More on when a story doesn't work

Getting back to my revamp of a proposal after traveling to the RWA national conference.

In Chapter two I introduce Merrit's paranormal abilities and set up the plot point of Von Swaim's desire to control Merrit's talent. When doing a proposal its important to suck the reader in but you don't want to reveal to much too soon.

Chapter Two
“Cheeky sort wasn’t he,” the Earl said.
“Indeed!” the Countess exclaimed. “I always heard the Americans were rather forward.” Merritt folded her hands primly and kept her eyes upon her lap, as she well knew her mother’s mood.
“Accosting young girls on the street.”
“I hardly think he was accosting me.” Merritt boldly spoke out. “I consider it more as being polite.”
“Obviously they have no idea of propriety,” the Countess continued.
“Now Evelyn,” her father interrupted. “The young man was just trying to drum up business for the show is all. I’m sure any insult you imagined was entirely unintentional.”
“Imagined?” her mother gasped.
Merritt turned her head toward the window as her father winked at her. He had cleverly taken her mother’s mind off the cowboy and onto herself. It was no wonder he was such a success. He knew how to handle people. He knew what they were thinking and how to get them to come to his way of thinking. It was a gift that served him well, especially in Parliament. However when it came to his daughter the gift was useless. If only they would not worry so. If only they would just leave her alone. She had never hurt anyone and she certainly had never injured herself. If only she could just be what she was meant to be instead of what her parents and all of proper English society expected her to be. It just wasn’t fair. Not fair at all.
Harry moved the carriage along at a quick pace to make up for the delay. Merritt watched the streets as they passed. The snow from earlier in the day was nearly melted but a few patches remained on the shaded side of the street. What was left had turned into muddy brown water that trickled down the curbs and into the sewers below and eventually dumped into the Thames.
The streets were busy. The population of London had grown rapidly in the past few years, especially on the east side, which had become the haven for the poor. On the west side, where her family resided, people went about the everyday business of life. Tradesmen and solicitors, bankers and lawyers, governesses with their charges, all picked their way through the puddles on the street, rode their horses or were driven in a wide assortment of vehicles. Heavy wagons filled to the top with kegs and casks, boxes and bags stopped along the way to fill orders for the merchants. All in all a normal day in London, except for the fact that a herd of buffalo accompanied by cowboys and Indians had just passed by.
Another normal day for the normal people. What would it be like to be perfectly normal? Merritt could not even begin to imagine.
The carriage came to a stop. “We’re here sir,” Harry called down.
Merritt looked up at the tall building with the same feeling of dread that had been her constant companion since her parents informed her of their decision. A small sign hung over the door. Institute of Paranormal Research. Dr. Edmond Von Swaim.
They exited the carriage. Merritt gathered her skirts and reluctantly followed her parents up the steps with Rose and Jerry close on her heels. Did they think she would actually dash off down the street?
If only I could…But she could not. Any normal person would. But any normal person would not be here in the first place. She was not normal. She was paranormal. Or so her parents thought. They had latched onto the word as soon as they understood its meaning. They felt it explained her spells perfectly yet they wanted to be sure. They needed a diagnosis because with a diagnosis there could be a cure. It all made so much sense when they explained it to her. But now…that the time was nigh…it made no sense at all.
The door swung open before the Earl could lift his hand to knock. Her mother hesitated on the step before her as if she were suddenly afraid.
Imagine how I feel…Merritt knew they wanted to help her. They wanted what was best for her. They also wanted to protect the family from the whispering that went on when someone in their circle had experiences that were considered…objectionable. It would solve all their problems if Merritt had an illness that they could put a name too.
If only they would listen…if only they would ask…if only she were braver and stronger. If only she had been the one to die instead of her brother Christopher. If only…
The Earl took the Countess’s arm and led her inside. Merritt, always the dutiful daughter, had no choice but to follow. A butler, who stood a full head taller than her father, held the door open. His face was impassive, but Merritt could feel his eyes upon her. She marched straight ahead as her father looked upward and around, his eyes calculating the wealth of the Institute as one might inventory the jewels upon the neck of a dowager countess.
The foyer was a full three stories high. Before them was a grand staircase with a hall beside it that led back to a closed door. To the left was a closed door and to the right a sitting room. The fire was not lit, nor the lamps, and the heavy velvet drapes were drawn closed against the light of day. It all seemed very desolate and lonely even though the wood was well polished and the furnishings rich with ornate carvings and plush fabrics.
The sound of a clock ticking was overpowering in the sudden quiet when the door was closed behind them. To Merritt the sound was frighteningly omnipotent. She could not help but look upward to the source and saw a huge pendulum swinging directly over the door. The clockworks were above, on the third story behind a walkway that crossed from one side to the other. She could not see them clearly in the dim light but they seemed immense and complicated. Why would anyone need or want a clock that big?
A middle-aged woman dressed in a simple gray dress and white apron and wearing a white cap came down the impressive staircase and dropped a curtsey to her father.
“Dr. Von Swaim awaits you in the upper parlor,” she said. She spoke with a heavy accent, possibly German since it was known that Von Swaim was of German descent. “Your servants may await you in there.”
Her father started to protest then thought better of it. Merritt wondered if the overbearing presence of the butler had anything to do with his hesitancy. He motioned Rose and Jerry into the parlor. Jerry made it clear by his stance that he was not happy about the situation. Rose simply sat down on a sofa and let out a long suffering sigh.
“For privacy sir,” the woman said when they were settled. “Doctor Von Swaim has also canceled all of his appointments for this afternoon so you need not worry about anyone disturbing you during your visit.”
“Very well,” her father said. “Lead on.”
Merritt took a firm grasp on the railing as she followed her parents up the grand staircase. As she watched her feet climb the stairs her insides felt as if she were descending into a deep dark pit. Her parents had insisted on enough doctors in her lifetime to dread any thought of any type of an exam, especially one that was as mysterious to her as this. What exactly did a paranormal exam involve?
For once her mother kept her chatter to a minimum. She always used it as a mask but in this situation there was no place for it. There was no hiding the fear or intimidation that any of them felt.
The light was brighter on the second floor. Gas lamps lit the hallways and the curtains were open on the opposite ends of the building to let in the light of day. The woman led them across the landing from the staircase and opened a set of double doors.
Bookcases, two stories high, filled the walls on either side. French doors covered the back wall and opened invitingly to a balcony that overlooked a courtyard. Merritt could hear water bubbling below and imagined it must contain a fountain of some sort. Deep burgundy curtains hung beside the windows that flanked the French doors. An ornate birdcage made of brass stood upon a stand next to the window and a bright yellow canary piped a few notes when they were shown into the room. A large sofa also covered in burgundy sat along the wall on the right with wing chairs on either side. End tables flanked the sofa and were covered with an assortment of gewgaws made of brass and glass. Some seemed to be spinning; it would take closer examination to be certain.
The left side of the room contained a huge desk with two small chairs before it. The desk held a smaller collection of gewgaws and a large crystal prism that seemed to Merritt to be as long as her arm. There was a door built into the wall directly behind the desk and she could not help but wonder where it led. Into the bowels of hell?
“The Doctor will be with you presently,” the woman said and closed the double doors behind her as she bowed her way from the room.
“You think they would have offered tea,” her mother said as she sat down in one of the wing chairs.
“We are not here for a social visit,” the Earl reminded her.
“Well, yes, I realize that,” the Countess replied. “Still it would be the hospitable thing to do, considering.”
Merritt let mother’s words pass over her without a response. Her father turned his back on both of them and perused the collection of books that filled the shelf behind the chair. Merritt walked to the balcony to see if there really was a fountain beyond.
A large telescope sat on the balcony aimed upwards at the sky. A stool was beside it with a sextant lying upon it. The instrument of the sea seemed strangely out of place in such an enclosed area. The courtyard was enclosed on the sides with a high brick wall and another building stood behind it. Dr. Von Swaim must have use of both buildings as a door from it opened into the courtyard also. The back of it was plain and tall with small windows that were covered with iron grates and shuttered from the inside. A chill went down her spine as she looked it over. What was the purpose of closing off the lovely courtyard from view? And why the grates? Were they meant to keep people in or people out?
The courtyard was, as she first surmised before her inspection of the building beyond, quite lovely. A large fountain with a replica of the earth done in metals was the centerpiece and water spurted from the top and coated the sides before falling into the stone basin beneath. Japanese maples with tightly budded leaves graced the centers of four uniform triangles that formed the corners of the gardens and neat boxwoods hedged the sides with benches placed before them. A brick walk surrounded the fountain and freshly tilled earth between the two begged for plantings of colorful flowers. It was a heady contradiction to the heavy and overpowering massiveness of everything she had seen inside the institute.
She heard her father’s harrumph of impatience and turned to see what caused it. The canary peeped inquisitively as she stepped inside so she paused beside its cage.
“I imagine you wish you could fly away,” she said softly to the bird. It hopped from its perch high in the cage to another that was closer to her face. Its dark eyes blinked several times as it examined her.
“Such a pretty cage,” Merritt said. “But it is still a cage, no matter how pretty it is.” She turned her head and looked at the building behind the courtyard.
Still a cage…
The canary jumped from the bar with a loud chirp as the pressure of the room changed with the opening of the door. Merritt felt a cold breeze swirl over her face and the few tendrils of her hair that had escaped the careful attentions of her maid tickled her cheek when she looked into the room.
She recognized Dr. Edmond Von Swaim. (Describe here) How could she not? He currently was the darling of the social circuit and was often mentioned in the gossip columns of the newspaper. Merritt had been present at a few of the functions he attended, as he was a must-have on any guest list. He usually performed feats of hypnotism or other sorts of trickery at the parties that were expounded on at great length in the columns the next day. He had impressed her parents enough that after a few discreet inquiries, they had decided to take Dr. Von Swaim into their confidence regarding Merritt and her “spells.”
His answer? She must be examined immediately before her spells worsened or she did harm to herself. They were exactly the words her mother most feared, since she had been dreading the prospect for these many years.
Maybe he will have an answer…or even a cure…It was too much to hope for. Merritt watched as her father shook hands with Dr. Von Swaim, and her mother greeted him warmly.
Why do I feel such a sense of dread?
Usually she had a vision or warning sign if something bad was about to happen. In this instance there had been no warning yet she still had the feeling that something was horribly wrong. Perhaps the canary had the same concerns. It piped mightily, as if in warning, as Dr. Von Swaim approached her with his arms open wide. Did he actually mean to embrace her?
“My dear Merritt,” he said with a welcoming smile on his broad and ruddy face. His voice held just the slightest accent of his German origins.
Merritt held out her gloved hand so that he might take it, but also to keep him from encroaching upon her. He took her hand, clasped it between his two palms and gave it a firm squeeze. It seemed on the surface to be comforting but then again something about it disturbed her. Perhaps it was in the way he evaluated her. She looked into the deep-set blue eyes beneath the heavy blonde brows. There was no mistaking it. His demeanor was kind and friendly but he was calculating her worth, just as her father had when they arrived at the institute.
“Your parents have expressed their deep concern over your condition,” he said as Merritt carefully pulled her hand free.
“They trouble themselves over nothing,” Merritt said. “I have strange dreams, nothing more.”
“Nonsense,” the Countess said. “Who has dreams in the middle of the day? When they are often wide awake?”
“Come my dear,” Von Swaim said. “Sit and tell me of your dreams.” He stepped back and extended his arm, just stopping short of touching her back as if he would propel her forward.
Merritt suppressed a heavy sigh as she made her way to the sofa. There were no other options and there certainly was no escape. The only thing to do was get it over with as quickly as possible. She sat down and Von Swaim joined her. Her parents took position in the wing chairs on either side. Von Swaim sat forward, placing his body between Merritt and her father. It also placed his body between Merritt and the door.
“It would help me to know more of what you experience,” Von Swaim said. “Tell me of your dreams.”
It seemed too personal…too revealing…however he was a doctor. It was his intent to help her or so she hoped. If he could make the dreams, the visions, the spells, go away…Merritt looked at him hopefully.
“They are more like visions than dreams,” she explained. “I simply see things.”
“What type of things?”
She thought carefully of what she should say. It was all so confusing. Should she tell this man her deepest darkest secrets? Or would the basics be enough? It certainly would not hurt to share the things she told her parents. It wasn’t as if they had not already told him what they knew about her spells.
“Sometimes I see Papa at work talking with his friends…”
“About subjects that she should have no knowledge of,” the Earl interjected.
“Do you mean policy discussions? Von Swaim asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you bring home notes or letters that she would have access too?”
“No.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Merritt said. “I would never look at Papa’s personal papers.”
“You do read the daily,” her mother said. “That’s enough to feed anyone’s imagination.”
“She speaks of things during her spells that she has no way of knowing. How someone will vote, or who will side with whom. It is almost as if she knows the outcome before it happens.”
Indeed,” Von Swaim said. “Very curious. Is she usually right about the things she sees?”
“Almost always,” her father said.
If only they knew…
“Any other instances? Anything besides parliament?” Von Swaim studied her intently, his eyes moving over her face and down enough to make her feel uncomfortable.
Merritt shifted her body so that he was not so close, and not so oppressive. She shrugged. “There have been a few other things.”
“She saw poor Mrs. Poole drop dead,” her mother said. “Our butler’s mother,” she went on to explain.
“No, I did not see her drop dead,” Merritt interjected. “I simply saw her lying on the floor. Then I asked Poole if he had seen her lately.”
“And when he did she was dead.”
“Yes. She was.”
“Quite dead,” her father volunteered. As if anyone could be any deader than dead.
“Fascinating!” Von Swaim jumped up from the sofa and strode across the room as if he could not contain himself.
Merritt looked at the man in disbelief. Poor Poole had lost his mother and Dr. Von Swaim was looking at her as if she had just given him a fortune in jewels.
“Is there anything else?”
Merritt twisted her hands in her lap. She knew what was coming before her mother even said it.
“We have noticed things moving about sometimes,” the Countess said timidly. Merritt could not blame her for being timid. It would be difficult to believe unless one had actually witnessed it. Small objects did have a habit of falling off of surfaces or in one instance flying across a room when she was in the midst of one of her more troublesome spells.”
“Excellent,” Von Swaim exclaimed. He came back to the sofa and knelt in front of Merritt before grasping her hands. “You must allow me to hypnotize you.”
Run…
She felt trapped once again. Pinned against the sofa with no chance of escape. She did manage to free her hands from his grasp yet he remained on the floor before her, practically kneeling on her skirts.
“Do you think it would help, Dr. Von Swaim?” her father asked.
“The subconscious mind holds much danger for those not familiar with its workings,” Von Swaim said as he finally rose to his feet. “Imagine Merritt’s mind as a battlefield with her subconscious at war with her consciousness. It seems to me that at the present time her subconscious is winning the battle. If I do not find out the cause I am afraid that Merritt’s consciousness may eventually be lost to you forever.”
“Oh my!” Her mother gasped. “Merritt lost?”
“The sanitariums are full of such cases.”
“That is unacceptable.” The Earl jumped to his feet while her mother held her handkerchief to her face to hide her distress.
Merritt was skeptical about his comments. There was no war going on in her mind. She just had dreams. Very vivid, very real dreams. She always knew whom she was and where she was when she awakened. It seemed as if Dr. Von Swaim had made a more accurate diagnosis of her parent’s fears and was using it to achieve his own ends.
“If you believe hypnotism will help, then by all means proceed,” her father said.
“Are you certain you will be able to hypnotize me?” She had seen performances of such things before but always felt as if there was collusion involved on the part of all parties.
“I have found that the stronger paranormal activity lends itself to susceptibility in these cases,” Von Swaim replied. He held a hand out to help her rise from the sofa and she had no choice but to take it. “Come my dear,” he said and led her to a gilt chair placed before his desk. “Please stay where you are so there will be no distractions,” he instructed her parents who had begun to follow.
They sat down together on the couch and smiled encouragement to Merritt. She smiled reassuringly in their direction and was pleased to see her father take her mother’s hand into his. There was nothing to fear. Her father would not let any harm come to her.
Merritt sat down with her back to the window while Von Swaim opened a desk drawer and removed an object. The light caught it as he carried it around the desk. It was a crystal, cut in the shape of a large diamond and suspended from a chain.
He sat down opposite her and dangled the crystal from the chain in front of her. “I want you to concentrate,” he said. “Concentrate on the crystal. Concentrate on the light. Watch it carefully.”
The crystal twisted back and forth, slowly winding then unwinding on the chain. Merritt watched the light from the lamps and the sun dance through the different angles of the cuts, each one casting a different color around it as if it was alive with its own aura. She heard the canary chirp once, heard the fountain cascading behind her, and heard the soft breathing of her parents. As watched the crystal spin up and down the chain she felt as if the walls of the room were falling away. The fountain became distant and then she heard the giant clock with the pendulum swinging back and forth.
Tick…tock…tick…tock…
The noise moved inside her head and became an echo of her heartbeat. Tick…thump….tock…thump-thump.
She was no longer in the room inside the institute. She was no longer with Dr. Von Swaim and her parents. She was standing in the middle of a circle. The ground beneath her was hard packed earth that was scarred with the imprint of many types of hoof prints. A light shone directly on her, blinding her. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from it and the light faded.
Someone was with her. “Trust me,” a voice said. “You’ve got to trust me.” The voice seemed vaguely familiar and she searched the area inside the light until she saw a silhouette. Her forehead furrowed as she tried to put a name to the face that was hidden beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat.
“Don’t move,” the voice said. “Trust me. I will never hurt you.” Then he raised a gun in his hand and shot her.
Merritt screamed. She felt her body spinning and then she landed beside the desk. Her hands gripped the sides of the chair as if she were on a boat in huge swells that threatened to break over her head.
As she caught her breath she looked at Dr. Von Swaim for an answer to what she had said or done while under the effects of his hypnosis. But Von Swaim was not looking at her. He looked beyond her. Merritt turned in her seat and saw the birdcage. It was no longer beautiful. It was twisted and ruined with the bars broken and pulled apart.
The canary sat upon the rail of the balcony with its beak wide open as it sang a sweet song to the clear blue sky above. It turned and looked directly at Merritt before it extended its wings and flew away.
“My word!” her father said.
Her mother simply cried.

