Wednesday, September 11, 2013


Here's another short excerpt from QUEEN OF SWORDS. Got through the midpoint bramble and now have only to rewrite the final chapter and do another read-through spit and polish. Still need beta readers, so if you're game, please get in touch.

Cat’s blood pressure spiked as she remembered the raven’s threat from last night. She drew a deep breath and blew it out, trying to clear her mind and relax her spasming gut. The pulsing persisted. She bit her lip. What to do? If Graham was in trouble, she needed to help him somehow.
            But how?
            As her mind chased the possibilities, she packed up her things, returned the borrowed books to the reserve desk, and left the library. She hurried down the High Street toward the cottage, cursing the fact that she’d elected to walk today of all days. With each step, the feeling grew stronger. More images flashed. Branwen standing over him. She felt a hot flush of possessiveness. And protectiveness. Graham belonged to her, dammit. And she would not stand for that faery bitch—or anybody else—abusing him.
            She was in a sweat by the time she reached home. Hurrying up the brick path to the rose-covered door, she fumbled in her satchel for her keys. With shaking hands, she attempted to separate the house key from the others on the ring. Her fingers felt stiff and clumsy. Another image flashed. Oh dear goddess, Branwen was poking some sort of wire into Angus Og! Fury exploded in Cat’s chest. She tried to stick the key in the lock but her hands were shaking too hard. After several bumbling attempts, she finally got the bloody door open.
            She dropped her satchel just inside, ran down the hall to her room, and pulled her grimoire from the shelf above the altar. There wasn’t time to cast a circle, draw sigils, mix up herbs, and recite multiple incantations. She flipped through the pages, searching for a quick and dirty summoning spell, feeling like she’d swallowed an acid-soaked bag of rocks. Come on. Come on. Her hands shook as she turned the pages. She was almost sure she’d written down something a few weeks ago that would do the trick.
            Finding the charm she sought at last, she selected a red candle and quickly anointed herself and the candle with the same oils she’d used on Friday night. As she flamed the wick with her disposable lighter, she recited the incantation.

“Summoning with oils and candlelight,
Let him come now into my sight!”

She repeated the words twice more before climbing on the bed and hugging her knees to her chest. Within seconds, the air began to shimmer. Her heart pounded excitedly as she watched him take shape. The eyes appeared first—two luminous pools of whisky. The sight awoke something carnal deep in her belly. A face began to form around the eyes. Angular, chiseled, beautiful. The lips were full and sensual, the jaw strong, the cheekbones high and prominent, the hair long and silky. The body came next. Broad shoulders, powerful arms, graceful hands. The waist was trim, the hips narrow, the legs long.
As glorious as always, he took her breath away. There was just one problem. It wasn’t Graham who stood before her. It was the dark angel from her recurring nightmare.

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Writing smexy paranormals with a Celtic twist. Blogging about good books.