promotions

Aug

2013

Cover reveal — From Dusk 'til Dawn.

I’ve got a novella coming out next week. From Dusk ’til Dawn is part of the For the Love of the Gods anthology from Ishtar Press, the romance imprint of Pagan Writers Press. From Dusk ’til Dawn will be released as an e-book stand-alone novella, then will be rolled into the print anthology.

And here is the LOVELY cover that Angelique Mroczka made for me!

And the blurb:

When Delan stumbled into the Temple, he wasn’t expecting to be welcomed as a Temple servant. He wasn’t expecting his only duty to be to serve Lyander, cloistered son of the High Priestess. He wasn’t expecting to fall in love.

And he wasn’t expecting that he was going to have to choose: love, or saving the world.

If you are on Facebook, you can check out the virtual release party, starting August 16th.

Jul

2013

William, meet the Succubus…

Another excerpt from House of Sable Locks.

****

William entered the room on Madame’s heels, expecting a laboratory, and eager to see what the famous Simon Carstair’s personal workshop would look like, if it would be anything like the man’s workshop at the Academy. He was taken aback for a moment when the room that they entered seemed to be nothing more than a large garret, full of draped furniture and cast off odds-and-ends. Then he saw the draperies along the walls, and rising above them, the machines. He walked forward, staring upwards, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Then what looked like a random arrangement of gears and pipes and wires suddenly resolved into something familiar, and William realized what he was looking at.

Slowly, he looked over his shoulder to see Madame standing by an odd object d’art–a shining metal statue of a reclining nude woman, lying on a wide velvet couch. Madame had a small smile on her face; she nodded once when William went to speak.

“You recognize it, I see?” she asked.

William looked up again. “This cannot be possible. We cannot be standing inside a Cerebral Engine. Can we?” His eyes followed the ever-shifting dance of gears that towered over them, remembering when he’d sat shoulder to shoulder with his father, learning how to build and maintain a much smaller version of this incredible machine. That one had given the Tin Men life, and had kept the hill stations safe from the uprisings. Until Rupesh…

William turned abruptly to face Madame, shoving memories of India away. “This is quite impressive.”

She nodded and smiled. “I thought you would find it so. Now, allow me to present you to the Succubus.” She gestured to the statue, stepped back, and folded her hands, a beaded reticule swinging from one wrist.

William blinked, momentarily taken aback; his memory brought to the forefront of his mind a conversation that he’d had with his father after the frustration of a day of making social calls with his mother. He could almost hear his father’s deep voice in his ear: Most of the time when someone puts you in an uncomfortable position, they’re trying to get the upper hand, prove they have some kind of power over you. It’s petty, but some society people like that kind of game. If you show them you’re confused, they win. So… brazen it out, Will. Confuse them, instead.

Brazen it out, indeed. William stepped forward and bowed slightly to the figure on the couch. “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, my lady.”

For a moment, there was only the churning of the machines. Then that sound was broken by a breathy laugh that seemed to come from all around them, and a pleasant woman’s voice said sweetly, “My, he is polite, isn’t he?”

Startled, William took a step back; he stumbled and would have fallen if something hadn’t caught him around the body and steadied him until he could stand again. He looked down and saw a thick metal cable wrapped around his waist. As he watched, it uncoiled and vanished into the floor.

“Good Gad…” he murmured. “It… she speaks?”

“She does a great deal more than speak,” Madame said with a laugh. “You’ll be spending your first night in this house with the Succubus. From this point on, William, your consent is assumed, and your body…” she looked at him appraisingly, her eyes sweeping over him in such a way that William felt his face grow warm “…is at her disposal until such time as you leave. It will be that way whenever you come to call. Once your collar is locked on, you are a slave to the house and your consent is assumed in all things. Do you understand?”

William swallowed, feeling too hot. His shirt collar was suddenly too small, his trousers too tight. He swallowed again, tried to answer and had to cough to clear his throat to speak. “I understand. What do I have to do?”

Madame reached into her reticule, drawing out a length of silver chain. Before she could say a word, William was on his knees, fumbling to bare his throat for her. She looked startled at his reaction, but recovered quickly, moving towards him and looping the collar around his neck. William shivered as he heard the lock click, his eyes closing as the cold metal slowly warmed against his skin. He heard her moving away, the door open and close, and then nothing else.

“You’ve been trained,” the Succubus murmured. “This will be entertaining. Stand, my darling, and take off your clothes.”

* * * *

I watch him as he retreats to the chair near the door and starts removing his clothing. He does so with a surprising grace, and a complete lack of either self-consciousness or shame.

He has done this before.

He still strikes me as young, and I wonder who would have taken a mere boy and trained him to the collar, left their mark etched indelibly in his skin. There is a pair of odd, round scars on his collarbone, and as he strips off his drawers, I see it: a brand, just below his navel. It is a strange and exotic thing, sinuous lines that look like some kind of script; unlike the twisted horror of a scar that mars his thigh and inhibits his stride, the brand enhances his pale beauty. Such a brand, and in such a place, could only have been placed there by whomever it was who had taken him in hand. It is shocking and thrilling all at once, and it occurs to me that I have never before had a paramour who has come to me knowing full well what to expect. My William knows, and he is as eager and as nervous as a new bridegroom, his cock erect, his breathing quick, a most attractive flush on his skin. He is ready for what I have to offer, ready to offer all that he is on my altar.

