Terrific Tuesday with Jeanne St. James:)

Welcome! Please introduce yourself and tell us about your latest release.

My name is Jeanne St. James, which is a pen name. I’ve been writing since I was about thirteen years old. I currently have three releases out, all three in ebooks. My first release, Banged Up should be coming out in audio soon. My last release, Double Dare, is also out in paperback. You can find out more about me on my website, http://www.jeannestjames.com, or my blog at http://jeannestjames.blogspot.com

Double Dare is a contemporary erotic romance, which is a ménage a trois. It involves two heroes and a heroine (m/m/f). The heroine comes into an already established relationship with the two men. So it’s a big change for all three main characters.

Have you ever had an idea for a story which scared you after you began writing it?

I think my last release, Double Dare, worried me a bit once I decided it was going to be a ménage. I had never written a threesome before. And wasn’t sure if I could pull off two men having sex together. Another concern for me was I wasn’t sure how many POVs (points of view) I would put in the story. I ended up doing all three POVs and it worked out well.

Have you incorporated actual events from your own life into your books?

Most of my stories are fantasy, but I do have a criminal justice background and I do use that experience in some of my books. I also have two degrees in Criminal Justice and my husband is a State Trooper.

How much research do you do? Do you research first and then write, or do you write first, then research as needed?

I write contemporary erotic romances so not much research is needed. For Double Dare, I made the heroes owners of a sod farm (a company who supplies golf courses and sports stadium with turf) so I had to do some minor research for that. I just did it as needed.

Is there any message you want readers to take from reading your work?

No. I just want them to get caught up in the story and have a good time. I believe that fiction should be an escape from the real world.

Are you a plotter or a pantser? And have you ever had a story take on a life of its own?

I’m a pantser at heart, however, the more I write the more I am starting to plot or at least do some plot points. I really enjoy when the story takes on a life of its own because then I know I’m deep into the characters’ heads. I put myself in their place.

How long did it take for you to be published?

Actually, once I started submitting, it didn’t take long. What took some time was me getting around to submitting my first story. Once I did, it was contracted within a few months. I’m lucky. I have not had a story not contracted yet. Three submissions, three contracts, three different publishers.

If you could go back and tell yourself anything when you first began your writing career, what would you say?

I would tell myself not to wait so long to finish my stories and to not hesitate to submit. I doubted myself and my writing abilities. That’s what held me back.

Laptop or pen and ink? What are your ‘must-haves’ when writing?

Laptop. Absolutely. I’ve been working on computers so long, that my penmanship had deteriorated. Sometimes I can’t even read my own writing. Also, I prefer my laptop over my desktop computer while writing. It’s just a habit. Must-haves include my laptop and an “erotic thesaurus” that I made myself.

Who are your favorite authors? Who would you say influenced you the most?

I don’t get to read much anymore. I need to make the time. But my all-time favorite authors are Katherine Sutcliffe and Laura Kinsale. I liked the way they crafted their characters. I enjoy reading and writing “damaged” heroes/heroines.I have one book by Katherine Sutcliffe and it's one of my all-time favorites!

What would your readers be surprised to learn about you?

Hmm. I’m not sure. Writers are such a versatile group. We come from all kinds of backgrounds. That’s what helps make our stories so unique…

For Fun:

Favorite drink?

Whiskey sours. I love my whiskey sours. But I like flavored martinis too. Also, Captain and cokes.

Do you have any special Labor Day traditions?

No. I just got a new job within my organization last week. Prior to that, I was working most weekends and holidays.

McDonald’s or Burger King?

Neither. I’m not a fast food fan. I prefer to eat healthy. I love to cook, so I don’t eat out often.

Thank you for being here today! Please tell us where we can find your books.

Double Dare (m/m/f interracial ménage) – Loose Id - http://www.loose-id.com/Double-Dare.aspx

Double Dare is also available in paperback at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc.

Rip Cord (m/m erotic novella) – Phaze – http://tinyurl.com/phaze-ripcord

Banged Up (m/f erotic romance) – Liquid Silver Books – http://www.liquidsilverbooks.com/books/bangedup.htm

DOUBLE DARE Blurb:

What could be better than waking up next to a hot guy? Waking up sandwiched between two of them.

Quinn Preston, a financial analyst, is not happy when her friends dare her to pick up a handsome stranger at a wedding reception. What better reason to give up men when her previous long-term relationship had not only been lackluster in the bedroom but he had cheated.

Logan Reed, a successful business owner, can’t believe that he’s attracted to the woman in the ugly, Pepto-Bismol colored bridesmaid dress. And to boot, she’s more than tipsy. After turning down her invitation for a one-night stand, he finds her in the parking lot too impaired to drive. He rescues her and takes her home. His home.

The next morning Quinn’s conservative life turns on its ear when Logan introduces her to pleasures she never even considered before. And to make things more complicated, Logan already has a lover…

Tyson White, ex-pro football player, is completely in love with Logan. He has mixed emotions when Logan brings home Quinn. But the dares keep coming and things heat up with the three of them. Nevertheless Ty wonders: will adding Quinn to the mix end up enhancing or destroying Logan’s and his relationship?

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, BDSM theme & content, male/male sexual practices, ménage (m/m/f).

BUY LINK: http://www.loose-id.com/Double-Dare.aspx

EXCERPT:

Quinn Preston almost choked on her Alabama slammer when her friend elbowed her in the ribs. "Ooof."

She saved her drink before it could spill all over her ugly bridesmaid dress. Yeah, that would have been a shame: to ruin such a nice, frumpy, pukey pink taffeta dress. One the bride had said she would be able to wear in the future. Like to a cocktail party. Or maybe her own funeral. Yeah, right. No one in their right mind would want to get caught dead in this thing.

Ruining the dress wouldn't have been a loss, but losing her drink would have. She was drinking slammers for a reason -- to get good and drunk.

Lana nudged her again. "You see that?" She nodded her head toward the back of the room.

"What?" Quinn really didn't care what Lana was excited about. She just wanted to get this day over with. She was tired of watching the happy couple. She was tired of pasting on a plastic smile for the photographer. And she was really tired of listening to the sappy congratulations. All things she might never have -- the wedding, the husband, the bridal bliss. And something her parents never failed to remind her. Especially now that she was in her early thirties. And single. Again.

"Not what. Who."

"Huh?" She sucked on the dainty little straw the bartender had put in her drink. Hardly anything would come out of it. Maybe it was designed just for stirring. She pulled it out and threw it onto the bar. She really needed one of those big giant straws that came in those fancy frozen drinks.

