“The Request” — Excerpt from BETWEEN WORLDS (Project Prometheus)

Project Prometheus BadgeIt’s my birthday, and I felt like sharing a little something with everyone (call it a birthday gift – from me, to you). So, without further ado, here’s an excerpt from one of my upcoming Project Prometheus books, for your enjoyment. :)

“The Request” – Excerpted from BETWEEN WORLDS (Project Prometheus, Book 5) —

“Stay.”

That stopped him dead, but he still refused to turn.  Breath bated, Delila wished she could call the request back.  Hadn’t she promised she wouldn’t put herself in this position again?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, one hand to her mouth in dismay.

That brought Jim around, his gaze wary as he searched her face for something she wasn’t sure she could give.  Then, in two strides, he was standing before her, his work-roughened fingers skimming her face as he lifted her chin until she was forced to meet his gaze.  “You’re sure?”

She nodded mutely, swallowing the lump that stopped the breath escaping her throat, even as her heart skittered around the confines of her chest.  Blessed Ishtar, what did she agree to?  One touch, and already her body went crazy.

Dark fire flared in Jim’s eyes, and Delila’s blood burned beneath that steady regard.  She couldn’t make a move forward, though her hands itched to touch him.  In all her time at the Temple, she never took the initiation of an ishtaristu.  Some mistakes jaundiced for life, and  the memory of everything she suffered as John’s wife made the idea of trusting a man again impossible.  She wanted to weep, because as much as she wanted to trust Jim, she was afraid she could never take that step forward.  She was afraid she lost that trust forever.

He must have read her turbulent emotions, because he sighed and the heat in his gaze banked.  Gently, he enfolded her in an embrace so tender her eyes burned and overflowed.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, dismayed when her voice emerged small and broken.

“Shh.”  He stroked her hair, back, and shoulder.  His touch stayed gentle and tender without being sexual.  “Quit apologizing, Delila.  You don’t owe me anything.”

She shuddered against him.  He had no idea exactly how much she did owe him.  She hadn’t yet found the words to tell him he’d saved her life not once, but three times, when she was still trapped by John.  He still had no idea how his kindness led to her escape.  She didn’t have the courage to tell him.  Which made her the world’s biggest coward.  She grimaced.  Not the most flattering image.

“Jim, I…”  The words stuck in her throat again, and she closed her eyes, drawing a breath for courage.  She was in so much trouble.

“No Boundaries” – Excerpt from COME WINTER’S PALE (Chronicles of a Dragon’s Realm)

image by bogglyeyes

image by bogglyeyes

Today, I thought I would share something completely different, for me. This is blast from my past, reinvented. When I was a kid, I started researching and writing a series of Arthurian Legend inspired books. My original intention was to be historically accurate, and write a series of historical novels. However, as I grew older, and my writing style became more defined, the historical novels I began in my youth began to evolve, as well. In the case of this series, I began to shift toward Steampunk, bringing together the history and details of the legend as I researched it with a Steampunk world. In essence, I recreated the Arthurian story in a Steampunk world.

“No Boundaries” – Excerpt from COME WINTER’S PALE (Chronicles of a Dragon’s Realm, Chapter III, Book 1) –

Some things just aren’t meant to be.  Kata LurAine had heard the phrase her whole life.  Sitting at the knee of her stern, proper grandmother as the old woman taught her to stitch the painstaking designs into the coverlets for her hope chest was the first time.  Or, more properly, just after she’d about turned the white silk red with her blood from pricking her fingers.  That was when Granddam Maralaese decided that Kata was a lost cause – destined to never marry.  A failure.

Kata snorted to herself as she dropped the faceplate of her welding mask back over her face and lit up the torch.  Like she needed some dainty little cross-stitch pattern to make her life whole.  Like she even needed a man.  She was content here in her workshop, surrounded by metal that hummed and whirred with a life dear Granddam would never have understood.  Never mind that metalcrafting wasn’t a woman’s world.  And, okay, so most men turned their noses up at a woman with grease smudges and soot on her face, and sporting helmet-head hair from her welding mask.  But she didn’t care.  She couldn’t pretend to be something she wasn’t.  And it wasn’t a big deal, right?

