Alley Blue - Convergence (Mother Earth Book 3)

Hi everybody! First off, I want to thank Jadette for so graciously hosting me on her blog today. Thanks Jadette! Mwah!

Today, I’m telling you about my latest novel, Convergence (Mother Earth book 3), released yesterday, December 13^th, from Samhain Publishing. It’s interesting how I came to write this third installment in the Mother Earth series. In Mother Earth book 2, Shenandoah, Bear and Dragon traveled through the ruins of the ancient city of Char. As I was writing that book, it sort of came up that Char was unnaturally hot. I didn’t plan it that way, it just happened. You know those things flow from your brain and out your fingers onto the page sometimes. For me, they nearly always improve on whatever plan I’ve made for the plot :)

Anyway, after Shenandoah I had Char’s unusual heat already established. And I started thinking to myself, why would it be so hot there, with the heat confined to the Char ruins? It couldn’t be any kind of local weather phenomenon, so I figured the heat must be coming from underground. From there, it seemed like a natural leap to decide there must a live city hidden underneath Char, with a power system—in this case, geothermal—that gives off enough waste heat to cause the high temperature in Char.

I know, obvious, right? LOL. Okay, maybe not. But the idea of an underground city got hold of my brain and I had to use it. I’d already decided to write Lynx’s story for the third Mother Earth book—Lynx being Bear’s Pack Brother from Mother Earth book 1, Dragon’s Kiss, for those who don’t know. So the concept of the underground city became the seed from which the entire concept for Lynx’s book, Convergence, grew. I’d been mulling over a way to bring back Rabbit, the lost Pack Brother Bear talks about in the first two books, and having him pop up in a previously unknown, hidden city seemed perfect.

Thus Queen City and Convergence were born. Lynx and Rabbit were my protagonists. This seemed obvious to me. After that it was just a matter of finding out how Rabbit had gotten stuck in Queen City in the first place, and how Lynx was going to find him. That was the easy part of the brainstorming. The execution of those fabulous ideas? Not so much. LOL. 

Writing this book was hard. Truthfully, though, I think it’s the best book I’ve ever written. I love it. I hope you guys will too :)

 

Blurb:

No one survives unchanged.

(Mother Earth, Book 3)

 

When the Carwin Tribe Pack lost Rabbit, a little bit of Lynx died along with his Brother. Their feelings went far beyond the Pack bond. The ensuing years have never erased his sorrow, only dulled the edges.

Kidnapped during a desperate mission to save Carwin, Lynx awakens to a completely foreign civilization where slaves and masters exist in a unique symbiotic relationship. And to a face he never expected to see again—Rabbit. Yet Lynx’s shock and joy are tempered by the changes in his lover.

The Pack’s strength lies in love, sex and a brotherhood forged from a lifetime of living and fighting side by side. Rabbit’s seeming acceptance of his lot as a slave makes Lynx wonder if he’s lost his soul mate forever…and if he can trust Rabbit with knowledge of his plan to escape.

As Lynx learns to navigate the complex hierarchies of Queen City, he begins to realize all is not as it seems. He finds he can’t simply take Rabbit and run, leaving an entire city to a grisly fate. Even if it costs him the one bond closest to his heart—the love he and Rabbit still share.

(Warning: This book contains Lynx-napping, futuristic farming, eavesdropping (minus the eaves), daring escapes, bloody battles, and Pack sex.)

Excerpt:
 

They moved cautiously toward the ruined building east of the nest, with Lynx in the lead and Kitten in the rear.  All three of them wriggled through a swaying curtain of ivy into a tiny open space fashioned partly from the ancient walls and partly from the weeds, trees and vines crowding all around.

“Be careful,” Fox whispered, scanning the landscape with narrowed eyes. “It’s too quiet around here.”

Lynx peered out through the tangle of greenery. Nothing stirred in the dusty heat outside, not even a rat. Not even a bug scuttling through the dirt, for that matter. He frowned. “Do you smell them?”

“No. Well, yes, but it’s residual.” Fox ran the hand not gripping his knife handle over the back of his neck. His dark skin gleamed with sweat in the heat. “I just don’t like the feel of the place, that’s all.”

“I’ll be careful. Don’t worry.” Lynx turned to Kitten. “Do you hear anything?”

Kitten shook his head. “No one’s around other than us, but Fox is right. It’s way too quiet. I don’t think they’re very far off. We need to hurry.”

Leaning as far through the ivy curtain as he dared, Lynx studied the ruins in every direction he could see. Heat-shimmer rose from the ground, breaking the line of the horizon into strange, wavering shapes. Nothing moved. Even the breeze from earlier had died, leaving the air thick, damp and dead.

