Monday's Meanderings with Janet Lane Walters

The wind has begun with some gusts but no rain yet. Thought I would get some words here while there's time. We usually lose power when there's a storm so I doubt this time will be any different. But storms aside there are other things to talk about such as writing and promotion and time. There are so many things a writer should do to promote themself but who has the time and also write. Blogs to be interviewed for. Tweets to post. Facebook and other social media to attend to. How does one find the time? I'm probably not the best role model. Other than this blog that I do daily and most of the time feature the work of others I don't do what I should. I believe I could use a secretary. But enough of this.

I'm typing the changes to Lines of Fire and will do for a few more days and then it's off to the publisher. That means doing a special bunch of stuff and formatting. Must find my downloads on exactly how that should be done.

I am working on a 45 year old mss that I found the carbon copy of and see some things that may make this an exercise in futility. After the first few chapters with one twin I have switched for I'm not sure how many more to the other. Must decide how this can be handled so when re-working this I can see where to go. The story sort of reminds me of a Pilgrim's Progress. Wonder if I was reading that when I began this story.

Also some ideas are popping for the final Seduction story, A Sweet and Spicy Seduction. Do you like cupcakes? The heroine has a bakery and the hero is a sort of detective who does investigations for the Good Group of magazines.

3 blog visit Sunday discoveries by Janet Lane Walters

http://penelopemarzec.blogspot.com/2012/10/paranormal-research-for-your-story.html a lot about paranormals and what they are

http://barbaradonlonbradley.blogspot.com/2012/10/next-step-of-writing-fleshing-out-those.html writing advice

http://anngimpel.blogspot.com/ paranormal expernces

Saturday's Chapter - James Hitchings, The Case of the Syphilitic Sister

Today's chapter is from a new mystery by James Hitchings featuring a a Superheroic Detective Agency

The corridor's smell was not unpleasant, but hinted of unpleasant things; the cleaning-product smell of a hospital or a public bathroom. Lettering on the door read All-American Detectives Ltd. - and underneath, in smaller letters, America's Finest Superheroic Detective Agency - serving Burlington City and the entire United States. Catherine opened the door, half-expecting to find the office shrouded in thick clouds of cigarette smoke, occupied by a defeated-looking man with his feet on the desk and a bottle of whisky in his hand. But the office was bright and cheerful, and the blandly-smiling man at the reception desk did not look like a cynical, wise-cracking gumshoe. He nodded a greeting. Janus the Unknown, Man of a Thousand Faces, rarely spoke first. He gauged the client's age, class and ethnic origin and, in general, adopted a similar accent and vocabulary. He wore no mask. Or rather, he wore no obvious mask. He had subtly altered his facial features, by natural and artificial means, to appear more open and trustworthy. It was hard to tell what age or even what race he was. It was as if he had bleached himself away, creating a blank canvas on which, like a sidewalk artist, he could draw whoever was required.




"I'm Catherine Moore," she said, "I have an appointment for three thirty." The man made a mark in the ledger before him.

"Very good Miss Moore. If you'd care to wait, someone will see you in a few minutes." His tones were soothing and reassuring, like those of a doctor - or, perhaps more relevant to the agency's business, an undertaker. She sat down on the unoccupied leather couch. She sank into it, and she had a momentary vision of finding other clients hidden in the cushions. A glass coffee table was covered in current affairs magazines; Spicy Detective Stories, Weird Mysteries and the like. She read for a while about the Cult of Ra and the Jack of Spades murders, until another voice said,

"Miss Moore, we're ready to see you now." Like the unremarkable man at the desk, the new figure wore no brightly-coloured leotard. Indeed, apart from a domino mask which matched his suit, he could almost have been on his way to church, or a job on Madison Avenue. His voice was neither booming nor sinister.



The guiding principle of the agency was that there was no boss and no underlings. Everyone fought the villain's henchmen, everyone cleaned the desks. Yet not everyone could do the job of manning the office. It was no good expecting a grieving widow or the parents of a missing child to feel safe in the presence of Doctor Death or The Night-Witch.



"I'm the Green Dragon," he said, in the same professional tones with which Janus had greeted her. "I'll be your liaison with our agency." She realised his suit was very dark green rather than black.

"So...what, you breathe fire?"

"Metaphorically speaking," the man said smoothly, opening the door to a small interview room. "I use an adapted pair of pistols, which work in a similar fashion to a flame-thrower. They can also be used to project knockout gas, electricity, and a few other things. But please, sit down. Now, what can we help you with?"

"It's about my sister Penny." The Green Dragon gave a wordless, sympathetic murmur. She took a deep breath. "Well, she died a few months ago."

"I see." His tone betrayed no surprise. Perhaps, she thought, there was none to betray. Perhaps he would have been surprised to hear she was alive and well.

"She...she was shot by the police."

"Oh. I see. But if you feel there was an injustice, I have to warn you that a lawyer would be more likely-"

"No, that wasn't the injustice," she interrupted. "She got into an argument over change with a bus driver. She had a kitchen knife that she'd bought and she stabbed him to death. She was ranting, threatening the police. They told her to put the knife down but she wouldn't. I think they call it 'suicide by cop' don't they?"

"Did your sister have any conditions that might have-"

"It turned out she was in the terminal phase of a particularly virulent strain of syphilis. She would have been dead in a few months even if the police hadn't shot her. The rage was part of it too. I'm told that victims of most forms of syphilis just get forgetful, like old people."

