This was an earlier project of mine that I’m re-working to be less dark; a paranormal romance featuring an out-of-control psychic named Storm who moonlights for the St. Louis Police Department as a Psychic Investigator and the sexy fallen angel who turns up on her doorstep to finish training her chaotic abilities.  Damien may be her last chance to avoid being wiped out of existence by the Heavenly Host, but she is also his last hope for redemption.

So here are the cover concepts I worked up tonight.  Keep in mind that I’m very much an amateur with NO amazing art or graphics skills.  Still, I rather like these.  Eventually I plan to hire a professional to do covers for me, but starting out it will be just my husband (a computer/graphics guy) and me!

Cover 1

Cover 2.

I like elements of each concept, but I think I prefer the models in the second one. Obviously, when it comes time to make the real cover, everything will look more professional.  But I think I did a pretty great job for a rank amateur just doing cover mock-ups!  =)

Again I will re-iterate:  These ARE NOT THE ACTUAL COVERS!  Just concepts.  =)

Yes, it’s a really small hat.  :P

But it’s cute!  At least, I think so.

It will look a lot better when I actually do something with my hair.  Haha!

(Sorry for the crappy lighting/web cam quality pics.)

ETA:  My first attempt at affixing hair barrette thingies to the underside of the hat for fastening purposes failed, so I just tried a second method.  Hopefully this one will stick! (With hot glue, ha!)

Fury 3, Black-Hearted Betrayal, is finally flowing exceptionally well.  I am behind where I wanted to be but making up for lost time very quickly.  It’s amazing how the pieces are coming together.  I’m always fascinated by how the writer subconscious mind juggles all these balls behind the scenes and manages to interweave them all by the end of the book.  Of course, you still have to smooth edges and segues in the revision stage(s), but still.  Pretty darned cool!

Industry “State of the Union”:  So, there’s another publishing kerfluffle floating around the interwebz (big shock, right?), which appears to be a “he said, she said” sort of dispute between a Big 6 Publisher (full disclosure: I think it’s MY Big 6 Publisher) and a post-contract but pre-published-with-that-publisher author.  While I don’t feel comfortable opining on who is “right” or “wrong” here vis-a-vis the contract–because we the general masses aren’t privy to the exact details of the specific contract–I do feel qualified to make a few general observations.

1.  It’s About What Your Contract Actually Says, Not What You Think It Does…Again, not commenting on the specific dispute, just throwing that out there for aspiring authors.  Make sure you understand each and every clause of each of your publishing contracts.  If you do not, or aren’t 100% sure of what you think you understand, immediately consult your literary agent.  If you do not have a literary agent, find an reliable, reputable attorney who is experienced in publishing law.  Not just an IP attorney or general attorney, it must be someone who understands the unique ins and outs of publishing law.  There are clauses in publishing law that might seem innocuous when viewed by a layperson or general attorney who doesn’t know the precise definitions as they apply to the publishing industry.

2. If/When Disputes With Your Publisher DO Come Up, LET YOUR AGENT BE THE INTERMEDIARY!…Yes, I all-capped that last bit because it is just that important.  Some unpublished writers have the mistaken impression that an agent’s primary–or only–function is to submit manuscripts to publishers who do not take unagented manuscripts; or to make that sale plus negotiate the initial contract.  Wrong!  Agents serve many more equally valuable purposes, not the least of which is being the “bad guy” when disputes come up between their clients and publishers.  It’s all-too-easy for the author and editor–who are, after all, only human–to get caught up in the emotions of a dispute and see things as all black or all white.  Involve your agent:  let your agent be the one stepping between you and your editor/publisher so you can retain as positive a working relationship as possible.

3.  Remember That This IS a Business Relationship…See that part about it being a “working relationship”?  Publishing is, for better or worse, a business.  Your editor, your agent, and you–yes, you!–are professionals.  This means you are governed by not only the terms of your contract (which you should understand explicitly before you sign any other publishing contracts or attempt to self-publish), but also by a certain understood code of professional conduct.  Remember where I said it’s easy to get caught up in the emotions of a dispute?  DON’T!  Take a step back, let yourself cool off, and look at things in a pragmatic sense.  Professionals in creative endeavors such as art or writing shouldn’t just take to the Interwebz to post impassioned rants against their publishers.  While you may get a whole bunch of “traditional publishing sucks and all Big 6 Publishers are EVILE” types singing your praises and telling you you’re completely in the right, chances are you’re likely coming off as exceedingly unprofessional to a whole lot of other people.

