Three Authors Who Deserve More Notice

All right, if we're naming three people who haven't quite gotten, in my mind, their due, I'm going to be DEEPLY biased.  These are all friends, and I'm plugging them.

Amanda Downum.  Her Necromancer Chronicles do brilliant things with necromancy, moving away from it as a "dark" magical art, and making her heroine, Isyllt, a magic forensic pathologist of sorts.  Part spy, part investigator, all awesome.  Start with The Drowning City.

Stina Leicht.  Her two Fey and the Fallen are lyrical and poetic yet STILL hit like a hammer to the chest.  Fair warning, the third chapter of Of Blood and Honey is rough, but it isn't pulling any punches.  And I'm deeply looking forward to her space opera gender-flipped Magnificent Seven coming out next year, Persephone Station.

Rowenna Miller.  My co-host for Worldbuilding for Masochists has two books out so far in her Unraveled Kingdom series: Torn and Fray, and I highly recommend you get those and delight in them.

That's all from me: I've got miles to cover and words to mine.  See you out there.

Reading recs you need to get all over

You know how when you see a movie or a TV show and you suddenly need all your friends to watch it too so you can talk about it? That's how I am with books. I have forced my husband to read sooo many things. (Don't feel sorry for him; he's done the same with me, and we both have experienced plenty of happy surprises.)

At any rate, I'm gonna do that now to you. Right now. Brace for it.

You need to read:

Sharon Lynn Fisher, writer of science fiction romance and other assorted awesomeness. Once upon a time, she judged a contest that I entered, and when I read her scores--which she kindly signed--I looked her up. I read her books, all the time thinking, Holy wow this is the person who read my crap? Because she has oodles of talent and I want to be just like her when writer-me grows up.

Her next book, The Absinthe Earl (Irish fairies, absinthe, an earl, and "a door sealed for centuries"), comes out in October but is pre-oderable now. I adored both Ghost Planet ("a world where every colonist is tethered to an alien who manifests in the form of a dead loved one") and The Ophelia Prophecy (who knew genetic engineering could be so sexy and so, er, buggy at the same time?), both of which are just sitting there ready to be clicked on.

Of course, the reason I started writing science fiction romance in the first place was Catherine Asaro. She was already a legend when I saw her speak on a convention panel years and years ago, and she was so in-your-face that abso-freakin-lutely her hard-SF books had kissing in them, and none of the shocked and horrified dudes on the panel with her dared say anything about it. Maybe because she's awesome. Maybe because she has more scientific advanced degrees than all of them combined. I dunno. At any rate, the first book of hers that I read was The Phoenix Code (android nookie! scientist heroine!), but her Skolian Empire books are sublime. She started a new spin-off series in that world a few years back, the latest of which was published in 2017. I hope she continues writing those books because whoa.

Shifting gears a little, the book I'm reading right now is adorable and I want others folks to read it too--so we can talk about it, right. Ha! It's called David Mogo, Godhunter, and it's Suyi Davies Okungbowa's first novel. Although the description calls it "Nigerian god-punk," it's kind of urban fantasy with a Nigerian accent and a wrapping of YA. I'm loving it so far and want the writer to keep going, so buy his stuff. I mean, it's only one book. You can afford it.

And than we can talk.

Book Recs: 3 Fantasy Authors You Need To Read

This week's topic is shining a light on authors who we think you should be reading, aka Book Recommendations.

Side Note: This weekend, the big SFF gathering of WORLDCON went down in Dublin, which was capped off with the HUGO Awards Ceremony (aka, peer-nominated Best Of Genre spanning authors, editors, fanzines, illustrators, TV, and movies.) Check out the nominees and winners here.



1. Aliette de Bodard
Nominated for a Best Series HUGO for her Universe of Xuya (think Chinese-influenced Sherlock with a sentient ship in the role of Watson). These are short stories and novellas. While they're great, I'm putting forth her Dominion of the Fallen UF series because a) dragons, b) gothic Paris in a post-apocalyptic setting. There are three novels (so far) and novelettes. Yes, she won the British Science Fiction Award for the first book in the series.