"What would our agency be aiming to uncover?"

"I want you to find out how she got the disease."

"I take it she had no beau that you knew of?"

"That's not what I meant. Penny wasn't the kind to sleep around. If she had a disease like that, she was raped."

"Ma'am, there's no reason to think your sister was, uh, intimately involved with more than one person, or on short acquaintance,"

"You don't-" She seemed to be struggling to stop herself shouting. "With all due respect, you don't know my sister."

Then why does this all seem so damn familiar? Many of the Green Dragon's best cracks were delivered only in his own mind.

"Miss Moore, I must caution you that our agency cannot be party to any vigilante activity. Our legal position is already shaky. The police officially take the view that what we do is illegal under the Criminal Vigilantism Act, but don't prosecute. We can try and find this fellow, but the most we can do after that is present a case to the police, if he's guilty of a crime."

Catherine lit a cigarette. It forced her to speak from the side of her mouth, like a gangster in a film.

"I'm not going to stab him. She was the crazy one remember?"

"I don't think you're crazy Miss Moore. But I think you might be making a mistake. I also have to warn you that we charge on a per hour basis."

"What do you mean by that?"

"More plainly, if we can't find anything, or if we find something that isn't what you thought we'd find, you still have to pay us."

"Truth, justice and the American way," Catherine muttered.



###



A few days later Catherine found herself in another room in the agency. The Green Dragon was still there. She supposed that, in reality, he went home at night, but it was hard not to think of him as attached to the office, perhaps put away in a drawer at five o'clock, or perhaps simply standing in the darkness until needed. In a sense she was right. Only Chester Mason ever walked through the hidden, basement-level door to the agency, and while Chester ate dinner or listened to the radio the Green Dragon was stored in a locker. He found it easier not to speculate on which one was the invention. The room was almost identical save that it was larger, to accommodate herself, the Green Dragon, and a young woman who introduced herself to Catherine as Princess Iron Fan. Catherine noted that everyone she had met at the agency was around the same age, late twenties or early thirties. She wondered what happened to them when they got old.

"Miss Moore," said the Princess, "we have a few questions about what happened to your sister's body. Now, you've said that most of your family live in Nebraska. Was Penny buried there, or here?"

"Here."

"Was an autopsy performed?"

"No. Mom and Dad were against it. The police could've got a court order to do it anyway, but it was obvious enough what was wrong with her."

"I see. I ask because it could tell us whether she was...forgive me, but if she was the victim of an assault. It might even give us an approximate time. How likely is it that your parents would consent to disinterment-"

"Not a chance."

"I see. And how do you feel about it?"

"I just want the truth," Catherine said flatly.

I wonder if you'll still want it when we show it to you the Green Dragon thought. A baby you fall in love with when you see it. The truth you fall in love with until you see it.

"All right. Well, that being so, we have a proposal to discuss with you."



###



The delivery van was mis-named, having come to the graveyard to take, not give. Inside, The Kabbalist wore his mask and costume. The others wore the identical masks and armour of the Kabbalist's sidekicks, the Golems. There was some legal protection in doing so. If it all went wrong, the agency might be fined rather than the individuals accused of a crime. It also helped them to deal with the often unpleasant nature of the job. At the end of a working day, did you want to tell yourself that you had fought evil as the Kabbalist, or helped steal a corpse as Eugene Nash? Of course everyone had a set of civilian clothes ready. They might have to disappear quickly, or be taken to jail.



In fact the Golems did not exist. That is, they did not exist even to the extent that the Kabbalist existed. None of the sidekicks did. It was rather like a small theatre company. Everyone had their main role, but everyone also played minor roles as required. Princess Iron Fan took the identity of the Green Dragon's sidekick, the Green Fairy, when required. The others, especially Janus, performed similar duties. It was a good way of appearing to have more manpower than they really did. There was no possibility of the child sidekick beloved of popular culture. The law largely took the view that if grown men and women wanted to run around in costumes fighting crooks, then it was their funeral. But child endangerment was another matter. The whole thing reminded Eugene of a circus: what the public saw and what was really going on were two different things.



They parked the van quietly, and took out their shovels. The cemetery's high wall and locked gates were designed to keep out kids, not determined adults with a near-professional knowledge of burglary. They crept along a path lined with trees, towering palms which, appropriately, were mostly dead.

"Gee, everybody's quiet here tonight," whispered one of the Golems. It was Chester.

"You spend the whole ride over thinking that up?" the Kabbalist replied.

"No, I spent the whole ride over hoping I don't have to pee."

"No, you spent the whole ride over hoping nobody noticed you putting your Green Dragon mask on under your Golem mask."

"Yeah, well...your Mom wears jocks," Chester whispered sulkily.

"Last time we were out you claimed to have had intercourse with my Mom, which by the way is no insult to me on account of I ain't gotta Oedipus Complex or a Madonna-Whore Complex, so really her choice of underwear reflects on you more than me doesn't it Chester?"

"Don't use his secret ID you idiot," hissed another Golem, who preferred to wear the flying helmet and jet-pack of the Rocket Ranger.

"Who's gonna hear?" it was the Kabbalist's turn to sound sulky. "Anyway it should be just about...shit." They stopped still. Three figures were digging up a grave.