The torch lowered, and the flame clicked off as Kata rested her palms flat against the scarred steel of her workbench.  She had to quit lying to herself.  It did matter.  It mattered a lot that no one saw Kata – not the real Kata, anyway.  Not that being seen was her goal in life, she told herself stubbornly as she flipped the mask down again.  But it would be nice.

She kicked the torch back on, and let the flash of flame against metal soothe her as  the machines in her shop hummed and whirred on.  If this was her lot in life, she could live with it…

A sound startled her out of her zone, and the torch flame skipped up, searing a long line of sooty copper along the face of the steamship she was working on.  Irritated, she shoved up the mask and whirled toward the source of that sound.

“You should know better than to sneak up on a woman with a torch!”  She glared up into the face of the stunned-looking gentleman – he in his just-so waistcoat and gloves, a dark cane resting between his arm and side that she’d bet any of her machines he didn’t actually need – standing in the stable doorway that served as entrance to her workshop.

He blinked again, clearly nonplussed, and she was left to wonder if he was a little thick in the head.  Then, he opened his mouth, and she was certain he was.  “You’re a woman!”

She rolled her eyes and muttered, “Thought we’d established that, already.”

He shook his head, and stepped forward.  “No, you’d don’t understand.  I was told this was the place to go to commission an airship.  They said you’re the best around.”

She peered at him through narrowed eyes, assessing if he was pulling her leg.  She stalled on his face, again.  He had angular features with just enough smoothness to blend them together, dark hair cropped to his collar in current high fashion, and forest green eyes that were arresting in their intelligence and perception.  Something twisted in her chest, and her throat closed up for a moment.  She hated that feeling – the attraction that zinged through her – knowing there was no future for it.  There never was.

They talk a lot,” she managed gruffy, yanking the mask back down to conceal her face.  “Just who are they, anyway?  For that matter, who are you?”

“Jarath Pherson.”  He doffed his Homburg and strode further into her personal domain, raising Kata’s hackles.

“Never heard of him.”  She set her jaw, determined to ignore him.

He coughed.  “That would be me.   Tarsak Memkno recommended you.”

She froze.  Tarsak?  The little gnome was her idol, her mentor – the man who knew everything there was to know about airships and landracers.  Adrenaline rushed through her.  Tarsak really thought she was good?  A grin spread over her face, and she turned toward Jarath as she lifted the mask again and shut off her torch.  Finally, her chance to prove herself once and for all – convention, and what she should be doing, be damned.

“Well, then, what are we waiting for?”

“Sun Spot” — Excerpt from OPEN WOUNDS (Guardians, Inc.)

11 Open WoundsWhen Guardians, Inc. agent and former US Marshall Cherish Beauricard took a case to the play bodyguard to night club magnate Willem Savastin — one of the last pure-blooded Nr-Simha in the world — she wasn’t even sure why.  But when she met the mysterious Will, and his equally-enigmatic brother, Drake, her world is about to change forever — as long as she can keep their true nature from being exposed to the world, and a killer from destroying everything she’s come to love.

AUTHOR NOTE: This book and excerpt contain ADULT themes and content. Not suitable for all audiences.

“Sun Spot” – Excerpt from OPEN WOUNDS (Guardians, Inc., Book 11) –

Cherish Beauricard ran a light touch over the silver pistol tucked into the holster nestled beneath her jacket — a motion meant to comfort herself — as she stepped out of the cab before Sun Spot, one of the country’s hottest nightclubs.

She glanced around the rundown industrial neighborhood, frowned, and looked up at the building before her. From the outside, it didn’t look like much. Her eyes skimmed the old, red-brick structure and she shuddered. It didn’t look like a hip nightclub. In fact, it looked more like an industrial slum. Hardly the place one expected to find Hollywood’s hottest A-list stars partying.

A worried frown wrinkled her brow as she leaned into the open window of the taxi to address the driver. “You’re sure this is the right place?”

“You wanted Sun Spot.” The man gestured to the building behind her, then leered at her. “This’ the only one I know of, lady.”

