9:12 a.m. - 2009-02-20
Gilded Folly? Less for Paperback than Ebook?
It's a muggy and rainy day here in Auckland. Phew!
I was scrolling through my emails today, and found some posts from Terry Odell and Sharon Horton, some of my fellow Cerridwen Press authors. Apparently, CP is having a big sale at the moment.
I checked on my books, and sure enough, the paperback copies of Gilded Folly are less than the ebooks (only $3.50!). This is a scary - and funny - fantasy. Very suspenseful at times, too. I've posted 3 excerpts below.
I don't know how long this sale will last, so forgive me if it's run its course before you have a chance to get there.
Regards, and best wishes,
Norah/ND/Melody
Review
1 - "Fantastic imagery, suspenseful plot, tension to beat all tension, incites the reader to sit on the edge of the seat and read until the last letter, the last dot, until THE END. ND Hansen-Hill weaves a tale of the battle of good versus evil that seems so real the reader will look askance at his/her neighbor and wonder. ND does a great job balancing the story elements and creating a story worth reading. Unexpected statements are written and/or made throughout the whole story instilling humor and a bit of surprised delight. Great for the fantasy lover, the sci-fi lover, or even the romantic one. What can be more romantic than a woman being protected from an
assassin? Loved this story!" Reviewer: Lucille PRobinson
http://tjbook-list.blogspot.com/search/label/Authors%3A%20H
Excerpts
It was no longer dark, but Dacey was beginning to wish it were. A subsonic hum vibrated her eardrums and her teeth, the resonance rising into audible range, where it shook her body.
Like a microwave. The cooked scenario entered her head, but she wouldn’t let herself think it. It was enough of a prod, though, to get her moving. Her unseen adversaries weren’t entirely stationary. She would like to believe that was more mechanical action, too, like the hum, but the sounds were far too restless—like a multitude of boots grinding and crunching on gravel.
Alive. No inanimate pistons or gears. Claws and teeth, restlessly gnawing away at rock...
Stop it! Dacey swore right then that no matter what, she wouldn’t give up without a fight.
She ran for the steps—for where she hoped they’d be. You fell down them—landed on your knees.
Get it right, Girl...last chance...
The light was so startling she tripped over her feet and went sprawling. It wasn’t coming from the walls or the ceiling. It was coming from her skin.
Her own body was brightening the room, like a white shirt under black light.
The sight was so shocking Dacey froze. All kinds of thoughts were running through her head. She was so caught up in confusion, that she almost missed the movement.
The walls were losing integrity, as man-size pieces detached and dropped limply to the stone floor. Rustle-thud, rustle-thunk. Now, the pieces shivered and shook, then arose, finding their whole within the fallen tangle of limbs. Skeletally thin beings, with a near-human cast...
...arising out of rock.
Dacey backed away, and headed once more for the steps—only to find they’d beat her there.
They’ve been in the dark so long...
It was almost as though she could read their thoughts. Her light was a lure, to draw them in. They wanted light...and heat.
...but mostly, they wanted food.
Dacey opened her mouth and began to scream.
AND
Humans! he thought, with a sigh. It had been a long time since he’d made any distinction between himself and these others he called friend. Today, it seemed, he was destined to call attention to it, if he were to be of any help to Rom...or the woman.
At that moment, in the middle of Wick’s dire reflections, Fitz sat down in a chair, his eyes drooping. Wick held off maybe ten seconds, then slipped one foot out of bed, his toes touching the cold floor.
Fitz didn’t stir. Hopeful now, Wick passed a shaking hand over the top of the monitor, effectively silencing it. He was grinning triumphantly at his own success when he twisted his head, and met Fitz’ eyes.
Uh-oh...
Humans could be truly intimidating at times...
Fitz was so angry his face was set, in a way Wick had never seen before. It would appear that however determined Wick was to leave, Fitz was equally determined to keep him here.
Plikva!
