@JoshVanBrakle's Thoughts on The Query Blues: Turn Rejection into Growth #Fantasy #WriteTip

You’ve put your heart into writing your first novel: years of your life, uncounted long nights, and even more uncounted tears. Finally, you’re ready. You put together a brilliant, personalized query letter and send it to an agent. Days pass, then weeks. Nothing. Not even a form response.

What a cold, cold thing to do to a writer. You’ve written a masterpiece, and some schmuck in New York won’t even return your email. I know that feeling. My first novel, The Wings of Dragons, was rejected by not one, not ten, but over fifty agents. Most never replied at all. A few wrote me that they really liked my book, but they weren’t confident they could sell it to an editor “in this market.”

Every one of those rejections hit me hard. They made me feel like all the work I’d put in – over two years – was wasted.

Somewhere in the middle of all those rejections, though, I had my epiphany. I could see the rejections as an annoyance, as some suit in some distant agency not giving my book its due, or I could recognize them for what they were: opportunities to improve. These agents, whose job it is to sell books, were telling me something valuable. “Do you want to sell books? Then go back and spruce up this manuscript.”

So that’s what I did. I studied what those agents were looking for: fast-paced plots, a beginning few chapters that screamed “Keep reading me!”, and above all, sympathetic, multi-layered characters. Agents look for these traits, because they’re what make a book stand out. With that knowledge in hand, I knew where to focus my revisions.

In the end, no agent picked me up. I had no credentials, and my only publishing credits were a couple scientific journal articles, hardly gripping reads. No one would take a chance on me, so I took a chance on me and indie published. It’s paid off; my book became a #1 best-seller in its category on Amazon. Even so, I don’t laugh at the agents who rejected my work. I thank them. They were right to reject it. It wasn’t finished yet. If it had been published, or if I’d indie published without trying the traditional route first, I would have been unsatisfied with the result. I would have known I could have written a better book. A big part of why my book succeeded as an indie is because I tried the traditional approach first, and then I used what I learned to make my novel the best I could write at that point in my life.

It’s easy to let rejection convince you that your work is garbage, or worse, that your work is awesome and agents are too stupid to see it. Instead, see rejection as someone in the industry who knows a lot about what sells giving you free advice on how to make your book even better. Kick your ego to the curb and use that advice to grow as an author.

From fantasy author Josh VanBrakle comes an epic new trilogy of friendship, betrayal, and explosive magic. Lefthanded teenager Iren Saitosan must uncover a forgotten history, confront monsters inspired by Japanese mythology, and master a serpentine dragon imprisoned inside a katana to stop a revenge one thousand years in the making.

Lodian culture declares lefthanded people dangerous and devil-spawned, and for Iren, the kingdom’s only known Left, that’s meant a life of social isolation. To pass the time and get a little attention, he plays pranks on the residents of Haldessa Castle. It’s harmless fun, until one of his stunts nearly kills Lodia’s charismatic heir to the throne. Now to avoid execution for his crime, Iren must join a covert team and assassinate a bandit lord. It’s a suicide mission, and Iren’s chances aren’t helped when he learns that his new katana contains a dragon’s spirit, one with a magic so powerful it can sink continents and transform Iren into a raging beast.

Adding to his problems, someone on Iren’s team is plotting treason. When a former ally launches a brutal plan to avenge the Lefts, Iren finds himself trapped between competing loyalties. He needs to figure out who – and how – to trust, and the fates of two nations depend on his choice.

“A fast-paced adventure…led by a compelling cast of characters. Josh VanBrakle keeps the mysteries going.” - ForeWord Reviews

Buy @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – YA epic fantasy

Rating – PG-13

Connect with Josh VanBrakle on Twitter

Website www.joshvanbrakle.com

The Curse Giver by @DoraMachado #Fantasy #Excerpt #Paranormal

THE MAN CRAMMED IN THE COFFIN with Lusielle wasn’t much for words. Talking to a toad would have bettered her chances to learn something pertinent, let alone helpful. A toad would have been more forthcoming and less irritating as well.

