Finding Anna--the Doctor Who Connection (More about Call Me Zhenya)

When I write, I find it really helpful to find real people to "play" my characters while I'm spinning the story in my head. Sometimes I base them on pictures I find in magazines, but in most cases I cast an actor or another well-known personality, and incorporate some of their quirks into my characterization. It helps the characters come to life for me, and makes it easier to write about them.

In this post, I talked a little about how I tuned in to the character of Evgeni. It was finding my Evgeni that got this version of the story moving along. But I also had to find Anna before I could really get underway.

Anna was a shakier process. Originally, I had pictured Faith from Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Eliza Dushku), but as the story changed into its current form, that didn't quite work. While I was doing my initial work, the news arrived that Elisabeth Sladen had passed away. Elisabeth played Sarah Jane Smith in Doctor Who back in the 80s and also in some of the more recent incarnations of the show. She was the first companion I saw, when I started watching Doctor Who with Tom Baker's first story, "Robot," back when the original series was being broadcast on PBS.

Right away, I wanted Anna to be a sort of tribute to Elisabeth Sladen. But she herself didn't quite work for me in the head canon of the role. I named Anna Slaten in her honor (yes, I changed it a little--it just seemed like the right name for Anna although, as an aside, for some reason I kept also calling her Stanten, and had to weed out those typos in the last few drafts), and then started looking at other Doctor Who companions to fill her role. I tried Karen Gillan for a while, but that didn't work. Finally, while I was catching up with some episodes, I hit upon "Planet of the Dead," and the one-time companion Christina, played by Michelle Ryan. She was a kickass type who liked to wear black, and she immediately felt like the right face to put on my Anna Slaten.

I also "cast" Delgrado. This was a strange process, because I had him pictured very clearly in my head, but then couldn't place the face of the actor who had taken him over (this isn't the first time this has happened...). Finally I realized he was Clark Gregg, Agent Coulson from the Marvel movies and now Agents of SHIELD.

You can take a look at all my "casting" photos as well as some other research materials I used for the book on my Pinterest account. And please take a swing by my Kindle Scout page and drop me a vote!

What is up with that Weird Title and Who the Hell is Zhenya, Anyway?

The answer to this question is that Russians have weird nicknames. You might know that the nickname for Alexander is Sasha, and the nickname for Michael is Misha…etc. Zhenya is the nickname for Evgeni, which basically means Eugene, but Eugene is a boring name, so there you go.

The title itself comes from a scene a little ways into the book, where Evgeni instructs Anna on how to control his wolf form for her own protection. The wolf’s response to her assertion of control leads to all kinds of interesting complications down the road.

Here’s the scene:

“First I’ll answer your question about waking me, but not waking the wolf.”

She nodded. It was important she knew this. “All right.”

Evgeni slid the backpack to the ground. It landed silently, and his steps were equally silent when he closed the distance between them. “First,” he said, “you touch me like this.”

His hand rose, and for a split second she thought she’d misjudged him, that she’d followed him out here to the Alaskan bush just so he could kill her where no one would ever find her body. His hand closed around the side of her neck, resting partially on her shoulder, his thumb pressing against her Adam’s apple. She flinched; she couldn’t help it. The movement hadn’t been sudden or violent, and nothing about his touch hurt her, but every cell in her body was suddenly, acutely aware that he could break her neck or crush her windpipe with a single shift of that enormous hand. Was he really answering her question, or was he making a point?

Then his eyes softened again, and the grip shifted. The thumb on her windpipe didn’t relax, because it had never been taut to begin with, but it moved, stroking her skin. And that brought a whole new onslaught of sensation.

“It’s important to touch me here,” he told her and tapped her windpipe lightly. “It doesn’t have to be hard or rough—in fact it’s better if it isn’t. But your thumb here, your fingers behind my ear.”

“What if…” She struggled to regain her composure. “What if your back is to me?”

“Turn around and I’ll show you.” He released her and made a twirling motion with one finger. The size and weight of his hand still lay imprinted on her throat.

Hesitant, she turned her back to him.

The touch came promptly, but she was ready for it this time. He laid his fingers along the line of her windpipe, his thumb pressing against the base of her skull. Still gentle, careful, yet still a placement he could use to kill her if he chose.

“You hold me and speak to me,” he said, and she could feel his warm breath against her ear. “You do not call me Evgeni. You say Zhenya.”

It was a diminutive, she knew, like calling him Sasha if his name were Alexander, or like calling her Annie. “Zhenya,” she repeated.

