On the flip side, there’s another issue from Azrael’s point of view – that of royalty falling in love with slaves. I glossed over it a bit when she arrived home, but I really need to beef it up through the initial falling in love.

When I did more research on the politics, I decided I wanted On Azrael’s Wings to be based in a combination of Medieval and Roman times. I found a couple of decent sites about the lifestyle of the Roman and famous. One of the major differences between that time and this is the fact that no one looked introspectively at themselves to qualify their actions. Everything was about appearances, especially to the higher castes.

By extension, I have to put more of that into the story which, of course, ratchets up the level of angst for Azrael, too.

So, in chapter eleven, between the scenes of Ursula’s ‘morning after’ and the army leaving Provey, I’ve added a bit from Midia’s point of view. She, too, is aware of the fine line her mistress walks, and the thinning of that line if what she believes is happening is true.

Was it finally happening? Was their mistress finding the other half of her soul in Ursula?

The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying. Midia loved her mistress. To see her in love, her heart at ease, her soul complete, was a tremendous thing. Azrael deserved to have romance in her life, merited comfort and pleasure after the savagery she was forced to display for the crown.

But Ursula was a slave, and Azrael royalty. Nothing could ever come of their relationship. Nothing could truly be done about their emotions, providing Ursula felt the same way – and Midia suspected they did. The leading houses disapproved of such a match. Would they allow Azrael to enjoy a long term and illicit affair with a slave unmolested? Or would they fear her esteem of a mere servant, perhaps believe that Azrael upset the natural order of things?

As I stated before, I’ve been editing this chapter to include two separate points of view instead of the mass of confused ‘she felt / she felt.’ Since I felt the scene was more powerful from Ursula’s point of view, that’s where it predominantly sits. But I didn’t want to lose so much of Azrael’s. Therefore, I added a bit of a scene in chapter ten to include how she felt about Ursula’s . . . performance.

Here’s a bit of a snippet:

The ground beneath them was hard, previously unrealized lumps of soil and rock digging into Azrael’s muscles. It would be best to continue this elsewhere.

Ursula emitted a disapproving moan when Azrael pulled her fingers free. She rolled them over, settling comfortably upon the lithe body. A keen urge to abandon the idea of her bed in favor of slaking her thirst with this vixen here and now gave Azrael pause. Ursula’s lips were swollen from kisses, slightly parted in invitation, her eyes closed. They opened wide as Azrael pressed her thigh hard against Ursula’s sex, surprise and abashment warring or her face.

“You are magnificent,” Azrael said. She stroked Ursula’s heated forehead, guiding wisps of mahogany curls away. “And I’ve yet to taste your sweetness.”

Shame gave way to a flicker of desire, and Ursula dropped her eyes. “Yes, milady.”

The demure action fueled Azrael’s desire. Gods, this one was so different from her other body slaves. She doubted she could satiate herself on Ursula’s offerings, no matter how hard she tried. Chuckling to herself, she pushed to her feet. Perhaps not, but it would be worth every exquisite effort she put into the task.

In other news, I spent yesterday beta reading a novel by KG MacGregor. Hopefully the manuscript will see the light of day as a book, eh?

After dinner, the wife and I watched Gothika. It was pretty cool though I don’t see how Halle Berry escaped a prison sentence, regardless of what her old man was up to.

I started reading The War of the Flowers by Tad Williams. I haven’t gotten very far but it’s very reminiscent of his Otherland series. Looking at the size of the book (600 plus pages,) something occurred to me, though:

I could jam all the Sanguire stories into one volume . . .

Food for thought.

The only thing harder than writing a sex scene is editing one. When I wrote the initial scene of Azrael and Ursula, I was still mixing my points of view with some frequency. Now I find myself in the position of dividing the scene into two points of view.

By the time it was appropriate to leave, the sun had set. Torches lit the courtyard when Azrael and her entourage sauntered out of the hall. Atol and Razzu had elected to stay, one for feminine conquest and the other to hear more about a new strain of flower. Azrael thought it best, really. Tenango and Suma appeared connected at the hip; that discussion with Razzu might need to be implemented sooner than expected. Their horses were delivered by stable boys, and they mounted.

Azrael had worn a light cloak for the expected evening coolness. Once Ursula was seated across her lap, she wrapped both of them with it. She slid her hand across the silk of Ursula’s dress as they rode through town, idly stroking legs and belly. Her thoughts worried her conversation with the magistrate, her caresses absent minded.

She could make no sense of her thoughts, unable to understand the purpose of his warnings or the rumor from the king’s court. Was this an instance where her political incapacity was a liability? Give her a sword and she led with swift and terrible results, her army nearly fanatical in their loyalty. Give her a shovel and she made her estate, Wrendon, flourish. But politics, with its conspiracies, maneuvering for power, and slippery deceit was beyond her abilities. Her cunning was on the battlefield, not a council room.

Azrael sighed as they neared the gates, her concerns giving her a headache. Idonatra, somewhat drunk, sang a drinking song under his breath. Tenango and Suma rode close, their heads bent together in quiet speech. In her arms, Ursula trembled.

The dinner had had its high points, Azrael mused. She leaned close, nuzzling the hair at nape of Ursula’s neck, her hand tucked beneath a warm breast. Did the woman feel so safe in a room full of people that she could tease her mistress with impunity? Had the slave been more experienced, she might have been in for quite a surprise; Azrael’s threshold of modesty was probably far lower than Ursula, born and raised in small villages. Still, it had been intriguing to be the recipient of Ursula’s initial forays into flirtation. Midia must have spoken to her while they had been shopping.

The guards ushered them through the gate without preamble. Their eyes took a moment to adjust from the torches at the gate to the subtle glow of moonlight, as they ambled down the road.
Azrael felt a shaking hand upon hers in the darkness, guiding her to cover Ursula’s breast. Thoughts of portly magistrates, political subterfuge, and shy flirtations disappeared in a flash of lust.

Cupping the rounded flesh, she focused on Ursula whose hand remained hot against hers. The woman’s eyes were downcast, her teeth biting at her lower lip in a way that Azrael associated with serious contemplation. It was at expression she was swiftly finding adorable. She was conscious of Ursula’s rapid breathing, and debated her next move. Was this a stepping stone on the path of desire? Or would Ursula stumble and fall off the path again?

In answer to her question, Ursula squeezed her hand, forcing her to do the same. To reward the bold behavior, Azrael repeated the action without prompting, thumb slowly rubbing a swollen nipple. The woman in her arms arched subtly, a sigh escaping her lips. Pleased Ursula did not pull away, Azrael pinched the nipple between thumb and forefinger. Ursula’s grip on her hand clutched in desire as she emitted a surprised gasp.

Ursula has weathered the slave auction and now must deal with the emotions involved. Here I’m attempting to beef up her confusion as well as the negative emotions she has toward Azrael.

“Are you all right now?” Midia asked, laying a companionable arm over her shoulder.

Ursula grimaced. “I feel empty and foolish, but I’m fine.” In truth, she felt out of sorts as an underlying anger at the entire situation warred with her helplessness.

Midia hugged her close. “Lady Azrael was miserable. She simply wasn’t thinking. She’s much more sensitive to things as a rule.”

“Sensitive?” Ursula demanded, her emotions taking their toll. Memories filled her mind – the unwanted attention of Kars and his bully boys as they swaggered about Theara, harassing her; the seamstress’ son, who visited the village far more frequently than when she had resided on his farm; the three soldiers who brutalized her; and the arrogant demeanor of Azrael as she played her audience on the balcony such a short time ago. Ursula pulled away from the embrace and turned her back to Midia. “It was hardly sensitive letting those poor women be raped and sold like cattle! I was in the village that day! I saw how her sensitive nature allowed her to brutalize everyone there!”

“What was done was necessary.”

“Hah!” Ursula’s laugh was bitter. “Impaling men before their mothers and wives and children isn’t necessary. Neither is having the women raped.” She was startled to silence when Midia grabbed her shoulder and whirled her about.

“Until you’ve seen three hundred men in battle lust I doubt you’ll understand. But know that our mistress must keep control of her troops! If she denied them, they would rebel and no one would be safe.” Midia stepped closer, forcing Ursula to back away from her anger. “You saw how those women were treated on the auction block today. Do you think it would have been easier for them if they hadn’t been broken days earlier?”

The change of subject undermined her rage. She thought of Jenka, the innkeeper’s wife – bold, outspoken, just as likely to wade into a brawl as her husband. Or Yellan, oldest daughter of the smith, who had raised her siblings single handed after their mother died, forthright and blunt as her father. Both women firm in their convictions and very likely to voice them. And those were the mildest of the lot.

