Coming Full Circle

When I first introduced you to Mary Andrews, my first revisit and first MuseItUp edit, I didn't realize how I would feel writing this entry. Her trust in me as reviewer now editor is a little overwhelming.

This is the final book in Mary's trilogy: The Fireborn Chronicles Book 3: Revelations.

From first reviewing Mary to now editing the last book in this trilogy, it's been my pleasure. I hope you've had a chance to travel Mary's world.

Prophesy said they would save the Oracle Planet but it never said how and now it’s up to the Nemesis Team and their uneasy allies to figure that out.

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PSIONIC SCI FI

The inevitable fusion of Man, Machine, and the Paranormal

After Earth's destruction, humans have scattered and spread across the universe. The peace is kept by a universal government. Four rogue talents unite to become an invincible Government Dark Ops team—the Nemesis Team.

But an unknown planet has turned up; a planet ruled by Oracles whose agents may be usurping The Government and suddenly, nothing is what it seems.

Follow the Nemesis Team and their uneasy allies as they race to unravel a reality not of their making before the strange world is annihilated by an asteroid.

Excerpt:

The eternal procession of worshipers ate away at him. Jumbled through millions of their eyes, he saw himself and his team poised above them. Fighting against an overwhelming flood of adoration, fear, hope, and awe, Ira found himself disoriented. It churned, smothering him with an unbearable intensity. The teeming crowd began to wear at his control. “I can’t take this,” he finally told Tristen and turned to leave.

She managed to slip her arm through his and held him back. “You heard what they told us. We have to do this. It is important to these people.”

Ira steeled himself against the onslaught in one last effort as he turned back to face the crowd. “Too many eyes,” he muttered, and Tristen closed hers to allow him reprieve. The visual disorientation dissipated, leaving only what he could see with his own eyes, but his body and mind still reeled from the empathic assault. He disengaged from her arm to encircle her slight form within his, drawing her closer. Closing his eyes, he struggled to sharpen his focus, reaching out to encompass all the writhing consciousnesses around him—to telepathically hold them as one.

He spoke softly, barely audible, “Breathe in,” he said, and his words echoed across all the minds in the hall and beyond, all the way out into the cold lines of the waiting faithful. As one, they all inhaled deeply.

“Breathe out.” They exhaled.

“And in.” They all fell into sync.

Ira opened his eyes. “Be at ease,” he whispered, and again, the words reverberated across their minds.

“It is done. You will leave now contented...and blessed.” Almost in unison, the crowd reversed and began to file away in silence.

Not until the hall had emptied did Tristen open her eyes and realize the Deridian brothers both stood focused on Ira.

Totally spent, Ira still stared, unseeing, out over the great empty hall.

“That was perfect,” Alice’s voice rang out, shattering the silence. “The perfect blessing from the Dark Angel, Irael. The networks are going to eat this up.”

Tristen studied her husband through the others. “We should leave now.You look as bad as you feel.” She felt his weight sag against her before pressing on toward the entrance.

“This will be enough for today, Miss Roberts.”

Nevon made it a point to get as close as possible to Ira in an attempt to help.Ira barely noticed the influx of raw energy Nevon channeled from the world they’d come to save. Instead, his body grew numb, and his temples throbbed from the overload. “What were we thinking?” he muttered to Tristen and keeled over.

Just How Did Nick End His Trilogy

Okay, I'm not really going to tell you how Relics of Nanthara Book 3: Dawn of Apocalypse concludes the trilogy.

As a reader, what's worse than reading books one and two only to find book three was never published. You're left there with no ending. No pulling together of the trilogy; no tying up of loose ends. It's like a television show being cancelled and having a cliffhanger for a season finale.

At MuseItUp you won't be left hanging.

Will Apòlladan’s greatest weapon be the relics, or the deep seeded bitterness of ancient races?

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Thinking they have thwarted Apòlladan’s efforts to commence his dark reign, betrayal in the alliance shifts power back into the hands of evil. With hope fleeting, our heroes realize one of the orphans they’ve found is gifted with Dreamsight, and his extremely rare abilities reveal Apòlladan’s next move. Having no other choice, Sir Angelo and the others try to sway an Alkani realm’s judgmental and prejudicial thoughts in favour of joining them in the final battle. Will their efforts help them form an unexpected coalition, or will the ‘chosen ones’ face Apòlladan alone?

Excerpt:

General Somrayil stood, doing little to hide his haughty grin. “It is not the importance or danger involved which I question but rather the trust factor of your little group.”

Sir Angelo sensed the negativity brewing forth from this judgmental elder stick to him like a humid evening. Maintaining his concentration on the general, Sir Angelo kept his peace and listened with a critical ear.

“Aside from the eclectic host you have brought before us, let us first address this young human you have with you. Needless to say, the boy suffered at the hands of the enemy, and survived. Apparently, it was not his time to die. Despite dragging this crippled youth into hostile territory, we have been told the boy has Dreamsight.”