When Fitz turned his back, to fiddle with the machine in a furious, frustrated, what-the-hell-did-you-do-to-it, I-refuse-to-look-at-you way, Wick decided it was time to make amends. He was undervaluing Fitz’ efforts—something he’d never intended.
I’m destined to cause trouble wherever I go...
Regretful now, Wick reached past Fitz and snapped his fingers. The monitor took up where it had left off.
Wick, for his part, was exhausted by the small effort. Shivering, he leaned back on the pillows, desperate to retain any dignity he had left.
Fitz was still refusing to look at him. He was watching the monitor angrily, adjusting it with stiff fingers, and ignoring Wick completely. It wasn’t until he noticed something in the readings, though, which alarmed him, that he hastily turned back, and grabbed a glass by the bed. “Drink,” he ordered sternly.
Vinegar water!
Wick was too weak to argue. He drank deeply, unable to control a shudder which started somewhere in his centre. “Th-Thank you, F-Fitz,” he whispered. “F-For everything.”
Fitz continued to watch both him and the monitors. “You’re a damn fool, Wick,” he grumbled, a note of concern in his voice that Wick was certain he must have misheard.
This human friend was more right than he knew. As Wick’s eyes drooped closed, he murmured mockingly, “Both a fool, and damned. There was never such a kavlklakt as I...”
The idea sent a shudder down his spine.
A lone bat strayed through the low branches and Wick jumped. Any movement was suspect. Had something chased the bat from its perch? He squatted down, his back pressed against the coarse bark of a Monterey pine. The solidity of it gave him an illusion of safety. The night remained still, as though holding its breath.
Sucking in the sound and holding it hostage...
It was like a black hole in his surroundings: sucking in sound, and light, and life.
When the night quickened once more, and the insect chorus returned to clicked and chirped mating signals, Wick moved on, nesting his feet in the thick needle beds so he wouldn’t accidentally tread upon a branch.
He never saw It come. It was camouflaged in the nightsound clutter, which took him by surprise. The night suddenly darkened, and the stars were blotted out.
He was slammed back, against a tree. Slammed and pounded to centre the blood beneath the skin. Wick kicked and punched and pounded back, but he was blinded by smoke. It rose around him, while bony fingers raked at his clothes. His eyes ran, his lungs screamed, and a howl was choked off in his throat.
He was falling now, dimly aware of pine needles jabbing his skin. Awareness faded quickly, displaced by the lassitude which was filling him. He knew he should fight the feeling; knew what it signified, but all he wanted to do was sleep.
It was the Hambre Muerte, the Death Gorge.
No!
Tradition demanded he lie here and die now, grateful for the mercy of last-moment oblivion. It was the way these things were done...
No! Not here! Wick’s fingers were already growing numb. He gritted his teeth, forcing the digits to close on a pointed branch. Then he jabbed it, into the bony head. There was a satisfying crunch and thud.
The Mictlampa ripped back, with an audible slurp, its jagged teeth torn away from Wick’s muscle. Its moment was past, and instead of a wily predator, it was confused and disoriented—flailing and blind.
Tastes of a leech, and eating habits to match...
Wick lay there limply, worried about the demon’s reputation for persistence, and worrying more about its companions. Was it alone?
He recalled another sorry fact from his past. Micts never travel alone...
He wriggled his fingers, clenched his fists, bent his toes, and jiggled his limbs—determined to lose the lassitude. The blood scent would bring the others in.
No way! He crunched the bloodsucker with his foot, right in the face. The creature flopped back, writhing in agony, all the while making a low-pitched grunting sound.
Wick pushed himself up to a sitting position, grabbed another branch, and whopped the thing again.
The beast was knocked back, onto the pine needle carpet. Silent now, it did what tradition claimed: melted away, into the undergrowth. At least, Wick was sure that was what it had intended. Its actual disappearance looked a lot more like a wobbling retreat.
Wick sat there, in bloodied triumph, listening to the crunch and thud as it ran into branches, shrubs, trees. He wondered if, ten years ago, he would’ve had the balls to offer a challenge.