The whole world felt tense. Breathless. Lynx didn’t like it any more than his Brothers did.

He flexed his fingers around his knife handle. “I’m going to make this fast. Stay alert. I’ll scream if I’m caught. If you hear that, don’t wait. Get out. Understand?”

After a moment, Fox nodded. Kitten wrinkled his nose but eventually nodded as well. Lynx clapped each of them on the shoulder, then ducked under the tangle of vegetation hiding the wide crack in the northern wall.

He ignored the dread that coiled in the pit of his stomach when he left his Brothers behind.

A minor wilderness of briars, young trees and tall grasses lay between Fox and Kitten’s hiding place and the nomads’ nest. It was easy enough to cross the space and slip through the gap in the eastern side of the old building without much chance of being spotted by anyone who happened to be watching.

The cavernous room beyond the opening wasn’t in much better shape than the space where he, Fox and Kitten had spent the previous night. Shade-dwelling weeds sprouted through a thick layer of dirt and splinters Lynx figured had once been a sturdy wooden floor. In the southwest corner, an oak tree sprouted straight up through a hole in the ceiling. Vines spilled through the opening and spread out to cover the walls and creep across the floor.

Glimpses of a tremendous window showed through the vegetation on the southern wall. A window Lynx and his Brothers hadn’t spotted while watching the nomads earlier, because it looked like brick from the outside. Lynx had never seen anything quite like it. He resisted the urge to go take a closer look. There wasn’t time for anything but his mission. Get in, look for signs of the nest, get out. He couldn’t allow himself to become distracted by one of Char’s little mysteries, no matter how interesting.

Jogging past the window, he scanned the western end of the south wall for the place where the nomads had entered. He found it after a few seconds, a narrow rectangular entry with a rusted metal door hanging crooked from one hinge. A trail of trampled grasses and footprints in the dirt led from the door to a spot on the northern side of the room where the ivy hung in a curtain too thick to be natural.

That had to be it.

Heart racing, Lynx crossed to the place where the tracks vanished behind the vines. He stood to one side, his knife in a battle-ready grip, held his breath and listened. Somewhere in the humid green dimness, an insect or small animal scuttled through the weeds. Beyond the veil of ivy, nothing moved.

Lynx let out his breath in a slow, silent stream. He took a moment to calm and center his mind, then crouched and peered through the straggling ends of the vines. He saw nothing but blackness. With a swift glance over his shoulder, he stood and slipped through the hanging greenery, his back to the wall and his knife ready in his hand.

At first, the darkness remained unrelieved, but he could feel the empty space around him. A large space, too large for a single, simple room. He waited. After a moment, his eyes caught a vague pale gold light flickering somewhere far off. It wasn’t much, but once his vision adjusted, the light grew strong enough for him to pick out a hallway that ran straight away from the wall for about ten or twelve paces then dove down a set of steep steps. The light—as well as the sense of a vast, open area—came from somewhere at the bottom.

Lynx stood there, chewing his bottom lip and thinking hard. The Great Mother Herself couldn’t talk him into going down those steps. The hallway led only in that direction, so the nomad gang had to have gone that way, and Lynx didn’t particularly want to fight them alone. But he needed to know whether a nest or a simple camp lay at the bottom of the stairs. The sooner, the better. He wanted to get back to his Brothers and get out of this place. Their time was short. He could feel it.

Moving with a silence born of a lifetime’s skill, Lynx eased a few paces down the hall toward the top of the stairs. As he drew closer, the faint light picked out words carved into the wall at the point where it began to slope down into the ground.

Words. Writing, at the top of what Lynx felt more surely with every passing second was the nest.

Excitement raced through Lynx’s blood, making his heart pound. Great Mother, the nomads can write.

He shook off the thought as soon as it struck him. The edges of the words looked dull and rounded, as if they’d been there for a long time. As if they’d been etched into the ancient wall by someone from the old world.

Lynx stared, wishing with all his heart Rabbit was still alive. He’d been one of the handful of Pack Brothers who could read. Lynx himself knew a few individual letters, thanks to Rabbit’s relentless attempts to teach him, but that was all. He’d never learned to tell one word from another.

He crouched and gazed down the steps as far as he could see. Nothing moved. He turned to peer over his shoulder. The muted, dappled sunlight from the room behind him remained undisturbed. As far as he could tell, nothing human stirred anywhere nearby except himself. He saw nothing, heard nothing.

Why, then, did the skin at his nape prickle and his shoulders grow tense? He didn’t understand it, but now wasn’t the time to start questioning his instincts. With one final, longing look at the letters on the wall—the first one was a “Q”, he felt certain—he hurried toward the tumble of ivy between himself and the exit.