“When you are finished, my dear, come and kneel before me.”

* * * *

William laid his clothing over the chair a piece at a time, lining his boots up underneath just so before removing the chain that he wore hidden beneath his shirt. He cradled the rings in the palm of his hand for a moment–his father’s heavy signet ring, his mother’s wedding band–then tucked them safely into the pocket of his discarded coat. He was debating removing the ring from his hair when the Succubus spoke, “When you are finished, my dear, come and kneel before me.”

He turned at the sound of her voice, his eyes once again rising to study the mechanism that soared over his head. He closed his eyes and let the steady rhythms of the machines wash over him, echoing his own rapid heartbeat. Opening his eyes, he started forward, limping more than a little from the strain climbing five flights of stairs had put on his leg. But he refused to let the old injury stop him, and he dropped to his knees three paces in front of the couch, arranging himself for punishment as he’d been taught: upright on his knees, his legs spread slightly, his wrists crossed behind his back, and his head bowed to the silver goddess before him.

“Lovely.” It sounded to William as if the Succubus was whispering in his ear, and he wondered how she did it. Thoughts of pneumatic larynxes and valve-driven speech were dashed from his mind when rigid metal shackles rose from the floor to clamp around his ankles and knees, locking him in place. They were followed by a supple metal ribbon that dropped from the ceiling, one end slithering down William’s spine to coil tightly around his wrists, invoking memories of heavy wire biting painfully into his skin, the smell of the cigars that Rupesh had stolen from William’s father, the searing pain of the brand that Rupesh claimed would mark William as his. Caught in the memory, William whimpered slightly and, as if in response, the ribbon slowly started to draw his wrists up and back, stopping only when William’s arms were almost parallel to the floor, his upper body tilted forward against the strain on his shoulders. When at last the pull stopped, the Succubus spoke again, whispering into William’s ear, “How long as it been, my darling, since you were last properly beaten?”

William shivered, feeling something stir inside of him that he thought had died in India with Rupesh. When he spoke, his voice cracked slightly, “Four years, Sahiba…”

“Sahiba?”

William licked his lips slightly, “It means… my lady. Or… Mistress. In Hindi.”

“Ah. Four years, you say?” she asked. “Tragic. And you obviously need it so badly. I promise you, my pet, you will never be so sadly neglected again.”

There was a sudden movement in front of William, and he looked up to see a metal arm swinging a crop experimentally. He caught his breath, then heard the whistle of a second crop cutting the air; craning his neck to see over his shoulder, he could see another arm, another crop raised and ready to strike.

An involuntary moan escaped William’s lips, and the forward crop came forward in response, gently trailing up his abdomen. “I cannot say this will not hurt,” the Succubus said. “But really, isn’t that the point?”

Jul

2013

House of Sable Locks — an excerpt

Here, meet William.

***

There was barely enough light to read in William Sotherby’s tiny garret room. The cold autumn rain traced paths of silver through the grime on the tiny window; perhaps if it rained all week he’d be able to see again without squinting. When the townhouse had belonged to his father, this tiny room had housed an upstairs maid. Now the room offered William a modicum of privacy, although it could not shelter him completely from the disapproval of his guardian, his late mother’s brother. William sat on the bed with his left knee to his chest, staring out the window, one hand gently massaging his aching right thigh in what had become a reflexive gesture over the years. He tried not to think of the argument that had occurred over breakfast–his uncle had once again refused to allow him return to Paris and his studies at L’Académie des Sciences Mécaniques. He tried not to think of Dieter and Colette, waiting for him in the ramshackle apartment that the three of them had shared for the happiest months he’d had since he’d left India. He tried not to think of the station in India where he’d spent his childhood, or of dark-eyed, duplicitous Rupesh, his beloved betrayer. He tried to think of nothing at all, and as usual, failed miserably.

There was a knock on the door, which set the crooked, creaking door to swinging and allowed another young man to enter. The newcomer stopped just inside the doorway and cleared his throat. “I heard you had another row with my father,” he said quietly.

William didn’t turn. “He’s being unreasonable, Gerald. It’s been two years since Mother died. It’s been nearly six months since we all put aside full mourning. There is no reason why I shouldn’t be able to go back to university.”

Gerald shoved his hands into his pockets. “You could finish your studies here. Aunt Beatrice would have been happy to see you at Trinity…”

“That’s not true and you know it,” William interrupted. “My mother wanted me to attend the Academy. She wanted me to be an Artificer, like my father was. That was my father’s dearest wish, and she agreed with him.”

“But–”

“Gerald, you know as well as I do why Uncle James wants me here. He wants to keep me and my inheritance under his thumb for as long as possible. If I go back to Paris, he won’t be able to spend my allowance anymore. Once spring comes, and I’m of age, he won’t have access to my money at all. Not that I wouldn’t be happy to provide for you. You’re my family, and Heaven knows that the money is there. But that’s no reason to keep me… practically a prisoner in my own home!”

“Wills, that’s unfair–”

William snorted, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Really? How many calling cards have been left for me since mourning ended, Gerry? How many invitations? How many letters from my friends in Paris? Or reports from Jennings? You might know. I don’t. The only reason I know that Uncle doesn’t show them to me is that the day before yesterday I found one of the reports on the grate. It didn’t burn completely. Along with a draft of a letter to Jennings that was supposed to be from me, to which I can only assume Uncle signed my name. He really does need to be more careful when he’s burning papers.”

