Word of the Week: meshuggeneh (mə-sho͝og′ə-nə) - hear it! - noun - one who is crazy - the Free Dictionary

Indie author of the month: Come meet - Mr. Ted Fink!

I’m always delighted when a first-time editing client returns for additional services. Naturally, it’s a good feeling to know the client was pleased enough with my work to want to come back, which means possibly good word-of-mouth recommendation and, of course, additional monies coming in as my career in freelance editing grows.

But! For me, it’s much more personal. I truly enjoy getting to know my clients as individuals, discovering what makes each one unique in his/her own talent and lifestyle, and to be able to share in this with each of them. To treat them like gold (hence, one meaning behind the recent name of my editing business: Golden Standard Editing and Proofreading Services), and not just another faceless client who throws money my way.

And this brings me to my featured indie author this month: Mr. Ted Fink.

Back in September of 2013, just two months after I opened for business, Mr. Fink approached me to edit his 125K word roman á clef novel*, “In Search of Joel Gomez.” I’d been recommended by a mutual acquaintance, and of course, I happily obliged, eager to build a client base.

During the time spent editing his project, I got to learn more about Mr. Fink, both through the project itself and through our email correspondences that started off as simple editing updates (as I do with all of my clients), which gradually morphed into casual, friendly dialogues.

Easy-going, with sense of humor and an all-around good-natured disposition, Mr. Fink was (and is) an absolute pleasure to work with, so I was thrilled when he’d asked me (a little over a year later) if I would edit his collection of short stories, tall tales, and stories in rhyme.

How could I say no?

And what wonderful stores they are! You see, Mr. Fink is a celebrated oral storyteller from Philadelphia (among other great things he’s accomplished), who’s performed in a variety of venues throughout the Philadelphia area, bringing his tall tales and stories in rhyme to vibrant life for many, many different audiences to enjoy.

In the time I’ve known him, I’ve grown quite fond of Mr. Ted Fink, and I’m proud to call him not only my client, but also my friend.

Now, all of you can have the chance to get to know him by reading his interview here, visiting his website, and buying his forthcoming collection, “The Tales I’ve Told,” now available for Kindle and through Createspace.

Mr. Fink is certainly a client I truly treat like gold.

*  *  * 

Hi. My name is Ted Fink, Philadelphia storyteller, singer/songwriter. I would sincerely like to thank Kim Grenfell for inviting me to her blog to talk about who I am and what I do. On my desk I keep a copy of Robert Frost’s poem, “The Road Not Taken,” because in my life, I think, I’ve taken them all. If we define ourselves by what we do to make a living, I suppose you could say I’m a diversified survivalist. In my time, I’ve done so many damn things to survive… but, with no regrets. For, each path has led to an adventure, a tale to be told; a story that I must unfold. And, for me… story is everything. It’s what we are, it’s who we are, and it’s what we hope to be. And while I’ve been down those dusty roads and played those different roles, I always knew that in my heart I was an artist, a writer. It seems I’ve been writing all my life.

I created my first poem, my mother told me, and anybody else who would listen, when I was four. Here it is: Night and day I like to play and I like to play at night too, but I have to go to bed, don’t you? Hands in the air, she went off shouting, “He’s a poet! He’s a poet!”

Years later, my brother, Paul, who was a famous psychiatrist, would correct her, “No, he’s not a poet, he’s a meshuggeneh!” He once lovingly described me as the ultimate risk-taker: “Ted’s a guy who believes he can do anything. The worst thing you can do is to tell him there’s something he can’t do. Without ever reading a book on the subject (he’s mildly dyslexic) or working as a carpenter, he built his own house -- hammered every nail, designed and built most of the furniture within it, paints watercolors, performs his original stories at established venues, writes songs, sings songs, and has taught himself to be an excellent guitarist. Oh yeah, he goes sailing and scuba diving while not knowing how to swim! He’s nuts, is what he is.”

Geez, I loved the guy.

What he left out was that I have a master’s degree in education. I taught in an inter-city school for ten years, opened several fine restaurants, developed real estate, sold insurance and for six incredible years became The Eelman in the United States of America—that’s right, the Eelman! Want to make something of it?

When I was twelve I became fascinated with Kipling’s, Gunga Din and began reciting it for friends and family at the drop of a hat. Once old enough to drink alcohol, I could always get a free beer by suddenly stepping away from the bar and invoking, “You may talk o’ gin an’ beer while you’re quartered safe out ‘ere an’ you’ve sent the penny-fights an’ Aldershot it…” Today, my delivery on stage is often inspired by Kipling’s incredible story.

