MERRY CHRISTMAS/HAPPY NEW YEAR!

JOYOUS HOLIDAYS OF WHICHEVER KIND YOU CELEBRATE!  


WOW! It's Christmas time again already. Presents have gone out in the mail. ALL YOUR WISHES and PATIENCE MY ASS are both with their respective editors, as is the beginning of the surprise which I've got coming for you mid-year next year (barring disasters. Considering how many delays Patience has given me {I guess naming it that was tempting fate} I can only hope and pray that I stay on schedule!)

I hope all is well and you are very happy. Prizes and Minion gear are going in today's mail, so they may not make it before Christmas (without intervention by the postal faeries) but you WILL be getting them. BIG THANKS to the minions who have accepted their missions. You are earning points that will (eventually) earn you gift cards for Barnes & Noble or Amazon or other nifty prizes.   

 

We've had a rough year in my family, so I am REALLY looking forward to 2016. But there have been good times and miracles as well, so I don't want to complain too much. But it does explain why things have taken a little longer to accomplish than I expected. I hope you'll forgive me, but I do try to put my family first.   

 

I, myself, have been trying to take time to read. Most recent books I've moved from TO BE to READ include the Iron Druid series by Kevin Hearne (I LOVE OBERON!) and THE AERONAUT'S WINDLASS by Jim Butcher, who is always, always awesome. I've also been reading lots of non-fiction work related and research stuff.   

 

I don't have much else to say, so I'm going to be a bit of a tease and give you a few first couple of paragraphs from the stories in the short story collection in hopes that you'll want to snap it up whenever it FINALLY comes out. (I swear, I really DID think this wouldn't take so long. I now have MUCH more sympathy for the publishers!) And NO, I don't have a final cover yet. One more thing I need to do. I swear, my TO DO list is longer than this newsletter!  

JOY TO YOU AND YOURS! Happy Reading!  

   

   

THE WIZARD OF ODDS

(A Celia Graves story)   

 

Cissy Englewood hadn't been the prettiest, but she'd been by far the most popular girl all through school. Her facial features were a little harsh, but she had the build of a model, with legs that went on forever and cheekbones that could slice bread. She'd been gifted with her father's dark skin, and her mother's hair, so that she never had to worry about straightening it. Today it hung in cornrows that reached past her shoulders. Whenever she made the slightest movement the beads clicked and clacked. It would've driven me crazy, but she didn't have vampire-enhanced hearing, so it probably didn't bother her. Her brown eyes were large and liquid, her mouth full. But the exaggerated pout on her face now was probably the benefit of whatever the hell treatment the stars were using this week.

I'd hated her growing up. Not because she was beautiful. There are lots of beautiful girls and women around. This is, after all, California. Starlets and wanna-be's abound, routinely make the most of genetics, magic, and plastic surgery in their unending quest to reach the top. They tend to marry older men with lots of money and breed the next generation of gorgeous. Besides, I like my looks. Always have. I may not have won the genetic lottery, but I didn't lose my shirt either.

No, I'd hated Cissy because she was a bitch. I don't know how I'd wound up on her radar, but I did, and she'd made damned sure to make my life a living hell from sixth grade clear through graduation.

Seeing her in the lobby of my office amidst the clutter of boxes and moving paraphernalia was a serious shock. Never in a million years would I have expected to run into her again-and that would have been just fine by me.

She rose to her feet taking in my appearance in a single, appraising glance. Apparently she didn't like what she saw, because her eyes narrowed a little, her expression hardening.

Okay, I probably looked like hell. I was, after all, dressed in grungy clothes for moving. Still, I've aged pretty well. I've kept my hair its natural blonde, and it's cut in a very trendy short style with long bangs that has the plus of being really easy to care for. My body is in great shape. I work out, hard. I have to. I'm a bodyguard. My job is to protect my clients from not only mortal threats, but the monsters. I can't do that if I'm not in top shape. Well, I suppose I could try, but it would be really, really, stupid. And I certainly wouldn't last long.

I'm not stupid. And I've been doing this for quite a while now. Long enough to have built up my business into the thriving enterprise it was turning out to be. Graves Personal Protection isn't the biggest company in town, not even close. But I've made enough of a name for myself that I can afford the nice new office we were in the process of moving into.

I supposed that name was why she'd come to me. That, and maybe some mistaken idea that I might remember her fondly.   

# # #
NEVERMORE


(A Sazi Story/Raven Ramirez)   

 

Blood looks black in the moonlight, but it smells the same. The taste of it filled Sierra's mouth where Stan had knocked out several of her teeth-flat, metallic, and a little bit salty. There was so much blood. She had been gagging on it, right up until he'd hit her in the chest. The blow had been hard enough to slam her into the far wall, her back and shoulders hitting with a sickening crunch before her head slammed against the plaster and lathe making her see stars. She'd crumpled to the floor, only semi-conscious. There was something very wrong with her chest. She couldn't seem to get any air. The pain was incredible.

Stan had knelt down, bringing his face close to hers. He wanted her to see him, but her eyes weren't focusing any more. Everything was going dim.