At the end of the day, I personally believe that writers have to decide what is best for their careers–whether that be “Big 6″ publishing, small publishing, e-publishing, or self-publishing; or, as is becoming more common, some combination of the above.  I also firmly believe that those of us who choose to make this a career must look at it as a career, and conduct ourselves accordingly.  Act professionally and courteously.  This doesn’t mean acting as a doormat, or letting a Big 6 Publisher “walk all over you” when you feel that you’re absolutely in the right.  It does mean involving your agent, and if necessary, an attorney, on your behalf and handling things in as professional a manner as possible.  If, when the dust settles, you still feel that you were “done wrong” and/or got railroaded:  by all means, feel free to post your version of events:  after you have cooled down and in as calm and professional a manner as possible.

Or, you know, fly off the handle and get all the extra Interweb publicity you could ever hope for.  I suppose that works, too!

Note:  These are just my own personal thoughts and feelings based upon years of observing the industry and reading posts like the one linked to above.  If you don’t agree?  Perfectly valid.  But please tell me why–professionally–rather than rudely or shrilly.

SPOILER WARNING:  I recommend not reading this if you haven’t read the first two books, or if you do NOT want to know anything about Shades of Fury #3 in advance.

Note:  Adesina is the current placeholder name for a Megaera Fury newly-introduced in Black-Hearted Betrayal.

***

They nodded in approval, something that had a flush of pride touching my cheeks.  When neither interjected, I took that as encouragement to continue.  “I would personally recommend that one group head to the Palladium to check in with the Alecto, as instructed.  Having all three classes involved can only be to our advantage.  Once that’s done, I suggest going after Anubis’s weakest link.”

Adesina tilted her head, curiosity brightening her eyes.  “Which would be?”

Mom caught on to my intention.  “Which would be my mother.  Either it’s an imposter posing as her or actually my mother being magically manipulated.  In whichever case, she will be much easier to break and interrogate for information.  If she’s an imposter, we can threaten her with immediate execution for falsely impersonating a sister with the intention of stealing a Conclave seat.  If she’s actually my mother, we stand a good chance of breaking whatever magical spell holds her in thrall and gaining her active cooperation.”

“What if we can’t?”

Mom faced Adesina squarely, fingers clenched but face composed.  “Can’t break the spell?”

Meaning, really, what if there were no spell to break?

“Then we have no choice but to…treat her as we would any traitor.”

A slight tremble of the voice was the only indication of what that statement cost my mother.  Both Adesina and I noticed it but didn’t comment.  Me because I felt the same grim determination as Mom and Adesina out of respect.  We three Nemeses had been charged by the gods to stop civil war, and we would damn well do that; no matter the cost.

Even if that meant losing Nan before we could truly get her back.

Adesina broke the tense silence.  “And what task do you propose for our second group?”

“Oh,” I said with false lightness in my voice and a twisted smile, “Nothing major.  Just recruiting some extra muscle and taking a little road trip.  I hear that Hell’s especially nice this time of year…”

***

As the dirigible began descending toward the twinkling lights of midnight Paris in the distance, Elizabeth couldn’t help but sigh at its sheer beauty.  La Ville-Lumière—the City of Light—would always be her favorite city in the mortal realm for many reasons; not the least of them the breath-taking view of the city from several thousand feet above.

She flung her arms in the air and spun to face her sister.  “Oh, how I do love the sight of Paris from the air.  Isn’t it spectacular?”

Cassandra gripped the wooden railing tightly, her pale face showing none of the pleasure reflected on her twin’s countenance.  “Amazing,” she gritted out in a tone indicating the precisely opposite sentiment.

Elizabeth’s enthusiasm dampened somewhat.  “I do apologize, Cass.  I forget how much you detest travel by air.”