Yes, it’s been quite a journey, and guess what, it ain’t over yet!

*  *  *

* For those of you who don't know, a roman á clef novel is a novel in which real people or events appear with invented names.

Alas, Failure is a Form of Cute 

Hmm . . .

—tip-tap-tippity-tap-tip-tip-tap—

How Not to be Distracted . . .

—tip-tap-tappity-tip-tip-tap-tippity-tap—

by Cute Puppies . . .

—tappity-tap-tip-tap-tap-tip-tip—

(While Writing a Novel)

—tappity-tap-tap.

by Devon Winterson.

Tap.

Um . . . hmm . . . right . . . let's see . . .

Puppies?

Or novel?

Puppies . . . ?

Or novel . . . ?

Roly-poly, fuzzy playthings with cute faces . . .

Or tough strings of words I’ll need a sledgehammer to pound into place . . . ?

Hmm . . .

—tap-tap-tippity-tap-tap—

 

A while back, a good friend suggested I write a post about how not to get distracted by . . . um . . . distracted by . . . cute . . . um . . . puppies while writing a, um . . . novel . . . but, er, ah—

—tip-tip-tap—

* Devon abandons blog post, tosses computer aside, races after puppies *

Word of the week: antiestablishmentarianist (sic) – noun - [derived from: antiestablishment – adjective] – [one] opposed to or working against the existing power structure or mores, as of society or government – Dictionary.com

Indie Author of the Month: Come Meet . . . Tyro Vogel!

Through my years of writing and editing (and the year and a half I’ve been blogging), I’ve had the chance to meet so many wonderful writers with a host of gifted minds.

Stories of all genres written by ambitious, talented authors have captured my eye, and I love highlighting them here at The Ether of my Imagination with the high hopes that someone else—or many, many someone elses!—will learn more about those whom I’ve had the distinct pleasure of meeting, getting to know, and oftentimes gaining as repeat editing clients.

Today, I’d like to introduce you to one of these particularly gifted minds who takes his readers on journeys of wild fascination through his science fiction and edgy cyberpunk stories. I enjoyed editing Extatica [part one], and proofreading his short story collection, Double Five, both of which are very engaging and very creative. Not for everyone, mind you—and certainly not for younger readers. But for an open-minded adult searching for some reads out of the mainstream, something with just that unique flair . . . I highly recommend checking out this author’s works!

Best of all (at least I think, in my humble opinion): Any money he makes on Extatica will go to The Breast Cancer Research Foundation. All the more reason to help support this excellent budding author!

And so now, without further ado, here’s Tyro Vogel to tell you about himself, and his current and future projects! (And yes, the font change is deliberate. :-) )

* * *

Who?

My name is Maxim, but I (mostly) write fiction as Tyro Vogel, which stands for "Beginner Bird."

I am an antiestablishmentarianist who works in an office.

When nobody's looking, I also run a copywriting business.

What?

Human being, just like you.

As to what I write ... well ...

For copywriting projects I'd written everything from Facebook game quests to texts for a hotel chain on the Seychelles Islands. Which can be fun if done right, and is (or can be) financially rewarding, but it's not where my heart lies.

When I write for myself, I write short stories. I'd written more than two hundred of those little suckers between the ages of 13 and 27, and some of them I still have the audacity to like. Horror stories, detective stories, at least one Western, erotic stories, flash pieces without real beginnings, middles or ends, science fiction stories ... mostly science fiction stories.

In 2013, I've started working on my first novel Extatica, which is scheduled to come out August 15. Writing the first half had been an immensely rewarding experience through which I've made new friends and had a chance to work with some wonderful people (including the owner of these electronic pages), and I can't wait to see what will come out of it when it's finished.

While I'm not the biggest supporter of the self-publishing model, working on Extatica had taught me that it's not without its merits, especially after I'd accepted that I will make no money on it whatsoever (and whatever money I will make will go to The Breast Cancer Research Foundation). But guess what! You don't need to wait until August 5 to help them sponsor new advancements in cancer treatment, you can always go to http://www.bcrfcure.org and pledge a few dollars (pounds, rubles, euros) today.

Since finishing my work on the first half of Extatica, I'd released a free Sherlock Holmes / Star Wars / Doctor Who crossfic The Girl with the Scarab Necklace to Smashwords and a collection of short stories called Double Five to Amazon.