Their indignant complaints on the platform would have resulted in severe punishments. Some would not have survived the whippings. Ursula had the benefit of experience in this life. All of them would go to their new owners full of fire and righteous indignation, something no slave could afford.

“Yes, you’re beginning to understand,” Midia said. “Life isn’t fair. As a slave you know that, but your life has been easy compared to many. You have no basis for comparison.” She sighed, anger fading. “Our mistress does what’s necessary to keep her position and honor regardless of how horrible it may seem. You’d do well to remember that.”

Azrael woke before dawn. She lay on her side with Midia cuddled in her protective embrace, a blonde head tucked under her chin. It would be an easy thing to drift back to sleep, to await her slave’s early morning chores, to slake the desire that invariably curled in her belly when Midia returned to the blankets. Such was not an option, however. Azrael and her entourage had an appointment at the slaver’s block. The best deals were had at an early hour, and her prisoners were considered prime material.

She took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of of her body slave, an aroma that spoke of familiarity, pleasure, and home. From where she lounged, she could see the pallet Ursula slept on in the dimness. That one had cried herself to sleep. Azrael had a good idea why. Ursula’s levels of sexual frustration must be reaching an all time high; Azrael’s certainly were. When her new acquisition had retreated from what she so obviously desired, it was all Azrael could do to not take her hard and fast. It had taken great restraint to pull back and dismiss the beauty.

As usual, Midia knew her mistress’ heart well, and attempted to ease the disappointment. The slave had been as enjoyable as ever, even resorting to a bit of play as she pretended to be another. Azrael was rather glad that Midia was with her on this campaign. Vincenza would have no doubt been livid with jealousy at a new slave to compete with. Midia, on the other hand, had years of experience with Azrael and knew how to best serve her.

Memories of the night before flickered across her inner vision as she stared at the pallet, noting feminine curves beneath the thin blanket. Amber colored eyes, hooded with obvious lust as they regarded Azrael’s body; the expression of yearning on Ursula’s face as she knelt at her mistress’ feet; flushed skin and the scent of arousal.

Unbidden, Azrael caressed Midia’s skin, remembering the sensation of Ursula’s flesh beneath her fingers. She licked her lips, wishing Midia was the one on the pallet and Ursula in her bed. It was regrettable, this waiting, but necessary. Her hand continued to roam as she reminded herself of that fact. In her experience, breaking a body slave was unsavory. She preferred slaves and free women who enjoyed her attentions; rape and the subsequent shattering of a woman made her useless, either too grief-stricken or bitter to revel in the physical sensations bestowed upon humans by the gods.

Hopefully this will show Azrael's reasons for not being totally vicious and crude. She has a reputation, you see, and I've got to work to show the reader it's not everything.

Of course, that doesn't mean anything if the reader doesn't like the way Azrael views slavery. It's a fact of life in her time and place, and can't be helped. I know I'll throw off some readers because of it.

Them's the breaks.

The next four days were the same for Ursula – up before dawn, pack Azrael’s belongings, travel for hours in the wounded wagon and set up camp at night. While Midia prepared Azrael’s bed, Ursula was required to attend their mistress, taking care of armor and food, and lounging in her lap while being kissed senseless. Every night the kisses grew longer, the caresses strayed further, causing her difficulty breathing from the rampant arousal that coursed through her.

And every night, Midia would share Azrael’s bed.

Listening in the dark, Ursula’s imagination ran unchecked to the music of their activities. What did Midia do to cause that low growl, the one that rumbled in her ears and shot straight to her loins? Where was Midia being touched when her moan was interrupted by a gasp of pleasure? What was it like to feel that dark skin? Was it soft to the touch or hard like the calluses of Azrael’s hands? Was Midia even allowed to touch, to respond naturally? Or were there constraints due to her position as a slave?

Finished the fight scene. Divided another scene into two parts – one from Azrael’s POV and the other from Ursula’s.

Azrael’s pretty vicious in the fight scene. It’s only a sparring session, but it’s no holds barred. I hope to illustrate her aloof and vicious behavior as necessary to her personality without alienating the reader. (I think that’s going to be the mantra here. Not alienating the reader from Azrael’s character.)

I’ve got to beef up Ursula’s POV to further investigate why the hel she’s falling for this bitch of a general, too. In a week’s time, Ursula has witnessed Azrael castrate three of her own men for attempted rape, whip one of her captains for laxity, and impale the surviving men of the rebel village for their part in treason against the crown. It’s got to be difficult to intellectually deal with that, ya know?

Heh.

Time stood still. Ursula was certain the gods had sucked out the air in the tent. She could not breathe, or move. Her knees were rooted to the ground and she had an overwhelming urge to lean forward and nuzzle her mistress’ sex. She inhaled, smelling a musky odor. It was one she had begun to associate with Azrael. A strong desire rolled over her, her entire body yearning toward something though she knew not what.

The shock of that want broke her reverie. She did not know how long she had knelt there, and she trembled, fear overtaking her desire. Hastily, she rose, holding the breeches. “I’m sorry, Milady,” she said, wringing the clothing more than folding it. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do.”

Ursula felt fingers on her chin. She looked to see Azrael’s smile. Swallowing hard against tears, she wondered how this evil woman could seem so sweet and caring.

The army is now encamped at Provey. I'm writing a sparring scene because Steph (a friend of mine) said I needed more action. Here's a piece of it:

blockquote>Leaping forward, she aimed a powerful swing at him. His banter did not dampen his ability to defend himself. He raised his shield and took her left-handed blow, bracing himself against her expected assault. Not impeded with a bulky shield, Azrael slipped her dagger past the edge of his defense. She felt the satisfying give of cloth and flesh as the blade sliced open his shoulder.

The weapons master grunted at the wounding, shifting his shield to block a second attempt by her. He gave Azrael a solid shove, pushing her away.

The following day was spent packing for the upcoming journey. When all was ready, the Third Army had three dozen wagons of supplies and bounty. Fortunately for Idonatra, the arms master did indeed have space for many of the weapons, lightening the load considerably from the smithy.

Not many changes, again just the cutting and rewriting to narrow a scene to one POV. While it gains depth from one person’s view, it loses it from another’s. I hope to eventually even it out in the long run.

Toward the end of this chapter, Azrael is moving into the next stage of ‘training’ Ursula. Considering her position as a general and slave owner, it’s not easy to give her character something the reader can connect with. I don’t want to alienate the reader, but Azrael is harsh and at this stage of the game, she doesn’t really give a damn for Ursula.

Azrael backed out of the kiss, amused at Ursula’s attempt to prolong it. It was too soon, however. Ursula no doubt had nothing but painful experiences to draw upon out here in the far reaches of the kingdom. She needed a slow introduction of what pleasure two women could derive from one another. Azrael pulled away, momentarily adopting a stern expression to remind Ursula her place.

A flicker of fear crossed Ursula’s eyes. Her face remained flushed and she swallowed hard as Azrael traced her lips with warm fingers.

“Very nice,” Azrael complimented, a smile creeping across her face as Ursula’s blush deepened. “I can’t wait to taste all of you.”

Ursula blinked once, her expression one of soft confusion as she tried to make the connection. Azrael’s hand still strayed in Ursula’s lap, her thumb dipping to scrape inner thighs. Ursula flushed a blistering red as she comprehended the innuendo.

Fascinated at the spark of passion that flickered and disappeared from Ursula’s face, Azrael gave the thigh a gentle pinch and pushed her off. “Go to bed, Ursula. We march at first light.”

“Yes, Milady.”

Was that disappointment in her tone? Azrael watched her lithe form, catching a hint of wonder as Ursula touched her lips. She sighed, wishing the seduction took less time. But it was better to train Ursula to her bed than break her in the process.

For the remainder of the morning Azrael checked guard posts. She scared the stuffing out of a number of Atol’s men on the perimeter, each wondering if she’d heard rumor of further laxity in their cohort. Voices trembled slightly as they gave challenge and received the password, chins thrust out in determination to prove their captain an able officer despite the previous day’s incident.

Not many changes to this chapter. Just tightening up and correcting ponts of view. This chapter is completely Azrael's POV.

Azrael felt Midia slip out of bed well before dawn. Accustomed to these early morning disappearances, she drifted back to sleep, ignoring the soft whispers and rustling cloth. Had there been an emergency, she would be instantly alert, weapon in hand. Instead, her body slaves utilized the pre-dawn hour to prepare for her eventual awakening.

Some changes in this chapter. More in depth as for as Ursula’s point of view. There’s an entirely new scene added at the end of this chapter, where Midia escorts Ursula to the surgeon’s tent for a look-see.

