And yes, that’s intentionally grammatically incorrect! =) Exciting (at least to me) news on Red Hot Fury. Penguin/Berkley gave it a full-page ad in their July catalog for booksellers, and I think it looks awesome! You can check it out on my slightly redesigned website. Isn’t it beautiful?!?
In sequel news, I’ve finally picked up steam on Green Eyed Envy, Book 2 of Shades of Fury (the new series title). Chapter 1 is finished and I’m working on Chapter 2! In honor of that, here’s a snippet of the opening scene:
Everyone knew that Cats got way more than their fair share of lives, but the poor SOB spread-eagled on the alley floor would have called BS on that. Well, if his life hadn’t already been snuffed out–not an easy thing to do to the shape-shifting children of Egyptian goddess Bast. I had to give his killer an A for effort. He (or she) had gone to extreme measures to put an early end to this Cat’s 99 lives.
Yeah, 99. The Bastai–otherwise known as Cats–weren’t confined to a measly 9 lives like good ole Morris. Unless, of course, another Arcane hastened them to an early grave. Case in point, the dark-haired man on the ground. Usually, the only way to keep a Cat six feet under involved decapitation or incineration. But while the corpse sprawled on the ugly concrete had taken a beating, his head and skin were still present and accounted for. Mostly.
Which left little ole me, Fury and Chief Magical Investigator, puzzling over why tall, dark, and deceased wasn’t pulling the usual feline resurrection routine.
The heavenly aroma of my own personal nectar–otherwise known as Starbucks coffee–had me spinning from the corpse and catching sight of my mortal partner on the Boston Police Department. Trinity LaRue, 5 feet, 10 inches of Southern charm and grace packed into a gorgeous, dark-skinned body that caused all too many men to underestimate her. Criminals who made that mistake only got to make it once. When Trinity got done disabusing them of their sexist notions, they wound up either incarcerated–or dead.
I accepted the jumbo green and white paper cup–just my size–she held out and flashed a smile. "I knew there was a reason I let you be my new best friend."
She took a sip of her low-fat, no-sugar, caffeine-free cup of blandness (gods save me from mortal health kicks) and rolled her eyes. "You ‘let’ me be your new best friend because nobody else wants to put up with your moody ass."
I smirked. "Yeah, there’s that. Plus, you drive a bitchin’ car."
Her brown eyes lit up at the mention of the electric blue classic sports car her four big brothers had re-built for her recent thirtieth birthday. (Turning the big 3-0 definitely does a number on mortals, as Trin’s new obsession with blah food and copious amounts of exercise showed.) The "bitchin’ car" made the hot pink fuzzy dice I’d gotten her as a gag gift look much snazzier than expected. Then again, just about anything looked good in a Porsche Spyder.
Trinity nodded toward the vic. "So?"
My breath huffed out as I finally admitted what I’d been trying to deny. "Same MO."
Her eyes widened and, this time, she drew the same word out in her signature Southern drawl. "Soooo?"
"Soooo, same killer as the other two."
Proving that she was indeed my new best friend, she took the opportunity for a little gloating. "And?"
I shot her an annoyed look but gave her what she was digging for. "You were right and I was wrong. Boston has its first Arcane serial killer."
And because I find these motivational, here’s a Word Count Update: