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Showing posts with label excerpt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label excerpt. Show all posts

Saturday, January 13, 2018

Savvy Saturday: Exclusive Excerpt from Upcoming Book, A Guardian's Heart

Hey Savvy Saturday'ers! Check out this super awesome sneak peek we have for you this week from the upcoming paranormal romance, A Guardian's Heart, by Renee Wildes.


Excerpt
Dara trembled, realizing she was sprawled across Loren like some tavern wench. The effort it took to meet his heated gaze… Fine brows slanted over wide leaf-green eyes pupiled like a cat’s, set in a pale aristocratic face. She glanced at his hands gripping her upper arms. Fine artisan’s hands with sword calluses, they held like bands of steel, but so gently ’twas nigh a caress. His body warmth was impossible to ignore. She shifted. Unable to hold his gaze, Dara dropped hers—to his mouth. She blushed.

His lips curved in a wry smile. “Now you become shy?” White teeth flashed. “Your hands have already been all over my body.”

Dara groaned and closed her eyes. Her cheeks flamed.

“Look at me, Dara.” Loren slid his arms around her body.

She tingled at his touch. Restless. Achy. “I can’t.” She hated this breathless dizziness. “Whatever you’re thinking, cease.” He was so warm. She feared making a fool of herself and melting against him. The old wives whispered of faerie enchantments; did that happen here? She felt bespelled. She wasn’t some weak woman to soften over a man, as any villager could lament. “You were much less intimidating flat on your back and weak as a kitten.”

“Intimidating you find me? Prefer me flat on my back in your bed? You have me now.” He brought her braid around to his nose and inhaled. “Sunshine and ferns.”

Self-preservation urged Dara to stop him before he did something neither of them could undo. “Loren—”

“Dara Kahn Androcles, protect me you did with your life’s blood. You are neither indestructible nor immortal. They might have killed you.” His hand, still wrapped with her hair, raised her chin ’til her gaze met his. “You must look at me while I speak these next words.”

Dara couldn’t tear her gaze away. The room spun and receded ’til all her world was Loren. “Don’t look at me like that.” The weight behind his words crawled under her skin, into her mind.

“My life I owe you. Life-debt. I bind myself to you. Whenever, whatever your need, to you I shall come. To you do I answer with sword, bow, or blood. My life for yours. My soul to yours, until our last breath.”

The world shifted. Deep as a prayer, more profound than a spell, his words settled within her. Dara couldn’t look away, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Her head buzzed. Her mind tried to wrench itself from the binding, recognizing it for what it was, but the rest of her trembled, in thrall to his eyes, to his voice. She had no idea how to counter him.

Loren’s eyes gleamed at her. “Never again shall you be alone. You are mine, in this lifetime and the next. I shall ever be yours, for always. We are one.” With agonizing slowness, he drew her head down ’til her lips brushed his.

His kiss was shocking in its gentleness. As soft as morning dew, it implied, it coaxed, and she was lost. She melted into his heat and swooned against him. With a sigh, she yielded to his lips and returned the kiss. Warmth filled an emptiness she’d not known ’til now that she possessed. Loren had bound them in spirit; where did she end and he begin? He hovered on the edge of her mind, in her heart, in her blood. A part of her flowed into him, with her surrender, with her every breath.

He broke off the kiss. Dara raised her head to stare down at him. “What’ve you done?”

***

A Guardian's Heart is available for preorder at the Champagne Bookstore

Saturday, October 21, 2017

Savvy Saturday: Behind the Scenes on Desperate Knight with Keith Willis

During the month of September (and maybe into October as well), Champagne Books Savvy Saturday blog has been taking readers behind the scenes, as authors share some of their inspirations and thought processes for favorite parts of their stories. When they asked me to join in the fun, I immediately knew which scene I wanted to share. Welcome to The Scene That Almost Wasn’t, from my just-released second novel, Desperate Knight.