Gerald looked shocked. “He what?”

“You didn’t know?” William looked up at his cousin. “You really didn’t know, did you? Well, where did you think the money for Lucy’s dowry came from? I don’t begrudge it; Lucy deserves to be happy, and Henry Overton is a good man. But it would have been nice if Uncle had asked me.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t know, Wills.”

William snorted and shook his head, running his fingers through his unruly blond hair. “It doesn’t matter. So long as Jennings keeps hold of the purse strings, Uncle can’t completely spend my inheritance the way he seems to do his own salary. I’m surprised, though. You didn’t know that Uncle is using my inheritance to pave your way into Samantha Delaney’s bed?”

“William!” Gerald sounded shocked. “There’s no need to be coarse, or to insult my fiancée.”

William blinked in surprise. “She said yes? Congratulations, Gerry.”

Gerald smiled, holding up a folded piece of paper that he had taken from his pocket. “I was coming to tell you. Get dressed, Cuz. We’re going out.”

“Out?” William repeated, his voice spiraling up in shock. He reached for the walking stick that leaned against the head of the bed and got to his feet. “You’re taking me out? And Uncle agreed? But he never lets me leave the house!”

“I didn’t give him much choice, Wills. I told Pater that it’s time that people see you, or they’ll be wondering why they haven’t when the time comes for Lucy’s wedding and mine. He may be after your money, but not at the expense of your place in society.”

William arched an eyebrow. “Should I be grateful?”

Gerald smirked at him. “You should. I was going to take you to the club with me tonight so we could celebrate. But now… I’m changing my plans.” He smiled. “Trust me.”

* * * *

The cab left William and Gerald at the door of a once-fine mansion in a part of London that William didn’t know.

“Where are we?” he asked, looking around curiously, trying to see the surrounding houses through the sickly yellow fog that was steadily growing darker with the coming dusk.

“Close enough to Whitechapel that it makes no difference,” Gerald answered.

William turned to look at the now-closed gate. “Whitechapel. Isn’t Whitechapel where they’ve been finding all those dead men?”

Gerald winced. “You’ve been reading the newspapers?”

“I haven’t had much else to do, Gerry. Is it safe here?” William looked around again, feeling a thrill of dread. The newspaper stories had been lurid, the fodder for many a nightmare, reporting of the bodies of unidentified young men that had been found in various places in Whitechapel, the last as recently as the week prior. Each body had shown a variety of minor injuries, bruises and broken bones, no two bodies the same, and none of the injuries enough to have killed a man in good health. The cause of death had been obvious, and had been identical in each case: each man had been gelded, and then completely, methodically, stripped of his skin. The author of the last article had opined that the men could very well have been flayed alive.

“Yes. It’s safe. Here, at least,” Gerald answered. He looked at William and frowned. “Wills, if you’re invited back here, you take a cab and have them leave you at the door, and have them call a cab for you to go home. Outside of these walls is not a place for someone like you to be wandering around alone. You’d be eaten alive.”

“Someone like me?” William repeated. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Wills, you’re far too trusting. It’s endearing, but if you’re not careful, it will get you killed someday. Especially out there. Especially now.” Gerald nodded towards the wall, then turned and started up the stairs towards the front door, missing the pained look that flashed over William’s face. The door opened as Gerald reached it, and he turned and smiled at William. “Come on, then. I told you, it’s perfectly safe.”

William tightened his grip on his walking stick and followed Gerald up the stairs, trying not to favor his lame leg as he entered a lavishly appointed entrance hall that matched the neglected exterior of the house not at all. The Turkey carpet was rich and plush under his feet, and the draperies on the windows were heavy, of wine-dark brocade that set off the polished dark wood of the floor and the tables along the walls.

“Gerald, where are we?” he murmured softly, turning to catch a glance at the servant closing the door. He stopped, frozen, as a silver figure that hummed and clicked softly moved away from the door and disappeared into another room, closing that door behind it. He stared at the closed door for a moment, then turned to his cousin, who was smiling broadly.

“I knew you’d like it here, Wills,” Gerald said with a laugh. “Now come and meet Madame. You’ll be taking tea with her. Just… be yourself.”

“Gerald, what are you doing?” William followed his cousin up the stairs to the first floor and into another well-appointed room, this one obviously a woman’s sitting room. William looked around, a large portrait of a lovely young woman catching his eye from where it hung over the fireplace.

“You pointed out that you haven’t had… many opportunities to do much socializing, so you’ve probably never heard of this place. This is the House of Sable Locks.”

William coughed, more than a little surprised. “You brought me to a brothel?”

***

For your copy, check out Circlet Press.

Feb

2013

Welcome to the insane asylum.

If you’re new to the area, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Elizabeth Schechter, and I am a writer, artist, jeweler, wife and Mom.

I write erotic romance, and have one novel out as of right now, that being the award-winning Princes of Air (honorable mention is so an award!) I also have a boatload of short stories (I have had to stop counting). You can check out my Bibliography over here.

As an artist, I worked on several pieces for the Chivalry and Sorcery role-playing game (If you check out this image, I did the sword, the pendant and the bowl). I used to exhibit at science fiction conventions, but I haven’t for quite a few years now.