"Jesus Christ. What...is that the same one we came for?"

"Yeah, I think so. Shit, what do you wanna do?"

"OK. Put down the shovels first, and pretend we came to arrest them."

"Yeah, good idea." They followed the Rocket Ranger's instructions.

"All right - Kabbalist, you good to go?"

"Sure." The Kabbalist's voice changed. It became deeper, richer yet more menacing, like the paws of a panther. "Desecrators of graves. Robbers of the dead," he said, in the manner of one listing the names of diseases or poisonous snakes. His voice was soft, but clear, and the three figures looked around sharply. He strode towards them. His robe gave him the appearance of gliding over the ground. "You thought yourselves unseen and unheard, here in this place of rest. But justice never sleeps, and there is no wickedness which is hidden from...the Kabbalist!" The Golems stood behind him, as if the earth itself had risen up against its violators. One of the three criminals moaned, and the detectives smelled urine. The thug dropped to his knees, babbling a mixture of alibi and prayer.

"Stand up you dummy," said one of the crooks, a bald and leanly-muscled fellow. "They're just men in costumes."

"Just men in costumes," the Kabbalist laughed. He made it sound like the most idiotic thing ever uttered, the kind of thing the guy in horror comics who doesn't believe in ghosts would say before getting killed. "Indeed they are less than men, lacking wills and souls. Aleph! Gimel! Strike down this fool!" The criminal stood like a rabbit in headlights while the Golems approached. At last he made a decision. He punched Chester in the stomach - and howled like a cat as his fist struck armor. There was a sinister snick as the third man drew a flick-knife.

"Put that away you idiot." The bald criminal held his bloodied right hand with his left. He stepped away from the other two, and spoke in a lower voice. "Listen, you got us on vandalism at the most. You could try and beat the story outta me, but you know how it is - I got hired by a guy who got hired by a guy who got hired by a guy. I ain't even gonna give you the first guy's name, and I think you know that. Now you could take us down the station, but I'm lookin' at your shovels over there, and I don't think you want that. So how about this: we get outta here, I don't say nothin' about no shovels, you get whatever you came for, and we call it even?"

"Deal," the Kabbalist whispered, and then in a louder voice, "Begone evildoers!" He raised his hands, as if to call down lightning upon them.

"Oh God, run! He's gonna kill us all!" the bald grave-robber suited actions to words, and his two companions followed.

Friday, How He Does It - James Hutchings

> We all know there are six elements in writing fiction and often fact. Who,


> What, When, Where, Why and How. I believe the first five lead to the sixth

> which for me is the plot. What's your take on this?



I usually think of plot first, and everything else comes from that.





> 1. How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific process?

> 2. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or

> do you let the characters develop the route to the end?

(my answer to these two questions is pretty much the same)



I know that starting with a character, then deriving the plot from what they'd

do, is often held up as the best way to write. However I usually start with an

idea for a plot, and work out my characters to fit the plot.





> 3. Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or

> a specific one?



It depends. In a short story or poem I'll usually think of the ending as part of

the initial idea. But for longer works I might not. For example I'm working on a

long poem set in the old West called 'Confession of a Bounty Hunter', and up

until recently I hadn't decided whether the main character would live or die.





> 4. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and

> plans of houses sitting around?



I mostly write fantasy - and my fantasy worlds aren't baed on any particular

historical period - so I can make it up without having to look anything up.



Even when I write in a historical perod, I'm usually more interested in how the

characters interact than in the details of the setting, so I infrequently need

to find anything out (for example whether they had kerosene lanterns in the old

West, or what Smith & Wesson's first names were).



A few of my stories are set 'here and now'.





> 5. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?



Most of my 'research' is writing down interesting things from history or fiction

that I find online, usually on wikipedia. For example, these are curses from the

front of two medieval books, that I intend to use one day:



If anyone take away this book, let them die the death; let them be fried in a

pan; let the falling sickness and fever seize them; let them be broken on the

wheel, and hanged.



Should anyone by craft of any device whatever abstract this book from its owner

may their soul suffer, in retribution for what they have done, and may their

name be erased from the book of the living and not recorded among the Blessed.





> 6. Are you a draft writer or do you revise as you go along and why?



With poetry, at least traditional poetry, you have to revise as you go along to

make the rhymes and rhythm fit. With prose I also tend to revise as I go.



However I always show my work to my ex, who acts as my unofficial editor, before

sending it out. She usually has suggestions for changes, and this can go back

and forth for several drafts.

Thursday's Who Janet Lane Walters Has Been Reading

 When one goes to a conference and returns with books to read it's a bonus. This time I caught up with two authors I've read in the past and have missed reading lately.

So I've been reading To Wed A Wild Lord by Sabrina Jeffries - Didn't think I knew the author or had read her books. I had when she wrote under a different name. If you like Regency romances try this one.

Drowning in guilt over his best friend's death seven years ago, Lord Gabriel Sharpe, the Angel of Death, knows his only hope at redemption is a race against a shocking opponent.




Shrouded in darkness for the past seven years, the infamous racer Lord Gabriel Sharpe is known to accept every challenge to race thrown at him. When his next challenge comes in the form of his late best friend's sister, Virginia Waverly, Gabe is shocked. Yet she presents just the opportunity Gabe needs--marriage to fulfill his grandmother's ultimatum and ensure his inheritance. What he didn't count on was needing her love.






