Excerpt from Feral

Chapter One

                                           

They’d left her behind.

A hot ball of shame and anger lodged in Chloe’s throat as she ran along the dirt track through the forest. Bad enough Coach Wharton had bluntly told her to go home, that she couldn’t keep up, but her so-called teammates had run off without so much as a backward look.

And maybe Coach was right, maybe she couldn’t run as fast as the rest of the track team, but it wasn’t in her to give up.

They were too far ahead now to realistically catch, but if she took the shortcut and really pushed it she could run the last bit of the loop with them.

Chloe put her head down and increased her pace, until her feet flew down the trail, crunching on yellow leaves, until her lungs heaved and a bright stitch of pain pinched at her side. It felt good to push her body to its limits.

A furtive rustling noise alerted her that she was no longer alone. Half-hidden among the evergreen trees, a wolf paced her.

A surge of hope washed the fatigue out of her muscles. Had one of her teammates dropped back to run with her and encourage her? Judy, maybe?

But the wolf hung back in the trees, and her heart sank back into her cross-trainers.

Not a companion. What then? A baby-sitter? Coach couldn’t possibly think she’d get lost. Unlike him, she’d grown up running these trails. Was this a test to see if she’d keep training on her own or wimp out and go home?

Chloe pretended not to notice the wolf and kept running, concentrating on keeping her stride easy and smooth. If this was a test, she’d pass it. If this was some kind of hazing, meant to scare her, then she’d endure that too and prove that she belonged to the Pack.

Because she did. She had all the extra werewolf strength and agility: her senses were keener than her townie classmates, and she’d had no difficulty qualifying for the high school track and field team. Her townie classmates simply couldn’t compete physically with Pack. In human form she could outrun everyone but Dean. But her fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth birthdays had passed, and she still had not Changed.

All the other teens in her age group had. Even Judy, the smallest and most nervous of them all, had Changed into her wolf form three full moons ago.

And when track and field started up again in September Coach had wanted them to run in their wolf forms. Because while there were townie kids on the other sports teams, Coach Wharton had decreed a limited number of slots on the track and field team and filled them all with Pack. Practices were mostly just an excuse to spend time together. What they were actually learning from Conrad Wharton was how to control their werewolves.

Chloe risked another glimpse at the wolf, trying to identify who it was by its colouring. Not all white like Coach. Not red like Judy. Other than that she couldn’t tell. She got only flashes of white and grey and maybe brown between the tree trunks.

She ought to have known it wasn’t Judy. Ever since her Change, Judy had started acting as if she were better than Chloe.

Judy’s smugness and the veiled contempt in Coach Wharton’s eyes rubbed Chloe’s ego raw. For most of her life Chloe had been the leader of the Pack teens, and now everyone was Dominant to her. Last week, Coach Wharton had told Dean that she might never Change because she was too afraid of the pain. Her! Who’d never so much as whimpered during one of Coach’s brutal three-hour training runs.

And now that contempt had spread to the other kids like an infection. They closed their shoulders against her when she approached, as if she were a townie.

Tears burned in her eyes, blurring the trail. She accidentally stepped on a root and her ankle twisted beneath her. Pain shot up her leg. The bonfire raging inside demanded that she keep running through the pain, keep trying to catch them at the end of the shortcut, but her dad had lectured too many other Pack members about the stupidity of ignoring pain.

Chloe dropped onto a fallen log at the side of the trail and sucked down some of the water in her squeeze bottle. Her ankle would be fine in a moment. Werewolves healed fast--so fast it took something major to kill them--but she’d probably just lost all chance of catching up with the Pack.

How could she have all the werewolf gifts and not have the ability to Change? It wasn’t fair, but every generation there were a few Recessives, werewolves by heritage who were unable to Change. Also known as Duds.

Chloe's fists clenched. She was not a Dud. Glaring, she suddenly caught the blue eyes of a wolf staring out at her from behind a screen of underbrush.

