Indie-kissing Blogfest & Vampire Bite Blog Hop

For Valentine's Day, I was torn between two great blog hops. So, I decided to do both. 

 The first is the Indie-kissing blogfest hosted by the Indelibles.   The excerpt I chose is from my newest WIP, The Wish. This scene is all about the kiss, so I will not bother you with any backstory. Hope you enjoy.

           In Nate’s eyes, Amanda sees her future. He is like a pair of blue jeans in a world full of suits, a comfortableness that she hasn’t felt before. It has been years since she has been ignited with passion.

            The night wind dances in her hair. The moon glistens off the pavement. Her mind runs through every reason why she shouldn’t be with him, but his chocolate eyes are melting her resolve. His luscious, pink lips look like a perfect landing pad if she would allow herself to fall.

             He eases towards her, as if he heard her thoughts.

             She slides her bottom lip between her teeth, biting down, making sure that her mouth is awake. Her body is tingling, a deep burn.

             “I shouldn’t,” he exhales with a trail of breath that tickles her cheek.

             “We really shouldn’t,” she whispers back.

             He pauses.

             She leans in closer.

             He closes his eyes, and then the gap between them.

             His lips are as soft as she’d imagined. The kiss starts gentle, slow, as if he is afraid he will break her. Her face is a porcelain egg that he cradles between his hands. He pulls back, looks into her eyes, and then leans into her once more. The kiss catches fire. 

The next blog hop is very different. So, maybe you should get a drink of water and cleanse your palet before continuing to read. Precious Monsters is hosting a Vampire Bite blog hop. Given that my first novel, Iron Thirst, is all about vampires -- it was a given that I would participate. The excerpt is actually the prologue. Adam Bristow sets the scene...

***

The night has just begun when I spot Gabriel locking his sights on his first victim. His trance-inducing stare caught her the moment she stepped into the bar. If he has his way, the curvaceous blonde will be in his bed in under an hour, and shortly after her blood will be staining his lips. 

Thursday night at DragonCon is when most of the guests check into their hotels and start the weekend with a drink in hand. For me, the first night of Con is when I begin my patrol while the out-of-towners descend upon our city. I’m not worried about the geeks, the costumed fans, or the party animals. My concern is very specific--those who are removing their disguises. Vampires get this weekend to be themselves, but there are rules, and this bloodsucker is dangerously close to breaking the first one--aggravating me.

His fangs are protruding, turned on by the blue-eyed soon-to-be donor. She doesn’t blink as she gravitates towards him. What irks me is that she’s an unwilling snack. There will be plenty of those, but I ain’t going to stand by and watch. She may be walking to him on her own two feet, but the brain in her head belongs to him.

What a lovely time to buy my dear old pal a drink.

“Hello, Gabriel.” I step between them, breaking their eye contact and the hold he has over her. The bastard snarls at me. “Run along, love,” I tell the blonde over my shoulder. 

She blinks a few times, lets out a heavy sigh, then scurries along to look for her friends. 

When I glance back, Gabriel has painted a smile on his face. “Bristow, if you continue to chase off my dinner then I will be forced to believe you are volunteering.” He leans in close. “Although, you’re not my taste. Your blood is much too bitter.”

No one likes a clever vampire. I pull the unlit pipe from my lips, and raise an eyebrow at him. “You’re not threatening me now, are ya?”

His smile vanishes. “I was not harming anyone, nor am I breaking any of your precious rules.” 

“That’s debatable, and I’m not really up to the debate. So, just behave yourself and you’ll live, well--exist, to see your two hundredth birthday.”

“Ahh, you flatter me, but I am not nearly that old.” His eyes flicker to a spot over my shoulder.

“Why, I recall my two hundredth birthday. So long ago,” I hear from behind me. The smooth Egyptian voice climbs up my spine like a spider. “I was a proud fighter alongside Sultan Al-Kamil the night we sustained Cairo. Those Christian boys looked just as surprised then as you do now.”