Later, after everyone else had gone to bed, Morgan sat in the Green Suite with a bottle of Marcus duBerry’s brandy by his elbow. The armchair he occupied was quite comfortable, but it didn’t help him relax. Neither did the brandy, unfortunately, even after he’d topped up his snifter again. It was, he decided, a complete waste of excellent spirits.
In any event, relaxing wasn’t his intent. He needed to finalize his plans for the morrow. Yet, even as he ticked off points in his head, his eyes began to drift closed of their own accord.
They snapped opened again with a start. Off to his left a vague, wavering shape was gliding slowly across the room. It rather resembled an earth-bound cloud. Morgan regarded the shape dubiously, then the empty snifter, and shook his head. He hadn’t drunk enough to make him start seeing things. Had he? He peered at the cloud for a moment as Marissa’s words came back to him. “He just wanders around.”
Well, if this was the Specter of the Green Suite, he certainly did appear a bit aimless. Formless too. There was only the merest suggestion of a human figure about him, like a painting with only the outline done and the interior bits still waiting for the artist to sketch them in.
The wavering form drew nearer. Morgan, amid splashing more brandy into his glass, nodded politely. “Hello,” he said, and took another sip. Because ghost or not, a little more brandy wasn’t going to hurt either way. Besides, being polite cost him nothing.
As it came closer, the shape suddenly took on a bit of substance, as if having made up its mind to stay. It formed into a vaguely human silhouette and loomed up over Morgan, who downed the brandy at a gulp. “This can’t be good,” he muttered.
The wavering mass gradually resolved itself into a more definite figure of a man. An older man, perhaps one of his father’s generation. Or even a bit older still. The figure was still transparent, but there was enough essence for him to make out some details. Like a Royal Navy jacket, complete with brass buttons. Like the crumpled linen handkerchief the apparition pulled from a ghostly pocket to wipe a pair of spectral spectacles. The ghost finished his polishing job, placed the spectacles on a beaklike nose, and regarded Morgan.
He decided courtesy would be the best course. “Do I have the honor to address Mr. Harold Green?”
“My word, yes,” said the ghost. “I believe I am.”
The words came out raspy, as if they hadn’t been used in quite some time. Which made perfect sense. Marissa had told him the specter never moaned or wailed. It stood to reason it might have a hard time with such unused faculties.
The ghost of Harold Green scrutinized Morgan. “’Pon my soul, you’re an Orskan,” he declared, seeming a bit nonplussed by this realization.
Good grief. Lady Hermione was bad enough. If I’m going to be subjected to insults by even the resident spirits, things are getting a bit thick.
“Who would have ever thought to find an Orskan in these parts?” the ghost went on. “Ain’t seen anyone from Orsk in near to thirty years, I’d wager. My commanding officer, bless him, wanted to marry an Orskan girl, you know. Lovely thing, she was. I wonder if he ever did.”
Morgan’s mouth dropped open. The ghost couldn’t have just said that, could he? Inquiries were in order. He cleared his throat, which had become unaccountably tight. “Umm. Your commander? Might I ask his name, sir?”
“Mmmm, it was just on the tip of me tongue, young feller,” replied the ghost, rummaging in spectral pockets again as if hoping to locate the name there. “Commander Mc-something, mmmm, mmm. Oh, yes, McRobbie, that was it!”