Too indoctrinated.
He savoured his victory a few minutes longer. That’s what he told himself, anyway, but himself knew he was actually waiting for his heart to stop that erratic flopping in his chest. He leaned back, impatient, but unwilling to risk his life on a quick escape.
If I pass out here, I’ll never get up again...
When the stars reappeared in the sky, he tugged himself up the rest of the way, using the trunk for support. Cursing and swearing, he staggered back the way he’d come.
0 comments
8:03 a.m. - 2009-01-29
My 2008 in Excerpts & Bookcovers
Hi! This month has been terribly hectic! Eleven book edits, with little else being accomplished, other than work and editing (oh, and the gym! I joined a gym and have actually been going, if only to get away from my computer).
These edits are brought on by a very lucky 2008. In Flames, Of Dragons, The Hollowing, GlassWorks, ErRatic, and Emerald City were all released last year.
The sequel to ~In Trysts~ 
1 - "Fast paced and edgy tension highlights this passionate thriller. In Flames is a roller coaster ride of secrets and ghosts and sizzling sensuality. The plot line is solid and kept this reader guessing to the dramatic end. Marco and Sophia are likable individuals that I felt an affinity with from the opening. Melody Knight is an author whose back list I look forward to reading."
Lettetia Elasser, Affaire de Coeur July/August 2008
2 - "Her combustibility and the secrets of her past form the basis for this intriguing mystery." Literary Nymphs http://literarynymphsreviewsonly.blogspot.com/2008/07/in-flames.html
EXCERPT Sophie lost him in the smoke and steam. She screamed, choked on soot and swallowed water—then it was all gagging, paddling, churning her way through the wash. The surge was relentless, all troughs and waves, floating wood and falling stone. She was slammed against the wall and felt her shoulder give. Sophie shrieked and fought for air. “Marco!” He had her. Marco grabbed her, and clung. She held onto him weakly, and opened her eyes to find he was smiling.
Sophie lost him in the smoke and steam. She screamed, choked on soot and swallowed water—then it was all gagging, paddling, churning her way through the wash. The surge was relentless, all troughs and waves, floating wood and falling stone. She was slammed against the wall and felt her shoulder give. Sophie shrieked and fought for air.
“Marco!”
He had her. Marco grabbed her, and clung. She held onto him weakly, and opened her eyes to find he was smiling.
Sophie lost him in the smoke and steam. She screamed, choked on soot and swallowed water—then it was all gagging, paddling, churning her way through the wash. The surge was relentless, all troughs and waves, floating wood and falling stone. She was slammed against the wall and felt her shoulder give. Sophie shrieked and fought for air.
“Marco!”
He had her. Marco grabbed her, and clung. She held onto him weakly, and opened her eyes to find he was smiling.
Sophie lost him in the smoke and steam. She screamed, choked on soot and swallowed water—then it was all gagging, paddling, churning her way through the wash. The surge was relentless, all troughs and waves, floating wood and falling stone. She was slammed against the wall and felt her shoulder give. Sophie shrieked and fought for air.
“Marco!”
He had her. Marco grabbed her, and clung. She held onto him weakly, and opened her eyes to find he was smiling.
Sophie lost him in the smoke and steam. She screamed, choked on soot and swallowed water—then it was all gagging, paddling, churning her way through the wash. The surge was relentless, all troughs and waves, floating wood and falling stone. She was slammed against the wall and felt her shoulder give. Sophie shrieked and fought for air.
“Marco!”
He had her. Marco grabbed her, and clung. She held onto him weakly, and opened her eyes to find he was smiling.
A death’s head grin. It was Gerald Beaumont.
“Sophie!” he cried, clawing at her head, her shoulders, climbing her like a bobbing tree. She was going under, down, when Marco snatched her out of Gerald’s grasp and flung him aside.
But Marco’s hold on her was tenuous, and
Of Dragons
It'll eat you alive...
