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First Page: Contemporary Romance titled “Long Road Home”

Jane — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 10:00:19 +0000

Welcome to First Page Saturday. Individual authors anonymously send a first page read and critiqued by the Dear Author community of authors, readers and industry others. Anyone is welcome to comment. You may comment anonymously.

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New York City, Manhattan, somewhere between So-Ho and Hell’s Kitchen: What are the chances of not only finding yourself face to face with another Irishman, but one who is nearly twenty years your senior and you’re inexplicably drawn to each other as if wielded by fate?

Chapter 1

Bronwyn awoke and found herself trapped in a carcass of ripped and crunched metal. She blinked rapidly and tried to wipe broken glass from her hair. Flustered, she tried to maneuver around to see if she could somehow get free. She felt the warmth of fresh blood as it ran down the side of her face. Her breath was deep yet calm. Rain beat down in the pitch dark of night; the droplets echoed like pinging thunder and silenced any other sound until she heard footsteps slowly overtake the downpour. Heavy. Echoed. She didn’t move. She covered her mouth to subdue a yelp that would turn into a blood curdling scream. A strong weathered hand grabbed at her ankle and yanked hard on her leg to pull her from the wreckage.

“I’m not done with you yet!” the graveled voice howled. Bronwyn kicked back with her other foot to fend off the attacker. She desperately tried to find another way out. “Come here bitch!” She kicked back harder and clawed her way through a hole. She scrambled to her feet and began to run again when the man tackled her to the ground. He bashed his fist into her face. She could taste the blood as it filled her mouth. “You’re pretty,” he smiled.

His teeth were crooked and black. Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth. “Stop it,” Bronwyn whimpered. He reached behind his back and pulled around a silver blade. Bronwyn began to cry. “Shh, don’t cry,” he wiped a tear from her cheek as it mixed with rain. “It won’t hurt, for long.”

“No!” Bronwyn shot up in her bed, beads of sweat ran down her forehead and chest. Sheets mangled and wrapped around her feet. Her phone vibrated against the night stand. Bronwyn rubbed her eyes, “Hello?”

“Bronwyn good morning,” Detective McDonald said cheerfully.

Bronwyn yawned as she sat up. “I’m tired of this. Every year you call. Every year I look at another hundred mug shots. It’s been ten years. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“I told you I wasn’t going to give up on this. I know something will pop out and happen for us. All I’m asking for is a few hours.”

“No, all you’re asking for is for me to relive it over and over again. I can’t move on if you won’t let me let it go.”

“Promise me you’ll-”

“I’m not promising anything. I have to get ready for work; I’ll call you next week.” Bronwyn put the phone back on her nightstand and proceeded to prepare for the day ahead.

Once Bronwyn jumped out of bed and got herself into the shower. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her pale blue eyes were puffy as they stared back. She had unblemished ivory skin, straight long light brown hair and was taller than the average sized woman, an easy five foot ten inches.

She applied some face moisturizer as she began primping for the day. As she reached for the toothbrush, she knocked over the toothpaste and sent her hair brush to the floor onto her foot. “Goddamn it! Ow,” she rubbed the top of one foot with the other. As she brushed her teeth she ran into her closet to quickly throw an outfit together.

She pulled a long black wool skirt off its hangar and snagged a dark red, long sleeve scoop neck top to go with it. She ran back to the sink, spit out the toothpaste and picked up the brush to comb out her hair and part it in the middle. She glanced at the clock; it screamed 9:15 back at her. “Shit, shit, shit.” She got dressed took one last glance in the mirror, seized her bag and coat and flew out her apartment door.

She hustled down 7th Street and doing her best to keep from running into other people. Her cell phone began to ring. She tried to dig through her purse to find it and in doing so poked her finger on an uncovered pen. She quickly yanked her hand out and gave a quick suck to it. Her phone continued its persistence and beckoned her again. She pulled herself up against the outside wall of her favorite coffee shop, forced her bag open and began to rummage through all her junk and finally found the phone. “I’ve got to get myself a smaller bag,” she uttered under her breath as she clicked the answer button.

“Bronwyn, where are you?” Adam, Bronwyn’s colleague, asked with a thick, gruff voice.

“I know, Adam. I’m sorry. I had a wicked night’s sleep and must have accidentally turned off my alarm or something.”

“He’s waiting,” Adam continued. “I know you’re in charge of this one so you have to be here to oversee the transfer. He was adamant,” he chided.

“Look, I’m on my way. Tell Mr. Seeley I will absolutely make sure all the Is are dotted and Ts are crossed.” She paused and in that split second as she looked up time came to an utter standstill, at least for her. She locked eyes with a man.

He was tall, maybe six foot or more, Bronwyn couldn’t tell in the brief encounter. He had a creased brow deep in thought that vanished as he shot back a glance and smiled. Those eyes, she thought to herself. Bright blue and would have seemed average on any man, but not on him. He had short brown hair that was slightly grayed on the sides and a lean physique. His hands were huddled in the pockets of his coat. Must have forgotten his gloves. She completely drifted from her phone conversation.

“Bronwyn? You there?” Adam nudged. She looked away for a split second and lost sight of the gentleman.

First Page: YA Paranormal

Jane — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 10:00:25 +0000

***

Stop and smell the roses, for tomorrow they may be dead.

Chapter 1

The tribal drum thumps in my head slow and steady – boom, boom, boom – and the Cherokee markings under my eyes feel heavy, but I keep my gaze steady ahead of me. Blue paint cracks on my arms as I curl my hands. My arms soon join the dance as I weave them in front of me like two snakes.

I am a snake. I am fire.

More drums join in, and the pace quickens. The flames dance to the same rhythm in front of me. I take a step sideways and bring my legs back together, executing a pirouette, and repeat the pattern several more times. After making it around the small propane-fed fire, I bow to it, willing my ancestors to leap out. I run backward; my footfalls mimic the drums inside my head.

After curling my fingers to my chest, I punch my arms out far above my head and release them into the sky. With a tiny movement, so the recital audience won’t see, I wave to the stars projected on the ceiling. Sue me.

“There’s no real music at first, at least none with a beat,” my dance instructor said a couple of months ago. “You’ll just have to imagine a regular little beat, Kara. You can do that, right?”

Can I imagine a drum beat? You mean like the ones often in my head anyway? The soft, sometimes hard, pats have been part of my psyche for as long as I can remember. At the moment, they’re the only things that keep me anchored.

I have so much on my mind right now, but I must perform. A ghost dance – how ironic. I picked this week for my summer visit with Grandpa because of the Panama City recital and now I’ll be watching my ancestor die.

Layout, ponche, forward roll. Great, I didn’t break my collar bone.

Thump, thump. The drums are real this time—electronic. My cue. I pick up the arrow and leap into the air.

First Page: UNTITLED FANTASY

Jane — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 10:00:01 +0000

***

Blue’s boots sunk into the sand. A gust hurled even more curls into her face. She paused and tightened her bun. This unholy constant wind from the sea to the hills only got worse at night, so what was this guy doing here? Why wasn’t he in a nightclub? Tourists didn’t come to Whitehills for the beach. Most of Dunesea was a beach, and there were better ones south. A young Grenodian from an old family should have been sucking up bluestripe in the city.

But here he was.

The subject strode purposefully toward the weathered hills. His brown hair was longer than the picture in her handcomp. The wind blew it–and his coat–straight forward. His shoes must have been full of sand. What was he doing?