Star Trek 2009

Yes I am a total Trekkie. I admit it. I was so enraptured with Star Trek that my posse and I pretended to be the cast. And yes I was Captain Kirk. We were also talking Trek. We were so outrageous about it that the "cool" members of our girl scout troop used us as an example of how geeky can you get. I have to laugh at that now. After all Star Trek is still around and I did get published in the genre. And I wouldn't change my geekdom for anything. It made me who I am today and fed my imagination. I even wrote fan fic before fan fic was cool.

So imagine my excitement at another Trek movie. With a young hot cast who did not fail to give tribute to the original players. The movie was everything I could want and more. Chris Pine was appropriately rebellious yet managed to laugh at himself. Zachary Quinto gave Spock a sexiness that was too die for. I won't give that secret away, lets just say he "smoldered" And the rest of the cast was just perfect. Sulu's tribute to George Takei's fencing scene, Karl Urban channeling Bones (Was anyone else skeptical at that casting decision? I now bow down to whoever made that decision and say awesome!) Uhura's mysteriousness and Chekov's accent were spot on. and Scotty. I couldn't wait to hear him say..."I'm giving her all she's got!"

Please powers that be, tell me there will be more. As for me, I'm seeing it again this week and can't wait for the DVD release. Santa, please put it in my stocking so I can once more sink into Trek bliss.

Can you tell I loved it?

Netherworld

I am currently reading Netherworld by Michelle Lang. Its the latest in the Shomi line that released Twist. I love the fact that Shomi features stories that don't have a niche in the mass market world.