My fingers instinctively dance towards the butt of the gun holstered under my jacket, but Zamir’s hand is on my wrist before I can blink. “And Adam, what are you? A whole thirty-five? And heart still beating? Such a shame. We could help with that risky little problem.”

I jerk my hand free from his grasp. “I’ll keep my ticker tocking, thank you.”

I’m a rather smart bloke. I wouldn’t still be alive if I wasn’t. So allowing a thousand-year-old vamp to sneak up on me is just piss poor form. I turn to see the dark-skinned vampire, fangs extended, staring back at me. I haven’t seen Zamir in nearly ten years, and if I’m being honest, I ain’t thrilled at seeing him now. I take a step back so they are both in my sight. A vampire in periphery is an open invitation to empty veins.

“What brings you to Atlanta?” I ask Zamir, rubbing my palm over the prickly stubble that is my hair.  

“You a Stargate fan, or is Buffy more your style?”

 “Ah, my dearest Bristow, you do not seem happy to see me. No matter. Many of my progeny look expectantly upon this weekend, and I find myself wondering what all the chatter is about. Thought I would come and see for myself.”

Rubbish, I’m sure. “I’m on my early rounds making sure everyone keeps it copasetic. We want all the humans’ hearts beating and the secret safe. We got rules in this area. So, keep it peaceful.”

As I turn to walk away, Zamir says, “Adam, we are aware of your so-called rules, but I have my own laws that govern my actions and the actions of my people that take precedence over the lawyer’s little treaty. Maybe you should run along and check the more recent additions to our world.”

I hate the way his words crawl over my skin. I glance at Gabriel’s smug face, grinning as if he’s getting away with something. I didn’t work so hard on my reputation to allow a measly hundred-fifty-year-old vamp to get the better of me. I’d love nothing more than to knock him arse over elbow, but starting a fight on the first night over something as silly as pride would not be my best bet. Not without back up. Currently, the rest of my team is patrolling the other three hotels.

If the humans knew what was swarming DragonCon, they might have just stayed home behind locked doors. Not that a flimsy door would keep the monsters out.

For more excerpts from Iron Thirst, please click here. 

Excerpt from Iron Thirst: Welcome to DragonCon

An excerpt from the first chapter of Iron Thirst.  Felicity, Mike, and Christian arrive at DragonCon in Atlanta, GA. 

*** 

To get our ID badges, we wait in a line that looks like a mighty rainbow-colored python coiling around the large building. Well, a rainbow with lots of black in it. It slithers along as each person gives their name to the gatekeeper to get their pass. After nearly three hours of shifting from foot to foot, we finally gain entrance into this magical land. 

We find a corner to sit and begin taking in the thirty-seven page program that lists the events, exhibits, parties, and other things that there are to do at DragonCon. Each of us flips through our copy searching for things of interest to us. There is so much to take in, and I must admit I am overwhelmed and out of my element. 

“They have a class on how to survive a zombie attack,” Mike says sarcastically.

“Really, when?” Christian asks.

Mike turns to me. “I was kidding.”

I toss my head back and laugh. Poor Mike has no idea what he has gotten himself into. After continuing to look through the program, I find something of interest to me. “Hey, Nancy Leigh Johnston will be doing a lecture on how she came up with the premise for her latest book. That will be awesome.”

“Guys, they have real live wrestling,” Mike says.

“Isn’t that an oxymoron?” I laugh and a snort slips through my nose.

“You’re the moron,” Mike retorts, making a snorting noise back at me.

“Why don’t we walk around for a bit and get our bearings?” Christian suggests.

We all agree. Tossing the programs into Christian’s backpack, we head off to explore.

Con takes place in four hotels over four days. Two of the hotels are attached to a large mall by a cylindrical glass tunnel that stretches over the streets below. People move between the buildings like hamsters through the tubes. The other two hotels are within walking distance. It is so simple to get confused between them. Even easier to get completely turned around, which only adds to the adventure and mystery.