Not only did her sister become appallingly airsick, Cassandra suffered from the most horrible case of acrophobia.  Ironic, considering the fact she had nothing at all to fear so long as her twin was by her side.  As the offspring of a mixed mortal-and-Fae-Changeling marriage, Elizabeth’s magical Specialty was with the Element of Air, which meant she could easily protect her sister from any sort of fall.  Then again, Elizabeth reminded herself, it is an irrational fear of heights.  Logic has nothing to do with it.  Yet another stroke of irony, since Cassandra so greatly prided herself on her powers of reason and intellect.

Poor darling.  Elizabeth placed a sympathetic arm along her sister’s shoulder.  “We’ll be on the ground any moment now.”

“Yes,” Cassandra replied drily.  “That’s precisely my fear.”

George came up alongside them with a spring to his step, a product of chatting up the dirigible’s crew for the past several hours since leaving London.  He would seize the slightest opportunity to discuss Aether technology (despite the fact he was himself as Aether-blind as he was color-blind) with anyone who had the slightest bit of knowledge on the subject.  Or even with those who didn’t, as he’d demonstrated by boring his sisters past the point of tears on more than one occasion.

“Chin up, dear girl.”  He had the audacity to chuck his miserable sister on the chin.  Elizabeth was shocked he pulled his hand back unscathed.  “Aether-powered dirigibles are safer than any other modern-day form of travel.  Why, in the past decade there have been fewer than a handful of explosions and—”

Elizabeth tightened her grip around her sister when Cassandra grasped the railing with even greater strength.  “Not.  Helping,” she muttered to their insensitive lout of a brother.

Fortunately, the dirigible’s loudspeaker crackled to life before George could offer any further “assistance.”  “Passengers, please brace for final descent in approximately two minutes.”

“There, you see,” Elizabeth said triumphantly.  “Two more minutes and we’ll all be safely on land once agai—”

A hideous cracking sound rent the air dangerously close to the three siblings.  Cassandra let out a shriek that would have done their Banshee aunts proud.  Elizabeth grabbed onto the panic-stricken Cassandra with her other arm, mind furiously trying to ascertain what that awful racket had been.

George suddenly froze, gaze whipping around the dimly-lit deck and searching the confused passengers for—something.  “Someone is working Earth nearby.”  He should know:  Earth was his own magical Specialty.  His statement meant that at least one unknown Changeling or Changechild (the name for children of Changelings) was nearby, since full-blooded mortals were, with only rare exceptions, magical nulls.

That had both twins tightening their holds even more firmly.  Elizabeth was the only of the two calm enough to ask the logical question.  “But why would anyone this high up on a dirigible need to work Eart—”

She really would have to learn to keep her mouth shut.  No sooner had those words passed her lips than she felt a tremendous vibration underneath and a second, louder crash boomed directly in front of them.  The deck itself trembled and then the railing gave way and Cassandra pitched straight forward into empty air.

Elizabeth wasn’t quite so lucky.  She went forward all right—by virtue of her death grip upon the screaming Cassandra—but she also received a nasty blow to the head when disintegrating wood smacked into it.  Stars lit up her vision, but they were neither the charming pinpoints glittering overhead nor Paris’s famed gas lamps below.  Agony soon followed, radiating from her forehead backward and dulling Cassandra’s ear-splitting cries to something approaching bearable.  She was distantly aware of George calling out both their names and then…nothing.

I’ve been hennaing my hair for just over two years now and I absolutely love it.  I first heard about it from a lovely lady on livejournal.  She linked to a website, henna for hair, and seeing how gorgeous her own hair was got me curious enough to check that website out.  My hair is naturally a dark blonde color that lightens in the summer but is really dull for most of the year. I had done a chemical lighter blonde for a few years and got bored with it.  Red hair was really the only other color I was interested in trying since dark colors don’t look great with my particular skin tone.  I had tried to get a chemical red a couple of times, but blonde hair is the hardest to retain a vibrant chemical red on.  It just fades too darned fast. (Pretty pictures behind the cut!)