Nominated for Best SF/Fantasy Book of 2008 by LRC
Nominated for the Sir Julius Vogel Award 2008
REVIEWS
1 - "The story is filled with adventure, danger, and conflict. Now that Ryon and his friend know about Glynt's world can they just ignore it or should they get involved? Is Ryon really human as he believes or something more as Glynt believes? If you are looking for an unusual tale of adventure, the strength of the human spirit, and love all rolled into a fantasy story about other dimensions, then you will enjoy Of Dragons.
Reviewed by: Stephanie B." http://www.fallenangelreviews.com/2008/April/StephanieB-OfDragons.htm
No!
Her fingers clasped the adamantine dragonfly encircling her neck, as terror quickened her heartbeat. Chills raced down her limbs in spiky little arrays. That sound—that horrifying, buzzing thunder—was one she recognized, deep inside. The fear of them—and their appetites—had been bred into her through a hundred generations.
Glynt ran. Panicked, she fled the bedroom with its flimsy-looking glass and raced for the balcony doors. They were thick fire doors—surely, they could resist the impact?
Ten thousand dragonfly wings…
The daylight went. The thickness of the horde—the sheer mass—was blotting out the sun. Desperate, near-petrified, she yanked the curtains closed.
The ramming slam of ten thousand exoskeletonned bodies splintered the glass, but it didn’t stop the beating—that horrific, mechanical swish of their wings. They were driving themselves at the doors, at the glass, frenzied. Day sounds were lost in the ceaseless roar of overlying wing beats.
In the bedroom, the glass imploded. Shatters of refracted light caught her eye, as they showered the door jamb.
As they blasted through, onto the carpet.
I didn’t close the door.
Her eyes widened in horror, and she raced for the exit. She was nearly to the front door when it began vibrating. They were in the hall, in hunting mode, and desperate to get to her.
Hide.
Where?! Frantic, she ran back to the curtained windows, in hopes of fooling Them. She was out of her element, and hidey holes were nowhere to be found. She cowered down, wrapped herself in curtain fabric, and scrunched into her smallest form. Already, she knew it wouldn’t help—couldn’t help. They were lured. Starving. Driven. Those multifaceted eyes would find her.
Ever hungry, they’d hunt her…on the wing.
http://redrosepublishing.com/bookstore/index.php?manufacturers_id=83
The Hollowing
Nominated for the 2008 Sir Julius Vogel Award
REVIEW
1 - "This is an exceptionally, spine-tingling, gut wrenching thriller that takes you by the seat of your pants and have you gripping your chair while you turn each page. From ghosts to time-traveling you are always entertained by the adventure and excitement of this plot excellent dialogue and fabulous description gives you a great seat up front to all that is happening. This is a phenomenal read, and I recommend it highly. Wateena" http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/BookReviews/Thehollowing.html
2 - "The Hollowing is a well-written novel involving the modern day conclusions drawn from a long history of paranormal events coupled with the age-old theories of time travel. Here is an old idea presented in a new and spell-binding story that will surely be of interest to fans of any genre." Reviewer: Lucille P Robinson http://tjbook-list.blogspot.com/search/label/Authors%3A%20H
EXCERPT Open the door. But he couldn’t. His arm was rigid, his fingers clenched. And he couldn’t make himself touch the knob. Safe. Stay where you’re safe… There was something waiting for him on the stairs. His impression of darkness—of The Hollowing—hadn’t been exaggerated. He stood there, shaking, and listened. Beyond the wooden partition the thick silence was giving way. Breaking down the barriers. Little whispers, small thuds, soft rustling cascades of movement. Rats. Only rats. Thuds and thunks. Rattles and clatters. And then a sound Shawn couldn’t attribute to anything else—the squeak and echo of a heavy tread on wood. Someone was ascending the stairs. Shawn was holding his breath so he could listen. He didn’t even realize it until his heart started throbbing in his ears. He stood there stiffly and listened to it coming. The door’s unlocked. An invitation