly admitted she had a point. Then I started pondering that word "connections." Hey, I thought, I was an English major! I do have connections!

So I decided to offer the ARCs to a different group of favorite authors. Problem is, they're all dead. I had to channel their responses to the book. (Now don't disparage my efforts; I have a very reliable Ouija board.)

EDITED TO ADD: The post just below this one was done as a favor to a fellow author. Hey, I may have quite the racket going here!

KZ's Halloweenies & Whorrors, 6

Those of you who've read InDescent can just skip this post. Sorry, but the horror maven in me loves this scene! (I just watched the incomparable Vincent Price in The Abominable Dr. Phibes today -- love it! -- and a sequence in that movie reminded me a little of the following scene.)

* * * * *

When a breach in the Prism of Nezrabi frees creatures from another plane, a troubled wizard learns there are things more terrifying than the bogeymen of our nightmares. Like inner demons…and love.

Being a powerful, sexually magnetic wizard has its disadvantages. Like inviting the attention of bumbling but persistent rivals. And seductive women. And otherworldly beings.

For Jackson Spey, that isn’t the worst of it. His lover-of-choice is a man with a disturbing past. And a girlfriend. And feelings Jackson is reluctant to return.

The legendary Prism of Nezrabi brings all these elements together when it falls into the hands of Spey’s number-one enemy. No ordinary crystal, the Prism is an intricate microcosm wherein all time, space, and dimensions exist in delicate balance. Humans who’ve been pulled into it have gone mad . . . or simply never returned.

Through inept or malicious magic, the structure’s integrity has been compromised. A breach has freed creatures thought only to exist in Slavic myth. Nobody but the most qualified Adept can repair the split. If Jackson descends into this mystical world, he may have to face something more dreadful than a seemingly impossible task and its potential consequences.

* * * * *

Fog Cliff Cemetery, Ivan thought, was even creepier than the portraits of Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky painted on Roland Dancy’s scrotum. And they were pretty damned creepy—especially when Rollie squeezed the top of his sac and made those faces pop in all their chicken-skinned, wire-haired glory.

The sun would soon be setting. Already, shadows cast by lines of gravestones had begun to stretch out on the grass like reclining ghosts. It didn’t help the atmosphere any to have Bothu loping along at his side like some oily mortician. It didn’t help, either, that Bothu carried an old, black doctor’s satchel, and whatever was stashed within kept making its presence known through muffled thumps and knocks.

Shielding his eyes with one hand, Ivan glanced up the narrow asphalt drive. There, toward the north, loomed the jagged rock formation that apparently gave the cemetery its name. No fog swaddled the cliff today, but thickening shade and almost palpable stillness provided more than enough atmosphere. The dead place was dead-quiet. Aside from whatever wildlife populated the surrounding woods, no other living creatures were around. This was a rural boneyard, and "visiting hours" appeared to be over.

"Where’s the grave?" Ivan asked, winded. The drive went uphill.

They’d parked their vehicles in a neighboring yard, which Bothu had assured him was safe. Maybe the property was abandoned. Maybe Bothu knew the owners. Ivan hadn’t bothered to inquire.

"We’re not going to a grave," the necromancer said.

"Then how the hell--?"

"It’s a mausoleum, and it’s behind the cliff."

Ivan stopped. He put up his hands. "Whoa, hold on there, bucko. You’re not shutting me up in some suffocating, vermin-infested—"

Bothu, too, paused. His dark gaze landed on Ivan like a wasting disease. "Then go home and figure things out on your own. I’m not the one who needs to be here, Ivan. I’m not the one intent on luring Jackson Spey into the Prism."

"Yeah, but you’re the one who likes being here." Ivan tried to give him a playful swat on the arm, but he couldn’t bring himself to make contact with the ghoulish figure. His hand fell limply to his side. "Wouldn’t you rather do this on your own? Kind of like, you know...masturbating."

Bothu’s narrow eyes narrowed further. "Actually, I would prefer being alone. But to achieve the results you’re after, you have to be present." He nodded toward Ivan’s neck. "While I’m thinking of it, you need to ditch the jewelry."

"What jewelry?" Ivan touched the spot Bothu seemed to be looking at. "You mean my amulets and talismans?"

"You’ll have to take them off and leave them outside the mansion."

"The mansion?" Ivan bugged his eyes in disbelief. Then, resigned, he sighed. He’d given up trying to understand this goof a long time ago. "Listen, I wear these pieces for a reason. Let me explain it in simple terms. The talismans attract the shit I want. The amulets repel the shit I don’t want. Considering where we are"—dramatically, he waved his arms to indicate the setting—"I’d say a little protection is warranted."

"And I’d say, get rid of them." Bothu resumed walking. "Things will be a lot uglier for you if you keep them on."

"Why?"

"Never mind."

"Well that’s just fucking great," Ivan muttered.

Trudging on, they soon circled the western side of the cliff. Behind it, nearly butting up against the rock’s northern face, was a gnomish stone structure patterned with lichens and engulfed in shade. The mausoleum looked like a rotten tooth. Ivan shivered as his gut clenched.

"How are we supposed to get in?" he whispered, hoping they couldn’t. He eyed the sturdy double doors deeply recessed beneath a Gothic arch. They appeared to be bronze, and decorated all over with demons writhing and cavorting within a cage of thorny branches. Flanking this dreary portal, gargoyles glowered from atop a pair of Corinthian columns.

It was hardly an inviting entrance. A plaque set beneath the roof’s low gable identified the lord of the mansion—one James Newman, who drew his last breath in 1928.

Much to Ivan’s surprise, Bothu simply walked up to one door and pulled it open. The hinges didn’t even squeal in complaint. Stiff-lover must keep them lubricated, Ivan thought. A puff of stale air wafted past his face.

With extreme reluctance, he pulled off his assortment of charms and laid them on a patch of ground rather than the cracked concrete apron that led to the doors. Getting them dirty, he figured, was far better than letting them come into any contact with Newman’s charnel house. Riding a sweaty wave of anxiety, he followed Bothu inside.

The grim, dim space smelled both dank and musty. An open crypt sat in the center, its lid so severely askew it seemed an inch from crashing to the flagstone floor. A hard chill dug into Ivan’s bones. He lingered near the door.

"I’d say it’s twilight. Wouldn’t you?" Bothu murmured, glancing at his companion.

"Sure." Ivan didn’t give a fuck. He just wanted to get this ordeal over with.

"Come here."

Ivan cast a longing look at the door, still ajar. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, you idiot. I didn’t bring you with me because I enjoy your company."

Ivan took a few tentative steps forward. The necromancer reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a key. A hex key. Leaning over the vault, he apparently fit the key into a lock—the lock that secured the lid of the casket nested within. A sharp click made Ivan flinch.

At that very moment, the mausoleum’s door swung shut. Ivan jumped and let out a yelp. The space was instantly packed with woolly blackness.

Now, he did hear a creak. Bothu must be lifting the casket’s lid. Ivan remained frozen in place, aware of the damp cold from the flagstones leeching through the soles of his shoes. He tried mentally cobbling together some protective incantation, but his mind seemed to have shut down. He heard Bothu rummaging through the satchel.

"Come," Bothu said, his voice dusky, "greet your benefactor."

Mewling, Ivan faltered forward in shuffling baby-steps. A match flared then touched the wick of a thick candle. It smelled, jarringly, like Christmas, but with a bitter note. Another burst of small flame, and the cloying scent of jasmine crept into the air. Ivan still hadn’t peered into the relative gloom of the crypt. He watched Bothu remove other things from his black bag—a knife, a glittering chunk of stone, a vial of murky liquid—and array them along the wide edge of the vault.

Holding the candle above what lay within, the necromancer paused as his gaze angled downward. Fondly, he smiled.

Ivan thought he might faint.

As Bothu lowered the candle toward Newman’s remains, he simultaneously curled an arm around Ivan’s rib cage and drew him forward. Candlelight wavered up from the rectangular gulf.

"Isn’t he lovely?" Bothu said. "He was nearly one of the Incorruptibles until fairly recently."

Sheer morbid curiosity made Ivan rise up on the balls of his feet and sneak a glance at the inside of the casket. He wished he hadn’t. Closing his eyes, he swayed backward and swallowed hard.