She didn’t give a hoot about highborn and their bloody quarrels. After all, the highborn had been plotting against each other for centuries. But if she was going to escape with her life, if she was going to survive her plight, she needed to understand what the Lord of Laonia wanted and why. Her life depended on her wits.

“Word in the kingdom is that Laonians are warmongers,” she said.

A snort. “That’s what Riva would like for you to believe.”

“He’s sent away a lot of able men and women to repel Laonian raids.”

“Have you considered it could be the other way around?”

“Why would we want to attack you?”

“I’m not having this discussion with you.”

How wrong he was. “We’ve heard rumors of a few little skirmishes at the river borders over the years,” Lusielle said.

The man’s body tensed in the darkness. “Skirmishes?”

“King Riva always wins.”

“Ha!”

“Ha?”

“Do you always believe everything that Riva says?”

“Nobody challenges King Riva and lives.”

“Riva rules over a bunch of fools.”

“The kingdom’s cemeteries are seeded with his opponents’ tombstones.”

“He’s a man, not a god,” the lord said.

“And yet he can’t be defeated.”

“Of course he can be defeated. My father defeated him in battle twice, thirty years ago and then again twenty years ago. And less than two years ago, I repelled a full scale invasion at the Narrows.”

“You did?”

“The tyrant can be defeated. Laonia has seen to that.”

Lusielle was hard pressed to believe what the lord was saying, and yet she had to admit that some of what he said made sense. There had been rumors. Thousands of troops had never returned from the river borders. Sons and daughters forsook their mothers for good. Husbands and wives went missing en masse. Food had grown scarce. Even horses had been difficult to find.

Had the king managed to conceal a major defeat from his subjects? Was the Lord of Laonia telling the truth?

She had never heard anyone else speak ill of King Riva, let alone challenge him openly. Everyone she knew was afraid of Riva. Not even the kingdom’s highborn dared to call the king a tyrant aloud.

The Lord of Laonia might be short of words and quick to anger, but these days, a man had to be very brave to speak as he did.

Award-Winning Finalist in the fantasy category of The 2013 USA Best Book Awards, sponsored by USA Book News

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Genre – Fantasy/Dark Fantasy

Rating – PG-18

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Website http://www.doramachado.com/

High Maga by Karin Rita Gastreich @EolynChronicles #AmReading #Fantasy #BookClub

Eolyn paced the room, fingering the jewel around her neck, a finely woven net of silver encrusted with crystal and hung on a long chain, a gift given her long ago by the King. She stopped and looked at her friend, dark eyes haunted with regret. “What have I done, Adiana? I turned away the man I love, and for what? I keep telling myself there were so many reasons, and they all seemed so important at the time, but now I can’t recall any of them. Not a one.”

“You refused him because you are one of the few women in the kingdom with the wisdom and courage to say ‘no’ to a king,” Adiana replied. “You’re a maga, Eolyn. You’re not meant to walk in the shadow of any man. Did you not see the Queen when they arrived in Moehn? She’s pretty enough, but drawn tight around the edges, with those stiff shoulders and that peaked face and tense eyes. Not even twenty, and already she’s growing old. Is that the life you wanted for yourself? To follow him like a well-dressed mouse, your worth measured by the sons you bear?”

“Akmael would have never—”

“It doesn’t matter what he would have done. It’s the nature of nobility. Even he can’t change that.” Adiana nodded at the tea. “You’d better drink that before it gets cold. I don’t want to spend what’s left of my morning mixing potions.”

Eolyn stared at the cup and shook her head.

Foreboding crept into Adiana’s heart. “Oh, no. Don’t you dare even consider it.”

“I can’t drink this. The thought of rejecting his seed is repulsive to me.”

“Why?” Adiana threw up her hands, perplexed. “You’ve used this potion a hundred times, when you were with the King after your brother’s defeat, and prior to that, with your lover Tahmir—”

“It doesn’t matter. It was right then. It feels wrong now.” Eolyn rested one hand protectively over her abdomen, as if a child of the Mage King had already taken root there.