“Indeed. An interesting coincidence, if you’ll forgive me mentioning it. McRobbie happens to be my name as well.”
“You don’t say,” replied Green, brightening visibly. He regarded Morgan with a paternal air. “Well, well, small world, ain’t it?”
“And my father,” Morgan said, “was a naval commander, on the HMS Raven, who married an Orskan girl. Which resulted,” he gestured to himself, “in me.”
The ghost shook his head. “Well, blow me down. How d’ya like that? I sailed with McRobbie near to thirty years ago on the Raven. We’d been off to Orsk, where the commander was to arrange for their navy to help us wipe out a bunch of pirates. If I remember rightly, ’twas the admiral’s daughter he fell for. Well, I was wounded badly in a little dust-up with a bunch of pirates not long after. One of ’em I was sure I’d killed was only lying doggo. He near to ran me through. Ship’s doctor could patch me up, but he said I wasn’t fit for duty no more. That’s when I came down here, eh?”
“I’m sure you served with honor, sir,” Morgan said.
“Damn right I did!” replied the ghost. “How fares Commander McRobbie? He was a good man, he was. Martin, that was it. Martin McRobbie.”
“Yes, he was a good man. I’m afraid a wasting fever took him several years ago. He’s in the same condition as you. Although he has never paid me a visit. If you should run across him, please ask him to look me up, would you?”
“Of course, m’boy, of course, happy to oblige, don’t ya know. Although I don’t get out much. Don’t see too many folks. Really just the ones in this house. And it’s quiet, these days. Now ’way back, there used to be a pretty girl here. I enjoyed watching her. A real hellcat, she was. I wonder what ever happened to her.”
“I don’t think she’s changed all that much,” Morgan murmured, more to himself than to his visitor. To the ghost he said, “Actually, she’s back. Grown a bit, but still pretty feisty.”
“Ah, her type never changes. Now you mention it, I believe I’ve seen ’er. Dark hair, nice eyes, talks a lot.”
“Um, yes, she sounds like the one.”
“Pretty young thing, ain’t she?” said the ghost with a spectral wink. “Are you and she…?” He left the question hanging in the air, rather like himself.
“I’m working on it,” he said through clenched teeth. Blast it, even the family ghost is interesting himself in my love life. Why can’t they leave me alone?
“Well, you’d best get busy, young feller. I remember your pa—he didn’t let the swells rock his boat, as they say. Just went right to it.”
“Yes, thank you, I’ll bear it in mind.”
“I could go pay ’er a visit if you’d like. Kinda pave the way for you.”
Morgan’s mind presented him with a brief vision of this proposed encounter. While the prospect of the ghostly Mr. Green materializing in Marissa’s bedchamber had its attractions, there were just so many ways in which this would be an awful idea. Especially if Green started pleading Morgan’s case for him. She would have a few pointed things to say to him about it. No, best not.
“Thank you, sir, but perhaps not. Don’t want to disturb the young lady while she’s sleeping, do we?”
The ghost grinned. “Maybe you don’t, but I would.”
“No!” he roared.
The specter looked affronted. “All right, all right, no need to shout,” he said, a bit peevishly. “My hearing is just fine, even if I can’t always find the rest of me when I need it.”
He began to lose his shape, fading from Morgan’s sight like a mist on the moors after the sunrise. He deliberated the application of a bit more brandy, decided against it, and went to bed.

