Callum and Vanessa

Back from Moonlight & Magnolias (more about that later) and working on filling out the form from Soul Mate Publishing for the cover art for my book, THE KNIGHT OF WANDS. The form asks for detailed descriptions of the hero and heroine (among other things to help the cover artists come up with something spectacular to showcase my debut novel). I went back and pulled the character descriptions, then went  surfing on the net for people matching the picture in my head. Here's what I came up with:

Callum looks like Brad Koenig--only with longer hair, no beard, and golden eyes. Here's how I describe him in the book, from Vanessa's POV: 

Callum Lyon was a Leo--with the leonine good looks characteristic of the sign: thick mane, slanted golden eyes, and a mouth that curled up at the corners like a cat’s. She hadn’t told him she’d come to Caithness with the express goal of hooking up. She had read his books on political astrology and, like many women, lusted after the handsome face on their jackets. And what luck that she happened to be passing through this part of Scotland on the night he was making a rare public appearance. As it turned out, the picture didn’t do him justice, but how could it? No two-dimensional image could possibly capture the feral carnality he exuded or the graceful power with which he moved. No wonder women threw themselves at him.

Later, when he's standing before her in only his trousers, she observes:

He had a beautiful upper body--powerful shoulders; bulging biceps; a cut, muscular chest dusted with the perfect amount of golden hair; and rippling, six-pack abs. 

Vanessa is tall and willowy with blue eyes and a confident elegance. I didn't plan it to start (I swear), but, it turns out I picture her looking just like Kate Middleton.

Don't they make a lovely couple? He's a Scottish lion. She's an English butterfly--a free-spirited socialite who flies away before any man can pin her down.

 

Guess who's getting published?

Hear, ye. Hear, ye.

Nina just signed a deal with Soul Mate Publishing for THE KNIGHT OF WANDS, book one in her four-part smexy paranormal series, The Knights of Avalon.

After five years of slaving over an overheated keyboard and yellowing thesaurus, she's finally got a publisher.

How about a hearty huzzah!

Good News?

I may have good news to announce in the next few days regarding my status as an unpublished author. Stay tuned for more . . .

Are novelists closet sadists?

I've heard it said that novelists need to be sadists--to do the cruelest things they can think of to their characters. Well, I've been too bloody nice up until now. So, here goes. In The Knight of Cups, my heroine, Grace Fisher, a high-school English teacher, has finally decided to start living her life by joining a bus tour of the sites featured in her favorite author's novels. A few hours into the tour, a terrible storm kicks up and the bus goes over a cliff. Here's a wee taste of what happens to poor Grace:

Grace opened her eyes, blinking to clear her blurred vision and fuzzy mind. She could see that it was night and could smell the rain-soaked earth beneath her, which felt cold, damp, and squishy. She also could smell something burning—something acrid and foul with undertones of roasting flesh. Trees towered over her. Tall, skinny pines looking unsteady as they swayed on the biting wind. This couldn’t be hell. Or Los Angeles (not that the two were mutually exclusive). Try as she might, the knowledge of where she was and what had happened refused to come forth. It was as if her memory had torn along with her clothes—and whole strips had blown away.

            All she knew was that she was still alive. But for how much longer? Not much, judging by how messed up she felt. Grimacing against the pain, she cast a glance down her body. Her clothes were muddy and tattered, blood seeped from her chest, and her left arm looked distressing similar to the pipe under the bathroom sink in her apartment back home. Lowering her gaze, she saw something that made her gasp: her hips lay at an impossible angle—like a Twist-n-Turn Barbie tossed aside. She searched her memory for any clue to what had happened to her, but her mind kept tuning in and out like a weak-signaled radio station.

Swag!

That was it--the word I was looking for in yesterday's post about giveaways. The books I got at RWA as swag. Never heard it before RWA but just saw it again at a site called I Love Vampire Novels. I'm definitely going to have to check it out further--and add it to my blogroll. My knights, you see, are a form of vampire--not the kind pictured here--but rather, unseelie dark faery vampires. In Scottish folklore, lots of faeries drank human blood. Mine are lamian drones--the "breeders" for an amazonian race ruled by a predatory queen.

I'm out surfing for someone to inspire my hero, Leith MacQuill. Long black hair, chiseled face, green cat-like eyes. His alter ego is a cat sith. More on that later.

Any suggestions?

