Yes, I'm still writing

Here's an excerpt:


"You’re smart, Mor. And I’m so proud of you. But you don’t know anything important.”

“How can you say that, Dad? I worked my ass off to get where I am.”

“I know that.”

“Then what the hell do you mean? Because I don’t know to weave a fucking basket or catch a goddamn salmon?”

His face went hard and cold. Or I thought that at first. But on second glance I saw pain there and my heart dropped out knowing I had caused that.

“You think if you work hard enough, say the right things, and walk and talk white they’ll accept you?” I felt like he’d nailed me to my chair, and I couldn’t make any words come out of my closed throat. “You’ll never be white in their eyes, Mor. Never. The world will never forget that you’re Indian, no matter how white you act with your big important degrees, with the white man’s magic coming from your fingertips. And meanwhile, what? You don’t want to learn our language. You don’t know our stories. Where are your spirit power songs? Your guardian spirits?”

He leaned in towards me, eyes ablaze, the laugh lines usually so evident on his face smoothed away by the rough touch of fury. “So no, you don’t know anything important.”

He got up. Before he could storm out I started trembling so hard I thought my teeth would chatter right out of my head.

“Then why did you take me away? Why did you bring me here?” I shot to my feet. “Why won’t our entire fucking family talk to us?”

Dad stood with his head bowed, his gnarled hand on the door that lead out to the living room. “Don’t walk that road. You won’t like what you find at the end.”

Fear trapped air in my chest, along with whatever else I might have said. I choked and wobbled on my feet.

Dad disappeared out the door. I didn’t follow.

Progress on Aim For Blue

53283 / 80000
(66.6%)

Meet my character blog tour

Just a note that I do already have a book out. It is a different world from Morgandy's, but if you would like an idea of who I am as a writer or if you'd just like to follow me on Goodreads, here's the link.

I think I might do another version of this post where Morgandy actually answers in her own voice, but for now you get this:

1) What is the name of your character? Is he/she fictional or a historic person?
Her name is Morgandy Rainbear MacNeil. She is a fictional person.

2) When and where is the story set?
Morgandy’s story is set in modern day San Fransisco. While this fictional version of San Fransisco does have many recognizable real world elements, it is an inherently magical city. In Morgandy’s world magic has always been out in the open, and therefore therianthropes, witches, vampires, and so on have helped shape history from the earliest times.

3) What should we know about him/her?
Morgandy is a no nonsense homicide detective working San Fransisco’s Tenderloin district. She has to succeed at her job with very few resources even when solving high profile cases, since the Tenderloin police department is the smallest of its kind in the city. Morgandy also happens to be a witch, and uses her powers as investigative tools. The reader will see her call up ghosts, utilize magical shielding, take advantage of psychic awareness and more. Also, San Fransisco’s magical community operates on a spell barter system, and Morgandy has to complete various tasks in order to learn spells that will aid her in the story’s main conflict.

Morgandy has a temper and is always caught between her lack of patience for people bullshitting her and wanting to be a good cop who doesn’t throw her weight around. She takes on the complicated task of walking the middle road between corruption and getting the job done, especially since police officers are allowed to commit certain crimes themselves to keep their undercover personas intact. Morgandy’s limits will be tested in just such a way in the course of the book.

She also struggles with her mixed heritage. While she has both Irish and Salish blood, her looks mark her as a person of color and she experiences discrimination and difficulties because of this. However, despite a close relationship with her Native American father, her cultural connection to the reservation and the rest of her family is in shambles. She resists repairing these rifts, because she perceives a lack of empathy from the Native side of her family. Of course, perspective can be a funny thing and it’s often incorrect. Whether she manages to accept her heritage and therefore herself is something only reading the book can truly answer!

4) What is the main conflict? What messes up his/her life?
Morgandy’s tale has two main conflicts. One is professional, the conflict between wanting to execute a successful undercover sting and the lengths Morgandy is willing to go to in order to accomplish that. The other conflict is personal. Morgandy had a serious accident as a child—a fall from her favorite horse—but she has the deeply unsettling sense that she might not know the whole story.

5) What is the personal goal of the character?
Morgandy wants to be a credit to her uniform and has sacrificed the possibility of personal relationships in pursuit of this goal. Other than her best friend Serafina, Morgandy is a loner, ambitious and willing to do what it takes to resolve conflicts and bring criminals to justice.