"Him. Over there." Lana grabbed Quinn by the shoulders and turned her around to face whatever had caught her friend's attention.

"Oh, him." She took a deep draw of the punchlike drink, only there wasn't a bit of punch in it. Not the fruit kind anyway.

"Yeah, him." Lana dragged out him like she was sucking on a maraschino cherry and enjoying the sweetness on her tongue.

Quinn didn't even take a good look. Men were on her shit list at the moment. She didn't care how hot they were. The potent drink in her hands was all the company she needed. She smiled into her glass; it was the best date she'd had in a while.

Another pink taffeta blur whizzed up to them, out of breath.

"Jeez Louise. Did you see that hunk of man meat?" Paula, another victim of the wedding fashion nightmare, was flushed and had a bead of sweat running down her chipmunk-like cheeks. "Do you think he's single?"

Quinn raised one shoulder in a half shrug and turned back to the bar. It was bad enough when the three of them had to stand next to each other at the altar, then throughout the grueling pictures, followed by having to sit beside each other at the head table. All in that awful pink froth. But now that it was all over, and they had done their duty for their friend Gina, there was no reason they all had to stand there looking like someone threw up Pepto-Bismol.

She leaned into the bar and asked the semicute bartender the time. When he answered that it was six, she gritted her teeth. They had only been at the reception for an hour. It was way too early to bail.

Damn.

With a sigh, she turned back to her friends. They were still ogling the male eye candy across the room.

Paula's sigh drifted over her. "I wonder if he likes women with a little meat on their bones."

A little meat? She opened her mouth to correct Paula, but shut it quickly. Her friend didn't need to be on the receiving end of her miserable mood.

"Quinn, I bet he'd make you forget Peanut."

Quinn winced and took another long draw from her drink. She loved the flavor and the tanginess on her tongue. And she was trying to forget Peanut. She hated the nickname her friends had called her ex-boyfriend, Peter. Once they had actually called him Peanut in front of his face -- by accident, of course. Right. It had taken her a while to brush that one under the rug. He had never liked her friends after that.

On the other hand, her friends had never liked Peter from the beginning. Unlike her parents, who loved the bastard. Probably more than they loved her.

"Yeah, Quinn, he could probably fuck your brains out, and you'd never remember that douche again."

Quinn frowned at Paula. She noticed her friend's string of pearls hiding in the skin around her neck. Quinn's hands automatically went to her neck to finger a similar necklace -- a part of the stupid wedding costume. Ugh. She hated pearls!

She hated taffeta. She hated pink. She hated frilly dresses.

She took a long swig from her glass.

And she hated Peter. The asshole.

His gift to her last Valentine's Day wasn't an engagement ring. Oh no, after five long, wasted years of dating the shit, he couldn't have gotten her a ring. Nope. Instead he sent her a text message.

That was it.

A stupid little text message. One line.

We've grown apart and I've found someone new.

She deserved more than that. Something better. After all those years of loyalty, standing by his side, being the "good, proper" girlfriend. As Peter had expected. As her parents had expected. The girlfriend any decent man would want on his arm. Right?

Not even a sorry. Not even an explanation. Nothing.

And the next day, FedEx had delivered a box with all the things she had left over at his apartment during the last half decade.

Quinn emptied her glass and turned back to the bar, blocking out her friends' chattering over that man.

She needed another man like she needed a hole in the head.

She slid her glass over the bar top, and before she could ask for another, a deep voice washed over her.

"Put her next drink on me."

Dumb ass. The drinks are on the house. She turned to ream whoever it was, and stopped. Her mouth opened, but nothing escaped.

"You look like a fish out of water with your mouth hanging open like that." When he smiled, the lines around his eyes crinkled. He was tan, an outdoorsy tan, not a manmade one. And he had beautiful green eyes. Shit. She had never seen such beautiful eyes on a man. His nose was a little crooked, like it had been broken, and it made him even more beautiful. No. Not beautiful. He was. He was.

Quinn closed her mouth and swallowed hard. He was so unperfect, he was perfect. His hair was a dark brown with natural highlights, more proof he liked being outdoors. It was long and pulled back into a neat ponytail.

She hated long hair on men. But it was right on him.

He had a beard that wasn't a beard. It was like a longer five-o'clock shadow.

She hated facial hair.

He had a strong, corded neck that disappeared into a stiff dress shirt. The collar had been already released and one more button undone below that. The knot of his tie was loose and hung crookedly from around his neck.

The sleeves of his crispy white shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and his forearms were tan covered in dark hair. His hands.

Oh. Damn.

His hands were large. They were working hands. They weren't soft and pampered. But calloused and thick and strong.

Capable. Capable of doing all kinds of things.

Quinn's nipples hardened under the scratchy taffeta.

His hands could do all kinds of dirty, nasty things.

Things Peter had never wanted to do.

Quinn ripped her gaze from him and spun back around to the bar, bracing herself against it for a second to catch her breath. She grabbed her fresh drink and took a gulp.

"Whoa. Slow down there."

She pressed the cold drink against her forehead in an attempt to cool herself off.

She needed to go change her panties, she was so freaking wet.

She could feel his heat next to her; his body was like a furnace. She wanted to plant her hands on his chest and feel how hot he really was. Her fingers convulsed around her glass.

"Are you okay?" The deep timbre of his voice sent a shot of lightning down her body, landing right in her pussy.

Quinn could only nod her answer.

He palmed her bare shoulder and turned her to him. He stared down into her eyes, his lips widening into a smile.

His lips. Oh man. Those lips probably could do all sorts of things to her, with her. Lips that were made for more than kissing.

"Yes." Oh my God, she thought. That was the kind of yes she blurted when she was in the midst of an orgasm. At least from what she could remember. It had been so long since she'd come.with a partner, anyway.

She felt the heat crawl up her neck, and she stepped back, breaking the contact.

"I.I'm fine." She cleared her throat. "Thank you for the drink." She took another sip before raising the glass to him in thanks.

"It was nothing." When he laughed, her knees almost buckled. "Enjoy it."

He stepped away and then paused. But it looked as though he thought better of whatever he was contemplating, and he continued on his way.

Quinn leaned back against the bar and let out a shaky breath.

She was suddenly flanked on either side by her friends. She had been so distracted, she hadn't even realized that they disappeared.

"Quinn --"

"Quinn!"

"Oh. My. God!"

"I told you he was hot!"