I am currently writing my second Fallout fan-fiction story (stop looking at me funny, I love writing and I'm a fan, what else would you have me do), writing the entries to the third and fourth quarters of Writers of the Future competition, and, of course, working on my pseudo-erotic cyberpunk thriller, Extatica.

Where?

Budapest, Hungary. The land of good wine, home to Ernő Rubik and cheap pornography.

My website is www.tyrovogel.com; moreover, I regularly post stolen art and music to my Google+ stream, which you can find at https://plus.google.com/+TyroVogel (clickety click).

When?

Yesterday, today, tomorrow.

How?

I have a real-to-God paper notebook into which I write story notes, draw crazy business plans and website layouts, write poetry (with varying results), and sometimes plain prose when the laptop's battery dies.

I read a lot; sometimes I read about writing.

When I write, I want to try what I haven't tried before. Usually I fail, and end up procrastinating, just like I did before ... enter Yoda: DO OR DO NOT. THERE IS NO TRY.

I try to finish what I start because I believe that one finished "okay" story is endlessly better than a hundred "great" stories which I will never write.

Sometimes, I exercise.

Other times, I get annoyed at repeating the word "I" too much.

Why?

One person can change the world; we've seen it happen numerous times, and one time too many, the change had been for the worst. Sometimes, the change had been for the better.

To change the world, you need to change the way people think ... but I don't think you can really change a person. You can only help them change themselves. All you need is an idea.

For me, that's what stories are: ideas.

And I believe in the power of stories.

Hey, hey! Come give my author alter-ego, Devon Winterson, a "Like" on Facebook, and read a posted excerpt from my dark fantasy novel, The Perfect Player, every Tuesday until November 11th! 

Word of the week: netherworld /ˈneT͟Hərˌwərld/ - noun – (hear it!) - the underworld of the dead; hell.

Influences

Every so often a reader will ask me: “Where do your ideas come from?”

Usually I tell them ideas just pop into my head. Which they do. Often. That’s the easy part. The “Why?” and “How?” are normally the harder questions—ones people don’t think to ask—and are really the reasons behind what we writers write most of the time.

Influences.

All around, every day, writers are constantly influenced by everything around them, whether consciously or subconsciously, and every set of influences (plus the reactions to those influences) is different for every writer.

A couple kissing on a park bench, for example, may evoke feelings of love, devotion, and possibly yearning in one writer, whereas it might provoke the deep desire to retch in another. And while the second writer might view a lion’s bloody takedown of a limping gazelle as strong, powerful, and nature’s efficient way of weeding out the weak, the first writer may shudder and whine at the injustice of a helpless animal’s death.

What we writers do with what we’re shown and handed over the years usually filters through and into our stories—big time!—and it often shapes what we write and how our characters react to certain things.

Caendoria, my own fantasy world, has been influenced by a couple of things both *kind of* well known and not well known at all.

What the hell do I mean by that?? Here, I’ll show you.

Pop quiz!

How many of you recognize this . . .

Baron of Hell

. . . and this?

Cyberdemon

If you’ve lived through the nineties and played a game called Doom by id Software, then you’re probably familiar with the Barons of Hell, and the powerful Cyberdemon (respectively), who kind of seemed like the Barons’ overseer.

Maybe. I don’t know.

Anyway, I always thought they looked pretty cool. And massive. And just plain ol’ downright awesome. Thus, the creation of my netherworld demons were influenced by the structure of these demonic characters. With my own twists to them, of course. (All authors add in their own twists to stuff we’re influenced by!) In the end, my own rendition of these demons have become the dystopian element in the otherwise perfect world of Caendoria.

Now, how about this? . . .

Again, if you’ve lived through the nineties, you’ve probably heard of a game called Myst by Cyan Worlds, created by Rand and Robyn Miller. Way before I ever started seriously writing (and waayy before I had children), my husband and I would sit together for hours upon hours, solving the puzzles inside the storyline, progressively unlocking each secret as we proceeded through the game.

Awesome enough, to be sure!

But the elements! Ah, the elements . . . they were purely fascinating—nearly utopian, beautifully rendered, and [mostly] pleasing to all of the senses (well, if one goes further into one’s imagination; ghost smells and all that, you know . . . ).

Little did I know these bits and pieces would captivate my then-dormant writer’s mind and lodge securely to later be altered and rendered; picked apart, stretched out, and twisted up like twisty ties to create the world I now know as Caendoria: lavender sky and grasses; thick, drinkable liquid—iridescent by day, blue luminescent by night; silver- and gold-topped trees; intricate mechanisms hidden throughout the world. All sorts of fun and unusual stuffs!