This Sheila Claydon Special Edition published by Books We Love contains three novels. Lately, I've read all three but of them Double Fault with the twins is my favorite.




Cabin Fever



The Osprey cruise ship is in trouble. Can Ellie Masters and Andy Smith solve the problem? When they join the ship in New Zealand they soon discover that it’s going to be hard work all the way to Australia. Not that either of them intend to let long hours get in the way of their blossoming love affair...until Ellie develops feet of clay..or is it Andy who is the problem? Is he really who he says he is?



They joined the ship to help the crew, but now it’s Ellie and Andy who need help. Will they get it or is it already too late?



Reluctant Date



In a rut, and with her love life at an all time low, Claire Harris makes a New Year’s resolution to join an Internet dating agency. Her challenge is twelve dates or twelve months, whichever comes first, unless she is lucky enough to meet Mister Right along the way. On her final date, and convinced that only frogs are left in the dating pool, she is relieved that it’s nearly over…until she meets enigmatic American, Daniel Marchant. The only problem is, his brother has set him up, and Daniel makes it very clear that he’s not interested in dating anyone at all.



He is looking for someone to work in his developing conservation research company though, and when he discovers that Claire has the photographic and cataloguing skills he needs, he offers her a dream job in Florida.



But Dolphin Key is not as idyllic as it seems. There are too many secrets and too much heartache. And Claire has her own secrets as well. Not that she is going to share them with anyone, least of all with Daniel, because he must never know he has stolen her heart.



Double Fault



When Kerry Farrow falls for star tennis player Pierce Simon, she doesn’t hesitate when he asks her to join him on the international circuit. She doesn’t care if he isn’t ready to settle down. In her experience happy families are a myth anyway. Then she discovers she’s pregnant and her world falls apart. Unable to turn to Pierce for support, and disowned by her wealthy father, she is on her own.



Two years later she is a single mother of twins working hard to keep a roof over her head when Pierce comes back into her life. When he finds out he is a father he gives her an ultimatum: she can marry him or she can fight for her children through the courts.



What she can’t understand is why he wants to marry her. She’s lost her looks and her fortune so why is he so determined to keep her in his life? It can’t be for love because he already has a beautiful girlfriend, and if he thinks she’s going to become part of a ménage a trois then he’d better think again. She will marry him because she has no choice, but she won’t be sharing his bed…the only trouble is, sharing his bed is the one thing she wants to do.

Wednesday's Writer's Tip - Still with Orson Scott Cart - Narration

Still gleaning things of interest from How To Write Science Fiction and Fantasy by Orson Scott Card. This time it's on Narration. That means getting the facts across. The one interesting comment from him speaks about how much to tell the reader. You don't want to leave the reader in the dark hole of not enough knowledge to follow the story. He recommends telling the reader jjust what the main character knows and no more. This is good advice.

Where I disagree with him is that he says the narration of needed information is different in writing science fiction and fantasy is different from other genres. He speaks of information dumps done in the tell fashion. I've seen this in other genres. Maybe it's not so bad as in the older stories I read, the ones where I tend to skip long passages of explanations of some fact. Seen this done in mysteries and in romances I've read. Places where the writer suddenly puts in dry passages of facts they feel the reader has to know. There are ways to get this information across.

One is through dialogue but that can turn into an information dump, too. When there are pages of one person explaining to another some facts the reader should know to keep them reading on. Using inner dialogue as in memories is another way to show this information but this two can become an information dump. Showing the character interacting with the new information can also turn into an information dump. Sure no matter what you're writing the reader needs to know certain things about the world you've created no matter where and when in time you're writing about.

Is there a solution? Maybe. I try to do this gradually and through the character's eyes. Does it always work? Probably not, but that's the fun of writing. Trying to make the stories and the information clear to the reader and to make it fun to read.

Tuesday's Inspiration - John Jakes - The Three Ps

Leafing through short essays on writing by many authors I came upon this article by John Jake Three Essentials For A Successful Writing Career, When I read it while it didn't exactly inspire me, it said what I've shouted out to others.  What are the 3 Ps he mentioned? They should inspire anyone attempting to establish themselves as an author.

Practice. This means writing. To develop a skill one has to practice. I've some friends who have written one book and that's where they stop. It's been rejected and they cover their computer and never write another word. The only way to gain skill is to write and write. I've been doing this for many years and yes , I did sell the first book I ever wrote but I re-wrote that book many times before it was saleable. I also did what I should and as soon as I sent it out began on something new. I practiced for several years before my first sale.

Persistence is the second P. This means keep going. Rejections hurt. I'll agree to that and there were times when the publishing world imploded and rejections came fast and furious, at least for me. One has to keep trying, keep writing and keep submitting. Now these days there are many different ways to go. There are the large NY publishers, the small print houses, the electronic publishers, and self publishing. There's also vanity publishing but that's not for someone who is a persistent writer.

The Last P is professionalism. This means among other things not thinking the words you've written are carved in stone. Listen to critics and learn from them without becoming defensive. I began in the good days when editors responded with suggestions. This is how I learned and in five years from the first time I submitted the book it sold. There are few overnight successes. Professionalism is also the moment when you know there's something wrong with the story you're writing and then again when you know how to fix the problem. This comes through Practice and Persistence.

