A big ol' welcome to author Terry Spear! She's doing a guest post, so make sure you check it out. She's also doing a giveaway to one commenter (US/Canada only), so make sure you comment!

Jungle Tour, Anyone?

By Terry Spear

Oh, sure, I see lots of hands raised to take a trip to see the castles in Scotland, gardens in England, the lush green isle of Ireland, the mountains in Germany, the islands in the Caribbean, but what? No takers on a trip to the Amazon jungle?

At least that’s what I discovered when I asked if anyone where I worked would go with me. To the other places, oh I had lots of baggage handler offers. But only frantic shakes of the head or outright, “no!” was the word of the day for a trip to the Amazon.

Thankfully, Kathleen McKnight wasn’t adverse to going to the jungle. At first, she was on a trip down there for a drug sting operation. Once that proved to be a disaster and a man who appealed on some fairly primal level saves her life, she’s ready to return there to thank him, and try to overcome her reoccurring nightmares.

He’s not actually what he appears to be. A hot hunk, yep. But underneath all of that bronzed skin and toned muscle is a jaguar shifter, a predator of the jungle. Which can be a good thing for Kathleen as she needs a little help. And a bad thing, because she’s really getting hooked on the guy and he’s definitely interested in her. No way in Hades is he going to turn her though.

Sometimes nature has a way of working out like it’s supposed to. Sometimes it needs a little help. And that’s where Connor’s sister comes in. She has the absolute best of intentions for all concerned. Sort of.

But her help can catapult one problematic situation into another, and another, and…well, yes, a whole avalanche of trouble. The thing of it is, Kat already has enough problems all on her own and she’s afraid she’s put Connor and Maya right in the middle of danger.

They’re more worried about getting her home safely.

So really, doesn’t anyone want to go with me to the jungle?

What if you could meet a hunk like Connor who could put wild into the relationship?


Thanks so much to Jesse for having me here today, and one lucky person that answers my question will have a chance to win a copy of SAVAGE HUNGER.US/Canada Addresses Only.

Excerpt from Savage Hunger by Terry Spear:

She thought she had headed away from the sounds of a wild cat roaring in the woods. At first she had wanted desperately to see the jaguar because he might lead her to Connor Anderson. She wasn’t so sure now. Not after she had heard the cat roar. He sounded angry… and hungry. For some reason, she associated him with that long-ago jaguar roaming with Connor, but she couldn’t give a rational explanation for the feeling. What if he wasn’t Connor’s jaguar companion? Yet, she just had this gut feeling that the two were together.

First, his cry came from one direction, then another. From everything she had read about jaguars and from the way this one had roared, he was one big cat. But she knew they lived alone, so two of them probably weren’t roaming out here; the roars were just echoing off the jungle foliage or rocky cliffs or something, but she still was in big trouble.

Well, more so than she already had been. She surveyed the greenery surrounding her in every shade and hue of green imaginable to an artist and reminded herself that she was hopelessly lost.

As she maneuvered through the thick vegetation, the broad leaves and tangled vines brushing against her and grasping at her, she hoped she was moving away from where the big cat had been roaring. She hadn’t thought she would be all alone in the jungle, listening to a big cat growl while maybe next on his dinner menu. So much for seeing a jaguar up close and personal. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind.

According to her research on jaguars, research she’d felt compelled to do though she couldn’t say why, they normally slept during the day and hunted during dusk and dawn. If necessary, they would hunt during the day. This one sounded too hungry to wait until nightfall.

Heart pounding, she stopped moving, trying to recall what she had read. Stand still and make noise. Whatever you do, don’t run. Jaguars rarely attacked humans. Unless maybe it was a very old jaguar, and he needed something really easy to catch and eat. It could be old. She couldn’t tell. Its roar was deep and low and, well, grouchy, like an old jaguar, she thought. They didn’t roar like lions or tigers, but more of a deep, throaty cough repeated five or six times that sounded like, “Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh.”

She was afraid that if she ran, she would be just too tempting for a jaguar of any age to ignore.

She heard something moving toward her from behind. The hair at the nape of her neck instantly stood at attention. Her heart was already tripping. She was afraid it was him—the cat with the deep, angry, growly voice. She knew the big cats moved silently through the jungle. She imagined the cat would appear before she would even be prepared to face him. And then what?

Turning slowly, she looked to see who or what it was. An armed man? Or a toothy jaguar?

About the Author:
USA Today bestselling and an award-winning author of urban fantasy and medieval romantic suspense, Terry Spear also writes true stories for adult and young adult audiences. She’s a retired lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Army Reserves and has an MBA from Monmouth University. She also creates award-winning teddy bears, Wilde & Woolly Bears, that are personalized that have found homes all over the world. When she’s not writing or making bears, she’s teaching online writing courses or gardening. Her family has roots in the Highlands of Scotland where her love of all things Scottish came into being. Originally from California, she’s lived in eight states and now resides in the heart of Texas. She is the author of the Heart of the Wolf series and the Heart of the Jaguar series, plus numerous other paranormal romance and historical romance novels. For more information, please visit www.terryspear.com, or follow her on Twitter, @TerrySpear. She is also on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/terry.spear .

Welcome to my stop on the Beautiful Man Blog Tour! A big welcome to author Jack Mauro who graciously did an interview for me! :0) Make sure you enter the giveaway!

AUTHOR BIO:
Jack has been writing professionally for fifteen years, with work ranging from a guide to Internet dating (from Simon & Schuster) to liner notes for Oscar and Grammy winner Carly Simon.  His first love, however, remains fiction, and of a very Southern kind.  Beautiful Man and Other Stories marks Jack's return to the form after ten years.


THE BLURB:
Twelve short stories, all set in modern-day Knoxville, Tennessee, and each exploring the rhythms and currents of relationships, encounters, and the conflicts within characters themselves.  From the reality beneath the surface of a hotel manager's charm, to the sadly funny and complex clashes between a family on a holiday carriage ride, Beautiful Man and Other Stories probes the fascination of lives as shaped by Southern, and all too human, forces.

CONNECT WITH THE AUTHOR:
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/jack.mauro.71

When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?

I'm not sure I ever did. It seems arrogant – and I'm not, I swear – but writing just always felt like a responsibility of sorts, a thing I was obligated to work at.  Which may be why I didn't begin seriously until my late 30's.

How long does it take you to write a book?

C'mon, now.  Y'all know that these things vary enormously.  All I can safely say is that one short story can consume anywhere from a few weeks to a few months (with necessary lulls for characters and story to “marinate,” as it were).

What is your work schedule like when you're writing?

Generally, I like late afternoons for writing, and I'm good for a few hours at best, when all is moving along.  For me, after two hours or so, something shuts down. The muse, she yawns, calls a cab, and goes home.

What would you say is your interesting writing quirk?

I'd like this to be dirty and exciting, but I fear it's not.  It's also borrowed from the brilliant Tom Stoppard, or at least we have it in common.  Namely, if a sentence appears that is wonderfully right, I must reward myself with a cigarette and a little dance/skip around the room.

How do books get published?

I was hoping you'd tell me.  Seriously, there remains the laborious and traditional route of securing an agent and going through the extensive motions, one of which is prayer.  However: as technology has effectively reduced the formerly all-powerful publishing industry, self-publishing is marvelous.  Yes, the writer is obligated then to do their own marketing but, from my experience, it is much the same in traditional publishing.  There are exceptions, of course, but, today, I think a self-published writer is as likely to catch Rowling-esque fire as one with a traditional publisher.  We all vie for that moment of recognition and the chain-reaction occurring.

Where do you get your information or ideas for your books?

Ideas wander in as they will, and you sort of trust your instinct as to which gets to stick around for a while.  Sometimes even sensational ideas lie flat, while what you were about to kick out suddenly sparks possibilities.  As for “information” - one does one's homework, if lazily.  For example, I collected real facts regarding Christmas carriage rides before writing my story, “Christmas for Mo.”  God bless the Internet.

When did you write your first book and how old were you?

I think I was pushing 40 when I wrote Gay Street: Stories of Knoxville, Tennessee.  

What do you like to do when you're not writing?

Plot revenge.  Also, I read, I go to the gym, I talk to friends, I dig up YouTube videos of old Broadway shows, and  I mostly keep to myself.  The antennae are usually up, though, at all times.  


What does your family think of your writing?

I'm not sure they're honest enough to tell me.  Seriously – they're pleased, but I suspect they'd be more pleased if I would just return to funny stuff and/or get invited to sit with Oprah.

What was one of the most surprising things you learned in creating your books?

How personal they are to you. How distinct.  For example, I see Gay Street as my teenage kid.  Adolescent, trying too hard, clumsy, but with moments of real goodness, if not greatness. I learned as well that the idea you consider a lovely gift may easily wrestle you to the ground, before you're done.

How many books have you written? Which is your favorite?

Hmm.  Six? Including my Internet dating guide (!) and a self-published treatment on alcoholism. If this sounds like a typical mom, I apologize, but I truly have no favorite.  Although...I have a soft spot for Enola's Wedding, which I do believe is a successful comic novel. As to actual quality, Beautiful Man marks the first time that I unashamedly feel the work is consistently solid.  

Do you have any suggestions to help me become a better writer? If so, what are they?

Be very, very sure this is something you believe you should be doing.  That in place: see everything in your head as clearly as you can, for every paragraph.  If Tom and Jane are lunching in a cafe, tie on an apron and start pouring water. You need to summon the reality in your mind before you can document it as such.  I think, anyway.  

Do you hear from your readers much? What kinds of things do they say?

This calls for a self-deprecating joke about my having no readers.  Them what I have, however, run a gamut in reaction.  Some analyze my work as keenly as if I were Proust, and others respond in visceral ways.  Which I prefer.  The best feedback I ever had was a bank teller saying that my story, “Faith”, made her cry. One lives fort such criticism.  The worst? When someone says, “I read your book.”  And then says not one other word.

Do you like to create books for adults?

Let me answer that by saying I have no idea whatsoever as to how to write for children.  To me, that's not another genre; it's another galaxy.

What do you think makes a good story?

Truth.  Some form of truth, a commodity desperately avoided by most of us, being present.

As a child, what did you want to do when you grew up?

I can only remember fantasizing about owning a jewelry store and polishing my own, fine furniture on the weekends.  I wish I were kidding, but I'm not.

GUEST POST:
Signposts

Twice in my writing life, pictures have entered my feverish brain, stamped themselves on it, and remained forever after as recalled shadows.  Inspirations, visions? I don't know.  Gifts? Oh, yes.  The first was some years ago, as I was walking down Gay Street in Knoxville, Tennessee, to what we writers call our day job.  Down and across the street, at the corner where Gay meets Union, I saw – in black and white, mind you – a woman and a little girl.  The woman was leaning down to the girl, pointing up at the Miller Building, explaining something, and lying.  I heard nothing (of course), but I knew absolutely that the child was being lied to, and my story, “Faith”, was born.  More recently, on a night when sleep was just about to pull me in by the ankles, I saw a young man with another little girl. He was over her, both holding her and shielding with his body some vast, unclear menace around the two of them.  “Emilia” from Beautiful Man came with my morning coffee. A gift, of course, is only as good as what we do with it, but these images...I owe somebody or something.  Big.

MAKE SURE YOU CHECK OUT THE REST OF THE TOUR:

9/27  I am, Indeed
10/2  My Cozie Corner
10/3  All Things Writing 
10/4  Identity Discovery 
10/5  The Self-Taught Cook

Welcome to my stop on the Beckoing Blog Tour! A big welcome to author Christoper Savio and his amazing book! :0) Make sure you enter the giveaway!

Genre: Paranormal YA Romance
ISBN: 9781478301936

Number of pages: 273
Word Count: 83,000

Cover Artist: Char Andlesperger

Teenage girls don’t fall in love with ghosts, discover their magical powers or save their families from demons, or they?

The Blurb:
Forced to leave the few friends she’s ever had and the only life she’s ever known, snarky fifteen-year-old Marissa arrives at Briar Creek, a remote Virginia plantation house, lonely and unhappy. Immediately upon arrival, she learns that her parents have come under the power of the demon that has dwelled there for over a century and that her very life hangs by a thread. With her life in peril, Marissa makes several discoveries that would turn any teenager’s life upside down.

Finding out that the nearby town of Mills Run is inhabited by the souls of her dead relatives who continually try to communicate with her is terrifying. Knowing her parents are under full control of the demon, who unbeknownst to her wants to father a child and rule the world, is even worse. Realizing that she only has Max, her faithful dog for support, Marissa begins to give up all hope.