“Yes.” His hand came free, and she turned back around to face him. “You do it. Show me you understand.”

She stared up at him. She wasn’t sure she could even reach his neck, much less get her hand into the right position. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration, but he was definitely tall enough to make it awkward.

As if reading her dilemma on her face, he dropped to his knees, a smile working his mouth. “Try now.”

God, this was weird. But necessary. He wasn’t playing games with her. In a very real way, he was showing her how to control him. And he didn’t have to do that.

She laid her hand along his neck and shoulder, mimicking the position he’d used on her. Her thumb lay against the hard knob of his Adam’s apple, which was roughened with overnight stubble. So was his cheek, where her index finger brushed it. Her small hand seemed ludicrously inadequate for the task she’d assigned it.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, then vibrated beneath her hand. “If you were a mama wolf,” he told her, “you would take me by my neck and put me where you wanted me. And if you were an alpha, you would take me by my neck and show me I was not the alpha. So this shows control but also protection. If the wolf is waiting there right under the skin, this will make it understand you are a friend.”

Anna nodded, letting her hand drop. Since he was kneeling, she walked around to stand behind him rather than asking him to turn. From behind, she laid her hand again on his neck, thumb against the base of his skull, fingers along the line of his windpipe. “Like this?”

“Yes. Now say my name.”

“Zhenya,” she said obligingly. “Zhenya, wake up and don’t try to eat my face.”

He chuckled. “There, you see? It’s easy enough.”

END EXCERPT

I hope you enjoyed it! And don't forget to vote!

Coming Soon, plus New Cover!

Coming soon from Shara Azod, LLC:

Snow: White Tiger Shifters Series

Jayanti is pissed. The last thing she knew, she was cavorting with tigers in Rewa, India. Then suddenly she's abducted and dragged off to a zoo in the US with no safe way to shift back to her human form.

Dr. Logan Carter, DVM, has worked his whole life to try to preserve white tigers. When an apparently wild white tiger arrives at his zoo, he sees hope for a new genetic line to revitalize the animal.

But it's not long before Logan discovers his new tiger isn't what she appears to be. And that's when things really start to get interesting...

Cover Reveal--As If You Never Left Me--Coming Soon from Crimson Romance

I'm a bit behind on this, and if you follow me on Twitter and/or Facebook, you've seen this already, but here's the cover of my upcoming book from Crimson Romance, As If You Never Left Me. This is a reprint of a book that was originally released by Ellora's Cave. If you didn't read it in its previous incarnation, I hope you'll check it out!

Rey and Joely Birch had what they thought was a perfect marriage. Then, suddenly, it all fell apart. Joely left Rey in a fit of anger, moving halfway across the country to make a new life for herself in Colorado.

Now, fourteen months later, she’s happy with how things are going, running a classy boutique in the mountains, creating ceramic art, and seeing her business already in the black. But then one day she looks up and Rey is standing in the middle of her shop. Sexy as ever and asking for a second chance. The last thing Joely wants is to let herself be hurt again. But he’s still Rey, still the man she fell in love with, still the man who can send her heart racing with a look. And Joely’s having a very hard time resisting him.

Rey knows he screwed up the best thing he ever had when he let Joely slip away. Now he has a chance to prove to her he can be the right man for her again. He wants time to be her husband again, to show her how he truly feels. And it looks like she’s going to give it to him. She’s willing to accept a date—even willing to let him sleep on the couch in her tiny mountain cabin. Bit by bit, he’ll chip away at the wall she’s built around herself. A piece at a time, he’ll put his heart back together for her.
But will his carefully laid plans disintegrate when she finds out what really brought him to Colorado?

A Couple of New Reviews

It looks like Necromancing Nim is doing not too badly out there in the big, wide, scary world. Thanks to everybody who's picked up a copy! If you've read the book, a review or even a hit on the "Like" button would be greatly appreciated. :-)

In other news, I have a couple of new reviews to share for Dealing With David (Samhain) and Unleashed Hearts (Still Moments).

First, from Long and Short Reviews, a 4.5-star review for Dealing With David:

"For a fun high school reunion, wedding-style, snap up a copy of Dealing with David. It will appeal to anyone who has ever wondered about their high school classmates, wanted to carry out an outstanding appearance at their high school reunion, or just needed a great story to read that combines revenge, overcoming obstacles, and romance."--Lotus and Long and Short Reviews

And from Sizzling Hot Books, 4 stars for Unleashed Hearts: 

"For the dog lovers among us, Unleashed Hearts shows how dogs are really our best friends. In this trio of stories in Unleashed Hearts, these dogs do their best to make their handlers happy. In each case they search out and bring love into lonely hearts."

