Flash Friday: “Friendly Persuasion”

“Friendly Persuasion” – excerpted from Legends of Tirum: DAUGHTER OF ASHES

copyright 1991 by Esther Mitchell (revised 2009 by Esther Mitchell)

            Inside the cave, Telyn removed her ruined woolen cloak and tossed it to one side in a disgusted motion.  Not that taking her frustration out on the cloak solved her problems, but it did make her feel more in charge of a situation already spiraling out of control.  She liked that cloak!  It was a mud-brown length of marmot wool that, while not particularly costly, was her favorite riding cloak.  That drab brown garment had offered her anonymity on many occasions when her only other cloak – a scarlet length of brushed fleece her mother had gifted her with – would have made her presence painfully apparent.

            “What’s riding you?”

            She turned from her contemplation of the cloak to find Nacaris at her side, his long hair and clothing dripping miniature puddles on the dirt floor of the cavern.  She sighed heavily, and shook her head.  She owed him an apology.  No time like the present.

            “Nacaris, I—“

            “Shh.”  One long, capable finger pressed to her lips.  “I figured out what you were trying to say.  You’re right – you don’t know me well enough to see me as a friend, no matter what else we share, and I can’t give you the answers you’re looking for.”

            She turned toward him, her body instinctively seeking his warmth.  “Why not?  Are you running from someone?”

            He chuckled, then sighed.  “No, not exactly.”

            She frowned.  “What is it, then, exactly?”

            “I can’t tell you.”

            The grim set of his mouth and features told her how determined he was to keep his secret.  With a sigh, Telyn leaned into him, sliding her arms around his waist and pressed her face to his damp chest.  “We’re all right?”

            His arms came around her, squeezing her against himself as he dropped a kiss on her head.  “Always.”

            Relief sighed through her.   Perhaps her luck wasn’t as foul as she believed.

Flash Friday: “Unexpected Spy”

“Unexpected Spy” – excerpted from Project Prometheus: MISSION OF MERCY

copyright 2008 by Esther Mitchell

Someone in charge was insane.  Marine Colonel Colton Michaels Jr. scowled at his computer screen, willing the offending e-mail back to whoever over at the Secretary of Defense’s office sent it to him.  According to the e-mail, he was supposed to roll over for some civilian investigator who’d be here at the Pentagon to dissect every man who worked for him.  Like that wasn’t going to piss him off.  Already, he could picture some four-eyed geek with a pocket protector and a calculator, and some secret book of rules to apply to any situation where rules didn’t apply.  Fuck.

“Sir.”

Colt glanced up to find his aide, Nathan Whittaker, with his head poked through the door.

“Spit it out, Corporal.  I’m busy.”  Figuring out how to get rid of the Inquisition before it shows up. Colt would have felt bad for snapping at the kid, if he wasn’t so pissed.  Of all the high-handed political tactics…

“Sir, Agent St. John is here.”

Sonuvabitch! Colt returned his scowl to the computer screen.  Well, it sure didn’t take them long to get their man through the Pentagon’s doors, did it?  But the name of his visitor surprised him.  St. John was the last man he expected.

Not that he knew the elusive spy personally.  But he had heard scuttlebutt about Project Prometheus as an organization, and St. John in particular.  Fortunately, what he heard was all good.  Hell, it was better than good.  St. John was supposed to be some kind of James Bond.  Not a government geek at all, but a man who understood danger and judgments made in the thick of it.  A man had to respect St. John’s level of expertise – but not when it threatened his men, or his command, Colt decided sourly.

The sound of a throat clearing jerked Colt’s attention back to his nervous aide.  “Sir… Agent St. John?”

Colt sighed.  Hell.  Might as well bite the bullet.  “Send him in.”

Whittaker looked as nervous as a virgin in a room full of libertied sailors – unusual for the sedate Iowa farm boy.  “Ah, sir…”

Colt frowned.  “Is there a problem, son?”