After much walking and exploring, Christian pulls the program from his backpack. He walks over to a bench to sit down. My feet thank him, and I follow. Mike looks back at me with a grin and then struts towards a woman wearing a bikini made of chainmail. The tiny chinks of metal barely cover her, but no critical flesh is exposed.

“So what’s next, party leader?” I ask, sitting down next to Christian.

“I’m not sure. I don’t really have anything planned until later this afternoon. Did you see something you wanted to check out?” he asks, passing me the booklet.

“I want to go back to the art room, but I think we will need to leave that one somewhere first.” I point to Mike.

Christian laughs. His stomach growls loud enough that I can hear it. “I’m getting hungry,” he says, grabbing his tummy to quiet it down.

“Me too. What is Mike doing?” I lean to the side to get a better look.

Mike is fiddling with the pieces of metal on the woman’s outfit while talking to her. She is smiling uncomfortably, then suddenly, is smiling no longer.

Christian stands to see what I’m looking at right when a large man with hair down to his waist approaches Mike. He is carrying a golden shield and wearing leather armor. We could divide him in half and make two people; he is that big. But judging by the expression on his face, Mike is the one in danger of being torn in half.

“Uh oh,” says Christian, walking towards them.

“Is there a reason you are touching my wife?” asks the voice equally as large as the man.

“I was admiring the craftsmanship,” says Mike, “Did you make this?”

“Hands off, or you will be one with the pavement.”

“Look, there’s no reason to be a jerk,” he says, retrieving the offending hand from the silver armor. 

“Your chick is hot, but I was just looking at how the damn thing was made.” His feet aren’t moving, but he is beginning to tap dance. A poor attempt to save his hide.

The man’s chest gets wider. I didn’t think that was possible. Christian steps in front of our friend, the moron, and pushes him the other direction, adding, “We were leaving. Sorry for the trouble.”

The man turns his back, leaving Mike upright and in one piece.

“Dammit, dude. I’m telling you right here and now, that was it. That’s your get out of jail free card. 

The next time you are on your own. You will just have to get pounded into the ground,” Christian says, his face a splotchy red.

“What? His woman’s running around wearing that, and he’s mad at me?”

“Dude, you were sticking your fingers through the chains.”

Mike laughs. “Yeah, she let me. This place is awesome.”

I let out a heavy sigh. “Let’s go eat.”

We take one of the glass walkways over to the mall.

The food court at Peachtree Center is so surreal during DragonCon. We pass two women dressed as leaders of an empire getting their shoes shined, and we giggle like children.

We split up, and each of us picks a place to grab our choice of food. My taste buds decide that I’ll be having stir-fry on a bed of white rice. I’m on my way back to the table with my red tray, when I feel a crunch under my boot.

A young man with a pipe says in a faint English accent, “Love, I’m the only one that stands on my feet. Off.”

His hair is but a shadow on his head, like he is waiting for it to sprout. He’s tall, slender, cute, but obviously obnoxious.

I blush and stammer, “I’m…I’m terribly sorry.”

“It’s alright, love. We can’t all watch where we are going.”

I can’t help but laugh. At this rate, either clumsiness or stupidity is going to get us in a world of trouble.

Margaret Mitchell House

Repost from 8/5/2009

www.margaretmitchellhouse.com

My husband and I recently had the opportunity to tour the Margaret Mitchell house, cleverly marketed as the birthplace of Gone with the Wind. I’m not sure what I expected when I walked in there, but whatever it was, I was wrong.

We paid the twelve bucks each to take the tour. I did not read the brochure before, so I was unaware that although the building was three story highs we would be seeing three rooms on the first floor. The large gift shop was about the size of half the space that we would be touring. About six of us lined up while a magenta haired woman took center stage.