Chloe shot to her feet, temper pumping through her. “Stop lurking. I know you’re there. I'm not blind.” Did her Packmates think they could scare her? Puh-lease. She'd grown up among werewolves.

The wolf faded back into the brush. Chloe nodded, satisfied, and sat back down.

But when she resumed her run, movement flashed in her peripheral vision. The idiot wolf had started tailing her again. Fine, we can play it that way. Chloe pretended not to notice, waiting until her sharp ears told her that her pursuer had ventured a little too close, then suddenly reversed direction and cut left into the trees.

A thick stand of young pine kept the wolf from retreating. It hunched its shoulders and growled at her. Chloe stopped in surprise. The wolf had a creamy chest and underbelly, black back and tail, blue eyes and a distinctive black stripe bisecting its forehead. Who was it? None of the wolves in her Pack had colouring like this one.

The wolf couldn't be wild. Real wolves stayed far, far away from Pack territory, and this one was just standing there, staring at her head-on, unafraid. Unless the animal was sick? Chloe sniffed the air. Instead of the Pine Hollow Pack scent, the wolf smelled of wildness, musk and a hint of iron. No odour of disease. All the Pack kids got rabies shots as a matter of course, but Chloe's veterinarian dad had made sure she could recognize the signs of it, plus distemper and other canine ills. This wolf wasn’t sick, so it had to be a werewolf.

Its pelt lacked the shine of a healthy wolf, and its ribs protruded. It was skinny and not full-grown. Her nostrils flared. "That better not be you, Gail,” she threatened. Judy's little sister was thirteen, a not unheard of age for the Change, but—

She stepped forward. The wolf snapped its teeth at her and broke left past her into the trees.

Instinct made her give chase, but she stopped after a few steps because—hello?—four legs were always going to be faster than two.

In frustration, she shouted after the werewolf: “I’m going to find out who you are and kick your butt!”

Buy Here: Barnes & Noble Amazon Chapters/Indigo  

Excerpt from Walk the Wards!

While I've been fighting with ongoing long-term writer's block, this year has not been entirely without words, I'm happy to report. I've made some progress on Walk the Wards, which is still planned to be my next release in the Free Court of Seattle series. As a general reminder, this book will not actually be a novel; it'll be a collection of novellas and novelettes.

And just to show that I have actually been writing at least a bit, how about an excerpt?

This is from "The Deepest Breath of Song", a story about a shy young tuba player who discovers there's a lot more to life in his small coastal town than he'd ever imagined when he must help the town's Warder find out who's been hunting the herd of hippocampi migrating through the local oceans.

When Oscar finds the culprit, well... let's just say it doesn't go well. ;D

***

Ashosha. Her name was the very crash of the tide against the sands. Oscar caught glimpse after glimpse of the ocean through her eyes, as she, proud huntress and magic-wielder of the merrow, roved through the wide Pacific waters on behalf of her people.

They numbered fewer every year, driven as they were into the last lingering hidden places of the deep, for the oceangoing vessels of his own kind grew harder and harder to elude. So too did the creatures that could feed the merrow dwindle—for all of them were threatened by not only the ships and submarines of humanity, but the pollutants that fouled the currents even when no humans were near. With such challenges before her people she could not afford compassion, not if it kept her from filling the bellies of hungry merrow children—

Without warning, as her finned hand snapped back from him once again, their connection broke. Or the physical one, at least. Oscar clutched his paddle to him, half-convinced it might somehow balance him against the sudden tumultuous whirling in his skull. This single huntress, this female called Ashosha, roared across his thoughts with a power far greater than the entire hippocampi herd.

How she perceived him he dared not imagine. Yet the wave that bore her drew her back from his kayak now, and he could no longer mistake the look in her eyes for anything but reluctance.

The next words she hurled at him, though, rang with resolve as sharp as her spear.