That’s until she finds the journal of the long dead boy who used to occupy her room. Reading about his life, Marissa begins to fall in love and fantasizes about the seemingly impossible, meeting him. Her impossible dream miraculously comes true when Zachary materializes to save her life and teach her of the powers she never knew she possessed. Allied with her first love, and more powerful than any teenage girl ever dreamed, Marissa gains confidence and believes she can do anything. Together, can this improbable duo save Marissa’s family and the world from the demon before it’s too late?

MY REVIEW WILL COME LATER AS I HAVE NOT RECEIVED MY COPY YET. SO MAKE SURE YOU LOOK FOR IT!

Connect with the author:
www.Scaryreads.com
http://www.facebook.com/ScaryReads
https://twitter.com/ScaryReads

Author Bio:

I reside in Northern New Jersey.  By day I’m a teacher and family man. At night, the need to write drives me deep into the early hours of the morning. Growing up, my love of history and horror, including Stephen King, greatly shaped my reading and writing interests and style. My debut novel, The Beckoning, is a YA paranormal romance immersed in a historical setting.  In additional to the sequel, I have two other YA novels in the publication queue.

FROM HIS WEBSITE:
Many authors will tell you how well read they are and try to impress you with how long they’ve been writing.  “It’s always been a dream of theirs and they’ve always won the 3rd grade writing contest in Mrs. So and So’s class.” Just who are they trying to impress anyway?  I know for me when I hear them pontificating about it, it’s enough to make me ill and want vomit on their shoes. With that in mind, I’ll leave the self fulfilling sagas to the windbags and just tell you a little bit about the real me.

Spending my life bouncing back and forth between Southern California and New Jersey, I discovered a couple of things.  In Jersey, I discovered I’m dyslexic and in California I discovered that the school system wasn’t equipped to handle a special education student. (At least in the 70’s, but who wants to date themselves.) Therefore, I learned to read with a lot of help from my parents and eventually got good enough to read novels.  With the influence of my father’s interest in horror movies and history, I read two things, Stephen King and history books.  It’s no surprise that many of my stories or the ones I have in my head, but have not put down on word yet, have a  touch of both in them.

Working with the public, including the rental car business, my father’s diner, and later evolving into a teacher of Native American history, criminology, and special education, has allowed me to draw upon experiences that reveal much about human behavior.  My writing reflects many of the different personalities and settings have I’ve come to know first hand. Of course I’ve never come across a demon, witch, the devil himself or a serial killer, but the personalities and people I’ve met are represented within each one of my characters.

On a personal note, I have a family, a house and the white PVC picket fence. I graduated from college and have a dog my kids call Roscoe. (Max from The Beckoning) What’s of more interest to you is that my favorite hobby is writing, the scarier the better

Guest blog:

On the surface, The Beckoning is a story of a young girl who is forced to move from New Jersey to a remote plantation house in Virginia.  Isolated from her friends, and ultimately her parents, Marissa (my protagonist) and her dog Max are left to fend for themselves in a world dominated by a demon hell bent on killing her family. In addition to the demon, Marissa must deal with a paranormal town her family frequents that is populated by ghosts.  Eventually, Marissa discovers these ghosts are trying to reach out to her for help, for reasons she doesn’t yet understand.  On the brink of insanity, Marissa finds the journal of the young man that lived in her room over a century before.  In his journal, the young man left vital information about the history of the house and how to survive it.  Lonely and scared, Marissa begins to fall in love with the young man spiritually before he does the seemingly impossible. He materializes to save her from the demon and show her the special powers she possesses. The love Marissa feels for him immediately grows ten fold. While their relationship blossoms, Marissa comes to realize that Zachary has not come to save her.  Rather he has come to show her how to save the ghosts who are imprisoned in Mills Run, her family, and possibly the world.
         
Along with the romance, The Beckoning is packed with action, horror and the story of a young person finding out who she really is. Above all, The Beckoning is a story of a young person gaining confidence in herself and standing strong in the face of overwhelming odds.

There will be a sequel to The Beckoning.  I will be writing that soon after I finish the steampunk vampire story I am currently writing that features Billy the Kid.  In the sequel, Marissa will move to back to New Jersey, but find herself in a secluded Delaware River town.  To her dismay the demon would have followed her and she will start noticing that even though her life is moving forward time itself is moving backwards a day or sometimes even a few weeks at a time.  In addition to that people around her are dying  incredibly horrible deaths and being replaced by their evil clones.  Trying to escape the town Max and Marissa find out that some kind of powerful force is trapping them with the town’s limits.  Perhaps  Zachary can return and help her fight off the offspring of the original demon.

Follow the rest of the tour:

September 25 Rute Canhoto http://rutecanhoto.blogspot.com
September 25  Darkest Addictions Book Reviews
September 28 Nobonita@Daydreaming Bookwormhttp://perrytheplatypus1102-3daydreamer3.blogspot.com/
October 1 Stuffed Shelveswww.stuffedshelves.com

• Paperback: 162 pages
• Publisher: Noble Romance Publishing LLC (March 28, 2012)
• Language: English
• ISBN-10: 1605923990
• ISBN-13: 978-1605923994
• Source: I received this book in exchange for an honest review.
  
• Stars: 4
  
• Flames: 0

The Blurb:
As the townsfolk sleep, something creeps into the neighborhood. Hidden in shadows, its presence is as old as time itself, its intent not born of goodness. Nick, a teenager who fancies himself a detective, wakes to find his carved masterpiece missing. Now a mystery is afoot, and Nick has his first assignment, to find out who or what is snatching up the town’s pumpkins and why. Unfortunately, as with all great detectives, obstacles stand in Nick’s way—the neighborhood bully and his cronies, and the strange old lady and her dog who share the run-down house at the end of Nick’s block. As Nick investigates, an urban legend unravels . . . . The Legend of The Pumpkin Thief. Nick fears the legend as he embarks on the most dangerous adventure of his young life. Collecting clues, getting ever closer to the true nature of evil, he learns that curiosity comes with a high price.

The Review:

I'd just like to start up front by saying I like the story. Here was beginning grump about the book. The cover. The big honking publisher logo and "YA HORROR" on the top completely take away from the cover itself. And then the "of the" screams ROMANCE NOVEL... which this isn't. So from the moment I looked at the book I felt like someone should slap the cover designer! As for the story itself, I love it. It's a good young teen read. I don't think it fits the title of YA because it feels like it is more of a middle grade book. I talked to the author and he said Nick was originally 14 in the book but the publisher suggested the age bump... Bad call, Noble YA, bad call. The book is written in a tone that suggests the original age of the protagonist. Knowing this, I came to realize that even though the cover takes away from the story and the main character's age was tampered with in a way that screws with the feel of the story- the story is still really good. It's creepy in a good way. The kind of way that makes you wonder if this legend really exists and if he does, will he be jacking your pumpkins? Overactive imagination here! Believe me, when I stopped reading, the light was on and I was seriously considering waking up my husband because there had to be something outside or under the bed or even in the closet (we won't mention that I can see almost my entire interior of my closet from my bed). It is a great Halloween read, which is right around the corner. Nick is a great character (did I mention I hate the fact that the age was changed, yet? I do.). I love how he thinks and his goals for the future. I also LOVE, LOVE, LOVE his little sister. Having been the little sister, I think Charles Day nailed it! :0)

So I suggest this book to anyone that likes a good young teen read with creepy elements. If you don't like creepy stuff, stay away. If you're looking for a YA book in the sense of the main character feeling the part of a 17 year old-ish, then I'd suggest a different book. Or maybe you can get passed that little age issue. It's a good read either way, really.  I just hate when outside sources screw with good aspects of a book because they think it might sell more- which is what I suspect happened here.

About the Author:
Charles Day, a/k/a, The Evil Little Jester, is an HWA affiliate member, and the Mentor Program Committee Chairperson and a full member of the New England Horror Writers Association. He has published 14 short stories with various small press publishers, and his novella Lockdown (Wicked East Press, 2011). His biggest successes to date are the sales of his first thriller/suspense novel, Deep Within, (Twisted Library Press, Spring 2012) and a Novelette, The Plan (Naked Snake Press, Spring 2012). He is also the founder/owner of Hidden Thoughts Press—non-fiction works where the primary focus is mental wellness collections—and Evil Jester Press, a fiction imprint. He firmly believes that after walking the dingy halls of a psychiatric ward as an employee for 12 years, many of the characters who speak to him daily in his head are those he may have watched over, anxious to share their stories through the written word. You can find out more at charlesdayfictionwriter.blogspot.com. Welcome to his twisted world.

Connect with the author:

Blurb:

200 years ago, the Brothers Grimm unleashed their stories upon the world.

Literally.

Now the characters of the Grimms' stories walk among us. With every day that passes, they grow more evil. They are the Corrupted, and only a hero can stop them. For 18-year-old Alice Goodenough, that means taking precious time off from her summer vacation. In addition to volunteering at the local library, Alice must stop the Corrupted who are now actively hunting her down. With the help of her magic pen and her trusty rabbit friend, the world has suddenly gotten a lot more complex.

The Corrupted are everywhere, and only Alice can see them for what they truly are.

This book contains the first 3 episodes of the critically acclaimed series, which has already been downloaded on the Kindle more than 5,000 times:

Episode 1: Prince Charming Must Die!
Episode 2: Happily Never After
Episode 3: Revenge of the Castle Cats

Additional features for the print edition:
- An introduction
- Two special "Lost Diaries"
- A behind-the-scenes interview
- A collection of original Grimms' Fairy Tales

The Grimm Chronicles is intended for Young Adults aged 13 and up. The goal is to provide Young Adult readers with a strong, charismatic young woman in the role of the hero and provide readers with a positive protagonist who uses her brain to overcome obstacles life throws in her way.

The Review:
OH MY FREAKING HOLY HECK! I absolutely loved this book! No, let me rephrase that, I FREAKING LOVE THIS BOOK! Nope, that doesn't even do it justice. Vol. 1 has the first three stories from the 12 that will ultimately make up the chronicles. But since it is the volume set and not the individual stories, it also has BONUS MATERIAL! Woot! Wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Alice is a freaking awesome female character. I love the fact that she is a strong one. Literature today in the YA genre tends to let the girls fall by the side of the road and wait for some jerk in a Benz to come and save them. Not Alice. Or Grace for that matter. Oh, and of course there is the loveable sidekick Briar rabbit!

The stories are based on some of Grimm's tales, but the way these authors craft the plot is out of this world. I read the book in 3 nights, 3 long nights of me not wanting to close the damn thing! Then of course, I had to spend one of those nights with the light on after I was done because I was sure that if I turned it off a Corrupted would find its way into my house! Even with my huge dogs sleeping on the bed. LOL. Yes, the book got to me that much!

My only problem with it, the other 9 aren't out yet! PLEASE OH PLEASE KEN AND ISABELLA FINISH THE REST OF THE SERIES INSTANTLY!

Connect with them:
Facebook http://www.facebook.com/TheGrimmChronicles

Isabella Fontaine's blog/website:  http://isabellafontaine.com

Ken Brosky's blog/website: http://kenbrosky.com/

I'd like to take a minute and welcome Janis to the blog. "Hi, Janis! And thanks for blogging with us!" A note to the readers, she doing a giveaway so make sure you comment!


Back to My Roots, Yet Again

by Janis Susan May

A very wise man once said (and if I remembered who it was, I’d give him full credit) that “Writing is easy; all you do is stare at a blank screen until drops of blood form on your forehead.”

Very true. I think when he wrote it he said “a blank piece of paper” instead of “screen” but the truth of the statement holds no matter what technology is in force. Sometimes when you’re writing it does feel like you’re pulling little bits of your lifeforce out, drop by drop. And it ain’t easy.

I’m romance and horror writer Janis Susan May, who also writes cozy mysteries as Janis Patterson, children’s as Janis Susan Patterson and non-fiction/scholarly as J.S.M. Patterson. Today I’m talking as Janis Susan May, which was my maiden name. I grew up in a multigenerational newspaper/advertising/writing family, so I really didn’t have a sparrow’s chance of being anything else but a wordsmith of some sort. Advertising was boring and newspapering seemed to be a lot of hard work, so I decided early on that I would be a writer of fiction. It seemed a natural fit, because didn’t I make up stories all the time? I still do – only difference is that now I get paid instead of punished. It’s really much better!

My first novel sold many years ago, back when the dinosaurs first browsed outside the cave. I’m not kidding – that first novel and several after it were written on a manual portable Smith-Corona typewriter that used to be my father’s when he was a young man! Anyway, I wondered about using a pen name and thought up some lovely – and very improbable – monikers.