~*~

The genesis for this scene began, as many of my favorites seem to do, while cutting my lawn. Mowing is one of those repetitive activities that allows my mind to wander strange byways, and often gets me wondering “why” and “what if…” Although admittedly it’s normally, “what if somebody else was cutting this grass…”
In this case, the catalyst was a throwaway line earlier in the story. I’ve no idea why it stuck with me—it was just one of those mysteries of life, but there it was, rambling around in my head. Marissa, arriving at her family’s home with Morgan in tow, asks which room he’ll occupy, and told he’s been put in “the Green Suite, my lady”.
As I cut this grass this particular afternoon, I must have put a nickel in my subconscious. It began to wonder “Why is it called the Green Suite?” I envisioned Morgan entering the room only to discover, to his amusement, that none of the walls, draperies, bedding, or carpeting, have a trace of green in them. No green anywhere. And I could picture the mischief in Marissa’s eyes as she informs him that the room was named for her Uncle, Harold Green. Who had died in it and reputedly haunts it.
Then this description hit me, and I was in love: “There was only the merest suggestion of a human figure about him, like a painting with only the outline done and the interior bits still waiting for the artist to sketch them in.” This, I told myself, is how a ghost should look. I hadn’t planned to have a haunted chamber and a perambulating spook. But Mr. Harold Green, deceased, loomed up out t of the netherworld and I couldn’t resist him.
I pretty much allow my characters to tell me about themselves, and Harold was no different. I learned from him that he was an ex-navy man, as evidenced by his blue naval jacket with its brass buttons. Wounded in a dust-up with some pirates (one our friendly ghost thought he’d dispatched proved able to nearly cut off Harold’s leg), he left naval service and retired to the country, to the home of his nephew, Marcus duBerry, where he subsequently passed on.
This gave me broad avenues down which to stroll and have some fun. Because after all, a bold knight in a haunted room should be fun—at least for the reader, if not said knight. I even have Morgan mutter to Marissa at dinner, “Wouldn’t it make more sense to stick the wizard in the haunted room? Much more in his line, don’t you think?”
But when the ghost exclaims over the fact that Morgan’s an Orskan, that’s just the last straw for this poor harassed knight. On the point of snapping out a reply, he’s brought up short when the ghost reveals that he served on the ship commanded by Martin McRobbie, who as Harold recalls, fell in love with a dark-skinned Orskan girl. When Morgan tells him that Martin was his father, Harold takes an almost paternalistic interest in him, and it becomes a rather sepulchral old-home week, until Morgan refuses Harold’s offer to act as Cyrano for him with Marissa. I was chortling to myself as I pictured how Morgan would react to this idea.
This scene was actually written after most of the rest of the story was done. But it just felt right. And so I went against everything I’ve ever been taught about storytelling—that if a scene doesn’t serve to advance the story somehow, cut it. Well, this scene really doesn’t advance the story in any form or fashion. It’s just there because I adore the raspy-voiced, spectral sailor who’s eager to play matchmaker for the young feller who shows up in “his” suite. And so I fought to keep this in. I knew it was against logic and common sense and all the tenets of good writing. But I wanted to keep my ghost, and I’m glad I did. I’ve had a number of people, including the reviewer for SFF World, say that the ghost was one of their favorite characters.
So, yeah. Sometimes you just have to throw caution to the wind and go with your instincts, and have some fun.

Desperate Knight (Knights of Kilbourne2) is available at:
Champagne Books: http://tinyurl.com/ybvjgcqs
Barnes & Noble: http://tinyurl.com/yd7zzwsr

Keith W. Willis is a semi-professional word wrangler and dragon herder. He graduated (long ago) with a degree in English Lit from Berry College, which has the distinction of being the world's largest college campus. He now lives in the scenic Hudson Valley/Adirondack region of NY with his wife Patty. Keith is certain those rumbling noises attributed to Henry Hudson's crew are really just the dragons grumbling. Keith and Patty have one grown son, Matt, who actually thinks it’s pretty cool that Dad wrote a book.

Keith’s interests include reading classic mysteries, fantasy and sci-fi; camping and canoeing; and cutthroat games of Scrabble. He began writing seriously in 2008, when the voices in his head got too annoying to ignore. When he’s not making up stories he manages a group of database content editors at a global information technology firm. TRAITOR KNIGHT (Champagne Books) is his first published novel, and has won awards for both fantasy and romance. The second book in the Knights of Kilbourne series, DESPERATE KNIGHT, was just released in August 2017. SFF World calls DESPERATE KNIGHT ""...a swashbuckling, drama, and punch- (or slap-) filled romp; it’s a tangled web of politics, motives and emotions, all held together with a wonderful dose of heroics, romance, fun and general chaos – and a dragon. Of course."

Connect with Keith at:

And sign up for Keith’s monthly Writing@Knight newsletter at http://www.keithwillisauthor.com/blog

Saturday, October 14, 2017

Savvy Saturday: My Favorite Scene from Unbalanced by Courtney Shepard


My favorite scene from Unbalanced is when the sisters with elemental power unite for the first time. Asha is Fire. Mere is Water. Ivy is Earth. Avia is Air.

Ivy has located Mere and Avia, but they haven’t been able to find Asha.

Asha was captured by the Order, and before she is tortured again, she is smuggled out. She is dressed up as a soldier and travels with Clay and his brothers on a mission outside the Order. Unknown to Asha, Clay’s mission is to take her sisters. Sisters she doesn’t even know she has.