Newman should have been pure skeleton by now. But he wasn’t. On his hands, neck and head, skin like poorly tanned leather peeled away from teeth and bone. Scalp and hair, gradually disconnecting from his skull, rested like a clump of thatch on a soiled, rotting pillow. His dark clothing was nothing more than dusty scraps. As sunken and shriveled as they were, his eyes appeared to be open.

Even worse, something protruded from his chest. It looked like a partially corroded blade. What the fuck? Ivan kept thinking. What the fuck? Had Newman been a vampire? Ivan tried to calm himself. Maybe not a vampire. Bothu brought a knife with him this time, too, and vampires didn’t need to be killed twice. Besides, Newman looked deader than dead already. So maybe it was just part of the ritual. But why had the damned blade been stuck in the corpse’s heart?

In slow motion, Bothu lifted the vial of liquid.

"Wh-what’s in there?" Ivan whispered, because asking questions helped deflect his attention from every other grisly detail of this situation. Not to mention his billowing panic. He didn’t think he could hold out much longer.

"Milk. Honey." Bothu pulled out the cork stopper. "Blood." Reaching down, he caressed the lipless mouth and drizzled his concoction inside it.

On the verge of retching, Ivan turned away.

"Come, sweet Azrael," Bothu crooned, "and speak through your servant James. Tell me how the man named Jackson Spey can be brought into the powerful crystal once hidden and protected here."

A soft rustling made Ivan hazard a glance at the necromancer. He’d reached inside the casket again. Very gently, he lifted something. One of Newman’s hands. He cradled it.

Azrael, Azrael... Ivan tried to recall the entity identified by that name. Was it demonic? Bothu’s blandishments went on. Ivan knew they were for his sake. It was the only thing that kept him from bolting. Azrael...

Shit. That was the Angel of Death.

A dry rattle came from the casket. Words formed. "C-call. Call him. Open the door."

"Thank you," Bothu breathed out. His tone was rapturous.

Suddenly, Ivan couldn’t breathe. He frantically stumbled away from the crypt, trying to distance himself from the eerie exchange. His shoulder connected with a slimy wall. Half-expecting Newman to rise, he scrabbled toward the doors, their outlines barely visible in candle’s feeble glow.

"We will stay here ‘til the next twilight," Bothu said—to whom, Ivan didn’t know or care. "Still as the dead yet receptive as the living, we will stay."

The fuck we will. Ivan’s quaking hand found a thick metal ring.

"Call. Then...open the door."

Damned straight. Ivan grabbed the ring and pulled. Nothing happened. Panic began to overtake him. It opens out, not in! Grateful he hadn’t totally succumbed to hysteria, he threw his considerable weight against the barrier. The bronze plane resisted for a couple of seconds before it swung open.

Ivan pitched himself into the evening, rolled once, and scrambled onto his hands and knees. Without a single glance at the mausoleum, and with greater and speed and agility than he’d possessed since childhood, he scurried toward the blessedly mundane haven of his SUV. Amulets and talismans be damned.

KZ's Halloweenies & Whorrors, 4

Ah, poor Adin Swift. Still a tormented vampire, he so struggled in this novel. But just a handful of months after he finally found his HEA, or thought he did, Jackson Spey turned up at that birthday party and blew Adin's assumptions out of the water. Considering the blood-drinking interlude they shared in Plagued (hell, considering how happy Adin was, simply to see Jackson again), it should've been obvious to all concerned that Celia was not, in fact, the partner of Adin's dreams.

Following the blurb is just one of many creepy excerpts from the novel that sees Adin and Jackson together for the first time (in a book, that is).

Yup, Plagued is a chillfest.

* * * * *

The one thing Adin Swift wants more than warm blood and hot sex is to find the man who viciously murdered his parents over 650 years ago.

The one thing Celia Quill wants more than a final, exciting one-night stand before moving to the edge of a northern forest is to settle happily into her new home there.

After hooking up at a club, they more than satisfy each other’s immediate needs. But "immediate" stretches into long-term when Celia is captivated by her vampire lover and Adin senses this not-so-ordinary woman somehow holds the key to his peace.

In the unassuming little outpost of Woodbine, Adin and Celia confront a threat neither had anticipated. Their efforts to comprehend and overcome it take them from a modest farmhouse to a lumber baron’s mansion to a blue-collar tavern complete with town drunk. As their bond solidifies, answers come…but the threat only grows.

Desperate, Adin calls his old friend Jackson Spey for help. The wizard extends their search to a place where the vampire was both born and birthed and has only revisited in his nightmares: fourteenth-century, plague-torn England. Horrific as it it, this journey into the the past may be Adin's and Celia's only route to the future.

In the following excerpt, Adin examines yet another disturbing feature of Celia's new property.

* * * * *

The deeper woods at the rear of the yard beckoned Adin. There was something else he had to check out. He moved toward the shadowed tangle of undergrowth beneath the taller trees.

As he scanned the ragged edge of this untended area, Adin noticed several clearer spaces that might indicate the presence of a path. He studied each one more carefully then struck out through the most promising break in the vegetation. At least this season’s growth wasn’t yet too high or too thick.

A fairly straight trail of depressed earth, with a soggy floor of decaying leaves and brown pine needles, arrowed through the close-pressing trees and vertical, in-tucked spirals of emerging ferns. Adin’s footsteps flushed out two toads and sent them hopping for new cover. Occasionally, from above, a twig or pinecone fell, probably dislodged by a scurrying squirrel. Patches of sunlight were fewer and farther between the deeper Adin plunged into this wild acreage, and its organic redolence grew stronger—reminding him, unnervingly, of the smell released by the freshly turned dirt of graves.

The branches blocking his way multiplied. Adin kept his arms raised to push them aside and shield his face from their recoil. A single caw from a near-by crow startled him, sending a flashing chill through his belly.

Within seconds he spied it—a cylindrical wall of fieldstone, somewhat more than waist-high, hugged all around by the delicate, thorny arms of wild roses. A hazy shaft of sunlight sluiced through the small clearing where the old well sat. Carefully, Adin circled the structure. Its north-facing stones were covered in a patchwork of dead brown and fresh green moss.

Adin didn’t know whether or not he was still on Celia’s property. The well could have served a different homestead or even a hermit’s small cabin, long since torn down or fallen to ruin. Or it could’ve been a source of water for outbuildings—a cow barn, a sheepcote, a horse stable, a pig or chicken pen.

Not that it mattered. The well’s original owner and intended use were irrelevant. Recently, Adin feared, this simple, utilitarian structure had a much more nefarious purpose.

Leaning over the gnarled branches, he flattened his hands on the well’s rough rim. The muscles in his arms immediately went rigid with shock. Gulping air, Adin pulled himself closer to the pit and peered over its wall. Even his sight had difficulty mining the dense blackness. But he both smelled and sensed the presence of things that did not bode well…for him or for Celia.

There was a tunnel entrance somewhere in the well shaft. Adin stared more intently. Yes, he was sure, it was in the western arc of the interior wall. He raised his head to get his bearings. As he suspected, the entrance faced the Browning mansion. Adin pulled back and took a few cleansing breaths. Lifting his hands, he studied them, stroking his palms with his fingers. Slowly, his face twisted.

Whether real or imagined, traces of Birkett’s essence seemed to taint his skin. The vampire, Adin was certain, had slithered over this wall many times, in a number of different forms. But why, why were there conduits between this property and the mansion’s? Adin already thought he knew—this was the theory he’d earlier refused to divulge—but he wanted to verify his assumption before sharing it with Celia. For the moment, she had more than enough issues to deal with.

"Shit," Adin whispered, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He leaned against a tree as he gazed at the well. He knew he had to approach it one more time.

A cloud passed over the sun, steeping the small clearing in gloom. Adin again stepped up to the well, again leaned over its edge. He closed his eyes and inhaled.

The odors were unmistakable. First, stagnant water, the depth of which was unclear. Second—and certainly not obvious to anybody with normal human senses—death.

There was at least one corpse or skeleton at the bottom of that pit and perhaps more. Adin was sure of it.

Resting his elbows on the wall, he dropped his head to his hands. How many victims had that filthy bastard disposed of in this area? And where, in addition to here, were they?