“No problem,” announced a new voice, before Whittaker could speak, and a curvy bundle of strawberry-blonde hair, form-hugging halter top and jeans, and the most amazing mocha eyes that zinged through him like high-octane espresso slipped past the Corporal and into his office.  Warning bells went off in Colt’s head as his scalp prickled and a warm shiver worked up his spine.  Hell, she was like an entire bottle of Go pills, her presence so electrifying he knew he had to get rid of her ASAP.  And, as his gaze focused on the Cheshire cat grin spread across her mauve-tinted lips, he nearly groaned.  This lady spelled trouble, in capital letters.

Colt settled a scowl on his face that had intimidated better than her, unwilling to admit he was intrigued.  “Who the hell are you, and how did you get in here?  This is a restricted area, lady.”

“Sir-” Whittaker’s voice rose a nervous octave, drawing his attention in time to watch the Corporal’s eyes dance toward the new arrival, his expression telling.  Colt broke out in a cold sweat as the truth tickled the edges of his mind.

Aw, hell. He barely bit back his groan of disbelief.  “You’re St. John?”

The wink she tossed Whittaker’s way made the young man smile in spite of himself, and Colt scowled  at the pair of them.

“As charged.”  Her voice had a husky, sensual quality that raced invisible fingers up his spine, even as she strode forward, one hand extended.  “Sarah St. John, to be precise.”

Colt’s gaze darted to his e-mail again.  Had he missed something?  New panic twisted in his gut when he saw nothing to contradict what she said.  There had to be some kind of mistake!

“Why?”

His head jerked up at that amused query.  “What?”

“You just muttered something about this being a mistake.  Why would you think that?”

Because he couldn’t see her as a spy.  And because, try as he might, he couldn’t stop wondering what she’d look like wearing nothing but that mischievous little grin.  He was in so much trouble.

My Books & Background

I get a lot of questions about my books and my background, and I thought I’d just take a few moments here to discuss some of my most frequent questions, and to introduce a few of my books you might not be aware of the existence of.

I’m often asked about my connection to the paranormal, and why I spend so much time writing paranormals.  All I can say to that is that my LIFE is a paranormal.  There’s a great deal about me that only the people who’ve been the closest and most open toward me have even touched the surface of.  I just don’t talk about it, much.  Period.  There’s no deep and/or nefarious reason to that.  A lot of it has more to do with the fact that I’ve thought of it as “normal” for so long, I was surprised to learn that it actually WASN’T.  To me, writing about the paranormal is writing about something I know intimately, something to which I have a deeper connection than any other in my life.

My first excursion into the paranormal in fiction was a series of Arthurian novels I began work on many years ago (being likewise obsessed with all things Arthurian at the time).   Nope, these books are still unpublished.  Not from any huge sentimental attachment, but because as my writing skill developed and changed, I’ve continued to edit and perfect, and quite frankly, I’m just not convinced they’re good enough, yet…:)  That’s the perfectionist in me.

In the late 1990’s, I began working on a novel that once again combined the paranormal with a subject very close to my heart – the Cradle of Civilization.  When I first started the novel, entitled IN HER NAME, it was meant to be a stand-alone novel entwining the dangerous mythology of the region with the archeology I was fascinated by.  Then, in 2001, terror struck the US and, after listening to people openly rebuke the Arabs even before the dust settled or any investigation was done, I was angry.  Not at the Arabs, but at the close-mindedness of a nation that would condemn a person strictly on their beliefs, without understanding how the actions of a few do NOT reflect the beliefs of the many.  And my main character, Manara, began to take on a new shape – not as an Arab, but as a woman of a belief structure even older: a religion feared because it’s not understood, and a woman despised for her beliefs in both her own world and in the eyes of an American man with a deep hatred of all things paranormal or supernatural – a hatred even he doesn’t quite understand.  IN HER NAME became the birthing of Project Prometheus, a paranormal series that deals equally with the misunderstanding and hatred that lead to terrible acts of violence in our world.  You can find out more about IN HER NAME and the rest of Project Prometheus on my website at http://www.esthermitchell.com/projectmain.html