"Oh! I wish I weren't married already."

"I wish he liked chubby chicks."

Quinn couldn't take any more. She raised her palms in surrender. "Stop. Enough."

"But, Quinn --"

"But nothing," Quinn answered Paula.

"You're just going to let him walk away?"

"Paula, he isn't going anywhere. Unfortunately I'm not going anywhere. We have to be here for two more hours, at least."

Lana said, "Are you going to let Peter ruin the rest of your life? All men aren't assholes like him."

Quinn harrumphed and took another sip of her slammer.

"Why don't you at least dance with him?"

"No."

"Why not?" Lana asked.

Why not? Because if she did, she might come right on the dance floor? Because she might end up in a puddle of her own juices? The picture in her head shocked her: it was of her lying in a heap in the middle of the dance floor in the throes of an orgasm. Surrounded by all the wedding guests.

This drink was stronger than she thought.

"Because no one is dancing yet."

"Sure they are. Look."

Quinn glanced over at the area cleared for dancing, and sure enough, a crowd of people were out there shaking their groove thing. Quinn had been too busy trying to get her drink on to notice.

From the looks of the participants on the dance floor, a few of them had been partaking in the open bar also. Even the bride and her new husband were bouncing and shimmying in the crowd.

At least they were a happy couple.

Quinn took another drink.

Lana frowned at her. "Are you just going to drink tonight, or are you going to do something about your situation?"

"Situation? What situation?"

"Getting laid."

Quinn checked over her shoulder to see if the bartender was listening. He was. He had a big grin plastered on his face. Great.

The father of the bride came up and asked for a gin and tonic. While he was waiting, he turned to them. "Hi, girls. Enjoying yourselves? You look great in those dresses. My wife picked them out."

Oh joy. Quinn would have to remember to smack -- she meant thank -- her. She couldn't wait to rip the scratchy, ugly piece of shit off.

All three women gave him a smile but bit their tongues. Eventually he wandered away, and Lana and Paula jumped right back to harassing her. Good thing they were her friends.

"C'mon. It's not going to hurt to have a one-night stand. Look at him."

"I already saw him." Holy moley, she knew they meant well, but they were getting on her last nerve.

"Yeah, and we saw how you were drooling too."

She had not drooled. Her hand automatically went up to her mouth.

Paula said, "He probably isn't interested in you anyway."

"Yeah, you couldn't get someone like that. You attract losers like Peter," Lana said.

If they thought their reverse psychology was going to work, well, it wasn't.

"Looks like he's with Paige Reed, anyway."

Quinn's gaze shot over to the corner of the ballroom where the tall man stood next to the petite, dark-haired beauty. Paige Reed. Figures.

"I thought Paige was dating Connor Morgan," Quinn mumbled.

She must have mumbled loud enough, because Lana answered her. "She is. Connor had to fly to Australia for something to do with his job."

"So why is she with him?" Quinn asked. Why was she so curious all of a sudden? Why did she care?

She didn't. She nursed her drink. After one and a half Alabama slammers, she was starting to feel pretty tipsy. She wasn't used to drinking. And when she did drink, she usually had wine, not hard liquor, and especially not such a hard-hitting mix of liquors.

Paula leaned into the both of them and said in an exaggerated whisper, "Maybe he's an escort," like it was a scandal, and then laughed.

Maybe he was an escort.

He was probably worth every penny too.

His back was to them now, but that just gave Quinn the opportunity to study how broad those shoulders were in his dress shirt. When he moved, the fabric bunched and pulled with his muscles.

Lana gasped, jerking Quinn out of her thoughts. "He's not an escort! That's Logan Reed, Paige's brother. I haven't seen him since we were kids. Holy shit, did he grow up."

"I'll say." Paula agreed. "Quinn, I dare you to go ask him to dance."

"Not interested."

Lana joined in. "Yeah, I dare you too. Don't be a wuss."

If she were a wuss, she wouldn't have come out in public in this pink atrocity. And the matching shoes were killing her feet. The last thing she needed was to be dancing. She'd be crippled.

"That's a double dare, you know, with the two of us daring you.."

Oh, boy, a double dare. She would definitely do it now -- not. "You're crazy."

"No, you are, if you pass up this opportunity. "

"How do you know he's available?" Quinn asked them.

"You don't know until you ask him," Lana said. "But if I remember correctly, his wife left him a while ago. There had been some rumors."

There had been some rumors about her and Peter too, but rumors were just that: rumors. She didn't take any stock in them.

Paula suddenly shouted, "Truth or dare?" making Quinn jump. It was like they were teenagers all over again.

Lana quickly said, "Truth." And bounced on her toes like she was fifteen.

Jesus, would someone please put a bullet in my head? Quinn needed to be put out of her misery.

Paula asked Lana, "Do you shave or wax?"

"Shave. Okay, Quinn, your turn. Truth or dare?"

Quinn was not playing this juvenile game. It was stupid; she was not going to fall into what was clearly a trap.

"Truth."

"How bad was Peter in bed?" Lana asked.

Damn. She wasn't going to answer that one. Even as drunk as she was. She didn't want to relive their vanilla, boring lovemaking. And she definitely didn't want to admit it or talk about it.

There was only one thing left for her to do.

Injured....

I slammed my finger in my van door last night and am having typing issues. So I'm going to try to keep this brief, as I've already had waaaaaaayyyy too many typos just writing these two sentences!

Working today; I've also got a sick kid at home, but Daddy can take care of him as well as I could. So no guilt.




Picture above is the latest addition to the family, Cheyenne. Daughter came home with her last Friday, and she's already claimed the couch and my bed as her favorite napping places. She's somewhat housebroken, to my immense relief, and has only had two minor altercations with Oreo. She loves kids and she and Roxie had an immediate bonding. Which, if you'll remember, is HUGE for Roxie; we've had her for one year now, and she used to be quite food-possessive. But now they eat out of each other's bowls, so all is well.

Kenzie's talking about do-over's today; go over and see if changing three moments in history would have affected her writing career. And tomorrow on the blog, I'll welcome author Jeanne St. James.

So maybe my finger will be better by Wednesday? And I'm praying I don't catch the intestinal bug which first swept through Mockingbird Book Emporium and is now affecting my youngest. He's currently lying on the couch, trash can, Kleenex, wash cloth, and sippy cup with water close by, and watching Oswald.

Happy Monday.

Saturday's Stupid Saying

Family Fortunes host: Name something made of wool.