2. Laura Bickle
Once upon a time, Laura was one of us, a regular blogger on what was then known as the Word Whores. Laura writes YA and adult UF, and I'm a huge fan of her Modern Weird West UF series The Wildlands. When the protag is a geologist, the sidekick is a coyote, and the alchemists are running amok, you know you're in for a fabulous ride. Five books in this series so far. Laura has a lot of books under her belt, and all of them worth the read, whether you're interested in tarot, fire salamanders, or even Amish horror.




3. Allison Pang
Another graduate and founding member of this blog, Allison has published traditionally with her Abby Sinclair UF series (featuring Phin, the world's tiniest, horniest, most-bacon-loving unicorn). Since then, she's shifted to writing High Fantasy with her IronHeart Chronicles. It's steampunk with a touch of zombies. Two books in this series so far.

Early Works: Space Dragon and Starfire

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This week’s topic: "Share tiny snippet from earliest writing of yours that you can get your hands on. This is kind of a dare, and also I'm nosy."

Assuming the person who asked the question isn’t interested in my fairy tale that I wrote and illustrated at age 7, but is after something a bit more advanced, I’ll talk about the books I wrote in junior high school and high school. What I’m not going to do, much as I hate to disappoint the faithful readers of SFF7, is go digging through all my boxes in storage and locate the handwritten manuscripts. 

I wouldn’t share an excerpt from those early works of mine in any case.

I was practicing and learning my craft, how to tell a story, how much work an entire book is to write, how to do a series, etc. I’m sure they’re full of head hopping and all kinds of other craft issues because at that point I was merely writing down the stories living in my head, not worrying about becoming published. My mind was much more focused on who I was going to the dance with, would we win the Homecoming Game, etc etc.

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In junior high school I wrote a series of about eleven books, heavily influenced by the Tom Corbett Space Cadet series written by Carey Rockwell, which I loved. My series, The Space Dragon (which was the ship’s name) followed five men from their days at the Academy to their career flying a ship for the interstellar military and all the adventures that befell them. They were a very tight knit team, with fierce loyalty to each other.

 I also spent some time with their families, especially that of the main character. As I recall, his mother owned an interstellar shipping line and I think his father was a high level politician. One of the crew was an alien prince. I definitely remember I disliked the fact the Tom Corbett series included no romance, so my guys each met and married a professional woman in the course of the books. Looking back, I find it interesting I was so adamant about my female characters being high powered and having careers because at the time I was in junior high and high school, there really were very few role models for this.

Although I think one of the heroines was a princess, the sister of the crew member who was a prince.

There was kissing but nothing further in these novels LOL.

There was also an ancient alien in the series as a kind of benevolent uncle. I don’t remember his origin story any longer but he was in the vein of the mysterious Forerunners Andre Norton wrote about in her science fiction, possibly crossed with her Zacathans. (All of this was way before George Lucas and “Star Wars” so no, I wasn’t influenced by Yoda.) He lived with the hero’s family on Earth and was pretty good at helping to resolve dire situations as needed.

In high school I moved on to writing a new series, set on board a ship named The Starfire and this set of tales was influenced by the ‘Star Trek’ TV show. Lots of adventure and romance over several volumes and a couple of sequels. My Dad even drew a cover for it!

Then I graduated, got married at 19, moved to California, went to college, worked in retail, graduated from college, went to work at NASA/JPL, had children…so it was YEARS before I dove into writing again. Then I became a widow and the writing took a back burner for more years.

I’m happy to say every single book I’ve written post-high school has now been released although the earliest ones have had a ton of editing (multiple rounds of professional editing), revisions and rewriting to reach the state where readers could enjoy them before I sallied forth and self-published. The bones of the original stories are still there but with a lot of craft and care applied. Wreck of the Nebula Dream, Mission to Mahjundar, Trapped on Talonque and Escape from Zulaire.

Mission is actually the oldest story, in terms of when I first started writing it.

There’s about as much point in digging my teenaged writings out of the scrapbook box as there would be to locating my 7 year old self’s fairy tale. None of it is readable now but all of it was necessary for my development as an author.

I have 30+ published books today and have no intention of stopping. I think my early series laid a lot of good groundwork for me, in terms of knowing I had stories to tell and could do the work to get them out of my head and ‘onto the paper’. Confidence building!

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Throwback Thursday - Painful Fiction from the Early Years

Early efforts, huh?