“Subject sighted walking west toward foothills near Sunrisan border,” she said into her wrist. “List time.” Oh, he’d better not go north and cross. Her license wasn’t exactly valid there.

“Mr. Gate?” Blue broke into a run. A hand instinctively reached for her e-stun. No. Why that? Sure this was strange. He was likely completely gone on the stripe, but the situation wasn’t anywhere near that. Calm down.

“Mr. Gate,” she repeated as she drew near, “your family is very worried about you.”

He strode on, as if she had said nothing. As if she wasn’t even there. Mother Time Unchanging, was he really that gone?

She maneuvered herself into his path. “Look, I’m not the police.” She thrust her license forward. “See. I’m just a freelancer. I need to get you on a flight back to Grenod.”

From this angle, Blue finally got a look at his face. Yes, it was the man in the picture, but his eyes–they glowed. She gasped and took a step back. What? They were the same color as the stars above them. It was like something out of a period holo.

Something hit her chest.

The world lurched. Her back hit sand. She raised her head so her unarmored scalp and neck wouldn’t scrape as she slid across the beach. The rest of the air that hit her rushed over her face. Air?

She relocked her sight onto Gate. He finally seemed to notice her. Well, he was certainly walking toward her with his face all contracted in concentration and annoyance.

What was he going to do next? Blue didn’t want to find out.

So it came to this.

She slid the stunner out of its holster and readied it in one practiced motion.

She hoped they wouldn’t sue.

Her thumb unleashed a brief onslaught of lightning. When it reached Gate, he vibrated . He blinked, and the starlit eyes vanished, replaced by ordinary brown. The eyes then closed as his legs gave out from under him. He collapsed onto his hands and knees.

Blue released the breath she held. She rolled and brought herself to her feet. What in time just happened?

Solstice has a condition, one of his mothers had said. Condition, indeed. A man with the antiquated and useless title of “Mage” on his birth certificate just went and conjured something like it was two hundred years ago. As if the curse never happened.

First Page: Untitled

Jane — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 18:00:37 +0000

***

Chapter 1 - Malta 1804

If I needed someone to slit a throat or steal a purse, Eaton thought, I would come here to find him.

William Eaton had arrived early for that evening’s rendezvous with the British agent, Burton Grey. Grey had picked a bad place for their meeting—the Sedum Tavern—in a bad part of Valletta harbor. In the daytime, the square was a fish market. At night, other things were bought and sold.

The lengthening shadows cast by a fading sun played across the centuries-old weathered stone buildings fronted by awning-covered stalls. Eaton stood, unnoticed, in a boarded-up doorway, his cloak pulled tight against the damp cold rolling in from the harbor. With the approach of twilight, merchants were shuttering their shops and their customers were fleeing the square. Eaton watched as patrons entered the tavern: sailors from the ships of twelve nations crowding Valletta’s harbor, dock workers, pick pockets, thugs, cutthroats, and whores. A bright-eyed rat looked up from his supper of fish scraps on the shop table next to Eaton. Eaton nodded a greeting: paying a visit to your two-legged cousins, I suppose? Above the doorway, rust stains like dried blood streaked downward over the stone from a crude iron hook in the wall. I wonder what has hung on that hook, Eaton thought. Fish—or men?

Eaton looked at his watch, then eased quietly from his hiding place into the tavern and stood in darkness near the door. He pulled back his cloak to free his pistol, his eyes passing carefully over those patrons he could see in the candle-lit gloom. A few moments later, his aide Eugene Leitensdorfer came through the door, spotted Eaton, and joined him by the entrance.

…

“Come,” said Leitensdorfer, “ I’ve arranged for a place where we won’t be disturbed.” He led Eaton through the crowded tavern to a small private room to the right of the bar. They settled in behind the deeply scarred, stained wooden table. “We can talk in confidence here, but with the doors open, watch whoever enters,” Leitensdorfer said. Eaton nodded, then left the table to go to the bar, returning with four wine glasses.

As he sat down, their English contact arrived at the tavern. Leitensdorfer went to him, spoke briefly and led him back to their table. Without waiting to be introduced, the Englishman greeted Eaton with a brief, diffident nod. “Mr. Leitensdorfer and I share an acquaintance, sir. But you would, I assume, be William Eaton?”

“Your servant, sir,” said Eaton, coolly matching the Englishman’s neutral tone. “Mr. Grey, I believe we may call you?” As Eaton rose to greet Grey, he noticed their disparity in size. He looks like a terrier, Eaton thought—or a ferret. I will need to handle him carefully.

“Grey will do quite admirably for our purposes; my real name obviously does not concern you,” said the Englishman, sitting down wearily. “Is there anything drinkable in this hovel?”

“I would be surprised if there were,” said Eaton. “So I took the precaution of bringing a bottle with me: a 1783 Leacock and Spence Madeira. I trust you will find it acceptable,” he said, knowing that it was, in fact, superb. Gesturing at the table, he continued, “We have paid for glasses. May I pour you one?” Grey picked up the bottle, inspected the label, and then nodded.

First Page: Contemporary Romance

Jane — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 10:00:32 +0000

***

Finley stepped out of the terminal and caught the smell of the Atlantic even before the glass doors had fully closed behind her. She looked down the line of cars parked in the arrivals pick-up zone and spotted her father’s long-time driver, standing on the curb beside an enormous black government-issue SUV.

“Welcome home, Miss Throop.” He started walking toward her, a little slower than she remembered, but already spreading his arms and giving her that grin that had been as reliable as his insistence on calling her “Miss Throop”, even back when she’d only come up to his kneecaps.

“Hi Dewey.“ Finley laughed and hugged the old driver before allowing him to take her wheeled carry-on and hanging bag.

“You sure don’t have much luggage. The governor said to pick you up in the Death Star here, because you’d probably bring half of California with you.”

“Nope– not staying that long, no matter what my father might have said.”

Finley opened her own door and slid into the front passenger seat, causing the driver to do a stutter-step before he shrugged and walked around to load the bags into the back. Moments later, he was behind the wheel and steering toward the highway on-ramp.

“Don’t get too much company up here in front these days. It’s good to see you again. Been a long time, Miss Throop.”

“I know it. It’s good to see you, too, Dewey. How’s your family?”

“Oh, my girls are grown and gone now. Joanne’s still puttin’ up with me. She’s your biggest fan. Every Friday night she makes sure we’re right in front of the television at ten o’clock.” Finley saw a furrowed brow replace his beaming smile, as he remembered the reason for this joyful reunion. “Guess you won’t be on this week, huh? I sure am sorry about your mamma.”

“Thank you. What’s the latest? I was in the air for last five hours, and I haven’t heard anything since my layover.”

“As far as I know, it’s still the same– critical but stable. Still unconscious.”

“How are the boys handling it?”

“Oh, the usual. You’ll just have to see for yourself. I’ll take you home first to freshen up, then drive you and your brothers up to the hospital to see her. Your dad’ll probably meet you there.”

“Where is he?”

Dewey hesitated, keeping his eyes trained on the road and flexing his wide, leathery fingers on the steering wheel. “He took his own car this evening… some kind of fundraiser, I think.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to let down those loyal supporters. Or their checkbooks. Well, I can’t wait to see the boys. This whole thing is godawful, but at least I get to sneak in another visit with them a lot sooner than I expected. I’ll bet they’re a foot taller than they were last summer.”

“Yep. Monsters. Wicked huge monsters, those two guys.”

“Lord help us.” Finley paused and bit her lip, but couldn’t stop herself from asking. “How‘s… everyone else?”