I have an Etsy site, for when I’m being sparkly. Everything there is handmade, which means I don’t get nearly as much done with that as I used to, since my hands are usually on the keyboard now.

My hardest job, though, is also the most rewarding. And the one that I’m most afraid of screwing up! That’s my job as Mom. I have a very smart, very energetic little boy whose favorite thing to do when he was small and I was working was to come up behind me and say “What are you writing, Mommy?”

If you guessed that I was usually writing something he shouldn’t have been reading at that point, you have much to go on. I had to stop writing around him once he could read (at age three).

I glossed over the wife part. Happily so, for almost sixteen years. My work as a writer amuses him to no end. He’s my first reader, and my worst editor (the man is a grammarian. I love him to bits, but sometimes, the comma has to stay! That being said, my editor loves him to bits, too. He makes her job easy!)

That’s me, in a nutshell. An odd duck, a pervy fetish writer, and the last mom you ever would expect to be composing BDSM sex scenes in her head whilst on the playground with her son. I’ll be posting a few things about my writing, my other interests and my process, and capping it off next week with a Q&A about my upcoming work, House of Sable Locks, a steampunk erotic romance coming soon from Circlet Press.

Want to be part of THE NEXT BIG THING BLOG HOP? Then contact me here!

Nov

2011

New Release Date!

I was told today the technical whatever is fixed, and we now have a new release date.

Princes of Air will now be available on Sunday, November 20th!

In addition, starting November 17th or thereabouts, I will be having a guest spot in the Circlet Press Livejournal Community, wherein I will unveil a surprise created especially for the book launch. (Not telling. Just teasing.)

Nov

2011

Excerpt: Princes of Air

Okay. First off, a reminder. Due to technical difficulties, Princes of Air DOES NOT release today. Soon as I know when, I’ll let you all know.

Remember what I said last week about it getting harder to find an excerpt without spoilers?

Yeah, this week? Durn near impossible. So, there’s one SMALL spoiler in this one. What we have here is part three of Princes of Air: The Raven and the Fox.

Remember Turlach the charioteer? He does indeed get to meet Petran the harper, the Morrigan’s middle son. Petran, for reasons I’m not going in to here because that would be a HUGE spoiler, has been fighting the mate-bond he feels for Turlach. This is where he gives in.

Oh, and as a note: Petran’s song to Turlach is adapted from two songs found in the book The Love Songs of Connacht, collected and translated by Douglas Hyde, and published in 1904.

****

“I understand now. Except for where I don’t.” He looked at me quizzically. “Petran, we’re bonded already. Even if you decide to never seal the bond between us, it’s too late. We’re mated. I know it. You know it. How does denying it protect you at all? If something happens to me, the bond is still going to be severed.” My jaw dropped, and I realized just how right he was, and just how stupid I had been. Turlach laughed at the look on my face, then leaned over and kissed me gently before saying, “Petran-my-love, you’re an idiot.”

I stared at him in shock, and his lips twitched. A moment later, we were roaring with laughter, great whooping gales of mirth that cut off abruptly when Turlach kissed me, pushing me backwards onto the bed. He straddled me, catching my wrists in his hands and forcing them over my head, pinning me to the bed. I didn’t struggle, even though I could have overpowered Turlach easily. Instead I let him take control, losing myself in his touch and in the taste of his mouth, as sweet and as tart as good cider. His tongue caressed mine and I moaned against his mouth.

“Turlach?” I heard Diarmuid’s voice and felt Turlach stiffen in surprise. He rolled off of me and sat up, letting me rise so that I could see my brother in the doorway, his eyes wide.

“A Ri?” Turlach said slowly, his face crimson. He glanced sidelong at me and tried not to smile.

“I… ah…” Diarmuid started, then shook his head and grinned. “I came to tell you that we heard from Dun-Righ. Your father is fine. He sends his regards.”

Turlach let out a long breath and slumped slightly; I reached out and squeezed his shoulder. He smiled his thanks at me and then turned to Diarmuid. “Thank you, A Ri.”

“You’d best start calling me by my name, I think,” Diarmuid answered. He gestured at the two of us. “I’m glad to see that you two have… settled your differences,” he said, smiling. He left, and I leaned back on my elbows and laughed. Turlach lay down next to me, pressing up against my side and draping one arm over my midsection.

“I’m glad, too,” he said. “Shall we continue to settle our differences?”

“Not here,” I answered, rolling towards him and kissing him quickly. “My house.”

“Why there?” Turlach asked, getting up and helping me to my feet.

I slung my arm over his shoulders and steered his towards the door. “Because my bed is bigger,” I answered. “And because my harp is there.”

“Your harp?” Turlach stopped and looked up at me. “You’re going to play for me?”

“If you’d like that,” I said, tugging him along with me. “You get to decide if you want it first or after.”

“Oh, such decisions!” Turlach laughed as we walked. Inside my house, I let Turlach make himself comfortable while I took my cloak off and laid it aside, then took my harp from its box. As I lifted the harp, the dried flower fell out onto the floor; Turlach stooped and picked it up and handed it back to me.

“Is that the rose I put in there?” he asked, sounding surprised. I smiled and nodded, sitting down with my harp in my lap. It had been a long time since I’d played, and it took me longer than I’d thought to tune it to my satisfaction. When I looked up, I was surprised to see Turlach stretched out on my bed, completely naked. He smiled and stretched like a cat, posing for me.