With an audible groan, Adiana pulled her friend to a stool and sat her down. She took a place in front of the maga and looked hard into her eyes.

“Eolyn, let me tell you something about nobility, speaking as a dear friend who has watched those vipers from the time she was very young. They are just like merchants, only more ruthless and arrogant, convinced the Gods have given them license to do whatever they please. If a child of the King should grow in your womb, all the nobles of the realm will set their eyes on Moehn, to see what meat they can take from this situation, what marrow they can suck from its bones.”

“No one need know who the father is.”

“How will they not know? The King himself will claim this child. It’s not as if you’re some village wench in whom he has taken a passing fancy. You are a High Maga, the only one left in the kingdom. You are also his first love, and everyone knows it, though no one speaks of it.”

Eolyn bit her lip and glanced away, fingers clutched tight around the silver pendant. “I must have some part of him, Adiana, something that can stay with me, someone I can love and protect. I would not ask for anything from the King. Nothing. You know that.”

Adiana extricated Eolyn’s fingers from the jewel and held the maga’s hands in hers, tone gentle yet resolute. “But the King would ask much of you.”

Lands Ravaged. Dreams destroyed. Demons set loose upon the earth.

War strikes at the heart of women’s magic in Moisehén. Eolyn’s fledgling community of magas is destroyed; its members killed, captured or scattered.

Devastated yet undaunted, Eolyn seeks to escape the occupied province and deliver to King Akmael a weapon that might secure their victory. But even a High Maga cannot survive this enemy alone. Aided by the enigmatic Mage Corey, Eolyn battles the darkest forces of the Underworld, only to discover she is a mere path to the magic that most ignites their hunger.

What can stop this tide of terror and vengeance? The answer lies in Eolyn’s forgotten love, and in its power to engender seeds of renewed hope.

HIGH MAGA is the companion novel to EOLYN, also available from Hadley Rille Books.

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Genre – Epic Fantasy

Rating – PG-13

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Blog http://eolynchronicles.blogspot.com

The Wings of Dragons (The Dragoon Saga, Book 1) by Josh VanBrakle #Fantasy #YA #BookClub

Iren’s will steeled. Minawë needed to get to Ziorsecth. He couldn’t surrender. With nothing left but a desire not to let down this woman who genuinely believed in him, Iren hauled the unconscious Kodama onto his back. He tried drawing on magic to restore some of his stamina, but he couldn’t feel it at all.

The storm crashed with more intensive fervor, as though nature itself wanted to keep him from accomplishing his goal. Nevertheless he marched on a slow, inexorable trek west.

He didn’t know if he was awake or dreaming. He wasn’t even certain he was still alive. Minawë’s body pressed against his, limp and breathless. With her on his back, her face rested on his shoulder. Even in this state, appearing as old as Rondel had, she still looked more beautiful than anyone he’d ever known. Though her eyes were shut, he recalled their emerald hue like two tiny forests, strong and frail at the same time.

He leaned his head against hers and rubbed her fine hair, undamaged despite her many ordeals. Its vibrant green, however, had vanished. All the hair he could see was white. Her lips, too, had lost their fullness and luster. Only now, staring at her lifeless visage, did he realize how much, in just a few days, he’d come to love her. He blamed himself for her misfortunes. If only he’d ridden faster, he might have saved her. If they could have stayed in Akaku just a few more hours, perhaps that would have given her the time she needed.

Her skin felt cold. It was over; he had failed. Reluctantly, he let her body fall.

As her face drifted from view, he started. He thought he’d seen a movement in her lips, or perhaps a shred of color in her cheeks. He pulled her tightly to him again, but she gave him no further sign, if indeed she’d given him one in the first place. Nevertheless, that wisp of life, real or imagined, motivated him. Despite the pouring rain, despite the dead weight of her body on his back, and despite his own exhaustion, he would continue until the end.