A piece of that particular scene:

Upon seeing their approach, one said, “Good gods, another one?”

Ursula felt the blood rush to her face as he stood.

“Milady wishes you to see to her new body slave,” Midia said.

The man was tall and thin, his lips set into a permanent sardonic sneer. He came around the table and pulled Ursula closer to a lantern. “Didn’t want her men to outdo her last night, eh?” he asked as he peered at her bruised face.

Before Ursula could think to correct him, Midia said, “Of course not. You know Milady doesn’t treat us in such a manner.”

Ursula gasped at the chill tone in Midia’s voice, not expecting such protectiveness from a slave. Did she love Azrael? Was it because of their intimacies? Ursula could not imagine defending her previous master. Even after she had begun living with the seamstress, he would visit town and drag her away to spend himself with her.

Yet Azrael treated her kindly, almost with respect. And it was her intervention than stopped Ursula’s rape. She shuddered at the thought of the castrations she had witnessed – done by her future mistress’ hand and in a slave’s name.

Her thoughts were so loud in her head, the surgeon had to ask twice what her name was.

Azrael wore clean black breeches, her sword belted over a sleeveless ivory tunic. She braided her thick hair, using a strip of leather to tie it off. Pausing to inspect her bracers, she frowned at the blood still caking the leather. Rather than wear them, she slid the knives usually sheathed at her wrists into her soft boots.

In any case, while my land cruise this summer gave me time to reread On Azrael’s Wings in entirety and edit six chapters in detail, I haven't done much else with it. My Palm running out of juice over my vacation had a lot to do with that . . . I had hoped to type in the changes as I made them. Hand writing with rheumatoid arthritis ain't the greatest.

Just finished going over my notes for chapters one and two. I'll start three tomorrow. Changed the opening scene to a more action oriented one, added a few lines here and there. I was still writing all over the place as far as points of view when I originally wrote this. It's been a chore trying to focus on one character throughout the scene. On the other hand, it's also freed me up considerably, giving me the opportunity to get into the psyche of the starring character.

The opening scene:

It began with a scream.

The sound of it faded as Ursula sat up. Her sleep-fogged mind had only a moment to wonder if she had dreamed the noise before reality burst through the front door in a tangle of swords and bodies. She grabbed at her thin sheet, cowering behind the non-existent protection. A soldier in full leather armor fought with one of the men from her village. They crashed across the small room, destroying weeks of tailoring as lace and brocade, velvet and felts spilled to the floor to be trampled beneath their muddy boots.

Set up – Jenna has been proclaimed vasilissa by the ruling council, the Symbouhera. She had to basically buy a vote to make it unanimous. Both Margaurethe and Father Castillo disapproved of her actions, causing her to realize the true loneliness of her position. She’s shut down her emotional and mental connections with the two of them in response, as she works through this new point of view. This chapter is Margaurethe’s POV as she considers the sudden loss of their deep connection. The scene delves into her past with Elisibet as she considers the major differences between the Tyrannos and Jenna.

Margaurethe watched the gentle rise and fall of Jenna’s breathing. An hour before dawn, the young woman still slept in the carefree manner of youth, her consciousness trusted to Morpheus’ realm as she wandered the hinterlands of the dream world. She smelled of warmth and sleep and vulnerability, causing Margaurethe’s heart to ache with a love so deep, she thought she would drown.

She had never seen Elisibet in such a state, even when waking beside her. Her first lover’s protective shell had wrapped completely about her soul, no matter her level of awareness. Elisibet did not need protecting, did not want it. Those rare times in the beginning when Margaurethe would forget, giving in to her need to wrap Elisibet in a blanket of security, always ended disastrously. It was if, in order to deny her weakness, to prove her strength, the Tyrannos would go out of her way to contrive insult from one person or another so that she could punish them in the most drastic way possible. She had an uncanny sense of people, always going for their weakest points, whether it was as simple an act as public humiliation or as horrible as peeling the skin from their muscle with excruciating slowness.

It did not take long for Margaurethe to stop trying.

Margaurethe had carried the youth in that relationship, the first decades a revelation as she grew in power and experience. She came to love Elisibet with fanatical fervor, refusing to see her faults, to see the reality of her people’s plight as they writhed beneath a butcher’s grip. When Elisibet dallied with other women, it was never her fault. Margaurethe knew Elisibet’s very blood ran to excess, and women always flirted with her. Elisibet could not help but respond.

Her lips thinned at the recollections of her youthful delusions. Truth be told, Elisibet could have been monogamous had she tried. Being with Jenna seemed to have broken through the idealized view Margaurethe had held of the tyrannos for centuries. There were so many things that had happened, so many hints and portents that should have caused her to flee the palace, return to the O’Toole estates, and save herself not only a broken heart, but near insanity. Why had she stayed?

She put aside the old question, knowing it would never be answered to completion. Now she had a new one to ponder and, hopefully answer before she had to make a similar choice.

Last night, I met an online friend for the first time in RL. We had dinner and lots of fun. She’s a writer, as well. Check out Shaken, from Cavalier Press.

Jenna has made it through her first public function as the Vasilissa without losing her dinner. She’s now interviewing a woman who is applying for the position of chambermaid, a replacement for the traitorous Andri Sigmarrson.

She returned to her history. “When Huan-Tsang returned to his land to become a monk, I went with him. From there it was a simple matter of finding the kingdom of the Asian Sanguire.”

A flash of memory from Elisibet broadsided Jenna. An Asian woman knelt before her in full Japanese regalia; her slender form hid an immense level of power, a siren’s call to Elisibet. Margaurethe, still connected to Jenna, also picked up the scene. A quick stab of distaste and jealousy flowed across the link before she blocked it, and Jenna raised an eyebrow at her.

Oblivious of the disturbance, Sithathor continued. “I eventually served Her Most Exalted Empress Tairo-no-Mitsuko in one form or another over several decades. My duties included cooking, food tasting, cleaning, and a few years as her lady-in-waiting.”

Still distracted by the conflicting emotions between Elisibet’s memories and Margaurethe’s responses, it took a moment for Jenna to realize Sithathor had stopped speaking. She cleared her throat, forcing her attention back to the interview. “You . . . um, you said several decades. When did you leave the, ah, empress?”

“In the fourteenth century.”

About the time Elisibet came to power. At least here she had some knowledge, from both her extended historical sessions with Castillo, and Elisibet’s memories. “If I recall, the empress signed a treaty with the European Sanguire in the fourteenth century. Did you travel with her entourage?”

Sithathor looked regretful. “No, Your Majesty. I had already left the employ of Her Most Exalted Empress by that time. I’ve spent the intervening years as a pilgrim of sorts, in the manner of Huan-Tsang.”

Jenna’s natural paranoia, honed from years of living on the street, reared its head. Interesting that this woman would be so close to meeting Elisibet, yet miss it by a hair. Did she hear of the tyrannos’ excessive violence, and leave the Asian realm before Mitsuko arrived? Or did Sithathor’s absence from Elisibet’s realm hold a more sinister meaning?

Elisibet’s unfortunate ability to see a web of deception with plot entwined inside plot made seeing reality much more difficult. Half the time, Jenna did not know what was true, and what was imagination as far as court intrigue went. She refrained from rubbing the bridge of her nose in irritation.

The fact of the matter was that this woman had extensive experience serving Sanguire royalty. She seemed almost loyal to a fault, though that alone was reason to be suspicious. Having had no extended contact with the European Sanguire, why would she be so dedicated to Jenna, a woman she had never met? Yet Margaurethe had grilled her at least once, Sithathor had made it through a thorough scrutiny from security, and apparently her credentials had been verified.

Jenna wondered about that last. Did security do the deed, or did Margaurethe contact the Asian kingdom for the information? Where did that flash of jealousy come from?

Jenna's attending her first official function, despite the fact that the Symbouhera hasn't yet agreed to her royal claims. This is the first time she's been face to face with any of them after forcing them to relocate from Europe to Portland, Oregon. She's standing on the dais in her audience hall without about a hundred people watching her.

Again Margaurethe directed her to the throne. Instead of sitting, Jenna turned to her with a smile. “No. The Symbouhera hasn’t proclaimed me vasilissa, yet. I can’t officially take this chair until they do.”

“You think they will?” Margaurethe asked, tone acidic at being thwarted.

Jenna chuckled. “They’ll have no choice.” She patted her lover’s hand. “But I’ve got to follow legal precedent.”

“Castillo,” Margaurethe said under her breath, the name a curse.