"'Accidental Evenings' was a cute story showing how Cleo knew best! I enjoyed it, the story running smoothly from beginning to end."--Beverly at Sizzling Hot Books


Thanks for the great reviews!

Excerpt--The Haunting of Rory Campbell

After last week's spate of new stories, this time we head for another blast from the past with a snippet from The Haunting of Rory Campbell, another novel from ImaJinn Books. Rory Campbell is a professional ghost whisperer, I suppose you could say, although I wrote this book before that term came into vogue. While investigating a haunted historical site in North Carolina, she encounters Lachlan MacGregor, a Scottish immigrant who died in the 18th century. Ghostly hijinks ensue.

Paperback
Ebook
Kindle

***

            A few hours later, suitcases unloaded, cameras and tape recorders strewn all over the living room, Rory sat at the kitchen table writing out a game plan.  Tomorrow she’d set up tape recorders in places most likely to yield results.  Based on the background information, she’d already ruled out the pink bedroom, but the kitchen and the library seemed promising.  Tonight she’d collate her notes on previous sightings, which would make a good first chapter to her book.

            Finally she stopped, eyes aching from looking at the computer terminal.  Time to wind down for bed.  But she had nothing whatsoever to do with herself.  The place had electricity, yes, but there was no TV, no radio, and she was tired of looking at the computer, even for entertainment’s sake.

            She’d almost decided just to go to bed and read when she remembered the big, deep, claw-footed porcelain tub in the upstairs bathroom.  The thought of a nice, warm bath made her realize just how long a day she’d had, and how much she needed the relaxation.

            The water sputtered a bit when she turned on the tap, blowing a nice spray of rust with it, so she let it run until the water was clear before she stuck her hand in to test the temperature.  She wondered how old the pipes were, and if they might have lead in them.  She’d have the water tested as soon as possible.

            The bathroom filled with steam as the tub filled with hot water.  Rory went back to the pink room to retrieve the paperback horror novel she’d picked up at the grocery store.  She found horror novels vastly entertaining.  Devoting her professional life to the paranormal had given her a perspective somewhat different from the average reading public’s, and she often laughed her way through the most gruesome tales of preternatural mayhem.  Stephen King could still scare the hell out of her on occasion, though. 

            Book chosen, tub full and steaming, Rory peeled off her clothes and settled down into the nearly too-hot water.  It would cool quickly enough, but right now it was warm enough to turn her pale, freckled skin an interesting lobsterish color.  She wished she had bubble bath, but unfortunately she hadn’t thought about it when she’d been at the store.

            She read for a while as the water cooled to comfortably warm.  The heat and the stress of the day combined to fill her body with lassitude.  As the mayhem in the book began in earnest, she found her eyes drifting shut.  Finally, after nearly dropping the book into the water, she laid it aside and closed her eyes.

            Warm steam caressed her face, and the warm water lapped softly against her thighs and breasts.  With her eyes closed, the dampness felt like a hand against her face, each bead of sweat seeming to pop as it rose on her upper lip.  She felt as if she were floating, though her body rested securely on the floor of the tub.  Giving herself up to the floaty sensation, she let it carry her away.

            She didn’t fall asleep.  Not quite.  She hung suspended between consciousness and slumber, thinking of nothing, only feeling.  Sensation filled her, until it seemed nothing existed outside the layers of her own skin.           

            The heat, which had lain soft and damp against her skin, shifted as her breathing deepened.  It was like the caress of hands, moving up and down her body, the imagined touch adding to the deep, pervasive lassitude which had completely filled her.  She smiled a little, sank deeper into the water, but her conscious self was unaware of the action.

            And heat grew within her.  Liquid still, like the heat of the water, but pooling within her body, sinking to lie between her thighs, until that place ached with heaviness.  Sticky and hot, she moved, her hips pulsing softly.  She didn’t know she did it.  She thought she dreamed.

            But the dream was all of heat and water, growing and moving as it passed over her body, molded firm around her breasts, slipped soft down her belly, feathered against the insides of her thighs . . .

            Rory woke with a start and sat gasping, still feeling the heat, her body teetering on the edge of completion.

            What the hell was that?

            It had to have been a dream.  Certainly the heat hadn’t been real--the bath water had turned almost icy around her.  She stood, shivering as she snagged the towel from the sink.  Her legs wobbled.  She scrubbed herself dry and shivered her way into her pajamas.