if ever there was one. The knob was ice-cold beneath his fingers. The chill spread up his arm but he didn’t let it sway him. He squinted his eyes and yanked open the door. The noise swept through him, carrying with it a rancid stink and a flurry of movement. He couldn’t see anything but darkness and there was noise all around him. It was a fire. The crackling flames leapt up, roaring, popping, hissing. Screaming sizzles, mini explosions, whines of venting gas. And then it was merely screams. Shouts that escalated to howls and shrieks. Terror. That’s what this was—terror. Old emotions, dredged up and waiting. The stink of must mingled with the rancid odor of burning hair. Shawn dropped to his knees, sick and sweating. He fell down the stairs, hitting the landing with a gigantic crash. He couldn’t hear it though—couldn’t hear anything over the cacophony in his ears. In a half roll, half dive he splatted to the bottom floor and crawled, then pushed himself to his feet and staggered for the outer door. It was closed. Locked. He yanked on the knob, fumbled with the lock but it wouldn’t give. He couldn’t get the hinges loose on the door. The pins were as tight as the lock. No way out. He ran to the window and slammed the glass with a chair. Glass gave, bars didn’t. He rattled and shook and pounded. Phone. He yanked out his cell phone. It was dead. Like me. Around him the air seethed. It was transmitting itself to the furnishings. Chairs scraped, dust spiraled, papers flew. Shawn barely noticed over the smoke pouring into his eyes. There was only one way out. The upstairs room with its cool moonlight and empty spaces. Shawn flattened his hands over his ears, squinted his eyes and headed for the steps. His flesh was burning as he crawled, clambered and wriggled up the stairs. At the top he slammed back the door and dove… Onto a pyre of flame.
Open the door.
But he couldn’t. His arm was rigid, his fingers clenched.
And he couldn’t make himself touch the knob.
Safe. Stay where you’re safe…
There was something waiting for him on the stairs. His impression of darkness—of The Hollowing—hadn’t been exaggerated. He stood there, shaking, and listened. Beyond the wooden partition the thick silence was giving way.
Breaking down the barriers.
Little whispers, small thuds, soft rustling cascades of movement.
Rats. Only rats.
Thuds and thunks. Rattles and clatters. And then a sound Shawn couldn’t attribute to anything else—the squeak and echo of a heavy tread on wood.
Someone was ascending the stairs.
Shawn was holding his breath so he could listen. He didn’t even realize it until his heart started throbbing in his ears. He stood there stiffly and listened to it coming.
The door’s unlocked. An invitation if ever there was one.
The knob was ice-cold beneath his fingers. The chill spread up his arm but he didn’t let it sway him. He squinted his eyes and yanked open the door.
The noise swept through him, carrying with it a rancid stink and a flurry of movement. He couldn’t see anything but darkness and there was noise all around him.
It was a fire. The crackling flames leapt up, roaring, popping, hissing. Screaming sizzles, mini explosions, whines of venting gas.
And then it was merely screams. Shouts that escalated to howls and shrieks. Terror. That’s what this was—terror. Old emotions, dredged up and waiting. The stink of must mingled with the rancid odor of burning hair. Shawn dropped to his knees, sick and sweating.
He fell down the stairs, hitting the landing with a gigantic crash. He couldn’t hear it though—couldn’t hear anything over the cacophony in his ears. In a half roll, half dive he splatted to the bottom floor and crawled, then pushed himself to his feet and staggered for the outer door.
It was closed. Locked. He yanked on the knob, fumbled with the lock but it wouldn’t give. He couldn’t get the hinges loose on the door. The pins were as tight as the lock. No way out.
He ran to the window and slammed the glass with a chair. Glass gave, bars didn’t. He rattled and shook and pounded.
Phone.
He yanked out his cell phone. It was dead.
Like me.
Around him the air seethed. It was transmitting itself to the furnishings. Chairs scraped, dust spiraled, papers flew.
Shawn barely noticed over the smoke pouring into his eyes.