Then I asked my dad’s opinion. A top-drawer advertising agent, Daddy had always wanted to write fiction, but his life had been consumed by the necessity of making a good living. He had a wife and a family, and supporting us was his main goal. By the time I actually got around to selling a book he was in very poor health and – after multiple strokes – handicapped in reading and speaking. I remember the afternoon I sat with him, talking about pen names, and he said with a very sad expression, “I wanted to write books. I always wanted to see my name on a book.”

Well, that decided me and I used my birth name instead of a pen name. He didn’t live long enough to see an actual copy of my first book – WHERE SHADOWS LINGER by Janis Susan May – I am so grateful that he did see the galleys (it was long enough ago that they actually used paper galleys) with the name May on it, and the dedication to him and my mother.

I love the old Gothic romances – Mary Stewart, Virginia Coffman, Victoria Holt, Phyllis A. Whitney, and a host of others whose names have unjustly faded with time. One of the happiest moments of my life was when an especially perspicacious reviewer called me ‘the logical successor to Phyllis A. Whitney!’

I’ve always needed some mystery with my romance. A creepy old house, two or three men, one of whom you know is the heartless villain, assorted mysterious happenings, maybe a ghost or two just to keep things lively… wonderful!

And no sex. Lots of yearning, lots of tension, but nothing lubricious. There are very few things I find more boring than sex on a page. He does this. She does that. Ho-hum. I realize that puts me into a very small minority, as popular wisdom has it you can’t sell a book without lots and lots of graphic sex scenes. Might be the reason I’m not selling as well as I would like, but I can think of a gazillion things I’d rather be doing than writing or reading about sexual acts. There are some things that should just be done instead of discussed!

That said, I wrote an erotic novella once, using a name that only my publisher and God will ever be able to connect with me. It was an exercise just to prove that I could do it, and it was one of the worst experiences I’ve ever had. I had to force myself to go to the computer. Writing each word was almost as bad as forcing a drop of blood from my forehead. I found myself fantasizing a stylish murder mystery even as I was writing passionate and gymnastic sex, and was basically bored to tears. Yes, I finished and sold the book, and it has done rather well, but it is an experience I’ll not repeat. I’ll work retail (my own personal vision of hell) first.

For those of you who like the genre, joy go with you and I wish you well. I just won’t join you.

After a ten-year hiatus from writing due to family difficulties, I finally went back to writing at The Husband’s insistence. My love of Gothic surfaced almost immediately, and I penned two books set in the 1960s, both with a definite Gothic feel – DARK MUSIC (set at a romance writers’ conference in a snowbound hotel) and ECHOES IN THE DARK (set on an archaeological dig in an abandoned Victorian mountain spa.) Both are currently available from Vinspire. I switched to cozy mysteries and horror for a while, then Carina Press allowed me to go back to my first love by publishing INHERITANCE OF SHADOWS (where a young woman must decide if the otherworldly creatures created by the author-father she never met are really fictitious or not.)

At the moment I’m in the process of re-releasing some of my earlier Gothics and Regencies. THE AVENGING MAID, a traditional Regency, is currently available as an ebook and THE DEVIL OF DRAGON HOUSE, an old-style Gothic, will be released as an ebook soon.

Every so often the pundits proclaim that “Gothics are back!” Well, it hasn’t happened yet – at least, not to my satisfaction. I do keep hoping, though.

So I will do my bit to aid the cause – I’m doing a giveaway of the lucky winner’s choice of either DARK MUSIC or an ARC of ECHOES IN THE DARK (both paper copies). Good luck!

www.JanisSusanMay.com
www.JanisPattersonMysteries.com

About the Author:

Janis Susan May is a seventh-generation Texan and a third-generation wordsmith who writes mysteries as Janis Patterson, romances and other things as Janis Susan May, children’s books as Janis Susan Patterson and scholarly works as J.S.M. Patterson.
   
Formerly an actress and singer, a talent agent and Supervisor of Accessioning for a bio-genetic DNA testing lab, Janis has also been editor-in-chief of two multi-magazine publishing groups as well as many other things, including an enthusiastic amateur Egyptologist.
   
Janis married for the first time when most of her contemporaries were becoming grandmothers. Her husband, also an Egyptophile, even proposed in a moonlit garden near the Pyramids of Giza. Janis and her husband live in Texas with an assortment of rescued furbabies.

Who hasn't found a book that they absolutely LOVE? The words just seem to float off the page, drowning you in the world that they create?

Those are the good books. And this hop is dedicated to them!

Please use the rafflecopter widget below to enter for a chance to win a digital copy of Bella Notte!

Also check out the guest blog by author Janis Susan Mary, she's doing a giveaway! CLICK HERE!

Bella Notte:
Vampires? Check. Werewolves? Check. Death prophecy to hang over your head? Double check. Seventeen year old Emma Hutchinson struggles to find her place in the world she has been born to as she tries to decide whether she should be with Michael, the boy she has been dreaming about since she was three or if she belongs with Dominic, her betrothed.

It's the first book in the Bella Vampires Series, the second is

There have been two tie-in short stories as well. A Bella Notte Christmas Story, which is how Dom and Emma spent their Christmas. A Bella Vita Halloween Story, which follows Mike on his 20th birthday.

The third book in the series, Bella Tristezza, is expected to be released early 2013!

Welcome to my stop on the Healer Blog Tour! A big welcome to author J. L. Bowen who graciously did an interview for me! :0) Make sure you enter the giveaway!

Author's Bio:
I write young adult paranormal books. I live in Colorful Colorado and my books are based in the Rocky Mountains. My books are about young adults discovering who they are and accepting themselves. Growing to adulthood is never easy. I have a book trailer on youtube about the Healer. 

I have a cocker spaniel named Sadie Mae who I love to take for walks. I enjoy skiing and scuba diving. Currently, I write for Featherweight Press and am in the process of writing the sequel to The Healer.

The Blurb:

Heather Bowen, a drug and alcohol counselor, has always been able to see auras, but now she’s being haunted in her sleep by a red-eyed man who’s peddling a psychotic drug to her clients.  After her sister becomes his next victim, Heather is determined to prove her sister’s innocence. Life as she knows it becomes more unpredictable when the new counselor, Scythe Angel, arrives. It doesn’t take Heather more than a first meeting to determine this larger than life man is commanding, pushy, determined and downright sexy. However there’s something about him she’s not sure she can trust, no matter how she finds herself drawn to him.


Scythe knows he can clear Heather’s sister’s name, but to do it he must confront his elusive and dangerous brother who seems to be bound to the dark side. With his own wings on the line, Scythe has to discover a way to save his brother’s soul before it’s too late. An arduous task for Scythe becomes even more complicated by his unearthly attraction to Heather.


For both of them to succeed they will have to learn to trust each other or fail; losing everything they hold dear.  

Back Cover Blurb:
Thirteen-year-old Armond Costa heals in three days, no matter what abuse his uncle and aunt inflict upon him. On his fourteenth birthday, he sprouts wings and discovers his aunt and uncle had lied to him. He's the lost Golden Demon's Healer. His father, King of the Golden Demons, insists he return with him and save his people from being persecuted by their mortal enemies, the Dark Demons. Now, Armond must choose between the Ellis brothers and seventeen-year-old Rusty Owens -- the only family he's ever known -- or condemn the Golden Demons to extinction.

When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?

I wanted to be a writer after I read The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton.  I fell in love with her books as an adolescent.  


How long does it take you to write a book?

I am a panser and can whip out a rough draft in about a month, but the editing is another matter.  I belong to a critique group and need help with editing.  So with editing, I would say it takes me about three months at least.  


What is your work schedule like when you're writing?

Since I work full time, I write at night and on the weekends.  Sometimes I stay home and write.  I get lost with my writing and fall in love with my characters.


What would you say is your interesting writing quirk?

I hate to say it, but I have the television on.  I think it’s more for noise.  Paranormal shows help me write, especially the reality ones such as Ghost Hunters, A Haunting and Ghost Adventures.  


How do books get published?

It depends on what type of book you want to have.  With traditional publishing, authors usually need an agent who pitches the book to the larger houses and the books will take about 18 months before they are published.  

With the smaller presses, such as Featherweight Press, authors do not need an agent.  I pitched to the publisher at a conference and she asked for a request.  I sent my manuscript, Healer, to Featherweight Press and four days later I had a contract.  After edits and rewrites, seven months later, my book was released.


Where do you get your information or ideas for your books?

With the Healer, I had a dream about Armond and elaborated on his story.  Many times, I have gotten ideas from the internet.  I start asking why questions and create characters and the story follows.  


When did you write your first book and how old were you?

I wrote my first book, Healer about a year and half ago and I was 47 years old.  


What do you like to do when you're not writing?

I like to ski, take my dog for walks and watch my nephews’ football and baseball games.  I still love to read.  My other favorite past time is to travel.  When I was younger, I did two bicycling trips in Europe – one in Italy and the other in France.  I love to go on haunted tours and have to admit the best ones so far were in England.    


What was one of the most surprising things you learned in creating your books?

I am surprised at how attached I become to my characters.  After I wrote Healer, I was sad.  I missed the characters and wanted to go back into their world.  Rusty and Armond both have a special place with me.  I have currently finished the sequel which is about Gunnar, the Dark Demon healer, and waiting to hear from my publisher. 

Guest Post:

My first profession has been as a social worker and wanted to be one since I was an adolescent.  I read S.E. Hinton’s Outsiders and fell in love with the characters.  I probably relate both with middle school boys and when I started writing, I wanted to target this audience.

Although my characters are paranormal, they still possess the same wants and needs of adolescent boys which was my intention.  Armond wants to be accepted and to discover who is.  His world just happens to be in the paranormal.  

One of my favorite characters is Rusty Owens.  He does not possess any paranormal abilities, but shows little fear.  Actually, Rusty has the same fears and needs as Armond, but he covers it with a strong shield.  One he learned to develop to protect himself.  Rusty looks at Armond has being his younger brother and will do anything to protect him.

I have a younger sister and brother and have always had the same need to protect them as well.  Being the oldest, I was the trail blazer and my siblings followed me.  My younger sister was a cheerleader, pom pom and home coming Queen.  I have always been proud of my sister and glad of her success.  She has four beautiful children who I adore.  Her husband is an alpha male and his qualities are painted in many of my characters.  

I was neither a cheerleader nor pompom, although I always wanted to be a cheerleader.  It had to be one of my most painful memories when I didn’t succeed.  But I discovered, I didn’t die and these disappointments prepared me for life.  Armond and Rusty both learn they can succeed even when life is cruel and disappointing.   They have to learn to believe in themselves to win.  

In Healer, I wrote my heart and soul in this story.  When I was finished, a sadness filled me.  I didn’t want the story to end.  I have written the sequel, Ryker’s Revenge, and my publisher has bought the story, so the story will continue.  In this one, Gunnar, the Dark Demon’s Healer, must come to terms with his life and look at hard facts.  Sometimes our assumptions get the better of us which Gunnar will discover.

Make sure to check out the other stops on the tour!
9/20   Night Owl Reads    
9/21  I Just Wanna Sit Here and Read! 
9/24  My Cozie Corner 
9/24  The Avid Reader 
9/27  ¡Miraculous! 
9/27  Concise Book Reviews By Michelle  
9/27  Sharing Links and Wisdom 
9/28  DanaSquare 

SNEAK PEEK!

Chapter One


I grabbed the wobbly banister and climbed the stairs two at a time to the attic.

A small stampede barged after me. “Going somewhere boy?” Uncle Peter’s heavy footsteps trailed me. “You’ll never get the chance to heal.” His heavy panting echoed in the cramped stairwell. “Not…after…I… get…through…with…you.”

“Not in three days, you won’t,” Aunt Janet gritted her teeth. “I promise you that.”

Great, more pain. They could at least tell me what I did.

My hand shook as I whipped open my door. I charged towards the window. Freedom was only six feet away. Out the corner of my eye, an elephant size blur barreled right for me. I shrank, but Uncle Peter grabbed my arm and threw me.

As the room swirled, I crashed into the wall, knocking the wind out of me. Sweet Aunt Janet stormed over to me and backed me against the wall. “This. Is. Your. Fault.” With each word, she slapped me across the face and slammed my head like a ping-pong ball into the hard wood paneling. She wheezed and stopped. “Since it’s your damn fourteenth birthday tomorrow, they’re hunting you, putting us all in danger.”

God, her breathe stank of peppermint gum. Her hands reeked of her gawd, awful rose perfume. A metallic taste swirled in my mouth. Blood again. My cheeks throbbed.

“I don’t understand.” I rubbed my face. “Who can’t find me?”

“Shut up.” Aunt Janet folded her skinny arms across her flat chest. “I never should have agreed to raise you.”