            She stared at the water as it swirled and glugged down the drain.  She’d had strangely intense emotional experiences at haunted sights before, but never anything like this.  It had to have been a dream, the result of fatigue and her understandable preoccupation with the possible haunting of the house.

            At least, she hoped that was all it was.  Anything else didn’t really bear thinking about.

One More Excerpt: Lord of the Screaming Tower

My third release for April is from Lord of the Screaming Tower, a fantasy novella from Etopia Press. This story has a long history. The story was inspired by the song "Wrapped Around My Finger" by the Police. I wrote a long short story originally, then later I decided it might work as a longer piece. I wrote some additional bits about the characters and the world but never quite managed to complete it as a full-length book. This time around, I took the original story and the bits and pieces and put them together and ended up with a novella.

In the world of this book, magic is performed with music, both vocal and instrumental. Sarangell, the protagonist, is a particularly talented young wizard faced with the ultimate choice--banish the older wizard he's been told is evil, or take into himself power beyond what any wizard has ever previously imagined possible.


***

Chapter One

The tower stood in a dark jumble of broken stones, ragged in the moonlight. And it was screaming.

Sarangell’s hand closed on nothing. For weeks, while he and the old wizard had planned, the screaming had haunted the edges of his dreams, howling into his heartbeat. On impulse, he touched the black rock that made up the tower’s outside wall. It lay cold and still under his fingers.

To his left a door grated open, and a boy put his head out. Sarangell jerked toward him, snatching his hand away from the stone.

“What do you want?” the boy asked. One side of his face drooped, making his words slur.

At the abrupt, disrespectful demand, Sarangell fought the urge to lash out, with magic or otherwise. This was only a boy, after all, and a broken one at that. “I wish to see your master.” His soft, careful voice moved like clean water.

The boy’s eyebrows rose at the sound of that voice, and he took a sharp step backward. “Wait here.” The door closed.

Sarangell eased his harp case off his shoulder and laid it down. The cold night air whipped through the folds of his white shirt. Sarangell shivered, then hummed warmth back into the air around him. It was a simple enough spell, one of the first the old wizard had taught him. A yellow glow rose from his feet, sending the biting wind into steam. Sarangell hummed a Sustaining pitch and smiled. With the harp, and the sixth octave the old wizard had given him last night, he could have filled the courtyard with flames.

The door grated back open, and the boy reappeared. He stared at Sarangell’s yellow aura then collected himself.

“My master will see you. Follow me.”

Sarangell had expected as much. His Natural voice had gotten him easily into other wizards’ towers. All he had to do was say “hello,” and he was ushered into the inner sanctums. It had been that way twelve years ago when he’d fallen at the old wizard’s doorstep, nearly dead from the wrath of his father. It should be no different here. Inside it was dark but warm. Sarangell hummed a Counterpitch, shedding his warmth, and sang up a light. The boy gaped at him yet again.

“Your voice… It’s Natural, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

The boy shook his head, eyes still wide. Sarangell smiled.

The corridor twisted between black, broken walls. At one time, the tower had been a single piece of obsidian stone, constructed with magic no one but its lord understood. Now there were chips, holes, and cracks that ran down the walls to the floor. The damage, Sarangell knew, was the remnants of the old wizard’s last assault on the tower. Afterward the tower had been silent for years.

Then the screaming had begun.

They reached a staircase that took them to a landing lit by magical wisps and mundane torches. The boy opened a door.

“He’s waiting.”

Sarangell stepped forward, tempted to sing a note that would lead him right where he wanted to go without needing to depend upon the wavering lights and the boy’s dubious guidance. It would have been rude though, and he didn’t want to offend the master of the tower. Not yet. Certainly he’d be offended later, when Sarangell killed him.

Beyond the door, a short, dim corridor led to a large room. A desk sat in the middle, next to it a tall standing harp of honeywood. Book-laden shelves lined the walls.

He crossed the room, eyes on the harp. It was a beautiful instrument, its curves perfect, the strings fairly humming with the movement of the air in the room. Sarangell looked toward the bookshelves. They held standard wizard texts where he had hoped for rare tomes of eccentric power. His mouth twisted with disappointment.

“I’ve always thought it was a rather pleasant room.”

Sarangell spun. The voice was a wizard’s, a bit deeper than training usually aimed for, but with the clarity of Natural intonations. Its owner stood in the shadow behind the desk, where Sarangell should have seen him and yet hadn’t, his tall, slim body draped in purple. A neat beard darkened his craggy face. His eyes were pale green, and he looked thirty years younger than he should have.

“It is a pleasant room,” Sarangell said. “A bit dark though.”