Netherworld talks about living a simulated life. People are actually able to experience life as an Avatar in a computer game. They "feel" everything that happens to their Avatars, even down to sexual satisfaction. But by humans spending so much time inside the sims the AI is able to learn more about the human psyche until it becomes more powerful and demands that all humans become part of the machine. Which brings into question, what happens to the human soul once the humans reduce down into the machine? I'm not quite done with it yet but it brings up some interesting prospects. Plus its a great read.

It also kind of goes along with Margaret's post. How much human simulation is enough? At what point will robots become more like human or animal clones that are imprinted with the images of pets or even people that we've lost. As technology becomes more advanced it will be something that our conscious and our governments will need to decide. I guess it all will come down to the value of the human soul.

I have to admit that it would be nice to have a replica of my cocker spaniel around. But would I see the essence of what was Dauber when I looked into a replicant's eyes and would it feel the same. I'm not sure these are questions that apply to my generation but I am fairly certain they are not too far off in the future.

The care and feeding of your deadline slammed author

I was trying to explain to a friend the other day about deadline hell. What happens to writers when we have to slide into that dreaded place that consumes every bit of our time, imagination and energy. I realized that until you really live it, that most people do not really understand what it is. So hopefully this will explain it a bit and give you some hints on what you can do to help your favorite writer get through it.

Deadline hell is what occurs when you don’t hit your carefully planned out page count for each day that you have until your book is due. Best laid plans and all that, but quite frankly, life happens and it does get in our way. For me lately it’s been my dad’s cancer, which is now in remission, thank you. So said book that was due March 1 is now due June 1 and has to be turned in or else it will not make it to production on time for its February release. This also means that since I missed the first deadline I will not have a Cindy Holby release this year (only Colby Hodge’s Twist) andI SUCK AS A WRITER AND MY CAREER IS OVER.

Since I now have two extra months to write I can do it. Woohoo! WRONG. During April Dad is in hospital twice with complications, I am preparing for RT, I go to RT for eight days and it takes me a week to recover, catch up from RT. Two of those days were spent sleeping as I got no sleep at RT. So now its May 1, book is due June 1 and I’m about 4,000 words away from halfway. Which means I have to write around 250 pages in a month. Which is around ten pages a day if I write everyday which I won’t be able to do because life gets in the way. Can I do it? I better because if I don’t I SUCK AS A WRITER AND MY CAREER IS OVER.


So what happens then. I sit in front of my computer. I tell myself I will not play Freecell ever again for as long as I live. I play Freecell. I look at manuscript. I decide entire book is the great dedication to sucktitude. I put on writing inspired songs to get into the story. Since I am writing an angsty story I get depressed. I listen to them over and over again. I get all weepy. My bwff (best writing friend forever) tells me to quit listening to angsty songs and I reply with giant wail. “But I caaaaannnn’t. It’s the soundtrack to Atonement and I Lurve James MacAvoy and he diieeesss.” Btw dialog like this goes back and forth all day with my bwff posse. If you want to know who they are check out the dedications in my books. Finally I decide I am in right frame of mind to write.

But first I check my email. Why? Because writers are isolated. Email is our connection to our friends. What are our friends doing? Are they in writing hell too? Ohh, here’s a link to something. Maybe I should check that out. Finally I realize that I’ve wasted half a day on internet. Turn off internet and write. Go back to manuscript. Maybe it doesn’t suck. Hmmm, writing historical and I need to know what certain building on certain street looked like in eighteenth century. Sign back onto internet. Get distracted again by email, IM or something Brittany/Paris/TomKat has done. Oh, another email, someone I know has hit list/won award/got new multi comma contract and while I am happy for them it didn’t happen to me because I SUCK AS A WRITER AND MY CAREER IS OVER.

Why do writers obsess over things like that? Because we write in a vapor. Some writers have critique partners. I don’t. If the story takes a direction I’m not sure of I’ll send it out to a few of my friends for some feedback but for the most part it’s just us and the story.

So now its time to really get serious. What happens next in the story? Write write write. Hmmm, write some more. Shove kitten off desk. Try to ignore sad doggy eyes. Grab apple, yogurt, banana, hand full of chips for lunch. Grab some caffeine. Grab some more. Stay up late writing. Eyes cross, wrists aches, back and shoulders ache, butt hurts because this continues day after day after day. Husband pokes head in and asks about dinner. You look at him like he’s an idiot and wave him off. Husband carries in dinner, does laundry, vacuums, rubs back and tries to stay out of your way. (I am fortunate that my kids are grown and pretty much self sufficient and I also have an awesome husband) Week goes by, then another, then another and you realize story has come together and perhaps you aren’t the giant burrito of sucktitude (bwff term) that you once thought you were. But you are also very lonely, and you kind of look like crap since you have basically lived in front of your computer for a month. Since I am now working on my thirteenth book I’ve kind of been through this before so I know what to expect. You think that one day I would figure it out and stay out of deadline hell but I don’t because I SUCK AS A WRITER AND MY CAREER IS OVER.

So what can you, as a fan/friend of a deadline crazed writer do? I have my own little support group. I just got a text hug from one. Another is giving me rah rahs every night and I have realized how much I really appreciate it. I look forward to it. It keeps me inspired because I know these people believe in me and maybe I don’t SUCK AS A WRITER. So if you have a writer friend who is in deadline hell then drop them an email (believe me they will be checking) or a comment on their myspace page and say Yay, we believe in you and can’t wait for the next book. They will appreciate it more than you know. And it’s also great to know that you don’t really suck that you are just doing the best that you can.

Oh yeah, we procrastinate too. Why else would I be spending my time writing this instead of working on my story?

Oh, The Pain...Characters and Conflict

I haven't skinned a character alive, as Cindy notes in her recent blog entry but as she also notes, it's not just the physical pain we authors put our characters through that creates workable story conflict. It's not the car going over the cliff, the "Die Hard" style big rig being chased by a jet fighter, the super heroine leaping tall buildings in a single bound. If that's all conflict was, then most novels would be comic books.

Conflict is both external and internal. And quite honestly, the internal is the more powerful. Because two people must care, think and feel this external conflict or it's useless: the character and the reader.

Let's take the example of the car going over a cliff. Your character, Mortimer, is in the car. But Mortimer is an immortal alien being incapable of dying. Mortimer knows this so he has no fear, no worries. Okay, he'll need to find a new car--and his insurance rates will likely go up--but he'll walk away unscathed.

If your reader knows Mortimer can't die, then s/he, too, walks away unscathed.

If your reader knows nothing about Mortimer--ie: you introduce this scene on page one--s/he doesn't care enough about the character to give a fig if Mort lives or dies.

See, there's no internal connection. If there's no internal connection, there's no internal conflict. External conflict--without a matching internal conflict--falls flat.

Cindy/Colby wrote: "Star Shadows is the story of Elle and Boone but it also introduces Zander who loses his memory in the first half of the book and then becomes an assasin. He has no recall of learned boundaries from his youth so therefore he does not know why or how he has become a killer. All he knows is kill or be killed. "

Ah, see? We're introduced to Zander as a character. Then he loses his memory. We have an experience of him, we get into his skin, we feel his loss, we feel his confusion. Now, put him in that vehicle hurtling over a cliff just as he's on his way to the clinic where his memory will be restored, and he'll be made whole--and we care. (And that's not what happens in Colby's book but I'm hijacking her character to make a point.)

Yes, it will hurt when he dies or is injured or in some way prevented from reaching his "goal" of memory restoration, but the physical pain is only powerful because of his internal pain of failure. Of loss. Of "I almost had it. I coulda been a contender. I shoulda had a V-8..."

Cindy asked about Branden Kel-Paten. For those of you who've been on sabbatical to the outer reaches of the Gensiira System and have no idea who he is, he's one of the male protagonists in Games of Command. He's also a biocybe: half human, half android. Not his choice, mind you, and we learn this and we learn about his fears and his feelings of inadequacy and his hatred of being a "freak" in the early chapters of the book. It's all internal conflict for Branden. Which was fun because physically he's incredibly powerful. He is half machine and as such, runs faster, jumps higher and does all that kind of top notch "Keds' sneakers" kind of stuff. He's one tough dude. He's also a total softie underneath.

Branden as a character is a poster boy for external/internal conflict. His outside is the invincible military officer. His inside is a mass of self-doubt and loathing because of what his outside is.

There's a universality in this and Cindy touches on that point as well in her blog. All of us differ in physical strength, depending on our height, age, weight, training, etc.. Rowena towers over me. Cindy and I are about the same height but she's much younger than I am. These are physical differences that make us unlike. But inside Rowena, Cindy and Linnea may well live very similar internal feelings. Self-doubt pretty much only comes in one size and flavor, and it doesn't really change with age or location. So while we as readers may not always understand what it's like to be in a car hurtling over a cliff, we all understand what it's like to feel ashamed.

There's a universality in internal conflict. It's a one size fits all set of feelings. It's a genderless, timeless, applicable-to-all-ethnicities experience.

That's why you can't have true workable conflict in a novel without it. ~Linnea

To Prologue or not to Prologue

I like prologues. I think they are a useful tool in writing. When I develop a character in my mind they usually come complete with a history that makes them the person they are when the story takes place. In my first novel, Chase The Wind, I had a prologue that was the entire first half of the book because the story was really about Jenny, not Ian and Faith who died tragically and people cried about. Of course I had no clue then about the craft, I just wanted to tell the story.

I don't always use prologues, only when they are necessary to give some back story that would not come across well in the show/tell part. In Shooting Star I used a prolouge to explain Ruben's history. A story from when he was twelve that explained how he came to be a smuggler. In Star Shadows I did it to give some of the mythology of the planet Circe so the reader would realize the importance of Zander, even though the book was not about Zander but Elle and Boone.

I added a prologue to Forgive The Wind where my hero loses his leg. He lost his leg in a previous book, Crosswinds but it was told from the heroine of that books POV. In Forgive The Wind I wrote the exact same scene but told it from Caleb's POV since Forgive The Wind was his story.

Rising Wind has the most awesome prologue ever. My editor said she would have bought the book on the prologue alone. It described the hero's birth, sat up his future internal conflict and introduced the heroine and antagonist, all on the battlefield of Culloden. I love it when I get it right!