“I give the herd three days. In exchange, human, you will come to the shore each night and play upon this horn you say sounds like them. Make your case for their lives. If I do not like what I hear, your own life will be forfeit.”

It was no bargain; if anything, it was an ultimatum. Accepting it was the height of foolishness. The sheer thought of it crowded Oscar’s brain with twin thoughts that should have amplified his panic past all bearing. One, that hardly anyone in the town would understand, know, or care what happened to him if the huntress Ashosha should kill him. And the other, that his mother would.

He didn’t know how. He didn’t know why. But he did know that it was important that he return safely to his mother, and that he ask Amanda Beck, the quiet owner of a quiet B&B in a quiet little town, knew of the world Marikat had shown him.

Was his mother a Warder?

Had his father been?

“Promise me you won’t harm Marikat or my mother,” Oscar said. To his surprise, the words sounded steadier than anything he’d ever uttered, for all that his voice had gone quiet and thin. “Or anyone else in the town.”

“The merrow do not come ashore,” Ashosha replied. “None of your people will face our spears if they stay out of our waters.”

Whether he could believe her, Oscar could not possibly guess—but then, the whole night had been filled with impossibilities. Yet something in him, born out of that brief fierce contact with her mind, hinted that perhaps, just perhaps, she was not lying.

And that perhaps, just perhaps, there was compassion within her that he could reach. That made it easy to, at last, put forth his promise.

“I’ll come. I’ll play for you.”

***

"The Deepest Breath of Song" is just shy of 14,000 words as of this writing, and is indeed shaping up to be one of the longer pieces in the book! I hope y'all like my take on the "magical duel" trope. Not to mention my determination to have a musician in a story who doesn't play a traditionally sexy instrument, for once!

I'm fond of Oscar, too. I've had fun researching what a well-played classical tuba sounds like, just to get an idea of how he should sound on his instrument. And, he is totally a Tolkien nerd and named his tuba The Horn of Helm Hammerhand.

Want to know more? Check back with me! I'll be doing Camp Nanowrimo again next month, and hopefully, I'll be able to finish Oscar's story.

Meanwhile, I'd love to hear about your favorite story with a musician protagonist who plays an unusual instrument. Talk to me in the comments!

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Angela writes the Free Court of Seattle series as Angela Korra'ti, and the Rebels of Adalonia series as Angela Highland. Either way, come find out about all her books over at angelahighland.com, or say hi to her on Facebook or Twitter.

A Very Celebratory Month

I had the hardest time settling on a theme for this month’s post. And for once the list of “Bizarre and Unique Holidays” that I tend to consult was no help at all. For instance, did you know that today is National Cream Filled Donut Day? Yeah, me, neither. And given that cream-filled has never been my go-to donut, I didn’t really see what I could do with that. Last Sunday was National Grandparents’ Day. Um...I’m not saying I have any kind of big announcement to make or anything just yet, but it is entirely possible  I will have reason to be very excited about that particular holiday next year. But it’s a tad premature right now.  

“Maybe,” I said to myself, “I’ll have better luck if I check out the monthly holidays rather than the daily ones?” So that’s what I did. And, ladies and gentlemen, I’m happy to tell you I struck gold.   

Where’s a drumroll when you need one? Oh, wait; here it is.

So September, it turns out, is National Honey Month, National Chicken Month AND National Little League Baseball Month. Which probably means nothing whatsoever to most of you. To me, however, it’s a total trifecta, a hat-trick of holidays, if you will.

See, there’s this little book I wrote a gazillion years ago (okay, it’s not that little, really, and maybe it wasn’t quite that long ago) called Taste of Honey. It’s always been one of my favorites...but, shhh, don’t tell the other stories that I said so.

The heroine of A Taste of Honey, Lucy, keeps bees, raises chickens, and has a teenage son who plays Little League Baseball. And those three things are absolutely critical to her story. I mean, seriously, if it weren’t for the bees, the chickens and the son, she wouldn’t even have a story. So that requires an excerpt, right?