"This is your own fault, you know. I told you what would happen if you tried to leave."

His words were the last thing she was aware of before the world went black.  

# # #

 

THE BEST DEFENSE

(A short story from the Kate Reilly/Thrall world from Carlton's POV)   

 

"Every player has their blind spots. Everybody has weaknesses."

I was talking to virtual stranger, because my best friend Nattie had told me it was the smart thing to do. She was probably right. Over the years I'd learned she usually was. The man's name was Ernie Connor and he was writing a biography about me. If it was a hatchet job in the making, it would be to my benefit to know ahead of time, so I could minimize the damage. If it was a regular biography, I could help make it at least reasonably accurate.

So we sat in my library talking. I was drinking juice. He had a black coffee.

"What are yours?"

I smiled "If it's a blind spot I wouldn't know, now would I?" I was being charming, self-deprecating, trying to disarm him. Ernie didn't seem hostile, but he wasn't a gushing fan boy either. There was considerable intelligence in those blue eyes of his. I'd seen him taking in the library, noticing everything. The shelves were filled, and not for show. There were books on basketball, sure, it was my job after all, and a few sports biographies, but those only took up one shelf on the west wall. The rest of the shelves were covered with everything from biographies and philosophy texts to thrillers and urban fantasy paperbacks. All but those closest to the chairs where we were sitting showed the slight signs of wear that come from having been read at least once.

The shelf nearest us hadn't been . . . yet. They constituted my 'to be read' pile. Everything was organized and neat. That was my doing. The room was also clean and dust free-thanks to my housekeeper. As a professional basketball player I was away from home a lot. The travel made it hard to keep up with things. Fame didn't make it easy either. It's a little hard for a seven foot two guy with tattoos and a face that gets plastered across the Jumbotron as often as mine does to make a run to the grocery or hardware store without being recognized. It's annoying, but part of the cost of doing business.  

# # #

THE HUNTER 

Only 9:00 a.m. and it was already ninety degrees. It was going to be another scorcher. Anna'd skipped her run this morning, coming into town early to avoid the worst of the heat. She might just as well not have bothered. Sweat poured between her shoulder blades and between her breasts as she carried the case of whiskey out to the Jeep, soaking her bra, making her miserably uncomfortable. Only five-three, she was small, but stringy and tough. Years of hard living had distilled her down to her essence, the scars on her soul even more prominent than the ones that snaked across her face and shoulders. She didn't bother to hide the physical scars-not that she could. But even though they were easy to see with her graying auburn hair in a tight ponytail at the crown of her head, and the tank top she wore above her jeans nobody asked questions . . . ever. Then again, the town folk didn't talk to her much. No big loss there.

She set the case carefully in its usual spot so that it nestled in a thick blanket she'd put in place for that purpose, right next to her worn black duffel. The old Jeep rode rough, and the road back to her place was rutted and pitted. She didn't want to lose a bottle to breakage. It had happened before, and it had made for a very tough month. After all, her pension check arrived on the first-and that was all the money she got. She'd learned her lesson after that, and was more careful.

Sighing, she rubbed the band that covered her left wrist over her forehead, wiping away the sweat. Like the bra, the sweat band was a nuisance that she only bothered with when she went out in public-on the first of the month.

She'd found out back when she'd been an active agent that if she left the mark exposed people asked questions. Odd, the scars seemed to intimidate, but the mark was just irresistible. They couldn't seem to help themselves. She was no longer an active agent, and she sure as hell didn't want to talk about her service. So she covered the mark that had branded her one of the elite-the Hunters.

Anna strode back inside the liquor store to pick up the case of Coke she always bought with the Jack. The price was significantly lower here than at the grocery down the street. She didn't know why. But it was, and she saved what money she could because the pension didn't go nearly as far as it used to. If she hadn't put in a garden she'd have been forced to make hard choices about eating and drinking. As it was, she got damned tired of vegetables towards the end of the month when the meat ran out.

When she returned with the soda she found a county sheriff's cruiser blocking her exit and Cody Wayne leaning against her vehicle. Cody was a big man, built square and solid. Born and raised local, he'd been a high school linebacker, but he hadn't let himself go to seed like most do. He kept his hair cropped close to his head, but it was thick and dark enough that she could only see a hint of pink scalp beneath.

"Sheriff?" Anna made the word both a greeting and a question as she set the box of sodas down on the opposite side of the duffel from the whiskey.

"Ms. Bishop." He nodded his head at her in acknowledgment.

Her eyes met his. Hers were a burning, laser-bright blue, his, a warm brown that were shadowed and bloodshot. He hadn't slept last night. She could tell. He held himself well, and his uniform was still looking pretty good, but he was tired. More to the point he was weary, sick and angry. She knew the look. She'd seen it often enough. He'd seen something bad. Whatever it was had gotten through the barriers that a cop with twenty-some-odd years of experience had built around his mind and emotions to keep himself sane.

He was holding on-still solid. But something had shaken him.

Shit.
 

###  
Best Wishes,
 
Happy Reading from the Coffee Crew