Beauty and the Beast

A time-tested romantic archetype—the monster whose humanity must be restored through love—and my favorite storyline.
How does it go?
The Beast has made himself a monster by committing acts so inhumane, he’s cursed with an exterior as ugly as his heart. To deal with it, the Beast withdraws, drowning in misery and guilt.
What can save him? A woman courageous enough to withstand everything the monster throws at her because her compassionate heart detects the spark of humanity within. With patience and prodding, Beauty digs the Beast out of selfish misery to selfless caring.
Compassion, courage, and redemption. That’s the lure of the monster story—the incredible transforming power of love.
That’s what drew me to combine fantasy and fairy tale into BLOODSTONE, where my cursed and guilt-ridden hero lives as the Shadow Man until rescuing the heroine offers him a chance to redeem himself.

Read on for an excerpt from BLOODSTONE, and be sure to enter the CTR Book Brew Giveaway for a chance to win a Kindle copy:

    Mirianna peered through her lashes at blue sky decorated with wisps of bright clouds.
   Morning? But how…?
    A quick inventory of her senses told her she lay on broken plates of rock. Spikes of meadow grass leaned over her shoulder. Distant treetops speared the sky, ringing a clearing that sloped down and away from the lichen-studded stone under her fingertips.
    The last she remembered, she’d been riding her horse through the night and searching for her father. Alone. Lost in the no-man’s land that was the Wehrland, while branches lashed her face and snatched at her cloak. Running from…something…
    Led by…someone?
    Twin glimmers of yellow-green, luminescent…eyes hovered on the edge of her consciousness—and vanished when she tried to bring them into focus. The effort awakened a torrent of complaints from every muscle and joint in her body. Mirianna groaned.
    Had she fallen? She moved each of her limbs in turn. Finding them stiff but uninjured, she struggled to sit up, and a damp cloth dropped from her head into her lap. She stared at it while everything else pitched and rocked.
    “Would you like some tea? It’s willow bark. Good for aches.”
    Mirianna carefully raised her gaze. A boy about thirteen knelt beside her. He wore a cloth wrapped around his forehead, and his tunic, ripped over one shoulder, was russet with dried blood. All she could think of to say was, “You—you’re hurt.”
    Color rose on his pale cheeks. “I’m on the mend. You’re the one who fainted.” With a crooked grin, he proffered a bowl. “Drink this. It’ll make you feel better. I should know.”
    He’d coaxed a smile from her, and he looked harmless, so Mirianna held out her hand. When he made no move to pass her the tea, she leaned toward him and took the bowl from his grasp. His gaze, which ought to have followed her movement, remained fixed on a point somewhere near her chin.
    The blind boy.
    Apprehension thrilled along her nerves. The boy couldn’t possibly be alone. He hadn’t been alone before…
    Memories followed in a stomach-tightening rush, tumbling over one another, strange events made even stranger by this ungodly wilderness. A voice in the night, sounding from nowhere and…everywhere, terrifying her and yet—somehow—stopping her horse from bolting. A presence haunting her room at the inn, invading her dreams with vivid, erotic suggestions. A touch—a dream!—that wasn’t so much a touch but a desire made…tangible.      Mirianna quivered. Her breasts swelled, and the burgeoning nipples prickled against the fabric of her bodice.
    Where was the boy’s master? Where was the Shadow Man?
    “So,” said the voice that made her stomach break into shards of sensation, “you do remember.”
    Mirianna forced a swallow. The Shadow Man stood so close she could smell boot leather and wool, could see black-encased thigh and calf muscles that looked as solid as the rock on which she sat. Looked solid, because underneath the black hood, gloves and all-concealing clothing had to be nothing at all but darkness.
    The morning sun shone full on his back, showing her the sheen of wear on the black hood, tunic and breeches that concealed every inch of his flesh but hid none of the contours. On his raised thigh she detected a tear that had been carefully mended. His gloves and boots bore the creases and scuffs of long use. Even his belt showed faintly green where the dye had faded. A sword, the broken blade extending no more than two hands’ span from the hilt, stuck out from his belt like a common thief’s dagger.
    Was this the being who had invaded her dreams and turned them so disturbingly sensual? Was this the wraith who two nights ago had spirited the blind boy from their sight? Was this the possessor of a voice that had shaken her to the core? In the full day’s sun, he looked no more than a man, taller than some, leaner and more fit than most. Chagrinned by her fears, Mirianna rocked to her knees and made ready to rise.
    He turned at the rustle of her movement. Her gaze went automatically to his face. But there was no face to be seen. Only a shapeless drape of black cloth filled his hood where eyes and nose and mouth should be.
    Mirianna sat as if turned to stone. Horror cooled her blood, and the hair rose on every part of her body. It’s his look. One look from him—at him—and men go mad. Or die. By the Dragon, let me not die!

Find BLOODSTONE at Amazon: ASIN: B0145P8JC6; http://a.co/euERf2Q
& The Wild Rose Press: http://catalog.thewildrosepress.com/742_helencjohannes
Visit me at http://helencjohannes.blogspot.com/