Subtle discussions spread among the council.

Lord Linfey stood. “Silence, please.” He retook his seat as discussions ceased.

“This is true,” Sir Angelo said. “Tink has the gift.”

“Dreamsight, if it is what you say, does not manifest until early adulthood upon those so gifted,” Somrayil said. “To my knowledge, nobody has ever bore this ability early in life…nobody.”

Sir Angelo nodded. “You are correct, General. But not in this case.”

Somrayil smirked. “So, you gathered your gear and your ‘chosen ones’ and ran east like frantic lemmings because this boy said so.”

Sir Angelo’s forehead wrinkled. “It is obvious you do not believe in such happenings.”

“Not at his age,” Somrayil said.

“And why not?” Vindicar asked.

Somrayil glimpsed at Vindicar. “To have such an incredible occurrence reveal itself during such a dire time, I find it…odd.”

“Are you implying the boy has ill intent?” Sir Angelo asked. He concentrated on resisting the lashing he wanted to deal Somrayil.

Somrayil shrugged. “Anything is possible. I have seen and experienced enough in my life so far to warrant caution to those bearing unusual gifts or boasting of such grandiose things.”

“Tink’s gift is a blessing from Sovereign,” Vindicar said. “I take offense to your accusations.”

“I care not of prizes bestowed by deities, paladin. I am concerned with what I know.”

Vindicar rose from his chair. “I understand your voice carries weight in this council, and your cautious actions dictate your position as a watchdog for this assembly. Yet I warn you, sir not to allow pride and stubbornness cloud your decisions.”

“Well put,” Imlutheeil said.

The facial muscles rippled under Somrayil’s strained grin. “Quite… Shall we continue? I think the council well remembers this Elinthyrian ranger, Azin Sildanel,” he said, pointing to the assassin. “I think we also remember the disrespect and disgrace he bestowed upon one of our elder’s prestigious families—an act intolerable within our society, an act unforgotten, an act unforgiven. To worsen matters, you have brought a tainted race in these hallowed halls; a race

desired to be forgotten, yet he sits in our presence, breathing our same air.”

Azin sank in his seat, trying to maintain his composure under the peripheral glances from Boren who struggled against reaching for his axe strapped across his back. Sir Angelo cast a soft glimpse at Azin, amazed that both still remained calm under the verbal onslaught.

Somrayil continued. “For a group such as yours to involve the allegiance of two current members considered selfish, impure, and uncaring, who is to say you and your people will not do the same to us?”

Sir Angelo’s mind hazed over in bewilderment. The proper words to retaliate escaped his thoughts. He expected some negativity during the meeting, but what had transpired so far pushed him to the limits of comprehension and tolerability. “Haven’t our trials and successes shown any form of commitment to you?”

“Anyone could have participated in the journey you took and accomplished the same,” Somrayil said.

“Many did answer the call. Although some departed, many more have died in their unselfish service to gain victory for the good of Nanthara,” Vindicar said, noticeably irritated.

“War always costs lives, paladin,” Somrayil said, his tone blunt. “You should know losses are acceptable.”

“With a heavy heart, we have accepted it from the beginning,” Sir Angelo replied in a controlled tone. “From the losses of our own, to the piles of Dwergen, human, Nivvick, and Alkani corpses that filled the trenches in Northwatch, they accepted it as well.”

Sir Angelo noticed some of the council murmuring amongst each other in response.

Somrayil chuckled, tossing a quick glance at those gathered. “A heroic gesture, Sir Angelo—attempting to cover up Azin’s mistakes by speaking on things bearing no significance

in the matter.”

Sir Angelo leaned into the table. “Well, then General, by what means do you expect us to trust you? By your fancy dress? By your title? Perhaps your lofty position on this council?”

Somrayil scowled at the paladin’s retort. “If you were not a guest of Lord Imlutheeil, those would have been your last words spoken.”

Boren only managed to stand part way out of his chair before Azin grabbed his thick armored arm and stopped him.

“It appears you are attempting to make this a solitary show, to gain favor of those undecided on this matter, or perchance already decided by your influence behind private doors,” Sir Angelo said.

General Somrayil slammed his fist into the table. “I will not tolerate insolence from anyone, especially an outsider.”

“Then perhaps you should not badger our guests as you are, Somrayil,” Linfey said. Several Elinthyrian council members agreed with silent nods.

The irate general shot Linfey a hard glare before settling down to take his seat as the elder spoke. “There is truth to Somrayil’s caution of any visitor. Yet I feel your pessimistic view is null and void in this case, General Somrayil. Need I remind you of Celianna’s approval of this group before their arrival?”

“Regardless of this group bearing Celianna’s seal of approval, Linfey, it does not cancel Azin’s past,” Somrayil said, pointing an angry finger at the targeted assassin. “More likely than not, he has lied to his party to accomplish his gains.”