So, how about you? Do you use the 3 Ps mentioned by John Jakes.

Monday's Meanderings with Janet Lane Walters

When the body fails what does a writer do. Sunday I should have taken part in a local book signing but when I got out of bed I could barely stand or walk. This meant I had to cancel out and of course the fantasies began. How many books would I have sold? I was only taking 20 and I have so many. Last week, I took 15 to a signing and sold 9. Figuring the number I might have sold boggled my mind but then I had to put the fantasies away. I would have been happy to sell 1 book. A former critique partner and a brilliant writer, Eileen Charbonneau, once told me if one sells a book at a signing, the signing is a success. She's absolutely right. That's what I always aim for when I do a signing.  What I really would like is a younger back on this aging body. Which brings me to another thing that hit me this week.

I am 76 and there are so many books I still want to write. Will I write them all? Who knows since I write one book at a time. I was working on 2 for a short period and then stopped myself. This was only holding me back. I have now five books that are planned and those I will finish but I've had to change the order around a bit. Why? Some publishers move faster than others. Some publishers don't follow the contracts. I'm usually cool with waiting for the money to come but that's when the publisher at least sends me a quarterly or semi-annual report within the time they are supposed to. I'll never name specific publishers who have fallen down on their contracts but I won't go there again. Makes it hard when one has part of a series at one publisher. Eventually I'll finish the series but there are other series I'll finish first.

Now as far as writing last week, I'm on the cleanup drafts of Lines of Fire and I'm pleased with how it's going. I'll be close to the target 60,000 words when I get into the last round of edits which is making sure all the words are there and all the question marks are in place. That seems to be my problem. Sometimes periods come when there should be question marks. Lately, / has taken the place of ?. Probably because I haven't held an essential button down. Once this story is ready to go to the publisher, I'll work on The World Has Come of Age. Not sure I like the title but I'll think about that when I'm ready to work. Now it's back to what I do write and write.

3 Blog Visit Sunday discovered by Janet Lane Walters

http://deboradennis.blogspot.com/2012/10/a-monday-myth-bigger-conference-is.html  Great post about small conference myths

http://writetodone.com/2012/10/15/overcome-self-doubt/  A lot of good advice here, especially about reviews good and bad

http://www.petitfoursandhottamales.com/2012/10/16/5-simple-tips-for-managing-your-social-media-or-how-to-tweet-and-still-have-a-life/  Social media advice

Saturday's Chapter - Perpetual Light by Jordan K. Rose

Perpetual Light by Jordan K. Rose

PROLOGUE




“L’amore e dolcissima corrispondenza degli spiriti, che di due anime ne compone una sola.”

~Guerrazzi

Love is the sweetest joining of spirits, when two souls become as one.



April 11, 1667

The Abyss hovered, waiting to take me.

More time, I need more time. He’s coming.

The raspy sounds of my own breathing filled my ears. With each jagged gasp, pain shot through my body straight to my core.

Pressure, cold and heavy, weighed on me. The Abyss called.

Not yet.

The next breath held the scent of sun-kissed grapevines, and I knew he was near.

“No. God, no.” He sobbed as he lifted me into his arms. “Lucia.”

My eyes opened.

Vittorio.

He was changed. His skin, tanned from years in the vineyard, was now gray, and deep, dark grooves circled his eyes. Gone were the beautiful green and gold flecks of his hazel irises, replaced with the crimson glow of one who walked in shadows.

He needed me.

The Abyss stretched forward, reaching for me, its frigid tendrils swirling as souls trapped within its depths screamed for salvation. Cold burns whipped across my aura as the angry void attempted to claim me.

No. Not yet. I concentrated on Vittorio, steeling myself against my bitter destiny. Another moment with him was all I needed.

Gazing into his eyes, I found his trembling soul, hidden within him. Without hesitating my power wrapped around him, hiding his presence from The Abyss.

Tortured and terrified, he stared back at me, unmoving, his heart hammering in his chest.

Calm, my love.

A scream pierced the air. The Abyss grew impatient.

My very essence quaked as the angry void surrounded me. But I called on my powers and captured his soul, holding it in the warmth of eternity, caressing it, loving him.

Drink from me. Drink and take my gift. Keep me with you forever. It was all I could offer, the only way I knew to keep him safe, to keep us together.

He shook his head. “I don’t want to hurt you, cuore mio.” A single red-tinged tear rolled down his cheek.

No, you cannot hurt me. I will give you strength. I will give you the light you need. Drink.

I lifted my chin and pulled him to my neck, muffling his sobs against my skin.

His fangs penetrated my flesh, and he drank.

And The Abyss howled at my return.



















CHAPTER ONE



“Amor di nostra vita ultimo inganno.”

~Leopardi

Love is the ultimate deception of our life.





Present Day

Providence, RI

La Moda Boutique



A familiar ache throbbed deep in my chest. The quiet, steady rhythm worked itself into a cadence that my heart tried to match. But it was too fast, too loud, too deep. My heart couldn’t compete.

Stay calm, Lu. You can do it.

I swayed against a mannequin, and she teetered on her pedestal. With trembling hands, I gripped the window frame, holding on hard to reality.

Darkness loomed around me, stalking closer with every breath like an animal coming to devour me. Shivers ran along my skin as I swallowed back a scream.