He peered through a gap in the greenery. The room beyond lay empty, but something seemed wrong. The air felt brittle, as if some sound had disturbed it just seconds before and he’d missed it.

His knife at the ready and all his senses on alert, he slipped past the vines and into the tremendous room, keeping his back to the wall. Something stirred at the base of the tree. Lynx stilled. Focused. A second later he found it and cursed himself for an idiot. A nomad crouched in the weeds at the tree’s roots, staring out the window, one hand planted on the ground and the other curled around the handle of a long metal knife.

 Buy link: http://store.samhainpublishing.com/convergence-p-6562.html (it is up for pre-order now, btw)

My website: www.allyblue.com

My Twitter: www.twitter.com/PopessAllyBlue

My FB: https://www.facebook.com/AllyBlue.author

My utterly silly bio: Ally Blue is acknowledged by the world at large (or at least by her heroes, who tend to suffer a lot) as the Popess of Gay Angst. She has a great big suggestively-shaped hat and rides in a bullet-proof Plexiglas bubble in Christmas parades. Her harem of manwhores does double duty as bodyguards and inspirational entertainment. Her favorite band is Radiohead, her favorite color is lime green and her favorite way to waste a perfectly good Saturday is to watch all three extended version LOTR movies in a row. Her ultimate dream is to one day ditch the evil day job and support the family on manlove alone. She is not a hippie or a brain surgeon, no matter what her kids’ friends say.

JS Wayne and Dancing On Flames

First, I’d like to thank Jadette for having me here today! This should be an adventure. I’ll try to keep the spork-flinging to a minimum!

When the idea for “Dancing On Flames” first occurred to me, I wanted no part of it. Didn’t want to think about it, hear about, and I damn sure didn’t want to try writing it! As a het male, I couldn’t imagine what I could possibly bring to gay romance that hasn’t been done a hell of a lot better by Jadette Paige, Amber Green, KevaD, H.C. Brown, Margie Church . . . .

You get the idea. So I buried myself in other projects. Lesbian, ménage, straight, I wrote (and am still writing, in some cases) all of them. I even managed to publish most of what I wrote!

And the whole time, I had two werewolves prowling around my desk, eyeing me meaningfully. “When are you going to tell our story? Aren’t we good enough for you, Mr. ‘Manuscript Mage who can write any damn thing?’ Hmm?”

It was hard to argue with the logic, the ego stroking, or the none-too-subtle dare implicit in what they said. Not to mention that we’re talking about two werewolves. Not Twilight werewolves. These guys would look at that bunch and say, “Aw. Aren’t you precious,” with withering sarcasm. These are the kind of werewolves who top seven feet in their battle forms and are basically fangs, fur, and carefully directed fury. 

When two of those are glowering at you and tapping their feet none too patiently, you do what you gotta do. So I sat down and kicked my brain in the gut until it threw up an idea I felt had merit.

Since I already knew who my heroes were, I needed a villain. But why stop at one? Why not throw up a whole bunch of red shirts and make it a party? It didn’t take me long to figure out exactly what I wanted from my bad guys. Pure, no-holds-barred, evil SOBs that the reader wouldn’t have any sympathy for. So I wrote some of the vilest bastards I’ve ever put to paper.

Now that I had the villains, I needed an insurmountable problem for my heroes to face. It seemed pretty apparent to me that werewolves, as a very small subset of the population, would have to be concerned about inbreeding and other genetic issues if they bred too closely with their own kind. For this reason, a practical taboo became law. The law became tradition. And to violate it became a death sentence.

But the two werewolves were awfully cozy. And that’s where things got . . . interesting.

Because I’m a married, het male, there was an awful lot I had to learn about the ins and outs (pardon the expression) of a gay relationship. I wanted to get the tone and the dynamics of the story and the characters’ relationship right, without intentionally or otherwise offering any disrespect or slight to my readers. So I had to ask questions. Lots of questions. Some of them painfully embarrassing and difficult to broach, especially over email.

An aside: Some things just don’t lend themselves well to text communication of any sort. It’s easy to say too little and come off abrupt or even offensive, or to say too much and stick your foot in your mouth while you’re trying to avoid exactly that.

So I asked around among some people I knew would be receptive to my questions and get where I was coming from. I got some great advice, but two of the real gems I mined out of this exercise came from Margie Church and Bryl Tyne.

Margie said, “Put your brain in a box. Don’t worry about what turns you on. Write what will attract your characters.”

Bryl said, “Love is love. Worry about the emotions, not the physical aspect.”

I took their advice and finished the story. Then I sent off copies to my beta readers with a pointed request that they skewer me when and where necessary. It wasn’t long before I had all their opinions together, and I blasted out a rewrite, incorporating most of the suggestions I got.