The wizard stepped forward and touched the harp. The lights brightened. Sarangell’s hands shifted on his own harp case as the wizard’s eyes found the gold-rimmed insignia on Sarangell’s left breast.

“You bear the mark of Kandrell,” the wizard said.

Sarangell nodded to the wizard’s own black and purple badge. “And you bear the mark of Menesh.”

Teeth flashed ivory in the dark beard. “I am Menesh.”

“I know.”

Menesh nodded, the smile still playing across his lips. “You have a Natural voice. I didn’t believe the boy when he told me, but he was right. He’s tone deaf and simple, or I wouldn’t keep him here, but he can hear the grit in the Trained voices. How many of your octaves are natural?”

“Three. A little over.”

“Do you have the eighth octave?”

“No. Only six.”

Menesh rounded the desk and perched on the edge of it. “May I see your harp?”

Sarangell hesitated, then handed the instrument over. Menesh opened the case. The light in the room seemed to catch fire in the brilliant red wood. Menesh’s blunt hands touched the strings gently, playing harmless notes, music rather than magic. After a time, he handed it back.

“It’s a good harp. Why don’t you sit down?”

Sarangell obediently sat in the chair next to the desk. The desk had papers on it, most filled with music. Some were outlines of spells Sarangell recognized, but with minor changes here and there. Others appeared to be pieces of more complex magic, while still others Sarangell recognized as simply music. The notations ran through ten octaves, with harp augmentation up to eight. Sarangell passed a neutral glance over them.

“What’s your name?” Menesh asked.

“Sarangell.”

“You’ve been studying with Kandrell for how long?”

“Twelve years.”

“And before that?”

“My voice disappeared when I was thirteen. When it came back after two weeks, I couldn’t say hello without breaking crockery or setting the walls on fire. So my father beat me, and I found my way to Kandrell.” It wasn’t the whole story, of course, but it was more than Menesh needed to know.

Menesh nodded, eyes narrowing. It wasn’t so unusual a story, Sarangell knew. Magic was not only feared but despised in the towns, which was why the wizards congregated in towers in the rugged countryside. Which was also why Sarangell’s father had crushed his wife’s magic-laden hands into uselessness, finally managing to kill her in her thirteenth trip to childbed. These days Natural voices were practically nonexistent, with the wizards searching more and more for apprentices in the southern countries. There older gods reigned, wizardry was still considered an honored profession, and children with borderline voices were often sent to towers with their parents’ blessings to be trained.

So Sarangell understood the gleam in Menesh’s eyes as he considered Sarangell’s potential. “And you’ve augmented three times since then?”

“Yes. And I want more. I’ve been to tower after tower, and the wizards are all the same—slow and careful. They won’t teach me what I want to know. Maybe you will.”

Menesh toyed with his beard. “Kandrell tried to kill me once, you know.”

Sarangell knew perfectly well. And Sarangell’s arrival here was Kandrell’s second attempt. “No, I didn’t.”

Menesh made a wide gesture. “You’ve seen the broken walls. Kandrell did that. He destroyed a great deal of important work.”

“What has that to do with me?”

Menesh’s robe rustled as he slid down from the desk. “Possibly nothing. But if I find that you maintain loyalty to him, I’ll kill you.”

Sarangell tried to match the other wizard’s quiet gaze, but couldn’t. “My Lord,” he murmured. Menesh smiled. His hand touched the golden harpstrings, and he disappeared.

Excerpt Week Continues: Accidental Evenings

"Accidental Evenings" is my first venture with Still Moments Publishing. It's one of three stories in the anthology Unleashed Hearts, which features stories about couples who are brought together by their dogs. As a dog lover, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to contribute. My story was accepted (yays!) and here we are!

Mandy is a homebody, much like myself in that she'd rather stay home and cuddle with her dog than try to find a new boyfriend. Her dog, though, has other ideas, and when Chloe keeps digging under the fence and ending up on the next door neighbor's back porch, Mandy has no choice but to meet the neighbor. The hunky neighbor. Who seems to like her...

***
 

Standing on the porch, Mandy wondered if she should have brought a housewarming gift. A bottle of wine, maybe, or a houseplant. But the only wine she had in her house was in a half empty bottle in the fridge, and all her houseplants were dead. The neighbors would have to settle for, “Hi, how are you? May I have my stupid dog back, please?”

Gathering her courage, Mandy rang the doorbell.

For a few minutes, everything was silent behind the door. Maybe nobody was home? But the porch light was on, as was the light in the garage, and she could see a car through the high garage windows. Not that she was snooping or anything.