Aside from these discoveries, which were sickening enough, it nearly drove Adin to the brink of despair when he realized he was only a small step away from becoming like this creature he so thoroughly despised. Without the sexual release that accompanied his feeds, many ugly aspects of his Plague Breed heritage would claw their way out of his blood…



KZ's Halloweenies & Whorrors, 3

A "Joyfully Recommended" read from Joyfully Reviewed, recipient of 5 Angels from Fallen Angel Reviews, and a 2008 EPPIE finalist, the paranormal erotic romance Cemetery Dancer has done fairly well.

My beloved Jackson Spey, still in possession of the long braid that hung nearly to his butt, plays a significant role in this novel. Heroine and hero, Sophia and Sonny, later make appearances in InDescent, as does Fog Cliff Cemetery, the setting for the excerpt following the blurb.

* * * * *

Find a man’s headstone and dance on his grave.

Be he prince, commoner, monk, or knave;

Be he soldier or hero or coward forlorn,

Shed all your clothing and dance until dawn.

Medium and former nun Sophia Alanca has a big problem that’s soon to get much bigger. Since leaving the cloister, she’s been desperate to find an outlet for years’ worth of unsatisfied sexual passion. Sophie is not only lacking in savvy about the dating scene, she’s far too cautious to hook up with strangers. Unfortunately, her frustrated desire attracts a brutish "hybrid" entity—one who can move between the astral and earthly planes. And he wishes to possess her.

Sophie’s spirit guide offers a solution in the form of a cryptic verse. Until Sophie can find a man who fully meets her needs, she can achieve sexual gratification and thus ward off her attacker by doing the pagan Cemetery Dance. As added protection, the spirit guide instructs Sophie to seek out the help of a quirky but powerful wizard…who also happens to be drop-dead hot.

But biker-wizard Jackson Spey is not the only one who comes to Sophie’s aid. Harrison Brock—a graduate student in anthropology and amateur ghost hunter—is watching her when she does the sensual Cemetery Dance. And little does she realize he can either damn her through his jealousy and skepticism . . . or save her through his love.

* * * * *

Sophie had to concentrate on her movements as the tunnel abruptly narrowed and its height diminished. Sinking to a sit, she scooted along using her heels, which she dug into the ground, and her hands, which she eased along the walls, to propel herself forward. Its surfaces disturbed, the tunnel gave up a rich, damp, organic smell that was almost overpowering. Ahead of her, Sophie could hear the slithering and scraping sounds that marked Angelina’s progress.

They were swaddled in utter blackness.

“This is enough to make anybody claustrophobic,” Sophie said, glad that Sonny didn’t have to suffer through the experience.

Angelina didn’t answer.

“Don’t you think so?”

No answer.

“Angelina, can you hear me?”

The scraping stopped, briefly, but still no answer came.

Sophie tensed. “Angelina?” She raised her voice. “Jackson?”

And then somebody was grabbing her ankles, pulling her forward and down, down and to the left, the slope becoming even more slippery and mucky beneath her, the smell even more fetid. Just as Sophie was about to scream, a cold, hard hand clamped over her nose and mouth. An icy gust of breath pushed against her face. She tried desperately to bite at the suffocating hand but her teeth didn’t connect with anything substantial.

Just as Sophie began to lose consciousness, the tunnel blazed with blinding light. Its walls and floors shook. A deep rumbling, like a distant avalanche, sounded all around her. Words, she thought dimly, those are words, as the pressure on her ankles and face suddenly eased.

Sophie’s eyes fluttered open. Spey was standing over her, his arms raised, his loose hair floating in slow motion around his head. When Sophie saw this—and saw Angelina, who stood behind him—she realized they were in a space with higher ceilings and a source of light and something very, very weird was happening.

Angelina knelt beside her and stroked her forehead.

“Jackson?” Sophie whispered.

He was the source of light. Jackson Spey was glowing.

The glow faded as Sophie’s realization dawned. Then he, too, knelt beside her, his long hair grazing the side of her face.

Sophie heard a raspy click. A spot of flame appeared, then flared and got brighter. Jackson’s and Angelina’s faces reemerged from the darkness.

“I had enough foresight to bring a lighter and a candle,” Angelina said, her voice so kind it instantly warmed Sophie.

She sat up. Jackson had pulled back his hair and was securing it into a ponytail with some kind of binding—a rubber band, maybe.

“What happened?” Sophie asked, still dazed.

“It seems that as soon as you entered the cliff,” Angelina said, “your course was intentionally diverted. Jackson came to your rescue.”

“But I could hear you, just ahead of me!”

Angelina shook her head. “No. That wasn’t me. I don’t think it took me but ten seconds to find Jackson in this chamber. Something or someone was leading you away from us.”

“I’m sorry, Sophie,” Jackson said. “I should have either kept you with me or not let you come in at all.”

“But you cast a circle around me. How could it be broken?”

“It was improvised and temporary, meant to protect you when you laid hands on the mausoleum. A circle is like a battery, Sophie. It can be drained of its energy. And the ones that are less well-made are drained that much faster.” Jackson glanced at Angelina. “Now I know what Newman’s job is. Now I know exactly what being a Watcher means.”

Sophie looked back and forth between them. “And?”

Jackson tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “In part, it means watching for intruders. When they enter the cliff, if they do it at the wrong time, they’re scared away. Kids, usually. Kids who come here on Halloween or on a dare, kids who come here to drink or smoke pot or make out. It’s pretty easy for a weak dick like Newman to send them running.”

“But what do you mean, ‘if they do it at the wrong time’?”

“The cliff is a vortex, a portal,” Angelina said. “Mortals are persona non grata when a strong spirit wants to enter our world through it.”

“I see,” Sophie said. She was quite familiar with such things. “So, this is one of those ‘wrong times’, and I was an easy mark because I wasn’t close enough to you, Jackson, to be protected. Newman singled me out to scare me away.”

“Um, that’s not it,” Spey said. Like a doctor who doesn’t want to give his patient bad news and somehow feels responsible for that news, he seemed edgy and hesitant. “The entity that misled you and then handled you wasn’t Newman. It was Bruno Desjardins. Newman only alerted him.”

Sophie felt short of breath and slightly nauseous. “So the other part of being a Watcher—”

“—is likely the most important part,” Jackson said somberly.

“And it entails watching for what?” Sophie’s eyes skittered nervously between him and Angelina. “Or whom?” she added on a thin breath. But she already knew the answer.

“For you,” Spey said.

KZ's Halloweenies & Whorrors, 2

Another excerpt from Boolicious, my Changeling Halloween tale introduced in the previous post. Tomorrow, the fun and games end. On to some genuine creepiness!

* * * * *

They’d covered maybe three blocks, zigzagging from one side of the street to another, when they approached a small, red-brick bungalow. Emily charged up the porch steps with her usual enthusiasm, crying "Trick or treat!" all the way.

Hannah and the boys joined her…just as Hannah began to wonder why this place looked familiar. The door abruptly opened. But no smiling matron holding a candy basket appeared there. Instead, a large, dark mass flew out of the house like an attacking phantom. A clumsy attacking phantom. Emily squealed. Startled, they all scrambled backward down the steps and withdrew to the railings.

The dark form was a man. A man in an opera cape—black on the outside, red on the inside—with a deeply scalloped, upturned collar and a bat attached by a spring to one shoulder. The cape was skewed off to one side, the bat bobbing and weaving like Muhammad Ali.

Hannah’s breath seemed to snag on her ribcage. That was why the house looked familiar! Teetering before her was the man she’d seen earlier, the one getting out of the truck. As she’d tagged along with the kids, she’d unwittingly come down the same street. But what was going on?

When the man regained his footing, he straightened his garment, swiped both palms over his hair, and faced the four people on the porch steps. "Uh…boo."

Dumbfounded, the four trick-or-treaters gaped at him.

Emily looked up at her brother. "Can I keep ‘im?"

"He’s too big for your bag, dork." Jeremy pointed at Hannah, who stood at the opposite railing. "Better let her keep him."

What the hell?

Mouth open, she continued to stare. Beneath his cape the man wore only the skimpiest red briefs. A green glow came from his mouth.

What the hell?

"Were you s’posed to scare us?" Emily asked. "Do you live here?"

The man looked embarrassed. "No."

"What didja do?" Emily asked him. "Are you a robber? Didja get caught? Zat why they threw you out?"

The man cleared his throat. "That’s one way of putting it."

"So what are you hiding in your mouth? You better give it back."