She cast a dubious glance over her shoulder. “It just looks so… so…”

“It’s a nightclub. Whatcha expect, the fucking Taj Mahal?”

That he even knew what the Taj Mahal was impressed her. That he chose to reference India’s crowning jewel to this particular nightclub was irony at its best. She offered him a bland smile as she forked over the fare – thank God for agency expense accounts — and glanced over her shoulder at the building again. “Guess not. Thanks.”

As the taxi peeled away, leaving behind the scent of burning rubber, Cherish turned toward the building with a gusty sigh.

“Well, Mr. Sevastin. Let’s hope you’ve got a better disposition than my research says.”

She winced. Okay, so she hadn’t lost the bad habit of talking out loud to no one, yet. Can’t win ‘em all. She certainly didn’t need the self-reminder of the file she spent last night memorizing. No pictures, of course — few case files actually contained pictures of the clients, in order to help safe-guard their identities, in case the Crucibani ever intercepted a file. Besides, she didn’t need a picture. She could sum up everything she needed to know about the notoriously camera-shy Willem Sevastin in one word — Nr-Simha.

Everything Guardians Incorporated had on Nr-Simha — admittedly, it wasn’t much — said these people were only barely tamed from their wild ancestors. Nr-Simha weren’t exactly rare. According to the statistics they could find, there were at least a couple thousand half-breeds running around the world. But a purebred Nr-Simha hadn’t actually been seen in thousands of years. At least, not any recorded interactions. And Willem, to judge by his file, was as purebred as they came.

Nr-Simha weren’t supposed to be particularly social creatures, preferring the company of their own kind, which was what surprised her most about Sevastin. He owned a busy nightclub. Besides, it was rumored purebreds had hair-trigger tempers and nasty dispositions. If any of that was true…

With a sigh, Cherish pushed the club’s front door, expecting to find it locked. She back pedaled when it flew open under the slightest touch. Her hand flew to her weapon, before she realized there was someone there.

And what a someone he was! Her heart took up residence in her throat as she unabashedly stared at the most delicious male form she’d seen in too many years. He was built like a linebacker, with shoulders broad enough to make Atlas himself green with envy. His trim, muscular body narrowed to slim hips that would have been out of proportion on any other man. She swallowed hard as her gaze fixed shamelessly on his crotch, and every breath fled her. God, she certainly hoped there was truth in advertising, there!

A throat cleared, and an amused bass voice intoned, “I’m up here, Ms. Beauricard.”

Mortification finally colored her cheeks as reality set in. Oh, hell. Was she actually ogling her client? Sheepish, she raised her gaze to eyes of a deep, unusual teal, framed by amazing golden skin, and hair dark as midnight and wild as the wind.

“Mr. Sevastin, I presume?”

He inclined his head, and a sinfully wicked smile crooked up his lips. “Yes and no.”

Her eyes narrowed as she tried to assess whether he was having one over on her or not. “Really. Which is it?”

His laugh slid through her like warm, gooey chocolate. She clamped her lips shut against a moan.

“Both, actually.” He grinned at her, and winked. “I’m a Mr. Sevastin. My name’s Drake.”

Confusion gripped her. The file hadn’t mentioned a sibling. “I don’t understand–”

His grin widened. “Come on in. I’ll see if I can help you figure it all out.”

Cherish stepped inside the doors warily, and froze again, certain she’d been transported to another dimension. Was this the same building?

She stared at the room before her, with its dark burgundy leather walls, broken by the golden flash of light off a series of sun-shaped art deco discs that studded the walls. Lavish, velvet-covered booths lined the walls, and satin-covered chairs circled tables closer to the dance floor.

At least, she assumed it was a dance floor. The strange chains and rigging that hung suspended several feet above it, she didn’t want to ask about. Only one thought rolled through her head as she stared up at them.

What the hell am I doing here?

She snuck a peek at her guide, then turned her gaze back to the opulent, but strange, club again, and barely suppressed a shudder. She wasn’t much for the clubbing scene, and this place… This was like Casablanca meets Cleopat’s. Definitely not her speed.

