Ever since I was a kid, I have loved music. I remember having a radio in my room and being amazed at the new songs I heard. I noticed how each song told a story with not only words but rhythm and instruments as well. When I got a tape player, I listened to “Africa” by Toto over and over. It’s still one of my favorite songs. More than anything else ever has, the notes of a song can soothe me when I’m upset. A good, fast-paced song can energize me when I need to get things done. I can turn up the volume and sing when I’m alone, especially when I’m driving down the road. The energy of a crowd at a concert can be inspiring. The connection to everyone around me singing the same song is incredible and beautifully impermanent.
The soothing power of music is an important part of Tiger’s Last Chance. In the story, Sean Whitman had a rough childhood and endured a brutal interrogation that tore apart his life and career, but he survived. In spite of everything he endured, his empathy for others never faltered. But he’s not perfect either. He is a recovering alcoholic and music is his lifeline when things get too intense for him to bear.
The song “Ball and Chain” by Social Distortion is playing in his truck in the first chapter of the story because that song kept popping up in my head as I wrote his character. For Sean, music is the temporary armor that gave him strength and peace while he healed. I think music is a temporary armor for many people. The rhythm and sound give us joy and comfort in the darkest times.
Tiger’s Last Chance
While working a case, Sean Whitman is tortured for information, drugged, and bitten against his will by a shapeshifter. The fallout leaves him jobless, friendless, and dumped by his girlfriend. Needing a fresh start, he leaves town and opens a private investigation business. Learning to live life sober isn’t easy, but he makes it to the two-year mark.
When Detective Nikki Jackson with the Great Oaks, Virginia Police Department calls him, accusing him of breaking into his ex-girlfriend’s house, Sean can’t help but like the sound of her voice, despite her ridiculous accusations. He’s shocked when she calls him back with an apology then asks for his help as a consultant on a case. On the phone, her sweet, slightly Southern voice captivates him. In person, she’s unlike any other woman he’s encountered, and nearly impossible to resist. But could the sexy detective ever want a man like him?
After Nikki’s last dating disaster, the mountain lion shifter has sworn off men. Then she meets Sean, and with every second she spends around the tall, dark-eyed man, her resolve crumbles. But for some reason, despite the undeniable attraction between them, Sean seems determined to push her away.
An investigation into missing refugees leaves Nikki with more questions than answers. Her refusal to let the matter drop leads her to the discovery of a radical political group’s horrifying plot for dominance. Traitors are embedded within the very organizations meant to keep shifters safe. As the list of people she can trust dwindles, Nikki calls on Sean to help her unravel a web of deceit.
As Nikki and Sean fight for survival, his fear of losing her could become a reality. Will he get one last chance to show her he loves her?
For the briefest moment, Nikki felt the depth to which Sean might be capable of pushing her. His kiss was crushing and brutal. His tongue pushed past her lips and his grip in her hair tightened. If desire were a vine, it would have wrapped itself around her veins and encased her heart. The heat between them flooded her. There was a sweetness, too, in his kiss, and the sweetness made her burn hotter.
A polite cough from inside the waiting car put a quick end to things. Sean pulled away and met her gaze. No words, but she got the message. She wasn’t alone. Comfort and friendship; he’d probably meant the kiss to comfort her and had gotten carried away in the heat of the moment. He’d carried her away with him, and she wanted to take him so much further into the unknown.
With each second, each step towards the waiting car, she tried to find reasons and more reasons to ignore her growing attraction to Sean. The number one reason to forget about the kiss they’d shared—relationships were trouble. She had plenty of other amazing things in her life, including her career, her volunteer work, and her band, even though the band rarely played anywhere because the members had trouble aligning their schedules. She didn’t need a man. Besides, he was probably still messed up over Sydney. Also, he was a regular. Or mostly regular. Not to mention he lived over a thousand miles away in Texas. She should tell him the kiss was a mistake. One look at him and she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. The kiss they shared had been anything but a mistake.