Well okay. Just remember that someone (who wasn't me) asked for this. The following stilted and overly dramatic prose is from the first novel I ever managed to complete. It's so old, there are two spaces after every period. This book never met an adverb it didn't like. In fact, you know that meme about the overly attached girlfriend? Yeah. That's this book with adverbs. I love the fact that the characters go from 0 to 60 emotionally. It's a total soap opera and I keep it around because it so tickles me. The scene below is the first meeting of the hero and heroine. We're on maybe page 5 of the manuscript.

            Casey emerged from her shower feeling entirely refreshed.   Wrapped in her towel, she returned to her room  and toweled her hair dry.  She dressed in a leisurely fashion, listening to a song that had been running through her mind all day long.  Running her fingers through her hair to calm the curling copper strands, Casey unlatched her abused guitar case and seated herself on the bed to bend over it.  She plucked out a quiet melody, then altered it when it didn't quite match what she heard in her head.  She realized she wouldn't be able to blithely tuck her love of music out of the way for the convenience of Sonya's brother.  On the other hand, she didn't want to unduly antagonize anyone either.  Casey simply decided she'd have to be careful.  With a smile, she repeated the melodic line she'd just created and ventured to put some words to it.  Shaking her head, she decided her songwriting talent needed considerable polishing. 

            The door to Casey's room slammed open.  Startled, she jumped.  With a discordant twang, a string broke, snapping back to slash her hand.  "Damn it!"  She swore, glaring up at the door.  Her eyes widened.  The most alarmingly handsome man she'd ever seen stood glowering at her from the doorway.  She knew him instantly.  She'd seen Brennen James in concert once herself and owned more than one of his wildly successful albums.

            "Do you always slam into someone else's room without knocking?"  She charged, her voice clipped and short from the pounding of her heart.  "You made me break a string.  Thank you very much."

            "What are you doing here?"  He demanded, eyeing her with a cold, searching gaze.

            "Not that it's any of your business," she returned stung by his imperious tone, "I am here to help Sonya with her wedding.  Oh, damn," she swore again, catching sight of the bloody line along the back of her hand.  She grabbed her wrinkled tee shirt and blotted the blood away. 

            "Let me make something very clear to you, Miss..."

            "Casey Griffin."

            "Let me make something very clear to you Miss Griffin.  I am the only musician in this house.  I will not tolerate your musical pretensions..."  He began.

            Casey bristled, enraged.  Setting her precious guitar carefully aside, she stood and stalked up to meet him.  To her irritation, she found she had to look up to glare at him.  "Listen, you jerk," she shot back.  "You have no idea who I am or what I do.  My musical pretensions are none of your concern.  And until you know what type of musician I am, you'd probably feel less like an ass in the very near future if you kept your mouth shut now."

            She bit her lip, wondering at the wisdom of snapping at her friend's brother.  Besides, it wasn't as if she could hold a musical candle to the man.  With a sigh, Casey decided she should probably have kept her temper under better control.       

            "What amazing green eyes you have.  And that red hair," he observed, his tone amused, but still not terribly friendly.  "I assume that explains your frightful temper.  You look silly in purple," he observed.  "You should wear green."

            Casey stared at him, stupefied.  She wondered if he'd bothered to pay attention to anything she'd said.  It only irritated her all over again. 

"I look like a damn wood elf if I wear green," she groused.  "And no, my hand is fine.  Thank you for your concern.  Get out of my room."

            Brennen James, a man Casey had admired and adored since she'd purchased his first album, stood at her bedroom door and laughed at her.  Casey gritted her teeth and turned her back on him.  She returned to her guitar and carefully set about removing the broken string from its key.

The entire book is like this. So while I managed to write a complete novel, the story never saw the light of day. Editors rightly pointed out that this story has no actual conflict - it's all bickering. The great thing about those rejections was that I got actual REASONS for the rejection. Armed with those, I could learn what internal versus external conflict was. And then I could write a second novel that managed to get it wrong in even more spectacular fashion, but that's another post.

At least I can't offer up my very first attempt at fiction - the 15 year old heroine who was an expert horsewoman, an expert swordswoman, and a great tactician fighting pirates to preserve her father's reign. Oh. And she had a black panther named Scott as a pet. <shrug> Yeah, I dunno. I was twelve and it all sounded like a good idea at the time.