Chapter Nine excerpt – battle

Asha found it rather odd to track ‘most wanted’ villains to
such serene and lovely surroundings, but she understood better than
most, appearances meant nothing. She’d found scum in the most
beautiful places, as well as the expected slums and undergrounds.
Someone, she assumed it was Paul since he was on point,
called the order from the other end of the line, and a rocket squealed
and launched toward the cabin. It struck the roof, and the ground
shook. The house exploded in flames.
After being without her power, Asha had to fight the urge to
control it and spur it on. The fire burned hot and contained, and the
connection swept over her. She was back. Hypnotized she reached
out to touch it, just for a moment to reassure herself
“She has power.”
The voice was low, the pilot. The only one of Clay’s
brothers who hadn’t spoken earlier. Oh, shit. Wait…how?
“I know,” Clay snapped.
He knows? Asha scanned the field. Just go now. The battle
chaos was her only chance for cover. The ground shook again, harder
this time.
Clay swiveled to his brother. “Rio?”
“It’s not me.”
Forget cover, go now.
With a crack and rumble, the ground surrounding the cabin
broke apart, and water burst from the earth. It sprayed as strong as
any fire hose up and over the cabin. The pounding force was like a
waterfall in reverse, and the flames sputtered and died.
She had never seen anything like it, an enormous water
fountain extinguishing fire burning that hot. The cabin door, charred
and still smoking, flew off its hinges and onto the flooded grass.
Three figures ran out into the early morning glare. Asha took
off her helmet and slouchy hood, but her eyes weren’t playing tricks.
She could see them clearly, even across the distance, and her
stomach dropped. They stopped short, facing an army with guns raised. No.
“Fire.”
“Stop!” Her scream was too late; the soldiers fired. She
didn’t have time to act; they were sitting ducks. She prepared for
their thrashing bodies, but like a swarm of hovering locusts, the
bullets stopped in mid-air and dropped.
What? She couldn’t get her mind around the scene unfolding
before her. She’d lost control of her body. Her muscles wouldn’t
move.
“Hold your fire,” Clay shouted, but the soldiers continued
shooting. His brothers were the only ones not attacking. They had to
be as shocked by the falling bullets as she was. She couldn’t blame
them. She was as still and as useless as a rock, unable to move or act,
only watch in growing disbelief. Three young women stood against
an army.
“Asha,” yelled one of the girls, her eyes were even brighter
green than Clay’s. “We’re your sisters. We’ve been looking for you.”
Sisters? Black hair and blue eyes fired a small pistol
dropping two soldiers. Green eyes stomped her foot, and the ground
lurched. The snow rolled like a wave across the ground toward the
soldiers. Stones and boulders erupted in front of them, stacking
magically into a huge wall blocking the offensive.
Asha shook her head.
“I’m Ivy, and this is Avia and Mere. You belong with us, but
we have to get out of here.”
Asha’s feet finally moved, one step and then another, but a
deafening crack echoed from behind her, and she spun back. The
wall, cracking and splitting, opened to reveal Clay behind it, his
shaking hand outstretched.
He pushed through the shattered wall, and his brothers
climbed over the debris after him. Soldiers followed, halting in side-by-
side formation.
They opened fire once again, but black hair and blue
eyes…Mere, shot back, emptying the clip. Throwing the useless gun
at the enemy, it sailed into the air and hit one of their targets,
knocking him to the ground. She whooped and clapped her hands.
They were facing an army out in the open, but they were giving them
a fight.
“Thanks for the boost, Avia,” Mere shouted, a grin clear on
her face. She was enjoying herself.
Avia, her white-haired sister, threw her hands out, and the air
waved and glimmered in front of her. The bullets stopped again and
dropped silently. It’d been her. Avia continued to block the soldiers'
constant fire somehow. Beside her, Mere raised her arms as water
swelled from the ground. She lowered her hands in front of her face.
The geyser bent, sending thunderous pressure against the line.
Water battered at the soldiers, and they fell and slammed
into each other. The water sprayed and flooded the ground.
The geyser had caused the break she needed, and Asha took
advantage of the lapse. Sprinting toward her sisters, she sent one of
her smaller fireballs at the soldiers. The men still standing swung
their guns to her and opened fire again.
Clay yelled as she ran, and the ground lurched again, so
violently it knocked her off her feet. Soldiers fired wildly, with their
fingers still on the triggers as they fell. Thankfully they did more
damage to each other than to her.
The moment Asha hit the cold, wet ground, she sprang up,
sprinting again for her sisters. Clay commanded the men to stop. But
back on their feet, the soldiers held their positions, firing as before.
Asha made it to them just as Avia went to her knees.
“I’m draining,” Avia said.
Asha scanned her enemy. They had lost a few soldiers, but
there were still so many left. Her confusion had spiraled into anger
and now peaked into rage. She sent flames racing along the ground
with her left hand, and more fireballs from her right, taking out three
or four at the same time.
The field rippled again, and mud and water gathered and
formed an enormous wave coming from the opposite side. It crested,
and met the fire, extinguishing it just before it reached the line.
Steam billowed and rolled back across the field toward them.