6) Is there a working title for this novel, and can we read more about it?
The working title for this novel is Aim For Blue, and there are several excerpts available at my blog. Follow my blog for further updates on this title. There is an Aim For Blue tag that should take you to all the excerpts.

7) When can we expect the book to be published?
Any date I give would be a very rough approximation, but I hope to have the first draft more or less done by the coming fall.

I'm tagging Avery Teoda , so go to his blog a week from now to see his character interview.

Thanks to Melissa Veracruz for inviting me to be part of this tour. Melissa grew up in a tiny Texas town. She’s still in Texas, in the Houston area. She and her husband are raising three children and a handicapable Chihuahua. She began telling stories in her head as a small child and recently found out she could write it all down (using cheap clicky pens). Her debut novel, Absolutely, is the first in the Larson, Texas Series.

Website: http://literaryhomebody.com/


Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8281226.Melissa_Veracruz

And Katheryn J. Avila has always dreamed of being a published author, and recently, that dream has come true! Her novel, Reckoning, is the first in a paranormal sci-fi trilogy she’s titled The Breach. Reckoning tells the story of Lexia, a young woman who discovers that she’s psychic and is thrown into the dangerous world of the supernatural, where she must place her trust in an unexpected ally in order to protect her family.

Website: http://about.me/katheryn_avila

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LexiaReckoning2014

Twitter: @katheryn_avila

Just a little something

I dolled myself up the way Akua liked. I knew I interested her and I wasn’t above playing that angle. She was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen, even without vampiric hypnosis to convince me. I tied the silk top with the blue ribbon belt attached to the midriff, pulling the printed fabric tight against my bare skin. With my push up bra I almost looked like I had breasts worth ogling, though it was almost one hundred percent illusion. I wore the shortest skirt I thought I could get away with, though it made me feel exposed and vulnerable. And in no small part turned on, which I prefer not to be in public.

I avoided the back of my closet where I’d stuffed all my old regalia. I couldn’t bear to throw it away, even if it was sized for the little girl I’d long since grown out of. Faint memories of my aunts surfaced, their laughs, the way Aunt Jessie Glistening-On-Water always wore thick purple eyeshadow that I loved so much. Anything deeper than that remained frustratingly out of reach, and as I leaned over the sink to get closer to the mirror so I could put mascara on I almost twitched and left a black mark on my cheek. Damn that accident. Hell, then again maybe it was better that I didn’t remember much.

I was getting better at walking in heels and I put on the highest pair I could get away with. I managed to make my way out in to the living room. I paused to look at the eagle picture I had there, over the T.V., that dad had insisted I have. I figured it was the Native version of pictures of Jesus, like when you went to a Catholic’s house and his beady little eyes followed you everywhere. 

Aim For Blue

I thought I'd give you guys some rough stuff (heh) from my next novel. This is a different world than the Twisted Tree world, but it's still urban fantasy. Mind you the following needs editing, but I hope you'll enjoy it for what it is. Yes, this is the ms inspired loosely by Anita Blake. 

***

It took us awhile to get in. A black woman escorting a native woman meant the back of the line. I was used to it and so was Saff, but it rankled still. I glanced up at her—she was a couple inches taller than me anyway, but thanks to our shoes the difference was even more pronounced,, since she could get away with a higher heel than I could—and I saw that her jaw was set in a tough line. She got a look to her whenever she was really pissed off, a look that turned her eyes to cold fire.

Eventually I gave in and bribed the door guard, toddling down the frayed red carpet to press two twenties in to his meaty paw. San Fransisco was a funny town like that. It seemed really diverse to outsiders, but even in the gay capital of the U.S. it was impossible to avoid discrimination completely, though I had to admit that San Fran was a lot better about me being a lesbian than the rez ever was.

There was a sign just inside that proclaimed “Level two mind control permitted on the premises. No minors. Patrons must show I.D. at the door.” Level two mind control meant they could influence their patrons indirectly. They couldn’t force people to buy things they didn’t want or do things they didn’t want to do, but they could lower inhibitions, promote relaxation and euphoria, and tease out people’s latent desires. It was the difference between putting a gun to someone’s head and making them take a drink, and soothing a person’s protests so that getting a drink felt like their decision despite it being heavily influenced by outside forces.