A Reminder of the Path Here

So, at my ArmadilloCon speech, I brought up my path as being a student in the workshop, and how despite being certain that it was absolute gold at the time, it got torn up into tiny shreds.  And after the stinging cooled, I realized, rightly so.  Because it was, in actuality, not good, and far from ready.

I decided to look through some old files, and it's kind of amazing how obvious it is to me now how messy it is, in terms of storytelling structure and just basic craft.  But I'm also amazed how at the time it felt like it was very solid work that just needed a bit of tweaking. 

This stuff won't see the light of day-- though last year at PhilCon I did a selection of readings from the graveyard that showed my journey from there to here.  But it's good to hold onto, and definitely good to check back in with from time to time.  Especially in moments where you need a reminder of how far you've come.

So, here's a sample from one of those early works, The Fifty Year War, which I wrote as a NaNoWriMo novel back in 2003.  I present it to you not as a standard of quality, but as an example that you can get from there to here.

The walls of New Fencal had not been built with any serious thoughts of defense.  The walls had been made quickly and simply, mostly to keep wild animals out.  To call New Fencal a colony would have been an overstatement.  It was a resort, a discrete compound on one the tropical Napolic Islands where the wealthy and noble of Druthal would come to engage in pleasures both subtle and gross.  The local tribe of Napolics were friendly—or at worst merely uninterested.
The walls were not meant to withstand an assault and neither was Lieutenant Terrent Highgrove.
“Highgrove, old boy,” Baron Trelcourt had said early that morning, “What do you make of those ships, there?”
“Ships?” he said, looking out at the clear sea, where no less than five large ships were on the horizon, moving towards the island, “Well, those weren’t out there last night.  They must have sailed through the dark.  Rather foolish in these waters.”
“Indeed,” said the Baron, “But who are they?”
“Well, they certainly aren’t Druth.  Our sailors would know better than that, no?”
“Certainly, Lieutenant, certainly.”
“Well, I’ll send a few of the boys down to the beach to get a closer look. They’re too big to be pirates. More like cargo. Probably a merchant fleet of some sort.  You there—Weaver!”
“Sir” said Weaver, coming up to Highgrove. “What is it?”
“There’re some ships coming up on the island.  Take two men to get a closer look at them.”
“Yes sir,” said Weaver, giving a crisp salute.  He whistled to two other soldiers and they headed to the beach.
“Good man, that Weaver,” said the Baron.
“He fought in the Kellirac War, you know,” said Highgrove. “He’s served for ten years now.”
“Well!  Good man, indeed.  What say we look to some breakfast then, eh, Highgrove?”
Breakfast was a casual affair in New Fencal.  A main dining hall had been built for visiting nobles—at this point about fifteen of them—and they usually ate together, with Lieutenant Highgrove.  As ranking officer at New Fencal, he was greatly respected.  His twenty soldiers, including Weaver, usually ate at the barracks.  They were a token garrison, to make the nobles feel as if their safety was of great importance.  The nobles’ personal servants served at breakfast.
Sadly, Highgrove had barely had chance to sit when Weaver came running into the hall, out of breath.
“Sir—those ships—” was all he said at first.
“My!” said Lady Mara Breckenrill. “Is it too much to expect some decorum from the soldiers?”
“Indeed,” said her cousin, Julietta, “To come stampeding in like that…”
Highgrove gave an apologetic wave to the Ladies, “Now, I’m sure he had good cause.  Come, Weaver, what’s the news?”
“Those ships, sir, you did see them?”
“Yes, of course.  What are they?”
“What are they?” said Weaver in a voice strained with incredulity.  “Those are Poasian transports, sir!”
A series of gasps went through the dining hall, as well as the clatter of dropped plates and silver.
“Now, now, Weaver,” said Highgrove, stammering, “Are you sure about that?  We don’t want to be upsetting the ladies here.”
“Lieutenant,” said Baron Trelcourt, “Perhaps you and Weaver should step outside.”
“Yes, certainly, Baron,” said Highgrove, “You are very right.  Ladies and Gentlemen, please excuse me.  I’m sure this is simply a misunderstanding.  We’ll get it all cleared up in no time.  Weaver, with me.” Highgrove gave a small nod to the nobles and walked out, with Weaver right behind him.  Outside, he turned to the soldier.