Personally, I think it’s the familiarity of going back to visit places and people who are as recognizable to us as our next-door neighbors and friends. Being able to immerse ourselves in a world where we know bad things can and do happen, but there will be retribution and a happily ever after at the end. Sometimes when the world’s gone crazy, it’s a nice escape to visit one of these make-believe worlds.
Like most readers, I have my favorite writers and series. The In Death series by J.D. Robb, which follows Detective Eve Dallas and is already at 50 books and counting, just keeps getting better. Any Shelly Laurenston series is going to be unique, action-packed, and fun. The Guild Hunters by Nalini Singh is paranormal romance at its best. J.R. Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood world keeps growing and expanding, taking us deeper into their lives. When I pick up a book by one of these authors, I know I’m going to be treated to a wonderful read. Some series are finite—a trilogy or quartet—while others go on indefinitely. It depends on the author and the world they are creating.
The same reasons I love to read series are also the same reasons I love to write them. In fact, I can’t seem to not write them. Every time I start to write a book, before I’m finished it, I’m already thinking about one or more of the other characters, and I know they have to have their story told. The Blood of the Drakon series was supposed to be four books but ended up being seven. I figured the Salvation Pack would be five books. It ended at nine. As long as the characters keep talking, I’ll keep listening and writing down their stories.
The Forgotten Brotherhood is my latest series. This is a truly diverse group of characters. It’s been challenging, maddening, and downright fun at times to watch their stories unfold. Now BURNING ASH, book three of the Forgotten Brotherhood series, is on the way. I have four planned, but I’m already thinking about a possible book five. Who knows what will happen? That’s the fun of writing a series.
Burning Ash
Forgotten Brotherhood, Book 3
No one is more surprised than Asher, one of the oldest vampires on Earth, that he’s attracted to vamp hunter Jo Radcliffe. She’s smart, a talented slayer, and she’s gorgeous. Something about her pulls at him, like no one ever has before. For a man, whose name strikes fear in everyone––this is something new and intriguing. And quite possibly deadly, if she discovers his secret.
Jo has two things in common with the handsome Asher––they are both slayers and someone is messing with them in a very-much-trying-to-kill-them way. She’s not so happy about joining forces with a dude she doesn’t know. But he’s sexy as hell and really good at his job as one of the Forgotten Brotherhood, whose business it is to execute misbehaving paranormals.
She knows she’s bait in a larger plot to harm Asher and the Brotherhood. And there is nothing he won’t do, no line he won’t cross, to keep her safe––which may be the weakness that destroys them both.
N.J. Walters is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who has always been a voracious reader, and now she spends her days writing novels of her own. Vampires, werewolves, dragons, time-travelers, seductive handymen, and next-door neighbors with smoldering good looks—all vie for her attention. It’s a tough life, but someone’s got to live it.
Life brings challenges. We all know that, right? As we find ourselves doing battle with a terrible virus that has swept the globe, it’s caused many of us to wake up and realize what’s truly important in life. Family and friends top that list. Without them, we struggle. I know that too well. A few years ago, I found myself floundering. Some big life things hit me, and I lost my love of writing. I even lost my passion for reading. I’ve always been a reader, and yet, I didn’t care about those fictional worlds anymore. Then the dreaded menopause monster kicked me while I was down, sucking the life right out of me. I honestly thought my writing days were over and that sent me into a downward spiral. After all, without writing, what am I? All those story ideas in my head, those characters talking to me every day had suddenly gone silent.
Writer’s block is the official term. Honestly, it was so much more than that.
I felt as if I had nothing that I could call my own. It’s a terribly dark place to be. The people in my life tried to help, but it’s a solitary journey, to tell the truth. It wasn’t until my health started to suffer, that I realized I needed to take control. I started with exercise, which inevitably led to eating better. My mood improved, and the mental fog began to clear. The story ideas started trickling in. Yes! Before I knew it, I was writing and reading again. I’m thankful for authors like Shannon McKenna, Laurann Dohner, Delilah Devlin, Nalini Singh, and Lucy Monroe for getting me through the darkest days. Their stories kept me sane.