In my current wip I didn't start with a prologue since my hero had been introduced in Rising Wind. Then I realized that the intro was just plain boring. Basically it was a guy looking in a mirror.

Original beginning

“Pride goeth before destruction, John Murray, and a haughty spirit before a fall.”
John Murray cast a blond eyebrow askance as his blue eyes switched from his own reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall to that of his friend. “Quoting scripture again Rory?” he asked. “Did you ever think that perhaps you should have pursued a career in the church instead of the King’s army?”
“You forget, my friend, I have the misfortune of being a second son,” Rory replied, shouldering John aside from the mirror so he could arrange his own brown locks to his satisfaction. “Which means my life, alas, was predestined from the start.” Rory completed his hair and placed his hat at a jaunty angle atop his head. “And since I have no control over my destiny, I will be off to see what she has in store for me.” Rory threw up a mock salute and with his hand on his sheathed saber to keep it from catching on the door, left the narrow room that the two men shared.
“Destiny is what we make of it!” John shouted after him and returned to his perusal of his image. “Or so we tell ourselves,” he reminded his reflection quietly less someone walking by caught him talking to himself. That would not do at all.

It's okay. You find out the important information about John but it doesn't suck you into the story. So I added a prologue of something that happens later in the book. John's turning point and the reason he was such a jerk in Rising Wind. By adding this bit I also gave the reader something to think about. Why did this happen? How? When? Hmmm, maybe I should keep reading to find out.

Aberdeen. Scotland, 1773
A fine mist fell. John Murray could not help but shiver in his shirtsleeves as he stepped out into the damp gray gloom of early morning. A shudder moved down his spine as his eyes fell upon the post planted in the middle of the court yard at Castlehill. The ground around it was trampled, torn, and filled with the muck from the mix of rain and free flowing blood. Ewain Ferguson’s blood. No comfort for him there as his blood would soon join it.
Was she watching? His blue eyes scanned the ranks of his peers, all standing at attention in the despicable weather, all surely cursing his name because they were given orders to rise early this miserable morning and watch his punishment.
Where was she? Surely they would force her to watch since it was her fault he was here in the first place. Surely they made her watch her brother’s lashing as it was his fault that two men now lay dead.
There. He saw her. Standing straight and as tall as her petite frame would allow next to the General who was magnanimous in his show of mercy towards her. She was a woman after all, and nothing more than an instrument in the treachery of her clansmen.
Her hair was plastered down against her head instead of the mass of springy curls that framed her face like sunlight. This morning it seemed darker than its usual reddish blonde, whether from the rain, or the doom and gloom that hung over the courtyard, he could not tell. Her dress was stained dark with blood and the neckline gaped open, torn by him in his haste the night they were together. Of course she would have no way to mend it so it hung open, teasing him, tormenting him, just as she did the first time he met her. She had gotten into his head that day, damn her and all her clan before her. She had no choice but to live with the state of her dress since her hands were tied before her. Even though the distance between them was great he could feel her deep brown eyes upon him. That gave him a measure of satisfaction. A small measure at that but something to hang on to considering his dire straights.
If only they would lash her also. Did she not deserve it? Was not she as guilty as her brothers and her father in the planning and the plotting and the betrayal?
John’s stomach clenched in anger at the thought. No. It would not do to rip her pale, delicate skin. Knowing her as he did he knew that she would rather have the lashing herself than watch it. She would suffer more that way. She deserved to suffer for what she’d done.
“Best get on with it lad,” Sergeant Gordon said. “Dreading it only makes it worse.”
John ripped his eyes from his desperate examination of her face and looked at the grizzled Sergeant who served as his escort. “Aye, lad,” he said in his hoarse croak. “I’ve felt the lash. “Tis best not to think on it too much. The muscles bunch across your shoulders and it makes it much worse.”
John flexed his shoulders as he took the first step into the courtyard. “How can I not think on it?” He’d seen lashings. Plenty of them. General Kensington was generous in his discipline but he was fair. Twenty lashes was the usual sentence for dereliction of duty.
But he’d added another five because of the circumstance John caught himself in.
Let it be a lesson to all. Do not be swayed by a pretty face and the offer of favors. When John considered the loss of his reputation and the damage to his career, the lashes were nothing in comparison.
Still he knew they were coming and with them would come pain. John flexed his shoulders again. The mist had turned into a drumming rain and his shirt was soaked through. He felt goose bumps on his flesh. He hoped it was the cold that caused them, and not the fear.
“I know what you’re thinking lad,” Sergeant Gordon continued as they walked the innumerable steps to the post. “You’re thinking how will it feel? Will I be able to stand it? Will I cry out like a babe?” Gordon was right all on accounts. John felt a newfound respect for the man as they continued the gut wrenching walk across the yard.
Too soon they stood before the post and Gordon attached the hook to the bonds around his wrists. Gordon nodded to a corporal who jerked on a rope attached to a pulley and John’s arms were stretched above his head and he was pulled against the post. His boots sunk into the muck and the corporal pulled again so that he was stretched up onto his toes.
“Let him down a bit lad,” Gordon instructed. “Ye might find yerself in the same predicament some day.” The corporal relented and John was able to place his feet somewhat firmly on each side of the post.
Gordon looked beyond John to the burly man holding the lash. “He won’t be happy unless you cry out,” he said. “The man loves his job for some reason.” Gordon spat into the mud by John’s feet. “Sadistic bastard,” he added. He slipped a piece of wood in John’s mouth. “Bite down on it lad. Twill help.”
John nodded as he placed his cheek against the post. Gordon stepped behind him and ripped away his shirt. “Think on something else lad,” he added into his ear as the cold rain on his bare back let him know that Gordon had left him.
Think on something else…John blinked the rain off his eyelashes and looked towards General Kensington. He heard the sentence being read by Kensington’s aide, a nephew of the General’s with a squeaky voice and bad skin.
“Do you understand your sentence for the crimes you have committed?” the aide asked, his voice breaking on the last part.
John looked at the General and nodded. The General raised his hand. His face looked sad and John knew that the man was thinking about his father. They were friends. It was the reason Kensington had requested John be assigned to him. What would Kensington have to say to his father about all of this?
Think on something else…He knew the lash was coming. He could sense it coiling and gathering. He heard it whistle threw the air.
John looked at her. Isobel. Izzy. It was her fault. He trusted her with his life, with his soul, with his heart and she betrayed him.
He felt the sting of the lash. His back burned as he was slammed against the post.
“One,” the aide said.
Get on with it…
The next one came in the opposite direction. Marking his back with an X. A target. His eyes stayed on Izzy. How easy a target he’d been for her. He’d fallen like a rock into sea. Sunk right into her plotting. Captured by a winsome smile and deep brown eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of time.
“Two,”
The next one landed straight across, the splinted tail of the whip caressing his ribcage and tearing at the skin on his side as it hit against the bone.
John let out a hiss as he kept his eyes on Izzy. Her eyes seemed huge in her face. At one time he’d thought he could get lost in those eyes.
“Three.”
Damn her eyes. Three lashes and his back felt like it was on fire.
The next one struck straight down his spine. The man was thorough if nothing else. He seemed determined to flay every inch off his back in the strokes allowed. John pressed his wrists against each other as pain shot throughout every inch of his body. He pushed against the post, his body automatically seeking escape from the next blow.
“Four.”
Think on something else.
How could he not be tense when he knew it was coming? He heard the whistle of the lash once again. Felt his flesh tear. Felt the blood pour down his back. He groaned and clenched his teeth tighter into the wood.
“Five.”
Twenty to go. How could he stand it? He had too. Crying wouldn’t stop it. Begging wouldn’t stop it. Screaming his anger at the heavens would not stop it anymore than it would stop the rain that washed against his back and plastered his hair into his eyes.
Izzy. He stared at her, blinking against the rain. It was her fault. All her fault. Every bit of it.

When I get to this part in the linear story I will write it from Izzy's POV. So hopefully the prologue will draw the reader in and keep them reading until they find out why John got the lashes and what part Izzy played in it.

I've heard a lot of differing opinions on prologues. But if it works for the story then I say use it.

Celebrate Romance, Celebrating Wins!

A mish-mash of a blog today. No writing tips. Lots of BSP (blatant self promotion). If you wonder where Colby Hodge disappeared to, she was at Celebrate Romance, a small but wonderful author/reader conference, as was I. And about 70 others. This year it was in Columbia SC (you can probably figure my mindset when my flight landed in Charlotte and the pilot annouced it was 37-degrees out. I'm from Florida...). It was at the Inn at USC, a totally lovely historic hotel on the edge of the USC campus.

Author Isabo Kelly (solo below) and I, along with reader Robin Greene, arrived by limo from the airport:

Hey, life's short. Eat dessert first and take a limo when you can.

And here's Colby Hodge (R-standing) with author Elizabeth Hoyt (seated) at the CR signing at Books A Million Saturday night:

More photos can be found here at the moment, on the Publisher's Weekly blog. I'll post them all by week's end on my site in News.

Okay, BSP time. I found out late Friday night that Games of Command won the PEARL award for Best Science Fiction & Fantasy Romance, and The Down Home Zombie Blues took an Honorable Mention. Here's the full list of winners and HMs:

Anthology
Honorable Mention -
MY BIG FAT SUPERNATURAL HONEYMOON by Jim Butcher, P. N. Elrod, Marjorie M.Liu, Kelly Armstrong, Rachel Caine, Katie MacAlister, Lilith Saintcrow, RondaThompson, Caitlin Kittredge
WILD THING by Maggie Shayne, Alyssa Day, Marjorie M. Liu, Meljean Brook

Winner -
ON THE PROWL by Sunny, Karen Chance, Patricia Briggs, Eileen Wilks

Fantasy
Honorable Mention - ATLANTIS RISING by Alyssa Day
Winner - DEVIL MAY CRY by Sherrilyn Kenyon

Futuristic
Honorable Mention - THE DOWN HOME ZOMBIE BLUES by Linnea Sinclair
Winner – SILVER MASTER by Jayne Castle

Best New Author
Winner – C. L. Wilson

Best Novella
Winner – Alpha and Omega by Patricia Briggs / ON THE PROWL ANTHOLOGY

Best Overall
HM – FOR A FEW DEMONS MORE by Kim Harrison
Winner – Devil May Cry by Sherrilyn Kenyon

Best Science Fiction & Fantasy
HM – BLOOD BOUND by Patricia Briggs
Winner – GAMES OF COMMAND by Linnea Sinclair

Best Shapeshifter
HM – CARESSED BY ICE by Nalini Singh
Winner – BLOOD LINES by Eileen Wilks

Best Time Travel
HM – PARALLEL DESIRE by Deidre Knight
Winner – WHEN I FALL IN LOVE by Lynn Kurland

Best Vampire
HM – LOVER REVEALED by J. R. Ward
Winner – DARK POSSESION by Christine Feehan

More BSP: In the prestigious 12th annual AAR Reader Poll, Games of Command took Best SFF & Futuristic!