There was only one way out. The upstairs room with its cool moonlight and empty spaces. Shawn flattened his hands over his ears, squinted his eyes and headed for the steps. His flesh was burning as he crawled, clambered and wriggled up the stairs.
At the top he slammed back the door and dove…
Onto a pyre of flame.
Open the door.
But he couldn’t. His arm was rigid, his fingers clenched.
And he couldn’t make himself touch the knob.
Safe. Stay where you’re safe…
There was something waiting for him on the stairs. His impression of darkness—of The Hollowing—hadn’t been exaggerated. He stood there, shaking, and listened. Beyond the wooden partition the thick silence was giving way.
Breaking down the barriers.
Little whispers, small thuds, soft rustling cascades of movement.
Rats. Only rats.
Thuds and thunks. Rattles and clatters. And then a sound Shawn couldn’t attribute to anything else—the squeak and echo of a heavy tread on wood.
Someone was ascending the stairs.
Shawn was holding his breath so he could listen. He didn’t even realize it until his heart started throbbing in his ears. He stood there stiffly and listened to it coming.
The door’s unlocked. An invitation if ever there was one.
The knob was ice-cold beneath his fingers. The chill spread up his arm but he didn’t let it sway him. He squinted his eyes and yanked open the door.
The noise swept through him, carrying with it a rancid stink and a flurry of movement. He couldn’t see anything but darkness and there was noise all around him.
It was a fire. The crackling flames leapt up, roaring, popping, hissing. Screaming sizzles, mini explosions, whines of venting gas.
And then it was merely screams. Shouts that escalated to howls and shrieks. Terror. That’s what this was—terror. Old emotions, dredged up and waiting. The stink of must mingled with the rancid odor of burning hair. Shawn dropped to his knees, sick and sweating.
He fell down the stairs, hitting the landing with a gigantic crash. He couldn’t hear it though—couldn’t hear anything over the cacophony in his ears. In a half roll, half dive he splatted to the bottom floor and crawled, then pushed himself to his feet and staggered for the outer door.
It was closed. Locked. He yanked on the knob, fumbled with the lock but it wouldn’t give. He couldn’t get the hinges loose on the door. The pins were as tight as the lock. No way out.
He ran to the window and slammed the glass with a chair. Glass gave, bars didn’t. He rattled and shook and pounded.
Phone.
He yanked out his cell phone. It was dead.
Like me.
Around him the air seethed. It was transmitting itself to the furnishings. Chairs scraped, dust spiraled, papers flew.
Shawn barely noticed over the smoke pouring into his eyes.
There was only one way out. The upstairs room with its cool moonlight and empty spaces. Shawn flattened his hands over his ears, squinted his eyes and headed for the steps. His flesh was burning as he crawled, clambered and wriggled up the stairs.
At the top he slammed back the door and dove…
Onto a pyre of flame.
Open the door.
But he couldn’t. His arm was rigid, his fingers clenched.
And he couldn’t make himself touch the knob.
Safe. Stay where you’re safe…
There was something waiting for him on the stairs. His impression of darkness—of The Hollowing—hadn’t been exaggerated. He stood there, shaking, and listened. Beyond the wooden partition the thick silence was giving way.
Breaking down the barriers.
Little whispers, small thuds, soft rustling cascades of movement.
Rats. Only rats.
Thuds and thunks. Rattles and clatters. And then a sound Shawn couldn’t attribute to anything else—the squeak and echo of a heavy tread on wood.
Someone was ascending the stairs.
Shawn was holding his breath so he could listen. He didn’t even realize it until his heart started throbbing in his ears. He stood there stiffly and listened to it coming.
The door’s unlocked. An invitation if ever there was one.
The knob was ice-cold beneath his fingers. The chill spread up his arm but he didn’t let it sway him. He squinted his eyes and yanked open the door.
The noise swept through him, carrying with it a rancid stink and a flurry of movement. He couldn’t see anything but darkness and there was noise all around him.
It was a fire. The crackling flames leapt up, roaring, popping, hissing. Screaming sizzles, mini explosions, whines of venting gas.