In a sudden flash, brilliant sunlight reflected off the fresh fallen snow, creating a golden splendor. Its warmth bathed me, calming my racing heart and banishing the ache from my body.

The darkness receded.

“I’ll be Home for Christmas” played in the background, its soft melody soothing me. Fully stocked clothing racks waited for the day’s first customer. The scents of freshly baked gingerbread and coffee wafted in the air.

I took a deep breath.

Dad stopped shoveling and waved. “You okay?” he yelled through the window.

“What?” Mom yelled back.

“Not you! Lucia. Is she okay?” he hollered, pointing at me.

“What is it, honey?” Mom dropped a wrapped package beneath the Christmas tree and hurried toward me. She pushed my hair back from my face, gently twirling the long brown spirals in her hands.

“Nothing,” I whispered, briefly glancing in her direction. Breathe, Lu. A deep breath in. Hold. Exhale. After repeating the words a couple times, I had coaxed myself through the process.

The bells on the door jingled as Dad entered the shop. “Aren’t your eyes bothering you?” He kicked slush from his boots then stepped inside.

My heart raced. “What?”

“Direct sunlight. It must hurt your eyes. The way they shimmer is something else, Lu. I’d swear they were glowing.” He quickly stripped off his hat, gloves, and scarf.

Glancing down, I found my sunglasses in my hands. Unsure of when I’d taken them off, I shoved them onto my face with a vague sense of unease.

“Are your eyes bothering you, honey?” Mom’s gaze darted from me to Dad and back to me.

“No. I’m fine,” I lied. In the last two weeks, my eyes had gone from hazel-green to an almost iridescent emerald shade. I couldn’t explain it and had spent most of my time trying to hide them, wearing sunglasses everywhere.

I ducked around a display table and straightened the handbags piled on top. Mom followed me, hovering.

I moved on to a rack of blouses, pretending to adjust the holiday bows she’d attached to the hangers. “The shop looks great. I like the ornaments and the train.” Every year she decorated La Moda for the holiday, creating window displays to rival 5th Avenue. “The tree smells good, too.” I smiled. “Christmas-y.”

She watched me wearing that look, the one she always wore when she thought I was hiding something. The one that meant she was deciding the wording of her next question, the question that would get her the most information. Whenever she worried about me, she strategized like a commander preparing for battle.

I hunkered down and waited for the assault, hoping to evade the inevitable offensive.

Ours was the least complex game of espionage ever to be played. Nothing covert about it. She chased and I ran, dodging questions like a sparrow dodges a hawk.

“How’ve you been sleeping?” she asked, plugging in the tree lights. “Art, fix these. I don’t want them flashing.” She handed Dad the last string of lights.

“I’ve been sleeping fine.” I marched to the desk to get to work on the inventory.

“Any dreams?” She straightened some jackets on a rack while Dad fiddled with the bulbs.

“No.” I opened the file on the desk marked ‘Inventory’, pushed the power button on the computer, and organized the highlighters.

“No dreams? That’s interesting.” She folded a couple sweaters. “Not even about Vittorio?”

The Christmas tree lights stopped alternating and a steady glow illuminated the shop.

All my life I’d had vivid dreams, most of them sweet and pleasant, involving a vineyard in Italy and one man, Vittorio, my dream-husband. He was tall with dark, wavy hair and eyes that sparkled with flecks of gold and green. And his smile always melted my heart. ‘Cuore mio’, he called me, and loved me in a way I’d never experienced in my own life.

Until recently, I always looked forward to going to sleep, knowing I’d see him. But, lately, Vittorio hadn’t appeared in any of my dreams.

“Nope.” I shuffled the papers in the file.

Dad sipped his coffee, quietly waiting for his moment. Like any good husband and father, he always knew to keep out of it, even if he was equally as worried as she. Lingering in the background, he listened to the battle, waiting for the opportunity to swoop in and call a truce. A true diplomat, he never chose sides.

“Is this the complete order for Gemma?” I asked as the computer came to life.

“Mm-hmm. Any nightmares?”

The numbers on the page swam before me as I bit my tongue to keep from blurting out an answer that would have given her more information than she needed. Deep breath in. Hold. Exhale.

In the past two weeks everything had changed: my eyes, my dreams, even the way I felt in my own skin. Every morning I woke in a state of grief so overwhelming all I could do was sob. No explanation for the grief existed. Nothing sad was happening in my life, no losses, no disappointments, nothing. Just the dreams. The inability to explain my grief consumed most of my mornings, if not my days.

“Has the blond man made any more appearances?” She clicked the switch, and the desk lamp shined above me.

I shook my head and thumbed through the pages in the file.

The blond man, wicked as Satan, prowled my nightmares, stalking me the way a wolf hunts a lamb, hiding in the edges of my mind, creeping into my world one slow step at a time. I’d always been able to keep ahead of him, to escape to safety, enveloped in a void that echoed with his enraged screams. As though watching him from a safe room, I’d been forced to witness him act out his anger, leaping from the recesses of my thoughts to brutally attack and murder so many innocent lives.

To call the dreams “nightmares” didn’t even begin to describe their intensity.

He hadn’t haunted my dreams for several nights. But he hadn’t disappeared either. Everywhere I went I’d taken to looking over my shoulder, my intuition piquéd by an unspoken omen. A foreboding. Someone or something hunted me. A darkness—no, an evil like nothing I’d ever known hovered just beyond my vision. Its presence loomed. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was there.