Contestant: Sheep

Yes, I'm back to posting on Saturdays:) No more getting up early for the Farmer's Market, although in a few weeks I do have a Fall Festival to participate in.

In case you missed it, Kenzie has a release date for Wild At Heart: Nov 23rd (hopefully edits will be completed and everything polished, buffed, waxed, etc:) And also, I believe she now has an editor for Teacher's Pet:) So hopefully two releases in the near future! She's also the featured author on the Romance Books R Us blog. Go over and leave her a comment?

I'll be at the bookstore most of the day, so I won't be online until late tonight.

Please welcome fellow XOXO author, Timothy Spearman. He was scheduled for an interview on Thursday, but emails were apparently lost in cyberspace. Maybe one of these days it will appear and you will see the entire thing:) But for now, here's a peek at his book, Must I Remember.

Must I Remember
Timothy Spearman
bestselling book is now available on line:
http://www.xoxopublishing.com/shop-online
in the following formats:
ebook CD and in paperback.

"Straw boats to borrow arrows" is a proverb based on a legend about a Chinese
military strategist, an adviser to a general. The narrative style of this novel
is influenced by the legend. According to the fable, the general asked his
adviser to produce one hundred thousand arrows for his army in advance of a
military offensive across the Yangtze River. Rather than decline what the
general considered a mission impossible, the adviser agreed to the challenge.
Not only did he promise to deliver the arrows, but insisted it could be done in
only three days. He vowed to deliver one hundred thousand arrows within
seventy-two hours or face certain death if he failed. He launched his boats just
outside the enemy's naval yards. The enemy, unable to see clearly through the
fog, resorted to firing volleys of arrows to prevent an attack. With the
eventual break of dawn approaching, the adviser called in the boats bristling
with one hundred thousand plus arrows, all donations of a badly outwitted enemy.

In this novel about an Afghani refugee family, there are several straw men
dispatched in several narrative boats. The story is told by a central
protagonist, who breaks off her narrative to allow her mother and brother to
tell their sides of the story. And each one of them tells stories about Mr.
Rostami as well, who died at the hands of the Taliban. What makes this story of
terror unique is the telling of it. With so many straw men telling their sides
of the story, it is impossible to establish a definitive narrator of the novel.
Fire might be drawn, but by whom? It seems like there would be a lot of wasted
arrows.

Must I Remember is based on the Rostami family's epic journey to find a new
home. In this excerpt, Shegufae opens the story by recounting the misfortunes
that first brought the family into the mess that forced them to leave their
homeland as hunted refugees.


Chapter One
Being a Foreigner in Your Own Country

My father, who I will call Papa, is a respected name in Afghanistan. I
think that's why he was afraid to leave. No one ever wants to leave home. No
wild animal ever wants to leave the nest. It is the mother that decides to wean
her offspring and send them out into the wild. It is natural for them to have to
learn to fend for themselves. Usually though, she waits till her young have come
of age. It is that way with one's mother country sometimes. Sometimes, she sends
her whelps beyond her borders, where they must learn to fend for themselves
without the protection of their mother country's customs and habits. On rare
occasions, the motherland becomes hostile toward her young and drives them from
her borders. These we call refugees and exiles. My father fell into this
category, as did we, his children. It was not his choice. It was not ours.
Sometimes the decision is not your own. Sometimes the stars decide things for
you.

In the New Testament of the Christian faith, it says that the cock crowed
three times before Jesus was betrayed. The Taliban visited my father three
times. They insisted he cooperate with them. He worked for a government agency
that had classified information about the country. He was asked to divulge
information about his work and the agency. He refused. The first time they came
for him he was gone for three days. We never thought we'd see him again. Most
people weren't given a second chance. My father had three. In America, they say
three strikes and you're out. The Taliban likes baseball. Sometimes they play by
American rules. My father was taken to a Taliban base, where he was interrogated
and subjected to beatings. He was asked repeatedly to reveal names, dates and
other information pertaining to his assignments. He refused to spill so much as
a bean.

"Tell us what we want to know," the Taliban agent insisted. "We want names,
dates, information. Tell us or your life may not go as you'd planned. For most
it is a wife, kids and threescore years. It may not be so for you. Life does not
always go as planned, especially for those who don't follow the rules."

"I follow the rules," my father insisted. "I just don't follow yours."

"Then you are not a good Muslim," insisted the agent.

"On the contrary, I am a Mohammedan to the core," my father countered. "My
name speaks for itself. I adhere to the Quran, not to Taliban dictum."

"You will tell us what we want to know or face the consequences," the agent
urged. "It can be easy for you or as difficult as you care to make it."

"I can tell you nothing," my father replied. "What do you think? I'm going
to betray my people?"

They let him know his days were numbered unless he cooperated. He tried
keeping track of the days. It is natural to try to count the days when you know
your days are numbered. A prisoner never knows how much time he has left.
Perhaps that's why we all count the days. Maybe we are slaves to the calendar
for a reason. None of us really know how much time we have. He refused to
cooperate, so they beat him and subjected him to hours of interrogation. The
usual mix of techniques was used. He was kept up all night. A lamp was kept
burning the entire time. His senses became confused. He could no longer tell day
from night. He became disoriented, confused, and listless. He was given no food,
offered no comforts. He was not permitted to sleep. The confusion and
disorientation only got worse. He did not know how many days he had been held or
how many he had left. Everything became a blur, minutes turning into hours,
hours into days, a single day becoming weeks. His days may have been numbered,
but he soon lost count. It is impossible to number the days when they become one
big blur, one day fading into another.

In the Taming of the Shrew, Katharina is held prisoner by her fiancé,
Petruchio. Like my father, Katharina lost track of the days. Like my father, she
grew confused. She is told that it is the sun in the sky when it is actually the
moon. She is told that it is the full light of day when it is actually the moon
at night. They call this psychological warfare today. Others call it programming
or brainwashing. Like Katharina, my father could not tell day from night. A lamp
hovered over him during interrogation. The same lamp kept him awake day and
night, but for him it was always day. There was no clock and no regular meals to
set your watch to. Katharina was made to do her husband's bidding through
torture and duress. The shrew would eventually be broken and submit. Not my
father. No amount of bullying or duress could break his will.