Raging, frantic, screamed commands came from the trees
behind the soldiers.
Asha hurled more fire at them as the bullets kept coming.
She hesitated a moment. Clay would die if she went any further…but
he was with them.
She shook her head. What’s wrong with you? He’d captured
her, killed her friends, and he was fighting on the side of those trying
to kill her. They’d already tortured her, and it was a miracle she’d
survived it. Now it was her turn to hurt him back.
Doubt and fury battled within her. He’d seduced her into
caring for him, and he was the enemy. He’d been part of a massacre
killing her friends, he’d kidnapped her, and he’d been her jailer in
that horrible place. Why did she need to keep reminding herself of
those things?
The dream of the man in the cave returned like a warning she
must heed. She couldn’t trust him, and even though she’d always
understood that, she was behaving as if she’d forgotten. Filled with
fresh strength, she sent another blanket of fire, but this one rose
effortlessly into a wall toward him.
“Stop,” Clay yelled in the distance. The fire sped forward.
Wind pushed and slowed the flames, more water rose again to meet
it, but couldn’t stop it completely. Her fire engulfed their right flank,
and thirty soldiers fell burning.
The remaining soldiers kept firing. A familiar squeal rose
above the din. Christ. “Rocket,” she cried, warning her sisters and
swept her hand in front of her. The rolling fire sped back toward the
line. But the rocket was already coming; she couldn’t stop it. She
braced, but nothing happened. It got eerily quiet; she opened her
eyes, and blinked and blinked again. Her eyes couldn’t be seeing
what was right there before them.
A massive, thick wall had risen silently between the two
sides, but the wall was made of water, stretching across the field,
clear and still as glass and at least fifty meters thick. She could see
the rocket floating within, defused and immobile.
Even the soldiers had stopped shooting and stared. It was
Mere, her grinning, clapping sister, who’d called it and held it, her
arms outstretched in the thick, pulsing silence.
The water started to move and swirl, frothing inside the wall,
“I can’t…guys. I can’t hold it, get ready.” The wall dropped soaking
into the field, and Ivy sent the ground rolling and knocked the men
off their feet again. Mere swayed, falling, as a shot rang out in the
silence and fresh blood sprayed across the soggy grass.
“No,” Ivy screamed. She lunged and dropped beside Mere.
Avia’s shield came up, catching the new onslaught, but a
second too late. One bullet got through and hit Mere in the shoulder.
Buzzing pounded in Asha’s ears; her vision tinted red, her
pain and fear forgotten, replaced by fury. It rolled, building until she
feared she might blow the whole place away and kill her newfound
sisters in the process.
A dirty root, thick as a baseball bat, surged from the ground
across the field and whipped in the air curling and winding until it
hovered, pointing at the soldiers. Snapping forward as fast as a
cobra’s attack, it speared Mere’s shooter through the chest, lifting
him into the air. He struggled and fought, his arms and legs flailing
as he slid down the long root, like a bead on a thread. Ivy guided it
on with her finger, and it shot through the line, impaling the soldiers
one by one and sewing them together.
It was gruesome but effective, and it distracted Asha from her
spinning frenzy, letting her focus on the battle at hand. Clay plunged
his hands into the mud as the root sped toward him and his brothers.
“Clay, look out,” Asha screamed, now warning her enemy.
Ivy dropped her hand, and the branch fell at his feet. Soldiers
still twitched and squirmed on the branch like fish on a line.
Avia threw her hands out, and the remaining soldiers blew
back into the trees.
Ivy laid both hands over Mere’s shoulder applying pressure
to stop her bleeding.
Mere gasped and opened her eyes. “Ouch,” she whispered,
her voice hoarse.
“Hold on,” Ivy said. She pushed her right hand into the
ground and pulled out bright green and red weeds, squeezing them to
mush. Ivy lifted her hand; the blood had slowed enough for her to spread
the weeds over the wounds. She pulled three long thin vines
poking from the ground beside her and laid them over Mere’s
shoulder.
Mere tilted her head toward Ivy with a questioning look, but
she jumped as the vines stretched and wrapped over her shoulder and
under her arm like a bandage.
“Too tight?” Ivy asked. She stood, reaching out to Mere.
Asha caught her breath.
Mere shook her head, “It’s perfect.” With her hand on her
shoulder and Ivy’s help, Mere got to her feet, testing the vine
bandage. “Amazing, thank you.”
Asha turned back to the trees, Clay had flown back with the
rest, but came sprinting out, running toward them. She shifted
forward, compelled like a magnet to go to him.
“No, don’t,” Avia yelled.
Her sister’s voice stopped her and shook her from her trance.
Clay charged.
What on earth was she doing? He was the enemy, and she
moved toward him like a ship to a siren.
“Take her!”
The command was shouted from the trees. Clay reached out,
but light shimmered between them knocking him back. It was Avia’s
shield, and he battered at it like an angry bee bouncing off a window
but still fighting to get through. He was going to take her again, take
her back there.
Ivy grasped her hand, towing her over to Mere and Avia.
“Hurry, we need to hold hands,” she said.
Avia’s shield fell.
Clay ran toward them.
“It will be okay. I promise,” Ivy said. The earth opened up
beneath their feet, and they dropped below ground.