Unfortunately, she didn’t get her choice in assignments, and Yasmin assured her this one was important when she voiced her initial concerns over playing bodyguard to a Nr-Simha. Why did a shifter need a bodyguard, anyway?

“Heir to Atlantis” – Excerpt from WAVES (High Stakes)

13-WavesToday, I thought I’d share something a little different. This is from my Urban Fantasy series High Stakes.   The series blends our world with the magical worlds of the Strata – a place where the worlds intersect – and most of the stories in the series are at least loosely based on different musicals and fairy tales.  This comes from Waves, a new erotic romance inspired by the Hans Christen Andersen story “The Little Mermaid.”

Dr. Shelby Morrison always felt a little like a fish out of water. Most at home in the water, her profession as a marine biologist seemed the perfect fit… until the discovery of a family heirloom in her mother’s estate drops Shelby in the middle of a search for a lost world, and brings her up against a bounty hunter whose story strains reality to breaking, and whose mission could leave Shelby either royalty, or dead.

“Heir to Atlantis” – Excerpt from WAVES (High Stakes, Book #13)

The waves bundled onto the rocky shore, a splash of cool, wet blue and white froth that slammed against the coast before quickly retreating. Russ watched the ebb and flow morosely as itchy restlessness wound through him. He missed the surf, missed the feel of warm water surrounding him, growing cooler as he descended into the dark depths below where humans could go, until he crossed the barrier and into the underwater cities of the Lux Magica. Merpeople weren’t fish. They didn’t have half the body of a fish, either, and he often laughed at the images humans painted of the Merfolk. But he wasn’t laughing, anymore.

He was supposed to retrieve the princess and return to Atlantis. Only, the stubborn woman didn’t want to go. And she was messing with his head. Every time he looked into those big green eyes, he saw the sea-foam, and his heart softened. He saw uncertainty, and fear, and pain, and he wanted to soothe them all. A royal Atlantean wasn’t supposed to know those feelings. Those were for the outcast Merhunters like himself. Doubt, fear and pain were emotions that had no place in a respectable Mermaid’s life. And he had no right to think he was worthy of wiping them away.

Russ’ gut clenched as he recalled her beauty. Atlanteans were beautiful, even by Merfolk standards. They were some of the most beautiful people in all the Lux Magica. Among humans, the princess shone like a perfect pearl in a bed of dross. How she managed to hide that beauty, to keep it from becoming a burden to her in this uncivilized world, he had no idea. But she didn’t belong here. And he didn’t have the right to want her. He had a job to do, and her parents wouldn’t thank him kindly if he despoiled their daughter. Which didn’t stop his fists from clenching when he thought of the list of suitable matches her father showed him when his assistance was enlisted in retrieving the headstrong runaway.

What anyone failed to mention to him, though, was that she had no memory of who she really was. Oh, he’d seen that wistful look in her eyes whenever she looked out at the ocean, and knew the longing she held inside herself. It matched his own. Only, she also had a confused look, like she didn’t understand why she felt so drawn to the sea. And when he mentioned Atlantis, she laughed at him and called it a fairy tale. She was a scientist, she said, and she’d rather confine her searches to the real world. Whatever the hell that meant.

“There you are!”

He turned at the exasperated sound of her voice, to find Shelby Morrison striding toward him, her long, sleek legs carrying her into his space. His chest tightened and his breath whooshed from him as he took in her perfect form, her beautiful face. It wasn’t fair. No woman should be so gorgeous. She shouldn’t have the ability to tug at his heart, either, but the sadness in her eyes did just that, even as her annoyed expression tugged his lips up into an ironic smile.

“Looking for me?”

Was that a blush that stained her creamy, porcelain skin? He couldn’t be sure. He watched her puff up like a disgruntled seagull, and resisted the urge to attempt reading her. If she had any memory – even an instinctive one – of who she really was, she could slap his telepathic fingers hard enough to make them bleed. He wasn’t in the mood to find out.