Wiping my bloody mouth on my arm, I kept silent. That’s a laugh. Yeah, I was real grateful. Nothing like getting the crap beat out of you because you’re not a Martin. My last’s name’s Costa, my mother’s maiden name.

A motorcycle roared outside my window. Aunt Janet’s thin face paled. Her thin lips, smeared with red lipstick, pinched together. She dropped her arms. “It’s them. I know it’s them.”

I half-hoped it was Rusty Owens, my self-appointed protector. Rusty had long dark red hair and rode a fiery crimson motorcycle, but when I peered out the window, disappointment hit me. It was just some old gray haired guy on a blue bike.

I frowned. “So, whoever is looking for me rides a motorcycle?”

Holding up her arm, she clenched her fist. “Didn’t you hear me?” She took a step towards me.

I cringed and clamped my jaw tight. With her wild green eyes and spiky blond hair, she loomed over me like an Amazon ready to rip my guts out. I turned away. Never look a rapid dog in the face.

“Get a hold of yourself.” I peeked back around. Sweat poured down Uncle Peter’s face and a lock of fuzzy orange hair stuck to his forehead. He glowered at Aunt Janet and then slammed his fist into his oversized palm. “They can’t find him.”

I swallowed. Who? A lump of fear formed in my stomach. Somebody chased me, but no one would tell me who. But the thing that terrified me more was that Aunt and Uncle were scared.

Aunt Janet ran her hand through her sonic hedge-hog cut blond hair and paced across the floor. Her high heels clicked on the hardwood floor. “What will we do?”

“Keep him locked in the cellar. If he’s beat down…”

She stopped and clapped her hands together. “You mean they can’t find him if he’s in pain?”

Nausea gripped me. My achy stomach dropped to my toes. I knew that look. Damn, my right arm just healed. Three days ago, Uncle broke it - all because I punched my sixteen-year-old cousin, Bobby, in his round red pocked face - served him right. I hid my grin. He won’t make fun of the color of my eyes for a while.

Glancing away from both of them, I caught my reflection in the cracked dresser mirror. Strands of long black hair hung in my face. Shaking, I pushed the hair behind my ears. With my silver eyes, swollen cheeks, and bloody mouth, what looked like a beaten vampire stared back at me.

Great. I took quivering breathe. At least in three days, I’d be normal again, not a scratch on me.

“Yup.”    

Uncle’s firm word got my attention. I wiped the blood on the back of my hand, turned, and bit my lip. Don’t get sick.

Uncle stretched out his flabby arms and nodded.

An evil smile spread across Aunt’s face. “Our family will be safe.”

He dropped his arms to his side. “Exactly.”

At those words, I quivered. Uncle Peter seized my arm again and threw me onto my bed. He leaped on top of me, knocking the wind out of me, and pelted his meaty hooks into my face. “They’ll. Never. Find. You.”

In one leap, Uncle jumped off the bed and chucked me on the floor. I gasped for air, but it hurt to even breathe. I never got over how enormous Uncle and Bobby were, and how fast they could move. You’d think they’d be slow and clumsy, but they weren’t. More like, mad bull elephants bent on trampling you to death.

With his steel toed cowboy boots, he kicked my ribs. At the loud crack, I sucked in my breath. Thoughts fled my mind. As I crawled, I gasped for air.

“You like that?” He kicked me again, and got my hip. “You’re like your smart mouthed mother.” I rolled into a ball, and he stomped on my lower back. My kidneys screamed with agony. I’d piss blood for three days.

“You bastard.” Uncle Peter yanked me onto my feet. He shook me. “Your mother and her boyfriend are hunting you. If they find you, we’re dead.” His fingers dug into my tender skin. “Like when they murdered your father.” He dragged me down the stairs.

My mind went blank. Did I hear him right? Blood drained from my face. My feet tripped over each other as if I was a toddler, but Uncle Peter never slowed. “Quit stalling.”

When he whipped open the basement door, the air changed from summer clean to dusty and mildewed. Not again. I beat on his arm. “No!”

“Shut up.” He shoved me, and I somersaulted down the stairs. My vision blurred until I landed splat at the bottom, gasping for air. Above me, a darkened light-bulb dangled from a string. Sunlight struggled through the windowsills, but failed to chase away dark shadows that lurked under dusty, rickety, chairs, behind old trunks and a headless mannequin. My whole body throbbed as pain consumed me.

Light peered through a dusty window. Escape. I braced my hands on the cool cement, but before I could stand, Uncle threw me against another wall again. I landed on bumpy metal. Damn, not the stupid chains again.

“No,” I whispered and darted toward the door, but he grabbed me. I pushed and slapped his hands, but I couldn’t peel off his fat handcuffs.

He hurled me against the same wall. I shook my head, but he grabbed my hair and pulled me to his chin. Thrusting his giant bulbous sized gut and chest, he pinned me. I couldn’t breathe or move. His hot breath brushed over my head. He clanked the bands on each of my wrists. “There.”

I peered at him. “You said my father was killed in the line of duty. So, did grandma and grandpa.”

“We lied,” he hissed into my ear. His breath stank of buttered popcorn. “Your father went after your mother to bring her back and raise your ugly hide, but her boyfriend ambushed him and killed him in cold blood. Because of you, my brother’s dead.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’ve paid for that sin every day since you’ve come here. My brother was my best friend.” His fingers gripped my shoulders, and he shook me. My teeth rattled and my vision blurred. “And now, your mother is back and wants you, all of us dead. Is that plain enough for you? There only can be one healer, and she’s it.”

He released me, and I fell against the hard wall. As my head cleared, I gazed at him. Sweat trickled down his jowls and splashed onto the cement floor. He averted his hazel eyes.

“You’re a liar.” I yanked on the chains.

He stomped to the corner where a crooked metal rack leaned against the wall. Masking tape, screw drivers, hammers and pliers cluttered the other shelves. Stained turpentine jugs, and open and unopened paint cans were stacked on one metal shelf. Brushes and rollers were stuck inside a paint splattered brown and white coffee can. “I can see I’m gonna have to keep your mouth shut for you.” He jerked a smudged white rag out of a faded yellow bucket.

He waddled over to me. With a sneer on his fat face, he wrapped his fist in my hair. My head snapped back. He stuffed the rag into my mouth. Oil and dirt tinged my tongue. I gagged and shook my head. My salvia wet the cloth, and grit and turpentine ran down my throat.

I refused to show fear no matter how much it pooled in my stomach.

“Better, much, better.” He swiped his hands on his pants.

Softer footsteps thumped on the stairs. Aunt Janet emerged with a whip in her hand. All she needed was a skin tight black spandex suit and a mask, and she could be a super villain.

“I am sooo dead,” I mumbled into the rag and braced the wall with my back.

As a sharp toothy smile spread across her mouth, I quivered. She raised the whip. “This is for putting us at risk, you bastard.” She lashed my gut.

I arched my back. My hands clenched the chains.

“After this, you’d wished you had never been born.”

My heart hammering, I blinked back tears and bit the rag. Slime coated my tongue. With each swish, I counted back from a thousand. There is no pain. There is no pain. There is no pain. But a muffled groan escaped my lips and collapsing to the floor, my legs betrayed me. Aunt Janet’s laugh weakened my resolve. “There, I knew I could make you cry.”

Conan the Barbarian and Rusty Owens, I’m not.

Uncle Peter gripped my hair. “To let you know,” he hissed into my ear. His hot breath blew onto my neck. My stomach revolted. “This is your mother’s fault. Abrianna should have stayed away. She had her chance.”

My mother had a chance for what? Make up your mind, dude. Does she want to kill us or stay with your ugly ass? With his sweating face and beady wild eyes, he’d finally gone mad. Did I fall down a rabbit hole?

As the whip slashed my legs again and again, my thighs and calves pulsated with pain. At each slash, my body bumped up and down on the freezing cement floor. Sweat secreted from every pore.

“Damn it, Janet.” Uncle Peter jerked away from me. “You nearly hit me.”

“Don’t mention that woman’s name. Not ever.” Tears weld in her eyes. “The bitch will pay for her sins.”

“Fine.” Uncle Peter strolled towards the stairs. “I’m hungry. I’ll be right back. Do you want anything honey?”

“No.”

She lifted the whip and lashed me again and again. Deep cuts dug into the back of my thighs, buttock and back. Each time she hit me, my body jolted. I lost count of time. Not wanting to hear her cackle again, I pictured Rusty. His musical voice echoed in my head, “Don’t show them fear. Stay strong. Stay tough.”

Inside, I screamed with agony.

“God, I can’t stand anymore,” Aunt Janet panted. “Have..to..sit..down.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Aunt Janet’s spiky hair stuck to hear head, and the light glistened off her shiny face. She wrapped the whip around the handle and plopped next to me.

Burying my face in my arms, I held my breath. She seized the bottom of my ankle. Her nails dug into my ankle. She smacked the bottom of my foot. I kicked.

“Don’t you dare kick me.” She sat on my calves. I squirmed. She swatted my feet again and again. If you don’t think, that hurts, you’re crazy. Pain, God, I was dizzy from it.

The smell of fish filled the basement. Aunt Janet stopped. “Peter, what are you eating?”

Through my swollen eyes and matted hair, I watched him lean against the wall, holding a sandwich in his hand. He sat a glass of milk on a wooden, splintered chair.

“Tuna fish sandwich,” he smacked his lips together.

The smell of tuna, mixed with the damp and mustiness of the basement, mimicked the scent of a tackle box. I wrinkled my nose. I’d never eat tuna again.

“There,” she gasped. “No one will find him now, especially his slut mother.”

“Janet, shut up.”

            Uncle Peter narrowed his eyes at me. Walking over to me, he licked his fingers. With a malicious smile, he kicked me hard in the side, and my rib cracked again or maybe it was already broken. Hard to know. I groaned. My side throbbed each time I breathed, and blood swirled in my mouth. I wanted to pass out, but sweet relief eluded me.  Concentrating on anything but the pain, my mother came to mind. Had she been at the game? Awesome, she knew what I looked like, but I wouldn’t know her until I had a bullet in my brain or worse.

Standing, Aunt Janet wiped the sweat from her brow. “So, do you think this is good enough?”

Gee, didn’t know mangling me was such hard work.

Uncle Peter kicked me twice, and I doubled into a tight ball. I moaned. He knelt and stared at me. “Yeah, they won’t be able to find him.” He shook his head. “Damn, I never knew they were this close.” He gritted his teeth. “If they think I’m giving up our chance for immortality, they’ve got their heads up their ass.”

Immortality? What the hell is he talking about?

Aunt stared at me. “So, now what?”

“Wait until tonight. He’s not going anywhere. Hey, honey, is there anymore pie left?”

She tossed the whip across the room. “Yes, dear, I think so. You know, I’m starving.”

I hope the skinny bitch chokes on her own cooking. When they left and shut the basement door, I sat numb. Each time my heart beat, pain pulsed through me.

All this time, Uncle Peter knew my mother could heal like me, but never told me. So, did he think she would keep healing him so he’d never die? Or maybe he had started eating one too many brownies laced with weed. It slipped his addle mind that my mom had my father murder.

My world had turned upside down. First, they told me my father had been shot in a robbery gone bad. I even read the newspaper article - “Cop Gunned Down At 7-11.” Nowhere did it mention that Brian Martin’s ex-wife and her stupid boyfriend murdered him. So what, mom and her putzy boyfriend stopped off to buy some cupcakes, and my father confronted them so they blew him away? Or did the boyfriend not want to share his Twinkies with my dad?

I licked my bloody lip. Every day I passed my dad’s graduation picture from the police academy and the framed newspaper article on the mantel – only to know it was all lie. Why the cover up? My mind spun, not able to piece the puzzle together.

I frowned. “How come my mother can’t find me if I’m in pain?” No answer came forth from the damp walls or the spiders too busy spinning their webs.

But then who cares. My life sucked anyway. More lethal lies told from the two people who were supposed to love me. What did I expect? I needed the truth. I wanted to go someplace where there was no pain, no fear and no sadness – I wanted to be treated like a person. Pent up tears were released. I hadn’t cried for so long, but to know my mother killed my father. With each sob, my body shook. I never expected that. It hurt more than Aunt Janet’s torture. Now, my mother wanted me dead, but she had the all the answers. Great. Exhausted, sleep finally stopped the agony.


When I woke, the moon shone through the barred basement window. I could barely see through my swollen eyes. Raw torment gripped me. The pale light shined on a brown spider crawling on the cement floor. The spider darted over my lifeless arm. The feel of its long legs sent shivers through me. A sharp prick pierced my arm. The spider fled, and ran across the floor. I ignored the pain. I hurt too much to move.