The club was in full swing and as I’d guessed it would when I’d visited earlier, it had undergone its night time transformation. The shabby red velvet chairs looked lush now, where before I could pick out all their frayed, musty threads. The bar, along the right wall, gleamed to the point that the patrons clustered there could see their faces in the gloss. The stage, front and center, wore a veil of purple lights, pink undertones picking out the highlights in the strippers’ long, unbound hair as she wrapped her legs around the glittering pole mounted near the audience with the prime seats. She was drop dead gorgeous if you liked conventional beauty, long legs, classic hourglass shape, blonde hair. She struck me as almost too pretty…

There were glamours at work. That must be it. I opened the door on my magical senses, irising open a bit at a time. I could feel those glamours then, like the patter of kitten paws on bare skin. The stink of cinnamon whiskey in the air lent itself to the complex sensations the magic called forth, along with the scent of clean sweat and pipe tobacco. It was hard to ignore, a sexual pulse that made my belly tighten and my pussy clench.

I wrapped us in a little wisp of magic, blunting some of the effects so Saff wouldn’t just outright succumb. As a mortal she didn’t have many defenses, though what she did have were very good; Saff was willful and confident. There was a Fae in here somewhere, probably working their magic from a back room. If they’d been swanning around in the crowd, I surely would have picked up on it unless they were immensely powerful. It was hard for a Fae to hide their light under a bushel.

We found a table off to the side. Maybe I’d get really lucky and the mysterious Carla would make an appearance, but I doubted it. Things were never as neat for real life homicide detectives, not like the movies where everything unfolded in a predictable pattern. Once I settled in to one of those chairs I couldn’t help but watch the show. The girls here were gorgeous, and I realized that the place was a lot nicer than I’d thought before in the unflattering light of day.

Saffie nudged me in the ribs.

“Ho bag.”

“Like you’re not looking.”

A waitress came over and gave us a menu. A skimpy apron hugged the curve of her hips, and cupcake shaped pasties covered each nipple, barely. She set a little box of truffles on the middle of the table, each of them done up to look suggestive. I eyed the little fondant vaginas and frosting penises with a skeptical eye. I picked up the menu just for something to fidget with and a page of onion skin slipped out. I picked it up, peering at it. It looked like a menu, but…

Chocolate and Cooch, market price

I slapped the page to the table top before I could read anything else.

“Eep.”

Saff picked it up and immediately started to hoot with laughter.

“You mean you can pay to lick whipped cream off of a stripper’s tits? Like a girl sundae?”

“Oh jesus.” I thought of myself as fairly worldly but that was way beyond the pale.

“Titties Jubilee? That’s not very creative.” Saffie sniffed, examining the menu.

“Please tell me you’re not thinking about pouring chocolate sauce on some stripper’s coochie.”

“It’s better than Fish of the Day. Besides Cherries Jubilee has, you know, cherries in it.”

“That’s not the dessert you set on fire is it?”

“Yeah, but I bet they won’t let you do that part.”

“Unless she’s a a certain kind of therian, I guess. Then she could just heal it. Ugh, why am I trying to apply logic to this situation?”

I put my hands over my eyes, as if that would clear my mind of all the fucked up images the menu was calling up.

“They’re being pretty blatant about this,” Saffie mused, “considering prostitution is illegal.”

“Well, you can apply for a license, like out in Nevada, but he’s probably paying off the cops to look the other way.” I hated acknowledging it, but I knew it had to be true. Otherwise a guy like Fauntleroy wouldn’t have stayed open a week, let alone years. “The license is too expensive for most people to bother. And really, with all the shit we have to deal with in the Tenderloin, I overlook this kind of thing too. Unless he’s hurting his girls, of course.”

It was a sad fact, but there just weren’t enough hours in the day sometimes to run down every little possession charge or seedy nightclub owner.

“I guess they can just call themselves a BDSM club and claim it’s just one big consensual swinger party.” Saff shrugged, her gaze half heartedly trained on the girls in leather straps gyrating on stage.

“We’re going to have to go in the back.” I made myself say it, even though I wasn’t at all eager to watch whatever dire smorgasbord was going on back there. “It’s the best shot I have at questioning someone.”

A lap dance wouldn’t last long enough, and it was otherwise less than conducive to a lengthly interview. The bartender would be far too busy to talk and I didn’t want them to remember the irritating bitch peppering them with questions later.