Forcing myself to concentrate on the work at hand, I entered the numbers from the page into a spreadsheet then blinked in surprise. “This is a small jewelry order, a third of the size of the usual one.”

“It will do for now,” she answered. “I’m glad to hear the nightmares have stopped.”

Without looking, I felt her probing gaze, the way it wandered over me, studying every fidgety muscle, gauging the depth of each breath, and anticipating every thought that moved through my mind.

I didn’t react, just sat there, pretending to study the paperwork. She hadn’t asked a question. No need to respond.

The nightmares were worse than usual, more frequent, more vivid, more violent. And, although I recognized the people in my dreams, I didn’t know them—or maybe I knew them, but didn’t recognize them. Whichever it was, I desperately wished never to dream of them again.

Mom moved on to the camisole display, arranging them by color and size. “So, you’re sleeping well?”

“Fine.” I tapped the keyboard, entering numbers as fast as I could.

Multiple theories on what was happening had occurred to me. Maybe I was possessed. This was my number one theory, considering the dreams and my recent paranoia. Two: maybe my eyes weren’t changing at all, and I was imagining it. I kept telling myself that, but every time I checked, they still glowed.

My last theory was that I suffered from multiple personalities, and when I inhabited my ‘other self’ I was putting in funky contacts and living some weird life. But no matter how many times I jabbed a finger into my eye to draw out the contact lens, there was never one to remove.

So, theory number one seemed the only logical answer. Of course, when demon possession seems a logical explanation for your life, you know you’ve hit new a low.

“Are you staying for lunch?” Dad asked. “I’m starving.”

Mom scowled at him. “It’s not lunchtime.”

He grinned and smoothed his hands over his sweater. “Lu should stay for lunch.” Almost twenty years ago Dad retired from teaching and came to work in the shop with Mom, which left my overprotective dad free to tag along with me on a number of business trips.

Somehow, no matter how hard I tried to improve his fashion sense, he never lost the math teacher vibe. The button-up sweater over an oxford with casual pants was his uniform. He’d worn it for nearly forty years. I half expected him to grab a piece of chalk and begin writing equations on the wall.

“I’ll get sandwiches at The Corner Bistro,” he said, grinning.

I was fairly certain I was the only kid in history whose dad transferred to every school she ever attended, and taught for each grade level as she passed through them. He had only been my teacher five of the thirteen years—second and seventh grades and the last three years of high school.

It goes without saying, my homework was always in on time.

“Can’t stay for lunch. I need to get to Gemma by two o’clock. Tempo’s Christmas party is tonight, and the boss wants us all there by six.” I printed the Gemma document and stuffed it into my bag.

“Ah, Tempo’s big shindig.” Dad grabbed a handful of gingerbread cookies off the tray mom had left for the customers. “That paying employer of yours throws a good party.” He sat on the settee by the window. “You know, they should let you bring your parents.”

“Arturo, shush.” Mom removed three cookies from his hands, put them back on the tray, and moved it across the room. “Lucia doesn’t want to bring her parents. Is Michael going to the party with you?” She ran her fingers through her dark hair, letting the big curls roll around them, then wiggled them loose.

“No. He has some business meeting he can’t miss. What about the other orders? You said there were some inventory issues.” I closed one manila folder and opened another, trying very hard to keep her occupied with work so she’d quit interrogating me.

Michael and I had dated for a few years. Sometimes we were more serious than others. Sometimes we were just friends, which was our current state. I hadn’t been able to “pull the trigger,” as Dad liked to call it. I loved Michael, but I wasn’t ready for marriage.

“It’s all there.” Her fingers worked her hair again. Then she reached for mine, gently fluffing the long tresses. Her touch, so tender, reminded me of my childhood and the many nights when she brushed my hair. I closed my eyes for a moment, relaxing.

“What are you wearing tonight?” she asked.

“A burgundy velvet gown.”

With a quick hug, she said, “Get pictures. You know I’ve always loved to see my little girl dressed up.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting back sudden tears. I’d have loved to have a family, a little girl of my own. But with all the traveling I did for Tempo, my lifestyle wasn’t conducive to one. Worse than that, lately the nightmares had become so horrible I’d begun wondering if I was sane enough to be near adults, never mind children.

An hour later we’d finished the inventory, and I had just packed my bag, slipped into my coat, and kissed my parents good-bye when the door to the shop opened. A gust of wind whooshed in, carrying with it the scent of a freshly mown lawn.

With my back to the door, I knew exactly who had entered. He was the only man I’d ever met with that cologne. And, although I liked his cologne, I didn’t like him. Maybe it was that annoying confidence, or his irritating ability to observe everything, or the inexplicable magnetism he had with customers. Whatever it was, he irked me to no end. I gritted my teeth and exhaled loudly, trying to clear my lungs.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Mom asked.

“Nothing,” I growled before wheeling on the new arrival. “What are you doing here?”

Peter glided into the shop, that annoying, cocky smile threatening at the corners of his mouth. “Jack sent me. I’m supposed to learn everything you know. I believe we have an appointment at Gemma.”

Jack sent him. Stupid Jack. I’ll…

Two weeks ago our boss Jack promoted me, out of the blue, to Senior Buyer. The company had decided to make an abrupt change in structure, adding a junior level. My lines, women’s accessories, moved the fastest, selling at nearly double the rate of any others, so I was given the punishment of training the junior. Peter was my junior.