“Yer wrong, General,” Boren replied. “The Alkanien has been an irritant since we met, but he’s never lied about who he was or his desires. More than once, the maggot has risked his

life fer ours.”

“And here is another example,” Somrayil said, sweeping his hand from Azin to Boren. “Not only must we believe Azin, according to his peers, it is now compounded by the tongue of a polluted race. A race none of you approve of.”

“You speak of the past, Somrayil,” Chief Mage Xaneriel said, his black eye patch strapped across his atypical silver-streaked blonde hair. “You seem to be the one desiring the banishment of the alliance based on the apparent hatred you have for one of our own.”

Some of the Elinthyrian gathering mumbled in agreement, and others held a silent vigil under watchful stares.

Well, I Did Ask For It

...I'm looking for the ultimate horror scare. Whether human, spirit, creature-feature, alien, I want to be looking over my shoulder as I'm reading your words. Forget the loving vampires, cuddly werewolves or friendly ghosts. Throw out the justifiable vigilantes, the oh-so-simple serial killers, and boring Hannibal copy cats. Acid spitting aliens? Top of the food chain hunter aliens? Been there, read that, saw the movie. Make my blood curdle, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up...force me to sleep with the light on.

From scare to classic mysteries.

Rarely have authors stumped me. Can you? Can you leave me guessing and doubting my conclusions? Pull me into your world of murder, mayhem, madness, and plain ole greed. Weave clues throughout forcing me to think and think again. Can you top Sherlock, Brother Cadfael, Father Brown, Ellery Queen, Poirot?

Do you dare take my challenge?...




This is my editors call for submissions at MuseItUp Publishing's blog. Little did I realize Justin Robinson's The Dollmaker would actually have me looking over my shoulder. You want Gothic Horror? Here it is and don't say I didn't warn you.

A troubled genius creates living women from the inanimate, but with each birth, he loses more of his soul.

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Stephen Monaghan is a brilliant chemist and gifted sculptor. Unable to love a human woman, he uses his genius and arcane science to create a living woman out of wood. Just one can’t fill his bottomless need, so he creates more and more of these dolls. With each act of creation, he loses something of himself: his signature, his knowledge, his shadow, his voice and finally his blood. His sacrifices produce dolls that do not just move but live and learn, exploring humanity through the humans that inspired their creation. The dolls do not become human, but evolve into creatures with free will and self-expression. By the end, he is more doll than man, and they are more human than human.

Excerpt:

Those eyes never closed. It was Stephen’s fault when deciding against lids. That might have been a mistake. Even shutters would have helped. At least now he could find comfort by choosing to believe she slept. Knowing for certain she never did, that she stayed conscious, watching him snoring beside her, might be too much. When a human woman would sort through her subconscious mind in vivid dreams, the doll was a careful blank. But the true question was something he never let himself think. What was worse, that she didn’t dream? Or that she might?

Stephen’s eyes opened with a start. The window was open, the air itself still and heavy. His skin stuck to the sheets. She lay facing him, wooden skin bone dry. She had been born a little over a week ago. In a way, she was still not complete. She was still not quite the figure he had fallen in love with. The clothes, the costume, were waiting for her.

He wanted to do something more. Beyond the physical acts. She had to be complete.

She had to be loved.

He kissed her on the forehead. She reached for him, but he was already up, already going into Emily’s room. The hairbrush was on Emily’s nightstand, still entwined with strands of crow-black hair. He returned to his bed and beckoned to the dancer. She crawled to him, once again reaching. He gently turned her. There was no doubt—had she wanted to resist, she could have. She turned her slender back to him and waited.

The pins came from her hair easily. It fell around her shoulders, caressing him with a wave of lavender perfume. One hand supported the thick, black mane; the other passed the brush through it, as carefully as possible. Her fingers closed around his knee as she leaned back into him. He was thorough, working the tangles from her hair as the act worked the tangles from his mind.

After a hundred strokes, he refastened her bun and kissed the graceful slope of her neck.

“I have something for you.” His touch ran from leg to belly to breast to arm to hand. Her delicate fingers closed over his, softly as a moth’s kiss, and she let him lead her to her feet.

“You’re going to need to be dressed soon.”

No reaction. Not a cocked head, not a dramatic fall. She only followed him through the house. “Before I made you, I had an idea of what you… You need to be dressed a certain way.”

This she nodded at. Did she know? Did she see it in her mind? There was no brain, no case. Her head was mahogany, through and through. There was nothing to think thoughts, and yet she seemed to.

He opened the door to what had been Emily’s room. He had intended to take the doll here first, but sex and blood had stopped him. Now was the time for her to assume her identity. To become the dancer truly.

The outfit laid waiting on Emily’s pink sheets. White tights and ballet wrap skirt, pale pink leotard and pointe shoes. She sat down on the bed and touched the clothes. Looked up at him. Still no question. She picked each up in turn, turning them over in her white hands. Stephen left the room and shut the door. He couldn’t see her incomplete. She had to be the dancer in total, or none at all.