And then it was merely screams. Shouts that escalated to howls and shrieks. Terror. That’s what this was—terror. Old emotions, dredged up and waiting. The stink of must mingled with the rancid odor of burning hair. Shawn dropped to his knees, sick and sweating.
He fell down the stairs, hitting the landing with a gigantic crash. He couldn’t hear it though—couldn’t hear anything over the cacophony in his ears. In a half roll, half dive he splatted to the bottom floor and crawled, then pushed himself to his feet and staggered for the outer door.
It was closed. Locked. He yanked on the knob, fumbled with the lock but it wouldn’t give. He couldn’t get the hinges loose on the door. The pins were as tight as the lock. No way out.
He ran to the window and slammed the glass with a chair. Glass gave, bars didn’t. He rattled and shook and pounded.
Phone.
He yanked out his cell phone. It was dead.
Like me.
Around him the air seethed. It was transmitting itself to the furnishings. Chairs scraped, dust spiraled, papers flew.
Shawn barely noticed over the smoke pouring into his eyes.
There was only one way out. The upstairs room with its cool moonlight and empty spaces. Shawn flattened his hands over his ears, squinted his eyes and headed for the steps. His flesh was burning as he crawled, clambered and wriggled up the stairs.
At the top he slammed back the door and dove…
Onto a pyre of flame.
Reflected Moments...Refracted Terror
"I have to say I've read this one and LOVED it. "
Debbie
Author of Infidelity (www.deborahgould.com )
EXCERPT
Cate picked up the slab of glass from its tilted resting spot. It had dropped nearly intact. Her fingers shook as the first tracings of shimmery silica began to move beneath the surface. All those crystalline lattices somehow rearranging themselves…
She froze, her breath frosting the glass from the sudden chill. Gooseflesh rose on her skin as the air around her grew cold.
It had never happened this way before.
The man was lying there, in the glass, his body sprawled with the indignity of all things dead and unburied. Cate's breath caught in her throat, the unspent fog almost choking her. Oh, God!
It wasn't here—hadn't happened here—but it was happening now.
There was an argument lingering, on the air. She couldn't see the moment of confrontation, or the altercation, but it had been about the mutilated body on the ground. About how to deal with it, to cast off blame with as much ease as they'd cast away his life.
Only, they didn't realize he could hear them still. Hear them and hate them.
Because it had always been about his looks. His looks, and justifying what he was. The grave they were giving him, the twisted notoriety they were planning, would leave him neither looks nor justice.
Cate's eyes focused on his face. What they'd done, what they were doing to the rest of him didn't bear watching.
But, apparently, she did. Bear watching, that is.
The corpse's eyes opened, to stare straight at her.
Cate flinched, twitched, recoiled, but she couldn't let go. Some part of her was screaming, but she was no longer sure whether it was her...or him.
She clung to the pane, trapped. When, a forever it seemed, later, she freed her fingers enough to fling it, she remained there rigid, staring, as the moonglow image shattered in a hundred spiky shards.
Some part of her was still recoiling, as if in reflex to a striking snake.
God help me!
In those instants of metaphysical contact, she felt as though one shriveled digit had touched her. Spanned the gap between life and death—
I'm not a medium!
She'd never been a medium—never even come close. It had been the one blessing, in an otherwise twisted gift, that however conversant she might have become with a dead person's past, she was never conversant with the dead!
Until now, it seemed. Cate backed away, panted white puffs coiling and twisting in the otherwise still air.
I'm not alone.
It should have been comforting, that there was a taxi driver waiting just outside, but somehow, it came out differently. That "I'm not alone" was filled with horror. The taxi driver might be outside, but something else moved within. In a dreadful moment, she knew she'd brought this on herself—that by coming here she'd been willing, demanding almost, a contact with his person—had wanted so badly to save him, that she'd drawn in a soul barely severed from its body.