Yes . . . so now you know a little of the “Why?” and “How?” behind what I write. Behind what all writers write, really.

Influences. All around, every day. Things take root in our minds, our hearts, our feelings, then we mix and match in unique ways, and write it all down for everyone to share.

And if you really want to know: I am that second writer in my “limping gazelle/lion take down” paragraph. Well, minus the kissing. Kissing’s nice. Unless you see a lion kissing a gazelle. Now that would be weird.

Thus, my wonderful blog readers, I leave you with a fly-through across the Ages . . . literally. Tribute to the Myst Ages. (Note: You may need to lighten your monitor. The trailer's a bit on the dark side.)

Word of the week: ebullience - \i-ˈbu̇l-yən(t)s, -ˈbəl-\ - noun - (hear it!) - the quality of lively or enthusiastic expression of thoughts or feelings

Indie Author of the Month: Please Come Meet . . . Lisa M. Green

(From my Amazon review of The First.)

For several months, I’d waited for The First to be released, truly tempted to read the sample chapters from Lisa’s website, but knew I’d much rather wait for the full version on my Kindle so I could take in the story as a whole . . . and the wait was very worth it.

Lisa takes her readers on an fantastic journey straight from the inside out, fairly turning the main character (Rinni) on her head with startling revelations about herself, her people, and the lifestyle and world she once took for granted and thought she understood, with a wholly unexpected ending that’s sure to make readers think. It sparked my want to read the story again, not only because it’s a well-written book, but also to see with more clarity and foresight how connections are made from start to finish.

Certainly Lisa has taken great pains to polish the prose in The First to a near-perfect shine, and has created a world with characters so very much alive, they practically grab you by the hand and immerse you into the unfolding tale—everything a great book should be and should do for a reader.

Did I have a couple of niggles? Sure I did. But even though the main character voiced her direct thoughts immediately after (which, to my editor’s mind, lent itself to repetition), and Rinni’s reaction to a handful of situations bordered slightly on melodramatic, neither of these detracted from my overall enjoyment of the story.

The First is a solid, well-written novel, all round. Truth be told, and in my humble opinion, it’s a sumptuous blend of some familiar books—it has the feel of The Giver, plus a bit of Wool, all tied up with a very slight smidgen of the Hunger Games—yet in the end, Lisa’s debut novel is an entity all its own, and a book I highly recommend for those looking to read a truly entertaining tale.

And so, without further ado, here’s Lisa to tell you a little about herself. Come, read, enjoy . . . and please, always support indie authors.

* * *

Greetings and salutations, friends! My name is Lisa M. Green, though, in truth, it isn’t. Not yet. It will be soon, once I’ve said my vows and slipped on the Ring of Binding (+1 patience, +2 loyalty). I’m a high school teacher with a teenage daughter (+50 patience). Oh, and I write. Fantasy, of the mythic and paranormal variety, with a bit of might and magic to come.

You could call me a teacher who loves to write. You could call me a writer who loves to teach. But the truth is that I am both, separately and together. I teach literature and writing to high school students. I’ve been writing since I was a very young child, even having my young ego stroked with writing awards and accolades through school competitions. Perhaps that fueled my desire to continue. Perhaps writing is just a part of who I am.

The goal I was working toward was a career in writing, but somehow I talked myself into believing that I could never make a living out of such an uncertain path. Maybe that was true at the time. Either way, I turned to another career I had always considered—teaching—in part because my mother is a teacher. I love teaching literature, as well as writing. Writing has always come naturally to me, but I stopped believing in my ability to actually get published a long time ago. I was scared. And complacent.

But then the muse struck me. To be more specific, she smacked me across the face with a metal baseball bat. And so I began to write what would become my first full-length novel. My college courses in grammar and linguistics, as well as creative writing and editing, helped tremendously in shaping my path through such an enormous endeavor. Yes, I had always been naturally adept at writing and revising, but those experiences pushed me to a completely different level.

Without the current atmosphere within the self-publishing industry, I might never have accomplished my dream of publishing a novel. I will never know if a publisher would have scooped up my manuscript because I made a gut-churning, nausea-inducing decision to avoid the publishing houses altogether. Some may say that it was a big mistake not to try. Some may think that my work must be sub-par since I wouldn’t let a professional take a look at it. Some may have no clue how subjective and time-consuming that process actually is.