“Do you want me to, uh, place our order?”

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Please.”

There was no way I could make myself say I’d like the Twat Tart, please, without either laughing till I cried or flat out dying from sheer embarrassment. Saffie looked at me sinking low in my chair and smirked.

“You’re a total whore and you can’t say any of this stuff out loud?”

“Just because I like casual sex doesn’t mean I know how to order a Minge Mince.”

“Well, I’m guessing I’ll have good luck with the layer cake. Kinda implies you need at least three people.”

It was doubly weird to go in to such a sexually charged situation with Saffie, but this was where circumstances had brought us and the best thing I could do was try to keep my wits about me.

Before I even realized it was happening I’d paid and we were being lead in to the back rooms. It was like an old fashioned brothel back there. The walls were done in velvet, black fleur de lis patterns cut out to show the dark carmine underneath. It was quiet too, thanks to the plush quilting along the lower half of the wall. It meant the primary sounds were moaning and groaning, straight out of a porno flick. Girls were everywhere, posing themselves along the walls and draping themselves over the big circular couches at the place where all the hallways met in the middle.

A busty white blonde and a rawboned East Indian brunette were draped over the closest couch, feeding each other chocolate truffles. The blonde pinched the little chocolates between her fingertips, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from those perfectly manicured nails against the gold dusted truffle. She popped the candy in her friend’s mouth, her finger against the other girl’s lips as the girl swallowed, as if she was beckoning the brunette to silence. They kissed, presumably trading the taste. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a naked black woman sprawled out on another one of those couches, head thrown back. She had chocolate sauce all down her front and a man in a suit was enthusiastically eating her out as she moaned and writhed. His face was so deep in her pussy I couldn’t even tell what race he was.

A pale woman with ample curves enhanced by a corset pulled so tight it was against the Geneva convention came towards us, tearing my attention away from the straight couple. I grabbed Saffie’s hand reflexively; normally I wasn’t intimidated by attractive women, but this situation wasn’t exactly usual. Seeing people be so sexually open was still strange. I could feel myself blush and I wondered if I wasn’t a little more repressed than I realized.

She had perfectly coiffed red hair, like the dregs of a cheap bottle of Merlot. The black feathers pinned to her hairpiece made her look like a crow that had gotten lost in a vintage clothing store, a ragged scarlet jay that was much more interesting for her broken pinions than glossy perfection would have offered. She fixed me with her depthless black crow’s eyes, and only when she was inches away did I realize she had a lollipop in her mouth. She took it out and licked her lips, and the fragrance of juicy candy nestled against a hot tongue wafted over my face.

“Well, aren’t you a big sweet slice of red velvet,” she purred. I backed against the wall before I even realized I was doing it. Saffie came with me, still clutching my hand.

“What does that make you, Saffie?” I laughed, sounding breathless in my own ears. “Death by chocolate?”

“You are testing me, Ginny.” 

Anita Blake inspired novel, wip excerpt

Here's a little more from the ms:

I pressed the door [to my loft] open and stepped inside, coming around through the kitchen to put a bag of groceries on the counter. I turned and walked through the living room, intending to go and rest my forehead against the cool, blue walls the way I did when there was too much in my brain, as if I were putting my head in the freezer on a hot day. I'd read somewhere that blue was a calming color. Instead I whipped my keys at the lamp sitting next to the couch and it shattered in to a thousand pieces.

I fell over. I didn’t really sit down, and I didn’t faint. I just…fell. I curled up on my side. I wanted my mother. I wanted to undo the killing I’d committed earlier. I briefly but genuinely considered quitting the force and opening a bakery in some little town no one has ever heard of. Too bad I can’t bake. Maybe a bookstore, then. Yeah. One of those places with a bunch of antique maps in gilded frames and dog eared copies of War and Peave on the free shelf.

I didn’t hear the door buzzer at first. The grief had sunken in to all my limbs and I could barely move. I felt buried, as if they’d put me in the coffin alongside my mother’s corpse.

I made myself get up. I leaned on the intercom button. I couldn’t make myself say anything, but Saffie’s voice came through anyway.

“Ginny?” She sounded uncharacteristically diffident. I had a petty thought about how I hoped she wasn’t having a crisis she was hoping I’d handle for her. I was lucky because some quirk of my brain structure made me more resistant to trauma than some, but I was human. I had limits, and I was finding every single one of them today.