The damn rag gagged me. I tried spitting it out again, but only licked more blood, dirt or oil, or whatever nasty metallic stuff stained it. Better to not know.

When the basement door creaked and footsteps shuffled down the stairs, I shuttered and cowered against the wall.

A voice whispered, “My God, what have they done to you? It’s never been this bad.”

Out of the shadows, Larry Martin, who was a few weeks older than me, stood there, holding a bowl and wash rag in his hands. Aunt and Uncle’s second son. With wide eyes, he gawked at me. Two heads shorter than me, Larry passed more for a scared, fat third grader than a seventh grader.

I exhaled and relaxed.

He rushed over to me. Already sunburned, his dark pink face matched the stains of a strawberry slurpee on his white tee-shirt. Gasping for air, he put the bowl onto the floor, reached into pocket and pulled out his inhaler. Blood rushed to his face and changed him into a cherry head.

My hair was plastered to my forehead and cheeks. With his other hand, he swept it off of my face. He stuffed the inhaler into his pocket and then untied the rag and clean air rushed into my mouth.

I spat on the ground. “God, that tasted like crap.”

“I-I-I brought warm water. I-I-I thought you’d want me to wash you up. I-I-I’ve looked for the key to the shackles, but they’ve hidden it this time, and I don’t know where it is. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks for looking.” He’d helped me more than once in this hell house.

Larry dipped the washcloth into the warm water and rung it out. When he put it on a cut, I winced.

He snatched his hand away. “I put hydrogen-peroxide in it. It says it’s supposed to help disinfect and heal cuts. They don’t want you to heal, Armond. It’s like they’re afraid to let you.”

“No kidding.”

He stared at the bowl. “I’ll go and empty this. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Immediately, I regretted being a smart ass. In a sincere voice, I said, “Go ahead and finish.”

“Okay, this will sting a bit.”

I hated those words. Whenever someone said that, it meant it would hurt like hell. I tensed. With his shaking hand, Larry patted my open cuts. I muffled a groan.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

He gently brushed the rag along my torso, down my legs and across my arms, and after a while, his soft touched soothed the smarts. He shoved my hair away again and dabbed my face. “Can you even see?”

Despite the torment of forcing those tiny muscles to move, I smiled. “As bad as I must look, yeah, I can.”

“God, I don’t even recognize your face.”

My smile vanished. “They’ll know you helped me again.”

“I know, but they won’t do anything. Well, they might lock the basement door.” He glanced over his shoulder and then at me. He half grinned. “But I’ve figured out how to pick the lock.”

“What time is it?”

“About quarter to twelve.” He twisted the wash rag, and pink water dripped into the bowl. “Um, they’ll be back at midnight.”

“Great. Did they tell you my mother is the one after us?”

Larry’s green eyes widened. “Nooo waaaay.” He smiled. Well that’s good. She’ll-“

“Actually, she wants to kill me.”

He blinked. “What?” He dropped the rag into the bowl. “Oops. Sorry. But why?”

“Apparently, there can only be one of us. Oh and by the way, she helped murder my father.” I studied him. “Did you know that?”

“What?” He shook his head. “Uh uh. The Rocky Mountain Newspaper said he was killed during a robbery at Mom and Pop’s Grocery store at 72nd Avenue and Lowel by an unknown assailant.”  He had read those words over and over throughout the years.

“According to good ole Uncle Peter, my dad knew his killers. My mother’s dumb boyfriend shot him.” I frowned. “I don’t understand why Uncle lied.”

“I don’t know.” His face turned pensive. “Wait a minute, you mean your mom can heal herself too?”

“Yeah and she wants to be the only one. It’s like she wants to be worshipped as some kind of god or something. I guess with me around, she’d lose some of her supposed followers.”

“That sucks.”

“Tell me about it, but I don’t care.” My voice hardened. “I’ve got to find her.”

“Why?”

“I can’t stand this. It sucks. I want to find out who I am.”

He gripped my shoulders. “No, you can’t. Not if she’s gonna kill you. You’re my brother. I can’t let you die.”

I studied his plump serious face. “I know.”

He released me and looked into the bowl. “God, I can’t believe how much blood is in here. I gotta go.” He stood and then hurried out of the basement.

After he left, I forced myself to sit and leaned against the wall. So, the Reverend Peter Martin of Our Rising Savior Lutheran Church, and his lovely wife not only hated my mother, but were afraid of her. Oh, and blamed me for my father’s death. What ever happened, I got blasted for it. Terrorists invaded Arvada, my fault. Collections go down at Uncle’s church, my fault. My mom killed my dad, my fault. The power I had.

I racked my brain. We were at my baseball game this morning, and I didn’t remember any woman stalking me or trying to cut my head off or shoot me between the eyes, but then again, I wasn’t exactly looking either, not with my team losing. Maybe I could find her first. Gee, that will be easy since I don’t know what she looks like.

I stared at the same biting spider crawling across the floor. So, how come all the grown-ups in my life wanted to hurt me? No wonder I never trusted anyone over twenty.

What did Uncle mean by wanting to keep his immortality? He couldn’t heal himself and the only person I could heal was me. Did he mean my mom? Maybe her powers were stronger than mine.

When heavy, fast footsteps came down the stairs, I huddled in the corner. My chains scrapped the floor. I buried my face in my arm, and pretended I was asleep. The light turned on, and I trembled.

“I know you’re a wake boy,” Uncle Peter said. He nudged me with his foot. “Look at me. Or I’ll kick the crap out of you.”

I lifted my head and froze. Uncle Peter held a chain saw in his hand. The blood drained from my face.

Aunt Janet flashed her eyes over me. “God, look at him, Larry’s been down here.”

Uncle Peter shrugged. “So?”

“It’s five minutes to midnight, Peter. Do you think he’ll change?”

“They always do. Fourteen. At the witching hour.”

Change?

I clutched the iron chain and flung it at them, but it clunked short of their feet, clanging on the cement floor.

Uncle Peter narrowed his eyes at me. “You better stop right now.”

I flicked it at them again. “Stay away from me.” My voice sounded funny. What would he do if someone planned to cut his fat ass into tiny pieces?

A splintering pain burned in my back, but Uncle and Aunt stood still. The force of the pain threw me onto my stomach and took my breath away. Stop, make it stop. Something moved inside me like a knife moving through my flesh. I screamed.

Uncle ran over and held my right arm. “Janet, grab his other arm. They’re forming.”

Aunt clawed her nails into my left arm and Uncle held my right. He covered my mouth. I tasted dead fish. Did he ever wash his hands? As something poked through my spine, I withered. My stomach swirled from the agony, and I spewed into his hand. “Please, stop.”

They released my arms, and I collapsed, face first into my own vomit. Slime went up my nose, and I sneezed. With my arms trembling, I pushed myself away from the putrid smell. The pain ceased, and I caught my breath. Cool air hit my back and moved my hair.

Glimpsing over my shoulder, I blinked. It couldn’t be. I had black wings. Not with feathers like a bird or an angel, but shiny and smooth like patent leather. Cobwebs flew overhead and landed on Aunt’s arm.

“Eeww, get it off me,” she said.

I shook my head again, but my wings were still there.

“Janet, quit whining. Grab his other arm and let’s move him away from here before I get sick.”

As they dragged me, the chains hung down my arms like vines. When they came to the far corner of the room, they threw me down on my stomach, and Uncle plopped on my buttock.

I groaned.

“Go get the chain saw,” he ordered. “And plug it into the outlet.”

“Please don’t kill me,” I said in a puny whisper.

He anchored his boots on the iron bands of my wrists. As he moved his boots, my wrists snapped. “Ack,” I shrieked.

“Here.” Aunt Janet panted. “It’s heavy.”

“I’ve broken both of his wrists, so he won’t be able to yank them from you.”

Aunt Janet seized both of my hands. Pain jolted through me.

As Uncle Peter stood on my thighs, his boots crushed me to the ground. His heavy weight bore his boots deep into my skin and muscle. Too weak to move, I waited, but managed to mumble, “Get off of me.”

The roar of the chain saw blocked out my words. As the jagged blade cut into me, I lurched. Bones cracked and shattered. My teeth chattered. I screamed. Not even getting beaten with a baseball bat hurt this bad. Blood and gore splattered on Aunt’s face. At her blood-sucking-vampire smile, I passed out.


I woke again and lay still. Warmth spread over my right side. Breathing hard, I clamped my mouth shut and turned my head towards the right. Through the window, the sun’s purple and pink rays light my naked bruised and bloody side. Spilled orange, pink, crimson, and brown paint stained the cement floor, but the red wasn’t paint. It was blood. My blood.

I’d never been in so much pain. Dying was better than living like this. More than once, I had tried to off myself - took pills, slashed my wrists, wrapped a rope around my neck, but each time, I healed. Being immortal sucked. So, why did Uncle want to be immortal? Especially since he always preached about eternity with God. Hypocrite. I shook. Alone for eternity terrified me. “Make it stop.”

So, obviously I wasn’t human. No, that wasn’t true. I was half-human. Upstairs, my dad’s pictures sat on the mantel. He had the familiar Martin orange hair, pink face, and portly body, but I had long blue-black hair, olive skin, and silver eyes. Did I get this from my murderess mother? Is this why my Uncle and Aunt hated me, because I reminded them of her?

I wished I had super powers like Superman or Hercules. Being the strongest boy on Earth would be so cool. I’d send Aunt and Uncle into orbit permanently. Or, at least heal like Wolverine, but mine doesn’t work like his. It takes three days. Now, if I could heal other people that would be bitchin’. I could cure Larry’s asthma. Maybe my mother could do it, but I sure as hell couldn’t, not even a wounded squirrel. Bobby had shot one in the head with a bee-bee. I touched the animal, but it twitched and died.

I gritted my teeth. My mom could have healed my dad but she let him die. What a bitch.

“Useless, stupid, ability.”

The power flickered inside me. Like always, my blood surged. A flutter like a butterfly moved deep within my chest, but this time, the sensation grew stronger, and intensified. I licked my lips and took a deep breath. The flutter changed to an electric pulse. The darkness faded. My skin tingled and shimmered. A white glow illuminated all over me, and the room brightened like I’d seen in Harry Potter when he conjures up his patronus charm of stag in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. But unlike Harry, spasms shook me. My vision blurred. I broke out in a hot, sticky sweat as if I were strapped to a tanning bed stuck on high. Perspiration drenched me. With each heartbeat, the agony lessened.

As I panted, my vision became clearer, my teeth stopped chattering and the convulsions ceased. What the hell had caused that? I scooted against the wall. The putrid smell of vomit and blood turned my stomach upside down like a tipsy curvy rollercoaster. Another spasm gripped me. I clenched my fists and groaned. Agony tore through every muscle, and I flopped on my stomach. Cool air seeped out of a crack in the window and brushed over me. I glimpsed over my shoulder. My ebony wings glistened in the sun. Not a scratch on them. I peered at the doorway, but no sign of Aunt and Uncle. With grim determination, I flapped them. To my surprise, I rose to the ceiling and the tips rammed into the wooden beams overhead hard. “Ow!” I winced and crashed to the ground.

I got the air knocked out of me and struggled to catch my breath.  I lay motionless except for my beating wings. I frowned. So, how did this happen? Now I could grow appendages. Never knew that. Uncle Peter had never severed a limb before either, but then again, he just did. I pushed my lips together. I jerked, twisted, and pulled on the chains, but it was useless. I flopped onto the floor and wiped the sweat off of my face with my arm. I glowered at the steadfast bolted links. “Dumb wings.”

I lay on my stomach motionless on the floor. The cool air stopped. I frowned. As I reached around my back, my hand only touched smooth skin. I peered over my shoulder. Where now did they go? Wait a minute, I could twirl my wrist. It wasn’t broken. I sat up. I twisted my neck around, stretched my arms and raised my legs. I even pointed my toes. The healing usually took three days - not one night. How had I healed so quickly?

I cocked an eyebrow. Even now, the pain subsided on my arms and legs. The sun rays showed unbroken, perfect skin – no bruises, cuts, or lashes.

Footsteps clumped on the stairs. I clenched my fists waiting for more pain, more torture, more agony. The light flickered on. Aunt Janet held a handkerchief to her nose, while Uncle Peter clasped the same chain saw in his hand. I crawled away and huddled against the wall. My hands gripped the chains. “Not without a fight this time,” I promised.

Welcome to my stop on the blog tour for A Life in Service by Roberta Pescow. Make sure you enter the giveaway!