Even before Project Prometheus (or IN HER NAME) breathed life, however, there was another series already working toward completion in my life.  Born of my youth growing up in the military world, and of my respect for the men and women who serve and were my friends and extended family for a great number of years.  From my own mistakes (and the possibilities of mistakes I came close to making), my own triumphs, dreams, and heartaches, came the character of Tamia Kuan, a reformed street punk and recovering heroin addict whose years as a Marine in the middle of a massive world war have left her struggling to find the honor and courage that can keep her alive and sane.  When she gains entry to the ultra-elite Commandos, Tamia has more struggles ahead of her, facing her greatest fears and most dangerous enemy – herself.  Tamia is one of the central characters of my Futuristic Romance/Thriller series, Underground.  Beginning with the self-named novel TAMIA, each book follows the twists and turns of a hunt for a spy capable of destroying everything Tamia’s struggled for.

Upcoming next year, I’ve got another series coming out – this one will be a Fantasy series, Legends of Tirum.  I’ll be going into details on this series a little more around the beginning of the year.  It’s set up in a similar vein to Underground, with a central set of characters and a continuing storyline that takes place over the span of 10-11 books.  I’m actually very excited about this series, and when I begin to post more information on the series you’ll get to see why!

More information about both the books here and other books I’ve written in these series and beyond can be found on my website at http://www.esthermitchell.com

The Buzz: What is this “Write what you Know” crap, anyway?

    Everyone always advises writers to “write what you know.”  *blinks* Two decades later, and I’m still trying to figure out what that means.  Me, I’m a trivia/research junkie.  Set me loose in a library, and you might never see me again (I literally have to set a time limit on myself when I’m in the library).  I can browse the non-fiction shelves for hours.  Something might jump out at me, and I’ll pull it down and read a little.  If the subject intrigues me, I’ll keep reading.  If not, back it goes.  But I’ve probably still gleaned at least one or two little factoids that might work their way to the surface again, sometime.

 So what do I know?  I’ve pondered the question at length.  I know I don’t know everything there is to know about anything.  I know that even though my opinions are based on facts as much as gut feeling, those opinions are not set in stone, and new evidence or experience can always change them.  How does one write about these things?

The answer is surprisingly easy – you don’t.  This conundrum shows itself in your characters, in how they interact with the world, but you don’t actually WRITE about philosophical ponderings (not unless you want to put your audience to sleep, or you’re writing a deep non-fiction book about philosophy).  Instead, you write about what you LEARN, rather than what you know.  Me, when I have a story idea, I go with it.  I get an idea of what I want to know, and then I go in search of the knowledge I don’t have.  Sometimes, it comes from observing or talking to people.  Sometimes, it comes from places like Discovery Channel or National Geographic.  Sometimes, it comes from hours and hours spent in the library (either my own or public or university libraries), sifting through all the information I can find, and sometimes it comes from extensive, exhaustive online searching.  But I don’t take it for granted that I KNOW the information.  And I don’t stop researching until I get to the point where either the book is finished, or I’ve exhausted every possible avenue I can find. 

Does this mean I always get the information I’m seeking?  No.  Sometimes, after months of exhaustive searching, I have to admit defeat – that there may not be the information, or that I may not be able to get in contact with the people who know it, like I’d want to.  Then, I have to get creative, and try to ascertain the answer from the facts I HAVE learned, using logic.  Sometimes, it works.  Other times, it might not.  But I can always look back at the work and say “I did the absolute best research I could do.”

Flash Friday: “Accidental Vampire”

FLASH FRIDAY:  “Accidental Vampire” – Excerpted from CRIMSON ROSE*

copyright 2007 by Esther Mitchell

“You are a vampire.”

She sounded  skeptical.  Hell, she looked skeptical.  Geronimo sighed. No one ever said this confession stuff was easy.  Might as well bite the bullet.  “Yeah.”