Now came the real test: submission.

I took a deep breath and sent it off to Bryl. I had gotten a pretty good cross-section of what was wrong, and right, with my story, but this was the sweaty-palmed, honest to God moment of truth. If it didn’t pass muster with Bryl, I wouldn’t have gone all crazy melodramatic and deleted all my writing or anything equally silly. But I sure would have been disappointed for a minute. Bryl’s not an ogre by any means; in fact, he’s about as far from the stereotypical editor as I can imagine. So his opinion means a lot to me when it comes to my work, and I started getting the shakes about fifteen seconds after I sent off the manuscript.

To counter the jitters, I threw myself into other stories, pointedly trying not to think about it. See how these things move in cycles? A couple of weeks after I sent it, he sent me back an email. He was going to recommend it for publication!

With a huge sigh of relief, I signed the contract and stopped stressing. And now, I’m proud to report that “Dancing On Flames” is available from Noble Romance Publishing! To celebrate the release, I’m giving away a copy of “Dancing On Flames” to one commentator today. Just leave a comment for your chance to win!

Thank you again to Jadette for having me here today. It’s been a lot of fun! I hope I’ll back here again soon!

Until next time,

Best, J.S. Wayne

Blurb

In the aftermath of a raid on a band of child slavers, Russell and Ion of the Chosen of Fenrir find themselves baring their hearts and souls—and their bodies—to one another. In doing so, they violate one of their clan's most sacred laws: Look not to your own kind for love.

Now, one will lay his life on the line on the Path of the Flame Dance, where the Earth Mother will judge whether the love they have is worthy—or a betrayal of their own blood. The other must watch as his lover walks the fire or perishes in the attempt.                             

Stand or fall, the two warriors will never be the same . . . .

Excerpt

Ion slipped silently over to the large, smooth log Russell sat on and folded onto it with a small huff of relief; his feet and back ached from the exertions of the night, and it felt sinfully good to finally be able to relax for a while. He would rather have had his chest gouged open with a dull, silver spoon than admit it, but he was privately very glad Russell had insisted on letting the children sleep and getting an early start in the morning.

He studied Russell's profile in the firelight. Russell gave no sign he was aware of Ion's presence; his jaw was set firmly and his eyes seemed to shimmer with moisture. It had to be a trick of the light; Russell's seemingly inexhaustible good humor made the possibility that he could be on the verge of tears about as likely in Ion's mind as the chance that he might suddenly turn into a vampire.

Maybe it was the smoke stinging his eyes. Sure. That had to be the answer.

"We did good tonight."

Russell didn't say a word. He didn't react in any way; his gaze was locked on something far beyond the camp, somewhere Ion couldn't follow, seeing a terror that Ion couldn't ward.

After a long while, Ion placed his hand on Russell's shoulder. The hard muscle he encountered surprised him. While he hadn't thought Russell was soft, exactly, he hadn't expected the wiry muscle he found. To his astonishment, he realized that the other man felt good to his touch.

Russell reached up and laid his hand over Ion's, eyes locked on the blaze before him. His throat worked and he spat into the fire. “Those kids have a long way to go before they come back from this," he said heavily, turning his dark blue eyes toward Ion.

The pain in those eyes blistered through Ion as keenly as a dagger slice, even though they were not in wolf form and Russell’s mind was therefore closed to him. He would not have wished what he knew Russell had to be feeling on anyone; he carried a similar, if heavier, burden and knew better than he'd ever wanted to how that load weighed on his shoulders. To try to bolster Russell's spirits, he pointed out, "You were very good with them. A lot better than I could ever hope to be."

Russell didn't reply, but a tear ran down his face, gleaming in the firelight. Ion foundered for a moment and pressed on. "Those kids are going to get the best night's sleep they've had since they were taken, because of you. They trust you."

"Is that enough?" he asked. "There are still so many things that could go wrong between here and the nearest town. What if we lose one? Or all of them?"

Ion nodded heavily. "Remember what I told you earlier, about how I hoped you'd never understand how I feel?"

"Yeah."

"This is how it starts. You care about someone enough to be afraid of losing them." Ion felt a memory surfacing, and spoke quickly to quash it before it could take over, as it usually did. "You do your best, but it's not always enough. That's when you have to remember, you can't control everything."

Russell's voice was low and cold. "I will not let anything happen to these kids. They've already been through something horrible." His hand clenched Ion's as if trying to draw Ion's strength into him. Ion felt his heart stutter and skip at the gesture of trust. "Those kids will make it home."

Ion leaned close. "Russell . . . ."

