A young soldier maimed in an accident and no longer fit for the battlefield answers the call to serve. Lieutenant Daniel Willoughby is ready — if not eager — to fulfill his duties as squire to Lord Thanatos, the Champion whose gift is swift, merciful death.

Daniel is prepared to sacrifice his mind and body in service to his new lord and master. He’s about to discover Thanatos wants that…and so much more.

* * *

Excerpt from Chapter 3:

Despite the pilots’ fears, the landing of Transport #34 on the estate of Lord Thanatos — located somewhere in the hills to the west of the city, or so Daniel guessed — was uneventful. They disembarked with no fanfare, and the shuttle did a vertical lift from the elevated pad that sat fifty yards from the gates of a large, formal garden.

Daniel squinted as the glare from the rising shuttle flashed over his face. When it was gone and the deepening shadows of evening settled around him, he removed his glasses and tucked them into the breast pocket of his duty-rig.

From his position on the landing pad, he could see the garden below was dominated by what appeared to be a maze. Fashioned from massive evergreen hedges, it grew eight feet high, lush in the middle of one of the most desolate regions west of the Great Mountains. Its branches were illuminated by thousands of tiny, white lights, and at its center stood a large, bubbling fountain. Daniel didn’t bother to hide his awe.

“Welcome to Nightshade.”

Too dazed to speak, Daniel nodded. The breeze washed over him, sweet and potent, undercut with a sharp tang. He sniffed the air. “What is that?”

“Eucalyptus. Lavender. Night-blooming jasmine.”

Botanical species that hadn’t been seen outside a laboratory in at least fifty years. Yet they grew here? Daniel lifted his face to the breeze again. This time he caught a warmer fragrance — something spicy that made his nose tingle and his mouth water.

He turned to ask how Lord Thanatos managed the irrigation for such a large display of plant life and plowed directly into the Champion’s chest — which explained the new, arousing scent.

“I beg your pardon.” Daniel coughed and shifted away. “I was distracted. I’ve never known anything like this place.”

“It pleases you?” The bland tone of the Champion’s question didn’t match the sharp look he sent over his shoulder as he led Daniel down the steps of the landing pad and toward the garden gates.

Another test. “If it pleases you, of course.” Daniel struggled to keep up with the Champion’s long stride along the paved path. “Is there something the estate lacks? Repairs needed? You could make a list. I’ll start work tonight–”

Thanatos stopped short. Daniel pitched forward, nearly falling in an attempt to halt and turn at the same time.

“Do not babble. It irritates me.”

“I beg your pardon, my…” Daniel swallowed. Instinct told him that to bow his head would only compound his mistake, so he stood still and waited.

Ahead of them, the gates opened with neither a word nor a gesture from the Champion.

“Come.” Thanatos led Daniel into the garden and to a wrought iron bench that stood beneath a trio of spiky trees Daniel thought must be cypress. “We will talk.”

They sat. In the silence that followed, Daniel scanned the sky. No stars looked down. The rising half-moon was a smudge behind a thin screen of clouds. Daniel glanced at the ironwork of the seat beneath him and was startled to see the ornate design set with polished gemstones the size of human eyes.

Thanatos cleared his throat. “Do you know who I am, Daniel?”

Enough with the tests, already. “You are Thanatos, called a daemon spirit or a demigod by the ancient Greki.”

“That is what I am, not who I am.”

“I don’t–”

Thanatos held up a hand. “Ask the monks. Ask them what became of the man called Nikolos Petrakis.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not following you at all.”

Thanatos sighed, and the breeze seemed to sigh with him. “Thirteen years ago by the Brotherhood’s calendar, Nikolos Petrakis was a sheep farmer on an island called Chios, in the Aegean Sea. He had a wife, two sons and a daughter five months in the womb.”

What does that have to do with the price of unBlighted blood in St. Francis? Daniel gnawed on the inside of his cheek to stifle his impatience. “Yes? And?”

“And the Brotherhood of the Black Canna rattled their beads and swung their censers and chanted a spell as dark as any ever worked…and here I am. Thanatos, spirit of Death, in the body of Nikolos Petrakis.”

The clouds parted and the moon emerged, bone-white and cold. Daniel shivered.

Was there any correct way to respond to this information? The truth of how the Champions rose hadn’t been part of his education. So the monks had stolen the body of a living human — the bodies of five living humans — to work their magic? Daniel wished he could be surprised. Or disgusted. Anything but quietly resigned.

“It bewilders me, even now,” Thanatos murmured. “Until the day I was joined with Nikolos Petrakis, I had no needs. No wants. No…humanity. Now I have all of these and more.”

“You have a personality,” Daniel said. “The sheep farmer’s personality?”

“So it seems.” Thanatos frowned at him. “Why do you smile?”