“Well, Tabitha’s still going strong, keeping the place running, taking care of everybody as usual. And… if you’re wondering, Nolan–”

“No– I’m not. Wondering. I didn’t ask about him.” Her fingers curled tightly around the leather armrest, and she stared through the windshield at the peeling URI Rams bumper sticker on the minivan ahead of them.

“I know you didn’t.” Dewey chuckled softly. “Okay then, let‘s get you home Miss Finley. You might enjoy the view on the way. Little Rhody‘s changed a lot in thirteen years.”

First Page: Sylvan Legacy, YA Historical Romance with Fantasy Elements

Jane — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 10:00:25 +0000

***

The horse’s hooves thunder across the hillside, and with each bunching of its muscles, I feel my heart pound. My hair breaks free of its pins, and pale strands sweep across my cheek. The warmth from the horse’s sides radiates through my thin breeches, and I’m thankful I hadn’t bothered with a riding habit this morning, though what I wear in its stead is highly improper.

I glance over my shoulder at my brother Robert, who follows on his long-legged chestnut mare.

“Careful, dear sister,” Robert calls out, the wind snatching at his melodic tenor voice, “I’m gaining on you.”

I laugh, the wind snatching it away, too. “Your leggy mare will refuse to jump this next bank just as she always does.”

I press my booted heels to the stallion’s sides, and a little thrill jolts through me as he charges forward. The thrill is not my own—the horse shares his emotions with me, the physical contact with my body creating the connection. He is aware of the snow giving way beneath his hooves, the smell of the crisp air, the feel of my weight on his back. He is torn between wanting to rid himself of a rider entirely, and being grateful for the chance to run free.

The mare behind him is on his mind, too, a speck of awareness that I take advantage of—it tells me how close I am to reaching the creek before my brother, therefore winning our little race.

The bank jump approaches. It’s nothing but a fallen log on a hilltop, but from this direction, the horses will have to jump down about four feet. My horse’s ears prick forward as he notices the log, and he tries to increase his strides. I ask him to hold himself back with a squeeze of my fingers on the reins, and he responds—grudgingly.

One heartbeat, two, and then my beautiful horse arches over the log. I lean back to aid in his balance on the landing, and his legs stretch toward the snowy ground beneath us. His front hooves land, the rest of his body follows, and I give him his head. He stretches forward greedily, proud of himself for making the jump. In five strides, we are at the creek, so I sit back on my heels and spin him around to face the bank.

I expect to see my brother peering down at me from the top of the hill, so sure that his green mare would refuse it, but instead, I watch her arch over the log. I smile at first, proud of my brother for convincing her to jump, but my face falls when the mare slips on the landing.

Too fast, her legs are folding beneath her weight, dragging my brother down with her. I drop the reins and sit up straight in the saddle. My arms fling away from my body as if I’m trying to catch my brother, but instead, I let the magic do it for me.

Golden light springs forth from my fingertips and bathes my brother and his horse in light. It stops the horse’s fall and supports her weight until she can sort out her tangled legs. Once she rights herself, the light fades away, leaving them safe at the bottom of the hill.

First Page: Untitled Paranormal Romance

Jane — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 10:00:59 +0000

***

For as long as Cali could remember she’d had the good angel, bad devil thing going on. Of course she didn’t actually see little cartoonesque figures sitting on her shoulders trying to persuade her to their point of view, that would just make her bat shit crazy.

No, it was more a case of the voice of reason duking it out with the voice of temptation and Cali had been ringside for some spectacular, knock down, drag out fights.

Ultimately though, being of sound mind and body despite what it sounded like, Cali decided the outcome which rarely boded well for Reason Angel. With Cali usually rooting for Temptation Devil, coupled with the fact that the imagined angel never resorted to below the belt tactics, meant that as much of a fight as reason angel put up, she invariably lost.

The rare occasions Reason Angel did win were usually shallow victories occurring when Cali, always a sucker for an underdog, was feeling repentant or when she wasn’t in the mood for her fabricated Temptation Devils gloating. He really liked to rub his victories in.

Honestly, not bat shit crazy.

She’d created her imaginary pugilists so long ago it was only natural they should develop personalities, 2D just wasn’t Cali’s style. But despite the eccentric element of their existence, they were there to keep her out of trouble.

Not that she didn’t know wrong from right, she was after all the puppet master of the imaginary good angel and bad devil. No, she knew right only too well, well at least her queens version of right. The trouble was that she liked wrong, she liked it a lot, and after almost one hundred years of life wrong wasn’t even close to wearing thin. Cali put it down to two things; rebellion and curiosity. As a Bijou ruled by a queen with a very strict set of rules rebellion seemed a natural side effect but what made her need for rebellion worse were the consequences for breaking those rules were so severe she had to hide her rebellion which proved less than satisfying.

On the other side of the coin was the rampant curiosity she’d been created with, a curiosity that filled her with a perpetual need for discovery.

Need? Way too mild a word.

Compulsion was probably more apt, no obsession, definitely obsession. Cali was obsessed with learning new information and what she couldn’t get from books she got from life, crippling rules withstanding. Whenever it was peaked her curiosity demanded to be satisfied, leaving her with little choice but to indulge it. It was bordering on being a disability. Hell, instead of punishing her her fellow Bijoux should be holding charity collections for her.

Instead they were perhaps one or two more mishaps away from burning her at the stake and all because her curiosity had irrevocably screwed up her and her twins lives forever. Correction, they didn’t care about her life but her twins? Now that was a travesty they couldn’t bare. Cali had screwed up good and proper on that one. The ultimate epic fail.

Where were you on that one reason angel?

But one thing she’d learnt over her long life was her curiosity couldn’t be ignored and it was that curiosity that had her stood outside a dodgy looking pub on aptly named Shoot up Hill and not because of gun crime. She’d bet the lights in the toilets were fluorescent blue making it that much harder for those inclined to find a vein.

Hardly her kind of place but she’d sensed Sempiternus inside and her feet had frozen of their own accord. Of all the rules the queen enforced avoiding the so called ‘ever living’ was the biggest. Even though the Bijoux were Sempiternus themselves apparently they were better than and above all other Semps and as such were forbidden to have anything to do with them. It was one of the few rules Cali tried to stick to as the aforementioned ruination of her and her twins lives? Yep, Semp related.

First Page: untitled M/M Paranormal Romance

Jane — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 10:00:21 +0000

***

Lukas von Rainer was at the hotel bar with his fellow Wardens when the priest passed. Everyone’s eye was drawn to him, not only for the black vestments which brought out his dusky complexion and dark hair, but also for the rugged shape of his jaw and the surety of his movements.

Then, as if he’d sensed Lukas’s interest, he turned. Their eyes met, and Lukas was instantly lusting after him.

“He’s a priest, Lukas.” Olivia jabbed his arm with her elbow. “Put that tongue back in your head.”

“I bet you a hundred dollars I’ll have him in my bed by the end of the conference.”

“You go too far this time,” Jean-Claude said. His arm was around his half-incubus companion, a pretty brunette named Eugenie. “He’s a priest. Priests are celibate.”

“Most priests are celibate.”

“Merde,” Jean-Claude muttered and glowered at his wine. He turned to kiss Eugenie. “What do you say, ma petite? We find him a cambion like you and then he’ll stop his wandering ways.”

Eugenie looked Lukas up and down, then turned her lips into a pout. “I don’t think anything will stop him from wandering, though we could try…”

“We?” Jean-Claude smiled. “Oui.”