“Are you out of your mind, Weaver?” he asked with a snarl. “You come running in their like a crazed dog, talking about Poasian transports.  It’s ludicrous, and you upset people.  What are you trying to do?”
“Save lives, sir,” said Weaver, stepping closer to him, “We are woefully unprepared for any attack.”
“Attack?” asked Highgrove, stepping away. “You don’t think they would actually attack us?”
“I’m not sure, sir, but it seems likely.”
A young soldier came running in through the gates as quickly as he could, heading straight for Weaver.
“Longboats,” he said, “They are going to make a landing.”
“Landing?” asked Highgrove. “Then they are coming here?”
“How many, Pip?” asked Weaver.
“I’m not sure.  I don’t count too well… but each ship had at least ten boats come off of it, and those boats were full.  A few score in each one.”
“A few… score?” asked Highgrove, “But… but… what do they… why?”  Highgrove sputtered.  Weaver glanced at him, and then turned back to the young soldier.
“All right, Pip, listen here: get to the barracks, get everyone on their feet.  We’re going to need every weapon, shield, arrow; everything we have.  Get them here as quickly as you can.”  Pip looked at the Lieutenant, and seeing no order, nodded to Weaver and ran off.
Weaver turned back to Highgrove, who had dropped to his knees.
“Lieutenant,” said Weaver, grabbing the man by his lapels, “Pull yourself together.  Poasian soldiers are about to swarm through here, and for good or ill, you are the ranking military officer.”
“But… but… Weaver.  What do we do?  There are—how many?”
“Hundreds, sir.  Hundreds.”
“We’re doomed, Weaver!  We’re all going to die!”
Highgrove felt the sharp crack of Weaver’s hand against his face.  He fell to the ground.
“Weaver!  How dare you!”
“Sir,” said Weaver, “We are a short time away from being overrun.  Have you even been in combat before?”
“Well, I’ve studied battles and tactics.  But… no.”
“Fine.  Then let me make myself perfectly clear.  If you want any chance at living through today, do exactly what I say from here on out.”
“Weaver… that’s... that’s an utter violation of protocol.  I’m an Officer.  You’re just a soldier.”
“Maybe so,” said Weaver, “But you’re an officer with only twenty soldiers who is about to face an entire Poasian battalion.” 
“What the blazes?” said a voice behind them, “What kind of nerve do you have, soldier, talking to your superior like this?”  Weaver turned to see Earl Rettinwood standing behind them.
“My Lord,” said Weaver, softening his tone, “We are facing a dire situation.  At this moment, hundreds of Poasians are preparing to land on this island.”
“Poasians?  What?” said the Earl, “What do they want?  Come now, Highgrove, tell us what’s up.”
“I’m not sure, My Lord,” said Highgrove, regaining his composure, “But with the kind of numbers we’re looking at, I would say they intend to take control of the entire island.”
“Whole island?  Bah!” said the Earl, “This island is a Druth Protectorate.  We’ve reached an accord with the local natives.”
“I don’t think the Poasians particularly care about that, My Lord,” said Weaver.
“Why is this soldier speaking to me like this, Lieutenant?”  Highgrove coughed and stepped between Rettinwood and Weaver.
“My apologies for my man, My Lord,” he said, “You must understand, these are excitable times.  Tempers can flare.  Why don’t we go inside so I can brief you and the others on the situation?  Weaver, be a good man and give the boys their orders.  I think you know what they all need to do.”
“Aye, sir,” said Weaver, with a nod.  Highgrove and the Earl went into the dining hall.  By the gate, various soldiers were coming from the armory, bringing out every weapon they could find.  Most of them, thought Weaver, were Pip’s age.  More like boys than men. 
“All right, lads, listen up,” he said, approaching them, “I’m not going to soften this for you.  Right now, the odds favor none of us seeing the sunset.  We’re outnumbered twenty to one, at least.  But let’s not forget one thing.  As far from home as we may be, this island is Druthal.  As much ours as the streets of Maradaine.  So unless we’re ordered otherwise, we hold it to the last.  And I intend to hold it.  I’ve put ten years into this army, so that means I’ve got ten acres coming to me.  I will stand on my land, lads.  When those Ghosts come to me, they will find out what it means to face a Pikeman of the Druth Army.  Do you understand?”
The scared looks had vanished.  Wide eyes had narrowed and steeled with determination.  None spoke, but all nodded at Weaver’s words.