The David Lean classic Bridge over the River Kwai comes to mind when I
think of my father's indomitable will. The key is to break the will of those who
seek to break yours. No easy matter to be sure, but possible for those with an
indomitable will. The Japanese commander lived by the Confucian work ethic. This
is the disadvantage older societies always have. They become staid and unbending
in their habits. They can also be read cover to cover like a book. Westerners
see Asians as inscrutable and hard to read. Nothing could be further from the
truth. They are an open book. Habit and custom makes it impossible for them to
deviate from a set of norms. Filial piety requires devotion and commitment to
family. Serving one's family and community is the Confucian norm. Working
assiduously to provide for one's family and loved ones is an honoured duty.

The Japanese commander of the prison camp was duly impressed by the
ingenuity of the British POWs who strived so assiduously to build a sturdy and
solid bridge over the River Kwai. Indeed, the British prisoners showed so much
commitment to the project, it appeared to be a labour of love. The Japanese
commander assumed that the prisoners would take pride in their achievement,
would become attached to it and would be anxious to see it stand as a living
testament to their vanity. He did not realize that the prisoners only wished to
wound the pride of their captors through a lavish display of ingenuity and
engineering prowess. Little did he know that they would have no attachment to
their project whatsoever and would be perfectly happy to see it blown sky high.

The reason for this is that the Christian mind is set upon a higher ideal. Their
kingdom is not of this world. They have their sights set on heaven. It is
therefore no challenge whatsoever for the true Christian to overcome a sense of
attachment to anything in this world.

The true Muslim is little different. Surrendering to the will of Allah is
a joy to this pious people. My father lived in accordance to the will of Allah.
He knew that anything he had built with his own hands was worthless unless it
accorded with the will of the Most High. His captors felt assured that this
ambitious man would be attached to his achievements in the journalistic field
and would wish to continue his career. They bargained on him doing whatever was
necessary to remain in the country and continue his illustrious career. They
didn't realize that my father had allegiances to a higher power, a motivation
far exceeding the short-term temporal aspirations of man. My father had his eye
set on eternity and wished to live in accordance with Allah's eternal laws.

Selling one's country and one's people down the river so that one man could have
his place in the sun was not my father's idea of a life worth living. He lived
by a nobler covenant, the covenant of Abraham to which all Muslim ethics and law
bow. My father was perfectly willing to surrender his entire career and
everything he held dear, his house, his property, his life savings, his career
accomplishments, all relinquished in the blink of an eye because he refused to
profit at the expense of his people and homeland. Or as the progenitor of the
Christian faith once put it, "It profits a man nothing if he gains the whole
world and loses his soul."

Three days later, my father rose from the dead. I came home to find him
sitting in his chair. I went to him just to make sure he was real. I threw my
arms around him and didn't let go for the same number of days. I was afraid he
might disappear again unless I hung on to him. "Next time they'll have to take
me too," I thought. Whenever I was home, I never left his side. I put up quite a
fuss when my mother made me go to school. I wanted to stay by my father's side.
One day, I came home to find his chair empty once again. I went into the
garden to see if he was tending to his plants. I went into the study to see if
he was at his books. I went into the kitchen and found my mother. Her
grief-stricken face revealed everything.

"Where's father?" I asked.

"They came for him in the night when you were sleeping," she replied.

"So that's why you were so silent at breakfast," I observed.

"Yes," she admitted.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because the truth is hard enough for an adult to bear," she replied. "I
wished to spare you the upset. I hoped he might be home before you."

"Do you think he'll return?" I asked.

"That is up to Allah, my child. He decides everything."

But my father did return. This time it took four days. The extra day made
us lose hope as I'm sure it was meant to. His return boded well. It seemed to be
the will of Allah, so we considered it a miracle. It was not such a happy family
reunion this time however. My father's ribs were bandaged. He wheezed and
coughed a lot and sometimes there was blood in his tissue. His handsome face was
buried beneath a rash of welts, cuts and bruises. He was not himself and it did
not look like my father. He was not so sweet-tempered and often flew into rages.
I began to doubt this man was my father, imagining him to be a replacement
double.

He came for him one more time. This was the third and last. The Americans
say three strikes and you're out. They are right. Most terrorists don't have the
patience to offer fourth chances. This time he was absent for five days. The
extra day assured us he would not return. During his five day absence, he
received no food or water. He was not permitted to sleep. Every time he nodded
off, they would throw water in his face to revive him. The water would further
tantalize him, but he would not be permitted to drink. After five days, they let
him go. They decided to give him one more chance to consider their request.

"We will let you go one last time," said the Taliban. "But do not think
for a moment that you are free. You are permitted to walk only one road. There
is no fork in this one; there are no divergent paths; there are no crossroads.
There is no other recourse for you. The road signs could not be clearer. There
is only one destination marked on the map. Think about it. Think about the map
we have drawn for you. Consider our request. But know this: If you decide on
another route, we will still provide you with directions. Consider those
directions and to where they might lead."

The Buddhists say suffering stems from desire and desire stems from
attachment. I guess that's why my father was reluctant to leave. The Americans
say home is where you hang your hat. My father hung his hat in the hallway by
the door. It's hard not to be attached to the place where you hang your hat. He
could have spared himself several beatings had he not been so attached to home.
He didn't want to leave Kabul. War-shelled or not it was his home. He didn't
want to leave the house he had built and the memories it preserved; he didn't
want to bid farewell to friends and neighbors; he was reluctant to leave his
workplace and assignments. Leaving his career was like amputating his arms.

Leaving his home was like removing his legs. And so he left Afghanistan a
quadriplegic.

"What can I do?" my father asked. "This is my country. I have built my
life here. Everything I have is here. My reputation is built on the sweat and
toil of my career. I am known here. Where can I go where my name will be known?
Who will respect us in another country if we run? Who will respect a family on
the run with no place to go? We will be reduced to beggars at the mercy of
other's pity."

"We can't stay here," reasoned my mother. "They have come for you three
times already. Do you think they will ever just let you alone? Can you not see
that they will pursue and hunt us all down? What will happen if you come home to
see us slaughtered, your entire family in a pool of blood on the floor?"

"I know, but what about our life?" he asks. "What about the life I have
built for us here? Are we going to let all that go?"

"We have no choice," my mother insisted. "Either we leave the country or
we leave this life. They will not permit you to retain the life you have known.
Either you work for them or you are dead. You cannot just consider yourself. You
must consider your family. You have a responsibility to protect your children.
They must come first."

The Buddhists believe one should free oneself from attachments.
Attachment they say leads to desire and desire leads to suffering. It is
advisable, even necessary, to free oneself from attachment of sundry kinds.
Nothing lasts forever in our world and Buddhists do not cling to the illusion of
permanence. We Muslims do. For us, the Koran is permanent; the Imam equally so;
Mecca and the Qabbah as fixed as any constellation in the heavens. Allah is
permanence itself, of greater constancy than the sun in the sky.