“Confessions in Blood” — Excerpt from SHADOW WALKER (Project Prometheus)

Project Prometheus BadgeEvery once in a while, as an author, you encounter a scene that just blows you away. This scene was that for me — totally unexpectedly. I originally intended for Trevor to come around alone, to have to battle his thoughts and personal demons completely alone, to illustrate how much inside of himself he’s gone in order to retreat from what he can’t understand or face. Instead, his disappearance dragged Jaye into the mix, and this amazing bit of character exposition developed all on its own.

“Confessions in Blood” — Excerpt from SHADOW WALKER (Project Prometheus, Atlantis Silver, Book #3) —

Ten minutes and a gurney trip later, Jaye frowned in true worry as she realized Trevor was still dazed and not at all himself.  Even worse, the bright fluorescent lights illuminated the blood on his dark skin that the moonlight and shadows masked.

Helping him to his bed, she left him just long enough to collect gauze, warm water, and antiseptic.  She doubted he lost enough blood to need emergency surgery or a transfusion, though the amount was alarming to view.  She frowned.  Even knowing it was probably a superficial head wound, and looked worse than it was, she was worried.

Standing before him, she dipped a piece of gauze in the warm water and began gently cleaning the blood from his face.  If she could get through the blood, she could find out if he needed stitches or not.

Trevor flinched with a hiss, and she raised startled eyes to find him regarding her with clear eyes, as if he’d never been the animal she found hidden in the bushes.

“Jaye?”  His voice was weak, and his hand trembled as he lifted it – the only signs he was actually unwell.  He glanced toward the window, and his brow furrowed.  “What time is it?”

“About two in the morning.”  Jaye bit her lip.  He lost track of time, and she didn’t like that.  Losing time was a bad sign in psychiatric medicine.  She wiped away the last smear of blood, and a chill passed through her.  There weren’t any wounds.  Not a single laceration.  She swallowed past her trepidation, but her voice still came out small and breathless.  “What happened to you?”

He tensed. “I don’t remember.”

The tone of his voice alerted her something was wrong, even before she met his gaze.  His eyes were clear, but evasive.  Damn it, he was lying to her.  “Trevor…”

“No.”

She loosed a small cry of exasperation.  Zero-two-hundred hours, when she barely slept last night, was not the time for him to start pulling his stoic routine on her.

“You never were a good liar.”

His gaze darkened as he stared her in the eye.  “And you must have a lot of practice at it.”

Those words drove the breath from her even more than his bitter tone did.  Had he finally remembered Somalia?  Did he know what she did?  She sought blindly for a place to sit as her knees weakened with fear.  “What do you mean?”

The anger dropped from his face, and he reached out to her, oblivious of the blankets dropping, leaving him naked from the waist up.

“Hey, I’m sorry… I don’t know what that was.  I just… I don’t want to talk about where I went, okay?”

For a reason she couldn’t explain if he asked, his secretive attitude annoyed her.  She went back to cleaning the smaller blood smears from his face and neck.  “Great.  Fine.  Do you want to at least tell me how you ended up naked and covered in blood?”

“Not particularly.”

“Damn it, Trevor!”  She threw the gauze into the bio waste container with more force than necessary and glared at him.  “This isn’t a game.  I’m trying to help you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Funny.  Your boss doesn’t think so.”

“I said, I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

His eyes narrowed.  “You never used to swear.”

She bit down on words that would turn the air blue, and instead snapped, “Yeah, well I had to get tough.”

The frown on his face pulled her attention from her anger, even before he hazarded, “Because of me?”

She flinched, in spite of her attempt to remain neutral.  She couldn’t help it; she’d run from the truth for too long.  “Yes.”

His gaze turned away, toward the window, and he looked truly ill for the first time.  “I’m sorry.”

The words hit her out of nowhere, and stung because he had no idea how little she deserved them.  She should be the one begging for his forgiveness.  Jaye bit down hard on her lower lip, and stepped closer.

“Don’t apologize,” she whispered as she stroked his cheek gently.  “Not to me.”

Want to know more?  Find out how it all starts in IN HER NAME, currently available from Desert Breeze Publishing.