But Lukas ignored them, instead glancing up just in time to see the priest exit through the double doors leading to the conference area. “I’ll be back.”

Padre Rafael Esparza noticed the blond man following him and not trying to hide the fact he did so. Stranger still, Rafael could sense nothing from him. For a while, he ignored the man, moving from table to table to pick up his name tag and a schedule which fortunately had been translated into four different languages including Spanish.

Most of the attendees were as he’d expected, doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, and practitioners of every sort of healing he could imagine. This man was…different, though Rafael had learned long ago not to judge by appearances. He was in his late twenties, which made him about ten years younger than Rafael, and while he didn’t look like a man interested in alternative healing arts, the little Rafael could sense told him the man had a strong drive to aid others.

“I help you with something?” Rafael said formally in English. “You ask for confession, maybe?”

To his amusement, the blond man’s eyes widened in surprise. “I—no thanks, Father. I merely wanted to ask if you needed help finding your way around. This is my third time here and I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”
He dressed like an American, and his speech patterns were American, but the German accent hinted at a different ancestry. “You are kind, but I am tired from travel and wish only my room.”

“I’ll help you find it. What’s the number?”

The man’s insistence annoyed Rafael. Besides, he smelled like beer and cigarette smoke, neither of which Rafael cared for. “There is a reason you wish me alone? It is a spiritual matter?”

“Forgive me, Father.” The man was instantly contrite. “I have offended you. Let me apologize by taking you to dinner in the hotel’s restaurant at, say, seven o’clock? I’ll answer any questions you have about the conference or Rome or…anything.”

The blond now intrigued him. He wanted Rafael’s company for something other than spiritual matters, and while Rafael had a guess, he wanted to wait to be certain. “I agree. The hotel restaurant. Seven o’clock.”

The man beamed, and for an instant, Rafael was taken by the roguish smile. “Thank you, Father. See you then.”

Rafael watched him leave and found himself looking forward to the night’s engagement.

First Page: Historical Romance, Titled Haunted

Jane — Sat, 17 Dec 2011 10:00:58 +0000

***

Essex, England 1789

Elsie picked another flower. Her fist was full of them already, but she didn’t want to return home. She squinted up at the sky. Already it was darkening, and that meant her brother would be home soon.

Mother had the illness again. It would be loud there, with Mother moaning and wailing and Father shouting at her to stop. Only William could set her right.

So she jammed the stem in with the others and walked along the cracked stone walls of the Abbey. She would give William the flowers. Elsie-girl, he would smile, beautiful flowers from a beautiful girl. And he would twirl her about.

Except her shadow lengthened on the grass, and she worried. She might get in trouble. Worse, she might encounter the ghost. They said the Saint of Osyth was a witch in life and a ghost in death, walking the Abbey once a year. William said she wasn’t real, but Elsie didn’t want to chance it, so she turned toward home.

Rain touched her face and she sped up. She would definitely be in trouble now.

Elsie saw it as she passed the gatehouse, a flash of black through a missing stone in the wall. The ghost! She dashed away from the Abbey, even though it would take her the wrong way. Away from home and into the woods.

Footsteps thudded behind her and the wet wind slapped her face, but she ran and ran. Her shoe slipped on mud and she fell, sliding down into a wet ditch. A rock banged her head and her leg twisted.

She looked up at the dark figure above her, looming wet and large. Her head hurt very much, and the dark of the night closed in on her. But her last thought, as the figure tripped its way down the bank, was surprise that the ghost was not a woman after all, but a man.

The Honorable Viscount Sheldon was in a foul mood. He should have been at a rout, courting a young miss or two and stealing kisses in the courtyard. Instead he traveled in a smelly, bumpy coach on a stormy night.

After a mere six months of freedom, William was coming home. He’d been summoned, no doubt because his mother was speaking in tongues or screaming obscenities.

He had tried to be the good son, forsaking both play and his studies to remain by her side. He rushed home every break between terms and suffered her pleas when it was time to leave. No, he’d tell her, Father does not have a secret plot to kill you. Elsie does not wish you dead. The servants do not slip poison into your food.

It was only in the past few years since he’d graduated, when he’d chafed at the damp jail of a house did the most unkind thought occur to him, that maybe he was the one who wished her gone. So he’d implored his father to let him join his ex-schoolmates in London, to experience bachelor life before he settled down to marry.

She is inconsolable. You must return.

That’s what the note had said, so here he was.

A drawn out lurch ended his trip. He peered out at the familiar manse. Its three stories were cavernous considering the family of three, now four, who lived here. The only building nearby that could rival it for size was the Abbey, but that was a falling down pile of rubble. As well as haunted, if one believed the stories, which he didn’t.

First Page: Unnamed Paranormal

Jane — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 10:00:49 +0000

***

Sweat dripped down my forehead. My hair hung damp in my face, a limp version of its former self. We’d been at this for hours. Hours. And all I’d managed to move was a pencil. Two inches.

“Again, Cameron,” barked my tutor, Deacon. “You’re not focusing. Move it to the end of the desk and we’ll call it a day.” Most people go out of their way to make him happy. I’m not most people. I picked the pencil up and threw it across the room.

“There. It’s moved.” I blew my bangs back from my face, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning my hip on the desk. Translation: I’m done for the day.

“Perhaps it’s time to rest. Come. Meditate.” He bared his feet, carefully tucking his socks into his black Nikes and indicated I should mirror him. Once prepared, we sat across from each other, legs crossed, backs straight.

I suppose this could be where my problem lies. The point of meditating is to have all your focus on, well, meditating. My focus lacks focus. Random thoughts flutter around my head and try as I might, I still find myself thinking about my parents, or how much I want the new Lucky jeans, or why some people just can’t stop with the plastic surgery. I mean, seriously, when your face starts rivaling Barbie’s in texture, it’s not a good thing.

Oh, crap. See? I was supposed to be centering my focus on relaxing my muscles. Instead, I went a little crazy with the inner monologue. Okay, Cami. Focus. Relax your toes. Breathe. Relax. I hope mom remembered to feed Pippa.

Well, yeah, that’s about how it went. For ages. Until he decided we had focused all we could. Only then could we stand back up. Goodness. Life was so much easier before the Touch took hold in me. I missed my quiet life with my parents and my cat. I haven’t even seen them in months. Not since the training began and Deacon got saddled with getting my powers under control.

“That’s enough. Now, I want you to try the pencil again.” The object of my lesson floated from its resting place on the plush carpet to land back on the desk. Show off.

“Not all telekinetics have been honing their power for over twenty years. Did it ever occur to anyone that the one time I actually moved something was a fluke?” That was a great day. The day my life changed for ever. The day I stopped being mundane and became Touched. Well sort of. I’ve been Touched since I was six, but I was more of a dud, like a firework that never explodes. “Maybe it was the combination of environmental factors that initiated the original, successful telekinetic display.” That’s a nice way of putting it; I threw a man over his car. Without touching him. For whistling at me.

“Environmental factors?”

“Yes. The vampire blood was still in my system. And,” I struggled to come up with support for my flimsy premise. I finally settled on, “PMS.” There. I’d like to see a man argue with that.

“The vamp blood will always be in your system, Cameron. Your body can’t process it out. As for the other factor, give me a calendar; I’ll be sure to schedule us on a day where your usually pleasant, fun-loving demeanor is replaced by the unpleasantness that afflicts women. Oh, wait. That’s everyday for you. One more try and you won’t have to see me the rest of the day.”