She begins the tour by telling us who saved the building, which was once apartment buildings, from destruction, about multiple fires, and how the tile floor is the original tile floor. I would quickly learn that would be one of the only things that was original. Well, except for a toilet, but don’t get excited, it wasn’t Margaret’s toilet. No chance of sitting down and channeling greatness. It belonged to an apartment on the third floor.

She then complained in great detail because the keys were not numbered while searching for the one that would open Apartment Number One. My mood quickly shifted for the worst. 

The tour was of the apartment where she lived while writing the book. The walls, I think were even new. A living room, bed room, kitchen (smaller than most closets), and a bathroom with the third floor toilet. All filled with antique furniture purchased to give the appearance of what it would have looked like. 

It wasn’t the short tour that aggravated me. It was the woman. I’m not sure that she has even read GWTW. She seemed so uneducated. She walked from room to room speculating and making weird comments about the photos. I was none too happy with my trusty tour guide.

When we excited, I finally went off on my own. I walked over to a plaque on the wall and began to read. And this was the place where everything changed. Margaret Mitchell’s first fiancé went to war, but never came home. Her first husband was a drunk and very abusive. She married a second time. She said that before she wrote GWTW, she read up everything she could get her hands on and feeling frustrated she started her own book. Her famous quote was “In a weak moment, I have written a book. “ (My closest friends will understand that.) And lastly, when she finished chapters she would put them in manila envelopes and send them to a friend who would read them. By the time I finished reading this plaque, my face was soaked. Tears involuntarily flowing down my face. 

My husband, who was reading along with me, says, “Wow, ya’ll have a lot in common.” And here, I thought I was nuts.

We walked over to the movie memorabilia part of the house. I turned to my husband and said, “If I ever make it big, let’s systematically burn and destroy every house we have ever lived in.” 

He laughed. He thought I was kidding.

But then Ann saved the day. I was standing in the gift shop holding a cookbook titled “Gone with the Grits” with complete disgust, when a southern woman’s twang filled the air. It was time for the 3:30 tour. Her humor and knowledge struck me. We took the tour again. She knew so much about the petite author, you would have thought they were old friends. She gave us gossip, and was full of laughs. A real tribute to the personality and quirkiness of Margaret Mitchell. By the end of the tour, I wanted to hug her neck. 

I then went home and smiled at my own pile of manila envelopes filled with chapters.

Thanks Tour Guide Ann!

A Day in Paris: Planning and Pantsing

A few years ago, I went on a study abroad trip to London and Paris. It was my first time out of the country. It was a whirlwind of a trip, only lasting a week, but filled to the brim with adventure as well as education on how business is done overseas.

The last three days were to be in Paris, and our next to last day we had entirely on our own. I stayed up late the night before, planning and plotting my adventure. I was going to take the double decker bus tour with a friend,visit Montmarte, and take my friend back to the hotel and split ways. Afterwards, I would be viewing things that were fascinating to me, but a bit too macabre for my friend such as the Catacombs and Père Lachaise Cemetery,where Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde are buried. I folded up the highlighted and ink-circled maps and placed them into my purse. My backpack was prepped with water, sunscreen, and snacks.

We woke early, the sun peering through the thin drapes of the hotel window.We dressed quickly, stopped for pastries and expresso, and then continued our journey into the Parisian sun. It was quite overbearing as we tried to snap pictures from the top of the tour bus. The ride was putting us behind schedule,but I tried not to let it fluster me. I am in Paris, one shouldn't be frustrated. 

We arrived at the foot of the Basilica of the Sacré Cœur. We popped in a few stores, ate macaroons, and tasted a truffle that was so good that I realized that I had never actually had a truffle before.  We gazed at the most colorful mime, and then stood at the foot of the stairs. The hours were running away. I needed to be at the hotel right now to be on schedule,and we still had more than 300 steps to climb. Take the funicular? Ha! We weren’t wimps. 

We stepped into the cathedral. Nuns were singing, and I believe that I had a spiritual encounter as I watched the many that had come to see this magnificent place. My eyes were blurred by tears as I toured the inside and the outside. I peered out over Paris. I was here. In that moment. 