She was about to ring the bell again when something stirred inside the house. A minute later, the door opened.

Mandy forgot to breathe for a minute. The man on the other side of the glass-and-screen door was about six foot three, with black hair, blue eyes, and shoulders that nearly filled the doorframe. She also noticed, with a reflex she’d developed over the last five years for no really good reason, that there was no ring on his left hand. He was wearing suit pants and a collared shirt, unbuttoned at the throat as if he’d recently removed a tie.

“Good evening?” He had an accent. She couldn’t quite peg it because her ears were ringing, but good God, just when she thought he couldn’t get any hotter.

“Um…hi?” Mandy managed. “I’m your next-door neighbor and—”

“Oh!” His face lit up and he held out a hand. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’ve been meaning to come over and introduce myself.”

“Um…” She couldn’t come up with any additional words, so she shook his hand. It was big and warm. The accent, she decided, was Eastern European. Not Russian, but close. Russian-ish. “Mandy,” she managed as he clasped her hand then let go. It was a good handshake.

“Tómas,” he said. “Won’t you come in?”

Come in? That wasn’t where she’d expected this to go. “I don’t want to impose. It’s just…my dog—”

“Oh, no imposition. Please. Come in and tell me all about your dog.”

It seemed she didn’t have much choice. He wanted her to come in and so she was going to come in, dragged bodily over the threshold by the sheer power of his amazingly blue eyes.

She figured she’d just tell him what was up with Cleo and get the socializing over with, and then run back to her comfortable living room where she could watch television and eat a pint of double-chocolate, mint chip ice cream, and pretend this Tómas thing of gorgeousness didn’t exist. It would be a much easier life than acknowledging he was here and wondering if he could see past the weird little flip on her bedroom curtains when she was undressing.

“Can I offer you tea? Coffee? A soft drink?” Good God, but he was friendly.

“Um…the dog…”

“Yes. The dog. I’ll bring you tea, and then we can talk about the dog.”

Friendly and bossy. And decisive. She thought about telling him she didn’t like tea, but that was a lie. And it wasn’t like she was any real hurry. Cleo was probably still lying stubbornly on his back porch with her feathery tail over her nose.

“Have a seat,” said Tómas.

Mandy had a seat. The living room was nicely furnished, with chairs that looked strangely modern and antique at the same time. She ran a hand over the red and gold upholstery on the arm of the chair she’d chosen.

“My dog…her name’s Cleo…” Mandy began, raising her voice so Tómas could hopefully hear her in the kitchen. It was around the corner from where she sat, and she could hear him puttering, the clink of porcelain and the soft glug of water pouring out of a kettle. “She’s normally really well behaved, but the last three nights she’s gotten out of the yard and—”

Tómas reappeared, carrying two cups of steaming tea. He handed one to her, kept the other for himself and settled into the chair across from hers.

“She’s gotten out?” he said. “Do you need help to find her? I’m sorry, I should have let you tell me earlier—”

“No, no.” Mandy waved off his impending apology. “I don’t need help finding her. The thing is, she’s on your back porch.”

Tómas’s black brows rose and he regarded her almost comically. “She is? She’s on my back porch?”

“Yeah. She dug a hole under the fence, and when I went to look, she was back there just…hanging out. She wouldn’t come when I called.”

“Goodness.” Tómas set his teacup carefully on the side table. “I wonder why she would do that? Let’s go let her in, shall we?”

He stood and Mandy followed suit, rubbing her tea-warmed hands down the fronts of her thighs. “You don’t have to let her in the house. I mean, she sheds and she’s been digging, so she might be muddy—”

“Oh, psssh.” It was an odd sound, accompanied by a flip of his hand that made it clear he wasn’t concerned about either muddy paws or the horrors of Labrador hair. “Is she friendly? She sounds like she must be.”

He was on his way to the back door already, leading Mandy through his kitchen. It looked as if he’d just been finishing up dinner when she’d arrived—there was an empty plate and a half-empty glass of wine on the table, the bottle sitting next to it.

“Yeah. She’s friendly.”

“Her name?”

“Cleo.”

Tómas opened the back door. “Oh, my goodness! Look what it is. A dog on my back porch. Come in, Cleo, and say hello to your mama.”

I hope you'll check out Unleashed Hearts, with "Accidental Evenings" as well as "Dog Day Afternoons" by Darlene Henderson and "Snow White and the Seven Dogs" by Denise Moncreif. 