Claire rolled her eyes.  “And you cannot come up with a better lie than that?”

“It’s not a lie!”

“Juste.  A vampire who walks in daylight.”  She threw up her hands in disgust.  “Now I have heard everything!”

The problem dawned on Gerry, then, and he cursed beneath his breath.  This wasn’t about her not believing in vampires.  This was about what she believed about them.  A dark smile tugged his lips.

“There’s more than one kind of vampire, Claire.”

One slim, blond brow lifted.  She still looked unconvinced.  “C’est fait?  I have not heard of vampires who are not…how would you say? Allergic to sunlight.”

He leaned against the tree, following her restless motions as she paced in a tight circle.  “You’ve got Hollywood brainwashing, is what you’ve got.  Nosferatu can be killed by sunlight, supposedly.  They’re essentially dead, anyway, which I guess makes them susceptible.  I am not, and nor have I ever been, dead.  In fact, I’ve never met a Nosferatu.”

She whipped about to face him.  “Then how–?”

This was more difficult.  “About ten years ago, I was investigating a chemical weapons facility as part of a team like START.  I assume you’ve heard of them?”

She nodded.

“Yeah, well, some people aren’t as accomodating as the Russians were.  The entire team stumbled into an unshielded nuclear site.  Radiation poisoning killed everyone else on the team.  Somehow, I got lucky.”  He couldn’t keep the scornful irony out of his voice if he tried, so he didn’t.  “My blood was irradiated.  The doctors never saw anything like it, before, and they weren’t sure what to do with me.  They figured they could treat it like leukemia.  Just give me a bone marrow transplant and new blood.”

“It did not work?”

“Hell, no.”  He ran a hand through his hair.  “Some kind of mutation had already taken place, and the new blood just kept dying.  Even worse, I was drained all the time, so tired it took more effort than I had just to lift my arm.”

She looked curious now, and at least she was listening again.  “How did they fix it?”

“They never really did.  Matt found someone who’d developed a serum that slows the rate of blood death, and allows me to function longer without a transfusion, but I still need blood.  And I need energy, which I get by feeding off the energy of others.  A psychic vampire.”

The tip of her tongue darted over her lips, and her eyes telegraphed nerves her expression didn’t otherwise show.  “And how do you… feed?”

Hunger and humor blended in him as he watched that tongue move.  This probably went way beyond what she was ready to accept about their partnership.  His desire for her certainly did.  “Blood or energy?”

“B-both.”

He pushed off from the tree, ate up the space between them in a single, fluid motion.  “I get normal blood transfusions.  Drinking blood would be useless.  It just breaks down in the stomach.  As for energy,” he closed the distance until even a breath wouldn’t fit between them.  Hunger churned in him as he stared down into her emerald eyes.  Slowly, he dipped his head toward hers, and softly brushed his lips across hers, causing her eyes to widen as she sucked in a surprised breath.  His lips tugged up in a seductive smile.  “I’m afraid I’d have to show you.”

 

*This scene is unedited. Please allow for typographical errors.

Flash Friday: “Bloodsucker”

Tired of vampires that sparkle?  Sick of the Hollywood stereotype?  *grins* Here’s an excerpt from a new series I’m working on, that takes the paranormal out of Hollywood, and brings it back to the original myths and legends spawned by thousands of years of folklore.  Enjoy!

“Bloodsucker” – Excerpted from Guardians, Inc: DOUBLE TAKE

copyright 2008 by Esther Mitchell

            “You need blood.”  Analeise pushed up her sleeve and shoved her bare arm into his face.  “Take mine.”

            Her pulse was a rapid flutter of fear.  Jesse scowled at her.  “What are you doing?”

            “You need to feed—”

            “I’m not a damned vampire!”  He snarled the words at her, and watched her shift backward in fear, her eyes wide and her breathing ragged.  Then she steeled herself and moved deliberately forward.  He glared at her.  “And even if I was, I sure as hell wouldn’t be getting blood that way.”