“The Hero’s Geis” – Excerpt from HOPE OF HEAVEN (Project Prometheus)

Their mission is to search out and bring down those who trade in terrorism, fear, and human suffering by whatever means necessary.  To do this, they must be willing to give up their freedom, and even their lives. They are a mercenary unit with a mission, and a motivation that has nothing to do with what they get paid, and everything to do with the innocent lives they save. Meet the men and women of…

Project Prometheus

Peter Talladay swore he’d never return to Ireland alive, until a battle with a demon in Iraq left him certain he would die a broken man. But when his boss’ wife calls in an expert on demons, and a withering disdain for mercenaries, Peter’s found a new reason to live. Now, if he can only convince determined-to-hate him Hope MacKenzie to trust him, Peter may still find the peace he’s long believed lost to him.

“The Hero’s Geis” – Excerpt from HOPE OF HEAVEN (Project Prometheus, Book 2) —

Peter stared thoughtfully out the window as he hung up the phone. J.R. sounded like a kid at Christmas once Peter explained his reason for calling. He rattled on excitedly about what a find they unearthed, until Peter began to wonder why only he was uneasy about this discovery. The information J.R. gave him sounded familiar — almost eerily so. Peter shivered as a chill ran down his spine. Had Sinead told him those tales before? He couldn’t remember.

Peter crossed the office to the door, and made his way toward Hope’s room. A wry grin crossed his face as he neared the closed door. Ever true to her inquisitive nature, Hope ensconced herself in her room with Sinead’s journals and books hours ago, the same excited determination in her eyes she met every challenge with. Peter shook his head in amusement. Hope was amazing, with her vibrancy and absolute determination to never fail, no matter how hard the course. She was a woman a man should be proud to have by his side. Hope MacKenzie had staying power. Bowers was a fool, Peter decided darkly. He hated the man for using Hope’s innocence, for tainting her faith in men with his cruelty. Peter hated Bowers with everything in him, because he hurt Hope.

With a grimace, Peter marshaled control of his not-so-sudden desire to kill Robert Bowers and knocked at Hope’s bedroom door. A laugh answered him from the room’s interior.

“You know you don’t have to knock, Peter,” she called out. “Come on in!”

He nearly laughed as he opened the door to a room covered in open books and piles of paper and notebooks. “Did we have a cyclone I’m unaware of?”

She offered him an impish grin in response, her face awash with an enchanting blush. “This is amazing stuff. Your mother recorded practically every waking moment of her entire life.”

Memory, like a bittersweet arrow, lanced Peter, accompanied by images of Sinead at the end of a long day, settled into her favorite rocking chair with one of her ever-present notebooks, the sitting room fireplace crackling merrily. She called those moments her labor of love. He never understood what she meant until this moment. These notebooks were precious, his connection to the woman he never really let himself know.

“Aye,” Peter whispered around the sudden lump of emotion lodged in his throat. Swallowing hard, he changed the subject. “J.R. is going to e-mail me information he thinks will help us either prove or disprove your theory as soon as he gets back from Libya.”

“What’s he doing there?” Hope was distracted, her nose buried in a book on Celtic mythology.

“He didn’t say, but it sounded like it was probably covert and dangerous.” Peter shook his head sadly. “J.R. never did learn when enough was enough, and–”

“Oh, wow! Look at this, Peter,” Hope broke in excitedly as she waved him nearer.

“Find something?” Ironic humor touched his voice. She obviously didn’t hear a word he said.

She laughed. “Oh, yeah. Listen to this: ‘The Celtic hero myth is characterized by the belief that the hero is both mortal and immortal. He is often slain in battle, but just as often resurrected by some power or object. Such is often the case when the hero is slain to repay some great debt, called a geis, as in the tale of,’ ” she drew a deep breath, and triumph flickered across her face, ” ‘Cuchulainn!’ It says that Celtic heroes are resurrected at times when they’re needed again. Amazing stuff, huh?”

“Certainly beats cryogenics.” Peter propped one hip against her desk to bury the pain that slashed through his head, and weakened his knees.

“Peter!” She scolded him, though she didn’t appear angry. “Don’t you see? Cuchulainn was known as the Lance Lord, and mythology suggests that he’ll be reborn at a time of great darkness.”

A scowl darkened Peter’s face. This all made a fascinating fairy tale, but he already knew that was all it was. Real life didn’t work that way; there wasn’t any savior waiting in the wings.