Cate backed, tripped, twisted, and ran. She tore the length of the room as though the Devil were at her heels, and slammed open the end door with a loud squawking thunk. Using two hands, Cate wrenched the door closed again, locking evil within. She stumbled back, the small door pane fixing her into its framed panel.
He wasn't within. Behind her, his hatred ever so much more pronounced in proximity, was the mutilated visage of the recently deceased.
***
Reviews 1- "I just finished reading ErRatic and must tell you I enjoyed it IMMENSELY!" Ruth
2 - "A thoroughly enjoyable and entertaining tale that offers as much thrill as it does amusement, ERRATIC is not to be missed.
Kathy Samuels
Romance Reviews Today" http://www.romrevtoday.com/
2:52 p.m. - 2008-09-30 Here's an excerpt from ErRatic, released earlier this year. Regards, and best wishes, 1- "I just finished reading ErRatic and must tell you I enjoyed it IMMENSELY!" Ruth 2 - "A thoroughly enjoyable and entertaining tale that offers as much thrill as it does amusement, ERRATIC is not to be missed. Romance Reviews Today" http://www.romrevtoday.com/
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A Busy, ErRatic Year!
Hi, everyone! It's been a busy year for me, full of exciting publishing contracts. I now have 8 publishers, and I finished my 40th manuscript a month ago. I've been so busy I didn't realize it was my 40th until I did a count.
Norah/ND/MelodyReviews
Kathy Samuels
EXCERPTS
Emma glanced blearily at the clock. Three a.m., and Studley obviously needed to go out. He was whimpering, deep in his throat, and his cold nose kept nudging her arm.
Damn dog! She reached out and gave the silky coat a pat. Zombie-like, she stumbled across the room, to the front door, and unfastened the lock. “Out!” she commanded, punctuating it with a squeaky yawn.
When she opened her eyes again, the man was standing on the grass, just off the porch.
It was a very small porch.
She slammed the door and locked it, then raced through the house. She kept picturing Him running, trying to beat her to the back door.
It’s locked. It’s got to be locked.
It was, but she didn’t feel any better. No one had any business standing there, on her property, at three in the morning. He was up to no good.
She ran for the kitchen and picked up a knife in one hand and the phone in the other. The knife shook in her frozen fingers. Not a good thing. He’ll use it on me.
He damn well better not try. Her shadowy reflection in the window glass was that of a madwoman, brandishing a blade. Her staccato movements glinted across the toaster face, and she jumped, slashing the air.
Hysteria burbled up, like an unwanted belch, before sense clunked in with a nearly audible jolt. Window. Nightlight. He’ll see me. Frantic, she dropped onto the floor, and punched in a fumbling “911”.
If he saw me, I hope he saw the knife, too.
She shouted into the phone, “There was—!”, realized she was shouting, and quickly hissed, “There was a man!”
Why the hell hadn’t Studley barked?! The damned dog had practically dumped her in the killer’s lap!
The Police Operator was offering instructions now, and Emma listened to them blankly. She’d just recalled something very pertinent to her case.
“N-Never mind,” she said, replacing the receiver with shaking hands.
A dream. It had to be a dream.
But it wasn’t and she knew it. It was what she’d tell them, though, when they asked.
She sat there, huddled, too scared to challenge the near-dark. Her eyes were already scrunched closed, but now she drew up her knees and buried her face in her arms.
Shielded. Safer.
Not really.
She couldn’t afford to move now, even if it meant lighting the house. She was too afraid of what she might see.
She nestled her head deeper, to block her ears.
Too afraid of what she might hear.
She hummed a little whimper, deep in her throat the way Studley had. Just enough noise to challenge any other whimpers in the room.
When they came with the squad car to check out her call, she’d have to get up—but not till then. Then, it’d be okay—maybe even safe.
Why hadn’t Studley barked? That one was easy—now that she’d remembered.
About Studley.
He’d been dead—for almost a week.
Harley didn’t stop to think about it. He tore up the path, and barreled into the door, shoulder first.
It held, and inside the house Emma’s screams were peaking.