“Yup.” Jenna looked over the people gossiping about her. Bentoncourt had joined Cassadie at the base of the dais, and she tamped down a rush of nerves. “Come on. Let’s get this shit over with before I have a heart attack.”

In context, Anpo has returned Kathleen to her parents' homestead for a visit. Through miscommunication and cultural differences, it's thought she's returning Kathleen to her home permanently. In the native culture, however, the two women are married. It's just been very difficult for Kathleen to get that across to her family due to the stigma of homosexual relationships. Hence, no one knows but the women, and Kathleen has been less than supportive in her joy at seeing her family.

In native culture, 'throwing away' a woman meant divorce.

Stewart waited until he was on the porch to put on his boots, not wanting to rouse the rest of the family from slumber. False dawn crept across the sky, as he slipped his feet into the cold leather, stomping into the yard as he settled into them. Regardless of the early hour, he could not sleep, the excitement of having his sister home coupled with the unusual sounds of someone sleeping in the loft nearby. It had been far too long since he had had to share the space; five years or more since Kathleen had married and left for Stephen’s homestead.

He stretched with an audible groan, and hiked his suspenders over his shoulders before heading toward the barn. Da said the night before he had told that Indian to sleep there. He wondered if she had, or if she bunked down elsewhere. Besides, Stewart was eager to get a closer look at the ponies.

As he walked, he considered his sister’s odd behavior whenever the subject of Anpo came up. He had heard her words, plain as day, when the native said they were joined. He would be damned if he knew what that meant, but whatever it was could not be good. Kathleen blushed furiously, and changed the subject to something else. Stewart kind of felt sorry for the Indian, though. She seemed to be put out by his sister’s tactics.

Wonder what that means, though? Joined? Maybe it just meant they lived together to raise the boy. Or how about adopted? Now there was a thought, Kathleen adopted into an Indian family and all. And who was the father of Teca, anyway, some member of Anpo’s tribe? He discounted that thought almost as soon as it surfaced. The woman dressed in no recognizable style; she obviously came from far away.

The barn door stood slightly ajar, and Stewart pulled it further open. Just like a heathen, he mused. Not even enough sense to close the damned door. He shook the uncharitable thought from his mind. It was not Anpo’s fault she was an Indian, just an accident of birth. Besides, she had Kathleen’s friendship, so she could not be all bad.

The interior was murky, and he stood still to allow his eyes to adjust. Soon, he made out the stalls where the ponies stayed, and he eased closer. Somewhere in here was Anpo, and he did not want to scare her into something rash.

His fears were baseless, however, when he saw her watching him from the last stall. Her horse was saddled with one of those uncomfortable looking contraptions, her belongings tied in place. As his sight grew better, he realized she looked pretty ragged. Doesn’t look like she’s slept at all.

“Where is Ketlin?”

It took a moment before he recognized his sister’s name. “She’s still asleep,” he said, wondering at the hoarseness of her voice. If he did not know better, it appeared Anpo had had a really difficult night. Her eyes were reddened, her face looking gaunt and drawn. “Want me to wake her?”

“Hiya.” She made a sharp gesture with her thumb, and turned away.

Deciding her response was negative, Stewart leaned against one of the stalls and watched. Her movements were rigid, hard edged. He had no experience with her people, but he could almost swear the Indian was close to tears. Scoffing to himself, he put that thought out of his mind. From what he had heard over the years, these people did not cry or mourn, at least not in a way he was familiar with.

She bundled up a fur, lashing it tight to her saddle. Then she backed the pony out of the stall, leading it toward the door.

Stewart frowned and followed. “You going for a ride?” he asked. He would have thought she would stay around a little longer, at least to say good-bye to Kathleen.

“I am going back to my people.”

Not for the first time, he considered that these people were bizarre. Didn’t they have emotions like everybody else? Stewart could tell that Kathleen thought highly of Anpo; it was evident every time she looked at the native the day before. He had assumed Anpo felt the same way. If she did, she sure had a funny way of showing it, though.

They came out of the barn together. Stewart saw the yard clearly, the sky beginning to turn pink with dawn. Without further discussion, Anpo mounted her pony, pausing to stare at the cabin.

“Are you sure you don’t need anything? I know da wouldn’t mind giving you supplies for your trip.”

“You have nothing I need.”

The voice was icy, and Stewart felt a wave of anger. Ungrateful animal, he thought. “Then maybe you have a message for Kathleen?” he asked, his voice echoing Anpo’s. He must have hit a nerve because she froze, hardly breathing, and her dark skin paled. Shocked, he wondered if she was going to faint.

“Tell her-” Anpo’s voice broke.

Stewart stared at the emotion running just beneath the stoic surface. Good heavens, she’s really torn up about leaving. He urged himself to step forward, to offer consolation to this stranger who had helped his sister survive.

Before he could act, Anpo regained control of herself. She dug into a pouch attached to her saddle, pulling out a tin whistle. The instrument had been decorated with leather and feathers. She held it out to Stewart.

He stepped forward, reaching for the toy, barely catching it as it tumbled from Anpo’s hand.

“Tell her I throw her away,” she said, jaw clenching.

Before Stewart could get her to clarify her statement, she wheeled her pony and rode away from the cabin.

“Throw her away?” he questioned the empty dooryard. “What the hell does that mean?” A horse nickered in the barn, and he shook his head. He would ask Kathleen when she woke. For now, he pocketed the whistle and returned to the animals, remembering his desire to get a closer look at the ponies left behind.

No writing. Read a kewl story written by a friend of mine. Car chases, conspiracies, and kidnappings. It should be a really good book if she finds a publisher!

Here's a snippet cuz I'm tired and uninspired and it's something to do to keep me awake for another five or ten minutes.

Jenna has received the news that her valet, Andri, actually saw her crazy looking spy, Reynhard, going into the library the night of the murder. (And no, I’m not going to tell you who died, yet.) Following an intense scene where she gets the information directly from her valet’s mind and sends her advisors away . . .

Jenna sighed, and glanced at the clock on the mantle. Margaurethe had been gone for forty-five minutes. Her frown, which was becoming a permanent expression, deepened. What was taking so long?

A spark of alarm flared and her heartbeat picked up. Reynhard was older than Margaurethe; not by much, but he had greater strength. Would he . . .?

Not liking this train of thought, she cast out with her mind, searching for the familiar sensation of her lover.

There was nothing there.

“He wouldn’t!” Jenna bolted from her chair and out the door. The hallway was empty, nothing appearing amiss. Margaurethe had not even had time to put a guard on Jenna. A wave of wariness flooded her, wondering if Margaurethe had ordered a guard to remain with Jenna at all times. That would have been her first priority.

Forcing herself to calm down, Jenna expanded her awareness to the other rooms on this floor. Nothing. Upstairs were the servants’ quarters, and below were the main rooms of the house. Margaurethe had been seeing to their evening meal; she would have made her way to the kitchen. Jenna went downstairs.

Several lights were on in the foyer. It was rare for the main areas of the house to be shut down for any length of time as the security detail worked twenty-four hours. The basement was their domain, set up with a barracks of sorts and a common room filled with books and electronic gear to keep them entertained. Jenna kept her focus, mentally sniffing the immediate area for hidden Sanguire. Had the mysterious symboulos sent a Human as he had the last time, she would never feel his presence before an attack. Sanguire could only sense others of their kind.

A glance into the audience chamber showed an empty room. She scanned it closely, just to be sure. Nothing. Jenna stared at the closed library door, bile rising in her throat. An initial probe indicated no one inside. Steeling herself, she threw the door open.

The library had been cleaned up quite well since *****’s murder. She did not smell any hint of the blood that had spilled so copiously about the room. The desk, chair, and carpet were new, and no one was there.

Jenna slumped in relief against the jamb. The idea of seeing Margaurethe, throat torn out and green eyes rheumy with death was terrifying. She swallowed and forced herself to continue the search. Just because Margaurethe was not here, did not mean things were well.

There were voices in the kitchen. Jenna eased toward the door, listening intently. Two or three people talked about the day’s events. She heard various noises indicating they were fixing meals.

Pushing the door open, Jenna stared at three of her security guards. One with unruly blond hair was buttering a piece of toast. She only saw the backside of another as he dug through the refrigerator for something to eat. The third saw her and he froze, a sandwich halfway to his mouth.

Dropping the food, he jumped to his feet. “Your Majesty!”

This galvanized the others as they hastened to follow his lead.

Jenna suddenly realized why Margaurethe always sent servants to deal with the mundane tasks; not so much because the Sanguire Vasilissa was above such things, but because her appearance automatically interrupted whatever anyone was doing.