He sat in the hall, watching the door. In Emily’s room the scrape of cloth on wood. She was taking forever. This was it, to see how perfect he made her, in the image of his ballerina.

That she would be imperfect was terrifying; that she was perfect was worse.

Silence.

The twin shadows of her feet waited just behind the door. Was she afraid, too? Terrified to displease?

The door swung open. She was unsure. Clothes, precisely arranged. The costume, the figure, everything was as he imagined.

He stood. She seemed to flinch for the barest moment. He embraced her with desperate hands and crushed her lips to his. She wrapped him in her wooden arms with the strength of relief.

I'm Not As Cold Hearted As You May Think

I'm not a romance type of gal. I don't do chick movies, chick books, chick anything. I go against the grain of stereotype in that I hate clothes and shoe shopping.

Mind you I'm not so far out of field that hubby taking me to a Rambo movie on our first date was something I enjoyed. Far from it, a space monster movie would have worked better.

I only mention this because my next editorial revisit is to The Messenger by Enita Meadows. When this first came to MuseItUp something drew me to it. I still can't explain what, but by the end of the book I was in tears. I rarely cry over books. It takes a heck of a lot of deep emotion to bring me to tears while reading, especially while editing.

See, I'm not such a cold hearted editor after all ;)

Alex Forsyth thought her new life in Washington would be boring and safe. That was until she met the skinwalker.

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Seventeen-year-old Alexis Forsyth is hardly looking forward to moving from her home in California to Kent, Washington, to live with her older cousin, Liam. She never would have dreamed that she would uncover a secret over a hundred years old. But when she meets the skinwalker and begins to learn about the dangers of his world, she wonders if she could ever bring herself to go back to a life without him. For a forbidden friendship–and maybe something more–Alexis Forsyth and Cougar “Coug” MountainScreamer (named for the animal spirit which possesses him) must run and fight against those that would rather see them dead than together.

Excerpt:

Ben looked back and forth between Cougar and Dante, Caleb watching quietly on the sidelines. Slowly, Ben’s eyes closed, and he lifted one arm toward the sky, reaching as if the stars would fall into his palm.

“Caged,” Ben said, his voice growing cold, serious; ritualistic, almost. A fire sparked in his eyes, the awkwardness of moments before was suddenly forgotten. The gray burned in his eyes, and the happy old man slowly faded into a wild dog.

“The story begins—a story within another—in the year of eighteen-ninety. The proud Lakota, the strength of the prairies, were worn and weak from an overwhelming force—the ghost-faced people who had come with welcome, and stayed with hostility. The Lakota were said to be the final force—the last to go. Even with such great numbers, even with such a strong history among the tribes and during the wars, the Lakota Nation too was caged, confined to a reservation. Until a new prophecy had come into play, from a man named Wovoka. Wovoka prophesized the land would heal. All the terrible scars upon the land would be covered with the youth it once had. A wave of new health, new life, new soil, would cover the land, burying all the damage that the world had seen. And the Lakota, along with every other tribe, would live the way they chose to. No more cages, and no more reservations.” Ben’s eyes blazed with a passion I couldn’t understand, but my eyes were locked to his as he spoke. “Three days ago was the anniversary of the day Spotted Elk’s band of Lakota were intercepted. It was the anniversary of the day they were escorted to Wounded Knee Creek by the Calvary, and made camp.” Ben looked down, sighing. “Two days ago was the anniversary of the massacre. The regimen of the seventh cavalry surrounded the camp, and went in to disarm the Lakota.

“A deaf man—Black Coyote—hesitated on an order to surrender his rifle. Black Coyote was surrounded as men tried to pry his rifle from him, and his rifle sounded into the air. Black Coyote’s gun shot the first bullet. The second bullet—fired by a soldier—went straight through his heart.” I stared wide-eyed as the boys sat in silence around me, each staring solemnly down at the sand.

“The Lakota fell with over one-hundred-and-fifty dead. The tribe was massacred and told it was fair. Several warriors escaped into the prairies, and all but one froze or bled to death. One warrior cried out, alone, for the family he had lost. Silent as he was, his mind never left the massacre, only able to think of the blood and death of every friend he had.

“No man would hear, and no man would listen. His family was dead or caged, and words no longer meant anything to him. And still, his story played through his mind over and over again, and he would cry to—mourn with—anyone that would listen.

“It was the animals who heard his story. It was the animals that cared. The animals near him kept him safe, and the animals far away kept him in their thoughts. They knew his story, and felt his pain. The animals made a promise solemn as the night that they would remember. They promised they would always remember the crimes the white race had committed, and that the animals would always stay with him. That they would stay with what remained of his people, and they would stay with the other tribes as well.

“The animals stayed by the people. They guided them…or controlled them. Each animal became the guide and instinct of a person, and each person was in possession—or was a possession of—their animal’s spirit, their animal’s energy. Those who were guided by the totems, who remembered—the totems who held that grudge—were stronger than anybody could possibly imagine.