He turned around. Their lips brushed, firing a pulse of electricity to every part of Ion's body. This close to Russell, he could smell the aroma of blood overlain by wood smoke that clung to the Chosen's skin. Under that lingered a scent like musk and clove that was uniquely his own. His clean breath felt hot on Ion's chin, and Ion's heart began to pound as a perplexing array of mutually incompatible emotions warred inside him.

Russell pulled back slightly and his eyes narrowed for a second as he stared deep into Ion's own, as if searching them for a signal that Ion couldn't be certain he was giving. Then he seemed to come to a decision, leaned forward again, and pressed his mouth to Ion's, opening to offer Ion his tongue. The taste of him was like nothing Ion had ever known; he tasted of spice, wild mint, and the smoked venison they had eaten before they left the caverns earlier tonight. But there was something else, something there Ion couldn't define in Russell's unique flavor that stirred the embers of Ion's uncertain emotions into a roaring blaze of need.

His own reaction came as a shock. He would have expected to be utterly repulsed; instead, he found he rather enjoyed Russell's expert kisses. The sensation felt astonishingly good, in a way that shook Ion to his core. He couldn't think of anything except the brilliant shimmers of desire that Russell's tongue was sending through his body.

Find me on Twitter: @jswayne702

Catch up with me on Facebook: Author.JSWayne

Check out my blog: jswayne.wordpress.com

And see my available work at www.nobleromance.com/authors/155

 

Here's Em Woods and Flying High!

Hello everyone! First, I would like to thank Jadette for having me here to indulge my inner narcist. I do love talking about my boys…a lot. *grin*

When Jadette invited me to talk about one of my stories, I immediately wanted to talk about what the Story Orgy has coming up this month! And of course, I thought this would be the perfect time to introduce you to Tate and Cain from my blog story, Flying High. You know us writers, we can pull a story from anywhere…and this one came from this picture right here… 

I can’t decide if it’s sexy or…humorous. LOL.

Either way, Tate was born, and I nearly fell over myself trying to get his details down. Shifter (definitely!), the only one in his family that looks like he does- black hair, black eyes, muscular. Friendly but not trusting right out of the gate.

Can’t you picture it? That poor little butterfly shifter all on his own…(yeah, right). Imagine my surprise when Tate Palmer turned out to be a Halfling…with his dad being a Fae tribe leader. *sigh* Of course, they’re from California originally but our darling Tate has now moved to Michigan and started his own business there. He is trying to deny the infinitely dark side of the Fae that causes him to lose control, preferring instead to enjoy his butterfly heritage from his mother’s side.

Cain Howell is a local, rare lynx shifter who just wants everyone to leave him alone…until he nearly takes a bite out of Tate when he playfully nips at a passing butterfly. The lure of the tiny shifter is a shock to Cain but he’s willing to see where it leads. And while they don’t rush into the mating bond, they are given a hard shove by Tate’s dad when Cain is kidnapped. 

Tate and Cain have to find a way to calm family turmoil, solidify their bond and keep the Fae Leader from showing up on their own doorstep unannounced. Can they do that and stay in one piece? We’ll have to wait 

and see, won’t we? *grin*

I must admit this story is a little out there, even for the shifter realm, but I think these two are telling a spectacular story. Here is the best part…you can find these guys on my website right now as part of my Story Orgy Monday blog posts! 

I know you’ve heard of us, right? The Story Orgy Group… Em Woods (that’s me!), JR Boyd, Hank Edwards, Havan Fellows, Lee Brazil, and Jade Baiser. We take a variety of prompts (sentences, dialogue, words, pictures) and write a story every Monday for that prompt. Talk about a challenge! But if you ever want proof that no writer will write the same story…come check it out. You’ll love it.

Sometimes it is paranormal (the whole month of October!), sometimes contemporary or romantic suspense…but it is always M/M romance…and always on Mondays. J

EXCERPT

A gentle breeze buffeted his skin, lifted him higher over the field where he was stretching his wings. The grass was long, reed thin, void of any wild flowers for him to enjoy. Sure, it wasn’t his first choice of a home, but it would do until he decided to migrate south. If he went.

Like other Monarch butterfly shifters, Tate Palmer hated the cold winters but this year he might just tough it out. He had invested in the local florist shop when he’d first arrived so that he wouldn’t have worry about finding steady work. Simply because his parents assumed he would only last a couple months without them, didn’t mean he had to prove them right.

He was half Fae after all. Stubborn was a way of life.

Tate drifted down, letting the wind carry him closer to the woods that bordered the northern edge of the open land. Ooh. A glimmer of yellow caught his eye and he angled to get a better look. As he neared, he realized too late it was a reflection.

Two reflections.

Shit. He shot upward as the animal leaped from its crouch, its jaws open partially, snapping at him.

