Absolutely loving my life right now, but sorry I haven't blogged in a while. I had anthro and archaeology exams, plus essays to do! It was one of those happy nightmare times where you know you're learning heaps, but you have no time to appreciate it.
On the plus side, I'm being published again. Before I continue with more excerpts, I'm going to drop in a few excerpts from some which are either about to be released (December 15th), or up for competitions.
From IN TRYSTS - to be released from LindenBay Romance December 15th! Written by my pseudonym, Melody Knight
Peri sucked in a deep breath, realised she might be sucking corpse dust, and rapidly expelled it.
Sophie glanced at her, but from a safe distance. “Pe-er-r?” she whispered, in a quavery voice.
Peri closed her eyes, held her breath this time, and moved closer to that gaping hole. It was black, and bleak, like some giant maw...
Stop it! This wasn’t her first disinterment. She was an amateur archaeologist, for God’s sake!
And you’ve stolen from the dead before... Was it really so much better to a dead woman if the grave goods you stole ended up in a museum? So her personal belongings were exposed to the world?
Peri shuddered, then stiffened her spine. Her muscles were rigid, her flesh crawling. Was it the smell? Obscenely fresh--almost nauseatingly pungent.
She angled her light so it played across the loose cloth.
That was wrong. It shouldn’t be loose. “C-Cerecloth,” she choked out. Her hands were trembling.
Sophie crept closer. “Who?”
“It’s cerecloth.” Peri’s voice was hushed. Sophie’s, “Huh”, prompted her to add, “Waxed cloth, made from wax and oil.” As she spoke, Peri was taking a closer look at the wrapped face. The waxed landscape of facial features was ill-fitting, like an empty mask...
...almost as though Hannah had shifted. Buried alive?
(Rated R18::Romantic Suspense) http://www.lindenbayromance.com/comming_details.php?id=77
From GILDED FOLLY - published by Cerridwen Press, and in a competition (cross your fingers!)
Wick opened his eyes fifteen minutes later. He was lying on the floor with a pillow under his head, tight bandaging on his shoulder, and an IV rehooked to his arm. The blood scent was so thick in the room it was difficult to breathe.
There was another smell, too—like rancid meat.
Or aged Mict.
He turned his head and saw a darkly-muscled limb dangling over the edge of the mattress.
Plikva!
No, think Shit! If there was ever a time for human expletives, it was now. Dulled his thinking might be, but it was obvious he was far from alone in the room. The pacing feet vibrated through the floor as a rough thud-thud-rumble-squeak, thud-thud-rumble-squeak.
Fitz.
Fitz came into his field of vision then. One look at his face, and Wick would gladly have fed himself to the nearest Mict. There was no mistaking Fitz’ fear—or aversion. Fitz was wavering; uncertain whether to blame Wick for the Mict’s appearance. “Phil and Dacey are downstairs,” Fitz told him toughly. “They’re calling someone—trying to fix this mess.” He nodded toward the creature on the bed. “What is it?” he asked fiercely.
“Mict,” Wick admitted. “Short for Mictlampa.”
Damned drugs!
It was obvious from Fitz’ shocked expression that he’d never really expected Wick to be able to tell him—and that he wasn’t wavering any more. Fitz swallowed with difficulty, then whispered, “You-You mentioned it in the ER.”
“Oh?” Wick retorted, attempting to look both confused and ignorant.
I am such a dumbass.
“Rom’s gone.”
It sounded like an accusation.
Since I know about the Mict, I must also know everything else... Wick widened his eyes in feigned surprise, even as his mouth fought to form the words, “I know”. He finally got himself under control enough to ask insincerely, “Where is he?”
Fitz froze then. He stared at the corpse, and understanding dawned. Rom’s research! Developed in some lab—a genetic aberration which could kill without compunction.
Bad enough for Rom to have come up with such a thing.
If it was Rom. It was Wick who’d been hiding it in a closet. Fitz suddenly realised he didn’t have a clear idea what Wick did for a living. He claimed to be a professional magician, but Fitz had never seen him perform on stage. He was adept at street magic, he claimed.
“Lots of latitude in your job,” Fitz said quietly, but his narrowed eyes gave him away. Wick was adept at sleight-of-hand—at making things disappear. What kinds of things? Research? Weapons? People? “You’ve always been good at hiding things.”
Damned humans, Wick thought. He chewed on his lip to keep from voicing it aloud.
Fitz asked Wick coldly, “Are you a terrorist?”, then held his breath as he waited for Wick’s response.
It was the last thing Wick had expected, and it was all he could do not to burst out laughing. After his admission about the Mict, he’d been expecting some outcry of “alien”, at the very least.
His lips twitched, but he fought to control himself. Fitz looked so damned serious, and Wick was very conscious that he was lying on the floor, and unlikely to be going anywhere for a while. Besides, he and Fitz had been friends a long time.
And, he had to admit, the man wasn’t far wrong. Wick thought about it. Invading an alien land, living undercover, indoctrinated as hell, out to kill someone.
But it would never do to tell him so. Not here, and definitely not now.
Wick tried to bite his lips, but they just kept on talking, all without the benefit of his brain. “Yeah,” his mouth said, sounding slightly shocked. “I guess I bloody well am.”
From Cerridwen Press: SF/Fantasy
http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4
Talk to you soon (I promise!)
Regards,
ND/Melody
N. D. Hansen-Hill
http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com
(17 of my ebooks)