            “I-I don’t understand…”

            He rolled his head, aching like hell now that the potion was finally transmuting the poison in his system. That had been too close a call.  “Living vampires can’t drink blood, Ana.  It just breaks down in the stomach like any other protein source.”

            Her stunned expression would have been funny, had he not felt so miserable.  “Then how…?”

            Dark humor curled his lips. He’d wondered that, himself, right after he found out that the man who saved his life was a vampire.  And the more he discovered, the less he wanted to be one of them.  “They inject it.  Living vampires only need a small amount of blood to feed the vampiric cells in their bodies.  They still have their own blood; it’s just been changed.”

            “But the biting –“

            “Mostly Revenants, and it almost never has anything to do with a search for food.  It’s usually an instinct driven by rage or revenge.  And yes, Living vampires can bite, as well.  Their bite releases a paralytic agent in their saliva into the victims.”

            She nodded, as if she expected this.  “The vampire’s kiss.”

            He winced, his hand raising to the scar on his neck as he remembered.  He’d beg to differ on the kiss part – there was no pleasure in the sensation.  It was a terrifying experience to be incapable of movement while a sinister killer feasted on your blood or flesh, or both.  He shuddered.  “It’s how they keep the victim immobile.”

            Jesse struggled up, trying to regain his feet.  Before he made it the whole way to standing, Analeise was there, inserting herself beneath his arm to help lever him up from the floor.  “For a man who denies being a vampire, you sure know a lot about them.”

            “Research,” he muttered, then groaned as a fresh wave of pain rushed through his side, and the coldness seeped further into his body.  Shit.  He was running out of time.

Flash Friday: “Mystery Man”

Today’s post is excerpted from my upcoming new release (next year) with Desert Breeze Publishing.  This is a brand-new Fantasy series I’m working on.  Enjoy!

“Mystery Man” – excerpted from DAUGHTER OF ASHES

            Raiador.

            “Quite a sight, isn’t it?”

            Her gaze whipped to her left at that query, to find a man standing beside her.  He had the long, plaited hair of a Borderlander, and his tarnished armor screamed mercenary loud enough the dead could have heard it.  And yet, something told her he was neither.

            “Excuse me?”

            He nodded toward Raiador.  “The mountain.  Never seen anything quite like it.”

            She peered closer in the diming light, trying to discover what it was about him that convinced her he wasn’t exactly who his appearance said.  He was tall, even to her with her Bathron blood.  That could be a Borderlander trait – the few she met were easily as tall as she was.  His mud-brown hair was woven into the traditional Borderlander plaits, and hung midway down his back.  But there were secrets in his smoky-green gaze that told her he wasn’t who he appeared.  Something inside of her reached out in kinship to this man – she was more than she appeared, as well, even if she wasn’t sure what that was, yet.  There was a charisma to this man, however, that told her he was far from the mercenary his garb declared him to be.

            A well-worn scabbard hung from an equally-abused leather belt, but his sword hilt had the gleam of care, and the glint of metal at the top of his scuffed black boots hinted that he was well-armed.  This was not a man to be taken lightly, and she had to wonder if he was friend, or foe.

            “And you are?”  She frowned up at him, daring him to meet her gaze.

            He did, but those eyes remained shuttered, not allowing her access to his thoughts.  “No one of consequence, Sera.”

Flash Friday: “Unfinished Business”

October is Domestic Violence and Abuse Awareness Month.  Because this is a cause very near to me, every Friday this month will feature stories (or excerpts) about abuse and overcoming it, starting with today’s.  I encourage everyone to learn the warning signs of abuse, and get active in helping to remove this scourge from our homes and streets.  To that end, I am donating the entire proceeds of every purchase of BURDEN OF PROOF from my website to organizations that help victims of domestic violence and abuse.  To learn more, visit http://www.esthermitchell.com/HanoverInvestigations/Burden.html

“Unfinished Business”  – Excerpted from BURDEN OF PROOF

copyright 2003 by Esther Mitchell

         As the paramedics loaded Chelsea onto a stretcher, Justin dug the number Sally had given him out of his pocket and punched it into his cell phone.  The line had barely begun its second ring when Sally’s breathless, anxious voice answered, “Hello?”