The First is a story of truth, trust, and sacrifice. A young woman, determined not to fall prey to the consequences of inaction, must brave the nightmares beyond her known world in order to fight back against the nightmare within that is slowly killing her village and her people. As a mythic and paranormal fantasy novel, it may not be for everyone, but the professionalism involved should be apparent. With the insurmountable mass of self-published work out there, it is very difficult for those with a professional background to stand out amongst what I like to call “hobbyists.” There is nothing wrong with writing as a hobby, or writing because you love it, but for those who wish to go further and develop a career in the field, the task is a bit overwhelming.

But I will not lose hope. I will not give up. In fact, I am currently writing my second novel—most likely a series—in the fantasy genre. It’s full of magic and time travel and all sorts of other goodies, and I’m quite enjoying the experience. I honestly love to write. I’m overwhelmed with a feeling of euphoric ebullience whenever the muse hits me, despite her sometimes malevolent nature :-P

Being in the earlier stages of my writing process, more research than writing has occurred so far. Names and meanings are very important to me, so I tend to spend a good deal of time finding just the right word or name for many aspects. This wasn’t the case for everything in my debut novel (the character names were straight out of my head, but place and object names were often significant). However, this new series involves some very in-depth research on name meanings.

If I’ve piqued your interest, you can check out the first eleven chapters of The First on my website or via a PDF download. My website’s main page is located at lisamgreen.com. You can also download samples from Amazon or Goodreads. The book was released on February 25, 2014, and it’s available at the following locations: my website (print and all digital formats), Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, Apple iBooks, Kobo, as well as many others. You can also order it from your local independent bookstore.

Whee! Fun With Acrostics!

To tell, or not to tell. How exactly is that a question? Even the least-trained eyes can see, as it stands, that that’s merely a statement to reflect the (quite possibly) wishy-wash-ostiy of this writer’s mind.

Does that mean it couldn’t hold some hidden meaning? Really . . . not. And I’ll show you why. Whereas many blog posts are usually straightforward and make complete sense. I have chosen not to this time—make sense, I mean (and yes, that random sentence cut off was intentional). Not because I want to be cute or funny or silly or icky or even yummy, but because I want to be a pain in the arse and make you think. Green!

Very often I have the word of the week. Only this time, no. I’ve left it off for many reasons, all of which I won’t tell you. Completely because I want to be a noodge. Ever so much, yes.

Right. Eden*? Lemme show you what I’m talking about. Eden’s mind is completely out of synch. As is this blog post. So, as you read it, see if you can discover what I’m trying to tell you through some clever acrostics and distracting prose. Eeek!

Do you get it now? Aha! True enough, that was a question. End sentence.

I’ve also (hint!**) chosen this date (hint!***) as yet another (hint!****) to what I might be (hinting!) at. See . . . (hint!*****)

Many of you by now have probably spat at your computer screen in disgust. Angrily. Riters! Come on, why don’t they ever make a whit of sense?! Ha—or spell correctly!

True though it may be (not!), I’ve left you with a frustrating riddle to puzzle out enigmatically. Har-dee-har-harr! Is it easy? Really, that depends on what “it” is. Truly, things will soon change at The Ether of my Imagination, yes. Every 13th. Every month. New post. To tell, or not to tell. How exactly is that a question?

* * *

*Eden is Marisa’s crazy mother in my dark fantasy novel, The Perfect Player. She’ll have her own book soon.

**Think “acrostics.”

***Look up “acrostics”

****Fine, here’s a link to “acrostics.”

*****Rrrugh! All right! Here’s the answer!

Word of the week: cognizance - \ˈkäg-nə-zən(t)s\ - noun - (hear it!) - : knowledge or awareness of something - Merriam-Webster Dictionary

*  *  * 
Hey, I have a few indie author shout-outs for this post:

First, on Tuesday, February 25th, indie author Lisa M. Green will release her long-anticipated novel, The First! Come, read some chapters at her website, or browse and get to know Lisa. Both hard copy and e-versions of her book will be available, and you can place your order here! (And I've already gotten my copy, (;D) as one of the privileged few who'd supported her kickstarter campaign!)

Second, on Saturday, March 1st, indie author Logan Keys will release her collection of four horror-based short stories, Unhinged, on Smashwords and Goodreads for FREE. I’ve had a sneak preview of these tales and, believe me, readers will not be disappointed.

Last, indie author Lucy Pireel has started up her own fundraising campaign for her book, "Origins Revealed - The Power of Three." Come, please consider supporting an indie author! Even small donations can go a very long way in helping an author achieve her dream. 