He tripped often, slipping in the ubiquitous mud of this vile place. Several times he stumbled not from the wet ground but from his own weakness. In desperation, he set down Minawë, then discarded his shirt, cloak, and even the sheath to the Muryozaki. His load that tiny bit lighter, he hefted Minawë onto his back and continued trudging.

As Iren became certain he could not take another step, he finally saw, at the limits of his vision, a line of trees. Hope came to him at last. It was the forest! It must be, for in a few more moments he would surely die. With the last of his strength he forced himself under the shield of its canopy. Beneath its boughs he gently set the lifeless woman he’d sacrificed himself for on the ground. His task completed, he collapsed amid the leaves and surrendered to the void.

From fantasy author Josh VanBrakle comes an epic new trilogy of friendship, betrayal, and explosive magic. Lefthanded teenager Iren Saitosan must uncover a forgotten history, confront monsters inspired by Japanese mythology, and master a serpentine dragon imprisoned inside a katana to stop a revenge one thousand years in the making.

Lodian culture declares lefthanded people dangerous and devil-spawned, and for Iren, the kingdom's only known Left, that's meant a life of social isolation. To pass the time and get a little attention, he plays pranks on the residents of Haldessa Castle. It's harmless fun, until one of his stunts nearly kills Lodia's charismatic heir to the throne. Now to avoid execution for his crime, Iren must join a covert team and assassinate a bandit lord. It's a suicide mission, and Iren's chances aren't helped when he learns that his new katana contains a dragon's spirit, one with a magic so powerful it can sink continents and transform Iren into a raging beast.

Adding to his problems, someone on Iren's team is plotting treason. When a former ally launches a brutal plan to avenge the Lefts, Iren finds himself trapped between competing loyalties. He needs to figure out who - and how - to trust, and the fates of two nations depend on his choice.

"A fast-paced adventure...led by a compelling cast of characters. Josh VanBrakle keeps the mysteries going." - ForeWord Reviews

Buy @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – YA epic fantasy

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author

Connect with Josh VanBrakle on Twitter

Website www.joshvanbrakle.com

@DeanFWilson on Plotting, Pantsing, or the Way Between #AmWriting #WriteTip #Fantasy

There are three primary schools of thought when it comes to writing a novel, pointing to the two extremes available, and the road between them. The two diverging ways are affectionately called the Plotter and the Panster, while the third way is largely unnamed, being a mingling of the others.

The Plotter creates intricate plans of how the story will be told, from chapter summaries to, in the more extreme examples, a synopsis of the entire book, scene by scene. An author with this approach might spend just as much time with the outline, rewriting and revising it, than the finished product itself. The framework is put firmly in place, and then the rest is filled in until the book is complete.

The Pantser, on the other hand, takes the opposite approach. A theme or character might pop into mind and the author sits down and goes with the flow, seeing where it brings him or her, often being as surprised by the story as the reader will be later. In some cases the author does not even have any sliver of an idea for the book at all, but simply opens up a blank page and begins an exercise almost like automatic writing.

My experience and research suggests that authors are usually somewhere between these two extremes, rarely entirely at one end or the other, but that we tend to lean more towards one approach, while in some cases the preference depends on the book in question.

A good example of the ambiguity of approaches to writing is J.R.R. Tolkien, whom many would, at the outset, consider a Plotter, given the sheer volume of planning that went into The Lord of the Rings and his other writings, not to mention the numerous appendices.

However, his own words speak differently. In his Foreword to The Fellowship of the Ring, Tolkien said: “This tale grew in the telling...” He clarified later: “As the story grew it put down roots (into the past) and threw out unexpected branches: but its main theme was settled from the outset...”

Here we see then that Tolkien, like many writers, had a primary idea in mind, but did not know all of the details before the writing process began. When the pen was put to the page, with the intent of driving a character to a particular event or experience, things began to take shape in unintended ways.

Personally, I usually come up with a seed idea, something that thematically sets the stage for everything that will follow, or, as is often the case, precede it. The thought that will germinate into a story for me is often how it ends, and I work backwards in my mind to where the story must start in order to bring about that ending. With the A and Z in place, there is sufficient confinement, a reasonably wide, yet not too broad, vessel in which to contain the story; many, and perhaps all, of the letters in-between remain unknowns until they are encountered.