“What’s this, then?” I asked, leering at him.

“I thought it would save time,” he answered, visibly preening under my gaze.

“It’s distracting.”

“I could put my trews back on,” he offered.

“No. It’s also inspiring,” I ran my fingers over the harp-strings, just barely touching them with my nails, thinking about Turlach, about what I felt for him, what we could have together. The words rose up within me, struggling to be free. I smiled and started to play:

Oh, love of my love, do not hate me,

For love, I am aching for thee;

And my love for my love I’ll forsake not,

O love, till I fade like a tree.

Since I gave thee my love I am failing,

My love, wilt thou aid me to flee?

And my love, O my love, if thou take not–

No love for my dear love from me.

O dear love, take my love,

Love of my heart, thy love,

Love without fear or failing;

Love that knows not death,

Love that grows with breath,

Love that must shortly slay me;

Love that heeds not wealth,

Love that breeds in stealth,

Love that leaves me sorrowing daily;

Love from my heart is thine, and such a love is mine

Is found not twice–but found, is unfailing.

I finished, rested my hand over the harp-strings to dampen the sound, and looked up to see Turlach staring at me, slack-jawed. I blinked in surprise and set my harp aside. “Turlach?”

“That… that was beautiful,” he whispered. “All for me?”

I stood up and crossed to the bed, sitting down and pulling him to me, whispering into his ear, “All for you. Always for you. I’m sorry, a shiorghra.”

The endearment made him smile, “Forever? I like the sound of that.”

I nodded. “It will be forever. When you become my mate, you take on my immortality.”

His eyes widened, “Immortal. But…?”

“We can be killed, but we stop aging at some point. I think at about forty or so. Diarmuid hasn’t really changed much in the past few years,” I answered. “Now, is forever acceptable to you? You won’t get tired of being married to an old harper?”

Turlach sputtered amusingly for a moment, then stopped and pointed at me, “You… you’re teasing me!”

“Yes. Yes, I am,” I answered, grinning.

He laughed and started tugging on the lacing of my jerkin. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

Oct

2011

Excerpt: Princes of Air

This is getting harder — pulling excerpts that DON’T have spoilers in them!

Now, I’ve been told that there is a technical problem, and the book may not drop next week as planned. It will still be sometime in November, though.

So, here is another tease — an excerpt from part two of Princes of Air: The Courtship of the Raven King. In this part, the oldest of the Princes, Diarmuid, has decided that it is time for him to take a wife. But first he has to find her, and he’s taking advantage of a royal wedding in the hopes of meeting the right woman. His brothers have… volunteered him to guard the baggage, so instead of flying, he’s riding in a chariot. And things don’t go the way they were supposed to (do they ever?)

Part two of Princes of Air. Coming November from Circlet Press.

****

The next day was uneventful, and much more bearable. I spent most of the morning in the air, pacing the chariot and keeping watch that way, until we reached a part of the road overhung with trees. I could no longer see clearly, so I landed and rode with Turlach in the chariot. The previous night seemed to have opened the way for us, and he was much more talkative today, telling me about himself and about the country through which we drove. He was just twenty, he told me, younger than I’d originally thought. He was the son of a charioteer, and he himself had been a charioteer since he’d turned fifteen. My lack of a charioteer of my own fascinated him, until I told him that I didn’t even own a horse, and wouldn’t know what to do with one if I did.

“You’ve really never handled a horse?” he asked, amazed.

“What need do I have for a horse?” I asked in response. That drew a laugh out of him, and he offered to teach me to drive.

“Not here, though,” he amended. “This road needs watching, and we’ll be in the bogs soon. Tomorrow, in the forest. Now, tell me more about this brother of yours?”

“You’re very single-minded,” I accused, laughing. He laughed with me, then graced me with an innocent smile.

“I’m a charioteer. The horses do all the work when we’re not in battle. What else is there worth thinking about?”

“Petran is twice your age,” I pointed out.

He went from innocent to wanton in a moment, leering at me, “Even better. I like older men. They have more experience, and they know so much more. I can’t wait to meet him.” He glanced at me. “Why are you going to Dun-Righ so early? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”

“I don’t mind. I’m hoping to find a wife.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding sagely. “And you’re hoping that one of those high-born fillies at Dun-Righ will suit you?” He shrugged, “I watch them, even though they don’t interest me. And you’d be better off looking someplace else. Those girls… all they want are a high-born husband to give them children and status and a baile of their own to rule. There isn’t much… substance to them. They’re all silk and paint and not a brain in their pretty heads. Do you understand me?”

I nodded, frowning slightly, “I do. I’ll have to see for myself.”

He glanced at me sidelong, then shrugged, “If you think you must. But I’ll warn you. I’ve seen too many good friends taken to bits by those high-born bawds. Guard your heart and your purse, Diarmuid Ri na Fiach dubh.”

His epitaph amused me. It wasn’t often that people actually called me what I am–King of the Ravens. In my own home, I was simply the oldest brother. In the village of Scath, I was the overlord and protector. Outside that circle, I didn’t know what was said about me and mine. I’d never thought to ask, never had anyone I could ask who would be able to answer me truthfully.

“Turlach, what do you know about us? About me and my brothers?” I asked, suddenly curious beyond measure.