If you’d like to read more about Lucy and Dan but don’t want to commit to a whole book (or a whole series) I’ve made the prequel to their story free to anyone who joins my Facebook group, The Crone’s Nest. https://www.facebook.com/groups/TheCronesNest/

Unfortunately, there are no bees, chickens or son in the prequel, but young Lucy and Dan are still pretty hot. At least, I’ve always thought so.

EXCERPT:

Lucy drove out to the nursery early that afternoon, with the windows rolled down.  No Doubt’s Tragic Kingdom, an album she’d ‘liberated’ from her teenage son’s music collection several years earlier, was blasting from the Explorer’s CD player, and a plan for fixing the deteriorating relationship between her husband and her son was cooking in her head.  In fact, if things worked out the way she hoped they would, she might even be able to give her own relationship with Dan some added spice. 

            It was a glorious Spring day.  The air along the coast was warm and lushly scented with yerba buena, eucalyptus and sage.  Fat, majestic puffs sailed across the sky, casting cloud-shaped shadows onto the earth and sea below, further mottling the already variegated landscape.  When she turned off the coast road onto the canyon drive that led to the nursery, she saw that the  hills that lined the way, gray-green, emerald, and gold for most of the year, had been transformed.  They’d blossomed overnight into an almost endless expanse of  orange and blue--mostly California poppies and lupine--disrupted only where the spiky silver foliage and dried flower heads of wild artichokes broke through to tower above them. 

            It was the same thing that happened every year, but, as always, the beauty of it took her by surprise and made her catch her breath.

            It was a perfect day for a picnic, she had decided after leaving Marsha and Scout that morning; and so she had gone home and packed a basket with which she hoped to tempt Dan to join her at Seth’s ball game this afternoon. 

            The relationship between the two men in her life had become so strained of late.  And, even though she had taken care to pack all of Dan’s favorites--marinated artichoke hearts, olives stuffed with sun dried tomatoes, roasted eggplant and goat cheese sandwiches on fresh foccacia bread, and a mint-mango salad--she wasn’t sure that even that would do the trick.

            It wasn’t so much that she feared her husband’s relationship with their son was in any real danger of becoming irrevocably damaged, as had happened to Dan’s relationship with his own father; although the possibility had certainly occurred to her, and more than once.  It was just that it was so very obvious how much both he and Seth were suffering from their estrangement.  And it would be good for Seth to see that, annoyed as he often was with him, his father still supported his efforts. 

Besides, she knew very well that her own attendance at his games was almost more frustrating for Seth than supportive.  Despite all her years as a spectator, Lucy still seemed to be missing the finer points of the game.  Their mutual interest in baseball had always been a passion that Dan and Seth enjoyed sharing.  And really, what was the point of sports, if not to allow men the opportunity to renew their bonds with one another without shedding too much blood?

She pulled off the road before she reached the nursery’s main entrance, unlocked one of the gates that led directly into the fields, and detoured through the back of the nursery’s grounds to check on her hives.  Sunlight shimmered in the air, and as she walked through the field she breathed in deep lungfuls scented with the heady fragrance of flowering plants and warm earth.  The bees were everywhere; crawling on the flowers, filling the air with their busy flights, and clustering around the hives’ entrances in a carefully choreographed confusion.  Lucy reminded herself to keep all her movements slow as she moved among them.  She was entranced by their gentleness as they detoured around her.  Even without the honey, she’d enjoy keeping them.  Of course, she hadn’t been stung yet, although everyone who worked with bees assured her that it was inevitable, and she hadn’t yet been forced to contend with a swarm, either.  Perhaps she’d feel a little less enthusiastic after either of those occurred.  But for now, it was a terrific little sideline business.