Well, hell. That’s motivation in itself.

First Page: ParanormalRomance, Past the Horizon

Jane — Sat, 03 Dec 2011 10:00:41 +0000

***

Reginald Beckett—England 1790

Like casualties of war, fallen on the field of battle, the glasses were laid out across the wooden table, a testament to my drinking capacity. Also evidence of my better abilities was my companion, double my size, cheek down in spilt ale, his eyes heavy and nearly closed. It was a sad reflection on my life when this was all that remained.

I gazed around the smoke-filled room, crammed with drunken disheveled men and whores draped across their laps. For a brief second, an image of Maggie tending the fire in our cottage—with William hoisted on her hip and Annie clinging to her skirt—flitted through my mind. The emotions it brought forth nearly overwhelmed me. I shook my head in the faint hope of erasing the picture and, as I did so, my eye caught a young woman watching me from the doorway. She was dressed in a cream and gold dress, her hair piled on top of her head; luxurious curls the color of coffee beans cascaded down around her milk-white shoulders and neck. Her skin appeared dewy and soft, emphasized by the glittering array of jewels adorning her. She smiled at me through deep red lips, and I had the vague sensation I had seen her before.

I looked back at my companion, resting comfortably across the table, his heavy fingers still wrapped around his drink. “Hey.” I knocked his glass with my own, and he jolted awake, sloshing the contents as he did so. He squinted one bloodshot eye up at me. “Have you seen that lady?” I asked.

He glanced at the door and back, a bewildered expression on his face. “Beckett, there’s no one there.” I spun my head around, the room swaying dangerously as I did so. The doorway was empty.

“You should have another drink mate,” he suggested, his hand lifting his glass up to his mouth in jerky wild motions. The liquid spilled over the rim before he actually connected with his lips. I dumped the remains of my mug in my mouth, slapped some coins on the table, and extricated myself from the bench.

“Where are you going?” My companion slurred to me.

I swayed a bit as I stood, steadying myself on the corner of the table. “Home,” I lied, smiling sardonically at the use of that word in reference to the dilapidated room in which I slept, and lurched toward the door. The night air was refreshing, despite the smells of decaying sewage that always accompanied the river. A fog was rolling in, and the air was wet with it. I lifted my face, closing my eyes and breathing deeply, happy to be free of the stench of stale ale and sweat, pondering which direction to proceed to find the woman. I needn’t have bothered.

When I opened my eyes, she was there watching me from a few yards away. She turned and quickly vanished around the corner. It was enough to entice me. She looked back every now and then but never slackened her pace, her skirt swirling around her feet. I followed unsteadily, listening to the clicking of her boot heels on the cobblestones until she treaded silently, the cobblestones melding into the dirt and mud that comprised most of the back roads.

She waited patiently down a darkened street, and I paused, confused as to the nature of her business on a road littered with rotting garbage and puddles. Her stature and seeming position was out of place for this locale. No proper lady would be out unaccompanied in a deserted alley. My curiosity and desire overrode my concerns as I approached her.

“Do I know you, ma’am?” I inquired, attempting to use my best accent. She smiled slowly, the corners of her mouth turning up, her lips crimson against her stark skin. She was younger than me, maybe twenty. Her eyes were a deep gray, like the pewter tea kettle my mother had used.

“No, Mr. Beckett, you don’t. But I’ve been watching you.” I reached out a hand for the wall of the building and, leaning on it for support, contemplated her statement and how she knew my name.

First Page: Los Defensores: The Beginning a Paranormal Romance

Jane — Sat, 26 Nov 2011 10:00:10 +0000

***

City of Lundun, province of Brittania, United Empire.

27 Janvier, 3.021 AGD

In Silas Marrack’s opinion—which concurred with the prejudices of his fellow mages—scientists were idiots. Scientists had long ago decreed the lethal Lundun fogs extinct, yet here he was bumbling around in one. When he’d departed Whitehall, tired but satisfied with the day’s events, the night had been clear. He’d been so immersed in his thoughts he hadn’t noticed the weather change, admittedly a bad habit but one he couldn’t seem to change.

The crowning of a king was a long and tedious affair. It required ceremony and diplomacy and the ability to ignore self-important officials jostling for position in the Grande Promenade. Not to mention a complete lack of facial expression—as well as appetite—at the banquet table, where he’d been seated between High Priestess Gwendolyn and the Duchess of Versailles. They’d hated each other for decades and had continued their quarrel across his increasingly anxious self, each remark so sweetly deadly he’d fully expected them to push back their chairs and have at it with forks and knives. Of course, that couldn’t be allowed, not on such an auspicious day. He’d handled them with his usual tact and humor, but his nerves might never recover from the ordeal.

His duties finally done, he’d breathed a sigh of relief and escaped into the quiet of the now deserted streets. He’d elected to walk, to stretch his muscles and allow himself time to think.

Richard V’s death had raised a minor stumbling block to his plans. Richard had been his strategist, privy to every bit of information Silas himself knew. Robby was so young, so untried. It was difficult to know just where his strengths lay. But Robby was now Robert III, King of the United Empire, and his liege. He would have to bring him up-to-date. Robby didn’t lack brains and his courage had never been faulted. It was his lack of experience that worried Silas.

The damnable fog made it difficult to think. He’d walk into a brick wall, if he weren’t careful. He paused, trying to pinpoint his location. Where the hell was he? The Collegium was a stone’s throw away from Whitehall, depending on who was throwing the stone, of course. The road was relatively smooth and straight, except for that sharp turn to the left. Had he missed it and wandered into Old Towne? Surely he’d have noticed the lack of pavement. He scuffled a booted foot and felt the curve of cobblestones. Blast. He’d wandered into Old Towne.

Slowly he realized something was amiss. Perhaps he ought to cut the scientists some slack, because this wasn’t a natural fog. There was the faintest taint of rot, so faint it had escaped his notice until he’d cleared his mind of quarreling dignitaries and begun to concentrate.

The skitter of claws on cobblestones. Head cocked, he listened intently. A high pitched mutter grew into a shrill chittering, invoking visions of madness and pain. The insane chorus completely surrounded him. Interesting…the Other Side, always capitalized in his mind, had never offered such blatant opposition, not for years, perhaps centuries. They tended to be sneaky; he couldn’t remember one occasion when they’d directly confronted him.

This was an annoyance indeed, and perhaps an indication he was on the right track. He muttered a Word of Power. The wall of fog surged back as if shocked, clearing a sizable circle around him. His formal red robe took on a silvery sheen as his shields manifested. He widened his stance and waited.

Whatever was out there was not friendly.

He had only himself to blame. He’d become complacent and, it seemed, dangerously lax. Could it have been deliberate? Had his enemies hoped to lull him into carelessness by ignoring him? Had they figured out his plan? He’d been so careful, but he was only human despite his power. He could have messed up somehow. He thought of his chess pieces and the game about to start. This confrontation suggested the enemy knew or suspected something was afoot. Cut off the head and the body would die. Cut down Silas Marrack and the whole world would die.

Saturday First Page: Alias, an Action Romance

Jane — Sat, 19 Nov 2011 10:00:24 +0000

Saturday first page is an opportunity for authors to present the first page of an unpublished manuscript to be critiqued by the community. Anonymous comments are acceptable. As a reminder, gravatars are connected to one’s email address so if you comment anonymously but use your regular email address, one’s attempt at anonymity will be thwarted.