**

This scene was my favorite for the pure fun of it.

When you have four powerful sisters as the story’s main characters, showing their powers off was always going to be the best. Preparing for this scene didn’t take much, I just had to bring the characters together in the right setting and let them take over. And they did.

Asha is there to fight with the Order or to escape, she isn’t entirely sure which. But after the first rocket hits the cabin and she sees her sisters, she knows who they are and where she needs to be. Asha knows them as soon as she sees them.

I love the battle-primed expert soldier, Asha, frozen in shock at seeing her sisters. The moment Avia stops the bullets with air it sinks in, Asha is not alone. She has sisters, and they have power too.

Asha’s solo mercenary life is over. She has a family, a family in danger, sisters she needs to protect. This is the moment Asha’s character turns from self-sustaining soldier to protective sister.

I wanted this scene to show the abilities of each character with a bit of their personality. Asha is the only true soldier of the sisters. Mere, Ivy, and Avia can fight back, impressively even, but they don’t have the training Asha has had.

Mere is very powerful, but her skills are rooted in defense as are Avia’s. Avia must use all her focus and power to push the bullets back with her air shield. Ivy is the least battle-ready, that is until Mere is shot. Seeing Mere fall forces Ivy’s true nature to come out, and her vengeance is vicious.

Asha would normally wipe out the enemy with little effort and less remorse, especially in defense of her new found sisters, but infuriating feelings for Clay smother her rage. This is the moment she knows she is in too deep with Clay.

Clay is the one who initially captured Asha. During the battle, Asha discovers Clay and his brothers have elemental power too. The first men to ever hold such power.

And Asha is shocked again.

How much fun did I have writing the sisters in battle? Too much. (I almost wish I could write their battle scenes forever.)

Interested? Check out Unbalanced on Amazon, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, and at the Champagne Bookstore.