* * *

Prologue to The Perfect Player

Many of you already know my dark fantasy novel has been out and about since last November, hopefully wreaking havoc of the most wonderful kind, stirring readers’ minds, winning over their hearts. Or at least making them think a little, if not cringe or emote somehow or another.

Originally my three-part, forty-nine chapter behemoth had a prologue, which I’d left off when I’d decided to publish it. Why? I dunno. Because I felt like it . . . and I heard many people skip over prologues anyway.

So, instead of taking the chance of readers snarling in frustration and throwing their e-readers out the window (which could be so hazardous, especially if it rebounds against a closed pane of glass), I’d saved out the short, two-part prologue to be randomly shared for free. It’s already connected to another short story of mine, Soulless Vessel, but I’ve decided to post it up anyway, here, now, right this very minute, kind of as a parting “Ahoy-hoy and farewell!” to my three-ton colossus as it lumbers and crashes through the world, attracting readers from every continent like an awkward, massive, hairy, statically-charged . . . er . . . gnome.

*Ahem* . . . right.

Enjoy! And if you like what you see, perhaps come take a gander at the rest of the novel. Believe me, your support truly makes a difference for indie authors.

(Note: Those of you who've read The Perfect Player will be familiar with the two characters presented, and maybe some things will come to light for you.) 

The Perfect Player - Prologue

Copyright - Kimberly Grenfell (writing as Devon Winterson), and yes, I do mean it's actually copyrighted, not just some faux label to scare off plagiarists. 

 

 TUYEN, WESTLANDS

230C SIXTH 20

The demon crouched at the forest's edge, a vague cluster of shapes within the narrow valley his sole focus.

The first sun's rays crested the horizon to usher away the dim light of the two moons, transforming the shapes into a shadowy dual ring of huts where inside, the demon knew, lay his prey. He sniffed at the breeze, craving teased by the promising scent that laced the unprotected territory. Wild blood. His kin had tasted it; never him. Too young, he was told. Too weak. He wouldn't hold his ground. Because of this, he'd always been left behind to suffer the flesh of those half-dead humans held captive. The others' accounts upon their return only served to frustrate him.

But not this time. No. This time, his father had demanded he join the hunt.

“You must learn, Locrian. You must feel the rush of a violent foray, and know what it truly means to kill.”

Locrian's black fur bristled. He would soon savor fresh spoils—smell the richness of warm blood, hear the snap of bones, experience his own feral lust at its height . . . at last.

The pack began to stir. With night blindness a hindrance for them, Locrian had sensed his kin's agitation at the delay: Horned heads shook. Cloven hooves stomped. Clawed hands clenched. Muscles tightened beneath crimson skin, and guttural growls obscured the burble of streams hidden within the silvery forest's slopes. Now, the master motioned them forward, and they lumbered into the clearing. Hulking shadows spread across the lavender grasses as they closed in around the village's outer rim. Again, the demons rested upon their haunches. Locrian settled in beside the master, who leaned close.

“Don't feel,” he growled in their tongue, “and don't reason. Just strike. These wild creatures sense nothing. Unlike us”—he narrowed his emerald eyes—“they don't have souls.”

Souls. Locrian shuddered. It would be like killing one of their own.

The second sun rose. Light swelled and Locrian's vision sharpened—crisp, clear, perfect—while tension rippled through the pack. Several demons stepped forward with expectant glances at their master, whose raised hackles and bared fangs stayed them. They tucked their thin, tufted tails to their undersides and waited. Soon, footfalls whispered through the grass ahead. Locrian straightened with the others to peer into the village, head rising above the thatched roof line.

In the quiet of the dawn, a solitary human sauntered with arms stretched wide toward a stream-fed pool at the village's center. Its hum floated and a smile played upon its lips. The human knelt at the pool's stony edge, dipped in a cupped hand, and drew some of the thick, opaline liquid to its mouth. It sipped long and slow, lazy droplets seeping between its wet fingers. It sought several more draughts. Once sated, it sat upon folded legs, head tilted back and shoulders rounded, its face a reflection of contentment.

Locrian's slit-pupils widened. Prey. So near, so fresh, so unsuspecting. An eager rumble rose up from his chest.

The human stiffened, lifted its head . . . and spied the surrounding pack. With a terrified cry, it leapt up to flee, but the master's bellow had already shattered the valley's hush. The demons sprung into the village.