Excerpt: Vampire Apocalypse: Revelations

With Vampire Apocalypse: Revelations, we get to the last books I originally published with Dreams Unlimited. The Vampire Apocalypse series was originally envisioned as a series of novellas. The first two, Julian and Nicholas, were published under separate cover, and I was working on the third, Lucien, when DU went out of business.

I decided to stick to the original plan of connected novellas, but finished Lucien and wrote one more, Lorelei, and sold them as a package to ImaJinn. Then Book Two: Apotheosis, followed with four more connected novellas: Lilith, Rafael, Tara, and Julian--Redux. Both books are still in print through ImaJinn. Overall, it's one of those worlds I keep thinking about revisiting, but I'm not sure if I should.

From Vampire Apocalypse Book One: Revelations--Julian

Lorelei Fletcher was in over her head. She should have followed her instincts from the beginning. Too late for that now—she just hoped she could get the hell out of here somehow.

On any other night but Halloween, she never would have followed Dina east of Tompkins Square Park, dance club or no dance club. But Halloween and her vampire costume made her feel invincible, so she’d agreed.

They’d never made it to the dance club. Instead, following directions given Dina by her latest boyfriend, they’d ended up here, in a bizarre tenement building where all the rooms seemed to be connected, and where no hallway seemed to be the same shape from moment to moment. Lorelei was beginning to wonder if the weird smell in the place was some kind of hallucinogen.

It would, at least, be a logical explanation for why everyone was so weird. Everybody in the place was dressed like a vampire. It hadn’t seemed strange at first. It was Halloween, after all. Lorelei herself made a stunning vampiress, or so she thought, with her black hair and naturally milky complexion. But, unlike the weirdoes at this party, she only played vampire one day a year.

She had to admit the image of the vampire intrigued her, sometimes to the point of obsession. She could spend days watching every vampire movie she could find, tracing dim, elusive memories. In twenty years, she hadn’t found a mirror to the scene she remembered from childhood. But compared to these nuts, she was a paragon of sanity.

She’d been accosted half a dozen times by guys with razor blades, and, looking for the bathroom, she’d stumbled into a couple of leather-clad women sucking each other’s wrists with an enthusiasm Lorelei reserved for sex or good chocolate. She’d heard about things like this, but she’d never really believed people could be so freaky. So much for unbridled optimism.

She wished she knew where Dina was. Lorelei had lost track of her about an hour ago, when they’d split up to find the front door. They were supposed to meet at a designated bathroom fifteen minutes later, but Lorelei hadn’t seen Dina since. Nor had she seen the front door.

Somewhere a clock began to strike. Lorelei looked at her watch. Midnight. A woman in a bright red cape brushed by her, a coppery smell of blood drifting in her wake.

“Excuse me,” Lorelei said, but the woman only cast a grin over her shoulder and kept walking.

“Thank you so much.” Lorelei came to a halt and crossed her arms. This was ridiculous. She could swear she’d been down this stretch of hallway at least twice. Where the hell had the front door gone? She thought a minute. If she went this way, she should end up back at the bathroom...

The voice, faint but frantic, seemed to come from around a bend in the hall.“No! Stop it, Nicky!”

“Dina!” Lorelei broke into a run.

“Get your hands off me, you bastard!”

“Dina!” Lorelei ran full-tilt into the closed door. She was certain it was the bathroom—or a bathroom—and behind it Dina’s voice rose, frantic.

“No! Nicky, no!” >The voice sobbed now, in terror. >

Lorelei slammed herself into the door. >“Dina! Dina, hang on

Hang on to what? Lorelei had no idea what was going on. Her breath tore in her throat, heaving toward panic. Visions of razor blades and blood swam in her vision. >She smashed herself again and again into the door until she thought her shoulder would shatter. Suddenly the door came open with the sickening sound of splintering wood.

There was Dina. There were no razor blades, but there was blood.

A big, dark-haired man had her pinned against the wall, face buried in the bend of her throat. Of course, Lorelei thought fleetingly. If they thought they were vampires, of course they’d go for the throat. Shallow cuts, probably, like the wrist cuts.

“Get away from her, you freak!” Lorelei grabbed the man by the shoulder and dragged at him, trying to haul him off Dina. But he was heavy, and stronger than she could have imagined...

Panic clawed up her throat. This wasn’t like the wrist-sucking girls in the bathroom. Something more was going on here. >The room reeked of blood. From this angle, Lorelei could see it, winding in a thick, red line down Dina’s bare shoulder, down the length of her arm, dripping steadily from the end of her index finger. Dina’s head was thrown back, the man’s mouth fastened to her throat...