“Fuck. Come in.”

She showed up at my door so quick I wondered if she’d learned how to teleport. She was wearing a robin’s egg blue sweater and silver hoop earrings. Her white coat and dark wash jeans were both designer. Her flawless dark skin shone like she’d just been to the spa. In short, she looked fabulous and I looked like shit.

I stepped back to let her in, hoping she wouldn’t bring up the broken lamp. I went for my bag, digging through it like a starving coyote for the packet of clove cigarettes in the bottom. I jammed one between my teeth and lit it.

“Bad day, huh?”

Saffie asked, sounding like a farmer trying to calm a skittish horse. I couldn’t be assed to get annoyed over it. I felt as unpredictable as a skittish horse, anyway.

“I killed someone, Saffie.”

To my horror I welled up with tears and my throat closed. I got the shakes so bad I had to take a seat at the nearest bar stool, and the lighter tumbled form my hand.

“Jesus. What happened?”

“Vampire came out of nowhere. Tried to bite my throat out.”

Saffie walked over, close enough that I could smell her vanilla and black musk perfume. She dipped in to my pack of cigarettes, like she needed something to focus on too. She lit one of the cloves and drew a breath, taking the seat next to me.

“These things are fucking terrible.” She informed me. I managed a smile.

“They get the job done.”

“He was trying to kill you.”

“Yeah.”

I knew what she was getting at. I had been acting in self defense, and I knew that once the department reviewed the camera footage from my on board, they’d rule the same. But it didn’t really comfort me much. The guy was still dead. Sure, he was a vampire, but he hadn’t been in his right mind either. I suspected the guys in the house had been starving him, waiting to unleash him like an attack dog. He’d just had the misfortune to attack someone well trained and well armed. Now some family out there was missing their son, if they hadn’t disowned the poor bastard for being a vampire already. 

Another excerpt from the Anita Blake inspired novel

We filed out and in to the police van while the lead hostage negotiator patched in to 911 and got the brief from them. The guy looked like he could handle pretty much anything, lean like a greyhound but with remote grey eyes that told me his slight body was just to lull people in to a false sense of security. There was steel underneath all that, and he gave me the impression that he was a fantastic mimic, able to put on an air of sympathy as easily as he could play the hardass. That made me feel a little better. They put him through to the suspect. I could hear the suspect screaming even in the back of the van.

I put the Benelli M4 shotgun across my lap and collapsed the butt stock. I doubted I’d have enough room to use the weapon’s full length. The frangible rounds would get me through whatever shitty look they had on the back door, once I was sure I wasn’t going to set off any explosives by using it. Any nervousness I’d felt before fell away like a crumpled piece of paper thrown in to a trash bin, leaving a fresh, blank sheet behind.

We parked the van just behind and to the side of all the black and white police cruisers, parked sideways to form a barricade. The hostage negotiator got out, still talking in to the phone in a tone so hushed I couldn’t understand what he was saying. Even though this was my first live situation with S.W.A.T. I knew what to do; I got out and waited for the others to take their positions, then followed and darted around to the back of the house.

No one. I drew my magical shields close against my body, imagining a beige veil with no distinguishing marks. If anyone scanned the area for those with awakened auras, they’d miss me. For all the average seer knew, I didn’t exist. This was also why I didn’t need a bomb suit or a riot shield for this type of work. If I could keep the magical protection powered up, the average projectile would burn up before it hit me. I still wore a spine protector panel sewn in to my vest, and every piece of equipment that came in contact with my body was made of ballistic integrity approved materials, but the fact remained that I could go in quieter and lighter than the average mortal.

I could smell the stench from out here, that distinctive mix of garbage, piss, and despair. The clapboard was rotting too, eating away at the floors so that the house sat at an obvious angle. Magic coiled beneath my feet, telling me that underneath it all the earth still breathed, that one day nature would reclaim this place.

I put my back against the wall and slid around to the backyard, a sad little postage stamp filled with sere grass. A kid’s bike lay tipped over in the overgrowth, glinting purple and teal. I grounded, reaching in to the black soil somewhere beneath the stones. Those steely wires bit in to me again, my magic, my will. They lit up with power, needles piercing my heart, my lungs, filling me with liquid potential. I could shape whatever I believed in enough from this source, all of it waiting under my bland covering. I was a star in Nuit’s firmament in my own right, a solar system unto my own in Lucifer’s endless night, and I burned like one. 