“Mr. and Mrs. DiComano, it’s a pleasure to see you,” Peter said. The lilt of an English accent seemed to color his voice, but the slight inflection faded as quickly as it came.

He stood directly in front of me. A light blue ring surrounded his midnight blue irises, giving the illusion of depth. He exuded a tranquil, welcoming charm. When he faced my parents, his smile broadened.

“Oh, the pleasure is ours.” Mom walked toward Peter, her eyes fixed on his.

“Yes. Thanks for coming by.” Dad extended his hand.

As they both reached for him, Peter’s jaw clenched, freezing that dumb expression on his face.

“It’s good of you to come,” Dad said, his voice deepening.

I looked at Dad. The only other time I’d heard his voice drop like that was when he caught Billy Taylor kissing me in the stairwell at school. Needless to say, Billy did not take me to the prom.

My parents regarded Peter like warriors sizing up an enemy. I wasn’t sure if they were sympathetic to my dislike or if they’d developed their own in the thirty seconds Peter was in the shop, but either way, I liked it.

I fixed my hair under my hat and didn’t bother to hide my pleasure as I watched the faceoff. Thank God for parents.

My smugness vanished and shock took over when they suddenly began acting as though he was a rock star, their eyes wide, giant grins, heads nodding as if they were all telepathically communicating. No one should be this happy to see Peter. They weren’t this happy when I arrived.

“What the hell? What’s going on here?” I asked.

“Lucia, behave.” Mom frowned.

Ignoring me, the three of them began chatting about the job with all its travel requirements.

“Peter, we know you’ll keep her safe, won’t you?” Mom asked, her tone more commanding than inquisitive.

Dad rested his hand on Peter’s shoulder, keeping a firm grip.

“Yes, Mrs. DiComano, until my last breath.”

“Are you kidding?” I asked. “I’ve been traveling since I was born. You brought me to the US from Italy when I was three days old. I haven’t stopped since. I’ve traveled to third world countries alone and been perfectly fine. Now, you’re asking him, my junior, to keep me safe? Have you lost it?” Peter shuffled to the left as I barreled between him and Dad. “Until your last breath? Give me a break.”

“Lucia, you know I’ve never liked you traveling alone. Now that you have someone to look out for you, I feel better.” Mom patted Peter’s arm. “He’s strong and smart. He’ll keep you safe. And, I think he has friends that…well, they’ll help.” She plucked a piece of lint from his jacket, then squeezed his arm.

I grabbed her hand and pulled her away from him. She always liked people, but she didn’t fawn over anyone but me, and she’d never responded this way to a stranger. “He’s all of twenty-two years old. He’s never been anywhere or done anything. I’m babysitting him, and he’s not exactly a superhero who would scare off attackers.” I motioned at Peter.

Taller than my five-feet-four-inches, though only by six inches or so, Peter was muscular, but trim. Certainly handsome, with fantastic blue eyes and blond hair, but he was still a baby, one I had been forced into grooming.

More unsettling, his skin often seemed odd, changing throughout the day. Usually, he started the day looking like he had the flu, but by the end he appeared to have recovered; the dark circles under his eyes faded, and his skin went from gray to almost luminescent.

Either he was weird or I was seeing things, which made me hate him even more. Mom should not like him.

His eyes twinkled, and the corner of his mouth ticked upward as he watched me guiding Mom away from him. I snickered, and that stupid, full-on cocky grin returned.

“We should get going if we’re going to reach Boston in time to meet Elizabeth and Alexander before the party,” he said. “Mr. and Mrs. DiComano, you have nothing to fear. Lucia is safe with me and my friends.”

“I hope so.” Dad’s brows lowered.

“Yes, sir.” Peter fidgeted with his gloves.

Mom wriggled her hand from mine and leaned toward Peter. “Thank you.” She kissed his cheek.

She could have knocked me over with a feather at that point.

“Be careful, Lucia. Remember, you are the light of our lives, always the light,” Dad said, kissing my cheek.

“I know, Dad.” If I hadn’t heard him say that a million times, I hadn’t heard it once.

Mom hugged me. “In your travels keep your eyes open, my girl. Pay attention to what’s around you.” She squeezed me tighter than usual. “Ti amo, piccola mia.”

“Ti amo, Mom. Are you feeling okay?”

“Yes, honey.” She stepped into Dad’s embrace.

“Are you sure?” I asked, studying the two of them. Their eyes held something different. Relief? Their faces relaxed, tender smiles curving their lips.

“We’re fine. We’ll see you soon, honey,” Dad said.

“Let’s go, Lu. We don’t want to hit any traffic,” Peter said.

I spun to tell him to shut up and had to turn completely around. He was across the room, holding the door open.

“How did you do that?”

“Do what?” he asked.

“Get across the room that fast.” I snatched my laptop bag and the Gemma file, heading toward the door.

“I don’t know what you mean. I just walked the few steps.”

“It’s more than twenty feet,” I countered.

He shrugged.

“Bye, honey,” Mom said. “Take good care, Peter.”

“La tenero al sicuro,” Peter said as he opened the door.

I waved to my parents and closed the door, then reeled back to scowl at him. “You’re going to keep me safe? I’m going to shove you in front of a bus.” I stomped past him.