I researched hennaing hair on that website for about a year while I worked up the courage to actually try it.  My goal was to achieve a rich red that didn’t fade.  The beauty of henna is that it doesn’t fade.  Once you achieve the color you want, it’s there to stay.  Now, a caveat:  if you decide to try hennaing your own hair due to this post, make sure you research it, and never use a compound henna (one that is not pure henna and/or mixed with chemicals or metals) on your hair.  Body art quality henna is the best.  Public Service Announcement over!

The first time I hennaed my hair, I was shocked with how bright orange it appeared at first–despite having done my research and knowing to expect that.  As the henna oxidized over the next few days, the color deepened and became closer to what I wanted.  The more you henna your whole head, the deeper the red becomes.  Some people attain the color they want, and then just do their roots after that.

I henna my hair every couple of months and use a super inexpensive brand (Dulhan) from India that I buy in a local international grocery store.  It costs me $1.69 a box and I use two boxes per hennaing.  I use a recipe that I concocted on my own based upon the research I did involving hibiscus tea, paprika, turmeric, honey, and cinnamon and vanilla (the last two to combat the strong odor of henna itself).

If anyone’s curious, sometime I’ll post further details and pictures of an actual hennaing (if I get brave enough), but this post has turned long enough.  For now, I’ll share pictures of my latest hennaing two days ago.  (I am married to one of the few men who doesn’t think red hair is hawt, so I am growing it out longer for him since he prefers long hair and I prefer red over blonde.  Compromises make a marriage, people! )

Front view:

Side view:

Rear view:

Next week will be about choosing those contest winners not yet chosen, getting books out to contest winners, making a lot of progress on BHB, and working while son is at home since he doesn’t start kindergarten (and HOW is my baby starting THAT already?!?) until the 17th.  For now, the snippet!  (Keep in mind it’s in unedited draft form and may not be the final opening, blah, blah, blah.  ;) )

***

With as many people as had tried to kill me over the years, you’d think I would get used to it.  Then again, the fact I hadn’t completely gotten used to it was the reason nobody had yet managed to do me in.  Not permanently anyway.  Temporary death—there’d been a few of those; nothing I’d like to repeat any time soon—especially considering how much I’d pissed off the jackal-faced god that last time…Of course, to be fair to myself, most death threats came because I was two times a cop.  One:  Chief Magical Investigator for the Boston Police Department.  Two:  Member of the Sisterhood of Furies; a once-mortal demigoddess serving as the arcane world’s version of law enforcement.

Two times a cop.  Two times the psychos out for my blood.

Currently, however, it was being a Fury that had my fat in the fire.  Now if only I could get that very real fact through my 15-year-old niece’s head.

“Aunt Riss, I just don’t understand wh—”

I turned from the subway entrance and narrowed my eyes at my soon-to-be apprentice.  “What part of be quiet did you not understand, apprentice?”  She flushed when I used title rather than name and had the good sense to actually shut her trap.  Stubborn she might be (hmm, wonder where she got that from?), but she learned quickly; a quality that would serve her well during her training.  Assuming I could keep her alive long enough to swear her oaths to the Sisterhood.

A flash of red teased my peripheral vision and I whirled, instinctively placing my body in front of Cori’s.  Normally the red leather uniform of a Fury meant safety and support, but not so much these days; not with a potential civil war brewing among the three classes of Furies:  Alecto, Megaera, and—my personal favorite—Tisiphone.

The flash of red did prove to be a Fury’s uniform, but no threat to Cori or me.  My mother swept out of the subway station’s door, flanked by two sisters who supported her bid for the vacant Tisiphone seat on the Sisterhood’s ruling council.  It was that campaign to join the Lesser Consensus of the Conclave of Fury Elders that now had my family on red alert.  The Megaera’s senior sister, known as the Prime Megaera, had decided to oppose Mom’s power play.  And by oppose I mean stop at any costs, even if that meant taking out a loved one to emotionally debilitate her.  Stupid bitch.

Who, me, bitter?