AUTHOR'S BIO:

About the author: Roberta Pescow is a freelance writer with articles featured on over 200 websites nationwide. She is also a jazz singer with Narrow Escape Duo, performing at venues in and around Northern New Jersey. Roberta is a proud mother of two, and holds a 2nd degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do. As a long time vegetarian, she has a deep love and respect for all creatures. When she gets some free time, Roberta also enjoys sculpture, photography, reading, swimming and quiet time with family, friends and her beloved dog, Summer.

THE BLURB:

Jenny accepts the fact that she was born into a domestic race for a life of domestic work. In return for this loyal service, the householders provide food, protection and shelter. Jenny's earthy spirituality and gentle nature allow her to be content with her lot, even when her situation is far from ideal. But during a terrifying fire, Jenny accidentally becomes separated from her master and mistress. 

Out on the street with no identification, Jenny finds herself an unlikely fugitive with no protection from a dangerous world. The experience shakes her beliefs to the core and causes her to question everything she has ever known. Follow Jenny's adventures in strange world of inequality that is a lot closer to home than you think. This novelette is approximately 12,000 words in length.

• Digital Book
• Published: June 21, 2012
• Language: English
• Source:  I received this novelette in exchange for an honest review.
• Stars: 4

The review:


This is a quick read. I can't do an in-depth review because I don't want to give anything away. The novelette follows Jenny through her comfort zone and into a world she never thought she'd have to deal with. It's a good story. I wasn't sure what to expect from the cover, and the blurb leaves enough for the imagination to play with.  I felt for Jenny as I read it, I wanted things to be okay and that's important- that you can connect to the characters. I totally did in this one. I just wish it was longer.


If you're looking for a quick read, and you like stories like this, then pick it up at one of the listed retailers.

Check out the rest of the tour too:
September 19 - My Reading Addiction
September 20 - Anatea's Bookshelf
September 21 - Unabridged Andra
September 22 - Bibliophilia, Please
September 23 - Story Factory Reading Zone
September 23 - Cozie Corner
September 24 - My Seryniti
September 25 - Book Haven Extraordinaire
September 26 - Just Another Rabid Reader
September 27 - For the Love of Film and Novels 
September 28 - Laurie's Reviews and Thoughts
September 28 - Sweeping the USA

SNEAK PEEK!
1.
Somewhere in the cacophony of sound, I could make out the high-pitched voices of Victoria and Alexandra crying my name in the dark night outside. “Miss Jenny! Miss Jenny!” they called. “Oh Mommy, Daddy - Miss Jenny is still in there,” they wailed. The response was firm. “No! You both stay right here!” the master shouted.     “You can’t go back inside or you’ll be killed for sure.” It was then that I panicked in earnest. The fire growled without mercy and I heard screams all around me. I could feel my feet beginning to burn painfully. I tried to steady my mind. If it was time for me to return to the Great Mother, then that could not be undone and all my protests would not change my fate. If it was my time, I could accept that, I realized, only why did it have to hurt so much?
   And then the oddest thing happened. I know this sounds rather implausible, and maybe you’ll chalk it up to the insanity of oxygen deprivation, but I heard the most beautiful whisper dance across the black smoke. I blinked my eyes with the shock of it, a whisper of such great love and comfort, that even in my most dire situation I could feel nothing but joy.
   “It is not your time, little one,” she told me, “although the path you are walking will bring you home sooner than expected. You must turn back, and you will find escape where you thought there was none.”
   Escape where I thought there was none? What could she possibly mean? But who was I to question? I retraced my steps and headed back to the nursery. The flames had not yet reached this area, and I was overcome with relief at any respite from the growing inferno. Even if only for this moment, I was grateful for this space of relative cool and darkness. But then I turned and noticed, to my amazement, the wide-open window and the pale curtains dancing wildly in the cold night wind. I could have sworn that window was closed a moment ago. We never would have retired in such a drafty room. To this day, how it got opened it remains a mystery. But I had no time to ponder the mysterious gifts of the Great Mother. It was now or never. Without hesitation, I took a literal leap of faith into the night.


***********************************************************************


2.
To my amazement, the rats appeared to be as afraid of me as I was of them, and they made a hasty retreat. Still shaking, I approached the garbage can and reached toward the lid. In my uncertain state, I was clumsier than I would have liked. I’m embarrassed to say I dropped the lid and tipped the entire garbage can over with an awful clash. I had but a moment to grab a loaf of challah before a group of workers came rushing out of the bakery to investigate the commotion. I ran like the wind, even though my feet hurt terribly, and luck stayed with me in that none of them had the time or inclination to pursue me any distance.
   And so I found myself back at the enormous cardboard box, sitting in a corner and munching on sweet, fresh challah bread that was only very slightly burned at the crust. Actually I felt quite pleased with myself. Adrenaline still surged through my brain, making the sky seem brighter, the air fresher and even the bread sweeter than I could have ever imagined. I had never felt so alive! Perhaps my mother was wrong, I thought, and I could work things out on my own after all.
   One of the legends of our people is that long ago, when the earth was young, our first ancestors had no association at all with the householders. They survived only by their strength, their cunning and their skills. But then, the legend has it, something was altered in our line and we no longer were born with the attributes necessary for survival. Thus, we were forever destined to serve the householders, who in return, maintain us. Perhaps this story is true, or perhaps it is not. Domestics have served householders ever since the beginning of our known history. But on that morning, with stolen sweetness still warm on my tongue, I began to believe there was something to that old story, and that at least some tiny vestige of our proud, ancient ancestors coursed through my gentle veins.

Welcome to my stop on the Grimm Chronicles Blog Tour! A big welcome to co-author Ken Brosky who graciously did an interview for me! :0) Make sure you enter the giveaway!

AUTHORS BIO:
Ken Brosky received his MFA in writing from the University of Nebraska-Omaha and lives in Madison, WI. In addition to writing The Grimm Chronicles, he also spends time writing literary fiction and has been published in magazines including Gargoyle and Barcelona Review.

Isabella Fontaine calls Wisconsin her home. This is her first Young Adult series. She once read through the entire dictionary because she wanted to know more about words!

THE BLURB:
The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 1

200 years ago, the Brothers Grimm unleashed their stories upon the world. Literally. Now the characters of the Grimms’ stories walk among us. With every day that passes, they grow more
evil. They are the Corrupted, and only a hero can stop them.

For 18-year-old Alice Goodenough, that means taking precious time off from her summer vacation. In addition to volunteering at the local library, Alice must stop the Corrupted who are
now actively hunting her down. With the help of her magic pen and her trusty rabbit friend, the world has suddenly gotten a lot more complex. The Corrupted are everywhere, and only Alice
can see them for what they truly are.

This book contains the first 3 episodes of the critically acclaimed series: Episode 1: Prince Charming Must Die!
Episode 2: Happily Never After
Episode 3: Revenge of the Castle Cats

Additional features for the print edition:
- An introduction
- Two special “Lost Diaries”
- A behind-the-scenes interview
- A collection of original Grimms’ Fairy Tales

The Grimm Chronicles is intended for Young Adults aged 13 and up. The goal is to provide Young Adult readers with a strong, charismatic young woman in the role of the hero and provide
readers with a positive protagonist who uses her brain to overcome obstacles life throws in her way.

Make sure you connect with these great writers!

Facebook http://www.facebook.com/TheGrimmChronicles

Isabella Fontaine's blog/website:  http://isabellafontaine.com

Ken Brosky's blog/website: http://kenbrosky.com/

These interview questions were answered by Ken Brosky, co-author of The Grimm Chronicles,
Vol. 1

When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?

I was doing a lot of comics as a kid, and then I found one that was more like a short story with lots of pictures. It was about a trucker fighting monsters and it was pretty awesome. So I tried
my hand at it. My parents found it and told me it was really good and—I swear to God—that was all it took. That one little bit of encouragement from my parents that sent me on my way. I wrote a bit 300-page book after that. It was totally awful! But I got better.

I kid you not, my dad kept one of my old comics. I used to sell them to my parents and used the money to make bigger comics with more color. The comic was totally wild. The superhero had a
flame for a head and spoke mostly in clichés. LOLZ.

How long does it take you to write a book?

We’re writing a new episode in the series every two months. Luckily, we’ve got the entire series plotted out already, and with two of us we can really work on an insane schedule. I write the first draft, Isabella fixes it up, then we put together a final draft and send it to our editor. Chris Smith designs the covers.

What is your work schedule like when you're writing?

I’m a full-time teacher at Madison College.

What would you say is your interesting writing quirk?

Oh, I’m a big fan of working on multiple things at a time. It works well for my brain. Right now, I have two short stories just sitting in the background waiting to be finished. I need
some inspiration, though. I need a breather. Maybe I’ll just sit down and watch an episode of Restaurant Impossible. Then I’ll get back to it.

Where do you get your information or ideas for your books?

We’re relying a LOT on Grimms’ Fairy Tales. We try not to be too clever, but we want to introduce characters from the fairy tales in an interesting way, one that pushes the narrative
forward. It’s been a challenge, but we have lots of ideas. Expect Tom Thumb to show up at some point. And maybe a talking sausage. We have to get that talking sausage into our story
somehow.

What do you like to do when you're not writing?

I play video games, like Skyrim. Crazy as it sounds, I love teaching, so that’s always a good time. The only TV I watch at this point is Parks and Rec and Restaurant Impossible, but I’ll
pick up a good movie. I just finished reading The Hunger Games, so of course I had to rent the movie. What was the deal with the dogs in the movie? They ruined the best plot twist in the
freakin’ story! Totally bummed me out.

What was one of the most surprising things you learned in creating your books?

How much fun it is to write Young Adult fiction. It’s kind of liberating, in a way. Maybe because I’ve never had a very big vocabulary, so even when I write literary fiction I don’t sound
very “literary.” Sometimes, if your writing doesn’t have a lot of big, complicated words, you can forget getting published. The same it true with a lot of journals that publish scholarly work. It’s a bit of a bummer.

How many books have you written? Which is your favorite?

I’ve written a handful. I’m most proud of a novel I’ve recently written called Soteria. I really let my natural voice shine through for the first time and it just felt so freaking good!

Do you have any suggestions to help me become a better writer? If so, what are they?

Avoid ridiculous dialogue tags. Stick with “he/she said.” Don’t frequently use tags like “he rasped” or “she hissed” or “he spat.” These are the telltale sign of a writer who doesn’t believe
his/her dialogue is speaking for itself. Use them sometimes if you must (we all break the rule sometimes), but be very, very sparing. Imagine every time you use one, a cute little kitten dies. You shouldn’t be killing kittens.

What do you think makes a good story?

Good characters and a plot that is at least slightly original. It’s tough, but not impossible. Avoid the love triangle if you can. It’s overplayed. Make your heroes flawed and your villains
slightly human so that they feel more real. These are the things that really send a story into the stratosphere.

As a child, what did you want to do when you grew up?

A writer! Almost there. Just need to write another 50 or so books so I can make a living off of it. But I’m more than happy to teach.

Make sure to check out the other stops on the tour!
9/17   Jenn's Review Blog
9/18   My Cozie Corner 
9/18  Rea's Reading and Reviews
9/19  Dana Cuadrado
9/19  Sharing Links and Wisdom 
9/20  The Book Tart 
9/20  Close Encounters with the Night Kind 
9/20  Waiting on Sunday to Drown 
9/20  Cheerful (Book) Reviews 
9/21  Geo Librarian
9/21   Mademoiselle Le Sphinx  
9/21  Great Reads and Baby Stuff 

SNEAK PEEK!
Chapter one: Prince Charming Must Die!

I should have known Edward was too good to be true.

No. Wait. Let me go back to the beginning. Before I had this curse. Before I went around slaying creatures that shouldn’t exist. Before I made friends with a rabbit.

Let’s start at the end of my junior year of high school. That was when all of this really started. I was looking forward to summer. I didn’t have a job but I had something even better: a volunteer spot at the local library. It was the best job in the world—sure, I mostly just put away all of the books and no, I wasn’t getting paid. But I loved being inside that old building. From the outside, it looked like a big old firehouse complete with rusty red bricks a rusted fire escape on one side. All it needed was one of those big garage doors for the fire truck.

Inside, though … that was where it all happened. When you walked in through the front door, you passed the little check-out desk where one of the old librarians would give a smile. Beyond that: rows and rows of old metal bookcases. Fiction. History. Biography. Science. In the center of the massive space was a circular table with five computers, the only hint of technology in the entire place.

Even the light bulbs were old! I’m not kidding—the lights hanging from the tiled ceiling had old steel shades, something out of the nineteenth century. It was a good thing the library closed before it got dark because without sunlight streaming in through the windows, the place might take on a much creepier tone.