"I’m not hiding anything. Those are my teeth." He bared his glow-in-the-dark, fanged plastic uppers. "I’m a vampire."

Jeremy chuffed. "Dracula didn’t walk around in his shorts."

"Yeah, well, I’m his poor brother, Zacula. Can’t afford formal wear, just underwear."

Hannah snorted a poorly suppressed laugh. She curled a hand over her mouth and looked down.

"Hey," Grif said, pointing at him, "your bat’s starting to droop."

"That’s not all." The man slid a glance at Hannah, who just at that moment happened to be sliding a glance at his—droop or no droop—well filled-out scarlet briefs. Self-consciously, he pulled the cape closed around his midsection.

Now that Hannah was gathering her wits, she couldn’t help but notice other things, as well. The man was extremely attractive, even more so than her first glimpse of him had suggested. She couldn’t see his face very clearly, but his tall frame sported a trim, hard-muscled physique. Although his thick, dark hair was trained to sweep neatly away from his face at the front and sides, the back was a riot of rebellious, clipped curls, some of which disappeared within his collar.

"Shoes or no shoes, I better get out of here," he murmured, and began descending the steps. When he was alongside Hannah, he paused. "I’m really sorry."

He wasn’t just attractive, he was breathtaking. "No harm done." The sight of him, and the fragrant nearness of him, rekindled the arousal that had tormented her at the party. She could feel the heat wavering from his body like a sexual lure.

The man suddenly broke their eye contact—a minor blessing, since it was making Hannah’s knees weak. Frowning, he looked down and patted his cape. He pulled it to one side and groped at the lining. "My keys," he whispered.

Turning abruptly, Zacula charged back toward the front door. Before he reached it, two shoes somersaulted through the air, nearly bonking him in the head. He managed to duck just in time. The shoes clattered against the porch railing and landed with twin thuds on the wood floor.

Glaring at the house, Zacula muttered, "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," as he retrieved his shoes and hopped around to get them on. He stomped down the steps to the sidewalk, where the four trick-or-treaters now stood because they didn’t know what would next fly out of the house. Hand to forehead, Zacula looked indecisively at nothing.

Without thinking, Hannah walked up to him and touched his arm. Electricity seemed to shiver through her stomach. "Are you all right?"

Distractedly, the man nodded. "I don’t think anyone ever died of a bruised ego. So, yeah, I’m all right."

"What’s your name?"

It was a few seconds before he looked at her. He was obviously preoccupied. "Zack." He gave her a wan smile. "Yes, that really is my name." He extended his hand. "Zachary Evan Whitmore."

Once Hannah grasped it she was loath to let go. "I’m Hannah Blue. Can I help you in any way?" It was obvious he had some kind of mess on his hands.

"I don’t want to get anybody else involved in this."

"I don’t mind. Really." He was beautiful, absolutely beautiful. The more she studied his face, the more captivated she became. And his mouth…damn, it looked so inviting. Not a vampire’s mouth at all. At least, not based on the movies she’d seen. She still, however, couldn’t discern the color of his bright eyes.

Zack rubbed the back of his neck. "My biggest problem at the moment is that my truck keys are in there." He nodded toward the house. "And I’m out here."

"I assume it wouldn’t be wise for you to go to the door and ask for them."

Lifting his eyebrows, Zack gave her a look that said, What do you think? Nevertheless, he risked mounting three of the porch steps and shouting, "Give me my god— Give me my goldang keys!"

The door swung open, a bulky form appeared, and a set of keys went sailing into a dense tangle of surrounding shrubbery.

"Fuck!" Zack charged up the porch once more. He strode to the railing and peered over it. Groaning, he despondently came back down to the sidewalk.

Casting Hannah a glance, he mumbled, "Your wig’s slipping." He idly lifted a few fallen strands of hair, letting them drape over his fingers.

"It isn’t a wig." Hannah poked at her tumbling coiffure, dimly wondering how a touch to her hair could send frissons slithering through her limbs. "Your teeth are slipping, too."

Zack pulled them out and chucked them aside.

She didn’t know what was going on, but she had to help him. She wanted to help him. He didn’t seem like a creep, and it wasn’t often she had the opportunity to rescue an enticing man in distress. In fact, she’d never had the opportunity.

"Listen," she said, "let me try something. You stay here."

Before Zack could object, Hannah remounted the steps and rang the doorbell. It opened with such ferocity she took a couple of startled steps back. A very large, very pumped-up man with a pale flat-top glowered down at her.

"Sir," Hannah began, trying to be both polite and firm, "I need to borrow a flashlight. You threw the truck keys into the—"

He snarled out an answer and slammed the door.

Sighing, Hannah rejoined Zack on the sidewalk. She lowered her voice when she conveyed the message. "He isn’t being very cooperative. He said, ‘Let the prick bounce home on his pogo stick.’"

Zack’s handsome face twisted in anger. "Son of a bitch."

Emily piped up, "You really need to clean up your language." The kids, still clustered together a short distance away, had been observing these goings-on with interest.

Zack glanced at them. "I’ll work on that when I get home. After I drive there in my truck. Which I must start with my frickin’ key!"

"Uh, Emily, you and Jeremy and Grif should head home now, too," Hannah said. "It’s getting late and you have plenty of candy. Thanks so much for inviting me along." She waved to underscore the send-off. "Maybe I’ll see you around."

Taking his sister’s hand, Jeremy told her, "Come on. Grownup stuff is goin’ on. You know what that means."

KZ's Halloweenies & Whorrors!

Hey, it's a pagan holiday, so of course there's sex involved!

In celebration of All Hallow's Eve, I'll be posting Halloween-appropriate excerpts from my books this week -- one a day, if I don't get too distracted by more productive activities.

So what is that you see on the right? A poser figure in skimpy
red briefs? Why, yes indeed! Meet Zacula.

Changeling Press issued this little novella (can you tell?) It's the only Halloween-themed story I've ever written and also the most chock-full-of-sex story I've ever written. The original title was You Can Leave Your Bat On, which perfectly suits the somewhat comedic plot, but I was told it was too long for the cover.

Without further ado, or excuses, following are the blurb for and an excerpt from BOOLICIOUS.

* * * * *

Often, breaking up with a boyfriend is a blessing in disguise. Sometimes, being stuck with crazy relatives is the same thing.

Hannah Blue didn’t think so after she made an ill-advised bet with her Aunt Kate, a bawdy old hippie and self-styled witch. A little too much wine had made Hannah cocky enough to think she could get laid by November 1 and, in so doing, become a hundred dollars richer. But it isn’t happening that way. Hannah’s picky about men.

As the bet’s deadline draws near, Aunt Kate decides to give her niece a little behind-the-scenes help. She wants Hannah to have a restorative roll in the hay and win that C-note.

But even a weird and wild Halloween swingers’ party doesn’t bring a man Hannah’s way. Horny and glum, she decides to boost her spirits by strolling down the streets of her neighborhood and enjoying Trick-or-Treat night. She eventually tags along with a trio of unescorted kids. It’s a pleasant, innocent diversion that helps Hannah resign herself to being a loser.

Until, at one house, a man in a vampire cape comes flying out the door . . . and proves the most delectable piece of candy, and the best way to win a bet, Hannah could ever have imagined.

* * * * *

Kate remained ensconced in her overstuffed easy chair and gave this dilemma some thought. So, even a hundred dollars wasn’t enough inducement to get her niece back on the man track. Or even on a woman track. Any joy in sex was preferable to no joy in sex. Damn.

First the poor girl had to endure the deceitfulness of that shit-spitter Mark. Now she couldn’t seem to pull herself out of the cesspool he’d created. Kate had a sudden image of Hannah standing at the bottom of an outhouse pit, staring helplessly at the light coming through the hole but unable to climb toward it.

Pathetic. Just pathetic.

Hannah hadn’t even hit thirty yet. She was smart and pretty and talented. And she had a perfectly healthy libido. Or at least she did have one, until Mr. Lie-my-ass-off started cheating on her at every turn.

Kate glanced at her makeshift altar, then at the skewed piles of erotic romance novels teetering on her end table, then at the altar again. She’d steadfastly refused, up to now, to work any sympathetic magic on Hannah’s behalf. She wanted her niece to take off and soar under her own power. But maybe a little boost wouldn’t hurt…

Getting up from the chair, her jewelry tinkling like wind chimes, Kate nudged her cat Blackthorn off the stacks of books. One volume tumbled to her feet. Hm. Maybe she wouldn’t have to rifle through the whole mess of them. Maybe this was the one she was meant to use.