“I’m looking for Kyria Margaurethe. She was supposed to be down here.”

The three looked at each other, mystified. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” the first said. “We’ve been here for about half an hour and haven’t seen her.”

Could one of them be Reynhard? Would he hire anyone else to assist him? Jenna’s fear stabbed through her as she seized the man’s mind. Despite an irrational desire to shred him, she kept her control, not wanting a repeat of what happened with Father Castillo.*

The others were aware of what happened to their fellow as he stiffened and paled, his face becoming slack. They swallowed, but stood their ground, feeling her mind knife uncomfortably through them.

Jenna’s cursory inspection showed that none of these were the renegade spy. Nor did they have anything to do with him. She released them, regretful as the first guard slumped back into his chair, unable to hold himself up. Forcing herself past the ever-present guilt, she scanned the estate again, still finding no indication of Margaurethe’s presence.

“I can’t find her. She’s either unconscious or she’s not here,” she said. “I want an immediate and full physical search of the estate. And someone call Valmont and the Padre back here.”

“Yes, Your Majesty!”

After they left, toting their recuperating companion with them, Jenna stepped further into the kitchen and sat down. She planted her elbows on the table, and put her face in her shaky hands, fighting the fear beating in her chest.

God help Reynhard if anything happened to Margaurethe.

* Father Castillo got a little too close when she was furious. He had a seizure from the mental attack and spent two full days in a dark room in bed recuperating.

Yesterday's count was 1075 and today's is 1055. Things are progressing much faster now that the funeral's over. I'm reaching the final heat. All hel is going to break loose very soon. A kidnapping, Valmont's recent activities revealed, an assassin to hunt, and Jenna realizing that Elisibet is much closer in her heart than she wants. Should be quite entertaining. I'm thinking I've got a minimum of 5 chapters…possibly up to 8 left to go. (Working on 20 right now.)

The assassin is speaking with his employer after he killed someone at Jenna’s home who discovered him.

“I hired you to do a job. Now do it!”

“Aye, you hired me to do a job. And I will. But in my own time.”

“If you don’t kill her before she can be returned to the Symbouhera, you’ll have failed. Not only will you not get the remainder of your fee, but I’ll see to it that you’l follow her into the grave.”

His expression became cold and he leaned forward. “You threaten me?”

“You’re a rabid dog I’ve sent to attack another. If you fail, you’re useless to me, and a danger to everyone else. I’ll put you down. Count on it.”

He remained silent, eyes closed and teeth gritted. Finally, he said, “Your job will be done, and you’ll pay me what you owe.” He paused, opening his eyes. “But you’d better consider ‘putting me down’ anyway, gov. Because I’ll be looking for you next.”

Disconnecting the line, he tossed the phone onto the table. “Cheeky bastard.”

He nursed his drink, ordering another when it got low.

The longer he investigated Davis, the more inclined he was to believe what was said about her. She was Mahar’s Prophecy embodied; the Tyrannos’ soul lived and breathed within hers. What else could account for her successful attack of the priest? He bested her by four hundred years! There was no way a normal youngling would have the strength of will to do as she had done.

It was too bad, really. He actually liked the girl. If left to her own devices, chances were good she would make a tremendous and positive impact on their people. He remembered what it was like living in Elisibet’s time – the backbiting, the squabbling over her attentions, and the fear of attracting her jaundiced interest. Given what he had observed so far, he doubted those evil times would be repeated.

Unless his employer preferred to step into the Tyrannos’ slippers, of course, which seemed a highly likely prospect.

Castillo bowed perfunctorily, and filed past Jenna to the kitchen. The stranger held the door and Valmont followed. When they were safe inside the next room, Castillo sighed mightily and turned his attention to the newcomer.

He looked like a picture of a clown done in black and white. Three dark Mohawks striped his head, and he wore shiny leather, vinyl and chains. Castillo wondered if this was someone Jenna had met at Tribulations last night, but a glance at Valmont’s suspicious expression denied it. Surely the archon would know this man if they did.

“Archon Valmont!”the man said with an obsequious grin and a bow. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen you. Tell me, how’s the winery business these days, eh? I hear the crops are doing quite well this year.”

Valmont peered closely at the Gothic buffoon. “Reynhard?”

“Oh!” Dorst patted his chest in a parody of joy. “You remember. I’m so pleased.”

Castillo tried to remember the name, finding it vaguely familiar. Where had he heard it? He looked at Valmont for clues, surprised to see a disgusted curl to the man’s lips.

“Who could forget Elisibet’s chief spy? Tell me,” Valmont said, “Why is it that you never knew of the plot against her? I’ve always wanted to ask, but you disappeared before you could be put to the question.”

“Ah, well, you see,” Dorst said, eyes twinkling, “That would be revealing secrets, wouldn’t it? Not something to be done in my line of work, you know.”

Castillo’s eyebrows rose. “Reynhard Dorst?”

“Father Castillo! It’s such a pleasure to meet you. The Basilissa has had nothing but good things to say about you.” Dorst reached out and firmly shook his hand.

“Just how long have you been back?” Valmont asked, pushing rudely forward.

Dorst’s humor faded into mock seriousness. “Well, just an hour or so this time. I’ve been away on a little errand for the Basilissa for the last few weeks.”

Castillo saw a spark of fury in Valmont’s hazel eyes, something that had not occurred throughout Margaurethe’s attack. More secrets to be learned then. What was the story behind these two? And did Margaurethe share Valmont’s opinion, or was she comfortable in the presence of Dorst?

Basilissa is a Greek word for queen or empress. As I've mentioned earlier, I've mixed up Greek and Maori to create the Sanguire language. More Greek than anything, however. Archon is the closest to 'Lord' I could find, a word the Maori never had.

“I’m not a vampire, Gin,” Jenna insisted, rolling her eyes. She did not release her friend, squeezing the fingers holding hers. “I’m Sanguire. There is a difference.”

The sincerity in her voice must have triggered something for Gin peered closely at her.”What are the differences, muchacha?”

Put on the spot, Jenna did not know what to say at first. She lifted her shoulders in a slow shrug, mouth open as she tried to find the words. A sudden memory of Castillo breaking the news to her about her people almost made her chuckle with a wave of nervous laughter. It had sounded so ridiculous then; it certainly would not sound any less far fetched now.

“The differences. Uh, let’s see. We can walk around in daylight, for one. Garlic and crosses and shit don’t really work. We don’t turn into wolves or mists or bats. A Sanguire can’t hypnotize a victim or anything.” She leaned forward, pale eyes lighting with excitement as she ticked off more dissimilarities. “We can’t change a Human to a Sanguire by biting them! There are lots of differences, Gin.”

“Then how are Sanguire the same as vampires?”

Jenna, warming to her topic, said, “Well, we have better hearing and sense of smell and stuff. We can move faster than Humans can. We live longer.” She interrupted herself before Gin could. “But not forever. Sanguire aren’t immortal; we just take longer to age.”

“Do these Sanguire drink blood?”

Her enthusiasm waned, and she blinked at her friend. “Yes.”

Gin’s expression contorted in concern. “Have you drunk any blood, chica?”

Jenna did not understand the wave of shame slamming through her. Perhaps Valmont was right; she had been raised with Humans. She thought of herself as one of them, regardless of her circumstances. She stared at the floor, her answer evident.

Swearing in Spanish, Gin rose and began pacing the room.

“Gin-”

“No!” The agitated woman stopped to point imperiously at Jenna. “We are leaving, chica, and that is final! I don’t know what kind of people these are to fill your head with such lies. And I don’t want to know. Pack your things. You bullied them into letting you go last night; do it again.”

Jenna stood. She approached her friend, hands held wide at her sides. “It’s true, Gin. All of it.”

“No! These people are fucked in the head, J.D.! And you’ve always wanted to be a vampire or something cool like that.” She tapped her temple with a sun brown finger. “I remember what you were like after that movie, damn it. It was all you could talk about for weeks. These people are no good. They feed you bullshit and you lap it up.” Gin turned to the clothes she had discarded the night before, shoving them viciously into her backpack.

“Gin. Look at me.” Something in her voice must have cut through Gin’s fear as the woman froze. For that was what this was, fear. Jenna could smell it clearly. It was not the same horror that Misty had given off the night before. This was dread for Jenna, alarm for a friend who seemed to be mentally losing it. “Gin?”

“You believe this, don’t you?” Gin asked, her voice barely a whisper as she turned, still holding her backpack in one hand and a pair of stockings in the other.

“I don’t want to scare you, but I have to do this,” Jenna said. She held her hands out in a calming gesture. “You’re safe with me, okay?”