            She watched the bees for several minutes longer, observing their activity, trying to take a count of the bees as they moved in and out of the hives, as she’d been taught to do; looking for anything unusual, any suggestion that the hives were ailing.  Finally, satisfied that all was well, she slowly turned and walked back towards her car.  She’d come back out here this weekend, with all her equipment, so she could inspect the hives properly, but right now, she had an even more interesting project to work on. 

            Seth was not the only one whose bonds with Dan could use a little renewing, she thought.  It had been months since she and Dan had enjoyed the kind of romantic adventure she had planned for them.  Altogether too many months.  And man could not live by sports alone.

            She’d included a jar of her honey in the picnic basket.  If she and Dan could find a private, secluded little spot for their picnic, perhaps she’d find a way to increase his appreciation for her new hobby.

* * * * *

For Lucy Greco Cavanaugh, life is a dream come true. She has it all, the perfect family, the perfect husband, the perfect marriage. What more could she wish for other than the chance to do it all again? To experience once more the agony and ecstasy of falling in love with the man of her dreams. To recapture the joy and uncertainty that comes with starting over. Sometimes you get exactly what you wish for... and it's more than you ever dreamed. 

https://www.amazon.com/Taste-Honey-Oberon-Book-ebook/dp/B00143YIEQ

Excerpt from Chapter 1 of Warder Soul!

For a writer, there are few things more frustrating than making about 20,000 words into a manuscript, only to realize that it's not working. This has recently happened to me, as I work on Warder Soul, book 3 of my Free Court of Seattle urban fantasy series.

The bright side of this, at least, is that I was only about 20,000 words in versus, oh, say, 90,000. And also, I was able to nail down pretty well why what I was writing wasn't working for me, because it was a problem that had come up while I was working on Victory of the Hawk. Namely, that after releasing five novels, three of which had me working extensively with a good editor, I'd developed a tendency to write too superficially in the name of trying to write more quickly.

Because of this, I just wasn't feeling suitably, truly engaged with what I'd put down for the story so far. And if the writer isn't engaged, the reader can't be!

So even though it was irritating to have to go back and rewrite the beginning, I did it anyway. I now have a new opening scene for Chapter 1, and I'm feeling a lot better about it. So I'd like to share it with you all now!

The scene is long, about 2,000 words, so I'm only going to include a small taste of it in this post:

Amount of time it took to get my hair ready for Jake and Carson’s wedding: three hours.

Amount of time it took a flock of fairies to have at it: five minutes.

The little knuckleheads divebombed me the minute Jude and I got out of her truck at the Golden Gardens bathhouse. One minute I was closing the passenger door behind me, taking care not to crinkle my skirt as I got out, because honestly, how often was I going to wear a dress in public? I’d been twitchy the whole morning about tearing it, or spilling coffee on it, or any number of potential disasters. The next minute, my field of vision filled with a disaster I hadn’t counted on: the glittering, swooping bodies of seven fairies, all of whom seemed more pleased to see me than I’d ever seen fairies be about anything. And that counted the time I’d bribed half a dozen of them to find my phone. With red velvet cupcakes. They’d brought me three other phones before I’d finally convinced them that no, really, my own phone was enough.

“Queen!” one of them caroled as it whirled around my head, so quickly that I got barely a glimpse of flashing wings and tiny flailing hands. “Queen is here!”

Want to read the whole scene? I've got it available as a PDF on my site!

The moral of this story: listen to your muse, if it's telling you you need to fix something in the story.

The other moral of this story: cake is awesome.

---
Angela writes the Free Court of Seattle urban fantasy series as Angela Korra'ti, and the Rebels of Adalonia epic fantasy trilogy as Angela Highland. Come tell her all about your favorite kinds of cake at angelahighland.com, or follow her on Facebook or Twitter!

New Year's Resolution--Done!

For years and years now I've had the same New Year's Resolution: to have one of my books published in the new year. Therefore I'm rather tickled to have a book releasing January 2nd (yesterday) in 2017. Don't worry, I'm sure I'll come up with some other writing-related resolutions too. But for now, here it is!

