Boy, is it just me, or has summer flown by? Kiddies are back in school and mothers are heaving a sigh of relief…or not!
The big news today is I’ve been working very hard on four different projects, Playing for Keeps, Witch’s Touch, Send Him an Angel and the Gray Mortuary series.
These four series keep me hopping back and forth between them, with Playing for Keeps and Witch’s Touch in the lead. For those of you wondering if I have a new publisher yet, the answer is no, but I haven’t really had time to look, no worries though, I have had offers from other publishing houses for these series, so when the time is right, I don’t think there will be a problem getting these books out to you.
I thought you all might like to read an excerpt from Witch’s Touch. I’ve decided with the monthly newsletter, I’d start including a teaser excerpt from projects I’m working on…enjoy…
EXCERPT/WITCH’S TOUCH/BOOK SIX/SHAY
In the gray gloom surrounding her, unseen by all, an ethereal figure watched, one who carried the Scythe of Death. Although he didn’t understand why, it annoyed him beyond reason that he could not see her features.
Of courses, for him, it was nothing new. He’d never looked upon her face, would never be able to see what she looked like, not in his wraithlike form. He could never appear before her in solid mass. It was forbidden, but he yearned to.
She mourned deeply for Prince Talon…as did he. This death he had not foreseen. He had not chosen the time for Talon to die, nor had King Titan. Another species decided Talon’s fate, and that was something he could not, would not allow. The demon king thought too highly of himself if he thought to do King Titan’s job or his.
Death moved closer in his otherworldly form, the black misty shape of the Reaper, an eerie, unearthly form only his father could see. In his shapeless, vaporous hands, the scythe trembled, as it always did when he approached this female.
Here was the witch he’d been sent to reap. Such an easy target--she had no suspicion he floated overhead, the scythe drawn back, prepared to deliver the death blow that would allow him to reap her soul. Once the scythe was embedded deep inside the Chosen One, there was no escape. The soul was literally hooked and pulled from the body, draining it of its life force. Then Vaddus, god that he was, would step in and take charge.
But Death was drawn to her, and it wasn’t for the right reasons. He lowered the scythe, and to him, if felt as if he was disarming himself, leaving himself vulnerable and naked to the world of magick. He snorted. By the gods, he was Death, there were none more powerful. His was the final word.
He kept his skeletal face concealed within the deep cowl of the death cloak about his shoulders.
What was it about this witch that consumed his thoughts when he was near her? Why did it feel to him that she beckoned him? He could no more resist the sway of her powers or her warmth, than he could appear before her in solid form.
That was it, he thought. He was ice, an empty, heartless creature. Her warmth, the very life in her soul appealed to his frozen heart, but not in the usual way when he was reaping. Death found her utterly mouth-watering, and that was just wrong on so many levels.
He discovered he yearned to get closer, to know her better. It was insanity.
Still, he moved nearer. Her warmth bathed him and built the most unusual hunger inside him. How odd. He’d never felt this strange passion, this restless need or yearning to—no, he couldn’t reap her yet. Not yet. He had to get to know this witch.
What was he thinking? Ridiculous! He wasn’t here so he could get to know the witch better. He could not delay the inevitable for any reason. It was her time, declared by King Titan, and he was here to fulfill the king’s command. He raised the scythe.
She knelt there on the ground, a blurred shadow in shadows. For him, time had no essence, and he knew it was possible to spend centuries simply observing her.
But the impulse to help her—the same compulsion that always pounded him in the gut like an invisible fist when she needed his help—was back, and it roared like a hell beast—interfering with his job.
Giving a ghostly sigh, he released the scythe from its death swing and set it aside. Then he crouched behind her, a shadow form, and slid his arms around her slender waist.
She gasped. “You’re back.”
Yes. I always seem to be stepping in to help you when I shouldn’t.
“You put your words in my head. Always. Do you have no voice?
No voice. No body. No heart.
“I think you jest.”
No. I am not one for foolish banter. Gently, he entwined his fingers with hers. Do not look around. Seek only that which I freely offer you.
Her sultry, sexual scent filled his nostrils, clogged his throat. Her hair tangled with his, somehow managing to twine them together. By the gods, if it was possible for him to die, he thought he just might do so from the sheer pleasure of holding her close once again.
She gasped and tried to pull away.
Listen to me, witch. He tightened his hold, drawing her closer, silently commanding. I will help you this one time to give back a life that was stolen before its time, but do not continue to challenge my right to death. It is what I am, what I shall always be. I will never stop reaping. It is the natural order of things…except for this one time.
“There have been other times,” she whispered, “other times when you have helped me.”
Those were exceptions, also. Do not expect me to continue aiding your defiance. I will not. He knew he sounded gruff, but the witch needed to be frightened of him. He was not and never would be her friend.
“Except, for exceptions?” Her response proved she wasn’t the least fearful of him.
The witch dared tease him? Death smiled. Then frowned. There will be no more exceptions, witch. If someone dies early, then I will let it stand. He injected harshness to his tone, his words. No more interference. Understand?
We aren’t wedding, witch. No need to say it as if you are speaking vows to me.
She tried to turn in his arms, to see his face. He tightened his hold. Do not look upon me. This close, I am…rather scary.
“I think you might be rather kinder than you’d have me know.”
You are wrong. There is nothing kind about me. I am cold. Dark. Eternal. Empty of all emotion. I separate souls from their bodies. I am gruesome. Remember, witch, no more exceptions. No more interference.
He felt her head bob against his chest in acknowledgement, but she wasn’t agreeing, because she immediately made it clear she wasn’t acquiescing. “I can’t make promises I might never keep,” she stated in a soft voice.
Then you will leave me without a choice.
Until next month…Happy Reading Everyone!