Did he dare say something so outrageous? No Ritual of Fealty. No blind obeisance. Not yet, at least. Maybe my last chance to be myself, to speak my mind.

Daniel coughed into his fist to cover the laughter that threatened to choke him and said, “I wonder if the Brotherhood didn’t do Petrakis’ wife a favor.”

The Champion stared, his brows arched high above his black eyes. Daniel braced himself and waited for whatever came next. A bird called — some nocturnal creature with a sweet, shrill warble. A Nightingale? Not possible. They’ve been extinct for a century or more.

“I suspect,” Thanatos began, his words drenched in what Daniel now surmised to be a Greki accent, “his overbearing arrogance was redressed by the size of his cock.”

Now Daniel did choke. “You’re trying to shock me.”

“And if I am?”

“Keep trying.”

The living spirit of Death inside the body of the sheep farmer grinned at Daniel. The glow from the newly revealed moon glinted off his teeth. Somewhere overhead, the bird called again. Daniel thought back to his ornithology text — a book he hadn’t seen since his aptitude scores required him to report for military duty at the age of fifteen.

The unpaired male Nightingale sings to mark his territory, and to attract a mate.

Just as quickly, the Champion’s smile dissolved into something darker. “Ask them, Daniel. Ask the monks if the soul of the sheep farmer resides in what they call heaven or hell. Or does it wander somewhere between the two, like a poor man’s Orpheus?”

The Nightingale stilled its cry. Even the breeze fell silent. Daniel was suddenly aware of how much space Thanatos occupied, and how little lay between them on the small bench. He whispered, “Why don’t you ask them?”

“I have. Many times. They give no answers.”

Thanatos stared in the direction of the house, where someone had lit the lamps in one of the lower rooms. The sound of voices rose into the still air, followed by male laughter. “I had hoped to have this night to ourselves, but it appears we are blessed with company.”

“Company?” As Daniel listened, the laughter grew louder.

“My fellow Champions. You are familiar with them?

“Lords Kratos, Dolos, and Eros, and Lady Nemesis.”

Thanatos nodded. “They will, no doubt, be delighted to make your acquaintance.” He rose from the bench. “Come. There will be much merriment to welcome you, if I know my comrades.”

Side by side they walked the path toward the massive stone dwelling. Each time Daniel tried to drop back in deference to Thanatos, the Champion slowed his pace. Finally, he stopped and confronted Daniel. “Why do you dally?”

Daniel lowered his head. “Holy Protocol, my lord.”

Thanatos loomed over him, leaning in close till his breath rushed over Daniel’s neck. He bent and touched his lips to the stretch of skin just under Daniel’s ear. Then he bit, pinching a tiny bit of flesh between the sharp edges of his teeth.

A thrill of pain, hot and sweet, shot through Daniel and he swayed like a stripling in a stiff wind.

Thanatos released him. “In Commander Skott’s office, you begged me to test you. I warn you not to test me in return.”

“I understand,” Daniel whispered. His stubborn streak of rebelliousness — that part of him so reviled by Brother Janus — seemed to melt in the scorching heat of Thanatos’ presence.

“Call me Nikolos.”

“Nikolos.”

“Louder.”

“Nikolos.”

“Very good. I am partial to a man who is graceful in defeat.” The Champion ran his hand down Daniel’s spine, from the nape of his neck to the swell of his ass. Daniel could feel the press and drag of each finger through the fabric of his duty-rig. “I think we will make a tight fit, you and I. But do not keep me waiting, Daniel Willoughby.”

He turned away. Daniel stood on the path, fighting to regain his composure.

Overhead, the Nightingale trilled.

***

Available soon in eBook and print from Amber Allure/Amber Quill Press.

When did that happen?

I’m at Tales from the Crit today, blogging about the Redeemed and Unredeemed Alpha Jerks we hate to love.

HARD HARVEST, part of the “Three Kinds of Wicked” series.

Futuristic, Ménage à trois, Parnormal & Occult

Purchase link.

In twenty-second century America, war, disease and pollution have wiped out three-quarters of Earth’s population and left most women sterile. Scientists are battling the specter of human extinction. Now they’ve devised a DNA test and built a database to help each of the remaining fertile females find her perfect genetic counterpart, thereby ensuring healthy, hardy offspring.

For Midwestern farm girl Hannah Jenkins, this means accepting a stranger as a potential mate. Unfortunately, the handsome Dr. David Cabot isn’t everything she’d expected. Distant and humorless, he spends all his time in the makeshift laboratory he’s set up in the family barn. He and Hannah use more energy sniping at each other than communicating their wants and needs. After a few months of passionless monthly encounters with no pregnancy to show for it, Hannah is certain David will abandon her at the end of their trial marriage.

Then a stranger saves Hannah from robbery at gunpoint, and Hannah hires him to work as a farmhand. The mysterious Trey intrigues both Hannah and David, but can he show them how to make love without making war?