Kate bent down to lift it off the floor. A paranormal. She glimpsed a bat in the background of the cover art. Some other strange stuff, too.

Uh-oh. This could be dicey. Sometimes her magic went slightly awry. Kate didn’t want her beloved niece to end up with some wacko. Or, worse yet, a genuine creature of the night. But holy hot damn, that cover model was one nice piece!

Still weighing the risks, Kate carried the paperback to her altar. If she really concentrated, and she used the proper combination of candles and incense, words and mental energy, everything should be all right.

Now, what music to put on? Dr. John? No, that might not be a good idea. Kate thought if she could extract the gris-gris from his music and leave all that other voodoo spook mojo behind, she wouldn’t have to worry about the song lyrics combining too powerfully with that paranormal romance. But she wasn’t adept enough at witchcraft to do such a thing. A lot could go wrong. Hannah didn’t need to get balled by a zombie. Shit, she wasn’t Anita Blake.

Kate squinted at her cat. After she’d rousted Blackthorn from the books, he’d leapt to the back of the sofa and stretched out there. He met her stare with a lazy blink. Jefferson Airplane, the cat suggested. Grace Slick singing "Don’t You Want Somebody to Love?" and "White Rabbit."

"What does ‘White Rabbit’ have to do with Hannah’s situation?" Kate asked, confused.

That one’s for you. The other song is for Hannah.

He gave her another blink. Or maybe a wink.

Feed your head.

"Good idea."

Kate swished over to a group of hand-crafted Ojibwa baskets tucked beneath the bottom shelf of a bookcase. They held her stashes of candles, incense, oils, and potentially useful trinkets. Her record collection—and oh, how she loved that vinyl—was on the shelf just above. Carrying what she needed back to the altar, she detoured to her turntable and carefully placed the correct album over the spindle. The tone arm and stylus seemed to find the LP’s first groove like…well, like magic. So far, so good.

Gleefully rubbing her hands, Kate scurried back to the altar. She didn’t have to cast a Circle. She already had one laid down on the worn oriental carpet. Made up of various thrift-shop necklaces and bracelets, it frequently got jagged out of line. Sometimes the vacuum cleaner sucked up a segment or two. Sometimes Blackthorn took a fancy to one of the pieces. But what the hell. The original shape, Kate figured, still lay invisibly beneath the broken and squiggly physical outline.

One more thing. She needed a picture of Hannah. After a final trip to the bookcase, where her photo albums also lay, Kate was ready to begin some serious witchery.

She lit the candles she’d chosen, one red and one white. She set three cones of incense—jasmine, vanilla and cherry—in a shallow brass dish engraved with a Greek key design, and lit the cones. On a piece of fine stationery, she scribbled down an appropriate summary of the spell’s most desirable outcome. She clipped this handwritten statement over Hannah’s photograph, then clipped those two pieces over the image of that drop-dead gorgeous model.

On a whim, Kate dripped some melting wax from the red candle onto her altar top—actually, an old library table she’d gotten at an auction. She rolled the soft wax into a cylinder about one inch long and an eighth of an inch thick. Grinning at her ingenuity, she stuck one end of the little tube on the book cover, right at the model’s crotch. Whoa. Dude was hung now. Some of the wax had smeared across his pelvis, but that shouldn’t make any difference.

Kate carefully set the book with its clipped-on additions into a small, cast iron cauldron. She snuck a glance at her wall clock. Gotta pick up the pace. Riley was coming over in an hour and she had to prepare for his arrival. The man was fourteen years her junior—threw a mean fuck, too—so she wanted to look her best.

Feeling rushed, Kate murmured an improvised incantation and touched a match to the paperback. Grace Slick warbled in the background. Blackthorn dozed.

"Shit!"

Flames began to curl over the whole book just as Kate realized she should have removed its cover. God only knew what weird-ass characters and situations were contained in that novel ... not to mention others by the same author. She focused with all her might on the model alone and tried to will away any unwanted influences. But, hey, Riley was coming over. Who could blame her for being a little distracted?

New Day, Good Day

A lakeside summer idyll,

a budding romance . . .

and jealousy gone horribly awry.

(Available NOW at Liquid Silver Books. Click on post title to get there.)

Jude in Chains

My novella, Jude in Chains, is now sitting in a few publishers' computers. The fact it isn't laden with explicit sex scenes -- it's just erotic enough to suit the needs of the story -- sort of limited my options. I also found it a bit dispiriting, yet again, that certain outlets are closed to me, since I've never been "invited" to submit to them. (Reminder to self: must find out whom to blow; wouldn't hurt to remind them I know when to use "who" and "whom.")

I don't know how this one is going to be received. It's a contemporary, but it might strike some editors as heavy fare due to the theme -- the "ex-gay" movement. Don't know if you're all aware of it or not. It's a truly hideous effort that's been mounted by various conservative, homophobic organizations -- both here and, I think, in the UK -- to turn queers into straights. I tried not to be too ham-handed in my treatment, although it's difficult to underplay the seriousness of this situation, and I believe the protags are engaging. But ya never know with publishers.

So anyway, following is the blurb. Wish me luck!

* * * * *

Hoping further to expose the fallacy of "reparative therapy" for non-heterosexuals, writer Misha Tzerko has enrolled in a week-long program at the Stronger Wings Camp and Conference Center in Arkansas. He's already lost his long-term boyfriend to the ex-gay movement, and for the sake of his own closure as well as his job at Options magazine, Misha hopes to get an inside look at the nondenominational ministry established by C. Everett Hammer III.

Contentedly gay, Misha has always been a player -- except when he committed to his only real relationship. But when Robbie abandoned him for straight life complete with wife, Misha's promiscuity began to peak as his emotional landscape flattened.

That’s all about to change. Misha is shocked and dismayed to see another man from his past at Stronger Wings, a man with whom he’d had two brief but captivating encounters. Although Misha knows he can’t save every registrant in the Stronger Wings program, he becomes determined to save Jude Stone.

No matter what it takes.

Bastards and Pretty Boys has a publisher!

Thrilled to announce that my contemporary m/m romance, Bastards and Pretty Boys, has been accepted by Liquid Silver Books. This will be my second book with them. (InDescent was the first, but the two stories are not related.)

I'm really growing fond of this company. Its incredible staff practically radiates professionalism combined with personal warmth, and they're all so very, very helpful. LSB is a real boon to the e-publishing community . . . and that ain't no bull.

An Interview with Jackson Spey

I decided to repost this, since Jackson (and Adin) will soon be reappearing.

Late last fall, I tracked down this elusive man and pulled him out of hiding for a moment. It wasn't easy, and he wasn't overly cooperative.

* * * * *

Hard to believe the wizard is a master craftsman and the master craftsman is a wizard. Actually practices magic and pulls off some stupendous stuff. I had a couple of beers before going to his woodshop just to take the edge off. And what the hell? Milwaukee is a good place to be drinking beer. I'd thought of bringing along a fifth of Jack Daniels, his drug of choice, but I know he doesn't drink when he's working. Besides, he's making a whole lot more money than I am and can well afford to buy his own booze.

I'm nervous, no denying it. This is a coup. Jackson Spey is intensely private and a bit intimidating. His sense of humor can get razory without warning. I don't know quite what to expect when I push open the door of his shop, tucked into a long, low, nondescript building in a central industrial valley.

Machinery isn't droning. When I walk in, I know why. Jackson is seated at a drafting table nearly hidden in a corner to the far right. As soon as he hears the door grind open, he stands and approaches me. The place smells like a logging site. I don't have time to examine his work, but I know it ain't cookie-cutter. This stuff is custom designed and handmade, one lathe-spin, plane-stroke, and chisel-gouge after another.

No wonder he has such phenomenal patience.

Seeing him is a shock. I've always known he's tall. Still, in person he's . . . tall. Being a shade under six-three isn't all that extraordinary, but the man's build and the way he carries himself seem to add a ruler full of extra inches. And then there's that slightly sinister facial hair. As neat as it is, it gives him a dark-lord look. The long braid is gone now. Thank God, I think, that he didn't opt for a lawyerly trim. His wavy hair, a little mussed, caresses the base of his neck.