Scottish Kings, Sex Slaves, & Senseless Battles

I invented a new acronym yesterday--or, at least, I think I did. SFPing. Shopping for publisher. Here's another excerpt from the book Kensington, Avon, and Loveswept don't want. The hero is Callum Lyon, a political astrologer who lives in a castle in Caithness, Scotland. He was made a drone of the Lamians, a culture of amazonian dark faeries, after falling in the battle of Flodden Field. In life, he was the court astrologer to King James IV of Scotland. In the book, he tells Vanessa, the heroine, that he and King James were taken by faery scouts from the battlefield and turned into sexual slaves (well, he was--James got a slightly better deal). Historically, James was believed killed in the battle, but his body was never identified, leaving the door open for speculation . . . In this scene, Callum, a shapeshifter, has turned himself into a horse to give Vanessa (the heronine) a moonlight ride down the beach.

Callum still vividly recalled riding into Northumberland with the army, his thoughts grim. The casualties would be heavy. Would he be among them? Would he never see his son again? But he had to fight. Had to. Despite what he knew. To do otherwise would have been an act of defiance punishable by death.
          He recalled lining up with the other horsemen along the top of a ridge overlooking a green but boggy valley. The enemy lined up on the other side, but further down, so the King ordered the army to move. Their new position was lower, but still higher than the English line. The charge sounded and the east wing tore down the hill, meeting the enemy in a deafening melee. He tossed his head, flinging the scene away. He doubted that was the sort of thing she wanted to hear. Who cared where the battle lines were drawn or who made the first volley? What mattered was that, when the smoke cleared, ten thousand of his comrades—almost half of their army—lay dead on the field. And not just foot soldiers, but hundreds of earls, lords, and knights—a whole generation of the Scottish nobility. Cut down like hay in a battle that should never have taken place.

The Start of The Knight of Wands

Here's just a wee taste from the start of THE KNIGHT OF WANDS, book one in the KNIGHTS OF AVALON series.

Vanessa Bentley opened her eyes to a pounding headache and the dim sensation that she was not alone. Scenes from the night before rose inside her mind like mist after a warm rain. Callum Lyon’s lecture on political astrology. Waiting around while he signed books. Fleeing back to the inn, disappointed and alone. Going down to the bar for a nightcap. Chatting with the bartender until the object of her desire sauntered in from the blue. They had talked—but what about?—and drank whisky. Things got fuzzier after that.

            Swallowing, she rolled on her side, expecting to find him sleeping beside her. She was alone in the bed, meaning what? She checked for the telltale signs of coupling, but found she was still mostly clothed. He had very decently removed her shoes, her jacket, and her jewelry, but left on her trousers and top. So, he had been too much of a gentleman to take advantage. She liked that scenario, but it did not explain the feeling that someone else was in the room. Checking farther afield, she found a figure sleeping on the couch at the foot of her bed. The long ochre hair confirmed the sleeper’s identity. But why had he opted for the couch?

Back to the Knight of Cups . . .

Social media is both mesmerizing and daunting. Taking a breath between books, I spent the weekend befriending fellow writers on FB, trying to figure out Triberr, and other audience and brand-building experiments. Today, I started back in on book two of THE KNIGHTS OF AVALON series, THE KNIGHT OF CUPS. The rewrite on QUEEN OF SWORDS derailed me a bit, but now that's done until I hear back from my beta readers (and thanks again to my kind volunteers!). Here's a wee taste from the rough first draft. Still got a lot to work out. Sigh.

Leith MacQuill stilled his fingers on the keyboard and squeezed shut his eyes, which burned with the strain of too many fruitless hours spent staring at the screen. Sighing, he reviewed the few lines—a pathetically paltry output. Smoldering with self-disgust, he plucked his cigarette from the ashtray, rose from the desk, and strode to the library’s diamond-leaded window.

            Taking a long pull on his cigarette, he surveyed the expansive grounds of the castle he called home. The formal gardens looked scruffy, the conservatory cried for paint, and the corner turrets were in dire need of repointing. But upkeep took money, which he had in short supply. And, try as he might, he could think of no new way to acquire more. He’d already sold off most of his horses and opened some of the rooms for tour groups and special events. The former was a painful sacrifice, the latter an insufferable intrusion. But what else could he do? Let the castle he’d spent a fortune restoring fall into ruin?