Gin’s eyes narrowed but she did not argue, only nodded her head in understanding.

Jenna opened her mouth, revealing normal looking teeth. With a thought, her fangs extended. It was a natural extension – no indication of fake teeth being popped into place, no masking her mouth as she popped a handful of plastic fangs into her mouth – and that was why she did it. Gin would know what she witnessed was real.

The backpack hit the floor. Gin’s eyes were wide as she stumbled backwards. When the back of her knees hit the bed, she sat with an inglorious grunt.

Poor Gin! Talk about rude awakenings!

Jenna's discovered that fear is a great motivator for her hunger, that she enjoys it a lot more than lust. Unfortunately, it also disgusts the hel out of her because she's lived as a Human for so many years. And Valmont is a good little contagonist, luring her to the dark side with well thought out arguments.

We'll see if Jenna can remain Jenna through this book or not.

Misty began to cry, her sobs punctuated by pleading. She had all but forgotten Jenna’s presence until inadvertently bumping into her as she tried to avoid Valmont. Terrified, the woman gasped and jerked away, then decided to appeal to another female.

“Please! Don’t do this. Don’t let him do this.”

Jenna staggered under a wave of hunger. The fear from Valmont’s prey was strong, rolling away from her as ripples in a still pool disturbed. Jenna had never felt anything like this. The desire to sink her teeth into their prey’s flesh hit her with such strength, she bared her fangs.

The woman recoiled, eyes wide. She attempted to put as much space between them as possible, and backed into Valmont who wrapped his arm around her.

Using his free hand to pull the prey’s head to one side, he asked, “Would you like the first taste?”

Jenna did not know which was worse, this aching need to appease her hunger or the absolute revulsion threatening her. Unable to speak from the ongoing war within, she shook her head.

“Suit yourself.” Valmont promptly attacked the woman in his arms, holding her tight as she struggled against him, ignoring the shrieks piercing the room as he suckled her life’s blood from her neck.

Misty passed out, the abrupt silence deafening. Jenna,;s ears still rang with the sound, and she swallowed thickly against her need. Stumbling forward, it was as if her body had its own will. The smell of fear and blood overwhelmed her.

Valmont finished, a grin on his lips as he licked them. He held the woman’s slack body in his arms and readjusted her, revealing the other side of her throat. “Go ahead. It’s still good.”

Unable to hold back, Jenna sank her teeth into the offering. The blood was hot, and it tasted of smoke and seared flesh and tears. It soothed an ache deep within Jenna she did not know was there, one that had always dwelled in the darkness of her soul. Or was it in Elisibet’s soul?

When she had drunk her fill, she disengaged. Valmont had pulled away at some point and she held the unconscious Misty in her arms. The woman seemed on the verge of wakefulness, murmuring weakly, brow flickering with confusion. Jenna glanced around the room and finally carried her to a table, laying her gently upon it.

“Well, that was nice.” Valmont went to the door and unlocked it. “Come on.”

Boss called me in to work early today. Blech. I'm betting I have graveyard shift on Saturday night. He promised to give me a looooong weekend if I came in early today. (i.e. he's attempting to bribe me with the holiday and four days off so I'll work graveyard without complaint.)

As she watched, she began to note the disparities between Human and Sanguire. Before she Turned, she had not only been oblivious to the existence of her people but did not know any. Jenna had been drawn to Castillo when they had met but did not understand why. Since her Turning, she had been sequestered away for her own safety, the aborted assassination attempt by Rufus Barrett giving rise to the threat against her life. She had been surrounded by Sanguire security ever since, her only Human contact being Vessels brought to feed her and the arrival of her friend, Gin.

The differences were subtle, hardly noticeable to someone not looking for them. The Humans, of which there were many, acted as they always did in this sort of atmosphere. They focused on drinking, dancing, and having a good time. Their short lives necessitated a certain level of franticness to their actions, as if they subconsciously knew they could die any day and wanted to experience the most possible before that happened. Their mode of dress ranged from Euro trash to historical garb as they pretentiously attempted to express vampiric personas, completely unaware of the Sanguire among them.

Jenna’s people however had hundreds of years on their hands, and it showed. They moved fluidly and at a more sedate pace. Their voices were low, and their gestures smooth as they conversed, flirted, and seduced their Human prey. When they danced, it was for themselves; when they made eye contact, it was to pass hidden messages to their friends; when they focused on a Human, it was an elaborate hunt for food.

The idea of a Human / Sanguire pairing came to Jenna’s mind again. She saw, at least here, such a relationship would be impossible. Her people seemed only to see Humans as prey and nothing more. Was it natural for a Sanguire to feel superior to Humans? Or did this supremacy come about from years of indoctrination into Sanguire society?

“What’s your bias?”

His grin was mocking. “I prefer fear. Something I picked up from your predecessor.”

When she did not respond, Valmont glanced at Jenna to find her eyes distant as they stared out the window. Another memory? He entertained himself with conjecture about which one. Her expression was chill as she remembered, and Valmont felt another tremor in his heart at his rainha’s reappearance. She felt so much like Elisibet at this moment. He half expected her to turn, and give him a sarcastic smile and comment.

Jenna turned to him, her face solemn. “I don’t think I’m able to induce fear like her.”

The illusion shattered, Valmont swallowed and turned his attention to his driving. Somehow the admission made her seem far more real to him than anything else. “I think you can. You just need the proper motivation.”

They continued in silence, both wrapped in their thoughts and memories.

I'm really liking the way Valmont and Jenna interact.

This last chapter reintroduces Jenna's street friend, Gin, from the first book. It's been six months since Jenna disappeared from the streets. She hasn't had any contact with anyone and is really homesick for her previous life and her best friend. So, she invites Gin to visit her. The scene is from Gin's point of view.

“In answer to your first question, My Liege is another way of saying Your Majesty.”

Gin took a drink of her soda as the import of J.D.’s statement sank in. Sputtering, she barely refrained from inhaling the liquid, and tears stung her eyes as carbonation backed up to burn her nose. She coughed and sat the glass back on the table with shaky hands. “What did you say?” she demanded.

J.D.’s skin flushed, and she had trouble meeting Gin’s eyes. “I think you heard me well enough.”

“They think you’re -” Gin abruptly realized the loudness of her voice and dropped it to a whisper, leaning forward to be heard. “They think you’re their queen?”

Her response was a nod.

Gin slumped back in her seat and stared at J.D. “Good Lord, I knew you had a great scam going here, but this?”

J.D. chuckled and Gin could not help but join her. The thought of these people mistaking a street kid for royalty topped any tall tale she had heard on the streets. Hadn’t there been a children’s story like that? Some prince who swapped places with a poor kid?

Their laughter, triggered by nerves, finally faded, the last of their mutual discomfort disappearing. J.D. slid the tray closer to them, offering Gin a sandwich. They ate as they talked.

“So all this security is for you then?”

“Yeah. There are two dozen guards roaming around at any given time.”

Gin frowned at her half eaten sandwich. “Which explains why you’re technically able to leave but not really.”

J.D.’s smile was rueful. “Yeah.”

“So, I was right. You are trapped.”

“Trapped?” The woman raised an eyebrow. “Where’d that come from?”

“Just something I thought of one we drove up to the house. I was feeling sort of trapped with all the guards and the gate and stuff. I wondered if you felt that way, too.”

J.D. grinned. “Yeah, I guess I do feel trapped sometimes. Not much to be done about it, though.”

Gin finished her lunch. “You can always leave, J.D. Just because they believe you’re some royalty, doesn’t mean it’s true.”

Next up! Valmont takes Jenna hunting for the first time.

When he put his mind to it, Valmont could easily remember the bright days of his youth. Nahib had fostered Valmont after his Turning; both he and Bertrada had shown him the ways of Elisibet’s court – the proper etiquette, who of the lords and ladies to avoid for their iniquity or ineptitude, which of them were honorable and decent. When Valmont was finally presented to Elisibet at court, all he could see were those pale eyes.

He fell in love with her then. Valmont wondered what would have happened to him had he been delayed in his presentation. What if it had been a few more centuries before they had met? Would he have felt the same knowing how Elisibet murdered her own people as viciously as she did Humans? Certainly by then he would have known Nahib’s political complaints regarding Elisibet's rule, and perhaps would have agreed with his mentor.

Of course, Valmont knew Elisibet preferred feminine company when he met her. Her predilections were hardly secret with Lady Margaurethe constantly at her side, on the dais or in her bed. He knew his love for this stern queen would never result in a dalliance. Valmont satisfied himself with being in her presence, enjoying her companionship, and becoming her friend. He satisfied his lusts elsewhere, never settling on one woman. For only one woman held his attention.