            “It’s Justin Blakely.  I found your sister.”

            He heard her shuddering sigh of relief.  “Thank God.  Where was she?  Let me speak to her.”

            “Sally…” He stopped, swallowing hard.  Damn.  He wasn’t any good at this stuff, and he was still too torn up inside to be objective with Sally.

            “Oh, God,” she whispered.  “She’s not dead… please tell me she’s not dead.”

            The pleading in her voice tore at him.  He knew what that fear felt like.

            “She’s alive,” he assured her gently.  “Sally, she was attacked, here at her apartment.”

            “Damn it!”  The sudden, violent oath from Sally surprised him, but not near as much as her next angry, unguarded statement.  “I told her she had to put him away.  I told her…”

            “Put who away?”  Justin demanded harshly, gripping the phone tight as he followed the paramedics out of Chelsea ’s apartment.  “Talk to me, Sally.  Tell me what’s going on.”

            “I can’t,” she said miserably.  “I made a promise to Chels that her secret was safe.”

            “Damn it, Sally,” he ground out the words in fear and frustration.  “I found her in the damned closet, bleeding and nearly catatonic, with her clothes shredded.  I want to know who the son of a bitch is!”

            “No.”  Sally’s voice rang with steel.  Then, softening her tone, she said, “Don’t you think I want a piece of the bastard?  I’ve been trying for years to get Chelsea to let me track him down; but she doesn’t want her battles fought for her, and she’s convinced that one’s already lost, anyway.  She doesn’t want anyone’s help with this.  Not mine, not her friends’, and especially not yours.  I’m sorry; I can’t tell you anything more.  Mom and I will be there soon.”

            Before Justin could ask why not him, Sally had hung up.  Grimly determined now, Justin ignored the protests of the paramedics as they loaded Chelsea into the ambulance, climbing in beside her.  He’d told her he wasn’t going to leave her and, dammit, he was going to keep that promise.

Flash Friday: “Mistaken Identity”

Here’s a little something to make your Friday run more smoothly… .   The hero of this story, Colt Michaels, made himself abundantly known while I was writing SHADOW WALKER.  Jaye’s big brother has a real macho attitude problem that I wasn’t quite sure how to deal with… Not, that is, until I met a very interesting Project Prometheus agent, capable of handing Colt back his attitude in spades…   Just have a look…

“Mistaken Identity” 

copyright 2008 by Esther Mitchell

            Someone in charge was insane.  Marine Colonel Colton Michaels Jr. scowled at his computer screen, willing the offending e-mail back to whoever over at the Secretary of Defense’s office sent it to him.  According to the e-mail, he was supposed to roll over for some civilian investigator who’d be here at the Pentagon to dissect every man who worked for him.  Like that wasn’t going to piss him off.  Already, he could picture some four-eyed geek with a pocket protector and a calculator, and some secret book of rules to apply to any situation where rules didn’t apply.  Fuck.

            “Sir.”

            Colt glanced up to find his aide, Nathan Whittaker, with his head poked through the door.

            “Spit it out, Corporal.  I’m busy.”  Figuring out how to get rid of the Inquisition before it shows up.  Colt would have felt bad for snapping at the kid, if he wasn’t so pissed.  Of all the high-handed political tactics…

            “Sir, Agent St. John is here.”

            Sonuvabitch!  Colt returned his scowl to the computer screen.  Well, it sure didn’t take them long to get their man through the Pentagon’s doors, did it?  But the name of his visitor surprised him.  St. John was the last man he expected.

    Not that he knew the elusive spy personally.  But he had heard scuttlebutt about Project Prometheus as an organization, and St. John in particular.  Fortunately, what he heard was all good.  Hell, it was better than good.  St. John was supposed to be some kind of James Bond.  Not a government geek at all, but a man who understood danger and judgments made in the thick of it.  A man had to respect St. John’s level of expertise – but not when it threatened his men, or his command, Colt decided sourly.