Additionally, our queue is empty. First pages can be sent to jane at dearauthor.com

******

Healing is a matter of time, but it’s also a matter of opportunity. Hippocrates said that about 2500 years ago, but he wasn’t talking about criminals. Nevertheless, it was something carved into the cinderblock wall of cell 112B. Actually carved—they usually didn’t spend that kind of effort, Sharpie being the preferred method of decorating here at Livingston—and so it stuck out in Ethan’s memory. Like the permanence achieved through etching the words into three dimensions equated to a slot in his long-term memory. The other bit of eloquence he’d gleaned from these walls was one of the prison world’s greatest hits – When the world shuts a door, God opens a window.

Ethan Rafe was a prison guard, had been for seven years now, and that meant that he’d shut his fair share of doors. It also meant that he was the first line of defense against God, should the Almighty care to start opening windows.

It wasn’t quite the glamorous job his mother liked to brag about to her power-walking club of chattery old women. She had hoped he’d be on the three-piece suit side of criminal law—a lawyer, or something with a business card, at least. It wasn’t quite the job Ethan liked to brag about, himself, unless he was in a bar with his buddies, which was frequently. Ethan was lucky, he was 6’ 5”, broad across the chest, with a strong jaw coupled with the ability to wear a fantastic five o’clock shadow. He looked like the kind of guy that had been minted for work as a guard for the sole purpose of posing shirtless in the yearly fund-raising calendar. When Ethan mentioned his line of work, a listener would sit up taller, buy Ethan a drink, and either shake his hand or slip him a phone number depending on whether they wore a skirt or not.

Looks went a long way in earning respect for a job that otherwise sounded like a glorified security detail. The guards with paunches, weak chins, shiny bald foreheads and dull eyes never got strangers to buy them drinks when they mentioned career choices. Sometimes they’d garner the handshake though, because American’s loved Bruce Willis and somehow, they seemed to lump together prison guards as his near cousins.

The funny thing about this job as modern-day superhero was that is was about as dull as a lecture on eliciting boredom. Sure, there were spikes of excitement, but those were rare. And opportunities for thinking were even more elusive than excitement.

Mostly, Ethan’s job was painfully-honed dull with the occasional flash of change. In fact, Ethan was ready to create some change, himself.

“I’ll be asking for a transfer.” He said with the raise of his barely touched glass of whatever was on tap. Ed and Keller, his best buddies, swiveled their heads in his direction but didn’t seem to understand the language which had just been spoken. Ed blinked hard and held it, like a man who’d been punched in the nose and was waiting for the sting to register in his brain.

“No,” was all he said in anticlimactic response.

Ed was the oldest of the group and with his balding head and bags under his eyes always came in prepared to pay for what he was thirsty for, while his wife of 15 years made sure that he remembered that he was never very thirsty. Ed had three noisy kids that he loved, and they seemed to return the affection by pestering him until his patience was paper-thin. And that’s how Ed came to work every morning– looking like he’d just escaped off the doormat to hell and that if he wasn’t so grateful for the respite offered by being surrounded by murderers, he might snap. But in the 10 years Ethan had known him, Ed had never snapped. He just lived within varying degrees to the north and south of paper-thin nerves.

First Page: Circling Great Wharf

Jane — Sat, 12 Nov 2011 10:00:45 +0000

***

Author describes this as “women’s fiction with elements of romance and suspense.”

Beginning of first chapter in Circling Great Wharf:

Giving up her red wine didn’t strike Mallory Cook as a great idea. In fact, she suspected that red wine had been saving her life. Ever since the children had left and, later, her dream job evaporated, her world felt less and less safe. This struck her as odd. Wouldn’t you think having fewer responsibilities would put you at ease, not raise your anxiety level? Maybe she was too dependent on the company of others. But Dwight still lived here—didn’t he count?

Her husband wasn’t around as often as she’d like. He headed up his own building management company, which kept him busy during normal hours and many an off-hour, too. When he wasn’t busy trying to earn money, he volunteered at his beloved trolley museum in Kennebunkport, up the road from their own town of Great Wharf. Mallory didn’t begrudge Dwight his time at the trolley museum so much as she envied him the passion of his time there.

In her usually empty house now, Mallory was feeling nervous most of the time. She couldn’t put her finger on why. For sure, she didn’t like being alone. But she didn’t relish the thought of heading out to the main drag to mingle with the town’s sightseeing throng either. She had started sleeping in a bit later, and sipping a bit earlier. Mallory knew she was on a slippery slope, so she had made an appointment with her doctor to talk about it.

“I don’t recognize myself, Jim. I’m spooked by normal noises. I’m starting to rely on Dwight being around to feel safe. When he’s not home, my heart beats faster, and I get dizzy sometimes, lightheaded. I probably just need to get out more and get some exercise. What do you think?”

Jim Barylick had been the Cooks’ general practitioner for twenty years, ever since he moved to Maine from Ohio. His experience with people’s health complaints and rationalizations guided his every word.

“Mallory,” he began, “relax. Whatever’s going on, we’ll get to the bottom of it. You’ve had a lot of stresses and changes in the last few years, with all the kids leaving and your job going the way of the economy. Your symptoms may be nothing more than your spirit heaving a sigh of relief that it can finally wreak a little havoc of its own.”

That was Jim at his reassuring best. His rumbling baritone voice had always made him sound especially wise, and his silver hair belied that he was still ten years away from retirement. Mallory loved the idea he was putting out there, that her inner self was making itself known. At the same time, she knew her inner self had more to say.

Jim looked through the top, most recent sheets of her file. “Everything checked out fine when you had your physical seven months ago. Lungs, heart, mammogram, blood pressure, blood chemistry … you’re in extraordinarily good health for someone your age. You turned fifty-five this year, right?”

Sigh. “Yes.”

“Well, it’s possible you’re just feeling blindsided by aging sneaking up on you and by still not finding another job you like. It’s perfectly normal to be wondering what’s next for you.” He looked again at her chart. “I do see that you put on a few pounds. You hide it well, but you’re right to consider getting more exercise.”

“What about alcohol, Jim? Am I drinking too much?”

“How much are you drinking?”

Mallory hesitated and scrunched her face a little, pretending to consider the question, but she knew exactly how much she was drinking. After the museum’s budget cuts eliminated her position as assistant events manager, she no longer drove into the city two or three days a week. She now managed five glasses of red wine—about a bottle a day. Since Dwight often shared her appreciation for wine and since she did the shopping—not to mention that Dwight didn’t usually get home until seven or eight at night—he hadn’t noticed the discrepancy in their intake.

“Usually three glasses of red wine a day.”

First Page: The Gift Giver, an m/m romance

Jane — Sat, 05 Nov 2011 09:00:17 +0000

****

The following is an explicit excerpt. Please do not click if this will make you uncomfortable.

I wish I could live forever in this one moment. I’d like to burn his face in my mind: the twist of his expression as he’s lost in the release of painful need. I flex my fingers a slight bit more and his grunt is music.

My hand is buried in his ass. I see other couples like us, strangers meeting in this house and sharing our secret. We are all undressed and the erections look like party favors.

For a brief moment I think of Jimmy and my joy staggers into pain. We all have our painful pleasures; thinking of Jimmy is mine. Knowing how much he’d hate me being at a fisting party, a party full of strangers sharing their bodies in this way, he’d move away from me with his arms folded across his chest to protect himself.

Jimmy lives his life protecting himself from me.