So this has been an extremely exciting February and March for me. Plus, oh, yeah, we hatched another duckling. Meet Thumperduck the wonder duck, typing away on my Vaio under the watchful eye of Daq cat who is my laptop's wallpaper kitty:

Hugs all, ~Linnea

http://www.linneasinclair.com/

Craft/First Lines

A good opening line is an essential part of story telling. It's also something that I don't think I'm particulary good at. Occasionally I get it right but more as often or not I don't think I do. OF course there is the best first line of all time..."It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." from Charles Dickens A TALE OF TWO CITIES. Most writers aspire to put down something that great.

I'm going to list some first lines that I think are pretty good and why I think so.

Alyssa Day/Atlantis Awakening
"These are my kind of odds," Ven said, drawing his sword with his right hand and one of seven daggers strapped to various parts of his body with his left.

Right away we know there's a fight going on. And I'm betting Ven is going to come out the winner.

Linnea Sinclair/Games of Command
"You might want to sit down,"....

There's more after that but I'm already hooked.

Liz Maverick/What A Girl Wants
In Hayley Jane Smith's defense, it should be noted that it was a record breaking week during the hottest summer in ten years of San Francisco meteorology history.

I love this line. In Hayly Jane Smith's defense. What did she do? What does the heat have to do with it? Why does she need defending? Must read on to find out.

Another Liz Maverick, This one from Adventures Of An Ice Princess
There are few things more humiliating in a woman's life than having an engagement party thrown in her honor when the man in question has not proposed.
You know that there's nothing but trouble coming up.

Here are a few of mine.

From Obsessing Orlando under the pen name Kassy Tayler
"I can't breathe!"
oh the drama of being a teen girl.

From Windfall
Something was different.

From Star Shadows and my favorite
It was one of those days that hurt to be alive.
When I wrote this line I wanted to show the desperation of youth. That burning, yearning, I got to do something or I'll explode feeling.

and from Twist
Would I make it
Pulls you right in doesn't it?

A good opening line should pull you right into the story and start your mind spinning with the basic questions. Who, what when, where and Why? And then I got to read this.

I'd love to see some other great opening lines. Anybody got any they want to share?

Another exerpt from Twist

Chapter Twenty-six

Jayne sat in the upstairs hall, his tail lashing back and forth like a snake. He was obviously displeased with me.
“Join the club,” I said as I ran down the stairs.
Trent had been moved to the clinic. He lay curled on his side on the metal table, the knobs of his spine exposed to a lantern that sat on a nearby rolling cart. A huge needle lay next to it. Berta stood next to him and wiped his face. Shane was by the window, watching the commotion outside as he pulled on a pair of rubber gloves.
I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat, which was considerable given the fact that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.
Berta bent over and spoke in Trent’s ear. “Abbey’s here,” she said. She looked up and smiled at me encouragingly.
“Hey,” I said as I walked up to the table. “You finally woke up.”
“Shane said I should go back to sleep.” I had to bend down to hear him; his voice seemed so distant. “Cause it’s gonna hurt.”
I looked up at Shane who was watching the two of us. “Anesthesia? I mouthed. He shook his head no.
“Yes, it’s going to hurt,” I said to Trent. “But you’re a ninja now. And ninja’s are brave and strong.”
“Do ninjas cry?” he asked.
“Sometimes,” I said. “When something really hurts.” I didn’t want him to be worried about trying to be brave.
“Ninjas are way cooler than pirates,” Shane said.
There he was with that line again. I wondered exactly what it meant and I gave him a puzzled look.
“Do you know any pirates?” Trent asked.
I arched an eyebrow at Shane. “A few,” I said. “But I know a lot more ninjas. And he’s right. They are cooler.”
Shane picked up the needle and handed me a piece of plastic. He pointed toward his mouth with his finger, and I quickly got the meaning.
“Put this in your mouth, and when it hurts bite down,” I said to Trent and he obliged. “That’s what the cool ninjas do.”
“You’re going to have to hold him,” Shane said.
I took Trent’s upper body, and Berta took his legs. I watched as Shane dabbed the base of Trent’s spine with alcohol and then inserted the needle.
The noise the boy made was wretched. Trent clamped his teeth down on the piece of plastic, and tears poured from between his clenched eyelids. I tried to soothe him. I don’t even know what I said beyond “Ninjas are cool” over and over again, but he seemed to respond, smiling up bravely at me when he could.
Shane backed off the plunger on the needle, and a cloudy liquid filled it. I was surprised; I’d expected blood. Shane frowned when he saw it.
“It’s over now,” I said as Shane pulled the needle away.
Trent didn’t answer. He’d passed out; from the pain or the fever, I didn’t know which.
Shane held the vial up to the candlelight and looked at it closely before placing it on a tray.
“What?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up Trent and carried him to the wardroom. I stood at the door and watched as he gently placed the boy on a cot, and Berta pulled a blanket over him.
The look on Shane’s face was grim as passed by me again. He picked up the vial and left the room. I trailed after him with Jayne bringing up the rear as we once more went downstairs.
Shane attacked his work table. He lit several candles and prepared a slide with the fluid drawn from Trent’s back. I leaned against the edge of his sofa as he examined the slide and then went over to his desk and pulled down one of the thick books that sat on the shelf above.
Jayne looked up at me questioningly as Shane flipped through innumerable pages. Finally I saw Shane settle on a page and study it intently. He slammed the book shut and dropped it on his desk with a thud. He leaned over the desk with his back to me, his hair falling across his face. I watched as a long shudder moved down his spine.
“What is it?”
“Bacterial Meningitis.”
“Can you cure it?”
He laughed. It was mirthless, almost sinister. The sound gave me chills, and I rubbed the goose-bumps on my arms.
In one movement, he suddenly swung his arms and cleared his desk. Books, papers, binders, pencils and pens; everything went flying to the floor. Jayne jumped and ran under the bed. I heard a low growl in the cat’s throat and his eyes glowed with a strange gold light.
“How can I cure it?” Shane asked in a hoarse voice. “I’ve got nothing to cure it with. Nothing. No meds. Those were gone a long time ago, used up in the pandemic, where once again all I could do was stand back and watch people die.”
“We’ll go to the hospital, to doctor’s offices, pharmacies,” I said. “We’ll find some.”
Shane shook his head like he was talking to a child. “What do you think people have been doing for the past hundred years? I, myself, have cleaned out every stockpile of medicine in this city.”
He stretched his hands out in front of him, spread the fingers, and arched the palms. He looked at them as if he’d never seen them before.
“I used to think my hands were for healing,” he continued. He turned the left one over, and in a heartbeat his eyes took on that strange red glow that frightened me so. I watched with my stomach churning as that thing, that stabber, that life-sucker extended out of it. He held it up for me to see.
“This is all I’m good for,” he said. “This. Taking life. Killing. Ending it.” He took a step toward me. I wanted to retreat but the sofa was already pressed against my back. “I could save him,” he said. His voice was speculative. “I could change him.”
“No.” I shook my head fiercely.
“Why not?”
I didn’t like the look on his face or the fact that he’d taken another step closer.
“Save Trent. Save you. I could save everyone. Then we could all live happily ever after; at least while we aren’t trying to kill each other off.” Shane took another step. He turned his palm over again so that the thing in his hand stood straight up. I couldn’t help but look at it. “How bout it Abbey?” he said. “Want to live forever?”
I looked into his eyes. The red glow was still there, but it covered something else.
“No,” I said.
“Think of all the fun we’ll have,” he continued. He took another step.
“Stop it Shane,” I said. I grabbed his hand and wrenched it away. It was an old move, one I’d learned in my karate class. Twist the fingers back, and the body will follow. “You said you couldn’t change us before. What are you doing?”
The weapon in Shane’s palm retracted, and I watched the skin close over it so that his palm once again looked normal. It amazed me to see the opening coincided with his life line. If I traced it would it run on continually? Did eternal life show in patterns on the skin?
I looked once more at his face. His eyes lost their red hue as he looked at me for a long hard moment but I felt rage and frustration simmer beneath their surface.
Suddenly, Shane fell to the floor. It was if all his strength left him at once. He sagged down, his back against the couch and his head on his knees.
“No matter what I do, I can’t stop it. I can never stop it,” He said. His voice was shaky. Was he crying? “It never ends,” he continued. “It’s nothing but an eternity of death.”
I knelt down beside him. I touched his hair and let my fingers trail through the silky blonde strands. He looked up at me. His eyes were dark, practically navy, and they filled with tears.
“I told myself a long time ago not to care. Doctors aren’t supposed to get personally involved with their patients. I try to keep everyone at a distance because I know in the end they’re all going to die.”
I realized then his pain. His loneliness. His solitude. And the reason why he always ran hot and cold with me. He was scared of caring for anyone. He’d watched so many people die through the years; his brother, his parents, his friends and the people who lived and worked in this small community trying to stay alive. And now Trent was dying. Trent, who was probably as close as he’d ever come to having a child of his own.
I wrapped my arms around his shoulders; I pulled his head under my chin. I stretched my legs out so that one went behind him and the other over his lap and I pulled him close.
His body was tense, his muscles rigid. I stroked his hair and held on tight until I felt him relax against me. His arms crept around my waist and he wrapped his hands in my shirt. I felt it bunch up and move, exposing the bare skin of my back. He let out a long sigh and moved his head up on my shoulder so that I could feel the brush of his breath on the skin of my neck.
We sat still for a long, long moment. I continued to run my fingers through his hair. Jayne came out from under the bed and lay down beside me, his paws tucked up beneath his chest. His rumbling purr seemed louder than normal as it broke the deep dark silence that surrounded us.
“No one touches me,” Shane said quietly.
I didn’t understand, but said nothing, just continued with my fingers in his hair.
“They’re all afraid to touch me,” he said. “Afraid if they touch me they’ll become infected. They don’t mind when I touch them, as long as it’s medicinal, but they won’t touch me.”
I nodded. I felt his lips move against my neck as he spoke again.
“Physical comfort is a precious thing,” he said. “You’re the first person to give it to me in one hundred years.”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d only done what I wanted; I gave him what I felt he needed. I’d offered comfort. It was the most natural thing in the world.
“Abbey…” his voice trailed off as his hands freed themselves from my shirt and his fingers caressed my back.
I felt that touch down to my core. Heat coiled inside me. It bubbled and twisted and spread from the center of my body to follow the trail of his hand which moved gently up my spine.
“Abbey,” he said again. I turned toward him as he lifted his head from my shoulder.
“Abbey,” he whispered as I looked into his eyes.
They were blue. Very blue. For a moment I’d been afraid they’d be glowing with red fire. Instead, I saw something more dangerous.
Dangerous, yet so very very tempting.