And since August of last year, I’ve managed to release six brand new books. I’m proud of that accomplishment, but it’s only a drop in the bucket. My writer’s brain never sleeps now. And you won’t hear me complaining, lol. I’ve started a new steamy contemporary romance series titled, Men of Silverlake. The first three books are available for purchase: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B086XCR45Z And I’ve dipped my toes into the paranormal romance genre. I’m having such fun, too! The first two books in my Zenarian series can be found here: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B084VLYQKT
Dyre: Zenarians, Book 3 (Coming Soon)
She will test his allegiance…
As the leader of the red guard, Dyre is aware that most Zenarians fear him. He’s often been forced to use that fear to uphold the six laws and protect the Zenarian race. With the rebel faction increasing their numbers every day, all his focus is centered on securing the mountain they call home from any and all threat. When he spots a human female much too close to their border, Dyre quickly captures her. His intention to interrogate the pretty brunette goes up in smoke the instant his wings encircle her small, curvy body. She stirs his creature. When Dyre notices the cuts and bruises littering her fair skin, he breaks protocol and brings her home.
Jade is on the run from the law. Or more accurately, the law according to Granger Wasser. As sheriff of Macone County, Granger has appointed himself judge and jury and everyone in town is too afraid to oppose him. When Jade turns down his marriage proposal, it sets off a chain reaction that forces her to flee to parts unknown. Imagine her surprise when she runs smack into a crimson-winged alien! His gentle touches ignite her blood and Jade wants nothing more than to surrender to the wildfire brewing between them. Still, Dyre is a man. And trusting a man is how she ended up falling down the rabbit hole to begin with.
Whether you’re a reader or a writer, we all meet under the covers in one way or another for our fictional rush. Striving to escape from the daily routines and meet under the book covers. And we all remember what book changed you or made a difference compared to so many others. The golden rush.
We all remember the moment when we went from being a curious person to a true reader or fan of an author. For me, I was in my late teens and it was Lynsay Sands with the Argeneau series. My first introduction into the paranormal romance. Before this I was used to reading Stephen King and Anne Rice, the books on my parents bookshelves. After reading the Argeneau series, it didn’t matter what the book cover looked like. I knew what to expect when I picked it up, and I couldn’t get enough of it. It was everything I wanted to escape to, the vacation I dreamed of, the romantic world of vampires and their mates! The golden rush happened. I’ve since became a fan of the genre all together. I didn’t chose paranormal romance, it chose me.
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Cameryne Kayne, an indie paranormal romance author of the Crestemere series. I’ve recently debuted the first edition to my series, Becklan’s Doll. Now available at barnesandnoble.com. As a writer, I try to incorporate some of my best experiences over the years from many great stories. The stories we need a week to let the ending settle in our minds because they were just that good! I’ll be honest, some of the best stories I’ve read in the past, I don’t remember what the title was or the book cover. But the stories stick with us. Then there are book covers we can never forget. I still can’t look at an apple the same without being instantly reminded of Edward Cullen from the Twilight series.
Tell me what book or author was your golden rush! I’d love to hear about it!
“Animal parenting is an unconditional commitment to an imperfect being.” Ane Ryan Walker
Before the quarantine began, my DH and I decided our RV adventures were over. We had traveled, volunteered, saw all the sights on our “bucket list” save one, and opted to retire permanently to the country.
If you followed my blog, you know I’m a dog person. I believe there is an inordinate amount of love and gratitude to be had from a rescue dog.
It was time to search for my new canine companion, a furry friend who would keep me company on lonely days and fill my retirement years with cute anecdotes with which I could amuse my friends. Despite the quarantine, dogs were still available for adoption. There is never a shortage of pups looking for their forever home.
Anyone who has ever rescued an animal will be the first to say there is no greater love than that of the animal on their way to the pound when you take ’em home forever.