Likewise, a story may begin with a character, who is then dropped into a world or placed in a scenario in which they, with their unique personality, must respond. Often the thoughts, words or actions of these characters are initially shocking to the author, yet make perfect sense in retrospect, when the author considers that the character, with his or her various personality quirks, can act no other way. Thus the character comes alive and drives the story, while the author merely records it, hoping to capture the events as they unfold, and hoping to deliver to the reader something approximating the experience the author undergoes—the experience of life and living, through the eyes of another.

THE DYING BREATH. THE DYING WILL. THE DYING HOPE.

After the catastrophe of the Call of Agon, Ifferon and his companions find themselves in the unenviable situation of witnessing, and partaking in, the death of another god—this time Corrias, the ruler of the Overworld.

With Corrias locked inside the corpse of the boy Théos, he suffers a fate worse than the bonds of the Beast Agon. Yet hope is kindled when the company find a way to restore the boy, and possibly the god, back to life.

The road to rebirth has many pitfalls, and there are some who consider such meddling with the afterlife a grave risk. The prize might be life anew—but the price might also be a second death.

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Genre - Epic Fantasy

Rating – PG

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#Author C. D. Verhoff on the Organized Process of Writing @CDVerhoff #AmWriting #Fantasy

If you could have a dinner party and invite anyone dead or alive, who would you ask? 

I’d invite saintly people in hopes that some of their sanctity would rub off on me. Adam and Eve, Moses, King David, Benjamin, Mother Mary, Jesus, St. Peter, St. Francis of Assisi and St. Teresa of Avila would be there. So would Pope John Paul the Second. I have a potty mouth, so I’d have to watch my language. I’d also invite my parents, my grandparents, my Great Aunt Josie, Mark Twain, Abraham Lincoln and Elvis Presley.

When you are not writing, how do you like to relax? 

The ideal answer would be to say that I exercise or volunteer at a soup kitchen, but that would be a lie. I eat, nap, read, talk on the phone, take a walk down the lane or watch television. Isn’t that what normal people do to relax?

Do you have any tips on how writers can relax? 

No, because it’s too personal a thing. What’s relaxing for some will be stressful to others. I have a friend who cleans her house to relax. Looks like self-inflicted torture to me, but whatever floats your boat. Each person has to find his or her own way to decompress.

How often do you write? And when do you write? 

I’m an opportunist. There’s no particular time schedule. I work it around other priorities like helping with homework, driving kids to after school activities, and my own obligations.

In reality, a lot of the ground work for my novels takes place before I ever sit down at the computer. As I’m driving, making dinner, and so on, new plots and scenes take shape in my head. When I start to type, half the story is already there. All I have to do is get it down on paper and fill in the blank spaces.

Once I’m at the computer, I have to be careful not to allow myself to become distracted. There are so many fun and interesting things to do on the internet. It’s too easy to fritter away the day on unproductive activities. YouTube is the devil’s workshop, LOL.

Do you have an organized process or tips for writing well? Do you have a writing schedule? 

I start out semi-organized. There’s a one or two page outline, which establish the major elements of the story: point of view, characters, plot, conflict and setting. I usually don’t stray very far from the major elements. Plot is another story. I try to follow the outline, but there comes a point where the characters eventually take it in unexpected directions. Ultimately, the end product is usually not what I originally envisioned. It usually takes me two or three drafts to lay down all of these essentials elements.

The next phase is a little easier. This is where the story is analyzed with the eye of an interior decorator. The framework (essential elements) are in place. The walls have already been painted, the rugs rolled out, the cabinets installed and the furniture is set in place. Now, it’s ready for the accents. Foreshadowing, themes, character traits, motivation, and dialogue are the pillows, curtains, artwork and quilts of the story. When they work together in harmony, the house will feel cohesive. If they are absent, or mismatched, the house will feel disjointed.