Locrian staggered back, stunned by the sudden chaos—roars echoed over the pounding of hooves while claws tore into huts; planks cracked, crunched, splintered, their shards clattering to the ground. Horns pierced. Heads flung writhing bodies. Blood sprayed and human shrieks soon ripped through the air. Locrian swiveled his head, gaze darting. Where did he start? How did he join in? What should he do? Everything had happened so fast, he'd not had time to—

Oof!

He lurched, knocked into the rampage. A frenzy of humans and kin crushed down. Screaming creatures scattered everywhere.

Scrabbling up, Locrian shook the tuft of fur from his eyes and crouched, clawed hands thrust out. He pivoted right and left, then whirled around. He lunged, missed and lunged again, mouth filling with sod as he struck the earth. Then he spat, spun about, and sprung toward a body lying several paces away. His jaws snapped into empty air—Snatched!—and he flinched back from the demon who'd stolen the kill.

“Move on, Callow-back,” the demon snarled. “Find your own flesh.” Locrian scrambled away. Fresh shrieks tore through the clamor and caught his attention.

At the far end of the village, panicked humans poured into the meadows and sprinted toward the cover of the woods, pursued. Locrian bounded forth to follow . . . but slid to a halt when both prey and kin disappeared. Hackles stiff in frustration, he growled, heaved and snorted, then whipped around to face the village in shambles—

And saw it.

Hidden within the recess of three adjoining huts huddled a human half-sized to its full-grown counterparts, knees tucked and forehead set upon folded arms; a small but sufficient kill. Locrian's chest swelled with another rumble. His focus shifted, and while the foray raged on, he stalked toward the slit between the dwellings.

Each step closer sharpened his senses to his prey—quickened breaths rasped in his ears, a rapid heartbeat pounded in his head, the scent of fear lingered thick and tangy in his nostrils. Wild blood. So near, so fresh, so unsuspecting. A shiver rippled down his spine. He entered the slit.

An arm's length away, Locrian paused to lick back his slaver. One swipe. That's all it would take. One swipe and it would be dead. Its flesh would taste sweet, its juices intense, the forthcoming sensation pure and euphoric—and savage. Yes. Locrian's lips drew tight against his fangs. I will strike and make you proud, Father. He raised a clawed hand . . . then froze.

The human had lifted its head—to stare him down!

Snorting, Locrian stiffened back, his urge to kill seized by the roil of eerie shapes and shadows within the creature's eyes as it watched him with a keen, terror-stricken awareness. Cognizance. Perception. Sense. It knew—and it understood! Locrian gave a horrified cry. Bane of darkness! The master was dead wrong—these humans had souls!

Quickly, he snatched it up, tucked it to his body, and scuttled backward through the opening. The stench of death wrenched his insides. He retched, then grimaced at the mournful human wails and the baleful howls of his kin. Shame surged through him, face contorted with torment and confusion.

He raced away.

Up the forest slopes he ran, crashing through thickets and bounding over fallen trees, faster and faster, farther and farther, until he crested the hill and sped toward the full light of the two suns. The noise grew distant, the fetor less.

When he could no longer hear the murderous rampage, Locrian slowed beside the banks of an iridescent stream and spied a trunk hollowed with age. He buried the human deep within its protection, then stumbled back, grasping his head. No. It can't be—it can't! They aren't supposed to be aware, they aren't supposed to have souls!

But this one did. And so he fled.

Locrian raced through the wilderness, league after league, impelled by disgrace and blinded by the vain hope he could somehow escape the sensation of change stirring within and distance himself from the prior events. But he couldn't, and he collapsed, breathless in defeat, wincing at the haunting image of the human's soul burned into his mind.

Beliefs shattered, and terror seized him.

Locrian no longer knew who he was.

MYNAE, NORTHLANDS

240C FIRST 1

The newborn's cry broke the still of the night. An excited murmur filled the township.

Those awake for the birth gathered on the grass before their leader's manor house, the Center, while others rushed to spread the word to the farthest reaches of the city walls. More arrived and the crowd grew. Through a lively babble, expectant gazes watched the Center's second-level window, whence the glorious sound had come. Assembled beneath the light of the two full moons, the people waited and wondered.

A soft wind heard the cries. It whispered toward the township, over its walls, and through the bedchamber window, where it dissipated near the new mother who rested on the bed, breaths labored and legs stretched.

“We've done it, Eden,” said her lifemate, Donovan. “We've done it.”

Eden rested one arm across her sweaty brow and grasped Donovan's hand. She closed her eyes, smiled, and nodded. The leader smoothed the covers over his lifemate's body to warm her, then gave a pleased glance at the midwife, Abigale.

“At last,” he said, “a successor to Mynae.”