Jackson might be flirting with middle age, but he still has presence. Even the simple black t-shirt and faded jeans contribute to it. I feel giddy as soon as I lay eyes on him.

"I was almost hoping you wouldn't show up," he says with a disarming smile that's bracketed by parallel creases. He extends a large hand toward me. Slightly roughened, it feels the way his voice sounds. His grip is firm and welcoming . . . even though, I suspect, he has an aversion to this kind of attention. Or most any attention.

"Thanks for agreeing to meet with me."

Inscrutably, he nods. The smile has shrunk but it's still there. Sitting on the stool in front of his drafting table, he rests his left arm on the surface and braces his right hand on his thigh, fingers pointing toward his crotch. His heels are hooked onto a crossbar. His legs are spread wide. The "pose" isn't intentional; it's just a comfortable position . . . I assume. But I can't help thinking of some lines from the movie This Is Spinal Tap -- Nigel pontificating about tight trousers and armadillos and fearful girls who run screaming . . .

"Alone this weekend?" I ask, treading lightly on the words.

"Mm-hm." He cocks his head into a laconic shrug. "Like most weekends. It's better than going out and getting drunk on my ass."

"Does that bother you?"

His smile resurfaces on a tilt. "That I don't go out and get drunk on my ass? Fifteen years ago it might have."

"No, I meant being alone." Why am I explaining? He knows damned well what I meant.

"I don't have a problem keeping busy."

It's a deft side-step. I almost let it pass. "Still, I suspect you wish Adin were here." What I wisely don't say is, Instead of two hundred miles away, in a cozy chalet with Celia.

He makes a throat-clearing sound, twists slightly to the left, picks a pencil off the table, taps it a five times -- three taps then two -- drops the pencil, faces forward once more. I can see that's all the answer I'm going to get. Morse Code?

His gaze drifts past me, maybe to one of his works-in-progress. Or maybe to something that can't be seen.

"How is Adin, by the way?"

"We're not joined at the hip, you know."

Just as I'm thinking, But you sure as hell would like to be, Jackson drops his head forward and gives it a little shake. His smile is different now, and it underscores a subtle eruption of pink on his cheekbones. I think I hear him whisper, "Shit."

Now I'm waiting for his eye color to start shifting. It's some wizardly little quirk. Occasionally, the natural hazel of his irises is swamped by one of its components -- smoky topaz, jade, amber. The gold, I've heard, can get pretty intense, depending on his mood.

"I think this would go smoother," he says, "if I slapped some duct tape over my mouth. Or maybe over yours. That way we could just look at each other while you make assumptions about me. Not to mention the man whose name you at least know how to spell correctly." He turns down his head to scratch an eyebrow, his head partially resting on his fingers, but his eyes are still turned up to me.

If it weren't for the two Sprecher Black Bavarians I'd poured down my gullet, I'd be indignant. And uncomfortable. Instead, I veer amenably onto neutral turf. "So . . . bike still running well?" Jackson rebuilt a 1972 Harley shovelhead chopper. It's his second lover -- not that he would put it that way.

This topic clearly pleases him, but he still seems wary. "Like a champ. Of course, it's stored for the winter now."

"Have you ever gone riding with--"

Abruptly, he groans into a chuckle. "Women." His dark brows hitch up on the word.

"I beg your pardon?"

In lieu of an explanation, he leans sideways toward his desk, yanks open a drawer, and pulls out a fat, silvery roll of tape. His eyes aren't quite hazel anymore.

* * * * *

"For most of my career, I've enjoyed following certain characters from one story to another. I say 'following' because when characters come sufficiently alive that I want to write more about them, it does feel as if I'm trailing along behind them recording their adventures rather than making them up."
~ Poppy Z. Brite

Jackson's chronicle thus far spans six books, in this order: Hoochie Coochie Man (main character), Cemetery Dancer (secondary character), Plagued (secondary), Tormented (secondary), Obsessed (main), Elevator Magic (secondary). The next installment of his saga -- and it's a big one -- is InDescent. His story is far from over. Same is true for the man whose name I at least know how to spell correctly.

Bastards and Pretty Boys

Ex-wife, ex-boyfriend, ex-con, and one screwed-up psychotherapist. So who gets the pretty boy?

Moreover, who's going to end up publishing this m/m contemporary? That's not an issue . . . yet. I'm about two-thirds of the way through Bastards and Pretty Boys.

Edited to add: BaPB is completed and on the Submissions Train.

For Your Holiday Pleasure

I'll be guest blogging December 5 at Jenyfer Matthews' place. Jen's a fellow Cerridwen Press author. I've published three contemporary romances through Cerridwen, so, given the time of year, I decided to focus on Mrs. Claws, a romantic comedy that touches on some serious (hell, even philosophical) issues.

Mrs. Claws isn't about glamorous people. No billionaire sheiks or rock stars. It's just a very romantic, funny, and (I believe) thoughtful story about an ordinary woman's attempt to overcome the holiday blues.

For what it's worth, this novel received five angels from Fallen Angel Reviews and five blue ribbons from Romance Junkies. Please join me! (Click on the post title to find Jen's blog.)

RIP

One of my books is no longer in the left column--an old-school, sweet romance that's always been near and dear to my heart and touched some readers, as well. Wha' happen?

Well, you see, I'd been selling Silvermist through an outfit called eBookLove. It was kind of like a microscopic version of All Romance eBooks, except the rights for all titles posted there had reverted to the authors (meaning there was no publisher behind them). I'd contracted directly with eBookLove to sell Silvermist. Since I'd received no statement in recent months, I hopped on over to the site . . . only to discover it no longer exists!

This is no big deal, really. Silvermist, as it stands, is too much of an anachronism for today's market, and the rights to it are still mine. But I was rather disappointed to realize that the site's owner, my first editor in e-publishing, never bothered to alert authors about eBookLove's demise. It's rather embarrassing to tell readers a book is available when it has, in fact, evaporated from cyberspace.

Anyway, I'm curious about what other writers do or have done with earlier works that aren't under contract. Ditch 'em? Rewrite them to bring them more in line with today's tastes? Cannibalize them and use characters, settings, and/or descriptive passages in other works?

OBSESSED doing well, thank you very much.

I'm enormously grateful for the reception Obsessed has gotten. Bitten by Books and Rainbow Reviews gave it high marks. Raine at Joyfully Reviewed really, really liked the sex scenes (I'll spare you the rave, although it tickled me). She concluded with, "Do not miss out on Obsessed. I loved it!" and went on to give it one of these big, pink, recommended-read rectangles.

I was particularly moved by the following words from a reviewer at Literary Nymphs:

Obsessed surprised me. I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, but by the end, I realized how deep a story it is. Adin is an admirable man -- very loving toward his [girlfriend], but unable to shake the growing love for his best friend. Jackson possesses more than just physical strength, especially at the end, but it’s Celia who shines, even if she doesn’t take center stage. As someone who understands Adin’s plight, I couldn’t help but adore Celia for her loving, trusting acceptance of who he is and what he feels.

The love scenes are amazingly hot, but it’s the ending that got me. The very last scene has a beautiful, tear-inspiring, sweet moment. You’ll just have to read it.

So, thank you one and all. That goes for ordinary readers, too. The saga of Adin Swift and Jackson Spey is far from over. The steam has not yet dissipated (well, hell, considering they only see each other for a three-day weekend every couple of months, small wonder their hormones go into overdrive when they're together!) And their unique arrangement is not getting easier as time goes on. The groove is getting rougher, not smoother, the longer they proceed on its track. Jackson, still the emotionally guarded one, is having more difficulty than he'd like to admit . . . to Adin or himself.

Once I finish my current contractual obligations, I'll be getting back to the big novel in which these men next appear together. Hope I'll be able to find a publisher for it. The story is the most emotionally intense and psychologically tangled one to date, and with some dark humor, as well. Celia will also be checking in at some point. Not sure when, though, or how.

There's fantasy. And then there's fantasy. And . . .

Long ago and far away, a man named Carl Linnaeus created a a system of taxonomy for classifying all living creatures. Remember it from your biology courses? The "kingdom, phylum, class, genus, species" -- and then some -- breakdown? Well, modern popular fiction has a taxonomy of its own. For example, there's no such thing as plain old fantasy anymore. I'm afraid I don't have the time to be as meticulous about categorization as Linnaeus was, but here are some distinctions I've noticed.