But in the daylight, it just looked neat. On the second floor were more bookcases, mostly children’s books and young adult books, but there was a reading room up there, too. I remember going there as a child and sitting on the red carpet of the reading room and following along as one of the librarians read one of the children’s novels. My dad sat outside, reading Star Trek books.

I remember the first time I “graduated” to the first floor. I chose a science book about extinct animals from long ago. I’d been enraptured by a drawing on the first page where a long-extinct saber-toothed tiger was battling a ferocious lion. I just knew the tiger had won because tigers are the greatest.

I remember that time because I’d almost gone into the basement. The basement door was near the bathrooms and I’d opened the door by mistake. A cool breeze had touched my skin. It was so dark that I squinted, trying to make something out. Anything. But it was too dark, and it gave little 13-year-old me the chills.

The basement. If only I’d known what was waiting for me down there.

Needless to say, I was ready for exam week to be over. Even my last class of the day—hardly a class at all—couldn’t keep me entertained. Fencing. Where other girls chose basic gym because the rules for roller skating and badminton were relaxed enough to allow casual gossip, I’d made the choice to fence with six other guys—including my boyfriend Edward—and a girl named Tina who was on the verge of failing.

“You have to attack,” I told her midway through class. She’d lost twice already during the week and we were being graded on our form. Tina didn’t have form. Tina had nothing more than an amazing ability to swing her sword—called a “foil”—left and right as fast as possible and delay the inevitable.

“I can’t attack,” she told me, shifting in the chair. We were in a small weight training room off of the gym. In front of us, two of the other students were fencing in full gear, their shoes squeaking on the red rubber mats. “The boys are stronger.”

“Oh gawd,” I muttered. “Look,” I pointed to the two boys fighting. They were both wearing white uniforms but one of the helmets had an A printed on the back and the other a B so our teacher—Mr. Whitmann—could communicate the scores.

“What am I looking at?” Tina asked.

“Watch Gregg,” I said. “He’s the A. Watch him parry. See how he always uses the same riposte? He loves stabbing after he parries.” We watched them attack and parry again, the thin blades of their fencing swords clanging together. Gregg took two steps back, parrying his opponent’s attacks. When the time was right, he took the offensive, stabbing wildly at his opponent’s ribs. “Just watch their shoulders,” I told Tina.

Mr. Whitmann called an end to the fight and tallied up the scores. Gregg was the surefire winner.

“He’s too good,” Tina moaned. “All these swords just blur my vision. I can’t even see them coming!”

“Just focus,” I said. “We’re not losing to a bunch of stinky boys. Gregg doesn’t even wear deodorant, for crying out loud.”

“Alice,” Mr. Whitmann said, wrinkling his black mustache. “You can’t keep quiet sitting there? You’re up. Gregg, you stay on.”

I grabbed the B mask and foil from the quiet boy who’d just been creamed by Gregg. I adjusted the plastic chest protector underneath my jacket, much to the chagrin of the boys seat at the edge of the mat. Edward simply smiled, giving me a thumbs-up. I have to admit, he looked pretty good sitting there. He was one of the few guys who could wear the bulky fencing gear with any grace, like he was actually comfortable underneath all the padding.

“En guard,” Mr. Whitmann called out. I barely had time to get a grip on the foil before Gregg came crashing at me with all the grace of a football player. I parried his thrusts; the clang of the swords was almost lost inside the mask but not quite and I relished it. I loved this moment. I loved the salty smell of sweat inside the mask. I loved the way the world seemed dark and closed-in from behind the black mesh.

And I loved winning. Especially against boys bigger than me. And as Gregg came in again, I parried low, pulling his foil downward, taking a quick step back and then a quick step forward and thrusting the foil into his chest. The tip of my sword pressed into the protective jacket and the narrow blade bent in a U-shape.

“Point,” Mr. Whitmann called out. “Parry-riposte from the right. Good job, young lady.”

“Can you sound more surprised?” I muttered inside the mask. Mr. Whitmann was a small, portly man with jet-black hair and hairy arms. He favored the boys; that much was obvious. And he loved Edward. Everyone loved Edward. From the very day he transferred to Washington High School, he was universally loved.

Gregg came at me again, this time swinging his sword even more violently. I parried as best I could, stepping away from him. He didn’t even have his free hand behind his back, and if our foils weren’t dulled at the tip I could have nicked the skin of his bare hand. He left me another opening and I took it, stabbing him in the rib.

“Point B,” Mr. Whitmann said. “Excellent job, Alice.”

Gregg stepped back, tearing off his mask in frustration. I took mine off and pulled loose strands of black hair behind my ears. I glanced at Edward, who was sitting with the other boys, smiling approvingly.

Later, at the end of the day, he sidled up to me at my locker. “Do you need help with your books?” Students had begun sifting out; the only ones lingering were the select few who needed a few extra minutes to fill our backpacks with notes and textbooks. Our school was like that: a lot of slackers. Kids who preferred C’s because it allowed more time to watch awful TV shows. Exam week was even worse because some students only had one or two classes—plus gym—and then could leave.

I spun around and wrapped my arms around him, planting a kiss on his lips. He had soft, full lips, perfect for smooching. “We’re waiting for Tricia and Seth. I told them you would give them a ride home. Is that OK?”

He smiled, holding me close. “Of course. Will you spend some time with me tonight?”

How could I say no? Edward was dreamy. Edward was everything a 17-year-old girl wanted: dark looks, chiseled body, searching green eyes, short brown hair, and of course an earring to top it all off. That isn’t to say the earring was the deal-maker—more of a cherry on top of a tasty sundae.

A really, really tasty sundae.

I’d met him in a strange sort of way. Well, strange in retrospect. At the time, it couldn’t have been more exciting. I’d been at the park down by Lake Michigan with a couple friends right before school started. They’d gone rollerblading and so I took to the opportunity to knock down a few chapters of a new fiction novel, lying back on a bench. My eyes slowly shut.

When I woke up, he was standing over me. In all his hunky glory. Wearing a tight blue button-down shirt. He was looking down at me like he wanted to kiss me. Yeah.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just noticed that something is about to flitter out of your purse.”

I glanced down at my black purse sitting on the grass next to the bench. He was right: a little slip of paper was hanging out, fluttering in the wind. “Flitter,” I repeated with a smile. “I like the sound of that word.”

“It used to be quite a popular word,” he said, crouching down beside me. He was regarding me ... really, really staring into my eyes. “Royalty used it for a long time. And then when the peasants started using it, the royalty stopped. Weird, no?”

I laughed. “Do you always walk up to girls and tell them about the history of words?”

He laughed, too, glancing at the piece of paper still flittering as the breeze picked up again. “No, no. I don’t know where that came from. I’m usually much more awkward.”

I felt incredibly calm around him, calm enough to sit up and hold out a hand. “I’m Alice.”

“Edward,” he said, taking my hand in his. “So what is it?” he asked, nodding to the paper. “I bet it’s a shopping list.”

“That’s so goofy!” I said with a laugh. “I hate shopping. My mom shops for me.” I winced. Stupid, stupid. “I mean, I shop for myself. Sometimes. It’s just a note to myself. It says Alice, please remember to return your book to the library.”

“Ah, a library denizen,” he said. “Do you go to the downtown library?”

“No,” I said. “I live out by New Berlin. There’s a little library right by my house.”

“So you go to Washington High, then?”

I nodded.

“I’m starting there this year,” he said. “I’m a little nervous. I transferred from out of state.”

“Just keep a list of weird words handy,” I offered.

He smiled. We talked some more. I don’t remember what we talked about because my head was swimming with excitement.

He came up to me the first day of class. We were leaving English, having been assigned a section of Jane Eyre, one of my favorite classic novels. Just walking through the crowded hall, I could see eyes on me in every direction. That never happened before. But now here the mysterious new guy was talking to little old me, telling me about his original copy of Jane Eyre that he wanted to show me, but only if I agreed to let him take me out to dinner.

That Friday night, the first Friday of the school year, we had our first date in a crowded dark little restaurant in downtown Milwaukee that featured $25 plates and whose walls were covered with old paintings. I thought I was going to die. Being there with him. Eating food my parents would be jealous of. Staring at the plastic-wrapped original copy of Jane Eyre, with “An Autobiography” in small text underneath the title.

Tricia and Seth met us at the entrance to the school. Tricia was wearing heels today, which made her an inch or two taller than Seth. They were both wearing their Washington Dragons t-shirts to show a little school spirit: the girls’ basketball team—the “Lady Dragons”—had won the state championships again. Seth looked younger with such a large shirt on. He was already short, and his boyish pimpled face and short blond hair didn’t help things. He’d gotten an ear pierced a year ago but it had become infected and he had to take it out … just Seth’s luck.

“That really doesn’t do much for your figure,” I said to Tricia with a smile. I turned to Seth. “Yours either, dear.”

Seth just shrugged. “They were out of small sizes.”

“I got mine for free,” Tricia said proudly. She tossed her blond hair over her shoulders. “The cheerleaders were throwing t-shirts into the stands at the last home game.”

Seth jerked a thumb in her direction. “Trish reached over an old lady’s head and tore it out of her hands.”

“I did not!” Tricia said, slapping him lightly on the arm. This could have been the beginning of a long, drawn-out fight. That was how they were. It was the complete opposite of Edward and me: we never fought. I didn’t want to deal with their fight today. I didn’t want either of them preoccupied before our biology final on Thursday. The only sensible course was a diversion.

“Are those the jeans we picked out last week?” I asked.

Tricia lifted up her too-long shirt, extending one leg. “Indeed they are. Acid wash is going to make a comeback, I swear it.”

Edward and Seth both laughed a little. “She’s probably right,” Edward said. “Every style eventually makes a comeback.”

“Yeah but is she going to live that long?” Seth asked with a raised eyebrow.

Another playful slap. But this time, he caught her hand and held it. A good sign that they would stay on good terms and at least try to get some studying done tonight. I didn’t want either of them to fail.

We walked toward Edward’s car on the far end of the parking lot. Nothing but the best for Edward: a great car and a great parking space. Only the upper-class kids had parking spaces in the little lot behind Washington High. The rest of us peasants parked on the streets in the surrounding neighborhood, generally upsetting the owners of the one-story boxes who liked their street quiet and devoid of teenagers.

“You think it’s gonna rain?” Seth asked, glancing up at the gray sky. “I’m so sick of the rain. I gotta start biking to work to save money on gas.”

Tricia wrapped her arm in his. “It’s going to rain every day you have to work. All summer.”

“That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to him,” I told her with a laugh. Edward’s hand found mine and squeezed it tight. I felt a little surge of warmth spread across my body. I looked up at him. He was a foot taller than me, a good six inches taller than Tricia and she was five-ten. He could have been on the basketball team. I told him that. He would always respond: “I’d rather spend time with you.”

Dreamy, eh?

In the car, Seth sat up front and controlled the radio dial with calculated fury, making sure we were never tortured by any commercials. Edward had one of the nicest cars but he drove in control and always used his turn signals, even as he was pulling out of the parking lot.

“You’re such a weirdo,” Tricia told him when he made a complete stop before pulling out of the parking lot. “Not even one squealed tire? Really?”

He laughed and gave a little shrug, turning on the wipers as a small sprinkling of rain started up. “I like to be safe. It’s a nice car, if you haven’t noticed. With some nice ladies inside, too.”

“Where?” Seth asked, looking around.

I kicked the passenger’s seat. “Be good.”

“I bet if we were wearing low-cut blouses he’d be nicer,” Tricia said with a smile. We were on 85th street now, heading away from the city of Milwaukee and toward the little suburb of New Berlin. “Remember two years ago when we didn’t have chests? I don’t even think Seth ever even talked to me in the hall.”

“I never talked to anyone in the hall,” Seth muttered. “Especially girls without chests.”

“I bet I’d still have talked to Alice,” Edward said, glancing at me in the mirror. His dark eyes narrowed deviously.

“Probably not,” I told him.

Tricia laughed. “Yeah Eddie, she really wasn’t much to look at when she was a frosh. See how straight her dark hair is now? It used to be much frizzier. I had to teach her how to use hairspray. And this face? Zits. Tons and tons of zits. She needed a lot of help.”

“It’s true,” I murmured. I’d smoothed out some of the rough edges over the past two years. My skin was clearer (although I didn’t tan well) and I’d filled into a slight hourglass shape. My bright brown eyes seemed brighter now than when I was younger—or maybe I’d just gotten used to them. I used to hate them. Now, I loved how they complimented my indigo-friendly wardrobe.

“Every high school student needs a lot of help,” Edward said with a smile. “Me included.”