Abigale dipped her hands into a nearby basin of elixir to rinse them and, in the liquid's arced glow, watched the infant severed from its mother squirm upon the foot of the mattress. Worry creased her brow.

“My child,” Eden said and propped herself onto one elbow. She beckoned with her fingers. “Swathe my child and give him to me.”

Abigale dried her hands and fetched a fresh wrap from the side table, swaddled the infant and placed it onto Eden's bosom. She stepped back with a frown.

“Donovan,” Eden whispered, drawing the newborn's cheek to her lips, “he's so beautiful.”

“Your face, my love. I see your face in his.”

A tap-tap-tap of wood against wood broke into the moment, and an old woman hobbled in. Walking stick in hand, she paused to tighten her cloak around her hunched shoulders, then regarded the child with a grin and a light wrinkle of her nose. She lifted her gaze to the leader and spoke, her voice as withered as she.

“With what name will you honor your special gift?” She shuffled closer. “After all, that name will be known forever.”

“Orenda!” Donovan smiled, reached out, and grasped her hand. “He's simply magnificent. I can't believe he's finally here.” Orenda studied him for a silent moment, then regarded the infant again. Her grin returned, graced by a subtle laugh that drifted across the room.

Eden scowled, clutching her newborn. “Why are you laughing at our child?” she said.

“Oh, Eden. No, no.” Orenda waved a dismissive hand. “I laugh not at the child,” she said and gestured toward the midwife. “Have you not told them yet, Abigale?”

“What?” Donovan's gaze flitted between them. “Told us what?”

Orenda crouched on her rigid knees, weight upon the walking stick, her muted iridescent eyes coming level with his. “What you've received will surpass all of your expectations,” she said.

“My expectations?” His brow furrowed. “Allowing my Eden to bear a child is enough. What more could we want?”

“A male heir,” Eden said firmly. “And that's what's been granted us, right?” But when no one answered, Eden dug into the wrap and parted the baby's thighs. With a snarl of disgust, she thrust the wailing newborn away. “You deceiving hag! You gave us your word!”

“Yes.” Orenda straightened. “I did give you my word, and an heir is what I've granted you.”

“But, Orenda!” Donovan caught her arm. “A female heir? By the Maker, you're a woman of time! You know only males take the seat of—”

“Change,” she said, “has been brought about by the wind.”

“Change?” Donovan shook his head. “What change? When did anything change?”

Eden spat. “Pah! Don't listen to her! She's full of lies. She's always been full of lies.”

“What don't you understand?” Orenda said over Eden's protests. “Your barren lifemate has given birth to your successor, Donovan. Just as you had beseeched and I had promised.”

“But . . . a female?” He stared, and Orenda lifted her crooked finger to him.

“Heed my word. Only by the Maker's grace was I able to pluck this child's soul from the noble star of Maris for you, and plant it into that”—she pointed to Eden—“scarred womb. You will raise her as you would a male, teach her the ways of your township and confide in her the secrets of leaders past. You will, because you have no other choice.”

“She won't be accepted.”

“She'll be accepted, then revered once she's completed her tasks.”

“But—”

“No, Donovan.” Orenda's expression hardened. “You have no other choice.”

Donovan faltered. He peered at Eden, saddened, who glared at their crying infant now tucked in the midwife's arms. The shuffle of feet and the tap-tap-tap of a walking stick sounded once more. Eden spat again.

“We'll promise nothing!” she yelled as Orenda hobbled through the bedchamber doorway and out into the corridor. “Nothing! You hear me? You broke your word to us; we'll keep no promise to you.” The door clicked shut and Donovan's shoulders sagged. Eden began to sob. Abigale stepped forth, hesitant, and held the infant out to her.

“But, Eden,” she said, “what's to be her name? The heir must have a name.”

“Name her what you want,” Eden scoffed. “That's no child of mine.” And she shifted her back to them.

Abigale's worried gaze drifted to Donovan, who lifted his daughter from her arms and gently pressed the infant's cheek to his chest, drew in a calming breath and leaned his head back. The baby's cries began to subside.

“Marisa,” he said at last and pointed to the bright star that hung beneath the larger of the two moons. “If her soul came from Maris, then she shall be known to all as Marisa.” He nestled the newborn beneath his chin, stroking flame-red hair as fine as down, and added in a whisper, “You, my little one, will be my Star of the Heavens.” Then he turned his back on Eden and, without a glance behind, carried his daughter—the intended future leader of Mynae—from the room.

*  *  *
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