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I always have several manuscripts that I'm working on at the same time, and right now is no exception. I currently have three projects in various states of development, and I'll give you a taste of each of them.
Memory of Magic is the follow up to Magic Eights, though the two are only losely connected. I'm in the editing stage on this one, and it's my first jaunt into urban fantasy since my "Sweet" story, Nancy's Sweet Spelling Bee, which involved a world of shapeshifters.
Memory of Magic stars Anton Boroi, a made-vampire, and the woman he's been courting for over a century, the half-Fae Cynthia Margate. I'll just introduce Anton, I think you'll like him:
Anton Boroi whistled softly under his breath, hands in the pockets of his wool trousers, not once noticing that in his long-sleeved shirt, waistcoat and tie, he was not dressed for the steamy weather of Mexico City. He practically skipped from one patch of deep shadow to the next, flirting with disaster as he did so. But he was a man who’d made a decision and was engaged in preparation for follow-through, without another care in the world.
He didn’t notice the once brightly painted buildings or the bars on the windows or the potential danger of a neighborhood that held no interest and no danger for him. He had his last appointment with a buyer, and then he was done with the hunting business. Finito. Isprăvit. Flown the coop.
Gone courting, finally.
He took a shortcut through a market, always an excellent place to find enough shade. The scents of spices and sweat, old cilantro and mildly rancid frying lard were foul but not unappetizing. With the exception of the more subtle breeds of alcohol, he had little interest in the tastes of humans. The din of the football match on the radio, the listless mariachi players half a block away, and the thousand sounds of dispirited hawkers making half-hearted attempts to garner business in the late afternoon were merely a background noise to the thoughts in his head, contemplating his next great project.
Given the man’s intense focus, it was rather remarkable that he was distracted by a patch of soft color in the odd mix of dusty brown and garish fluorescent that made up the cheap wares of this mercado. He turned his head and at a clothing booth saw a rustic blouse in a rich butter yellow, the exact shade she wore when she first sat by his side in a chemistry lecture in 1889.
Cynthiniel. How he missed her.
He pondered if he should come to her door with a gift, and his mind pictured her in this blouse, her hair swirling around her like a cloak of honey gold, her green eyes smiling at him as he presented her with a bouquet of wildflowers in return for a kiss.
Bah. He was a sentimental fool.
The scream of a child and the chitter of a howler monkey meshed together into a cacophony that sounded like a threat, and he turned his head, grey eyes turning red and his muscles suddenly alive with tension. The smell of blood rose thick in the heady air and he salivated. Once again, a flash of memory, this time the red of Cyn’s blood dripping down her arms and over her nude body as she struggled against the iron cuffs restraining her magic, her eyes lit with fire.
Pushing the monster within him back down, he stilled, listening. Even if his hearing hadn’t been so highly acute, he could have identified the location of the chittering monkey and the sobbing victim. That, and the scent of the blood which drew him like an unwilling magnet. Anton stalked down the aisles in search of the source of the sound, concerned about the potential for an altercation that would delay his plans. In a hovel of a dark stall that smelled of piss and rotted food and the mania of caged creatures everywhere, the portly and pockmarked stall owner was gripping the arm of a tiny brown girl and yelling at her with nearly murderous intent.
Looming over the squat man, Anton smiled tightly. His Spanish was probably too influenced by his years hiding in Galicia to be any good in a barrio, but he did his best. “Perhaps if your cages were cleaner, your animals wouldn’t be so libel to bite potential clients.”
The man blinked up at his six foot two frame and gave an ingratiating smile. “Oh, Senor, are you interested in exotic animals?”
The girl made good the opportunity to escape. He always did like clever children. Perhaps because he doubted he’d have any of his own.
He would have rudely turned around and stalked off, his typical solution to sticky situations, but again a patch of color caught his eye. He turned his head, and in a tiny, cramped cage in the darkness of the stall, there was a rodent sleeping in a little ball, long green fur sticking up at all angles.
In his experience, most mammals didn’t come in green. At least not in this reality.
Perfect present for his Cyn. She’d adore it.
I've just started work on the next book in the series, tentatively titled "Madness and Magic". It's the story of Esme Morgan, the witch who crafted the enchantment that forms the basis for Magic Eights. But she's about to land herself in a whole heap of trouble!
Esmeralda Winifred Kalani Morgan knew that she was insane. It was a firm part of her self-image, and she’d long accepted that about herself. The roll of clear packing tape ripped with that horrible noise than meant she was about to get adhesive under her nails, and she swore profusely to the sound of the flute-like giggling of the pixies that lived in her ceiling’s spider webs.
Her imaginary friends had lasted a bit too long, and just before her parents had decided to take her to a psychologist, she’d learned to lie artfully to cover up the fact that she still saw things when no one else did. She learned to ignore those little creatures that did things out of the corner of her eyes. Call them gremlins or gnomes, goblins or imps, they were a part of her everyday existence. Along with the evils of a split roll of fucking tape.