Fluttering like mad, he regretted not having better control over his magic. For sure if ever there was a need to curse a cat’s balls off, nipping at an innocent butterfly was it, right?

Heated breath buffeted him from the right. He doubled his focus and energy, sending himself sailing toward the sky with strong strokes of his wings. Once he found himself over the tops of the trees, he slowed, calmed his racing heart.

What kind of animal was that?

BIO

I am a mother of two highly energetic little boys, married for fourteen years to the most understanding man on the planet, and I’ve held just about any (legal) job you can think of. My dad was Army so I have the “moving” bug, which means I rearrange the furniture a lot now that I’ve grown roots. I currently live in southeast Michigan but I’ve lived in three out of four corners of this wonderful country. It’s amazing how eclectic I am! LOL. I currently write for Total-e-Bound Publishing and very soon will be adding Breathless Press to my resume. J

LINKS:

http://authoremwoods.com

http://facebook.com/emwoodsauthor

http://facebook.com/SOGroup

http://twitter.com/emwoodssauthor

http://goodreads.com/emwoods

Total-e-Bound Publishing Author Profile:

http://www.total-e-bound.com/authordetail.asp?A_ID=144

My latest release:  Jack’s Way:
Buy link: http://www.total-e-bound.com/product.asp?strParents=&CAT_ID=&P_ID=1297

KevaD and A Demon Affair

Today I have the very great honor to host my dear friend, KevaD.  Come on out and show him some love while he's talking about his latest release, A Demon Affair!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Someone asked why I wrote "A Demon Affair," to which I replied, "Because it was a story I hadn't written." In hindsight I realize that answer may have sounded flippant when I didn’t mean it to be, but it is the truth.

The characters Pilan and Anai surfaced without warning one night when I was working on something else entirely. They instantly intrigued me. Pilan made it clear he wanted to prowl Chicago. I was in no position to disagree, and the story, their beginning, came together quickly.

"A Demon Affair" crossed some boundaries in that the heroes are the villains, and God doesn't share the whole truth with an angel who sacrifices eternity to become that which he is dispatched to destroy. Pilan is potentially one of the most vile, and sexiest, demon-angels to come along. Anai, the assassin, truly wants to kill him. The problem is, the pair of creatures are the only two of their kind and can't keep their hands off each other. While Pilan and Anai attempt to dominate each other in order to have sex, Hell keeps sending greater challenges for the two to overcome.

I kept the story short, more as an introduction to the characters and their dilemma, than as a final, once and for all tale. In other words, if readers like the duo and their unique situation, there is a whole lot more to come. Will Pilan and Anai be able to find mutual ground where in order to survive they don't have to kill each other? I don't know yet. But that's part of the fun, not knowing where the journey will end.

KevaD's web site: http://www.kevad.net/

Buy Link: http://www.rainbowebooks.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4507&osCsid=91kd8mp02m95cskpif6l1duku2

Blurb:

Ages ago, a heavenly Archangel and a hellish Slayer fell in love. The product of their sacrilege now roams the earth, devouring the souls of the living. Possessing all the strengths of good and evil, Pilan has the power to rise against either kingdom and take control. He simply hasn't yet chosen to.

Heaven dispatches Anai, an angel who has sacrificed eternity to kill Pilan. Anai is as powerful, and potentially as evil, as Pilan. As hell repeatedly sends forces to destroy Pilan and Anai, the two angel-demons surrender to sin. To enjoy the vanity of killing each other, they must first keep each other alive. Then there's the whole lust issue…

Excerpt:

Pilan crawled to his feet and glared at his sallow reflection in the mirror. Beyond his dead, black eyes, a razor's edge glinted in the void.

"What has given you the strength to free yourself?" he snarled.

A guttural chuckle rumbled in his throat. Heh, heh, heh.

Pilan narrowed his eyes against that sliver of light. Hatred flamed in his words. "You dare laugh at me?

"I laugh at your ignorant vanity. You have become so enamored with yourself, you really don't know, do you?

He raised a brow. "Know what? What have you done?"

Me? The chuckle burst into a full laugh. I have done nothing but heed the call.

"What call?" Pilan tempered his rage. The wildfire emotion would only make him more vulnerable to the assault. He could not afford to lose control of his mind and body.

Instead of sniffing for souls, you should have been sniffing for enemies. I will leave you alone. For now. The sparkles withdrew into the black depths within. The goodness retreated, and the black cage reformed about it.

What had he missed? No, he couldn't have missed anything. Perfection never erred. He drew in a long, lung-filling breath. One by one, he dissected each scent. Nothing beyond that which belonged to this place.

But urgency tugged at the threads of his mind. The fact he couldn't detect whatever the goodness had discovered was itself the answer - another Lasiqs had been dispatched to destroy him.