• Earthbound fantasy, historical. It takes place in the past, usually the distant (Arthurian or medieval) past, on our own planet.


• Otherworld fantasy, historical. It takes place in an alternate or parallel world, very much like earth, in a place and/or time period that has a feel similar to those on earth.


• Earthbound fantasy, contemporary, usually urban


• Otherworld fantasy, contemporary, usually urban


• Earthbound fantasy, futuristic, urban and/or interstellar


• Otherworld fantasy, futuristic, urban and/or interstellar


• Fantasies with and without epic battles


• Fantasies with and without female "heroes"


• Fantasies with and without dragons, faeries, elves, etc.


• Steampunk

Okay, I'm already tired. So which do you like best? I'm torn.

As I wrote my Galdeshian fantasies for Ellora's Cave -- Wing and Tongue, Cauldron of Keridwen, and Prince of Glacier Glas, I became immersed in the world. Even my authorial voice shifted, as if it had an automatic transmission, to reflect that world. These stories fall into the second category above, and they all have dragons. I adore writing about this "other-place" and its unusual society and inhabitants.

But when I wrote Hoochie Coochie Man, in the contemporary-urban category, I loved it, too. And I love InDescent, a work-in-progress, passionately.

But wait, there's more! Now I'm creating a futuristic urban fantasy series for Loose Id. The first volume, Looking for Some Touch, will be released in early November. And it features men with men, yet another sub-category of fantasy that's only recently begun to shine. Am I crazy about this series? Well, take a guess.

So, I repeat: Which type of fantasy do you prefer? Can you come up with other classifications?

A GHOST STORY

I wrote Gray Man, a ghost story, because I love ghost stories. And there are precious few of them in the realm of erotic romance. This one isn't scary--too much creepiness could easily have overshadowed or negated the romance factor--but it does have a touch of eerie. More important, it has a big serving of hope.

Coincidentally, there's a great guest-blog by Josh Lanyon, and follow-up comments, at Jeanne Barrack's spot, The Sweet Flag (http://thesweetflagmenlove.blogspot.com/).

Gray Man is coming out Friday, August 22, at Changeling Press. Here's the blurb, which is followed by an excerpt:

* * * * *

Emma Moore’s vacation along the lower New England seaboard had everything to do with bolstering her flagging relationship and nothing to do with finding ghosts. But when an eerie entry written in archaic script shows up in her diary, she suspects it might be related to the shadowy figure suddenly clinging to her boyfriend’s back.

A shockingly orgasmic ride on a theme-park roller coaster and the mystifying utterances of a psychic stranger only strengthen Emma’s suspicion that something, or someone, is going bump—and hump—in the night. Getting to the bottom of this disturbing yet compelling phenomenon seems her only recourse.

Leaving her lawyer-boyfriend behind in Boston to pursue his work and possibly an affair, Emma returns to the historic Connecticut inn where the intensely passionate Gray Man first appeared. What she discovers and experiences there bring her the most wrenching sadness and exhilarating hope she’s ever known . . . and the realization that there are no bounds in time and space any more than there are in the ocean that lies beyond her window.

* * * * *

As soon as her eyes opened to the sharp sunlight of a late-September morning, Emma realized she’d neglected to do something very, very important last night. Not only had she forgotten to stash her diary, she’d—

Oh shit.

Shooting a quick glance at Alan, who seemed to be sleeping soundly, Emma slipped out of bed and into her bathrobe and pattered as quietly as possible to the sitting room. Easing open the door, hoping its thin squeak wouldn’t wake her companion, she rose up on the balls of her feet and took three long strides to the desk. Sure enough, the diary still lay there, wide open.

Emma reached out to snatch it and stuff it into her pocket. Her arm froze in midair.

Beneath the final line of her entry, a single word had been written in a jagged, archaic script.

Yes.

Emma’s breath stopped. A prickling sensation wound simultaneously from the back of her neck and her solar plexus to the middle of her spine. As her skin pinched into gooseflesh, she shot a look over her shoulder. Was this Alan’s way of reassuring her? Had he altered his handwriting to make it in keeping with a seventeenth-century town?

As unlikely as it seemed—the man was singularly devoid of both whimsy and imagination—it was the only explanation Emma could come up with. Either that or she’d turned into a sleepwalker with multiple-personality disorder. Cautiously lifting the diary as if it might shock or burn her, she tiptoed back to her suitcase and once again secreted the book.

But her surprises had just begun.

"Getting ready to leave?"

Emma spun around. Alan, his face peppered with a sandy growth of whiskers, was sitting up in bed, watching her. He ran both hands over his head and stretched backward. Emma’s shock gave way to curiosity. She squinted, peered at him. There was something—

He frowned. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Why indeed. Was his body casting a shadow against the headboard? Emma’s gaze shifted to the windows and followed the course of the incoming light. Yes, it was possible. But… "I, uh, was just wondering how you’d look with a beard and mustache."

Alan’s right hand immediately went to the lower half of his face and rubbed it. "Don’t even go there," he said.

"Alan, did you happen to get up in the middle of the night and go into the sitting room?"

He gave her a puzzled look. "No. Why would I do that?" Sliding to the edge of the bed, he yawned, scratched the middle of his chest and got up. "I slept like a log last night." He shuffled toward the bathroom.