I searched for months, pouring over the available canines within 100 miles of my house. Finally, after years of travel, I found myself with a generous piece of property, with a huge fenced in yard where a new puppy could play and still be safe.
Haunting the rescue sites, I determined the dog for me was older than 6 months but less than 2 years, who might still be trainable and who had a real shot at bonding with me and my DH. I set the criteria for my search based on Jake, my all-time favorite rescue.
Jake was just, well…unique. He’d been abandoned in a very cruel fashion by his original owner who’d had a locator chip implanted, because he thought the dog was valuable. But when Jake showed he had a mind of his own, the guy dropped the dog off in the sticks. When the rescue people took him in, Jake was in sad shape. Bony, hostile, and aggressive, he fought with everyone about everything. Showing each and every handler he still had a mind of his own.
Handsome and charming, Jake was adopted on five separate occasions, only to be brought back to the temporary family each time. Jake was touted to all potential rescuers as a lab and shepherd mix. But, in reality, he was the dog nobody wanted.
Except for me.
I did everything I could think of (and afford) to help Jake acclimate to our home, We bought him the top-of-the-line dog bed cushion, specifically designed for large breed dogs to ease arthritic pains.
He ate two of them.
“He just won’t listen to me,” my DH complained. “I like to take him for a walk, and he tries to eat people.”
“Who does he try to eat?” I was, of course, concerned since there were a lot of young children in our neighborhood,
“Everybody.”
“Everybody?” I was a little bit skeptical since I also walked Jake once a day, and what he lacked in obedience he made up for in enthusiasm.
“Well, not everybody, but he’d eat the pizza delivery guy if I let him.” My DH was attempting to leave the room, a clear sign he didn’t want to discuss the matter.
“Honey…” He never let me finish.
“He doesn’t want to eat the guy from the Chinese food place, but have you noticed we aren’t getting much mail.”
I was happy with less mail… Fewer bills was my thought.
These behaviors are most likely the reason we got four serious calls from the rescue agency, asking if we were keeping Jake. I found these phone calls more than a little disturbing, but I assumed it was because Jake had a mind of his own.
So, I sent Jake to board for six weeks with a world-renowned dog trainer. And, no I cannot tell you who it is. I promised never to share his name or shame with anyone.
You can see his picture on my blog page and trust me, the pic doesn’t do him justice. He is, in short, a very handsome devil. Also, he’s a Devil Dog. With a mind of his own.
I thought once he’d been with us for over two years that we’d established a truce of sorts. Or that at least there were some ground rules I could count on. He sat when I told him, stayed when given the command, and didn’t try to get in my lap anymore; I mean, who wants an 85 lb. dog in their lap?
But he would occasionally show me how he’d endured on the streets and kept his dignity by drinking whatever I liked to drink when I got home from work. Usually, it’s ice water.
Typically, I don’t drink alcohol, but sometimes, you just need one stiff drink to bring you down from a super stressful day. What’s better than adult beverages?
Nothing.
I had to believe Jake would second that opinion. Once, I’d walked away from the drink, and minutes later, I heard a strange noise coming from the other room. A mysterious slurping sound. I ran back to the living room, and there Jake is, drinking my bourbon and diet coke. Now, I am a seriously unhappy camper.
“Get down!” I yelled, while he raised his head and smiled a little doggy smile.
He did not get down.
“Bad dog!” I yelled. He looked behind him to see who I was yelling at, and then he finished the drink, poised the glass on his nose, and jumped on the ottoman.
Now about two months before, we’d installed laminate floors in the main living areas of our house. Do you know what happens when an 85 Lb. dog jumps on an ottoman on a slick surface? Oh yes, they both slid thirty feet into the next room.
Sadly, the next room was a dining room with a glass on glass pedestal table capable of seating twelve.
And then, Jake decided he liked the new game. So, he jumped down and slid—just the dog, wearing a tallboy cut crystal glass on his snout this time—nails scratching the floor, around the all-glass dining room table. Then he let me chase him back into the living room where he mounted an assault on the ottoman once more.