Pilan shrugged and sighed. Would Satan never learn Pilan was more powerful than the underworld lord and his mindless assassins? Hell could not claim a human's soul until the human died. Pilan could take a soul when the mood struck him, whenever he was hungry. For the souls of the living provided the nourishment he required, helped him grow in strength and power.

And one day, when he chose to, he would rule this pathetic world of mortals. He simply hadn't chosen to yet.

He opened a drawer of the dresser and pulled out black chinos and tee. Longing for fresh air and the chill of the night, he dressed.

At the back door of the club, he said goodnight to the guard and wandered into the dark, dead end alley. The dank of stagnant rain puddles blanketed him between the brick walls. Yellow light cast a dull glow over the sidewalk and street at the alley's open end. A taxi's tires buzzed over the pavement as the car passed. A rat scurried for refuge under a dumpster adorned in gang graffiti.

Pilan inhaled the night, his realm. A taste of demon-borne sulfur brought a grim smile to his lips. Out here, where he ruled, not even a Lasiqs could hide his scent from Pilan. He rolled the flavors over his tongue. Orange. He inhaled again, this time focusing on the smells alone, and not their taste. No hint of the acidic sweetness of oranges. Maybe nothing to be concerned with. But a Lasiqs who emitted the sweetness of oranges generally possessed greater battle prowess, courtesy of a soul or two implanted by Satan himself. Not that it ever mattered in the end.

Still, a Lasiqs alone wouldn't have stirred that part of him he'd confined centuries ago. Something else had given his duality the confidence to once again challenge him.

Pilan dug his fingers into the crevices between the bricks of a wall and climbed. The first three stories stretched his muscles, making him feel more alive in the night, but the next two brought cramps to his hands. At the top of the five-story building he walked along the narrow ledge, above the tarpaper roof, sniffing the air for any particle that might disclose what it was that his mirror self knew.

A spark of mixed flavors ignited and vanished.

Pilan froze in his tracks. Vanilla. Leather. The hair on the back of his neck pricked his skin. What the leather meant, he had no clue, but combined with vanilla, the flavor of Heaven's angels, it couldn't bode well. Not even Hell could copy an angel's scent.

This Lasiqs wasn't from Satan's seed.

Heh, heh, heh. My Father has finally found a champion, Pilan.

"Silence. Neither Heaven nor Hell can defeat me." Pilan spread his arms wide and stared at the sliver of moon winking behind drifting gray and black clouds. "Do you hear me?" he screamed to the night. "I am Pilan! Spawn of Heaven and Hell. I bear the power of each. I am waiting. Come to me!"

A wisp of torrid breeze passed Pilan's ears and deposited its message. "I am Anai. I shall kill you soon. Very soon."

My Day - My Book Blue Heaven

Today is my day to post!

Why? Just because. Don't you love to be able to give that excuse? Just because...

Do you ever wonder why an author writes the books they do? I have. Especially if the book is awesome and one I want to read over and over again.

So, today, I'm going to tell you a little bit of the story behind Blue Heaven, my debut male/male fantasy romance from Siren Publishing.

www.bookstrand.com/blue-heaven

I love challenges. You know, the ones where you feel dared to complete a certain goal in a limited amount of time.  I guess you could say I am very competitive, especially where my writing is concerned.  I used to belong to a critique group that loved to issue writing challenges.  My favorite was the one was where Blue Heaven, my debut novel, was born. We were told to write a 1500 word piece using a song (our choice) and a picture assigned to us. I was given a painting of a knight kneeling before a lady. The piece started with a mercenary entering a holy center to kidnap the province’s holiest of men, the Godchild. It was natural for the characters to both be male. I found their love story—yes, that is exactly what their story is all about—was enduring and enchanting.  The more I wrote about them, the more their characteristics came to life until I had ended up with a finished novel. 

 

With this particular challenge, I learned one important aspect about my writing. I love writing in the male point of view. For some reason it feels natural.  It makes me wonder if in a distant past I wasn’t a man. You never know.  All this makes me think about how challenges bring out the truth of one’s abilities.  For me, it opened the door to an entirely new genre, one I’d never considered writing in. Several of my old critique partners were surprised at the path I decided to travel on. I normally wrote sweet romances. I still consider my romances sweet only they are gay romances and (grins) they are a bit hotter. So now with each day, I compose pages in my works in progress with an ease that surprises me, and it’s all because of a simple challenge issued in the past.

If you take the time to check Blue Heaven out, please let me know. I would love to hear if I succeeded with their love story. Stryver and Blue would greatly appreciate it!

How do challenges affect you and your life? Share some of the moments which led you to a realization about you and/or some part of your life.