In Islam, there is a dwelling surpassing one's personal domicile in
importance. There is a more permanent dwelling, which is Islam itself. Islam is
the ruler that is supported by the people. The tent is Islam; the pole is the
ruler; the ropes and pegs are the people. Each is mutually dependent on the
other. If we failed to support the tent with our ropes and pegs, it would
collapse and that cannot be permitted. If my father allowed his career, his
property and his house to stand, but allowed the tent, which is Islam to
collapse, what kind of man would he be? What kind of Muslim? What kind of father
to his children? The man who stands for nothing cannot support himself. In
failing to support himself, he cannot support his family. In failing to support
his family, the pegs and ropes offer no support and the tent which is Islam
collapses and the entire caliphate is reduced to ruins.

Still, we Muslims had to acknowledge that our dwelling was impermanent;
my father's job, our household antiques, our furniture, all were impermanent. We
had to bid farewell to all of them. We understood the Buddhists now. Our dharma
had led us to understand theirs. We were forced by circumstance to see the
universe as it really was. In the Hebrew Book, in the Book of Ecclesiastes, it
states that, "To everything there is a season,/ A time to be born and a time to
die." Truly. The four seasons engulf us. All things in the universe bow to the
law of impermanence. The poet Shelley called it "Immutable Mutability". One can
see the impermanence of his universe in "Mount Blanc" and "To a Skylark". To be
so free of attachment that one could soar free as a bird, a skylark, is a
freedom to be envied because it is free of desire, and so, free of suffering.

We left everything behind. My mother left her china; my father his books;
my brother his toys; and I left my dolls; my mother relinquished her antiques
and gave up all she treasured and held dear. Some things were dispensed among
our neighbors. There was the thought that the most valuable items might be sent
on to us when we arrived in some third country. No one can free himself from all
attachments.

We packed our things and boarded a bus bound for the Afghani-Pakistan
border. On the way, we met a Taliban checkpoint. The Taliban boarded the bus,
miniboos in my dialect. The look on their faces revealed they were looking for
someone. They came down the aisle. They did not appear to recognize my father.
When he locked eyes with them, they turned away as though he were a stranger to
them. Their expressions were far from an open book. They could not be read. They
conveyed no emotion. This was oriental inscrutability at its best. They turned
around immediately and exited the bus. My family issued a loud sigh of relief.
It seemed very loud. Perhaps the other families had joined in our chorus. I'm
not sure. I was too scared to notice. The bus driver closed the doors, revved up
the engine and pulled out. But the bus got no more than a few feet before it
ground to a halt. The bus doors flew open and the Taliban boarded the bus once
again.

"Right, everyone off!" said the Taliban. "Move it! Get your asses off the
bus now."

The families were forced off the bus at gunpoint. My father was pushed
along ahead of us. They pushed him out of the bus. He stumbled when he hit the
ground running. They dragged him away. I could see the Taliban interrogating
him.

"So you are headed for the Pakistani border?" the Taliban leader observed.
"Did you think you could get away so easily?"

"What makes you think I am going to Pakistan?" my father retorted.

"You think we are stupid? The bus is going to the border town of Chaman.
Are you telling us you are just sightseeing?"

"Think what you like," my father replied.

"Thank you, we will," say the Taliban. "This is what we think."

The Taliban leader pulled out his gun and held it to my father's temple.
"Why are you leaving the country?"

"It's my country," said my father. "I can leave it if I choose. It's none
of your concern."

"Please, don't take my husband!" my mother protested. "He's a father of
two. Please leave him alone. He's done nothing wrong. And don't take my son.
He's only a boy. Please let him go."

"If you don't shut up, we might take your daughter instead. Shut your
mouth, woman. This man of yours has no right to live. Neither have you, his
worthless chattel. Shut up or we might kill you and your children as well!"

They dragged my father away. Jamsid, my ten-year-old brother, ran to my
father. He hugged him around the waist. My mother also tried to get the Taliban
to release my father, but was knocked to the ground with a backhand cuff to the
face. She lay listless on the ground. Jamsid pulled on my father's coat to try
to free him.

"Let my father go!" he insisted. "You have no right to take him. Who do you
think you are?"

"Get out of here, you little brat," the Taliban leader rebuked him. "Get
your hands off the prisoner or you'll be next."

My mother grabbed Jamsid by the hand and tried to pull him away. My father
was made to face his firing squad. The Taliban executioners raised their rifles.

The report of the guns echoed off the surrounding hills. The Kochi (gipsy
cave-dwellers) could be heard in the far off caves wailing. Their mournful calls
continued unabated. My father slumped to the ground. The universe appeared to be
mourning his passing. It was a funeral oration.

Jamsid jumped up and down in a mad frenzy. He flew at the Taliban, lashing
out at them with his fists. My mother rose to defend him. She grabbed him by the
hand and tried to pull him away. A Taliban agent struck her on the hand with the
butt of his rifle. My mother lost hold of Jamsid's hand and fell to the ground.
Jamsid was dragged away kicking and screaming.

"Mom!" he screamed. "No, don't let them! Take me! I don't want to go. I
don't want to leave you. Let me go! I want to be with my mother! Let me go!"

My mother was on her knees. She beat her head against the ground. She
struck herself on the skull with clenched fists. This is the suicidal impulse
that seizes anyone who loses someone they love. How exactly does one kill
oneself when no weapon is at hand? There are few options unless there is a
freeway bridge or cliff nearby. The only option is to strike oneself in the head
as hard as possible in the hope of inducing a concussion or a mortal blow to the
temple.

"Oh my God, my husband is dead and my boy is gone!" my mother screamed.
"They've taken my boy. What am I going to do? What can I do? How can I survive
on my own? How can I feed my little girl? How can we survive? My husband has
left us. What are we going to do?"

Flashback Friday: Admitting the Truth

1990:
After my hospitalization, I did something rather childish. The Idiot proposed a weekend getaway in Bern, In. I had never been there, so I jumped at the chance to go. Secured my weekend off at both jobs, and off we went for a weekend in Amish Country.

The first night, we discovered a wonderful restaurant, and stuffed ourselves. Sunday, we wandered around and nearly had an argument when I wanted to purchase an ashtray with the Amish sayings. My point being, instead of buying several items with the various sayings, why not one thing with all of them? His point: 'You don't smoke. That's a stupid souvenier.' I rolled my eyes, but bought it anyway. We toured the barn and got to pet a white-tailed deer and the regular animals found on a farm.