“Yeah I think one of your pecks is smaller than the other,” Seth said, giving Edward a poke in the ribs. Edward flinched, smiling, but said nothing.

Suddenly he braked, forcing my body against the seat belt. I looked out the windshield and saw the car of Joey Harrington pass us.

“What an ass,” Tricia said. “Who passes someone on a residential street?”

“Joey Harrington,” the rest of us said at the same time. Joey lived in our neighborhood, too. He kept to his clique of popular students inside the lunchroom and played football and hockey. He didn’t talk to us, but he didn’t pick on us either. We were the in-betweens—not quite popular, not quite outcasts who were the target of bullies. But we had friends in the outcast cliques, and so Joey and his friends’ taunts affected us too.

After Edward started dating me and word had spread, Joey was even nice to me in the hallway. Not overly nice, mind you … but he’d say hi. And it was hard not to enjoy it.

“You should cut him off,” Tricia said.

“I’d love nothing more,” Edward responded. “But not today.”

“Not today,” Seth scoffed. “You always say that. You’ve got, like, the coolest head in the school. And I mean that in a bad way, dude.”

“Yeah,” said Trish, “what happens when you get caught in some drama? You’ll have to take a side. Joey and his friends and those cool girls are obsessed with making drama.”

Edward just shrugged. It didn’t get to him. At least, I don’t think it did. He was cool. He looked cool—calm, I mean. His short dark hair and square jaw made him look like someone out of an old black-and-white detective film, one of those guys who’s always thinking one step ahead.

As we headed farther west, the houses and properties began to spread out. No more small boxy World War II-era homes … now, everything was getting bigger. Bigger homes. Bigger front yards. Bigger cars. We passed Southridge Mall, and then our rival high school. The street widened into four lanes to accommodate more traffic.

Edward turned right at Cherokee Drive, weaving around bends in the street. The houses in this small patch of neighborhood were crowded with pine and maple trees. Everything was green. Summer was here.

“Your stop, my friends,” Edward said, pulling into the driveway of a long two-story house with brown siding and wide windows overlooking the road. This was Seth’s house. You couldn’t see it from the front road, but in the back yard was one of the most amazing swing sets out there, complete with a climbing tower and monkey bars. As kids, Seth and I had logged hundreds of hours on that jungle gym.

Tricia opened her door, then reached out and grabbed Edward’s shoulder. “So you’ll pick us up tomorrow, right?”

He laughed. “I promise.”

“Please,” she said. She turned to me. “Don’t either of you forget. I can’t miss that exam.”

“You need to focus on passing the exam,” I told her sternly.

“I will.” She smiled her pearly white smile, then blew me a kiss.

Edward gave a wave to Seth, pulling out of the driveway and heading back toward 86th Street. On the way, we passed my house. My parents were both home, their twin Toyotas sitting in the driveway. Our house was narrower than Seth’s. Taller, too—our house had two floors. The paneling outside was dark blue and the windows much, much older. Drafty. Edward had never been inside my house, but if he had he would have first noticed the draft coming in through the windows. Everyone noticed that first.

We were quiet for a while. Edward didn’t talk much. I thought it was sexy; it reminded me of the hunks that always showed up in the books that all the girls in school read during Study Hall. The hunks were always silent. Always mysterious. Like Edward. Why he’d zeroed in on plain Alice was the subject of many guesses.

“Are we going to prom next year?” I asked him suddenly.

He turned right on 86th Street. “Of course.”

I leaned back. I wished I’d gotten in the front seat to be closer to him. I wanted to be close to him suddenly. To make sure he didn’t disappear.

“What made you think of that?” he asked.

“I just got this, like, real weird feeling run over me,” I said. “Like, we’re not going to be together next year or something.” Give me reassurance, I thought. There were prettier girls in school. They all liked Edward. They talked to him in class. They tried to make him laugh because he had a nice smile. OK, I’m being modest. A lot of them downright fawned over him. I pretended not to see it, but in reality we’re talking more than a little anxiety. He’d made friends so quickly—that was what happened when you joined track. The runners were popular.

He didn’t answer at first. Not exactly what I was hoping for.

“Seriously?” I asked. “No answer?”

“Of course we’re going,” he said finally.

“But you hesitated.”

“A lot of things happen over the course of the year, Alice.” He shrugged. “I’m game if you are.”

“But what?” I asked. “You think I might not be up for it?”

He didn’t answer. The downside to having a mysterious boyfriend was sometimes he was mysterious in an annoying sort of way. The popular girly books never prepare you for that.

“You OK?” he asked finally.

I touched my forehead. “Yes. I think. I’ve just been having some weird dreams.”

“What about?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember them well. But I keep waking up in a cold sweat. I know they’re scary, though. I remember them being scary.”

“Don’t eat pizza before bedtime,” he offered. “It causes nightmares.”

“Thank you, doctor. That’s really wonderful advice.”

Farther out at the edge of the suburb were the much larger houses. These houses were less social than the ones in my neighborhood: each one had a wrought iron gate and expansive yards and high fences that acted as a buffer between their neighbors. Each house was secluded and that, I think, was the way the owners liked it.

They liked their yards, too. Edward’s neighbor had put in a number of massive green shrubs that had been cut to resemble animals. Edward’s parents had “installed” maple and ash trees around the edge of the property to give their mansion—a thick, two-story monolith with off-white paneling and narrow prison-like windows—the feel of a cabin out in the woods.

A really, really big cabin.

He stopped the car at the gate, running his keycard across the little sensor box. The gate opened and he drove up the asphalt driveway, parking at the side of the house. Up close, the house looked more “middle class” and less “Super Filthy Rich.” There was a small door that presumably led to the basement and two green garbage bins that always seemed to be overflowing. Rain water had stained the red-brick foundation with ugly black streaks.

“Ugh,” I said, stepping around the garbage bag sitting on the grass next to the overflowing bin. Food wrappers and empty orange juice cartons were leaking out. “The raccoons got to it. Don’t your parents tell you to take out the trash?”

“Every week,” Edward said with a smile. “I hate doing it. It’s a long walk from the house to the street, if you haven’t noticed.”

“I’ve noticed,” I said. “You could almost have your own bus line from the street to your house.”

We walked up the concrete steps to the front door. Edward pulled out his keys and unlocked it.

“No parents?”

“What do you mean?” he asked with concern in his voice.

“I thought you said they might be home today.”

“Tonight,” he said. “Later tonight. Much, much later.”

We walked into the house. The front door opened into a massive living room. Near the front door were two blue couches and a large flatscreen TV smushed against the wall. Over the beautiful dark gray floral pattern wallpaper. That idea had to have come from Edward’s dad, I thought. No sane woman would hang something over such beautiful wallpaper.

Beyond the living room was the kitchen and a bathroom, the only other two rooms—beside his bedroom upstairs—that Edward said we were allowed to hang out in. The first floor had three more rooms, each one filled with things teenagers weren’t allowed to touch. Edward had shown me one afternoon when he was sure his parents wouldn’t show up. The first room was full of tall marble statues. Old, old statues. Statues of goddesses and ancient soldiers and plain-looking figures who had the curly hair and wardrobe of philosophers.

The second room was full of paintings, which hung on the wall and were held in place by solid metal frames whose intricate designs were almost as interesting as the paintings themselves. Lots of cherubs. Edward’s parents had a thing for cuddly little angel babies, I guess.

The third room led to the staircase and the bedrooms upstairs. This room was simpler, with tall solid wood bookshelves that tempted me every time we snuck upstairs. Books so old just looking at their delicate broken spines might cause them pain. Books so old the writing on the covers looked as if it had been inked in a different language entirely, the font so obscure you had to squint and remember back to your cursive lessons to figure out each letter. It was beautiful.

We went in there now on our way to his bedroom. I stopped as I always did, exploring one of the bookshelves nearest the large staircase pressed against the far wall. My bare toes sank into the soft red carpeting as I ran a finger along the middle row. This was the only room with carpeting. It looked old, too, as if it belonged in an earlier generation.

“Fairy tales,” I murmured. “God, there must be dozens of books of fairy tales.”

“They’re important,” Edward said. “Don’t you think?”

“I guess.”

“They are important,” Edward said. “Children need to believe in happy endings.”

“And Prince Charming,” I added. I looked up at him. “Right? Prince Charming is real, isn’t he?”

He smiled and kissed me on the forehead. “Of course, my love.”

“What’s this?” I asked, grabbing a flat wooden box sitting on one of the shelves. There was glass over one side and when I saw what was inside, I nearly dropped it.

“Careful,” Edward said, taking it from me. “They’re just butterflies.”

“Dead butterflies!” I exclaimed, wiping my hands on my pants. “Stabbed with needles!”

“That’s how they’re displayed.”

“Well, it’s gross. Almost as gross as spiders.”

He seemed offended, sliding the box back into the bookshelf between two books. “I have a lot of these, all over the house, so you might as well get used to them. I collect them. Every butterfly species is different. They’re all beautiful in their own way.” He looked at me and smiled devilishly. “I bet spiders can taste the difference, too.”

My stomach lurched. “Oh that is so gross. Please stop.”

He put an arm around me. “If you insist, my love.”

We went upstairs. I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong: I didn’t sleep with him. In fact, I’d never slept with him. It was strange, especially since we’d been dating for more than half a year, but I was having doubts about whether we should go that far at all. He seemed so much more mature than me. He didn’t laugh at Seth’s ridiculous jokes—he just smiled. He didn’t get excited at the hockey and basketball and football games we went to—he just clapped. He didn’t goof around with his track mates in class.

If we were going to have sex, I wanted to make sure it meant something. And I still didn’t know Edward, not really … I mean, what about that butterfly collection? What was that all about? Was he going to work in a museum or something? And I hadn’t even met his parents yet! Always so busy, running around making money.

We necked. There was nothing wrong with that, right? His bed was soft. His dark blue sheets felt silky on my bare toes. His lips pressed against mine, then made their way down to my neck. This is nice, I thought. This could be every night for the rest of my life and I would be happy.

His hand crept lower. I let it happen until he reached my waist, then pulled it back. “Not now,” I said.

“When,” he whispered into my ear. I could sense the longing. It was hard not to give in. Still, I felt something was wrong about this moment.

“Soon,” I said. “I promise. I turn eighteen on Monday, remember?”

He rolled back, sighing. His tight shirt had rolled up a bit and his strong abs were visible now. I had to fight the urge to run a hand along them. Gawd, I was fighting a lot of urges.

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “Really. You’re wonderful. Almost too wonderful. But I want to wait until I’m eighteen.” There. A little lie, yes, but it would buy me some time before I had everything figured out. Plus, I’d be a thousand dollars richer, too.

“It’s OK,” he said, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s OK. This just feels so right for me, that’s all.”

Yeah. Right. I bet it did, Edward. I didn’t think any of that at the time, though. At the time, I felt nothing but shame. Like I’d done something wrong for saying no. Like I should feel bad because I wasn’t ready to have sex with him. Why wasn’t I? He was one of the coolest guys in school. He was dark. He was mysterious. And he was mine.

He drove me home in silence. I fought the urge to apologize. Be tough, I told myself. Be tough. You didn’t do anything wrong. Just because a lot of the kids in the cool clique talked about sex all the time didn’t make it cool. Or right.

I made it past the kiss goodbye. I made it past the kitchen, where my mom was sitting at the table reading a magazine. I made it to my room. Then I cried. I felt as if I’d done something wrong saying no. I felt as if I was supposed to sleep with Edward.

Mom came into my room without knocking. Her soft hand rested on my back and stayed there while I let it all out.

“It’s hard,” I said into my pillow.

Mom—ever the understanding one in these moments—simply affirmed my outlook on life with a quiet “Mmmm-hmmm.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because,” Mom said, “that’s just the way it is. Life isn’t a fairy tale. It has a lot of ups and downs.”

I sighed, dry-hiccupping. The tears were gone. If Dad was up here, he’d call this a “woman thing” and maybe he was right. My cycle had begun acting less on time for the last six months, ever since I’d started dating Edward. It was nothing spectacularly big—a couple days early, then a couple days late—but it was incredibly strange given how rigorous my cycle usually was. I didn’t want to mention that to my mom. Those types of topics had a tendency to lead to “sex talks,” and I’d had enough of those. Really, just one or two is enough, Mom.

“You’re starting your new job in a few days,” Mom said. “Look forward to that. Just get through these last few exams and then focus on that. I’ll run your pillow case through the laundry tonight, too.”

“It’s not a job,” I murmured. Gawd, what a teenager-thing to say. Here she was, trying her best to cheer me up, and I had to go and pick her words apart.

She was unfazed. “Books,” she said in her soothing “Mom” voice, “are what you love.”