“So where was he in Nineteen-twenty-one, when Ireland was tearing herself apart at the seams?” As he saw the wounded anger in Hope’s eyes, he winced. She clearly still believed in heroes, and the power of faith. He didn’t have the heart for the truth, but he couldn’t lie to her, either. “Sorry, love. It’s not that I don’t believe in the supernatural. I can believe in spirits and Faeries and Bean Si, but once you’re dead, the condition is rather permanent.”

“Says who?” She challenged, her chin tilted defiantly. “You did it, didn’t you? And Matt Raleigh was a dead man in Lebanon, but love brought him back. Who’s to say there’s not some force capable of bringing the dead back to life?”

I do,” he rasped tightly. His fists clenched as he fought the pain that plunged through his head, and his soul. “I prayed for a miracle, for the lives of the three people who were my life to be returned to me, once. They’re still dead. There’s not a power in the universe that can raise the dead.”

Pick up your copy of Hope of Heaven, today from Desert Breeze Publishing. Find out how it all begins, with In Her Name, also available now, from Desert Breeze Publishing!

“Magic Mirror” – Excerpt from SHADOW WALKER (Project Prometheus)

Project Prometheus Badge

Trevor Watkins is the miracle of the hour; the survivor of an unassisted coma. But he awakes in a strange place, with no memory but one – the smiling face of a woman with jade-green eyes he has a dreadful feeling he’s supposed to hate. Trapped in a living nightmare from which he believes there is no escape, he finds himself face-to-face with a betrayal he can’t help but forgive, and a secret he can’t hide from. Now, the jade-eyed beauty from his past can set him free, if he’s willing to let her step into a world that could take her away from him forever.

“Magic Mirror” – Excerpt from SHADOW WALKER (Project Prometheus, Book #3)–

Red Widow’s fists clenched, driving her French manicure into her palms, as she glared out at the neon-lit night.  She wanted that mirror.  She was prepared to do whatever it took to make sure the Musir didn’t win, again.  Daniel was one of the newer generation of Arachaena.  She had to educate him.

“Do you have any idea how important that mirror is?”

His sigh sounded exasperated.  “Yeah, I know.  It was the inspiration for the tales of magic mirrors throughout European history; even believed to be the legendary mirror through which the Lady of Astolat watched Lancelot.  And it unlocks the Portal of Kronos.”  When she turned toward him, she saw his grimace.  “Aren’t we both a little old for fairytales?”

His sarcasm annoyed her.  That was part of what was wrong with this new generation of Arachaena.  They were decadent, self-indulgent, and jaded.  They didn’t understand the powers of the world, or why they were important.

“It’s no fairytale, Danny boy.  And the mirror is more than a mere key.”

He lifted one brow in skeptical attention.  “Convince me.”

“Cover that mirror in the blood of a Musir, and it acts as a beacon through the oblivion beyond the Portal.  We need it to guide the Great Lord back.”

She turned just in time to see him sit forward, his interest suddenly intent.  “How much blood?”

A slow, deadly smile curved up her lips as she moved to the bedside table, and extracted a silver kris knife that glowed with a dim blue-white light.  “One of our archeological crews uncovered this on a dig in Greece.  It took some work, but we figured out what it’s for.”

“And that is?”

“You shed the Shadow Walker’s life blood onto the mirror’s surface with this knife, and it begins a chain that no power on Earth can halt.”

She stabbed the knife’s point into the table between them, and met his gaze with narrowed eyes.  He would do what she wanted.  She wouldn’t tell him about the magical lettering said to reside within the mirror’s surface.  Or that those letters would become clear in the presence of Ausar’s vessel.  That was a secret she planned to keep to herself.  Those letters were one part of the key to the Philosopher’s Stone, and the source of everlasting life.  The Musir were reincarnates; they hadn’t yet figured out their own history.  Aside from that threat, only the Widows and Dimitri Lapinov knew about the truth of the Philosopher’s Stone.  And she intended to keep it that way.

 

Read the book that started it all! IN HER NAME is available now from Desert Breeze Publishing!