My partner has a yellow ponytail that swings over his shoulder and grazes the barbell through his nipple. I prefer men who are darker, I like Latinos and black men. This pale blonde man whose ass has swallowed my hand is pasty and much too white for my interests.

I hope he can control his muscles when he cums. The neophytes can sprain your wrist or entire arm when they shoot. The dangers of enjoying having your fist up some dude’s ass. Maybe I could write a column about that. Maybe I could write a whole damned book.

I really wish Jimmy hadn’t left.

I wish I could enjoy myself more.

First Page: YA Paranormal Romance

Jane — Sat, 29 Oct 2011 02:24:48 +0000

***

Update: You guys, I messed up. The author sent me a revised version and I put up the unrevised one so I am terribly sorry for the confusion (not to mention the early posting). Here is the revised version:

The screen door slams behind me with a loud creak and double-bouncing bang, announcing my attempted escape.

“Lia? You going out?”

I cringe and exhale then turn and face my mother through the dark screening. She’s dressed in her new red interview suit, a face full of going-somewhere makeup, and her hair up in clips where she’s been straightening it in sections. She’s rushed to the door in her stocking feet, causing a fresh run to start near her big toe.

“Just going for a walk. You’d better change those.“ I point to her foot.

“Shoot!“ She hikes up her skirt and starts ripping the pantyhose off. “What the heck am I doing? I haven’t worked in sixteen years. They’re going to laugh me out the door.“

“They’ll love you.“

“Sure. How could they not want such a strong job candidate? Forty-three, living with my mother again, and did I mention the part about no work experience?”

“Mom. They’re going to love you.”

She gives me a doubtful smile and sighs, the shallow wrinkles on her forehead deepening. “Why do you want to go tromping around in those buggy, thorny woods everyday, Lia? You know I hate it.”

“I won‘t go far. I‘ll probably be back before you even get home.”

I know exactly what this is about. In my mother’s mind, I’m still six years old, likely to wander off and get lost, and this time, never return.

There‘s a pause, and I can almost see the arguments forming in my mom‘s mind, but thankfully she doesn’t have time to make them.

“Well… spray yourself so you don‘t get eaten alive.” She opens the door, thrusting the insect repellant at me. “And stay on the trails. And don’t be late.”

“You don’t be late.” I smile at her. “And good luck.”

I mist my arms and legs, then head into the trees bordering my grandma’s house. My home now, too, as of three days ago. I’ve come here for visits my whole life. Now it’s a little more permanent, which is fine with me. I’ve always loved this place. The hot clinging air, the rambling log house, and especially the deep, dense woodland surrounding it. The locals would probably think that’s kind of strange, since most of them remember when I nearly died out here.

I walk and listen to birds, whining insects, sticks snapping under my sneakers. All familiar and welcoming. And a familiar feeling comes back to me as well. Of hoping for… something. I’m not sure what. I promised not to go far, and I didn’t plan to, but once I got going, it was too tempting to keep on walking, exploring deeper into the woods. Anyway, if I’d kept my promise and stayed on the trail, I never would have found this.

The spring-fed pool is so clear I can see the large flat rocks and green plants lining the bottom. Leaves pirouette from the surrounding trees, landing and floating on the glassy surface. Sunlight streams through the treetops in little pockets, making a kaleidoscope pattern on the moss and springy wild ferns growing along the water‘s edge. It feels like my own magical discovery. Shame to let it go to waste.

My t-shirt and shorts are plastered to me at this point, and my skin actually feels thirsty. August in Mississippi isn’t for wusses. Looking at the clear water, the idea of an outdoor bath is starting to seem too delicious to resist. It’s kind of crazy– I mean, I didn’t exactly pack a swimsuit for my little nature walk– but I could use a minute or two of crazy in my life right about now.

I look around, then laugh at myself and shuck my sweaty clothes, leaving my bra and panties on. There may be three hundred acres of my grandma’s posted forest land between me and the nearest human, but I’m not that brave.

I step into the cool water and slip under, blowing out all the stuffy humid air in my body. After a minute my lungs start burning and I resurface, stand up in the waist-deep pool, and wait for the water to stop running down my face. Then I open my eyes.

There in front of me, kneeling on the mossy bank, is the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, male or female. This one’s definitely male.

First Page: First page from YA paranormal Balancer

Jane — Sat, 22 Oct 2011 09:00:21 +0000

***

Ellen…4months ago

The core of it all was that the girl had to get my heart; that part was certain and I’d already set the dominos in motion that would mark her as the only match for the donation. But I had to die for that to happen—a task easier planned than executed. Reaching my hand toward the dashboard, moonlight washed over my forearm making my skin appear ghostly. The foreboding accuracy of the image sent a chill up my spine and it took a few tries to get my shaking hand to flip on the heat.

I tightened a webbing strap that ran along my narrow waist and sandwiched my chest between the two steel plates that I’d had molded to fit around my torso like a vest. It looked like part of an elaborate Roman costume, but with how much it weighed, it would have been impossible for even a strong man to wear while standing. Good thing I wasn’t a man. The plates were thick enough to take a bullet and allow my heart to keep beating, but this…

Hot air spewed from the vents across my shivering hands but did nothing to warm them. I nosed the VW a few inches further. The ancient engine rattled. It was a sound that had become comforting to me over the past month, like the voice of an old friend, or more like my only friend.

A mere 12 inches away, the perpendicular traffic blazed by as the VW rattled on, oblivious to what I had planned for us. My eyes climbed to the dashboard clock. 11:23.

Inhaling deeply and trying to relax the muscles of my body, I reviewed what I had seen in the vision. Previously, my mind would have been full of numerous ones that I could choose to review, but lately, my sight had narrowed—focused down to a singular point in time. Every dream for months now had been an exact replica of the one I’d first had a year ago.

The vision.

It always started off the same. At a diner only one mile away sat two men—the harvesting crew from the Lifeflight helicopter. They lounged at a red vinyl booth. Somewhere in the kitchen a platter clattered to the floor and back at the booth, the older man—the pilot—turned toward the noise. He’d never been able to turn away from an accident, no matter how inconsequential and that gawking tendency had carried him into the organ retrieval business.

“My first time in Philadelphia,” the heavy-set pilot grunted.

“Hmph. You haven’t missed much,” a young, slick-haired surgeon by the name of Kale said from across the table as he shoveled a forkful of blueberry cobbler into his mouth.

“Well, this place is good.”

The surgeon only chewed, ominously quiet. Kind of like a volcano that could blow at any moment, Rob thought. This was only his second flight with Dr. Lars Kale, but rumor had it that the good surgeon could be sweet as sugar one moment and cruel as a snake the next. And this snake was way up there on the corporate ladder with the authority to fire boring helicopter pilots, no questions asked.

The thing about today was that Dr. Kale had been provoked. Only an hour ago the two of them had touched down at Philadelphia Mercy Hospital on an organ retrieval call. Motorcyclist; no helmet, was all that Rob had been told. He and Dr. Kale had made the short flight from North Carolina Regional only to be turned away at the Philadelphia hospital. There had been some kind of mix-up. There was no motorcycle death, no organs, not even a red cooler full of ice.

First Page: Unnamed Fantasy

Jane — Sat, 15 Oct 2011 09:00:54 +0000

***

Mists of time, morning mists; both dim that long ago memory of a dawn when I was both boy and man. I recall my keen desire to serve my family, a desire that drove me to scout while my brothers rested in their bedrolls. I would be vigilant; I would protect. But against what? What would I find in the fog? Adventure? Romance? Something had to come from a moment so fraught with possibility. And something did come, dream made true. It was the boy in me that could believe it so and the man that was aborning who could make it so. A step to either side of that knife’s edge in my life and none of what came to pass would have happened.