            The sound of a throat clearing jerked Colt’s attention back to his nervous aide.  “Sir… Agent St. John?”

            Colt sighed.  Hell.  Might as well bite the bullet.  “Send him in.”

            Whittaker looked as nervous as a virgin in a bar full of Libertied sailors – unusual for the sedate Iowa farm boy.  “Ah, sir…”

            Colt frowned.  “Is there a problem, son?”

            “No problem,” announced a new voice, before Whittaker could speak, and a petite,  curvy bundle of strawberry-blonde hair, form-hugging halter top and jeans, and the most amazing mocha eyes that zinged through him like high-octane espresso slipped past the Corporal and into his office.  Warning bells went off in Colt’s head as his scalp prickled and a warm shiver worked up his spine.  Hell, she was like an entire bottle of Go pills, her presence so electrifying he knew he had to get rid of her ASAP.  And, as his gaze focused on the Cheshire cat grin spread across her mauve-tinted lips, he nearly groaned.  This lady spelled trouble, in capital letters.

            Colt settled a scowl on his face that had intimidated better than her, unwilling to admit he was intrigued.  “Who the hell are you, and how did you get in here?  This is a restricted area, lady.”

            “Sir-” Whittaker’s voice rose a nervous octave, drawing his attention in time to watch the Corporal’s eyes dance toward the new arrival, his expression telling.  Colt broke out in a cold sweat as the truth tickled the edges of his mind.

            Aw, hell.  He barely bit back his groan of disbelief.  “You’re St. John?”

            The wink she tossed Whittaker’s way made the young man smile in spite of himself, and Colt scowled  at the pair of them.

            “As charged.”  Her voice had a husky, sensual quality that raced invisible fingers up his spine, even as she strode forward, one hand extended.  “Sarah St. John, to be precise.”

            Colt’s gaze darted to his e-mail again.  Had he missed something?  New panic twisted in his gut when he saw nothing to contradict what she said.  There had to be some kind of mistake!

            “Why?”

            His head jerked up at that amused query.  “What?”

            “You just muttered something about this being a mistake.  Why would you think that?”

            Because he couldn’t see her as a spy.  And because, try as he might, he couldn’t stop wondering what she’d look like wearing nothing but that mischievous little grin.  He was in so much trouble.

            His eyes narrowed.  There had to be a logical explanation for this SNAFU.  Maybe it was just a coincidence.  “You have a brother, Miss St. John?”

            She shrugged, looking perplexed but unconcerned.  “Four of them.  What does that matter?”

            He settled back, letting a triumphant smile pull at his lips as he figured it out.  Mystery solved.  Now he could get rid of this bundle of trouble.  “If you’re looking for your brother, he’s not here.”

            She laughed, and  the husky murmur of it slid over him like a live wire across his skin.  An erotic jolt passed through his system, and that annoying prickle returned to the base of his skull.  He scowled at her as she slid gracefully into the chair opposite his desk, treating him to a perfect view of those amazing legs.  She settled back with an undeterred smile, as if she could see right through his anger, to the real conflict going on beneath.  That was an entirely disturbing thought, and he shoved it aside, feeling like a dirty old man.  How old was she, anyway, and why wasn’t her elusive brother keeping her out of trouble?

            “Didn’t you hear me?  Your brother’s not here.”

            “I know.”  She looked amused, those mocha eyes dancing with suppressed laughter.  “Mick’s probably half-way to covered in dirt in some tomb in Egypt, Greg’s completely buried in his books and theories, Liam’s on a marine research ship in the Arctic, and Scott better have his butt in class, if he doesn’t want me to kick it there.”

            Colt blinked, nonplussed.  None of those sounded like the former spy supposedly descending on his command.  “Which one works for Project Prometheus?”