Excerpt from the ms inspired by Anita Blake

Here's an excerpt from what I did today. This is from the ms inspired by Anita Blake:

There were some advantages to not having a partner or kids. One of them was qualifying for S.W.A.T. as quickly as I had; without much of a social life I needed something to fill the time, and soaking up as much special training as possible worked out quite nicely. Today was going to be my first run with the team, and thanks to all that drilling I felt cautiously optimistic instead of paralyzed by nerves.

I checked my combat vest for lack of anything better to do while everyone milled around, waiting for the Captain to come in and brief us. The musty hunter green carpet made me feel like we were at afters at a Lutheran church, just waiting for a little old lady to bring out a tray of pastries and tiny paper cups full of orange juice. The only things that hinted at the room’s real purpose was a giant white board on a stand at the front of the room, and the assault rifle parts stacked on the particle board tables.

I might have been confident, but I still had a bad feeling that this one was going to relate back to the missing hookers somehow, or maybe the drugs, and I didn’t like it. PCP was bad enough. No one needed a drug laced with magic.

***

Meet Akua

From the book inspired by Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter:

I knew Akua, of course. Or more properly, Akua Nyaméama Pereko Nsia. Since she was the major power in the vampire underworld of San Fransisco, I would have been seriously remiss if I’d underestimated her by not researching every damn thing I could about her. I knew what all her names meant, when she had died, when she had risen. Pereko meant fierce, that she wouldn’t back down. In all the years I had known her, she never had.

Luckily the elevator in her downtown high rise stood empty at this time of day. Everyone had already scurried off to their conference rooms and offices. In some cities vampires stuck to the fringe, running strip clubs and dive bars in places the law wouldn’t bother to look. Not Akua. Nothing would do but to run the biggest, most powerful company she could. She’d always been rich, thanks to the slave trade, and she intended to stay that way now that the world had moved on. Considering she had her fingers in dozens of very profitable pies, it certainly seemed like a more than attainable goal.

Men in cashmere suits strode past me as I headed for Akua’s office. Their stares reminded me that I hadn’t exactly dressed for the occasion, though I’d made an effort; I’d had to go out and buy the blue and purple silk skirt and top special. It made me feel like a flower bud wrapped tightly in its own petals. That’s not a good thing. I had to take tiny little steps, though considering I was wobbling on my high heel shoes that was probably a plus...

...The only thing more impressive than the office was Akua herself. She stood looking out over the city, hands clasped behind her back. Her flawless black skin caused many a mortal woman a sick amount of envy, and her impeccable oiled curls, treated with a light dusting of pure gold dust, did the same. She turned towards me, and her perfect face struck me dumb. I had some defenses against her glamours thanks to being a witch, but nothing could protect me from her sheer beauty, or the tightly controlled, simmering menace in every deliberate movement. That was all lust, not magic, and I was on my own.

“Akua.”

I knew it was presumptuous of me to refer to her that way, but I wanted to remind her that I did represent the law around here. Even though the vampires enjoyed sovereign nation status, it didn’t mean they could do whatever they liked. Akua’s cupid’s bow mouth curved in to an amused smirk. As mercurial as any vampire, at least this time I’d managed to impress her in some small way. I’d hate to find out what would happen if I insulted her.

“Morgandy.” Her voice shivered along my arms and back, the same sensation as putting on a ruinously expensive fur coat and nothing else. I thought of those old time fashion photos of dolled up women in nothing but bolts of raw silk, reclining on velvet fainting couches, all of whom were just ugly ducklings next to Akua’s swan. Her ball gown rustled as she moved; she wore whatever conferred status, with no prejudice as to time and place. One day it might be her traditional Akan garb. The next, it might be a dress worthy of Marie Antoinette, with the feather festooned wig to match. Hell maybe it was Antoinette’s dress. I wouldn’t put it past Akua to have that kind of reach. “You dressed up for me. How sweet.”

“Don’t toy with me today, Akua.” I said, gruffer than I intended to be. She pouted, a wholly affected expression that didn’t fool me for a second. Akua could play at being a lamb all she wanted. I would never forget that she was really a leopard. “I’m here on business.” 

Wereaxolotls!