More About Twist

Another great reveiw from Romance Reader at Heart

Despite being lost in some of the nuances of the time travel plot on occasion, I still managed to devour TWIST in a day. It is action-packed, engaging, and definitely my type of read.

The heroine is kick-butt, but in a Sydney Bristow of Alias way, and her hero's torment makes him nothing short of hot. The plot is, quite frankly, one of the best post apocalyptic I have run across, rivaling the Crimson City series. Now for me, lover off all things Crimson, that is saying something.

There are detailed scenes that have me smelling the hospital antiseptic and shopping in the shack-like tents for provisions right along with the characters. Fabulous details and dialogue written by the author make it so.

So, if you enjoy the following few TV shows and movies—Mad Max, The Matrix, Xena Warrior Princess, and Stargate—then you really ought to love TWIST.

Shannon Johnson

And now a sample of Twist

Prologue


Would I make it?
My feet pounded on the pavement, splashing through the puddles that remained from last night’s rain. Was it just last night that it rained? It seemed as if years had passed. They had passed. Still, the things they held were yet to occur.
Think about it later. Just run.
I had to get there on time. I just had to. I refused to think about what I’d do if I didn’t.
My hand tightened on the hilt of my katana as I ran. The scabbard was laced against my thigh. I didn’t even feel it; it had become so much a part of me in the time just past.
When I started martial arts training I never even considered the possibility that I would use the weapons to actually kill anyone. I think it just turned out to be one of those funny twists of fate. It was just something that happened.
My original life plan was to be an architect. Just like my dad. But in another one of those funny life twists he was killed in a freak accident. The last words he spoke to me were “We’ve got all the time in the world.” Then he stepped off the curb and got hit by a speeding car.
Like I said: Funny twists of fate. And here I was, caught up in another.
One more block. Luckily I was used to running. I ran every morning with Charlie—or used to. Lately my running consisted of “for my life” instead of exercise.
How many mornings had it been since we ran? Two, as far as Charlie was concerned. More for me.
Don’t think about it.
I saw the lights from Java Joe’s up ahead.
Shane had told me it happened when he left. When he got tired of waiting for me. How long had he waited?
The door opened and my heart skipped a beat as the light bounced off golden blonde hair and he stuck his hands in his pockets and moved down the sidewalk.
“Shane!” I yelled as I tried to run faster. She would be waiting for him, just past the coffee shop in the alleyway.
He didn’t hear me. He kept walking, and then he disappeared. He was in the alley. Shane had told me it happened in the alley. I gripped the Katana in both hands as I fronted Joe’s and raced on by. When I reached the alley I skidded to a stop.
“Hey, Lucy,” I called out. My heart pounded wildly in my chest; I took a deep breath and willed it into submission. If I made a wrong move, Shane would be lost to me forever.
Lucinda turned. Her bright red hair settled on her shoulders and she looked down her aristocratic nose at me. Behind her Shane stood as if hypnotized, his bright blue eyes staring off into the night as if he were waiting for something. If he only knew what fate this woman planned for him.
“How do you…” Lucinda stopped suddenly and looked over me appraisingly. “You know,” she said. “You did it. You opened the gate.”
“I did,” I said. I held the katana firmly in my right hand and stood balanced on the soles of my feet with my legs slightly apart. Ready…waiting…willing to do what ever was needed.
“I think I’ll keep him anyway,” she said with a flip of her hair. “It will be fun to watch him fight his nature.”
“He’s mine,” I said. “You told me yourself. He will always be mine, no matter what you do to him.”
“How about if I kill him?” she said.
I twisted the blade of my katana so that light from the streetlight was reflected into Lucy’s face. It also must have awakened Shane from whatever trance she put him in. He blinked and looked over Lucinda’s shoulder at me.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “What are you doing?” He looked in shock at the katana which was so much a part of me now that I barely noticed I was holding it.
“Lucy and I have some unfinished business,” I said.
“You told me you didn’t know her,” Shane said accusingly. My heart lurched at his tone, at the strangeness he felt around me. I would fix that. I had to fix that or I might as well have stayed where I was.
“Oh, Lucy and I go way back,” I said. “Don’t we?”
“Do we?” she asked.
“About a hundred years, give or take a few.”
“I’m out of here,” Shane said.
He took a step and Lucinda slammed him against the wall. With one hand closed around his throat, she lifted him in the air so that his feet dangled over the ground. She kept her eyes on me; even when Shane grabbed her wrist and kicked her in the side, she barely flinched.
“Put him down Lucy,” I said.
“Make me,” she replied.
I looked at Shane whose face was full of confusion. He was desperately gasping for breath. I had to make sure he stayed. If he ran I would lose him forever. So I said the only thing that made any sense at all in the current madness that my life had become.
“Ninjas are way cooler than pirates.”