Mom zeroed in on us straightaway.  She nodded to each of her informal bodyguards, who took up post at the side of the doorway while Mom jogged the last few feet separating us.  We exchanged smiles but she focused most of her attention on Cori, drawing her into a bear hug and murmuring praise into her ear.  Cori alternately grinned and flushed, torn between adolescent pride and embarrassment over the “big deal” Mom was making over her.  No surprise she made such a fuss; it was the first time she’d seen Cori since the teen Fledged into her Fury powers a few days ago.  We’d both hoped Cori would follow in our footsteps, but that had been no sure thing:  both her parents were magical Skips.

After one last grandmotherly squeeze, Mom pulled back to look at me.  “Any trouble at last night’s reception?”

I shook my head.  “A good time was had by all—well, except for the hate-mongers who walked out after we revealed our little trick.  Harper and Penn are happily hitched and partying hearty in Hawaii now.”

She smiled.  “Good, they deserve it, after all they’ve been through.”  Her expression sobered.  “And how are you, considering…”  Her voice trailed away when she remembered the little ears beside her.

Considering who the killer turned out to be…

I’d just closed a nasty murder case involving Boston’s first arcane serial killer, who wound up being the last person anyone would have expected; even Harper Cruz, the bride whose exes had been killed one after another.  Fortunately we stopped the killer’s body count before it could rise higher than four, but neither she nor I would ever get over who he had turned out to be:  Victor Esteban, one of Harper’s exes himself and (until two days ago) her most trusted friend.  He’d also been, during my time undercover as wedding planner Sierra Nieves, “my” love interest.  Finding out the slimeball had also been manipulating me with a magical date rape drug had been just the icing on the cake.

“Holding up.  It helps knowing that Scott’s safe now.”  Or as safe as Boston’s numero uno supernatural mercenary could ever be.  “And now I have time to devote to my Fury duties.  Like getting this one sworn in ASAP.  She’s gonna be way more than just a handful.”

Cori stuck her tongue out at me but managed to assume an angelic face before Mom looked back at her.  Not that anyone could pull the wool over my mother’s eyes; which she proved by arching a brow in that quintessentially mom style.  “While your aunt and I are proud of you, Concordia Joy, you’ll also find we expect a great deal from you.  To start with, you must remember to treat us always as elder Furies first, your aunt and grandmother second.”

She let out a huff of air.  “Now you sound like her.”

Another arch of the brow.  “Where do you think she got it from, darling?”

I laughed outright.  “Oh so true, I’m afraid.  Stacia may have been my official mentor, but Mom taught me a lot about being a Fury before she disappeared.”

Mom and I exchanged a grim glance.  That was another of those shared griefs that would never fully go away.  Mom had been held captive by a rogue group of mortals intent on unlocking the secret to arcane immortality, not to mention developing their own magical army.  Worst of all, however, the group had been funded and controlled by one of our own Fury sisters—my not-so-dearly-departed mentor, Stacia.  Good thing for her she was already dead.

The hair on the back of my neck stirred softly and my body tensed in response to a sudden surge of adrenaline.  Trusting survival instincts honed over the past two decades, I nodded toward the door.  “We should get a move on.”

Mom placed a protective arm along Cori’s shoulder and nudged her forward.  “Of course.  Laurell will serve as our rearguard while Patricia clears our forward path.”  The second-named Tisiphone nodded before vanishing in the direction from which they had appeared.  Laurell waited until we followed at a more sedate pace and fell in behind us.

***

It was a truth universally acknowledged–at least between the Austen twins–that being the daughter of a world-famous (and immortal) novelist could be a royal pain in the backside.  Even if said mother did gainfully employ both daughters as research assistants.  Perhaps especially because of that fact.

Miss Cassandra Leigh, elder sister by precisely fifteen and one-quarter minutes, stared at the latest telegram from the venerable Mrs. Jane Austen Austen with an expression more in keeping with someone who has just ingested a goodly number of sour pickles.  Miss Elizabeth Henriette, not to be outdone despite her position as younger sister, wrinkled both forehead and nose in most unladylike fashion.  Then, in that twin-like manner with which they so often dismayed polite society, the two exclaimed in unison, “Egypt!  What can Mother be thinking?”