“Just what they say,” he answered, shrugging slightly. “I’ve heard a lot of things. People tend to talk around us, you understand? This is the most conversation I’ve had while driving in years.” He frowned, obviously thinking. “I’ve heard that you’re all sons of the Battle Queen. I’ve heard that you’re normal men, and that you just claim to be Her sons, and that you make people believe you through trickery. I’ve heard that you’re all great sorcerers, and that you have the High King in your thrall. It’s the first that’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. There’s something about you, something… different. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before,” he smiled and met my eyes. “Let me know if you ever decide to get a chariot. I’d be honored to drive for you.”

I smiled back at him, “And does that offer have anything to do with my brother, the harper?”

He managed to look affronted before breaking into laughter, “Perhaps a little. But I like you, too. None of the high-born I’ve driven have ever been so…” he paused for a moment, then shrugged one shoulder, a most raven-like gesture. “…So friendly. Most of them don’t care anything for someone who isn’t as high-born as they are.”

I nodded. I had the same impression of many of the people I’d met in Eogan’s court. “I understand. I like you, too. And I’d be honored to have you drive my chariot. As soon as I get one.”

He laughed again and drew back on the reins, drawing the horses to a stop, “I’ll hold you to that, too. Now, we’re about to enter the bogs. I’ll need all my attention on the road, and you’ll need to keep a watchful eye. There are bog-men in there who prey on travelers, and we’re too tempting a target for them to let us pass. I’m going to drive as fast as is safe, but still…”

“Bog-men?” I looked at the road ahead and stared in shock–there was no road! “Turlach…”

“There are markers on the safe passage,” he answered my unspoken question. “I know what to look for but I need to pay attention. And yes. Bog-men. There are safe ways to get a small party through the bogs, but no way to safely bring through a large enough attack force to clear out the bog-men.” He frowned slightly and looked at me, “I’m going to need to go pretty fast, and it will be a rough trip. Will you be all right?”

I took one of the light spears from a socket built into the side of the chariot and grabbed hold of the chariot rail with my other hand, “I’ll be fine. Go.”

He grinned, then shouted to the horses; the chariot lurched forward and into the bogs.

* * * *

I am never riding in a chariot ever again.

I still planned to get one, and to bring Turlach into Dun-Morrigan as the charioteer, but I swore in my mother’s name that never again would I ride in one of these torturous contraptions. That was what I repeated to myself as we bounced and jolted through the bogs, following a road that I couldn’t see. I never once saw the markers Turlach mentioned, never knew just how it was that he was navigating without having us end up drowning in the murky waters that I knew lurked under the mossy surface of the bog. I couldn’t see how anyone could ever live in this place–either Turlach was telling tales, having fun at my expense, or these bog-men he mentioned were all mad. But I kept my watch, even though there was nothing to see. The land around us was flat, with few, sparse bushes. There was barely anything that could hide a man, let alone a band of bog-men.

Up ahead, I could see a line of trees growing steadily closer, and knew that we’d be out of the bogs soon, and into the great forest where we’d spend our last night on the road. I scanned the area ahead of us, then glanced behind. As I turned, a sudden movement caught my eye–I turned back and saw nothing but more scrubby bushes waving in the breeze.

Just as I realized that the bushes we had already passed hadn’t been moving, that there was no breeze, the bog exploded. Men surged out of the water, shedding their camouflage and brandishing spears and swords. I hurled my spear and killed the one closest to us, then had to grab for the rail as Turlach snapped the reins and urged the horses into a gallop.

“They won’t follow us into the trees!” he shouted. “We’re almost there!”

I nodded, holding on with one hand and taking another spear with the other, watching the way we had come to make sure that there was no one following. I heard Turlach shout, turned, and had just enough time to see the fallen tree that had been hidden from view in a natural dip in the road, and the armed men there. Before I could do anything, Turlach screamed and fell, a spear in his shoulder. I fumbled for the reins and dragged back on them as I’d seen Turlach do, but we were going too fast. There was no way to stop. The horses leapt, clearing the tree easily.

The chariot was not as lucky.

My last memory was of the chariot hitting the tree, and of being thrown through the air. I’d been trying to save Turlach, and hadn’t shifted to raven form, so I fell, landing hard on my right shoulder. I remembered hearing something crack, then everything was swallowed by pain and darkness, and I knew nothing more.

Oct

2011

Another excerpt from Princes…

The countdown is ticking away. Here’s another bit to whet your appetites:

Excerpt from Raven Boy, part one of Princes of Air, coming 11/1/11 from Circlet Press.

*****

My name is Niall. I am called Niall Gobha, Niall the smith, and I am the youngest of the Raven Boys, having seen only nineteen summers come and go. Youngest and most foolish, I admit that now. I’m told that there are others like my brothers and me, other children of foreign gods, who also wear their seemings in their skins, and who can take those skins off and walk among men as we do. There are swan girls, I’ve heard, daughters of some river god whose name is unknown to me, who live far to the south and west, and who act as guardians for some treasure hidden beneath the waters. To the north, there are the great gray seals who live in the wild northern sea and only come on land once every seven years to mate with mortal kind, and with whom my oldest brother Diarmuid claims to have spoken in his travels. I wonder now if any of them have fallen as I have done?