Star Shadows part two

Fear comes from the unexpected.
He knew what to expect now. The screaming crowds. The smell of fear. The blood. He knew it better than he knew himself.
And all he knew of himself was that he was a glorified assassin.
Blood dripped from the arena above. He held his arms out to his side to protect his body from the blades that hooked down the gauntlets he wore. His eyes did not move beneath his mask to look at the droplets that spattered upon the vicious metal. Instead they turned inward, as they always did before a battle, to the first thing he remembered.
A woman with eyes the color of his. The woman who condemned him to fight in the pits as a tribute to his father.
The woman who condemned him to never know himself.
Who was he? Who was the woman who sent him here? Who was his father? Did he fight in the pits? Did the woman hate him? Was that why he was sent here?
What horrible crime did he commit to deserve his sentence?
And why, after six solar years, was he still alive?
At least that question he could answer on his own.
It is hard to die when your wounds heal over night.
“Phoenix. Phoenix.” The crowd began the chant. The lift would not move until the people were whipped into a frenzy.
Like the fabled Phoenix his wounds healed and he arose once again to fight.
And since he had no name to speak of that was what he was called.
Could not the woman who sent him here tell them his name?
What difference did it make after all this time?
He focused on Laylon. The woman who trained him. The one who counseled him. The only person he knew. The only one he trusted spoke as the lift began its ascent.
“You know what to expect,” she said.
“Did you expect them to take your eyes?” he asked as he rose above her.
He saw her head tilt in confusion. In all these years it was the first time he spoke of her blindness.
He couldn’t help but grin wolfishly as the floor to the arena parted above him. At least now he was guaranteed some interesting conversation after the battle.
As soon as he was done with the latest victim.
He mind had ceased a long time ago to worry about the men he killed. When Laylon first began his training he had several questions but she could answer none of them except for the ones that dealt with the Murlaca. Her life outside the pits had ended long ago when she was blinded in a battle. But she taught him one thing.
Kill or be killed.
He soon learned that some of the men and women in the rings were professional fighters. And some were prisoners, sent there for assassination. The professionals were treated like celebrities. They wore special armor, had trainers, medics, entitlements.
The prisoners were different. They weren’t there long. Some of them were good fighters, some of them survived to fight another day but they all died eventually.
The rules were simple enough. You were thrown into a ring and you fought. The winner moved on. The losers were carted off. Some of them died in the ring. Some of them bled to death as they were waiting for their bodies to be incinerated. If they were lucky.
He was the only prisoner to survive this long. He had beaten all the champions. They did not have to die, although some did of their injuries. Now there was none who even challenged him.
And after each battle he returned to his cell because he had no choice but to do so. At first he rebelled against the handlers who were all selected for their size and cruelty. But they had ways of controlling him.
They stunned him with their long prods
They kicked him viscously when he collapsed. More so when they found out how quickly he healed.
He hated them for it.
He hated the crowd that erupted into screams and more chants of Phoenix as he rose to floor level in the caged arena where he was supposed to fight.
He hated the lights that flashed in his eyes and whoever controlled them. He was certain that one day whoever awaited him in the ring would take advantage of his temporary blindness when he appeared through the floor and use that instant to kill him.
Even though he couldn’t die.
He still felt pain. He knew it when his flesh was ripped open by the blades. He felt it when his ribs broke from the violent kicks of his handlers.
He felt everything.
Yet he had no scars.
He quickly found his opponent once the light left his eyes.
His blood quickened as he turned his head to where the man stood, his sides heaving in anticipation. Tonight he would have a challenge. The man had some size on him, a wide chest, thick muscular arms and sturdy legs. There was intelligence in his face, more so than the usual fear. And it seemed as if he were used to the blades. His arms were relaxed at his sides instead of clenched. Clenching them just made the muscles weary. Made the blades heavier. The match shorter. He was also wearing the armor of the champions. Thick leather covered most of his body as it did his own. But it wasn’t thick enough to stop the blades. Nothing could stop the blades.
He wondered briefly what his challenger’s crime was. Or maybe he just crossed the wrong person. The man waiting to fight him must have done something to someone to be sent here. Just as he had. Was it the woman with the pale eyes?
He knew the mask made him look more intimidating. Heartless. Cruel. The hooked crest that arched over his forehead and covered the bridge of his nose gave him the appearance of a predator.
For some reason the woman who gave him his sentence to this place did not want his face to be seen and as he did not recognize himself it made no difference to him whatsoever. It gave him an advantage so he took it.
And it wasn’t as if anyone would claim him since he was nothing more than a glorified assassin.
As usual he raised his arms above his head in a show of strength, watching his challenger to make sure he didn’t attempt to attack him. Then he crossed them in a slashing motion as he brought them down.
The crowd screamed louder.
He hated them. All of them.
He heard the announcer amplify his name over the screams of the crowd.
He hated him. He was the one who first called him Phoenix. And since he had no other name it became his title.
He rose from the ashes of his blood and the blood of his victims to fight again another day. Just like the fabled bird of ancient times.
But the bird was able to fly away eventually. And death would be an easy flight to take.
Too bad he couldn’t die.
He bounced up on the balls of his feet three times. Then he leaned his head to one side until he heard the familiar pop.
The crowd screamed in anticipation.
His challenger was not as intelligent as he first thought. His came at him as if he thought to overwhelm him with his greater strength.
Phoenix moved aside gracefully and watched in amusement as his challenger waved his arms in an attempt to stop himself from careening into the side of the cage.
Should he prolong it? Or simply but the man away so he could return to his cell?
His cold, lonely cell.
He was bored so he decided to make it last.
Make him bleed a lot.
Maybe he’d get a reward for his trouble.
Sometimes they allowed him a woman. And the luxury of the baths.
His challenger realized that his greater strength wouldn’t work. Not when Phoenix had speed and agility on his side.
The challenger circled him. Phoenix kept his eyes trained on him, turning with him in an almost casual manner. He held his arms out at his sides, the blades ready.
The challenger grinned, as if he suddenly saw a weakness but Phoenix knew it was nothing more than a ruse.
He had no weaknesses in the ring.
But he might let him think so, just to make it interesting.
The floor was wet from the cleaning it received between matches. The blood was sprayed into the crowd to keep the next combatants from sticking and slipping. The crowd loved it.
Phoenix took a step back as the challenger circled. As if he was afraid. His foot moved awkwardly. As if he slipped.
The challenger came at him. As he expected. He raised his right forearm up to slash downward at Phoenix.
Who ducked under the strike and slashed his left forearm across the challenger’s belly.
The man was softer than he first thought. What he thought was solid muscle was nothing more than thick layers of fat that oozed a thick stream of blood.
He seemed surprised that he was injured. But no more so than Phoenix who saw rather than felt the blood on his hip.
Phoenix realized that there wasn’t a mark on his opponent until now. He must have fought well to get to this level without injury. Or else this was his first battle of the day.
It made no difference. It would soon be over.
The wound wasn’t deep for either of them. Nothing more than an annoyance.
But it sent a clear message. Neither of them was to be trifled with. Or easily dismissed.
Phoenix saw the impact of it in the challenger’s eyes.
“What are you hiding under that mask?” the man said.
It was the first time, in the solars. In all the matches. In all the deaths. That anyone had every said anything to him beyond please.
He was not prepared for it.
And his challenger knew it.
The man saw the doubt in his face and came at him with a roar. Phoenix threw his left arm up in defense just in time and heard the crowd’s joint intake of breath as the two arms collided in mid air, the blades tangled as the combatants tested each other’s strength.
The challenger’s was greater. But Phoenix had not survived this long on strength alone.
He bent backwards under the pressure. He used his right arm to block the slashes aimed at his thigh.
As soon as he felt his attacker shift his balance Phoenix kicked upwards with his legs. His armored plated boots struck the man in his chest as Phoenix flipped backwards. He landed in a squat and slashed with his right arm along his opponent’s thigh. His aim was for the back of the knee but the man knew it was coming and managed to turn his leg in time to take it on the armor.
Phoenix did not expect his blow to be deflected. Every other time he struck in that manner he crippled his opponent and it was just a matter of time to finish him off.
He knew he was vulnerable in his crouched position so he swung his leg out in a sweep kick, hit his opponent in the ankles, and sent the man toppling as he rose to his feet.
The impact of the man hitting the mat bounced the floor. Phoenix flexed his legs to absorb the vibration and looked down at the man. He should finish him now. Just a strike across the exposed throat and it would be over, but he was curious.
The crowd roared for him to strike a death blow but he ignored them, as he usually did. “Why are you here?” Phoenix asked. “What was your crime?”
“I have to admit you are as good as they said you are,” his opponent said as he moved to his feet, his eyes on Phoenix the entire time.
“They?” Phoenix said. “Who are they?”
The man swung his arm out to encompass the crowd. “Everyone. You’re a legend of the Universe. Unbeatable. Indestructible. A slave who’s the master of the game. Until now.”
He feinted with his right and swung with his left. Phoenix saw it coming and blocked with his right then swung his left straight up. The blade on his wrist buried itself in the soft skin beneath the man’s chin and pierced through to his tongue.
The man gagged and staggered back as Phoenix wrenched his blade free.
He missed the artery.
“Who are you?” Phoenix asked.
The man spat out a gob of blood. Phoenix saw the slice in his tongue; saw the hole in the bottom of his mouth as he worked to speak.
He couldn’t form a word but his eyes spoke volumes. He meant to kill him and he meant to kill him now.
With a cry from deep in his belly he came at Phoenix. Arms slashed as he sought to run over him and over power him with his strength.
Phoenix met him head on, his own blades slashing. Blood poured from the man’s chin and down his front, slicking both of them, covering them, making them slide as if spilled onto the floor.
Was it possible that the screams of the crowd were even louder?
Phoenix strained against his opponent as their arms locked into each other, the blades capturing them and keeping them attached as they fought for balance, for a superior position.
But Phoenix was flexible. He pushed against the man with one leg planted and was able to open enough room between them to bring his knee up into a snap kick as he pried his opponents arms open wide. The toe of his boot hit the gash and his head snapped back, exposing the vulnerable throat.
With a roar from his gut Phoenix slashed the man’s throat, ripping out the larynx and the main artery. Blood gushed forth in a heavy shower. Phoenix caught the man as he toppled and turned his body towards one side of the arena so that the blood spouted out upon a dark haired woman who looked at him in fear but screamed in absolute ecstasy.
He hated her too. For a very good reason
He looked down and saw the life leave the man’s eyes, along with his unanswered questions. He dropped the body to the floor and went back to the center of the ring where the lift would take him down to the cells.
He didn’t even bother to lift his arms in victory. He had too much on his mind.