We hiked back, yes, taking the stairs once more. When we reached the bottom, my friend asks, “Want to grab lunch?”

As much as the ticking clock said “no”, my grumbly tummy answered, “Yea, that would be great.”

It was nearly two hours later, when we arrived back to the hotel. I tossed my plans of using the free tour bus (we had all weekend to make use of the tickets we had bought) and decided to take a taxi. 

The dark skinned man only had a few words of English, and I had only a few more of French. It was going to be a long ride, and we were both the inquisitive type. He was concerned that I was going to the catacombs, as an impressionable female, alone.  He typed questions into his iPhone and translated them into English. It started with just trying to figure out how to say a word or two and by the end of the ride,we were typing full paragraphs. We discussed my writing, his hometown in Africa, my curiosity of how he viewed Americans, and his political beliefs.Truly, one of the best conversations of the trip. 

He dropped me off at the cross street next to the catacombs and offered one more, “Be safe. Hope you not be too afraid.”

I smiled and thanked him, wishing him well.

I walked across the street. I found the entrance, but was slapped in the face by a closed building. Last tickets sold thirty minutes ago. I cursed the silent curse. 

My next adventure was to be a walk to Père Lachaise Cemetery. I consulted the map and plotted my path. I had walked nearly a mile, when I started realizing that things weren’t lining up. I found a park bench and sat down, trying to makesense of it. 

Dammit.I turned the wrong way this (------------) long ago on my tiny map. I tried tojust make it work, but I needed to turn around, walk through a park, and then Iwould be back on the right path. 

I closed the map and behind it was a wall calling for a revolution. It made me smile. I snapped a few pictures and continued on my journey. 

I came up on a huge circle. Music was playing, a crowd was cheering, and curiosity got the better of me. I walked up on a dance troupe. I stood and watched the b-boys swirl on their heads on the streets of Paris. 

The song ended, and I continued on my path. The park that I needed to walk through had been converted into a marketplace. I hadn’t had a chance to buy souvenirs. I thanked the universe and ducked inside the lined up white tents and tables. I talked to an Indian man about chakras, smelled every handmade French soap, felt tapestries, tasted jams, and checked everyone off of my gift list. 

I reached the end and turned up the last street that would bring me to the final resting place of Morrison and Wilde. The impenetrable stone wall stretched around the 110 acres of graves. I walked and walked, trying to reach the entrance. I was crushed when I found it, and it was locked tight. Closed nearly an hour ago. I couldn’t help but cry a little, frustrated at my failure. First the catacombs, and now this. I mean, if you compared my original plan with what was checked off my list, I was a failure. 

I walked around the last corner and saw a line of tables, volunteers standing behind them, and ladles being filled with soup and poured into the bowls of what appeared to be the hungry. The humanity filled me with warmth. I smiled and walked aimlessly up the next street. 

At the corner was a café with tables and chairs pointing at the street. Time to knock another thing off my wish list. I sat and ordered wine and cheese, and I just  watched, listened, and absorbed. 

The wine was loosening my lips, and I started up a conversation with the waiter. He sat down and talked about his home village. The table next to me joined in. It was the young girl’s birthday, 18, now legal to drink. She wanted to move to America and become an actress. 

As a recovered smoker, the smell mixed with the alcohol was getting to me. Ah, when in Paris… I asked the waiter for a smoke. 

An older man, a picture perfect mental image of a Parisian, hat and all, joined in the conversation. We all laughed and drank .The older man wrote out all the things I needed to see in Paris, and then posed with a basket of baguettes to humor me—his idea. 

When I plotted my day, I built a path of A leads to B leads to C.  Although it could be deemed a failure because I arrived entirely too late to points B and C, I would call my adventure a smashing success. I had an outline for my story, but beautiful prose filled it with long lasting memories and experiences, inspired by the moment, the scenery, and the possibilities.   The end result was a lovely day in Paris.