 

www.bookstrand.com/blue-heaven

Blurb

Take him from Heaven’s Seat. Bring him to me. We will protect his sacred head. 

Stryver Zorti’s mission appears simple. Kidnap the Godchild and deliver him to his master. But with the first meeting of the holy man’s azure gaze, desire surges in him to strip bare the God and touch the man within.

Worshiped all his life, the Godchild is shocked by the stranger who dares lay hands on him, even if it is to save him from assassins. With a different name given by his new ally, Blue is freed from the constraints of the holy order for the first time. He revels in the extraordinary experiences opening to him, then in the passion that sparks between him and the hard-edged, oddly gentle Stryver.

But a god does not love, and if discovered, their precarious utopia will shatter, destroying any chance for a future together--that is, if the assassins don’t kill them first.

Click Here to see the Blue Heaven Book Trailer

A Siren Erotic Romance


Excerpt - Chapter One

Chapter One

On strong winds from Heaven, Fate arrives to play with empty hearts.

Take him from Heaven’s Seat. Bring him to me. We will protect his sacred head. Master Aidal’s instructions ran through Stryver Zorti’s mind as he entered the main gate of the religious city. They helped him to remain focused on his goal.

Two Raegemon soldiers brushed past him. He stiffened, lowered his head, and glanced back. The two armored men disappeared into a cluster of people. They hadn’t paid attention to his rough, leather attire worn by most mercenaries. And why would they? Even mercenaries attended the annual festival.

He wished his old friend, comrade, and lover, Rance, was alive to help watch his back. But no, the protection, the connection they had shared on and off missions had ended a year prior after a poison dart pierced his lover’s spine.

He clenched his fists, shaking off the depressing memories. Once this mission was done, he’d have his freedom to live alone. Once free from his servitude to his master, he’d find a nice little farm, nothing too large, and grow fruit trees. He’d never seek another relationship. Rance’s loss hurt too much.

If all went the way he planned, he’d hide in the cathedral, and when night fell, he’d have the prize. He needn’t worry about the guard discovering his purpose here. He’d slip unnoticed by the warriors to steal their most precious person.

The Godchild.

He found his target, the holiest of men, on Sanctuary Avenue, the road leading to the Cathedral of Heaven’s Seat. Revelers flowed about him, celebrating the Leirinto Festival in honor of another flourishing year in the Raegemon region of upper Jomin Provence.

Stryver moved along the avenue, even with the dais carried by four shaved-head monks dressed in flowing, golden robes. Curiosity drove him forward. One look up close at the revered man wouldn’t hurt. A simple glance to measure what challenge his target might offer when Stryver kidnapped him.

He swung his gaze toward the human instilled with a god’s soul.

The wind gusted, ruffling Stryver’s hair and swaying the long linen bands streaming from the Godchild’s hat. 

Decorative pennants snapped.

Fathomless, clear azure eyes, purity radiating from them, glanced his way. They snagged and held Stryver’s eyes, burning into his mind, branding his soul.

The Godchild’s eyes widened with surprise, recognition, or fear. Stryver couldn’t tell.

A light flickered deep within Stryver’s chest. It grew warmer, the heat increasing with each heartbeat. He stumbled closer. He lifted a hand. Desire to touch the holy man overrode his normal caution. Uncontrollable need to discover what lay hidden beneath the white linen robes, the intricate folded hat, and the silken veil dominated his actions. He had to view the Godchild’s features, his body, naked to his gaze.

Heartbeats slowed.

Breaths lasted an eternity.

The light in Stryver’s chest brightened, spreading warmth, anticipation. The holy man looked away.
The connection between them broke. The Godchild’s attention moved to the next person lining the crowded streets.

Gasping for air, trembling, Stryver stopped, his arm still raised.

He stared at nothing, his senses dulled.

One of the monks mingling in the crush of people placed something in his hand, said a quiet, mumbled blessing before disappearing in the crowds.

Someone bumped him.

Bright clothes streaked by. Pennants waved. The long poles they were attached to tilted. Painted masks leered. The noise, the smells converged on him. Celebrants dressed in home-spun clothes, alongside dark-robed, hooded pilgrims, slipped past him in a human array of textures, noises, and odors, jostling him out of the way. The procession moved forward.

The mind-numbing innocence, the purity of the holy man’s gaze sent chills through Stryver. His body shook from the aftershocks. Weakened, vulnerable, he staggered into the nearest alley. He slumped against the dingy brick wall. He drew in deep gulps of air tinged with smoky incense to calm his racing heart, barely managing to gain control of his senses.

What the fuck had he gotten himself into? He couldn’t go through with this mission. The man’s power was overwhelming.