“But people had no way of containing and controlling so much pure life energy. The spirits of the animals would escape. And the animals still remembered. The animals would always remember, and always hold a grudge. The animals’ energy escaped from the bodies of the skinwalker each possessed, and created the fifth stage of the skinwalker’s body. The Animal Totems rampaged through towns and cities, destroying every white face they saw.”

The fifth stage? Cougar had mentioned the first stage, the second stage. If Cougar can do all that in stage one…what happens when he gets to stage five? I glanced anxiously at Cougar, only half-understanding Ben’s story.

“And the Lakota warrior, seeing what he had done, watched as innocent lives were taken. He watched as innocent people were killed for their heritage. The Animal Totems rampaged over the land taken by the foreign settlers. Even with the pain he felt, the man who had made the promise with the animals at Wounded Knee did not want his memories repeated. Innocent people should not die. Trying to fix his wrongs, the warrior gave his own life to stop the destruction. He made necklaces woven of dreamcatchers, and upon his death, the necklaces were given to the Skinwalkers. The webbing captured the corresponding animal within the body of the Skinwalker, and suppressed the Fifth Stage. And now, our animals do not have full control over us.”

I looked from Cougar to Dante to Caleb to Ben. What were they?

“But the animals stayed with the people to make sure we never forgot. And we don’t forget,” Ben said, pulling his necklace out from beneath his torn-up old shirt. “The Ghost Dance was not ours. The Ghost Dance was what we were born from. But the intentions of the Ghost Dance live in us. The grudge—the truth—lives in us. And when the time comes, we will live in the truth.”

Why Yes, I Have Been Known To Yell At Authors When...

...they write so dang well and leave me guessing and hanging and begging for the next book.

I write this just hours after finishing book six in Rosalie's The Chronicles of Caleath series from MuseItUp. So I'm just a tad touchy and biting at the bit waiting for the next book to cross my line editing desk.

How dare she leave me wondering what happens next!   ;)

Every author I've worked with, I've lost myself in their story. I always find something new to learn. Some story which grabs me and holds my interest. A book I end up driving my family crazy with due to talking so much about it. At MuseItUp we pick the books we want to edit. This allows us to work with stories (or authors) we feel some connection with.

This time around I would like to visit with books four and five. Book six is coming out fast, so now is the time to grab one through five and catch up with Caleath.

Exiled: The Battle for Enderseer Hold, Book Four in The Chronicles of Caleath series.

The Deathbringer agrees to serve Azriel to save his friends but the life of Nasith’s baby lies in the balance.

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Azriel’s plans of endless domination are coming to fruition. Nasith’s care is her first priority as she persuades the Deathbringer to concede to her wishes. Each day he delays capitulation gives the forces allied against her another chance for victory. They face more than another season of winter warfare. An adversary from history swells the ranks of Azriel’s army. The people of Allorn must defeat a foe whose very touch is deadly as they face a witch who stands supreme.

Excerpt:

Corinne woke from a nightmare. She threw open the shutters and took a deep breath. Chill autumn air filled her lungs and brought her fully awake.

Roiling gray clouds rolled over the mountains in the east adding an aura of dark drama to dawn’s feeble light. The vision suited the dream she abandoned on waking.

Her head ached, but didn’t explain the dread making her heart race. With the Deathbringer in the Council’s care and the survivors from Valkerie’s Peak back among friends, Corinne’s frisson of fear seemed out of place.

Anxiety remained and forced her into action. Once dressed, she entered the corridor. Pale light ventured across aging floorboards and caressed the walls. Years of wear left a patina of smoke and grease on aging woodwork. Despite her wariness the building carried an air of familiarity and seemed to offer a feeling of safety.

Catching sight of her reflection in a glass Corinne tried to banish the frown that marred her visage. Her Kentorian marshal’s uniform contrasted with her unruly hair. With deliberate care to nurture optimism, she skipped downstairs and swung into the kitchen, where the cook removed baked loaves from a smoke stained oven.

“Good morrow, marshal.” The baker rubbed floured hands on his apron and greeted Corinne as she located a teapot steaming on the hob. She grabbed the kettle to pour boiling water into the pot, while the cook’s assistant broke a fresh bun from the cooling rack. The assistant supplied a pat of butter and cheese to accompany the simple fare.

“Thank you.” Corinne took the offering without enthusiasm. The cook turned reddened features away from the oven, as if he shared his guest’s disquiet.

“You’ve lost your appetite, my lady?” He took over the task of creating a perfect cup of tea from of the marshal’s forgetful hands. “Did you not sleep well?” He gave his assistant a nod of encouragement when the girl returned to preparing a basket of vegetables for a pot of soup.

“I slept badly. Terrible dreams. Is it obvious?” Corinne ran a brisk hand across her braid doing nothing to repair the damage lack of sleep wrought. She groaned, feeling the disarray of her singularly stubborn curls.