            That gut-tightening smile widened, and her eyes sparkled as she pulled a dark leather wallet from her pocket and flipped it open before handing it over.  “That would be me.”

Flash Friday: “Love So Deadly”

This week’s Flash Friday is the culmination of two of my favourite areas – history, and the paranormal.  Opening in Rhode Island shortly before the start of the Revolutionary War, the Work-In-Progress this passage is taken from, LADY’S LAMENT, it absorbs all the history of the period, and the danger of being a privateer in an age of upheaval.  Then, it fast-forwards to modern day, as a paranormal investigator takes on a challenge she never saw coming – tangling with the ghost of a man determined to make her remember.

“Love So Deadly” 

copyright 2009 by Esther Mitchell

            “The Cap’n, he be acomin’, Mistress!  An’ he look fit for the storms of Hell, he does!”  The brogue-laden words of Brigit, Caroline’s Irish lady’s maid, reached Royce’s ears, even as he mounted the stairs, and his lips twisted in a dark smirk.  Oh, aye, he was in a fit, and his lady-love should well know why, if the rumors he heard were true.

            Ah, Caro, how could you?  Cold comfort enough, the news borne by the Continental Congress, that the Colonies were to go to war.  Normally, war would profit him most fortuitously.  Hadn’t he procured the funds for this lavish estate from the war between England and France, ended just twelve years ago?  Even as young and new to the fine arts of the privateer as he’d been, back then, he secured his fortune in those turbulent waters of the channel, and then added to them by plundering French merchant vessels from the West Indies in the name of King George, in the years since.  And still, Caro would not marry him.  Though he gave her lush estates, and provided her with everything she could want, she claimed she could not marry a man who made his fortune on the blood of another.

            She was returning to Boston.   His scowl returned in force, and rage prowled his soul.  He gave her everything, squandered his immortal soul at the Devil’s table, for nothing more than her love.  And now he learned she could not be bought.

            “Damnation!”  He spun on the stair, his fist flying of its own will, to crash against the timbered walls with a terrible splintering of wood.

            “Royce!”  The voice from above him on the stair was sweet, and laced with shocked disapproval.  Ah, how he wished to truly offend his lady’s delicate sensibilities!  Images flooded his mind as he stared up at her, standing at the top of the stairs like a goddess over her erring petitioner.

            “You’re leaving.”  He spat the words out in a fury as he lunged up the remaining steps between them, heedless of the mud on his boots upon the expensive carpeting.

            She stood her ground, which drew a grudging smile from him.  That was one thing he loved most about his Caro.  She never backed down.  “Yes.”

            A simple enough statement.  Another man might have taken it at its worth.  But he was not another man, and he already made a bargain with the Devil, to have her here.  Without Caroline, he was already damned.

            “No!”  He roared the word as he covered the final inches between them, and yanked her hard against his body.  “You belong here.”

            “Unhand me, you beast!”  She shoved at his chest.  “How can you say I belong here, when here I am nothing but miserable?  I am not your property, and you cannot buy me – not with coin, and not with demands.”

            “Have I not given you everything I have to give, ungrateful wench!”  He could not control his tongue.  After weeks of fear, terror that he would arrive to find her already gone, his temper ran unchecked.  “Perhaps I should just take what I have already paid for, then!”

            He would not harm her.  It was not in what little remained of his soul to ever cause her harm.  Yet, he craved one taste of her, and the chance to convince her to stay.  Yanking her hard against him, he slanted his mouth over hers, and plundered willfully, the pirate he truly was. 

            Caroline’s body went rigid against his, and he heard a soft snick, like a knife loosed from its sheath.  Breaking his hold, he barely heard her soft whisper, before heat pierced his chest, and the world began to darken.  But, as he stared up into her tear-filled eyes, he knew he was betrayed, and her words were his last companion into the darkness.

            Forgive me, my love.

            He would not.  He could not.  She had consigned him to the Devil, but as life ebbed away from him, he made a promise to them both.  One day, he would return.  And she would pay for what she did.