Emma’s mouth fell open as she followed his progress. The shadow that was behind him in bed was still behind him, hovering at his back like some gauzy gray kite he was toting over his shoulder. It had a vaguely human form, but taller than Alan’s. Taller and unsettled, like a swath of fog.

~~~~~
From Gray Man, coming August 22 from Changeling Press
Copyright (c) 2008, K. Z. Snow

I took a break from "teh HOT"

Once in a while, I feel a need to take a brief vacation from the passions of the body and concentrate on the passions of the heart. Guess it's my inner child trying to express herself. So, to that end, I wrote All That Is Right, a contemporary fairy tale now available from MojoCastle Press (click on the post title to go to the publisher's page).

Following is the first chapter, in which the main characters are introduced: a dying man from a time long past; a modern woman tired of enduring her husband's abusive behavior and on the verge of divorcing him; that woman's twelve-year-old daughter, who hopes to help her mother through magic; and a modern middle-aged man suffering from vivid, terrifying dreams.

Here 'tis.

ALL THAT IS RIGHT

He fought to ignore the lightning scorching his belly and the thundering of pain through his limbs. I am dying; surely I am dying ran like a song through his mind. Oddly, the refrain helped numb him.

Firelight licked the damp, lumpish walls that arched all around. Murmurings filled the air, melodic whispers and sighs, as if the fire’s fingers had coaxed voices from the throat of the earth. He took a labored breath and forced his mind into clarity. The throat of the earth . . .

Slowly, he turned his head to the left, to the right. He was lying on straw. It rustled beneath his skull and poked into his hair. He squinted into the gilded, dancing darkness. The ceiling seemed festooned with flowering vines. But he was not within an arbor. The blackness seemed studded with winking stars. But he was not beneath the sky.

Then he knew.

It was roots that hung from the ceiling, roots both thick and fine, entwined with flowers. He tried reaching out to touch them but his arm felt as heavy as a bloated boar. Suddenly, the scent of the flowers wafted over him like prayer--foxglove, cowslip, primrose--and he could smell the wedding of their delicate fragrance with the rich, heavy breath of the soil. He knew, too, that the surrounding glimmer came from stones, smooth and shiny and veined with crystalline colors, purposefully embedded in the earth to adorn this space.

The Folk had brought him here. This was one of their sanctuaries. They were everywhere around him, melding with the shadows. They were keeping vigil.

A cool, thin hand, light as the call of a nightingale, covered his forehead. Someone spoke in a strange language he strangely understood.

"Myklwyn, do not struggle so. Surrender to the embrace. Much love and promise lie within it. But first . . ."

* * * * *

Twelve-year-old Daisy Austen stood before the makeshift altar she had fashioned from two empty beer cases and her old toybox, which now housed all her ritual paraphernalia. Once again, but distractedly this time, she wondered if she should paint over the mincing, pastel fairies that fluttered across five of its sides.

The voice of her stepfather, like a series of muffled sonic booms coming through the walls, redirected her attention.

With trembling fingers, she hastily lit five candles--white for peace, red for courage, green for harmony, blue for protection, pink for love and romance--and a stick of sandalwood incense, then tapped her silver-plated baby spoon three times against a small, engraved brass bell that had once hung around the neck of her best friend Sonja’s potbellied pig. Sonja had donated the bell to Daisy’s "cause" after Link the pig’s expanding neck began to envelop it.

"Shut up!" the voice boomed through the wall.

Startled, Daisy dropped the spoon. For one mercifully fleeting second, she’d thought the command was directed at her.

"No, you shut up," she muttered, bending over to retrieve the spoon from the littered carpet. "Better yet, I’ll shut you up."

She needed the spoon. The brass bell had no clapper. The man behind the voice behind the wall had pulled it out one day.

Straightening, Daisy decided to dispense with formalities. She couldn’t remember them all, anyway, when she felt this pressured. Immediate action was necessary, so she would have to wing it.

Once again, she must try rescuing her mother from Devil Dale’s demonic clutches.

* * * * *

Julie was not going to cower. It may have been in her best interest to do so, but it certainly was not in her nature. Neither was she going to lash out and further provoke Dale. So she sat stoically on the bed, eyes lowered and hands clasped in her lap, and let him rant. Like a firecracker, he’d soon burn himself out. It was inevitable. He’d been drinking.

"Look at me when I’m talking to you!" he shouted, bending so near her face she could make out individual hairs in his mustache and beard and could tell exactly what he’d been drinking. Once her eyes were turned up to him, he moved away, satisfied.

Julie immediately turned her gaze to the mirror over the dresser. She had an absurd desire to comfort the woman she saw there: About forty-five, I’ll bet, and never beautiful--but, at one time, pretty . . .

Unconventionally pretty, with straight hair that never could seem to settle on one color but insisted on blending every hue in autumn’s palette, and with large eyes that did the same. The face had never been graced with symmetry, but kind Nature had compensated with outstanding cheekbones, an assertive-without-being-masculine dimpled chin, an "interesting" nose, and clear skin with a single small, coquettish mole between the left corner of the mouth and the ear. One tooth slightly overlapped another, giving her a charming, impish smile.

But look at her now--hair without luster, eyelids creased and weighted from sleeplessness and tears, face at the mercy of gravity, exhaustion, despair. And she doesn’t smile much anymore.
I have to do something to help her.

* * * * *

He couldn’t help her. In blurred fragments, it was coming back to him now. He had not been able to protect the imperiled woman, and he somehow knew these were her kin.

Had they sought retribution? Is that why he was imprisoned here, beneath a hill, in torment? Is that why he was urged to accept death?

"No," a voice replied, like a breeze soughing through the dense silence. Other, similar voices echoed the denial, until they were all chorusing, "No. No, Myklwyn, no."

They had read his thoughts! If only he could remember more clearly what had happened, how he had failed, why he was languishing on this bed of straw beneath a dank canopy of tangled roots. And how could it be that he was still clinging to life, however tenuously? Why and how and by whom was he spared?

"We did not inflict your wounds," said the same voice, an elder male voice both gentle and firm. "And we do not know why you were spared or who, if anyone, rescued you. We simply found you and brought you here."

The man was standing beside him and was likely the one whose hand had earlier touched his forehead. He heard the tinkle of jewelry, saw the glint of gold, copper, silver as the soothing hand once more descended. But the hand seemed ghostly, insubstantial, and the bracelets, only a little less so.

"Is this a troop of the Dynion Mwyn?" he ventured to ask, "of the race Tylwyth Teg?"

"Yes."

"Please, allow me to see you."

"You can and will see only as much as you are able--no more, no less. Most men do not see us at all. But you are not like most men, Myklwyn."

Ah, but I am, he thought. Most men feel pain. And all men die.

A vast weariness overcame him, and he let his battered body relax into the crude bed of straw. His pain seemed to be seeping into it. For this, he was grateful.

"Not yet, cousin," his companion whispered, close to his ear. "First you must remember."

He no longer wished to. It would be too agonizing. Nearly oblivious, he merely exhaled his answer. "Why?"

"Because it will bring you both peace and a sense of purpose before you begin the last, most wondrous leg of your journey. If we never face our shortcomings and learn the nature of our errors, and never take that knowledge to heart, we can never have hope of correcting those errors. And such correction is the key to a cleansing of the soul that leads to true peace in the afterlife."

"Redemption," Myklwyn sighed, not knowing, or caring, why that particular word had issued from his mouth . . .

*

The alarm rang and Butch Thomas jack-knifed forward, blankets tumbling from his sweating torso. He ached all over. He slid his half-open eyes to the right and saw 5:30 staring back at him with a boldly taunting, green luminescence.

"Damn," he groaned, dropping his head to his hands. "I am so sick of this shit."

He'd been sick of it for a good long while--not only this dream that kept tormenting him, but what he knew its aftermath would be: When he shambled into his bathroom and took his first tentative look into the mirror, he would see, or think he saw, a faint shadow of that battered man's face within his own reflection.

It was, as usual, a hell of a way to start the day.

* * * * *
Excerpt from "All That Is Right"
Copyright © K. Z. Snow

Two Excerpts ~ Same Scene, Different Viewpoints, Part I

First time I've done this. (Part II, by the way, is directly below.)

The following excerpt from Tormented features Rahenna, the diseased female vampire, lurking on the roof of Adin Swift's chalet at his 30th birthday party. She witnesses a tantalizing scene on the patio below. Although she can see what's going on, she can't hear what's going on . . . and it maddens her.

* * * * *

Rahenna was about to descend to the lawn when something caught her eye. Easing down, she alit on the roof of the house and peered into the backyard.

Adin had come out onto the patio. He turned off the grill. Jackson Spey rounded the corner of the house. Smiling, the two men immediately approached one another. Like magnet and steel, Rahenna thought, wondering why she had a sense of that kind of attraction. She waited to hear the words they spoke…and soon realized she couldn’t.

Normally, with accurately trained concentration, Rahenna would have been able to listen to their conversation. Her sense of hearing was as keen as her other senses. But their voices were silent to her ears. She suspected the wizard was shielding Adin and himself from any eavesdropping. But why?

The reason quickly became clear. Spey’s hand suddenly slid to the back of Adin’s head, into his hair. They looked as if they were about to kiss.

Magnet and steel indeed.

The air instantly thickened with sexual tension, with unfulfilled, long-festering desire. Like tongues of flame, it lapped at Rahenna’s cool skin. Her pussy creamed as she waited to see what would happen. Her respiration accelerated. The points of emerging fangs touched her lower lip.

By the gods, how she wanted to have both these men while they had each other! It required a titanic exercise of will to keep from swooping down on them. She knew she should stop watching—the temptation was unbearable—but the potential here for spontaneous, unbridled passion was riveting. Still, both men kept reining in that passion. The strain of their control was palpable.

Jackson's hand finally fell to his side. He and Adin again spoke in low tones. Rahenna again couldn’t hear them. She saw Adin raise a hand to the other man's chest. It was an intimate gesture, perhaps even covetous. He said something.

Within moments, Spey turned away. He dropped into a near-by chair, his legs parted, and grasped his head in both hands. Adin walked over and squatted before him, bracing himself on the other man's knees. They exchanged more words. Clearly, Adin was cajoling Jackson. Rahenna could only imagine why he was trying so hard to be persuasive. She felt Adin’s hunger for the man. It gripped her as surely as it gripped him. She felt the restlessness that shimmied through his loins and stirred his cock. It drove her to distraction.

Her mind shouted to Spey. Give in to it, damn you!

As if in response to her silent command, Jackson shook his head. Soon, he rose to his feet and Adin followed suit. A new feeling slammed against her—Jackson’s arousal. Adin’s closeness and Adin’s words had stirred him. He was struggling to ignore the lure of his friend. He wanted Adin as much as Adin wanted him. Each man’s hoarded desire seemed to bounce off the other’s, like two balloons bloated with water.

Jackson gave Adin a quick, fraternal pat on the shoulder. Then, shoving his hands in pockets, he turned away and sauntered off toward the woods. Adin watched him for a moment before re-entering the house.

~~~~~
Copyright (c) 2008 K. Z. Snow