As I said, I was a fool. Never did it occur to me that the men who live in the lands that surround Dun-Morrigan, our mountain baile, would learn that there was a secret that we hid in the folds of our raven-feather cloaks. Never did I dream that there could be anyone even half so clever as one of the Morrigan’s sons. Never did I ever think that there would be a mortal so daring, or perhaps so foolish, that they would think they could challenge the child of a goddess and win. And if my brothers, older than I and wise in their years, had ever thought to warn me of such things, then that warning was lost in the reckless arrogance of youth.

Yes, I was arrogant as well as foolish. I admit that, too. I will also admit to being blind, but for that blindness, there was a reason that had its roots in more than my age and my inexperience. Ravens dally where they will, but when they mate, they mate for life, and the woman who would have been my mate had died two years before. It was a harsh thing, to know at seventeen that you were doomed to spend the rest of your life alone, with neither wife nor children to warm your autumn years. The pain of that loss still haunted me, for I’d lived with Sorcha and her father, the smith Cormac, for three years while I’d learned the smith’s craft and the ways of forge magic. Somehow, in all that time, I never realized what Sorcha meant to me, never knew that somehow, some instinct had pinned all of my future happiness on her crooked smile. It was half a year before I understood the meanings behind the ever-increasing erotic dreams that had kept me from sleeping since I’d left Cormac’s forge, before I took wing to return to my red-haired beauty and make her my own. But by then, it was too late; when I landed on the hill overlooking Cormac’s forge, the ashes had already been cold for weeks. To this day, I’ve no memory of how I returned to Dun-Morrigan. All I know is that I spent the next six days hiding in the rafters of my forge, refusing to take my human form, barely eating, sleeping only when I could no longer keep my eyes open. My brothers eventually puzzled out what had happened, and I heard them whispering as they watched me, murmuring “inadvertent mating” and “pining away” in tones that made me want to scream. Somewhere in the middle of the sixth night, I slipped from my feathers and slept as a human in my own bed for the first time in a week; and woke the next morning howling with pain and sorrow, my dreams haunted by the image of Sorcha dying in flames.

There are, I’ve found, benefits to taking my human form over my raven one. Thumbs, for one. And that morning, I discovered another: ravens cannot cry. I wept for what felt like hours in Diarmuid’s arms, until at last there was nothing left inside me, save only an emptiness that I knew would never be filled.

Some, faced with that emptiness, try to fill it with their craft, but working at my forge brought me no peace. There were too many memories there, memories of my lessons with Cormac, and of Sorcha working at my side. She had not a drop of forge-magic, but her skill at fine-work, at delicate filigree and the excruciatingly painstaking art of granulation that I never mastered, was unsurpassed. After a month of seeing ghosts in the shadows, I cleaned my forge and then left it to gather dust, moving to sleep on the floor of the house belonging to my next oldest brother, Maelan. It was he who first brought me down to Scath, the village below Dun-Morrigan, and to the tavern there. There, I learned that mortal men sometimes attempt to fill the void with wine or strong ale, but I also soon found that ravens have no head for drink. I succeeded only in making myself shamefully ill, and in losing my virginity to a sweet girl named Bride, who listened to my ravings, heard the pain beneath them, and tried to offer healing the best way she knew. In her arms, I found something approaching the peace that I craved, and she and I were lovers for months. She taught me with a gentle hand, urged me to tell her about Sorcha, and helped me mourn. When she eventually married the miller’s son, I fired my forge and gifted her and her new husband with every piece of metalwork that they could possibly need for their new home. They named their first son Niall, an honor I wish I deserved.

After Bride came Maeve, a bard as wild and intoxicating as the warrior queen for whom she was named. From her I relearned passion, and I learned again how to laugh. She knew I would never truly love her, and she didn’t care–she lived for the moment, and when she tired of me, she left, leaving me with a kiss, a song that she had written for me, and a lighter heart than I’d had in a very long while. And yet, as the snow faded to a memory and the trees all turned to green, I could feel the old, familiar despair start to creep back into my soul. That was what drove me into the skies, and into the arms of the woman who would prove to be my downfall.

* * * *

It was a spring so new that it was still raw around the edges, and I had taken wing to dance among the clouds, once again trying to flee from my memories. I hoped to find a maiden in the fields, one whom I could entice into my arms for an afternoon with promises of pleasure and a golden trinket or two, and who might find me pleasing enough to want more than an afternoon. In one of the hidden pools that dot the hills, I thought I found what I was seeking: a woman, bathing in the cold, clear water. She was graceful as a willow, with full breasts and long, nut-brown hair that streamed past her waist. Not as beautiful as Sorcha had been, but pretty in her own way. I perched on a branch above the pool and watched her, trying to decide how best to approach her without causing her any alarm. That was when I saw a man creeping through the high grass towards the water’s edge. I saw the sunlight shining off the blade in his hand, and called a low warning to the woman in the water. She looked up at me and laughed, then turned and waded towards the shore, where I could see her clothing waiting. As she reached the water’s edge, the man rose, a cruel look on his scarred face, his knife ready. I forsook discretion and was on the wing before the woman had a chance to scream, changing forms in mid-air and landing in front of her with my sword bared and ready. The would-be rapist gaped at me for a moment, then took to his heels and ran.

At any other time, I’d have followed him, done more than simply frighten him into flight, but I was unwilling to leave the woman alone after her fright. My lust cooled, my thoughts turned instead to protecting an innocent, and I sheathed my sword and turned to face her. Up close, she was prettier than I’d previously thought, with a spray of freckles like gold dust across her nose, and rich, hazel eyes. And, to my surprise and amusement, she was a full three fingers taller than I was.