Gawk at embarrassing thing I wrote in high school!

Grumble!grumble at a crackly stack of old papers from the right era—and with that gray-brown Big Chief Tablet paper, which feels soooo delicious beneath a ballpoint pen, ah memory!—but doesn’t contain the thing I was looking for. Shove box back under bed. Reach for next, only there isn’t one because apparently I was able at one miraculous point in my adult life to throw something away, which in general is a good thing, only I wish I’d kept this one thing because—

Oh! Hi. Sorry. I meant to post earlier, but I’ve been treasure hunting all morning and time got away from me.

This week on SFF Seven we’re posting the earliest bit of our writing we can get our hands on, and I really thought I’d saved  this thing I wrote in seventh grade called “The Golden Walnut,” which was part court intrigue, part murder mystery, and revolved around a prince hunting down his mother’s assassin. It was the first thing I finished, so if you’ve defining a story as a thing with a beginning, middle, and end, this was my first. I had hoped to share some of it and solicit giggles, but I can’t find the thing.

After the walnut story, I wrote a lot of angsty, emo crud, and by that time I was using a computer, so I do, unfortunately for your eyeballs, have an early story from back then. It’s a Russian vampire fairy tale with lots of murder in it and is, uh, pretty bad. I’ll just screenshot the first few lines here.

I guess in between the era of the walnut story (middle school) and the vampire story (high school) I didn’t grow much beyond the beginning-middle-and-end understanding of what makes a story. Even though I read canon and wrote papers about tons of books in college, it was like for the purposes of my own work, I didn’t understand the first thing about narrative voice or point of view or theme or genre. That Russian vampire story? Is about the baby. She’s the one who grows up and becomes a vampire. There’s no reason to start with her birth, teenage-me! You start at the good part! The killing-people part! What were you even thinking?!

(I was also somewhat bloodthirsty as a beginning writer. I’m sure a psychologist would have a field day trying to trace a path from that brain to the one that just wrote three fluffy-sweet romance novels.)

At any rate, there was a whole era where I had no idea how to write a story or what even made a story. I could wield gorgeous grammar – did you see that semicolon?—and even lay down a nice scene here or there, but tying it all together eluded me. I was writing okay stuff, but there was no point to it. And if there is no point to it, there is no reason for a reader to invest the time to read it.

I tried to crack the nut of storytelling for a long time, churning out flowy sentences and occasionally some nice scenes, exhausting my fingers with a crud-ton of fanfiction, even begging advice from more experienced writers. (Note: Critique groups that spend a lot of time talking about first sentences and the overuse of the word “was” might be super helpful for low-level sentence crafting, but they are completely useless for learning how to compose an entire story.) Eventually, I found my way to the Austin chapter of Romance Writers of America, and specifically to a little critique group there which was run at the time by Skyler White. Y’all, I learned so much in such a short amount of time. The last decade has been a thrill ride like crazy.

I can’t put it all here, but the eureka moment for me was when I learned that all those books I read in college and wrote long, thoughty papers about? Were stories! Penned by people! And I am also a person!

Shut up, this was a revelation.

What I’m trying to say, I guess, is that the core lesson of storytelling, the thing that changed my life, was realizing that I don’t have to invent storytelling. There’s a long history of it, in every language on the planet, a deep treasure trove of shapes and sizes and purposes, a giant bin of bright-colored candy that we can reach in and grab and lick.

Okay, that might have been a bit much. But you get the point. Things changed for me when i realized that good writing isn’t sentences or semicolons. It’s stories. Yeah with beginnings, middles, ends, but also with treasure nuggets of purpose.

The No Good & Very Bad of My First (Thankfully Unpublished) Novel

Earliest writing on which I can get my hands?