It was all the more improbable because while it is true that the bards sing of it happening long ago; none expect it now. Humans and Ever-folk do not fall in love, not since the Cataclysm, not since we wrecked our empire and ruined the Ever-folk forests. That could not keep me from loving her when first we met. Of course, I mistook lust for love but that is a common failing among young men, especially princes who are not required to be delicate with the hearts of their conquests. And she did not mind as it made me pliable. That it did become love was no one’s expectation that day except my own and I had no reason to believe it could be so aside from youthful arrogance. Sometimes that is enough. This, then, is the account of how I, Aedric son of Lugaidh, met Ophia and of what followed.

My duty that morning was to watch our frontier for any sign of the Ever-folk. But the mist-draped hulks of the fallen trees called to mind a flight of dragons in the clouds and my thoughts were in the land of bards’ tales. What little notice I gave to my surroundings I spent seeking colorful rocks, easy to find here in the sandy ground. It was a boyish pursuit I had not forsaken despite being grown to manhood and trained for war. Dreams of dragons faded as the sun thinned the mist and restored my dragons to crumbling trunks. Struggling bushes and sparse tufts of grass grew among the toppled giants. Copses of tangled, stunted trees stood in the few places where the soil allowed. It was a barren land seeming all the more bleak set against the silver-gray line of the lush Trionesse Forest in the distance.

Then a woman stepped from the closest stand of trees and my heart leapt, not with concern as it should have given the recent raid, but with a shiver of desire. Was a she a spirit? Or a princess in disguise? Like the first words of a new song, anything was possible in that moment. She was slender and tall, too tall to be a human although her face was rounder than the few Ever-folk I had met as visitors to my father’s hall. Her green eyes flashed, piercing the last of the mist. Copper glinted in her auburn hair. She was garbed in faun-skin like an Ever-folk scout and her belt carried a short sword in a plain scabbard. The stock of a crossbow peeked over her shoulder. I had only met one spirit before, the river spirit of my home and he never carried weapons. But perhaps the spirits of ancient Trionesse were different.

First Page: Duncan, a Paranormal Romance

Jane — Sat, 08 Oct 2011 09:00:40 +0000

***

Why didn’t the Fomhoire ever just walk up to him and tap him on the shoulder? They would be so much easier to kill that way. Duncan tossed back his fourth Macallan and signaled for another. The bartender gave him a calculated look before grabbing a clean glass for a refill. Duncan glared back and shoved the empty shot glass into the collection before him on the bar and glanced around at the gyrating bodies and clusters of drunken men trying to pick up equally drunk women. He had no doubt a few would manage to complete negotiations before the night was through. The teeming bodies surrounding him gyrated to the heart-pounding music with a bass so loud and strong it hammered through his chest. He hated this. The people, the noise, the overwhelming desire to refuse Dagda and his future be damned.

Five more minutes. Then he’d leave, try again tomorrow. The sentinel system rarely delivered false information so he knew that sooner or later, his prey would be here.

The bartender gave him a questionable look. “Think you’ve had enough, buddy?” When Duncan only stared, the man shook his head and set the glass before him.

If the man only knew how close he was to the truth. He was lifting the glass to his lips when the hairs rose on the back of his neck. Turning slowly to face the door, he watched the woman enter the place. He felt her as she made her way through the crowd to the other end of the bar. She took a seat and signaled the bartender, ordered something then swiveled toward the dance floor.

Duncan studied the petite woman. Dark hair that fell down her back, he couldn’t tell the color of her eyes from where he sat, but he saw by the way she took everything in that she was very aware of where she was. He hadn’t been told when he talked to his contact that the demon was a woman, but no, he didn’t sense that from her. The Fomhoire had a certain something Duncan could sense and this woman didn’t have it. What she did have was much more profound and for a brief moment, it touched something deep within him he thought had died centuries ago.

She must have been drinking something similar to his. Same color, same initial amount in the glass, but she didn’t take it all at once like he did. She sipped it slowly. And he watched the muscles in her throat work as the liquid slid down it. Seeing the way her skin slid over her throat. A throat his lips could follow down to her shoulder and lower still…

He shook his head to clear it. He didn’t need any complications and she had the option to be a huge one. He needed to find the demon, kill it and get back to his solitary life.

Away from humanity.

Away from the complication at the other end of the bar.

First Page: YA Paranormal Romance

Jane — Sat, 01 Oct 2011 09:00:01 +0000

***

As Cindy turns the car sharply around the corner, the force presses me against the window. The speed demon can’t seem to slow down during curves. It is fortunate for me that she likes to drive. In the past three months, I am over the initial fun of stealing cars and quick getaways. We pass the Johnsons store and the row of fast food restaurants a third time before taking a sharp right on main street. The window feels cool as gravity plasters my cheek against it. We see no zombies and that means this time, we stop for gas. Avoiding the slow ass zombies is easy, but the hard part is getting the damn gas out of the pumps. What all movies fail to put in reality is that you must pay to pump. Without that stupid credit card swipe, you may as well lie down with bottles of ketchup and mustard as the zombies approach.

“It’s your turn.”

“Crap, I know.”

Slowing the car, she turns the wheel as the vehicle glides smoothly to a stop by the pumps. I look out of my side of the car, cranking my neck to ensure this half of the area shows no approaching doom. As I look to Cindy and receive her nod, I start chanting, “Go away, come again some other day.” It is the old school rhyme about rain I butcher to repeat just the seven words. Oddly, I find it comforting like when my little sis would bring her pillow everywhere when she was a toddler. Cindy says the chanting is our good luck charm with ten gas tank refills, the car trunk full of gas station snacks, and no attacks. At the fifth repeat of my rhyme, I grip the cold metal of my aluminum bat from its resting spot on floorboard and open my door. I scoot out of my seat and stand with my back against the small car I borrowed from Missouri. My hands feel good tightening its grip around the bat as my rhyme fills the quiet air. I stop, but only for a minute to listen for any sounds of shuffling feet. Cindy, for all her crazy driving and her ideas of life now, is standing very still and should be listening too.

“What are you waiting for kid?”

Turning around I let my eyes glair at her before I walk over to the curb. Glancing left, then right and now a three-sixty turn, my smile shows her we are good. Noticeably the older woman relaxes her shoulders as she pulls her ‘emergency only’ credit card and swipes it through the pump. I am not old enough to have multiple cards or even credit. All I lived off the first two months of the new world is my debit card that had a healthy college fund cushion. The second fill up, after rescuing Cindy a month ago, brought my first decline.

This mini-mart is an open layout, makes my chanting turn into giggles. A quick look and I see no movement. Another odd fact about real zombies, they always keep moving by shuffling their feet. I don’t know why that is since this is not a movie and I have no flashback scene to fill me in. The automatic door opens as I step close, which will allow any zombies to walk away if they shuffle in the right direction. A non-automatic door means anyone that died three months ago is now stuck inside. A cold chill comes across me as I remember experiences in storerooms as a warning to keep my ass in the open. The minimart is full of windows, leaving me with a clear view in and out of the store. Walking to a window on the right, I peek in to see no bodies. I skip over to the left side to confirm the same. My body turns for another three-sixty look to confirm the only movement is Cindy. No excuses, time to go in.