Accepting her tea and platter of food she forced a smile and made her way outside. Extra tables allowed outdoor dining, to accommodate additional mouths of refugees and Alliance troops.

A reluctant sun showed its face. Birds in full chorus spread their raucous message as the autumn morning developed. With skilled fingers, Corinne re-braided her hair. She settled back to sip her tea and enjoy the crusty bread. With deliberate care she planned her day. For now she would take the chance to learn more about Caleath. The presence of the Deathbringer intrigued her. Nasith’s change of attitude to the mercenary only added to the mystery behind Caleath’s character.

Despite appreciating the moment of quiet, Corinne’s mind wandered. Dark visions from her nightmare lurked in her mind. She tried to relegate her anxiety to memory, but before she succeeded, Travis and Eluart approached. Their countenance boded ill and they walked the empty street with a purposeful step.

The inkling of fear she sought to expel blossomed into dread. She sprang to her feet, crossing the road to intercept their progress.

Both man and Vergöttern saluted her with a deferential gesture. The object of their thoughts obviously remained elsewhere.

“Tell me what troubles you this morning?” Her discomfort linked with their concerns.

“Isadawn has further news from the Nomads, my lady.” Travis didn’t slow his pace. “Eluart and I are about to give your brother the latest information. We have informed the archimage. He is gathering the Council as we speak.”

Matching their strides, Corinne joined them. The lines of worry creasing the beautiful Vergöttern brow confirmed the dread growing in her gut.

* * * *

Corinne entered Mykael’s room with a quick knock. He surprised her by being fully dressed, as if sleep evaded him too. His manner seemed tense but he smiled and greeted her with a warm embrace.

Corinne guided him to the study where the ranger and the Vergöttern lord waited. With a sigh, Mykael bade them take seats. She read anxiety in his mood when he organized his already tidy desk. After Corinne settled in an armchair, Mykael took a chair for himself.

Sunlight broke through the window to herald the start of the day’s activities outside the king’s room. The atmosphere generated within made normal activity sound like a cacophony of chaos.

“Please, speak freely.” Mykael straightened.“The Nomad Awain reports from the east bank of the River Arrion. They have found the witch’s stronghold, sire.” Lord Eluart spoke without emotion, but his words made Corinne’s hair lift and goosebumps rise on her skin.


 Exiled: Invaded: The Darkest Day, Book Five in The Chronicles of Caleath series

Trapped on a dying planet by friends he trusted, Caleath falls into the hands of his arch-enemy.

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Trapped on a dying planet by friends he trusted, Caleath falls into the hands of his arch-enemy.

Fortunately, viewing rights make the Deathbringer a valuable asset. More torture, better ratings. Nobody suffers as well as he does.

Sent back to Allorn, Caleath is the only one able to stop the invasion of his former Karadorian masters. If he keeps a cool head, accepts the help of those who betrayed him and the power offered by the dead planet’s spirit, dare he unleash the ferocious warrior lurking within?Wrath has been waiting for his chance to take revenge far too long. His time has come--for better or worse.

Excerpt:

A pulse of wild magic knocked Caleath forward before the backlash exploded along the valley. He reeled in the saddle and watched a wall of wind consume the daylight. Above him, lightning shredded eldritch night, while an unnatural tempest stripped vegetation and rubble from the earth.

Ahead, a cart loaded with children moved onto a bridge across the river. Beside him, Corinne snatched at her horse’s reins. The creature squealed and bucked beneath her.

“Tallowbrand,” Caleath shouted as the storm raced toward him. “We could use a little help! Wizard!”

The hurricane drove a bank of river water high into the air. Corinne screamed and spurred her horse toward the children. Caleath gave his stallion, Enigma, free rein, urging the beast forward.

Before he reached the children, the wave struck the bridge. The wooden structure shattered. Cart, horse, and humans tumbled into the maelstrom.

A whiplash of sorcery slashed against the tempest. For a fractured moment, relative calm surrounded the tragic tableau. For respite from the tumult Caleath silently thanked the unseen wizard.

“The children!” Corinne’s voice pitched above the thunder and rumble of tortured rock. He shared the urgent need in her shout, throwing himself from Enigma’s saddle. His wet hands fumbled while he unbuckled the stallion’s reins and lashed them around his own waist. With a shout and few gestures, he urged Corinne to attach the lifeline to the stallion’s saddle. He left her to calm Enigma. When the horse stood hock deep in rising water, Caleath used the slippery leather and rope for support.

He moved deeper into the raging river. Cold tightened bands of steel around his chest and his head ached as air pressure dropped. He waded through waves of debris snagged on the remains of the bridge. Branches, broken timber, and clods of grass struck his head and shoulders as he fought the current. Through driving rain, he caught a glimpse of the overturned cart and the sodden woodwork that rose above the melee. The precious cargo of frightened children clung to the framework. As he approached, Caleath heard their whimpered cries and strident shouts. A deeper voice of calm among the shrill pleas offered comfort and courage.