I’d foolishly pushed it back into place while chasing the dog. When he finished sliding into the next room, he jumped up on the couch and began attacking the cushions. He dropped the glass and grabbed a cushion and started shaking his head back and forth. When he finally released it, it sailed over the couch, hitting me in the head.
Then he crouched down, challenging me to play.
Needless to say, I wasn’t in the mood.
I’d still had a tough day at work, and now, I was one cocktail short.
But he was a great dog, and I’m a soft touch, so I’d almost forgiven him when he started…well, there’s no way to say it politely…farting. Which smelled like bourbon. Now, before you get your shorts in a wad and scream animal cruelty, let me ask you something.
How would you have gotten a cocktail from an 85 lb. street savvy hound? (With very big teeth) Jake liked the drink, and the little romp in the parlor wore him out, so wanting to add insult to injury, he laid down, feet up, right there on the seat where I’d planned to relax, and promptly started snoring.
I think I finally understand why a world-renowned dog trainer asked me to take him home, three weeks before his training sessions were complete. Jake has a mind of his own.
And the truth of the matter is, no other dog will ever replace him.
The only mistake today’s rescue people make is not offering me a solid black dog with a big toothy smile, and a mind of his own. So needless to say, the search continues for a canine companion.
Born and raised in the great northeast, she writes a fictional series Survivors of Salem, about the descendants of witches who survived the Salem Witch Trials. She is also currently working on books about fulltime RVing.
In addition to Return to Angels Cove, look for the second book in the Survivors of Salem, The Covenant.
Yes, I love getting to know the characters that slip out of the shadows at the back of mind where they’ve been living, sometimes for decades without my being aware of them. I enjoy the plotting process which consists of waking up in the middle of the night to mull over possibilities, running down roads both promising and dead-end, and throwing possibilities into a Word program called “Notes”, but I have to have a strong picture in my mind of where everything happens before I can write the first word.
I love going for solitary drives accompanied by Neil Diamond going full blast while the world around me becomes part of me. I’m a mountain gal born and bred. I don’t understand cities. They don’t speak to me. But give me the wilderness and I come alive.
That’s true even when I’m writing erotica.
Case in point, I’m in the process of releasing two self-published books. Cry of the Wolves will hit the virtual shelves on the 29th. I haven’t set on a release date for the companion novella Call of the Wolves, sometime in July.
The two connected stories came to me unbidden. I had no idea that’s what would happen when I went for a hike near Crater Lake at a place known as The Gorge. The Rogue River of southern Oregon flows through The Gorge, or rather it fights to. As I explain in the forward for the two Wolves stories, an ancient volcanic eruption sent molten lava to the Rogue. At one spot, the river was squeezed into a narrow channel. Every spring during snow runoff, the river screams and boils as it struggles through the lava.
That’s where I found my characters. Each in their own way, they listened to and watched the ageless battle between rock and water. That wild place impacted them as deeply as it did me and gave rise to the ghost wolves. I’m including a couple of pictures I took. I just wish readers could feel the spray and sense the ground shivering.
A big part of the writing business consists of getting the word out, which is what I’m doing right now via a couple of projects designed to try to garner reviews.
The illustrator Norman Rockwell has been lauded and lambasted for projecting an image of America that was too mom and apple pie and White. If that’s your image of Rockwell, I’d like to give you a different one. One that confronted and encouraged through his works The Golden Rule (1961), The Problem We All Live With (1964), Murder in Mississippi (1965) and New Kids in the Neighborhood (1967). These works were created by a conscience rooted in the aspiration that “all men are created equal.”
Though never fully realized by the founding fathers, Rockwell imbued their aspirations in his Saturday Evening Postcovers, especially in his illustrations of FDR’s Four Freedoms. I can’t look at that series and not hear the words to songs of equality like “The House I Live In” or “You’ve Got To Be Carefully Taught.” Innocent as those covers seem, Rockwell was saying here’s how the world should be for everybody. Ironically, the Post’s policy wouldn’t extend that equality and respect to black people. Blacks on their covers had to be depicted in subservient positions. Rockwell left the Post in 1963 and accepted commissions from Look magazine where he could portray the flipside of the Post’s America. But sometimes Look found his work too controversial to publish, too. Fortunately, that didn’t happen often.