Their elder–and only–brother, George, flicked imaginary dirt from the lapels of his smartly-tailored but hideously-colored frock coat.  “I believe the answer to that question would be that, once again, Mother is most assuredly not thinking.”

The sisters Austen exchanged a silent look that spoke volumes.  George was certainly a fine chap–indeed, a diamond of the first order compared to most of the men in their immediate circle–but still, he was a man and prone to condescension toward the fairer sex.  Which, considering that all three of the fairer sexed in his life could out-reason circles around him, tended to get beyond tedious.

As usual, Cassandra put their brother in his place.  “Leave off, do, George.  You’re still smarting over the fact Mother wouldn’t approve the funds for that ridiculous aether-powered bicycle you tried to buy last month.”

George narrowed piercing brown eyes identical to their mother’s and gripped putrescent green lapels with much vexation.  “Motorcycle.”

Cassandra arched a dark red eyebrow courtesy of their Gaelic father.  “I beg your pardon?”

“The moden-day marvel you speak of is called a motorcycle and it is not at all ridiculous.”

His sister waved her hand carelessly and turned her attention back to their mother’s equally-absurd communique.  True that she had sent her three young research assistants hither, thither, and yon across most of western Europe during the past several years; but never had she given even the merest hint that she might send them someplace as far-flung–and war-torn–as vast and mysterious Egypt.  Exotic birthplace of the thrilling–if newfangled–aether-powered technology British and Egyptian scientists had developed in tandem over the past decade since Britain’s conquest of the African nation in all but name.  Queen Victoria’s name, to be precise.

***

Blood and Bone, Chapter 1

“Wake up.  Come on, now.”

The blue-haired boy wakes with his face slumped onto his left shoulder and drool dribbling down his arm.  A kind-faced man seems relieved when the boy focuses unsteady eyes upon him.

“Son, you’re gonna have to get off the bus now.  St. Cloud’s the end of the road.”

“I-uh, St. Cloud?”  He shakes his head to try and clear it.  The last thing he remembers is…huh.  He remembers fading in and out of wakefulness over the past couple of days, the rhythmic motion of the bus soothing him back to sleep each time it pulled away from another no-name town.  The man standing over him–who now looks the slightest bit impatient–bullying him into brief bathroom and food breaks at stops along the way.  What he can’t remember, however, is where he actually got onto the bus.  Or where he’s headed now.  Or why.

Son…am I his son?  No, that doesn’t sound right.  He knows the man is the bus driver.  Son is just something to call him since he’s never told him his name.  His name… Fear claws a hold into the pit of his stomach and vomit threatens to rise up.  What the hell is my name? Along with the fear and nausea comes a faint but nagging sense of hunger.  Odd, since he recalls eating enough cheeseburgers at the last stop to satisfy a linebacker.  Two linebackers.

“Yes sir.  Come on, now, all the passengers are long gone and I’ve got your other bag sitting on the curb.  Grab your pack and I’ll take you to the nearest motel like your sister asked.  Have my own family to get home to now, son.”

The boy watches the driver head back up the empty aisle, mind struggling to catch up.  He uses the hem of his black t-shirt to wipe the drool off his arm and shrugs.  Jeez.  Whatever pills he took to get through this long-ass bus ride have screwed up his memory big time.  Not only can’t he recall his name but he doesn’t remember having a sister.

He stands up and moves to follow the driver, only noticing the backpack at his feet when he trips over it.  A curse passes his lips but he grabs the seat in front of him and manages not to fall.  Guess that’s the pack he wants me to bring.

So he does.  Before he can settle a strap over his left arm–which seems the most natural somehow–he catches sight of four letters stitched onto the back panel of the pack.  Z-A-N-E.  Zane; is that my name?  Not knowing for sure feels strange, but at least he has something to latch on to.  Some shred of identity.  Hopefully the rest will come once the pills wear off–he has to be tripping on some sort of drug, nothing else makes sense.

In the meantime, he’ll go through his bags first chance he gets.  Maybe at whatever motel the driver points him to.  First, though, he has to venture off the bus that’s been the closest thing to a home he can remember for the past few days.