The final draft is where I ruthlessly gut my story, hacking away scenes that seemed important when I wrote them, but turned out to be dead ends to nowhere. If I neglect this phase, the story will drag. I like to read fast paced books, so I strive to write them that way as well. If a scene doesn’t move the plot forward, it’s in the way. Get rid of it. The process takes me months and months, sometimes years.

Sometimes it’s so hard to keep at it - What keeps you going?

Sheer madness.

What do you hope people will take away from your writing? How will your words make them feel?  

My goal is to entertain people. I invite readers to apply their own understanding of the characters and events as presented. If someone finishes one of my stories and it leaves them wanting to dive deeper into my fictional world, then I’ve accomplished my goal. I hope my words make them feel a wide range of emotions, no specific one stands out above the other.

After living in a posh underground shelter his entire life, Lars Steelsun is plunged headfirst into a mind-blowing adventure on the surface of the Earth. As Lars and his displaced bunker mates are led across the grasslands by Mayor Wakeland, a man of questionable sanity who claims to talk with God, they discover a primitive world where human beings are no longer welcome. Even more mystifying is the emergence of new senses and abilities from within. 

 

Learning to use them has become a priority, but his biggest challenge comes from the vivacious Josie Albright. Her lust for glory is going to get them both into trouble. Sparks fly when her gung ho ways clash with his cautious personality. Can they overcome their differences to find love and a homeland for their people?

 

May not be suitable for younger readers. 

Contains mild profanity, sexual situations (infrequent), and violence. 

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Genre - Epic Fantasy

Rating – R

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Blog http://cdverhoff.blogspot.com/

#Fantasy #Excerpt - The Curse Giver by Dora Machado @DoraMachado

Chapter One

Dread stared at Lusielle from the depths of the rowdy crowd. Concealed under a heavy hood, only the stranger’s black eyes dared to meet her gaze among the growing throng. The man’s eyes refused to flinch or shift from her face. His stare was free of the hatred she had gotten from the others, but also devoid of mercy. He held on to her gaze like an anchor to her soul, testing her fortitude, knowing full well her fears’ vast range.

She had always been meant for the fire. Even as she had escaped the blaze that killed her parents and burned the inn to the ground, Lusielle had known that the flame’s greedy god would return to claim her life. But she hadn’t expected it to happen after days of torture, surrounded by the raging mob, found guilty of a crime she didn’t commit, betrayed and condemned.

The town’s cobbler, one of her husband’s best customers, tightened the noose around her neck until it cut off her breath. She had waited on him countless times at the shop, and had always padded his order with a free measure of coriander to help with his wife’s cough.

But none of the town’s inhabitants seemed to remember any of her kindnesses as of late. On the contrary, the crowd was booing and jeering when they weren’t pelting her with rotten fruit. They treated her as if she were a common thief.

The brute who had conducted her torture shoved the cobbler aside, tying her elbows and wrists around the wooden stake. Orell. She remembered his name. His bearded face might have been handsome if not for the permanent leer. Like the magistrate, he wore the king’s burgundy colors, but his role had been more vicious. Had he been granted more time, he might have succeeded at extracting the false confession he wanted, but the magistrate was in a hurry, afraid of any possible
unrest.

Orell yanked on the ropes, tightening her bonds. The wound on her back broke open all over again. She swallowed a strangled hiss. It was as if the thug wanted her to suffer, as if he had a private reason to profit from her pain.

But she had never seen him until three days ago, when he and the magistrate had shown up unannounced, making random accusations.

Lusielle couldn’t understand any of this.

She knew that the king’s justice was notoriously arbitrary. It was one of the main reasons why she loathed living under King Riva’s rule. But she also knew better than to express her opinion. Ruin and tragedy trailed those who dared to criticize the king. That’s why she had never mentioned her misgivings to anyone.

What had she done to deserve this fate? And why did they continue to be so cruel? After all, she wasn’t fighting them anymore.