BOOK THREE OF OTHERSELVES
IN TRUTH & ASHES

What she can’t remember could ruin her life.
 
The Mirror Worlds are but dull reflections of the True World, where magic and technology blend together…

On the True World, Belinda Loring has known from childhood that she must Bond with the son of another noble First Family. Uniting the families ensures hers will hold onto its powerful position, and so she’s always pushed down the tender feelings she has for her best friend—gorgeous, steadfast Demian, who isn’t noble.

But when the ceremonial magic goes disastrously wrong, Belinda becomes a national disgrace. Scorned as Broken, she turns to Demian for help getting revenge on the man who ruined her: the radical Malachi.


But the seeds of Malachi’s murderous plans lie buried in Belinda’s past, in the dark days of her kidnapping—a period of which she has no memory. And Demian may hold the key to recovering all that she’s lost—and saving the worlds.

BUY LINKS




Haven't read book one of the series, Through Fire & Sea?  It's on sale for 99 cents at all retailers. BUY HERE


Here's an excerpt from In Truth & Ashes:

Belinda stood shivering at the back of the bowl-like amphitheater, waiting for sunrise to make her grand entrance. Ellona had already gone ahead to take her seat—leaving Belinda alone with her cold feet.

Literal cold feet as well as metaphorical. Actually—she shivered—she had cold fingers and arms and a cold nose, too, because her wonderful dress was a tad skimpy, and the outdoors in late spring was chilly.

Where was her dad? Belinda bit her lip. He had to be here. This wasn’t like missing a birthday.

He was supposed to escort her down the aisle.

But he didn’t come, and the sky turned pink behind her, and the processional music swelled.

She forced her slippered feet into action, pinned a smile to her face, and, as coached by Ellona, kept her shoulders back as she walked slowly down the center aisle, between the rings of benches. She pretended that all those eyes on her didn’t make her skin crawl.

All those strangers. Any one of whom could be Malachi.

She was supposed to look straight ahead, but she searched the crowd compulsively, trying to identify any threats.

Juliet stood up and waved, defiantly. Instead of being seated near the inner ring of witnesses, Ellona had placed her mother and her second husband, Hal, about ten rows up. Belinda waved back.

A murmur went through the crowd. “Juliet…”

“…remember when…”

“…scandal…”

“…not from a First Family…”

Was that why her father had stayed away? To prevent gossip?

The amphitheater was open to the sky, and a breeze swirled around Belinda’s ear, making her shiver. “Belinda?” the breeze asked.

Belinda relaxed. Only one person would contact her via an air spirit—Demian. Anyone else would have used a genie. But Demian had a rare condition that meant he couldn’t undergo the neural implants necessary for a genie. “Demian! Where are you?” she whispered, her stiff smile turning genuine.

Since she also had the long-winded talent, the breeze carried her words back to him. It was fortunate that her talent matched his. Having four otherselves didn’t mean having all of the four magical talents—long-winded, hot-blooded, silver-tongued, stone-hearted, one talent for each element and each Mirror World. In fact, she only had one, long-windedness, which allowed her to speak to air elementals.

The breeze carried his answer back after only a short lag: “On your left, seventh row.”

Belinda searched the sea of guests but couldn’t spot her friend’s face. The sheer number of people filling the large amphitheater gave her a jittery feeling in her stomach. There must be close to a thousand people here, most of them strangers. When two First Families joined, as they did today, everyone who was anyone attended.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered.

“I don’t like this guy you’re being Bonded to. He looks about as intelligent as a block of marble. His neck is the size of my waist.”

Warren was waiting for her in the center of the circular arena. He looked handsome in a formal frock coat and knee breeches in his family colors, dark blue with gold piping. Belinda studied him critically. Demian was right: Warren’s neck was a bit thick.

Her steps became slower and slower as she went down the steps to join Warren.

A choking sense of dread blocked her throat. Malachi would make his move soon.