And, man, isn’t that pretty damned pathetic?

He’s not used to feeling pathetic, or at least doesn’t think so.  Not a feeling he wants to get used to either.  The bus driver waits for him next to an olive-green Salvation Army style duffel bag.  He scoops up the bag and settles it across the opposite shoulder from the smaller backpack, noticing that this one, too, has the letters Z-A-N-E stitched in small text.

The driver–his nametag reads “Paul Owenson”–clears his throat, shifting awkwardly from leg to leg.  “Your sister told me to remind you to keep a low profile, though she didn’t say why.  Don’t think I want to know, either.  You seem like a good kid and she loves you like a son.  Old enough to be her son, too.  But I’m babbling on like my wife; you know all this.”

No! he wants to scream.  I don’t.  But that doesn’t seem the smartest thing to do, so he keeps quiet.

“She wants you to read the letters in your backpack and said she left you plenty money in there.  Don’t you let nobody go taking advantage of you, neither.  Your ID’s in there, and yeah, I checked to make sure your sister wasn’t lying to me–you’re 18 so don’t let nobody give you shit that you don’t look a day over 16.”  Owenson takes off his beat-up cap and rubs it between thick, calloused fingers.  “I left my work number in your wallet, son.  You get into any trouble you can’t handle, you call me.  Not sure I’ll be able to help, but.  Well.  We’d best get you settled in for the night.”

The boy–Zane’s as good a name as any to go by until he can remember differently–follows after Owenson obediently, becoming more alert as the late-night breeze washes away the cobwebs cluttering his mind.

He looks up at the black expanse of sky and takes in a deep breath.  A dozen scents hit his nostrils and he wrinkles his nose as the stench of skunk wars with fried chicken and chili.  How weird that he can sort those smells out.  The nearest fast-food restaurant is several blocks away and he can’t see a line of trees where the skunk might hide.  His eyesight seems way too sharp for the moonless night as well.  He picks out the line of buses surrounding the one they rode in on in clearer detail than a single dim security light can explain.  Before he can puzzle out his infrared eyesight, Owenson leads him through a chain-link gate.  He locks it behind them before heading toward a smaller parking lot, this one containing a single vehicle, a plain white Ford sedan.

Funny, that he recognizes the make and model when he can’t even remember his own name.  Or the sister that loves him like a mother.  Not really funny-ha, more like funny-sucks-huge-donkey-balls.

Owenson herds him into the car and steers it past ten motels that look fine to Zane.  Wherever St. Cloud is–Minnesota?  Florida?  It’s hot as hell outside but since he doesn’t know the month that’s not much of a clue–it’s obviously a tourist trap with all the flashing neon lights they pass.  It’s only just after they pass a sign reading, “Welcome to Kissimmee” that the lightbulb goes off.  Florida, then.  He’s not sure how he knows that, but he does.  Maybe he’s been here before.  Hell, for all he knows, “here” is home.

Owenson finally turns off the main road he’s been driving down and pulls into a small but clean-looking motel.  Pirate’s End Bungalows.  The name doesn’t ring any immediate bells like Kissimmee and Ford did.  Maybe a local chain.

“I know the family of the owner here, son.  They’ll take good care of you and won’t ask too many questions long as you show your ID and pay cash.  Specially if I vouch for you, which I will.”  The man levels a stern look his way.  “Just make sure I don’t come to regret that.”

“I won’t.”  The response is automatic.  Surprisingly, though, Zane realizes he means it.  He may not know who or what kind of person he is, but he likes this man and doesn’t want to bring him any trouble.

His eyes are drawn to the motel’s main building, which is shaped like a Spanish galleon.  A half-dozen smaller bungalows–treasure chests to go along with the pirate theme–spread out to each side of that building.  Owenson does most of the talking to the front desk clerk–one of the owner’s daughters, who takes one look at Zane and immediately adopts a mother hen attitude.  He does his best to follow the man’s advice and keeps his lips zipped as much as possible.  She interprets that as his being tired–which he is–and rushes through the check-in process.  On the up side, she barely glances at his ID and takes his cash no problem.  On the down side, he finds himself trapped inside a treasure chest behind the main building much faster than expected.  And for the first time in days, completely and totally alone.