Star Shadows

Chapter Three
It never failed to amaze him how well the Firebird handled. Every time he held the yoke in his hands he felt the thrill.
I did this…
It couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that he designed her. Well maybe adapted her was a better word. Boone used the Falcon’s sleek design as his starting point, modified the cabin to hold four comfortably into deep space travel but kept the same sleek shape that made for faster transport. To top things off he added the same red flames on the side of the ship that had been on a toy starship he had as a boy. The very toy that sat in a small indentation on the com before him.
Ruben, impressed with Boone’s design, then commissioned the ship to be built and was pleased with the results. So pleased that he gave Boone sole ownership of her when he went to Academy. His father was thinking about going into the fleet business now but Boone wasn’t sure if he liked that idea. It was a great feeling to know that he possessed and designed the best starship in the galaxy. The only Firebird in the Galaxy.
“I see Elle and Zander,” his little sister Zoey said. Her blue eyes danced with excitement as she pointed to the overhang above the bay.
“I see them too short stuff,” Boone said. She stood in between his seat and their mother’s watching everything with rapt attention. “Strap in,” he said. “We’re on final.”
She edged back into her seat and cinched the belt but still managed to sit on the edge and closely watch everything Boone did in preparation for landing. Kyp, one of Ky’s sons, sat beside her on the floor, patiently waiting until he’d be able to step out onto solid ground.
The flight from their home was just a short hop in the Firebird. They didn’t even leave the atmosphere, just skimmed over the ocean. Ruben owned a winery in the soft rolling hills above the equator over looking a cerulean sea. It seemed worlds away when one looked at a map, opposite side of the planet actually, but in the Firebird it was nominal.
He cut back the engines and the Firebird floated into the bay as if she were carried on a breeze. There wasn’t even a jolt when the gear went down and she settled into place. He felt the smooth hum of the platform as it turned the ship to be ready for takeoff.
“Perfect as usual,” Tess said with pride.
Boone grinned at her. He must have inherited his engineering talents from his biological father. And as far as he was concerned that was all of the man he wanted. He didn’t remember anything about him since he had been no more than two when he died but he knew he had been cruel to his mother. He also knew that he was a result of that cruelty.
Which made him love his mother all the more because she could have hated him when he came along. Instead she made it her purpose to make sure he was happy, even if she wasn’t.
And then Ben came along, he still thought of him as Ben, even after knowing him as Ruben. Ruben who was his father in heart and spirit and soul. Ruben who saved his mother and thus saved him.
“System shut down,” Boone instructed ELSie. Ruben still laughed every time he talked to his Encrypted Language System. Especially since Boone called it ELSie. Boone remembered talking to Eli, the one Ruben had on his first ship, The Shooting Star which his uncle Stefan now used. She had something of an attitude. A very feminine attitude.
“Hatch open,” ELSie informed him in a somewhat feminine monotone.
Zoey was gone with Kyp at her heels.
“She reminds me a lot of you at that age,” Tess said.
Boone watched as one of the guards smiled at Zoey and waved her into the tunnel that led up to the villa. “I was never that innocent,” he said. “No matter how much you pretended I was.”
“Did I do that poor of a job?” Tess asked, her eyes smiling at him.
He knew she was teasing but he kept on. There was something he was trying to work out in his mind.
“You did a good job of pretending Mema. But pretending everything is perfect isn’t always a good thing.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not talking about you and me,” Tess said. She looked through the plexi at Elle and Zander who had just arrived in the bay.
“They should know why they live this way,” Boone said.
“You sound like they live in a horrible prison.”
Boone shrugged. “Don’t they? It’s not right that they don’t what is out there. It’s their lives after all.”
“I don’t think Shaun and Lilly meant it to last this long. I think they just kept waiting for the right time to tell them. And the right time just never came. They wanted them to be happy and innocent a while longer. Would you have wanted to live your childhood knowing there was a death sentence on your head?”
“I remember what it was like before Mema. Even without you telling me, I knew things weren’t right. And I wanted to do something to fix it.”
“Boone, you were only six.”
“And Zander will be eighteen tomorrow. Practically a man. If they don’t tell them soon, Zander is going to do something foolish.”
“Has he said anything?” His mother seemed fearful of the notion.
“No,” Boone said. He leaned over and gave his mother a quick kiss on her forehead to reassure her. “And I wouldn’t tell you if he had.”
“I’m sorry it was so bad for you,” his mother said.
“It was worse for you. You’ve never said anything about it but I know it was horrible. If Ruben hadn’t of showed up when he did…”
Zander stuck in head in the hatch. “Can I take her out?”
“Clear it with your father,” Boone said, feeling older, wiser and more mature than his best friend. He knew he had gotten off light earlier in the day. Ruben was of the same mind he was where Elle and Boone were concerned. He didn’t think their parents had done them any favors by sheltering them for all these years. And there was no need to tempt Shaun’s wrath. Not when he needed to be in the man’s good graces.
Zander made a face. Boone knew he’d rather cut his arm off than ask his father for anything right now. He’d just have to decide which he wanted more. The temptation to fly was always greater.
“Hi Elle,” Tess said as Elle entered the craft. She gave Boone a knowing look.
“Welcome Tess,” Elle said. Her smile for Boone seemed shy.
Maybe he should work on not being so obvious. But he couldn’t help but grin when Elle stepped into the Firebird.
She slid into the seat Tess vacated and rubbed her hand across the com. “I can’t believe you’ve still got this thing,” she said, picking up the toy.
“Hey,” Boone said. “Put it back.”
“I thought you were supposed to share your toys,” Elle teased.
Boone took the ship from her and put it back on the com. “That’s not a toy. It’s an essential part of the design.”
“Oh really?” Elle asked doubtfully. “What part is that?”
“If it doesn’t move then I’m flying her right.” He grinned at her.
“Do they teach that at Academy?” Elle asked.
“It’s not exactly a part of engineering,” Boone said. “But I did get E’s in all my courses.”
“I see that they teach modesty there also,” Elle continued with her teasing.
“I’ve learned all kind of things there,” Boone said, suddenly serious. “Things I’d love to teach you.”
I burn for you Elle. I can’t stop thinking about you…
Elle’s gaze, so striking and intense because of the paleness of her eyes, turned quickly away and she turned her attention to the com as if suddenly curious about the purpose of each light that blinked reassuringly in the dim light.
You scared her. Slow down.
“So what are the plans for the celebration?” Boone asked, quickly changing the subject. “Something spectacular I guess?”
“You mean because we’re coming of age?” Elle said turning back to him. “Not that they’d notice.” She seemed anxious for an argument. Boone wasn’t sure if it was because he had come on too strong or if she felt the same frustration as Zander.
“They’re just protecting you,” Boone said. “They’re intentions are good.”
“You know what it is they’re hiding from us,” Elle said. She turned the co to face him and tentatively took his hands into hers. “I saw it...before.”
“What did you see?” Boone asked. Unconsciously he went into the litany that he knew so well. It wasn’t his place to tell them. He swore an oath to his father that he wouldn’t. He had been trusted with the secret. He didn’t agree with it but he had still promised.
“I saw that you were protecting something. I saw that you have a secret that I can’t know.”
“I’m sorry Elle. I swore on my honor not to tell.”
“It’s the Circe, isn’t it?”
Boone pulled his hand away from Elle’s and looked through the plexi. Zander and Tess had gone into the tunnels. He wondered briefly if Zander would ask his father for permission to fly the Firebird. He was also waiting to see if Elle would dare try to search his mind without his permission. He hoped she wouldn’t. It was a dishonorable thing to do. But he wouldn’t put it past her. He knew her that well.
“Where did you hear that?” he asked after a long silent moment.
“It doesn’t matter,” Elle said. “What is the Circe?”
She didn’t know anything beyond the word. If she did she would have said who are the Circe.
“Ask your parents.”
“Why would they tell us?” she exploded. “They like us not knowing anything. They like keeping us prisoners in our home.”
“Elle,” Boone said, this time taking her hands into his. He waited a moment until she calmed and her gaze fell steady upon him. “Have the two of you ever just sat down and asked them? I know Zander broods about stuff and he’s so stiff necked with pride that he wouldn’t ask for help if it meant his life, but you’re a bit more diplomatic. Why don’t you just ask them to tell you instead of moping around like a couple of spoiled brats?”
Suddenly his hands felt as if he had stuck them in a reactor coil. He jerked them away involuntarily as Elle crossed her arms and looked at him in satisfaction.
“Kind of proves my point don’t you think?” Boone said, leaning back and giving her his own green eyed perusal. “You just proved that you aren’t mature enough to know the truth.”
My mind is my own…He started the litany in his head in order to thwart any torture Elle had in mind for him.
Elle jumped from the seat with a curse. Boone was impressed. He wondered where she had heard the word since it was one that was vulgar even by Academy standards. He admired the curve of her back as she stalked through the hatch and exited the bay as if on a mission.
“You’re just mad because you know I’m right,” Boone yelled through the plexi with a certain amount of satisfaction. A very small amount of satisfaction. He might be right but it had cost him Elle’s company. He didn’t have much time before he went back to Academy. He wanted to make sure she was his before he left again. He wanted to take back the knowledge that she would not be casting those beautiful eyes of hers elsewhere.
What if you are right?
What if Shaun and Lilly told Elle and Zander about the Circe today? How much would that change things? He felt pretty confident this past year at Academy, when he thought about things, when he realized that Elle was the only one he wanted. After all every other girl he met came up lacking. None were as pretty, none as graceful, none as sweet, or driven, or any other comparison he could think of. There were none like Elle. He made sure of it.
Boone had to grin at Elle’s reaction when she saw that he had been with girls. In the physical sense. But it had all been nothing as far as he was concerned. Just physical. After all he was at Academy and he was supposed to be learning…things.
What if it was the other way and Elle was the one…making sure?
He didn’t like that idea at all.
It was easy to remember the first time he’d seen Elle. He had come to Oasis with Shaun and Lilly, along with Ky. When they arrived the twins were waiting with their grandfather in the bay and upon seeing Elle his first thought was that he had gone to the heaven that his grandfather, Joah, sometimes referred too. He had never been around other children and knowing that he could see both her and Zander every day was all the heaven he needed.
Ruben soon found a place for his new family and they had gone to their own villa to create their own vineyard, modeled after the one on Lavign. Without the addition of the scourge of Qazar of course. Boone attended a regular school and made friends but special times were reserved to spend with his father’s best friend and his family. It wasn’t until Boone reached the end of his education on Oasis that he realized that Shaun and the Sovereign Nicholas of Oasis were the same man.
Which led to his questions about why Elle and Zander never came to visit them. Why Zander could never go with him on trips with his Uncle Stefan. Why he was never allowed to speak of them or the special things Elle could do to anyone he knew.
He knew about the Circe. Lilly had tested and trained his mother when she discovered that she was from the planet. Tess did not have the great capabilities that were characterized by the strange pale gray eyes. Her eyes were a clear gray-green in color. But her mother had been one. One who apparently rebelled and ran off with an unacceptable mate. Tess’s memories were vague since they had been erased. Lilly pulled as much of them to the surface as she could. Tess did remember that her father had the same bright green eyes as Boone, and that she had a brother. She could not recall her brother’s name.
Boone knew the Circe were evil. He had seen that first hand in his own life. Yet at Academy they were referred to as great counselors to the Senate. It was as if even the scholars did not want to get on their bad side. They had spies every where. Thus the danger to Zander and Elle.
Male children were not allowed to have the power that the Circe possessed. Shaun’s mother sacrificed herself so that her son would live when the law demanded that he be killed. His powers did not come into being until after he met Lilly. The Circe would still pay anything to have him killed.
And the children of such a union would terrify the race of psychic women.
Lilly triggered Shaun’s powers…
Suddenly it was so clear, as if Boone himself had suddenly inherited the powers. He knew the story well. It as one he never tired of hearing because hearing it brought him closer to knowing Elle.
Maybe that’s why Zander isn’t like Elle. Maybe he has to have his mind triggered by a woman…and not any woman…a woman that he loves.
“Is it possible that I…” he stopped himself before he finished. Even though he had Circe blood his bright green eyes were a sign that the powers did not run inside of him. His mother’s eyes were gray-green. She had healing powers and a psychic link with Ruben and nothing more.
Only those with the pale gray eyes held the true powers. Which is why any male child born to a Circe woman possessing that eye color was killed immediately. There was no way of telling in the womb what color eyes a child had. The child had to be born. The women of Circe, who had spent generations under the rule of their men would no longer be enslaved. Now they were the power. And they would kill any threat to it.
They would consider Zander to be the biggest threat of all because he was a true Circe on both sides.
Yet Zander held no powers at all. At least none that were evident.
Was it possible that there was a Circe woman somewhere that would trigger Zander’s powers? And if there were what were the chances that she was of a good heart, like Lilly?
Boone did the final check on the Firebird and went in search of his father.
Had it ever even occurred to them?
His footsteps echoed on the stone floor of the tunnel.
Or was it a foolish and wishful thought? There was only one way to know.
The time of secrets was over.