Sunday night, we went to the same restaurant and got a snooty waitress. Well, okay. She fawned over the Idiot and treated me like dirt. I joked she had a crush on him; he denied it. I was fed up with her attitude, so when she brought the bill, I asked for a tiny slice of cheesecake. After she huffily snatched the bill back and stalked off, I told him I'd prove she had a crush on him and to play along with me. She brought the cheesecake and the following conversation took place:

Me: Oh, big brother, you're going to have to help me eat this.

Server (thawing considerably): Oh, you're brother and sister?

Me: Yes. The parents went to the other restaurant; he and I wanted to come back here.

Server: So is this your first time in Bern?

Idiot (finally speaking up): Yes, and we've had a great time.

Me: But we have to leave in the morning.

Server: Where are you from?

Me: Arcadia.

Server: You should really come back in the fall; we have festivals.

Me: Why don't you give her your phone number so she can call you and let you know when it is? Then you can come back and see her.

Idiot (shooting me a what-the-hell-are-you-doing look): I didn't bring my card with me.

Server(fishing pen and scrap paper out of her apron): Here; write it on this. That's a great idea!

After we paid the bill and left, I said to him, 'I told you she liked you!'

"But what do I do if she actually calls?"

"Whatever you want."

Later that evening, he tried to give me back the engagement ring; I refused, and he asked why the hell I'd agreed to the weekend. Being totally honest about everything for the 1st time in over a year, I replied it had seemed like a good idea at the time, but there was no hope of any future between us,

This sparked outrage from him, but since we were in a public place, he didn't get too loud, and we slept in separate beds. Monday, on the drive back, he asked what it would take to earn his love back. I said I honestly didn't know; we'd have to totally start over, and he would have to simply accept the fact that I did not agree with him on everything. He announced he would be willing to change; I didn't believe him, and realized I was probably going to have to sneak out of town before he'd let me go. So I began to make plans. And the first thing on my list was to start saving my money.

First Week In Business!
Traffic has been steady:) I've kept a tally sheet of everyone who wandered in; we've averaged 15 people per shift in the three days I've worked this week. I'm loving it! Everyone who's been in has uttered the same phrase 'Thank God! We need a bookstore in this town!"

Tomorrow we have our Children's Hour, in which a local actor will dress in character and read to kids. I need to find out what time that will be, as I want to take my youngling and three of his friends. Plus I'm working the afternoon shift, as both owners have prior commitments.

And the SU discovered it's not going to kill him if he cooks dinner two days a week and does some housework! He still refuses to do laundry, so that's on my list of things to do today.

WTG Hayden!!
Finally watched the finale of Big Brother last night! Yes, I've avoided FaceBook so I wouldn't accidentally see a spoiler. I was hoping Matt or Lane would get the America's Favorite Player, but Brittany was a good choice. And did you see Rachel's face? She was unhappy she wasn't chosen! And congrats to Lane for coming in 2nd. This season was definitely one of the BEST!

Woo hoo! I just learned Kenzie's release date for Wild At Heart has been scheduled for Nov 23rd!!! Now to schedule edits in with everything else going on in my life....

Publishers Behaving Badly....

Awhile back, I blogged about authors behaving badly, and how one should conduct themselves in a professional manner. It's recently come to my attention some publishers need to do the same. (Thank you Melanie for your email and phone call!)

-Answer your email. I realize you may receive a ton of mail per day, but if your newly-contracted author has a valid question, at least forward it to someone who can answer in a timely fashion? And remember; I've most likely 'friended' or 'liked' you on FB, so remember I KNOW you're online and my email has been unanswered for weeks.

-Be honest. If the company is making money, authors should too. Please send checks/prizes won/royalties paid on time. Authors like to know our books are selling, even if what we've sold doesn't even meet the quarterly minimum. Please allow us access to our reports?

-Don't play favorites. Yes, I'm sure every publishing house has their golden child, the author who belongs to the release-of-the-month club and earns big bucks for the company. Remember they didn't start out that way; they worked their way into the Best Sellers like us newbies will...eventually.

-And let authors talk to each other. How can we get to know each other if you don't encourage interaction? You'll get better cross-promotion if we become friendly and can toot each other's horns once in a while. Trust me; my own blogmates do for their own publishing houses.

-Learn to spell, or at least proofread your posts. If you own your own publishing company, don't let me see typos every time you post. I can understand dyslexic fingers; I have them myself at times. But every single post?

-Follow simple instructions. If you're scheduling a chat, tell your authors they have to join the group. Don't just say 'sign me up'. The moderators cannot do it for you. And you expect authors to follow your submission guidelines? There's an idea; 'Here's my MS....publish it for me?' Doesn't. Exactly. Work. That. Way. At times I feel as if you don't really understand how your business works; sort of like a child operating a lemonade stand who wants the customers to provide their own cups or product.

-And if you request an interview on this blog, I send out the questions a month in advance. Please send me back the correct interview and respond to my 'gentle reminders'? I'm easy to work with; just ask anyone who's been showcased the past eight months. Ask my blogmates; I'm a loyal person. If I like your books, I'll shout it from the rooftop. But if I don't, well, you won't hear it here. I'm polite that way.

But act unprofessional and believe me; I'll take my business elsewhere.

Grand Opening!

Our Local Author section.....



Mockingbird Book Emporium is in a building which first used to be Felton's Tavern. We've since learned there was also gambling in the back room, and 'ladies' who would come down the stairs from the above apartment and choose their clients.










Fellow authors and good friends BC Brown and J Travis Grundon, standing behind the original bar, which is over one hundred years old, and the original smoked glass mirror.











Myself, BC, Travis, his daughter Lilyana, and BC's niece Ashlae at the beginning of the ribbon cutting ceremony. Lily was overheard saying the huge scissors wouldn't cut!












The actual cutting of the ribbon; Travis wondered if Lily thought she actually cut it:)
















The cutting of the cake....













The Mayor and his wife were in attendance












Author Joe Schwartz spoke about his road to publication and sold several copies of his book, Joe's Black T-Shirt St. Louis Stories.










Saturday was a long day, but we had a good turnout, and sales continue to be steady:) I met a man on Sunday who bought one of my books 'just because' I was there and he could get it autographed.