She grit her teeth, determined to get this box out and off of her to-do list. It was almost Susanna and Will’s anniversary, and she should have sent the thing off last week, but oh no, she’d had to try and add in some magic, just for kicks. Despite her firm belief in her irrationality, it was better to placate her visions when she could than deny them completely. There was a particularly nasty incident when she was a teenager involving her Abuelita’s porcelain tureen of crab soup and a freshly waxed hardwood floor when she’d tried very hard not to see two turquoise imps that had been sneaking around the kitchen. Her mother still sniffled whenever she saw a crab or smelled lemon wax.
So, Esme had bought this out of the way magic shop in Nowheresville California – it let her use both her degrees in business and in comparative mythology. She built her online reputation via Twitter, and did a swimming business in mail-order. She mixed herbs, told phony fortunes, sold hard to find books, and because of all of that it was perfectly acceptable for her to be a bit “eccentric”. She could scream during a whale watching cruise when she glimpsed a sharp-toothed mermaid frolicking in the bow-wave, or she could sigh longingly whenever she caught sight of the tall dark elf that smirked at her on the corner across from the Harvest Market in Mendocino. She was just quirky to friends and family. Quirky she could handle. Insane – that more difficult to swallow. She really didn’t want to end up in the loony bin drugged up to the gills.
Balancing that fine line between inane and insane, the min-jinn balanced precariously on her in/out tray and leered at her the entire time she was contemplating her odd place in the universe and fought with the roll of packing tape. Unrepentant and unyielding, she stared him down as she finally got the box and biodegradable packing peanuts squared aware. “Okay, buddy. Now it’s time for some fun.”
Perhaps that wasn’t the best turn of phrase as she watched those black eyes light up with hunger. The min-jinn was a perfect specimen of man – dark skin, sexy eyes, with sculpted pecs and a respectable eight-inch cock. Given that the rest of him was only a foot and a half tall, that wasn’t just respectable, it was a bit terrifying. That cock was always very glad to see her, even if she’d never given it the time of day. Given the fact that she was at the end of a three-year-long dry spell, she was very careful not to be the least little bit tempted by the creature that was essentially a rascally wish-fulfilling sentient vibrator. He wasn’t for her. He was a gift for Susanna and Will. Keep repeating that and all will be well. At least as soon as he’s in the damn box.
“All right, Mister E. I hold your true name. Don’t make me speak it again.” It sounded like a threat, but really, Esme wasn’t so sure she could pronounce his name correctly again. But the min-jinn seemed to believe her, cowering in abject fear for at least half a second before giving her a flirty wink and trying to lure her into depravity.
“Your wish is my pleasure, Mistress.” That such a deep, sexy voice could come from a being that barely came up to her knee was patently unfair. But he would make a delicious anniversary present – even if only in her insane imagination. She’d best focus on her instruction, or who knows what kind of havoc the little bugger would cause.
And the next book in my Magi series is Seduce the Soul, set in Hawaii in 1888. Here's another sample:
The warm wind swept in off the Kona coast as the ship’s boat pulled into the barren shore near the port of Kawaihai. Emelia Ascensão Cunha sat up straight on the small plank seat and resisted the urge to grab for the side or to seek the supporting hand of her kÅlea, Keokila. Her stepmother was the only friend she had left, and her only guide to life on a new island, but it would do her no good to appear weak. She had her own shop she was going to start and she would be twenty two years of age in a month’s time. She could support herself, and it was best to let the leering sailors know exactly that. She pulled her shawl tighter to cover her considerable chest from view and played with the handle of the satchel on her lap, taking comfort from the three sharp kitchen knives she knew were tucked securely within. Between Keokila and her knives, Emelia had no doubt she could start over in Waimea in safety. She looked toward the coast of her new home and let her mind free to wander new paths.
The Big Island of Hawaii was very different than the home she had known on Maui. The sweet warm winds tasted different here. The shoreline was very strange, still barren from the anger of Pele and the volcanoes that continued to bubble here, the voices of the gods. Of course, her mother would have been horrified to know she knew anything about the heathen gods of the islands, but the stories Keokila would tell while they worked together in the kitchen were too deliciously evocative not to have sunk into Emelia’s fertile imagination and borne fruit.
So, instead of a barren black desert far to the south, Emelia saw the footsteps of Pele as she danced across Hawaii toward the coast near Waikoloa. Pele descending to the sea, her glowing red hair streaming behind her and her black eyes flashing with her fiery temper as she taunted her older sister Na-maka-o-kaha’i, who had chased her across the wide ocean after passionate Pele had seduced her sister’s husband. Instead of the small port and scraggly lot of sailors that brought them and their meager possessions from the inter-island ferry, Emelia saw the once great cargo ships of the sandalwood trade, sailors of every nationality and creed working to lash down great bundles of perfumed cargo.
“You off again in your ‘magination, my liko? This boat not adventure enough for you?” Keokila smiled at her. “It’s not the great canoes of the chiefs, and not a nice smooth ride, but it gets us where we want to go, and that be enough. That be enough.” Keokila turned her head back toward the coast and stared resolutely forward.
Hope you enjoyed reading! I promise I'll get to work finishing them all as soon as possible!
Follow me on twitter at elainelowe! http://twitter.com/#!/elainelowe
Check out my website: www.elainelowenovels.com
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