Valmont realized his glass was empty. His fingers found the bottle on the floor beside his chair and he picked it up, pouring another glass.

He had long ago claimed his fair share of guilt. He had no doubt that much of what happened with Elisibet was magnified by his presence. The pair of them seemed to urge each other on to greater depravities as time passed, daring each other to come up with more and more gruesome punishments and executions. Valmont wondered if Elisibet would have reached those heights – or was it depths – without him to help escalate matters. Poor Margaurethe had little recourse but to leave the room when the pair of them got started; she had learned earlier on that arguing over ethics and morals only annoyed her lover.

Valmont frowned. Had Margaurethe been as jealous of him as he had been of her? There was a thought. Why had it never occurred to him before? It would certainly make her behavior more understandable. After these last months, she could not still be worried he would murder Jenna. Perhaps she had seen the dangerous potential more clearly than he, had seen how easy it would be to slip into the same trap they had all been cursed with before.

I read Writing the Breakout Novel by Donald Maas when I brainstormed the first book. One of the questions was: Why should I care? What is the worst thing that could happen to your Main Character? Make that happen. In the first book, I realized that Jenna had no serious repercussions in the whole thing so I made the entire act of Turning into a MUST DO. If she didn't finish, she'd go insane and become a Nosferatu like creature.

But in this book, the death threat is still there. I don't want it to simply be a repeat of the first one. (Assassin hired, goes in for the kill, loses, ho hum. Didn't we read this before?) So I applied the same question to this book. Jenna no longer fears death, per se. Well, other than the fears we all face, yes? Instead, she fears losing Margaurethe and perhaps becoming another tyrant like Elisibet.

So, yes, this book will cover both. These beginning issues with Margaurethe will escalate over the course of the book and Elisibet's anger and control will begin to surface in Jenna. Should put a different spin on things.

(A spook from Elisibet's past has arrived on the scene to offer his services to the new queen. Margaurethe is unaware of his arrival until she feels some surprise from Jenna and arrives with the cavalry.)

Her demeanor one of over protective parent, Margaurethe insinuated herself between Dorst and Jenna. “Why are you here?”

“To swear fealty to our new Queen, of course. Isn’t that proper etiquette for the followers of a monarch?”

Despite the apparent belief he was a threat, Margaurethe turned her back on him to look at Jenna across the table. “Is this true?”

“Yes. It’s been done, Margaurethe. He’s sworn his oath to me and I’ve accepted him as an advisor.”Jenna did not mention that she had also accepted Castillo, Valmont and Margaurethe in the same capacity with no vow from them. The woman already chafed under Jenna’s attempts to take control. Any discussion of the problem between them should occur in private.

Her lips thinned and emerald eyes, which so recently reflected understanding, snapped with irritation. Whirling about, Margaurethe glared at Dorst. “You advised Elisibet during her reign and then disappeared rather than defend her honor after she was brutally murdered. I will never forget such cowardice, Reynhard.”

He raised his eyebrows at the attack.

“Margaurethe!”

The woman jumped at the sharp word.

Jenna stood behind the table, anger in every line. “Thank you, Margaurethe. You’re opinion is noted,” she said, her voice controlled. “Please, leave us.”

Margaurethe gaped at Jenna and swallowed. Her olive skin blanched as she realized she crossed a subtle line between them. She opened her mouth to speak.

“Please.” Jenna’s expression softened. “I’ll be fine.”

After a minor hesitation, Margaurethe bowed her head. She swept past Dorst who remained silent until the door closed behind her.

Ahhh…trouble in paradise.

“Why do you hunt when there are Vessels to be had everywhere?”

His eyebrows rose. Such was the way with Jenna; one minute discussing the weather and the next a refreshingly direct question or comment. “Because we are born to hunt, not feed off Humans like cattle.”

Jenna lifted a shoulder, and looked away as if bored. “What difference does it make? Blood is blood. A Vessel is always available.”

Valmont smiled. “So sayeth one who has never hunted.”

“Then what’s the attraction?”

Instead of answering, he posed a question. “Do you enjoy feeding from a Vessel?”

She pursed her lips, eyes narrow and unfocused. “I feel better when I’ve finished,” she said. “I enjoy it to the extent that I enjoyed eating this sandwich. It fills the need.”

He edged forward on his seat, and placed his elbows on the table, hands crossed before him. “But it tastes different when you go to the kitchen and make it yourself, doesn’t it? You can pick and choose the ingredients depending on what appeals to you at the moment. Some days you use a bit more mustard than others, others Swiss cheese instead of cheddar. You have control of your palate.”

Jenna’s gaze appeared preoccupied. He wondered if she saw a distant memory of Elisibet’s. It happened quite frequently in his presence, as if their discussions held the keys to unlock the Tyrant’s past.

“I understand the analogy.”

Valmont smiled. “I much prefer rummaging through the refrigerator to having my meals served upon demand.”

Hats off to rummaging through the refrigerator!

Born of Silence should be finished within the next week! YAY!!! Less than 4.5 months to write a novel! I'm full of myself! Of course, then I get to set it aside before editing. I have no clue what else to do after I'm finished. Usually, I allow myself a couple of days break between projects, the end will occur before the finish of the April / May Dare at Forward Motion. I have to keep writing 1k a day to finish the word count dare.

I suppose I'll beef up more of the Sanguire and they're background. I can still do quite a bit of character building, begin plotting the next book, add more to the Encyclopedia. Not only cover my last World Building Dare but prep me for beginning book two. Haven't a clue as to title. What were the words in that System of a Down song that intrigued me . . . ? Angels Deserve to Die? Might be a good working title for the time being.

And to top it off, the budding romance between Jenna and Margaurethe is just that – budding. By now, my MCs have already been to bed together, end of story. Since I'm taking it a lot slower, so are they. (Much to their chagrin, I'm sure! LOL!)

Jenna fought an urge to cry, ignoring the lump in her throat as she sat on the bed. “The part of me that’s Elisibet misses you terribly. It would be so easy to slip into that role. But some day you’d realize I was a stranger and leave me. I can’t allow that to happen.”

Margaurethe moved forward to kneel at Jenna’s feet, a concerned expression on her face. Taking one of the woman’s hands in hers, she said, “I’ll not leave you, Jenna.”

“When you see me instead of Elisibet, we’ll talk again,” she promised.

“I see you already,” Margaurethe said, her voice as gentle as her touch. “But I understand your fears. They’re valid; I could easily lose myself in the past.”

“I want you for myself.” It was odd, this sense of jealousy for someone long dead, someone she remembered being. It was odd feeling jealousy at all; Jenna had never wanted something as badly as she wanted Margaurethe. Not only on a physical level, but to hold her heart close, to protect her from the world’s ills, to submerge herself into Margaurethe’s being until they became one.

Margaurethe’s touch soothed her, fingers brushing the frown from her brow, caressing her cheek. She gave Jenna a soft kiss on the lips.

Startled by the gesture, Jenna broke from her angered thoughts to stare at her friend.

“Perhaps you and I could court one another?” Margaurethe suggested. “I’m afraid I missed out on that particular aspect of things with Elisibet. She was a powerful woman who always got her way. While I loved her with all my heart, there was little doubt our relationship was in her hands and her hands only.”

Jenna’s eyes unfocused, remembering the words said in her voice so long ago. “I want her.” A smile grew on her face as she returned to the present. “I’d like that,&” she said, stroking the back of her knuckles along Margaurethe’s upturned face. “That would be fun.”

“It’s settled then. We take things slow. Together.”

“Together.”

Jenna’s mouth watered and all her senses focused on what was happening on the other side of the curtain. She heard the rustling of cloth, the faint squeak of rubber as a strip was tied about the woman’s arm, and the faint click of plastic on plastic as the nurse uncapped a syringe.

The odor undid her. Rich and thick and sweet, it called to Jenna. She felt an odd sensation in her mouth. Running her tongue along her teeth, she came in contact with fangs where none had been before and her eyes widened. The strangeness in her mouth distracted her from the activity beyond the curtain and she sat back, carefully exploring the fangs with her tongue.

Imagine her surprise, huh?

Work late tonight. Probably won't make the last bus so I'm already preparing to stay at the hotel, just in case. S'okay. It'll give me a chance to wander downtown tomorrow morning before work. I can get my writing done at Coffee People and pick up that Fibromyalgia book I've been eyeballing.

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Yesterday, I did nothing but try to stay awake after 4 hours sleep so I could be up in time this morning. Get to do it again Thursday morning since I work graveyard Wednesday night. Woo hoo . . .