Oh. ~cringe~ Oh, dear reader, I haven't cracked open this file since 2006, about two years after I'd decided I wanted to be a Romance Author. This was my first completed PNR. This was...a total trainwreck, a shining example of What Not To Do. From the prologue to the head-hopping to waiting til chapter 5 for the meet-cute. We won't discuss the Other Guy or the Lusting for the Beast (yes, it's a shifter romance). Thank the Powers That Be no one wanted to rep this book.

I ain't proud, but I am happy my writing has come a long way from this tragedy. For your amusement, I'm pasting a lesser eye-stabby section of my Fated Mates Reunited PNR:


---The Shifter Story That Shouldn't Be---

Regina noted the bitterness that suddenly appeared in Aurora’s voice. Intrigued by the racing pulse, Regina peeped into the other woman’s mind.

Flashes of spurting blood faded into an older human male with lifeless brown eyes. Quickly withdrawing, Regina gripped the steering wheel and groaned inwardly at the protections Aurora’s mind provided. Regina could retrieve no sounds, scents, tastes, touches, or emotions--just a series of images that meant that Aurora had killed or witnessed someone being killed. If she didn’t need to focus on driving, Regina would have pried into the human’s mind for more details. Some minds were harder to invade than others, and Aurora was just shy of impenetrable. Instead, Regina grinned at the prospect of a mystery. She loved mysteries.

“Tell me Auri, what brings you to our enchanted mountains?”

Aurora pressed her nose against the window. “Fuzzy creatures and the scenery.”

“There are animals and scenery everywhere, why the Carpathians?”

Aurora forced herself to stop thinking of the nightmare that had claimed her father over a month ago. She was in the mountains to get away from it, not to languish in it. Her hostess was just trying to make conversation. “Honestly, I needed a break from the din of D.C. I was surfing the Web when I saw an ad for the Carpathian Mountains. The site said this place has the largest natural wildlife preserve in Europe including the large carnivore project. A rather insistent inner voice reminded me that those are two key themes for my nature portfolio. So here I am.”

“So you like large carnivorous animals?” Regina teased.

“Well, I’d rather draw them, not be eaten by them.” Aurora chuckled at the little driver who could barely see over the steering wheel. Mercedes really needed to develop a custom booster seat. “Do you mind if I roll down the window for a bit?”

Regina shrugged and pushed the window button. Aurora stuck her head out and sucked in the winter air. She ducked her head back in. “Mind if I do something totally crass?”

“Just as long as you keep your clothes on, I don’t mind.”

Aurora blinked. “Why Reg, I think you’re joking with me.”

They both laughed as Aurora took off her seat belt and slid out the window to sit on the door.

Regina looked over at her new companion. Her mysterious new companion. She grinned hearing Aurora’s laughter on the wind. If Regina solved the mystery, she could help her new friend--seeing as how she was something of an expert on killers and killing.

In the distance a wolf howled, a long low mournful sound.

“Speaking of killers …” Regina muttered to herself. “Come back in here Auri.”

Aurora slid back into her seat and Regina raised the window. “Did you hear that? He sounded so--bereft.”

“He is. He’s looking for his mate.”

“Did she die?” Aurora whispered, the scars along her cheek twitched with concern.

“Yes, many many years ago.”

“Oh, the poor thing. That’s just tragic.”

“They say the grief drove him mad. That he wandered the world in search of ways to bring her back.”

“I assume that didn’t work out for him.”

“Not yet. He prowls the mountains every night looking for her.” Regina shared her sympathy. The ancient wolf was the strongest of the inhumans. No contest. His physical strength was surpassed only by his magics, but without his Dragoste… She feared for him and for what he could do to inhuman-kind if he ever gave up hope.

“Poor guy. He’s lonely. Makes you want to scratch him behind the ears.”

The SUV swerved sharply. “You want to do what?” Regina looked aghast at her companion.

“Scratch him behind his ears. My dog used to love that. He’d lean into you and tap his foot. Behind the ears or just above his tail, either one would make him your best friend.” Aurora made a furious scratching motion.

Regina smirked. “Mountain wolves are a bit different from the domesticated dog.”

“What? You think he’ll eat me first? Then he’d never know I give great belly rubs,” she cried in mock offense.

“You are very strange indeed, Auri.” She giggled trying to picture the sight. Scratch his belly? Scratch his ears? Regina couldn’t even reach his ears.

---I'll end the torture here---