EXCERPT:

“I want to help you, Hannah. Do you believe that?”

Hannah drew a long breath and let it out on a sigh. All at once, she felt bone-weary and a thousand years old. “Yes, I believe it.”

“What if I told you it might take something…” He paused, seeming to search for the right word. “Something unconventional to help your marriage.”

She shook her head. “I’m not following you.”

He smiled and his gaze traveled over her, making her feel wanton and next-to-naked in the middle of her own damned kitchen. “What would a woman like you consider unconventional, Hannah?”

His eyes held hers from across the room, plainly trying to communicate his meaning without resorting to clumsy words. Again she heard the echo of that faraway wind and the brokenhearted woman who called his name—had been calling his name for long years, waiting for the return of the man she loved more than life, the man she trusted with the fate of her very soul….

Hannah scrubbed a hand over her face. “I’m too tired for riddles, Trey.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. But will you think about it?”

As if she had any choice now that he’d put the idea in her head. She nodded, looking away from those sad, dangerous eyes to the cracked linoleum beneath her feet.

“Good.” He let the screen door close quietly behind him on his way out.

When he was gone, Hannah climbed the stairs and headed for the bathroom. The house was quiet. Her brothers had proven yet again how soundly they slept, so she left the door open to catch the breeze from the open window in the hall.

From the top shelf of the linen closet she took three thick, beeswax candles, lit them and set them on the floor near the ancient, claw-footed tub. Then she opened the tap and let it run for a scant minute. She filled the tub only a quarter of the way, her concession to the recent lack of rain. Her body felt lazy and stupid as she stripped out of her clothes and slid into the water.

Unconventional. It could’ve meant a few different things, but when she closed her eyes, all that came to mind was the three of them—Trey, David and herself—lying together in a shameless sprawl.

Both men, at the same time. Their hands, their mouths, their…other parts, touching her, inside and out. Using her for their own pleasure, and letting her make use of them.

She shouldn’t have wanted it. Even if he didn’t act like it, David was her husband. It was her duty to want only him. But like as not, both he and Trey would be gone by the time the wind blew snow like a tattered bridal veil over the landscape. Then she’d be left with only memories until the next candidate showed up—assuming he ever did.

Of course, Trey might’ve meant something entirely different. She couldn’t be sure without asking, which she intended to do first chance she got.

But if she was right? And if Trey somehow managed to talk the supremely stubborn Dr. Cabot into allowing such a huge breach of his precious Commission protocols?

Hannah wouldn’t say no.

***

Wishing you and yours a joyous holiday season. 

(This is normally where I’d insert a smart-assed remark, but I’m posting between doctor’s appointments and, frankly, I’m not just not feeling it today. Good wishes for a happy outcome gratefully accepted.)

Don’t know about anybody else, but I’m ready to get the @#$& off the Romancelandia Intrawebs and drown my bitter, bitter tears in a vat o’ gravy. And be THANKFUL, already.

In that spirit, I’ve crafted a paean to my crit partner – the fabulously brilliant and ever-stylish Barbara Caridad Ferrer – over on Tales from the Crit.

Enjoy, and be well at this start of the holiday season. 

Author and all-around nifty guy John Scalzi has one of the best takes on the issues at hand, including a fantastically snarky read on Harlequin’s “poor, poor pitiful me” letter implying the RWA is not only MEAN and NOT NICE for sticking up for its members, but also behind the times for not recognizing the amazing potential of vanity publishing to make tons of money (for Harlequin/Torstar/ASI and virtually no one else).

Also, my crit partner — the ever-stylish and fabulously talented Barb Caridad Ferrer — answers Harlequin editor Stacy Boyd’s personal — and not associated with Harlequin in any way (see comment below) — blog on the topic of RWA/Harlequin relations in the wake of the HQN Horizons debacle here.

Questions remain. Will Harlequin further distance itself from this vanity press hot mess by removing all references to it from the eHarlequin site? Will they forbear from including solicitations for the vanity operation in rejection letters? Will they scrub the Horizons site clean of all “be a Harlequin author!” propaganda? Will any of this be enough to restore their standing with the various professional organizations they’ve managed to antagonize, not to mention the scores of authors — the legendary Nora Roberts among them — whom they’ve disappointed and disgusted?

And will the RWA — specifically those members who are also Harl authors — pay a price for their tough stance on this issue?

Tune in next week/month/year to find out, I guess. Same batshit crazy time, same batshit crazy channel.

As I matured into a snotty adolescent pursuing a degree in English Lit and an elitist attitude, I considered my own addiction to romance novels a sort of guilty secret. My friends read Angelou and Cather and Atwood. I snuck Harlequin novels under the covers in my dorm room.