One of the things I want to do with this new urban fantasy book I'm working on is include a lot of atypical therianthropes. I'm sure I'll still have some big cats and that sort of thing, but so far I've been working on wereaxolotls and werecapybaras. In light of that I thought I'd give you guys a look at one of the axolotls:

Adeline Rubio answered the door, and even though I’d read and reread her file, the bight pink gill fringes and webbed hands still surprised me. It was one thing to read the word therianthrope on a piece of paper, and another to see the reality in person. Her eyes fixed on me, the shining gold ring around her pupils accentuating her suspicious expression. She drew audible labored breaths, and unbidden sympathy threw me off balance; she hadn’t mastered her shift from axolotl to human, and she was stuck with the worst of both worlds. 

Again, this is rough first draft writing but hopefully it gets you interested about where I'm going with all of this! 

Mourning the Anita Blake series? Follow along...

So, medical stuff first. My insides mostly look good, except for some irritated patches that are bleeding. Ultimately though the good news is I do not have an autoimmune disorder save the possibility of Celiac, only because I haven't received the results on this biopsies yet. I suspect I have a bad case of IBS. The good part of that is they can medicate it to a certain extent. The bad part is trying to figure out all the foods that exacerbate it. One of those things might be coffee, horror of horrors. 

Anyway, onwards to the excerpt portion of today's post. I have always been a little bit obsessed with the Anita Blake series. Despite having major flaws, there are good ideas in there every so often. However, those ideas never get used to their full potential. I wondered if I could use some of those unexplored concepts as a jumping off point for a somewhat similar novel. In one of the books (The Harlequin?) there is a brief mention of a witch on the police force who is part of the S.W.A.T. team. A friend of mine wondered why the books weren't about that character as opposed to following Anita around, who let's face it is not very competent. So, this book is about that very thing. 

This story is coming to me quite easily, which is a much needed break from the historical novel. Here's an excerpt to get you interested, though of course it's all rough first draft stuff at this stage:

“I don’t know, Dad. I guess it just doesn’t make sense to me yet. It’s that point in the investigation when all I have are threads.”

I sat at the same green formica table we’d had in our family house when I was a little kid. It was out of place in Dad’s new house, a one bedroom the real estate agent had described as “rustic.” Even though it had rough edges it did fit him, as weathered and welcoming as he was. He’d done a good personalizing it, too, with warm colors splashed on the walls and driftwood hammered in to place over the hallway entrance. He set a cup of coffee at my elbow, turning the teal mug so the chip in the rim faced away from me. I fiddled with the knobs on the battered toaster, ran my fingertip over the cracks in the tabletop. Even though being around Dad usually calmed me down and kept me from fidgeting, I hadn’t been able to leave this case at the office.

“I know you can’t tell me too much about an open investigation, but…”

“No, I can’t. Even though I want to. The most I can say is that there’s a series of thefts, drug transactions, and murders that make me damn worried we’ve got gang activity.”

Dad ran his fingers through his long hair. He was so proud of it, like most American Indian men I’d met. I looked up at him, studying the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. I couldn’t forget him if I kept doing that. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice; one day when he was gone, I would have every plane and angle of his face memorized.

He smiled his broad smile, the one that had made me compare it to the crescent moon when I was a child. Even though you’d think my witchcraft would make me big on the moon, it felt like a silly comparison now.

He sat across from me with his own coffee.

“I feel like I should give you the be careful speech, but I bet you have it memorized by now.”

“Dad.” I stretched out the word just like I would have as a little girl. Damn. Sometimes I felt frozen in time, trapped in that long summer when Mom had died. I’d been twelve years old, and now that I was pushing thirty I was frustrated with myself for still hanging on to it. “Anyway, I know. Trust me. I do everything carefully when I have a choice. I know I’m S.W.A.T. but honestly I don’t even like guns. Or knives. I do my damndest to leave them in their sheaths.”

Every time I pulled a cold iron blade, the sheer destructive power in it made my arm buzz and ache like my skin was covered in a swarm of angry hornets. That was good. It kept me honest.

“That’s what makes you good at your job.”

“Thanks. Sometimes I wonder why they promoted me, though. Maybe I’m too soft. I don’t like having to threaten people. Maybe kill them.”

“Even if they’re vampires?”

“They’re still people. Sentient. If you get to the point where that stops mattering, you ought to turn in your badge.”