Criticized for his choice of subject and called a hypocrite and a lying propagandist, Rockwell painted the truth being shown nightly on TV news and revealed daily in newspaper stories about the Civil Rights struggle. I was a kid in the 60’s watching Americans of all races and creeds and religions marching in the streets, being doused by fire hoses and having police dogs turned on them because they believed all people are created equal and deserved to be treated that way.
The Norman Rockwell Museum has a virtual exhibit of Rockwell’s 1960’s works. Check it out here: https://bit.ly/37H3TCr where you can also hear from Ruby Bridges, the little girl in The Problem We All Live With.
Rockwell’s 1960s work asked Americans, “Which side are you on?” in the same way Walter Cronkite and Huntley and Brinkley and Gil Noble did in their network broadcasts. Sixty years later, these works are asking us the same question. Sixty years later, I hear us answering it in peaceful demonstrations being held all over the world, in paintings on the plywood of boarded-up Manhattan storefronts, in legislation passed to combat police brutality, in court decisions upholding LGBTQ rights. People are answering, “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you must become the law of the land.” Despite authorities and administrations trying to divide us, people are answering and choosing to be on the right side of history because “the time is always right to do what is right.” – Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
In the 1960s, Rockwell used his work to confront and encourage. May we use our resources to do the same today.
Haunted Serenade
All the women in Anora Madison’s family have lived as “Poor Butterflies”: women still longing for but deserted by the men they loved. Determined to be the first to escape a life of abandonment, Anora fled Harlem for Brooklyn, severing her ties with her mother Angela and with the man who broke her heart, Winston Emerson, the father of her child.
Six years later, she comes back to Harlem to make peace, but a malignant spirit manifests itself during the homecoming, targeting her mother, her aunt, Winston and their little girl. Determined to stop the evil now trying to destroy all she loves, Anora must finally turn to Winston for help. But will their efforts be too little too late?
He nodded thoughtfully. “Why not? Self-hate has bedeviled people of color all over the world for hundreds of years. Being looked down upon because you’re not White, accepting you’re incapable of self-determination because you’re dark and not light is being confronted everywhere. The independence movements in Africa. The Civil Rights movement here. Why wouldn’t it be challenged in your mother’s house?”
I’d listened to sermons about the devil, sung hymns and praise songs to put him in his place. But I’d intellectualized all that. Those were metaphors for the evil humans did. But what if that metaphor represented real energy, energy that had agency, agency that needed to be combatted?
“Come on.” Winston picked up a tray. “Let’s put the pumpkins in the windows. I need some physical activity to balance all this intellectual speculating.”
I took the other tray and followed him into the parlor. We placed a pumpkin on each sill of the bay window then lit the candle inside.
Cammie was right. They weren’t at all scary. Their grins glowed with welcome.
We ascended to the second floor and repeated our pumpkin placement and lighting ritual in each window.
“Winston, if Diana’s spirit is trying to help us, why did she attack you, Elizabeth and my mother?”
“When were they attacked?”
I shared with him my mother’s lame excuses for her broken wrist and the bandage on Elizabeth’s forehead.
He pursed his lips then firmed them. “I don’t think Diana’s spirit attacked them or me.”
“But you said the cold—”
“Is Diana shielding us from another presence, a presence that made the shutters close in her bedroom, that made the cabinet door hit me.” He tucked his empty tray beneath his arm. “What if the cold is Diana’s love, but the energy that attacks has its source in someone else?”
I love going for solitary drives accompanied by Neil Diamond going full blast while the world around me becomes part of me. I’m a mountain gal born and bred. I don’t understand cities. They don’t speak to me. But give me the wilderness and I come alive.