He caught the dray’s side and dragged three small boys clear of the splintered frame. With one child’s arms around his neck and another boy under each arm, Caleath pushed away from the dray.

“Hang on.” He turned his back on the terrified faces of those children left behind. “Tallowbrand, tell Corinne we are ready,” he told the disembodied dread lord using telepathy to avoid swallowing more river water. Prohibited from working sorcery himself he relied on his companion, the ghostly archimage, for any form of magic.

Rain ran across his face, filled his mouth and blocked his vision while river water sluiced over his head with each successive wave. If not for the tug of the lifeline at his waist, he would not make way against the drag of the current. Even with this additional pull, progress seemed slow. The children cried as they clutched him and made headway more difficult.

He stumbled on slippery boulders, dragged heavy boots from the guttling mud and managed to reach shallower water. To his relief, Corinne took charge of the children, allowing him to step back into the current.

On the second trip, he half-carried half-dragged two older boys. A young man grabbed the lifeline, adding his strength against the current, aiding Caleath’s progress toward the river’s edge. While he helped rescue the terrified children the youth kept pointing and shouting toward the dray. Corinne lifted saturated bodies from Caleath’s arms.

“El’sbeth and her baby.” The youth gasped, taking one child from Corinne’s arms and scrambling to higher ground.

Caleath nodded, dragged air into his lungs and signaled the stallion to step forward again. Intense cold burned every limb. His legs shook and his boots slipped on mud-covered rocks. With teeth chattering he lifted a hand.

“I am going.” The storm snatched his words away. High on the dray’s upturned seat he could see a girl clutching a baby in her arms. When he reached deep water, the wind whipped his hair across his streaming eyes and hid the young woman and the baby from sight.

“Caleath, I can do no more. This storm is unnatural. I am spent.”Tallowbrand’s hollow voice echoed through his mind. Caleath cursed, surging forward to touch the splintered dray.

“A little longer, Tallowbrand,” he pleaded, but heard nothing in reply.

He scrambled hand over hand along the dismembered cart until he found a foothold. The girl slid toward him across the dray’s bench seat before she dropped into the turbulent water. Her hand reached through the murk, desperate eyes pleaded for help as she struggled to keep the baby’s head above water.

His fingers touched hers. In the same heartbeat, the dread lord’s magic dissolved. In an instant, the storm hammered into the void Tallowbrand’s sorcery had created.

Caleath’s fingers closed on empty air, a hair’s breadth from El’sbeth’s hand.

A wall of water smashed into the broken bridge, lifted the structure skyward and speared fractured woodwork into the turbulence. Forces beyond comprehension twisted the cart, thrust the drowned horse into the air and tossed portions of the mutilated bridge in front of the wave.

Caleath heard El’sbeth’s scream above the din. He struggled to reach her but the lifeline pulled tight around his waist before giving way. The sudden torrent tore him from the dray and dragged him beneath the water. Around him uprooted trees, shattered corbels and water pounded into the muddy riverbed. His throat closed when the cart landed across his chest. A silent scream reverberated through his head as a splintered floorboard speared through his side. Watery darkness engulfed him. The dray pinned him in the river’s depths.Again, he cursed immortality.

Story Blindness, It Happens

Most writers and editors will understand that phrasing...story blindness. It comes around when you've read, edited, re-edited, proofed, re-proofed, and gone over the same story for the tenth to twentieth time.

Edits for me are fun and enjoyable. For authors they can be the bain of the publishing process. At MuseItUp Publishing all books go through a content editor - multiple times; a line editor - multiple times; galley and final galley. A fast push may see your book published within six months. We won't rush the process.

No one can edit their own work. It just doesn't work that way for any published piece. Why? Because we do become blind to the words. We stop seeing what's missing and fill in story gaps in our minds because we know the story. It takes beta readers and editors to catch these missing pieces and to anticipate our writing habits. Like starting every other sentence with 'but' or over pronoun/name use.

Why mention this while visiting Victoria Ley's Darkseed: Awakening? Because she trusted me enough to tell me she was sick of seeing my edits :) Now trust me...this is one story you won't get story blindness from :)

The dead wants company. Hers.

Back Cover:

205 Cheyne Avenue holds some dark secrets…

After an accident claims the lives of two boys, fifteen year old Sarah Walton moves in to 205 with her mother. It isn’t long before she realises there is another, unseen resident, and convinces best friend Christina to help her make contact. When they do, the girls learn more than they bargained for, and soon find themselves desperately unravelling a series of clues in order to stop a malevolent being, seemingly bent on manipulating the souls of those he’s killed in order to gain omnipotence. Their only ally is Craig, a spirit they’ve befriended via a Ouija board, but as the story unfolds, the girls discover things aren’t quite as straightforward as they’d assumed.