My last post, I said I'd written nothing. I changed that. Pumped out 1931 words of world building. Maxed my World Building Dare out. I finished the outline for a space pirates story and did a complete outline for the 1800's mail order bride tale. Still a little stumped on the next scene of <U>Born of Silence</U>. I guess I'll spend my next day or two finishing out the character sketches for the Sanguire Council.

And a bit from the Sanguire Encyclopedia:

Sanguire Council – The leading ruling body of the Sanguire, it is made up of five individuals. Historically, the Council worked in conjunction with the sovereign ruler of the Sanguire. They're positions, once acquired, is for life. Since the death of Elisibet the Tyrant, the Council has taken over the rule of the Sanguire race.

For those of you interested in our recent familial crisis, suffice it to say we're shut of the sister-in-law. She hasn't tried to contact us in any way. My wife has officially quit with Mary's case worker and a missing persons report has been filed. Once she's found again, she'll be detained and we'll get her meds to her. After that, it's up to her.

It's sad, really. She's one of the better siblings. I like her. It's a shame to see her toss everything to hang with the liquor bottle.

The Sanguire Encyclopedia is basically my world building tool for Born of Silence and all the other odds and ends. The main goal here is to have an easy to search database for those sudden questions three books later. (Wait! Did Elisibet kill Nahib or Balboa?? Crap!) Saves having to dig through three or four manuscripts to find the exact scene and what have you.

As ideas come to me and I research them, I write an entry for said idea and end it with other topics for cross reference. I can then go back over what I've already got and make the necessary changes. Eventually, I'll also add a timeline of some sort and most general characters will have their own entries. I also have the characters in a separate database with Omni Outliner that gives me much more detail.

As an example, here's the entry for Elisibet the Tyrant, a historical babe with a bloodlust that rivaled Vlad Dracul's.

Elisibet the Tyrant – Elisibet began her reign in 1136. She came to power upon the death of her father, Maximal III. She was young, only thirteen years old, but the Sanguire Council decided to allow her to use the Book and Turn before she reached the age of majority. (It is argued that her young age caused the problems later in her reign.)

By the mid 1500′s, her court was one of gluttony and cruelty. She ruled with an iron hand and a velvet whip. No manner of sadism was too much and more often than not, Elisibet personally involved herself in the bloodletting and tortures. Her only trusted companions were Lord Valmont, a young protege of Councilor Nahib, and Lady Margaurethe O’Toole, her consort.

Toward the end of her reign, Nahib was implicated in a rebellion against her. Elisibet had him thrashed before being drawn and quartered before his lover, Bertrada Nijmege. On a lark, Elisibet then pronounced Nijmege as Nahib’s replacement on the Sanguire Council.

Not long after, Lord Valmont was ordered by the Council to kill Elisibet, thus ending her bloody rule.

My outline didn't have the two MC's coming together for another 24 hours and several scenes. They had other ideas.

Margaurethe’s voice was warm and caring. “That’s quite all right, Jenna. It can’t be easy on the streets.” She leaned down, catching the woman’s eyes, smiling in reassurance. “I only offer a couch, decent food, a place to relax for a day or two until you wish to leave.”

“Why?” Jenna swallowed hard, intently staring at the woman beside her. The question sat between them like a sphinx’s riddle; a wrong answer ready to curse the pair of them.

Seeming to understand the import of the request, Margaurethe said,”I like you, Jenna. I’ve told you before. I want to be your friend.” She smiled. “And this is what friends do.”

Jenna processed the response, her mind becoming more and more sluggish as the food in her belly worked its way on her. It seemed her body had already given her the answer she needed. Relaxing her stance, she nodded wearily. “Yeah. Okay. I want to be your friend, too.”

“Come on, then,” the brunette said, rising from the stool. “Let’s get you somewhere safe and warm.”

Jenna allowed herself to be collected and lead out of Tallulah’s.

*sigh*

Now I have to write the next scene without having the pair of them fall into bed yet. Or giving too much information to Jenna about what's really going on with her.

Wish me luck!

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As soon as she stepped beside him, preparing to continue on, he moved, a startling blur of motion. She gasped at the speed. One moment he stood, arms loosely at his side, grinning. The next he was turned toward her, one hand at his sunglasses, holding them down as he peered at her over the rims, his amusement still evident.

His eyes were hazel, as dusty brown as everything else about him. They were full of sardonic humor, grim sadness and something else.

That’s what started Born of Silence.

I’ve had a shower, prepping to go to work. Take my meds in about fifteen minutes. Reading Infinite Loop by Meghan O’Brien.

Hope I get to work on time. There’s supposed to be a huge anti war protest going on in downtown Portland today. I actually wish I didn’t have to work! LOL! I’d love to take a gander at it – last rumor said they were expecting thirty thousand. Whew! That’s a lot!

Have a great day, people! Happy writing!

Warning! Erotic content!

“Who is she?”

“One of the O’Toole clan.”

The music welled up around Jenna as she watched a younger version of Margaurethe dance about the ballroom, emerald dress flowing gracefully behind her. She danced with a dapper young man who paid her very close attention as he whirled her around.

Jenna scanned the crowd, finding herself inexplicably bored though she’d never attended a dance such as this. She saw Margaurethe’s partner was the envy of all the men. Understandable since the brunette was undoubtedly the most gorgeous woman in the room.

She barely gave the odd clothing a second glance.

As Margaurethe moved closer to her position, Jenna realized she sat on a stage of sorts, a long table stretching out to either side of her. Detritus from a rich meal scattered on a plate in front of her. Before she could focus on her tablemates, the brunette flowed past directly below.

“I want her.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” a familiar yet strange voice said. “I’ll see to it.”

Flash.


Jenna stood at a balcony on a cool spring evening. Though peripherally she noted a city beyond the stone wall, her eyes remained in the garden below. A handful of young women teased and giggled among themselves as they played in a fountain. Their laughter rang off the walls, inviting her to smile in vicarious longing. She sensed that it had been some time since she’d felt as carefree as these women, despite the fact they were of an age with her.

Musicians played somewhere, their music less stuffy than the previous night’s dinner. Torches flickered here and there, providing illumination as the sky turned gray and then a deep blue. Stars slowly spread across the darkening sky, jewels across the vast quilt of night. None of them sparkled as much as the jewel in the garden, however.

The women were either daughters of nobility or their handmaidens. It was hard to determine which at this point, as all manner of haughty decorum had long been long abandoned in light of the water play.

Jenna remained in shadows, watching the intriguing O’Toole as she stood dripping beside the fountain. Her dark hair was damp, wilted ringlets hanging about her head, generous lips opened in startled laughter at someone else’s antics. Her dress, a simple affair of burgundy hung tight against her body, showing off a delectable feminine form. Jenna tested the air, searching, locating Margaurethe’s scent, a spicy odor that promised fire and sweetness.

As if aware of her audience, the O’Toole paused in her play, looking up at the balcony. Several moments passed, Jenna’s eyes meeting hers, knowing the woman could detect her outline in the shadows, could see the gentle glow of her pale eyes.

Margaurethe’s eyes dropped away decorously, a delicate blush coloring her skin. Another girl ran by, startling her and she automatically splashed her playmate, receiving a thorough drenching in response. When she looked up at the balcony again, her shy smile was an inviting one.

Jenna felt the full effect of arousal flood through her body.

“I want her,” she whispered.

Flash.

She sat at a small table in her room, fire blazing nearby, a light repast spread out before her. Across the table, brilliant green eyes regarded her in coy flirtation.

Margaurethe’s lips curved into a smile as tasted something or other from the meal before them. “These are very good, Your Majesty,” she said, her voice a musical lilt.

Jenna didn’t answer, too intent on this vision licking her rich red lips, something she vowed to do herself. She leaned back in her armchair, lazily swirling the contents of her glass around as she watched with hooded eyes. Both of them knew it was only a matter of time before Jenna took her.

But they had plenty of time.

Flash.

Those lips, swollen from many kisses, opened as Margaurethe cried out. She leaned back against the corner of a four-poster bed, one hand holding the carved wood, steadying herself. The other was buried in Jenna’s hair, fingers digging into her scalp. Her naked thighs spread wider, hips hitching as her lover expertly tongued her clitoris.

Jenna breathed in the scent of spice, pleased at her catch. The brunette writhed against her touch, the sight and sound setting Jenna’s heart pounding uncontrollably. Unable to hold herself away, she dived back into the heady taste, slaking her thirst with the liquid fire of Margaurethe’s arousal.

Flash.