True, she had resisted at first. Out of fear and pride, she had tried to defend herself. But in the end, it hadn’t mattered. Her accusers had relied on the testimony of the devious liar who had turned her in—Aponte Rummins—her own husband.

The mock hearing had been too painful to bear, too absurd to believe. Aponte swore before the magistrate that Lusielle was a secret practitioner of the forbidden odd arts. It was ridiculous. How could anyone believe that she, who had always relied on logic, measure and observation to mix her remedies, could possibly serve the Odd God’s dark purposes? And how could anyone believe Aponte’s lies?

But they did, they believed him as he called on his paid witnesses and presented fabricated evidence, swearing that he himself had caught her at the shop, worshipping the Odd God. In the end, it had been her husband’s false testimony that provided the ultimate proof of the heinous charge for which Lusielle was about to die.

Burning torch in hand, the magistrate stepped forward. Still in shock, Lusielle swallowed a gulp of bitter horror and steeled for the flames’ excruciating pain. She didn’t want to die like a shrieking coward. But nothing could have prepared her for what happened next.

The magistrate offered the torch to Aponte.

“The king upholds a husband’s authority over his wife in the kingdom,” the magistrate shouted for the crowd to hear. “There can be no protests, no doubt of the wisdom of royal justice if a husband does as he’s entitled to do by his marital rights.”

Aponte could have forgone her execution. Considering the magistrate’s proclamation, he could have chosen a different punishment for her. Instead, he accepted the torch and, without hesitation, put the flame to the tinder and blew over the kindling to start the fire.

“Go now,” he said, grinning like a hog about to gorge. “Go find your dark lord.”

Lusielle glared at the poor excuse for a man who had ruined her life many times over. She had known from the beginning that he was fatally flawed, just as he had known on the day he claimed her that she couldn’t pledge him any affection.

But Aponte had never wanted her affection. He had wanted her servitude, and in that sense she proved to be the reluctant but dutiful servant he craved.

Over the years he had taught her hatred.

His gratification came from beating and humiliating her. His crass and vulgar tastes turned his bed into a nightmare. She felt so ashamed of the things he made her do. Still, even if she loathed him—and not just him, but the slave she had become under his rule—she had tried to make the best of it.

She had served him diligently, tending to his businesses, reorganizing his stores, rearranging his trading routes and increasing his profits. His table had always been ready. His meals had been hot and flavorsome. His sheets had been crisp and his bed had been coal-warmed every night. Perhaps due to all of this, he had seemed genuinely pleased with their marital arrangement.

Why, then, had he surrendered her so easily to the magistrate’s brute?

Aponte had to have some purpose for this betrayal. He was, above all, a practical man. He would not surrender all the advantages that Lusielle brought to him—money, standing, common sense, business acumen—without the benefit of an even greater windfall.

Lusielle couldn’t understand how, but she was sure that the bastard was going to profit handsomely from her death.

The scent of pine turned acrid and hot. Cones crackled and popped. The fire hissed a sinister murmur, a sure promise of pain. She didn’t watch the little sparks grow into flames at her feet. Instead, her eyes returned to the back of the crowd, seeking the stranger’s stare. She found him even as a puff of white smoke clouded her sight and the fire’s rising heat distorted his scarred face’s fixed expression.

The nearing flames thawed the pervasive cold chilling her bones. Flying sparks pecked at her skin.

Her toes curled. Her feet flinched. Pain teased her ankles in alarming, nipping jolts. Dear gods. They were really going to burn her alive.

Lusielle shut her eyes. When she looked again, the stranger was gone from the crowd. She couldn’t blame him. She would have never chosen to watch the flame’s devouring dance.

A commotion ensued somewhere beyond the pyre. People were screaming, but she couldn’t see through the flames and smoke. She flinched when a lick of fire ignited her shift’s hem. A vile stink filled her lungs. Her body shivered in shock. She coughed, then hacked. Fear’s fiery fingers began to torment her legs.

“Come and find me,” she called to the God of fire.

And he did.

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Genre – Fantasy/Dark Fantasy

Rating – PG-18

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Website http://www.doramachado.com/

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