Well, time to go through Zane’s–I mean my stuff.  Assuming it is my stuff…

He starts with the backpack because it’s the smallest.  The front pocket holds the new leather wallet featuring the wad of cash he barely dented paying for the night’s lodgings, along with a Massachusetts driver’s license that does, in fact, pronounce him to be 18 years old.  18 years, 1 month, and 22 days, to be precise.  The photo shows an unsmiling, dark-haired boy with tan skin and almond-shaped brown eyes.  Anxiety blooms when he doesn’t recognize his own face so he flails for something else to focus on.

“Massachusetts.  That must be where I’m from.”  He speaks out loud to taste the rightness of the words coming from his tongue, but nothing.  Could be true, could be bullshit.

The wallet also houses several credit and gas cards, all in the same name as the license:  Zane Khenbish.  That word has him blinking.  “Nobody.  I am Nobody.”

The story of his life now, isn’t it?  How he knows that Khenbish means “nobody” but can’t remember it as his last name is another mystery.  He frowns and steps over to the sink and mirror just outside the john.  Harsh light makes his skin look more yellow than tan.  Tangled blue hair–obviously a dye job–falls well past his shoulders and could really use a rubber band.  Or a haircut.  Big, round eyes that had the motel clerk launching into instant mothering mode and would probably make girls his own age go gaga.

His own age…He stares down at the driver’s license in his hand again and then back into the mirror.  Owenson was right.  He doesn’t look a day over 16.  Maybe even younger, with his anime eyes and delicate cheekbones that would have looked more at home on a girl.  Like his sister, maybe.

Thinking of his sister has his fingers diving back into the backpack and emerging with a ribbon-tied stack of letters.  The topmost envelope reads only, “Zane – #1,” which he takes to mean he should open that one first.

“Dearest Khenbish:  Trust only the one who delivered you to where you are now, for if I entrusted you to that person’s care I saw into their mind and judged them deserving.  I understand you are confused and disoriented but know these two things:  I love you.  And you are in danger.

“Impossible for me to summarize everything in a single letter, and you would find it all just as impossible to believe so soon.  Read one of these letters each morning for the next month and, by then, you will be ready.  Ready to truly know, ready to believe, and ready to become what you must for us both.

“For now, let me say this.  You are more than what you appear.  Our people have been called various names over the centuries but one thing has remained constant.  Honor, loyalty, and love above all else.  Second only to those three:  blood and bone.  Blood to feed the power and flesh to fuel the bone.  You are probably sitting there scratching your head over these mysterious words, but trust me.  Tomorrow’s letter will shed more light on who and what you are and explain the importance of the books I sent with you.

“Tomorrow, you will know.  And knowing, believe.  And hopefully soon, become what you must.  For us both, for our Family, and for the Upyr.

“Until tomorrow-I remain your loving sister, Terbish.”

He frowns at the word “upyr”.  Something about the word tickles his memory and he racks his brain for the reason.  His head begins to ache as he tries harder to remember why the word “upyr” sounds familiar.  The dull throb becomes stabbing pain until, finally, he gives up with a frustrated growl.  The pain fades quickly once he stops searching his Swiss cheese of a memory, leaving behind the hunger whining in his belly and the exhaustion humming through his entire body.

Exhaustion wins out over hunger.  He abandons the letter to fall onto the lumpy but clean mattress and do the only thing that makes any sense.  Sleep until the sun comes up and hope like hell his body works all of the drugs out of his system so his memory comes back.

I enjoyed my 5-star average Amazon review rating for the few hours it lasted (with 1 review, hahaha) and am trying not to obsessively check my Amazon ranking or look for new reviews online nonstop. Silly obsessive authors on review day! Neither of those things ever ends well…

And yes, I totally blame my friend Wen Spencer for teaching me how to even CHECK Amazon rankings!  :P

I ended the day with a trip to Barnes & Noble with my son, sister, niece, and sister’s stepson-to-be where my sister kindly took author-holding-book photos.