In the last several years, I’ve made plenty of jokes — here and elsewhere — about the ludicrous titles to be found in the Harlequin Presents line, as well as the antiquated and misogynistic values they too often represent (particularly the fetishizing of female virginity).

But never — no, not EVER — did I disparage the IDEA of the largest, most respected publisher of romance in the world. A company run primarily by women, for women, catering to the reading needs of the average woman who wants to lose herself in the fantasy of love conquering all, in all its many flavors.

Indeed, there abides on my hard drive even today a half-finished manuscript I’d planned to submit to Harlequin (Blaze? Superromance, maybe?) sometime in the near future, plus another intended for Spice Briefs. I observed the opening of Carina Press with interest and anticipation, and wondered how big the slushpile would grow before I felt comfortable subbing a manuscript to an untested publisher (especially in the wake of the crash and burn of Quartet Press, the revolutionary new epub that never was).

Unless I can figure out how to restructure that unfinished manuscript to single title length, it will likely never see the light of day. The story meant for Spice Briefs will go elsewhere. I will delete my links to the eHarlequin site, where I shopped at least a few times a year and frequented the boards as a lurker.

In one fell swoop — by the simple expedient of opening a vanity press branded with the Harlequin name and using deceptive, insulting language to offer services of suspect value at exorbitant prices to rejected writers and whatever other gullible souls they can lure into their shell game — Harlequin has re-positioned itself as the antithesis of a respected publisher in my eyes and those of many others.

Apparently, the RWA feels much the same — and hallelujah for that. Yes, their removal of Harlequin from the list of eligible publishers and their branding of the company as a vanity press has the potential to hurt their members who are also Harlequin authors, but rumor has it that most Harl authors have come down squarely on the side of RWA’s decision. This action alone has restored a chunk of my faith in RWA. They’ve done nothing more or less than told the truth, and then acted according to their own, much debated bylaws. If I were a member, I’d be proud.

There are those who say the confusion over this new venture of Harlequin’s will not dilute their brand. To them I say, “Have you seen The New Yorker today?” Oh, it’s elitist? An organ of East Coast snobbery, and never supportive of genre fiction anyway? And therefore doesn’t matter? Was it also elitist several months ago when it did that glowing piece on Nora Roberts? Can’t have it both ways, folks. The brand dilution has begun, and with it another round of ghettoizing romance as a genre.

How did Harlequin/Torstar fail to see see this coming? The loss of stature, the loss of respect? The derision flung by those both in the industry and outside of it? The reader confusion, the author betrayal? The rejection by the largest professional literary organization in the world?

Were they truly so blinded by the prospect of making money by selling a vanity press option to rejected authors? And through the owners of Author House, no less — one of the very least respected vanity press operations in business? How lamentably short-sighted.

It will be interesting to see if they continue to send their mouthpiece around to the blogs to defend this shameful endeavor. She’s been called a liar and worse. (Offering bound copies of vanity-pubbed books to authors for delivery to agents? ARE YOU KIDDING?? Way to completely discredit yourself as a knowledgable industry insider. Agents are pointing and laughing as we speak.) Will she show up again to try to sell this original sow’s ear as a silk purse of inestimable value?

Only The Shadow knows, and he ain’t talkin’.

In the meantime, here’s a fresh and growing list of links on the topic:

Author Barbara Caridad Ferrer

Author Jackie Kessler

Agent Ashley Grayson (He’s a MAN, baby! /austin powers)

Author Allison Brennan

(Money flows to the author.)

Very few writers end up recouping their investment on vanity-press published projects.

(Money flows to the author.)

No matter what they tell you, if you pay up front to hold a copy of your book in your hand, you’re not published — you’re PRINTED. “Publishing” implies a vetting process and some sort of editing FOR WHICH YOU DO NOT PAY.

(Money flows to the author.)

Yes, even if you are traditionally published by a major house, you may pay to promote your book beyond whatever promotional support your publisher offers. That’s not the same thing as paying to have your book copy edited, printed and offered for sale. You can say, “Yes it is,” as many times as you like, but… it’s not. It’s really, really not.

And so my power ballad becomes a dirge. Hum along if the spirit moves you.

(MONEY FLOWS TO THE AUTHOR.)

Coda:

As to the issue of the RWA in this brand, spanking new venture of Harlequin’s… Well. I’m not a member. No dog in that particular fight. But given that approximately 70% of the RWA membership is comprised of unpublished authors, I think the organization has a responsibility to make sure its members know the difference between being “published” and paying to be “printed,” and to take a strong position in this matter according to their own, much touted, standards. It will be fascinating to see if this Board of Directors has the balls to put their money — and their relationship with the largest publisher of romance — where their mouths are.

Other blogs on this subject:

TeddyPig,  EREC,   SmartBitches (scroll thru comments for the good stuff)

Anne Aguirre, Barb Ferrer