Come back tomorrow for a glimpse of another XOXO author, Timothy Spearman:)

Terrific Tuesday with Sandy Nicks:)

Welcome! Please introduce yourself and tell us about your latest release.

Hello, Everyone! I’m Sandy Nicks and I write romantic comedy and time travel romance. I live near the Jersey Shore with my family and nine spoiled pets. My latest release is Circle of Eternity, and Crazy Days of Summer, book 2 in the Sisters for All Seasons series will be out in November.

Have you ever had an idea for a story which scared you after you began writing it?

Not necessarily scared, but there are many times when I bang my head on the keyboard and wonder what to do when I go blank and have no clue where the story is going next.

Have you incorporated actual events from your own life into your books?

I may have to plead the fifth on this one, but will say in Falling for Autumn, I did work for a man similar to Autumn’s boss ; -) I have used actual locations in my stories such as the beautiful Manasquan Reservoir.

How much research do you do? Do you research first and then write, or do you write first, then research as needed?

For Circle of Eternity I had to research twelfth century England in depth. I like to do some research before I start, but there’s always something that comes up while I’m writing that needs to be clarified. I definitely go online a lot while I’m working on a story.

Is there any message you want readers to take from reading your work?

I really want my readers to laugh and enjoy the adventures my characters take them on. If they find something in the story they can relate to that makes them feel better and have hope, then that’s a great thing as well.

Are you a plotter or a pantser? And have you ever had a story take on a life of its own?

I’m definitely a panster!

At some point, I think every story I write takes on a life of its own. I have a t-shirt that says “I hear voices…character voices” and when they tell me they don’t like something, I usually listen!

How long did it take for you to be published?

I sold a short story to an anthology about twelve years ago, but didn’t sell my first novel until last year. So, it took about fifteen years. You just have to keep believing and keep writing!

If you could go back and tell yourself anything when you first began your writing career, what would you say?

Be disciplined and don’t allow long stretches of time to go by without writing. The years do fly by quickly. Even when you have small children, you need to make time to write because they’re just as needy when they’re teenagers and young adults – LOL

Laptop or pen and ink? What are your ‘must-haves’ when writing?

I do the majority of my writing on my laptop, but love to write longhand as well. My must-haves are coffee, music, sticky notes and access to Google if I need a quick answer.

Who are your favorite authors? Who would you say influenced you the most?

The list is long so I’ll just name a few: Debra Mullins, Stephen King, Alice Sebold, Janet Evanovich, Jude Deveraux, Anne Lamott, Chelsea Handler & Dr. Seuss (seriously) and many more!

They’ve all influenced and inspired me in some way and I thank them for that!

What would your readers be surprised to learn about you?

That I sat here for over an hour going over this question and still don’t have an answer

For Fun:

Favorite drink? Dunkin Donuts coffee

Do you have any special Labor Day traditions? BBQ with family and friends.

McDonald’s or Burger King?

Burger King, but McDonald’s is just around the corner so we usually get that instead.

Thank you for being here today! Please tell us where we can find your books.

Thank you so much for having me, Molly! I had a great time!

My books are available in print and e-book and can be found on my publisher’s web site http://www.vanillaheartbooksandauthors.com/, as well as on Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, Smashwords and my web site: www.sandynicks.com

The e-book editions are available in multiple formats such as Kindle, Nook, iPad, Sony, etc.

Blurb for Circle of Eternity:

When her husband dies in the arms of another woman, Samantha Brooks travels to England where the Earl of Brindlemoor has opened both his manor house and the ruins of Brindlemoor Castle to tourists. A mystery ensues when Samantha encounters Greyson Pierce, hell bent on protecting Brindlemoor, and they are transported back into the twelfth century – a time of danger and intrigue somehow linked to the present. The quest to right old wrongs becomes a personal journey for the hero and heroine to overcome past betrayals and renew their capacity to trust – each other, and in the future…

Excerpt from Circle of Eternity:

The door creaked open. Samantha darted away from the tower window. Hiding her hand behind her back, she faced the condemnation in Greyson’s stare.

“What in bloody hell are you doing in here?”

Taken aback by his display of hostility, she eyed his rigid stance with caution before responding. “I…I was looking around.”

“Get out! Now!”

Samantha shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. I know I was wrong to leave the group, but I heard someone calling out. I came to see if they needed help.”

His face glowed red. “Didn’t I make myself clear that parts of the castle are unsafe? You know you’re not to wander off on your own.” He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. “Couldn’t you control your curiosity?”

“Yes, but…”

“You do know what happened to the cat,” he interrupted, “don’t you?”

Picking up her duffle bag with her free hand, she tightened her hold on the object she held in the other. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, adjusting the bag over her shoulder, “I’d like to join the others.”

He didn’t budge. His large frame filled the small doorway. “I’ll let you go, but first let me see what you’ve got hidden behind your back.”

“You told me to leave, and I’d like to go now,” she repeated. “So would you please step aside?”

He held his ground. “Why is it that American women are so cheeky?”

Samantha’s adrenaline surged. Great. He had a personal problem with Americans, or maybe just with women. “I don’t think the earl would appreciate your rudeness. I am a guest here.”

“Tourist,” he grumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“I said tourist. You did pay to come here, didn’t you?

“How dare you!” With all the strength she could muster, she tried to push past him. He didn’t move. She tried again to shove him out of the way. Suddenly he stepped aside. She tripped over his boot and flew forward. Her arms flailed as she tumbled down. When she hit the floor, her hand opened.

The Celtic cross skidded down the hallway, its emerald and sapphire center glistening in the sunlight.

She glanced up at Greyson. Seeing his shocked expression, she immediately thought of the desperation in the voice of the girl who had told her where to find the cross.

She had to help her.

Determined not to fail, she scrambled across the floor.

Greyson dove after her and grabbed her ankle. “Where did you find that?” he demanded.

“By the window,” she replied, closing in on the cross. He tugged harder on her ankle. She kicked at him with her free leg. “Let go of me!”

“It doesn’t belong to you,” he said, yanking on her leg. “It belongs to Brindlemoor!”

“You don’t understand,” she cried. “I was told to look for it!”

They battled for the jewel encrusted relic like two children fighting over a toy.

Samantha snatched up the cross.

Greyson gripped its fine silver chain.

Neither would yield possession.

“Who told you to look for it?”

“The…” An electrical sensation seized her body. Her airways closed. She couldn’t answer. Everything before her blended into a hazy pinwheel of blue and green light. Greyson faded from view.

The downpour of colors enveloped her. Closing her eyes, Samantha surrendered.