She stared at me for a moment, then her eyes flickered over my shoulder towards the distant mountain and she sank gracefully to her knees. “My lord, thank you,” she said as she slowly looked up; I was startled to see her gaze lingering just below my belt. When she finally met my eyes again, she smiled. “May I know the name of my rescuer, oh Prince of Air?”

Intrigued, I held my hand out to help her to stand. “Niall. Niall Gobha mac Morrigan. What’s your name? And where do you live?”

Her smile grew wider as she took my hand. As she got to her feet, she ran one hand up my arm in a firm caress that left goose-flesh in its wake. “A smith. I should have guessed that,” she murmured. “You’re so strong. My name is Arlaith inghean Eochada.” She gestured towards the south, “My home is on the other side of that hill. It’s not far.”

I nodded and stepped back, feeling the heat of her touch as sharply as if it was the flames of my own forge, and trying very hard to ignore it. She’d nearly been attacked–the last thing she would want was my attentions. I stooped, picked up her gown, and held it out to her, “Here, dress yourself. I’ll see you safely home.” She took the gown, and I turned away to allow her privacy to dress.

“You were watching me,” she said, and I couldn’t tell if she was amused or angry.

“Yes, I was. I apologize,” I admitted, feeling a flush of embarrassment. I’d never been caught spying on someone before.

To my surprise, she took my arm again, turning me to face her. I could see her gown abandoned on the ground behind her. “You saved my life. How can I offer any complaint?” She moved closer to me, a small smile on her face, a flush growing on her cheeks. “Tell me, my hero. Is there no way I can repay your kindness?” She took another step, pressed her body against mine, wrapped her arms around my neck, and kissed me.

Oct

2011

Excerpt: Princes of Air

Princes of Air comes out in 11/1/11 (I love that date — of course, I’m slow and I JUST realized I have a binary release date yesterday…) So, I have three weeks to ~~tease you all~~ do promotion. So, I thought I’d start you all off with the prologue. Here’s a taste of what’s to come!

****

In ages past, the gods and goddesses of ancient Eire walked the wide world, dallying with mortals and meddling in their affairs, causing wars and ending them, making alliances and breaking them, playing fidchell with living pieces. Some of these immortals, for amusement or out of boredom, chose to procreate with their especially favored mortals. Thus there came to be in Eire a race of demigods, who lived as part of the world and yet apart from it.

Such it was with the Morrigan, the Great Queen, Goddess of War and of Fertility. Nine Princes of Air there were, nine sons of the Morrigan, each gifted by their mother with the mortal magics of their unknown fathers, and with the power to take on human form or a raven’s wings, as it pleased them. When they took on their human guises, they walked as princes among men, each one a warrior, and each wearing a cloak of raven feathers that clearly marked them as Other. The Raven Boys, the old folks called them, those who remembered the days when the Morrigan brought the first of her sons to live in their mountain home. They remembered, and they warned the foolhardy against testing the mettle of the children of the gods.

Despite the warnings, there were those who never listened…

Sep

2011

The Night To-Do List

And you can read that as either The Night Kitchen or The Night Circus (which I am very eager to read, but has to wait until I finish The Magician King. And yes, Catherine Valente was right when she said the Quentin still needed to be smacked out of the book. I do like Julia, though.)

Heart’s Master is humming along nicely. I did almost 7000 words last week (6,999), which is good because I fell over with the flu Friday afternoon, and didn’t write a blessed word yesterday. I tried to take a day off on Wednesday, and still wrote over 800 words. Which just goes to show I don’t write because I want to, I write because I HAVE to.

In any case, I’m almost ready to start posting chapters to the ERWA Storytime board for critique. That will wait, I think, until mid-November, though. Princes of Air comes out in just over a month, and I will be doing promo (which will probably be starting either October 1st or the 15th. Watch this space!) The week after the book comes out, I am slated to do an Livejournal author chat on the Circlet Press LJ. So progress on Heart’s Master may just slow to a crawl.

So, on to the To-dos.

To Revise:

Nomad”s Moon (?) — Wait for response from small press

To Write:

Heart’s Master (used to be Drum Mage)
Playing For Keeps (short story to launch Tales from the Arena)
The Willow Sword
Sea Prince (To be written with Danielle Jones)
Wanderer’s Moon (next book in the Midnight Moon series. Not to be done until we sell Nomad’s Moon)

To Outline

Coral Throne (sequel to Sea Prince)
Hidden Things (Mystere Book 1)
The Lady and the Sword (Mystere Book 2)
Ashes and Light (Mystere Book 3)
Tablets of Stone (Mystere Book 4)
Rainbow Wars (the teach-in idea. Definitely a YA. And it needs a better title)
Holy Orders ( Sequel to Heart’s Master)

To Sell

Nomad’s Moon
Exile’s Moon
Silk Skin (short story)
Infernal Machine (reprint, sent to Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica)

promotions

Cover reveal — From Dusk 'til Dawn.

William, meet the Succubus…

House of Sable Locks — an excerpt

Welcome to the insane asylum.

New Release Date!

Excerpt: Princes of Air

Excerpt: Princes of Air

Another excerpt from Princes…

Excerpt: Princes of Air

The Night To-Do List

Works in Progress

Appearances

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