He was killing her.

Lorelei struck him again, fruitlessly. Then, so deep into panic she had no awareness of it anymore, she grabbed a handful of his silky black hair and jerked as hard as she could.

The man’s head snapped back. Blood sprayed everywhere. He turned toward Lorelei as Dina’s body slumped down to the floor, filling the small room with a rhythmic spray of blood that suddenly subsided.

The man grabbed Lorelei’s hair on either side of her face, holding her riveted. She’d thought the paleness of his skin was makeup, skillfully applied. >Now she saw it was only his skin, smooth, seamless, painfully white. He opened his blood-filled mouth and she saw white again, slender fangs.

He struck. ***

Julian Cavanaugh had been sitting in the alley for hours, chain smoking and smelling blood. He came here every Halloween, to remind himself of what he'd been, and what he'd become.

Sometimes he wondered why he did it. With the blood-smell in his nostrils the craving became almost unbearable even with the aid of the cigarettes, which weren’t exactly over-the-counter Marlboros. But if he could sit here from dusk until dawn, smelling the blood and not giving into the need, he knew he could make it another year.

As of tonight, it would be two hundred and thirty-six.

Sometimes he thought it was a waste of time, namely the hours he invested every week making the cigarettes. The tobacco he could buy at the mall, nicely dried and prepared, but three of the other ingredients were herbs which, as far as he knew, had been extinct on this planet for a millennium. Except for the few plants preserved by a Native American shaman, given to him by a god of blood, then passed on to Julian two hundred and thirty-six years ago.

Deep, throaty laughter came from a second-story window. Julian recognized the voice. >Nicholas had been made a vampire three years ago tonight, during the annual Halloween bloodbash. Vivian had made him. As Julian recalled, she’d found him in a bar and brought him home for the party. It was strange to Julian how many humans were willing to come, to slash their wrists and lap each others’ blood, pretending to be something they couldn’t begin to imagine.

Julian lit another cigarette from the tip of the butt in his mouth and listened to Nicholas’ voice. A woman answered him, first laughing seductively, then, suddenly, in fear.

“No. Stop it, Nicky.” He heard scuffling. “Get your hands off me, you bastard!” Then she screamed, “No!”

Julian closed his eyes tight and sucked hard on the cigarette. He’d promised himself a long time ago to stay out of the business of other vampires. >But he hated to hear the taking of an unwilling victim.

He should get up and walk away. Inside, the voices rose. Another woman’s voice screamed from the other side of the door. >Julian snubbed the cigarette against the brick wall and put the butt in his jacket pocket. Gathering himself, he leapt, catching the sill and levering himself up on it. The cigarettes had stilled the need for blood, but hadn’t affected his strength.

The victim’s head lolled against the partly-open window. All Julian could see was a mass of gold-brown hair and Nicholas’ face pressed into her neck. Julian grabbed the window and shoved upward. >He should have moved faster. Now it was too late to save her.

Suddenly the bathroom door burst inward and another woman half-fell into the room. With an astonishing show of strength, she tore Nicholas away from the dying blonde woman. And Nicholas, predictably, turned on her.

Julian launched himself through the window and onto Nicholas’ back, breaking him loose from his victim and knocking him to the floor. >The woman fell in a heap to the ground, all pale skin and black hair, unconscious, not from blood loss, but from the beginning of the vampire’s trance. Her throat had been pricked, but not penetrated.

Nicholas, interrupted at the beginning of a new feed, stumbled. Julian grabbed his shoulder and shoved him down. The younger vampire glared up at him, eyes glinting black.

“You,” he said, his voice still wet with blood from the first girl.

“How observant,” said Julian dryly.

Nicholas leaped at him. Julian hadn’t expected that and he threw up an arm to ward Nicholas off, but he landed hard against him, threw a punch that smashed Julian’s lip against his teeth. The taste of his own blood made Julian momentarily dizzy.

“Stop,” he said, his voice pitched low and deep. >

Nicholas stopped. He was young, his three years no match for Julian’s eight centuries. >He gaped at Julian, then struggled to formed words. “There’s a Call out for you, man.”

Julian stared. There had been no Call put out for a vampire for nearly two centuries. >But under the compulsion, Nicholas had no choice but to tell the truth.

“Sleep,” Julian said finally, and Nicholas slumped to the floor.

Julian turned to the dark-haired woman. She was alive. He could still help her. It was far too late for the other woman. All he could do was get away from the smell of her blood as quickly as possible. Gently, he lifted the living woman from the floor.