Excerpt:

Christina closed the book, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Before Sarah had moved from Parthil, they had slept at each other’s houses almost every fortnight. There was nothing special, nothing unusual about it, it was just what they did. On the day that he died, Craig walked into 205 as routine, not knowing that he wouldn’t be leaving the following morning. She shook her head. “What happened in there?” she muttered aloud.

Putting the books beside her, she got up and crossed the room to where she’d left the glass. Raising it to her lips, she turned back just in time to see the book slip from the bed and hit the floor with a thud.

It landed perfectly balanced along the length of its spine, and Christina’s arm faltered before she took a cautious step towards it. As she did, the front and back covers splayed open hard, meeting the carpet flush with a muffled clap, and she froze, watching light-headed as the pages fanned out, fingered enthusiastically by the invisible being that sat on the floor by her bed. As she thought this, an incredible urge to wheel around and flee out onto the landing engulfed her.

And then what? Go where?

Christina dropped the glass back onto the desk. Her heart thumped sporadically, sending waves of pain through her left armpit, and her legs actually began to buckle, whilst her throat tightened to the point that she thought she may just pass out, and it was here, in this precise moment of pure panic, that the girl found an eerie solace, and she understood completely.

She had to regain control of the situation.

Christina turned her back on the book and faced the open door. She took a moment to close her eyes and draw a deep breath before taking the handle in her palm and shutting off the exit, flinching as the catch clicked home. She opened her eyes and returned to confront the scenario.

The pages were still moving. Swallowing hard, Christina took a single step forward and crouched level with the bed.

“Craig,” she whispered, “please stop.”

It halted immediately. A chill licked at the nape of Christina’s neck and she shivered violently, but her voice remained unaffected.

“You want me to see something?”

A few seconds went by before any movement resumed, and when it did, it wasn’t individual leaves but a whole section that turned. The definite motion made Christina jump, and the pounding in her chest accentuated. It took a moment for her to redeem her composure before she was able to crawl forward and peer into the book.

The pages were bent backwards, unnaturally pinned open against the spine, and her hand shook as it stretched out towards it. Placing all four fingers along the centrefold, she murmured, “thanks,” and the pressure relaxed, causing the pages to curl around her hand like a Venus fly-trap. Christina snatched the book off the floor and stood up, her eyes flittering about the carpet as she backed off. She saw nothing else, so her paranoid search of the room ceased, and she looked down at the object in hand.

The pages that her fingers marked had the heading “Divination” at the top left hand side, and the subject matter spanned both pages, but that wasn’t what drew her attention, for, unlike the other pages that Christina had seen, there was just a single sentence written throughout the margin:

A power shared is a power divided—revoke the amalgamation

And Then There Was Graeme

I've had authors make me cry, afraid to look over my shoulder, wonder, cheer, scream because they've taken stories where I didn't expect. Rarely have I had an author make me laugh so much I've nearly peed my pants during edits.

Yes, I did just say out loud...write out loud?...for all to see - that I damn well nearly peed my pants laughing during the edit stage of A Comedy of Terrors.

That blasted Idiot did it again...and, I don't mean Graeme Smith. Well, actually I think I do mean Graeme. Dangit, I'm not sure, the man confuses me.

When this manuscript first came to MuseItUp Publishing for assessment, I cracked up reading the first page. What fool character...okay, the fool is a different job description, let me rephrase that...what character keeps calling himself the Idiot? Of course, the person who holds that working title. You know that position. The one we all call on when we say...oh it was the idiot who did it.

Humour is not an easy venture. And for all the silliness and laughs during our editing process, I still wonder about Graeme's brain. Yes, I am leaving that open-ended cause no matter what I write, I'll get caught, so might as well lead while I can ;)

To Segorian Anderson, women are an open book. The problem is, he never learned to read.

Back Cover:

Segorian Anderson’s an Idiot. But that’s fine with him. It’s a well paying job with no heavy lifting.

Nobody ever remembers Segorian. It isn’t magic - he just has the sort of face his own mother could forget, and she’s been trying to for years. But being forgettable is a job requirement for an Idiot.
No, he's not the Court Jester. He doesn’t wear motley (whatever motley may be). That's a different union. He’s the Idiot. In a Queen’s castle, wine spilt down the wrong dress can lead to war, so someone unimportant has to be blamed for it. That’s the Idiot’s job. He’s the Idiot that did it, for any value of ‘it’. Of course, as soon as he’s exiled-for-life out of the castle gate, he uses his back-door key and sneaks back in. But that's not all. Someday, something really bad will happen. Really, really bad. Badder than a bad thing on a very bad day with extra badness. When the world’s about to end (or the washing up won’t get done – whichever comes first), who you gonna call? No, not them. They haven’t been invented yet. You call the Idiot, someone nobody will miss if things don’t work out. And now Peladon has a case of dragon.

But the dragon may be the easy part. Segorian has woman trouble, and he’s the only person in the castle who doesn’t know it. Because to Segorian, women are an open book. The problem is, he never learned to read.